The Great War emptied Arnor's Dale of most save the young and the aged. Lord Keflavik marched away under his red banner taking with him those who could wield a bow, bill, or sword. The red lord came not again to the high country, falling as he did, in some nameless skirmish, his troop scattered and broken. The Dale, though, remained in relative quiet. Many other lords also suffered permanent reversals in the struggle with the invaders of lowland vales to the south, and heirs were too busy mastering their new, if depleted, holdings to take advantage further north. Life slumbered on in the valley untouched except for absent friends and family.
Keflavik himself had no heir, nor lady to carry on. So, the villagers in Arnor's Dale lived as they lived, kept to themselves, and gave over rede-making and the settling of such disputes as commonly come, to a group of elders still hale enough to give good thought, and impartial enough to be asked for counsel more than once.
Occasionally a tinker or small merchant would wander up over the stern crags and down the sheep paths to see what he might sell and carry away for trade elsewhere. It took a sturdy disposition to top the reaches.
The land was old and humans had not long laid their hands on the earth. Fireside tales were still told of the old ones seemingly of human form, but not if seen by certain lights or on certain nights. These others favored the heights when people first began to seep into the north and they eventually withdrew to some other place, no one kenned where or when.
Yet they left behind strange remains that had odd markings cut into stones and at times an uncanny feel when the merchants wandered by. Some ruins felt welcoming, others faintly unwholesome. Some indeed were so forbidding even the dim sheep would not graze within sight of particular standing stones. The people of Arnor's Dale left offerings at several sites at certain times of year in thanks or as a hedge and bar to what no one well remembered.
Were the old ones really gone? Sometimes there were faint glimpse of shapes among the trees. Tale spinners recounted music and lights in certain copses or on the heights. It was hard to say from these rare reports. On occasion, though, good fortune seemed to attend the seasonal propitiation and the next year went easier for all. Even so, people tried not to meddle with the places of the old ones not deemed safe by tradition.
Life in Arnor's Dale proceeded season to season. The shallow river at the bottom of the vale gave fish and cress. The fields nurtured slow moving cattle. Nut trees and fruit trees offered annual bounty. Even the Tithe men of Keflavik's overlord were no longer seen, proof indeed Arnor's Dale was blessed, though the prudent still set aside wood, woven baskets, and good cloth in case there ever was such a call. Those too young to have fared forth with Keflavik grew into young men and maidens; began to look at each other with appreciation and speculation, flirted and fawned, danced and dreamed as their bodies swelled with muscles, curves, and quickened spirits.
Torfi joined not in these fervently appreciated pastimes. He was halt of foot and twisted in his back from a fall out of a tree early in youth. Reduced to rolling himself along in a little cart or painfully stepping along with one foot while a crutch helped him drag the other, Torfi made a place for himself with the clever work of his hands. Anything broken, but take it to Torfi and he would mend it. Oft times he would suggest something better than the original way the broken thing had been made. And so he had his part in the life of the Dale, aside from most, viewed askance by some who wrongly thought outer injury reflected inner spirit, and sometimes put upon by those whose cold souls found amusement in trivial torment. Torfi's heart was good and his countenance kind. It was "truly a pity," the elders clucked, that he "is trapped in such a wasted shell."
The young folk gathered every year at Midsommar to place the first fruits on the heights. They would eat, sing, and frolic. The elders would eventually begin to nod, catch themselves with heavy lids and wander back down the paths to the village. The ripening young people would stay and dance as the elders yawnsomely recalled when they too were able to make merry all the night and continue on to prodigious feats of nuisance making the next day. Many matches made in Midsommar came to children in the winter as men and maids learned the ways of each other.
This year most thought Orm would win the new beaded vest made for the best dancer of all the lads. He was tall and strong with flashing feet and a leg so well turned many girls would take a deep breath when he was like to make display. Yet, for all that he was fair of figure; Orm was mean clear through, a truculent danger to the weak, a disturbance even to the strong.
Last year one of those rare merchants had come to Arnor's Dale and bore with him a lovely flute. Warm wood and cunning keys made it a wondrous addition to the dance and the merchant willingly played for he welcomed a break from the road and relished the ale that came his way that night. Yet, Orm demanded the man let him try the flute. Orm could pipe, after a fashion. But, he had not a patch of the skill shown by the trader. And when, upon the merchant's reluctant assent, that lack became clear, Orm angrily tossed the flute across the clearing, shattering it on a rock. The merchant sought justice the next day from the elders and Orm grudgingly, but steeply paid.
Dalla's eyes had glowed when the trader played for the gathering and filled with tears when the beautiful flute cracked on the stone. She collected the broken keys, the splintered tenons, and the caved in lip plate and took them all to Torfi, thinking if anyone was clever enough to rescue such a marvelous instrument, it would be Torfi. Dalla also had a kind heart. But, she was nearly as afflicted as Torfi among the young of Arnor's Dale. Thin and dull of hair, sharp and bony of figure, and with a flat face stained red on one side from birth, few would ask her to stand up in the dance. The stain was considered ill luck and the cruel and ignorant hissed at her to keep out of their way. Dalla danced but, never with a boy. She would only tread the patterns and make the steps alone and never at Midsommar.
Torfi, though always spoke her fair and she was apt to bring things to him she thought might interest him, and to spend a little idle time in the workshop he kept, talking of this and that. Torfi took the pieces of flute with a smile and said he would see what he could do. All the winter he labored, cunningly crafting new keys that would seal in place of the old, delicately shaving new wood for the tenons, and carving an entirely new lip plate. When the work was done, he put it to his lips and opened his heart. He practiced at first not only the tunes of the village, but also those that recalled times and deeds agone, and the popular dances he knew from the rare visits of people over mountain.
As he played he began to think of the river running sluggish through the valley, of the winds wuthering in the pass above the Dale, of birds singing in the orchards, sheep making peaceful noises as they grazed; the bees industrious in their hives and the rhythm of the seasons. All that grew and strove and failed and rose again in the Dale went into Torfi's song.
Dalla came upon him one day as he wove his song of the Dale and was transported.
"Torfi!" she said. "You must play at Midsommar."
Torfi had little liking for the idea. It was a steep climb to the heights even for the hale and whole. But, Dalla would have none of his dissent and enlisted Assur and Nafni to help roll Torfi's cart up the track to the place of the elder ones.
Indeed, the flute was wonderful once again. For every jig Torfi played, the dancers moved more lightly than ever. Schottisches had people smiling and tapping, and other tunes drew people to the circle as blooms draw bees.
Orm had been too deeply into the ale that evening. He danced passably, but not with his usual skill. The growing knowledge that someone else, perhaps Nasi of the Mill, would receive the vest and pair with the best girl dancer, as always Aldis the pretty blond Thatcher's daughter, put him in an ill mood. Then he realized the flute was the same one over which he had been forced to pay so much a year agone. He strode up to Torfi and demanded it as his right.
