|
He thought he would fall down dead. Had he heard right? He sat as if frozen in the hard grip of the ranger's hands as long seconds passed. The man's voice was still very close. 'Did you truly think you could get away with this, Sam? That you could deceive me?' Sam had lost his voice. 'You are a foolish hobbit indeed, Sam.' It was a stern and scornful whisper. As if dazed, Sam raised his fist and slowly wiped his mouth with it. Strider was silent. Sam's heart beat and beat in the tense darkness. What would happen now? What would the ranger do to him? Dear, sweet heaven, what had he *done*? And suddenly he felt cold all over: what if Frodo found out? 'You have done no good this night, Sam.' There was anger as well as scorn in the ranger's voice now, and being so accused sparked a flame in Sam. He leaned closer. 'And you? You've nothing to be proud of either, if you ask me, Strider or whatever your name is.' He took a deep breath. 'You've turned poor Mr Frodo's head so he doesn't know what he does or says, and then you go fooling around with me, to top it all. It makes me right angry to think of you treatin' him like that. You're a regular scoundrel, and a traitor to boot,' he whispered fiercely. 'Who fooled with whom, Sam?' The voice was like a whip. 'I did not ask you to come here and try your witless little games.' 'I was let to, and it wasn't right! You didn't say no. Seems to me you liked the little game well enough.' Sam didn't know where he got the courage. There was a moment's hesitation before the answer came. 'When you challenge, you have to be prepared to see the battle through. Do not blame your opponent if your courage fails.' Sam's anger leapt up again. He had noticed the hesitation, and that the man hadn't really answered his accusation, and felt triumphant, despite everything. 'Oh tell it like it is, why don't you,' he hissed. 'You didn't notice, did you, until I had you good and going. You thought it was -' and here Sam's voice failed for a second, but he picked up again bravely, '- you thought it was him, didn't you. I know you did.' The ranger tightened his grip on Sam's arms, but said nothing. Sam felt exhausted suddenly. 'You don't know - ' Sam started, but he lost his nerve. The ranger still said nothing. 'You've no right!' Sam spat under his breath. The ranger was still silent. Sam wrung himself free and stood up, trembling with anger and emotion. 'You speak of things you know nothing of.' The ranger's voice was controlled. 'I know what I see,' Sam hissed furiously. 'You may see, but you do not understand. Do not, Sam, dare to speak on your master's part.' Tears of frustration rose in Sam's eyes. Wrong, it was all wrong, and Strider had a point, although he didn't want to admit it: He could see now that he had *not* helped, quite the reverse. He tried to collect himself and think for a moment. He made his voice as steady as he could and whispered, 'If you tell Mr Frodo about this...' There was a silence. 'I do not think you are in a position to tell me what to do, Samwise.' Sam couldn't stand it any longer. He turned around and stumbled back to his bedroll, in the pitch dark, his cheeks already wet.
The hours of sleep allotted them in the lightless cave were almost over, but Sam spent the remainder twisted into a knot of agony under his blanket. He kept turning everything that had happened, and his own stupidity, over and over in his mind. He had let his feelings run away with what little wit he had, and he saw no way to put things right. Every time his thoughts touched the possibility that Frodo might find out what he had done he felt cold all over. Sam, you blockhead, you dim-witted dolt, he thought, what did you have to go and stuff it all up for? You should have remembered that you're not the sharpest tool in the box at the best of times. You should have kept to your place and stayed out of what's not your business anyway. You'll be lucky if Mr Frodo says a word to you ever again, after this. He cursed himself. Only a few hours before he had, in his delusion, thought of Strider, and even Mr Frodo, as a traitor, but now it was painfully clear to him that what he had done was far more treacherous. He wanted to hit himself, crack his head on the rock floor, but more than anything else he wanted to wake Mr Frodo, straight away, and tell him everything so he could beg him for forgiveness. But he knew that it was impossible; he had done enough damage for one night. And so he lay under his blanket, wishing he had never been born, and listening from time to time to Frodo's slow, steady breathing not far away. In his guilt, he almost relished what it did to his heart.
When Gandalf's staff lit up again for the last dark walk, its light fell on some grim and wary faces. Sam rose wearily, packing up slowly. He had not slept, and everything seemed like a confusing and terrible dream. When they set off again, he walked right behind Gandalf, with his back to the entire Company, because his heart felt so heavy and fragile that he could not summon up the courage to meet anyone's eye.
