Chapter 16

As if they knew that the Company could not defend against them, it seemed that word had passed among the local mosquito population that here was easy, vulnerable prey.  The blinded Fellowship swatted frantically at the whining annoyances, tracking their tiny attackers by their shrill buzzing.  Pippin waved his arms about his head as the biting creatures sought his unprotected ears, loosening his grasp on Sam’s shoulders and causing Merry to stumble behind him.  Legolas halted the column and hurried back through the line to reattach the two.

“Can we not stop?” panted Merry, rubbing his shin.  Before him, Pippin had compromised by keeping one hand on Sam’s shoulder and using the other to shake out his scarf, wrapping it around his ears in a vain attempt to thwart the insects.  “This is worse than the Midgewater Marshes.  We’re being eaten alive!”

“Stop thrashing about, then,” contributed Frodo from the head of the hobbit-line.  “You merely excite them by struggling so.”

Gimli growled at that. “This is intolerable!  I would rather face a mob of Orcs than this lot!”  The insects had less surface to attack on the armored Dwarf, and so were congregating on his face with enthusiasm above the sheltering beard.

“Legolas,” the Ranger called, “can you see any citronella or skunk cabbage growing nearby?”

The Elf returned to him quickly.  “I do not know those plants, Aragorn.”

“Look for a large plant with a frilly outer collar, green on the outside and deep purple on the inside, much like a large cabbage but with thorned stalks.  I fear we are still too high on the knees of Caradhras, but if you see one, rubbing it on our skin will discourage them.  It smells utterly foul, like a cross between rotting carrion and the sewer-pits of Bree.”

“Good,” Sam whispered to Frodo, “just what I want to rub on meself…”  Before him, Sam felt his master’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter.      

“Keep moving,” ordered Gandalf from the head of the line.  Muttering, the weaving column picked up the pace, trying to outdistance their tormentors.  After but a short way, Frodo called to Gandalf and the old wizard pulled even with them, his staff making dull thuds in the spongy earth. 

“Let us walk holding on to Bill’s panniers, Gandalf,” the hobbit suggested.  “His tail can shelter us, too.”        

Gandalf wiped mosquitoes out of his beard before replying.  The insects were so thick it was difficult to take a breath without inhaling them.  “Good thinking, Frodo.  You and Sam drop back, one on each side of the pony, and Merry and Pippin walk alongside his flanks.  You can trade places with them later.”  This change in the line of march had an additional benefit to relieving the hobbits of some of their misery (an occasional tail-lash being much preferred to the constant biting) – the Company was able to move faster.  Bill, his lead-rope held by Gimli, guided the hobbits at a quicker pace than their own hesitant steps.  The whining buzzes gradually grew less but in recompense for quiet, each stinging bite began to itch.  It was an itching, miserable Company that Gandalf finally allowed to rest, guiding each groaning member to a seat among the scattered stones of a small dell.

“I think I prefer freezin’ to death,” Sam muttered, scratching vigorously.

Frodo laughed softly.  “You may yet have a chance, Sam.  We’ve a long way to go.”

“Wonderful,” Sam returned mournfully.  “Lookin’ forward to it.”

“Shhhhh!” came Merry’s voice from somewhere to their right. “The Big Folk are talking.  I want to hear!”

Frodo and Sam fell silent, and nothing could be heard from Pippin except energetic scratching.  But Merry’s inquisitiveness proved unproductive.  The sharp-eared hobbit could catch nothing but a few soft-voiced words; “shelter,” “darkness,” “rest and recover” in Legolas’ clear voice and Aragorn responding “no time,” and “bitter cold.” And “dangerous” - that word he heard clearly.  One more phrase from Gandalf drifted to his straining ears, “They … coming quickly.  They will be upon us by mid-morning tomorrow.”  Merry sighed and wished the Big Folk would be more considerate of eavesdroppers.

“Can you hear anything?” whispered Frodo, interrupting what few words Merry had managed to catch. 

“Not with all the noise you all are making,” Merry hissed back.  “Pip, what are you doing?”

The increasingly loud rustling noises stopped.  “I’m covered with bites, Merry!  They bit right through my cloak and jacket and everything!  I can’t stand it!”

