The Adventures of Frodo Gardner
Volume II Through Shadows to the Edge of Night By Dolores J. Nurss
Chapter 5, Part 35 Traveling To Minas Tirith
"Dear Mama and Papa,
"See? I couldn't hardly wait to write to you again.
I got your letter as soon as I reached Meduseld (which I
gather you've figured out for yourself.) It broke my
heart to hear how much you worrited for me! Papa, how in
the world did you expect to find me without sleep to
freshen your eyes? Don't you ever do that again for me,
please! I know--it's no use telling you any such thing,
no more than my namesake could sneak away from your
worriting over him, not even by boat. All the same,
and contradicting myself, it comforts me to know that I
have a family that cares so much about my well-being. But
please relax--I'll travel by safe and well-known roads
from here on out. Mama, your son won't end up dying in a
ditch somewhere--I promise.
"Mama, I am so sorry that I completely forgot your
birthday! I had so much else on my mind, as I think
you've seen. But that's no excuse, of course. I owe you
an apology. And an apology-present, too, naturally. I'll
keep an eye out for something suitable."
(Here Frodo described their reception at Meduseld, and
his departure, then moved on to account for the
succeeding days.)
"November 23,1451--What a difference it makes to
travel on a proper road! I never have any question as to
where to turn next--it's all laid out straight before me.
Sure, other paths turn off of this one, but there's no
mistaking the broad, straight way to Gondor. Billie-Lass
likes to wander to the sides now and then after grass, so
much that I sometimes have to remind her that I brought
her here to ride her, not to graze her! But don't worry,
Papa--I'm treating Bill's granddaughter with the proper
care and respect that she deserves.
"Besides, every night she gets a clean, warm stable
and fodder aplenty for the glutton that she is. The
Rohirrim have established small settlements along the way
at about the interval it takes to make a reasonable day's
ride. The two I've seen so far have both featured simple
one-story inns of sod that remind me of rather primitive
hobbit-holes, but snug enough within, built along two
sides of a courtyard with a well in the middle, spilling
into troughs for horses, and a stable across on the third
side. Somewhere in each settlement (so I hear) you will
likely find a smith, a leatherworker, a tailor, and a
healer of men and beasts. (The smith in last night's
village was a woman with shoulders the size of a hobbit's
belly. I'd hate to come home to her for a wife after
gambling away the milk money!) Then there's shops selling
the various incidentals that a traveler might lose or run
out of along the way, plus small mementos of the journey
of no great usefulness but light and portable enough for
it not to matter, and finally food of the sort you can
eat in the saddle at midday...till you reach the next
inn."
"November 24, 1451--I'm going back to three meals a
day, Mama. I'm all healed, now, and it'd be a shame to
eat hobbit-meals in Mordor where people starve. Who knows
what I'll find when I get there? Not that any
self-respecting hobbit, least of all a Gamgee, would find
it hard to cut back on such plain fare as the Rohirrim
serve--it sure can't stand up to home cooking, Mama, on tiptoe and a bench! I should have my
belt nicely tightened before I reach the better cooks of
Gondor.
"In the hopes that you'll forgive me, Mama, I've
bought you a lovely blue scarf embroidered with roses
like only the women of Rohan can sew--it's so fine that I
can fold it quite flat and put it right in with this
letter. You will note that it's that light greenish blue
that you favor, which suits redheads well--I still remember the
time when Papa got you a dark blue mantle that you said
made you look like a sleep-starved barrow-wight. I hope
you like this better."
"November 25, 1451–I must say, I don't lack for
company on the road to Minas Tirith! I meet men for the
most part, with occasional parties of dwarves, and now
and then I even see the odd hobbit traveling for
Brandybuck Mercantile. All kinds of men, not just
Rohirrim and Dunlendings, but people from all over
Gondor, Arnor, Dale, and parts south and east. I've
gotten to recognize Nurnings--they're the lean ones
with a wary look about them, always eating alone, hunched
over their soup like they expect someone to snatch it
away from them. And they're always northbound. I've tried
to strike up conversations with them, you know, get some
idea of the land and people I'm headed for, but they
answer in as few words as they can and soon excuse
themselves. I reckon they don't want to even think about
what they've left behind.
"On the other hand, it's always jolly when I meet
another hobbit, but the night invariably ends with me
alone in a room too big for me, thinking about the Shire
and wishing I was home. I don't feel that way most of the
time, mind you! I've only met a few hobbits, actually.
