The Book of Lost Tales, Part One by J. R. R. Tolkien

  Then said Yavanna to Aulë: “Bear thou up the branch, my lord, lest it snap and the fruit of wonder be dashed rudely to the ground; and the greatest ruth would that be, for know ye all that this is the last flame of life that Laurelin shall show.” But Aulë had stood by as one lost in sudden thought since first that fruit came to ripening, and he answered now saying: “Very long indeed did Varda and I seek through the desolate homes and gardens for materials of our craft. Now do I know that Ilúvatar has brought my desire into my hand.” Then calling to Tulkas to aid him he severed the stem of that fruit, and they that behold gasped and were astonied at his ruthlessness.

  Loudly they murmured, and some cried: “Woe to him that ravishes anew our Tree,” and Vána was in great ire. Yet did none dare to draw nigh, for those twain Aulë and Tulkas might scarcely bear up even upon their godlike shoulders that great globe of flame and were tottering beneath it. Hearing their anger indeed Aulë stayed, saying: “Cease ye of little wisdom and have a patience,” but even with those words his foot went astray and he stumbled, and even Tulkas might not bear that fruit alone, so that it fell, and striking stony ground burst asunder. Straightway such a blinding radiance leapt forth as even the full bloom of Laurelin had not yielded of old, and the darkened eyes of the Vali were dazzled so that they fell back stunned; but a pillar of light rose from that place smiting the heavens that the stars paled above it and the face of Taniquetil went red afar off, and Aulë alone of all those there was unmoved by sorrow. Then said Aulë: “Of this can I make a ship of light—surpassing even the desire of Manwë,” and now Varda and many others, even Vána, understood his purpose and were glad. But they made a mighty corbel of twisted gold, and strewing it with ardent petals of its own bloom they laid therein the halves of the fruit of noon and uplifting it with many hands bore it away with much singing and great hope. Then coming to the courts of Aulë they set it down, and thereupon began the great smithying of the Sun; and this was the most cunning-marvellous of all the works of Aulë Talkamarda, whose works are legion. Of that perfect rind a vessel did he make, diaphanous and shining, yet of a tempered strength, for with spells of his own he overcame its brittleness, nor in any way was its subtle delicacy thereby diminished.

  Now the most ardent radiance poured therein neither spilled nor dimmed, nor did that vessel receive any injury therefrom, yet would it swim the airs more lightly than a bird; and Aulë was overjoyed, and he fashioned that vessel like a great ship broad of beam, laying one half of the rind within the other so that its strength might not be broken.

  There follows an account of how Vána, repenting of her past murmurings, cut short her golden hair and gave it to the Gods, and from her hair they wove sails and ropes ‘more strong than any mariner hath seen, yet of the slenderness of gossamer’. The masts and spars of the ship were all of gold.

  Then that the Ship of the Heavens might be made ready unto the last, the unfading petals of the latest flower of Laurelin were gathered like a star at her prow, and tassels and streamers of glancing light were hung about her bulwarks, and a flash of lightning was caught in her mast to be a pennant; but all that vessel was filled to the brim with the blazing radiance of gold Kulullin and mingled therein drops of the juices of the fruit of noon, and these were very hot, and thereafter scarcely might the bosom of the Earth withhold her, and she leapt at her cords like a captive bird that listeth for the airs.

  Then did the Gods name that ship, and they called her Sári which is the Sun, but the Elves Ûr which is fire;12 but many other names does she bear in legend and in poesy. The Lamp of Vána is she named among the Gods in memory of Vána’s tears and her sweet tresses that she gave; and the Gnomes call her Galmir the goldgleamer13 and Glorvent the ship of gold, and Bráglorin the blazing vessel, and many a name beside; and her names among Men no man has counted them.

  Behold now it is to be told how while that galleon was a-building others nigh to where the Two Trees once grew fashioned a great bason and folk laboured mightily at it. Its floor they made of gold and its walls of polished bronze, and an arcade of golden pillars topped with fires engirdled it, save only on the East; but Yavanna set a great and nameless spell around it, so that therein was poured the most of the waters of the fruit of noon and it became a bath of fire. Indeed is it not called Tanyasalpë, the bowl of fire, even Faskalanúmen, the Bath of the Setting Sun, for here when Urwendi after returned from the East and the first sunset came on Valinor the ship was drawn down and its radiance refreshed against new voyagings on the morrow while the Moon held High Heaven.

