The Choices of Mayor Samwise -- II Trees (b)
Halladan was sitting in the parlour of the Prancing Pony, which had become an office of sorts when he wasn’t at Amon Sûl or Fornost or Annúminas, or somewhere on the long miles between.He tried to be in Bree one week in each month, so people who wanted him could find him, and letters might be left with some surety they’d reach him without too much delay. And the Breelanders, after their first astonishment at the notion that scruffy Rangers were really King’s Men, and always had been, had become very welcoming and rather proud of being the biggest settlement of men in Arnor, as well as the only place where men and hobbits coexisted. Arriving with a bunch of captive ruffians sentenced to hard labour hadn’t hurt either, especially as three had turned out to be wanted for crimes in Bree, and after a hearing had had their sentences appropriately lengthened. The presence of captive hobbits had been a less pleasant surprise, but after explanations had been digested it seemed to be agreed that all had been done fairly, by old as well as new authority, while the Breelands certainly didn’t want any hobbits who’d managed to get themselves banished from the Shire. And, Halladan thought with only a touch of irony, it helped that the food needed at Amon Sûl largely came from Bree, and that some enterprising Breelanders, big and little, had already taken steps both to re-open the Forsaken Inn, renaming it the Rangers’ Rest, and to start building another, the Weathertop Wayhouse, a further day’s journey east.
The rebuilding of the tower at Amon Sûl was also making better progress than he’d expected. Some dwarves had already come from the Ered Luin, and a letter from King Thorin in Erebor had promised more in the spring. Not a stone had yet been laid, but the work of quarrying and dressing was well underway, and the dwarves had done wonders in preparing the site, checking the old foundations, which won their rumbling approval, and digging out surviving cellarage. Cleared of earth and tumbled stones it had proven surprisingly extensive, and though the armour and weapons the store-rooms had once contained were long rusted to dust and shards, other things had come to light. The most pleasing, to Halladan’s mind, were some beautiful stoneware and clay vessels, in a deep room that had withstood the tower’s collapse, but the most important were undoubtedly the documents, preserved in stoppered and wax-sealed urns. Much was just administrative - lists of the garrison with dates and terms of service, disciplinary and supply records, and treasury tallies - but for someone in his position those were invaluable, and there had also been plans of the lost tower, on which the dwarves had fallen with gleeful reverence, as well as scouting and other reports from the years before it had been razed, covering the Rhudaurian wars. Halladan didn’t think there was much that wasn’t in the archives preserved at Fornost and Annúminas, but it was certainly a different view and copies were being made to send south.
At Aragorn’s command he had also set a small marker in the dell on the western flank where the Ringbearer had been stabbed with a Morgul knife. The dwarf Deróin, who claimed distant kinship with Lord Gimli, had carved it for him, a plain statement of fact in Westron and Sindarin but surrounded with a delicate tracery of athelasleaves, and travellers had already begun going to see it as they descended from inspecting the work on the foundations. What Frodo Baggins would think when - if - he learned of it was another matter, but as very few had ever survived a Morgul wound, and the King’s orders were the King’s orders, Halladan would cross that bridge only as he had to. And other markers were being placed elsewhere, at Parth Galen, Henneth Annûn, and the crossroads below what had been Minas Morgul, so it might be news of one of those would reach the Ringbearer first and leave his very likely objections as Aragorn’s problem.
Halladan’s wandering thoughts were called back to the present by what sounded like elven horses, and a moment later unmistakeable voices explaining that the animals would make their own way to the stable and had no tack to remove but would be glad of a rub-down, with which they would co-operate. Hobbits and men alike rose to peer through the window, exclaiming, as well they might. What Lords Elladan and Elrohir were doing here was a puzzle, but a moment later Halladan was astonished to see not only the King’s brothers but Lord Glorfindel enter, bringing utter silence to the parlour. All three bore full weapons and he rose and bowed with worry starting in his heart.
“My lords. What brings you here?”
“Lord Steward.” Glorfindel’s gaze took in the room and the staring customers, as well as an open-mouthed Barliman Butterbur standing behind his counter. “Gentlemen, gentlehobbits.” His eyes came back to Halladan. “Perhaps we might withdraw somewhere?”
“Of course. Mr Butterbur, would you bring some fresh water and ale to my room? With light food? Thank you.”
The refreshments came quickly, brought by Butterbur himself - rolls still steaming hot from the oven, a crock of smooth butter, cold cuts, pickles, a wedge of cheese, and a few wrinkled winter apples. The old innkeep beamed at the elves’ thanks, but as the door closed behind him Halladan felt his stomach tighten.
“Trouble, my lord?”
Glorfindel shrugged elegantly. “Maybe, maybe not. Many years ago I had a fragment of vision - two images with no obvious connection. I saw an owl strike at a mouse, and I saw myself fighting with others - Eldar, Edain, two children of Aulë, and some periain seen only in outline - against an unusual breed of orc, larger and stronger than most, and undaunted by Anor. It was an early spring day and I stood in a narrow pass hemmed by rock walls, but where it might be I could not tell. And some months back when Elrond told me of the Uruk-hai of cursed Curunír’s making, I wondered if it could be they against whom we fought, though it seemed the time for fulfilment might have passed and the vision proven astray.” The ancient eyes deepened. “I should not have been so swift to think so. A month past I walked at night in the woods of Rivendell and saw that owl take that mouse. I sent scouts north but neither they nor the Dúnedain of the Angle had any sense of orcs stirring there and my heart told me my way lay west and south. So I have brought twenty from Rivendell and some Dúnedain who were willing and could be spared. All wait at the camp west of the Chetwood.”
Halladan digested this, frowning. “How may I help, my lord?”
“I am not sure. Nor do I know what path I should pursue. But if the threat is indeed from some surviving Uruk-hai of Curunír it seems likely to fall closer to Angrenost than Fornost.”
“Indeed. I have heard nothing of any orc-band in Minhiriath or Enedwaith from the new garrison at Tharbad, but they are engineers charged with rebuilding the bridge rather than warriors, save a guard detachment, and do not patrol widely. Nor have Uruk-hai been seen anywhere since the Onodrim rose against Curunír, so far as I know, and Lord Mithrandir said he believed most if not all had been slain in battle. But as Lords Elladan and Elrohir and I have cause to know, they were fell opponents, and I will assemble what men I can to ride with you. Some of Déorwine’s Rohirrim will be glad enough to head south for Nínui and Gwaeron - mild as the winter has been, they have found it colder than they expected.”
Glorfindel nodded, eyes glinting, and Halladan wondered if some of those unknown men in his vision had had the look of Rohan.
Elrohir sat forward. “Fell opponents, indeed. We have spoken to Glorfindel of Helm’s Deep, and Mithrandir wrote of what he had learned in the Shire of cursed Curunír’s evil. We also saw the half-breeds among the prisoners at Amon Sûl. And if Curunír had not died in the Shire he would be hunted to the bounds of Arda for that corruption.”
Halladan knew why the King’s brothers so loathed orc-kind and dimly sensed the rage in them, unassuaged even now and no doubt rekindled by what Mithrandir had learned. He nodded carefully.
“The Cormacolindor, who saw Curunír’s death, were both very clear that his spirit looked to the West, and was rejected, dissolved even as Sauron’s into nothing. Mithrandir judged their belief true.”
“So he wrote to us, knowing we would not share his sorrow.” Elladan’s hands opened eloquently and Elrohir rested a hand on his shoulder. “But the strange thing is Glorfindel’s belief that periain and dwarves will be among those fighting with us. Children of Aulë might well be found upon the North-South Road, and even before Legolas named the first Elf-friend among them since the days of Celebrimbor we would not have hesitated to help against orcs. But periain? Surely some among them have done great things of late, and it seems they rise in the world, but have they taken to travelling?”
Halladan smiled. “Not yet, save those four, and the four who serve at Amon Sûl - who do not care for foreign parts at all. One is in Minas Tirith also, sent under guard to tell what he knew of Curunír’s dealings here. But all reports speak of the Shire as bustling throughout the winter with labours of demolishing and rebuilding and redigging, and they have sought the aid of dwarves passing east and south with metal- and stonework, so the thought of a party abroad is not so strange as once it might have been. I was astonished to encounter Iarwain Ben-adar and eleven periain at the southern end of the Andrath, not only because they came through Tyrn Gorthad, but I should not be so surprised a second time.”
All the elves looked interested.
“That is a new tale to us. This was when the Cormacolindo sent for you to come to the Shire?”
As he recounted the sudden irruption of song that had halted his cavalcade they ate, the elves drinking only water until Halladan, who allowed himself a small mug of ale, remarked on its excellence and Mithrandir’s blessing on it. A King’s Messenger had reached Rivendell shortly before they had left, so they also had news from Gondor, another hive of rebuilding and repairing, with many dwarves and elves labouring beside men. The levelling of what had been Minas Morgul had begun, and Halladan learned interesting things about the precautions Aragorn was taking, giving those who entered it masks steeped in athelas and leather gloves and boots into which the oils of the plant had been rubbed. Even so he had had to treat some men afterwards for effects like those of the Black Breath, and had written partly to seek Lord Elrond’s advice on better prevention. That sent conversation to Angmar’s fate, with a fascinating diversion to Glorfindel’s better-known prophecy of his end and - amused was the only word - satisfaction at what it had eventually proven to mean. He was absolute it had been the perian’s blow that had slain the Ringwraith.
“The Lady Éowyn’s deed was of the greatest valour, and will live in song, but on its own it would have been in vain. Her sword had no virtue against the spells of his undeath. But the blade of Westernesse that Meriadoc wielded - that was made with just such virtues.”
“Yet her sword did pierce him, for it shattered and withered away.”
“Truly - for Meriadoc struck first, and his spell-flesh was already cloven.” Glorfindel laughed, melodious and delighted. “To be undone by a perian to the knee, and skewered clean through by a woman, neither of whom was supposed to be present at all! Oh, Angmar’s surprise in that moment would have been a thing to see! And the laughter there must be in Valinor.”
The invitation was irresistible, and Halladan asked about the humour of Eru that Mithrandir had found in repeated events in Mordor.
