Elfling Interludes

by Elf Eye

Occasional episodes in The Nameless One series. Legolas, as Anomen, is being fostered by Elrond, and he and the twins get into mischief.

25. Chapter 25: The Boy Who Cried Warg

My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.

Thanks to the following reviewers of Episode 24 of Elfling Interludes: CAH, Karri, Ne'ith5, and ziggy3.

Thanks also to Guest for inquiring about "hoodped" in Chapter 16. That was a typo, and it has been corrected.

This chapter may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as The Silmarillion.

Episode 25: The Boy Who Cried Warg

Anomen stood by Gandalf's chair as the wizard read the letter from the steward of Gondor. A rider had that morning delivered it into Elrond's hands, and as Anomen had been scampering by just then, the Master of Rivendell had asked him to carry it to the wizard. "Put some of that energy to good use," the elf lord had smiled as he handed Anomen the missive.

Now, as the elfling watched, Gandalf paused over a passage in the letter, and then, huffing and rolling his eyes, the Maia tossed the letter aside.

"If you keep doing that," Anomen said solemnly, "your eyeballs will turn inside out."

"Nonsense! Whoever told you that?"

"Elrohir."

"Elrohir? That younker needs a lesson in anatomy! As for you, my lad, you would do well to consider the source."

"The source?"

"I mean, Anomen, that you should never believe anything without first thinking about whether the person speaking is likely to tell the truth."

"Elrohir does tell the truth!" Anomen said loyally.

"Let us say, then, that he sometimes stretches the truth until it is hard to recognize. A very dangerous practice, that."

"Dangerous? How?"

"Have you never heard the tale of 'The Boy Who Cried Warg'?"

"No, Mithrandir."

"Then I shall have to tell you the tale. It is just the sort of story that you ought to be told, and I am shocked that Erestor has omitted it from your lessons."

Erestor rarely overlooked a chance to moralize, so Gandalf was right to be surprised at the tutor having missed this particular opportunity. As for Anomen, he doubted he should like any tale that would meet with his tutor's approval. However, there is no gainsaying a wizard, so Anomen settled himself upon a bench and prepared to be edified.

"Once upon a time," began Gandalf, "a boy was charged with watching the village's sheep. This is not a difficult task, so the herd boy had time on his hands. Now, he could have occupied himself with making discoveries, for his world was filled with all manner of rocks and pebbles and plants and mammals and birds and insects. But he did nothing so sensible. Day after day he sat bored, no cleverer than his sheep."

"That could be quite clever indeed," Anomen interrupted. "Once I saw a sheep lead a butcher on a merry chase. It zigged whenever the butcher zagged."

"Yet I'll warrant it still ended up in the pot, but the butcher didn't."

"The butcher might have if there had been trolls about," Anomen pointed out.

Gandalf drew his bushy eyebrows together and glared at the elfling. "Do you want me to finish telling the story?" he growled.

In fact, Anomen did not want Gandalf to finish story, but it wouldn't do to tell the wizard that. The elfling subsided at once. "Saes, Adar-nín," he said meekly. Please, my Father.

"So day after day the boy idled indolently in a bog of boredom, mired in a morass of misery, damned to desultory despair, stultified in stupidity—"

"Mithrandir," Anomen interrupted, "is that alliteration?"

"Why, yes, my lad."

"You are laying it on a bit thick," the elfling observed with a frankness that was, unfortunately, not disarming—at least not to Gandalf. The wizard's eyebrows once more began to draw together.

"Of course," the elfling said quickly, "it is very poetic!"

The eyebrows returned to their resting position, and the wizard resumed the story.

"Each day the lazy loafer," the wizard said, shooting a glance at the elfling, who wisely let the alliteration go unremarked. "Each day the lazy loafer," Gandalf went on, "would think to himself, 'If only something exciting would happen'. One day as he sat by his sheep, he glanced across the valley and thought he saw something move upon the forested slope opposite. 'I wonder what is moving over yonder', he said to himself. This was the only curiosity he had evinced all the many months he had been tending his flock. However, he did not profit from it. From question he jumped to speculation, and from speculation he leaped to certainty. 'Surely that must be a warg,' he said to himself. Are you yawning, Anomen?"

Anomen assured the wizard that he was not, which was true because fortunately he had at that very moment succeeded in stifling a gape. Believing that he had the elfling's attention, Gandalf resumed the tale.

