Silmaril Awards Ceremony: Wisest Counselor

I take a deep breath as I step out into the sunlight of the terrace above the city of Minas Tirith and lean against the railing. The sun is halfway down, and shining through the leaves of the White Tree. As much as I always say that sycamores are my favorite because they remind me of the White Tree of Gondor, they pale in comparison with the real one. 

I've been preparing for this award all morning and I need a little break. Luckily, I have a lot of help. Hosting the Wisest Counselor award is much more of a production than hosting any of the other awards we've hosted so far, but I and my five finalists have gotten to travel to Gondor to meet up with the award-presenting characters, other nominees, and everyone else who was invited to cheer on the finalists. Gondor. I might not ever leave. 

The flip side of being in Gondor is that everyone expects something a little more elaborate than setting up a few trestle tables, and asking everyone to bring their favorite baked goods. I've been running around for most of the day making sure that everyone is present and accounted for, basting hems, supervising the preparation of the feasting hall, and making very, very sure that all of the food preparation was under control. 

As delicious as I hear last year's interdimensional feast was (and Podo keeps telling me that it was incredible, and I had better live up to it this year), I'm hoping not to have to go world-jumping with Professor Kirke today. I get portal-sick very easily. 

Speaking of, the man himself steps out the door behind me and coughs softly. I turn from the railing. "Yes?" 

"Ah, Samantha, I'm glad to find you. The...cooks...wondered if you would oblige them by coming to sample their work. I told them that, logically, the only reason for you to refuse would be if they had included something you are allergic to in their cooking, but..." he pauses, his eyes twinkling, "they firmly requested that I personally find you and bring you to the kitchens." 

I laugh. "Alright, I'm coming!" I decided that since the interdimensional feast last year was extremely popular, and I had no desire to try to replicate that myself, I would bring in the most famous literary caterers of all time and interdimensional space: the cooks of Redwall Abbey. 

So, when I enter the large, stone kitchen of Gondor, I find it bustling with everything from mice to otters to badgers, with a few moles thrown in. They assured me, even before I asked, that the hares would not be invited. 

"Ah! Miss Samantha!" squeaks one of the mice, "I am most obliged to see you. The deeper'n'ever turnip'n'tater'n'beetroot pies are ready, and the honeycream flans are nearly so, with, of course, the fish, an assortment of cheeses and oatcakes, fruit pies, breads, pasties, cakes, puddings, and trifles. Several of the otters are making sure that the drinks are in order, everything from the fruit wines, elderberry, gooseberry, grape, strawberry, and blackberry, to the ales, the milks, and of course the teas for the tea drinker. If you would step this way, and taste test a modicum, to ensure quality?"

By the time she's finished talking, my mouth is already watering hard enough that I have to swallow hard to ensure I don't start drooling. "It would be my absolute pleasure," I assure her, and it is. 

As I leave the kitchen, having warned the kitchenbeasts that the feast will likely be starting in less than an hour, I wonder if I'm going to have any room for dinner at all. I couldn't leave it at just a taste test of the turnip'n'tater'n'beetroot pies and honeycream flans, I also had to try the blueberry pie and the blackberry pie, the spinach pastie and the leek one, the honey vanilla pudding, the Redwall Special Trifle...and at that point I lost count. 

But, I conclude, this was a very, very good decision. 

Which is why I'm confused by the heavy sigh that I hear to my left, as I clear the kitchen doorway. But, turning, I see a marshwiggle, and my confusion changes to an attempt to hide a grin. "What's wrong, Puddleglum?"

He shakes his head. "Oh, it's just these mice and moles, Samantha, if you really want to know." Another heavy sigh. "I know you think you know what you're doing, but mark my words, something will go wrong with such small creatures about, working on the food. Someone will eat one of them with their food by mistake, I shouldn't wonder." 

I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud, and instead, nod my head solemnly. "I had considered that, Puddleglum, which is why none of them are going to be in charge of bringing the food up from the kitchen." 

