The House of a Hundred Windows
When they returned to the hobbits' camp at dawn, they found Radagast enthroned on a log beside the cooking fire, placidly smoking his pipe and watching Fordibras make breakfast. The tent was collapsed on the grass, and the other hobbits were busily packing up, making ready to leave.
Malawen went over to Farador, helping him yank tent stakes out of the ground and tie them in bundles. But Canohando joined Radagast on his log, taking his seat beside the wizard without looking at him. Fordibrasbegan to make some comment, trivial in nature, but then he caught the expression on the Orc's face and bent to his cooking again.
Canohando pulled a small whetstone out of the pouch at his belt. Drawing his knife, he began sharpening it, the soft hiss of stone on metal regular as a heartbeat. It was several minutes before he spoke.
"Leave my mate alone." He looked up, holding the wizard's eye. "You are my friend, old man, and one of the Powers. But do not step between us."
Radagast coughed, waving smoke away from his face and knocking his pipe out on the log. "You are right, Canohando; forgive me." He smiled on the Orc, his eyes affectionate.
"I would have you with us, when we sail. Both of you. But I will not try again to persuade her; you must settle the matter for yourselves."
The Orc nodded. He held up his knife, inspecting it from both sides before he slid it back in its sheath and put the whetstone away.
"You are a healer, Brown One. What of this fever in the Halflings' land?"
Fordibras looked up sharply. You are a healer, aren't you? I had forgotten that. Can you help us, sir?"
"I will try," said the wizard. "I do not remember that I've ever encountered a fever such as you describe, that leaves withered limbs in its wake. I think you had best continue on to Rivendell and search Elrond's library; I hope you will find some knowledge there to guide us. But I was already on my way to the Shire. Have you had a case of the illness yet this year?"
"Two." The hobbit's voice was bleak. "Both died."
Radagast sighed. "I will do what I can. Make all the haste you may, my friend, and ask if Celeborn will give you any books on healing you find. They will not be needed in the West, but I doubt he will leave them to molder away in a deserted house. Now, at the last departure, all the treasures of Rivendell will be carried off. I will await you in the Shire, but do not tarry."
They settled down to eat, Malawen still keeping her distance from the wizard, and Canohando went to sit by her.
"He will not trouble you again, melethril. Good day to you, youngling. What is it you want?" he added, looking up at Farador, who had come beside them, carrying his breakfast with him.
"Are you really going to the Shire? What will you do there?" The hobbit sat down, uninvited.
Canohando chewed and swallowed, thinking, before he answered. "I am not certain what I will do. I would like to see the places Ninefingers talked about, his home dug into the hill, and the house with the hundred windows, that reflected the sunset..."
"That's my home, that's Brandy Hall!" Farador exclaimed, upsetting his tea on the grass in his excitement. "Did he tell about that, way off in Mordor? Oh, you must see Brandy Hall, no question, and I want to be the one to show it to you!"
He jumped up and hurried to where his uncle was talking quietly with Radagast and the other hobbits. Canohando watched in amusement. He could not quite hear what was said, but he could see Farador's quivering impatience until Fordibras turned to ask what he wanted, and the older hobbit's change of expression as Farador explained. He looked over sharply at the Orc, and Canohando shrugged, smiling.
"He is welcome to journey with us, if you can spare him," he called. "I would not be sorry to have one of your own people to speak for me, when I reach the Shire."
And Radagast added his own invitation. "It would be better, indeed, if one of you came back with us, not only to speak for Canohando, but for me, as well! Gandalf was known in the Shire, but I am a stranger. Yet I must win their trust, and quickly, if I am to do any good there."
So it came about that when the hobbits mounted their ponies to leave, Farador stood by Malawen with his hand raised in farewell, and tucked into his pack was letter for the Thain, hastily scrawled by his uncle.
"You will protect him," Fordibras said in a low voice to Radagast, turning back at the last moment as if, after all, he feared to leave the lad with strangers.
"I will watch over him as carefully as I did over Frodo," the wizard assured him. "He will come to no harm with us, Fordibras Took! But do you hurry and reach Rivendell before Celeborn departs, and bring back what knowledge you may to help us, for my time in Middle Earth grows short."
