Chapter 10. A-journey Again

 ‘We move North,’ Thorn said, his tone final. ‘Any who does not care to follow may stay; I will not force any to come with me. But I and my family go North on the morrow.’

 ‘Break up the People?’ Fern gasped.

 ‘How can you suggest such a thing?’ Twig added.

Thorn looked from one to the other, and then his gaze swept the assembled hobbits, the heads in a loose circle around the fire, their families gathered behind them.  ‘I’m tired of arguing,’ he said simply. ‘If it were a matter any less desperate, I would not suggest such a thing. I will not stay here, to see my family taken as game for the pot!’

 ‘You don’t know that anything of the kind will happen,’ Fern said again. He was growing weary of the argument as well.

Beech spoke up. He’d sat quietly as the argument continued, drawing on his pipe, but the sweetgrass was burnt to ash now, leaving only a bitter taste on his tongue. ‘A week before the Leaf family was taken, Oakleaf shot a black squirrel,’ he said quietly. ‘I shot the first black squirrel seen hereabouts five days ago.’

 ‘We don’t know—‘ Fern said stubbornly, but Beech continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

 ‘Black murk is appearing in the stream that runs deep in the forest,’ he said. ‘I made a special point of going to see. The evil is reaching Northwards.’

 ‘We dare not stay here,’ one of the hobbits in the crowd behind the heads of families muttered, and others took up the words.

 ‘We have made a good start here; the Lady has been good to us,’ Fern argued, seeing that the wind was changing and beginning to blow from another quarter.

 ‘We can make a good start again,’ Thorn said. ‘The Lady will not bless us if we do not heed her warnings.’ He nodded to the brace of squirrels that Beech had thrown down at his feet this very morning, before he’d called the People to this emergency meeting. Unnaturally black they were, their fur rough, somehow oily, and unpleasant to the touch, their flesh foul and unappetising. ‘We leave on the morrow. Any who cares to come with us is welcome.’

As he turned away a murmur arose, stilling as he turned back. ‘O yes,’ he said, ‘and we plan to take to the treetops this night, just in case.’

As he walked away, Fern stared after him then looked to Root. ‘You’re not packing up,’ he said.

Root wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘Young Oakleaf and Holly started packing this morning, as soon as Beech returned from the hunt,’ he said. ‘As did my daughter and Blackthorn. You ought to listen to Oakleaf; he can be quite persuasive. His family were the first to be taken, remember.’

 ‘It doesn’t have to happen here,’ Fern said.

 ‘Saying so won’t make it true,’ Root said.

 ‘Thorn is really going to split the People to pieces?’ Fern said incredulously. ‘I cannot believe it!’

 ‘No, not Thorn,’ Root said, finally meeting his eyes. ‘You are, if you stay. You and whoever else stays will be the ones to split the People. Of course, I don’t expect you’ll remain long to rue your decision.’

 ‘What do you mean by that?’ Fern demanded.

 ‘Think on it,’ Root said grimly. ‘I’ve packing to do.’ He turned and walked away, leaving Fern standing with his mouth open. Someone plucked at his sleeve and he turned to see Twig.

 ‘We’re leaving as well,’ Twig said with a grimace.

 ‘But we were agreed—‘ Fern said.

 ‘My wife just “un-agreed” me,’ Twig replied. When Fern returned to his hole, he found his wife making up packs whilst his older sons fastened rope ladders to a high branch above their tree-hole. He’d been “un-agreed” as well.

Nothing prowled about below the little community that night, and Fern cursed the discomfort and the waste. They’d made a good start here, and had little trouble keeping out of the way of the occasional Man who wandered in the forest. That folk should be affrighted by a few little black squirrels... to be sure, they weren’t fit to eat, but there was plenty of other game for the taking.

The next morning they started out, a long line of hobbits with hunters before and after them, out to the sides as well, to warn of the approach of Men or other hazards. They stopped short of the Road that evening, finding good sturdy trees for the perching. No foul hunters, of goblin- or Man-kind, passed beneath them, but watchers thought they saw a shimmer of light and heard a scrap of song in the depths of the night. When Thorn received the report, he nodded. Undoubtedly Fair Folk had been a-journey in the darkling wood.

The next morning they were up before dawn, crossing the Great Road in the predawn half-light, a silent, ghostly procession in the mist, scores of hobbits in family groups. Each group would pause at the edge of the wood, look up and down the Road, slip across and disappear into the misty wood on the other side. Several times this process was interrupted by Men on foot or in carts, early on their way to places unknown and unguessed by the hobbits.

 ‘Perhaps we ought to have crossed in the night,’ Beech whispered to Thorn as they crouched under cover, waiting to send the next family across.

 ‘The Lady warned me not to travel in the darkness,’ Thorn answered. ‘Much darker things lurk beneath her skirts these days.’ Beech nodded. Thorn was much more cautious this time than he’d been the last time the Fallohides had gone a-journey. He sent hunters ahead of the main body, proceeding only when these returned to report that the way was clear.

