Author's Notes:

Once upon a time, hobbits lived in harmony with Men, farming the upper vales of the Anduin. They lived so quietly, as a matter of fact, that none of the Great noticed them at all. (The Great are more likely to notice troublemakers than folk doing what they ought.) Times changed, a darkness crept over the land, shadowing the hearts of Men, and some Little Folk made the dangerous crossing of the Mountains to the West, while others were driven into the shelter of the forest, where they passed quite a few years in pleasant obscurity once more. It is not always a misfortune being overlooked...

Readers taking the time to review are muchly appreciated. The Muse seems to run on virtual pina coladas and reviews...

Xena, it seemed logical to me that hobbits wouldn't necessarily have one leader, but several, each fulfilling a different function, much as in the "modern" Shire. That's why there's no "SuperHobbit" in charge of the Fallohides.

If ff.net is giving you fits and you are faithfully writing reviews, you can always send them along to me at bljean@aol.com. The Muse will bless you.

Expect another chapter of "Small and Passing Thing" in a couple of days, if all goes well.

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Chapter 14. Ascent

The Fallohides continued to move to the North, away from the Road. The Road followed a stream up into the mountains and over a fairly easy passage, but heavily travelled, into Western lands. The grey one, understanding the hobbits' caution, had directed them to another pass farther to the North, a longer, more difficult journey, climbing higher as well, and therefore less likely that they would encounter Men along the way. The wizard knew they'd have to come to know Men eventually...

Sheltered by tall grass, the hobbits walked to the North until they reached another stream that emptied into the great River, and then they turned their faces to the West and followed its course towards the looming mountains. Day by day the travellers walked westward, and each day the mountains seemed so close that another day's journey would bring them within reach... and yet the end of each day brought a sense of futility, for the mountains seemed no closer. There was game to be found in the long grass: birds and rabbits and other small burrowing creatures that had no fear of hobbits. The hunters were able to knock them down with well-aimed rocks as the small animals sat beside their holes, basking in the sun. As a result the hobbits ate well without dipping into the rations they carried in anticipation of lean times ahead.

The gentle slope going up from the river became a series of undulations, each rise a little higher than the last. The weather was growing warmer as Summer advanced, and the Fallohides shed their fur garments, bundling them into their carry-backs, enjoying the novelty of Sun on skin. Steadily they travelled through land that was strangely empty, but that might have been because of the Road to the South, carrying a continual stream of waggons and Men over the easier pass. The land was rockier and had more sand than clay on this side of the great River, less suited to farming than the Eastern side with its rich loam, and that might have been a part of it as well.

There came a day when a song arose as the hobbits walked, soft, for they were cautious, but a song nonetheless. It was a different song than any they'd sung before, and it carried them over the miles that seemed to bring the mountains no nearer. Yet the hills were growing as they walked, each crest a little higher, until the River behind them was a sparkling thread in the Summer sunlight. The mountains were less misty now, more solid to the eye, the growth on their flanks no longer shadow but resolving into tall, thick forests.

 'Can we find a living there, do you think?' Thorn asked Beech as they rested at the end of a long day. The trees loomed ever closer, and within a few more days they'd enter the eaves of the forest.

 'I don't know,' Beech said, picking up a handful of sandy soil and letting it trickle through his fingers. 'The land's no good for farming; it holds no water. If not for the stream we follow I think we'd find few trees and no game to speak of, just the coarse grass that doesn't mind the dry.'

 'Yet a forest grows on the flanks of the mountains,' Thorn said stubbornly.

 'I know not these trees,' Beech countered. 'They grow tall, pointing to the sky, not spreading sheltering arms as those we once knew. Their canopy is dark, so very dark. I wonder what manner of leaves they bear.' He picked up another handful of sand. 'And what sort of homes could we dig in this?'

 'Mmm,' Thorn said noncommittally.

 'What does the Lady say?' Beech asked.

 'She has not spoken since we crossed the River,' Thorn said quietly. 'I do not know if She is with us.'

 'It is a different forest,' Beech said. 'Not Hers.'

 'That may be,' Thorn said. 'In any event, we shall see what manner of fruit or nut these strange trees bear. Perhaps things will be better for us here.'

 'Perhaps,' Beech said, but privately he reserved judgment. The forest did not call to him; dark and foreboding, it did not hold the same attraction as the living green of the wood they'd left.

