The Lord of the Rings: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields (Part 2)

‘But lo! Suddenly in the midst of the glory of the king his golden shield was dimmed. The new morning was blotted from the sky. Dark fell about him. Horses reared and screamed. Men cast from the saddle lay grovelling on the ground.’

Theoden tries to rally his men, telling them to fear no darkness, but his horse Snowmane rears up high fighting the air, then falls screaming, an arrow in his side. Theoden falls beneath him.

The dark shadow descends. It is a winged creature, bigger than any bird, with naked skin and webbed wings. ‘A creature of an older world maybe it was’, that Sauron took, feeding it with ‘fell meats’ and giving it to his servant to ride. It lands and fastens on Snowmane with its claws.

The Lord of the Nazgul rides upon it, clothed in black with a crown of steel, with nothing between but a ‘deadly gleam of eyes.’ He wields a great black mace. He has returned to the air and come before the darkness can fail, ‘turning hope to despair, and victory to death.’

Theoden’s knights are either slain or their horses, mad with fear, have taken them away. But Dernhelm and Merry are still there by the King; their horse Windfola had thrown them in his terror over the Nazgul descending upon them. But Dernhelm stands, ‘faithful beyond fear,’ and will not be driven away. But the knight weeps, having loved Theoden like a father. Merry crawls along like a dazed beast, blind and sick with horror. He cannot even open his eyes, though his heart reminds him that he, too, swore that Theoden would be like a father to him.

Out of the darkness Merry hears Dernhelm speaking, in a strangely changed voice.

‘Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!’

‘A cold voice answered: ‘Come not between the Nazgul and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.’

Dernhelm is not intimidated; the ringing of a sword as the weapon is drawn, and the warrior declares ‘I will hinder [you], if I may.’ The Nazgul calls him a fool: ‘No living man may hinder me!’

Dernhelm laughs, and with a clear voice proclaims, ‘But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Eowyn am I, Eomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.’

The fell beast screams and the Nazgul pauses as if in doubt, and Merry opens his eyes in astonishment. A few paces before him is the winged beast with the Lord of the Nazgul looming like a shadow above it. Eowyn stands revealed standing in defiance a little to his left, her helm off and her hair flowing like pale gold. Merry’s mind flashes on the look on ‘Derhelm’s’ face as they rode from Dunharrow: the face of one with no hope, seeking death. ‘The slow-kindled courage of his race awoke.’ He is gripped with the determination she shall not die alone. He must try to help her. He tries to slowly crawl towards the Witch-King, hoping the wraith will not turn his deadly gaze upon him. But the wraith is intent on Eowyn and heeds the hobbit ‘no more than a worm in the mud.’

The fell beast screams and beats its wings, stirring up a foul air. It leaps toward Eowyn, striking with beak and claw. Eowyn does not blench. With one swift stroke she cuts off the thing’s head and it falls with beating wings into a wreck. With its collapse the darkness passes and the light of the sunrise shines about Eowyn.  

But the Black Rider rises up from the ruin of his steed, and towers threatening over the maiden. With a venomous cry of hatred he brings his mace down and shatters Eowyn’s shield. The shield falls in pieces, and she falls to her knees, her arm broken. The wraith’s eyes glitter and he raises his mace for another stroke.

But suddenly he stumbles forward with a cry of bitter pain. His mace misses Eowyn, burying itself into the ground. Merry’s crawling has finally brought him up to the Black Captain and he’s stabbed him from behind, ‘piercing the sinew behind his mighty knee.’ Merry cries out Eowyn’s name, and she rallies, with her last strength driving her sword between the wraith’s crown and his shoulders.

‘The sword broke into many glittering shards. The crown rolled away with a clang. Eowyn fell forward upon her fallen foe. But lo! The mantle and hauberk were empty. Shapeless they lay now on the ground, torn and tumbled; and a cry went up into the shuddering air, and faded to a shrill wailing, passing with the wind, a voice bodiless and thin that died, and was swallowed up, and was never heard again in that age of the world.’

Bits and Bobs

There has been much speculation about the ‘Fell Beast’ the Nazgul rides. It being called ‘a creature of an older world’ and its featherless webbed wings has put many readers in mind of a pterodactyl or pteranodon. In the Jackson movies it is rather dragonish, and I’ve heard many commentators refer to it and its brothers as ‘dragons’, which in the world of Middle-earth are totally different critters. In fact, it’s not even sure that the other Nazgul rode the same kind of creature that’s described here; it’s spoken of as a ‘last untimely brood’ that Sauron had fed and given to his servant (note the singular) as his steed. I know that in at least the rough drafts the wraiths steeds are sometimes called ‘black vultures,’ I suppose in contrast to the Great Eagles.

The fact that the gleam of the Lord’s eyes can be seen points, I think, to one of the properties of invisibility in Tolkien’s works. Things can be invisible, like the Nazgul’s ‘unseen sinews,’ but not the light that they put forth. This is a shown, if I remember rightly, when Elendil has to draw on his hood to dowse the light of the Elendilmir when he’s escaping wearing the Ring.

“Dernhelm,’ of course, means ‘helm of secrecy,’ and with her helmet off Eowyn is finally revealed. In the Jackson movies Merry twigs to her identity right away, but we can assume here that the hobbit, not expecting such a stratagem and being distracted with worry over the ride and coming battle, was thinking of other things. Her bravery is indeed great, being inspired by love for her uncle and the desire to do great deeds, but her recklessness is also being driven by her rejection by Aragorn: she is ‘seeking death.’ She mocks the Nazgul with the Rohirric term, ‘dwimmerlaik’ (work of sorcery). A sham, a cheat, no longer a man, a phantom, an empty thing.

