Note: 'Fifteen Birds' from 'Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire', The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien

Chapter XLIV: Roosting in a Storm

Aragorn had wondered whether he would struggle to stay awake, stretched out upon the comfort of the boughs beneath the shelter of the fir. He need not have worried. His stomach kept him from any chance of sleep, churning and cramping as it tried to cope with what he had eaten. After too long without adequate food he had fairly glutted his shrunken belly, and upon the tough fibres of a pine tree at that. Still, the discomfort was bearable and he knew that he had done himself more good than harm. Only now, as nourishment began to clear it, did he recognize the fog in which he had been walking for days. The bark did more to ease his headache than the squirrel had done, and the vile taste in his mouth was gone now, replaced with the faint spicy tang of pine resin. Best of all was the knowledge that he had secured a sure source of food, at least as far as Anduin. He just had to be more careful to control his appetites.

He passed the hours until dawn peaceably enough, then rose and rousted Gollum. Dispersing the signs of his simple camp was quick work, and then he found a pine he had not touched the night before and helped himself to a portion of its bounty. He tucked the chips of bark into a fold of his blanket, which though no longer heavy with snowmelt was still uncomfortably damp, so that he might eat while he walked.

The forest was not as dense by daylight as it had seemed in the darkness. The snow was still falling, thicker and wetter than before, and it filtered in between the firs and gathered on Aragorn's hair and shoulders. Still he was mercifully out of the wind, and the drifts between the trees were easier to break than the ones on the hills. He kept a northeasterly course and made better progress than he had in many days.

Sometime after midday he came upon clutch of large stones in the shade of two great fir trees, and here he halted. A chore long-delayed was nagging at him, and this was as good a place as any to see to it. While Gollum sat behind him, quiet but malevolent, Aragorn settled on the tallest rock and braced his left heel against a smaller one. Setting his jaw and steeling his resolve, he began to struggle with his boot. It was time to check his feet.

He knew that something was amiss as soon as the leather gave way and yielded up his heel. The winter air seemed to clap his leg from the middle of his shin to the tip of his great toe in a burning fetter of misery. The sleepy numbness that he had accounted up to cold and weariness now took on a more sinister significance, and with his heart in his throat Aragorn reached both hands to clasp his ankle. His fingers settled against spongy wool suddenly chilled in the open air. His hose were soaked through; wet enough to be wrung out. Hastily he wrenched off the other boot, and found the same ill tokens. He stood and fumbled with the points that bound his hose, stripping off the woollen and linen layers so that his long legs were bare. Then he sat again and set about his grim inspection.

It was not as bad as he had feared. His feet were mottled; red from the wet, blue from the cold, sullen purple from fresh bruises and bilious green from old. There were blisters atop his small toes: the last three on the right, two on the left. On the others there were shallow open sores where the chilblains had burst, stinging bitterly and weeping clear fluid. His nails, carefully pared in Lothlórien, were snagged and ragged once more, but all but two were whole and none showed yellow. The thick calluses on his soles and at the side of each great toe were peeling, but still intact. His heels were blackened and beaten from his long road. But the skin between each toe was still smooth and healthy, and it was only the want of adequate provender that made the veins atop each foot stand out so starkly from the flesh.

Folding his bare feet under him so that he sat cross-legged on the stone, Aragorn picked one of his woollen hose and wrung it out into the palm of his hand. He sniffed at the water that gathered there. It held a faint stink of shed skin and the oily scent of leather, but little smell of perspiration. Even as he felt the small relief of knowing that he had not been a fool and unwittingly pushed himself dangerously hard, a knot of dread began to form at the base of his ribs. If the damp did not come from his sweat, then there was only one other explanation, and it was something beyond his power to help. His boots were leaking.

He picked up the right one, and turned it over in his lap. The heel, of course, was worn almost to nothing – but this he had known since passing into Eastemnet, for it was what was causing his own heels to be so bruised and tender. The sole was badly thinned, but still whole. He checked the double line of sturdy stitches that joined the vamp to the sole. There were breaks in the inner thread, but the outer one held. The rand, however, was cracked: at the instep, and near the base of his smallest toe, and thrice at the heel.

