The curse of the Carrock
.oOo.
A fleet of youngsters paddled near the bank of the Anduin. Like a cane, dignified and attentive, their warden, a little grandmother of the clan, tirelessly oversaw her duckling's squadron for a swimming lesson in the great river's slow and majestic flow.
Only one boy, Grumbar, was on his own, making a merry racket with his two dogs at the water's edge. It was a beautiful day, the insects filled the sky with their friendly buzz, the sun sowed smiles on the river waters, what need was there for the clan's chores again?
Weary of them, the warden had left these hotheads to frolic on their own, so as not to disrupt her lesson.
Tirelessly, Rouf the bold dived and dived again from the rock with his young master, under the jaded gaze of wise Muff, who kept a vigilant watch in the water.
Finally, the swimming lesson ended and the clan children, tired, returned to the shore. Their warden gathered them around a snack of pancakes and honey just wrung out of the comb.
But Grumbar, Muff and Rouf continued their racket. The warden tried to put a stop to it, but the boisterous trio was, as always, resolutely independent and proud of it.
The clan chief's nephew, one of the elder children, who probably needed to establish his authority over the younger ones, got involved in the matter:
– "Look! Grumbar the mumbler is still on his own!"
Indeed, Grumbar only seemed to feel at ease in the company of his canine friends. And that wasn't normal. Most of the time, he was gibbering things that only dogs, ponies or oxen seemed to understand. Not normal at all... Besides, Grumbar wasn't his real name, but a nickname meaning "grumpy". Obviously, not normal either... yet everyone called him that, so well did it suit him when he had to deal with humans!
– "Pff! You'd better learn seriously, with us men! Look at you, swimming like your dogs!"
– "Mind your own business, Thorwald!"
– "Actually, dogs swim better than you!"
– "And better than you too!"
The warden intervened, but the matter escalated. There was talk about Grumbar's father, who had been strange too, and worse. Yet another abnormal thing... Children are cruel. Thorwald even claimed "Your father is a murderer!"
It was not clear how, but in the end the honeycomb was thrown onto Thorwald's nose, and immediately a swarm of bees attacked him!
Very big bees, like the ones in Grumbar's hives...
The warden immediately threw herbs into the fire and placed the children in the protective smoke.
Too late for Thorwald, who was unrecognizable: his small piggy eyes were lost in a puffy and crimson face.
– "Well, you won't even have to swim, you'll float like an inflated bladder!" Grumbar smirked.
The other children were huddled together, petrified, their eyes wide open, some with their jaws hanging open.
The warden, her lips tight, her eyebrows furrowed, restrained her fury: she gathered the children and led them away with gentle gestures, without arousing the bees' vindictiveness.
– "I won't let you terrorise the clan, young Grumbar! That's enough of your father! I will tell your mother and the Council of Elders!"
.oOo.
With rage in her heart, Berilyn led her son away, firmly holding the little rascal's hand.
– "Can't you help yourself? Who do you think is going to look after that crazy Thorwald for days?"
The dogs, heads and tails low, whined softly, as if the mother's wrath was falling on them too. The boy was tugging at his mother's hand, cursing the unfair world of humans.
They walked across the fields of grass and flowers, dotted with beehives, to the manor house: a solid building and a few log barns, fortified with a palisade.
The severe mother suppressed a tear as she sat miserably on the bench of her stoop: since the tragedy of her husband, she and her son had been living alone in the huge manor. Grumbar - she called him that now too! - took care of the cattle and ponies, with the help of her dogs and under the protection of the giant bees. They lived almost self-sufficiently. With what had just happened, they would certainly be ostracized...
The little one placed a timid kiss on his mother's wet cheek:
- "Don't cry, mum! It is not that serious, you know: I'll protect you!"
Two brief barks, solidary and solemn, punctuated this childish oath.
.oOo.
With their noses in the air, Rouf, Muff and Grumbar were wandering under the foliage. The autumnal forest distilled its fragrance of humus and wet bark. Rouf was chasing squirrels. The little rodents ran away grumbling, their cheeks swollen with nuts and acorns. Muff, disdaining the deer's leashes, swooned over the chanterelles. The three friends rolled in the softness of moss-covered coombs, dizzied themselves with ochres and russets, smelled the heather that overhung the bogs. They glided noiselessly over the leaves' golden shades. They huddled under the intimacy of the coppice. They frolicked between the trees that whispered their autumnal song in the breeze flowing down from the snowy peaks.
