House of the Wolfings: The William Morris Book that Inspired J. R. R. Tolkiena *s The Lord of the Rings (28 page)

So he spake, and even as he bade them, they
made no sound save a joyous murmur; and straightway the more part
of them betook themselves to sleep as men who must busy themselves
about a weighty matter; for they were wise in the ways of war. So
sank all the host to the ground save those who were appointed as
watchers of the night, and Arinbiorn and Thiodolf and the Hall-Sun;
they three yet stood together; and Arinbiorn said:

“Now it seems to me not so much as if we had
vanquished the foe and were safe and at rest, but rather as if we
had no foemen and never have had. Deep peace is on me, though
hitherto I have been deemed a wrathful man, and it is to me as if
the kindreds that I love had filled the whole earth, and left no
room for foemen: even so it may really be one day. To-night it is
well, yet to-morrow it shall be better. What thine errand may be,
Thiodolf, I scarce know; for something hath changed in thee, and
thou art become strange to us. But as for mine errand, I will tell
it thee; it is that I am seeking Otter of the Laxings, my friend
and fellow, whose wisdom my foolishness drave under the point and
edge of the Romans, so that he is no longer here; I am seeking him,
and to-morrow I think I shall find him, for he hath not had time to
travel far, and we shall be blithe and merry together. And now will
I sleep; for I have bidden the watchers awaken me if any need be.
Sleep thou also, Thiodolf! and wake up thine old self when the moon
is low.” Therewith he laid himself down under the lee of the pile
of faggots, and was presently asleep.

Chapter 26

Thiodolf Talketh with the Wood-sun

Now were Thiodolf and the Hall-Sun left
alone together standing by the Speech-Hill; and the moon was risen
high in the heavens above the tree-tops of the wild-wood. Thiodolf
scarce stirred, and he still held his head bent down as one lost in
thought.

Then said the Hall-Sun, speaking softly
amidst the hush of the camp:

“I have said that the minutes of this night
are dear, and they are passing swiftly; and it may be that thou
wilt have much to say and to do before the host is astir with the
dawning. So come thou with me a little way, that thou mayst hear of
new tidings, and think what were best to do amidst them.”

And without more ado she took him by the
hand and led him forth, and he went as he was led, not saying a
word. They passed out of the camp into the wood, none hindering,
and went a long way where under the beech-leaves there was but a
glimmer of the moonlight, and presently Thiodolf’s feet went as it
were of themselves; for they had hit a path that he knew well and
over-well.

So came they to that little wood-lawn where
first in this tale Thiodolf met the Wood-Sun; and the stone seat
there was not empty now any more than it was then; for thereon sat
the Wood-Sun, clad once more in her glittering raiment. Her head
was sunken down, her face hidden by her hands; neither did she look
up when she heard their feet on the grass, for she knew who they
were.

Thiodolf lingered not; for a moment it was
to him as if all that past time had never been, and its battles and
hurry and hopes and fears but mere shows, and the unspoken words of
a dream. He went straight up to her and sat down by her side and
put his arm about her shoulders, and strove to take her hand to
caress it; but she moved but little, and it was as if she heeded
him not. And the Hall-Sun stood before them and looked at them for
a little while; and then she fell to speech; but at the first sound
of her voice, it seemed that the Wood-Sun trembled, but still she
hid her face. Said the Hall-Sun:

Two griefs I see before me in mighty hearts
grown great;

And to change both these into gladness
out-goes the power of fate.

Yet I, a lonely maiden, have might to
vanquish one

Till it melt as the mist of the morning
before the summer sun.

O Wood-Sun, thou hast borne me, and I were
fain indeed

To give thee back thy gladness; but thou
com’st of the Godhead’s seed,

And herein my might avails not; because I
can but show

Unto these wedded sorrows the truth that the
heart should know

Ere the will hath wielded the hand; and for
thee, I can tell thee nought

That thou hast not known this long while;
thy will and thine hand have wrought,

And the man that thou lovest shall live in
despite of Gods and of men,

If yet thy will endureth. But what shall it
profit thee then

That after the fashion of Godhead thou hast
gotten thee a thrall

To be thine and never another’s, whatso in
the world may befall?

