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Twelve years on I can finally tell the true story of the death of my dearest friend Sam Wilson. The circumstances as I described them to the police were received with no small skepticism, but after a contribution to the Beneficence Fund, they decided against remitting the case to the District Attorney. Since then, those same circumstances prevented me from telling the true story, so that whenever people asked me where he was, I was left no recourse but to invent outlandish stories in an attempt to make the matter rest.
It never did rest.
Sometimes, during the intervening years, interested parties bearing advanced calculators and pocket protractors in pocket protectors departed from me in great haste toward locations hither and yon, all in an attempt to recreate the demise of my dear friend Sam Wilson. Finally, as I said above, finally I am free to tell the true story of his death.
“I need for you to help me throw this ring into the Cracks of Doom,” he said. As hokey as that may sound as an introduction, it was code for us, so that eavesdroppers might think of us as banal individuals LARPing on a weekend, perfectly harmless and, indeed, needing to be ignored.
“Sam,” I said. “That’s my line. You’re the Sam; I’m the Frodo.” I was annoyed, sad to say. He always did that. If I needed him, I was the one who was supposed to say I needed help throwing the ring into the Crack of Doom. Of course, whenever I did that, he would correct me, with that annoying sigh of his, while he unconsciously pushed his glasses up his nose, “Cracks of Doom, Dave. Sammath Naur is plural. You keep saying ‘Crack.’”
Anyway, his code sentence was supposed to be “I can’t do that, Dave.” The countersign was, obviously, “Open the pod bay doors, Sam.” He knew he was annoying me. That was his way.
“I can call you Frodo, and Frodo, you can call me Sam,” Sam said.
“I can be your long lost pal,” I said.
“Don’t sing, Dave,” Sam said. “Just, when you come, make sure to bring the lembas bread.” We heard a digital burp, like a dollop of ones and zeroes suddenly departing from our presence.
“Yeah, I’ll be right over,” I said. “I think they’re gone.”
“Hist!” Sam said. “Just one party, right?”
“Oh yeah.” We were aware multiple parties were aware that we were aware of their intercepting our cellphone conversations. I had forgotten. “I’ll bring the lembas and the Phial of Galadriel.”
According to Sam’s instructions, so encoded, I packed my Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum and plenty of spare rounds. It was all cloak-and-dagger, in mood, as I stuffed them into my LARPing rucksack, along with a foil shortsword and a necklace with a ring on it. When the sun had set, I threw them into the cab of my Chevy Silverado, and I was off. As per usual, I tuned the radio to a Sabres hockey game, and I yelled at the game progress at appropriate intervals. When I had gotten about halfway between my house and Sam’s, I said under my breath, but loud enough to be heard by those surveilling me, “I need to take a leak.”
Presently, my headlights illuminated a brake of poplar saplings. “They’ll winnow each other in time,” I said, pulling over to the side of the road. I turned the engine off, got out, closed the door, and waited for the interior lights to dim and the exterior lights to snap off, then I moved toward where I thought that brake was.
Normally I relied on my experiences as an outdoorsman, particularly those I gained in some difficult moments in eastern Austria back in 1991, to find a spot that was straight ahead of me. This was simple stuff. But, suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and I felt a prickle run from my feet to my head. The earth rumbled.
“Here? In the Catskills?”
I dropped to the ground and looked up. Silhouetted against the night sky were the tops of those saplings. The earthquake ended. It had been a little more than the concussion of a thunderstorm. Something notable, but nothing to fear.
Another silhouette floated across the sky.
I knew it! I thought to myself. They’re tracking me somehow.
I rose to my feet as quickly as I could and sauntered over to the brake of tree saplings, unzipped, and, without looking up, did my business. I hummed a little nighttime hum that my father used to hum when we were alone in the woods at night. During the day, he taught me the words, but, he said, “Don’t sing these words at night; you’ll be a fool if you do.”
> When Daddy flies up in the air, uh huh
>
> With forces a-hold of his hair, uh huh
>
> Tell Mommy to run
>
> There’ll be lots of fun
>
> Collecting his old disrepair
>
>
>
> When Daddy flies up in the air
>
> The time’s come for all to despair
>
> Bombs up above
>
> Missiles below
>
> Whatever, there’s no one to care
“It’s a traditional Irish ditty,” he said to me. “Your Daddy’s daddy used to sing it in the woods—during the day—and his daddy before him, way back into the Revolutionary War.”
“But we’re English,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said. “It’s an Irish ditty.”
I never understood what he was on about, but it was a great nighttime hum, so I hummed it as I returned to my Silverado, sauntering again, as if I really had stopped just to do my business among the trees. In the moment before I turned on the ignition, I looked up through the windshield. Sure enough, the shapeless form was still hovering, silent, watching, attending. I kept humming as I put her in gear and resumed the journey.
“Gollum is a very good swimmer,” I said to Sam.
“Not to worry,” Sam replied. “My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play, whether good or ill, before this is over.”
“The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of us all,” I said.
