The Brown Wizard

Chapter One: The Finding of The Ring of Power

Summer had begun to fade. It showed its last in desperate wanes, hope clinging to the edge of a haggard shaft of sunlight. Darkness was coming. It had already come, growing like a weed with roots in unseen places, invited by the cold. There had been foreshadowing in the dark wings of the bird that had brought Radagast his old friend's words. Even so, he had lived in shadow, for longer now than he had ever thought he might.

On the south-eastern edge of Mirkwood he had waited, and now, finally, he heard the thundering of hooves, and felt the spirit of the grey pilgrim.

Radagast The Brown, The Wizard of The Woods, The Third Istari, sat stroking the tabby cat sleeping on his lap. Broad and muscular, wind-burnt and calloused, he had the body of an old woodsman – a grey bearded, bald-headed hunter, with hands like roots, shoulders like boulders, and eyes green as the never shedding trees. He was flanked by two grey wolves, each chewing on a bone. A red squirrel was perched atop the staff that leant at his side, and a falcon spreading its wings, took flight from his shoulder.

He wore a thick, rough robe of brown wool and leather patches. The staff at his side was unpolished oak not even stripped of its bark, not even dead; it still sprouted leaves, both its own and of crawling Ivy. It was topped by a large shard of flint, more spearhead than crystal. At its bottom was a rough-hewn stone, carved like a mace-head.

The tabby cat opened its eyes and looked up at Radagast who looked back, nodding gently. "Yes, he is here."

Gandalf The Grey, Mithrandir, The Second Istari, came galloping into view, a falcon following from above. He had not changed. He still wore that ridiculous pointed blue hat. He still carried that large elven blade. He still reeked of pipe-smoke, and let his beard grow long, and could soften the very soul of you with nothing but a look.

The wolves dropped their bones and stood. The squirrel gripped his staff tighter. The falcon landed on his shoulder. Radagast scratched his hairless head and looked up at his old friend. Gandalf dismounted his horse, taking his staff from its side, marching forward and making to speak.

Radagast raised a hand to stop him.

"We will not talk here," he said.

Placing the cat upon the floor, Radagast rose. He could see the trepidation and suspicion in Gandalf's eyes as The Grey Wizard scanned the dark, poisoned edge of Mirkwood.

"There are still safe paths that remain… when I walk them. Come Gandalf, you look as though you need a cup of tea."

Gandalf gave half a smile. "I think I may need something stronger."

"We have no wine in Mirkwood. But I will see what I can do."

On they went, the beasts and the wizards, through the twisting paths of the poisoned forest, full of misery and lamentation. There was struggle in the very soil here, a war fought betwixt that which grows and that which decays. It seemed as if the heart of all this world's plight played itself out in this once green wood.

In time they came to a place the sickness had not touched. A place of red berries and pine sap, green needles, orange leaves, acorns, chestnuts, and life. Birds sang on the branches, squirrels scurried across the bark, and the sun, through what could only be magic, stretched and bent its way from the crown of the wood to the secrets of the forest floor.

At the centre of this place, where the splendour of nature had remained unfettered, stood a mighty oak. The tree was magnitudes greater than any other in the forest, and amongst its boughs and branches, it held the home of Radagast The Brown.

A great woven basket, attached to the house by rope and pulley, lay upon the ground. Radagast led them all within, and then, displaying the strength of his arms, pulled them up. Haul by haul, he forced them off the forest floor and into the canopy above, making light work of the monumental task.

Once they reached their destination, the beasts all scattered to their own places of comfort, all but the squirrel who remained atop Radagast's staff.

The house was messy, but not dirty. There was a comfortable chaos to it, where empty mugs and piles of books, frayed rugs and scratched armchairs, firewood, old candles, sacks of potatoes and barrels of mead, bird's nests, dog's beds, maps, moss and mouseholes, inquisitive flowers and arrogant vines, crept in, took stake, decided to be, and be with all else that had come here and made a home.

Gandalf had always admired what Radagast had built here, and Radagast knew it. It brought him deep joy to know another of the Istari appreciated what he had made – a place where divine order and divine disorder were one, a place of lore and lawlessness, a home held together not by language, or culture, or race, but by the wordless, natural kinship of things that play, and nurture, and grow.

Sitting at the kitchen table, the two wizards stared at each other. Before either spoke, Radagast stood once more, taking two clay mugs, and filling them from one of his barrels. He sat back down and handed a mug to Gandalf.

