Cottoncrow's Cry - Chapter 7
Much as it grained on Samuel’s pride, every decision he took on behalf of Bomieth, had to meet the council’s approval. And they hadn’t.
Of the whole council of elders, the leader was probably the one to have least faith in Samuel’s abilities and rulings. Old Bomieth did not trust Samuel, and the healer knew it. He never had, and never had Samuel been able to win that stubborn heart to his side.
Chapter 7
Much as it grained on Samuel’s pride, every decision he took on behalf of Bomieth, had to meet the council’s approval. And they hadn’t.
Of the whole council of elders, the leader was probably the one to have least faith in Samuel’s abilities and rulings. Old Bomieth did not trust Samuel, and the healer knew it. He never had, and never had Samuel been able to win that stubborn heart to his side.
The only reason why Bomieth ever let Samuel handle some of the matters was on account of the fact that the leader’s daughter was the healer’s wife, an arrangement that had never set well with the old man.
But his daughter had been pregnant then, making it a choice between a union that he did not liked or the shame of his entire family. In the end, it was a matter of little consequence, for the child was never born.
When Samuel brought the subject of the runes determining that the elf should be put to death, the same questions that had been raised by Gimli were asked again. The council had doubts about how a creature, foretold by some stones that they could not understand, and an elf, that had happened to wander in their woods, could possibly be related. They failed to see, even if he were such creature, how would his death put an end to an evil disease that seemed unstoppable.
All of them were well aware of the ages of grievance that ran between Men and Elves, despite all the points in time when both races had been friends and even allies. Mortal and immortal were too different to co-exist free of misunderstandings and mistakes, each too strong and proud to bend to the other.
The elders worried about retaliation, from this elf or from other elves, if they happened to know what had passed there. No one really knew who this elf was, of where he had come from or who his relations were.
The power and might of the elves was not something to foolishly provoke, and their wrath a thing they did not wish upon their heads. Could they risk a war on an uncertainty?
Deaf ears met any argument that Samuel had for them. Something that killed as many and as ruthlessly as the Bruisenbite could only have been conjured by a power as evil and ruthless as itself. The Dark Lord had been the only living force able to command such disease, a point that raised no doubts in the elders’ minds. The thing that made them thread more cautiously was the fact that, so far, Samuel had failed to show a connection between Sauron and this elf. He had yet to prove that elf had been sent by the Dark Lord to finish what the Bruisenbite had started.
In their way of thinking and traditions, they knew it was in their right to kill the elf and save themselves. But, what if an army of elves came to their doorstep, questioning their reasons? If they failed to present the right ones, they would have more chance of surviving the disease than an Elvin army.
They demanded that solid proof was to be found, so that they could have security in their claims and so that their actions might be called just. And Samuel was to provide that.
Oooooooooooooooooooooooo
A stone, about half a man’s height, had been raised in the central square, where the meetings were usually held. The smith had worked hard and fast, adorning it with two large metal rings, one on each side of the stone.
And there the elf had been forced to kneel, facing what looked like the entire population of the village. A rough rope secured his hands to the metal rings, while another bonded his ankles, making his position uncomfortable to keep.
Legolas shift again, trying to ease the strain in his arms. His face was a stone mask that reflected none of the emotions coursing thought his heart.
Samuel was talking.
“Elf, you have been summoned here to determine the extent of your allegiance with the dark lord, Sauron,” the healer proclaimed in an official tone, intend for all to hear.
Legolas almost laughed.
“Extent? I have no allegiance with Sauron! Never had, shall never have, particularly now, that he has been beaten!”
Samuel did not look convinced, nor did any of those watching.
“Bring forth his belongings!” Samuel commanded. A man stepped forward, carrying a bundle that he set on the floor in front of the elf, at Samuel’s feet.
Everything that the warrior had carried with him was scattered on the dirt. The ivory-handle knives, the Galadhrim bow, quiver and cloak, his bag of utilities, and even a change of clothes.
Samuel ignored everything else and grabbed the cloak. Its unique fabric had caught his attention, for its colour was so unique that he could not decide what to name it. The healer’s fingers ran over the strange wool, feeling its softness and warmth.
“This is yours?”
