Chapter 13. River Crossing

After ten days of travel the wandering hobbits came to the edge of the wood, looking out over a grassy plain that sloped downwards towards a distant sparkle—the River!

 ‘It’s more than one day’s journey,’ Beech said, eyeing the prospect. The People were some ways back from the edge, secreted in the trees, eating the roots they’d dug during rest stops and wild strawberries they’d gathered along the way. Thorn had ordered the saving of the travel rations: dried meat, acorn cakes, and the way-bread pressed upon them by the alfs. He’d been warned of the barren rocky stretches in the mountains where no food was to be found, and so the hobbits foraged as they went. In silence, Beech and Thorn watched the traffic on the road, moving steadily in both directions.

 ‘Where are they going?’ Thorn asked.

 ‘There are settlements on the other side of the Mountains,’ Beech said. ‘Grand-alf mentioned them, whole countries of Men, ruled by a King he said.’

 ‘A King,’ Thorn echoed. The word stirred faint memory of old stories told around the fire, but no more than that. Someone who set the standards, he thought. One to whom the Big Folk looked for guidance, perhaps. He could only hope the King was wise and fair, like the farmers from the dim past, who’d been good neighbours, friends even, before a shadow of fear and suspicion fell upon them and caused them to drive the People from the land. ‘And what of the other end of the Road? Why do Men go into the Forest?’

 ‘Not in but through,’ Beech said. ‘The alfs told me that on the other side of the wood there is another river, where the travellers load their crops and other goods for trade onto boats to float downstream.’

 ‘Boats?’ Thorn said, puzzled. This was a word he did not know.

 ‘Waggons that float,’ Beech explained. ‘Instead of beasts drawing them, they allow the river itself to carry them away.’

 ‘Sounds awfully chancy to me,’ Thorn said dubiously.

Beech nodded. ‘At the end of the river is a great sea,’ he continued. ‘A large body of water, so great you cannot see the land on the other side,’ he added, knowing that “sea” was another unfamiliar word. ‘The alfs told me that it is a land where fine wine is produced.’

 ‘Wine,’ Thorn said, smacking his lips in remembrance of the nectar of Dorwinion he’d tasted from Elladan’s flask. ‘That stuff the alfs shared with us,’ he said. ‘That might well be worth braving a journey over water, indeed.’ He looked at the waggons again. ‘Traders,’ he said reflectively. ‘Why haven’t the gobble-uns bothered them?’

 ‘Too many? Too strong?’ Beech shrugged. ‘The Road cuts through the trees and the Sun shines down in the daytime. Gobble-uns don’t like the Sun, I’m told.’

Thorn looked out over the plain once more. ‘The grass is tall,’ he said approvingly. ‘Taller than we are. We could travel in broad daylight, I think, if we stayed in the shelter of the grass. It is only when we come to the Ford that we must cross in the darkness, to avoid the Men.’

 ‘Is there no other place to cross?’ Beech asked.

Thorn shook his head. ‘Grand-alf said there was none for miles, and wherever there is a crossing we’d find traffic,’ he said. ‘Worse, he told me the Ford is deep; easy enough for Men with waggons, but dangerous for the People.’

 ‘We’ll get over,’ Beech said. ‘We’ve come this far.’ He peered at the dark shadows on the horizon, mountains, he knew they were, though they might have been great clouds rising up in the West as far as he could see.

 ‘Three, maybe four days’ journey to the Ford,’ he decided. ‘Come, let us take our rest.’

One good thing about walking parallel to the Road was that the gobble-uns did not come again, not even at night, when the traders pulled their waggons into great circles and set a watch of armed Men. Beech crept close to one of these groups under cover of darkness, curious. He was able to crawl beneath one of the great waggons without being seen, peering into the circle to see what manner of Men these were. There were fires, and savoury smells, talk and laughter and singing. There were guards silent and grim who peered into the night, bows in hand, ready to shoot. Curiosity satisfied, Beech crept away again without trying to bespeak any of the Men he saw. He remembered too well what had happened to his father.

