Click on the switch on top-right to move to dark mode.
Tarador was sitting by Sméagol's door, playing dominoes.
Tarador had been one of the team appointed to care for Sméagol when he first arrived in Minas Tirith, barely clinging to life. He had never seemed to like the creature, and had been quick to accept being relieved of his duties when Sméagol began to require less care, but then had later signed up to take a turn guarding his home. Perhaps he had missed him. But he was playing dominoes by himself, when another of the guards would have been playing with Sméagol, so he could not have developed too much liking for his company as of yet.
"Precious has a new couch," he said as Faelon approached.
"Oh!" said Faelon. "Has someone given him a present?"
"It was thrown away," said Tarador. "No one wanted it any longer. Sméagol asked. It is stained, but Sméagol does not mind that. It is good enough for him. It is a nice high couch Men may sit on with their long legs. Sméagol is allowed to have it. He asked. In addition, he is desirous for you to know that he has been a very good and well-behaved Sméagol. There was a great deal more but I have lost track."
"He did not bring it himself, surely!" Faelon said, wide-eyed.
"At one moment, he was not present- I glanced aside, and looked up, and there he stood, with the couch. It is small and made of wicker."
"His back is going to give him fits," said Faelon.
"I moved it inside for him."
"Thank you."
Faelon stepped into the building. The upper story was deserted. He retrieved the washtub from the corner- it had begun appearing there instead of atop the cabinet where it had been previously kept, so this must now be its proper place. Faelon was not in charge of such things.
A clatter arose from the cellar stairs. The door opened to reveal the blackness of the stairwell, and a glimpse of a pale face. Sméagol's eyes were screwed shut. The dim candlelight in the room was to him what a searing noonday sun would be to Faelon. Faelon had only seen the creature in sunlight twice- under bright light his skin looked so delicate, so thin and soft, too transparent to hide veins showing bluely through it at his temples and inside his wrists. The darkness concealed much.
"Good morning, good morning," Sméagol chortled. "Is it bathtime already?"
"Why, yes!"
Sméagol clambered across the floor towards him. All who dealt with him had had the experience of finding out for the first time how he moved- it was something that could not be told secondhand. Faelon had once dozed by his bedside- for the room was dark and Faelon was having trouble adjusting to the nocturnal habits of his charge- and had woken to find Sméagol ambling about the sickroom, exploring it, weak and tottering but with what Faelon would discover was his usual gait. He had thought at the time that Sméagol had fallen out of bed and broken his back. When he cried out in alarm, Sméagol cringed and said he was not damaging anything in the room by investigating it.
Currently he was investigating Faelon's ankles with the casual air of a much-indulged pet.
"I cannot run your bath if I cannot leave," Faelon said with an awkward laugh.
"He can't, can he?" Sméagol withdrew. Faelon quickly left- Sméagol was not known for being patient and might take a notion to resume blocking the way, for reasons known only to himself- and soon returned with the small tub full to the brim with cold water. He found Sméagol perched on something in the back of the room which proved to be the new couch.
"Something is different, perhaps?" Sméagol said. "What is it, my precious? Can he guess?"
Faelon set down the tub. Sméagol must indeed be enamored with his new couch because he did not immediately go to the bath. "Why, you have a new couch!"
"It was left outside someone’s house for anyone to have! They said we might have it! Clever Sméagol getting things for hisself, so the King needn't pay for them."
"Why, I am sure the King will be quite grateful," said Faelon. "What a lovely couch it is! Did you bring it here yourself?"
"All by our own selfs!" Sméagol cried, sitting up nearly straight and throwing out his small chest.
Oh no, thought Faelon. "Did that not hurt your back?"
"Yes, yes, back is hurting anyway, isn't it?”
“You would have been welcome to ask for help-”
“We don't want to make trouble. Good Sméagol." He was now scrambling for the tub.
"Why, you've forgotten something," said Faelon.
"Forgot?"
"Your clothes."
"O- clotheses- yes, yes," muttered Sméagol, who, for reasons Faelon did not entirely understand, often tried to get away with taking baths with his clothes on. He shed them in a flash and hopped into the water.
Faelon studied the couch as Sméagol splashed about and hummed to himself. (Sometimes he was brought a full-sized tub for Men as a special treat, and then he drenched everything around him in spectacular fashion.)
It was a shabby little couch with a mildewy odor- and fully half as long again as Sméagol. Faelon struggled to picture the little one transporting it. True, he was not as frail as he looked. He sometimes clutched Faelon's arm to steady himself, and his innocent unthinking grip was a vice that left bruises. But he could not walk without the use of his hands for very long.
Were those teeth-marks in the arm of the couch?
"It is nice, isn't it?" Sméagol purred. "He may sits."
Faelon sat on the couch at once, as if a nobleman had commanded him. Broken bits of wicker stuck into the small of his back.
Sméagol watched him appraisingly a moment, and said: "Might you help us with something?"
Faelon tried not to show dismay on his face. 'Might you help us', from Sméagol, may mean he only wanted to be handed a comb or washrag- or to have Faelon scrub his back between the shoulders, or neaten his hair- or it might mean that Sméagol had taken some wound and been tending it himself all day, chiefly by licking it, or was choosing to ask for help after several days of secretly feeling ill- or it might mean that he had knocked over his wardrobe and the doors had shattered and his clothes were everywhere- or it might mean anything at all.
"What do you need?" Faelon asked politely.
Sméagol pointed at the couch. "It would look nicer-" He paused, considering. "Yes, it would look much nicer- over there." He pointed to the other side of the room. "It is not much trouble for Faelon to move it. He is so tall, and strong!"
That was a little matter and easily remedied! And indeed the couch proved lightweight. Under Sméagol's direction Faelon moved it into and out of every place in the room it could go, some of them more than once.
The game ended when Sméagol began to rub his eyes and grumble, and finally he said: "It looks as well in one place as any of the others, I suppose. It needs something."
"Perhaps some cushions," Faelon suggested. "Or another item of furniture to balance the room. Then too it does not quite match the color of the cabinet- if both were decorated with something of the same shade to tie them together, it would look much nicer."
"I suppose," said Sméagol, after a confused pause.
"But dawn approaches. Shall I bring you downstairs? Surely you are clean by now!"
"Yes, clean enough," Sméagol complained, putting up his arms in a 'lift me' signal. Faelon wrapped him in a towel and carried him downstairs. Sméagol submitted to these operations so meekly that Faelon often forgot that his co-operation was a special privilege. Sméagol flatly refused to let many people get within range of touching him- not that many tried. They were not accustomed to Sméagol's looks and had a healthy respect for his teeth.
In the cellar, Faelon set Sméagol down on the bed. He took a few steps to the wardrobe before realizing that Sméagol's smallclothes and bedshirt were already laid out on the bed and Sméagol was already putting them on. He occasionally asked for help with lacings or buttons, but his plain shirt had neither.
The comb had been left out too. Sméagol eyed it plaintively.
Faelon spoke without making him ask. "Shall I neaten your hair?"
"Yes, please, nice Man," he said with a hint of a whine.
It was a mystery why Sméagol could not seem to comb his own thin hair to his satisfaction, when he often did not seem to care how he looked, but no matter- combing it was a small chore.
