16. Danger

Hazel stared in delighted curiosity at the four creatures, obviously very young, which crouched under the bush, staring at him with round, equally curious eyes. Two of them had soft, slightly wavy fur of brown mixed with black, while another was a brightly marked grey, black and white, and had pale blue eyes. The last was a deep chocolate, with a small crooked mark of chestnut on her chest, and one eye as blue as her brother’s. Their undersized ears would someday stand straight up, but for now, they were only partially upright, and the pointed ends flopped down, giving them a comical appearance.

Dogs were one of Hazel’s favorite animals, though he did not own one himself. His friend, Robin, had recently acquired a young pup, and together the two lads were going through the trying process of training her.

Now, Hazel was thrilled to have found the four puppies beneath the bush, and he immediately decided to bring them home. In his excitement, the thought did not even cross his mind that his parents would object. Who could refuse the sweet little faces of the young creatures? Certainly not his mother, and she had managed to coax his father into keeping Mathom and Tibs—surely she would adore the puppies.

“Come 'ere, little'uns,” he said softly. “I won’t hurt you. Come 'ere!”

He held out one hand enticingly, and the vividly marked blue-eyed one boldly stepped forward. Then he grew more timid, and tentatively reached out his nose and sniffed the offered hand. With a shrill bark of surprise, he jumped back, and his siblings whimpered in question.

“No, no.” Hazel laughed quietly. “I won’t 'urt you. I’m just a hobbit—I’m safe. Come on out.”

The blue-eyed one stared at him for a long moment, eyes unblinking, and then took a step forward again. The other puppies yipped in alarm as though calling him back, but the daring young creature ignored them and sniffed Hazel’s hand again. Cocking his head as if puzzled, the puppy, apparently needing further proof of the hobbit lad’s safety, then gave the hand a small nip.

Hazel gave a yelp of surprise and drew back his hand, causing the pup to hastily return to his siblings. The black one licked her brother’s head reassuringly, and then cocked her head at Hazel, blinking at him in an almost unnerving way with her queer round eyes.

“It’s alright, Raven,” he said, addressing her. His quick boyish mind had already supplied names for all four of the puppies. “I didn’t hurt Stormy. But he sure hurt me,” he added ruefully, looking at the small punctures on the side of his palm. He grinned and turned his eyes to the timid brown pups. “Tut, tut, Chestnut,” he chided the little male. “You should be tryin’ to protect Ginger-lass; look at ’er! She’s shakin’ like a leaf, poor thing.”

“Hazel!”

The new voice startled both the pups and the hobbit lad, and Hazel looked up quickly. It was still not quite sunset, but he could not see the owner of the voice, though he knew who it was.

“Hazel! Where are you?”

Hazel scrambled to his feet. “I’m over here, Uncle Frodo!” he shouted back. “Over here!”

There was a pause. Then: “All right, keep talking to me—I can’t see you, so I’ll have to follow your voice.” Hazel could hear the rustle of leaves from up ahead.

“I’m over by that blackberry bush we passed by the side of the path,” Hazel told his ‘uncle’. “I found some puppies! They’re under the bush—I tried to get 'em out, but they’re too scared.”

There was a muttered “Ouch!” and another rustle, and the next moment, Frodo emerged from the bushes along the path, sucking on a deep prick in his hand caused by thorns. Seeing Hazel, the injury was forgotten and he quickly dropped down on his knees to the boy’s height.

“Have you been here all this time?” Frodo asked, embracing Hazel with relief. “I couldn’t find you!”

Hazel’s eyes dropped as he realized what a fright he’d caused. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” he said sincerely, preparing himself for a reprimand. “I saw those puppies an' stopped to look at them, and kind of… forgot to follow you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cross…” He trailed off miserably.

As Frodo pulled away a little and moved his hands up to Hazel’s shoulders, the boy looked down guiltily, afraid of the disappointment he was sure he would see in Frodo’s eyes.

