Friday Fiction: Slavery's Ghost (Part Five)

"What are your own religious convictions?"

          He wagged his finger at me.

          "Now, I told you, no state secrets. If I had broadcast my opinions during the elections, I doubt I could have been President, and even now I do have political friends. I'd not have them tarred with my own skeptical brush."

          "You are a skeptic, then? After all the reports of strange things from the Bureau?"

          "I do not doubt that there are many strange, unexplained phenomena on this earth, Mr. Jandt. I do not see any reason to posit an unprovable world beyond or behind it."

          "You do not believe in God?"

          He shrugged.

          "I am a deist. It seems to be a philosophical necessity for there to be a First Cause to begin the universe. But for there to be a personal power, that cares what mankind does or furnishes an ultimate fate? I see no indication of such a being."

          "And Christ?"

          "A very good man, who had some legends grow up about him. I have done work on a version of the New Testament, in fact, purging it of some obvious fairy tales that have become attached to the Great Teacher. I certainly do not think he was the Son of God. It would be akin to saying he was the nephew of the Law of Gravity. The morality of the Natural Law is sufficient for any good man."

          "Mm-hm," I said, making my notes. "Now about your slaves ..."

          "I inherited most of them from my father, and others belong to my wife. I cannot simply cut them loose, unprepared. They are a responsibility."

          "Worth quite a lot of money too. They labor in your farm and factories."

          "I intend to set them free upon my death..."

          "When you are beyond any earthly need of them. But your father. May I ask, did he or any other members of your family mistreat them in any way?"

          He drew back. The distance was in his eyes again.

          "That depends on your definition of mistreatment, I suppose. Nothing mortal, no. If anything, I would say loving, as far as it goes."

          "I believe I understand you. Do you feel guilt about this?"

          "I do not believe in inherited guilt. I may well have brothers and cousins among my people: it is another reason I care for them but cannot acknowledge them. It has even been used as a stick by my political opponents to beat me. I say nothing, to either affirm or deny. But if I did pleasure myself among them, my wife not objecting and the girl willing, why shouldn't I?"

          "A woman who cannot say no, as a slave to a master, cannot really say yes, though, can she?" I shook my head. "No matter, sir. When did your father die?"

          "I was fourteen."

          "What kind of man was he?"

          "What can I say? He was the master, the king of his castle, absolute on his ground. Distant. Unapproachable. Demanding."

          "How did you feel when he died?"

          "To be honest? Liberated. I was already growing in my studies. Music. History. Mathematics. He couldn't understand what I wanted to do. I could follow my own way. But not all at once.

          "For a while I was under the thumb of an executor, and in the hands of James Maury, an educated man, but very pious. I learned much literature from him, but his Anglican religiosity put a bit of a brake on my notions. By the age of twenty-one I was free."

          "Your trail of liberation seems quite progressive. From your father, from church, and finally from King George. Tell me, do you think there is any authority to which you are beholden?"

          A wintery smile.

          "Perhaps only to the judgement of history. And by the time it comes, shall I care?" He reached over and pulled the bell. "Come, I think it is time to dine."

We had a very pleasant meal, but Jefferson ate very little and Frobisher even less. He had whiled away the day growing dyspeptic with worry in the library and burning a hole in his stomach at afternoon coffee. By the time we retired to a bedroom on the east side of the second floor my old friend was worn to rags with the questions he had longed to ask but was too polite to bring up at the dinner table.

          "Well? Is there any progress?" he asked, pulling off his boots.

          "Oh, most certainly. This is no fraud. He is surrounded by loyal people, who I do not think would ever let harm come to him and seem to have little reason to wish it." I laid my suit out over a chair.

          "Any theories about what it is then? A ghost? A sending? A walker?"

          "I have the beginning of a thought. I have one more person to question, and I don't think I will be long in meeting him."

          Frobisher slumped.

          "You mean the thing itself." He rubbed his forehead. "You know this sort of being is notorious for not showing up when expected."

          "I know." By now I was down to my nightshirt and looked like something of a ghost myself. "But this spirit ... I don't think it can help but appear."

          I sighed and got between the sheets.

          "The problem, I believe, will be to get it to go away."

 

          Frobisher finished undressing, doused the lamp, and got into bed. It had been a long day, and soon we were fast asleep.

          I awoke with an urgent need for the chamber pot. I reached out for the side table, and my hand was staid by a body interposing between I and it.  My eyes flew open. There, in the moonlight, was the Slave's Ghost.

          I had heard descriptions of the thing all day, but to see it was another thing altogether. It was hunched, almost gnomish, but with powerful shoulders that trickled with blood, black and wet in the moonbeams. It was shackled at both wrists and ankles, and there was blood there too. The pitiable state of its body, combined with the power of violence that seemed to quiver throughout it, ready to leap forth and avenge, struck my soul. I stood dumb for a moment staring into its unblinking fiery eyes. Then my training came through.

          "If thou hast any sound," I began, throat dry, "Or use of voice, speak to me: If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease and grace to me, Speak to me."

