Article: 213678 of rec.arts.books.tolkien Path: uchinews!news-hog.berkeley.edu!ucberkeley!newsfeed.stanford.edu!headwall.stanford.edu!unlnews.unl.edu!newsfeed.ksu.edu!nntp.ksu.edu!localhost!not-for-mail From: <<>> (William H. Hsu) Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien,alt.fan.tolkien Subject: E-Text Book II, Chapter 9 (The Grey Liver) Date: 16 Jul 2000 02:02:51 -0500 Organization: A poorly-installed InterNetNews site Lines: 751 Message-ID: <8krmmr$v7h$1@ringil.cis.ksu.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: ringil.user.cis.ksu.edu X-Trace: cnn.ksu.ksu.edu 963730975 5055 129.130.10.50 (16 Jul 2000 07:02:55 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse -aaatt- ksu -daht- edu NNTP-Posting-Date: 16 Jul 2000 07:02:55 GMT Summary: Lord of the Whatever, Book II, Chapter 9 (The Grey Liver) Keywords: tolkien, jrrt, e-text, lord of the rings, whatever X-Newsreader: NN version 6.5.6 (NOV) Xref: uchinews rec.arts.books.tolkien:213678 alt.fan.tolkien:37379 The Grey Liver Transcribed by: William H. Hsu Frodo was roused by Sam, not that there's anything wrong with that. He awoke from a wistful dream of Galadriel's lament as their boats slowly drifted out of Lorien. Long afterwards he interpreted them, as well as he could given Bilbo's somewhat fraudulent tutoring in Quenya: "Eh! leeke-a guld fell zee leefes in zee veend, bork, lung yeers noomberless es zee veengs ooff trees! Right On! De years gots' passed likes swift draughts uh de sweet mead in lofty halls beyond da damn West, benead de blue vaults of Varda wherein de stars tremble in de song uh ha' voice, holy and queenly. Slap mah fro! Who now shall refill thuh cup fo' me? Fur noo zee Keendler, Ferda, zee Qooeee ooff zee Sters, frum Muoont Ifervheete-a hes upleeffted her hunds leeke-a cluoods, und ell peths ere-a drooned deep in shedoo; und oooot ooff a grey cuoontry derkness leees oon zee fuemeeng vefes betveee us, und meest cufers zee jooels ooff zee Celecurya fur ifer. Now lost, mostly, lost to those from thuh East is like wow! Valimar! Oh, wow! Farewell! Gag me with a SPOOOOON! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar! Gag me with a pitchfork! Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell!" Frodo found that he was lying, wrapped from head to toe in all the spare elven cloaks, ropes, and /forlorn/ leaf wrappings from the /twinkies/ (or so he hoped) that Sam had collected from the Company's baggage. Looking up as he extricated himself from the swaddling, he noted that he was under a large, grey-skinned tree that looked vaguely humanoid. Pipsqueak noticed this as well and tried to strike up a conversation, but no amount of prodding, poking, kicking, name-calling, or waving of brands from Giggly's little fire could get a response from it. They started again shortly before noon, though Morrie would gladly have slept through lunch and tea-time. Nor were most of the Company eager to hurry southwards, considering the crises of leadership and bitter recriminations (to say nothing of the heat and humidity) that lay beyond. Aragon let them drift with the stream as they wished, but stopped after the third time Boromir (tm) ran his boat aground with a strange, vicious glee. But he insisted that they start earlier each day, for his resentment of the Fellowship's defiance of his divine right after the escape from Moira still burned hot in his heart. If I can't assail the Dark Tower in glorious conquest as befits a returning king, he thought, I can still have a lot of fun running the stupid halflings straight into the ground. Nonetheless the hobbits held up surprisingly well, and they saw no sign of an enemy for two days. The lands began to change slowly: first the trees thinned and became less ominously anthropomorphic. On the east bank, they say long slopes, grey and withered like the cirrhotic liver of one of the Big Folk who had spent far too many summer evenings in the common room of the Prancing Pony. They had come to the Grey Lands that lay, vast and desolate, between Southern Smirkwood and the hills of the Emyn Mail. Aragon admitted, after much taunting by Arwen, and scowls and eyerolling by Boromir (tm), that he had no clue what evil, horrible deed of the Enemy had so transformed the entire region. The hobbits noted with a mounting sense of horror that the hills far to the south seemed to be paved with a dark, matte substance and painted with white lines like the bones of some long-extinct fish. There was no sign of living moving things, save birds. Of these there were many: annoying little ones, medium-sized ones that seemed predestined to drop guano on the shoulders of the Men (who were little consoled when Lego-lass pointed out that being hit was a symbol of good fortune among the Elves of Smirkwood), and the hugest flying