Along the coast in the early hours of the morning he would wander. His steps were aimless and at times apprehensively awkward. Most of the time he watched the ground just in front of his feet, though once in a while he might steal a glance across the water, over the sea, to that land heard of only in legends and fairytales.
She remembered her mother telling her of ‘the ancient one’; a beautiful-looking man who walked alone before dawn and after dusk. Some said that he had lost his ship and was stranded but too proud to ask for help finding his way home. Others guessed he had been banished by his own people and had nowhere else to go. Yet there were some who claimed he had been there for years uncounted, that their grandparents and countless generations before them had seen him before and that he was one of Them. So the tales grew, some fanciful, like the one that declared he paced the shoreline to build his courage so that he could challenge the god of the sea who had taken his fair maiden from him. Other stories told of a cruel demon who seemed innocent and wore this clever disguise, but used it to lure unknowingly curious children to him so that he could eat them.
There were doubts in her mind that any of these could be true, but to be safe everyone had always cautioned everyone else to stay far from him when he appeared. It was not every day, but when those days came people tended to wait longer to emerge from their cottages and hurry back before dark. Today, she awoke from a fitful sleep and when the herbal tea suggested by the healer did not help she resorted to taking a walk in hopes that the babe she carried might take rest again – or, at the very least, refrain from kicking her ribs every time she found a comfortable position. She kissed her husband, made sure the other children were asleep in their beds, and took a shawl with her as an afterthought, though part of the reason for going to the shore was to allow the cooling breezes to wash over her.
She did not survey the beach as she left the quiet little house; she merely left and walked with her purpose in mind. It was not until her bare feet felt the coarse grass exchanged for sand that she noticed him. Never had she been so close, and he was yet some distance from her. Years of lore swept through her mind, but the idea of fleeing seemed silly the longer she watched him.
His path was taking him southward, towards her. He carried little with him – only a harp strapped upon his back. It was tarnished and some of the strings were broken. His cape was tattered on the edges and the bottom of it whipped back and forth against his legs as he walked. There were no shoes on his calloused feet, and his trousers had been patched more often than not. His shirt was stained by sun and rain and tears, though the latter she could not recognize and only he knew. His hair was dark but light glinted off subdued shades of red hidden in the earthy tones.
He had yet to notice her, and she considered a second time her options. If she stood where she was, she appeared to be watching him – which she admittedly was. If she walked north, they would pass one another. If she walked south, he would eventually catch up to her. Not wanting to appear rude or confrontational, and trusting her gut feeling that he was not so very dangerous as some might thing, she chose south.
The waves gently caressed the shore and rolled pebbles onto the sand as if the sea was offering the earth these meager tributes. Some were accepted, and yet others were given back, only for the sea to bestow them once more. She watched the water hypnotically and did not remember she was not alone until she heard someone speak.
“They are crowding his kingdom,” said a soft voice just to her left. She looked up and turned her head, and though others might have run with fear, she only continued to walk dumbly beside the stranger. “When people skip stones, it annoys him,” the wanderer further explained. “They disrupt his waters the way he wants them to be. So Ulmo has his great serpents of the sea take them and gnash them into useless bits in their jagged jaws, and when they spit them out he sends them back ashore in warning.”
“Really?” she finally said, for she could not remain silent, and yet did not know what to say.
“That is what my father told me,” said the stranger. He picked up a flat stone and crouched down. She stopped to watch as he pitched it sideways once the latest wave was swallowed into the shore. The stone skipped twelve times and then disappeared beneath the surface. “Another for his servants to gobble up.”
“And what of you?” she asked as he stood up again and politely offered her his arm. She placed her hand around the bend of his elbow and they began to walk again.
“What of me?” he asked as if he wished an answer as well.
“What is your name, sir, and whose servant might you be?”
He was silent for a little while, but eventually said, “I am the last servant of my father, bound by an oath I have yet to understand. As for my name, call me only Rhachtor, for that is all that I am and shall remain.”
“Your name is of a language strange to me. Are you from the north or from the south?”
“I am from the west,” he said, and his gaze flitted seaward.
She laughed, a regretful move for the baby kicked her severely for this and she rubbed her swollen belly to calm him. “There are none who come from the west, except perhaps merfolk and el—“ Her smile dropped as suddenly as his appeared, and now she looked to examine him more closely. His face was young, but his eyes were old, and eyes never deceive one’s age. His hair, pulled back, covered his ears, though she looked about in hopes some of it might have revealed his identity.
“Go ahead and look if you wish, but tell no one else what you discover,” he said softly.
Curiosity got the better of her, and she tentatively reached up and moved his hair up and away from his ears. They curved at the bottom as any man’s would, but they did not round off as they should have had he been a man. “I thought your people had all sailed home, to your fabled island safe from the worries of Men.”
