A Length of Haradric Silk

Sam knew a little about many things; quite a bit about a few things; but about cloth, he knew next to nothing at all.

This is what he knew: the simpler the hobbit; the coarser and sturdier the cloth. Work breeches and shirts needed to be serviceable, the material strong. Gentlehobbits like Mr. Frodo, though, should be garbed in soft tweeds and fine linens, suitable for delicate skin.

So why was his eye caught by, of all things, a length of fabric, here in the marketplace of Minas Tirith? He had already been gifted with a generous new wardrobe; the plain clothing he preferred, though well cut and beautifully crafted. (He was a bit embarrassed by the exuberant generosity of the people of the City – what had he done, after all, but stand by his master, to the very end? Wouldn’t any loyal servant have done the same?)

But this length of - silk, was it? - carelessly strewn atop bolts of sober linsey-woolsey, was unlike anything he had ever seen.

It was blue, or so he thought at first, blue like the sky over the Shire on a midsummer afternoon, a blue so deep that it seemed to contain all the essence of summer sky within itself, leaving none for any other day. But then, as the light shifted, the blue deepened to the color of evening, when the long day has relaxed into coolness, and the fireflies are just beginning to come out. Weren’t there some flickers of gold within that blue, like the winking of the fireflies?

But then the shopkeeper, noticing his interest, shook out the cloth with a practiced snap! and look! Perhaps it was not blue at all, but blue-green, shading into green, the green of the springtime meadows where placid sheep wandered . Or the flickering green and gold of those strange lights that danced and shimmered in the wintry sky, singing the music of the Ainur.

It was certainly not the kind of cloth he would ever need. Yet still he stood, transfixed, while Frodo waited, smiling.

“Now, Mr. Frodo, I’ve already been given enough fine clothes what that I’ll not need anything else for years. Even my smallclothes have my initials embroidered on them, I suppose so the laundrymaids can tell them apart from everyone else’s. What would I be needing with a piece of cloth like that?”

For the first time, the shopkeeper spoke, her accent strange, her voice rich and deep. “For your sweetheart, back home. Silk from far Harad, for her wedding dress, and enough left for a pretty gown for your firstborn daughter, when you bring her to meet our Queen.”

Sam blushed. “Wedding dress! Party dress! Firstborn daughter! I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s a pretty color, though, that blue. I’ll bring it home as a present for Mrs. Cotton. She’s been like a mother to me – she’ll know what to do with it, I’m sure.”