“It is,” Legolas confirmed. The clasp was missing, but the piece of garment that had been presented to each member of the Fellowship on their depart from the Lothlórien woods could not be mistaken for any other. More than a simple cloak, it had been one of the elements of union that had made closer the relations between men, dwarf, hobbits, elf and wizard, turning them all in to equals. They had all been equally favored by the Lady, equally cursed by their task and equally fortunate to be together in their struggle to fulfill it. Those friendships formed, that bond, as the cloak, would never fade or grow tatty.
“It was made by your kind?”
“It was a gift from Galadriel, the Lady of Light,” Legolas answered annoyed. He could see little point in Samuel’s questions and, the fact that the man loomed over him, pricked his pride.
‘If you want to be bigger than your opponent, bring him to his knees’, one of his teachers used to tell him. A sound advice, if you are not the one kneeling.
“Galadriel, the elf-witch?!” The healer snarled, throwing the cloak behind Legolas, as if its mere touch was burning his hands.
There was a collective gasp from those watching, as the cloak flew in the air, touched the dirt and disappeared before their eyes.
“She is no witch!” Legolas defended.
But no one was listening. All eyes were fixed on the point where the piece of cloth should be, but was not, making the elf’ statement moot.
“Witchcraft!” Samuel shouted, his eyes round and frightened. His fingers trembled when he circled the kneeling elf and searched the ground where the cloak should be. They curled around the familiar softness and pulled.
A second gasp ran through the crowd, as the magic piece reappeared in Samuel’s hands.
Legolas turned his head as far as it went, trying to see what had captured everyone’s attention in such manner.
“If you claim that she is no witch, how do you explain this bewitched cloak?”
The warrior’s eyes went from the innocent looking piece of cloth to the dirt and pebbles ground, and understood what had happened. How to explain it was no magic, but a particularity of the wool that the Galadhrim used, which gave their cloaks the ability to blend in to their surroundings? Lizards did the same… were they magic as well?
Samuel looked victoriously to the prisoner, knowing that his silence spoke volumes to assure his guilt.
“If he deceives us with a simple piece of clothing, what other ways must he have to further fool us?”
The villagers nodded in agreement, shouting against the elf. They had no love for being fooled and for them, this should be proof enough.
Samuel begged them to remain calm.
“While this shows us that elves are indeed creatures full of tricks and are experienced in the arts of witchcraft, it still does not tell us that this elf is who we seek!”
The crowed complained, but Samuel ignored them as he searched the rest of Legolas’ belongings. He knew the council would not be satisfied with the cloak alone. Somewhere in the elf’s things he had to find undeniable proof that he was Sauron’s ally, and therefore, killed. Without ceremony, the healer grabbed Legolas’ leather bag and emptied its contents for all to see. Amidst the spare arrowheads, strings, flints and food, a roiled parchment glinted like gold to his eyes.
Breaking the seal with the eagerness of a child unwrapping a sweet, Samuel unfolded the letter, his eyes devouring the careful handwrite.
“That is a message from your king!” Legolas protested, angered. “You have no right to desecrate it!”
Samuel ignored him, a smile spreading over his lips.
“I can see why my actions displease you so,” he said, aware that everyone breathe was hanging from his words, eager to know what that letter belay. “For what I read in here is your guilt!”
Legolas could hardly believe his ears. He had not opened the parchment, as it was meant for his father’s eyes and not his, but he had been there when Aragorn had written it, as the king had asked for his help on the matter. So, he knew that on that piece of paper, there was nothing more than pleasantries and compliments, from one king to another. A diplomatic missive.
“This here,” Samuel went on, holding the paper high for all to see, “tells of the dismissal of your master, and of the elves’ intention of fulfilling the Dark Lord’s plans, regaining rule over Middle-Earth and all of its races!”
The gasps and fright reactions were immediate, quickly followed by anger and determination, of never allowing it to happen. History would not repeat itself in Cottoncrow.
“That is not true!” Legolas blared, even if his words were drowned by the exalted voices around him. “Tis but a message from the king of Gondor to the elven-king of Mirkwood, and the only allegiance it talks, is of that between Men and Elves!”
