Chapter 7. A-journey

Thorn had given much thought to the order of march, placing armed hobbits before and after the community as well as to the sides. They walked more than five miles that first day, further from their homes than any save the boldest scout had ever gone, following Thorn and Beech, for Thorn seemed to know what to do, and Beech seemed to know where to go.

As the Sun was westering, Beech noted a grove of likely trees. ‘Here,’ he said, nudging his sister’s husband. ‘Not a low branch amongst them, and good, sturdy branches up high. We’ll sleep here this night.’

‘Very well,’ Thorn said, and made ready to stop, but Beech kept walking. ‘What is it, brother?’ Thorn said.

‘We’ll keep walking a ways, double back,’ Beech said. ‘If anything follows our trail in the night, they’ll sniff their way right past the trees and on into the woods, and then they’ll run out of scent and be baffled, but at least they won’t be baffled right below where we’re hiding.’

‘Good thinking,’ Thorn said. Beech nodded. His hide, as well as the hides of the ones he loved, indeed, of the entire community, depended on how well they thought out their course. This was not like a hunt, where the wrong decision meant an empty pot, rather, in this case, a wrong decision would fill the pot with hobbits. That would never do.

They walked on a half mile or so before Beech led them back in a circle to the path they’d left, and then back along the path. ‘Perhaps they’re stupid enough to run in circles half the night,’ he said hopefully.

Thorn snorted. As they’d walked, the word had been passed back along the line that soon they’d stop, but when they did stop, none must touch the boles of the trees. They’d climb rope ladders to get up into the branches.

Choosing the most promising trees, archers shot arrows into the air, light lines attached. The arrows went over high branches and came down again, and after that ‘twas simple work to attach ropes to the light lines and haul them over. Then nimble hobbit lads climbed the ropes, made fast the rope ladders, and the rest climbed, even the eldest of the community who were spry, if wrinkled. Hobbits tended to live long, remaining hale and hearty until, one night, an old hobbit would go to sleep and never waken again in this world. It stood them in good stead now.

Before long, the entire community was roped safely onto the high branches. The hunters wiped away tracks and climbed up and took up the ladders. No sign remained on the ground that hunted hobbits had taken refuge here.

They slept well that evening, rising in the morning to descend from their high places and take up the march again. They made good time, nearly ten miles before circling back to climb again. Their caution paid off this night, for the gobble-uns had come to raid the community once more and found their trail, following it with hateful, hungry determination to its end, passing beneath the silent hobbits with frightful growls and snarls coming, and even more horrid gnashings and mutterings when they came around again, before realising the trail led them nowhere. If any hobbits had doubted the necessity of this “a-journey” before, they were believers now.

Another day of walking, another night of hiding, and the creatures passed beneath them again, a smaller group this time, perhaps only a score. Some time after the hungry hunters had passed, a solitary figure was seen beneath the hobbits’ hiding place. Still awake from the earlier fearful wait for the gobble-uns to pass, little Pickthorn tugged at his father’s sleeve. ‘Grey one,’ he whispered.

‘The gobble-uns will circle back this way and catch him up!’ Beech hissed. He didn’t know any more about this grey one after seeing him pass beneath them, but the being had killed gobble-uns, so presumably he was not friendly with the monsters.

‘All right, pass the word: hunters be ready to follow,’ Thorn said, and soon the word was passed from family to family, branch to branch, tree to tree. Sure enough, the body of gobble-uns passed beneath them again, sounding somehow eager; they’d picked up the new scent and were on the trail. After they passed, ropes fell from the high branches and small hunters descended, weapons slung at their backs, to follow the body of marching monsters.

Shouting broke out ahead and light slashing through the trees dazzled their eyes. They moved forward to take cover behind great boles, and as they peeped out, they saw the grey one, seemingly grown to towering height, arms outspread, eyes blazing under bushy brows, staff alight with uncanny fire. Some of the gobble-uns had fallen back in fear, but a few bolder creatures pressed forward and others circled round to approach from the rear, away from the eyes, threatening to overwhelm the figure, commanding as it was.