“I’m not cross with you, Hazel.” The voice was gentle, and with surprise, Hazel looked up. Frodo’s face was serious, but his blue eyes danced with hidden laughter. “Although you did give me quite a fright, when I couldn’t find you. But I’m not cross, just relieved.” His lips quirked as he still attempted to suppress a smile. It only worked a moment, before he surrendered and laughed. “You are certainly a Gamgee. Do you know, Hazel, you sounded flawlessly like Sam just now! When he was about your age, he accidentally broke one of Bilbo’s vases. I truly thought he was going to be ill—he was whiter than a sheet.” He laughed again, and Hazel’s face hesitantly broke into a grin. “But then Bilbo assured him that it was actually a present of my Aunt Dora’s, and he only kept it to please her; he’d been trying to figure out a way to get rid of the horrid thing for years!”

Hazel laughed, both with the humor of the story, and with sheer relief. “Uncle Sam never told me about that,” he said impishly. “Can you tell me more about him when he was little?”

Frodo smiled rather wickedly and patted the boy’s shoulder. “Of course, Hazel—but only a few stories, mind you. I do feel a bit sorry for poor Sam. Perhaps on the ride home?”

Hazel nodded eagerly; and then suddenly he remembered the puppies. “Come on, Uncle Frodo!” he cried excitedly. “Let me show you the puppies I found before we go.” He grabbed one of Frodo’s hands and began to lead him to the bush. Frodo chuckled a little at the boy’s enthusiasm, and gamely allowed himself to be pulled along.

The two hobbits knelt down in front of the bush and looked beneath it—but to Hazel’s extreme disappointment, the puppies were not there. “Perhaps next time I come up here for a visit, you can show me them,” offered Frodo.

Hazel looked up. “When will you be back?” he asked quickly. “Please say soon, Uncle Frodo! Please!”

Frodo laughed and got to his feet. “I’ll come as soon as your parents will let me,” he promised, brushing the dried leaves off his breeches. “I don’t know that they want such a bad influence around their son too often.”

Hazel giggled, knowing full well that his ‘uncle’ was teasing him. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll let you back,” he said, “but you may want to bring Uncle Sam to convince 'em.”

Laughing, the two began heading back toward the pond, and Frodo told Hazel about Faramond. The boy was practically bouncing with excitement at the thought of meeting a real Big Person, and even Frodo’s warning that Faramond might not still be there did not dampen his anticipation.

Suddenly a blood-chilling howl pierced the comfortable silence that had fallen between the two, and they stopped abruptly. Hazel looked up, brown eyes wide with fear, as he heard a sharp intake of breath from Frodo. His uncle had gone white, and Hazel saw him swallow hard.

Another howl raised the hair on the back of his neck, and suddenly the impulse to run was strong. As though guessing this, Frodo, without taking his eyes from the surrounding woods, reached out and grabbed Hazel’s hand, pressing it reassuringly. “Don’t run,” he said softly; “wolves will chase anything that moves.”

A third howl echoed through the forest, and this time it was answered by a series of short, shrill yips. Hazel’s mouth went dry. He looked up at Frodo. “Wolf puppies?” he whispered hesitantly. “Wolves in the Shire?”

Frodo glanced down at him. “A few sometimes visit the Northfarthing, coming down from the Ered Luin Mountains on the other side of the Gulf of Lhûn. Usually only a solitary one or a pair—there are no full packs, that I've heard of.”

Hazel shuddered; he’d heard stories of the fearsome Wargs of the north, and their invasion of the Shire long, long ago. Frodo tugged on his hand. “Come,” he said quietly. “Walk—and slowly. It’s not dark yet, and they don’t usually begin hunting ’til nightfall. There’s a good chance they’ll leave us alone.”

Hazel gulped and nodded, and slowly, moving quietly as only hobbits can, they began to walk up the path. Another howl, accompanied by more high-pitched barks, sounded behind them—closer this time. Hazel could not resist, and looked back. Was it his imagination, or were those shadows running behind that pine tree?

With another shiver, he turned back quickly, and felt a tremor go through the hand that held his. He looked up at Frodo. The older hobbit shut his eyes briefly and then looked around. They could now hear the sound of softly running feet behind them, and the howls grew louder.