creatures they had yet seen. Once or twice the travellers heard the rush and whine of a sound like the shadow of the shape of wings, and looking up they saw a familiar "V" shape streaming along the sky. "Ai, ai!" cried Lego-lass. "A B--... oh, never mind, they're ducks." "Giant Arnorian mallards, by the looks of them," muttered Aragon. "Now I understand. What an evil fortune! And I am already hungry!" "How wide and commercialized all this country looks!" said Frodo. "I always imagined that as one journeyed south, it got warmer and merrier, with many retired people lounging about in the bright sun." "But we have not journeyed far south yet," answered Aragon. "It is still winter, and we are far from the sea. Far away down in the Bay of Tampalas, to which Anduin runs, it is warm and merry, maybe, or would be merry but for the Tampalas Bay Corsairs. But here we are not above sixty leagues, I guess, south of the Southfarting away in your Shire, hundreds of long miles to the east. You are looking now southwest across the north plains of the Riddlemark, Rohan the land of the mysterious and eccentric Horse-lords. Ere long we shall come to the mouth of the Dimlight that runs down from Dolorn to join the Great River. That is the north boundary of Rohan; and of old all that lay between the Dimlight and the White Mountains belonged to the Rohirrim. It is a rich and pleasant land, and its turfgrass has no rival; you will find no golf courses for which it is harder or more expensive to get a tee time. But in these evil days folk do not dwell by the River or ride often to its shores. Anduin is wide, yet the orcs get great range with those horn-backed composite bows and ugly but functional orc fletching of theirs, so waterfront property values have understandably taken a dive. Lately the orcs have even started crossing the water and playing a few holes on the greens of Rohan." Aragon shook his head ruefully as he visualized the Uruk-Hai beheading their hapless caddies. "As for the commercialization, what you see here is but the beginning, not even a faint shadow of the great, magical kingdom that my ancestors built." At this cryptic comment, Aragon suddenly became close, as if he had said too much already, and not even Arwen could get him to speak again for hours. Sam looked from bank to bank uneasily. The trees had seemed hostile before, but some of the isolated treelike figures on the shore were jumping up and down, giving him Bree cheers and making rude gestures. He had a feeling that the Company was completely exposed to any orcish sniper who could shoot a hobbit child's bow, meandering slowly in little open boats in the midst of shelterless lands, on a river that was the frontier of war, but then the feeling passed. In the next day or two, the Company passed steadily southwards as the River broadened and gravel shoals formed. These became so rough that Boromir (tm) stopped running the boat aground and actually started steering intently. The faintly drawn lines on the southernmost hills of the Grey Lands began to resolve themselves into neat rectangles, a little over a tall Man's height across and twice as long. Each member of the Company was busy with his or her own thoughts. The heart of Lego-lass was running under the stars with some handsome Noldorin lad in Lorien; Giggly was running his fingers through gold in his mind (silken, flowing rivulets of gold), and also wondering what he would use as the housing of the Lady's gift. Morrie and Pipsqueak in the middle boat were ill at ease as they watched Giggly in the following boat, eyes shuttered, muttering and giggling to himself as he recalled some strange memory. Boromir (tm) was muttering as well, sometimes biting his nails, sometimes grabbing a paddle and standing up in his boat poised to deliver a resounding whack to the back of Frodo's head. Then Pipsqueak, who sat in the bow looking back, caught a suspicious look in Boromir's (tm) eye as he aimed the death blow. But then Boromir (tm) would shake his head and sit down, and Pipsqueak's suspicions passed. Sam looked serene and peaceful, but was actually locked in a mortal struggle against his pathological phobia of boats. Ever since he had heard about Master Frodo's parents, he could not shake his obssessive, constant, driving fear of them. It never ended, not for a single waking moment. Even now a voice akin to the Dark Lord's was resounding through his skull: "I'm in a boat, I'm in a boat..." Neverending. Never. As dusk drew down on the fourth day, he was looking back over the bowed heads of Frodo and Aragon and the following boats-boats-boats, boat-boat-I'm-in-a-boat, in-a-boat; he was on the verge of mental collapse and would have willingly killed the rest of the Company to feel sweet earth under his toes. Suddenly something caught his