“Yes, parts of the same design, I deem.”
Elladan grinned. “Our Adar is still indignant, despite Mithrandir’s scolding and our advice.” The grin faded. “And truly he and Master Samwise both had hope unquenchable, however different their natures and scales.”
Halladan nodded. “That thought came to me also. Forgive me, but you did not think it a rebuke of sorts as well, as Mithrandir thought Gollum a rebuke to Isildur?”
Glorfindel smiled austerely. “A little, perhaps. But unless Elrond had bodily carried Isildur to the Sammath Naur and given him to the fire there was no more he could have done. He talked himself hoarse, but fresh cut from Sauron’s hand the Ring had taken Isildur even ere he touched it, through his grief for father and brother. And all were Elrond’s kin - he could not have acted against Isildur.”
“I did not know you were there, my lord.”
“I rode with Gil-galad, as Elrond did. And a little indignation is a jesting price for what Eru has wrought, as Elrond well knows.”
“Indeed. But it has not been so small a price for the Cormacolindo, and I confess it is that I find most troubling.”
“Ah yes.” Yet Glorfindel still smiled, though it did not seem a smile of mirth. “Frodo Baggins pays for us all, and grievously. We can only trust to Eru’s hand over him and the grace of Aman he has been offered. Yet though I regret his pain, I cannot regret the indignation Sauron must have felt in his last awareness, even as fear choked him. Had he learned it was a perian who had slain Angmar ere he knew another had slain him? I find I hope so.”
Halladan added that strange and vengeful thought to the rest whirling in his head, in the gap between the Sauron who had issued from Barad-dûr to slay Gil-galad and Elendil and the Frodo Baggins who had stumbled and been carried to the Sammath Naur, but anything he might have said was lost in a brisk rap on the door and the entry of Gilbarad, eyes widening at the sight of Glorfindel.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, my lords, but one of the Rohirrim has arrived from the Bridge Inn with a letter for the Lord Steward he was told is urgent.”
He offered Halladan a sealed packet and Elladan laughed.
“Speak of the Periannath, and lo! an urgent letter from the Shire. The odds are shortening, brother.”
Elrohir nodded. “They are. Come in, Gilbarad - Glorfindel won’t bite you, and I expect Halladan may shortly have things for you to do.”
Halladan only half-heard the banter. The packet contained several sheets closely written in Sindarin, but not in the Ringbearer’s easy hand, and a further enclosure addressed to Déorwine in Rohirric. The writing was somewhat crabbed and the constructions unusual. Half-way down the first page he stopped, mouthing a word and searching his memory before looking up to find everyone looking at him.
“Ah, forgive my ignorance, but might you tell me what this means?” He spelt out the odd word and Glorfindel’s eyebrows rose.
“It means nothing, for it does not exist.”
“Um, and if it did, what might it mean? Troubled? Assailed?”
Glorfindel shrugged. “Maybe. The prefixed repetition is meant as an intensifier, I would think.”
“Mmm.” Halladan’s eyes had drifted on and stopped again. “And this?”
“What?”
He spelt out the phrase he had unwisely tried to pronounce, and Glorfindel … snorted.
“More nonsense. No thing other in all creation than a bird of innocence? Who wrote that letter?”
He seemed quite affronted by the writer’s strange Sindarin but the brothers simultaneously pealed silver laughter and Elladan spoke.
“Might your correspondent be Master Samwise?”
Halladan turned to the last page and his eyebrows rose. “Indeed. It is signed Perhael Cormacolindo.”
“Then I believe the Westron terms you want would be bebothered …”
“And nowt but a ninnyhammer.” Laughter rang out again. “Adar’s indignation will redouble.”
“But they are such splendid additions to Sindarin.”
Halladan went back to the letter, and with occasional vivid memories of the other Ringbearer’s turns of speech made his way through it, astonishment unfolding in his heart. Finishing, he set it down and found Glorfindel’s gaze on him.
“Our travelling Periannath?”
“Yes, but much more also.” He took a breath. “The short version is that the trees of the Old Forest, whom Perhael calls huorns, are assailing the High Hay, the hedge that protects Buckland from them. Which I can well believe - I have never felt such malice from trees as I did from those, riding along their eaves. In any case, they crowded up against the Hay and leaned over it, making great noise even when there was no wind, and causing all periain much alarm. So at the request of Meriadoc and Peregrin, Perhael spoke to them, in Sindarin, and by using some small portion of a gift he says was given him by the Lady Galadriel but does not otherwise explain, he has, um, struck a bargain.”
The brothers exchanged glances. “Daernaneth gave him some earth from her garden and a mallorn nut. Her last letter said she had sensed it being well used.”
“Ah. Well, he tells me the trees had sensed the wide felling of their kindred by Curunír’s creatures, and so were angry ; but that they had also sensed his use of this gift, and were eager to share in it. Further, that some were driven in malice and desire of revenge by an ancient willow he says lies at the heart of that forest, while others wish to flee its dominion, desiring entry to the Shire only that they might have space to grow and fruit. Where they would be most welcome, he adds, given the great loss of trees. And that by using the Lady Galadriel’s gift he agreed with those who fear the willow that they will hold the line of the High Hay against its malice for six moons while an answer is sought.” He took a breath. “Therefore the Periannath determine that Meriadoc and Peregrin, already having his acquaintance, should travel with all haste to Angrenost to lay the matter before Fangorn of the Onodrim and seek his aid. To which endeavour he hopes I have no objection, assuring me they also seek the leave of Iarwain Ben-adar, in case an onod should agree to come, and asks if I might provide the travellers with an escort. There is a counter-signature from the Master of Buckland. The enclosure is for Déorwine, from Meriadoc, and apparently explains that for the sake of speed they would be glad to use horses, begging their loan, and that he forward a further letter to King Éomer.”
Glorfindel nodded, eyes gleaming. “A most logical perian, Perhael Cormacolindo, despite his liberties with Sindarin. That he should speak to trees and seek aid of the Onodrim is a new turn in the song, and one to be welcomed. And for all its surprise, this fits what I feel. Only the Children of Aulë remain, and as Elladan said it will be no surprise to find such on the road.”
The brothers were looking at one another again. “Hobbits!”
“You can learn all there is to know about them in an afternoon …”
“And still be surprised by one after a hundred years.”
“As fierce as a dragon, in a pinch …”
“And much wiser than two foolish elves of Mithrandir’s acquaintance.”
Heads turned towards him. “When are Merry and Pippin expected?”
Halladan sighed. “Before the week is out.” Life remained so very full of surprises.
* * * * *
Tea with the Thain was not going well. Though he had been taken to see the trees, now densely lined ten yards from the Hay, he had not seemed to sense the pressure that still came from them in waves, nor to hear the urgency in Master Saradoc’s explanation of his alarm. And he was accompanied not only by a weary-looking Ferdinand but by Mistress Eglantine, by birth a Banks of a most respectable branch and plainly no more inclined than he to heed anything not long familiar. Sam had been worried by Merry’s request that he cull and prepare some leaves of athelas from the plants he had started at Crickhollow, to use as a tea when the dreams were bad, but it looked as if the talk would never get to anything that might warrant their use. Every attempt to keep to the problem of the trees was ignored in favour of local, mostly Tuckborough, affairs, and the idea of having to fight trees produced only a blank look. When Pippin finally said flatly that something had to be done, and that he and Merry would be leaving for Fangorn in two days to ask for Treebeard’s help, the predicted explosion was immediate.
“No, no, and no again. I will not have it, Peregrin Took, and you must have taken leave of what little sense you have to say such a thing. There are no such things as talking trees, you cannot even now control your night terrors better than a faunt, and it is out of the question. Never mention this again. Come, Eglantine, I’ll stand no more of this absurdity.”
He had taken two steps towards the door, his distressed wife still struggling to rise from the settle, when Merry’s arms closed round him, picked him up, and deposited him back where he had started. His face paled with rage and his mouth opened but he made the mistake of looking up to meet Merry’s eyes and stepped back, falling into his seat.
“Better, Uncle Pal.” Merry’s voice was as hard and flat as Sam had ever heard it. “I’m sorry to lay hands on you, but you are for once in your life going to knock the dottle of rage from your ears and listen. What you have just said was foolish, cruel, and derelict in your duty as Thain, and it won’t do. Oh yes it was, and I will prove each term to you. Pip, the map-board please, Shire uppermost. And Sam, we’ll need that athelas by the by - set water to boil?”
Mistress Eglantine was squeaking surprise but no-one else was saying anything - not Ferdinand or Master Saradoc, nor Mistress Esmeralda, Thain’s sister or no - so Sam busied himself swinging the cauldron over the fire and adding wood, as an unhappy Pippin brought in the map-board Merry had made, arms fully extended to grasp it, and deposit it straddling both his parents’ legs. Spots of rage like Frodo’s had been building on the Thain’s cheeks but confronted with the map he blinked and focused more closely.
“I’ve never seen this map of the Shire.” His tone was accusing.
“I know you haven’t, Uncle Pal. You’ll get a copy when I’ve made one. The librarian at Rivendell compiled it for me from the old surveys of Cardolan, updated with Bilbo’s knowledge, and some from Frodo, Sam, Pip, and me. From High Hay to Far Downs, and Sarn Ford to Oatbarton and Long Cleeve. What is it you always say about the North Tooks?”
The Thain snorted, eyes on the map. “Too far from anything sensible to know their toes from their fingers.”
“That’s the one.” Merry’s voice was very gentle and the Thain’s head snapped up as his nephew’s large hand spread against the scale and walked up the map. “Not twenty leagues from Tuckborough but beyond all hope of sense or wit. So what of the rest of the world, Uncle Pal, beyond our bounds?”
Merry slid the map from the leather corners that held it flat and rolled it carefully, revealing the second map underneath. The Thain stared and frowned.
“What is this?”
“The world we live in, Uncle Pal. The Shire is here, see - the Brandywine Bridge and Hobbiton are marked, with Michel Delving and Sarn Ford, but everything else is too small for this scale. Those are the Misty Mountains, that’s Mirkwood - Greenwood again, now - and Erebor, where Bilbo went. Would you like to know where we went?”
