Ruins
.oOo.
At the Sign of the Drunken Goose…
The old ranger spread his long boots in front of the fireplace, where a good fire is crackling. As fall is slowly settling in the hills, the marauder lingers a little at the Drunken Goose, after his patrol along the Green Road.
People here like him. The peasants of Thalion probably do not fully understand the mission of his kin, but the ranger is known to occasionally tell some good story, a glass of fine wine in his hand.
Yet tonight, the guy feels a little bit in trouble - last time he let himself embellish an episode of troll hunting...
So now the audience is waiting for thrills...
Never mind! He will tell them the story of his great-great-grandfather ...
.oOo.
Baranwë lengthened his pace. His aquiline gaze hovered on either side of the rocky ridge, he had followed since dawn. Nothing escaped his hunting instinct - a quails' nest, a broken heather, a slight change in the song of a bird, a disturbed cairn, a hare scouring away, the tingling of a predator's gaze set on him…
The quiet opulence of the grove bathed his vigilant soul with melancholy. In a thicket overgrown with mosses, where vigorous basswood bordered a few twisted apple-trees, the ranger recognized an old orchard. A little farther on, in the meadow, where sounded the pheasants' cries of alarm, the wild grass were mingled with the cereals of the former days sharecroppers. In the heart of the ancient country, nature covered the treasures of men, with a protective coat of wild leaves.
The old road had almost entirely disappeared, ravined by the rains near the hills' edge, or invaded by thickets in the wooded coombs. Sometimes a construction recalled that men had formerly reigned supreme in these regions of Arthedain - a majestic bridge, a clear trench, a powerful embankment, or a collapsed coaching relay invaded by brambles.
Baranwe was having a reconnaissance to the north of his watch area, between the haunted ruins of Fornost and the sacred lake of Nenuial. Sometimes he observed from the summit of the chalky crests, sometimes he surveyed the passages through the old buckthorn and sorb trees hedgerows. His people were the secret masters of these valleys and hills. They knew how to interpret the signs - the softer hue of the heathers on a hillside, the breaking of a stone, the scars on a bark, any paw print, all these clues that feed the wilderness rumor for the watchfull eye, ear and heart.
The ranger reached the remains of a royal milestone, which now only the dunedain knew how to decipher. In the distance, to the north of the road, steeped in the bosom of a wooded valley, stood a ruin - no doubt the campanile of an old manor house above a clump of tall elms. Baranwe's heart leapt into his chest, as if his sub-conscience warned him of some invisible clue. He paused for a moment, sniffing the quiet air as chirping swallows crossed the sky.
From time to time, the graceful birds lurched suddenly behind the thickets, before flying up again sharply towards the sky. Baranwe frowned. A large expanse of open water probably laid right behind the trees along the old roadway - the swallows came there to drink. The chirping of birds in flight attracted him, though he didn't really know why.
.oOo.
The ranger cautiously followed a hedge bristling with hazel and blackthorn. Some Blackbirds nibbled under the hedge noisily groused when he passed. Childhood images came back to him with the scent of humus - a nut orgy in the shadow of a makeshift hut, a fox slaughtered with a slingshot not far from a henhouse...
At hedge turn, he came across a ruined canal. The debris of a wooden wheel were rotting in the silted canal. The broken masonry bank now dumped its overflow of water into a pond below. Baranwe had been right: above, the swallows were dancing their happy aerial round. The ranger flinched as new reminiscences surfaced at the margins of his consciousness - a swim in the sun, the slimy sensation of a freshly caught silvery tench, his toddler hands let escape over the water...
A little shaken by these untimely memories, that disturbed his concentration during his inspection, the ranger followed the dry bank of the canal, past the ruined mill.
Why did this valley seem familiar to him? Without expressing his doubt, Baranwe crossed an ancient garden, like a silent shadow between the currant shrubs overflowed with brambles.
The ranger picked up a golden quince. After taking the plush away and shining it on his archer's arm greave, he munched into the hard flesh. The harsh taste spread fire down to his throat. He remembered tasting the fruit of his childish plunder, then licking his fingers, sticky with jam, in front of a large copper basin. "So, is it not better after cooking, young rascal? One must learn to wait and let the cauldron do its magic... ", said a serious and gracious old lady, her benevolent smile leaning towards his sticky little face.
