Chapter 20: Let's Try This Once Again, Shall We?
As the angry dragon was exiting his lair, Bilbo ran desperately down the corridor to warn the waiting Dwarves. "Quickly, close the door!" Bilbo shrieked as he at last found his way back to the sunlit clearing. "The dragon is coming for us!"
"And why would the dragon be coming for us?" Thorin asked irritably. "He doesn't even know we're here."
"Ummm…I'm afraid he does now," Bilbo replied with chagrin.
"And WHY would HE know about US?" Thorin said emphatically.
"Well, you see, we were having a rather pleasant chat, Smaug and I. He is quite the conversationalist -- very learned for a reptile -- and…ummm…well…there you have it."
Thorin chewed anxiously on a great wad of his beard, and then threw his hands in the air. "Bilbo, you are not at the Green Dragon, and Smaug is not one of your loafing Hobbit chums chatting away about mushrooms and manure over a pint -- this is a winged, fire-breathing killing machine we are talking about!"
"Yes, I know," Bilbo dissembled rather wistfully, "but he was so witty – almost charming. It was all rather disarming, really."
Thorin's face became pinched and red as if he had been sucking lemons, or as if he were constipated. Perhaps he was sucking lemons as an old-fashioned home remedy for constipation; in any case, he shouted hotly, "But you were not supposed to talk to it! Once you talk to it, you end up revealing every little secret."
"Aye," Bombur said smiling, "they end up 'dragon' everythin' out 'o' you!"
Thorin scowled at Bombur, then turned again to Bilbo and said, "Needless to say, dragons are very shrewd in debate."
"What, dragons are Master Debaters?" Bombur chuckled, thinking he was on a roll; however, a second malevolent glance from Thorin quickly silenced any further jocularity.
"Excuse me, Thorin, but perhaps we really should go inside," Balin said politely.
Thorin was about to chastise Balin for the interruption when the vast shadow of the dragon loomed menacingly over the mountain. Without further protestations, Thorin led the Dwarves back into the secret corridor and closed the great, stone door, leaving it ajar just a crack in hopes of escape later. Suddenly fire scorched the hidden vale where the secret door lay hid behind rocky outcroppings, and flame even made its way through the crevice between door and jamb, singeing off half of Thorin's beard as he peered outward.
"Well, you were due for a trim." Dwalin said optimistically, but the screaming of the ponies as Smaug lunged for them in the valley below quickly dampened his enthusiasm. The ominous rush of Smaug's wings and his angry roar could be heard, now nearer now farther, as he circled the mountaintop searching for the Dwarves. After several hours cowering in the darkness, the gloomy Dwarves heaved a collective sigh of relief as silence at last pervaded their dim sanctuary. They reopened the door, and in the smoke-shrouded sunlight, they beheld a stark wilderland of burnt, black rock and withered grass. A thrush added a bit of color to the fiery carnage, ruffling his blue breast feathers as he feasted on burnt snails that had been caught unaware by Smaug's fiery rampage.
"That's one way to eat escargot," Bilbo said as he turned up his nose at the bird's lack of table manners.
"I'm 'ungry," Bombur opined, viewing the bird's gorging from a completely different angle. But the ponies and all of the Dwarves' supplies were gone, and the rotund Bombur now felt their plight most keenly. There would be no farting this night.
"Well, there is no going back now," Thorin grumbled, "for good or ill we must trudge onward." The King of the Dwarves considered this for a moment, then added, "Or, at least our chatty burglar shall go forward."
"What, me go back in there? You're out of your bloody mind!" Bilbo snapped, and folded his arms stubbornly across his chest, dead-set against returning.
In any event, Bilbo found himself treading lightly back down the darkened corridor, invisible and barely breathing, quietly cursing to himself for his lack of sense. Eventually, he was back at the spot where he had had his earlier conversation with Smaug, only this time the dragon was not feigning to be asleep; on the contrary, Smaug's luminous eyes were wide open, and his flaring nostrils caught Bilbo's scent as soon as the Hobbit neared the ending of the hall above. The dragon was ill at ease regarding his failed search for the dwarves the night previous, and although the ponies were delicious, he would have preferred a nice bordelaise sauce as an accompaniment (he did so love his sauces). But he intended to remain cordial with his hidden foe – at least until he could discover the dwarves' secret source of ingress to the mountain. "Welcome back my friend to the show that never ends, we're so glad you could attend, step inside, step inside," Smaug hummed, showing his snobbish preference for pretentious progressive rock music of the early '70's.