The Grey Wizard sipped, considering the flavour for a moment. "Mead?"

"Beorn gives me mead, and I give him mushrooms in return. And sometimes we trade favours, when the need arises."

Gandalf cocked an eyebrow, letting a sly smile slip from betwixt his lips. "I never took you as one to make new friends."

"We are not friends. We are neighbours, and we do what we can for each other. Times are hard, Gandalf."

The Grey Wizard took another sip and nodded, the joy bleeding from his expression.

Radagast rolled his shoulders back, cracking his spine, before grasping his mug and sighing. "So, tell me, my old friend, why a weary raven, with desperate words, cajoled by crude spell-craft, has brought us together. Surely, it is above Gandalf The Grey, to borrow the spells of Radagast The Fool."

Gandalf swallowed, shame and regret overpowering the taste of mead in his mouth. "I know we have not seen each other in what is longer than an appropriate amount of time. But I have always held your person dear and respected your agency in your mission on this earth. And that is why I have come to you now, to seek your counsel, my old friend."

The tabby cat jumped atop the table. It locked eyes with Radagast, then Gandalf, before looking back at Radagast and sitting, eyes and ears wide open.

The Brown Wizard gave a heavy sigh, "Why have you come here, Mithrandir?"

He tried not to show it, but hearing Radagast use that name stung him somewhat. Still, it did not matter.

"The Ring of Power has been found."

An unsettling silence stretched across the house; the cat looked back, the squirrel twitched and stared at Radagast, somewhere the wolves opened their eyes, the trees stood more still and more uncertain as the falcon shivered in the sky.

Radagast hesitated for a moment, but only a moment; it seemed a single consideration scrubbed clean all his surprise.

"Your hobbit?" he asked, already certain of the answer.

Gandalf hung his head, breathing deep, and all but nodding. He reached into his robe and pulled out his pipe, lighting it with grim resignation. He drew upon it, smoke escaping 'twixt his lips. "Yes. The Hobbit."

"Your Hobbit."

"My Hobbit."

Radagast drank the last of his mug, stood and refilled it, his back to his friend. "What do you mean to do?"

"The Hobbits have shown a remarkable resilience to its evil. After I have warned them, they must take it out of The Shire. And I will go to speak with Saruman."

Radagast turned slowly, his whole back arched with discomfort. "Gandalf, I would not go to Saruman even if I had The Ring myself."

The Grey Wizard took a long draw on his pipe, his eyes filled with mist and curiosity. "What do you mean?"

Radagast sat back down, placing his mug to the side. Lifting the tabby cat, and placing it on his lap, he pet its head with an anxious need for comfort. "He is not who you once knew, Gandalf. And what is more… I fear he tears himself apart with some ancient and dangerous magic, or some esoteric and cursed lore. His mind has unravelled amongst the isolation of that tower. He never should have locked himself away there, in that dead place, alone amongst the ghosts of history. Loneliness fits him ill, Gandalf."

The Grey Wizard forced a small smile. "And it fits you well?"

"It does."

Tapping his pipe upon the table and rubbing his brow, Gandalf tried to think for a moment, but it was all too much. "How do you know this?" he asked.

"The birds and the moths, they have told me, month by month, season by season, year by year, what has become of The White Wizard, Master of Isengard." Radagast paused a moment, shifting uncomfortably. "Yet, more and more birds will not say anything of him, will not even return home." He reached for Gandalf's pipe, to which his friend obliged. "He is gathering spies Gandalf. You cannot go to him with this."

Gandalf watched as the bowl of his pipe enkindled to an amber glow. Smoke shrouded Radagast's face, filling Gandalf with a rigid, disquieting uncertainty. "What are you saying, Radagast?"

"Only that I no longer trust him."

"He is the leader of our order."

Radagast handed the pipe back to his friend. "That does not make him wise."

"Duty binds me to his authority, as yours binds you to mine. I cannot hold birds and moths above Saruman and the divine oath we swore to his authority."

"There is more divinity in birds and moths than any oath that can be made with words." Radagast looked down at the tabby cat, their eyes meeting, and souls sighing. "Say then what you came to say. You did not come here to ask for my counsel, but to demand my capitulation."

Gandalf took off his hat, his long grey locks framing his face. Leaning forward across the table, he linked his hands. "You must come with me. The Ring must leave The Shire, and I must inform Saruman, and someone must protect The Ring Bearer."

"So, as you seek the wisdom of Saruman The Mad, I shepherd this Bilbo?"

