Changes

“In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring.
Ah! the sight and the smell of the Spring in Nan-tasarion!
And I said that was good.
I wandered in Summer in the elm-woods of Ossiriand.
Ah! the light and the music in the Summer by the Seven Rivers of Ossir!
And I thought that was best.
To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn.
Ah! the gold and the red and the sighing of leaves in the Autumn in Taur-na-neldor!
It was more than my desire.
To the pine-trees upon the highland of Dorthonion I climbed in the Winter.
Ah! the wind and the whiteness and the black branches of Winter upon Orod-na- Thon!
My voice went up and sang in the sky.
And now all those lands lie under the wave,
And I walk in Ambarona, in Tauremorna, in Aldalome,
In my own land, in the country of Fangorn,
Where the roots are long,
And the years lie thicker than the leaves
In Tauremornalome.” *

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Fangorn sighed deeply and slowly as he strode onwards through his woods. It had been many long years in the reckoning of the outside world since he had thought of those long ago days. Much had changed. Elves had come and they had gone and then come again. Dwarves had come and hidden away in their mountain keeps. And Men had come and gone and come again only to fade.

Everything changed.

Nothing stayed the same.

Alas, that is the way of living things. The way of Arda. Even the way of the immortal Elves.

He had once heard that the Valar in their mighty realms did not change, yet, he wondered at that and began to doubt it. Time moves on. Things are born, live and die and new lives are born to replace them and the immortal ones came to find their endless lives a cruel burden. Perhaps even the mighty Valar wearied under the burden of their timelessness within the fierce bonds of time. For did they not interact with Arda, and Arda existed in the realm of time.

Now, this moment, things were changing again. He had been aware on some deep level that things in the wide world were amiss. He had known that The Wizard was changing his ways. Knew, yet had done nothing but think. What business was it of his, what the White Wizard did within his vale?

Changing. Changing.

These little ones he carried. What of these two little beings that weighed nothing as they sat comfortably in the crook of each of his arms? These are new and different and they herald change. They are so wondrously young, yet . . .

Yes. He could sense the years of their kind within them. They are tough like a tree that has withstood the ravages of the weather. Deep roots. Supple limbs. Able to bend and yet hold firm to the earth. Yes. He liked their earthiness. He knew he could trust the tale they would tell him when they reached his home. Until then, he would think. Think about the passing of time and of changes.

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Merry wondered at the names of all those places Treebeard spoke about. What had he said? “There was all one wood once upon a time from here to the Mountains of Lune, and this was just the East End.” And then, in the poem he had chanted; something about “. . . all those lands lie under the wave.”

“Where?” Merry’s thoughts asked. “Under which waves? And did that vast wood once cover what I know as The Shire?”

He had looked at a good many maps while they had been in Rivendell. Now he shut his eyes and tried to bring them back to mind. Yes. He could barely recall ones that did not show the lands as he knew them. The Keeper of the Maps said those maps were of no import for their journey. He had hastily pushed them aside with a whispered, “Those places no longer exist.”

Under the waves.

Those places no longer exist.

Somehow, Merry knew those lands had been to the west of The Shire and that the sea had swallowed them all. He knew that his home had once been part of one immense forest and not the gentle rolling fields and hills with snug Hobbit holes burrowed into them that he so dearly loved.

And that Treebeard had walked there.

Merry tried to shake himself free of the eerie feeling that came over him.

It had all been so different once.

It could all be so different again if . . .

He opened his eyes and started naming the types of trees he saw as Treebeard walked quickly through his wood. It kept his mind busy.

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Pippin swayed gently to the rhythm of the Ent’s stride. He was being lulled by both the swaying and the chanting.

“In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring. Ah! the sight and the smell of the Spring . . .”

Oddly, Pippin did not think of the willow in the Old Forest. He thought of the gently swaying curtains of green along the bank of the stream that ran through the farm at Whitwell and the sights and smells as he would lie in the soft flickering light that would pass through the new leaves of the willows in the spring.

“I wandered in the Summer in the elm-woods of Ossiriand. Ah! the light and the music in the Summer . . .”

Summer in The Shire. The long days with warm nights full of parties and gatherings . . . and music. He sang before he could play an instrument, then he would do both in turn, and when he wished to do neither he would dance; swaying as effortlessly as he did now to the rhythms surrounding him.

“To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn. Ah! the gold and the red and the sighing of the leaves in the Autumn . . .”

Crisp days and chilly nights. Harvest festivals. Skies of the clearest, deepest blue with the many different coloured leaves bold against it. Spiced cider beside a cheerful hearth listening to all the old stories, and the whispering of the leaves as he walked along wooded paths. He always loved the autumn.

“To the pine-trees upon the highland of Dorthonion I climbed in the Winter. Ah! the wind and the whitness and the black branches of Winter . . .”

Grey. Black. Muted dull greens and browns. Only occasional whiteness in The Shire. Staying inside on cold, damp days, except to do chores when he was in his childhood on the farm. Staying inside on cold, damp days at Great Smials, playing games and telling stories with his kin. And Yule. Glorious Yule-Tide! And the rich smell of pine boughs and the tree in the ballroom.

“And now all those lands lie under the wave . . .”

Pippin shivered and the spell laid upon him by the swaying and chanting was broken.

If they failed . . . all the lands would lie under the darkness.

Had they already failed?

“No!” his thoughts scolded him. “You will not think that way, Peregrin Took. You and Merry survived the Orcs and I’ve the feeling this Treebeard fellow will be able to do something. We aren’t beaten yet!”

He nestled more comfortably into the crook of the Treebeard’s arm and watched the play of light and thoughts in the old Ent’s eye. There was strength for good in the world yet, and a good portion of it was in places one would never think to look for it.

And in all the wood, as far as ear could reach, there was not a sound. *
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*The poem and the last line of the story are both quoted from “The Two Towers”, chapter, “Treebeard”