Chapter 41. Thorn: Missing and Presumed…

Primrose stopped so suddenly that Bucca ran into her, nearly knocking her down, but of a wonder she merely glared at him without scolding. In the next few moments he realised why she was sparing him the rough side of her tongue; with her lips set in a firm line, she “spoke” with her hands, first a finger to her lips to demand silence, and then pointing to various trees surrounding them, and then upward.

Following with his eyes, Bucca lifted his head to stare at the branches of one of the indicated trees, seeing only a squirrel leaping from one branch to another…

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Prim wave at nothing, and immediately following, he saw movement in the tree he scrutinized – and then he saw the Watcher, pressed against a thick branch, ferns and bark seeming to grow from the hobbit’s back as if the Watcher were a part of the tree itself. Indeed, as he looked, the Watcher stilled again, blending into the tree once more, becoming a part of the branch and nearly impossible to see, even when he knew where to look.

He could only assume that more Watchers were in the branches of the other indicated trees.

Prim plucked at his sleeve, and he followed her, now low to the ground, creeping along – in fear of discovery?

A ladder had been let down, made of rope and sticks – he might’ve sworn that it had not been there a moment ago. Prim grabbed the bottom of the ladder and nodded to Bucca to ascend as she held it steady. Having little head for heights, he was glad of her aid. He climbed, not knowing what to expect, to the fork between two great branches – and to his astonishment, his father was there at the top, waiting!

He nearly cried out, but remembered just in time Prim’s insistence on silence. Indeed, his father threw welcoming arms around him, holding him in a tight embrace, silent tears streaming down his weathered cheeks, but speaking no word, making no sound. Bucca clung to his father in turn, reveling in the embrace. His father was thinner, less substantial than he remembered, but not weaker. No, but the Thorn seemed to have been reduced to sinew and muscle, wiry but strong, as if he’d passed through many trials that had worn away all superfluous fat and flesh and left the essence of the hobbit.

At last, Thorn released his son with a final pat to the back, pointed to a relatively flat spot on one of the great branches, and indicated that Bucca should rest there a moment. Bucca obeyed, wondering. Thorn drew up the rope ladder then, winding it neatly, and secreted it in a hollow in the branch above them, that looked as if it had begun as a squirrels’ nest. He then placed a hand on Bucca’s arm, Stay! …and reached into the joining of the two great branches, lifting at what seemed to be a piece of bark – but was really a cleverly concealed handle, for a door built into the fork, and covered with bark to seem a natural part of the tree.

Bucca looked down a long, dark tunnel, a ladder fastened to one side, and then to his father, who nodded and gestured downward. He was to climb down into the heart of this great tree!

There was nothing for it but to comply. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to contemplate the drop, should he miss his hold, eased his feet into the space and felt for the ladder, drawing a shaking breath as his feet finally found their hold. He looked to his father, who was smiling a sympathetic smile, and nodding encouragement, and began the descent.

Down, down he went, into darkness, the circle of light that was the sky above him growing smaller as he went, and then the light was gone altogether as his father moved to the ladder, began the descent, and pulled the door closed over his head.

Down, down now in complete darkness, suspended in space that went on forever, only his breathing and the beating of his heart, and the regular ladder rungs to anchor him to reality. It seemed an eternity before he saw light again, and a moment later, the ladder ended and his feet were on a solid surface once more.

He was in another tunnel, this one reassuringly horizontal, running under ground level he thought, reinforced at intervals with wood. He thought of the work that must have been involved, to dig and brace this tunnel, and however many more tunnels and rooms might be found here. Lamps burned at intervals, though the nearest were some way down the way -- nothing flying overhead, when the hatch was open at the top of the entrance, would see any vestige of light.

He moved out of the way just in time as his father descended the last part of the ladder, and then Thorn was embracing him again, and speaking soft words of welcome. ‘My son! My son!’ he said. ‘Back from the dead! We feared the worst, though I never gave up hope, not completely. I left a watcher for you, and each day when the watch was changed, and no word of you, I died a little death…’ And the old hobbit was weeping again, and Bucca hastened to comfort him.

‘I’m here now, Dad,’ he said. ‘I’m here now.’

‘That you are,’ Thorn said, laughing through his tears. ‘And now, hidden away, we can safely talk… We’re extra careful, in this part of the Wood, lest we betray our hidden fastness to those who would hunt and kill us, for sport and for worse things…’

Hidden fastness, Bucca thought to himself. The numerous Watchers, the workmanship of the entrance -- the cleverly constructed entryway, the well-braced tunnel walls that would be cramped for a Man but of a good size for hobbits... He wondered just how large this refuge might be.

