From The Hobbit:
"'Save us, Galion!' cried some, 'you began your feasting early and muddled your wits! You have stacked some full casks here instead of the empty ones, if there is anything in weight.'
'Get on with the work!' growled the butler. 'There is nothing in the feeling of weight in an idle toss-pot's arms. These are the ones to go and no others. Do as I say!'
'Very well, very well,' they answered rolling the barrels to the opening. 'On your head be it, if the king's full buttertubs and his best wine is pushed into the river for the Lake-town men to feast on for nothing!'
First one barrel and then another rumbled to the dark opening and was pushed over into the cold water some feet below."
Ch 9, Barrels Out of Bond
After the last weary participant at the feast had vacated the tables, Thranduil sat alone with his wine bowl in hand while the servants tidied up the hall. The brooding monarch half-turned in his chair and stared at the freshly lit fire close by him, into which the ellyn who were clearing out the debris from the night before were tossing their sweepings. During the meal and the singing the room was far too packed with warm bodies for even a tiny blaze, but now the refuse from the cleaning could be tossed into flames that would burn it quickly. The captain of the guards burst into the room, but then he stopped in his tracks and proceeded slowly.
The captain had apparently run up the several long flights of stairs from the cellars and was breathing fast from the exercise when he entered the mostly deserted hall. All who were near the entrance that witnessed his arrival, and reported on it later to those who were not present, told how the Elvenking was deep in thought at his table, on the other side of the hall. He had not even turned his head to see who was there, which had probably made the task of being the bearer of bad tidings that much more loathsome for the doughty guard to endure.
Although Thranduil's eye seemed unfocused and bleared, the wood-elf cautiously approached to within a few feet of him and then stood quietly.
"You have no need to tip-toe, Maethor, old friend." As he spoke, the Elvenking's gaze remained fixed on the hearth.
"Aye, I did not want to disturb you, lord, but I have some news to tell," said the captain. He licked his lips while he watched Thranduil drinking from his large wine bowl, as if he was thirsty for a taste of the forbidden royal vintage himself.
"Proceed," replied the king. He emptied the bowl, tipping it back to catch the last drops, and then sat still and stared into the fire while he listened.
Now, the elves consider music useful for any occasion and especially see it as friend of labor for it lightens their tasks by refreshing their nerves and spirits while they worked. Accordingly, the servants who were cleaning the hall had been quietly singing a nonsensical ditty about sweeping, dusting, and mopping, but now they hummed wordlessly when the captain of the guards spoke.
"As you know, lord, there have been a series of unexplained burglaries of foodstuffs from the royal storerooms and even from some of our private tables over the past few weeks," began Maethor in an official manner. "I have investigated and found no proof that any in your household was to blame, and no others in the realm have had entry into the palace. That there was a thief in your halls cannot be refuted, a sly and clever thief to be sure, and an unusually hungry one as well, but it was not one of your loyal subjects."
After this conclusion was delivered, even the humming stopped and a silence fell over the hall as the busy servants stopped pretending they were not listening to the conversation. The Elvenking kept his eyes fixed on the flames as he replied to the captain's report.
"I can not help but notice that you say both 'was' and 'had', as if these crimes against me were committed in the distant past," he said. "When we both know that as recently as this afternoon someone stole off with four loaves and a dish of butter from my kitchen larder. The chief cook gave me an ear-full of his thoughts about the need for installing locks and guards."
"Then, lord, you will be pleased to learn that the burglar is gone, I believe."
"You believe?"
"Forgive me, I should say that I am quite sure, actually," restated the captain. "And he seems to have, well, taken the, er, taken your prisoners along with him." He said this last in a rush, as if it would be easier to hear. At last, Thranduil broke his focus away from the blazing hearth and snapped his head around to face his trusted servant.
"He stole my prisoners?"
The captain did not quail or try to avoid the piercing gaze that seemed to fix him in place, although those who were watching the two of them could have sworn he turned a shade paler. "They are all gone, lord, nary a trace of them to be found in the caves."
"Explain to me, Maethor," Thranduil quietly commanded as he carefully sat his wine bowl on the table and laid his palms flat on either side of it, "how a single burglar could manage to penetrate my secret dungeons and filch thirteen dwarves from out of their locked cells, as if they were loaves of bread in a cupboard or a dish of butter on a table, without your stopping or delaying them. And leave no details out."
Those who were in the hall to do the clearing away would later tell how it appeared that the captain, even though he was standing, had been addressed from a great height by the seated Elvenking. And the wry smile on Thranduil's face was not fooling anyone. The way his eyes had seemed to turn into flint that gave off sparks told the truer tale of his emotions upon hearing of the apparent escape of the dwarves, and without a trace.
