Chapter 41. Expecting the Unexpected, or Trying, at Least 

When the cold grew unbearable, Bilbo jogged in place, remembering Isen's stories of the time the Captain of the Gull had set sail for the Ice Bay of Forochel, with which he'd recently regaled the Bagginses during quiet times in the Smials, always in the privacy of their guest quarters, of course, to avoid scandalising the Tooks or anyone else, for that matter. As far as Bungo was concerned, these quiet interludes served as a respite from the fierce undercurrents that constantly swirled amongst the Tooks in their stronghold. Nor did he have to caution Bella or Bilbo to avoid repeating anything said behind the closed door of their guest suite. Moreover, even amongst themselves, he characterised the stories not as "adventurous" but rather as "interesting" and even "instructive", considering the severe weather conditions currently to be found outside the Tooks' ancestral manse. A scrap of one of these stories sounded at the back of Bilbo's brain now, fuelling his efforts: When you feel your fires burning low, force your whole body to move that you may stoke them once again, or such was the Captain's urging. And I found he had the right of it, more or less... (a rueful laugh) ...sometimes less than more, but even the smallest bit can help when in desperate straits... 

Another byword of Uncle Isen's was, Expect the unexpected. Bilbo supposed he'd proved the truth of that axiom, at that, in following this far and in such marrow-chilling conditions. His Tookish uncles would never expect him to follow them but – as a soft, comfort-loving Baggins – instead to stay by the fireside, possibly playing a quiet game of Kings with his cousin Flam. No doubt they'd been surprised at Bungo's insistence on accompanying them, as well as irked. Quite possibly one of the reasons Uncle Isengrim had chosen walking rather than riding had been to punish the Baggins for his temerity and make Bungo regret that he'd ever spoken up in the first place.

If he hadn't felt so chilled and hungry and exhausted, the tween might have laughed at the thought of his Tookish uncles' expressions once they reached their destination and he caught up to them. Expect the unexpected!

Too soon, his legs grew tired, and his lungs began to protest; the icy air that his gasping breaths took in seemed to burn, once inside his chest. At last, Bilbo stopped jogging, hugged himself and rubbed vigorously at his upper arms as he watched the receding figures. Out of breath as he was, he tried to breathe as shallowly as possible to ease the growing discomfort in his chest region, even as he fought a sinking feeling at the same time. You'll have to start jogging again, old boy, and quite soon, or freeze in place where you stand... If they'd only walk a little quicker and get around the side of this great hill so that I can start moving after them!

Though he tended towards indolence when at home – curling up before the fire with a book was one of his favourite occupations in inclement weather – he felt as if he might shout for joy when his father and uncles disappeared round the side of the nearest hill at last. His feet felt like blocks of wood as he forced himself into motion. Sprinting after the vanguard was out of the question; the crust of ice could not stand up reliably against the extra force that running imposed. After falling for a second time when the ice crust gave way beneath his descending foot, Bilbo resigned himself to walking as swiftly as possible while vigorously swinging his arms and beating his hands against his chest as he followed the tracks in the snow. By the time he'd crossed half the valley, most of him was feeling quite warm once more. The main exception was the exposed part of his face where woolly hat and muffler parted to allow him to see. Even so, he pulled his hat lower over his forehead and tugged his muffler higher over his nose, marvelling at the frozen crust from his exhalations that, despite his frequent attempts to brush it away, kept forming on the woollen surface – as well as his eyebrows! – as the steam of his breaths flashed instantly to ice upon emerging into the air.

Almost immediately after he rounded the hill and saw his quarry ahead of him in the valley, he came upon a copse. Thankful, he dashed for cover and secreted himself behind a sturdy bole. More stopping and waiting, he told himself gloomily. And here my feet are just now feeling like themselves again, and now the snow will steal away any warmth they've managed to garner...

