Chapter XXVI: Falling Out

Aragorn did not pause to listen to Osberht's merry account of their strange meeting. He got one foot underneath himself and turned onto his knees. Facing the place where the length of orc-rope vanished into the hay he hissed with all urgency, 'Come out of there! We have to move.'

Gollum did not emerge. Whether he was afraid of the children or merely seizing the opportunity to antagonize his captor, he was evidently intending to cling to his hiding-place. There was a certain element of good sense in this proposal, but Aragorn doubted very much that he might join his prisoner and so escape scrutiny and therefore they must both move. He reached out, intent upon plunging his hands into the hay to fish for his travelling companion. As he did so, however, a little bolt of pain shot up his right arm. The skin drawn snug over the still-swollen bite marks protested the sudden movement, reminding him all too vividly of the dangers of grappling with Gollum.

Yet he could hear the boy protesting over his sister's prim remarks about mice with whiskers, insisting that there was a man in the hay and that his mother ought to come out to meet him. There was no time to reason with Gollum; no time to coax him out. Aragorn took hold of the rope that joined him to his captive, and tugged upon it. He tried not to pull too forcefully: a firm pressure would indicate his will just as effectively as a sharp jerk. But Gollum on the other end pulled back, dragging on the rope from his side. Clambering to his feet and bracing his boot firmly against the ground, Aragorn hauled on the cord with all of his strength.

Gollum emerged with a hoarse, piercing shriek. One hand clung to the rope, clutching it to keep slack the loop about his neck. The fingers of the other scrabbled against the ground while his spindly legs flailed.

Swift as a diving hawk, Aragorn swooped down and drove a tattered corner of his cloak into Gollum's mouth, silencing the scream – but too late. Inside the cot the little family had gone silent: even the infant had ceased his burbling. The Ranger hooked his good arm around Gollum's chest, using his right hand to keep the makeshift gag in place. Hoisting the thrashing creature off the ground, Aragorn cast about for a route of escape.

The empty plains of Rohan offered little in the way of cover. Indeed, without the hay ricks his only hope of concealment was the shield of little house itself, and in full flight it would not hide him long. He had no chance of vanishing swiftly enough over the distant horizon: even unencumbered by his prisoner such a sprint was beyond his admittedly diminished powers. In the moment of desperation, with Gollum writhing and kicking against him, Aragorn took six long, loping strides and cast himself down on the ground behind the canted shed that served as a henhouse, pinning Gollum beneath his body. A command for stillness fell hollow upon his lips: there was little use and no time.

The inevitable squawk of the leather hinges tore through the air. Aragorn bit down upon his lower lip, an involuntary spasm born of apprehension.

In Gondor the women he had encountered during his years in Ecthelion's service had been delicate; accomplished in the desired pursuits of the privileged: music and writing and all the elaborate works of the needle. He remembered them as competent and gracious hostesses, some scholarly, a spirited few skilled in the arts politic. The daughters and wives of Gondor's lords, they represented a privileged caste and they were as cool and ornamental as the statues that populated the streets of Rath Dínen. They were conduits of great power and influence, but clothed in the fine silks of culture and veiled in carefully coded propriety.

The women of Rohan were cut of a different cloth. They were hale and stout-hearted; as bold as their menfolk, as stubborn as their children, as wild and as lovely as the wind-whipped plains of their homeland. The ladies of the Rohirrim did not remain ensconced in shrines of wealth and position. They tilled the land, they tended to their hearths, and they did what was necessary to safeguard the homes they laboured so faithfully to maintain. In their stolid determination and their unflinching courage they reminded Aragorn of the wives and sisters and mothers of his own people in the North. He could not imagine the determined and fiercely sanguine Andreth, or Fíriel with her longbow and her sinewed arms—or indeed his own mother's mother, who had been the touchstone of his people through grim years uncounted—waiting breathless and frightened inside their isolated cottages while some unknown threat lurked in the wild lands without. No more, therefore, had he expected it of this woman.

'Show yourself!' she commanded, and though there was fear in her voice the defiance was stronger. 'Trespassers are not welcome here, but if you mean no harm I will allow you to depart in peace.'

Gollum shifted beneath him, one bony knee knocking against the hilt of the long knife in his belt, and Aragorn pressed down more firmly against him. He could not but admire the woman's valour: had he wished to overcome her he might easily have done so. But a memory of Thengel's daughters visited him: tawny shield-maidens with strong shoulders and fleet feet, as able in the saddle as their young brother and filled with the same forceful fire. A common vagrant or a starveling footpad would be a poor match for such a woman, especially with her children to protect.

'Show yourself!' she repeated. 'I know you are there: we heard you cry out. Come out or I will come after you.'