The gates had not been breached, claimed the captain, although not even a field mouse could have slipped in or out of them unnoticed. But there were a few points in his story that were vague and hazy, even under direct questioning by the skeptical Elvenking. However, after the captain had finished relating all that he knew, or said he knew, about the emptied prison cells, the impatient monarch did not dwell long over the particulars. Once it was clear that he had been thwarted by the dwarves and their mysterious, and seemingly invisible, co-conspirator, he gave his commands to remedy the situation.
"Search every tunnel in the caves and send out scouts to every corner of the woodland," ordered Thranduil. "Have my huntsmen take the hounds out as well to search every trail. Muster a division of my spearmen and bowmen. And have my son meet with me in the war-council room. We will march out as soon as we learn the whereabouts of the Longbeards."
"At once, lord," said the captain, who appeared relieved to have burdensome duties to perform now that the hard part was over. The truth of the escape was told and he still managed to keep his head for a while. He turned sharply on his heel and prepared to follow his given orders but was halted in place and spun around by the Elvenking's voice.
"Ah, Master Turnkey," said Thranduil, being shrewd enough to have guessed the reason for the captain's lapses in memory during his report, "perhaps the next time you are offered a bowl of my private vintage, you would do well to refuse it while you still have your wits. Methinks it is an impractical idea to fall asleep face-down in your cup when there are prisoners to be watched and a burglar afoot."
"Indeed, lord, I certainly shall refuse it," replied the captain regretfully, and he hung his head in shame, like a naughty elfling who had just been caught at some mischief, while he spoke so quietly that he was nearly inaudible to the elves that were sweeping nearby. "Do you desire then that I resign my position immediately? I understand that I may no longer deserve the honor of my station; drunkenness is a flimsy excuse for dereliction of duty. I would say that much is evident."
"Nay," replied the Elvenking. "I need your services too much at the present or I would throw you into one of those dungeon cells with my own hands and nail the door shut."
Even though his eyes still shone with seething anger, Thranduil's voice was gentled as if he felt genuine sympathy for the jailer's chagrin at the revelation of what he assumed was a secret drinking binge and subsequent deep sleep. "We shall discuss the consequences of your misdeeds after the fugitives have been recaptured and fully accounted for; as for now, you are dismissed to carry out my orders. I am in the mood to hunt for dwarves." And his eyes sparkled for the first time in a long while with happy anticipation. But the captain stepped closer to the table, leaned forward and spoke up again, bravely, although he kept his voice even lower.
"Lord, pardon me, but might I respectfully remind you that your Queen is due back soon? It might take some time to track down the missing prisoners; perhaps you should send out your son instead, and then you could be here when she arrives?" Although Tatharin was never as moody or temperamental as her husband, Maethor knew that she would not like returning to a kingless palace.
"Aye," replied the Elvenking with a smile. "If we were hunting a band of yrch it might be true that it could take much time; however, I do not plan to pain my good wife with my absence. No dwarf could be clever enough to wander for more than a few hours in my forest without my knowledge, let alone escape my borders undetected."
To those who overhead Thranduil's remark, he seemed to be speaking more to himself than Maethor. He paused then and poured himself a healthy draught of wine and sipped at it thoughtfully before he spoke again with more confidence.
"Thirteen of the stunted folk could not possibly evade my scouts and I do not care how masterful at picking locks the burglar is who assists them. He must next take them through my woodland if they truly seek to escape. Now without another delay, do as I have bid and the prisoners will be back within their cells before midday."
And there were none in the hall, or among those who heard afterward of the conversation about the escaped dwarves, that harbored any doubts over the likelihood of immediate capture of the fugitives, and the crafty burglar who assisted them. How could any creature wander long amongst the spiders' nests in Mirkwood without the assistance of the wood-elves to begin with? The most likely place they would be found was hanging from the beech trees, wound in web-silk, and ready for the taking.
From The Hobbit:
"... the barrels floated on the stream, bobbing along, until they were carried by the current to a place far down the river where the bank jutted out, near to the very eastern edge of Mirkwood. There they were collected and tied together and floated back to Lake-town, which stood close to the point where the Forest River flowed into the Long Lake."
Chapter 9, Barrels Out of Bond
For Nendir, night-time was the best time for fishing, and tonight was perfect so far. As soon as the last of the floating casks and tubs that had drifted downriver from the Elvenking's caves were captured, and lashed together in the shape of a crude raft, he would fetch his spear and catch dinner. He worked alongside of several other elves that lived close by in a tiny village at the edge of the water. It was their job to keep the river cleared of such obstructions and they would profit by their work as well.