The left boot was worse. There was a gap in the outer stitching near the inseam of the vamp, and the inner threads were broken less than an inch behind. As he examined it, a piece of the rand actually came loose and started rattling around inside, and when he turned the boot to shake it out his eyes fell on a hole worn right through both layers of the sole where the inner ball of his foot bore most of his launching pressure. It was not a large hole: not much bigger than the tip of his longest finger, in fact. Still it was large enough to cause no end of misery, as his wretchedly itching feet were all too happy to attest.

He could not go on as he was, and so Aragorn slid off of the stone and set about gathering fuel for a fire with which to dry his hose. It was quick but unpleasant work, padding barefoot through the snow to find dead branches that were not too wet. He had little hope of avoiding smoke entirely, for the air was not much colder than freezing, but he did the best that he could. Gollum did not seem to appreciate his efforts, for he hung back as far as the rope would allow, and he grumbled to himself. Aragorn ignored him, except occasionally to wrap his right hand over the loop around his wrist so that it would not chafe him so painfully.

He laid his simple hearth between three of the stones that sat almost beneath the branches of one of the furs. In that way the needles might disperse the worst of the smoke. Aragorn wrung out his hose and spread them over the rocks to dry, then perched above the flames until he had restored some feeling to his toes. Then, deciding that he would not allow the fire to go to waste, he roused himself and his reluctant prisoner again and went in search of a pine.

A low, flat stone laid close by the embers provided a cooking surface, and soon Aragorn had the little strips of pine-bark roasting. Hot they soothed his stomach and put a little warmth in his chest, and cooking softened the tough fibres and left them with a pleasant smoky taste. He offered Gollum his share, and the creature sniffed sceptically at the food before slipping it into his mouth. He made a truly hideous face of disgust, but he ate what he was offered and did not shrink too far from the warmth of the fire.

When he had eaten Aragorn set about doing what he could to shore up his boots. Using the same flat stone, he spread the edge of the Lórien-blanket over it and placed his left boot on the cloth with care, as near to the seam as he could. Carefully he cut the wool, mindful that he did not scrape his knife along the boot, until he had two pieces precisely the shape of the sole. In a few weeks' time when the sap was flowing, he might have been able to harvest a little pitch with which to paint the cloth, but winter was still too deep for such endeavours and he had no stew-pot for boiling it out of chilled bark. The wool would have to serve as it was. Then he cut the end off of his belt, shaving the edges into a fine bevel so that they would sit almost flat against his boot. This he placed inside, to cover the hole in his sole. Then he slipped in the two woollen insoles, aligning their edges as neatly as his stiff fingers would allow, and settling them against the seam. It would not keep out the damp entirely, but at least he hoped that it would help.

There was little enough he could do about the right boot, though he cut a woollen lining for it as well. Now the bottom edge of the blanket was ravaged and tattered, but healthy feet were more important than a warm body, and he knew he had little choice in the matter. The work had dulled the point of his knife, and he was glad of the foresight that had driven him to keep the fine-grained pebble that he had collected at Gladden's bank. He whetted the blade with care and then found himself with nothing more to do while he waited for his hose to dry. He warmed his raw hands and he rested his sore feet near the flames, and his back grew cold with the softly falling snow.

When at last he was able to clothe his legs again, he did so with the greatest of care. Despite the tight and brittle leather of his battered boots he managed to work each foot in slowly and gently enough that he scarcely bestirred the wool within. The leather patch did shift a little, but he managed to tug it back into place with the tip of his knife. The cloth of his hose was warm from the fire, and for a while at least the pain in his broken skin and the small weary bones of his toes was eased. He waited until the last of the heat died from the stones before dispersing the signs of his fire and setting out again. As he walked he did what he could to avoid the worst of the snow, but there was only so much that could be done. He had to walk on, and so his feet were bound to get wet again. He would simply have to take the time each day to dry them out as best he could.