The comb was pressed into the palm of Faelon's hand before he could move to pick it up. He sat down on the end of the bed, and cold, damp Sméagol crawled up to him, sitting almost in his lap. His breathing was a trifle labored. The King had said his only trouble was asthma, and it sounded worse than it was, and Sméagol himself did not seem bothered by it, but Faelon still disliked to hear him wheeze.
Sméagol’s clean, scrubbed skin had a characteristic sharp odor that Faelon associated with catching frogs by the River outside the city. Some seemed to be more troubled by this odor than others. Faelon found it familiar by now and almost comforting, which was well for him as the scent would linger on his hands the rest of the day after burying his fingers in what remained of Sméagol’s hair.
Tarador had once expressed a wish that Sméagol would let himself be doused in perfume. Faelon hoped that was a joke. He did not think adding cologne on top of mildew and frog would be an improvement.
"Is that to your liking?" he asked, once the comb ran smoothly through without snagging.
Sméagol rubbed a few strands of it between his thumb and forefinger. "It is soft," he said contentedly.
"Yes, it is." In the extremely brief window of time when Sméagol’s hair was neither tangled nor slimy, it was as soft as corn silk, and his skin too had a powdery softness when it was clean and dry.
Faelon withdrew the comb. Sméagol was by this time lying quietly with his head on Faelon’s knee. He looked as content as Faelon had ever seen him, curled catlike with his eyes half-closed- though one who knew him well enough to read the subtleties of his face could detect faint, intermittent winces. As predicted, his back was giving him fits.
Faelon realized the danger he was in. “Sméagol, I must away to my work.” It had happened before that he had become trapped in the room with Sméagol asleep in his lap. Faelon could not bear to wake him, and had sat where he was until maids came in to tidy the room and one of them was willing to gently shoo the little creature away.
He had escaped this time- Sméagol was still awake, and withdrew with a drowsy grumble.
“Good night,” said Faelon gently, and went up the stairs with “It is day, good day, good bye,” being called up after him.
From there, Faelon went to work in the gardens. Today he had been assigned to clear one of the less public areas that had been allowed to fall to weeds during the war and must now be cleared. He was the only one working there at the time, and as it happened, he was not very far from Sméagol’s quarters, which was how he was able to spot the men who were hurrying that way. They were rangers.
Faelon hurried forward to meet them. “My lords,” he said, “forgive me for intruding, but if you are going to see Sméagol, perhaps I may be of service. I tend him.”
“Tend him,” remarked the captain, looking at Faelon’s soiled gloves and the trowel in his hand. “Is he a flower?”
“No, my lord, but he has difficulty understanding what is wanted of him sometimes, and I may be able to help. He is asleep at this hour but I deem you would not seek him if it were not urgent.”
“You are right, there is no time to spare. Alas, I was not told he may be useful until a mere hour before I must depart for Ithilien, and I am left with very little chance to speak to him.”
“I will run ahead of you to prepare him for your coming. What do you plan to ask him?”
“We are breaking into a certain block of dungeons in Barad-dur, and I have heard he has knowledge of that place and has given warning before of where there may be pitfalls or hidden survivors with evil intent.”
“Yes, that is a place he knows,” said Faelon. “I beg permission to remain for your talk, my lord. Sméagol is from the north and has a marked accent in his speech. It may be helpful for me to interpret between you.” The accent was actually quite mild and not at all what made Sméagol difficult to understand, but Faelon was uncertain of how to explain his odder habits and felt it was not quite kind to draw attention to them. The rangers would discover them soon enough at any rate.
“That would be of help, yes. I thank you. I have been warned of him.”
Faelon nodded. “I will go ahead of you now and await you in his quarters.” He dropped the trowel, shucked his gloves and sprinted.
Tarador was still at the guard post. He raised an eyebrow. “There has been no more contraband furniture since last you came,” he said.
“A group of rangers is coming to speak to Sméagol. I came ahead to prepare him.”
“What has he done?”
“He has explored Barad-dur,” said Faelon.
“Ah,” said Tarador. “I wish you luck.”
Faelon hurried inside, noting the broken couch. Sméagol in his naivety would no doubt invite the ‘tall Men with bright eyes’ to sit on it. Faelon hoped they would be kind.
Sméagol was curled up in bed, tangled in blankets and deep enough in sleep that he did not wake when his name was called. Faelon had to gently shake him, which put him at risk of being nipped. Fortunately Faelon had grown adept at withdrawing his hand quickly.
Sméagol did not nip. He blinked dully at Faelon and sniffed the air, which, curiously enough, seemed to be his method of telling the time. “It is still morning,” he said. “What’s happening?”
“There are some rangers to see you. They need your knowledge, and it cannot wait!”
“O, of course not.”
“Lives may be at stake,” said Faelon. “You are the only one who knows what they need to learn. They will be so grateful!” He tried to make it sound as if being woken up after just getting to sleep was a compliment. Privately he hoped their business really was important and would conclude quickly. Sméagol was rather too old for this.
“Yes, yes, we helps,” Sméagol sighed.
Faelon pulled out the tunic Sméagol wore for meetings with important persons, and discovered that after Sméagol had spilled milk all down the front of it, he had not remembered to put it in the basket of things to be taken away and cleaned. Faelon put it there now and took out the second-best tunic.
Footsteps creaked overhead.
“Come along, Sméagol!” Faelon led him up the stairs, as these days he disliked to be carried where others could see him when he was on important business. Too many people had commented on it and inquired about his health.
The rangers stood lined up in the room along the wall opposite the couch. “Good morning,” said Sméagol with only a hint of strain. “Nice Men come to visit. They may sit.” He gestured magnanimously to his new-to-him furniture.
“That is generous,” said the captain, “but as we cannot all fit upon the couch, we have decided tis more fair to our company that we all stand.”
“As he likes,” said Sméagol, and hopped up onto his couch to sit there himself. He did not show a trace of disappointment. But he then beckoned for Faelon to sit beside him, so Faelon must sit there with the broken wicker digging into his back.
“We will not take much of your time,” the captain began. “We are planning an excursion…”
The rangers laid out maps and began talk of places Faelon had largely never heard of and could not keep track of. It at once became plain that Sméagol knew them- had been there- had been held there- and as he dissolved into a gurgling, sobbing puddle it grew plain that he had been tortured there.
He tolerated more questions that Faelon would have expected or advised, but finally covered his face and cried “I can’t! I can’t!”
Faelon rose to his feet, but there was no need for him to speak. The captain was already saying “We will not force you. We have a great deal of information we can use now, and we thank you. You have done all we require.”
The rangers exited, without betraying horror or pity or disgust, thanking Sméagol and Faelon, inclining their heads to each.
Sméagol was left shivering, whispering, shying away from touch. Faelon waited helplessly while the creature eventually composed himself and sat there looking unbearably weary.
“Shall I carry you downstairs?” Faelon asked.
Sméagol looked startled, as if perhaps he had forgotten that he was not alone. “No,” he said. “No, I- I would like to go outside, for a moment, if he doesn’t mind. Not underground.”
“But it is daylight.”
“It is clouded. I can bear it. May I?” He huddled to the floor, blinking up with large sad eyes.
“Of course you may,” said Faelon, guiltily pushing away his thoughts of his abandoned gardening tools.
