Dank, musty air draped heavily over the cave’s gloom. To most other creatures, the deepening dark would soon be impenetrable. To the eyes of a monster such as Grudkak, however, even the blackest nook had green traces hinting at the hidden shapes. With each unsteady, lumbering step, the darkness around him swelled to consume the hated dawn light. The farther he limped from the mouth of the cave, the more the thunder of the waterfall near its entrance faded into the answering rush of a smaller cascade somewhere deeper inside. The scent of rich, wet earth mixed with the growing pungency of rotting flesh. Grudkak snuffled and snorted at the reek, his great belly rumbling with hunger. Soon he would feast again in his larder, a low and broad chamber strewn with the carcasses of pig, deer, bear, and people.
He ducked under an out-thrust rock, and an arrow, protruding from the middle of his back, scraped against the low ceiling. Grudkak howled in pain as the arrowhead dug against bone. A massive hand tried vainly to reach the cause of his torment. He turned and twisted, but could not grasp the arrow. In his frantic dance, he slammed against the overhang, scraping the back of his head. With frustration, he pounded huge fists on the rocky obstruction. Dust fell, and from somewhere above came an ominous rumble. He howled again and squatted, momentarily defeated. As his hands fell to his knees, a small, loosely-held, tinkling thing slipped from his fingers. Had there been any light, it would have danced on rubies and glinted off gold.
He whimpered, growled, and waited until his hunger drove him forward more than his pain made him hunker. His wound and treasure forgotten for now, Grudkak lurched, crouching, toward the comforting stench, his troll’s baser instincts irresistible.
~o~o~o~O~o~o~o~
The Boggs’ hobbit hole should have been cheerful and welcoming. The hearth’s fire cast a happy, flickering warmth, its crackle a promise of relief from cold, darkness, and uncertainty. The scent of freshly baked scones floated temptingly, but they lay, plated and untouched, on the small table next to Gammy Boggs’ rocker. She sat, staring wide-eyed into the flames, clutching a saucer with both tiny, shaking hands. The cup rattled, tiny waves rippling in the tea.
Millaray knelt next to her great-grandmother, tucking a blanket around the older hobbit woman’s legs. “What were you doing out there in the wee hours, Gammy?”, she murmured. She waited for a long moment in the silence, then stood and moved behind Gammy, and reached down gently to smooth a shawl wrapped around Gammy’s still trembling shoulders. Old hobbit eyes closed for a moment while she drew in a ragged breath. Millaray leaned in and nuzzled a cheek against Gammy’s temple. “It’s all right now, Gammy”, she whispered. “We’re safe. I blocked the door, see?”
Gammy glanced across the room to the little foyer that framed a round door. Against it, Millaray had shoved a chest, a cupboard, and two of Gammy’s heavier chairs. “Hmph”, Gammy grunted. “Most likely, that ... thing could sneeze that pile away, and blow the door completely off its hinges. Did you get a good look at it?” Gammy peered around fearfully, searching Millaray’s eyes. “What was it?”, she hissed, dreading what she already suspected.
Millaray tried to keep the steel from her voice. From conversations with others in the Watch, she had heard of livestock gone missing, and rumors of something huge and fearsome lurking in the dark. Until now, no one could definitely say what it was. “It was a troll, dear”, Millaray murmured. Both hobbit women quietly stared into the fire. Eventually, Gammy sipped at her tea to ease her dry throat before saying, “I should have never been out there snooping. I was so sure it was just some brigand from Chetwood. They say that those scalawags were beaten away from Archet...those poor Big folks lost so much...and then there’s been talk of them skulking around Staddle...” Her voice trailed off as she drew the cup to her lips again.
“And so”, Millaray softly said, “you thought you would just go out there with your fearsome cudgel, in the dark, and teach him what for?” She massaged her great-grandmother's shoulders. Gammy sighed. “Yes, Millie, I’m just an old fool. And it’s my fault that poor Watcher ....”. She leaned forward, hiding her face in her hands and beginning to sob. Millaray winced, wishing she had not pressed Gammy so. She remembered seeing her great-grandmother, only an hour ago, curled up and disheveled under a tree, whimpering in the pre-dawn light, while a mounted Man rushed towards his death.
~o~o~o~O~o~o~o~
Millaray had been returning from Bree, riding through Staddle, toward her Gammy’s little plot of land. She remembered seeing another Watcher riding some distance ahead, on what should have been a quiet patrol. The hobbit holes were still snug in slumber, chimneys releasing the barest wisps of smoke from the previous night's fires. The full but retiring moon cast more light, still, than the lanterns lining the road from the village to the fenced fields. She watched as the guardsman stopped at each lamp pole to snuff out its flame. It should have been his only task this time of night. She thought about quickening her pony’s pace to catch up with him, but thought better of it; some hobbits have very sharp ears, even in sleep, and can be most grumpy if awakened before their time. Best, she thought, not to disturb their sleep with sudden rushing about. She wished she had.