“Buck up, Pippin-lad,” came Frodo’s comforting voice.  “Wiggle ‘round and I’ll scratch your back -“

“No more scratching!” Gandalf’s voice next to their ears caused all the hobbits to jump.  “Pippin, stop that.  You’ll only make it worse.  Legolas and I are going to guide you all farther down to where a river of ice has thrown up great walls of dirt along its sides.  The walls will provide shade from the sun’s glare and give us a defensible position.  You can bathe your bites in the runoff – the icy water will soothe the itching.”

“Did you say a river of ice?” Frodo asked, but Gandalf had already moved on to consult with Aragorn.  “Some of Bilbo’s books mention great fields of ice that move across the face of the world with the slowness of the ages.  Rivers of ice frozen for eons, leagues wide!  Imagine, Merry, to see such a thing!”

“We aren’t going to see anything until our eyes heal,” Merry replied practically.  “I wish we could remove these blindfolds.”

“This evening, Merry, when darkness has fallen.”  The hobbits jumped again at Legolas’ soft voice.  None had heard the Elf approach.  “It will be dusk before we reach the glacier’s moraine.”  Seeing their looks of confusion, Legolas continued, “Great walls of dirt are pushed up at the edges of the ice flow as it advances.  It is very cold there but not as cold as on Caradhras’ shoulders.”  The gentle voice paused then resumed at a higher level, indicating the Elf had stood.  “Your eyes should have recovered sufficiently from the glare to be usable tomorrow.  Now, we must continue.  Let me guide you to our invaluable Bill.”

* * * * *

Many weary hours later, the faltering, itching Company stumbled to a halt beneath a great wall of dirt and riven rock that towered above their heads.  They had been aware of the setting sun as a lessening of the pain in their eyes, giving way to the blessed relief of night. 

Legolas sat them down and built a fire with the last of their firewood.  Those turning towards the flames were startled to see light and movement behind their closed lids.  Wincing, Sam found that he could see the dance of the flames against the darkness.  Not clearly, and the light hurt, but sight was returning.  The hobbits turned their faces to the warmth and an unvoiced knot of terror deep inside them began to unravel.

Gandalf settled the Company while Legolas sought their dinner.  The Elf returned quickly, a great thick-furred animal slung over his shoulder.  None of the Company had ever seen such a beast, though Boromir thought it might be some kind of great rodent, cousin to rabbits (and rats, Sam heard Pippin whisper to Merry) from the two great gnawing teeth in its mouth.  The fur was grayish and very soft and thick to the touch.  It was with much regret that Boromir agreed they could not spare the time to cure the hide and preserve it. 

“Rest well tonight,” the wizard advised after they had eaten.  “Tomorrow we must cross the glacier.  It will be difficult going, but once we are across it, we can return to our road.  We must press hard, then, for much time has been lost in this doomed attempt.” 

“What of this ‘glacier,’ Gandalf,” asked Frodo.  “This river of ice?  Is it not dangerous?”

“It has been there for thousands of years, Frodo,” replied the wizard.  “It will doubtless last a day or two more.” 

“I didn’t mean that.  What do we need to know as we traverse it?” 

Sam thought that Gandalf would rather not have answered his master.  The wizard huffed into his beard then replied reluctantly, “The greatest danger is collapse of the ice upon which we walk.  The surface ice has melted and re-formed so many times that it is very brittle, with nothing to mark the weak spots.” 

The hobbits digested that in silence.  Then surprisingly, Gimli spoke.  “If that is the case,” he rumbled in his deep voice, “I should go first.  If the ice is to collapse, then best it fail under the greatest weight and warn the Company.” 

“By that logic,” Aragorn put in, “we should send the pony first.  We can ill-afford to spare him, too.  No, Gimli, we shall take our chances together.” 

“Can’t we walk around this glacier?” asked Merry. 

“No,” Gandalf replied.  “We must cross it to regain our path.  It is not far across – a few hundred meters – but the footing is chancy.  We will move slowly and be sure of our steps.” 

