Chapter Fourteen: Frodo's Fateful Flight
-Or- How to Raise Phantasmagoria for Fun and Profit
Frodo awoke with a start. It was still quite dark out, and the predawn mist clung wetly to the weary world. Frodo's companions slept with oblivious aplomb, soundly snoring and sniffling and, in Sam's case, munching (he ate, even in his sleep). Aragorn, too, had finally nodded off, sure now that the Nazgul had done their worst for the night. Suddenly, Frodo could hear a strange scratching or pawing coming from outside the inn, as if claws were scraping the cobblestone at regular intervals. Drawn ineluctably to the window, the groggy Frodo peered out the lumpy, distorted panes of glass (quite a luxury for a country establishment at this juncture of the 3rd Age, I can tell you – waxed paper and wood shutters were good enough for most!), fully expecting to see the grim Ringwraiths mounted on their hellish horses, compelling him to come forth by the force of some evil, mesmeric spell.
But lo and behold! It was Gandalf astride a majestic great eagle of the sort Bilbo had described from his journeys. It could well have been Gwaihir the Windlord himself, raking the stone with his razor-sharp talons! Gandalf motioned the surprised Frodo to remain silent, and then with a curt wave of his hand demanded that he, in no uncertain terms, come down this very instant, and do be quiet, damned silly Hobbit! (Gandalf had a way of saying volumes with the slightest gesture). Frodo quickly donned his travelling clothes and silently crept from the room. In a moment, he found himself out in the courtyard gazing up at the wizard atop the immense bird.
Looking mighty put out, Gandalf grumbled, "Well don't just stand there dawdling with your mouth agape like some nebulous ninny -- climb aboard. We have much work to do and very little time to do it!"
"Do what?" Frodo yawned as he absently scratched his bum.
"Why, destroy the Ring, of course!" Gandalf stated as if it were obvious.
"Do what?" Frodo replied, more awake now but still not quite catching on.
"Frodo, please, do try to follow the story line," Gandalf huffed. "We are flying to Mount Doom to destroy the Ring!"
"Do what?" Frodo heard words coming out of the wizard's mouth, but they seemed to be gibberish.
"Oh, now you're merely being obstinate! Even Hobbits can't be that thick," Gandalf sighed as he leaned closer to the Hobbit. "Frodo, we are going to cut the story blessedly short and get rid of the Ring once and for all. No poncey, singing Elves, no hermaphroditic Dwarves and no tediously tyrannical ophthalmic images to deal with. We shall skip right over 'The Two Towers' and 'Return of the King' and drop the Ring into Mount Doom. Done! And then I can at last get on with my immortal life far away from this wretched Middle-earth."
"But…the Screen Actor's Guild…"
"NO! I don't want to hear anything about unions!" Gandalf growled peremptorily. "I had quite enough of the 'Dwarves With Limited Speaking Roles' in 'The Hobbit' parody, thank you very much, and I won't let any such anachronistic association get in the way of ending this ridiculous lampoon as soon as possible!"
"But…but this makes no sense," Frodo sputtered.
Gandalf frowned. "Sense? It makes perfect sense! Far more than walking halfway across Middle-earth, through the depths of Moria, down the River Anduin and then into the very backyard of Sauron. That's six-hundred miles at least! Please, be so kind and explain to me how that makes more sense than just chartering a ride on Eagle Air, leaving the Nazgul in our dust, bypassing a Balrog and then arriving on the very doorstep of Mount Doom before the cyclopean Sauron can bat his single great Eye?"
"Well, once you put it that way…" Frodo mumbled rather unconvincingly.
"Let me put it in a way even an inane Hobbit can understand," Gandalf said in a wholly derisive tone, "you won't be stabbed by the WitchKing, speared by an Orc chieftain, poisoned by a giant spider and have your ring finger bitten off by a half-crazed, retrograde Stoor."
"Right, help me up then!" Frodo replied.