Baranwë returned to the present time. How could these fragments, so deeply buried that they never resurfaced in his mind, flow now, so full of tasty details from before the Fall? The ranger climbed an embankment covered with aromatic herbs - why was he not surprised to find some there, overgrown by quackgrass and dandelion?
At the top he had a shock: centenarian oaks that had lined the majestic avenue, lay dead, left to rot on the spot - orc work, and recent, alas! Anger overwhelmed him despite his training. The vile brood had left its odious trampling around a burnt stump, but the ranger did not examine the tracks. The warrior quickly bend his bow and nocked an arrow. Flexible as a hunting lynx, he slipped into the thickets on the other side of the alley.
.oOo.
His instinct guided Baranwe's steps. Orcs would stay by day, preferably in caves or dark coppices. A dull anger, strange for a ranger with his experience, pushed him forward, ready to attack head-on a whole company of goblins. He walked the path - cautiously all the same - running from tree to tree in the shadow of the forest. He was approaching the enemy, he felt it. Before him, dark foliage overhanging the driveway, shivered in the breeze. Slow and silent, the ranger circled the clump, placing himself under the wind. At the edge of the thicket, he stopped and let his eyes get used to the shadows.
The ranger was right. He detected an unpleasant smell, halfway between the stable and the polecat. A few fathoms in front of him, a gloomy and malevolent gleam blazed under the foliage shadows, in an indistinct mutter.
The desire to kill guided his arrow. The war arrowhead pierced the orc's orbit and the shaft perforated through the skull. The mass of foul flesh collapsed with a disgusting gurgling.
A wave of satisfaction ran along the ranger's spine - but he remained on guard, arming his bow halfway again. Baranwë quickly searched the watch place: no one. The others must be inside, hidden in the cellars.
The ranger remained a long time at the edge of the wood, to observe the surroundings of the manor. A cracked steeple overhung a courtyard, surrounded by several buildings. But the main building held his attention: its walls, of beautiful masonry, were braced on indestructible basements, made with large stone blocks, now calcined. A tide of ivy had covered the wall facing him, but Baranwë could see through the leaves a few tall, slender windows that did not let any light through. The internal structure of the building had therefore probably withstood the fire.
Everything had been quiet for several minutes. Yet the ranger felt a presence, a conscience on the lookout. From time to time he thought he heard a sort of stifled complaint, a little as if the manor, held captive by the orc soldiery, was appealing to him.
Obviously, that was ridiculous... But Baranwë did not stand this enemy presence in the heart of old Arthedain. Finaly he came out of the wood; avoiding the half-collapsed wooden bridge, he advanced as carefully as possible through the bushes that had invaded the manor's defense ditch.
With a thousand precautions, the ranger walked along the formidable foundations, then went up the ditch along the bridge beams, collapsed and eaten by the mushrooms.
.oOo.
Now the warrior was hiding behind a pillar, at the entrance to the courtyard. The gatehouse had collapsed, just like the stable that one guessed on the left, encumbering the court with stones and blackened bricks. Baranwë stepped forward, closely watching the dark openings all along the house on his right.
Quickly he inspected the oven, the stable and the forge, all of which had been ransacked. The ranger was about to sneak into the guardhouse, when he heard a grunt a few steps behind him.
Quick as a man in danger, he cocked his arrow as he turned around.
A stocky, claudicating orc wielded a war hammer. Fortunately for Baranwë, the brightness, still strong, had hindered the monster. The ranger had time to adjust his shot, which struck the orc in the chest, in the dirty leather between two blades of steel.
The large armed body, thrown back, collapsed on the pavement in a clatter of junk, that woke the echo of the walls all around the courtyard. The empennage twitched for a few moments during the orc's last jolts. The court rang for a long time with the jingling of its metallic panoply. In the dunadan's confused mind, an old tumult echoed, reflected by the beautiful facade of blond rubble, still unscathed by war and fire.
Anguished bursts of voices burst in the courtyard, interspersed with the nervous clatter of hooves on the pavement. Men with distressed features, their war tackle on their shoulders, were piling up their meager wealth in carts, their families boarding to pass the gateway forever. A kid, with a heavy heart, was contemplating his crumbling universe. Baranwë relived the invasion in the tearing of his family - the grandfather fiercely refused to leave his land, though threatened by the hordes of Angmar. There had the Fall occurred. Here childhood had sunk.
.oOo.