Suddenly, the three friends stopped in unison: the smell of a man!
But not just any man... In one look, they understood each other: this one was an old male, stern and terse.
Grumbar recognised him. Old Sarro. A sour smell like a stubborn badger's fart, a smell as rough as an oak tree. Grumbar had spent many a long hour under his impatient and obstinate rule, during many a clan chore. The man had only one quality: he kept his mouth shut.
A mischievous glint lit into the boy's eyes. He crouched down. His dogs froze, their heads motionless, tense, but their limbs twitching with anticipation. They were on the hunt.
Slowly, on the lookout, the trio separated, sneaked into the groves' shade, crawled into hollows, skirted around open spaces, flattened themselves under the branches, hid behind a stump. Each one progressed by following the ground's slightest irregularity.
Their prey, unaware of the danger, was chewing its roasted cedar root, a bitter chew that swelled his cheek. Installed on a trunk covered with hides, the watchman was nonchalantly leering at a section of the mountain, spitting a jet of thick, black saliva at his feet from time to time. He must have been on duty that evening.
A rustle of leaves diverted his attention to the left, while a tiny shadow pulled it to the edge of his right. Alarmed, Sarro stood up, brandishing his spear. Someone approached in silence. In broad daylight. Could they be wargs? Or goblins?
His breathing quickened. A rush of adrenaline drove all lethargy from his gnarled limbs. The warrior felt the fire of battle flowing through him, clearing the breath and whipping the dormant vigour. His spear became light under his knuckles, ready to fly, guided by the visceral need to slay before being slain. He took a few steps back, stepping over the dead trunk.
Soon the dogs adjusted their position in order to surround their prey, revealing themselves to the warrior, who sighed half-satisfied, half-infuriated, lowered his spear and stopped backing away. Two village dogs! He faced the hounds, shouting "down" in a commanding voice. Muff and Rouf changed their tone from threatening growls to hesitant barks. That man didn't want to play the game!
Then Sarro became aware of an intruder behind his back. His beard thick and haughty, he said over his shoulder, with the superior tone of the adult chastising his youngster:
– "I could have killed you, young idiot! You should stay in the village with your dogs!"
Grumbar stood behind him, solidly standing, arms crossed, a grimace greeting his former master's bragging. So the old badger dared to boast though being caught failing in his wake! He deserved a lesson! Resentment swelled in the young man's heart, clouding his mind. But deep in his soul, where anger roared, Grumbar knew why he resented the warrior: he had managed to impress his dogs, to command his friends! His only true friends.
Sarro turned, meeting the young man's dark gaze.
When he recognized him, the warrior's complexion turned gray and his shoulders slumped. Something about the young man's demeanour had overwhelmed him. His goatee shook, limp and dull. Grumbar saw him cringe, clutching his spear with both hands.
The young man knew he had grown in stature and confidence; but he was surprised by the reaction of this veteran, this seasoned hunter. A barbaric pleasure made the young man's spine tingle. Grumbar would not have shown his surprise for the world; on the contrary, he let his anger swell with delight.
The old man's face had grown ten years older in one fell swoop, marked with dark circles and taut with watery shreds. Did he feel he was at fault in his guard? Under Grumbar's scrutinizing gaze, the hunter began to gesticulate like a damned man in the face of a bloodbath. No longer the fear that mobilises the warrior's faculties, but the panic terror that overwhelms, the instinct that whispers death is watching you.
Confused, the dogs began to whimper, tails low, ears anxious, seeking a sign with their imploring eyes, both from the old hunter and from their young master. Sarro tried to point his spear with trembling hands, but his heart was pounding and his legs betrayed him.
With a hint of a cruel smile on his lips, his merciless gaze on the old man, Grumbar savoured this revenge on the hours of humiliation spent fasting, collecting wood, building traps, guarding the young hunters' camp, and mostly enduring the clan's judgement. He looked sternly, rolled his biceps and shoulders. How cramped he felt in his young man's pelts, in front of his once master, who was now squirming like a frightened old man.
