The sun had yet to clear the trees of Brockenmoring or Bridgefield as he hit the road after a longer than usual kiss from his wife. It would be a long trip today and he wanted at least one part of it to be at a comfortable temperature. Nobody toiled in the fields or moseyed about yet, not even the bakery folks. Hobbits tended to be late risers though.
The Clematis flowers had started to bloom, which meant it would get hotter for a few weeks to a month and then autumn would tap summer on the shoulder. Their petals appeared white when inspected up close. When they blossomed in clusters it made them look like silver waterfalls dropping down hills, falling over fences and rooftops. Their intense fragrance still held strong from the night; more pungent than in the day, they were nocturnal flowers if there were ever such a thing.
His legs felt good even though he had walked a fair amount yesterday. He would double that today. Taking a swig from his water pouch, he admired the rising sun illuminating the scenery one minute at a time. This was far better than thinking about how sore he would be tonight and how irritated he would be when he found the Bolger boy. It'll be the last time that little shite goes off for an adventure—I'll make sure of that.
He pulled out an apple from the pack his wife had prepared last night. Biting down, he tried to simmer himself for Dowry remained a young lad. He kicked up his pace, wanting to beat the rising sun. His strength held firm as he passed The Hill within two hours, Overhill thirty minutes after that and reached Binobole fifty minutes later.
"Dowry!" he yelled as he stepped into Binobole Wood. The only thing that responded was singing bird—a mockingbird by his guess.
The miniature forest appeared no different than any other in the Shire. It had plenty of trees and a cacophony of creeks, critters and bugs. Scanning the ground, the only tracks belonged to a mix of deer. Lucky for him very few ventured into Binobole, so there wasn't much a chance of contending with multiple prints. He stayed on the only northern path, which he was sure Dowry would have done. His eyes constantly scanned as he walked. Sooner or later a print had to come through on some soft dirt or muddy patch.
He stepped and his right foot sunk into the dirt, almost to the tops of his toes. Halting immediately, he inspected everything for ten feet in front of him.
"There you are, you tricky bugger!" he exclaimed as he spotted a footprint about three quarters the size of his.
He shook off the dirt from his foot and went to spot the next one. The first one was a cockeyed print that pointed northeast—away from the path. Looking up, the woods got denser in that direction. Minding some sharp rocks, he headed toward it with his eyes glued to the ground. Another print, then another popped out about fifteen feet from each other. He followed them and the occasional outline of Dowry's mischievous feet kept going northeast. Going for about a twelfth of a league the dirt and the possibility of prints stopped at a rocky mound shrouded by taller trees. Just the place a young tot would make camp.
He made quick work of the two foot stone wall of sorts. The mound seemed almost a perfect circle. It had, from what he could see, several alcoves that would make good cover in a rainy night. The first one was covered in cobwebs. The second one had no distinct characteristics. Turning around a collection of protruding rocks, he stopped. A large circle, the size of four Hobbits, of ash discolored the gray stone. It was a fire pit that looked like it was going last night. None of the boy's belongings or supplies remained close by. No others would be camping out here though.
"Dowry Bolger!" he yelled and a slight echo reflected off the rocks. "It's Constable Brown. Please come out. I'm to take you back to your mother."
A slight rustling came from behind him. After a second, a pair of squirrels popped out fighting over an acorn. He turned back to the camp and yelled out again. Again, nothing came from Dowry. It was possible the lad had moved onto another spot this morning or possibly headed back to Hobbiton. Padder hated for that to be the case. All this time and work for the little punk to be emptying a pint at the Green Dragon when he got back.
The Constable ground his teeth and looked for something to the contrary. Back in the corner of the alcove something dangled that didn't look like it belonged. He walked to it and saw that a pack had been jammed into a natural cubby. Pulling it out, he went through it and found: two cooking pans, a fire starting kit, bread, an empty bottle of wine, small portion of salted pork, and a pocket knife. On the backside it had the initials DG inscribed.
"Thank goodness." He breathed a sigh of relief.
He went to walk to the other side and drew back his foot quickly. His brow furrowed as he lowered down. Running his hand across the ground, he brought his fingers up. Blood. Coagulated and sticky with hair mashed in it. "Dowry! Show me that you're alright. This isn't a game, lad." he yelled out into the wood. Nothing returned.
"Dowry! It's not a crime to kill game. You're not in trouble. I just need to bring you back home is all," his heart beat sped up as he waited for a response.
He returned to the blood patch: too much for a squirrel or even a brace of conies. Turning his head up, he breathed a sigh of relief. He chuckled as the grave thoughts that crept into his mind dispersed like water on a hot pan. Dowry's hand hung over a ledge about ten feet above him. Nice little sleeping spot. Smart lad.
Eight slim slats had been carved into the wall as makeshift footholds. He looked down at the empty bottle of wine. No wonder the little drunkard didn't respond. He jammed his feet in the first two footholds and ascended the stone ladder.
"You had your poor mother worried sick, lad." he said as he climbed.
Reaching the second to last slat, he could just reach Dowry's hand. He shook it. "Come now, lad, I'm going to need your help getting you down." The boy didn't make a sound.
"Blimey, you must have more alcohol with you up there or you're a lightweight." he said shaking Dowry's hand again.
He remained holding it as he climbed up the last two slats. "Come now, lad, give me so—," He shot back as a rat tugged at Dowry's severed hand. He instinctively slapped it away to the right and his feet shuffled out of the slats. "No!" he hollered as careened down.
Something cracked as he collided with the ground. Air spewed from his chest as he gasped in pain. His side cringed and turned quickly to dispel the throbbing. He came face to face with Dowry's hand. A gasp burst out from his mouth as hurried away from it. Calm yourself, Constable!
"In the name of all that's sacred! Who could have done this?"
A crack in the bush came from behind him. He jumped to his feet and went for his knife. No knife, just his belt. He had forgot to bring it. He didn't think, he didn't hesitate—he sprinted out of the alcove and back to the path. The panted breaths deafened any sound around him. The greenery turned to a blur. He raced through mud and whipping branches. He discarded his pack to gain more speed. He ran until his mouth went dry and his feet bled. He ran… and he ran… and he ran.