History, as has long been said, is properly
understood not as the study of that which is past, but rather as the study of that which is moral; for it is through history,
and only through history, that the moral can be seen clearly; for while, in comparison to the historical tale, the artificial
tale, or fable, although bearing a lesson, has only the most tenuous connexion between the actions of the hero and the outcome
-- that connexion being that both of these happened to be in the tale-tellers mind at the same moment -- and therefore the
lesson to be learnt is always arguable, as any might respond, Yes, but in the real world that would not have happened. It
is the historical tale, and the historical tale alone, which does not succumb to this fatal flaw, for the events told occured
in the real world just as in the story; and it is in this wise that the historian, insofar as he teaches the truth, thereby
serves the good.
It is therefore to one of the earliest lessons
we now turn, learnt through the unhappy example of one all but forgotten, who lived in a time when the world was new, or nearly
new, and to whom this author has found only passing reference in books so old that the pages melted into dust when turned,
and written in tounges so old they bear no resemblance to any living language. Consequently it has been only through extreme
dilligence and perseverence, and not a little good fortune, that this account has been pieced together.
Finwe and his cousins, the brothers Olwe and
Elwe, who in maturity became kings of their people and lead them to Valinor, have long been known to history, and their story
is treated admirably in The Silmarillion. Finwe lived at the time when the world was new, or nearly new, and his father,
Herulin, who distinguished himself in battle, numbered first among the cuiveter; those who were not born, but awakened. His
son would in maturity become one of the three kings of the Quendi, but was an adolescent for most of the duration of the Battle
of the Powers, and was then known only as Fin, and lived in the shadow of his older brother.
It is to be remembered that while Cuivienen
never saw battle, that is not to say that it never saw the war. The distant, hostile magics to the North which raised and
leveled mountains as they flew between the Valar and the Host of Melkor at Utumno caused steady tremors on the shores of Cuivienen;
and never were the floatilla as steady as in the time before the war; nor therefore did the torches burn as evenly; and that
habitation, which in the nights before the war appeared to hang in the center of the cosmos, suspended between the stars above
and the reflexion of the stars below, never again saw that reflexion unbroken; and the stars themselves were masked by the
constant fires and illuminations to the North.
It is also to be remembered that for most
of the three hundred year long seige of Utumno, Cuivienen was constantly reminded of the war by the occupying protectorate
forces of Valar. Doubtless the Quendi were grateful for the increasing rarity with which night shadows blotted out the stars
overhead, or came creeping out of the foothills to the North; yet this gratitude was indubitably tempered by the growing frequency
with which strangely deformed and misshappen bodies would wash out of the tributaries to the North, and by those uncanny
things, which after a time were not spoken of, and which were dredged out of the water in the fishermans net -- for
how could this not bring certain feelings of discomfort to the Quendi, despite their intellectual knowledge that they were,
so long as they did not travel too far afield, completely safe; and how could the Quendi, while understanding mentally
the benevolent role of the Valar in this conflict, avoid feeling emotionally the association between the arrival of
the Valar on the one hand, and the pollution of their water on the other? One may perhaps learn the most from the simple fact
that, after the war, when the Valar summoned the Quendi to return with them to Valinor, the Quendi not only unanimously declined,
but were loath even to send three ambassadors: for what purpose, it was inquired at the time, had the Valar secured Middle-earth,
only then to order its evacuation?
It was in this Cuivienen, then, one in which
the Quendi still sang, but seldom happily, and one in which the stresses between the Quendi and their Valar allies were very
much felt, that Herulins older son, Onn, made a name for himself. At the young age of seventy, long before reaching elfhood,
Onn had composed a ballad, which is no longer preserved, but which became a classic of its time, and was central to elven
lore for many generations afterward.
The song, usually quite optimistic in character
and cheerful in tone, and very much the song of a child, marveled at the sights of Middle-earth, wondered at the distant,
uncharted, and dangerous fields, and the inhabitants they might contain; it speculated on the nature of death; it trembled
at the dark things abroad in the night and rejoyced in the safety of the home; it saw all things as new, as all things were
at that time, and long after the poet himself was otherwise forgotten, it served to bring hope to those that lived through
the dread times ahead.
Accordingly, Onn had developed a reputation
among the Quendi, and among some of the Valar, too, for being inspired in song; and some speculated that the moving force
of this inspiration might be Manwe, king of the Valar; and others hinted that it might be a source beyond Manwe altogether
-- and although no one spoke the name, people would think of Ilúvatar, who the Quendi had heard the Valar tell of in stories.
