[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

On the road the silence that followed Vogonwë's recitation could only be described as "deafening". It was the sort of silence that only happens when the demands of courtesy and aesthetic taste have just collided violently, bringing about an awkwardness that is the conversational equivalent of gridlock. The silence was brooding and malevolent, and it lay like an unwashed horse-blanket over the company, broken only by a soft gurgling noise.

"Actually I quite liked it" said Earnur brightly, replacing the cap on his flask. The corner of one of his eyes looked distinctly moist so that, were it not for his rugged, manly reputation, one might even have thought him moved.

"As indeed you should," replied Vogonwë, preening noticeably as he swigged from his own bottle. "For it is my greatest work to date."

Immediately several pairs of eyes turned disbelievingly to Pimpiowyn for confirmation, becoming yet more incredulous when she nodded a dainty agreement. In her opinion Vogonwë's greatest poetical work had been a sonnet composed on a dead centipede, which had actually scanned for six lines before collapsing into verbal anarchy, but that only bettered this latest effort in its relative brevity.

"Oh yes," said Earnur. "I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective."

"Erm..." replied the self-appointed Poet Laureate of Workmud, demonstrating once more his uncanny linguistic gift.

"Could you repeat that in Westron?" quoth Lord Gormlessar mightily. "Because it sounded like complete rubbish to me."

But no amount of perplexity could stop Lord Etceteron now. He had overcome the inertia of being completely alone in his appreciation of the staves and was rolling happily downhill toward the alligator pit of universal contempt with a beatific smile on his face. "Oh ... and er ... int'reshting rhythmick devishes too," he continued, "which seemed to counterpoint the...er...er...counterpoint the shurrealishm of the underlying methaphor of the ... er ... humanity ... Sorry, Eldarity ... of the poet's compassionate soul."

A suspicion began to dawn on a number of the listening public that Lord Etceteron might not be feeling entirely himself. His rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, sponge-tongued discourse was most unwonted in a hero, especially since his childlike enthusiasm seemed like to encourage the composition of further fits of the poem. There was a smattering of 'um's and a few 'er's by way of attempted interruption, but Earnur was beyond such petty restraints, with the end of his response in sight.

"...which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other, and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into ... into ... er ... whatever it was the poem was about!"

Lord Etceteron, Master of the Black Sword, concluded his critical analysis triumphantly and fell off his horse, which snorted disdainfully and surreptitiously tried to tread on him. After scrabbling for his flask and stowing it somewhere about his person, he rose and addressed Baklava in a series of snorts and whinnies, which, did he but know it, instructed the great black stallion to fetch him a cooper as his harpsichord was gravid. This vital intelligence passed on, Lord Etceteron made shift to mount and on the third attempt succeeded, his hand brushing the hilts of his blade as he flopped gracelessly into the saddle, facing backwards.

You plonker came a familiar voice, followed closely by a cascade of laughter that was part whetstone on blade, part death-rattle.

"What holds us thus in this place?" demanded Earnur, swinging elegantly round so that he faced once more in the direction of travel. "Come, we must be swift, lest want of speed should ... err ... render us ... erm ... late"

The company moved on in embarrassed silence, punctated only by an occasional stifled giggle. Truly this would be an arduous journey.

[ February 14, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]