Radagast in Rhosgobel

They had crossed the Old Ford the day before.  It had been just over a week since departing from the Langwell in a rush after receiving the message from the hawk.  But it had been a largely uneventful passage.  No orcs to counter, no brigands to fend off.  Altogether a miserable ride for Hagar, seeking adventure, preferably combat, in his first real excursion outside his homeland.

And a miserable ride for Gandalf, enduring the endless expostulations of battlefield readiness by the young Hagar, weathering the crude intimations of his own abilities given his evident age, and feigning some modest level of interest in the interminable retelling of the dragonslaying by Fram, Hagar’s grandfather.

They were a touch over 10 leagues north of the Ford now, gradually veering away from the Anduin towards the forest.  The grassy alluvial plain along the river was giving way to shrubs and small trees.  In the sharp light of an early spring morning Gandalf could see the vegetation rising in the distance, scattered trees becoming uniform then rising in height as they sought their merger with the dark wall of the main forest still beyond view.

Hagar rode beside him silently, sullen.  A young lifetime with small livestock to persecute or less robust kinsmen to dominate had left him ill prepared for a week with a wizard, cryptic in his remarks and little interested in the amateurish boastings of a man with the maturity of an oversized child.  It had reached a crucial point the last evening.  Increasingly agitated at getting but minimal response from Gandalf, Hagar had made a nuisance of himself, pretending to parry and thrust with his sword, whirling and bellowing just inches from Gandalf, who for a while sat stoically beside the fire.

His silence though only seemed to egg him on further, until he tipped Gandalf’s hat off his head with the point of his sword.  Now it could have been an accident, a small miscalculation of distance and speed, or it could have been the act of a boy-man seeing just how far he could push his luck.  He had made the mistake of laughing when it occurred.

Gandalf had moved very deliberately, reaching over to retrieve his conical hat which had fallen perilously near the fire, making a show of inspecting it and dusting it off before setting it back on his head.  Then he stood up, slowly, leaning on his staff while Hagar tried to suppress his mirth, standing just feet away, his eyes gleaming, contemplating what mischief he might do next.  Little mischief as it turned out and more than a little in the way of aches and pains.

In a blur, Gandalf’s staff licked out and hit a point on the edge of Hagar’s wrist with a sharp numbing blow that deadened his hand and caused Anquiriel to drop to the ground with a thud.  Before the astonishment could fully illumine Hagar’s face, the staff had struck his left kneecap, then at a point just behind his right knee.  The young blond warrior crumpled to the ground, one leg throbbing, the other temporarily disabled.  A final knock on a point near his left elbow rendered the entire arm useless.

“Now dear boy I am partial to this hat.  My apologies for the actions of my staff but it seems that it feels some loyalty to this old head covering.  Here…let me help you up”

Hagar growled back and managed to roll away from Gandalf’s outstretched hand, crawling towards his bedroll spread out on the opposite side of the fire.

“Ah…you seem to be regaining your spirits already.  Well it’s getting late…we have business tomorrow…enjoy your rest.”  With that Gandalf settled beside the fire, wrapped up in a thick wool blanket, seemingly oblivious to Hagar who rubbed his stricken limbs, gradually restoring feeling to them.

Now this morning after, Gandalf permitted himself a wry smile at the remembrance of the last night’s events as they rode towards the merest hint of a path through the young birches and beech trees that began to dot the grassy strip on the east side of the river.  It was little more than a crease in the thick tufts of flourishing spring grass that gave way to the first few trees, at best a deer or rabbit trail, maybe just a trick of the land.  Hagar spotted it though, his experience riding along the upper vales of the Anduin in his homeland granting him keen eyes if not keen judgement.

“You see the path” Gandalf commented, observing Hagar’s glance ahead

“It is used, though only by creatures of the wood” Hagar replied curtly, still irked by the last nights events

“We near the abode of a friend of mine.  He tends to conceal his whereabouts well”

“Well enough…the trail ends near the line of the trees” Hagar pointed to a close stand of birches fifty yards ahead.

“So it would seem.  Let us move a little closer” Gandalf eased his mount ahead of Hagar’s, carefully inspecting the apparently closely packed trunks of the trees, bolstered with a thick growth of shrubs and vines.

