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A Long and Weary Way  by Canafinwe

Chapter XXV: A Man in the Hay

Eastemnet was a quiet land. Mile upon mile the improbable companions traveled that night, and no sign did they see of man or beast. When dawn's first pale blush touched the blackness behind, Aragorn began to cast about for some place where they might rest. He was as eager as Gollum to halt today, for in sunlight upon these bare plains they would be readily visible to any watcher within two leagues. Furthermore, though he strove to keep any sign of it from his watchful prisoner, his exhaustion was mounting. The steady pace he was able to keep across these gentle plains had done much to warm his limbs, but it was wearing nonetheless upon his fortitude. As the stars rolled above him, hauling the lodestone of time towards the dawn, his thoughts began to turn covetously towards slumber.

He had fond hopes that he would be able to sleep again this day. Gollum's obduracy, it seemed, had been quenched in Anduin's frigid eddies. He had not made any move to escape despite the unconscionable opportunity he had been allowed. He had done nothing to press his advantage while the Ranger had slept. And now he moved quickly and obediently, scrambling on hands and feet through the long dry grasses half a pace ahead of Aragorn's softly treading boots. If he was not broken, he was tamed at last to the point of compliance. However long the road that led to Mirkwood, at least it would be a road free of bitter battles of will.

A nebulous shadow showed itself upon the horizon, blurring the distinction between the substantial dusk of the land and the inky blue void of the star-fields to the west. There was not yet enough light for the sharpest of mortal eyes to pick out any detail, but long experience and a half-forgotten familiarity with these lands told Aragorn that it was a little copse of the sort that clung fast to streams and creek-beds in these rolling grasslands.

'What do you think?' he said, addressing his captive with little hope of a reply. 'Shall we find a place to rest our bones?'

Gollum glared blackly over his shoulder and raised one hand to his mouth, nipping at a tag of loose skin that had once been a blister. He spat out the sliver of desiccated flesh and turned away, scrambling more quickly and forcing Aragorn to lengthen his stride. Weary muscles protested, but the Ranger had to smile. How often had he used the same trick himself when a travelling companion had made some inane or irritating remark?

By the time they drew near to the small cluster of trees the Sun had already ascended halfway over the horizon behind. Aragorn was for a moment affronted, but then he remembered how swiftly she climbed in these lands where there were no mountains and few hills to hinder her. Gollum was already beginning to writhe and whine, wringing his long fingers against his eyes and gnashing his sparsely populated gums. As they reached the first low bushes he scrambled into the shade, tugging insistently upon the rope that bound him.

'Peace,' said Aragorn. 'I would like to move farther in than this, unless you wish to proclaim our presence to every bird and roving fox within two leagues.' He twitched the cord and the yanking ceased. Resentful but subdued, Gollum came inching out into the open.

Not a hundred yards hence, they came to the place that gave life to the sheltering boughs above. A little brook in a sandy bed broadened into a shallow pool that had been made both deeper and more broad by the building of a little stone weir at the mouth of the stream. How long ago this modification had been made Aragorn could not say, but from the wear of the stones and the untouched nature of the surrounding underbrush he could see that this was no longer a place much frequented. Few men now dwelt in these lands, and never had there been a great number of permanent settlements in Eastemnet. The herdsmen of Rohan kept their beasts upon these rolling plains, but they were a restless lot, moving their tents and their folk in an endless circle as they followed the grazing grasses. With winter now upon the land, they would be away to the south: there was little chance of stumbling upon the habitations of men.

Gollum, his eyes glittering with avarice, hurried to the water's edge and peered into the clear, rippling depth of the pool. Recalling previous encounters, Aragorn knew the creature was looking for fish, but he would find none. The little stream was strangely bereft of weeds and plants, though the sand was fine of grain and land about seemed fertile enough.

The Ranger knelt and dipped his fingertips cautiously into the water. It was cold and slow-flowing, until it tumbled raucously over the little dam. Lifting his hand to his face he sniffed at it, but smelled nothing. He touched the tip of his tongue to the wet place on his first finger, but he could taste only the bitter tang of the earth that was ground deep into his skin. The water seemed free of any alkali minerals, and there was no hint of sulphur, and yet river-weeds did not grow here. Uneasily he sat back upon his heels, tracing its upstream pathway until it vanished westward into the trees.