The stream led them into the strange forest. Strange it was indeed, for the trees towered about them, silent sentinels without warmth or welcome. Nothing grew beneath them. The hobbits walked quietly, oddly reluctant to speak in the hushed surroundings, the carpet of dried needles somehow unpleasant beneath their feet. Needles they were indeed, not proper leaves at all. Nor did the forest smell as a forest should; instead it had a sharp, pungent odour, and the bark of the trees was sticky to the touch with sap that would not rub off from the fingers, in which the pungency was multiplied.

The fruit of the trees was hard, brown, woody and prickly. Soon the littler hobbits stopped picking up the cones, for the sharp protrusions stung the fingers. It was altogether an unpleasant place. Thorn hoped that the forest on the other side of the mountains was not like this one, but more like the home they'd left behind. Grand-alf had promised new hope in the new land. Thorn could only hope his word was true.

The trees stretched in every direction and the stream became their only guide, for they could not tell the direction of the Sun. Daytime was gloomy, and night was utter darkness. Perhaps outside the forest it was still high Summer, but within the air never warmed and the hobbits resumed their furry garb. They followed the stream, the water icy now, cold and refreshing to drink, and felt somehow that they climbed slowly but steadily towards the mountains' rocky flanks.

One evening in the thickening twilight, Beech suddenly grasped at Thorn's arm. 'Listen!' he hissed. Straining his ears, the leader of the Fallohides heard a ghostly echo, joined by another and yet another, thin wailing cries.

 'Wolves!' he snapped. 'Seek the treetops!' Though it had been many days since the archers had shot their tethered arrows over high limbs, they had not forgotten the drill. It was not long before the entire community rested on branches high in the air. One good thing about these odd trees was the lack of branches within reach of the ground. Though wolves could not climb, other hunters might be able to do so, yet these trees would discourage them, Thorn hoped. He was glad the warning had come in daylight. He shuddered to think what would have happened had the wolves come upon them in darkness.

The wolves approached no closer that night, but thereafter the hobbits walked with redoubled caution. They'd come to think this land empty. It was not, of course, if wolves ranged here. Hungry wolves they might be, seeing the scarcity of game. The hunters walked before and after the main body of hobbits, to the sides as well, bows at the ready, and each evening as the light began to fail the community would seek the relative safety of the trees.

Their caution paid for itself one morning when they'd resumed their march. A chorus of howls broke out close by—not enough time to gain the heights. The hobbits pulled together in a tight group, archers forming a bristling ring about them. Fearless, the beasts attacked, only to feel the unaccustomed bite of arrows. Infuriated, some rolled on the ground and bit at the shafts; others attacked with renewed rage, but the hobbits met the onslaught with a steady sleet of arrows until the last few creatures turned to flee, leaving many of their fellows dead or dying upon the forest floor.

The hobbits had enough baggage to carry, so they did not skin the slain wolves. They only took the time to recover their arrows, or at the very least the precious metal points that had been passed from father to son for as long as they could remember since trade with Men had ceased, though the alfs had added to the Fallohides' arsenal before departing for Thranduil's caverns. They were not troubled by wolves again.

A few days later, Beech pointed out a faint trail leading alongside the stream, a heartening sight. The ground became more rocky and the trees did not grow so close together, and then the travellers began to climb in earnest as the land grew steeper. 'We are in the foothills,' Beech said. 'We've followed this gully right into the mountains, as Grand-alf said, and soon the trail will leave the forest and climb the very flanks of the peaks.'

The trees thinned and then ended in a rocky slope before them, where stream became a waterfall dancing over the rocks. Looking along the slope, Beech could see evidence of rockslides. 'We must pick our way carefully,' he said, 'lest the very ground beneath our feet throw us down to our ruin.'

The most surefooted of the hunters climbed ahead, bearing ropes. Reaching the top, they anchored the ropes around great boulders. It took the rest of that day for the community to reach the top of the slope, where they found bushes, long grasses, patches of flowers and rabbit-cropped turf.

 'We'll rest here for a day or two,' Thorn decreed. 'I see signs of game, and I smell seasonings growing nearby.' Indeed, his wife was chuckling as she plucked thyme and sage and marjoram growing all around.

