Chapter 11. Thorn: Out of the Fold

By the time the Big Folk reached the farm, Bucca’s family were ready to go. The hobbit mums had stuffed themselves and their little ones inside all the clothes they owned, topping all off with wrappings of mufflers until the small hobbits resembled woollen bundles with feet sticking out.

Bucca had loaded all but one of the plough ponies with sacks of provisions and was saddling the last.

 ‘Walking never hurt a body,’ Primrose was protesting.

 ‘Just about ready,’ he said, paying her no mind.

Lavender put in, ‘Of course not, my dear, but the snow is deep in places, and there’s enough ice about that you might take a nasty fall, and that would do the babe no good. Tokka would insist upon your riding, and Comfrey, holding the littlest in your arms!’

 ‘And you, Mum?’ Primrose challenged as Bucca boosted her onto the patient pony’s back.

The old hobbit mum smiled. ‘Walking’s good for me,’ she said mildly. ‘Thorn is always trying to get me out of my chair and onto my feet. I suspect all this has been arranged for my benefit.’

 ‘Just to get you walking!’ Comfrey gasped, and then she threw her arms about her mother-in-love for a fierce hug, though she was careful of the infant bound to her by a length of sturdy fabric.

 ‘Up you go,’ Bucca said as he took his wife’s elbow, working at keeping a calm and matter-of-fact tone. She transferred the embrace to him, and he returned it as fiercely, while he asked Whomever might be listening (The Lady?) to watch over those he loved. When he released her, he gently parted the fabric that wrapped his son, to lay a benediction upon the tiny brow. ‘Grace go with you,’ he said, looking up from his son’s peaceful countenance to meet Comfrey’s stricken expression.

 ‘But you’ll walk with us, to The Yale,’ Comfrey whispered, her eyes wide.

 ‘At least a part of the way,’ Bucca said, ‘But there’ll be no time for fare-thee-well when we reach there; we’ll shout our warnings and seek the safety of the trees.’ Unless disaster comes upon us sooner, he thought bleakly. He wondered just how long the Guardsmen would be able to hold the Bridge. Thank all that was good that the River was not frozen all the way across!

He boosted her up behind Primrose, his hands lingering a moment in the folds of her woollen wrap, as if he could memorise the warmth of her. 

 Thorn! his mother cried, and Bucca released Comfrey and stepped back, forcing a smile. Lavender waved vigorously at the approaching travellers, and then handed Bucca a tiny hobbit, which he handed up to Primrose.

They were able to settle two little ones in Primrose’s arms, and another between Prim and Comfrey. The pony turned his head to look back in mild astonishment at these proceedings, and Bucca gave him a pat and an apple from his pocket. ‘Carry them to safety,’ he whispered, and the furry ear twitched.

The Big Folk were pale despite the exercise of tramping through the snow, Bucca saw as they approached, and his father’s habitual smile was missing.

 ‘Do you wish to rest a little? Warm up in the smial?’ Bucca said. ‘We put some cider over the fire to warm before we started packing up.’

 ‘We’ll take the cider with us,’ Thorn said. ‘If you’ll pour it out quickly. And then douse the fire, for all the good it does. Likely they’ll burn it all anyhow, whether we leave them the gift of fire or not.’

Bucca stared at his father’s bitter tone, but Thorn only shook his head. Taking his son’s arm, he turned toward the smial. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘We must make haste.’

The two plainly dressed women ducked into the smial after the hobbits, plucking mugs from their hooks and piling them onto a tray, while the aide took the kettle from its hook and bore it, steaming, out to the yard. It was a matter of moments to scoop the mugs full of the hot, spicy beverage.

Lavender turned back to the smial for a last look, and Thorn eased an arm around her waist.

 ‘It was a good home,’ she said. ‘Many’s the joy we knew therein over the years.’

 ‘Home is where your treasure is,’ Thorn replied with a squeeze.

His wife smiled, blinked away her tears, and accepted with murmured thanks the brimming mug of hot cider held out to her by one of the serving women.

Thorn raised his mug high, saying in a clear voice, ‘I bid you Wes hael, my lord, and all your kin with you, and swear that when this evil is past we shall drink it again in your halls, or mine.’

Wes hael! The Big Folk echoed, and all drank as they turned from the smial and began to move towards the dark woods. A sifting of snow began to fall, and Bucca heard his father mutter a plea under his breath, to the Lady if she still watched over them, for the snow to lay a heavy blanket upon the land.

The going was not so difficult here, for they walked the lane to the road. No need to flounder in the drifts. Whichever way they chose, they’d leave a clear trail, unless the snow came fast and heavy; and soon would be a good thing, it seemed from the urgency of the Big Folk and the Thorn.

