Kettle
swallowed a huge mouthful and took a long speculative sip of ale.
“That’s
a lot to swallow at once, boss. Can I have a little time to think about it? Not
to seem ungrateful or anything, but I have somebody I’d like to confer with
before I make any big decisions.”
Thrand
was a little taken aback. What could the boy be thinking about that would be a
drawback to the situation? Why wouldn’t he jump at a chance to leave the
streets? He’d turned down plenty of eager youngsters who had applied for a page job,
from good families, too, and with ambitions.
“How
long would you need?” he asked cautiously. “I was rather hoping to get things
done and started with.”
“Oh,
not too long. Suppertime at the latest. I feel I’d probably like the job, but I
know a really wise lady I think I got to talk to first before I leap into the
lake, as it were.” Kettle looked up at Thrand anxiously. “You understand, don’t
you? It’s a pretty big change in life. All I’ve known so far is the street
life. It stinks, but there’s a certain freedom there.”
The
old Morg shrugged.
“I’ve
never considered that aspect of it before. I can see how you might hesitate a
bit before binding yourself to these musty old halls, even for only a year; to
be at someone’s beck and call at every hour of the day. Well, I can’t really
grudge you a few hours of reflection, but I do hope you will ultimately accept
my offer. I’m already feeling the urge to indulge myself after these short
commons, and I really need a personal watchdog, you know.”
Kettle
smiled.
“Don’t
worry, boss. I’ll be back in time to take you out on your evening walk and get
you some bread and water. But right now, I got to polish off this meal.”
It
didn’t take Kettle long to finish, and that was partly because bits
and pieces of food from the plate kept disappearing into the folds and pouches
of the little Morg’s tattered clothes. By the time they had walked to the back
gate again and prepared to say farewell, Kettle was an oddly bulging little
figure. They shook hands, and then the young Morg melted away into the passing foot
traffic. Thrand arranged with the guards at the gate to let the child back in,
no matter what time the return, and then headed back to his chambers. It was
time for him to check in on the Crownhelm at last, he thought.
Morg
City, or Mog-Tel-Syr as it was now more formally known (though most still
rather lazily called it Morg City), has five rubbish dumps. The largest lies to
the south, halfway between the Palace and the city wall; the lesser four are
offset between the compass points. Kettle took the most direct streets to the
smelly, smoking tip where it lay contained within sooty, red-brick walls. There,
at the entrance, presided Grelda the Great.
She was
a Morgess, immensely fat, but fast on her feet, almost acrobatic, with an
enormous bush of curly hair, whether black or brown it was hard to tell. She
dressed in bewildering layers of tattered dresses and shawls and big black
boots. She carried a black stick, not as a cane, but as a rod of authority.
She
seemed to have a perpetual snarl and a squint, but these were no true
indicators of her mood. These same features could be puzzled, judging, or
compassionate. One could only know when she was truly angry because her eyes went red.
She was rather ugly by Morg standards of feminine beauty, but this fact did not
seem to faze her. Though enormously
female physically (her big warty breasts like melons), she was peculiarly
sexless, or at least people tended to shy away from thinking of her in a sexual
manner.
Legend
has it that when she was very young (too young, in fact) she lost a baby (to an
unnamed boyfriend) and was ever after unable to conceive. That still qualifies
her as a Madra, or mother, however, and that affected her rather unusual position in the
City.
She governed
there at the Central Dump, perched near the wide ungated entrance on a mound
that may have a chair under it somewhere beneath the piled rags and dirty flat
cushions. She will stop patrons as they enter and check their burdens, often
removing items that seem to be of special interest to her. No one passes by
this inspection, although there is room on either side. Each load costs a
penny; nothing is accepted after sundown; those who particularly divide their
garbage neatly as to what they think she might like are sometimes passed
without payment. But this job is only the tip of her mysterious position.
Sometimes
after they have thrown their load, a lady (or, as it might be, two or three
ladies) will stop to talk and pass the time of day with her. They show her
enormous respect, not how you would imagine anyone would treat an old dump
woman. After they have thoroughly unburdened themselves, and Grelda has
conversed with them mostly in grunts and short sentences, the lady morgs will
bow in deference and leave quietly. Respect for her has spread to the menfolk,
and no street urchin dare disturb or torment her, and few of them will go to speak to
her.
The
humans of Morg City wonder if she might be some kind of witch, and approach her
with caution. But the truth about her and the power she wields is greater and
stranger than they can imagine. For she is the Great Madra of the City.
