18. Gandalf

The elf who brings my breakfast announces, “Olórin is here to see you.”

“Who?” I ask. Before she can answer, Gandalf steps into the room.

We sit on the balcony to enjoy the view of the sea and the many boats coming and going in the bay. I study Gandalf as we eat. 

He looks both the same and different: same bushy eyebrows, twinkling eyes, long nose, same frame. His hair’s a smoky black, he’s got nary a wrinkle and there’s a soft glow about him. He’s certainly more relaxed, propping his feet on the railing.

“I imagine you want to know about Frodo,” he says without preamble.

“Aye. That and what happened to all my luggage.” For I only have my small suitcase here.

He laughs more easily now too. “That has been sent ahead.” 

I’ll have to wait to fulfill my promise then. I settle back and wait for Gandalf to continue.

“You will learn all about your master as time goes by,” he says. “For now, he wanted you to have this, when and if you eventually arrived.” 

He hands me a letter from his robe pocket. I expect to see the stilted writing of Frodo’s maimed right hand on the envelope. Instead, it looks much the same as it had prior to Frodo’s injury, if still somewhat slanted.

“Thank you.”

“No need for thanks among friends,” Gandalf says. 

“Some pipeweed then?” I ask. It’s early for smoking yet, but I see no reason to wait. I retrieve my pipe and weed pouches from my suitcase. 

Gandalf fishes his pipe from another pocket. He stuffs and lights his pipe with almost childlike relish and inhales slowly. He glows brighter somehow. “Ah! Old Toby! The finest weed in the Southfarthing.”

We smoke quietly as the ships sail by.

GF 9/13/12

To be continued...