"Now, a valley separated the boy from whatever he had seen moving about on the opposite slope. Moreover, it was nearly supper time, so he was on the verge of driving in the flock. In short, he was in no danger, so the sensible thing would have been to return to the village with his flock and report to his elders that he had seen something across the valley—better yet, something that he could not make out! But we already know that this boy was not sensible. He had no sooner said to himself that it must be a warg than he began to shriek 'Warg! Warg!' at the top of his lungs. The villagers heard his cries. Farmers grabbed scythes and woodsmen axes. The butcher and his boy snatched up knives, and the smith and his boy hefted their hammers. Pell-mell the villagers raced up to the meadow to rescue the boy and safeguard their flock. When they arrived, however, the sheep were calmly grazing, and the boy, having tired himself through unaccustomed exertion, lay sprawled upon the grass, a perfect picture of comfort and ease. 'Where is the warg?' demanded the village headman, looking about confusedly. The boy sat up and stretched. Lazily, he pointed across the valley. 'I saw something yonder', he yawned. 'Something', repeated the headman. 'And that something was a warg?'

"'Doubtless', said the boy, wrinkling up his nose because he could not be troubled to brush away a gnat that hovered about his face. 'That is', he added nonchalantly, 'doubtless it might have been'.

"The headman began to grow nettled. 'Might have been! What made you think it might have been a warg?'

"'No reason it couldn't have been', the boy answered indolently.

"The other villagers were now murmuring angrily. The smith's boy was hefting his hammer as if he'd like to apply it to the shepherd's skull, and the butcher's boy eyed his blade as if he'd like to let some air out of the herd boy, whose noggin assuredly contained nothing more substantial.

"'You have called us from field and forge on a fool's errand', the headman said heatedly. 'Do not do so again! Next time, have some reason for thinking you have seen a warg!'

"Muttering, the villagers trooped back to the village. Gathering his flock, the herder trailed after whistling cheerfully, for the headman's rebuke did not trouble the silly boy.

"The next day the shepherd drove the sheep to that same meadow. Lying on his side, his arm crooked so that his head rested upon his palm, he looked at nothing in particular until he noticed some movement in the valley below. He paid attention long enough to be certain that the motion was caused by something brown. 'Wargs can be brown', he said to himself. Immediately, he once again concluded that it was a warg, and closer at hand, too. 'Warg! Warg!' he shrieked even more loudly than he had the day before.

"The villagers heard his cries. They may have hesitated briefly, but in the end farmers grabbed scythes and woodsmen axes. The butcher and his boy snatched up knives, and the smith and his boy hefted their hammers. Pell-mell the villagers raced up to the meadow to rescue the boy and safeguard their flock. When they arrived, however, the sheep once again were calmly grazing, and the boy was lolling comfortably upon the grass.

"The headman glared at the herd boy. 'I told you had better have reason for crying warg!' He upbraided him.

"The herd boy assured him that he did. 'For I spied the color brown, and wargs can be brown'.

"The headman seized the shepherd's staff and swung it through the air so that it whistled. 'Give me a reason not to apply this to your backside', he demanded.

"The boy should have been sheepish, but he was too silly even for that. 'But I just gave you a reason', he answered cheerfully.

"Swearing, the headman broke the staff over his knee, turned on his heel, and stomped away, the angry villagers following after. The herd boy hunted about for a stick long enough to replace his staff, and then he drove his flock back to the village, careless of the trouble he had caused the villagers."

"Mithrandir," Anomen said.

"Yes, my lad?"

"The shepherd did see something move."

"True."

"And he did see something brown."

"Yes."

"Why didn't the headman send out scouts?"

"I think, Anomen, that if the herd boy had been known to be sensible, that the headman would have sent out scouts. Indeed, that is the point to which this tale is tending—that those who exaggerate are not believed even when they tell the truth."

"I know how the story ends, Mithrandir."

"Then you are far cleverer than that herd boy," Gandalf said. He pulled out his pipe and began to pack it with weed, at the same time nodding at Anomen. "Well, go on! I shall enjoy a smoke whilst you entertain me."

Anomen rose to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to declaim. "On the third day, the herd boy again drove the sheep to pasture. As he passed through the village, the villagers glowered, but the shepherd cared not. He whistled his way to the pasture and threw himself upon the grass, drowsing in the sun whilst the sheep grazed."

