From Dúney Free-Agent ‘Caradhâl’, to Halros, son of Radhruin, at his dwelling in the Glen at Hill-Over-Greenfields, Bullroarer’s Sward, Northway, Shire Bounds. ~ Salutations an’ all me respects to the Honorable Dúney Bounders: May the stars forever lights their steps, an’ shield their hidin’ places.
Dear Mister H,
This letter be of an inquisitive nature, the beside of which, thar be a favor of ye I needs ter solicit.
I tell you what, lad – Ye’ve kept a lady busy.
The kingsfoil, or athelas plant to which ye inadvertently familiarized meself an’ me estimable colleague last spring’s proven a right nut ter crack in the face o’ me attempts ter propagate it.
Make no mistake, Sir. I retains the cuttings you gave me, an’ given its rarity, I keenly feels the value o’ this gift. – Still. – ‘Ow many out there may be wantin’ a means of its remedy? Not all be so fortunate as to have a Halros o’ their own. Whatever the case, I’ll be a caper in Bullroarer’s Tea-time Trifle if I say I didn’t give every scrap o’ me not-inconsiderable Bardic Imagination ter answerin’ the Lost Riddle of its growin’ ... an’ why it only be found where Dúney-folks or Skinny Elfs lived.
Havin’ exhausted the Lore of Hobbit an’ Elf alike, I gots about as comprehensive a grasp of the sprout’s environmental preferences as ever anybody could.
An’ still I en’t yet convinced one to flower properly in me own turf.
Missie Sergie be the most recent brain I picked on the matter. She holds that askin’ the leaf ter grow outside what she calls its “native soil” be as fruitful an endeavor as askin’ a Hobbit ter dwell in the White City you Dúney lads keeps tryin’ ter reinstall one o’ yer gaffers in.
Personally, I think she’d be surprised: Any borough what bears so strong a resemblance to a tasty seven-layer cake, I 'spect a Hobbit could find a place in more easily than Big Folks might imagine.
But I digress.
Me first instinct were to point out a glarin’ flaw in this logic: From Beleriand to Númenor, then back ter both the North an’ South ends o’ the World, ‘ow do you claim athelas gots “native soil” any longer when it be so evident a travellin’ pilgrim by now?
Plainly, I says, the HOW of movin’ it just be either lost, or guarded a little too well fer the World’s good.
After a nice cuppa tea, though? I gots ter thinkin’. Our Elf may've been barkin' up a tree in somethin' resemblin' at least the right atrium.
Cause somethin' occurred occurred to me ...
If ye were to trundle over to Old Odo’s leaf farm an’ order some ivy, or rose bush. Or Appledores, for a fruit sapling. Or Northcotton Market for some kitchen herb starters ...
Ye’d nae be given the plant straight-up by itself, aye? ... Ye’d be given a sapling or a basil sprout, roots an’ all, in a pot or a hemp sack, with some soil packed around its feet.
I do begin to wonder. An’ laugh at me if you like: You’ve ‘eard enough o’ me ideas by now, I know you, lad ...
I en’t sure kingsfoil’s problem be so much one o’ “native soil.” – Not when it’s moved around to so many new places.
But I wonder if p'raps ... it ... needs ter be taught how to live somewhere new ...
Coaxed, if you will. Conditioned.
Weaned off one spot, an’ attuned to another.
.... D’you s’ppose thar be a possibility? ... Is that ‘ow it worked?
Kingsfoil grew in Elf an’ Dúney land, cause Elf an’ Dúney-folk knew ‘ow to take care of it.
Then, every time they migrated? ... maybe they didn’t just plant crops anew from scratch. ... Maybe they potted some flora up, an’ brought it with ‘em – I dunno – maybe in boats, or wagons?
Finally, when they resettled, an’ resumed agricultural pursuits? They ‘ad a bit o’ the previous earth in tow. So thar weren’t a total shock ter their athelas sprouts? ... Cause the plant ‘ad a bit of a buffer, to acclimate to its new place?
Clearly kingsfoil be a fragile, sensitive plant. Like maidenhair fern, or orchids.
Maybe it gots ter be eased from its happy place, afore it’ll relax an’ flourish.
If it can't jus' scatter its hardy seed on an idle wind ... thar be why it en't spread all over the World. Thar'd explain why it only be found in Dúney an' Elf lands, aye?!?
But maybe ... jus' maybe, it could be guided?
Thar be a spot at the River Lhûn near Duillond, where kingsfoil oft be seen. Missie S noted it, as do Mister Calengil, the greengrocer. – No kingsfoil grows in February snow, but I be intrigued enough to trek up there an’ avail meself of a samplin’ o’ fragrant earth, an’ experiment in the greenhouse I be buildin’.
Which brings me to me favor.
In optimizing me efforts to cultivate indoors (particularly in regards to light), it struck me that the best consultants in this vein may not be Skinny Elf, but Beardie Dorf.
Dorfs do know of the kingsfoil plant – They calls it “Ibsêtmajd,” the “health-maker.” – Whether they grows it, I genuinely ‘ave no idea.
Even if they don’t, though, I still aims to learn whatever they’ll teach me about plants in a dim, controlled, enclosed setting. After all. Ter raise enough grains an’ hops fer all that drink, when they lives so deep in the earth? Dorfs gots ter be prolific indoor gardeners.
Beardie Dorfs be cagey blokes, though. I en’t certain simply waltzin’ up an’ sayin’ “Oie, mind sharin’ all yer secrets? I made pie!” would yield many useful results.
I ‘spects I’d fare better with some form o’ liaison. One who ‘ad an ‘inside line,’ if you will.
In the woods halfway twixt the northmost Elf hamlet, an’ the southmost Dorf one, thar be a huntin’ lodge what double as a rustic inn. Here, they say, yet another one o’ yer solitary Green-Hooded Bounders makes residence.
Figgered if thar were a bloke who could set me on track with Dorf-folk, it’d be this Langlas gent.
What say you? Is Mister Langlas the approachable type? Is a letter of introduction somethin’ I could cajole outta yeh? Circumstances given?
I readily assures ye – as I did Missie Arwen an’ Missie Sergie – whatever value this endeavor yields, I be prepared ter make known to ye an’ yer ilk. Is it gonna take the Lore o’ the Whole World to solve this riddle? It might ... but the World might be better for it, if it succeeds in any measure.
With humblest regards to yer excellent self, an’ a couple ‘o head scritches fer Laerlind, I remain cordially yours as ever,
“C”
* * *
← Previous: “Lost in Translation” ~ Next: "The Lore of Dorfs” →
* * *