As the Watcher neared Gammy’s house, Millaray saw him start in his saddle. In the next moment she saw him dig heels into his horse’s flanks and heard her great-grandmother's faint cry. She tucked her head, grabbed fistfuls of her pony’s mane, urging him to a full gallop. As the wind blurred her vision, she saw the Watcher dash by Gammy’s hobbit hole, veer around the springhouse, and thunder north towards a thinly wooded pass in the rolling hillocks. Directly ahead of him was the small tree that, in Millaray’s childhood, had been a favored place for picnics and naps in the shade. In the dim dawn, she could see something larger than a bear scrabbling around the tree, first one way, then the other. Gammy scurried to keep the tree between her and the thing, crying out in fear and anger, swiping at its grasping hands with a gnarled cudgel.
The Watcher bore down on the hulking shadow and yelled, readying a spear for his charge. The thing stood to its full height and took a step back. It seemed to consider the charging horseman for a second, then spun and pounded away deeper into the brush. The Watcher pursued, and Millaray’s pony raced behind, closing the gap. As she approached Gammy, the old hobbit woman was up and leaning on the tree, her cudgel forgotten as it lay at her feet. “Go inside and lock the door!” Millaray ordered, then spurred her pony towards the disappearing Watcher. She nocked an arrow, while guiding the pony with her knees. Whatever this thing was, it was huge, and her fellow guardsman would need help.
Millaray’s pony crashed through the brush into a small clearing at the edge of Big Staddlemere pond, where its waters rushed, gathering speed before cascading over Staddle Falls. The waters roar and mist filled the air. The troll, having no place left to run, had stopped and braced for the Watchers mounted charge. The horse faltered, skidding towards the troll, its instinct to avoid the monster having finally overcome the rider’s will to attack. In that moment, the troll growled and dug a huge crushing hand around the horse’s throat. With a tremendous heave, it hurled horse and rider out over the waterfall, staggering for a step with them to the very edge. The Watcher spun out of the saddle, spear flipping away, and both he and his horse disappeared, writhing and screaming, into the depths below.
For a moment, the troll stood unsteadily, his back to Millaray, leering at his victims as they fell, and unaware of the hobbit on her pony. With a grunt, she loosed her arrow. It slipped through the air, noiseless and true, and buried itself in the troll’s back. The creature spun in shock and pain, eyes angrily casting about for his new tormenter, but lost its footing on the wet ground. For a moment it teetered, but its eyes found Millaray. With a hateful bellow, it toppled backwards, glaring at her with arms uselessly flailing. In one of its hands, something glinted in the dawn light. The troll slipped from view, its roar fading into the waterfall’s thunder, leaving Millaray stunned and alone. She paused to steady herself, but at the sound of rustling brush behind her, she steered her pony around with her knees while nocking another arrow Panting, wide-eyed, and trembling, Gammy Boggs stopped and crouched, staring at her. “Here now, Gammy, this is no time for curiosity! Let’s get you inside!”
~o~o~o~O~o~o~o~
Millaray and Gammy watched the fire silently for long minutes, the younger hobbit still standing behind the older, young hands gently caressing old, hunched, and stiff shoulders. Each replayed the gruesome events in their private thoughts. Gammy shook her head slowly as she recalled his scream, but she had emerged from the bushes only to glimpse the troll, howling as it disappeared over the precipice. Millaray sensed her great-grandmother becoming warm, and lifted the shawl from her shoulders. A faint red welt, barely visible, traced across the back of Gammy’s neck. A horrid suspicion snapped to the front of Millaray’s thoughts as she remembered the glint of reflected light from the troll’s hand.
“Gammy, where are The Boggs?” she asked, dreading an answer. The old hobbit woman suddenly sat straight up, her tiny hands going first to her throat, then to her neck. “Oh! Oh no! No! NOOO!”. Gammy shot up out of her rocker, kicking at the blanket. She spun around and searched the chair, the small table, and dropped to her knees to frantically scan the floor. Millaray watched with the growing realization of what she had seen in the troll’s hand as it fell.
‘The Boggs’ was a family heirloom with a history spanning many generations. The necklace was wrought in rich, yellow gold embracing seven blood-red rubies, six the size of a cat’s eye, the center gem larger. It was fabled to have been Elf-crafted in Eregion, and that it was either a gift for saving the life of its maker, or was won on a wager over a riddle. The identity of the first Boggs owner was also in dispute, but had been narrowed down, through impeccable hobbit reasoning, to be one of three brothers, or two sisters, or perhaps a cousin. Its value had been estimated, but never realized, as its dearest worth had always been its source of envy among many in the hobbit community.
