Chapter 14. Better Safe than Sorry

Pippin clenched his fist in the cloak that lay before him on the saddle, Tolly’s cloak, retrieved from the snowy path. They’d examined the cloak closely before picking it up and bundling it together; and the gloves, too, to see if they’d been laid down with deliberation, perhaps to point the way to followers.

But no footprints were in evidence, where one of the fallen gloves might have pointed, were it laid down with some deliberation. The tracks of Tolly’s pony continued along the bank of the stream, and the searchers followed, until Renilard held up a commanding hand. ‘He dismounted here,’ the hunter said unnecessarily, with a sweeping gesture, ‘floundered through this bank of blown snow towards the stream, and...’

‘Any sign of ruffians?’ Regi said, and to Pippin muttered, ‘I cannot imagine Tolly going into a stream for any reason, not in these temperatures at the least!’

Pippin was leaning forward, watching Renilard’s cautious progress, all the way to the edge of the stream with its rime of ice along the edges. ‘He went in here!’

‘In! But what about coming out again!’ Pippin called.

Renilard gave a dismissive wave as he moved downstream. ‘Pony went on without him,’ Adelgrim said from Regi’s other side, indicating Wren’s tracks. ‘See, here, the hoofprints wander, and turn away from the stream... you can see, he pawed the snow away from the grass on that little rise, there...’

Renilard had quickened his steps, and his voice floated back to the rest of the searchers. ‘Dog!’

‘Might he have been driven into the stream by a pack of stray dogs?’ Pippin said, and then shook his head, answering his own question. ‘No, for they’d have worried the pony, and Wren would scarcely be wandering and grazing if dogs were menacing his master.’ He loosened his reins and nudged his pony forward as Renilard waved a beckoning arm.

‘Came out here,’ the hunter said as they rode up, stopping short of the marks on the bank. ‘Something was dragged out, I think; rather, carried—see the depth of the footmarks. Carried, laid down—you can see the snow pressed down, and the mud. He walked away from the stream—you say the pony was grazing there?’

‘Pawed away the snow,’ Adelgrim said with a nod. ‘I could see the green shining through the frost, even without leaving the track.’

‘Aye, verily,’ Renilard said, turning to follow the tracks leading from the stream. ‘He walked to the pony, fetched him back to the bank, and then he led the pony away... and a dog with him.’

‘Well,’ Pippin said. ‘It seems we’re making progress.’ He lifted his head and stretched tired muscles that had been too long in the saddle, over the past three days. ‘What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’ Adelgrim said, following his gaze, and then he called to the hunter. ‘Reni! More tracks! Downstream!’

Renilard grumbled to himself, turning back. He was following the tracks of Tolly’s pony, wasn’t he? And wasn’t that the most likely course to lead them to Tolly?

Not necessarily, a part of his brain argued, but then for all his sharp hunter’s skills his brain was not serving him well this morn, not after the long chase followed by last night’s revelry.

He shook his head to clear it, gave up on the matter, and trudged downstream, stopping short to survey the new find. At last he turned back to address the Thain.

‘Well?’ Pippin said.

‘Hobbit,’ Verilard said. ‘At least we know where the dog came from, now. Dog went into the stream, and hobbit did, too, and while the dog came out again, and ran down alongside the stream to where Tolly came out...’

‘You said he carried something out, from the depth of the footprints in the mud on the bank,’ Pippin said, ‘and laid it down, before fetching the pony to bear it away...’ His brow was knit in thought. ‘Perhaps the hobbit went into the stream and got into difficulty, and Tolly went in after?’

‘From the marks Tolly left, he plunged into the stream—no cautious wading,’ Adelgrim said.

‘That would be like Tolly,’ Regi said. ‘He pulled young Hilly out of enough watery peril, when they were lads, that he wouldn’t think twice about pulling someone out of a stream, if he didn’t have to swim to do it.’

‘So we have a hobbit with a dog—hunting waterfowl, perhaps,’ Pippin said. ‘He went into the water, for some reason—a fat duck caught among the rocks, that the dog couldn’t retrieve, perhaps? And was overcome with the chill of the water?’

‘Something like that,’ Renilard said. ‘Two hobbits went into the water on their own feet, and only one came out again, and carrying something heavy...’ He looked to the grassy rise. ‘...fetched the pony, and bore his burden away, dog following...’

‘Well then, Tolly’s a hero,’ Adelgrim said, ‘and it was good fortune that he was riding along the bank; in the right place at the right time, as it were...’

