[piosenniel]

Seven days down the road . . .

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It was late afternoon of what had started out as a very pleasant day. Tom the dog (that is what they had decided on calling him when Ben put his large Hobbit foot down and said he would not be mistaken for a great furry beast!) had managed to hunt down two rabbits, and had just brought them back to camp. Rosie, too, had been busy with her little snares, since they had called it quits early for this day of tramping. She and Ferd had been out in the nearby woods together, and had managed a trio of good-sized coneys themselves.

Ama and Penny had found a promising patch of leaves just outside the boundaries of the trees and had commandeered Ben and his pocket knife to come help them out. ‘There’s some good roots here for eating,’ cried Penny as she waved him over. ‘Come help us dig them up.’ ‘Look!’ said Ama, pointing in delight at a small bit of groundcover, ‘It’s wild sage. We can add a little flavor to the stew. And there! Wild onion!’

They were seven days into their trek northward. The weather had held steady and for many of the days they pushed hard from sun up to sundown, taking only a few mouthfuls of food as the went along. But today, they had decided to call an end to it early.

They deserved a rest, they told themselves. They were here, where the old forest met the low rolling hills just a short distance away. Old Bill had said this was where they would end up. All they had now was to go a short distance into that little rise to the east and they would be home. Or so he had said.

Miri and Olo had gone down to the small stream to wash out the old kettle they’d found in some rough camp they passed, abandoned by the Big Folk, they guessed. It was a treasure indeed, and filling it half full with water, they brought it sloshing back to the little camp. Falco was there, tending the fire, and the pot was soon propped on some rocks to boil.

Tubers and onion and sage, the trio of plant hunters returned, their offerings in hand. Tom laid his rabbits down by the others brought in by Rosie and Ferd, and sat, wagging his great tail, a half grin on his face as the smells of a meal in preparation assailed his nose.

Ben had motioned Miri to come with him, giving her half the onions and tubers to wash off. They knelt by the little stream that trickled out from under the eaves of the forest and hurried through their task.

The sun was getting lower in the sky, and a chilly breeze from the east, over that little rise of hilly country, made Ben shiver. The old, gnarled and twisted branches of the great trees that stood along the forest’s edge, creaked as the breeze hit them. And though it was only just summer, the dead dried leaves at their tips rattled drily against each other.

‘I don’t like the feel of those trees,’ whispered Ben to his companion, as they gathered up their now clean root vegetables. He hastened away from the forest and back toward the light of the little fire. ‘It has a strange feel to it. As if they don’t like us, or want us here . . .’

He glanced up to see Tom bounding toward them. ‘Good to see you, pup,’ he cried, running toward him, Mirabella following in his wake.

Behind them, unseen, it seemed as if the branches of the old trees reached out toward them, shaking their twiggy fingers at the cursed fire. And little shadows ran and flitted in the darkness of the tangled limbs . . .

[ June 24, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]