Chapter 65. We reach our destination

Staddle, the first cluster of dwellings on the way to Archet, hugging the south-eastern slopes of the Bree-hill, is not our destination, as it turns out. No, but we gallop through the village, with hobbits cheering us on our way. The place is much different than I remember from the time before I became a wanderer in the wildlands. A high, roughly-built wall now surrounds and guards the dwellings on three sides (the bulk of the Bree-hill, with its vineyards and pipe-weed fields, forms a natural barrier on the fourth side, just as it does for the town of Bree), and hobbits armed with bows stand upon steps fastened inside the wall, enabling them to stand high enough to look over the wall or step down to duck behind its protection. This barrier is broken only by heavy gates at the north and south ends which stand open at the time of our passing, as if the villagers were awaiting us. (And perhaps they were?) 

The crowds of hobbits are thicker at the openings in the barrier, and while the villagers we pass in the middle of the town appear to be unarmed, arrested in the middle of going about their daily business, all those near the gates bear weapons and grim expressions – belatedly, I realise that they are the gate guards. Whereas the Hobbits living in the town of Bree serve as guards and watchers on the walls that supplement the Hedge and Dike, and Men guard the Gates of the town, Staddle is the main settlement of the Hobbits living in the Bree-land, and the village boasts more Hobbits than Men. Thus, many of the guards and villagers here are Hobbits.

Not long (at a galloping pace, at least) after we leave Staddle behind, the land begins to rise to either side of us, forming a valley with ever-steepening sides as we approach the village of Combe. Indeed, the steep slopes that define the valley running between them rise high and daunting to either side of Combe. Here, the inhabitants have also built walls, but only at the ends where the road enters and leaves the village. These walls run from one slope to the other, encompassing both town and fields, and like the other settlements, includes gates to grant access or, alternatively, bar intruders.

These gates, too, yawn open before us (though weapon-bearing Men and Hobbits stand just outside them). A horn blows as we approach, and when we gallop through the first gate, entering the village proper, the empty road stretches before us, for the folk within the walls have evidently heeded the announcement of our coming and have crowded to the sides. They, too, cheer us as we sweep past them.

Not far beyond the village, we come upon a small group of woodsmen who are felling trees, whether for fuel or shelter or some other purpose, I do not know. Archers guard them, and all of them, archers and foresters, wave at us as we go by.

Since Bert shows no sign of stopping me, I can only assume that our destination is Archet, home to rather more Men than Hobbits, tucked under the skirts of the Chetwood. I do not have long to wonder how a wall might be built to enclose the inhabitants and guard them from the robbers hiding in the woods beyond the village, much less the dark shapes I saw in the Wood, and not far from the Road, at that.

Many of those who call Archet home are woodmen, and the protection they have built to safeguard their dwellings testifies to their skill at their trade. A solid wall of tree trunks rises from the ground before us, the tops sharpened into points resembling teeth – sharp fangs, rather – and about as accommodating as a mouthful of fangs might be to any attackers that might think to jump up or climb a ladder placed against the wooden wall.

I remember Archet as a pleasant, sleepy place, dappled with shade from the surrounding trees, but the village has been altered almost beyond recognition. Where the village and the Chetwood upon a time mingled amiably, the forest eaves extending over the roofs as if offering shelter, I see fallen trees outside the wall, cut down such that their new-leaf-crowned canopies stretch away from the wooden wall and the village it encloses, cut down in haste and left to lie, stretching impotently along the ground instead of to the skies, seemingly abandoned in place, and not even the branches trimmed away. The smell of sap oozing from freshly-cut lumber rises from the closest woody casualty.

Smoke is rising from beyond the bristling wall, considerably more smoke than we saw as we passed through Staddle and Combe, and when we follow the road to an entrance, the gate – shut tight – looms forbiddingly before us. However, as in Combe, a horn heralds our arrival, and even as Bert signals me and, almost at the same time, I slow my pace, the heavy gate swings open to greet us. 

Though we passed through Staddle and Combe in haste, and thus I might be mistaken in my surmises, those two places conveyed much the same impression as Bree-town: people going about their daily business and life going on much as usual, safeguarded in these uncertain times by walls and barriers and sturdy gates. But Archet...

The atmosphere here reminds me distressingly of Bree after the ruffians' attack. The damage is worse here; in addition to several piles of rubble, some buildings still standing are charred and still smoking, and Men form a line, passing buckets of water from one hand to the next from the well at the centre of the community to a building where fresh flames still crackle and hiss with steamy displeasure as the final Men in the line throw the water aimed to quench them. Sooty faces abound, many of the shirts or tunics of male and female villagers alike are missing their sleeves, and the skirts and petticoats of the women I see are torn, some to the knees of the wearer. I know what that means – fabric has been torn away to form compresses and bandages.

Worst of all, bodies still lie in the dusty street.

Made uneasy by my surroundings, I cannot help prancing as Bert slides from my back. But his hand goes out to my neck, soothing and anchoring me, and he speaks nonsense words in a sing-song tone, much like that I've heard from his uncle, this-Bob, when quieting an anxious beast. Incomprehensible as they may be, the words speak to me of calm and safety, giving me the strength to quiet my restless feet and stand steady at last.

Still resting his hand on my neck, the tween turns to the Man and Hobbit who have jogged to meet us despite the obvious exhaustion that clings to them like the smoke that pervades their clothing. The Man is already extending a hand as he reaches us, and so Bert slides the bag he carries from his shoulder and holds it out. The package within must be heavy, I realise, from the way it weighs down Bert's arm. 