Yes, it was Shakespeare. There is no magic in the words, except that they can be memorized and used when your brain is paralyzed. They ask the old, old questions.

           "If thou art privy to thy country's fate," I went on, "Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O, speak! Or if..."

          "Tell him," it rasped. If a hole from a grave choked with weeds could speak, it might sound like that. "You have guessed. Tell him, not for death, but for my life. No more warning from me. Tell him."

          His eyes fixed on me; his form thinned until nothing was left but his stony gaze. Then that vanished, leaving only moonlight. I turned and looked at Frobisher, who snored under his nightcap. He had never even stirred.

(To Be Continued ...)

Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part Five)

[The Herald has called for volunteers for Korm’s ‘kingdom.’]

“Me! Oh, me, fir!” A deep, slurring voice boomed out, and the biggest, burliest Morg Korm had ever seen was suddenly plowing his way toward the stage, arms thick as tree trunks shoving his fellows aside like weeds, fat body straining his smock at the seams. His stick looked like a twig in his hand. He stopped next to the platform, which only came up to his neck, and grabbed it with his claws. “Me, Berb fon of Thorel, y’ Majefty!”

“You don’t have to apply to him personally,” the Herald growled. He pointed. “Go over there!”

“Yef, fir, yef, fir!” Berb looked a little sheepish but headed happily to the tables on the right where a sergeant in a red cloak was waiting to take down names.

Korm watched in amazement as there was a general rush to the right as his fellow Third Beards flocked to be enlisted. It seemed that Nast’s endorsement had roused their enthusiasm, and they were eager to find a place under his rule. There was some pushing and shoving in the rush, and he looked with a dawning feeling of incredulous enthusiasm as he observed their excited faces. In the surging heads of black and brown he easily picked out Prull, face lowered, who looked up at him briefly as he passed. Korm nodded at him in recognition before the tow-headed Morg ducked his muzzle and was swept along with the rest.

The recording sergeant raised an arm to the waiting Herald.

“That’s four hundred and fifty!” he called. “Only twenty-two more!”

“Fall back! Fall back!” the Herald commanded. “The tally is nearly full. Fall back! Come on, no pressing! Somebody must be in the other kingdom, you know. Fall back.”

Korm watched as the final cadets were enrolled and the rest were turned away with groans and exclamations of disappointment. He looked over the recruits who would now, improbably, be his responsibility for the next nine months. They seemed like a fine group of people, but something about them nagged at his mind. He couldn’t quite put his claw on it; he was too worried about how he could possibly lead them. And there was a new and puzzled mumbling passing through both the separated groups.

He tore away from studying his people to look out over the remaining party. Not all of them looked as disappointed as those who had been turned away; in fact, there was a block of tough, sleek brutes who stood with arms crossed, looking smugly, almost defiantly, up at the stage. Korm scanned their faces anxiously, wondering what was happening, when suddenly he realized what was wrong. There, standing in their midst, running his claws through his beard with a jovial grin, was Nast.

“I ask you,” the Herald began, “For your second nomination …”

Before he could quite finish, one of the lackeys at the burly Morg’s side raised his hand and bellowed, “I nominate Nast, of the House of Keth!”

The Herald looked taken aback for a moment but regained his composure quickly.

“Very well,” he said. “We have a second King, then! Nast, of the House of Keth, come up.”

Nast ascended the platform solidly to the sound of cheers and once there he turned and raised his arms in triumph, waving his hands at the wrist as if to call for louder plaudits. His followers responded, clapping thunderously in unison and starting to chant “Nast! Nast! Nast!”

The Herald called unsuccessfully for quiet for a few moments, banging his staff angrily on the stage in a useless effort. At last Nast appeared satisfied, and only at his commanding gesture did the noise die down. He cast a careless, masterful glance at Korm, then looked away, smiling.

The Herald snorted irritably.

“If you gentlemen are quite done, you may gather to register here on the left. That means all of you, not just,” – he paused – “your new king’s private cheering section.”

As if in answer a block of about fifty Morgs formed out of the crowd and moved, almost lockstep, to the sergeant waiting on the left. This maneuver on Nast’s part had been obviously rather carefully planned. Korm watched them and a chill went down his spine as he suddenly understood that Nast had very quickly gotten his measure, seen how unsure he was, and chosen him as a weak but plausible opponent. It was a vile, almost cowardly plan, but cunningly put together, and done partly on the fly at that, as he had to select his pawn from the Cadets available. Korm’s beard, the scholarly Morg realized bitterly, was just the added lure to the baited line.

The chill turned to heat as Korm watched Nast’s self-satisfied expression as his supporters were enrolled. It was not enough that he was rich. It was not enough that he was popular. He had every bit of advantage and training a great House could afford him; he would most likely win – he most certainly would win, Korm admitted angrily to himself. But that he thought it necessary to crush a bug like Korm to succeed! That filled him with rage that he dared not show. Only his fingers trembled a little as he clutched his stick, as if they were eager to use it.

