House of the Wolfings: The William Morris Book that Inspired J. R. R. Tolkiena *s The Lord of the Rings (16 page)

“Such then was the battle in Mirkwood. Give
me the mead-horn that I may drink to the living and the dead, and
the memory of the dead, and the deeds of the living that are to
be.”

So they brought him the horn, and he waved
it over his head and drank again and spake:

“Sixty and three dead men of the Romans we
counted there up and down that oak-glade; and we cast earth over
them; and three dead dastards of the Goths, and we left them for
the wolves to deal with. And twenty-five men of the Romans we took
alive to be for hostages if need should be, and these did we
Shielding men, who are not very many, bring aback to the Wain-burg;
and the Daylings, who are a great company, were appointed to enter
the wood and be with Thiodolf; and me did Otter bid to bear the
tidings, even as I have told you. And I have not loitered by the
way.”

Great then was the joy in the Hall; and they
took Gisli, and made much of him, and led him to the bath, and clad
him in fine raiment taken from the coffer which was but seldom
opened, because the cloths it held were precious; and they set a
garland of green wheat-ears on his head. Then they fell to and
spread the feast in the hall; and they ate and drank and were
merry.

But as for speeding the tidings, the
Hall-Sun sent two women and two lads, all a-horseback, to bear the
words: the women to remember the words which she taught them
carefully, the lads to be handy with the horses, or in the ford, or
the swimming of the deeps, or in the thicket. So they went their
ways, down the water: one pair went on the western side, and the
other crossed Mirkwood-water at the shallows (for being Midsummer
the water was but small), and went along the east side, so that all
the kindred might know of the tidings and rejoice.

Great was the glee in the Hall, though the
warriors of the House were away, and many a song and lay they sang:
but amidst the first of the singing they bethought them of the old
woman, and would have bidden her tell them some tale of times past,
since she was so wise in the ancient lore. But when they sought for
her on all sides she was not to be found, nor could anyone remember
seeing her depart from the Hall. But this had they no call to heed,
and the feast ended, as it began, in great glee.

Albeit the Hall-Sun was troubled about the
carline, both that she had come, and that she had gone: and she
determined that the next time she met her she would strive to have
of her a true tale of what she was, and of all that was toward.

Chapter 3

The Hall-Sun Saith Another Word

It was no later than the next night, and a
many of what thralls were not with the host were about in the
feast-hall with the elders and lads and weaklings of the House; for
last night’s tidings had drawn them thither. Gisli had gone back to
his kindred and the Wain-burg in the Upper-mark, and the women were
sitting, most of them, in the Women’s-Chamber, some of them doing
what little summer work needed doing about the looms, but more
resting from their work in field and acre.

Then came the Hall-Sun forth from her room
clad in glittering raiment, and summoned no one, but went straight
to her place on the dais under her namesake the Lamp, and stood
there a little without speaking. Her face was pale now, her lips a
little open, her eyes set and staring as if they saw nothing of all
that was round about her.

Now went the word through the Hall and the
Women’s-Chamber that the Hall-Sun would speak again, and that great
tidings were toward; so all folk came flock-meal to the dais, both
thralls and free; and scarce were all gathered there, ere the
Hall-Sun began speaking, and said:

The days of the world thrust onward, and men
are born therein

A many and a many, and divers deeds they
win

In the fashioning of stories for the
kindreds of the earth,

A garland interwoven of sorrow and of
mirth.

To the world a warrior cometh; from the
world he passeth away,

And no man then may sunder his good from his
evil day.

By the Gods hath he been tormented, and been
smitten by the foe:

He hath seen his maiden perish, he hath seen
his speech-friend go:

His heart hath conceived a joyance and hath
brought it unto birth:

But he hath not carried with him his sorrow
or his mirth.

He hath lived, and his life hath fashioned
the outcome of the deed,

For the blossom of the people, and the
coming kindreds’ seed.