As in a dream, Baranwë staggered to the gatehouse ruins. Since no enemy had reacted to all this din, he was sure none would come now! Feverishly he searched for the ridge stone of the porch in the rubble near the entrance. No more doubt about it: on the broken shield, one could still see the graceful gold leaves and grapes on a purple field, his own coat of arms, of the Malgwîn1 family.
In a waking dream, the ranger, brought back as a child, roamed the rooms, picking at random the buried snatches of the golden age - here the smell of the loaves rising slowly in the oven, there the joyful tinkling of the hammer on the forge, farther the splendor of a marble flight of steps enhancing the sober majesty of family portraits. How small the paved courtyard was! How great and powerful it had seemed to him! That was not ivy, covering the fire-blackened walls with a modest veil, that was vine! Vine, the pride of his ancestors, cultivated on the chalky grounds of these blessed slopes...
His sword lowered, Baranwë let the maze of memories guide his somnambulist steps around the manor. He saw the grandfather, kneeling in the trellis, taking care of the centenarian vine plants. Time had taken its toll. The plants stifled with yellow grains, the wild winding sprigs, the plants stunted or eaten down with mildew, he saw with a heavy heart, as if the whole hope of the exiled Dunedain had been there, a treasure hidden in his valley.
Then the ranger went to work. He sheathed his sword and grabbed his dagger. The weapon again could be a tool. For a long time he cleared the vine plants, patiently cleaned and stirred the soil, slowly attached the guides and spread the branches, promises of the fruits of tomorrow. The earth remembered the hands that had worked it, and still helped to sustain the ordeal of a long winter, hoping for a distant rebirth.
Finally, in a great saving fire, he burned the sick feet and the killer weeds. In the sweet smell of the branches, he long contemplated the refreshing redness.
But in the clear evening air, rose the white volutes of the fire smoke, which could be seen from many leagues...
.oOo.
Baranwe was drawn from his torpor, by the dry crackling of a branch under a shod foot.
Too late.
By the corner of his eye, he guessed the race of a spear thrown toward his loins. Instantly, he wrapped around the deadly trajectory, as flexible as a cat. The line scratched his side, tearing his leather tunic without penetrating deeply into the flesh. Restoring his balance and turning in the same movement, he adjusted his hold on his dagger and had only time to grasp the grimacing face of a goblin.
The creature was already wielding a second spear. The dunadan's dagger sprang out of pure survival instinct. The next moment, the goblin, surprised by this metallic taste and his difficulty in swallowing, fell on his knees.
The ranger lay down quickly behind a trellis and dressed his wound summarily. He had let himself be stupidly surprised and was getting away with it! If the enemy projectile had been an arrow...
But he probably had other opponents. Goblins are cowards and gregarious creatures, who never risk themselves alone in hostile territory, even in the evening...
Baranwe prepared bow and arrows, despising his pain, and crawled out of the halo of his fire's fading light. He hid himself, sheltered behind a stump.
He did not have long to wait. Laden with iron and leather, a short figure approached the hearth, its thin and crooked limbs armed with barbed spears. The goblin leaned over his dying congener, removing the beautiful murderous dagger with a mocking sneer. When he straightened up, careless, to put his battle loot at his belt, Baranwë's arrow pierced his throat. The steel of the dunedain mocks the coarse goblin mesh...
But the ranger had revealed his position, he had to change it. The low rays of the setting sun bathed the foliage with their warm colors. Baranwe had only a few minutes to take advantage of this windfall and annihilate his attackers... After which, under the guise of a moonless night, he would become an easy prey.
.oOo.
With an oath to exorcise his pain, but all the speed of his long legs, the ranger faced the sun in an irregular course. He heard two ill-fitting. Only two! Victory maybe was within reach...
One of the shots passed so close that the goblin arrow whistled in his ears, and got stuck in an ash tree trunk, with a dull sound. Baranwe seized the opportunity and, clinging to a low branch of the same tree, rushed behind its rough trunk. The hideous and gross arrow revealed the enemy shooting line. The ranger armed slowly, forming vows for Orome to bless him. The dunadan arrow flew, heavy with the abnegation of all his people, and found its target through the branches, blindly!
Not far from the body groaning on the ground, a screech of fright resounded in the evening air, and Baranwë heard a gallop in the undergrowth. Just one more!
A panic fear had seized the survivor. The dunadan had to take advantage of it, not to mention he could not let the goblin return to his lair and gather reinforcements.
