Worlds Apart

S.R. 1 Solmath, 1389

“Exotic spices are not to be doled out to common rabble,” Saruman chastised as Gandalf finished his explanation of his late arrival at Isengard.  “A halfling’s tongue does not merit such luxuries.”

“The tongue of Bilbo Baggins is far more discriminating than mine, Saruman,” Gandalf answered, “and Bilbo has treated my tongue well in my many stays in his establishment.  Forgive me, but I thought it a fair trade.”

“I do not see why you spend so much time amongst the inconsequential,” the leader of his order rebuked.

Gandalf fell back to his oft spoken justification.  “Hobbits help me clear my senses so that I can better take on new concerns.  To use a metaphor relevant to our discussion, I use them in much the same way as I do a mild tea to cleanse my palate between courses in a meal.”

“Then you are ready for new concerns?  That is good, my old friend.  For I have one.  News has come to me of the early death of Finduilas, wife of Denethor.    I wish you to travel to Gondor to counsel the Steward and bring back his word to me.”

“His word, Saruman?” Gandalf asked.  “You have always been on the best of terms with Gondor.  Why not go to Denethor yourself?”

Saruman pinched his heavy eyebrows together.  “I send you to show Denethor that men are not to consider wizards lightly.  Gondor needs to respect our counsel, but men are conceited and often do not feel they need to listen.  Denethor needs to see us united.”

Gandalf knew men well enough to agree with his leader on that matter.  “I will go to Denethor.”  They spoke at length about the agenda.

That night Gandalf spent in one of Isengard’s lavish chambers.  He sent his garments to be laundered, and with them his satchel.  On the table by his bed he placed the contents. 

He was surprised by a knock and the discovery of the head of his order at his door.  Saruman came in as a host, asking after the comfort of the rooms.

“Indeed, there are none finer anywhere,” Gandalf quickly admitted.

“Not even in the Shire?” Saruman asked.  He picked up the packet of pipeweed and sniffed it.

“The Shire offers holes in the ground,” the Grey Wizard answered.  “They are cozy, not grand.”

“There are other delights, then?” the White Wizard asked, as he set the pipeweed back next to the pipe.

“You may have the pipeweed if you wish, Saruman,” Gandalf offered as his leader picked up the small framed drawing and studied it.  Saruman’s eyebrows lifted and he looked at his fellow wizard oddly. 

“No, thank you, Gandalf.  I have no need of halfling leaf.  I would advise you, however, to remember to whom your loyalty belongs.”  He handed Frodo’s drawing to Gandalf.  “Good night, old friend.” 

*

“You have no people of your own, Mithrandir,” Denethor observed as they sat in the dining hall of Gondor’s White Tower after the wizard’s first day of audience with the grim Steward.  “How can you begin to understand the cares of a ruler?”

“In my time here in Middle Earth I have taken in the concerns of many rulers,” Gandalf answered the Steward, “although I cannot consider but one people as my own.  I must always look at the wider impact, to other kingdoms and races and to future generations as well.”

Denethor leaned into the conversation.   “Would you allow one people to suffer to provide for others?”

Gandalf sighed.  “If I could, I would let no one suffer, Denethor, but that power is beyond me.”

“Have you a favorite?”

The wizard glanced about the room.  With them were Denethor’s two young sons: Boromir, nearly ten years of age; and Faramir, who was but five.  Gandalf's mind noted that the boys, already being educated in as high a fashion as possible, were obviously gifted both physically and emotionally and would make great and respected leaders of men.  He was, in fact, quite eager to get a chance to learn more about their intellectual abilities.

He reflected that little Faramir was already as tall as the twenty-year-old Frodo Baggins.

“No,” he said, almost sadly.  “My duty affords me no favorite.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” Denethor responded, “for I would not have you putting the interests of another kingdom ahead of mine – even were it Rohan’s interests.”

“The men of Rohan and of Gondor are brothers, Steward.  In my eyes you cannot be separated.”

“And in those of Saruman?”

“Saruman and I speak as one,” Gandalf answered, fully convinced in its truth. 

Denethor was intrigued.  “Have you no opinion of your own, then?”

