Article: 262823 of rec.arts.books.tolkien Path: news.uchicago.edu!newsfeed.stanford.edu!sn-xit-01!sn-post-01!supernews.com!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: "O. Sharp" <<>> Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien,alt.fan.tolkien Subject: E-Text: Book V, Chapter 8 Date: Fri, 07 Dec 2001 08:21:45 -0000 Organization: And Let's Not Discount Welsh, Either Message-ID: <1007713305.654552@yabetcha.sttl.drizzle.com> User-Agent: tin/1.4.5-20010409 ("One More Nightmare") (UNIX) (Linux/2.2.19-7.0.10 (i686)) Cache-Post-Path: yabetcha.sttl.drizzle.com!ohh -aaatt- cascadia -daht- drizzle.com X-Cache: nntpcache 2.4.0b5 (see http://www.nntpcache.org/) X-Complaints-To: newsabuse -aaatt- supernews -daht- com Lines: 359 Xref: news.uchicago.edu rec.arts.books.tolkien:262823 alt.fan.tolkien:92225 This was written with as much haste as I could afford. I must admit that, due largely to a lack of desire to fight with my newsreader over it, I have neglected to put the umlauts over the final "e" in "Arielle" throughout this manuscript. Rest assured, however, that they'll be included on the Web-version of this page. In the meantime, please feel free to dot the "e"s at home with a small marking pen applied directly to the monitor. BOOK V, CHAPTER 8: THE HOUSING OF HEELS A mist was over Otto's eyes as he stumbled through the smoking ruins of battle, nursing his jaw where Eowynnie had belted him with her heavy mailed glove. He was too tired and sickened by the battle to even begin looting the bodies. Giant siege engines and overturned catering trucks lay burning everywhere, yet he gave them no heed, not even the ones with tuna sandwiches; he followed the gurney of HeyHoDen like a man in a fevered dream. _Morrie!_ he repeated to himself. _I'm Morrie! Not Otto. Morrie! What's the alternative? Go back to being a janitor for the rest of my life when there's an opportunity to become somebody _important?_ I don't understand how the hell it happened, but it doesn't matter. I'm Morrie! Not Otto. I've got to learn more about my adventurous new life. Wow, this city sure looks beat up. I wonder if this is where I live._ The small party passed its way across the field and through the great Gates of Minas Tirith(tm), which were twisted and crumpled like defective aluminum cans. Strings of "E" tickets from the ruined ticket booth coiled across the roadway, and Otto, deep in thought, tripped over them and fell into an alley. When he righted himself and found his way back to the main road HeyHoDen's procession was gone. He stumbled his way through the ashen streets at random, hoping to regain sight of his party, or perhaps a bar somewhere, or maybe a mailbox with his name on it. "Morrie!" a voice called out to him. He turned around. A small figure, like a child but wearing the livery of Gondor(tm) and no pants, came out of a side-street and dashed up to him. "Morrie!" the figure said again. "Is it really you?" "Ja," Otto replied, then tried harder to mask his Scandinavian accent. "Uh, yeah," he attempted again gamely. "Frog in my throat. Sorry. Uh. Do I know you?" "Oh, thank Eru!" Pipsqueak continued, unhearing in his anxiety. "I had hoped I might find you! It's Gandalf! Do you remember Isengard?" "Oh, ja, ja," Otto blurted out automatically. "Gandalf! Isengard. Remember all about that, meeting you there. Yes, sir. Isengard! Remember it just like it was yesterday." "You _do?_" Pipsqueak said. "Oh, good! That's good! I was scared I was the only one who remembered!" "Nope," Otto said quickly. "Like the back of my hand. Perfect memory. Uhm. So, how've you been, then, Gandalf? Long time since Isengard. Lot of water under the bridge." "Oh, I've got so much to tell you! But you must have been in the battle. You look terrible!" "No, I feel fine," Otto replied. "You look at least a foot taller." "Uh, no, just new shoes." "And you've grown a beard." "Uhm. Accident. Wrong bottle. Rogaine instead of aftershave. That's all." "And it looks like somebody belted you with a heavy mail glove." Otto paused. "Well. Uh. Yeah. Yeah, that did sort of happen," he conceded. Pipsqueak took Otto, soon to be Morrie, by the arm. "I've got to get you to the Houses of Healing," he said. "There you can rest, and we can compare notes about Gandalf. But be careful! He's around, you know, and he has spies everywhere." "But I thought _you-_" Morrie began, then stopped himself. He was beginning to feel somewhat disoriented. He allowed the stranger to guide him further and further into the