'Now, Mister Baggins,' said Belladonna, 'our safest option, I feel, would be to follow the Withywindle downstream. It runs south and west, and will bring us to the Brandywine by Haysend. It's a fair way to go, true, but at least we can't get lost.'

Bungo's eyebrows were tense with concentration as he focused on the map. Borrowing his pen and ink, Belladonna had scribbled an estimate of their position, as well as of their way so far.

'Haysend's terribly far,' he protested. 'Why can't we go back the way we came?'

'Look around you, Mr. Baggins. Do you see a path, except for the strange one that we're walking on and that follows the river? Whenever Bruthiel walked, I saw hedges and trees close the way behind us. The Forest wanted to trap us here, to bring us here, to that old willow. It won't let us out that easily.'

Despite his reluctance, Bungo had to admit to the truth in Belladonna's words. Old Man Willow stood innocently a stone-throw away; had it been a person, he would have been whistling and trying not to look at the gaping wounds in his bark. Bruthiel strutted around with pride, baring her teeth at any branch that dared to move with the breeze. Belladonna added: 'Besides, the Hedge has very few openings. I know of one near Crickhollow and another in Standelf, that is all — both places I used on my previous trips to the Forest. Even going straight west, we'd be at risk of having to wander a while before finding a way out.'

'But what about my cousin Scilla? Do we abandon all hope of finding her here?'

With a sigh, Belladonna pinched the bridge of her nose and asked Bungo if he had any proof of Scilla's ever going into the Old Forest. A blackbird had time to sing its song in full before Bungo replied that no, he had no proof. 'But where else would she go? She said she wanted to see the wild, that the Shire was a stuffy place! Where else, Miss Took, where?'

'Bree,' retorted Belladonna. 'I was once a rebellious youth too. Bree is where she'd go.'

'Oooh,' Bungo whined.

'What, Mr. Baggins?'

'Why didn't you say so earlier? Before we got lost in this terrible Forest!'

Belladonna's temper rose. Forgotten were all the half-hidden nice feelings she may ever have harboured towards Bungo. She had never agreed to search for Scilla in the first place, she reminded him; it was his own foolishness that had brought them to this point. Not to mention Mr. Baggins's dishonesty in committing straight up larceny, which had forced her on this wild-goose chase and had been the direct cause of her falling in a cold, muddy, deep, and profoundly hostile river. Besides, she insisted they were not lost, as she had a rough idea of their whereabouts and fully intended to get them out of that damn place so that she could have the pleasure to drag Mr. Baggins back to the Shire by the skin of his hairy feet as punishment.

Mr. Baggins found no suitable reply to that.

'The sooner I am rid of your company, the better,' concluded Belladonna, going back to her map.

For some reason, while Belladonna usually prided herself of her cool head, the aggravating feelings caused by her companion didn't pass as easily as they should have. She fished in her bag for a small pouch that held a length of thread — a peculiar one, that had proved useful more than once while writing her guides and mapping her walks. The wool that made it was white and black, colours alternating along the length at regular intervals. Using pins taken from the same pouch, she affixed the thread according to the way of the land, approximating distances. This sent her mumbling and she scribbled over her map as she corrected it. Bungo watched her silently, transfixed, not daring to ask. Bruthiel, however, showed no such restraint, and gently headbutted Belladonna. The day wasn't getting any younger; the mare wanted to get going.

'I know, Bruthiel,' replied Belladonna. 'You see, each length of thread is half an hour' walk on normal ground at hobbit speed. I don't think you walked much faster than this since we entered the Forest, on account of paths being so bad. It means that the quickest way out of here isn't indeed downstream towards Haysend, which would force us to spend another night among these dreadful trees. No, the fastest is to follow the Withywindle upstream and reach for that gap in the hills that can be seen from the East Road.'

With some difficulty, as she had pointedly ignored him during that little speech, Bungo tried to ask if the safest way downstream wouldn't be, you know safer. That path would bring him closer to Bree, and he wasn't one to complain about this — but it was clear that Miss Took knew her craft, and perhaps her first opinion on the matter had merits after all.

She looked back at him with a steely gaze that sent unusual shivers down his spine, merely saying: 'Safer would have been for your sake, Mr. Baggins. Faster is for mine. Get on Bruthiel's back, shut up, and watch how a Took gets things done. Bruthiel! Lay.'

