Chapter 3. Make New Friends

'Feeling better?' a pleasantly gruff voice asked as Pickthorn blinked and rubbed his eyes with grimy hands.

Opening his eyes, he saw the grey-bearded giant and gasped, edging back against the nearest tree. 'Please don't eat me!' he said desperately, trying not to cry.

'I am not in the habit of eating creatures that talk to me,' the giant said. He was sitting down with his back against another tree, regarding the hobbit keenly, his staff lying across his knees. 'What are you?' he asked curiously. 'I've not run across your sort before.' He knew about the Harfoots of course, for they had entered the region of Eriador nearly a century earlier, a pleasant but rather dull group of small farmers. This little fellow was taller and fairer than a Harfoot child, with his hazel eyes and golden-brown curls, yet he was still obviously one of the Little Folk. And there was something about this tiny mite... the wide eyes were bright with curiosity.

'We always hide when Big Folk come,' Pickthorn said, not wondering how the grey one spoke his tongue. The little Fallohide knew a few words of the tongue that the Big Ones who’d farmed the vale had used, but this Big One was speaking hobbit talk, and though his accent was strange Pick could get the gist. Fear changed to curiosity as the giant made no move to grab him. 'They're... they're... big, you know.'

'Ah,' the old giant said, quirking one shaggy eyebrow. His face looked kindly, and interested, and perhaps even friendly, if overlarge for a hobbit's comfort.

'What's your name?' Pick asked, feeling bolder by the minute.

'My name...' the grey one said thoughtfully. 'I have several.'

'I only need one,' Pick said reasonably. 'Or do you prefer to be called "Hoi, you there"?'

'I must admit, that is not one of my names,' the grey one said.

'My name's Pick,' Pickthorn said confidingly.

'You ought not to be so free to give your name to strangers,' the grey one reproved.

'But you're not a stranger,' Pick said. 'You saved me from the gobble-uns. They were going to gobble me right up, and you stopped them.'

'Gobble-uns,' the grey one said, bemused.

'Aye,' Pick said stoutly. 'Nasty bad creatures, they are.'

'I do believe you are right,' the grey one said.

Pick looked at him with a puzzled expression. He talked funny. Still, the young hobbit thought with a mental shrug, that was to be expected from folk who were twice as tall as they ought. His tummy chose that moment to give a grumble.

'Are you hungry?' the grey one asked.

'I mowt be,' Pick answered cautiously. 'Depends.'

'What does it depend on?' the grey one responded.

'Depends on what's in the offering,' Pick said. 'Don't care much for kidneys or liver.'

The grey one laughed and said, 'I do not happen to carry such things in my pockets. How about some Elvish waybread?'

'What's "Elvish"?' Pick asked, and the grey one looked curiously at him.

'The Elves claim these woods as their own,' he said.

'Alfs...' Pick echoed, puzzled. 'What do they look like?'

'Well,' the grey one said, stroking his beard, 'they're about as tall as I am, and...'

'Ah,' Pick said wisely. 'Big Folk.'

The grey one looked at him in surprise, and chuckled. 'I suppose you're right,' he said. 'And your people always hide when there are "Big Folk" about.'

'You have the right of it,' Pick said stoutly. ‘We were farm folk once, but they drove us from the land. Why would they do that? There was land a-plenty, and we’d lived in peace for years... They said we cast spells to sour the milk and blight their crops, Gran-da told me.’ The bright hazel eyes turned grey and thoughtful and the little face took on the grieved expression of one unjustly accused.

’Cast spells? Are you a magical folk?’

’No more magical than you be!’ The little mite looked puzzled when the giant chuckled. 'The Lady took us under her skirts and fed and sheltered us. No thanks to the Big Folk,’ he added, raising his pointed chin defiantly.

The grey one nodded to himself. It was no wonder the Elves of Greenwood the Great had not told him of these little people. He dug in a pocket now, bringing out a leaf-wrapped bundle. Breaking off a piece, he held it out to the little one before him.

Pick looked at the giant hand, what looked to be bread lying enticingly on the palm. He started to reach but then pulled back, his expression wary.

'Come, come, now,' the grey one said. 'Had I wanted to harm you I could have, before you awakened.'

Pick nodded and bit his lip. It went against all his instincts to reach out, but the eyes under the bushy brows seemed kind and the face smiled, bringing out laugh lines like the ones that graced the face of his Gran-da, "life lines" the hobbits called them. This one must be old and very wise to have so many of his own.

Cautiously, he reached out and delicately lifted the bread from the giant's palm, scooting back to his own tree. The giant did not try to grab him however, simply broke off another piece of the bread for himself.

Pick took a bite and a smile broke out on his face. 'Honeycake!' he said enthusiastically. 'We only have that on feast days!'

'Elvish waybread,' the gray one corrected. 'The Elves use it for travelling. It does not grow hard or stale like regular bread.'

'What is "travelling"?' Pick asked curiously.

'Going from place to place,' the grey one said.

'O like visiting,' Pick said wisely. 'Like going to Uncle Beech's hole, or him coming to ours.'

'Not quite,' the grey one said. 'Travelling usually means a journey.'

'A-journey,' Pick said, puzzled. Another new word that meant nothing.

'Walking all day, stopping for the night, getting up and walking again,' the grey one said helpfully.

Pick looked at him in amazement. 'Why would anybody want to do that?' he asked.

The grey one shrugged. 'I never wondered about it before,' he said. 'Your people do not travel, I take it.'

'They have too much sense to go wandering about,' Pick said self-righteously. He looked suspiciously at the grey one. Perhaps he was not right in the head. Sensible folk stayed close to home and family, and he said as much.

'Family,' the grey one mused. 'Yours is probably quite concerned about you by now.'

Pick started up from his comfortable spot. 'I'm sure Mum's frantic,' he said. 'It must be past nooning.' He tried to look up through the trees to see the angle of the sun, but they were thickly surrounded by trees and undergrowth, a very sheltered place, well hidden from any passing gobble-uns as he had been glad to note upon awakening.

'Well past,' the grey one said. 'I had better get you home to your loved ones.'

'Can you do that?' Pick said, immensely relieved. He had no idea which way was home. He had been taught to stay on the paths and the gobble-uns had not. The young hobbit had been thinking about what to do, once he was free of the fear of being eaten. He thought he might have to sit tight here until his father and uncles came looking for him, but he did not know how long that would be, for he did not know how far the gobble-uns had carried him. He just knew that he did not recognise any of the trees around them.

'I can try,' the grey one said. 'Would you like another bite of waybread before we go?'

'Please,' said Pick.