Foiled Again: The Lore of the Bards

From Applecider Bolingbroke to Deputy-Shirriff Lancogard North-Took ~ Salutations an’ all me respects to the Honorable Bounders: May their evidence be forever statistically robust.

Dear Lance, 

If you’ve ‘eard gossip (either from our Well-Rounded Hooligan, or our Green-Hooded Bounder), you’ll know I took off fer Beardie Dorf lands fer a week or so. I returns now, laden with a fascinatin’ crystaline lamp of Dorf-make, an’ KEG-fulls of opinionated advice on indoor growin’. 

Afore setting-to, though, me first attentions were demanded by a nice chicken-dumpling soup fer supper, and a wonderfully intriguin' parcel, arrived during me absence. The post-master attached a note, sayin’ it’d been carried as far as Celondim by some visitor from Rivendell, a Mister Gildor Inglorious (at least I think it were an “s;” the ink were smudged). 

Missie Arwen sent a reply!! 


Concernin’ me queries about Cloven-Valley’s source o’ kingsfoil, I have found – at last – a samplin’ of Elf-kind what do grow atheas. After a fashion, at least. Imladhrim dinnae plant it row by row, like taters or blueberry bushes. But they do gots a little “haven” of sorts, wherein athelas be nurtured.

A rumblin’ waterfall, from whence propagates Bruinen River, pours into Cloven Valley. By said waterfall, thar be a sanctuary o’ tranquil glades: they calls it Imlad Gelair.  The arms o’ the Valley traps the spray, keepin’ soil soft an’ hydrated. The piney woods keeps it on the acidic side. An’ sun be filtered through the dense boughs, an’ curtains of fallin’ water, creatin’ a most gentle sort o’ light. 

Here, says Missie Arwen, athelas grows plentifully, with only a little tendin’ by Elf gardeners, keepin’ weeds cleared an’ such. 

She made ‘er way ter Imlad Gelair, collectin’ a small handful o’ Rivendell soil, which she bottled in a phial, enclosed in the parcel. Her feelin’ – like Missie Sergie, like Mister Búkk – were to plant usin’ earth which might be “familiar.” Or at least, known to be ter their liking. 


Twixt this, an’ the Duillond riverside soil, I should ‘ave a decent primer. 

Meanwhile, Missie Arwen put to me another, more esoteric, an’ decidedly Elfy idea.

This Imlad Gelair be a place o’ serenity. Foliage blooms particularly prettily, an’ Elfs’ll sit quietly beneath it. Readin’ a book. Havin’ a tidy picnic. Playin’ a spot o’ music, or similar. 

That last point – Music – were a point upon which Missie Arwen’s attentions dwelt. 

She’ll go there oft enough with ‘er lute or long yew woodwind – ‘pparently on one such occasion, thar were ‘ow she met that Dúney bloke what be so fond of ‘er; Mister Halros’s captain.


But ponderin’ upon me letter gave ‘er pause ter think on a curiously horticultural application fer music. 

Which as a bard (she says), I might be well predisposed ter explore:

Missie Arwen divides ‘er time twixt ‘er Gaffer’s house in Imladris – natch – an’ the realm of ‘er late Mam’s folks, over the Misty Mountains cold in Lord’n’Ladyland.

Missie Arwen’s Nan an’ Gramps be exceedingly fond of trees. They grows specimens what en’t seen anywhere else about the World. Most famously o’ course, the lofty gold-leafed mellyrn.

(I gots ter go ‘ave a look at these, in future). 


But they’ve another specimen – a cousin o’ the white birch called malbrethil – what be a peculiarity. ‘Pparently malbrethil be especially sensitive ter the pulse o’ the World.  

As water downriver may indicate lush growth or bad contagion from elsewhere, the roots o’ mallorn an’ malbrethil run deep. They becomes fragile when the general state o’ the World be one ‘o stress.

Ter keep the sensitive saplings happy, an’ generally aid their growth, the Lord’n’Ladyland Elfs ... well ... come along with me on this one, Lance. 

They sings to ‘em. 

The gold forest (says Missie Arwen) be redolent with hymnody. 

Songs of all manner o’ things. From hymns ter the Stars, to melodies o’ the Homeland, ter Love-songs, ter balladry o’ Valiant Days Past, all drift from the soft grass ter the towerin’ boughs above. Goldwood Elfs seems ter think this strengthens the malbrethil. 

Missie Arwen’s thought were, p’raps the same truth applies ter the athelas of Imlad Gelair?


So much music permeates the glades o’ that sanctuary ... Maybe it ‘elps the athelas. Like malbrethil, kingsfoil be a sensitive plant. Call it a fortuitous help if you like. It were already an ideal growin’ spot. But maybe Missie Arwen’s woodwind, an’ Mister Lindir’s harp, an’ Missie Arwen’s brother Elrohir’s lute, an’ the harps an’ flutes an’ voices of all the other Rivendell Elf-folk have accidentally been feedin’ their kingsfoil this whole time. 

T’were a simultaneously elegant an’ downright recondite proposal ter come home to, I tell yeh that much. 

But I’ll be the first of all folk ter vouch fer Music an’ Voice as the greatest forces in all the known World. In every age, race, rank, an’ people – Song’ll stir the heart o’ Sage, Sire, an’ Serf alike. 

... Missie Arwen’s postulation simply be, I s’ppose ... why not Sprout as well?

She signed off, promisin’ to write to ‘er friends amongst the custodians of ‘er Nan an’ Gramps’ woods (a Mister Orthir an’ a Missus Sendiel were mentioned), to solicit further opinion. 

Till then? Her feelin’ were, try givin’ me own sprouts a little singin’-to, an’ see if that ‘elped ‘em. 

Can’t hurt ‘em, at least, if nothin’ else I s’ppose. 

Jus’ fer fun, she selected ‘alf a dozen of ‘er favorite movements an’ penned copies, so’s I can play fer ... me potted plants. Well, play in my greenhouse, at least (that sounds a bit less outlandish, an’ more idyllic-like). Three sonatas fer lute. Two fer harp. An’ two fer woodwind. One o’ which – she says – that dazzlin’ paladin Mister Glorfindel taught to her years an’ years back. 

Mister Glorfindel picked it up from a cohort of ‘is younger days. 

I be plum tickled, frankly: By all balladry I ever read, this Mister Ecthelion bloke be reckoned one o’ the Greats o’ the early World. Besides jus’ bein’ a real stand-up gent in an Age where Skinny Elfs was all collectively goin’ through their Volatile Angry Tween Phase, ‘e were also, by most counts, a dab hand on the sword an’ shield, an’ a properly gifted flautist. 

(Hang on a tick, though ... battle-flautist-sword-an’-shield-warrior ... were Mister Ecthelion a BARD!?! – Bullroarer’s Blatant Bibacity – I gots a new professional model ter work toward!!!) 

But I digress. 

I be armed for a veritable symphony of endeavors at this point. 

Two kinds of known Kingsfoil-Growin’ Soil. Planters a'plenty. A Dorf-lamp affordin’ total control o’ me light conditions. Elf-lore. Dorf-lore. A nagging Hunch as ter the secret o’ the Ancient Dúney-lads’ Plant Propagation Practices. An’ good old-fashioned Hobbit Sense. 

An’ if – by any chance – Music be indeed a Food o’ the Helper-Leaf ... then permit me to introduce Adversity to the Stalwart Champion o’ Ballad an’ Breakfast alike. 

The Bardic Hobbit .... Is going to work.
~ Cheers, luv! 
ACB

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