“Be quiet, beast!” The healer shouted, towering over the kneeling prisoner. “I do not know whose hand wrote these lines, mayhap Sauron himself,” he said, causing some villagers to take a step back in fear. “But it is clear in showing your part in these folly plans!” Samuel snarled, spitting the words in to Legolas’ face. “And you claim it was meant for the king of Mirkwood! We have all heard the tales about him!”
Legolas surged forward, pushing his binds to reach Samuel’s neck, as his anger got hold of him.
“You are spinning your own truth as a spider spins its web!” He said, his voice deep and menacing.
Samuel took a step back, for seconds concerned that the chains might not be strong enough to restrain the enraged elf. At a safe distance, he regained his boldness.
“The truth is but one, and behold! It lies in my hand! It is here, plain to see for any that wishes to do so!” The healer said, offering the letter to the onlookers.
But in a village where none could read, he knew his call would go unanswered.
“See? They know who lies, who means to deceive them,” Samuel provoked the elf, holding the parchment in front of Legolas’ eyes.
Up side down.
Legolas blinked, to hide the surprise in his eyes. A suspicion started to grow in his mind. Could it be?
“Who taught you to read elvish Sindarin?” The warrior asked, laying his trap.
Samuel met his eyes with defiance.
“Concern yourself with the fact that I can, not with whom I’ve learned it.”
And Legolas knew then. This man could not read! He couldn’t even discern the westron writing from the elvish one.
It had been a point of some discussion between him and Aragorn, about which language to use. In the end both had agreed that, being Aragorn the king of Men, it would be only proper for him to use the language of Men. Thranduil was fluent in both, and Legolas knew his father would understand Elessar’s choice.
The unfairness of his position was frustrating on the elf. He knew that the man was lying but, if no one else could read that piece of paper in Samuel’s hands, it would be the healer’s word against his. A prisoner. An elf.
Samuel could say what ever it pleased him and these people would believe it to be true. He was the village’s healer, he was their help when they felt ill, their trust in his word and judgment was untouchable.
The faces that Legolas saw looking at him with a mixture of hate and fear had condemned him already. Samuel had merely arranged for a way to justify the contempt and distrust against his kind, which came so easily to the people of Cottoncrow.
Calls of ‘kill him now!’ and ‘end this curse!’ had raised in volume since the elf’s ‘guilt’ had been found, but when an older voice asked if he could even be killed, all others hushed, for they had not thought of that. He was an immortal creature… how could they end his immortality?
“We know his kind does not age or fall ill… how can we be sure to have the means to fulfill this omen?”
It was a just question, Samuel admitted, and he too had his doubts.
The glint of the sun reflected on the unshielded white-handles of the knives on the ground, and the healer grabbed one, an idea running through his mind.
Much as he hated elves, Samuel had to admit that their kind crafted objects of unique beauty. The weapon in his hands felt too light for the blade it had, and the ivory handle fitted his fingers as it had been made especially for them. The cutting steal was covered with fine golden engravings of words and symbols he could not understand but that reminded him of leaves in the spring. Rather than a blood shed tool, it was an object of admiration.
Legolas stood straighter, tense. His immortality had been at risk many times before, in the troubled days of the last Age, and too often had he placed his fate in the hands of the Valar, knowing that, whatever the outcome, it would be for a just cause. Being it the defense of his home woods, or of all of Middle-Earth, he would have gladly departed for the Halls of Mandos, knowing that his actions had served a good purpose.
But never had it crossed his mind that he would meet his end on his knees, killed by his own weapon, on account of a mistake.
“You promised Gimli three days,” Legolas reminded the man.
Samuel gave him no answer. He held the knife horizontally, the blade steady as he rested its tip against Legolas’ chest.
The elf held his gaze, defiant. All others had become stone still, their breaths suspended and trapped inside their breasts. In such poignant silence, all were able to hear the sudden intake of air that came from the prisoner.
Legolas knew how sharp his own knives were, for he took good care in keeping them so. The slightest pressure from Samuel, and the blade broke the elf’s skin, drawing a red line.
The bloody stain started to spread across Legolas’ chest and the villagers cheered enthusiastically, thinking that the healer had delivered a killing blow. But, as time ticked by and the elf failed to fall down dead, their enthusiasm died away and their anxiety started to grow.
