Instruments

of Tranquility

Chapter One

By Beethoven’s 7th  

For Marigolds Challenge #9

Special Thanks to Mysterious Ways for being my sounding board

and for the loan of “Wee One” the laptop and for naming chapter one.

Till and Iris Lomesdown were married in a quiet ceremony at his parents house in Deephollow.  The Lomesdowns, Till’s family, were quiet hobbits.  Till, who like his father was a farmer, looked as though he would turn out to be just a quiet and reclusive as his parents.  Many of the townsfolk wondered then what would draw a vivacious soul like Iris's to such a quiet one as Till's.  But drawn she was and thus they were married.  Iris had no family there to represent her.  Her mother died years ago when she was a very young girl and her father had died just a few short months after Iris’s 33rd birthday.  She believed, that once she was of age, he had finally succumbed to the heart, which had broken on his wife’s death and had gone on to join her.  Iris did have her good friend Flora standing with her though and that was enough.   With Till, she found happiness, companionship, love and completion.

Despite growing up with a distant, yet overprotective father and lack of a mother for a great deal of her childhood, Iris grew up as a happy, vivacious child.  The farm on which she and her father lived was some distance from any other, and so, she had few friends.  She developed ways to amuse her self at a very young age while accompanying her father wherever he went.  Sometimes even to the fields if he was in a particularly fretful mood. 

Iris loved music.  On rare occasions, she and her father would go into town, usually just to arrange for the selling and delivering of his crop.  He just didn't have the heart for large social gatherings such as would form at festive times of the year, like Yule and Lithe. But whenever they did, little Iris was always drawn to the groups of hobbits playing music that always seemed to form when hobbits got together.  The most regular excursions were those to a small local pub,  the Golden Leaf, where her father would catch up on such news as may seem important, and argue with the other farmers about what might be expected from the weather next.  On nights when her father went to the pub, he would take her with him, rather than leave her at home alone, and she would sit and listen, enraptured the music and singing.  All types of music pleased her. She never grew tired of listening and wishing one day to be able to play music herself.  After months and years of listening, she came to know almost any song played and would quietly sing along with them, twisting the curls of her brown hair around her finger and swinging her feet in time to the music.  The musicians all grew to appreciate their wee audience member and gradually coaxed her name out of her by playing her favorite songs and slipping sweet treats to her.  Her name was all they were able to learn from her.   Realizing that she would incur her overprotective father’s anger for talking to them overly much, they let her be.

One night while Gerry the fiddle player was taking a break he overheard Iris’s soft singing.  And oh what sweet singing it was.  Such a pure and sweet voice as hers should not be kept silent, to be shared with no one.  Gerry decided right then and there that he would find some way to get her father to allow her to learn a bit of music and to sing with the group.  So it was that a few inducing drinks later Iris's father's attention was directed at the sight of his daughter’s enraptured face as she listened to the music.  While he would protect her from all the dangers of the world and keep her safely sheltered, he hadn't the heart to deny her this.  He gave his permission for her to learn about music and join the group.  That day was the happiest of her quiet life.  Music filled her lonely soul.  It became her light in the darkest of days.  Music could make her cry bitter tears, or laugh the purest laughs.  At times her laughter was now so infectious she could even entice her father out of the darkness into which he had fallen. 

For her twentieth birthday, her father gave her a wooden flute made of golden wood in a dark blue velvety bag.  He had carved it himself during breaks while out in the field, or in his room late at night after Iris had gone to sleep.  The flute player at the pub, Emmolene, helped him with the design and tuning of it and even stitched the bag in which the flute would be kept.  It was a lovely thing to behold and its tone was rich.  Iris took to it straight off.  Emmolene said she had never seen anyone learn quite so quickly.  Surely, her very blood flowed with music. 

After her father died, Iris rented out much of the family's small farm, but stayed on in the house alone.  Iris continued to sing and play flute with the group at the pub.  Her evenings at home were spent in solitude at home, where she would practice her music or attend to what few chores a single hobbit needed done.  In general she was happy.  She had a comfortable home, a small but steady income and good friends in the musical group.  Her close friend Flora visited her when she could, but she was courting a lad from Buckland and so those visits did not come as often as Iris would have liked.

 It was on one of Till’s rare visits to the Golden Leaf that he first set eyes on Iris.  His quiet hermit-like soul ached for her alive and effervescent one.  His visits to the pub became more frequent.  Many months later, he finally worked up the courage to talk to her and the romance, which would end with the quiet wedding ceremony, had begun. 

~ c ~

The couple lived happily on a farm between the Thistlebrook and the river Shirebourn.  The house was a lovely low cottage with a thatched roof.  The round front doors were bright red with brass handles, which Iris kept polished to a glowing shine. There were green flower boxes filled with red geraniums in the windows and the yard surrounding was kept trimmed and neat.  In back, the vegetable garden flourished behind a sturdy white fence built to keep out rabbits, or other such creatures as may wish to eat the beautiful produce.  The farm was some distance from the nearest town; therefore, they did not leave their home very often.  The newly wed couple was content and happy in their own company, venturing into town only when supplies were needed or crops needed to be sold.