The enrollment ended at last (it seemed an eternity to the seething Korm), and a couple of assistants moved the podium to the center of the stage. Korm hazarded a glimpse at the dignitaries behind him as they did so, but one note of the grim patience of Commandant Drim slightly turning his head to answer his gaze made him twist hastily around again. The Herald came forward and took his place behind the podium; Korm was now on his right and Nast on his left, their groups clustered on either side.

“Cadets!” he proclaimed, looking out, perforce, into the middle distance. He seemed to be addressing the empty space between. “You have been duly sorted and enrolled, having chosen your King. Now receive the ensigns of your Kingdoms!”

His assistants came marching up the stairs from behind the podium, carrying two banners hanging heavily from their cross-poles. They marched right up behind Korm and Nast and snapped to attention, bringing the flags up straight and unwavering with military discipline. One was largely brown with black trim, the other mostly black with brown trim.

“Your people, King Korm, will be the Brown-and-Blacks, and yours, King Nast, the Black-and-Browns. Everyone shall be issued uniforms accordingly, and to be out of your proper uniform at any time is a flogging offense.” He leaned forward and looked from side to side. “Just to make it easy for you knuckleheads, look at your King. The one with the brown beard gets the brown uniform with black sleeves, the one with the black beard gets the black uniform with the brown sleeves. You’re lucky this year it worked out that way. Keep this simple rule in mind … if you can … and you won’t get a beating.” He stepped back. “Commandant Drim.”

The grizzled officer came to the fore again.

“All right, you two, you’re Kings now. For your first official act, you’ve got to pick a couple of military aides; they will be, in effect, your lieutenants. Choose them with care. You’re stuck with them like they’re stuck with you. Let’s see how well you do it.” Drim looked over. “King Nast, you may select your men first.”

“That’s not hard,” Nast said promptly. “I pick my old friends Tchoz and Adrik. I know I can rely on their loyalty and strength.”

“Very well. Tchoz and Adrik, step up and receive your Kingdom’s flag.”

Two brawny Morgs, who Korm recognized as never having been very far away from Nast’s side, made their way up and took the banner from the waiting sergeant. They tussled a moment over who would hold the staff, but after a swift annoyed eyeshot from Nast, compromised by each holding it up with one hand. Drim watched them with raised eyebrows until they’d finished, then swung his head gruffly the other way.

“All right. King Korm,” he snapped. “Who do you choose?”

The young Morg flinched. He had been hastily running that question through his mind and had quickly come to the horrified conclusion that he hardly knew anyone at all among those who had followed him. He stood goggling at the Commandant as his brain reeled.

“Well?” Drim demanded, his raspy voice dry.

“I … I … I choose Berb, son of Thorel!” Korm managed to gasp out as the name suddenly came flashing into his head. There was a smattering of laughter at that. With a shout of joy, the lumbering, simple fellow came bursting from the crowd, nearly knocking the other cadets down out of his way, ignoring the steps and clambering up onto the podium in his eagerness.

“Here I be, Majefty!” he bawled through the hooting and clapping. “Ready to ferve!” He grabbed the flag out of the hand of the unresisting assistant and held it high, grinning down on his new leader with a tangle of snaggled teeth. Korm reached up and patted his shoulder cautiously.

“Thank you,” he managed to husk.

Berb looked around, pleased, then saw Nast’s aides snickering in his direction. His eyes went red with anger.

“Quiet, you, or I’ll pound the duft off your hidef!” he thundered. “You iff the enemief now, fo fee if I won’t!” The two froze, eyes wide with fear.

“Easy, Cadet,” Drim commanded evenly. “Save it for the field.” He turned to Korm as the big Morg settled himself down, though not without a black look now and then in the direction of Tchoz and Atrik. The sarcasm was a rime of frost on the Colonel’s tongue. “That’s still only one, your Majesty, though he’s almost big enough for two. Who’s your other man?”

Korm’s brain went totally blank, pinned, as it were, in the assessing gray gimlet of the Colonel’s eyes. Then it was if he had, for an instant, stepped right out of his body. He heard a voice that he knew to be his own, speaking somewhere about a foot behind his skull, as if it came right out of his soul without ever passing through head. He listened with a sort of curious, detached horror as the meaning of the words sank in, as he heard his voice firmly say, “I choose Prull, son of Prinn.”

Dead silence.

“Well?” Drim asked irritably. “Prull, son of Prinn, get up here!”

A murmur began to well up as the realization of what had just happened started to dawn on the young Morgs on both sides. Whispers passed through the two groups, and there were groans and some laughter. Drim’s eyes raked through the ranks suspiciously, squinting in puzzled annoyance at the noise.

“Prull!” he commanded, searching the group on his right. “Where are you?” His gaze snagged on a figure suddenly standing up very straight in the back. Drim focused on it, then went completely still, muzzle frozen in a scowl. It was hard to tell if it was in anger or disbelief.

The pale Morg starting walking down the aisle, looking neither right nor left, but straight at Korm. There were growls and shaking heads as he passed, and not a few eyes covered with despairing claws. Prull climbed onto the platform with careful, resolute steps. He paused and stared at Korm a few seconds, as if questioning his motives, then nodded and took his place behind him next to Berb. The hulking Morg looked at him rather wall-eyed, like a frightened horse, but stood his ground. For a moment the only movement on the stage was Prull’s light wispy beard, blowing in the breeze.

