Last of the Sea-swans

Beneath the pale autumn sun, where the shingle of Brighton meets the quieter waters of the Lagoon, there stood a marvel that few now remember and fewer still believe. For in those days the boundary between the Small Folk and the Elder Things was thinner, and the Sea had not yet forgotten its old alliances.

The swan rose from the water like a white hill newly lifted from the deep. Its neck curved in a noble arc, taller than the mast of any fisherman’s boat, and its beak shone gold as if hammered by forgotten smiths. Around it lay bright, broken craft - petty vessels of later days - clustered like driftwood at the feet of a king. The swan did not trouble itself with them. Its gaze was set westward, toward the long green slopes and the houses of men, as though it remembered an age when none of those things had been built.

This was Alquëmar, last of the Sea-swans, who had flown in ages past between the Grey Havens and lands beyond the sunset. Wounded by storms and wearied by the waning of magic, he had come at last to rest in the still waters beside the open sea, choosing the Lagoon as a final refuge. There he slept through long years, half stone, half dream, while Men forgot the old songs.

But on a morning of clear light, when gulls wheeled low and the tide lay quiet, Alquëmar stirred. The Sea had spoken in whispers during the night, telling him that its memory was failing, that iron and noise pressed ever closer to the shore. He rose then, water cascading from his flanks, and for a while his reflection trembled upon the surface, white upon grey, as if the world itself hesitated.

Those who passed nearby felt it, though they did not know why. A sudden stillness fell; the wind dropped; even the birds were hushed. Some later said they felt an unaccountable sorrow, others a strange hope, like the echo of a tale heard in childhood and nearly lost.

When the sun climbed higher, the swan lowered his head once more. His task was done. He did not fly, for that power had long departed, but he sank gently back into the water, becoming again a silent shape among the lesser boats. Yet something lingered. The Lagoon seemed deeper, the sea beyond it older and more watchful.

And it is said - though only by those who walk the beach at dusk and listen carefully - that if the water is calm and the light just right, you may glimpse a white curve rising from the surface, and hear, faint and far away, the sound of wings that once carried the world’s first dreams over the edge of the Sea.

With apologies to J. R. R. Tolkien.