The prophecy that the Witch-king cannot be killed by any living man was made by Glorfindel way back in the Second Age during the war with Angmar. Of course it echoes the prophecy in Macbeth, that he cannot be killed by any man of woman born, that is fulfilled when Macduff reveals he was ‘untimely ripped from his mother’s womb.’ The Lord of the Nazgul has been riding along on the assurance of this prophecy (he must have heard it somewhere, and puts credence in it), not considering the possible ambiguities in the statement. As it is, a woman and a hobbit together encompass his downfall.

And note that his threat to Eowyn is not that he will kill her, but will bear her away to ‘the houses of lamentation’, her flesh devoured and her mind left writhing under the gaze of Sauron. Compare Gorbag’s saying ‘[The Nazgul] will peel the body off of you as soon as look at you, and leave you all cold in the dark on the other side.’

·       Some have speculated that the Witch-King’s voice being ‘never heard in that age of the world again’ might imply that he could be back in another age. But it seems more to be a literary way of saying ‘never, ever again.’ The ring of the Nazgul that extended his life to an unnatural length, whether on his finger (and thus possibly left among his remains) or held by Sauron, would be destroyed when the One Ring is unmade. The Rankin/Bass The Return of the King, among its many other travesties, has the Lord of the Nazgul collapsing with the sound of a deflating balloon.

 

Friday Fiction: Slavery's Ghost (Part Two)

We left by coach the next day, and over the days of our trip, Frobisher debated and planned strategy, aloud and at length, aided only by the occasional monosyllable from me. It was all politics, and the political side of our business never engaged me. I was more preoccupied with my usual travel sickness.

          It boiled down to this. Mr. Jefferson had established our Department, as part of his government. His successors, Mr. Madison, and until recently, Mr. Monroe, had honored his creation. Monroe's ambitions had left his administration somewhat impoverished, and he was looking for economies. Frobisher had not heard from Jefferson for some time and was unsure of his continued interest and support.

          Frobisher came back, over and over, to one conclusion, as if to press it home to me, and reassure himself.

          "If we can help him with this haunting, if we can either rid him of this spirit or discover if some deception is being practiced on him, I'm sure we can get a strongly worded letter of support. Monroe will not -- even at this late date -- go against Jefferson's advice."

          Finally I could not stand the vain repetition any longer.

          "Ballentine," I said sternly. "You must compose yourself. This nervousness will serve no useful purpose. Consider: what if the worst happens, and we fail? The Bureau is dismantled. Then what? You still have your law practice. I still have my studies. The sun will still rise, and the waters still run. And there will still be good folk to fight these dark powers, as there have been for thousands of years before us."

          "But not as efficiently as we do." He subsided, grumbling. I knew he thought of the Department as his legacy, almost as his brain child, but I also knew that many a child never reaches its promise. Alas, how many books I have conceived that remain unwritten! Frobisher, admonished, spoke no more of it the remainder of the journey, but I could see by the darting of his eyes and restless turning of his head that it still occupied his thoughts.

          Once in Charlottesville we left the coach and hired a couple of horses, leaving our luggage to be delivered and riding the short way to Monticello, Mr. Jefferson's dream castle. Seen from a distance, this house, built mostly in the Palladian style, was a red and white vision of order, floating on a green hillside, a veritable fortress on a hill.

          As we drew closer to it, of course, one began to see its flaws, its weathering, the compromises of its working life. I learned later that it was constantly having parts torn down and built up again, as new ideas and improvements flitted through its master's head. The yard around the building was slovenly, with footpaths running like ant trails through the grass. Still, its grand portico, supported by massive pillars, was most impressive and made me feel rather insignificant as we ascended the steps.

          We were greeted by a footman at the front door, a slave as it turned out, although he was rather "bright" as they call lighter-skinned negroes, and dressed in elegant clothes, so that I did not at first realize his status. We announced our names, and were told we were expected, then ushered into the vast cavern of the house. I felt at first that we were going through some kind of museum, or even mausoleum, for the rooms though impeccably kept were devoid of any sign of occupancy, beautiful but lifeless, like flowers dipped in wax. That changed as we neared what I soon saw was the brain of the house.

          We turned down a dim corridor. Our escort knocked discreetly on a battered door, opened it, and we were announced. We entered Mr. Jefferson's library.

          He rose from his desk as we entered, flanked on either side by ranks of books. He was a tall man, majestical, but a little stiff from arthritis. He was dressed in an ancient green coat, trimmed with grey fur, and his clothes were loose on his gaunt frame and rumpled with work and wear. I only noticed all this later. What held me immediately was his expression, pale-eyed, distant, tight-lipped. I had seen that look when I was with the French in Egypt, looking out over the eternal sands.

          The Director led me up to the desk.

          "Mr. President," he said, bowing, the slightest tremor in his voice. I was surprised to note the sweat suddenly beading my old friend's balding head. I have never known him to be anything but under utmost control.

          "Frobisher," Jefferson replied. The slightest tilt of the head in acknowledgement. His eyes slid to me.

          "May I present Mr. Augustus Jandt, our best man. I am sure he will be able to get to the bottom of this trouble for you and bring it to a swift and successful conclusion."