"Emerson, Lake and Palmer is a name better suited for a law firm than a rock band," Bilbo replied snarkily, evidently in no mood for Smaug's dry wit.
"Ah, a budding connoisseur of music," Smaug chuckled with rumbling mirth, "but the Dwarves shall not be playing Grieg's 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' anytime soon; at least, not in this vicinity."
"Perhaps not," Bilbo said with a grin, "but they may well be playing Khachaturian's 'Sabre Dance' as their axes fall upon you!"
Smaug laughed. "Well, a sabre -- or its alternative spelling s-a-b-e-r -- is a sword, not an axe, my connotationally-challenged young friend; but it matters not, as the Dwarves' axes could not pierce my hide, in any case. My armor is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!"
Bilbo was amused at Smaug's arrogance (the dragon even had the nerve to lift a quote directly from Tolkien's book!), and dutifully following one of the story's scripted Deus ex machina, the Hobbit commented: "I've heard tell that dragons were particularly susceptible to injuries to the chest. But I am sure that is not the case in regards to you, O Smaug the Brobdingnagian!"
Swift to reply, Smaug laughed a laugh that would have shaken the rafters, if a subterranean cavern had rafters. "Dolt! your information is hopelessly outdated. See, I am encrusted with adamantine below," the dragon bellowed as he bared his burgeoning belly, bulging with the beasts of burden he had breakfasted on.
In the dim light Bilbo beheld Smaug's shimmering underside, and sure enough, he was indeed caked with diamonds and other precious jewels that obviously became imbedded into his skin in some bizarre symbiotic biological process best described on Animal Planet or The Discovery Channel. But Bilbo noticed a great bare patch on the hollow of Smaug's left breast (Tolkien would never mention something as gross as an 'arm pit'), and he had decided he'd seen enough. "Well, it's been wonderful chatting with you again, O Smaug the Floccinaucinihilipilificated," Bilbo blurted hurriedly as he began edging away from the doorway. "Digesting a passel of ponies must require a good deal of intestinal fortitude, and a humble burglar, such as myself, would make a poor dessert for one of your Pecksniffian Torpidity."
Now, Smaug was not entirely sure what 'floccinaucinihilipilificated' meant exactly, but as an ardent student of Latin etymology, he knew it wasn't a compliment, and as far as 'Pecksniffian Torpidity', he was familiar enough with Dickensian nomenclature to know that it was a direct insult. Smaug roared and sent a plume of flame roaring down the hall after the frantically fleeing Bilbo, who barely escaped being a Hobbit Flambé. The poor, scorched Halfling collapsed in the arms of his Dwarven comrades, who tried desperately to revive the woozy Bilbo, but all they could get out of him for some time were offhand mumbled lyrics: "Fire on the mountain…run, boys, run…dragon's in the house…of the Dwarven son…" When he at last opened his eyes, Bilbo looked up at the white-bearded Balin, and began referring to him as Charlie Daniels. This, of course, greatly concerned the Dwarves; after all, what good was a demented burglar?
But eventually Bilbo came to his senses and began relating the conversation he had had with Smaug, particularly regarding the large bare spot he had spied on the dragon's chest. Unfortunately, every time he began to speak, the annoying little thrush broke another snail shell on the rocks at his feet. "What a damn annoying bird," Bilbo groused. "I believe the little stool pigeon is spying on us." So saying, he tossed a rock at the thrush, but it ducked.
"No, no, no!" Thorin said as he stopped Bilbo from chasing the bird off. "Thrushes are friendly and of a magical and ancient lineage in these parts. It is said that in the olden days the Men of Dale had the ability to speak with thrushes. They were often used as messengers, flying back and forth from Dale to Laketown."
Bilbo begrudgingly dropped the stone he was about to fling and scowled at the bird. The thrush, for its part, cocked its head and looked sidelong at Bilbo. "Asshole!" it chirped in annoyance, and then flew off without uttering another word.
As for Smaug, he now was certain where up in the mountain the secret door lay, and he flew like the wind to the western spur of Erebor, and smashed and burned and crushed the hidden vale and buried the hidden door beneath tons of rubble. The Dwarves were now trapped inside the mountain!
After the dust inside the corridor settled, the terrified Dwarves built a small fire and sat cowering together quietly as the gathering shadows danced demonically across the walls. Dwalin had been lost in thought for quite a long time, and at last he broke the silence. "Look, perhaps if we build a bridge…"
"Oh, would you please shut up!" Thorin growled as he rolled his eyes.