Baranwe rushed to his last victim. He found it lying on the leaves carpet, pulling out the arrow that had pierced its groin. The goblin was decked with motley bimbelotry, no doubt looted in the tombs and castles of ancient Arthedain. A captain! The ranger blew the coup de grace without any qualms.
Then he sat up, out of breath. His injury was hurting him more and more, but it should wait. He listened, trying to calm his breathing, but he could hear nothing any more.
Instinctively the ranger moved north through the woods - the attackers' den must have been there. He tried to find some breath and the trail of the last goblin, but his head was spinning.
Suddenly, while crossing one of those curious figures, sometimes sculpted by the rains in limestone, Baranwë had an illumination, from the bottom of his childhood memories: the rocky bar that bordered the wood in the north had only one fault, one only way. With a little luck, he could reach it before the fugitive and forbid him to pass. Like in the past, he followed at a trot the limestone piles he had spotted so many times as a child.
He reached the rift just before the goblin, who, alive like a snake, tried to escape. But Baranwë mobilized all his strength despite the pain. Feeling heeled, the terrified creature turned around to throw its last spear - that was its loss. In an instant, the ranger was on it and without pity, soon put an end to its pathetic squeaks.
But the victory cost the dunadan dearly - his wound burned him horribly, and as he slowly returned to the mansion, he began to suffocate, feeling dizzy and nauseous.
.oOo.
When Baranwe entered the courtyard of the manor, he was no longer able to fight. Fortunately for him, he was not deceived as to the number of his enemies and had killed them all. His temples buzzed, he stumbled at every step, and his fever was increasing. His injury to the side made him suffer less, but that was very alarming.
Yet his steps could lead him to his hiding place of the past: he reached the high hall of the manor and, in spite of vertigo and pain, climbed up a stone ladder, hidden in the huge chimney, which led to a space entirely hidden in the thickness of the wall. The place was a perfect retreat: an arrow slit faced the ditch, another looked on the courtyard, and furthermore, a staircase led upstairs.
The cache was already not very big for the kid he had been. It proved very cramped for an adult dunadan. But the idea of resting in a haven that the enemy had not defiled was a great comfort to him. Baranwe lay on his side, clearing his wound and examining it as best he could, in the dim light.
He found it strangely insensitive and purulent. Very strange for a fresh cut, less than two hours old... He removed the pus, abnormally viscous and thick, then cleaned the wound with grape spirit. The pain he felt reassured him, even though it almost made him unconscious.
Clenching his teeth, the dunadan had to face the facts: the spear that had hurt him was probably poisoned! If only he had cleaned it up sooner!
Writhing in pain, the ranger then forced himself to an extra cleaning of the wound, and with the rest of wisdom that could find his feverish spirit, tried to take a little rest, despite the secret terror of never waking up again...
.oOo.
Some noise!
Still the mirages of fever?
A distant chime waved an arpeggio of terror. The campanile?
Baranwë, shivering, opened a worried eye.
A moonbeam, thin and cold, fell from an arrow slit.
He tried to rally his spirits, which was wandering in the lands of madness, pursued by frightening chimeras.
A confused noise swelled in the yard.
Then Baranwe got up, painfully, and haggard, plunged his hallucinated gaze through the arrow slit.
Down below, the moon bathed in blue light the little courtyard's cobblestones.
In the shadows of the porch there was a rustle, some asides. One whispered, raising one's voices, vehemently discussing precedence.
Maids, their arms laden with baskets, pressed to enter. Valets raised sallow torches, demanding passage for their masters.
Soon the courtyard was full of men, women and children investing the outbuildings, spreading the joyful and feverish urgency, which announces the great festivals. The servants were going to the kitchens, glancing at the valets, who smiled and helped them with their loads.
One gave way to the carriages, the golds of which gleamed in the moonlight. A rider made a noisy round of honor, his panache twirling under the cheers. Some carriage chairs waddled laboriously in the crowd.
In a friendly disorder, people came down the cars, went out of chairs, everybody put order in one's outfit, the cavalier dismounted with brio, beat the dust of the road with his hat and hailed a stableman, while the masters hustled their people.
The gentry was taking one another by the arm, like old acquaintances, people walked up the steps to the stoop while talking or leading the pavane with great pomp. People expected one another, hailed each other, and finally entered the manor like a company that knows the house.
