CHAPTER TEN: The attack of the spork
-----
"Psst… Frodo?"
"Yah?"
"I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry."
"I know, but I'm actually --thump-- hungry this time--"
"Hold your tongues! The driver might hear us!"
"Why is the --ow!-- road so --ouch!-- bumpy?"
"I'd rather face --thump-- this than that --thump-- mob back there."
"Psst… Frodo?"
"What!?"
"I have to go pee."
"Oh, for the love of--"
The driver looked up momentarily, upon hearing the sudden voices seemingly appearing from his cargo. Without stopping his horse, he turned his head to inspect his wagon. The thick canvas covered the barrels nicely, which were securely tied to the wagon to prevent toppling. Nothing at all seemed amiss.
Dismissing the voices as mere figments of his imagination, the driver turned back to the long road and sighed deeply.
"He almost caught us!"
"It was your --ouch!-- fault. You breathe too loudly, Sam."
"I most certainly do not. Do I, Frodo?"
"…Well…"
"Crikey! I do, don't I?! "
"Sam! Let's just concentrate on the --ow!-- situation we've found ourselves in."
"Shh! Not so loud!"
Turning back once again, the driver became more and more suspicious. Since when did cargo talk? He pulled the reigns of the horse, and it came to a graduate stop. For a long moment, he merely sat there and stared at the canvas carefully. Nothing moved at all, and all was as it should be once more.
Sighing, the driver started the horse off for the second time. Perhaps he was only hallucinating. He was nearing a kingdom of Elves anyway; perhaps the magical creatures had this effect on Men.
"You did it again, Sam."
" 'To blame does not solve the problem,' as my ol' Gaffer would say."
"He's right, Merry. Concentrate! We need to overtake this cart somehow."
This time, the driver was absolutely positive that it was not only his imagination speaking. Ordering the horse to an immediate stop, he leapt of his seat and stared at his wagon with great suspicion.
"We need to get rid of the driver."
"How? Have you any weapons?"
Slowly and cautiously, the driver crept towards his covered cargo. With a bit of luck, he would find out that the voices were only from stowaways who only wanted a ride to the next city. But judging from the ill fortune he has been having for the past week, his company was probably demons looking for their next meal. Either way, he needed to be at the top of his toes.
"I have my spork."
"A spork? Ah, finally, that stupid utensil comes in handy!"
"I told you so! Now you can't shout at me for collecting strange objects!"
"Can you spork a Man unconscious?"
"Can you spork anything unconscious?"
"I'll certainly try. If the spork fails, he'll still have Sam Gamgee to reckon with."
Suddenly, from the covers emerged a being with the face of a man but the body of a child. Gasping with surprise, the driver found himself dumbfounded to the point where he couldn't find the words to speak, nor the power to move. Even as he saw the figure fling a wooden object towards him with a great strength, he didn't budge one bit.
Only when the object hit him square between the eyes did the driver twitch slightly, only to fall backwards and watch the world before him fade away.
Sam stood up and jumped off the wagon, towering over the driver triumphantly. "I did it! The spork worked!"
Frodo and Merry appeared from the covers and exchanged astonished looks. "Well, I'd never…" Merry said.
"Oh, snap! This is great! Not only is it a convenient eating utensil, but a deadly weapon too!" Sam jumped up and down in good cheer.
"Yes, I'm sorry for doubting you, Sam," Frodo apologized sincerely, right before leaping into the driver's seat and taking the map in his hands. He began inspecting the worn piece of paper carefully from all angles, knitting his brows in great frustration.
Meanwhile, Merry was busy inspecting the cargo. Clapping his hands happily when he found that the wagon was filled with barrels and barrels of wine (he was quite disappointed when they had to leave their three bottles of wine behind in the bar), all his problems suddenly seemed to have lifted from his shoulders.
Frodo signaled for the other two hobbits to come. Sam willingly sat by his side, but Merry had occupied himself by insisting that he needed to kiss every barrel before proceeding any further. "What is it?" Sam asked.
Pointing at a chain of mountains that branched off the Misty Mountains, Frodo smiled. "This is where the elves said the dragon would be. If we are going to search for Pippin, we should start at Ettenmoors. The problem now is figuring out where we are."
