The Lord of the Rings: The Siege of Gondor (Part 7)

The Tale

‘The next day, though darkness had reached it’s full and grew no deeper, it weighed heavier on men’s hearts, and a great dread was on them.’ The passages of the Anduin river have been taken by the Enemy. Faramir is retreating; the Gondor forces are ten times outnumbered the enemy. They had been building secret floats and barges on the other side of the river and used them to swarm to the other side. Even worse, they are led by the ‘Black Captain,’ the Lord of the Nazgul, a force so terrible even his own troops would slay themselves at his orders. At the news of that, Gandalf rides off to help, and Pippin is left alone, gazing hopelessly off to the East.

The next dark ‘morning’ has hardly begun when fires spring up where the walls of the Pelennor stand, and rumbles and red flashes show where the dark army is blowing holes to pass through. Gandalf appears in the mid-morning, leading an escort protecting wagonloads of wounded men. He reports right away to Denethor, who sits with Pippin in a high chamber in the White Tower, keeping a grim watch in all directions. ‘Most to the North he looked and would pause at whiles to listen, as if by some ancient art his ears might hear the thunder of hoofs on the plains far away.’ Is Theoden coming? He asks the wizard about Faramir.

He has not returned yet, Gandalf replies, but he still lived when he left him, keeping the rearguard together as best he can. But he is fighting a foe too great, whom Gandalf has long feared. Not the Dark Lord? Pippin blurts out in terror.

Denethor laughs. No, not yet, he says bitterly. He’ll only come when all the fighting is over. He uses others as his weapons. So do all great lords, if they are wise. Even Denethor spends his own sons. But he can still fight, he declares, throwing back his cloak to reveal he is clothed in mail with a sword at his side. He has kept them on for many years, lest his body get soft and timid.

‘Yet now under the Lord of Bard-dur the most fell of all his captains is already master of your outer walls,’ said Gandalf. ‘King of Angmar long ago, Sorcerer, Ringwraith, Lord of the Nazgul, a spear of terror in the hand of Sauron, shadow of despair.’

Denethor replies he knew that long ago. Maybe Gandalf will finally meet his match. Or has he already met his match, and slunk back to say so?  Pippin trembles, thinking Gandalf might be ‘stung to sudden wrath.’

But the wizard answers softly. No, that trial has not been made yet. And if the old prophecy is true, he will not fall by the hand of man. But anyway, he is not leading the army, but driving it forward by fear. Gandalf has returned; he came to guard the wounded men, and to counsel Denethor to send out a mounted sortie to check the enemy for a while, if they can. The enemy has few horsemen.

So do we, says Denethor. Now would be a good time for Rohan to show up. But the wizard tells him Cair Andros in the northeast has fallen, and another army is coming from the Black Gate. They are likely to be here before Rohan.

‘Some have accused you, Mithrandir, of delighting to bear ill news, said Denethor, ‘but to me this is no longer news: it was known to me ere nightfall yesterday. As for the sortie, I had already given thought to it. Let us go down.’

Bits and Bobs

‘Book’ Denethor (that is to say, the ‘real’ Denethor) is shown once more to be superior to ‘movie’ Denethor. He doesn’t sit around, slurping on cherry tomatoes while sending soldiers to their death, but rather watches the conflict intently, is ready to fight himself, and indeed anticipates much of Gandalf’s counsel and is acting with plans already laid. I can see how for a movie they had to dramatize the ‘badness’ of Denethor more theatrically. They wanted to emphasize the arrogance of entrenched power to contrast with the ‘suffering servant’ aspect of Aragorn’s ‘reluctant’ return. Couldn’t just have a rightful King returning; that’s too monarchical. Book Denethor is not proud of ‘spending his own sons’ but is bitter about the necessity.

Once more we are given examples of Gandalf’s proper role in the defense of the West: he protects the wounded and acts as messenger, counselor, and encourager. He is only a proactive warrior when the forces of the West are outmatched by superior supernatural forces (say, a Balrog or a Nazgul). He does not ‘take over’ as leader, but like a good father lets his charges do the best they can so that they will grow.  

Gandalf is not ‘stung to sudden wrath’ by the Stewards gibes, but rather gently reminds him of the prophecy that the Witch-King will not fall by the hand of man. How does Gandalf stand, if this is true? While he’s obviously male, is he in a broader sense technically human, being a Maiar (a spiritual being of the same order as Sauron, if more limited in power) in human form? We can assume this fact is not widely known. Does Denethor know, or guess? Could the wizard fulfill the prophecy?

Cair Andros (Sindarin Ship of Long Foam) was an island in the river Anduin, about ten miles long, and shaped like a ship. The island was of strategic importance, as it was a natural crossing point to get across the river. As such it was fortified by Gondor. The name reminds me of Cair Paravel in C. S. Lewis’ Narnia; Cair comes from the Welsh word Caer meaning ‘stronghold, fortress, citadel, court.’ It appears as an element in many Welsh place names, like Carmarthen, ‘Merlin’s Fort.’

Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part Seven)

Korm sat on a rock in their makeshift tent and poked at his porringer. It was mostly made up of oatmeal, but Berb had shown a surprising talent for finding wild herbs over the months, and Prull had discovered a colony of hyrax, fattening for the winter. So the camp gruel at least had the tang of fennel and sage and a lick of meat in it for their last meal. Korm’s stomach twisted as he thought about tomorrow, and he gloomily prodded the porridge again.

Hyrax

Tomorrow was the last day of Camp, the final trial. After that, everyone would march back into Morg City, and go home for the Harvest Festival, some in triumph, some in simple relief to have done with the whole ordeal. Korm, as King, knew who would bear the brunt of responsibility in dozens of homes. He sighed.

Prull looked up sharply at that, then back at his bowl in exaggerated comic disappointment. 

“Eat your slop, Korm. You’re going to need all your energy for tomorrow’s fiasco.” He took a bite and grimaced. “Besides, it might be considered a war crime if we left any of this swill behind.”

“That’f a good ftew!” Berb protested. He held out an angry paw. “If you doefn’t want yourf, I’ll finish it off!”

“If it doesn’t finish you off first. Taste’s good for what it is, though,” he conceded.

