The Adventures of Frodo Gardner
Volume II Through Shadows to the Edge of Night By Dolores J. Nurss
Chapter 32, Part 62 Nurnen Bound (January 14, 1452)
Frodo
herded the goats by himself up the streets of Riverborn, following the
alleys that Bergil had described, while the Ranger went on ahead to
book their passage. The buildings did not look quite so bad today, so
long as he equated them with cliffs and other natural formations, but
he surely wouldn’t want to live here! He found himself blessing every
cheeky little weed to crack the concrete or take root in a raingutter,
and the patches of moss and mold here and there ceased to look
scrofulous but started to provide welcome spots of color. He hoped with
all his heart that his eventual destination, being rural, might not
smother him so closely as these endless, faceless walls.
People came and went around him at a terrible hurry, sometimes cursing
the goats for getting in the way, but they lacked the vitality of the
people in Edoras or Minas Tirith, though they moved at twice the speed.
Their faces looked hard, as hard as armor, but too many of the eyes
betrayed a vacantness behind that conjured up in Frodo a terrifying
pity. Some stirred from dullness enough to glare with hatred at the
star-badge pinned to his cloak, but none of them dared accost an agent
of the King, however small--especially one who wore mithril openly
underneath. With one hand on his staff, Frodo kept the other clearly on
Sting’s hilt and tried his best to look like someone you wouldn’t want
to mess with.
Never did Valinor appear so far away.
Yet even with that thought the memory of that light came back, and
Frodo began to see what could have been, perhaps even what was. The
stones still held their ancient patterns locked inside, though squared
off into blocks. The weeds raised green blades in defiance of all
things hard; they danced and bobbed to the slightest breeze, awaiting
the first excuse to bloom. The narrow strip of sky above him tumbled
with clouds far beyond the reach of Riverborn’s reek.
And the people! Oh, what poetry hid within those wan cheeks and
hardbitten lips! Somewhere in each curled unborn the knowledge that the
empty eyes could still be--indeed yearned
to be--filled. Surely, in fact, much love and sorrow and moments of
triumphant joy must fill each and every one of them, in unguarded
moments, far from these hard-beaten streets, miles away by the closing
of a door, at least. And now that it came to it, now that Frodo looked
closer, as though through a clarifying lens, he saw much in those
around him of courage and endurance and the will to live as feeling
human beings no matter what they suffered. The blows of life don’t
always crush--sometimes they carve something beautiful, chipping away
all the superficials, leaving nothing but the heart.
The smell got worse as he neared the docks, but he made himself take
deep breaths to numb his nose the faster; he’d learned that trick from
the Gaffer the first time the old hobbit set him to shoveling manure.
Not far from the water he came across the local offices and warehouses
for Brandybuck Mercantile, and he broke into a grin. Uncle Merry
certainly had his work cut out for him in these parts, but apparently
he’d bought several of the ugly buildings and joined them together into
something rather more generous (painted purple) with new brickwork and
widened windows (still rectangular, but at least letting in the light
and air.) Every window had its window-box, and in his travels the
Master of Brandybuck had found a variety of flowers amenable to
blooming in the winter (none of them white) trailing from the boxes
like an invasion of color from a happier realm. Each of the warehouses
sported a different hue, as well, and gave off scents of spices, and
tea, and oranges, and fresh-cut wood, and wine-barrels, and
coffee-beans heaped up in sacks, and other smells that the hobbit
couldn’t name, but all of them enticing contradictions to the
river-reek.
Frodo paused a moment to admire the establishment, and note how faces
brightened here, how customers lightened their steps and looked eager
to reach the (round!) green doors (all three of them) and how they
chattered to each other as though noticing companionship simply by
proximity to such a place. Somewhere amid the warehouses Frodo heard a
worker whistling, and that slender sound seemed stronger and more
joyous than all the city walls at once. Frodo found himself smiling as
he opened the centermost door.