It was the mark of a skilled negotiator that he could read from the words of another whether a pledge – or a threat – was bolstered with earnest intent. Aragorn was considered even among the Wise to be a gifted diplomat, and he knew that this woman meant just what she said. He also knew that he had little time to consider his options. She would come after him, and she would find him, and between his bedraggled state and his strange-looking captive he was unlikely to win her trust.

His appearance could not be altered now, but at least he might do something about his prisoner. Aragorn hoisted his cloak over his head, bundling it tightly around Gollum so that he was swathed head to foot in the weatherworn wool. Then as swiftly as he could, while the woman made a third demand that he emerge, Aragorn untied the cord about his wrist and looped it through one of the posts that supported the walls of henhouse. Then he climbed onto his feet and stood, slowly and cautiously, stepping out from behind the coop with his arms outstretched in a gesture of surrender.

'Here I am,' he said in her language, keeping his voice soft and free of any intonation that might be perceived to present a threat.

His wild looks were apparently menacing enough: the woman quailed at the sight of him, taking one tremulous step backward. Her hip struck the post of the open door behind her, and abruptly she straightened, a look of stern defiance frosting over the moment of terror. She was thin and wiry, and very young – almost too young, Aragorn thought, to be the mother of a child as old as Annis. Her hair was twisted back into a brief plait: illness or practicality had led her to shear it shorter than the wont of her countrywomen. She stood with her bare feet planted firmly on the packed earth, and her capable-looking hands gripped a long scythe with a wicked blade. Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn could see the tall hay-ricks: she knew how to use her chosen weapon.

'Who are you? What are you?' she demanded.

'Only a traveller, lady,' he answered softly, his tone belying the tension that rippled through his body. He kept his eyes upon her, watchful for any sign that she meant to spring at him. He did not doubt that she could maim him if she wished to: the winter nights had seemingly gone to the whetting of that scythe. 'I mean you no harm. I did not realize that any folk dwelt in this country so early in the year.'

'Well, I'm dwelling here!' snapped the woman. 'And strangers aren't welcome. What do you want? You don't belong in this land.'

'Indeed I do not,' said Aragorn. 'I am travelling north, and do not wish to tarry in Eastemnet, but I was weary and I confess your hay seemed a tempting shelter.'

'That fodder is for our cows, not for wild men to sleep in. And you have no business talking to my boy!'

A faint smile touched Aragorn's lips. 'In that I must beg your forgiveness, lady. He is a darling child, and I have not seen his like in many years.'

The woman's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, and her grip on the scythe-handle loosened enough that a flush of colour returned to her knuckles. 'Yes, he is a darling child,' she said; 'and I promise I will kill you if I must, to protect him.'

'There is no need for that. I shall go willingly. Had I known you and your children were here I would never have come down into this dell. I mean no ill to the good folk of the Riddermark, and I seek only safe passage through these lands.' Reason seemed likely to prevail: his words were dissipating some of the panic that lurked behind her brave face. Aragorn allowed himself to relax a little in turn, lowering his hands so that they rested at his sides.

Abruptly the woman grew tense again, jerking the scythe in unequivocal menace. Aragorn realized too late that the motion had drawn undue attention to his knife. With finger and thumb he plucked it from his belt and cast it on the ground. The woman inhaled sharply, torn between alarm and surprise.

'I mean no harm,' Aragorn said again. 'Please. Let me go on my way.'

Before the woman could answer him there was a flurry of woolen skirts and pale, bouncing curls, and a sturdy girl-child bounded out in front of her mother, brandishing a long iron poker.

'Go away!' she commanded viciously. 'Go away before my father comes back and shoots you with his sling!'

The woman seemed torn between horrified astonishment and wild amusement, but Aragorn made a point never to mock the courage of children. Solemnly he bowed his head to her and said; 'I will be glad to go away, young mistress, if your mother gives me leave. I am a trespasser on her holding, and I am therefore at her mercy – and yours.'

His level words brought the lady to her senses. 'Annis!' she said sharply, letting one hand loose of the scythe to seize her daughter by the shoulder and push her back into the doorway. 'I told you to mind the baby.'

'I'm minding the baby,' lisped a familiar voice. Osberht appeared on the threshold, his short arms wrapped around a lusty-looking babe of some three months. The boy's back was swayed and his belly thrust out as he trundled beneath the weight of the infant. 'I'm helping,' he said happily.

Mother and sister turned upon him and a moment later the scythe was on the ground as the woman scooped up her child before his well-meaning sibling could drop him. The babe hiccoughed contentedly and the woman smoothed his downy hair. She clucked softly to her little one in some nonsensical love-language, before reaching down to rap Osberht's chin with her knuckle.

'You're too small to carry the baby,' she scolded fondly.

'Yes, much too small,' Annis agreed. She was holding the poker like a cooking spoon now, and no longer seemed quite so formidable an opponent.

