They Can Nearly Talk by Chestnut_pod  

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Chapter 2

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All told, it took me about a week to move my scant affairs from Tirion to Merrilosto, with one day given over to celebratory carousing in Alqualondë, where I took it as my duty to familiarize myself with wines sent into the city from Ránanandë, which were many and, I could now confidently say, of high quality.

Then I found myself plunged precipitously into the irregular life of a country leech, which has brought me so many pleasures. When I look back at the time I recount in these tales, I smile at that Hyamessë who thought she would take a century or two to let Valinor settle into its usual lazy pulse after the war, then trot back to Tirion, where naturally it seemed like all bright sparks should go.

Even in those early days, though, I found myself absorbed in the work, which was filled with variety the battlefield had not taught me to expect. During the war, a particularly diverse month might have brought mange, frostbite, burns, galls from the saddle, and a variety of exciting lamenesses, plus any number of noble beasts whose ailments I could not attempt a cure for at all, and could only ease on their way beyond the circles of the world.

Some of those ailments of the front — the co-presentation of frostbite and burns, for example — were entirely absent in Ránanandë, while the others were the fare for a single week, all mixed together with the multitudinous afflictions of farm dogs, barn cats, dairy cows, sheep, and, of course, the chickens.

Elquessë’s intent was to take on all the avian work for herself, but she wanted me to be well-rounded and able to respond should she be indisposed or away. I believe she also thought — and thinks — that a leech who cannot tend ably to a chicken is not worth her eggs. Those early weeks, therefore, saw me accompanying her in the smart dogcart to the region’s various egg operations. These jaunts were also my first introduction to some of Ránanandë’s most peculiar characters, who were to so enliven the tapestry of my life. I remember particularly my first meeting with Vercaván, who sold me my beloved Quildatal.

Vercaván Laicondiel ran one of the grand wineries nearer to the coast, where the cool climate favored the black-pine grapes, and did very well at it. She had some family connection to Elquessë which I still cannot claim to understand, but which expressed itself mainly in an ardent devotion to the kind of show chickens which make one wonder at the breadth of Yavanna’s infinite imagination.

On this particular day, her prize cockerel had broken a blood feather, and nothing would do but that Elquessë come all the way out to the west county personally to see to it. My understanding was that a broken blood feather, where a half-grown pinion with the blood vessels still close to the surface breaks off, was quite serious enough that the bird might bleed out well before Elquessë could arrive, however smartly her lovely Mórikano could trot.

“Oh no, she will have it well in hand,” Elquessë assured me, boosting me up on the dogcart’s box. “This cockerel remembers the Darkening; it won’t let a little spat like this slow it down.”

I pondered that remark as we dashed along the scenic road to Vercaván’s estate. Animals in the Undying Lands lived strange and elastic lives. They died, of course — Valinor would have drowned beneath a furry tide of rabbits, otherwise — and yet, some did not. This mostly, though not entirely, occurred with animals who spent a great deal of time with Elves and developed a particular relationship to them. A wild doe in the thick taiga of Araman would live a relatively short span, then return to the earth, leaving new deer behind her. A favorite housecat, however, whom an Elf-child had loved and cosseted from a kitten, might continue to slink about the house and destroy upholstery for as long as it saw fit. A particularly beloved cockerel might well outlast the Trees. Yavanna and Mandos were shiftily tight-lipped about how this worked.

Quickly, however, I was distracted from these existential musings by the thought that my one-month’s training period was almost up, and I had meant to spend today searching out a mount for riding my circuit. Elquessë needed her handsome Mórikano gelding, and while she kept another horse, he was a miniature animal whose primary purpose seemed to be sharpening the hairdressing skills of Merrilosto’s children.

As the dogcart rattled along, I considered the distances I would need to travel, the lodgings likely to be available, whether I could afford a cart of my own. The answer to the last was, firmly, no. Whether I could afford a horse at all was an open question: I did not have any large stores of useful goods, or small stores of useless but fungible ones, and the problem with offering my labor in kind was that I was liable to be called to dash across half the county to deal with hurt chickens at a moment’s notice.

