Chapter Seventeen

Through the Downs

   Strider distrusted the open land the longer their advance endured. He remembered well the villages that once had been among the soft hills. Rohan had always been sparsely populated, but the wanderer sensed evil in the absence of any man or woman in East Emnet. They found nothing but the remnants of huts, which had been deserted some time ago, and replenished their provisions as best as they could. To Daevan's surprise Strider took some chicken feathers with him, but his good mood did not last long. Even to the young man, it seemed as if the Rohirrim had withdrawn from the land to a safer haven and had taken all their steeds with them.

   Yet, the two men did not suffer hunger. With the arrows, he had retrieved after the assault of the wolf pack, Strider shot rabbits at need to replenish their provisions. It was time-consuming yet unavoidable, and Daevan learned how to sustain himself beyond the fen known to him. They found young berries and roots, which could be saved for later. And from the twigs and feathers Strider made himself new arrows while they sat at night by the campfire.

   Daevan realised that his childhood and adolescence now lay a long way behind him. He had learned so much since he had left the village. He thanked his grand-father with every prayer he sent home that he had urged, even shoved him out of the hut to accompany the Great Warrior. Still, Daevan thought that it would be nice to meet the old man again and tell him of the adventures he had lived through. His joy at standing on his own feet and proving himself was spoiled by the knowledge that he might return home too late to ever talk with his grand-father again.

   They crossed the great plain of Rohan in hurried marches. Strider was still relentlessly driven by the need to find the creature, and unlike Daevan, the wanderer did not undertake the journey of his own free will. By now the young man sensed that there was far more behind the hunt. Strider looked as if years of sorrow lay heavily upon his brow, and that his shoulders were bent though he walked upright. Daevan guessed more than he knew that Strider's imperturbability was a facade. Yet he found no way to ask him, and there were days when the wanderer did not talk at all and his mind seemed many miles beyond the path they trod.

   Daevan grew stronger inside. He learned to read the signs of the weather and the wind; he learned to differentiate between the tracks of deer, rabbit, and other animals. He learned to wield the sword given to him. He was the eager pupil of a man, who had much to teach, and with every league they covered he felt more secure in what he did. By following the wanderer's steps he took in many details and would have been able to recall them at need. Though Strider seemed distant at times he was always friendly and observant, easy-going and calm. With every day they shared Daevan could better imagine the Great Warrior to be a leader of armies, a hero, and an example. There he was: a man, who could wield a sword so quickly and strongly that enemies would give up the battle before it had even begun. Then he was: a teacher, whose calmness and benign demeanour taught much more than how to deflect a blade. Again he was: the determined warrior, who did not yield or give up, even if it cost him dear.

   By the first night in the South Downs, where the grass grew thin and the soil hard and dry, Daevan sat down to wipe the blade clean. He had much more confidence in his own skill by now, and it showed. Still all the lessons had only been executed without any intention to cause harm. It would be different to cross blades with an enemy. He thought of the Orcs in his village, the warg, and the wolves. Alone, he would have been lost even though he had carried a weapon. Deep in thought, the young man sheathed the blade, and his hand glided over the hilt. Strider sat beside him and took out a pouch with cloth and oil.

   “You will prove yourself,” he said quietly, but convincingly.

   Daevan exhaled.

   “Did you feel despair in times past? Did you ever think of losing… in all those fights you fought?”

   Strider let the cloth run along the silver shining blade.

   “I did, but I kept on going.”

   “It is hard to imagine standing beside a man, who is never afraid,” Daevan said without lifting his head.

   The wanderer lowered the blade to rest on his crossed legs.

   “You have a noble opinion of me, Daevan, but it is based on lore - stories of old, dressed in garments I never wore.” Daevan lifted his brows in open disbelief. “You think I am strong because I fought many battles, but that strength was born out of need. I was afraid many times, and even despaired at the sight of the tasks ahead of me. Though I won with the hosts I led, there were many dead to mourn for, and I lost friends every time I set out. That is hard on every man, and he wishes not to live through those times again.”

   Daevan lifted his chin.

   “But if you despaired… How could you go on?”

   “There was no other way. To abandon those in need would have condemned them to serve the Enemy or get killed. I could not retreat.” Daevan frowned, and Strider put a hand on his shoulder. His voice was deep and sincere when he continued, and a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Your friend Dinúvren ventured into the Dead Marshes to save a stranger from certain death. And you followed him without question. So do not think of me, but of Dinúvren and yourself. It is your courage that should be praised.”

   The young fisherman shook his head.

   “What was our deed compared to yours? Nothing but…”

   “Nay, there is no comparison, Daevan. It was a selfless act to risk your lives. Yet not even for a friend, but for someone, who could have turned out to be an enemy.” Strider pressed Daevan’s shoulder, then released him. “Every deed has its time, and I am grateful and will not forget yours.”

   Daevan grinned. He could not help it. He had never been praised like that. It was a good feeling. And since he had never considered his act as brave, it was even better to be honoured by Thorongil himself.

