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Chapter 4: An Unexpected Party
Back in the clearing, Mithrandir waited until the last Orc footfall had faded away before climbing down from his tree and settling himself comfortably at its base. Judging from the giggles and rustling noises, the wizard was still surrounded, but he did not fear being pelted by either rocks or apples. Calmly, he took out his pipe and began to puff vigorously. Soon he had filled the clearing with smoky creatures, and the giggles were replaced with "oohs" and "ahs." Pleased with the results of his vaporous efforts, Mithrandir abandoned any pretense of solemnity and smiled at his hidden audience. "I do believe," he chuckled, "that these younglings are every bit as delighted by this simple show as a passel of Periannath are by my far more elaborate firework displays."
In the end, however, it was the wizard who was amazed and awed. A little face peeped out cautiously from around a tree. "Ah," murmured the Istar, for Dunlending children were notoriously shy. A second face popped out from behind a shrub. "Ooh," breathed Gandalf, trying not to sound as if he were squealing. He smiled encouragingly at the two little ones, and suddenly the faces of urchins filled every bush. Mithrandir's own face began to ache from smiling, but he would not let his expression falter. Finally, almost past hope, one of the smallest of the children stepped hesitantly from cover. He was either exceptionally brave or too young to be as fearful as the others. Mithrandir conjured up the finest stallion in his smoky repertoire and sent it trotting toward the youngster. Wonderingly, the child put up his hand, and in smoky strands the steed slipped between his fingers, rematerializing on the other side of his hand. The young one laughed aloud, and the clearing was immediately filled with children. The stallion broke into a gallop, and cheering urchins raced round and round after it until at last it dissipated into tendrils of smoke. Then the children turned expectantly toward Mithrandir, who obliged them by puffing forth a dragon. "The dragon breathes dragons," shouted one daring lad, thereby confirming what the wizard had long suspected: that the Dunlendings had nicknamed him after those fire-breathing beasts. He had thought he had heard the word muttered from bushes as he had passed through Dunland on his many journeys. It had never before been pronounced in such tones of friendship, however.
Mithrandir spent several pleasant hours entertaining the children. At last, though, he sighed. "I am sorry, my children, but I seem to have smoked through a journey's worth of pipe weed."
"My Da grows pipe weed," volunteered a boy. "He would sell you some."
"Excellent!" Mithrandir pulled out a coin. The child shook his head.
"That coin is too large. We shan't be able to change it. Have you no smaller coin?"
Mithrandir shook his head. "I haven't, but no matter. My friend and I ought to restock, for our supply of victuals has been much reduced. Fill out the balance with such foodstuffs as your folk are willing to sell."
It was true that the travelers had eaten such fresh food as they had carried at the outset of their journey, but they were well provided with dried provisions. Mithrandir had also neglected to mention that Legolas was perfectly capable of replenishing their food stocks through hunting. Still, strictly speaking, the wizard was not telling a lie when he said their supply of victuals had been "reduced." Mainly, however, he was desirous of obtaining more pipe weed so that he might continue to indulge the children. If that meant purchasing food beyond their needs, then so be it.
As Mithrandir had expected, when the child and his companions returned, they bore with them not only the pipe weed but also more food than would fit into either the wizard's or the Elf's pack. "Oh, dear," said the wizard, pretending to be surprised and perplexed as he surveyed the cheese, bread, apples, and dried meat that the urchins laid out before him. "I have miscalculated how much that coin would purchase. My friend and I won't be able to carry all of this provender. Well, it would be a shame to let it go to waste. I shall eat some of it straightaway, and I should be very grateful if you would join me."
Children are always hungry, and Dunlending children especially so. In short order, then, Mithrandir was joined in an impromptu picnic by gleeful youngsters who were both well-entertained and well-fed. He himself ate little, for he was content to puff upon his pipe and watch the antics of children who, however briefly, were carefree. For this interlude would indeed be brief, the wizard thought sadly. Mithrandir knew that many of the youngsters would never reach adulthood. The harvest had been good this year, but there was no telling what the next year might bring. Famines struck Dunland frequently, and in a famine, the young were among the first to die. If hunger did not kill them outright, then disease would take them. If they survived both hunger and disease, there was yet a third peril to reckon with. Driven by want, some clans would raid the settlements of other clans. Even if children were not targeted outright in such raids, they might still be cut down in the melee or perish in burning huts. If they survived, they often died soon thereafter of exposure. In other cases, the raiders would carry off not only such foodstuffs as they could find but also anything worth selling—and as slaves children had value. One could always find willing buyers amongst roving Southron traders who would drag their captives off to Harad, where the children would suffer either short, miserable lives or long, equally miserable ones. Mithrandir thought that the former would be preferable to the latter.