Although Till never asked her to, Iris stopped singing with the group at the Golden Leaf.  It was a long journey to make from her new home, and she found her life to be complete with Till and the beautiful home he took her to.  Her days were still filled with song, for there was always a song on her heart and her singing filled the air.  Till had never been more content.  He never failed to smile when he came in from the field to hear her in song.  For the anniversary of their first year of marriage, he used some of the proceeds of their plentiful crop to buy her a fiddle of her own.  She had only begun to learn it when Till married her, but she loved the instrument dearly and practiced daily.  Every night as they sat by the evening fire, she would play her latest tune for Till.  Then at the end of the evening, lovingly polish the already glowing red/gold wood until it shone still more.

There came a day when Till returned to his homestead to hear no music.  Fear leaped to his heart.  Breath left his lungs.  He felt as though he couldn’t run, his legs were like rocks.  Finally, he propelled himself forward.  Iris was not to be found in the house and so, he hurried around to the garden.  There he found his wife, leaning over the white fence.  He ran to her only to find her ill and vomiting.  Terrified he hurried those last few feet to her, trampling her baby lettuce plants in his hurry. 

“Oh Iris, love?!  What’s wrong?” 

Iris took a few deep breaths, wiped her mouth with her pocket-handkerchief, and turned.  The first thing she saw were his filthy feet standing in the middle of her lettuce patch.  Slowly, she raised her eyes to him.  Still carefully breathing she slowly said, “ you . . are. . standing . . in . my lettuce.”

Confused and incredulous, Till tried once again to find the cause of his adored wife’s illness.  “What?  Iris, what’s ailin' you?  Should I be fetchin' a healer?”

Gaining strength, Iris said more forcefully, “Get. . . out  . Of  MY LETTUCE you OAF!”

“But Iris!  Yer sick!  You are never sick and yet here ye are!  Sick!”

Iris, smiled at her clueless yet eager husband.  Placing a hand on the side of his worried face she said, “No Till my poor sweet hobbit, I’m not sick."

“Yes, yes you are!”  He took her hand off his face and clasped it in his.  “Don’t lie to me!  The proof of it lies beyond that fence!  Now come and I’ll tuck you into bed before I go for the healer.”  With that, he swept her into his arms and once again trampled through the lettuce patch on his way toward the house.

Once inside Iris finally convinced her over zealous husband to put her down.  Taking both of his hands in hers she looked up into the quiet brown eyes she loved so much.  “No Till, I am not unwell.  At least not any more than one in my condition can expect.”  Seeing the look of growing concern in his face at her mention of the word ‘condition’ she continued. “Till, you are going to be a father.”  His look of concern melted into one of confusion.  “Till, do you understand me?  We are going to have a child!”

When finally the information sank in, Till swung his wife into his arms and spun her around the room; that is until he remembered the ill state in which he had just found her and not wishing to cause a recurrence, he set her down.

~ c ~

A beautiful daughter was born to Till and Iris on a lovely spring day.  When Iris first held her daughter, she looked down at her with such wonder and love.  Her heart ached with the love that she felt.  “Oh Till,” she said to her husband “I knew I would love my children, but I had no idea the depth that love would be!  My poor heart feels ready to explode with it!  This wee little thing completes me in ways I had no idea needed completing.  I just don’t know how to explain it!  I think, maybe it is as if my life has been a song; a beautiful melody that to listen to, would not seem to need anything further to make it perfect.  Aye, if you were to ask, I’d have said that the song was perfect.  Now I see that it wasn’t.  `Twas missing some vital part.  The song, our song, has not changed, but simply been added to, she is like tones simultaneous sounding which enriches our song.  In fact husband of mine, I believe I have come up with the perfect name for our daughter.” 

Till looked down at the wondrous vision his wife and daughter made and replied, “Aye me lass, and what name would that be?”

“Her name will be Harmony.  For she completes our song”

~ c ~

Six years later a son was born to Till and Iris and they named him Cord.  He and the daughter, Flute, who was born three years after that; added to the joy in that happy household.  The three children grew up healthy and happy, their sadness and hurts eased by their mother’s music.  They grew up surrounded by music and learned themselves to play their mother’s fiddle and flute and to sing.  

Harmony grew to be a beautiful young hobbit lass with chestnut brown hair and deep brown eyes.  She was taller than her mother.  A bit on the scrawny side for a hobbit, but her mother was sure that once she stopped growing, she would regain her healthy hobbit plumpness.  Her personality was neither purely angelic, not overly mischievous, but a nice balance of the two.  She took her duties as big sister very seriously but that did not stop her from having arguments and tussles.  Especially with her brother Cord who seemed to delight in tormenting his elder sibling.  As for music, It seemed that she was just as naturally proficient as her mother. In fact, given time and training, Iris was convinced that her oldest daughter could be a musician of some renown someday.

Life was happy and good.

When Harmony was 18 all of that changed.

* ~ccc~ *