Anomen paused and looked at the wizard. Mithrandir nodded approvingly. "You tell the story well, my lad. Say on!"

Anomen, entrusted with the tale, suddenly found it very interesting. No longer clasping his hands behind his back, he began to gesture accompaniment to the tale. "The herd boy had dozed away the morning and was beginning to think of lunch," he declared, miming the gaping and stretching of an idler shedding sleep. "Suddenly," the elfling exclaimed, his eyes widening, his voice rising in pitch. "Suddenly sheep began to bleat and to butt one another, each striving to shelter in the midst of the herd. The herd boy was sitting up quite straight now, for even one as foolish as he must perforce be struck by the behavior of the sheep.

"What happened next brought the herd boy to his feet in a panic. A copse stood near where the flock grazed. A branch rustled, a bough swayed. Nervously clutching his staff, the boy stared at the spot, his eyes as big as an owlet's. 'Perhaps a deer or wild goat', the shepherd tried to convince himself. He gripped his staff as if it were a club. And then—"

Here Anomen paused dramatically. Struck by the lad's theatrical gesturing, Gandalf had unconsciously let his pipe go out.

"Warg!" the elfling shouted, and the wizard actually jumped. He looked about sheepishly to see if he had been observed.

"Out from the copse charged a snarling warg!" Anomen exclaimed.

"Is there any other kind?" the Maia said dryly, recovering himself.

Anomen paused and looked at the wizard reproachfully. "Go on, lad," Gandalf said hastily. "Don't mind me—I'm a curmudgeon!"

Mollified, Anomen resumed the story. "Desperately, the shepherd tried to fend off the beast with his staff. The fell creature could have broken him in two with one bite of its jaws, but it had lately eaten a boar and would first play with its victim. "Warg," the herd boy desperately screamed as the creature batted at his staff. 'Warg!'

"The villagers heard his cries. The farmers paused in their scything—but then returned to harvesting the grain. The woodsmen hefted their axes—and struck anew at the trees they were felling. The butcher and his boy picked up cleavers—and resumed dismembering a pig. The smith raised his hammer—and continued to beat on the plough mould he was fashioning. 'Look to the bellows', he grumbled to his boy. 'Although', he added angrily, 'if that caterwauling herd boy sauntered into this forge, we'd have hot air enow'.

"And so'" Anomen continued, "the beast went on toying with its prey until the exercise made it hungry, and then—snap!—it gobbled up The Boy Who Cried Warg!"

The elfling looked triumphantly at the wizard.

"Well told, Anomen. Well told. Although," the wizard added, "you left out a part."

"Did I?"

"Warg ate the sheep, too. Which was," the wizard added, "probably a greater loss to the villagers than the boy."

A spell was broken by the wizard's wry words. The elfling looked at the Istar suspiciously. "Mithrandir, was that a true story?"

"As true as stories generally are."

"As true as stories generally are," repeated Anomen. "Mithrandir, how true are stories, generally?"

"Any story worth the telling is true," the wizard replied gravely. "In the case of this tale, it is true that a person who fibs will not be believed even when he is not lying."

"But wasn't I fibbing just now? I never met that shepherd, nor know any of the particulars of his fate. Indeed, mayhap there never was such a one!"

Gandalf smiled. "Yet whilst I was in the midst of the story, you declared that you knew exactly how the tale should end. How do you account for your knowledge, Anomen?"

"Because a person who fibs will not believed even when—oh!"

Gandalf laughed. "So, my lad, you perceived that the story captured a truth. It only remained that the truth be decently garbed. You told the story a bit differently than I would have, but as garments may be doffed and donned without changing the essence of the person wearing them, so, too, it matters not if this or that particular is changed in the telling of a tale. Our shepherd could have been a goatherd and the warg a wolf and story would have been true just the same."

"Mithrandir," Anomen asked, "did Erestor mean as much when he said that stories furnish airy nothings with a local habitation and a name?"

"A truth is an idea and therefore lacks material substance, so I suppose it may be called an 'airy nothing'. And if Erestor meant by 'local habitation and a name' what I spoke of as 'particulars', then he and I may be on the same page, so to speak."

"That is a metaphor!" said Anomen triumphantly.