Then Drim drew in a long, loud breath and let out a weary, cynical sigh.

“Very well,” he said gruffly. “That concludes that. You will report to the sergeants to be issued your uniforms and pack, and then you will march out of the city to the training grounds where you will camp for the night. Then, tomorrow, gentlemen … your education will begin in earnest. Mog help us all,” he concluded with a mutter. He raised his voice again. “Dismissed!”

He marched off the stage, followed by the sergeants, who split off to supervise the separate groups. The Herald, the retired General, and Sekk approached each other informally, duty done. Korm heard the old Witness speaking warmly about a celebratory meal as they left the platform together.

Korm didn’t move from his spot, overwhelmed by the speed of the unexpected events. Berb still stood at attention behind him, fidgeting but holding position as if awaiting orders. Prull looked up at him humorously, then down at the transfixed Korm.

“I don’t know whether I should thank you or curse you,” he said wryly. “Thank you for the confidence you apparently have in me or curse you for the trouble you’ve undoubtedly bought us both. But I’m sure you meant well.”

He examined the unmoving Korm, then slapped him heartily on the back. The brown-bearded Morg snapped awake, blinking and shaking his head like a wet mountain goat.

“Now, I don’t know if you’ve started your reign out very well by choosing me as an adviser,” said Prull. He pointed. “But there goes your kingdom. As their leader, I suggest you go follow them.”  

Notes

I suppose I have to confess that Berb son of Thorel is a sort of imaginary portrait of me, Brer son of Elthor, if my enthusiasm and physicality (strength) hadn’t been so often baulked by shyness and restraint, just as Korm is a sort of idealized version of me if I had been more studious and dedicated. And Prull, of course, has all my feelings of alienation and social outsider status and a strong dash of cynicism and fatality. They exist together in an uneasy alliance in my soul.

Berb, of course, is shy one layer of social skin, “mercifully free of the ravages of intelligence.” He thinks with his heart and his gut, and while the mills of his mind can grind exceedingly slow, they usually come to the right conclusion in the end. His size and his strength make him awkward in a world built on a smaller scale. Nothing wrong with him, though he’s usually slow and careful; when he does commit himself to abrupt action, it can be alarming to those who only see him as a bovine oaf.

Prull is of course more cynical and analytical, standoffish and a little bitter over his social stigma.  His ironic observation echoes that attributed to Alexandre Auguste Ledru-Rollin (1848), “There go the people. I must follow them, for I am their leader.” It’s also sometimes given to John Quincy Adams or Mahatma Ghandi.

The names of Nast’s cronies and henchmen, Tchoz and Adrik, are also parodies of people from my schooldays, friends of my old political nemesis. Now fuel for my story machine. So it goes.

 

Friday Fiction: Timmy (Part Five?)

The next ten minutes were taken up with what Dad called hauling and hoisting. He was visibly tired by the end and definitely less enthusiastic but still amused by Timmy’s excitement. He paused before he left the room, eying the six clunky bins hunched in the corner of the room.

“Remember, kiddo, your Mom wants you done going through this stuff within the month, and she tells me there’s a lot more coming. It might be good if you could at least get a start on this batch before tomorrow. We’ll be wanting the garage back too, eventually.”

“Sure, Dad.” Timmy cracked open the lid of one battered bin; it was the same one he had peeked into before. He’d made sure that that one had remained at hand, close to the top. “Thanks.” He already seemed a little distant, preoccupied with his new hoard. Dad lingered for a moment as the boy began unpacking the contents, gazing curiously at what he had allowed to be unleashed in their home.

“Wow,” he said eventually as he stirred to leave. “This reminds me of when I was a kid.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” Timmy was distracted, making sure that books that were obviously part of a series remained together as he unpacked.

“Well, there were a lot more books around back then, though my Dad was already saying they were thinning out. And there was a lot more fantasy and crap around, in movies and things.” He shook his head. “It’s not so popular anymore.”

Timmy looked up. It wasn’t often that Dad talked about when he was a kid.

“Why do you think that is?” he asked.

Dad laughed a little nervously.

“Oh, I don’t know. There were the troubles there in the late Twenties, and then the Little War, and suddenly dreaming was out and Real Life was in. I don’t know. I’m no historian; I’m no pop blogger either. Alls I know is, dragons were gone, and survival was everywhere. Ultra-competent adventurers adapting to everything that came their way by facing facts and making tough decisions.” He chuckled. “I heard Roy at work say it’s just as imaginary, but with a lot less Metamucil to make it go down.”

Timmy was puzzled.

“Metamucil?”

“Or some word like that. Metaphoric? Mutagenic?  Anyway, you have fun.” He waved vaguely good night, gesturing at the bins. “I’m gonna have a beer and hit the hay. Back to the grind tomorrow, you know.”

“Night, Dad. And thanks again.”

“Sure thing, kiddo. Good night.”

Notes

The word Dad is trying to remember is metaphysics. ‘Roy at Work’ is obviously a pop blogger, or at least a wannabe, in his own right.