His efforts to find food proving fruitless, Gollum snorted loudly and braced himself against the bank, rearing his head to plunge it into the water. With a sharp hiss, Aragorn recoiled, yanking thoughtlessly upon the lead that bound him. Gollum was jerked backward, choking out a shriek of indignation.

'Do not drink the water!' Aragorn cried, scrambling over to his prisoner and coiling his left arm around Gollum's thin chest. Gollum writhed, trying to escape, but the Ranger held fast, one eye ever upon the sharp yellow teeth. 'Do not!'

When Gollum ceased to struggle the Ranger eased his grip. 'There is nothing growing in the water,' he said uneasily. 'Something has rendered it unfit for plants, unfit for fish. There is not even a water-skater to be seen. The rill seems wholesome, but it is not. Something upstream has tainted it; we would be most unwise to drink. I have not sought you these many years and brought you these weary miles to see you poison yourself.' He took the bottle from his belt and held it out to Gollum. 'If you are thirsty, take this.'

Gollum glowered blackly, but took the bottle. He dug out the stopper with his spindly fingers, and quaffed quickly of the tepid fluid inside. Then without troubling to replace the cap he thrust it back into Aragorn's hands. With a tiny twitching of his lips that might have been the beginning of a smile or the first syllable of some recrimination, Aragorn drove the bung back into its hole and hung the vessel once more in its place.

'We will find some other place to rest,' he said, getting to his feet and moving back into the trees so that Gollum was no longer within reach of the stream. 'I do not trust empty waters.'

He expected a fight as he led his captive away, out of the shade and once more into the milky sunlight, but Gollum did not resist. He walked, loping in his usual unbalance gait and rubbing at his throat between strides. Back onto the plain they moved, Aragorn now limping a little. The brief relief of sitting by the stream had brought to light the pain in his right leg and the weary tenderness that plagued his ordinarily tireless feet.

He walked northwards until he came to a place where low, flat stones furnished a ford across the peculiar little brook. He wondered what evil could have stripped it of its life, yet left no trace within its waters. Some strange devilry far upstream, perhaps – but what? Sauron had no sway in these lands, and to the west from whence the brook flowed there lay only the fields of Rohan and the rivers of Entwash and Isen. The former was held by the lord of the Mark, and the latter watched over by Saruman from his stronghold at Isengard.

At another time and in other company he would have laid aside his present road to investigate. Following that stream westward, to its very root high in the stony crown of Methedras if needs must, he would have discovered the source of the contamination. Then he might have taken some action to remove or remedy it, to restore life to this lonely rill and put right this small wrong that troubled a fair land. Such was his duty as a hidden guardian of the peaceful West, but he had not the leisure for such stewardship now. His obligation first and foremost was to his word, and to the grim commitment he had undertaken when first he had set out upon this quest nigh on sixteen years ago. He could not now turn from his set course: Gollum had to be delivered safely to Mirkwood. If he chanced again to walk in these lands when under no such obligation, he would explore the cause of this trouble. Until such a time, all that he could do was hope that one little ill was not a mark of a far more grievous wrong.

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Noontide was near before keen and heavy eyes fixed upon some other sign of shelter. When he discerned what it was, Aragorn quickened his strides. There in a little hollow of the land sat half a dozen golden domes, their rounded caps twice as high as a man's head. They were themselves a wanderer's friend, for hay-ricks provided shelter from wind and rain and even snow, but he was more interested in the dark mass beyond them. There sat a squat, forlorn-looking hut. Doubtless this was some waystation built by the herdsmen of Rohan, visited at whiles as they made their way across the plains. But there were no herds to be seen, no kine nor any horse nor any hint of human habitation. No smoke rose from the thatched roof, and the skins stretched over the windows showed no sign of light within. The thought of lying down to sleep beneath a roof, safe from watchers and guarded from the wind, gladdened Aragorn's heart. Such places were difficult to find, but there was a curious comfort in passing a night – or indeed an afternoon – in an abandoned building, provided its walls were sturdy and its roof in little danger of collapsing.