A young Nurning woman rose from a desk and came to him, returning his
smile so radiantly that it took him a second to notice the dark and
jagged scars all over her face and body. Before Frodo could open his
mouth she said, “Ah--you must be Master Gamgee--we have had word of
you.” Nothing empty about the sparkle in those eyes! “The packers
started assembling your gear as soon as we learned of your arrival.”
She turned to a ruddy young man and said, “Jasper, see to Master
Gamgee’s goats.” She ushered Frodo into a warm parlor, fragrant with
that spicy tea that Uncle Merry favored, where fresh-sawn wood paneled
over the ugly Mordor bricks and clean, well-padded chairs offered him
their comforts next to a fireplace crackling with cheer. “Would you
like a cup of tea while we load up the carts?”
“Thank you, Mistress, uh...”
“Turquoise. Turquoise Greeter is my name since I came to work here.”
She dimpled. “The Master of Buckland says we can all rename ourselves,
if we so desire.”
“How lovely. And how did you know of my arrival, Mistress Turquoise?”
“Oh, we figured you would quarter at Splashie’s place when you arrived.
We paid him to send to us whenever any ra...hobbits took lodging at his
house.” Her cheeks colored at what she almost said, as she dabbed at
her lips after a hasty sip of tea. “I do apologize that we had received
no word in advance about the goats until last night. Nevertheless, we
are assembling bales of fodder as rapidly as possible. Oh, and you do
know that you will have to provision the entire crew of your vessel, do
you not? We have many carts to load.”
Frodo choked on his tea. “The entire...?”
“Think no more of it! Master Brandybuck himself has extended your
expedition a line of credit, and will send all bills directly to the
King. He has written me a precise and lengthy list as to everything
that you will need--all quite practical, mind you, unlikely to alarm
the Royal Exchequer, allowing for a few small extravagances like blocks
of eastern ink.”
Frodo practically melted into the upholstery in relief. Good ol’ Merry
thought of everything! “Oh well, in that case, I believe I will have
another cup of tea.”
“On the house,” she said, and smiled.
Leading a parade of carts and herding the goats before him, Frodo soon
reached the docks themselves, to the sound of water slapping against
the piers and the cries of water-birds squabbling over some dead fish.
Somehow the sight of the water heartened him anyway, gray-brown and
rancid though it was, for it flowed in the patterns universal to water
anywhere, a grace to the eyes, in its movements music, a solace from
time immemorial.
“Over here, Frodo!” He saw Bergil waving a few piers down. The star
badge glinted on the man’s cloak, as well; not even Bergil would pass
through these streets without at least the threat of back-up. But he
looked cheerful enough as he said, “Trust me--the smell gets better
towards the center of the river. I booked us passage on a galley--a
motor-tug would move us faster, but the goats would not put up with
it.” Frodo breathed a sigh of relief--he had no desire to spend days in
a machine’s foul noise and smoke--although he found the dragon
figurehead downright alarming. He and Bergil counted the goats together
and herded them down into a pen prepared for them in the hold, fenced
off from the provisions that strong men from Brandybuck Mercantile
loaded in for them.
To Frodo’s horror, on emerging from below, he found the sides of the
vessel filling up with whip-scarred men at oars, scowling at him like
he bore responsibility for every mark on them. But only rings of shiny
skin encircled the wrists and ankles where manacles once galled. A big
man strode up to him and said, rather belligerantly, “Ya Frodo
Gardner--the bloke commissioning this ship?”
“Yes sir. On His Magesty Tar Elessar’s command.”
“Well, just so’s ya know the rules, we’re all free men here, and have
been since the Conquest, if the rumors be true. True or no, I slew the
last master we had, and I’d do it again--in a flash--if anybody ever
tries to lord it over us again. Bleat to the law all ye want, but the
King won’t stop me--calls it self-defense, he does. When ya sign on me
crew, ya hire em-ploy-yees, ya do not rent slaves--do I make myself
clear?”