No
one has ever conferred the title on her nor would she ever claim it for
herself. No one can say when it became manifest. She carries her authority
without pride or pomp. It is an unseen haze, Kettle thought, approaching with
slowing footsteps, a kind of mist surrounding her. Was it because of her
suffering? Her unattachment to family or caste? Males and business companies
may go to the courts or the king for justice, but madras go to Grelda to know
what she says, and what she says is accepted as unappealable. Kings are chosen
and rule from on high; the Great Madra can only be known and acknowledged but
never spoken of, and when they know her, they know her without words or
ceremonies.
The fires of the Central Dump burn all evening. What Grelda does after she puts them out, nobody knows. And no-one dares call her ‘the Great’ to her face. This is where Kettle was headed for advice.
Notes
The whole part about Grelda and the dump was largely written as a sketch as soon as I foresaw her part in the story; as such, the voice and tense in which it is written might be a little confused. I have tried to rewrite it a bit, but not as extensively as I think it will need to be eventually. It's full of a lot of 'telling' and needs more 'showing.' But frankly, right now I'm just too tired. Next part I should be going back to the active voice with the new writing.
Bullwhip Griffin, by
Sid Fleischman (Avon, 1963; Original title By the Great Horn Spoon!;
this printing 1971)
Novel that the 1967 Disney movie The Adventures of
Bullwhip Griffin was based on. It starred Roddy McDowell as
Eric ‘Bullwhip’ Griffin, Suzanne Pleshette, Karl Malden, and Hermione Baddeley (‘Mrs.
Naugatuck’ on Maude). The songs were by Richard and Robert Sherman.
But this is the novel, and it’s a little different.
Illustrated by Eric von Schmidt in a style rather reminiscent of Quentin Blake
(or should I say vice versa). It tells the story of a 12-year-old boy and his
English butler and their adventures in the California Gold Rush of 1949.
After his Aunt Arabella loses all her money, Jack takes their English butler
‘Praiseworthy’ Griffin to California to make their fortune. Their trip is
bedeviled all the way by a crook named Cut-Eye Higgins, who steals their money and
then a treasure map that they are gifted. When Higgins is at last caught and
sentenced to hang, Jack and Praiseworthy (who has been dubbed ‘Bullwhip’
Griffin for a gold-dust weighted punch he has delivered) are tasked to dig the
grave. While doing so they discover the gold bonanza that has been eluding them
up to this point. Giving up mining for good, and with the extra money that the
toughened-up and methodical Griffin makes in a boxing match with ‘the Mountain
Ox’, they meet Aunt Arabella and her daughters, who have followed their example
and gone West. The newly financially secure Bullwhip, who has been carrying
Arabella’s picture devotedly, finds the courage to ask her to marry him. His
new ambition is to become the first lawyer in the West.
I can’t quite place where we saw the movie, whether in
the theater (I can see Pop agreeing to this ‘Western’ for children) or on TV on
The Wonderful World of Disney. And I’m not too sure how or why we got
this, though I’m pretty sure ‘when’ was when I was in the Fourth Grade. I
suppose its Disney connection was enough of a recommendation for it. I don’t
know when it went out of the Family Archive, either.
Sid Fleishman, who only passed on in 2010, was famous for
his novels for children and adults, his screen adaptations, and his books about
stage magic. He won the 1987 Newbery Medal for his children’s book The
Whipping Boy (whips again!), based on the custom of having a commoner take
a young Prince’s beatings for him.
Last week was dedicated to Japanese animation I watched when
little; today I have some Russian animation. I watched most of these on Captain
Gus, a local children’s anthology show that featured cartoons and international
kid’s films, dubbed and cut into handy segments for the consumption of American
children. The Wild Swans is the only one here in English. I never saw Koschei
the Deathless or Ivan and the Magic Pony, but I definitely remember Beauty
and the Beast (‘Roll, apple, roll!’ and ‘She gave me her word, she would be
back by sunset.’), The Magic Fish (‘Fish, fish, will you grant my wish?
Just for fun let’s see you run!’), The Wild Swans (the Russians sure had
a thing for Hans Christian Andersen), and The Golden Antelope (pretty Jungle-Book-like).