The hunter, livid and bent over, barely had the strength to say:
– "You are just like your father! May Bema Wealdafréa protect us!"
The human speech brought Grumbar back from the abyss of his pride and anger. He raised his palm slowly, in a gesture that calmed himself. As if freed from a fascination, Muff and Rouf stood up, wriggling and yapping softly, retrieving their young master.
– "What do you know about my father?" Grumbar asked eagerly, almost growling.
All majesty had left him, giving him back his youthful air, his worried ardour.
The hunter, ashamed, slowly straightened up and mopped his sweaty brow, and looked up at the impudent youth with stormy eyes:
– "Your anger reminded me of your father, that's all."
– "Please tell me why! Why were you afraid? Why does the whole village distrust me? Is it because of my father?"
– "Now you're begging me! You're so polite all of a sudden... I would say that it is you who is keeping the village apart! It is within you... "
– "You are hiding something important from me! Tell me about my father!"
– "I shouldn't have brought it up. You can still escape your kin's curse."
– "What curse? My father's curse? Where's my father?"
– "Your father is gone! But it is not mine to reveal what the clan has declared taboo!"
Both were back in their roles. The adult disliked the teenager. He had reasons to be afraid of him, but he would stick to his duty. Without another word, Sarro turned his back and returned to his guard.
Grumbar knew it was useless to insist.
.oOo.
She was waiting.
Sitting on the coping, she was waiting.
The beautiful girl, leaning over the water, gently swayed her graceful shoulders. She was waiting.
Her gaze wandered, romantically, in the reflections of the fountain, but her eye spied on the gallant, she was waiting.
Her legs gently crossed, flared out from under her linen dress, in a posture of carefully studied casualness.
She had been chasing him for days. She had heard the mother send the young man on his water chore. She had taken her bucket, her clogs; she had run and now she was waiting.
He could not miss her any more.
Grumbar appeared, his barrel on his shoulder, followed by his dogs harnessed to a ridiculous cart loaded with tubs.
The big young man stopped. He put down the barrel and his arms fell back along his huge, muscular body. He stood still, contemplating the girl at the fountain.
Embla's bare shoulders and arms splashed the undergrowth with a milky light. The flowers in her hair sang an aria with a sweet fragrance of spring. Her azure eyes promised mystery and happiness for all the seasons to come. She seemed like a wood nymph lost in the village.
Grumbar took a deep breath and let out a long, emotional sigh. Rouf and Muff bent their heads towards him, one ear raised and the other dismayed at the foolishness of their master.
Embla fluttered her eyelashes.
Grumbar stood still frozen.
Embla tilted her soft face in a friendly manner.
No response to the stimulus.
Embla did her best, velvet eyes, shy smile, intimate throat voice, knowing intonation:
– "Hello Grumbar..."
The young colossus emitted a surprising noise, a badly swallowed mixture of "hullo", "beauty" and "Embla".
– "Wouf?" called Muff in the condescending tone of a "Are you with us, Grumbar?"
The girl let out an irritated spark, which crossed the clear and bewitching sky of her eyes. Now the dog was getting involved! She had to bring it alongside!
Embla glanced at Grumbar and then crouched down, her waist well arched and her gaze filtering through her long eyelashes to judge the success of her simpering.
With both hands, she tenderly grabbed Muff by the scruff of the neck and began to pet him:
– "Now that is a good big doggie! Watching over its master day and night! Never leaving his side! Sharing everything! Eating from the same bowl!"
The girl was scratching the dog behind the ears. When she felt its spine relaxing under her caresses, she pressed a big kiss on its nose, shivering inwardly with disgust.
Muff, groggy, defeated, stinking some scent of violet, lay down like a rug. Embla, with a smirk on her face, rose to her feet with the grace of a victor.
She leaned on Grumbar's chest and began to play with the young man's black locks.
– "How nice of you to come and help me carry my bucket! How can I ever thank you?" whispered Embla.
Spurred on by this hint about his manly strength, Grumbar filled the barrels and tubs in a flash, flexing his biceps with ease.
