Faramir Fiction Archive

Out of Memory and Time (PG-13)

Written by Shireling

30 March 2008 | 58682 words

Chapter 7 – The Wanderer

The Grey Swan left the port of Dol Amroth on route south with a cargo of grain. Min never got to meet the Prince, nor did he get to see any of the festivities attending upon the betrothal of Princess Lothiriel to Èomer King. He lay in the bunk of the Captain’s cabin oblivious to everything around him. Occasionally he thrashed but he never roused, not even when the southern Healer and Tat came on board to attend him. The Healer examined him closely and listened with great interest when Tat and Captain Cardolan recounted what they knew of his history. He examined the herbs and potions that Zerbah had concocted for Min, nodding his approval and suggesting a few other remedies that he thought might prove beneficial. The Healer offered to take Min into his own care in the infirmary but the Captain graciously declined.

“What is wrong with him?” Cardolan asked. “Why won’t he wake up? He has never remained insensible for this length of time since his initial recovery.”

“This is not a physical ailment. He has no fever, nor any illness that I recognise,” the Healer explained. “Your history of him recounts great trial and abuse; his body is merely doing what it can to protect itself from further hurt. He has gone deep into himself to evade further suffering.”

“But why? Where was the risk? He was safe; he barely set foot on the quay. He has always before found security aboard here with his friends.”

“But from your own report, you observed that he was not himself on the night you docked and he clearly dosed himself heavily that very night. It seems logical to assume that he was already distressed before he attempted to go ashore.”

“Did he overdose on the sleeping draught? Is that what caused this?”

“No, what he took only masked his symptoms. Instinct tells me that something physical triggered this attack: a memory, a smell, something visual; something triggered a feeling so dangerous, so powerful that his mind or his emotions simply couldn’t deal with it… he retreated physically and emotionally to the place he felt most secure. He will return in his own time, to rush him would be to risk pushing him further away,” the Healer explained.

“Then what can we do?”

“Keep him warm and comfortable. Get fluids into him and keep talking to him…”

“But he is deaf, he will not hear us.”

“But he will sense you are near. You are the only kin he can lay claim to; he needs the familiarity and security of your presence.”

“Should I stay, Sir?” Tat offered. “I cared for him before, he knows me better than anyone.”

“Thank you, Tat, but you have your new responsibilities to look to now. Your friend is in good hands and you may see him when the next the Swan comes into port.”

And when Tamir, Prince Imrahil’s adjutant, came to enquire after the sailor/artist, the Captain had to inform him that Min was too ill to receive visitors. Tamir had to report back to his Lord without ever catching a glimpse of the stricken sailor.

It seemed to the crew that that fateful sojourn to Dol Amroth marked a downturn in the ship’s fortunes. Tat’s presence was missed and the youngster taken on to replace him was slow and surly by comparison. Min’s physical recovery progressed slowly, taking weeks for him to regain his strength. He moved about the ship like a pale shadow. He worked hard, none could fault his diligence, but his indisposition had wrought profound changes to his spirits. He no longer made any effort to communicate with the crew beyond the necessity of his duties. Where before he had been companionable, now he was almost totally withdrawn. He was restless, endlessly pacing the confines of the poop deck until even the Captain’s patience was exhausted. Min could settle to nothing, not even the carving that before had given him such pleasure and he no longer dared to use the sleeping potions for fear of their effect. Peaceful sleep eluded him and the night terrors that haunted his dreams left him irritable and exhausted.

Nor was it just Min who suffered. It seemed that from the moment the Grey Swan left the port at Dol Amroth bad luck dogged their wake. The weather and tides fought them at every turn; deadlines were missed and cargos spoiled. Even the Captain’s and the Bosun’s experience was as nothing in the face of the malevolence of the Seas. It seemed inevitable that after enduring the spring and summer seasons of strife that the sea’s spite was not yet done with them. A vicious late summer storm caught the Grey Swan as she headed north for Dol Amroth. The strong winds and high seas buffeted the little ship and the Captain had no option but to bow to the dictates of the elements and run before the storm. For untold days and nights the crew battled the sea’s fury, carried far north and west by the storm’s race. In one final, vicious blow, the storm finally abated but not before leaving the battered Grey Swan with a cracked mast. The bruised and bloodied crew secured the ship as best they could while the Captain and the Bosun calculated their position and charted a course to the nearest safe harbour. The crew threw the ruined cargo overboard to lighten the load and they nursed the stricken vessel into port.