But they remind me of all the jokes and banter that mean
something only to our sort, and all the same familiar
landmarks. I keep wishing that one of these hobbits will
go south and share the road with me awhile, but so far
they've all been heading north."
"November 26, 1451– The inns seem pretty
consistent every night so far. Building materials differ
now and then; they've got forest nearby tonight, so this
one's made of logs. And there's some variation as to
where they put the well and the outhouses--enough to
confuse you if you wake up in the middle of the night in
need of one or the other. But most of them keep to the
same U shape, though the opening faces different ways,
according to prevailing winds, so as not to let cold air
and debris blow in. I've almost gotten into the habit of
thinking of home as U-shaped and above-ground. But not
quite."
"November 27, 1451– The country gets hillier
the further I go, but Billie-Lass seems quite up to
handling the slopes. I do believe she feels a mite
competitive with all the great horses she sees on the
road. She tends to pick up her heels a bit every time
some splendid steed passes us by, I notice. She's got a
lot of spirit in her little heart. Sometimes I wonder if
she would've stood her ground before the gates of Moria
when you battled that dreadful water-thingy, Papa--no
offence to her grandsire, but she's got a lot of
feistiness in her mix, and she never had a Bill Ferny to
beat it out of her.
"In any case, travel does seem to agree with
her--plenty of exercise, new sights, and a rich and
varied diet, both wild and domestic. She's twice the pony
she was when we started, and I mean in more than girth.
She may get a grumpy look on her now and then (and
haven't all the descendants of Bill been expressive
ones!) but on the whole she seems to be having the time
of her life out here! You would smile to see the bounce
in her step and the way she looks about."
"November 28, 1451--As I travel I see more farmland
and less pasture, though you'd think with the change of
terrain it'd be the other way around. Very pleasant
countryside, all the same. Sometimes I feel almost like
I've come home, except that I have shrunk. I do find it a
bit alarming, on occasion, to see a lovely little village
on the horizon, growing as I near it, just like you'd
expect, except that it then keeps right on growing till
it towers all around me--and then the village still tries
to act all homey and cozy-like! Sometimes I feel like I
ride in a dream, like none of this can be real.
"And then I reach the local inn, and it all gets so
familiar that the little differences become all the more
disorienting. More and more I see the same faces at the
inns--people southbound like I am. They usually pass me
by on the road, on account of Billie-Lass's shorter legs,
but sooner or later we all wind up together at the next
inn every night, anyway. Some of them have begun to
grumble about pipeweed selling dear and running short,
but they haven't yet learned why."
"November 29, 1451--The King's post passed me by
today, galloping down the road. Imagine my shock when I
saw that the rider was a young and rather scrawny hobbit!
And on the biggest horse you ever saw, too! Later at this
inn I learned that all the post-riders are hobbits out of
Bree, usually younger sons of big families, earning money
through a few years hard work to buy themselves a bit of
land. And hard work it must be, too, to ride like that!
They must change horses frequently; maybe some of the
ranches along the way are for them. The masters of the
post, they say, prefer our kind because the horses hardly
feel a young hobbit's weight at all, and run the faster
for it. Bleoboris could not keep up such a pace, surely!
Then again, I don't think even a full-sized horse would
find his weight negligible. But seeing how swiftly the
messengers ride around here does give me hope that I will
see another letter from you by the time I reach
Gondor--now that you know for certain where to mail it
next!"
"November 30, 1451–I find that your best bet in
these inns is to order the soup of the day. All other
traveler's fare becomes tedious and heavy after awhile
(human beings must be the boringest cooks alive!) but you
never know what you'll get with the soup, except for
certain something creative, and usually somehow light and
satisfying at the same time, chock full of nourishment
and flavor. Besides, it's always the cheapest thing on
the menu. True, once in awhile you get something
unpalatable; I would just as soon forget the cream of
turnip soup I had last night. But I'll gamble on soup any
day, for often the cooks serve something scrumptious like
the vegetable/mutton stew I'm enjoying even as I write.
At any rate, I'd rather have cream of turnip soup, even,
than have to cook for myself for awhile."
"December 1, 1451–I stopped at an inn made all
of granite blocks, because the ground gets stonier as it
rises towards the mountains. I found the common-room
almost full of a party of northbound dwarves, headed for
Aglarond. It saddens me to say that I couldn't find a
young one in the lot. I know dwarves have their faults
and all, but a world without Durin's folk would lack a
certain sparkle, not to mention pride of craft."