Beside me, Elquessë let out a sharp, “Aha!”

Down the sun-dappled road, a mule was coming. It came on rather like I imagined the wave had come on Beleriand: inexorable, deceptively fast, and full of poky bits one would never expect from the type, flailing dangerously in all directions. Incongruously, it wore a hackamore bridle.

Atop the mule was a lady in an awkward two-point seat, clutching a red-and-white bundle that resolved, as she neared, into a bloody chicken swaddled in a sheet.

“Hail, Vercaván!” cried Elquessë, while I was still integrating the image. She reined in the Mórikano, swung down from the cart, and unfastened her bag of instruments from the basket beneath. I hurried down after her, and followed her instructions to pull down the backboard of the cart and spread a clean white sheet over it, making a kind of impromptu surgery.

By the time I was done, Vercaván had drawn up even with the cart, clutching the rooster in one arm while she hauled at the reins. The mule halted, or at least found its angle of repose, much like one of the small avalanches of my Pelórian youth. Vercaván swung down and waddled at speed towards Elquessë, holding out the bundle of rooster.

“Left wing, fifth primary,” she barked, and the resemblance to Elquessë became clear as Elquessë rapped back: “Clotted?”

“No, but stanched with pressure. The quill’s all torn up at the base.”

Without further ado, Elquessë took the bird in her arms and laid it on the covered backboard. I sang a quick rhyme of sterility, and she gave me a terse nod of approval before beginning to re-swaddle the rooster to allow access to the left wing.

At that moment, a prickly, rubbery, moist substance touched the back of my neck, and I instinctively fell to my knees, reaching for a long knife I no longer wore. Thankfully, no one paid me any mind, because the bewhiskered orc my mind conjured up was nothing but the mule, who had somehow snuck around behind me and lipped at my collar.

We looked at each other in puzzlement for a moment, before Elquessë said, “Heriel! Tweezers.”

I pretended my crouch was to better reach the bag of instruments by Elquessë’s knee, and brought out the sturdy, flat-tipped tweezers. Elquessë took them from me, then asked that I hold the other primaries apart so she could see what she was doing.

A broken blood feather can produce a truly remarkable amount of blood, and even large birds like chickens can bleed out quickly. As I parted the feathers of the wing, I could see that this one was worse than the usual, relatively clean, snap. Instead, the base of the quill was jagged, almost shredded. I could not imagine how the bird had managed to injure it in such a way — perhaps the feather had been closed in something, and the bird had tugged it free?

Out of the corner of my eye, a long, dark ear came into view. The mule was craning its neck over my shoulder, looking down at the bird with lively curiosity. I knocked my shoulder into it as firmly as I could without jostling my hands, and the mule withdrew, looking somehow injured.

Back on the table, Elquessë had pulled out a small scalpel and was making a tiny incision to find a section of whole quill to tug. The rich blood still welled out of the wound, making it difficult to see the skin. Elquessë whistled softly, and the blood rolled away from the incision, like waves parting before a wind. Just beneath the surface, the quill was whole again, and she quickly grasped it in the tweezers, and with one decisive pull, removed it. Immediately, I shifted my hands to put pressure on the wound.

“Well done,” Elquessë said, and ducked to pull a packet of styptic powder out of her bag. She placed a carefully measured pinch of the powder on the feather follicle, then gestured for me to resume pressure. As I watched carefully to see the clotting begin, I felt again the strange sensation of someone tickling the back of my neck.

The mule lipped at my collar, then at my short, clubbed hair. It snuffled around the back of my ears, sending waves of ticklish, grassy breath down my neck and jaw. I reached back with my leg and tried to push it away, and it went willingly, only to come at me from another angle, this time searching my pockets. I cast about for help, but Elquessë and Vercaván were deep in conversation, discussing the rooster’s continuing care.