Indeed the minimal trail had ended in a confusion of grass tufts and bushes.  A seeming wall of trees proclaimed an end to whatever progress one might make.  Gandalf dismounted and walked up to a large tree trunk before them, his head canted forward slightly, almost touching it with his nose.  He then turned his head to the right and smiled

“Here Hagar, if you will, just dismount for a moment and follow me through this gap.”

Gandalf seemed to disappear just to the right of the large birch, behind a collection of overgrown evergreen shrubs.  Hagar hastily exited his saddle and led his horse up to where he thought Gandalf had stood. There was nothing…other than tree trunks and crowded growth.

“Another few feet if you please” a voice called with a trace of impatience.

Hagar edged closer to the trees, now almost at arm’s length.  Then he saw it, a queer thing really, an opening in the trunks only visible at a certain angle, some illusion of color and position.  A hand suddenly reached out as if from nowhere and grasped his wrist firmly.

“Come now, my young friend.  No time for gawking at the forest.  We are here on important business!” 

Hagar felt himself being yanked through an opening, his face brushed by a tangle of vines.  Behind him his mount whinnied nervously but allowed itself to be drawn through the gap.

“What was…”

“Never mind…just one of Radagast’s little tricks…you’ll see more ‘ere the day is done.  Just be thankful that I’m here with you or you might spend the rest of your days in circles in his mazes”

On they went for the rest of the morning, going for stretches amongst perfectly reasonable glades and clusters of evergreens and budding hardwoods, then suddenly, encountering some confusing configuration of trees and hedges that seemed to shift  shape depending on their angle of approach.  Gandalf would then mutter to himself, then often as not ease his mount just a few feet off the path, directing his gaze obliquely rather than straight on along the line of the trail.  And as before, a new pattern would reveal itself, at times a row of trees in parallel columns or a sequence of glades bordered by junipers and birches.

Around noon they noticed a background noise and spied the first of the animals.  Fleeting shapes far off, deer perhaps, their white tails a brief flash between distant tree trunks.  Then smaller mammals, rabbits scampering among the low growth, foxes turning their heads to stare intently.  The noise they perceived earlier began to devolve into separate streams, that of the flapping of wings and the voices of birds, thousands upon thousands of them. 

Their trail continued to wind from one large open glade to the next, but now they began to see stands of trees, their trunks positioned in perfect circles fifty to a hundred feet in diameter.  Their branches were interwoven together as if embracing each other.  A lattice of vines within the branches formed a seeming cocoon that enveloped the stand of trees to their top.  Within these natural enclosures they could see dozens of nests with birds flitting to and fro.   Each of these habitats seemed to house a different variety.  Finches in one, flashes of red from a small city of cardinals in another.  There were wrens, goldfinches, robins…around each bend in the trail another stand of trees, beech, birch, sometimes a mixture with an oak, black walnut, maple or an evergreen tossed in.  And always the vines providing wrapping around the outside of the framework of branches.

But these first stands seemed to peak at a height of sixty feet, the top branches of the trees bending over to form a dome-like canopy above the forest floor within the circular perimeter of the trees.  Higher up there was the beginning of another ceiling of branches and vines, easily a hundred and fifty feet overhead, strung between the topmost branches of massive, ancient, old growth trees that began to make their appearance between the avian communities.

After a while the clusters of trees with their winged inhabitants fell away from the trail they were following until they blended with the forest.  The path now wound between the old trees of the forest, huge in girth, trunks ridged and gnarled, great roots thrusting into the earth.  The high web of branches and vines closed in over them, filtering the sunlight, yet at the same time seeming to hold in a noticeable warmth and deflecting the wind.  The forest floor began to brighten with spring wildflowers, flourishing early here out of the cold and wind of the open lands. 

An hour went by, the woods quiet now save for the rustle of a chipmunk or squirrel or the cry of a hawk soaring high above, close to the canopy.  The trail still wound past the ancient towering trees, though it had begun to straighten out somewhat as the random placement of the behemoths gradually began to order themselves into two parallel rows on either side of the trail. 

It was somewhat intimidating, riding along the grassy trail mindful of the brooding living giants on either side, their great limbs arching overhead.  There was a vague sense of a watchful presence in their silent vigilance, an unspoken threat in the muscular reach of their lower limbs should an intruder have designs other than peaceful.  It was a touch darker here, the cluster of thick branches blocking out some of the sunlight, the wildflowers growing only in scattered patches where the sunbeams could wiggle through the woods.