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Near nightfall the snow ceased and the clouds dispersed a little. The great waxing moon peered down through the trees, lighting Aragorn's way and making Gollum squirm. It seemed it was not only Yellow Face who plagued him, but White Face as well. Still he did not dare to impede his jailor's progress, and had to satisfy himself with trying to scramble from shadow to shadow as the tether would allow. Twice during the night Aragorn stopped to find a pine and take a small portion of its bark, which he chewed slowly and thoroughly as he walked. He never took enough to fill his stomach: he had learned that lesson well. Yet surely small and frequent feedings would serve better to keep him upright and aware, or so he told himself.

The forest was less overgrown here, and now and again Aragorn came across signs of Men: stumps cut clean and low, and deep ruts beneath the new-fallen snow where a woodsman's sledge had been hauled by two doughty oxen. There were those among the Beornings who dwelt just north of the Old Road and well west of their brethren in small rustic villages: chiefly those charged with setting the tolls and keeping the access to the High Pass safe for travellers. It seemed they sometimes sought their timber away to the south. But of the woodsmen themselves he saw nothing, and he continued through the following morning through the solitary forest.

At noon he halted, again laying a small fire and stripping off his boots and his hose so that his feet might dry. The itch and sting of the chilblains he could bear: it was nothing to that same discomfort in his hands. But the open sores worried him. Cold, wet feet might easily fester, and he had many leagues yet to walk. This was all that he could do, however, and so he did it and he hoped that it would be enough.

He walked through the afternoon, still making a good and steady pace, but as dusk gathered he decided to halt. He was laden with weariness, and he had walked unharried for many days now. There was no sign of the pursuit that he still feared, and it was time to truss up his captive and risk a little sleep.

As he had done before he built a simple bed of pine-boughs beneath the obliging shelter of a fir tree. The rags with which he had bound Gollum's hands before had been lost with his baggage in Gladden, so he cut fresh strips from the looted hem of the blanket. Gollum obeyed as the Ranger tied his wrists, and his glare scarcely even seemed to darken. Perhaps, Aragorn thought, the small gifts of food and fire truly had led the creature to decide that he was better off with his captor than he would be alone in these winter woods. Whatever the case, he was grateful that he did not have to struggle. With Gollum's hands secured and another modest helping of pine chips in his belly, Aragorn lay down upon his fragrant pallet and let himself slip into shallow, wary slumber.

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Even in his dreams Aragorn heard the wind rise. It was roaring down out of the mountains, swift and strong and cold, bringing with it the wrath of the high places. It whipped across the hills and churned in the valleys, and it set the fir-trees creaking. Far away there was a sundering crack as some old trunk toppled before the gathering storm. The Ranger awoke briefly then, shivering as the temperature began to fall around him. But he had wandered long and he was weary, and so he merely rolled onto his side and curled in his limbs beneath his blanket and dozed lightly again. There was a mass against his calves now, and he realized in his half-waking state that it was Gollum, driven by fear or by chill to huddle close to his captor. Above them the branches of the fir lashed and swayed, but it was a strong tree in the very haleness of its life and it stood like a stalwart guardian above them. All around the forest rattled, but in their little tent of drooping boughs they were as safe and sheltered as it was possible to be.

The mind of the long-hunted would not give itself over to sleep amid the noises of the night, and so Aragorn gave up trying. He sheltered his ear and the crown of his head under a corner of the blanket and lay awake, listening. At his feet Gollum was whimpering deep in his throat.

'Come here,' Aragorn said in a low voice that was almost lost in the percussion of the swaying trees. He was piteously glad that they had the shelter of the forest tonight. Out in the hills this wind would be a deadly thing. 'I shall sleep no more: I will unbind your wrists.'

Gollum moved quickly, scrabbling over Aragorn's drawn-up knees and very nearly landing on his forearm. Disentangling his hands and exposing them to air now nigh as bitter as that which had tormented him after the fall into Gladden, he groped until he found his captive's bonds. He loosened them quickly so that he could retreat back into the relative warmth of his wild bed. Then his weary conscience scolded him and he lifted the edge of the blanket again.

'Draw near and be warm,' he said to Gollum. 'I would not let even a servant of the Enemy brave the bare air unclothed tonight.'

