Chapter Seven:  Under the Eaves of Anger

At dawn the next morning, the party broke camp, mounted and rode north at a slow pace, for both Bragwine and Windlaf counseled there was no telling what greeting they might find as they approached the Treegarth.  As they rode, the roadway changed; what was an arrow-straight highroad until now became a winding pathway that followed the bank of the Isen as it flowed from the valley ahead.  After a league or so, the path left the riverbank and shot straight north once more.  And as they approached and crested one final hill, the vista before them opened in wonder.

The Treegarth was a vast orchard and tended wood, flowering and blossoming in the spring airs.  Every manner of fruit, nut and flower colored the vale in a vast carpet, a riot of scents from every blossom assaulting their noses with myriad perfumes.  And in the center, in the middle of a dark still lake that lay like a mirror against the clouds, rose the spire and tower of Orthanc itself, black and imposing against the bright sky and clear waters.  From where the riders stood, there were two tall trees like doorposts, forming the gate from where the paved street ran all the way to the tower, though now submerged beneath the water.  All was silent, except for birdsong and breeze, the speech of trees in their boughs.

Dorwin was listening closely, leaning forward on Forosul and holding a hand to his ear.  “There are voices in the wood”, he said, “voices that are many and confusing.  Some are curious, some might welcome, but others, the most numerous, are angry.  They are being disturbed and look to see us gone.  And there is another note in their speech:  a summons, a call to arms.  They call for a shepherd to drive us off!”

They all knew this to be true, because the horses began to shy and stamp, as if they knew what was coming before it could be seen, which presently it was.  The trees to the side of the pavement began swaying like a high wind, then parted as if shoved aside.  Through the canopied archway the trees created strode a being from another, much older world.  A figure fully ten feet tall with short, squat legs like stumps approached them at a remarkable gait for such and ungainly creature.  The long torso and arms were grayish-brown, smooth and veinless and almost waxy.  The beard, too, almost looked waxen, as did the bristlecone of hair.  But the eyes were the most shocking and powerful of this creature’s appearance, for they were deep and thoughtful, but also burned with a fury that no man or orc could match.

The horses of the Rohirrim began shying back, and their masters did not hold them, such was the malice off this being – an Ent, obviously, but something not fitting with the tales of the wise wood-creatures they learned.  Dorwin leapt from horseback to the ground and motioned for Halrohir to do the same.

“Hail, new friend Onod, of the people of Fangorn, eldest and wide-walkers of the wood!” he cried.  “Dorwin is my name, of the people of the Eldar of Imladris.  It is you and your folk we came from afar to seek out, for we crave your counsel and your aid.”

The Ent did not answer right away, his eyes moving over Dorwin and holding him for a minute.  Then the eyes shifted to Halrohir, and the weakened form of Morindal; then once again back to Dorwin.  The Ent took two steps tentatively closer to the elf and stood for a silent moment more.  Finally, he broke his silence.

“Hrm, harm”, it rumbled, “An Elf, a Man, and two horses – one of which has a curious scent, most curious indeed, harm”.  And the great being took two steps towards Morindal, who did not blench or turn away, but stared at the Ent as if in challenge.  The Ent took two huge sniffs, tasting the horse’s scent.

“Harm, hey, this horse smells of Ent-draughts!”  he said surprised.  “The Ent-draughts are not to be shared, except the time when the little hobbit-children came to stay with us and joined the Ent-moot.  That was a stirring time, and I am sorry to have missed most of it.  So, master Elf, you bring curious friends with you?  And what business might you have in the Treegarth, where we keep watch?  What counsel would you seek that we might share, if we were so inclined to do so?”

“Counsel that only the Onodrim can provide”, Dorwin answered.  “I shall tell the tale we have journeyed far to complete – although this man, my friend Halrohir, and friend of the black horse, can tell the story as it is proper to be heard.”  Dorwin nodded to Halrohir, who glared at Dorwin, but never took an eye off the Ent for dread of being picked up and tossed aside.