“Not aff good aff my madra’f, or even my fifterfef,” Berb said modestly. “If they waf here cooking, you wouldn’t complain.”

“I bet not.” Prull cocked a pale eye at Korm. “Say, your Highness, you’re a scholar. Why don’t girls get sent to Camp?”

“Oh, they’re far too busy actually running things. Especially come wartime. We boys, we’re the drones.”

Prull laughed shortly, yellow beard shaking for a moment. He sighed.

 “Still, I think ‘stew’ is a rather generous term to apply here.” He took another reluctant bite. “I hear that King Nast’s boys got some wild oxen – or were they strays? – that they’re roasting up in celebration.” He grinned sarcastically. “That Nast has all the luck, doesn’t he? Or maybe it’s just superior administration.”

“It’f cheatin’ iff what it iff!” Berb growled. “Even I knowf that, and I ain’t the fharpeft hammer in the bag!”

Prull opened his mouth as if to explain something, then shook his head, giving it up.

“Even so,” he said. “You’ve got to admit that it was a brilliant strategy, setting up camp where he did this time. Right up against the Stone Tombs? Nobody’s going to go sneaking up behind him, and that’ll be that many more guards to watch his perimeter.”

Berb shuddered, massive frame quaking.

“It’f fakker – facree – ,” he stammered.

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘sacrilegious’,” Korm said gently.

“It’f difrepectul!” Berb boomed. “Terrible bad luck’ll come of it, you’ll fee!”

“Why should it?” Prull asked. “They’re outside the wall, technically, so they’re not on hallowed ground, no more than we are. I don’t think even all the ghosts of all the judges laid to rest in the Third Tier could argue about that.”

“Pleafe don’t talk about ghoftf,” the big Morg begged. “I’m pretty fyure that’f bad luck too!” He closed his eyes and shivered. “My madra alwayf told me talef about how at night the old kingf hold court in the hollow hallf and the warriorf rife up to fight anyone who dare trefpaff, feeking their treafuref! They might hear uff talking about ‘em and come looking for uff!”

Prull grinned.

“And all the dead lawyers will sue us for slander, I suppose.”

“Don’t tease him, Prull,” Korm said. He turned to the big Morg. “It’s not a terrible place at all, Berb. I’ve been there many times with my Uncle Akko, mostly in the cemetery outside, of course. But sometimes they need a Witness present when they transfer old bones from the graves outside to the Ossuary within. It’s really very peaceful.”

“The Off … the Offoo ...?”

“The Ossuary. It’s a big chamber under the hill, at the very bottom. When the family tombs outside have a new occupant, the old bones are taken out and moved to the Ossuary, right under the tiers with the Kings and the Generals and the members of the Noble Houses.”

“Hah,” said Prull. “Still on the bottom, even in death.”

Korm smiled.

“Closer to Ortha, my Uncle Akko says. And even in time, as their burial chambers fill, the Houses mingle their dust with the poor folks in the Ossuary.” He scraped a last spoonful out of his bowl. “And Uncle Akko says that one day, when the weight of the dead equals the weight of the world, all spirits will return from the Halls of Waiting, take a body again, and there’ll be Bataluk, the final war between Light and Darkness.” He shoved the mush into his mouth, swallowed, and put the bowl aside. “That is, if you believe in such things.”

“Oh, I do, I do!” Berb said fervently. “I believef all the old talef.”

“Of course you do, you great big lump.” Prull patted him affectionately on the back. “Just like you know that a yellow-bearded Morg is a worthless, treacherous jinx.”

“Now, you iff a good fella,” Berb protested hurriedly. “You’fe my friend. You iff fmart, and helpful, and nife aff all get out, but …” He shrugged condescendingly and raised his hands, as if to indicate the whole situation. “Here we be. What’f the fcore atween the Kingdomf?”

Korm looked down, brought back to the matter hanging over their heads.

“We have fifteen,” he said quietly. “They have thirty-five.”

“Yes, and with the fifty points from our own little Bataluk tomorrow, the slaughter will be overwhelming. I wouldn’t be surprised if our troops just went ahead and surrendered, so they can get to their Autumn Cakes all the faster.” Prull threw his bowl to the ground. “I don’t see why this stupid game should be worth so much.”

“Last battles often are,” said Korm. “It’s who wins in the end that counts.” He smiled ruefully. “Just imagine. If by some miracle we captured their flag, that would give us sixty-five points and the victory.”

“I don’t see that happening,” Prull said gloomily. “Not with morale like it is.”

“But, by Mog, I’m gonna try!” Berb said grimly. “I won’t go down without a fight, I won’t! They better watch out!”

“Even you can’t take on the Wedge by yourself, my fearless friend. Nast’s bodyguard is sure to be clustered right around their flag, and that’s fifty of the biggest Morgs I’ve ever seen.”

“They’re fat.” Berb looked fierce. “I ain’t, no more.”

Korm thought about how true that was. Hard living and short commons had toughened the gigantic Morg up and slimmed him down. Korm, on the other hand, had bulked up, not hugely, but with more muscle on his skinny arms and legs. It made his beard look smaller in comparison, and sometimes he thought that his troops’ confidence had drained away in proportion to his beard seeming to shrink.

“Still, one to fifty isn’t fighting odds. And a wisp like me at your side won’t count for much more,” Prull said. “But I’ll be there.”

Berb reached out proudly and thumped him on the back, almost knocking him off from his stony seat.

“You iff a brave fella, my friend.”

“Not braver than you, big guy,” Prull said, rubbing his shoulder good-humoredly. “For all my talk, you wouldn’t find me in the Stone Tombs either, especially at night.”

“Woon’t nobody go there at night,” Berb agreed. “That’f why that coward Naft iff parked up there. He knowf nobody will.” He reached down and started gathering up the bowls, Prull’s from the ground and Korm’s by his side.

Korm grabbed the big Morg’s arm suddenly as it came close. Both his lieutenants looked at him in surprise. The bookish Morg was sitting bolt upright, staring into space. They watched him, frozen, until his brown eyes came into focus and he gazed at them as if just waking up.

“They wouldn’t, would they?” he said slowly. “And Nast … knows that.” His muzzle began to curl into an uncontrollable, unconscious smile.

“Gentlemen, how long until sunset?” he asked. “I think I have a plan.”