But perhaps if I could keep them out of the snow! he thought to himself, hugging the tree that sheltered him from wind and discovery by older relatives. I'll have a better vantage, as well, from part-way up the tree... 

Luckily, his Tookish cousins had tutored him in tree-climbing, swearing that one could not be a proper Took if he could not climb a tree at need. Nor had they accepted his argument that he was as much a Baggins as he was a Took, and Bagginses were much too sensible to climb trees or anything else for that matter. Flambard and Sigismond, the closest of his "Great Smials" cousins to Bilbo in age, had been quite insistent, however. 

Now, as he looked out hand- and foot-holds and began to climb a tree at the far edge of the copse, the better to watch the progress of the walkers ahead of him, the young Baggins blessed his cousins' Tookish stubbornness and teasing that had seemed so unreasonable at the time.

My feet and legs do feel warmer! Granted, they're dangling in the freezing air but at least I'm not standing in snow nearly up to my knees! he thought to himself in triumph that became tinged with wonder with his next thought. I can see quite a bit farther from here! He should be able to watch those ahead of him who were trudging across the valley for a long while before he had to climb down and resume the chase.

A fickle breeze brought a thin, unidentifiable noise to his ears, one he could not quite place, though it seemed to resemble the sound one might hear at some distance from a wailing babe or questing hound. Maintaining a firm grip on the tree, he turned to look behind, in the direction of the Great Smials, though several great hills stood between the tween and that refuge of plentiful, readily-available food and warming fires. It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing; if not for the picture books of his childhood, gifts from his Baggins grandfather, understanding might have come too late, with fatal results for his loved ones and other relations. His heart froze within him.

White wolves! he whispered. But... but they're the stuff of legend! ...of storybooks! ...of one of Isen's tall tales! They cannot be real!

Can't they? Uncle Isengar seemed to speak within his heart. Isen, the teller of fantastical tales that, nevertheless, the hobbit swore were all true, absolutely and completely. If Bilbo were to believe his uncle – and he did, mostly, or very nearly – Isen's tales were told straight from the hobbit's memories, and utterly unembellished.

But they were real, not phantoms of the imagination in a vividly told tale or illustrated story! 

They had to be! There was nothing else they could be! Try as he might, the tween could not make his eyes nor his brain form any other picture than the one he was seeing, all aghast. Incredibly large, white, shaggy forms had rounded the previous hillside and were trotting along, following the hobbits' trail. Doglike, they were, but much larger than the sheepdogs who protected Shire-folks' flocks – why, the oncoming brutes were as big as ponies, more massive than even the largest mastiff or wolfhound a farmer or woodcutter might keep for protection against wild beasts or rogue Men.

Desperate, Bilbo swivelled his head from the hunting pack to the travellers and back again. His father...! His uncles...! They had to be warned! 

But when he tried to shout, his voice came out in a croak. Don't be a useless ninny! he scolded himself, adopting a word he'd overheard from the gardener at Bag End, one that his mother had warned him was not to be found in the mouth of a gentlehobbit. But what could he do? His water bottle was empty, or as good as, anyhow, for despite its Dwarf-made design that kept water cool in summer and protected its contents from freezing in colder weather, the contents had frozen some time ago, or so Bilbo had discerned the last time he'd tried to tip out some water to assuage his thirst.

So you cannot dampen your throat to banish the frogs, he scolded, while his heaving breath emerged in clouds of steam. If you cannot whet your whistle... wet your whistle! That's it!

Though his mouth felt dry, he worked his tongue to summon some vestiges of moisture, then licked his lips. He pulled down his muffler to bare his face, fighting the assault of the freezing air, and then yanked the double layer of mittens from his right hand – though he made sure to hold them firmly in his left hand's grasp, remembering Isen's tales of sailors with frostbitten fingers. As he thrust his fingertips past his lips, the moist warmth of his mouth felt like furnace heat to his fingers, compared to the glacial air surrounding him. He filled his lungs, drawing his deepest possible breath despite the pain it cost him, and blew as hard as he could.

