Chapter 21. Well Begun is Half Done

Tolly dragged load after load of rubbish to the hole he’d dug. He got quite practiced at hauling the blanket nearly to the edge, stepping round the top of the hole, and pulling the blanket over so that the contents fell nicely into the hole without any more handling on his part.

The day seemed to last a week as he trudged back and forth, back to the yard to pick up more debris, then to the hole to discard his load. It seemed the ruffian in charge had been a good judge of volume, for the hole was only a little over half full when Tolly straightened from dumping his last load and stopped, half bent, rubbing at his aching back.

‘Well?’ the growler said. ‘What’s stopping you?’

Tolly lifted his head to meet the ruffian’s gaze. ‘That’s all of it,’ he said wearily. ‘Done.’ At last this wearisome task would end, at last he’d be released, to stumble away into the golden afternoon. Despite the urgency of the news he bore, he’d have to find a resting place, to gather his strength until darkness fell, welcome dark that would cloak his travel homewards.

‘Done!’ the rope holder said, his tone incredulous.

There was a sharp poke at Tolly’s back. ‘We’ll be the ones to say when you’re done.’ Tolly’s heart sank, but he bolstered his courage with the thought that there was nothing more to pick up, unless they put him to digging protruding rocks out of the ground, or some other some such nonsense.

He wouldn’t put it past them.

‘Say when he’s done!’ the stick bearer growled. ‘O’ course we’ll say when he’s done... if it takes a fortnight!’

‘A month!’

‘A year, p’rhaps!’ Coarse laughter washed over him, and the stick poked him again, sharp enough to leave a fair bruise on his ribs as he stumbled forward.

With a hopeless, nightmare feeling, Tolly turned back towards the little house, dragging the blanket, searching the ground, but he’d done a thorough job.

Still, the ruffians had him picking up sticks for want of anything else, and eventually he had a blanket-full and the yard was scoured clean as if Anemone had swept it with her twig broom.

Slowly Tolly dragged this, his final load, back to the hole. The sun was westering in the sky, and good smells wafted on the breeze, cooking smells, some savoury supper roasting over a fire. Tolly’s stomach protested audibly, and the stick-bearing ruffian rewarded him with another sharp poke and a “Get along, now!”

Another ruffian sauntered to intercept them. Tolly stopped when his captors did. He had to; it was that or fall when he reached the end of his tether. He stood waiting, head down, listening, but hardly caring what was said, at first.

And then his head came up, as dark despair took him in the pit of his stomach.

His keepers were arguing with the messenger. ‘...Lockholes! But that’s a long way! A full day, or even two, for walking...!’

‘More like four days, at the pace he’ll be able to manage,’ came with another prod to Tolly’s back. It wasn’t a prompt to move so much as a way of making a point.

‘Then you’ll have a nice little walking holiday,’ the messenger jeered. ‘Chief decided it were better not to let the little blighter go, but to make an example of him.’

‘I thought that’s what we were doing all day!’ the growler said. ‘We made an example, all right, worked his hands bloody and his back bent until he can hardly stand! He’ll go back and tell his fellows what happens to skulkers, and they’ll stay tight indoors after this, and out of our way.’

‘Unless we want to collect them from their holes for a little honest work,’ the stick bearer said. ‘They’re so close to the ground, they do a real good job clearing away.’

‘Rubbish is clear, all right, all in the hole,’ the growler said. ‘Why don’t we tether him like a dog, keep him round to pick up the grounds? That’d be better than having to drag him all the way to the Lockholes.’

‘Just might gnaw through his tether,’ the messenger said with a sneer for the exhausted hobbit. ‘Besides, is it really all that clean? Swept, maybe, but not washed. How about you have him give the ground a good all around washing?’

‘Washing the ground? With a bucket and rag?’ the stick holder said, amazed. ‘Have you gone round the bend?’

‘No, with his tongue,’ the messenger said, giving Tolly a nudge with his boot that nearly unbalanced the hobbit. ‘Let him lick up the dust, like a good little doggie.’ He laughed at his own joke while Tolly swallowed hard, or tried to, considering the dryness of his mouth. He could nearly taste the dirt, wondered if the ruffians would truly implement this newest torment.

But when the messenger was done laughing, he said, ‘More’s the pity, for I’d dearly love to see him so clean the forest floor, but you’re to be off as soon as the hole’s filled in. Annie’s packed you something to eat, even now, so that you can be right off.’

‘Not even supper!’ the growler said in outrage.

‘O you’ll have your supper, all right, out of the bag,’ the messenger said. There was a heavy thudding noise, and Tolly saw from the corner of his eye a sack on the ground, filled with food, evidently. His stomach growled audibly, and the messenger looked at him with a laugh. ‘S’pose you’ll have to feed at least a handful of it to the rat, to keep him walking.’

‘Or just hold it in front of his nose, just out of reach, keep him moving along,’ the stick bearer said thoughtfully.

‘Make him carry it, any road,’ the rope holder said. ‘Make himself useful.’

‘There’s a good thought. Anyhow, chief says you take him to the Lockholes and come back, however long it takes, and he’ll expect you back in a week.’

‘Right,’ the growler said, sounding more cheerful all of a sudden. ‘A week, that’s plenty of time, even if he crawls all the way.’

‘I’d like to see that,’ the messenger said, with real regret in his tone at missing such a spectacle. ‘Well, see to it that the hole’s filled in, and we’ll be looking for you in a week’s time.’

‘Right,’ the growler said again, and the messenger took his leave. He turned to the exhausted, disheartened hobbit. ‘Throw that blanket in, atop the sticks, unless you want it for your bedding at the Lockholes.’

Tolly shuddered, thinking of such a thing, pushed the sticks into the hole, and dropped the blanket onto the tangled pile the sticks made.

The growler picked up the shovel, lying by the hole. ‘Now to fill it in.’

But instead of extending the tool to Tolly, he brought it down sharply on the hobbit’s head. Tolly staggered, seeing stars, and as he feebly lifted his hands in defence the shovel descended again with greater force, striking him to the ground. Dimly he felt a boot plant itself in his ribs, and then he was rolling, and falling...

He came to rest face down in the noisome mess, sharp ends of sticks poking him through the blanket, just another limp, torn doll among the hobbity detritus. Stunned, he lay still, hearing the voices above.

‘What...!’

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m not walking all the way to the Lockholes!’

‘But the chief...’

‘He said to fill in the hole, didn’t he? He said to be back in a week, didn’t he?’

‘He said...’

‘Well, I’ve a mind to do some fishing, see? And I’m not about to waste half a week dragging a little scum-sucker halfway across the land!’

‘Well...’

Sensing the other wavering, the murderous ruffian changed his tack. ‘You see, I’m right. No point in dragging him along such a long journey; he’s likely to die of exhaustion along the way. This is quicker, kinder for the little fellow.’

And something hard began to rain down on Tolly, and though he tried to move, to raise himself, the rain increased, and with both ruffians working away, one whistling cheerily and the other grunting with effort, soon the brightness of the sky disappeared, the weight that pressed him down grew ever heavier, and he was left in stifling darkness and silence.

His last regret was that he'd been sent off so hastily by the Thain, this trip, that he hadn't had the chance to kiss his mum goodbye.