The Lord of the Rings: The Houses of Healing (Part One)

‘A mist was in Merry’s eyes of tears and weariness when they drew near the ruined Gate of Minas Tirith.’ Devastation is all around, fire and reeking smoke, dead bodies abound (some half-burned), even those of mumakil (‘shot through the eyes by the valiant archers of Morthond.’).  All the lower city is ‘wrapped in a smouldering reek.’

People are already trying to clear the way in, and a line of litters are bringing in the dead and wounded. Eowyn is brought on soft pillows, but Theden is covered in a great cloth of gold. These are brought in with extra respect and are shown due respect; but Merry follows on foot, treading the winding stony ascent in a sort of daze. ‘A meaningless journey in a hateful dream.’

To Merry the torches of the procession seem to flicker and go out and he walks in darkness. He imagines the road is a dark tunnel leading to a tomb, where they will stay forever. ‘But suddenly into his dream there fell a living voice.’

It is Pippin! They are alone. Merry rubs his eyes and asks where Theoden and Eowyn have gone and learns that they have been taken into the Citadel. Pippin says Merry must have fallen asleep on his feet and taken a wrong turn somewhere. When Gandalf saw that Merry was not with them, he sent Pippin to find him. Pippin asks if he is hurt.

Merry says his right arm is numb and useless ‘since I stabbed him.’ ‘And my sword burned all away like a piece of wood.’ Pippin said they should not have let him walk all the way back. But so many dreadful things have happened, one little hobbit on a great battlefield is easy to overlook. Merry says sometimes it’s a good thing to overlooked. He was overlooked just now by – but he can’t talk of it. Just the remembered thought of the Witch-King makes him grow colder and his mind darker.

Pippin wishes he could carry him, but all he can do is have Merry lean on him and head back. ‘Are you going to bury me?’ said Merry.’

‘No, indeed!,’ said Pippin, trying to sound cheerful, though is heart was wrung with fear and pity. ‘No, we are going to the Houses of Healing.’

They struggle along until they reach the main street. Pippin wonders if there can possibly be anyone to help them; they’ll never get there at the rate they’re going. Then suddenly as if in a moment of miracle Bergil, Beregond’s son and Pippin’s friend, comes running by. He is doing errands for the Healers. Pippin asks him to bear a message to the Healers and especially to Gandalf, that they have a wounded hobbit on their hands and need help. Bergil agrees and speeds on.

Pippin decides they’d better wait there and sits down with Merry in a patch of sunlight, his friend’s head in his lap. Merry’s right hand, the one that struck the blow to the Nazgul, is ice cold.  Before long Gandalf himself appears, checks Merry out, and lifts him carefully. He should have been borne into the city with great honor. Merry has well repaid the trust Gandalf had in him. He recalls how Elrond didn’t want the younger hobbits to come; if they hadn’t, the day could have been even more disastrous. ‘And yet here is another charge on my hands, while all the time the battle hangs in the balance.’

Bits and Bobs

A litter is a framework for carrying the wounded or dead; nowadays we would probably say stretcher.

Morthond (black + root) was a region in central Gondor, where the Morthond River runs near the southern entrance to the Paths of the Dead. It was a green valley carved by the river. Shooting an elephant in its eye, as its one vulnerable spot, is a classic motif.

I can’t help but think this section of nightmarish fatigue was informed by Tolkien’s war experiences, too.

The Lord of the Rings: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields (Part 1)

‘But it was no orc-chieftan or brigand that led the assault upon Gondor. The darkness was breaking too soon, before the date his Master had set for it: fortune had betrayed him for the moment, and the world had turned against him; victory was slipping from his grasp even as he stretched out his hand to seize it. But his arm was long. He was still in command, wielding great powers. King, Ringwraith, Lord of the Nazgul, he had many weapons. He left the Gate and vanished.’

The triumphant Theoden is now on the road to the Gate, less than a mile to the City. His impetus slows as he seeks new foes and his knights catch up with him, including the enigmatic Dernhelm, with Merry still clinging behind. The Rohirrim have overrun almost all of the northern half of Pelennor Fields; Elfhelm’s eored is among the siege engines, killing and driving the enemy into their own fire-pits. Orcs are fleeing toward the River ‘like herds before the hunters.’

But the siege is not yet lifted. There are still great numbers around the Gate and hosts unchallenged on the south part of the plain. Among them is a host of Haradrim horsemen gathered around their chieftain. This leader, seeing Theoden’s banner far ahead of his men, raises his own standard (black serpent on red) and charges the King. ‘… and the drawing of the scimitars of the Southrons was like a glitter of stars.’

Theoden does not wait but leads a charge right into their superior numbers. The ‘white fury’ of the Rohirrim burns the hotter and their skill is greater; ‘they clove through the Southrons like a fire-bolt in a forest.’ Theoden’s spear is broken in the assault as he kills the chieftan, but he sweeps out his sword. He strikes down the serpent standard of the enemy, and all who are left flee before his wrath.

Notes

It is interesting to note that the darkness is breaking before Sauron had set a time for it. It implies that the darkness is only a temporary measure, a tactic to sow fear and give cover to the hosts of Mordor. Eventually the darkness would have broken at the ‘date’ Sauron had set for it. One would imagine that it would have been an enormous drain of power.

The phrase that ‘fortune’ had betrayed him is also intriguing. Throughout the story the terms ‘luck’ or ‘fortune’ can be seen as veiled references to what has been called Providence, the will of God. Gandalf has often expressed his scorn of the idea of ‘mere luck’ or ‘chance, if chance you call it.’ There has been some speculation that Manwe, Lord of the Valar and Master of Winds, has sent this blast to scatter the darkness and bring other aid to the forces of the West. A speculation that would not have been likely before the publication of The Silmarillion.

This section uses a lot of similes: ‘like herds before hunters;’ ‘like a glitter of stars;’ ‘like a fire-bolt (lightning) in the forest.’ This gives one unfamiliar with battle an idea of the speed and sights of the field.