Looking up at the path ahead, and then back to the woods on the side of the path, Frodo abruptly tightened his grip on Hazel’s hand and pulled him into the bushes on the right side. “We won’t be able to make it back to camp with them here,” he told the bewildered and frightened boy. “You’ll have to climb a tree and wait there while I try to lead them away. Hopefully, I’ll make it back to the cart, and maybe Faramond is still there. He’ll be able to help.”

Dazed, Hazel nodded, but when they reached a sturdy old oak tree with a thick branch low enough for Frodo to lift Hazel up, the boy suddenly realized what he’d just agreed to. “No, Uncle Frodo!” he cried just as Frodo was about to pick him up. “You have to climb up with me—I can’t leave you down there for the wolves to get you.”

Frodo managed a small smile. “If I were to get up in the tree with you, the wolves would simply sit at the base of it and wait—all night, if they had to—for one of us to fall out. And then we’d have no chance of getting away. No. This is the only possible hope for us to get away from them. Now, up you get, and promise me that you’ll stay here. Promise?”

Obedience was a natural part of Hazel’s character, and he sadly allowed himself to be lifted up, and grabbing onto the branch, he swung himself onto it. Frodo pulled off the knapsack from his shoulders and handed it up to Hazel, who slung it over his own. With Frodo’s urging, he climbed up several more branches until he was high enough to be safe from the wolves. Then he looked down.

“I do promise, Uncle Frodo, but please,” he pleaded one last time, “come up 'ere with me! We can call for help—maybe that Faramond fellow will hear us. Please!”

Frodo looked up at him with sorrow in his eyes, but he smiled reassuringly. Before he could reply, there was a piercing howl, accompanied by excited barking.

“Stay there, Hazel!” Frodo called as he turned to run. “Wait there ’til I come back!”

Hazel watched with tears welling up in his eyes as Frodo disappeared through the bushes and back onto the path. The next moment, a large grey shape, with rough, thick fur and bright yellow eyes appeared, heading in the same direction. After it trailed four puppies: two brown, one black, and the other a wild grey streaked one.

Hazel curled up tighter against the tree as the mother stopped at the base and sniffed. Looking up with a growl, she turned and gave a short bark to her puppies, and obediently they lay down beneath a bush as she bounded away after Frodo.

With a sigh, Hazel leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, feeling the puppies’ curious gaze on him. “Be safe, uncle Frodo,” he whispered.

Frodo ducked under a low-hanging tree branch, which caused him to stumble slightly. Regaining his balance, he increased his speed as a howl not far behind him sent a shudder up his spine. He forced himself not to look back, and turned abruptly off the path again and into the thick tangle of thorn-bushes that he had encountered earlier. Without hesitation, he threw himself forward into the middle of them, and ignoring the scatches he received, he scrambled out and turned around a bush and back onto the path, hoping that his twist had momentarily slowed the wolf.

There was a moment of respite, it seemed; for Frodo could hear the heavy paws behind him pause. But then there was a loud growl, and the wolf quickly—far too quickly—reappeared behind him on the path.

For the first time since the chase began, Frodo could see his pursuer clearly; she was large: nearly, if not fully his own height, with rough, shaggy grey fur and quick yellow eyes that seemed to shine in the darkening shadows. Her great, long mouth was open as she panted slightly, revealing sharp white teeth.

The wolf lowered her head into the leaves as though searching for the scent, and then looking up, her eyes flashed in the dim light, and another growl issued from her throat as she leapt forward to continue her chase.

Frodo had not paused for more than a second when the wolf had become visible, but though he had been a fair way ahead of her, it seemed as though she was taking whole yards in one bound, and it would not be long before she caught up to him.

Again Frodo swerved off the path. Forcing himself to struggle through more thorn bushes, he went further away from the path before circling back. This trick seemed to delay the wolf a bit more than the last time, and he was given the opportunity to make up for some of the ground she covered so quickly.

But again she was swift behind him, and Frodo looked up, praying that the end of the trees was not too far away. To his dismay, it was still many yards in front of him—it seemed as though the path had lengthened.

‘If I can make it to that birch tree,’ Frodo told himself, jumping over a log and striving to increase his pace, ‘then perhaps Faramond will hear me if I call for help.’ Having set a goal, which was the birch tree, about ten yards from the open, he forced his tiring legs to go still faster.