          I stepped forward, performed a military bow, and proffered my hand. After a slight hesitation he took it. We shook briefly, and without warmth. He dropped my hand immediately.

          "You are welcome to Monticello, Mr. Jandt," he drawled. "I do hope your stay here will be brief and satisfactory. This... apparition has been most upsetting for my people."

          "And for yourself, surely, Mr. President?"

          Again, the distance.

          "You may drop the title, Mr. Jandt. I am at present a simple farmer and a private citizen. The appellation belongs to another. And to be frank with you, I do not care about this phenomenon one way or another. What concerns me is the effect it is having on my household."

          "And what effect is that, sir?"

          Jefferson arched an eyebrow.

          "Am I to presume the investigation is starting already?"

          "It began a half hour ago, sir. This is simply the part when the questions begin."

          He turned to Frobisher.

          "Your best man wastes no time, I see."

          "Would you want me to, Mr. Jefferson? It is perhaps best to think of me in this process as a physician. I am going to ask some rather personal questions, and I will require very honest answers, the better to diagnose the case. In return, I pledge the discretion of a doctor for whatever you reveal to me. I may ask things that seem irrelevant or even impertinent, but believe me it is not from some perverse curiosity."

          Jefferson looked at me like I was some new species of beetle he had suddenly found crawling on his desk.

          "Does the Bureau initiate all its investigations in so straightforward a manner?"

          "Of course not, sir," Frobisher began apologetically, but I interrupted.

          "You are the founder of the Department, Mr. Jefferson. You summoned us here. I see no reason for subterfuge or hidden agenda, no disguises or delicacy. Do you? I find the circumstances most refreshing myself, being able to begin with no dancing around the subject, the client being so obviously intelligent and completely aware of the situation. So should I waste time?"

          We stood toe to toe for an agonized instant. Frobisher looked as if he were waiting for the pin to transfix the beetle. Then Jefferson smiled a wintery smile.

          "You think logically, Jandt. Good. I appreciate that. By all means, let us begin." He gestured for us to be seated.

          I pulled out my small pad and a pencil. Jefferson sat back at his desk and began the facts as follows.

(To Be Continued)

 

Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part Two)

The next day the Market in Morg City was closed and vacated by noon, leaving the vast central area of tables and benches eerily empty. Booths were erected across the four great entryways and registrars took their places next to swing bars, and at the last stroke of the hour, young male Morgs began making their way into the square, some warily, some triumphantly, some merry, some sober. The one thing they all had in common was that besides being clothed in the same simple crude robe of rough material, they carried nothing whatever with them, not the simplest trinket or plainest rag. For the next few months, all they had was to be supplied by the kingdom.

Korm said farewell to Uncle Akko in the street outside, gave his name, address, and parentage at the turnstile, then was handed, much to his consternation, a stick.

“What do I do with this?” he asked, puzzled.

“Keep it and take care of it,” the harried registrar said, head bowed over his parchment. “During your training, that stick will be your sword, your spear, your shield, and your, ah, well, your stick.”

“A sword?” Korm asked incredulously, looking at the well-worn length of wood.

“You didn’t think we’d give you gorbs a sharp piece of metal right away, did you?” the other said acidly. “Next!”

He had barely stumbled blinking into the sun of the market when he was suddenly accosted by a hearty, roaring voice on his left.

“By Mog’s starry crown!” it boomed. “That’s the most magnificent beard I’ve ever laid eyes on. Surely here’s a fellow destined for greatness!”

Korm turned instinctively to his left at the sound, cringing warily. There, already seated on a table and surrounded by a host of followers was a big barrel-chested Morg with a broad black beard. Although clothed no differently than anyone else, there was an air of habitual command and casual strength about him. He held his stick effortlessly in the crook of his arm, like a scepter.

Korm bobbed his head, only wanting to slink by, but to his dismay the other jumped down from his perch, landing gracefully on his feet and approaching in one confident movement, arm extended. He pinioned Korm’s shoulder with one strong claw, and the skinny young Morg found himself shaking hands before he knew quite what was going on.

“Glad to meet you, fellow Cadet. And what’s your name, friend?”

“Korm, son of Tessa,” he managed to squeeze out breathlessly. The other’s grip tightened.

“Good, good. By the gods, what a beard! Korm,” he repeated with satisfaction, as if to fix it in his head. “Well, sir, I am Nast, of the House of Keth.”

“The House of Keth!” Korm squeaked. He looked at the other in awe. “I’ve heard of the House of Keth!”

There was general laughter from the big Morg’s companions.

“You’d have to be a blind mole-rat not to have heard of the House of Keth!” one barked.

“One of the richest, the oldest, the most famous …,” one started listing.

“Oh, but we’re all the same here at Camp!” Nast bellowed jovially. He shook out the sleeves of his tabard, then held one open with his claw. “You don’t see any jewels tucked up here, do you? What we gain here, we get by merit!”

“I guess that’s true,” Korm started, then squawked when Nast pounded him on the back.

“Of course it’s true! And I’m sure we’ll be hearing a lot more about you, Mr. Korm.”

He gave a cheerful parting handshake and a grin and finally let Korm go. The skinny Morg hurried away from the babble of hearty voices as Nast rejoined his group. Although he had been pleasant enough, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Nast was somehow mocking him.

Whatever the case, the encounter had been too overwhelming for Korm. He skulked away, head down, to the perimeters of the Market where pillars from the surrounding buildings held up shadowy eaves. He started to duck behind one of the pillars when he was startled to hear a voice pipe up.