And what of those who survived to inherit the hardscrabble farmsteads of their fathers? Their lot would be better than that of a slave, but not by much. The early promise of childhood would shrivel into a desperate, grasping adulthood. Mithrandir had seen it as he passed through their settlements. Always there were the ragged, hollow-faced men and women who peered suspiciously out at him from the doorways of their dark, noisome huts. Behind them, hidden in the darkness, would be their equally ragged children, the ones who, like the children before him, wanted only food and encouragement to be as lively as any youngster raised in Elrond's household. But they would get neither. This one day, when they were smiled upon by a wizard, was unlike any other that they would ever experience: a respite from the harshness of their lives, but only that—a respite.
Mithrandir's gloomy meditation abruptly ended when he felt a soft pressure upon his knee. His eyes came back into focus, and he saw that a little girl, no older that five, had crept near and laid her tiny hand upon his knee. Crouching, she regarded him gravely. Slowly, Mithrandir raised his pipe to his mouth and breathed out a tiny unicorn, which pranced delicately about the child's hand. A trace of a smile creased her face, and it remained after the unicorn dissolved into wisps of vapor. To Mithrandir's astonishment and delight, the little girl climbed over his knee and settled into his lap, where she commenced to play with his beard. 'Well', the wizard thought to himself, 'this hasn't happened to me in several centuries. No, indeed, not since Legolas was of a size with this one and adopted me as a sort of grandfather. Ah', he sighed pensively, 'that was a special time'.
Mithrandir looked tenderly at the child, who was soon joined by two little boys who perched upon his knees. His legs were falling asleep, and he knew that he would suffer dreadful spasm when they began to come back to life, but he didn't care. 'I had forgotten', he murmured to himself, 'what a wonderful feeling it is to be trusted by a child. My labors had completely driven it from my mind'.
While Mithrandir was rediscovering the pleasures of being a 'grandfather', his 'grandson' was bringing considerably less pleasure to the Orcs who hunted him. To weary his foes, Legolas led them through fen and briar. He moved at a rapid pace, too, which the Orcs were hard put to match. Further and further ahead the Elf drew until he came to a river where he judged that he might give his pursuers the slip. Fording the river, he made sure to leave obvious the point at which he came out again on the other side. From that spot he went on a little further, until he reached a rocky patch where he judged it would seem natural for the Orcs to lose the trail. There Legolas removed Mithrandir's boots. He crammed them into his pack and pulled on his own lighter footgear. Next he retraced his steps to the river, this time making sure not to leave any marks. When he regained the channel, he did not at once return to the western bank but instead hid himself in a thicket. The Elf was resolved to take a toll of Orcs before slipping away to rejoin Mithrandir.
Bow in hand, Legolas waited patiently until the Orcs came marching down to the river. The creatures shuddered at the feel of the cold, clear water upon their feet, but their leader forced them onward. "Ye be scum, but I reckon ye won't melt," he jeered, prodding at the nearest Orc with his scimitar. Whining, the Orcs lurched forward. Legolas almost regretted ambushing such pathetic creatures, but he reminded himself that this large band of rabble had felt no compunctions against seeking the death of two lightly armed travelers. Putting pity aside, he drew his bow taut. 'First I shall bring down their chieftain', he said to himself. 'That will throw the column into disarray, and I shall be able to pick off quite a few before they have the wit to retreat'.
His plan worked as expected. His first arrow pierced the throat of the chieftain, who staggered soundlessly forward a few paces before collapsing face first into the water. Not realizing that he had been felled by a missile, the other Orcs stood stupidly about the body, staring down at the corpse and ignorant of their danger. Legolas shot several who stood at the edges of this scrum. Each time he aimed for the neck, thus depriving his victims of speech. The other Orcs, with their backs turned to their slain companions, did not even know that they had fallen.
