Chapter Eleven

“Wake up, Master!  Time for another start.” 

Frodo rose quickly, and stood up and looked away southwards; but when his eyes beheld the Mountain and the desert he quailed again.

“I can’t manage it, Sam,” he said.  “It is such a weight to carry, such a weight.”

Sam nodded, fearing if he opened his mouth he would just make matters worse.  He, too, looked south toward the Mountain.  “It looks every step of fifty miles,” he muttered.  “And our water won’t but last us another day, if we don’t find more.”  He took another glance at the black land surrounding them.  It was empty.  “Well, we’d best be getting away while there’s a chance.  Can you manage it?”

“I can manage it,” said Frodo.  “I must.”

Once more they started, crawling from hollow to hollow, flitting behind such cover as they could find.  From time to time Sam glanced eastward, for it seemed to him that the shadow there was darker, and it was spreading toward them.  He would have called it a storm cloud back home where things were bright, but there was no rain here and such thoughts were far from his mind.

After a few weary miles they halted.  Frodo seemed nearly spent.  He pitched himself down next to a stunted bramble bush and lay there on the black earth, eyes staring blankly through the thorns.  Sam crouched down beside him and looked at what was left of their food.  Two wafers of the waybread; that was it.  They would make it last.

More pressing was the matter of water.  Sam’s bottle was only a quarter full.  If they could not find a stream or a pool soon, there would be none left.  He looked up and saw that the sky was darker; and in the distance he could hear a faint rumble.

Frodo found enough strength to sit up, though he sagged over against his knees.  “It sounds like a storm,” he said.

“It’s likely a trick to play on our minds,” said Sam.  “If there’s any storms in Mordor, there won’t be rain in them.”  He took a small sip of their failing water, then gave his bottle to Frodo.

“No—listen, Sam.  It’s raining.”

Sam listened, and heard, as from far away, the soft drumming that could only mean a rainstorm.  His first thought was that he had gone mad in this wretched land.  But no—Frodo had heard it as well, and besides the rain was getting louder.  Disbelief gave way to hope.  At length he could hear the individual patter of each drop, and it seemed an eternity before the rain could reach their parched mouths.  Even Frodo looked up, holding out a hand in a mixture of wonder and doubt.

Sam, too, stretched out his hand, waiting for the first drop to fall upon it.  He waited…

…and let out a cry of pain.  The raindrop slowly rolled down his finger and off his skin, and when it fell to the earth it was the colour of his flesh.  His finger was gone.

“Frodo, Frodo!” he cried.  “Run—take shelter—this rain’s poison!”

Frodo looked at Sam, then at the fast-approaching rain cloud, and shook his head in despair.  Already the drops were beginning to collect around them, and the clump of thorns was dissolving into the ground.  “No, Sam,” he said.  “There is no shelter from this devastation.  We cannot outrun it; there is no escape.  All is lost.”

“I can shelter you, Master—for some time at least—until the storm passes,” said Sam.  But looking at the endless sea of clouds, he knew in his heart that it never would.  Nevertheless he tried to save his master, to catch with his own body the rain intended for him.  Thunder rolled around them.  Rain fell in torrents.  And slowly, everything ran down, like an unfinished painting left out in the rain, from the fiery tones of the Mountain in the distance to the two abject hobbits lying on the ground.  It ran, blurred, until all that was left was blackness, blackness of shadow and nothing and despair.

It stretched on forever, but somehow it managed to echo with one word, ripped from an unknown voice within the stretches of time:

“Lost!”

Lost.

*  *  *

Lost.

The word resonated in her mind, but the dream had fled.

Kira opened her eyes to find herself in her room, in bed.  She felt wretched, and her head throbbed with a kind of urgency that cancelled thought.  She shifted, as if to shake free the last traces of the nightmare.

“Kira?  Kira!  Rosemary?” a voice called, rising in joy and disbelief.  “Rosemary, she’s awake!”

