The Camping Trip
Aranel; 2004
Legolas threw another branch on the flames and sat back on the mossy log. Gimli peered curiously over at him from across the fire, his clever blue eyes sparking. The elf and dwarf resumed their tête-à-tête.
"But I thought you were of a royal family, Gimli," said Legolas. "Or at any rate held in high honor."
"True," replied Gimli. "I am held in respect as a son of Gloin. But we have few Dwarf princes now."
Both sat staring at the other, seeming to have run out of things to say.
"Tell me an uncanny tale of your land," urged Legolas finally. "A Dwarven ghost story should be amusing."
"I will tell you," agreed Gimli, "if you will tell me one of Mirkwood afterwards."
Legolas nodded and gestured for him to commence.
"Once, when I was a lad," began Gimli, "on a night that would have been quite dark if not for the moon diffusing throughout the clouds, I was journeying home in a heavy rain. As I trudged through the woods, I thought I had seen something move in the trees. I dismissed this thought, thinking myself to be merely imagining the sighting. But presently, I heard a noise as of faint footfalls in the mud. I looked wildly around, but could see nothing. Therefore, I kept going."
Legolas listened quietly, his hands laid out upon his knees. He leaned forward, eagerly awaiting the expected chilling denouement.
"At long last, I departed from the woods and made out the dim silhouette of my hovel," continued Gimli, an eerie note joining his intonation. "However, as I glanced behind me, I noted in the mire footprints plain to see. However, beside them was another set of prints, not mine. Someone or something had been trailing or pursuing me."
Legolas stirred thoughtfully, a perplexed look crossing his countenance.
"Did you ever discover who (or what) had been following you?" the elf asked.
Gimli shook his head.
The perpetual wind whispered dissonantly through the branches overhead, kicking up the sparks from the flames, causing them to go soaring high up over the heads of the elf and dwarf. Gimli shivered apprehensively.
"Tell me a tale of your people," he finally urged.
Legolas leaned back a pace and said, "My people are a race of much myth and lore. Strange things have taken place within the borders of the Mirkwood forest."
Gimli nodded. "Go on."
"Years beyond count ago, when I was a young elfling, two of my friends and I went on a camping trip in the woods. Now, my father had advised us not to go beyond a certain undisputable area of the forest. However, being impetuous young elflings, we would not heed him. I wish we had. An unwary band of Southrons was wandering in the woods near the designated boundary and we stumbled upon them. They took my friends prisoner, though I managed to escape. My father was soon informed when I returned, and he sent out scouts immediately. The scouts came back, their faces pale and ghastly as if they had seen something dreadful. I noticed to my wonder that my friends were with them. When my father questioned them of what had taken place, it seemed no one wanted to speak. This puzzled my father, and when he pressed the matter further, he persuaded one of his scouts to tell him small few things. What I heard as I listened in outside the door was that the scouts had found all the Southrons dead, and the elflings wandering aimlessly about their bodies. The scouts had known that the young elves would have been incapable of mutilating the Southrons to that degree and it vexed them deeply. When they questioned the elflings, they would say nothing. They would never speak of it in years after and still will not to this day. We never knew who or what had fallen upon the Southrons that night."
Gimli sat motionless in the glowing moonlight, seemingly deep in thought.
"Uncanny," he said, mystified. Legolas threw another thorny ash branch on the flames and reached for a blanket from an ornately embroidered leather pack lying against a stump. Gimli followed suit.
After both were settled on opposite sides of the fire, a chilling howl rose mournfully upward, shattering the silence of the hazy summer night. Once again, the sighing wind whispered eerily through the leaves.
"You say no one ever knew what happened to the Southrons?" asked Gimli, shuddering.
"Yes," replied the elf, sitting up suddenly. He took a fleeting glance towards the trees and the wide-open plains just beyond them, where the grass rustled in the unnatural breeze. Both sat in silence listening to the cries as they rang out one after another.
"It all comes from telling uncanny tales," muttered Gimli, reaching for his axe. Legolas nodded. Neither had a wink of sleep that night.
Finis