Their safe-haven was a small port with little beyond the fishing fleet and the small boat yard that serviced her. The grey Swan was the largest commission seen there for many years. On examination the damage to the mast was worse than at first thought and it was clear that the Duck would be out of service for as much as a season. The crew were laid off, each with a generous purse and a promise of a secured birth when the Duck was again seaworthy. The small port offered little in the way of entertainment or employment and so the majority of the crew hitched a passage south to Dol Amroth to wait out the weeks of idleness.

Unable to stay aboard the ship, the Captain, Bosun and Min took lodgings with the widow of a sailor who kept a smallholding on the outskirts of the port. At first the arrangement worked well enough but before long Min’s presence became a source of tension. The widow distrusted the quiet, mute stranger and despite Min’s efforts to win her good offices by his willingness to work her plot and tend her animals her antagonism grew. For the superstitious widow the final straw was a succession of nights when Min’s haunting screams echoed from the barn where he slept.

The ongoing tension fuelled the restlessness that had haunted Min’s spirit since the fateful visit to Dol Amroth. Not prepared to be the cause of unrest to the only family he could lay claim to, Min began to fashion plans to strike out on his own. No longer content to let the seas dictate his course, he turned his eyes to the hills and mountains that beckoned to the north and west.

He thought he planned in secret but in a small community nothing passed unremarked or unreported. He kitted himself with sturdy boots and warm serviceable clothing, he purchased blankets and a large oilskin groundsheet that would double as a cloak to keep out the worst of the weather’s ire. He also acquired a small hunting bow and a lightweight but serviceable sword. A coil of rope, a skinning knife, a hank of catgut line and a soft leather roll of fishing hooks and sewing needles along with small sacks of course flour, rolled oatmeal, salt and a block of sugarloaf completed his provisions.

He hoped to slip away at dawn leaving a note of explanation and regret for the Captain but in the early hours, as the light was beginning to brighten the horizon, he lifted the bar that secured the barn door only to find the Captain and the Bosun awaiting him in the yard, a gentle-faced donkey already laden with his packs plus extra panniers that he did not recognise. Min could have wept for the kindness and forbearance of the two men who had befriended him so selflessly; they offered neither criticism nor sanction for his desertion, indeed they sent him on his way with their good wishes and the promise of a safe birth whenever he had need of it. Min hugged the two men fiercely and thanked them for their kindness and swiftly took the bridle, his eyes misty with emotion. He didn’t dare to look back for fear that the enormity of his decision would overwhelm his decision to move on.

As summer faded to autumn Min and his four-legged companion travelled steadily northward. The lands between the White Mountains and the river Lefnui were largely uninhabited. Protected as they were from the prevailing easterly winds the climate was temperate and the lightly wooded hills and dales made for easy travelling. Fodder for the beast was easy to come by and Min had no trouble in scavenging and hunting for provisions for himself. His journeying wasn’t entirely solitary; he met the occasional shepherd in the hills and shared the warmth of a campfire before moving on. In one riverside settlement his arrival was greeted with wary hospitality. He stayed for a week, sheltering from the first storm of approaching winter. He helped the men to mend their nets and assisted them in repairing the thatched roofs of their huts damaged by the storm. When it was time to leave the women of the village handed him parcels of dried fish and smoked meat wrapped in leaves and the head man drew a rudimentary map in the dirt to show him the safest route to cross the mountains that now blocked his path.

Travelling was more difficult as the days shortened into winter. With the mountains behind him, his path took him further northwest across the fertile but empty plains of Enedwaith. When he came upon the river Angren he knew that the span was too wide and too fast flowing for him to cross unaided and he turned downstream and followed the riverbank until he happened upon a village where, for the cost of a copper coin, he was ferried across the low tidal flats to the far bank.

