|
By: Dana
Chapter II: The Journey To The Bridge
She woke again, and her head was sore – splitting sore, and she groaned and wished herself back into darkness. When that did her no good, she began to feel the rest of herself – the pain in her skull wasn't the only pain she felt. No, her wrists were sore, too – stinging more than her hand had, when she'd cut it open on the rock. Celandine blinked her eyes open, and her vision swam before her. It was bright out, and from the heat in the still air, it must be the middle of the day. The Men never came out in the day – well, that's what Celandine had always thought. It seemed a tentative sort of agreement, but it had struck long enough, and lasted. Beforetimes, the Men had come, though they spent their days in hiding, and only came out during the night. The curfew that the Men had inflicted had been the most lasting of their Rules – and it just so happened that they had broke it, the both of them, when Celandine and Moro had been out, the night before. No, the Men never came out during the day, but Celandine spotted one of them now, hunched down before Moro; and Moro, it was, with his wrists bound before him, and a dark bruise on his cheek. Celandine gathered the breath to shout, but it only came out as a half-hearted squeak. She settled back, feeling the roughness of the tree bole that she had been leaning against, even when she'd still been sleeping. Sleeping, or just cracked out of her head. And her head did hurt, and she was frightened – more frightened than she'd been, at any length, the night before. The Man was talking to Moro, but she couldn't hear what he was saying, or what Moro said in return. She looked away, and then she shut her eyes. She didn't feel good at all. Her hands were bound, like Moro's, at the wrists. When she opened her eyes and looked down, she saw that she had bled through the cloth that bandaged her palm, and the pale cloth wasn't just stained with dirt, but with dry, rusty-coloured red. She wanted to keep her eyes shut, after that. But Moro was sitting close at hand, though she couldn't reach out, she couldn't touch him. She was frightened, yes, but she looked up, and stared at Moro. The Man was gone, though he hadn't gone far. He was sitting with his fellows, all hunched down, and they were talking amongst themselves. She could hear that they were talking, and their loud voices carried. But she could only make out bits of what they were saying, and what she heard, she didn't like. So, instead, she looked at Moro – really let herself look at him, as she hadn't ever done before. And looking at him, you wouldn't think that he was a Burrows by blood: Celandine saw the Brandybuck in him, from his grandmother, her own great aunt Asphodel – and the Took in him, most especially in the line of his jaw, that spoke of their great-grandmother, Mirabella Took. She could even see the Baggins from his mother's blood, in the splattering of soft freckles that sprinkled his nose, in his dark curls, and how they right now shadowed his grey eyes. No, he didn't look like the son of a Burrows, but Celandine rather did like what she saw. And he was more than just a stubborn bore, he was a good hobbit, and a good cousin, and she probably did owe him an apology or three as, before they came to this time, she hadn't ever been very nice to him. She felt that, as a pain, now. She hadn't thought she liked him much, the night before, or the week before, or when he'd first come to Buckland with his family, before the start of all these troubles. Well, closer to the start of them, at least. He was looking back at her. It was a bad bruise, the one at his jaw. But he smiled at her, and Celandine smiled back, frightened as she was. Tears gathered in her eyes, and she would have dashed them away, but her hands felt too heavy. 'I am terribly sorry,' she said, in a whisper. 'It seems I've got us into a bit of trouble, cousin. I hadn't meant it. I do wish you hadn't come out after me, in the night... well. Perhaps it would have been best if I'd not worried myself over Holly, how I had.' She looked away, to focus on the moss that clung to a spread of grey stone. 'She must have hid at Breredon. She's quite all right, I'm sure.' She took another breath and shut her eyes. 'Oh, this is all my fault.' 'I can't say I agree with you, at that,' Moro said, whispering back at her. She looked up, and he risked a cautious glance at the Men, but then he looked at her and smiled. He had a wonderful smile, and she had been so very mean-hearted to him, and she certainly did not deserve such a wonderful smile. 'You went out, yes, but I am the one who decided that I would go out after you. And anyhow, if I hadn't, then you might be here all alone. It's never ideal to set out on holiday on your own, cousin.' And he smiled again. She nearly laughed, but she held it in, and rested against the tree. 'You are terribly foolish, Moro Burrows. But I'm glad you're with me, here, for all that must sound like a terrible thing to say.' She paused, and felt rather awkward. Then, and in a whisper still, she said. 'Thank you. And I'm sorry, all the same.' They had no more chance for talk, after that, as the Men came back. Moro was lifted to his feet first, and then Celandine was roughly jerked to her own feet. Her legs had numbed, they'd been sitting so long. It was a stroke of luck, then, that she didn't immediately topple. The Men had their attention, then. One of them – not the one that had talked with Moro before, (and seeing how Celandine hadn't spoken with him, as they sat their in the shade, she still didn't know what he had said to her cousin, and she had missed her chance to find out, in that time that she and Moro had had to talk). But one of them, yes, who looked like he might be their leader or, at least, he looked like he might be especially cruel, took out his long club and stood in the grass, in front of the two hobbits. Even his smile was cruel, and sharp, as sharp as any knife. 