The various emptied containers that the raftmen caught with their long hooked poles were carried out from the distant cellars by an underground river that flowed beneath the caves. After being disgorged from the hill-side beneath the magic gate that guarded the halls, it rushed into the great Greenwood and joined the larger Forest River. The bobbing cargo traveled unhindered for many leagues until the river bent slightly when it reached the easternmost edge of the forest.
There the rushing current swept all the various barrels or tubs away to the north bank, in which its waters had eaten out a wide bay. The graveled shore stood under hanging banks and was walled at the eastern end by a little jutting cape of rock. On the shallow beach most of the floating wooden receptacles washed aground, though a few went on to be caught against the stony pier. The elves would wait until a few had accumulated before clearing them away.
"They must be having quite a feast up at the halls," Nendir commented. It was common for those who lived in the small village to speculate about the assumed merry-making in the Mirkwood caves based on the number of empty food barrels that would suddenly come floating downriver. Normally there would be two or three a week; this night there had been at least a half-dozen, so far.
"Aye," replied Nenchir, his brother. "We should have a tidy payment at this rate. The wine casks alone will bring as much silver as all of the rest." The other elves that were working along with the brothers agreed, and were happy for it.
None of them were jealous of the far-off feasting elves and they did not see themselves as unfortunate to live without benefit of the Elvenking's kitchens. No elf in Thranduil's forest would ever be allowed to starve, no matter his distance from the halls, but that is not what made these river-dwellers feel exceptionally fortunate and comfortable with their lives.
They were a rare breed, these elves of commerce, and the only ones who regularly dealt with the people in Esgaroth. This meant that they could buy their own supplies of those foods otherwise not available to them, like butter, cheese, and wine. But they also knew that they were lucky to live at the edge of a game-filled forest and on the mouth of a fish-filled river. They considered themselves twice blessed.
These raft-making elves lived in huts just at the bend of the river before it spilled out and filled the bay that it had carved into the soft shoreline. The water slowed and pooled there, spreading out like a small lake, which was big enough to row a boat into the center of to cast for bass or pike. The trees that grew sparsely near the shoreline were not as gloom-filled or dreadful as the ones deeper in the forest and hunting there was easy.
But the coins earned from delivering barrels, added to the largesse of the forest and river's natural bounty, were only part of the benefits they enjoyed. They also controlled the only access to the Mirkwood halls for those merchants who had deliveries to make by water, instead of by road. There was a toll to be paid, and the elves were allowed to keep a part of the monies, after they had turned the rest over to the king.
When the barrels had finally all been fixed in place for the next day's delivery, Nendir said what he thought was a final goodnight to his brother, and the other elves, and went to get his spear.
Coarse beach gravel of small water-worn stones and pebbles crunched delicately beneath his light-footed step as he sought his favorite location. He always took his time to get into the correct position, settling his limbs exactly so that he could spring at the right moment. As he crouched, he relaxed and breathed deeply of the crisp fall air. It would be a fair and mostly cloudless night. At last he lighted the tiny lamp he used for such sport, and held it over the water.
The silence was only enhanced by the occasional sounds that traveled to his ear from both close to him and far away. Over by the huts, someone was chopping wood, and from nearby there would come the occasional dripping noise from the evening's dew, as it collected and then spilled from a plant's leaf or fern's frond at the water's edge. With a soft 'plink' each drop fell into the river.
Even farther in distance, he could hear the sound of the barrels and tubs that had been collected that week and made ready to deliver to the town tomorrow. Tied together they bumped and thumped against each other and the pier where they were fastened. The gentle collisions sounded like drums, and the tune they played was like music to his ears. He mentally fingered silver coins and thought of what he might purchase from the Lake-town's merchants.
His thoughts were interrupted by a raucous 'caw' from over his head. He lifted the lamp higher to reveal a crow that was perched in the tree next to where he crouched by the water, and even though the small black body was barely visible in the faint light, its bright eyes glittered.
"You are out late, brother bird," said Nendir. "What news have you, if any, pray tell?" Although he rarely encountered one of the king's personal messengers, he was always polite in case he was being watched over by one, not wanting to insult a spy for the throne of Mirkwood. He nearly fell from his carefully arranged pose on the river rock when the crow replied clearly and distinctly to his greeting.
"I bring news from the Elvenking! Be alert! The dwarves have escaped from his dungeons, and they are many!"