 ‘What is it? What happened?’ he whispered, pulling Thorn a little to the side.

 ‘As we were leaving a great cry arose behind,’ Thorn said very low. ‘We saw nothing, of course, for we’d passed out of sight of the Bridge, but there were terrible shrieks and screams. I fear the forces of Angmar arrived and have slaughtered all who had not yet crossed to safety. We hurried, and the sounds died slowly as we put the Bridge behind. At the last we heard, faintly, the cries of Men and the clashing of arms. I do not know how long the King’s Men can hold the Bridge.’

And so they walked, at the best pace the hobbits could manage, on the road into the rapidly emptying community of Stock. When they reached Stock, they found the main street jammed with laden hobbits and laden beasts, and pandemonium reigned: mothers shouted to their young ones, fathers called orders; many holding bows seemed to be taking leave of their families.

A way opened through the crowd when the good folk of Stock caught sight of the Big Folk. Hobbits shied away from the travellers, pushing back against the press. A small group of hobbits moved against the tide, reaching Thorn and the Outsiders at last. Bucca recognised the chieftain of the Marish Harfoots at their head.

 ‘Greetings, Thorn! Terrible news!’ the Harfoot said. ‘We’re sending folk into the woods, to whatever safety is to be found there, and I’m putting archers on the rooftops to rain arrows down upon any unwelcome visitors.’

 ‘They’re not likely to come away with their lives,’ Thorn warned, and the Harfoot nodded grimly.

 ‘So much I gathered,’ he said. ‘A messenger arrived, exhausted and out of breath, to report that women and babes were being slaughtered on the far side of the River. I don’t imagine any greater mercy for our folk.’

 ‘Douse all fires,’ Thorn said. ‘Likely they’ll burn all, but let’s not do them any favours.’

 ‘Already given the order,’ the Harfoot said, ‘and sent word on to Yale, and By-the-Water.’ Greatly daring, he looked to Berenarth on the pony. ‘My liege?’ he said, and bowed hastily.

 ‘Son of the King,’ Thorn corrected. ‘Lord Berenarth, if I might present Hamwise o’ Stock, chief of the Harfoots here in the Marish.’

 ‘Master Hamwise,’ Berenarth said wearily.

 ‘At your service,’ Hamwise answered with another bow. ‘Perhaps another time we might lift a pint together, but for the moment I think you ought to be on your way, m’lord.’ He turned away, calling orders, and pushed his way into the crowd.

 ‘This way!’ Bucca called, pulling at the plough pony bearing his greatest treasure.

They moved through the crowd onto the road to The Yale. The crowd thinned rapidly as they made their way out of Stock. Not many hobbits were taking to the road, guessing rightly that pursuit along that route would be swift and deadly. They’d seek the shelter of the trees, travelling as deep into the woods as they could before going to ground, or climbing high into the trees, secreting themselves in forks, and nests of squirrels and dens of foxes and badgers, and any hollow or hiding place they might find.

As they walked, Thorn told his son of the tree where he’d leave word. A great tree it was; two, rather, twins growing from the same great stump, twining together until they separated in their quest to reach the heavens above. ‘Follow the stream that runs through The Yale,’ he said, ‘about a quarter of a mile, and you’ll see the tree.’

 ‘I’ll find it,’ Bucca said. ‘I’ll find you.’

 ‘I have every confidence,’ Thorn said. ‘But I think we’ll leave the road here, and not travel all the way to Yale.’

Bucca followed his gaze, back through the dimming woods towards Stock. The Sun had sought her bed in the West as the heavy clouds began to shed their burden of snow. Flakes had been falling thickly as they paced along the road, but the storm had let up for the moment.

At first it seemed as if the Sun were rising again, to paint the eastern sky with brightness, but then Bucca realised that what he saw was the burning of Stock.

 ‘They’ll be coming,’ he said.

 ‘We’ll leave the road here,’ Thorn said. ‘Hamwise sent a messenger to The Yale, and so they don’t need our warning, even were it not too late. I don’t want to be caught out in the open.’ He stopped, threw his arms around his son. ‘Grace go with you,’ he said.

 ‘And with you,’ Bucca choked. When Thorn released him, he stumbled to the pony bearing the son of the King and took a rein in his hand. Looking up, he said, ‘We leave the road here.’

 Berenarth lifted his drooping head. ‘Lead on,’ he whispered, and then his eyes closed once more and he slumped against the aide who walked beside him.

Bucca craned for a last sight of Comfrey, disappearing into the woods directly south, and then he was alone with only Big Folk for companions. He felt small and inadequate for the task, but he squared his shoulders and raised his head, projecting a confidence he did not feel.

 ‘This way,’ he said boldly. They followed.