Sam sniffed the air curiously. "I smell water. We should be near a river somewhere."
And his friend gave him the strangest glance. "You can smell water?"
The hobbit shrugged.
Returning his attention to the map, Frodo studied it some more. "I'm pretty sure that we're on the East-West road, on the way to Rivendell. If you can smell water, that means we should be near the Hoarwell River," he concluded. "Which means, we should travel northwest in order to reach the dragon's lair."
"Right!" Sam agreed. Turning to Merry, he said, "We're leaving now. Would you like to sit up front with us? There's plenty of room."
Merry shook his head vigorously, and crossed his arms as he sat down on a barrel. "No. I'm staying here with the wine. Not even the strongest winds can blow me away from my precious wine."
Shrugging, Sam returned his attention back to the road. "Suit yourself," he muttered as he took the reigns and gave them a small flick with the wrists. Obediently, the horse began trotting along, slightly rejuvenated from the short break.
"Pippin, here we come! Northbound!" Frodo sang, happy with the progress they were making. And the horse-driven wagon daintily strolled away from the road, all of their cares driven away once more. All except one.
Sam scratched his head subconsciously as he pondered over his question. "Which way is north?"
-----
The hobbit dared not move even a single inch, in fear that the Wargs perched on top of the cliff would spot him. He prayed that the darkness of the nights would be able to conceal him safely, but he knew that the chances of that were slim to none. Nevertheless, that slim speck of hope was still there, and Pippin hoped it would be enough as he held his breath.
It wasn't. One of the Wargs' sharp eyes caught sight of the small hobbit, and let out a sudden bark to warn the others. Knowing that it wasn't safe to stay any longer, Pippin quickly spun around and sped off. He was lucky when he encountered the single Warg, but facing a whole pack was nothing short of suicide. It wouldn't take long for the Wargs to descend from the cliff. They would be at the hobbit's heels within a few moments.
Once again, Pippin found himself wondering how he was going to get himself out of this predicament as he ran on. He needed a place to hide before it was too late. Mentally hitting himself for not staying in that small cavern longer, the Took desperately searched for something similar. Maybe he should hide in a tree. Could Wargs climb?
Before he could reply to his own question, Pippin suddenly saw that his road had come to an end. Before him was a wide, rapidly flowing river that directly cut off his path. Skidding to an abrupt halt, he had almost tumbled right into the waiting grasp of the rushing river, his arms pin-wheeling wildly in attempt to regain his balance. Once he had, Pippin turned his head expecting a whole gang of Wargs pouncing on him hungrily. Thankfully, that never happened for the Wargs were still quite a distance away, but it didn't mean that Pippin was safe.
He ran through his options mentally again. He could continue running in an opposite direction, in hopes to find a tree to hide from the creatures. Unfortunately, the Wargs would most likely sniff him out and wait patiently at the bottom of the tree until Pippin let his guard down, then it would be the ends of him. His second option was to face the Wargs, which seemed incredibly unrealistic and folly. His third was not exactly a wizard of an idea either; leaping straight into the river and praying for the best seemed impractical. The fact that he couldn't swim didn't help either.
Hearing the growling and snarling behind him confirmed within a few moments, if Pippin didn't make a decision soon, he would feel their jaws sink into his tender flesh. Turning back to the river, the hobbit made his final choice. Grabbing a piece of driftwood from the ground as a float, Pippin leapt into the rushing river, and let the powerful current sweep his body away. The Wargs skidded to a stop at the edge of the river just in time to see the tiny hobbit float into the far distance.
Pippin felt like he was being suffocated as the waves continuously forced him up and down. His piece of driftwood didn't help much since once his body hit the icy waters he lost his grip upon the slippery wood. He wanted to at least try to crawl to the surface to gasp for air, but the currents were so strong that his limbs would not budge. It felt as if an invisible hand had the poor hobbit in its tight grasp, restraining him cruelly from oxygen. As water filled his lungs, Pippin began to lose all the hopes he once had.
