Stay at Home - Day 14 - A Tale for You - Mab's Tree

I haven't written a story in quite a while, and one of my on-line friends was asking me to write in this time of trouble and turmoil. ... so I did. Write, that is. It occurred to me that Tolkien also had a Great Plague in the formative years of old. It's barely mentioned in the Silmarillion, but it's there, and the death toll was massive, changing the composition of Middle Earth forever. The Hobbits were hard hit, according to the annals, as were men. It's hard to say if there was any effect on dwarves or elves, I suspect the elves were immune and the dwarves retreated into their mountain fastness and closed the doors against infection. Still, those left on the land were hit, and hit hard. 

According to the map legend, the pink areas had the plague, and the
darker the color, the more affected the area. 

So, here's my story - Mab's Tree, written in the dark hours of a long day, so any errors are totally my own, and as always, all thanks to Tolkien, the Master of the story. 

Mab's Tree

She was known as Mab. It was a certainty that her name had been far more than a single breath. Indeed, if rumors were to be believed, she had been a great beauty in the days of her youth. But those days were far behind her and on this day, as she fought the crank of the bucket, drawing cold water from the well, those days seemed centuries in the past.

This was the fourth hole she had been visited - the tears and entreaties of the other inhabitants of the small settlement having pulled her away from her own cozy bed and into the chill of the pre-dawn hours. The fever had hit hard, with almost every family affected. As the healer of the vale, she was in demand, despite the fact that her own sleep had been scant and spotty at best.

In truth, there was little she could do. The sickness had passed up from the South, hitting all races, save perhaps the dwarves and elves. "But, o' course, there's no tellin' if the tales of such beings even be true," she muttered to herself as she unhooked the bucket, wrapping a cloth around the metal handle to protect her hand from the added chill. "Mab," she chided, "you ha' no time for stuff 'n such nonsense."

As she entered the hole, the rank smell of the sickness assailed her once again. She had wrapped her head well, cloth across her nose and mouth, yet this was the fourth family she had visited this morning and the sun hadn't reached its zenith yet. There were many holes she had yet to visit.

She clamped down on a sigh. Such sounds would inspire none to bravery, stiffen no spines, comfort no fears. She knew the only thing to pull her friends and neighbors from this miasma would be faith and hope. It was not her job to tamp those feelings down. Such actions would only allow despair to enter through the broken shards.

She heated water and added herbs from her ever dwindling supply, making sure each one in the small family drank of the tisane after it was heated. After all had the hot tea and she had straightened their beds, she banked the fires and left, promising to return that evening. As she closed the door gently behind her, she wondered if any of them would be alive when she returned that night. Setting her sights for the next hole, she began walking, leaning on her thick staff.

In the days and years to come, the sickness was renamed by those in power and became what is now known as the Great Plague. By the time nearby hobbits checked on the small settlement in the vale, four of every five holes had been abandoned. The small graveyard, in the nearby grove, had grown large and now held the memories, history, and tears of hobbits of all ages. In the center of the cemetery was a tree which grew strong and tall. 'Mab's Tree' they called it, honoring the one who had given everything she had, including her life, to save her fellow Hobbits. Her name may have been short, but the memories of Hobbits were long, and for many years and in fireside tales she was remembered and celebrated.