Having satisfied itself that I carried no peppermints or apples with me, the mule began to crane its nose towards the rooster once more.

I clucked scoldingly at it. Vercaván turned at the sound of my voice, and threw her hands up in exasperation.

“Quildatal! Away!”

The mule swiveled a long, thoughtful ear and took one measured step backwards.

Vervaván put her hands on her hips and glared. “I do apologize for the mule, Doctor…?”

“Heriel.”

“Doctor Heriel,” Vercaván repeated, “My apologies. I would not have brought her but that she was the closest mount when I found my dear Sóralúpo injured.” She glared at the mule. “She was payment in kind for a cask of ten-year Black Pine, and I would rather have the wine back.”

I glanced at the mule, who pricked her long ears charmingly.

Elquessë cleared her throat. “I have some of that lovely ten-year left at home, Vercaván. An excellent vintage! Wonderful grainy tannins. If you would like to take Sóralúpo to the surgery, followed by a glass…?”

“Delightful idea, my dear,” Vercaván responded. “I would feel so much better after that.”

She retrieved the rooster, whose cocky spirit was beginning to revive, and bundled him up tightly again, careful of his wicked spurs. I packed away the bloody linen and instruments needing cleaning in the appropriate basket beneath the cart, then stood, somewhat at a loss, as Elquessë helped Vercaván up into the two-seated dogcart.

“I don’t suppose you could follow us back on the mule, Heriel?” she called down. “It will be much more comfortable for the rooster this way.”

Vercaván nodded enthusiastically. “It was the Long Journey all over again to carry him like that!”

I gave an incoherent sort of protest, but Elquessë appeared not to hear me, snapping the reins and sending the dogcart rattling back off down the road towards Merrilosto.

There I stood in the paradisiacal vineyards of Ránanandë. The mule, Quildatal, peered down the road after her reluctant owner, then turned to me, twitching an ear as if to shrug and say, “Well, here we are, then!”

The prospect of riding the mulish equivalent of the breaking of Utumno all the way back to Merrilosto was not particularly appealing. The alternative, however, was leaving her to wreak curious havoc across the farmland and walking the distance.

“All right now,” I said confidingly, raising a hand towards the mule. “Quildatal, is it? Your feet don’t look all that quiet to me, but I am certain we can get along.”

Rather to my surprise, Quildatal did not take the opportunity to make mischief, but came willingly towards me, ears winningly forward. She stopped neatly about an arm’s length away, and I approached carefully. A light, friendly blow into her nostrils received an amiable response.

Men in Beleriand made much of the Elvish way of riding without saddle or bridle — but a mule’s withers are no laughing matter. So the saddle was unsurprising. The bridle, bitless as it was, was more puzzling. Vercaván was clearly an indifferent rider, from what I’d seen, and Quildatal headstrong, but headstrong enough to need reins, with an adult?

“Will you behave if I take this off?” I asked, and Quildatal whuffled noncommittally.

Carefully, I checked Quildatal’s legs and hooves for stones or lameness, then dug under her saddle in search of sores or burrs. Finding nothing, I knotted the reins on the saddle horn as a kind of compromise, then mounted up. Quildatal stood obligingly, craning around her shoulder to watch me settle in and adjust the stirrups.

It was only when I clucked to urge her forward that the trouble began. Quildatal stuck her head straight out and surged forward with such jarring suddenness that I threw myself forward in the saddle to keep my balance, which only urged her to go faster. I began to see the temptation of the reins. She was far enough out of frame to make sitting her gait rather like keeping one’s feet aboard ship in a storm. Using my heels and calves to shape her up, I discovered, would only encourage her to go into a canter, which was smooth enough but too fast for long distances.

