The Tale
Sam
wakes up, thinking he’s heard Frodo call him. But Frodo is still asleep; he’s
slid down towards the bottom of the pit. Gollum is right next to him, and at
first Sam thinks he’s trying to rouse Frodo. But then he hears that the gangrel
creature seems to be holding a debate with himself: Smeagol, whose eyes shine
with a pale light, and Gollum, whose eyes shine green and who makes their voice
hiss and squeak.
Smeagol is his better self, if motivated mostly by fear. He
clings to the promise he swore to Frodo by, if not on, the Precious, and is
afraid to break it.
The Gollum side points out they swore never to let Him have
it. But it’s getting closer to him with every step. What are the hobbits up to?
But Smeagol promised to help the master.
But if we took it, we’d be the master, and we could help
ourselfs.
But
nice master took the cruel rope off. He speaks nicely to me.
We
could still take it and not hurt the nice master. We would be good as fish.
But
the Precious holds the promise.
Then
we take it and then we hold the promise! Make the other, the nasty suspicious
hobbit crawl.
But
not the nice hobbit?
Not
unless we want to. Still, he’s a Baggins, and a Baggins stole it. We hates
Bagginses.
Not
this one.
Yes,
all who take the Precious.
But He’ll
see if we get it! He’ll take it from us!
Oh,
yes, He sees. He heard us make silly promises, and He and his wraiths are
searching for it. But if we take it – not for him! Smeagol protests – if we
take it, we can escape even from him.
‘Perhaps
we grows very strong, stronger than Wraiths. Lord Smeagol? Gollum the Great?
The Gollum! Eat fish every day, three times a day, fresh from the Sea. Most
Precious Gollum! Must have it!’
But
there are two of them, Smeagol points out. Not now. Not yet.
Gollum
begins to protest, then pauses a long while. ‘She might help. She might, yes.’
Not
that way, Smeagol wails, but Gollum’s hands, which have been reaching out for
Frodo’s neck each time his voice spoke, are now reaching out closer than ever.
Sam thinks the debate has gone on long enough.
Before
Sam thought the only danger was Gollum just wanting to eat them; now he
realizes the creature is responding to the terrible call of the Ring. He
stretches and yawns, pretending that he’s just woken up, and asks the time.
Gollum stands up hissing for a moment, as if he wonders if Sam heard anything,
then collapses back into his old fawning behavior.
He
even goes so far as to say, ‘Nice Sam!’ He’s been on watch and let the sleepy
heads slumber, but now it’s evening and time to go. Sam says it’s high time
too, and wonders if it would be just as dangerous to part with Gollum now as to
take him with them. He goes down to wake up Frodo.
Frodo
is feeling strangely refreshed. He had had a good dream, which he cannot
remember, but whose mood remains. ‘His burden was less heavy on him.’ Gollum
greets him ‘with dog-like delight’ and Frodo smiles on him.
‘You
have guided us faithfully and well.’ This is the last stretch. All he has to do
is guide them to the Gate and then he can go wherever he wants – but not to
their enemies. ‘Poor Smeagol’ agrees, but says that when they get to the Gate,
they might not like the looks of it at all. ‘Let’s get it over!’ grumbles Sam.
They
scramble their way out of the pit and make their way through the dead land.
Almost immediately they feel the terror of a Nazgul passing over again. They
cower awhile, but it passes. Towards midnight a third goes over them. This time
Gollum collapses, gibbering. Three times is a threat, he cries. He thinks the
Nazgul are aware of them and are homing in. He won’t budge for any kind words
or encouragement; Frodo has to command him angrily, hand on sword-hilt. ‘Then
at last he rose and went before them like a beaten dog.’
‘So
they stumbled on through the weary end of night, and until the coming of
another day of fear they walked in silence with bowed heads, seeing nothing,
and hearing nothing but the wind hissing in their ears.’
Bits
and Bobs
Poor
Gollum, or Smeagol, or however you want to call him. Here you can see that all
his ideal of the good has shrunken down to mere appetite. “His mentality has
reduced all the beauty of the world to a small pickled fish.” - Love and
Death. When he struggles to express how he’ll act, Gollum can only say ‘as
good as fish.’ The Ring tempts everyone according to their capacity; when it
assails Sam later, it offers him a gigantic garden, as big as the world. The
reach of Gollum’s imagination is – fresh fish, three times a day.
Perhaps
we can see the hand of Irmo, or Lorien as he is called, the Vala or ‘guardian
spirit’ of dreams, in this passage. Sam is woken from his sleep just in time to
hear Gollum’s debate by what seems to be the voice of Frodo calling. Frodo
awakes from his ‘visited’ dreams refreshed by the fair vision granted him ‘in
this land of disease.’ Perhaps these little nudges and encouragements that seem
to happen when most needed are commonplace divine helps that give that added
little boost when most needed. We shall see more such instances later.