  Now the making of this place of fire is more wondrous than seems, for so subtle were those radiances that set in the air they spilled not nor sank, nay rather they rose and floated away far above Vilna, being of the utmost buoyancy and lightness; yet now did nought escape from Faskalan which burnt amid the plain, and light came to Valinor therefrom, yet by reason of the deepness of the bason it fared not far abroad and the ring of shadows stood close in.

  Then said Manwë, looking upon the glory of that ship as it strained to be away: “Who shall steer us this boat and guide its course above the realms of Earth, for even the holy bodies of the Valar, meseems, may not for long endure to bathe in this great light.”

  But a great thought came into the heart of Urwendi, and she said that she was not adread, and begged leave to become the mistress of the Sun and to make herself ready for that office as Ilúvatar set it in her heart to do. Then did she bid a many of her maidens follow her, even of those who had aforetime watered the roots of Laurelin with light, and casting aside their raiment they went down into that pool Faskalan as bathers into the sea, and its golden foams went over their bodies, and the Gods saw them not and were afraid. But after a while they came again to the brazen shores and were not as before, for their bodies were grown lucent and shone as with an ardour within, and light flashed from their limbs as they moved, nor might any raiment endure to cover their glorious bodies any more. Like air were they, and they trod as lightly as does sunlight on the earth, and saying no word they climbed upon the ship, and that vessel heaved against its great cords and all the folk of Valinor might scarce restrain it.

  Now at last by Manwë’s command do they climb the long slopes of Taniquetil and draw i·Kalaventë the Ship of Light along with them, nor is that any great task; and now do they stand on the wide space before great Manwë’s doors, and the ship is on the western slope of the mountain trembling and tugging at its bonds, and already so great is its glory become that sunbeams pour out over the shoulders of Taniquetil and a new light is in the sky, and the waters of the Shadowy Seas beyond are touched with such fire as they never yet had seen. In that hour ’tis said that all creatures that wandered in the world stood still and wondered, even as Manwë going spake to Urwendi and said: “Go now, most wondrous maiden washed in fire, and steer the ship of divine light above the world, that joy may search out its narrowest crannies and all the things that sleep within its bosom may awake”14 but Urwendi answered not, looking only eagerly to the East, and Manwë bade cast the ropes that held her, and straightway the Ship of the Morning arose above Taniquetil and the bosom of the air received it.

  Ever as it rose it burned the brighter and the purer till all Valinor was filled with radiance, and the vales of Erúmáni and the Shadowy Seas were bathed in light, and sunshine was spilled on the dark plain of Arvalin, save only where Ungweliantë’s clinging webs and darkest fumes still lay too thick for any radiance to filter through.

  Then all looking up saw that heaven was blue, and very bright and beautiful, but the stars fled as that great dawn came upon the world; and a gentle wind blew from the cold lands to meet the vessel and filled its gleaming sails, and white vapours mounted from off the misty seas below toward her, that her prow seemed to cleave a white and airy foam. Yet did she waver not, for the Mánir that fared about her drew her by golden cords, and higher and higher the Sun’s great galleon arose, until even to the sight of Manwë it was but a disc of fire wreathed in veils
of splendour that slowly and majestically wandered from the West.

  Now ever as it drew further on its way so grew the light in Valinor more mellow, and the shadows of the houses of the Gods grew long, slanting away towards the waters of the Outer Seas, but Taniquetil threw a great westering shadow that waxed ever longer and deeper, and it was afternoon in Valinor.’

  Then said Gilfanon laughing: ‘Nay, but, good sir, you lengthen the tale mightily, for methinks you love to dwell upon the works and deeds of the great Gods, but an you set not a measure to your words our stranger here will live not to hear of those things that happened in the world when at length the Gods gave to it the light they so long had withholden—and such tales, methinks, were a variety pleasing to hear.’

