Bilbo was in the kitchen pouring himself some tea when he heard the shouting.  Not especially alarmed, but rather curious as to what the lads were up to this time, (a 15 year old Merry and 7 year old Pippin had been allowed to visit Bag End) he quickly topped off his cup.  Keeping one ear on the somewhat exuberant sounds outside, Bilbo spooned sugar into his tea.  As he stirred rapidly, noting a vaguely disquieting increase in the volume in his garden, the spoon clunked against the inside of the cup.  Suddenly reminded him of how his mother used to scold him for sloshing the amber liquid onto the table, Bilbo smiled and slowed the motion of his hand.  She’d taught him not to stir violently; it spoiled the magic of the tea.  Belladonna had been a firm believer in magic.  She’d taught him how to read the shapes left in the bottom of his cup when he was only five.  Learning his future in the tealeaves had been his favorite way to end teatime for years. 

 Memories quickly banished in favor of excitedly shrieking hobbit lads, Bilbo walked through the hall and, careful not to spill his cup onto the stone tiles, (sticky floors and bare feet made unappealing bedmates) opened the round door.   Leaving it open behind him, Bilbo began to walk around to the garden.  He noted the carefully pruned hedges in passing, the neat and weed-free flowerbeds, the dirt of which was a warm brown that told of good fertilizer and generous water.   Bilbo’s bare feet moved easily through warm grass that had been cropped down to a length just long enough to cover them with a blanket of deepest green.  And, although at seventeen Sam was undoubtedly the youngest gardener in the Shire, Bilbo had yet to see any signs of decline in the quality of service.  In fact, he believed the flowers looked lovelier than ever and the vegetables were producing at an unusual rate of abundance this year. 

Bilbo sighed, a wave of melancholy passing over him, how sad that he could quite remember Hamfast in the gardens when he was just a lad.  And, while on the subject of lads, Bilbo’s tea and his life were in sudden jeopardy as a squealing Pippin raced directly for his legs. 

“Whoa, lad!  What are you making such a fuss about?” Now, Bilbo added mentally, forcing a mock-scowl at the panting young Took clinging to his knees.   

“WellMerrywaschasingmewewereplayinghideandgoseekandIthoughtIsawasnake”

It took Bilbo a moment to translate.  He was just about to comfort Pippin when Merry, Frodo, and Sam trotted up.  Surprised and pleased the other hobbits had managed to tear Sam from his duties long enough to play a game, Bilbo smiled at the boy.  Sam, predictably, blushed and smiled back.

“I’m sorry, Uncle, we didn’t mean to disturb you.” A flushed Frodo said.

“Sorry, Mr. Bilbo.”

“Yeah…sorry…”

 That was Sam and then Merry, bent over and gasping for breath.  From chasing Pippin, Bilbo presumed.  He waved off their apologies, and then concentrated on finding a way to pry his youngest cousin off his shins. 

“You said you saw a snake, Pippin?  What did it look like?”   

The little Took nodded and sniffed pitifully before saying,  “It wasblackwithyellowstripes.”

Bilbo sighed in relief; it was just a harmless garter snake. Paladin would have had his head if his only son had been snake bit.

 “Well, he wouldn’t hurt you, Pippin.” Bilbo used his most soothing voice. “Why, he’s probably far more frightened by a big hobbit such as yourself then you were of him! Run along with your game, Pippin.”

 Success, Bilbo thought, as Pippin digested this thought and released him.  He rather planned to sit quietly here on his little bench and enjoy his tea before it got cold.  Bringing the cup to his lips, he sipped and sighed in enjoyment.  Watching his young cousins and Sam shout and sprint this way and that was entertainment enough for the morning.

“I’m a lucky hobbit.” Bilbo said softly.  It was simple pleasures like these that made him glad he had not left the Shire yet.  He would have missed adopting Frodo and that was something Bilbo would not have traded for all the gold in Smaug’s lair. But, he had wondered of late what the future held for these four he loved.  Even if he lived to be old as the Took he wouldn’t get to see it; older hobbits preferred the warmth of a chair by the fire to cool mornings in the garden with rowdy cousins. His mother’s encouraging voice filled his ears from long ago.

“What do you see, Bilbo?  What will your day be like, my love?”

Ah, he thought, and peered into his teacup.  He hadn’t yet drunk enough to make the attempt useless.  There was time to feed the magic.  Belladonna had taught him to concentrate and think about his question as he drank.  Now, as an adult and uncle to countless squirming, screaming young cousins, he rather suspected the concentration was partly a bid to keep him quiet for a few minutes, but his mother had insisted it was necessary.  

Bilbo raised his head and watched the four friends play a moment.  I wish to know what their future will be, he thought, fixing it in his head.  Focusing his mind on that question and taking regular sips, Bilbo soon reduced the level of liquid so that he could swirl the leaves into shapes that would stay put.

Momentarily closing his eyes, Bilbo swirled the cup one last time.  To his surprise he felt the same breathless anticipation of his childhood.  What will their future be, he thought with deliberate strength, and upon opening his eyes, gasped at the shape that had formed.      

“A dragon!” Bilbo gazed at it in surprise.  His memory of his mother’s voice resurfaced.