Gandalf considered his question thoroughly, wondering if Gondor had a contention with Saruman.  “Saruman and I are actually quite different in many ways, as are all of the wizards.  We are here as a collective order, however, at the bidding of the Valar.  You may speak to any of us openly.”

“So when I have counsel with one it is with all?” Denethor asked.

“You may consider it so,” the grey wizard said.  “We do not conspire against each other.”

“What would you do if I would need tell you something in confidence?”

“Have you such a need?”

Denethor shook his head.  It was as though he placed a mask before his face, he was suddenly so hard for Gandalf to read.  “I do not.  I only want you to know that there could come a time when I might wish to share only with a single wizard.  If that would occur, I would expect that the conversation would not be shared.”

“You may rest assured that each of us can be trusted individually as well,” Gandalf answered, recalling Saruman’s advice that he remember to whom his loyalties lie.  “Our loyalties are with the order and in the greater sense to the Valar for the good of all of Middle Earth.”

“I believe that you have answered my question well, Mithrandir,” the Steward responded.  “I hope I will never need to ask you to choose between your loyalties.”

*

“What does my father mean when he says you are a wizard?” Boromir asked.  To him the visitor was just an old man.  He had seen many men this old.  Most had not had so long a beard, and most had not worn such garb, but this Gandalf the Grey did not strike him as anyone special.  Yet he could tell his father begrudgingly respected the wizard.

Gandalf was sitting between Boromir and Faramir beneath the remnants of what he had once seen as a glorious tree.  “He means I am not a man, young prince,” he answered.  “He means that I have lived many lifetimes of men.”

Boromir looked at the old man skeptically.  “How many years is that?”

“I have walked Middle Earth for nearly 3000 years,” Gandalf replied, “and this has not been my first visit to Middle Earth.”

Boromir laughed.  “You jest with us, sir.  How can this be?”

“Do not be fooled by appearances, Boromir son of Denethor.”

“My father claims you are a magician,” Boromir continued.  Both boys had seen a magician who had performed before his father’s court during the summer, and had been keen to learn the secrets behind the tricks. 

“Show us some magic,” Faramir requested.

“I do not do such magic as you would have me show,” Gandalf said with a smile, “although I have brought fireworks as a gift for your father’s enjoyment.  You will see them when he commands.”

“You are no magician,” Boromir jeered. 

“No, I am not,” Gandalf said.  “I am a wizard.  In time you will come to experience what that means.”  He then changed the subject to the boys and their interests.  He learned that Boromir was consumed with becoming a great warrior, while young Faramir was more enthusiastic about learning about nature than about bows and swords.  

*

The lads were impressed by the fireworks that night, particularly the one of galloping steeds.  Gandalf smiled.  Nowhere or when in Middle Earth had he ever found a child who was not delighted by fireworks…or an adult, for that matter.   It had always come in as a handy icebreaker in situations like these when a people first got to know him. 

He turned in shortly after the fireworks ended.  A bath had been set up for him within his guest chambers.  After his soak, he fished out his Longbottom leaf and pipe and pulled a chair close to the fireplace.  The chimney had a strong draft and the smoke rings barely had time to form before they were whisked up the flue.   He sat pondering Gondor.  There was most assuredly a reason Saruman had decided to have Gandalf meet with the Steward.  Furthermore, there was a story behind the question of how to handle confidential issues that they didn’t want shared amongst the order.  He would need to decipher these clues before he returned to Isengard. 

He got up and drew Frodo’s drawing from his satchel.  Saruman had been holding it in his hand when he questioned his loyalties.  Gandalf had assumed that Saruman was reminding him that his allegiance to the leader of the order superseded any love he had for anything halfling, be it leaf, way of life, or individual.  Now he wondered if Saruman might rather have been alluding that he thought him no longer able to stay suitably detached in his dealings with any race.

