As Eosden climbed higher and higher, the caves became colder and colder. He could now see his breath. He had dressed warmly and the work kept him from chill, but he now feared to stop lest the perspiration from his body cool and his limbs freeze up. He had no more food to light the fires from within, and he had brought no wood to make a blaze. The torches themselves put out little heat. He thought again of turning back.
          At last he dropped the cart to the ground and fell to his knees. The pain of the blisters had become unbearable. If he must go on, he must do so without the cart. He thought to himself that if he could find the treasure in the next few hours, he might come back for the cart. But only a treasure, already found, could possibly cause him to take up the cart again. If he returned without the treasure, he would leave the cart behind—and good riddance!
          He took an extra torch from the cart and began walking once more. Without his burden his legs felt light again. He felt he could easily go another few hours. But it was so cold. Just pausing for a few moments had chilled him. Also, the path still climbed. Had he considered the import of this, he might have reasoned that he was not yet halfway through the Paths of the Dead.

Another day and a night passed in Edoras. The King and Queen were now very worried for their son. They sent out search parties into the fields and mountains. Tida was certain that the wizards were to blame. She talked of nothing but 'kidnapping.' Even Feognost began to doubt the wizards. He thought of sending an eored to follow the wizards, to discover if Eosden were with them, either at their bidding, or for reasons of his own.
          But Eosden was now near to the end of his journey in the mountains, for better or for worse. The cart had been left many hours ago. Eosden was now delirious with thirst. He no longer cared for the treasure. Every thought was for water. But he did not turn back. There had been no water for many many hours, when he had left the cart. So any stream could only be discovered ahead, unless he should return almost to the gate. He listened intently for any sound of water, for any glint off a droplet, any reflection from any pool, no matter how small. Several times he had been led to the wall of the cave by a glitter, but always it was some shining stone, some vein of ore or just the light of quartzite or other valueless thing.
          Eosden's mind began to wander. He imagined that Baldor was walking next to him, speaking to him as to a friend. The man talked and talked, but Eosden could not understand him. It was not the language that failed; it was that Eosden's ears would not work. He saw Baldor's lips move, he knew something important was being told him, but all he heard was a hum, like the babbling of a brook. He wanted to ask Baldor for water, but his mouth was too dry to speak. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and his throat felt like sand.
          Suddenly Baldor left him, and he felt lonely. He began to weep. The tears fell down his face, and he licked at them in his thirst. But some fell past his mouth and ran from his chin and splashed into the water at his feet. . . .
          Eosden looked down. He could still hear the hum of Baldor's speech, but the hum was not the hum of imagined speech now. It was the sound of water. All at once Eosden recognized it, and he fell to his knees, pouring great draughts into his mouth from his hands. It tasted of dirt and stone and mineral, but it was good beyond reckoning.
          The stream had been flowing directly down the path, washing his boots for miles, but he had not known it. Almost he had died of thirst whilst trodding through a river of water.
          He drank until he could drink no more and then fell into a deep sleep at the edge of the stream.

Sometime later he awoke. He was very cold, but his head was clear. He knew now that he must turn back or die. He had not eaten in a day, maybe two; and there were two days of hunger ahead. There was also thirst to be dealt with once more, for the distance between this stream and the one near to the door of the caves was great, and his jug would do him no good. But the way was downhill and his journey would therefore be faster.
          He searched his pocket for the flint. His torch had rolled into the stream and gone out. But his other torch had somehow remained dry. It was his last one, until he returned to the cart. He prayed that it should last until then, for if he passed the cart in the dark, he would not likely find the door. The way was straight and wide, but there had been several fissures in the floor where he might fall, and countless loose stones. An injury to a leg at this point might well prove fatal.
          The new torch lit merrily, and Eosden warmed his hands by it for a moment before starting out. He removed the old wet torch from the water and slid it through his belt, near to his swordsheath. Then he looked about him one last time in disappointment. He had not noticed it in his delirium, but the walls of the cave had receded—he was now in a vast underground chamber, or grotto. The ceiling of the cave had likewise receded, and was now far above him. There was even a movement of air, as if a tiny breeze were blowing into his face from ahead on the path.
          All this was interesting, but Eosden felt he had no more time to explore. The torch was now his most precious possession, and it meant more to him than any treasure—or so he thought. He turned to hurry back down the path. But even as his eyes swept away from the chamber, they noticed, for the first time, a glint of gold not far away. He had already turned, but behind him and to the right the colour flashed again. It was not a trick of the torch—no gleam of quartzite this. It was clear, even from this distance, that it was in the shape of a hauberk! And below it was the outline of a coat of mail!
          After a moment of uncertainty, Eosden turned and ran to the spot. He must see what was to be seen, but he must do so quickly! He found the remains of a large man, his belt of garnets, his still-shining mail linked in the way of the Mark. Yes, Eosden had found Baldor at last! His skeleton lay before a cracked door, half-open in the face of the cave-wall. His sword was broken, the hilts still by his crumbled hand—the leather gauntlet having returned to dust.
          Eosden could make nothing of the clues. The door was open. Why should Baldor die here? Perhaps the wraiths had overcome him with their weapons. But the skeleton of Baldor was unscathed, and his armour unpierced. The mail was undinted. Even the neck bones were laid out intact.
          He could waste no more time considering it. He pushed by the door and entered the chamber. The crack in the door was narrow, but not too narrow to admit the mightiest man, even in mail. Once within the chamber, he lifted the torch high. His eyes opened wide, and then he gave a great shout that echoed through the caves. The treasure of the dead was before him, and it was beyond his most grandiose imaginings!—Gold and silver strewn across the floor, and filling countless jars and two-handled flagons. Jewels of every sort lying in piles upon the dusty stones. Armaments still shining in places through their rust—shields and swords and helms. Cups and plates of tin and pewter and silver and gold. Chests rotten and bursting with their contents, the wood eaten away to nothing. Strands of gems in necklaces, and smaller gems in brooches and rings.
          And in the midst of all, shining through the metal bands of its own broken chest, lay a great white gem, lighting the whole room with its reflection. It soaked the yellow torchlight into itself and refracted it in every direction, purifying it, adding to it, transforming the yellow to white—a clear radiant white like the midday sun reflected off cleanest late-autumn snow. As Eosden stared, the room seemed to swirl in the lovely light, the flickerings of the torch chasing the last shadows into the corners and slaying them merrily. All of Eosden's cares evaporated and his limbs were loosed. His hunger was forgotten, and his pain and fear. He felt capable of carrying the entire treasure on his back, at a run!
          But his head was clear now. He had no thought of so burdening himself. Truly, the gold and silver no longer interested him. The only thing he must take away was the white gem. He would send some of his men to collect the rest. All in good time, he thought. This treasure would go into the coffers of Edoras. It would go to his father, and to his people. Then no one could blame him for coming here. None could accuse him of greed. And if he took the one gem for himself, what did it matter? Surely he was due a token for his efforts—for his courage in braving the Paths of the Dead. Surely he was due the first choice. A single gem—was that too much to ask from such a great treasure? Besides, no one need know of the gem. Its existence need never come to light. It would be his own. His very own.
          Eosden lifted the great stone from the chest, and the rusted bands fell away from his hands, crumbling into nothing. The gem still shone through his fingers, and as he lifted it up he laughed aloud. It was the most beautiful thing on earth, and it was his! It was in his very hands!
          He stared at the white shining stone for many minutes, lost in wonder. He was loth to put it away, but time was still precious, and he must return while his torch still burned. So at last he placed the great gem in his pocket and squeezed back through the crack of the door. Then he knelt and removed the helm from Baldor's skull, as proof that he had found Baldor and his door. Men of the Mark would return, he knew, and take the bones to be buried finally in their own mound. With a last look back, Eosden left the door and the grotto and began the long walk back. But first he took a long draught at the stream. It would be many hours before he might drink again. A few hours later he came to the cart, still lying in the midst of the path. He took a sack from the cart and placed the stone and helm within it. Then he broke the cart upon the rocks and gathered the wood together. Much of this he also placed in the sack, in case he should need it when his torches burned down.
          And indeed he burned both his torches and all the wood he carried before he came back to the opening of the caves. But, as chance would have it, he was less than three hours from the door when his last light went out. He continued on in the pitch dark, sometimes wandering into the walls, often stumbling, but never falling to serious hurt. At last the bright light of day met him and led him out, blinking and laughing. He shouted to the pukel men that they had been wrong—here he was and no harm done! Ulmo had not struck him down! The curse of the Paths of the Dead was lifted forever!
          His voice echoed through the cavern walls, and his laughter came back to him tenfold from the circling rocks, disembodied and eerie, as if the hills were mocking him. He stopped shouting for a moment and looked momentarily troubled, as if the echo had its own meaning. But the mood passed quickly, and he brought the gem from the bag and looked at it once more. It was reassuring in its beauty. It sparkled and blazed in the sun, a sun it had not seen in an age of the earth. The stone itself seemed to laugh and cavort. Eosden thought to himself, how could any curse be attached to such a wondrous thing?

That evening Eosden returned to Edoras, and to the halls of Meduseld. Tida cried out and ran to him, and Feognost too was most joyous to find that his son had returned unharmed. Eosden had been gone almost five days, and the King had already prepared an eored to travel to Isengard. Its departure was now cancelled, however. The wizards were no longer suspected of mischief, and the furor of the town died down as quickly as it had begun. Even Tida had to admit that the wizards were perhaps not common brigands—at least in this case.
          But as this furor passed it was quickly replaced by another: Eosden brough forth the helm of Baldor from his sack and told his story to all those gathered in the court. A great hue and cry went up as the people of Edoras celebrated the finding of the great treasure, as if it were already in hand, and this the whole treasure of Baldor and not just his shiny helm. But then Eosden was questioned: why had he gone without telling anyone, and alone? Why had he snuck off like a thief? Why risk the caves without an escort? Why the secrecy? All these questions Eosden deflected cunningly; for he devised a story, telling his father that he wanted to surprise the court with this news (as it had in truth happened, he was quick to point out—the surprise was indeed worth the risk, and no harm had come). And he swore that he knew beforehand that no man of the Mark would brave the Paths of the Dead, unless it were first proven they were open and free. If he had begged permission, it would have been denied. This was the only way.
          This story being sensible, and very close to the truth, it was believed. Eosden was a trusted young man, and well loved. A much greater lie would have been accepted from him with just as little effort.
          And, as it turned out, Eosden's story wove a life of its own: within scant days a well-equipped search party was sent into the caves, with food for a week and many carts and shovels and piles and piles of torches. Most of the men trusted Eosden so thoroughly they no longer feared the Paths of the Dead in the least, though they had been raised on bogey stories from the cradle. It is true that some few of the men were sweating freely beneath their kirtles, and grinding their teeth. But none complained, lest they be set on by their fellows.
          The story then began to tell itself quite rippingly, and moved ahead with no more help from the Prince. The search party returned in only four days with the bones of Baldor and a greater part of the treasure. Then there was rejoicing in Edoras in earnest, indeed throughout the whole Mark, upon their success. The King ordered a general feasting and all the hamlets were sent gifts of cattle and fowls and pigs at the King's expense. More than that, all and sundry were invited to a great fair upon the Folde, where there would be dancing and drinking and much merriment.
          Eosden was hailed as a hero in all this, though he did not make much of it himself. He no longer needed to. He modestly maintained that he had only had the Mark's interest in mind.

The story, desiring as stories do to reach a full conclusion, spun out further details that evening. As the merrymaking continued on around them, two of the captains of the Mark met with the Prince. They had led the expedition into the caves, and they discovered, they said, more than treasure and bones. They carried also an answer for Eosden, as to why Baldor had fallen where he had. The searchers had not been in such a hurry, and they had studied the door closely. They reported that its lock was still intact. The door had never been opened! The crack had been made long after Baldor's death, most likely by the weight of the roof of the cave. It was their opinion that the sword had been broken hewing at the lock. The lock was marred on the outside by heavy blows of a sharp object, and small splinters of rock had fallen away. What is more, the sword was notched in several places about its tip. It appeared that Baldor had not been killed by wraiths. He had most likely died of thirst, or of a crushed spirit. It was only good fortune that Eosden had not suffered the same fate as Baldor—so said the men. And their belief in his luck and his bravery rose still higher.
          But in private Eosden was not so sanguine as his men. He could not share the enjoyment of the fortune of his city, for the gem had already begun to prey on his mind. No hiding place seemed secure. He had moved the gem seven times in as many days. Each time he hid it further and further from the town—to remove it from the suspicions of his townsmen. But that worked only to make him more fearful, for he could not so easily overwatch it from a distance. Presently it was in the bole of a tree near the Maiden Falls, buried beneath earth and moss. But even here it seemed to be calling out to passers-by. Eosden feared lest the pukel man, or another like to him, should come down from the hills and steal it. He even had some nameless dread that Ulmo himself might rise up from the falls, in the form of some great man, and, lifting the stone from the tree, leap back into the water and swim away. The absurdity of this did not prevent Eosden from returning to the image again and again. That Ulmo would have to swim down the stream, passing in his watery journey directly through town—in a current hardly deep enough to float a child—before joining the Snowbourn and making his way across the grasslands to the Entwash, did not occur to him. Every evening after supper, he would sit in his chamber alone—even while the fair could be heard proceeding noisily down below—and strain his mind to think of a hiding place so secret it could never be discovered.

And here the story stalled, and could make no more progress on its own. For, though Eosden knew it not, this question in his mind was the same question that had been asked of the stone since the beginning of time, in every story told of it. Where to hide this stone?
          The smithy of Feanor had not been safe enough. For it had gone from there, pulling Feanor's story with it
          The crown of Morgoth had proved a safer place, for a time: who would dare to take it from there? Who would willingly weave their story with the story of Angband? At last, Luthien Tinuviel had snatched its brother from the iron bands, as her story reached its climax. But this gem had remained.
          It remained until Eonwe took it. The victory of the Valar was a beginning and an end for all stories. The old stories were no more. The new stories must tell themselves from this place. The story of this Silmaril thought itself at an end. One would have thought the hands of Eonwe a very uneventful place.
          But the sons of Feanor had stolen this gem in the night, even from the hands of the Valar, and its story awoke once more. Nor did it find safety with them, for the second son Maglor soon threw it into the sea.
          Was it safe even there? For a while. But at last it was found by the fisher folk of Anfalas, hungry for their own stories. They had been fishing only for supper, but they had caught the greatest story of all. Catching it, they themselves became enmeshed, and they slew eachother for centuries in its name, unknown to the men and elves of the late Second Age. But at last they feared the coming of Sauron and his black story, and in the Third Age they put away their strife and hid themselves and their precious jewel in the mountains. As the wars of Mordor pushed harder and harder upon them, they retreated ever further into the mountains, until they came at last to the great caves. And they entered there, and hid themselves completely. All their treasure they buried in the deepest part of the caves—at that point where the underground passage was equally distant from the north opening as well as the south. They defended their treasure for long, guarding the pass at both ends, until at last they were defeated by their own neighbours. These neighbours had sworn to fight for Gondor, but at last had gone over to Sauron, unbeknownst to the people of the caves. The traitors had taken them by surprise, and defeated them to the last man. But the traitors in turn had been annihilated by the soldiers of Gondor, wiped out at the southern gate. It is these traitors that had become the wraiths, waiting upon the Paths of the Dead until they could at last fulfill their oaths to Gondor. But the traitors had never discovered the treasure; not, at least, until they had become wraiths, and it was no longer of any use to them. And so they acted as a guard over a treasure that none but ghosts knew to exist. And ghosts tell no stories, not even to those they owe an oath of allegiance. For the oath was for fighting, not for treasure; the wraiths did not owe Gondor a farthing beyond the might of their arms.
          But still the gem was not safe. Not forever. Not though the curse of Ulmo was yet upon it. Not though no one but Baldor had ever guessed at its existence. Even he had only heard of a treasure, no one knows how. Perhaps he had gleaned its existence from the warnings of the pukel men. They would not have warned him off from the northern gate if there had been nothing of value within.
          And now his heir, seven and a half centuries later, prompted by a stray word at a council, had finished the journey he had begun.
          The third Silmaril had been found once more.

The question in Eosden's head was the same as the question in Gandalf's head, so long ago, concerning the second Silmaril. How does one hide such a stone? It would not stay hidden in the sea or in a fiery chasm. It would not stay hidden behind an unknown door in a vast cave, not though it was part of a treasure not known to exist, from a people never known to exist. It would not stay hidden under a golden dragon—a dragon who thought it no more than a large dwarvish bauble. It would not stay hidden in a tomb, not though it be given a false name and a false history. Always the Silmarils returned, and always they called out to the ear of Morgoth.
          Could Eosden hide this Silmaril better than Gandalf hid his? We shall see. We shall see in good time, for we are now caught once more in the story of the Silmarilli.


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Chapter 8
Another Errand

Just as a pigeon was being loosed with a message to Minas Mallor of Rosogod's collapse, a celebration was reaching its high moment in Farbanks. A great eagle, flying high over the Old Forest, might almost have seen both events and wondered if there was some connection between the two. Mistaking the white bird for a celebratory dove, the eagle might have assumed the men and hobbits were toasting eachother from afar, for some reason unknown to the beasts and the birds.
          But it was not so. The two towns knew nothing of one another. The party in Farbanks had been in the making for months, though it had only come to a general knowledge a fortnight ago. This is how it had come about: since the first of the year Tomilo had been thinking of another great journey. As soon as he had returned home from the Bindbole Wood, he had decided that an important message needed taking to Fangorn. A message to the ents concerning the entwives. Tomilo had no doubt that he was the proper messenger.
          After that evening in Needlehole, when Prim had gotten so over-excited, Tomilo had taken the children back to Tookbank and Tuckborough, and then returned to lead her to the dell in the Wood. There she saw what he had seen, and they looked on together, hand in hand.
          Back in Farbanks Prim had remained Tomilo's conspirator; and they met many an afternoon to look at maps and measure the distance to the forest of Fangorn and estimate the time and think about the dangers. Prim had very specific ideas about how much food they would require each day and how many changes of clothes would be necessary and how much soap they should carry, and many other things. Tomilo smiled to himself, and thought how simple it must have been in the old days, when a hobbit only had to worry about pocket handkerchiefs.
          Yes, Prim had demanded to come along, and Tomilo had found himself arguing against it not very forcibly, and not very long. He had taken very little convincing. After all, this whole trip was a bringing together of man and woman (or ent and entwife). Tomilo could not very well continue to play the reluctant bachelor, even as he played long-distance matchmaker.
          He knew full well, though, that Prim's parents would never allow it. A trip to the North Farthing, with the Thain as the sponsor and a gaggle of children as chaperones was one thing. A journey of many months, around mountains and over rivers and through forests, was another thing entirely. A hobbit simply could not take a maiden on such a trip. A wife, perhaps, but not a maiden.
          And so, the long and short of it is that a wedding had been got up rather hastily: maids in waiting had been selected, a short list of guests had been agreed upon, a dress had been sewn, garlands had been tied, and many cakes had been baked. And on that fine spring day Tomilo had taken a pretty wife.
          Prim had never looked more glowing. Tomilo also had a bright spark in his eye, although he might not have admitted it even then. As they jumped over the broomstick and rushed into the hole together, most of the guests were unaware that the beautiful new feather mattress (sent as a wedding present from the Fairbairns of Undertowers) would be slept in only two nights, for the hole would again be empty for a season—kept free of rabbits and badgers only by the goodwill and sharp eye of the neighbours and the local under-shirriffs.

I have neglected to mention that there had been one very special guest that evening. To Tomilo, he was the most important guest of all. He had travelled quite far to be there, and he would be travelling with them again in the morning. For, you see, as the two hobbits had said their vows, there had been a great neighing from the lawn, and Drabdrab had stamped his front hooves and blown loudly. Several of the nearby candles had gone out and had to be relit.
          The pony had been decorated by the hobbitmaids with ribbons and garlands of lilies. On his back were two small riders. They also wore flowers, although Treskin (one of the two riders, of course) looked as if he thought the buds clashed with the authority of the feather. Isambard was not so circumspect: he cheered and cheered.
          Lewa was also there, looking only partially crushed. The Old Took was on her arm, wobbling a bit and waiting for it to all be over so that he could sit down. Bob stood on the verge with his family, and his wife had a satisfied look on her face, as if to say, 'Well, and we finally got the last one!'
          Prim's parents looked on in amazement, not sure whether to be happy or sad. Prim's mother, especially, was so torn by competing emotions as to be almost distracted, for she was one of the few that knew of the planned departure. Finally she burst into tears and had to be taken away, mumbling something about highway robbers.
          Tomilo's parents, Grenedoc and Lipka, looked on proudly if diffidently. They had come from Oatbarton, and were altogether relieved to finally get their youngest married off. But they knew nothing of entwives or balrogs or trips to Wilderland. Tomilo had found it easier to say nothing of his adventures past or future. This was a time of celebration and feasting, and adventures were not considered polite conversation at table. Besides, his parents would not have been interested anyway. They would want to hear about grandchildren. Until then, no news was good news.

Two mornings later, awakening with the finches, Tomilo and Prim and Drabdrab were to be found on the front lawn again, the grass and shrubs still trampelled and trammelled from the festivities of the wedding party. Torn garlandry still littered the rosebushes, and Drabbie had found a bit of old cake under a lawnchair, despatching it along with his breakfast of more nutritious herbage. Only the evening before had the newlyweds seen off the last of the relatives and well-wishers, pretending that they were beginning a long stay in Farbanks. Now they were almost ready for a journey of many months!
          'I never thought to spend my honeymoon on the East Road, visiting ents and wizards!' mused Prim as she stuffed a bonnet into a bag. 'As a young maid, I had thought a ride to the Magpie and Bower was the most romantic thing imaginable. And here I am going to spend time in a real bower, for all I know. Having an adventure for a honeymoon. Most unladylike, as Mum said.'
          'Not to mention unhobbitlike, added your Dad,' laughed Tomilo. 'A daughter of mine, running off into the wilds like some harum scarum I-don't-know-what, when she oughta be here having grandchildren... I mean children. I will miss having your dad around, Prim, I really will.'
          'Yes, well, it's not like we're moving away for good, as I told them. We'll be back, and then children and grandchildren enough for all!'

The day before, Tomilo had surreptitiously traded several of his wedding presents for a small shaggy pony (getting some strange looks from the trader, I might add—who knew of the local wedding even though, as a stranger, he had not been invited). This so that Drabdrab would not have to carry both hobbits and their baggage as well. This was a relief to him, despite his initial jealousy that he was no longer the only beast trusty enough to take along. But the little pony that shared his burden was so homely it was hard to generate much envy for him. This beast, Nobbles by name, was a good-natured hobbit pony, only two years old, and he didn't quite know what to make of Drabdrab. Drabdrab might be nothing compared to a horse, but to a hobbit pony he looked long-legged and sleek, almost regal. And that saddle! Oh my! Nobbles couldn't get his bearings in the presence of that saddle. It was like satin and velvet and lace to beggar child.
          Since I have already described Tomilo's travels over the East Road with Radagast, I will not repeat this leg of the journey here. It differed little from that one of the previous autumn. The weather was a bit warmer, the rain threatened a bit less often, and no dwarves were met; but otherwise it was the same. Not until Tomilo and Prim reached Dunland did they begin to have their own adventures worth telling.
          It was some fortnight later, and the two hobbits were nut-brown with the sunshine and already lighter in their saddles for the rations of the road. They were hale and hearty and happy, and camping in the wilds had turned out to be the perfect honeymoon for them both. Prim had gritched and grouched about the dirt and the bugs and the awful lack of utensils for a day or two, but had soon decided to put a good face on it and try to ignore the minor feminine hardships. Once done, the adventure began to ripen for her, and her eyes opened to the joyous side of the wind and the weather—even the dirt and the other inclemency. She found, once her eyes were open to it, that the trees, despite blocking the rain less thoroughly than a roof, blocked it with a keener beauty—with a fresher sound and a more pleasing smell. She noticed that the sky, though less near at hand than that roof, and less brushable of cobwebs and dust, was no less comforting. She noticed that the ground, though less tractable than wood or mats, and forever unsweepable, yet was pleasant enough to the foot, and could not but support, with grace and full splendour, all things living. Nature was the fine complement of hobbitry, as with other life, and needed little tweaking and relining.
          Oone evening, as the two hobbits watched the light fail and the darkness fall down around them and the stars begin to blink on—like little candles lit one by one on distant mountaintops—Prim began to sing. She had a fine clear voice, but Tomilo had not heard her sing before. It was a hobbit song as old as the Shire, maybe older, and Tomilo had heard his mother sing it when he was a child. By the time Prim had reached the second verse, Tomilo had found his hornpipe¹ in his baggage, and he accompanied his new wife as Drabdrab and Nobbles looked on in wonder.

