Chapter 5 – The Old Forest

Esmeralda was preparing for dinner when Saradoc returned from the Gate. Merry was still in the care of the nursemaid, receiving his own grooming, and Esme was guiltily enjoying her time alone. She so rarely had an opportunity to sit in peace and quiet.

She looked up when her husband entered the bedchamber and smiled at him in the mirror. “Good day, love,” she greeted. “You survived the Gate Opening, I see.”

“Yes, but only just,” Sara replied and stretched out the day’s aggravations. He returned the smile and came up behind her to place a kiss upon her curls. “And good day to you, dearest. I see you are surviving the latest cut tooth of our little bairn.”

“Yes, but only just.”

Sara chuckled. “And where is the little dumpling? At his bath with Scarlet, I take it.”

“Yes, finally,” Esme said, then cringed at having let her own frustration slip. She dabbed new perfume behind her ears and shook her head. “He’s been crying all day with that tooth. The numbing cream the healer gave me only works for so long, and then he’s fussing again.”

“And we’ve only just begun,” Sara said, rubbing her shoulders softly. “I hear that these little problems get much more enjoyable as they grow older.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re not doing a very good job,” Esme replied, smiling despite her words. She picked up her brush to smooth out her curls and looked up at her husband’s reflection. “Is it wrong that I should crave this time alone? Shouldn’t I want to be with my child at all times, rather than eagerly casting him off on the hired-hand?”

“It’s only natural, love. You’re not the only mother to employ help with her children, and why do you think they do so, if not to have some time alone?”

He gave her shoulders a final squeeze, then went to the ewer to wash up. He stripped down to his undershirt before splashing the cool water against his face and neck. He would have preferred a proper bath himself after spending all afternoon in the stifling heat, but there would be time enough for that later. He scrubbed off the majority of the sweat and grime, then toweled himself dry and went through his wardrobe for fresh clothes.

“How has Frodo been?” he asked as he pulled on a new shirt and began buttoning it. “Not too dour, I hope.”

Esme paused in her hair pinning and turned to face her husband directly for the first time. He paused too, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he took in the startled look on his wife’s fair face. “I thought he was with you this whole time. That was the arrangement,” she said in alarm. “Do you not know where he is?”

“We were supposed to meet at Hedge Field, but he never showed up,” Saradoc stated. “I thought he had returned here.”

“You never saw him at all? Sara, he’s been gone since morning!”

“Now, Esme, don’t be too alarmed,” Sara said, quick to reassure. “He was last seen with that group he runs about with, Morti and Fendi and those two friends of theirs. He went with them to the Gate Opening and they were separated. By the time I got there, Frodo was gone.”

“But he hasn’t come back here,” Esme said, refusing to be assured. “I’ve not seen him all day.”

“I did tell those rascals to sit at the boulder and wait for Frodo to return,” Sara said, trying to convince himself as well as his wife that all was well. “He must have come back with them and is still hanging about with them and getting into mischief.” He went back to buttoning his shirt. “I don’t like Frodo spending time with them.”

Esme nodded. “I know, love. I don’t much like it either, but he has so few friends here. I don’t want to discourage him against socializing with the few lads who don’t mind his company.” She went back to fixing her hair, some of the alarm wearing off as they talked about this too-familiar topic.

Though she hated to admit it, this wasn’t the first time they had lost track of Frodo. He always turned up sooner if not later, and he was always back before bedtime. She only hoped he had not managed to hurt himself and that his fear of the Brandywine River would continue to keep him away from that place.

“What about his Bucklebury friends?” Sara asked now, continuing with the practicalities. “Why does he no longer spend time with them?”

“Frodo’s too shy with them anymore. I think the crowd is too large for him,” Esme answered. She finished the final touches and stood to wait for her husband as he buttoned up his waistcoat.

“Then invite a few of them here for a visit,” Sara suggested. He checked himself in the mirror and quickly combed out his curls.

Both now ready, Saradoc opened the door for his wife and they proceeded to the dining hall. “If Frodo spends any more time with those scamps, he’ll end up in more trouble than is good for him,” he said as they entered the hall and looked about. “Do you see him?”