I was hoping to get a little farther today, but perhaps it’s just as well as we leave Theoden at his most glorious moment. It’s about to get pretty dark again.

 

The Lord of the Rings: The Ride of the Rohirrim (Part 1)

The Tale

Merry is having a restless night, bivouacking with the Rohirrim army in the pine woods around Eilenach Beacon, a hill rising out of the Druadan Forest next to the great road in East Anorion. He cannot rest, though they have been on the road four days. All around him are the sighing of trees, the smell and shifting of horse, and a strange throbbing in the air that comes and goes.

The hobbit wonders why he is even there. He certainly didn’t have to come; in fact, King Theoden had positively ordered him not to come. Even so all the Riders ignore him as if he wasn’t there. There seems to be some arrangement between Dernhelm, his ride, and Elfhelm, the leader of this part of the army. Merry longs to have Pippin to talk to and wonders how his friend is faring alone in a city of stone, no doubt under siege.

The host is anxious, because they are only a day’s ride from Minas Tirith, and already the road is being held by enemy forces of men and orcs. Theoden and Eomer are holding council on how to proceed. And the strange throbbing drums seem to be moving nearer.

But suddenly he sees men moving vaguely in the dark, carrying covered lanterns. One trips over him, cursing, and he recognizes the voice of Elfhelm. He dares to ask the marshall what is going on, and is told that there are orders for the host to prepare to move out at a moment’s notice. Merry asks nervously if the enemy is moving, if it has anything to do with the strange drums in the hills.

No, he is told, the enemy is on the road, not in the hills. What he hears are the Woses, the Wild Men of the Wood. They are remnants of an older time, secretive and wary as beasts, using poison arrows rather than swords. But it seems they fear the Dark Years are coming again, and are willing to aid Theoden and his men. One of their leaders is being taken to Theoden for counsel even now. But Elfhelm must go and get his men ready. Merry should get ready to move, too.

Merry is quite ready for action; simply waiting is unbearable. He doesn’t like the sound of poison darts, but feels he must know more about what’s going on. He follows the last lantern to where the counsel is taking place.

He comes to an open space where Theoden’s tent has been set under a great tree. A lantern hangs, shedding light on a strange meeting. Theoden and Eomer are there, and before them sits a strange figure, ‘a squat shape of a man, gnarled as an old stone, and the hairs of his scanty beard straggled on his lumpy chin like dry moss. He was short-legged and fat-armed, thick and stumpy, and clad only in grass about his waist.’ Merry thinks he has seen such a figure before, then remembers the old Pukel-men carved at Dunharrow. This could be one brought to life, or a distant descendant of the models for the statues.

Notes

The Woses sound like some kind of cavemen, but they are based on an old medieval story, the wood (wild, frenzied, crazy) wose (being, person) who lived in the wood. They were seen either to be creatures of their own race, like satyrs, covered with hair; or men who had run crazy out into the wild and gone au naturale, as it were.

The idea of hairy wild men goes back as far as Enkidu in the Epic of Gilgamesh or Nebuchadnezzar in the Book of Daniel. Sir Lancelot once went through a period where he went mad and lived as a Wild Man in the woods. The term woodwose survives in the modern English surname Wodehouse (as in P. G. Wodehouse).

The element of wood (in the sense of frenzied) may be related to Woden, who drove men mad in battle … and also into frenzies of poetic inspiration. But anyway, the term and idea of the woses were very popular in old heraldry and art, especially during the Renaissance.

The Bal des Ardents (Ball of the Burning Men), or the Bal des Sauvages (Ball of the Wild Men), was a masquerade ball held on 28 January 1393 in Paris, France, at which King Charles VI had a dance performance with five members of the French nobility. Four of the dancers were killed in a fire caused by a torch brought in by Louis I, Duke of Orléans, the king's brother. On the suggestion of Huguet de Guisay …  six young men, including Charles [the King], performed a dance in costume as wood savages. The costumes, which were sewn onto the men, were made of linen soaked with resin to which flax was attached "so that they appeared shaggy and hairy from head to foot". Masks made of the same materials covered the dancers' faces and hid their identities from the audience. “ – Wikipedia. The incident later inspired Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, Hop Toad.

All of which is neither here nor there, but you can see how Woses have been an obscure but persistent motif in popular culture. Why, even ideas about Bigfoot might be connected.

In Faramir’s categorization of the Men of Middle-earth the Woses (Druedain = dru ‘wild’ + edain ‘Men’) would fall into the Wild or Men of Darkness. This has nothing to do with their morality, only their degree of enlightenment.

Eilianach was the second of the Beacon-hills from Gondor, so they are quite close. A tall, sharp peak, whose name was of unknown origin.

Tolkien fiddled around with the Woses quite a bit, developing their origins and backstory. Most of this can be seen in Unfinished Tales, Part 4, Section 1. Woodwoses are also mentioned in his translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, as they are there in the original poem.

 

The Lord of the Rings: The Siege of Gondor (Part 1)

[Not an illustration from this part, but I can't resist a good Gordeev picture.]

The Tale

Back in Gondor, Pippin is roused from sleep by Gandalf. Though it is the second hour of morning, candles are lit; the air is dim and heavy. Gandalf tells the hobbit he is called to his duties with Denthor; the wizard has brought his meager breakfast. It is a small loaf with a pat of butter and a cup of thin milk. Rations have started in the City.

Pippin wonders miserably why Gandalf ever brought him here; Gandalf says he knows it was to keep him out of mischief; if he doesn’t like it, he must remember he brought it on himself.

They go to the Tower Hall, where Denethor sits ‘like an old patient spider’. He beckons Gandalf to a chair, but Pippin is left standing. The Steward turns to him at last and asks him how he liked his free time yesterday? Though he is sure he is less than pleased with his scant meals here. Pippin feels uncomfortable; it seems the old Lord knows everything he did as well as much of what he thinks.

Denethor asks him what Pippin thinks he can do in his service; Pippin replies he thought the Steward would tell him what to do. Denethor says he must know what he can do, first. He’ll find out best by having the hobbit take the place of his body squire, waiting on him, taking messages, and amuse him, if he has time. Can he sing?