Still he travelled further north, though without knowing his course or his destination. If he recognised of himself that he had the skills and aptitude for living off the land he neither questioned nor wondered at it. He could hunt with a bow, fish with a hook or spear and fashion a snare; he seemed to know instinctively which plants and roots were safe to eat. Only once did his instincts fail him and the ensuing bout of sickness that had him laid low for two days he put down to some mushrooms he had harvested.

Spring came early where he travelled and the River Mitheithal was wild with the snow-melt of the distant Misty Mountains. Here though he was in luck and by travelling only a few leagues upstream he found a navigable bridge where the river narrowed between a high rocky ravine. North of the river the lands he passed through seemed to him full of grief and sorrow. It was a land laid waste by flood and plague in ages past; tumbled stone and ruined homesteads reclaimed by nature told the tale of a land once prosperous and fertile, now abandoned and its people forgotten. He moved on swiftly, his passage unmarked by the sheep and goats and hogs as they foraged the verdant hillsides. He wasn’t superstitious by nature and yet he felt the eyes of those long gone follow him; he called a blessing to their restless spirits and urged his donkey to speed their pace.

He had rarely felt desperate on his lonely travels but he was beyond the point of desperation as the rain hammered down for the third day in a row. He was cold and hungry and soaked to the skin and the only thing keeping him on his feet was the indefatigable donkey at his side. Long past nightfall he refused to stop for fear that should he allow himself to succumb to sleep he would never again awaken. His numbed mind wondered why he continued to fight the elements and his blighted destiny. They stumbled on into the outskirts of the great forest of Eryn Vorn, where the huge, closely-growing trees finally allowed them some measure of protection for the storm’s torment.

The path led them along the base of a sheer escarpment and it was here that they finally found a refuge. A bright flash of lightening illuminated the rock face and near to hand Min spied the coal-black entrance to a cavern. Stopping only to ascertain that they were not at risk of disturbing a wild beast in its lair, Min drew the donkey into the shelter. He relieved the beast of its burdens and stripped off his own wet clothes; wrapping himself in a blanket from his pack he slumped down onto the sandy floor of the cave and finally allowed himself the oblivion of sleep.

For a day and a night the donkey had to fend for himself as his companion slept and fretted on the edge of fever. When Min finally awoke the cave was lit by sunlight. He stumbled out into the brightness to find himself in a small meadow, edged on one side by the cliff and on the others by the forest. To one side of the glade water tumbled down the rock face to splash into a natural stone basin that overflowed into a small stream. Desperately thirsty, Min scooped handfuls of icy cold water from the rill until his thirst was quenched and then a little further downstream, dowsed his head and face in the icy flow to erase the last vestiges of sleep.

Seeing that the donkey had adequate fodder, Min set about seeing to his own needs, scavenging a meal from the trail rations in his pack. Next he sought to order his gear; he spread his wet clothing and blankets over bushes in the sun to dry and attempted to mend the rents and tears from the worst ravages of the trail. Too exhausted still to venture beyond the confines of the glade he returned to explore the cavern that had saved his life.

A cursory glance showed that the cave was no animal lair. The vault of the cave was high and smooth and the domed surface curved down to meet the sandy floor. To one side a natural rocky ledge curved against the wall at knee height. Hanging on the wall above were ancient lidded rush baskets filled with kindling and tinder, musty and old but still dry. He deduced that the cave had once been inhabited but had long since been abandoned; the physical signs of occupation had long been eradicated by the passage of countless seasons.

In the far reaches of the cave, half hidden by shadow, he discovered a heavy wooden trunk waiting to be explored. The clasp was not locked but it was so corroded that it took Min several attempts to prise it open. He thought to pull the trunk out into the light to better examine its contents but as he made a preliminary tug the handle pulled away from the wood and the side of the trunk collapsed into powdery fragments. Undeterred, Min began to empty out the contents. First to emerge was a bundle of candles and a small terracotta oil lamp. Further down were several sealed flasks of what proved to be lamp oil. Next he pulled out a stack of ceramic platters and goblets and a small metal cooking pot and a trivet. In the bottom of the trunk he found a bundle of folded woollen cloth but when he shook it out the blankets disintegrated in a choking cloud of dusty threads. He put the cloth aside to use as tinder. With these few unlooked for but welcome luxuries Min made himself at home.