Uncle Samuel, ere he passed, would no doubt have told you that the eclipse of Fantasy was a good thing, even an expected thing. It helped eliminate the undergrowth that has been growing like barnacles on the hull of Fantasy, to mix a metaphor: writers who have been churning out product with the perceived trappings of Fantasy because it is a genre that’s made a lot of money, especially in the wake of J. K. Rowling’s success.

Such eclipses happened in the wake of both World Wars, when generations faced the horrors of conflict and material hardship, both times resulting in a rejection of what were seen as dangerously airy-fairy visions of patriotism or romance or daydreaming, resulting in the backlash of the ‘Ash Can School’ or ‘Kitchen Sink Realism’. During eras of peace and prosperity Fantasy flourishes unchecked, as adventure and meaning must be sought in ever attenuated realms of thought. Between such times, a real balance between ‘Materialism’ and the ‘Metaphysical’ can be approached.

As Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote in A Psalm to Life:

 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

   Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

   And things are not what they seem.

 

Life is real! Life is earnest!

   And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

   Was not spoken of the soul.

 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

   Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

   Find us farther than to-day.

 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

   And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

   Funeral marches to the grave.

 

In the world’s broad field of battle,

   In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

   Be a hero in the strife!

 

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

   Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,— act in the living Present!

   Heart within, and God o’erhead!

 

Lives of great men all remind us

   We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

   Footprints on the sands of time;

 

Footprints, that perhaps another,

   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

   Seeing, shall take heart again.

 

Let us, then, be up and doing,

   With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

   Learn to labor and to wait.

Or to quote Herman Munster, “Life is real,/ Life is earnest;/ If you’re cold/ Turn up the furnace.”   

 

The Lord of the Rings: The Muster of Rohan (Part Five)

 

The Tale

The captain of the Guard opens the curtain they are sitting behind and announces that an errand-rider from Gondor has arrived and wants to see the king. Theoden says to let him in. When the tall man enters Merry almost cries out, because it seems to him Boromir has come again, tall and grey-eyed and proud. The messenger is clad in fine mail with a green cloak, and a helm with a small silver star.

In his hand he carries a single arrow, black-feathered and barbed in steel, the tip of the arrowhead painted red. He kneels and presents it to Theoden.

‘Hail, Lord of the Rohirrim, friend of Gondor! Hirgon am I, errand-rider of Denethor, who bring you this token of war. Gondor is in great need. Often the Rohirrim have aided us, but now the Lord Denethor asks for all your strength and all your speed, lest Gondor fall at last.’

Theoden accepts the Red Arrow and holds it like a dread token, long feared. His hands tremble. The summons has not been made in all his years. He asks what Denethor reckons his strength and speed may be?

Hirgon replies that is best known to himself; but that unless Theoden comes quickly, he may find Minas Tirith besieged and his troops unable to enter the city. Unless he has enough men to break such a siege, Denethor thinks his army would be better inside than out.

But the Rohirrim fight better on horseback and in the open, Theoden replies, and they are usually a scattered people and take time to gather an army. Did Denethor know more than he speaks in the message? For the Riders are already at war and are mustering for battle in the East. Gandalf the Grey, the Stormcrow, has been among them.

Hirgon does not know; only that their case is desperate. Denethor does not command him to come, only to remember long friendships of their people and old oaths spoken. Mordor has a vast army, and alliances with many kings in the East. If they are not stopped in Gondor, they will overflow into many lands, and even Rohan’s strongholds will be of no use.

Theoden says that such peril is not unguessed, but they would come, even if Rohan felt no danger to their own lands. But they have had losses in their fight with Saruman the traitor and must leave some troops on their north and east frontiers, to guard his own kingdom. He might have been able to send ten thousand spears, but now he will definitely bring six thousand, and he himself the King will ride with them.  But it is a long road, and men and horses must get to the end with strength enough to fight. It might be a week before the Sons of Eorl reach the walls of Minas Tirith.

Hirgon is dismayed. ‘A week! … you are like to find only ruined walls in seven days … Still, you may at least disturb the Orcs and Swarthy Men from their feasting in the Tower.’

‘At least we will do that,’ says Theoden grimly. But all are tired and will rest for the night. Tomorrow Hirgon will ride away gladder for the sight of the muster of Rohan, and faster for having rested. Meanwhile, ‘In the morning counsels are best, and night changes many thoughts.’

He rises and bids them all rest. He tells Merry he needs him no more tonight, but he’ll call him in the morning. Merry says he’ll be ready, even if Theoden bids him ride with him on the paths of the Dead.

‘Speak not words of omen! Said the king. ‘For there may be more roads than one that could bear that name. But I did not say that I would bid you ride with me on any road. Good night!’

 

Notes

Hirgon is a name of unknown meaning. The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion points out that a similar war-arrow is used as a token calling to battle in William Morris’s The House of the Wulfings, a work and author well known to Tolkien. Rohan has ridden to help Gondor several times; the first was when Eorl himself led his troops to the aid of Gondor at the Fields of Celebrant, and thus was granted by the Steward the land of Calenardhon, which became the kingdom of Rohan. It was then that Eorl swore the first of those ‘old oaths.’