Notes

I suppose this stew commemorates one of the most notable meals in all my life, the stew (much nicer than Berb's, but still pretty basic) Pop made after the night of the famous Tornado Camp, when we were stuck in the bottom of the Knodel's field. That one was thick with beef and potato gravy, mostly flavored with pepper and a hint of ash. I wonder whatever happened to Pop's old 'camp cauldron', squat and black cast iron, cooked over the primitive portable fire 'grill' that rested open to the ground and was used at home in the garden for containing burning trash?

Quite a bit of Morg Lore and beliefs about death and the afterlife are developed here; including the concept of Bataluk (pronounced with a long u as in oo), a word borrowed of course from the Ring Inscription in The Lord of the Rings and applied by us boys to any apocalyptic Final Battle (note the 'battle' sound there?) in our action figure 'playings.'

Each of these little segments of the story fall rather neatly into 'marches,' that is to say, parts that I can write before I have to take a breather. Looking back, I'm kind of surprised how often the Harvest Festival crops up in these stories, though it is one of the oldest concepts in the 'mythos.' Almost an 'Old Year's Day', a combo of Christmas and Halloween as well.

 Hyrax are small, stout, thickset, herbivorous mammals. Hyraxes are well-furred, rotund animals with short tails. Modern hyraxes are typically between 30 and 70 cm (12 and 28 in) in length and weigh between 2 and 5 kg (4 and 11 lb). They are superficially similar to marmots or over-large pikas but are much more closely related to elephants and sienians. Hyraxes have a life span of 9 to 14 years. Both types of "rock" hyrax live on rock outcrops.

Almost all hyraxes are limited to Africa; the exception is the rock hyrax (P. capensis) which is also found in adjacent parts of the Middle East.

Hyraxes were a much more diverse group in the past encompassing species considerably larger than modern hyraxes. The largest known extinct hyrax has been estimated to weigh 600–1,300 kilograms (1,300–2,900 lb), comparable to a rhinoceros.

References are made to hyraxes in the Hebrew Bible. In Leviticus they are described as lacking a split hoof and therefore not being kosher. Some of the modern translations refer to them as rock hyraxes. The words "rabbit", "hare", "coney", or "daman" appear as terms for the hyrax in some English translations of the Bible. Early English translators had no knowledge of the hyrax, so they did not give a name for them, though "badger" or "rock-badger" has also been used more recently in new translations, especially in "common language" translations. - Wikipedia

A hyrax, of course, already appeared in "Mighty Mikku," an earlier one of the Tales of the Morgs, as one of the young Roth's scavangings. I dare say Morgs don't know from kosher.

The Lord of the Rings: The Muster of Rohan (Part Seven and Last)

 

The Tale

Under the deepening darkness from Mordor, Theoden gets ready to lead his Riders on the eastern road. Their hearts are heavy, but they are a stern folk and loyal to the king. Even in the camp where the women, children, and elderly are housed, there is little weeping. ‘Doom hung over them, but they faced it silently.’ Two hours pass as ranks are formed. Theoden, white haired and erect on his white horse gleaming in the dark, gives his people hope as he stands unbent and unafraid.

On the flats beside the river 5500 fully armed Riders are marshalled, with ‘many hundreds of other men with spare horses lightly burdened.’ A single trumpet sounds, Theoden raises his hand, and the army begins to move out silently. First come twelve of the king’s household men, an elite batch of warriors. Then Theoden and Eomer; he has said his grievous farewell to Eowyn already and turns his mind to the road ahead. After them follows Merry on his pony and the two riders from Gondor, and then twelve more picked Riders.

As they pass to the front of the long ranks, Merry notices a slight young Rider near the end of the line who glances at him with keen grey eyes. Merry shudders, for it seems the face ‘of one without hope who goes in search of death.’

The army goes along the Snowbourne (‘snow-born’) river, past Underharrow and Upbourn, two villages where sad faces look out of dark windows and doors at them. There are no horns or song or music as they pass, though there are songs sung years later of their fearful, fate-driven ride, five days to Mundberg (Minas Tirith) in Sunlending (translated from Anorien, ‘the land of the sun’), six thousand spears strong, and how they passed into darkness.

It is dark when they reach Edoras at high noon, where they are joined by about sixty more Riders, late to the muster. Theoden halts a short while to eat, then he bids Merry farewell. The hobbit is to stay safely here. Merry begs again to go with him; why did the king make him his swordthain (squire), if not to be with him. He does not want it to be said of him in song that he was only left behind!

Theoden reminds him that his pony is too small to make the long journey, and in the fighting they expect at the end there is little the hobbit can do. No rider can bear him as a burden. Theoden took him to keep safe, and here safe he shall stay. He will say no more.

‘Merry bowed and went away unhappily.’ He passes through the lines of Riders getting ready to move out, and in their busy ranks he is suddenly approached by the young doom-laden rider he noticed earlier, who speaks softly into Merry’s ear.

‘Where will wants not, a way opens, so we say,’ he whispered.' And he has found it so for himself. Merry obviously wants to go with Theoden, and good will and great heart should not be denied. The hobbit can ride with him, hidden under his cloak in the darkness, and none shall notice. Merry thanks him, though he remarks he does not know his name.

‘Do you not?’ said the Rider softly. ‘Then call me Dernhelm.’

So when the army rides out, Dernhelm’s steed Windfola secretly carries both Rider and Merry easily, ‘for Dernhelm is less in weight than many men, though lithe and well-knit in frame.’ They ride through the willows running along the Snowbourne into the Entwash, then rest for the night twelve leagues (about 36 miles) from Edoras. Then the next day through Folde and Fenmarch and past where Halifirien skirts the hills on the borders of Gondor.

As they go they find rumor of war in the north, lone men riding fleeing attacks by orc-hosts on the eastern borders, marching on the Wold of Rohan. But it is too late to turn aside. They must make haste to Gondor. ‘Ride on! Ride on!’ urges Eomer.

‘And so Theoden departed from his own realm, and mile by mile the long road wound away, and the beacon hills marched past: Calenhad, Min-Rimmon, Erelas, Nardol. But their fires were quenched. All the lands were grey and still; and ever the shadow deepened before them, and hope waned in every heart.’