The Thain’s eyes were darting about the map, but he nodded jerkily.
“One thing first, please. Feel my right hand.” Merry extended it. “You too, Aunt Tina. Just do it, please. Warm and normal, yes? Well, remember that.” Sam sighed to himself, understanding, and rose to get a suitable bowl as Merry’s finger began tracing their route. “Now, when we left we went through the Old Forest and across the Barrow Downs to Bree. That’s where we met Aragorn, who guided us through the Midgewater Marshes and onto Weathertop, where Frodo was hurt” - Merry’s voice hitched slightly - “and then on to Rivendell, here. When we were fit to travel again we went south through Eregion, tried the Redhorn Pass but had to turn back, and went under the mountains instead, through Moria. The gates are marked with these arrows, so you can see we went in here and came out there, in the Dimrill Dale. Then Lothlórien to recover again, and by boat down the Anduin to Parth Galen. That’s not marked but it’s just above the great waterfall that is, Rauros, on the west shore of the lake. And that’s where we all got separated. Pip and I were captured and taken through Rohan to Fangorn, where we escaped, then went to Isengard with the ents, and at different times on to Minas Tirith, here at the end of the White Mountains. I was injured and had to stay there” - another hitch - “but Pip went on when he had to, across the Anduin to Ithilien and up to the Black Gate of Mordor. And meantime Frodo and Sam went through the Emyn Muil, and the Dead Marshes, the other way down through Ithilien, over the mountains into Mordor through this pass, and then north again and finally east, to Mount Doom. After it was all over we were in Minas Tirith and then came back through the Gap of Rohan, up to Rivendell to see Bilbo, and back again the way we’d come, but this time on the Road.”
Merry’s voice had been quiet, drawing his aunt and uncle to follow his finger around the map, but now he straightened and the flatness returned to his tone.
“Big, isn’t it, Uncle Pal? Three hundred leagues and more each way, yet there’s more than even this map shows - these eastern countries beyond Rhovanion are cut off and I’ve no idea what’s beyond them. To the south as well, the Sunlands - some of the men who fought for Sauron came from there, I believe. A lot of land. And a lot of creatures in it. Yet you, Uncle Pal, who have never been further from the Shire than Bree, barely the width of my finger on this map, think you know enough to say what does and doesn’t exist in places you’ve barely heard of? There are no such things as talking trees. Just listen to yourself, Uncle Pal. Have you ever heard so foolish a hobbit?”
There was a nasty silence and the Thain slowly flushed a deep red.
Merry nodded. “So, my first term. The second was cruel. Your words to Pip were you cannot even now control your night terrors better than a faunt. And setting aside that neither can I, nor Frodo, nor Sam, you lash out at Pip because only if his terrors are those of a faunt can you continue to deny your own. But that ends now, Uncle Pal. Let’s see how you think you’d do. Just imagine you had to leave the Shire, and found yourself having to go through the Old Forest.”
The Thain’s mouth opened but Merry overrode him.
“Yes I know you never would, but you do. In the Forest you’re grabbed by an evil tree, but a friend saves you, and then you’re nabbed by a Barrow-wight, and you’re sure you’re about to die, but your friends save you again and you make it Bree. After a night when those black figures who killed Tom Heathertoes at the Bridge break into the Prancing Pony looking for you, you get away and make it to Weathertop. And there” - that hitch again - “there you discover that the black figures are the Witch-King of Angmar and his fellow Ringwraiths, and he stabs one of your friends - your beloved older cousin. It looks like it’s only a little wound, but there’s a bit of the blade broken off inside, and when it’s dawn you see the knife that gave it melt in the sunlight. You’ve never seen or felt anything so vile as the hilt, and you realise that little as that wound is it might yet kill your friend, but there’s no time to think because you’re fleeing again, with the Ringwraiths pursuing.”
Sam had seen the appreciation in Master Saradoc’s eyes for the way Merry’s telling and the repeated journey of his finger around the map was anchoring both the Thain’s and Mistress Eglantine’s increasingly horrified gazes. But Merry’s voice was hoarser and his right arm was now cradled in his lap as the left moved from place to place. The water had boiled and he prepared to fill the bowl but Merry looked round.
“Not just yet, Sam. Wait until the Pelennor. Now, Uncle Pal, you get lucky again. You make it to Rivendell and Lord Elrond can save your friend. Not heal him completely, mind - the knife was bespelled - but he’s up and about again. So on you go, feeling a bit better because you’ve got Gandalf with you now, and surely a wizard can cope with anything. And he does cope with great wolves when a pack of them attack at night. But you have to go through Moria. A water-monster nearly gets you at the gate, a great thing with dozens of clutching arms, but you get past. And now you have to go forty miles underground, in the dark, and you do. Trolls and orcs attack, but you get away and keep going. But there’s worse, because there’s another monster to get past, one of the great monsters - a fire-giant. A balrog. There’s a great chasm and a thin bridge, and Gandalf manages to make it fall in, but it takes him with it, and he’s gone. You see it all, Uncle Pal, and you think he’s gone for good - you don’t know he’ll be sent back by the Valar, so you’re weeping for him, terrified and grieving, but you run and run and get out of Moria, and you can rest for a bit in Lothlórien. But not long, and you go on down the river until everything goes wrong and you’re taken prisoner by orcs. You see another friend die there too, trying to protect you but shot down with great black arrows, and you’ve no time to grieve because the orcs have you and they’re carrying you away, you and one friend, and you’ve no idea what happened to the others.”
Merry shivered and his left hand lifted from the map to rub his right arm, but he again shook his head at the increasingly concerned looks of Sam and his parents and went on.
“You already know the sort of things you hear the orcs say, Uncle Pal, about wanting to eat you, and you’re terrified all the time, but you keep your wits about you, and manage to cut your bonds and help your friend to escape too when men attack the orcs. You don’t know where you are, but there’s a forest so you run in and hide, and when you climb a hill to try and see how to get out again you meet a creature you didn’t even know existed, but he’s good-hearted and he helps you. But his own kind are being attacked by orcs and worse things, and they’re about ready to go to war over it so you get caught up in it, and you see a lot more deaths. But things look up for a bit. The battle’s won and you find out Gandalf’s still alive, or alive again, and you’re reunited with some - some, not all - of the friends you’d been separated from. But then something else happens, and you’re exposed for a moment to the full malice of Sauron’s mind and you fight it, amazingly, and break away, but it’s as bad as anything could be, vile beyond belief and inside your head, and you can’t shake the memory, especially when you have to go off alone, leaving all your friends behind again.”
Mistress Eglantine had tears on her cheeks. Pippin was shaking and Master Saradoc and Mistress Esmeralda both had arms round him. Dipping a cup of hot water Sam added some of the athelas he’d prepared for tea. Master Saradoc reached to take it, nodding silent thanks, and held it for Pippin. Merry’s hand was rubbing his arm again, harder, but his voice forced its way on.
“So you end up in Minas Tirith just as it’s being besieged by orcs and trolls and men, not thousands of them or even tens of thousands, but hundreds of thousands. And guess who’s leading them, Uncle Pal? It’s the Witch-King, the chief Ringwraith, and he’s not on a horse anymore - he’s on a great flying beast, like a bat but as big as that eagle Gandalf showed us, and as vile as the eagle was good. And almost the first thing all those orcs do is use great catapults to throw into the city the heads of everyone they’ve already killed. Branded with the eye and thrown in, by the thousand. And you know what’s still worse than that, Uncle Pal, worse than seeing men’s heads landing like leaves in a Blotmath storm? It’s seeing someone you’re next to recogniseone of those heads, and you see that too, and your heart’s breaking. The lower city’s burning and its leader has gone mad with fear and despair, but you keep on doing all you can. You save a man from fire, and you keep on hoping, and you’re right to do so because when the gates finally burst, and the Ringwraith tries to ride in, Gandalf stops him. And the allies of the city finally arrive, and the battle turns. And the Witch-King is killed.”
Merry’s voice had become steadily harsher and more grating and now he stopped, working his mouth and swallowing before using his left hand to lift his right and with a shudder let it flop across the map.
“Feel it again, Uncle Pal, Aunt Tina.”
The Thain was grey-faced and just stared until his wife hesitantly reached out a hand.
“Merry! It’s freezing!”
She automatically began to chafe at the inert hand. Sam had already poured steaming water into the bowl he’d fetched and was quietly singing the hymn to Yavanna as he cradled athelas. He didn’t usually get anything like the response Strider could call from the leaves, though the tea and infusions he made seemed to help a bit, but this time they felt warm in his hands and when he cast them into the water the clean fragrance came at once. He heard Merry breathe deeply with a sigh and carried the bowl to hold it before his face.
“Get his sleeve rolled right up.”
Sam barely noticed he’d given the Thain and his wife an order but they obeyed it, and after a moment he went round to Merry’s other side, set the bowl down, and lifted his cold arm to rest in his own lap. Carefully he laved it with the warm water and felt the shaking start and after a moment fade again.
“Athelas tea all round, Pippin, if you’re up to it.”
“Ferdi and I will do it. Just as you did before, Samwise?”
“Yes, Missus Esmeralda.” His eyes didn’t leave Merry’s arm, to which colour was slowly returning. “Thank you.”
“What … what is that herb?”
Sam glanced up for a second. “Athelas, Missus Eglantine. Kingsfoil we call it.”
“Kingsfoil? But … I thought it a weed. I had no idea it was so … so strong. Such a clean smell.”
“It depends who uses it, Aunt Tina.” Merry’s voice was a whisper. “Life to the dying, in the King’s hand lying. Usually you need royal blood but Sam seems to have the knack. Or we’re being blessed today.”
Sam grunted. “Lady Yavanna, I think. I called on her. Water’s cool enough now for you to soak the hand, Merry.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
“Yes indeed.” Mistress Esmeralda’s hand rested on his shoulder for a moment as she gave a steaming cup to Merry, who took it carefully with his good hand, breathing deeply before sipping. A moment later, as Ferdinand gave cups to the Thain and his wife, she gave Sam one too, and he smiled surprised thanks. “You must need it as much as any of us, Samwise, for all you’ve stayed calmer.”