Sméagol peered into his face with eyes that had seen too much and still saw more than intended. “We can watch him work, perhaps. Yes, he is busy! He had works to do. And we have never seen him work. Sméagol wonders what it is that gardeners do, and he will keep out of the way, and keep his handses to himself, yes he will!”
Faelon would have struggled to say no to this even if the King himself had commanded he do so. And as it happened, the King would more likely want him to say yes. “Of course you may,” he said.
They encountered a group of cleaning women on the way out. Faelon recognized one of them, who had summoned him some weeks back when she had the misfortune to be working in Sméagol’s quarters when he woke up with a complaint of the stomach.
“Hello, hello,” Sméagol purred to her. “It is the nice lady! Dolthadis, it was, wasn’t it? We are going out today, she may have as much light as she likes to clean by to-day and Sméagol will not bother her.”
“Very well,” she said. “Twill be a pleasant change to have light. I hope you enjoy your outing.”
“We will, yes!”
But for an occasional hitch in his breath, there was no sign that he’d been reduced to hysterics minutes ago.
Sméagol tumbled after Faelon like a puppy, complete with pauses to investigate smells. When they reached the spot where Faelon had left his tools, Sméagol found a nearby shadow to crouch in and watch him from. “Now we shall see what he does when he goes away and leaves us,” he whispered, and Faelon became acutely aware that what he was doing was not entertaining to watch.
Yet Sméagol watched, and appeared well satisfied. In fact he trembled with the intensity of his interest the way he did when watching birds or mice.
“He’s digging things up,” said Sméagol. “Does Men eat them?”
“No, Sméagol, these plants are not eaten,” said Faelon. “We Men find them unsightly, I’m afraid.”
“Men kills things for being too ugly? Sméagol had better look after hisself, hadn’t he?”
“Oh, no, I-“ He looked back at the patch of clover in his hand. It wore delicate blossoms and was not ugly at all. “Rather,” he said, “these plants will choke out other plants we wish to grow.”
“Choking things is very nasty,” Sméagol agreed.
“Yes- and there are other reasons, I believe. But in fact I am only an assistant, so I do not choose which plants to remove. I do as I’m told, and all of these-“ he gestured to his bucket of weeds- “I have been told to remove.”
Sméagol sniffed at the pile and glowered. “They smells foul- but Men keeps things that smells worse to us, so that is not why they gets rid of them.”
“At times,” Faelon confessed, “I fear we may be too hasty. I know there is a certain plant the King has brought into use for healing purposes that we treated as a common weed before his coming. I myself had pulled it from the ground and burned it. I fear sometimes that his wisdom will show us other plants we were wrong to remove- too late to save them.”
“And are you going to request a personal audience with King Elessar every time I ask you to pull up clover?”
Faelon started up. “Master!”
His supervisor approached, a small stately figure in spectacles. “I was told there were some abandoned tools here,” he said. “I see they were yours. Which of your little friends have you been speaking to?” He saw Sméagol then- no doubt a littler friend than he expected. His eyes grew wide.
“I am sorry,” said Faelon. “The rangers needed to speak with him urgently, and my presence was required to aid them-“
His supervisor was bowing to Sméagol, who eyed him jadedly.
“He wished to take the air, master,” Faelon explained.
“Ring-keeper,” said the master smoothly. “You are welcome to go where you wish.”
Sméagol turned the color of chalk and said nothing. The master turned to Faelon. “Faelon, you need not worry when your duties conflict- tis plain which is the higher. Tis natural he would wish to see the gardens. The Halflings were ever fond of them. I regret he is seeing them in such disrepair.”
“He asked to watch me at work, so I had to bring him where work was needed,” said Faelon. He did not know how to explain that Sméagol disliked veneration, and disliked being treated as the other Halflings, and twas a mystery which he disliked more. Eardwulf would have known how to explain it.
The master glanced back at Sméagol and gave a little start. Sméagol had unspooled himself, as Faelon thought of it. There was little enough of him no matter how he stretched out, but it could give one a start when he showed that he had up to now been compressed to half his size. It gave the impression that he might double again, or as many times as he chose.
“He is shy, master,” Faelon said, mustering his courage. “He dislikes to be watched.”
“Ah. Then I will not trouble you, my lord.”
Sméagol made no reply. He frowned, and began to dig in the dirt with his hands.
The master turned away from him, looking faintly affronted and uncertain, which was common for people beholding Sméagol, particularly if he was new to them and particularly if they had expected him to be something other than what he was. “Everything is in order here, Faelon- I may leave you to it.”
Faelon bid him goodbye with a cheerful salute, doing his best to look unconcerned- then he looked to what Sméagol was doing.
Sméagol was now sitting up with a clump of uprooted plant life in front of him, laid out like a hunter’s trophy. “Sméagol helps.”
He’d pulled up a patch of clover. “Oh!” said Faelon. “You do not need to help.”
“We likes to, we likes to!” Sméagol said expansively, before giving the clover a sharp look and muttering darkly: “We’ve mucked it up somewhere, my precious.”
“No! No, you haven’t,” said Faelon. “But I do not wish you to work.”
“Why not?” He pawed sadly at the clover. “If Sméagol is doing something wrong- Faelon might show us how to do it right?”
“You have done right, but I- are you not weary?”
“O yes! So weary!” He began to sniff around in the grass. “Ech! Here is more.” He put a hand on the clover and looked up beseechingly at Faelon.
“If you want to help,” said Faelon helplessly, “I would like that. Thank you.”
Sméagol began to dig. Faelon knelt beside him. “But, there is a less taxing way to do it,” he said. “See how I grasp the plant near the roots and gently pull it free? Some of them may be a little more tenacious, and then you will need to dig, but it is mainly unneeded.”
Sméagol eased a clover plant out of the ground. “Like this!” he said. “And this is gardening?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Gardening is taking out nassty little things from the ground and killing them dead, gollum!”
“No, not quite- I mean- that is not the whole of it,” said Faelon. Eardwulf would have been able to explain it. “We plant new living things as well.”
“Sss, sss. Sméagol does the killing part, he has practiced it.” He began to prowl for clover the way he prowled for mice.
Faelon was not sure he approved of this comment, and wondered whether he ought to say so- but before he could think of a reply, Sméagol had another question.
“Who was that Man with the spectacles?”
“He is in charge of the garden.”
“Yes, of course. Why did he call us Ring-keeper? I didn’t keep it. I threw it away!”
“It is- that is- I suppose he was thinking of the time you had it under the mountain.” Eardwulf would have been able to explain this were he present. Faelon often felt he himself was too young and too stupid to be in charge of something so fragile, so unpredictable and so- well- precious. “The King told us about it at your trial. You kept it safely away from the grasping hands of evil.”
“The grassping hands of evil, he says,” Sméagol said, flexing his long white fingers. “Very well. But I do not like it. No. Not at all. And we was not very good at keeping it if a fat little hobbit stole it and then I threw it away. Sss.”
“Ought I to tell him not to refer to you that way?”
“O no, Men must do as they likes, I suppose.” He yawned fretfully.
“Do you wish to go back to bed?”
Sméagol turned a beseeching eye upon him. “He’d tell us, wouldn’t he, if Sméagol was in the way?”