 

Notes

And so we come at last to the end of this chapter, which we have been on since the start of the New Year. I have taken it in easy stages, usually writing it up in the early hours of the same day I post it, simply stopping at what seems a natural pause.

The Folde (Old Norse for land or country) is the center of the kingdom where the king and his kin live; it is bordered by the Eastfold and the Westfold.

The Fenmarch is the stretch of marshy land that follows the Mering Stream. It is the border between Rohan and Gondor.

The Firienwood (also called Firien Holt) stood beneath the Halifirien (‘holy wood’), an oakwood left unfelled to cover stealthy passage between the kingdoms.

Theoden, while impressing the distance to Minas Tirith on Merry, says it is a 102 league (306 mile) ride.

Dernhelm comes from dern (hidden, secret) and helm. So, helmet of secrecy, or as we might say, disguise. An odd entanglement, perhaps, as Grima (Wormtongue’s actual name) means ‘mask.’ Windfola means ‘foal of the wind’. The name implies the steed is as swift as the wind, being its child. It recalls old Greek legends of the land of Hyperborea (‘Beyond the North Wind’) where Boreas, the North Wind, fertilizes mares by blowing on them. Some writers identify Hyperborea with Britain, which makes an odd little connection with the Rohirrim and the English.

‘Where will wants not, a way opens’ loosely translates to ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ In other words, if you want something enough, you’ll find a way. For years I misread it as ‘a way will open up where you didn’t want it, or least expected it.’

I’m going to be as cagey about Dernhelm as Tolkien himself is here, until the proper time comes. I imagine it will be no surprise to most people.

The Lord of the Rings: Minas Tirith (Part Seven and Last)

The Tale

Pippin comes to the lowest and widest circle of the city, where he is directed to the Lampwright’s Street where he finds the Old Guesthouse, a large grey house with two wings and a grassy yard. There he sees some boys, the only children he’s seen in the city, playing on the steps and pillars of the porch. A boy sees him and comes over with several others to check him out. The boy challenges him. He’s never seen him. Is he a stranger to the City?

Pippin answers that he is , but he says that they tell him he is now a man of the City. The lad laughs at the word man and asks him a lot of questions. The boy brags that he himself is ten years old and almost five feet tall; his father is one of the tallest of the guards. Who’s your father?

‘What question shall I answer first? Said Pippin. ‘My father farms the lands round the Whitwell near Tuckburough in the Shire. I am nearly twenty-nine, so I pass you there; though I am but four feet, and not likely to grow anymore, save sideways.’

The boy whistles, impressed with his age. Still, he reckons he could stand Pippin on his head or lay him on his back.

Pippin laughs and agrees that he might. But they know some wrestling tricks in his little country, where he is considered quite large and strong. If worst came to worst, Pippin might have to kill him rather than be defeated. Perhaps when the boy is older he will learn that people aren’t always what they seem. ‘I am a halfling, hard, bold, and wicked!’ He pulls a grim face.

The boy steps back a pace, then advances with battle in his eyes. Pippin laughs again. And perhaps the lad will learn that strangers don’t always tell the truth about themselves, either. But what is the boy’s name, the hobbit asks. He replies that he is Bergil, son of Beregond. Pippin said he thought so; he looks like his father. Beregond has sent him to find the lad.

Bergil is at first dismayed that his father might have sent him to tell him he must leave, but the last wains have left. Pippin assures him that the news is better than that. If he’s not too busy trying to stand him on his head, the boy should be his guide around the City. Bergil is relieved and says they should go to the Gate to see the Captains of the Outlands who will be soon arriving.

Pippin and Bergil walk along, and the boy proves to be the best company Pippin has had since he parted with Merry. Pippin himself is in many ways just a boy himself. Bergil is impressed when Pippin can give the password and get them through the Gate; boys aren’t allowed out without an elder. They join a crowd of men waiting around the Gate, looking southward, until there is a cloud of dust approaching, and the sound of horns.

The first troop is greeted with ‘Forlong!’ Bergil explains that this is old Forlong the Fat, Lord of Lossarnach, the land where the boy’s grandfather lives.

‘Leading the line there came walking a big thick-limbed horse, and on it sat a man of wide shoulders and huge girth, but old and grey-bearded, yet mail-clad and black-helmed and bearing a long heavy spear. Behind him marched proudly a dusty line of men, well-armed and bearing great battle-axes; grim-faced they were, and shorter and somewhat swarthier than any men Pippin had yet seen in Gondor.’

He is hailed by the men of the City, but when he and his men have passed through the Gate there is murmuring. There are only two hundred; they had hoped for two thousand. This must be because of the black fleet attacking Lossarnach; they can only spare a little from the defense of their own homes. ‘Still every little is a gain.’

And so it goes as company after company enter, always fewer than they had hoped. Dervorin of Ringlo Vale; three hundred. Duinhir and his sons Duilin and Derufin, of Morthond; five hundred bowmen. Golasgil from the Anfalas, with a long line of hunters and herdsmen and villagers. A few grim hillsmen from Lamedon. About a hundred fisher-folk from the Ethir. From Pinnathe Gelin, Hirluin the Fair with three hundred gallant men in green. And last and most heartening Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, with a company of knights in full array and seven hundred tall men at arms, singing as they come.

The troops pass in, and silence falls on the men of Gondor. There are less than three thousand men come to their aid. Gloom descends on the dying day; the sky is grey but the setting sun seems to kindle the dust and fume in the East a blazing red.  ‘So ends a fair day in wrath!’ Pippin comments.

There will be wrath if Bergil doesn’t get back before the sundown bells. They go in and the Gate closes. Bergil says he is glad to have met Pippin and to thank his father for sending him to him. They separate and Pippin heads for the company messhall again; he is feeling hot and hungry. There he meets Beregond. They eat and then Pippin returns to the Old Guesthouse, hoping to see Gandalf. Beregond bids him farewell and reminds him he will be summoned before Denethor early tomorrow.

The streets are unusually dark; no lights after curfew and now no stars are in the sky. When he gets to their rooms Gandalf is not there. He tries looking out the window; it is like ‘looking into a pool of ink.’ He lies down, listening for the wizard’s return, and falls into an uneasy sleep. He wakes up to a light beyond the curtains of his alcove. The wizard has returned and is pacing and muttering. There are candles and rolls of parchment on the table. Pippin hears the wizard sigh. ‘When will Faramir return?’