Millaray watched as Gammy’s search spread throughout the hobbit hole. The younger hobbit was unable to speak, out of both sorrow and anger. On one hand, she was helpless to prevent the dread that would settle in her great-grandmothers heart when she finally admitted the truth. The other hand was pushing against spiteful words, forming to decry Gammy as thoughtless and irresponsible. Towards the end of her fruitless search, Gammy felt that dread, and thought the same angry words of herself. She returned to the rocker and sat, staring at the fading embers and avoiding Millaray’s eyes. The silence grew as Millaray fumbled over what words to offer next.
“I invited Asphodel up for supper last night”, Gammy finally said, and Millaray nodded, understanding. Gammy Boggs and Asphodel Foghorn had a lively relationship. Ofttimes they were the dearest of friends, nearly sisters. Other times they were bitter enemies, sniping at each other through others in the village. They each boasted, rightfully, of having some of the best garden plots in any of the hobbit settlements, and found themselves usually in competition over the most fragrant flowers, or tastiest carrots. Over the years, one or the other would occasionally take ill-temper a bit too far, and owe an apology. Lately, it was Asphodel’s turn to ask forgiveness for some petty slight, and Gammy had made them supper to give her the chance to ask forgiveness. Wearing The Boggs, which Asphodel coveted, would have made the contriteness all the more savory.
“After she left”, Gammy continued, “I had tea in my rocker, and fell asleep.” Millaray knew the rest. Gammy was still wearing the necklace when she awoke and went outside to have at a brigand, and in her desperate episode with a troll, the necklace had somehow come loose and the creature scooped it up, or managed to snatch it right off her neck. It was The Boggs that had winked at Millaray from the falling troll's grasp. “Do you think...IT has it?”, Gammy moaned. “I don’t know, Gammy”, Millaray lied, “but I’ll go search for it. It’s probably lying under the picnic tree.” Millaray didn’t think Gammy could, at the moment, withstand the truth, not with shame already gloomy in her voice.
The old hobbit stood and began to put on her shawl. “No, Gammy, I’m going alone. You’ve had enough excitement for a good long while.” Gammy hesitated, then draped the shawl over her rocker. “I hope you find it, dear, but please be careful. If I have to choose between you and The Boggs....”. Her voice trailed off, and Millaray felt uncomfortable with the unfinished thought. Gammy saw the question in Millarays face and said, flustered, “Of course I would rather have you!”. Millaray smiled weakly at her great-grandmother and hugged her, then cleared the door and out stepped under a bright, mid-morning sun.
~o~o~o~O~o~o~o~
Millaray checked the tools and bags strapped to her pony’s saddle as a matter of habit, her thoughts weaving around the task at hand. Torches, several bottles of torch oil, mental map of the spot where the troll should be after his fall. Bow, full quiver, Gammy’s sadness and shame, her own embarrassing anger. Buckler, sword, dread of finding the troll still alive, the captivating beauty of The Boggs. In spite of her doubts, she swung up onto the saddle and reined the pony toward the picnic tree.
At the base of the tree, the grass was still flattened and torn where troll and hobbit had desperately danced. Through the brush, the clearing waited, lovely except for the furrows made by horses' hooves as the animal had tried to stop. No other clue bespoke the terrible thing that had happened there. The Staddle Falls still filled the air with a constant roar, and a mist speckled with sunlit color floated up from the cascade. She hopped off the pony and stepped carefully to the wet edge of the precipice.
She knelt and gingerly leaned forward to peer down. Her hopes were dashed by what he did not see; no troll broken and twisted, no ruby necklace conveniently lying next to its dead hand. Looking further toward the swamp receiving the Falls’ issuance, she saw the broken corpses of both guardsman and horse where they had landed on the stony edge of the waters’ flow. Nearby, on a path leading out from the base of the Falls, lay splintered wooden planks. “Oh, this just keeps getting better”, she growled sarcastically.
Constable Underhill, from nearby Combe, had spoken of a brigand hideout cave under these falls. The raiders had retreated to it after their failure to take the village of Archet, but they had finally been found and driven out. The Constable had ordered the entrance of the cave boarded up, and decreed the place should be left abandoned. “A perfect place for a troll lair”, Millaray thought, as she rode east along the descending edge of the precipice. Ahead and below, the path back to the cave appeared between two old trees near the swamp. The air was rich with the bogs scent and the chirping of neeker wings.
She wended along the path and the pony whickered when they neared the corpses. Millaray patted his neck gently and dismounted. She went to them. The horse was too heavy for her to move, the man almost so, but she managed to drag him away from the water and lay him between two bushes. She crossed his arms over his chest and straightened his body as best she could. The faint smell of death drifted by, and she looked towards the cave, it’s opening a dark and foreboding maw. Grimacing, she returned to her pony and led him back to the trees gating. There, she retrieved her equipment, and bristling with weapons and torches, laden with pack and satchel, she marched toward the cave. “Let’s crack on, then”, she muttered.
