Gandalf Visits Bombadil
by Vison
“……..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………………