The hobbit gave a decided nod. "I will do that. Farador, see you bring him to the Thain straight off; the worst of the fever was out there last summer, and that's were it was beginning again when we left. That comes first, mind, before you start showing Canohando round the Shire!"
They left, and Radagast picked up his sack and slung it over his shoulder.
"Orc, Elf, Wizard, and Hobbit," he mused, and then he chuckled. "I doubt there's been such a motley group of travelers upon the road since the Fellowship set out from Rivendell. Come along, then, and Farador, you might humor my curiosity by telling me how you come to have such an interest in Orcs and Elves at your age! I would have expected that you had left such tales behind in the nursery."
The hobbit grinned. "Not when I have three of the Travellers as my forebears!" he said. "Even old Frodo - he didn't have any descendants, properly speaking, but Merriadoc and Peregrin were his cousins, so I'm related to him, as well. We've got the Horn of the Mark and Merriadoc's old armor at Brandy Hall, and there's a copy of the Red Book and Frodo's Memoirs in the library at Bag End. For that matter, they've still got the bear's tooth you gave him, with your pictures on it," he added, speaking to Canohando. "The Gardners keep it in a glass case in the parlor, and the swords Frodo and Samwise carried are hanging over the mantel."
"They kept the tooth? For what reason, youngling? It belonged to Ninefingers; why did they not send it with him to the funeral pyre?"
There was distress in the Orc's voice, and Farador touched his arm as if he would give comfort. "It is an heirloom," he said. "Like Queen Arwen's Jewel. And besides, you know, it is proof that he spoke the truth about the Orc he met in Mordor. They would not bury it with him, and we do not burn our dead."
Canohando grunted, and he was very quiet the rest of the day.
They reached Bree early in the forenoon, but did not stop. The third morning they came to the Shire, but were halted before they reached the border, by an iron gate. The road was flanked at this point by two stone towers, not more than three or four stories high, but strongly built and military in appearance. The gate stretched between them, higher than a tall man could have reached with outstretched arm, and topped with spikes like spear points, keen and shining. As the travelers approached, a dozen soldiers came out and took positions behind it.
Plainly there was no going on until they had explained themselves. The soldiers did not seem threatening, in spite of their swords and chain mail, but they looked straight ahead with impassive faces. Only the movements of their eyes betrayed their curiosity; they stared from Elf to Orc to Wizard, but always their gaze returned to the Orc. Canohando let go of Malawen's hand and stood straighter, staring back at the Men with solemn dignity.
A moment later another Man appeared and strode forward to greet them. He wore a winged helmet, unlike the others, who were bare-headed, and he addressed himself to Farador as to an old friend.
"Well, young Mister Brandybuck, back so soon? You have picked up new traveling companions, I see."
Farador grinned. "I'll wager you can't guess who this is, Darak! He was great friends with a member of my family, a few generations back."
"Don't wager too high, master hobbit. I know who the Orc is well enough, for we had word from Gondor to expect him. King Eldarion bids me greet you in his name, Canohando of Mordor, and he gives his leave for you to enter the Shire, if you will show forth the token Queen Arwen gave you."
Canohando stepped up to the gate, holding out the Jewel on its chain, and the man took it between his fingers, turning it so it cast sparks of light against the Orc's dark tunic.
"It is a wondrous thing, in very truth," he said reverently. "In the King's name I welcome you, Queen Arwen's Shadow. But who are these who travel with you: an Elf-child and -- a Wizard?" He looked dubiously at Radagast. "We have no orders concerning them."
Farador seemed to swell with indignation, stretching up to his full height so his eyes were on a level with the trooper's belt buckle. "You would not bar an Elf from the Shire! This is Malawen of Lothlorien -- not a child -- she is Canohando's wife, and my guest. And most assuredly Radagast is a Wizard, a friend of Gandalf the Grey in times gone by. He has come to help us against that fever my uncle told you of, for which we were seeking some cure in Rivendell. You will not deny them entry, or must I ride posthaste to get clearance for them from the Master of the Hall?"