'Tis not the eye of some night-maiden
nor fire of any bright sky-lad.
'Tis not some winter-table laden
with yellow candles copper-clad.
'Tis not the torch of goblin-glare
nor glint of mail of floating wight
Tis not the tail of heaven's hare
nor rump of deer all snowy white.

'Tis not the Moon in tiny pieces—
bits of broken quartz on high—
Nor Her reflection cut by creases
in the fabric of the sky.
'Tis not the teeth of dragon's maw
swallowing all the stuff of heaven—
sun and clouds all eaten raw,
with neither salt nor lard nor leaven.

'Tis not diamonds thrown aloft
by some rich giant in the mountains.
'Tis not weed-puffs, blown so soft,
nor the spray of tall elf-fountains.
'Tis not pearls on dusky hill,
'Tis not evermind a-glow,
'Tis not snowflakes frozen still
'Tis not geese in staggered row.

'Tis not doves on far treelimb
nor eggs in some great skybird's nest.
'Tis not firebugs' silent hymn
nor ivory buttons on Vorun's vest.
What may it be, my hobbitchild,
That calms all fear and soothes all sight?
Twinkling soft and dreamy mild—
Stars! the watchlights of the night.

As Prim finished, the Saucepan² was rising over the Misty Mountains to their left, pouring its contents into the waiting mouths of Caradhras and Celebdil the White.

¹A simple recorder, really, in range like a descant recorder—that is, fairly low for a flute or a pipe—but with sixteen holes (including the 'octave' hole) instead of eight, and 34 distinct notes. Tomilo carried this hornpipe with him rather than his lyre, since the hormpipe did not require to be tuned. Prim carried with her a sort of two-stringed rebec, which required only minimal tuning. It could be either plucked or bowed (see bk.2, ch.11).

²What we call the Great Bear. The hobbits had several names for it, as we have.


          'That reminds me,' said Tomilo. 'How about a bit of supper? Drabbie and Nobbles look like they could use a rest, and the grass here looks simply scrumptious. They have been eyeing it for the past half hour. If we didn't have those lovely cakes you baked over the fire last night, I would eat it myself.'
          'Well, it wouldn't hurt us to eat a bit of grass. I would rather have a nice bit of lettuce, or some fresh cabbage from the garden. But we will have to do with a carrot or two. I haven't had time to gather any salad greens, us being on the road all day long, although I don't know what the hurry is.'
          Tomilo smiled to himself. He was just happy to be eating. Imagine Bilbo and the dwarves gathering salad greens! There were many benefits to travelling with a female, thought the hobbit, and this not the least of them. Someone to help over the kettle and the pot. Someone to think of packing carrots. Menfolk would eat cram at every meal, complaining all the while, but doing nothing about it. Not from laziness, really, since they would walk 'til their feet dropped off, and carry untold burdens when necessary. But from an absolute inability to think seriously about nourishment. Funny that beings that liked to eat so much, when it was placed before them, failed utterly to supply themselves with that source of contentment, when no female was by. A hobbit was a strange creature, thought Tomilo. No stranger than other creatures, surely, but all the same, an odd mixture of dazzling self-suffiency and astonishing limitation.
          These subtle thoughts were driven from his brain by the smell of the stew. While he had been daydreaming, thinking about his own dazzling limitations, Prim had been busy gathering a pot of water and building a fire and otherwise seeing to supper. Already the corncakes were crisp and the stew was simmering. Tomilo sat down and took a plate from her hand. Then he leaned over and gave Prim a bit of a kiss, if truth be told. She pushed him away with a smile and a snort,
          'Do you want to push me in the pot? My toes are almost in the fire as it is!'
          'Well, I didn't put them there, did I?' Tomilo answered with a twinkle in his eye.

About a week later, the two hobbits left Dunland and began to pass the last outlying hills of the southern end of the mountains. When these seemed low enough, they turned due east and started the task of climbing over. They knew from their studies of the maps in Tuckborough that the Wizard's Vale lay just beyond, and then Fangorn itself! Their excitement grew.
          Once they had passed the crest of the hill, they remounted and urged the ponies on. The two beasts scampered down the long slow decline, nothing but soft grass beneath their hooves and the clear sky above. They were as frisky as their riders, for the wind was from the east, blowing directly into their keen noses, and they could smell the great horselands of the West Emnet in front of them.
          Already Prim and Tomilo could see the Isen running down from the mountains ahead, cutting the world in half. They had not seen a river so large since the crossing of the Greyflood, and they began to wonder how they would get by it. But there would be time to discover that. For now they must find the gates of Isengard. According to legend, the circle was still guarded by ents. If they wanted to find ents, this was the place to start, by all reckoning!
          In the late evening they came to the remains of the road, and they followed this northward into the gap. The sun dipped its head behind the western arm, and the long shadows of the valley engulfed them.
          For the first time, the hobbits began to feel afraid. They had come all this way to find the ents, but now that they were here, the prospect of meeting an ent face to face, unknown and unmet, was a tad disconcerting. Bombadil had contrived Tomilo's meeting with Oakvain, but even so it had been scary. What if the ents of Fangorn forest and Isengard did not want any visitors? What if they simply squashed anyone who knocked on the gate, as a precaution? How did one go about announcing ones arrival and good intentions, anyway? All this and much more ran through the small hobbits' heads as they approached the ring of Isengard.
          'Perhaps we should come back in the morning, when there is more light. We don't want to be mistaken for orcs or thieves,' said Tomilo.
          'No, we are here and I say we go on,' urged Prim, acting brave even though she felt just as scared as Tomilo. 'Look, I'll light the lantern. Thieves would not arrive on the road, with lanterns lit. Let us sing something, too, Tomilo. Orcs would not arrive singing. They will not mistake us for elves, with our little voices, but perhaps they will recognize us for proper folk who mean no harm.'
          The two tried to think of the happiest song they knew. Most hobbit songs are happy, so this was not so easy. Many came to mind. 'The Bath Song,' of course. But that didn't seem appropriate. Tomilo suggested 'The Beer Barrel Bravo,' but Prim scolded him and said they were trying to sound like goodly people, not drunkards. They ran through many food songs, like 'Hi-ho, mushrooms!', 'A Pie, My Eye,' and 'What Would you do for Honey-scones?' but dismissed them all as silly. The gate was about a furlong distant now, and they stopped to decide.
          'I say the "The Roasting of Longo Longbottom" is the funniest,' argued Prim. 'Think of the end, when Longo's breeches go into the Brandywine, and Longo after them. And the chorus of "tra-la-ashy-ashy, fire on high!"'
          'We want happy, not ridiculous,' countered Tomilo. 'Why not "The Maiden of Mallow Hill"? That's happy, but not so boisterous, Prim. We don't want to shout the ents out of their wits.'
          Prim agreed, and the hobbits retrieved their instruments. Tomilo blew a note, and Prim tuned her strings by it. Finally they continued on. At first the song was soft, the hobbits being nervous. The hills seemed to watch them. The two singers expected every tree to begin walking forward, or shushing them with great leafy fingers. But nothing of the kind happened, and they began to take courage from the happy stanzas.

She wore a white gown
a hey downe derrie downe
lully lully downe
that bonny lass upon the crown
a hey downe derrie-o
of Mallow Town.

Mallow Town
on Mallow Hill
a hey downe derrie downe
lully lully downe
all of green and rich red-brown
a hey downe derrie-o
was Mallow Town.

And the maiden danced
a hey downe derrie downe
lully lully downe
all midsummer's day
a hey downe derrie-o
around and around.

Her cheeks were rosy
a hey downe derrie downe
a lully lully lil
her lips like a posie
a hey downe derrie-o
upon that hill.

All the lads of
Mallow Hill
a hey downe derrie downe
a lully lully lil
danced with the maiden
a hey downe derrie
nor 'gainst her will.

The other lasses
joined in
a hey downe derrie downe
a lully lully loo
and all the bright lads
a hey downe derrie-o
of Mallow too. . . .

The hobbits stopped singing, though the song was just beginning. They had reached the gates and passed beneath the arch, but there was no sign of any creature, neither of ent nor man nor beast. The lantern swung from Drabdrab's saddle, casting strange shadows into the evening, but nothing was moving, nothing making any sound above the sound of the wind and the breathing of the ponies. Tomilo unpacked his mithril axe and fingered its blades. He wished it had been made by elves rather than dwarves—then he might have known of a certainty whether orcs were about.
          After a moment he covered the lantern and peered ahead into the dusk. 'Prim, I believe there is a light coming from the bottom of the tower. Should we go on? Or not? It is a desolate place—a place that does not seem to take to songs or singing. Maybe the ents are no longer here. In which case the light in the tower may be something unwholesome—something much scarier than ents.'
          'It cannot be ents making that fire,' answered Prim. 'Ents do not like fire. And I have not heard that they make light in other ways, save the dim earthy lights of their drinks. But that appears to be a red light. Could it be goblins?'
          Drabdrab was sniffing the air, his head raised high. He seemed to be impatient. He began walking ahead, pulling Tomilo along with him.
          'Well, Drabbie seems unafraid, at any rate,' said Tomilo, with a smile at last. 'He either smells horses or food. Maybe they are cooking apples,' he added doubtfully.
          'I shouldn't think so,' answered Prim, a little less fearful. 'We could smell that ourselves. Nobbles is not shivering either—so I suppose it is not goblins, whatever else it may be. Let us follow the ponies and find out for ourselves!'

The hobbits walked slowly ahead, sniffing the air like Drabdrab. But still they could smell nothing. The light got brighter, however, and soon it became clear it was firelight. Then they began to smell the smoke from the wood. It was fragrant, as if from cedar or fir. And finally they smelled food. First roasted meats, then, at last, sure enough, a cider of some sort was brewing!
          'You have a keen nose, friend!' said Tomilo to Drabdrab. The pony just snorted and continued to pull him ahead.
          'And you, my husband, know your pony well. That was a fine guess!'
          As they rounded the far corner of the tower they heard song, until then blocked by the heavy stone walls. It was not the harsh song of orcs, but the fine voices of men, raised in a tavern song. The hobbits relaxed, and Tomilo put his axe away. These did not sound like robbers or thieves. They were soldiers, clearly. The hobbits could now see their horses tied all in a row, decorated with the proud devices of Rohan and Gondor.
          'That will be why we had no welcome,' said Prim. 'They could not hear our singing over their own.'
          At a break in the verse, Tomilo halloed from the front steps, thinking that safer than barging suddenly into the chamber. He heard the scrape of chair and the rush of heel and was soon met by a half dozen tall men, light of hair and long of limb. But for the moment the faces of the men were lost in wonder and amaze, and nothing was said. They forgot to address the visitors, either in welcome or warning. Then a woman pushed through the group—a tall woman in a taller hat, or so it seemed to Prim. She was old and stern, and the men gave way to her like a mother or a queen.
          Tomilo walked a step forward into the light of the door. 'Ivulaine, it is me, Tomillimir. From the Council at Rhosgobel.'
          'Master Fairbairn! From the Shire!' Ivulaine cried, laughing out loud. 'Well, you took us by surprise, my dear. When I saw you there in the dark, I thought we were being visited by children, or by some strange sprites of the Misty Mountains, that I had not read of. Gervain, the halflings have come!' she called into the tower.
          'And this is my wife, Primrose,' said Tomilo when Gervain arrived at the door, and he and Prim both bowed.
          'Your wife? How nice,' answered Ivulaine. 'Welcome, Primrose! Do come inside. I have been brewing up a punch while these fellows were making a racket. But I did not know you were married, Mr. Fairbairn.'
          'I wasn't,' he answered, turning red. 'I mean, begging your pardon, I wasn't married when I came to the council. We only just came from the wedding, like. . . what was it Prim, a month ago?'
          'Astron 6,' she corrected him.
          'That would be Viresse, King's Reckoning,' added Tomilo with a smile, proud of his knowledge.
          'Yes, the day before we found the Osgiliath stone,' said Ivulaine to the mind of Gervain, silently. To the hobbits she said, 'We have only just come here ourselves, nine days ago. The King Elemmir is re-opening Isengard, and we are his deputies, if you like. We will be staying here, for the time.'
          The hobbits greeted Gervain and were introduced all round. The men present were still as in a dream, and one or two rubbed their eyes.
          Vortigern finally spoke: 'Then the stories are true. The Holbytlan were not just fays sent to help in the war, returning across the seas after; and the knight Holdwine, said to have befriended Eomer and Eowyn, was one of these creatures?'
          'Yes, Sir Knight,' answered Tomilo, bowing again. 'But we do not like being called creatures. We are hobbits. The hobbit called Holdwine you speak of was Meriadoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland. And the "fays" were Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee—an ancestor of mine. They did "return over the seas" as it turned out. But they were living, waking, walking beings, as we are, born in Middle Earth, as mortal as you, Sir.'
          'Pardon my tongue, Master Fairbairn—I meant no offense. But just as I was beginning to get used to the idea of ents, here you are giving me another jolt.'
          'Did you think,' interrupted Ivulaine, 'that the all the stories from Arnor were just wives' tales? The men of Arnor have had daily business with the Shire now for centuries. How is it that the halfling folk are still such a mystery in the south?'
          'Arnor may trade with this place you call Shire, but we in the Mark do not. We hear tales, it is true, from the men returning from Fornost Erain and Annuminas—stories that are told more often than in the past. But men tell tales of many things that do not exist in the waking world. Of flying fish and flying squirrels and horses that live in lakes and otters that lay eggs. We had thought the halfling to be such a creature—such a being,' said Vortigern, correcting himself.
          'Tales are often told of creatures that do not exist, it is true, my dear Vortigern, for it pleases the fancy of man to invent.' answered Gervain. 'But all these beings you name do exist in Middle Earth. They do not make their home in Rohan, nor anywhere in the northwest—in the lands you have mapped. But far beyond your borders, and in the wide oceans, are creatures of flesh and blood that would take your breath away. Fish sixteen lar in length—fish that breathe air!; striped horses; man-sized beasts that jump five lar to a stride—and carry their babes in a belly pouch; beasts so small they cannot be seen by a man's eye, a thousand living on the head of a pin. But tell me, Vortigern: if you were a man of the far south and had not seen a great eagle—if you were familiar only with sparrows and kites—would you believe? You would not, I assure you. I have met men who scoffed at the existence of horses, who thought wolves to be creatures of fancy. It is no different. A man must see to believe. You have seen the ent and the halfling and now you believe. But I do not expect you to believe in the striped horse until you have one on the end of a rope, or in your stables.'
          'Aye, a striped horse is not a creature easy to accept. . . though I suppose it is easier to accept than a walking tree or a talking halfling. So much new information swamps a man's mind. I sometimes think it were better for a soldier to remain in Edoras, where trees remain rooted to the ground, and horses are horses—being neither striped nor lake-dwelling.'
          'Tis better, surely, if he wants to learn nothing,' answered Gervain. 'But if that were the case, 'twould be even better for him to remain in his mother's home, under the bed, perhaps, with eyes closed tight and a finger in each ear.'
          To this Vortigern made no answer.

Ivulaine served her punch in lovely tankards that had been found in the tower above. During the past week the men and wizards had been busy bringing down furniture and other necessaries from upper chambers. There, where the chairs and tables and other items had been above the flood, things were in better order. Everything, in fact, was just where it had been left by Saruman. Three centuries had little changed the things that remained—the desks still cluttered with papers and maps; the ancient folios (some still open to the pages, writ in fantastic script, that Saruman had last looked upon); the nameless machines of sorcery, embossed with fell runes and bent to weird shape; the strange weaponry collected by that wizard—unless it were that each and every one was covered by a thick layer of dust and hung with countless cobwebs.
          Some lower-level chambers in the east tower looked to have been occupied by Saruman's servants among the men of Dunland, who oversaw the orc armies. These rooms were sparsely and roughly appointed and had been left in a state of shocking filth. But only one room above the ground floor had been utterly ruined: the shutters had rotted away completely in the north wall of the north tower, on the third level; and pigeons and other birds had roosted there ever since in great numbers. The floors were white with their feathers and droppings. Everything in the room not made of iron would have to be burned.
          But on this late spring evening, the atmosphere was quite merry in the west tower of Orthanc, with Ivulaine's great jereboam of punch and the singing of the men. The hobbits joined in the song, teaching the men of Gondor and Rohan the tunes of the Shire. All were impressed with their dexterity on the fine intruments, too. One of the men of Gondor tried his hand at Prim's rebec, but could not master the 'fiddle,' as he called it—though it had only two strings whereas he was accustomed to four. The frets were too numerous for his knowledge, and too closely spaced for his larger fingers. Another man, a rider from Rohan, watched Tomilo with great appreciation, shaking his head at the speed of the hobbit's notes.
          'I've never seen so many holes in a flute,' he gaped. 'You need six extra fingers just to play it!'


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 9
Runes and Riddles

The hobbits also found time to eat that evening, and while they supped the wizards told them more of how they had come to be there and what they planned to do in the coming weeks. The messenger from the King had returned to Minas Mallor, but yesterday two other soldiers of Gondor had arrived, to act as interim assistants to the wizards—until the King had had the time to select and outfit a company of men to be quartered permanently in the valley. The riders of Rohan had also been drafted by the wizards for odd jobs, although they spent much of the day searching the valley, mapping it and taking note of its features for their report to King Feognost. They had paced off the width of the circle, the distance from it to the edge of the forest, the distance from the northernmost reach of the Angrenost to the foot of Mt. Arianrhod (as they called it), among many other things. Also, they had counted the chambers of Orthanc, measured its base, estimated its height, and drawn a crude picture of it from afar. They even counted the number of great holes in the ground within the circle of the walls, although the wizards assured them these would be filled in the coming year. None of the smithies or forges of Saruman would be re-opened, not even to supply the dwarves with tools to rebuild the walls.
          One of the jobs that Ivulaine put the men to was scouring the four towers in search of bedding. All that could be found was then carried down to the first floor of the west tower, to serve the party for the time. Here so close to the mountains it was chilly at night, though the elevation was low and spring was well underway. All there, whether man or wizard or hobbit, desired to stay near the fire, and near to eachother. The upper chambers of the tower could be bitter cold at night, even as late as May; it was much better to stay below, on the ground.
          A curious thing was discovered on one of these hunts for bedding. Tired of climbing the endless stairs, Ivulaine began to study the various contraptions with which Saruman had outrigged the towers. One of them, on the inner wall of the east tower, consisted of a system of great stones, each pierced and hung on a huge chain. The chains were looped over pulleys high up on the tower. Other stones hung there far above, almost out of sight. A series of wooden levers lined the wall, and writ above each lever was a number. Ivulaine was at a loss as to what these numbers signified, until she noticed that all the chains were either connected to, or waiting to be connected to—by the various levers—a metal box or covered platform a bit more than a cubic lar in size. Now, you or I, after studying this odd conglomeration of articles, would likely have pulled one of the levers, to see what would happen. Ivulaine did nothing of the sort. To her eye there were three reasons for not proceeding in this rash manner. First there was the matter of the hanging stones, which might be caused to fall by tripping the wrong lever. Second, the numbers above the levers did not coincide with the number of floors in the east tower, nor with the number of chambers, nor with any other number of counting that the wizard could think of. Third, and most important, was the fact that this was clearly an internally balanced machine—one that might be thrown immediately out of balance by any wrong decision.
          Even the wizard, keen as she was, might not have discovered the key to this secret, had she not finally noticed the proximity of a scale to the metal box. Using this scale, one might ascertain with a fair degree of certainty the weight of any object, in stones.* This fact in hand, Ivulaine came to the conclusion that the contraption was a lift, built to transport objects, including people, to the top of the tower. It was therefore absolutely crucial to know the weight of the object or objects to be transported, and to pull the proper lever that coincided with this weight. The lever connected the correct stone or stones to the platform, which then raised it at a managable speed. Pulling the wrong lever, for whatever reason, might accelerate the platform at great speed, launching it into the air once the stone hit the ground.
          Of course I have given only a brief description of the lift. It also included a braking device, and various other counterweights too complex for easy enumeration. But it worked. This Ivulaine discovered by removing a weight from the scale and placing it in the lift, then pulling the appropriate lever. The lift rose into the air, gently at first, then gaining a bit of speed near the top. It stopped with a bit of a bang, the stone on a chain hitting the ground near the wizard with an audible thud. This was because no one was in the lift to apply the brake. And now another problem presented itself. Namely, how to get the stone back down. Ivulaine assumed there existed another series of levers at the top of the tower, but that would require her climbing up to pull one of them. Clearly the lift was intended for Saruman, not for payload only. It needed human help at both ends. And the lift only made two stops—ground floor and pinnacle. Still, it would be great help, and Ivulaine was greatly cheered by its discovery. She couldn't wait to tell Gervain. For now, she must retreive the lift and the stone. Doggedly, she clutched her staff and trudged off up the winding stone stairs. At least, she told herself, the voyage down would be less wearisome!

Tomilo and Prim were also having some minor adventures that day. They had no fear of stairs, being young and light of foot, so they explored many of the highest chambers of the towers, seeking for maps or hidden passageways or other mysteries most appealing to hobbitkind. They had spent many minutes near the top of the east tower, having unlocked the shutters of a high window. It looked out toward the Great Forest of Fangorn, dark green and foggy in the distance. They could only espy its far southern reaches, the greater part of the forest being hidden by the arms of the mountains; but still it seemed vast beyond reckoning. However would they find Treebeard in such an endlesss place, dark and pathless?
          Finally they resumed their game, crossing from the east tower to the north tower by way of the high open platform or flet—as the elves would have named it. The wind ripped across its great expanse, though it was calm in the valley below, and though the floor was bounded by a barrier four feet high in those places where it had no wall from the towers themselves. The two hobbits peered over the edge, pulling themselves up by their fingers. Their curly hair ruffled brightly in the high wind, and Prim's dirndl threatened to ride up from behind. If Tomilo had been wearing his shirriff's cap, it would have sailed off into the breeze, floating down into the open pits below. But there was nothing to see here they hadn't already seen from the window, and they scurried out of the cold air into the now pointing pinnacle of the north tower.
          It was here that their game paid off, for this was Saruman's primary study and maproom. Some of his most prized possessions he had taken with him when he had left Orthanc, but not many. No more than would lade a single pony, for that is all the ents had allowed him. All the rest was here—the treasures

*This unit of weight was not precisely the unit used in England until the 20th century, but close enough for translation. We are told, by Findegil, scribe of Gondor, that a man of that time weighed, on average, 15 or 16 gond (stone). Now, either the men were larger, or the stones were smaller, than at present. Or both. An average man, trim and muscular, now weighs closer to 12 stone; and we cannot assume that the men of Gondor were fat. Even admitting that the men were larger, the stone of Gondor was likely about 12 pounds avoirdupois.

of a wizard, gathered over an age of Middle Earth. Ivulaine and Gervain had already discovered this chamber, and they had removed one or two things that will be told later, but much had passed their notice. They had not yet made a proper inventory, only assuring themselves that nothing was here that was not meet for the eyes of the men. There were yet things of great value in the chamber, assuredly, but it was the maps that most interested the hobbits. As it has been told, hobbits have an inordinate love of maps and atlasses and all sorts of printed records, of whatever kind. A map with pictures drawn upon it was perhaps the most precious of all. And so, this room was as a goldmine to them. They stood in wonder, as a dwarf might stand in wonder before a new-found vein of mithril. On the stone walls hung countless maps—of Wilderland and Rhovanion and Mirkwood, of Eriador and the Blue Mountains, of Rhun, of Mordor, of Harad, of Umbar, of Gondor and Anfalas and Belfalas. Smaller maps there were as well, maps writ in red runes, with pictures of mountains and trees and elves and dragons and dwarves and men. Maps of Helm's Deep and of Edoras, maps of Lothlorien and Rhosgobel, maps of Minas Tirith of old and Osgiliath before its fall. Maps of Dol Guldur and of Angmar and of Barad-dur, with fingers pointing and feathered arrows marking places of special interest. The map of Barad-dur held Tomilo's eye. Nowhere else in Middle Earth did there exist a map of the streets about Barad-dur, its situation in the Ered Lithui, or its approach from Udun and Orodruin. Tomilo shuddered as he looked on the drawing of the Dark Tower, surmounted with a red eye; and he wondered if Saruman had gone there himself. Or had he bought this map from some servant of the enemy, unbeknownst even to Sauron?
          Prim had turned away quickly from this map, finding it too fearsome, even though all that it depicted had long since passed away. Tomilo found her studying a map of the area about Isengard. The names were not written in Westron, and most were therefore unfamilar to the hobbits. Also, the tengwar¹ were heavily stylized: graceful and bold, with very long lines both above and below the baseline, and many flourishes. The tehtar were likewise extravagant, large and curved. The hobbits could not know it, but this was writing from the hand of Saruman himself. He had drawn this map sometime after arriving at Isengard, for his own reference. Over the years he had added somewhat to it, including a few notes on the ents; but on the whole the map was very ancient. Its original lines had been marked six or seven hundred years ago.
          One of the first things Prim noticed from studying this map is that the source of the Entwash was very near to the source of the Isen. The two rivers were in fact fed by the same mountain run-off, the Isen being the southern run-off from the Methedras, and the Entwash being the eastern run-off. The Methedras, or 'End-peak', was the largest mountain in the Hithaeglin south of the Redhorn, both in elevation and in stone-mass. It also fed a third large river to the west—the Dunwindle², which flowed through Dunland before turning northwest and joining the Greyflood just above its mouths.

