Gandalf Visits Bombadil
by Vison
Note to Readers: This is an Unfinished Tale, as the author
departed these shores before it was completed. Please enjoy
the journey, knowing in the end there will be questions left
unanswered.
“……..I am
going to have a long talk with
Bombadil: such a talk as I have not had in all my time. He is a
moss-gatherer, and I have been a stone doomed to rolling………….”
The first of November in the year of 3019
(1419 SR)……..Now the horse Shadowfax passed in under the eaves
of the
Old Forest. His grey coat gleamed softly in the dim light; his
Mithril-shod hooves, as he stepped neatly and quickly, rustled
in the
leaves that covered the ground. For so thick were the ancient
trees
that few airs moved about them; their leaves drifted, spinning
slowly,
from branch to earth, never swept before any wind. The leaves
settled
on top of centuries of leaf mould, deep and black. Here was
life unseen
and unknown, springing from the decay of greenery. Realms of
Men and
Elves rose and fell, seas were emptied, stars blazed and died,
and the
hidden bosky life of the forest crept on uncaring.
For the Wizard was not on the path that led
down to the Withywindle, the path that the Hobbits had
taken the year
before. Shadowfax took his own path, holding his great
head high and
seeming to open the road before them by his bearing only.
Yet news of
their passage both preceded and followed them, the trees
speaking
silently, a kind of shiver passing from one to the next,
spiralling
outward from the horse and rider, reaching every dell and
rocky
outcrop.
Old Man Willow stirred in his sleep down by
the water, his malice and his loathing of all that
went upon two legs
(or four) disturbed by the very presence of Gandalf
and Shadowfax in
the groves that climbed the hills beyond. Old Man
Willow stretched his
roots and sought deep down, and across the leagues
from where he stood,
but then drew back, startled and made wary by the
rumour of these Great
Ones. Bombadil he knew, yes, Bombadil who danced
unafraid along the
banks of the Withywindle, Bombadil and the fair River
Daughter
Goldberry. Bombadil he knew and bore with grudgingly,
but the
black-hearted Willow man feared and hated all
strangers, and sought
ever to entice and then destroy any foolish enough to
come within sound
of his sleepy singing.
Gandalf was weary. Since he had chosen to
clothe his essence in a mortal body, he had fallen
prey to mortal aches
and pains, and the long year of trouble had told
upon him. Though he
had been returned remade and renewed from his
battle with the Balrog,
yet was he marked all the same; there were scars
upon his spirit and
wounds to his heart. Bidding the Hobbits farewell
he had striven to be
cheerful, and he had succeeded in their eyes.
Still, ever his thoughts
turned to Frodo in pity and love; here was
heartache for Gandalf,
knowing how worn Frodo was by the Quest of the
Ring.
Yet what could he do that he had not done?
From the moment Frodo took the Ring, from the
moment Gandalf saw it
gleaming in Frodo’s palm, he had feared some
sad end, maybe sadder than
what had come, for the success of the Quest
had not erased all pain and
sorrow from the world. He had measured Frodo’s
soul and strength and
hoped for the best, yet the dread of failure
had haunted him with every
breath he drew. Dread not only for the fate of
Middle Earth, but for
the fate of his friend Frodo son of Drogo,
Hobbit of the Shire. The
Quest had not failed, but the doing of it was
nearly the end of Frodo,
and Gandalf knew the gentle Hobbit was weary
and cold with despair,
overborne in spirit by his long struggle.
The day wore on, and the trees seemed
endless. Yet at last they opened to a
green lawn, and there, under the
lee of the hill as it had ever been, was
the house of Bombadil. Light
gleamed through the windows, falling in
golden squares on the grass
before the house, smoke curled from the
chimney.
Gandalf slid to the ground. “My
friend,” he
said to Shadowfax, “we are come to
Bombadil’s house. Here is the master
to welcome us, and Fatty Lumpkin.”
Bombadil had seemed to come out of
the very
ground, for there he was before
them. No noise did he make with
his
yellow boots on the evening grass,
walking by the pony Lumpkin.
Seeing
Gandalf he swept his
blue-feathered hat off and bowed.
“Mithrandir!
Well met my friend!”
“Greetings, Master,” said
Gandalf, bowing in
his turn. “I have brought a
friend with me. Here is the
horse
Shadowfax, chief of the Mearas
of Rohan.”
Bombadil bowed to
Shadowfax, who lowered his
proud head. “Welcome,
Shadowfax,” Tom said.
“Lumpkin, to the stable we
shall take him while the
Wizard goes to my lady.”
Stepping over the
threshold Gandalf felt
as
though he had come
home. The
stone-flagged floor
was covered in sweet
rushes, and a fire
danced merrily in the
hearth. Beeswax
candles burned
brightly and cleanly,
scenting the air with
the perfume of honey.
On a
long, polished table
stood an earthenware
vase holding branches
of
bright leaves that
flamed as if in the
autumn sun.
The River-daughter
Goldberry turned
as he
entered the house
and came forward,
holding out her
hands.
“Mithrandir,” she
said in her
musical voice.
“Welcome,
Mithrandir! The
Master had news of
thy coming, and we
have made ready
for thee. Step
in, step in, and
take thy seat by
the fire. Take
thee thy ease, let
the
warmth enter thy
bones, for art
thou not weary?”
Gandalf took
her white
hands in his
and
kissed her on
each cheek.
“My lady
Goldberry,” he
said, smiling.
Slender and
lovely she
stood before
him, clad in a
gown of russet
velvet trimmed
with bands of
leaves
embroidered in
gold. Her hair
was
bound up with
vines bearing
the ruby
berries of
Bittersweet,
she wore
amber drops in
her ears and
strings of
amber beads
around throat.
About
her waist she
wore a girdle
of scarlet and
gold links
fashioned in
the
shapes of Oak
and Maple
leaves………………