Radagast intervened. "How if we send a messenger in your place?" He pursed his lips and whistled a few clear, liquid notes. A breathless moment later, a crow dropped out of the sky onto his outstretched arm. It examined him boldly, tipping its head from side to side as if to give each eye its proper turn, and finished by opening its beak and giving a harsh caw!
The wizard smiled and ran a finger down the bird's belly. "Yes, yes, my Rogue. I have an errand for you; be patient a little. Write a note to your father, Farador. Not too long, mind; we don't wish to overburden our envoy." He rummaged in his sack and brought out a piece of paper hardly bigger than his open palm, and so thin that it was nearly translucent. "Have you pen and ink, captain?"
Writing materials were provided, and Radagast rolled up the finished note into a narrow cylinder and tied it to the bird's leg. After a moment's thought, he took out another bit of paper and treated it the same way. "For balance, and for the answer," he explained. He leaned over the crow until his forehead nearly touched its shining head, murmuring some words they could not quite catch. Then he raised his hand and the bird soared aloft, vanishing quickly above the trees that bordered the road.
"Well, now we wait," said Farador cheerfully. "Is there anything to eat, Darak? It's a good two hours since early breakfast, and I suppose it'll be another two before we get to the Hall. As you're making us wait, it's only fair that you feed us."
"Two whole hours without food? It's a wonder you're not fainting by the side of the road, my lad!" Darak regarded the hobbit with amused exasperation. "Yes, there's bread and meat, though I'm not certain what else is available." His invitation encompassed the other three. "Not being hobbits, I don't imagine you are as famished as my young friend. But come in anyway, and have a mug of ale while you wait. My men and I are charged to guard this road, and we must be cautious, but I would not have it said that we failed in courtesy."
He disappeared into the right-hand tower, and a moment later a door opened in it on their side of the gate. Darak motioned them inside.
"You keep a good watch on the road, but might not enemies slip in some other way?" Canohando asked.
"We watch more than the road. We send out patrols, scouting along the perimeter. Though I grant you it's not foolproof, if the stray trespasser wanted to get in. But the hobbits themselves keep watch: they have their Bounders, as they always did, and Master and Thain can each field a pretty little army in short order, if it's needed. It hasn't been necessary, though, for fifty years or more. The Shire is known to be under the King's hand; that is deterrent enough for most malefactors."
Canohando made no answer.
"They had a band of brigands up by Needlehole, when I was in my tweens," Farador put in. "But hobbits tracked them to their hideout, and sent word to the Rangers; they were driven off before they did more than steal a few sheep. The Shire is a sleepy little place, really. Someday I'm going to travel and have adventures, like Uncle Ordi and old Bilbo."
"You missed your chance this time," said Darak. "I'm surprised you let them send you back; you were excited enough that they were taking you along."
Farador chortled. "Oh, there's more adventure here right now, with Canohando walking right out of old Frodo's book into the light of day! I'm going to show him the Shire, from Brandywine Bridge to Sarn Ford, and everything in between."
"Are you, indeed!" Darak smiled at the youngster, but he bent a penetrating look on the Orc. "You take an uncommon interest in the Shire's defenses," he said, and his words were both question and challenge.
Canohando reached into the pouch at his belt and drew out the scroll Arwen had given him. He handed it to Darak. "The Shire is my brother's country, and I would see it well-protected. It was Ninefingers who gave me the Jewel, and not the Queen. But I was her Shadow, and she gave me this to show you, when I should come to the border."
Darak walked over to the window, unrolling the bit of parchment and examining the little map, then turning it over to read the letter. A soldier came in quietly and spread a crisp white cloth on a table in the center of the room, setting out platters of cold beef and sliced wheat bread. He went out and came back a moment later with a pitcher of ale on a tray, surrounded by clay flagons.
Farador led Malawen and the wizard over to the table, playing the host and making certain they had what they wanted, before he served himself. But Canohando went to stand by Darak, waiting for Arwen's letter to be returned to him.
The captain finished reading and looked up, his brows drawn together. "You have read this," he said. "You know what it contains."
Canohando shrugged. "I cannot read, but she told me what she wrote: her permit for me to visit the Shire."