¹Tengwar are elvish letters. Tehtar are the signs which stand for vowels, among other things.

²The Dunwindle is not so large a river as the Isen or the Entwash, and is by no means comparable to the Greyflood. It is for this reason left off many of the greater maps of the time, which only included rivers that required marked bridges or fords. The single road of any consequence that crossed the Dunwindle was the Great South Road, and it crossed near to the mountains where the river was still narrow. During the Third Age it had not been deemed of strong enough current to require a bridge. But the King Elessar had built one nonetheless in the first century of the Fourth Age. All crossings between Arnor and Gondor were upgraded to bridges by special decree.

The second thing Prim noticed is that a path had been marked, from near the source of the Isen, to near the source of the Entwash. She could immediately see that this path allowed travel from Isengard to Fangorn without making the long march around the outlying hills.
          'Look, Tomilo!' she said to the hobbit, grabbing his sleeve in excitement. 'We can take Saruman's own personal road to Fangorn. I wonder how high the pass is?' she added, pointing to the jagged line on the yellowed parchment.
          'There are no elevations marked, that I can read,' answered the hobbit. 'But perhaps those runes mean something in that way. It appears that we only need follow the Isen up into the mountains, take a right turn at the correct spot, run along this valley, and clamber down the Entwash into the ent's very parlour. But I suspect it is not really that easy when it comes down to it. It could be very dangerous. There might be goblins in the mountains, I suppose. Or trolls. And the ents might not appreciate such a surprise entrance. I suppose we should ask the wizards what they think. At least they will be able to translate these runes for us.'
          Prim rolled the map carefully and tied it among her apron strings. Then the two returned downstairs.

They found the wizards discussing the lift. Ivulaine had brought the carriage back down to the ground, and she was demonstrating to Gervain the use of the brake to retard the fall. This was necessary since the weight of the passengers and payload could not be determined precisely, despite the scales. Like all scales of the time, they were only roughly accurate. Besides, the hanging stones were stepped in weight. That is to say, even though they could be added together, they could not possibly make up every possible weight. That would have required an infinite number of stones. And even a small difference in the total weight of the carriage and the weight of the chosen stones could cause an appreciable acceleration over the length of the ride. The brake was therefore perhaps the most important piece of the whole complex machine. The wizards studied it closely, to understand its workings, and so to enable them to keep an eye on its maintenance.
          The hobbits could not be interested in the contraption; even less could they be convinced to ride in it. A water wheel defined the outside limits of hobbit science at that time (as now), and any object that moved on its own steam was looked at with great mistrust. Even a boat was a machine of baffling implication to most hobbits. Hobbit children often gazed at stairs in utter amazement—young visitors to Tuckborough sometimes were traumatized for days together, simply at the sight of a second-story door, and stairs climbing up to it. A lift was therefore a thing of frightful magic—a machine for wizards perhaps, but not for mere mortals. The men of Rohan and Gondor also refused to ride in the 'wizard's carriage.'

At last everyone returned to the first chamber of the West Tower for supper. Over a meal of stewed venison, made from meat brought in by Vortigern and his men, the hobbits told the wizards of their discoveries of the day. To broach the subject of the maps, Tomilo first spoke of the map of Barad-dur, asking Gervain how Saruman might have come by such a thing.
          'I cannot tell you that, Mr. Fairbairn,' the Green Wizard answered, pushing his plate away with a sigh. 'I have seen the map you speak of, though only in passing. It is strange indeed. Sauron would not have known of that map. He would not have allowed it. He forbade any map-making of his realms, even by his highest ranking lieutenants. He demanded absolute secrecy. My guess is that Saruman enticed some orc chieftain of Mordor into the service of Orthanc, and wrung this information from him, by payment or threat. It was the highest form of insubordination, for both the orc and for Saruman, since it implies that Saruman was plotting not only against Edoras and Minas Tirith—he was also plotting against Barad-dur. He seems to have thought that the ring, once taken from Frodo, would allow him to subdue even the Dark Lord himself. And perhaps it might have. None now living can say how much of Sauron's original strength might pass to the new ringwearer, given the proper hand. Saruman proved he had not the power to do great good. But who can say how much evil he was once capable of, in the right circumstance? He certainly embraced evil. With the ring on his hand, he might have marched into Mordor unopposed and thrown down Sauron in single combat. The Nine would not have stopped him, at any rate, since they were thralls to the ring, first and foremost. They would be the first to be subjugated to the will of the new ringwearer, not the last.'
          'Why didn't Frodo just march into Mordor then, with the Nine behind him?' asked Prim.
          'First of all, Frodo did not wish to supplant Sauron,' answered Ivulaine. 'Remember, too, that he was the ringbearer, not the ringwearer. Finally, in order to subjugate the Nine, and to intimidate the vast armies of Mordor, the ringwearer must needs be of a certain stature of mind. Frodo, although pure of heart and of great courage, did not have this stature. He was not a Maia. Even Denethor, nay, even Aragorn, would have been hard-pressed to cow the Nine, and all the countless servants of evil, with the One Ring in hand. Unless the ring had been weilded by a wizard—or mayhap one of the Elf Princes or Princesses, like Elrond or Galadriel—Sauron would have wrested the ring back to his own hand by main force. You see, in the beginning, Sauron was powerful beyond reckoning, being almost one of the Valar. His corruption was Morgoth's greatest victory in all the history of Valinor. His fall has been the greatest loss to Morgoth since the beginning of time. It may be that this is the reason Morgoth has chosen this time to return. Sauron is no longer capable of doing his bidding. Morgoth must now orchestrate his own wars.'
          At this, the table fell silent for many minutes. Ivulaine arose and began making her tea over the fire. The men and hobbits cleared the table. Afterwards, Tomilo and Gervain filled their pipes. The men pulled their chairs near the hearth, and spoke in low voices. They did not smoke, but one of the men of Rohan carved a bit of wood with a small knife. It was a doll for his child back home. Another wove a length of horsehair into a long braid: it was a new 'tail' for his helm. Others were less creative, though no less practical—they checked their hair for ticks and scraped the dirt from their fingernails. Several removed their boots and dried their feet near the fire in preparation for sleep. The air was heavy with the smell of leather and rustic soldiery.
          When Ivulaine returned to the table with her now-boiling samovar, Prim brought out the map of Isengard and showed it to the wizards. They lit several candles and laid the old parchment out flat, the corners held down by empty goblets. It was now dark outside, though only just, and the crickets had only then begun their singing. Somewhere nearby an owl joined them with a few mournful notes. The only other sound outside was the distant Isen, its constant rush among the rocks providing an undertone to the noises of the fauna.
          'This map I did not see,' said Gervain. 'Thank you for bringing it down, Primrose. It will be quite useful, I am sure.'
          'We were hoping you could read it for us,' answered Prim. 'These runes, for instance. We cannot tell what they mean, though we hope there is some information there about the pass from the Isen to the Entwash. Tomilo and I thought we might take that shortcut to Fangorn Forest, ' she added, pointing to the line drawn there.
          'Yes, let's see. It does appear to cut off a great loop from your journey. But you haven't told us why you are going to Fangorn. Do you have some sort of business there, from the Shire?'
          'Of a sort, yes,' answered Tomilo. 'I am afraid I can't tell you exactly, though I suspect you will know soon enough. We have some information for the ents, and we feel they should be told first. We are not here at the request of the Thain—we are here on private business, you might say. Business between myself and Treebeard.'
          'Then you have met Treebeard before?' asked Ivulaine, with some surprise.
          'No. I haven't met him. I have only read about him. And I heard about him from Oakvain.'
          'Oakvain?'
          'Oakvain is the ent of the Old Forest, on the eastern borders of the Shire. Tom Bombadil introduced us.'
          'I had no idea there were ents still living in the Far West,' exclaimed Gervain.
          'Not ents. Ent. I only met Oakvain. I think he is the last. At least, he said he was the last one in that forest. I am not sure about the other forests. He said something about a wood near where the elves live, I think. Maybe there are a few there, too.'
          'And this Oakvain had a message for Treebeard?' asked Ivulaine
          'No, I wouldn't say that. Not a message. I can't say more, I'm afraid. But it's not bad news. So don't worry.'
          'All right, Mr. Fairbairn,' replied Ivulaine, smiling. 'If you say so. We will not press, although it is beyond our comprehension that hobbits and ents should have things to talk about. Do keep us informed, when the conversation becomes more general.'
          'Oh, we certainly will,' said Prim blushing, embarassed by the situation. 'We don't like secrets any more than you do. But, now, you know, could you tell us anything about this pass? Do you think it looks dangerous?'
          'Dangerous?' answered Gervain. 'I shouldn't think so. Although it is hard for us to answer that, since we only just arrived here ourselves. We know no more than you about the paths round about. We should ask Finewort.'
          'Finewort?' said Tomilo. 'Who is he?'
          'He is the ent that has been guarding Isengard, though he has not made an appearance since you arrived. Once we settled in here, he left the guarding to us. He has been standing over on the edge of the wood for weeks, mostly, I believe. But we can walk over tomorrow and see what he thinks of your little expedition. He may even know of this path of Saruman's. I suspect the ents have discovered all of Saruman's secrets by now. It may be that this path was the ent's secret before it was Saruman's. A secret he borrowed from them.'

The map was scanned in four pieces; click on the piece you would like to enlarge.

This map is authentic in every particular but one. For this publication I have inserted modern numerals in the index at the bottom of the map. Leaving Saruman's figures would have required me to publish an entire treaty on the number systems of Middle Earth. Since Mr. Tolkien has not done so, I knew the numerals would be otherwise untranslatable for most readers. As an example, I have left Saruman's figures for the distance to Fangorn (see the broken-line path). He abbreviates the distance 'h-c', which stands for 'haran-canad'—or 'hundred-four'. Hyphenated in this order, this translates as quarter-hundred, or twenty-five. 'Four hundred' would have been written canadharan. 'One hundred and four' would be written harancanad. The elevations I have also left as Saruman wrote them: 'lar' I have explained elsewhere; 'm' stands for 'meneg', which is a thousand; Tolkien has published the numbers from one to ten—I will not repeat them here. The map is dated in the lower right-hand corner: 11,421. According to my calculations, this date does not coincide with the beginning of the First Age. The zero-year of this date may be the creation of the Two Trees by Yavanna.


          'But the runes?' reminded Prim. 'They are not ent runes, are they? We do not need the ent to translate them, do we?'
          'No dear. Those are the Angerthas Daeron. Elvish runes. We know them well. They are actually quite common, although they are more often used now by the dwarves—in a varied form—for their long runes of Moria or Erebor. Saruman has used these runes to spell Sindarin words, as was the usual way, although he might have used them for Quenya, or even for Westron or Old Entish, come to that. Most of these words are just names of places—"Methedras" is the mountain, you see; this word means "Orthanc"; that one means "Angrenost". This little one here just means "falls". Now, these words pointing to the turn in the path, that interests you, they mean, roughly, "three-horned rock". I would guess there is a rock formation that looks like three horns at this place, indicating that you should turn to the right. Here, these four words mean "two leagues in a cutting". It appears there may be a long narrow gorge between cliff walls, perhaps made in the distant past by a now-extinct river.'
          'Two leagues?' interrupted Ivulaine. 'That is a very long gorge for such a place. It would be almost like the entrance to Gondolin. Either a very safe place, or a very dangerous place, depending on the circumstance. If you were not known to be there, you could not be found; but if you were seen entering you would be trapped on two sides, as well as being vulnerable from above. We absolutely must speak to Finewort before you risk this pass. It may be that it is not worth the time saved.'
          'Yes,' agreed Tomilo. 'We are in no hurry. There is no snow or other weather pressing us. And I for one have had enough of mountain passes, whether river gorges or the bridges over those gorges.'
          'There may be bridges to dare on this path, for all we know,' added Gervain. 'The word "cutting" implies that the gorge may have been hewn by men in places, rather than being wholly natural. Or it may just be a word that Saruman used for description. But remember that this entire valley was once the dwelling of the exiles from Numenor. They built this tower and these outer walls, as well as some other lesser structures. It is possible that they cut this path to ease the transfer of timber from Fangorn. In which case it may include bridges or other improvements. There is not room on this map for Saruman to have marked every special point on the path. And look—there is a bridge over the Isen here, though it seems to come before the cutting. Still, the river may run in its own deep gorge, in which case the bridge could be quite treacherous.'
          'But what is this eye over here?' interrupted Prim, pointing to the lower left of the map. 'Might it have some special meaning?'
          'That is just Saruman's sign, or signature,' answered Ivulaine. 'The curve around the eye is a large "S" for Saruman. I assume the point above is his hat—the sign of his wizardry. The eye is in imitation of Sauron. The word's below are the only Quenya words on the map, and I understand them to be a sort of motto. They say, "The night shall come again." This is a bastardization of Hurin's cry at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, "The day shall come again." I suspect Saruman added these words later, when he had come under the influence of Sauron.'
          Gervain lifted the map from the table momentarily, to look more closely at the small writing. The candles were casting little light, and he feared to hold the wax too close to the laid-out parchment, for fear of dripping upon it. At that very instant, one of the men opened the door, to go out for a breath of fresh air. The wind swirled into the room, and a gust ripped the map from the wizard's hands. The paper whirled away toward the fireplace, following the draw of air up the chimney, and both hobbits leapt up to catch it before it reached the flames. Gervain was right behind. He retrieved the map from the hand of Tomilo with a 'sorry' and a 'thank you', and as he did so he glanced at the map, now lit fully by the red light from the large fire in the grate. At once he noticed the outline of fiery yellow letters, dimly glowing in the lower left corner of the map. He stopped and cried out, 'Ai, what is this?'
          Ivulaine joined him, and they held the map close to the fire, looking intently as the letters slowly became clearer. Finally, Prim could stand it no longer.
          'What is it?' she cried. 'Is it very bad?'
          'No, dear. It is not bad at all,' answered Ivulaine, smiling down at her. 'It is just a surprise. There are fire-letters here. Words that can be read only by firelight.'
          'You mean like the moon-letters, that the dwarves used?' asked Tomilo excitedly.
          'Yes, in a way. Although these letters do not require a particular type of firelight—any fire, that is bright enough, will do. The candles were too dim.'
          'What does it say? Is it important?' asked Prim, almost hopping up and down.
          'It says, "Star. Forty paces. Moon. Twenty. Sun. Twelve. Earth. Two," answered Ivulaine, reading straight from the map.
          'What in the world does that mean?' gasped Tomilo.
          'I don't know,' said Ivulaine. 'It may be that something is buried up there. I take it that "Earth. Two" means that something is buried six feet deep in that place.'
          'Yes, I see. Two paces into the earth.'
          'And "star,"' continued the wizard, 'is the beginning point. It could mean some place indicated by a star or constellation in the heavens. But I cannot see how the word "star," by itself, with no other clue, could indicate a place.'
          'It might mean many things,' suggested Gervain. 'There may be another rock formation that looks like a star. Or Saruman may have cut and set a star-shaped stone in the ground up there. Or carved a star into a cliff-wall. Or "star" may be a puzzle-word.'
          'A puzzle word?' cried Prim. 'What is that?'
          'I simply mean that "star" may not mean star. It may mean something else. For instance, the word for "star" written on the map is gil. That is one of the Sindarin words for "star". Gil spelled backwards is lig. Lig means "goose". "Goose" may be a clue which makes sense when read with the other words, read in the same way. Let us see. The word for "moon" here is ithil. Ithil backwards is lihti, which is not a word. It almost means "ashes", but that would be lithi. The word for "sun" is anor. Anor backwards is rona. Rona means "arrow". So that makes some sense. The word for "earth" is arth. Arth backwards is nothing, obviously. . . unless we use the Quenya word arda, in which case it becomes adra in reverse, which is "two." But we are really grasping now, and I think it very likely we left the right track long ago, with these guesses. At any rate, there are many ways to re-arrange the letters, using the various languages. And re-arrangement is only one of the many possibilities with puzzles. We may also have a numerological puzzle, where each letter stands for a number, and so on. Ivulaine and I will study the runes tonight, and see what we may see. But we may not understand the puzzle until we stumble by chance upon this "star" that Saruman speaks of. If the words are not a puzzle, and there is surely no reason to insist they are, then the easiest thing is to search first for the "star."'
          'Maybe Prim and I should walk up the Isen tomorrow, to see if we can find it,' said Tomilo.
          'No,' Gervain replied. 'I think we should talk to Finewort first, before anyone goes wandering off into the mountains. He will be easy to find in the morning, I think. In fact, he may know something of the star himself. The ents may have dug up this treasure long, long ago, for all we know.'
          'All right,' Tomilo answered, with a shrug of the shoulders (the thought that the 'treasure' might not be there after all was somewhat disappointing, after all the talk of it).
          'But at least we get to see an ent tomorrow!' Prim reminded him.
          'Yes, and I hope he is not as nasty as Old Oakvain,' thought Tomilo to himself.

It was a foggy morning in the valley and only the very feet of the mountains were visible. The black tower of Orthanc was lost in a vast white cloud. Its lower battlements loomed suddenly from under the heavy mists, as if to endanger any careless birds in the valley. These twittering birds, their cries muffled by the watery air, played hide and seek in the vapours, flying up into the cloud only to re-emerge with a tweet a few yards on. Tomilo and Prim, watching these games over breakfast, feared to see the birds crash into the tower, or into eachother. But all such worry was needless. Birds did not crash into towers any more than they crashed into trees, though it was beyond the ken of two-legged creatures how they always avoided it.
          Leaving the birds at last, and their breakfast, the pair of hobbits followed the pair of wizards beyond the circle of Isengard, making for a small wood that lay across the river. This wood was an outlier of the greater wood of Fangorn beyond. As Tomilo and Prim passed through the high grasses, their feet quickly became drenched with dew. But it was no more an inconvenience to them than to the badger in the hedge: both relied on their dense fur to keep the water from penetrating, and the hobbits were more concerned about the chill on their hands—which they kept in their pockets. Even wading the Isen brought no lasting chill to their feet. Like the feathers of a duck, the hobbits' fur wicked away the water, and a bit of stomping on the far bank made them good as new—if a bit muddier.
          Tomilo walked with his head down, breathing heavily. He almost snorted, as if he was still snoring in his sleep, and Prim looked at him with amusement. But he paid her no attention. He was busy replaying last night's conversation in his head. He had tossed and turned in his bedding for hours after everyone else had gone to sleep, thinking of the map and the treasure. And now the same thoughts continued to plague him. What did the fire-letters mean? Did they have anything to do with the shortcut through the mountains? Should he and Prim take that way, or not? Would it be safe? Might there be more balrogs in the mountains?
          He tried to push the confused and troubled thoughts from his mind as he stumbled on in the growing light, still yawning. What he really needed was two more hours of sleep, he thought to himself. And another sitting at the breakfast table. Then his mind might clear. But the wizards seemed to be in a hurry—not talking, only walking quickly ahead in their great boots, serious and taciturn as was often their wont. Prim, too, was quiet now, only looking about her at the dewy grasses and bushes of the river valley, noting the varieties of flora that lived there. In this soundless hour, when everything was grey or white, nothing intruded upon Tomilo's thoughts to help turn them, and he fell back into the well-worn paths of his mind. But at last a new thought occurred to him. He had been thinking of the mountain pass on the map—how Ivulaine had said it was like Gondolin. . . .
          Gondolin! Wasn't that an elvish city from long ago? Yes, he had read of Gondolin in Bilbo's Translations from the Elvish. A poem, or something like that. Maybe a song. He couldn't remember. But there was an elf princess who was in love with a man. And they fought a balrog. And there was an elf named Glorfindel there. Tomilo remembered these things, since subsequent events had etched them into his mind, as it were. He had learned much since about balrogs—more than he ever wanted to know. But he had not had time or chance to ask Glorfindel of Imladris about this Glorfindel of Gondolin. Now, perhaps, was the time to learn the truth of it.
          'Gervain. Ivulaine,' said Tomilo at last, bringing all the party from their morning reverie. 'May I ask you something? Something about Glorfindel?'
          'Certainly you may, my dear hobbit,' answered Gervain. 'But what makes you think of him at this moment?'
          'Well, it was Ivulaine's mentioning of Gondolin last night that did it, I guess. It got me to thinking of the balrogs, and then of the two Glorfindels, who both fought balrogs it seems, if I remember rightly. I read about Gondolin a long time ago, in some of old Bilbo's writings that are up at Undertowers. It was Glorfindel who was at Gondolin, wasn't it?'
          'Yes, Tomilo. But not the same Glorfindel you met. Glorfindel of Gondolin fell in combat with a balrog, though his body was found by the eagle Thorondor and brought back to the elves upon Cirith Thoronath. On that dreadful pass they laid him in a cairn of rocks, before continuing on out of the mountains.'
          'That is just what I wanted to know. I thought maybe the two Glorfindels were the same. In some of the old songs, the heroes come back to life. And if he came back once, maybe he can come back again?'
          'None come back to life who have truly left it,' Ivulaine said. 'The songs perhaps exaggerate.'
          'What of Beren One-hand?'
          'Yes, Beren. That is the exception,' answered Ivulaine, shaking her head. 'Mandos did allow it, that one time, swayed as he was by the song of Luthien. It was only a postponement, since Beren and Luthien both died, and did not come to Mandos ever. You are very learned, Tomilo, and have a fine memory. Beren was a hero who came back to life, if for a while. But Glorfindel did not. He is in Mandos. As is his namesake. They will not return to Middle-Earth.'
          'But why did the elves take our Glorfindel—I mean the Glorfindel we knew—to the ships? Why did they not bury him? The body does not go across the sea, does it? The Glorfindel of Gondolin left his body on the pass, as you said. That is what I don't understand.'
          'The elves did not take our Glorfindel over the sea, Tomilo. They took him to the sea. Many elves desire to be buried in the arms of Ulmo, where they believe they will be tended til the end. No doubt this was the wish of Glorfindel.'
          'Oh,' said Tomilo, and became silent once more.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 10
The Telling of Fangorn