“Oh I drink plenty, Missus Esmeralda. We all do, I’m afraid, and poor Mr Frodo most of all. It soothes the heart and the mind.” Ferdinand was lighting the lamp and some candles against the growing dusk, and Sam nodded thanks. “Light helps as well.”
“It does seem to help. My breathing’s eased.” The Thain’s voice was strained. “Merry, why did your arm get like that? It’s uncanny.”
Merry shook his head before drinking more tea, and Sam sighed.
“It’s because he stabbed the Ringwraith, Thain Paladin, sir, so yes it is uncanny. Just being close to one of them horrors you can get what’s called the Black Breath, like all the life’s sucked out of you. It kills. Athelas is the only remedy. And if you’re close enough to stick one with a sword, well, your arm don’t ever forget it. The talking stirred it up.”
The hand in the basin lifted a little to clutch his own and Merry set down his empty cup.
“It’s warming up again, Uncle Pal. But I hadn’t quite finished. You get through the siege, but the war’s not won. And you have to go on, not alone but without your friends, all the way to the gate of Mordor. It’s desperate but you have hope still, until you get there and there’s the worst moment of all because Sauron’s messenger comes out and he’s got things that seem to prove your friends were captured and are dead, or worse, and that means everything’s over and Sauron’s won. And so when you fight you do it in despair, just to do what you can before you die. And you almost do die - you’re badly wounded and knocked out and all but suffocated and crushed, but even then you hang on to life and in the end, amazingly, it is all right because it was a trick. Your friends aren’t dead, and they do what they had to do, and Sauron’s dead instead, at last, and his evil fails and his creatures run away. And you’re so relieved, so happy to see your friends again, and everyone’s rejoicing even though they’re weeping too for all who were killed. Only, you have all these terrifying memories that get into your dreams and wake you up sweating and gasping. Everyone does, but yours are bad because you saw a lot more than most, and did a lot more than most, and you endure it without complaining and heal as best you can and do your duty and care for your friends. And when everything’s settled down a bit you can finally go home and you do, only to find the place being run by Ruffians and half-orcs and a fallen wizard, but you see them off too, and work hard to set things to rights. And you go on dealing with your dreams and memories as best you can, never complaining, and then Great-Uncle Adalgrim ups and says …”
It was the Thain whose halting voice broke the curdling silence. “Oh! I … Pippin … I …”
Merry stretched his left arm and let his hand rest on his uncle’s shoulder a minute.
“Cruel, I said, Uncle Pal, and I meant it. It’s only the cruelty of foolishness and ignorance, and Pip knows that, but it’s hard all the same and you owe him more than one apology. Still, that’s private business between you and him. But the third thing I said was derelict in your duty as Thain, and that’s everyone’s business. We told you a dozen times that the trees in the Old Forest are a real danger to the Shire, not just to Buckland, though the blow would fall here first. Trees just like them killed about ten thousand orcs in one night, at Helm’s Deep, because the orcs had been chopping ordinary trees down. And the ones here felt our trees being felled by Ruffians and they are angry, with us or anyone they can get at. Sam’s managed to win us some time, though I’m not at all sure how he did it, and he’s given us a hope of actually being able to get the problem fixed. Pip and I just have to go and ask. It’ll take us only two or three months. But you, as Thain, decide in the blink of an eye and a roar of fury that it is out of the question and Pip must never mention this again. And that is derelict. Utterly so.”
The Thain had gone very white. Stiffly Merry levered himself to his feet, leaning a little on Sam.
“Yes, you had a bad scare when we all had to go away like that, and yes, Pip’s still a tween, but he owes the King duty too, when there’s a clear danger to all, just as you do, and I do, and he will fulfil it. We will be leaving, and though we’ve sent to the Lord Steward to ask for an escort, some other Tooks and Brandybucks from the Muster would be a welcome help - the biggest hobbits who are free, so we can ride horses and make better time.” He took a long deep breath. “I’m going to sit outside for a bit and have a pipe with Sam.”
Still supporting Merry, Sam saw the concern on Master Saradoc’s and Mistress Esmeralda’s faces and caught their eyes, shaking his head fractionally and glancing towards the shaking Thain and weeping Mistress Eglantine. Master Saradoc reluctantly nodded, and Sam let Merry go ahead through the kitchen to the back door, took their Lórien cloaks from their pegs, and closed it behind them. There was a long bench beyond a couple of pear-trees, against a wall, and Sam draped Merry’s cloak round him and put on his own before they sat and began filling their pipes. Merry’s arm was still shaky but the business of tamping down the pipeweed and striking a spark seemed to steady him, and they sat back, leaning against each other.
“Well, that was a rare old potherhouse and no mistake. You must’ve had all that running in your head awhile.”
Potherhouse won him a faint smile.
“It’s driven me to distraction, Sam, seeing Pip try and try and Uncle Pal brush him off. I’ve always known Ma got the Took brains, not Uncle Pal, but it’s never mattered before. Not like this.”
“Ah.” Sam drew on his pipe. “It’s like my Gaffer, I suppose. Very good on his own patch but he don’t like changes.”
“He doesn’t pretend they haven’t happened, though. And he doesn’t put you down in front of other people.”
“Had some things to say in private, though, and not holding with ironmongery nor hobnobbing with the gentry wasn’t the half of it.”
Merry’s smile was brighter. “Better not tell him you gave the Thain an order, then, nor that he obeyed as fast as he could.”
“I didn’t!”
“You certainly did, Sam - get his sleeve rolled right up.”
“Glory, I did too. Noodles and nodcocks!” Sam shook his head. “I’d never hear the end of it.”
“I doubt it’ll be the last time, Sam. And you’d better warn him Ma’s using your bare name. That means you can drop the Missus, you know.”
Sam shook his head. “That wouldn’t sound right at all, Merry. It’s bad enough you and Pippin made me drop the Mister. The Gaffer didn’t like that neither, but I told him that was what you wanted and did he think it proper I should tell you no?”
Merry laughed softly. “Good for you. And?”
“He’s been chewing on it ever since. May and Marigold were grinning for a week.”
“Wish I’d seen it. Well, is it proper for you to tell Ma no, then, when she’s asking?”
Sam groaned. “Isn’t nothing staying the same? One day I’m teaching the Maggots hymns in Sindarin and the next I’m supposed to be calling the Mistress of Buckland by bare name. It’s not right.”
“You taught the Maggots hymns in Sindarin?” Merry’s laugh was full this time, with joy in it. “Whatever brought that on?”
“It was an eye-opener alright. I was meaning to tell you and then all this tree-stuff came up. Anyway, besides knowing Mr Bombadil, turns out old Maggot sometimes meets elves using that Hall of theirs in the Woody End, and fancied being able to say thank you properly. His missus and children too. So I taught them some basics and then when they wanted some more it was the hymns that came to mind. You were right about him - he’s got his feet planted but he knows more than most as well. Good family. Good cooking, too.”
“Bless me sideways. Maggot knows elves?”
“And two hymns in Sindarin.”
“Well, we can’t have Buckland falling behind The Marish. I’ll really have to work on my Sindarin. If there are Rangers among the escort perhaps I can practice. None of the Rohirrim except Déorwine speaks it any better than I do. Worse, mostly.”
“Take some doing.”
“Cheek!”
“Simple fact.” Sam looked up. “Someone coming.”
It was Ferdinand, who paused to fill and light his own pipe, and came over. They straightened and Sam felt the tension return to Merry’s body, but Ferdinand gave them a deep nod, almost a bow.
“Thank you, Merry, and you too, Mr Gamgee. That was needful, and well done.”
“I’m sorry to have used strength, though, Uncle Ferdi. It’s not right.”
“Nonsense.” The older hobbit sat on Merry’s other side. “It was no different from restraining a hobbit who’s had too much ale. And you’ve got through to him and Tina at last, which is more than anyone else has managed.”
“You didn’t know what needed saying, Uncle Ferdi.”
“Not like you do, no. But Pal saw how it was in Hobbiton, as we all did, and instead of trying to understand he went into a mighty sulk. And he’s heard more than enough one way or another to have known he was being a fool twice over.” He drew on his pipe. “Still, it’s done and he’ll come right again. He’s making a start on those apologies he owes and we’ll rustle you up the biggest Tooks we can find. Not that they’ll like having to go so very far. How long will the journey take? If that map of yours is accurate it looks to be most of two hundred leagues.”
Merry briefly laid a hand on his uncle’s arm, then shrugged slightly. “About that. But the horses of Rohan are good for forty or fifty miles a day in open country, resting one in ten. Say three weeks each way, at least. But it might take a while for the ents to decide what they’ll do, if anything. They don’t like being what they call hasty, and their speech among themselves is very slow and thorough.”
“So you’ll be gone eight or ten weeks, maybe.”
Sam sat up. “Here, Merry, you’d better hurry those ents along if you have to, and you’d best be back by the first of Thrimmidge. I’ve a promise to Rosie to keep, and you’ve one to me.”
Merry stared, then laughed. “So I have, Sam, and I will. Treebeard will understand that and a week or two should be enough even for him to make up his mind.”
“Well, you see he does.”
“I will.”
The back-door opened again and Master Saradoc and his wife came out. Merry stood and went to them, leaning into their embrace, and Sam looked away to give them time together. Ferdinand slid towards him and spoke softly.
“I’m thinking I missed a trick or two as well, Mr Gamgee. I heard Sara in Hobbiton, about rings and all, and I heard Frodo and you, but I hadn’t understood. You and Frodo were on your own all that way, after you got separated at that place by the big falls? I’m sorry, I don’t recall the name.”
“Parth Galen. It just means greensward. And yes, we were alone, save for Gollum, and the time we met Mr Faramir and Damrod and their friends. And orcs. Plenty of them about.”
“And you were captured?”
Sam shook his head. “I wasn’t. Mr Frodo was, after the spider bit him, but we got away. We did fall in with some orcs after that, but we fell out again soon enough.”