“Sorry. Already taken.”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” Korm began, trying to duck away hurriedly, but one furtive glance at the speaker stopped him cold. His muzzle dropped open. “Oh, my,” he said softly.

“Don’t worry,” the other said, voice full of rue. “It’s not catching.”

Before him, sitting almost defiantly straight on the bench next to the nearly hidden table, was the palest Morg Korm had ever seen. The stranger’s skin was a mottled pink, like boiled ham, and his light buttermilk eyes looked back at Korm unflinchingly, as if daring him to come up with a comment that he had never heard before. But the most unusual thing that struck Korm dumb was his beard.

It was long and thin. It was wispy, the hairs almost silken fine, threads rising like restless spiderweb in the nearly non-existent wind. It was everything a beard shouldn’t be, according to Morg lore. And it was yellow as butter, yellow as straw, yellow as false and fleeting gold in the old songs. Korm stood petrified with curiosity.

The other let him look his fill for a full beat, then looked away casually.

“It’s not catching, but if you stand there like that much longer, you might catch a fly or two in your mouth.”

Korm unfroze.

“Oh, I am sorry. Please forgive me.” To the other’s vast surprise, Korm approached him, hand out in greeting. “Korm, son of Tessa.”

The other shook hands, eyes wide in wonder.

“Prull, son of Prinn,” he said. He looked Korm over appraisingly, as if searching for signs of duplicity. “You really don’t mind … talking to me? Even shaking my hand?”

“No. Why shouldn’t I? You’re the first fellow I’ve ever seen of your … ah … type. I hope you’ll pardon my curiosity. It’s just the way I am.”

“Hurr,” the other laughed bitterly. “Folks do like gawking at a freak.”

“Not at all,” Korm said. “A rarity, perhaps. An anomaly. And it is the anomalies in the world that can teach us most about the truth.” He gestured. “May I sit down?”

“Not afraid of a bit of bad luck then, are you?” Prull asked, his tone challenging.

“Oh, I’ve had some training with my uncle as a Witness,” Korm said. “They have to go everywhere, to see without judging. There’s no good luck or bad luck, I think. There’s just the world and what people make of it.” He sat down.

“Well, that certainly doesn’t jibe with the Lore I’ve heard,” said Prull, smoothing his beard under his claws. Even his nails were nearly transparent. “And believe you me, I’ve heard everything bad there is to hear about a yellow beard. If you think differently, I suppose that makes you a bit of an anomaly yourself, Master Korm.”

“I suppose so.” Korm grinned in happy surprise. He looked around the square. More and more young Morgs were flowing in, finding their friends, making groups, and sitting down. The noise level was starting to rise. “I wonder if we should try to mingle more with the others.”

“You might,” the other growled. “I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for my old dad. ‘All your brothers went,’ says he. ‘You’re not going to flout the traditions; that’s the last thing you need. The most they can do is send you home.’ It was all right for my brothers. None of them were … like this.”

“But maybe if more people got to know you … got used to seeing you … “

“You think that will do any good, when even my own family … Let’s put it this way, any bit of mulishness on my part when a boy was put down to the beard. Any bit of bad fortune that came the family’s way? My curse. It’s made me toe the line more than most even try. But if my own madra can’t hardly stand my presence …” Prull gestured at the growing throng. “What makes you think they will?”

“Well, what makes you think they won’t?” Korm countered. He loved to debate. “You can’t really be sure what people will do, until they actually do it, can you? Even if most have rejected you, even if most will reject you, you could make a friend or two. And for those who don’t – forget them. Don’t make their job easier by doing it for them beforehand.”

Prull snorted.

“You really think I could make a friend here?”

Korm leaned back in his chair with a little smile.

“Well, you and I seem to be getting along pretty well, don’t we?”

That seemed to stump the other for a minute, then he grinned back at Korm.

“You’ll excuse me saying so, Mr. Korm, but you don’t exactly strike me as having the biggest store of common sense in the world, at that.”

“Well, Mr. Prull, that’s another opinion we have in common, then.”

They both laughed at that, a laugh that was suddenly interrupted by the distant solitary stroke of the bell in the White Tower, announcing the first hour after noon. It was immediately followed by clanging bells from the market gates.

“Five minutes!” a voice bawled. “Five minutes before we commence! Five minutes and the gates are closed! Draw near the podium. Five minutes, and we commence!”

Korm jumped to his feet, like a trained dog. He started forward, then looked back questioningly at Prull.

“You go on ahead if you want,” Prull said, settling back. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

Korm held back for a few seconds, then looked helplessly at the blonde Morg.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I have this compulsion about being late. But I’m sure we’ll see each other again. We’re stuck together at Camp anyway, right?”

“I understand,” Prull said. “Go, go. I’ll be somewhere here at the back, but I’ll be here.” He shrugged. “I have to be.”

“Thanks,” Korm said. He turned reluctantly and began to make his way to the milling crowd that was crowding around the raised platform at the south end of the square.

Notes

This little bit gave rise to the Morgish tradition of ‘gorb’ and ‘gorbos’. As The Morgish Lexicon states:

Feckless Gorb

While most scholars agree that Gorb (or Feckless Gorb, as he is popularly known) was a real historical figure, living sometime in the uneventful years between the Settling and Barek and the Ogre Invasion, though it is sometimes jestingly asserted that it must have been his grandfather who kept the pilot logs during the Migration [in which the location of the Morgish Homeland was lost].

