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Merry
“The trees are very close,” muttered Merry, as the chill of
evening beset them in the growing gloom. Light was failing to a pale, waning
glow as the sun descended into the west, and the forest seemed to stir alive.
Still, they were not fully roused, yet the low murmur that had followed after
the hobbits now had become distinct whisperings with fell voices and strange
tongue. Merry only smiled, as he boldly led his pony whither he wanted, and the
forest reluctantly opened a way before him. His pony was unwilling, but Merry
kicked it unremorsefully on its sides and forcefully drove it on by the reins.
He turned to Pippin, who had made no sound, but whose face was twisted as if in
pain and fear. “Do you hear them speak?” he asked lightly, yet sinisterly. “They
tell of dark beginnings and deep sleep. Heed them not, for their old strength
remains only in such sweet songs that bewilder the mind of the unwary. They
would have you, if they could! But not while I am here.”
There was a noise like wind, or cold laughter, that rustled the leaves of the
branches above. Merry felt the trees watching them with burning despise. The
forest hated all those that walked on two legs, and even those who lived outside
of its border were conscious of its deep anger and forbidding malice. In the
ancient days, the Shire had no protection from the forest in the East, until it
became too evident that the trees were closing in, and then the great hedge, or
High Hay, was built by the Bucklanders. Merry knew it would not be long before
something ill would befall the two lonely trespassers, regardless of his
knowledge. There was not much time, and though Merry and Pippin had started off
late, he felt that Frodo and Sam were not very far ahead. It was a sense, but
Merry was more aware of the presence of the ring than of his cousin who bore it.
It seemed, sometimes, that he did not have to be near to feel it, for its power
reached farther and clearer than sight.
Finally, Merry thought he could hear the clear and musical voice of a river
running strong away from their path. “Ah, it is the Withywindle before us,” said
Merry, looking pleased. “It is a light in a dark place, if I speak not too soon,
for I know now where we are. We shall follow it if we can, but I do not doubt
that it is also the wish of the trees for us to go that way. I think, that Frodo
and Sam must also have taken this road, though maybe they hoped for not. I have
not traveled so far into this forest before, but others have, and those that
return oft tell of an old, devious creature that dwells in the heart of this
place. He preys on the unsuspecting, but that will not be our undoing, for I am
expecting him. Whatever happens, Pippin, I bid you not to disappoint me again!
You will face your fear and doubt, and obey me exactly in all things. You may
redeem yourself yet. This unpleasant journey is needless and I can only hope
that it is not too late, for Frodo and Sam do not understand the danger in which
they are headed. They belong at home, with their family, not in Bree or
Rivendell! Surely you can see that, and you want them to come home?” Merry did
not wait for an answer. “Then do not fail me again!”
Frodo
Frodo had long since lost his sense of direction, but he knew that they were
headed the wrong way. He knew it in his gut, which churned with dread. He knew
it in his heart, over which a darkness had settled that was the equal of the
darkness around them. They had no choice, however. Every time they had tried to
head North, (or what they hoped was North), they encountered obstacles--thick
underbrush entwined with thistles, or deep washes filled with brambles, or
clumps of trees that crowded in so thickly even a slender hobbit like Frodo
could not pass between them, much less their ponies. Going back, of course, was
not an option, even if they could. They had to keep going. There was nothing to
do for it but take the path open to them and hope they would come out of the
Forest eventually.
The problem now, however, was going forward at all. Though the path had
eventually widened a bit and become clearer, Frodo was finding it increasingly
difficult to put one foot in front of the other. His limbs felt heavy, and his
eyes kept closing of their own accord. What light there was fast disappearing,
as if it was being consumed by the Forest itself, and Frodo longed to do nothing
more than curl up on a ball somewhere and go to sleep.
Sam must have felt the same way, for he suddenly dropped to his knees and his
head lolled.
This jolted Frodo, whose mind had been wandering dreamily, back to awareness.
Something was wrong. Sam had a strong constitution—one built up from years of
physical labor in the day and long hours drinking ale at night. There was
something very wrong about his collapsing just as evening came on. Yes, they had
both been mistreated by Merry at Crickhollow, and the going today had been
tough. But there was something uncanny about this sleepiness.