'Now, little rats, we're off for a nice little walk. We'll be going a good long way, and while you have short rat legs, you'll still be expected to keep up. You were out after curfew. It ain't right, you going against the Rules. Well, when we get you to the holes, you won't be doing no more of that.' One of the others laughed. Celandine looked away, wanted to shut her eyes, but from the corner of her vision, she saw Moro lift his head high. The blood had drained from her cheeks, from her head, perhaps, and she could only feel a cold emptiness, and that being all that had been left behind. The holes. The Lockholes. So, it was true. That was where they were going. She looked at Moro, and in that realisation, she could see only the defiant pride in his dark grey eyes, and she found herself thinking, he would get himself killed, and that thought was bitter cold in her already icy blood. They were made to sit again, and they all sat there for a while longer. The Men, frightening though they were, did seem to have a bit of laziness about them. When Celandine's head cleared (though, it did ache, still), she realised that they were south of Bucklebury, and closer to Standelf than she'd thought. Not so far from the Ferry, though the Ferry hadn't been running and they wouldn't have a quick cut across the river. They hadn't been told which route they'd be taken, but it seemed clear enough that they would be heading all the way up to the Bridge – it was the obvious, and almost the only, path that they might take. A long walk, most especially at a leisurely pace. But when the Men did get them up, two of them standing at their head and two others at their back, it wasn't so leisurely, more a forced march. At the time, Celandine was many things. She was frightened, but she was hungry, too. The ache at her temple had dulled somewhat, though it still hurt, and her wrists intermittently burned, or were numb from the pain (she rather preferred the latter, actually) – the rope that bound her wrists was tied too tight. And Moro had thought his own strength too great. Oh, and Moro. Moro was likely as frightened as she was, though as they walked, he didn't say a thing. The Men were tall and terrible, and it was late summer, and the day was dry and hot. They stopped late in the afternoon, with Celandine feeling that her lungs had turned to dust. They had stuck close to the river, kept away from Bucklebury. If Celandine's feet could tell her anything, well, it felt that they had to be close to the Brandywine Bridge. The Men ate, though they didn't offer food to the hobbits; but they were allowed a drink from the water skin, each of them. Though Celandine felt that she wanted to rebel, she was too tired, and too thirsty, and she didn't want to collapse under the heat. So she took a drink, clutching the water skin, as long and deeply as she could. She gave a startled cry when a large hand took the water skin away, and it was then thrust at Moro. Moro regarded it carefully, but he took it, and he did drink. When the water skin was pulled away, they were once again hauled to their feet, and they continued walking to the north. The air was hot and still, and nothing at all like the cold of that first night. As afternoon came, dark clouds gathered in the sky. Still, the Men pressed on. The rain was sudden and brief, and it left them all refreshed.
They stopped again, after night's fall – they hadn't crossed the Bridge yet, and even though these were Men they were walking with, they wouldn't be able to cross until it was day again – there were Rules to be followed, and when it came to the Bridge, even ruffians had to follow their rules, all the same. A fire was built up, and the night air was chill. Celandine, startled that she could be so accepting, knew their fate: The leader had joked about them, earlier in the day, and how rats did deserve to go in their proper hole. So, they would be taken to the prison, and – She thought of her mother, and her father, and her brothers, too. She wondered if she would see them again. Applethorn was a timid enough mare, when she wasn't so easily startled. Celandine knew she would have made her way back to Brandy Hall. And Moro's pony, too – though, she wondered for the first time, if the Men had let it alone. If they had, then two ponies would have made it back to the Hall, and without either of the hobbits that should be riding them. For all she had worried over Holly, she never should have gone out. She had only wanted to know, but she had caused such a terrible mess. Her parents would be worried, worried out of their minds, and her brothers, too: and look at what she'd done, dragging Moro into this mess. She thought of Aunt Peony, and what she would think of her, with the mess she had gotten them both into, and then she shut her eyes. Strange, then, that thinking of Aunt Peony put her at such ease. They would make it back – Moro had promised, after all. That left hope in her heart, where it had been in small supply.
The Men ate again, in the morning, and this time they shared a small bit with the hobbits. It wasn't near enough, and it was hard and dry, and Celandine hadn't ever missed her mother's inventive cooking as she right then. But she ate the food, and she drank the water that was given to her, and she looked at Moro and she tried not to swim in her despair. He was sitting upright, dirt on his cheeks. The bruise had flowered on his jaw, and it'd become far more than the colour of his eyes. He looked back at her, and smiled. She thought that she had forgotten the sound of his voice, and even of her own. When the Men led them on, she stayed as close to Moro as she could. Celandine found herself taking comfort in his presence. Really, it was all that she had.