'Here,' my rider says. 'Healer Pickthorn – the Younger – is coming behind me.'

'Not alone!' exclaims the Man, eagerly seizing the bundle and then handing it off to another, hovering behind him, who takes the seemingly precious baggage and hurries away, towards one of the intact buildings. 

Bert is quick to reassure him. 'Not alone, but afoot, unfortunately. We've no beasts for him or his guards to ride – all were sent out to the fields to plough not long after daybreak...'

'About the time we were beating off our attackers,' the Hobbit mutters.

Bert nods. 'Your messenger got through by riding all the way at a gallop, as did we, my brave Bill and I. If any rogues were lying in wait to waylay us, we did not see them.'

The Man closes his eyes and wipes at his forehead with a soot-grimed hand, while the Hobbit heaves a sigh of relief. 'We didn't know,' he says so low, it is almost a whisper. 'We hoped – but we did not know if our appeal would reach Bree-town, much less the healer!' 

'I brought all the inn's supplies of salve and balm, powders and healing herbs, gathered in haste and not too much for a pony to carry at a gallop all the way; and those who follow me will bring a larger quantity of supplies from the store-house. I hope...' and here, the tween's voice trails off, as if he is not quite sure what words should follow.

But a raised voice is calling, and the Man jerks to attention and turns his head. He waves, and turning back to us, he begins to speak.

'Go,' Bert urges him.

Closing his mouth, the Man nods. His eyes gleam with more than the light of the Sun shining through the clouds above us. A tear spills over onto his cheek, and he reaches to wipe it away, murmuring something that might be a word of thanks.

As his companion turns away, the Hobbit remains with us, and he speaks. 'We've no stables to offer your pony rest, much less hay or grain,' he says. 'In the darkness before dawn, when watchers may grow sleepy after the long watch, some of the rogues climbed trees overhanging the wall – I would scarcely credit it, but they did just that. They dropped softly to the ground and crept through the shadows to the gate – and had it open before the alarm could be sounded. As for what happened after...'

'I know enough, and the rest I can surmise,' Bert answers, and the older hobbit nods.

'They fired a number of roofs, and the stables into the bargain, to sow fear and confusion, and some of the robbers drove away horses and cows and ponies as the battle raged along with the flames. Of the beasts we saved, only one was uninjured – the mare our messenger rode...'

'She is safe and well at The Prancing Pony,' Bert assured him, 'and in the skilled hands of our ostler, who is practically a pony himself! Your messenger said he'd return with the body accompanying Master Pickthorn and leave her to rest and recover; she may serve as a pack beast for the relief party we plan to send on the morrow with additional supplies, that is, if our ostler deems her fit by that time. I'm to take your message back with me, as to what is most urgently needed in the wake of the attack and the destruction done by the rotters.'

'Back with you!' the older hobbit says, startled. 'But...'

Bert pats my neck as he answers proudly. 'Bill-here is a fine, strong beast; why, that little gallop of less than five miles has hardly quickened his breathing!'

'He's sweated...'

'But not yet lathered,' Bert counters. 'And his breathing has nearly returned to what it should be, even in the short time we have stood here talking. A little water, the chance to graze some of the fresh spring grass, and he'll be ready to return to Bree, and at a gallop that will daunt any hovering ruffians who might seek such a prize as my bonny Bill!'

Our host points and says, 'Just past those intact buildings – the ones that didn't burn – you will find a greensward. Your Bill is in luck, for we haven't allowed any of our beasts to graze there yet, waiting for the grass to grow thick and lush before we open the ground to grazing.'

'Happy thought indeed!' Bert says lightly, though I see the strain in his face and can smell his distress at our surroundings, mirroring my own. 'Then, Master Brockhouse, I will see to Bill's needs, and be ready to take your list of needs back with me in an hour or two.'

'You must see to your own needs as well,' the older hobbit answers. 'We'll do our best to scour out a meal for you, be it only bread and cheese, washed down with well-water. Someone will bring it to you presently.'

'I can ask for nothing more,' Bert says with a bow.

But the older hobbit shakes his head. 'You could ask for a great deal more, once we've come past this disaster,' he says. He sways a little as he turns away to his next order of business, and Bert reaches to steady him. His smile is infinitely weary as he thanks the tween and then stands straighter, brushing off the helping hands. 'I am well,' he says – speaking falsehood, surely – 'but I must be about my business. Fare well, brave Bill,' he adds to me, raising his hand in a sort of salute.

I nod, and his smile seems more genuine as he turns and moves away at a slow trot.

'Come along, Bill,' Bert says, taking my rein to lead me. 'Your banquet awaits.'

While the words sound promising, I cannot seem to find comfort in them here, amidst the ruin left behind by the recent assault. Indeed, Bert cannot lead me in a straight line to the grazing ground, but must make a wide curve to avoid one of the bodies still sprawled upon the ground.

As we pass the bloody, twisted form, the Man's smell stirs a memory from deep within me. Vervain. It is the carter and merciless whipper of horses who lies dead nearby, here in the marketplace of this small, remote village that the eaves of the Chetwood once stretched out to shelter and shade. The trees that surrounded the town are no more, for they have been struck down and lie dead, no more to be useful to robbers who would climb over the protecting wall to sow destruction; just as the carter lies to one side of our path, never to rise again. He will abuse no more of my kind.

***