He waited, scarcely daring to breathe. This was a moment that would decide the course of what was left of their miserable road. If Gollum accepted this proffer of comfort, he would give himself over at last to the care of his captor. Aragorn might finally lay by the burden of relentless command. Perhaps, in the end, he might even coax the creature to speak to him, to confide in him and to share the secrets that he so desperately needed to hear. If Gollum rejected it, they would continue embattled to the very doors of Thranduil's dungeons and perhaps even until Dagor Dagorath itself.

Gollum seemed to hang back, torn between suffering and surrender. No doubt he could feel the heat of the Ranger's body beneath the blanket, and the plummeting cold of the air was biting at his back. Then a great shrieking gust of wind tore through the woods around them and, with a hoarse ululation of terror, Gollum sprang out of his squat as swiftly as a pouncing cat. One emaciated foot came down upon Aragorn's hip and before the Man could react his prisoner had swung himself up into the lowest branches of the fir.

'What—' Aragorn began, sitting up abruptly so that the blanket fell about his lap. His question was cut off in astonishment as Gollum hauled upon the rope between them with such force that his wrist was yanked away from his body. As he clambered to get his feet under him that he might haul his charge out of the tree, he heard another sound, borne upon the wailing wind and enough to freeze his very heart without any help from the brewing blizzard.

It was the keening hunting howl of a warg.

Aragorn snatched up his blanket and felt his belt to be certain that his belt and pouch were where they belonged. He could feel the weight of his water-bottle at his side, and in that dreadful moment he was glad that he had lost his pack, for he did not have to grope to find it now. An answering howl came, horrifyingly near at hand, and the first cried out again. There was no doubt now that these were something more than simple hungry animals. They were the very hounds of Morgoth, and they were on the hunt.

Gollum had used the additional scope of Aragorn's rising to skitter higher into the tree, and there might have been some sense in this if only their scent were not all about its base, and the bed of pine-boughs proof that even a troll could read.

'Get down from there, you fool!' the Ranger hissed, not daring to raise his voice lest it should alert their foes. 'Do you want them to stalk among the roots until you fall out at last? We must run!'

For the awful, eternal span of one gasping breath Gollum hesitated. Then he came slithering down from his lofty perch. Aragorn did not wait for him to find the ground again, but seized his withered body from the lowest branch and dropped him unceremoniously on his feet. His hand closed on the creature's forearm so that if he stumbled the cord would not strangle him before Aragorn could halt. Then he broke into a run, stooped to his left with Gollum stumbling after him.

The night was black about them and even on the forest floor the wind was strong enough to steal the breath from their lungs. Aragorn could not see where he ran, and so he flew by instinct alone, obeying his body's frantic demands to dodge left or bank right or to leap over some unseen root before his boots. Branches heavy with winter needles struck at his shoulders and his hips and his face. Once he heard Gollum yelp and the bare paddling feet struggled to find purchase on an icy incline. Unable to halt, Aragorn merely dragged upon his captive's arm and Gollum was briefly airborne until they reached surer ground. The wargs cried out again, behind and to their left: three, four, five… six crazed voices in the storm, all of them ravenous and all of them wrathful.

They had run as far as they reasonably could. Aragorn's chest was heaving in the bitter, burning air, and Gollum's knees kept giving out beneath him. The snow was flying now, and might perhaps disperse the worst of their tracks, and in any case if they did not halt soon neither would have the strength to get off of the ground. Aragorn groped blindly in the blackness, praying that the grace that had brought him to these woods in the first place would stand him in good stead now. His hands found broad, bony boughs that prickled with needles: strong branches, the lowest of them level with his shoulders. He bent and grabbed Gollum under the arms, hoisting him up onto the branch.

'Now climb!' he cried. Flinging the blanket over his shoulder, he planted both his hands and swung his long leg to hook around the bough. Swiftly but carefully he made his ascent, sounding each branch to be sure it would hold him before entrusting it with his weight. It would avail him nothing if he tumbled and broke his leg, leaving him as easy prey for the questing pack; or his neck, ending his troubles forever. He mounted only as high as he could be sure of his safety. Gollum, as able a climber as Aragorn had ever known, retreated to the very limit of the rope, nesting as far above as his captor's arm would allow.