The walking figures kept walking. He had to make them hear! He adjusted the position of his fingers, inhaled, blew again, hearing the shrill, piercing sound swell and echo through the valley.

Even as Bilbo forced another deep breath, he saw the hindmost figure stop and turn to look back. The tween waved wildly, nearly losing his grip on the tree, but... No matter! His Tookish uncle had seen him! ...for it was one of the taller figures in the group who had turned to scan his surroundings, and not Bilbo's father, who would undoubtedly be the shortest. One of his uncles had seen him waving from the treetop! Had then turned back towards the rest of the walkers and was waving in his turn while undoubtedly shouting at the others.

For now the entire group had stopped. It seemed to the eagerly watching tween for an agonising moment that they were arguing where they stood. They had all seen him in the tree by this point, had taken the measure of his figure against his surroundings, had perhaps (perhaps? most likely!) worked out his identity – for who else would have a reason to follow? And now they were debating as to who should turn back and swoop him up and escort him to safety, that he might survive to endure the scolding and consequences to follow, no doubt. 

As the tween had feared, the bulk of the travellers turned away and began to trudge once more. Two of them, one taller and one shorter – Bungo! – were retracing their tracks to where Bilbo perched in the tree, moving slowly, as if there were all the time in the world.

He had to make them understand the danger!

Bilbo's breath had leaked out of him as he'd watched for the travellers' response. Suddenly, a scrap of memory came to him – one of the times when the Bagginses had visited Bilbo's Auntie Mirabella, his mother's youngest sister, at Brandy Hall, Uncle Gorbadoc had recounted to the young hobbit and his fascinated parents the history of the Horn-call of Buckland, from the legend of its first sounding in the days when the Oldbucks settled the wild country on the "wrong" side of the Brandywine to the present day. Of course, in these more settled times, the Horn-call was seldom sounded anymore, though young Bucklanders were still required to learn the rhythm and sequence of notes, "for emergencies never seem to announce themselves ahead of time", or so Gorbadoc had jested at the time.

Thus, the young Baggins knew the sequence as well as any Bucklander; but could he reproduce it with a whistle? He nodded stubbornly to himself. He had to! ...or his father and uncles would most likely die within the hour. A glance behind revealed that the wolves had also heard the sound of his earlier whistle; had slowed their pace and lifted their heads; had paused, but only too briefly, and even as he scrutinised them, they started to trot again, faster now, along the trail the hobbits had forged. 

Drawing another deep breath felt like knives, stabbing him, but no matter. He lifted his stiffening fingers to his frozen face and blew again, hard, scarcely noting the phantom, fleeting warmth of the outgoing air, so focused was he on reproducing the Horn-call to the best of his ability.

AWAKE! FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE!

Surely Bungo would remember! ...would recognise the call! Surely...!

Bilbo, sobbing with pain, sucked in another stabbing breath that felt uncannily like delicate glass, breaking inside him, and blew again, the sound echoing high, wild, and desperate.

FEAR! FIRE! FOES!

Were they stopping! They were! Bilbo could see his father and his hindmost uncle conferring again.

One more breath. Just one more. Take heart, lad! It was as if the tween could hear Isen's voice in his head, in his heart, pushing him on to further effort though it should shatter his lungs to pieces.

AWAKE! AWAKE!

The tween almost lost his hold on the tree in the rush of sickening relief that overcame him as he saw the shorter figure suddenly stand stark upright and then begin to wave wildly at him. Bungo had remembered Uncle Gorbadoc's lesson! Meanwhile, the taller figure turned and jogged towards the retreating group, gesticulating and, no doubt, shouting.

But the wolves were coming on... They'd halved the distance to Bilbo's tree by this time. They were still trotting along, silent yet purposeful, not yet having sighted their prey.

Could the travellers reach the safety of the copse in time?

***