Morning, there was no other word for it, hurt. A dim light somehow managed to drag itself through the thick — and hostile — canope, and Belladonna didn't as much wake as found herself hungover from a great lack of sleep. What little she had slept had been peopled by nasty things that hunted her in her dreams. When she had awoken with a start (several times), she had known that said nasty things would gladly hurt her, if only they could.

Such was her state of mind that Belladonna barely nibbled on some bread and fruit, and let me tell that this is a sign of great distress in a hobbit. Still, she found solace in the fact that, as bad as her night had been, Bungo's would have been worse. Belladonna had already visited the Old Forest a few times and had even spent the night there once, so that she had known beforehand it would be dreadful. Poor Bungo wouldn't have had the dubious privilege of forewarning, and his probable distress warmed Belladonna's heart. Gone, long gone, were the strange feelings of compassion (and dare I say attraction) she had felt the day before. He had stolen her manuscript and forced her into spending the night in the Old Forest: at that moment, she would gladly have burned him at the stake.

Soon enough, Belladonna found herself ready to go. The mare appeared to share her eagerness to get moving as, with any luck, they would both find Bungo Baggins, esquire, and the lost manuscript, and therefore head out of these horrible woods before another night brought by its anguish and despair. The woods themselves seemed to share in the opinion that the less hobbits slept there the better, because Bungo's trail was suspiciously easy to follow. Whenever there was doubt, bushes appeared to part and give a glimpse of tall grass that could only have been pushed apart by a portly hobbit, and indeed morning was barely halfway through when Belladonna found her thief.

Bungo was sitting among blueberry bushes, head bowed over his knees, fingers burrowed deep in his curly hair, a living picture of despair so lost in grief that he never heard the clip-clop of Bruthiel's hooves. Belladonna walked to him and crossed her arms under a chest made fuller by pent-up anger. Bungo never moved. Sunlight, filtered by many young leaves, bathed him in a greenish glow. He had lost his jacket and only wore a yellow waistcoat that was quite the worse for the wear.

'Ahem,' said pointedly Belladonna.

Startled, Bungo fell quite disgracefully on his back, flailing as he cried 'Miss Took!' in a strangled voice.

'I'll have my book back, if you please, Mr. Baggins,' said she, stepping forward and grabbing Bungo's poor excuse of a rucksack. She unceremoniously dropped its contents on the ground and fell to her knees to rummage through it. Not enough proper food, only a single water bottle that sounded too empty for comfort, a pipe and the accompanying smoke-leaf, an ink bottle that had spilled, a quill, a few broken biscuits, some silver coins in a leather purse and a scarf, made all the current possessions of her thief. Without a shred of the propriety that befit a genteel hobbit-lady of good breeding, Belladonna walked to Bungo and started to search the pockets of his waistcoat. Under her silent steely gaze, Bungo Baggins lost whatever remained of his composure and was close to tears when he avowed that he had lost her manuscript. Belladonna made a sound not unlike an angry kettle.

'I am so, so sorry, miss Took,' babbled Bungo. 'I made a mess of everything. I had your manuscript in my hand and I couldn't very well read the map and there was a noise and I thought there was a wolf so I ran. It was so scary, terrifying even! I ran for my life.'

'And you dropped my book.'

'Oh no,' protested Bilbo. 'When I stopped, I was lost, truly lost, but I still had your book and I thought that, if I could just see above those trees I could maybe make sense of the map and of where I was. Maybe even see some paths. So I tucked your book safely inside my waistcoat and climbed a tree. My, what a harsh exercise that was!'

'And you dropped my book.'

'Oh no,' protested again Bilbo. 'Once I was high on top, I though that I could see the Brandywine some way off, unless it was the East Road. So I took your book out and then I remembered that the Sun sets in the West, which meant that it was the Brandywine indeed and that I needed to go the other way in my search for poor Scilla. Did you know that crows nest all the way up the tallest trees? I certainly didn't — that is, until one ran me down the tree because all this time I had been too close to its family home.'