Samuel turned his back on the prisoner, escaping his fiery gaze, and faced the villagers instead. He could see the fear and shock in their faces.
“You all know that I have promised Gimli, the dwarf, three days to prove the elf’s innocence,” he started, his words arousing a number of disagreeing voices. Those who had sick relatives knew that they could not afford the wait.
Samuel quieted them down, knowing that soon his cause would be lost if he wasn’t able to make them seen things his way. The longer everyone’s attention was on the elf and dwarf, the safer it was for him to set his long delayed plans in to motion.
“Though we know of his guilt, promises can not idly be broken,” he went on, unable to erase the disappointment in their looks. Samuel raised his hands again, asking for silence. In his right hand he still held the bloodied blade, high, for all to see. “Two more days, my friends, I ask of you but two more days, and then we will be able to leave these dark times of our existence behind, with no stains to our pride and honor!”
The healer could finally see a few heads nodding, as his words started to win their trust back. He pushed his point further.
“And when the time comes, we need not worry about an immortal’s ability to die,” he said, pointing to red mark in the white, dirty tunic that Legolas wore. “For every creature that bleeds, can be killed!”
Legolas shuddered, an ominous feeling of ill doom coming over him. It was one thing to hear those words from his friend’s mouth, when Gimli had related them. It was something different to hear them after seeing the blood-thirst in these people’s eyes.
Two days. He had two days to either escape or convince these people that they were wrong.
The wood-elf looked at the bright yellow sun up in the sky, just short of reaching its summit. Gimli was waiting for him at the stone ruins and would soon realize that something had gone amiss.
Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Gimli had lost count of the times his hands had reached for his pocket, in search of his pipe, only to grab it and be reminded that he had no smoking weed left. This time, however, he gave up and took the pipe out. Its touch on his lips was somewhat pacifying. The dwarf rolled it in his tongue, pulling in air, instead of the sweet tobacco fumes.
The elf was late, that part was becoming painfully obvious. Gimli resumed his pacing, his worry growing with each step.
Gimli had spent the night at the woman’ strange house. Lianna, she had asked him to call her.
He had left the baby girl with Lianna, after she had assured him a number of times that she knew where the child’s family lived, and that she could safely return the baby to her mother.
As soon as the sun had come up, Gimli was on his way towards the ruins, anxious to get there and hopeful that, on arrival, he would find the elf already there, waiting for him.
But his hopes were shattered when he reached the ruins and found them empty and his friend nowhere in sight.
Fact of the matter was, nothing was in sight. The fog laid so heavily over the land that Gimli felt as if a white sheet had been wrapped around him, blinding him to all else.
Gimli waited and despaired. And when logic advised him that Legolas wouldn’t be coming, he still waited. But as the night’ shades begun to caress the land, the dwarf couldn’t deny it any longer. Legolas had not managed to escape.
A thousand theories crossed Gimli’s mind, trying to guess the reason for that failure, and none set well with his heart. He couldn’t remember a time when the elf had ever failed on anything, his perfection of movement, actions, and aim and just about everything he did, something too annoying for the dwarf to dwell in.
The only explanation for it to have happen now could only pass by some event so terrible and dark that not even an elf could control and surpass.
He needed to know what had passed, before his sanity gave out. And the only way for him to have any answer was to return to the place where he had left Legolas.
Knowing that the guards would ask too many questions if they saw him back, Gimli took care in staying in the shadow of the trees, turned darker by the moonless night.
Soon he realized that his cares were not required. The guards were gone.
Throwing all thoughts of stealth to the wind, Gimli raced to the house.
The whole place looked eerily empty. A thin laired mist, premature dew that rose from the ground and turned the air in to a sticky substance, had replaced the daytime fog.
Only the smell of burned flesh and hair remained the same near the lonely house and, to Gimli, it seemed like ages had passed since he had first set foot there. The corrosive feeling of worry that had been eating at his stomach throughout the all day reached a higher and even more disturbing level as Gimli read the signs around him, the signs that he could ignore no longer. What they spelled could not be mistaken.
The guards were gone because they had no one left to guard.
