The Two Towers: The Dead Marshes of the Somme

In my first Lord of the Rings article on Black Gate, a commenter described the book as "tasting of ashes" and attributed it to Prof. Tolkien's experiences during the First World War. I don't taste the ashes, but there are parts of the trilogy that reek heavily of them. He had managed to defer joining the army (as an officer) until he graduated in 1915. This meant he missed the early portion of the war - the Marne, Loos - but it meant he literally had his baptism of fire during the Somme Offensive. 

Initiated to relieve the German pressure on the French at Verdun, the Somme Offensive lasted from July 1, 1916, thru November 18, 1916. Tolkien was there until nearly the end, only being invalided out in October after contracting trench fever. The opening day of the battle is the deadliest day in British history. There were 60,000 casualties with 20,000 killed. The final casualties of the offensive between the British, French, and German armies were over one million.

Tolkien's children said, "he would occasionally talk of being at the front: of the horrors of the first German gas attack, of the utter exhaustion and ominous quiet after a bombardment, of the whining scream of the shells, and the endless marching, always on foot, through a devastated landscape, sometimes carrying the men's equipment as well as his own to encourage them to keep going." Of his close friends, only one survived the war. The United Kingdom, with a population of about 42,000,000 when the war started, lost almost 900,000 dead. That all this might permeate The Lord of the Rings isn't surprising.

 

Crossing the Dead Marshes by Ted Nasmith

Presently it grew altogether dark: the air itself seemed black and heavy to breathe. When lights appeared Sam rubbed his eyes: he thought his head was going queer. He first saw one with the corner of his left eye, a wisp of pale sheen that faded away; but others appeared soon after: some like dimly shining smoke, some like misty flames flickering slowly above unseen candles; here and there they twisted like ghostly sheets unfurled by hidden hands. But neither of his companions spoke a word.

At last Sam could bear it no longer. ‘What’s all this, Gollum?’ he said in a whisper. ‘These lights? They’re all round us now. Are we trapped? Who are they?’

Gollum looked up. A dark water was before him, and he was crawling on the ground, this way and that, doubtful of the way. ‘Yes, they are all round us,’ he whispered. ‘The tricksy lights. Candles of corpses, yes, yes. Don’t you heed them! Don’t look! Don’t follow them! Where’s the master?’

Sam looked back and found that Frodo had lagged again. He could not see him. He went some paces back into the darkness, not daring to move far, or to call in more than a hoarse whisper. Suddenly he stumbled against Frodo, who was standing lost in thought, looking at the pale lights. His hands hung stiff at his sides; water and slime were dripping from them.

‘Come, Mr. Frodo!’ said Sam. ‘Don’t look at them! Gollum says we mustn’t. Let’s keep up with him and get out of this cursed place as quick as we can – if we can!’

‘All right,’ said Frodo, as if returning out of a dream. ‘I’m coming. Go on!’

Hurrying forward again, Sam tripped, catching his foot in some old root or tussock. He fell and came heavily on his hands, which sank deep into sticky ooze, so that his face was brought close to the surface of the dark mere. There was a faint hiss, a noisome smell went up, the lights flickered and danced and swirled. For a moment the water below him looked like some window, glazed with grimy glass, through which he was peering. Wrenching his hands out of the bog, he sprang back with a cry. ‘There are dead things, dead faces in the water,’ he said with horror. ‘Dead faces!’

Gollum laughed. ‘The Dead Marshes, yes, yes: that is their name,’ he cackled. ‘You should not look in when the candles are lit.’

‘Who are they? What are they?’ asked Sam shuddering, turning to Frodo, who was now behind him.

‘I don’t know,’ said Frodo in a dreamlike voice. ‘But I have seen them too. In the pools when the candles were lit. They lie in all the pools, pale faces, deep deep under the dark water. I saw them: grim faces and evil, and noble faces and sad. Many faces proud and fair, and weeds in their silver hair. But all foul, all rotting, all dead. A fell light is in them.’ Frodo hid his eyes in his hands. ‘I know not who they are; but I thought I saw there Men and Elves, and Orcs beside them.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Gollum. ‘All dead, all rotten. Elves and Men and Orcs. The Dead Marshes. There was a great battle long ago, yes, so they told him when Sméagol was young, when I was young before the Precious came. It was a great battle. Tall Men with long swords, and terrible Elves, and Orcses shrieking. They fought on the plain for days and months at the Black Gates. But the Marshes have grown since then, swallowed up the graves; always creeping, creeping.’

The Dead Marshes by Alan Lee

 

‘But that is an age and more ago,’ said Sam. ‘The Dead can’t be really there! Is it some devilry hatched in the Dark Land?’

‘Who knows? Sméagol doesn’t know,’ answered Gollum. ‘You cannot reach them, you cannot touch them. We tried once, yes, precious. I tried once; but you cannot reach them. Only shapes to see, perhaps, not to touch. No precious! All dead.’