“And went to the mountain.”
“Yes. That’s what Mr Frodo had to do.”
The Took looked at him for a long moment. “Mr Gamgee, I may have been what your Gaffer would call a ninnyhammer, but I’m not being one anymore. It’s very plain you’re owed a powerful debt of thanks, and likely to be owed more. Pal knows it too, and Tina. Perhaps you’d stop by the Great Smials on your way back to Hobbiton. I’d be glad of a longer chat.”
He rose, nodded deeply again, and went back towards the door, clapping Merry softly on the shoulder as he passed. Sam stared after him, gloomily aware he was going to be later back to Hobbiton than ever.
The rebuilding of the tower at Amon Sûl was also making better progress than he’d expected. Some dwarves had already come from the Ered Luin, and a letter from King Thorin in Erebor had promised more in the spring. Not a stone had yet been laid, but the work of quarrying and dressing was well underway, and the dwarves had done wonders in preparing the site, checking the old foundations, which won their rumbling approval, and digging out surviving cellarage. Cleared of earth and tumbled stones it had proven surprisingly extensive, and though the armour and weapons the store-rooms had once contained were long rusted to dust and shards, other things had come to light. The most pleasing, to Halladan’s mind, were some beautiful stoneware and clay vessels, in a deep room that had withstood the tower’s collapse, but the most important were undoubtedly the documents, preserved in stoppered and wax-sealed urns. Much was just administrative - lists of the garrison with dates and terms of service, disciplinary and supply records, and treasury tallies - but for someone in his position those were invaluable, and there had also been plans of the lost tower, on which the dwarves had fallen with gleeful reverence, as well as scouting and other reports from the years before it had been razed, covering the Rhudaurian wars. Halladan didn’t think there was much that wasn’t in the archives preserved at Fornost and Annúminas, but it was certainly a different view and copies were being made to send south.
At Aragorn’s command he had also set a small marker in the dell on the western flank where the Ringbearer had been stabbed with a Morgul knife. The dwarf Deróin, who claimed distant kinship with Lord Gimli, had carved it for him, a plain statement of fact in Westron and Sindarin but surrounded with a delicate tracery of athelasleaves, and travellers had already begun going to see it as they descended from inspecting the work on the foundations. What Frodo Baggins would think when - if - he learned of it was another matter, but as very few had ever survived a Morgul wound, and the King’s orders were the King’s orders, Halladan would cross that bridge only as he had to. And other markers were being placed elsewhere, at Parth Galen, Henneth Annûn, and the crossroads below what had been Minas Morgul, so it might be news of one of those would reach the Ringbearer first and leave his very likely objections as Aragorn’s problem.
Halladan’s wandering thoughts were called back to the present by what sounded like elven horses, and a moment later unmistakeable voices explaining that the animals would make their own way to the stable and had no tack to remove but would be glad of a rub-down, with which they would co-operate. Hobbits and men alike rose to peer through the window, exclaiming, as well they might. What Lords Elladan and Elrohir were doing here was a puzzle, but a moment later Halladan was astonished to see not only the King’s brothers but Lord Glorfindel enter, bringing utter silence to the parlour. All three bore full weapons and he rose and bowed with worry starting in his heart.
“My lords. What brings you here?”
“Lord Steward.” Glorfindel’s gaze took in the room and the staring customers, as well as an open-mouthed Barliman Butterbur standing behind his counter. “Gentlemen, gentlehobbits.” His eyes came back to Halladan. “Perhaps we might withdraw somewhere?”
“Of course. Mr Butterbur, would you bring some fresh water and ale to my room? With light food? Thank you.”
The refreshments came quickly, brought by Butterbur himself - rolls still steaming hot from the oven, a crock of smooth butter, cold cuts, pickles, a wedge of cheese, and a few wrinkled winter apples. The old innkeep beamed at the elves’ thanks, but as the door closed behind him Halladan felt his stomach tighten.
“Trouble, my lord?”
Glorfindel shrugged elegantly. “Maybe, maybe not. Many years ago I had a fragment of vision - two images with no obvious connection. I saw an owl strike at a mouse, and I saw myself fighting with others - Eldar, Edain, two children of Aulë, and some periain seen only in outline - against an unusual breed of orc, larger and stronger than most, and undaunted by Anor. It was an early spring day and I stood in a narrow pass hemmed by rock walls, but where it might be I could not tell. And some months back when Elrond told me of the Uruk-hai of cursed Curunír’s making, I wondered if it could be they against whom we fought, though it seemed the time for fulfilment might have passed and the vision proven astray.” The ancient eyes deepened. “I should not have been so swift to think so. A month past I walked at night in the woods of Rivendell and saw that owl take that mouse. I sent scouts north but neither they nor the Dúnedain of the Angle had any sense of orcs stirring there and my heart told me my way lay west and south. So I have brought twenty from Rivendell and some Dúnedain who were willing and could be spared. All wait at the camp west of the Chetwood.”
Halladan digested this, frowning. “How may I help, my lord?”
“I am not sure. Nor do I know what path I should pursue. But if the threat is indeed from some surviving Uruk-hai of Curunír it seems likely to fall closer to Angrenost than Fornost.”
“Indeed. I have heard nothing of any orc-band in Minhiriath or Enedwaith from the new garrison at Tharbad, but they are engineers charged with rebuilding the bridge rather than warriors, save a guard detachment, and do not patrol widely. Nor have Uruk-hai been seen anywhere since the Onodrim rose against Curunír, so far as I know, and Lord Mithrandir said he believed most if not all had been slain in battle. But as Lords Elladan and Elrohir and I have cause to know, they were fell opponents, and I will assemble what men I can to ride with you. Some of Déorwine’s Rohirrim will be glad enough to head south for Nínui and Gwaeron - mild as the winter has been, they have found it colder than they expected.”
Glorfindel nodded, eyes glinting, and Halladan wondered if some of those unknown men in his vision had had the look of Rohan.
Elrohir sat forward. “Fell opponents, indeed. We have spoken to Glorfindel of Helm’s Deep, and Mithrandir wrote of what he had learned in the Shire of cursed Curunír’s evil. We also saw the half-breeds among the prisoners at Amon Sûl. And if Curunír had not died in the Shire he would be hunted to the bounds of Arda for that corruption.”
Halladan knew why the King’s brothers so loathed orc-kind and dimly sensed the rage in them, unassuaged even now and no doubt rekindled by what Mithrandir had learned. He nodded carefully.
“The Cormacolindor, who saw Curunír’s death, were both very clear that his spirit looked to the West, and was rejected, dissolved even as Sauron’s into nothing. Mithrandir judged their belief true.”
“So he wrote to us, knowing we would not share his sorrow.” Elladan’s hands opened eloquently and Elrohir rested a hand on his shoulder. “But the strange thing is Glorfindel’s belief that periain and dwarves will be among those fighting with us. Children of Aulë might well be found upon the North-South Road, and even before Legolas named the first Elf-friend among them since the days of Celebrimbor we would not have hesitated to help against orcs. But periain? Surely some among them have done great things of late, and it seems they rise in the world, but have they taken to travelling?”
Halladan smiled. “Not yet, save those four, and the four who serve at Amon Sûl - who do not care for foreign parts at all. One is in Minas Tirith also, sent under guard to tell what he knew of Curunír’s dealings here. But all reports speak of the Shire as bustling throughout the winter with labours of demolishing and rebuilding and redigging, and they have sought the aid of dwarves passing east and south with metal- and stonework, so the thought of a party abroad is not so strange as once it might have been. I was astonished to encounter Iarwain Ben-adar and eleven periain at the southern end of the Andrath, not only because they came through Tyrn Gorthad, but I should not be so surprised a second time.”
All the elves looked interested.
“That is a new tale to us. This was when the Cormacolindo sent for you to come to the Shire?”
As he recounted the sudden irruption of song that had halted his cavalcade they ate, the elves drinking only water until Halladan, who allowed himself a small mug of ale, remarked on its excellence and Mithrandir’s blessing on it. A King’s Messenger had reached Rivendell shortly before they had left, so they also had news from Gondor, another hive of rebuilding and repairing, with many dwarves and elves labouring beside men. The levelling of what had been Minas Morgul had begun, and Halladan learned interesting things about the precautions Aragorn was taking, giving those who entered it masks steeped in athelas and leather gloves and boots into which the oils of the plant had been rubbed. Even so he had had to treat some men afterwards for effects like those of the Black Breath, and had written partly to seek Lord Elrond’s advice on better prevention. That sent conversation to Angmar’s fate, with a fascinating diversion to Glorfindel’s better-known prophecy of his end and - amused was the only word - satisfaction at what it had eventually proven to mean. He was absolute it had been the perian’s blow that had slain the Ringwraith.
“The Lady Éowyn’s deed was of the greatest valour, and will live in song, but on its own it would have been in vain. Her sword had no virtue against the spells of his undeath. But the blade of Westernesse that Meriadoc wielded - that was made with just such virtues.”
“Yet her sword did pierce him, for it shattered and withered away.”
“Truly - for Meriadoc struck first, and his spell-flesh was already cloven.” Glorfindel laughed, melodious and delighted. “To be undone by a perian to the knee, and skewered clean through by a woman, neither of whom was supposed to be present at all! Oh, Angmar’s surprise in that moment would have been a thing to see! And the laughter there must be in Valinor.”
The invitation was irresistible, and Halladan asked about the humour of Eru that Mithrandir had found in repeated events in Mordor.
“Yes, parts of the same design, I deem.”
Elladan grinned. “Our Adar is still indignant, despite Mithrandir’s scolding and our advice.” The grin faded. “And truly he and Master Samwise both had hope unquenchable, however different their natures and scales.”
Halladan nodded. “That thought came to me also. Forgive me, but you did not think it a rebuke of sorts as well, as Mithrandir thought Gollum a rebuke to Isildur?”
Glorfindel smiled austerely. “A little, perhaps. But unless Elrond had bodily carried Isildur to the Sammath Naur and given him to the fire there was no more he could have done. He talked himself hoarse, but fresh cut from Sauron’s hand the Ring had taken Isildur even ere he touched it, through his grief for father and brother. And all were Elrond’s kin - he could not have acted against Isildur.”
