5. Wanderer between two worlds
My face burned with shame, and I had to work up my courage to look at Faramir as I mechanically brushed blades of grass from my cloak.
"I must apologize, Lord," I said quietly. "I fear I don't know who I am myself, still less who you are. And when you took me for a boy..."
"...you simply didn't object. I understand." Faramir tried to smile, only partially succeeding. I observed him more closely and didn't like what I saw. He was more than just pale; he had the look of someone who had reached the limits of his endurance a long time ago, and who might be pushed beyond what he could bear at any moment.
Gandalf spoke. "We must bring the men into the town, Faramir,"he said, but his penetrating gaze was still fixed on me and for a dizzy moment I felt as if those dark, merciless eyes were looking right into my mind. Instinctively I raised one hand and shook my head slightly; the gaze became less intense and then withdrew.
Gandalf put down his staff and took the reins.
"A blow to the head might leave a person remembering nothing," he said soberly. He turned to Damrod. "Do you know where the Houses of Healing are, in Minas Tirith?"
"Yes, Lord." Damrod bowed slightly.
"Guide the lass there and tell the healers to examine her. I will follow in a few hours, when I have spoken with the Steward."
He turned Shadowfax and rode slowly toward the faraway city gate, Faramir by his side. The men followed on foot, the dim light of Gandalf's staff like a beacon before them. Damrod and I stood a moment longer, watching them.
"I hope I didn't hurt you, damsel, a little while ago," Damrod said hesitantly. He looked embarrassed. "I was rather rough with you. I beg your pardon; I didn't know..."
"For heaven's sake, Damrod!" I blurted. "Have you forgotten already that first I pushed you with your nose to the ground to keep that... thing from slashing your back? Can't you just keep pretending that I'm a boy?"
"I fear not." There was amusement in his dark, warm voice, and in the half-light I saw his teeth flash in a smile.
"Never mind." I grinned, feeling a little more at ease with him. "But I assure you: damsel or not, every bone in my body aches. Maybe you are missing your bay, but I won't bemoan the loss of that beast!"
A suppressed chuckle came out of the darkness; then we followed the wizard into the city.
vvvvv
It was a long way up the winding road through Minas Tirith to the Houses of Healing; they were located in the sixth circle near the south wall, close beneath the actual Citadel, where the Stewards resided.
Damrod led me through dark, silent gardens full of herbs. I smelled mint, and rosemary, and lavender; the healers must grow a good many of their own medicines, I thought. At last we came to a heavy wooden door; he swung it open, and we stood in a dim vestibule. Half a dozen candles burned in iron holders on the plain grey walls, and as Damrod closed the door an elderly man in a long dark robe came up to us.
"What can I do for you?"
Damrod delivered Gandalf's message. Before I was led away to be examined, he reached out, hesitating, and took my hand.
"Farewell, damsel," he said.
"Oh, please, not again!" I rolled my eyes and was rewarded with a broad grin.
Here in the candlelight I could see him properly for the first time, and I enjoyed what I saw. He reminded me a little of Faramir - a good, clear face with expressive grey eyes and dark, slightly wavy hair down to his shoulders. He was tall, but not immoderately so, and built like an athlete.
"Where are you going now?" I had known him only a few hours, but suddenly I knew I would regret it, if I did not see him again.
"I will report to the Guard of the Citadel," he said. "I don't think we can return to Ithilien with the Lord Faramir. The Lord of the City will decide where we are deployed."
Then may Iluvatar be gracious to you, I thought. Then I shivered, remembering with horror that Faramir would be forced by Denethor into a senseless, bloody defense of Osgiliath. Damrod frowned; he had seen the shadow cross my face.
"What is wrong?"
"Take care of yourself,"I said as casually as I could. I pressed his hand. "I would like to see you again."
He smiled and bowed.
"I will visit you if I can," he promised. He turned and went out, and I stood in the candlelit room staring at the door as it closed behind him. I felt nearly as bereft as I had long ago, after the death of my mother, when my energetic aunt had put me on the northbound train.
"Come, damsel."
I spun around; the healer was still standing on the same spot, waiting patiently.
"Come," he repeated. "Let us see if we can find out what happened to you."
I'd like to know that myself, I thought miserably as I followed him.
vvvvv
I was examined very carefully. The Houses of Healing contained none of the modern instruments that I knew from two years of study; their examining room was nothing like a modern surgery. Nevertheless, I was rather impressed; I had the feeling that every patient treated here could count himself lucky.
They asked about nausea and headache, and they wanted to know if I was suffering from double vision. They examined every centimetre of my head for injuries and swelling. Naturally they found nothing, and over and over I gave them the same answer: I don't know. I have no idea. The elderly man who had received me was visibly distressed.
"I wish we could help you better, damsel," he said at last. He gave me an ointment of arnica, anyway, for the bruises I had gotten falling from Damrod's horse, and he offered me a room in the Houses of Healing. I literally did not know where else I could go, and I was more than thankful.
