Under the deepening darkness
from Mordor, Theoden gets ready to lead his Riders on the eastern road. Their
hearts are heavy, but they are a stern folk and loyal to the king. Even in the
camp where the women, children, and elderly are housed, there is little
weeping. ‘Doom hung over them, but they faced it silently.’ Two hours pass as
ranks are formed. Theoden, white haired and erect on his white horse gleaming
in the dark, gives his people hope as he stands unbent and unafraid.
On the flats beside the
river 5500 fully armed Riders are marshalled, with ‘many hundreds of other men
with spare horses lightly burdened.’ A single trumpet sounds, Theoden raises
his hand, and the army begins to move out silently. First come twelve of the
king’s household men, an elite batch of warriors. Then Theoden and Eomer; he
has said his grievous farewell to Eowyn already and turns his mind to the road
ahead. After them follows Merry on his pony and the two riders from Gondor, and
then twelve more picked Riders.
As they pass to the front of
the long ranks, Merry notices a slight young Rider near the end of the line who
glances at him with keen grey eyes. Merry shudders, for it seems the face ‘of
one without hope who goes in search of death.’
The army goes along the
Snowbourne (‘snow-born’) river, past Underharrow and Upbourn, two villages where sad faces look out of dark windows and doors at them. There are no horns or
song or music as they pass, though there are songs sung years later of their fearful,
fate-driven ride, five days to Mundberg (Minas Tirith) in Sunlending (translated
from Anorien, ‘the land of the sun’), six thousand spears strong, and how they
passed into darkness.
It is dark when they reach
Edoras at high noon, where they are joined by about sixty more Riders, late to
the muster. Theoden halts a short while to eat, then he bids Merry farewell.
The hobbit is to stay safely here. Merry begs again to go with him; why did the
king make him his swordthain (squire), if not to be with him. He does not want
it to be said of him in song that he was only left behind!
Theoden reminds him that his
pony is too small to make the long journey, and in the fighting they expect at
the end there is little the hobbit can do. No rider can bear him as a burden.
Theoden took him to keep safe, and here safe he shall stay. He will say no
more.
‘Merry bowed and went away
unhappily.’ He passes through the lines of Riders getting ready to move out,
and in their busy ranks he is suddenly approached by the young doom-laden rider
he noticed earlier, who speaks softly into Merry’s ear.
‘Where will wants not, a
way opens, so we say,’ he whispered.' And he has found it so for himself. Merry
obviously wants to go with Theoden, and good will and great heart should not be
denied. The hobbit can ride with him, hidden under his cloak in the darkness,
and none shall notice. Merry thanks him, though he remarks he does not know his
name.
‘Do you not?’ said the Rider
softly. ‘Then call me Dernhelm.’
So when the army rides out,
Dernhelm’s steed Windfola secretly carries both Rider and Merry easily, ‘for
Dernhelm is less in weight than many men, though lithe and well-knit in frame.’
They ride through the willows running along the Snowbourne into the Entwash,
then rest for the night twelve leagues (about 36 miles) from Edoras. Then the
next day through Folde and Fenmarch and past where Halifirien skirts the hills
on the borders of Gondor.
As they go they find rumor
of war in the north, lone men riding fleeing attacks by orc-hosts on the
eastern borders, marching on the Wold of Rohan. But it is too late to turn
aside. They must make haste to Gondor. ‘Ride on! Ride on!’ urges Eomer.
‘And so Theoden departed
from his own realm, and mile by mile the long road wound away, and the beacon
hills marched past: Calenhad, Min-Rimmon, Erelas, Nardol. But their fires were
quenched. All the lands were grey and still; and ever the shadow deepened before
them, and hope waned in every heart.’
Notes
And so we come at last to
the end of this chapter, which we have been on since the start of the New Year.
I have taken it in easy stages, usually writing it up in the early hours of the
same day I post it, simply stopping at what seems a natural pause.
The Folde (Old Norse for
land or country) is the center of the kingdom where the king and his kin live;
it is bordered by the Eastfold and the Westfold.
The Fenmarch is the stretch
of marshy land that follows the Mering Stream. It is the border between Rohan
and Gondor.
The Firienwood (also called
Firien Holt) stood beneath the Halifirien (‘holy wood’), an oakwood left
unfelled to cover stealthy passage between the kingdoms.
Theoden, while impressing
the distance to Minas Tirith on Merry, says it is a 102 league (306 mile)
ride.
Dernhelm comes from dern
(hidden, secret) and helm. So, helmet of secrecy, or as we might say, disguise.
An odd entanglement, perhaps, as Grima (Wormtongue’s actual name) means ‘mask.’
Windfola means ‘foal of the wind’. The name implies the steed is as swift as the
wind, being its child. It recalls old Greek legends of the land of Hyperborea (‘Beyond the North
Wind’) where Boreas, the North Wind, fertilizes mares by blowing on them. Some
writers identify Hyperborea with Britain, which makes an odd little connection
with the Rohirrim and the English.
‘Where will wants not, a way
opens’ loosely translates to ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ In other
words, if you want something enough, you’ll find a way. For years I misread it
as ‘a way will open up where you didn’t want it, or least expected it.’
I’m going to be as cagey
about Dernhelm as Tolkien himself is here, until the proper time comes. I
imagine it will be no surprise to most people.
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