The Ent turned to stare down Halrohir and held his gaze for a moment longer.  “Harm, hoorm, so the tale is yours, eh?  With such a curious party, it might even be worth a telling.  At the least, it is worth a drink.  At least then, your throat will be wet enough for this strange story.  Follow closely, for the trees still remember the orcs, and you look like them, save the Elf, of course.”  And the Ent pivoted on his stumps and began walking in that gait.  Halrohir and Dorwin led their horses behind them, but the Rohirrim were neither invited nor welcome; wisely they chose to stay at the eaves of the gate.

Not a hundred yards into the trees did a small stone cropping from which a spring bubbled appeared.  The Ent reached down and picked up two smallish bowls and handed them to both the travelers.

“This is not the spring of the Ent-draughts, of course”, he said as if in answer to an unasked question.  “That is saved for Ents, and not outsiders.  Now, I am being hasty, and forgetting my conduct with the new visit and the visitors, strange as you are.  You named yourself Dorwin, and you were named, harm, Halrohir.  My name, in your Elvish tongue, is Celdoron.  In the tongues of Men, I am Silveroak.  That will do to go on with.  Now, start your tale, and we must have it from the beginning.  But also answer me this:  does it include the reason why your black horse reeks of Ent-draughts?”

So, Halrohir spun his story front to finish, with Silveroak listening at every word, and asking questions at every stop.  The strange Ent paid close attention to the forests he passed by, or the types of trees that grew, but especially the tale of how Morindal fell into the Entwash to begin with, and somehow bathed in the enchanted stream.  And he heard the warning of the every-twenty-year visit to Fangorn and to find the Entwash where he was foaled, but now confused with Ent-draughts instead.  In time, the tale would down to its end, and Silveroak rose and laved his long hands into the spring and drank a single long pull of water.  Once done, he rose and spoke.

“Harm, hm, hm, hey harm”, he rumbled, “a great long tale, and no mistake.  I can tell you, with utter certainty, that he did in fact fall into the Entwash as a foal, and the portion of the stream he found had its virtue upon it.  Now, that was a spring from an old Ent-house in that corner of the forest.  The Ent who lived there, lives there no more.  You will not find that spring again.  But do not be hasty in your despair”, he said as he saw the shock in Halrohir’s eyes.  “It is only as you have been told, that the horse requires, the Ent-draughts themselves.  He needs a drink, not a drowning.”

“But Silveroak, is that possible?” Halrohir asked, pleading.  “I have come leagues beyond leagues to see this done, because I have waited too long on the road for him.  Morindal is my friend, the best friend I have in all the world”, he said throwing an arm around the great horse’s neck, “just tell me where I need to go and what to do, and I will do it!”

Silveroak stood long and silent, surveying Halrohir with those impenetrable eyes.  All grew quiet while everyone waited.  Was the Ent thinking or looking long?  After what seemed an hour, the Ent said, “The places of the Ents inside Fangorn Forest are too far for you faithful horse to make unassisted.  Therefore, I shall assist you.  Bring him to the fountain.”  And Halrohir began leading Morindal to the spring, and Silveroak said, “No, no, that’s only a spring.  He needs the fountain, and that’s this way.  Come!”  And the party trooped on after the Ent who waddled on his stumps, down a path that opened before them as the trees swept their branches up to clear the way as Silveroak passed.  While they walked, Silveroak spoke of himself.

Silveroak was not an Ent.  He was a Huorn, one of the tree-folk of the Ents that stood here and there in the forest, not moving, but ready to be stirred when Ents rouse them.  As Silveroak told the tale, he was not present at the march of the Ents on Isengard, but at the Battle of Helm’s Deep, and the fight against the orc-invasion of Rohan, both served to completely wake him up into full Entishness.  Since the end of the war and the creation of the Treegarth, he elected to remain here and make his Ent-house in this place, learning Ent-lore from others and learning not to be hasty.  But the innate rage and fury of the Huorns still burned within Silveroak, and though it made for a fabulous guardian, it was wasted in peaceful times.   

