| Erestor spoke as if the world
were about to end. In a way, it was. They were leaving Eithel Sirion.
He had already been uprooted once in his life, and now, hardly more
than a year later, it was happening again. He told horror-stories to
Ereinion as they packed. "You have to sit in the carriage all day, until your legs are so stiff and sore from not moving that you want to scream. You'd think that because you're travelling you'd get to run or walk beside the horses sometime, but you don't. You just have to sit in the carriage and be good, and be quiet. You can't make any noise or the orcs might hear. Sometimes the road is so rocky and bumpy that it makes your teeth hurt from banging together and your head hurt from shaking and your bum hurt from bouncing. And there are no toilets, either, and not even a pot, so you have to poop in the woods and wipe with leaves." Ereinion did not reply, or give Erestor any indication that he had been listening at all. He sat on the edge of his bed with his legs clenched together and arms pulled in to his chest, worrying a bundle of cloth in his hands. His thoughts had already left him to worry the frayed edges of uncertainty, bodiless. "The food is terrible," Erestor continued. "I got so sick of eating hard bread on the way over the mountains that I stopped eating at all and almost starved. That's all we had: hard bread and some wrinkly old apples. For days and days and days. And warm water that tasted like wood, because it came out of barrels. At night we had to sleep in the carriage because there were so many flies outside, but the carriage was so small that we had to sleep sitting up. And it had hard wooden seats. When I came here it wasn't a very long trip, because we only had to come from Mithrim, but now we're going down south to the coast. That's way farther. I don't even know how long that'll take." He paused long enough to look at Ereinion, who was still frozen in place on the bed. "You're not packing." Slowly, Ereinion shook his head, then gave a start to wake himself from the wandering daydream. "You told your Ata you were big enough to pack for yourself, so you'd better do it. I'm not doing it for you." He had only a few toys and favourite things left in the room. His clothes were already in the big chest with the treasures and trinkets and memories Ata had packed up for him. All he had to do was gather the rest of his things, wrap them carefully in rags like Ata showed him, and put them into the travelling basket. It was a simple task. Woodenly, he slipped off the edge of the bed, and shuffled his feet all the way to where the basket sat on the floor. Erestor had already packed the books in the bottom. They had such a final look, stacked neatly and prepared for their journey, as though books could brace themselves against the coming shift. Ereinion wrapped the rag tighter around the toy in his hands, a brown fur dog, and set it on top of the books. It was a final-feeling move. Whatever went into that basket would not come back out until they were far away. Every toy he wrapped brought him one step closer to leaving. Every item he packed made the chance of ever seeing Ata again smaller and smaller. The sickening heaviness in his middle welled up through his throat and caught behind his eyes. With a sigh, Erestor knelt beside him on the floor, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Arai... Come on, don't cry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. I can help you pack if you need it. Here, I'll start." Erestor gathered a pile of rags into his lap, picked up a painted rooster, and started wrapping. It disappeared without a struggle, within a roll of faded grey. The matching hen went next, down a shirtless blue sleeve, and then the four enamelled silver fish in half of a ripped-up riding cape. Under the fish lay a little toy Elf man with real black hair. "Don't pack him," said Ereinion. Erestor looked up from the basket. "You don't want to take that one?" "No. I mean..." Before Erestor could smother the little man with a rag, Ereinion crouched down and picked him up off the floor. The toy had three outfits, and he was wearing his best one: dark red velvet with gold lining. He had a gold wire crown over his black hair. That was Ata's hair. Ata had cut it off, a small handful, and given it to a craftsman, who had glued it strand by strand to a wooden Elf head. So the little Elf was a toy Ata. Ereinion would not pack him. Instead he lifted the toy to his face, pressing his lips against the red velvet and his nose into the black hair. It had no smell, other than dust, and no warmth, other than lingering traces from his hot hands: a loveless mirror of Ata. "Do you want me to wrap up the doll or not?" asked Erestor. Ereinion scowled into the toy Ata's velvet chest and bit his tongue. This was no doll. Dolls were soft, fat babies with yarn hair. Girls carried them wrapped in shawls. This was a properly painted wooden Elf with real hair, Ata's black hair, and arms and legs that moved and bent under his miniature clothes. "Fine," Erestor sighed. "Keep it out. It'll probably break in the carriage." He picked up a handful of wooden blocks, and a star made from shells, and a set of fit-together cups. They all went into the rags, one after another, until nothing was left on the floor at Erestor's side but a plain wicker travelling basket. He shut the lid. And that was the end. The empty room was no longer Ereinion's. His things were gone. His blankets had disappeared from the bed, replaced by a strange new quilt. Different pillows sat in place of the ones he knew. His clothes, toys, books, hairbrush, mirror, and everything else had vanished, as if he had never existed. Eithel Sirion was already forgetting him. By the next day, his entire life and every part of it would be a wispy memory to this room. "Come on," said Erestor. "We need to take this downstairs. We're supposed to be leaving right after dinner." He needed both hands to pick up the basket, full as it was with books and rag-wrapped toys, and he shuffled to the door under the burden. For a minute, and only just, Ereinion was alone. His ears filled with the static silence. The room's emptiness squeezed him from all sides. With a shudder, he closed his eyes against it, and followed the sound of Erestor's staggering footsteps retreating down the corridor. He wound the dry black hair of toy Ata around his thumb, the lone constant in a wave of sudden doubt. It was as comfortless as air. |