The forest provided all they could require; game and fish were plentiful, the stream provided drinking water and a short distance away merged with a larger tributary that served for bathing and washing. Despite the isolation Min thought himself content. He hunted only to eat and foraged the forest for plants and roots and berries the supplement his dwindling supplies. The nightmares he could live with; there was no one for him to disturb and if his nights were disturbed he would sleep in the daytime under the shade of the forest. In the bottom of one the panniers the Captain had supplied he found a pouch of charcoal sticks and a tightly rolled sheaf of parchment wrapped in oilcloth. For the first time since that fateful visit to Dol Amroth he set about sketching the world around him and, from memory, the faces and places he had seen on his travels.

But Min was not as alone as he imagined, though he was unaware of the neighbours who shared his forest. The Old Ones were a scattered and isolated tribe, descendants of the people who had once worked the land when the region was prosperous and fertile. They had retreated to the forest and eked out a harsh and meagre living from the land. The passage of the gentle stranger and his donkey had been noted and forwarded by secret means from the fishing village where he had first been offered shelter; he posed no threat and he treated the forest with respect, taking only what he needed without causing undue damage or harm. The neighbours would have remained strangers to each other if not for the intervention of fate.

It was late at night and Min was out in the glade polishing a small wooden figure he had carved; rest eluded him and the cave seemed too claustrophobic for comfort. As they fire dwindled he was suddenly uneasy. He could see no sign of activity but as his apprehension grew he cursed his loss of hearing for increasing his vulnerability. He retrieved his bow and slipped his knife into his belt. Creeping forward, he entered the shelter of the forest and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the deeper gloom. Following the edge of the stream he edged forward but despite his vigilance he nearly tripped over the dark form cowering in a shallow dip in the ground.

His first instinct was that it was an injured wolf and he retreated but on closer inspection he could see it was not big enough nor did it have the distinctive odour of a wolf. The animal’s coat was short and sleek and he was wearing a collar fashioned from some type of plaited fibre. The dog was clearly injured and unable to get away, though he cowered when Min tried to get close. Min could see the animal’s distress and could imagine the whimpering that his blighted ears could not hear. Despite Min’s gentle coaxing and whispered reassurance the animal snapped, catching the side of his proffered hand. Min was forced to muzzle the animal with his belt before wrapping the dog in his cloak and carrying the heavy beast back to his camp.

By the light of his rekindled fire Min discovered that the animal had several superficial cuts and gashes to his head and shoulders but what had incapacitated the animal was that his rear hip was dislocated. It distressed Min to have to cause the dog greater pain but he had to use his body to restrain the animal as he manipulated the joint back into place; he felt rather that heard when the femur snapped back into the socket. The dog was limp and lifeless when he had done and he feared pain and shock had killed the animal… but there was a heartbeat, though feint and fast.

All night Min tended the animal, offering her water and scraps of meat and oatcake and keeping the fire stoked against the cold night air. Min finally allowed himself to doze when he was sure that the dog’s condition had stabilised.

When he woke the sun was midway to noon and the glade was empty. His belt and cloak lay folded where the dog had lain. Min called out, for clearly the dog had not left unaided but he got no response. Whoever had reclaimed the animal had left without trace.

Min never glimpsed his secret neighbours, though he always kept his eyes alert for signs of them as he hunted and combed the forest but he knew they were there and that they posed him no threat. Many a morning he would wake to discover small gifts and offerings from the silent ones; a clutch of eggs, a loaf of black bread, a small round of hard cheese or a flask of goats milk. He had little he could offer in return except for the carvings he fashioned. Now he knew why he had imagined that the forest had eyes and he was comforted to know he wasn’t completely alone.

At the same time as the Grey Swan was battling that last great storm other events were unfolding in distant lands.

In the Shire Frodo Baggins had reached a decision about his own future. Grieved and broken as he felt himself to be, the Ringbearer had found neither peace nor healing, despite the best efforts of his family and friends. He was fading, a fact he could no longer conceal from his loved ones. After all that the Shire and his fellow travellers had endured he could not bear to be the cause of further grief to them. When Lord Elrond sent word that a ship was readied at the Grey Havens and that Bilbo and host of Elves were taking the journey across the sea, Frodo decided to take up the offer made to him by Arwen to take her place on the journey from which there would be no return.