“We are watched…” Hagar said half to himself, breaking the silence.

“Indeed we have been observed since we crossed the Anduin, Hagar” Gandalf replied

“What is this place?” Hagar inquired

“The home of a friend…fellow traveler you might say.  It has been years since we’ve talked directly.  Look ahead…see that tiny patch of light?”

“Like the sun on a distant mountain meadow”

“You have sharp eyes young man…that is exactly what that is, half a league hence at the end of this corridor of trees.  Radagast’s home.”

“A strange place to call home”

“You will see stranger before long my young companion.  Come, let us speed these horses a bit…too long they have plodded carefully and they are far too well bred to be idle.”  Gandalf bent over and whispered in his mount’s ear, nudged his heels in a bit and the stallion whinnied and galloped off down the path between the row of trees.  Hagar let out a whoop and spurred his horse on, a simple race more to his liking.

He’d expected to catch Gandalf easily given the power of the horse beneath him and the riding skills almost born into his people.  But the old man was proving to be a far better horseman than he had wagered, only slowly giving ground to his young pursuer.  The hooves thudded rapidly in the firm earth, echoing among the great trunks and low branches of the ancient trees.  Hagar’s long blond hair whipped behind him, his face was wreathed in a competitive grimace.  It had been years since anyone had really given him a run. 

Ahead Gandalf was bent over the horse, almost molded to its back, whispering something in its left year, then glancing back momentarily at Hagar now just yards away almost at peak speed.

“I thought they said you could ride boy!” Gandalf shouted, a great grin spreading beneath his windswept gray white beard.

“Like the wind old man” Hagar roared, spurring his mount on for one final burst of speed to overtake him before they reached the opening at the end of the line of trees.

Gandalf’s reply was a burst of laughter as his steed responded to some final command and pulled away as if Hagar was standing still, its legs a blur, the sound of its hooves an impossible staccato.  In moments Gandalf had reached an immense open space beyond the twin columns of trees.  Hagar could see him gradually slowing his horse down, easing it back off its high exertion, still laughing.  Hagar slowed to a trot, gathering his wits and what remained of his equestrian pride, and rode out into a vast open arboretum.

“Scatha’s teeth! That is a good horse you ride but it does not rank amongst the fastest of the Eotheod.  What magic is this that you whisper in its ears!?”

“No magic…only that it needn’t accept the judgement of men as to its fleetness…only the strength of its own heart” Gandalf replied, giving Hagar a curious appraising stare.  “But enough of this sport…look about you Hagar…”

The sight caught his breath.  It was a vast oval of luxurious grasses and brilliant wildflowers, swaying ever so gently in a light breeze.  The perimeter was bordered by the biggest trees yet, even larger than the collonade they had just passed through, some that reached nearly two hundred feet in height.  Beech, maple, birch, oak, walnut, fir, alder, spruce, cedar, hemlock, larch, pine, ash, poplar, elm, and more, many of which did not frequent the northerly forests of his homeland.   

They were carefully arranged, spaced close enough to create a thick wall of branches, varied amongst the species so that the perimeter always had the foliage of the evergreens well interspersed even in winter when the deciduous trees lost their leaves.

In the lower reaches, thick stands of hollies filled the gaps from the ground to the first massive branches.   Cables of vines crept up the ancient furrowed barks, winding to the uppermost branches, then seeming to leap out, strung across the open air to trees on the opposite side as if woven by some great hand into a netting.

It was surprisingly mild, too, on what had still been a brisk spring day.  Mild enough so that the buds of the trees were well advanced to leaf. White, gold, and deep blue wildflowers, still two weeks from bloom anywhere else, gave off a sweet fragrance that attracted swarms of honey bees and brilliantly colored butterflies.  Small birds of all types darted to and fro, not nesting in the huge trees but seemingly visiting with each other, spending moments away from the forest aviaries the travelers had passed by earlier.  High, high over head they could make out the silhouettes of hawks and eagles gliding close to the vine canopy, occasionally exiting vertically through small circular openings, then returning, often to nests in the upper reaches of the tallest trees.

“It is….” Hagar was at a loss for words.

