The companions, at the top of a steep pile of slid rocks, contemplated a broad valley. Gushing from a gaping opening, halfway up a cliff at the opposite valley's end, a river dropped in a basin, projecting sprays of mist. Then it slowly flowed in its muddy bed, through the whole valley up to the foot of the scree where the Dùnedain stood. A whole piece of rocky wall had collapsed, blocking the end of the defile that the company had followed to come. This landslide had created a small lake, which was now evacuated by a cleft in the cliff, that overlooked another valley to the South. Many human lives had probably passed since this event. Vegetation had invaded the slid rocks, from which oozed several brooks, too small to fill the old river bed. Thorny bushes and short torn trees spread their intrusive roots between the moss-covered limestone blocks.
-« Now here is the reason why the defile we walked in, has dried up! » Hirgon noted.
The company followed the northern edge of the lake, where traces were spotted and interpreted as those of Baranor or Eradan. Walking upstream, along the bank, they found a small camp hidden under a grove, near a welling. A pile of dry wood was found near the remains of a fire. The air was silent. Only the lake's calm waters sounded with a placid lapping. The fir trees did not rustle under the caress of the wind, no bird greeted the day. The whole valley seemed to hush the furtive sounds that betray life and the passing of time. The Dùnedain felt oppressed but failed to discern the source of their discomfort. Bera looked up to view the valley. The lake meandered feebly between crumbling heather-pink tinted slopes and overcome by insurmountable a-peaks. Suddenly the waterfall shone with a blazing orange, intercepted by nascent solar rays, darted horizontally. The sun cast a long shadow towards the western part of the valley. Arathorn, with a proud glint in his eye, declaimed:
- « Over the land there lies a long shadow,
Westward reaching wings of darkness. »
Bera contemplated the Lord of the Dúnedain in the splendor of his glorious dream. What could he not accomplish for the survival and revival of his people? She wished to tie herself to his steps and share his destiny! She followed the line of his aquiline gaze and was stunned. Far beyond the western cliff, just above the fall of the river, stood a mountain that dominated the neighborhood. Its clear and high conical shape faded and trembled in the limpid sky, as due to intense heat. The companions believed they perceived stealthy glows in the distance, while a tiny rumble spread a veiled threat.
Arathorn continued, staring into the distance :
- « The Tower trembles; to the tomb of Kings
Doom approaches. »
The Hobbit's sharp eyes spotted the reliefs of a roadway, worn and collapsed. Using extra caution, the company reached and followed it, along the lake on its northern bank, to a large cobbled square, surrounded by tombstones. The troops tried to decipher the few surviving inscriptions. Runes of Daeron, too dirty and erased by weather, only indicated them these were probably Dwarven tombs, which was corroborated by the size of the stones. At the center of the esplanade, overgrown with brambles and grass, stood a solitary pillar, a huge anthracite and oblong stone, solemn warning to intruders. Gerry shuddered, while Bera commented her own impressions:
-« My people has raised our tutelary tree in our clearing of the Dead. In times of war, we usually suspend there goblins heads and wargs skins. Viewing our tree is ominous for our mortal enemies... This solitary finger reminds me of our tree because it chills my blood. It shows a way but my heart whispers it is not for the living... »
Indeed, the monolith was lit with golden yellow and its shadow now stretched up to a path of flat stones, leading to a gaping hole at the base of the cliff.
At these words Arathorn opened the bag he had slung and pulled out a small silver horn. Full of a restrained hope, he exclaimed emphatically:
- « Here is the solitary stone, Erech Sarn! For Malbeth the seer-master once predicted what happens to us today:
The Dead awaken;
For the hour is come for the oathbreakers:
At the Stone of Erech they shall stand again
And hear there a horn in the hills ringing.
Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them
From the grey twilight, the forgotten people?
The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.
To the North shall he come, need shall drive him:
He shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead. »
Arathorn raised the horn to his lips and sounded three powerful calls. Silence around them thickened even more.
-« Dùnedain and feal servants, to me! I lead you to our destiny. »
Bera watched in horror as the Dúnedain lept alongside their lord and prepared to proceed to the path of the dead. She warned them:
-« Death marks the whole valley. Resentment and murder are imbued on the graves along the path. Death still is written beyond the porch! I feel it in the air and in the water! »
Sure of his fate, the Dùnadan answered with impatience:
-« Stop sniffing misfortune like an animal and cut back your tears for fear! May you honor your oath! Today fate gives us the chance my people has been waiting for generations. We shall take it with or without your help! »
The young woman, swallowing indeed her tears of disappointment, seemed to grow as her eyes flashed. Her black hair, disheveled and bloated by anger, flashed in red in the sun and seemed for a moment like the mane of a mountain bear. The little Hobbit, that neither the majesty nor the tension of the moment deprived of his good senses, muttered:
- « Who are these dead perjurers, Dwarves or Men? And whom for is their allegiance, I wonder, after all these years ... We had better wait for Gandalf and Thràin... »
No other comment could more harden the heart of the already determined Dùnadan, whose imperious look brooked no reply.
The Dùnedain marched behind their lord, their face taut with angst but hands clutching their weapons. Bera reluctantly prepared, for the Bearnings's honor.
- « Let me at least prepare for darkness! », she hissed.
Out of its iron and wood packaging, she took the burning coal she always kept with her. It came from the hearth of Bearn's home, that had never dwindled since their mother had lit it up, even before she was born. After lighting a torch, she covered her head with a deerskin cape. To face death, two skins were better than one... Grabbing her ax, she gave one last prayer to the sun and followed the men.
But Gerry stayed behind, petrified at the base of the monolith, unable to lift the yoke of horror his lord's dubious certainties had inspired him. Without knowing the prophecy of Malbeth, his Hobbit common sense had detected that Arathorn's hope dismissed rather obscure and worrisome details.
He saw his companions running away, climbing the paved road to the open mouth, which gave off waves of dumb terror. By the time they reached the doorway and were about to disappear inside, Gerry felt some guilt he had seldom experienced before.
An arch of carved stone overlooked the dark entrance. Pale red curls escaped from it, as if the soul of the occupants fled at the approach of intruders. A bearded face with worn geometric shapes held the tympanum and let its blank and blur stare below. Arathorn, Hirgon, Gilhael and Bera, weapon in hand, engaged in the dark cave. The Hobbit shuddered: once his companions had gone beyond the porch, no sound reached him, neither jangling mails nor heavy boots clash on the cold pavement.
