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  At once they went on again. They crossed the Bridge in safety, hearing no sound but the water swirling against its three great arches. A mile further on they came to a narrow ravine that led away northwards through the steep lands on the left of the Road. Here Strider turned aside, and soon they were lost in a sombre country of dark trees winding among the feet of sullen hills.

  The hobbits were glad to leave the cheerless lands and the perilous Road behind them; but this new country seemed threatening and unfriendly. As they went forward the hills about them steadily rose. Here and there upon heights and ridges they caught glimpses of ancient walls of stone, and the ruins of towers: they had an ominous look. Frodo, who was not walking, had time to gaze ahead and to think. He recalled Bilbo’s account of his journey and the threatening towers on the hills north of the Road, in the country near the Troll’s wood where his first serious adventure had happened. Frodo guessed that they were now in the same region, and wondered if by chance they would pass near the spot.

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  ‘Who lives in this land?’ he asked. ‘And who built these towers? Is this troll-country?’

  ‘No!’ said Strider. ‘Trolls do not build. No one lives in this land. Men once dwelt here, ages ago; but none remain now. They became an evil people, as legends tell, for they fell under the shadow of Angmar. But all were destroyed in the war that brought the North Kingdom to its end. But that is now so long ago that the hills have forgotten them, though a shadow still lies on the land.’

  ‘Where did you learn such tales, if all the land is empty and forgetful?’

  asked Peregrin. ‘The birds and beasts do not tell tales of that son.’

  ‘The heirs of Elendil do not forget all things past’, said Strider; ‘and many more things than I can tell are remembered in Rivendell.’ ‘Have you often been to Rivendell?’ said Frodo. ‘I have’, said Strider. ‘I dwelt there once, and still I return when I may.

  There my heart is; but it is not my fate to sit in peace, even in the fair house of Elrond.’

  The hills now began to shut them in. The Road behind held on its way to the River Bruinen, but both were now hidden from view. The travellers came into a long valley; narrow, deeply cloven, dark and silent. Trees with old and twisted roots hung over cliffs, and piled up behind into mounting slopes of pinewood.

  The hobbits grew very weary. They advanced slowly, for they had to pick their way through a pathless country, encumbered by fallen trees and tumbled rocks. As long as they could they avoided climbing for Frodo’s sake, and because it was in fact difficult to find any way up out of the narrow dales. They had been two days in this country when the weather turned wet. The wind began to blow steadily out of the West and pour the water of the distant seas on the dark heads of the hills in fine drenching rain. By nightfall they were all soaked, and their camp was cheerless, for they could not get any fire to burn. The next day the hills rose still higher and steeper before them, and they were forced to turn away northwards out of their course. Strider seemed to be getting anxious: they were nearly ten days out from Weathertop, and their stock of provisions was beginning to run low. It went on raining.

  That night they camped on a stony shelf with a rock-wall behind them, in which there was a shallow cave, a mere scoop in the cliff. Frodo was restless. The cold and wet had made his wound more painful than ever, and the ache and sense of deadly chill took away all sleep. He lay tossing and turning and listening fearfully to the stealthy night-noises: wind in chinks of rock, water dripping, a crack, the sudden rattling fall of a loos208

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  ened stone. He felt that black shapes were advancing to smother him; but when he sat up he saw nothing but the back of Strider sitting hunched up, smoking his pipe, and watching. He lay down again and passed into an uneasy dream, in which he walked on the grass in his garden in the Shire, but it seemed faint and dim, less clear than the tall black shadows that stood looking over the hedge.

  In the morning he woke to find that the rain had stopped. The clouds were still thick, but they were breaking, and pale strips of blue appeared between them. The wind was shifting again. They did not start early. Immediately after their cold and comfortless breakfast Strider went off alone, telling the others to remain under the shelter of the cliff, until he came back. He was going to climb up, if he could, and get a look at the lie of the land.

  When he returned he was not reassuring. ‘We have come too far to the north’, he said, ‘and we must find some way to turn back southwards again. If we keep on as we are going we shall get up into the Ettendales far north of Rivendell. That is troll-country, and little known to me. We could perhaps find our way through and come round to Rivendell from the north; but it would take too long, for I do not know the way, and our food would not last. So somehow or other we must find the Ford of Bruinen.’

  The rest of that day they spent scrambling over rocky ground. They found a passage between two hills that led them into a valley running south-east, the direction that they wished to take; but towards the end of the day they found their road again barred by a ridge of high land; its dark edge against the sky was broken into many bare points like teeth of a blunted saw. They had a choice between going back or climbing over it. They decided to attempt the climb, but it proved very difficult. Before long Frodo was obliged to dismount and struggle along on foot. Even so they often despaired of getting their pony up, or indeed of finding a path for themselves, burdened as they were. The light was nearly gone, and they were all exhausted, when at last they reached the top. They had climbed on to a narrow saddle between two higher points, and the land fell steeply away again, only a short distance ahead. Frodo threw himself down, and lay on the ground shivering. His left arm was lifeless, and his side and shoulder felt as if icy claws were laid upon them. The trees and rocks about him seemed shadowy and dim.

