This story takes place in the summer of SR 1401. Meriadoc Brandybuck and Folco Boffin are 19 years old. Later in the year, Bilbo will celebrate his eleventy-first birthday and vanish in a most surprising manner; but for now, the Shire is quiet.

In general, the Brandybucks considered the Old Forest much as they might consider an abrasive auntie who likes her afternoon tipple too well: They disapproved of it, and they were slightly afraid of it, and they mostly ignored it; but they tolerated the Old Forest and considered it somewhat proprietarily. Whether they approved it or no, it was there, and therefore their own.

Mostly they stayed out of it, of course. It was uncanny, and even the stupidest, least responsive hobbit was sensitive to the malice that lived within its trees. But the younger Brandybucks and their cronies did venture into the Forest, usually through the gate that lay behind Brandy Hall.

"What do you mean, you've never been in?" scoffed Merry Brandybuck, poking Folco Boffin in the chest.

Folco slapped Merry's hand away irritably. "My Da says I'm not to go in there," he stated firmly. "I got enough to worry about without that." This was true, for Folco's father was a hard-horse hobbit who scarcely let his son have a moment's fun, and when Folco did stray from his Da's dictates, the lad paid dearly. Of course that didn't mean Folco did not stray; it just meant he got better and better at not getting caught.

Merry knew this, of course. He also knew he wanted to get some of his own back, as he was still smarting from his earlier beating at roopie by Folco and his mates, not to mention Folco's taunting remarks about said game. So he snorted at these words. "You only pay attention to what your Da says when it suits you," he said archly. "So I expect you're just afraid to go into the Old Forest." He raised his eyebrows. "Convenient, your Da's rules."

Folco's face darkened. He was never sweet-natured lad, and this was easily too much. "I'm not afraid to go anywhere a Brandybuck would go," he said fiercely.

Merry began to walk. "Good, then," he said smoothly. "Shall we?" He led the way: past the stables and across a narrow field of turnips to the Hedge, which loomed black, thick, and impenetrable along the eastern border of the Buckland. The teenagers turned north and walked with the neatly trimmed hornbeam and holly to their right, until they turned toward it and the land fell between green banks. The path sloped down, down, down, and at last dove right below the prickly green-black leaves. They came to a gate, heavily barred and locked.

Folco felt relief, then saw Merry digging through his pockets. "Here we are," said Merry cheerfully as he produced the key. He opened the gate (silently; the hinges and lock looked to be well-oiled) and they stepped through. Merry shut it behind them with a clang, and the click of the lock sounded strangely muffled.

The trees grew almost to the Hedge, but for a narrow path. Overhead, the high branches of beech, elm, chestnut, oak, and birch met and mingled, shutting out the sky. The air was close and warm, and there was little undergrowth. Folco looked around, trying to appear nonchalant. "Doesn't look like much," he said. "Just trees--just like any other stupid wood."

Merry felt a little tingle at his words, a small thrill that traveled from the nape of his neck to the backs of his knees, and his next words were only partially motivated by the desire to frighten his mate. "Don't talk like that," he said quietly. "And don't talk so loud. They don't like it."

Folco looked up at the swaying branches. "What do you know?" he asked rudely, but his voice was low.

Merry padded across the small clearing and began to circle it to the south. He turned and beckoned to Folco. "The trees here aren't like other trees," he said, leading the lad down a narrow path, southeast out of the clearing. Folco could not walk beside him, and could hardly hear Merry's hushed explanation. "They hear what you say. They don't like hobbits, but they'll put up with 'em for a while--so long as they're respectful."

Folco cleared his throat nervously and glanced upward. He couldn't see the summer sky above at all. "Why don't they like... hobbits?" he asked.

Merry kept walking. "I'll show you," he said.

The path wound further into the woods, mostly south; it was dim, and quiet, and close. No bird nor squirrel nor rabbit did they see. Nothing hindered their passage, but the tingle crawled along Merry's skin persistently, and Folco kept close on his heels, almost walking on them in his desire to stay close. Side paths appeared and disappeared, mostly toward the east, but all sense of direction was hazy in this woody labyrinth.

At last Merry saw light ahead. He drew a deep breath as they passed from under the shade of the leaves and into the wash of buttery late-afternoon sun. They were in a large, bare glade, grassy and weedy, with the furry heads of dandelions here and there among the thistles and blades of scraggly green. Merry walked to the center of the clearing and turned to face Folco. He spread his arms. "This is why the trees don't like us hobbits."

"What happened?" To the right was a thick wall of greenery, and with a start Folco realized that he was looking at the Hedge from its wild side--they had come south along the edge of the Old Forest, and not far into it at all.

Merry sat down in the weeds, just as the sun slid below the level of the Hedge and blue shadows sank about their heads. Folco came slowly across to him and sat, too, facing the Brandybuck lad. Merry began to speak, his voice a murmur akin to the soft breeze that was rising gently as evening fell.