The day had not begun well, but before it met its bloodstained end, Sam had seen horrors beyond the blackest nightmares, orcs and death and demons, and his mind did not dwell on his own misfortunes for long periods at a time. His heart went out to Frodo as they came out of the mines and he saw him fighting to stay upright, to keep moving. He had seen him screaming, screaming the wizard's name, as if it was being ripped from his insides, and he yearned and ached to comfort him. But something held him back - it was as if it wasn't his place to comfort anymore.
As they continued their journey, Sam found himself studying them, surreptitiously, and against his better knowledge. It did not make him feel better. All of the fellowship was sad and subdued, and apprehensive about entering the Elf land, but he saw Frodo give his rare but still-radiant smiles to the man. He saw him seeking out the ranger's company, while walking or resting. He was ashamed, but he took to spying, in a small way, among the first sparse trees of Lorien. If Frodo got anything in return for his smiles, then it was beyond Sam's subtlety to see it. The ranger appeared preoccupied, and met Frodo, as far as Sam could tell, with the same closed face as he did the others. He didn't seem eager to talk to Frodo, nor did he stay long by his side when the hobbit came and walked next to him. His face was worried, stern, sad - so much so that Sam almost started to doubt that his face was capable of holding a sweet expression at all, and that he had seen it with his own eyes. Once, only once, Sam saw the man's eyes rest on Frodo. It was early in the morning, and Sam was tending the fire and the frying pan. Under a nearby tangle of saplings, most of the others were still asleep, Frodo among them, nose pressed into a bent elbow and hair over his forehead like a little terrier. Out of habit, Sam was keeping an eye on the ranger as well as on the bacon, and his heart skipped a beat when he stealthily followed the man's gaze and found Frodo at the end of it. Quick as lightning he glanced back at the man, and saw no sign that the man was aware of anyone else in the world but the sleeping hobbit. Sitting very still, Sam watched the man's face while the bacon crackled and snapped in the pan. Then Frodo moved, Sam saw him rolling over with his arm over his face against the light, and then Sam's eyes met the rangers, in a flash, but before Sam even had time to register consternation, the ranger had got up and walked away. After a few paralysed seconds, Sam just saved the smoking slices from burning. Thankfully, that was the only time. Sam took care not to meet the man's eyes in that way again, and as the days went by and he didn't see that look on his face again, he began to wonder if he could hope that it was all over. But how could it be over, when Frodo's face still crumpled with such anxiety and disappointment whenever he thought nobody was watching? Sam was watching, and what he saw filled him with so many conflicting emotions that he thought he would break in two: one Sam who watched Frodo's longing with sympathy, who could barely restrain himself from taking Frodo's hand and press it into the man's, and who was angry with the inconsiderate and inscrutable ranger on Frodo's behalf... and another one. This second Sam was filled with a vague longing of his own, unnamed but sometimes strong enough to block out all other feelings and make Sam unable to take his eyes off his master. In this trance, Frodo's most ordinary movement - the way he reached for his cup, shrugged off his pack, rubbed his eyes when he was tired - became so enthralling that it took the words out of Sam's mouth and blocked all sounds except Frodo's voice, laugh, breathing, the very rustle of his clothes, from Sam's ears. Everything stopped. Sam barely knew it, but deep down in him there lived a belief, despite everything, a belief that fed on the familiarity of every gesture, every expression, every move, and on the vivid memories of that face as it had been at ten, at nineteen, at thirty-four. At such times, he felt as if there was no one else in the world besides the two of them (even if Frodo wasn't even aware that Sam was looking at him), and that this was as it should, and to be reminded of reality was painful. Frodo had eyes for no one other than the man, his smiles went to him and they went in vain. Sam, confused and torn between his different sympathies and emotions, knew that it wasn't over, not by a long shot, but he didn't know what to do about it. On the sixth night since they entered the woods, they made camp under a huge, grey-barked tree. The spaces between the great roots made admirable, mossy beds, just the right size for a man, or for a few hobbits. He bedded down next to Frodo as usual, the lamps were put out one by one, and once Pippin and Merry had sleepily settled a difference of opinion, all grew still. After some time, Sam heard the sounds he had both feared and waited for: Frodo was getting up and creeping away. Since the mines, Frodo had slept like the dead, knocked down by grief and exhaustion, and Sam didn't know whether he was glad or sorry that he seemed to have recovered somewhat. He pulled his blanket over his head, miserable, but to his surprise, it was not very long before the stealthy steps returned. He heard Frodo lie down again, and for a long time, Sam listened to the sounds of his master turning and tossing in his bed.
|