Not until the woman turned her eyes upon him again did Aragorn realize that he had been smiling at the portrait of domestic serenity before him. He moved his lips slightly in a wordless apology. She hiked the baby up onto her bony hip and cocked her head to one side, studying him with a critical eye.

'Go,' she said. 'I cannot stop you. Next time you pass this way, remember that you are not welcome in our hay.'

'Yes, lady. I will remember,' Aragorn said. 'Thank you.'

The woman clicked her tongue and herded Annis and Osberht into the house. She turned on the stoop, looking him over once more. 'You may fill your skins at our well,' she said. 'The stream is foul: we lost one of our calves this spring. But be sure you replace the cover. Osberht might so easily fall in.'

Aragorn nodded wordless thanks, and stood motionless until the woman was inside. He heard her draw the latch, and then there was the grinding sound of a bolt being lowered across the door. Then he took a moment to exhale, gratitude for his easy escape suffusing his chest like warmth. He bent to retrieve his knife, and then moved towards the wooden pallet that doubtless covered the well. It might have been prudent to check on his captive first, but it was only by the best of fortune that the woman had not inquired whether he was alone. It would not do to court discovery.

Quickly he raised the well-cover. There was a bucket within, hanging from a hook driven deep into the sheer earthen side of the hole. He lowered it deftly, drawing up the full vessel raining clean water. He rinsed his bottles and filled them, then cupped his hand to drink of the cold fluid. Last he bathed his face, before returning the pail to its place and covering the well again. Then tucking his knife into his belt he rose and moved swiftly towards the henhouse. What he saw as he turned made him regret his choice to draw water first.

Gollum had wriggled free of the Ranger's cloak. Though he was still tethered to the coop he had rounded it, and with his nimble fingers had forced the latch on the hen-house door. He was squatting before it now, one leg bracing it so that the fowl could not escape. He was leaning into the crack, his head twisted round and his eyes screwed closed in concentration as his feeling fingers groped inside. The chickens seemed oblivious to his surreptitious quest, for they had not altered their gossiping clucks, but Aragorn realized at once what the wretch intended.

He bolted forward, covering the remaining ground in a bounding leap. Just as he was about to seized him by one bony shoulder, Gollum bared his teeth with a hiss of triumph. Rocking back on his heels he drew out his prize: a small brown egg. His eyes glittered greedily, and he flexed the fingers of his other hand in anticipation. Quick as he could, Aragorn plucked the egg from the creature's fingers while at the same moment hauling back on the halter so that Gollum was robbed of breath before he could cry out his protest.

'You hateful thief!' he snarled, his voice a discordant whisper that was hopefully inaudible within the house. Gollum was clawing at the rope, his tongue working furiously as he made a muted attempt to scream. Aragorn twisted the cord more tightly about his wrist. 'Be silent or I will silence you for all time! I will not have you betray us. Do you understand?'

Gollum tried to answer, but he could scarcely breathe. Instead he nodded frenetically. Aragorn released his grip and the prisoner fell back against the wall of the henhouse, gurgling hoarsely and rubbing at his throat. There was an angry red wheal where the cord had cut into it, but Aragorn had no patience for pity now. He opened the door to the coop and crouched to peer inside. The chickens, indignant, began to ruffle their feathers. Hastily he reached out to settle the egg in the corner, where it would hopefully keep until young Annis came to fetch it. Then he pressed the door closed and turned a smouldering eye on Gollum.

'Chokes us and beats us, precious. Tries to kill us, gollum,' he was muttering.

'Be silent!' Aragorn hissed. 'Do you expect me to watch while you rob these good people of their meagre victuals? How do you think that woman can feed her children if we take her eggs? How dare you presume your need to be greater than theirs? What—'

He stopped, closing his eyes and inhaling long and deeply through his nostrils. It was purposeless to attempt to impart a lesson in morality on this wretched thing. Gollum was little better than an animal. Although as his captor Aragorn could demand a certain standard of behaviour he had as much chance of inducing him to see the error in his ways as he had of sprouting wings that he might fly them both to Mirkwood.

He opened his eyes with snapping abruptness, and Gollum quailed, casting up an arm to shield his head. Aragorn turned away from him, and his lips tightened in anger. The hateful little beast had broken the latch in his eagerness to open the door.

'I can't leave it like that,' he muttered, more to himself than to his prisoner. 'The land seems empty, but a fox will walk ten miles for the promise of a feathered meal.' He rummaged in his pack and drew out the short length of copper wire. It pained him to forfeit it, for it would have proved invaluable in the building of a snare, but Gollum had left him little alternative. With practiced hands he twisted it into a hook, which he used to secure the door. 'You spiteful, selfish creature,' he said, surveying his quarry in aggrieved disbelief. 'Not a sound as we move off, or the Yellow Face will be the least of your pains.'