No, he couldn't give up. He was still young; there were so many people he had yet to annoy. And Merry! What would the Brandybuck do without his partner in crime? Who would raid Farmer Maggot's crops if he should perish? There was so much more to do, and Pippin was not ready to leave without accomplishing them first.
Feeling a new courage pulse through his veins, Pippin found the strength to break free of the icy grip that held him tight. With one great sweep, he pushed himself to the surface of the water and inhaled the fresh air deeply. He choked and coughed violently before he was swallowed once again by the hungry waters.
The hobbit gathered all his strength to arise to the surface a second time, but only to find that he had little to none left. He had used up large amounts of his energy fighting the current, and now he felt completely drained. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and give in to the water biting at his blue skin, but a voice inside his mind spoke in a tone louder than he could bear. Its shout could be heard over the sound of the waves crashing and the rushing water combined, and refused to allow the poor hobbit rest.
The voice continuously nagged and gnawed at Pippin, urging him to remain persistent. When he thought he had nothing left in his body and soul, the voice managed to convince him to scrounge for that tiny scrap of power that helped him surface the water for breath. The voice refused to allow the hobbit to be defeated.
As the hasty currents carried him by, Pippin struggled to keep himself above the water with his arms. It was a miracle that Pippin did what he did, because as his hand touched a loose root of a tree he grasped it without thinking. A sudden jerk stopped him from the flow, and Pippin found himself free from the freezing clasp of the river for the moment. With a frustrated groan, he pulled himself onto the shore using all the leftover strength he could muster.
Collapsing onto the solid ground, Pippin winced painfully, taking unnaturally large breaths. He was beginning to regain feeling in his limbs once again, but unfortunately the feelings were of pain. His entire body felt sore and was throbbing with ache and fatigue. A thousand and one needles were stabbing him violently again and again, until he wanted no more but to slip away until a blissful state of unconsciousness. Truth be told, Pippin wanted rest more than anything on Middle-earth as he turned over to lie on his back, though the strange but faint screeching noises he heard screamed danger in his mind.
But he was too tired to do anything. Forgetting all the possible perils of the foreign land, the Took closed his eyes and let blackness devour him whole.
-----
"Psst… Frodo?"
"Yah?"
"I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry."
"I know, but I'm actually --thump-- hungry this time--"
"Hold your tongues! The driver might hear us!"
"Why is the --ow!-- road so --ouch!-- bumpy?"
"I'd rather face --thump-- this than that --thump-- mob back there."
"Psst… Frodo?"
"What!?"
"I have to go pee."
"Oh, for the love of--"
The driver looked up momentarily, upon hearing the sudden voices seemingly appearing from his cargo. Without stopping his horse, he turned his head to inspect his wagon. The thick canvas covered the barrels nicely, which were securely tied to the wagon to prevent toppling. Nothing at all seemed amiss.
Dismissing the voices as mere figments of his imagination, the driver turned back to the long road and sighed deeply.
"He almost caught us!"
"It was your --ouch!-- fault. You breathe too loudly, Sam."
"I most certainly do not. Do I, Frodo?"
"…Well…"
"Crikey! I do, don't I?! "
"Sam! Let's just concentrate on the --ow!-- situation we've found ourselves in."
"Shh! Not so loud!"
Turning back once again, the driver became more and more suspicious. Since when did cargo talk? He pulled the reigns of the horse, and it came to a graduate stop. For a long moment, he merely sat there and stared at the canvas carefully. Nothing moved at all, and all was as it should be once more.
Sighing, the driver started the horse off for the second time. Perhaps he was only hallucinating. He was nearing a kingdom of Elves anyway; perhaps the magical creatures had this effect on Men.
"You did it again, Sam."
" 'To blame does not solve the problem,' as my ol' Gaffer would say."
"He's right, Merry. Concentrate! We need to overtake this cart somehow."
This time, the driver was absolutely positive that it was not only his imagination speaking. Ordering the horse to an immediate stop, he leapt of his seat and stared at his wagon with great suspicion.
"We need to get rid of the driver."
"How? Have you any weapons?"
