Too Long to Wait: Windstorm
Ellohir bounded into the simple wooden room of the cottage that overlooked the Bay of Belfalas. He flung himself on Frodo and Aragorn, tugging at Frodo’s ears and shouting, “Wake up! It’s time for the beach! Wake up!”
Aragorn groaned and shifted, turning so that his pillow covered his ears.
“What time is it?” Frodo murmured. He cracked his eyes open. Barely daylight. He groaned. “Ellohir, go back to sleep. It’s too early.”
Ellohir stuck his lip out just slightly, and his eyes moistened. That almost always got him what he wanted out of Aragorn, but it only angered Frodo. “Ellohir,” he said in a stern voice. “Go back to bed.”
“But I’m hungry.” Tiny hands tugged at Frodo’s sleeve. “Wake…up.”
Now Frodo was fully awake, and acute irritation pumped his heart. Even if Ellohir had obeyed and gone straight back to bed, Frodo would not have easily fallen back to sleep. He turned to Aragorn in exasperation, but the Man had fallen back into a deep slumber.
Frodo sighed and climbed out of bed. “All right then, Ellohir. Let us eat a quick first breakfast.”
“Then to the beach?” Ellohir asked.
Frodo looked out the window. Frothing waves crashed onto a glistening empty shore that reflected the pink glow of sunrise. The fresh scent of seawater drifted in through the open windows. Frodo breathed it in with a smile, suddenly glad Ellohir had woken him so early. “Certainly.”
After a light breakfast of pickled mushrooms and fresh bread with jam, Frodo jotted a quick note to Aragorn and left it on the table. He then gathered the blanket, Ellohir’s pail and shovel, and the umbrella, and they were off.
***
Frodo struggled to settle the blanket down on the silky sand, but a brisk breeze flapped it up each time he thought he had flattened it down. At last he secured it with Ellohir’s toys while he wrestled with the umbrella. He did not remember it being so windy the day before. Ellohir squirmed with impatience, looking longingly toward the water.
A low voice startled him.
“Good morning.”
Frodo jumped, and cold filled his stomach. He stepped immediately in front of Ellohir. “Hello,” he managed, his heart thudding.
A tall man with dark skin and brightly colored breeches stood before him. “I am sorry to startle you,” he said with a lilting accent. “I could not help but marvel at…” He glanced at Frodo’s feet. “You are a long way from home.”
Ellohir darted from behind Frodo, fearless, and pointed to the sea. “Today I will find a fairy boat in the waves.”
“Shall you?” The man laughed. “I am afraid that is the only boat that shall be out on the horizon today.” He turned to Frodo. “You come from a great distance and you are doubtless unaware of your danger. Do not allow your little one in the water today.”
“Why not?” Frodo frowned, clutching Ellohir’s hand. He wondered if he had come upon someone not quite right in his head.
The man cleared his throat. “Forgive me,” he said, placing one hand over his breast. “I am Nachla, and I, too, have come from afar.”
“Nach…ch…la.” Frodo struggled to pronounce the hard sound in the middle of the name.
Nachla smiled. “I have been called many names in my life, which have long since been forgotten, but Nachla means palm tree. Because I am tall and have weathered many storms.”
“I’m Ellohir,” Ellohir piped up. “At your service.” He bowed awkwardly, nearly tumbling into the sand.
“Frodo Baggins at your service,” Frodo added, bowing in turn.
Nachla patted the lad’s head and then took Frodo’s hand in both of his, squeezing gently. There was a familiar twinkle in his eyes, and Frodo’s throat filled with unexpected sorrow, as if he had once known this man. “It is my pleasure to meet you both.”
“I want to play in the water!” Ellohir said, tugging on Frodo’s hand. Frodo clutched the lad’s hand in his own.
Nachla bent on one knee before Ellohir. “Today it is dangerous.”
“Why?” Frodo asked again. “Just yesterday he played in the water. I watch him carefully.”
“Ah,” Nachla nodded. “But now a great windstorm from Harad is on the way. Look to the red tint to the sky. You will not be safe, even here, where you sit, when it arrives.”
“Well, then,” Frodo said, smiling politely. “Should that happen, we shall take shelter in our house.” Frodo pointed to the cottage.
“Let me go!” Ellohir whined, struggling to free his hand from Frodo’s. “I want to play.”
“Wait!” Frodo said, squeezing his hand.
“It is not far enough.” Nachla rose to his feet again.
“What do you mean? Pardon me, sir, but the cottage is sturdy, built from hardy wood.”
The man pointed out to sea. “Look to those waves far out to sea. When the storm arrives, those same waves will crash against your windows. Can you swim? I know many of your kind cannot.”
Frodo’s curiosity overtook the curling fear in his stomach at Nachla’s words. “How do you know about hobbits?”
“Ah…” Nachla smiled for the first time, revealing straight white teeth. “Unlike many of my own people, I have traveled much. I have spent good years in the Northern Kingdom.”
“Where?”
“In a village called Bree. A kindly innkeeper allowed me to work for him for a time--”
“The Prancing Pony,” Frodo broke in eagerly. “I know it.”
“Do you?”
“So you met hobbits there?”
“Many. Though, if you do not take offense at me saying so, you are fairer than most, a pert fellow.”
Frodo flushed and then burst into easy laughter, thinking how odd it was that he was laughing about Bree, comfortably, with a stranger on a shore far from home. Nachla stopped laughing and looked sharply over Frodo’s shoulder.
“Aragorn!” Ellohir cried out. Frodo turned to see Aragorn striding purposefully toward them.
“Good morning,” Aragorn said, keeping his suspicious gaze on the stranger.
“Aragorn, this is Nachla. He spent time in Bree.”
Nachla bowed slightly. “I was telling your friend that you should make haste to leave this shore. A fierce windstorm is on its way.”
Aragorn looked out to sea, squinting against the sun. “How do you know?”
“Can you not feel it?” He placed his hand over Aragorn’s chest. Frodo gasped, wondering if Aragorn would tolerate a stranger, and a man from Harad at that, touch him. But Aragorn did not move. He seemed rather bemused, somewhat dazed. “An intensity twists and turns inside like the windstorm itself. It is always so before such a storm. You see the world with new clarity.” He took his hand from Aragorn’s chest and looked down at Ellohir. “Do not let him in the water. There are currents that will rip him far out to sea.”
“This is dreadful,” Frodo said. “No, he shall not go in the water then. Thank you, Nachla. We shall be sure to take your warnings into consideration. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure was mine,” Nachla said. “Now I must move along to make my own preparations for the storm. You will manage all right. Goodbye, dear friends!”
***
“What an odd man Nachla was,” Frodo said, wriggling his hand into Aragorn’s. Ellohir, easily diverted from his desire to go in the water, worked on a sandcastle. “Do you suppose there is truth to his warning?”
“I do not know.” Aragorn looked out to sea, where whitecaps had developed. “I do not know how any one man could know such a thing.” He paused and his voice softened. “I almost felt as if I knew him.”
“Yes, a kind man indeed.” Frodo shielded his eyes against the sun and wind, which swept tiny sand grains into his face. Everything filled his senses with new clarity - the glistening sand, the sparkles on the choppy waves, the clean crashing of breakers on sand. “I fear he may be right about the storm.”
“Perhaps we should begin our trek home a day early,” Aragorn said. “We would both feel more at ease.”
Frodo paused, mesmerized by the play of sunlight on a patch of turquoise water. Now he remembered why the twinkle in Nachla’s eyes had brought a lump to his throat - it had brought to mind fireworks, gray beard - and infallible wisdom.
“Yes,” Frodo said. “Let us gather Ellohir and pack to leave now.”
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