They had been walking for a long while, and the day went on and on. Moro wobbled, and then crumpled to the ground. 'Moro!' Celandine gasped, and she knelt in hurried concern at her cousin's side. His eyes were shut, his face screwed up, and he didn't speak at all, only moaned aloud. 'Oh, Moro,' she said, as though the moment might stand still, looking down at him and feeling her heart double over in her chest. They had been walking for a very long time, across the Bridge and with the Men positioned there, overseeing the comings and the goings – and Celandine had been walking along, head dropped in her shame. They'd not been fed well, and they'd not been drinking near as much as they should have been. Honestly, Celandine had thought, of the two, that she'd have been the one who'd have first collapse. But it was Moro who strained, in obvious pain. Those other thoughts were dashed from her mind. Roughly, she was pushed to the side. She lay there in the grass, somewhat stunned but not from any pain. She pushed herself back into a sitting position, when she gathered wit again, and she watched Moro – straining, still, and in such pain, with one of the Men – his name was Adal, she thought, and of them all, he had been the kindest (and that was a strange way to put it, Celandine thought) – gripping at his chin. 'Little rat's just not strong,' the leader said, from where he squatted. 'We're close enough to the water, we could throw him in, and be on our way with the little miss.' Startled, Celandine froze. Another of the Men laughed, and jerked Moro into a sitting position. He gasped in pain, his eyes still tightly shut. Celandine's breathing grew more rapid, and she felt her own heart pounding, even more than before. They had not been treated very well, though there weren't many bruises between them – the one on Moro's face, and their wrists were more battered than anything else. Moro went still, and Celandine caught hold of her breath. Moro was shaken, and he groaned again. His eyes fluttered open, and his gaze caught hers. Time was pounding in her ears, the same as what was pounding in her chest. Moro looked at her, and there was a ghost's smile on his lips. And in that moment, she knew. She hadn't ever thought herself very brave, and she couldn't be very brave, but she stood, and turned, and ran. The Men were so occupied with Moro, laughing as they had been, that there was a long moment, as long as life itself, where the only sound that Celandine heard was her own harsh breath, and the striking of her feet against the turf. No, she wasn't very brave, and she didn't know where the strength to run had come from, but she ran, with more strength than she knew should be hers. Ran, and tripped, and fell down into the green beyond the line of trees: By then, she heard the Men shouting, but from the sound of it, it might not have been just her escape that they were shouting about. She did not know what good this would do. Her hands were still bound, and she would likely not be that difficult to catch again. But still, knowing that, she ran. Celandine, dizzy, rolled down the embankment, struck against the trunk of a broad tree, and went still. She lay there, and the dizziness swept over. She shut her eyes and, beneath her breath, recited an old nursery rhyme. Then, when she opened her eyes again, the dizziness had washed away, and she could see. Celandine pushed herself back into a sitting position. She was in the dark now, down in the shadowy green. The ground was damp – it must have rained recently, she idly thought – and she could hear the shouting, still. She had not made it very far away, and they would come looking for her. She stood, and leaned against the tree for a brief moment of breath, and then she made it deeper into the thicket. She heard them, just a while later, or maybe it had only been a moment – they had longer legs, after all: But there was crashing in the thicket, behind her, and she ran faster, because it was all she could. Crashing through the green, though not as loud as the Big Folk were. When she tripped, she saw stars and then she shut her eyes. She'd struck her head, again, and she was dizzy, felt as if she'd be sick. She heard a voice, then: a voice she should have known, but wasn't certain that she did, and whoever it was, he knew her name. She opened one eye, and tried to sit. She saw a hobbit, crouched down in the green. He pulled her into his hiding place and, much like Moro had, a night or two before, clamped his hand down over her mouth. Time stood still, or it felt like it did, at least. She heard the Men, and the leader as he cursed. But they were hiding and, luckily enough, neither of the Men were very good at tracking. Time started up again, when they crashed away. 'They'll be back,' the hobbit said, as he moved his hand. 'Here, give me your hands.' She did, looking at him. 'Folco?' she said, rather disbelieving it was Folco Boffin sitting there in the green – she hadn't seen him in, oh, a rather long time. But her Boffin cousin (her third cousin, something in her mind supplied helpfully, on her father's side) smiled at her, and a knife flashed. She startled, and his smile was tender, and he cut the rope from her wrists. He put the knife away, sheathing it again, and his touch was as tender as his smile had been, when he moved to rub feeling back into her wrists and hands. 'Hurry. We need to get out of here, Cellie-lass. Can you walk?' She nodded. 'My head hurts, Folco, but I can walk just fine.' 'Good.' He helped her, still, holding out his hand and waiting for her to take hold of it. Then, they both stood.
|