  ‘We cannot go any further’, said Merry to Strider. ‘I am afraid this has been too much for Frodo. I am dreadfully anxious about him. What are we to do? Do you think they will be able to cure him in Rivendell, if we ever get there?’

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  ‘We shall see’, answered Strider. ‘There is nothing more that I can do in the wilderness; and it is chiefly because of his wound that I am so anxious to press on. But I agree that we can go no further tonight.’

  ‘What is the matter with my master?’ asked Sam in a low voice, looking appealingly at Strider. ‘His wound was small, and it is already closed. There’s nothing to be seen but a cold white mark on his shoulder.’

  ‘Frodo has been touched by the weapons of the Enemy’, said Strider,

  ‘and there is some poison or evil at work that is beyond my skill to drive out. But do not give up hope, Sam!’

  Night was cold up on the high ridge. They lit a small fire down under the gnarled roots of an old pine, that hung over a shallow pit: it looked as if stone had once been quarried there. They sat huddled together. The wind blew chill through the pass, and they heard the treetops lower down moaning and sighing. Frodo lay half in a dream, imagining that endless dark wings were sweeping by above him, and that on the wings rode pursuers that sought him in all the hollows of the hills. The morning dawned bright and fair; the air was clean, and the light pale and clear in a rainwashed sky. Their hearts were encouraged, but (hey longed for the sun to warm their cold stiff limbs. As soon as it was light, Strider took Merry with him and went to survey the country from the height to the east of the pass. The sun had risen and was shining brightly when he returned with more comforting news. They were now going more or less in the right direction. If they went on, down the further side of the ridge, they would have the Mountains on their left. Some way ahead Strider had caught a glimpse of the Loudwater again, and he knew that, though it was hidden
from view, the Road to the Ford was not far from the River and lay on the side nearest to them.

  ‘We must make for the Road again’, he said. ‘We cannot hope to find a path through these hills. Whatever danger may beset it, the Road is our only way to the Ford.’

  As soon as they had eaten they set out again. They climbed slowly down the southern side of the ridge; but the way was much easier than they had expected, for the slope was far less steep on this side, and before long Frodo was able to ride again. Bill Ferny’s poor old pony was developing an unexpected talent for picking out a path, and for sparing its rider as many jolts as possible. The spirits of the party rose again. Even Frodo felt better in the morning light, but every now and again a mist seemed to obscure his sight, and he passed his hands over his eyes.

  Pippin was a little ahead of the others. Suddenly he turned round and called to them. ‘There is a path here!’ he cried.

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  When they came up with him, they saw that he had made no mistake: there were clearly the beginnings of a path, that climbed with many windings out of the woods below and faded away on the hilltop behind. In places it was now faint and overgrown, or choked with fallen stones and trees; but at one time it seemed to have been much used. It was a path made by strong arms and heavy feet. Here and there old trees had been cut or broken down, and large rocks cloven or heaved aside to make a way. They followed the track for some while, for it offered much the easiest way down, but they went cautiously, and their anxiety increased as they came into the dark woods, and the path grew plainer and broader. Suddenly coming out of a belt of fir-trees it ran steeply down a slope, and turned sharply to the left round the comer of a rocky shoulder of the hill. When they came to the comer they looked round and saw that the path ran on over a level strip under the face of a low cliff overhung with trees. In the stony wall there was a door hanging crookedly ajar upon one great hinge.

  Outside the door they all halted. There was a cave or rock-chamber behind, but in the gloom inside nothing could be seen. Strider, Sam, and Merry pushing with all their strength managed to open the door a little wider, and then Strider and Merry went in. They did not go far, for on the floor lay many old bones, and nothing else was to be seen near the entrance except some great empty jars and broken pots.

  ‘Surely this is a troll-hole, if ever there was one!’ said Pippin. ‘Come out, you two, and let us get away. Now we know who made the path -and we had better get off it quick.’

  ‘There is no need, I think’, said Strider, coining out. ‘It is certainly a troll-hole, but it seems to have been long forsaken. I don’t think we need be afraid. But let us go on down warily, and we shall see.’

  The path went on again from the door, and turning to the right again across the level space plunged down a thick wooded slope. Pippin, not liking to show Strider that he was still afraid, went on ahead with Merry. Sam and Strider came behind, one on each side of Frodo’s pony, for the path was now broad enough for four or five hobbits to walk abreast. But they had not gone very far before Pippin came running back, followed by Merry. They both looked terrified.

  ‘There are trolls!’ Pippin panted. ‘Down in a clearing in the woods not far below. We got a sight of them through the tree-trunks. They are very large!’

  ‘We will come and look at them’, said Strider, picking up a stick. Frodo said nothing, but Sam looked scared.

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  The sun was now high, and it shone down through the half-stripped branches of the trees, and lit the clearing with bright patches of light. They halted suddenly on the edge, and peered through the tree-trunks, holding their breath. There stood the trolls: three large trolls. One was stooping, and the other two stood staring at him.