Kira focused her bleary eyes on the speaker.  “Aunt Penny?  What are you doing here?”

Aunt Penny laughed and took Kira’s hands in her own.  “And sensible!” she called.  Hearing nothing from down the hall she shook her head.  “Mercy, she must have really dozed off this time,” she said, more to herself than to Kira.  “I’m sorry, dear.  What did you say?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh.  Your mother sent word to me to come and help as soon as she knew there was any hope.  We’ve been quite worried about you, Kira; we were afraid we were going to lose you.”

Lost.

“What happened?”

Penny cast her eyes down upon her lap.  “Don’t you remember?”  She looked up again and smiled, but her eyes were glistening.  “Kira, love, you nearly died.”

“Died?  How?  Where?  When?”  With an effort and much more headache, she sat up.  Something was wrong.

Her aunt gently laid Kira back down.  “It doesn’t matter right now.  What matters is, you’re alive, awake, and well.”

“Where is Mother?”

“In her room, asleep.  We’ve done the job of watching you in shifts.  I should go and tell her the good news.”  Aunt Penny rose, but Kira grabbed her arm.

“Wait.  How long have I been in here?”

“Nigh upon three weeks, I’m afraid.  You were near dead when you washed up on the river.”  Washed up on the river…  Kira searched her memory, but her head hurt and her mind had clouded over.  What had happened?

“Your mother nearly despaired right then,” Penny continued.  “And after that, you came down with such a terrible fever we feared we’d lose you again.  You must learn to be more careful, for your mother’s sake as well as your own.”

“But I don’t even know what happened.  I can’t seem to remember.”

Penny Brandybuck hesitated.  “I’m sorry, Kira.  I shouldn’t have let my tongue run so.  Best not to think about it and be glad you’re alive.  You’re a very lucky girl, lass.”  She rose and left the room.

It was only a few minutes before Mother came in.  During them Kira tried to recall what it was that she was forgetting, even though Aunt Penny seemed to think it unwise.  Something was wrong, something was being hidden, and she could not let it rest.  Yet her memory came up blank.

As soon as Mother was awake she practically flew to Kira’s bed and showered her with kisses, laughing with the same kind of nervous joy that she had sensed from Aunt Penny.  “Kira!  My child!”  She pulled back a little, to better see her daughter.  “Look at me, Kira.  Oh…  Penny?  Will you run out and find the doctor and tell him she’s awake?”

“In the middle of the night, Rosemary?  In the winter?”

“Oh, I suppose you’re right.  It can wait till morning.  But surely you could make her something to eat—the broth, and some salted ham, perhaps?  Kira, you must be famished after all you’ve been through.”

Kira’s stomach rumbled and she had to agree.  Somehow Mother’s presence crowded everything else out of her mind, no matter how pressing.  While Aunt Penny was fixing the food Mother talked about everything and nothing to her, how much she had fretted and how relieved she now was and how somehow, deep inside of her she knew Kira would pull through.  But there was a hollow look in her eye.

“Mother, you look terrible,” said Kira.  It was true.  Rather than the prim, organised, sanguine hobbit that woke her up each morning, Mother looked as if she herself had taken ill. The only red that could be detected in her face was about the eyes, though that could have been the rush-light Aunt Penny had set beside her bed to keep watch.

“Well, we’ve all been a little worse for the wear these past days, haven’t we?  You yourself were looking quite blue when they found you—you have Daffodil to thank for that, by the by.  If she hadn’t had the sense to go for help it could have gone very ill for you—more ill than it did, that is.”

“But Mother, what exactly happened to me?  How did I get in the water to begin with?”

Mother blinked, as if to say, You don’t remember?  “All I know is what your friends told me.  You were alone when you fell into the canal.”

Before she could say anything more, Aunt Penny came in with a bowl full of chicken broth and a plate piled high with dry toast and slices of salt ham, which Kira gratefully ate under the supervision of her family.  But as she finished the last bite she felt a little drowsy and yawned.