The Swarthy Men are the Haradrim. Theoden’s comment that they will ‘at least’ disturb the Orcs at their feasting is part of the grim, understated humor so typical of the Anglo-Saxon idiom, where the grimmest of thoughts are put aside in the lightest of ways, ‘chuckling in the face of doom.’ It shows defiance of fear and not letting the spirit be cowed by thoughts. An example from history might be when the Persians said their flights of arrows would block out the sun and the Spartans replied that they would at least then fight in the shade.

Theoden cautions Merry against speaking ‘words of omen’; the Paths of the Dead could refer not only the track through the Haunted Mountain, but any road that would lead them to death, as this riding to war may well be.

 

The Lord of the Rings: The Passing of the Grey Company (Part Five and Last)

 

The Tale

‘The light was still grey as they rode, for the sun had not climbed over the black ridges of the Haunted Mountain before them.’ Aragorn and the Grey Company (and Legolas and Gimli) pass through a line of ancient stones and so come to the Dimholt and a stand of ancient trees so black and gloomy that even Legolas (who was raised in Mirkwood, remember) cannot stand it very long. Passing through they come to a hollow place at the mountain’s root and a single tall stone like a warning finger.

‘My blood runs chill,’ said Gimli’ but his voice falls dead in that silent place. The horses will not pass the stone until the riders dismount and lead them around. And behind the stone in the sheer rock wall of the mountain is the Dark Door, gaping like a black mouth of night. ‘Signs and figures were carved above its wide arch too dim to read, and fear flowed through it like a grey vapour.’

All hearts quail ‘unless it were the heart of Legolas of the Elves, for whom the ghosts of Men have no terror.’ Halbarad, who may have some of the foresight of the Dunedain, predicts his death lies beyond the Door, but he will go through nonetheless. But he does not think the horses will go. Aragorn says they will need them once they pass through, so go the horses must. Every lost minute would aid Sauron’s victory.

Aragorn leads the way in, and his great will that the Rangers and their horses follow him. But Arod, the horse of Rohan, won’t enter, trembling and sweating, until Legolas sings some soft words, calming him, and then Legolas leads him through the Door. ‘And there stood Gimli Gloin’s left all alone.’

The Dwarf’s knees shake and he’s angry with himself that he does not go in immediately. ‘Here is a thing unheard of! he said. ‘An Elf will go underground and a Dwarf dare not!’ His pride stung, he plunges in. But his feet drag heavily over the threshold, ‘and at once a blindness came upon him, even upon Gimli Gloin’s son who had walked unafraid in many deep places in the world.’

Aragorn leads the company with a torch and Elladan (one of Elrond’s sons) brings up the rear with another. Gimli stumbles along, trying to catch up. If the company stops, he can hear a whisper of voices all around them in an unknown tongue. He knows there is no turning back.

There is a glint in the darkness and Aragorn turns aside to investigate. Gimli would go to look for gold any other time, but now he just wants to let it lie. It turns out to be a corpse clad in gilded armor, with a belt of gold and garnets. He is clawing at a closed door and his broken sword lies next to him, as if he died clawing trying to open that closed door.

Aragorn guesses who he is, one of the Kings of Rohan, but here no flowers will ever grow on his mound. No one will ever know what he was trying to find beyond the door, what treasures or secrets. Aragorn raises his voice and turns to face the whispering darkness behind them. For that is not why they are here! They only seek to pass through. He summons the Dead to the Stone of Erech!

The whispering falls into an even more dreadful silence, and a blast of wind blows out the torches. They cannot be kindled again. They pass on, and Gimli cannot tell how long they went on in the dark. He is always in the rear, pursued by blind horror that seems to grope at him. Finally, he is crawling along, thinking that he must either escape or turn and face the following fear.

Suddenly he hears the tinkle of water. The light grows, and he finds they are following a rill of water out of another door to outside to a steep road between sheer cliffs. So deep is the cleft that he can see stars above them, although it is still not sunset of the day they entered. It has seemed a timeless journey.

The company gets back on their horses and ride down through the deepening dusk in single file. Still the fear pursues them. Gimli rides behind Legolas again. When the Elf turns back to talk to the Dwarf, he sees Elladan bringing up the rear, but he is not the last behind them.

‘The Dead are following,’ said Legolas, ‘I see shapes of Men and of horses, and pale banners like shreds of cloud, and spears like winter-thickets on a misty night. The Dead are following.’ Yes, says Elladan. ‘They have been summoned.’

The Company come at last out of a ravine and into the uplands of a great and rich vale before them. Gimli asks ‘Where in Middle-earth are we?’ and Elladan answers they are in the Morthond Vale, carved out by the chill Blackroot river as it wends its way past Dol Amroth down to the sea. The vale is rich and many Men dwell there.