'And you dropped my book.'

'No, I didn't,' cried out Bilbo. 'I still had it safe with me when I touched the ground again. But then I got worried, because the afternoon was getting late, and I had seen the Forest was so much bigger than I thought, and I was afraid I wouldn't make it back to the inn for breakfast so that I could give you back your property. So I rushed East — I think — calling out for Scilla, but there was no path and I stumbled on a root and I fell down a ditch.'

'Then you dropped my book.'

'No, I didn't! It was the first thing I checked once I was sure I had broken no bones. Safe and snug in my waistcoat it was. When darkness fell, I tried to build a fire, but it seems to be a more difficult feat than I thought without a proper fireplace. I nearly lost all my things looking for dry wood as my bag tipped over a bush.'

'Oh, so that's when you dropped my book.'

'No, I didn't,' repeated Bilbo. 'I went to sleep cold and hungry and miserable and your book was safe with me, even when night-ghasts woke me up and chased me through the trees until I got to a river and I found a place to sleep on a sort of path along the bank. No trees. Just some good, honest, dirt, some rushes — and I'll take the mud again if it means not touching any damn tree again. When morning came, I wanted to wash my hands and face in the river, so I hung my jacket, with your book, on some nasty looking willow. Believe me or not, but the tree ate it! I never dropped your book, Miss Took: it was stolen by a tree! And my jacket along with it! So here I am, lost, without a coat, without a hope to find Scilla, or my way home, or to get some proper breakfast and I messed it all up!'

The hobbit then fell silent, except for some sighs of distress. Belladonna pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in a manner reminiscent of a cat about to bap-bap an uncooperative owner with her paw. I couldn't tell you whether she believed Bungo or not; I'm not sure she herself knew. What she knew, however, was that the Old Forest was a queer place, and that Belladonna Took, daughter of the Old Took, was stubborn.

'Well, Mr. Baggins,' she said at last, 'it looks like we need to find that river again. It must be the Withywindle. Come, let us get your jacket back.'

The astute reader, of course, will have already guessed that Old Man Willow was what (or who) poor Mr. Baggins had encountered. The gentlehobbit himself had no idea, though, as his culture in folk lore was somewhat lacking — and as for Miss Took, she considered herself a lady of learning and was quick to dismiss fairytales as nothing but fancy. Old Man Willow, it has been written elsewhere, often lurks at the edge of hobbit stories: a shadow of dread that storytellers weave through their words, so that the Shire appears more comfortable and homely, so that people draw their blankets closer and enjoy better the warmth of the fireplace. But Old Man Willow is quite real, very Old and very Willow, and Man only by his malice. Whether he was born from the black heart of the Forest or whether he corrupted otherwise harmless woods is open for scholars to debate; I shan't presume to take a stand. But Old Man Willow is bitter and evil, and Old Man Willow has nothing but hate for those who know how to build a fire.

Bruthiel has knelt surprisingly obediently to allow Bungo Baggins to climb on her back behind Belladonna, and carried her double charge without so much has a stumble faked for laughs. The Forest had to be getting upon her nerves, too.

The path towards the river was, once again, deceptively easy to find. If Belladonna suspected something strange was afoot, she didn't say a thing — but it would have been surprising for such a seasoned traveller not to notice that, behind the horse, bushes and trees shivered closer than before. After a while, however, she found herself humming a rhyme. It echoed weirdly against the stifling undergrowth where new leaves, it could be seen, were covered by a sickly sheen.

'Will you walk into my parlour,' said a spider to a fly,
'And listen to an elf harper who loves to sing and sigh?
He plays all day on silken thread, and he's feeling quite lonely.'
At that the fly bowed her head and said, shrewdly: 'Poor lowly me
Cannot deserve such company. Alas! I feed in muck and such;
Parlours, black tea, cakes and honey would waste in my repugnant touch.'