Everything looked empty, abandoned. Even the lights inside the house were, for once, dead.
Dead.
Legolas hadn’t managed to escape.
Smoke still rose from the large fire that had burned that day and, among the ashes, the panting dwarf could still see remains of white bones.
The seasoned warrior shivered with the nonsense thought that those burned bones could be all that was left of his friend and, never breaking his rushed stride, he burst through the door.
A few startled heads turned, scared by the dwarf’s dramatic entrance, but most let it pass with out taking much notice. Gimli searched the gloomy room for the familiar face of the elf, but even with eyes used to the dark like his, he could see aught but the fever-laden faces of the ill ones.
“He ain’t here any more,” a voice near him said.
Gimli turned his gaze to the bald man that had spoken.
“Samuel came t…”
Gimli was out of house before the man could even finish his sentence. The mere name of the healer had been enough for him.
‘That lowlife didn’t keep his end of the bargain,’ Gimli thought angrily, as he raced to the village.
Despite the late hour, this turn Gimli could see more villagers than he had the night before.
A man, seating on the steps of a house, shared his chicken leg with a dog. Above him, on the window, a woman was throwing a bucket of dirty water in to the street, cursing against the chill of the night. Two other women stood at another door, in another street, stopping their chatting when Gimli passed them by, casting unfriendly glares his way. A group of loud youngsters was drinking and laughing near the well. A dog barked somewhere.
Life seemed ordinary in those parts, if Gimli didn’t knew better. Of Legolas, he could see no sign.
Trying to remember all of the twists and turns the guards had taken when they had led him there the previous day, Gimli had a single moment of satisfaction when the searched house came in to view.
The door opened before the dwarf’s fist could punch it a third time.
“What?…” Samuel started, but Gimli’s hands curled around his neck prevented any further word from leaving his mouth.
“You gave me three days, you maggot! Three days!” Gimli hissed, his fingers pressing harder. “Where is he? Where is the elf?”
Samuel tried to pry open the fingers that were stealing his air away, but his strength was nowhere near enough to achieve it.
“He is… unharmed,” he gasped, his breath barely enough to mouth the words. ”You… still have… time.”
The grip lessened enough for Samuel to take a deep, shuddering breath, his chest heaving like he had run a league.
Hurried steps echoed through the earthen street, but Gimli pay them no attention.
“Where is he?”
Samuel took a step back, away from the dwarf’s reach.
“He is our prisoner,” he answered, regaining some of his composure.
Gimli took a step forward, imposing his presence like a ten feet tall giant.
“Where-Is-He?” He asked again, mouthing each word as if it was a dagger.
The two seemed to be dancing a strange and deadly tune, with Samuel taking one step back for each that Gimli took forth, until three pairs of hands grabbed the dwarf and stopped him from jumping on to Samuel’s neck once more.
The men had heard the banging and shouting in the otherwise quiet night, and had hurried to see what was going on. To the healer, their arrival could not have been more opportune.
The dwarf’s wroth was enough to drag all four of them forward, as he tried to squeeze the life out of the man in front of him again. But he had lost his chance. The best he could do now was to glare murderously at the man.
The healer, confident of his security, neared Gimli with a victorious smile on his lips.
Amidst the beard and chain mail and several pouches that the dwarf always carried with him, the men holding him back missed one arm for a split of a second. Short as it was, it proved enough for Gimli to send his fist colliding with Samuel’s face, resulting in a sound of bone against bone that filled the warrior with pride.
And the healer with rage. Samuel’s fingers felt the skin around his eye tenderly, knowing it would be black and sorrow in the morning.
“Your friend will pay for this in your behalf, forget not,” he growled in to Gimli’s ear, satisfied to see the barely contained anger in the dwarf’s eyes. “Take him out of Cottoncrow, and make sure he doesn’t return this night,” he ordered the men.
The men dragged Gimli away, kicking and struggling against their hold. Had they loosen their grip then, Gimli would have probably chewed their heads clean off their necks. But as it was, he could use little more than his tongue, and that small advantage, he used it to his content. He cursed Samuel, their mothers, the entire village, using the extensive range of elaborate words the dwarven language could set at his disposal. And he used it loud.