Yes, well enough for his own people, Pippin answers. But their songs are simple and merry, not ‘fit for great halls or evil times’. Denethor gives a backhanded answer, that surely those who have fought against the Shadow on the front lines can hear untroubled songs from the people they have protected. Then they can know their efforts have not been fruitless, if unthanked.

Pippin’s heart sinks, but he is not called to sing. Instead, Denethor questions Gandalf closely about the Rohirrim, their policies, and about Eomer’s position; he seems well aware of the situation in Rohan. Finally the old Steward turns to Pippin and sends him off to the armory to get ‘the livery and gear of the Tower.’ He has ordered it to be prepared yesterday.

Pippin goes and finds it is so: a small hauberk of black steel rings, a helmet set with raven wings, a black surcoat set with the silver token of the tree on its breast. His old clothes are taken away and stored, but he is allowed to keep the cloak of Lorien, but not to wear it when he is on duty. ‘He looked now, had he known it, verily Ernil i Pheriannath, the Prince of the Halflings.’ But he is uncomfortable and the gloom hanging the skies is depressing him.

It is dark and dim all day, grow deeper as the day goes on. The cloud from the East devours the light of day, getting deeper and blacker. ‘[T]he air was still and breathless, as if all the Vale of Anduin waited for the onset of a ruinous storm.’

Bits and Bobs

A hauberk is defined as ‘a piece of armor originally covering only the neck and shoulders but later consisting of a full-length coat of mail’ and ‘The term is usually used to describe a shirt reaching at least to mid-thigh and including sleeves.’

A surcoat is ‘a loose robe worn over armor, a sleeveless garment bearing the insignia of knighthood, sometimes richly embroidered.’ 

 

Friday Fiction: Philo the Frog-boy (Part One)

CHAPTER THREE: PHILO THE FROG-BOY

[7/13/2021]

 

     When I returned from lunch that day and reported back to Mr. Williams, I discovered that Pa had already been called away on another case. It was disconcerting to be so suddenly on my own, but the business of my training soon occupied all my thoughts and efforts. I’ll never forget that first talk Mr. Williams gave, mainly because we were all handed a casebook bound in pebbled green covers and told to take notes.

     “We are working on a handbook for the department,” he said, slapping a pile of long, legal-looking papers together. “In the meantime, I will read you a short precis that I have assembled. It is a rough and ready sort of guide to the key types of cases the Bureau covers. I like to call them the Three D’s. Pencils ready? Let’s begin.

“First of all, we have the Dybbuks. That’s with a y and two b’s. That’s a Jewish term, and it means a ghost, most often a ghost haunting and possessing a human person. We have a broader definition here at the Bureau. It is any non-corporeal remnant of humanity surviving death.

“Now, what does this mean? Does the Bureau endorse the existence of, for want of a better word, souls? Not as such. Just as when a man dies he leaves behind bones and rotting flesh, we believe he leaves behind certain, let’s call them energies, that may persist and decay, causing a health hazard just as dangerous as an unburied body. Do we deny, then, that the soul exists?”

Rank glanced up smirking in expectation and Rose looked very serious indeed.

“No, we don’t,” the secretary went on. Now it was Rank’s turn to frown. “We can’t, as a matter of policy. Our present stance is that that which is termed an immortal soul, the person itself, passes beyond the physical world. Its fate is beyond our provenance. What we do deal with basically are useless and even harmful leftover vestiges of the mind and spirit, clearing them away and putting them out of the path of the public.”

“Like an undertaker,” I said.

“Or a garbageman,” Rank added disgustedly.

“Both very necessary occupations,” Mr. Williams replied. “Dybbuks are the lowest, most common, and, though frightening, least dangerous class of phenomena that we deal with. The next level up are the Daemons.”

“Demons?” Rose asked quickly.

“No, no, Daemons.” Mr. Williams sighed. “This is going to take a little explaining. The ancient Greeks used the word for a special order of being, partly earthly, partly spiritual. Now, there seems to be an analogous order of existence that is … ah … unknown to science at the moment. They appear to be physical, of an animal-like appearance, seem bound to certain areas, and have a mind greater than a beast but utterly puzzling to human intelligence.”

Rose raised her hand.

“You say they are partly spiritual. How has the Bureau reached this conclusion? It seems unlikely from a scientific point of view,” - here she cut her eyes toward Rank - ”and certainly from a religious standpoint.”

“It does indeed, and we are not entirely comfortable with this part of the definition ourselves. But they seem to defy capture in highly unlikely ways, appear and vanish most inexplicably and unexpectedly, and on the whole seem to leave no solid evidence of their passing. Unless we can capture some very canny beasts or discover some hitherto unguessed laws of nature, these genius locorum best fit some very ancient definitions indeed. These creatures are not malicious as such, but their wildness can be a threat to mankind.” He cleared his throat. “We are working on cataloging and nullifying the perils of these phenomenon.”

“And what’s the third D?” I asked. I had been keeping count, and tallying things I had seen myself into the categories. I had a good idea what was coming next.

Mr. Williams shuffled his papers and ran a nervous hand over his chin.

“The third D,” he said. “Is, thankfully, the rarest, though it can be the most dangerous. This D we call the Devils.” He raised a forestalling hand. “And no, I don’t mean horns and hoofs and pitch-forks. I mean the diabolii, the enemies of all mankind, the wycche, the wicked or twisted, the malificarum, the ill-wishers. There may be some dark force behind them; I do not know. In truth, I do not want to know, and the Bureau cannot pretend to know. That is a matter of individual faith.” He sighed. “But they do have these, hm, powers, and they have turned them to evil.”

He looked at Rose sympathetically.

“Yes, my dear, exactly what you and those you’ve known have feared about yourself. But don’t worry about that. These are not ‘wise women’ or so-called ‘white witches’ or ‘cunning men’. The talent doesn’t make these people evil; their choices do. Their anger, their greed, their cruelty does. They, and you, have a temptation not available to most people. And it is a choice you have to make every day of your life.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, in a very small, quiet voice.

