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Chapter 3. Ssshire… Bagginsss…

I think I screamed. In panic I turned and ran as fast as I could back to the river, repeatedly looking over my shoulder. Surprisingly, the ringwraith remained seated on his log, as if nothing had happened. "Perhaps they really don't see in the light at all," I thought.

My relief was short-lived for I ran into something – or somebody - and fell heavily on my backside, so hard that my teeth chattered. I heard a low chuckle and looked wildly around. There was nobody in sight… except a pair of empty black leather boots standing all on their own by my side. Harmless as they looked, the boots frightened me even more. I scrambled to my feet and was going to resume my flight when I felt a cold invisible hand grip my shoulder – hard.

I tried to wriggle free, flailing the air around me with my fists. Some of the blows seemingly landed on someone, but it helped me little - all I earned was another chuckle from high above the boots. In a moment I was lifted bodily into the air, tucked under an invisible arm (as I could glean from the feel of it) and carried back to the oak grove where the first nazgûl was waiting.

It must have been a curious sight: under me the pair of empty boots was walking purposely while I was floating through the thin air with no visible support, wriggling and hollering like a madwoman in a seizure. Unfortunately, there was no one around to appreciate the spectacle, except the nazgûl waiting by the horses, and this one was probably used to such antics. He rose and made a few steps in my direction, so, when my attacker had finally broken his iron grip on my midsection, I landed on my belly right at his feet.

I lay there, panting in fright, my throat hoarse from screaming. The hooded nazgûl said something in an unpleasant, guttural tongue and threw a bundle of black cloth to the invisible owner of the empty boots. This one laughed again, shook out the cloth that proved to be another black cloak, and donned it. In a moment there were two cloaked and hooded ringwraiths looking down at my prostrate body.

It was high time for me to faint, like all decent girls do in the stories when things start turning really bad. When they come to, they would normally be lying in a soft bed in Elrond's House, with Aragorn or Legolas nursing them back to health. Unfortunately, I found that fainting from fright was no easier in Middle-Earth than it was in my own world. I felt terrified to the core, but perfectly lucid.

Then the questioning began. The first nazgûl prodded me with his boot to get my full attention and asked me something lengthy in a language that I had never heard before.

I shook my head and replied in English "I am sorry, but I don't speak this language,… uhm, my Lord." I had no idea how one should properly address a nazgûl, but being polite never hurts.

They seemed surprised by my answer, for there followed a short exchange between my captors in what seemed to be the Black Tongue. Anyway, it did sound horrible.

Then they tried other languages, a whole lot of them. Some were rather melodious and nice, some guttural, some harsh. One or two sounded vaguely Middle-eastern, another much like Hungarian to my ears – I used to hear my landlady speak it on the phone. Anyway, though the nazgûl proved to be polyglots, it was of little help with me, for I spoke none of the languages they did. I knew a little French, but I felt it was not even worth the try.

Finally, the first one gripped my shoulder and shook me repeating one word "Sûza?" again and again.

What the hell might it mean? I tried to be helpful, lest they start to maltreat me in earnest. "Why don't you speak Westron?" I asked with an attempt at a smile. "Anyone knows it is the same as English – isn't it?"

Hmm, apparently it wasn't – or I happened to fall in with two nazgûl who didn't speak the Common tongue of Middle-Earth. But how then did they ask hobbits for directions to the Shire?

Suddenly I had an inspiration. I stood on all fours and hissed "Sshhire… Bagginsss…"

I looked up at them hopefully. No reaction from the first one, but the one who had captured me laughed. "What a merry nazgûl!" I thought irritably. Somehow it felt not right – they should have been cold, mindless hunters entirely obsessed with getting the Ring.

These two were weird anyway, for what sort of a Ringwraith would not be interested in the slightest in the "Shire" and "Baggins"? Maybe Westron was not English, but the names of places and persons should have been the same, right?

The two ringwraiths were conversing again. The quiet one was apparently giving orders to the merry one. I watched in disbelief how the latter shrugged his shoulders, drew a long blade and unhurriedly walked towards me.

What the …? They were going to kill me – just like that! To kill the one who knew what was going to happen and could help them out, as no one else could! What a dreadful misunderstanding!

They say danger makes one think fast. When the nazgûl stopped behind my back and touched my nape with the sword, taking aim, I finally found what to say to gain their interest. I filled my lungs with air and hollered much like Gandalf did at the Council:

"Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!"

STORY NOTES

Unfortunately, English is NOT the same as Westron (or the Common Tongue).

"Shire" is a translation. In Westron "Shire" is "Sûza" (see LOTR Appendix F)