Stunned, his head heavy, Baranwe trailed on the floor. Who was inviting oneself to his house, neighbours, madness?
At the bottom of the grand staircase, people greeted each other, bowing in a jingle of rapiers or curtsying in a silky rustle of crinolines. The porter was casually laden with coats and a cavalier mantle. After the compliment recited by the children, they were given leave, and they fled like a flock of skinny and tired sparrows. Precious chirps sounded like the tone of voice of former days, high and quavering voices confided in each other, exchanged hearsays.
White wigs, powdered with the dust of centuries, nodded in concert. The slender figures were bent a little stiff, a little embarrassed by the long swords and the large baskets of the dresses.
All these people seemed stunted, hacked into the pomp of a fallen age, draped in the faded gold of before the Fall.
Soon the festive fever had set the whole mansion on glittering fire. Starched lackeys timidly lighted the chandeliers, one by one, candles that seemed to count the years of torment since the Fall of the kingdom. Candles were flickering on the windows, candelabras were spinning on the stairs.
A string quartet, perched on the broken balustrades, murmured the measures of obsolete minuets. Like a tightrope walker following his own sinuous thread in the midst of the dancers, the dazed dunadan watched these old ladies turn slowly, bowing in the beat with a vacant air, those old gentlemen who marked the triplets with a martial and wistful face. Pavanes and saltarellas revived the glory of the blackened rooms. The floor was almost covering with heavy carpets. The calcined paneling seemed to bloom with refreshed paintings. The fragments of the large mirror above the fireplace seemed to revive the glare of its reflections, echoing these ancient tunes.
Baranwe's eyes were burning, his heart was pounding. He struggled in vain against this poison which infected his mind with the most foolish rantings. Haggard, he was wandering through the crowd of guests, who were walking about, dispersing and talking. The ladies, in the arms of their knights, mimicked and hid their toothless smiles behind fans of mosty tulles.
At the boston table, there were some jests between two pledges, old-fashioned scandals were laughed at, Fornost's latest fashion was discussed in detail.
From the depths of his delirium, Baranwe could feel that these extravagances announced his end. He seemed to be wandering ever further, in the fatal hallucinations of a moribund. And all these old barons took it easy, invading the floors, spreading on the cushions of his childhood, treading the carpets of his past! The ranger called for help, but none of these old gentlemen would deign to answer him, hailing here a partner for the cards, picking there a lady for a dance! And yet ...
A lanky fellow, his eyes deep-set, his old silks stitched on a modest coat, approached him with a valiant air and a dignified, though a little shaky step, with a pale flute in hand.
Staggering, incredulous, Baranwe grabbed hold of the outstretched hand and glass, and, surprised by the consistent sensation of reality of the crystal, heavy and fresh, stared at the golden and syrupy liquid poured for him. In front of the old man's pleasant air, he drank and saluted him - did he not have a vague air of family? But where did this noble knight invite him to?
The next moment, the liquid fire spread in his throat, the pain rekindled in his side, overcame his feverish spirit, which flew away from him, giving up hope, body and soul!
.oOo.
A golden light crept through the arrow slit, down to the wounded who frowned. He had a terrible headache, but his fever had fallen. It was now daylight enough, the dunadan cleaned up his wound again and was able to sew it, the hard way, lying on the stone of his cache.
What an awful night! From his intertwined nightmares, Baranwë only remembered his confused struggle against goblins, poison, and hallucinations.
Tickled by a slight doubt, he made a huge effort to rise, and glanced outside. Everything was quiet. The corpse of the orc he had killed the day before, lay on the pavement of the sunny little courtyard.
Yet on the flagstones of his haven, beside the ranger's light pack, were an oaken keg and a crystal glass.
The glass was cracked and the keg empty. But warm scents of grilled walnut and caramelized quince were leaking out. And the dunadan, in spite of all likelihood, attributed his miraculous cure to these tenuous effusions, mirages of a vanished time.
Childhood sometimes impart strange beliefs...
.oOo.
At the sign of the drunken goose…
The fire of vine branches is extinguished in the chimney. The old ranger sighs, snorts... and coughs.
Would Finran still have some of this golden wine from the Shire? He feels a cough start that should be treated. Yellow wine, that heals of everything ...
.oOo.
NOTES
1 Sindarin Mal : golden, and Gwîn : wine, vine.