Chapter 24. Into the Trollshaws

Dismal. As a former Ranger of the North, Haldoron's hearing was unusually acute for a Man. This characteristic might have been a reflection of Elvish blood among his ancestors, or it might have been a requisite trait for survival in the circumstances that Rangers typically faced in their endeavours. Thus, he could clearly distinguish the word spoken under the young Gamgee's breath.

The Hobbit walking at his side did not enjoy the same advantage. 'What was that, Pip-lad?' Ferdibrand called back to the following teen. When they'd left the Road behind, the surrounding landscape had quickly devolved into wilderlands. Despite the rough going through the trackless valley, they'd finally left behind the ruins of walls and ancient towers built by long-forgotten Men that had glowered down upon them from the heights and ridges to either side. Nevertheless, their "path" – if one could call it such – had not improved but only grew rougher and more difficult as they continued deeper into the wild country.

While walking on the Road, the New Travellers had enjoyed the luxury of walking abreast; but now, with the country closing in around them, Ferdi and Haldoron led the group and Robin Bolger brought up the rear, bows ready in their hands, thus shielding the two young Hobbits walking in the middle between them.

'I'm almost surprised that Mister Frodo didn't use the word "dismal" in writing about this part of the journey,' young Pip-lad said a little louder. 'Though, unlike the heat and airlessness we are suffering, rain had begun to fall on them by the time they reached this point...'

'Perhaps that made things better for them somehow,' Faramir said, wiping at his brow as they skirted a jumble of tumbled rocks. 'The air is so close and sultry here. Not a breath of wind!'

Haldoron glanced upward at the twisted trees hanging over the cliffs to either side and piled up behind. 'The rain brought its own miseries, or so my kinsman told me. Instead of summer's heat, they dealt with autumn's chill – yet they could not kindle fire to warm and cheer them. Their clothing was soaked through, their provisions were running low, and the rain continued to fall.'

'I suppose we must count our blessings where we can find them,' Ferdi said as if in reply. 'To morrow, if I am remembering the map accurately, ought to find us following the passage between two hills that will eventually lead to the high ridge above the Trolls' old camp.'

Their progress halted while Haldoron boosted each of the Hobbits over the massive trunk of a fallen tree that blocked the narrow valley and then hauled himself up and over the obstacle.

As they resumed walking – if scrambling over tumbled rocks and fallen trees could be called "walking" – Haldoron asked, 'Blessings?'

'At least we'll have a fire when we reach our resting place. A spot o' tea can be remarkably restorative, I find...' 

The Ranger-guide snorted. 'So Bilbo maintained...'

At the end of that day, as they sat around a cheering fire, Haldoron had to admit that the Hobbits had something there. He had always relished the first taste of icy water bubbling from a spring after a long day's trek. Sipping at a steaming mug was altogether different but somehow satisfying, even comforting, even when they faced the prospect of more difficult travel when the Sun returned to the sky in the morning.

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Some days later...

'I'm sure this is it!' Pip-lad panted, still breathless from the difficult climb to this saddle between two ridges. The teen pointed to a shallow pit that looked as if stone had long ago been quarried there. Though the "old pine" Frodo had described no longer hung over the pit but had broken off, having succumbed to a gale that had swept the hillcrest since Frodo's time, the remnants of its gnarled roots could still be seen. 'Here is where they kindled a small fire...'

Despite the summer heat in the airless valley they had recently quitted, the wind in this high place, blowing over their sweat-dampened skin, felt chilling after the long, hot climb. 'Let us do the same,' Haldoron said. 'We'll rest here and descend to the Trolls' camp on the morrow.'

'Listen to the trees below, sighing and moaning in the wind stirring the treetops,' Farry said with a shiver. 'You told me, Pip, that Frodo dreamed of the endless dark wings of pursuers who were seeking him... I can see how the sound of the wind in the trees would make him think of such things.'

'Not to mention, they walked in fear, having been overcome by those pursuers little more than a week earlier,' Haldoron said drily.

'At least such pursuit is only in our imaginations and the stories we've been told,' Ferdi reflected. 'How much worse it was for them – wet, chilled, low on provisions, and in constant fear of discovery and attack by the servants of the Enemy.'

'Truly, they could not hide from such pursuit,' Haldoron murmured. 'For the Ring called to Them, especially after Frodo Baggins put It on at Weathertop and They saw him as clearly as he could see Them. They did not attack again, or so the Wise assumed, because of the Morgul shard in Frodo's shoulder.'

'I don't understand,' Robin said. 'Wouldn't They more easily capture the Ring-bearer, wounded as he was?'

Haldoron's smile was grim as he answered, 'Wounded as he was... Alas, poor Frodo! He was the hapless mouse, and They were cruel, much more cruel than cats playing with their prey. Allowing him the illusion of escape... Letting the difficulties of the journey wear down his strength and his will. Savouring his pain and growing despair... Perceiving from afar the progress of the shard, making its way towards his heart, as the shadows grew around him...'

'Stop!' Farry cried aloud, and in a lower voice continued, 'Stop, please! It is beyond bearing...'

'Yet that is exactly what our cousin Frodo had to bear,' said Ferdibrand quietly. 'You said it yourself, Nephew. This is no mere walking-party, but we are living an history lesson... and how can we do that if we do not walk in the footsteps of the original Travellers?'

As the teen's eyes met his, Ferdi nodded. 'Your very words,' he concluded.

Farry swallowed hard. 'Can I take it back?' he whispered, then grimaced. 'O' course I cannot take the words back. For even if I should try to do so, they would hang in the air, all unspoken. They would still be true.' The teen blinked and shook his head at himself. 'We must go on as we have begun, lest we dishonour their memory... his memory...'

The party remained strangely silent through the rest of the afternoon and into the twilight and beyond, even as they sipped from their steaming mugs of tea around their small, crackling fire, listening to the nightly noises in the darkness outside the ring of firelight.

*** 

Note: Some descriptive phrases in this chapter were drawn from "Flight to the Ford" in The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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