The River Flows Ever On
The First Day
The surface of the Anduin River looks still at
first glance. The peaceful appearance of the silent surface belies the swift
current that lurks underneath, a siren singing sweetly with darker purpose
for those who do not respect her. The river has watched the tides of history
ebb and flow for too long to care about the fate of those who dare to use
her. Three more small boats venturing to follow her path impress her little.
Frodo closed his eyes against the brightness of
the morning sun. To this fair land never shall I return, he thought, and
knew it deep within himself to be true. His eyes glistened with tears, but
he sat stoically in the bow of the boat listening to the final pure words
of the song Galadriel sang. Though until long afterward he knew not the
meaning of the words, they remained engraved on his heart, and he felt more
than knew that she sang of sorrow and loss and bitter partings.
Long they drifted on the swift current of the mighty
Anduin that day, borne ever southward, the world silent around them. The
river herself spoke not, but flowed with swift and certain purpose, rushing
her way past lands fair and fell to the Sea. The cold and emptiness of winter
stifled life. No birds sang of coming spring; no leaves came near to bud
in the bare and groping trees that lined both shores. The brightness of
the Lorien dawn soon dimmed and the sun but palely shimmered through the
misty clouds that dulled the day as it drew on.
In the first boat Frodo sat motionless, huddled
against the dreary cold inside the warmth and protection of his elven cloak.
But the cold within his heart could find no relief. Already he felt the
healing of his time in Lothlorien fading as the river bore him inexorably
toward the decision he must make, had already made. It was in the execution
of the decision that he was
hesitating. Others may bemoan the length of the
journey to Parth Galen, but it was that very length that brought relief to
Frodo. Time given to delay action. Yet of itself that time also felt ill
gained to him, a further cause of torment.
The boats cautiously hugged the western shore,
isolated from the world by the dense growth of lurking trees that guarded
knowledge of the land beyond. Closer to the bank Frodo could hear the gurgle
of the river as she slapped at the tree roots in her way. His companions
were silent, as if obeying the river’s unspoken expectation. He drifted
into an uneasy sleep.
Bilbo stood on a table surrounded with the remnants
of a feast in front of his gross of guests, fingering the ring and looking
upward with delight as a grand firework exploded over his head. All gasped
as a mountain spewing fire and smoke formed and a red-gold dragon emerged
from the summit. It flew high in the air and then plunged toward the party
guests. Frodo felt a sense of apprehension and then a chill grasp his heart
as he saw it was not a dragon but a large black shadow which soared again
upward and then turned toward him. It triumphantly pinned him with its red,
glowing eyes that merged into one that grew larger, fiery, lidless, as he
faded, faded.
Frodo awoke with a start and looked back at Sam
to see if he had noticed anything. Sam leaned forward and patted him on
the arm. “It won’t be much longer, Mr. Frodo,” he said encouragingly.
Aragorn himself was full of indecision. He allowed
the boat to drift along with his mind, which knew not yet which way would
be his path. He had listened well to Boromir who yearned to return to his
besieged city and argued strongly for the Fellowship to seek the safety of
Minas Tirith. He knew that destiny would lead him there one day, but he
did not feel certain that the time was ripe. He sat in the stern that day,
alternately allowing the boat to drift on the swift current and paddling
to keep straight its course near the safety of the western shore. He saw
naught but the silver road he followed, his mind filled with the thoughts
of what must be done.
The group travelled long that day, following the
water road until well past dark. Aragorn allowed little time for stops and
took little thought for his quiet passengers until, late in the evening,
he heard Sam tell Frodo it would not be much longer. He roused himself to
consider the needs of the others and watched with his keen eyes by the pale
light of the stars for a likely landing place. He called to the others.
“Boromir! Legolas! here seems a likely place,” as he saw a stretch of woodland,
tall grey-skinned trees on a grassy bank, catching the faint light, on the
west side of the river. They pulled the boats to the shore and stretched
their cramped and weary limbs.
Frodo sat on the log beside Sam, listening to the
crackling of the fire and watching the sparks dance above the flames. They
had eaten well and now sat quietly, each reflecting on his departure from
the haven of Lothlorien. “Never did I realize quite how perilous those woods
would prove to be,” grumbled Gimli. “ Had I known the enchantress would capture
me so completely, I do not know whether I would have gone more quickly to
the woods or would have fled the other way!” Frodo listened distantly to
Gimli as he pursued again this oft raised topic, the deep rumble of the dwarf
voice carrying him back to the woods.
The perilous woods, he thought. The peaceful woods.
There had he healed his loss, but now without the scents and sense of timelessness,
his grief returned the sharper, clearer. Gandalf, he called in his head,
as he had before. He leaped to his feet to quell the pain. “Are you alright,
Mr. Frodo,” asked Sam, concerned. Frodo kept his face in shadow. “I’m fine,”
he replied, his voice shaky but as close to normal as he could manage. “I
just wish to stretch my legs a little.”
That night Frodo slept little. Between Sam and
Merry he lay, toes warmed by the embers of the fire, and listened to the
distinctive sleep-breathing of his companions. His mind remained full of
Gandalf. He thought of the time he had arrived in the Shire for Bilbo’s
birthday. With his eyes closed, Frodo was easily able to visualize leaning
back against his reading tree, book in hand, realizing that he could hear
the sound of a horse drawn cart and the faint singing of Bilbo’s traveling
song. His heart warmed at the memory of his innocent happiness in those
days, and he suppressed the thought that it would never be thus again. Instead,
he allowed himself to sink into the memory, the feel of Gandalf’s rough cloak
against his tender face, the faint smell of tobacco that came with it, the
timbre of Gandalf’s merry laugh, the sight of the tall wizard dancing with
tiny hobbit girls under the stars.
But Frodo could not maintain this happy fiction.
Unbidden, the sight of fire and shadow entered his mind. Again his heart
pounded as he fled the fearful horror through the great hall of Khazad-Dum.
The Balrog roared its challenge after them. It had no need to run. It knew
the company had no hope of escaping him. Frodo felt himself sweating in
memory of that race, reliving the heat of the Balrog flames, the sounds of
drums in the deeps, droom, drooming their way toward the bridge, and of the
tears as he heard himself and others weeping; the terror. Frodo rolled over
onto his stomach, hiding his face in his arms and stifling his sobs. He tried
to force the memory from him, but suddenly he saw as if in slow time the
Shadow falling, falling into darkness and in the split second before he could
feel relief, the whip of fire lashed upward, slowly, inexorably toward Gandalf,
catching him around his knees. He felt the cry rip from his soul, tried
to stop it.
Then he lay listening to the silence before falling into exhausted sleep.