Mithrandir smiled at the elfling's enthusiasm. "Anomen," he encouraged, "what prompted Erestor to make that remark? He is usually more prosaic."

"He was telling us of Men who venerated the same gods but under different names. One tribe would speak of Zeus and Athena and Ares and Hephaestus, whilst the other tribe would speak of Jupiter and Minerva and Mars and Vulcan."

"Ah, yes. Same story, different versions, and all are true. Pity men died for the difference in language whilst ignoring the fact that they held the tales in common."

"Why were men so foolish? To fight over different names for the same gods would be like battling because one tribe wears gray tunics, the other blue, for as you have said, the particulars can be put on and off like garments."

As Anomen spoke, the elfling grew pensive, for he suddenly remembered a tale his foster-mother had told him of creatures that feuded because some had fur marked with stars and held themselves better than those without stars. A wizard devised a way to either add or remove the mark, and a furious scramble ensued as the creatures strove to maintain the distinction between starred and starless. The story had a happy ending, but now the memory reminded Anomen of his beloved Edwen Nana. He sighed.

"Well may you sigh," Gandalf said somberly, unaware of the turn Anomen's thoughts had taken. "For such battles are not confined to ancient times. As we speak men and women and children are being slaughtered because some worship a god they call 'ilah whilst others worship a god they call elohim."

"The names sound very like," Anomen said gloomily. He blinked tearfully and tried to push Edwen Nana from his mind.

"They should sound alike, for each is nothing but a variation of 'el', an ancient root from the dawn of man-speech. Have you never noticed, Anomen, how often a word for an object in one language will resemble the word for the same object in a different language?"

"Yes," said Anomen. "Erestor showed me a chart comparing words for 'adar' in several mannish tongues. I still recall the forms," the elfling continued. He began to chant the remembered lesson: " fæder, feder, fader, fadar, vader, fater, vater, faðer," he sing-songed. He paused. "Mithrandir, would a man who says 'faðer' truly slay another man simply because that man says 'vader'? Even though they have in common that they have fathers?"

"Yes, but not merely because of the differences in speech. What is important to humans is that different languages mark folk as members of different tribes. That is, it is not that one thinks it offensive for the other to utter a different word for father; no, it is that speech, and customs and diet and garb, too, are means by which men decide whom to admit into their circle—and anyone outside their circle has no claim to their pity."

"I do not understand, Mithrandir. Would it hurt a man to have pity on someone not of his tribe?"

"Many men think it would hurt them."

"Why, Mithrandir?" The elfling looked so perplexed that Gandalf felt a pang. 'If only the lad could continue innocent', the wizard thought wistfully. Aloud he said, "Scarcity may be largely to blame—either actual scarcity or the fear of it. Consider, my lad, how jealously a village will guard its meadows, for its flocks must be well nourished if they are to furnish meat and wool sufficient for the needs of the folk. If sheep from one village graze hard by another village's pasturage, the errant shepherd will be pelted with pebbles from the slingshot of his rival. Now, this little dispute between shepherds is an emblem for the great battles fought by men—for control of drinking water, of fisheries, of mines, of fields and forests, one tribe attempting to drive away another tribe to make certain that its folk will survive and flourish."

"Mithrandir?"

"Yes, my lad?"

"You said 'either actual scarcity or the fear of it'."

"I did."

"If men could be persuaded that there is enough for all, would they be more charitable toward folk from different tribes?"

"First, it is very difficult to persuade humans that there is enough for all. They seem to perpetually fear that any present abundance will give way to a dearth. The granaries may groan with grain, but men will warn that the crops may fail and the abundance be quickly spent. They will insist that more granaries be built and that these granaries, too, must groan with grain. Mayhap, in some corner of the human brain, lies a memory of an ancient famine, for be sure that humans hoard foodstuffs as assiduously as dragons hoard treasure."

"Second," the wizard continued somberly, "I said scarcity may be largely to blame—largely, but not entirely. All too often men wish to possess more than what is necessary for their survival. Indeed, they will desire more than what is necessary for a comfortable life. Gold is a case in point, for humans may drink just as well from a wooden cup as a golden chalice, yet they will battle to possess a vein of gold, useless as that metal is for the forging of tools. So even if men's fear of scarcity were to be allayed, they might still be pitiless because of their greed."