Finewort was standing in a small grove of copper beeches when they found him. It had not been easy. This grove was on the top of a low hill, surrounded by trees of many kinds. What was more, the hill was high enough that it was all but lost to the world in this morning's fogs. Ivulaine had found it necessary to ask about before she found the place. Fortunately there were some huorns in the area who were limb-lithe and understood her speech. She was pointed toward Finewort by the long leafy limb of an ash tree who was rooted at the bottom of the hill. The wizards smiled to themselves and wondered how long those roots would last.
          At their approach, Finewort awoke from his nap, or whatever it was. He had been asleep for more than a week, but it seemed to him that he had just closed his eyes. He was somewhat put out by the disturbance.
          'Ah, the wizards,' said he, with a bit of a groan. 'There is no trouble at Isengard, I hope?' Then he noticed the hobbits. His eyes opened wide, and he slowly made signs that another ent would have read as surprise. To the wizards and hobbits he just looked like he had a spider in his wig.
          'Hullo!' said Tomilo. 'You must be Finewort. Glad to meet you! This is my wife Primrose.' She and Tomilo both bowed low.
          'And good-day to you both,' answered Finewort, getting beyond his surprise, and chuckling to himself at the bows. 'I wouldn't have thought folk so low to the ground could bend lower to it, hmm, aha, but there you are doing it and I don't know what it means. I take it as a salutation, and return it in my own way, eh, which is to creak a bit about the bole, like this.' He made a sound like a popping of knuckles, much magnified. 'We don't usually do that for other creatures, but you shared your salutation, so I thought I would do the same, you know, ho-ho-hmm. It startles some, so we don't do it. We are feared to have indigestion, I think. Ha.'
          'Yes,' said Prim. 'It is a bit off-putting, by our standards.'
          'But what are you, may I ask? I would say you were halfling folk, but that we haven't had halfling folk about since the time of Saruman. I never saw Fangorn's little friends, but you match the stories, I must say.'
          'Yes, Master Finewort, we are indeed halflings. Though we prefer the word hobbit,' added Prim. 'We have come to ask you a question, you know.'
          'No, I didn't know. But I do now. What question is that, my friend?'
          'We found a map,' explained Tomilo. 'We thought you might know something about it. About the things on the map, that is. Since you have been here so long, and been up and down and round about. Is there a place where we could look at the map together, without getting dripped on, I wonder?'
          'It isn't much of a day for looking at maps, I am afraid,' said Ivulaine. 'Especially in the out of doors. Perhaps we should just explain to him our problem, Tomilo.'
          'Oh, all right. Well, you see this map shows a secret way from the Isen to the Entwash, away up in the mountains. It is a sort of short-cut from Isengard to the forest. We wanted to ask you if it was still there.'
          'And if it was safe,' added Prim.
          'A short-cut, you say? Hmmm, ho. A short-cut. Yes, it is indeed. I mean it is indeed still there, though I didn't know anyone knew of it but us ents. We don't even use it, not often we don't. We would rather walk a distance than a climb. Climbing is difficult, when you walk like we do. It is hard to lift the legs high enough. And we don't hurry. We have no reason to hurry. Ha, ha, hum.'
          'Excuse me, Mr. Finewort,' interrupted Prim, 'but is it safe? I mean, would it be safe for small folk like us? Is there any danger?'
          'Danger? No. No danger. No orcs. No wolves. Maybe bears, but they don't eat hobbits, I don't think. A mother bear might mistake you for a cub, but that is all the danger I can think of, ha, ha, humph-a-bumph.'
          Tomilo smiled at this last idea, and the strange sounds that drove it home. But then he remembered to ask about the fire letters on the map. 'Do you know, by any chance, of a star-shaped sign anywhere along this short-cut? There is a clue on the map suggesting that a star-shaped sign—or something that means "star"—might lead to a treasure of some sort, or something that Saruman hid up there.'
          Gervain added, 'Yes, did the ents find anything hidden by Saruman along this short-cut? It might have been found long ago—most likely buried six feet deep, we think.'
          'No. No, we didn't find anything at all up there. Never looked, that I know of. No stars, no treasures. Ho, hmmm. Nothing buried. If Saruman did not take it away with him, I would guess it is up there yet, whatever it may be.'
          'I see,' said Tomilo. 'Well, then, maybe we will keep our eyes open for stars, or other clues, if we go that way. But now I must ask you about Fangorn himself. Not the forest but the ent. Treebeard, as we hobbits call him. We want to find him. Prim and I, I mean. We travelled from the Shire to tell him something. And, er, I was wondering in you could tell us where to look for him. It is a big forest, and maybe it is not right for us to just wander in and start shouting. What is the proper thing to do, do you know?'
          'You have a message for Fangorn, you say? Hm, ho. Very interesting. Quite astonishing. The very definition of outlandish, it is, really, if you consider it for a moment! Halflings show up out of nowhere, and the next thing you know they have a message for Fangorn. Out-land-ish! Hmmmmm.' Finewort's arms and leaves began a slight flutteration (almost as if he might have some inkling of the true nature of the message, thought Prim—but more likely he was just a rather excitable ent). 'Yes, hmmm, let me think a bit. Don't be hasty. Don't go running off just yet! Hmmmm.'
          After many minutes of listening to Finewort hem and haw and scratch his head and shiver his leaves, Tomilo finally coughed impatiently, and the young ent looked down and laughed.
          'I have it! I shall take you myself, my hasty little halflings. You shall tell Fangorn, and he shall tell me, and then we shall all know—the whole hasty lot of us, ha, ha, humpy, dump! And what of the wizards? Will you come, too? To see what message the halflings have for Fangorn?'
          'I think not, Finewort,' answered Ivulaine. 'The hobbits will have to return this way, soon enough. They have promised to keep us informed.'
          'Well, have it your own way. Shall we go?' the ent finished, looking to the hobbits.
          'Now?' said Tomilo.
          'If you're ready,' answered Finewort, his leaving still a-flutter.
          'No, no, we can't go now. We have to get our packs and our instruments. And our ponies.'
          'Oh, you won't need ponies. I will carry you. No heavier than a couple of robins, you aren't.'
          'But we may go on to Lothlorien afterwards, to see more friends. We shall need our ponies then—unless you mean to carry us all the way to the elves.'
          'No, I will not carry you there. Go get your beasts and your blankets. I will be here.'
          'We will return in the morning, Finewort. We have some things to do today with the wizards, and it will take some time for us to prepare for our trip to the forest, even if you mean to carry us. Especially if you mean to carry us. We will have to tell the ponies about you, for one thing. I hope they are not spooked by the very idea of ents.'
          'No, no, ponies are not scared of ents, unless we scare them on purpose. Ponies know about us, just like they know about bears and birds and deer and fish. We have been here with them from the beginning.'
          'That's right,' said Tomilo to himself, though he was still speaking aloud. 'Drabdrab was not afraid of Oakvain.'
          'Oakvain?' repeated Finewort.
          'Oh, nothing,' added Tomilo quickly, coming to himself and realizing the situation just in time. 'Oakvain was a. . . a bird—an eagle, you know. But my pony was not afraid of him at all. I thought he would be, but he wasn't.'
          'Oakvain is a strange name for an eagle,' commented Finewort.
          'Yes. Yes, eagles do have strange names, do they not?' continued Tomilo, still covering.
          Finewort just looked at him curiously, but asked no further questions*.

*Finewort was too young to know of Oakvain. His suspicion was only a general one, due to Tomilo's manner.

Back at Orthanc that evening, the two wizards discussed the morning's meeting between the hobbits and the ent.
          'I have never seen an ent so distracted,' began Ivulaine.
          'Nor I,' answered Gervain. 'Did you see his leaves shaking? I thought for a moment he was going to skip off down the hill and turn a somersault. If anything was "out-land-ish" this morning, it was Finewort himself.'
          'The only thing that comes to mind is that the last time halflings wandered into Fangorn Forest, and spoke to Fangorn himself, every tree in the wood ended up in a complete uproar, for one reason or another. Finewort must remember that well, for it was only yesterday to his reckoning.'
          'Yes, but it was more than that, to my mind. He almost seemed to be expecting the hobbits, if that makes any sense. As soon as he heard that they were seeking Fangorn, he appeared to know what it was about. Some sort of premonition. But how could he possibly know? Are the ents expecting news? Is there a prophecy to be fulfilled?'
          'I have no knowledge of one. But that is neither here nor there, since my knowledge of the history of the ents begins and ends with what I know of the War of the Ring.'

The next morning the hobbits bid farewell to the wizards and the men and set off again out of the valley. Their goodbyes were not long or especially emotional, since they planned to return to Orthanc on their way home. That, they assumed, would only be a few weeks hence, even counting the visit to Phloriel. They would give the wizards the news from Fangorn at that time, and learn from them any update on the mysteries of the map.
          Finewort was waiting for them at the bottom of the hill, to save them the climb, and they all set out immediately. Drabdrab took little notice of the ent, being used to many strange creatures in the Old Forest. And Nobbles, after a long stare, decided to put a good face on it: if Drabdrab was not frightened, he could not be seen to be frightened either. A hobbit pony might not be a creature of great stature or beauty, but he was a proud beast nonetheless, in his own way. He was a representative of Shire upbringing, and would not for the world be seen balking at an ent, especially when no one else was.
          At first Finewort allowed the hobbits to jog along beside him—to give them a bit of morning exercise, he said to himself with a chuckle—but at last he grew weary of speaking down to the ground, and having the hobbits shout up to him, and he lifted them up into his branches, where the conversation was more cozy. As he looked at their funny little feet dangling near to his head, he thought to himself what queer beasts they were indeed. Good-natured, assuredly, and seemingly trusty as the day was long; but nonetheless passing queer to look upon. So compact! So portable! Like having an acorn for a body. A nut with legs. But also so soft—an acorn without a shell, to be sure.
          The little company had been passing through woods all morning, but at about noon the hobbits began to see a great wall of trees ahead, getting nearer all the while. Soon they arrived at the Forest of Fangorn proper; and passing beneath a sort of of archway of branches, they entered into a dark and very old-looking path among the huge and mossy trees. This was no deer-path, meandering among the underbrush: it was clearly an ent-path, straight and with plenty of headroom. Even in those places where a branch had lowered across the path, it was removed as Finewort drew near, without a word or other sign from the ent.
          Prim looked about her in amazement at the ancient trees, dark and dreary and sometimes quite frightful. The ponies kept close to the ent, and Nobbles snuffled to himself, as if to keep up his courage. His nose was right on the flank of Drabdrab, and if the hobbits had looked down, they might have caught him with his eyes closed tight.
          Finally Prim leaned forward and said to Tomilo, 'I have heard tell of Mirkwood, but if that forest is mirkier than this, I don't think I want to go there—not even in the company of an ent. This is mirky enough for me.'
          Finewort laughed—a deep booming rumble that almost sounded like thunder, especially to the hobbits, so near were they to his mouth. 'I think I should try to be more complimentary, on my first visit to your home,' he said. 'Though I suppose I might not like it much better than you like mine. I think yours might be a bit too open and airy for my taste. A bit too much horizon to really feel at ease. And I think you live in wooden huts, like men, do you not? It would be hard for me to approve of that, you know, no matter how polite I was.'
          'Oh no!' cried Prim, 'We don't live in wooden huts. We live in holes—that is most of us do.' She paused. 'Although I have to admit that we do use wood for shutters and chairs and things like that. I had not thought how disconcerting that must be to ents. We do apologize.'
          'No need, no need,' answered the ent with a smile. 'We came to terms with that a long time ago. After all, who of us, of all the creatures of the world, can say that everything was planned just the way we would have liked it, were we running the show? All creatures hunt eachother, and make use of one another in various ways. The rabbit does not "approve" of the fox, nor the fish "approve" of the heron, no doubt, and yet such is the world. As long as the use that is made of trees is kept within certain bounds, we ents do not take it all too personally. Only when it passes all understanding or patience, as with that. . . that. . . harum, hum barum, that traitor Saruman. . . well, in that case our patience runs out, as anyone's would, you know.'

Tomilo also felt the closeness of the forest, although he said nothing for the time. He had been in the Old Forest, and in the Bindbole Wood, but neither compared to this. The difference was like the difference between a snug hobbit hole and the dwarf-cell in Khazad-dum. The hobbit thought to himself that the sun must never really shine here—not like it did in the outside world. All memory of blue sky and white cloud and bright yellow corn standing out clearly against the infinite horizon—all that was blotted out in this net of gloomy vegetation and soupy air. Breathing became a task in such a place: one must swallow the air with intention, almost like a snake swallowing an egg. The air stuck in ones throat. Tomilo thought of a fish lying on the bank, its eyes bugged out, its gills working to no avail. A few hours in this forest and he would be the same—nothing but heaving sides and lolling tongue.
          The ent seemed to read his mind, for at that very moment Finewort spoke up again. 'What we need is a drink of water. That will clear everyone's heads. It just takes a bit of getting used to—the air of Fangorn I mean—for those who are accustomed to living on the plain. A cup of Fangorn's finest streamwater will be just the thing for you.' He paused in his speech and looked about for the stream, before returning, somewhat distractedly, to the topic. 'In a week the air and water outside the forest will seem thin and dry, not worth breathing or drinking—you'll see. When you leave Fangorn, you'll always wish for nourishment more hearty and toothsome. You can almost chew the air here—and that's why we like it. You can smell the dirt on the breeze; you can taste the heart of the stone in the water. No need to put down roots in Fangorn, my friends—you can take in all the nourishment you need with a deep breath. You can eat just by opening your pores wide and standing still for a week. It's truly delicious!'
          The hobbits smiled at the colourful language, but were mostly unconvinced. Prim especially looked as though she would prefer to eat food and breathe air, rather than vice versa, or both at once, or whatever was meant.
          At last Finewort found the stream he was looking for, and all of them, ent and hobbit and pony, drank lustily. This was not the Entwash, but a small tributary that arose above them in the mountains. It was bitter cold, being recent snowmelt. It had already picked up the tang of the forest however, and the hobbits could truly taste the earth, just as the ent had said. It was not a mineral taste, nor yet again a taste of mold or other vegetation—although that is what they had expected. I cannot put it clearer than to say that it tasted like the earth smelled—rich and fertile. Almost like a glass of very weak ale, except that the edge was not an edge of grain or barley, but of pine or fir or beech. It was like a weak beer fermented from pine resin, or pine cones, if there could be such a thing. Slightly sweet, in a way beer never is. But not sweet like cider, nor wit-dimming like ale. No, it was like nothing else. It was it's own peculiar taste, and can hardly be imagined by those in a later age—an age where all is young and spry and tasteless.
          After this fine drink of water, Prim began talking of cooking something—perhaps some potatoes in lard. But Finewort would not hear of a fire. He suggested that if they needed something more 'solid' than streamwater, he might offer them an ent-draught or two from a friend nearby. Tomilo thought that with a bit of bread, that might tide them over until dinner. 'Aye, it'll tide you over, little one, and no need of wheat to leaven it!' added Finewort (mistaking somewhat the baking process). 'You'll live on ent-draughts for the next several days—since their are no taverns on this road, nor storehouses neither. But you won't likely miss them, believe it or no. We'll have that hair on your heads and toes curling even more by week's end, or my worts aren't the finest around—which they are!'

The ent turned a bit to the left, toward the mountains, and crashed through a low brake of nettles as if it were softest grass. Beyond the brake was a shelf of stone, about man-high, jagged and broken at the top. A gap in the jumbled stones served as sort of doorway, for beyond was an ent dwelling—though no one but an ent would have known it. The other three sides of this dwelling were walls of trees, grown so close and intermingled that a squirrel must enter sideways. The roof was likewise almost complete, the branches so thick that the rain might hardly get through, unless the trees—or the ent—willed it.
          The hobbits looked about them in the dim light, wondering which of these trees was the ent. Tomilo looked for eyes in the trunks, but could not guess which one might begin speaking at any moment. Finally Finewort began his creaking routine, which made enough noise for a whole bag of door-clackers, and a small willow on the northeast corner of the 'room' awoke and creaked back. Tomilo and Prim watched as his roots seemed to shrink into toes, and to give up the earth (which in fact they did not—it was only an illusion—the toes never dug more than a few inches into the soil). Then they listened in amaze as the two ents began speaking to eachother in their own tongue. It was a speech in tones so low they were at times sub-audible; the gap in sound being signified only by vibration. Nevertheless, the sound was highly musical—like a melody played on some great bass horn. The ents were not so much speaking to one another as singing.
          The willow strode slowly over to them, all drooping and swaying. He looked very melancholy, as do all willows, tree or ent. But he was not, especially. Presently, in fact, he was feeling quite amiable and alert, and he looked intently at the hobbits. If they had known what to look for, they could have seen that he was smiling. But, as it was, his expression meant nothing to them. If anything, he seemed even sadder to them now, up close, than he had a moment ago. The lines on his face increased three-fold, and Prim was afraid he was about to sneeze on them.
          'Don't be alarmed, my little bunnies,' he said to them in the common tongue. 'I'm friendly enough. I don't pinch.'
          His speech was so soothing and merry, it quite surprised the hobbits. He spoke to them just as would a favorite old granddad, one who always has toys and pennies to give away, and who therefore can say nothing wrong. Tomilo even forgot to take offense at being addressed as a 'bunny'.
          'My name is Siva-Sinty,' the ent continued. 'I hear that your thirst was not slaked by the, hmmm, the Tillow-illa-silla-o-vannivo. In short, by the stream itself. Perhaps I have something here that will stretch your belt a bit, eh? Something a tad heartier?'
          'Thank you, sir,' answered Prim, with a nod in lieu of a bow. 'We aren't bunnies, you know, but we would love to sample your brew, if you are willing. We have heard wonderful things about the draughts of the ents!'
          'Not bunnies? No, of course not, dear. Just a term of endearment, forgive me. A bad jest, made so soon after meeting. I suppose I wouldn't like being called a rosebush on first acquaintance, no matter how good-naturedly. Although there's nothing wrong with a rosebush, nor a bunny neither; but we're all proud to be what we are. That's true. Very true.' The ent nodded gently and swayed a bit in some imaginary breeze. After a long pause, he turned and sauntered over to the north end of the wall of rocks, where the hobbits could now see a number of vessels, all in green and brown. This was the ent's kitchen, and he banged and clattered like a housewife at the stove. Stone lids were removed, and liquids poured from one vessel to another. He seemed to look long for cups small enough to serve hobbits, but finally emerged with two earthenware bowls, each in diameter about the size of a large plate. They were deep as well, and probably held a full quart of liquid.
          'Here you are, my friends! These bowls are hardly bigger than an acorn-cap, but if you need a refill, just say so. The next bigger size I have, I think you could bathe in, both together. I don't believe you could lift it, you know,' he added with a laugh.
          As the hobbits drank their fill, they continued their conversation with this new ent. Prim asked, 'What does Siva-Sinty mean? It is not like Finewort, or Treebeard, which of course we can figure out. Is it a real entish name?
          'Yes, yes it is, shortened though it may be—it is not translated into elvish or other tongue. We willows have our own sorts of names, names that don't translate well, we don't think. Finewort, why that's a proper name in any language. But Siva-Sinty sounds willowish like nothing else would. All the equivalents in the common tongue and so forth just don't sound willowish. That's the long and short of it, I should say.'
          'But what does it mean, Siva-Sinty?,' repeated Prim. 'It does sound willowish. But I can't say what is willowish about it, precisely.'
          'Siva-Sinty means, more or less, "wind-in-the-leaves." But not just any leaves—willow leaves, you see. No other tree sounds like a willow. My full entish name takes all that into account. An entish name is not just a suggestion of a thing, but a full story of it. Not only that, but the words themselves mirror the sound, when spoken by a willow. That is what all the esses are for, don't you know. Hmmm, yesss, esses. Yessss. Like the wind itself. You have a word for it in the common tongue—susurration.* The sound of esses, with esses. Most willowish words are like that.'

*The word in the manuscript was not 'susurration' of course; but frightfully close. I hardly had to search for an English equivalent. LT.

Tomilo found all this quite fascinating, and yet his mind would jump ahead to other things. 'Are you a friend of Treebeard, Mr. Siva-Sinty? And is his home nearby?'
          'Treebeard? A friend of Treebeard?' answered the willow. 'What ent is not a friend of Treebeard? And what part of the forest is not the home of Treebeard? But to answer your question more precisely—which is what you are meaning—I would say Treebeard is none too far away, if you be with an ent, and none too near, if you be not with an ent. Finewort will find him soon enough for you, I warrant. I would help you find him, but that I have business to attend to. Full day it is, today, full day. Not enough sunshine to do all the things a willow has to do in a day like today, ho, ho, hmmmm.'
          Prim thought to herself, 'Like as not, slow as he moves. It likely takes half the day just to get out of bed, or to put on the tea.' And her impatience waxed rather than waned, as she watched the ent, since the ent draught was even then going to her head, making all her senses race. She longed to be put down for a bit, so that she could walk around the whiles; or even, as she felt, race about among the boles of the trees—maybe even climb a tree.
          Tomilo was feeling likewise restless, and he squirmed on the shoulder of Finewort. That ent finally interrupted Siva-Sinty (who was still a going on about the packed-to-bursting schedule of a willow-ent) to the effect that they much appreciatied the draughts, but that they must be moving along on their own important business. 'And I think I'll let these two halflings down to jog along behind for a while, to work off some of this squirming. You twain are like a pair of late-spring caterpillars, nigh onto butterflies. Here you go, fly off into the woods! But take a care not to run out of earshot. There are still things in the forest as snaps up butterflies when chance offers.'
          Finewort stayed for a few last private words to Siva-Sinty, as the hobbits chased eachother through the undergrowth like children at play. Prim felt like she might really be able to fly, and she flapped her arms in pure joy, just to be sure. Tomilo laughed, and gave her a passing pinch, saying, 'The old willow may not pinch, but that can't be said of us all, my dear!'
          Finewort followed their screams and rustlings, and soon caught up. 'Hoy, there, you two young lovers! Mind the thorn! Even your tough little feet won't like it! Look here. Keep your games to the path, and I won't have to be pulling you from the poison vine.'
          Drabdrab and Nobbles had now joined the fun, and were frisking with the hobbits through the undergrowth. Drabbie kicked up his heels and the pots and pans clanked and banged. Nobbles snorted and butted Tomilo like a goat, knocking him into the grass. The hobbit pulled up a piece of turf and threw it at the pony, and the grass clung to his brown shaggy mane. He tried to shake it off, but could not. Drabdrab had chased Prim behind a tree, but she was too fast for him: as he looked around one side of the tree for her, she came around from the backside and gave his flank a swat. He kicked up again and gave a great whinney.
          At last the merriment subsided, and the odd quintet resumed their journey. The hobbits remained on the ground with the ponies for the time, having worn out their own seats on the ent's hard branches.
          For the remaining two hours of the day, they all marched along in high spirits, no longer finding the forest so close. Their eyes had become used to the gloaming, and they saw many strange sights, far too many to tell. When darkness fell, they simply stopped and slept in the soft grass by the path, the ent overwatching them through the night. They could not have been safer in the King's tower.

The next morning the hobbits arose to the sound of the ponies chopping the grass nearby. The deep forest birds had been making a racket for almost an hour already, rising as they do even before the sun to greet the dawn. But the hobbits had not let that rouse them. Finewort was still asleep yet. Or at least his eyes were yet closed. Prim sauntered down to a tiny rindle, where she filled a pan of water and washed herself. Then she took back a pan for Tomilo, to drink and bathe his face. Each of them ate a crust of bread, more from habit than from need. A few dewberries near at hand rounded out the makeshift breakfast.
          At last the hobbits looked up at Finewort again, still with his eyes closed as the sun rose higher and higher. Tomilo coughed loud and then louder, to no avail. Finally he threw an acorn, bouncing it from the ent's big head. Finewort wrinkled his nose, and muttered something about squirrels, but still did not awaken. Two more acorns, aimed right for the nose, stirred him at last, and he shivered and boomed and sneezed and waved his arms about, as if shooing flies.
          'Oh,' he said, seeming to remember the situation. 'It's you two. I thought I had been caught in a battle of the squirrels. I was going to make the young furry imps pay for their mischief this time. Ha, Hmmm. But I have other furry imps to deal with, I see. All ready to go are you? All washed and combed? All watered and dressed? Let us be off, then.'
          This time the hobbits rode with the ent again, the ponies trotting along beside. Finewort wished to make better time. It was now his turn to be impatient, as he wanted to see Treebeard before the end of the day. The travellers stopped only for water and for another of Siva-Sinty's ent draughts—a flask of which they had packed for the nonce. By late afternoon they had arrived at a sort of hog's back deep in the midst of Fangorn Forest, only a mile or two short of the source of the River Limlight. How many ent strides they had come that day is beyond guess, but even with the ent draught the hobbits were now weary and backsore. Their necks were stiff and their legs were in desperate need of a good shaking. The ponies, too, were worn out, what with trying to keep up with the long-legged ent.
          So all were glad when Finewort finally stopped and informed them that they had come at last to the heart of the forest: the first dwelling of Fangorn—the capital city of entdom on earth, as it were. No citadel was there, nor palace nor gated manor. No banners afloat, nor great crennelated wall, nor moat nor tower. But as the hobbits crested the last ridge of the hog's back and looked down into the vale beyond, their eyes opened wide in amazement. The clouds had rolled down the mountains and were now nearly at eye level. They topped the vale below like a white lid. But above this lid rose many and many spires of green, dwindling as they rose, until they peaked so near the sun it was of little or no concern. Even high on the hog's back, the hobbits necks were tilted back, straining to see the tops of these strange trees. For they were giants beyond description, the largest rising fifty fathoms and more above the forest floor. As the troop descended into the vale under the clouds, they could see that the boles of these trees were thirty and thirty-five feet in diameter; their roots alone making small hills of themselves. Of some sort of ancient pine or fir they were, unknown to the world of men; but the ents called them ronde-limbe, for short (so said Finewort)—since their limbs were perfectly round and straight to their very ends. Few of these limbs indeed there were, but each was mighty, upholding great masses of needles and cones, like to a city of dark green in the sky. Mightier by far were these ancient trees than the greatest mallorns of Lothlorien, though they were perhaps less lovely of bark and foliage. The ladders would have been near endless that climbed into these branches; and none were there, neither of elf or other creature. The only beasts that roosted so high were the great birds of the forest; and the eagles especially loved to perch there, where all the goings on for leagues about could be espied by the keen of eye and sharp of talon.
          Finewort led the hobbits down into the midst of the forest dale, beneath the great trees. The woodland floor was carpeted with years of pine needles, some green, most long brown. Prim found a cone as big as a hobbit's head, and she held it up to Tomilo.
          'I hope none of these fall on us, by accident or purpose,' she said to him. 'Think of the squirrels that must live on these. They must be as big as Nobbles!'
          'No, no,' answered Finewort. 'The squirrels in these trees are naught bigger than other squirrels, though they may indeed require less work to store away nuts for the winter. Ho, ho, hmmmmm. One of these cones, buried in a secret place, will feed a family of squirrels for many weeks—provided that it does not take root in the meantime!'
          Soon the little company came to the edge of a pool, wide and shallow, its surface likewise covered with pine needles. It smelled exceedingly fragrant, like a great vat of fermented pine-beer. On the far side of this pool, with its roots rising almost out of the water, stood the eldest and largest ronde-limbe in Fangorn. Tomilo thought it almost competed with one of the towers of Orthanc, so mighty and awe-inspiring it was. It rose up to unguessed heights, lost in the mists above. It seemed to hold up the heavens on its shoulders. Its roots were like a high wall fencing off the far side of the pool. This wall was two fathoms high itself, and the hobbits could nowise see what was beyond.
          The air in this part of the forest was much less soupy. There seemed to be more of it, for one thing: the ceiling of the wood had risen greatly, and the hobbits felt like they could breathe again. Smaller leafy trees could not grow here, beneath the sun-blocking limbs of the great pines; and even the bushes and creepers seemed to find it difficult to exist. Only a few types of shrubs and mosses appeared to like to live in the shadow of the great trees, and the entire line of vegetable and animal life was affected by their presence. Deer did not like it here, since the grazing was not to their taste. And so the wolf did not come, nor the panther. The needles choked the smaller lakes and the slower moving streams, so that the bear did not fish here, nor the fox. The rabbit followed the deer, and the hawk followed the rabbit; so that were it not for the eagles far above—who lodged but did not hunt here—this part of Fangorn would be almost lifeless.
          Lifeless, that is, but for the ents. The ents loved the great vaulted ceilings of the ronde-limbe. For them it was a natural cathedral, a great echoing chamber of half-lights. An ent need never duck beneath a ronde-limbe.

