As I sat in my dark bedroom that night, thinking nasty thoughts to myself
and listening to the water swish and smack into the wooden framework of
Laketown, a feeling of irrational blind terror slowly began to rise from
the pit of my stomach. I had a plan, of course, but that involved actually
seeing this Morolas Blackleaf again, and the chances of that ever happening
seemed to have grown to slim to nothing. Mirwold, the evil creature that
he was, had told me that we were leaving the next morning at the break of
dawn, and I had no idea where it was that Morolas was staying. Even if I
did, I have the navigational skills of a rabid salamander, and all of the
street signs were written in squiggle.
But the irrational blind terror had nothing to do with any of this: it seemed to be coming from a completely different source, somewhere tangible and shifting outside of me. It was as if something, something evil - not evil in the way the word is usually thrown away but completely, purely evil - was awake and walking in the black of Esgaroth. I had a strange urge to run screaming through the streets at the top of my lungs into the water, or drown myself in a maddened frenzy to be free of it, or at the very least curl into a very tight ball underneath the bed. Sausages. I knew I should not have eaten those sausages.
The sound of a horse became distinct in the distance; I listened despite myself. It was such an incongruous sound to be hearing in a town built in the middle of a lake. The sound came nearer and nearer and my fear grew stronger and stronger until the world very suddenly grew deadly silent and the front door creaked open.
It was all that I could do not to pee my pants. Calm down, Candy, this house belongs to a powerful Maia being who will not allow some puny Nazgul to mess with his furniture, I told myself, but it had little positive effect. There was very little I could do to help myself anyway: just when I wanted most to be leaping out the window I was being drawn towards the kitchen.
I crawled out of my room and down the hall, thinking thoughts of death and despair all the way. By the time that I reached the entrance to the kitchen, which was oddly warm and bright, I was a suicidal puddle of misery. I peered curiously into the room, hoping against hope that I hadn't been seen or heard.
Inside, to my shock, Mirwold was cheerfully making a pot of tea for himself at the fireplace while a figure in a black cloak sat massaging its temples in the corner and hissing things at him in a language that made my ears bleed. "Ackglack-ghârzlugig?" asked Mirwold with a smile, holding up an extra cup questioningly in the wraith's direction. The wraith shook one of its gloved fists and launched into a torrent of screeching. Mirwold shrugged and poured himself a cup. "Anghârzlugig? Ha?"
"Ack-ack-Boback," shrieked the wraith, now really angry. It rose out of its red plush armchair and shuddered with powerless wrath. The effect that Mirwold was having on the Nazgul was similar to that of a fire on a marshmallow - the thing had been heating up for some time, and now it was being consumed by the flame, yet still kept from suddenly exploding into a raging blaze of red and green and singlehandedly massacring the fire by the inexorable rules that govern marshmallow behaviour -
"Zhgaz-zhgaz," said Mirwold sweetly, opening the door and motioning the Nazgul out, which it did with a rush and a shriek that temporarily stopped my heart from beating. "Stupid ringwraiths," he muttered angrily to himself as soon as the creature was gone. "More trouble than they're worth, if you ask me." He was talking in English now. Was he talking to me? Himself? The door?
"I was talking to you," Mirwold informed me. "The door just isn't responsive enough. Well, you look suitably scarred by the experience, don't you? Feel any remaining urges to claw at your face until your cheeks bleed? Yes?" I stared at him with wide, swimming eyes and wondered if he damage would be permanent and whether or not he had healing powers hidden up his sleeve. Mirwold, however, simply turned away, laughing to himself. "You're going to have so much fun in Mordor," he chuckled. He kicked a stray pair of pink fuzzy dice and a Legolas doll out of his way and returned to his tea.
But the irrational blind terror had nothing to do with any of this: it seemed to be coming from a completely different source, somewhere tangible and shifting outside of me. It was as if something, something evil - not evil in the way the word is usually thrown away but completely, purely evil - was awake and walking in the black of Esgaroth. I had a strange urge to run screaming through the streets at the top of my lungs into the water, or drown myself in a maddened frenzy to be free of it, or at the very least curl into a very tight ball underneath the bed. Sausages. I knew I should not have eaten those sausages.
The sound of a horse became distinct in the distance; I listened despite myself. It was such an incongruous sound to be hearing in a town built in the middle of a lake. The sound came nearer and nearer and my fear grew stronger and stronger until the world very suddenly grew deadly silent and the front door creaked open.
It was all that I could do not to pee my pants. Calm down, Candy, this house belongs to a powerful Maia being who will not allow some puny Nazgul to mess with his furniture, I told myself, but it had little positive effect. There was very little I could do to help myself anyway: just when I wanted most to be leaping out the window I was being drawn towards the kitchen.
I crawled out of my room and down the hall, thinking thoughts of death and despair all the way. By the time that I reached the entrance to the kitchen, which was oddly warm and bright, I was a suicidal puddle of misery. I peered curiously into the room, hoping against hope that I hadn't been seen or heard.
Inside, to my shock, Mirwold was cheerfully making a pot of tea for himself at the fireplace while a figure in a black cloak sat massaging its temples in the corner and hissing things at him in a language that made my ears bleed. "Ackglack-ghârzlugig?" asked Mirwold with a smile, holding up an extra cup questioningly in the wraith's direction. The wraith shook one of its gloved fists and launched into a torrent of screeching. Mirwold shrugged and poured himself a cup. "Anghârzlugig? Ha?"
"Ack-ack-Boback," shrieked the wraith, now really angry. It rose out of its red plush armchair and shuddered with powerless wrath. The effect that Mirwold was having on the Nazgul was similar to that of a fire on a marshmallow - the thing had been heating up for some time, and now it was being consumed by the flame, yet still kept from suddenly exploding into a raging blaze of red and green and singlehandedly massacring the fire by the inexorable rules that govern marshmallow behaviour -
"Zhgaz-zhgaz," said Mirwold sweetly, opening the door and motioning the Nazgul out, which it did with a rush and a shriek that temporarily stopped my heart from beating. "Stupid ringwraiths," he muttered angrily to himself as soon as the creature was gone. "More trouble than they're worth, if you ask me." He was talking in English now. Was he talking to me? Himself? The door?
"I was talking to you," Mirwold informed me. "The door just isn't responsive enough. Well, you look suitably scarred by the experience, don't you? Feel any remaining urges to claw at your face until your cheeks bleed? Yes?" I stared at him with wide, swimming eyes and wondered if he damage would be permanent and whether or not he had healing powers hidden up his sleeve. Mirwold, however, simply turned away, laughing to himself. "You're going to have so much fun in Mordor," he chuckled. He kicked a stray pair of pink fuzzy dice and a Legolas doll out of his way and returned to his tea.