He is hard to pin down to a definite date, though, because Gorb has become a byword for a clumsy or thoughtless person. While some of the anecdotes connected to him are possibly actual incidents in his life, it would be hard to say which, as many tales and jokes became attached to him over time.

As a character, Gorb is never described as feeble-minded or crazy, but thoughtless, careless, or foolish in the extreme. He could be wise if he was paying attention or applying himself, but he never does. A gorb is inexperienced or unskilled; the term is applied to beginners or novices.

Gorb also gave rise to at least two popular sayings. One goes “Well, Gorb’s madra loved him.” The story goes that he was accidentally responsible for his mother’s death, and that with her last words she forgave him. The colloquial meaning implies that one may be enamored with one’s foolish actions, but they could lead to disaster. The other says that “Gorb is the only one remembered from his time,” meaning both that fame is not necessarily good, but also that it is anyway a form of immortality.

There is also a light form of comic poetry, called ‘gorbos’. The verses are short, seldom more than four lines long, with a loose but definite form. They purport to recount Gorb’s amusing adventures. The following is a typical example:

“Feckless Gorb milked a billy,

Put the squeezings in his tea.

Took a sip, frowned, and grumbled,

“This tastes rather odd to me!”

 

It also reveals a rather odd prejudice or superstition among the Morgs, the same sort of unfortunate beliefs that have followed albinism through the ages, or the left-handed, or the red-headed in our world. I deepened the lore by attaching it to Karn, the contrarian son of Mog Gammoth, who had existed in some form since the early 1980’s. And thus the groove wears deeper. I knew Korm had to have some other ‘outcast’ or marginalized friends at camp, to oppose the socially entrenched privilege of Nast and his party. A ‘Nerds vs. the Snobs’ situation, as it were. I didn’t quite realize how Eighties a trope that I was using until recently.

The rather loose oath 'By the gods!' used by Nast basically means 'by all the supernatural powers', and would include Morlakor Shyreen (the Supreme Being), Orathil (a Mother Nature type), their Manichaen offspring Aman and Belg (Good vs. Evil), and the Yorn (Angels, both helpful and wicked). That Nast would lump them so carelessly together in a casual oath shows he has no real belief in any of them. If he has any 'religion', it's faith in the superiority of his family. As Uncle Akko might say, this does not augur well for him.

The Lord of the Rings: The Siege of Gondor (Part 2)

The Tale

After the 11^th hour, Pippin is released for a while to go get something to eat. In the ‘messes’ he meets Beregond again, who has just returned from an errand over the Pelennor fields to the Guard-Towers on the Causeway.

They stroll out to the walls, back to the embrasure where they ate yesterday, because Pippin feels claustrophobic even in the lofty citadel. They finally see a farewell gleam from the sun as it sets below the cloud cover, the same brief gleam that Frodo and Sam saw touching the head of the fallen king at the Cross Roads.

To Pippin, it seems years ago that he stood there. Yesterday he was just a wanderer passing through adventures; now he is one small soldier waiting in a besieged city. He might have been more pleased with his new array at another time, but his armor is somber and heavy, and he knows this is not playing. He yawns and sighs.

Beregond asks if he is weary of the day, and Pippin answers that he has been waiting on Denethor while the Steward confers with Gandalf and the Prince and other important people. It’s hard for a hobbit to watch others eat and stand by hungry. But under this spreading gloom even food and drink are no comfort. The very air seems thick; is it often thus when the wind is in the East?

No, this is no ordinary weather, but something brewed up by the Dark Lord to darken their hearts, maybe from the Mountain of Fire itself. Beregond wishes Faramir would return; he would not be dismayed.
Gandalf is worried about him too. And now Gandalf is off somewhere himself, having left the council before noon-meal in a bad mood. ‘Perhaps he has some foreboding of bad news.’

Bits and Bobs

The Guard-Towers on the Causeway are named Bered Ondrath (Sindarin: ‘?towers of the stone track’). They are a two-towered fortification on the north-eastern gate of the Rammas Echor, four leagues (12 miles) from the City gate.

The date is March 10, 3019.

Sorry about such a small snip, but I'm a little under the weather. I'm amazed I did this much.

 

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

 

The Tale

They reach Harrowdale. ‘The paths out of the narrow gorge fell steeply. Only a glimpse, as through a tall window, could be seen of the great valley in the gloaming below. A single small light could be seen twinkling by the river.’ Theoden says he will ride in the morning to Edoras and the gathering of the army.

Eomer advises the King that once they are there, Theoden should stay there, for safety’s sake until the war is over, for good or ill. Theoden smiles, and calls Eomer son, but tells him not to speak the words of Wormtongue again. If the war is lost, it won’t do him any good hiding in the hills. And even if it is won, but he falls in the fight, it will be no grief. But he wil lie in the Hold of Dunharrow tonight ‘One evening of peace at least is left us.’

In the deepening dusk they descend into the dale. Soon they come to a ford across the Snowbourne where they are met and challenged by many guards. But when they see it is the King returning a shout of joy goes up, and he is welcomed by one long horncall that turns into a chorus of trumpets throughout the valley. Theoden’s company is met by a company of the captains of his remaining forces, led by Dunhere, chieftain of the folk of Harrowdale.

Dunhere tells the King how three days ago Gandalf on Shadowfax came to them, bearing the news of Theoden’s victory, but also the King’s order to hasten the gathering of the Riders. And then came the winged Shadow.

