So I rode on, my heart weary with heaviness. Boromir was dead, slain by some elfish plot, and yet I was no nearer to uncovering the truth of his strange dream. My head ached with thoughts and worries, ached even as though it were so that I’d had many a drink the previous eve, even though I hadn’t, as I set forth once more on my epic journey.
The next evening, I came to an inn somewhere in Rohan, a small and rustic building that was nonetheless hospitable, even to one of such refined tastes as myself. The fare was simple and rustic, but pretty good really, bread and mutton and stuff. The tavern itself was near-full, a thick cloud of pipe-smoke hanging about the common room as the assorted patrons sat, silent and solitary and brooding.1 Many of them had hoods drawn over their faces, or were wrapped in great cloaks, their gaze distant and troubled.
As I sat there, deep in thought and sipping at my wine, I happened to notice another patron of the inn. He was old, horribly old, with wrinkles and a long bushy beard, yet he seemed surprisingly hale in body and mind alike. Leaning on the wall beside him was an ashen staff, and I thought I caught a glimpse of a sword’s hilt, fastened at his waist and obscured by his robes. He was wrapped in a grey cloak, yet from under that cloak I caught a gleam of white, as if he glowed with some magical light or there was light shining on him magically or something. He seemed old, ancient beyond measure, weighted with the burden of many years, perhaps even more than eighty.
There was something about him that drew my eye, and, thinking that he may have some news that I would benefit from, I took up my plate and walked over to him. ‘Grandfather, a moment of your time,’ I said valiantly. ‘May I join you a while?’
The old man squinted up at me, taking in my noble and gallant bearing. ‘Well well,’ he said softly, gruffly. ‘What have we here, hm? Who might you be, young fellow?’
I drew myself up to my full height, a little taller than him. ‘I am Lord Nicthalion Tallow, of Gondor,’ I said nobly. ‘But you can call me…Lord Tallow. And what have you to say of yourself, old man?’
The old man nodded thoughtfully, and there was respect in his voice, ‘Lord Tallow, hm? Aye, yes, I see that - your countenance is noble, your bearing fair. What of I, then? My name is Mithrandir. Mithrandir the White.’2
I put my hand to my sword. ‘The White? Then you are in league with the evil Saruman, or some friend of his!’ I cried, ready to chop him to bits.3
Mithrandir raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘A friend of Saruman? Aye, maybe…in a sense. Stay your hand, Lord Tallow, and hear my tale, and then you shall judge if I be in league with the traitor or not!’
Cautious, I hesitated, and then sat down opposite him, ready for trouble. But some inner wisdom of mine told me that there was naught to fear of this venerable old man, that I may gain something of him. I nodded my acquiescence, and Mithrandir continued to speak.
‘Well may you be suspicious of me, Lord Tallow, for it is true that I am a White Wizard, like the nasty Saruman, and that you may not have heard of me before. I was once Saruman’s apprentice, learning all sorts of brilliant magical tricks with him in Orthanc, which is where he lives.’
‘However, then one day I discovered that Saruman was secretly evil, and planning to take over the world. I had studied magic for good, see, so that seemed terrible to me. So one day, just a few weeks ago, I ran away from Orthanc and went to the good King of Rohan, Théoden, and told him everything that I know. Théoden did not hesitate, him and his whole army of Rohirrim went straight to Orthanc with me, but Saruman shut the gate.4 So now Saruman is besieged in Orthanc with his army, and I have gone to see if I can do anything to stop whatever he is planning.’
I eyed this strange old wizard warily, judging the truth of his words. It was a strange tale, and well did I know that wizards are oft crafty and untrustworthy people. Yet there was no hint of deceit in Mithrandir’s eye and, further, in my travels I had heard the rumour of war and knew that there was trouble in Rohan. In my heart, I felt that I could trust this aged man. And never does my heart speak falsely, usually.
‘Maybe I believe you then, Mithrandir the White,’ I said carefully. ‘And maybe not. Tell me then, Mithrandir, what do you know of Saruman’s plans? If you speak true, what is it that Saruman is after?’
