CHAPTER 20: STEPS IN TIME

After parting with Hamille and Lanwil, Aragorn and his company continued their journey eastward, feeling a little cheered by the news Lanwil had brought and by the warmth of a generous sun. Before too long, they reached a convergence of four roads, where the group halted and looked about them. Going in a northeasterly direction was the road that was once the thoroughfare leading to North Ithilien, but which was now little used since Legolas’ elves frequented the road that bypassed this junction, along which Hamille and Lanwil were now riding. In the opposite direction, the road would take a rider to South Ithilien. But straight on, running eastward as straight as a ribbon, was the route to a land no one wished to head for, but to which all were compelled to go: the road to the pass of Cirith Ungol, and beyond it, the Land of Mordor.

“Well, here we are at the Crossroads; I expect this is familiar to you, Sam,” Aragorn said, turning around to speak to the Hobbit.

Sam smiled sadly as his eyes glazed with memories. “Yes, Aragorn, here I am again,” he said softly, riding a little way to a grassy place off the more stony paths of the Crossroads. It was much the same as when he and Frodo had been there on that fateful day during the Quest. “It looks a tad different, though, because we approached it from the north, and on foot, if you recall,” Sam added, sweeping his eyes over the area. “But look, Aragorn! There lies the fallen King as we saw him!” he said excitedly, pointing to a spot beyond some trees. “And see, he is crowned still, and with more flowers!”

“Aye, he’s not been moved,” Aragorn said. “Someone else in his lifetime might see fit to do so, but some things I thought best to leave as they are, as reminders of what once was.”

The companions remained still, studying the fallen king for a while and thinking about the old kingdoms that had come and gone. As they watched, a cloud passed overhead, blocking the sun, and a shadow crept over the head of stone just as Frodo and Sam had witnessed before. Sam’s eyes went misty at the memory, but when the facial features on the broken sculpture became hidden in shade, it was Legolas who stiffened and gasped softly at a different memory. Elrohir and Aragorn noticed it immediately and exchanged quick looks. But the shadow passed, and when the face of the King appeared whole again, the elf prince released a breath in relief, casting his friends a reassuring look. He was grateful when Sam spoke and drew everyone’s attention.

“When I was last here, we had to scurry about in fear, always keeping to the hidden paths,” the hobbit recalled. “It feels good to be taking the open road now. And aahh… the air of fair Ithilien now wafts through the place like a fresh, chill breeze on a winter morning!”

Indeed, the wholesome air of Ithilien seemed to fill their lungs. “It’s almost tasty!” Pippin declared, earning light laughter from his companions.

“Trust you to see something edible even in plain air!” Merry teased.

“Not so plain when it is the breath of Ithilien,” Aragorn said quietly, “for blessed are the lands where Elves dwell.” Hearing this, Legolas and Elrohir smiled sadly, knowing that Aragorn was thinking not only of Ithilien, but also of his days of youth in fair Imladris which would come never again.

The company turned back and resumed their journey east, reluctantly leaving the Crossroads where still lingered a reminder of Elvish fairness and Númenórean strength, and set their wills towards the task ahead. Legolas looked to the rear of the Company, and sensed the growing anticipation of the Shadow Host, feeling some admiration for the Gondorian guards who put on a brave front despite the presence of the Dead behind them.

As the mountains of the Black Land loomed ever nearer, the elf prince turned his attention to his friend instead, noting the conflicting emotions that played on the kingly face: anxiety and apprehension warring with a keenness to end the ordeal for all. The elf frowned, wondering if he was imagining the lines of tension appearing on Aragorn’s face with every mile. He wished the journey would come to an end soon.

The Black Land did come upon them quickly, as if they had opened a door and stepped through to a place where the sun was loath to come. Sauron was gone, and Minas Morgul destroyed as Aragorn had vowed, but the repulsiveness of the Dark Lord’s former realm hit them like a gust of foul wind. While Aragorn had reclaimed the Dead Marshes after the Quest to turn it into arable land, he had not had the motivation to do the same for Mordor, for the memories were still too strong, so he had left it alone. Some future generation – for whom Mordor would be a less bitter reminder of death and destruction – could transform it into inhabitable land. For now, however, its unpleasantness still reached out to the hearts of Men and Elves.

No less heavy on that ride were the hearts of even the merry hobbits. “How did Frodo and Sam make themselves stay here for so many days?” Pippin whispered gloomily to Merry, hoping Sam could not hear him. “It’s depressing, like a grey sky with not a speck of sun or cheer. I think I would have run away at the very first chance.”