A fire would have been pleasant, but the summer nights were warm and the People ate their roots and berries and the last of the mushrooms from the wood in silence, listening to the songs wafting on the breeze from the nearby camp of Men which was just outside the skirts of the wood. When morning came, Thorn led the People some ways away from the Road, until the creak of waggons came to them but faintly, and there the Fallohides stopped to look back at the wood that had sheltered them these many years. Fair was Greenwood the Great in those days, still fair and not yet completely fallen under shadow of fear. Birds sang, the trees were graceful and crowned with green, leaves rustled in the soft breeze, and a mingled scent of rich earth and green growing things was in the air.

Tears running down their faces, hands joined, the hobbits sang their last fare-well to the Lady and received her blessing in return. As the Sun climbed in the East, finally rising above the canopy of trees to shine upon their upturned faces, they ended their song, took up their burdens, and turned towards the River.

It was not an arduous trek, moving down the gentle slope through tall grass under the smiling Sun. Bees buzzed lazily in the air, butterflies fluttered above, scattered trees provided shady resting places. The scouts shot enough red deer to supply all with as much as they could eat, and though cooked meat would have been preferable, the People feasted and felt all the stronger for the meal.

Distance from wood to water was deceptive, and they did not reach the River until the seventh day, though as the hobbits travelled the distant mountains grew more solid and less misty.

On the evening of the seventh day, by the light of the stars, several scouts crept to the edge of the Ford. Beech, tallest of the People, knotted a rope about his waist and waded into the River, feeling his way carefully with his toes, thrusting his staff ahead of him to probe the bottom. If he could not make his way across, the People would be in more trouble than he liked to think about. They must cross this barrier before attempting the mountains.

He could feel the tug of the current as he waded steadily deeper, sucking first at his ankles, then his knees, cold fingers of water pulling at him, reaching ever higher until he sucked his breath sharply at its touch on his belly. Resolutely he continued, trusting that if he were swept off his feet the others would pull him to safety before he drowned. Ever higher the water climbed, its pull growing more insistent. He found himself turning to face the current, edging sideways towards the opposite bank, leaning into the force that tried to push him from his feet. The River felt like a living thing, a wild cat playing with a rabbit, dragging at him with inexorable claws. Still, Beech kept on. The water reached his chest, tickled him under his arms, slapped his shoulders, touched his chin as he nearly lost his balance. He gripped the rocks tightly with his toes, and then with another step he could feel he was rising, or the water was going down, or both at once.

Yes, the water was going down, step by slow, careful step. He did not relax his caution. Rivers were treacherous creatures, with sudden holes, or rocks that might turn under foot. Enough hobbits had drowned, fishing the forest streams, to teach the People to take great care in their dealings with moving water.

Reaching the far shore, Beech threw himself to the ground, gathering the sandy dirt in his embrace, kissing the reassuringly solid bank in his gladness to be out of the monster’s grasp. Only after thanking the ground for receiving him, he stood and tugged on the rope, a signal to those waiting on the opposite shore. He picked up a rock and hammered his staff into the ground, slipped the rope from his waist and tied it to this impromptu stake. Taking firm hold on rope and staff, he anchored the rough bridge, a handhold, really, for hobbits to pull themselves along and across, trusting to the rope when their feet could no longer find hold.

It took nearly the entire night for all of the People to cross, little ones tied firmly to adults, the strongest making several crossings to bring children or baggage across, but by dawn the People were all safely on the Western shore of the great River, as far from the Road as they could stagger, finding sheltered hollows to rest in as the sky brightened in the East. The hobbits rested through that day, drying their clothes and possessions in  the summer sunshine, listening to the creak of the waggons, the shouting of Men, the splashing of the great draught beasts entering a river lately overcome with great courage and daring by People who, for much of the journey, had been in over their heads. They rested through the following night, hearing the distant songs of the Men carried to them on the breeze along with the tantalising smell of roasting meat. Silently they ate their cold food and hoped for better days to come. With the dawn of the next day the hobbits were ready to go on their way.