Lo! yesterday this was a man, and to-morrow
it might have been

The very joy of the people, though never
again it were seen;

Yet a part of all they hoped for through all
the lapse of years,

To make their laughter happy and dull the
sting of tears;

To quicken all remembrance of deeds that
never die,

And death that maketh eager to live as the
days go by.

Yea, many a deed had he done as he lay in
the dark of the mound;

As the seed-wheat plotteth of spring, laid
under the face of the ground

That the foot of the husbandman treadeth,
that the wind of the winter wears,

That the turbid cold flood hideth from the
constant hope of the years.

This man that should leave in his death his
life unto many an one

Wilt thou make him a God of the fearful who
live lone under the sun?

And then shalt thou have what thou wouldedst
when amidst of the hazelled field

Thou kissed’st the mouth of the helper, and
the hand of the people’s shield,

Shalt thou have the thing that thou
wouldedst when thou broughtest me to birth,

And I, the soul of the Wolfings, began to
look on earth?

Wilt thou play the God, O mother, and make a
man anew,

A joyless thing and a fearful? Then I
betwixt you two

’Twixt your longing and your sorrow will
cast the sundering word,

And tell out all the story of that rampart
of the sword!

I shall bid my mighty father make choice of
death in life,

Or life in death victorious and the crowned
end of strife.

Ere she had ended, the Wood-Sun let her
hands fall down, and showed her face, which for all its unpaled
beauty looked wearied and anxious; and she took Thiodolf’s hand in
hers, while she looked with eyes of love upon the Hall-Sun, and
Thiodolf laid his cheek to her cheek, and though he smiled not, yet
he seemed as one who is happy. At last the Wood-Sun spoke and
said:

Thou sayest sooth, O daughter: I am no God
of might,

Yet I am of their race, and I think with
their thoughts and see with their sight,

And the threat of the doom did I know of,
and yet spared not to lie:

For I thought that the fate foreboded might
touch and pass us by,

As the sword that heweth the war-helm and
cleaveth a cantle away,

And the cunning smith shall mend it and it
goeth again to the fray;

If my hand might have held for a moment,
yea, even against his will,

The life of my beloved! But Weird is the
master still:

And this man’s love of my body and his love
of the ancient kin

Were matters o’er mighty to deal with and
the game withal to win.

Woe’s me for the waning of all things, and
my hope that needs must fade

As the fruitless sun of summer on the waste
where nought is made!

And now farewell, O daughter, thou mayst not
see the kiss

Of the hapless and the death-doomed when I
have told of this;

Yet once again shalt thou see him, though I
no more again,

Fair with the joy that hopeth and dieth not
in vain.

Then came the Hall-Sun close to her, and
knelt down by her, and laid her head upon her knees and wept for
love of her mother, who kissed her oft and caressed her; and
Thiodolf’s hand strayed, as it were, on to his daughter’s head, and
he looked kindly on her, though scarce now as if he knew her. Then
she arose when she had kissed her mother once more, and went her
ways from that wood-lawn into the woods again, and so to the
Folk-mote of her people.

But when those twain were all alone again,
the Wood-Sun spoke: “O Thiodolf canst thou hear me and
understand?”

“Yea,” he said, “when thou speakest of
certain matters, as of our love together, and of our daughter that
came of our love.”

“Thiodolf,” she said, “How long shall our
love last?”

“As long as our life,” he said.

“And if thou diest to-day, where then shall
our love be?” said the Wood-Sun.

He said, “I must now say, I wot not; though
time was I had said, It shall abide with the soul of the Wolfing
Kindred.”

She said: “And when that soul dieth, and the
kindred is no more?”

“Time agone,” quoth he, “I had said, it
shall abide with the Kindreds of the Earth; but now again I say, I
wot not.”

“Will the Earth hide it,” said she, “when
thou diest and art borne to mound?”

“Even so didst thou say when we spake
together that other night,” said he; “and now I may say nought
against thy word.”

“Art thou happy, O Folk-wolf?” she said.