“You are not in the way,” Faelon said. “I only thought- well-” He had asked because of the yawn, but they had already settled the fact that Sméagol was indeed tired and that it did not deter him from his current mission at all. Faelon smiled and changed tactics. “Let us make a bargain! I will tell you if you are in the way, but you must tell me if at any time you want to go home. If we agree to that, neither of us need keep asking. Will that do?”
“Of course, of course!”
Faelon went back to work, and soon grew absorbed in it amidst the sounds of Sméagol scuffling and humming to himself. From time to time the creature asked him about what he was doing, and Faelon showed him more types of weeds and how their roots differed.
At one point Faelon heard “This flower is not so terrible, is it? No, it doesn’t smell so bad at all,” and knew even before he looked up that Sméagol was looking at a dandelion. Indeed he was, and it was a dandelion that had gone to wispy white seeds. Sméagol nosed at it. His eyes were bright and curious. Then he sneezed, and the seeds went flying.
Sméagol stared at the denuded flower head. “I kill everything!”
“The flower is not dead!” Faelon told him. “That is its nature, to turn to seeds and scatter. The wisps you saw will alight and make new flowers. You’ve just helped a great many new ones to grow!”
“New flowerses everywhere,” said Sméagol, looking as if he thought that might be worse.
“The dandelion would thank you if it could, I am sure,” said Faelon. “Did you know, little children blow on them to watch the seeds scatter?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” said Sméagol.
“You ought to try it if you find another,” said Faelon.
He did not tell Sméagol that they were weeds, and from then on he avoided pulling up any where it might be noticed.
A little while later Sméagol approached him with a large white grub in the palm of his hand. “What kind is this, Faelon?” he asked. “I think I have seen it other places but I don’t know its name.”
“It’s a grub,” said Faelon.
“What sort of grub?”
Faelon wondered why it had never even occurred to him to learn this. He wished he could answer the question. “I am afraid I don’t know its name- but I know what it is and what it does; it will grow into a beetle that will eat the plants, so I kill them when I find them. Slugs are dangerous, as well. Earthworms are helpful, and ought to be left alone, but if you would be so kind, Sméagol, twould be quite useful for you to dispose of grubs and slugs if you find them.”
“You means eat them,” said Sméagol.
Faelon laughed a little. “If you like. I know you prefer not to have your eating habits singled out. After all you can’t help them.”
“Sss, sss, yes. We will eat them, they are nice. Why is it- why is it Men do not eat them? They are not so very different from meat. Pigs lives in dirt and mud. Plants lives in dirt. Those is good enough for Men to eat. And the grubs is not very different, they tastes a bit like soft chicken, they are chewsome and squidgy.” He looked a little abashed at having admitted his pleasure in eating them.
Faelon looked down into his little pointed face. “I,” he said helplessly. “I don’t know why Men do not eat grubs. They are common and can be had for free. Perhaps some do. Men have eaten rats when times were lean- in fact I have met some who liked the taste and kept eating them.” They were sold as a delicacy in Minas Tirith on market days, grilled and skewered on sticks. Faelon hadn’t tried them. He had eaten rat in the past only when his parents could afford no better, and associated the taste with fear and scarcity.
Sméagol slipped the grub into his pocket. “Men do not know why they do the things they do, eh?” he said, in an appeasing tone. “Sméagol does not always know why he does things either. He shouldn’t ask so many nosy questions. So the plants and the beetles and slugses eats each other, and the plants choke each other. It begins to sound as if the garden is fighting itself.”
“Nature resists attempts to better it, I suppose.”
“Is it better?” Sméagol asked frankly.
Faelon shrugged and winced. “I rather like the flowers.”
“Ach! Sméagol knows nothing about it, he has never tried to better anything.” He slunk off where he could eat his grubs in privacy.
Faelon had had similar conversations with his very young niece. The chief differences were that his niece had not traversed Middle-Earth on foot, had not cast Isildur’s Bane into Orodruin, and was not older than his grandfather; so she did not make him feel so foolish when her questions were unanswerable.
He was not surprised to look up a while later and find Sméagol asleep in a shady corner. Nor was he surprised to see that Sméagol had scraped and flattened the grass to make himself more comfortable. That would need repairing, but on the whole he had done more good than harm.
Faelon took out his packed lunch and surveyed the area as he ate. A great deal had been accomplished. Sméagol’s frantic energy and clawing hands had absolutely demolished the overgrowth. He had leveled out some of the uneven ground, too, after he had noticed Faelon raking out mounds of earth and inquired why.
Faelon pondered what it would be like and how it would look if he took out his aged grandfather and made him do the day’s work. He cast a guilt-ridden glance at Sméagol’s tiny form. As it happened, he had just begun to wake, and was pulling himself to a sitting position in a jerky manner that showed his joints ached. “Didn’t mean to nap, did we?” he said.
“But you are usually asleep at this time,” said Faelon, packing up the remnants of his bread and cheese.
“Not today. Don’t want sleeps.”
“Are you afraid you may have nightmares?”
“No, no.” He frowned and rubbed his eyes. “Why am I lying? Of course I am afraid of nightmares. I do not have them as often as I should but when I do they are terrible, terrible!”
“That pains me to hear,” said Faelon. “I don’t think you should have any nightmares. I don’t like you to be distressed.”
Sméagol did not understand these things unless told. Since meeting him, Faelon had unconsciously formed the habit of telling these things to other people in his life whom he had always assumed knew without being told, such as his mother, and the results had been surprisingly good. It seemed that, while not everyone expected to be thought of as loathsome, most people did not know they were loved without being told either.
Sméagol remained with Faelon for the rest of the afternoon. Faelon had to admit to himself that he was pleased to have the help. He had thought he would be toiling in this patch for several more days and now it was nearly clear.
It finally ended when he caught sight of a woman pushing a small cart in the direction of Sméagol’s quarters. “Look!” Faelon said. “Is that someone bringing your breakfast?”
Sméagol blinked in her direction. He was by now beginning to look bleary. “It is, it is Galil, isn’t it?”
Yes, it was- Faelon had met her a time or two as she came and went. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Sméagol knew her by name.
"You must want your breakfast!” said Faelon brightly.
“We do, don’t we?” Sméagol said, eyeing the cart. It was a bit of a surprise that he had not asked for food before now- perhaps he’d been finding more grubs and slugs than Faelon had noticed.
“Let’s go and meet her, then.”
Sméagol ambled in Galil’s direction. She was surprised to see him outside, but not shocked. “Good evening, Sméagol! You have been taking the air, I see.”
“Yes, lots of smells today.” He sniffed at a covered dish on Galil’s cart.
“Have you been playing in the dirt?” she asked.
“Not playing, helping! We was helping in the King’s gardens!”
“Ah! That is honorable work.”
“It is,” said Sméagol. “The very nicest peoples do it.”
“But I fear it has soiled your hands,” said Galil. “Hold them out and I’ll pour water over them for you.”
Sméagol dutifully offered his hands and watched almost in awe as they were rinsed and made clean with water from a pitcher in the cart.
“There,” said Galil. “Now I shall bring your food inside for you.”
“We could eat it here,” Sméagol suggested. “Yes, peoples eats outside, nice people. They brings food in baskets and sits out on the grass. It’s called a pic-a-nic.”