The path upstream more or less followed the river, sometimes climbing up a slope to avoid boulders through which water ran in a rowdy noise. Trees — no more willows, but beeches, tall and regal — joined their branches over the path, enclosing it in their embrace. The light green of their new leaves was a welcome sight after the dreariness that surrounded Old Man Willow but an eerie, uneasy, feeling still permeated the place. The pale frosty stars of wild garlic fought with violets and bluebells to pierce a thick carpet of dark fallen leaves. Sunlight dappled the ground and it was like walking in a fairy tale, as long as one remembered that fairy tales often have hidden dragons and murdered children.

Whenever possible, Bruthiel pushed to a swift trot; her ears often turned this way and that for no reason, and Belladonna shared the feeling. Rather than holding onto her coat, as he had done before, Bungo had chosen to grab her rucksack. It was uncomfortable, as he was prone to pull on the straps at every change of pace of their mount, but despite her anger Belladonna was glad not to be alone. She also couldn't avoid a sense of thrill. Now that would make for a compelling chapter in her upcoming book! Not very respectable (one might even say downright disreputable), but her reputation was strong enough to bear a little of it and anyway a whole tome about the Old Forest and the borders of the Shire was already bound to attract some criticism. Hobbits, as you probably know, often have quite a conservative turn of mind and find that the Shire is quite enough for a person, thank you very much.

The river, on the right-hand side of the path, little by little grew narrower and noisier. The lowering sun projected long shadows ahead and made huge clumps of marsh marigolds appear even more golden than they had any right to be. The ground was steadily rising; Belladonna hoped that her estimate was right — the way the shadows pointed were right, but… In the dying day, the hilltop and that pass that could be guessed from afar on the Road should already be there. Was Bruthiel tired? Certainly her gait was slower. There was no more carrots. Perhaps she was hungry, and what would she eat in these woods? When the night mist rose slowly, wraith-like, would they be out of the grasp of the malevolent trees?

The leather from Bruthiel's reins was rough against Belladonna's palm, but she found herself rubbing her thumb against it in an effort to smooth away her growing fear.

Splashes of reddish light betrayed the coming sunset. Gloom pooled in the corner of one's eye. The river had overflowed its banks, covering the strange path in a mirror-like pond that no ripple warped. Bruthiel came to a stop and bowed her head to smell something; she snorted and shook herself before twisting her neck to look at Belladonna. 'Are you sure about this? Because I'm not' was written in her clever eyes.

Tired, Belladonna gently shook the reins, urging Bruthiel forward. The mare's hooves broke the water, without a splash, in a hundred shards; it wasn't deep. A dozen careful strides were enough to take them across to more or less solid (and very muddy) ground. Belladonna let out a sigh — a clear voice rang behind them. 'There you are,' cried out the voice, pure and young, and they turned back with a start.

A woman stood in the river, tall, smiling; her hair was yellow as willow-kins; her supple arms she opened in welcome to the travellers; her dress of chestnut brown, when she moved, gave flashes of silver like a waterfall at dusk. White hellebores were her girdle; violets crowned her and her feet, shod in silver cloth, ran over the water without disturbing it. Soon, she got to the mare and took her face in her hands to kiss her velvet nose. Her smile radiated kindness and light, chasing the dark away. Then she spoke again to the bewildered hobbits.

'We were worried. Your fall into swift current and your spat with the Willow-man have been the tale of bird and fish alike all day. Luck had it that I was out and about so that I heard their chatter, and was free to look for you lost little folk. Come, friends, and be guests tonight in the house of Tom Bombadil!'

'Erm,' whispered Bungo into Belladonna's ear as Bruthiel followed wearily the river maiden, 'do you happen to remember that rhyme you sang earlier, miss Took, about the spider and her parlour? I am, shall we say, a bit worried. Strange women lying in ponds and all that.'

'I do, Mr. Baggins, I do.' Belladonna sighed. Her head ached right behind her ears. She was cold and tired, and she didn't like one bit the shadows that spawned under the trees. She remembered that willow just chucking her into the river; she remembered the fear of drowning. She wondered if it was possible to drown in pure darkness. Absentmindedly, she stared at the silver-brown luminous shape that guided them. 'I don't know who, or even what, she is, if she's a fairy or a princess in exile. She's queer all right, but she doesn't feel evil. Besides, any house is a better choice than sleeping outdoors in this place.'

'Do you think she could be an elf? I've never seen one. Maybe she's heard something about Scilla.'

'I don't know; I've met some, once or twice, but she doesn't really look like them.'

At that, the woman turned, a merry smile on her face: 'No, of course I am no spider and no elf! I am Goldberry, the River-daughter.' And she stopped, as if her name was enough explication.

