Chapter 5: Boromir Gets Caught In The Rain

“I had thought you were fond of rain,” said Boromir.

“Yes, but a Man cannot walk all night in rain! He’ll catch his death, won’t he?” He wrung his long hands. In darkness, Sméagol was little more than white hands and a pale face set against his vanishing dull, dark clothing. “It’s a downpour, a drenching, Sméagol’s not happy.”

He had been not happy for some time now. And yet thus far, he had been unable to explain how he knew it would rain at all.

Boromir trusted him, undoubtedly, but it intriged him that his own senses had told him nothing. He looked overhead and saw nothing- nothing whatsoever but blackness. He carried a small camp-lantern, which he kept doused to save the oil whenever he could make his way by Sméagol’s guidance and the starlight, and it did not reach to the trees above. Had there been more light, he would have seen only tightly-woven branches with no sky, he suspected. 

He shrugged. “It may not be so bad as you fear, the tree-cover is thick. It must protect us somewhat from rain.”

There was a brief silence. “Perhaps.”

“But you are not convinced. Well, it cannot be helped. I have a good cloak. Do not fret so about things you can do nothing about! I will not hold it against you if you enjoy the rain more than I do.”

Yet as the heavy, solid drops began to strike the hood of his cloak he understood why Sméagol had been concerned. 

The branches offered less protection than he had expected- they seemed to do nothing more than focus the water into heavy channels. The path became slick and unsteady underfoot and his walking-stick skidded alarmingly once. 

Suddenly it seemed to him that he was alone. “Sméagol?” There was no reply, and Boromir bit back a curse. He ought not turn his unease to anger. Up until this moment he had been wholly in approval of Sméagol going where he wished and hunting in the undergrowth. He always came back. Yet now it was unpleasant to wait in the falling rain. He shifted his weight and felt squelching inside his boots.

“Boromir, my love?” Sméagol had to raise his voice to be heard over the deluge.

“Yes?” Boromir’s tone was less affectionate.

“There is a cabin ahead. Not far now." His voice was high and trembling. "We might knock, we might ask.”

Boromir had spent some time in a cabin of the Wood-men some nights ago. They had not seemed terribly hospitable and had not asked him to stay the night- not that Boromir would have accepted, wishing to use the night to travel. Sméagol had declined to even attempt to enter, or to greet the Men of Mirkwood- he was too wary of them, and simply vanished until Boromir was ready to leave.

His fear of the storm was plain. It seemed to Boromir that anything less than total agreement at this moment would be an act of distrust in Sméagol’s judgment and good sense, and an insult. And indeed it would be well to be out of the rain. “I defer to you. We might knock and ask.” 

And so he found himself before a crude wooden door. The top of its frame was at a level with the top of his own head. They were small, these wild-men, about of a size with Mithrandir. 

Boromir knocked. The occupants were asleep, he judged. He was forced to knock again several times.

At least, the door creaked open and Boromir beheld the tip of a slim pointed bit of metal in the opening- he suspected it was a bolt in a crossbow. “Who is there?”

“A friend!” Boromir said. “I am a Man of Gondor who has been waylaid by this storm. I am thoroughly drenched and miserable, and I and my companion are looking only for a dry shelter. We would be glad of as much as a woodshed. I bear a sword, but would be quite willing to leave it with you and retrieve it on my departure.”

“You talk like one of the Fair Folk,” said the voice within- a woman.

Boromir jumped a little- Sméagol’s icy hand had just fastened onto his own without warning. He waited a moment, presuming Sméagol wanted to get his attention to give him some advice, but no word was forthcoming. Sméagol was trembling. 

“Are ye Fair Folk?” the woman in the cabin prodded.

“No.”

“Why d’you talk like one, then?” 

“I assume you speak of those I call Elves.”

“Knife-ears, yeh.”