The room was small and spartanly furnished, but the bed was comfortable. I slipped out of my damp and wrinkled clothes with relief, dabbed my injuries with the sweet-smelling ointment, and put on the linen shirt they had given me. I crawled under the clean wool blankets and fell asleep almost immediately.
Claws thrust deep into my back, ripping me out of the wet grass and up into darkness. My eardrums were torn by an ear-piercing shriek, and suddenly the brutal grip loosened. I fell into a black nothing... and fell... and fell... and fell...
I rocketed up in my bed, gasping for breath, in a cold sweat. An oil lamp stood on a small desk across the room, a night-light; the little flame burned quiet and steady, a comforting glow. I sank back against the pillow, my heartbeat slowly returning to normal, and there was a knock on the door.
I had no idea what time it was; my watch had remained in another world, and there was no timepiece in this room. I pushed the damp hair out of my face and sat up again.
"Who is there?"
"Gandalf. I have to talk to you."
I winced. He couldn't have chosen a better moment - I was tired as death, I'd just awakened from a terrifying nightmare, and my powers of invention were used up. Not a good time for well-crafted fairy tales.
"Is that really necessary? Can't it wait until tomorrow?"
"It cannot. I have no time."
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. "Very well, then. Come in."
vvvvv
He came in carrying a candle holder. The flames flickered, gilding his face and dividing it into shifting regions of light and shadow. Wordlessly he set the candle holder on the desk and turned the chair around, sitting so that he could regard me closely.
I met his gaze nervously; the dark eyes held mine as inexorably as they had a few hours before before the gates of the city. I felt him delving into my mind, sifting my thoughts, and this time I made no attempt to fend him off. It would have been useless anyway.
At last, after endless moments, he released me. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath of relief. When I opened my eyes again he was still looking at me, his brow furrowed and lips pressed tight together, as if he had found a mystery he did not expect.
"Who are you?" he asked. His voice was hoarse and tired. "Where do you come from?"
I didn't answer. What should I tell him? How could I explain the crazy anachronism of my presence in Middle Earth - not only to him, but also to myself. Especially to myself.
He leaned forward, and the simple wooden chair creaked in protest.
"I know you didn't lose your memory. Whoever, whatever you are, I am sure you are completely aware of it. When you spoke to Faramir after the Nazgul's attack, you were concerned - but not as if you barely knew him. In your mind I saw the name of his father, and you thought of Denethor with revulsion and rage. You know Faramir - and you know the Steward of Gondor. How do you know them?"
Helplessly I raised my hands and let them drop. "I don't know how..." I began. "I don't know how I... how to explain."
"Try,"he said.
I swallowed. My profession had taught me the use of words, but now I sat mute and helpless before him.
"It began with a walk,"I said finally. "I left.... I left my house, because I couldn't sleep, and I took a walk in the dark. When I got tired, I wanted to go home, but then -- something happened. Something strange."
Again he leaned forward, his dark eyes sharp and wide awake.
"What happened?"
"I fell," I said hesitantly. "I fell, and I felt sick... dizzy. I had been walking on a gravel path, and suddenly it was short grass. My clothes had vanished and I was wearing -- these."I pointed at the garments hanging from a hook on the wall, at the wrinkled shirt lying on the floor. "Not long after that I met Lord Faramir and his men. I didn't know them and I was afraid. They thought I was a boy; I made no objection. And..."
The sense of that terrifying panic came back to me, my panic when I became aware that my own words were strange in my ears, and for a moment I couldn't speak. Once again an icy chill shivered down my back.
"And?"
"And I spoke a language I didn't know,"I said quietly.
His eyes brightened as if he had suddenly realized something. He raised a hand and rubbed his chin pensively. Again the candles flickered; the light danced across the richly embroidered sleeve of his robe and his beard shimmered like silver.
Then he asked me a question.
"Do you know what a hobbit is? Have you ever heard of Bilbo Baggins? Or of the Shire?"
I didn't believe my ears. I stared at him, completely stunned, until I realized that he was still awaiting my answer.
"Yes, I have indeed," I finally managed. "Bilbo Baggins lived in Hobbiton, in a place called Bag End. More... more than sixty years ago, you tricked him into going on a harebrained adventure: he traveled with thirteen dwarves to the Lonely Mountain and challenged Smaug the Dragon. He found the Arken jewel and a war nearly broke out over it. After many adventures he went home again, but after that he was considered rather weird among his people."
Gandalf shook his head in astonishment. "What else do you know?"
I met his eyes and held them. "I know he found something else besides the Arken jewel,"I said. "In a cave under the Misty Mountains, just before he played a riddle game with a strange, half-blind creature... and I know that the thing he found did more than just make him invisible. He wore it for sixty years, and it kept him unnaturally young. He let go of it at last of his own will, but only by a great effort."