He sighs again, outdoing himself in the sheer despair that a single breath expresses. "Then they'll miss the feast entirely and blame you for it, of course."

I decide that trying to tell him that all the animals who've prepared the food are invited to the feast is a lost cause, and simply nod. "I suppose that is a risk. Puddleglum, how are preparations going up in the hall?"

He shakes his head. "I left when it looked like someone was going to lose a leg. By now, mark my words, someone's dead." 

I take this to mean that they had minor difficulties in setting up the tables, dais, and platforms for the rabbit finalists, but do quicken my step up the stairs to the feasting hall. 

The stone walls are bedecked with tapestries depicting moments of wisdom displayed by each of our five finalists, along wise words from previous years' award winners. I stifle a chuckle to see "You're an apprentice. You don't have to think." one one of the tapestries, right next to "You are never told what would have happened." Oh, Halt. In addition to the tapestries, dark green banners are strung from the rafters, with garlands snaking their way among them. And the setup of the tables and dais seems to be entirely in order, with several strapping young Gondorian lads putting the finishing touches on the high table. 

One of the lads is limping slightly, which gives me a clue to Puddleglum's moaning. "Gwidor, did you hurt yourself?" 

He turns around and gives me a little half-bow. "No, my lady, just tripped a little. I'll be fine."

"Good," I tell him, but as I turn around, I mutter "what is it with this 'my lady' nonsense?" 

An hour later, I give a leisurely reminder to both dressing rooms that it's five minutes until the awards kick off, and step out into the hallway to calm my own nerves. One of the major benefits of the Wise Counselors awards ceremony is that there's almost no last-minute freakouts over clothing, and no one is going to be late! At least, no one is yet, and they're all in one place. I have a good feeling about this. 

I take a deep breath, and poke my head back into the finalists' dressing room. "Places, please!" 

Then I step across the hall to the other dressing room. "It's time," I tell my fellow presenters, fighting off the ever-present feeling of imposter syndome. 

"Well," says Gandalf, quirking an eyebrow, "as a wizard is never late, I suppose it must be time for us to join this lovely lady and present these awards." 

He, the marshwiggle, and Professor Kirke gather themselves up--Kirke dressed in his Oxford academic robes, Gandalf in his white wizard's robes, and Puddleglum in which I suppose passes for dress clothes among the marshwiggles, but upon which I decline to comment. They follow me out into the hallway that leads to one of the doors of the dais. 

I pause at the door, to collect myself. Professor Kirke places a hand on my shoulder. "It will all be just fine, Samantha." 

I smile at him, turn the knob, and open the door. 

The room erupts into applause for the two men and one marshwiggle who follow me out of the door. The enormous hall is full of people. Previous winners and their families sit next to nonfinalists from this year, people from the fictional world of this years' finalists share space with last year's nonfinalists, and everything in between. I grin when I see Howl, Sophie, and Calicifer cheering from one of the tables, and make a mental note to catch up with Sophie later. 

I step to the middle of the stage, and tuck my shaking hands behind my back. There'll be time later to laugh at how much they're bouncing up and down. I wait until the cheering dies down a bit, and then begin. 

"Welcome, one and all, to the ninth Wisest Counselor Awards Ceremony!" 

More cheering. 

"It has been my great honor and privilege to host this award this year, but now it's time to hand over the duty of announcing the winner to our honored guests Professor Diggory Kirke, Puddleglum the Marshwiggle, and Gandalf the White!" 

Renewed cheering. I step back into the corner, noting that my hands are moving about an inch at a shake. Impressive. 

Gandalf raises a hand, and the crowd quiets instantly. "Dear friends," he says, "it is a joy to have you with us on this fine day. I am honored to be joined by my compatriots, and would like to invite them to announce the four last finalists." 

Professor Kirke gives Puddleglum a gentle poke, and he steps forward. Gandalf gives him an encouraging smile. "I suppose I'm the first to announce a finalist for a reason," he says. "Set the whole thing off on the wrong foot, I shouldn't wonder. All end in bloodshed, it will. Anyhow. In fifth place, Beana." 