Lowly, wretched Smeagol. Whether delighted or beaten, his better nature is still to be doglike. ‘Nice Sam’? Ooh, what a hypocrite! For all his fears, the three passes of the Nazgul are not a threat; they are simply their coincidental comings and goings on Sauron's business - who, just a reminder, is He. Who She is, is yet to be seen.
Thrand turned involuntarily to see what new development this
was, and in that instant the boy snatched the bag of coins from his claw.
Otherwise, the two thugs had frozen in their tracks and were staring scowling
at the odd figure that was running toward them.
It was a young Morg, younger than Snav, not even into
First Beard, it seemed. Scrawny, dressed
in a motley of about five layers of different-colored shirts that flapped and
tattered as it galloped frantically towards them, the urchin was small enough
to wear a shiny brown scalewing pod as a makeshift helmet on its round head. The
youth came scooting to a halt next to them, paws crossing back and forth in a
forbidding gesture.
“What are you doing?” The voice was scratchy and squeaking
with alarm. “Don’t you know who this is?”
“No. Who is it, then?” sneered the other Morg.
“Damn, I don’t know! But he’s got an entourage of Palace
Guards a-shadowing him most respectful like! Palace Guards! I passed them coming
up. They’ll be here any second!”
“The Guards!” The human boy’s face went pale. He turned
to his companion in alarm. “They ain’t like the Watch, Snav! It’s beat first
and questions later with them!”
“I know it, Terp!” Snav snapped. He turned to Thrand,
voice still threatening, but with an edge of appeal in it. “Perhaps you’re
right grampa. We’ll just call it even and be on our way. No need to make a
court case of it, eh? Have a nice day, and Mog keep yer!”
The two took to their heels with a scramble of boots and
in no time were disappearing around the corner. Thrand watched them go in amazement,
dazed but relieved by the sudden turn of events. What had just happened? He
turned to the little savior at his side in puzzlement.
“How did you know who I am?”
“Bless you, sir, I haven’t a clue.” With a chuckle, a
little claw withdrew a grimy cloth out of one of the many shirts pockets and
was dusting away at the manure on Thrand’s cloak. “Are you somebody, then?
Actually got some Guards? I thought that was a good story, myself, though I
thought of it on the fly.” The ministrations finished the cloth went back in
the pocket. “There you go, grampa. All right, then?”
“No, I don’t have any guards. I suppose I should have.”
Thrand was still distracted with the bewildering speed of the incident. “But I
left so quickly this morning, I didn’t think …”
“Ah, that habit will get you into trouble, more like as
not.” The little Morg nodded wisely. “I’d best walk with you until you get
home. Good as a guard dog, I am. Guide you along and bark when there’s danger.”
“Well, thank you, young sir. I …” Thrand patted his robes
distractedly. “That was my only money, and those rascals made off with
it. I’m afraid I have nothing to reward you with right now, but when I get home
…”
The other chuckled.
“Save you, sir, I can see you’re a good sort. I know you’ll
do the right thing when you can. First, why don’t we get out of this hunt-run and
onto a safer stretch o’ street.”
“Yes, you’re quite right, lad.” He looked down and
smiled. “And might I know the name of my clever rescuer?”
A snaggle-toothed grin looked back up at him, eyes
crinkled in amusement.
“Folks just call me Kettle. I reckon that’s good enough
for now. Shall we be on our way?”
The Tale
Gollum
crawls to the right looking for a way around the black mere. Sam and Frodo
follow close behind, stooped and sometimes even using their hands as he does. ‘Three
precious little Gollums in a row we shall be, if this goes on much longer,’
thought Sam.’ They come to the end of the mere and cross it, floundering from
one tussock of weeds to another, sliming themselves up to the neck until they
stink from waters like a cesspool.
Late at night they at last find firmer ground, much to Gollum’s satisfaction. By some mysterious sense he seems to know where he is again and the way ahead. Late as it is he urges them forward, to ‘take master away from the wicked lights.’ He goes forward eagerly and the hobbits stumble after him. But in a little while Gollum stops and sniffs the air doubtfully. Sam asks him why: everything simply stinks. But Gollum has sensed a change coming. The air is moving. They move on, though Gollum shows signs of increasing uneasiness.
Suddenly
they halt. They hear, far away, ‘a long wailing cry, high and thin and cruel.’
The stirring air grows cold and there is a noise like wind coming from the
distance. The misty marsh light waver
and go out at its approach. Gollum freezes and stands shaking and gibbering.
The rushing wind comes upon them, hissing and snarling, and the night grows
less dark as the clouds and fog are torn before them. ‘[T]hen high in the south
the moon glimmered out, riding in the flying wrack.’
For a moment Frodo and Sam are glad at the sight, though Gollum curses the White Face and its light. But then they see it come, ‘a small cloud flying from the accursed hills; a black shadow loosed from Mordor; a vast shape winged and ominous. It scudded across the moon, and with a deadly cry went away westward, outrunning the wind in its fell speed.’ They fall forward groveling on the cold ground. The shadow turns back and passes over them again, heading back to Mordor ‘with the speed of the wrath of Sauron.’ Behind it the wind roars along, rending the clouds and mist until the Dead Marshes lie bleak and bare under the ghastly moonlight.