The girl resumed her place on the colossus' arm. When the damsel's light hand reached under Grumbar's half-open tunic – Boy, you must be a warmer in winter! – a long shiver ran up the young man's spine.
At once, Rouf began to protest, whining and half-scolding.
– "I think he wants a big cuddle too!" Grumbar chuckled with a silly grin, bending down to his friend.
Embla stiffened and said sourly:
– "Oh, enough with the doggies! It's you I'm interested in, you big idiot!"
A storm shrouded the charming forehead of the girl, whose clear eyes shot out lightning.
Wounded in his candour, Grumbar recoiled.
This girl had no heart! She had pampered Muff without thinking of Rouf! How tactless! And the sly one didn't even really like dogs! If she thought he would fall for her cuddles and sow discord between the three friends, she was sadly mistaken!
– "Well then! Mum's waiting! No more room in my cart! You'll have to carry your bucket by yourself!"
The giant turned his back on her and stomped off, his barrel on his shoulder, his cart following like a doggie on a leash, and the two real doggies yapping happily in front of him.
A dark rage boiled in the young woman's gut. A vengeful crease formed at the corner of her pretty lips:
– "You lousy animal!"
.oOo.
In the centre of the village, on a stone platform, stood the clan's common house, built with stacked logs. The walls, with few small windows, were covered with thick curtains during this harsh winter. Huge trunks stood in the centre and formed the pillars of a solid, double-sloped framework. An upper floor in the middle of the long, low building served as a fodder barn and grain store, but the ground floor was used for visiting families or the needy under the protection of the clan chief.
– "This is it!" barked Grumbar, displeased at having let the stranger force his hand. "So now..."
– "Weee! Thank you very much, my boy!" the old man interrupted with a voluble air.
The short, brown-clad figure gesticulated enthusiastically. His hat, which folded wings made him look like a furry bonnet, jerked to the rhythm of his passionate exclamations. He was constantly welcoming – on his staff, on his arms and shoulders, and occasionally on his hat – many birds of all kinds, which he sent back with the appropriate chirp:
– ..."but I'm going to need you again! Trlweet! You know how wild these people can be! Zhweet zhweet! I absolutely must be introduced to the community! Tititi titity! Didn't you tell me that the Forest Law obliges the clan to take in poor people? Turweet turlurweet!"
– "Humf, yes but…"
– "Perfect! Weee! You're not going to leave an honorable old man under the snow? Weetisdis! Unless you prefer taking me in for the winter in your mansion? Turweet turlurweet!"
Grumbar's eyebrows furrowed and he looked down wearily at his companion. That was it: the old man was so full of energy, he was tiring! Muff and Rouf hovered around them, their eyes teasing, their tails wagging happily, their tongues hanging out to the side as if to say, "So, are you decided?". His two friends had immediately adopted the troublemaker, welcomed him as an old friend, who knew the language of animals and birds like himself.
– "Well, all right!" Grumbar sighed.
The giant stepped forward, pushing aside the woollen curtain.
Bong! He hit his head on the carved lintel!
– "You seem to have forgotten your way home to your own clan!"
Rubbing his forehead, Grumbar grumbled a heartfelt grievance at the clan's pettiness and was about to turn away, when the old man laughed heartily, pushing the giant inside. The laughter dripped down on the colossus like a healing drizzle, washing away his pain and bad temper. He entered.
The central hearth was glowing; there were cooked venison and a great pot of porridge, which was being stirred by a dishevelled lady with a piercing gaze. This was where the clan gathered for wakes. All around, the clan's guests, the poor people protected by the clan chief, had set up their blankets. The comfort was rudimentary but the place was healthy and warm. Wild boar hams hung from the beams around the huge central fireplace which finished smoking them. Animal skins were drying there, waiting to become clothes and blankets.
Sitting cross-legged in small groups, the women were weaving or darning. The men were repairing tools while a huge warrior with thick black hair was drawing from a barrel to fill mugs, distributed around him. In a corner, by the light of the fireplace, several children were playing pipes and drums, led by a large woman.
When Grumbar entered, the conversations stopped, the laughter died down, the music fell silent.
All faces turned towards the intruder, jaws clenched, eyebrows furrowed, eyes veiled with a diffuse fear. The villagers' postures, frozen in their evening activities, oozed disapproval.