After climbing some stairs, the companions marched in the dark, Arathorn leading the way. Hirgon lit his torch with Bera's. No one dared to talk, but it seemed that no sound could come out of their tight throat. The paved road was rising slowly, sometimes revealing on one side or the other, an alcove harboring a headstone or a granite coffin. After a bend to the left, they ran into a cold, smooth wall, so dark it seemed to absorb the light out of their torches.
Arathorn once again grabbed his horn and gave a clear call, which rang in the tunnel as a creed of life facing void. But Arathorn's authority seemed to achieve wonders in the tunnel: the wall dissolved within moments, torchlights piercing the darkness of a large room, now revealed. The companions climbed a flight of stairs and found a catafalque, which bore a gray stone stele or altar. The carved walls reminded the decor of the porch, broken lines forming animal murals or regular patterns. Two openings in the wall to the right of the entrance seemed to lead further into the heart of the mountain. Two axes carved crisscrossed above the left porch, seeming to forbid passage. On the right porch was carved a triangular mountain, its top covered with a white metal inlay.
-« Here is the passage of Barum-Nahal, eternally snow-covered crater», Arathorn said.
But on the central altar, a recumbent of flesh laid motionless. The Dùnedain, trembling, examined the body and recognized Eradan, the sure-handed ranger, persistent strider and stubborn soul. The naked body had no obvious fatal injuries, despite numerous lacerations and bruises. His face, however, frozen in a hideous grin, told of the pain and horror that had preceded death. The men were shaken by this terrible discovery. Bera, tearful, covered the body with her buckskin. Arathorn hummed the song of the dead, prayer of the Dúnedain to the One, for the deceased to find their way to the halls of Mandos, intended for mortal souls. The melody, sang along by his two comrades, yet seemed confined to the room, unable to defeat the overwhelming accursed darkness that surrounded them.
Then the companions heard a tiny complaint, along with a gentle stream of cold air coming from the porch leading to the Mountain. The torches flickered for a moment. The companions crossed the porch with the axes since the complaint, that sounded human, seemed to come from there. Driven by hope and tapped by fear, they rushed and found their companion Baranor, lying naked on a low, flat stone, chained like a convict or sacrificed. Gullies cut into the edge of the stone revealed the odious destination of the altar. Pale as a ghost and his eyes bulging, the poor bloodless wretch raved:
-« Let come the reign of the Valar! You're finally here! The King of the Dead denies us passage, Hirmain! 1 He tormented me, but I looked elsewhere! They took Eradan too... To defeat them, only light and heat are worthy. Run away! »
Baranor's leathery face ceased then to animate. The emaciated body fell limply on the sacrificial altar. Arathorn knelt beside the wretched man, breaking with his sword the silver chains that impeded him. Bera bent to give him water, but then everything happened very quickly. The chill wind intensified, producing an increasingly acute hiss. Scraps of gray mist brushed and enveloped them as wet algae in an icy wind, freezing them with amazement. Before the companions realized, a stone door had swung to block their retreat.
It screeched into its slot with the sound of a tomb lid. Then intense cold crept into the room. The dying man was agitated, screaming and struggling before dropping inert. Despite his companions' eagerness, they could not revive him. Baranor had just died.
No torch could be rekindled. The Bearning's glowing coal seemed stilled by a strange cold. After several unsuccessful attemps to push the heavy stone door, the companions must acknowledge the obvious - they were trapped in the heart of the mountain. As despair began to seize them, they hummed again the Song of the Dead, but the words were ringing in their ears as their own dirge. Soon they realized with horror that they had trouble controlling their numb limbs. Hope died in their hearts. That's when they realized the Hobbit was no longer among them. Hope was reborn from the ashes, but what could a frightened little Hobbit do?
X-X-X
At the foot of the monolith, Gerry was gathering his will, bit by bit. Slowly spurred by guilt, the generous courage of his small breed began to wake up. For all the quiet mornings in the heart of the Shire, for all the pints of beer, well earned after the day of august work of some elder in North Farthing, he would follow his lord. But he still had to overcome the uncontrollable shaking of his legs. Mustering all his being, he found himself once again focusing his will in the form of a circular golden mental image. Again this magical item timely came to his aid to surpass himself.
Gerry overcame the resistance of his limbs and forced his feet forward. He walked with difficulty to the threshold of the underworld. Fear held him there, sweaty and panting, for a time that seemed like an eternity. A strange torpor froze his joints every time he stepped into the shadow of the threatening porch. The long and hoarse complaint of an oliphant rose from the bottom of the tunnel and slowly dwindled as the rattle of a dying man. Gerry's hair stood on his head but he seemed to feel his ring jump into its leather slot. Finally shaking himself, he took his treasure out and rose it up. The golden circle and the two stones sparkled in the sun, throwing insolent amber rays that pierced the impenetrable darkness of the underground.
The Hobbit advanced cautiously, waving his torch of hope and scanning the darkness. Each step in the tunnel brought him new sensations: cold sweats, dizziness, choking, claustrophobia... Soon eyes lit up sporadically around him, some bad and inquisitors as a Michel Delving's gossip, others off and desperate like a statue of the king. Gerry persevered, step by step, by diverting his attention from these insidious threats, half guessing, half hoping, that they were only illusions induced by his own fears. Undecided whispers ran around him, hissing and casting the curses of generations of Men and Dwarves. Further, long misty hands tried to grab him in their icy embrace.
A long time after entering the tunnel, Gerry reached the turning point. Then he realized that the ambient light had fallen to the point that he could hardly distinguish his limbs. Only the two small stones of his ring still shone, as if they had stored the sun's rays to return them now to the heart of the cliff. Just after the turn, Gerry stopped suddenly, impeded by an oldest, a more hardened and more compelling will than his. An invisible wall, dense with hatred and desire for some blood of the living, forbade him to pass. The Hobbit lost his composure for a moment when he thought his ring could falter. Whispers, glances and furtive rustling resumed. But the small stones shone with an equal brilliance, with no sign of abating. Again Gerry concentrated, focusing his will on his comrades and the need to join them. He passed the wall of adversity, which closed back behind him with a short noise of suction.
