Chapter 37. Thorn: Nasty, Disturbing, Uncomfortable Things

Bucca didn't know how long he'd wept there, but it was long enough to weep himself out, tears he'd kept hidden away for weeks, months, it had been, tears of loss, and fear of further loss. Memories arose unwanted: Mothers and babes slain at the Bridge of Stonebows by the relentless enemy, soldiers fighting to the death to win whatever time they could for the retreat, for the survival of their loved ones. He thought of the burning and slaughter attested by the ruins they'd passed, not only of the great forest that had covered so much of the Shire's rolling hills, but the occasional crumbling foundation, or pile of stones that had once been a chimney, silent testimony to the hobbits who'd made their homes in the woods. Freshest in his thought was the ruin that was Yale, and the ruin he'd not yet seen, that was Stock – for he remembered the flames that had painted the sky behind them, as they fled to seek uncertain safety...

In the exhaustion that followed, he might have slept, or perhaps he swooned. In any event, he came to himself once more, slumped, his back against a solid surface, the trunk of a mighty tree, and there was a hand on his shoulder, a childish voice calling.

'Da? Da? Is it you? Have you come back to us at last?'

Bucca blinked and raised his head, and the young hobbit kneeling before him engulfed him in a hug. 'Da!'

Bucca's hands rose of themselves to circle the lad in a hug. 'Tuck?' he essayed, voice catching in his throat. For surely, he had not slept the years away, as in the old folktale, enough time for his infant son to grow to a youth. Surely not.

'O, Da,' the lad said, and now he was the one weeping, his head against Bucca's chest.

Bucca sighed, even as he patted the heaving back, his hopes of Tokka's return once more dashed.

'I'm sorry, lad,' he began, but his nephew sobbed out broken reassurances.

'No, Da, but it's just so good to have you come home again! ...I mean, come back. It's not home, but we've made a home...'

Bucca cleared his throat. He could not let this go on; he could not let his nephew rejoice in his father's return. The longer he allowed the joy, he deemed, the worse the pain in the end. 'No, Tuck,' he said more strongly.

'It'll be home, now that you're here,' the lad insisted, looking up, but Bucca was shaking his head.

'It's “Uncle”, lad,' he said, and looking into the trusting face that gazed so earnestly into his, he swallowed down bitterness. 'It's “Uncle Bucca”, come back.'

Tuck blinked in bewilderment, opened his mouth to protest, and Bucca added, his voice breaking, 'I'm sorry.'

In the next breath he pulled Tuck to his breast once more, holding the lad while they both wept, though Bucca's sobs were dry – he had no more tears to weep.

***

Galdor stood just within the shelter of the trees, listening to the quiet sounds behind him, Men and Elves caring for their beasts, the jingle of a bridle chain or buckle striking another piece of harness, the soft snort of a packhorse relieved of its burden, the almost imperceptible sounds of scouts, climbing to perch in the trees about the encampment, bows at the ready though there was no sign of an enemy presence in the moment.

He drew a deep breath, scenting mainly the freshness of the woods around him, the grasses and flowers growing up in the clearing that had been the community of Yale. There was a hint of sweat and leather, and of the canvas of the tents, the cloth of the bedding. There would be no smoke, no note of fire. They'd eat cold food tonight, travel rations, for the sake of caution, in the event the enemy sent patrols through the area. There was no note of smoke in the air from anyone who might already be here.

The birds and small creatures of the wood, having quieted on their arrival, were now growing used to the company, and Galdor was aware of the resumption of birdsong, and small scurryings nearby. If not for the blackened ruins before him, he'd have thought it just another peaceful summer's day.

He was no wood elf – his ears were more attuned to wind, wave, and cries of seabirds – but he had that affinity with living, growing things, and so he laid his palms on the bole of the nearest tree, bowed his head, and listened with all his being.

Trees, it might be said, are “nowish” creatures, alive in the present moment, with long memories (as long as the march of rings at their core), and yet all times are “now” to them, with the memories they store in the rings. If you cut living wood (a terrible thought), it bleeds. In the cross-section, you'll see all the years, all the memories, as fresh as when they were laid down – broad rings to show abundant sunlight and rain, narrow rings in times of want, perhaps a fire-blackened area where some of the outer bark burned – not all, with enough left for the tree to survive, grow, and eventually cover the damage with new growth. All years are present, in the cross-section. In a manner of speaking, all years are the present.

A tree cannot imagine, and has little thought of the future, being busy with being, as it were, but it marks much of its surroundings as it soaks in air and sunshine and drinks deeply of the rain and ground water. And so, Galdor was able to feel all the years of this particular tree's being. He closed his eyes to sort out the impressions, as if he viewed a tapestry of time, following a glistening thread here, a hint of colour there... A wood elf might have read what he wished quickly and easily, sorting through the myriad threads, but Galdor was less practiced. He could listen to the sea wind, or hear from the waves breaking on the shore, what might be passing miles out to sea, but this treeish business was something he seldom had time to explore.

His nostrils flared as he detected a trace of smoke, but there was no smoke on the air, not in the present time. The tree was remembering – he perceived the fragrant smoke of cooking fires, laden with good smells, and the metallic smoke of a forge, turning out shoes for ponies, perhaps, or ironmongery of some sort or other, hinges for doors, shovels, nails perhaps. His lips tightened at the memory of the smoke of destruction: the burning of buildings, he thought, and living – or newly dead – creatures within, of wool, and metal, polished leather, crockery and varnished wood and other household items. Yes, he thought, this tree witnessed a great destruction. But when, he questioned silently. Were there cooking fires after?

He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating fiercely. The aide who'd thought to bring him a plate of food, cold travel rations in truth, but not just waybread – cold meat, cheese, and dried fruit, a loaf of bread baked days earlier but remaining marvellously fresh with the skill of the Elves, and a draught of wine – turned aside and crept away, as silently as might be, in order that he might not disturb his lord's efforts.