Mercifully, Gollum obeyed him. Aragorn gathered up his cloak, secured the rope once more to his wrist, and hastened northward. He drove his captive before him, and he did not look back.

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Perhaps three miles from the little cot, Aragorn made a sharp detour westward as a fistful of shadows appeared on a hillside to the east: doubtless Osbehrt's father with his cattle. As much as he desired to avoid contact with the man he was glad to have some proof of his existence. It would have been an ill thing to leave that young woman alone in the wild with three children.

He wondered what their story was. They were herdsfolk, obviously, but why then had they not followed their countrymen south with the fertile pastures? The answer seemed absurdly obvious once it occurred to him. Of course a woman in her last weeks of pregnancy could not make a long and uncertain trek to an insecure destination. They had reasoned that it was better to stay here, to pass the winter alone, than to risk wandering the plains with a new babe in the heart of winter.

For the next two leagues while he walked with his craven captive before him, Aragorn found his heart troubled by that thought. If the south lands were not safe for the herdsmen, what trouble rode in Rohan? It had been so long since he had last roamed these lands. Was it possible that there was no longer peace between Gondor and her northerly neighbour?

Thengel and Ecthelion had been near as brothers, but between Denethor and young Théoden stretched almost twenty years' difference in age – and many times that in disparate experience. Alliances between nations were never as simple as the temperaments of their respective leaders, but certainly the friendship between King and Steward in the years of Thorongil had done much to ensure amity between realms. And Denethor, though wise in his way and fervent in his duty to his people, had always lacked a certain knack for diplomacy. Yet surely, Aragorn reassured himself, a little coolness between the house of Mardil and the children of Éorl could not bring about the downfall of an alliance that had stood for centuries.

The possibility was a dreadful one, and in his overtired state Aragorn found it difficult to dwell on anything else. Gollum, silent and understandably resentful, ambled on ahead of him, pausing now and again to gnaw at his wasted fingers and to whimper deep in his throat. When a bracken hedge appeared off to the left, the Ranger decided that it was past time to halt.

Aragorn opened his pack, offering his prisoner one of his precious taproots. Gollum took it grudgingly, but he turned his back so that Aragorn could not watch him devour it. Finding himself too weary even to think of food, Aragorn took a mouthful of the sweet well-water and stretched out on his back with his neck resting on an upraised root. With a last groping check of the knot about his wrist, he let himself slip into shallow slumber.

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He dreamed, strangely enough, of Osberht. The little boy was running across a broad green field, his short legs pumping with impossible speed as he tried to keep from tumbling forward under the force of his own momentum. He was shouting something, and as he drew near Aragorn recognized the sound of his own name – though it had never been uttered in this land, not even by Gandalf. Osberht was almost upon him when he stumbled, and Aragorn bent to catch him before he could fall. He drew back with an armful of darkness… the child was gone.

Anxious, Aragorn spun on his heels, eyes straining in the blackness that now surrounded him. Dismay flooded his limbs and stole his very breath. How would he explain to the boy's mother what had happened?

There was a sound in the darkness.

He could not move, nor could he breathe. The noise was a familiar one, far more familiar to him now than the sound of his name. Yet he could not place it, that guttural hissing noise like swamp-gas escaping from some deep fissure in the earth, like the primal warning of a cornered serpent, like the inky exhalations of a spider, like the hellish maledictions of the Nazgûl…

The darkness sifted away as if the world of sight were a sinister fog rolling across the night. In disjointed segments that misted his eyes Aragorn realized that he stood in a marsh-land, grey and noxious beneath the light of a dying moon. He could smell the sour sulphurous stench of long decay. The ground beneath his boots shifted and he began to sink. Struggling against the sucking mire, he struggled forward. A willow tree stood in the midst of the swamp, its dead boughs drooping low over the waters. He reached out and caught hold of a fistful of trailing tendrils, hauling himself onto the firmly packed earth amid the tree's roots. Breathless he knelt, panting shallowly into his hands. A willow-bough brushed his ear.

All at once the branches were no longer swaying silently around him. They whipped out like tentacles, seizing hold of his arms, his legs, his body. Ten long wands like fingers twined themselves about his throat – squeezing, gripping, choking. The hissing sound was deafening now, vying with the roar of blood in his ears as Aragorn fought to breathe. He struggled, then lay still as he felt his throat collapsing beneath the pressure of the willow's hands. With his deep reserves of will he ordered himself to awaken, to abandon this dream before it put him to any further discomfort.

And sure enough, the mire melted away. The tree vanished into a canopy of bracken and the foul odours of the marshes were replaced with the spicy smell of dead grass. The dream was gone, but its two most dreadful aspects remained: the crazed hissing sound, and the inexorable pressure of fingers knotted firmly about his throat.

In the moment before black blotches obscured his sight, Aragorn saw Gollum's pale eyes looming over him, malice and triumph shining within them.