Sam looked darkly at him and shuddered again, thinking that he guessed why Sméagol had tried to touch them. ‘Well, I don’t want to see them,’ he said. ‘Never again! Can’t we get on and get away?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Gollum. ‘But slowly, very slowly. Very carefully! Or hobbits go down to join the Dead ones and light little candles. Follow Sméagol! Don’t look at lights!’

from The Passage of the Marshes 

Scenes from the Fellowship

 

He lifted his heavy eyes and saw leaning over him a huge willow-tree, old and hoary. Enormous it looked, its sprawling branches going up  like reaching arms with many long-fingered hands, its knotted and twisted trunk gaping in wide fissures that creaked faintly as the boughs moved. The leaves fluttering against the bright sky dazzled him, and he toppled over, lying where he fell upon the grass.

He turned, and there in the cold glow he saw lying beside him Sam, Pippin, and Merry. They were on their backs, and their faces looked deathly pale; and they were clad in white. About them lay many treasures, of gold maybe, though in that light they looked cold and unlovely. On their heads were circlets, gold chains were about their waists, and on their fingers were many rings. Swords lay by their sides, and shields were at their feet. But across their necks lay one long naked sword.

The dark figure streaming with fire raced towards them. The orcs yelled and poured over the stone gangways. Then Boromir raised his horn and blew. Loud the challenge rang and bellowed, like the shout of many throats under the cavernous roof. For a moment the orcs quailed and the fiery shadow halted. Then the echoes died as suddenly as a flame blown out by a dark wind, and the enemy advanced again.

'Over the bridge!' cried Gandalf, recalling his strength. 'Fly! This is a foe beyond any of you. I must hold the narrow way. Fly!' Aragorn and Boromir did not heed the command, but still held their ground, side by side, behind Gandalf at the far end of the bridge.

'Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings!' cried Aragorn. 'We shall pass them soon. Keep the boats in line, and as far apart as you can! Hold the middle of the stream!'

   As Frodo was borne towards them the great pillars rose like towers to meet him. Giants they seemed to him, vast grey figures silent but threatening. Then he saw that they were indeed shaped and fashioned: the craft and power of old had wrought upon them, and still they preserved through the suns and rains of forgotten years the mighty likenesses in which they had been hewn. Upon great pedestals founded in the deep waters stood two great kinds of stone: still with blurred eyes and crannied brows they frowned upon the North. The left hand of each was raised palm outwards in gesture of warning; in each right hand there was an axe; upon each head there was a crumbling helm and crown. Great power and majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished kingdom. Awe and fear fell upon Frodo, and he cowered down, shutting his eyes and not daring to look up as the boat drew near. Even Boromir bowed his head as the boats whirled by, frail and fleeting as little leaves, under the enduring shadow of the sentinels of Númenor. So they passed into the dark chasm of the Gates.

   Then Boromir had come leaping through the trees. He had made them fight. He slew many of them and the rest fled. But they had not gone far on the way back when they were attacked again, by a hundred Orcs at least, some of them very large, and they shot a rain of arrows: always at Boromir. Boromir had blown his great horn till the woods rang, and at first the Orcs had been dismayed and had drawn back; but when no answer but the echoes came, they had attacked more fiercely than ever.

Howard Andrew Jones, RIP

I don't have anything significant to add to the eulogies for Howard Andrew Jones who passed away the other day. He was one of the best writers of swords & sorcery as well as one of its greatest historians. His editing and publishing of the stories of Harold Lamb remains an important recovery of some of the primary inspirational bodies of work for the field.

I've written, ad nauseam, before about how I started writing about and reviewing S&S. A decade and a half or more ago, there was a small explosion of new authors writing brand new stories. Black Gate seemed to foster the very best, including James Enge, John Fultz, and Howard Andrew Jones. 

As I started writing, I interacted with Howard on his website. He wrote lively pieces on hard-boiled crime stories about as often as he did about Fritz Leiber and C.L. Moore. Occasionally, there were posts about adventure fiction. Somehow it turned out we were both reading some of Rafael Sabatini's Captain Blood at the same time. He suggested we read them all and write about them for Black Gate. It was an exciting suggestion and I'm still pleased with the results. 

Over the years we corresponded several more times, usually at his initiation - I'm a poor correspondent and always feel like I'm overstepping my bounds with people I've only come to know electronically. When his Ring-Sworn trilogy came out, he asked if I would interview his son, Darian, who'd made a promotional video for the first volume, For the Killing of Kings - one of the great fantasy titles, in my opinion.

Later, when he became the editor of Tales from the Magician's Skull, he hooked me up with Bill Ward and for several years I wrote monthly book review the mag's site. It paid me a few dollars, but the real thing, was for the first time since I'd stopped my weekly column at Black Gate, I was reading S&S regularly again. 

And now, when his Hanuvar books had let him reach the place where the Dabir and Asim stories should have taken him a decade ago, Howard's gone. This is a blow for S&S, but more importantly, it's a blow for his family and friends. From the eulogies written by people who knew him well, he was clearly an incredibly supportive and kind man. He will be missed.