[piosenniel]

Zimzirân

‘Tell me, Gilly, what are the folk here like. I’ve had sketches from Pio, in words and drawings, about those who stood out in her mind. And I’ve seen the countryside as we rode in. But what of the flavor and texture of this place, what can you tell me of that?’

It was an odd pairing, the small brown haired hobbit, pacing alongside the tall woman; her short, quick paced steps keeping up but just with the long stride of the other. Gilly pointed toward the open door to the stable, as they led the horses in, and left the wagon, parked closed under the eaves, to the care of the stableman when he returned.

‘He’ll be surprised to see ‘Falmar back in her stall, I think,’ said Gilly, latching the stall door behind her. ‘Though I can’t think how he allowed her to run off like she did. Lucky she found us.’

‘Lucky,’ thought the woman, ‘or simply the pull of the Elf on the creatures about her.’ She smiled, shaking the image of her friend at the center of an enlarging spiral. Sitting down on a stool by the stall door, she asked her question once again.

‘Well,now, isn't it funny you should use the words "flavor and texture" when you asked what folks here are like . . .’ and with that Gilleflower Took began the weaving of her picture of the Shire, as a whole, and Hobbiton-Bywater in greater detail. The woman’s eyes grew wide as the words flowed on, and after a goodly number of minutes, and in the midst of some very important bit of genealogy, she put her hand on Gilly’s arm and gave a low laugh. ‘What a treasure trove of information you are! But I’m afraid that is too much for me to take in all at once.’ She cocked her head a little to the side, and chewed her lip, her grey eyes flicking to meet Gilly’s brown ones. ‘Simplify it a little for me. Will we like each other, do you think?’

Gilly gave chuckle and shook her head at the woman. ‘Well, I’m from here, that is, from Waymeet. And you’ve met my family. Pretty typical folk, I should think. You’ve gotten along famously with us. You’ll do fine with those you meet here.’

‘We should be going, I think. The twins will be needing me. Mistress Piosenniel and her Mister will be wanting to catch up on the news and speak with friends. I should see to the wee ones.’ The young Hobbit was Pio and Mithadan’s nursemaid, and she took her job very seriously. ‘Are you coming, too,’ she asked, as she turned to head toward the Inn.

‘In a while,’ came the woman’s voice. ‘It’s been a long day’s ride for ‘Falmar. And I see no one to care for her. Let me see to her needs, then I will come in.’

‘Don’t be long,’ came the fading voice of the Hobbit as she ran toward the kitchen’s back door.

~*~*~*~

‘Now that I’m here, I’m wondering if this was a mistake.’ Falmar whickered softly at her, as if encouraging her to go on.

Zimzirân’s long fingers ran lightly through her long black hair, picking the tangles from it, and pushing it back from her face. She had lived all her twenty-seven years near the haven of Forlond, in Forlindon. A small community named Strand - an unimaginative, but descriptive name from the slender shingle of beach that marked where the land faded into the waters of The Sea.

Her family had been small, just her parents, her two older brothers, and herself. Her father was a fisherman, and his son’s had followed his calling for the sea. Her mother was a fisherman’s wife, and a jolly woman who kept her family entertained on cold winter nights with stories passed down through her family from ‘the old days’.

The old days, when Westernesse still hung like a bright jeweled brooch on the bosom of the sea’s dark waters . . . the old days when the King still climbed in silence the spiral road to the peak of the mountain in Mittalmar . . . the old days when the Faithful, driven by winds from the west, were at last delivered in their ships to Lindon . . .

Sometimes, near sunset, as she stood on the edge of the strand, the froth from the waves spilling over her bared feet, Zimzi thought she could see the sun’s last rays gleam for a brief second off the tip of Meneltarma, and at other times she saw in the distance the great ships that bore the Elf-friends and the Palantiri to their refuge in Middle-earth. A blink of an eye, though, and they all were gone.

Sea dreams . . .

She wondered if in truth those old places had ever existed save in her dreams and the dreams of her family.

It was Pio who had confirmed the tales for her. The Elf with her laughter ringing out over the sands one evening not long after they had met. ‘Of course they are true,’ Pio had cried to her wide eyed friend. She remembered the Elf had waded out into the water, letting the waves rush against her bared legs. ‘I have seen the view from Meneltarma,’ she had said. ‘And these feet here,’ she laughed again, wiggling her toes in the water-shifted sand, ‘have walked on the lands now hidden here.’ Zimzi had plied her with many questions, and the Elf had answered all that she could. ‘How wonderful!’ the woman had thought to herself, ‘to have seen so many places.’

And now here she was, having followed her friend to the Shire – the farthest she had ever been from home. ‘You can always go back,’ Pio had told her, the day she asked if Zimzi would like to travel with them for a little while. ‘But when you do, think of the wonderful stories you will have to tell.’

Zimzi finished brushing Falmar’s coat. She threw a blanket over the horse’s back and gave her a measure of oats. Her hands went to the simple, dark grey woolen dress she wore, and she smoothed out the wrinkles left from the long ride. Her dark blue cloak was dry now, where she had hung it on the hook just outside the stall. She took it down, shaking out the creases and the odd bit of hay stuck to it. Drawing it about her shoulders, she fastened it carefully with the shell clasp.

Quick steps brought her to the front entrance to the Inn. She paused, taking a breath, then squared her shoulders, and entered . . .

[ October 04, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]