“That’s why it was they who were meant to come here, Pip, and not the two of us,” Merry whispered back. “They had the courage, and nerves stronger than the brew at the Green Dragon.”

“You’re right,” Pippin agreed. “Me? I just want a good meal and a good bed and a good hearth with a bright fire – not this graveyard!”

“Hush!” Merry chastised. “Don’t speak so freely of graveyards. Have you forgotten who rides at the rear?”

Pippin had spoken less quietly than he thought, for Sam did hear him. But even without the Took’s remarks, Sam was easily reminded of his earlier ordeal here. He began to see in his mind’s eye the land as it had been when first he entered it: a dim, shadowless world fading slowly into a featureless, colorless gloom. Even now, it was a bare, sad land of hard, dry ground as if mourning its past fate under the hands of a careless Lord with a hatred of growing, thriving things. Just as the land of Hollin in the North, once the fair home of the Firstborn, had retained its wholesomeness long after the elves had left, traces of Sauron’s foulness seemed to linger in the air here. Every whiff that reached the noses of the company was laced with a strange mixture of acridity and bitterness.

“Even the very stones cry piteously in despair,” Legolas remarked quietly, his elven senses perceiving more than mortal eyes would. “It will take time before this land is wholly cleansed of Sauron’s fie aura.”

Aragorn said nothing, but rode on grimly, with only the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and an occasional cry of distant crows breaking the silence. Legolas did not like the graying shadows that seemed to darken the face of the adan, and wondered if the man might be thinking about the ghosts following them. He determined to remain close at Aragorn’s side for the rest of their stay in this dreary place. Casting his sharp eyes around for any danger, the elf prince saw, with small delight, some obscure green shoots nestled in the cracks between hard rocks, struggling to find the sun and wind.

“Lo, Aragorn, there is new life!” he said, pointing to the shoots in wonder.

Aragorn looked where the elf pointed and gave a small smile. “There is indeed, life unexpected,” he said.  

“And where there is life, there is hope,” Sam said. “Leastways, that’s what my old gaffer says.”

“Hope indeed, while Estel is with us,” Elrohir said, and their hearts, for some reason, felt eased.

“But now we should be glad that Sam is with us,” Aragorn said, turning again to the hobbit. “For we shall need your guidance now, to show us the way to the lair of our foe.”

The road before them became steeper, and they rode along slowly, often in the shade between stony banks, till at length they came to a long-tilted valley and a deep gulf of shadow running far back into the mountains, which in the evil years had been the City of the Ringwraiths. Somberly, the company led their horses on to the white bridge, now cracked and forlorn, that had led to the rocky seat upon the black knees of the Ephel Dúath where once had stood the Tower of the Moon, Minas Morgul. The remnants of that loathsome structure lay beckoning to them as they passed over the sad, brackish stream in the middle of the valley and followed the deviously winding road leading to the ruins, but they would not be going the whole way.

Sam, who was now riding at the head of the group at Aragorn’s side, studied the stone-wall beside the road as soon as they had crossed the stream, and suddenly halted the company. “Well, I’ll be! It’s still here,” he said, pointing to a small gap in the wall where he, Frodo and Gollum had left the road. “This is where we have to get off our horses and go on foot, Strider.”

Aragorn and the elves dismounted when Sam did, and walked with him to the gap. Peering through it, they saw beyond a barely discernable narrow path overgrown with the creeping roots and stems of some unhappy-looking plant, drawing life from the sickly stream along which the path ran. Pale flowers clung like desperate adornments to the route which wound its crooked way up into the northern sides of the valley.

“The horses could take us on that path, maybe,” Elrohir said, “but this gap is too small to get them through. We will have to walk.”

“How far is it to the Stairs from here, Sam?” Merry asked, squeezing past Elrohir and peering through the gap. He took an instant dislike to what he saw.

“I won’t paint you a pretty picture – there’s still a ways to go,” Sam replied, sniffing. “There’s another entrance into the tunnel from the other side: the way the orcs took when they carried Frodo into the orc tower, but I wouldn’t bet my pants on getting in that way now, what with the tower being nothin’ more than a heap of broken rubble and all. I had the Ring on, too, when I followed them, see, and it all seemed a haze. So, though it’s a pain, I’m afraid we’ll have to take the Stairs at this end, so’s I can recall the way we took, and not miss the tunnel and spend hours going around in circles.”

“We will follow your lead,” Aragorn stated quickly when Sam stopped for breath, to which the elves and men readily agreed.

Aragorn assigned two guards to stay on the road and take care of the horses, while the rest of the company prepared to hike the rest of the way with Sam. They took water-skins and dried fruit, remembering Sam’s warning that it would be a long, tiring climb up the Stairs to the lair. Sam shaded his eyes and looked at the sun.