Theoden says they had seen this Nazgul before, when Gandalf was still with them, but Dunhere says it came again, ‘a flying darkness in the shape of a monstrous bird’ flying over Edoras, swooping down almost to the gables of Meduseld, screeching a freezing cry. Gandalf advised them not to meet in the fields but to bring the army to Dunharrow, and light no more fires than needed, to mask the size of their host. The advice seemed good, as no such evil thing has been seen in Harrowdale, and since Gandalf spoke with authority, they obeyed him, and hope they have done what the King wishes.

‘It is well,’ said Theoden. ‘I will now ride to the Hold, and there before I go to rest I will meet the marshalls and captains. Let them come to me as soon as may be!’

Notes

Dunharrow is a fortress hidden high in the White Mountains, south of Edoras, built on a level upland. It was occupied even before the Men of Numenor came over the Sea in the second Age. Its name means “the heathen fane(temple) on the hillside.”

The name Dunhere translates to “hill-warrior”. He was Erkenbrand’s nephew. He will be one of those who fall at the Battle of Pelennor Fields.

In this passage we are given a foretaste of the stirring horns of the Rohirrim.

The Case of Ambrose Abernathy (Part Two)

     "Miss Kindermass?" he managed at last. "I am Mr. Ambrose Abernathy, from the Department of Extranatural Affairs." He shuffled out his wallet and produced a card. She took it with her free hand and looked at it as if he had handed her a dead lizard. "We--I've come to do some follow-up investigation. You remember Mr. Sackett was here before..."

     The lady snorted. It pinched her nose even thinner.

     "And a fat lot of good he did. You people took your time getting back to us." She shifted the dog to get a better grip. "Well, I suppose you'd better come on in. Wipe your feet!" she added sharply.

     Abernathy desperately scuffled his feet on the mat, hung his hat on the coatrack behind the door, and hurried after the disappearing figure of Miss Kindermass into the dimness of the house. With the gathering clouds outside it was growing darker by the minute. He stumbled past obscure pictures and brushed by tiny tables burdened with dusty flowers and bell-jars, following the flag of the lady's rapidly receding skirts. She threw open a parlor door after a final sharp turn down a corridor, flooding the hall with the light of a blazing fire.

     The room inside was stifling and overstuffed with ormolu and chintz. He skittered to a halt, panting and wheezing, as the lady abruptly stopped, set the dog down, and with a precise gesture introduced him to what appeared to be an enormous bundle of laundry and a fragile china doll seated in deep frilly chairs by the fireplace.

     "My sisters," she said, "Miss Anne and Miss Sarah."

     He bowed hastily and began, "Ladies...," but at that instant the pug bounded over to the chairs and clambered enthusiastically up into the capacious lap of the larger sister. The attentions of both the seated ladies were immediately galvanized.

     "Poopschen!" Miss Anne oozed. Her voice was like a bubbling pot of lumpy oatmeal. She began vigorously scratching the beast behind the ears, and he spread himself in ecstasy, puddling his furry folds across her lap. "Has 'oo come to see your Mumsy? Yes 'oo has, yes 'oo has!"

     The tiny Miss Sarah spread her arms out to the dog, like a child asking to be picked up.

     "Oooh, Chessy, come see little meez!" she piped. "Hasn't Chessy got a little kissee for his little meez!"

     Abernathy looked back and forth at them as they caressed and cajoled the pug, at a loss for words. They seemed totally unaware of his presence. He cleared his throat and started again.

     "Ladies..."

     "It's no use, Mr. Abernathy, they're both cracked as cuckoos," the elder Miss Kindermass said matter-of-factly, as she turned away. "The only things they talk to are me and that demanding little creature."

     "Then why...?" he began.

     "It's only manners," she said abruptly. She frowned. "I suppose now you would want to get your investigation started. So we can get this over with?"

     "Oh, yes. Please." The agent hesitated. "Do you think before I begin, I could get a drink of water? I tried the well--"

     "That old thing hasn't worked in ages. I'd have thought that was obvious." She sniffed. "Come into the kitchen."

     The hall was even darker after the brightly lit parlor. As they passed the occasional window it was no better. Outside the clouds had swallowed up the setting sun, and a growing, grieving wind was starting to make its presence known.

     The kitchen was so filled with potted herbs that he gagged on the spiciness of the air. As he gulped down a glass of sulfurous yellow water that he had to pump himself, a low rumble of thunder rattled the plates in the cupboard. The elder Miss Kindermass -- he now thought of her as THE Miss Kindermass, as she had not supplied her first name -- tapped her toe while he drank. His throat tickled, somehow even scratchier after his refreshment, as she lit a lamp and led him back through the halls and into the apparent center of the disturbances.

     She swung open a heavy pine door at the very rear of the house.

     "The master bedroom," she announced. "This is where our father died, and from this room my brother Wallace vanished, over twenty years ago."

     The room was bare, absolutely bare, except for a sturdy bed draped in a dust cover and a huge built-in wardrobe. After the crowded nature of the rest of the house, it was like stepping into a lifeless arctic wasteland. With a grim, measured gate Miss Kindermass entered the space, lamp held high. It seemed to stream shadows more than light down into the room. The agent shivered. In the quivering flame, the bed looked like a squat, bestial specter.

     "Vanished," she continued. "And with him, his beloved bitch, Topsy. Over the years, several other dogs have gone missing from this house. Spotty, Gertrude, Mattie, Brownie, Lucinda, Ginger..."

