Chapter 6. Difficult Decision

‘We must leave,’ Thorn said quietly.

‘Leave?’ Burr said incredulously. ‘Leave? And go where? This is all we’ve ever known!’

‘How could we abandon our homes?’ Fern demanded. ‘How dare we leave the Lady’s protection?’

‘We’ve had precious little protection lately,’ Beech said. The other hobbits bristled at his sacrilege.

‘We have no home,’ Thorn added. ‘Nor do the Root and Bark families, and with these creatures coming every few days, soon you’ll have no homes, either.’

‘We could band together, fight them,’ Burr said.

‘Did you see them?’ Root asked. ‘There were an hundred, or more, all twice the size of one of us. We haven’t the numbers to defeat them.’

‘They only seem to come at night,’ Fern said. ‘We can keep hiding in the trees...’

‘The two who took Pick were abroad in daylight. Besides, what if they learn to climb trees?’ Beech said. ‘They’ve arms and legs; Fern, you saw the gobble-uns that had taken Pickthorn. If once they look up, notice us-uns in the trees, we’re lost, done for, meat in the pot. Would you risk your little-uns so?’

‘But where do we go?’ Burr repeated. ‘How do we know that... “out there”,’ he gestured vaguely, ‘isn’t worse?’

‘We do not know,’ Thorn said, frustrated, ‘but we cannot stay here, in the gobble-uns’ larder, waiting to be cooked and eaten.’ Such blunt talk shocked the others speechless, but slowly they began to nod.

‘Pack up what you can carry,’ Thorn said. ‘Those who still have possessions, we who have been dispossessed must trust to your generosity.’

‘You shall not starve, so long as I have a hole, and food in it,’ Fern said, and the others echoed him.

Thorn, Root, and Bark nodded thanks. Thorn continued. ‘We will leave on the morrow. Pack up what you can, share out what you have, seek your beds in the treetops again this night, and on the morrow, we shall begin.’

‘Pack your ropes,’ Beech added. ‘We shall sleep in the treetops wherever we find ourselves, until we have gone beyond the reach of the gobble-uns.’

‘Which way?’ Burr asked. A silence fell.

Thorn spoke, but not to any of the hobbits gathered there. ‘Lady?’ he said quietly, reverently, closing his eyes and turning his face towards the canopy above. The rest bowed their heads. ‘Lady, we have lived beneath your skirts these many years. You have given us food, shelter, and protection; you have cared for us as your children. Tell us now where to go. We beg of you, Lady, this last boon.’

A gentle breeze caressed his upturned face; high above, a black squirrel scolded.

‘North,’ Beech said suddenly. ‘The bad things, the black squirrels, the spreading blackness in the stream, all these things come from the South.’

Thorn nodded. ‘Thank you, Lady,’ he said to the treetops, then turned to the others. ‘On the morrow, we go North.’

***

‘Leave?’ Mistress Thorn said to her husband. ‘But...’ She looked around the yard, at the wanton destruction that remained from last night’s waking nightmare. There was nothing to hold on to, except the fact that hobbits had lived here as long as any could remember. For all they knew, the Lady had planted them in the upper vales of the Great River, watered them, grown them up here; they’d never known anything else. They'd been driven from the land to the forest, and now were being driven from the forest perhaps... but what else was there for them?

‘Leave?’ little Pickthorn said, puzzled. His face brightened as he added, ‘You mean, travel?’

‘Travel?’ Beech asked. ‘What’s that?’

‘You know, a journey!’ Pick said triumphantly.

‘A-journey?’ Thorn echoed. ‘Pick, you’re not making sense.’

‘Going from one place to another,’ Pick said slowly, remembering the grey one’s words. 'Walking all day, stopping for the night, getting up and walking again,' he added.

‘Where have you heard such talk?’ Thorn asked.

‘The grey one spoke of such things,’ Pick said.

‘The grey one,’ Beech echoed. They had never satisfactorily worked out who or what the creature was. All they knew was that he was tall, grey, shaggy, wore coverings on his feet, and had saved Pick from being eaten by the gobble-uns. He must not be all bad, at that. ‘It sounds as if this grey one knows something about the matter.’

‘He does!’ Pick said stoutly. ‘He even has special food for travelling.’

‘Waybread,’ Thorn said, nodding. ‘I remember you telling us about that.’

‘We have no waybread,’ Beech said, ‘but we can bake acorn cakes this day, to wrap and take with us, and we can snare coneys along the way, and pick berries.’

‘We can dig roots, and find mushrooms as well,’ his sister said practically. ‘This time of year ought to be good for... what did you call it, Pick?’

‘Travelling,’ Pick said, feeling important. ‘Or a journey.’

‘A-journey,’ Mistress Thorn said. She sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better get used to the word; I have the feeling it’ll be tossed about quite a bit for as far as I can see.’

‘We’ll make it into a song,’ her brother said soothingly. ‘Then it won’t seem so unnatural.’

***

For the rest of that day, the hobbits prepared. Some baked as many acorn cakes as they had flour for, while others scavenged, in well-guarded groups, for all the food they could find, mushrooms, roots, berries. Hobbit mums wrapped food, clothing and other practical possessions in blankets and formed carry-a-backs by knotting rope around the bundles and making loops for arm-holds. Those who’d lost all to the gobble-uns were able to make up carry-a-backs of the extra possessions shared out by those whose homes had not yet been invaded.

Late that afternoon, as ready as they’d ever be, the hobbits sought the treetops above their homes for the last time. It was a good thing they’d taken themselves and their carry-a-backs up into the treetops, for the gobble-uns came again that night, rampaging through the community, destroying all in their path, howling in their hunger and frustration. The hobbits sat tense, silent, motionless, the hobbit dads and uncles with nocked bows ready to shoot, but thankfully none of the creatures thought to look up. The grey light of dawn found the Little Folk weary, having passed a sleepless night, but alive. At least they were not on their way to make a feast for gobble-uns. They were alive, and free. They meant to stay that way.