Below and westward the wargs called, nearer now. There was nothing to do but cling to the bole of the tree, one leg dangling and the other braced against a nearby branch to take some of his weight off of his thighs. Aragorn was perhaps twelve or fifteen ells off the ground, and at this height the wind was frightful. He had tried to put his back to it, but it swirled madly in every direction. He did not dare to wrap himself in the Lórien-blanket, for fear that it would be snatched away – or worse, catch like a sail and upset his balance. So he turned his face in against the trunk and closed his eyes against the stinging snow and ice, and held on with his elbows as his hands began to grow numb.

He did not know if the wargs were hunting him, but to be abroad in this weather they had to have sure hope of game – or else they were ranging for revenge. The folk of these lands had ever been a dauntless enemy to the wild things of the mountain wastes, and the hatred between the woodsmen and the wargs was great. Perhaps this pack was seeking after someone else entirely. It was not a very noble hope, but Aragorn thought that at least the other party (if there was one) might be better armed than he. The Elven knife still hung at his belt, and though he would have felt a little less helpless with it in his hand he knew he could not be trusted to keep from dropping it.

The tree was swaying, buffeted by the wind that was his torment, but where Aragorn sat the trunk was still thick and sturdy, and it shifted little enough. It was something like riding the mast of a great sailing-ship upon curiously calm waves while the wildest of squalls tore the air. An unsettling sensation, to be sure, but nothing to the horror of trying to fend off half a dozen wargs without even the aid of a fire.

The leader howled again, and Aragorn felt his innards clench. The beast was very near now; surely not more than a hundred yards from the foot of the tree. Forcing himself to breathe despite his apprehension and the fierce chill of the wind, he tucked his head closer between his shoulder and the tree-trunk. He was shivering violently with the cold, for his tattered cote offered no real protection from the driving storm. In daylight he doubted that he would have been able to see more than a few yards through the snow, and it found its way into every tear in his garments. The tips of his ears were insensate already, and his lips tingled as they quivered. The backs of his legs were aching where the branch dug against them, and in his boots his feet were swiftly losing all feeling.

It was strange, he thought absurdly, because he had always enjoyed climbing trees as a boy. Yet it was one thing to perch on high, swinging bare feet in summer's warm breezes and laughing at Glorfindel's attempts to coax him down before he had to lay by his dignity and come up in pursuit. It was quite another to sit here in what was surely a mountain blizzard driven down into the lowlands by its own dauntless force, shivering and half-clad with a pain in his spine, unable to come down because there were wargs about.

He knew that he was losing his grip on reason when a snatch of song snagged in his memory.

Fifteen birds in five fir-trees,
their feathers were fanned by a fiery breeze…

What a time to think of fire, when he was perched high in the air in the midst of a vicious mountain storm with wolves on the prowl and a tiresome captive to protect! He shifted the rope just a little to be sure that Gollum was still at the end of it. An irritated tug was his answer, and he tried to press his body closer to the bole of the tree as the wind whistled higher. He had always found that trees had their own quiet warmth – not at all what one felt when pressed against a horse or an ox, certainly, but nonetheless a tangible comfort at moments such as this.

Not, of course, that he had ever before experienced a moment such as this. There was another snarling yowl: the warg lieutenant now, marshalling the others. He found that he was holding his breath, as if the low whispers of his lungs could possibly be heard over the shriek of the storm. Slowly he let out his air, and then regretted it almost at once because he was obliged to draw in a fresh draught that chilled his teeth and seared against his ribs. They were very close now. He could hear the leader's low, resonating growl. It must be a huge beast indeed to make such a sound be heard in the cacophony of the forest. Above him a branch creaked as Gollum shifted his position. Aragorn wanted to call out to him to be still, but any words loud enough to reach his charge would surely be heard below as well.

Again, like a persistent child tugging at his mother's skirts, the song plucked at him. Its melody was sour, and it was sung in a nasal mocking tone by a voice that was still somehow beloved.

Fifteen birds in five fir-trees,
their feathers were fanned by a fiery breeze!
But, funny little birds, they had no wings!
O what shall we do with the funny little things?
Roast 'em alive, or stew them in a pot;
fry them, boil them and eat them hot?

