I grew up on
The Lord of the Rings and The
Hobbit, reading
The Silmarillion later in life when I was more mature. As for the
Tales from the Perilous
Realm, they did not cross my path until recent times, when I was desirous of getting as many of the
books Tolkien wrote of his world I could. My father kindly obliged, and I listened to each of the Tales with happiness.
And then I got to The Smith of Wootton Major. I'd read what must have been hundreds of Celtic legends, myths, stories and folk tales beforehand, as a matter of interest, and in this story in particular I recognized their influence. The realm of Faerie was there portrayed with all Tolkien's signatures, but with elements so clearly drawn from Celtic roots. It made me long to visit the place, like Starbrow, and to see the Tree of the King, the
Mountains barring one from the inner lands of Faerie, the Sea of Windless Storm, the grave elven mariners who fought with dangers who could topple our world should they desire to. The pool with its inner fires, the dancing of the
elves and the disguised Queen. I wanted to meet Alf, and know what drew him to invite humans to his realm. It was a pleasure viewing this through Smith's eyes.
And then he was summoned before the Queen, and given a commission. And he fulfilled it, finding the King and giving him the message necessary. And then...he was bidden remove his star, to pass it on and never return to Faerie. He was to never see that land more.
Is it because I have never been there I began to cry? Was it a selfish reaction of wanting him to show me more of that land? Like Smith, I had long since committed a piece of my heart to the Perilous Realm of Faerie, and to see him so permanently taken away from it left me in tears. Yes, another child would get to see the wonders of that place, and I did not begrudge that, but Smith could never go back. Not ever. Homesickness. Hiraeth(a word I do not know the language of, but which I have heard intimates a longing as for a home one has never actually known). It pierces deeper than a dagger, sharper than any cold or hunger. It pricks my very heart without effort. It brought me sobbing into darkness and left me there.
I comforted myself with the knowledge of the child who would come to learn of the magnificence of Faerie, who could now journey and see as Smith had done. And who, perhaps, would eventually pass on the star to another and then to another. How many will be privileged in that world to see a land marvellous and mysterious to them? I confess I envy them. The Lord has made us a great and wonderful world, and perhaps it is because I have seen so little of it, but I long for the wild beauty and solemn splendour of Faerie. I have longed for it since my first myths, since the first High Fey crossed my path in the tales of King Arthur and she took a knight across the lake with her to her home, since Arthur's last voyage for Avalon. To be shut from it without ever having set foot there is a bitter, bitter wound, and every time I have listened to The Smith of Wootton Major again, it has lost none of its agony.
Strange to say, this has become my favorite of all the stories Tolkien ever wrote.
Middle-earth will always have my love, and always will I long for it, but The Smith of Wootton Major told me a tale I could feel in my own heart, as though I were the Smith, even if only a little. How grateful I am Tolkien wrote it. This story very aptly sets forth how someone who has their whole life delved into the Celtic and English myths, the German and Norse myths, and then come up not for air, but for refreshment from the pain of longing for something never to be gotten in this world, feels upon the realization of this fact: Faerie is not a part of our reality, and it never will be.
Just like his introduction of 