The Man eyed him thoughtfully, tapping the scroll against his chin. "I would like to send a copy of this letter to the King," he said at last. "Have you any objection to that?"
"No, not if I may keep the one my Lady wrote. I cannot read the words, but still it is precious to me."
Darak nodded. "That will do very well. I'll have a copy made at once, and return the original to you. Have a mug of ale while you wait, Sir Orc. It's a warm morning."
He went out, and Canohando took a mug and walked over to perch on the stone windowsill, looking out past the gate to the woods beyond the road. Malawen leaned against his knee, and he rested his cheek against her bright hair.
"I don't think I ever truly believed I would see it with my own eyes," he said softly. "It was only a beautiful story that my runt told - and now there it is."
They were kept waiting for barely an hour, before Darak came to tell them that permission had been granted for them to proceed to Brandy Hall.
"I have already sent off a messenger to Minas Tirith with the Queen's letter," he added in an undertone to Canohando as he handed the little scroll back to the Orc. "I expect a reply in three or four weeks. I would be grateful if you will stop by here again, a month from now."
Canohando regarded him beneath lowered brows. "I will do that, if it pleases you, Captain. But I wonder why you admit me to the Shire, if you have doubts about the letter."
The man smiled slightly. "The King had already opened the border for you, Sir Orc. But his Lady Mother wrote of another matter besides, which requires his attention. Come back in a month and I may be able to tell you more; in the meantime, welcome to the Shire!"
They left the fortress through a door on the Shire side of the gate, passing by several little groups of soldiers who eyed them curiously, especially the Orc. A mile down the road they came in sight of a wooden bridge with high railings, wide enough to drive two hobbit farm-carts across, side by side. The sound of the River came to them clearly, for the bridge had been built over a stretch of rapids, where the water was pinched into a narrow channel between high banks. Before they reached it, however, Farador turned aside down a wide, dusty road.
"My cousin Flora lives about five minutes from here; we'll stop on our way and say hello. She never used to believe the old stories, when we were children. Said Gandalf was no more than a bogeyman to frighten us into being good, and as for Elves --!" His face was alive with mischief. "We'll give her something to make her open her eyes."
Radagast chuckled. "A bit older than yourself, is she? Just enough to think herself much wiser than her little kinsman."
Farador nodded, his grin positively wicked. "Oh-h-h, yes! Ever so much wiser!"
He led them up a path bordered with heartsease and creeping thyme, to a blue door that was split across the middle: the top half stood open, and they could see a bright rag rug on the polished floor just inside, and a passage opening from each side of the little entrance hall.
"Oh, Flora!" Farador called, rapping his knuckles on the bottom half of the door. There was no answer, and he sang out again, louder. But when he had called the third time, shouting into the smial so that his voice seemed to bounce off the curved walls, and still there was no answer, he turned a worried look on his companions.
"Wait here a minute. She wouldn't go off and leave the door half-open, she's such a fuss-budget. I'd better see if I can find her." He went in and disappeared down the right-hand passage.
He was gone a long time. When he returned, he was more sober-faced than they had yet seen him.
"Her twins have taken ill. The healer's here, but he can't get the fever down, and they're crying with pain. Will you come and have a look, Radagast? It took us both to talk my cousin into asking you, but the healer says he'd be glad of your advice."
"Of course." The wizard ducked under the low doorway, following Farador around the corner and out of sight. A few minutes later the hobbit came back alone.
"He's going to stay and do what he can," he reported, coming out and closing both halves of the door behind him. "But I think we'd better go along to the Hall; my father is expecting us, and besides, he'll want to know the fever has broken out in Buckland. I'm glad we met up with Radagast! I hope he'll be able to help."
He had nothing more to say as they went back out to the road. The river was out of sight, hidden behind a screen of brush and willows, but they could hear the water clearly in the silence. After a while Canohando laid his hand lightly on Farador's shoulder.
"The old man is a skillful healer. I remember Ninefingers had the fever one time, when we traveled together, and the Brown One cured him."