'So sad,' cried the spider, 'that you are blind to your own worth!
Few are more honest or brighter; it has to make for lack of birth!
This elf, son of a long-dead king, is a fool who needs advice.
That I cannot give him, poor thing; but you might, perhaps, devise
A phrase or two and tease him from my parlour fair into the sun.'

'Please, Miss Took,' meekly interrupted our friend Bungo, 'could you perhaps think of another song to sing? That one is very foreboding, and I do not much like the end.'

'Neither do I,' replied Belladonna in a somber tone. 'And yet, no other comes to me now. Perhaps it would be better to stay silent — something is listening, I feel, and cares very little for the wellness of hobbits, or flies, for that matter.'

For a few instants, there was no noise other that the rhythmic sound of Bruthiel's feet, muffled by leaves of bygone years, until Bungo asked who the elf of the song was. Startled, as it was the first time they had spoken of something else than the burglary or Bungo's cousin, Belladonna said she didn't know.

'Why would you ask, though?' she added. 'It's just a nursery rhyme.'

'I don't know; these things don't usually interest me. But… I'm not sure, but I thought that you might know, as you know a good lot of things I don't.'

If Belladonna had turned around, she would have seen that Bungo had gone beetroot-red; a nice shade, if I say so myself, even if it clashed a bit with his hair. Still, his mumbled voice carried enough embarrassment to make the very thought of staring impolite, and Belladonna decided to focus instead on Bruthiel's step. The ground was a slope now, not so gentle in places, and this meant hanging on was a proper task.

After about an hour or so, the small company reached the bottom of the shallow valley where they had travelled so far; a calm river winded through it, gleaming dark under the sun. Bungo marveled that Belladonna had been able to find the river without any direction, as to which she replied curtly it was a very small feat indeed — as long as one remembered that running water always is at the lowest point.

Many willows cluttered the banks; in autumn, the stream would have been clogged by fallen leaves, fallow and narrow, but winter and its high waters had cleaned them all away. A muddy path — made by what kind of creature? — ran along the banks and winded through willows, bush-like in places, tree-like in others. In the sunny heat, come from nowhere, that stifled the windless valley, their branches bore yellow and silver catkins and there bees were busying themselves, so that a perpetual buzzing noise pressed around the travelers. No leaf yet drew its pale green arrow away from dark-brown bough. Whatever shade there was, was a maze-like pattern of angular twigs and withes, and where water had pooled along the path gnats and midges danced in broken reflexions.

There only remained the question of finding Bungo's thief of a tree. Even hard-pressed, though, he couldn't say more in terms of directions that he'd know it when he saw it, and they went slowly, for fear of missing it. Caution, however, wasn't the only reason for Bruthiel's tame pace: a sluggishness was coming over the travelers, as if the mud that stuck to the mare's hooves had also caught their brains.

'I have never gone this far inside the forest,' avowed Belladonna, who felt that she would fall asleep if she didn't speak.

'We must be the first, maybe.' Bungo's voice was strained, and he clutched Belladonna's coat a bit stronger than necessary. She didn't rebuke him. She needed whatever reassurance she could get, and leaned back a little into Bungo's solid warmth.

Willows, willows everywhere and of every kind — great sallows, white willows, and the small purple osier, whose catkins have been dipped in blood — enough willows to make a botanist's head turn — peopled the river banks, in places choking out reeds, and none of them had the cropped and sick look of pollards, with their deformed thick heads over a twisting body from whence a jungle of branches sprouted straight. They grew as the Queen of the Earth, Grower of Things, had intended; they grew wild, without a care. Thickets, impenetrable, sometimes threatened the path. Trunks turned under grey-silver bark in search of light. Lichen and moss licked their snaking roots ere those delved deep in the ground, straight through stone and rock. And ever the river found its way, unbound from its bed, its water mirroring the sky in places it had no right to be and feeding mud everywhere. Yellow pileworts peeked out through drying grass.