“I did not know you were there, my lord.”
“I rode with Gil-galad, as Elrond did. And a little indignation is a jesting price for what Eru has wrought, as Elrond well knows.”
“Indeed. But it has not been so small a price for the Cormacolindo, and I confess it is that I find most troubling.”
“Ah yes.” Yet Glorfindel still smiled, though it did not seem a smile of mirth. “Frodo Baggins pays for us all, and grievously. We can only trust to Eru’s hand over him and the grace of Aman he has been offered. Yet though I regret his pain, I cannot regret the indignation Sauron must have felt in his last awareness, even as fear choked him. Had he learned it was a perian who had slain Angmar ere he knew another had slain him? I find I hope so.”
Halladan added that strange and vengeful thought to the rest whirling in his head, in the gap between the Sauron who had issued from Barad-dûr to slay Gil-galad and Elendil and the Frodo Baggins who had stumbled and been carried to the Sammath Naur, but anything he might have said was lost in a brisk rap on the door and the entry of Gilbarad, eyes widening at the sight of Glorfindel.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, my lords, but one of the Rohirrim has arrived from the Bridge Inn with a letter for the Lord Steward he was told is urgent.”
He offered Halladan a sealed packet and Elladan laughed.
“Speak of the Periannath, and lo! an urgent letter from the Shire. The odds are shortening, brother.”
Elrohir nodded. “They are. Come in, Gilbarad - Glorfindel won’t bite you, and I expect Halladan may shortly have things for you to do.”
Halladan only half-heard the banter. The packet contained several sheets closely written in Sindarin, but not in the Ringbearer’s easy hand, and a further enclosure addressed to Déorwine in Rohirric. The writing was somewhat crabbed and the constructions unusual. Half-way down the first page he stopped, mouthing a word and searching his memory before looking up to find everyone looking at him.
“Ah, forgive my ignorance, but might you tell me what this means?” He spelt out the odd word and Glorfindel’s eyebrows rose.
“It means nothing, for it does not exist.”
“Um, and if it did, what might it mean? Troubled? Assailed?”
Glorfindel shrugged. “Maybe. The prefixed repetition is meant as an intensifier, I would think.”
“Mmm.” Halladan’s eyes had drifted on and stopped again. “And this?”
“What?”
He spelt out the phrase he had unwisely tried to pronounce, and Glorfindel … snorted.
“More nonsense. No thing other in all creation than a bird of innocence? Who wrote that letter?”
He seemed quite affronted by the writer’s strange Sindarin but the brothers simultaneously pealed silver laughter and Elladan spoke.
“Might your correspondent be Master Samwise?”
Halladan turned to the last page and his eyebrows rose. “Indeed. It is signed Perhael Cormacolindo.”
“Then I believe the Westron terms you want would be bebothered …”
“And nowt but a ninnyhammer.” Laughter rang out again. “Adar’s indignation will redouble.”
“But they are such splendid additions to Sindarin.”
Halladan went back to the letter, and with occasional vivid memories of the other Ringbearer’s turns of speech made his way through it, astonishment unfolding in his heart. Finishing, he set it down and found Glorfindel’s gaze on him.
“Our travelling Periannath?”
“Yes, but much more also.” He took a breath. “The short version is that the trees of the Old Forest, whom Perhael calls huorns, are assailing the High Hay, the hedge that protects Buckland from them. Which I can well believe - I have never felt such malice from trees as I did from those, riding along their eaves. In any case, they crowded up against the Hay and leaned over it, making great noise even when there was no wind, and causing all periain much alarm. So at the request of Meriadoc and Peregrin, Perhael spoke to them, in Sindarin, and by using some small portion of a gift he says was given him by the Lady Galadriel but does not otherwise explain, he has, um, struck a bargain.”
The brothers exchanged glances. “Daernaneth gave him some earth from her garden and a mallorn nut. Her last letter said she had sensed it being well used.”
“Ah. Well, he tells me the trees had sensed the wide felling of their kindred by Curunír’s creatures, and so were angry ; but that they had also sensed his use of this gift, and were eager to share in it. Further, that some were driven in malice and desire of revenge by an ancient willow he says lies at the heart of that forest, while others wish to flee its dominion, desiring entry to the Shire only that they might have space to grow and fruit. Where they would be most welcome, he adds, given the great loss of trees. And that by using the Lady Galadriel’s gift he agreed with those who fear the willow that they will hold the line of the High Hay against its malice for six moons while an answer is sought.” He took a breath. “Therefore the Periannath determine that Meriadoc and Peregrin, already having his acquaintance, should travel with all haste to Angrenost to lay the matter before Fangorn of the Onodrim and seek his aid. To which endeavour he hopes I have no objection, assuring me they also seek the leave of Iarwain Ben-adar, in case an onod should agree to come, and asks if I might provide the travellers with an escort. There is a counter-signature from the Master of Buckland. The enclosure is for Déorwine, from Meriadoc, and apparently explains that for the sake of speed they would be glad to use horses, begging their loan, and that he forward a further letter to King Éomer.”
Glorfindel nodded, eyes gleaming. “A most logical perian, Perhael Cormacolindo, despite his liberties with Sindarin. That he should speak to trees and seek aid of the Onodrim is a new turn in the song, and one to be welcomed. And for all its surprise, this fits what I feel. Only the Children of Aulë remain, and as Elladan said it will be no surprise to find such on the road.”
The brothers were looking at one another again. “Hobbits!”
“You can learn all there is to know about them in an afternoon …”
“And still be surprised by one after a hundred years.”
“As fierce as a dragon, in a pinch …”
“And much wiser than two foolish elves of Mithrandir’s acquaintance.”
Heads turned towards him. “When are Merry and Pippin expected?”
Halladan sighed. “Before the week is out.” Life remained so very full of surprises.
* * * * *
Tea with the Thain was not going well. Though he had been taken to see the trees, now densely lined ten yards from the Hay, he had not seemed to sense the pressure that still came from them in waves, nor to hear the urgency in Master Saradoc’s explanation of his alarm. And he was accompanied not only by a weary-looking Ferdinand but by Mistress Eglantine, by birth a Banks of a most respectable branch and plainly no more inclined than he to heed anything not long familiar. Sam had been worried by Merry’s request that he cull and prepare some leaves of athelas from the plants he had started at Crickhollow, to use as a tea when the dreams were bad, but it looked as if the talk would never get to anything that might warrant their use. Every attempt to keep to the problem of the trees was ignored in favour of local, mostly Tuckborough, affairs, and the idea of having to fight trees produced only a blank look. When Pippin finally said flatly that something had to be done, and that he and Merry would be leaving for Fangorn in two days to ask for Treebeard’s help, the predicted explosion was immediate.
“No, no, and no again. I will not have it, Peregrin Took, and you must have taken leave of what little sense you have to say such a thing. There are no such things as talking trees, you cannot even now control your night terrors better than a faunt, and it is out of the question. Never mention this again. Come, Eglantine, I’ll stand no more of this absurdity.”
He had taken two steps towards the door, his distressed wife still struggling to rise from the settle, when Merry’s arms closed round him, picked him up, and deposited him back where he had started. His face paled with rage and his mouth opened but he made the mistake of looking up to meet Merry’s eyes and stepped back, falling into his seat.
“Better, Uncle Pal.” Merry’s voice was as hard and flat as Sam had ever heard it. “I’m sorry to lay hands on you, but you are for once in your life going to knock the dottle of rage from your ears and listen. What you have just said was foolish, cruel, and derelict in your duty as Thain, and it won’t do. Oh yes it was, and I will prove each term to you. Pip, the map-board please, Shire uppermost. And Sam, we’ll need that athelas by the by - set water to boil?”
Mistress Eglantine was squeaking surprise but no-one else was saying anything - not Ferdinand or Master Saradoc, nor Mistress Esmeralda, Thain’s sister or no - so Sam busied himself swinging the cauldron over the fire and adding wood, as an unhappy Pippin brought in the map-board Merry had made, arms fully extended to grasp it, and deposit it straddling both his parents’ legs. Spots of rage like Frodo’s had been building on the Thain’s cheeks but confronted with the map he blinked and focused more closely.
“I’ve never seen this map of the Shire.” His tone was accusing.
“I know you haven’t, Uncle Pal. You’ll get a copy when I’ve made one. The librarian at Rivendell compiled it for me from the old surveys of Cardolan, updated with Bilbo’s knowledge, and some from Frodo, Sam, Pip, and me. From High Hay to Far Downs, and Sarn Ford to Oatbarton and Long Cleeve. What is it you always say about the North Tooks?”
The Thain snorted, eyes on the map. “Too far from anything sensible to know their toes from their fingers.”
“That’s the one.” Merry’s voice was very gentle and the Thain’s head snapped up as his nephew’s large hand spread against the scale and walked up the map. “Not twenty leagues from Tuckborough but beyond all hope of sense or wit. So what of the rest of the world, Uncle Pal, beyond our bounds?”
Merry slid the map from the leather corners that held it flat and rolled it carefully, revealing the second map underneath. The Thain stared and frowned.
“What is this?”
“The world we live in, Uncle Pal. The Shire is here, see - the Brandywine Bridge and Hobbiton are marked, with Michel Delving and Sarn Ford, but everything else is too small for this scale. Those are the Misty Mountains, that’s Mirkwood - Greenwood again, now - and Erebor, where Bilbo went. Would you like to know where we went?”
The Thain’s eyes were darting about the map, but he nodded jerkily.