They spotted Scarlet with Merry, feeding him soft foods at the head table, and with them were Menegilda, Rorimac, Merimac, his wife Berylla and their son Berilac. But no Frodo. They scanned the hall and spotted Fendi and Morti sitting and eating innocently with their own families, their friends already gone for home. Saradoc nodded slightly to Esmeralda and then nodded again toward their table. He’ll take care of this, she should see to the bairn.

Esme went to the head table and relieved Scarlet of the bairn. The young lass went to her own table with the other nursemaids and Esme cradled her son in her arms. He was fussing again, though tiredly as a result of the bath. He was finished with the food and was rooting for his mother’s breast. She covered him with a towel and nursed him as a servant made a plate for her.

Within a minute, Saradoc had joined her and she knew just by looking at him that he had not discovered good news. “Well?” she asked anyway, keeping her voice low.

“They haven’t seen him since the Opening,” he said grimly. “He never returned to Hedge Field.”

“Where could he be?” Esme asked. “Why would he go off like this? He’s been doing so well lately.”

“He hasn’t shown any signs of distress lately?”

Esme closed her eyes in dismay, realizing too late her folly. “Last night, when he returned from the races. I should have made him tell me why. It had to have been because of Gil what said to him.”

Sara and Esme looked around the hall again and spotted Gil sitting with his parents and siblings. He was cutting up his youngest sister’s food, while his brothers stole bites of meatloaf from his plate. His elder sisters were talking to him, and he was nodding along distractedly.

Sara shook his head. “First thing’s first. We should wait for Frodo to return and speak to him, if he will tell us anything. Don’t worry, dearest, the night isn’t over yet. He’ll turn up.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Esme asked. It has not happened since they took him in, but Frodo has been known to disappear for days at a time.

Sara nodded. “We’ll alert the guards and get them to the River, just in case. If he’s not back by morning, we’ll look for him. Then we’ll see about questioning Gil and the Brockhouse lad.”  

Gil hadn’t said anything to him this time; he hadn’t needed to. His expression of surprise had said enough. Frodo was a coward and shouldn’t be there.

What made it worse was that Frodo knew it to be true. This entire afternoon had been about him trying to prove himself, and constantly finding ways of avoiding it. True, it had been pure chance that Edon and Sed had been at the boulder when Frodo approached, but Frodo had been grateful for their presence. When he was invited to go to the Gate, he’d had to choose between staying at the field alone, or facing the Gate in the company of his friends. He had chosen the latter, and had clutched to Edon like a child when they arrived there.

Now, they were to be returning to the field, and Saradoc would be there already. Frodo would not have proven anything to himself – or anyone else for that matter – about his courage, but he had undoubtedly confirmed Gil’s assessment that he was a coward. So when Gil arrived and gave him that look of surprise, a white-hot anger had flashed through Frodo. Not at Gil, but at himself.

Frodo was constantly in worry and forever fretting. His mind raced away with the hundreds of horrible possibilities that might come about during any given day. He was always on tiptoes, expecting something to happen to his guardians, or Merry, or all of them. He worried that Sara and Esme would grow tired of him, and send him on to another relative for looking after; that is, after all, how he had come to live with them.

He worried that he would never find a true friend, and that he would always be overlooked in favor of everyone else. He was afraid of the dark, afraid of his dreams. He feared the smallest sound or slightest movement, expecting – knowing – that they would bring about certain doom. It all spelled disaster for him, he who’d had disaster befall on him so unexpectedly.

Yet being on a constant lookout for the unexpected was having its toll on him. He did not sleep as he should and was often tired. He was sick more than was normal, which only permitted him to stay in bed and hide in his books. No matter how much he ate, his body refused to put on weight and the other children often teased him for being so skinny, amongst other things. He didn’t belong there, or anywhere else seemingly.

He was tired of being afraid, tired of being on the look out, tired of hiding from everything and everyone, including himself, tired of being so different from everyone else. The last straw dropped, he was suddenly beyond fear and timidness; he was reckless, pure and complete, desperate to prove to himself that he could be strong. He could take care of himself, and Merry if necessary. He could face his darkest fears and he could survive them.

Pushing all other thought from his mind, acting on instinct alone, he crept around the edge of the crowd and to the wall of the Hedge, taking advantage of the crowd’s diverted attention. Even now, in his heightened determination, he hoped that someone would notice him standing there, point him out, stop him from continuing with this ill-formed plan. But as so often happened, he was completely overlooked, left alone to grab hold of this opportunity in solitude. He did not have to wait long.