Pippin pops his head through the curtains and greets him. He thought Gandalf had forgotten him; it’s been a long day.

‘But the night will be too short,’ said Gandalf. ‘I have come back here, for I must have a little peace, alone. You should sleep, in a bed while you may. At the sunrise I shall take you to the Lord Denethor. No, when the summons comes, not at sunrise. The Darkness has begun. There will be no dawn.’

Bits and Bobs

It was always (and may still be) a convention, especially in British literature, that when boys first meet there are usually challenges and even fights while they take each other’s measure. Then they become fast friends. Bergil is no exception here. Their friendship goes to emphasize Pippin’s basic youth and light-heartedness.

Forlong: (untranslated pre-Numenorean name)

Lossarnach; (Sindarin ‘flowery’ + untranslated ‘Arnach’)

Ringlo: (Sindarin ‘chill + flood’)

Dervorin: (untranslated Sindarin)

Duilin: (Sindarin, ‘swallow’[bird] or ‘singer by the river’)

Derufin: (?)

Anfalas: (Sindarin ‘long’ + ‘shore’; aka Langstrand)

Golasgil: (Sindarin? ‘leaf-star’?)

Lamedon: (untranslated pre-Numenorean)

Ethir Anduin: (Sindarin: ‘the mouths of the river Anduin’)

Hirluin: (probably Sindarin ‘lord’ + ‘blue’)

Pinnath Gelin: (Sindarin: ‘hills, downs’ + ‘green’)

Imrahil: (untranslated Adunaic); Denethor’s brother-in-law

Dol Amroth: (Sindarin: ‘dol = hill’ + Amroth ‘up-climber’)

It has been suggested that this list of lords is an example of a ‘Homeric catalog’, a roll of names made mostly to add ‘thickening’ or convincing detail to a narrative.

Imrahil’s sister married Denethor; that makes him Faramir and Boromir’s uncle. His home, Dol Amroth, used to be an Elven city, named after an elf-lord, and it is rumored that there is elven-blood in his heritage. His symbol is a silver swan on a blue field.

 

A Friend You Haven't Met: Part Eight

 

Maggie, in the meantime, was becoming frisky to a near unbearable degree, and acted as my co-pilot.

“Warmer … warmer. No, colder! Try down this street here … no sorry, go back … Could this be right? We’re running out of town already!”

“Pay it no mind, child,” I said. “In fact, cover your eyes and feel it out. Less distracting. Don’t worry, I’ll do the navigating.”

She put her hands over her black beetle-like eyes, and I took a few turns under her guidance, but it was true. We were getting to the end of the few streets, and the buildings were thinning out and getting spaced between barren, weed-covered lots. Suddenly she shuddered and dropped her hands away from her face.

“There!” She pointed. “Right there!” I hit the brakes.

In front of us was the last building in town. Or the first, I guess, if you were coming in from that way. It was some distance off from the rest of the place, as if it and the town didn’t want to associate with one another. Its proportions and design were strangely off.

Paint was peeling off the bricks of the long building from years in the blistering Texas sun. High narrow slits of windows lined the sides. The front was blind, with only a massive double door lurking behind a warped, fenced-in porch. Faded police tape fluttered around the posts in ghostly tendrils. A flaking marquee sign on the overhang declared under rusted, bulbless lamps: ST. HELWIG BOWLING ALLEY AND BAR.

“You sure this is it?” I asked.

She winced.

“Yes. Yes. I can barely look at it!”

“All right, boys, this is it.” I pulled carefully into the overgrown parking lot, weeds hissing around us and gravel crunching under the wheels. “Be cool but prepare yourselves for action. You might think there’s less chance we’ll be noticed in a small town, but I’ve found that the case is often quite the opposite. Any natives come by, let me do the talking. I’ve got the holy water, and Roth has his sword, so we’ll go in first. Padre, this thing has spiritual power, but so do you, and don’t be afraid to use it in a pinch. Korm … well, here.”

I put Bessie in park and reached under my seat. From the scattered maps and hamburger wrappers I pulled out a heavy, rusted flashlight.

“This is a kind of a torch.” I passed it over. “Here’s how it works. You can light our way, and if necessary, it makes a pretty good club.” I took a deep breath and checked the watcher one last time, more as a nervous tick than a necessity. “Okay, the trick until we get in is to be casual, keep your masks on, and most of all, act like we belong here.” I started to open the door, then paused. “Maggie, no flying.”

“Fine by me.” Her voice trembled. “I’m hiding right behind Timmy anyway.”

“You can always stay in the car.”

“No thanks. I’m sticking with Tim.”

“Then let’s go.”

We were an odd group, but we only had to go about ten feet to reach the railed-in porch. With any luck, I thought, we could be inside undercover before we drew too much attention. Not that I was worried more about that than about the danger of the Tekkel, but old DEA habits of discretion die hard. And any trouble with the local police would ultimately draw the interest of the Bureau, and in my semi-retirement I didn’t particularly care for their notice of my existence.

These thoughts passed vaguely through my mind the ten seconds that it took us to walk across the driveway and up the steps into the dim recesses of the overhang. I had almost relaxed when we were suddenly confronted by the doors.

We huddled around, and I examined them, stymied. I had been expecting the kind of flimsy entrance you’d normally get in a small-town establishment, with a normal lock or at least some glass we could discreetly bash in. Instead, we were confronted by two heavy solid-wood doors that might have graced a castle, with rusty black iron fixtures gripping the building, which, up close, looked to be solid stone under all that peeling paint. To top it off, a hefty length of chain was knotted through the double door handles and secured with a heavy padlock. I was not equipped for this.

“Roth, you think you can break this chain with your sword?”

He came forward and tugged at it with one black-nailed hand, then both. It rattled with a depressingly solid sound. He grunted.

“I don’t think so, even if I could get the right leverage.”

“Padre, maybe you could scout around back and see if there’s a more accessible back entrance …”

“There isn’t.” The sudden, unexpected flat voice made us turn. In the dark corner of the porch to our left there was a sudden flash of light as a huddled figure lit a cigarette, then straightened itself up, drawing in the smoke, until it stood in the dim afternoon light, staring at us defiantly.