‘I can see there are more tales for the telling, besides mine,’ Bucca said.

Thorn nodded. ‘And now there’s report of a large body of Big People in the direction of The Yale,’ he said. ‘More danger, I deem – though I hope they haven’t come to burn the forest over our heads. The army that swept over our land, last winter, tried that, but the Lady snuffed the worst of the flames with her heavy snows. But this time of year, well, She’d have to send heavy rains – unseasonal rains, and yet, I have every faith in Her watch-care…’

Bucca thought privately that his father had more faith than he did, himself. And yet, he had to admit -- as they entered a large, underground great room, filled with the smells of food cooking, where many hobbits sat at rough-hewn tables, slurping up a thick and meaty stew -- the hobbits of the Marish and End of the Wood seemed to have survived the invading army, to have made the most of things here in the Wood.

Belatedly recalled to the conversation, he put a comforting hand on his father’s arm. ‘No,’ he said, hastily adding, ‘I mean no disrespect to the Lady, I’m not speaking of her watching over us, but of the Big People who are encamped – they are travelling with me, and escorted me in safety to my meeting here with you today.’

‘Escorted you!’ his father said in astonishment. ‘Escorted you! Quite as if you were King, or Prince, or his Esquire…!’

‘Not quite,’ Bucca said, ‘though it is by the order of the Prince that I am come here, and themselves with me.’

‘By order of the Prince,’ Thorn said. ‘Berenarth made it through with your guidance, then, or at least one of his brothers? Or,’ he added eagerly, ‘the King himself? And is Tokka with him?’

‘No, no,’ Bucca said, shaking his head, lifting a staying hand. ‘The King is dead.’

Thorn’s eager inquiries halted suddenly, and the old hobbit drew a deep breath, staring at his son. ‘I thought perhaps, that all sad things would come undone,’ he said quietly, ‘though of course, they couldn’t. I know that very well.’

And drawing another deep breath, he turned to the room and raised a hand. The quiet murmur that filled the space with a homely sound, stilled, and the diners turned toward them. ‘Here is my son Bucca, returned from long journey!’ Thorn said.

There was a muted cheer, and Bucca bowed in response, but when some arose and would have come to them, perhaps to ask questions and demand news, the Thorn waved them back to their seats.

Thorn slapped his son gently on the back and said, ‘I might’ve said returned from the dead -- there are many who tried to convince me that you were gone, and for ever, for you did not return, not for months…’

‘I’m sorry, Dad, I tried, but…’

‘No need to apologise,’ Thorn said. ‘It’s been difficult and dangerous times, and no way to know if you were caught by the invaders, or by those who’ve made their home here since, nasty creatures… but first, I deem, a meal before we discuss any further business…’

He threw his arms about Bucca once more, for another fervent hug, murmuring in his son’s ear, ‘But I’m so glad to have you back, safe back, after all that’s happened…’

‘More tales for the telling,’ Bucca said quietly, when his father had put him away once more, and the both of them had to wipe tears from their cheeks. He looked about the room, dimly lit by candles, recognising a few of the faces near him. ‘But what about Mum? And my son? And…’ Here he hesitated, for Prim’s reaction to his questions had given him pause. ‘My sweet Comfrey…?’

‘First, I would have you eat a full meal,’ Thorn said, seeming to sense his son's weariness. ‘Your loved ones are not here – our family eats at the earlier sitting, and they are off and busy about their work, or minding the sleeping little ones, who nap after the daymeal…’

Bucca drew a deep breath of his own. His father was evading him, he thought, but he must obey. Someone – his mother, his wife, his son – something was amiss with at least one of the loved ones he’d named. But he’d get no further information until he’d eaten, or so he gathered from his father’s firm manner. In his exhaustion -- he had pressed so hard to get to this point, pressed Cirdan and the Princes of Gondor and Arnor to be allowed to return, pressed his escort to ride steadily onward once they'd started, pressed himself to reach the appointed meeting place, and been pressed by Primrose to follow at top speed to this place -- he seemed to be drifting on the tide of events, but nothing seemed to matter at the moment.

And so, he’d eat, and he’d eat well – from the fine smell of the stew, venison, he deemed – and then he was determined to ask his fill of questions, to find what was what in this underground community that seemed to be prospering despite difficulty.

And then he’d greet his loved ones, those who were here to be greeted, and then – and only then – would he broach the King’s business to his father and the other leaders amongst the hobbits inhabiting this fastness under the forest floor.