A pure white goat steps gracefully out onto the stage. The audience cheers, but the loudest is a girl wrapped in many thick cloths, who is, nonetheless, hollering for all she's worth. If a goat could be said to smile, Beana smiles. 

Puddleglum steps back, and Professor Kirke steps forward. "It seems," he says, "that we have a curious situation on our hands. Two finalists have virtually the same names. It would be intriguing to discover whether they came from a common source, or whether...but in any case. For the sake of clarity, in fourth place is Helmer the Rabbit."

The rabbits, who've taken over the end of one of the tables, jump up, paws in the air, ears at attention, cheering as hard as they can. 

The door onto the dais opens, and for a moment, it looks like no one is coming out. Then, in my peripheral, I see something swoop down from the rafters. Immediately, I start to lunge for the door, to push whoever is behind it out of harm's way, but before I can take even three steps across the stage, Helmer has leapt from behind the door, and speared a metal bird, with daggers for talons, that has swooped down from the roof, clearly on some sort of mechanism. He pulls his long, narrow sword out of the bird's body, and steps forth onto the stage. He nods to the audience, which goes wild, and steps forward to join Beana. 

I sag in relief, and roll my eyes. I should have known Helmer would pull something like this, and I would bet money that it was Podo who helped him set it up. He'll be hearing about that from me later. 

Puddleglum steps forward again, and this time it's his hands that are shaking. "Well," he says, "if this is the way the awards go on, I shouldn't wonder if we're all dead by the end of the evening. But in third place, is Maggie Weaver." 

The rabbits go wild again, as from the dais door steps an elderly-looking rabbit, walking with a cane, and holding a pair of knitting needles in her left hand, as if she was interrupted in the middle of making a sock. Which, to be fair, she probably was. She steps forward, curtsies stifly and creakily to the crowd, and then steps over to Puddleglum--she only comes up to his knee--and pats him on the side of his thigh. "It'll be all right," she tells him. "Don't fret," then goes to stand with Helmer. 

I do believe Gandalf is suppressing a grin. 

Professor Kirke steps forward once more. "And the second of our Helmers for the day, in second place, even--Podo!"

Podo stumps through the door, grinning so hard I'm worried his cheeks will pop. In the audience, two small boys, a little girl with a crutch, and a dignified woman already wearing a Silmaril around her neck burst into enthusiastic applause. The boys whistle and stamp, and the little girl calls out, "We love you, Podo!" I didn't think Podo's grin could get bigger, but it does. 

"Well, thank ye," he says, gruffly, turning red. He looks like he's going to say something else, changes his mind, and limps heavily over to stand with the rest of the finalists. 

Gandalf steps to the front of the stage, as his two co-presenters fade into the background. "Finally," he says, "there can be no more fitting winner of this award than a counselor who has helped many to find their way back to the light after wandering the paths of darkness. Please join me in welcoming to the stage Queen Irene, for the reception of her Silmaril Award." 

The crowd erupts, led by a golden-haired girl and her companion, stocky, brown-haired boy, who has a monstrous-looking dog at his side. 

As the cheering continues, Irene's Grandmother, also known as Queen Irene, steps from the doorway onto the dais. Her long white hair flows down her back, constrained only by a delicate golden band that spans her brow. She looks like old age as it should be, as it might have been before the Fall--strength and wisdom and joy. 

She bows low to Gandalf, and he returns her bow with equal depth. "Lady," he says to her. "It is my honor." 

Then he produces, seemingly from nowhere, the gleaming yellow Silmaril on its silky chain, and places it around her neck. She bows her head to accept it, then stands tall, the Silmaril seeming to catch a light coming from her face. 

The crowd cheers, then grows quiet, dazzled. 

I let them bask in the moment for a few moments, and then step forward. "Congratulations to Queen Irene," I say. "And now, let us feast!"

And we do. 

(Tomorrow, please join D. J. Edwardson for the Most Epic Heroine award!)