“It’s getting a wee bit late in the afternoon, Strider, and it’ll be a long way up those Stairs, even for the long shanks on you and Legolas,” he said. “We’ll have to stop for the night halfway up, like Frodo and I did. It won’t do you any good looking for Shelob in the dark; she can see better than we can – even with the Lady’s Light – and that fat spider can be tricky. Even fat and old, she may still have quite a sting, and I don’t relish the thought of any of us getting stung for not waiting till we have a good eyeful of sun!”

“Long shanks cannot proceed as far or as wisely as a mind with experience,” Aragorn said. “We will spend a night on the Stairs as you counsel, Sam, though we will have to find ledges or enclaves large enough to hold these long shanks! But what of Merry and Pippin? What do you counsel them?”

Sam cocked his head and looked at his two companions. “Well, I see no point in your coming with us, unless you two want to camp at the foot of the Stairs,” he said. “You’d be much better off here with the guards, is what I think. You won’t climb with us, of course. Sleeping here’s safer than on a narrow ledge. With your kicking, Pippin, we’d be picking you – and one of us – off some rocks at the bottom before the night is out.”

“Wha – I do not kick in my sleep!” Pippin protested indignantly. “Merry’s the one with the misbehaving legs!”

“Now wait here, Pipsqueak!” Merry objected while Aragorn and the elves chuckled. “You’re the one always dancing a jig when you’re awake – can’t get enough of it even when you’re asleep!”

“Mercy!” cried Aragorn, laughing. “With so many legs up there, we might just end up kicking each other off a ledge! Ease our hearts by camping here with my guards, Master Hobbits, if you please.” 

“Well, if you put it that way, Strider, we’ll stay here,” Pippin huffed, putting on an offended look, though he was secretly pleased at being told to remain in a much more comfortable and safer place. “Our horses might get skittish without us, anyway – this place isn’t exactly welcoming.”

“We never meant to climb those Stairs anyway,” Merry said, turning a sober face to Sam. “But I for one wish to come with you at least to the foot of those steps. I’ll turn back then, but I’d like a glimpse of what you and Frodo… you know, went through… where you went.”

“Well, I’m coming too then!” Pippin chimed in. “Just to the first step, of course. I would keep you company the whole way if I could fly or glide like those Dead Fellows back there, but I can’t.”

“Oh, shush, Pip!” Merry said, glaring in annoyance as Sam adjusted the light pack on his back and set off. “Don’t go making ass-worthy wishes like that! Now’s not the time to be finding anything good about being like – like Them; Strider’s trying to get rid of them! Now, let’s get going, before Pippin here shoots off more nonsense…”

While the two hobbits returned to their argument, Sam started off at the head of the group, picking out a path where the stones were not so loose.

“At least my men will be entertained when those two return,” Aragorn said to Legolas, drawing a smile from the elf. Turning serious, he whispered: “Do They follow?”

Legolas considered his answer. They are practically at your heels, would have been the truthful reply. “Aye, they follow,” he said instead, and moved to walk behind his friend.

The little group trudged along the path, trying to ignore the stench of the once-poisonous stream. Soon, the land grew steeper and more unfriendly underfoot, veering away from the water. Step by step the little group went up steep inclines, Sam leading them on at a fair pace, till the hobbits and men were sweating and panting, and only the elves remained as light-footed as ever. The air here seemed heavier, but the walkers hardly paused for rest despite their tired muscles, for Sam was concerned about reaching the Stairs before dark.

“Are you sure you want to go on?” the King asked Merry and Pippin as he wiped his brow with his sleeve. “You could turn back now.” 

Merry was insistent. “No, I’m going on,” he said, and Pippin agreed, through hesitantly.

“We must reach the Stairs… like I said, we have to… climb… high enough… before we… phew!... stop for the night,” Sam reminded them breathlessly, wiping off the sweat that had dripped into his round eyes. It was a little less strenuous for the younger and niftier Merry and Pippin, but even they felt the rigor of the hike.

As they went on, Aragorn, Elrohir and Legolas, and even Tobëas and his companions, could only look at Sam in admiration, noting how the smallest of them was leading them with such will and tenacity, aware of the import of this journey for Aragorn. But urgency and need were no strangers to Sam, who, with his beloved master, had borne the hardships of a similar trek eleven years ago because of their commitment to an even greater Quest with even more dire consequences in the balance.  

