SCENE III

[Words appear on the screen: several months later. Scene:  the yard of Húrin and Morwen’s home. It is no longer beautiful, bright, and green, but filled with garbage. Evil, dirty men are lurking around. Trees are cut down and burned, all looks very somber and dismal. Inside the house, Túrin is sitting with his mother in the living room, and they are speaking together. It is now obvious that Morwen is pregnant.]

Túrin: [worried:]

                Who are these men, mother?

Morwen:

I do not know, son. Yet I think that they are a tribe of the Easterlings, Men who fought for Morgoth.

Túrin:

                But why have they come here? And where is Father? When will he come back?

Morwen:

I do not know why they have come here. No news has come back to any of our people of the tidings of the war. None knows what happened.

Túrin:

                My Aunt Aerin does not know?

Morwen: [shakes her head:]

No. But even if she did, she is not permitted to speak her knowledge, for Brodda, the leader of the Easterling, took her as his wife.

Túrin:

But when will Father come back, to cast out these ugly thieves? Why does he not come?

Morwen:

I do not know, son. It may be that he was slain, or that he is held captive; or again it may be that he was driven far away, and cannot yet return to us through the foes that surround us.

[Túrin bends his head down, trying to hide his tears, and not doing a very good job of it. Grief and tears are laden in his voice as he speaks:]

Túrin:

Then I think that he is dead, for no one could keep him from coming back to us, if he were alive.

Morwen: [softly:]

                I do not think that either of those things are true, my son.

[Scene switch: Morwen is sitting alone in her bedroom. Through the window comes the noise of loud talking and raucous laughter. She is silent, and as she sits and thinks, the words of Húrin come back to her mind, that we can hear:]

Húrin:

                Go swiftly! Do not wait!

[She gives a shuddering sigh, and wipes away a tear that lingers on her eyelid. She hears her own voice speaking words of the past:]

Morwen: [echoing:]

Then if your kin are not hopeful, or your friends deny me, what of the Elven King Thingol of Doriath? His daughter’s husband is Beren, my kinsman. Surely he would not send us away?

[She wipes away her tears, looking again austere, and stands up, going into the living room, and looking around.]

                Túrin?

                [Túrin’s voice comes in through the window.]

Túrin:

                I’m here, mother!

                [He comes in through the backdoor.]

Morwen: [rather sharply:]

                Where were you?

Túrin:

                Oh, on the back porch with Labadal.

[Morwen takes him by the arm and pulls him inside, shutting the door behind him]

Morwen:

You must be very careful, Túrin, with these men about. Do not wander out of sight.

Túrin: [sensing her perturbation:]

                Very well, Mother. I will not. I’m sorry.

Morwen:

                Túrin, come sit down with me.

[She sits down at the table and motions to him to do the same. He does so. There is a rather long pause.]

Túrin: [at last:]

                What is it mother?

Morwen: [suddenly, as if she has come abruptly to a resolution:]

Your father does not come, Túrin. So you must go, and go soon. It is as he would wish.

                [Túrin looks very distressed.]

Túrin: [crying out:]

                Go? Where shall we go? Over the Mountains?

Morwen:

Yes, over the Mountains, away south, to the kingdom of Doriath – that way there may lie some hope. But I did not say we, my son. You must go, but I must stay.

Túrin: [very upset:]

                But – but I cannot go alone! I will not leave you! Why should we not go together?

Morwen: [calmly:]

                I cannot go. But you will not go alone. I will send Gethron and Grithnir with you.

Túrin: [distressed:]

                Why not Labadal?

Morwen:

Because Sador is lame, and it will be a hard road. And since you are my son and the days are hard, I will not speak softly: you might die on that road. The year is getting late. But if you stay, you will come to a worse end: to be a thrall. If you wish to be a man, when you come to a man’s age, you will do as I bid, bravely.

[Túrin looks increasing distressed the more she says.]

Túrin: [bursts out:]

But shall I leave you only with Sador, and blind Ragnir, and the old women? I should stay in Father’s house, and defend it!

Morwen: [slightly softer:]

You should stay, but you cannot. But you will return one day. Take heart! I will follow you, if things grow worse; if I can.

[At this last Túrin can hold back his tears no longer, and he begins to sob.]

Túrin: [through his tears:]

                But – but how will you find me, lost in the wild?

                [He is still weeping when Morwen continues:]

Morwen: [trying to be hopeful, but firm:]

If you wail, other things will find you first. But you are going to the halls of the Elf King Thingol, and if you come there, and remain there, I will find you, if I can. Would you not rather be a king’s guest than a thrall?