“I am friend to certain of them,” Boromir said. He would not lie, nor deny his friendship to Legolas so near to his father’s realm. “I carry no enchantment and I am not here on their bidding. As I told you I am a Man of Gondor.” Perhaps Gondor lay too far away for her to know it. “I am friend to the horse-lords of Rohan, as well, and was enemy of he who ruled Dol Guldur.”

A scuffle arose inside the hut. “Mother! What are you doing?”

“There’s a big wide Man out there, and he says he’s an Elf.”

“I said no such thing,” said Boromir, “quite the opposite!”

The door opened wide. A man with callused hands and broad shoulders stood there, wide-eyed. He spoke- “That’s no Elf! The night is foul, friend! Come in. Mother, put that aside.”

“Shan’t.” ‘Mother’ could now be seen, a wiry ancient who looked like she knew well how to use the crossbow she held.

Boromir took the risk of stepping inside. “I will remove my cloak if you permit it,” he said, “to prevent me flooding your house!” 

“At once, friend. Hang it up there, with t’others. Who did you say you were?”

“Boromir of Gondor.”

His gaze went to the floor. “And what’s… that?”

Boromir looked down. Sméagol had entered, and was crouching at his feet. Seeing his aspect, even hooded and shielded from view as it was, Boromir realized it may have been an unfounded assumption to believe Sméagol enjoyed rain at all times. After all, swimming and splashing and then drying off at will were different prospects from trudging through an unrelenting downpour. 

“My companion, Sméagol of the Anduin,” said Boromir. “He is a hobbit- a folk that dwells to the North. This friend of mine resides in my city in Gondor for reasons that would take too long to tell. Here, take off your wet cloak, Sméagol.” 

Sméagol did not move, and looked as if he were frozen in place. Boromir knelt beside him. “Willst thou permit me to remove thy cloak?” 

“O- yes,” Sméagol stammered. Boromir gently peeled the wet fabric from his skin, exposing a bewildered, blinking face. Sméagol’s cape was thinner and less waterproof than Boromir’s, and it felt like a crumpled soggy handkerchief in his hands. He hung it next to his own.

“I am Lorric,” said his host. “This is my mother, Ishild.”

“Well met,” said Boromir, inclining his head politely. As he did so water dripped from his hair onto the floor with an audible patter.

“A fire, I think,” said Lorric, taking a poker and going to the hearth. 

Ishild had not set down her crossbow. She was watching Sméagol, her eyes sharp in her wizened face. There was something of triumph about her mouth. 

Sméagol looked bleakly back at her. After a moment he broke the standoff by sneezing.

“Sit, please,” said Lorric. A fire was already blazing. Boromir sat where he was bidden, and gratefully took in the warmth of the hearth, holding his chilled hands towards it. Sméagol crept closer as well, closing his eyes tightly. 

Boromir glanced up. Across the room a woman watched him from a doorway, wary and holding a candle.

“A-ah,” said Lorric. “My wife, Nelhild. Nelhild, dearest, this is- what was your name?”

“Boromir. I make apology for the intrusion, I was caught in the rain. I am on a mission from Gondor.”

Nelhild came a little closer, and Boromir began to explain the mission in more detail- he found that Lorric and his house knew roughly what Gondor was and where it lay, but they had heard little of Aragorn’s ascension, which was unsurprising. (Though it seemed Lorric had heard rumors from the Wood-elves. He was not so opposed to them as Ishild.) Therefore, that matter needed explaining as well.

“What’s that got to do with us?” Ishild asked outright.

“Ah, you may wonder, indeed,” said Boromir. “It may bode well for you, our King wishes to establish better and safer trade with the people of Greenwood, and with Rhûn yonder. That is where I am going- to see the lay of the land. I would be grateful for any news you may have of it.”

“None,” said Ishild. “We stay right here.”

“Indeed. I thank you, in any case.”

Just then the thunder roared, with a sound like an eored in full gallop. Sméagol’s head jerked up and he hissed through his teeth.