Grumbar bowed slightly, holding the assembly under his dark gaze. Only a few of the women, his late mother's relatives, answered him frankly, their faces lit up with a glow of compassion.
Sarro and a few others rose to stand by the chief. Growling low, Muff and Rouf stood on either side of their master, as if to cover his back, their hair bristling.
The shaggy woman with the shrewd look left her pot for a moment and came to whisper a word in the ear of the enormous warrior, who then stepped forward, with a heavy step, large gestures and his word obeyed:
– "The clan welcomes all its children! We know your companion for a long time. Take your place among us!"
... "under the protection of the Forest Law!" he added for good measure.
Bewildered, Grumbar turned to 'his' long-known old man with a reproachful frown. Radagast – I hope you recognised him! – replied with a beaming smile and a mischievous wink. The brown wizard dismissed his birds, which landed in the beams of the central framework, and then turned to the villagers:
– "In the days before memory, the tribe of our ancestors gathered. Our earliest stories tell of how our fathers' fathers walked the wilderness in the far north. They lived by hunting and gathering and in those days all, women and men, roamed the forests. Their lord taught the young people of the tribe the secrets of the woods. One morning he took them on the ritual hunt, which would make them adults. His daughter Barwen and his son Baran, his twins, took part of the ceremony. The two children had formed a very deep bond. In the hunt, as in the game of riddles, they seemed to be one and the same..."
Radagast was off and running. The assembly went back to its business, under the spell of his babbling.
Embla was in the common room; she had flinched at Grumbar's appearance. When she was sure he had seen her, she affectionately embraced a rather reluctant young man, who saw his immense rival approaching with dread. But our colossus, unwavering, passed the couple looking straight ahead. Rouf barely allowed himself a little yelp of contempt.
Grumbar crouched in a dark corner among the needy. Rouf and Muff slid under their friend's elbows. An old woman, as gnarled as a vine shoot and as dry as a stump, approached him. She glanced disapprovingly at the dogs, but gave him a bowl of porridge. In the clan, no one was left out.
Grumbar nodded his thanks and relaxed.
He was more comfortable with animals than with humans... but he truly loved stories...
.oOo.
Grumbar stirs up his resentment.
Against this rigid and omnipresent clan, which certainly doesn't oust him, but leaves him aside, by these defiant looks, this furtive embarrassment which underlines his arrival, these steps which are hurried when one crosses him.
Against this silence which weighs on the council, this implicit blacklisting from which his mother suffered so much before succumbing. "You are not responsible for your father's actions; but what do you expect, you are becoming more and more like him", the clan chief confided to him, while refusing to reveal the crimes of this shameful father. "There are some things it is better not to awaken..."
And against himself, above all, his wild desire to dominate adversity, his failure to refuse his troubled heritage, his pride at last in rejecting the few hands reaching out to him.
Rouf and Muff keep him company, as always, his only true friends. The two dogs keep their ears open, sometimes scanning Grumbar's stooped back, sometimes the shadows on the wooded hillsides of the Misty Mountains, west of the river. By their presence, their unconditional devotion, they know how to lighten the dark mood of their master, after a clan rebuff at the colossus' clumsiness.
The friends reach a promontory. Grumbar smells the evening breeze, that carries threatening clouds. He loves this valley, these meadows dotted with his beehives, this generous river where he fishes for salmon, these hills where he sometimes hunts chamois.
"There were trees that looked like oaks and elms, and wide grass lands, and a river running through it all. But cropping out of the ground, right in the path of the stream which looped itself about it, was a great rock, almost a hill of stone, like a last outpost of the distant mountains, or a huge piece cast miles into the plain by some giant."1
His domain! The hunters of the clan no longer dare to venture here. But he will reign supreme where others have abandoned!
The Misty Mountains cast a growing shadow, creeping into the folds of the land, under the branches. Grumbar takes a last breath, the prerogative of the owner enjoying his land.
He looks back at the mountain. A beast smell! A sly scent, some perverse force running under the moon! A reeking malice and ferocity!
The dogs have smelled it too. Rouf shows his teeth, his hair bristling. Muff shuffles pitifully, urinating in fear.