"Ummm…you'll have to sit in coach," Gandalf said apologetically as he lifted the Hobbit aboard, "there is only one first-class seat…and I am a wizard, after all. Would you care for a complimentary bag of salted nuts?"
Perched atop the great eagle, the journey seemed effortless, and was revelatory for a Hobbit – even a semi-adventurous one like Frodo. Vast swathes of land surrendered in their speeding wake, a rich and varied panoply of tumbling tumuli, verdant meadow, winding rivers and snowcapped peaks. Aside from stopping for an occasional potty break, the flight was non-stop, and they reached Mordor by evening. Below them lay the Black Lands, scarred and pitted and fuming; and before them was Orodruin, that men call Mount Doom, jutting like an accusing finger towards the heavens, wreathed in smokes and belching in ashen fury.
"Only another minute now, Frodo, and all you have to do is toss the Ring into the Crack of Doom. We'll be back in the Shire by tea-time tomorrow!" Gandalf shouted above the howling wind.
Frodo stared with glazed eyes at the Ring on its golden chain. It was so simple and elegant. What a shame it would be to callously toss the Ring – this beautiful thing -- into molten magma, and it would be lost forever. It was not only a shame it would be utterly stupid -- immoral, even! Well, Frodo was one principled Hobbit who would not be subverted by Gandalf's obvious Maiaric decadence. Why, he even looked like some radical old hippy! "No!" Frodo said defiantly, unconcerned with the wizard's opinion in the matter. "Now that it comes to it, I do not wish to be rid of the Ring. It's mine! It came to me, didn't it? It was a gift from Bilbo. It is precious to me!"
Gandalf looked over his shoulder and frowned in disappointment. "I suppose I should make the effort to convince you otherwise," the wizard sighed sadly, "and thus have you redeem yourself through self-sacrifice. You know, give the story a moral ending as the author intended. But then again, what's one more Hobbit, more or less?" So saying, he grabbed Frodo by the scruff of the neck and threw him off the Eagle. As Frodo spun in helpless free-fall, he heard Gandalf shouting, "Happy landings, my dear Frodo!"
He heard his name echoing as he fell: "Frodo…Frodo…Frodo." He felt the searing heat as the gaping maw of the Crack of Doom yawned before him -- "Frodo…Frodo…Frodo." He stretched out his hands in a vain effort to stop the fiery fate that was rushing ever closer – "Frodo…Frodo…Frodo." He closed his eyes as he awaited the inevitable impact -- "Frodo…Frodo…Frodo…"
"Frodo…Frodo…Mister Frodo," Sam said gently as he tried to rouse his master. "Mister Frodo, it's near dawn, and Strider here says we must be on our way as quick as two fleas mating, if you'll pardon the expression."
Frodo's eyes fluttered open and he grinned a bit. He was never so glad to see Sam's homely face in all his life. "Then…it was all a dream…a terrible dream," Frodo murmured in that annoyingly whiny, melancholy way that only Frodo could.
"Well, I s'pose it was," Samwise said with a shrug. "It's been a helluva night, and no doubt! That'd sure be the cause 'o' them night sweats." Then Sam became grave as he looked away from Frodo's face. "Errr…Mister Frodo, what's happened to your hands? They look…burnt!"
Frodo's relieved smile faded away as he lifted up his palms. They were terribly scorched and blistered, and in some spots seared right down to the bone. Frodo screamed in abject horror and fainted dead away.
"Frodo…Frodo…Mister Frodo," Sam said gently as he tried to rouse his master. "Mister Frodo, it's near dawn, and Strider here says we must be on our way as quick as an old drunk straddlin' two whores, if you'll pardon the expression."
Frodo's eyes fluttered open and he grinned a bit. He was never so glad to see Sam's homely face in all his life. "Then…it was all a dream…a terrible dream," Frodo murmured in that annoyingly whiny, melancholy way that only Frodo could.
"Enough with the dream sequences already!" Strider barked. "We've got to get the hell out of Bree as quick as two fleas mating!"
Frodo felt a twinge of déjà vu, but decided for the sake of the plot to remain silent.