Then he heard his comrades. They seemed far away from him, as at the bottom of a large wood, lined with moss. But Gerry perceived anguish and despair in their supplications. They were calling him indeed! In this half-dream, he was aware that things were going badly for his comrades. A slow and sad song was heard, the litany of the Dúnedain for the dead. But a small treacherous tune, as sour as the threat of a coward and as insidious as a contagious disease, added in counterpoint, perverting the noble aria to Mandos with its dissonances. The unsightly air gradually gained power and assurance, chanting forcefully the hateful vanity of its rehearsals. A creature, withered by bitterness and eager to destroy these lives, meant for running freely under the sun, stood there, chanting its litany of killing. Formless and intangible, it floated into the room beyond the stairs, listening to the quick decline of its victims.
The Hobbit's fellows, whose strengths weakened, took turns in singing to resist the spell. With tears in the eye, Gerry recognized the high and guttural voice of Bera, who was humming with her peers without understanding the words.
- « They will not die! », the son of the Took cried within himself. «Well... at least I will not abandon those who helped me! », tinged the young adventurer, who remained somehow lucid.
Gerry went up the steps on the sly. Brandishing his ring in his left hand, he pulled his little dagger and exclaimed:
«By Imladris, leave them alone! »
This was the only elvish word that came to his lips. He vaguely knew the evocative power of Elven words, but our Hobbit had just learnt to read the languages of the West. He did not know the words of power for extolling courage, hope or light in elvish, or at least they did not impose on him in that extremity. Thus his injunction, though brave and unexpected, proved not as devastating as the supposed magic he impugned to his ring.
The creature immediately interrupted its insidious spell, turned in great anger, and rushed upon the hapless Hobbit, hissing like an angry cat. Terrified, Gerry fell backward, swinging his arms. Dagger and ring flew away much against his will, and fell behind him, on the steep steps of the marble staircase. Gerry hit the ground hard with his head.
The Hobbit's awareness wavered for a moment, just firm enough to formulate «My turnips are fried!2 ». We must admit that the situation was not brilliant and that the adventure, so praised by Gandalf, seemed to be over. Yet there was one thing that painfully surprised the creature of shadow and smoke, apart from the unexpected presence of this measly mortal. The little light, double, thin but stubborn, violated his omnipotence. The dweller of the cairn heard its clear metallic tinkling on marble and saw the little dual and piercing light bounce on the steps. With fury, its mass, darker than void itself, rushed to kill these flames, destroy and suck their insolent vitality. Then he would take his time to look after his guests, starting with this ridiculous mortal who had defied him. The Hobbit on the ground, guessing more than seeing the creature rushing on him, moved to protect with his legs and hands. The creature rushed with a bang over him and stumbled on the Hobbit! No doubt his voracious fury and destructive desire had given to him, for a short moment, a plot of materiality.
That is at least the hypothesis Gandalf imagined when he knew the whole story. For everything ended very quickly for our petty adventurer. The wight stumbled and crashed down the steps, preceded by the maddening jingle of the double glow on the marble. Trying to grasp it, the wight, carried away by his momentum, strode one step too many and passed the wall of ban he had erected himself. He stood for a second illuminated by natural light - a faint and very distant light, but it was a reflection of the sun on water. Nothing is more harmful to a wight, except the spells of a competent wizard, again according to Gandalf.
Gerry threw a glance over the stairs. The dark wall blocking the hallway was gone. The barrow-wight was writhing on the gray stone like a balloon deflating violently. Wriggling on the ground as an eel out of the waters, the wight began to hiss like the old kettle of aunt Cedrina. Blinking, the Hobbit contemplated this unusual spectacle, while the creature was shrinking rapidly and howled its impotent rage. When it reached the size of a worm, the barrows-wight exploded in a deafening "boom". Then silence fell in the hallway.
Our Hobbit, who had sheltered from the explosion, cast a wary glance over the stairs. A gray light shone at the end of the hallway and the staircase. No movement was audible or visible, everything appeared calm and healthy. The air seemed rid of an oppressive presence. Gerry tried to get up, but failed. He was breathing with difficulty, feeling dizzy after the violent shock to his head. His temples throbbed wildly. Groaning in pain caused by his multiple bruises, the Hobbit cautiously descended the stairs on his haunches, sitting on each step. At halfway, he paused and retrieved his dagger, which seemed warm and gooey. After cleaning it with his handkerchief, he ended his cautious descent. His ring was lying in the raking light, its two stones sparkling bravely in the dust. He crawled up to it, nervously put it in his pocket and sat in the corner, relieved but surprised to get away with it. Then stress and effort took their toll - he fainted.
When he awoke, Gerry saw that his head had profusely bled. But he felt better, though terribly hungry, and he could get up. The corridor now glowed with a faint orange light. A little shaky, he went up the stairs in search of his friends. In the room, the Hobbit looked with horror the morbid staging that the wight had probably orchestrated. He felt the need for giving light, illuminating dark corners to push back the horrors that arose again in his shaken imagination. He feverishly sought a torch to light but found none.
In desperation, Gerry climbed a sculpted wall, to reach a flare that seemed still to bear a firebrand. Horror! What had looked like a torch, which proved rusty iron, yielded to the Hobbit's pull and broke. Gerry once again fell backwards and lay on the ground, lifeless. Meanwhile, a horrible noise was heard, as the dull roar of a forced tomb. The whole room shook. Slowly, like ghosts gray with dust, four staggering figures emerged from the next room, now open. Coughing, spitting and dispersing a dark mist that coated them like a shroud, they caught their breath before noticing our unconscious Hobbit. Finally the familiar faces of Bera and Arathorn leaned together on the small body.
Carefully, they seized and carried him out in the open, like two nurturing parents, arms entwined around their child and matted hair over the small battered body. Their eyes met as they left the tunnel and Bera blushed at her thoughts. But Arathorn behaved like a soldier, ordering that care should be given to the injured. Hirgon bandaged the Hobbit's head, fed him and have him lay down. Meanwhile Gilhael and Arathorn returned in the tunnel to lock the stone door mechanism and arange several torches.
They also took away the bodies of their fallen comrades and carried them laboriously at the entrance of the valley, near the spot where they had set up their camp. After an hour of rest and plenty of sweets, Gerry was alert enough to get up.