“Not all of us,” he answered with regret and longing.
“But you wanted to go,” she pieced together. “You still wish to be there.”
“Yes.”
“Are you able to?”
He sighed and stopped, stopping them both, and turned to face the sea and the unreachable horizon so very far away. For several minutes they stood; an eternity for her, a moment for him.
“Are you a harp player?” she asked in hopes of changing the subject.
“I once was.”
“And now? Is it because it is broken?”
He frowned, melancholy. “And now, I am the broken string – the servant with no master, the prince with no purpose, the king without a crown. I am the only one left, and yet I am no one. I am the voice of misery and ruined beauty, seeing everything and yet seeing nothing.”
“Is it because your instrument is broken?” she asked, somewhat confused by his words.
“It is because I am broken,” he said, and he carefully removed one of his gloves. As the fabric slid down, fingers she imagined to be delicate and gifted were shown to be crooked and gnarled. The sight of his palm was grotesque, and she looked away quickly as he covered his hand again.
“Who did such a horrible thing to you?” she whispered once his injury was again hidden.
“I did it to myself,” answered the stranger. He offered his arm to her again and they continued to walk. She slowed the pace, for her child seemed insistent upon rearranging his living quarters. “You will deliver soon?” he asked as if he knew what thoughts were forefront in her mind.
“Yes, another few weeks at most.”
“This is not your first,” he said as a matter of fact.
“No.”
He nodded. “If it was your first child, you would not stroll on the beach away from your house by yourself so far along. Now, it is not such a new experience, and you know yourself well enough to allow yourself this respite.”
“Respite?” She laughed. “No, not while he is awake and active... I was hoping to tire him out!”
“Ah, the little one wants attention,” he said fondly. “But surely you know that babies cannot always be expected to expel their energy in order to be made to sleep. They must be soothed to slumber.”
“There is hardly a way for me to accomplish that,” she said with a sigh, but she absently rubbed her stomach hopefully. It was a temporary solution; as soon as her unborn babe found his target, he kicked repeatedly at her belly where her hand was.
The wanderer smiled and again they stopped. “Allow me?” He lowered himself to one knee and in a clear, calming voice, began to sing so sweetly, in such a way as she had never before heard. The language was foreign, his own or perhaps of another tongue, but she listened and knew it must be a lullaby.
Hên en aer
Lasto dîn
Mae îdh hên melui
Le linnathon aerlinn nín
Oltho, oltho
Falas lithui
Aur nórui, faiun faen
Gaear gwaelath, nên hithui
Le tiron
Drego morn
Mae îdh hên melui
Dîno anim lasto lorn
When he finished, she could tell that the babe was resting. “Your magic has worked well on him. If only you could do that every morn!”
He did not answer at first, but pressed the tips of his fingers barely against her belly where the babe slept. “He is anxious to see the world and that is why he is so stubborn. What plans have you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” She searched to remember, feeling as if she, too, was under some trance from his singing. “My sister and my cousins and I are canning tomatoes, and then there is the wash to be done.”
“Do not put off until tomorrow what can be done today,” he advised. “You will have your day planned for you by Eru’s will tomorrow.”
This bit of prophecy intrigued her. “You can tell that by only a touch?”
He stood up and shrugged. “I have been around a long while. That which seems strange and unusual to you is a simple thing for me. Have you a name for him?”
“How did you know it was a...” She smiled and shook her head. “You just know, I suppose, and no, I do not. I have searched for something special... perhaps there is a name in your language I could use.”
“Our names are given by our traits and our actions. I can only make suggestions, for only you know your child so well.”
“What names do you favor?” she asked, glad for the calm he had brought her.
The wanderer considered her request before he answered. “If he is fair to look upon and just, name him Maitimo; if his beauty is dark and he is loyal, then Carnistir will do. If he is like his father, call him Atarinkë, but if his will is strong and his temper harsh, Tyelkormo. You are not having twins, so I have no other names to suggest.”
“Those are all very respectable names, but I am not sure any of them would fit. What shall I name him if he is a dreamer?”
“I have no name for you for that; my dreams are all spent.”
“My time here is spent as well,” she said sadly as the sun fully announced the day. “I must return home.”
“And I must continue on my path, no matter where it leads. Fare you well,” wished the wanderer.
“May your road take you safely home,” she offered him before she turned to walk away. After a few steps, she turned back to see him already on his way again. “Have you no other name?” she called out.
He stopped, eyes cast down at his feet as they often were. His mind bid him to press on and say nothing, but his heart tricked his lips to speak. One name he gave her, and she delighted in hearing it. The next day, it was bestowed upon her newly born son.