“One thing first, please. Feel my right hand.” Merry extended it. “You too, Aunt Tina. Just do it, please. Warm and normal, yes? Well, remember that.” Sam sighed to himself, understanding, and rose to get a suitable bowl as Merry’s finger began tracing their route. “Now, when we left we went through the Old Forest and across the Barrow Downs to Bree. That’s where we met Aragorn, who guided us through the Midgewater Marshes and onto Weathertop, where Frodo was hurt” - Merry’s voice hitched slightly - “and then on to Rivendell, here. When we were fit to travel again we went south through Eregion, tried the Redhorn Pass but had to turn back, and went under the mountains instead, through Moria. The gates are marked with these arrows, so you can see we went in here and came out there, in the Dimrill Dale. Then Lothlórien to recover again, and by boat down the Anduin to Parth Galen. That’s not marked but it’s just above the great waterfall that is, Rauros, on the west shore of the lake. And that’s where we all got separated. Pip and I were captured and taken through Rohan to Fangorn, where we escaped, then went to Isengard with the ents, and at different times on to Minas Tirith, here at the end of the White Mountains. I was injured and had to stay there” - another hitch - “but Pip went on when he had to, across the Anduin to Ithilien and up to the Black Gate of Mordor. And meantime Frodo and Sam went through the Emyn Muil, and the Dead Marshes, the other way down through Ithilien, over the mountains into Mordor through this pass, and then north again and finally east, to Mount Doom. After it was all over we were in Minas Tirith and then came back through the Gap of Rohan, up to Rivendell to see Bilbo, and back again the way we’d come, but this time on the Road.”
Merry’s voice had been quiet, drawing his aunt and uncle to follow his finger around the map, but now he straightened and the flatness returned to his tone.
“Big, isn’t it, Uncle Pal? Three hundred leagues and more each way, yet there’s more than even this map shows - these eastern countries beyond Rhovanion are cut off and I’ve no idea what’s beyond them. To the south as well, the Sunlands - some of the men who fought for Sauron came from there, I believe. A lot of land. And a lot of creatures in it. Yet you, Uncle Pal, who have never been further from the Shire than Bree, barely the width of my finger on this map, think you know enough to say what does and doesn’t exist in places you’ve barely heard of? There are no such things as talking trees. Just listen to yourself, Uncle Pal. Have you ever heard so foolish a hobbit?”
There was a nasty silence and the Thain slowly flushed a deep red.
Merry nodded. “So, my first term. The second was cruel. Your words to Pip were you cannot even now control your night terrors better than a faunt. And setting aside that neither can I, nor Frodo, nor Sam, you lash out at Pip because only if his terrors are those of a faunt can you continue to deny your own. But that ends now, Uncle Pal. Let’s see how you think you’d do. Just imagine you had to leave the Shire, and found yourself having to go through the Old Forest.”
The Thain’s mouth opened but Merry overrode him.
“Yes I know you never would, but you do. In the Forest you’re grabbed by an evil tree, but a friend saves you, and then you’re nabbed by a Barrow-wight, and you’re sure you’re about to die, but your friends save you again and you make it Bree. After a night when those black figures who killed Tom Heathertoes at the Bridge break into the Prancing Pony looking for you, you get away and make it to Weathertop. And there” - that hitch again - “there you discover that the black figures are the Witch-King of Angmar and his fellow Ringwraiths, and he stabs one of your friends - your beloved older cousin. It looks like it’s only a little wound, but there’s a bit of the blade broken off inside, and when it’s dawn you see the knife that gave it melt in the sunlight. You’ve never seen or felt anything so vile as the hilt, and you realise that little as that wound is it might yet kill your friend, but there’s no time to think because you’re fleeing again, with the Ringwraiths pursuing.”
Sam had seen the appreciation in Master Saradoc’s eyes for the way Merry’s telling and the repeated journey of his finger around the map was anchoring both the Thain’s and Mistress Eglantine’s increasingly horrified gazes. But Merry’s voice was hoarser and his right arm was now cradled in his lap as the left moved from place to place. The water had boiled and he prepared to fill the bowl but Merry looked round.
“Not just yet, Sam. Wait until the Pelennor. Now, Uncle Pal, you get lucky again. You make it to Rivendell and Lord Elrond can save your friend. Not heal him completely, mind - the knife was bespelled - but he’s up and about again. So on you go, feeling a bit better because you’ve got Gandalf with you now, and surely a wizard can cope with anything. And he does cope with great wolves when a pack of them attack at night. But you have to go through Moria. A water-monster nearly gets you at the gate, a great thing with dozens of clutching arms, but you get past. And now you have to go forty miles underground, in the dark, and you do. Trolls and orcs attack, but you get away and keep going. But there’s worse, because there’s another monster to get past, one of the great monsters - a fire-giant. A balrog. There’s a great chasm and a thin bridge, and Gandalf manages to make it fall in, but it takes him with it, and he’s gone. You see it all, Uncle Pal, and you think he’s gone for good - you don’t know he’ll be sent back by the Valar, so you’re weeping for him, terrified and grieving, but you run and run and get out of Moria, and you can rest for a bit in Lothlórien. But not long, and you go on down the river until everything goes wrong and you’re taken prisoner by orcs. You see another friend die there too, trying to protect you but shot down with great black arrows, and you’ve no time to grieve because the orcs have you and they’re carrying you away, you and one friend, and you’ve no idea what happened to the others.”
Merry shivered and his left hand lifted from the map to rub his right arm, but he again shook his head at the increasingly concerned looks of Sam and his parents and went on.
“You already know the sort of things you hear the orcs say, Uncle Pal, about wanting to eat you, and you’re terrified all the time, but you keep your wits about you, and manage to cut your bonds and help your friend to escape too when men attack the orcs. You don’t know where you are, but there’s a forest so you run in and hide, and when you climb a hill to try and see how to get out again you meet a creature you didn’t even know existed, but he’s good-hearted and he helps you. But his own kind are being attacked by orcs and worse things, and they’re about ready to go to war over it so you get caught up in it, and you see a lot more deaths. But things look up for a bit. The battle’s won and you find out Gandalf’s still alive, or alive again, and you’re reunited with some - some, not all - of the friends you’d been separated from. But then something else happens, and you’re exposed for a moment to the full malice of Sauron’s mind and you fight it, amazingly, and break away, but it’s as bad as anything could be, vile beyond belief and inside your head, and you can’t shake the memory, especially when you have to go off alone, leaving all your friends behind again.”
Mistress Eglantine had tears on her cheeks. Pippin was shaking and Master Saradoc and Mistress Esmeralda both had arms round him. Dipping a cup of hot water Sam added some of the athelas he’d prepared for tea. Master Saradoc reached to take it, nodding silent thanks, and held it for Pippin. Merry’s hand was rubbing his arm again, harder, but his voice forced its way on.
“So you end up in Minas Tirith just as it’s being besieged by orcs and trolls and men, not thousands of them or even tens of thousands, but hundreds of thousands. And guess who’s leading them, Uncle Pal? It’s the Witch-King, the chief Ringwraith, and he’s not on a horse anymore - he’s on a great flying beast, like a bat but as big as that eagle Gandalf showed us, and as vile as the eagle was good. And almost the first thing all those orcs do is use great catapults to throw into the city the heads of everyone they’ve already killed. Branded with the eye and thrown in, by the thousand. And you know what’s still worse than that, Uncle Pal, worse than seeing men’s heads landing like leaves in a Blotmath storm? It’s seeing someone you’re next to recogniseone of those heads, and you see that too, and your heart’s breaking. The lower city’s burning and its leader has gone mad with fear and despair, but you keep on doing all you can. You save a man from fire, and you keep on hoping, and you’re right to do so because when the gates finally burst, and the Ringwraith tries to ride in, Gandalf stops him. And the allies of the city finally arrive, and the battle turns. And the Witch-King is killed.”
Merry’s voice had become steadily harsher and more grating and now he stopped, working his mouth and swallowing before using his left hand to lift his right and with a shudder let it flop across the map.
“Feel it again, Uncle Pal, Aunt Tina.”
The Thain was grey-faced and just stared until his wife hesitantly reached out a hand.
“Merry! It’s freezing!”
She automatically began to chafe at the inert hand. Sam had already poured steaming water into the bowl he’d fetched and was quietly singing the hymn to Yavanna as he cradled athelas. He didn’t usually get anything like the response Strider could call from the leaves, though the tea and infusions he made seemed to help a bit, but this time they felt warm in his hands and when he cast them into the water the clean fragrance came at once. He heard Merry breathe deeply with a sigh and carried the bowl to hold it before his face.
“Get his sleeve rolled right up.”
Sam barely noticed he’d given the Thain and his wife an order but they obeyed it, and after a moment he went round to Merry’s other side, set the bowl down, and lifted his cold arm to rest in his own lap. Carefully he laved it with the warm water and felt the shaking start and after a moment fade again.
“Athelas tea all round, Pippin, if you’re up to it.”
“Ferdi and I will do it. Just as you did before, Samwise?”
“Yes, Missus Esmeralda.” His eyes didn’t leave Merry’s arm, to which colour was slowly returning. “Thank you.”
“What … what is that herb?”
Sam glanced up for a second. “Athelas, Missus Eglantine. Kingsfoil we call it.”
“Kingsfoil? But … I thought it a weed. I had no idea it was so … so strong. Such a clean smell.”
“It depends who uses it, Aunt Tina.” Merry’s voice was a whisper. “Life to the dying, in the King’s hand lying. Usually you need royal blood but Sam seems to have the knack. Or we’re being blessed today.”
Sam grunted. “Lady Yavanna, I think. I called on her. Water’s cool enough now for you to soak the hand, Merry.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
“Yes indeed.” Mistress Esmeralda’s hand rested on his shoulder for a moment as she gave a steaming cup to Merry, who took it carefully with his good hand, breathing deeply before sipping. A moment later, as Ferdinand gave cups to the Thain and his wife, she gave Sam one too, and he smiled surprised thanks. “You must need it as much as any of us, Samwise, for all you’ve stayed calmer.”
“Oh I drink plenty, Missus Esmeralda. We all do, I’m afraid, and poor Mr Frodo most of all. It soothes the heart and the mind.” Ferdinand was lighting the lamp and some candles against the growing dusk, and Sam nodded thanks. “Light helps as well.”
“It does seem to help. My breathing’s eased.” The Thain’s voice was strained. “Merry, why did your arm get like that? It’s uncanny.”
Merry shook his head before drinking more tea, and Sam sighed.