Galil nodded. She seemed to understand that it was best to react to most of what Sméagol said as if it was perfectly normal and expected. “You would prefer I lay it out for you here?”
“Yes! Yes, and Faelon has something to eat with him too, doesn’t he?” He gave Faelon an odd look, half apology and half plea. “We saw him pack it up. He’s got it in his pocketses.”
“Yes, I do have some food,” said Faelon, though he did not know why Sméagol found it so interesting- perhaps because Faelon had eaten outside earlier that day?
He saw that Galil was looking to him for approval. “Yes,” said Faelon, “it would be pleasant for him to eat outside. Here, Sméagol, we will sit by your window.”
Galil set down the covered dish, which proved to have a mixture of meat in it. Eardwulf would have known what kind of meat it was and opined on whether it was of sufficient quality. Faelon would have to assume that, as Sméagol had no complaints, it was good enough.
“I trust you’ll enjoy it,” Galil said warmly, as Sméagol set upon his food with a babble of thanks.
She left with her cart. After a few mouthfuls of food, Sméagol glanced up at Faelon and asked: “He still has foods, doesn’t he?”
“A bit of bread and cheese. It would not be to your liking.”
“O no! We has our own. But Faelon might eat some if he wishes? Perhaps he is not hungry?”
“You want me to eat with you?” As he asked the question, Faelon realized Sméagol always ate alone, and wondered what it would be like to take all of one’s meals alone- forever, and not by choice.
Sméagol’s voice was faltering. “Hobbitses eats together sometimes.”
“Why, certainly I will eat with you.” He drew out his scraps of bread, and stood for the Standing Silence, putting his hand to his breast.
When he sat back down, Sméagol was blinking at him.
“Why did he do that?” he asked.
“Ah! We of Gondor stand in tribute to Numenor of the West before we eat, in tribute to our ancestors, who came over the sea, and in tribute to the Elvenhome that is across the sea.”
Sméagol nodded uncertainly.
“You need not do so,” Faelon added hastily. The uncertain look was probably because Sméagol was wondering if he had been rude by not following the custom himself. “It is not the sort of custom that outsiders- I mean, foreigners- I mean, anyone who is…”
“Anyone who is not even a Man at all,” said Sméagol. “Yes, yes.”
Faelon disliked to call attention to it because Sméagol had not merely left his homeland for a better- it had been destroyed, and there was no place he could go to find others of his people and custom, ever again. “No one will think it unseemly if you do not stand,” he said. “Your ancestors are not of Numenor.”
“We looks north to the River, maybe,” said Sméagol. Faelon had the faint impression that he was trying to smooth things over. “It doesn’t matter now. Eat, eat!”
The bread was stale and Faelon had at some time sat on it, but he disliked to waste food and had eaten worse. There was a grain shortage, as well.
He now dutifully ate the dry stuff to the sound of Sméagol’s delighted slobbering.
“Gollum!” Sméagol drew the back of his sleeve across his mouth. “Faelon eats his breakfast before he comes to see us in the morning, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, I do.”
Sméagol was looking at his bit of dry bread. “What does Faelon like to eat for breakfast?”
“I usually have bread and cheese.”
“That’s what he likes?”
“It would be nice to have meat now and then.” It was plainly not an idle question. Sméagol liked to learn about Mannish customs. “Men often have bread for breakfast, or perhaps some porridge that’s been sitting overnight. Those who can manage it may add bacon, or sausage, or eggs. At least- that is how it is done in Gondor.”
“Yes, yes. The King can manage it. Sméagol gets the bits of leftover bacon and eggses for his dinner.” He popped something ragged, dark and red into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. Finally he said: “Faelon is too thin and that crumb he’s got wouldn’t feed a rat, ach! The King can afford breakfast for him. We’ll ask and they will bring some in the morning.”
Alas! Eardwulf would have noticed he was about to say something outrageous and headed him off. “That is very good of you, Sméagol.” He did not wish to tell Sméagol that he could not simply offer the King’s parlor to his friends whenever he wished. “I will ask on your behalf,” he said. Then he could confer with Eardwulf and figure out how to present the inevitable refusal to Sméagol…
“No,” the creature said shortly. “Sméagol asks. Else they will think you are trying to get free foods out of us. That is not fair! I want it and I will ask for it.”
“I… see. That is very generous of you, Sméagol.”
“Not at all. It is the King’s money!”
“But-“
“Not at all, not at all! The clovers and the other weedses, are they always not wanted?”
“I believe so,” said Faelon. But this time he caught on. “But- I think you ought to ask someone first if you plan on digging them up.”
“O very well.”
“Have you taken so to gardening?”
“Sméagol likes to help. He likes to dig. Why not?” Sméagol had by now finished eating. Galil had left him some washing-up water, which he now applied to his face and hands. “Does Faelon want to wash?”
“I do not need to- my food was quite dry.”
Sméagol was not listening to him. He looked distracted, tilting his head and gazing off into the distance. Suddenly he picked himself up and looked down the path. Faelon was not surprised when Eardwulf came into view. It would be either him or Lord Boromir. Sméagol knew the footsteps of each- in the case of the Captain-General twas due to his stiff leg and the stout walking-stick he used, and it seemed that Eardwulf had one leg shorter than the other. This was not immediately apparent to the eye but lent his gait a distinctive sound- at least, to those with keen hearing.
Eardwulf was naturally taciturn and learning his facial expressions had been as much of a task as learning Sméagol’s- or more, because Sméagol occasionally made obvious signs such as baring his teeth or grinning, and Eardwulf did neither. But by now Faelon had worked with him closely for almost a year, and recognized that lightheartedness approaching the building turned to alarm at the sight of Faelon- who was never here at this hour unless Sméagol needed special attention.
Faelon got to his feet and opened his mouth to speak, but Sméagol was already crying at Eardwulf’s knees. “Men came today and asked us nasty questions!”
“Is that so?” Eardwulf asked.
“Rangers all in green, Faramir’s rangers. He and his Men that see lies are going to pull the Dark Tower down, all of it down, gollum, gollum! They will make it back into the City of the Moon!”
Faelon had heard rumor that this was not quite so- Minas Morgul could not be restored and would be destroyed. He was not going to correct Sméagol.
“They needed to know about prisoners,” Sméagol said, his voice beginning to shake. “They asked about the little rooms and the doors leading in, how the walls were- thick, thick walls you could scratch at until your hands fell off, and all of the ch… chains and shackles. They wanted to know, could anyone still be alive there. I s-said, only if they have been eating each other, gollum! They asked if anyone could get out. No. They’ve starved where they are fixed to the walls.” He began to rub his wrists. “Still there. Always there.”
“You do not need to speak of those things to me unless you wish it,” said Eardwulf.
“Hardly any room to move,” said Sméagol. “Always something dripping somewhere that I could hear but never get at, and I was so thirsty, so so thirsty, and it must have dripped on purpose, gollum! He was thoughtful, yes, He thought of things like that. Little things, little ways to be cruel. Little ways and big ways, too, like quiet parts of a song and loud parts, parts like screams. Always someone screaming.” He shuddered. “No! I won’t say. They are nice Men and don’t need to hear about such things. It is better not to know. Has Eardwulf come to draw a bath? I wants one… please.”