At last the entire clan had crossed in safety and secrecy and they continued Northwards. Privately Thorn wondered how far the Lady spread her skirts. When he brought up the question to Beech later, as they walked at the head of the exodus, his brother-in-love merely shrugged. ‘I used to think she went on forever,’ he said. ‘Of course, she has an end near the Great River, so there may well be an end to the Forest further to the North.’ He wondered just how far to the North Thorn proposed to take the People this time. What was to keep the evil from spreading until the entire Forest lay under its shadow?

 ‘What I want to know is...’ Thorn began, but broke off. He stiffened, lifting his bow in the air. The hobbits following him stopped, listening, and the ones following them stopped, and on down the line until the long hobbit-snake stood still and barely breathing. Thorn drew himself up to his full height, quiet, tense, paying heed to what the Lady was telling him. The leaves were still, bird-song silent. ‘Seek the treetops!’ he hissed, jerking his bow upwards. It did not take long for the well-practiced hobbit community to find shelter on high branches, leaving a group of armed hunters on the ground. As the last of the rope ladders was hauled aloft, Thorn led the other hunters in a run away from the hiding place.

He stopped suddenly and went to ground, the others dropping as quickly as he did. Ahead of them he heard the tell-tale growling, then a terrible shriek that made his hair stand on end. He raised his bow above his head, circled it in the air in silent signal, and the hobbits crept forward, spreading out as they went. Another hair-raising shriek came and the growling grew angrier as they approached.

There was a cry, not from any gobble-un throat this time, and Thorn nodded to himself. The creatures had found prey, for certain, and drawn blood, but as a third unearthly howl arose, it became clear that this prey had claws and would not easily be taken by the monsters. Perhaps the Fallohides could be of service, though they’d remain hidden so as not to draw the attention of whatever fought the gobble-uns.

Peering from the underbrush, the hobbits saw a bright ring of shields drawn together to make a protective circle. They could not see the folk that sheltered within the circle, but they could clearly see the horrid attackers, foul creatures with slavering jaws and evil weapons: spears that they tried to thrust through the shield wall as they charged, spiked clubs, and short bows firing wickedly tipped arrows into the circle.

Thorn gave the alarm cry of a jay and hobbit arrows found their mark. Before the surprised gobble-uns could regroup to meet the unexpected menace behind them they were cut down, wounded and dying. Several of the shield-bearers broke loose, the circle re-forming behind them. These tall creatures gracefully but efficiently dispatched any of the gobble-uns left alive with swords that gleamed dully in the shadowy light, then at an order snapped from within the circle they stood as if turned to stone.

The hobbits waited in the underbrush, knowing that movement would give away their positions. They’d helped, but whom had they helped? The shield-bearers were Big Folk, that was of a certainty, not like any woodsman they’d ever seen, or farmer they’d traded with at the edge of the Forest in the shadows of twilight. Fair Folk one might call them indeed. Dark was their hair, but straight, not curling like a hobbit’s, pale was their skin and their eyes were piercing and grey.

A tall one, with a commanding presence stepped forth, supported by another, calling softly in a language the hobbits did not know, and so of course they did not answer. He called again, this time in the Common Tongue. ‘Hoi there! Who are you? Come out!’

Ha. What kind of fools did he take them for?

’We mean you no harm!’ he said. ‘We only wish to thank you for helping us.’ With difficulty he removed the helm he wore and unlike the other Tall Ones his hair gleamed as gold. What manner of creatures were these? Fair ones indeed!

A musical voice spoke behind him. ‘What is it, Glorfindel?’

’Stay back, Arwen!’ the injured one snapped as the daughter of Elrond moved from behind the circle of shields. ‘We do not yet know what we are dealing with.’

 Thorn started. It was the Lady of the Forest as Pick had described her. One of the sharp-eyed shield bearers had seen the movement of the underbrush, and pointed. ‘There!’ Retreat was not possible and freezing again did no good; there was more than one arrow trained upon his hiding place. There was nothing for it but to emerge. Even if he were slain, the rest of his hunters yet lay safely hidden and could return to the People when these Big Folk moved on.

Holding his bow out to the side, the leader of the Fallohides stepped from his hiding place.

’It is one of the Little Folk!’ Arwen said. ‘He looks enough like Pick to be his father!’

Thorn seized on the familiar word. ‘Pick,’ he said, trying to find more words to add. Long had it been since he’d had need to use the tongue of Men. ‘What know you of Pick?’

Glorfindel nodded to the one supporting him, and they limped forward together. Before reaching the hobbit, Glorfindel stopped and knelt to speak to the small one face-to-face. ‘Pick,’ he said carefully in the Common Tongue. ‘Pick is a young Halfling of my acquaintance.’

Halfling, Thorn thought. Come to think of it, one of the People would seem half-a-something to one of the Big Folk. He nodded to this grey-eyed fair one. ‘Pick is my son,’ he said. ‘You are the ones who fed him honeycake? Way-bread?’ he added, remembering the odd word Pick had used. ‘You are—alfs?’ he said.

’We are High Elves,’ Glorfindel said, his lips twitching, ‘from Imladris, on our way home again.’

Imladris. That was a place the grey one had named. ‘Is Grand-alf with you?’ Thorn asked cautiously.