   “Doran once said you could even talk the dead tree of Minas Tirith into blossoming again. I think he is right.”

~~~~

   After a day with heavy rain, the grey clouds drifted to grant the wanderers warm rays of sunshine. Though the wold and the North Downs were known to be scanty, the change of weather and rising temperatures turned it into a sea of small flowers, blossoming in yellow and light blue. Birds of different colours circled the air, and flocks of butterflies flew up high when the wanderers passed them by. Daevan would have halted to stare in wonder, and while he trotted behind the wanderer, he promised himself that he would once return to this place. Then he laughed about himself: little did he know of what would happen while spring and summer lasted.

   The travellers had already crossed many leagues when they reached the Limlight at the eastern rim of Fangorn Forest. And while the forest loomed with old, bent trees like gloomy guardians of their own small world, Daevan's gaze turned east to the Field of Celebrant yonder the river. In the glistening sunlight reflecting on the water, he tried to imagine what it had been like to ride and march out to meet an enemy so much stronger than the host the Rohirrim and Gondorians could muster. But the battle had been won, and the truce between the two winning peoples had been renewed.

   “Did you ride for the Rohirrim because of the treaty with Gondor?” Daevan asked when they settled down to rest for the night.

   “I accompanied the King of Rohan in a time of need,” Strider simply replied and was about to turn to the other side to sleep when Daevan said with the edge of impatience:

   “Could you not put some fat to the fish?”

   Strider turned back, honestly puzzled.

   “Fat to the fish?”

   Daevan waved his hands to find the right words to explain.

   “It's a saying of my people. It means to tell the whole story; to give more than the bones of the fish. To not withhold what is true or necessary to understand.”

   Strider sat up again, raising his eyebrows.

   “And you ask me to put fat to the fish and tell you the whole story?”

   “Aye.”

   The older man curled his lips to a grin.

   “My elder brother used to look at me like you do now. He always knew when I had done something that was forbidden. And then it was up to him to explain my behaviour.”

   “Why should he?” Daevan asked.

   “He was by far older than I. And our father expected him to take care of me. As he did. For most of the time.”

   The regretful and yet playful expression made Daevan smile.

   “The Great Warrior has a past of his own. And very different from what people might think.” Strider bowed curtly, and they both laughed. “You have a way of digressing, Strider,” he said then, “but is there a reason that you keep your past to yourself?”

   Strider lowered his gaze.

   “When you will have walked Middle-earth for as long a time I have, you will come to understand that there are not many stories you wish to recall. I served King Thengel to save his kingdom from ruin. His men were valiant and strong, but lacked experience. The host was scattered, the tidings would have taken too long to reach the settlements. And if his own home or Gondor were in need, the Eorlingas would get to know of it much too late. My deeds therefore did not lie only with the strength of my hand or the sharpness of my sword, but with counselling the king. He ordered the most experienced men to teach the young. He installed mighty bells on the hills to be heard for miles around. He named errand riders to bring tidings to his allies and receive them the same way. And the old watch-fires on the tops of the mountains were used again.” Strider looked at Daevan gravely. “So my deeds differ from what you were told, I suppose.”

   Daevan shook his head slightly.

   “Doran used to describe you as a Lord among Men, a leader, who was afraid of no one, but to whom enemies would bow and yield. Maybe he told this because this is what he saw in you: the man, who could turn a group of men into determined warriors with a cause to ride to war.”

   “I would have wanted for no man to ride with me. Many battles have already been fought, and there many a good men died.” His voice dropped low and got raspy. “When I walked the Morgul Vale months ago, I wished for the Dark Lord himself to step forward and challenge me.” Daevan shuddered. “Then it would have been a fight, in which only he or I could have fallen. There would have been no more Orc hordes to fulfil the Enemy's commands, no more hosts from Gondor to stand and fight them back. It would have been a single fight. One would have vanquished the other.” Strider drew in breath. “I cannot recall for how many days and nights I wandered in the east, searching for Gollum. And every hour I expected the Enemy's minions to catch me.” He smirked suddenly. “Yet it did not come to pass, and I reached the Dead Marshes unharmed. Only to almost drown myself.”

   “That loss would have been mourned for by more than one people.” Daevan felt a sudden heaviness on his mind. Though he said the words, it was obvious that no one of Gondor or Rohan would ever have come to know these evil tidings. The great Thorongil would have been accounted for dead if he had not met his companions, but they would not have known where he had died.

   “Your words are kind, but it seems to me that I was spared for my tasks are not yet fulfilled. I failed to catch Gollum. It is on me to find him again.”

   With that, he turned, drew up the blanket over his shoulders and left Daevan alone with his thoughts.

~~~~

   They reached the easternmost part of Fangorn Forest, and Daevan had nightmares about boughs stooping towards him and accusing him of cutting wood where it was forbidden. He woke with a cry on his lips, and felt sheepish when Strider looked at him inquiringly. Daevan composed himself and smoothed strands of hair out of his face. Still he did not like to turn his back to the trees.

   “I found some rabbit bones yonder the trees.” Strider wrinkled his nose. The morning air was still chilly, and mist billowed like a soft cloak over the river and the meadows beyond. “We might have gained on Gollum.”