“Now, Bilbo, what does this mean to you? Not to anyone else…just you.”

He stared in consternation at the little dragon sitting in the bottom of his cup.  It was harmless-looking, made of water and tealeaves; but, curiously, it’s small head seemed curved to peer up at him.  A burst of laughter and cheering made him look up. 

“Faster! Faster!”

Frodo was carrying Pippin pig-a-back down the hill with Merry and Sam easily outdistancing him.  Bilbo paled. 

“Not them,” he whispered. ”Don’t send my lads after dragons.” 

But then, before he could lose his nerve and toss out the dregs of his cup, he thought for a moment.  Gandalf had said that all the dragons were gone.  Surely it was a wizard’s business to know such things.  And, after all, the brown-green dragon sitting in his cup was just a symbol.  Perfectly safe.  Furrowing his brow, Bilbo cast about as to what a dragon would mean to him.

“Greed, strength, cunning…and change,” he breathed the last word in sudden recognition. Smaug had brought change to all of Middle-Earth.  The dragon had suppressed trade routes, slaughtered men and their livestock, destroyed towns and set the work of the dwarves back countless years.  Even after his death, Smaug’s treasure had brought about the worst battle of Bilbo’s time. 

However, Bilbo also recognized the fact that Smaug had played an important part in changing him.  His journeys held him apart from any other hobbit in the Shire…a distance he had felt growing year by year as young hobbits grew and taught their own children the tales of Mad Baggins.  Bilbo embraced new ways and had contacts with such “queer” folk as elves, men, dwarves and wizards. 

“The reputation of Baggins’ has never recovered.” He chuckled.  Bilbo prided himself on this. 

“So, these four will bring about change in the Shire. Well, a dragon, I suppose means great change. Hmph.  The Shire could certainly use it.   A hobbit doesn’t know how entangled he is in foolish routines until he’s cut free.”

Bilbo watched Merry, now carrying a giggling Pippin, splashing through the shallows of the Water.  Frodo and Sam were sitting on grass watching, now and then their heads bending together in conversation or laughter.  He wondered in amusement how long it would be before Merry lost his footing and dumped himself and his passenger into the calm water. 

It turned out not long at all.  The resulting screeches and thrashings of the soaked hobbits made Bilbo laugh out loud.  To his mutual delight and irritation the water was shallow and both Merry and Pippin were smeared with mud and weeds.  They trudged up the hill toward Frodo and Sam, and nearing the older lads, began to grin wickedly.  Bilbo shook with great outbursts of laughter as Frodo and Sam attempted to fend off the mud-plastered duo without actually touching them.       

As he calmed, Bilbo looked down into his cup and was surprised to see his little dragon was gone.  In its place was another shape.

“Hmm, now what’s this?  Have you got more to tell me?  If you do, you certainly picked a difficult thing to identify.”

Bilbo turned the cup this way and that and even tilted it.  Still he couldn’t make out the form outlined in the tealeaves.  Frowning, he tapped the side of the mug with his fingers. 

“A most puzzling shape,” He muttered, glancing down again at his young cousins and Sam.  They had moved further away, across the long, cool grass to the base of the Party Tree.   Bilbo frowned, then something seemed to click inside and he looked back down into his teacup in delight. 

“Ahh! That’s it!”

It was a tree, one of the large-ish varieties that rarely grew in the Shire.  Trees in the four Farthings tended to be like hobbits themselves—short, stout and fruitful.  In fact, Bilbo fancied he could even make out many the thick branches that could support the weight of an entire family of hobbits. 

“A tree, now what can that mean?” he wondered.

Bilbo looked up again at the Party Tree.  It was gigantic by even Mirkwood standards.  The broad trunk was gnarled with deep fissures and several branches, nearly as thick around as a tweenager, and heavily laden with leaves, stretched outwards and upwards over the field.  There was never a time in Bilbo’s life that he hadn’t seen it standing there.  Of course, when he had been a lad it had been much smaller, less tall than, say, one of the houses in Dale and considerably smaller than the buildings he had seen in Rivendell.  Now, over a hundred years later the Party Tree towered majestically over every other tree in the Shire. 

But, all of that brought Bilbo no closer to an answer. His mother had always urged him to let the images speak for themselves and not to concentrate too hard.  So, Bilbo let his mind wander. 

It strayed all the way down the hill, through the gate and over the path before he was caught in watching what his young charges were doing.  Apparently being only a year before his thirty-third birthday had had no effect on Frodo.  To Bilbo’s amusement, he was walking on his hands while the others, a still-grubby Pippin especially delighted, clapped. 

“A Brandybuck trick, that,” he snorted, then sighed. “Now, where was I?  Yes, that’s right.  Trees mean…what?” Well, the only thing he could think to do was to list his experiences with them.  He looked up at the blue sky, closed his eyes and began to recite: 

“I’ve fallen out of them as a lad, eaten from them in orchards, hid in them from both wolves and goblins, been rescued from the top of one (that was on fire) by an eagle, and been trapped in a dark forest of them for weeks. Oh, yes, and they’ve tormented me my entire adult life…a family tree, that is.” 