Mithrandir drew close to me, and a chill seemed to come over the room as he whispered, ‘The Last Ring.’ A sudden silence hung in the air, and I was uncomfortably aware that the tavern had gone deathly quiet, as if the very words of doom had stilled every tongue in fear.
But then Mithrandir leant back, and the day grew bright once more, the easy chatter of voices around us resuming. For my part, I nodded gravely. ‘Then it is such as I had feared, for all the signs portented that it was such as it is so, and so it is such.’
‘So it is,’ agreed Mithrandir. ‘And I, for my part, know that I need not say more to one as wise as yourself, Lord Tallow. So I have left Orthanc and now seek to stop Saruman’s plans, but it will not be easy, for he is cunning and crafty. And other forces there are, arrayed against us good people.’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘King Sauron the Dark Lord, for one, and the elves also.’
‘These I know of, because they’re Saruman’s friends,’ said Mithrandir.
‘Then, alas, there is the evil High Steward Denethor of Gondor, who has become evil and is now also seeking the Last Ring,’ I said.
‘Denethor too? Bloody hell,’ growled Mithrandir angrily. ‘Well that’s bad news.’
‘Indeed it verily is,’ I told him. ‘And now I am banished, and Denethor is free to ruin Gondor as he will. Also Boromir’s dead.’
Mithrandir sighed, shaking his head with woe at this sad news. ‘Then we’re damned,’ he said gloomily.
‘Nay, take heart,’ I said valiantly. ‘Never does hope die until it is slain! Are we not great men, and wise? If we can get to the Last Ring first, and stop everyone else, then we’ll be fine!’
‘Aye, a thousand times aye!’ cried Mithrandir with excitement. ‘Your counsel stirs hope in me, Lord Tallow, hope that was long unhopeful! What, then, must we do?’
I leant back, sipped at my wine. ‘Saruman we need not fear at present, if you speak truly, old Mithrandir, for Théoden will surely keep him at bay for a while. Of the elves I know little, for their ways are strange and tricksy, but they all live ages away, so perhaps we need not pay them heed. This, then, leaves Sauron and Denethor. If Gondor could be stirred, then we might yet challenge the might of Mordor, but Denethor will never do it, for he is wicked, and also a big coward. But there remain valiant men in Gondor yet, the Prince Imrahil for one.’
Mithrandir nodded. ‘You speak wisely, Lord Tallow,’ he said in admiration. ‘Here’s a thought. I am not yet known in Gondor, because I’ve been learning magic in Orthanc for years and years. How about I go to Minas Tirith, and pretend to Denethor that I’m still evil and helping Saruman? Then maybe I can meet this Imrahil fellow and together we can undo the High Steward’s wicked webs.’
‘A fine plan, and indeed, ‘twas my thought also!’ I said, my own excitement stirred. At last, things were looking up!
‘And what of you, Lord Tallow? You cannot return to Gondor - what, then, is your quest?’
‘I am in search of the Rangers of the North,’ I explained.
Mithrandir grinned suddenly, ‘Those vagabonds and ruffians? Then you are in luck, Lord Tallow, for I know something of their whereabouts. Saruman has all the outlaws and wicked men of these lands under his command, and the Rangers have been chief among his brigands.5 At present, they are encamped by Loopy Creek,6 but a day’s ride north and east from this place. If you ride swift, you will catch them there, though what business you might have with them I cannot guess.’
‘Nor I,’ agreed I in concordance. ‘Yet I have it on good authority that these are the folk I seek. Then I will away to Loopy Creek at once, and it may yet be that my quest be achieved.’
Mithrandir stood up, and shook my hand heartily. ‘So be it, my lord,’ he said. ‘And I will go to Gondor and see what’s happening there. Take heart! With good and noble men like yourself fighting for our cause, we cannot fail!’
‘Aye. Though there be not so many men like me,’ I said. ‘But even so, we may yet win.’
As Mithrandir and I stood up and made to depart, one of the inn’s other patrons, a man with a missing tooth and a crooked grin, halted us. ‘Forgive me for the intrusion, my lords,’ he wheedled. ‘But I could not help but overhear - are you looking for the Last Ring, perhaps?’
