|
Originally Posted by The Barrow-Wight Himself
The Downs are not Dead, nor are they living. Instead, they currently exist buried away, waiting for Tom to roll away the entry stone, peer inside with a song on his tongue, and chase away the malignant spirit that has taken up residence.
But I don’t mean the Barrow-Wight. Oh, no! That old spirit has grown tired and lazy, but he is a permanent fixture of this musty tomb. The evil in the Barrow is much newer than he and is known as a Spam Script.
Apparently this foul creature slipped through the cracks of the multitude of conversations that hold up the ancient walls of the Downs, oozing between posts and sliding between topics, and nestling down between this bit or that one. Content that its hiding place was secure and secret, it began to whisper spells into the darkness. Spells in the form of emails, which it sent in great numbers to random email addresses.
Throughout the land the foul writings of the Spam Script harassed the population, and the Lords of the Web were angry. So angry that they sent emissaries to the Barrow with demands to cease the unwanted racket.
But the old Wight was dumbstruck by what had happened. He had sat so long in his corner of the tomb that he no longer knew his own pathways under the ground. The darkness had surrounded him to such an extent that he could only sit and hope the roof did not collapse upon him.
Unsatisfied with the tired ghost’s inaction, the Lords were left with only one alternative. They sealed the Barrow with great wards of power, vowing to free it again only if the Spam Scripts were removed.
The Barrow-Wight retreated further into the black to think. And moan. And think. Until finally he knew nothing but oblivion, which seemed sweet, but lonely. The Downs were silent, and the world continued to spin. Time passed, and memories faded but were not forgotten.
~ ~ ~
An Age later, the decrepit ghoul still yearned for his home to be open to the guests that had once visited. But the Spam Script was still there, somewhere, and could not be unleashed lest it consume to world. What could the Wight do? To whom could he turn? Bombadil had never came. Questions ran circles in Barrow’s mind, and he slipped back to his dreams.
~ ~ ~
Then a voice that was not his own and definitely not the unwanted guest, spoke to him in his slumber. “You are not alone, dear Wight”, it whispered. “Don’t give up,” another voice said, more plainly heard. “Let us in,” several shouted. “Release the Kraken!” boomed Liam Neeson.
Images of pointy eared, green-shirted, smiling faces appeared in the darkness, each with a plea for his attention. The Barrow-Wight smiled.
How could he have forgotten all the hapless Hobbits he had lured into the Barrow? Why had he forsaken his duty to trick them into the grave and shackle them to heavy stones of literature, mirth, and movies? Did he really want to exist without them?
No!
Would they forgive him for having left them in the dark for so long?
Hope…
But what about the unwanted, noisy guest? How could the Downs be freed if it still lingered? It could not! The Spam Script must be exorcised. The Wight needed one of two things, a priest to chase the demon out, or an architect to build a new Barrow, a new repository for all the wisdom stored in the musty libraries he kept beneath the earth.
After much contemplation, the Wight decided on the latter. He slipped out of the Barrow and headed toward the kingdom of Ultimate Bulletin Board to speak with their masons and carpenters.
|