~~oOo~oOo~oOo~oOo~~
War Correspondent Borstal Ulysses Rabelais-Picaresque here before the den of a pack of Wargs, those fearsome wolfish creatures seemingly gifted with their own speech and a malign will wholly uncharacteristic of the canine species. With the overwhelming popularity of the Lord of the Rings film trilogy and the proposed filming of The Hobbit now in the scripting stage (or, as Hollywood insiders would say, previs), rumors are rife that there is serious discontent among the misunderstood and vilified Wargs. With the promise that I would not be ripped to shreds and my bloody carcass gnawed on as a snack, I am here to interview one the Wargs' spokespersons…or spokeswolves, as the case may be:
B.U.R. Picaresque: Mr. Warg, it has come to our attention that the wolfish population of Middle-earth has been set on its collective furry ear by the dramatization of Wargs in the film The Two Towers; which is to say, you feel Peter Jackson characterized you rather badly. That is, not 'badly' in an evil sense, which you certainly are, *The Warg nods approvingly* but rather ineptly.
Warg: Yes, my dear chap. Having reviewed the suspect footage, I must say I found it to be wanting in every respect. I mean, really, the only time I have seen such a sunken gut on one of my kin was when poor Uncle Lupine contracted worms. Nasty parasites, those.
BURP: Yes, I suppose so. Then you feel misrepresented?
W: Certainly! As if to be continually associated with those foul Orcs wasn't bad enough, we are now portrayed as if we've been crossbred with snub-nosed, gangrel hyenas! It's all too much, really.
BURP: How so?
W: Hmmm...Aside from the horridly distorted image of Wargs presented by Peter Jackson in his flawed film, another mischaracterization from a plot standpoint deals with Warg-kind used as saddled were-ponies, which of course is patently ludicrous! This is primarily due to Mr. Jackson's incessant pillaging of a non-canonical source: The Hobbit.
BURP: Then your characterization in The Hobbit was incorrect as well?
W: Good Lord, man, The Hobbit was originally published as a children's story; whatever resemblance it had with Middle-earth cosmology as a whole was at first merely coincidental. This sordid juxtaposition was accomplished later via manic editing by the author in order to marry the plot of The Hobbit – however awkwardly -- with the far more serious themes of Lord of the Rings. Nevertheless, the plot is chock-full of fanciful fairy tale elements. It is Brothers Grimm meets the Völuspá! Talking trolls with Cockney accents? It's absurd! Have you ever spoken to a troll? They are as dumb as doorknobs! One can't expect more than a few grunts and a good deal of flatulence from those lumbering oafs.
BURP: And this previous rewrite by the author of The Hobbit and the upcoming films produced by Peter Jackson concern your species in what manner?
W: Let's look at this logically, shall we? No self-respecting warg of some three to four-hundred pounds has the ability or inclination to carry about some pusillanimous Orc enmeshed in 50 or so pounds of chain mail. Their scent alone is enough to make one gag! We are not pack animals like those pompous Meara (although I must say they are quite delicious in a bordelaise sauce with a nice glass of port to wash them down). I think it is a bit much to expect one of the proud lineage of canis lupus megaterribilis to accept the stirrup and bridle. It is far too over the top, even for a ham-handed director of Jackson's ilk, don't you think?
BURP: Most definitely. Are there any formal protests planned?
W: No. The pack felt that picketing would be, if you will excuse the pun, merely 'crying wolf'. As nocturnal predators, we feel that more direct action is called for. We shall be stalking Peter Jackson's home in Wellington, New Zealand. If the bloated blighter should even pop his head out the front door, he shall make a tasty treat for us. After all, there is enough of him to feed the whole pack!
BURP: Hmmm...But don't you think large wolfish creatures slinking about in a modern city, even at night, would be cause for alarm?
*The Warg rolls his eyes*
W: Silly, we shall be in disguise, of course.
BURP: Ah, sort of 'wolves in sheep's clothing', as it were?
W: Quite.