~o~o~o~O~o~o~o~
The planks that had covered the cave entrance had been shattered, by the troll she presumed. Just at the edge of the cave opening, a trail of dark, viscous droplets led into the gloom. Her stomach coiled at the sight of what she could only assume was troll blood. She knelt next to it and drew the three torches from her pack. Each were carved of stout ash with thick rope wound tightly around one end. From her satchel she pulled out the first of three bottles of torch oil. While she was soaking the roped ends of the torches, she looked closely at the blood trail. Just before it disappeared into the cave’s darkness, it was smeared, as if something had dragged across it. Perhaps a foot. Perhaps its leg was hurt in the fall. Perhaps a troll is even more dangerous when wounded and limping....
She thrust two of the torches back in her pack where they could be easily reached, and struck flint against the third. Holding the lit torch before her, Millaray stepped to the edge of the darkness, listening. Over the thunder of Staddle Falls, she could hear nothing from within the cave, but the torchlight revealed its meandering direction. She pulled a second torch, lit it from the first, and tossed it farther down the cave. She waited. Nothing moved, no monsters popped out of the darkness that she had forced to retreat. Several times, she repeated the pattern; while holding one lit torch, approach the one thrown, wait, throw it further down the cave, and wait again. The blood trail appeared sporadically, as did scuff marks in the dust on the cave’s smooth floor. As she proceeded, a faint whiff of decomposing flesh swelled into a stench.
Soon the cave opened and Millaray’s eyes were drawn up to the ceiling where a quartz-veined run of granite cut across the cave, creating a natural lintel. She frowned at what looked like fresh cracks in the cave walls near the granite, and visually traced them down to the flat cave floor, strewn with dust and jagged shards of rock. And there it was.
The Boggs.
She rushed to it and knelt, scooping it up. Holding it to the torchlight, she frantically examined it, relieved to find all stones in place, and the intricate gold-work no worse for the wear.
Grudkak bellowed.
Millaray nearly dropped the necklace. Next to the thrown torch, a huge, muscled, inhuman leg planted its foot in the dusty floor, raising an angry cloud. Hunched, Grudkak thrust his huge head under the granite, his long-winded howl filling the chamber with trembling hate, his eyes glaring at the hobbit holding the treasure. The troll began to move towards Millaray. She noticed his limp, and for a split-second wondered if she could outrun it. Mournfully, she knew she could not. Fear, anger, and hopelessness began to swell, and without any notion of a plan, she threw the necklace skidding across the floor past him.
Grudak's gaze shot down at The Boggs as it glinted in the torchlight and skittered tinkering across the floor. His eyes filled with an avarice familiar to the hobbit. For an instant, she thought of Gammy. He turned to follow the treasure as it twisted, sliding back into the darkness behind him. As one foot again set down next to the torch, Millaray already had a full bottle of oil in her hand and threw it at the cave floor next to the torch. It shattered, its contents splashing against the torch and up the troll's legs, igniting.
Grudkak screeched, twisting and hopping, trying to escape his burning legs. Millaray found the last of the oil, took aim at the troll’s massive chest, and mightily flung the bottle. It shattered on target, and with a “whoosh!” the troll was engulfed in flames. He hurled himself across the chamber, insane with pain and fear, caroming off the walls. He violently slammed against the granite lintel.
The sudden, thunderous “CRACK!” above the ceiling was as much felt as heard, and a growing rumble became a torrent of falling boulders, an assault of dust. The burning troll disappeared under the crashing ceiling. Millaray bolted for the distant entrance, chased by the cave’s rippling collapse. As she desperately threw herself out into the sunlight, the cave’s maw slammed shut, its jagged, stone teeth clenched tight against the roar and mist of Staddle Falls. For long minutes, Millaray knelt at the water’s edge, and cried. She splashed her face with cold water from the Falls, and when some calmness returned, she stumbled away, not looking back.
The hobbit slowly made her way back along path, past the dead Watcher, to her pony. He waited there for her, patient as ever, and whickered as she approached. She loaded her equipment onto the animal, unable to shut her mind from the scene of the troll's horrible death. She was uncertain why she felt pity for him, in spite of his gruesome end. And then she remembered his look of avarice, how it reminded her of other more familiar faces as they had gazed on the heirloom. She was sure that she had occasionally worn that very same look.
Millaray swung onto the saddle, and the pony, from memory, loped toward Gammy's home. Perhaps before she got there, she would find the strength to tell her great-grandmother the heirloom's dreadful fate rather than say,” I’m sorry, Gammy. I didn’t find it.” MIllaray grew sure, though, that her duty to report her fellow Watcher’s death to Constable Tanglerush would shore her up.