– "Take cover!" orders Rouf.
– "Shouldn't dawdle!" begs Muff.
– "Together!" Grumbar roars.
The young man grabs his spear and club and runs down the slope.
Deep breath, long stride, the dogs at his side. The three of them will watch over each other.
A howl behind them. His neck sweats, frozen by the rising cry. The hunt is on!
The three friends run breathlessly, again and again.
Behind them, powerful strides beat the leaves.
There, right behind them, he feels the cruel breath of their pursuers.
Grumbar turns back, ready to strike!
The silence has frozen the woods. No pursuers. No dogs. They must have gone left down the escarpment, when he went right...
One last look towards the hills. Nothing on this side. Grumbar resumes down the slope.
Yes, on the left, there's growling and threatening!
Two wargs have cornered Muff and Rouf on the edge of an outcrop overlooking the river! The monsters' silver coats gleam in the moonlight. The huge, otherworldly wolves are rolling their impressive muscles, looking for a weakness crack in the dogs' defence. They are going to eat them up...
Grumbar runs forward, screams and throws his spear at the enemy with all his might.
The weapon slips on the monster's thick hair. It turns its mouth towards him.
– "Look who's going there, mate Roar!" the warg growls, salivating.
The monsters exchange grunts and growls, but Grumbar perfectly grasps the veiled and abject nuances of their conversation.
– "I smelled it, mate Graor!" the other replies without taking his eyes off the dogs. A delicious suckling pig smell!
– "Get away, Grumbar!" shout Muff and Rouf, attacking their warg in unison.
Grumbar pulls out his club and delivers a heavy blow to Roar. But the warg dodges and sneers.
The dogs have taken advantage of this to flee. They are already on the slope, diving into the water.
Grumbar seizes his chance as his opponent has stepped back to dodge and turns his disgusting jaws towards his lured companion.
Our hero is almost there! He has taken refuge in the top of an ash tree leaning over the river! By extending his neck, Roar can almost nibble his calves!
Under the young man, the river is rolling dark waters where seaweeds stir, slimy arms cold as death! If only he had properly learned to swim when he had the time!
Graor tries his luck on the pebbles of the shore, but the dogs are too far away for him: even the shore's mud, the touch of the water makes him gag!
That's how it is, even the most horrible monsters have their little weakness, their tiny coquetry: these two can't stand water! Their huge mouths are overflowing with disgusting fangs, their hallucinated predatory looks are chilling, but they can't stand to dip their disgusting clawed feet in water!
– "Mate Graor, he's going to fall! No doubt, if he gets wet, he won't be as tasty!"
– "Get it, mate Roar!"
– "But it's not very solid, you know that, mate Graor? What if I fall in the water? Brrr!"
The dogs are there, under Grumbar, swimming in the river, waiting for him as they used to in the happy sunny days of yore.
The young man must let go.
He dives in, paddles back up, splashes around, goes under, clings to the dogs, and there they swim towards the east bank, under the impotent and indignant gaze of the warg mates.
.oOo.
Grumbar does his best not to tire his friends. His weapons have gone in the flow, he sheds his bulky skins. Naked and ashamed, he starts to swim like a dog.
Under the clouds, a few moonlight rays break through here and there. The eastern bank, a dark mass under a grey sky, seems much closer than expected, but the current infinitely stronger than downstream, through the ford.
Behind them, the argument of the odious mates disappears in the river's nightly roar, a powerful and continuous viscous bubbling. Their shared disappointment would have put a smile on the trio's face if they had had the chance to hear it and laugh about it.
But they have to swim, again, again and again, fighting fathom by fathom. Exhausted, the young man perseveres, continues. A little upstream from him, Muff has already reached the shore and is clutching a root with his mouth. He will not be able to climb without help, but he holds on.
Rouf is even less lucky: he lands at the foot of a cliff, hurting his paws on the hard and rough rock. The dog is exhausted. With a complaint, he seems to flinch and sinks. But Grumbar forces his way down and grabs his friend at the last moment. With his long arm he holds on to the top of the rock, catches his breath and pushes the sprawled dog up.
.oOo.
The three friends are more dead than alive, dripping, freezing, exhausted by the effort.