Beyond the Misty Mountains another traveller received word of the ship waiting at the Havens. Long exiled from his homeland, the traveller was more than ready to give up his rootless existence and retire to the land of his birth. Long had he travelled the pathways of Middle Earth, his journeys taking him to every corner of every land. He had travelled for many ages of Men, seeking to aid and assist in his own small way. Not for him the grand cities and great Rulers of the races whose fortunes rose and fell with the passing of the years. He had no ambition to influence the mighty as his brother had done; his mission was with the lesser beings; the birds and animals and the humble folk who accepted the presence of the wanderer without question or rancour and repaid his healing and assistance with food and shelter. But he was tired and the upheavals of the great conflict had not left him untouched; the suffering of men and beasts had exhausted his already depleted reserves of strength. Not even the peace and tranquillity of his present sanctuary with Beorn on the edge of the Greenwood had been enough to restore his spirits. When the call came he was ready to go home.

It was his intention to journey directly to the Haven’s to await his fellow travellers , a long and tedious journey but one he had made so many times in his long exile that he knew the safest pathways and smoothest trails. But fate was not yet done with this faithful servant. At every turn his passage was thwarted; a flooded river blocked his way causing a long detour, a fallen bridge slowed him, a wounded beast required his aid. As the days raced past he gave up hope of reaching the quay in time to catch the sailing. He felt no anger that his plans were swept away, as a faithful servant of the Valar he trusted that they yet had a plan for him and that he still had a mission to fulfil.

As autumn turned to winter he accepted lodging in a small village and when a fever swept through the inhabitants he gave what help he could; brewing potions, cooking meals and, sadly, helping to bury those who could not be saved. He stayed till spring when word from the Old Ones brought feint whispers of another soul in need of aid. He had no details but intuition told him that this was part of the Fate’s plan for him; that this was why his journey to the Havens had been thwarted.

His journey was long and he had as yet no real idea of his destination. He travelled on foot until he came upon the Old Forest where Tom Bombadil offered his friend the hospitality of his woodland home and over the course of an unmeasured passage of time the two shared news they had of the happenings of Middle Earth and beyond. Guided by Tom he traversed the Old Forest to the High Hedge and the Gate through into the outskirts of the Shire.

Again the Old Man’s journey was delayed, this time by an invitation from the Master of Buckland who was keen to hear of the recent happenings beyond the boundaries of the Shire. It was from Meriadoc , who had travelled to the Haven’s to bid farewell to his cousins, that the traveller heard the tale of the sailing of the noble Host. Conscious of the continued grief of the Hobbits over the departure of their beloved relative, he tried to assuage their distress by reassuring them of the Ringbearer’s welcome in Valinor and of his certainty of him there finding peace and healing.

Using the Brandywine as his guide, the Old man left Buckland to travel southwest, letting nature and instinct guide his footsteps on the path the Fate’s had placed before him. The vague whispers of the Old Ones grew more insistent as he travelled onward toward the sea; messages and signs were left in his path along with offerings of food and each day took him closer to the great forest of Eryn Vorn.

He woke on his first morning under the canopy of the ancient forest to find he had company. Across the smoking embers of his campfire crouched a small swarthy man, dressed in dark wool and skins. Neither the man nor the dog at his side stirred or uttered a sound as the traveller moved slowly and carefully to rekindle the fire; there was nothing threatening about the ancient one’s presence, just an utter stillness, indeed in the grey light of dawn he could have been mistaken for a roughly cut statue, one of the Pukel men of the Firenfeld.

Their speech together would have been understood by few souls, the language and dialect so thick as to be almost unintelligible except by those of the same tribe but the traveller remembered the words, though it was many generations of men since he had last passed this way. They spoke together until the sun was high in the sky. At one point the Old Wanderer ran his hand over the dog’s coat allowing, his palm to rest over the animal’s hip and nodding to himself at the health of the joint beneath his hand.

Between one heartbeat and the next the man and his dog slipped away into the vastness of the forest, leaving only a small wooden carving to mark the place they had vacated. The traveller was left with much to ponder as he absently smoothed his fingers over the warm contours of highly polished wood; a perfect representation of a sea creature known to the Elves as a porpoise.

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