     She sniffed. Abernathy looked up at her and was surprised to see tears watering in those severe blue eyes. She sniffed again and shook herself.

     "These disappearances always centered on this room. The girls would be gone, and we would find the door hanging ajar. We kept it up, you know, as a guest room, but eventually we stripped it down and put a lock on it, and since we got Chester, we've had no problems with the other phenomena. But I still worry."

     "Other phenomena?" The little agent hastily pulled out his notepad and a stub of a pencil. "What other phenomena would those be?"

     "I told your man Sackett all that." She frowned. "Didn't he report any of it?"

     Abernathy thought guiltily of the dossier that he had glanced over briefly in contempt, now lying buried some certain fathoms below the earth inside his lost kit.

     "Oh, well, of course," he stammered. "But we like to go over it again firsthand. Confirmation from primary sources, and so on. Just to make sure, you understand?" He smiled at her and nodded his head, trying vainly to garner assent.

     The lady sighed wearily.

     "The stupid waste of it all! Our tax dollars at work, I suppose. Not to mention the time. Very well. There are sounds, every now and then, not very loud, like groans or rumbles, not human, you know, not voices, but not the house settling. I know that sound very well, and this is nothing like it, so don't try to persuade me that it is."

     "Oh, no, of course not," he said. His pencil flew over the notepad.

     "And some people have said they've seen a pale, fishy kind of light. I never have, myself." She walked over to the window and set the lamp down on the sill. "They can never tell quite where it's coming from. But I have smelled the smell."

     "The smell?"

     "Please don't ask me to describe it; it's like nothing I've ever known. The most I can say is that it has something of a chemical tang, but also earthy, somehow. Oh, how can one explain a smell? Other people have smelled it, and have had the same difficulty as I."

     Abernathy raised his eyes.

     "Other people...?"

     "Cleaning girls; we used to have them. Also, neighbors and friends, when they would still visit. Dead now, most of them, or too old to get about, and the young folk don't care to ... well, the young are mostly unpleasant people, anyway." She shrugged, and closed up again, like a touch-me-not.

     "Well, are you going to start 'investigating' then?" she asked.

     "Of course, Miss Kindermass," he said hurriedly. What a lonely life she must lead, he thought, and felt ashamed of the sudden personal insight behind the spiky old woman's facade. The case, the case, he reminded himself. "Would you mind leaving me alone for a bit, while I perform the preliminary examination?"

     "What? Why?" Her voice was sharp with suspicion.

     "Well, I need quiet … the etheric vibrations ... psychic emanations, and so on ... don't want to skew the readings and impressions -- strong personal influence, don't you know..."

     "Sounds like a bunch of humbug to me. Well, I have to check on Anne and Sarah anyway, and start supper." She passed him and headed out the door. She turned quickly with one hand on the knob before she left, a finger on the other raised in warning.

     "No pulling up the floorboards, mind. Or punching holes in the walls, either."

     Abernathy, who had begun to relax a little as she left, contracted once more in alarm.

     "No, of course not, ma'am, of course not!"

     She shook her head vigorously once, in grim, satisfied affirmation, and pulled the grinding door shut.  Abernathy heard the lock click with a little jump of his heart. He was alone in the desolate room.

Notes

Of course there had to be three old spinster sisters at the house; that's traditional, almost like the Three Witches or Triple Goddesses in the old tales. 

I'm sorry I do not have the LOTR post that might nave been expected today just yet; I'm feeling uncommonly lazy on this cool morning. Perhaps later this afternoon, if I can get more steam up. 

The Lord of the Rings: The Passing of the Grey Company (Part Two)

The Tale

The night is old when they come at last to the Hornburg [the name of the actual fortress at Helm’s Deep]. They will stay there a while to rest and make plans. Merry sleeps until he is woken up by Legolas and Gimli; it is nearly noon. Legolas calls the hobbit ‘Master Sluggard’; everyone else is up and getting ready. Gimli wants to give Merry a tour of the battlefield (only three nights ago!) where he and Legolas ‘played a game that I won by a single orc.’ He suggests that they see the Glittering Caves, but Legolas says they have no time: ‘Do not spoil the wonder with haste!’ They’ll return if there are days of peace again. Now they will be eating soon and setting out again.

Merry yawns, feeling dismal. He hasn’t got nearly enough sleep and he misses Pippin and everyone seems busy except him. He asks where Aragorn is. Legolas says he is in a high chamber in the Burg, with only his kinsman Halbarad with him, taking thought. Some dark care seems burdening him.

Gimli says this Grey Company seem a strange folk, strong and lordly, yet grim and weathered, like Aragorn himself, and silent. But courteous when they do talk, rejoins Legolas. And have you noticed Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond? Fair and gallant as Elven-lords.

Merry asks why they have come, and Gimli replies that a summons came to them through Rivendell, though now they’re not sure who sent it. The dwarf guesses Gandalf, but Legolas says it must have been Galadriel. She spoke (through Gandalf) of the riding of the Grey Company from the North.

Gimli agrees; she read the hearts and desires of many. Why didn’t they wish for their own kinsfolk to come and help them in the war? Legolas looks away toward Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain, troubled. He does not think any would come. They don’t need to march to war, war already marches on them.

