“And get himself elected Queen of the May,” finished Dildo. “Anything he pleases!”
“This Great Ring is much desired by all, then,” said Frito.
“And they desire a curse!” cried Goodgulf, waving his wand with passion. “For as surely as the Ring gives power, just as surely it becomes the master! The wearer slowly changes, and never to the good. He grows mistrustful and jealous of his power as his heart hardens. He loves overmuch his strengths and develops stomach ulcers. He becomes logy and irritable, prone to neuritis, neuralgia, nagging backache, and frequent colds. Soon no one invites him to parties anymore.”
“A most horrible treasure, this Great Ring,” said Frito.
“And a horrible burden for he who bears it,” said Goodgulf. “For some unlucky one must carry it from Sorhed’s grasp into danger and certain doom. Someone must take the ring to the Zazu Pits of Fordor, under the evil nose of the wrathful Sorhed, yet appear so unsuited to his task that he will not be soon found out.”
Frito shivered in sympathy for such an unfortunate. “Then the bearer should be a complete and utter dunce,” he laughed nervously.
Goodgulf glanced at Dildo, who nodded and casually flipped a small, shining object into Frito’s lap. It was a ring.
“Congratulations,” said Dildo somberly. “You’ve just won the booby prize.”
II
Three’s Company, Four’s a Bore
“If I were thee,” said Goodgulf, “I would start on thy journey soon.” Frito looked up absently from his rutabaga tea.
“For half a groat you can be me, Goodgulf. I don’t remember volunteering for this Ring business.”
“This is not the time for idle banter,” said the Wizard, pulling a rabbit from his battered hat. “Dildo left days ago and awaits you at Riv’n’dell, as will I. There the fate of the Ring will be decided by all the peoples of Lower Middle Earth.”
Frito pretended to be engrossed in his cup as Spam entered from the dining room and began tidying up the hole, packing up the last of Dildo’s belongings for storage.
“Lo, Master Frito,” he rasped, pulling a greasy forelock. “Just gettin’ the rest o’ the stuff together for your uncle what mysteriously disappeared wi’out a trace. Strange business that, eh?” Seeing that no explanation was forthcoming, the faithful servant shuffled off into Dildo’s bedroom. Goodgulf, hastily retrieving his rabbit, who was being loudly sick on the carpet, resumed speaking.
“Are you sure he can be trusted?”
Frito smiled. “Of course. Spam’s been a true friend of mine since we were weanlings at obedience school together.”
“And he knows nothing of the Ring?”
“Nothing,” said Frito. “I am sure of it.”
Goodgulf looked dubiously toward the closed door of the bedroom. “You still have it, don’t you?”
Frito nodded and fished out the chain of paper clips that secured it to his tattersall bowling shirt.
“Then be careful with it,” said Goodgulf, “for it has many strange powers.”
“Like turning my pocket green?” asked the young boggie, turning the small circlet in his stubby fingers. Fearfully he stared at it, as he had so many times in the past few days. It was made of bright metal and was encrusted with strange devices and inscriptions. Around the inner surface was written something in a language unknown to Frito.
“I can’t make out the words,” said Frito.
“No, you cannot,” said Goodgulf. “They are elvish, in the tongue of Fordor. A rough translation is:
“Shakestoor, it isn’t,” said Frito, hurriedly putting the Ring back in his shirt pocket.
“But a dire warning nonetheless,” said Goodgulf. “Even now Sorhed’s tools are abroad sniffing for this ring, and the time grows short before they smell it here. It is the time to set off for Riv’n’dell.” The old magician stood, walked to the bedroom door, and opened it with a jerk. With a heavy crash, Spam fell forward ear first, his pockets full of Dildo’s best mithril-plate tablespoons. “And this will be your faithful companion.” As Goodgulf passed into the bedroom, Spam grinned sheepishly at Frito with a lop-eared stupidity Frito had learned to love, futilely trying to hide the spoons in his pockets.
Ignoring Spam, Frito called fearfully after the Wizard.
“But—but—there are still many preparations I must make! My bags—”
“Have no worry,” said Goodgulf as he held out two valises. “I took the precaution of packing them for you.”
The night was as clear as an elfstone, sparkling with starpoints, as Frito gathered his party in the pasture outside the town. In addition to Spam, were the twin brothers Moxie and Pepsi Dingleberry, both of whom were noisome and easily expendable. They were frisking happily in the meadow. Frito called them to attention, wondering vaguely why Goodgulf had saddled him with two tail-wagging idiots that no one in the town could trust with a burnt-out match.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” cried Moxie.
“Yes, let’s,” added Pepsi, who promptly took one step, fell directly on his flat head, and managed to bloody his nose.
“Icky!” laughed Moxie.
“Double icky!” wailed Pepsi.
Frito rolled his eyes heavenward. It was going to be a long epic.
Gaining their wandering attention, Frito inspected his companions and their kits. As he had feared, his orders had been forgotten and everyone had brought the potato salad. Everyone except Spam, who had stuffed his knapsack with sleazy novels and Dildo’s tablespoons.
At last they set off, following Goodgulf’s instructions, along the yellow-brick Intershire Turnpath toward Whee, the longest leg of their journey to Riv’n’dell. The Wizard had told them to travel at night unseen along the side of the Path, to keep their ear to the ground, their eyes peeled and their noses clean, the last directive weighing rather heavily on Pepsi, under the circumstances.
For a while they walked along in silence, each lost in what passed in boggies for thought. But Frito was especially troubled as he considered the long travels ahead of him. Though his companions frisked gaily along, playfully kicking and tripping each other, his heart was heavy with dread. Remembering happier times, he hummed and then sang an ancient dwarf-song he had learned from the knee of his Uncle Dildo, a song whose maker had lived before the dawn of Lower Middle Earth. It began:
“Good! Good!” yipped Moxie.
“Yes, good! Especially the ‘heigh-ho’ part,” added Pepsi.
“And what do you be callin’ that?” asked Spam, who knew few songs.[4]
“I call it ‘Heigh-ho,’ “ said Frito.
But he was not cheered by it.
Soon it began to rain and they all caught colds.
The sky in the east was changing from black to pearl-gray as the four boggies, weary and sneezing their heads off, stopped their march and camped for the day’s rest in a clump of dogwillows many steps from the unprotected Turnpath. The fatigued travelers stretched out on the sheltered ground and made a long boggie snack from Frito’s store of dwarfloaf, boggie-brewed ale, and breaded veal cutlets. Then, groaning softly under the weight of their stomachs, all dropped quickly off to sleep, each dreaming their private boggie dreams, most of them having to do with veal cutlets.