’Grand-alf?’ Glorfindel said, puzzled.

’The grey one,’ Thorn said patiently. In his experience, Big Folk were often slow of motion and of thought, compared to one of the People.

These Big Folk were quick, he found. ‘Mithrandir,’ Glorfindel said, nodding. ‘He rescued your son from the orcs.’

’Orcs?’ Thorn said, filing the word away for future reference. ‘Gobble-uns,’ he confirmed.

’Goblins,’ Arwen said, coming up beside Glorfindel. ‘Yes, that is what Pick called them.’

Thorn bowed low to her, and other hobbits broke from their hiding places to range themselves in a line, kneeling to the daughter of Elrond. ‘My Lady of the Wood,’ Thorn said reverently. The words came more easily now. ‘We were glad to be of service. But how dost thou come to be wandering the wood now, in this guise, with these foul creatures about?’

’In this guise?’ Arwen echoed, bemused, but Glorfindel, for all his years and wisdom, sucked in his breath in amaze. The Little Folk were remembering someone quite different, he realised. Luthien, perhaps, or even one of the Valar taking form to walk the woods and glades of Middle-earth. Arwen smiled then, following Glorfindel’s thought. ‘I am not the Lady of the Wood, but I thank you for your help nonetheless.’

’Not...’ Thorn said, meeting Beech’s glance.

’No,’ Arwen said gently. ‘She would be pleased, however, to know of your aid to the Firstborn, against those foul creatures.’

 ‘My lady,’ Thorn said with another bow. The wind whispered in the trees above and he cocked his head to listen, just as Glorfindel staggered, leaning more heavily upon the Elf who supported him. The hobbit leader moved forward quickly, Beech at his side, bending over the elf lord as he was eased to the ground. One of the Elves beside him pulled open his mail shirt to reveal an ominous red stain spreading across the tunic.

 ‘Spiderwebs,’ Thorn muttered in his own tongue. ‘Spiderwebs to stop the bleeding. There.’ He pointed, and Beech leapt in the direction indicated, returning with a handful of sticky gossamer stuff. Switching to the Common Tongue, Thorn said slowly, ‘If thou pleasest, my lord, weavings—’

 ‘Webs,’ Beech broke in.

Thorn nodded, ‘— webs of things — spiders,’ he corrected himself as he remembered the word, ‘to stop the blooding. Thou art wounded, I think.’ He looked to the Elves kneeling to either side of the Elf lord, two of whom were like enough to be twins. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘The Lady told me...’

 ‘Lady,’ Glorfindel gasped as searching fingers probed the wound. They’d removed the arrow in the heat of battle, staunched the flow of blood, but it had started bleeding again. Beech moved forward, holding out his hand, and Arwen nodded, moving aside enough to let the hobbit slip in next to Glorfindel. Beech applied the cobwebs, took the cloth Arwen offered and pressed it to the wound.

 ‘Drink much,’ Thorn said now. ‘Water is best.’

 ‘Yes, of course,’ the Elf-healer on Glorfindel’s other side muttered, pulling his own water bottle from his belt and offering it to Glorfindel.

 ‘We see thee pass in the night,’ Thorn said conversationally. ‘Not the gobble-uns. They come from another way, I think.’

 ‘The People,’ Beech said in their own tongue. ‘We ought to send a message that the gobble-uns are about. I wonder greatly to have seen the creatures attacking in daylight.’

 ‘The ones who took Pick were abroad in daylight,’ Thorn reminded him. ‘They seem to be creatures of the night, certainly, but the forest is dim enough that they may wander whilst the Sun is awake as well.’

Catching the word “Pick”, Arwen asked, ‘How is young Pick? He is well, I trust.’

 ‘Pick is well,’ Thorn answered. ‘He grows, my lady.’ Turning back to Beech, he said, ‘Send messengers, then. Tell them to keep to the trees and be on guard. If more creatures were nearby, they ought to have joined the battle when they heard the cries of their fellows. The Lady has not warned me of further danger, but we might as well err on the side of safety.’

Beech nodded and faded into the underbrush. One of the Elves exclaimed. ‘He’s gone!’

 ‘Where did he go?’ Glorfindel asked.

 ‘To tell the People to stay,’ Thorn replied. ‘We sleep in trees, much more safe than ground. Night approaches. Thy folk welcome, us-uns to join.’

 ‘A good idea,’ Arwen said, looking from Glorfindel to her brothers. ‘You need a night’s rest before we travel again.’

Glorfindel started to protest, but Elladan and Elrohir agreed with their sister. ‘I’d say go to Thranduil’s palace to recover before attempting the mountain crossing,’ Elladan said, ‘but even that is too arduous a journey, I think.’

 ‘A night’s rest is in order,’ Elrohir agreed. ‘On the morrow we will see if you are strong enough to walk, or if we will need to rig a litter to bear you.’

 ‘I am well!’ Glorfindel said, ‘and who is in charge here? I am sworn to protect you...’

 ‘You are in charge, of course,’ Arwen said. ‘Now order us into the treetops, that we might cheerfully and promptly obey, and you may take a good report of us back to our Father.’