...Presumed...

Chapter 8. ...Presumed...

Old Gorbyl north-Took looked out on the bright morning and breathed deeply. As his eyes had begun to dim, his senses of smell and hearing had seemed to grow stronger as if in compensation. Instead of reminding him of a cake too long in the oven, overbaked and on the verge of burning, as had been his impression of the Wood for the past week or more in the unseasonably warm temperatures, the air he smelled carried the impression of fresh greenery, leaf mould and damp soil. The recent storm seemed to have washed the air clean, and the heat had not returned. Today, the old hobbit deemed, just like yesterday and the day before, would be a pleasantly warm autumn day once the Sun chased away the night's chill. Summer's heat was well behind them. 'Lovely!' he said aloud.

'Grandfa?' young Gorbol, his oldest grandson said in response.

'No storms today,' the old herb-gatherer said. 'And with the heat spell broken... The bees will be out and about, gathering their winter supply of food, I warrant. But the berries that were drenched in the storm will be dry by now, and we must gather them while we may, for the frost faeries will be visiting us sooner than later, I deem.'

Though he was only fifteen, Gorbol immediately identified his grandfa's purpose. 'So we're to pick all the berries we can find, I take it?'

'And bring them back, and spread them on the screens in the Sun to dry,' Gorbyl said, well pleased. But then, his grands, first fatherless when his younger son had not returned from the hunt and then motherless when Dove had died after little Lark's birth, had grown up too quickly over the past decade. The old hobbit had raised Lark on goat's milk, and he'd modified a backpack to hang on his front with the babe cradled against his chest as he went about his days, and he'd fashioned harnesses for her brothers, only faunts when his daughter-in-love had died soon after childbearing, and tied them to himself with slender ropes when he went out of the little cottage, whether to milk the goat, or feed and brush Wren, their bog pony, or chop wood, or gather herbs to bind, dry and sell at market or for some other reason.

At fifteen and twelve, Gorbol and his younger brother Flamol no longer had to be tethered like goats or dogs as their grandfather considered them big enough now to range freely in the vicinity. The lads were relatively tall, like their north-Took grandfather and father before them, and as long as they stayed together, they'd be relatively safe from foxes during the day and owls at night. However, Lark, who was only ten, was only allowed to leave the house with her grandfather or a brother, though Gorbyl no longer employed harness and tether. Truly he'd learned much of child-rearing since Dove's death, when he'd suddenly had to deal with two faunts and a babe with no one else to turn to, even to answer his questions.

'Go with your brothers, Lark,' he told his granddaughter, 'but stay close!'

'O course, Grandfa!' the little one laughed. 'Don't I always?'

Gorbyl put on his fiercest expression. 'Do you, now?' he said.

'We'll keep one eye on her and one on the berries, Grandfa,' Flamol said.

'I dunno why, but that worries me,' Gorbyl said. 'Now, out wit' ye! And I'll have a fine baking of bread and a simmering stew to greet you when you come home. And wit' the milk chilling in the spring, we can have berries and milk for our sweet dish this day!'

Cheering, the two older brothers matched their little sister's shorter stride as they headed down the path to the bramble bushes Gorbyl had preserved, a wild berry-garden of sorts. He pruned them as needed to keep them from overgrowing the entire area, and he trimmed away thorns from the branches on a regular basis to spare his grands at least some scratches when they went to gather the brambles' bounty. 

The old hobbit watched the little procession from the door, marvelling anew at the gift of their presence in his life, unexpected brightness that shone amidst the shadows of loss. As if in response to the grandfa's thoughts, the Sun smiled upon the childer when they crossed from the shade of one tree to that of another, turning little Lark's red-gold curls to flame and causing her brothers' darker auburn heads to glow like smouldering embers. Their grandfa watched until they passed into the shade further along the path, banking the fires atop their heads, after a manner of speaking, and then he turned back to his meal preparations.