City, past small pocket gardens and numerous aging gift-shops, towards the Houses of Healing. He was lightheaded from the smoke and confused about the identity of the person leading him; and someone named Gandalf was around, and had spies everywhere, which didn't sound too promising as a beginning to a new life. This Morrie thing, he realized, was going to take a little more effort than he had thought. Maybe having a quick lie down wasn't such a bad idea after all. So it was that Morrie lay in the Houses of Healing, with Pipsqueak keping watch by his side. Gandalf knew this, but not knowing of Pipsqueak's recovered memory he deemed it unimportant. Other, more urgent matters were on his mind. "What do you mean, you don't know where Arielle is?" he demanded of the nurses. "She was grievously wounded. Near death. They'd bring her here, right? There isn't another Houses of Healing run by another Guild or something, is there?" "Och, nay, sir," replied the oldest of the women, "the Houses o' Healin' are the only healers, sir, and have been for many long years, what with our having cornered the market on rare herbs an' folklore an' wool blankets an' whatnot, it's a surety ye'll naught be findin' any caregivers other than those o' the Houses o' Healin', an' we run all the franchises an' the little stores what where visitors might be gainin' a foot-plaster or an aspirin or a Band-Aid for when they might have hurts their tootsies walkin' all day or fallin' off a ride, for the Houses ha'e done made the City a warm an' hospitable place for many an Age, an' are one of the few places in these latter days to consistently show a profit-" "Spare me your fiscal analysis, Iorritant," Gandalf cut in with a wave of his arm, "and your horribly-overdone dialect as well. I've already been through the morgue, and I've inspected the ruins of the House of the Stewards, and she's not dead in either place. If she's not dead, then where the hell _is_ she? Last I saw of her, she wasn't exactly fit to go hang-gliding or deep-sea-oyster collecting. If she's _alive,_ I've got to find her before she can recover! Uh, so I can _help_ her recover, of course." "Och, nae, nae, good Gandalph," Iorritant began again. "For there is no competition to the Houses o' Healin', like I've sayed. An' there hasn't been in long centuries, nae, not since there was a King in Gondor(tm), for they say the King could heal warts an' make penicillin out o' epoxy an' the like. For _The Hands Of A King Are The Hands Of A Healer,_ the old legends say, an' everyone believes it because it's all capitalized like that an' everything-" At this Gandalf jumped up suddenly. "Men may long remember your words, Iorritant," he grinned, shaking her hand eagerly and then grabbing his hat. "The fools. Ha ha ha haaa! Wait right here! I'll be right back. And keep the loremasters nearby! I want plenty of witnesses handy!" Aragon sat in his little pup-tent with Eonard, sharing a bottle of Dunland Slugger's they had found on the field of battle and drinking to the fallen. "But what I still don't unnerstand," Eonard slurred slightly, "is why we're out here in th's Eruforsaken pup-tent when you're supposed to be th' ruler of this whole damn City." "I deem the time unripe," Aragon said, pronouncing the syllables with grave emphasis. "It would not be well to enter this City while the Stewards still reign, for it would divide the City's loyalities in this its moment of trial. Also the reigning Steward might have me thrown in the dungeon for a century. When Dr Faramir rules the City in peace, however, then shall I make my lineage and my Certificate of Authenticity known to all." "'S good idea," Eonard agreed, once again taking a draught from the bottle. "'S'noble." Aragon nodded and reached for the bottle when an arm clad all in white reached through the tent-flap and yanked him by the lapels. "Come _on_," Gandalf growled in a large stage-whisper. "We've got the opportunity of a lifetime here!" Gandalf led Aragon quickly through the darkened streets, with Eonard stumbling along somewhere behind them. "But you said I should wait until the Stewards were all out of commission," Aragon whispered. "That I not divide the people in loyalty during this time of strife and all that." "You never do what I say anyway," Gandalf whispered back. "Listen! They've got these idiotic beliefs about the Kings of old, see? _The hands of a King are the hands of a healer_ and like that. The Stewards haven't got anything like that, not even aspirin concessions. So