“…the work of a master, Hagar.  This is Rhosgobel, the home of my friend that I spoke of.  Come, he dwells across the field there just in front of the tallest trees” Gandalf eased his horse along a narrow path through the wildflowers towards some sort of structure two hundred yards away.

It was modest in comparison to the majesty of its setting, but unique in that it was a living home.  It was woven from two rows of vines, planted over a hundred feet apart, a mixture of wisteria and ivy that emerged from the ground in great ropes nearly the size of ordinary trees.   Packed closely together the two living walls rose to meet sixty feet up to form a high peaked enclosure, before twisting off in all directions, running up the trunks of the massive spruces and firs behind it. 

As they approached the front of the home the sea of wildflowers gave way to a wide semicircle of carefully tended gardens of herbs and vegetables, already sprouting.  Inside the semicircle was a hundred foot wide lawn of fine grass, ankle deep, that carpeted the ground between the house and the gardens.   They could see squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, and deer wandering through the lawn, though carefully respecting the gardens.

A figure in a long brown tunic, roped at the waist, was tending to one of the gardens off to the side of the house.  Two small creatures basked in the afternoon sun nearby on a patch of particularly soft fine grass.

“That would be Radagast” Gandalf informed Hagar.  “Come…dismount now and let the horses graze a bit.  They will find water from a small brook that passes just beyond the garden on the right.”

Somewhat reluctantly Hagar followed Gandalf’s instructions, now looking just a bit foolish, still decked out in his dragon hide armor and ancient sword in the midst of peaceful natural beauty.  The two gray and white horses ambled off.  Gandalf and Hagar approached the figure, a man just shy of Gandalf’s height with long hair and a beard both a rich russet brown with broad streaks of gray.  He was bent over, hoeing a carrot patch and seemed in conversation. 

At first Hagar thought he was daft, talking to himself, not surprising given his isolation in this strange wooded refuge.  But he kept glancing back and forth at the two creatures on the grass several feet away during his dialogue, as if engaged in some animated discourse with them, even though they evidenced little regard for him.

Gandalf smiled again, observing Hagar’s unease.  “Those are his familiars, Hagar”

“What…familiars?”

“The cats, man…ah but I suspect you have no place for cats in the Eotheod as yet.  They are more the creatures of the cities where there is more of an abundance of time and available creature comforts to support them.  There is a story about a queen of Gondor that…well perhaps later I can tell you.” 

The cats ambled off haughtily at their approach.  Radagast placed the hoe in a furrow, then straightened and turned, his face lighting up with delight, arms opening in welcome.

“Ah Gandalf, so good to see my old friend again.  And you bring a guest, a great warrior by his look and bearing.” Radagast strode over and the two old men embraced each other warmly.  After a moment Gandalf gestured towards Hagar.

“Please, let me introduce my traveling companion.  This is Hagar, son of Breor, whose grandfather Fram, son of Frumgar, slew Scatha the dragon.  He lives far to the north in the upper reaches of the Anduin with his people, the Eotheod.  Breor has given him leave from his…um...duties…to accompany me in my visit here and protect my old bones from the hazards of the wild.”

“Well I know the people of the Eotheod, Gandalf.  I can remember watching them pass the western border of my refuge, migrating north, led by a great leader who resembled your young guardian.  Perhaps later you may favor me with a story of this dragonslaying, Hagar.”

“Indeed! It is a great tale…Fram was alone when…”

“Yes, Hagar and the anticipation of its telling will make it all the greater” Gandalf interrupted a trifle impatiently, “For now, Radagast and I would like some time alone to share a few stories of our own…we have not seen each other in 20 years.”

“Yes of course,” Radagast added with considerably more warmth than Gandalf.  “Now Hagar you must be hungry from your long days ride.  There are ample provisions inside the house…including a number of excellent ales that I brew myself from certain grains and herbs only found here.  Please help yourself and let me know later which you prefer so I can supply you with a large skin for your return trip.”

At the mention of the ale Hagar’s eyes lit up and he made his way inside the viny arches to a series of barrels lined up just inside.  Soon the sounds of a contented thirst being quenched could be heard out on the lawn.

“I think the young man will be busy for some time Gandalf.  The ale is quite potent and he may find himself taking a lengthy rest before he knows it” Radagast smiled, his deep brown eyes twinkling.