“Yes, that is what I have come for,” said Eardwulf.
“We’re covered in dirts.”
“Have you been digging, Sméagol?”
“Yes,” said Sméagol. “What does he suppose we’ve been doing so much digging for?”
“I know not,” said Eardwulf. “Would you like me to try guessing?” He was looking into the yard, in the vicinity of the old pipe that connected to Sméagol’s wall. He had confided before that he feared Sméagol digging it up one day and wanted Faelon to watch for the signs.
“Yes, guess, guess! Three guesses, three guesseses.”
“Have you been grave-digging, perhaps?”
“No, no,” Sméagol said chidingly. “Nasty.”
“Perhaps you’ve been digging out rabbits for a starving family.”
“Wrong, wrong!”
“Have you been exploring?”
“No!” said Sméagol. “Sméagol has been a-gardening! Whatever would Sam say?”
“He’d approve, I hope,” said Faelon.
“O no! He’d say we was doing it wrong.”
“Gardening,” said Eardwulf, looking at Faelon. “I see. Perhaps I should have guessed.”
“Faelon taught us,” said Sméagol, coming over to Faelon and companionably sitting down on his boot. “About weeds. And slugses, which we knew something about already, of course!”
“Of course,” said Eardwulf.
“Sméagol looks a bit like a slug.”
“I have never known a slug to invent riddles. Or to have arms.”
“He was a great help to me,” said Faelon. “A slug could never be so helpful! We worked together all day.” He gave Eardwulf a significant look.
“Since the rangers visited?” Eardwulf asked.
“Yes,” said Sméagol. “Now we are tired and would like to wash off the muds. We don’t wish to make our house dirty.”
He leaned against Faelon’s shin. Faelon’s foot was falling asleep. He did not move a fraction of an inch.
“Of course,” said Eardwulf, stepping inside. When he emerged with the empty washtub Sméagol peered at him and said:
“Did he notice anything?”
“It seems you have a new couch.”
“It is nice, eh? Sméagol brought it home all by hisself!”
“However did you convey it?”
“Dragged it. It was a long way!”
“I expect so. Tis quite a treasure.” Eardwulf walked off with the tub.
There had been talk of setting up a faucet by Sméagol’s rooms so he could draw his own bath and take it in private, but the plumbing had yet to be sorted out, and workmen had yet to be found, and then everyone seemed to be convinced that Sméagol would reward them for the project by flooding his little house.
And perhaps he would, Faelon conceded, looking down at the bony, clammy little personage affixed like a limpet to his leg. He may well find a faucet irresistibly exciting. There had been no such things in his long-ago burrow along the River, and surely to him it would seem a marvel of the modern world and a wonder of Men. (Though there was just as much chance that the system of cisterns had been invented by the Elves and Minas Tirith had only a poor copy. Faelon was not learned enough in lore to know for certain.)
Sméagol was looking back up at him. At times he looked at Men in a cool, distant, appraising way. Faelon had been accused of being easy to impress, but he was certain Sméagol’s wit was keener than his stumbling speech could convey, and, indeed, at times he feared that wit was keener than his own.
“I enjoyed our time together today,” said Faelon, seeking to break the odd tension that he felt.
“Did he?”
“Yes, truly, although I am worried you may take ill, having worked so hard and had no rest.”
“Ach, we may. It is too late now.”
“I have long wondered,” Faelon ventured, “what does ‘ach’ mean?”
“Mean, precious?” Sméagol blinked. “It doesn’t mean anything. It is just something people says, I suppose.”
“Ah… I see.”
“But Men doesn’t say it?”
“Not that I have heard, but-“
“Is it wrong to say?”
“No, no!”
Eardwulf was returning with the filled tub. Faelon hailed him with relief.
“We could take a bath outside,” said Sméagol.
Eardwulf’s tone had an edge of finality. “I’m afraid you could not. But I will place it near the window, if you prefer.” He carried the tub into the building.
Faelon followed, but Sméagol remained on the threshold, blinking and frowning.
“Here,” said Faelon. “I shall open the windows and then it will not feel so close.”
Sméagol finally crept inside. Once in, he sniffed at the air and the floor, and looked as if he found it a pleasant surprise that it was really still his own home with all of his own smells. He gladly shed his clothes and hopped into the bath.
“Not every window, perhaps,” he said as Faelon stepped towards the shutters. “Nice and dark, it is.” After leaving the puddle of light near the open door, he had become a nearly invisible shape in the gloom.
Faelon stepped away from the shutters.
Sméagol sloshed in the water. “Never got any bath in the tower,” he said. “Not one. Never gave us any washing water, and then kicked us and said we stank. Ach! And we did, and we knew it, o, it was wretched, wretched, covered in filth and the crusts of my own blood!” He began to shake and whimper.
Eardwulf picked up the ladle that hung on the wall and began to scoop up water with it, pouring it gently over Sméagol’s back and shoulders. Sméagol lapsed into silence.
Faelon stood in an awkward silence. He was plainly no longer needed and had nothing to do, and could not see any way to help, but he felt as if leaving suddenly would be an abandonment.
The silence broke when Eardwulf said softly: “I cannot let you sleep in the tub. You do not have gills.”
“Eh?” Sméagol snorted drowsily. “Was I?”
“You were about to. Here, I will bring you to your bed. It is your own bed with your own smells, and it is soft and clean. And see, Sméagol, your door locks from the inside and the lock is where you can reach it. The door to the cellar does not lock at all.”
Faelon followed them down the stairs, pausing to pick up Sméagol’s discarded clothing. As he did so he realized Sméagol had been wearing his second-best clothing to weed the garden.
In the cellar, Eardwulf was already helping Sméagol dress.
“I didn’t- they didn’t- they didn’t g-give me any clothes,” said Sméagol. “They wouldn’t let me wear anything.”
“You have clothes now. Look, they are clean, they are made for your size, and it seems they have been mended, as well, here where your sleeve tore.”
Sméagol’s clothing often needed to be mended. It came from being so active and so close to the ground.
Eardwulf picked up the small figure in the dark and set him on the bed. “See, it is your own bed. The King of Gondor gave it to you. Tis softer than my own at home, though mine is cushioned somewhat with dogs.”
“Yes, nice and soft…”
“You used to tell me it was too soft.”
“I was wrong! Suppose- suppose he does open the window for us, just a bit?”
Faelon was closer, so he opened the window, letting in the last haze of evening light and the fresh scent of the outside. “The window latches from the inside,” he said, taking a cue. “There is no way to bar it from without.”
Sméagol closed his eyes against the dim light. Eardwulf left his bedside and began to look about at things in the room, checking for inauspicious signs such as damaged furniture or unfinished meals.
A glint of light caught Faelon’s eye- there was an odd metal contraption hung in Sméagol’s window, which bore a fanciful resemblance to a fish. Lord Boromir had purchased it for him from a shop in town. The Captain-General had always seemed wise and responsible but a bit distant, like a father who was always working and only saw one for an hour at dinner once or twice a week. Since the end of the War he had become a present, doting, spoiling sort and Halflings were his special favorites- all of them, and now that Sméagol was the only one still in the city twas no surprise that he was receiving presents and attention. After so many years of abandonment, no doubt he could benefit from such favors.