all you do is do some quick healing, and whammo! Minas Tirith(tm) is our baked potato!" "But those beliefs are true," Aragon began. "The cause of healing is noble. For in the ancient days when our people were beset by the Darkness and ringworm and foot-fungus in the days of Numenor the great King Tar-Palindrome went forth and invented ointment and-" "Look, forget ointment. Forget _noble_ for a minute," Gandalf interrupted. "Just think healing, okay? One or two quick heals and we'll be on top of the oyster, whether Arielle is alive or not." "Arielle?" Aragon asked, stumbling in mid-step at the name. "Not the same Arielle who-" "No! That was somebody else! She's _nobody_," Gandalf sneered. "Look. Forget it. You just do some Kingly-type healing, okay? Let _me_ take care of the rest." Soon later they were led to Faramir's chamber. The Doctor lay on his back in the small stifling room, pierced by the many nightmarish wounds of the Black Helicopters and a single, conspicuously ordinary knife-wound in his back. Aragon knelt by the bed while Gandalf stood nearby, making sure there was a crowd of witnesses just outside the door. "My lord Faramir is hurt most grievous," the aging Loremaster intoned through false teeth. "He is suffering from what the Atlanteans once referred to as _feagurth_, or _mortalius_ in the Northern dialects, sometimes called _spirgrache_ in Edoran, or _kifo-smyerte_ in the Russo-Swahili, or _ilbloob-looblooblOObb_ to the Betelgeusean-" "What you're saying," Aragon interrupted pointedly, "is that he's dead." "Uh, well, yes," the Loremaster replied, "not to put too fine a point on it. Actually, he was already dead when we brought him in this morning." "Then _why,_" Aragon asked angrily, "have you put him in a _bed_?" "Uh. Well." The Loremaster had the decency to look embarassed. "Well, y'see, his health insurance still had some credits on it, what with him being a member of the Family of Stewards and all, and, well, we figured that, what with one thing and another, with all these heating bills to pay, if we gave him a room for a few days we could charge him for it and-" "Say no more!" Aragon said, appalled. "Oh, there's going to be some reorganization when I come into power-" "Look, forget that," Gandalf cut in, stepping in hastily and rubbing Aragon's shoulders like a coach readying a prize boxer. "Time for all that later. Time to heal, okay? Get in there and heal!" Aragon nodded and went to the bed. For a time all was silent. Aragon knelt by the body and hummed a quiet mournful tune, just on the edge of hearing, which brought to those nearby a vision of green fields and gentle spring breezes and Willie Nelson. Then he put a hand upon Faramir's brow and whispered, "Doctor Faramir! The King commands. Come back! Come back, Faramir!" For an hour and yet another the vigil went on. Aragon's voice slowly grew quieter, and it seemed to those watching that he was wandering in some faraway country, searching for Faramir, looking under invisible rocks and draining unseen bogs, and at last whittling a megaphone out of some unseen wood so that he could shout further. Gradually more and more of the Healers stopped in the doorway and stood in amaze, chiefly because once they showed up Gandalf refused to let them leave. Then, just as the observers were being driven to the end of their patience, Aragon stood. It seemed to those nearby that he looked as one fatigued by a long struggle, for his face was grey, and he had a leg cramp. He looked hard upon Dr Faramir's peaceful and quiet features, and sighed; and finally he looked to Gandalf and the Loremaster, who anxiously awaited his pronouncement. "Uh, you're right," Aragon said simply. "He's dead, all right. No question." The faces of the Healers were alight with amazement, not to mention anger, with some sheer frothing annoyance thrown in for good measure. Among their grumbles and yells could be heard the shrill highly-pitched rodent trap of a voice which was Iorritant's. "'Cor, what a bloody waste of time that was," she exploded. "Some 'ealer _that_ one turned out to be! About as useful as eggplant in a snowstorm, that one. 