Finewort picked up the hobbits again and proceeded around the east side of the pool. 'My friends,' he said, 'I have not told you about the ents of the ronde-limbe. I know you are not frightened by ents, but these are not just any ents. I wanted to prepare you a bit. So imagine an ent that is of the same type as these great trees. An ent not like me or Siva-Sinty. As we are to you, the ents of the ronde-limbe are to us. Very giants. But do not be fearful. They are good-natured, as are all ents. And they are great friends of Fangorn, that is Treebeard. They are his door-wardens, you might say. You will see many types of ents in this dale, but you will see none larger than the ents of the ronde-limbe—for there are no larger beings on two legs in Middle Earth! And you will meet none older or wiser than Treebeard, for he is the master of this forest, and all who abide here. The ents of the ronde-limbe pay him great homage, and always have, since as far back as any can remember. Treebeard came here when these trees you see were still in the cone; aye, when their grandsires were still in the cone. Every generation of tree and ent has been overwatched by Treebeard. And they do not forget his tending.'
          As he finished, Finewort climbed through a gap in the root wall and entered the enclosure beyond. The ponies could not traverse the gap, and remained behind by the pool. The hobbits now found themselves in a nearly round clearing, hemmed on all sides by the roots of the huge trees. The roots lapped over one another, and curved about in rolling shapes, so that the walls of the 'room' were like great still waves of the sea, caught in mid-roil. Above them the canopy was so high and thick it was like a second sky—a great green heaven had replaced the more familiar blue. Tomilo and Prim had come into a starless and sunless and moonless land similar to, but quite unlike, their own. The clearing was almost dark, save for the occasional lucky beam of yellow light that filtered down to the ground, emblazoning a patch of needle in the green gloom.
          Through this gloom, the hobbits watched two figures approach. As they came closer, it could be seen that they were indeed ents of the ronde-limbe: tall and straight, eight fathoms high at the least, and prodigious of girth. Tomilo remembered Sam's Oliphaunt, from the old stories, and thought to himself that here was a giant that even the most famousest hobbits of the past had not seen or known of. For the first time, he began to wonder if he was in the middle of a story like theirs: a story worth telling. Certainly this part was worth telling! Think what Isambard would say to such a thing, or the Thain. Tomilo told himself that he must take a pinecone to the Thain for his museum.
          The ground shook as the two ents stopped in front of them. Even Finewort looked small next to them. He was not waist-high to these fantastic cousins. The hobbits themselves—well, they felt insignificant—like marsh midges, chirruping to no avail. Finewort spoke to the ents, as he had to Siva-Sinty; but the ents of the ronde-limbe seemed to answer only in a deep hum, like distant thunder. The hobbits felt the speech more in their bellies than heard it with their ears. The ents said nothing to them, and they wondered if they were even seen. Perhaps the ents of the ronde-limbe thought they were stoats or other natural parasites. Perhaps an ent of the ronde-limbe would as soon address a pigeon or a sparrow. But no, said Finewort at last, as he followed the bigger ents into the clearing—these ents did not speak the common tonque. They had been told of the errand of the hobbits, and were obliging them with no further ado. Treebeard was presently at home, on the other side of the clearing. The meeting was even now at hand!

Near the northwest edge of the clearing, in the only bright patch of sun of any size, was a sort of thicket—a mass of thorn and briar surrounding a nearly circular enclosure. At first the hobbits could not tell what was inside; but as they drew nearer, they could see that it was a great well of stone. Whether it was a natural well or whether it had been dug and fashioned by the ents was not so clear. But an ent-path led up to the well on the east side, where there was also a break in the thorn. The two ents of the ronde-limbe had joined a third ent, an old oak-ent somewhat like Oakvain, thought Tomilo, but slightly smaller and more gnarled. This old ent was throwing something into the well, and chanting some strange words in a low tone. Tomilo thought he was throwing little stones into the well. Prim later said she believed them to be seeds. Whatever the truth of the matter, Treebeard (for Treebeard it was) finished his task and turned to the hobbits.
          Tomilo remembered the description of Treebeard in The Red Book, but it did little to prepare him for what he now saw. He had expected to see an ent differing from Oakvain to the degree that one hobbit differs from another. But the way of it was far otherwise. Treebeard's eyes were of a different world altogether—like the eyes of a great leviathan washed up on the shore, but alive and sparkling like the eyes of a newborn calf. History itself was in those eyes, felt Tomilo; and not just ancient history—the stories of ages long long past—but also the stories of now, the stories presently being told. Tomilo felt that maybe this was the original story-teller, this old ent before him. Treebeard's eyes told all the stories, and all the other living creatures simply played the part told to them.
          But of course that is an awful lot to read from just eyes, and Tomilo shook his head, as if to break the spell. He knew that only the eyes of Vorun could tell all the stories: this was only an old ent with a bewitching gaze. He remembered himself at last and strode forward a step. Then he bowed very low to the ground, touching the brim of his hat on the grass.
          'I am Tomillimir Fairbairn, of Farbanks, the Shire,' he began, blinking and looking away from Treebeard's eyes so that he could think. 'And this is my wife, Primrose.' Prim also stepped forward and bowed low (hobbits never curtsied).
          'Nice to meet you!' answered Treebeard in a surprisingly pleasant and resonant voice. Each word was spoken slowly, but clearly and with more animation than one might have expected from one so hoary with age. 'I am Fangorn—Treebeard in your tongue. I welcome you to the forest, and to the Glennerung-enna Glade. Which is to say, the central glade of the well, you know. You look well, my young friends. Hmmm. I hope Finewort and Siva-Sinty have been taking good care of you?'
          'Oh, yes, Master Treebeard!' answered Prim. 'We have very much enjoyed your forest. It was a bit close at first, you know, but we got used to that. And now, what with the great trees, and the ents of the ronde-limbe . . . it is overwhelming, almost, if you see what I mean, Master.' She faltered and blushed, looking down at her feet. Tomilo took her hand and they stood there together, feeling altogether insignificant.
          Treebeard smiled and chuckled. 'Yes, my dear, I'm sure it is. I'm sure it is. Hmmmm. Romba, domba, dombbb. Overwhelming. It would be, wouldn't it? Well, don't be in any tremble. You have come here with a message, I am told, and now all you have to do is tell me. I am very much looking forward to hearing it, you can be sure. And I suspect that I will be more overwhelmed than you in very short order. Hmmmm. Yes, I will, no doubt.'
          Tomilo looked strangely at the old ent. Clearly he had not been mistaken when he thought that Finewort knew something of his errand. He and Prim seemed to be expected by all and everyone.
          'Well, Sir, it's like this,' said Tomilo, stammering. 'We have a wood on the northern reaches of our lands that we call the Bindbole Wood. It is nothing compared to your forest, of course. Just a wood of leafy trees and heavy underbrush, seldom explored. But we had had some stories, you know, from way back—just wives' tales, folks said. Stories of ents, some were.' Tomilo paused and looked at his feet. 'Then I heard another story when I was in the Old Forest, where Tom Bombadil lives. And I got to thinking maybe the stories weren't just stories, you know. I thought maybe they were true. Then I found a map. In the Great Smials—but you don't need to know about that. So, with Prim here, I. . . I mean we. . . I mean. . . you tell him Prim. After all, you are the wife here.'
          Prim stood up very straight. Then she looked the old ent directly in the eyes and smiled. 'We have found the entwives, Master Treebeard!'

Like a stone thrown into a pond, Prim's words spread out through the glade in concentric circles, the leaves of every ent and tree rippling as the news passed. An eagle flying over might have seen the circle widen and grow, spreading out across the entire forest like a wind. The rustling leaves and humming branches started with a low hum in the glade, but then grew and grew as the circle engulfed the surrounding woods. Both the hum and the wind continued to crescendo, until the hobbits were caught in a rush of leaves and pine needles and sound. Finewort picked up the two and hugged them close to his body as the wind whipped about them and the entire forest roared. From beneath, the earth rumbled. The mountains themselves seemed to dance and shift. The well shook and the briar shivered. A great spray of water and foam erupted from the well, and the stones or seeds were blown out upon high—stones of quartz or seeds of glass—the hobbits could not tell.* The wall of roots encircling the glade rippled like eels, or like great beds of seagrass tossed by the waves. For a moment, Prim wondered if the world were ending. But she did not blanche or quail: the noise and commotion, though violent, was an outcome of joy, she felt, not anger. The forest was leaping in joy.

After many minutes, the wind began to subside, and the noise lowered to a distant hmmmmm. The two ents of the ronde-limbe continued to wave their great arms about slowly in the air high above, and to boom in sub-audible tones, vibrating the earth beneath. But Treebeard had become calm again, and he continued at last his conversation with the hobbits.
          'You must lead us to this Bindbole Wood, hobbitwife Prim,' he said. 'Long have we prepared for this journey.'
          'Master Treebeard,' interrupted Tomilo, 'may I ask, were you expecting us? Did you know our message already? It seems we were anticipated.'
          'Ah, yes, you were expected. We have expected you everyday for centuries. We have always known that news of the entwives would come, and it was foretold that a halfing would bring it—though what this news would be, we did not know. When Merry and Pippin came to me a while ago, I thought the time was at hand. That is why I told them the song of the ents and entwives, to draw their tale from them if I could. But they knew nothing of the entwives, and I saw that I was mistaken. So we continued to wait. Now your approach was known from afar, in the usual ways. And we felt that we could not be mistaken twice. Halflings do not come here to no purpose, and those with a message to me could hardly have any other. What else should a halfling tell an ent, and ride so far to do so? Unlike Merry and Pippin, you did not arrive by chance, or by the plan of others. So you see, it was not such a difficult prophecy.'
          'Did you also know of Oakvain, then?'
          'Oakvain? No. I know an Oakvain, or did, long ago, though I was not aware he still walked the woods of Middle Earth. But I do not know the part he played in this. Has he sent you?'
          'No, Sir, not exactly. He told me of the entwives. But he sent no message to you.'
          ' Hmmmm. I can see there is more to this than you are telling. Oakvain always was of a strange bark. Root and branch! Oakvain! After all these years.'
          'I know this is a queer question, especially now, but is Oakvain older than you, Master Treebeard? He said he was.'
          'Older? Hmmmm . Oakvain is old. I am old. Does it matter who began to be old first? There are other ways to judge wood than height or girth. A pretty seed may sprout an ugly tree, and a fancy waistcoat may cover a black heart. You ask the wrong question, my young questioner. Age brings wisdom only to the wise.'
          Tomilo screwed up his brow and remained silent. He studied his own waistcoat, until Prim reached over and rebuttoned the top button for him and smiled. 'Not very fancy,' she said.

*Nor did they find out later. The stones or seeds did not fall back to earth, but were borne by the wind to places unknown to man and hobbit.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 11
From Wood to Wood

Tomilo and Prim stayed with Treebeard and the ents for several days, talking of the journey to the Bindbole Wood, and of the entwives that awaited them there. Tomilo did not tell Treebeard of the words of Tom Bombadil, thinking it best to allow the ents their full measure of joy. But the truth is that Tomilo was of the same opinion as Bombadil, that being that the entwives did not look to be 'awaiting' anyone. The great clearing of the entwives had appeared to be a completely self-contained world, requiring nothing for its completion or fruition.
          Tomilo and Prim had discussed the words of Bombadil many times. She agreed that ents and entwives who had spent ages apart could likely continue to do so. But privately she held to a different opinion: A young woman who had not beheld a man for ever so long could certainly arrive at a state of contentment—or one might say a state of little unrest. This state was not so very different from the state of girls, many of whom, before a certain age, seemed to have little or no use for men or boys at all. A child, male or female, is a little universe of its own; and, beyond the support of its parents, is in need of nothing. A child, that is, can build its own world in imagination and play. A grown woman, however, is in need of something more; and a state of little unrest is not to be confused with a state of satisfaction. So where Tomilo harboured doubts, Prim harboured hopes. He feared that this grand matchmaking might come to nothing in the end; she foresaw only success.

However that may be, it had been foreseen by both of them that the ents, no matter how excited by the news, would need time to digest it and to plan the long journey to the Shire. While this great entmoot was being planned and met, the hobbits would continue on to Lothlorien, arriving back in Fangorn in time to lead the ent party westwards.
          And so, at the end of the week, the hobbits set out once more, this time due north. Treebeard supplied them with a guide—an ent of course, though not Finewort: he was needed at the moot. This ent led them without incident to the edge of the forest and bid them a hasty farewell (by ent standards). The hobbits need only hold the mountains at a constant distance to their left, he said, and in three or four days they would come to the Golden Wood. Finally, he gave them a branch to hold aloft as they approached that Wood, as a sign that they were under the protection of Treebeard. They should carry it high as soon as the Wood were in sight, even at a great distance—since the elves of that wood had very keen eyes, and might shoot an arrow into a cap at quarter of a mile or more. This branch was of a peculiar shape, being like a great cloverleaf, with three clusters. Nestled in each cluster was ball of other leaves and berries, a sort of fungus or blight. The hobbits recognized it as 'sungloss,'* although this particular specimen lacked the yellowish flowers they were accustomed to in the Shire, having only the whitish waxy berries. Upon asking, they were told that the flowers had been picked away a-purpose, although they were not told what that purpose was. It seemed that a 'sunless sungloss' in a tripartite branch was an ancient signal of peace between the two woods; but the hobbits learned nothing else of its history. Perhaps the history was so ancient the ents themselves had forgotten its source. Or perhaps, like so much history, the source was simply the invention of a creative individual, whose reasons—if they even be called reasons—died with him.

*Mistletoe

The hobbits travelled leisurely, knowing the pace of the ents behind them, and feeling in no hurry to return and begin the long ride back to the Shire. They looked forward to a great rest in Lothlorien, greater even than their rest in Fangorn. Ents may be polite and accomodating, and even entertaining, as long as one arrives with good news. But no one would ever accuse them of being homely. A week spent without food or a pipe (the ents would not allow a flame, even to light a bit of pipeweed) or a low roof or a warm hearth was hardly a week to appeal to a hobbit, no matter the scenery or the excitement. Both Tomilo and Prim longed for warm bread and hot soup and a steaming cup of tea, served beside a roaring fire. They knew they were unlikely to encounter a low ceiling in Lothlorien, but the expected satisfaction of their other appetites more than made up for this. And for Tomilo, above all these baser appetites was the desire to be once again in the company of elves. He knew he could not explain this to Prim, and so he did not try. It would be like explaining the color purple to one who had never seen a violet. She would understand soon enough.
          On the fourth day out from Fangorn, Tomilo espied a river in the distance, toward the mountains to their left. This was the Nimrodel, splashing noisily down through the foothills. A few hours later the Golden Wood itself came into view directly in front of them, a deep green stripe on the bright horizon. Above the wood a few wispy clouds floated, and on the plain in the foreground the tall grasses waved in the light wind. There were no horses of the Rohirrim in the fields this far north; only wild game—deer and grouse and covies of small birds. Hare and fox and goose. And insects of every shape and variety, none of which outnumbered, to the hobbits ears at least, the locust. The summer was now waxing, and the yellowing grass sheltered the green drone of a million million singing and creaking insects, munching and hopping. They hopped on pony and hobbit, on hat and cloak; they munched Prim's straw hat and scrunched in Drabdrab's mane. But mostly they crunched under foot and hoof.
          At last the grasslands dwindled into scrub and rock, and the locusts were left screaming in the distance. This day the wispy clouds over the forest became full and round in the late afternoon, and then they joined even heavier cousins streaming over the Misty Mountains. The sky ahead became a deep blue. An hour later it became a darker purple streaked with grey. The wind picked up, and the hobbits began to meet outlying trees, tossing nervously in the evening. Just then Prim remembered the branch, and she retrieved it from Hobbles' saddle. She held it up high, though she doubted that anyone in the wood could see it in the failing light. The main wall of trees was still a furlong or more ahead, and the setting sun was blotted out by the now-complete cloud cover. Dusk had come early, pushed by the approaching storm. The hobbits picked up their pace, mounting the ponies and urging them on. They reached the line of the wood just as the first heavy drops began to spot their cloaks—pulling on their hoods, they looked for the densest cover of trees and hurried on.
          At last Tomilo halted Drabdrab and Prim pulled Hobbles up, rubbing and stamping next to him.
          'We shall have to stay here, I think,' he cried over the noise of the downpour. 'This spot is as protected as any, and travelling through the more open spots will only get us drenched. If it lets up, perhaps we can travel on a bit further later in the evening.'
          The hobbits dismounted and began trying to fashion a temporary camp. Tomilo set up a canvas awning, to huddle under, and Prim collected supper from the saddlebags. Surrounded by the dark forest and the sweet smell of wet leaves, the newlyweds sat thigh to thigh and ate. Outside the awning, the ponies chopped the grass and blew the rain from their noses. Drabdrab stuck his head under the cover for a moment, but sniffing only cheese and tea, he went back to his weeds. After supper, Tomilo and Prim pulled a blanket round them and listened to the rain. The other sounds of the forest were blocked out, and the twain became drowsy, safe from the hoots and creaks of a dry dark wood. It was not late, but neither could keep their eyes open. Soon they were fast asleep.

They were awoken by the light tinkling of a bell. The rain had stopped and the forest was quiet save for the drip-drop from the sweating trees. It was utterly dark, being now in the middle of the night, and the wind was gone. Tomilo and Prim could see nothing, but they felt that they were no longer alone. Drabdrab snuffled nearby, and that was somewhat reassuring, for he sounded content. The two hobbits stared out into the woods, straining their eyes for any sign of light or movement. For several minutes they saw nothing. Then, the tinkling of the bell again. And then, finally, the neighing of a horse. Not Drabdrab, for he was still at hand. He answered the horse with another snuffle, and could be heard shifting in the grass to their left. At that, Tomilo called out, 'Hoi, there! We are friends. We come from Fangorn.' Then, to Prim, he whispered, 'Hold up the branch, dear. Maybe the elves can see in the dark, among their other talents.' Prim did so, and immediately a lantern popped into view right in front of them. It was silver, and very fairly wrought. It cast its dim light in a wavering circle, in which the hobbits could see the wagging figures of at least three elves. They were dressed in dark colours from head to foot, and only their faces were illuminated. In such way they had stood right before the hobbits without being noticed.
          'You are friends of Fangorn, then?' said the elf in the middle, using the common tongue. 'I did not know that Fangorn had such friends. What type of creature are you, with feet of fur and yet tongues that speak?'
          'We are hobbits, Master Elf. I am Tomilo Fairbairn, of the Shire, and this is my wife Primrose. We have come to pay a call upon Phloriel, who invited us—I should say me—to do so last autumn. She and I were both guests at Rhosgobel, for the council. I hope we have caused you no inconvenience by arriving unannounced?'
          'Nay, we require no notice. We do not often have visitors, especially such as you. But you are welcome, if your story be true. Will you travel on with us now, or will you continue your nap? It is a fine hour for a ride under the moon.'
          'Is there a moon indeed?' answered Tomilo. 'I would never have known it. I think we might have trouble travelling in such darkness. We would be slapped by every passing branch.'
          'Ah, then you are creatures of the day, and are nightblind? That would explain it. We had thought you were dumb, speaking not when we stood before you. We had never seen a speechless animal travelling with laden ponies.'
          'We did not see you until you uncovered the lantern,' explained Prim.
          'We have lanterns to spare, although we need them not to ride.' The elf paused and looked closely at the hobbits. 'It will destroy the beauty of the night somewhat, but we can travel illuminated if you prefer. It will be easier to find our city if you ride with us now. Otherwise you will have to tell your story again to another party of elves in the morning, or perhaps have your sleep interrupted again before dawn.'
          'We will ride with you. We have been asleep since just after dark, and are fairly well rested. Is it late at night?'
          'It is two hours before dawn, my friends. You will see the sunrise in the Golden Wood in the morning. Now, let me introduce myself. I am Leucallin, "the winding song". This is Aewellin, my brother. His name means "birdsong". And this is our cousin Camborn, which signifies "tree-hand".'
          Prim asked, in great interest at these names, 'Does Camborn have that name because his hands are large like trees, or because he is a nimble climber?'
          'Neither,' answered Camborn himself, smiling. 'I am called Camborn because my parents found the name pleasing—only that, I am afraid. Though I do have a fair hand at the raising of trees, and other plants as well. Do hobbits earn their names, Primrose? Did you do something with sand to achieve your name, Master Tomilo? Or is it because your hair was sandy coloured as a babe?'
          'Again, neither,' answered Tomilo. 'My full name is Tomillimir. I suppose my parents thought I was a jewel of the sands, though I know it must seem odd to you.'
          'Ah, we know what parents are,' said Leucallin. 'We are only surprised to find a hobbit with an elvish name. Do hobbits live on the shores of Middle Earth, then?'
          'No, no. We just aren't as particular about our definitions. We throw sandy soil out of our holes, and put our babes within them, calling them jewels no matter what they look like, I guess. It is all very foolish, I daresay.'
          'Speak no more of it, Tomillimir Fairbairn. We are honored to find our words in use anywhere, whether it be with the ents of Fangorn or the hobbits of the Shire. For now, let us be on our way. Come, here is a drink of water to wash the sleep from your mouth. We will have breakfast with the sun!'