Gollum seemed less eager, and he hung back so that Aragorn was obliged to tug at the rope to induce movement. As they descended into the little dell, Aragorn abruptly recognized the source of his prisoner's discomfiture. There was no fire in the cottage, and the wattle-and-daub walls were cracked and in places beginning to crumble, but hanging at the windowsill was a neatly darned apron, and the bucket beneath it was sound and watertight. A broom leaned next to the stout wooden door, and the latch-string had been pulled to the inside. Though there were no cattle Aragorn could smell the unmistakable musk of pigs, and somewhere behind one of the hay-ricks a clutch of chickens were gossiping.

The cottage, sorry-looking though it was, was not abandoned.

Aragorn turned to make a hasty retreat, but at that moment the squall of an indignant infant came from within the house and he heard the telltale shriek of brittle leather hinges. There was no time to flee, and so he bolted for the nearest haystack, burrowing carefully into the straw on the side furthest from the house and reeling his prisoner after him. Gollum, who ordinarily scorned close contact with his captor, seemed to find the prospect of a screaming child more horrible by far. He came without resistance and dug his way so deep into the hay that Aragorn lost sight of him.

The door thumped against the wall, and a woman's voice was heard, scolding anxiously in the tongue of the Rohirrim. Long years had passed since last Aragorn had heard such syllables, and his ear was slow to adjust, but as remembrance seeped in he realized she was upbraiding a child.

'… sleeps little enough without you prodding at him! Get out with you and leave me be! Annis! Go and mind your brother.'

From within a muffled, petulant little voice protested; 'But Mamma, it's cold outside!'

'Never mind that,' the woman retorted, raising her voice to be heard over the infant's lusty sobs. 'I can't put the baby to bed with Osbehrt underfoot. Wrap up in my shawl and mind him.'

She sounded near to tears herself, and it seemed the girl was aware of it, for she said softly, 'Yes, Mamma.' A moment later the door closed gently and Aragorn heard her say, doubtless addressing the unlucky Osberht in a solemn and most instructional tone, 'You mustn't prod Baby. Baby is just like a little piggy: if you prod him he will squeal, and Mamma can't bear it.'

Osberht mumbled something in the contrite jargon of a child who has not yet mastered words sufficient to express his feelings.

'And take your fingers out of your mouth,' his sister scolded superciliously. 'You sound like a little pig yourself.'

' 'M sorry, Anni,' said the little boy. 'Play with me?'

Aragorn pursed his lips, wishing that he had taken the time to dig himself deeper into the hay. He was behind the stack furthest from the cottage, but two energetic youngsters could cover such a distance in a matter of moments. That Gollum was well out of sight was something of a comfort, but a strange dark-haired wild man dressed in outlandish rags and carrying a long naked knife would garner suspicion enough in these lands. Though he could easily escape a brace of children they had a mother – and like as not a father – nearby. Aragorn did not relish the thought of a confrontation with an angry husbandman or his stalwart wife: the Rohirrim were a hardy lot, and his knowledge of their ways and their tongue would not be sufficient to extricate him and his prisoner without explanations he could not offer.

Yet it seemed the little boy's notion of play did not involve running or exploration. After an interval of silence, he heard the child lisping out his numbers. 'One. Two. Three. Six.'

'Four,' Annis told him. 'One, two, three, four.'

'There's four. There's six. There's one,' the boy said. This time the girl did not trouble to correct him, and he went on. 'There's nine. There's seven. There's six. There's six.'

He seemed to have a particular affinity for six.

Aragorn listened for a while, and his head grew heavy with weariness. He let it bob down so that his chin rested upon his chest and the hay drooped down over his eyes. He longed to stretch out his aching legs, but such a noise would attract undue attention. So he sat there, huddled awkwardly in the hay-rick, half-dozing as Osberht continued his counting.

'There's one. There's two. There's five. There's six. There's eight. There's six.'

After a while, his sister sighed. 'I'm cold,' she said. 'I wonder if Baby's asleep yet.' There came the unmistakable sound of small bare feet rustling in the grass. 'I'm going to see the chickens.'

'There's four,' Osberht said happily.

