Chapter 16. The Hunted

Reaching the sheltered spot where the People waited, Thorn gave the piercing cry of a hunting hawk, and at this signal the heads of householes gathered to him. ‘Hunters, take your weapons,’ he said. ‘Gobble-uns are still coming, though not as many as there were before. It’ll be a fight — we’ll be hard put to it, but there’ll be no hobbits in the pot at the end of this day, I swear by the Lady herself.’

A few of the hobbits gasped at his last words, but the heads of householes were nodding. ‘How many?’ Bark spoke up.

 ‘Half a hundred,’ Thorn said. ‘The rockslide cut their numbers in half, but there’s still a great many to deal with.’

 ‘Why are they abroad in daylight?’ Root said. ‘I’d thought they kept to the shadows of the woods, or were only abroad in the dark.’

 ‘They might be a bit wobbly-like, but determined for all that,’ Thorn answered. ‘Some Power lends them aid, perhaps, just as the Lady has aided us.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘As some Other is helping us now. The warning did not come from the Lady; I did not know the voice and was not sure I could trust it at first. But warning came, and we are ready.’ He looked around at the hunters. ‘A few of you will stay with the families, to defend the People if worst comes to pass,’ he said. ‘The rest...’

Blackthorn stepped forward to stand by his father, Applethorn close behind, followed by Boxthorn. The Thorn’s remaning son Hawthorn was helping carry Beech with a few others who’d set off the slide; they’d reach the People in another hour or so. Other sons stepped forward as well, grasping their bows, staffs, axes.

 ‘How long before they come?’ Burr asked.

 ‘They won’t come, not if we-uns have any say in the matter,’ Thorn said.

 ‘How long do we wait for you?’ Mistress Thorn asked quietly.

 ‘You don’t wait,’ Thorn replied. ‘You go down the trail just as fast as you can, and don’t look back. Once you reach the trees, look for good cover and take to the treetops.’ He hesitated. ‘Wait there a day, for any creatures we miss will surely catch you up in that time. If none come, then seek Imladris.’ He dug the elven jewel from his clothing and pressed it into Blackthorn’s hand. ‘Show this to the lord of alfs, Ell Adan’s father, tell him our story.’

 ‘But I’m coming with you,’ Black protested.

 ‘No,’ Thorn said. ‘You must bring my grandson safely to the new land.’

 ‘Grandson?’ Mistress Thorn gasped. She’d suspected that Lily was with child, but Black and Lily had said nothing as yet.

Thorn smiled grimly. ‘He’ll be born after Shortest Day,’ he said, ‘when the nights have grown as long as they can, and the Sun returns to fight for the sky.’ He looked around and raised his voice. ‘The Lady has promised,’ he said, ‘new hope in the new land. All fathers with babes unborn or small and suckling are to go with the People.’ He smiled at Oakleaf, standing by his daughter’s side. ‘You too, Leaf,’ he said. ‘I have seen your sons walking alongside my first grandson in the new land.’ Oakleaf looked to Holly, whose mouth was open in astonishment. She’d just begun to suspect... but it was early days yet.

 ‘Grandsons,’ Mistress Thorn whispered, looking from Lily to Holly.

Taking his quiver from his back, Thorn handed it to Blackthorn. ‘Give me your quiver,’ he said.

 ‘But... there are no tips on my arrows,’ Black protested. ‘Just sharpened wood!’

 ‘I doubt we’ll recover our arrows,’ Thorn said. ‘It would be a pity to lose those tips as the gobble-uns fall from the mountain.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Go with grace,’ he said to his oldest son. ‘The People will follow you and Beech; they know you’ve heard the Lady’s voice.’

 ‘Thorn,’ his wife whispered, and he took her in sudden fierce embrace.

‘I have loved you since the first day I saw you wear violets in your hair,’ he murmured. ‘I love you more than my own life, and I will love you when I go beyond. Go now, and live.’ She hugged him tightly until he broke away. He gathered his daughters in his arms, blessing each with a kiss, then pulled himself away, calling to the other hunters who were deep in their own fare-wells.

 ‘Let us go!’ he said. ‘We must run if we are to meet the gobble-uns at the next pass!’ The departing hunters embraced their families, checked their arrows, and turned to follow Thorn. Apple and Box hugged their mother and sisters, nodded to Black, and in the next moment were running back along the trail with the rest of the rearguard.

They met those carrying Beech and Thorn stopped to explain the plan, urging them to hurry to join the body of the People.

 ‘Help... fight,’ Beech murmured, and Thorn shook his head.