"December 2, 1451--Happy birthday, Merry! My
brother, I mean, not Papa's friend. You know that, of
course. Have a slice of cake for me--that will be present
enough, to think of you enjoying good cheer. I could use
some cheer myself, little brother--I really miss my
family. Especially when I hear bad news like you don't
get in the Shire--at least not in my day.
"Today soldiers of Gondor galloped past me, headed
north as swift as storms, their black cloaks flying
behind. Only at the Inn did I learn why. Rioting Rohirrim
had attacked one of the King's messengers--one of those
post-riders I told you about--because he was a hobbit and
yet brought them no pipeweed beyond his own small pouch
tossed to the mob. After that news, and the announcement
that the Shire wasn't going to sell any more pipeweed to
Rohan, everyone kept staring at me all through dinner. I
finally stood up and announced, 'I don't smoke. I don't
even have a single pouch of the leaf. I have a little
red-bark spice from Far Harad, if anyone wants that.'
People turned away, ashamed of themselves, so I finished
my meal in peace and then turned in. I suppose some
stared from sympathy or curiosity and meant no harm. But
others chilled my heart just looking into their eyes. And
some of these share the southbound road with me."
"December 5, 1451--My way climbs steadily now, and
has for some days, actually. But today I've ridden high
enough to feel snowflakes on my face, and see them
sparkle all about me, whirling in the air. Not much of a
snow; it melts as soon as it hits the ground, but enough
to delight me with the promise that Yule is on the way.
It's a pity that men celebrate only one day of Yule, but I'm sure that I can make the most of it.
"I found the mittens in my pack that you two must
have tucked in there for me, rolled up with the long
johns. Thank you. My hands feel warmer on the reins,
now."
"December 6, 1451--This is so embarrassing, but I
just have to write it down, so I can sort it all out. I
suppose I brought everything on myself, and I don't like
telling you about it one bit, but I like not talking
about it even less, if that makes sense.
"I went into this inn, see, just thinking to grab me
a meal and get some rest, when this young human woman
saw me. A pretty thing, too, I must confess, lots of
chestnut curls and rosy cheeks, and okay, I'm not a
child--she had nice, soft curves, not all scrawny like
you see in humankind too often. I mean, I'm a good,
decent person, but I'm not blind. Anyway, she seemed to
take a liking to me, and ate beside me at table, and
bought me drinks, and so I had to buy her drinks to be
polite, and next thing you know she has her arm around me
and she's playing with my curls and I don't mind a bit.
Truth is, I never got so much attention from a maiden in
my entire life! It's just that I'm a long way from home
and family, and everybody needs a little affection some
time and in some way, don't they? So long as I behave
myself, of course. And she really felt so soft, to nestle
in beside her under her arm like that.
"But then the woman invited me to sit in her lap and
I could just feel my face burn when I said I didn't think
so, but she wouldn't take no for an answer--she laughed
and tried to pull me up onto her lap right there in front of
everybody! So I jumped up in alarm, and the whole bench
fell with a loud crash with her sprawling to the floor
and my cushions flying halfway across the room, and when
I flailed to the table to keep my balance my elbow hit my
mug and spilled it all over the floor--so there's
everybody staring at me and I feel like a fool--no, worse
than a fool. I can't tell you how much worse. I said to
her, "I think you have mistaken me for a doll,
Madam. I am not a doll." And I stalked off, with as
much dignity as I could still muster.
"But I couldn't go to bed just yet; the innkeeper
hollared me back to pay my tab, so that ruined my grand
exit--I had to go back to pay, and feel all those people
staring at me some more, and only then could I escape.
And then, after paying extra for hot water and scrubbing
myself till I hardly had any skin left, I lay a long time
in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking how that woman
could just let herself go like that with me only because
she didn't actually think of me as real, like I had come
into existence simply for her to play with and nothing
she did with me mattered. I must remember, from here on
out, that I am not among hobbits. I just hope to heaven
that that woman's northbound!"
"December 7, 1451--Today I didn't reach shelter till
all the other southbound travelers had already eaten
supper, for which I feel grateful. I had gotten a late
start because I looked for a barber before leaving the
last settlement, but found none. I should have
known--nobody cuts their hair in Rohan unless they get
lice, and then they just shave it all off. I finally had
to trim my own hair the best I could , looking in a
mirror while the innkeeper's daughter held another mirror
behind me. She added her two bit's worth every time I
made a wrong snip, till she finally took over when she
figured out what I wanted, and a businesslike job she
made of it, too. My hair had gown out way too long in
Treegarth, and although men in these parts wear it down
past their shoulders, I didn't quite feel like a proper
hobbit that way. Now I feel better--more
respectable--even if my neck does feel a bit chilly,
especially with snow now lying on the ground."
