The Adventures of Frodo Gardner
Volume VIII From the Ashes a Fire Shall be Woken By Dolores J. Nurss
Chapter 26, Part 271 The Wound in the Land February 30
Frodo stumbled forward, gaping. The red clay walls of the crevasses
looked gory in the sinking sun. Biting insects whirled within in
pulsing clouds, breeding in the stagnant pools. Bare, gnawed ribs of
earth jutted up between them. From the road he could look right up into
one raw crack in the earth, and saw how an alluvial fan of mud had
spread out over the cobbles, for all the world like a congealing gout
of blood.
He went in. His feet splashed cold in the water, soon slimed in red,
themselves. He shivered, cut off from the sun. He looked up at the
rising banks that quickly rose way above his reach, and then above the
reach of Lanethil himself. Dead plants drooped over the edge up there,
and naked roots hung out from the sides, pale and hairy and unfit for
light of day.
The elf walked quietly right behind Frodo, ignoring the soiling of his
boots. In his ever-soft voice, Lanethil explained, “You saturated the
land in your own ruin, Frodo. The soil drank too deeply for its own
good. We suffered storm after storm, throughout what should have been
the driest months of the year, drowning the fields alive, washing away
the topsoil, sending floods to whittle our land down to a skeleton. I
knew the day when you broke free at last–our first day free of
overcast.”
Frodo stared aghast around himself. “How can you possibly forgive me?
It seems that I have done more damage than ever I did good!”
“Because you led me back into the warmth of company. And because you
brought me to my wife. And because you saved me from my own folly, in
my turn. Not to mention the fact that our trades came into their own,
here in Nurn, without interference from those who had devoured our
wares for bribes, so that we could still buy food. Most of us did not
go hungry at all, and my wife saw to the remainder. At this point I
doubt that Nurn would starve again no matter what might pass. You have
done that much good.”
“Yet I could do more. I wouldn’t want Nurn to rely on trade alone. My
Papa used to tell me, ‘Trade is a fickle beast, Frodo, now licking one
hand, now another, now biting where it once had doted. Fashions shift,
new markets open as others dry clean up, and changes in one place make
goodness knows what impact in other places far beyond their sight.’”
“As fickle as the farmer’s weather at least,” the elf laughed. “Yet
your father speaks with his accustomed wisdom, Frodo; no one should
rely on any one thing overmuch. And yes, you could do more. And you
shall. And you must. You have returned to us at last.”
“But how can you even want me back? I must have hurt you horribly!
Especially you. Yet I...I have hurt everyone.” He whirled on the elf
with a splash, gripping his arm, staring up into the not-quite-human
eyes. “Can’t you fix it, Lanethil? Can’t you do something from your own
connection to the earth? From elvish magic?”
“I respond to her needs, yet you are the earth, and the earth has
become you. I do not even come close, Frodo. No power of elf or maia, I
think, has caused this thing to be; I can toy with theories as much as
any of my kind, yet I cannot really understand it.” Then he gently
pried Frodo’s fingers loose. He turned the hobbit forward once again,
laid a hand on Frodo’s shoulder and gestured down the long ravine. “Yet
take heart in this, Frodo–yes, in the very nightmare itself. Perhaps
all has unfolded as it should. Perhaps you needed, for all of our
sakes, to drain the land’s illness to the dregs: Mordor’s ensorcelment
and enslavement.”
“Why on earth should that hearten me?” He felt himself tremble all over, as though he had quit the grog only yesterday.
“Because, Frodo, by breaking free, yourself, you lead the land towards
health and freedom. You truly did have to become one with us. I am
sorry that it has hurt you so much, that it has hurt everyone so much.
But I feel, with all my heart, that good will ultimately come of it.
You heal us all as you heal yourself.”
The words could not have calmed Frodo more if Lanethil had cast a spell
on him. The meaning sank slowly into him; it changed everything.
“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “I could forgive myself, then...” But then
the hobbit turned wide eyes to Lanethil. “But if the land and I are
one, how can I ever go home? My real home, I mean, in the Shire. The
King has just given me his pardon, yet my exile will never end, it
seems.”
“Nay,” Lanethil said with a smile.”You will return to your natal
country when this land grows into her health and no longer needs you.
You will not be one flesh forever.”
“Like...like a child born?” He found himself laying hands on his feast-rounded tummy, for all the world like Mattie.
“Someday, yes. Every spring brings forth new birth from the old year’s dying, every year of the sun a new beginning.”
“Oh dear! I don’t think I’m qualified, precisely, to be a mother.”
“Perhaps you have already passed through the most painful part. Nurn
persevered. She–barely–survived separaration from you. Yet even after
birth the babe will need nursing and training , for awhile. Plenty of
work remains for you, Master Gardner.”
Together they walked on down the ravine, deep in its shadow. Frodo felt
the cold mud and puddles chilling his feet, and the nagging insects
biting him everywhere. He laid a hand upon the clay bank and said,
“Even so I am sorry–I am soooo sorry!”