'Yes, there's four,' agreed Annis with a tired sigh. Despite his predicament Aragorn felt a warm hint of amusement. There were some things in the world that remained the same, wherever he wandered and whoever he met. A sister's patient tolerance of her younger brother was one of those things. He supposed that if he were ever so fortunate as to have children of his own, they would behave just the same as these two. Save of course, a prideful little voice in his heart declared, that his son would know all of his numbers in the proper sequence.

He heard the girl move off, doubtless towards the henhouse. Osberht continued his contented counting. Somewhere deep in the hay, Gollum was breathing through his nose.

The straw was warm and the children were no immediate threat. Aragorn closed his eyes and let his mind slip away, clinging tenuously to the last thread of consciousness despite the intolerable urge to sleep. He could not give himself over to slumber however he might crave it. Instead he let his thoughts depart, swaying to the rhythm of his beating heart, into the realm of memory where dwelt still the impetuous young man who had come down from the nameless North into the green fields of the Riddermark.

He had stood before the gates of Edoras eager and filled with the vainglory of youth, but the initial flush of pride and the excitement of his first lone journey into distant lands were swift to fade. Waking from the pleasant dream of independence he had found himself, isolated and very much alone, in a strange country filled with unfamiliar folk who spoke a tongue that despite his extensive education in the languages of the West he had never had occasion to learn. Having been an articulate child and an equally erudite young Ranger, it had proved quite a shock to find himself suddenly incapable of expressing his smallest need. While some of the Rohirrim spoke the Common Tongue of the West, such folk tended to belong to the more prosperous classes: merchants who traded with the people of Gondor; men of learning and profession; and of course anyone closely associated with the court of Thengel, who had dwelt for many years in exile in Minas Tirith and who had returned with a bride from among the Dúnedain. These people, though courteous enough, had little cause for discourse with a foreign youth of unproved mettle serving as a soldier of fortune in the meanest ranks of the king's men.

For the most part his early dealings with the Rohirrim were with soldiers and labourers, like himself of lowly estate. Unlearned in Westron and impatient with his ineptitude in their own language, they had proved reticent teachers. In the end Aragorn's tenacity and innate gift for tongues had rendered him fluent, but the lesson in humility that had come with those early months of inarticulate helplessness had left its mark. He had learned a patience for those who struggled to express themselves in even the simplest of terms, and that patience had remained with him through all the long years since. It was, he reflected with some irony, that very same patience that in recent days had been stretched to its very limits by his silent and impassive companion.

The heavy, rotund syllables that tripped so easily from the tongue of the counting boy nearby brought a fond flicker of remembrance to Aragorn's eyes. He remembered his initial amazement at the rich, deep quality of the sounds that issued from the throats of the children of Rohan. Such resonating vowels seemed to fill their small mouths beyond reasonable capacity. In the days of Thengel's reign Edoras had been filled with children: merry-eyed and contented, flaxen-haired and bright-eyed. And westward, beyond the cold waters of the Entwash, the golden roof of the Meduseld still shone at sunset and the young of the Mark still laughed while he and the errantries of his youth were long forgotten by their grandsires.

It was a bittersweet taste of the draught of the Eldar, this knowledge that those with whom he had ridden as brothers in arms were now old men in their dotage while he, weary and worn but still filled with the vigour of his manhood, laboured ever in the timeless fight. Strange it was, to think that he remembered those now aged or dead as young men in the green summer of life. From Gandalf he knew that Thengel's son still reigned in Rohan, but he would now be in his sixty-ninth year – unrecognizable to one who had known him as a boy of fourteen summers.

Gollum's breathing could no longer be heard.

The unwanted thought tore through Aragorn's reverie, and his pulse quickened. The moment of dismay was allayed by a waspish intake of air, scarcely audible through the wall of hay. In the next beat however, the horror returned as Aragorn realized what had caused his prisoner to fall so abruptly silent.

Not ten feet away, standing pigeon-toed with two grubby fingers in his mouth, stood what could only be Osbehrt. He was a tiny child, surely not yet three years old. His tousled hair and his untidy tunic attested to his age and the acquiescence of an overtaxed mother to the inevitable disarray of childhood. Though perhaps not presentable he appeared to be well-fed, and his wide eyes were enormous in his plump little face. In other circumstances this picture of innocent astonishment would have warmed Aragorn's heart, but the great staring orbs and the thunderstruck expression were both directed at him: the intruder half-buried in the hay rick.