Túrin: [trying to dry his tears but unable to:]

                I do not know. I do not know what a thrall is.

Morwen:

                I am sending you away so you need not learn it.

[Then she holds him at shoulders length and looks him in the eyes, speaking softly:]

It is hard, Túrin, my son. Not hard for you only. It is heavy on me in evil days to judge what to do. But I do what I think is right; for why else should I part with the thing that is most dear to me?

[She folds him in her arms in a tight embrace, and though he is crying softly, she does not yet shed a tear.]

[Scene change: Túrin is walking from the house out to the back porch, where he finds Sador cutting firewood and gathering branches and bits of wood.]

Sador: [looks up and sees him:]

Hello, Túrin! I am trying to gather some firewood, but we have not nearly enough. We cannot stray into the woods now, with these foul Easterlings about.

[He leans on his crutch and looks over to the corner of the porch where the chair that he had been making for Húrin sits.]

I am afraid it must go, for only bare needs can be served in these days.

Túrin: [speaks at last, in haste:]

No, do not break it yet! Maybe he will come back, and then he will be happy to see what you have done for him while he was away!

                [Sador goes toward the chair, then fingers the engravings on it and sighs.]

Sador: [sighs:]

                False hopes will not keep us warm this winter.

                [turns away]

I wasted my time, though the hours seemed pleasant. I have no hope of using my skills for worthier tasks now.

Túrin: [suddenly:]

                Labadal, what is a thrall?

Sador: [slightly startled by the abrupt query]

Well… a thrall is a man who once was a man but is treated like a beast, and made to work, kept alive only to toil, fed only to work more.

                [Túrin is silent for a moment, then says slowly:]

Túrin:

                Now I understand things better.

Sador: [sadly:]

I am sorry you have to understand such things so soon. But what do you now understand?

Túrin: [with tears filling his eyes]

                Why my mother is sending me away.

Sador: [aside:]

                Ah! But why so long delayed?

                [to the boy, trying to sound cheerful:]

That does not seem news for tears to me! But you should be careful to whom you tell your mother’s counsels.

Túrin: [tearfully:]

But I have always told things to you, Labadal! I do not want to leave you! I do not want to leave my mother!

Sador: [trying to cheer him:]

But if you do not, soon there will be an end to the House of Hador for ever. Labadal does not want you to go, but Sador servant of Húrin will be happier when Húrin’s son is out of reach of the Easterlings. Well, well, it cannot be helped. But will you take your knife back before you go?

[From his belt he takes the knife that Túrin gave him and hopefully holds it out to him.]

Túrin: [backing away a step; proudly:]

No! I am going to the Elves, to the King of Doriath, my mother says. Maybe I will get other knives there. But I shall not be able to send you any gifts, Labadal! I shall be far away and all alone!

[He breaks down and begins to weep again, and cannot stop. Sador tries to rally him.]

Sador:

Hey now! Where is Húrin’s son? For I heard him say, not long ago: I will go as a soldier to an Elf-king one day, as soon as I can.

                [At this Túrin stops crying, and wipes the back of his hand across his eyes.]

Túrin:

Very well: if that is what the son of Húrin said, then I must hold to those words, and go.

[Scene fades. Scene change: Two older men stand at the porch of Húrin’s house with packs on their backs. Túrin stands by them, also with a pack, and Morwen is beside them. She reaches down and gives him a hug, and kisses his cheek. Túrin looks like he is trying to speak, but he does not say anything. One of the servants says to him softly:]

Gethron:

                Come, Túrin.

[They start walking away from the house, down through the trees and down the hill that leads up to the house. Morwen stands still in front of the door on the porch, watching them in silence, as tall and moveless as a pillar in a great hallway, her hand grasped about the door post. Her brown hair waves in the wind behind her. Túrin and the two servants continue on, over the hills, until they reach the top of the last hill, which is the last place that they can see the house.]

Gethron:

                Now look back, Túrin, and see the house of your father, ere we go.

[Túrin turns slowly back, and can see the house, as a wooden shape the size of a hand on the green hill away, and seeing it he cries out in great anguish:]

Túrin:

                Morwen, Morwen, when shall I see you again?

[Morwen, standing on the porch of the house, with her hand on the door post, can hear the echo of those words over the wooded hills. Hearing them she bites her quivering lip, as if in great anguish, and without moving anything else, she grips the door post so hard that her fingers are torn on the wood, and blood appears on them.]