The wizard's jaw tensed, but if I had expected a sharp question, I was disappointed. He spoke softly to himself. "So he really wrote it down..."he murmured. "But how did he know that it was the One? That was not revealed until..."
"Who? Who wrote it down?" I asked. An outrageous suspicion sprang up in my mind, and I realized that he was probably the only being in Middle Earth who could help me to see clearly.
Gandalf hesitated, but at last he answered, his voice tense.
"A man," he said. "I saw him for the first time shortly after Bilbo's adventures. I met him near the Brandywine Bridge, and I was surprised, for men go there very seldom, if ever - the same as today. He moved around the Shire as if he were at home there, yet at the same time as if he were wandering through a dream."
He hesitated, then went on. "Although he was clad like a trader from Bree and spoke like one, I knew he was a stranger here... and not only a stranger to this part of Middle Earth, if you understand me."
For the first time I could look at him without being on my guard. It was a blessing not to have to lie, or even be silent.
"I know what you mean." I felt my face relaxing into a smile. "He was a stranger to this world... the same as me."
Gandalf smiled back and for a moment I saw Mithrandir before me, joining in hobbit celebrations, shooting fireworks into the air.
"How long did he stay?" I was eager to know more.
"The first time: nearly half a year," said Gandalf. "After that he came back from time to time, always for a few days or weeks. He was not conspicuous, but we met again and again, as if he knew where he could find me. He wandered long distances, and I often allowed him to accompany me. After some thought, I brought him to the Council. He was questioned, and he answered honestly, speaking of the world he came from. He seemed to be rather sad about many things in it... he told us it was soiled and foul. He spoke also of a war in which all his friends died in battle."
I nodded as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. "Did he ever tell you what it was like to... to change between the worlds?" I asked.
Gandalf gave me a curious look. "I do not think it caused him pain or fear," he said thoughtfully. "I had the impression that this change was as natural for him as breathing, that it was very easy for him to come and go."
He paused, then looked sharply at me again. "You know of whom I speak, do you?"
"Yes, I know him," I said. "But he didn't come from my own homeland."
He stared at me with amazement. "How do you know him, then?"
I sighed. I had been afraid of this question all the while, but he had the right to an answer.
"He wrote his experiences down," I replied. "There are many books about what he learned in Middle Earth, and everyone who wants to can read them."
"Bilbo's adventures are known in your world?"
"Oh yes, and not only his," I said. "But people think they are only stories, of course. Bilbo's adventures were written down as a tale for children, and many children know and love them."
"A tale for children?" Gandalf's jaw literally dropped. "With the spiders in Mirkwood - and the battle of the five armies? And Smaug?" Suddenly he laughed. "What kind of children do you have in your world? They must be different from the ones I know!"
I laughed with him. "Why? Don't the mothers of Middle Earth tell bedtime stories while the little ones hide anxiously under their covers?"
"Probably, yes," the wizard admitted. He rose and picked up the candle holder. "Get some sleep now. Tomorrow morning we will meet again, and I will think of what I can tell the Lord of this city about you."
"For heaven's sake, please don't!" I exclaimed, horrified.
He eyed me thoughtfully. "Maybe you are right," he said slowly. "Denethor is a very mistrustful man."
And half mad.
The thought formed in my mind before I could suppress it; reflexively I put my hand over my mouth. His face was without any expression.
"Good night," he said finally. He had turned away and was already half-way out the door when I called him back.
"Will you answer a question for me?" I asked.
"What do you want to know?"
"What was his name here? What did you call the man from my world?"
"He called himself the Pengolodh(1),"said Gandalf. "And he was right - he had astonishingly keen perception; he learned Sindarin and Quenya so thoroughly and in such a short time that he could speak both languages fluently. And he was a great storyteller! I saw him more than once in some inn with a mug of beer and a pipe, spinning a fairytale out of thin air, while the guests hung on his words. When he was here the last time - about ten years ago – Galadriel, the Lady of the Golden Wood, gave him yet another name."
"What was it?"
"She called him Starbrow."
The door closed quietly, and I was alone with the faint night light and with my thoughts. I lay down, but I couldn't sleep; my head was spinning. I remembered Tolkien's lovely tale of the young smith who wore a silver star on his brow, and the Elven Queen who gave him the same name.(2) A cultured Oxford professor, correcting semester tests and then turning away from his world without effort to wander Middle Earth. Sitting before the fire with Gandalf, smoking their pipes side by side... visiting Galadriel in the Golden Wood, learning from her about the early ages of Arda... and returning to his desk to cloak unbelievable truths in fairy tales and legends, simply to be able to tell them.
The whole idea took my breath away. It was not invented. It was all true.
But when I fell asleep at last, near dawn, my most pressing question still had not been answered.
What was I doing here?
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
(1) Pengolodh – Sindarin for linguist
(2) Tolkien's Short Story Smith of Wootton Major