The wolf was still close behind; he could feel her hot breath at his back. She seemed tireless, as though she could go on the entire night at that pace. But as Frodo again dodged off the path and then back onto it, he feared that he would not reach the birch tree before she caught up to him, for each time he slowed or stumbled, her pace seemed to increase.

All at once, the sound of the wolf’s swift, clawed paws behind him faded and then disappeared entirely, and he could no longer hear her panting breaths. He glanced back, and almost stopped entirely.

There was nothing on the path behind him.

Frodo, without stopping, listened intently, but even his sharp ears could hear nothing. He had read a good deal about wolves, and of course Bilbo had often told him of the fierce Wargs that had participated in the Battle of Five Armies on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, and knew that they were very cunning creatures. He guessed that this must be some trick to confuse their prey: to act as though giving up the chase, and then suddenly attacking unexpectedly.

With this thought in mind, Frodo turned his eyes forward again and did not slow or pause. The knowledge that the wolf was somewhere nearby, unseen and unheard, and that she could spring at any moment, made him tremble, but it also gave new strength to his weary legs.

The birch tree was nearer now. The feet seemed to pass by as slow as inches, and the shadows were growing darker. Soon it would be dusk, and in such a thick forest, it would be nearly impossible to see anything.

Frodo’s breaths quickened as he heard a slight rustle close beside him, but allowed himself only a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of grey. He forced his eyes back onto the birch tree, just a few yards away now. Looking past it, he saw that the end of the forest was not as far away as it had seemed, and he wondered whether or not he should try to make for it.

A loud snarl cut off his thought, and Frodo looked sideways to see a huge grey shape leap out of the undergrowth at his left. There was not even time enough for him to cry out as the next second, the wolf’s weight slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He felt claws slice across his cheek as he landed on his back, and looked up with a gasp as the wolf planted her enormous paws on both his shoulders, pinning him.

The wolf’s long mouth was open, revealing her sharp teeth each probably longer than the length of Frodo’s hand. Her narrow yellow eyes glowed eerily in the gathering dark, and a wild growl rumbled menacingly in her throat.

As she planted herself more firmly on her quarry, nearly crushing him beneath her, Frodo searched desperately for something to defend himself with. All he could find was a long, sharp stick, and despite the heavy paws still pinning his shoulders painfully to the ground, he managed to bring the weapon up in to block her jaws as they came down. The teeth, instead of reaching his throat or face, seized the stick. It was a fairly thick one, but the wolf effortlessly snapped it in two with one bite.

But the branch was not entirely without its service: as she bit it, the brittle wood split and a long splinter was driven up into the roof of her mouth. With a yelp, the wolf cringed at the sudden, sharp pain. Her attempts to remove the splinter by shaking her head and pawing at her mouth provided enough distraction for Frodo to struggle out from under her.

Frodo had hardly scrambled to his feet when the wolf managed to dislodge the splinter, and he quickly turned to face her as she stared at him, eyes narrowed, panting heavily. Frodo could see blood dripping from the roof of her mouth onto her tongue.

There was nothing else strong enough to defend himself with, and Frodo glanced behind him to see that the birch tree was no more than two yards away. He looked back at the wolf; she had not moved, but was watching him warily. If given even just a second’s hesitation on her part, he thought that he might be able to reach the tree and climb up.

As though sensing his thoughts, the wolf leapt forward, just as Frodo desperately decided to try for the birch tree. He could hear her panting behind him, could even feel the breath on the back of his legs. At any second, he expected to be pounced upon…yet to his astonishment, he stayed ahead of her by mere inches all the way to the tree.

Frodo had already clambered up onto the lowest branch of the tree, and was reaching for the next one when the wolf reached the base. Glancing down at her, he saw her readying herself for a spring, and quickly tried to get onto the higher branch.

As the wolf leapt up, and Frodo felt himself being dragged off the tree branch by his cloak, he looked ahead to see the glow of a fire from outside the wood spring up. The next second, he felt the wolf’s teeth untangle from his cloak, and as they instead seized his right calf and pulled him down, a scream of pain was torn from his throat.

“Faramond!”

TBC...

See, Esamen, there's the cliff-hanger to torment you! ;)