"Mithrandir, I think humans are not only like dragons," exclaimed Anomen, appalled. "They must be descended from dragons! They are hoarders and they love gold. Whatever their present appearance, I am sure that they must once have breathed fire and had claws and scales and wings!"

Gandalf was about to declare that Anomen was pushing the metaphor too far when Estel capered into the chamber. As usual, the little human was grubby. His face was begrimed, his hair tangled, and his tunic torn. Yet his hand glowed with a golden light. "Anomen," the little human cried, "look at what I have got!"

Anomen bent down to peer at the child's palm and then recoiled. In the middle of the small hand sat a ring, a smooth golden band that shimmered in the light from the candles. The elfling looked as if he feared that the little human would momentarily sprout wings from his shoulders and breathe smoke from his nostrils. Gandalf, too, looked disturbed. The wizard did not like to see a golden ring in the hand of Isildur's heir.

"I found it in the garden," Estel prattled. "It is very pretty. See how it shines?"

Gandalf's eyebrows drew together, and Anomen sidled behind the Maia, clutching the wizard's robe and peeking out from behind Gandalf's chair as if he expected flames to shoot forth from the little human's mouth.

"You must help me find its owner," Estel continued, ignoring Anomen's attempts to evade him. "It is so very, very pretty. Its owner must joy in holding it up to the sun. He will be sad when he misses it. Anomen, we must hurry so that its owner is not sad for long. Indeed, if we find the owner quickly, he may never even know that the ring was lost, so he will not be sad even a little bit but altogether happy. What great fun it will be to see him laugh!"

By now Gandalf's brows had unknotted, and Anomen had let go of the wizard's robe and was offering Estel his hand.

"I will gladly help you, Estel. Let me see the ring."

Without hesitation, the little human handed over the ring. Anomen peered inside its band. "I have found a clue," he smiled. "See," he said, pointing out a mark to Estel. "Tell me what letter that is."

"I know," Estel said proudly. "That is 'F' in the Tengwar script. Erestor taught me that letter only last week. Oh, I know who this ring belongs to! Figwit was in the garden only a little while ago. It was after he left that I found it by the bench where he was sitting. Figwit is so droll! He makes me laugh. And now I shall make him laugh! Thank you, Anomen!"

With that, the little human grasped the ring and pelted from the chamber. At dinner that evening, Figwit's face was beaming as brightly as the ring, gifted him by a sweetheart, that once again circled his finger.

"I think," Anomen said slyly after Estel had left the chamber, "I think that you have been crying warg, Mithrandir."

You are vexingly clever," Gandalf grumbled, "but if you mean that I went too far in my warnings about humans, I reckon you are right. Now, then, younker, as you are so clever, explain how our little human has proved me wrong."

"Estel has not been raised to covet treasure for treasure's sake," Anomen replied promptly.

Gandalf nodded. "Go on."

Anomen continued, "He valued Figwit's ring because, child though he be, he understands that beauty brings pleasure."

"And?"

Anomen wrinkled his brown. "I reckon," he said slowly, "that one person's enjoyment of beauty does not prevent another person's enjoyment of it."

"Excellent. One person may look at the sunrise and joy in its beauty, and there will still be sunrises enough for every other inhabitant of Middle-earth."

"Yes, and Figwit wears that ring so that he may take pleasure in its golden glow but also so that others may delight in its beauty as well."

"Very different from a tribe hoarding grain to be doled out only to its members even if others starve—or from a dragon hoarding gold that no one else is permitted to enjoy!"

Anomen laughed.

"Well, well," Gandalf said jovially. "I needs must reply to this missive from the steward of Gondor—and I believe I will be less acerbic than I would have been if we hadn't had this enlightening conversation. Do you know, lad, I think there is some prospect that my mission may succeed. Yes, there is hope for humans. Hope. Yes, hope."

"What do you mean?" Anomen asked eagerly.

"Never you mind," Gandalf said, suddenly his usual close self. Reluctantly yet obediently, Anomen left the chamber. "I reckon," Gandalf said under his breath as Anomen exited, "that that won't be the last gold ring that will give you pause."

With that, Gandalf picked up his quill and began to craft a careful reply to the steward of Gondor, who as the Maia wrote gazed fixedly at a distant mountain turned blood red by the setting sun.