It was a young girl, maybe seventeen, dressed in an old beat-up leather jacket that made her look bigger than the slim body underneath – a form of protection I’ve noticed often in the animal kingdom. Despite the heat she was wearing a black knit cap on top of her hair. The hair wasn’t quite brown or blond, but both. She squinted at us and breathed out an angry cloud of smoke.

     “So what are you guys up to?” she challenged. “You some kind of half-assed grown-up LARPERs? Don’t you know this is a shrine?”

“That’s odd, I thought it was a bowling alley,” I said mildly. “What’s a LARPer?”

“It’s a live-action role player, Bob,” Tim cut in. “A kind of dress-up game.” He turned to the girl. “A shrine? Like in a church?”

“You guys don’t know anything, do you? You don’t care.” She took another bitter puff, drawing her lips into a thin, pinched line. “Yeah, it used to be a church, then it was a bowling alley. But now, now … now it’s the site of the god-damned St. Helwig Sunday Massacre.” She tossed the cigarette down and ground it out spitefully, as if it were to blame.

A Friend You Haven't Met: Part Seven

 

To everyone’s surprise I turned over to the side of the road and parked. With the engine still thrumming I fumbled out the watcher, opened it, and adjusted the readings.

“What’s the matter?” asked Tim.

“What’s going on up there?” Roth barked.

“Just a minute, just a minute.” My head was whirling with surmises. I closed the device and sat, eyes closed and hands clamping my head to exclude distractions, and finally had an undivided think.  I opened my eyes.

“Tim, how is Maggie doing?”

“She is still here, but very faint. Perhaps we should get moving again?”

“Was there any change in her condition while we were driving?”

“For a while she seemed a little more solid, but it’s worse now.” The old man sounded exasperated. “Can we go?”

“Yes indeedy,” I said, revving up the engine, and in four fast jerky moves I had turned us around and was heading back the way we came.

“Can you remember the spot where she looked better?” I asked.

“Well, no,” Tim spluttered. “I was watching her. What are you doing?”

“I remember, if he don’t,” Roth butted in. Tim’s dismay was obvious. “There was a sign by three trees that snagged my eye. Couldn’t read it, but I can tell you when we get there. What’s goin’ on?”

“If I’m right,” I said, eye on the road, “When our evil little friend came into this world he was flailing, expending his influence trying to grab up extra power, lighting up every extranatural phenomenon in resistance to his probe. But now he’s drawn himself in and is trying to hide. Still too powerful for the watcher to get a direct bead on him, but little critters like Maggie there …”

“They’ll get stronger the closer they get and interact with its aura!” Korm concluded excitedly.

“Bingo!” I exclaimed. The Morg looked confused. “I mean, that’s exactly what I’m thinking. We can use Maggie as a divining rod to locate wherever our nasty guest has set up his new hotel.”

“Then we can stomp it and get the hell back home,” growled Roth. “I don’t know about you, Korm, but I’ve had enough of this crazy world.”

“That’s unfair! We’ve hardly seen it,” Korm said. “And not under the best circumstances, I have to say.” He patted the back of my car seat as if to soothe me. “I’m sure it’s really a lovely place, Mister Bob.”

“It has its good points,” I conceded. “And I’m glad you think so. Because if you boys ain’t magical and don’t know how to open that door again, you might be spending quite some time here.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Korm looked stricken, then brightened up. “I’m sure our wizard will come looking for us, when he’s recovered.”

“Well, I wish he were here now; he might come in very handy. In the meantime, we’ll have to try to get rid of this beastie ourselves.”

“And what happens to Maggie if you do?” I started a little in surprise. I had assumed that when I was talking to the Morgs it was in their language; apparently whatever I said was understood by everybody, and that included Tim. I drove awhile, looking ahead, before I answered.

“I really couldn’t say,” I said. I shrugged. “When I worked at the Bureau, I heard some theories. I imagine she’ll go back again to wherever she was all these years.”

“She’s not going to go into my head, is she?” he asked anxiously. “I don’t know if I could take the thought of that.”

“No, I’m pretty sure she’s externalized now,” I said evenly. I scanned the road ahead. “Especially after so many years. How’s she doing?”

“Hard to say,” the answer came. “I was looking away for a bit. Maybe a little better?”

“Keep your eye on her. This could be crucial.”

Another silence.

“So what are these theories, then? I’ve got to admit, this is strange as all get out, and creepy, but I’m still fond of the old girl. She won’t suffer, will she? She won’t just … be gone?”

I could hear the plaintive doubt in his words. I sighed.

“I tell you, Tim, I don’t know. But the theory I heard – and it’s just a working theory, you understand – the theory is that every human being is made up of a body, a spirit, and a soul, okay?”

“Like in Aristotle?”

“Yes, good, you remember that. Well, the body is obvious, and the soul is the immortal part that makes us us, as it were, but spirit is the gumphas that attaches them. The spirit is as mortal as the body, and it is the decayed bits that hang around as ghosts, whatever the destination of the soul is.”

“Oka-a-ay.” This sort of talk was obviously making the old friar uncomfortable.

“Well, occasionally a bit of a living spirit gets nipped off and begins developing its own personality and existence. A religious lady I worked with held that they, like anything people really love, will be redeemed with their own true reality in the new Heaven and Earth. So animals, works of art, even objects like a favorite old sewing machine or a beloved doll, will be part of the new Creation. They have no eternal existence on their own, but the love from an immortal soul might imbue them with immortality. Meanwhile, in this world they decay and die like anything else. Even imaginary friends like your Maggie there has a limited existence.”

I changed lanes, just to create a little diversion while that sank in.

“Anyway, that’s what I’ve heard,” I concluded.

“There!” Roth suddenly barked, sticking his muzzle over the seat and pointing eagerly with one black claw. “That signpost up ahead! That’s the place!”

“Oho!” I gave Bessie a little gas. “How’s she lookin’?”

“I think … I think … Yes!” Timmy said excitedly. “She is getting more solid!”

“Hot dang, we’re on the trail! Hold onto your hats, fellas, ‘cause here we go!”

