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Chapter 8: The Price of Mercy
After hours of hard climbing, Mithrandir stood at the entrance to Shelob's lair and peered in cautiously. He listened intently but heard nothing. 'I reckon', he said to himself, 'that I would hear a scraping noise if that big lumbering beast of a spider were near and on the hunt. Perhaps she has fed recently and is resting in some dark recess'.
He hesitated a few minutes more, for the stench sickened him, but at last he screwed his courage to the sticking point and ventured within. He shuddered at what he saw once he had gotten past the entrance. On every side dangled Shelob's victims. Some were Orcs who, driven by fear of their masters, had gambled on the dark passageway and lost all. Others were mountain goats that had wandered too near the entrance in search of a mouthful of tough alpine grass. There were birds, also, and bats. It seemed that nothing was too small to escape the notice of Shelob—not as long as it was a creature in whom blood ran.
All were encased in silk like mummies and suspended from the ceiling as if they were stalactites woven of cloth. Most were dead. Their dried skins, empty of any remnants of flesh, swayed in the slight breeze that came from the tunnel's entrance. A few Mithrandir suspected might still be alive, for they did not appear desiccated. Mithrandir shuddered again as he thought of the fate in store for the victims that were not yet carcasses. For Shelob was indifferent as to whether or not a body was dead. Indeed, she preferred to commence her feeding whilst her victims still lived. It could be said that Shelob kept the freshest larder in all of Middle-earth. Her first dose of poison would merely incapacitate her victim, leaving him unconscious and paralyzed. Then, when she was ready to feed, she would inject her dinner with a venom that would dissolve flesh. Often she would begin to suck out the softened mass before liquification was complete. If she injected the victim in the extremities, the brain might be the last portion to dissolve. Most horribly, if Shelob had recently fed on one victim, she might not inject the liquefying venom into her next meal for quite some time. In the meanwhile, her intended victim might have had time to recover from the initial poison. In that case, Shelob's prey would be conscious at the outset of the process of what was in fact a sort of digestion that took place within the body of the victim himself.
With these thoughts in mind, the wizard was caught up short when he realized that one of the intended meals in Shelob's larder was in the form of a Man. Orcs and beasts he had expected, but a Man? The wizard peered carefully at the entrapped figure, trying to make out what manner of Man he was. 'Southron, I think', he muttered to himself at last. Near the victim lay a pack. Its contents, chiefly trade goods, were spilled upon the floor of the cave. 'A Haradhrim trader', Mithrandir said to himself. 'No doubt he sought to gain an advantage over his fellows by taking the short cut to the Tower of Cirith Ungol. He thought thereby to sell his wares without competition. Well, it is said that 'short cuts make long delays', and it has certainly proven so in this case'.
Mithrandir began to turn aside but then looked again upon the Man. 'Scoundrel though he may be, 'tis a horrible fate to be devoured alive by a spider'. The wizard continued to hesitate. 'I could cut him down, but he is in no condition to walk. When Shelob returns, he will be no better off than before. And if I meddled with Shelob's larder, she should be alerted to my presence. Still, it is hard to leave a Man in such a grievous predicament'.
Back and forth Mithrandir's mind flew. At times he would remind himself that, if he were not called upon to assassinate caitiffs like Gríma, no more was he charged with the rescue of such folk. However, no sooner had he told himself that than he would feel pity for the Man. 'Still', he would remind himself firmly, 'one may feel pity even for Orcs, for they are slaves and to some degree not responsible for their situation. Yet it does not follow that I must be compelled to go to their aid—particularly when I have a charge to fulfill. I was not sent to Middle-earth to rescue scoundrels. This Man's plight is of his own doing, and I must place my task above all other considerations'.
Mithrandir pondered a little longer. 'Perhaps', he sighed, 'I should cut the Man's throat. At least he would not suffer then, as he would if he regains consciousness before Shelob returns to feed upon him. No', he decided, shaking his head vigorously. 'Whether he is to suffer or not, that is not for me to decide'.
Mithrandir knew that in a case like this every choice was a bad one. At length, and most unhappily, Mithrandir left the Man to his fate and began to explore the tunnel and all its niches, large and small. 'There are many alcoves', he observed to himself, 'large enough to hide in and small enough so that Shelob could never enter'. Also, as he expected, there were some side tunnels by which a person might escape to the outside. Carefully the wizard committed to memory everything he saw. After several hours of exploring, he began to believe that a person proceeding with great care could indeed thread his way through the tunnel without encountering Shelob or becoming trapped in one of her webs. Before he was done, he had discovered the very bedchamber of the spider. He cast his eyes upon the sleeping beast, sated with a recent meal, its belly engorged with blood.
