Cutch had an arrangement with the village head caretaker, Merethir. The Enclave grounds would continue to be tended by the Elf, except for the plot Her Ladyship’s manor, Bar-en-Acharn, occupied. Upon his marriage to Seregrian, Cutch was determined to care for those few acres himself, as part of his request that Her Ladyship allow him to be the Steward of her House. His reasons were very simple.
First, was his love for his wife, an immortal Elf who had somehow found it in her heart to love, and marry, a mortal. He wondered if his astonishment at their joining would ever lessen, but he doubted it. Secondly, he realized that as a mortal, she would one day see him pass from this world, and he would thus try to leave the best legacy he could; a properly tended home for her, and their progeny, using all the skills he had been raised with as farmer, hunter, fisherman, trapper, and had also acquired as a cook during his fifteen years as a far-flung rover.
Which brings us to a story about a weed.
The plant was not very noticeable, tucked along the foot of one of the stone columns in an arc presiding over the riverbank. Cutch would have never noticed it if not for its color, a purple nearly identical to the blue and red dyes his then betrothed Seregrian had sent him as a cryptic message, and which he had mixed and returned to her, signifying that her message had been received and understood. With a chuckle he stooped next to the plant admiring its hue, but soon became concerned for its health as the leaves were browning and wilted and the tiny blossoms were barely opening. Some of the buds had dropped unopened.
He could not see any sign of insects damaging the plant, nor was the ground any more or less wet than that from which nearby flowers and grasses were happily lifting upwards. Carefully picking one of the miniscule blooms, he rose to seek out the caretaker.
Just across the lane from the manor, Merethir was kneeling amidst a small field of wildflowers nestled beside the stone gazebo that marked the confluence of two streams, each fed by a melodious waterfall. Their combined flows whispered into the breakwater pool adjoining the River Lúnë.
The caretaker looked up at the sound of Cutch’s footsteps crossing the lane, and with tight-lipped tolerance curtly nodded at the approaching mortal. His eyes focused on the Man’s open palm proffering a small violet blossom.
“Good morning, Master Merethir”, Cutch began, politely engaging with the Elf caretaker who had made no pretenses concerning his disapproval of the Man. “Do you recognize this plant?”
With a frown crouching over a wrinkled nose and withdrawn chin, Merethir grumbled. “A weed…. Master Cutch. Surely you recognize a weed when you see one.”
“You mean it has no place or purpose…” Cutch replied, offering the Elf the irresistible opportunity to correct a Mortal, which Merethir seemed to savor in his discourse with the Man.
Sighing with satisfaction thinly disguised as chagrin, the Elf condescendingly answered, “Its place, if you must know, is at the sea-shore. It has no place this far inland. It’s purpose, according to the unreliable fables of the Firimar, if you will forgive me, is to treat blindness.” With a wry grin, Merethir shifted his gaze from the Man’s one good eye to the eyepatch over an empty socket. He waited with patient silence for Cutch to absorb the subtly harsh comment.
“I see”, Cutch murmured with sweetened sarcasm, refusing to take the Elf’s verbal bait. “And its name?”
“Uthulós. Just pull it out and discard it with the rest of your…refuse.”
“How did it come to be here?”
The caretaker rolled his eyes and stood, taller than Cutch, and rubbed soil from his hands before placing them as fists upon his hips. With overly precise diction rumbling through a thick low tone, the Elf declared, “Probably bird-droppings.” His unblinking eyes glared beneath lowered brows, challenging Cutch to arrive at some uncomplimentary inference.
Being used to disdain from many, but not all, Eldar, Cutch offered a blank expression framing a bland smile. Nodding eagerly at Merethir’s answer, he pressed on. “And why would it not grow well here?” he asked innocently, tempting the Elf again to display superior knowledge to an inferior creature.
“Salt. This particular … weed … likes a bit of salt in its water.” The intensely thrown answer came from an unchanging facial expression atop an unmoving physical posture, all deliberately offered as hints of the Elf’s smoldering impatience.
“Thank you, ever so, Master Merethir for your invaluable knowledge.” Cutch bowed with more flourish than was necessary, and abruptly turned, stepping lightly back across the lane. The Elf’s frown stretched smooth, and his lips parted momentarily as he tried to form the words expressing his sudden concern.
“I can clear the thing away, if you wish, Master Cutch. Help dispose of it….”
“Oh, no, Master Merethir. I am keen to keep it. I have no doubt Her Ladyship will find the color of it’s blooms as endearing as do I.” Cutch tossed this over his shoulder with another polite nod, and quickened his step, leaving the Elf, he was sure, unsatisfied.
And so, the Uthulós became a well-attended resident under Cutch’s dutiful Stewardship. The Elf caretaker was right, for as Cutch began to add a bit of salt to an alternate day watering, the plant flourished. He needed to be careful, however, to not overdo, as the salted water would not do well with other plants. To ensure a harmonious little environ, he cleared a widened plot for the plant. The Uthulós grew to nearly two feet, buds soon appeared in generous numbers, and although the resulting blooms were small, they were a vibrant purple. Cutch was right about Seregrian’s reaction, for when he led her to them, she saw them, sighed, leaned against him, hand folding around his, and they shared another of their many warm inviting smiles.
Soon, the plant began its periodic change, with the many bracts in each blossom becoming seed carriers lifted on breezes. Little aerial armadas of purple drifted across the grounds, offering their color to tint whatever niches they may find. And, of course, children were born….
The new married couple returned after a few of days of travel to the Shire to find Merethir and a pair of conscripted Elves scouring the grounds of the Enclave, ripping up the scattered children of the Uthulós, now found across the grounds of all the buildings neighboring the Lair. The caretaker seemed well prepared for the dismay Seregrian and Cutch would unveil.
“As I mentioned to your …. Steward …. my lady, this is a noxious weed that is not only spreading across your own grounds but has been found infesting the lawns and gardens of the upper village. Your neighbors have posted many complaints, both verbal and written, appealing for action. Look at these plants. They are weak and sickly, and thus degrading the beauty of the village since they do not get the salted water they need to be healthy. And we cannot salt everywhere, or all else will be sickened.”
Seregrian slipped off her horse, striding up to the caretaker. Her stern presence alone was enough to silence him as she pulled off her riding gloves, thoughtfully composing a retort. Cutch joined her and offered quietly, “Perhaps he is right, melon nin. There is no point in allowing plants to spread into places where they will only suffer.” He stepped over to a cart where the caretaker and his cohorts were depositing the discarded weeds. True to their faithful precision, the Elves were dutifully pulling them completely, root and stem. Cutch lifted one up, still barely alive. “No”, he continued gently holding the dying Uthulós. “Merethir is right.”
The caretaker, not expecting to get such ready agreement from the mortal, was caught speechless. Seregrian looked between the two, nimbly tacking her thoughts to a different course. Tucking her riding gloves under her belt, she stepped next to her husband and peered into his hands cupped under the yanked plant. “Poor thing”, she cooed, ignoring Merethir as he cleared his throat in preparation for his next words. “But you are also right, melethel”, she quickly continued pointedly pre-empting the caretaker, “in finding elegant beauty is such a simple, unappreciated thing. We shall find a place for it in my House, always a welcome place for the misunderstood. I am so proud of you, herven. Too many would refer to this joy-bringing blossom as a …. weed. Doing so probably says as much about them as the misnamed Uthulós. It is a lesson I have learned from you, beloved.”
Merethir and his cohorts kept their words to themselves as she stepped close to her husband and kissed him sweetly on the end of his nose. They mounted their horses with the rescued plant and rode home.