 ‘You’ll fight another day, brother,’ he said, kneeling to look into the unfocused eyes. ‘What do you plan to do, fall down in their path and trip them?’

 ‘Can’t... cannot lose you,’ Beech said, blinking to try to clear his vision.

 ‘I knew I’d never come to the new land,’ Thorn said, laying a hand on his brother-in-love’s shoulder. ‘But I saw you there, you and Black and the rest of the People. You will prosper,’ he said. Looking up at the others, he said, ‘Go with grace, all of you, and bring our People safely to the new land.’

Not trying to hide their tears, they nodded and took up Beech again, going as swiftly as they might as the rearguard resumed the race to the pass.

***

When the wind swept Pickthorn away, his scream was lost in the roaring of the blast. He found himself floating in whiteness, though a part of him knew with terrible certainty that he was falling, falling, doomed to break upon the rocks and trees below.

He did not see the treetops coming up to meet him, but felt a terrible impact that seemed to jerk all of his bones out of joint, and then he was rising, icy pellets striking his face, and the shriek of the wind took on a new note. Dazed, he felt himself carried along in a tight grasp. Slowly he came to realise that a great bird had caught him as he fell, that he was being borne along held securely by claws tipped with cruel talons, a hapless mouse captured by hawk or owl.

The shriek came again, and then he was dropped roughly in a place sheltered from wind and storm. The great bird hopped to the edge of the enormous nest and dropped again into flight. A thick layer of soft furs lay under him, cushioning him from the rough sticks making up the nest. Looking cautiously around, Pick saw he was one of a pile of creatures, mostly rabbits and a few small sheep. At a sound behind him, he jerked around, to see another huge bird and several nestlings, mouths gaping.

 ‘All right, all right,’ the bird grumbled, and to Pick’s wonder it used the Common Speech. Why should that surprise him? Hobbits often used the whistles of forest birds to communicate. ‘We’ve got plenty of food, nice and fresh and warm, and your father’s gone to get another fat mountain goat or sheep, perhaps.’ She grasped a twitching rabbit in one taloned claw and plunged her hooked beak into its belly, neatly tearing out its entrails. ‘Who’s first, then?’ she asked indulgently around the mouthful.

 ‘Me! Me! Me!’ the little ones chorused. The mother jabbed the bloody mess into one of the gaping mouths, then proceeded to tear the rabbit into pieces and jam the gobbets into the greedy maws. As Pick watched, limp with shock and pain, the great bird tore rabbit after rabbit to bits and fed her babies. Finally the cries of “Me! Me!” and “More! More!” died down and the babies fell asleep. The mother settled herself gently upon them and sighed.

Pick hugged his aching ribcage and lay as quietly as he could, hoping not to attract attention for as long as he might manage. Astonishingly, he found himself drifting off to sleep in the relative peace of the nest, as the storm howled beyond the sheltering cliff.

The father came back with another small sheep. ‘There,’ he said, smugness in his tone. ‘We’re ahead for the moment.’ He sighed and idly tore a piece off the sheep he’d just brought back. ‘Here you go, my dear,’ he said through the mouthful he was extending. ‘You look exhausted.’

 ‘The little darlings,’ his mate said indulgently, taking the bite and rubbing her beak against his. ‘Ah,’ she added, ‘speaking of them...’ She stood up and moved over, uncovering the babies, who set up their frenzied chorus once more.

Pick awakened with a jerk, going from terrifying dream to waking nightmare. Frozen with fear, he watched as the hapless prey, some only half-dead like himself, were torn to pieces and fed to the voracious nestlings.

Once sated, the little creatures slept again and the parents preened each other with loving murmurs. The father dropped from the nest for another hunting excursion and the mother dozed at last.

Pick tried to raise himself, only to fall back, defeated by pain and disability. One arm was pulled from its socket, he thought, and his entire body was wracked with a throbbing out-of-joint feeling. He looked about the nest, seeking some way of escape. It was a huge construction of large sticks, softly lined with furs — from previous meals, he suspected. With an effort, he raised himself to a sitting position atop the pile of bodies, peering over the edge of the nest. A sheer drop was all he could see, into clouds that covered the lower peaks and valleys as the storm blew past the higher peaks.

At the piercing shriek of the returning father, Pick fell back, putting the pile of rabbits, some still twitching, between himself and the nestlings. If he could just escape the parents’ notice until he could move a bit more, he’d chance the climb over the side of the nest and down the cliff face. It would be better than the alternative.