'E's even worse than Reaver. Remember ol' Reaver and that amputation 'e did for that case o' the chills-" "Shut up! Shut up!" screamed Gandalf, overriding the din. "Okay, bad example, I admit. But the guy was already _dead,_ okay? Look, let's go to someone who's just grievously wounded this time." Eowynn lay silent and unmoving, her eyes gazing up at the ceiling. Her face was deathly white except for a red mark upon her temple which strongly resembled the emblem on Morrie's helmet. Eonard stood beside the bed, distraught both by the emptiness of his sister's eyes and the more poignant emptiness of his bottle. "She was found on the field near HeyHoDen," the Loremaster garbled. "Though she was merely hit by some wayward soldier's helm, she will not awaken. I fear there is some greater mischief at work. We have been unable to give her aid, largely due to fear of heightened malpractice premiums." "Greater evils are at work here," Aragon explained. "For who among mortals could yank the Black Underwear and not take grievous hurt? And yet there is more here than this one day's sorrow. Is that not so, Eonard?" "Indeed, yes, lord Arag'n," Eonard replied almost soberly. "For she was grown disgusted with Edoras, and the foul enchantments o' Wormbreath were upon her, and her name has been arbitrarily changed every time she's appeared in a chapter. And being trampled by King HeyHoDen's honor guard when they were picking up the King's body probably didn't help either." Aragon nodded, and again knelt by the body. He watched her quietly for some time, particularly her breasts which held his attention for a great while. Then, evidently satisfied that she really was breathing, he muttered a low incantation and drew from his pouch some thin green leaves, which he broke in his hands and dropped into a bowl of water. A sharp smell of basil filled the room, tangy and refreshing. Aragon followed it up with some garlic, fresh tomatoes, dill, finely diced onion and a touch of ginger. He sent someone for Ricotta cheese and some fettucini. Then he called softly to Eowynn, saying there would be Italian food and that she would miss it all if she slept through it. He called her by her many names: Eowynn, Eowinnie, Eowynifred, Dirthead, Hey You In The Back With The Eyeliner. He touched her brow and held her hand. He would have given her a vigorous chest massage if there hadn't been so many people standing around. Finally in desperation he stood up and slapped her very hard, several times, whilst screaming her name. Eonard then grabbed his arm and shot him a glance which looked remarkably sober. He stopped. He nodded. "It is not right for me to wake her," Aragon wisely observed. "For her brother should perform that honour. It would only grieve Eowinnie to wake up to see me: virile, manly, yet unavailable. Nope, nope, no no no; the Right and Noble course is to leave Eowynn in _Eonard's_ capable hands!" And just as the assembled witnesses began to howl in protest Aragon beat a hasty retreat out of the chamber, Gandalf following mere inches behind him. Boromir(tm) lay groggily, fevered and wounded, and still smelling of seaweed. "His case is most grave," the Loremaster monotonously droned, annoyed that he was being given all the exposition. "Between the _mumak_, the near-drowning, the coral reef and the barnacles, his case is most bitter indeed. Not that the _king_ couldn't handle it, of course," he added, with a vituperative look at Aragon. "Fear not!" Gandalf said airily. "Piece of cake." Moving closer to the worried Aragon, he quietly added: "No problem here. You already resurrected him back in Chapter Two. And do you know how many times he's been killed already? Hell, this man won't stay dead even if you drive a spike through his chest. You could electrocute this man with twenty thousand volts, cut his body into tiny little pieces, soak them in acid and fling them into mighty Anduin and then invalidate his trademark and he'd _still_ recover before the ink was dry on the page! Trust me, I've seen it happen." Aragon nodded once and made for Boromir(tm), and had scarcely touched his arm before the Great Man of Gondor(tm) bellowed: "_AaaarrowwwwphnagaaaaooooooOOOWWWWwwwwwwwwww!_" and immediately convulsed, fell heavily on his face on the floor, and lay still. There was a long silence. "So, uhm... is he cured, then?" Gandalf asked. "Owww, 'e's not breathin'!" Iorritant began to squall, in a voice shrill and loud enough to be heard over half of Gondor(tm) despite Gandalf's sudden urgent attempts to shush her. "That Aragon bloke 'as _killed_ that nice Mr Boromir(tm)! Och, now that's as incompetent a job o' healin' as Oi've ever seen in all me days. And to think that Gandalph thought 'e could heal people better than _us_! And wasted our entire evening! 