It does not always turn in one direction, I sometimes hear you say. It is a cold spring, then a hot summer, then a cold autumn, then a warm autumn. What is a Hobbit to wear? Do you not understand, there is an element of chaos about me? I came down among the first, you know. Ever devoted to the Lady Yavanna was I. Evermore shall that be. The others I honour, but my spirit sings in the wildness of the northern lands, in the struggle for survival of all living things that is yet not quite the curse Men, Hobbits, Elves and Dwarves, think it is. Yavanna is light and warmth and growth, and I am dark and cold and death. Lovely thought, that, but I look on the bright side. I am far far lesser a spirit than she. But there must be a balance. So I serve her, and in the form of the small ones she takes to heart.
Some say I am harsh and uncaring. That is true to an extent, as an Elf of several thousand years gives but small thought to the passing of minutes. You are here, and then you are not. That is my experience, though certainly not most of yours.
Last I spoke, it was nigh the start of my time, and I had brought an early snow storm down. It kept folk in the cabin for several days. But there was water and food enough for all. There was enough for second breakfasts. There was wood for the fire, thick rugs on the floor and blankets and furs to be wrapped in. My ‘audience’ did not suffer, save for worrying over others. One week of my outstretched hand, and a small reminder that my time is not all ill, for it enforces rest, even on those who do not know how to take it.
And then I closed my hand for some weeks, that all may collect the last of their grain and harvest that was unspoilt. But now the nights draw in, and the dark descends early over the lighted villages, with their lanterns and candlesticks in the windows.I shall not go down from the mountain now until Spring approaches, and I reach out to ‘he of the waters’ to renew my life. For this until the spring arrives, it is my time!
I have thick porridge over the fire, with the dried fruit and some honey added. There is meat and root vegetables in the larder. And even if there were not, I should not starve. I am old. Older than the Mountains I walk through.
But this time of year my thoughts turn to one of my favourite pastimes.
Now I never challenged the Dark Lord. I have an old and strange power, but it is nothing compared to his, or those who grace Taniquitil. The High Ones dealt with him. Yet the Dark Servant is another matter. If truth be told, his power is little different to mine, save I know how to use what I have, and he squanders his gifts on trying to impersonate his ‘master’.
So, each turn of the wheel, when it reaches this point and my strength is waxing, I take a pocket full of pebbles, and go and stalk him.
‘That winter-midge’ again, he will be thinking. That ‘overgrown rabbit’ who strikes my cheek with a jagged rock, or bruises my toes with a boulder. (For of course, the pebbles are giant rocks when I am my true self). I tidy up afterwards, and sometimes make some new mountains from the leftovers. I usually send him away with a storm of great rage, that also whips up the boulders so they bounce off his head. He should depart the Northern Lands, not follow his Master’s example.
I think Yavanna quietly disapproves. Not that she has an eon of thought to waste on him, but I sometimes think she chuckles when my back is turned.
So gather in all folk of good heart. Ea is more than you know, or need to know. And though the cold and the dark can be terrifying, my herds and packs roam safely. My ancient eyes see far, and I am not quite the un-friend many of you think I am.
~~~~
It disnae aye turn in the ane direction, I whiles hear ye say. It’s an awfy cauld spring, siclike a het simmer, siclike a cauld hairst, siclike a warm hairst. Whit’s a Hobbit tae wear? D'ye no unnerstan, there’s a bit o chaos aboot me? I cam doon amang the first, ye ken. Ever devoated tae the Lady Yavanna wis I. Evermore sall that be. The ithers I honour, but ma speerit sings in the wyleness o the northern lands, in the fecht for survival o aw leevin things that is yet no richt the curse Men, Hobbits, Elves and Dwarves, think it is. Yavanna is licht and warmth and growth, and I am dark and cauld and daith. Bonny thocht, that, but I look on the bricht side. I am far far lesser a speerit than her. But there maun be a balance. Sae I serve her, and in the form o the wee yins she taks tae heart.
Sum say I am harsh and uncairing. That’s richt tae an extent, as an Elf o several thoosan year gies but sma thocht tae the passin o minutes. Ye are here, and then ye are no. That’s ma experience, though certainlie no maist o yours. Last I spoke, it wis near the start o ma time, and I had brocht an early snaw storm doon. It kept folk in the hoose for several days. But there wis watter and vivers eneuch for aw. There wis eneuch for second breakfasts. There wis wid for the fire, thick rugs on the flair and blankets and furs tae be happed in. Ma ‘audience’ didnae suffer, save for fashin ower ithers. Ane wik o ma ootstretched haun, and a sma reminder that that my time isnae aw ill, see, cos it forces rest, even on them that dinnae ken hoo tae tak it. And then I closed my hand for some weeks, sae that aw could gather the last o their grain and harvest that wisna spoiled. But noo the nights draw in, and the dark comes doon early ower the bonnie wee lit up clachans, wi their lanterns and candlesticks in the windaws. I sanna gang doon frae the mountain noo until Spring comes aboot, and I reach oot tae ‘he o the waters’ tae renew my life. For this till the spring arrives, it’s my ain time! I’ve got thick parritch ower the fire, wi the dried fruit and some honey pit in it. There’s meat and root vegetables in the larder. And even if there wiznae, I widnae starve. I’m auld. Aulder nor the mountains I walk through. But this time o year my thochts turn tae yin o my maist favourite pastimes.
Noo I never challenged the Dark Lord. I’ve got an auld and strange pooer, but it’s nane compared tae his, or them that grace Taniquitil. The High Yins dealt wi him. Yet the Dark Servant’s anither story entirely. If the truth be telt, his pooer is wee different frae mine, 'cep I ken hoo tae use whit I’ve got, and he wastes his gifts on tryin tae imitate his ‘maister’. Sae, ilka turn o the wheel, when it gets tae this pint and my strength is growin, I tak a pocketfou o stanes, and gang and stalk the wee bugger. ‘That winter-midge’ again, he’ll be thinkin to himsel. That ‘overgrown rabbit’ wha dunts my cheek wi a jagged stane, or bruises my taes wi a boulder. Och aye, o' coorse, the pebbles are giant boulders when I'm ma true sel. I tidy up efterrit, an whiles mak some new mountains fae the left-overs. I usually send him packing wi a storm o pure rage, that whip up the boulders tae so they bounce aff his napper. He should get oot the Norlan, no copy his Maister's bit. I ken Yavanna quietly disapproves. No that she has an age o thocht to waste on him, but I whiles ken she gi'es a wee chuckle when ma back's turned. So gather in aw folk o guid heart. Ea is mair nor ye ken, or need to ken. An though the cauld and the dark can be boggin, ma herds and packs roam safely. Ma auld een see far, and I'm no quite the nay-pal mony o ye think I am.