 Itching, cold and apprehensive, the exhausted Fellowship rolled themselves into their blankets.  But sleep was long in coming.

* * * * *  

The next morning the Company was roused by Pippin’s exuberant “Oi!  Oi!”  Legolas, on watch, swiveled ‘round and was on his feet before the echoes of the young hobbit’s cries had faded into the distance.  “I can see!  I can see!  Ouch!”  The last was delivered in an aggrieved tone as his elder cousin caught a dancing ankle and yanked.  The elder cousin on the other side captured a flailing shirt-tail and pulled the tweenager down.  Pippin lost his balance and sat down hard on Frodo, cushioning his fall on his elder cousin’s tender midsection.  Frodo grunted and pushed him off. 

“What a sight to wake up to,” sighed Aragorn, folding his blindfold and absently stuffing it into a pocket.  Then the Ranger stilled and a rare, broad smile broke across his stern face.  “A most welcome sight.  Even quarreling hobbits are a welcome sight, this morn.” 

“We are not quarreling,” replied Merry with great dignity.  “Frodo, are you all right?”  Rubbing his stomach, Frodo managed an “uuurk” followed by a cough, which his cousins took as assent.    

The Company was looking about them with delighted, if aching, eyes.  Snow glittered in the distance above them; they quickly averted their gaze from it when a shock of pain lanced through their still-sore eyes.  Closer, their attention turned to every crisp-edged stunted tree and frost-touched rock.  Even the tiny white flowers in the lichen-like turf were a source of joy.  “Never again will I take the gift of sight for granted,” Aragorn murmured softly.  “Ah Elbereth, thank you.”

* * * * *

“Careful!  Careful!” warned the wizard.  “Sam, move the pony to the left.  Do not come forward until I tell you.”  Gandalf stood before a rough, uneven patch of ice, one hand extended, palm down, as the other tightly clutched his staff.  Gimli had come last across the patch, the weight of his heavy armor and weapons a concern to the wizard and the Ranger.  The ice had creaked, a deep moaning rumble, and the Dwarf had hurriedly redoubled his pace across the dangerous ground. 

The others gathered near Aragorn on safe ground, watching anxiously.  Gandalf stood between them and Sam and Bill, a look of concentration on his lined features.  The pony did not like the slick surface under his hooves.  Dirt and small rocks the glacier had picked up littered the surface, further disguising thin ice and the sharp crevasses hidden beneath them.  Bill stared at the unstable ground with white-rimmed eyes, nostrils flaring, tremors of tension rippling along the thick hair of his winter coat.  Sam clung to his headstall, scarcely more at ease.

The great mound of pushed earth that marked the far edge of the glacier rose before them, less than five minutes brisk walk.  Sam stared at it longingly.  “C’mon there, Bill,” he crooned softly.  “Just a little more, me lad…”  He tugged gently on the bridle but Bill resisted, usually-affable ears slanting backwards.

“He don’t want ‘ta come,”  Samwise called softly to Gandalf.  The wizard did not reply but moved farther to the left, motioning the hobbit to guide the pony in that direction.  Bill took a couple of steps to the side then stopped again, shaking his head when Sam tugged more insistently.

“Try the sugar cubes, Sam.”  Sam had been so intent on the pony that he was unaware of Frodo’s presence until his master spoke.  Frodo reached up to stroke the trembling nose, and Bill responded by gently lipping his hands, the pony’s breath warm as it puffed into the freezing air.

“Right, sir, I should of thought o’ that.”  Two rather grubby sugar cubes were held before Bill’s nose.  The pony stretched out his long neck, but Sam kept them just out of reach.  “There’s a good boy, Bill, jus’ a few more steps…”  Sam held the sugar cubes before the questing nose, obliging the rest of the pony to follow.

Frodo stuck his hands in his pockets, pleased with himself.  He turned and started walking back to the others on the right of the pony.

Crack!

The loud crash of ice breaking caused Bill to bolt, head down, dragging a startled Sam off his feet and alongside, hanging from the bridle.  Frodo only had time to throw up his arms and emit one terrified cry before he disappeared from the horrified Company’s sight, sliding rock and snow cascading after him into the depths.

* TBC *