פרק 6 – היער העתיק

ראוי לציין כי עץ הערבה העתיק, שהוא בעצם המפלץ הראשון שאנחנו נתקלים בו בספר, הוא דווקא עץ – והלא קודם כבר ציינו שהעצים היו אהובי נפשו של טולקין. אז מה קרה? האמת היא שעץ הערבה הזקן הוא קדום הרבה יותר משר הטבעות ואפילו יותר מההוביט. הוא מככב בפואמה עתיקת יומין שטולקין כתב על טום בומבדיל שפורסמה ב Oxford Magazine ב 1934 וגרסה מצומצמת שלה התפרסמה ב'הרפתקאות טום בומבדיל'. להלן הגרסה הארוכה (באנגלית) ואחר כך אספר עליה קצת יותר :           

Old Tom Bombadil was a merry fellow;
bright blue his jacket was, and his boots were yellow.
He lived down under Hill; and a peacock's feather
nodded in his old hat, tossing in the weather.

Old Tom Bombadil walked about the meadows
gathering the buttercups, a-chasing of the shadows,
tickling the bumblebees a-buzzing in the flowers,
sitting by the waterside for hours upon hours.

There his beard dangled long down into the water:
up came Goldberry, the Riverwoman's daughter;
pulled Tom's hanging hair. In he went a-wallowing
under the waterlilies, bubbling and a-swallowing.

'Hey! Tom Bombadil, whither are you going?'
said fair Goldberry. 'Bubbles you are blowing,
frightening the finny fish and the brown water-rat,
startling the dabchicks, drowning your feather-hat!'

'You bring it back again, there's a pretty maiden!'
said Tom Bombadil; 'I do not care for wading!'
Go down! Sleep again, where the pools are shady
far below willow-roots, little water-lady!'

Back to her mother's house in the deepest hollow
swam young Goldberry; but Tom, he would not follow.
On knotted willow-roots he sat in sunny weather
drying his yellow boots and his draggled feather.

Up woke Willow-man, began upon his singing,
sang Tom fast asleep under branches swinging;
in a crack caught him tight: quiet it closed together,
trapped Tom Bombadil, coat and hat and feather.

'Hal Tom Bombadil, what be you a-thinking,
peeping inside my tree, watching me a-drinking
deep in my wooden house, tickling me with feather,
dripping wet down my face like a rainy weather?'

'You let me out again, Old Man Willow!
I am stiff lying here; they're no sort of pillow,
your hard crooked roots. Drink your river water!
Go back to sleep again, like the River-daughter!'

Willow-man let him loose, when he heard him speaking;
locked fast his wooden house, muttering and creaking,
whispering inside the tree. Tom, he sat a-listening.
On the boughs piping birds were chirruping and whistling.
Tom saw butterflies quivering and winking;
Tom called the conies out, till the sun was sinking.

Then Tom went away. Rain began to shiver,
round rings spattering in the running river.
Clouds passed, hurrying drops were falling helter-skelter;
old Tom Bombadil crept into a shelter.

Out came Badger-brock with his snowy forehead
and his dark blinking eyes. In the hill he quarried
with his wife and many sons. By the coat they caught him,
pulled him inside the hole, down their tunnels brought him.

Inside their secret house, there they sat a-mumbling:
'Ho! Tom Bombadil, where have you come tumbling,
bursting in the front-door? Badgerfolk have caught you:
you'll never find it out, the way that we have brought you!'

'Now, old Badger-brock, do you hear me talking?
You show me out at once! I must be a-walking.
Show me to your backdoor under briar-roses;
then clean grimy paws, wipe your earthy noses!
Go back to sleep again on your straw pillow
 like fair Goldberry and Old Man Willow!'

Then all the Badgerfolk said 'We beg your pardon!'
showed Tom out again to their thorny garden,
went back and hid themselves a-shivering and a-shaking,
blocked up all their doors, earth together raking.

Old Tom Bombadil hurried home to supper,
unlocked his house again, opened up the shutter,
let in the setting sun in the kitchen shining,
watched stars peering out and the moon climbing.

Dark came under Hill. Tom, he lit a candle,
up-stairs creaking went, turned the door handle.
'Hoo! Tom Bombadil, I am waiting for you
just here behind the door! I came up before you.
You've forgotten Barrow-wight dwelling in the old mound
up there a-top the hill with the ring of stones round.
He's got loose to-night: under the earth he'll take you!
Poor Tom Bombadil, pale and cold he'll make you!'

'Go out! Shut the door, and don't slam it after!
Take away gleaming eyes, take your hollow laughter!
Go back to grassy mound, on your stony pillow
lay down your bony head, like Old Man Willow,
like young Goldberry, and Badgerfolk in burrow!
Go back to buried gold and forgotten sorrow!'

Out fled Barrow-wight, through the window flying,
through yard, over wall, up the hill a-crying,
past white drowsing sheep, over leaning stone-rings,
back under lonely mound, rattling his bone-rings.

Old Tom Bombadil lay upon his pillow
sweeter than Goldberry, quieter than the Willow,
snugger than Badgerfolk, or the barrow-dwellers;
slept like a hummingtop, snored like a bellows.

He woke up in morning-light, whistled like a starling,
sang 'come, derry-dol, merry-dol, my darling!';
clapped on his battered hat, boots and coat and feather,
opened the window wide to the sunny weather.

Old Tom Bombadil was a clever fellow;
bright blue his jacket was, and his boots were yellow.
None ever caught old Tom, walking in the meadows
winter and summer-time, in the lights and shadows,
down dale, over hill, jumping over water –
but one day Tom he went and caught the River-daughter,
in green gown, flowing hair, sitting in the rushes,
an old song singing fair to birds upon the bushes.

He caught her, held her fast! Water-rats went scuttering,
reeds hissed, herons cried; and her heart was fluttering.
Said Tom Bombadil: 'Here's my pretty maiden!
You shall come home with me! The table is all laden:
yellow cream, honeycomb, white bread and butter;
roses at window-pane peeping through the shutter.
You shall come under Hill – never mind your mother
in her deep weedy pool: there you'll find no lover!'

Old Tom Bombadil had a merry wedding
crowned all in buttercups, his old feather shedding;
his bride with forgetmenots and flaglilies for garland,
robed all in silver-green. He sang like a starling,
hummed like a honeybee, lilted to the fiddle,
clasping his river-maid round her slender middle.

Lamps gleamed within his house, and white was the bedding;
in the bright honey-moon Badgerfolk came treading,
danced down under Hill, and Old Man Willow
tapped, tapped at window-pane, as they slept on the pillow;
on the bank in the reeds Riverwoman sighing
heard old Barrow-wight in his mound crying.

Old Tom Bombadil heeded not the voices,
taps, knocks, dancing feet, all the nightly noises;
slept till the sun arose, then sang like a starling:
'Hey! come, derry-rol, merry-dol, my darling!'
sitting on the doorstep chopping sticks of willow,
while fair Goldberry combed her tresses yellow.