 'Lay snares for rabbits,' Beech said. 'I think we'll have good eating on the morrow.' He was met by answering grins, and the hobbits settled to their rest, though of course they did not relax their guard. Hunters watched in shifts through the night, but the only danger was to the fat rabbits that were snared by the dozens in the immediate area and its surroundings. The next day the hobbits rested and feasted on rabbit stew, for Thorn had allowed fires to be built for cooking, and to cap off the day with sweetness the children found wild strawberries growing in pockets and gathered enough through the long Summer day for each hobbit to enjoy a handful as the evening shadows covered the land.

Heartened and refreshed, they resumed their journey. Ever higher they went, following a rough path, picking sorrel to nibble on as they walked, drinking from mountain streams that crossed the path, gathering strawberries and singing once again the new song that had come to them after crossing the River. Though the Sun shone with all her Summer fervour, the air grew chill and they were glad for the fur cloaks they wore. In the evenings, each family huddled together beneath a pile of cloaks, sharing their warmth. Ever higher they went, until the last of the scrub bushes fell behind them and only grass and alpine flowers bloomed amidst the rocks, and patches of snow appeared upon the slopes surrounding them.

 'We are nearing the pass,' Thorn said, and a cheer arose. Still higher they climbed, and the brooding pine forest seemed no more than a mossy carpet far below them. The land fell away to one side as the trail hugged the flank of a great peak, and still the hobbits climbed until it seemed they would rise above the very clouds.

The hobbits were living on their travel rations now, and growing thinner with the limited food and heavy work of walking ever upwards. Bravely they joked about the lightening of their loads. Surely when they descended again, they would find game for the hunting and nuts and berries for the gathering. By the time they reached the other side, Autumn would be drawing her cloak over the land, and there ought to be plenty to eat.

The day came when the trail disappeared into an ice field. Thorn called a halt while he consulted with the heads of householes.

 'There's naught for it but to go on,' Fern said.

 'Aye, but where to?' Bark countered.

 'Straight on,' Beech said. 'That's plain enough. The trick is to go safely. One slip of the foot and you're sliding down until you fall from the side of the mountain.'

 'It's a long way down into those trees,' Thorn said soberly.

 'So what do we do?' Burr said.

 'Rope everyone together,' Nuthatch said.

 'If one falls, all fall,' Root said grimly.

 'Send one ahead on a rope,' Beech said, 'like crossing the River. He chops an axe into the ice for something to hold, the rest come across, and then a scout goes forward once more. Bit by bit,' he said. 'No need to hurry.'

 'From the looks of the sky there might be need,' Thorn said. 'The air feels...' his voice trailed off, and he had the faraway look that the Fallohides knew and trusted. Coming back to himself, Thorn said, 'We'll follow Beech's plan, and quickly. An ill wind is brewing, and we mustn't be caught in the open. On the far side of the ice field is a sheltered spot, an overhang of rock large and long enough for all the People.'

Working as quickly as they could, the People crossed the ice field. There were slips, but the ropes and axes prevented disaster. At the start of the day the sky had been blue, deep and calm, and the Sun had sparkled from the snow with dazzling brightness, but a plume of snow blew like smoke from the peak above them, high wind warning of storm to come. The clouds built with frightening swiftness, and as the last of the People were pulled to safety the wind rose to a shriek, even as the world disappeared into a whirl of solid white.

Thorn was the last to cross. His youngest son, Pickthorn, waited by the anchoring axe as his father made his way along the rope. When the storm struck, Thorn was swallowed in the snowy blast. Pick shouted, but the roar of the attacking wind drowned his own voice to his ears. Clinging desperately to the rope, he felt the tug that meant his father was still pulling himself along the lifeline. Grimly the teen held fast.

A hand grabbed at his shoulder, and he turned to see Beech, hair and eyebrows crusted with ice and snow. His uncle's mouth was moving, but the teen shook his head to indicate he heard naught. Beech put his mouth against Pick's ear. 'Thorn!' he bellowed.

 'Coming!' Pick roared into his uncle's ear. Beech nodded and grabbed at the rope. Together he and Pick hauled, meeting resistance. It seemed an eternity before Thorn loomed into sight. With one hand on the rope that covered the last stretch leading to the relative safety of the overhang, Beech threw an arm about Thorn, hugging him, then guided his hand to the final lifeline.

Pick began to pull in the rope that had led Thorn to them. 'Leave it!' Beech shouted in his ear. 'Get it later!' Pick nodded, letting go the trailing rope and reaching for the next. At that moment a great gust of wind roared down the mountain. Instinctively Thorn and Beech clung to the lifeline, but Pick had no firm hold and was swept away.