“But it is, as I said, thankfully rare. And you three certainly won’t be on such a case right away, and hopefully never.”

“Thank goodness for that,” I piped up. “I wouldn’t care to face anybody like the Deacon again.”

“The Deacon?” Rank wrinkled his brow.

“Well, that was a special case,” Mr. Williams said dismissively. “An undead malificarum is certainly an anomaly in the Bureau records. That you were able to figure out how to destroy him was an astronomically unlikely event.”

     “An undead …” Rank and Rose looked at me appalled. I could see by their expression that they were considering that what had seemed a simple-looking country bumpkin, too young even to shave just yet, was talking calmly about such a horror. I felt what I must confess was a slight, smug twinge of pride.

“It doesn’t matter at the moment,” he went on. He pounded his notes with his forefinger. “What I am telling you, Mr. Bellamy, is that you cannot count on Providence or good luck to bail you out of every situation. You must be prepared. And that goes for all of you.”

“The Three D’s.” Rose quickly checked her notes. “Dybbuks and Daemons and Devils.”

Rank summed it up.

“So, ghosts and monsters and witches,” he said. He leaned back.  “Is that all the DEA deals with?”

“Oh, my, no. Mr. Rank. On a case-by-case basis, most of our work is clearing up misidentification, fraud, and just plain stupidity. There are some strange cases that don’t fall into any apparent category. I estimate that ninety-nine out of a hundred cases are tidied up without any extranatural explanation whatsoever. But that hundredth case? You could say that is the core of why the Bureau exists at all.”

“To help folks who have no one to help otherwise,” Rose said in conviction.

“Yes, there’s that, too,” Mr. Williams said vaguely. He pulled out his watch. “It’s almost four. I think that concludes the business for today. We must see to getting you established in your boarding house, if you’re to be there in time for supper.”

We headed out behind him like a line of ducks. I picked up my luggage from the desk and smiled at Mr. Demullins, who bowed deferentially to the Secretary and sent a runner to fetch his carriage around front. As we bundled in, the Secretary gained the addresses of the other apprentices’ lodgings and sent for their belongings. Neither was far to go; Rank had checked into a local inn, and Rose actually came from an Irish neighborhood in Washington called, oddly enough, the Swampoodle.

We arrived at an area made up mostly of boardinghouses that catered to the rather transient population of the City, and there we stopped at a modest building that Mr. Williams explained was particularly devoted to employees of the Bureau. As such, the proprietor, a Mrs. Haley, was quite used to the coming and going of agents and their rather odd habits. She greeted him warmly and welcomed us young folks with almost motherly attention.

It wasn’t long before we were established on the third floor, in adjoining apartments that shared a sitting room between them. After setting an appointment for the next day, Mr. Williams bid us good night and left us to our own devices. Rose had it rather better than us boys as she had her bedroom to herself. I started to unpack at once, and it wasn’t long before the others’ things arrived. Rose had one large cedar box, rather like a hope chest, but Rank’s luggage turned out to be nine rough, heavy packing crates that nearly filled up our little chamber to the ceiling.

“What in the world?” I asked. “It can’t all be clothes, Mr. Rank.”

“Certainly not,” he said happily. “It is something even more essential.”  He started prying the wooden boxes open with a peculiar little flange on his cane – an embellishment that seemed specially designed for just such a purpose. “And you can call me Howard, Mr. Bellamy, and, if you don’t mind, I shall call you Bob.”

“Suits me,” I said. “But what – “

I paused as I was interrupted as he gave a loud grunt, and with a squawk of tortured nails and wood the box flew open.

“There! Now isn’t that pretty!” he said with proud satisfaction. I drew nearer and looked inside cautiously.

It was books, rows upon rows of books, more books in that one crate than I’d ever seen in public life outside a library or a bookshop. They weren’t in any great shape, but their sheer number was impressive. I looked up at him bewildered, and then at the other boxes.

“Are they all books?”

“Most of them,” he said, turning to the next crate and inserting his wedge. “But quite a few of them are journals and periodicals and such. There’s one half-full of just clippings from the papers.”

“But didn’t you bring along any clothes or a shaving kit or anything like that?”

“This fine ensemble you see on my back is the best of a poor lot; the rest I left behind for the ragman. Oh, yes.” He patted the front pocket of his rather shabby overcoat. “I do have a razor. The rest I’ll have to borrow. Do you ...?” He looked at my face. “No, I suppose not. Ah, well.”

“Where do you propose to put all this?” I indicated the rather spartan room. “There’s not a super-abundance of shelving available here.”

“That’s fine with me, I really don’t need to unpack it all. I know where everything is, believe it or not. There is a method, ha ha, to all this madness. I say,” he turned on me suddenly. “You don’t mind me taking up so much room, do you?”

“Oh, no,” I said hurriedly. “I’ve got by on much worse. But what – “

“Excellent,” he said promptly, turning back to his task, banishing me from his thoughts. Or so I thought. I watched him dumbly for a while until he suddenly spoke up.

“So, the son of the agent has some experience himself, eh? That was quite an eye-opener. Did your father help you through that?”

“Sort of, but not really. He’d given me some rather oblique advice over the years, but I didn’t know he was an agent at the time, or that the Bureau of Shadows even existed.”

He whistled.

“That must have been quite a nasty experience. You were certainly lucky.” He ran a finger over the backs of his books and started to draw one out.

“Worst night of my life,” I admitted. “Even without the Lake Monster or the Wood-ape, the Deacon would have been bad enough.”

He went still.

“You know, Bob, you were doing so well. You didn’t have to embellish it any more.” He shook his head and went back to his work. “I almost believed you.”

“But it did happen!” I objected. “You heard Mr. Williams. You can ask him …”

He smiled. “That’s okay, Bob. You can spin yarns for the old man, but don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes. But I do appreciate a good tale. You’ll have to tell me all about it one day.”

“I tell you, it really truly …”

There was a sudden knock on the door, and Howard ignored me to cheerfully call out, “Come in!” Rose stuck her head inside the door.