Thus-wise the world is fashioned, and the
new sun of the morn

Where earth last night was desert beholds a
kindred born,

That to-morrow and to-morrow blossoms all
gloriously

With many a man and maiden for the kindreds
yet to be,

And fair the Goth-folk groweth. And yet the
story saith

That the deeds that make the summer make too
the winter’s death,

That summer-tides unceasing from out the
grave may grow

And the spring rise up unblemished from the
bosom of the snow.

Thus as to every kindred the day comes once
for all

When yesterday it was not, and to-day it
builds the hall,

So every kindred bideth the night-tide of
the day,

Whereof it knoweth nothing, e’en when noon
is past away.

E’en thus the House of the Wolfings ’twixt
dusk and dark doth stand,

And narrow is the pathway with the deep on
either hand.

On the left are the days forgotten, on the
right the days to come,

And another folk and their story in the
stead of the Wolfing home.

Do the shadows darken about it, is the even
here at last?

Or is this but a storm of the noon-tide that
the wind is driving past?

Unscathed as yet it standeth; it bears the
stormy drift,

Nor bows to the lightening flashing adown
from the cloudy lift.

I see the hail of battle and the onslaught
of the strong,

And they go adown to the folk-mote that
shall bide there over long.

I see the slain-heaps rising and the alien
folk prevail,

And the Goths give back before them on the
ridge o’er the treeless vale.

I see the ancient fallen, and the young man
smitten dead,

And yet I see the War-duke shake
Throng-plough o’er his head,

And stand unhelmed, unbyrnied before the
alien host,

And the hurt men rise around him to win back
battle lost;

And the wood yield up her warriors, and the
whole host rushing on,

And the swaying lines of battle until the
lost is won.

Then forth goes the cry of triumph, as they
ring the captives round

And cheat the crow of her portion and heap
the warriors’ mound.

There are faces gone from our feast-hall not
the least beloved nor worst,

But the wane of the House of the Wolfings
not yet the world hath cursed.

The sun shall rise to-morrow on our cold and
dewy roof,

For they that longed for slaughter were
slaughtered far aloof.

She ceased for a little, but her
countenance, which had not changed during her song, changed not at
all now: so they all kept silence although they were rejoicing in
this new tale of victory; for they deemed that she was not yet at
the end of her speaking. And in good sooth she spake again
presently, and said:

I wot not what hath befallen nor where my
soul may be,

For confusion is within me and but dimly do
I see,

As if the thing that I look on had happed a
while ago.

They stand by the tofts of a war-garth, a
captain of the foe,

And a man that is of the Goth-folk, and as
friend and friend they speak,

But I hear no word they are saying, though
for every word I seek.

And now the mist flows round me and blind I
come aback

To the House-roof of the Wolfings and the
hearth that hath no lack.

Her voice grew weaker as she spake the last
words, and she sank backward on to her chair: her clenched hands
opened, the lids fell down over her bright eyes, her breast heaved
no more as it had done, and presently she fell asleep.

The folk were doubtful and somewhat
heavy-hearted because of those last words of hers; but they would
not ask her more, or rouse her from her sleep, lest they should
grieve her; so they departed to their beds and slept for what was
yet left of the night.

Chapter 14

The Hall-Sun Is Careful

Concerning the Passes of the Wood

In the morning early folk arose; and the
lads and women who were not of the night-shift got them ready to go
to the mead and the acres; for the sunshine had been plenty these
last days and the wheat was done blossoming, and all must be got
ready for harvest. So they broke their fast, and got their tools
into their hands: but they were somewhat heavy-hearted because of
those last words of the Hall-Sun, and the doubt of last night still
hung about them, and they were scarcely as merry as men are wont to
be in the morning.

As for the Hall-Sun, she was afoot with the
earliest, and was no less, but mayhap more merry than her wont was,
and was blithe with all, both old and young.

But as they were at the point of going she
called to them, and said:

“Tarry a little, come ye all to the dais and
hearken to me.”

So they all gathered thereto, and she stood
in her place and spake.

“Women and elders of the Wolfings, is it so
that I spake somewhat of tidings last night?”

