Fire Ants

By Rosemary For Remembrance

"One move out of you and I'll tie you down! Just stay put there and don't fuss."

For a moment Boromir believed he was back in Minas Tirith, in the Houses of Healing, under the watchful eye of that old crone, Ioreth. The tone of the disembodied voice was similar; curt, chiding and superior, but nothing else about the two compared. Where Ioreth's voice was squawking and rapid, this one was slow, calm and low. Memories of the quest returned to Boromir's hazy mind, and with the returned consciousness came a fiery, burning, stinging sensation over the entirety of the dorsal side of his body. "Where am I?" Boromir croaked, his own harsh, pained voice surprising him.

"In my house, and a sight better situation than I found you in…" The voice sounded again. Now more fully awake, Boromir heard the sounds of shuffling feet and other movement, though he still had no sight of whom he spoke to. He lay, he realized, flat on his stomach on a rough, straw-packed mattress, covered to the waist with a light blanket. Trying to remember, his thoughts drifted back as far as he could force them.

It was pouring. The sturdy gray he'd ridden since he'd stopped at Edoras was as irritable and miserable as he was and as cold. The wind had picked up as the sun sank behind the hills and the scrub brush and sparse plant life the borders of Rohan and Dunland, almost over the Gap of Rohan, afforded little protection. Seeking a semi-sheltered place to make camp, Boromir dismounted the gray and made his way to a rocky little hill, where he'd hopefully find some break from the biting wind and driving rain. Lucky for him, he'd found just the spot. Hidden from prying eyes, just below the saddle of two little hills was a shallow cave. The path that led up to it was steep, and there was not much more than a few feet at the mouth of it before the land dropped off into a steep ditch. Praising providence, Boromir dismounted the gray, Hasudel, and led him up the steep track. A fire was out of the question, for there was no dry fodder about. After pulling the tack off of Hasudel and rubbing him down, Boromir spread out his blanket on the dry ground sheltered by the little alcove and tried to get some sleep.

He awoke to the most painful sensation he'd felt in a lifetime of soldiering. A thousand tiny needles were stinging him at once. Instantly awake but very disoriented, he staggered out into the rain, tripped on a stone, and plunged head first into the ditch.

That was all Boromir could remember. Lying there on his stomach, he mentally checked himself over. The skin of his scalp, the backs of his arms, his shoulders, back, and lower burned like he'd rolled in nettles. Under the stinging of his scalp, he felt the more familiar dull pain of a physical blow. "I suppose anyone could set their blanket down on an anthill and not know it in this rain, but if you plan to survive out on the road in these parts, you'll have to be more careful young man." Young man. Boromir was hardly a stripling lad anymore. How long had it been since he'd been called that? Years, at least. He certainly felt like a raw recruit at the moment. Stupid, stupid, stupid mistake! He reconciled never to make the same again, and let the matter be. Brow beating himself over his idiocy and carelessness would solve nothing. Boromir gently turned his head towards the voice. The skin on the back of his neck protested, but he was tired of listening to a disembodied voice. The gray light of a soggy, still raining morning filtered through gaps in hide-covered windows, but the majority of the light in the little cottage, more of a hut really, came from a cheerful, if smoky fire. Bathed in tongues of that light was a short, stocky woman of how many years Boromir could not quite tell. Her once-blonde, gray hair was swept up away from her face and secured in a roll behind her head with what looked like age-yellowed bone combs. Her dress was simple, brown homespun. Behind her and close to the fire was a shaggy, mangy old wolfhound bitch. Her ears pricked when she saw the stranger awake and her mistress suddenly moving about and making noises. Finding no immediate danger, she set her head back down on her paws, but kept a weather eye on the new stranger.

"Who are you?" was probably the most prudent question to ask first, so out of the many running through Boromir's head that was the one he asked.

"My name is Hildláf." The woman answered. Hildláf busied herself mixing something in an old pewter bowl. "Don't bother asking anything else. You'll wear yourself out. Like beestings, the poison in fire ant bites, in large amounts, slows the body down. Don't bother exhausting yourself." Another stir of the mixture, the smell of which Boromir did not like at all, and Hildláf stepped closer. Boromir recoiled.

"Don't you worry. This isn't to eat. Your stomach would reject anything put in it just now." She sat down on the edge of the rough pallet and poured the creamy substance over Boromir's red, swollen back, set the bowl down, and spread the substance with her hands over his neck, arms, and shoulders. Boromir gasped then sighed. At first touch, the substance seemed to freeze, but after a moment it was strangely numbing. When she reached to tug the blanket down, Boromir moved to stop her, which he regretted afterwards. "Tsh, tsh," she soothed, "I have children your age, and they children of their own. I've soothed more hurts in more places more times than I know how to count." Boromir supposed what little modesty he had wouldn't suffer. Though he'd lived as a part of an army for a long time and been seen by various people in various situations of undress, he felt more than a little embarrassed at his compromising situation.