“And you do well to feel sorrow, and to pledge yourself not to harm
yourself again, for even among ordinary souls self-harm does not
confine itself to one alone.”
“‘Go not to the elves for advice’ my people say, ‘for they will say both no and yes.’”
Lanethil chuckled. “Your people say rightly, for we live in a world so
broad that it has room in plenty for opposites to coexist. Yet all that
I have said remains.”
“I have to hope so, for you’ve given me more hope than anyone so far.”
“This folly, as I said, may well work out for the best in the long
run--not only in the mysterious ways of which I spoke before, but on
the practical side as well.” He looked around him. “Elves know how to
make good use of such gashes in the soil. We try to find the use of all
that befalls us, rather than bemoaning our lot. For we believe that not
a leaf drops without a note to mark it in the Great Music.” The elf
pointed. “There, and there, one could lay pierced pipes to bring rain
down to the roots in drier seasons. And we may now fill the remainder
of the hollow with far more fertile earth, if we bolster it well to
keep it from eroding away again.”
“Yet so much work lies ahead of us!”
“Your uncle has begun much of it already. Besides those things which I
have already counseled, he has led Seaside in the rebuilding of
terraces and soil, and in the creation of flood diversion channels that
I do not doubt have saved some lives, and will save more in the future.
Certainly none have perished.”
“Oh what a relief–and good for him! I had not expected so much imagination from him, I blush to say.”
Lanethil smiled. “In that you are not far wrong, for he followed plans
sent here from Gondor. Yet he did adapt them to our terrain and
conditions, you have to give him that.”
“Did no crops survive at all, then?”
“Some. Like you, the land weakened to the brink of death, yet never fully died.”
“Can I see him? Uncle Nibs, I mean. Did he get my letter?”
“Yes, he received your letter. And no, Frodo, I would not count it wise
to see him yet. Give him time to prepare himself. He has news that he
might not know how to tell you.”
Frodo gave him a puzzled look. “Then his reluctance–it’s not entirely about me?”
The elf grinned almost like a man. “It is never entirely about us,
Frodo. Yet come; I think that I smell beef upon the spit, seasoned as
only my wife can cook it.” He led them back out, to fresher air and the
warmth of the setting sun.
They came down as twilight began to settle, watching the last of the
fieldworkers ahead of them on the road. Frodo could see his uncle’s
back far ahead of him, the only hobbit among a throng of weary men.
Nibs looked much thinner, from here; his clay-caked clothing hung
loose, and his back seemed just a little bent.
They came into the village, just as the earliest owls began to hoot and
the first bats flittered forth, while the last light faded down to
violet. “Hi, there’s Bergil!” Frodo shouted. “Bergil, over here!” He
waved and called, but just then the evening wind whipped up and whirled
all his words away.
“Never mind,” said Lanethil. “That is not Bergil, and you would only confuse him if you meet him before his brother.”
“Not Bergil?”
“Nay, his younger brother, Borlas. He has come to care for Bergil,
although he mislikes the very smell of Mordor.” Lanethil smiled rather
affectionately. “I can forgive much rudeness when a man defies his own
distaste for the sake of one he loves.”
“But I thought that Bergil was the last of his line.”
Lanethil raised one brow. “No doubt that once was true–before you
shifted in the Web of Life.” Then the elf smiled. “I see that this does
not alarm you as much as it might have done before–excellent! You have
grown stronger, then.”
“Or seen so much strangeness that nothing hardly shocks me anymore. Is that strength, or a surrender to madness?”
The elf laughed outright. “You are at least no more mad than I, myself,
though that does not say much. Come–you will stay with us tonight.”
“Won’t they expect me back at the Tower House?”
“No one lives there anymore. Elenaril, Spring, the baby, and
Fishenchips now stay at the hospital at nights, for Bergil’s sake.”
“He...is he that bad off, then? Still?”
“He grew very bad off, for awhile. Yet he has taken a turn for the
better. Everything took a turn for the better since Mattie found you.
Though sometimes it might briefly seem the worse.”
Pearl soon greeted them at the door, wiping the sweat from her brow
with the corner of an apron now stained with the juices of fresh-sliced
vegetables. A hearty beef aroma wafted out with her, redolent with
innovative spices.
“Here, now,” she cried, “not another step till ye’ve both cleaned up
yer filthy feet!” She filled up the door to block them, shouting,
“Dovey, bring us a basin, dear.” The plump young maid showed up so
quickly that Frodo figured they must have heated the water in advance;
he wondered whether Lanethil had mentioned their destination to his
wife, or whether she simply knew from knowing him.
Another girl brought towels, thick and soft, and the two servants dried
their feet before Lanethil or Frodo could reach out for the cloths.