sight; at first he stared at it listlessly, then he sat up and shook his head violently to make the bad boat-thoughts go away; but when he looked again he could not see it any more. That night they camped on a small eyot close to the western bank. Sam lay rolled in blankets beside Frodo, shuddering and hoping that "eyot" wasn't an Elvish word for "boat". "I had a funny dream an hour or two before we stopped, Mr. Frodo," he said. "Or maybe it wasn't a dream. Funny it was anyway." "Well, what was it? You need a better primer than that, Sam," said Frodo, recalling that Sam had not had the same training in oration that he had received from Bilbo, and bracing himself for a stale punchline. (In fact, Sam had had the benefit of the best education in public speaking that a hobbit could get, sitting in /The Green Dragon/ at Bywater.) "It wasn't funny that way, Mr. Frodo. At first I thought I was hallucinating, the way I do whenever I get near r-r-r-running w-w-w-water. But I swear I saw a log with eyes!" "Oh, sure," said Frodo. "That's just Gullible. He's been following us all the way through Moira and right down into Lorien. He thinks he's all sneaky and clever, but he's really as loud and clumsy as an oliphaunt in a mathom house. Just play along and humor him. We can grab him any time we want to, but he makes a good decoy for the orcs." Aragon overheard this, but remained silent and feigned sleep, for he had tried twice to catch Gullible in the middle of the night and found him too sly and slippery. There was no need to admit this to the hobbits, of course. The night passed without Gullible showing so much as a shadow again. After that the Company kept a sharp look-out, but the Men and Giggly saw no more of Gullible while the voyage lasted. The hobbits, Lego-lass, and Arwen, on the other hand, caught sight of him every now and then. He was usually flailing along attached to a moss-eaten log or other piece of flotsam, trying desperately and ridiculously to camouflage himself by daubing himself with river mud. The Company had adopted a don't-ask, don't-tell policy regarding the relative powers of observation of each member, so nothing was ever said. Giggly and the Men could always pretend that it was due to the cover of night that Gullible seemed invisible. In this way the time passed rather boringly until the seventh day. The weather was still grey and overcast, and dim enough that the Company could hardly tell the sky from the surrounding hills. A wind from the East parted the clouds and the young sliver of the Moon appeared. As Sam was staring at its reflection, perplexed, he heard Gullible sloshing horridly along the east bank, sneezing as the reeds tickled his nose and cursing under his breath (but still very loudly) as he tripped and fell into the stream. The next day the country on either side began to change rapidly. The banks began to rise and grow stony, and as the land sloped higher, the paved grey hills in the distance vanished for a time from the Company's view. More birds circled overhead, and as the Company was getting under way for the evening, a wondrously loud cry caused all heads to snap upwards. A great shape passed, high and far off, now wheeling, now flying on slowly southwards. "What is that, Lego-lass?" Aragon asked, pointing to the northern sky. "Is it, as I think, an eagle?" "No," said Lego-lass. "It is... uh..." "What?" "Never mind." "WHAT IS IT, LEGO-LASS?" "Well, it's hard to say, but I think the Dunedain call it a... mumak?" "What?! Who ever heard of FLYING mumakil?" "Well, didn't you hear it trumpeting?" And so the debate continued, with Arwen taking Lego-lass's part and Boromir (tm) joining Aragon in proclaiming the impossibility of what the Elves claimed to have spied from afar. Finally Aragon tired of the argument (which, truth to tell, the Men were losing) and insisted that it was fully dark and time for the Company to resume its trek. The eighth night of their journey came, silent and windless. "Come!" said Aragon. "We will venture one more journey by night. We are coming to the reaches of the River that I do not know well; for I have never journeyed by water in these parts before, not between here and the rapids of Sarn Eisner. But if I am right in my reckoning, those are still many miles ahead, and I hear there are a few cheap eateries along the way, at least until we get there." To Sam in the leading boat was given the task of watchman, in addition to his duties as squire, cook, washing boy, latrine digger, porter, second oarsman, and all-around lackey. "From each according to his abilities..." he chanted stoically, as he stood at the head of the boat and tried to imagine that he was standing in the basement of Bag End. The pale foam of the River lashed against sharp rocks that were thrust far into