All of a sudden, the path narrowed in a clearing where no willow grew — save one. Oh, but how old it must have been! So many roots bound it to the earth, and its trunk was split in several strong pillars twisted with age. So tall was it, uncommonly so for a willow, and gnarly in its posture, as if something was eating at it from inside! Wide gnashes marked its bark where weather had scraped it — unless it had been time itself, as no deer and no beaver would dare attack such a tree. In the calm air, nothing agitated its branches; they stood still as dry timber, and smaller boughs impassively bowed to the ground, as if too tired to stand. The river silently lapped its feet, and the air was thick with a hidden awareness.

Belladonna shook herself and ordered Bruthiel down. This had to be Bungo's stealing tree, if one was to believe his outlandish tale.

Pure sunlight felt out of place to her eyes after so long in the forest. Belladonna blinked; when she opened her eyes again, she could have sworn the tree had moved, despite no sound and no obvious change. Hunger, maybe, gave her hallucinations, as lunchtime was well advanced. Without a word, the two hobbits carefully inspected the ancient willow, climbing on its winding roots, holding on its low branches.

Just as our heroin was ready to call Bungo a liar as well as a thief — no book and no jacket being visible — Bungo cried out, pointing to a narrow nook where — who would have guessed — a bit of cloth could be seen. Certainly, it had the colour of his coat! And it was stuck, as if years of bark had grown over it. They both pulled and yanked and pulled again to no avail; they shouted in frustration and swore and shouted again, and nothing budged. They broke into a sweat and persisted, until in annoyance and vexation they decided to stop a while and have lunch instead.

While they grumbled away to their bags, a shudder of silent, nasty, laugh shook the tree; only Bruthiel saw this. The mare bared her teeth at the tree, that tried to pretend it didn't notice.

Once Belladonna and Bungo had had their fill of bread and meats, topped with some excellent marinated beetroot and washed down with a bottle of ale, they felt much more optimistic. They had also brainstormed their next course of action.

Quite characteristically for a Took, Belladonna had at first advocated for violence. The lack of either crowbar or saw, however, put a significant dampen on that project. Bungo then wondered aloud, eyeing a half-empty pot of duck gizzards preserved in fat, if some judicious application of a fatty lubricant might help. The obvious drawback of staining both cloth and paper resulted in this proposition being shelved. Conversation fell to a lull.

The old willow didn't stand as constrained as before; if anything, it appeared to somewhat bow towards the hobbits.

'Now that's funny,' remarked Bungo, pointing at the tree just as inspiration struck Belladonna. She scrambled closer to him and whispered something to his ear before retreating with a mischievous grin. Bungo beamed and nodded, his eyes brightened by hope.

The two made a show of gathering their things, and proclaimed the need for a wash in the river. They headed to the bank, noisy as rats in a barrel, wondering aloud where the best spot would be, until they settled on a root that happened to be just below their stuck possessions. Belladonna undid her scarf and hung it on a broken branch; it was certainly pure chance that it was the very spot where Bungo had put his coat. She then went to the water, humming to herself as she sat and dipped her feet in the cold river. Meanwhile, Bungo stood silent and motionless by the scarf, and Bruthiel ambled closer to watch.

Several things happened almost simultaneously. The root below Belladonna's behind tipped, and she fell in the water. She yelled. A loud bang resounded like a stone thrown through a windowpane; Bungo, quick as an adder, grabbed his waistcoat from the opening crack that tried to gobble up the scarf. He yelled, too, as the tree closed again, trapping him.

By the time Belladonna resurfaced, coughing out water and blinking because of mud in her eyes, Bungo was all but hanging on for dear life, dangling precariously over a newly-appeared void.

'Let the coat go!' she shouted. 'It's not worth it!'

'I can't!' he shouted back.

