He was in a dream, or so it seemed. Clutched tight to a tree trunk by a lacery of branches. A whisper of leaves and twigs overhead shifted in a breeze that did not reach his face. In the distance he could hear the creak of great branches. There was the sound of a bee briefly buzzing in his ear, then it was gone.
Odofur Oldbuck slowly emerged to consciousness. His head throbbed from a tender lump where he had made sharp contact with a tree. He remembered his flight from the woods to the east. A pang of panic seized him as he realized he had not ventured far. But his was restrained from escape by the bondage of branches. It was no dream.
His movements to free himself only resulted in tighter bound captivity. The tree had no intentions of letting him go. Odofur took the logical step of going limp to spare further discomfort. Around him were other trees whose branches seemed to reach out towards him, as if begging for a share of his imprisonment.
“Well Odofur Oldbuck, you have put yourself in a predicament with your foolish curiosity” he said out loud to no one in particular.
It was mid afternoon, soon to be teatime. He would be missed. His sons would commence a search, but they would find little trace. He had informed no one and his little dory was hidden in the brush on the far shore of the Baranduin.
His stomach was still comfortably full from the large lunch he had packed. But soon he would be hungry, thirsty as well. He did not relish the thought of slowly wasting away in the arms of this hostile tree, leaving bones and belt buckle as the only measure of his passage.
He decided he had little to lose by calling out for help, though he doubted any would hear him, half a league east of the river in an uninhabited woods of uncertain enchantment.
“Help! Help!” he cried out. The only response was a tighter clutching by the tree and the buzzing of more honey bees, perhaps curious as to his fate. Further calls resulted in further constriction until he could barely breathe. As he drifted off back into unconsciousness he thought he heard distant singing and the sound of something thrashing through the woods. Then all was dark again.
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Aravir appraised the woods as they stood at the top of the bluff.
“We’ll let the horses rest. They will give us scarce better time than on foot through these woods.”
“Father, look.” Aragorn had gone ahead and found the first red ribbon.
“If it is our hobbit, he is a clever one, marking his trail so he would not be lost upon return.” Aravir commented.
They left the horses behind and strode into the forest. Soon they spied another ribbon. Their quarry was headed due east. Aravir could make out occasional footprints in some of the grassy areas in small glades.
A small squadron of ants marked the spot where Odofur had eaten his lunch, leaving crumbs and bits that were swiftly removed.
Aravir examined the footprints.
“He was here not long ago. His lunch was taken this day. It is mid afternoon. I would expect he would be returning along his ribbon path by this time.”
“Unless he was waylaid by something unexpected.” Aragorn replied.
“Did they teach you about this forest in Rivendell?”
“It is old, father, what little is left of great seas of woodlands from the coasts to the mountains, taken for shipbuilding by Numenor. None venture in its eaves as it may not let them leave.
“There is one who dwells there, Aragorn. Tom Bombadil. Neither man nor Elf. Little more is known, other than that he has been there in time before any now living in Middle Earth.
“Friend or foe?” Aragorn inquired
“Neither. His power is not known, but he is unaffected by trees of that angry forest”
“Angry?”
“We are still on lands near the river that were cut for lumber, now regrown. The Old Forest still lies ahead. I fear our hobbit has run afoul of it.” Aravir replied.
They continued their walk through the forest. Aragorn found another red ribbon. They loosened their swords from their scabbards and pressed on.