Arathorn chaired a farewell ceremony for their fallen brothers in arms. Two large twin tombs were dug, deep down to the bedrock. The bottom and walls were carefully lined with flat stones and the bodies disposed to their final rest. Gilhael was the foster brother of Eradan. All shared his pain but he was the most affected. With despite, the young Dùnadan broke the egg offered to him by Master Elrond. He found three beautiful moonstone pendants and decided to give one to each of the deceased, as parting gifts and pledges of protection on their journey to the halls of Mandos. Then Arathorn improvised a dirge:
«We bring noble heroes
To their final resting places.
Under the wings of hopeful heavens
They came North before their lord.
Never will again gaze at Nenuial splendor
And sparkling shelters glow in Evendim.
Let glory, ransom of their worth,
Forever protect their noble bones
In the valley of the lone Stone.
May they join our fathers
In the shade of Lorien's3 gardens. »
Gilhael adorned each body with a jewel he found in the egg, and girded with the last. Bera had asked about the families of the deceased, and put to work to carve small wooden dolls that would represent them, and she placed in the graves. The companions formed a circle around the twin graves. The Dùnedain sang one last time the song for the dead. Gerry tried to follow the lyrics but burst into tears, soon discreetly accompanied by Bera. A small dome of flat stones was erected over the bodies to protect them, and each grave was filled with rock and covered with grass.
About to leave, Arathorn turned and, raising both hands above the graves, said in a low voice, trembling with suppressed emotion:
- « By the wrath of Tulkas, I vow to avenge your loss! You will be honored in the North as the regenerators of the kingdom of the Dúnedain. Keep now this valley until the return of the king! »
Then a deep silence settled in the little wood, as if wind and water themselves had been the moved and dumb witnesses of a powerful wonderworker's oath. After which the fellowship withdrew, because it is not right to stay close to sacred places at a time when shadows lengthen. Arathorn's company found refuge where they had spent the previous night.
X-X-X
In the early morning lights, the companions departed under a lowering sky, with serious looks and drawn faces. Only Arathorn's gaze blazed with the light of an ardent dream of success and revenge. They walked in silence up to the end of the long valley, rid of its former watercourses. They reached the exit when the cloud vault dispersed. The sun tinged their weary faces with gold. Realising that Bera had been carrying the bandaged and nauseous Hobbit for several hours, Arathorn ordered a break and gathered the companions. Rejecting his coat back and putting his fists on his baldric, he harangued the company:
-« I want to tell you all how proud I am of your stubbornness, your loyalty and your courage. Our fellow fighter Bera showed innate qualities of a great warrior. Her deeds honor her people and her oath. »
Bera gave him a look of gratitude mixed with disappointment. « So that is all he likes in me indeed! », she thought with a sigh. But the Dùnadan continued:
- « But we all owe the pleasure to see the light in the morning to our protege Gerontius Took. So let he be warmly thanked here, although we expect nothing less from the son of Shire's Thain. Gerry, consider now that your probation time is completed. You are squire to the lord of the Dùnedain, by genuine right! »
A chorus of approvals and cheers greeted this statement, even if the voice betrayed weariness. Gerry blushed like the young Hobbit girls whom he formerly granted their first kiss. He considered it necessary to clarify a few things about his bravery, in the Hobbits' unconcerned and modest way:
- « My family is forever at your service, at your lady's, and at your heir's! But I'm afraid I do not deserve your praise... If you want to know, I do not really feel heroic. If not by chance... and a third power, I could never get into that damn tunnel!
- And yet you have accomplished this feat! It is true that the protection of as noble a lady as Luinloth gives wings to her suitor... I'm particularly pleased to have yielded to her request. You alone destroyed the wight of the tunnel and found the mechanism unlocking the stone door. Without you, we would have probably succumbed to his terrible enchantment! »
Arathorn obviously misunderstood the nature of the third power Gerry had confessed. But it was better this way, the Hobbit thought while crossing the ambiguous gaze of Bera. The Bearning seemed to envy the warm attention he enjoyed from Arathorn. Yet she reported on the Hobbit, all the love the Dùnadan refused from her, as would an abandoned mother on her child.
-« You overcame your fear and saved your comrades and your Lord. You are now one of us. », Arathorn announced with authority.
The companions had a meal in a more cheerful mood than they would have thought on the morning. Bera admired the core strength of Arathorn and the talent of this great captain to attract the loyalty of his retainers and revive their courage. Despite the smile she addressed to the Hobbit, her sad face expressed a melancholic resignation. When Gerry tried to comfort her, she replied:
-« The brightest lights project the longest shadows, master Hobbit. I was dazzled by the light of an extraordinary man, but whether I like it or not, I'm not part of his destiny, which seems to be emerging despite the shadows where I stand. »
While he was sorry for the great warrior woman, he could not get used to arouse only a maternal affection from a female being this age:
-« All the same, I am sorry to see you so helpless.
- Read in yourself, Squire, and tell me if you would prefer your lord would betray his lady? »
Gerry could propose no remedy for the woman's bitterness:
- « How cruel to see what we hate, while leaving what we loved! 4
- I do not dislike him, but I shall leave the company as soon as my wish is fulfilled. »
The companions continued their journey by cutting shorter and could join the camp before nightfall, after a tiring walk.
Gandalf greeted them with joy but soon noticed their somber looks. The wizard hastened to Gerry, whose exploits Bera told him while changing the bandages. But the Dwarves, especially the white beards bearers, who had spent the last few days to lead the hard work of their young comrades, immediately asked for news. Thràin believed his royal curiosity had the right to be fulfiled. The great Dwarf was eager to know more, but he knew he had to veil his greed. Thus he composed a wily demeanor while approaching:
- « Good evening, master Arathorn, » he said, hiding his impatience.
The term « master » sounded respectfull, but the name Arathorn bears in itself the majesty of the chief of the Dúnedain, and even the mark of royalty5. Adding a term, that in other circumstances could emphasize the status of a craftsman or even a free man on his own land, antagonized the Dùnadan leader, despite his respect for artisans and Men in general. So he snapped like a rough-hewn sergeant barks his report to an ungrateful captain:
- « We found the way to Barum-Nahal. To reach it, we ought to head West for about eleven leagues, aiming for a valley we spotted a mile and a half North of the straight western direction. After that, following this valley for four miles is easy, before reaching the entrance to a tunnel. We have reasons to believe this was once the underground Fram's people used. »
Thràin, though startled by the weird tone of Arathorn, did not hide his joy:
- « Gems and gold veins! Great news, master Arathorn! Your rangers have no equal! But why show so sad a face? Do not tarnish the joy of such a discovery!