“Thank you old friend and pardon my shortness with him.  He has been a bit of a trial these past days, though his heart is good.”

“Then one cannot complain too loudly.  Come, Gandalf join me at the table” Radagast  motioned to a rectangular wooden table with two benches on the grass not far from where he had been gardening.  It was highly polished, made of over a dozen varieties of wood, carefully sized and fitted in a striking geometric pattern similar to that of a rising sun with lambent beams of light.  Two wooden tankards of ale and a plate of nuts and berries were placed near the sun.

“I’d quite forgotten how beautiful it is here” Gandalf commented, slowly turning his head to admire the array of arboreal giants.

“A shame you couldn’t have come a few weeks later when they will all be in leaf and the vines in full flower.  As always it seems to me you spend altogether too much time in harsher lands or difficult circumstances.”  

“Sadly those features still comprise much of Middle Earth and part of the reason that we are here Radagast.”

“Have you seen the others since we last met.”

Gandalf shook his head.  “No, there has been no word of the Blue Ones for many a long year since they went east.  I fear their fate is not a good one.  Saruman too is travelling, east and south were his destinations as he told me, though with his abilities I am less troubled with his lengthy stays in those distant lands.  But it seems there is business closer to home from your message.”

“Elrond has called for a Council to discuss the growing power in Mirkwood.  He asked me to send out the message you received to Thranduil in the north of the forest, Cirdan by the sea to the west, and another to Lorien.”

“And of men?” Gandalf inquired

“He left that for you to decide.  I think his message read ‘and those of the race of men, if any, that Gandalf would choose to add strength to our deliberations”

Gandalf sighed.  “He thinks the race of men much diminished these days, the line of Numenor ended in Gondor, the northern kingdom gone, its youngest heir a ward of Rivendell.  Yet men grow in numbers despite their wars and predations.  To exclude them from the affairs of Middle Earth is to ignore a future power than can be molded to good or evil.  Radagast, send a summons to Aranarth, son of the last king of Arthedain and one to Mardil, steward of Gondor.  Aranarth travels widely and may be difficult to find.  I suspect Mardil will send his eldest son Eradan to represent him.

“Of the latter I am becoming less certain”

“What news is this Radagast?” Gandalf replied, somewhat alarmed

“My hawks and eagles patrol the land from the sea to the Long Lake, from the Ered Mithrin in the north to the Bay of Belfalas.  That is how I found you and the source of news from Gondor.  In the last fortnight or so a force of perhaps three hundred cavalry set out from Minas Tirith, heading north along the Anduin, bearing the Steward’s standard and Eradan’s colors.  Some reinforced the garrison at Cair Andros.  Another company swept up into the Emyn Muil, searching for something it would seem.  The remainder, bearing the Eradan’s banner, crossed the river near the Undeeps and were last seen traversing the Brown Lands in pursuit of a small group of what may have been orcs.”

“Orcs?!” Gandalf almost shouted.  “What would orcs be doing in the wastes of the Brown Lands and what prompts the normally cautious Steward of Gondor to send his son along with his best troops after them so far from Minas Tirith?”

“I cannot say…perhaps we will learn more when the Steward answers the summons.  Suffice to say the orcs, if that is what they are, were making straight for the southern marches of Mirkwood, on a direct line to Dol Guldur.”

“With Eradan and his cavalry in pursuit.” Gandalf said uneasily, half to himself.

“I am expecting more news from Guaykil on this matter…one of my best hawks…he is overdue to report”

“Pray the news is good Radagast.  Gondor can ill afford another loss so soon after Earnil’s untimely departure.”  Gandalf paused for a few minutes, nibbling silently on a handful of nuts, absorbed in thought.  Radagast quietly rose and walked into the vine house where Hagar was snoring comfortably on a down quilt, having already sampled most of the ales at least twice.  He wrote out two messages and slipped them into a small pouches than strode out into the sunlight and uttered a curious high pitched whistling noise.  Two large golden hawks came spiraling down, fluttering to a halt on the ground in front of him.  Radagast fastened the tiny pouch to their legs just above the spread of their talons, then stepped back.  In a flurry of wings they rose abruptly, climbing in broad circles, higher and higher, finally exiting through a large round hole in the overhead vine canopy.  Radagast returned to the table.

