[piosenniel]

The snow was beginning to fall heavily as Madoc neared home. The lantern he’d brought was of no use, its light falling on the thick curtain of white showed barely a step in front of him. To his right, a pale hazy yellow blur peeked through the windblown snow, winking at him. Gaffer Heathertoes, house, he reckoned, thinking he had probably come the right distance for it to be so. He turned toward the beckoning light, hoping to find some shelter within until the snow let up.

He trudged through the snow, his head down against the driving clumps of flakes. For a moment, the little beacon was lost, and he stood shivering in the folds of his cloak wondering if he would not be found until the thaw came. But there it was again! He fixed his gaze on it and soon found himself on the snow drifted step before the door. He rapped loudly on the icy wood of the door, and was surprised when it swung open to him.

It was not the wizened face of old Hob that greeted him, but the face of one he had not seen in a long time. Fairlight Heathertoes . . . no, not Heathertoes, but Bracegirdle, he reminded himself – having married a lad from Girdley Island several years ago. ‘Come in,’ she said smiling at him, her brown eyes twinkling at him in the way he remembered. ‘My father will be glad to see you, Madoc.’ Her voice was light, and he stood in the entry way bemused by it. She took his cloak and shook the snow from it in a quick gesture, then pulled him inside by the arm and closed the door firmly. Madoc watched as she hung it on a peg by the door.

Fairlight took him by the arm, leading him into the small parlour, where Hob sat wrapped in a thick quilt, his chair pulled near the small woodstove. ‘Come in laddie,’ the Gaffer said, his wrinkled face rearranging itself into a smile of welcome. A chair was pulled up, and Madoc sat down, his feet now propped on the fender of the stove. Fairlight put a mug of hot tea in his hands, then refilled the mug her father held.

For a while, it was only the sipping of the honeyed tea that was heard against the hiss and pop of the logs in the stove. Madoc, now warmed up, looked about the room and then asked where Tomlin, Fairlight’s husband, might be. Fairlight’s face grew pale and she looked down at her feet. The Gaffer patted her hand, murmuring, ‘There, there lass . . .’, then turned to Madoc to explain that just a few weeks ago Tomlin had been killed while out hunting. Orcs it seemed had come south, and roamed near the Brandywine seeking food. Tomlin was just clearing his traps when he had been attacked and savagely killed. Fairlight had packed up what little they had and made her way home to Tuckburrough. ‘Goin’ to be staying with me a spell,’ he told Madoc. ‘Sorting things out, she is.’

Madoc’s gaze turned to Fairlight, the illumination from the stove’s front grate glinting off her golden curls. Her fair face was sorrowful in relief as she stared at the flickerings of the flames. Madoc’s heart lurched in his chest as he studied her. He had been too late to court her he remembered, though his mother and sister had pushed him to step forward. ‘Not the time to be thinking of yourself, Madoc,’ he told himself firmly, pushing such thoughts away from him. Leaning a little across the Gaffer, he murmured softly to her. ‘So sorry, Fairlight, for your loss. He was a good man, Tomlin was.’ Fairlight nodded her head, a whispered thank-you closing the topic.

It was the Gaffer who changed the subject, wanting to know why Madoc was out in the snow and so late. Madoc filled him in on the journey to Bree that was to begin tomorrow, and that he intended to go. Talk of the route and who was going carried on from there, with the Gaffer asking if Madoc was bringing his wagon. ‘Sorry to say, but no,’ answered the younger Hobbit. ‘The front axle is broken and I haven’t found the time to fix it yet.’

A shushed conversation followed between Fairlight and her father, with the Gaffer nodding his head at whatever Fairlight was saying. She laid her hand on her father’s arm, saying ‘Go ahead ,then,’ she urged him. ‘It’s yours to offer.’

Old Hob leaned over to Madoc and said with a laugh, ‘Well it’s settled then, isn’t it laddie? What the lass says makes sense to me.’ Madoc looked questioningly at the old fellow, awaiting further explanation. But the Gaffer had picked up his mug and sat sipping at it contentedly.

‘What my father means to tell you, Madoc,’ Fairlight filled in, ‘is that he would be happy to let you borrow the big haying wagon in the barn. Not much use for it at present, is ther? And he keeps it in good condition – the wheels are greased, the nuts and bolts all tightened, the axles strong. You can bring back plenty of supplies in it.’ She looked thoughtful and then added, ‘Of course you’ll need to take the two big ponies to pull it – Rocky and Nettle. There’s still hay in the barn, you can pile it on the wagon for food for them.’ She looked over at him, a smile dimpling her cheek. ‘Let us help, won’t you? In whatever way that we can.’

Madoc accepted the offer with great thanks and plans were made for him to pick the wagon up early the next morning. The snow, seen through the small window in the parlour, had lightened. And Madoc, wanting to see his family before he left, said that he should go. Fairlight walked him to the door, and it was while he fastened his cloak about his neck that he spied the bow and quiver propped in the shadowed corner. ‘Tomlin’s hunting bow,’ she offered in explanation, noting his gaze lingering on it. ‘I couldn’t leave it behind, though neither of us,’ she said nodding toward her father, ‘will ever use it.’

Madoc said nothing, only opened the door, and waved to her and the Gaffer as he stepped into the snowy light. ‘We’ll see you, then, tomorrow,’ he heard her clear voice call out to him as he made his way down the snow-crusted path. He turned, seeing her figure highlighted in the light that streamed out from behind her. Then the door closed; the light disappeared.

And Madoc found his tread a little lighter as he headed home . . .