“Yea,” said they all.

She said, “And was it a word of
victory?”

They answered “yea” again.

“Good is that,” she said; “doubt ye not!
there is nought to unsay. But hearken! I am nothing wise in war
like Thiodolf or Otter of the Laxings, or as Heriulf the Ancient
was, though he was nought so wise as they be. Nevertheless ye shall
do well to take me for your captain, while this House is bare of
warriors.”

“Yea, yea,” they said, “so will we.”

And an old warrior, hight Sorli, who sat in
his chair, no longer quite way-worthy, said:

“Hall-Sun, this we looked for of thee; since
thy wisdom is not wholly the wisdom of a spae-wife, but rather is
of the children of warriors: and we know thine heart to be high and
proud, and that thy death seemeth to thee a small matter beside the
life of the Wolfing House.”

Then she smiled and said, “Will ye all do my
bidding?”

And they all cried out heartily, “Yea,
Hall-Sun, that will we.”

She said: “Hearken then; ye all know that
east of Mirkwood-water, when ye come to the tofts of the Bearings,
and their Great Roof, the thicket behind them is close, but that
there is a wide way cut through it; and often have I gone there: if
ye go by that way, in a while ye come to the thicket’s end and to
bare places where the rocks crop up through the gravel and the
woodland loam. There breed the coneys without number; and wild-cats
haunt the place for that sake, and foxes; and the wood-wolf walketh
there in summer-tide, and hard by the she-wolf hath her litter of
whelps, and all these have enough; and the bald-head erne hangeth
over it and the kite, and also the kestril, for shrews and mice
abound there. Of these things there is none that feareth me, and
none that maketh me afraid. Beyond this place for a long way the
wood is nowise thick, for first grow ash-trees about the clefts of
the rock and also quicken-trees, but not many of either; and here
and there a hazel brake easy to thrust through; then comes a space
of oak-trees scattered about the lovely wood-lawn, and then at last
the beech-wood close above but clear beneath. This I know well,
because I myself have gone so far and further; and by this easy way
have I gone so far to the south, that I have come out into the fell
country, and seen afar off the snowy mountains beyond the Great
Water.

“Now fear ye not, but pluck up a heart! For
either I have seen it or dreamed it, or thought it, that by this
road easy to wend the Romans should come into the Mark. For shall
not those dastards and traitors that wear the raiment and bodies of
the Goths over the hearts and the lives of foemen, tell them
hereof? And will they not have heard of our Thiodolf, and this my
holy namesake?

“Will they not therefore be saying to
themselves, ‘Go to now, why should we wrench the hinges off the
door with plenteous labour, when another door to the same chamber
standeth open before us? This House of the Wolfings is the door to
the treasure chamber of the Markmen; let us fall on that at once
rather than have many battles for other lesser matters, and then at
last have to fight for this also: for having this we have all, and
they shall be our thralls, and we may slaughter what we will, and
torment what we will and deflower what we will, and make our souls
glad with their grief and anguish, and take aback with us to the
cities what we will of the thralls, that their anguish and our joy
may endure the longer.’ Thus will they say: therefore is it my rede
that the strongest and hardiest of you women take horse, a ten of
you and one to lead besides, and ride the shallows to the Bearing
House, and tell them of our rede; which is to watch diligently the
ways of the wood; the outgate to the Mark, and the places where the
wood is thin and easy to travel on: and ye shall bid them give you
of their folk as many as they deem fittest thereto to join your
company, so that ye may have a chain of watchers stretching far
into the wilds; but two shall lie without the wood, their horses
ready for them to leap on and ride on the spur to the Wain-burg in
the Upper-mark if any tidings befal.

“Now of these eleven I ordain Hrosshild to
be the leader and captain, and to choose for her fellows the
stoutest-limbed and heaviest-handed of all the maidens here: art
thou content Hrosshild?”

Then stood Hrosshild forth and said nought,
but nodded yea; and soon was her choice made amid jests and
laughter, for this seemed no hard matter to them.