With some effort, and a seat heavy enough to make my hipbones twinge, I brought Quildatal back down to a standstill. I swung out of the saddle and checked her legs and hooves again for any small injury or defect in conformation. The roughness of that gait was not simply a bumpy ride; it was quite outside of my experience, rocking and rolling and striking out in all directions. Quildatal stood helpfully still, peering down at me as I went around her legs.

I stood back and, hands on my hips, surveyed her. Nothing seemed wrong from down here, but something was off.

Unknotting the reins from the saddle horn, I worked the leather keeper on the left rein out of its loop on the noseband, fashioning a kind of short, makeshift longe line.

Quildatal flicked an ear at me but took the impromptu schooling in good stride. I clucked her into a walk, which looked fine, then attempted to urge her into a trot.

There was the avalanche-gait. Without a poor rider in the seat, and from my vantage point on the ground, I could see that it was not as wild or rangy as I had suspected. Instead, each of her hooves struck the ground rather like a woodpecker tapping an oak, until she fell out of frame reaching after her nose, tripped, took a normal trot-type step for a moment, and then resumed her tapping.

What in the world could be causing that? She showed no sign of lameness and she was not out of frame due to old injury or some problem with the tack. I watched her flail about in her tight circle for another moment more, thinking back to her arrival with Vercaván on board and Vercaván hauling her to a halt.

Now there was a thought. Perhaps Quildatal was expecting a harsh, nervous tug on her bridle and was pushing preemptively against it, throwing herself out of frame. That at least could fix the balance issues. I played out a bit more slack on my makeshift line and snaked it a bit, trying to get Quildatal to relax her neck. After a few go-rounds and whispers, she finally did, falling into a more even position.

I watched her jabbing feet a while longer, feeling an itch in the back of my mind. The canter had been reasonably smooth; her walk was unremarkable. She would trot for a few steps, but then fall into this strange pattern again.

Rolling up my sleeves, I walked over to Quildatal’s left and clucked her into her disastrous middle gait, jogging alongside her down the road, one hand pressed to her neck to remind her to keep it soft.

The quiet buzz of her mule-being rubbed softly along my mind. The russet road beneath our feet vibrated softly as we struck it, and the air flowing through our nostrils heated and cooled as we passed through patches of sunshine and shade. If I concentrated, I could feel her happiness at the pleasant warmth, her curiosity at the bright ribbons tied to the grapevines to ward off birds, her gentle attention to me at her side. Concentrating harder, I could just sense the patterns that went towards directing her feet.

They were certainly off in some way. Even as Quildatal looked around with interest at the scenery, she kept shifting back and forth between patterns, as though she were catching herself.

Perhaps if she would simply pick one, I thought. Concentrating hard enough that I was concerned about my own feet, I singled out the pattern that felt most stable and sent a positive torrent of encouraging noises and thoughts towards Quildatal. She snorted a little and rolled an eye at me, but kept gamely beating on. Slowly, after a few tries, she kept to one pattern for longer, then longer yet.

When she stayed in one long enough for me to separate, I drew back slightly and took a long look. That woodpecker-like tapping persisted, but it was far more even now, distinguishably four-beated and lateral. It all came together in an instant.

It was not that Quildatal was cursed by a Maia of clumsiness or was herself a personification of a slip-strike fault, but that she was gaited, and had lately been ridden by a near-novice who was afraid of speed. Her ambling, quick-stepping pace certainly looked strange and did not feel like anything close to the standard gaits — an inexperienced rider who was unused to gaited horses, let alone mules, might well be dismayed by it.

I brought Quildatal back down to a halt and lavished her with praise. She seemed slightly nonplussed, but quite willing to accept me rubbing her poll and ears and laying wild compliments at her neat, gaited feet.

There remained just under two miles to go before Merrilosto. Quildatal and I looked at each other measuringly, and in the end, I swung up into the saddle again and gave her her head.

After a bumpy start, Quildatal seemed to understand what I was asking for, and lurched into what turned out to be a beautiful amble, smooth as butter or silk or polished marble. I laughed in delight, and Quildatal flicked her ears back at me and went even softer.