Morning was glorious in that wood, for it was nearly mid-summer indeed, and the Mallorns were in full bloom. Their great silvery green leaves reflected light in every direction. The heavy dew rose from the warm sodden ground in shining mists, and several times the party were wholly covered by ground fog. The hobbits could see the moon still riding low in the sky, though day had dawned: it was as if she was loth to leave the skies over Lorien, and lingered there like a sad lover.
          The birds were exceeding noisy, calling to one another, 'admire me, admire me!' Deer paused in their feeding to look up at the passing hobbits, returning unconcerned to their moist greens. Squirrels clucked at unseen enemies still crouching in the ferns, or returning silently to their holes and caves. A nightjar passed, the last until evening, and nestled into its nook drowsily. It blinked slowly and ruffled, backing into bed.
          This far from the center of the forest there were still a few narrow pines and a white-barked birch or two, eyeing the hobbits with its strange markings. But the mallorns predominated. Here, several leagues yet from the Nimrodel, they were not of great size. The greatest were not more than 15 or 18 fathoms—large for any other forest, but after the ronde-limbes of Fangorn, not so very tall. What they lacked in size, however, they made up for in beauty. Whereas the ronde-limbe only blocked the light, or perhaps filtered it, these mallorns enhanced it. The already rosy morning light was softened further with a blue-green sheen, and the water-vapour also dispersed the beams, turning the air into something almost tangible. The saturated colour of everything around them was a delight in itself, no matter what it was of itself. An ordinary rock, that one would never have noticed in another place, here became a translucent shimmering creature, almost seeming to breathe. One expected it to rise up and swim away, like some cerulean turtle in a deep pool. In fact the whole forest seemed to swim in a current of colour and mist, the fronds swaying in the morning breeze like seaweed in the tide.
          Finally the party stopped for breakfast. Fires were lit in a twinkling—the hobbits could scarely say how—and a lovely cloth spread upon the ground. Tomilo and Prim were served with silver cups, and plates etched with subtle figures. Airy cakes, fresh berries, thick cream, and a hot drink steeped from some subtle herb unknown in the Shire. It seemed to evaporate immediately from off the tongue, rising through the nose and all the head like the fogs around them. Yes, it was like drinking mist, thought Prim. Like drinking a sweet steam distilled from mint and honeysuckle.
          Prim looked at the three elves, also drinking and eating, and talking in their own tongue. Their robes, that had seemed black at night, were actually of deep blue and green. They shimmered in the morning light, like thickest taffeta. All three had very long hair, without wave or curl, and black as ink. It contrasted strangely with their alabaster skin, unredded by the sun but for a patch of light vermillion on each cheek. Their ears were likewise light vermillion, when these could be seen through the hair, and their lips were a madder lake, crimson as fresh blood. A band of coloured cloth about the temples held the hair of each elf from his face. The eyes of all three elves were grey, without hint of blue or green. Their shirts were white and high collared, goffered about the chest and with quilling above. They wore no jewelry, although their buckles and studs were marvellously wrought. Each wore a knife in a leathern scabbard, about a cubit in length. Otherwise they were armed only with bows: a quiver of arrows hung on the decorative breastplate of each horse. The horses were equipped with quilted numnahs, but no saddles, stirrups, or bridles.
          At that moment the elves paused in their eating and conversation. 'That is a fine elf pony you have, Master Hobbit!' called Leucallin. 'He is not like the other. And his saddle is not of hobbit-make, or I am a hobbit, too.'
          'No, Leucallin, you are right. Drabdrab is not a hobbit pony and that is no hobbit saddle. He comes from the Old Forest, from the stable of Tom Bombadil. That saddle is very old, I am told.'
          'Then you are a friend of Iarwain Ben-adar as well as Fangorn? Have a care, brothers! Next we will learn that these hobbits are the friends of Elbereth herself, and that they carry her tokens in their burlap bags.' Leucallin paused. 'If you know the writing on that saddle, then maybe you know what we have said for the past half-hour?'
          'No, my good elves, I do not. I picked out a word here and there, perhaps, but I cannot construe spoken Sindarin anymore than I can constue old entish, or the pipings of the yellowhammer. Have no fear. But I suppose you were not telling secrets, anyway?'
          Leucallin looked wryly at Tomilo. 'If we were, we will tell no more. We have been proven poor judges, but we are quick learners nonetheless. Come, we will speak more on the path.'
          As they proceeded toward Caras Galadon, Tomilo told the elves somewhat of his adventures, Prim adding a line or two here and there, or nudging her husband when he seemed to be telling too much.
           'Have no fear, Primrose,' interrupted Camborn, finally. 'We shall ask you nothing you do not wish to tell. However, you must know that it is already common knowledge that the entwives have been found. News of it spread through the forests of Wilderland several days past, from leaf to leaf, and no secrecy of hobbits could stop it. We also surmise, by the timing, if nothing else, that you had something to do with this discovery. It would be too great a coincidence to believe that you emerged from Fangorn on the tail of the news, without some knowledge of it. That said, the news is only general, of course. None know where the entwives will be looked for, though there is certainly a curiosity. And none in Lorien would meddle with the affairs of the ents and entwives. We would not tell where the entwives were, even did we know it, and even did the Necromancer himself have us in bond. The ents will find the entwives, or no one will: that is the desire of the elves, as I am sure it is the desire of the entwives.

After their meal the party continued on through the wood. The day warmed quickly, and the mists retreated as the sun climbed higher. The fogs were replaced by high clouds, soft and slow-moving against a very blue sky. Butterflies emerged and began dancing about. Many wildflowers decorated the heavy underbrush of the forest; the trees and rocks themselves were covered with hanging and creeping flowers, or with colourful mosses and lichens. And all about them was the smell of high summer. A smell of wet earth and fragrant herb and rain come down from the mountains. The great horses of the elves threw up muddy clods of rich soil as they walked. Little pools of fresh water lay about them, flickering in the cups and saucers and concavities of rock and root. Often and often they crossed streams or little dancing rills, chattering through stony channels, fresh and clear. The hooves of horse and pony sent echoing knocks through the woods as they clicked across stone and pebble.
          Tomilo was reminded of Bilbo's journey through Mirkwood. Mirkwood! Only just across the great river and up a long slow rise. It was now Eryn Lasgalen of course, not Mirkwood, but Tomilo imagined there were spiders still, and much murkiness to be sure. He couldn't imagine spiders here, though, not even at night. Nothing unsavory, or unwholesome, could ever come here, it seemed. Why was that? There were elves in Eryn Lasgalen, at least in the north, where Lindollin came from. Why a mixture of good and evil there, and only good here in Lothlorien? He decided that he would ask Phloriel. Maybe she knew.
          At last the small party came to a road. The path ended and a wide straight way opened up, canopied with ever larger mallorns marching north. After less than a league upon this straight road a bridge appeared ahead, a narrow arch of white stone, without kerb or rail. Beneath it ran the Celebrant, or Silverlode in the common tongue. Leucallin took the reins of Drabdrab and Aewellin those of Hobbles and the five riders rode easily over the bridge into the Naith of Lorien. Prim looked over the edge of the bridge at the rushing waters. They were white with the spring runoff from the Misty Mountains. Broken branches, leaves and twigs floated along on the fast current. Suddenly a ring of flowers passed right beneath her, and she gasped. Doubtless some lover afar upstream, perhaps on the Nimrodel, had cast this corolla into the water, as token of luck for his lady, or for some other purpose. Prim found it another unreadable sign or portent, another mystery of Lothlorien. In her own heart she turned it into a last bouquet, thrown by the winds in honor of her recent wedding. Who is to say she was wrong?
          In the Naith the party met many other elves, singly and in groups, passing both north and south. Few spoke to Leucallin or his kinsmen, but nearly all looked closely at the hobbits and their ponies. As they progressed north and east (the road curved in a great arc, eastering as it advanced) the traffic increased, and soon the road was wellnigh full of travellers making their way to the great city as dusk approached. The trees about them had become one great mass of mallorns—of seeming infinite height—since their crossing of the Celebrant. That is to say, no end of them could be seen, not on either side, nor upwards. With twilight, the fantastic light of the dawn had returned, rosy and palest blue at the same time. The vermillion in the cheeks of the elves became lavender and their lips took on a violet cast in the deepening shadow. Their hair became raven—a darkest blue-green on top, shining like a fly's eye.
          The elves did not light the lanterns, since there was no fear of slapping branches on the road. But a dim light was already being cast from the city ahead, especially the lanterns at the gate and along the nearby hedge. Moths began to replace the butterflies of the morning, and a few bats and nightjars could also be seen flitting through the evening, looking for the choicest insects.
          Near the gate Leucallin traded a few words with a tall elf coming from the city. He did not seem to be the gatekeeper, but only a citizen of Caras Galadon. Tomilo overheard the word 'Fangorn' and well as 'Phloriel'. Also 'onodrim'. Tomilo was reminded that most of the elves of Lothlorien were grey-elves; therefore the word enyd for ents was not used by most. Was Phloriel a grey-elf? Probably not, thought Tomilo. In general, the grey-elves would have black hair, and the Noldor would have blonde hair—some of them at any rate. But what of red-blonde? Some mixing of the two? Tomilo was no expert on elf geneology, and he decided that would be another interesting question for Phloriel herself.
          The elf of the city pointed back to the north, making signs that the group must climb a hill. The hobbits assumed this was the direction of Phloriel's tree, and indeed Leucallin confirmed that. 'We will take you a bit further, now that it is dark. We don't want you to get lost at the very end of your journey. Phloriel lives very near, but those unused to a city of elves, and of elves living in trees, might spend days calling for the right ladder. And since you said she has not been told of your arrival, she will not be looking for you. She will be very pleasantly surprised, I am sure; and I only hope she is at home. We have been informed that she is in the city. But the city is quite large, as you can see. If she is not at home, you will have to send messages. But her family can help you with that.
          The travelling party passed through the gate, Prim looking back to see who opened it for them. No one could be seen, neither sentry nor doorwarden. The gate closed without a sound and Prim hurried to keep up, her eyes wide. The way was now paved with large white stones, marble brought down from the mountains at the end of the First Age. Its surface was worn into smoothest concavities from the light step of countless travellers, and the cart-path nigh was also worn from long use. Two deep ruts held the wheels of the various carriages in track, and between them ran a channel nearly as deep from the hooves of the horses. The hobbits felt the cool slick stone directly beneath their feet and wondered at its flawlessness. Ahead the light from the lanterns, shining down like silver moonbeams from the many trees, reflected from the surface of the path as from the surface of a mountain lake. The giant stones had been set with little or no mortar, and if not for the hairline joints seen dimly in the night, the hobbits would have thought they were walking on ice.
          'These stones must be slick in the rain, Camborn,' said Tomilo at last. 'Do you have to throw sand down at such times?'
          'No, no. No sand, Master Jewel-of-the-Sands. We do not lose our balance so easily. If you require, we will make you some special shoes for the nonce. But I smell no rain in the air.' At that moment the elves stopped, and Camborn changed the subject. 'At last, my friends, here we are. Come with us to this tree. See these small letters, carved into the bark? These tengwar tell us we are at the the Aissa tree, the tree of Phloriel's family. And here, see this thread? No? Shine the lantern here, Camborn. See, like a spider's thread? That is the bellpull. Yes, I suppose it is clever. Though it is not a thing we think much of. The little weight at the bottom keeps it from flying about in the wind. Still, I doubt not you will find better things to study in Caras Galadon. Give it a very light pull—see, there comes the ladder presently. Now we must away—our trees await us, and we live not in the city. We must return to the South Woods, where there is more moonlight. Farewell, good hobbits! Perhaps we will meet again in the Golden Wood!'
          Aewellin and Leucallin also spoke their farewells and Tomilo and Prim were left to climb on their own. No one descended to lead them up, since it was not the custom of the elves to do so among themselves, and the hobbits were not expected. Camborn might have sent messages ahead, or called up the tree, but being neither a guard of Lorien nor a citizen of the city, he did not think of it. The hobbits looked up together. The tree seemed rather darksome. It was very tall. The ladder was made of hithlain and it shone out dully, but this gave the two little comfort. They feared to touch the rope lest it burn them, or cry out against their rough touch. Tomilo pushed Prim ahead of him and bid her be careful.
          'Why should I go first?' she cried. 'You aren't afraid, surely?'
          'Don't be silly. I want you in front, so if you fall I can catch you.'
          'Oh,' she said, sheepishly. 'How nice.'
          The climb was long and slow, but uneventful. Hobbits are nimble, if unused to trees. Once or twice an elvish voice (hir nal?—i.e. are you there?) called down to them, but they were deep in concentration and didn't know how to answer regardless. Not until Prim poked her head through the flet were they forced to speak up. An elf matron within cried, 'Daro! Ai, hin gayan!'* But her companion quickly answered, 'U! Nar Pheriannath!'
          Tomilo answered, 'Ye!—Yes, we are halflings! Friends of Phloriel!'

*This means, 'Stop!—Alas, what ghastly children!' Fortunately the hobbits could not translate this beyond 'stop.' The woman is answered, 'No! They are halflings!'

At this, the elves became friendly and welcomed the hobbits warmly. These two were the parents of Phloriel, as it turned out. She was not at home. It being the dinner hour, she was eating with friends near Cerin Amroth. Many elves dined on the grass out of doors about Cerin Amroth in the spring and summer. The sky was open there, and the moon could be seen, as well as the stars. The elves introduced themselves as Thiwara and Aerelen, that is, 'noble sign' and 'stars over the sea' (Thiwara being the father and Aerelen the mother). They offered the hobbits food and drink and spoke to them briefly—although they knew little of the common tongue. Thiwara offered to lead them to Cerin Amroth after they had eaten. It was not far—they would be there by moonrise. The hobbits accepted this offer graciously. They did not think it well to wait for Phloriel here, since they expected the elves might be up all night, feasting and playing under the stars. Besides, they were uncomfortable sitting on the flet like birds. Again, there was no kerb or railing, and the hobbits stayed close to the great bole, where they had emerged. There was very little light in the 'room', and Prim feared to move lest she fall back down the ladder hole. All in all it was a very inconvenient living situation, she thought. Imagine entertaining guests in such place! The whole dinner party would end up over the edge before the tea was served. And who ever heard of building a fire in a tree? Preposterous! Though the elves did seem to manage it without lighting the whole house ablaze.
          None too soon, the hobbits climbed back down, this time with a lantern shining from above. As good as his word, Thiwara led them out the gate of Caras Galadon and back the way they had come—that is, toward the Celebrant—bringing them to a great low hill, even as the moon cleared its shoulder. 'See?' he said, pointing to a group at the foot of the hill, lit only by fires. 'There is Phloriel, in green and white. She has her flute to her lips, as should be on such a night. Noro lim. Namarie, Pheriannath, a mandu!'*
          Tomilo and Prim rode over and dismounted. When Phloriel saw them she ran to Tomilo, crying, 'Mae govannon! Mellon-no vinya!' She gave him a great hug, to the small annoyance of Prim. Tomilo quickly introduced her. 'Phloriel, this is my wife, Primrose. We were married on Astron 6, you know.'
          'Married? Why how nice! And is this your honeymoon, then, a ride to Lothlorien? Oh, and look, Drabdrab as well. 'Mae govannon, ro' fim!' She added, laughing and stroking his neck. What a party! Come Primrose, let us make you a posie and a corolla. And you, Tomilo, I don't believe we have any mushrooms, but we will find you something tasty. You are getting too fim—too slender, you know. Your—what do you call it?—waistcoat, it just is hanging there like a great sack. You may get taller on ent draughts, but you won't get any fatter! Hah, hah.'
          Prim's annoyance quickly melted away, and the three of them danced away together under the stars, the smell of firewood and mallorn leaves all about them.

*Thiwara says, 'Ride on. Good-bye, halflings, and goodnight.' Phloriel greets them with, 'How are you! My new friend!' Later she calls Drabdrab 'slender horse.'

Hours later the hobbits could be found in a fragrant bower, sleeping soundly after their long day of travel. The elves continued to sing and play their subtle instruments all night, the music rising up to the moon and stars like mist rising from a lake. Many an elf stopped by the bower to gaze upon the strange visitors from the west, marvelling that such creatures existed at all. Songs of Frodo Ninefingers were sung in honor of the hobbits, many present being happy to finally put a face upon the hero of that adventure. The elves also remembered the passing of the Grey Company through Lorien as if it were yesterday, and many grieved once more the loss of Galadriel—a loss closely tied to the coming of the Fellowship of the Ring. Indeed, the lay of Galadried and Celeborn was spoken that night, by one of the great poets of Cerin Amroth. Nor was Meonas, Lord of Lorien, unaware of this.* The arrival of the hobbits was not unknown to him, and he pondered the meaning of the news from Fangorn as well as the journey of Tomilo and Prim. Even as they slept, Meonas looked to the north, wondering what best be done.

*Meonas did not inherit the pool of Galadriel, of course, but he had other ways of seeing from afar, as will be shown later.


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Chapter 12
Smiling on the Point of an Arrow

The hobbits awoke mid-morning to the sound of birds. The elves were gone. Breakfast was laid out nearby, waiting for them, but Drabdrab and Hobbles had been led away. Tomilo assumed that the ponies were in stable somewhere nearby, or had been led to proper pasture. It was not right that they eat the beautiful grasses and flowers of Cerin Amroth. Prim rubbed her eyes and pushed her corona from off her nose. Then she followed Tomilo to the fountain nearby to bathe her face and hands.
      'I suppose this is not some magic font. I don't want to be turned into anything unnatural,' said Tomilo with a smile.
        'I would be more worried that it is an homage to Elbereth, or some such,' answered Prim. 'We may not be put under a spell, but we might be sullying something high and pure, which would be just as bad, or worse. Still, I think we would have been warned, if that were the case. I won't put my feet in, or drip into it, but I don't see what harm can come of splashing out a handful. Elbereth herself would not begrudge it us, if she were as great and generous as all say.'
        'It is Ulmo who would take offense, it being water—not Elbereth. And Ulmo has a mighty temper, from all I hear. But I agree with you. I don't see what harm can come of a handful of water, took from anywhere.'
        The hobbits bathed and nothing outlandish occurred, beyond the wind rising somewhat in the trees. The birds continued to cry out peep-it-eep! and the butterfiles continued to zig and zag. Over crisp biscuits and a pot of some tea-like drink—hot and minty sharp—the hobbits talked and looked up at the sky. Sheer grey clouds, like tatters of muslin, scurried off to the east, blocking the sun momentarily before moving on. Their barely seen shadows crossed the clearing in an instant, making it seem that wraiths were running through the grass. Large yellow leaves dotted the lawn amongst the many flowers, white and pink and palest blue: but the leaves would rise when the wind rose, and dance with it down the hill, a summer partner for the shadow wraiths.
        Looking both up and down at the beauties around them, the hobbits' heads grew dizzy, and they might have fallen back asleep had Phloriel not returned to greet them a good morning.
        'My hobbitfriend Tomilo and goodwife Prim, I see you have found the breakfast we left for you. I am sorry that the food was cold, but the fires burned out many hours ago. We have a pot for the—how do you say it?—the tea, but we do not keep ovens on Cerin Amroth. Here we eat our meats directly from the fires. Your beasts are grazing on the far side of the city, in the fields near the Celebrant. They looked very satisfied when I left them. We took their saddles off and hung them up. Your bags are in my tree. I know that you will not want to sleep on the flets, but we can easily bring down whatever you need. Beds on the ground are being prepared for you even now. You won't have to sleep every night in a bower!'
         'Thank you, Phloriel,' replied Prim. 'We will sleep anywhere we are told, and be amazed by it, I am sure. I have never slept in a bower before, but my feather mattress and favourite pillow don't sleep as true, as we say. I can't remember turning once the whole night. I can't even remember going to sleep, come to that. I remember waking up: more than that I couldn't boast of. '
        'I guess waking with a crick in the neck is something an elf never has to bother with,' added Tomilo with a nudge to Prim. She pushed him off with a snort.
        'No,' said Phloriel, 'We don't have sleeping ailments, or "cricks," whatever they may be. But we have our own ailments. No creatures are wholly without pains of the body and mind.'