Everyone was watching Gil, as the lad prepared for his run on the Gate, and Frodo was able to approach the Hedge and lay down on the grass without being seen. He slowly slinked his way forward, keeping low and hidden. By the time Gil started his run, Frodo was already halfway to the Gate. He crept forward a few more feet, then lay still, waiting for the perfect moment.

Not more than a few seconds passed when the bounder at the gate left his post and dashed toward Gil, and Frodo seized his chance. He jumped up and ran as fast as his legs would carry him and within mere seconds, jumped down into the narrow stone tunnel. He looked up at the Hedge, which seemed to have grown a hundred times fold from this new vantage point below the earth’s crust. The Hedge towered over him, blocking out the sky, and was now nearly as ominous as the forest itself. For a brief moment Frodo considered turning back. Then, recognizing his cowardice, he doubled his resolve and proceeded forward.

The tunnel was dim and cool compared to the stifling heat of the day, the stones cold to the touch. His feet echoed softly off the ground, but the echoes were soon covered by the cheering that erupted behind him. Knowing that the run was over and the bounder would be back soon, Frodo quickly shuffled his way beneath the Hedge. At the midway point, the gate stood propped open for convenience of the workers and Frodo continued forward without hindrance. Before him, the stairs led up out of the ground, to the Outside world, and Frodo slowed down to peek his head out and look about.

He looked back first, and the bounder on guard still had not returned. The crowd was now singing a chant of some sort and the bounder was likely attempting to keep order. The bounder would be back soon though, so if Frodo was going to do this, he would have to be quick about it.

He crept up the steps one by one, until he could see over the ground. The gardeners were quite a distance off already, working and concentrating solely on their job. A few sat resting near where the others worked, and still others were following along and gathering the trimmings into large canvas bags. The bounders were standing near the gardeners, their eyes either on the forest or up at the gardeners as they carried on one conversation or another or helped with the bagging.

Frodo took a deep breath and stepped out of the tunnel. He hid for a moment from view behind one of the bags and from his hiding place, he determined how long it would take him to dash into the forest. The forest’s edge was not too far off, about three hundred yards if that much. He could be under cover within moments, and none of the workers would be any the wiser – if he could time it correctly, that is.

He waited, until he was certain that none of the workers or bounders would look back toward the Gate. After a few minutes passed and no one so much as blinked toward the Gate, Frodo gathered his courage, what little of it there was, and shot out from behind the bag and toward the forest.

No one saw him, as he should have expected, and before he knew it, he was surrounded by trees and shrubs of various sizes and shapes. The air was warm and stuffy under the trees, even so close to the edge, so Frodo removed his waistcoat and hid it beneath a shrub. Then, with one last look back, he turned and walked into the forest.

His heart raced and his palms sweated, and for many frantic moments, he felt as though he would pass out. His head swam and his vision faded, but as he grew accustomed to the dark and the silence, his disorientation subsided. He stepped lightly and silently, trying to be as small and unobtrusive as possible, keeping his steps soft and slow, but always moving forward.

He looked back often, making sure he could still see the edge of the woods and the Hedge beyond it. He did not want to go too far in, after all, and wanted to keep the Hedge in sight. When he had gone as far in as he dared, he found a bare bit of earth and lowered himself to the ground. His heart was pounding still, and his breath was short, but he was beginning to calm somewhat. He scanned the forest and perked his ears, looking and listening for anything untoward. For long minutes, he waited in horrified silence, but when nothing happened he allowed himself to sink onto the ground a bit more and relax his guard.

So, this was the forest of all the rumors and stories, the forest of evil trees and goblins and wolves and other such creatures. Frodo had even imagined there were giant spiders in this forest, as there were in Mirkwood, but as he looked around, he could see nothing more than tangling roots, wild branches, scattered bushes and dry earth littered with leaves and twigs. The only other living creatures here, besides himself, were insects, crawling through the dirt or up boles and bushes. Ants marched up a bush’s leaves and a small, ordinary spider scuttled through the foliage on the ground.

Daylight passed, and Frodo became complacent. There was nothing to fear here, nothing to invade one’s dreams to turn them into nightmares. There was only silence and darkness, and nothing more.