“She’s still recovering,” Aunt Penny told Mother.  “We had best let her get back to sleep.  You should probably do the same.”

Kira lay back down and Mother tucked her in.  Whatever it was that she couldn’t remember still niggled at her, but she was too tired to do anything about it.  She closed her eyes, and…

*  *  *

…found herself on an island.  It was no larger than her room, but she could not tell how she knew it was an island, for it was all black.  Not even a star pierced the expanse above her.  She walked to the water’s edge, but it was black, too—not the black of water at night-time, but the black of pitch.  Even if the midday sun shone it would still be black—and likely suck so much of the Sun’s light into itself that she would be reduced to a pale, sickly fruit hanging in the sky.

Look into me, said the water.

I don’t think so, she thought, and moved back to the centre of her little island.  But it was a smaller island now, and the water lapped at its shores, eating away at the black rock.  And she realised that it wanted her, that it wanted to take her and drag her into itself.  And soon it would.

The island was now the size of her bed.  She wished desperately for a tree or some sort of tall object that she could climb to get above the flood, but all there was was a small outcrop of rock.  She stood upon the highest part on her tiptoes, determined not to look at the black sea at all costs, for it would pull her in if she did.  But she felt there was something behind her, and she was compelled to turn around.

A wave of the water had risen to her level, had risen high above her.  It threatened to break over her and sweep her away, but before it could she looked into it and saw reflected there another scene…

*  *  *

When Kira woke up her headache was gone, but she could not remember anything from her dream except the sensation of drowning in blackness.

This time it was Mother at her bed, all delighted to see her awake again and asking her about the most pressing issue of the morning: breakfast.  “Your aunt’s out to fetch the doctor, so I’ll have to make it for you,” she said.  “What do you want to eat?”

Kira expressed a desire for toast with butter and jam, and poached eggs if any could be found.  “Do you want me to go out to the kitchen and eat it?” she said.  “I think I might be strong enough.”

“Heavens, no, Kira!” called Mother from the kitchen.  “It’s winter!  You needn’t get out of bed till spring!”

“I knew that,” Kira mumbled, and reminded herself that whatever was wrong with her had kept her asleep for three weeks.  And it was fairly close to winter before that, too, she thought.  She reached down in bed and felt her bad foot.  It was icy, and the mere touch of her hand sent pain dancing up her leg.  A glance at the frost-rimed window above her bed was all the confirmation she needed to tell her that winter was in full swing.

“Mother?” she called.

“Yes, dear?”

“What day is it?”

“The sixteenth of December.”

My, thought Kira.  “Thanks, Mum.”  She deducted as best she could the three weeks from that date, which made the day of her accident some time in late November.

Before she could think on it more Mother came in with a plate full of toast and three poached eggs.  Kira ate it all.  Then as she was swallowing the last bite the door of the smial flew open and Aunt Penny walked in, bringing with her the doctor.

Mother stood up to greet them and helped hang up the doctor’s coat and scarf.  But soon everyone piled into Kira’s room, the doctor and her aunt’s faces turned rosy by the chill winds outside.

There was a look of genuine relief in Dr. Grimwig’s smile.  “It’s good to see you awake, Kira.”

“Thank you.  It’s good to be awake.”

“Always the right thing for a recovering patient to say.”  He went through the standard examinations, only this time he listened to her breathing as well (explaining that this was always a good idea if someone had recently been waterlogged).  He did not examine her foot, though; it was a mutual agreement that Kira should just stay in bed during the winter regardless of any illnesses.

“And how are you feeling overall?” he asked when he was finished.

“All right, I suppose,” said Kira.  “My nose is a little stuffy, and I do feel rather week, but that’s all.  Oh, and my head’s all fuzzy.  I can’t concentrate well and I don’t even know how I fell into the canal in November.”

