Tales Before Tolkien (50 page)

He paused.

“It must have been a sudden wind,” said his man. “Yet I never knew of a wind such as that must have been. There were no trees down except those that lay upon them. And of those it was as though they had leaped out of the ground! Yes, as though they had leaped out of the ground upon them. Or it was as though giants had torn them out for clubs. They were not broken—their roots were bare—”

“But the other son—Polleau had two?” Try as he might, McKay could not keep the tremor out of his voice.

“Pierre,” said the old man, and again McKay felt that strange quality in his gaze. “He lay beneath a fir. His throat was torn out!”

“His throat torn out!” whispered McKay. His knife! His knife! The knife that had been slipped into his hand by the shadowy shapes!

“His throat was torn out,” repeated the innkeeper. “And in it still was the broken branch that had done it. A broken branch,
M'sieu,
pointed like a knife. It must have caught Pierre as the fir fell and, ripping through his throat, been broken off as the tree crashed.”

McKay stood, mind whirling in wild conjecture. “You said—a broken branch?” he asked through lips gone white.

“A broken branch,
M'sieu.
” The innkeeper's eyes searched him. “It was very plain—what it was that happened. Jacques,” he turned to his man, “go up to the house.”

He watched until the man shuffled out of sight.

“Yet not all is so plain,
M'sieu,
” he spoke low to McKay, “since in Pierre's hand I found—this.”

He reached into a pocket and drew out a button from which hung a strip of cloth. They had once been part of that stained coat which McKay had hidden in his trunk. And as McKay strove to speak, the old man raised his hand. Button and cloth dropped from it, into the water. A wave took it and floated it away; another and another snatched it and passed it on. They watched it, silently, until it had vanished.

“Tell me nothing,” said the keeper of the inn. “Polleau was a hard man, and hard men were his sons. The trees hated them. The trees killed them. The—souvenir—is gone. Only
M'sieu
would better also—go.”

   

That night McKay packed. When dawn had broken he stood at his window, looking long at the little wood. It too was awakening, stirring sleepily—like drowsy, delicate demoiselles. He thought he could see that one slim birch that was—what? Tree or woman? Or both?

Silently, the old landlord and his wife watched him as he swung out his car—a touch of awe, a half fear, in their eyes. Without a word they let him go.

And as McKay swept up the road that led over the lip of the green bowl, he seemed to hear from all the forest a deep-toned, mournful chanting. It arose around him as he topped the rise in one vast whispering cloud—of farewell—and died.

Never, he knew, would that green door of enchantment be opened to him again. His fear had closed it—forever. Something had been offered to him beyond mortal experience—something that might have raised him to the level of the gods of earth's youth. He had rejected it. And nevermore, he knew, would he cease to regret.

Golithos the Ogre

by E. A. Wyke-Smith

In the drafts for his famous lecture “On Fairy Stories,” Tolkien wrote: “I should like to record my own love and my children's love of E. A. Wyke-Smith's
Marvellous Land of Snergs,
at any rate of the Snergelement in that tale, and of Gorbo, the gem of dunderheads, jewel of a companion in an escapade.”

Snergs are “a race of people only slightly taller than the average table” (they are also described as probably being “some offshoot of the pixies”). They live in “a place set apart” and are exceptionally fond of parties. And they are in fact the direct literary ancestors of hobbits, for after Tolkien's children fell in love with
The Marvellous Land of Snergs
they wanted more stories about the Snergs. Tolkien told them instead the story of
The Hobbit,
with the half-high hobbit Bilbo as the main character.

The Marvellous Land of Snergs
tells the story of two children, Joe and Sylvia, and their dog, Tiger, who go on a rambling adventure with Gorbo, a Snerg. In one episode they get lost in a wood of Twisted Trees, which is recalled in Bilbo's adventures in Mirkwood (see note 7 to chapter 8 in the revised edition of
The Annotated Hobbit
). In their various travels, they meet some fascinating characters, including Vanderdecken and the Flying Dutchman and Mother Meldrum, a sinister witch who is also a wonderful cook.

The excerpt given next concerns Golithos, a reformed ogre who no longer eats children but has become vegetarian.
The Marvellous Land of Snergs
was first published in September 1927.

The first glance that Gorbo gave as he came out into the warm sunlight showed him that they were now on the other side of the river. This was more serious news to him than to Sylvia or Joe. To them it meant daylight, freedom from the subterranean gloom; possibly the prelude to new adventures (it was). To him it meant trouble and danger and the fear of unknown things. The wide deep river, rushing far below between steep cliffs, had been a barrier keeping the Snergs secure from a horror-haunted land, a land of distressful legends of dragons and other fierce monsters, of Kelps and giants, and a ruthless king who tyrannized over his people. No wonder he gazed sadly at the fair green woods on the other side and wished—chiefly for the sake of the children—that he was less of a fathead.

“It isn't such a nice part on this side,” said Sylvia, looking about at a dull landscape, dotted here and there with patches of coarse grass and clumps of thorny trees. “But it's jolly to get out of that dark place.”