'Nasty creature', he murmured. 'Still, Shelob is a descendant of Ungoliant, who was numbered amongst the lesser Ainur. Odd isn't it, to think that Shelob and I have in common that we are both in some fashion Maiar. Well, well, some say that Gandalf the Grey weaves webs in which to ensnare the unwary. It troubles me to think that our kinship may be more than metaphorical, however!"
Careful not to arouse the slumbering creature, Mithrandir backed out of the recess and retraced his steps to the entrance of the tunnel. There he once again cast his eyes upon the dangling Southron. To Mithrandir's horror, he saw that the Man had regained consciousness. Wriggling in his bonds, his eyes dilated in fear, the trader stared at him beseechingly. Mithrandir wavered in his resolve not to meddle.
'It would be inhumane to leave the wretch to suffer the hideous fate of being eaten alive over the space of several hours. I must either cut his throat or cut him down'.
His thoughts were interrupted by whimpering sounds from the cocoon, which was now swinging back and forth from the Man's frantic but futile efforts at breaking free. Mithrandir winced. He couldn't cut the throat of a creature who, caitiff though he might have been, struggled so fiercely to live on. Sighing, he drew forth his blade and began to saw at the trunk line that suspended the Man from the ceiling. The silk rope proved surprisingly tough, and the knife kept getting stuck in the sticky fibers. Mithrandir grunted as he labored. 'Durned stuff is almost impossible to cut with this blade'. Growing absorbed in his task, he began to sweat, but he had become committed to rescuing the unfortunate merchant. Hope having been aroused in the breast of the Southron, it would be all the crueler to abandon him now.
In her den, meanwhile, Shelob stirred. All the silk lines in her tunnel were interconnected. Let but one be touched and all trembled until at length the vibrations traveled to the inmost lair, where Shelob lay. As Mithrandir labored to free the Southron, his efforts were thus telegraphed to the giant arachnid. Swiftly and silently she came to deal with the creature who dared meddle with her larder, and intent as he was upon his task, Mithrandir did not perceive her until it was too late.
Mithrandir had his back to the inner recesses of Shelob's lair, so his first inkling of the peril in which he stood came from the eyes of the Southron. The trader had calmed a little at the prospect of being rescued, but when the enormous arachnid suddenly loomed behind the wizard, the Southron's eyes bugged out in terror. Mithrandir had laid his staff to the side, but at once he spun about and tried for reach to it. He still clutched his knife, and with it he tried to fend off Shelob, but with one of her many appendages she knocked it aside, and with another she kicked away his staff before ever he could lay hands on it. With the spider's stinger now poised above him, Mithrandir tried to dodge away, but he lacked the agility of an Elf or a Hobbit. Shelob's first attempt to stab him did fail, but on the second attempt she pierced him in the shoulder, near to the birthmark that Legolas had noticed that day when the Dunlending children had showered the wizard with apples. Foaming at the mouth, Mithrandir groaned, staggered, and fell. Unconscious now, he lay limp as Shelob quickly bound him in silk and hung him from the ceiling of the cave. Then, her appetite reawakened by the exercise, the spider turned her attention to the Southron. As the Man wriggled frantically, she crept toward him. Out of malevolence, perhaps, she injected into his heel the venom that would gradually dissolve him into a pulp. Then she folded her legs and settled herself to wait until she could begin to suck the disintegrating trader into her maw.
It was about this time that Legolas arrived at the entrance to the tunnel. He settled himself a few yards away, behind a boulder, and considered what to do. He hesitated to enter into the cavern straightaway, for he knew that Mithrandir would be angry if he discovered that the young Elf had disobeyed him without having had a good reason to do so. 'Indeed,' he said to himself, 'Mithrandir may insist upon being vexed even if I enter the cave with good reason. He can be such a stubborn, irascible old coot!'
It was very quiet there near the entrance to Shelob's lair, and Legolas wondered whether that were a good sign or a bad one. 'How am I to know', the Elf asked himself, 'if Mithrandir is in danger? This silence may mean nothing—or it may mean everything'.
As he crouched behind the boulder, he felt a sudden warmth in his arm, next to his birthmark. This sensation progressed to a burning pain and then a numbness. Legolas sprang to his feet. All at once, he understood what had happened years before, when he had been an elfling and had followed Mithrandir to Morgul Vale. 'This birthmark that we share—mine hurt dreadfully. That was how I knew that he was in trouble that time—the birthmark was the link between us!'