- Because we have buried two brave fighters, brothers who gave their lives for our cause! Baranor's agony and the horrible grin of Eradan's corpse are still in our minds. »
Thráin frowned and bowed :
- « Forgive my reckless words. I was concerned about our quest, and I did not pay enough attention to your grief. »
The Dwarf retreated awkwardly, sincerely sorry for his blunder but perplexed about the ability of their alliance to overcome the challenges ahead. The argument had not escaped Gandalf, who walked away with a sigh, taking a long drag on his pipe.
Dùring the absence of the scouts, the Dwarves had been busy - three shelters of logs and a dirt reinforced fence now surrounded a wide space, easily defensible by cross-shoots. The mounts were protected and reserves were safe. Tall stacks of split wood were stored aside a wooden barrel, full of fragrant resin. The wizard joined a small group in one of the shelters, from which sounded the joyous cries of an animated conversation. Barin and Frerin had come to cheer the Hobbit and the Bearning.
Gandalf listened carefully the interspersed and contradictory stories of Gerry and Bera. He pretended not to be surprised by Gerry's bravery and cunning, yet in his heart he was astonished. A single Hobbit, armed only with his small dagger, escaping a barrow-wight unscathed, that was already very surprising. But he managing to foil its evil spells and reducing it to eternal silence was worthy of his extended professional attention. Several startling scenes of his journey with the Hobbit came to his mind; This Hobbit had more than his own little people resistance...
Gerry caught the discerning eye of Gandalf who now haloed smokes at each camp. The Hobbit was more circumspect and his story, until now very colorful and illustrated in detail, became more sober. But soon Thráin came to remind his troops about showing some reserve and respect for their Dùnedain comrades' mourning. The re-combined company did not spend an evening of rejoicing reunion. Rangers mourned their dead while the Dwarves pondered their hopes of gold and gems. Gandalf, who seemed quite absent-minded in recent days, seemed worried about the stormy relationship between Thràin and Arathorn. He isolated himself throughout the evening behind his smoke rings, brooding obscure projects.
Two days later, Ingold's balm and rest had done wonders again. The wounded could walk alone. Ingold could carefully use his arm and Gerry did not suffer any more from his head. After a moonless night, Arathorn ordered the company to resume its journey at dawn. A beautiful weather allowed them to reach the end of the defile, about an hour after sunset. The tale of the scouts had been quite impressive. Thus there was not much debate: the company chose to camp near the graves of the Dúnedain, rather than near the tunnel.
The companions stood guard in turn, as they were used to. But this time they appointed two watchers. Gerry, who was exempt because of his head injury, did not fall asleep immediately. The shadows of the night reminisced about the voices of the tunnel under the mountain. Our Hobbit, whose prestige had gradually increased during the company's long trek, had been called "Mr. Took" by most Dwarves.
This consideration mark, inaugurated by Dwalor, surprised the Hobbit very much. In the Shire, this denomination was strictly for his father or his uncles. Thus, accessing this distinguishing mark of majority, prior to the appropriate time, seemed strange to him, as if it was refering to the part of himself, buried and difficult to control, who could benefit from his treasury. Our Hobbit realized indeed that he had saved his comrades from a horrible fate, but he hardly assumed the role of hero which already induced, on the part of his companions, manifestations of enhanced consideration and a higher level of expectation. But it seemed scarcely assured he could replicate such a feat. Fatalist, he counted on chance, playing with the idea that inspiration would come to him through his ring, should the need arise.
Though protective Bera slept close to him that night, he could not help some nightmares. His nocturnal fabrications all turned around controlling wights by the sheer force of his will, magnified by his magic ring. This recurring theme clearly reflected a persistent fear, which the lurking wizard realized.
X-X-X
At a time when dawn usually colors Middle Earth, Arathorn woke his companions. Under a leaden sky that gripped their hearts, they took a snack, lashed their packages, girded their weapons and loaded their pack animals. A gray day was coming, but they engaged in an even darker journey. Two small thrushes flew over the company, throwing farewell squeaks, and left when they entered the hall.
The first test came soon: the horses refused to enter the tunnel. It took all the experience of the Dúnedain, the tenacity of the Dwarves and the love of Bera to get them there, in addition to the indispensable help of the wizard.
The atmosphere of the tunnel seemed to have completely changed since the passage of the scouts. Gerry, his comrades had naturally pushed forward, felt this with great acuity. The hostile and perverse will, the perpetual and morbid harassment he experienced during his last visit, had given place to a diffuse and concerned vigilance. The company passed the first rooms they knew. Then the passage became broader and steadier. Fortunately the flights of steps were rare, although the tunnel resolutely ascended westward, allowing them to maintain a respectable pace despite their horses. They progressed in a lineup until the company entered a large room.
A towering ceiling of glittering stone was supported by four huge pillars of light marble. An admiring murmur ran through the group of Dwarves. In the heart of the stone, the torches lit large and fugitive geometric figures that fascinated them. The Dúnedain and Bera observed a respectful silence. A skylight illuminated the space between the columns, littered by some undefinite forms. The marble shone like the barrel of large trees in winter, under a starry sky. Approaching, Gerry identified the forms with horror - these were corpses, covered with clothes and war gear. Most, mummified by the dry air of the room, were almost skeletons. There were Men and Dwarves, but our Hobbit also noted that the most recent corpses seemed those of goblins.
Arathorn and Thràin came. One looked like the owner, returning after a long trip, and unhappy with the keeping of the domain. The other scrutinized darkness, fearing at any time a bandits or orcs ambush. Their companions gathered behind them, leading the fearful horses. However, Dwarves, men, woman, wizard and Hobbit were guided by the same instinct, since they all stopped at the edge of the wide beam of light, which was made visible because of the dust lifted by the company. The bodies, all of which were lying in the light, had sent them a silent warning. The group cautiously circled around the lit center of the room. Apart from the passage they had come by, many tunnels left the hall.