Slowly and cautiously, the driver crept towards his covered cargo. With a bit of luck, he would find out that the voices were only from stowaways who only wanted a ride to the next city. But judging from the ill fortune he has been having for the past week, his company was probably demons looking for their next meal. Either way, he needed to be at the top of his toes.
"I have my spork."
"A spork? Ah, finally, that stupid utensil comes in handy!"
"I told you so! Now you can't shout at me for collecting strange objects!"
"Can you spork a Man unconscious?"
"Can you spork anything unconscious?"
"I'll certainly try. If the spork fails, he'll still have Sam Gamgee to reckon with."
Suddenly, from the covers emerged a being with the face of a man but the body of a child. Gasping with surprise, the driver found himself dumbfounded to the point where he couldn't find the words to speak, nor the power to move. Even as he saw the figure fling a wooden object towards him with a great strength, he didn't budge one bit.
Only when the object hit him square between the eyes did the driver twitch slightly, only to fall backwards and watch the world before him fade away.
Sam stood up and jumped off the wagon, towering over the driver triumphantly. "I did it! The spork worked!"
Frodo and Merry appeared from the covers and exchanged astonished looks. "Well, I'd never…" Merry said.
"Oh, snap! This is great! Not only is it a convenient eating utensil, but a deadly weapon too!" Sam jumped up and down in good cheer.
"Yes, I'm sorry for doubting you, Sam," Frodo apologized sincerely, right before leaping into the driver's seat and taking the map in his hands. He began inspecting the worn piece of paper carefully from all angles, knitting his brows in great frustration.
Meanwhile, Merry was busy inspecting the cargo. Clapping his hands happily when he found that the wagon was filled with barrels and barrels of wine (he was quite disappointed when they had to leave their three bottles of wine behind in the bar), all his problems suddenly seemed to have lifted from his shoulders.
Frodo signaled for the other two hobbits to come. Sam willingly sat by his side, but Merry had occupied himself by insisting that he needed to kiss every barrel before proceeding any further. "What is it?" Sam asked.
Pointing at a chain of mountains that branched off the Misty Mountains, Frodo smiled. "This is where the elves said the dragon would be. If we are going to search for Pippin, we should start at Ettenmoors. The problem now is figuring out where we are."
Sam sniffed the air curiously. "I smell water. We should be near a river somewhere."
And his friend gave him the strangest glance. "You can smell water?"
The hobbit shrugged.
Returning his attention to the map, Frodo studied it some more. "I'm pretty sure that we're on the East-West road, on the way to Rivendell. If you can smell water, that means we should be near the Hoarwell River," he concluded. "Which means, we should travel northwest in order to reach the dragon's lair."
"Right!" Sam agreed. Turning to Merry, he said, "We're leaving now. Would you like to sit up front with us? There's plenty of room."
Merry shook his head vigorously, and crossed his arms as he sat down on a barrel. "No. I'm staying here with the wine. Not even the strongest winds can blow me away from my precious wine."
Shrugging, Sam returned his attention back to the road. "Suit yourself," he muttered as he took the reigns and gave them a small flick with the wrists. Obediently, the horse began trotting along, slightly rejuvenated from the short break.
"Pippin, here we come! Northbound!" Frodo sang, happy with the progress they were making. And the horse-driven wagon daintily strolled away from the road, all of their cares driven away once more. All except one.
Sam scratched his head subconsciously as he pondered over his question. "Which way is north?"
-----
The hobbit dared not move even a single inch, in fear that the Wargs perched on top of the cliff would spot him. He prayed that the darkness of the nights would be able to conceal him safely, but he knew that the chances of that were slim to none. Nevertheless, that slim speck of hope was still there, and Pippin hoped it would be enough as he held his breath.
It wasn't. One of the Wargs' sharp eyes caught sight of the small hobbit, and let out a sudden bark to warn the others. Knowing that it wasn't safe to stay any longer, Pippin quickly spun around and sped off. He was lucky when he encountered the single Warg, but facing a whole pack was nothing short of suicide. It wouldn't take long for the Wargs to descend from the cliff. They would be at the hobbit's heels within a few moments.