"Frodo."

"The nephew?"

"Radagast, you must understand; now that The Ring has been found, evil will stir."

The Brown Wizard stared at his old friend, unphased, unconvinced and uninspired. He pushed himself and his seat back, the chair's legs scraping against the floor as it made its way to the kitchen counter and the barrel of mead. Radagast drank his mug, refilled it, gulped, topped it up, and locked eyes with Gandalf.

"Will stir, Gandalf? Will stir? Has stirred. Look around you; a sickness lies upon the forest, shadow, and shadow made form, and shadow's own flesh. The spawn of Ungoliant grow larger each year, and more countless in number; the goblins of The Misty Mountains invade by night, building wretched townships hidden by the shade of the plague-riddled trees; the elves, more paranoid and selfish than ever, show how short the bridge between the light of our soul and the darkness of our actions can be. And more, Gandalf, more evil than you will ever know has taken root amongst the life that was once The Greenwood. If The Ring of Power has been found, its strength will give that evil all it needs to consume every corner of my home. Unless it is defended. And who Gandalf, who will defend it if not me?"

The Grey Wizard leant back in his seat and rubbed his brow. Radagast had seen it before; now Gandalf was to play the martyred voice of reason, the lone soldier in the divine war for the greater good.

"All of Middle Earth is your home, Radagast. You are duty bound to defend it."

Radagast took another drink. "You may have grown fond of the bipedal creatures that inhabit this world, of their cities and farms and parties, but I have not. So, you may go, and defend the world of elves and dwarves and men. And Saruman may go and defend the world of books and secrets and artefacts. And I will stay and defend the world of trees and squirrels and butterflies."

Gandalf slammed a hand against the table, "If The Ring of Power-"

"If The Ring of Power?! If the evil here is not contained, it will find your Ring Bearer and bring it to the enemy!"

Gandalf rolled his eyes in bluster, repacking his pipe. "This is no strategy."

"Was it strategy, Gandalf, when you let your Hobbit keep this thing? Was it strategy when it took you so long to even ask what it was?" Radagast stood, stepping towards his old friend, fire in his eyes. "You say all of Middle Earth is my home, is your home… Tell me, truthfully, if our places were reversed – if I had found The Ring on some badger in the depths of The Greenwood, while The Shire had burned and rotted and had its blood spilt for decades into centuries and no one had cared – would you think of all Middle Earth as your home, when your chosen home, your chosen family, stood on the brink with only you to defend them, would you abandon them Gandalf? If I had the ring and they were being slaughtered, could see the greater good then? Could you?"

Gandalf bowed his head, his chest all but still. "I do not think I could. But that is not where I stand." He stood, staff in hand, defiant against his brother, colleague, and subordinate.

The Brown Wizard stood, staff in hand, meeting the challenge.

The tabby cat hissed. Two wolves growled in the doorway. The flapping of wings and clawing of talons replaced the wind around the building.

The Grey Wizard did not flinch or respond, and Radagast realised the defiance in Gandalf's eyes was not for him. It was for Gandalf.

Slumping his shoulders, The Grey Wizard sighed, "I should not have let it come to this."

Radagast placed a hand on the tabby cat's head, his huge, gnarled fingers falling gentle as the autumn leaves. "None of us should. We have let slip, and become strangers to each other, even us three who remain."

Gandalf relit his pipe, puffing. "Tell me, friend, aside from the yearning of your heart, do you truly believe your staying here aids us in what is to come?"

Radagast sat back down, filling up his mug. "Me staying here has aided us in what is to come more than you ever thought to think on."

Gandalf smirked at the wizardly turn of phrase. "So, then what, you try to save Mirkwood while I try to save Middle Earth?"

"No Gandalf, you will try to save what places you can, they will try to save what places they can, all so your Hobbit can try and save the world."

Gandalf coked an eyebrow, sitting back down and puffing on his pipe. "You would leave it in their hands?"

"I would not leave it in our hands."

"It is not fair that they should bear this burden alone."

"Tell me, Gandalf, of all your people who might have found The Ring, are you not glad it was a Hobbit?"

"I am glad of it, and I wish it was otherwise."

"I am glad you came to me Gandalf, and I wish it was otherwise."

Radagast walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a loaf of brown bread and a block of dense cheese. He began to prepare himself a sandwich.

