Chapter 35. Thorn: Right Place, Right Time, and All Wrong

Half a mile, he'd told Galdor, though upon reflection he thought perhaps his father had said a quarter. It was months ago, and his thoughts had been in turmoil, as much turmoil as the Shirefolk scurrying to escape the swords and torches of the invaders.

He remembered the rest clearly enough. 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. There the Watcher would be, waiting to take Bucca to the place where his family had found shelter, refuge from the storm breaking over the Shire.

He walked along the verge until he reached the stream that ran from the Wood through the ruined Yale. He stared at a blackened timber, thrusting up from the tall green that had grown to blanket the remains, as if to hide away the traces of habitation.

The Yale will be rebuilt, he said to himself, clenching his hands into fists. As we will bring back the farms, and the smials, the mills and the rest of the Shire. He nodded to himself. Just as soon as we take care of the rubbish...

He wasn't sure how many archers he'd be able to persuade to accompany him, or even if Comfrey would let him go. But they had to face Angmar, not just face but drive out of the land, if they were to be anything other than forest-dwellers hiding in the shadows. He smiled grimly. With a little help, of course. Gondor had come at last, and Riders with them, and the remaining army of the Northern kingdom would lead them and the Elves of Lindon sent by Cirdan against the Witch King and his forces.

Yes, together the Free Folk would cleanse the North lands of the terrible blight that had fallen with the winter snows.

And there was the matter of finding Tokka. Bucca still cherished some hope within, that his twin and the hobbits with him had found safety. He turned back, to see his larger companions still peering at the spot where he'd ducked into cover. Just so, when the battle was clearly lost, might his brother, younger cousin, and the hobbits with them have hidden themselves from the enemy and worked their way away from the battlefield.

Why, they might be here in the Wood, even now, having made their way to the Marish and then, finding their homes laid waste, to the shelter of the trees!

Spirits rising, he turned his back on what remained of the Yale and made his way along the bank of the stream, into the Wood wherein his hopes and dreams were hid.

A quarter mile, or half a mile, in any event, he'd know the tree when he saw it. Twins, he thought, and feeling a little giddy he smiled. At the sign of the Twins, just the proper sort of place to meet Tokka once more!

Perhaps his father had assigned Tokka the duty of watching at the tree for his return.

Things were looking better all the time. Bucca's spirits rose with the sun. He'd reach the Twins well before noontide, and would have plenty of time to gather news, at least, from the Watcher, set in motion the mustering of hobbit archers, and return to his escort of Elves and Men before dusk. Dusk seemed forever away as the Wood brightened around him, sunshine filtering through gently whispering leaves much as if no invaders had sullied the Shire, and all was as it had been, and should be, and—if Bucca had anything to say about it—would be once more.

He felt none of the sense of menace or dread that he thought he should feel, if Outsiders lurked. The Wood was as peaceful as it had been during the walking parties Bucca remembered, visiting relations in The Yale with his family. The trees and undergrowth grew healthy, thick and lush. Bucca had to stay very near the bank, even splash upstream in the shallows to find clear walking space. The birdsong from the canopy sounded sleepy and peaceful; no alarm calls sullied the fragrant air.

Bucca's steps moved him along in silence, but he looked all about himself, noting the occasional bird winging from tree to tree, hearing the chatter of a squirrel to herald his passing, seeing the light, filtered through green leaves, playing on the forest floor. He breathed deeply, taking in the scents around him, finding rest and comfort in his surroundings. The Fallohides, in ancient legend, had taken refuge in a Forest—not this one, but one afar off, beyond some mountains higher and wilder than the high, wild Hills he'd passed through, twice now since the turning of the year... there and back again, if he were to make it into a story.

...if there were hobbits to tell, whispered a tiny doubt in the far corner of his imagining. He cleared his throat, softly, of course—he was trying to go quietly, after all.

And then, suddenly, the Twins stood before him, a great tree, as his father had described it, or rather, two great trunks rising separately from a massive base, twining together and then separating again.

He stopped, staring upward.

'Hulloo,' he said tentatively, and then a little louder, 'Hoi!'

The wind whispered in the leaves above. He held his breath, waiting, listening.

'Hoi!' he called.

Suddenly he was struck with a terrible realisation. The invaders had caught the fleeing hobbits, caught them and slaughtered them, staining the snow red with their blood. Blood... excellent fertiliser, the voice in the back of his mind gibbered, as he turned in a circle to regard, with horror now, the luxuriant growth around him.

'Hoi,' he whispered, backing slowly until he felt the solidity of one of the Twins against his back. He slid down, numb with grief, empty, hollow, echoing, madness gnawing at the edge of thought, all his earlier cheer gone—that had been the true madness, he thought, measured against the memory of the fierce and pitiless actions of the invaders, burning Stock and The Yale in the midst of winter to deny the hobbits any shelter against the bitter snow and wind; slaughtering mothers and babes at the Bridge of Stone Bows; overrunning the defenders of the retreating army and causing the Lune to run red under the rays of the rising sun.

Wife, son, father, mother, everyone and everything gone. Perhaps he was all that was left of the Marish, of the Shire.

'Tokka,' he whispered, scarcely hearing his own voice in his ears. He sat in silence, and now the whisper of the leaves spoke of mourning, and not far away the squirrel's chatter sounded mocking now. And then he put his hands to his face, and bitterly he wept for all that had been lost.