"There, all settled." Hildláf raised the blanket back to waist level and stepped back, wiping wrinkled hands on an old apron. "I suppose the least I could ask for is your name, soldier."

"Boromir." He responded thankfully, omitting his rank and station. "How did you know I was a soldier?"

"I've known a few in my time; you were easy to figure out. I was young once." One of her blue eyes winked. Boromir could imagine. In her prime she must have been pretty enough. He could see the influence of Rohirric bloodlines in her face and coloring, though her build was shorter and more compact than most Rohirrim he'd ever encountered. She waited as he studied her. "My mother was a Dunlending, if that's what you were wondering." She remarked stoically.

Boromir averted his eyes, but he did not apologize for his scrutiny. "You live here alone?"

"There're Haunwyn and Cuanil to keep me company." She said cheerfully. The dog's head lifted at the mention of her name and the name of her pup, now grown, out about in the weather. Crazy pup! "Besides them, I've been here since my husband died and my children left in search of better things than the legacy of a poor charcoal burner." Hildláf put the empty mixing bowl into a deep basin by the window and washed her hands. "This place wasn't as remote as it is now when I was younger. Since then, some of the folks who used to live nearby have moved to better-populated areas. The borders aren't as safe as they once were. I was surprised to find you out there; we don't get travelers through here very often."

Boromir almost questioned her use of "we," but then remembered that some widows, long married, instinctively referred to themselves as part as a couple, even in their solitude. Boromir took a moment of silence to analyze his heroine, as it was. Out in the borderlands, all alone, providing for herself; how had Boromir ever thought his own courage stronger than that of normal, simple people? How was the steady courage of a widow on her own, facing trials every day, any more developed than the courage of a soldier whose courage lasted him for the duration of a battle? The soldier oft returned to a safe, snug barracks or a fortified camp at the end of the day. Hildláf had no such luxury.

"How did you find me, or get me out of that ditch?" Boromir asked. He was curious to know how an old woman had hauled him who knows how far through such inclement weather.

"Cuanil, that's Haunwyn's pup, sniffed you out when that pretty gray of yours bolted straight up to my door and nickered just as loud as you please. I wondered what such a nice, long boned gelding was doing out here alone and with such a nice bridle too! I followed Cuanil out and found you at the bottom of that ditch, pale as death. That gray has such nice, strong legs, I thought I'd put him to work, so I looped the lead through your arms and hauled you up."

"My thanks to Cuanil, your ingenuity and Hasudel's compliance." It was fortunate that the horses of Rohan were so well trained. Even by their nature, the steeds of Rohan were spirited and mighty yet they were biddable enough for those who knew how to handle them. "Though he must not have liked all that pulling on his bridle." He reasoned. To pull the heavy man up through the strength of the horse's neck, Boromir imagined even the enduring Hasudel would not have enjoyed that treatment.

"Oh no!" Hildláf chuckled, "I may live on the borderlands now, but my uncle was a rider of Rohan in the Westfold. Besides," she got up for a moment to peek out a hole in one of the hide window coverings, "we women of Rohan know just as much about horses as any of the men. I found the long lead you had in your bags in your little camp there, put his saddle on and cinched it quick, then I tied the lead to the saddle bow and then looped it through your arms." She clucked absently at the condition of the weather and turned back to the weary soldier. "Might've taken me longer, but I knew that success on a first attempt was more likely with a compliant horse! Speaking of the beauty, you needn't worry after him. We have a milking shed, and I'm sure Hasudel, you said his name was, will be fine right there next to Dunlie." The old cow still gave enough milk for one solitary old woman to use and she was Hildláf's only company out there, besides the dogs. "I went back while you were still asleep and brought in most of your tack; it's wet through but hopefully no worse for wear."

"You went back out there, just for my tack?" Boromir was incredulous. Now that he looked at her, her hair was the dark gold that straw colored hair turned when wet. A long, damp-heavy cloak hung on a peg by the fire, the first in a row of pegs that held other assorted garments up to dry. Mine. Boromir realized. "How long have I been asleep?" If there was one thing Boromir hated, it was missing time. How long had he laid there unconscious? How long had he slept there on Hildláf's rough pallet?

