Tells the tale that it was an evening of summer, when the wheat was in
the ear, but yet green; and the neat-herds were done driving the milch-
kine to the byre, and the horseherds and the shepherds had made the night-
shift, and the out-goers were riding two by two and one by one through
the lanes between the wheat and the rye towards the meadow. Round the
cots of the thralls were gathered knots of men and women both thralls and
freemen, some talking together, some hearkening a song or a tale, some
singing and some dancing together; and the children gambolling about from
group to group with their shrill and tuneless voices, like young
throstles who have not yet learned the song of their race. With these
were mingled dogs, dun of colour, long of limb, sharp-nosed, gaunt and
great; they took little heed of the children as they pulled them about in
their play, but lay down, or loitered about, as though they had forgotten
the chase and the wild-wood.
Merry was the folk with that fair tide, and the promise of the harvest,
and the joy of life, and there was no weapon among them so close to the
houses, save here and there the boar-spear of some herdman or herd-woman
late come from the meadow.
Tall and for the most part comely were both men and women; the most of
them light-haired and grey-eyed, with cheek-bones somewhat high; white of
skin but for the sun's burning, and the wind's parching, and whereas they
were tanned of a very ruddy and cheerful hue. But the thralls were some
of them of a shorter and darker breed, black-haired also and dark-eyed,
lighter of limb; sometimes better knit, but sometimes crookeder of leg
and knottier of arm. But some also were of build and hue not much unlike
to the freemen; and these doubtless came of some other Folk of the Goths
which had given way in battle before the Men of the Mark, either they or
their fathers.
Moreover some of the freemen were unlike their fellows and kindred, being
slenderer and closer-knit, and black-haired, but grey-eyed withal; and
amongst these were one or two who exceeded in beauty all others of the
House.
Now the sun was set and the glooming was at point to begin and the
shadowless twilight lay upon the earth. The nightingales on the borders
of the wood sang ceaselessly from the scattered hazel-trees above the
greensward where the grass was cropped down close by the nibbling of the
rabbits; but in spite of their song and the divers voices of the men-folk
about the houses, it was an evening on which sounds from aloof can be
well heard, since noises carry far at such tides.
Suddenly they who were on the edges of those throngs and were the less
noisy, held themselves as if to listen; and a group that had gathered
about a minstrel to hear his story fell hearkening also round about the
silenced and hearkening tale-teller: some of the dancers and singers
noted them and in their turn stayed the dance and kept silence to
hearken; and so from group to group spread the change, till all were
straining their ears to hearken the tidings. Already the men of the
night-shift had heard it, and the shepherds of them had turned about, and
were trotting smartly back through the lanes of the tall wheat: but the
horse-herds were now scarce seen on the darkening meadow, as they
galloped on fast toward their herds to drive home the stallions. For
what they had heard was the tidings of war.
There was a sound in the air as of a humble-bee close to the ear of one
lying on a grassy bank; or whiles as of a cow afar in the meadow lowing
in the afternoon when milking-time draws nigh: but it was ever shriller
than the one, and fuller than the other; for it changed at whiles, though
after the first sound of it, it did not rise or fall, because the eve was
windless. You might hear at once that for all it was afar, it was a
great and mighty sound; nor did any that hearkened doubt what it was, but
all knew it for the blast of the great war-horn of the Elkings, whose
Roof lay up Mirkwood-water next to the Roof of the Wolfings.
So those little throngs broke up at once; and all the freemen, and of the
thralls a good many, flocked, both men and women, to the Man's-door of
the hall, and streamed in quietly and with little talk, as men knowing
that they should hear all in due season.
Within under the Hall-Sun, amidst the woven stories of time past, sat the
elders and chief warriors on the dais, and amidst of all a big strong man
of forty winters, his dark beard a little grizzled, his eyes big and
grey. Before him on the board lay the great War-horn of the Wolfings
carved out of the tusk of a sea-whale of the North and with many devices
on it and the Wolf amidst them all; its golden mouth-piece and rim
wrought finely with flowers. There it abode the blowing, until the
spoken word of some messenger should set forth the tidings borne on the
air by the horn of the Elkings.
But the name of the dark-haired chief was Thiodolf (to wit Folk-wolf) and
he was deemed the wisest man of the Wolfings, and the best man of his
hands, and of heart most dauntless. Beside him sat the fair woman called
the Hall-Sun; for she was his foster-daughter before men's eyes; and she
was black-haired and grey-eyed like to her fosterer, and never was woman
fashioned fairer: she was young of years, scarce twenty winters old.
There sat the chiefs and elders on the dais, and round about stood the
kindred intermingled with the thralls, and no man spake, for they were
awaiting sure and certain tidings: and when all were come in who had a
mind to, there was so great a silence in the hall, that the song of the
nightingales on the wood-edge sounded clear and loud therein, and even
the chink of the bats about the upper windows could be heard. Then
amidst the hush of men-folk, and the sounds of the life of the earth came
another sound that made all turn their eyes toward the door; and this was
the pad-pad of one running on the trodden and summer-dried ground anigh
the hall: it stopped for a moment at the Man's-door, and the door opened,
and the throng parted, making way for the man that entered and came
hastily up to the midst of the table that stood on the dais athwart the
hall, and stood there panting, holding forth in his outstretched hand
something which not all could see in the dimness of the hall-twilight,
but which all knew nevertheless. The man was young, lithe and slender,
and had no raiment but linen breeches round his middle, and skin shoes on
his feet. As he stood there gathering his breath for speech, Thiodolf
stood up, and poured mead into a drinking horn and held it out towards
the new-comer, and spake, but in rhyme and measure:
"Welcome, thou evening-farer, and holy be thine head,
Since thou hast sought unto us in the heart of the Wolfings' stead;
Drink now of the horn of the mighty, and call a health if thou wilt
O'er the eddies of the mead-horn to the washing out of guilt.