I let her glide for perhaps a mile, then swung down again, so as not to tire her or set any bad habits. We walked peaceably together into town, my arm slung across Quildatal’s withers, her nose periodically drifting towards my pockets or a particularly toothsome box of geraniums.

At home, I put her up in the guest box in the stables, then ventured into the house. The waiting room and the breakfast room were empty, but the sounds of raucous conviviality echoed from the surgery itself.

Elquessë and Vercaván reclined in white surgical robes made quite a bit less professional by the large glasses of pigeon’s-blood wine in their hands. On the table, the rooster, freed from his swaddling but still woozy, was little more than a red-and-white lump on another clean sheet.

“Heriel!” exclaimed Elquessë. “We were just toasting to your deft hands.”

I suspected that they had been toasting to a great deal else, as well, but smiled and nodded nonetheless.

“I am so glad you made it back with the mule,” Vercaván added, stately tone at odds with her excessively relaxed pose. “I should really compensate you for the time taken.”

She gasped, sloshing the wine in her cup. “And Elquessë, my dear! How can I repay you for the help you have tendered Sóralúpo?” Her eyes, bright with wine and Treelight, gained an extra gloss.

“He has been with me through thick and thin,” she went on, her voice thickening. “His hens – never once taken by a fox. His chicks – good layers, all.”

Elquessë laid a hand on her forearm. With the intense solemnity of the drunk, she intoned, “Not at all, cousin; I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

“But all the trouble you went to, coming out to meet me! Your poor assistant, coming back with that devilish mule after going to such lengths for Sóralúpo! I could not repay you in a century.”

The words came to me unbidden. “You could give me the mule,” I blurted.

Elquessue and Vercaván both cocked their heads to just the same angle. The rooster remained more or less boneless on the table.

I had not quite meant to say it, but I stood my ground. Quildatal was good-hearted, spirited, and had a gait like a dream, even if I would have to work her significantly on the longe line to get rid of lingering bad habits and build up her stamina and form. And if Vercaván would accept a mule worth rubies in exchange for a barrel of wine, then ride her with a bridle, she clearly wouldn’t know to value her higher than some easy work on a blood feather.

“Oh, my dear! You would do that for me?” Vercaván’s eyes grew an impossible degree brighter.

I crossed my hands behind my back and gripped hard. “Of course, madam. I believe we bonded on our trip back to Merrilosto.”

Elquessë gave me a slightly fishy look, but gestured expansively with her wineglass and said nothing.

“Then be welcome to her!” cried Vercaván. “I shall be forever in your debt. Come, won’t you have some wine to seal the deal?”

“It’s an excellent vintage,” Elquessë added. “Wonderful grainy tannins.”

So we each had a glass of wine — or another glass of wine — in the surgery, and I could not even begrudge that I would have to spend half an hour sanitizing it again in the morning. I had a mount of my own, and a special one at that!

After my own glass and a final glimpse at the fine chicken slowly regaining his strength and temper on the table, I stole back out to the stables. Quildatal poked her head out readily when I clucked to her, ears pricked and eyes bright.

I stroked her soft nose and pushed her away when she became too interested in the end of my clubbed hair. Some faint carousing echoed from the house, but in the stables, all was quiet but for the munching of hay and shift of hooves.

In Beleriand, I had ridden a mule as well, up and down the lines and between camps. She was of Valinorean stock on her dam’s side, and of the clever, dainty donkeys of the Haladin on her sire’s. She had been badly burned in one of the final battles, her whole hindquarters caught in dragonflame. I had not let her suffer more than a minute.

Quildatal lipped at the back of my neck again, and I started, then laughed.

“I will have to teach you to stay away from my instruments when I am operating,” I told her, and gave her cheerful, furry ear a companionable tug.

I do not think it will spoil my readers’ enjoyment to say that we managed well enough.