"Ages and ages ago, when Gorhendad Oldbuck moved across the Brandywine and changed his name to Brandybuck, he and his family began digging Brandy Hall. They didn't go into the forest much, but as the smial grew larger, they needed timber, for shoring up the rooms and making doors and panels and furniture and things of that sort." Folco nodded; forgotten was his bravado, and he sat spellbound, receptive to the tale. Merry went on. "The trees were not friendly to them. At first no-one knew what was happening--they thought those who went into the woods were merely getting lost, just wandering too far down the twisting, winding paths." The western sky flamed with the swift summer sunset. "But it happened too many times, to too many clever folk, and slowly the Brandybucks recognized that it could not be coincidence." The sky to the east deepened and one star pricked the velvet, sharp as a knife's point. "They knew something must be done. And so they planted the Hedge."

Merry stood up and walked to the massive wall at the edge of the clearing. He wandered slowly along it as he spoke, and Folco sat still, watching and listening. "They planted it high and deep and thick, and they knew it would keep them safe. They no longer ventured into the forest for wood to build their holes and barns and sheds. But the trees were not satisfied. They wanted to drive the invaders away." Merry circled to the southern edge of the clearing and continued to walk slowly along its edge; Folco shuddered to see him so close to the dreadful trees. "The trees moved." Merry stopped and looked right at Folco, his face earnest. "They can move, you see, when their need is great--or their hatred."

More stars had appeared, and all that could be seen of the sunset was a pale yellow stain above the Hedge. Merry began his pacing again, coming round to the eastern and then northern edges; along the northern side of the glade he walked now, back and forth, and Folco twisted where he sat to watch him. The path they had entered the clearing from was a deeper shadow among other shadows between the greenery. "The trees moved right up against the Hedge, and they menaced the settlement of the hobbits. This was too much for the uneasy truce to bear, and so--" he shrugged-- "the hobbits reacted. They came into the Old Forest by day and they brought with them fire. Fire, the one thing dreaded above all others by trees. Here in this very place, the Brandybucks burned those trees that had dared to encroach upon the Hedge--burned them in a great bonfire of flame and heat till nothing remained but ashes."

Merry was motionless again, poised at the edge of the trees, which swayed darkly behind him in the soft soughing of the wind. "You know," he said conversationally, "that was hundreds and hundreds of years ago. And mostly, the Old Forest won't harm folk that come into it for only a short time--many's the lad I've known, and a lass or two, too, who have ventured in for an afternoon and come out with no harm done.

"But the trees are old, and have long memories, and they especially hate the name Brandybuck. So, while some folk might be perfectly safe in the forest--might be, I say, for the trees are not overly fond of any hobbit, really--one name is not safe to bear beneath the trees in the dark of night. That name is Brandybuck." Merry smiled at Folco. "And so, I must be going."

He laughed at the astonished look on the other lad's face and slipped into the trees like a breath of air, vanishing instantly into the darkness of the forest.

Folco leapt to his feet. "Merry!" he shouted. "Meriadoc Brandybuck, come back here!" He ran to the place where Merry had disappeared and peered into the gloom. "Merry! Merry!" he called. The trees rustled and his shoulders came up tightly; he backed away, into the relative safety of the clearing. "Meriadoc Brandybuck, this is not funny, you tale-telling jackass of a hobbit!"

Merry had slid into the dark, darted a few yards along the trail away from the open area, and then stepped off the path to the left, toward the Hedge. He listened to Folco's yells with glee. "That'll teach him to say I couldn't hit the broad end of Brandy Hall with a back-wind," he muttered. He turned and began making his way back to the gate.

He knew that the lad had only to follow the Hedge northward to come back to the gate himself; Merry planned to be there waiting, with the key in hand. He began confidently enough. He had intentionally brought Folco to the Bonfire Clearing by a winding path, and Merry had no thought of trying to follow it back to the gate in the dark. He planned to keep the Hedge a few yards away on his left, so as not to lose his way, and get back to the gate by that means.

Folco's shouts ceased. A pang of worry shot through Merry, and he shook it away. The lad was fine. He would never be Merry's closest friend, but he was not a complete fool--he wasn't the type to lose his head just because of a frightening story. He'd work it out and find his way back to the gate.

The sun had slipped away quickly, but the long summer dusk would linger for an hour yet. Here beneath the leaves, the darkness was complete.

There had not looked to be much undergrowth, but Merry found the going unaccountably hard off the trail. He thrust his way through a patch of bracken, getting sweaty and scratched in the doing, and looked up to re-orient himself, looking to his left for the blackness of the Hedge.

He did not see it there. Or rather, every side offered the same view: trunks and more trunks, blending away into impenetrable darkness. Merry's breath caught in his throat; he stifled the moment of panic and stood still where he was. Perhaps if he listened he would hear Folco blundering along the way.

No sound came to him but the sigh of the steadily rising breeze. The palms of his hands began to sweat, and the tingle returned in force: a steady, tangible thrumming that coursed through his body. Merry took a deep breath and opened his mouth to call for Folco, then closed it again with a snap; some deep instinct told him that calling out would be a terrible, terrible mistake.