He sighed.  Deliberate interaction with key leaders over time had been his primary technique for securing the future of this world.  He had occasionally used hobbits as tools in enabling these leaders to reach certain goals that he had for them, for instance, throwing Bilbo Baggins into the mix of dwarves not so much that they could regain their lost fortunes, but so that they might gain a regard for other races.  He had never expected to become friends with a hobbit himself.  He had never had a reason to do so; save to lighten his spirits as darkness crept back into the world and Estel continued to reject the crown of Gondor.  He had long ago sworn before the Council of the Wise that he would abide in no place, nor be subject to any summons, and yet now he had become strangely enamored of the simple lives of two very small and uncomplicated beings.  In little more than a hundred years, Bilbo and Frodo Baggins would be but trace memories in his long journey.  Could his sporadic companionship with them in any other way change the course of Middle Earth?  He sincerely thought not. 

‘Yet ever will I be conscientious to make certain that you do not interfere with the duties the Valar have invested in me,” He vowed once more to Frodo’s self-portrait.  ‘Although I am remarkably fond you and your uncle, I will continue to have no ties and no allegiance save to those who sent me.’    

*

“Do wizards sleep?”  Faramir asked him the next morning at breakfast. 

His brother laughed into his porridge, “Be careful how you answer that, wizard.  Faramir claims that he does not sleep.”

“Never?” Gandalf asked, peering into the younger boy’s eyes.  “Do you know that I can tell when someone is stretching the truth, young man?  That is one of the attributes of a wizard.”

“Then our mother was also a wizard,” Boromir said sadly. 

“I sleep,” Gandalf answered, “although I rarely get to enjoy a full night’s rest.  I am always grateful when I am given such a luxury, as I was last night.”

“Then do you dream?” Faramir asked.

“Yes.  As a matter of fact, I dreamt of you two last night.  I dreamt that I was teaching you the history of Middle Earth.”

“And were they good students?” their father queried without humor.

Gandalf smiled.  “Yes, Denethor, although they did not believe all that I told them.”

“What didn’t we believe?” both boys asked in unison.

“You did not believe in halflings,” Gandalf answered, “although in my dream one of your fellow students was one.”

Surprisingly, the Steward suddenly laughed.  “Now you have me, great wizard. What is a halfling?”

“They are little people, smaller than dwarves,” Gandalf said with a twinkle in his eye. “They do not wear shoes, for they have large hairy feet with thick soles.  They live in holes in the ground.  If you read your own lore, you will find your ancestors referred to them as halflings.  Men of Rohan call them holbytla.  Elves call them perians.  They call themselves hobbits.”

“Then there is no wonder the lads doubted you,” Denethor responded, more cheerfully than he had at any time since Gandalf had arrived, “and I would be proud of them for it.  Not everything that is spoken is truth.”

“And yet it might be,” Gandalf countered knowingly. 

*

“The Steward is proud but very isolationist,” Gandalf reported to Saruman upon his return to Isengard.  “I have severe reservations on letting such segregation continue into another generation.  It reminds me a bit too much of the simplistic attitudes of the Shire-folk, which is why I have occasionally yanked selected hobbits out of their holes and into adventures to get them to appreciate what is beyond their own boundaries.  The two sons would do well with an adventure or two outside of Gondor.”

“You equate these men with your halfling pets?” Saruman queried with ridicule. 

Gandalf nodded his head.  “In this regard I do.”

“Very well, Gandalf, my old friend.  You may see to these lads’ education.”

Gandalf sighed his relief and gratitude.  He looked out the window as gusts of chill wind rattled the glass.

“Tell me, old friend, why it is that you expend so much effort on halflings?” Saruman asked.  “I agree that ego-centricism is dangerous in men, with their temperaments and might, but halflings are so harmless and insignificant.  It would be no effort to erase them from Middle Earth altogether if anyone sought to seize their fertile land.  I can assure you they would not be missed.”

“I would miss them,” Gandalf answered, bothered by the hint of a threat veiled in his leader’s opinion, “and I think that Middle Earth would be far less interesting without them.  They can be quite resourceful when forced into a predicament where they need to be.”  He ended with something he had once said to Lord Elrond as they had first discussed the growing darkness in Mirkwood, “Many are the strange chances of the world and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the wise falter.”  He was not surprised when Saruman laughed. 

*

TBC

The text in black comes from LOTR.