At length, however, one of the Goblins squawked and clutched at his neck before he collapsed, in doing so drawing the attention of his fellows.
"'Ere now, 'e's got an arrow in 'is neck," one of his companions noted wisely. A second later this highly observant Orc was himself felled by a missile, and panic ensued, the larger Goblins trampling the smaller ones in their haste to retreat to the western shore.
Legolas, meanwhile, slipped downstream, keeping to cover until he had passed beyond a bend in a river and could cross back to the western bank without being spotted. Giving the surviving Orcs a wide berth, he began the trek back to the clearing where Mithrandir awaited him. When he reached the edge of that glade, he found his friend still besieged by children. Some sat nearby nibbling at the remnants of the feast. Others played upon the ground with simple toys that they had devised upon the spot out of twigs and leaves. The two little boys remained perched upon the wizard's knees, and the little girl, still in the wizard's lap, was now examining his pointed hat, holding it upside down and peering into it as if she expected to find something hidden therein—a rabbit, perhaps, or a dove.
Legolas eased himself down upon his haunches and sat enjoying the peaceful scene. Like Mithrandir, he was reminded of bygone days. 'I used to be the one sitting in Mithrandir's lap playing with his hat', he thought wistfully. 'Is it possible that he remembers', he mused. 'Don't be silly', he quickly scolded himself. 'Mithrandir is concerned with much more important matters than such trifles. Still, he does look remarkably content, more so than I remember seeing him in a long time. I wonder….'
Occupying himself with such thoughts, Legolas observed the scene for a little while longer before deciding that they really ought to move on. The Orcs having been decoyed away, the two of them ought to make for the Gap of Rohan whilst the way remained safe. Softly he arose and slowly he stepped into the clearing. Unfortunately, in spite of his careful movements, the children scattered at the sight of him. Apparently only the bravest of Dunlending children were willing to risk an interview with an Elf.
"What do you mean by frightening them off like that?" Mithrandir said indignantly. Then the wizard caught himself. "It is best we remain on good, or at least not bad, terms with their parents," he harrumphed. "We don't want the younglings scampering back to their villages with tales of being threatened by fearsome warrior-elves. Such a state of affairs might cause difficulties for us on the return journey."
"I am sorry, Mithrandir," said Legolas meekly, hiding a grin. So the old codger had been indulging his sentimental side after all. Legolas tucked away that information for future use. For now, though, he helped the wizard to his feet. As Mithrandir had expected, his legs pained him dreadfully when circulation began to return to them. With Legolas supporting him, he stomped about the clearing a few times. Finally, his legs fully recovered, he joined Legolas in packing the remaining foodstuffs—a very small item, you may be sure! Then, shouldering their packs, Elf and Istar resumed their trek south.
Miles away, on the western edge of Fangorn forest, a panting messenger stood before a figure clothed in white. "What do you mean, they got away?" snarled the white-robed wizard—for it was indeed Saruman. "How could two elude so many?"
"Tricksy Elveses," stammered the Orc runner. "Tricksy Elveses, that's wot it were." The Goblin trembled so hard that he could hardly stand, for Saruman was well known for his peremptory executions of messengers who brought ill news. This time, however, Saruman was so perplexed by his latest failure to slay Legolas that he forgot all about the runner, who slunk away as soon as he saw his master distracted. Legolas—that ungrateful brat—remained alive. As for that fool Mithrandir, he still possessed a secret that for some unaccountable reason, and in spite of his professed respect for the master of his order, he would not disclose to him. Saruman had instructed the Orcs to capture Mithrandir, bind and blindfold him, and bring him to Orthanc, where in the dungeon Haradhrim expert in torture awaited him. Saruman had been in hopes that where persuasion had failed pain might avail. Yet once again the grey wizard had slipped like smoke through his fingers. In frustration, Saruman brought his staff down upon the ground so hard that it was a wonder that it did not shatter. Uttering oaths in the Black Tongue, he turned his steps toward Isengard. "This is not over, Mithrandir," he swore. "Someday I shall have you in my power. And I believe that that day shall be sooner rather than later. Your pet Elf will not always be able to protect you. And when he cannot, you are mine!"