Chapter 3. Thorn: No News is... No News

Bucca slammed the door behind him with his foot as he brought the last armload of split wood in and laid it by the hearth. ‘Not sure of the good it does,’ he said shortly. ‘Chilled you all, like to have the coughing sickness, just bringing in more wood to warm you.’

 ‘The smial will warm again in no time,’ his mother Lavender said calmly. She’d built up the fire again from one of the earlier armloads her son had brought in. The firelight glowed from her soft white curls, dancing over the laugh lines that covered her face in a pattern woven of love and joy. A goodly savour rose from the large kettle she stirred.

 ‘How’s Tuck?’ Bucca asked. His nephew, Tokka’s eldest, had been down with fever for several days.

 ‘Thorn’s sitting with him,’ his mother answered, blowing on the spoon to cool the contents, taking a sip, and adding a cautious palm of dried leaves to the stew. She’d add the salt at the last, that the meat might remain tender.

Bucca nodded. His father, the Thorn in point of fact, leader of their particular clan of Fallohides, had healing in his hands, or so it was said amongst the hobbits of the area. This fever had stubbornly resisted the old hobbit’s best efforts, however.

His face lighted as his own sweet Comfrey emerged from the Tokkas’ room. She stepped lightly for all her heavy burden, their first child, due to come forth any time now (overdue, to all accounts), and eagerly awaited.

 ‘I hope you’ve not taken a chill yourself,’ she chided, slender fingers unwinding the muffler she’d so carefully tied about his face and neck before he went out to chop.

 ‘You oughtn’t to be in there,’ Bucca said, nodding towards the Tokkas’ room. ‘Not so close to your time.’

 ‘If I’m to have the fever, I’ll have it,’ she said placidly. ‘We’ve all crowded together the last months, practically living in each others’ laps... at least it’s warmer that way, and less wood to chop.’

Tokka had moved his family from their own little smial into his parents’ hole when he’d been making his preparations to march north with his little body of archers, to the aid of the King in Norbury. Primrose and her five little ones had crowded into one bedroom to make the best of things, and truly they had brightened the smial considerably.

Bucca, of course, still lived with his parents, for until he had several little ones of his own he could hardly justify the labour of delving a new smial... not when there was always other farm work taking precedence. Having a smial of his own was even less likely now, with his brother’s load added to what he already carried. Thorn maintained that he was not too old to take up farming again, but the thought of his elderly father ploughing the fields made the younger twin shake his head. He’d manage somehow, until Tokka returned. Pity all the rest of the family were sisters, married and moved away. Another brother or three would have lightened the load considerably.

Why did his brother have to go to the North, in the first place, to succor a King they’d never seen?

Bucca had tried to dissuade him, the premonitions—no, dreams is all they were, just dreams—coming back to haunt him.

 ‘It’s my place, as eldest,’ Tokka had said, clapping his twin on the shoulder.

 ‘Eldest!’ Bucca had snorted. ‘How do you know they didn’t mix us up years ago? I might be eldest, for all we know!’

Tokka had laughed, and then sobered. ‘In any event, little brother,’ he’d said, ‘you’re newly wed, and due to become a father before the year is out! You cannot leave kith and kin.’ His own wife had not been expecting at the time... though now it was evident that she’d conceived on the eve of Tokka’s departure. Her babe would be born in the spring or early summer, and Bucca fervently wished his brother safely back in time to greet his youngest.

The Fallohides kept the tradition that those newly married or expecting must not be separated. A husband must avoid dangerous pursuits during the first year of marriage or even after, when his wife was in the family way, although in these modern times not every bereaved wife died of grief.

Thus most of the hobbits who followed Tokka into the Northland were unmarried. Many were the sighs and tears amongst the lasses of the community as they marched away. The rest of the archers had little ones no younger than the age of two, by tradition, or they’d have stayed behind. Their wives did not willingly see them go, but duty and honour was strong in them, and word had come that the King called all who could help to his aid in the struggle against Angmar. As many Fallohides as could be spared, and some Harfoots, though on the whole these were more timid and likely to stay-at-home, answered the call. Tokka, “eldest” son of the Thorn, was elected their Captain.

Primrose emerged from the bedroom, smoothing her skirts. Dark circles under her eyes showed the strain of ceaseless watching over her fevered lad. They’d tried to dissuade her, citing the need to protect the little one growing in secret, but she’d maintained that it was her place. Tokka was the only one who could reason with the stubborn hobbit mum, and he was not there, of course. ‘Fever’s broken,’ she said with a tired smile.

 ‘All the rest are sleeping,’ Lavender said to her daughter-in-love. ‘I tucked them up in our big bed and told them the story of the little leaves.’

 ‘That always sends them off,’ Bucca said wryly. It was a long, long, detailed story with much repetition, and it had always sent him off, in his time. Still did, as a matter of fact.

 ‘Good!’ Prim said. ‘I could use a little peace.’

 ‘Indeed you could,’ Lavender said, hanging up spoon and moving to escort Primrose to one of the comfortable chairs by the fireside. ‘Come, sit down, put your feet up, and take yourself a rest before they waken from their nap.’

It didn’t take much persuading, and before long Prim was toasting her toes near the fire whilst Lavender took up spoon once more to stir and sing. Prim soon dropped off to sleep, a smile on her face, and the old hobbit mum nodded satisfaction. ‘There’s a job well done,’ she whispered. ‘Bucca, you set the table now.’

Though it was lasses’ work he didn’t protest. Prim was asleep in one chair, his own Comfrey dozed in another, the little Tokkas were sleeping; if supper were to be a timely affair he’d better do what was needed. It didn’t take long to set around the hand-carved bowls and spoons and the serviettes, and set out butter dish and knife and the bread plate with a freshly-sliced loaf.

Not for the first time, and not for the last, he found himself wondering what Tokka was doing at that moment.

When would his twin return?

When would they have news from the North?

A gust of wind roared in the chimney at that moment, and he shivered.