Pearl beamed over them and said, “Supper’s ready, such as it is, but I
could’ve made ye a fine meal indeed had I but more time. Ah well, I
shall make the rest o’ the calf into pies to send home with ye, and
that should make amends. ‘Tis still cool enough fer them t’keep awhile,
if ye eats ‘em quickly.” She winked at the serving-maids. “You two’ll
get yer share, never fear. They’s enough in that calf fer everbody, and
bread t’go with it in the bakery. But oh, I fear it mightn’t of cooked
enough fer tonight! A proper beef-calf takes some time.”
Lanethil embraced her, saying, “You could never cook a poor meal if you tried, wife of mine.”
She giggled, poking him in his lean belly-muscles, saying, “I shall
make a fat man o’ thee yet, dear love–just give me time!” and let them
into a cheery home, full of candlelight and glow of hearth, where
Mattie slept, spent, upon a couch with Pearl’s shawl thrown over her
and streaks upon her cheeks. “Poor wee thing!” Pearl sighed, shaking
her head. “I wouldn’t want harf her troubles. Well, if I can’t put the
roses back in her cheeks it won’t be fer lack of trying!”
Just then a thumping came at the door. “Who?” Pearl exclaimed. “At this
hour?” They heard loud breathing, and when Pearl unbarred the door
there stood Fishenchips, braced against the lintels, heaving to catch
his breath after a run clear from the House of Healing, one step ahead
of nightfall. “Come in! Come in, good man! We’ve food enough fer
another, if ye don’t mind spendin’ the night.”
“I could do’er, glad enough,” he said, wiping his brow. “Thankee
kindly, Mistress Pearl, Lanethil.” Then he dropped his kerchief at the
sight of Frodo and joy spread over his face like dawn. He bear-hugged
the hobbit clear off the ground, crying, “There ya are, ya li’l rascal!
I heard ya came in with th’cargo and took off fer the bakery–I came as
fast as I could get away.”
“Oh Fish, I am so glad to see you, too!” He suddenly realized just how
much he missed the former mariner, even the scent of him after a hard
run.
“And Mattie? Where is Mattie? Oh, over there...oh.”
“She has had a horrible time, Fish; we should let her sleep at least until supper’s on the table.”
“Not until I check ye out, first.” Fish said, but Frodo nudged the man’s hook away from his shirt.
“No need, my friend; Leech has already given us both thorough
examinations, and pronounced us fit, except for being a bit underweight
in my case.”
“Which I aim to fix,” Pearl declared.
“The platter steams,” Lanethil called from the dining-room, “The plates
await filling and emptying again, as often as you please. And my wife
has outdone herself–a feat that I had not thought possible.”
So they went in and Frodo and Mattie had everything to say all over
again, while Fishenchips mumbled “Ya don’t say!” around mouthfuls of
food. The man sat on the very edge of his chair and listened most
keenly when Frodo spoke of the wargs, but did not interrupt. All leaned
close when Mattie spoke of the fearful joy of realizing that she went
with child, and all at table stilled, suspecting where the story had to
go, for there she sat, delivered yet without a babe in arms. Still,
they could not bring themselves to interrupt as she spoke of fever, and
of Hazel’s brutal rescue, and the fire of the entwife’s madness, and at
last, soft-voiced, the death of Harding Gardner.
Silence filled the room, and dimness. But Mattie herself stood to prod
light back into the dying hearth, and she lit more candles, and drove
the conversation on to the consolations given her throughout the
remainder of her journey. Frodo told them of his visit from the Valier,
and their dream-encounter with their son, and of the strange fate and
rescue of Boromir son of Elboron.
At last Frodo got to the part that he most dreaded. But he stood upon
his chair to reach eye-level with the company, and made his apologies
to Fishenchips, Pearl, and Lanethil as gracefully as he could.
Fish listened quite cheerfully, and replied, “Think nothin’ of it, li’l
buddy. One thing y’learn in me trade is patience–patience fer
th’patients, hee hee. Ya ain’t the worst in these here parts, Frodo. Ya
came back, din’t ye? Plenty o’ folk never do.”
“Sourfruit pie,” Pearl announced, thumping the plate down before the
conversation got too awkward. “But not sour at all, oh no, not the way
I fix it, just refreshin’-tart, an’ light an’ fluffy as a cloud–perfect
thing fer a last dessert.”
Fishenchips’s eyes twinkled over the abundant serving that Pearl set
before him, as he said to Frodo, “I’ll have something t’show ye, if ye
don’t mind, first thing i’ the morning.” But his eyes had begun to
droop before he could explain or even lift his fork. He yawned
extravagantly and then blinked in surprise. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Guv,
but I pulled an all-nighter at th’hospital afore this.”
“Rest, rest, by all means, good man! I will still be here tomorrow, and
for quite a few tomorrows to come.” Frodo felt half-stupified by
feasting, himself, and looked forward to laying down, as well.
So the cook and smith laid out fair cushions on the floor for their
three guests, and by some skill or magic those cushions felt as soft as
feather-beds, and stayed all together underneath their charges, and the
blankets that Pearl and Lanethil wafted over them settled down on them
as light and warm as a summer breeze. Frodo fell asleep before he even
knew he’d closed his eyes.
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