“Why dost thou ask me?” said he; “I know
not; we were sundered and I longed for thee; thou art here; it is
enough.”

“And the people of thy Kindred?” she said,
“dost thou not long for them?”

He said; “Didst thou not say that I was not
of them? Yet were they my friends, and needed me, and I loved them:
but by this evening they will need me no more, or but little; for
they will be victorious over their foes: so hath the Hall-Sun
foretold. What then! shall I take all from thee to give little to
them?”

“Thou art wise,” she said; “Wilt thou go to
battle to-day?”

“So it seemeth,” said he.

She said: “And wilt thou bear the
Dwarf-wrought Hauberk? for if thou dost, thou wilt live, and if
thou dost not, thou wilt die.”

“I will bear it,” said he, “that I may live
to love thee.”

“Thinkest thou that any evil goes with it?”
said she.

There came into his face a flash of his
ancient boldness as he answered: “So it seemed to me yesterday,
when I fought clad in it the first time; and I fell unsmitten on
the meadow, and was shamed, and would have slain myself but for
thee. And yet it is not so that any evil goes with it; for thou
thyself didst say that past night that there was no evil weird in
it.”

She said: “How then if I lied that
night?”

Said he; “It is the wont of the Gods to lie,
and be unashamed, and men-folk must bear with it.”

“Ah! how wise thou art!” she said; and was
silent for a while, and drew away from him a little, and clasped
her hands together and wrung them for grief and anger. Then she
grew calm again, and said:

“Wouldest thou die at my bidding?”

“Yea,” said he, “not because thou art of the
Gods, but because thou hast become a woman to me, and I love
thee.”

Then was she silent some while, and at last
she said, “Thiodolf, wilt thou do off the Hauberk if I bid
thee?”

“Yea, yea,” said he, “and let us depart from
the Wolfings, and their strife, for they need us not.”

She was silent once more for a longer while
still, and at last she said in a cold voice; “Thiodolf, I bid thee
arise, and put off the Hauberk from thee.”

He looked at her wondering, not at her
words, but at the voice wherewith she spake them; but he arose from
the stone nevertheless, and stood stark in the moonlight; he set
his hand to the collar of the war-coat, and undid its clasps, which
were of gold and blue stones, and presently he did the coat from
off him and let it slide to the ground where it lay in a little
grey heap that looked but a handful. Then he sat down on the stone
again, and took her hand and kissed her and caressed her fondly,
and she him again, and they spake no word for a while: but at the
last he spake in measure and rhyme in a low voice, but so sweet and
clear that it might have been heard far in the hush of the last
hour of the night:

Dear now are this dawn-dusk’s moments as is
the last of the light

When the foemen’s ranks are wavering, and
the victory feareth night;

And of all the time I have loved thee of
these am I most fain,

When I know not what shall betide me, nor
what shall be my gain.

But dear as they are, they are waning, and
at last the time is come

When no more shall I behold thee till I wend
to Odin’s Home.

Now is the time so little that once hath
been so long

That I fain would ask thee pardon wherein I
have done thee wrong,

That thy longing might be softer, and thy
love more sweet to have.

But in nothing have I wronged thee, there is
nought that I may crave.

Strange too! as the minutes fail me, so do
my speech-words fail,

Yet strong is the joy within me for this
hour that crowns the tale.

Therewith he clipped her and caressed her,
and she spake nothing for a while; and he said; “Thy face is fair
and bright; art thou not joyous of these minutes?”

She said: “Thy words are sweet; but they
pierce my heart like a sharp knife; for they tell me of thy death
and the ending of our love.”

Said he; “I tell thee nothing, beloved, that
thou hast not known: is it not for this that we have met here once
more?”

She answered after a while; “Yea, yea; yet
mightest thou have lived.”

He laughed, but not scornfully or bitterly
and said:

“So thought I in time past: but hearken,
beloved; If I fall to-day, shall there not yet be a minute after
the stroke hath fallen on me, wherein I shall know that the day is
won and see the foemen fleeing, and wherein I shall once again deem
I shall never die, whatever may betide afterwards, and though the
sword lieth deep in my breast? And shall I not see then and know
that our love hath no end?”