Fortunately, though the arm felt numb, it obeyed the Elf's commands. Legolas drew an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to his bow. He knew from experience that, if at all possible, it was best to fight these spiders from afar. Even the most agile of Elves might find it difficult to fend off eight legs simultaneously. He knew, also, the weak points in their carapaces that might be breached by an arrow. Drawing taut the string of his bow, he slipped into the tunnel.
From her position, Shelob could see the entrance, and she reared up at once. This was all to the good, for it was the joints of her limbs that Legolas meant to aim at, and stretched out to her full height, the spider revealed each and every one of these weak points. Shelob had dwelt in this cave for centuries and was accustomed to the futile flailing of Orcs, not the well-aimed missiles of Elves. When she reared up to display her size, she was also accustomed to terrified reactions from her prey. She was not used to the cool reaction of an elven prince. 'Good', Legolas murmured to himself. ''Tis like shooting at the weak points in Orcish armor'. He released an arrow, which embedded itself in a joint in one of Shelob's front appendages. Almost faster than the eye could see he shot off a second armor that likewise embedded itself in a front limb. Shelob was now down to six legs, and none of them a front one.
Although Shelob had never encountered a foe such as this, she had not lived to her great age by being stupid. She knew that this was an encounter she could not win, and dragging her front legs, she retreated as quickly as she could. Once Legolas could no longer hear her limbs scraping across the tunnel's rocky floor, he sprang to the side of his friend. Taking care to position himself so that he was facing the interior of the cave, so that Shelob could not return and take him unawares, the Elf drew one of his blades, which was both sharper and longer than the wizard's small knife, and quickly severed the silk rope that held Mithrandir suspended from the ceiling. That accomplished, he went to the Southron and cut his throat with one quick move. Legolas knew that the Man was past saving, and with no doubt now as to what the Man's fate would be, any qualms that Elf might have indulged in were moot. The way of mercy was the way of the blade.
It was fortunate for Mithrandir that Legolas hailed from Mirkwood, a place infested by spiders of the same race as Shelob. It was in fact from the Mirkwood Elves that Mithrandir had acquired his own knowledge about the feeding habits of the descendants of Ungoliant. Perhaps an Elf from Imladris or Lothlórien, one unfamiliar with the ways of such spiders, might have believed Mithrandir dead. With that mistaken notion, the Elf might have cut down Mithrandir but only so as to place him upon a funeral pyre. Legolas was proof against that sort of mistake. Knowing that Mithrandir was in fact not dead but paralyzed, with the greatest of care he dragged him to the opening of the cave. Then he set about gently lowering the wizard down the side of the cliff. To do so, he hit upon the notion of taking advantage of the strength of Shelob's silk. 'Mithrandir is bound securely, and I shall leave him so', the Elf said to himself, 'for it will be easier to lower him if his limbs are not loose and dangling. With a rope of silk, I shall lower him to the nearest shelf, climb down myself, and then lower him to the next one'.
Fortunately, Mithrandir remained quite unconscious during this operation, for Legolas soon found that it worked best if he fastened the length of silk to the wizard's feet and lowered him headfirst. No doubt the wizard would have been disoriented if he had awoken to find himself dangling head down from the side of a cliff. But he remained safely asleep until Legolas had managed to lower him all the way to the ground.
Once on the ground, Legolas cut the wizard free and sought to rouse him from his stupor. Legolas had strength greater than one would expect from one so slender. Nevertheless, he knew that even an Elf could not drag Mithrandir very far over the uneven ground. No matter how groggy the wizard might be, he would have to make shift to walk, even if only at a snail's pace. Legolas searched through the wizard's bag, looking for the vial of miruvor that the Istar had earlier tried to get Legolas to drink. The wizard's mouth was closed, but the Elf squeezed his jaws to force it open and poured a drop into the back of his throat. Ai! he could not get the wizard to swallow, and the eventually the precious liquid dribbled down the wizard's chin. Frustrated, Legolas sat back on his heels. 'How ever am I to rouse him. I know the poison will wear off eventually, but the longer we remain in Mordor, the greater the chance that our foes will stumble across us. I must awaken him!"
