Cage No Bird

By Isabeau


The sun beat down upon the young girl’s back as she wielded her hoe between the rows of vegetables, chopping up the prolific green shoots of new weeds. A straw hat, painstakingly woven by her mother, sheltered her head from its rays, but the weather was unseasonably warm after an unseasonably wet spell, the air was muggy, and her mood decidedly surly. Father had promised that they would go up onto the mountain, under the cool canopy of the trees and do some hunting or bow practice--just as soon as she finished the weeding. And Mother was most particular about her garden. The least unwanted green sprig would be marked--and the weeds seemed to know this, almost appearing to gleefully sprout anew behind her as she went.

She mopped her sweaty forehead with a grimy hand, oblivious to the smear of mud it made upon her skin, and vented her irritation by muttering some of the forbidden invective she’d heard from the homesteaders and carters last month, when the family had taken a rare trip to Min-rimmon. A chicken hopped down the row in front of her, and she shooed it out of the way with the hoe, then continued with her task, not without a yearning glance at her bow, which lay at the end of the row upon her outer tunic to keep it from the damp, the quiver beside it. The entire flock was out in force, stalking through the vegetables and about the yard in search of the worms brought up by the rain.

The harsh cry of a hawk caught her attention, and she looked up to see one circling overhead. A good-sized one, a rock-hawk. Admiring his easy, gliding circles in the air, she saw that his attention seemed to be focused upon one area, the far side of the garden where the largest concentration of chickens had gathered. Thinking that perhaps some bow-play was allowable in defense of the flock, the girl moved quietly down towards the end of the row, crouched slowly and retrieved her bow and an arrow. Even as she straightened, nocked and drew, the hawk folded his wings and stooped.

So swift, she thought, as the tip of her arrow followed his swift plummet downward, they fly so swiftly! She’d only ever shot at one before, and had missed. It would be something to brag of over dinner, should she get this one. The tip of the arrow passed him, slid down before him, into his path at the distance she guessed would bring him into contact with it, given his great speed.

At the very moment of release, there was a sense of a large bulk moving behind her, and a shadow fell between her and the sun. A hard blow struck between her shoulder blades, spilling her face forward into the dirt. The arrow went wide, and her bow flew out of her hand.

“Hold, Heth!” her father’s voice roared behind her. A terrified squawking sounded, she looked towards the flock, and saw an flurry of feathers explode, then fall like snow. A moment later, the hawk flapped heavily skyward once more, a chicken hanging limp in its talons.

“What did you do that for? That hawk just took one of our chickens!” She growled angrily, rolled over onto her back and up onto her elbows. Then she looked up at her father, and froze, for his face was as furious as she’d ever seen it.

“And he may have the whole flock, if he wishes it!” came the thunderous reply. “Do you not remember that I told you but six months past you were not to draw upon hawks or eagles?”

“I thought you meant shooting them for sport,” came her voice, still mutinous. “I didn’t think you’d mind me keeping them off the chickens. He’ll be back now he’s found his supper here.”

“That is as may be. But if you cannot obey the rules I give you about your bow, you’ll not carry it for a moon!” He thought that horrific prospect would quell her entirely; instead, it seemed to make her angry once more.

“I understand all the other rules you gave me, but I don’t understand about this one! WHY can’t I shoot hawks? I want to know the reason!”

He stooped over at that, grasped her shoulder and hauled her to her feet in one, swift, hard motion. She peered fearfully up at him, fully expecting a trip around the back of the barn, for she knew she had been impertinent. To her great surprise, his anger seemed to have vanished suddenly, and he was looking down at her with a crooked smile upon his face, chuckling.


Halaran son of Hethrandel of the House of the Eagle, Dunedain and former Ranger of the North, looked down at his scrawny eleven-year-old daughter, smiled, and chuckled at the memory that had just thrust itself upon him at his daughter’s words.

Your foresight did not fail you, Aragorn, and your curse has come to roost. I do indeed have a child who demands to know the reasoning behind the commands, just as I did to you!

Then he sobered, wondering exactly what he should say. Hethlin bore the look of her house full in her face, but it had yet to be proven if the other gifts had bred true. The curse laid upon his house by the Witch-King had acted in a peculiar way--there had always been at least one male heir, who had always survived long enough to sire a son and ensure the succession. But to the best of his knowledge, none of his forebears since the curse had sired any daughters. So he had no prior experience to draw on that would tell him what she could do, or what he should tell her.

Up until seven months ago, it had been his intention to continue raising her as a Ranger, since she seemed to be the only heir he would ever have, and to initiate her into the traditions of their House when the time came. But now, against all expectation, Liranaiel was heavy with child once more, and he felt it not unreasonable to expect a son. No need then, since it was early days yet in any event, to burden the girl with the truth of the curse, and their House’s oath to the Eagles of the Hithaeglir.

Yet an explanation was required, so he couched it in terms he felt she could understand.

“You have heard me speak of Manwe, Lord of the Air?” he asked, indicating with a gesture that she should retrieve her arrows and bow from off of the ground. As she nodded and moved to obey him, he continued. “In honor of the Lord of the Valar, our family has always held to certain.....traditions. To break them brings ill-luck upon the one who disregards them. You are of an age to know and heed such things, so I will tell them to you now. See that you obey them.”

The serious tone of his voice warned her to pay close attention, and he saw that she was in fact doing so, her grey eyes wide, as her hands automatically checked her bow and her fletches and stored her arrows. Those eyes were the one feature in her face that was like unto her mother’s, but in the unlikely event she should ever be blooded, then they too would come to resemble his, with threads of gold running through the grey.

“These are the rules of our family, Hethlin. You will harm no hawk, falcon, eagle or owl. If they prey upon that which is yours, you will allow it and suffer the loss without complaint. Insofar as it is possible, you will allow none in your presence to harm a hawk, falcon, eagle or owl. You will not hunt with hawks, falcons or eagles, but gain your prey through your own prowess.”

“You will cage no wild bird of any sort, and seek to free those wild birds that are caged whenever possible. But you are permitted to eat of those birds that are the lawful prey of hawks, falcons, eagles, or owls.”

“Should an injured hawk, falcon, eagle or owl come into your keeping, you must endeavor to heal and succor it to the best of your ability. And if it should happen that the bird is too damaged to fully recover and hunt again, then and only then are you permitted to kill it, dispatching it as quickly and mercifully as possible. Do you understand these rules, Hethlin, and are you willing to follow them to avoid bringing misfortune upon our family?”

“Aye, Father,” she replied very quietly and seriously, and he gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“You weren’t harmed lass, were you?”

“Nay, Father.” He looked down at her for a long moment, noting the hair that had been cropped short the first time when she took up the study of the bow, and which Liranaiel had never been able to convince her to grow out again. The gawky body, which was nonetheless wiry and tough with climbing, hiking, hunting and tracking. The feet, big because of her age, that tripped her up from time to time, but were tireless in the chase. And her hands, large as well, deft enough at fletching, laying a fire or flaying the skin from a kill, but inept at most of the tasks that were a woman’s work. And he knew that, whether the coming child was son and heir or not, there would be no trammeling Hethlin within a house. She was a woods-woman, as happened occasionally among the Dunedain, and he could not bring himself to regret what he had wrought now that the time was past to undo it.

Cage no wild bird indeed, he thought ruefully. Something, it seems, I must keep in mind myself, lest misfortune fall upon my house.

Aloud, he said, “Go look in on your mother, see if she’s well, there’s a lass, and get the other hoe from the barn. I’ll help you finish this, and then we’ll go hunting.”