“Mrs. Haley says supper is ready,” she said, looking askance at the shambling pile of half-unpacked volumes. “Apparently it’s stewed mutton tonight, and we’ll have to hurry if we want a good cut.”

It’s a peculiar rule that no matter how good a cook is, nor how good a dish, that the more people it’s made for the worse it will be. The same meal made for two will be fine but make it for thirty and it will be as bland as can be, if not inedible. Maybe it’s the proportion of attention and fine-tuning available. Lucky for us there were only about a dozen at the table that night, so it was fairly satisfactory.

After we ate, the three of us gathered around the fireplace in our common sitting room, which had grown quite toasty against the chill November weather. Rose settled down with her sewing box, and, after a wrangle with Howard, started mending the seam of his coat, which she had noticed was coming undone. Howard sat back loftily in his chair as if disdaining such niceties, opened one of his books, and lit a small cigar. Rose wrinkled her nose but said nothing. I sat down to write a letter to Ma and Daisy. After a while, into the silence, I asked the question that was on all our minds.

“I wonder,” I said, “Which of the three D’s we’ll have to deal with first?”

 

So, what was our first case? It’s hard to say, really. All I can tell you is that it was Philo the Frog-Boy.

That initial week or so was an uncomfortable combination of dullness and bustle as we learned our way around the Bureau. Part of this consisted in a quick, cursory tour of the building itself, given by a brisk young colored page named Sanders, which left me almost more muddled than when he began. Besides telling us where the cloakroom and all the water closets were, he rushed us pass a bewildering multitude of offices, rattling off the names of the people who worked there and what their functions were. Quite a few of these were ‘best not to be disturbed’, and there were some corridors that he informed us, with a roll of his eyes to heaven and a shudder, were absolutely forbidden.

The other part consisted of rather dry preparatory lectures on procedures and policies, given by Mr. Williams in the hour before lunch. It was in the course of one of these talks – it was on compensation for personal damages while in the pursuit of a case – that Philo came bursting into our lives.

Mr. Williams had concluded his talk and we were finishing up our notes with an occasional question to clear up a point or two when we were all startled by a knock on the door. It was immediately followed by its opening a crack and the head of a harried clerk stuck through the gap.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Williams,” he said hurriedly. “I told him you were busy, but there’s a Mr. Wheeler here to see you, and he was most insistent that he … hey!”

The door was pushed open behind him and a most gaudy figure came striding in, thrusting his way through with an enormous wicker case used like a battering ram to shove the incensed clerk aside. We watched him as he strode up to Mr. Williams desk, parked his case, and swept off his battered hat with an impressive bow.

The man was over six feet tall, wiry, and dressed in a lemon-yellow coat (somewhat smudged), a red vest, and olive-green pants. His tie was bright orange and pinned with what must surely have been a huge glass bauble, cut like a diamond. Yellow gloves on his spatulate hands and shiny black boots on his boat-like feet completed his ensemble.

But his most notable feature was his head. Completely hairless except for a large mobile pair of eyebrows, the sallow skin stretched tightly over protruding cheekbones, it looked like a someone had taken a polished skull and affixed a pointed wax nose to it and added a couple of wide translucent pink shells on either side to complete the illusion.

The skull smiled engagingly.

“How do you do, Mr. Williams, sir,” he said, sticking out a hand to be shaken. “My name is Professor Titus T. Wheeler, of Wheeler’s World of Wonders, and it is a pleasure to meet you. You are just the man I want to see, and if I may make so bold, I think I am a man you will be glad to meet.”

Mr. Williams sat staring motionless for just a beat too long for comfort, his hands twined together. Then he raised a finger to the flummoxed clerk at the door.

“You may go, Lyman.” The clerk bowed himself out, pulling the latch closed with a clack. We out our notes aside and watched curiously. Williams turned a polite but distant eye back to the visitor. He accepted the still outstretched hand for the briefest of moments, barely a shake, then laced his fingers again.

“Mr. Wheeler,” he said sedately. “How may your government serve you today?”

“Well, now,” Wheeler began jovially, with just a hint of unease at the other’s attitude. He tapped his leather case with a nervous finger. “What I’m hoping is that my government and I may help each other.”

“I see.” Mr. Williams looked a little bored as he opened a drawer in his desk and briskly, mechanically, took out a form and dipped a pen. “A showman, I take it?”

“An exhibitor of curiosities, sir, a displayer of rare talents, designed to amuse and educate. Demonstrations both scientific and artistic, garnered from the wide world over, and all presented to young and old for mere pennies a show!”

Mr. Williams smiled a little bleakly.

“And a Professor, eh? What do you profess?”

The brash attitude suddenly dropped from the colorful skeleton’s manner.

“Well, to tell you the truth, mister, right now I profess to being worried about my friend Philo’s health.”

The Director’s eyebrows shot up.

“Philo?”

“One of my exhibits, sir. Philo the Frog Boy.”

Mr. Williams leaned back dismissively and waved him away.

“I must tell you, Mr. Wheeler, that this department is not interested in what are termed ‘freaks.’ The proper place for such unfortunate people is in a hospital …”

“Ah, but that’s the point, you see, Mr. Williams. Is he a people? I’ve had a doctor look at him, a proper doctor … well, a horse doctor, to be sure, but he’s very good … and he tells me he’s never seen the like of Philo in twenty years of pulling teeth and setting bones on the side, and he’d seen some queer things, indeed. He’d heard of this place, somehow, and informed me that here is where I needed to go.”

Mr. Williams looked intrigued despite himself.

“Oh, very well, Mr. Wheeler. You can bring this ‘Frog Boy’ in.” He checked his watch. “Perhaps after lunch?”

Wheeler grinned and laid a hand on his case.

“Why wait?” he said dramatically. “He’s here now!”

With a flourish he unlatched the case and flung it open. Inside, curled up in a bed of straw and blinking in the sudden light, was Philo the Frog Boy.

Mr. Williams pulled out his glasses and slowly stood up, putting them on as he did. Rank and Rose and I rose as he did and drew near, overcome with curiosity.

