The morning sun climbed slowly over the eastern hills, painting the sky in shades of pale gold and soft rose. Holman walked beside Gandalf, his furry feet padding softly on the springy turf, his mind still lingering in the warm memory of Tom Bombadil's house. The terror of the Black Riders seemed distant now, like a nightmare fading with the dawn. But the Ring remained in his pocket, a cold weight that served as constant reminder that the nightmare was not over—merely paused.
Before them, the land rose and fell in great green waves. The Barrow-downs stretched as far as Holman could see, a vast ocean of grassy hills dotted here and there with standing stones and the mysterious mounds that gave the place its name. Some were small, little more than bumps in the earth. Others were great green hillocks, crowned with circles of weathered stone that leaned against the sky like ancient, toothless giants.
"What are those?" Holman asked, pointing to one of the larger mounds.
"Barrows," Gandalf answered, his voice carefully neutral. "Graves of men who lived in this land long ago. Kings and warriors of the North Kingdom, in the days before the shadow fell upon them. They fought against the Dark Lord of that age, and many fell. Their people buried them here, with their treasures and their weapons, and raised stones above them so that they would not be forgotten."
Holman looked at the green mounds with new eyes. "Are they... are they still there? The kings, I mean?"
Gandalf was silent for a long moment. "Their bodies have long since returned to the earth. But this is an old land, Holman, and old lands remember. There are powers here that even I do not fully understand. Some say that in the long winters, when the wind blows from the north, the barrows whisper. Some say that things walk here that should not walk—shadows of the past given form by the malice that still lingers in the world."
Holman shuddered and pulled his cloak tighter. "Then why are we going through them? Could we not go around?"
"We could," Gandalf admitted. "But going around would add three days to our journey, and three days is more than we can spare. The Riders will not rest. They will circle the Thornwood, search its every path, and when they do not find us, they will press eastward. We must reach the Ferry before they cut us off from the road to Bree."
They walked on in silence, the only sounds the whisper of wind through grass and the distant call of curlews. The morning wore on, and the sun climbed higher, but its warmth seemed unable to penetrate the strange stillness that hung over the downs. Holman found himself glancing constantly at the barrows they passed, half-expecting to see something emerge from their shadowed sides.
By midday, they had penetrated deep into the heart of the downs. The hills grew taller here, the valleys between them deeper and more shadowed. Great standing stones rose from the grass like silent sentinels, their surfaces weathered by countless winters into strange, flowing shapes that might have been writing or might have been nothing at all. The sky, which had been clear at dawn, was now covered by a thin grey haze that turned the sun into a pale, watery disc.
"We should rest," Gandalf said at last, lowering himself onto a flat stone at the foot of one of the larger hills. "Even hobbits cannot walk forever, and we have many miles yet to cover before nightfall."
Holman gratefully sat down beside him and pulled out the small packet of food Goldberry had pressed upon him at their departure—more of the wonderful bread, a hunk of yellow cheese, and a small leather bottle of milk that still tasted fresh and sweet. They ate in silence, and for a few moments, Holman almost managed to forget where they were.
It was then that the fog came.
It rolled down from the north without warning, a thick, white wall of mist that swallowed the hills one by one. Within minutes, the world had vanished. Holman could not see more than a few feet in any direction. Gandalf loomed beside him like a grey ghost, his face set in lines of deep concern.
"This is no natural fog," the Wizard said quietly. "Stay close to me, Holman. Do not wander. Do not follow any light or sound that seems to come from the mist. And whatever you do, do not put on the Ring."
Holman nodded, his heart hammering. The fog was cold, unnaturally cold, seeping through his cloak and settling into his bones. It carried a smell, faint but unmistakable—the smell of ancient dust, of things long dead and never properly buried. And beneath that, the faintest whisper of something else. Something that sounded almost like...
Singing.
It came from somewhere ahead of them, a low, droning chant in a language Holman did not know. The words were old, older than the Thornwood, older perhaps than the hills themselves. They rose and fell like the breathing of some vast, sleeping creature, and with each rise, the cold deepened.
Gandalf's hand closed around Holman's wrist. "Do not listen. Do not heed. It is a barrow-wight, a spirit of the dead corrupted by evil in ages past. It seeks to draw us into its mound, to add us to its collection of lost souls."
But even as he spoke, the mist swirled and parted, and Holman saw it. A figure stood on the slope of the nearest barrow, if figure it could be called. It was shaped like a man, but it was made of shadow and mist, with eyes that burned with a pale, corpse-light. It wore a crown of bronze upon its brow, and in its hand it held a sword that glimmered faintly in the gloom. And it was singing, singing with a voice that was not a voice, but the memory of a voice, preserved in the cold earth for thousands of years.
"Cold be hand and heart and bone,
and cold be sleep under stone:
never more to wake on stony bed,
never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead.
In the black wind the stars shall die,
and still on gold here let them lie,
till the dark lord lifts his hand
over dead sea and withered land."
Holman could not move. The song wrapped around him like chains, pulling him forward, pulling him towards the barrow. He felt the Ring in his pocket, felt it pulse with a strange eagerness, as if it recognized a kindred spirit in the wight. His hand crept towards it, almost of its own accord.
"No!" Gandalf's voice cracked like a whip, and the spell was broken. The Wizard raised his staff, and from its tip burst a light so brilliant that the fog reeled back, shredded like cobwebs before a flame. The barrow-wight shrieked, a sound of such pure malice that Holman clapped his hands over his ears, and vanished into the mist.
"Run!" Gandalf commanded, and run they did. They fled down the slope of the hill, through the swirling fog, with no idea of direction, no knowledge of where they were going. They ran until Holman's legs gave out and he collapsed, gasping, onto the grass.