Grumbar hoists Muff up in a last burst of strength and shelters his companions in a hollow between some roots.
He does not recognise the eastern bank of the Anduin and wanders slowly through the scree. Fortunately for him, he finds some berries and nuts, and then he starts looking for a path again.
In the uncertain grey of the night, he climbs the rocks to reach a high point. Just as he is about to give up, he comes across some roughly hewn steps that lead up to the top of a huge rock, a sort of fang overhanging the water.
At the top, a moonlit sky illuminates the Anduin, a thin silver ribbon that winds from the north across a brazen plain, skirting the iron peaks of the Misty Mountains to the west and the charcoal mass of Mirkwood to the east. Grumbar pulls himself up onto the platform at the top of a rocky strip in the middle of the Anduin. He has landed on the island of the Carrock, a stone vessel bristling with oaks and elms, watching over the river under the gaze of the moon.
For a moment, serenity caresses the boy's heart, as this landscape of silver and shadows takes him back to the time before memory, when the clans roamed freely in the pristine forests of the Far North. He does not know why, but his soul knows it belongs in the heart of his domain.
.oOo.
Grumbar walks the steps back, this time down to the base of the huge monolith. A short grassy esplanade overlooks a ford leading to the eastern bank of the Anduin. The pebbles shimmer in the moonlight like a cobbled path, but another glow catches his eye. The yellow flame of a torch is dancing in the evening breeze, above a rift piercing the base of the great rock.
The cave is quickly explored: dry, warm and uninhabited, a godsend! The young man carries his friends there, too exhausted to come by themselves. Tomorrow, at dawn, after a night's rest in the shelter, they can return to the manor.
The room, with its low ceiling, slopes down wide and gentle. In its flat, sand-covered lower part, Grumbar lays Muff and Rouf, who curl up together. A fire pit, bordered by large pebbles, bears the marks of recent fires. A supply of dry wood is available at the back of the cave, along with lighting equipment and a series of earthen jars containing various dry herbs. Our hero blesses the foreseeing soul who has provided for their needs, and lights the beneficent fire.
Only then, after the reassuring ritual of the stones and tinder, when the clear flame rises under the logs, promising the warmth of the embers to come, can Grumbar relax.
But too many questions beset him. Who maintains this place? Has stocked wood? Maintains a torch there guarding the entrance at all times? Why doesn't he know about this place, which reminds him of the legends of his people?
Deep down, Grumbar knows who is taking care of the shrine. He remembers his mother bending over her little healer's cauldron, urging the spirits of the ancestors to give her their blessing in the making of her balms and potions. He remembers her absences, her hushed conversations with her sisters and the clan chief when he was a child. He remembers the rites of passage that young people of his age used to talk about and from which he was excluded. Deep down, he always knew that such a place existed.
With ambivalent feelings, between rejection and discovery, the young man curls up around himself, like an egg in its womb. He has come home. Chance has rewoven for him the thread that was broken. For a long time, Grumbar remains prostrate, eager for the life this renewed umbilical cord is feeding him with.
Like a damned man who regains his dignity, like a thief who realises that his theft has always belonged to him, Grumbar stands up and performs the ritual that has been waiting for him from all eternity.
Slowly, without any hesitation, he offers the sacrifice of some precious herbs to the fire and soaks up the coloured smoke that rises in the cave.
The hours pass in the holy of holies, reminding the young man of the gestures of his clan, instilling in him what centuries of hardship and struggle have taught his lineage. The ochre walls slowly come to life with silhouettes drawn by the flames, shapes seem to be born at random from the wall relief and to move when the young man stares at them. His head spins a little.
The legend of the centuries begins on the walls. In the gusts of the Far North, his distant ancestors rise up. Powerful spirits descend among them, granting them the divine gifts of love, speech and fire. Gifts so great and dangerous, that can accomplish everything and destroy everything in an instant!
The Mighty One Bema Wealdafréa teaches them the Law of the Forest.
One other of the Mighty Ones, with a dark and devious heart, sows his lies in the hearts of men. And that is why man, with the ability to choose his actions, also possesses doubt, unlike animals whose instinct and friendship never fail.
Then the light of the sun and the moon bursts into the world!