“Uh...no problem there. I don’t want to own anybody--not even to rent.”
“I know our rights. Ya have to pay us twenty pence for every day we
sweat for ya--that’s the downstream rate. Upstream’s forty. Ya have to
allow the men a break and a chance to switch sides every two hours,
plus all the fresh water they want. Ya cannot whip us. Ya cannot
inflict corporal punishment in any way. If there’s any punishing to be
done, I’ll do it--and only if I see fit--hear?”
“I hear you, Captain, and I approve.”
“Ya cannot take a crewman’s possessions away from him, unless he gives
or sells ‘em to ye of his own volition--and I’ll be watching to make
sure of that ‘volition’ part. Every man gets his ration of grog, in the
mid-afternoon. And they’ll get three meals a day, every day, no
exceptions--out of yer own purse. The rule on this ship is we all eat
the same grub, at the same table, passengers and crew alike. Not one
gettin’ all the dainties to himself and the rest sittin’by drooling in
vain. Ya got that?”
“Indeed, I prepared for it,” said Frodo, thinking fast as he groped
through his personal packs removed from the goats and now lying at his
feet. “I brought rounds of cheese and dried fruit, and seasonings to
liven up our shared meals. Here...” he pulled out a string of
apple-slices, from the cache he’d hoped to enjoy at Nurnen, “...in
honor of our coming voyage together, each man and hobbit gets a slice,
right from the start. One for you...and here’s one for me, and for
Bergil, and now for the men...there you go, pass it down, one
each...there--that should put some heart into your rowing. I hate the
very thought of whips.” The change in the faces amazed Frodo. The eyes
lit up with delight and the cheeks creased from grinning as the men
reached for the leathery bits of fruit and a pleased murmur went all
around. “And there’s more where that came from, lads--give us a good,
smooth ride, and you’ll not regret it.”
“Ye’ll not regret it either, guv’ner!” the men declared. “Aye, we’ll
row our arms off the sockets for ya!” “Fruit--I ain’t tasted fruit
since me last birthday!” “It’s a good li’l rat, it is.” “Hoboy, will ya
taste that? Think I’m gonna die of sweetness!” “Think ‘e’s a soft ‘un?
Think we can get away with...” “Don’t say it! Tha’s the same mistake
the Dark Lord made about ratfolk, an’ look where it got him!”
“Excuse me!” Frodo said loudly, now looking as stern as he could
manage. “No one who wants to work for me shall ever call me ‘Rat’ or
‘Ratfolk’. Anyone who doesn’t want to collect my pay can climb out
right now and I can hire someone else.” He drew himself up. “The proper
term for me is ‘Hobbit’. I am a hobbit of the Shire, and my name is
Frodo Gardner.”
In the stunned silence Bergil added, “Son of a certain Samwise whom you
may have heard about. Do not underestimate him! He has killed in battle
before.” Then Bergil turned to the big man and said, “Take us out,
Captain. We have accepted your terms.”
The Captain leaned down to Frodo and growled, “If there’s any killing
to be done, I’m the one to do it--keep that sword in your sheathe, or
we don’t go nowhere.”
“You have my word, Captain.” Then Frodo whispered to Bergil, “Why’d you
have to say that? They’ll think I’m some kind of monster!”
“Monsters they know and understand. Except for Mattie--whom they all
see as outside the normal boundaries anyway--hobbits are but a rumor to
them, which they have put into the only category that they can grasp
for a creature that can overpower the Dark Lord himself. Trust me,
Frodo--between your gift and my threat, we are off to the best possible
start.” Frodo blinked at that; it had never occurred to him how
frightening his father’s and namesake’s victory might appear to some.
“Helmsman to your post!” the Captain shouted. “Men to your oars! Anchor
up, cast off, and bring ‘er about--We’re Nurnen bound, m’boys!”
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