'Cor, what a pig! It's good work 'e couldn't find Arielle; an' he was _lookin'_ for her, mind you. About as adept a healer as hittin' yourself on the foot with a big rock, I says." This Iorritant said and much much more besides, and the rumour of Aragon's incompetence and Gandalf's stupidity was carried through the night as if by public-relations agents being paid by the word. Pipsqueak, already nervous, jumped about a foot when Gandalf and Aragon suddenly thrust open the door and pushed their way in; but thinking quickly he pretended he was just worried about the sleeping Morrie. "There's something different about him," the hobbit explained, desperately trying to avoid Gandalf's eyes. "He's been talking in his sleep, which isn't Morrie at all; and he's been saying things about brooms and window cleaner and ordering new mop-heads before the morrow." And as Gandalf and Aragon turned to the bed he took one last apologetic glance at Morrie, slipped quickly out the door and ran into the night. "It may be the blow to his head has harmed his mind," Aragon intoned. He reached over to touch Morrie's brow and said in a commanding voice: "Moribund Brandybottle. _Awake!_" "Ja, ja," Morrie said immediately, opening his eyes easily. "Morrie! That's me. What d'you need, mister?" "Ah-HA!" Aragon laughed, turning quickly to the doorway; but there were no witnesses, as Gandalf could no longer restrain them after the Boromir(tm) incident. With a sigh he returned to Morrie and held up a hand. "How many fingers?" he asked. "All of them," Morrie replied cleverly. "How's your memory? Forget anything? Names? Debts?" Aragon continued. "Hah! Not _me,_" Morrie happily told the strangers. "Mind like a steel trap. I remember everything." Gandalf, who had only been listening with half an ear, suddenly was all attention. "Everything?" he asked, his expression dark. "You remember _everything_?" "Ja, ja," Morrie replied happily. "Everything. Perfect. Clear as a bell." "Including Isengard?" Gandalf demanded. "Oh, ja!" Morrie grinned. "I was just thinking about Isengard. I remember the whole thing! Top to bottom. No memory lapse there." "Ah. Well, that's good to know," Gandalf said airily. He proceeded to the door. "Guard!" he yelled. "This Halfling has the Plague. Put him in an isolation tank and allow absolutely _no one_ to speak to him!" "Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, _damn,_" Gandalf groused a moment later in the deserted hallway. "You _really_ botched _that_ job up. Not even Boromir(tm)! My Eru, my _dog_ could resurrect Boromir(tm). A guy can't _keep_ Boromir(tm) from being resurrected. But you just _look_ at him, and _whammo!_ Fit for burial! You stupid, toadying imbecile." He opened a chamber door at random and they stepped in. "I healed the halfling," Aragon pointed out. "I wish you'd healed him like the _others,_" Gandalf snapped irritably. "I don't understand," Aragon mumbled. "These are the hands of a King. They should have healed! What went wrong, I wonder? Was it the pressure? Too many witnesses? Performance anxiety? It's a good thing I don't work in porn films." "I don't know how the hell I'm going to get you installed as King now. You stupid bastard." Gandalf sat down on the bed and was greeted by a scream of pain from a soldier with a broken leg. Aragon rolled his eyes in exasperation and grabbed the man by the lapels with one regal hand. "You. Get out. We're talking." "Yes, my Liege," the soldier said, jumping up and walking out quickly. "Absolutely incompetent. Absolutely bloody incompetent," Gandalf went on, not noticing, angrily concentrating on lighting his pipe. "Now if you'd tried to heal _Arielle,_ that might have worked in our favour. But she's still out there somewhere, _damn_ it, and so we need a new plan." The match broke in his hands and a burning fragment skittered across the floor. "New plan. Totally different angle. Like... damn, that was my last match. Have you got a match?" He looked at Aragon and then strode angrily out to the hallway. "Hasn't somebody in this Eruforsaken dump got a fucking _match?_" he screamed at the top of his lungs; and his voice echoed and reverberated off the stone walls. "You've got the Ring of Fire," Aragon reminded him quietly. "Yeah, but it needs a new flint," Gandalf grumbled. "Okay. Healing wasn't it. But we've got to get you doing something Kingly, or else you'll never be accepted by this rabble. _Damn_ it. We need a new plan." ---------------------------------------------------------------- ohh -aaatt- drizzle.com .. -daht- So is Iorritant's dialect Scottish? Irish? Cockney? Cast your vote! :)