“Yes, isn't it,” agreed Joe contentedly. At his age the present time lasts quite a good bit. “I'm jolly glad we got here. Perhaps we'll have some real adventures now.”

“I'm thinking we will,” said Gorbo.

They went on a little way and, coming to the top of a gentle slope, saw before them a round grey tower some half-mile or so away. It was surrounded by a high outer wall and looked very lonely and dreary. Gorbo stared long and hard at it.

“Yes,” he said at length, “that's old Golithos' tower. I can see him outside, doing something to the wall. I know him by his whiskers.”

“Then,” said Joe logically, “we'd better scoot. Come along, Sylvia!”

“No, don't scoot,” said Gorbo; “it's safe enough. Golithos is quite harmless now because he's reformed. We'd better go over and see if he can tell us how to get back. Don't be frightened, Sylvia, I've heard he's quite kind-hearted now. In fact they say he's rather overdoing it.”

Though they were not exactly at their ease (what child is at the thought of visiting an ogre?) they were impressed by Gorbo's confidence, and they went on hand in hand with him towards the tower, Joe carrying the puppy.

   

A huge man, about seven feet high, was working with a heap of mortar and some big stones, repairing a loose part of the wall. As they drew near he turned and saw them; then he smacked his hands together to knock the mortar off and rubbed them in his hair and waited for them with a friendly but weak-looking smile. He had a great silly face and coarse hair and whiskers like bits of a cheap goatskin rug. His dress was the usual shabby dress of ogres in books. It is perhaps slightly unfair to call him an ogre, for as Gorbo had said, he was reformed. Not a child had passed his lips for years, and his diet was now cabbage, turnip-tops, cucumbers, little sour apples and thin stuff like that.

“Aha!” he said as they came up, “you are all heartily welcome. It is long since I had any nice visitors. How are
you
, my little maid? And
you,
my little man? And you also, my dear Snerg? Let me see, have I had the pleasure of meeting you before?” He shook hands with them in a very friendly way.

“I don't think so,” replied Gorbo. “You see,” he added delicately, “I was quite a boy when they—I mean when you—well, when you changed your address.”

“Exactly,” said Golithos, with a conscious blush. “Well, come inside and make yourselves at home.”

There seemed nothing for it but to go on through his door, though all Gorbo wanted was to ask the way back across the river, not to make morning calls. When they were inside Golithos slammed the heavy door and locked it.

“I get so nervous if I leave it open,” he explained. “But come in and I'll have a meal ready for you. You must be tired and hungry after your long journey from wherever you have come.”

“Look here,” said Gorbo, “we don't want to trouble you too much. All we want to know is how to get back across the river.”

“To get back across the river,” replied Golithos, bending down and placing a hand affectionately on his shoulder, “is easier than you think. Much easier. In fact I think I am right in saying that however easy you think it is it will prove to be easier still.”

“Well, I'm glad of that,” said Gorbo.

“Naturally you would be. But come inside and make yourselves at home.”

“Thanks, but I should really like to know the way.”

“The way?” Golithos looked a bit puzzled.

“Yes, the way across the river of course.”

“Oh, yes, of course. What am I thinking of? Well, it's perfectly easy. All you have to do is to—but one thing at a time. Come inside and make yourselves at home.”

He led the way up some steep steps to a door in the wall of the tower and into a large round room which took the whole of one story. It was big enough, but the most comfortless room possible. At one side was a great four-foot post bedstead, and in the middle was a big heavy table and one big heavy chair. And that was all the furniture, unless you count an accumulation of mixed litter—old clothes and gardening tools and pots and pans and sacks and barrels and so forth scattered on the floor. Some wooden steps led to a trap-door in the ceiling and in the stone floor was another trap-door, with a big iron ring to lift it by, which led apparently to a cellar. There was only one window, with little round panes of dull green glass.

“This is my kitchen-dining room,” he said with a look of pride. “I sleep here too—that structure over there is my bed—so it is a bedroom as well. Please take chairs—I mean, one of you take the chair and the others sit on the floor. But whatever you do, make yourselves at home.”

“Thanks,” said Gorbo. “But what about the way across the river?”

“The river?” Golithos did not seem to grasp his meaning.

“Yes, the river outside. All that wet stuff over there. We want to get back.”

“Undoubtedly. Well, you needn't worry about
that,
because it's a very simple matter. I'll show you how it can be done in the easiest way. But first let's see about dinner.” He picked up a pan and a knife and rushed blunderingly down the steps.

“I've heard it said that he's getting very slow since he reformed,” said Gorbo after a minute's thinking, “but he's worse than I expected. Somehow or other he makes me feel that I want to contradict him. And I'm not like that usually.”

“But he's going to give us something to eat,” Joe observed.

“Yes, Joe. But I don't think it will be very strengthening. That's the worst of reformed people. Here he comes.”