“Ugh, Dave,” said Sam, unconsciously pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s ‘The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many.’”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“You know I have a hard time remembering exactly.”
“Yes, I do know that. I’m glad about that, in fact. It makes it easier to…get along with you.”
“One thing I do remember exactly, Sam,” I said.
“Oh? What’s that?”
I said, “I remember that you taught me to warm my creamer in my mug before I pour the coffee in. That was on a whole ‘nother level. That raised my coffee game to professional heights, I have to say. My father never taught me anything like that.”
“Mug spelled backwards is gum,” Sam said. He held my gaze with his eyes for a full minute. “It spells gum.”
I laughed.
When I finished laughing, I saw that he had held out his hand. In it was the talisman we had found on Mt. Marcy.
“That reminds me,” I said. “I almost forgot that there was another earthquake tonight. Did you feel it? I plumb forgot about the one back on the night when you picked this up.”
“Yes, I felt it,” he said.
We looked at each other, grinning. In unison, we chirped, “That’s what she said!”
“Nice,” I said.
“Nice,” he said. He looked down at the talisman in his still-outstretched hand. “We have to destroy it. Do you remember why?”
“Yes, Sam,” I said.
“Tell me why, or I won’t let you come with me.”
I thought for a second. “Because we found it on the lee side of the mountain?”
“ON THE WINDWARD SIDE! My God, Dave, how hard is this? I mean, the sun had just set and everything. The mountainside was practically aglow in the fading sunlight. And which direction on the compass does the sun set, Dave?”
“West.”
“And which is the side where the wind comes from?”
“West.”
“And what do we call that side of the mountain?”
I paused, thinking.
“You really can’t remember, can you?”
“Not for a while, now, no, Sam. And it’s getting worse just now, being near that thing.”
He closed his hand.
Immediately, I said, “Windward side. We found it on the windward side after sunset, and when you picked it up, there was an earthquake, just like—”
He opened his hand again. I paused again. “I think we went out for ice cream, or to visit your mother, or something,” I said. “Did I tell you I was followed? A government agency is following me.” I looked up. The shape was still there. “See?” I said.
Sam closed his hand. “Not a government agency, Dave.”
I furrowed my brow. “Of course not. Same people we worked for back in 1991. I took an oath and everything. Have you figured out how that works?”
“Not really,” Sam said. “Judging by the way it affects you, though, I have some ideas how to use it.”
“You can’t really use it, right? I mean, it belongs to the Algonquin.”
“Or their predecessors. There were 37 million people on this continent when this thing was carved. How do we know who possessed what, where, and when?”
“Thirty-seven million?” I said. “That’s not chump change.”
“I mean to say, Dave, that this thing definitely belongs on the lee side of the mountain, but someone moved it to the windward side, and that’s when all the trouble began.” He lowered his hand and leaned in close. “I’ll bet you one dollar to one donut, one peanut-covered donut, that this thing got moved in early 1492.” He leaned back. “I would say the year Leif Erikson came over, but nothing came of it, see? It was supposed to be on the lee side, and when Leif landed, it lay on the lee side, like it was supposed to, and all the Europeans died in short order. Someone moved it in 1492—”
“—and it was the other way around,” I said. “I’d like to see it, one more time.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. Just once more. Let me take a good look at it. I wanna try something.”
He held out his hand, then opened it. I stared at the talisman.
After a considerable length of time, I wrenched my eyes away from it and looked into Sam’s. “It reminds me,” I said, laboring. “It reminds me of a gothic Santa Claus carved figurine, those tall skinny ones that got popular back in the early 90s.”
“It’s always the early 90s for you, isn’t it?”
“That’s where my memory lives.”
“And, Dave?”
“Yeah, Sam?”
“And now we’re moving it.”
“Oh dear.”
“Saruman never thought someone would want to destroy the Ring of Power,” Sam said.
I checked my memory. That doesn’t sound quite right.
“But we have to,” Sam continued. “So let’s barrel through the Morannon, just like Sam and Frodo, and be done with it.”
“Close your hand, Sam,” I said softly.
Just as softly, he said, “That’s what she said.”
I giggled. He giggled. “Nice.” “Nice.”
“Sam,” I said again, “the thing is doing its thing to you like it done me.”
“What?”
“Close your hand.”
“Make me.”
I reached into my LARPing rucksack, fetching my Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, Model 629, the revolver, six-shot, six-inch barrel, fully loaded, heavy, stainless steel, beautiful, sleek, like eye candy in a Whitesnake video, and I pointed it at Sam’s forehead. He plunked his brow against the muzzle and said, “Go ahead, punk.”
At that instant, several things happened at once: a light shone on us from overhead; Sam dropped the dingus; a second light shone from overhead, but from a distinct and separate source, another flying saucer, illuminating the first flying saucer; engines above spun up into high activity; the earth shook again.
“Come on!” Sam said to me, stooping to pick up the talisman. I noticed that it had a hole carved in the top of its hat, as it were.
“Sam! You can wear it around your neck!”
“Come on!” Sam repeated, pausing, holding his hand out as if to grasp mine, but I resisted him and threw down my LARPing rucksack.