the stream like a ridge of teeth, and Sam and Morrie emptied their stomachs into the swirling waters for the third time that night. Morrie wistfully noted that they had had only ONE dinner to throw up. "Please remain seated at all times," intoned Aragon, in a strange voice. "Hoy there, Aragon!" shouted Boromir (tm), as his boat lurched up and down, smashing into the leader but curiously not moving laterally. "This is madness! We cannot ride the Rapids by night! But no boat can live in Sarn Eisner, be it night or day." "Back, back!" cried Aragon. "Turn! Turn if you can!" He drove his paddle into the water, trying to hold the boat and bring it round. The boats seemed completely unable to turn, but Aragon, Sam, Boromir (tm), Lego-lass, and Arwen were able to push them back up the river with strenuous rowing. "I am out of my reckoning," whispered Aragon to Frodo. "I did not know that we had come so far: Anduin flows faster than I thought. Sarn Eisner must be close at hand already." "You're a little out of shape, too," noted Frodo, hearing the ragged panting in Aragon's voice. As the boats slowly inched back up the river and came to a complete stop, Frodo felt the keel beneath him grate upon stone. At that moment there was a twang of bowstrings: several arrows whistled overhead, and some fell among them. One smote Frodo between the shoulders, about halfway between the Morgul-knife scar in front and the orc-spear wound on his side. Frodo felt like a hobbit-kebab as he lurched forward with a cry, sure that he was going to get tetanus from that cursed suit of mithril mail this time. A second arrow passed through Lego-lass's hair, but fortunately the huge hairdo she had acquired in Lorien had confused the archer. A third arrow stood fast in the gunwale of the second boat, close by Morrie's hand. "Please keep your hands inside the boat at all times," suggested Aragon helpfully. "YRCH!" said Lego-lass. "Did that arrow get you?" cried Giggly. "No, orcs!" she replied. Now that Lego-lass had pointed them out, Sam thought he could glimpse orcs in crude camouflage running to and fro upon the long shingle-banks that lay under the eastern shore. They were all dressed as shrubberies. Strangely enough, there were no other shrubs of any kind on the banks. "That idiot Gullible! Look at him trying to hide behind that orc," said Sam to Frodo. Suddenly a black-feathered arrow sprouted from the torso of the orc in question and he fell over, revealing a quivering dark shape, nearly unclothed and crouched low, who scrambled into the rocks. "Well, in this case, it seems to have worked," remarked Frodo wryly. Sam leaned foward, straining at the paddles, as the boats continued to move backwards in a straight line, one against another. Even the rest of the Company took a hand now that real danger was imminent. Every moment they expected to take an arrow through the eye. Aragon was especially anxious about this as it had actually happened to his father while he was "on errantry" with Arwen's brothers, or so they said. Many projectiles whined overhead or struck the water nearby; but there were no more hits. As it turned out, elven cloaks and grey boats were very good camouflage in the Grey Lands, much better than shrubberies. Stroke by stroke they labored on. In the darkness, it was hard to tell that they were indeed moving at all (in fact, they were moving much slower upstream than the orcs, who had far overestimated the Company's rowing ability and completely lost track of them, even with their night-eyes). At last, as far as they could judge, they had broken free of the rapids and were able to gradually row towards the western shore. Under the shadow of the bushes leaning out over the water they halted and waited while Sam, who had done most of the rowing while the boats were jammed together, caught his breath and tried not to cough up a lung. Lego-lass laid down her paddle and took up the +3 bow that she had brought from Lorien. Then she sprang ashore and climbed a little way up the bank. Stringing the bow and fitting an arrow she turned, peering back over the river into the darkness. Across the water there were some whistles and catcalls, but nothing could be seen. Lego-lass turned away, sorry that she had not found a target to aim at but a little relieved that she could not see the orcs whistling at her, either. But now great clouds advanced from the South, obscuring sections of the starry fields. The Company suddenly felt a fear of the dark much like Sam's fear of the river. "Elbereth Gilthoniel!" sighed Lego-lass as she looked up. Even as she did so, a dark shape, like a cloud and yet not a cloud, for it moved far more swiftly, came out of the blackness in the South, and sped towards the Company, blotting out all light as it approached. Soon it appeared as