The hobbit looked up at him gratefully. "Did he? That's good to hear. Flora's lasses are the cunningest little things, all curls and dimples, and usually they're climbing all over me when I stop by. It was awful to see them lying there crying how their legs hurt…"
They came finally to a great hill that bordered the road on the side away from the river. It was flanked on either side by sturdy stone structures, stables and outbuildings, but the hill itself was pierced by a great many round windows, large and small, scattered across its face in the most haphazard fashion, and the entire surface was festooned with a luxuriant growth of ivy, so that whatever was not polished glass was a confusion of shining leaves.
A large wooden door was set into the hillside, and as they approached, it swung open. A young hobbit, his sandy hair a tousled mop which nearly hid his eyes, stood in the entrance.
"Hurry up, Farador, your father's waiting! Is that the Orc, then?" He brushed the hair out of his eyes with one grubby hand, his gaze traveling up Canohando's body to stop at his face. His rosy mouth opened in a round O of astonishment. "Welcome to Brandy Hall, sir," he gasped, bobbing an awkward bow without looking away. "Farador," he added in an urgent whisper, "he's grey!"
Canohando gave a snort of laughter, and Farador turned red with embarrassment.
"Don't mind my cousin," he said. "He never reads anything at all, so of course he's bone ignorant. Rabby, shut your mouth, for pity's sake, and go tell them to get a couple of guestrooms ready. I'll take them up to meet Father."
The maligned cousin closed his mouth as ordered and scurried away, and Farador led Canohando and Malawen across a stone-paved room, spotted with sunlight from the many windows, and into a hallway at the far end.
Malawen clung tight to Canohando's hand, staring about her at the rounded walls, like tunnels delved into the hill. The passage was wide enough for three hobbits to walk abreast, and well-lit by torches set in brackets on the walls. But there were places where the Orc's head barely cleared the ceiling, and there were many cross-passages and turns, and very soon the visitors would have had a hard time finding their way back to the beginning.
At last they came to a long, shallow stairway that wound up past several landings before they emerged at the top. They found themselves in a round hall with at least a dozen windows looking out over the River on one side, but Farador gave them no time to enjoy the view, turning at once to knock lightly on a door in the opposite wall.
It opened immediately.
"Come in, come in." A hobbit of middle years, neat in appearance and benevolent of countenance, held open the door and urged them inside. "I am Gorbidas, Farador's uncle, and you are Canohando the Orc, is that correct? The very same who is described so unforgettably in the Memoirs of Frodo Baggins: Travels with the Wizard of Rhosgobel – dear me, dear me! It is an honor to meet you, sir. Welcome to Brandy Hall."
He held out his hand to Canohando, and when the Orc took it, the hobbit pumped his arm up and down vigorously. Canohando stared down at him in mingled wonder and amusement, but a voice from across the room made him look round.
"Very well, Gorbidas, you're not running for Mayor, and he couldn't vote for you if you were! Pour us out some of the Hall's finest and sit down, man. Come have a seat, Canohando. Is the lady your wife? Welcome, my dear."
The speaker had risen from behind a table of polished rosewood, bowing slightly. He was no taller than the other hobbits, yet he filled the room with his presence. His eyes were penetrating, seeming to take in every detail of his guests' appearance even as he indicated a seat to Canohando and came personally to escort Malawen to a cushioned chair.
"The Guardsmen apprised me some days ago that I might expect you, but I take it they had not been told of your companions. If I am to welcome an Orc, however, I don't know why I should cavil at the presence of an Elf and a Wizard! It seems this is a season of visitations. But where is Radagast the Brown?" He looked around, as if he thought the wizard might have slipped in without his notice.
"He's at Flora's smial, Father," said Farador. "The twins have the fever – I stopped there to introduce her to our visitors, and found everything in an uproar. Radagast is a healer, and he stayed to see if he could help."
The older hobbit raised his brows. "Indeed? Was Marabuc there already, then, and willing to have a colleague join him on the case?"
Farador nodded. "Of course. You'll understand when you meet Radagast, Father; you can't help but trust him."