‘Yes,’ Regi said. ‘But why was he riding along the bank, when he was supposed to be in the Thain’s study, tendering a report?’

‘That’s why we’re here ourselves,’ Pippin answered. ‘We’ll ask the hobbit when we find him. At least we know he’s not out of his head... there was a reason he dropped his cloak, it must have been some sign. Perhaps he saw a ruffian wading along the stream, to leave no tracks.’

‘Then how does the hunter figure in to it?’ Regi said, puzzled.

‘Dog went for ruffian, perhaps, and hunter shot an arrow to save the dog and then plunged in...’ Pippin said, feeling his way. He shook his head. ‘Such speculation is pointless,’ he concluded. ‘But I’ll be very interested in hearing Tolly’s report when we finally catch up with him.’

***

The hobbit had fought them, albeit weakly, as they lifted him from the cooling water. Aster wrapped him well, and they laid him down on a makeshift bed before the hearth, that being the warmest place in the smial.

The duck was already roasting on its spit, the fat sizzling down into the catch-pan, and the aroma ought to be enough to waken the dead. As it was, the half-drowned hobbit blinked a little, nostrils flaring.

‘Are you hungry?’ Aster said, bending to tuck more blankets around him. ‘That’s a good sign.’ She brushed a hand across his forehead and nodded in satisfaction. He’d been cold as death when they’d brought him in, but the tub had warmed him nicely.

‘Rabbit pie,’ he muttered.

‘We do have some pie left from early breakfast,’ Aster said, well pleased to be able to offer what was requested. She looked to her eldest daughter, laying out plates for the next meal. ‘Ammy, cut a piece of pie for our guest, to tide him over until the duck’s done roasting!’

The guest moved his head restlessly and muttered something Aster couldn’t quite make out...

***

‘Have a piece of pie?’ a ruffian was roaring in his ear. ‘Little rats are always hungry...’

‘They ought to be used to it by now,’ another growled. ‘They don’t need half the food they’ve grown in their fields. Think of what would be wasted, did we not take it off their hands! Why, the Boss has gathered waggons-full...’

‘This one scarcely looks as if he’s missed a meal,’ one said. ‘Why, he’s a fat little coney, plump for the roasting.’

Tolly could hear the sizzle of roasting fat, and smell the heady aroma of the roasting, and his horror must have shown in his face, for there was a burst of coarse laughter around him. Were these truly Men? Or had Orcs invaded the Shire?

And then a feminine voice was heard, soothing and pleading in one. ‘Let be, please let him be; he’s done you no harm.’

‘No harm? Skulking about in the bushes and spying?’

The familiar feminine voice persisted. ‘He’s an old friend; likely came to visit but was too timid to come out when he saw strangers. You know how shy the little folk are around big folk...’

‘You have a kind heart, Annie, to speak up for one of the little rat-folk, but the Boss wouldn’t like it...’

‘He’s a spy, I tell you.’

‘Please...’ and Tolly realised it was the woodcutter’s wife, Anemone, who pleaded for him. Of course it was. He tried to put a hand to his muddled head, but his arms were restrained somehow.

‘Now, now, Annie, don’t you trouble your heart about this little one; he’s in good hands...’

‘An old friend, is he? What’s his name?’

‘Tol—Tolly,’ Anemone said, close at hand, and Tolly blessed her for using the familiar name rather than his full name, damning in its Tookishness. He felt a dampened cloth, then, laid against his aching head where the club had struck.

‘Tolly,’ said one of the men. ‘Tolly – what? Grubb? Chubb?’

‘Took?’ another said, less pleasantly.

‘Just Tolly,’ Anemone said, a quaver in her voice. ‘He lives around here, somewhere, and my lads often encounter him gathering herbs in the woods.’

‘I’ve never seen him,’ one of the men said, but another broke in.

‘No Tooks living around here – but he could be a Took, from the look of him.’

‘No,’ Anemone protested. ‘I’m sure he’d’ve said so, if he were...’ She was getting bolder in her desperation, telling outright lies now, and Tolly moved uncomfortably against the restraining hands, his fear for his friends growing and drawing him back to full wakefulness.

‘Come to think of it, he does look familiar. I have seen him before, somewhere.’

‘There now, you see?’ Anemone said. ‘The neighbours have become shy and wary, with so many Men in the woods these days, so of course he would have hid himself if he heard any of you coming... he’s not so wary of our little lads, of course...’