a great winged creature, blacker than the pits in the night. Fierce voices rose up to greet it from across the water. Frodo felt a sudden recognition running through him and the memory of an old, old fear. He crouched down, as if to hide. Suddenly the great bow of Lorien sang. It gave a rather marginal rendition of Laer Cu Beleg (the Song of the Great Bow), as the bow was accustomed to singing duets with its archer and was simply not a good soloist. Frodo looked up just as the song reached a crescendo. Almost above him the winged shape swerved. There was a harsh croaking scream, as it fell out of the air, vanishing down into the gloom of the eastern shore. The sky was empty again. There was a tumult of many voices far away, scattered curses, shouts, and wailing in the darkness, and then silence. Neither shaft nor cry came again from the east that night. After a while Aragon led the boats back upstream. They felt their way along the water's edge to a small shallow bay where they awaited the dawn. A thin smoke wafted down from the east, borne by a very light wind. "Praised be the bow of Galadriel, and the hand-eye coordination of Lego-lass!" said Giggly, as he munched a /twinky/. He marveled at the tensile strength of elf hair. "That was a mighty shot in the dark, my friend!" Even Arwen could not suppress a hearty "you go, girl!" but the Men looked away, embarrassed. "But who can say what it hit?" said Lego-lass. "I cannot," said Giggly. "But you were right to shoot first and ask questions later. I am glad that the shadow came no nearer. Too much it reminded me of the shadow in Moira - the shadow of the Balrog," he ended in a whisper. "It was not a Balrog," said Frodo, still shivering with a strange sense of foreboding. "I think it was - " Then he paused and fell silent. "What do you think?" asked Boromir (tm) eagerly, seeming to catch Frodo's meaning. "I think - no, I will not say," answered Frodo. "Whatever it was, its fall has thrown our enemies into disarray." "So it seems," said Aragon, his face still red. He could not look Lego-lass or Arwen in the eye. "But what the day will show who can tell? Have your weapons close to hand!" With this he hefted Anduril and flexed his biceps ostentatiously. Sam sat tapping the hilt of his sword with a dumbfounded look, and looking up at the sky. No one noticed this, of course, but at length he murmured, "It's very strange. The Moon's the same in the Shire and in Wilderland, but it seems to be running slower. You'll remember, Mister Frodo, that it was waning as we lay up in that tree; a week from the full, I reckon. And we'd been a week out of Lorien when up pops a New Moon thin as an anorexic barrow wight. Anyone would think that time did not count in the Elvish country!" Lego-lass and Frodo, hearing a now-familiar sloshing from the east bank, exchanged significant looks. "Perhaps that was the way of it," said Frodo, too loudly for Sam's liking. "In that land, maybe, we were in a time that has elsewhere long gone by - ISN'T THAT RIGHT, LEGO-LASS?" he ended almost in a shout. "QUITE SO, Frodo," answered Lego-lass. "Time tarries in fair Lothlorien, so that those who dwell at its heart do not age at all, even as centuries pass in the surrounding lands. Why, we were in probably there six or seven hundred years! How many generations of Bagginses have grown and gone in the Shire, do you think?" Suddenly from a shadowed alcove on the bank there was a gasp, a strangled cry that turned into a hoarse wailing, and then a steady muted slamming as if of a soft object on a rock. Frodo mused, "The wearing of time must be slowed by the power of the Lady. Rich are the hours in Caras Galadhon, where Galadriel wields the Elven-ring." "SHHHH!" hissed Arwen sotto voce. "Grandma's really sensitive about her jewelry. See that Elfstone she gave Aragon? That's a common semiprecious stone, a copper a dozen in Rivendell. She says that if he expects to ever wear the real emerald, he'd better show he deserves it." Her voice sounded none too confident to Frodo. The night passed silently. No sloshing or head-banging was heard again from the water. The travellers huddled in their boats felt the weather getting warmer and moister as the River took them towards the still-distant sea. The rushing of the rapids grew louder as the the Company was tested and found wanting in whitewater skills. A white fog swathed the shore; the far bank could not be seen. "I can't abide fog," said Sam, "but maybe it will hide us from those cursed goblins." "Orcs, you mean?" queried Morrie. "Same difference," snapped Frodo quickly. "What IS the difference? Old Bilbo never did explain---" yammered Pipsqueak. "Enough, you silly hobbits!" cried Boromir (tm). "Where in Middle-earth would anyone find petty nitpickers such as you?!" "Quiet, all of