Missing...

Chapter 6. Missing...

As he headed southwest from Oatbarton towards Bindbole Wood on his rounds, Hawfinch Brownlock, one of three Shirriffs in the North Farthing, kept a wary eye on the sky. To the south, the clouds were mounting ever higher, as if they meant to climb all the way to the waxing crescent Moon, high in the sky and beginning his descent in pursuit of the westering Sun.

On reaching the small community of Berehyll, part-way between his starting point this morning and his destination in the Wood, seeing the curtains of rain beneath the towering clouds decided him. He'd stop early for the night – or at least until the fast-moving storm had passed over.

Berehyll was not much more than a cluster of smials surrounded by fields, but he was welcomed warmly by the farmers who appreciated his diligence in keeping watch over the condition of the fences and hedges and rounding up strays in his district. He visited farmsteads and villages on a regular basis and was always ready with a jest or a listening ear. Thus, he kept his ear to the ground, in a manner of speaking, and had built a reputation for identifying problems, such as an incursion of foxes or sheep-worrying dogs, before the farmers themselves.

Stopping and seeking shelter had been an excellent decision, he thought as he watched the rapid approach of the storm from under the eaves of the Fairfoot brothers' barn.

He and the two farmers winced as the sky seemed to split itself apart and a flaming bolt issued from the clouds. 'Did you see that?'

The three all jumped at the sharp crack of thunder that followed close – too close – on the heels of the brilliant spear of fire that had leapt from the heavens to the earth. 

'Comin' from the south,' Mundy Fairfoot said. 'I think it'll pass quickly, the way those clouds are moving. And that last bolt fell in the Wood, as it were.'

'Let's hope those clouds are carrying a load of rain, then,' Hawfinch said. 'I don't fancy fighting a wildfire this day or any other, for that matter.'

'You an' me both,' Gundy Fairfoot said, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he nodded at the horn attached to Hawfinch's saddle pad. 'But if you blow the Fire Call, you know we'll come a-galloping.'

'I know I can count on you,' Hawfinch said. 'My thanks.'

Gundy snorted. 'No need for thanks quite yet, anyhow,' he said. He ducked and grabbed at his broad-brimmed hat as a sudden heavy gust of wind slammed into the barn followed by a heavy deluge of rain that bucketed down in its wake. The farmer laughed, holding onto his hat with one hand, and slapped the Shirriff's back with the other. 'There's your rain, Shirriff!'

'If only all my wishes were answered so promptly!' Hawfinch answered. His hat hadn't blown away because he was already holding it securely under his arm.

'What would be the sport in that?' Mundy wanted to know.

'None at all!' Hawfinch said, and chuckled. 'But sometimes, between you and me, I could use a little less sport and a little more certainty.'

'Naught's certain when you're a farmer,' Gundy said. 'So it's probably a good thing you're a Shirriff.'

*** 

Some time later, Hawfinch thought about these words as he drew up his pony and gazed with dismay at the hat floating in the bog that formed a natural hazard on the eastern side of the Wood. Smaller than Rushock Bog to the west of the Wood, it could still prove deadly to any animals – or hobbits – that blundered onto the marshy ground. 'Good thing to be a Shirriff, eh?' he said to himself.

He took out his horn, drew a deep breath, and blew the Bog Call as loud as he could.

It was not long before local hobbits, including the farmers who'd offered the Shirriff shelter from the storm began to gather at the edge of the swamp in response to the call, unlit lanterns in their hands and coils of rope over their shoulders. Several held shepherd's crooks, and a few others had fishing poles, each equipped with a long line and heavy hook.

'Spread out!' Hawfinch told them. 'Spread out along the edge! Keep a sharp eye out for any sign of a hobbit or pony...'

The floating hat was close enough for a hobbit with a crook to reach it and retrieve it. No need for the fishers to cast their lines this time.

'No sign where he went in,' a gaffer said. 'Not on this side, at least.'

'The deluge might've washed away any such sign,' Havers Frog-catcher said, straightening up from his examination of the soggy expanse between the grassy meadow and the tufts of iron-grass marking where solid footing ended and danger began. 

'With that wind we had earlier, could someone's hat have simply blown off his head and ended up here?' Rocky Gadwall, one of the fisher-folk suggested.

'Which way was it blowing?' Hawfinch said.

'Every which way,' the gaffer answered. 'But the heart o' the storm passed over this side o' the Wood... a gust might've blown the hat from that direction.'

'A traveller, you think?' Mundy said.

'A traveller could as well have taken the wrong fork and ended in the bog,' someone said.

'Or he rode into the Wood and his hat blew off!' Rocky insisted.

'Look! Hunters!' the gaffer pointed, and the hobbits who were spreading out along the edge of the bog stopped to look at two figures emerging from the Wood at a gallop.

Hawfinch waved his hat in the air and received answering waves from the on-comers who were rapidly approaching.

They pulled up so abruptly that one of the ponies reared in protest, and its rider had some trouble bringing the beast under control. 'Shirriff!' the other rider gasped. 'You've got to come!'

'What is it?' Hawfinch asked.

'The Wood!' said the hunter – Hawfinch seemed to remember he was a north-Took. 'Pony!'

'A rider?' Hawfinch guessed.

But the north-Took had wheeled his beast around and was already galloping back in the direction he'd come from.

'Take charge o' the search,' the Shirriff told Rocky.

The fisher, all too familiar with searching the edge of the bog for signs that a hobbit or animal had come to grief, nodded and waved at him. 'Go!'

But Hawfinch was already galloping after the hunter, even as the second rider finally brought his pony under control and stopped to tell the searchers what he and his brothers had found just inside the Wood.