The elf maiden led the two hobbits back to Caras Galadon, where events had been planned for the day. It was now about noon and the elves of the city were rising from their morning torpor. Few it is true had slept, but elves nonetheless find most of their rest in the morning, after their revels under the moonlight. That is to say, there is no music in the morning, and very little singing. An elf city becomes a place of unearthly quiet after the rising of the sun, unlike a city of men—where the bustle is greatest in the morning.
        As the three walked about the city, meeting many elves, but speaking long with none, Tomilo took the opportunity to ask Phloriel the questions that had arisen during their journey from Fangorn. He had not had the chance during the celebrations of the night, when little serious conversation had been attempted.
        'Phloriel, I notice that most elves here in the city have the colouration of Leucallin and Aewellin and Camborn—meaning, you know, black hair. I am assuming these are the woodelves, I mean to say the Sindarin elves. And then I have read that the blonde elves come from the line of Finarfin, of the Noldor, who are of the High Elves. Galadriel was blonde, wasn't she? But I thought the Noldor had all returned across the sea long ago. And then there is you, who, begging your pardon, I hadn't realized the importance of what you were saying on the way to Rhosgobel. I hadn't realized how rare the colour rhesseme really is among elves. I thought you were speaking mostly in jest. But now that I come here, I see that you are almost the only one. How can that be? And how does that come to be?'
        'Tomilo, my curious friend,' answered Phloriel with a smile, 'you ask many questions under the cover of one. Where shall I start? Many of the elves of Lothlorien are indeed Sindarin, or wood-elves, as you call it. Like the elves of Eryn Lasgalen, neither they nor their most distant ancestors ever saw the light of the two trees or the shores of Elvenhome. They did not hear the call, or if they heard it heeded it not. They are wholly elves of Middle Earth. But, however that may be, you cannot divide the elves so easily based on the colour of the hair. For many of the High Elves, even the Noldor, also have black hair. The house of Feanor is dominated by dark hair, and if you study the charts closely, you will see that not even all the children of Finarfin had blonde hair. Hair colour is a strange thing and cannot be wholly predicted. The few unions of elf and man have further mixed the pool, for in the three houses of the elf friends there was much blonde hair. The house of Hador was well-known for its light complections, and Hador himself was called the Golden-haired. Beren was of brown hair, being of the line of Beor, but even in this house there were many of lighter hair, since the men took many wives from the house of Hador. Therefore the children of Beren and Luthien might have been golden-haired, though neither parent was—Beren carrying all the influence of his mother and grandmothers. As it turns out, Dior had dark hair, but this was chance you see, not necessity. As for Idril and Tuor, it is written that they were both of golden hair, Tuor being of the house of Hador and Idril being famous for the richness of her light hair. What is odd, come to think of it, is that Elrond and Elros, only two generations away, should have both been of dark hair. But all their heirs, down to Arwen and Aragorn, carried with them the influences of Idril and Tuor. And so the Kings of Gondor, though the sons and grandsons of Arwen Evenstar—she of ravenhair—may now and again be blonde, for this very reason. They may trace their golden hair to Tuor and Idril. On Arwen's side, they do not have to go back many generations to do so. Arwen was only three generation's remove from Idril, you see.
        'As for me, it is believed that I was hand painted by Vana herself.' Phloriel stopped and looked at Prim with a laugh, and then added, 'Not really, dear. I am just being silly. Mama told me, when I was a little girl, that Vana had grown tired of her palette for hair, and, taking up instead her palette for flowers had decided to have some fun. At first she painted some elves with hair the colour of the reddest roses and others the colour of forget-me-nots; but Manwe would not allow it. Just as Aule got in trouble for making the dwarves, Vana got in trouble for her red- and blue-crowned elves. So she took her elf-children down to the sea and washed the colour out. But one of the rose-red children came up for air too soon, before all the red had washed out. When she was re-coloured blonde, the red continued to show through. Mama said that very elf maiden was my ancestor. Once in a great while, one of these red-blondes is born, and each of us is told this story of her beginning.'
        'Are all the red-blonde elves maidens, then?' asked Prim.
         'No. A few are boys. They are even rarer than the girls. But they aren't made such a fuss of, you know. It takes a maiden, with all her fabrics and ornaments, to bring out the full value of rhesseme hair,' added Phloriel, laughing merrily. After a moment she continued, 'It is said that if a rhesseme girl marries a rhesseme boy, then the child will be rhodisseme, but I do not believe it. Again, it is not that easy. The child may be rhodissme—there is probably a greater chance of it. But it does not have to be that way. And rhodisseme sometimes comes by other combinations, you know. I think I will marry an elf who is rhodisseme, and then see what queer children we have. Hah, hah. And if two rhodisseme elves married, then maybe their child would be truly rose-red, and Vana would be happy!'
        'One last thing about hair,' added Tomilo. 'Celeborn, you know. I mean he has silver hair. But I never saw another elf with silver hair, not at the council, not in Rivendell or here. Is he the only one?'
        'He is not the only one, though it is rare. Elves do not get grey hair with age, since they do not age, as men and hobbits would judge. But sometimes an elf will develop silver hair, though they were not born with it. This happens to men also, I know, though I am not familiar with hobbits beyond you two. Some young men just out of their teens get grey hair, though no other sign of age be upon them. It is likewise with elves. Some unknown factor is at work. Nerien told me that Cirdan also has silver hair, much like that of Celeborn.'
        'Yes, she spoke of him to me also, though briefly,' answered Tomilo. 'When we were riding home from the council, you see. She is from Mithlond, and must know him well. She said he was very weathered, not from age, but from sea and wind and sun. He does not retire under the trees like other elves, but walks every day for long hours on his parapet, and on the quays, gazing at the sea, she said. I have always wondered what he looked like. Silver-haired and weathered, but not like an old man. Not like Gervain at all, at least said Nerien.'
        'I would like to see him, also. He is the eldest of the eldar. Old even by our reckoning.'
        'And so would I,' interrupted Prim. 'Maybe we could all go see him one day. You should come to Farbanks, Phloriel, and be our guest. From there it is only a short distance to the sea.'
        'Thank you, Primrose,' answered the elf maiden. 'I may do that one year. But I do not know about continuing on to the sea. It is said that a view of the sea is dangerous to an elf. I am still young, according to my kind, and I don't think I am ready to start thinking of "the journey". But I would love to see your house, or your—how do you call it—your "hole"?'
        'Oh, yes! You really must. You can help me decorate it. You could show me all the little elvish tricks for setting up housekeeping. That bellpull, for one. If you have other magic like that for the kitchen, I will be the envy of the whole Shire!'
        'I have another question,' said Tomilo, as they passed a group of elves playing some game with a stick. 'No, it is not about that game, although I would like to learn it later. What I wanted to know occured to me as we were riding into the Golden Wood. I noticed that there are no spiders here, or anything else unwholesome. Prim said then, "Of course not, elves live here, they would not allow it." And I thought so, too, until I remembered the elves in Mirkwood, in the north. The ones that Bilbo tricked with his barrels. In that place, there were elves and spiders both. Now how do you explain that?'
        'My, I had not known that hobbits were so inquisitive. You really do have some penetrating questions, to be sure. It would require a very long answer to do full justice to this one, but the short answer is that Mirkwood at that time was also being influenced by the Necromancer. He was then in Dol Guldur. So the forces at work in the forest were mixed, you see. The elves of the Forest River could not keep the entire forest clean, only by the strength within them. Below the Old Forest Road, most of the forest had turned to evil, and the elves retreated further and further north. But even in the north the influence of the Necromancer was felt, and beyond the boundaries of their realm proper, the elves were powerless to fight it. In the woods nigh to the caves of Thranduil, no spiders ever came, for the elves would not allow it, and they hunted any that encroached there. But further afield, the spiders did flourish, as in those places described by Bilbo. Since then the elves have reclaimed much of Mirkwood, that is Eryn Lasgalen. But not all. There are still pockets of evil that have not been rooted out, especially in the woods above the East Bight. To that place many of the creatures fled that were driven by us from the environs of Dol Guldur. We have cleansed the trees across the river from Lorien, although few of us yet dwell there. But further east and north we do not go, unless in great company and with the intent of doing battle.'
         At last Phloriel brought the hobbits to a great tree—the greatest in the whole forest of Lothlorien. In the very midst of of the walled city, it held up the heavens above like a massive pillar of green. Its bole was grey, and soft to the touch, and fragrant. But it was so wide that Tomilo felt he were at the very foot of the leg of Vorun. This mallorn indeed rivalled the giants of Fangorn, though the hobbits knew no way to compare. A giant was a giant, when no head of the giant could be seen. Above them, at a height of twenty fathoms or more, the forest canopy joined into one solid mass of leaves and branches, through which sunlight could pass in only the narrowest of beams. Indeed, the central part of the city of Caras Galadon was dark even at midday, having little more light than a night of a full moon. Tomilo had already whispered to Prim that the city of the elves was 'elf-lit' at all times. On a cloudy day, a man or hobbit would be in need of a torch.
         The hobbits stood at the base of the Prince's Tree. Meonas, Prince of Lorien, Noldor, High Elf of Middle Earth, last of the line of Feanor the Great. Meonas lived here alone, save for his courtiers. He had never married, had never considered it—no, not though Galadriel had been gone for three hundred years. The elf mothers had given him up as a permanent bachelor an age ago, and none even bothered to present their daughters to him anymore. As a Prince, his cares were light. Lorien was not difficult to govern. Save for the cleansing of Dol Guldur and the reclaimation of the Eryn Lasgalen, his projects since the fall of Sauron had been few and slight. Like most elves of the Fourth Age, he lived in memory. His books were of the past, his songs were of the past. The pattern of his cloak had not changed in a thousand years. The cut of his boot had not changed in two thousand. Were it not for the few tokens of his royalty, such as he had gained since the going of Celeborn to Imladris—the circlet and the chain—he would look precisely as he had in the Second Age, when he arrived at Hollin after the flooding of Doriath. His hair was not a shade lighter, his skin not a shade less pale and clear. Only in his eye could one of fine perception see, perhaps, a subtle difference from that time so long ago. No lines encircled it, no darkness clouded it, no film filtered its gaze. No, but a change there was indeed, in its depths. A change in the way it reflected from within.
        Meonas' secret was not likely to be revealed to any of his kinsmen, however. No elf was left in Lorien that had the power to penetrate what Meonas preferred to conceal. No elf of the stature of Galadriel or Celeborn. Nor did any wandering wizard like Mithrandir come to Lorien to stare into those eyes and misdoubt him. He was cut off from the world, more even than Celeborn and Galadriel had been. No children or cousins came from Imladris with outside news. No wizards seeking counsel. Only those dratted dwarves, clawing about occasionally for wood. Not much of interest from that sort of neighbour, thought Meonas. Not much to learn from that quarter.
        But now at last news from Fangorn. Not a message to him, of course. Not any sort of neighbourliness. Just a tale told by the trees. The entwives found. The first real news of the Fourth Age! Yes, the first news that was news to Meonas. Dragons and Balrogs, hah, let them come! And Melkor, too. Allies at last. But not news to Meonas. He had known for long, for many years before Osse's warning to Cirdan. He had known. Walking the woods of Eryn Lasgalen, a Prince of the Noldor discovers things. He meets who he will, and learns what others do not want to learn. But what to do about these entwives? Had they any power? Were they a danger? Meonas did not know the answer to these questions. He must cross the river again. He must ask. And if he had some information to pass on in return, so much the better. He might even pass on a small prisoner or two, if it came to that. He would see what was necessary.
        Below, the hobbits were given the ladder and asked to ascend. Phloriel followed them, thinking this was only an invitation by the Prince to a formal greeting, a welcome to visitors. And when the three finally emerged onto the great flet above, they were given a welcome indeed. Food and drink were brought, and silver lanterns lit for the benefit of halfling eyes. Cushions were offered them, in lieu of the tall chairs, and they sat high on the tables, perched cross-legged like Pukel-men. Before them sat Meonas on his throne of intertwining branches, living arms of the great tree. A great bower soared over his head, like a green cloud. Above it, a thick cloth canopy was furled, tied back with ropes of gold. The flet they were on circled the entire tree, and many others ladders of rope hung down from above, where there were smaller rooms of various shape and use, unknown to the guests.
        Meonas himself was very tall, ravenhaired and sharp featured. That is, though his skin was luminous and perfect, as with all elves, the lines of his nose and jaw were not at all soft or feminine. His eyebrows were full and low and slightly arched, continuing well beyond the outer edge of his eye. His face was wide at the eyes, tapering to the chin, his cheeks having a slight hollow. He wore a high white collar, tightly goffered; his waistcoat richly embroidered in green, with tracings of silver and gold and blue. His cloak was light blue. On his brow was a circlet of silver containing a white gem. From a fine chain of mithril hung a blue stone, perhaps lapis, perhaps some other stone unknown to hobbits. No rings were upon his hands. His fingers were long and cunning, the nails strangely nacreous—almost white with no pink even on the moons. Tomilo noticed all these things, for he and Prim sat long before Meonas spoke. The Prince had tried to hold their eyes, to read somewhat of their thoughts, but halflings were strange to him. They did not seem to be easily penetrable. They were like rocks, he thought. Dumb and unthinking. He could see them cataloguing their surroundings, like cows looking at grass. Finally he spoke.
        'I am Meonas, Prince of Lorien. We have met before, Master Fairbairn, if briefly. I am told this is your wife. Welcome Primrose. I trust Phloriel has made you comfortable in our city?'
        'Oh, yes Lord,' answered Prim quickly. 'Very comfortable indeed. We have no complaints. Your city is wondrous beyond compare, to hobbits at least. Every least thing is a wonder, pure and complete. Do pardon us for staring, Sir. Our manners were made in the Shire, and we can't change 'em all of a sudden. But we do thank you.' Prim actually got up and bowed. Then she looked down at her feet, remembering she was standing upon a table. She flushed and sat down again, shaking her head at herself. Tomilo squeezed her hand and whispered, 'Stay calm, dearest. We're not in the dragons den yet.' But to Meonas he said,
        'We're a bit nervous up here so high in the trees. Digging in the dirt suits us better; though live and learn, as I always say. Once we get back down on the ground we'll be more ourselves.'
        'Yes, Tomillimir, Jewel-of-the-Sands, I had considered that,' replied Meonas with a smile. 'Frodo had his companions by him, to prop him up, as it were, in the presence of Galadriel and Celeborn. You are here by yourselves, and may well feel overwhelmed. Fear not. Lorien was not one place in the time of Frodo and another now. We still offer aid and comfort to those who seek it. Is there aught you would ask of me, friends?'
        Tomilo and Prim looked at one another. 'No Lord,' answered Prim. 'We climbed up at your command, but we are presently fleeing no danger. We came only to see Phloriel, and to look upon the Golden Wood and its wonders.'
        'And your return road. There are no dangers upon that?'
        'Not that we foresee, Lord,' said Tomilo with some concern. 'If you have any foreknowledge, begging you pardon, I mean if you see anything dangerous on our road, I do wish you would just tell us. This is quite upsetting as it is, and best be done with it.'
        'Stay calm. I see nothing of the kind, my dear hobbits. I was speaking of the entwives. You must know there is rumour in all the woods of the west. We may speak of it here, if you like. There is no safer place in Middle Earth than the Prince's Tree in Lothlorien.'
        'I am sure of that, My Lord,' continued Tomilo. 'But we have nothing to tell, not to you or any King no matter how mighty. If you know that the entwives have been found there is nothing to add to that. We will not deny it. What else is there to know?'
        'I had not known before that hobbits were so testy. There is nothing else to know, as you say. I had simply thought that you might require some counsel about how best to lead a large party of ents across Eriador without incident.'
        'Why should there be any incident?' asked Prim. 'Who should want to stop them?'
        'No one that I know of. It is not a matter of someone stopping them, dear. It is a matter of planning how to best get them there. There may be oglers, hangers-on, rag-tag from the Shire and all places in between. Surely you had thought of that?'
        'No, Sir, I can't say we ever did,' said Tomilo in some heat. 'Besides, I suppose ents can deal with "oglers."'
        'No doubt they can. And a great deal more. The ents will have their own plans—I'm sure you are correct. They don't need you to have a plan of your own.'
        'Again, Lord, it is not that we don't have a plan,' said Prim. 'It is that the plan is so simple it does not require a great deal of counsel. We take them there, that is all.'
        'All right. I certainly never meant to pry into what I can see you consider to be your own private affair. The rest of the world does not see it as simply an affair of two hobbits, however, I can tell you. There will be interest, beyond my own. If you think that does not concern you, so be it. Let us speak of other things.'
        Meonas then questioned Phloriel about the plans she had for the hobbits' entertainment, learning as he did so the length of their stay and their whereabouts during their time in Lorien. He then bid them all have a pleasant holiday and left them to climb down. As he strode from their sight around the bole to the far side of the flet he thought to himself that all had gone quite well. The hobbits minds were not easily read, but their tongues did wag and they did fail to recognize even the simplest of traps. The entwives were not only in Eriador, they were somewhere in the Shire. Hobbits were such simple creatures. Meonas felt sure that all he had to do is learn where these two lived. He could draw a small circle round about it and be sure to find the entwives within that radius.

'Well, that was a bit more bracing than I had prepared for,' commented Tomilo when they reached the ground. 'I guess there are elves and then there are elves.'
        Phloriel looked troubled. 'Lord Meonas is indeed high and mysterious, even to us. But I had not expected that. It is not the business of the elves to become involved in the affairs of the ents, unless asked. But since the council at Rhosgobel, he may feel that all affairs again are our concern. He may foresee some complications that have not occurred to you.'
        'Then he should have just told us those concerns, when we asked,' answered Prim. 'We did ask.'
        'Yes, I know. I can't unravel it. If there were any danger, I think he would have told you. So I wouldn't worry. But it is odd that he would ask you directly, speaking of the entwives by name.'
        'Aye, quite odd,' said Tomilo. 'Still, the counsels of the wise always seem odd, even at their wisest. Especially at their wisest, if the past is any key.'

That evening the hobbits again joined the elves upon Cerin Amroth for entertainment under the moon and stars. When they arrived on the green mound with Phloriel, they found to their astonishment that a huge festival was under way, much grander than the previous night. The elves looked upon them and laughed. Said one,
        'Do halflings not celebrate midsummer's eve? We had heard that you had your own names for the months, names strange and uncouth. But we thought all creatures with tongues gave thanks on midsummer.'
        Tomilo answered, 'Nay, fair elf, we do celebrate it. But we had lost count of the days, being in Fangorn and now in Lothlorien. I myself had thought it more than a week away. By the way, we call midsummer's eve lithe, and midsummer is overlithe, neither of which is so uncouth, is it? They seem full of praise to us, at any rate, but perhaps that is just custom. In fact, we celebrate for three days, the day after being called afterlithe. Some of call it aftermath, but that is just an inside joke, I suppose.'*
        Prim nudged him and whispered, 'Uncouth.' Tomilo only smiled and nudged her back.
        Another elf strode up with the hobbits' instruments, saying, 'I thought you might have need of these this night, my friends. We found them on your ponies. Will you give us a song?'
        The hobbits did so, and it was only the first of many that night. I cannot write here all the songs sung and played on this midsummer's eve, by elf and hobbit: I haven't the ink. They would fill a journal of their own. But I will share, as a sample, this one, which gained Tomilo and Prim the loudest praise of any they played. It was called Heigh-ho Mushrooms. Tomilo informed the elves that the song must be played while dancing a sort of jig. Alternate verses he and Prim played on their instruments, skipping a bit the while. But the heigh-ho verses were sung with the instruments down and the feet a-flying.

A mushroom is a jaunty chap
though his suit does tend to spot
and if he neglects to tip his cap
I throw him in the pot.

Heigh-ho mushrooms!
in linen travelling coats.
Poor old mushrooms,
travelling down our throats.

The mushroom may look to some
like a tiny umbrella.
But if an imp took shelter there
I'd accidently eat the fella.

Heigh-ho mushrooms!
Growing north and south.
Beautiful tasty mushrooms!
Just the size of my mouth.

Hunting for proper mushrooms
is easier than you think.
The ones you want are white and firm.
The ones for your in-laws are pink!

O, Heigh-ho mushrooms!
with salt and butter sweet.
Mushrooms 'pon mushrooms,
jolly good to eat!

A mushroom has a center
soft as dewberry jelly,
and if you eat too many
the same can be said for your belly.

Heigh-ho mushrooms!
Short and squat and tasty.
Mushrooms are a prize
not to be et too hasty!

I knew a fattish hobbit
ate a hogshead a day
His girth cast such a shadow
mushrooms began to grow there, hey!

O, Heigh-ho mushrooms!
Little ones are the best.
Take that little one there, friend,
I'll take all the rest!

The mushroom has a body
narrower in the leg.
But his brains make up for his shanks—
a noddle big as a keg!

Heigh-ho mushrooms!
The finest food on earth.
I traded all my furniture
for a spoon and bowl's worth!

The best time for mushrooms
is right after lunch
or before or after dinner
or before or during brunch.

Heigh-ho mushrooms!
For breakfast or any meal.
The perfect snack at every hour—
Or that's what I always feel.

Mine nuncle likes 'em slippery,
Mine auntie likes 'em sleek,
Grandma perfers 'em cold and raw,
Grandpa can make 'em squeak!

O, Heigh-ho mushrooms!
Top shaped like a bell!
Not a toe to speak of,
And I say just as well!

So you see the mushroom is glorious
in size and shape and smell,
And now I have to eat one,
so that's all that I can tell.

Heigh-ho mushrooms!
Make you dance and sing!
Mushrooms and more mushrooms—
summer, fall and spring!

*Many of the Shire Reckoning names for the months ended in -math, of course.

About midway throught the festivities, the hobbits and elves traded instruments. The elves were able to produce fair tunes upon the pipe and fiddle of Tomilo and Prim after only a short time, but the hobbits were flustered in their efforts on the instruments of the elves. As has been told already, the scale in the Shire at that time was quite complex and compressed, having 36 notes per octave. But the scale of the elves was more complex still. It was invented for the purpose of maintaining perfect pitch on all notes in the scale. That is, there was never any sharpness or flatness of tone. The scale was absolutely untempered.¹ Therefore, where the hobbits used what they called 'occasionals' to elide from one octave to another—correcting the extra pitch—the elves had done away with the octave altogether. They had discovered early in their history that the octave was not a gap that was perfectly divisible, and so they avoided it. Each 'octave' was therefore very slightly different than every other. The main drawback to this was that a note could not be overlayed with its octave above or below, thereby augmenting it. But the benefits were many. There was never any sourness in a melodic progression. A player could meander up and down an endless scale, never sounding a note that was not perfectly sweet in its own right. In addition, many two-note soundings, like thirds and fifths, could be made perfect. Certain triads were perfect, and so on. Multiple-note sounds that were not perfect or pleasing were simply avoided. In addition, within what we would call an imperfect octave existed many notes that existed only to be played as duads or triads with a given note. These notes would not be played in an ascending or descending progression, since they did not create an even oscillation between notes. What this meant for the player is that he must constantly be aware of the possiblities of the current note. He could not rely upon the scale of the instrument to give him his next note. Of course the elves played many standard pieces, which used their scale to its fullest. But much improvisation was also done, and in this the player was forever thinking at least three notes ahead, lest the beauty of the line be lost. Elvish musicians were much more interested in the melodic progression of the tones than in the power of many instruments played together. Nor were they at all interested in the harmonic resolution of slight dissonance, as players in a tempered octave are. The number of available notes²—which exceeded even that of the hobbits—and the variation from octave to octave gave the elves an astonishing range of possibilities, and it is no wonder that they could play all night and never repeat the same arpeggio.

¹What we now call 'just intonation'. We would also call the hobbit's scale a scale of just intonation, but the scale of the elves was not a corrected scale, it was a pitch-perfect scale. This entire discussion of elvish musicology has been imported from external sources. [LT]
²The number of standard notes per rough octave was little more than that of the hobbits, being 37 on most instruments, but you must add to that what we would call the harmonic third and fifth of each note, which was not always represented by one of the original 37 (when a duad or triad crossed octaves, for instance). All instruments allowed a player to cross octaves with what we would call seconds, and what we could only call sub-seconds (as with the hobbit scale, there existed several sweet or semi-sweet duads closer together than our closest notes). Some instruments allowed the player to cross octaves with sevenths as well.

          All this combined to make the elvish instruments beastly full of holes or strings or keys. Once told which holes were standard and which were not, Tomilo could make the pipe he was given sound fairly sweet as long as he stayed with an octave of his first note. But if he strayed into another octave, all the fingerings changed, and he finally gave it up as a lost cause. Prim did no better on her elvish harp. She tried staying on just two of the 16 strings doubled, but that was embarassing after a while and she asked for the return of her rebec.
          The elves were also not too happy with the sounds they achieved with the hobbit instruments. They copied the style of the hobbits, quickly seeing what was possible, but the jump from octave to octave was jarring to their ears, and they also stayed within a limited range. One elf found the bowing of the rebec interesting, since the elves had never pursued that method. But the wavering of the tone was tiresome to his fellows, and they all saw that this means was not amenable to perfect pitch. Even the variation in pitch from one strand of hair to another could be heard by the elves, and many winced at the attempt to make the rebec follow the elvish scale.
          By the end of the night the hobbits had a fair idea why the music of the elves sounded like it did. It was an expression of nostalgia and sadness, containing no dissonance or strife. Even when singing of war or other tragedy, the music of the elves implied no harmonic tension. The song was produced to release a tension already within the elvish mind, and the music did not need to recreate it first in order to heal it. It was a music of melodic perfection, harmonic only in places, simple in line but complex in the unwinding of that line. It deepened emotion without heightening it. It was altogether unlike the music of men or hobbits.
          As dawn approached through the eastern trees, the owner of the elvish harp began this song. He looked to the west, at the still-dark sky above the Misty Mountains, chanting softly and rhythmically as his supple fingers drove the melody high and then low again.

Weave a garland of eglantine
to clothe the river maiden in
and build a bower of clove gillyflower
to nestle the egg of the wren

Sew a shirt of silver leaves
to mantle the wind-bare moon
or golden leaves to gird the fire
of the sun's naked noon.

Cut a crease of hart's red leather
and tool it in truest vein
to make soft leggings or subtle quiver
for your brother on the plain

Make a mickle robe of black
to warm the bitter stars
and a blanket of blue to bed the clouds
from the Sky's discourteous wars

Inscribe a song on the face of a stone
that hinders the wandering hull
and add a line every winter
til the cliffs be writ in full

Place a lute in the den of the bear
til music comes arising
Place a pen in the crook of a tree
and read a green poem in spring

Form a brune barque of dead ash and rowan
and lash it with willow twine
to dress the bones of the fallen elf
and bind them in proper sign

Whisper your dreams to the canopied sky~
the roe is silent in thrall
the owl shall listen in constance
the loyal mole shall hear you withal

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 13
The Wrinkled Elf

It was the second night after midsummer and the moon had dwindled to a sliver. Beneath its dimming rays the Prince of Lorien walked alone. He had crossed the Great River before midnight in his black-swan barque, passing noiselessly and unseen, even to other elves. On the eastern bank he had found a tall horse tied amongst the birches—left there by elves of the Greenwood—and he had mounted and ridden many hours at a great pace, bringing the beast to a panting lather. At the forest's rim he had left the quivering animal and continued on afoot, running almost as swiftly himself. Neither the near utter darkness of the night nor the dense undergrowth slowed his progress, and he floated through the inky air like an owl, his feet barely marking the grass.
          At last the trees failed before a long slow hill and a great darker mass rose up before him: a crumbling tower blocking the subtle stars behind it. It was now an hour before dawn. All was quiet—like the first day of the world. To Meonas it may have almost seemed like that endless night before the first sun, when his grandfathers had passed beneath the trees to the reflection of Eru's first torches—those arcane essays before the time of star and moon. A fine dew now exuded from every living surface, beading in a dark-green wetness. The aroma of the wood rose with it, likewise rich and rotting. Beneath the cloak of night's long shade, slender shoots nodded smally from dead trunks, black and fallen. They awaited the yellow dawn.
          But for now the tower continued to loom, enjoying the night like a wraith enjoying its cold barrow. Its evil inhabitants had long since gone, but it remembered them fondly. The great stones, etched by the weathers and cracked by long cold, huddled and grinned like a line of jagged teeth. Lichens dangled and oozed in overhangs, trembling with a coming sign. And then suddenly the earth groaned a long low warning: the stones awoke and thrilled. A dry breeze swept through the ancient corridors and wrapped the tower in old fears. A darkness more brittle than the previous hour lowered itself to the ground, and a great animal padded through its tense airs. This animal glided on furred feet below a twitching tail, and the last creatures of the hill fled before it. Even the worms and beetles crouched in their holes and held their bitter breaths.
          Dol Guldur posed in a hunched glory under the sky, beating back the starlight and screaming soundlessly at the coming day. The animal nuzzled it, licking the dark for faint praise. Slowly it passed from east to west, and as it emerged into the open it yawned, a bloody tongue between grey teeth. Meonas saw it then—the huge cat with orange eyes. This night the wraith had taken the form of a black panther. Its coat loomed like a horizontal wound, cut by the black blade of Eol. The elf advanced and met the creature under the western wall.
          'Hail, Master!' he said in lowest tones. 'What news from the north?'
          'The Dark Lord waits. But not much longer. We are near to the second.'* These words hissed from the teeth of the great cat like a viscous poison. Few ears but Meonas' could have heard them without infinite pain. Even he had to assert his will to keep his skin from rising in bumps and his heart from quailing. The sound of the words seemed to arrive from some distant void, rather than upon the waves of the unsullied air, and a lesser mind would have immediately stumbled and fallen in trance.
          'That is well. We are ready. And I have news also. The entwives have been found.'
          'Yes, the cursed trees jeer it, and I am already sick of the words. May they burn to the last limb! Soon. Very soon. My winged friends are even now whetting their claws! Eosden will be our next toy.'