Well, there was no beating around the bush: now was the time for formal introductions. Atop Bruthiel, Belladonna managed a good-enough bow, announcing herself as Belladonna Took, daughter of Old Took. Bungo squealed his name of Baggins and his town of Hobbiton. Bruthiel said nothing, of course, but thought no less of it. You yourself need not be warned of the dangers of giving out your name to the fae or any other wood-dweller, but politeness and propriety were so much engrained in the hobbits' heads that they didn't, for one second, think twice about it. It was good for them that Goldberry was what she seemed — a kind soul — otherwise this tale would be much shorter than what it should be, and the future of the world would have been much changed indeed.

They soon reached a house, homely and lovely, over a spring that chattered cheerfully. Night was close: the first blink of a star could be guessed in the powder-blue sky. The cottage garden, in the obscure light that lingered from the west, was very neat, very tidy, in defiance of the wilderness of the woods beyond — and yet it felt as if very little intervention had been needed to discipline flower and bush. Nature, perhaps, had chosen to obey some not-so-subtle hints and comply to the gardener's wishes. Spring here was less advanced than in Belladonna's own garden, all the way in the West Farthing: snowdrops still brought patches of white; oxlips rose over all, carrying wearily their pallid bells; moss thrived still in darker pads. The land was higher here — the weather wilder, too, probably.

From the house a creamy light poured out, of many candles and perhaps a fire, too, that no one could have lit. The room they were ushered in was long, with many rafters whence drying flowers hung, but before Belladonna could take in the sight, she remembered Bruthiel at the door and ran back to her with a cry. The good mare, not one to be left alone, was peeking through the doorway, her great head turning curiously to every little thing. However, Goldberry had stayed back, bidding Bruthiel to come to the stable where, she said, she would find good company as well as oats of the highest quality. Bruthiel snorted in disbelief — this place was way too far off the beaten paths for both promises to be possible, in her mind — and still followed the apparition, her tail swinging at invisible flies. Belladonna went with them; she remembered her sister's disdain for those riders who care not about their mounts. Bungo went, too; he didn't want to stay alone. Only when Bruthiel was comfortably set up in the stable where a big, fat, pony munched on hay, did they all head back to the house.

It was all so cosy there that Bungo's mistrust somewhat eased. Their hostess showed them a bathroom where they could was in two large copper tubs, filled to the brim with warm water, each protected by a screen of woven reeds. Belladonna sank in hers, glad to peel off her stained clothes. When she dunked her head, her curly hair floated and a peaceful silence filled her ears — so unlike her fall in the Withywindle that a fear she knew not had followed her since left for good. She let herself drift in the bath, finding herself again.

Still, it would have been bad manners to keep their hostess waiting. Belladonna forced herself up and began the job of washing herself properly. From the splashing sounds that came from behind the screens, Bungo was doing the same. When they left the bath, they found fluffy slippers laid out for them, and pink robes of a downy material. While the colour suited Belladonna, I can't honestly said it complimented Bungo's complexion but well, he was happy with it, and it's all that matters.

While night was now deep and dark outside — with a hint of wind rising, whispering threats through leaf and bough — inside was light and clear as an autumn dawn, when the golden sun reminds everyone both of summer gone and the promise of spring. Goldberry was finishing to set a table, dancing as she carried pitchers and glasses, singing like a lark. The hobbits tried to help her, but she caught their hands in hers, smiling, and bade them sit, driving them to chairs a bit too tall.

What feast awaited our friends then! Bread, white and brown, still warm; butter golden and soft; honey and jam, in stoneware jars; the last of this year's apples and pears, bright red and green; cheese — little goat's milk cylinders both fresh, creamy white, and sundried, but also slices of a hard crumbling tome that smelled of old grass — and a steamy pot of soup all cluttered the boards, polished to a sheen. Stomachs grumbled at the sight; without further ado, at Goldberry's urging, the hobbits dove into their plates and the excellent taste of everything finished to quiet Bungo's mind. They drank water that tasted sweet and toasted to Goldberry, in high spirits, thanking her for such a regal welcome. Her eternal smile hovered over her lips as she toasted back, looking kindly upon her guests.

Even hobbit stomachs have their limit, though, and after a while they could only nibble on leftovers, filling up the corners (as they say in the Shire). Belladonna, in the peaceful state of mind that comes after such a meal, wondered aloud that such a place existed in the Old Forest. 'The world is wide,' replied Goldberry, 'and rich in secrets.' In answer to Belladonna's questioning gaze, she added in a singing voice:

The world is wide, rich in secrets hidden away:
Far from your eyes, and yet so close we live and thrive.
The river and the hill, the forest and the night
Shelter many that you know not. We watch and hear;
We listen and see as you go about your day.
Walk the Perilous Realms! Forget what you once knew.
Be my guests and be safe while Tom quiets willows,
Soothes the woods and then brings out the peace.

