There is a seed of courage hidden (often
deeply, it is true) in the heart of the fattest and most timid
hobbit, waiting for some final and desperate danger to make it
grow. Frodo was neither very fat nor very timid; indeed,
though he did not know it, Bilbo (and Gandalf) had thought him
the best hobbit in the Shire.
The Fellowship of the Ring, ‘Fog on the Barrow-downs’
An incantation not its own filled the Barrow, followed by a fierce light. Ever shrouded in darkness -- of earth or barrow, fog or mist -- the sudden, blazing light of the hated sun was agonizing.
Get out, you old Wight! Vanish in the sunlight!
Shrivel like the cold mist, like the winds go wailing,
Out into the barren lands far beyond the mountains!
Come never here again! Leave your barrow empty!
Lost and forgotten be, darker than the darkness,
Where gates stand for ever shut, till the world is mended.
The wight screamed as it began to weaken, its very essence being unmade as its hold on consciousness thinned and shredded. The fell hand twitched convulsively, blinded by light and a force beyond its understanding. The Barrow itself seemed to groan under the weight of Tom’s simple words, spoken with a power more ancient than ancient.
As part of the Barrow behind Frodo caved in with a crash, Tom stepped into the cold chamber. The hobbit, blinking in the light from the rising sun that now flooded the Barrow, stood over his enspelled friends -- the hilt of an ancient dagger in his hands. In an instant, Tom guessed most of what had happened here, and his respect for the Ring-bearer’s strength and courage grew even stronger than it had been before.
Shaking, Frodo let the weapon drop and fell to his knees, throwing the long sword away from his friends’ throats.
“Thank you,” he whispered to Tom, somewhat in shock at what had nearly occurred. “Will they awaken?”
Tom saw that Frodo needed something to warm his limbs and redirect his thoughts. “Come, friend Frodo!” he said briskly. “Let us get out on to clean grass! You must help me bear them. I will call them back from sleep, but you must be near them.”
“Merry first,” Frodo insisted. “He needs to be out of this place.”
Tom nodded, and he stooped to grasp Merry under the shoulders. Frodo took his cousin’s legs, and together they bore him out of the Barrow and out into the sunlight. They did the same for Sam, then Pippin.
“Back there,” Frodo said, pointing to the entrance. “I saw---”
Tom nodded. He, too, had seen the fell hand, groping blindly forward. “Stay with them,” he said simply, and disappeared into the Barrow. Frodo heard a great stomping and stamping, then Tom reappeared, his arms laden with glittering treasure. Tom climbed to the top of the Great Barrow and spread the gems, weapons, and ornaments upon the grass. Then he gazed into the quickly-rising sun, the clean wind in his hair.
Frodo touched Merry’s face, relieved to see that his cousin no longer seemed caught in a nightmare; he now lay in the same peaceful sleep as the others. Why did I wake, Frodo wondered, and what would have happened had I not? Just then, a clear, commanding voice cut through his thoughts.
Wake now, my merry lads! Wake and hear my calling!
Warm now be heart and limb! The cold stone is fallen;
Dark door is standing wide; dead hand is broken.
Night under Night is flown, and the Gate is open!
Pippin yawned and stretched, as did Merry and Sam, and to Frodo’s joy, they opened their eyes. Almost as one, the three hobbits leaped to their feet, trying to comprehend where they were, and what had happened.
“It’s morning!” Sam gasped in amazement. He stared at the way Merry and Pippin were dressed, then suddenly realized that he was wearing the same strange, ragged cloth, girdled with golden chains. To his relief, his master stood before them, no longer lost and apparently unharmed. “Mr. Frodo, are you all right? How did you find us?”
Pippin was gazing in astonishment at the opened Barrow, completely confused. His last memory had been sitting in the grass, looking up at the stars and wondering where Frodo had got to, then feeling drowsy...
“Merry!” Frodo cried, catching his cousin’s arm as Merry suddenly paled, his knees starting to buckle beneath him.
“I remember,” Merry whispered, a cold, dark memory assailing him. “The men of Carn Dûm came on us at night, and we were worsted. A spear... in my heart!” He moaned and clutched at his chest, his breaths coming in harsh gasps.
“Who?” Pippin asked, puzzled.
“Merry, you were dreaming,” Frodo said urgently, wrapping his arms around his shaking cousin.
“Just a dream?” Merry murmured. “I thought... I thought I was...” He looked into Frodo’s clear, anxious eyes. “Where were you, Frodo? We looked and looked.”
“That’s what I want to know. And what does ‘worsted’ mean?” Pippin persisted.
“Overcome,” Frodo explained softly, his eyes never leaving Merry’s face. “Merry, everything’s all right. Tom found us. We need to think of what we are to do now. We need to go on.”
He gives me all credit for their rescue, Tom thought, hearing Frodo’s words. Humility rules his heart; he speaks not even to his friends of his brave deeds in the dark. Or of the struggle with the Ring that I sense he fought and won. He will do well, and find friends and aid, in unexpected paths beneath the sun.
“Dressed up like this, sir?” asked Sam. “Where are our clothes?” The three hobbits pulled off the jewels, belts, and ornaments, then looked about them. Pippin started back inside the Barrow, but Tom’s booming voice stopped him.
“You won’t find your clothes again,” Tom laughed, leaping down from the top of the mound. He had seen what was left of the hobbits’ garments, scattered about the chamber and shredded almost beyond recognition. “But what of it? You’ve found yourselves again, out of the deep water. Cast off these cold rags, and let the sunlight warm you. Run naked on the grass, while Tom goes a-hunting!” He sprang away down the hill, whistling and calling.
“Deep water,” Merry murmured to himself, flinging away the circlet on his head. Yes. He had heard the mocking laughter of the enemy, felt the spear pierce his breast, his sight fading, the cold, dark waters drowning him...
“Merry,” Frodo said quietly, still holding onto him, “it wasn’t real.”
Merry nodded and, taking a deep breath, forced away the cold, lingering presence of his nightmare. He turned his back on the Barrow, but saw that Pippin’s attention was still drawn toward the gaping entrance and what lay within the chamber. Tom is right, he thought. We need to get away from this loathesome Barrow.
Throwing off the foul cloth covering him, Merry smiled at Pippin and Frodo. “Race you to the edge of the hill, you lazy Took and Baggins! You too, Sam Gamgee!”
Instantly diverted, Pippin pulled off his white rags, the gleam of competition in his eyes.
“Well, Sam?” Frodo asked with a grin, “are you going to defend the Gamgee name?”
The bright morning sun had begun to warm Sam’s limbs and heart, and the smell and feel of the foul rags covering him was suddenly almost too much to bear. He ripped them away in disgust.
“Eldest gets a headstart!” Frodo cried out, and raced off -- his three companions close at his heels.
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