A lot of this animation was collected with modern celebrity dubs on the DVD
series Mikhail Baryshnikov’s Stories from My Childhood (see elsewhere in
this blog).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QN07pQUE7j8 The Magic Fish (Russian, aka At the Pike’s Behest, The Princess and the Simpleton)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5PU8_2p4CdY The Wild Swans (English Dub)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2iWa66SfMcA
The Golden Antelope (Russian)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3QGqprYx_s
The Red Flower (Russian, Beauty and the Beast)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhvycdfXpXY
Koschei the Deathless (Russian)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LuTuvXdqDAM
Ivan and the Magic Pony (Russian, aka The Little Hunchbacked Pony)
The Shaggy Dog
(Scholastic Books, 7th Printing 1975) Adapted by Elizabeth L.
Griffen from the 1967 Walt Disney movie, itself adapted from The Hound of
Florence by Felix Salten (the author of Bambi).
The tale itself is a ‘shaggy dog story’ (‘a long story
that is intended to be amusing and that has an intentionally silly or
meaningless ending’ – Wikipedia) of the teenage Wilby Daniels (Tommy Kirk),
whose mailman father (Fred MacMurray) hates dogs, but who contracts a curse
from an ancient ring of the Borgias to take on the sheepdog body of the pet of
his new neighbor, Francesca (Annette Funicello). Only his kid brother Moochie
and his friend Professor Plumcott know the truth. He must perform a brave deed
to break the curse, and with Francesca’s adoptive father and his associate planning
to steal a government secret and his friend/rival Buzz competing for Francesca’s
affections, he has plenty of opportunities. But he keeps transforming uncontrollably
between dog and human form, causing complications for his father when he tries
to explain to the police what is going on. In the end Wilby performs his brave
deed, the curse is broken, and Moochie gets to keep Francesca’s dog, which
their father would never have allowed before.
The movie The Shaggy Dog had far-reaching
consequences for Disney. At a one-million-dollar budget, it made a nine-million-dollar
return, the second highest grossing film of 1959. It had been pitched as a
television series, then a two-part special, then was merged into one movie. It
used quite a few Mickey Mouse Club alumni, and went on to become
a sort of template for later live-action Disney comedies, and was remade
several times. A film, The Shaggy D.A.
(1976), starred Dean Jones as the grown-up Wilby. Disney producer Bill Walsh
speculated that the original film was an inspiration for the My Three Sons
television show, as it featured Fred MacMurray, Tim Considine (Buzz), and
another shaggy sheepdog. The 2006 remake starring Tim Allen was ‘poorly
received.’
This 1975 printing appears identical to the one we used to have; it was no doubt re-released in anticipation of the new 1976 The Shaggy D.A. film. Generously illustrated with stills from the 1959 movie, the picture I remembered most was of the museum exhibit “The Age of Sorcery”, where Wilby accidentally acquires the ring. I also seem to remember chanting the inscription IN CANIS CORPORE TRANSMUTO (‘I change into the body of a dog’) to see if anything would happen, but no dice. I cannot exactly pin down what happened to our original copy (never a great favorite). But this remains a sentimental acquisition.
The Tale
In the waning light of
evening, Sam crawls back to check on the fallen Frodo. As he was running
eagerly forward, Shelob had ‘stung’ him swiftly in the neck. Now he lies pale
and motionless, not responding to Sam’s call of ‘Master, dear master!’ Sam
listens a long time without any answer.
Then he quickly cuts away
the binding cords and lays his head against Frodo’ chest and lips, but can hear
neither heartbeat nor breath. He rubs Frodo’s hands and feet and feels his
forehead, but all is cold.
‘Frodo, Mr. Frodo!’ he
called. ‘Don’t leave me here alone! It’s your Sam calling. Don’t go where I
can’t follow! Wake up, Mr. Frodo! O wake up, Frodo, me dear, me dear. Wake up!’
Anger overtakes him and he
starts stabbing the air and hitting the rocks and yelling challenges, until his
anger wears out. He comes back to Frodo and looking at him, suddenly recognizes
his vision in the Mirror of Galadriel, where he thought Frodo was sleeping. But
now it’s obvious that he was dead. At the thought Frodo’s face seems to go ‘a
livid green’. Black despair overwhelms Sam and he bows down, night coming into
his heart and for a while he knows no more.
When Sam looks up again
there are complete shadows around him; he can’t tell how long he was out of it.
‘The mountains had not crumbled, nor the earth fallen into ruin.’
Sam wonders what he should
do now. Then he remembers something he had said at the beginning of the
journey, something he hadn’t understood himself at the time. I have
something to do before the end. I must see it through, sir, if you understand. Should
he leave Frodo behind, unburied, and go on?