  Strider walked forward unconcernedly. ‘Get up, old stone!’ he said, and broke his stick upon the stooping troll.

  Nothing happened. There was a gasp of astonishment from the hobbits, and then even Frodo laughed. ‘Well!’ he said. ‘We are forgetting our family history! These must be the very three that were caught by Gandalf, quarrelling over the right way to cook thirteen dwarves and one hobbit.’

  ‘I had no idea we were anywhere near the place!’ said Pippin. He knew the story well. Bilbo and Frodo had told it often; but as a matter of fact he had never more than half believed it. Even now he looked at the stone trolls with suspicion, wondering if some magic might not suddenly bring them to life again.

  ‘You are forgetting not only your family history, but all you ever knew about trolls’, said Strider. ‘It is broad daylight with a bright sun, and yet you come back trying to scare me with a tale of live trolls waiting for us in this glade! In any case you might have noticed that one of them has an old bird’s nest behind his ear. That would be a most unusual ornament for a live troll!’

  They all laughed. Frodo felt his spirits reviving: the reminder of Bilbo’s first successful adventure was heartening. The sun, too, was warm and comforting, and the mist before his eyes seemed to be lifting a little. They rested for some time in the glade, and took their mid-day meal right under the shadow of the trolls’ large legs.

  ‘Won’t somebody give us a bit of a song, while the sun is high?’ said Merry, when they had finished. ‘We haven’t had a song or a tale for days.’

  ‘Not since Weathertop’, said Frodo. The others looked at him. ‘Don’t worry about me!’ he added. ‘I feel much better, but I don’t think I could sing. Perhaps Sam could dig something out of his memory.’

  ‘Come on, Sam!’ said Merry. ‘There’s more stored in your head than you let on about.’

  ‘I don’t know about that’, said Sam. ‘But how would this suit? It ain’t what I call proper poetry, if you understand me: just a bit of nonsense. But these old images here brought it to my mind.’ Standing up, with his hands behind his back, as if he was at school, he began to sing to an old tune. 212

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  Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,

  And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;

  For many a year he had gnawed it near,

  For meat was hard to come by.

  Done by! Gum by!

  In a case in the hills he dwelt alone,

  And meat was hard to come by.

  Up came Tom with his big boots on.

  Said he to Troll: ‘Pray, what is yon?

  For it looks like the shin o’ my nuncle Tim,

  As should be a-lyin’ in graveyard.

  Caveyard! Paveyard!

  This many a year has Tim been gone,

  And I thought he were lyin’ in graveyard.’

  ‘My lad’, said Troll, ‘this bone I stole.

  But what be bones that lie in a hole?

  Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o’ lead,

  Afore I found his shinbone.

  Tinbone! Thinbone!

  He can spare a share for a poor old troll,

  For he don’t need his shinbone.’

  Said Tom: ‘I don’t see why the likes o’ thee

  Without axin’ leave should go makin’ free

  With the shank or the shin o’ my father’s kin;

  So hand the old bone over!

  Rover! Trover!

  Though dead he be, it belongs to he;

  So hand the old bone over!’

  ‘For a couple o’ pins’, says Troll, and grins,

  ‘I’ll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.

  A bit o’ fresh meal will go down sweet!

  I’ll try my teeth on thee now.

  Hee now! See now!

  I’m tired o’ gnawing old bones and skins;

  I’ve a mind to dine on thee now.’

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  But just as
he thought his dinner was caught,

  He found his hands had hold of naught.

  Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind

  And gave him the boot to larn him.

  Warn him! Darn him!

  A bump o’ the boot on the seat, Tom thought,

  Would be the way to larn him.

  But harder than stone is the flesh and bone

  Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.

  As well set your boot to the mountain’s root,

  For the seat of a troll don’t feel it.

  Peel it! Heal it!

  Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,

  And he knew his toes could feel it.

  Tom’s leg is game, since home he came,

  And his bootless foot is lasting lame;

  But Troll don’t care, and he’s still there

  With the bone he boned from its owner.

  Doner! Boner!

  Troll’s old seat is still the same,

  And the bone he boned from its owner!

  ‘Well, that’s a warning to us all!’ laughed Merry. ‘It is as well you used a stick, and not your hand, Strider!’

  ‘Where did you come by that, Sam?’ asked Pippin. ‘I’ve never heard those words before.’

  Sam muttered something inaudible. ‘It’s out of his own head, of course’, said Frodo. ‘I am learning a lot about Sam Gamgee on this journey. First he was a conspirator, now he’s a jester. He’ll end up by becoming a wizard - or a warrior!’

  ‘I hope not’, said Sam. ‘I don’t want to be neither!’

  In the afternoon they went on down the woods. They were probably following the very track that Gandalf, Bilbo, and the dwarves had used many years before. After a few miles they came out on the top of a high bank above the Road. At this point the Road had left the Hoarwell far behind in its narrow valley, and now clung close to the feet of the hills, rolling and winding eastward among woods and heathercovered slopes towards the Ford and the Mountains. Not far down the 214

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