It was catching the light. Had Sméagol hung it to catch the light? It looked well when it did- the different metal faces glinting gave an illusion of scales. But Sméagol so disliked light.
Faelon found, suddenly, that Sméagol was watching him. When he saw Faelon had noticed, he sat up a little. “Will he come here a minute, the nice Man?” It was the polite, nearly supercilious tone Sméagol used when he needed something he thought would be a chore or a bother.
Faelon went to his bedside. “Yes, my friend?”
“May I? He doesn’t mind, does he?”
It was not wise to agree to something Sméagol wanted without knowing what it was or why he wanted it but by now Faelon was tired too, and after hearing about the tower he was inclined to be indulgent. “Yes, of course.”
Sméagol reached up to touch his face. A light, damp touch, like a chill mist sweeping his face and finding every surface of cheek and jaw. Sméagol’s own face was set like the face of someone copying a piece of artwork or sketching a complicated bit of architecture. He ended by laying his palm against Faelon’s cheek. “He has a nice face,” he said with immense satisfaction. “Yes… yes, a fresh, sweet face. And it is kind.”
“I thank you,” said Faelon, feeling as if he could almost see through the outward appearance of the beaten, ruined Halfling and past it to an old, cunning intelligence, jaded and bitter, that had judged him and found him good. And then Sméagol withdrew his hand and yawned, and seemed again quite ordinary or even a little less than ordinary.
He and Eardwulf lingered in the room until Sméagol slept, which did not take very long.
Leaving the building, Faelon said: “I dread to think he will wake and find us gone.”
“There is [name],” said Eardwulf, nodding to the guard.
“Ah! Good evening,” said Faelon.
“Is something amiss? You do not usually both go in at once,” the guard asked.
“He’s had a trying day,” said Eardwulf. “Let anyone who goes in know not to wake him. If he wakes of his own accord he may come out to speak with you… be especially gentle.”
The guard nodded and they continued on.
“I saw him touch your face,” Eardwulf remarked.
“Oh- yes. I know not why, but it seemed a compliment.”
“He looks at things with his hands sometimes, I’ve noticed. He has never looked at my face so closely as he did yours, however.”
“In a strange way I feel marked with approval,” said Faelon.
Eardwulf gave him a dry smile. “I know you have worried that he prefers me, but I do not think I could persuade him to learn my profession.”
“Ah,” said Faelon with a wince. “After being questioned this morning he wished to go outside for a time, and he offered to watch me work. I suspect he saw that I was anxious about neglecting my other duties, though he claimed to be curious about what I was doing…”
“I am sure he really was, and also saw that you were anxious, and believed you might both profit if he followed you to work.”
“Yes, perhaps. He did seem interested. He asked a great many questions, and then he began to do what I was doing- pulling up weeds.”
“You look distressed. Was he difficult to manage?”
“No, indeed,” said Faelon. “He was pliable, helpful and friendly. He was in truth a help to me, and I am not sure it is right for me to have taken so much benefit from the labor of someone I am paid to care for. And he is so small. I feared he would strain himself- I still fear he may have strained himself. And I felt the whole thing had the look of cruelty. I was afraid all the time that someone would see him doing my work, and going about as he does, looking as if his back was broken.”
Eardwulf had suggested that perhaps Sméagol looked like that because his back had, in fact, been broken once upon a time, in a manner that had not paralyzed his legs, and then it had been left to heal on its own and never again had its right shape. Faelon thought if this had happened Sméagol would have starved to death from lack of hunting, but Eardwulf thought the creature was hardy enough to endure it.
They did not dare ask Sméagol about it. It was best to let him choose whether he wished to discuss the past.
Eardwulf was shaking his head. “Sméagol did not strain himself by weeding the gardens. You have seen him dig for the pleasure of it. He was right to want to be outside in the free air and you were right to help him. And I think he enjoyed himself a great deal by digging up the King’s gardens and being praised for it.”
“He must be exhausted,” said Faelon.
“Then he will sleep. What ails him is the memory of imprisonment and slavery. Forcing him to remain inside and forbidding him to choose how to spend his time would have been disastrous for him.”
Faelon nodded. “Perhaps so. I ought not worry. He is a perian- he’s not made of glass.”
“No. Be braced for him to make more experiments with how he may make use of freedom and safety. It is new to him.” He shook his head a little. “And he may indeed one day decide to see what my dogs are like. Unfortunately for him, they are all excellent guard-dogs. I’ll have to warn him not to slip in through a window unannounced.”
“Yes- that would be dreadful!”
Eardwulf glanced over at him. “Try to enjoy his company,” he said. “Do not tarnish it by fretting. He has been long-lived, but we will not have him forever.”
Faelon did not like to think of it. “Oh,” he said. “He threatened to ask to have a breakfast brought for me in the morning so I may eat with him.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Surely the King will not wish to issue such an extravagance…”
“Do you think our King would forbid you breakfast?”
“I suppose not-”
“Are you unwilling to eat with Sméagol? His habits can be off-putting.”
“No, no, I am quite used to him. He is no worse than any other old soul with hardly any teeth.”
“By all means, let him ask, then.” Eardwulf paused. “We’ve reached the turnoff to the kennels. Do you want to come in for a glass of ale?”
“Oh, that is kind-“
“No? Very well. Good night.”
“I didn’t mean-”
Eardwulf was walking briskly away, showing not the least sign of offense or disappointment. Faelon was exhausted and in fact had not wanted ale. He had not thought he gave any indication that this was his thought.
Walking home slowly, Faelon mused over the day. He could have enjoyed it a great deal more if he had not fretted so. Sméagol had never been in danger and had never caused any real problems.
That night he dreamt of being locked in a cell too small to turn round in as, just outside, a figure in shadow mocked him.
Faelon found he could only open the door a little way before it hit some item inside and stopped. He hoped the item had not been Sméagol, who sometimes rushed to the door when he heard someone’s approach. He peered into the dark room, but could see nothing.
Flapping footsteps sounded from within. Good- he had not been at the door. “Who is it, precious, who’s there? Why, it’s Faelon! Whatever does he want, eh?”
There was the sound of something scraping across the floor and the door opened more fully. It let out an appetizing smell.
“Come in, come in,” said Sméagol, taking Faelon’s hand in his own- which was nearly as large- and leading him to the table. Faelon’s eyes were already beginning to adjust to the candlelight. There had been a chair in front of the door, which was now just aside.
“Someone has been trying to get in at us to take our portrait,” said Sméagol, “and we was so annoyed we blocked the door, though Sméagol knows he shouldn’t.”
“How dreadful! Perhaps you ought to speak to the guards.”
“Ach, yes, I should, I keeps forgetting. I will write a note and tack it up on the door and then they will all know.” He nudged Faelon. His touch was damper than it would be all on its own- he had already bathed. “Careful, careful! He’s about to bark his shinses! Sméagol’s been very messy.”
“What’s in that box?”
“We do not know yet, someone’s sent us a present. I thinks it is someone who thinks we can get them to meet the other hobbitses. Of course they lives far away and if they was here they would meet whoever they like whatever I say. Here’s his chair.”
Faelon nodded. Sméagol pattered off to his own seat, while Faelon observed the Standing Silence and then sat down to a breakfast of eggs and bacon. There was also some buttered toast, and fresh berries.
