The Lays of Beleriand (10 page)

by those words wakened, wildly answered:

'I abide by Beleg; nor bid me leave him,

thou voice unfaithful. Vain are all things.

0 Death dark-handed, draw thou near me;

if remorse may move thee, from mourning loosed crush me conquered to his cold bosom! '

Flinding answered, and fear left him

for wrath and pity: 'Arouse thy pride!

Not thus unthinking on Thangorodrim's

heights enchained did Hurin speak.'

'Curse thy comfort! Less cold were steel.

If Death comes not to the death-craving,

I will seek him by the sword. The sword -- where lies it?

0 cold and cruel, where cowerest now,

murderer of thy master? Amends shalt work,

md slay me swift, O sleep-giver.'

Look not, luckless, thy life to steal,

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nor sully anew his sword unhappy

in the flesh of the friend whose freedom seeking he fell by fate, by foes unwounded.

Yea, think that amends are thine to make,h

is wronged blade with wrath appeasing,

its thirst cooling in the thrice-abhorred

blood of Bauglir's baleful legions.

Is the feud achieved thy father's chains

on thee laid, or lessened by this last evil?

Dream not that Morgoth will mourn thy death,

or thy dirges chant the dread Glamhoth --

less would like them thy living hatredan

d vows of vengeance; nor vain is courage,

hough victory seldom be valour's ending.'

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Then fiercely Turin to his feet leapingc

ried new-crazed: 'Ye coward Orcs,

why turn ye tail? Why tarry ye now,w

hen the son of Hurin and the sword of Beleg

in wrath await you? For wrong and woe

here is vengeance ready. If ye venture it not, I will follow your feet to the four corners

f the angry earth. Have after you! '

Sainting Flinding there fought with him,

and words of wisdom to his witless ears

he breathless spake: 'Abide, 0 Turin,

for need hast thou now to nurse thy hurt,

and strength to gather and strong counsel.

Who flees to fight wears not fear's token,

and vengeance delayed its vow achieves.'

The madness passed; amazed pondering

neath the tangled trees sat Turin wordless

brooding blackly on bitter vengeance,

till the dusk deepened on his day of waking,

and the early stars were opened pale.

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Then Beleg's burial in those bleak regions

did Flinding fashion; where he fell sadly

he left him lying, and lightly o'er him

with long labour the leaves he poured.

But Turin tearless turning suddenly

on the corse cast him, and kissed the mouth

cold and open, and closed the eyes.

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His bow laid he black beside him,

and words of parting wove about him:

'Now fare well, Beleg, to feasting long

neath Tengwethil in the timeless halls

where drink the Gods, neath domes golden

o'er the sea shining.' His song was shaken,

but the tears were dried in his tortured eyes by the flames of anguish that filled his soul.

His mind once more was meshed in darkness

as heaped they high o'er the head beloved

a mound of mould and mingled leaves.

Light lay the earth on the lonely dead;

heavy lay the woe on the heart that lived.

That grief was graven with grim token

on his face and form, nor faded ever:

and this was the third of the throes of Turin.

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Thence he wandered witless without wish or purpose; but for Flinding the faithful he had fared to death, or been lost in the lands of lurking evil.

Renewed in that Gnome of Nargothrond

was heart and valour by hatred wakened,

that he guarded and guided his grim comrade;

with the light of his lamp he lit their ways, and they hid by day to hasten by night,

by darkness shrouded or dim vapours.

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The tale tells not of their trave) weary,

how roamed their road by the rim of the forest, whose beetling branches, black o'erhanging,

did greedy grope with gloomy malice

to ensnare their souls in silent darkness.

Yet west they wandered, by ways of thirst

and haggard hunger, hunted often,

and hiding in holes and hollow caverns,

by their fate defended. At the furthest end

of Dor-na-Fauglith's dusty spaces

to a mighty mound in the moon looming

they came at midnight: it was crowned with mist, bedewed as by drops of drooping tears.

'A! green that hill with grass fadeless,

where sleep the swords of seven kindreds,

where the folk of Faerie once fell uncounted.

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There was fought the field by folk named

Nirnaith Ornoth, Unnumbered Tears.

'Twas built with the blood of the beaten people; neath moon nor sun is it mounted ever

by Man nor Elf; not Morgoth's host

ever dare for dread to delve therein.'

Thus Flinding faltered, faintly stirring

Turin's heaviness, that he turned his hand

toward Thangorodrim, and thrice he cursed

the maker of mourning, Morgoth Bauglir.

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Thence later led them their lagging footsteps o'er the slender stream of Sirion's youth;

not long had he leapt a lace of silver

from his shining well in those shrouded hills, the Shadowy Mountains whose sheer summits

there bend humbled towards the brooding heights in mist mantled, the mountains of the North.

Here the Orcs might pass him; they else dared not o'er Sirion swim, whose swelling water

through moor and marsh, mead and woodland,

through caverns carven in the cold bosom

of Earth far under, through empty lands

and leagues untrodden, beloved of Ylmir,

fleeting floweth, with fame undying

in the songs of the Gnomes, to the sea at last.

Thus reached they the roots and the ruinous feet of those hoary hills that Hithlum girdle,

the shaggy pinewoods of the Shadowy Mountains.

There the twain enfolded phantom twilight

and dim mazes dark, unholy,

in Nan Dungorthin where nameless gods

have shrouded shrines in shadows secret,

more old than Morgoth or the ancient lords

the golden Gods of the guarded West.

But the ghostly dwellers of that grey valley

hindered nor hurt them, and they held their course with creeping flesh and quaking limb.