“Astonishing,” the Secretary murmured.

The figure in the case was only about three feet long, with its spindly legs curled back up onto the body, knees almost as high as the chin, in a manner that certainly wasn’t human. He uncrossed his webbed hands tentatively, leaned forward, and unbent himself until he stood looking around at the circle of unfamiliar faces. He stepped out of the case, thin legs rocking on unsteady feet. He was dressed in what looked like ordinary toddler’s clothes; except for that, he did indeed appear to be nothing more than an enormous frog.

On close examination, though, I noticed some odd distinctions. The skull was oddly bulging behind, not flat, and the eyes seemed a bit more set forward, almost binocular, though as they peered around at us, they moved virtually independently of each other. And if you’ve ever seen a real frog held up until it stands on its hind legs, you know that it isn’t designed for it. But this odd figure stood there quite naturally erect.

“Philo, say hello to the folks,” Wheeler said, tapping him on the shoulder.

The creature’s eyes disappeared in a blink that seemed the swallow the liquid black orbs into his bobbing head, his neck puffed out, and he belched out a squeaking oink that seemed to come from the bottom of his belly.

“Most fascinating,” Mr. Williams said slowly. He reached out a gentle finger and touched the thing’s hand. Its skin was wrinkly and dark brown, like the fruit of a palm-date. It looked up at him warily.

“Dry,” the Director observed. “Is that normal?”

“Yes, well, that’s part of why I’ve brought him here, you see. Normally he’s a little oily – plays the devil with the costume sometimes, but nothing a good laundress can’t get out. But lately he has dried out, and along with other symptoms, I don’t think it augurs well. Drooping spirits, lack of appetite – you should have seen him in his heyday, sir; merry as a cricket. Which, I may say, he enjoyed by the buckets-full.”

“You actually spent your time collecting bugs for the beast?” Rank asked, wrinkling his nose.

“No, no, that was just an amusement I advertised for the little children, and believe me, sir, they delighted in bringing a pail and watching him feast, a delight salted with happy disgust. But Philo didn’t care; he cheerfully crunched them down.” A tear came to the skeleton’s eye. “Alas, no more. He’s taken a sad turn this winter.”

“Where and when did you get this … er … Philo?”

“I bought him from a sailor off a ship in New Orleans, Mr. Williams,” he explained. “That would have been five years ago. The man said he had taken him in trade at a port along the South American coastline. The trip over the saltwater hadn’t done the poor lad any good, however, and he looked on the point of expiring then and there. I bargained the sailor down to a good price – three dollars and a new waistcoat, as I remember – and set about nursing him back to health.” He reached down and scratched the thing’s head. It arched its’ neck up and made an odd weak thrumming sound, almost like the purr of a cat. “Named him Philo, because he’s got the kind of face only a mother could love.”

“I see,” said Mr. Williams sadly. “And is that why you’re here today? To pass the ailing thing along? I’m sorry, Mr. Wheeler, but I myself don’t have a spare waistcoat to offer.”

“Now, now, don’t be like that, sir,” the showman said. “I really care about the little fellow.” He knelt down and put his arm around its shoulders and turned its head to face Mr. Williams. “No hospital would accept him, and I won’t give him to no university. They’d just cut him up out of nosiness. I know that he’d be much better for you to keep alive, and I’ve done all I can for him.” He gave the frog-boy’s shoulder a sad hug. “If you can’t or won’t give me a just compensation, well, …” There was a catch in his throat; he stiffened himself. “Well, I’d just as soon rather leave him with you here for free, to see what you can do for him.”

I looked over at Rose as she sniffed, and I saw a few drops standing in her eyes. Mr. Williams looked over at her sternly, and I was surprised when I saw what I thought a hint of compassion quivering in his eyes too. He cleared his throat and reached over to ring the bell on his desk.

The clerk popped his head in again and looked inquisitively at his superior.

“Is Doctor Browning back yet?”

The clerk shook his head.

“No sir, and isn’t expected for five days, at the least.”

“Ah. You may go.” He turned to Mr. Wheeler. “Dr. Browning is our house physiologist and I would like him to examine Philo first, before we take any definite action. But you heard: he won’t return for five days. Can you wait that long?”

“I’m afraid not. We have to move out tomorrow, if we’re to meet our ship on time; we’re headed south for the season.” He removed his hat and turned it fretfully in his hands. “I blame myself. I delayed too long in coming here; I kept hoping he’d get better. But now I fear that with the shape he’s in he wouldn’t survive the rigors of the journey.”

Mr. Williams sighed and sat back behind his desk. He started gently beating his balding forehead in thought, then looked up, having reached a decision.

“Very well then, Mr. Wheeler, I will accept, uh, Philo, in the name of the Bureau. You must sign away all ownership and rights, and I will even pay you recompense to the amount of, hm, ten American dollars.” He pulled yet another form from his desk. “Gentlemen – and lady – draw near to witness how this sort of thing is done, please.”

We crowded around him and watched his nimble hand as it filled in spaces and he murmured as he worked.

“Party of the first part … representing the Department … in consideration of monies received … the date, and Mr. Wheeler if you will sign, and Mr. Rank if you will witness … thank you.” He stamped the document with his seal, then wrote out another note. “If you will present this at the desk on the first floor, you will get your ten dollars.”

The colorful showman accepted the paper with alacrity and clapped his battered hat on his gleaming head.

“I thank you, sir, on behalf of Wheeler’s World of Wonders, and on behalf of dear Philo here.”  He stuck his hand out again, but this time to the squat, gangling creature as it stood there blinking morosely at him. “Take care of yourself, son.”

To our surprise, the Frog Boy reached out a paw and, with the most natural human gesture, shook hands with the showman. Mr. Wheeler turned to go.

“One moment, sir,” Mr. Williams said, arresting his departure. “Is this creature, well, intelligent? How much does it know of what goes on around it?”

Wheeler paused thoughtfully, hand to his hat.

