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Fordogrim awoke with a start and knew that it had been more than an hour since he’d fallen asleep with thoughts of his home in his heart and nothing in his stomach. Looking about he could see the younger hobbits gathering up twigs to use for kindling and bringing water from the creek. Some families, having tired of waiting for the cooking fires they’d been promised by the Bolger boys, had decided to make do with what they could by way of cold leftovers from their Luncheon. Fordogrim dragged himself to his feet and looked about for his family, but Henry and May were nowhere to be seen and Sarah and Harold had not returned from the forest yet. For the first time since setting out on the journey Fordogrim felt a real sense of misgiving.
The night had now come on full but it was a clear night with a bright moon so the old hobbit had no trouble finding his heavy cloak amongst the baggage. Pulling it about him against the chill he stepped away from the cart to look for someone who might have news of the scouting party. Stout snickered at him as he stepped away, but Fordogrim only patted the pony’s neck distractedly. Stout’s snicker turned into a nervous whinny and he stamped his feet twice. The pain in Fordogrim’s leg was lessened, but his old joints were terribly stiff from their fall, followed by a long day in the saddle. He had to lean fairly heavily on his cane as he walked through the ring of carts. He moved past most of the families with only a curt greeting, the return to which was inevitably just as brusque. There were some few hobbits in the convoy who remembered that it was Fordogrim who had earned them their Luncheon, and their gratitude for that made them somewhat friendlier, but most of the people here were of generations much younger than his, and Fordogrim hardly knew any of them.
After a few minutes of looking he found Fredigar polishing off the last of the mushroom pie that he’d brought for his Luncheon. Fordogrim was disappointed not to have found Fred earlier, when there might still have been a chance to enjoy some of it. To Fordogrim’s delight, however, Fredigar smiled to see his father’s old friend and offered him some cold sausage and cheese. The elderly hobbit gratefully accepted it and set to. From somewhere, Fredigar produced a small cask of beer, and to Fordogrim’s eternal delight he poured him out a small cup. “Well Fredigar my lad,” Fordogrim said around a mouthful of sausage, “What’s happened to that fool son of mine and his wife and all those that followed Marcho into that?” and he nodded his head toward the woods.
Fredigar looked at the dark trees, now black and ominous in the night. “I don’t rightfully know Mr. Chubb, but it’s an awful stretch of time they’ve been gone. Do you think they’re having trouble finding wood?”
“In there?” Fordogrim asked. “Not likely. An old forest like that’s bound to have scaddles of old wood laying about. The only folk as would have picked it up before us would have more sense than to have come out here in the first place.” Fredigar had to work this out a bit for himself, and Fordogim used the interval it afforded to drain (and refill) his cup of beer. “No,” he continued when he saw that the younger hobbit had worked his previous sentence through, “they’re more than likely lost.” He tried to keep the note of worry in his voice as slight as possible. “Mark my words, Fredigar, we’ll be a-having to organise a rescue party for those folks as went in there, before this night is much more advanced. You’ll see.” At this prospect Fredigar looked truly alarmed and he stared at the forest with open fear. Fordogrim stood up. “Well, come on my lad. I don’t mind telling you that my old legs will need a bit of help if I’m going to get in there.”
“In there?” Fredigar gasped, pointing to nearest trees as though they were the teeth in a dragon’s mouth.
“Don’t you worry, lad, I’ve more sense in me than to go traipsing through there looking for to get lost. I just want to have a smell of it, if you catch my meaning.” Fredigar looked frightened still, but his good heart could not bear to see the elderly hobbit stagger into even the first reaches of the forest without help, so he took Fordogrim’s arm and helped him down the slight slope to the beginning of the forest.
They only took a few steps into the darkness of the trees, but it was like entering a rich and miserly man’s house uninvited. Trees closed in around them and strange sounds ran through the earth beneath them. Even though they were only a few dozen feet from their camp, they suddenly felt as though they were isolated and alone in a far and dangerous place. Fredigar involuntarily took a step backward, but Fordogrim stood his ground to face the odd will of the forest. He closed his eyes – which made little difference for the blackness beneath the trees was almost complete – and breathed deep the smell. It was the smell of ancient memory and age beyond he reckoning even of someone as old as Fordogrim. It was not often that Fordogrim felt at a loss, but this was one of those moments; he was not wanted in this place, and the very air carried to him an alien feeling of empty loss.
He opened his eyes and turned to Fredigar, now standing just beside him pale and wide-eyed. Fordogrim’s voice fell into the forest like a pebble into the ocean. “By all that’s decent and good, Fredigar, where has that Marcho taken my Harold and Sarah?”
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