*Morgoth had seen Eosden's Silmaril (the "second" Silmaril) in his palantir and had bent all his mind upon it. By now Eosden had left Edoras to go to Isengard (see Book 3, Chapter 2).

          'Shall I bring the halflings here, Master?' asked Meonas.
          'I have no time for halflings!' growled the great cat. 'Our vengeance will soon fall upon the whole world, and I do not need to deal it out piecemeal. If you had Frodo Ninefingers I would eat him in a long meal, but these ones you speak of are nothing to me. Let them suffer in the usual way, by living in the days to come!' The cat grinned and snarled, dripping upon the already slimed stones.
          'And the ents? Shall we follow them?'
          'Yesss. Send your spies and we will send ours. They will lead us to their own undoing, the fools. And leave their home to thieves the while!' The cat scratched the ground with his great paws, punishing all he touched. 'But that is not your first concern. Keep to the plan. Small curses on the Shire and the Ents. It is Imladris that goes first.'
          Afar off in the east, just on the edge of hearing, a bird of the morning chirped, unaware of the silence he marred. The cat looked up at the sky and sneered. He sniffed the air with high malice and slunk off, disappearing into the greying shadows. Meonas stood for a moment and then he also left the spot. The tower stopped its chorus and returned to its long sulk, looking at the far horizon with hatred. But even as it clenched its stones and ground its hard teeth, other visitors approached from the east. Coming with the light, they floated over the greening grasses like kind apparations, warming the vapours as they came. The worms and beetles relaxed and stretched themselves. The birds returned, breathing deeply.
          These visitors were in the shape of two women, one young, one old. With them was a tall hound. Both women wore dark-green mantles and hoods, but now that the light was rising, the mantles were loosened and brighter colours could be seen peeking from beneath. The younger woman had flowing white skirts, indeed, and her golden hair was no longer completely hidden by the hood. The older woman had hair of black streaked with silver, and her face, though still fair of shape, was wrinkled all over. Her mouth had fallen, and her eyes were deep and sad. They were set now in circles of dark, and her thoughts could no longer be hidden. They were etched on her face in a long tale.
          The two women came into the circle of Dol Guldur and looked about them, listening. The hound sniffed the air and whined softly. Meonas had been gone many moments and was already deep in the forest on his way back to Lorien. The cat's terrible presence could no longer be felt, save by the keen nose of the hound. The young woman whistled in a low tone, and her sound was returned by an even lower whistle. She moved toward that second sound, which had come from within a wall. The spot was very near to the one on the western wall that Meonas had just quitted. The woman soon arrived at that very spot and she whistled once more. Again the sound was answered. She looked up, and from a crevice in the wall, perhaps twelve feet from the ground, a pair of old ravens emerged. They looked a bit frightened still. Their eyes were wide and their feathers were slightly ruffled.
          'Good morning, Scrovus! Good morning, Offa! I hope you are well!' said the young woman.
          'As well as can be expected, Lady Kalasaya,' answered Offa, the female bird. 'I don't expect we'll sleep for the next week, but we managed to stay quiet. I had such a screech welling up within me that I don't know how I kept from popping. The stones knew we were here, and they made such a noise. But neither elf nor wraith heard them.'
          'I had my wing over my beak the whole time,' added Scrovus. 'I think I swallowed a pinion feather.'
          'Did you hear the conversation?' asked the lady, ignoring these comments. 'Yes,' replied Offa. 'I have heard the voice of the Necromancer. Sauron himself was here.'
          'In what shape?'
          'He is no longer the snowy owl. This night he took the form of a great black cat.'
          At that moment the old woman walked up. 'And what saith this black cat?' she asked the ravens.
          'They spoke mostly of halflings and ents, Lady Arwen. And Imladris. I fear most for Imladris. They will spy on the ents and entwives, leaving the halflings alone for now. But Imladris is in danger.'
          'What danger?'
          'We learned nothing new. But the old plans are still in effect, whatever they may be. The time is now approaching.'
          'Surely Meonas cannot convince Lorien to attack Imladris?' interrupted Kalasaya.
          'I do not know,' answered Arwen. 'It seems unlikely. Perhaps he has convinced a small part to do so, with lies and false promises. Celeborn has made many enemies in Lorien. So much has changed since I once wandered there. Celeborns's taking of the ring Vilya† has caused great discord all over the west. Thranduil backs him, but almost no one else. Both havens are against him, though from what I have heard they are very far from war. Whatever Meonas plans, I believe he plans it secretly, and without the support of the Eldar. There appears to be some alliance between Lorien and the enemy, though I think the elves of Lorien are as ignorant of it as the elves of Imladris. We must discover more. Tomorrow we will cross the river.'
          The ladies made small gifts to the birds and then departed. But they did not follow Meonas west. Nor did they follow Sauron to the north. Rather, they made off northwest, planning to emerge from the wood at the smaller western bight. From there they would hurry across the plain, crossing the Anduin above the Gladden. Kalasaya's people lived there, in the northern Wilderland.
          Kalasaya was a shape-changer. Her people were related to the Beornings, being of strange powers and long lives, but not immortal. They called themselves the Kovatari—the people of the dog, in their own tongue. They became not bears, but hounds, accounting Huan the Great‡ an ancestor. In man-form they were tall and thin and blonde, long of limb and graceful. The men grew no beards, like to elves. By this, and by their slightness, were they told from the descendents of Eorl who also dwelled in Wilderland.

†Upon the passing of Glorfindel, Celeborn took possession of his ring. He was opposed in this by Nerien, who was present, but he answered that as the new Lord of Imladris he had both the right and the need for it. Most in Imladris disagreed, though none had the stature to contest it. See Book 3, Chapter 2.
‡Whether Huan was also a shape-changer, according to the history of the Kovatari, or had only taken a woman to wife, is unclear. They did not discuss such matters with outsiders, and no written tales survive.
         
Like the Beornings, they did little farming, preferring instead to hunt. They lived in small hamlets, with houses closely gathered. Like the hobbits, they liked to build into hillsides; but unlike the hobbits, they preferred a house of one large room—instead of many smaller rooms connected by hallways. Many hamlets took a similar form to Brandy Hall in Buckland, where a number of families lived in the cutting of a single hill. What is more, several families often shared a single den, the Kovatari being fond of companionship and being not especially averse to crowding.
          The hound travelling with Kalasaya and Arwen was in fact the brother of the former. He was called Merkki,* and he often stayed in canine form for months on end. He stood ten hands high at the shoulder, and was a tawny yellow streaked with grey. He also carried spots on his back, like a fawn. Over sort distances he could outrun the fastest horse. No creature north of Harad could outpace him, or any of the Kovatari.
          Kalasaya liked her maiden-form, however, and whenever she travelled with Arwen, she seldom changed shape. Indeed she was one of the most beautiful creatures in Middle Earth, in either form. She was not young, by the reckoning of her kind, being about 180, but the Kovatari did not visibly age until the last decades of their lives, and so her age was of little matter in that regard. Her hair was golden, as I have said—perhaps a shade darker than Galadriel's. It was waist-length, most often worn in four braids tied together. Her face and nose were long, but her brow and chin delicate nonetheless. Her neck was exceedingly slender, as were her hands. She was in no way as tall or as imposing as Galadriel had been, but in many ways was just as fair. Her eyes were like no other's, and were unsurpassed even among the elves. They were a sapphire blue, untroubled by the history of the Eldar. Her lids were heavy, with a high, arched lid-fold. And her eyebrows were likewise very high, another shade darker than her hair. Her skin was also a shade darker than the elvish, and tended in summer to freckles.

*Merkki signifies 'spots' in the tongue of the Kovatari.
         
As a she-hound, Kalasaya had a long tail of golden hair, almost like a pony's. Long golden hair she had also on her ears, and behind her legs. Her coat elsewhere was the colour of fine cream—save between her toes, where it also tended to golden. She was as tall as Merkki, though she weighed somewhat less, being slighter in leg and chest.*

The morning passed as they travelled through the reaches of Eryn Lasgalen. Though the birds twittered merrily overhead and the other forest creatures went about their business with unconcern, the day never passed beyond twilight. The canopy was thick and unbroken, and only the occasional beam of yellow pierced the cover of dark leaves, cutting the gloom like shards of glass. These slender rays of light could be seen from a long distance, and a traveller might fall under the impression that he could climb them, like a rope, emerging into the clear air above, where all was fine and bright. Indeed the shadows made the mind wander, in many other ways than this, and a mortal man would have soon come to grief—not from any real danger, but from a loss of clear thinking. If he did not get lost in a web of dreams, and so fall into some unseen pit, he would surely lie down at last in a bed of forgetfulness and starve without once thinking of food.
          Only elves and changlings could live for long in such a place. They flourished in its halflights, and their minds were never lost in its mazes. Its moods mirrored their own, and they took refreshment from its deep and mysterious fonts. They required no clarity—the world swirled about them like the deep currents of the ocean, the trees swaying like seaweed, and they yet swam strongly and fearlessly, asking for no shore.
          It was now about midday, and the two women were still walking side by side, speaking little. There was no path, but their feet made almost no sound on the forest floor. No sticks snapped, no leaves crunched, no rocks loosed. The heelless boots and soft leather soles of Arwen made no impression, even in damp soil, and Kalasaya was unshod. Only during the winter months did she don her boots. It was now the warmest time of laire, and she let her soft skirts fall about her naked heels. Her pink soles had been greened by the grasses and leaves, and wildflowers and purple thistles clung to her lower hems. Her green mantle had been removed, and her long arms were also bared by her sleeveless dress. She had tied blue flowers into her braids, and her bodice was also blue—the colour of heathbells. She wore no jewelry or other decoration of metals, having no buttons or buckles. But her bodice was laced from waist to breast with fine grey muslin riband. Her long braids, two before and two behind, were all the adornment any eye could ask for.
          During the morning the ladies had remet their horse, who had been left to wander the woods the day before. He could not have been trusted to be silent as they were spying on Meonas, and even now he crashed through the underbrush behind them, making a horrible racket by their own standards. Though tall and handsome, he was used by the ladies mainly as a packhorse. He carried lanterns and pots and plates and unneeded mantles and divers other necessities. He was called Taliesen, or Tally for short, and he was dark grey with brown forelegs and mane. His only decoration was elvish bells about his neck (but they had been surpressed for the time) and a grey muslin riband, like Kalasaya's laces, wound about his tail.

Just then Merkki returned from a hunt. He had caught a pair of pheasants, and the party stopped for a midday meal. As Arwen started a fire, Merkki spoke up for the first time that day.
          'My Lady, I do not understand why we did not follow Sauron. We might easily have taken the cat prisoner. I do not fear him myself, and the three of us could not have been bested regardless.'

*The modern Russian wolfhound is most directly descended from these ancient beasts, and stories are still told in the Steppes of wolfhounds who may be seen at times as men or women. It may be that the Kovatari exist to this day. [LT]
         
'That may be so, Merkki. But you do not fully understand the situation. The panther has only been inhabited by Sauron for the nonce—it is not Sauron himself. If you had taken the cat by the throat, Sauron would have simply quitted the body and fled. The beast would have then been our prisoner, but as a beast only. Sauron himself is now nothing and no one, and he can only exist, in a form visible to the living, by borrowing the body of some living creature. He has not even the power to kill such a beast, for his spirit cannot animate the body alone. He requires both its body and wraith to do his bidding.'
          'I see,' answered Merkki. 'But does he have the power to kill, while in the skin of the beast? Could he have killed the ravens, if he had become aware of them?'
          'Oh yes. The panther is completely in his thrall, as long as he inhabits it. He can make it do whatever he will. He has at his beck the full powers of the beast, and we should have had to fight with all our strength to overcome the cat. A panther is a fierce fighter, even without the evil of Sauron to push it, and you would have been hard pressed my dear. It is well for us to go another direction, regardless.'
          'As you will, Lady. But I fear no panther. I would stand up a wereworm if my Lady required it.'
          'No doubt. No doubt,' answered Arwen, smiling. 'Pray we don't encounter such a situation. We will leave the wereworms to Forodwaith, dear, for now.'

A week later the party had reached Kivi, the hamlet of Kalasaya and Merkki, some five leagues north and west of the Loeg Ningloron (the fens of Sir Ninglor). Here they would stay for a short time before returning in secret to the south. Kivi lay on the bank of a small river, one which flowed south to swell the Ninglor. The Kovatari called it the Odel, which in the common tongue was simply 'the fork'. Kalasaya and Arwen therefore planned to return south in a boat, entering the northeastern corner of Lorien from the shore of the Great River. Here they knew the Anduin to be overhung by a great cliff on the western bank which would hide their approach. Once within the Golden Wood, they would take upon them the costume and speech of the elves there, passing for one of their own. This was easy for Arwen, of course, for she had lived long years in Lorien. But she must disguise her voice and face. And Kalasaya already had this skill, being a shape-changer: it is she who had taught Arwen the finer arts of impersonation. So subtle had they become in this art that they could fool even the elves. Only the most penetrating could pierce this facade—one such as Meonas or Celeborn or Nerien, or one of the wizards. As long as the pair stayed out of Caras Galadon, they had little to fear, and could travel within Lorien unrecognized, learning what they would.
          That day they arrived in Kivi to great fanfare. The father and mother of Kalasaya and Merkki were the foremost citizens of the county, being among the eldest and most respected of the Kovatari. The orcs of the Misty Mountains had feared the mother as a great sorceress in her time, as they now feared Kalasaya. Even in the worst years of the War of the Ring, the wargs had travelled around the hamlets of Kovatari in a wide berth, preferring easier pickings.
          A line of small hills ran from north to south, mirroring the line of the Misty Mountains nearby to the west; and where the little Odel river snaked between two of these hills, a great den had been excavated in the southern rise, looking north. Fully half the families of the hamlet lived in it. It was actually a series of large dens, three of them with windows looking out over the river, and the others behind, deep within the hillside. Stables flanked these dens, also built with roofs of sod, and gardens circled the lot. Vegetable gardens and flower gardens both ran riot this time of the year, and the hill was a festive place. The Kovatari did not raise corn or other grains, as I have said, but they had a taste for cabbages and sweet tomatoes and other herbs, and were not above tending them. Besides horses, the hamlet boasted some goats and domestic fowl. And dogs were everywhere. Not shape-changing dogs, but only the everyday sort, in all shapes and sizes. They performed all manner of duties for their changling masters: pulling carts like ponies, running errands, delivering mail, chasing rabbits from the gardens, and much more. It was altogether a cozy arrangement, made the cozier by the master's ability to understand the language of his dog. The dogs worked hard, but they also reaped certain undeniable benefits—like the ability to request a change in a dinner menu, for instance, or the ability to let it be known precisely who was trying to steal the cabbages.

A young boy ran out from the stable to meet the travellers, taking Tally by the mane and leading him into a stall. The horse's packs were removed, and the ladies' personal belongings were sent by dog into the house. The boy looked in wonder at the beautiful elvish lanterns and plates, and at the subtle fabrics, and at the cunning weapons of his Lady Kalasaya. To him they were all instruments of sorcery beyond his imagination. Even the silverware bespoke of magic, being of a pattern and kind unknown to the hamlet. As he loaded it onto the back of another house-dog, he turned a spoon over in his hand and then took a bite of it, testing it with his teeth.
          'Hoy there! Cnut! Watcha be doin', boy?' said an old man, taking the spoon from him and cuffing him lightly on the noggin. 'You think the ladies want yer spittle all over them pewter?'
          'Taint pewter, Granfer. Tis silver. I ne'er tasted silver.'
          'Well, it don't taste of nothing, do it? You can't taste metal, you dern fool.'
          'Taste's like mud. Red mud, not grey mud.'
          'Say's you, you goggle-minnow. Don't taste like nought to me,' he answered, taking it dripping from his own mouth.
          'Granfer, who is the old lady?' asked Cnut, sniffing a knife.
          'That be the Great Lady Arwen, what were once the Queen of Gondor and Arnor.'
          'I thought she were dead.'
          'Nosir, not dead, lad. Though I doubt not she will die some day soon, and most elves won't.'
          'Why will she die, Granfer?'
          'She's idn't an elf no more, not by roights. She's just a lady now, like the ladies of Gondor or the ladies of the Eorlingas.'
          'She must be very old, for a lady, I mean. Even older than you, Granfer.'
          'She's older than me by a long bowshot. And you know the people of Gondor and Eorl don't live as long as we do, in the normal course of things. I'm 288 years old this fall, and can expect another ten, fates a willin'. But she's a couple thousand, so I hear, and can expect a couple hunnerd more. The way of it is, says Nyd—who heerd it from Kalasaya's own dog—is that an elf what becomes a man has to start the counting of the years all over. He (or she, as the case is) gets a new span of five hunnerd, no matter if they have already lived ten years or ten thousand. Well, the Lady Arwen started her new account in the first year of the age, or thereabouts. So, unless she gets kilt by an arrow, or falls into a hole, or dies of grief and pinin', she's got another coupla centuries left. Then she dies as a lady does, and goes where we all go, wherever that may be. But she doesn't ne'er sail with the elves, nor see her old Dad agin.'
          'That's sad, Granfer. If I was an elf I think I would stay elvish, no matter what nobody said. Then I could have silver things whenever I wanted, and these here fabrics, and I could make pretty music and sorcery. And I would hunt in the woods forever and ever, never having to bury no one or mourn no one.'
          'But you wouldn't get to be a changling, too, lad! You could never run as a hound or hunt as a hound. You could never sniff the air of a morning, or catch the fox on foot. It would be a partial bein', at best. Besides, the elves a'bury eachother and mourn something awful. They spend ages just mourning.'
          'I suppose. I dunno. Are there any elves that are changlings, Granfer?'
          'Not that I have heert.'
          'What is over the ocean, Granfer? Does it sound like a nice place to go, if you are an elf?'
          'I suppose. No one in Middle Earth has been there. The Lady Galadriel, what used to live in the Golden Wood, had been there, and might have told you a think or two. Beyond that, it is a place as unknown as the place beyond the grave and before the womb. It don't bear talkin' of.'
          There was a long pause as Cnut continued to load the house-dog. The poor dog was already loaded down with his own weight in sundries, bearing mantles that might have swallowed him and kettles he might have bathed in. But Cnut knit his brow and tied another fair box onto his burden.
          'Why don't the Lady Arwen live with her grandsons in Minas Mallor?' he asked the old man at last.
          'It makes her pine for the King, what died long ago. So she went into exile, which is where a body goes off alone to mourn and to remember. She could have gone to Rivendell, where she grew up, but that made her pine for her Dad, what was gone, too. And in Lorien her Mom was gone, who got waylaid by orcs and almost kilt and sailed away finally. So the Lady Arwen went to the Greenwood, where she lives now. And your Lady Kalasaya takes care of her.'
          'I know,' answered Cnut. After another pause, he thought of one last question. 'Will the Lady Kalasaya become a witch, too?'
          'The Lady Arwen is not a witch, lad. Though she has powers more than the likes of us can fathom. Nyd said she was like a little wizard, old and cunning. Like Radagast, but more subtle. More elvish. And the Lady Kalasaya is also subtle and cunning, seemingly beyond the wont of our kind. Even her mother is not so elvish in her ways—walking abroad hooded and draped. But there is nothing evil in our Lady Kalasaya, lad—don't ever think it. If she spells you, boy, it will be for your own good. So don't go telling anyone anything unnatural, or perhaps she will!'

Some days later, far to the north and east, the great black cat loped through the shades of Mirkwood, a cruel unatural gleam still covering his eye like a film. He had passed the Old Forest Road some hours ago, and he now glanced up by the by, looking for weird lights in the sky. At last he saw a change: not yet lights, but a great black wall rising before him. He had arrived at the Mountains of Mirkwood! Deep and deep in the forest, days and days journey within from any direction, lay the cold mountains—taller by far than a traveller in any wood might expect, or remember. Even those who had seen them before were shocked and thrilled to approach once more. They rose like a lost finger of the Misty Mountains, pointing distantly to the thumb of the Iron Hills in the uttermost east.
          League upon league the wraith of Sauron had travelled to find himself at their feet. Again he looked upon high in search for orange lights, for he expected another rendezvous this night of the world. Evil cousins were awaiting him with news from the north.
          At last a glow was seen, topping off the highest peak. It increased in magnitude for a short time and then went out. The cat sprung up the mountainside, throwing stones from before him and etching the ground with his great claws. After a time he came out above the forest and found himself in the winds of Rhovanion once more. They blew chill from the Ered Mithrin, chattering in the distant blue. Even in laire the Mountains of Mirkwood shivered and thawed. But no cold could pierce the close furs of the cat nor penetrate the mind of Sauron. He came out upon the highest shoulder of rock, glowing a deep indigo from starlight and moon. To his right, against the eastern sky, the mountain glowed, and a rumbling could be heard, like a brood of monstrous kittens awaiting their mother. But these kittens were scaled and horned, and their dreams were not of milk but of blood.
          'Greetings, Captain Cat!' said the first kitten, laughing so deep that stones were loosed from the mountain, crashing down into the woods below.
          'Yes, Hiisi, I have come,' replied Sauron, with a softer but even deeper malice. 'I see that Untamo and Keitolainen are also here. That is well. Good hunting, I say to you all!'
          'Thank you, Lord Cat,' offered the second kitten. This was Untamo, the largest of the three worms. He had his tail wrapped about him and his eyes were but slits in the night. He reflected a greenish gold sheen under the stars, and a smoke rose about him like a tamped-down blaze, and he stank.
          'You should ride upon my back, Cousin Panther,' offered the last beast. 'You will want to see the destruction we inflict upon the wizards. We will require someone to carry the cursed thing, too. My feet still bleed from the first.'
          The great wereworms were required to treat Sauron with some due measure of respect, on account of his history, and despite his fall. But away from the authority of Morgoth they tended to forget the proper forms. Their size and power put them in fear and awe of no one, and even the wraith of the former Dark Lord could be treated with some sarcasm. Sauron knew this and hid his rancour. History was long, and he had already outlived many a dim-witted dragon, even Ancalagon the Proud. He would no doubt see these over-confident allies off into the nameless pit, once they had done their part!
          'No Keito, my dear, I will hear of it on the morrow. I have other business in the north. If you go to Orthanc, my dears, I bid you take care. There are stones there even you three cannot throw down or char. I recommend a meeting with the staff-wavers in the open, if it can be arranged. Their palantir will make such a feint difficult, however.'
          'Our Master has foreseen all this, Captain,' answered Untamo haughtily. 'There is always more than one entry to any lair. The wizards will not escape!'
          'Good. I will look to the south for rising smokes and rising spirits.* In the meanwhile, have the balrogs left Hiitola yet?'

*Sauron does not mean this in the usual way. He is speaking of the wraiths departing from bodies thrown down in battle. The irony of the phrase, being applicable to his own fall, may or may not have been clear to him.

          'No, Captain,' answered Hiisi. 'When we left they were still there, though they must go soon. You may pass them on the way, if you hurry.'
          'Do they go to Gundaband first?'
          'That is not our concern,' said Untamo impatiently. 'We have our battle, they have theirs. If you do not let us go, Imladris will be on fire before Orthanc.'
          The cat looked at the three dragons with one last hidden glimmer of hatred, and then turned without another word and scampered down the long incline to the north. Behind him the great beasts were already rising into the air, polluting the morning mists with their reeks and stenches. They planned to fly south to the East Bight, thereby avoiding the eyes of the great eagles to the west. From there they would travel a long arc, high over the Brown Lands, crossing the Anduin at the North Undeep. They would begin their long descent over the Wold and then skirt the southern edge of Fangorn before seeking the second Silmaril at Isengard.
          Even as they did so, an elf army would be departing from Lorien, and another, strengthened by the eight balrogs, would come down from Mount Gundaband. These would meet in Imladris, planning to crush it between their combined forces.
          Evil was moving in Middle Earth once more. The shadows beneath all trees were deepening and the fears of the nighttime would once more encroach upon the day.

~ End Book Two
~ End Volume One

You have just read 350 pages
including three illustrations (two maps and a saddle)
many songs and poems
and countless informative footnotes
More translations from The Farbanks Folios will appear in coming years. [LT]