The Lord of the Rings
Chapter 4: A Short Cut to Mushrooms
The morning mist clung to the trees of the Shire like a damp shroud. Frodo, Sam, and Pippin moved through the thickets, avoiding the main road as if it were a poisoned vein. Every snap of a dry twig sounded like a gunshot; every rustle of a bird in the leaves made them drop to their knees in terror. The encounter with the Black Rider had changed everything. It was no longer a story from Bilbo's old books—it was a cold, sniffing reality.
"We need to get to the Brandywine Ferry," Frodo whispered, wiping sweat and cobwebs from his face. "If we stay on this side of the river, we are trapped between the Road and the water."
Pippin, usually the most cheerful of the group, looked weary. "The woods are thicker here, Frodo. If we keep going this way, we'll end up in the marshes, or worse—Farmer Maggot's lands."
At the mention of Farmer Maggot, Frodo felt a different kind of dread. As a young hobbit, he had often raided Maggot's fields for mushrooms, and the fierce farmer had once set his dogs on him. It was a childhood fear, but in the face of Black Riders, it felt almost nostalgic.
The Sniffing in the Wind
They pushed through a dense hedge and found themselves at the edge of a wide, open field. The sun was climbing higher, but it offered no warmth—only the fear of being seen.
Suddenly, Sam grabbed Frodo's arm. "Look, sir! On the ridge!"
Far off, on the path they had just crossed, a dark shape was silhouetted against the sky. It was the Black Rider. It wasn't moving. It sat atop its dark horse, its hooded head tilted as if listening to the very grass grow. Even from a distance, they could hear a faint, long-drawn hiss. It was sniffing the air, searching for the unique scent of the Ring—or perhaps the scent of Hobbit-flesh.
"Down! Get down!" Frodo hissed.
They lay in the tall grass, hearts pounding. Frodo felt the Ring in his pocket growing warm. It felt like it was pulsing, trying to signal to the Rider. The urge to put it on returned, stronger than before. If I put it on, I will disappear, Frodo thought. He won't see me. I can just walk away.
But he remembered Gandalf's grim face and Gildor's warning. To put on the Ring was to step into the world of shadows, a world where the Nazgûl were masters. He gripped a handful of dirt and prayed for the Rider to move. After what felt like an eternity, the dark figure turned and vanished behind the fold of the hill.
The Hospitality of the Earth
"We can't stay in the open," Sam said, his voice trembling but his eyes fierce. "We have to move, Mr. Frodo. Now."
They sprinted across the fields, heading toward the sound of barking dogs. They had reached the borders of Bamfurlong, the farm of the legendary Maggot. To their surprise, the farmer was waiting for them. He was a broad-shouldered hobbit with a thick stick and three large, mean-looking dogs: Grip, Fang, and Wolf.
"Well now! Who's trespassing on my land?" Maggot shouted, though his eyes softened when he recognized Pippin.
After a tense introduction, Maggot invited them into his sturdy stone house. Over a table laden with beer, bread, and a massive bowl of bacon and mushrooms, the farmer shared a chilling piece of news.
"A funny customer came by today," Maggot said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "A tall fellow, all in black, on a big black horse. He asked if I'd seen a 'Baggins.' Offered me gold, he did. But I told him to be off, or I'd set the dogs on him. He gave a hiss that turned my blood to ice and rode away like a gale."
Frodo felt a chill. The enemy was ahead of them now. They were being hunted from both sides.
The Race to the Ferry
Farmer Maggot, proving to be a much kinder soul than Frodo remembered, offered to drive them to the ferry in his covered wagon. "It's getting dark," Maggot said. "And I don't like the look of the shadows under the trees tonight."
The ride was a nightmare of tension. Every shadow of a tree looked like a cloaked man; every gust of wind sounded like a shriek. As they approached the banks of the Brandywine River, the fog began to roll in, thick and white.
"There it is!" Pippin pointed.
The Brandywine Ferry was a large flat-bottomed boat used to cross the wide river into Buckland. It represented safety—or at least a barrier between them and the Shire.
Just as they jumped out of the wagon, a dark shape appeared at the top of the riverbank behind them. It was a Rider, perched on the edge of the slope, looking down into the fog. It couldn't see them yet, but it was moving toward the sound of their voices.
"Hurry!" Frodo yelled.
They scrambled onto the ferry. Sam grabbed the poles and began to push with all his might. The boat creaked and slowly groaned away from the wooden pier.
From the fog on the bank, a terrifying sound erupted—a long, piercing cry that was neither human nor animal. It was the cry of a Nazgûl calling to its brothers. The sound felt like a needle being driven into Frodo's brain.
Through the mist, they saw the Black Rider gallop onto the pier. It stopped at the very edge of the water. The horse reared up, and the Rider stood in its stirrups, its empty hood turned toward the river. It could not cross; the Nazgûl had a deep-seated fear of running water.
The Other Side
The ferry hit the muddy bank of the Buckland side with a thud. Frodo stumbled off, his legs shaking so violently he could barely stand. They were safe—for now.
"Look," Sam whispered, pointing back across the river.
On the distant pier, a second Black Rider had joined the first. Then a third. They stood like three dark pillars against the moonlight, watching the Hobbits escape into the trees of Buckland.
"They won't stop, will they?" Pippin asked, his voice small.
"No," Frodo replied, looking at the dark line of the woods ahead. "They are only just beginning. And we still have a long way to go before we reach the House of Tom Bombadil."
As they turned away from the river, Frodo felt a strange presence in the woods. The Shire was behind them, but a new, more ancient danger was waiting in the Old Forest.