At last Legolas hit upon a desperate measure. With a grimace, he removed Mithrandir's pipe from his bag. The Elf sighed. 'Now I am forced to say it is fortunate that Mithrandir purchased pipe weed in Dunland'. He stuffed the bowl with the weed and lit it. Then, taking a deep breath, he put the stem to his mouth and began to puff upon it. Coughing and gagging, he managed to capture in his lungs a quantity of smoke, which he blew into the face of the wizard. Several times he repeated the maneuver. Mithrandir's eyelids began to flutter, and at length he opened his eyes and looked about in bewilderment. "Legolas," he rasped, "whatever are you doing with my pipe?"
"Explain later," squeaked the Elf, who lurched to his feet and staggered to a boulder. Leaning over it, he retched repeatedly. When he had ceased heaving, he staggered back to the wizard and threw himself down by his side. Mithrandir wrinkled up his nose. "Legolas! you smell sour, like milk gone bad. In fact, you stink as if you had just—"
"Oooooh," groaned Legolas.
"Oh," said Mithrandir. He raised himself upon his elbow and spied the vial of miruvor. "I think you had better drink some of that." He sat up and reached for the bottle.
Legolas nodded mutely. He opened his mouth like a baby bird awaiting a worm, and Mithrandir uncorked the vessel and poured a few drops into the Elf's mouth. With an effort, Legolas swallowed. To the mutual relief of Elf and wizard, the liquid was not immediately regurgitated. After several more doses, the color of the Elf's face, which had taken on a greenish cast, began to improve. Mithrandir, who had recovered his wits almost as soon as he had recovered consciousness, ventured a joke. "You are a Greenleaf indeed, Legolas." His only reply was a baleful look, and Mithrandir decided he had best not jest about the matter. He turned to another topic. "Well," he observed, "I shall recommend against going that way. By the by, that reminds me," he continued. "You did not obey my injunction against accompanying me into Shelob's lair.
"I did," gasped Legolas.
"You didn't," returned Mithrandir.
"Oh, but I did," retorted Legolas. "I didn't accompany you; I followed you. You failed to specify that I wasn't to follow you. Besides," he added triumphantly, "as I am of age, I reckon that any commands you give me are more what you'd call guidelines than actual rules."
Now it was Mithrandir's turn to look baleful. "I suppose," he said morosely, "that you will be forever casting in my teeth the fact that you were proved right through your disobedience."
Legolas was fast shaking off the effects of the pipe weed. "Well," he said drolly, "you must admit that you got into a bit of a sticky situation."
Mithrandir looked even more baleful. "Ha ha. A sticky situation," he said tonelessly. "I am overcome by your rapier wit."
"Better to be overcome by my wit than by spider venom," Legolas pointed out.
"I must allow the truth of that," conceded the wizard. "Well," he said briskly, shaking off his discomfiture, "I shan't hold it against you."
"That I was right or that I saved you?" Legolas shot back.
"Neither, my lad, neither," said the wizard insouciantly. He waved his hand dismissively. "After all, whatever your behavior, you meant well."
Bemused, Legolas shook his head. How had Mithrandir managed to manipulate the conversation so that it sounded as if the Elf were in the wrong? 'Next I know he will be asking me to apologize to him', Legolas observed. 'And no doubt, after he has gotten me dizzy with his quibbles and quiddities, I shall do so!'
For now, though, the most important thing was that they should retreat from the vicinity of Morgul Vale. Legolas had retrieved Mithrandir's knife and staff, but he had necessarily left behind the two arrows embedded in Shelob's limbs. No doubt the spider would make shift to scrape them off. If they should land someplace where they were espied by an Orc, then the game was up. The Orcs were not so stupid that they would not hunt for the owners of two arrows that were clearly not orcish in design.
"Can you walk, Mithrandir?" Legolas asked.
"I shall have to lean heavily upon my staff, but, yes, I believe I can manage. What about you, my novice smoker who cannot hold his stomach?"
"I do not walk on my stomach," Legolas said, grimacing again at the memory of the foul taste of pipe weed.
"Odd," said Mithrandir, "for I have heard that on army travels on its stomach."
"We are not an army, Mithrandir, merely an old Man and a young Elf." The Elf arose and helped the wizard to his feet. With part of his weight supported by his staff and part supported by the Elf, Mithrandir took a few steps. "I shall slow you down dreadfully," worried the Istar. "Why don't you go on ahead and I will catch up with you."
"In which case," Legolas pointed out. "I should not in the end have traveled any faster than you."
Mithrandir sighed and yielded the point. With the wizard leaning upon the shoulder of the Elf, the two friends slowly began to hobble north.