Sméagol’s grandmother had many fine things, he recalled. She had precious jewels, obtained by trading with the dwarves from some forgotten long-ago. There were lovely necklaces of filigreed gold and silver, brought back by certain adventurous relatives from far-off places. There were lovely stones of crystal from the River, cut in such a way that they shone when held in the light. Sméagol was especially fond of these: he would take them out of their boxes and place them in the window-panes on bright mornings, watching them sparkle and cast rainbows against the walls, and then go hunt for crystals for his own, inspired by his grandmother’s stones.

But perhaps the finest, or strangest, things his grandmother had were the things that had been discovered in the River-bank long ago. A Man’s skeleton had been found, clad in rusting armor. It was forgotten who had found it, but whoever it was had brought the bones and armor home and polished them up.

The bones had been scrubbed thoroughly and left to lay in the sun, bleaching them a bright white. Then, the long, thin bones, such as the fingers and forearms, had been skillfully carved into melodious flutes, which would produce a lovely, rich sound when blown. The skull itself had been made into a bowl. The jaw was removed and the remaining part of the skull had been carefully cut and sanded until only the bowl-shaped top half was left. This was then mounted to keep it from rolling, and was smoothed and painted. The rest of the bones had beautiful designs carved on them and had been enameled with many different colors. Some bones told stories, some were nature scenes, and some were incredible, intricate designs.

Sméagol loved to look at the bones. He had taught himself to play well-known tunes on the flutes. He would fill the bowl with water every morning for his grandmother to wash in, mesmerized by the bright colors painted on the outside as he carried it from the house to the River and back. He would tell himself stories from the bones, making things up if he didn’t know who the people were or what they had to do.

But what delighted Sméagol even more than the bones was the armor. That same person who had carved the bones so beautifully had restored the armor, carefully polishing it and removing the rust. Most of the armor had been melted down to use for tools, for metal was hard to come by nowadays, but the breastplate had been kept intact, for it was an excellent mirror. Sméagol would often go to the breastplate and look at the faint design that had escaped the ravages of time. It was a tree; its branches stretched high overhead, and its roots spread out beneath the trunk. Above the branches were seven rayed stars, and below the roots were what appeared to be seven smooth, rounded stones.

Sméagol wondered who the Man was that had been wearing this armor who had died so far from home and left his body to the River. He longed to fill in the pieces of this story, and so it was that the place where the bones had been found, a lovely stretch of the River with a willow tree and reedy banks, became his favorite place to fish and explore.