Thorn gestured and hobbit hunters spread out. When Thorn loosed his first arrow the others were ready, and suddenly the air was filled with flying shafts. The gobble-uns were cut down quickly and efficiently, pierced with many arrows. The grey one stood a moment in surprise, arms still spread, but then the fiery staff dimmed to an ordinary stick once more even as the being seemed to shrink into himself, once again a bent old man.

‘Is he one of those alfs that Pick saw?’ Beech whispered, “alf” being the closest approximation in their speech to “Elf”.

‘If he is, he’s a grand-un,’ Thorn whispered back. ‘I’ve never seen the like of that fire he’s got.’

The grey one seemed able to hear the whispers; he peered intently into the thicket where Thorn and Beech crouched.

‘Come out,’ he said, gesturing invitingly. ‘Let me at least thank you for your aid.’

‘No thanks are needed, Grand-alf,’ Thorn said, emerging cautiously from his hiding place. He stopped well out of arms-reach.

The grey one raised a bushy eyebrow at this novel address, but nodded gravely. ‘I will thank you all the same,’ he said. ‘You are Pick’s father, are you not?’

Thorn froze in surprise. ‘How did you know?’ he asked slowly.

‘I watched you gather him from where I’d left him for you to find,’ the grey one said.

‘Then it is we-uns who owe the thanks to you, Grand-alf,’ Thorn said with a bow, which the grey one returned gravely.

‘How did you come to be here?’ the grey one said. He seated himself on the ground as if there were nothing more natural in the world than to chat with a group of Little Folk emerging from cover, their arrows trained upon him, while two dozen dead goblins lay where they’d been cut down.

‘We were driven from our home by the likes of these,’ Thorn replied, the sweep of his arm taking in the dead goblins. ‘We seek a safer place to live. We are...’ he savoured the unfamiliar word as if it were a new flavour that he was not quite sure was to his liking yet, ‘travelling to find a new place to make our home.’

‘North,’ the grey one said, a simple fact, seeing as their community lay well to the South.

‘North,’ Thorn agreed, while several hunters made protesting noises. Was it safe to tell this stranger their business?

‘Why North?’ asked the grey one, honestly curious.

Thorn shrugged. ‘It’s as good as any,’ he said. ‘The bad things come from the South.’

‘Do you know what lies to the North?’ the grey one asked. He’d had the impression from Pick that none of these had ever ventured more than a day’s journey from home.

‘No, nor any other direction, either,’ Thorn said, seating himself on the ground and gesturing to the others to do the same. Beech shook his head, waved several of the hunters to follow him, and melted into the woods. ‘They will keep watch,’ Thorn added. ‘What can you tell us about the land?’ he asked. Surely if this one knew words like “travelling” and “a-journey” he ought to be able to tell them something about other places.

Grand-alf picked up a stick and smoothed the dirt in front of him. He began to talk and sketch, not seeming to notice the Little Folk creeping forward in fascination as a rough map took shape on the ground. It was not long before he could have reached out and touched any one of them, though he had the good sense not to. Though his eyes remained on the map, he was studying them as carefully as he might, taking in every detail. They were a proud people, he thought, for all their small stature, self-reliant, intelligent, curious. Their movements were graceful, their senses sharp; they seemed to be taking in sight, sound, smell of their surroundings even as they remained focused on this unusual geography lesson.

‘Of course there are better maps at Imladris,’ the grey one concluded, putting the stick down and sitting back. The Little Folk seemed to have accepted him; they neither stiffened nor shrunk away from him, now that he was giving them his full attention. Of course, the hidden hunters might well have bows trained on him at this moment, if they were not just watching for the advent of more goblins. He wouldn’t put it past them.

‘Of course,’ Thorn said, drinking in the map, imprinting it upon his memory. He wondered what Imladris was.