Onn was also known for his extremely unusual
pet, a dog named Lworg, a very proud creature. Lworg had been the first dog that the Quendi encountered, shortly before the
Valar Orome found his way to Cuivienen, and had been the first sign they had chosen a false name, for at that time dogs could
speak with language.
Onn loved Lworg dearly, despite the dogs aloof
manner, and would frequently play with the dog in a capricious and undignified way, as the enthusiasms of youth are wont to
do. Never did this irritate the dog more than when Onn would fawn over him, babbling nonsense words and babytalk. At these
times, Lworg would frequently reprimand Onn, saying haughtily, My dear young friend, I would have you know that in my native
land I have three university degrees and a licence to practice medicine, so I would appreciate it if you did not speak to
me in so depreciating a manner.
To Onn is also credited by some the very first
use of magic by elvenkind. The story goes that Onn, by virtue of extremely subtle observation of the Valar, was finally able,
after extensive experimentation, to reproduce certain of the magical effects which the Valar had been known to use. At the
time of the Battle of the Powers, much debate was had in Cuivienen, whether the use of magical forces was something which
the Quendi could participate in as well, or was an exclusive ability of the Valar themselves.
Nor was this question resolved among the Valar,
who nevertheless kept their own counsel and abstained from any debate with the Quendi. Most vocal in the debate, however,
was Onns friend Lworg, who was certain that the Valar, and only the Valar, could use magic, because of their origins early
in the history of the cosmos. The wellspoken dog had convinced many Quendi, as well as some Valar, of the truth of this proposition.
The question was not completely settled, however, until one such debate had extended from noon until late into the night,
and Onn, who had not participated, cast a light magic-wise, as the Valar had often done, to allow the spectators to make their
way along the floatilla walkways safely: that is the story, to the authenticity of which this author can not attest.
Those who say that this incident occured,
say it happened earlier in that very same night when was determined Onns fate, and that Lworgs black deed was motivated out
of anger toward his friend for proving him wrong and losing him the debate. In any event, whether the debate ever actually
ocurred, if Onn cast the light or not, and whatever the dogs motivation, the rest of the tale is known and certain.
Deep in the night, Onn had a dream in which
Manwe, or perhaps Ilúvatar, appeared to him and gave him a list of tasks which he was to accomplish later in life, to raise
up his kindred and separate evil from good, and to further all manner of benificent ends. Waking up, but still groggy, Onn
found pen and ink, and many shefts of parchment on which he kept his poetry, and wrote the tasks down, exactly as they were
given to him. He wrote for seven and a half hours. He wrote at a feverish pace and without pause for any rest, lest his memory
fail. It was a very long list.
At last, satisfied that he had gotten it all,
he collapsed into bed and slept; and as he slept his deep, profound sleep, the dog pulled the sheets of parchment onto the
floor, and ate them.
When he awoke again, Onn told his father and
his younger brother Fin of the dream. They were very excited, and asked to see the list. When he returned to his room and
found the list missing, and discovered small shredded bits of parchment on the floor, and saw, moreover, the dog hunched in
the corner eyeing him warily, Onn drew the obvious conclusion. However, rather than cry and rend his hair, as one of lesser
character might have done, he quietly sat down, dipped his pen in its ink, and resolved to write the list again.
After a few false starts, though, it became
clear that it was gone; the intervening period of sleep had wiped it clean; he would not be able to remember it.
He tried, in many different ways, to get it
back, or at least some small portion of it. For weeks, he wandered around the floatilla, making vaguely inarticulate motions
with his hands, explaining that he hoped to see something to jog his memory. He tried writing down every word that came into
his mind, and then connecting them together into tasks which seemed of a kind to be inspired by divine intervention. None
of this worked. The problem, he explained, was the oddly specific nature of most of the tasks in the dream.
The dog Lworg never spoke again. Some say
that he lost his voice through divine retribution; others say it was shame. One scholar, by whom this author has been quite
convinced, argues Lworg may have lost speech due to indigestion. Whatever the cause, down to the present time only dogs of
the most singularly noble fibre have spoken; all the rest are mute.
As for the unhappy son of Herulin, little
remains to relate. He continued to wander around Cuivienen with an increasingly more disconsolate look in his eyes. He reported
having a recurring dream in which he saw Manwe, or perhaps Ilúvatar, again, and asked the figure to repeat the list; and the
figure just looked at him in disgust. He said he knew that these dreams were not divinely inspired, but only the product of
his own tortured imagination; nevertheless, he said he found them extremely demoralizing.
Eventually, he stopped even his aimless wandering
and simply sat in one place, staring, never moving, never responding. For this reason, the people of Cuivienen named him Onwe,
which in that language means, one who is listless.
- the end -
