Chapter 5. Thorn: Midnight Summons

Bucca quietly paced back and forth before the banked fire, his sleeping son in his arms. Son! A bare week ago he’d had no son, no heir, no promise of the future stretching beyond his lifetime. Now, nearly a week after greeting his son, Bucca could not remember life without him. It seemed as if this little hobbit, this little curl-topped bundle had always been a part of him.

 ‘Bucca?’ his mother said quietly behind him. ‘I can walk him a bit. You ought to rest.’

 ‘It is my joy to walk thus,’ he whispered in return. ‘We are laying great plans together, my son and I.’ Son. Would the word ever lose its thrill?

The eyes of deepest blue opened, the tiny mouth yawned wide. ‘He’s hungry again,’ Bucca said proudly. ‘Proper hobbit, he is.’

A knock came at the door. ‘What in the world?’ Lavender said.

 ‘Likely a call for the healer,’ Bucca said. ‘Settle this one for me?’ He held out the babe to his mother’s willing arms and went to the door. ‘Who comes?’ he called.

 ‘The Thorn is needed,’ a muffled voice called quietly.

 ‘Someone’s ill?’ Bucca said, opening the door a crack to admit as little winter chill as possible along with the muffled hobbit waiting there.

 ‘He’s needed,’ the visitor said. He was not a near neighbour. Bucca did not recognise his voice, and his face, as he pulled away the muffler, was only slightly familiar.

 ‘What about your own healer?’ he said.

 ‘What is it, son?’ Thorn said, emerging into the main room, bag in hand.

 ‘The Thorn is needed,’ the hobbit said stubbornly, but he would say no more than that.

The feeling that something was amiss was growing ever stronger in Bucca’s heart. His father caught his eye and nodded. ‘My son will accompany me,’ he said.

The stranger hobbit looked appraisingly from healer to son and nodded. ‘You’re the other one,’ he said.

Bucca bristled, but his father laid a calming hand on his shoulder. ‘Tokka led the archers to the Northland,’ he said.

 ‘Two of my sons marched with him,’ the hobbit said, and Bucca nodded. He remembered now, this face in the crowd, a hobbit with his arm about his weeping wife, younger sons calling and waving as the Shirefolk marched to the aid of the King.

 ‘Bucca of the Thorns, at your service,’ he said.

 ‘Rocco of the Ferns, at yours and your family's,’ the stranger hobbit said, and with that, of course, he was stranger no longer. Still he was unusually reserved for a hobbit. He hesitated, then said, ‘Come. There’s no time to waste.’

Bucca bundled up in cloak and muffler, took down his quiver and strung his bow.

Lavender emerged from the bedroom, having settled the babe in Comfrey’s sleepy embrace, in time to help Thorn muffle up. ‘Someone’s ill?’ she said.

 ‘Something like that,’ Thorn answered. ‘I’ll send Bucca back with word if I have to stay over.’ He pulled down the muffler to kiss his wife, snuggled his nose and chin back into the knitted warmth, took up his stout staff and said, ‘Ready.’

 ‘I’ll put another lamp in the window for you,’ Lavender said.

 ‘No,’ Bucca answered, some instinct stirring deep within. ‘As a matter of fact, shutter the windows.’

 ‘Is a storm coming?’ Lavender asked. ‘And here you are, going out in it?’

 ‘A storm may be coming, indeed,’ Thorn said. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’ He forced heartiness into his voice. ‘Fear not, m’love. With my son at my side, naught can oppress me.’ He looked to Bucca and back to his wife. ‘Shutter the windows,’ he affirmed.

 ‘I will,’ Lavender said, moving to the largest window first and taking the watch-lamp away to close the shutters. ‘You take care, and don’t take a chill!’

 ‘We’ll walk so swift that we’ll arrive before the wind knows we’ve gone,’ Thorn said.

The three hobbits eased themselves out through the barely opened door, partly to let as little cold as possible in, and partly—in Bucca’s mind, at least—to let as little light out as possible.

The night was dark, starless, and an icy wind howled over the Marish, sending scurries of snow racing over the hard, frozen crust beneath their feet. ‘Ponies?’ Bucca said, his mouth close to his father’s ear.

Thorn shook his head. ‘Too difficult to go quietly,’ he said. ‘And too hard to go to ground if need be.’

Bucca nodded. He was feeling the same unease. Rocco evidently was proceeding with the same sort of caution; though he lived in another community a good distance away, he’d evidently trusted to his own furry feet and not a pony’s back.

Though they carried no lantern or torch, the icy snow gleamed dully with a light of its own. The River was a wide, dark ribbon to their right, quiet in these months of sleep and cold, but not frozen all the way across. It formed a natural barrier to the Old Forest that brooded some ways back from the far bank, and to the dark things rumoured to be found there.

King’s Men had guarded the Bridge of Stonebows, though as of late they’d been gone. The Shirefolk hadn’t noticed, it being the winter months. No travellers came across the Bridge and onward through the heart of the Shire, on the Road that led to the Sea, not this time of the year, and certainly not with the weather so bitter. Thankfully no wolves had come across the Bridge in the absence of guards; no trouble had come at all, for the Shire was a rich land, and sleepy, and offered no harm to anyone, so why should anyone offer harm to the folk who called the Shire “home”?

The Shirefolk dozed in their comfortable holes and dreamed of Spring’s return, when merchants would come once more: travelling dwarves, or Men with new songs to sing bringing wares to finger and trade. It would be time to plant new crops, to gather fresh greens, to watch the crops grow, until the time to celebrate the firstfruits of harvest.

A time to welcome back far-travellers? Bucca certainly hoped so.