“It is done…the trip from Gondor will take many days, depending on wind and weather.  As to Aranarth, he was last seen just west of the Brandywine.  It is the time of the Rendevous as I understand it…my messenger will meet him there.”

“You know of the Rendevous?”

“Yes, from a brother of Aranarth…Ardugan is his name, well traveled though secretive about his whereabouts, and clever enough to make his way to my front step.  He may know more of Mirkwood than any other man alive today.”

“Yes…Aranarth has spoken of him.  Perhaps he may be able to join us in Rivendell.  And now what do you know of Mirkwood these past years, Radagast.”

A great deal it would appear as Radagast talked on late into the afternoon.  The Blight from the south, as he called it, had worsened.  Below the Old Forest Trail the forest had emptied out of animals almost entirely, their place taken by strange, corrupted versions of traditional forest creatures.  The vegetation was rapidly changing too, trees dying and replaced by twisted replicas, dripping foul smelling sap, sporting dark leaves of grayish green with red veins.  Vines hung from the branches, arrayed with large, sensual white flowers issuing a sweet, faintly rotten odor that could quickly bring a man to sleep, after which the vine was said to feed on his blood through tendrils that pierced the skin.

Then there were the new arrivals.  He spoke of clouds of bats, snakes, getting larger and larger, their scales beginning to resemble the skins of dragons, their eyes lit with the beginnings of a deep glimmer of intelligence.  And finally the tales of a wolf, a great black throwback to the early days of Middle Earth.

“It would appear that my long held suspicions are borne out” Gandalf commented quietly but with a sense of certainty, as if concluding a debate long held within him. “He has returned and we have allowed him to strengthen, though he is still far from what he once was.”  Gandalf paused for a moment, sipping on a bit of ale, then asked gently.  “Can you join us at Rivendell, Radagast?”

Gandalf already knew the answer.  Of all of them Radagast was least suited to the mission, yet had ventured across the sea nonetheless.  It was a form of courage that had endeared him to Gandalf, unlike others who minimized the potential of his contributions.  

“For now my border here is secure, Gandalf, but I fear that is only due to what modest power I can project by being here and the deep natural barrier of living things that have been nurtured by those powers over the years.”

“You have contributed much already and no doubt we will have a further need of you here Radagast in the days to come” Gandalf acknowledged reassuringly.  “Yet with what may need to be done, perhaps you can lend us some resource for the Council at Rivendell and beyond.”

“I will think on it, old friend.  You will stay the night I expect, the wild spaces beyond my enclave being no place to venture so close to Mirkwood.  In the morning we can discuss an idea I have been contemplating.”

The sun had now fallen behind the towering ridgeline of the snow capped Misty Mountains leagues to the west.  The air was cooling, but not so rapidly here in the sheltered warmth of Rhosgobel.  The glow of sunset still lit the high branches of the tallest trees and skimmed the vines overhead with a last spurt of gold.  

The bees and butterflies had made their way to their own evening affairs over an hour ago and the last of the great birds were cruising in through the gaps in the canopy to their nests in the vaults of the uppermost branches of the great trees.  To the east the first twinkling of stars would soon be dusting the night as it crept across the zenith.  In the vine house Hagar continued his blissful sleep. 

Across the table, having concluded their business of the present, the shadowed figures of two old men refilled their tankards of ale.  Long into the night they talked about the distant past, sharing remembrances of a world that only a handful this side of the Western Ocean could understand, and even fewer still could claim to ever have known.

                                                     ------------------------------  *  -----------------------------------

Dawn was not to Hagar’s liking.  Sprawled out on a large down comforter inside the vine house he had little inkling that Radagast’s familiars would be paying him a visit.  Naturally curious about the visitor, in particular his long blond hair, they settled in for the night, sleeping serenely on top of his golden mane lying loosely on the coverlet.  As sleep left him with the first of the light he made to lift his head, throbbing with the aftereffects of excess ale, only to find it somehow constrained.  Turning slightly all he could see were two pairs of eyes, one yellow-green and other a luminous pure green.

The vine house reverberated with his wild shouts and the hisses and snarls of a large gold, brown and black bobcat and her even larger iron gray furred companion.  Exiting the house, half stumbling onto the lawn in the dim predawn light, Hagar found Gandalf and Radagast already up, seeing to the horses.

