Chapter 23. In which a Took dreams, or does he?

The dream had changed. Instead of being carried along, Ferdi felt himself lying on a hard surface. He was camping, he thought, sleeping on the ground. He must be dreaming of the time of the Troubles, he supposed, for nowadays when he travelled for the Thain and had to be away overnight, he invariably slept in a comfortable bed, the finest any inn had to offer, seeing as he was the Thain’s special assistant.

Or he might be dreaming of recent troubles. He had slept on the floor of his sister’s little house in the woods, during the time he’d been trying to persuade a runaway Farry to return to the Great Smials, when Pippin had come to reclaim his son, and Merry had judged Ferdi guilty of child-stealing. A hard floor it had been, too, well-swept boards, giving way to flagstones surrounding the hearth. There was something about Farry... something he couldn't quite remember... He frowned a little, not noticing that his lips were now responding, ever so slightly, to his feelings.

As if in response, the boards fell away and he was flying, floating in the air, suspended between sky and earth, feeling the beginning of panic, until the earth came up to embrace him. The cold hardness under his back was reassuringly firm, and something laughed within him, mock-scolding, sounding something like his Nell when he’d exasperated her. Make up your mind! You complain of a hard bed, you complain of floating... so a hard bed it is! Make the best of it, for it’s all you’ll get, as a consequence of all your grumbling!

I don’t care much at all for this dream, was his response, and his lips moved ever so slightly, his breath ghosting out in a whisper. But no one answered him, not even the mocker, and so despite the discomfort, he dozed once more.

***

He’s going to do it! the brawny man was thinking, bare seconds before the horn-call rang out. He’s going to get away with the gold—or at least it won’t be hobbits stopping him... and his hand caressed the handle of his knife, an old friend that had served him well on many previous occasions.

But then the horn rang out, and hobbits materialised before his eyes, as if they’d been conjured.

... he was certainly glad that he’d hung well back, and had not intruded upon the outermost ring of watchers. No. He looked behind him, to make sure, and there were no hobbits behind him. All of them were between him and the Three-Farthing Stone, and closing in on the hapless club-wielder, so very lucky a moment ago, with all the gold he could bear, and perhaps a little more.

Still, in the brawny man’s opinion, escape would be possible if the club-wielder just kept his head. The archers were holding their fire, the hobbits with clubs were advancing slowly, warily. It looked as if they aimed to take the man alive... The brawny man had better watch the outcome, just to make sure, and once all was done he’d hasten back to the cave, to warn the others that pursuit would be coming sooner rather than later.

That was assuming the hobbits were able to take his companion, not at all a sure thing. All he had to do was drop the heavy bag of gold, seize his weapon, watch for the right moment, leap from the rock and run, fending off whatever clubs were swung at him with his own as he made his escape. With his long legs and his memory of the territory, he could outrun any pursuit.

...but the gold, and his greed, were the club-wielder’s undoing. He clutched the gold to his chest, teetering on the rock, and as he turned to find a clear place to jump down, he overbalanced. Instead of flailing his arms to catch his balance, he clenched the gold ever tighter, and its weight took him over, toppling him like a tree, such that he fell, head-first, behind the Stone, out of the brawny man’s sight, and did not rise again, so far as his companion could tell.

The brawny man had been holding his breath, ready to flee, but now he sank down again as the hobbits converged on the spot. He wondered, had the other man crawled away? He could not see...

‘We want him alive!’ one of the hobbits shouted, toiling up the slope.

A head popped up over the top of the Three-Farthing Stone, and called, ‘That’ll be a little difficult to manage, I’m afraid. He’s broke his sorry neck.’

Well. That certainly made things easy. All he had to do, now, was to wait until all the hobbits had vacated the vicinity, and then he’d make his way back to the cave to report to the fat man. They would be able to go ahead with their plan, as they’d originally formed it, and with little fear of hobbits finding them.

And atop the rise, the club-wielder lay beside the Three-Farthing Stone in a daze, his senses fading, his eyes fixed on the gold that had spilled from the bag. It had all been in his grasp... it was all right there, before him. All he had to do was stretch out his hands, which for some reason were curiously unresponsive at the moment, to seize the treasure, more than he’d ever held in his life...