Frodo
and Sam get up, but Gollum will not move for terror. They rouse him a bit out
of his panic at last. ‘Wraiths!’ he wailed. ‘Wraiths on wings! The Precious is
their master.’ They see everything, and report back to Sauron. He knows
everything! Gollum will not move until the revealing light of the moon has sunk
off to the west.
‘From
that time on Sam thought he sensed a change in Gollum again.’ Though more
fawning than ever, he casts Frodo some mighty strange looks at times. He also
goes back more to his old way of speaking.
But
Sam has another growing anxiety. The closer they get to Mordor, the more the
burden of the Ring is weighing upon Frodo, slowing him down and wearing him
out. Frodo feels it as an Eye, a ‘horrible growing sense of a hostile will that
strove with great power to pierce all shadows of cloud, and earth, and flesh,
and to see you: to pin you under its deadly gaze, naked, immovable.’ Frodo can
feel its location as surely as a man with his eyes closed knows where the sun
is. He is walking into its power, and it beats upon his brow.
Gollum
is probably feeling something of the same, torn between his promise and the fear
of Sauron and his lust for the Ring, but Sam is distracted by his care for
Frodo, so much so that he barely notices the shadow that has fallen on his own
heart.
They
struggle on until daylight, which reveals how much closer they are to the
ominous mountains, no longer a cloudy menace but a bare black wall of towers. ‘The
marshes were at an end, dying away into dead peats and wide flats of dry cracked
mud. The land ahead rose in long shallow slopes, barren and pitiless, towards
the desert that lay at Sauron’s gate.’ They spend the day cowering under a
black stone, fearful of the possible return of the Nazgul overhead, spying them
out.
The
next two days are a stumbling nightmare of growing fear over ‘a weary, pathless
land.’ The air grows harsh, with a bitter reek that parches their mouths. On
the morning of the fifth day after they started following Gollum, they come to
the desolation that lies before the gates of Mordor. Frodo looks around in
horror.
‘Even
to the Mere of Dead Faces some haggard phantom of green spring; but here
neither spring nor summer would ever come again. Here nothing lived, not even
the leprous growths that feed on rottenness. The gasping pools were choked with
ash and crawling muds, sickly white and grey, as if the mountains had vomited
the filth of their entrails upon the lands about. High mounds of crushed and
powdered rock, great cones of earth fire-blasted and poison-stained, stood like
an obscene graveyard in endless rows, slowly reveled in the reluctant light.
They had come to the … lasting monument to the dark labour of its slaves that
should endure when all their purposes were made void; a land defiled, diseased
beyond all healing – unless the Great Sea should enter in and wash it with
oblivion. ‘I feel sick,’ said Sam.’
They
watch as all the horror grows clearer in the growing daylight. Even the
sunlight seems defiled, walking among the clouds and flags of smoke,
unfriendly, as if it would reveal them to enemy eyes. Too weary to go further
they try to shelter under a mound of slag, but it leaks foul fumes that choke
them. Gollum finally gets up cursing and leads them to a foul circular pit,
cold and dead with a sump of oily water at the bottom. Here they cower hoping
to escape the attention of the eye.
The
day passes slowly. At first they cannot sleep and a great thirst troubles them.
They were last able to fill their bottles back at the gully, which seems a
paradise compared to where they are now. They try to take watches in turns, but
on Frodo’s watch, overburdened with the Ring and looking up at the smoke
streaked sky, he seems to see ‘strange phantoms, dark riding shapes, and faces
out of the past.’ Bewildered and weary,
he falls asleep.
Bits
and Bobs
While the Dead Marshes carry Tolkien’s memory of the waste and ravages of war, he seems to evoke even more horrified judgement on the deadly industrial desolation that was destroying the land even at the time, and is now never far to seek, and decades more advanced. It is this insight into the barrenness and poison that is left and that will endure ‘even when all their purposes are made void’, when all the good has been sucked from the earth and the reason for making the desolation has long passed, that makes Tolkien a proto-ecologist, at least on a practical and aesthetic level.
Tolkien struggled with the chronology of events, trying to make the Nazgul passing over them here the one that was headed to Edoras, tying them together by coincidence, but he could not make it work. Gollum particularly fears this appearance. Under the pressure of thinking that Sauron might be about to get the Ring, thus putting it beyond his reach forever, he is again turned to increased desperation about his Precious and towards his old wicked ways.
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I DON’T KNOW WHY
It had to be October--
I don't know why--
October, when rain falls dreary,
And the hawks cry for loss,
When lone train whistles grieve
On the cold East wind--
Why, in October,
This month of shadows and ghosts,
Trees weeping dull brown leaves,
Dry grass rustling in fences,
Moments of mocking sunshine
Swallowed by clouds--
In October, oh why,
When times could be spent
With candy, and bonfire nights,
Masquerades and brave pretense,
But for the melancholy fact
Of parting in October.