After a time, Frodo stood and brushed off his breeches. He had faced his fear and had won; he was ready to return home now. He turned around and looked up, squinting through the darkness for the Hedge. It was still there, at the very edge of his horizon, barely visible now through the vegetation between them. He walked towards it, humming under his breath as he went.

He picked his way along the path he had walked in on, mindful always of his surroundings. He was halfway to his destination before he realized the path had changed. A tree now stood where before there had been only open space. He paused and stared at the gnarled trunk and low-hanging branches, a frown making its way onto his brow. Behind him, far into the woods, a branch snapped and fell to the earth, and high in the trees an owl hooted low and haunting.

Frodo fought to remain in control of himself, and was quickly losing. He sidestepped the tree and continued on his way, dismissing the occurrence to a lapse in memory. He had simply forgotten the way of the path there, but he soon found it again and he pushed forward as the light outside the forest began to fail.

He forced himself not to run, to stay slow and steady and not show signs of panic. Another branch, this one much closer than before, snapped and fell to the ground with a clunk that echoed through the forest. Another branch reached down and snagged at Frodo’s shirt, tearing it easily. Frodo yanked himself away and kept his eyes forward. He focused on the Hedge, which seemed no closer than it had been when he first started off. Yet that couldn’t be possible, for he was moving forward the whole while. It was simply a trick of the light, he told himself, and he would be at the wood’s edge before he knew it.

He rounded a turn in the path and, as before, a tree blocked his way. Now he was certain that this tree had not been there previously, and he was beginning to believe that the trees could move indeed. He stared up at the tree with a mixture of defiance and fright, rooted to the ground every bit as much as the menacing willow before him.

Frodo closed his eyes and cleared his mind as best he could. He was well practiced in this habit, having practiced it innumerable times over the last three years. He could always keep aside the panic until he was somewhere safe to allow it to overtake him. He would not panic until he was out of the forest and on the road to home. Then he would run and let the tears come, but now, he would pick up his feet and move forward. He nodded to himself, resolved in this plan, and opened his eyes again.

The forest had changed before him. There were more trees now, blocking off the path entirely, and no matter how much Frodo attempted to side step them, they remained in his way, large and formidable. More sounds began to creep up around him, more falling branches, some far away, others close by and near enough to brush past his shoulder on their way to the ground. More branches snagged at him, catching his clothing or tangling in his hair. A low groaning began to rise from the depths of the earth and reverberated up the boles of the trees, to shake their limbs and drop their leaves in a shower of softly fluttered whispers.

Frodo drew in on himself, hugging himself tight, the tears springing to his eyes despite his best efforts. Night was fully upon him and he could no longer see the Hedge, nor determine if he was any longer walking toward it. He doubted that he was, yet his only option was to continue moving or lose himself to despair.

He fumbled along his way, tripping over roots or large, tumbling branches upon the ground. The trees were moaning all around now, and the owls had been joined by many other creatures Frodo cared not to identify. Their primal calls high above in the trees and low in the bushes ranged from the high-pitched song of cicadas to the muffled yipping of wolves. Creatures great and small surrounded him, and Frodo soon had the feeling that he was being followed and looked upon by many eyes. The trees he knew were watching him, keeping him from his destination; he did not like to think what other creatures might be following his movements. Still he pressed forward, too afraid to stop for he knew that once he did, the forest would descend upon him.

Not until he reached a hollow in the woods, a bare and open land where no trees stood and no creatures could hide, did he stop and sit to curl in upon himself. This was not the Bonfire Glade, for that was wider and larger, and one could look up to see the sky and breathe the free air, or so Saradoc had often told him. This clearance was small and barely longer than three hobbits of his height lying down. Still, it afforded Frodo a place to sit and weep, and he did so at length.

He was alone and lost in the Old Forest. He would never find his way out and he knew he would likely die here, as Tim had or, if he did manage to somehow get out, he would die later, as Hildigard had. There was no avoiding it; that was the curse of the Forest, and he had known it when he entered. He wanted to be rid of the forest, but it would likely become his graveyard, and this realization frightened the lad more than anything else.

The trees around his tiny clearing creaked and groaned, and the leaves rustled where there was no wind. A branch cracked and fell to the ground with a loud crash just to his right, and in the distance, the shadows moved in vague and creeping shapes. He closed his eyes tight and hid his face in his knees, wishing he had never come here and knowing he would never leave.
 
 
 

To be continued…