Nonetheless, they came at last to a place that served for Silveroak’s Ent-house, his home in the Treegarth.  One flat stone balanced above two vertical pillars, and a spring bubbled merrily nearby.  Nearby were two stone jars, one a mossy color, the other almost grey.  The Ent removed the covers off the jars, and with a huge ladle began filling them both from the spring. 

“I had not filled them recently”, Silveroak said, “so we may as well drink from filled jars.  Especially one guest.”  Once he was done, he replaced the lids, and turned back to Halrohir.  “Now, Man of the West though you be, I am not pleased with why you demand the gifts of others to satisfy your own.  You wish for this horse to carry you to fame, is that not so?”

“I thought that once, a few years ago, Silveroak”, Halrohir answered, “but all changed.  I learned what it was to have many depend on you.  I learned what it was to be afraid for others.  And I learned how important friends are, whether Elf, Man, or beast.  I will cross lands and dangers and rivers and mountains for my friends, because they deserve all the best I have.”

“And does this beast agree?” Silveroak asked Dorwin.  “Your people did it first, teaching everything to speak.  What do you know?”

“Horse and rider made a pact, O Celdoron”, Dorwin replied.  “each will stay with the other for as long as time allows.  The waters of Fangorn will keep this partnership going for many years, long beyond the normal span of years of his kind.  And the lives he will save, the stories that will be told, the hearts he will hold all await him, Morindal, Blackfoot the Faithful.”

Silveroak said nothing, but leaned down toward Morindal, who still did not flinch at the presence of the Ent.  The tree-herd sniffed several times, taking in the great black’s scent.  Morindal snuffed the Ent in return, snorting with his customary “Whuff!”  This seemed to amuse Silveroak a bit.  He then straightened, then walked back to the stone jars, opened the moss-covered one, and waved a hand to Halrohir, beckoning him to being Morindal closer.  As the Ranger and his horse approached, the Ent laved his hands in the basin slowly, and a rich green light could be more felt than seen.     

“No ladle is big enough for him,” Silveroak said.  “Here you are, Blackfoot who is named Morindal.  Drink, mighty friend, and regain your strength, your youth, your joy.  Run with the clouds once again.”

Morindal looked into the stone jar, then turned his head to Halrohir.  He stretched his neck and pulled his beloved Ranger in closer, hugging him with his neck and muzzle. Halrohir returned the hug, and then watched as Morindal plunged his face into the jar, his muzzle below the water, snorting and puffing.  He began to drink – and drink – and drink, steadily draining the jar with each pull of water.

Silveroak was clearly impressed.  “Hoom, harm, this isn’t a thirsty horse, no.  This is hunger I see.  At this rate he’ll be back to his old strength by the morning sun.  Maybe sooner, should he not come back up for air.”  As soon as the Ent mentioned it, Morindal reared back and threw his head up high, water raining from his nostrils, his muzzle damp almost to his eyes.  The great black horse was, even from these draughts, visibly changed.  The protruding ribs were faded, the shaggy boots and mane were now fuller and thicker, and the gray around the muzzle and eyes had almost blackened once more.  The black stallion rose on his hind legs and sounded his thunderous neigh, deep-voiced and rolling with power once more.

Dorwin was grinning from ear to ear at the power of the Ent-draughts, but Halrohir was teary-eyed, choking, and unmanned at the sight of his beloved companion restored, even partially, as if by ancient wonder.  If there had ever been any uncertainty as to the substance behind Morindal’s legend, the mere sight of the transformation of one drink would dispel all doubt.  Halrohir was shamelessly crying as he wrapped his arms around Morindal’s neck, the horse vigorously nodding.  Dorwin drew close and laid his hand across Halrohir’s shoulder, still smiling.