I looked around the tavern suddenly, suddenly aware that all the other men in the tavern had suddenly drawn their weapons, and were suddenly ready to attack us! I drew my own sword.
‘Spies of Saruman the White!’ shouted Mithrandir in great fear as he drew his own sword.
We were outnumbered at least twenty to one, and Mithrandir the White quaked as the ruffians descended upon us with screams and shouts and nasty curses. But luckily for him, my might was the greater and my skill the more skillful, and even as the evil men fell upon us, I heroically killed them all, though the wizard also helped a bit.
Once all the men were dead, I wiped my brow, and finished my wine. ‘That will show them,’ I observed knowingly.
‘It will indeed,’ panted Mithrandir. ‘But a good omen for Lord Tallow and the White Wizard, I foresee that this partnership will go well!’
So we left the tavern, knowing that we were no longer safe there, and took our leave of each other. Mithrandir saddled up his horse and rode off south, to Gondor and Minas Tirith, and my heart went with him, for I knew he had a stern task ahead of him if he were to challenge the might of Denethor.
But I, for my part, rode north-east, towards Loopy Creek, and the Rangers of the North, allies of Saruman, and I knew not what I would find when I came across them. But I hoped it would be something really good, or this meeting would be a dreadful waste of my time. But also I knew that it was foretold, and that my destiny lay there, and victory with it!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1 The cultivation and enjoyment of pipeweed was a custom near-unknown in Gondor and Rohan alike during the days of the War of the Ring, making such a claim on Nick Tallow’s part unlikely. Conversely, his Northern audience would doubtless have found such a description evocative of their own local common houses.
2 Attentive readers may have observed that Nick Tallow passingly mentioned the wizard ‘Gandalf’ in a previous chapter. It would appear that Tallow never learnt that ‘Mithrandir’ was merely the Grey Pilgrim's name as it was spoken in Gondor, and that the two were one and the same - a detail that may have been further obfuscated by the Lord Mithrandir’s being reclad in white during the War. Given the uneven characterisation of the character 'Mithrandir', it would seem unlikely that Tallow ever spent time in the White Rider's company, though he does seem to have had some sense of the central role that Mithrandir played in the War and the defence of Gondor (and, therefore, positions himself as a key ally to the wizard).
3 Nick Tallow’s casting of Saruman the White as an outright villain, rather than the subtler traitor that he was, may seem incongruous to those familiar with history. This, however, is easily enough explained, for not only was the name of ‘Saruman’ indeed black in the years immediately following the War, it would seem that there was an especial hatred for him in the North. The lands of Eriador knew little of the armies that came out of Mordor, Harad or Rhûn in those terrible months, but the machinations of Saruman and the strife that arose out of Isengard was a scourge to the North; and there was long memory and much hatred for the trouble wrought by him in those lands.
4 It would appear that Nick Tallow had but fractured reports of the events in Rohan during the War of the Ring. Hence, his narrative omits the Battle of the Hornburg entirely, conflating this brief siege with the destruction of the Ring of Isengard.
5 While it is true that Saruman was able to employ many disaffected and unruly Men to do mischief, there is no record of even one of the Dúnedain of the North knowingly serving him, and certainly not a company of their people. However, given the scoundrel reputation that the Rangers had unjustly earned in the towns of Tallow’s early years, it must have seemed logical to Tallow’s ill-informed mind that they would have been counted among Saruman’s lowly ruffians.
6 Strangely, I have found no record of a ‘Loopy Creek’ in map or memory. Given Tallow’s propensity for falsehood, this may not seem odd, yet it is my experience that Tallow favoured vagary and uncertainty, not invention, when it came to describing fictitious places and people (see, for example, the unclear geographical location of the tavern in this very chapter). As such, I must conclude one of two likelihoods. The first is that ‘Loopy Creek’ may have been some archaic or rustic name for a landmark familiar to Tallow, which by ill chance has not survived the intervening years. The second is that ‘Loopy Creek’ may be a particularly poor rendering of a name (perhaps Rohirric or Sindarin in origin) that Tallow came across and half-remembered, or thought he understood the meaning of. Which is more likely, I cannot tell, though given Tallow’s consistently disastrous memory and interpretation of many other events and names, I favour the latter.