Aragorn turns and cries to the Company that they must ride in haste to the Stone of Erech before the day passes. They pass like a wild hunt down through the land, and the inhabitants flee before them, crying that the King of the Dead is upon them. They come to the Stone just before midnight. It is ‘a black stone, round as a great globe, the height of a man, though its half was buried in the ground. Unearthly it stood, as though it had fallen from the sky, as some believed; but those who remembered still the lore of Westernesse told that it had been brought out of the ruin of Numenor and there set by Isildur at his landing.’ Nobody from the valley gets near it, as it is said to be a meeting place of ‘the Shadow-men’.

When they get there, Aragorn turns and blows a silver horn that Elrohir (Elrond’s other son) hands him, and he is answered by dim horns like an echo in a mountain pass. The Company is aware of a great host all around them and ‘a chill wind like the breath of ghosts came down from the mountains.’ Aragorn dismounts, stands by the Stone and cries out ‘Oathbreakers, why have ye come?’

A voice answers, as if from far away: ‘To fulfil our oath and have peace.’

Aragorn says the hour has come at last. If they will follow him and clean the land of the servants of Sauron, he will hold the oath fulfilled, and they can depart and have peace. For he is Elessar, Isuldur’s heir of Gondor.

He bids Halbarad unfurl his standard, and in the darkness, it looks completely black; whatever is on it is hidden by darkness. There is a silence from the ghostly host. The Company camps by the Stone that night, and not a noise is heard from the Dead, but there is little sleep for dread.

When the dawn comes Aragorn raises the Company, and urges them forward, though they are still weary. They ride, and ‘only his will held them to go on. No other mortal Men could have endured it, none but the Dunedain of the North, and with them Gimli the Dwarf and Legolas of the Elves.’

They pass Tarlang’s Neck, and come to Lamedon, then to Calembel upon Ciril. The land before them is deserted; many have gone to war, and others have fled before the terror of the Dead. The Company stay overnight at the fords of Ciril. ‘But the next day there came no dawn and the Grey Company passed on into the darkness of the Storm of Mordor and were lost to mortal sight; but the Dead followed them.’

Bits and Bobs

Halbarad is a kinsman of Aragorn and has some of the foresight of the Dunedain; unfortunately, his premonition of his death comes true on the Pelennor Fields. He is, however, staunch and heroically faces his doom as necessary.

Dimholt translates as ‘the obscure, secret (dim) wood.’

The passage through the Paths of the Dead is told through Gimli’s eyes, who might be considered the ‘lowest’ of the Company, and so the most affected by the fear. It is only his Dwarvish pride that compels him to enter the caves.

The corpse they find is that of Baldor son of Brego, grandson of Eorl, who boasted he would take the Paths of the Dead and was never heard of again. That was 450 years ago. Tolkien wrote in a later note that the door that his body was found in front up was to an evil temple; it was shut in his face and the Dead broke his legs and left him to die.

It is said that when they finally emerge into a steep valley that it is so deep that, although it is still daylight, Gimli can see the stars. This so-called ‘chimney effect’ has since been disproved to exist. I think (and I’m not absolutely sure) that when Gimli uses the term Middle-earth that this is the first time it occurs used by a character in the story itself; at least it is the first place I ever noticed it.

The Stone of Erech seems like a strange artifact to lug all the way from Numenor; perhaps it had some significance that was never explained. Pelargir is ‘the Garth of Royal Ships’ where the Men of Westerness first landed and was the haven of the Faithful of the Numenoreans. Tolkien wrote of Tarlang’s Neck that it was named after one of the legendary Giants who built those mountains; when he died, he was built into the mountain wall, his neck becoming the ridge. He also said it could have been named because it was a difficult way for ‘stiff-necked’ people to take who would brook no delay. Calembel (Greenham’, ham as in town) sits on the Ciril, a river that cuts through the land (cir = cleaves).

Pippin sees the same sun go down redly from the walls of Minas Tirith; Sam and Frodo have seen it as they pass from Minas Morgul to Osgiliath. Now we are reminded of where most of the players are on the board.

The Case of Ambrose Abernathy (Part Five)

 

"Here, here!" said Trey huskily. "This Poppa's room. Quiet now! Shh!"

          As short as he was, the agent had to get down on all fours to squeeze in. His trouser knees joined his now-tattered socks in being soaked by the dripping slimy floor, and as worn as the rocks were, he managed to snag and tear them, bloodying his kneecaps. Once inside he stood up groaning loudly, much to the alarm of Trey and the squirming horde that followed them impulsively behind.

          "Sh! Sh!" susurrated huskily through the little chamber, with frightened glances at a shadowy corner. Most of the beasts started scattering immediately to the door on the other side of the room, flowing like water past the disoriented little man. He almost went to his knees again with the pattering pressure. Only Trey's grasping clutch on Abernathy's shoulder kept the bewildered agent upright. But he was nearly knocked down in the panicked exodus that ensued when a loud angry voice from the shadowy corner yelled out, "Here! What disturbs my sleep?"

          In a twinkling the beasts had scrambled out and away, yelping, all except Trey, who stood cringing and whimpering, Abernathy's shoulder pinched cruelly in the reflexive grip of his black claws. Abernathy himself might have followed after them, if it weren't for that. He watched in dread fascination as the tall shadowy figure hunched and scrabbled in the darkness. There was the crack and flare of another crystal, and the hairy and horrible figure of the thing was revealed.