For thou com'st to the peace of the Wolfings, and our very guest thou
art,
And meseems as I behold thee, that I look on a child of the Hart."
But the man put the horn from him with a hasty hand, and none said
another word to him until he had gotten his breath again; and then he
said:
"All hail ye Wood-Wolfs' children! nought may I drink the wine,
For the mouth and the maw that I carry this eve are nought of mine;
And my feet are the feet of the people, since the word went forth that
tide,
'O Elf here of the Hartings, no longer shalt thou bide
In any house of the Markmen than to speak the word and wend,
Till all men know the tidings and thine errand hath an end.'
Behold, O Wolves, the token and say if it be true!
I bear the shaft of battle that is four-wise cloven through,
And its each end dipped in the blood-stream, both the iron and the
horn,
And its midmost scathed with the fire; and the word that I have borne
Along with this war-token is, 'Wolfings of the Mark
Whenso ye see the war-shaft, by the daylight or the dark,
Busk ye to battle faring, and leave all work undone
Save the gathering for the handplay at the rising of the sun.
Three days hence is the hosting, and thither bear along
Your wains and your kine for the slaughter lest the journey should be
long.
For great is the Folk, saith the tidings, that against the Markmen
come;
In a far off land is their dwelling, whenso they sit at home,
And Welsh {1} is their tongue, and we wot not of the word that is in
their mouth,
As they march a many together from the cities of the South.'"
Therewith he held up yet for a minute the token of the war-arrow ragged
and burnt and bloody; and turning about with it in his hand went his ways
through the open door, none hindering; and when he was gone, it was as if
the token were still in the air there against the heads of the living
men, and the heads of the woven warriors, so intently had all gazed at
it; and none doubted the tidings or the token. Then said Thiodolf:
"Forth will we Wolfing children, and cast a sound abroad:
The mouth of the sea-beast's weapon shall speak the battle-word;
And ye warriors hearken and hasten, and dight the weed of war,
And then to acre and meadow wend ye adown no more,
For this work shall be for the women to drive our neat from the mead,
And to yoke the wains, and to load them as the men of war have need."
Out then they streamed from the hall, and no man was left therein save
the fair Hall-Sun sitting under the lamp whose name she bore. But to the
highest of the slope they went, where was a mound made higher by man's
handiwork; thereon stood Thiodolf and handled the horn, turning his face
toward the downward course of Mirkwood-water; and he set the horn to his
lips, and blew a long blast, and then again, and yet again the third
time; and all the sounds of the gathering night were hushed under the
sound of the roaring of the war-horn of the Wolfings; and the Kin of the
Beamings heard it as they sat in their hall, and they gat them ready to
hearken to the bearer of the tidings who should follow on the sound of
the war-blast.
But when the last sound of the horn had died away, then said Thiodolf:
"Now Wolfing children hearken, what the splintered War-shaft saith,
The fire scathed blood-stained aspen! we shall ride for life or death,
We warriors, a long journey with the herd and with the wain;
But unto this our homestead shall we wend us back again,
All the gleanings of the battle; and here for them that live
Shall stand the Roof of the Wolfings, and for them shall the meadow
thrive,
And the acres give their increase in the harvest of the year;
Now is no long departing since the Hall-Sun bideth here
'Neath the holy Roof of the Fathers, and the place of the Wolfing kin,
And the feast of our glad returning shall yet be held therein.
Hear the bidding of the War-shaft! All men, both thralls and free,
'Twixt twenty winters and sixty, beneath the shield shall be,
And the hosting is at the Thing-stead, the Upper-mark anigh;
And we wend away to-morrow ere the Sun is noon-tide high."
Therewith he stepped down from the mound, and went his way back to the
hall; and manifold talk arose among the folk; and of the warriors some
were already dight for the journey, but most not, and a many went their
ways to see to their weapons and horses, and the rest back again into the
hall.
By this time night had fallen, and between then and the dawning would be
no darker hour, for the moon was just rising; a many of the horse-herds
had done their business, and were now making their way back again through
the lanes of the wheat, driving the stallions before them, who played
together kicking, biting and squealing, paying but little heed to the
standing corn on either side. Lights began to glitter now in the cots of
the thralls, and brighter still in the stithies where already you might
hear the hammers clinking on the anvils, as men fell to looking to their
battle gear.
But the chief men and the women sat under their Roof on the eve of
departure: and the tuns of mead were broached, and the horns filled and
borne round by young maidens, and men ate and drank and were merry; and
from time to time as some one of the warriors had done with giving heed
to his weapons, he entered into the hall and fell into the company of
those whom he loved most and by whom he was best beloved; and whiles they
talked, and whiles they sang to the harp up and down that long house; and
the moon risen high shone in at the windows, and there was much laughter
and merriment, and talk of deeds of arms of the old days on the eve of
that departure: till little by little weariness fell on them, and they
went their ways to slumber, and the hall was fallen silent.