Chapter 23. Thorn: Hobbity Questions

Bucca improved more rapidly than many of the Men brought over the Lune; it seemed no time at all before he was on his feet, wandering about the Havens, poking his nose in everywhere he was allowed and some places he was not, or at least, he was politely escorted out of again. He would stop to watch Elves at work on various tasks, some familiar and some whose purpose he could only guess at.

Some of the Fair Folk spoke to him in the common tongue, making music of the words. With his kind’s ear for language, Bucca also began to pick up the tongue they used amongst themselves, a lilting language with myriad shades of nuance for every subject, compared to Common Speech, except perhaps the subject of food. Hobbits have developed or adapted quite a number of words devoted to that subject.

He was drawn often to the wharf, looking out to the graceful ships riding at anchor. It was an ever-changing sight, and something thrilled in him to watch a ship raise white sails to catch the wind, borne to far-away places that he could not even imagine. Tokka had been the imaginative one, inventing stories where there was a lack of facts to go on. Of course, in his time among the Elves of Lindon and the Men of Arthedain, Bucca had learned more of far-off places than Tokka ever dreamed.

One day as he sat upon a coil of heavy rope, a voice spoke behind him. ‘So, Master Bucca, will you take ship someday, to see far places?’

He scrambled to his feet and bowed. ‘Master Cirdan,’ he said. He found the Elf-Lord’s long white beard a constant source of fascination. The only beards he’d seen before bristled luxuriantly from the countenances of dwarves. Somehow Cirdan’s beard made him both more approachable and more other-worldly at once.

Cirdan seated himself and gestured to the hobbit to do the same. ‘Would you sail, Bucca?’ he said.

Bucca glanced at the billowing white sails that were diminishing into the distance and shook his head. ‘Much as the idea tempts me,’ he said, ‘I have love to keep me here.’

 ‘Family and farm,’ Cirdan said. ‘I’ve heard you talking in the Hall.’

 ‘The farm is gone, I’ve no doubt,’ Bucca said, but Cirdan smiled.

 ‘The buildings might be burned,’ he said, ‘but the land remains. In the spring the new shoots will rise from the ground, the flowers will bloom, the rains will fall...’

 ‘But if darkness covers the land, what will grow? All will whither and die,’ Bucca said.

 ‘Not while there are doughty spirits to push back the darkness,’ Cirdan said. ‘Gondor will come, have no fear of that, to march with the Men of Arnor and Elves of Lindon. And the Lord Elrond will march from Rivendell to join the battle, and catch the dark army as between a great pincers.’ He gestured as if he were the smith, grasping a piece of metal heated to yellow-red heat, to pull it from the fire for shaping.

Bucca felt his heart stir within him; somehow Cirdan had a power to kindle courage and hope with his words. The hobbit had noticed this over the past few weeks: Small knots of Men of Arthedain would be sitting together, fletching arrows or sharpening weapons or mending armour, silent or muttering, and as Cirdan passed by, their heads would lift for a moment, something like hope would come into their faces, and they’d stare after him in silence for some moments before going back to the task at hand.

 ‘But...’ Bucca said.

Cirdan laughed. ‘It is always “But” with you, Master Bucca,’ he said. ‘Another question, have you?’

 ‘Why do you shelter the Men of Arthedain?’ Bucca said. ‘Why are you so confident that Lord Elrond will march to their aid? You live in peace and safety, and from what I’ve heard he does as well.’

Cirdan listened gravely. Indeed, he said nothing, as if waiting for more.

Bucca swallowed hard. He was full of questions, true, but now they seemed impertinent.

Cirdan smiled, and the kindness of a summer breeze was in his eyes.

 ‘But... I’ve heard the Elves do not concern themselves with the affairs of mortals,’ Bucca said hesitantly. ‘After the Alliance of Elves and Men, after Gil-galad fell...’ His voice trailed off at the shadow of sorrow that crossed Cirdan’s face.