*** 

'D'you suppose we ought to send another Messenger to Bindbole Farm?' Pippin asked, rolling his shoulders back and stretching after a long morning at his desk. 'Tolly's been gone for the better part of a week now!'

'A week tomorrow,' Ferdi said.

'To be precise,' Regi added.

'Let us be precise, at all cost!' Pippin said. 'But really! What do you suppose the hobbit is doing?'

'Well if half the stories about Bolham the Red I've heard are true,' Ferdi said, 'then he's probably been riveted, listening to more tales of how the north-Tooks confounded the ruffians who dared to enter the Wood!'

'Or perhaps Bolham o' the north-Tooks is keeping our Messenger longer in order to hear more about their relatives, the Tooks, under similar circumstances,' Regi said.

'Well in that case, sending another Messenger – or more of them – seems counter-productive, doesn't it?' Pippin said. 'A grand old time they'd have, swapping tales and debating strategies... We might never see any of our Messengers again! They might just decide to stay in the North-lands as my wife's illustrious ancestor Bandobras did!'

'None of your nonsense now, Pip,' Reginard remonstrated. 'And for all we know, Tolly might be on his way home even as we speak.'

'I might go,' Ferdibrand offered.

Pippin stared him down. 'Have you already forgot?' he said severely. 'Is the bloom already off the rose? You married my sister less than a fortnight ago! And you're already volunteering to travel to the North-lands and, quite possibly, never return?'

'I should have every intention of returning,' Ferdi said, meeting the Thain's stern look squarely. 'I should imagine that I'd be the least likely to stay in the North-lands of any of the hobbits of the Thain's escort! If, of course, the danger were real and not simply a piece of whimsy.' He shook his head. 'Really!'

'Really what?' Pippin asked.

'It's not my place to say... Sir,' Ferdi replied.

'Speak your mind, Ferdibrand,' Pippin said. 'And why are you "Sir"-ing me all of a sudden?'

Ferdi glanced at Regi and then looked back to his younger cousin. 'Pip,' he said. 'Speaking cousin-to-cousin...'

'Yes?' Pippin said, while Regi raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'Although I must say that Sir seems out of place in that context.'

'And as a former head of escort, as well as a former hobbit of the escort,' Ferdi said.

'Ah well, I suppose Sir might fit in that case—'

'Pippin!' Ferdi snapped. He ran his hand over his head, uncomfortable now that he had the Thain's and Steward's complete and unblinking attention. 'If you would be so good as not to make a jest of your hobbits of escort, or aim your whimsy in their direction...'

'I beg your pardon, Ferdi?' Pippin said, but he was seeking clarity rather than forgiveness.

'Our job – their job,' Ferdi said, correcting himself since he was now Pippin's special assistant, in part because of an injury that had constrained his ability as an archer. He would never again know the thrill of shooting in the Tournament against the best archers in the Shire. Though serving as a hobbit of the Thain's escort had been his highest goal in years past, he'd never again qualify as an escort. 

A shadow of pain crossed his face which he quickly wiped away, but not before the others had seen it.

'Ferdi, I—' Pippin said, completely serious now, and stopped. He held up his hand. 'I make their job much more difficult, I know,' he said, 'with my constant grumbling about the need for the escort.'

'And the job is difficult enough without making a joke of it,' Regi added quietly. He had previously argued this point with Pippin himself, but the hard-headed young Thain had not heeded him. He supposed the plaint meant more, coming from one of the hobbits directly affected.

'I beg your pardon, Ferdi,' Pippin said, and this time he was offering an apology for his thoughtlessness.

At that moment, there was a tap on the door, and Isenard, the escort currently on duty outside the Thain's study stuck his head in at the door. 'Post, Sir, from the North Farthing.'

Regi rose to take the missive from the escort's hand with a quiet word of thanks, and Isen nodded and left the study to take up his station once more, closing the heavy door behind him.

Pippin looked at the envelope. 'From Bolham himself,' he said. 'I wonder...' But he refrained from making any obvious jokes about Tolly extending his stay further for whatever reason. He broke the seal, lifted the flap, and extricated the folded paper from within. Ferdi and Regi watched the play of expression across his face as he read... mild interest, confusion, dawning realisation, consternation.

'What is it?' the Steward said as the moments stretched out. 'What's happened?'

At about the same time Pippin was saying, 'Bolham writes to ask when he might expect our agent to arrive...' there was another knock at the study door, and Isen was announcing, 'The Mayor, Sir.'

Samwise Gamgee entered, a hat on his head, another in his hand and his expression solemn. A Shirriff accompanied him, some torn and blackened saddlebags hanging from his hand. 

'Sam!' Pippin said, rising from his chair, the open letter in his hand momentarily forgotten. 'We didn't expect you! Why didn't you send word you were coming?'

'I didn't know I was coming,' the Mayor replied, 'but urgent news came to me from the North Farthing, and so I rode down here at once...' He indicated his companion. 'If I may introduce Hawfinch Brownlock, one of my Shirriffs in the North Farthing...'

'At your service, Sir,' Hawfinch said with a bow, his face expressionless. He moved to the Thain's desk and deposited the saddlebags. 'We found these... and the remains of documents within them, when we were able to piece enough of the fragments together, indicated that the pony belonged to one of the Thain's Messengers...'

'The pony?' Regi asked after a moment of silence, when it seemed everyone in the room had been struck dumb.

'The pony's alive – badly injured, but alive, and it may even recover with time and care,' the Shirriff said.

'What happened?' Pippin said numbly.

'Struck by lightning,' Hawfinch said. 'The beast's lucky to be alive at all, considering...'

'And the Messenger?' Ferdi said sharply, rising from his chair.

'I'm sorry,' Hawfinch said. 'I've no easy answers for you.'

***