Bilbo stopped, surprised at the last connection.  Was that the correct interpretation of his lads’ futures?  He glanced down at the cup again.  Well, they were certainly going to be large ones.

“The roots on a tree like this go deep.” Bilbo said softly, a bit overwhelmed.  If what he inferred were right, the descendants of the four young hobbits below him would long outlast his memory.

“Changing the tedious Shire and deep-rooted family trees.” Bilbo stared into his teacup for a long while, swirling the contents gently.  Much of the tea had evaporated in the rising mid-morning heat, but Bilbo thought there might be enough for one last peek into the future.

Which would have to be quick if he wanted privacy.  Bilbo could hear the voices of Frodo and Sam as they neared.  Standing, and stretching briefly, Bilbo hurried around to the front gate and looked down the lane.  They were coming up the hill, and as he watched, a mud-streaked Pippin stopped abruptly.  Frodo and Sam continued onward, seemingly unaware (although Bilbo saw them glance at each other and share grins). The miniature Took gazed appealingly up at his cousin Merry, who shook his head. Pippin immediately stamped his foot, and opened his mouth wide, his sharp little face screwing up in anticipation of a tantrum.  Which, to Bilbo’s relief, was cut mercifully short by Merry instantly bending down and swooping a (now smiling) Pippin up in his arms.   

Bilbo gauged their progress up the hill.  It was getting warm and none of the hobbits hurried.  Poor Merry was last, being hindered by Pippin’s weight.  Bilbo guessed he had enough time.

So, although his mother had cautioned him against direct questions, saying that he may not like the answers, he gathered his courage and asked,

“Well, shall these four accomplish any great deeds?”

In the few seconds that followed, Bilbo would remember only that a shadow seemed to pass over the bright Shire, taking the colors with it, accompanied by a cold wind that ruffled his hair.  He would never associate it with his left hand, absently fingering his ring.  The sudden difference in light made him look up from his teacup, expecting to see only an errant cloud, perhaps signaling a slight shower later in the afternoon.  

 The greens, yellows and browns of the season had all been reduced to a washed-out grey.  Bilbo’s mouth hung open, astonished by the change.  Staring, his gaze went to the hobbits that were coming towards him.  Incredibly, they were still walking, as though unable to observe a change.  As Bilbo watched, frozen, the grey ground began to darken to black, plants withering and drying to twisted stalks.  The fence, only a few inches in front of his toes, spontaneously disintegrated-- boards dissolving into dust, splintering and cracking.  Bilbo instantly jerked his hand from his pocket to cover his face.       

The horrible vision was gone, but he was sweating and breathing as fast as though he’d run from one end of the Shire to another.  Bilbo’s hand trembled as he reached out to touch the perfectly normal, solid fence. 

“Wh…What happened?” he asked, eyes wide as he stared at the familiar abundance of the Shire, landmarks that a moment ago had looked utterly foreign and inhospitable. 

Bilbo, not without a bit of trepidation, peered into his cup.  The shape that met his gaze made him suck in a sharp breath.  It was a spider.  Bilbo knew what spiders meant, and none of the associations were particularly good.  Although he had purposely ignored the death/destruction possibility with the dragon and the “needing rescue” thought with the tree—could he ignore what this meant?  Bilbo didn’t think so.  He loved these four; he wasn’t sure he had the courage to think of them facing danger.

“The best I could hope for is that it ends well,” he sighed. “My own adventure did.”

Bilbo took a moment to watch Frodo wave to Sam as the young gardener walked off the road and into Hamfast’s yard.  Most likely the lad was going to get a bit of luncheon before coming back to finish up in the garden.  Frodo and Merry, who was, naturally, still toting Pippin, labored on up the hill.  Bilbo smiled fondly at the three as they approached, a worn-out Pippin sucking his grubby thumb, a filthy Merry panting under his load, yet still joking with his older cousin, and Frodo, comparatively clean, asking what was for lunch.

“Nothing until you get yourself cleaned up!” Bilbo said this briskly, as though he hadn’t just been scared half to death, “ Muddier than pigs you are! And wake Pippin long enough to clean him too!  Don’t touch anything!” Bilbo shouted this lastly as Merry carried Pippin through the open door. 

Bilbo waited until he was certain they would be occupied with washing up to look into his teacup again.  Still a damn spider. He thought fretfully about all the good things a spider could mean:  song (Attercop, attercop, tomnoddy!), appreciation (the dwarves certainly respected him after he’d defeated those spiders in Mirkwood), and…what? 

“Danger, danger, danger,” Bilbo groaned.  He thought of fierce battles, being outnumbered by foes, starvation, and other such hardships.  Shaking his head at his own foolishness, his mother had warned him, after all, Bilbo turned and walked to the door of Bag End.  Inside he could hear splashing and the sounds of exuberant singing—a sure sign something would be either soaked or broken within minutes. 

As he listened, a sudden smile came to his face.  He couldn’t protect his lads, but he could hope for the best. 

Before Bilbo stepped inside the door he tipped the teacup and watched what remained inside fall to the ground.  He used his toes to cover it with dirt. 

“They’ll be all right.  You see, I believe in them.”