"I am not sure at this point whether I am officially
in Gondor yet or still in Rohan. I think that technically
it might be Gondor, because I crossed a ford which I seem to
remember marks the boundary (Billie-Lass's hooves went
right through the skin of ice upon it and she was none
too thrilled) and later I passed some crumbling old
battlements, but only youths in training manned them. But
I still meet a lot of Rohirrim on the road. The further I
travel the woodsier it gets, if that is any clue. But not
quite like the woods of home. Here you see mostly
pine--and not the straight, tall pines you'd expect, but
twisty, curving low to the ground , swirled into the most
fantastical of shapes. I had completely forgotten this
part of our journey, how strangely the trees grow on the
mountainside. But then, as I recall, I had eyes only for
the Pukel-Men. The old stone carvings still do crop up at
every bend of the road. They look so sad, eyes hollowed
by the years, still lingering after men forgot their
history."
"December 8, 1451--You know those men who had been
daily riding ahead of Billie-Lass only to meet us again
at the next inn? Well, one of them, a big blonde fellow,
dropped back a bit and rode alongside me today. He acted
quite friendly at first, trading riddles as we traveled;
the Rohirrim seem to like riddles as much as hobbits do.
But then, oh so casually, he asked me if I had anything
to smoke. I told him that I'd had none the last time
anybody asked and had not obtained any since. He chuckled
oddly and said that he understood perfectly why I would
say such a thing in an inn full of strangers so much
bigger than myself, but really, just between him and me, did
I happen to have any pipeweed I could share? He seemed to
think that I must smoke in secret every day, after the
faster horses pass me by. I swore that I did not. Then he
told me that little people would do well not to lie to
those bigger than them, and that nobody liked greedy
little goblins who didn't want to share. I put my hand on
Sting at that point and asked him if he'd ever heard of
my father. When he inquired I told him your name, and
said that while I didn't know how I'd have fared against
The Dark Lord, personally, a brigand on the road seemed
well within my measure, and that he shouldn't make the
mistakes that trolls before him had, of underestimating
hobbits for our size. (You have no idea, Papa, how
terrified I was that he might call my bluff, but what
else could I do?) It worked, because he rode on then, but
not before grumbling that he'd seen sons of heroes before
who didn't measure up to their father's deeds.
"Now, here at the inn, I find him again, glowering
across the room with several of his mates about him. I
shouldn't worry too much; I shall reach Minas Tirith in a
day or two. Even so, brigands do their worst in no-man's
land like this, between the laws enforced by different
countries--at least that's what the innkeeper warned me
about, and I'd be a fool not to listen. The old taverner
seems a kindly sort who means me well--he told his
biggest lad to keep an eye on the table full of people
watching me, and gave me the room next to his own as a
precaution. All the same, I'm going to wear my mail from
here on out. As a matter of fact, tonight I think I'll
sleep in it."
(Scrawled afterthought) "This traveling all on my
own is really getting old."
"December 9, 1451--I should reach Minas Tirith
tomorrow, and I can't say I'm not glad to know it. This
morning I got up before anybody else and did my
sword-drill right there in the courtyard, stamping about
in the snow while the cook fixed breakfast. Not much of a
drill with nobody to spar against, but I could rehearse
the basic positions and get my legs back into the hang of
crab-walking. It startled the chickens some, me flashing
Sting about unsheathed and all, and they put up a squawk
that caused some heads to poke out of windows and blink
at me; I didn't let it slow me down one bit. Matter of
fact, as people began to rise and wander towards the
common room for a bite to eat, I pulled off my mail and
my shirt (though my breath clouded the cold air) and
called for a basin of hot water to be delivered to my
room to wash the sweat off, turning as needed so that all
could see the big red scar on my arm and know that I am
not without experience in battle. When the woman I'd met
before (yes, she's southbound!) stared at the scar, I
said I'd got it from an orc I slew. Her face lost some
color; I don't suppose she expects dolls to behave that
way, get into battles and all. Anyway, I scrubbed up and
had breakfast while the others began to saddle up their
horses. Nobody rode beside me all day long."
|