Chapter 4. The Fair Folk

It did not take long for quite a few grown, grim Fallohides to gather in the berry clearing, Thorn and his two eldest sons among them.

'Whatever it is, it's big,' Beech told them.

Thorn stood up from his appraisal of the tracks. 'Looks very like what we found round about the Leafs' hole,' he said. Horry and Black exchanged glances. Whatever had taken the Leaf family seemed to have grabbed their little brother. Would they ever see him again?

'Come along, we'll follow the trail for as long as we can,' Thorn said.

'Won't be too hard,' Beech answered. 'They seem to take pleasure in trampling down the growing things.'

'Just don't be watching the trail so close you forget about watching to the sides,' Nuthatch, another neighbour, warned. 'They might have laid a trap for any followers.' The rest nodded soberly, and they started alongside the trail, bows at the ready.

They had warily tramped along for two hours when they found the bodies. Beech bent to examine the feet, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant stench of the creatures.

'These are the track-makers,' he said, straightening again.

'Any sign of Pick?' Thorn asked. They found no hobbit tracks in the soft dirt, but did find some large, odd marks.

'What is it?' one of the hobbits asked.

'Big foot...' Beech said, scratching his head. 'One of the Big Folk, I gather.'

'No toes,' Thorn observed, looking to Beech for an opinion. Beech’s family of all the hobbits had had the most dealings with Men in the past.

'They wear coverings on their feet,' Beech said. He had listened to his gran-da’s tales of the days when the People farmed in harmony with the Big Folk. He’d gone as a very young one with his father and grandfather to trade with one of the few Men who remained on friendly terms with the hobbits, before the Men disappeared from the land. He remembered the footwear, though not what such was named. 'I haven't the faintest why. Odd folk, you know.'

'So what slew the creatures?' Thorn said. 'One of the Big Folk?'

'Head's bashed in on this one,' Blackthorn said, feeling queasy.

'This one, as well,' Nuthatch agreed.

'Thorn,' Beech said quietly, pulling something from between the fingers of one of the dead creatures.

The hobbit father gave a choked cry and fell to his knees. Beech was holding some light brown curls that looked very much like those adorning his own feet... only smaller.

'They had Pickthorn,' Beech said quietly. Nuthatch nodded, then said, 'So what happened to him?'

'I don't know,' Beech said. 'Perhaps the Big One took him from them.'

'Would it harm Pick?' Black asked uneasily.

'Dunno,' Beech said. He began to follow the new trail, giving a soft exclamation as it turned back the way they'd come. 'It's heading back home,' he said. 'What if...?'

The hobbits picked up the pace, running as fast as they could while still following the trail. They'd left some archers back home on guard, but still... what if the whole purpose of the creatures grabbing Pick and taking him so far away was to draw off a goodly portion of the settlement's defence? Blackthorn found himself praying to the Lady that she would stick out tree roots and trip up any malefactors who were after his family and the families of his relatives and friends, drop tree limbs upon them, call down lightning out of the sky...

***

The grey one picked up the little hobbit as if he were no burden at all and began to stride through the trees. Though they were not on a path, Pick thought with some sense born into certain of his kind that they might be going in the right direction. This sense was what made his Uncle Beech such a great hunter among his folk; he never got lost.

Pick was amazed at how quickly the grey one's long legs moved them. The trees passed them at an incredible rate, as fast as Pick could run... but suddenly the legs stopped their striding; the grey one paused behind a tree, made a quiet shushing noise, and waited.

Something was moving through the forest, Pick's senses told him that much, though whatever it was moved more quietly than a hobbit. Suddenly a clear light shone out and was again swallowed in the green of the forest. The grey one stepped forward with a glad cry and the travellers, visible now to Pickthorn though their cloaks had made them seem a part of the trees behind them, turned to greet the grey one, speaking in the same lilting tongue, music in every phrase.

Pick stared wide-eyed at these Big Folk. They were not like the woodsman who had passed close to his family's hole upon a winter's day, but tall and fair to the eye. Some were merry as children, others grim and purposeful like his Uncle Beech when he'd come last night to talk something over with Da. One was beautiful as the night when the stars shone down in the clearing, and when she caught sight of Pick in the grey one's arms she smiled and came forward, curious.

'Hail, Mithrandir,' she said, but of course the words meant nothing to the hobbit who knew not a word of Elf-tongue. 'What is it you carry?'

'Where are you going?' another of the Fair Folk asked, his tone less friendly.

'Peace, Elladan,' the grey one said. 'I am travelling from Lothlorien to Rivendell to speak with your father, Elrond Half-elven.'

'And we are travelling to Laurelindorenan,' the Elf maiden smiled. 'Did you find the little one there?' She bent for a closer look at Pickthorn. 'Will we find more of his kind in my grandmother's realm?'

'No, I suspect he comes from hereabouts,' Mithrandir answered. 'I spoke to warn you: I took him from some orcs. Be on your guard; there may be more of the foul creatures about.'

'Orcs!' an Elf lord said, striding to the fore.

'Yes, Glorfindel,' Mithrandir answered. 'According to this little one odd things are happening here, orcs not the least of it.'

The Elf lord bent close to examine Pickthorn and the hobbit stared back unafraid. This one felt... clean, somehow. He had no fear of being eaten by these folk.

'What have you seen?' the Elf lord asked slowly, speaking in the Common Tongue.

Pickthorn answered readily, remembering his lessons. 'Gobble-uns,' he said. 'They were going to eat me.'

'Goblins,' Arwen said softly. 'What are they doing here?'

'And black squirrels,' Pickthorn said. He made a face. 'They were foul, and no good for food. And the stream is black.'

'We had not reached the stream yet,' Glorfindel said.

'Do not drink of it,' Mithrandir warned. 'There is some enchantment at work.'

'Thranduil said nothing of such troubles this far to the North at the feast last night,' Elladan said. Glorfindel gave him a look and the young son of Elrond subsided. Evidently the king of Greenwood had said something, only not for every ear.

'Eat with us,' Glorfindel said suddenly. 'We will stop to break bread.'

The grey one nodded. 'I suspect my small friend might be hungry again,' he said. The Elves laughed as Pick's stomach rumbled in agreement.