Chapter 3: Whispers in the Dark

Sam was glad to be back in the Shire. In all the wonders of elven lands and ancient kingdoms, there was nothing quite like the simple tranquility of quiet pastures tucked between rolling fields. Though it was tainted with broken fences, neglected fields, and muddied rivers, these scars were dwindling quickly. Already, Buckland seemed a far brighter place than the dismal land he had passed through nearly a month ago. Since then, the guard towers had been knocked down, old homes restored, fields tended, and movement made easier without the ridiculous number of guards about.

Despite the rapid improvements, there was still much to be done. Starting with the land. Sam reached the edge of Farmer Maggot's farmland (which had reduced in size considerably in the past year) and stepped onto a stretch of barren fields that separated the old farmer's home from the Old Forest. Many were covered in weeds, others slashed with holes. Several stumps lay around the edges, where Sam reckoned hedges had once been. A felled tree lay across the dirt in the field nearest him. It was hollowed and decaying, its insides crawling with bugs.

"If they're going to cut them down," Sam grumbled to himself, "they ought to at least put them to good use. It's no good letting decent wood go to rot." He shook his head, reminding himself who they were: Saruman and his Ruffians. There were a lot of things they ought to do and they most usually did the opposite.

Dismissing the thoughts, Sam reached in his pocket and removed a small box. He opened it carefully and pinched out a single seed, which he dropped down a small gash in the earth beside the felled tree. He then moved to the opposite side of the field and let another seed fall from his palm.

"That ought to do it." He closed the box with great care and returned it to his pocket. With a deep breath, he savored the fresh air and looked back to the darkening sky. The sun had sunk behind the hills, leaving the world in velvet twilight. It was later than he'd anticipated. He best be getting back to the inn or it would soon be too dark to see the road.

The wind picked up and he tucked his hands in his pockets. While he was more comfortable in his old gardening clothes, it was times like this when he regretted leaving his cloak behind. There was no use dwelling on such things, he reckoned. He'd nearly reached the edge of the Shire and it would be time to turn home soon. In less than a fortnight, he'd be back in his own bed, with all his clothes to pick and choose from. More importantly, he'd be back with Rosie and Frodo again. He hated to leave them both, though he knew they'd look after each other while he was away.

He was just wondering how well they'd get by when he heard a crunch in the dark. He kept walking, thinking it to be a fox or badger, but when it crunched a second time he stood still. That doesn't sound like any animal I've ever heard. If I didn't know better, I'd swear there was someone slinking about. Sam rubbed his eyes and surveyed the fields as best he could. There, in the growing darkness, he could barely make out a figure slinking across the next field towards the Old Forest.

Sam shook his head. A fellow must be desperate to run off to the forest in broad daylight, and he must be in real trouble to do so at night. If he had a guess, he'd reckon it was one of those Ruffians hiding about, keeping away from Masters Merry and Pippin and the likes, unaware of the dangers of the forest. Well, if so, they deserved a few nights in the Old Forest, with all those spooky trees about. But Sam couldn't let someone walk into danger unaware, no matter who they might be. It could just as well be a young hobbit on the run from home, or an old fellow too drunk to know better. With a sigh, he started after the figure, which was already disappearing into the shadows of the forest.

By the time Sam reached the forest, the figure was gone. He stood a moment, listening, but all sound was drowned in the howl of wind and the rustle of trees. The sky was all but black now, with a dim moon half hidden by clouds. In what little light remained, he could make out the frame of a trail entrance in which the bushes had been brushed aside so many times they stood crooked and bent. Sam put his hands in front of him and shoved his way through. Branches tore at his arms, vines clawed at his feet. He stumbled on with such a racket he thought for sure he'd been heard. A fool he'd been—he thought, unwrapping a rather thick vine from his ankle—walking blindly into the Old Forest after a suspicious stranger all alone in the dead of night. What if he walked right into one of the Ruffian camps? With the noise he was making, he'd likely be shot before he had time to explain himself.

At the same time these morbid thoughts entered his mind, he stepped out in a small clearing filled with starlight. All was quiet. Even the leaves quelled to a gentle mummer. The forest seemed to breathe, cracking and popping, sighing and groaning as it settled in for the night. It was some time before he distinguished these sounds from another familiar crackling, and that was only after he saw a red glow; for the crackling came from a fire.

Sam slunk as close as he dared, staying hidden behind the trunk of an old gnarled oak. The fire was small, hardly big enough to cook over, but even from a distance he felt its warmth. Two figures guarded it. One sat, the other stood, pacing back and forth.

"Where's Briar?" The seated one asked. His voice was gruff and croaky, as if each word grated against his throat on its way out. "What's wrong?"

"They caught him," the second voice said. It was young and soft. In the firelight, Sam could see the speaker was a woman—or perhaps a girl, though she was taller than Sam by several inches—with bright red hair.

"Who?"

"Briar."

"I know Briar, idiot. I mean who caught him?"

"The general. The young one. The Thain's son."

The boy let out a string of unfamiliar words Sam could only imagine were curses. When he calmed down, he was on his feet, pacing like the girl. "Fern, How could you let this happen? He was our only chance, you hear, our only chance."

"Calm down, Flint—"

"What do we do now? You know how long it took to find him? Where are we going to find someone else? All Sharkey's supporters have fled."

"Listen, Flint, we don't—"

"Even if we did find someone now, we haven't got the money to pay him. You stupid, insolent girl! I told you it was a bad idea to go mixing with hobbits. I say we just go in and attack at random. Hope we find the one we're looking for while we're at it."

"If you'd shut up and listen, Flint, I've been trying to tell you we don't need anyone else." She stopped pacing and her shadow fell long across the forest floor, the tip of its head nearing Sam's feet. He held his breath and pressed himself further against the tree to avoid being seen. "Briar found out what we asked. He told me everything before he was captured."

"Did he!?" Flint's voice took on a new note of delight. "Who? Who is it? Did he survive the battle? Do you know where to find him?"

"Yes, he's alive. He lives up in Hobbiton, near Sharkey's home."

"What's his name? I want to know the name of the wretched beast who murdered our father before I plunge a knife in his throat."

"His name," Fern said with obvious distain, "is Tolman Cotton."

Well this was too much for Sam. It was all he could do to keep from crying out in alarm. Mr. Cotton! Rosie's father! The dear old hobbit had been like an uncle to him since he could remember. He had treated him and Frodo with nothing but kindness since they'd returned. Sam had half a mind to rush out and attack the Ruffian kids right then and there, but his common sense told him to stay put. He hadn't a weapon on him, nothing but a few coins and a box of seeds and he was no match for two Ruffians with nothing but his bare hands. Quietly, as quickly as possible, he slipped from the tree and waited for a large gust of wind before he tore out through the forest, his movements lost in the thunder of leaves.