The road came at last to a low bridge straddling a shallow, slow-moving river, perhaps a furlong wide, which lay directly across their path. It flowed from the south, to their left, and disappeared into the forest to their right. Up to the point where it reached the forest, the river was lined on either side by huge, ancient-looking, hoary weeping-willow trees. The moss-covered stone of the bridge had a blunted, worn look, and the road they were presently on continued across this, under the eaves of the forest, until it turned gradually to the right and disappeared from view, as the eaves of the forest curved away northwards. On the near side, however, another road intersected which followed the river’s southerly course towards the distant mountains.
To Ralph, the forest looked ominous where the river entered it. Enormous deciduous trees of a shorter, darker sort leaned far out over the river from either bank, creating a dark tunnel which seemed heavy with a disquieting, oppressive stillness. The trees’ trunks and branches appeared rough and angular, their dense foliage shaggy and dark, creating a disturbing portrait of sinister watchfulness. Small leaves, motes of dust, and the down from long trailers which hung thickly from these trees’ outer branches, seemed to be perpetually falling, like a cloying cloud of debris which refused to settle. Noticing his look, Pran stopped momentarily and said, ‘This river is called the Mirrow. A terrible battle was fought here between Goblins and Elves, many a long age ago. I believe there may have been some Men and Dwarves involved as well. Old tales tell us that the river was full of the dead, and that for many years its waters ran black and foul. Now, although it runs as before, yellow with silt, this place still carries an evil memory of death and killing.’