Tolly was privately glad that the “little lads” were evidently not present, for one of them, speaking without thinking, might have let slip the fact that he was a Took – and that would mean the Lockholes, without a doubt. The woodcutter’s wife was obviously trying to save him... though at what risk to herself and her children, he didn’t know. Would they throw Big Folk into the Lockholes for working against Lotho? Would they burn the cottage?

‘Lucky for him that he’s not a Took,’ the booming-voiced ruffian said. ‘Now that Sharkey’s said we’ll have a rich reward if we hang them up from trees along the road as a warning to the rest of the rats.’

‘Ha, just like the Fox!’ another said with a laugh.

‘Only that one didn’t stay hanged up for very long,’ one grumbled. ‘Rat-folk cut him down and buried him before he was properly ripe.’

‘Denied the birds their rightful feast.’

Anemone made small sounds of distress as the ruffians spoke jovially and at some length—for Tolly’s benefit, no doubt—of the sport of watching the carrion birds at their work. In the meantime hands were going through Tolly’s pockets and the rest of his clothing, and he blessed the fact that he had no papers from the Thain on his person.

‘Carrying nothing,’ one said, dissatisfied.

‘I still think we ought to send him off to the Lockholes, for lurking about.’

‘Lockholes?’ Anemone interposed. ‘But he’s done nothing! Please,’ she said, ‘Just let the little fellow go home again. I doubt he’ll stir foot outside his garden again, after this...’ A warning, it was; but Tolly’s head was spinning with more than the stunning blow of the club. Ferdi was dead! Dead at the hands of the ruffians, and buried; and somehow he must win free to bring the news to the Thain, that Sharkey, whoever he might be, had declared a bounty on dead Tooks.

‘Lockholes is a long way to walk from here,’ one said slowly. ‘I don’t want to walk all that way; don’t know about you, Wort.’

The ruffian thus addressed answered, with a tug at Tolly’s bonds, ‘No, we’ll just put him to work – Barad told us to bury the refuse and not to throw it about his yard.’

‘And since Barad’s yard belongs to the Boss, well, we’re obliged, are we not, fellows?’ There was a sharp poke in Tolly’s ribs, and he winced away before he could catch himself. ‘We’ll put this one to work, digging and burying, and when he goes back home he’ll tell all his fellows what happens to skulkers.’

As Anemone whispered breathless thanks for Tolly’s impending release, Tolly was suddenly placed on his feet. His knees buckled, and he was given a shake and a growled admonition to “Stand up, I say!”

Dizzy, he opened his eyes to see himself surrounded by tall, dirty figures. Anemone shone, half-hidden between two of them. The rest of the family were evidently not at home. The woodcutter’s wife was twisting a cloth between her fingers, and her face was anxious. ‘Tolly?’ she said.

‘Missus,’ he gasped, head whirling. There was a jab at his back and he staggered.

‘Who are you? What’s your name?’

‘Tolly,’ he said, wavering, grasping for a name that would satisfy without endangering the woodcutter’s wife. ‘Tolly Brackenbeater.’ Well, he had been in the occupation of herb-gathering for his father, so it wasn’t untruth.

‘Brackenbeater,’ someone grumbled. ‘Don’t know any of them.’

Tolly was swung halfway around to meet the demand, ‘Where do you live?’

He blinked, affecting that he’d been more muddled by the earlier blow of the club than he truly was. ‘Live?’ he said stupidly.

‘Where’s your hole, rat?’

‘My hole,’ Tolly echoed, and a shove came that sent him sprawling.

‘A half-wit, to all appearances,’ said the booming voice. ‘Ah, well, he’ll dig well enough. You’ve those small spades, I saw them leaning against the shed.’

‘For the lads to work the garden,’ Anenome said. ‘You’ll just have him dig a hole for the refuse...? And then let him go?’ She swallowed hard, but her face showed some relief at the assent she heard.

‘Lot o’ refuse,’ the booming ruffian said in a jovial tone. ‘Hours of diversion for the little fellow, I should say. Keep him out of trouble for a day or two, I warrant, and a good thing, too. You know what they say about idle hands...’

Shouts of laughter answered this sentiment, and hands took hold of Tolly’s shoulders and shoved him roughly out of the cottage. He stumbled over the threshold and measured his length in the gravel spread before the door, ending bruised and scraped, hearing Anemone’s plea from inside. ‘O please! Don’t hurt him!’

‘We won’t hurt him, Annie, to be sure,’ Tolly heard, through the roaring in his ears. ‘We’re just going to make him pay his due, that’s all.’