"What dwarves?" There had been a rumor some weeks ago of such folk found wandering in the eastern territories, rousing the wrath of his Elflord with their obstinacy and stubborn refusal to cooperate under questioning, but he had collected few other details about them at this end of the river. The bird must mean the very same ones.
"Be alert, they are many!" repeated the crow and then with a rustle of beating wings, it flew off to carry the tidings to the next elf it encountered. Nendir absorbed the message after he resumed his crouching fishing stance, and stored it away for the time. He would examine the fragment of information later, after his supper was caught. From this moment on he would let nothing interfere with his concentration.
Beneath the surface, he could see the speckled bodies of fat trout moving among the rocks now and then illuminated by the glimmering light of his lamp. He noticed one that would loop around a particular submerged stone in a figure eight pattern, obviously territorial. That habit would be its downfall.
"Got you," he whispered as his spear sliced the water and pierced his catch. It was a large fish, a hearty meal for his table. The stars were twinkling overhead and the breeze was brisker and chilly.
At that moment, he heard at least a dozen, possibly more, new barrels thumping along the river bend and banging up against the rocky outcropping. These last sounded as if they were riding low in the water and his ears tried to tell him more but the picture they drew would not come clear. They did not make a very hollow sounding noise and he vowed to examine them carefully when it came time to round them up. For now, they could wait where they landed.
His wife, Siriel, clapped at the sight of the speckled catch as soon as he held it up for her approval. While she prepared the fish for cooking, she cut a graceful figure in their tidy kitchen. She swayed and sometimes slightly turned her body from side to side in time to a tune that she was humming. It was a bewitching habit. He watched her as he sat at the table to peel and slice some potatoes to have with the trout. After a particularly fetching half twirl of her skirts, which revealed a bit of her leg above the ankle, he let out a yip.
"What is it dear?" Her eyes were wide with concern.
"Nothing, nothing," he said, although his words were somewhat muffled by the tip of his finger between his lips, which he had nicked with his paring knife, being distracted by the lovely elleth he had married. He was embarrassed to let her know that his thoughts had been so occupied elsewhere. At times he felt as excited and shy around her as he had during his courtship.
They had been together for seasons beyond count or memory, and yet his heart stood still when she smiled at him, even to this day. And after all of their years together, their minds seemed more than one, at times, as if together they were greater than the sum of their parts. When he had a problem, he brought it to her first, if possible, knowing that her wisdom lay in allowing him to see his own way to the answer.
"The night is peaceful enough, so far," he said when she finally sat to eat with him, but for the time being he was far too hungry to say more. He admired each sliver of flaky fish or slice of potato on his fork before tucking it into his mouth. After most of his meal had been consumed, he told her about the crow, and the tale it told about the escaped thrawn folk.
"There is no escape from the magic doors for those who are once brought inside," his wife said wisely. "Unless through some treachery or sorcery." Nendir shrugged at her words; the crow had not mentioned either and most probably would have if that was the situation.
"I just hope they do not come here," he said. "I would not leave you alone tomorrow if I thought so, but I do not think that this would be a likely destination for them." However, his answer did not seem to comfort Siriel.
"What if they managed to steal some boats?"
"Ai, I had not thought of that! But the boats by the great gates are well guarded; I do not see how the bearded folk could quietly slip away unnoticed in one of them, let alone several."
"How many are there?" Siriel asked. "Do you know?" Now this was a question with no easy answer. The messenger bird had said 'many', which meant the number was over twelve, that being the highest a Mirkwood crow was taught to count. "What if there were so many that they overwhelmed those who guard the river in front of the great gate?" Nendir patted Siriel's hand to reassure her, and possibly himself, too, before he spoke.
"Then we shall greet them here with bow and spear, tie them with thongs, and deliver them back to the halls to collect the bounty. That will mean more silver for our winter; we should be quite snug."
After he had eaten, his brother and the rest of the raftmen were ready to round up the last group of barrels that Nendir had heard arrive while he was fishing. He told all about the crow's message and it was agreed that guards would be posted along the outcrop in the unlikely chance that the dwarves were traveling by water.
"They will not get past us," said the crew's chief, Nenchir, who was supremely confident that no dwarf could escape being detected by the river-elves, no matter what method of escape they chose. "The village seems enough safe enough from danger right now, so let us hurry and get these fine barrels tied up and set sentries in place to wait for them."
And in all of the confusion, Nendir forgot how he had wanted to examine these last barrels that had not sounded completely empty when they had banged up against the rocky outcrop earlier. He did not remember at all until they were finished and it was too late, but by then he decided that being on the lookout for the escaped prisoners was a much more important duty to perform in service to the throne of Mirkwood.
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