VAGABOND: Footloose and Fancy Free

SUMMARY: Sometimes a carefree existence is not as carefree as one would wish. Takes place circa S.A. 1800.

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     "I’m busy doing nothing, working the whole day through,

     Trying to find lots of things not to do.

     I’m busy going nowhere, isn’t it just a crime?

     I try to be unhappy, but I never do have the time.

     I have to wake the Sun up, She’s liable to sleep all day.

     And then inspect the rainbows so they’ll be bright and gay.

     I must rehearse the songbirds to see that they sing in key.

     Hustle, bustle, and never a moment free...."

"Whatcha doin’?" the little girl asked, suddenly appearing as if from nowhere.

"Singing," he answered with a wistful smile. He had not noticed her approach and found that rather disturbing. He was usually more aware of his surroundings.

"I know that!" she exclaimed in exasperation. "Whatcha doin’?"

"Ah! You mean ‘what am I doing here’," he said, stressing the last word.

She nodded enthusiastically and his smile broadened.

"I’m merely passing through," he answered.

"Passing through what?" And the genuine confusion on her face caused him to laugh.

"I am passing through your little village on my way to... well, to somewhere else." He ended on a somewhat lame note, for in truth he had no idea where he was going, nor did he particularly care. Life, in all its twists and turns, had brought him to this place, to this little seaside village, but he did not see a need to remain. He knew that strangers were seldom welcome in these dark and troublesome times with the Enemy rising somewhere in the East and the Sea-kings claiming dominion over much of the seacoast.

"Oh," the little one said, contemplating his words as she stared at her bare feet. Then she looked up, her dimples evident as she smiled. "Will you sing again?" she asked.

He nodded gravely, readjusting his grip on the lap harp and began to sing the same sweet song he had been singing before. He didn’t know what possessed him to sing that particular tune. It was not his usual choice. He tended to sing long weepy lays about loss and death and other dark matters. Yet, today, for some reason, as he sat on the bluff overlooking the sleepy little village, as the waves crashed upon the beach and the sea gulls screeched, as the sun shone warmly upon his shoulders, he found himself singing this little ditty instead, an amusing walking song he had overheard another sing, unaware that he was being watched.

"I like that," the little girl said as he came to the song’s end.

"I’m glad," he said and smiled at her warmly. "Now, don’t you think you should be getting on home? See you. The sun is sinking into the Sea and soon she will be abed."

The little girl, her hair the color of gold that achingly brought to mind a distant memory, one that still caused him pain, looked down upon her village and sighed. "I s’pose," she muttered. Then she turned to look at the dark-haired stranger with the lovely voice and sad grey eyes. "Thank you," she said, rising up on her toes to leave a wet kiss on his cheek. She skipped away down the path leading to the village just as a woman’s voice called out from somewhere.

"Gimilâriphel!"

"Comin’ Mama!" the girl cried, turning to give her new friend a wave before passing out of view.

Gimilâriphel. So that was the little one’s name. He idly strummed the strings of his harp. Gimilâriphel. He knew enough of these people’s language to know the name’s meaning. It pleased him oddly to realize that these people still held Varda in reverence. He glanced up into the darkening sky to see Eärendil’s Star glittering just above the horizon and the hand that had once held a Silmaril spasmed in remembered pain. He gasped, drawing a shuddering breath before he was able to calm himself again, shaking his head over past regrets.

Then, he stood, making his way along the bluff, heading north to an unknown destination, the melody now more sorrowful, yet still hauntingly beautiful. Maglor’s song drifted into the evening air, wafted by a gentle sea breeze back to the village where a little girl lay in bed, silently weeping.

He never looked back.

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Gimilâriphel: (Adûnaic)‘Star-queen’s Daughter’.

Note: Maglor’s ditty is adapted from the 1949 musical comedy film A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur’s Court (score by Jimmy Van Heusen, lyrics by Johnny Burke).