“So the lad is his nephew? I have heard it called other things,” a soldier muttered. The others laughed, and one raised his fingers in a telltale gesture.
“These folk are the guests of our lord, and it is not our place to judge their customs,” Beregond told them sharply. “It is a great honor to serve as their escort, so show yourselves worthy of Lord Faramir’s trust.”
Yet when this duty had fallen to Beregond, he had felt more unnerved than honored, so he could scarcely fault his soldiers for their misgivings. What did he know of the children of Durin?
A small party of dwarves had traveled from the Aglarond to search for ore in Ithilien, for Lord Gimli believed that rich veins of iron ran beneath the green hills. Only one day into the search, and Beregond suspected that these dwarves planned to study every rock between the Mountains of Shadow and the Anduin. Again and again, Nali son of Nim called for a halt then swung down from his pony, hitting the ground with a solid thud. The miner stared at each outcropping of stone, scratched it with a file, and then sniffed and tasted the filings. His sister-son Bror stood beside him and handed him the tools. Beregond had never seen a young dwarf and was surprised by his silky beard and slight build and the clear, almost musical sound of his speech, so unlike the rough voices of his older companions. Well, I doubt even dwarves are born with whiskers, Beregond told himself then shook his head to dispel the images of bearded dwarven babes.
Like his soldiers, he had noticed the fond looks that passed between the miner and his young nephew. The bond seemed somehow different than the natural affection between near kin, but he decided that a Man of Gondor might easily misread the words and gestures of another people.
That night as they sat around the camp fire, Beregond asked the dwarves if they would honor their hosts with a tale.
The eldest rose to his feet and bowed until his white beard swept the grass. “Now I will tell you,” he began, “Of the fighting in Erebor at the end of the War. When Dain Ironfoot fell, axe in hand, defending his friend and ally, Brand the Bold of Dale.”
In a deep voice, he told them the story, and the men were astounded to learn that this ancient dwarf had fought in the battle. Then Beregond told the grim tale of the freeing of Moria, for he had had a hand in that task. Their eyes glinting like gems in the firelight, the dwarves nodded their approval as the orcs were routed and slaughtered. Then toasts were called for, so a cask of ale was broached and several flasks of brandy were passed from hand to hand. As the fire burned down, the men and dwarves traded stories, each one wilder and worse than the last. They shouted with laughter when Beregond told the “onion” riddle that he had heard from a troop of Rohirrim.
I am a wondrous creature; to women a thing of joyous expectation. Firm and straight, bearded below, upright I stand in my bed…
In recent years, the soldiers of Gondor had learned a wealth of new tales from their allies in Rohan.
The next morning found young Bror somewhat worse for the wear. The poor lad must have been unused to strong drink, for he fell to his knees and retched when one of the soldiers brought him some gruel. Nali just smiled and shook his head. “’Tis the brandy. My people have no stomach for it.”
Yet strangely, during one of their many stops, the lad picked a handful of unripe apples and, as they rode along, he bolted the green fruit like a colt who had wandered into an orchard. This early in the summer, they must have tasted vile and sour.
They rode many slow leagues and looked at many stones that day, and the dwarves were pleased with their progress. At the foot of a cliff near Henneth Annun, where the rocks were stained as red as blood, they shouted aloud in their strange tongue and waved their shovels above their heads. Nali showed Beregond a handful of pebbles. “Look at how fine this ore is, as good as any in the Iron Hills.” Beregond nodded and admired their find, though in truth he knew less than naught about mining.
A light rain was falling when they made their camp for the night. Weary and cold, they took their meal with little cheer then sought the shelter of their tents soon after darkness fell.
To Beregond’s surprise, for there had been no drinking the night before, Nali’s nephew was ill again in the morning, retching into the bushes at the sight of his gruel. The fit left Bror so light-headed that he had to lie down in the grass.
“What ails the lad?” Beregond asked the miner quietly. “If he is unwell, we should return to Osgiliath.”
“Nothing is amiss except that he is unused to travel,” Nali replied and started to turn away.
“Master, I know little of your race, but he looks to be no more than half-grown. Perhaps you have no children of your own, but take my word on this--you must not treat these stomach ailments lightly.” He remembered the time when Bergil was so sick, fevered and vomiting, that the healers had despaired of his life.
“This matter is not your concern.” There was a trace of anger in Nali’s gravelly voice.
“The well-being of every member of this party is my concern and also my responsibility,” Beregond replied, surprised by the dwarf’s response. He seemed to have little regard for his own kin. “We will head for Osgiliath. There are no healers among my men.”
“It is not what you think."
“Then tell me why he spews up his morning gruel. I will not drag an ailing lad through the wilderness just to find a pile of rocks.”
The dwarf glared at him. Beregond glared back.
“He has no illness that several months' time will not cure, and he is not my sister's son nor is he even a lad.”
The queasiness and the sour apples, the doting glances… But Beregond would never have guessed that dwarven women had beards! And he had seen him—her—carrying nearly a hundredweight of gear! “He…she is with child?” Beregond stammered.
The dwarf burst out laughing and thumped him on the shoulder. “Clever guess, Man of Gondor! But do not tell a soul that my nephew is a lass! We dwarves prefer to keep such matters among ourselves.”
Bowing to hide his confusion, Beregond replied, “Of course, Master. I am honored by your trust, and I beg you give my best wishes to your lady wife.” He could feel the blood rising to his face as he remembered the ribald stories around the fire. I told the onion riddle in front of a lady…
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Note: The onion riddle is borrowed from the Anglo-Saxon riddles of the Exeter Book. It is about an onion…or is it? :)