you!" interjected Aragon. "I'm trying to chart our course past Sarn Eisner and down to the Emyn Mail." Boromir (tm) said, "If we are almost at the Emyn Mail, I do not see why we cannot just abandon these boats---" "YES! YES! OH, SWEET ELBERETH, YES! WOO-HOO!" screamed Sam. "We can, if we are making for Minas Tirith," countered Aragon, "but that is not yet agreed. And such a course may be more perilous than it sounds. The vale of Mentwash is flat and fenny, and Sam would have a hard time lugging nine packs through it on foot. I would not abandon our boats until we must. The River is at least a path that cannot be missed." Sam looked as if he would willingly carry the Company's baggage all the way to Mount Viagra to be rid of the boats now. In truth, he was seriously entertaining the notion of borrowing the Ring the next time Frodo was asleep. Surely Master Frodo would not notice its absence for the short minute it would take to "convince" Aragon to hack the boats to pieces with Anduril or do away with them himself. "But the Enemy holds the eastern bank," objected Boromir (tm). "And even if you pass the Gates of Argonath and are admitted to the other side, what will you do then? Leap down the Falls and land in the marshes?" "Hah! Shows how much YOU know!" answered Aragon. "If you were as competent a leader as I am, you would have Sam bear our boats by the ancient way to Rauros-foot, and there take to the water again." (Hurin making his last stand at the Fen of Screech could not have looked more fell than Sam did at this moment.) "Did you not know, Boromir (tm), or do you choose to forget about the North Stair, and the high seat upon Momin Hen, that were made in the days of the great kings? Huh? Didya?" After some browbeating Boromir (tm) admitted that he had heard of Momin Hen and the North Stair, but that they had slipped his mind in his hurry to get back to his home city before it was razed by a hundred thousand Mordor orcs. "It is not the way of the Men of Minas Tirith to desert their friends at need," he said, "and you will need my strength, if ever you are to reach the Tindrock. To the tall isle I will go, but no further. There I shall turn to my home, alone if my help has not earned the reward of any companionship." At this Boromir (tm) turned a puppy dog gaze on each member of the Company in turn. Even Lego-lass was moved by the sheer pathos of his expression. Millenia of stewardship and all the courtly brown-nosing skill that they entailed were not lost on Boromir (tm). Aragon was left with a hefty guilt trip, but being engaged to Arwen for over thirty years had taught him how to shake those off quickly. The fog lifted as the day grew and Aragon and Lego-lass prepared to go scouting ahead. Aragon hoped to find a short-cut. "Boats of the Elves might not sink," he said, "but that does not say that we should come through Sarn Eisner with a penny to our names. None have done so yet." "Well, it was nice knowing you, Aragon," smirked Boromir (tm). The expenses of this land were enumerated in many a tale told to frighten Gondorian children, princes being no exception. "Wait for one week," said Aragon. "If we do not return in that time, then you will know that evil has indeed befallen us (or that we have found a REALLY good dinner buffet). Then you must take a new leader and follow her as you will." Arwen had been looking a trifle jealous and Aragon hoped that this would mollify her. As Frodo saw Aragon and Lego-lass climb the steep bank and vanish into the mists, he had a feeling that they weren't coming back. Little did he know that the rest of the Company was thinking likewise; but all their fears proved groundless. In less than half a day, Aragon and Lego-lass came staggering back, looking well-fed. "All is well," said Aragon, as he clambered down the bank. "Not only is there a track, but there is a whole strip of inexpensive fast food joints only an hour's hike downstream. There is no buffet, but all manner of diners are there. There is even a little fruit stand if you fancy a bit of dessert." As promised, Sam was laden with a boat, though Gimli and Boromir magnanimously carried the packs. In two trips the Company was able to bring both the goods and the boats along the portage-way to the cheap dining district that Aragon had mentioned. Giggly was at first disappointed that there were really only four very shoddy-looking shacks, but suddenly his eyes brightened. A sign in the back of the food court read: DURIN'S LAST STAND OVER 140 SERVED "Surely this is a franchise of the hamburger chain founded by our ancient forefather, perhaps the only remaining one in Middle-earth, or at least on this side of the Misty Mountains!" The proprietor, an aged Dwarf, came hobbling out. Giggly and the hobbits, not having tasted fast food for months, were