#3
© Image: Michael Hague
The 25th of ForeYule dawned gray and dreary, threatening snow and maybe worse. For the fifth consecutive morning, Bilbo noticed that Beorn had wandered away from their campsite to stare grimly ahead. They had been following the Grey Mountains, skirting along the edge of Mirkwood to stay hidden from unfriendly eyes.
The shapeshifter’s preoccupation with a distant peak had increasingly unnerved Bilbo, but he felt uncomfortable saying anything about it, particularly because Gandalf pointedly ignored Beorn’s dark mood. Bilbo shook himself and turned back to breakfast preparations, fussing inwardly, “Goodness me, Bilbo Baggins! Who in all of Arda do you think you are to contemplate meddling where even wizards fear to tread? Leave the bear-man alone!”
Gandalf had been smoking his pipe and contemplating the ominous weather with squinted eyes, but his brow smoothed as the hobbit approached with a bowl of porridge and dried fruit. “We are fortunate indeed to be traveling with an accomplished cook, dear Bilbo,” chuckled the wizard.
“Well, it’s the least I can do,” the hobbit replied. “I imagine you big folk would be getting along quite a bit faster without my ponies and short legs slowing you down. I’m ever so grateful for the company and the protection. Besides, if I’m cooking, then at least I can eat as often as I’d like!”
That raised a hearty laugh from Gandalf, and Bilbo surreptitiously glanced over to see if Beorn realized that breakfast was ready and would shortly be getting cold. But the big man didn’t budge, and Bilbo sighed in frustration. To his surprise, Gandalf murmured quietly, “Our friend is a bit obsessed with Mount Gundabad, isn’t he?”
Bilbo gawped as Gandalf added, “He has his reasons, my dear hobbit. Why don’t you take him some tea? The weather won’t hold back for long, and I’d like to cross the open fields over to those hillocks at the base of the Grey Mountains before it begins to snow in earnest. There’s a cave that would shelter us from the storm, but we’ll have to hurry.”
The offer of a mug of tea did the trick, although Beorn remained silent and withdrawn. In short order, the ponies and horse were packed and ready to go, and the three companions made their way toward Gandalf’s chosen destination. Soon, the snow began to come down in driving, heavy flakes, drastically limiting their vision. Beorn took charge of Bilbo’s ponies, and Gandalf murmured softly in Elvish to encourage the animals to their best efforts. Just as Bilbo began to fancy he might never again have any feeling in his feet, or ears, or fingers, or nose, a shadow emerged from the blinding, swirling whiteness. Gandalf urged them forward, and after a long struggle, he and Beorn cleared back snowy brush from the entrance to a large cave.
Once inside, Beorn gently lifted the shivering hobbit down and began unburdening and rubbing down their hard-working beasts, while Gandalf unwrapped bundles of wood and swiftly kindled a fire. Feeling useless, Bilbo limped about, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together in an effort to warm up.
At the back of the cave, the hobbit was frightened half out of his wits by a sudden warning snarl erupting from a pile of debris in the murky gloom. Gandalf and Beorn rushed forward, the wizard brandishing Glamdring and his staff, which blazed with an unearthly light. Beorn thrust the hobbit behind him and transformed into his enormous bear-shape, answering the creature in the shadows with a deep growl.
Bilbo peeked between the bear-man’s haunches, and to his horror, an enormous shaggy wolf emerged from the shadows, blood dribbling from a nasty head wound. Just as Gandalf was about to strike, Beorn growled, “No!,” batted Glamdring effortlessly from the wizard’s hand, and transforming once again into a man, crept to the wounded wolf, murmuring brokenly, “Wulfgar . . . is that you?”
With a pitiful whine, the wolf collapsed, and to Bilbo’s astonishment, transformed into a thin, ragged man who croaked, “Beorn? By the Valar, am I dreaming?,” before lapsing into unconsciousness.
His frozen feet forgotten, Bilbo rushed to spread out their bedrolls by the blazing fire, as Gandalf and Beorn carried the man over and tended his injuries. Bilbo helped by heating water, finding bandages and medicines, preparing food, and feeding their tired beasts. At last, as Wulfgar drifted into a healing sleep, Beorn finally broke his silence, saying, “I am most grateful to you, my friends, for helping my kinsman.”
“Your kinsman?,” Bilbo marveled. “But you are a bear-man! He is . . . is a . . . a . . .”
“A werewolf?” replied Beorn, laughing grimly. “Nay, Wulfgar is not evil, and not all of my kinsfolk transform into bears. Some become foxes, deer, badgers, lynxes, and yes, even wolves.” He regarded Bilbo quietly, “We long feared Wulfgar had perished, seeking vengence upon the orcs of Gundabad for the deaths of his wife and son.”
“Long ago, Morgoth found that he could transform our folk through his terrible arts into wretched monsters enslaved to his will, much as when he mutilated elves into orcs. By the Valar’s grace, Morgoth is no more, but Sauron’s minions ever seek to befoul our children, especially those of wolf-kind, into his service.”
Suddenly, Beorn sobbed, “Bolg’s goblins tried to take Wulfgar’s son. His wife fought them like a demon, and when she could hold them back no longer, she slashed the boy’s throat and took her own life. We were too late!”
“Oh, my heavens!,” Bilbo cried, throwing his arms around the big man’s neck, “How dreadful for you and your people! No wonder you fought those orcs so fiercely at Erebor!”
Gandalf placed a comforting arm around Beorn’s shoulders. Then, he murmured, “Look! The storm has passed, as all storms . . . and all evils . . . must.” Outside, Earendil’s star flashed in the velvet sky. “Take heart! You have found your kinsman. There is always hope.”