When he looked up, the fog was gone. The sun shone down from a clear blue sky, and the downs stretched peacefully around them, green and innocent. Of the barrow-wight, there was no sign. They had emerged onto the eastern edge of the downs, and below them, perhaps three miles distant, Holman could see a road winding through green country, and beyond that, the silver gleam of a river.
Gandalf helped him to his feet. "The Brandywine," he said, pointing. "And there, where the road meets the river, that is the Bucklebury Ferry. We have lost the Riders, for now. But we have also lost the element of surprise. They will know we passed through the downs. They will know we have a guide of power with us. From now on, the hunt will be swifter."
They descended from the downs and reached the ferry as the afternoon began to fade towards evening. A stout hobbit with a broad face and suspicious eyes operated the ferry, and he looked with deep misgiving at the tall Wizard and the travel-worn hobbit who hailed him from the western bank.
"Strangers, are you?" he said, poling his flat boat across the sluggish water. "Don't get many strangers on this side of the river. And a Wizard, by his look! There's been talk in Bree of strange folk on the road. Black folk, on black horses, asking questions about someone called Baggins. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
Holman started. Baggins? The name meant nothing to him, but Gandalf's face remained impassive.
"We are simple travellers, good master, bound for Bree on matters of no concern to anyone but ourselves. If there are black horsemen on the road, we shall be glad of the stout walls of the Prancing Pony before nightfall."
The ferryman grunted and poled them across without further conversation. On the eastern bank, they stepped onto the soil of Buckland, a land that was still the Shire and yet not quite the Shire—a narrow strip of land between the river and the High Hay, where the hobbits were said to be queerer and more adventurous than their kin to the west.
The road led them through pleasant countryside, past cosy hobbit-holes and well-tended fields, until at last, as the sun touched the horizon, they came to the East Road. And there, where the East Road met the Brandywine Bridge, stood the village of Bree.
It was like nothing Holman had ever seen. There were houses of Men here, tall buildings of two and even three stories, with sharp gables and narrow windows. There were hobbit-holes too, burrowing into the hillsides that rose behind the village, but they seemed almost an afterthought. The main street was broad and paved with cobblestones, and along it stood inns and shops and houses all jumbled together in cheerful chaos.
At the heart of the village, where the road widened into a small square, stood the Prancing Pony. It was a building of considerable size, with more windows than Holman could count, a great arched door that stood hospitably open, and a sign swinging in the evening breeze that showed a fat white pony rearing on its hind legs.
Gandalf pushed open the door, and they entered a world of warmth and noise and light. The common room was vast and low-ceilinged, filled with tables and benches and a great many folk of both hobbit-kind and the Big People. A fire roared in a huge stone fireplace, and the air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and good ale and pipe-smoke. A man with a round, red face and spotless white apron bustled towards them.
"Wizards and hobbits!" he exclaimed. "Now there's a combination we don't see every day, even in Bree! Welcome to the Prancing Pony, gentlefolk. Barliman Butterbur at your service. What can I do for you?"
"Two rooms for the night, if you have them," Gandalf said, "and a hot meal, and a private corner where we can talk without being overheard."
Butterbur's eyes widened slightly, and he glanced around the room before leaning closer. "Private corner, is it? Aye, I think I know just the spot. Follow me, if you please."
He led them through the crowded room to a small alcove near the fire, partially screened from the rest of the common room by a carved wooden screen. They settled onto a bench, and within minutes, a plump hobbit-girl appeared with mugs of ale and a plate of bread and cheese.
Holman ate ravenously, feeling the tension of the past days slowly begin to ease. The warmth of the fire, the murmur of voices around him, the simple pleasure of good food—it was almost enough to make him forget the barrow-wight, the Black Riders, the terrible weight in his pocket.
But Gandalf did not relax. His grey eyes moved constantly, watching the door, watching the windows, watching the faces of those who entered and left. And when a tall, weather-beaten man in a hooded cloak slipped into the common room and took a seat in the shadows near the door, the Wizard's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his staff.
"Holman," he said quietly, "do you see that man? The one in the corner, keeping to the shadows?"
Holman looked. The man was tall, with a lean, rugged face and eyes that seemed to gleam with their own light in the dimness of the room. A long sword hung at his belt, and his cloak, though travel-stained, was of fine quality.
"I see him. Who is he?"
"I do not know," Gandalf admitted. "But I have seen his kind before. He is a Ranger—one of the wandering folk who guard the borders of the Shire and the lands of Men from evils that most folk never know exist. They are friends to me, in their way, but they are also secretive and speak little of their purposes." He rose. "Stay here. Finish your meal. I will have a word with him."
Holman watched as Gandalf crossed the room and slid onto the bench opposite the stranger. They spoke for several minutes, their voices too low to carry above the din of the common room. Then Gandalf returned, his expression thoughtful.
"His name is Aragorn," he said quietly. "He is... more than he appears. He has news. The Black Riders crossed the Brandywine yesterday. They are in the Shire even now, searching. They will learn soon enough that we have passed this way. We cannot stay here long."
Holman's brief moment of peace shattered like glass. "Then where can we go? They will find us wherever we hide!"
Gandalf's eyes met his, and in them Holman saw something he had not seen before—a flicker of uncertainty, of genuine doubt. "I do not know," the Wizard said. "I had hoped to lead you to Rivendell, to the house of Elrond, where the power of the Elves might protect you. But the road is long, and the Riders are swift. We may not reach it in time."
He fell silent, staring into the fire. And in the warm, noisy common room of the Prancing Pony, surrounded by the simple comforts of Bree, Holman Greenholm felt the shadow of Mordor reach out and touch his heart.