Instead, he surveyed his position. He thought west should still be to his left, so he began making his way through the trees in that direction. He touched their boles as he went, and the first touch made the sweat spring from under his curls: they sang with malice for him and for all who moved and strode beneath the sun and moon and stars. Despite this, he forced himself to continue, and now he reached out to touch each stem a-purpose.

He tried to hum, but song died at his lips and the threatening silence of the forest rose up to smother him. His stomach began to churn and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He walked as soft as only a hobbit can walk, trying desperately to fade, to vanish from the eyeless sight of these contemptuous trees as he could vanish from the view of Big Folk. The anger all around him did not abate; indeed, it grew, and he felt leafy hands grasp at his hair, his shoulders, his arms. He stumbled as roots lifted before his feet, and his mouth dried to sand. He struggled on, panting, as the fear rose and rose.

"All right!" he shouted. "All right!" His voice fell like lead into the dead air, carrying no further than his own face or so it felt. The enmity of the wood crested and Merry fell to his knees, roots wrapping his ankles, his hands buried in unseen tendrils that twined round his wrists. In one part of his being, his fear burst like a dam and his body shook: tears streamed from his eyes: his heart raced; yet he spoke again. "Only let go and I will leave. I am sorry. I am sorry!"

He lay on the ground for some unknown time, pounded by waves of contempt and anger and malice. Just when he thought he could not bear it--his heart would burst, his lungs close, his body fly apart from the sheer fright of it--he felt the venom that had engulfed him ebbing away. The weeds round his arms and legs were only weeds again, and the roots that had so bruised his ankles no longer held him to the ground. He stayed where he was for a long moment, his eyes closed, breathing ragged, head hanging.

He opened his eyes and very slowly rose to his feet. The Hedge was directly before him. The panic faded from his mouth and mind and memory and he was only himself again, a hobbit lad frightened out of his wits but sure he would come safe to his home, tonight at least.

"I am sorry," he spoke again to the anger. "I was wrong to use you for my own petty anger. I shall be more respectful in future." For he knew that he would be back again, foolish as it might seem. The Old Forest was his, as much as he was its own, and he would not be able to resist the tingling fear, the need for quiet, the daring that would bring him under its eaves again.

He looked at the clear night sky to ascertain his directions and then trotted north as quickly as his short legs would take him. Finally he could see the gate in its small clearing ahead of him, and he fumbled for the key in his waistcoat.

"You rotter!" came a shout, and Merry slammed sideways into the thorns of the Hedge. Folco hammered at him with hard fists, bellowing words his father would be shocked to know he knew. Merry cringed away from him, curling his arms around his head and making no attempt to attack his attacker.

Finally the Boffin lad seemed to spend his fury, and he backed away, breathing loudly. Merry straightened slowly, and ran trembling hands over his ribs, wondering how many Folco had cracked in two.

"Feel better?" he asked, and there was compassion and regret in equal measures in his voice.

"Yes," said Folco. He lowered his fists. "Unlock the gate."

Merry nodded, invisible in the darkness, and his hands shook as he fitted the key noisily into the lock. Before he twisted it, though, he turned to Folco. "Listen, Folco... I... I'm really, really sorry." He could faintly see the other lad's face in the starlight. "I didn't know.... Well, I just didn't know."

Folco nodded a little. "I know. I mean, I guess I know... I'm sorry I was such a bloody pain after the roopie game earlier. All you did was get me back--nothing worse than a bit of a scare." He chuckled. "I figured out that I could follow the Hedge back quick enough, after all."

Merry stared at him, then unlocked the gate and swung it open. They went through, and Merry shut it behind them, casting one last look into the darkness under the trees. "Thank you," he said quietly to them, and the wind rushed in their tops.

He turned back around and trudged after Folco, who was waiting for him at the top of the embankment. "So Folco, you didn't feel... you weren't really... frightened?" he asked.

"No, not after I'd figured the way back," he said. Something in Merry's voice alerted him. "Why, what happened to you?" There was nothing mocking in his tone.

Merry struggled to find words. "It was, it was strange. The trees were very angry at me--I used them, you know, to, to get back at you. And I used that old story to hurt you, and it hurt them." He stopped walking and stood among the turnips, shaking again. "They wanted to get me." His voice dropped. "They wanted to kill me."

Folco walked to him and peered into his face. "Then why are you here?" he asked, and the sheer reasonableness of the question made Merry smile, a tremulous smile.

"I don't know. I apologized, and perhaps that helped. The trees were very angry but then it just... drained away, like water. I think they decided to let me go," he concluded lamely, aware that Folco was looking at him skeptically. He shook his head, and glanced back at the Hedge and the Old Forest. "Maybe the trees knew I didn't mean to hurt them. I rather like trees, really." He began walking again, and Folco followed, looking puzzled at all this. "I wouldn't mind meeting a tree, in a conversational sort of setting. I'd like to know what the trees would say back, if they could speak." He hitched up his trousers and walked on, toward the warm light spilling from the windows of Brandy Hall.