Simultaneously, Belladonna and Bungo asked who is Tom — what are the Perilous Realms? Goldberry clasped her hands, laughing for them not to speak over one another — and they stopped, standing silent, embarrassed, until she spoke again. 'Tom Bombadil is the Master of this house; tonight he has much work to do and will not be back until your incursion has been forgotten and forgiven. The Hedge isn't the only thing keeping the Forest from the Shire.'

In a whisper of reverence, Belladonna then asked if the Old Forest was the Perilous Realms. The mood in the room had shifted: gone was the joyous carelessness that came with a hearty meal. In the candlelight, Goldberry's eyes shone. She was — more than she seemed, older and younger and wiser all at once, and yet… she simply was. Fair lady clothed in water-sheen, queen of Spring, and mere maiden easy in her friendship she was. When she spoke again, a chill ran through Belladonna.

Walk from your door on familiar ways and behold
A glance away the crane that rests on her way to
Summer: a river bird, a common bird, perhaps.
But her wings have flown over the City of Swans;
But she has seen starlight in ruin, beheld the Moon
Behind the Mountains of the West and now you can
Guess what is more than what just is.

Walk from your door on familiar ways and behold
A pace away otters that plunge swiftly and swim,
Avoiding your prying eyes in murky depths.
Think what secrets lie buried in the mud under
Lily-roots that bloom yellow in spring: riches
Cursed or memories blessed, and forgotten. Just guess!
Guess what is more than what just is.

Guess, and walk the Perilous Realms!
Dream, and see beyond the sun-clear day!
Look, and know the most important things
Always are hidden to your own mortal eyes.

A sort of spell had come over Belladonna. She saw the everyday beauty of life: the pure patterns of leaf and cloud, the perfection of a hoof-print in the mud, the gossamer threads of cobwebs glimmering with light. She glimpsed how all of Nature conspires to work in harmony with itself, from the smallest grass to the tallest trees. Awed, Belladonna realised that she never knew why moonlight shines either blue or silver grey.

The sound of someone scratching their throat tore Belladonna out of her trance. It was, of course, Mr. Baggins, who looked very concerned and also tried to look very serious (he failed). Bagginses, as a rule, are hard to spook and harder still to move to flights of fancy. He had listened to their fair hostess's rhyme, concluded it bore little regard to what concerned him most, and filed it into the 'to think about later, maybe,' cabinet of his mind. It was, as you can guess, a cabinet that was very much already filled to the brim with everything that departed ever so slightly from the mundane. Poetry slid over him like water over a duck's feathers.

Belladonna, as we saw, had herself very much enjoyed Goldberry's song — so much that she glared daggers at Bungo while he asked if Mrs. Goldberry — or cranes or otters, by any chance — had seen a young hobbit girl cross the Forest recently.

Goldberry herself was unfazed by Bungo's sudden down-to-earth approach. She poured herself some milk and, before drinking, raised her cup to her guest. When she put it down again, a small mustache of froth remained on her lips until she dabbed them on her napkin like the most proper lady of Hobbiton.

'No,' Goldberry said. 'No other hobbit than you both, of late, has been seen in these parts.'

To say that Bungo was crestfallen is an understatement: despite Belladonna's reasoning, he still thought there could be a chance that he had been right. Belladonna herself, on the other hand, was the very picture of smugness as she very pointedly thanked Goldberry for that bit of information. But Goldberry asked why Bungo wanted to know, and she was treated to the whole story of Scilla's disappearance. One thing leading to another, she was then told about the book theft, about how Belladonna ran after Bungo, and their own account of their journey through the Old Forest. They found, as they strove to tell their story in the animated way of hobbits caught up in a tale, that it was once again easy to talk to each other. Turns out that a good meal does wonder to improve one's opinion of one's neighbour! They thus chatted the evening away, and soon were laughing at their fears and the danger they faced. Goldberry listened, sometimes prompting them with a question or a comment that could be either serious or tongue-in-cheek, and rejoicing in their vivacious account.

As night grew on — when candles got shorter and their wicks became in need of a trim — tiredness caught up with our hobbits. They remembered their backs were sore from riding; they remembered the broken sleep of their previous night, haunted by unpleasant dreams. It had been a long day indeed, so Goldberry shepherded them to beds with covers of down, a wholecloth quilt, and many good square pillows. It was supremely cosy, decreed Belladonna to herself as she burrowed in her bed, barely awake enough to form conscious thoughts. She slumbered away instantly, before Bungo's very light snoring rose from the other side of the room, and knew nothing of the world until a good hour after sunrise, when the smell of warm bread tickled her nostrils.