“Hoom, harm, hey now, wanderers all”,  Silveroak said, “far be it from me now to break up this merry scene, but there is counsel to be had, and hastily.  These are not the draughts of the Ent-houses far away, this is rather a fountain for use here in the Treegarth.  Isen is not Entwash, after all; though the waters of both come from the same source, the heights of Methedras above us.

“These waters your great horse has feasted upon will not sustain him as foretold to you.  For that, you must seek purer waters, and those will only be found inside Fangorn itself.  Now, you were right to come here first, for you would never have had the benefit of counsel or the draughts to keep on the trail.”

“So, we must press on”, Halrohir said grimly, his joy now dimmed.  “But how now must we carry on, since journeying into Fangorn itself may not be as welcoming or accommodating as you have been?”

“That may not be as difficult as you imagine, horse-friend”, Silveroak said.  “My counsel is simple.  You and your band of companions must follow the feet of the mountain, headed east until the land bends north.  Turning north to follow the hills, you will find the rills, streams, and brooks that gather their waters to form the Entwash.  Follow them just downstream as the waters build, keeping the stream on your left, until you find the dwelling of a true Ent, called in your tongue Goldleaf.  His Ent-house is possessed of the spring that will provide the true draught that your mighty friend requires.”

“We thank you indeed, O Celdoron of the Onodrim”, Dorwin saluted the Ent as they found their mounts.  “Without your aid, our errantry might have failed in the end, having never found it.”

“How shall we find Goldleaf”, Halrohir asked, astride a renewed Morindal once more, feeling the horse’s great strength beneath him again.  “We cannot get messages to him, and whet if we miss him entirely, he may be abroad in the forest, for instance.”

“Harm, allow me to arrange things better than that”. Silveroak said.  “I shall send word ahead for you, along paths that the Ents are wont to go, telling of your tale and your plight.  But be cautioned:  do not tarry!  The draughts your great steed drank will keep his strength for only a little while, then his weakness shall compound once more.  Do not squander his power without need.  You are a hasty folk, each of you, and I fear that haste is precisely what is needed in this hour.  Go with good will and watch for signs of both good and ill!”  With that, Silveroak waved both his hands at the surrounding trees, and once more they parted to reveal a straight path, leading east towards the start of their journey.

Halrohir and Dorwin rode down the tree path until after a while, they exited the Treegarth on the eastern side, the brooding bulk of Methedras on their left to the north, the Isen flowing in its bed before them, and just approaching from the south side of the garth came Bragwine, Windlaf, and their company of riders.  As they halted, not a few stared and exclaimed at the transformation of Morindal in health and strength.  Here was the legendary beast they had been told of.

At Halrohir’s urging, the company rode out without delay eastward around the feet of the mountain.  The sun had already climbed to the sky when they arrived at the Treegarth; it had passed through noon during their time there, and they were riding at a steady pace to spare Morindal’s strength, but the mighty stallion seemed to want to press on, as if he either knew of the urgency of the ride,  or simply was reveling in his new-found energy and power.  The company rode on, reaching the turning in the lands that Silveroak described, and made their camp just under the eaves of Fangorn.  Dorwin firmly counselled the Rohirrim only build a single watch fire, and to cut or burn no living branch.  Dorwin’s word was followed, and the hours passed beneath the stars for all, save Halrohir.  Once more, he paced to the paddock where the horses stood, and spoke to his beloved friend in the quiet.

“We are so close”, he said to Morindal, “so close we could taste it – in fact, you did taste it today!  A partial draught to revive your flagging strength, to get you to the next place.  Oh, that I could have brought a barrel along just for you!  We could have fed you for days along the ways.  Curse me that I didn’t think of asking!”  He strode around, then stopped and returned to stroke Morindal’s mane.  “I promised, you big heap, you will stay with me.  We will see this through, and I will not leave this go so close again.  And now that we shall know the true source of the Ent-draughts, we need never flail about in the Wild again.  Straight as coursers we shall fly!”

The giant black stallion named Morindal, the mightiest horse in the North of Middle-Earth, shook his shaggy head, bumped his beloved man’s hand, and said nothing.