"I shall be glad to have the opportunity of meeting him. Well, I should introduce myself: I am Sariadoc, the Master of Buckland, and sufficiently informed about Frodo Baggins's travels that I know who you are, Canohando. He did not mention in his book that you were married; am I to congratulate you upon your nuptials?"
Canohando had ignored the seat the Master pointed out to him, sitting cross-legged on the floor by Malawen's chair. He fingered the Jewel at his throat as he considered the question.
"You use too many words I do not know, Master of Buckland," he said finally. "Malawen is my mate, but Ninefingers never met her. Yet it was his gift that sent me searching for the Elf-Queen, and so I came to Lothlorien, where she was... that is a strange thought." He met the Master's eyes, suddenly intent. "Farador tells me that you still keep the bear tooth I gave my runt. I wonder why."
Gorbidas chose that moment to come between them with his tray of brandy glasses. Canohando took one and brought it to his lips, but when he tasted the fiery liquor he made a face and set the glass down on the floor, sliding it out of the way under Malawen's chair.
Gorbidas held the tray before Malawen, indicating a slender flute of some pale liquid, alone among the fat brandy glasses. "Dandelion wine," he murmured, but she reached out deliberately and took one of the brandies.
"I drink what my mate does, and nothing else," she said clearly.
Gorbidas looked over at the Master, distressed at her rudeness and the Orc's uncouth manners, but helpless to find a proper response. Sariadoc looked from his beleaguered kinsman to the challenging mien of the Orc, and swirled the brandy in his glass, inhaling the aroma with a beatific smile. Then he met Canohando's gaze again, and unexpectedly he began to chuckle.
"Now at last I see what I have missed by staying close at home, instead of seeking adventure in the wider world," he said. "I begin to regret my lost youth, and I may have to take to the Road in my old age. Why, Canohando, what would you have had us do with that tooth of yours? I don't have it, by the way; it is kept at Bag End, in Frodo's old home, under a crystal dome, I believe. A strange mathom to keep in one's parlor, I always thought, in spite of its historical interest. But what would you do with it?"
The Orc frowned. "It belonged to Ninefingers. Why take it from him?"
"You would have buried it with him?" The Master nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, that would have been appropriate. It was his, as you say. But, you see, it was considered a badge of honor: the mark of one of his two great accomplishments. He destroyed the Ring - and tamed an Orc! (I hope you will forgive me for putting the matter so baldly.) We hobbits are rather prone to keep souvenirs of that sort. Do Orcs not do so?"
Malawen had emptied her brandy, and was looking around vaguely, blinking. Canohando took the glass from her hand and slid it under the chair with his own.
"You are a strange people, you halflings: so gentle-seeming, yet tough as old boot-leather. I thought my runt was one of a kind, but I think now he had many brothers."
Sariadoc's face softened. "Ah, no. Frodo Baggins was unique, in the Shire as elsewhere. When you have been here a while longer, you will begin to see the difference. But come, I will show you some of my souvenirs. If Frodo had a brother, other than his Orc, it was Samwise Gardner - and Mayor Sam was my wife's grandsire. My mother did a rather good sketch of them together, the last summer of their lives, and I inherited it. I think you may find it interesting."
He rose and led them back out to the round room at the top of the stairs. In a little alcove facing the windows, there hung a framed charcoal sketch. Canohando looked at it and drew a long breath.
The round-faced hobbit in the fore of the picture he passed over without interest, but the narrow face slightly to the rear, with its high cheekbones and humorous eyes, was no less familiar and no less dear, than it had been when he said farewell in a mountain clearing more than a century before.
My runt...
Malawen crept under his arm and leaned against him, still muzzy from the brandy. He drew her in front of him and wrapped his arms around her, drawing comfort from the touch and scent of her, and tears ran down his face and fell, to glimmer softly on her blonde curls.
Sariadoc watched without speaking, and at length he took Farador by the arm and urged him away, back into his study.
"Leave them in peace for a bit, my lad. We'll just have another glass while you tell me more about this Wizard you left caring for the twins. I don't think the Hall's finest agrees with our guests, one way and another. I must say, I never thought he'd have such a strong reaction to my mother's little drawing. It seems old Frodo wasn't far off, when he called the Orc his brother."