 ‘Yes,’ Cirdan said softly. ‘We suffered many losses, to drive the Shadow from the land. And always it takes shape again... but we did not think of such things. We grew estranged from Men, and retreated into our own fastnesses, for their vigour, their growth, their reach was distressing... they cut down the forests, they ploughed the meadows and wildflowers under, they used up the land, used it unwisely, and abandoned it for fresh lands, they delved for precious metal and stones, always taking, never giving back or thinking to preserve what they had, never satisfied and always wanting more...’

Bucca shook his head. Such thinking made no sense to him. Certainly you cut wood at need, but for every tree you cut down you planted another, or two or three. Certainly you ploughed a field and sowed it, but you also gave it rest after a few years, leaving it fallow to bloom with whatever wildflowers found hold there, while you ploughed and sowed a different field. Meadows were necessary places, for where would one picnic without them? And what need had he of gold, silver or precious stones? They were pretty, certainly, but served very little practical purpose.

 ‘But...’ he said again, and stopped in chagrin as Cirdan laughed.

 ‘Yes, Master Bucca, what is the “but” this time?’ he said. ‘Or is it perhaps the same one?’

 ‘But you took them in,’ Bucca said. ‘You did not stay in your fastness. Aranarth told me the Lune would rise against the Dark Captain if he sought to cross into Lindon. Your people might have kept safe, but instead you sent boats over to retrieve as many as might be, and some of your Elves spilled their blood, indeed, gave up their lives, fighting alongside the rearguard to cover the escape. Why?’

 ‘We must seem as terrible beings to you, young Master,’ Cirdan said soberly. ‘Content to withdraw while your people are driven into hiding, or slaughtered. Your people, who never offered offence to any,’ he said, and he bowed his head in grief, almost as if he could see in Bucca’s memory the burning of Stock. When Cirdan raised his head again, he continued, ‘Content to live at peace, preserving our land, refusing the passage of time, of years, looking inward and turning away from all that we deem “not our concern”. That is what you have thought of us, I have no doubt.’

 ‘You did not stand by and watch the Men of Arthedain slaughtered upon your border,’ Bucca said uncertainly.

Cirdan laughed again, but it was not a merry laugh as had been before. ‘We “stood by”, as you say, while the Shadow took Rhudaur, and again as the Men of Cardolan were overwhelmed and slain. But Arthedain’s end was less convenient, happening upon our border, as it were. Difficult to turn one’s eyes away, when the screams of the wounded and dying mingle with the singing of the birds...’

 ‘I did not say such a thing,’ Bucca bristled, forgetting for a moment that he spoke with the Lord of the Havens, immeasurably older, so far as he knew, than himself, and possessing inestimably more power than the most powerful Man he knew, the dispossessed son of the King of Arthedain.

 ‘It is not difficult to read your heart, my young friend,’ Cirdan said gently. ‘My people are “a selfish lot” by your thinking. And so we take in the remnant of Arthedain, and welcome the Men of Gondor to our wharves, and join with them to march against the Witch King, as will Elrond of Imladris and all the Elf Lords of his household...’

Bucca hung his head in shame, but Cirdan continued.

 ‘...and you would have the right of it, my young friend.’

Bucca was wishing that he could sink into the ground as the summer rain, leaving no trace. Cirdan fell silent, to allow his words to do their work. At last the hobbit raised his head, puzzlement on his face.

Cirdan smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you have the right of it. Though my people build the ships that sail into the Uttermost West, I am not yet ready to quit Arda for the Blessed Realm. Shadow’s reach is growing, ever growing, and as it grows stronger, the Lords of Shadow may grow bold enough to test, even breach the protection of the Grey Havens, and Imladris, yea even unto the Golden Wood.’

 ‘And the Lord Elrond?’ Bucca said hesitantly. He’d heard of this august being spoken of by the Elves and the Men alike, a legendary figure who’d stood with Gil-galad, even as Cirdan did.

 ‘He stays for his own reasons,’ Cirdan said. ‘Not that he frees all of his thoughts with me, nor I mine with him, for that matter. Suffice it to say that this task has been set before us, and we will see it through.’