“I couldn’t really tell you what he knows,” he said. “But sometimes I’ve thought he understands quite a lot.” He tipped his hat. “You may keep the case, sir.”

And with that, he was gone.

Philo gazed after him forlornly, feebly moving his limbs as if not knowing quite what to do. Mr. Williams looked at him with something like abstract pity, then shook himself.

“Ah, well. So now the Bureau has a Frog Boy. Put him back in his box, Bob. He’ll do well enough locked up here in the office until after lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “And then what’ll happen to him?”

He grinned mirthlessly.

“Then you three will have your first assignment. There’s no place for him at the Department right now, so you will take him to your boarding house and care for him until Dr Browning returns. Feed him, water him, keep him clean and warm, and most of all ALIVE. You will make notes and observations and record any impressions or ideas that may occur to you. This includes you, Miss Calhoun. This will be an around the clock watch, mind. I don’t want to have spent ten dollars of Bureau money for nothing.”

“You’d still have the corpse for dissection,” Howard put in helpfully.

Mr. Williams hooded his eyes.

“Not an optimal outcome,” he said flatly. “If that happens, you can be sure that the person on whose watch it occurs will earn demerits on their record if it is shown to be their fault. Now let’s go to lunch. I understand it is beef stew today, and this delay has made me exceptionally hungry.”

Notes

As I've noted elsewhere, after A Grave on Deacon's Peak I started on a sequel, provisionally called Bob's Book, which followed the start of Bob Bellamy's career in the Bureau of Shadows. This is the first part of the third chapter; I have elsewhere published the first chapter on this blog. There was to be an introduction to the Bureau, several individual cases, and an over-arching throughline that led to a grand finale. It stalled somewhere in the fourth chapter.

 

The Lord of the Rings: Shelob’s Lair (Part One)

 

The Tale

They move on up the path under a sky perhaps only just a little less than ‘utterly black,’ Frodo and Sam side by side and Gollum going on before, through twisting pillars of stone towards a great grey wall looming ahead. As they approach it, Sam comments on the stench, growing stronger and stronger.

At last they come right up to the looming stone wall, and there is a cave. ‘This is the way in,’ said Gollum softly. ‘This is the entrance to the tunnel.’ Here is the origin of the stench; it flows out, ‘a foul reek, as if filth unnameable were piled and hoarded in the dark within.’ Frodo asks if this is the only way through and Gollum insists that it is.

Sam suspiciously asks if Gollum has really gone through this foul hole? But then maybe he doesn’t mind bad smells. Gollum’s eyes glint. They don’t know what he minds, do they? But Gollum can bear it, and he’s been all the way through. And now the hobbits must. It’s the only way. Sam still wonders about the smell. It’s like a hundred years of Orc ‘filth’, piled up and stored. But Frodo says if it’s the only way, they must take it. They take a deep breath and enter.

In just a few steps they are in utter darkness, darker even than when they passed through Moria. There, there was a sense of space and of air moving. Here it is stagnant and close and echoless, as if the darkness were a black vapor, pouring over them and being breathed into their lungs, covering over even the memory of light and color in their minds. But they can feel the tunnel. Surprisingly smooth and going upward. But it is so wide that, each keeping a hand on the opposite wall, Frodo and Sam are separated in the dark. For a while they can hear Gollum going ahead of them into the dark.

But that fades away as their senses grow duller in the dark. Every now and then their outstretched hands feel other passages gaping, left and right, and sometimes something like ‘hanging growths’ brush them unseen in the darkness. And the smell gets worse and worse until it seems the only sense left them, ‘and that was for their torment.’

They walk on for a crawling, breathless eternity. Sam leaves the wall and he clasps Frodo’s hand for comfort, and they slog on.

Suddenly Frodo feels a void gaping in the rock wall, bigger than any they’ve felt yet, with a blast of foulness and malice that almost knocks him over. Sam does fall forward, but Frodo drags him up and urges him on. All their peril is flowing from this gap. They must pass it. They stumble forward, six hard-fought steps, then they seem to have passed the gaping void. But a new difficulty appears.

The tunnel has forked, left and right, into two equal paths, with no indication of which to take. ‘[A] false choice would almost certainly be fatal.’ They have been struggling so hard just against the darkness they have not noticed their guide has disappeared.

Frodo calls for Smeagol, but the name falls dead, echoless and flat. There is no answer. Sam mutters that this must have been Gollum’s plan all along. Sam threatens the absent creature that if he ever lays hand on Gollum again, he’ll be sorry.

They try the left-hand way, but find it blocked by stone: right or wrong, they must take the right-hand path. ‘And quick,’ Sam panted. ‘There’s something worse than Gollum about. I can feel something looking at us.’ They have not gone far up that way when suddenly they do hear something behind them: a long, venomous, bubbling hiss. They turn at bay and stare into the blank darkness behind them, waiting for they know not what.

As Sam’s hand goes to the hilt of his barrow-blade, he thinks of old Tom Bombadil, and wishes he were near them now. Then in his anger and black despair a memory of light and color comes to him, and he seems to see, distant and clear, ‘as in a little picture drawn by elven-fingers’, the memory of Galadriel giving the Fellowship gifts, and he hears her voice as she presents Frodo with his gift.

The bubbling hiss, a creaking as of enormous joints, and the hideous stench grows ever nearer. In desperation Sam finds his voice and cries out to Frodo to remember the Lady’s gift. ‘The star-glass! A light to you in dark places, she said it was to be! The star-glass!’

‘The star-glass?’ muttered Frodo, as one answering out of sleep, hardly comprehending. ‘Why yes! Why had I forgotten it? A light when all other lights go out! And now indeed light alone can help us.’

Bits and Bobs

The narrator notes that Gollum does not mention the tunnel’s name, Torech Ungol, which is Sindarin for ‘spider’s lair,’ or more colloquially ‘Shelob’s Lair.’ Shelob was originally going to be named Ungoliant, like the giant spider in The Silmarillion, but was changed to be Ungoliant’s 'last unhappy child'. ‘Shelob’ is simply ‘she + lob’, lob being an English dialect word for spider (see Bilbo’s taunting ‘Lazy lob!’ in The Hobbit); cob is a related word, as in cobweb. How or even if Gollum really knew the Elvish name is unknown.

