The following morning brought a steady drizzle, making the cookfires smokey and slow. Cutch still managed to get everyone fed, but although the dwarves’ stomachs were not grumbling, their voices were. Later in the day than planned, the dwarves formed up the caravan and began its slow descent to the east. Given the weather, the days destination could be no more ambitious than Dwaling, a hobbit settlement locally renowned for its kiln works, or perhaps Oatbarton, a hobbit farming community further south.
Favorably, the rain slid away to the east by midmorning, leaving the stony path to drain and dry, and tightened jaws relaxed as the footing improved for the aurochs drawing the wains. The doughty little donkey seemed uncaring, and the small treasure-laden wagon proceeded without concern. But the passage was slow, and by noon, Skithi and Ulfar began once again to offer differing opinions on the way forward.
“We are taking too long, Ulfar”, Skithi called from the little wagon’s seat. “This wagon could have been to to Dwaling by now. We need to rethink our course.”
Ulfar, on his nimblefoot goat, reined up alongside the wagon. “What is your concern now?”
“We need to get this artifact to Thorin’s Hall as quickly as possible. Between dodging attacks and dealing with weather, we are too long on the road and need to make up time.”
“You wish to find a shortcut? There is none, Skithi. The quickest road for us takes us south through the Greenfields, then Hobbiton and Waymeet to the Needlehole Road….”
Shaking his head, Skithi interrupted. “We could head due west from Brockenborings through the Binbole Wood and skirt the Rushock Bog on its north edge.”
“Are you mad? These wains could never make it along that bog!”
“You are right, Ulfar, but this wagon could.”
“You wish to divide the caravan and send the wagon ALONE! That is madness, Skithi. We would be fools to risk it.” Ulfar ended that round of argument by heeling the goat into a trot toward the head wain. The conversation was not over, however, as the caravan halted by the stablemaster outside of Dwaling.
Ulfar, astride his goat, watched the caravan circle the huge tree that offered comforting shade to travelers along the road from the Shire into Evendim. Skithi’s wagon was amidst the train of wains, and his silent stare on Ulfar foretold the conversation that would resume once the circle was completed.
“Welcome to Dwaling!”, the stablemaster happily announced as Ulfar dismounted and approached, hand outstretched to greet the hobbit stable keeper. “I’ve been watching you come down the ridge all day, Master Dwarf. Not the way wagons usually take.” The hobbit’s curious eyes scanned over the circled caravan. The two shook hands, and Ulfar cleared his throat to draw the stable keeper’s gaze.
“No, not the usual way…Master Brockhouse, as I recall?” Ulfar answered.
“Grimric Brockhouse at your service”, the hobbit answered, bowing with a fancy flourish. Beyond Grimric, Ulfar could see a crowd of the Dwaling residents coming up to the shaded caravan, as this would be where tradesman would offer their wares to the village. As dwarves and hobbits began to share their pleasantries, Skithi tossed a large canvas cover over the little wagon and tersely directed the curious hobbits to the other wains. He and Ulfar exchanged heavily browed glares, and soon shoppers and traders were immersed in haggling.
Of particular interest to the hobbits were the “Annuminas Stones”, which were nothing more than lose rocks, not ruins remains, strewn about near the ancient city. Apparently, hobbit folk believed them to bring good luck to their flower gardens. As Cutch was preparing the mid-day meal, he noticed Skithi pulling Ulfar aside, out of earshot of the makeshift market.
“We are too close to where the bandits crossed the river, Ulfar”, Skithi muttered. “We should make this a short stop and press on at least to Oatbarton by nightfall.”
Ulfar began a long sigh, but Skithi interrupted quickly with, “And the sooner we are away from this country of snoopy hobbits, the better…”.
Taking his turn to interrupt, Ulfar quietly and firmly directed, “We will proceed as soon as we have eaten and spent some time with the village here. If we press on too soon, we will raise suspicions and have wagging, gossipy tongues raising notice we don’t need.” His firm gaze ended that round of discussion.
The road south to Oatbarton, although hilly, was not difficult for the draft animals, nor unpleasant to the eye. The closer they came to the town, the more obvious the presence of hobbitry became. Carefully stacked fieldstone walls hugged well-tended little fields, gentle winds atop cleared hills caressed charming windmills, and on the air wafted the ‘scent of money’, a mixed aroma of manure and rich soil.
It was well passed nightfall when the caravan snugged along an orchard wall overlooking the hobbit village of Oatbarton.
