Nothing of Note
by Primula
18: Holing Up
The storm blew on through the night; he listened to it moaning outside
when he awoke in the small hours. He fed the dying fire a bit of
wood and slept again. The next time he awoke it felt like morning,
though nothing had changed. A small amount of grey light came in
the window slots that were not shuttered, but the wind and rain
continued on and the passage of time meant little. He could hear
the water sluicing against the walls outside. By now his fire had
warmed the room nicely so he drank clear water and ate his apples
and seedcake in relative comfort.
"Well," he said to the harpist on the wall, "I hope you don't mind, but
I think I'm going to have a look around your home. You and your
friends are welcome to enjoy the fire. I'll be back in a bit."
Not caring about the appearance of it, he put his belt over one of the
blankets to bind it around him for warmth, tucked his notebook under
his arm and headed for the stairs.
He was surprised to realize that while uncomfortable, the stairs no
longer frightened him. As long as he kept up against the wall and
deliberately thought about something else, he was able to walk up them
fairly steadily. As he expected, the second floor followed the
pattern of the other towers, but he immediately found several
improvements. Right away he crossed to the window and pulled the
shutters closed against the wind and rain. The open window had resulted
in a wet stone floor for a space and he gingerly stepped out of the
puddle on the floor. This room had furniture! Sort of. A
little anyway. He noted the light, moveable screen cleverly woven from
the same grasses that grew on the downs, and two stands of some sort,
perhaps originally for musical instruments. There seemed to be an
ongoing musical theme here, after all. The lintels were carved
with patterns of ribbons, graceful wine goblets, flutes and harps.
In the side room he found a rounded table, a narrow writing desk with a
dried up inkwell, some untrimmed quills in its drawer and two
stools. They were a bit tall for a hobbit, but he decided he
would lug one down to sit on by the fire later on. For now, he sat on
it and dangled his legs while inscribing in his book.
As I write this I am sitting upon a tall wooden stool far above the
ground in more ways than one.- in an Elven tower, suspended in the air
in the midst of the worst storm I have heard for many years yet I am as
warm and comfortable as any bird must be in its nest. Holing up takes
on new meaning when one is dwelling in a home that seems determined to
pull its occupants up into the sky...
I cannot forget the Sea's nearness. It has taken the miles that yet lay
between us and closed that distance to naught, throwing itself at this
place. It hardly seems to be the same Creature as that which lay so
calm and white-drifted just a two days ago, or that which hence will be
the softness to bear any craft without the perishing of its
passengers....
After a bit his hand and back complained against the writing, so he
closed it back up. The day was moving on - now for the next set.
Over towards the rising stairs he found the stone flooring partially
overlaid
with an intricate layer of interlocking wood pieces, giving it a
pleasant feel under his feet. It formed a fan pattern, radiating out
from the base of the steps. He squared his shoulders, took a breath and
started up the next flight.
Stepping out onto the third level he was suprised to find the shutters
already closed. Again he found a smooth wooden flooring laid over the
cold stone, it's pattern repeating and interlocking. A neat, dry stack
of
firewood lay ready beside the empty hearth as if awaiting someone's
return, and an ornate metal brazier stood near the rank of closets to
the
side. He peered into the closets feeling for the first time a touch
uncomfortable, as if he were trespassing in someone's home. They were
mostly empty, but not all. In the center one a leather packet
held clean linen strips and squares. Beside it, a cloth-wrapped block
of resin, a carven box with coarse-ground salt in it and another box.
It was clasped but empty, and he guessed from the shape and size of it
may have held the
tools of a healer.
Upon the shelves of the next closet there were several gracefully made
apothcary jars of
various types. He gingerly opened them and looked inside them, then
sniffed. Empty but still holding the ghosts of their medicines and
herbs, the faint scents wafted up to him from their interiors. One
tickled his nose with a scent of pipeweed; he hopefully shook it upside
down, but it was empty. A little pipeweed would have been a nice
treat. He was mildly suprised to find it, for he had not known
the Elves
to smoke; perhaps it had other uses for them. One tall jar was
sealed with pale wax. He hesitated over the idea of opening it for a
moment,
but decided he dared not break the seal. It did not stop him from
wondering greatly what was in it. He lifted it to feel the weight and
found it was heavy but did not slosh. He carefully set it back
where it belonged.
