Osle took he baby from the flagging Avice, and held out his hand to help her up the bank. “It’s not far now”
“You said that an hour ago.“ mumbled Ceo groggily.
Enid smiled to herself. She didn’t need Osle to tell her where she was. Hadn’t she traveled these same trails for most all of sixty years? She had followed Ruddoc through this same area when she was carrying Osle. But the family had walked since they had left the old peddler, near two days ago. They were now some twenty miles from Old Ford, and finally felt safe enough to seek another hole to spends a few days before continuing South.
A waning moon glimmered on the broad, black flow of the Anduin below them as they came to the top of the bank. Osle signaled with his hand for the others to stop, handed Lianth to his mother, and crept forward to scout the smial. Most of the holes were protected by strong herbs and incantations meant to discourage animals from taking over the site between occupants, but one never knew when bear, cat or wolf might move in. Avice had a fine cloak made from the skin of just such a trespasser. Or used to have it. It had been left behind when they fled.
Silently the hobbit crept forward, checking the ground for signs of recent life. Then he stole slowly towards the mouth of the smial.
“It’s taken!”
Osle leapt back in surprise, and the rest of the family jumped and clutched each other, startled awake by the raucous voice.
Then Osle laughed out loud. Laughed for the first time since the hill top. “Well, surely there is room to share with a hungry, tired family, Frodo?”
Out of the hole-mouth popped the most disreputable, rumpled, Hobbit anyone was liable to see. He had to be at least one hundred, He could have been older than that. His back was crooked, one eye was glazed by a milky cataract. When he smiled it could be seen that more than half his teeth were gone. Above his lip and on his chin hung white stringy wisps of whiskers. His feet were white too, and remarkably furry, even for the Halfling Folk. He wore a leather vest, winter and summer, and his ragged trews were held up by a very old, but genuine piece of Elven rope, of which he was very proud.
All in all, Frodo the Stoor was the most miserable, mangy example of Halfling Kind that anyone was like to find in these parts. Everyone loved him.
He grinned widely at the family and made a grand gesture for them to enter the den. Then his arm dropped and his smile faded as he looked over the people before them, and scanned their faces.
“Where’s Ruddoc?” he asked, quietly and sadly.
[ September 14, 2002: Message edited by: Birdland ]
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