“No, see?” I held out the costume jewelry which I had packed before: the ring on a necklace.
“We have to make a move!” Even though he was anxious to get moving, he saw the wisdom in stringing the figurine onto the necklace, to complete the disguise, as he was supposed to be LARPing Sam Gamgee when it was his turn to be Ringbearer. The engine roar above us made it impossible for us to carry on any kind of conversation. I watched as he carefully secured the knot. He looked up at me, waiting.
“Uh, chain splice?” I said.
He laughed, pushing his glasses up his nose. “No, Dave. It’s a Carrick Bend. I can’t believe you don’t know the difference.”
“I keep telling you: I was only 13 years old when I learned my marine knotting.”
He sniffed. “It’s no excuse, really, not in these days.”
“I promise: if we get out of this, I’ll get out my Turner and Van der Grend.”
“Van de Griend,” he corrected. “And we’re not getting out of this.” He hung the figurine over his neck.
Terrible sounds came from above us. Looking up into the light of the first flying saucer, I could make out that it was in a bad way, trembling under violence from the other flying saucer. The rumbling of the earth was accompanied by the rumbling of automatic cannon fire, air-to-air projectiles at an incredible rate of fire. I looked up into the light, trying to make it out. “What is that?” I asked Sam.
He looked up. “That’s…that’s a 105mm Howitzer!” he exclaimed. “What in the devil is a 105mm Howitzer doing on a flying saucer? On both of them?”
“Why don’t they have lasers?”
At that moment, emitting from the first flying saucer was a beam of light so bright that it burned my right retina, and it wasn’t even aimed at me. It began to cut through the hull of the second. I howled in pain and started running. “Come on, Sam!” I insisted. I pulled on his hand. “Come on!”
“That’s what they want. They want to see me run.”
“You don’t want to run?”
Sam sighed deeply. “I suppose we ought to make a break for it.” He turned, looking for a direction to run.
“We should make for the rowboat,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, and he began to sprint. I really was amazed how he managed to get to full speed after only three steps, like Ricky Henderson in his prime. For a moment I thought Sam was bionic.
We didn’t get far.
I saw the figurine rise into the air, first away from his neck, and then over his head, but it was tangled under his chin. Sam tried to grab for the figurine, but he was choking, hanging in midair from his Carrick garrote. At that instant, however, a second beam captured Sam, holding him in suspension. For a moment, he looked like an angel ascending from earth into heaven, but that moment didn’t last. The operators of the flying saucers were contending for either the figurine or for Sam, or both, and while the laser battle continued above, along with the 105mm Howitzer cannons blasting away at each other, they tugged and pulled at Sam with their beams.
Somewhere along the line, as I watched, transfixed in awe and amazement, the beam operators stopped worrying so much about Sam’s well-being and became more concerned with having some part of him, as long as it included the figurine. He expressed no small discomfort.
“Don’t just stand there, Dave!”
I turned to run.
“No! Dave, No! Shoot them! Shoot them!”
“I don’t see what a lot of good that’s going to do,” I shouted up to Sam.
“Do something! Do anything! For the love of mercy, do something! I am in such agony up here.”
I turned to my faithful maiden, the wonderful Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, which was reflecting the glow of the hot metal from above, or whatever alloy the flying saucers were made of, and the flash of the laser cutting beams. My hands curled around her shape, I brought her up so I could rest my eyes down her sights, and I quivered. Oh, I quivered and shook! Oh, what ecstasy! Oh, to bring her to me, to make her explode!
I squeezed, ever so gently, until she gave voice, a rush and a howl with her very own apocalypse.
“Ow,” said Sam.
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Did I hit you?” I wiped my brow with the back of my hand, still gripping my .44 tightly.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “Hit bad?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Huh.”
We paused, staring at each other. I watched him turn pale. Stuff was leaking out of his torso, red. The tug-of-war was still ongoing above him. A third flying saucer arrived, joining the fun. Here, in the middle of all things dark, the sun shone upon us as though it were one planet closer. One of Sam’s arms came off. Slowly, he turned his head to find his arm floating nearby.
He returned his eyes to mine. “This is it, Dave. This is the end of all things, and you are here with me.”
“Huh.”
“That’s not your line.”
“Huh? Oh,” I said. “Yeah, I’m glad to be here with you, Sam.”
Sam sighed, and I swear his glasses went up his nose a little. I laughed.
The fourth flying saucer was gigantic, blotting out the new sun. I had never experienced darkness before.
“Sam?” I said, making myself heard over the rumble of gigantic engines powering who knows what by whatever sort of technology, over the thunder of the 105mm Howitzers, over the whine of competing tractor beams, and over Sam’s breathing while the earth itself reeled like an Irish lass on Samhain.
“Yeah, Dave?”
“We are back in our minds again.”
He replied, “We don’t fight no more.”
I said, “We done closed that door.”
And that, my friends, is the true story of what I told the police happened to my dearest friend Samuel Wilson on October 31, 2012. His corpse never did rest.