Turning, he went over to the window. The wind whistled around the edges of
the shutters in gusts, cold on his hands. The lintel was carven
with a flute design, and he could swear he was hearing musical notes. A
trick of the wind no doubt. He reached up and undid the latch, allowing
the shutters to be blown open.
The sound and the smell of the storm came in a rush. Outside the sky was dark, the clouds low and angry. They swept past at
a great rate. The storm-swept ocean was barely visible, obscured, grey
and sullen. A wet gust lifted his hair to wave above his head and spattered
him with fat drops of rain. He remembered to not look down, but grasped
the lintel so tightly his knuckles showed white as he tried to convince
his own self that he was not uncounted feet above the earth. This
turn of the weather did not look like it would be over anytime
soon. He pushed the shutters closed and after a bit of struggling
with it got the latch back in place. Memories of the storm he had faced
in the Misty Mountains long ago had suddenly surged up around him as he
stood there, and he was glad to be able to shut it outside. Some
things were better not dwelt on, even after this many years. As
he stood there, waiting for his mild shivering to subside he heard a
flute again. No not a flute. Maybe more like hand pipes being played,
only a note here, a note there. No tune.
It had to be the wind. For his own sanity's sake, he needed to believe
that. He looked at the lintels and fireplace, which all bore a pipe and
flute theme. The music sounded again. Not really music, more of
the random notes. Multiple ones, softly sounding nearby.
Mystified, he tried to track where it was coming from, moving silently
around the room. It was only intermittant, but he tracked it first to
the fireplace and then to the next set of upward sweeping stairs.
Yes, there it was. Up there. Soft notes questioning, then an answering one.
These stairs were narrower than the previous ones. He reluctantly set
his feet on them and step by step lifted upward. The notes sounded
again, softly, closer. It did not sound like the sort of sounds
wind would make, it sounded more like.... His head came up into the
upper chamber and the sounds stopped.
Roughly two dozen pairs of eyes looked back into his own.
Birds! A type of seabird perhaps, though they were darker than the
white ones he had seen far below. A small flock of them had taken
shelter from the storm and now moved restlessly, unsure what to do
about the hobbit-head that had so suddenly introduced itself in their
midst.
The wind blew past the small open window they had no doubt come in
through. The room did not smell like a nesting place; only temporary
visitors then, not unlike himself. He knew how aggressive some birds
could be if they felt threatened; a neighbor's gander had given him
quite a fright more than once. He moved very slowly, talking to them in
tones that he hoped were at least a little like their own, the soft
friendly stream of flattery that he also used for dogs and very small
children.
He very slowly climbed up into the room.Their glossy brown and white necks
followed his every move but they didn't back away from him. They looked
at him so curiously he could not help but wonder if they had ever seen a hobbit before.
Keeping the soft words going, he looked around the room. A wooden
chest stood near, but it was open and obviously empty. He realized the
birds appeared to be sitting in a pile of sacking. No wonder they
weren't moving, they weren't about to give up thier 'nest.' He
considered the ladder that went up to the rooftop on the other side. He warred
within himself, part of him wishing that the weather were better so he
could go up it, the rest of him being grateful for the excuse that kept
him where he was. Nothing else to be seen.
Bidding a soft stream of farewells to the watching birds, he lowered
himself back down the stairs. Their bright eyes, trained on his every
movement bobbed up and down with every step and he suddenly had to
fight the desire to laugh at them. He deliberately bobbed up and down
in place, watching their beaks rise and fall with him in unison. He rocked side to side and they all swayed together.
A last
smiling farewell and he left them to their sacking in peace. After all,
they were just holing up too.
He worked his way back down to the main floor, stopping to pick up the
wooden stool on the second level. It proved more difficult to get
it down the one flight of steps than he had thought and after he and
the stool took a brief tumble on the last three steps, he was a bit
shaken up. No more furniture moving. He dragged it over to the
hearth and built the fire back up. He then sat upon it and gave a
little wave to the harpist.
"Look at this! Nice, eh? Aside from getting it down here, it's quite pleasant. I
figure it's only fair reasoning if you have a seat to sit on while you
play, I should have one while I listen." He settled down to crack
a good portion of the remaining nuts then began sketching and writing
of all he had seen, including the birds. Outside the wind and rain raged on and the hours of
the day whiled away into an early windswept night.