Yet laughter at whiles with lingering echo,

as distant mockery of demon voices1

there harsh and hollow in the hushed twilight Flinding fancied, fell, unwholesome

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as that leering laughter lost and dreadful

that rang in the rocks in the ruthless hour

of Beleg's slaughter. "Tis Bauglir's voice that dogs us darkly with deadly scorn'

he shuddering thought; but the shreds of fear and black foreboding were banished utterly

when they clomb the cliffs and crumbling rocks that walled that vale of watchful evil,

and southward saw the slopes of Hithlum

more warm and friendly. That way they fared

during the daylight o'er dale and ghyll,

o'er mountain pasture, moor and boulder,

over fell and fall of flashing waters

that slipped down to Sirion, to swell his tide in his eastward basin onward sweeping

to the South, to the sea, to his sandy delta.

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After seven journeys lo! sleep took them

on a night of stars when they nigh had stridden to those lands beloved that long had known

Flinding aforetime. At first morning

the white arrows of the wheeling sun

gazed down gladly on green hollows

and smiling slopes that swept before them.

There builded boles of beeches ancient

marched in majesty in myriad leaves

of golden russet greyly rooted,

in leaves translucent lightly robed;

their boughs up-bending blown at morning

by the wings of winds that wandered down

o'er blossomy bent breathing odours

to the wavering water's winking margin.

There rush and reed their rustling plumes

and leaves like lances louted trembling

peen with sunlight. Then glad the soul

of Flinding the fugitive; in his face the morning here glimmered golden, his gleaming hair

was washed with sunlight. 'Awake from sadness, Turion Thalion, and troublous thoughts!

On Ivrin's lake is endless laughter.

o! cool and clear by crystal fountains

he is fed unfailing, from defilement warded

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by Ylmir the old, who in ancient days,

wielder of waters, here worked her beauty.

From outmost Ocean yet often comes

his message hither his magic bearing,

the healing of hearts and hope and valour

for foes of Bauglir. Friend is Ylmir

who alone remembers in the Lands of Mirth

the need of the Gnomes. Here Narog's waters

(that in tongue of the Gnomes is 'torrent' named) are born, and blithely boulders leaping

o'er the bents bounding with broken foam

swirl down southward to the secret halls

of Nargothrond by the Gnomes builded

that death and thraldom in the dreadful throes of Nirnaith Ornoth, a number scanty,

escaped unscathed. Thence skirting wild

the Hills of the Hunters, the home of Beren

and the Dancer of Doriath daughter of Thingol, it winds and wanders ere the willowy meads,

Nan- Tathrin's land, for nineteen leagues

it journeys joyful to join its flood

with Sirion in the South. To the salt marshes where snipe and seamew and the sea-breezes

first pipe and play they press together

sweeping soundless to the seats of Ylmir,

where the waters of Sirion and the waves of the sea murmurous mingle. A marge of sand

there lies, all lit by the long sunshine;

there all day rustles wrinkled Ocean,

and the sea-birds call in solemn conclave,

whitewinged hosts whistling sadly,

uncounted voices crying endlessly.

There a shining shingle on that shore lieth,

whose pebbles as pearl or pale marble

by spray and spindrift splashed at evening

in the moon do gleam, or moan and grind

when the Dweller in the Deep drives in fury

the waters white to the walls of the land;

when the long-haired riders on their lathered horses with bit and bridle of blowing foam,

in wrack wreathed and ropes of seaweed,

to the thunder gallop of the thudding of the surf.'

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Thus Flinding spake the spell feeling

of Ylmir the old and unforgetful,

which hale and holy haunted Ivrin

and foaming Narog, so that fared there never

Orc of Morgoth, and that eager stream

no plunderer passed. If their purpose held

to reach the realms that roamed beyond

(nought yet knew they of Nargothrond)

they harried o'er Hithlum the heights scaling that lay behind the lake's hollow,

the Shadowy Mountains in the sheen mirrored

of the pools of Ivrin. Pale and eager

Turin hearkened to the tale of Flinding:

the washing of waters in his words sounded,

an echo as of Ylmir's awful conches

in the abyss blowing. There born anew

was hope in his heart as they hastened down

to the lake of laughter. A long and narrow

arm it reaches that ancient rocks

o'ergrown with green girdle strongly,

at whose outer end there open sudden

a gap, a gateway in the grey boulders;

whence thrusteth thin in threadlike jets

newborn Narog, nineteen fathoms

o'er a flickering force falls in wonder,

and a glimmering goblet with glass-lucent

fountains fills he by his freshets carven

in the cool bosom of the crystal stones.

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There deeply drank ere day was fallen

Turin the toilworn and his true comrade;

hurt's ease found he, heart's refreshment,

from the meshes of misery his mind was loosed, as they sat on the sward by the sound of water, and watched in wonder the westering sun

o'er the wall wading of the wild mountains,

whose peaks empurpled pricked the evening.

Then it dropped to the dark and deep shadows

up the cliffs creeping quenched in twilight

the last beacons leashed with crimson.

To the stars upstanding stony-mantled

the mountains waited till the moon arose

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o'er the endless East, and Ivrin's pools

dreaming deeply dim reflected

their pallid faces. In pondering fast

woven, wordless, they waked no sound,

till cold breezes keenly breathing

clear and fragrant curled about them;

then sought they for sleep a sand-paved

cove outcarven; there kindled fire,

that brightly blossomed the beechen faggots

in flowers of flame; floated upward

a slender smoke, when sudden Turin

on the firelit face of Flinding gazed,

and wondering words he wavering spake:

'0 Gnome, I know not thy name or purpose

or father's blood -- what fate binds thee