A debate arose to determine the next route. Gandalf suggested that indications should be looked for near the openings. The Dwarves scattered in disorder to explore the room and inspect these openings, unable to obey the instructions of prudence from Thràin. The companions did not notice any particular index, except over the opening diametrically opposite to their entrance. Everyone got there at once, the Hobbit at the forefront. The lintel and the pillars were engraved with interlocking linear patterns running around the door. At the top inlay stones drew a triangle pointing up and radiating in all directions with straight or wavy lines. Thráin exclaimed:
- « This is the immemorial sign of our fathers! We have entered into the original fiefdom of my people. Now I take command of the company! »
Gandalf fully expected some tirade like this. So he had carefully prepared his argument:
- « My dear Thràin. Obviously, this path has been carved out by your ancestors. But paradoxically, it is also certainly the beginning of Fram's road. According to Master Elrond, it was the stake of bitter fights. I am affraid that we should expect difficulties of all kinds: dead ends, traps, defenses run by evil creatures... So may I suggest you to stay this change of command and work closely to achieve your destination? Three will not be too many - Yourself, Arathorn and Mr. Took - to unravel the wiles of the road to Barum-Nahal. »
Arathorn had patiently listened to Gandalf's exhortation. He spoke so as to be heard by all, happy to display his high-mindedness and independence from the wizard:
- « The first part of our quest ends at the edge of your fiefdom, O Thràin. The Dùnedain have met their share of the market, although it has cost them two lives. It seems to me wise to hand over command to you, lord of the Dwarves, masters at fighting and carving under the mountain. However I am warning you: my heart whispers that our trials in these tunnels are not to their end. »
Sweeping the fears of Arathorn with a gesture, Thráin bridled and ordered the company to prepare for departure. He surrounded himself in the vanguard with crestfallen Gerry and mumbling Gandalf, while Nàr and Màr brought up the rear. The Dùnedain at the center of the line, cared for the horses.
Gerry got ready and walked cautiously to the gaping door beyond which he could see nothing. Gandalf lit the end of his staff, with a word of command:
-« Naro6 ! »
The company progressed slowly, at the pace of the most restive mounts, along the low and narrow tunnel that rose steadily. Bera considered heading to the northwest, but the acuteness of her senses lost its fullness after these long underground detours. At times, secondary passages left to one side or the other, but none were a dilemma for Thràin and Gerry. After several hours, the companions took a meal in the dark. They progressed again for about an hour, Dwarves hobbling on their short legs, and Humans leaning regularly to avoid the uneven ceiling, when they reached a small circular room. Four tunnels left from ther, more or less to the north, the West and two intermediate directions. Thráin ordered the company to stop. The room was carved out of the rock, quite coarsely. The amenities of an adjoining cell gave the impression that this was once a major crossroads, guarded by sentries.
Gandalf sniffed the air of the four tunnels. A stream of warm air seemed to rise steeply to them in the left-most corridor, and then rush into the nearby tunnel, rising before them. From the rightmost gallery, that went somewhat down, emanated a musty smell. The other central corridor strongly descended but some remains of a lifting device revealed that it was certainly the beginning of a mining tunnel, probably a vain of iron. In the absence of signs near the openings, the Dwarve engaged in an anxious conclave, sharing their interpretations of legends about Barum-Nahal.
After several minutes of this learned but sterile conference, Gandalf simply suggested to send a few scouts in the four tunnels. Gerry had no choice but to honor his reputation, as the young Dwarves disputed the right to volunteer with him for this discreet exploratory visit. Thus there were three excited Dwarves - Dwalor, Forin and Grar - and one resigned Hobbit who received instruction to investigate, as discreetly as possible, the corridors on one furlong, and to return at the slightest danger, avoiding if possible to be followed by said danger. The four scouts engaged simultaneously, each in his corridor.
Gerry befell the median tunnel, that rose with a gentle slope. He tiptoed as the fox, as lightweight and stealthy as a young marauding Hobbit may move, when the aroma of a pie cooling on the window tickled his nostrils. After creeping for a chain7 he saw that his companions, who were waiting in the small room behind him, emitted all kinds of untimely noises and unseemly comments, which sounds spread up the corridor. Gerry made a note to remind them to behave more stealthily. Continuing his cautious sneak, he met neither obstacle nor remarkable sign, until he thought he perceived a faint glimmer, far away in the heart of the darkness in front of him.
Was he to, as instructed, turn back and inform the company about this discovery? But what could he possibly tell? An early dedication was born in the Hobbit's heart, inside the ordered company of the Dùnedain. The fear of disappointing his friends or suffering their derogatory jokes certainly influenced him, but his prevailing feeling at that moment was simple curiosity. He advanced step by step with extra precaution, slowly discovering the nuances of the light source he approached. Intermittent rays draw moire greenish patterns on the carved rock. Gerry realized that his skin took iridescent colors that contrasted with the light jade of his clothes. He flattened against the least exposed wall and resumed his creeping, his heart pounding. Within a few yards of the end of the tunnel, he stopped to listen. Confused and distant echoes of shuffling reached him, interspersed with grinding chains. An uncertain moan ended in blows out of the tunnel.
Confident in the growing power of his ring, Gerry grasped it with his left hand and reached the end of the corridor, that opened on a broad crenelated platform. Stairs went down to the left, defended by a wall, to a gate under the platform, that led to an immense room. Venturing to the balustrade, Gerry threw a quick glance and discovered a huge natural hall, with a diameter about a third of a furlong. The ceiling was irregular, bristling with stalactites and supported by some natural pillars. The ground was leveled, except in the center of the room, where stalagmites surrounded a natural basin of glooming green water. At the other end of the hall, another platform defended access to a gate just below.
Wonder was taking precedence over apprehension, when Gerry saw a form that had his blond and usually curly hair, raise on his back. A grotesque and obscene figure, sitting on a boulder near the pool, chanted what seemed a lullaby, with unexpected accents, sometimes rising in high tones of hysterical wailing, sometimes descending down to the octaves of a military march. The creature swung his huge head in rhythm with bulging lidless eyes, wrinkling the greenish and pustules-covered skin of his neck. His emaciated body, wearing a war cloth from another time, beat time with his clicking foot.
