Holman's legs burned. His breath came in ragged gasps that seemed deafeningly loud in the ancient silence of the Thornwood. Gandalf's hand was firm around his, half-dragging him over roots, through tangles of briar, across small, dark streams that appeared without warning. Branches clawed at his cloak like skeletal fingers. The faint, terrible whisper from behind had faded, but the memory of it clung to him like a chill that no amount of running could warm.
They plunged deeper into the wood, leaving all trace of path behind. The trees grew older here, their trunks massive beyond imagining, their bark furrowed like the faces of ancient kings carved in stone. Moss hung in grey curtains from their branches, and the air grew heavy with the scent of things long decayed and never renewed. Holman stumbled, and would have fallen, but Gandalf's grip held him fast.
"We cannot outrun them forever in this manner," the Wizard muttered, more to himself than to his small companion. "They are tireless. They do not eat, do not sleep, do not rest. Their will is fixed upon one purpose alone."
Holman's heart sank. "Then what can we do? We cannot go back to the path, and we cannot stay here!"
Gandalf halted abruptly, causing Holman to collide with his long legs. The Wizard stood motionless, his head cocked as if listening to something beyond the range of hobbit ears. His grey eyes peered through the gloom, not with fear, but with a curious expression Holman could not read—something between wariness and unexpected hope.
"There is something here," Gandalf said softly. "Something old. Older than the wood itself. I had not thought to come this way, but the path we did not choose has chosen us."
Before Holman could ask what he meant, a sound broke the oppressive silence. It was not the dreadful whisper of the pursuing Rider, nor any sound of menace. It was singing. Deep, booming, nonsensical singing, coming from somewhere ahead of them through the thickest part of the wood.
"Hey doll merry dell! Ring a dong dillo!
Come and find the answers, come and find the willow!
Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow;
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow!"
Holman stared at Gandalf in bewilderment. "Is it... is it mad?"
Gandalf's lips curved into a smile—the first true smile Holman had seen on his face since that fateful evening in Fen Heath. "Mad? No, Master Holman. Not mad. Older than mad. He is Tom Bombadil, and he has been here since before the first raindrop fell upon the first leaf. He is Master of wood, water, and hill. If any being in these lands can shield us from the searching eye of the Enemy, it is he."
They pushed forward towards the sound of the singing, and soon the character of the wood began to change. The oppressive gloom lifted slightly. Patches of blue sky appeared through the canopy above. The undergrowth grew less tangled, and flowers—yellow celandine and white stitchwort—bloomed among the roots. A clear stream chuckled over a bed of smooth pebbles, and upon its far bank, sitting upon a great stone as if it were the most comfortable chair in the world, was the strangest figure Holman had ever seen.
He was short and stout, with a round, rosy face that seemed permanently creased in merriment. His eyes were blue and bright as forget-me-nots, twinkling with a wisdom that was nothing like the deep, terrible knowledge of Gandalf, but rather the wisdom of a child who has never learned to be afraid. His hat was old and wide-brimmed, adorned with a tall blue feather. His jacket was indeed bright blue, and his boots—his boots were yellow, great floppy things that looked better suited for wading in mud than for walking any road.
"Hop along, my little friends, don't be shy and don't be slow!"
Tom Bombadil sang, waving a broad hand. "The River-daughter's waiting, and it's time for us to go!
But first you'll sit and rest a while, and tell me all your tale,
For news from lands beyond the Shire is seldom in the vale!"
Gandalf stepped forward, and to Holman's astonishment, bowed. Not the slight bow of courtesy one might give an equal, but a deep bow of respect. "Tom Bombadil. It has been many long years since last we met. The world grows darker, and I find myself seeking shelter in your domain."
Tom Bombadil hopped down from his stone and splashed across the stream without seeming to notice the water. He clapped Gandalf on the shoulder with a hand that looked surprisingly strong. "Old Greybeard! Wandering again, are you? Always wandering, never staying, never resting. You'll wear yourself out before the world does, and then what will we do for fireworks?" His bright eyes fell upon Holman, and the hobbit felt, for a dizzying moment, as if he were being seen through and through, down to the very depths of his soul, and found to be perfectly acceptable. "And who is this little sprout? A Shire-folk, by his feet! I haven't seen one of your kind in this wood since... since before the dark things came. Welcome, little master! Welcome to my country!"
"I am Holman Greenholm, sir," Holman managed, still trying to comprehend what manner of being he was addressing. "From Fen Heath. In the Shire. At least, I was, until..."
"Until the Ring found him," Gandalf finished quietly.
The merriment did not vanish from Tom Bombadil's face, but it deepened, became something more complex. He looked at Holman with new interest. "The Ring? The Ring? Is it then out of the shadows and into the light? Show me, little master. Show Tom what you carry."
With trembling fingers, Holman reached into his pocket and brought forth the Ring. It lay in his palm, pale gold against his weathered skin, seeming to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it. Tom Bombadil reached out and took it.