“Heard the Elvish hunt, have you?” Ishild cackled. “Are they looking for you, slimy?”

Boromir frowned at her. Slimy?

“That is not Elves,” Sméagol hissed. “You should not say such things about Elves in their own wood.” He pulled his collar up about his chin.

Their hosts were now all looking at him in disgusted fascination. 

Boromir said, in an attempt to be disarming: “It has been a difficult journey, and tiring, too. We set out from Gondor with a horse and wagon but have lost both. Orcs and half-orcs set on us at the edge of Rohan. Have you had any trouble with the remnants of the Morgul-host?”

“No.” Lorric leaned back in his seat. “They had trouble with our arrows, I may say.”

“I am pleased to hear it. But- I have interrupted your rest. I am talking overlong. If you would be kind enough as to show me where I and my friend may sleep-“

“Yes, of course.”

“We may speak more in the morning, if-“

He was interrupted by another loud peal of thunder. It truly did sound very like hooves. Sméagol gasped, and clutched at his heart. 

“What is the matter?” Boromir cried.

“Nothing,” he said. “It is only- o! I don’t like hearing it. They’re outside, they cannot get in. It is safe enough.”

“You believe in the Hunt, then,” said Lorric with a skeptical look at the creature.

“Believe it?” Sméagol croaked. “It is there- do you think you may choose to believe it or not?”

Ishild laughed. “My son has some funny ideas about what he’ll believe. He doesn’t believe in the Ghost of the Wood, either.”

“Sss. Which one is that? Where does it live?” 

“Indeed I do not believe in it,” Lorric said. “Pay it no mind. Are you from the wood, small one? You seem to know our tales.”

“From the wood? No. I am from jusst west of it. By the River. Traveled through the Wood once. That is all. You don’t forget the Hunt when you’ve ss- heard it.”

Boromir thought he had been about to say he had seen it, and had stopped himself. Boromir glanced at the window. He would not care to see it, himself.

“The West?” Nelhild asked, very politely. “Your tall companion said you were from the North.”

“Yes, we heard him, bless him. He is from the ssouth,” Sméagol chuckled. “Everyone is from the north of Gondor.” 

Boromir shrugged. “All but Harad does lie to the north, I admit, and we have few visitors from Harad, so it is common to say foreigners are from the North.”

Sméagol nodded. “Yes, yes. And it was north of here, a bit. North and west, but more to the west. By the River, I said, close to where the littler river joins the great one, by the mountains.” He pointed in a direction Boromir suspected was exact. Sméagol had an uncanny sense of direction. 

“Near the edge of the Wood?” Lorric asked.

“Not so near, but near enough, sometimes. Just close enough. Ssouth of the Old Road, the Old Forest Road. I heard tales from the Wood when Sméagol was a boy.” He gave Lorric a critical look. “I did not believe them either, but I found out they was true, enough of them. It is better not to find out sometimes.”

“But you asked about the ghost,” Ishild prompted. “Wanted to find out about that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” said Sméagol, arranging himself with his knees tucked up to his chest. “Without seeing it of course. No, I am trying to make sure we do not see it! We have a way to go yet, on foot, in the Mirkwood. Is the ghost nearby?” He sounded almost businesslike.

“It’s been seen mostly up north a bit but it wanders. It is a little ugly thing, with eyes that glow in the dark. It goes about whispering and hissing about how it’s been robbed, how it’ll get its own back. It steals babies from their cradles all the time it’s weeping over its own wrongs.” She looked him in the eye and smiled broadly. “They say it kills with a look, but I know it doesn’t. I’ve seen it.”

Sméagol looked back at her, stricken. He turned away, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. Boromir leaned forward- uncertain of how to intervene, only certain that he wanted to. Plainly something about this tale had distressed his friend. Another in his place would have guessed at once what it was, but Boromir knew Sméagol as his loyal companion and a good-hearted ally of Gondor, and nothing else. In fact, he was remembering Ishild's seeming dislike of Elves and wondering if she had taken issue with Sméagol because, like others of his kind, he had slightly pointed ears.