"No need to get upset." She said as she eased herself down into a chair by the fire. Stretching her legs out in front of her comfortably, she picked up what looked like a pair of trousers to mend. Boromir entertained for a moment that perhaps she still kept her husband's apparel in good condition, but he'd observed little eccentricity in Hildláf and even less of those ridiculous romantic sentiments that would drive a woman to engage in that kind of behavior. After some study in the dim firelight, by the size, color and general make of the garment; he could tell that they were his. "The rest of your clothes are still wet clear through- heavy cloth always takes a while to get the damp out, and that undercoat of yours! Far too long by half, and of such fancy make! You'd think you were going to a town faire in it!" The old woman shook her head and tsked, as mothers and grandmothers are like to do. Boromir had thought that long red robe-like coat one of his least decorative; it seemed the simple old woman thought otherwise. "There's that thing, then that long shirt, fine stitching on that, your wife's a fine hand with a needle no doubt." she winked one crow footed eye across the room, but her eyes were almost green with envy when she talked about the embroidery. Boromir did not interrupt to correct her about the assumption of the existence of a spouse. "Those leather vambraces, with the silver inlaid, fine pieces of work, those! Cuanil wanted to have a chew at those, soon as he saw them, but I saved them for you. What I want to know is why a man needs a mail hauberk and a leather surcoat! You'd think you were riding off to war!" She laughed to herself for a moment, stilled, dropped her mending slowly and looked back at Boromir seriously. "There's no war coming, is there?" Her eyes were fearful. She'd known orc raids in her time, and the savagery of wild Dunlendings, kin yes, but kinship meant nothing when one of one's women attached herself to a straw-haired horseman.

Boromir was loath to answer. Hildláf lived peacefully here and as far as he could tell, without fear. The elements, a sick cow, wolves, those things Hildláf could handle and well, but war was something a lone woman and her two dogs could not survive through alone, be she young or old. He answered carefully. "I cannot tell you 'yea' or 'nay. I cannot speak for Theoden. I have heard rumors about the White Wizard, Saruman, in Isengard not too far from here, but rumors are not definitive. Gondor faces war every day; we have only a tentative control over our own borders, even Osgiliath is not fully in our control." Boromir did not know if the secluded woman knew anything about Gondor or recent events therein, but she would understand that to be unable to hold one of one's own cities was not promising. "I am…" Could he tell her? Spies lingered everywhere and this close to Isengard... did Hildláf survive out here alone by the grace of the White Wizard? Whatever Hildláf's bloodlines or her means of survival, it was a far leap for Boromir to think of her as a spy for Saruman. "I am on a journey, nay, a quest really." He waited for her to laugh or snort; noble knights riding off on quests were rare these days. "I know the name of the place I'm going and that it lies to the north." A veritable treasure trove of useful information Oh, this bodes well! Boromir thought sarcastically. He supposed it did not bode well if he was bitter about the quest already, hardly outside of well-known lands! "If I find what I seek, I may be able to give the free men of the south a fighting chance against our enemies. The journey is perilous and I have far yet to go."

He said as little as he could about the reason behind the journey, about the dreams and the arguments and the debates and the final, executive decision on Boromir's part, as the elder, to take up the task. "As you have doubtlessly found out already." Hildláf pointed out in all seriousness. "I won't ask you the details, you're tight-lipped about it already, so I won't pry." She nodded to herself and wiped her hands nervously on her apron. She stood again, set the mending aside, and paced slowly, as if unsure of what to do. Finally she picked up a cup and filled it with water from a fired clay jug. "You should drink. Your body is going to crave water; it'll be using a lot of your own to fight that poison." She said sagely and approached his pallet with the cup.

"You've hardly sat down this whole time, you must be tired. I can drink later, take some rest." Boromir said in his most gentle, charming voice. He suspected the experienced old woman had put something in the cup to make him sleep, and it went against his inner nature to take his medicine when given to him. When it came to medicine, leeches or doctors, he simply had to be difficult! Yet he still wondered why the woman, no doubt of lesser energy than one in her prime, would seem so restless.

"Don't you mind me." She sat down and helped Boromir roll onto his side and prop himself up to drink. "I don't sleep much anymore. Doctoring you has given me something to do, at least. I usually just sit up and sew, and these old hands are hardly fit for that much sewing." Arthritic hands plagued her, but that was the worst of her ailments, for which she thanked providence daily. "Slowly now." Hildláf ordered and set the cup at his lips, holding the cup for the most part but letting his weak hand guide along side it. She was right. Boromir felt more refreshed than he thought he'd be after the nourishing cup. "You've been awake far longer than most should after such a day, and with a nasty bump to the head, too!" She helped Boromir back down gently and readjusted his blanket. She pulled it higher over his shoulders and though his inflamed skin protested, the warmth was welcome. The early ours of the morning were still cold. Despite himself, Boromir started to nod and soon he was asleep.

Silently enjoying her own little victory, Hildláf set the cup aside and washed it thoroughly. She'd used a special mixture she'd developed over the years to put the tall man to sleep. It worked well on fussing babies, sick youths and suffering old men. She patted Haunwyn on the head when she sat back down in her chair next to the fire and asked the dog merrily, "Well, old dear, what do you think of our company?"

The dog looked across the little room to the sleeping stranger and lifted curious brow muscles and ears at the same time. Said human smelled far different than her mistress' horsemen kin, who'd she'd sniffed only a few times and a long time ago, but once smelled, a scent stuck forever.

"Yes, I know. I don't suppose we'll ever learn more than we know already about him, but who wants to know everything?"

To Be Continued….

Next Chapter: Cuanil and Trouble