“It’s because he stabbed the Ringwraith, Thain Paladin, sir, so yes it is uncanny. Just being close to one of them horrors you can get what’s called the Black Breath, like all the life’s sucked out of you. It kills. Athelas is the only remedy. And if you’re close enough to stick one with a sword, well, your arm don’t ever forget it. The talking stirred it up.”
The hand in the basin lifted a little to clutch his own and Merry set down his empty cup.
“It’s warming up again, Uncle Pal. But I hadn’t quite finished. You get through the siege, but the war’s not won. And you have to go on, not alone but without your friends, all the way to the gate of Mordor. It’s desperate but you have hope still, until you get there and there’s the worst moment of all because Sauron’s messenger comes out and he’s got things that seem to prove your friends were captured and are dead, or worse, and that means everything’s over and Sauron’s won. And so when you fight you do it in despair, just to do what you can before you die. And you almost do die - you’re badly wounded and knocked out and all but suffocated and crushed, but even then you hang on to life and in the end, amazingly, it is all right because it was a trick. Your friends aren’t dead, and they do what they had to do, and Sauron’s dead instead, at last, and his evil fails and his creatures run away. And you’re so relieved, so happy to see your friends again, and everyone’s rejoicing even though they’re weeping too for all who were killed. Only, you have all these terrifying memories that get into your dreams and wake you up sweating and gasping. Everyone does, but yours are bad because you saw a lot more than most, and did a lot more than most, and you endure it without complaining and heal as best you can and do your duty and care for your friends. And when everything’s settled down a bit you can finally go home and you do, only to find the place being run by Ruffians and half-orcs and a fallen wizard, but you see them off too, and work hard to set things to rights. And you go on dealing with your dreams and memories as best you can, never complaining, and then Great-Uncle Adalgrim ups and says …”
It was the Thain whose halting voice broke the curdling silence. “Oh! I … Pippin … I …”
Merry stretched his left arm and let his hand rest on his uncle’s shoulder a minute.
“Cruel, I said, Uncle Pal, and I meant it. It’s only the cruelty of foolishness and ignorance, and Pip knows that, but it’s hard all the same and you owe him more than one apology. Still, that’s private business between you and him. But the third thing I said was derelict in your duty as Thain, and that’s everyone’s business. We told you a dozen times that the trees in the Old Forest are a real danger to the Shire, not just to Buckland, though the blow would fall here first. Trees just like them killed about ten thousand orcs in one night, at Helm’s Deep, because the orcs had been chopping ordinary trees down. And the ones here felt our trees being felled by Ruffians and they are angry, with us or anyone they can get at. Sam’s managed to win us some time, though I’m not at all sure how he did it, and he’s given us a hope of actually being able to get the problem fixed. Pip and I just have to go and ask. It’ll take us only two or three months. But you, as Thain, decide in the blink of an eye and a roar of fury that it is out of the question and Pip must never mention this again. And that is derelict. Utterly so.”
The Thain had gone very white. Stiffly Merry levered himself to his feet, leaning a little on Sam.
“Yes, you had a bad scare when we all had to go away like that, and yes, Pip’s still a tween, but he owes the King duty too, when there’s a clear danger to all, just as you do, and I do, and he will fulfil it. We will be leaving, and though we’ve sent to the Lord Steward to ask for an escort, some other Tooks and Brandybucks from the Muster would be a welcome help - the biggest hobbits who are free, so we can ride horses and make better time.” He took a long deep breath. “I’m going to sit outside for a bit and have a pipe with Sam.”
Still supporting Merry, Sam saw the concern on Master Saradoc’s and Mistress Esmeralda’s faces and caught their eyes, shaking his head fractionally and glancing towards the shaking Thain and weeping Mistress Eglantine. Master Saradoc reluctantly nodded, and Sam let Merry go ahead through the kitchen to the back door, took their Lórien cloaks from their pegs, and closed it behind them. There was a long bench beyond a couple of pear-trees, against a wall, and Sam draped Merry’s cloak round him and put on his own before they sat and began filling their pipes. Merry’s arm was still shaky but the business of tamping down the pipeweed and striking a spark seemed to steady him, and they sat back, leaning against each other.
“Well, that was a rare old potherhouse and no mistake. You must’ve had all that running in your head awhile.”
Potherhouse won him a faint smile.
“It’s driven me to distraction, Sam, seeing Pip try and try and Uncle Pal brush him off. I’ve always known Ma got the Took brains, not Uncle Pal, but it’s never mattered before. Not like this.”
“Ah.” Sam drew on his pipe. “It’s like my Gaffer, I suppose. Very good on his own patch but he don’t like changes.”
“He doesn’t pretend they haven’t happened, though. And he doesn’t put you down in front of other people.”
“Had some things to say in private, though, and not holding with ironmongery nor hobnobbing with the gentry wasn’t the half of it.”
Merry’s smile was brighter. “Better not tell him you gave the Thain an order, then, nor that he obeyed as fast as he could.”
“I didn’t!”
“You certainly did, Sam - get his sleeve rolled right up.”
“Glory, I did too. Noodles and nodcocks!” Sam shook his head. “I’d never hear the end of it.”
“I doubt it’ll be the last time, Sam. And you’d better warn him Ma’s using your bare name. That means you can drop the Missus, you know.”
Sam shook his head. “That wouldn’t sound right at all, Merry. It’s bad enough you and Pippin made me drop the Mister. The Gaffer didn’t like that neither, but I told him that was what you wanted and did he think it proper I should tell you no?”
Merry laughed softly. “Good for you. And?”
“He’s been chewing on it ever since. May and Marigold were grinning for a week.”
“Wish I’d seen it. Well, is it proper for you to tell Ma no, then, when she’s asking?”
Sam groaned. “Isn’t nothing staying the same? One day I’m teaching the Maggots hymns in Sindarin and the next I’m supposed to be calling the Mistress of Buckland by bare name. It’s not right.”
“You taught the Maggots hymns in Sindarin?” Merry’s laugh was full this time, with joy in it. “Whatever brought that on?”
“It was an eye-opener alright. I was meaning to tell you and then all this tree-stuff came up. Anyway, besides knowing Mr Bombadil, turns out old Maggot sometimes meets elves using that Hall of theirs in the Woody End, and fancied being able to say thank you properly. His missus and children too. So I taught them some basics and then when they wanted some more it was the hymns that came to mind. You were right about him - he’s got his feet planted but he knows more than most as well. Good family. Good cooking, too.”
“Bless me sideways. Maggot knows elves?”
“And two hymns in Sindarin.”
“Well, we can’t have Buckland falling behind The Marish. I’ll really have to work on my Sindarin. If there are Rangers among the escort perhaps I can practice. None of the Rohirrim except Déorwine speaks it any better than I do. Worse, mostly.”
“Take some doing.”
“Cheek!”
“Simple fact.” Sam looked up. “Someone coming.”
It was Ferdinand, who paused to fill and light his own pipe, and came over. They straightened and Sam felt the tension return to Merry’s body, but Ferdinand gave them a deep nod, almost a bow.
“Thank you, Merry, and you too, Mr Gamgee. That was needful, and well done.”
“I’m sorry to have used strength, though, Uncle Ferdi. It’s not right.”
“Nonsense.” The older hobbit sat on Merry’s other side. “It was no different from restraining a hobbit who’s had too much ale. And you’ve got through to him and Tina at last, which is more than anyone else has managed.”
“You didn’t know what needed saying, Uncle Ferdi.”
“Not like you do, no. But Pal saw how it was in Hobbiton, as we all did, and instead of trying to understand he went into a mighty sulk. And he’s heard more than enough one way or another to have known he was being a fool twice over.” He drew on his pipe. “Still, it’s done and he’ll come right again. He’s making a start on those apologies he owes and we’ll rustle you up the biggest Tooks we can find. Not that they’ll like having to go so very far. How long will the journey take? If that map of yours is accurate it looks to be most of two hundred leagues.”
Merry briefly laid a hand on his uncle’s arm, then shrugged slightly. “About that. But the horses of Rohan are good for forty or fifty miles a day in open country, resting one in ten. Say three weeks each way, at least. But it might take a while for the ents to decide what they’ll do, if anything. They don’t like being what they call hasty, and their speech among themselves is very slow and thorough.”
“So you’ll be gone eight or ten weeks, maybe.”
Sam sat up. “Here, Merry, you’d better hurry those ents along if you have to, and you’d best be back by the first of Thrimmidge. I’ve a promise to Rosie to keep, and you’ve one to me.”
Merry stared, then laughed. “So I have, Sam, and I will. Treebeard will understand that and a week or two should be enough even for him to make up his mind.”
“Well, you see he does.”
“I will.”
The back-door opened again and Master Saradoc and his wife came out. Merry stood and went to them, leaning into their embrace, and Sam looked away to give them time together. Ferdinand slid towards him and spoke softly.
“I’m thinking I missed a trick or two as well, Mr Gamgee. I heard Sara in Hobbiton, about rings and all, and I heard Frodo and you, but I hadn’t understood. You and Frodo were on your own all that way, after you got separated at that place by the big falls? I’m sorry, I don’t recall the name.”
“Parth Galen. It just means greensward. And yes, we were alone, save for Gollum, and the time we met Mr Faramir and Damrod and their friends. And orcs. Plenty of them about.”
“And you were captured?”
Sam shook his head. “I wasn’t. Mr Frodo was, after the spider bit him, but we got away. We did fall in with some orcs after that, but we fell out again soon enough.”
“And went to the mountain.”
“Yes. That’s what Mr Frodo had to do.”
The Took looked at him for a long moment. “Mr Gamgee, I may have been what your Gaffer would call a ninnyhammer, but I’m not being one anymore. It’s very plain you’re owed a powerful debt of thanks, and likely to be owed more. Pal knows it too, and Tina. Perhaps you’d stop by the Great Smials on your way back to Hobbiton. I’d be glad of a longer chat.”
He rose, nodded deeply again, and went back towards the door, clapping Merry softly on the shoulder as he passed. Sam stared after him, gloomily aware he was going to be later back to Hobbiton than ever.