“Mother, they did not come to hear children’s tales,” said Lorric, rising to his feet. 

“The little ‘un said he did.”

“Nay, he said he wanted to hear whether there was trouble on the road. There is not. The goblins are dead, and ghosts do not walk here. I will show you where you may rest, Boromir of Gondor.”

“I thank you!” said Boromir, rising quickly to his feet. 

Lorric then turned to Sméagol, his attention suddenly arrested. Boromir- his thoughts slowed somewhat, perhaps, by the cold and the wet and a tiring night- could not at first fathom what appeared to have alarmed the Man. At last he realized that Sméagol had made the characteristic sound in his throat that he had once been so cruelly named for. Boromir had long since ceased to notice it unless it was particularly loud, interruptive, or close to his ear. It seemed that Lorric and his wife had not encountered it before and they liked it not. 

They were superstitious folk in these woods, Boromir judged. It was natural, he supposed- enough odd things went on in truth to make one suspicious that dark strangeness was behind all events. In any case, the moment had become awkward.

“I may say, your home is lovely,” said Boromir. In fact he found it cramped and rustic with too-low ceilings, but it had been built by hand with love and strength and that made it beautiful in another way. 

“Thank you,” said Nelhild, smiling blandly.

“If you turns us out,” Sméagol said, clasping his hands in supplication, “only turn us out, don’t turn out Boromir, gollum, gollum! Put Sméagol out by himself. Like a cat!” His voice quivered.

“I will not turn you out,” said Lorric. “I have heard my mother’s old stories often enough, and I’ve heard about what happens when you turn an old ragged beggar out into the cold! Here, Nelhild, let’s set them up a place in front of the fire.”

“I know it must trouble you to receive a stranger in the middle of the woods, at such an hour,” said Boromir. “I would happily give you my sword for safekeeping until I depart.”

“Sir,” said Lorric, “you and I both know you could tear my hut down with your bare hands if you wished it. Keep your sword. I won’t turn you out in the rain.”

And he was true to his word, and Boromir was given a comfortable resting place by the fire. Sméagol curled up at his feet, as was his habit. Ishild sat in the corner of the room with her crossbow. Boromir chose to ignore her.

The sun was already strong when he woke up. He had formed too much of a nocturnal habit and had slept far later than he meant, but it cheered him to see the sun, and the rainclouds gone. 

Sméagol was also gone. So were his cloak from the peg, and his satchel from the corner.

As Boromir was looking under the chairs, in case he had missed something, Lorric’s voice spoke: “Looking for your companion?”

“Ah! Yes, I am. Good morning to you.” Boromir stood, just missing hitting his head on the ceiling, and bowed stiffly. His knee creaked, and he looked for his walking-stick- it was lying beside his makeshift bed. He took it up. 

“He is outside. He woke before you and told us he desired to wait for you on the path. Will you take breakfast with us before you go to meet him?”

“No. I thank you. I wish to go and meet him at once. You see how small he is. He is old, and he has rendered services untold to Gondor.” To you, as well, if you only knew it, he thought. “He is dear to me, and I know he is afraid and alone. You have treated us kindly, and you are in my debt.”

“No debt,” he said. “If I’m in Gondor during a downpour, I should hope to find a roof, that is all.”

“You shall have it and more!”

Boromir shook hands, retrieved his things, and hastened outside. 

Nelhild was outside, and a child was in her arms. She looked up sharply when Boromir emerged. 

“Good morning,” he said. “I am going to meet my friend upon the road; which way has he gone?”

She gestured to the east, and then indicated the child in her arms. “This is my son, Thorric.”

The boy goggled at Boromir, in awe of him. He must have been secreted in his bed asleep last night.

“Well met, Thorric,” Boromir told him solemnly. “Your homestead is generous and your parents honorable.” His eye fell upon the ground.