          It was tall but bent, with bloody red eyes and matted, grizzled brown hair that tangled into a trailing, filthy beard. It was dressed in hanging, rotten rags. Its entire countenance was drawn down in a frown, burly black eyebrows and pinched mouth screwed up around a long thin nose, a nose that looked suddenly very familiar. Abernathy gasped.

          "Wallace Kindermass!" he exclaimed.

          The tall man looked stunned. He drew back and took in the little figure before him: Abernathy's clothes, ruined but fancy; his figure small, but upright.

          "A man," he breathed, mouth gaping to show black, broken teeth. "After all these years, another human man."

          The little agent gulped, then stepped forward, and thrust his hand out.

          "Ambrose Abernathy," he said. "Of the Department of Extranatural Affairs. I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Kindermass."

          "I thought I'd never see another human in this life," the other said, his face squeezing into a pained smile, tears flowing from his squinting eyes. "But what are you doing here? You are in great danger. You've got to flee!"

          "I wish I could," said Abernathy. "But damned if I know how. I came in through the wardrobe and it closed behind me."

          "Me too, me too!" the other nodded. "How long ago it seems!"

          "Your eldest sister said it's been almost twenty years."

          "Twenty years! And Sylvia is still alive?"

          "And your other sisters," said Abernathy hurriedly. "But that can wait for now! Don't you know any other way out of here?"

          "None." The other slumped backwards. "Oh, I tried to escape in the early years, but SHE put a stop to my wandering quick enough."

          "She?"

          "She who keeps me here. She who holds me prisoner. She who steals my substance to breed this race of ... of horrors!" Kindermass pointed venomously at Trey, who cowered under the accusation. He turned back to Abernathy. "She who will surely capture you when she learns of your presence!"

          "Where?" Abernathy looked around nervously. "Where is this She?"

          "Through that tunnel," Kindermass said, pointing to the hole where the gangrel pack had fled. "Oh run, man! You haven't much time!"

          "Come with me," the agent said, and held out his hand. "We can get out of here together, sir."

          The other laughed bitterly.

          "If it was that easy, don't you think I'd have left long ago? Look, look here," he said, gesturing Abernathy closer.

          The agent drew nearer to where the shaggy, bent figure stood in the dim blue halo of crystalline light, then gasped and drew back in dismay. Kindermass's almost skeletal legs were knotted through by pale quivering tentacles, going in and out of the scrawny flesh, that attached him to the cave floor like alien roots.

          "What ... what happened to you?"

          "I was drawn down a shining tunnel that suddenly appeared in my wardrobe, ever downward into the earth, until I came upon Her! She had lured me into the lair where she had dwelt for thousands of years, and I, poor fool, the first man ever to fall for her wiles!"

          Abernathy's eyes boggled.

          "Are you telling me there is a centuries-old woman living in this cave?"

          Kindermass cackled obscenely.

          "A woman only by analogy, only by simile. This ... this shapeless thing stole my essence, my seed, and when it ensnared my family's poor bitches from the world above, it harvested their germens and mingled them together to create in the blasphemous matrix of Her abnormal body these ... these monstrosities!" He brought his battered knuckles down in sudden anger on Trey's skull. The creature whimpered in pain and cowered under the assault.

          "She brews inside her foul innards a milk, like a female, but it is merely water and lime and fungus. This is what she feeds me on to keep me alive, me and these...these freaks! These half-breeds!" The ragged old man seemed suddenly transported with rage, bringing his hand down again and again on the dog-man's head and back.

          "Here! Here, now!" Abernathy said, grabbing the withered arms and trying to get between the two. "Violence won't help. If what you say is true, the poor beast is in some misbegotten way your own son!"

          Kindermass collapsed in his grip.

          "Do not remind me," he sobbed. "The shame! The shame..."

          "Pull yourself together, man," the little agent said, shaken. "What we've got to do now is ..."

          Whatever he thought they had to do was quickly rendered moot. There was a sudden touch at his ankle, and he was pulled backward off his feet, falling slap-down on the wet, spongy floor. He lifted himself up on slippery hands, face trailing slime, and looked around.

          While he had been distracted with Kindermass and the hapless Trey, several long tentacles had snaked out of the further cavern opening, oozing silently to where he stood. They gleamed wetly in the dim rock-light. One was already twining around his leg, while another raised up like a questing cobra, seeking for a further grip. Before he could break out of his fascinated horror, it lashed out and grabbed his wrist.

          "Momma!" Trey yapped happily. "Momma will help brudder Natty!"

          "Resist, sir, resist!" howled Kindermass.

          "I'm trying, I'm trying!" Abernathy yelled. But he was being pulled along, hopping on one leg, unbalanced, the dog-man bounding enthusiastically at his heels. The last he saw of Kindermass as he was dragged into the low cave-mouth was the skeletal bearded wretch slumping backward in his rags, the waning blue phosphorescence highlighting his despairing face.