And then it seemed that he could hear the same voice falling laughingly out of its put-on accent with a jolly little chuckle. 'Well, as you can imagine, Dúnadan, I was as frightened as I had ever been in my life – up to that moment, at least – and I was quite sure we were all going to wind up as supper for the goblins after all, and those horrid stalking wolves. But Gandalf didn't seem afraid in the least, for all he must have been, because he said…'

The desire to smile did not quite translate to an ability to shift his cold-stiffened cheeks and his trembling lips, but Aragorn felt his spirits lifting a little. Dear old Bilbo and his tales. His grip around the trunk of the fir grew stronger and the ache in his legs seemed to abate a little. As uncomfortable as he was, he thought, his situation could have been far worse. He was an experienced wanderer, no stranger to physical strain, foul weather or wargs. He had no hard proof that the creatures were even after him, and if they were they had not found him yet. The storm that was so tormenting him was as much an advantage as it was a curse: it had certainly hidden his tracks and it would probably throw off his scent as well. And Gollum, though at times a hindrance, had given him his earliest warning of their danger. Aragorn did not think that the wolves had cried out before the howl he had heard; his prisoner must have caught their musk on the wind.

And at the very least he was not a hobbit, uprooted from his quiet life and coerced into danger, running helpless from tree to tree until someone (Dori, perhaps?) took pity on him and came down to help. The perch in the tree must have been quite terrifying enough for one brought up to love the low, safe places of the world. The threat of fire, the menace of the goblin-song, and the fierce prowling beasts – it was a wonder that even so long afterwards Bilbo was able to laugh about it.

Perhaps Aragorn, too, would laugh, if he managed to extricate himself from this situation unscathed. Clumsy but almost noiseless he stretched his right arm around the tree so that he could pull his left in towards his body for a while. The bare skin of his hand was afire with the cold, and his fingers were dead and wooden. He wondered whether it would be the wargs who would finish him after all, or the weather.

Suddenly the tree shuddered beneath him, and with his right ear temporarily tucked away from the wind he could hear the screech of claws biting into the bark near the foot of the pine. There came a questioning snarl, and a sharp and wrathful reply: the wargs calling out to one another in their own loathsome language. Aragorn did not have a wizard's gift for understanding the speech of beasts and birds, but he could guess the meaning of this exchange. One of them thought he smelled man-flesh, and the other disagreed.

There were more of them below him now, circling in the darkness. He could hear them grumbling and growling amongst themselves until one gave a shrill high howl and tore off into the night, thundering northeastward through the woods. One after another the others took up the call and sped away.

Aragorn remained motionless for a long time, straining to listen with ears growing steadily more numb. He had given up trying to pick up anything in the darkness and had closed his eyes. His eyelashes were freezing to his skin. His shivering had gone right to the bone and deep, violent tremors kept tearing through his chest and spine and out into his limbs. As wary as he was of descending, he knew that he had to find some better shelter from the hateful wind before he lost himself to the cold and could not maintain his seat. So when he reckoned that a quarter of an hour had passed with no sound of the wargs he released his desperate grip on the trunk and shifted to begin his descent.

Climbing down was far more difficult than climbing up had been. His hands were unfeeling and not very useful, and his feet kicked often in open air before finding the next branch. At first Gollum did not seem inclined to follow him, for the cord that bound them grew very taut indeed. Aragorn did not dare to tug upon it, for fear of sending his captive falling to snap his neck on the halter, and he waited anxiously for Gollum to make up his mind. Finally the rope loosened and he could hear the crackle of the branches as the creature began to move.

Aragorn did not dare to alight, for it was possible that the wargs would circle back. Instead he halted amid the lowest branches, where the surrounding trees and the drooping boughs provided at least some better shelter from the wind and flying ice. He wrapped his blanket about him with one fold covering his head, and braced his feet on a nearby branch. His frozen hands he tucked beneath each arm, trusting to his sense of balance to keep him from falling the seven feet into the drifting snow below. Gollum settled just above his head, pressed against the trunk and shivering wretchedly. And so they sat: not fifteen but only two lean and gangly birds, roosting together in a blizzard and waiting doggedly for the dawn.