Holman gasped. The Ring! In another's hand! He waited for something terrible to happen—for Tom to vanish, for the sky to darken, for the ground to open. But nothing happened. Tom held the Ring up to his bright blue eyes, turned it this way and that, chuckled, and then—impossibly—placed it on the tip of his little finger. He did not vanish. He remained solid and present, his round face split in a grin.
"Pretty thing! Pretty, pretty thing!" he sang. "Gold and round and shiny bright, but Tom knows better than to fight!
The shadows reach, the shadows grope, but Tom is master of hill and slope!
The Ring has no power here, little master. It cannot touch Tom, and Tom has no wish to touch it—except to give it back!" He slipped it off and returned it to Holman, who shoved it hastily back into his pocket.
Gandalf watched this with an expression of profound relief. "You see, Holman? There are powers in this world that even the Dark Lord cannot comprehend. Tom Bombadil is his own master, and the Ring has no hold upon him."
"Come, come!" Tom boomed. "Enough talk of rings and shadows by the water! The sun is high, and there is food at my house, and my River-daughter waits. Follow me, little friends! Follow old Tom!"
He set off through the wood at a surprising pace, his yellow boots flopping, his voice lifted in song. Gandalf followed, and Holman, with no better choice, hurried after them. The wood grew ever brighter, the trees giving way to grassy slopes and rolling hills. Soon they came to a house—if house it could be called—that stood upon a mound, surrounded by tall trees and flowering shrubs. It was long and low, with many windows, and a door so round and green it might have come straight from the Shire. Smoke curled cheerfully from a stone chimney.
At the door stood a woman, tall and fair, dressed all in green and silver, with hair that fell like a cascade of golden water to her waist. Her eyes were grey and deep as forest pools, and she moved with a grace that made Holman think, suddenly and vividly, of the Elves he had glimpsed as a faunt.
"My River-daughter, Goldberry!" Tom announced proudly. "See what I have found wandering in the wood! A Grey Wanderer and a Shire-sprout, come to share our table!"
Goldberry smiled, and the smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds. "Welcome, Gandalf. I have known you were coming for three days. The wind told me, and the water confirmed it." Her gaze fell upon Holman, and he felt suddenly shy, as if standing before something beautiful and utterly beyond his understanding. "And you, little one, who carry such a heavy burden. Rest here. While you are in our house, no shadow can touch you."
She led them inside, and Holman's weariness fell from him like a discarded cloak. The room was warm and bright, filled with the scent of fresh herbs and baking bread. A great table stood in the center, laden with more food than Holman had seen since leaving his own pantry—yellow cheese and brown bread, honey in a stone pot, mushrooms fried in butter, ripe apples and plums, and a great pitcher of milk so cold it sweated droplets down its sides.
They ate, and as they ate, Holman felt the terror of the past days recede. Tom sang, and Goldberry told tales of the river and the wood, of beavers and otters and kingfishers, of the lives of flowers and the dreams of trees. Gandalf listened and smiled, and for a few precious hours, the Ring in Holman's pocket might have been nothing more than a pebble.
But as the sun began to sink towards the west, Gandalf grew thoughtful. "Tom," he said at last, "we cannot stay. The Riders will not cease their search. They will comb every corner of this land until they find what they seek, or until they are called back to their Master."
Tom nodded, his merry face for once serious. "I know, old friend. I know. My land can shelter you, but it cannot hold you forever. The world outside calls, and you must answer." He looked at Holman. "But before you go, little master, there is something you should know. The road ahead is long, and full of perils you cannot imagine. But you carry something within you that the Dark Lord does not understand—a simple heart. Do not lose it. It is worth more than all the rings of power in all the lands of Middle-earth."
That night, Holman slept in a small, cosy room under the eaves, with the sound of Goldberry's singing drifting through the walls like the murmur of a distant stream. For the first time since Gandalf had knocked on his door, he slept without dreams.
In the morning, they departed. Tom walked with them to the eastern edge of his country, where the land began to rise towards the Barrow-downs. He embraced Gandalf, and to Holman's surprise, bent down and kissed him on the forehead.
"Go with good heart, little sprout," he said. "The road goes ever on, but so does the sun, and so does the hope that springs eternal in the simple folk. Remember Tom when the shadows grow long, and remember that there is still laughter in the world."
Then he turned and walked back towards his house, his voice rising in song that followed them long after his round form had vanished among the hills.
"Hey now! Come now! Sing and dance and play now!
The sun is in the sky again, and night has passed away now!
Old Tom Bombadil cares not for gold or gear,
But he will miss the little sprout until he returns next year!"
Holman felt a strange ache in his heart as the song faded. He had known Tom Bombadil for less than a day, and yet he felt as if he were leaving an old and beloved friend. But ahead, the Barrow-downs rose green and mysterious against the morning sky, and somewhere beyond them lay the road to Buckleberry Ferry, and beyond that, the great wide world.
Gandalf laid a hand on his shoulder. "Come, Holman. There is still far to go, and the day will not wait for us."
They walked on into the rising sun, two small figures in a vast and ancient land, carrying between them a weight that might yet determine the fate of all the peoples of Middle-earth.