It was strange that, after all he had suffered and survived in recent weeks, he found himself uncertain how he might cope with this small challenger. If he moved or spoke, it seemed likely that the boy would scream. If he did nothing, surely Osbehrt would recover his senses in a moment or two, and go running off to fetch his sister and his mother. The Ranger could not fly, and his perfunctory attempt at hiding had obviously failed. At a loss as to how he might extricate himself, and mindful of his disheveled and largely threatening appearance, Aragorn did the one thing he felt able to attempt. He smiled.

It was not so difficult as he would have supposed. The boy was an endearing spectacle with his small bare feet and his downy hair. In almost any other circumstance his countenance of bewilderment would have been quite comical. And through all the trials and travails of his long life, Aragorn had retained the talent of producing, when his cares allowed him some respite, a genuinely disarming smile.

To those truths that remained constant in every land Aragorn decided to add this: that children who had not yet achieved the age of suspicion were not so easily swayed as their elders when it came to judgment on the basis of dress or cleanliness. His unexpected presence had startled the boy, but his unkempt and begrimed appearance weighed little against his expression. Instinctively the boy reciprocated, turning up the corners of his little bow mouth so quickly that his hooked fingers quite disfigured his lower lip. It was seemingly every bit as uncomfortable as it looked, for he promptly loosed his hold on his jaw and let his arm fall aside. Then he bent at waist and knees, leaning forward in a classic pose of babyhood with his hands cupped over his knees. From thence he sprung forward in a bounding hop, bouncing on the balls of his feet and clapping his hands joyously.

Aragorn's smile widened, and he was just about to speak to the boy when an irate young voice cut through the winter air.

'Osberht? Where are you? Come here at once!'

Annis was near at hand, apparently unable to see her little charge. Osberht's head shot to the side like a hunting-hound mustering to the horn. 'Here, Anni!' he called.

'No!' Aragorn hissed. He might be able to endear himself to a babe of two years, but an astute girl of six or seven was another matter. Osberht looked at him, startled, and Aragorn realized that in his haste to quiet the child he had cried out in the wrong tongue. 'Go on: go to her,' he whispered, this time in the language of Rohan. 'Don't keep your sister waiting.'

Osberht nodded sagely, and charged off with his short legs flying. 'Here I am, Anni,' he said happily as he trundled out of sight.

'You know you're not meant to go past the haystacks!' Annis scolded. She was very near: twenty feet a most. Aragorn held his breath, bracing himself against imminent discovery. 'Naughty boy! What were you doing over there?'

'Looking at the man,' Osbehrt said enthusiastically.

'What man?' Aragorn could almost hear the narrowing of her eyes and the skeptical frown as it spread across her lips.

'The man in the hay. He's my friend.'

Annis sighed in exasperation. 'There's no man in the hay. There are only mice in the hay. You saw a mouse.'

Blessed was the cynicism of an older sister. Osberht, however, did not share the Ranger's desire to have his tale dismissed. 'No, it's a man!' he said firmly. 'A man with black whiskers.'

Annis stifled a giggle. 'All right, then; it was a man,' she said condescendingly. 'With black whiskers.'

Osberht was young and innocent, but he knew when he was being patronized. 'It is too a man! Come and see!'

Aragorn's mouth went dry. It was absurd, even funny, that after escaping orcs and spiders and even the tender ministrations of the Nazgűl he was about to be caught and waylaid by a little girl. In his present situation however, when all he wanted was an expeditious escape, he was in no fit state to appreciate it.

'Come on, Anni! Come see the man.' The strain in Osberht's voice told the Ranger that he was hauling on his sister's arm. As it turned out, this was a tactical error on the part of the boy, for older sisters do not take kindly to overly forceful brothers. A moment later Aragorn could hear their padding feet as she marched him back towards the house.

'You're not allowed to go past the haystacks!' she admonished with all the passionate vehemence of one child's authority over another. 'Mamma will be most unhappy!'

There was a groan of leather and the cottage door swung closed behind the children. Through the waxed linen stretched over the window of the house came the unhappy squawk of a baby as Osberht exclaimed eagerly, 'Mamma, Mamma, there's a man in the hay!'    





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