Across from him, Sméagol attacked his dinner with obvious enjoyment. He did not seem to be in the mood for conversation.
After a time Faelon noticed that Sméagol’s favorite coat was draped over the chair nearby, which he took note of because it was not usually put there. Sméagol’s things did turn up in random locations but he was careful with his coat.
“Will he help us with our buttonses?” Sméagol asked meekly.
“I will do so gladly, but- I am surprised that you want your coat. It is nearly day.”
“It is clouded up, nice and dim, and I’ve been asleep most of the night, silly Sméagol falling asleep. Now he cannot sleep when he’s supposed to because he’s already done it!”
“I see,” said Faelon. “Why, that all seems sensible to me, and it’s certainly cold enough for your coat. Do you want company?”
Sméagol had slipped into his coat as quick as a flash and sat with his arms outstretched to allow access to the buttons. “We wondered- yes, we wondered if Faelon might not mind us watching him at work in the gardenses, perhaps.”
“I would not mind at all. I am planting trees today.”
“The Man makes trees?” He tried to sound nonchalant, but his eyes were enormous.
“Yes, it is not so wonderful as you suppose! Did your people not plant things, Sméagol?”
“I’m not sure, not sure. I don’t remember it but perhaps- I did not care about it and have forgotten, yes… I did not know, back then, that one day it would be gone and I would wish I could remember everything.”
“I am sorry to hear it!”
“Don’t be sorry. Not his fault. He should try to remember everything,” said Sméagol, “jusst in case.”
“I shall. And today I shall show you how Men plant. Come along!”
“These have grown up from seeds,” said Faelon, leading his shuffling companion along to the garden house. “We don’t plant them in the ground until they’re old enough. See?”
He had arrived after most of the others had left, though [name] was still collecting his tools. He looked up at hearing Faelon’s approach, and glanced about to see who he was talking to- plainly overlooking Sméagol, who was making himself hard to see in the quiet, effortless manner that the pheriannth used to hide in plain sight. Faelon did not sabotage his efforts by pointing him out.
Sméagol watched solemnly as Faelon loaded three small saplings into a barrow. “We thought he was going to make them from nothing,” he said, waiting until after [name] had left. “Silly, silly! He can’t, of course.”
“No,” said Faelon, “but I can grow a plant from a seed. I suppose you have not had so many reasons to take notice of seeds. How much do you know about them?”
“Sss, sss. Not much.”
“You’ve seen acorns, have you not? You know what they look like?”
“Yes,” said Sméagol, “used to try to eat them when we could get nothing else, but they made us sick, ach.”
“They grow into trees.”
“No wonder they made us sick!” Sméagol looked aghast.
He seemed so horrified by the very idea of new plant life coming to be. Faelon wondered- not for the first time- if Sméagol knew how children were born.
He was not going to be the one to introduce that subject. “I am going to take these trees to their new home,” he said, picking up the handles of the barrow.
He paused there, because Sméagol had gotten sidetracked into investigating the barrow and was putting himself where he might get run over. “Room for Sméagol,” he said.
“There’s room for you in the barrow?”
“There is!”
“Would you like to ride inside with the trees?”
“Let’s see how it is to be inside,” said Sméagol, climbing up into the barrow. His weight was a negligible addition. “Yes, we’ll ride in here!”
This seemed like a good way to keep him contained. “Off we go!” said Faelon, keeping a careful pace with the barrow and avoiding uneven ground, which he would have done anyway- he didn’t want the trees to be too jostled either, after all.
The trees were marked for being planted near the garden pond. Fortunately Sméagol was acquainted with the pond and knew the fish were not for hunting.
Faelon demonstrated digging a hole for one of the trees with plenty of room for the roots. Sméagol watched this keenly with quivering nose.
“They will grow large, so they need to be quite far apart. Here,” said Faelon, “I’ll save time by marking out where each one should go.” He did so by cutting marks into the turf, and began digging the next hole. Almost at once he heard scratching, and looked up to see Sméagol digging at one of the other planting spots.
“Oh! Are you helping?” Faelon asked.
“Maybe,” said Sméagol. “Or maybe Sméagol is jusst making a mess!”
“You are helping! I thought you may be in a mood to dig.”
“Ha, ha! Sméagol doesn’t get to dig up the King’s gardens every day, does he?”
“No, certainly not,” Faelon laughed, and went back to work.
He had expected Sméagol to dig, but he did not expect to go to the barrow and find two saplings instead of three.
The missing tree was in the hole Sméagol had dug. He was sitting next to it, with a solemn face. “Sméagol planted a tree.”
The saplings were small and to Faelon they seemed quite lightweight, but to Sméagol it must have been a taxing job. Faelon let go of the temptation to be horrified. Sméagol would do as he would.
“Yes, he did plant a tree,” said Faelon. “Very good work! You’ve taken it out of the pot and covered up the roots.”
“I thought I should, because rootses go underground, don’t they?”
“Yes, that’s exactly right. And you gave it enough space, too. Very good!”
“I did it right?”
“You did!”
Sméagol seemed to feel that he had now had enough exercise. He sat quietly and looked at his sapling until Faelon had finished planting and moved on to watering.
“What’s he doing?” Sméagol asked.
“I’m giving them a drink.”
He stared. “Trees takes drinks?”
“Yes, they are alive, and need water, especially when they’re in a new place and expected to grow. They’re near the pond and usually won’t need help to get water, I think, but after just being planted they’ll be especially thirsty. Would you like to water the one you planted?”
Sméagol looked as if he was not sure he would like to- he still seemed to find the idea of plants being alive somehow alarming, but he took the watering can and watered the sapling the way Faelon showed him, then took a drink himself from the dregs of the watering can before Faelon could stop him. It would not be much use to tell him the water wasn’t clean enough. Faelon did not comment.
“Smelling the water makes me thirsty,” Sméagol said.
“I understand,” said Faelon, taking the watering can back.
“That one is a willow, isn’t it?”
“It is! So you do know a little about trees. I thought you might. I suppose you know willows from the River.”
“Yes, I do.”
“One day this will be as large as the willows you remember,” said Faelon, as he watered the last tree. “You’ll be able to climb them. Birds will nest in them and lay eggs.”
“One day… yes.” His voice was soft and regretful.
In fact there was no guarantee whatever that he would live long enough to see that tree grow. It was an utter mystery how long he would live. It was a mystery for most people, of course, and no one was guaranteed the span of years to see a tree grow- but it was a more pressing mystery to the very old, and Faelon regretting calling his charge’s attention to it.
“That is done,” said Faelon quickly. “I’ll be returning to the garden house to get the things for my next project… you are welcome to come with me or go home, if you are tired.”
“I am, a bit,” Sméagol admitted. “I’d like to go back and sleep now. Silly Sméagol changng his mind.”
“Not at all. I’ve enjoyed having you with me.”
“And I’ve enjoyed being a tagalong with him,” Sméagol said so quietly it was hard to hear. He glanced back at the trees as they left.
When Faelon was an old man and had many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and had planted whole thickets of trees on the grounds of Minas Tirith and on the ravaged plains of Mordor, he would still think of the willow in the Sixth Circle as Sméagol’s tree.