“That’s understandable.  Your body is using so much of your strength to repair itself that you don’t have very much left for your mind.  You’ll remember what happened soon enough, I imagine, as it clears up.  Best to let you remember on your own time and not burden you prematurely.  Do tell me when you remember, though.”

He turned to the grown-ups in the room.  “Well, Rosemary, Penny—I think it’s safe to say that Kira’s life is no longer in danger.  Penny, I would say that if your sister thinks it safe, you may return to your family without feeling worried.  In the meantime, you may always send for me if you need me; otherwise I shall be back to visit Kira in a week’s time.”

“Do stay and have something to eat, Doctor,” said Mother.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Dr. Grimwig.  “As I was remarking when I came in, your sister caught me at a good time.  I was about to leave to visit three patients in town; it looks to be a bad winter in that regard already.  I can’t keep them waiting.”

Mother slipped some coin into the doctor’s hand.  “Well, then, thank you very much for helping mend my daughter,” she said.

“My pleasure, ma’am.”  Dr. Grimwig had made his way down to the entrance and was bundling up again.  “Anything for a family friend.”

The door opened and shut again, and Mother came back into the room.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Kira?”  She took Kira’s hand in hers and kissed it.  “You’re going to get all better and there isn’t any more danger for you.”

Kira nodded, and considered a nap as one of her next possible courses of action.  The doctor must have been right about her body using most of her strength for recovery.  She told Mother of her plan, and Mother replied, “I should probably get a little shuteye myself, now that I can sleep easy.  I’ll tell Penny, and you can call for her if you need anything.”  She left the room.

A minute or two after the door closed, Kira lay back down in bed and closed her eyes, letting her hand hang down the side.  It felt wet.  With a little effort she raised herself and held it before her eyes.  A teardrop—Mother’s teardrop—had fallen on it, and the tear slowly rolled down her finger and off her skin.

It looked strangely familiar…

The dreams…

The book!

“Aunt Penny!” she cried in as loud a whisper as she could manage.  “Aunt Penny!”

The door opened.

“What’s wrong, Kira?  Be a little quieter; your mum’s trying to sleep!”

“Aunt Penny… when they found me, by the river—did they find anything else, too?”

Her aunt paused for a moment.  “Yes.  Yes, they did.”

“What was it?” said Kira, her heart burning within her.

“A book.  Bound in red.”

“Where is it now?”

“In the coatroom.  We… we thought it best to keep it there.”

“Bring it to me.”

“What?”

“Bring it to me!”

Penny made as if to hush her, but seeing the look in Kira’s eyes, left without a word and returned shortly with the book.  “There—there it is.  And see what a fat lot of good it’s done you, getting yourself nearly killed for a thing like that.”

Kira snatched the book out of her aunt’s outstretched hand, but waited to open it until after she had left.

There it was: the Red Book of Westmarch, the tale of the salvation of Middle-earth, as laid out in the Ring-bearer’s own hand.  The compilation of the world’s greatest and most ancient myths, dating from the time when the Elves had ruled the land and Men were only a rumour from the East, translated from the Noble Tongues by Bilbo Baggins himself.  And now?

Now, as she turned the stiff pages with trembling hands, it was bare.  Every word, every drop of ink, every subtle brushstroke had been washed, smudged, eradicated.  Frantically she leaved through it, searching for some fragment that might have been miraculously spared from the destruction.  Surely if the ink had lain on the pages for so long, traces of the words at least could be visible?  But each page was blank, either tinted grey with the last drops of ink, or worse, bleached clean as bone.  With a choked sob of rage she drew her arm back, ready to fling it against the wall; but her hand dropped it, senseless, onto her lap; and she gathered it into her arms, weeping into its ruined pages, because there was no hope.

As she lay there, sobbing, she found herself on the island again, and a wave of the black water rose about her, ready to fall.  It broke over her, and she sank into oblivion.

Lost.