For all my eager words I only went a little faster and slowed down almost to a crawl as we got near the sign. It was one of those town advertisements, and it read “St. Helwig: Seven Miles”. The towering hackberry trees that obscured its fading graphics told me it had been neglected for quite some time. A washed-out cartoon monk with a halo and a foaming beer mug in one hand pointed the way with ghostly hospitality.

The Morgs were looking from the sign and back to Timmy, eyes squinting and frowning in puzzlement. Up close, the caricature was nearly a dead ringer for the old man. Timmy was annoyed and impatient.

“Would you tell these guys to cut it out? For crying out loud … an old friar is an old friar. We all look alike!”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand this crazy place,” Roth muttered.

“Settle down, fellas,” I said evenly, turning down the little one lane rural road that led off through the fields. “Keep your eye on Maggie. What do you know about St. Helwig, padre?”

“Never heard of him. Sounds like a garbled pronunciation of Eligius, patron saint of …”

“Of the town, Timmy.”

“Oh! Uh, I really couldn’t say. It’s just one of those little settlements out in the sticks. Back in the day, I recall, kids from there would come into Walnut Springs, of all places, for a night on the big town.”

He hesitated.

“Seems to me I heard something about it a while ago, but … I was out of state for fifteen years; I’ve only been back a few months. I’m not quite caught up on local gossip.”

“Well, something seems to have drawn the beast. Maybe it just needs somewhere quiet to nest a while.” I drove on a bit. “How’s Maggie looking?”

“I’m doing better, Mr. Bob,” she piped up. “Much better. Can I get in the front seat? I can’t see nothing back here.”

“If Mr. Korm don’t mind it, I don’t,” I said. “Crawl on up. Don’t mess with my driving, though, and tell us if you start feeling faint again.”

She tumbled over the seat and snugged herself in between the wiry Morg and me. Though there was still a hint of translucence around her edges and her movements were rather languid, she was alert and interested again. Her brush with nonexistence didn’t seem to faze her a bit. Now that it was over, she acted like neither the past nor the future concerned her at all. Instead she looked around eagerly at the passing scene, calling out “Bird!” or “Cows!” whenever something hove into sight.

I kept one eye on her and one on the road. She was steadily solidifying. I even began to smell a scent of earth and fresh-cut grass. We passed several gravel roads, driveways really, that led to distant weather-beaten farmhouses that appeared to be likely suspects for an evil lair, but as we passed them and the strange little creature kept on improving, I never doubled back. Then, before we even realized it, we were in St. Helwig.

It was just a little huddle of buildings. The newest place looked to be a brick cube erected maybe in the Forties, housing a tiny convenience store. The rest of the houses breathed the air of an even more bygone era, except where they were patched here and there with modern plastic materials. Some had those new energy-efficient windows that stood out like a sore thumb against their ancient painted wood, and cables crawling in and out like exposed veins. I slowed down, but we were passing out of the other side of town before we even knew it and were headed (according to the green road sign) to San Antonio.

We’d gone on for another mile or so before Maggie suddenly said, “Stop. Go back. That was the place, I think.”

“Are you sure?” Timmy asked.

“Yes, I’m starting to feel … ” She swallowed. “It’s somewhere back there.”

“Okay,” I said. I pulled into the next turnaround and we were on our way back. The car was silent. Everyone realized we were drawing in on our quarry.

“I hate this thing,” Maggie said sullenly. Her sudden vehemence was surprising. “I hate that it’s making me stronger. It makes me feel … nasty.”

“Not surprised,” I said. “You’re not compatible, I’m guessing. Not only is this thing alien, it’s evil. It’s like plugging alternate current into direct. It might light you up for a while, but eventually you’ll get cooked, and then –.”

I snapped my trap shut.

“Let’s just concentrate on stopping this thing.”

“That’s something of a relief,” Timmy hazarded from the back seat. “I was beginning to wonder …”

“Tim, do you have anything like a bandana or a hanky?” I interrupted. “We’re gonna be driving around pretty slow through town, and I imagine we’ll be getting more close attention than in Walnut Springs. We need something to mask these Morgs.” I cackled mirthlessly. “In the old days we’d have to hide more than their faces, but with the weird fashions they got goin’ now, I figure they’ll otherwise pass okay, or at least without a rude comment.”

“I can do you better than a bandana.” I could hear him shuffling through the folds of his robe. “I’ve got a couple of extra medical masks I always carry in my pocket. You never know when you’ll want one, these days.”

I shook my head.

“I really need to pay more attention to the news, I guess. All right. Roth, he’s going to put a mask on you. Korm, you watch, and when he gives you one, try to put it on right.”

They got them on with a lot of fuss and feathers, Roth slapping Tim’s hands away when he seemed to pinch his ears and Korm fidgeting and asking a dozen times if it was on straight. But it was accomplished at last. The masks weren’t the best of fits over those protruding muzzles, but it gave a sort of plausible deniability for any casual sightings. We passed another sign as we entered the town. It had been vandalized; now it read “Welcome to St. HELLig.”  I grimaced.

The Lord of the Rings: The Window on the West (Part Seven and Last)

The Tale

          Frodo is no longer sleepy and is willing to talk, telling many tales of their journey, steering away from the Ring and their mission but always emphasizing Boromir’s bravery and his part in the quest. He tells Faramir that his brother was so valiant as to be the last to leave the bridge of Khazad-dum, because Aragorn was forced to lead the way out. Faramir wonders if it would have been better for Boromir to fall there than go to the fate that awaited him at Rauros Falls. He wonders again, what might have happened there?

          Frodo turns that thought aside, and asks him how things going with Gondor and Minas Tirith, ‘the long-enduring’?

Faramir doubts if they can meet this new challenge from Mordor, unless more help comes to them, from Elves or other Men. Although their kingdoms were founded by Elendil and the Numenoreans, they have dwindled since their days of glory. The Men of Gondor have never loved the Darkness or the ‘evil arts’, but they still carry the infection that caused the downfall of Numenor in the old days: they ‘hungered after endless life unchanging.’

‘Kings made tombs more splendid than houses of the living, and counted old names in the rolls of their descent dearer than the names of sons. Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry; in secret chambers withered men compounded strong elixirs, or in cold high towers asked questions of the stars. And the last king of the line of Anarion had no heir.’