He begins to compose Frodo’s
body, folding his hands and wrapping his elven cloak around him. Sam lays his
own sword, the barrow blade, at Frodo’s side, with the lebethron staff on the
other side. He leaves him the mithril coat but must take Sting and the Phial of
Galadriel with him if he is to go forward. After all, Frodo did lend him the ‘star-glass.’
But Sam can’t leave him just
yet. If only he can find the strength to tear himself away. If once he could, he’s
chase Gollum to the ends of the earth for vengeance and then kill him. But that
would accomplish nothing. He briefly considers killing himself, but ‘that was
to do nothing, not even to grieve.’ But he has a long, lonely journey ahead,
all the way to the Cracks of Doom. To do that, he must take the Ring from
Frodo. That is why the Council of Elrond gave Frodo companions, so the Quest
wouldn’t fail. He wishes he wasn’t the last left.
But he has been thrust
forward. If he doesn’t, the Thing will be found on him, and that’s the end of
the Shire and all the good places he’s seen on their journey. He can’t go back
for advice. He has to make his own choice. ‘But I’ll be sure to go wrong: that’d
be Sam Gamgee all over.’
He stoops and undoes the
clasp of the chain that holds the Ring, kisses Frodo’s cold forehead, and slips
the chain over his master’s head. There
is no change in Frodo’s face, and that more than any other sign convinces Sam
that Frodo is truly dead and has ‘laid aside the Quest.’ He bids Frodo
farewell. If he has one wish it would be that after all is done, he could
return and find Frodo again. ‘And then he’ll not leave you again.’
He puts the Ring on its
chain over his head, and the sudden weight drags his head down. ‘But slowly, as
if the weight became less, or new strength grew in him’ he stands up and finds
he can bear the burden. Sam lifts up the Phial in tribute and in its gently
burning light ‘Frodo’s face was fair of hue again, pale but beautiful with an
elvish beauty, as of one who has long passed the shadows.’ With that bitter comfort he turns, hiding the
light and stumbling into the dark.
‘How could he escape, or
save himself, or save the Ring? The Ring. He was not aware of any thought or decision.
He simply found himself drawing out the chain and taking the Ring in his hand.
The head of the orc-company appeared in the cleft right before him. Then he put
it on.’
Bits and Bobs
Frodo is ‘stung’ (bitten? True
spiders don’t have stings, but then Shelob is only ‘most like a spider’ in
form) on his neck, right where his invulnerable mithril mail can do him no good
whatsoever.
In his panic and fear, Sam forgets
to address Frodo formally as Mister. In The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s
Companion, it is noted that ‘me dear’ is a Cornish form of address, used by
everyone to everyone and not a special endearment, although Frodo is obviously
dear to Sam. The real-life ‘Gaffer Gamgee’, on whom Sam’s father is based, lived
in Cornwall, so this informal address would come naturally to him. Sorry,
shippers.
Also it is noted that Sam’s
period of unconsciousness lasts from morning until almost evening. The Orcs
have waited a good long time before they decide it’s safe enough to
investigate. I’d be cautious around Shelob myself.
In his despair Sam briefly
considers suicide, either by stabbing himself or throwing himself into a chasm.
‘But that was to do nothing, not even to grieve.’ This is a direct repudiation
of the Anglo-Saxon custom of faithful retainers ‘joining’ their masters in
death. Sam also rejects vengeance on Gollum as an adequate motive to go
forward. Tolkien admired many aspects of the Anglo-Saxon tradition, but as a
Christian rejected these pagan motivations. Sam does, however, leave Frodo ‘grave
goods’, of staff and sword, cloak and mail.
Sam seems to have come to
think of Galadriel as some kind of genie, able to grant all wishes. ‘If the
Lady could hear me’, he’d wish to come back and find Frodo again.
Frodo’s face being ‘beautiful’
in death echoes a rather Victorian motif, that ‘Death is the Mother of Beauty.’
Leonard Wolf, both in his A Dream of Dracula and The Annotated
Dracula, remarks how it had long been noted that ‘weathered faces lined in
pain’ will relax into peaceful lines after the struggle of life is over,
restoring a remembrance of youth and calm, especially in cases of ‘consumption’
(tuberculosis). The Ring has certainly been ‘consuming’ Frodo. But that seems
past. When he doesn’t respond to the Ring being taken from him, it convinces
Sam more than ever that he is dead.
Sam puts the ring on rather
abruptly, without thinking too much about it. He is, of course, driven to it by
necessity, but it seems a rather easy decision. Is it perhaps part of the Ring’s
secret prompting? Here come some more Orcs again.