Golithos came in like a mighty bumble bee, bumping against things and getting his feet entangled with things on the floor and dropping vegetables about and stooping to pick them up and dropping others as he did so. “I'm going to give you the feed of your lives,” he said, chopping up lettuce and smiling in his feeble way. “I always think there's nothing so appetizing as fine fresh lettuce and raw onions, especially if they have lots of salt.”

   

In a minute or so he placed a large pan on the table, and then he got two empty barrels and laid a plank across them to make a seat for the children. Sylvia whispered rather anxiously to Gorbo, who had been watching their host with a discontented expression, and indicated that Tiger's contour was losing its curves.

“Look here, Golithos,” said Gorbo, “can you give this little dog something to eat?”

Golithos scratched his head. “Let me see—I suppose he doesn't eat salad?”

“No, he doesn't. He's a dog, not a grasshopper. Haven't you got any bread?”

“I may have some odd bits in a sack somewhere. You see I don't eat bread very much. I find it's heating to the blood. But I'll try to find some nice bits for him later. In the meantime, let us eat heartily. Would you like the chair or do you prefer standing?”

“Chair for me, thanks,” replied Gorbo, seating himself. “Look here, Golithos, this is all very kind and considerate and jolly of you, but these young ones will want something a bit solider than this.”

“No solids here,” said Golithos quickly. “It wouldn't do.”

“Well, you've got a cow outside. Why don't you give them some milk?”

“Milk? Yes, but do you think it would be good for them? It's rather heady stuff.”

Gorbo clapped the table smartly. “You hop out and milk that old cow of yours!” he said loudly. “These children want milk. They can't live on lip and lettuce.”

Golithos looked fearfully abashed. “Yes, yes, I'll go,” he said. “Don't be violent.” He blundered out and down the steps.

“Can't quite make him out,” said Gorbo. “He was a wicked old rascal once, but if he was rough he was ready—and a bit interesting if you're not too particular. But I think the watercress diet has weakened his brain.”

He felt his responsibility in the matter keenly; if he had not been a born fool he would not have got the children into this mess; and his easy-going disposition seemed to have suddenly disappeared with regard to his host. After a minute he jumped out of the big chair and ran to the window and poked his head out. “Golithos!” he called in a warning voice. “Waiting!”

Golithos appeared, bearing a pitcher of milk and looking highly flustered. “Shall I put some water in it?” he asked.

“Give it to me,” ordered Gorbo, taking the pitcher. He looked round the littered table and found two earthenware mugs. “Wash them,” he said, passing them over his shoulder to Golithos. “Dear, dear, this is barely decent!”

The milk at any rate was nice and warm, and the children felt greatly refreshed by it. A small bowlful was given to Tiger, who lapped it up and then went to sleep on a sack. Then all set to on the salad, Golithos standing by and pressing them to take more whenever they paused. Gorbo took his portion in a dissatisfied way, sometimes looking at a morsel with scorn before putting it into his mouth (I may mention that they were eating with their fingers; there were no forks in this disgusting ménage). After a time he made a crude attempt at polite conversation.

“Doing well here, Golithos?” he asked.

“Pretty well, thank you. Oh, yes. It's lonely, of course; people seem to shun me so. But I have plenty of time to meditate on my past sins.”

“Ah, that ought to fill in the time. Keeping pretty fit, Golithos?”

“Tolerably so, thank you. I suffer from stomach trouble occasionally.”

“Only occasionally, eh? That's strange. Sleep well, Golithos?”

“Fairly well, I thank you. I have nightmares sometimes.”

“What do you expect? This all you're going to give us, Golithos?”

“I'm really afraid I haven't anything else—Yes, I have! I can give you a fine fresh young cucumber.”

“Keep it, Golithos.” Gorbo stretched himself and yawned and turned to the children. “Well, Sylvia, what do you think of
this
for a hole?”

Sylvia glanced at the feeble though gigantic face of the once child-eater and felt some pity for him. “Oh, it's very nice,” she answered, though not, I am afraid, very truthfully. “Isn't it, Joe?”

“It's fine,” said Joe. Then he put his hands before his mouth and spluttered, for his manners were not good. Their host looked very unhappy.

“Just fancy it on a rainy day,” went on Gorbo. “Well, Golithos, what's the country like in these parts?”

“I don't know very much about it, because I don't go about very much, but I've heard it's very bad. You see there's the land of King Kul not so very far off, and he's got a very bad character.”

“Yes, we've heard of him. What does he do especially?”

“Well, he persecutes the people. You see he makes a hobby of it. And from what I've heard they're the sort of people who ought to be persecuted. But I don't really know much about them because I don't often see any of them. And when I do I lock myself up tight until they've gone. Old Mother Meldrum comes over to see me sometimes and she tells me about the goings-on.”

“And who's old Mother Meldrum?”

“Well, she's a witch, that's what she is. She says nothing will go right until King Kul is laid out, and she keeps trying to get me to go for it. But somehow or other I don't feel up to violent exercise since I got reformed.”