Once again, Pippin found himself wondering how he was going to get himself out of this predicament as he ran on. He needed a place to hide before it was too late. Mentally hitting himself for not staying in that small cavern longer, the Took desperately searched for something similar. Maybe he should hide in a tree. Could Wargs climb?
Before he could reply to his own question, Pippin suddenly saw that his road had come to an end. Before him was a wide, rapidly flowing river that directly cut off his path. Skidding to an abrupt halt, he had almost tumbled right into the waiting grasp of the rushing river, his arms pin-wheeling wildly in attempt to regain his balance. Once he had, Pippin turned his head expecting a whole gang of Wargs pouncing on him hungrily. Thankfully, that never happened for the Wargs were still quite a distance away, but it didn't mean that Pippin was safe.
He ran through his options mentally again. He could continue running in an opposite direction, in hopes to find a tree to hide from the creatures. Unfortunately, the Wargs would most likely sniff him out and wait patiently at the bottom of the tree until Pippin let his guard down, then it would be the ends of him. His second option was to face the Wargs, which seemed incredibly unrealistic and folly. His third was not exactly a wizard of an idea either; leaping straight into the river and praying for the best seemed impractical. The fact that he couldn't swim didn't help either.
Hearing the growling and snarling behind him confirmed within a few moments, if Pippin didn't make a decision soon, he would feel their jaws sink into his tender flesh. Turning back to the river, the hobbit made his final choice. Grabbing a piece of driftwood from the ground as a float, Pippin leapt into the rushing river, and let the powerful current sweep his body away. The Wargs skidded to a stop at the edge of the river just in time to see the tiny hobbit float into the far distance.
Pippin felt like he was being suffocated as the waves continuously forced him up and down. His piece of driftwood didn't help much since once his body hit the icy waters he lost his grip upon the slippery wood. He wanted to at least try to crawl to the surface to gasp for air, but the currents were so strong that his limbs would not budge. It felt as if an invisible hand had the poor hobbit in its tight grasp, restraining him cruelly from oxygen. As water filled his lungs, Pippin began to lose all the hopes he once had.
No, he couldn't give up. He was still young; there were so many people he had yet to annoy. And Merry! What would the Brandybuck do without his partner in crime? Who would raid Farmer Maggot's crops if he should perish? There was so much more to do, and Pippin was not ready to leave without accomplishing them first.
Feeling a new courage pulse through his veins, Pippin found the strength to break free of the icy grip that held him tight. With one great sweep, he pushed himself to the surface of the water and inhaled the fresh air deeply. He choked and coughed violently before he was swallowed once again by the hungry waters.
The hobbit gathered all his strength to arise to the surface a second time, but only to find that he had little to none left. He had used up large amounts of his energy fighting the current, and now he felt completely drained. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and give in to the water biting at his blue skin, but a voice inside his mind spoke in a tone louder than he could bear. Its shout could be heard over the sound of the waves crashing and the rushing water combined, and refused to allow the poor hobbit rest.
The voice continuously nagged and gnawed at Pippin, urging him to remain persistent. When he thought he had nothing left in his body and soul, the voice managed to convince him to scrounge for that tiny scrap of power that helped him surface the water for breath. The voice refused to allow the hobbit to be defeated.
As the hasty currents carried him by, Pippin struggled to keep himself above the water with his arms. It was a miracle that Pippin did what he did, because as his hand touched a loose root of a tree he grasped it without thinking. A sudden jerk stopped him from the flow, and Pippin found himself free from the freezing clasp of the river for the moment. With a frustrated groan, he pulled himself onto the shore using all the leftover strength he could muster.
Collapsing onto the solid ground, Pippin winced painfully, taking unnaturally large breaths. He was beginning to regain feeling in his limbs once again, but unfortunately the feelings were of pain. His entire body felt sore and was throbbing with ache and fatigue. A thousand and one needles were stabbing him violently again and again, until he wanted no more but to slip away until a blissful state of unconsciousness. Truth be told, Pippin wanted rest more than anything on Middle-earth as he turned over to lie on his back, though the strange but faint screeching noises he heard screamed danger in his mind.
But he was too tired to do anything. Forgetting all the possible perils of the foreign land, the Took closed his eyes and let blackness devour him whole.