  But Eriol had of a sooth been listening very eagerly to the sweet voice of Lindo, and he said: ‘But a little while agone, a day perchance the Eldar would esteem it, did I come hither, yet no longer do I love the name of stranger, neither will Lindo ever lengthen the tale beyond my liking, whatsoever he tells, but behold this history is all to my heart.’

  But Lindo said: ‘Nay, nay, I have indeed more to tell; yet, O Eriol, the things that Gilfanon hath upon his lips are well worth the hearing—indeed never have I nor any here heard a full count of these matters. As soon therefore as may be will I wind up my tale and make an end, but three nights hence let us have another tale-telling, and it shall be one of greater ceremony, and musics there shall be, and all the children of the House of Lost Play shall here be gathered together at his feet to hear Gilfanon relate the travail of the Noldoli and the coming of Mankind.’

  Now these words mightily pleased Gilfanon and Eriol, and many beside were glad, but now doth Lindo proceed:

  ‘Know then that to such vast heights did the Sunship climb, and climbing blazed ever hotter and brighter, that ere long its glory was wider than ever the Gods conceived of when that vessel was still harboured in their midst. Everywhere did its great light pierce and all the vales and darkling woods, the bleak slopes and rocky streams, lay dazzled by it, and the Gods were amazed. Great was the magic and wonder of the Sun in those days of bright Urwendi, yet not so tender and so delicately fair as had the sweet Tree Laurelin once been; and thus whisper of new discontent awoke in Valinor, and words ran among the children of the Gods, for Mandos and Fui were wroth, saying that Aulë and Varda would for ever be meddling with the due order of the world, making it a place where no quiet or peaceful shadow could remain; but Lórien sat and wept in a grove of trees beneath the shade of Taniquetil and looked upon his gardens stretching beneath, still disordered by the great hunt of the Gods, for he had not had the heart for their mending. There the nightingales were silent for the heat danced above the trees, and his poppies were withered, and his evening flowers drooped and gave no scent; and Silmo stood sadly by Telimpë that gleamed wanly as still waters rather than the shining dew of Silpion, so overmastering was the great light of day. Then Lórien arose and said to Manwë: “Call back your glittering ship, O Lord of the Heavens, for the eyes of us ache by reason of its flaming, and beauty and soft sleep is driven far away. Rather the darkness and our memories than this, for this is not the old loveliness of Laurelin, and Silpion is no more.” Nor were any of the Gods utterly content, knowing in their hearts that they had done a greater thing than they at first knew, and never again would Valinor see such ages as had passed; and Vána said that Kulullin’s fount was dulled and her garden wilted in the heat, and her roses lost their hues and fragrance, for the Sun then sailed nearer to the Earth than it now does.

  Then Manwë chid them for their fickleness and discontent, but they were not appeased; and suddenly spake Ulmo, coming from outer Vai: “Lord Manwë, neither are their counsels nor thine to be despised. Have ye then not yet understood, O Valar, wherein lay much of the great beauty of the Trees of old?—In change, and in slow alternation of fair things, the passing blending sweetly with that which was to come.”

  But Lórien said suddenly: “O Valatúru, the Lord of Vai speaketh words wiser than ever before, and they fill me with a great longing,” and he left them thereupon and went out upon the plain, and it was then three daytimes, which is the length of three blossomings of Laurelin of old, since the Ship of Morning was unmoored. Then for four daytimes more sate Lórien beside the stock of Silpion and the shadows gathered shyly round him, for the Sun was far to the East, beating about the heavens where it listed, since Manwë had not as yet ruled its course and Urwendi was bidden fare as seemed good to her. Yet even so Lórien is not appeased, not though the darkness of the mountains creep across the plain, and a mist bloweth in from off the sea and a vague and flitting twilight gathers once more in Valinor, but long he sits pondering why the spells of Yavanna wrought only upon Laurelin.

  Then Lórien sang to Silpion, saying that the Valar were lost ‘in a wilderness of gold and heat, or else in shadows full of death and unkindly glooms,’ and he touched the wound in the bole of the Tree.