“They…they tried to attack me, these…”

“Chrisandil and Clybrindor are their names, Hagar” Radagast obliged.  “And you needn’t shout and startle them so…they mean you no harm…at least up to now.  You will have to make amends I would think if you are to get back on their good side.”

“What…I...”

“They’re coming with us to Rivendell, Hagar.  Quite capable little animals from what Radagast says, perfectly able to take care of themselves in the wild.  We’ll be rigging up side pouches on each mount for the occasions when they care to ride.  Why don’t you take advantage of the breakfast Radagast has prepared on the table.”

Hagar stood dully for a moment, still wiping the cobwebs from his brain, then turned and plodded off to the table, sampling various breads, light beverages, and sweet delicacies, the assuagement of his appetite soon smoothing over the discordant start to his day.

“You’re bringing him to Rivendell? He will be an awkward guest at best, Gandalf” Radagast raised an eyebrow

“True enough and I will be imposing on Lord Elrond’s hospitality, but the young man’s seasoning must start somewhere and I feel that there is a role for him to play in this though it is not yet clear to me.”

“They are a strong people from what I observed during their migration.  It would not be to their disadvantage for their future chieftan to have some knowledge of the world beyond his borders.” Radagast responded agreeably, glad he would not be making the trip over the High Pass.

Gandalf was about to reply when their rose a flurry of calls from the raptors nested high in the trees.  Above them, through the opening in the canopy, the figure of a hawk was silhouetted against the brightening sky.  It was laboring with its descent, its circles erratic, the motion of its wings unsteady.  Quickly, two eagles leapt from their nests and swooped down on either side of it, supporting its wings with their own, gently guiding it to the ground with their strength.

“Its Guaykil!” Radagast cried, aghast at the sight of one of his favorite golden hawks, badly injured, one wing torn and bloody, its noble head lacerated by the talons of some unknown predator and its back and chest pierced by over a dozen curiously shaped bite marks.  The eagles backed off to let Radagast tend to the hawk, whispering to it, listening as it nuzzled its bloody beak against his ear.  He stood, facing Gandalf, and Hagar who had come running at the sound of wings.

“He will live and I must tend to him shortly.  But he brings tidings of a battle on the edge of Mirkwood where the Brown Lands meet the forest.  It seems the company of Gondor’s cavalry was overwhelmed by orcs.  None were seen to have escaped.”

“These are ill tidings indeed, Radagast.  The son of the Steward was amongst them from your earlier report.  You must get word to Mardil.”

“Indeed I will this very day.  But now I must tend to Guaykil…he was attacked by bats upon leaving the scene of battle…they nearly finished him off.  Only the onset of a sudden squall enabled him to escape.”

Radagast cradled the hawk in his arms, his face etched with concern for its welfare and shock that events so distant had intruded on his sanctuary so inviolate. 

The moment would be forever etched in Gandalf’s mind.   Radagast, clad in his plain brown robe in the morning coolness, his great love for the creatures of Middle Earth evident in his eyes and the gentleness with which he held the fallen bird.

“Tend to him, old friend.  He could not be in better hands.  We will make for Rivendell.  I will give your regards to Lord Elrond.” 

Gandalf motioned to Hagar and the two mounted their horses. 

“Take care with my familiars, Gandalf” 

Radagast waived briefly then turned and quickly made his way into his vine home, his brown form hunched over the form of the injured hawk.

“Indeed we will, won’t we Hagar” Gandalf stared at him.  The cats were secure, each in a fur lined leather pouch hanging just to the rear of each saddle, their heads just poking above the rim.  Hagar nodded in unhappy agreement.  Gandalf then eased his horse across the soft grassy lawn towards the field of flowers.  The sun was just rising over the forest to the east.  The high treetops were catching the first light and a few honey bees had begun to explore the nectared opportunities of the day.

Gandalf paused for a moment, savoring the scene, knowing that it could well be years again before he could return, but also understanding that it was not in his nature to seek seclusion.  He gave the horse a nudge and crossed the remainder of the flowers, disappearing ahead of Hagar down the long shadowed path between the silent columns of hardwoods, back out into the uncertain world of Middle Earth.