most eager to place their orders, and Frodo ordered an extra 6-piece box of chicken nuggets. The Dwarf swore that his special sauce was handed down from Mahal himself, "or my name's not Max Goldstein". "Your name is Max Goldstein?" piped Pipsqueak. "What of it?" said Max. "I am a Dwarf. If you prick us, do we not bleed?" "Hey, where's my pound-o-flesh burger?" shouted Boromir (tm). Max was unfazed. "If you tickle us, do we not laugh?" He tickled Giggly for emphasis and was rewarded with a long giggling fit. "If you poison us, do we not turn to stone?" he continued. "Actually, they say that's an old wives' tale..." started Giggly, but Max continued, "And if you wrong us, do we not hold a helluva grudge?" Lego-lass laughed, "Aye, that you do!" but Max laughed in return and called to his assistant, a Dwarvish boy who struck up a lively tune as Max started dancing with the Elves. As Max's other assistant served the Men, Arwen declined to order, citing a need to watch her weight. She and Lego-lass walked to the other side of the food court, where a very run-down hut sat next to the river. The lettering was nearly worn off in several places on the sign: PEDRO'S MELONS AND MINNOWS FRESH FRUIT AND BAIT The Elves went in. From behind the counter stepped a thin Elf who introduced himself as Pedro. "You ladies have no idea how hard it is to get business in these parts," he sighed. "Maybe you should advertise," suggested Lego-lass. "Are you kidding? I've advertised from here to the Eregion gate of Moira, but it's had no effect." "Really? We just came from Moira." "And you didn't see my ads? I should have known. They've probably worn thin after all these years. I haven't had time to go back and touch them up, you know." Arwen had a small ambrosia salad and Lego-lass ordered half of a cantaloupe. The two of them wished Pedro improved luck and started back to rejoin the Company. Suddenly Arwen caught something out of the corner of her eye. "Come on, Lego-lass!" she cried. "I decided to get a nonfat Elvish latte at Max's..." Suddenly she grabbed Lego-lass's hand and started to run. Lego-lass though this passing strange, but was distracted as she almost tripped over Pedro's nephew playing in the street, under a small sign whose post was formed from the shaft of a single Elvish arrow of apparent Lorien manufacture. The point of the arrow was jammed into a smoking cart around which several orcs were busily setting up, and upon which others in aprons were busily carving with their scimitars while shoving each other around. From the top of the sign extended a very large feather. Arwen shot a glance backward: BAR-B-Q EEGIL BURGURS She shook her head sadly and pulled harder on Lego-lass's hand. Back at Durin's Last Stand, Max was still dancing. He had formed a line with both of his assistants and they were performing a dance that the hobbits had last seen in the Old Forest. When they finished, the Company applauded politely. Max explained that he had learned the dance from a traveling troupe that had recently passed through the Grey Lands on its way to a nine-city tour of Gondor. He showed a flier for the troupe to the travellers: TOM BOMBADIL'S RIVERPRANCE (tm) Coming soon to a mannish citadel near you! "I've been advertising for them with these fliers, but it's so hard to distribute them that I'm afraid I'm not much help," said Max. "Why don't you just use Eagles?" suggested Boromir (tm). "They could, well, fly them for you." "I had the same idea, and finally hired an air courier through the Emyn Mail Post Office last month, but he never came back from this week's delivery. I wonder why..." Arwen bent low and whispered something to Frodo that made him blanch. "I feared it was so," was all he said, and Lego-lass could not get him to explain further. Soon it began to rain, as the Company sat under one of Max's awnings and nodded off one by one. Slowly the sky above grew lighter and the clouds parted to reveal the black, paved hills of Emyn Mail, closer than ever. The next morning the travellers bade farewell to Max and launched their boats into a wide ravine. Frodo peering forward saw in the distance two great rocks approaching: like great pinnacles or pillars of stone they seemed. Tall and sheer and ominous they stood upon either side of the stream. A narrow gap appeared between them, and the River swept the boats towards it. "Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings!" cried Aragon. "We shall pass them soon. Keep the boats in line, and as far apart as you can. As always, please remain seated and keep hands and feet inside the boats at all times." As Frodo was borne towards them the great pillars rose like towers to meet him. Giants they seemed to him, vast grey figures silent but strangely reassuring. Then he saw that they were