"Sam, no!" Frodo cried, and hurriedly knelt down by his friend. "We mustn’t stop
here. We have to keep going!"
Frodo grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled at it, trying to get the gardener to rise.
Frodo knew from the softness of the ground beneath his knees that they were near
water. He suspected, though he had no way to know for sure, that they were
near the heart of the forest itself. If even a fraction of the tales Frodo had
heard as a lad about The Old Forest were true, this was the very last place one
should sleep!
"Sam, come on!" Frodo urged, then with a gasp, jerked his foot to the side and
leapt to his feet. He could have sworn something had tried to wrap itself around
his foot! But when he looked down, there was nothing there. Nothing but the
usual thick roots and dead leaves that they had been seeing all day.
Sam
Frodo's cries caused the fatigued gardener to blink, once, twice, before his
eyes focused on the blurry hobbit kneeling besides him. In his state of
half-consciousness, the forest's surroundings confused him. Where was his room
in Crickhollow? And the bed that he had grown so accustomed to after spending so
much time tied to the post.
Then the haze of confusion passed, and Sam remembered that himself and Frodo had
to find a way through and out of this forest, and as soon as possible.
He was vaguely aware then of something pulling at his shoulder, though he gave
no reaction to it. Such a thing would require effort, and whilst Sam had never
shied away from anything requiring hard labour and effort, he simply had no
energy, and felt lifeless.
Frodo's words chose that moment to penetrate the soft rumblings of the forest,
which had become calming rather than threatening, as they were at the entrance
to the forest.
Sam groaned loudly as he struggled against the sleepiness he felt, to drag
himself to his feet. He failed, and only managed to lean forward so that he
could use his hands to crawl.
Frodo's sudden movements did not register to Sam's mind, but at his words Sam
crawled on, eager to be out of this place that lulled him to sleep.
With every crawl forward Sam felt his arms weaken, and his head loll further
down to his chest; he could go no further. "Sir..." he breathed, but found no
more energy to say anymore. He pulled himself back onto his knees, and fell
back.
His fall was hindered by something he could not see, and when he found support
he unfolded his legs from underneath him/
His eyelids fluttered shut, and Frodo's cried soon merged with the soft humming
he heard, that made him feel so relaxed. Soon he could hear nothing or feel
nothing.
Then there was a click. At this new sound Sam snapped his eyes open and looked
around for Frodo.
He could see nothing, only blackness, and he felt cramped. He tried to move but
found he could no, and that something was constricting him, and slowly crushing
him.
Pippin
"They would have me?" thought Pippin and he shuddered. His
wide eyes roved about seeking from tree to tree, each more twisted with malice
than the last. They leered at him, bent over him, and he could feel a heaviness
in the air as if their very breath and words were seeking to encase him in some
dusty tomb. Pippin hurried his pony closer to
Merry's which seemed to make his cousin chuckle darkly. But Pippin cared not and
huddled close.
A clear ringing sound broke through his dusty tomb like a gleaming light and he
looked up and heard Merry cry, "Ah, it is the Withywindle before us..." and
Pippin's heart leapt forward. But he could no longer think of the clear music of
the water or the hope that it ignited in his heart for Merry was speaking to him
again in a bold voice that called for all of his attention like the blaring of a
bold trumpet. And Pippin's heart was enamored and he looked upon Merry
like a knight upon his steed, in a gleaming hauberk and a shining helm, leading
him boldly. "I shall follow," thought Pippin with reverence. "I shall
follow him. He cannot lead me astray, not with this strength to keep us to our
path."
"Oh Merry I shall make amends!" cried Pippin and Merry finished and seemed to
smile upon him. "Oh Merry! I do not ask you to forgive me for what I did, it was
poor council and my ears should be boxed for listening to it." Then Pippin was
silenced under Merry's steady and piercing glance and the young Took felt his
heart quail. His voice suddenly lowered into a tone Peregrin Took had never
before used, that of steady, deep understanding, of pure adult responsibility.
"I will not fail you, Mer."
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