   “He came the same way then.” Daevan lifted his gaze distrustfully toward the tall, strong tree trunks with their long and ramified branches. They looked like giant hands with thin fingers, stretching toward the wanderers. Daevan felt scrutinized. “Will we catch up with him before he reaches the mountains?”

   “Even if we had wings, there are many miles between Fangorn and the Misty Mountains. Gollum will reach the foot-hills first.”

   Daevan's gaze turned westward.

   “There will be no tracks to find on hard stone.”

   “Aye.” Strider rolled up his cloak and bound it to his pack before he rose.

   “Then how will you find that creature? The mountains will be full of… clefts, holes, entrances to caves that might lead on for miles beneath the mountain top. He could hide anywhere.”

   Strider shouldered his pack and waited for Daevan to do the same.

   “Nay, he cannot. There are tunnels in many directions, but entrances are few. Ages ago, the Dwarves built there many ways, but closed natural entrances to secure their hoard. The one entrance I know of lies north. There we will go.”

   Daevan raised his brows, but said naught. Even though he might have had hope to capture Gollum while they crossed the plain, the chance to find him among boulders and rock plates was small.

~~~~

   To Daevan's unspoken surprise, Strider directed his steps toward the forest. The young man fell behind, and when Strider turned to ask for the reason, Daevan lifted his gaze to the mighty treetops, which spread their branches like a roof, impenetrable by the sun.

   “Did you not say we would not enter Fangorn?”

   “The river is ahead of us. We need some wood to build a float.”

   “Some dead wood, I assume.”

   “Aye. Come on, give me a hand.”

   Carefully, and with his eyes everywhere Daevan entered Fangorn Forest. It was a gloomy, fey, and oppressive aura about the trees and their young leaves. Though spring had begun the ground was covered with withered twigs, moss, and lichen, which clung to the twisted knots of roots. Some had crept up a trunk, and in the moist darkness spread their tiny spores. Leaves rustled and twigs cracked under Daevan's boots. The air was filled with the smell of rotten soil and fungi. He stooped to collect boughs thick enough to carry weight, and while he went here and there, went deeper into the oldest forest of Middle-earth. Strider had walked ahead of him, but when the young fisherman straightened, he could see him no more. He turned in every direction, even lifted his gaze. A soft wind set the leaves in motion, and through the twigs with their light and young green, rays of sunshine sparkled as if they were playing a melody only they could hear. Daevan smiled. Fangorn was a forest like any other, he thought, and the Rohirrim only frightened their children. Somewhere a thick bough cracked, and others followed, making rustling noises. Daevan turned once more. The wind was too soft to move the larger branches, and yet he descried them waving yonder where the darkness prevailed. Frowning he got closer, inspired by the idea of telling Strider that the old lore was nothing but nonsense. Yet when he stepped further inside, he heard another sound: a soft whisper, coming to him on the wave of the wind. And there in the strong, grey-clad trunk he could see eyes, dots of dark yellow that turned towards him. Daevan swallowed, then gripped the boughs tighter and pivoted on his heels. There were only trees around him, and he thought them to be more dense and standing closer to each other than before, barring the path. Then he thought of the frightened Rohirrim children, straightened, and marched back the way he had come without erring once. Strider already waited for him. His load lay at the river bank, and he had taken a coil of rope out of his pack.

   “Where have you been, my young friend? One might get lost when venturing too deep into Fangorn.”

   “Aye.” Daevan glanced back over his shoulder. The trees stood unmoved and at the same places they had stood before. Shaking his head, Daevan gave Strider a hand to bind the boughs to a float.

   The Limlight was narrow compared to the Anduin, but still deep and wide enough to possess a considerable current. Strider fixed the last knots on the float when the sun reached its peak. Both wanderers took off their clothes and boots and loaded the small raft with their belongings. Daevan was glad they had come to the river in spring. Still it was a challenge to lower oneself into the icy cold water. Daevan shuddered when the current gripped him. He held tight to one side of the float while Strider took the other. Together they swam carefully and slowly across the river, needing all their strength to fight the current and avoid being taken too far downstream. Playfully, Daevan lifted his chin out of the spray. He was an excellent swimmer, and enjoyed the bath in the clear, cold water. For too long he had missed the exaltation of floating with the waves. The Limlight bore no threat, and when the wanderers reached the northern shore Daevan was disappointed. Strider looked at him amused.

   “Your mood has lightened,” he said quietly and collected his garments, which had stayed almost dry.

   “Aye, whose mood would not rise when having such a ride?” Daevan inhaled deeply and put on his shirt and trousers again.

   “I would not wittingly disarm myself if there was no need,” Strider replied and fumbled to get his wet arms into the sleeves of his shirt. “Yet… the ride was pleasant.”

   “We could catch some fish…,” Daevan proposed with a sparkle in his eyes.

   “We could if we had the time.”

   Grinning impishly, Daevan filled their water-skins, while Strider reclaimed his rope. They saved the wood to kindle a fire. After a short meal, they set out westward toward the towering foothills of the Misty Mountains.

-o-o-o-o-