  Lo, even as he touched that cruel hurt, a light glowed faintly there as if radiant sap still stirred within, but a low branch above Lórien’s bowed head burgeoned suddenly, and leaves of a very dark green, long and oval, budded and unfolded upon it, yet was all the Tree beside bare and dead and has ever been so since. Now it was at that time seven times seven days since the fruit of noon was born upon Laurelin, and many of the Eldar and of the sprites and of the Gods were drawn nigh, listening to Lórien’s song; but he heeded them not, gazing upon the Tree.

  Lo, its new leaves were crusted with a silver moisture, and their undersides were white and set with pale gleaming filaments. Buds there were of flowers also upon the bough, and they opened, but a dark mist of the sea gathered about the tree, and the air grew bitterly cold as it never before had been in Valinor, and those blossoms faded and fell and none heeded them. One only was there at the branch’s end that opening shone of its own light and no mist or cold harmed it, but indeed waxing it seemed to suck the very vapours and transform them subtly to the silver substance of its body; and it grew to be a very pale and wondrous glistering flower, nor did even the purest snow upon Taniquetil gleaming in the light of Silpion out-rival it, and its heart was of white flame and it throbbed, waxing and waning marvellously. Then said Lórien for the joy of his heart: “Behold the Rose of Silpion”, and that rose grew till the fruit of Laurelin had been but little greater, and ten thousand crystal petals were in that flower, and it was drenched in a fragrant dew like honey and this dew was light. Now Lórien would suffer none to draw near, and this will he rue for ever: for the branch upon which the Rose hung yielded all its sap and withered, nor even yet would he suffer that blossom to be plucked gently down, being enamoured of its loveliness and lusting to see it grow mightier than the fruit of noon, more glorious than the Sun.

  Then snapped the withered bough and the Rose of Silpion fell, and some of its dewy light was roughly shaken from it, and here and there a petal was crushed and tarnished, and Lórien cried aloud and sought to lift it gently up, but it was too great. Therefore did the Gods let send to Aulë’s halls, for there was a great silver charger, like to a table of the giants, and they set the latest bloom of Silpion upon it, and despite its hurts its glory and fragrance and pale magic were very great indeed.

  Now when Lórien had mastered his grief and ruth he spake the counsel that Ulmo’s words had called to his heart: that the Gods build another vessel to match the galleon of the Sun, “and it shall be made from the Rose of Silpion,” said he, “and in memory of the waxing and waning of these Trees for twelve hours shall the Sunship sail the heavens and leave Valinor, and for twelve shall Silpion’s pale bark mount the skies, and there shall be rest for tired eyes and weary hearts.”

  This then was the manner of the shaping of the Moon, for Aulë would not dismember the loveliness of the Rose of Silver, and he called rather to him certain of those Eldar of his household who were of the Noldoli of old15 and had consorted with the jewel-makers. Now these revealed to him much store of crystal
s and delicate glasses that Fëanor and his sons16 had laid up in secret places in Sirnúmen, and with the aid of those Elves and of Varda of the stars, who gave even of the light of those frail boats of hers to give limpid clearness to their fashioning, he brought to being a substance thin as a petal of a rose, clear as the most transparent elfin glass, and very smooth, yet might Aulë of his skill bend it and fashion it, and naming it he called it vírin. Of vírin now he built a marvellous vessel, and often have men spoken of the Ship of the Moon, yet is it scarce like to any bark that sailed or sea or air. Rather was it like an island of pure glass, albeit not very great, and tiny lakes there were bordered with snowy flowers that shone, for the water of those pools that gave them sap was the radiance of Telimpë. Midmost of that shimmering isle was wrought a cup of that crystalline stuff that Aulë made and therein the magic Rose was set, and the glassy body of the vessel sparkled wonderfully as it gleamed therein. Rods there were and perchance they were of ice, and they rose upon it like aëry masts, and sails were caught to them by slender threads, and Uinen wove them of white mists and foam, and some were sprent with glinting scales of silver fish, some threaded with tiniest stars like points of light—sparks caught in snow when Nielluin was shining.

  Thus was the Ship of the Moon, the crystal island of the Rose, and the Gods named it Rána, the Moon, but the fairies Sil, the Rose,17 and many a sweet name beside. Ilsaluntë or the silver shallop has it been called, and thereto the Gnomes have called it Minethlos or the argent isle and Crithosceleg the disc of glass.