***

It is said by some that the blood of the fairies runs in the veins of some Tooks. (Those less charitable distribute the rumour of that heritage rather more widely, tarring all the Tooks with the same brush, so to speak.) The Tooks themselves rarely speak of such things, not even those who experience the odd dream that disturbs a night’s rest. But it is common knowledge that some among the Tooks have a way of knowing what they ought not to know. Though most conceal any special knowledge, a few have let slip, in a weak moment, enough of a hint to unsettle any other hobbit, even another Took.

And so Woodruff stared at Ted, uncertain. ‘He is dead,’ she said slowly. ‘You probably heard us talking, while you were fevered, and...’

Ted shook his head, lifting a shaking hand to wipe at his cheeks. ‘It was one of the dreams,’ he said, ‘I knew it for what it was, for it was just like Heather...’

It seemed to Woodruff that she could not draw breath, as if the suffocating grave closed in about her. Her mouth gaped as if she were a fish out of water, and she shook her head, ever so slightly. It could not be!

But Ted had closed his eyes, lying back in defeat on the pillow, as the words spilled from him in fits and starts. ‘Like Heather...’ he said. ‘It was a warning. I know that you think it daft, but...’

Woodruff found her tongue. ‘Not at all,’ she said, and it was only half a falsehood, and then she stood to her feet though her head was spinning and there was a buzzing in her ears. ‘But Teddy, it may not be too late at all! They passed our door not that long ago...’ Or she thought it had not been long ago. She had dozed... how long?

Ted struggled upright again, given new strength by his hope, and horror. ‘Then go!’ he gasped. ‘Go, and stop them! Stop them before it is too late!’

***

‘Now then,’ said the fat man. ‘It’s time for your lessons, laddie.’

The young ruffian nodded and went to fish in his pack, coming up with a stick, pointed at one end, sides smoothed from much handling. He was developing a fair hand at writing, with all the practice the fat man insisted upon. Every day he had to write a little, though last night was the first time he’d actually put pen to paper. For the most part, his writing lessons were confined to scratching in the sand or the dirt with the sharp end of the stick.

However, even with this crude method, his spelling and his letter formation had improved wondrously, such that the brawny man had joked that they might hire the lad out as a scribe, if they ever fell on hard times.

Red slept soundly in one corner, a slight if chilling smile on his face, and the young hobbit slept just as deeply a little way away, and the smile on Farry’s face was innocent, and full of peace, such that the young ruffian felt a pang. He was not yet hardened, as his companions, though the fat man would turn him into a “first rate” villain in no time, or so the ruffian chief boasted.

Patiently he wrote out each word as the fat man dictated.

‘Yes, your spelling is quite improved,’ the ruffian chief said, well satisfied. ‘Now let us try writing our little notes. The wording is important... there is a proper order, the way we do things. It makes everything go much more smoothly, when the order is observed. Now the hobbits won’t know what is to happen, but when we get back to inhabited parts, you will strike fear into the hearts of men, and they’ll take you seriously, and it’ll be because they’ll know exactly what you mean to do, if they don’t cooperate.’

‘So... if the hobbits won’t understand, what is the point...?’ the young ruffian asked, writing out the first of the ransom notes, as he’d been taught. Once the ruffian chief found it satisfactory, the apprentice would wipe the ground smooth and write the next in the series... and then the next... and so forth, until the last note, with its awful pronouncement of doom, was written.

Had little Farry known the content of the young ruffian’s writings, his dreams would have turned from comfort to nightmare—had he been able to sleep at all, that is. But he wandered, mercifully, in a happy dream, where his mum had tucked him up to sleep after a filling meal, and he was in his own little bed, warm and comfortable, and his da was spinning his favourite tale, the one where he and Merry were taken by Orcs, and Pippin dropped the brooch, and then they slept, and then they crawled away, escaped certain death by the use of their wits, and crept into the great forest of Fangorn where they would meet a new friend, and ally...