Paddling with the unease of a hobbit who's never gone for a swim, panting, Belladonna tried to climb back — but every root strong enough to carry her was now out of reach. Her hair clung to her face. Her clothes impaired her movements. The water — cold, oh so cold — numbed her hands and feet, and a slight current ripped every shred of warmth away from her every time she moved. Yet move she had too, so as not to drift away, and even keeping her mouth and nose away from every ripple and wavelet took some work. When next she managed to look up in Bungo's direction, he had managed to grab the bark with his free hand, somewhat relieving the pain of hanging by one's wrist — but he was still stuck. Had Belladonna been taught in ancient lore, she might have been reminded of Maedhros's plight in the Elder Days. Although, to be fair to her, even had she had an elven minstrel's knowledge, she might not have thought to draw the comparison, as she was quite busy trying not to drown.

Now, as I said earlier, Bruthiel was nearby, and watching events unfold with the focused attitude of a curious equine. She had swallowed her last bit of carrot a while ago but kept on chewing, transfixed by such a dramatic catastrophe. The gears of her mind appeared to be slowly turning. Of course, she had taken a great liking to Belladonna — the first person to ride her far and fast in ages. Belladonna, Bruthiel had decided, was fun. Her mind wasn't made up about Bungo yet, though.

Slowly, deliberately, Bruthiel walked to the old willow tree. Her tail lashed her flanks; she bared her teeth, and took a great bite out of the trunk. A hefty chunk of bark came away. The tree trembled and, if trees could speak, would probably have yelled 'Oi! Watch yer damn mouth, ya lame nag!'

This was perfect to Bruthiel, who had decided she didn't like the tree one bit. Bungo was still hanging over the void, and Belladonna was still unable to reach even the lowest roots. Bruthiel took a bite on the edge of the bark-wound she had made, and slowly pulled more bark away, with small jerking movements of the head. She spat it away: it was bitter.

The willow hoisted out what branches he could, trying to pull itself out of reach of Bruthiel's teeth. Alas! He couldn't do much, and next thing he knew several young boughs had been ripped away from their branches. Bruthiel gave him the nastiest side-eye she could muster while chewing on them — not for taste, as stated, but for spite.

Poor Bungo called for Bruthiel (well, he had been calling her for the last few minutes, but she had been busy posing a threat to the willow), pleading, cajoling, and all in all quite close to tears. He wasn't too high up for a great horse such as Bruthiel, so she walked to him and propped his nether regions with her head. That position must have been quite uncomfortable for our friend, but less so than his previous one — and he glided awkwardly between the mare's ears, holding on to her mane with his one available hand, as she started chewing on the bark that kept his wrist prisoner.

At last, the old willow got the point. By the time its pale wood was exposed again, the crack in the trunk opened, freeing Bungo, who cascaded down the mare's neck along with his coat, that he had holden onto all the while. He very nearly fell, but hobbits are quite nimble and he managed to sit across Bruthiel's shoulders.

Belladonna, meanwhile, was wailing for help, and had lost all hope of getting it when she was lifted in the air by the back of her jacket. Bruthiel had carefully grabbed the cloth with her (great, dangerous) teeth; she had knelt to bring her long neck down to the waterline, and her getting up shook Belladonna like a struggling cat rescued from a bath. Belladonna was then more or less dropped on all fours on the ground, shivering with cold and crying tears of relief.

Before Belladonna knew it, Bungo was at her side, removing her soaking coat and wrapping her in his newly-recovered coat — and her own scarf as well. He rubbed her vigourously and, soon enough, she stopped shaking. The sun warmed her again; the dark locks of her hair begun to dry. She hugged Bruthiel's head and kissed her velvet nose several times, while Bungo praised the mare's clever intervention.

Inside the yellow coat, Belladonna found indeed her book. She opened it on the ground, unfolding the hand-drawn map it contained, and started to plot their way out of the Old Forest.