“I was showing him the tracks,” said Nelhild. “I believe in the Hunt, you see, and I’d like him to be wary of it.”

There were marks on the ground like cloven hoof-prints but with three parts instead of two. “Hm, I see,” said Boromir, disliking this very much. “Yes, I trust your belief.”

“Go to your friend.”

“Hm? I was planning to.”

She looked at him, her eyes fearful. “Ishild has left. She was there a moment ago. Go to him quickly!”

Ishild stood upon the path, the crossbow in her arms. She was aiming at a tangle of bushes. 

Boromir drew up behind her, taking in a sharp breath. She was ready to loose her bolt. She may loose it if he called to her. The sword- no. He would not strike an old woman.

“Why did you do it?” she asked. She was not speaking to Boromir.

“Why?” said a thin voice from the bushes.

“I ask you why.”

“There is no reason good enough.”

“I did not ask you if it was good enough. I asked why.”

“But why does it matter if it cannot be good enough?”

“Why?”

“I was hungry, that’s why anyone eats anything.” 

“You have a lot of nerve, don’t you?”

“Nerve? Not at all, I’m frightened to death.” But his voice, though shrill, was quite calm. A rustling. Sméagol appeared in the open. He was moving like one in a dream- he had grown numb and careless to the horror, like Men in battle sometimes did. “To death. Shoot me if you feel you musst. You would be right, I suppose.” He put down his hood, baring his face. “Through the eye- to death. Will that do?”

It would not do at all. Boromir dashed forward, and was between Sméagol and the bolt in the next moment. He raised his walking-stick.

“Good morning, my lord,” said Ishild. “Would you strike an old woman to save a child-killer? Is that the justice of Gondor?”

The stick was a warning, and he knew not whether he could follow it through. He did not say so. “The justice of Gondor is not to execute without trial.”

“I saw him. He does not deny it.”

“It is not for you to kill him. I will pay you any price for his crime, do any service for you that you ask, but you may not have his life.”

Ishild looked him coolly in the eye. She shook her head and lowered her crossbow. She spat on the ground. “Never come here again. May you stay in the rain and drown in it. May the Hunt take you.”

She turned on her heel and left. Boromir watched her until she was quite gone, and then he turned to Sméagol. 

Sméagol stared up at him. "Why did you do it?"

"I-"

"Not right," said Sméagol, cutting him off, "it is not right to offer yourself for me when you are worth so much more." He was faintly scolding- as if he was telling Boromir how to avoid being cheated out of money.

"Ah, well! It was a gamble," said Boromir, running his fingers through his hair. "I may say I find the trade worthier than you. You must understand I have been raised to think my life must someday be spent, and the only question was when and how dearly. Yet I did not truly expect to die today, I believed she would falter, and I also thought I may survive that bolt when you surely could not."

"I did it. I must have. I cannot remember it. It was years and yearses ago and I cannot remember those times any longer. But I must have, who else? She knew me.”

"I would not see you slain for a deed done in madness. Hunger has driven Men better than you to like horrors, let alone…” He would not speak of Isildur’s Bane. Sméagol knew what he meant well enough. “The loss of your life now would restore nothing.”

“Yes- yes, that is so, but…” He trailed off, and said: “It does not seem fair. Does it? I have wondered sometimes if I ought-“ He put his hand to his throat.

“No! Never!”

“I didn’t, of course. It seemed as if it would not do anyone any good.”

“It would not. Never that, Sméagol. Never that!”

He took Sméagol’s hand and led him down the path. 

“I don’t wish to die,” said Sméagol. “I like to live- only sometimes I think I do not deserve to live any longer.”

“Your life has been bought. Frodo Baggins has purchased it, and King Elessar has claimed it, and now I have risked myself to preserve you, and will you throw away what we count precious?”

Sméagol sighed in relief. “No. I will not.”

They did not stop to rest the daylight away until the Wood-men’s hut was well behind them.