The black vapors and blinding darkness still recall the shadows that Ungolint spews forth to snare and entrap her prey in the old tales, woven of 'Unlight'. ‘Gross, palpable darkness’ as Tolkien expresses it in The Hobbit.

A hundred years of ‘orc-filth’ rather delicately hints at piled orc excrement as an indication of how bad the stench is.

The tiny picture of a memory, ‘as if drawn by elf-fingers’, does not indicate the tininess of the fingers but of the skill and delicacy of the artist.

That the name ‘Smeagol’ falls dead in the darkness may be a subtle hint that in bringing them to Shelob’s Lair, the better part of Gollum has died.

The Lord of the Rings: The Stairs of Cirith Ungol (Part One)

The Tale

After darkness falls on the Cross-roads, Gollum tugs at Frodo’s cloak, hissing with fear and impatient to get going. It is not a place to pause. They turn to the dark road to the east and leave the ring of trees, heading towards the mountains. The road rounds a great rock and then heads east again and starts to climb steeply.

Frodo and Sam trudge along. The burden of the Ring, lightened while they were in Ithilien, is getting heavier, bowing Frodo’s head as the way gets steeper. At last, when he looks up, there it is: the city of the Ringwraiths. The sight makes him cower.

Ahead, in a deep tilted valley of shadow, ‘high on a rocky seat upon the black knees of the Ephel Duath, stood the walls and tower of Minas Morgul.’ Though all is dark, it glows from within with a pale sickly corpse-light that illumines nothing. Windows gape like black eyes into the void. ‘[T]he topmost course of the tower revolved slowly, first one way and then another, a huge ghostly head leering into the night.’ Gollum silently pulls at the hobbits’ cloaks and urges them on down the road. They reluctantly follow.

The three come slowly to a white bridge passing over the stream winding through the valley towards the black mouth of the gate in the city walls.

The banks on either side are filled with pale white flowers that exude a sickening rotten smell; they are ‘beautiful and yet horrible of shape, like the demented forms in an uneasy dream.’ Carved figures stand at the head of the bridge, ‘human and bestial, but all corrupt and loathsome.’ The vapor rising off the stream beneath is deathly cold.

They are almost at the bridge when suddenly Frodo reels, mind darkening, and he stumbles toward it, as if drawn by some power. Sam and Gollum run after him and Sam grabs Frodo in his arms while Gollum whispers frantically that Master mustn’t go that way. And for once Sam agrees with him.

Frodo wrenches his gaze away from the pale city; the tower seems to fascinate him, like a snake to a bird, urging him to run forward to doom. As he pulls himself away the Ring resists him, tugging back, and for a moment his eyes go dark as he looks away from the ghastly tower.

Gollum, ‘crawling on the ground like a frightened animal’, is already fleeing into the gloom along the near bank of the stream, and Sam, guiding the stumbling Frodo, follows. They pass through a gap in the stone-wall by the waters and come to a faintly glowing path that fades winding up into darkness.

The hobbits trudge along side by side, with Gollum turning now and then to beckon them onward. His eyes gleam with a green-white light, ‘reflecting the noisome Morgul-sheen perhaps, or kindled by some answering mood within.’ As they rise above the poisonous vapors of the stream and the stench of the sickly flowers the hobbits’ heads clear, but now they are weary, limbs tired as if they had walked all night, from fighting the deadly allure of Morgul-vale.

At last, they must stop for a rest. They have climbed up to a bare lump of rock; from here their path turns up into the mountains, out of the immediate sight of the city. Frodo plunks himself down. He must rest before he attempts that climb. The Ring lies heavily on Frodo, and he is oppressed ‘as if a heavy spell was laid on his mind and body.’ Gollum grows frantic, ‘hissing behind his hand’ as if to keep the sound from unseen listeners in the air.’ This is not the best place to stop; if anyone comes to the bridge, they can see them!  Sam agrees, and Frodo wearily gets to his feet.

‘But it was too late.’

Bits and Bobs

Minas Morgul used to be Minas Ithil, the shining sister-city of Minas Anor (now Minas Tirith), but after being invested and corrupted by the Ringwraiths for centuries it has become a place of decay and delirium. Its wavering light lights nothing; its windows look into emptiness; it is the decaying skull of a city. It is the Tower of Black Sorcery (=Morgul), and as such exudes a spell-binding influence, a weariness and reluctance on those who get near to it, not unlike the ‘demonic oppression and obsession’ (steps down from full possession) of exorcism lore. It is particularly heavy on Frodo, who bears the Ring. One detail I always forget about Minas Morgul is that the top of the tower rotates.

The bridge into the Morgul-vale has figures ‘both bestial and human,’ but whether that means there are carvings of beasts and humans, or figures mingling aspects of the two, is ambiguous. For the LOTR movies, Alan Lee opted for creatures like Balrogs.

I tried to look up if a ‘stone-wall’ is any different than just a ‘stone wall’ but could find nothing.

“Noisome" has nothing to do with noise but means rather ‘having an extremely offensive smell; disagreeable; unpleasant.’ It is from the Middle English ‘noy’, a shortening of ‘annoy’. I remember seeing in an old Thor comic book the dragon Fafnir calling Thor a ‘noisome flea’, which in context obviously meant he made too much noise. This was corrected by a letter in the next issue.

Gollum’s extravagant efforts at stealth and silence show that he fears there might be unseen observers and listeners around and, considering that it is the city of the Ringwraiths, he’s probably not far wrong. Better to err on the side of caution. His terror even allows him to touch the Elven-cloaks in an effort to speed the hobbits along. Or perhaps their power is eclipsed by the dark sorcery of Morgul. 

Just before they pass out of the sight of the city, Frodo is overcome by a last blast of exhaustion, as if the spell of the tower (or is it the Ring?) is exerting a final effort. It delays them long enough for a new danger to begin.