The three walk together a while, touring the scene of the battle. They come to a high spot on Helm’s Dike and look from there. They can see the Death Down, black and stony, where the Huorns buried all the dead orcs. A lot of repairs seem to be going on quietly in the valley, some being done by the chastened Dunlending men. It is like the uneasy peace after a great storm.

When they return to the Burg for the midday meal, Theoden calls Merry to his side. This place is little like his hall at Meduseld, but he wants the hobbit to eat and talk with him while they can; it might be a long time before they have another chance.

Merry is surprised and delighted by the king’s kindness, and tells the old man that he has been feeling useless, though he would like to help in any way he could. Theoden says that he knows it, and that he has had a mountain-pony prepared for his transport. It will do well on the paths through the hills that they must take, and Merry shall ride as his esquire, if he will. He asks Eomer if they have any gear for the hobbit?

Eomer says they have no armor or swords here that will fit him, though they might find a light helm. Merry says that he has a sword, and draws his Barrow-blade from its old black scabbard. Filled suddenly with love for Theoden, he offers his sword and his service to the old king. Theoden gladly accepts it, ‘and laying his long old hands upon the brown hair of the hobbit, he blessed him.’ Merry arises an esquire of Rohan in the King’s household. Theoden bids him take up his sword and bear it unto good fortune.

‘As a father you shall be to me,’ said Merry.

‘For a little while,’ said Theoden.

They talk a while as they eat together, until Eomer says they are close to the hour of departure. Shall he call Aragorn? He has not eaten yet. The king says let him be summoned; they will go ahead down to the Gate. There they find a great company of Riders getting ready to go; they are leaving only a small garrison at the fortress. Already a thousand Riders have left earlier, and another five hundred will ride with the king. The Rangers stand a little apart, ready to go, grim silent and grey, unadorned except for a silver badge pinning their cloaks. They have brought Aragorn’s own horse, Roheryn, from the North.

Theoden mounts Snowmane, his own horse, and Merry rides beside him on Stybba, the pony supplied for him. Presently Eomer returns with Aragon, Halbarad (still carrying the close-furled black staff), Elladan and Elrohir (so alike as to be hardly told apart), and Legolas and Gimli. But Merry can only look at Aragorn in dismay. A strange change has come over him, as if he has aged many years in one night, and he is grim, grey-faced, and weary.

Aragorn asks Theoden how long it will take him to get to Dunharrow, and Eomer replies that it will take them three days. Three days Aragorn murmurs, and the muster of Rohan will only be beginning. He now sees what he must do. He must leave with the Grey Company, and ride openly and direct, no longer hiding in the hills. He must take the Paths of the Dead.

Theoden trembles at the name; if there are indeed such paths, they start at Dunharrow. Eomer fears that if Aragorn does indeed take that road, they will never draw swords together again. Aragorn answers that he will take that road, and that they may meet again anyway, though all the hosts of Mordor stand between them.

Theoden doesn’t like the sound of things but says Aragorn must do as he must; the king himself rides another way. Aragorn tells him to ride to great renown. He is leaving Merry in his care: better hands than there were the last time they parted. But he asks Gimli and Legolas to hunt with him a while longer. Merry is puzzled and depressed at the leavetaking and misses the cheerful Pippin more than ever.

Theoden, Merry, and Eomer ride off with the host, and Aragorn watches their passing.  Aragorn turns to Halbarad and tells him there go three that he loves, and the smallest not the least. Merry goes to what end he does not know but if he did he would go nonetheless. Halbarad says that the Shirefolk are a worthy people, although they little guess how the Rangers have protected them.

‘And now our fates are woven together,’ said Aragorn. ‘And, yet, alas! Here we must part. Well, I must eat a little, and then we must also hasten away. Come, Legolas and Gimli! I must speak with you as I eat!’

Bits and Bobs

Sluggard: A lazy, sleepy, slow-moving person; like a slug.

Sword-thain: Esquire, squire; armed and pledged servant.

Weapontake: In context, the mustering of the army and the passing out of arms from a ‘weapon hoard’; most people (like farmers) would not have personal weapons of war.

Stybba: from Old English ’stump’ or ‘stub’; ‘Stubby’

Roheryn: ‘Horse of the Lady’; Arwen’s gift to Aragorn.

Gimli and Legolas are full of talk of the battle, and Gimli is still eager about the Glittering Caves. Legolas guesses (and it turns out he is right) that their homes are already under attack by the forces of Mordor. The captive Dunlendings are making ‘war reparations’ in a most literal way before being sent back home.

Merry is depressed and lonely, but he is inspired by the kindness and interest of Theoden to pledge his fealty to the old man. This is an interesting parallel to Pippin’s offer of service to Denethor, but while that was inspired by pride, Merry’s is inspired by ‘sudden love.’ It is also less formal but no less deeply felt, and no complex oaths of service are required of him.

The silver badge shaped like a star used by the Rangers may be a symbol of the House of Isildur, and recalls the badge worn by Aragorn while he was in secret service to Gondor, and by which he came by the name Thorongil, ‘the Eagle of the Star.’ The Rangers have long guarded the Shire, unacknowledged by the Hobbits, laboring in service to keep their lands free and untroubled. Halbarad says he does not grudge this.

Aragorn recalls Merry’s capture by the orcs and how he, Legolas, and Gimli were the Three Hunters; he asks them to ‘hunt’ with him a while longer. There is much fear and uneasiness among the Rohirrim at the name of Dunharrow (‘the heathen fane {temple} on the hill’) and the Paths of the Dead. Such a name of ill-omen is yet to be explained.