Terrible tales came back to the Hobbit's memory, reported by residents of Brandyhall after traveling to Breeland. The terrible ghouls of the Downs took possession of the bodies of ancient Kings under their cairns, crouched all day long in their dens and crept out at dusk to assault the lost travelers, devour them or worse...
Gerry was appalled and hid behind a crenel. It took several minutes for him to take over and force himself to look around. He saw only one other way out of the hall: at the foot of the northern postern. But he did not exclude that there might be a concealed way. The Hobbit also noticed that the creature was perched on a large and heavy stone, which appeared to be a tomb, not far from the central basin illuminating the entire cave. Having dutifully noted these details, he turned back on the sly.
X-X-X
But he froze before leaving the platform. The singing had stopped abruptly and the creature had talked to him.
- « Does a honnest host leave without saluting? »
Terror seized our Hobbit anew. But the vaguely female voice addressed him in the tone of reproach of a harsh mistress, scorned in her house. Gerry replied without thinking:
- « I apologize. I must have lost myself! »
That was ridiculous. Nobody lived nearby and could inadvertently venture into the lair of a ghoul. Yet the creature did not note the unlikeliness and continued:
- « Who are you? A Dwarf burrowing for gold, thief and coward? A lord of men, dragons bane? You have the soul of the one and the appearance of the other! Appoint your allegiance, you who hide a secret! »
The Hobbit grimaced, feeling exposed to the fiery eyes of the creature which nevertheless could not see him where he was. The discomfort of a clawed hand rummaging through his thoughts intensified. But he felt that he could not escape without bloody reprisals and resolved to save time. He faced the voice, his back to the wall, and said, moving slowly to approach the tunnel:
-« I am the seductor from the green hills beyond the mountains, to serve you!
- Come here, if you want to serve me! But will you seduce me? »
Gerry could not see the creature any more, but the sound of its voice indicated that it had reached the foot of the South postern, just below him. Sweating with fear, our Hobbit retreated just in time. The ghoul now stood on the platform and darted at him with yellow and bloodshot eyes:
-« But that's our little snoop! You happen to posess a shiny treasure? But do you really know how to use it? »
Gerry gasped. News roamed these halls faster than the whine of a dying! This creature seemed too knowledgeable to be honest. Strangely his ring had, by himself, escaped from his fist; he now held it between his thumb and forefinger. Moved by a sudden inspiration, Gerry raised his ring to challenge the ghoul.
By pure and incredible luck, the small stones captured the green light that rayed between two crenels. The ring now shone with a double opaline flame. The blinded creature was held by doubt and stepped back. The hall resounded with its dismayed and malicious whistle:
-« This is a beautiful ring! Wait a minute, I'll get my sisters ... we'll have a beautiful wedding! »
As the reader certainly knows, marriage did not have our Hobbit's favor. How embarrassed he was at the prospect of a multiple marriage! In other circumstances, such a proposal would have earned him a few seconds of naughty thinking. But in this case, the malicious smile of the creature inspired him the greatest modesty. Nonetheless reckoning the number of sisters, he took advantage of the creature's hesitation and ran away into the tunnel.
Gerry made such a racket throughout the corridor, that he found all of his companions in battle formation when he arrived, sweating and puffing, at the intersection. A few minutes and Gandalf's severe injunction were necessary to obtain a clear explanation from him. Then Thràin and the wizard concerted seriously as to the exact nature of this creature. According to the Dwarf, it could not be entirely evil, since it had proposed marriage to Gerry and sang lullabies.
The Hobbit exclaimed:
- « But it is a barrow-wight, a terrible bloodsucker! »
Then Arathorn came out of his shell and declared :
-« Time has come for the heir of the kings! We shall venture in the path of the dead as announced by the prophecy for ages! »
With that, he raised his silver horn and gave a ringing challenge, which resonated endlessly in the tunnels.
Gandalf was stunned, not by the cacophony, but by the terrible presumption of Arathorn. Before he could intervene, the Dùnedain had rushed into the corridor with their battle cry of « Elendil! ».
The wizard had to use all his influence over Thràin, who was embittered, to lead the Dwarves to the rescue of the reckless men. Gerry, whose value in close combat was not very popular, and the big Dwarf Barin were left behind to look after the mounts. All other companions engaged in the tunnel, following Gandalf's illuminated staff.
In the great hall, the creature had mustered its sisters. Half a dozen ghouls, most broken down and more frightening than the first one, had massed around the tomb. The Dúnedain descended the stairs, ready to fight.
Arathorn, majestic and confident, began to negotiate and get the pass, claiming a few centuries old oath that these dead's ancestors would have lent to his forefather. The ghouls, as might be expected from unlearned creatures, claimed they knew nothing about this episode of the past, and savagely attacked the Dúnedain.
Despite the blind ferocity of the assault, the rangers of Arnor proved a match for the vile creatures, but these seemed to ignore weariness. Arathorn, overwhelmed by doubt, desperately seeked what he could do to rectify the situation, when Gandalf, Bera and the Dwarves burst on the platform. The Bearning, continuing her momentum, jumped off the platform and landed with the flexibility of a fawn behind a huge gray-green ghoul wielding a scimitar. The young woman, animated by a murderous rage, tore the head of the creature with one powerful blow. The ugly head went rolling to the basin, while the repulsive corpse wandered at random, with its emaciated arms dangling.
Soon the Dwarves arrived at the foot of the stairs, backing the Dúnedain and encircling the creatures while shouting « Khazad aï mênou ! »8. The monsters seemed about to yield when Gandalf, who had remained on the steps to prepare an injunction, stood crying:
-« Dead animated with non-life! Return to the void prepared for you! »
The latest ghouls fell lifeless. Suddenly a deafening flash stifled the green glow of the basin, but Gandalf immediately brought enough light to illuminate his companions. There was silence in the room while Gandalf's smoke dissipated. Then, slowly, a sepulchral screech shook the tomb in the center of the room. A tall skeleton sat up there and turned to the companions the emaciated orbits of its fiery gaze. Grabbing a powerful sword into the tomb, the creature came out and faced the stunned companions. It wore a golden crown on his head, an ax remained stuck in. Its rich mantle revealed the wealth and power of this ancient King of men. In a voice full of authority, he shouted to Arathorn's attention:
- « You fool! Only one of you two will be king! You can not trust a Dwarf! »
Behind him shapes were gathering, blurred shadows out of the gate facing them. Gandalf seemed to mark a stop, surprised that his cast would not have annihilated all the creatures. On the contrary, it even seemed that his intervention had helped to call for more... Bera was the first to recover - her huge muscular and now hairy body was getting ready to pounce on the next attackers. But Arathorn had recalled his war captain glance. He shouted while springing:
- « Bera, to me, on the King of the dead! »
Both fell like a thunderbolt on the giant who fought back hard. Gandalf's light failed them when the wizard concentrated his efforts to delay the newcomers. But the strength of the Bearning, extolled by the token of trust her love had just granted her, forced for a moment the King against a natural pillar. Arathorn's sword flashed while hurling on the neck of his opponent, severing his head and shoulder. The inert King collapsed.