Humming, he cut up venison and wild onions and wild garlic and taters and carrots from the small garden he kept, added sweet water from the spring, sprinkled salt and seasoning, and set the stewpot on its tripod over the coals from the fire he'd sparked to cook their breakfast. Then he built up a fire in the clay-lined brick oven and shut the door for it to do its work heating the clay enough to bake the loaves of bread resting on the well-scrubbed table. Nothing else needed doing; the childer had made up the beds, and Lark had swept the floors whilst her brothers chopped and stacked firewood and the old hobbit had cleaned up from breakfast.

While waiting for the berry-pickers, he pulled out his pipe and began to stuff it with some Old Toby he'd bought in the market at Bolton earlier in the summer. 'Job well done,' he told himself.

But a sudden scream – Lark! – and shouts from the direction of the berry-patch had him fumbling his pipe as he was about to light it. He shoved the pipe into his pocket, pipe-weed and all, and tossed the flaming twig on the coals beneath the stewpot, before grabbing up his bow and quiver and hurrying down the path to the berry-garden.

When he reached the edge of the brambles, the old hobbit found the youngsters huddled together, the lads shoulder-to-shoulder and Gorbi holding little Lark tight to himself, hiding her face in his shirt. 'Don't look, Lark!' the grandfa heard the lad saying before he'd even reached them. 'Don't look!'

'What is it, my dears?' he said, replacing the arrow he held into the quiver when he determined no immediate danger seemed to be threatening.

'He's dead! He's dead – I think...' Flam said unsteadily, huddling closer to his older brother. Gorbi, still holding Lark close, put a comforting arm around his younger brother, though Gorbyl suspected the older lad could use a bit of comforting himself. Their baskets lay abandoned to one side, partly filled with berries, one of the baskets spilling its contents onto the ground.

'Who's dead?' he asked.

Flam pointed a shaking finger into the midst of the brambles.

The old hobbit shrugged the bow and quiver more securely onto his shoulder and followed the pointing finger, easing his way into the berry patch, cautious of thorns despite the regular trimming he did. He smelled the sweetness of ripe berries, the rich damp of the duff on the forest floor, the green of the leaves... and something else, a faint whiff reminiscent of something scorched, he thought, like bread he remembered making, when he'd first been learning to bake it and had been obliged to trim away some burnt parts of the crust.

As he passed through the centre of the large patch of brambles, heading towards the far side, he saw something there that didn't belong, half-hidden under the broad, jagged-edged leaves, a shape... a form... that resolved itself into a body. A hobbit!

He forgot all caution and sustained a long, painful scratch on his arm as he hurried forward and bent to lay his hand on the hobbit's neck. Ignoring his own discomfort, he slid his palm down to the pulse-point on the fellow's throat. 'He's alive,' he muttered, and heard a variety of responses from his grands: a sob, a gasp, a sharp exclamation...

The old hobbit looked over his shoulder. 'Childer!' he ordered. 'Go and fetch Wren! We'll need him to help us bring this wanderer to the cot... But hurry!'

While waiting for his grands to bring the pony, he slipped the hobbit's quiver and bow case from his shoulder and laid them aside, idly noting the fletching on the flight of arrows in the quiver. 'My Wallas liked to use that same blue colour for the fletching of his arrows,' he murmured. Of course there was no answer from his companion.

He shook his head at himself and slowly and carefully began to feel the fellow's limbs for breaks. Next, he checked the back of the hobbit's torso and extremities for wounds. He didn't want to turn the fellow over until they were ready to move him, and truth be told, he wasn't sure they ought to move him. Though, o' course, they couldn't very well leave him where he was lying, now, could they?

Along with bruises and scratches, he found unexpected burns to the skin. The scorched smell came from the hobbit's clothing, as if he'd been surrounded by fire some time earlier. 'It's a puzzle,' he said to himself. 'Hullo, young fellow,' he said, though he expected no answer, considering the poor shape the hobbit appeared to be in. 'Can ye hear me? Where did these burns come from?'

No answer.

'How ever did ye come to be in our berry-patch, I wonder?' he muttered. Of course, he heard no answer to that question, either.

And then the children were there, all three of them riding upon the bog pony, breathless and eager to be of some kind of help. 'Here we are, Grandfa!' little Lark sang. Gorbi slid down and lifted little Lark off the pony's back, then stepped aside to give Flam room to dismount.

