The Banishing of Sméagol
By Andy Longwood
I am wearier than ever, and to lift a pen seems as difficult as to lift the world, but I have hidden it from my children long enough that I may go on hiding it a bit more. Yet I have never felt as old, not even now, as I did last night, when I banished my grandson.
It rained that night, and a cold wind whipped the trees when Sméagol was found out. I stood in the rain as my eldest son Reynard dragged him before me, kicking and screaming like a wild thing, his hair lank and tangled and his face screwed up with malcontent and hatred. I thought unhappily of the clever child who had grinned at me from behind a tangle of brown hair and wondered how I had failed him as Sméagol crouched before me, pitiful and almost bestial in his madness.
"He's been found out," Reynard shouted. "I heard him with my own ears, I did. He's murdered Déagol and gotten away with it." Sméagol began to crawl away, and Reynard kicked him sharply so that he fell over, whining piteously.
"Stop him hurting me! I didn't do it! He's lying!" he wailed, curling up into a ball on the ground. "I never hurt Déagol! It wasn't my fault!"
Reynard looked at me seriously. "He's been lying to us for years. This is the last straw."
"But I never did anything wrong!" Sméagol protested miserably. "Grandmother, stop him from hurting us! Me! Stop him from hurting me, please, he just hates poor Sméagol." He coughed horribly, clutching at his throat. Roselda was sobbing behind me. I shook my head.
"It is too late for you, Sméagol," I said. "Your word is worthless. You lie, you cheat, you steal, and you have made yourself a nuisance. There is no place here for nuisances."
"Don't send me away!" he wailed. "Grandmother, please don't make me leave! I have nowhere to go!"
"Why shouldn't I? You have caused us nothing but trouble for years. Why should I allow someone who causes trouble stay where he wants?"
"I'll change! I'll be good!" He cried. "I won't do another bad thing ever again, I promise!"
"How can I trust your word? You are false, Sméagol. You are a liar. What promise can you make that I can be sure you will keep?"
"I promise! I promise!" he yelled frantically. "By my life, I swear!"
I sighed.
"If you misbehave one more time, even in the slightest, you will be banished from this place forever. Do you understand?"
"I understand, yes," he whispered. I stood back.
"Let him go."
"Mother!" Reynard objected, and I turned to look at him.
"He has one more chance," I said. "If he misbehaves once more, he is gone." I looked at Sméagol as I spoke, and he nodded fervently.
"I will be good," he promised. "Very good. Better than ever."
"You can't believe him!" Reynard objected, and I faced him again. "Mother, he's been lying to us for years. There is no peace with him, and he is a murderer. I heard him say himself how he killed Déagol –"
"Until his guilt is proven he is still family, and I do not give up on family so easily," I said quietly. "I desire peace as much as you, but this is no fair trial, and I will give him one more chance."
Reynard frowned, but held his tongue. Sméagol watched him warily as Reynard held out his hand.
"On your feet, Gollum," Reynard snarled, and an ugly expression crossed Sméagol's face. He reached up, took Reynard's arm, and twisted it sharply. There was a hideous crack, and Reynard shouted and fell to the ground, his arm bent at an unnatural angle across his chest. Roselda screamed, and I felt my heart falter. Reynard tried to push himself up with his good hand, but it trembled violently and he fell back down.
Sméagol stood above him. He was laughing.
"Who crawls in the mud now?" I heard him shout. "Who is the worm now, Reynard? See? I have broken him!"
His face was gleeful, and he laughed delightedly as my son groaned and struggled to rise.
"I could break him more," Sméagol said, almost thoughtfully. "Yes, I could. It would not be hard at all. Look how he writhes already!"
He reached for Reynard's hand, and I began to run. I barely felt the rain or the protest of my knees as I roared with anger. My son, my dear Reynard was lying on the ground with a murderer prepared to hurt him for fun. It did not matter that the murderer was my grandson. I do believe that even then, with my maddened grandson present and prepared to torture his uncle for amusement, there was nothing more frightening in the world than I.
Somehow, I have managed to keep my children in awe of me, and Sméagol fell back in fear as I flew at him. He crouched on the ground before me.
"I have been far too lenient with you," I said, slowly, furiously. "Ever since you were a fauntling stealing jam from the larder, I was far too lenient with you. Alas that I did not see it sooner."
Sméagol looked at me with wide, frightened eyes. He crawled to my feet and reached for the hem of my skirt, fawning madly. "Grandmother, dear Grandmother, your Sméagol is always good-"
I kicked him, hard. He fell back with a shriek and raised a filthy hand to his bloody lip.
"You said you'd always love me!" he wailed, and the hurt in his voice made me falter. "You said you'd always love me, no matter what!"
Reynard groaned in agony by my feet, and I looked at Sméagol impassively.
"I did promise that, once," I said coldly. "I promised my dear young grandson that he would always have a place in my heart, and he does. But you are not him. Not anymore."
His filthy face was streaked with rain and tears as he watched me with growing horror. I could feel the eyes of my children and grandchildren and great grandchildren watching me and watching him as I delivered his sentence.
"You are no longer part of this family, Sméagol," I pronounced. He shook his head.
"No," he whispered. "No. Please. No."
"Go into the wild," I commanded, my voice as sharp and hard as steel. "I do not care where. Never return to this place again."
He began to cry, pressing his hands over his ears. I thought of the crack when Reynard's arm was broken, and hardened my heart.
"Go," I repeated. "Leave, now. And never come back."
And then one of my great-grandchildren leaned over and picked up the first stone, and threw it. More followed, and soon my family had become a screaming mass of anger and vengeance, while the wretch that had once been my clever, precocious grandson scrambled away on all fours to avoid the blows.
I saw Roselda scoop to pick up a stone, and as she threw it, her face was white with hatred. It struck him on the shoulder, and he cried out in pain, and although the look of hate on my daughter's face had been terrible, the satisfaction on it afterwards was infinitely worse.
And then, he left.
And he never came back.
And I am wearier now than I have ever been in my life.