The hobbit’s eyes misted over with each step he took, as he recalled the painful journey of the past. His throat often constricted not from thirst, but from the emotions that welled within him when he thought about the beloved master and friend who was no longer with him, and when he could speak, he pointed out spots where he and Frodo had stopped or faltered or argued with Gollum, in constant fear of being discovered at any moment by the Ringwraiths watching through the eye-holes in dark Minas Morgul. He stood in silent reminiscence when they came to a great hump of bare rock where the Ring-bearer had been forced to rest, utterly exhausted and unable to take another step. There, too, Aragorn and his friends stopped a while to spare a thought for Frodo, and to take a little water before resuming the hard climb.

They listened in awe as Sam continued to recount – often in a hushed tone – the agony of the trek for Frodo, how the Ring grew unbearably heavier in the Black Land, weighing him down so that each step was like wading through a thick tide, and how he would sometimes stop and break down, feeling the hopelessness of being two lost souls in a land of dark foes, not knowing if anyone knew or cared where they were. Sam recalled their despair as they wondered if they would fail and all would be lost, or if anyone would ever know how hard they tried. Then he and Frodo would be overcome with weariness and desolation, hovering between dream and reality, till, from somewhere, thoughts of the Shire would come to give them comfort, and the light of the Lady’s Glass shining through their fingers would rekindle their spirits, and with each new ounce of strength they would pick themselves up to take the next painful step.

Even Pippin and Merry ceased all attempt at joviality as they walked, lost in quiet awe of the fact that they were treading on the paths of a young but great history: humble, stony places that marked a torturous journey to the salvation of Middle-earth, places that few eyes would ever see. But the eyes that did see them this day were moved by the enormity of the task taken on by two little Halflings far from aid, so that they swallowed silent tears and felt anew their respect for Frodo and Sam, whose quiet deeds were not seen on some great battle plain, but performed – on foot, no less – on the cracked slopes and filthy tunnels of the direst, blackest mountain stronghold of a powerful Lord. In bitter irony did these hated mountains bear mute testimony to the indomitable strength of two little souls who strove to bring down those mighty mountains, while their courage lay beneath torn, dirty ragged clothing and in the dry wells of parched throats, largely hidden from the rest of the world.   

The admiration of the company grew even further when, an hour before what promised to be a blood-red sunset, they came at last to a rounded angle and a dark, narrow opening in a rock: the foot of the Stairs leading to Torech Ungol, the dreaded Lair of Shelob. Stopping to catch their breaths, they peered upward. Even craning their necks, they could not see the top, but a large length of the Stairs was in view where they appeared above the dark crevice some distance up. Men, Elves and Hobbits swallowed when they witnessed the danger that two little hobbits had braved all those years ago: slippery, uneven and treacherous steps cut into the steep rock face, almost vertical in parts and dripping with slime and moss, soon to be colored a gory blood-red in a dying sun. This was the dreaded route upon which Sam and Frodo had torturously made their way, and from which one false step would have sent them hurtling to an ugly head-splitting death below. Who had first cut the Stairs into the rock face, no one knew, but there was no time for wonder. Elrohir glanced at Legolas, aware of the concern the elf prince would be feeling not only for Sam but also for Aragorn, and he knew that Legolas would stay one step behind the King the whole way.

Aragorn fought, too, with an anxiety that was welling within, but not for himself. “Sam,” he began brokenly, his eyes fixed on the great height. “For you to climb these again – my heart is heavy – ”

“Say no more, Strider,” the Hobbit said, sweeping his sweat-drenched hair from his shiny face. He tightened his belt and gave Sting a firm pat. “Your Dead fellows can frighten that big-bellied ugliness, but they can’t kill her, so we have to. There’s nothin’ for it; we have to take these steps. So, tell those fellows to wait up there or somethin’, and to be patient – it will be a loooong climb for the rest of us.”

Merry and Pippin suddenly felt too humbled to say anything, but Merry clapped a hand onto his friend’s plump shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “We will not make it up there with you, Sam; we’d best be heading back to the road before it gets too dark,” he said. “But you take care, and stay close to Strider and Legolas.”

Uncharacteristically, Pippin said nothing, but he gave Sam a quick hug, hoping his friend would understand, before he took his place beside Merry and the guard Aragorn had assigned to return with them. 

Sam did not utter anything either, but he gave them his lopsided grin and nodded to Aragorn. Then, turning around, the courageous Hobbit placed his large, furry foot on the first step to repeat history. 

Note: This short chapter stands alone as my modest way of honoring the courage of Sam and Frodo. I hope you all share my respect for them.

My thanks to the readers who brave this journey with me, and to the reviewers who continue to support me.

Ready to start the climb with Aragorn and company?