'I'm going to turn ye over now, my friend,' Gorbyl said to the unconscious hobbit, for it seemed the right thing to warn the fellow he was about to be moved so as not to startle him if he were even a little aware of his surroundings. 'Here we...' He eased the limp body over onto its back – and stared. 'Wallas?' he whispered, dumbfounded.

True, his eyes were not what they had been, making it difficult to make out the hobbit's features clearly. Moreover, the face of the hobbit lying before him was scraped and battered, making recognition that much more difficult... But it couldn't be that his younger son and father of his grands, gone missing these ten years, had found his way back home again? Or could it somehow be possible? 

*** 

As gently as might be done, Gorbyl and the children lifted the tall, heavy hobbit onto the pony. It helped that Wren was small for a pony, but even so, the old hobbit was startled by a warning pain in his chest that did not wane immediately once they'd secured the unconscious fellow face-down over the pony's back.

To cover his unease, he raised his voice and said, 'Now, Gorbi, you and Flam walk on Wren's off-side, to keep him from sliding off, for I hardly think he'll be able to stand on his own two feet – whilst Lark and I walk on his near-side and do our best to keep him from falling on his head.'

'Yes Grandfa,' the three children answered as one.

The old hobbit turned the pony towards the cottage and clicked his tongue to signal a slow walk. Wren tossed his head and stepped off, not seeming to mind his burden or the hobbits walking to either side. But then, Gorbyl had trained him to accept a rider mounting from his off-side and not only his near-side, not a common practice but one he'd learned to value when riding out against the ruffians during the time of the Troubles.

When they reached the cot, Gorbyl told his grandsons to stand on either side of the pony and wait; he hurried up the step and inside, rubbing unconsciously at the twinge still echoing in his chest, at least until he reached the blanket press and pulled out a heavy coverlet.

'Here,' he said, laying it between the pony and the cot. 'We'll just ease him down off Wren's off-side, feet first – sit him down, then lie him as we roll him to the ground... Wren! Stand!' 

And together, they suited word to action, with little Lark dancing between the coverlet and Wren's lowered head, patting the velvet muzzle. 'Good pony!' she praised. 'Good Wren!' For Wren stood as still as he'd been taught. And there he'd stay, Gorbyl knew from experience, for hours, if need be. (Or until something frightened him enough to make him bolt in a panic, for that was the nature of ponies as prey animals.)

With the help of the coverlet, they dragged the injured hobbit into the cot and to Gorbyl's own bed, for Wallas and Dove's room had been closed off since the day Dove had left them. No doubt there'd be dust to deal with, and the bedlinens were ten years overdue for washing.

With a little more effort that had the old hobbit's heart hammering in his chest, he and his grandsons wrestled the limp, heavy body onto the bed, and Gorbyl sank down to sit next to him with a sigh. 'There,' he said with a cautious pat, considering the fellow's injuries. 'Gorbi, d'you think you could manage a pot o' tea? For us, if not for this fellow? And... But where's Lark gone off to? She's not gone back outside, has she? She's not out there alone with the pony!?'

But then the little lass stood in the doorway, cradling something to her chest. 'Is it...?' she said, eyes as wide as Gorbyl had ever seen them. 'But isn't it...? Could it be...?'

'What have you got there, lass?' Gorbyl said. 'What is it, you're asking?'

'You said "Wallas",' she whispered. 'I heard you! Is it... Is he... my da?' And she lowered the framed likeness she'd been hugging, the likeness she'd taken from the mantel over the hearth in the main room, painted upon a sunny day at the market in exchange for a few coins, a smiling couple holding hands and obviously in love with life and each other.

'What do ye...' young Gorbi said, falling to his knees beside his sister and placing his hand over his sister's smaller hand holding the frame. He looked down at the rendering, and then to the battered hobbit on the bed. Though the bruises and swelling made for some difficulty, the hobbit on the bed and the one in the picture might have been cousins... or brothers... or... 'Da?' he said, and burst into tears of wonder and joy.

***