But the Line of Stewards that ruled after them were wiser and made peace and alliances with ‘the proud peoples of the North’, the Rohirrim, their ‘kin from afar off,’ like the Numenoreans one of the Three Houses of Men who fought Morgoth in the First Age, but who had never gone to the West, the Middle Peoples, Men of the Twilight.

‘For so we reckon Men in our lore, calling them the High, or Men of the West, which were Numenoreans; and the Middle Peoples, Men of the Twilight, such as are the Rohirrim and their kin that dwell still far off in the North, and the Wild, the Men of Darkness,’ such as ‘the wild Easterlings or the cruel Haradrim.’

But it is not so much a ‘racial’ division as a cultural one. The Gondoreans have been slipping from the ‘High’ into the ‘Twilight’ themselves; where the Rohirrim have been enhanced with arts and gentleness, the men of Gondor have come to see war and valor as an end to themselves, almost as a sport, and warriors are esteemed above men of other craft. Because Boromir was a hardy and valiant ‘man of prowess’ he was seen as the best man in Gondor. Faramir sighs and falls silent.

          Sam, who has warmed up to Faramir because he has referred to the Elves with reverence, asks him why he has not said much about the Elves. Faramir replies that he is no master of Elven-lore, and that’s another sign of Gondor’s decline. In the old days their fathers fought beside the Elves against Morgoth and so were rewarded with the island of Numenor. But since coming back to Middle-earth they have become more estranged from the Elder People, and fear and misdoubt them, like the Rohirrim. Though there are still some who go in secret in search of Lothlorien, though few return. Faramir himself thinks it dangerous for mortal men to seek the Elves now, though he envies them for having spoken with the White Lady.

The Lady Galadriel! The subject sets Sam off into poetic rhapsodies. ‘Sometimes like a great tree in flower, sometimes like a white daffadowndilly, small and slender like. Hard as di’monds, soft as moonlight.  Warm as sunlight, cold as frost in the stars. Proud and far-off as a snow-mountain, and as merry as any lass I ever saw with daisies in her hair in springtime.’ Faramir remarks she must be lovely; indeed, perilously fair. Sam replies fair, yes, but only perilous because she’s so strong: you could wreck yourself on her like a ship on a rock, but it wouldn’t say it’s the rock’s fault. ‘Now, Boro –‘. Sam stops and turns red.

Faramir presses him. Would Sam say Boromir took his peril with him?

Sam begs his pardon and says Boromir was a fine man, but Sam watched him – just looking after his master and meaning nothing against him – since Rivendell, but he believes that is in Lorien that Boromir first faced his desires, that he wanted the Enemy’s Ring!

“Sam!’ Frodo is aghast. He’s been deep in his own thoughts, but Sam’s words have snapped him out of it. Sam goes white, realizing he’s done, then goes red and stands to face Faramir. Sam says he’s been a fool, but that’s no reason for Faramir to take advantage of them. He’s been talking very well, but handsome is as handsome does. ‘Now’s the chance to show your quality.’

Faramir answers him slowly and softly. So that’s the answer to all the riddles: the One Ring! Boromir tried to take it, they escaped him, and ran all the way into his arms! Here they are at his mercy. He stands up straight and tall, grey eyes glinting. The hobbits spring up in alarm, backs to the wall, hands going to their sword hilts. All the men in the cave stop and watch them in wonder.

But Faramir begins to laugh softly and sits down again. Then he becomes grave. ‘Alas for Boromir! It was too sore a trial!’ But Faramir will hold to his given word, though he didn’t know it was the Ring when he said ‘Not if I found it on the highway would I take it.’ He tells Sam to be at peace, for it was alright for him to reveal this thing and it may help his master in the long run. As for Faramir, he won’t even name ‘this thing’ again.

Things settle down again around them, and the hobbits sit. Faramir marvels that Frodo can carry ‘this thing’ with him and not use it; Hobbits are new to him, and he wonders what their land is like. Are they all like these two? Surely gardeners like Sam must be highly prized! But now they must rest, and he must sit and watch and think how best to help them on their way.

Frodo is overwhelmed with weariness after the shock of Sam’s slip-up. He can resist no more. He tells Faramir of their complete mission: to return the Ring to Mount Doom and destroy it. ‘I do not think I shall ever get there.’ Faramir gazes at him in silent astonishment, then Frodo sways, falling asleep. The man catches him and puts him to bed.

Sam hesitates a moment before following suit, then bows to Faramir. He took the test and showed his quality: the very highest. Faramir replies that praise from the praiseworthy is above all rewards. He is merely keeping his word. There was no lure to do otherwise.

‘Ah well, sir,’ said Sam, ‘you said my master had an elvish air … you have an air too, that reminds me of, of – well, Gandalf, of wizards.’

‘Maybe,’ said Faramir. ‘Maybe you discern from far away the air of Numenor. Good night!’

 

Bits and Bobs

I began this chapter back in January, but here we are at the end of it at last. Faramir gives much of the history of Gondor in brief, including the decay and degeneration that they’ve inherited from Numenor, the lust for ever more life beyond their natural bounds, the same sort of desire that fuels the modern quest for transhumanism, for the so-called ‘Singularity’ where artificial intelligence will merge with the human mind and become functionally immortal.

This is also the section that is most often quoted by those who hold that Tolkien and his work is racist. This division into High, Middle, and ‘Dark’ might seem so at first glance, but is more like classifying civilizations into Iron, Bronze, and Stone. It is their development that defines them, and they can be judged on a sliding scale. Gondor is slipping from the High. Men of the Dark are not so because of their skin color but because of their distance from and rejection of the Light from the Valar and the Elves.

Sam is full of his rusticisms and folk wisdom, using ‘daffadowndilly’ for daffodil and pronouncing 'di'monds' for diamonds, and phrases like the Gaffer’s ‘Whenever you open your big mouth you put your foot in it’ and ‘handsome is as handsome does.’ Do I need to note that handsome here is used in the sense of ‘high substantial quality’ and not merely good looks? He also comments after his praise of Galadriel that it needs a real poet – he’s only good for ‘a bit of comic rhyme.’ I love that later Faramir compliments him with the phrase ‘the praise of the praiseworthy is above all rewards.’ Faramir, too, knows quality when he sees it.

Not like movie Faramir at all.