indeed shaped and fashioned: the craft and power of old had wrought upon them, and they were frozen in perpetual welcoming postures. Upon great pedestals founded in the deep waters stood two great kings of stone: still with joyful expressions they smiled upon the North. The left hand of each was raised palm outwards as if waving to an adoring crowd; in each right hand there was a sack, brimming with gold. Great power and majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of an ancient kingdom. Awe fell upon Frodo, and he cowered down, shutting his eyes as the realization dawned that no inheritance could ever match the wealth and grandeur of these kings. Even Boromir (tm) bowed as the boats chugged by, frail and fleeting as little leaves, under the enduring shadow of the sentinels of Numenor. So they passed under the dark chasm of the Gates. Sheer rose the dreadful cliffs on either side. The black waters roared as Sam shrieked to wake dead and undead alike, called for his mommy, and finally seemed to channel the spirit of Brandobas Took as he roared a challenge to the Nazdaq. Frodo was convinced that he had gone quite completely mental. "Fear not!" said a strange voice behind him. Frodo turned and saw Strider, and yet not Strider; for the weatherworn Ranger was garbed now as a Tour Guide. In the stern sat Aragon son of Arathon, proud and fun-loving, guiding the boat with skillful strokes; his hood was cast back, and his dark hair was blowing in the wind, a light was in his eyes: a king returning from exile to his own land. "Fear not!" he repeated for dramatic effect. "Long have I desired to look upon the likenesses of Isildur and Anarchion, my sires of old. Under their shadow Elessar, the Elfstone son of Arathon son of Aradud of the House of Wupdidu Isildur's son, heir of Elendil, scion of the lords of Andunie..." - and in this fashion he continued rambling on through his pedigree for the better part of an hour - "... has nothing to fear." Then the light of his eyes faded, and he spoke to himself: "Where was I? Oh, a quest to destroy the One Ring and overthrow Sauron. Right." Frodo looked up. "Is Isildur dressed like a... a giant rat?" he asked. "And the other one looks like some sort of... bad-tempered waterfowl!" Morrie added. "What kind of outfit is that?" "Sssssshhh!" snapped Boromir (tm). "Show some respect!" "Anarchion is depicted in the garb of the Sea-Kings," said Lego-lass. "... but he's got no pa--" began Pipsqueak. "RESPECT, dammit!" shouted Aragon, losing his kingly image for a brief moment. The chasm was long and dark, and filled with the noise of wind and rushing water and echoing stone. It bent somewhat towards the west, but gradually a gap of light drew near and the boats shot through into a long oval lake. Pale Nen Inenibubu, fenced by steep grey hills whose sides were clad with trees, gleamed in the afternoon light. "Behold Tol Brandir!" said Aragon, pointing south to the tall peak. "Upon the left stands Momin Lhaw, and upon the right is Momin Hen, the Hills of the Shrew and the Chicken. In the days of the great kings there were high seats upon them, and watch was kept there. Tol Brandir has a nice ride inside it, which I highly recommend if we get a chance to come back for a longer visit, but there's not enough time to get through the line now. And listen! I hear the endless voice of Riproaros calling." The Company rested now for a while, drifting south on the current that flowed through the middle of the lake. They ate some Easterling take-out from the stand between Max's and Pedro's. Frodo's fortune cookie read: "You will soon take a cruise with an old friend." The sides of the westward hills fell into shadow, and the Sun grew red and slowly sank as they drifted. By nightfall, they had reached the shadow of the dreaded paved hills. The tenth day of their journey was over. Wilderland was behind them. They could go no further without choice between the east-way and the west. The last stage of the Quest was before them. "Everyone remember where we parked," said Aragon. EDITOR'S NOTE: Exposure treatment therapy for potamophobia is recommended only when bloodthirsty orcs are NOT aiming black-feathered arrows at your vitals. Classical conditioning can be observed by repeatedly shouting "The Eagles are coming!" and rendering the human participant unconscious with a blow to the head. These psychology experiments brought to you by Survivors of the War of the Jewels. Call 1-888-BEN-ADAR for show dates of Riverprance (tm) and Lord of the Prance (tm). ======================================================= William H. Hsu ICQ: 28651394 bhsu -aaatt- cis -daht- uiuc.edu The Red Songbook of Westmarch: Tolkien Song Parodies http://ringil.cis.ksu.edu/Tolkien/Humor/RedSOW =======================================================