Then the elves return in great glory to wage war on the Renegade Mighty One.
The fresco continues, uplifting and grandiose, painting the times before memory, from generation to generation.
But behold! A clan leader breaks his word! Bema's punishment is terrible: the perjurer is deprived of his free will, reduced to the animal state. This is how the chiefs of the lineage suffer the curse of the clan, turning into animals when their emotions override their ability to decide!
Grumbar holds his head in his hands, shaken by his visions. This is what was hidden from him, this is what happened to his father, who disappeared after killing one of his own in his animal fury!
The dizziness of years gone by, revealed in an instant, keeps him stunned. Thus the curse of his people catches up with him! The Council of Elders and the whole clan were wise to keep him at bay! The secrecy, the asides, the embarrassed looks, the fears, the attitude of the adults and the village leaders come back to him.
As the hope of reconciliation with the clan fades, Grumbar vows to stay away forever, never to threaten his own people with his heredity.
.oOo.
Grumbar emerges from the cave, staggering, a little nauseous after the horrors revealed by the smoke.
The torch has gone out, but dawn will come soon: a pale glow begins to stir before him. The young giant staggers over to the water to bathe his face.
– "What have we here, mate Roar?"
– "That smells weird, mate Graor! Poof! But that looks appetizing!"
Grumbar is naked on the pebble beach, unarmed, at the mercy of the two monsters.
– "We should rinse it all off, brother Roar!"
– "Great idea, mate Graor! You wouldn't think of smoking a pig before bleeding it!"
The young man thinks as fast as his foggy mind allows. Their paws are wet, they have finally dared to brave the water! They had to cross the ford downstream and go up the eastern bank to cross on this side!
Grumbar bends down quickly to pick up two stones.
– "How cute! That stinks but that wants to live!"
– "Arf Arf Arf Aow!"
Roar has just taken a pebble in the eye, while Grumbar rushes towards the ford.
But he falls forward, with Graor's two paws on his back. The young man arches his back, struggles, bubbles, but nothing helps: the monster's enormous weight crushes his ribs, keeping his chest and face buried in the mud and pebbles of the bank.
– "Naughty petty wiggling piggy! I'll soak him a bit, mate!"
– "Dirty forester! Let me have his head!" Roar roars, winking painfully at his stained eye.
Just then, Rouf and Muff jump from the cave and sink their fangs into his hind legs. Howling in pain, Roar turns around, but to no avail: the dogs cling tightly, each on his warg's paw, and are still behind the monster!
With a hyena's cackle, Graor comes to the rescue, sending Muff's disjointed body to the rocks with a powerful paw hit. The faithful companion's howl of pain breaks the heart of Grumbar, whose spirit flies away in helpless hatred.
Rouf lets go and flees to the cave, leaving mate Roar doubly lame and furious.
But a roar from the depths of time deafens the warg mates.
By the time mate Graor turns towards the river, a huge bear paw, armed with terrifying claws, blows his head off.
A black bear, a truly giant bear, stands in front of mate Roar, who ends up disembowelled.
.oOo.
Somewhat hesitantly, with pitiful whimpers, Rouf hobbles over to Grumbar, who is bent in tears over Muff's body.
– "I couldn't do anything!"
– "On the contrary, you both did everything you could! Everything indeed! You have nothing to blame yourself for, old brother! But from now on, you can call me by my real name: Beorn! For, Bear and Human, I know who I am, what weighs upon me and against whom to direct my hatred. I shall stay away, but from now on I shall protect the villages, the fords and the Carrock, and the enemies of the bear clan will learn to fear that name!"
.oOo.
« He is a skin-changer. He changes his skin: sometimes he is a huge black bear, sometimes he is a great strong black-haired man with huge arms and a great beard. I cannot tell you much more, though that ought to be enough. Some say that he is a bear descended from the great and ancient bears of the mountains that lived there before the giants came. Others say that he is a man descended from the first men who lived before Smaug or the other dragons came into this part of the world, and before the goblins came into the hills out of the North. I cannot say, though I fancy the last is the true tale. He is not the sort of person to ask questions of. » — [2]
.oOo.
Notes
1 Bilbo the Hobbit. J.R.
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