Arathorn, Thráin and Bera advanced then, followed by their companions, to face the horde that hesitated. The Dùnadan chief had regained his self-confidence. He rang again the horn and ordered the dead to retire in peace, brandishing his sword, still animated with the fire of death. Slowly the hideous troops disbanded and the companions were not worried, the shapes vanishing into the shadows of the cave or burying their repugnant members in the rubble from which they had emerged. Surrounded by the Dwarves, Bera looked the lord Arathorn in all his glory, shrouded by the graces of victory. Lost in his dream of renewal, he repeated the venomous prophecy –Only one will be king! - and gave her no look.
Past the joy of victory, Màr and Nàr gathered the Dwarves, who turned away from Arathorn. Thráin secretly blamed the Dùnadan for his naive belief that had nearly destroyed the group. His delusions about a King, predestined by a so-called old omen, had clouded his judgment on the battlefield and made him flout the authority of the designated captain. Furthermore, the pernicious prediction had not escaped him. He restrained for the time his anger and grievances, held by a soothing gesture of Gandalf.
Gerry and the Dwarves finally reached the gate. They were helped having the mounts go down the steps. Then the companions gathered around the tomb of stone, beneath which lay the remains of the giant. Gandalf approached, examining the corpse, the features of whom seemed to have regained peace. His cracked skull bore traces of blond hair beneath his crown. As a necklace, the King of the dead wore huge sharp teeth, grouped in pairs - one of the biggest missing. The wizard told, with a bass voice:
-« These are the remains of Fram, dragon slayer and bane of the orcs of Gundabad. »
Sheltered behind the legs of Bera, Gerry asked innocently:
-« What is struck in his head? »
Màr spoke, trembling with emotion, stating what all the Dwarves had in mind:
-« This man is dead, struck by a very ancient Dwarven ax, only a Dwarven King could wield. »
Arathorn noted grimly:
-« So it is true that Fram and the Dwarves of the Stiffbeards clan savagely killed each other... »
Nàr, clenching his fists, protested:
-« If this man is dead at the hands of a Dwarf, certainly he deserved it! »
- So you absolve his killer without knowing the circumstances of his death? You know only too well what may be the iniquity of a Dwarf, subject to the test of gold he can not appropriate! Fram refused to bow to the dictates of the Stiffbeards, they got rid of him, that is all! »
The weapons had not yet returned to the sheathes and were to serve again. Gandalf intervened, with a fierce look and ruffled eyebrows :
-« The ax, preserved in the skull of these remains, proves nothing except that the death was staged. It is Dwarven craft. How could possibly a Dwarf hit a tall man on the top of his head? Face these obvious facts: no one will ever know what happened when the Stiffbeards and Fram's company attempted to appropriate the treasure without agreeing. One thing is certain: they were unable to unite against their common enemies, which led to their downfall. May this lesson inspire all of us. »
Thràin and Arathorn had been close to rush against each other. As always, the political intuition of the Dùnadan showed swifter than Thràin's. He declared:
-« The prophecy of the Dùnedain was accomplished today! I humbly ask you to forgive my urge. I dedicate myself, as well as my suite, to serve your cause. May we all recover Barum-Nahal for the people of Dùrin! »
Thráin knew very well that this elegant discourse, all drenched with modesty and noble contrition, served only one truth: Arathorn considered himself the only one, who had revealed his royal stature today! Under the watchful and severe eye of Gandalf, he mumbled a vague assent, and ordered his Dwarves to bury the corpses. Fram's body was placed in his grave, the ax removed from the skull and the cover replaced. After this disgusting toil, Gandalf suggested a lunch break, both to calm the spirits and restore them somewhat.
Gerry's heart was heavy when they departed. Frightened glancing reflections of the great hall, he asked the wizard:
-« Do not all these unfortunate, possessed by the dragon's curse, deserve better than these dark holes?
- Probably, but we must not linger here. The feat Arathorn thinks he achieved, seems not sustainable to me. »
Seing the piteous face of the Hobbit, Gandalf added:
-« My dear Hobbit, the real tomb of the dead, is the heart of the living! 9 We remember their prowess and their falls, their worth and their weaknesses. Those we love still live for us. If we are faithful to them, they can still advise us. As for those that we have not known, their glory still enlightens us for centuries to come. The deceased, if we venerate his memory, is more valuable and more powerful than the living. 10
- But what shall we do when we realize that what we believed in was marred by wrongdoings, heavy to carry, like in a legend embellished by time? »
The wizard wondered if Gerry spoke about the legend of Fram or some idolatry he would feel for his lord.
-« Even when our heroes legends flaw, it is in the memory that things take their proper place. 11»
Bera was looking for a cure for her growing sense of loneliness. She followed their footsteps, lining in the caravan that forced the mounts up the stairs of the northern postern.
1 General. Litteraly : First Chief.
2 Typical expression of Tookburrough, which means « Its'over for me! ».
3 Here Lorien is for Irmo, the Vala master of dreams, desire and peace, the brother of Mandos, and of course not the forest of lady Galadriel.
4 Sacha Guitry
5 The prefix « Ar-», which means « Great » in adunaïc, the tongue of the Dùnedain, begins the names of all the chiefs of the Dùnedain of Arnor, since the last King Arvedui. This habit states the continuity and the primacy of the line of Isildur as well as the ambition of these chiefs, to re-found the kingdom of Arnor.
6 Fire!
7 See Appendix for length units.
8 The Dwarves to the rescue ! J.R.R. Tolkien, The two towers.
9 Jean Cocteau
10 Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
11 Jean Anouilh