Stopping to tear off a hunk of cheese and eat it, he stood within a newborn silence. The silence took on the stink of the cheese, and the strength of his teeth. It was in him now, the conundrum, the narrative context, the principal characters… but so were their souls, the blades of grass between their toes, the rain falling on their heads, the huger in their bellies – the hunks of cheese and loafs of bread. As he worked, he asked: "To the mountain of fire? While you rallied the forces of elves and dwarves and men, if I had said yes, I was to take them and The Ring all the way to the mountain of fire?"

Gandalf sighed, grief extoling empathy through breath. "Not necessarily to the very end."

"But someone must."

"Yes."

"Did you mean me?"

"Not necessarily."

"You?"

"Not necessarily."

"Then who?"

"I don't know!"

Radagast went back to finishing his sandwich. "I think you do, Gandalf. And I think when the time comes, they will offer to do it."

Gandalf winced, turning away and drawing hard on his pipe. He muttered under his breath before saying, "Someone must protect them."

Radagast took a bite of his newly finished sandwich. "What are you afraid of Gandalf? That you will fail them? That this is your fault? Had you not forced Bilbo into that madness with the dwarves he would not have found The Ring; The Ring would never have made its way into The Shire. If only you could have kept the truth of you and what you knew about the world a secret. What did they think of you Gandalf, that you were just a travelling salesman, a maker of fireworks, a conjurer of cheap tricks? Did you need them to know how much more you were? Is that why you took him on your adventure?" Radagast took another bite. "No. That is not who you are. You are no braggart, and you are no bully. That is not why you are afraid or why you have come to me."

"If you are so very wise, then tell me, why have I come to you?"

"To see, Gandalf. To see precisely why I cannot help you. Even last we met, so may years ago, you saw how the sickness had taken hold of my home. And as far and as fast as your travels since, I know you have felt that sickness grow. In truth, Gandalf, this was never a reunion, nor a call for reinforcement, this was a farewell."

"For all your mastery of truth, Radagast, you fail to see how two things, even if opposed, may both be true at once. I came to seek your help, and I came to see. I do believe only a Hobbit could make this journey, but I do not believe they could bare that burden alone."

"You must help them bear that burden, Gandalf. And I will help you, by beating back the darkness you have seen here."

"You make it sound so simple."

"So simple? You have turned the world on a phrase. If I am, as you say, a master of truth, then I should push for more solid foundations. Are you sure it is The One Ring?"

"Once I arrive in The Shire I will prove it with a test I have devised from Isildur's diaries."

"But you are already sure. You did more than pass your eyes over ancient dynastic scribblings. You found it, did you not, the creature?"

Gandalf picked up his hat and placed it on his head. Taking a moment to consider Radagast, he formed an expression somewhere between sadness and bewilderment – with all the affection one might feel for a puzzle they could not complete, or a meal they had slightly over salted.

The Grey Wizard stood. "I should depart. I should… I should have come, but not told you. I should not have told you."

Radagast all but finished his sandwich, feeding the final scraps to the squirrel. "For your sake or for mine?"

Gandalf puffed on his pipe, smoke rolling over his face like low tide waves, pushing but always falling back – a failing illusion. "I would like to say 'for both of ours'… but in truth it is for mine. We have grown too far apart, and yet we are entangled… in a way too profound, too old, too fundamental to define. I had forgotten. And now I have remembered. Both." The Grey Wizard did what he could to collect himself, arriving at that place between staying and leaving. "It pains me. But what pains me more is that I am fairly certain you came to this conclusion long ago, felt this pain long ago, and so even this we cannot share." Gandalf turned, walking to the kitchen door but pausing before walking through. "I will do what I feel I must and you will do what you feel you must."

As Gandalf strode out the kitchen Radagast finally spoke. "It should have been you Gandalf."

The Grey Wizard stopped. "What?"

"It should have been you who wore the white."

"I did not want it."

"Still, it should have been you."

"And what difference would it make now? Would you listen to me if I was wearing white?"

"No."

"Then why mention it?"

"Because either there is no destiny, or destiny is so complex even the very wise cannot see all ends."

Frozen, his every inch eager to turn in anger, The Grey Wizard stood frozen, his back to his old friend and kindred spirit. "Do not torment me with riddles and philosophy, I am doing as wish, I am leaving."

"I was glad to see you, Gandalf. I only wish we could have met without what brought you here."

"And I wish we could have met without what keeps you here."

Still Radagast could feel but little hurt. He knew in time all would wish away, or simply look beyond, what kept him there.