A/N: If you have not read any of the previous "Remember" stories, you might want to as this will make a good deal more sense if you do :-) Thank you.

Whatever Shall Be Done?

Marrin and Clary Brandybuck sat, stiff and uncomfortable, in straight-backed, hard-seated chairs set squarely in front of the huge desk in the Master’s study. They had a good notion of why they had been summoned and it was not for any cheerful reasons.

“Thank you for being so prompt,” Macimas II said whilst eyeing them sternly over the tops of his glasses. He was called “Efficient” for the records. He was called “Pompous” when he and his lackeys weren’t around. “I am certain that you are aware of the serious nature of the matter which warrants your being called into my study?”

Clary’s right hand searched about for Marrin’s left hand, grasping it quite firmly when she found it. They knew. All of Buckland knew. The whole Shire knew.

“We reckon it is because of our sons.” Marrin’s voice didn’t shake as much as Clary felt his hand trembling. She was proud of him.

“Yes. It is indeed because your recalcitrant sons.”

“They aren’t recalcitrant!” Clary spoke a bit hotly. “They have a good deal of respect for those in authority over them; those in authority of the hobbits of Buckland and the Shire.”

“Really? Do they indeed?” Old “Pompous” fixed Clary with an icy glare. “Is that what you two regard it to be when they call all of us liars? You consider that to be a show of a ‘good deal of respect’, Clary Brandybuck?” He shrank her with his eyes. “You were a Mudge before marriage, weren’t you. I suppose such a view of what is meant by “respect” can be expected by such a one as a Mudge, but you are married to a Brandybuck, Madam, and we expect better of those who carry our name.” His look, his tone and the slight gesture of his right hand combined to brush Clary aside like the speck of dirt to which his words had lowered her. He thereafter addressed himself solely to Marrin.

“Jebbin and Other, your sons Marrin Brandybuck, have brought discord to the whole of the Shire and great shame upon the name of Brandybuck with these preposterous notions they are purporting to be the facts about two of the Shire’s grandest and noblest heroes. Well,” he added as though it were an insignificant afterthought, “Four actually but those other two are not nearly as great a concern.” His voice returned to being quite pointed. “Heroes, one of which, might I just remind you, from whom you and I are both descended.”

“Yes, Master Macimas.” How Marrin was managing to keep his voice so steady, Clary had no idea.

“Yes to what?” the Master snorted. “Yes to the fact, the truth, that your sons are fomenters of fictitious fallacies?”

“No, sir. Yes, acknowledging that we are both descendants of Meriadoc the Magnificent.”

Macimas II snorted again. “You’d best begin to agree to everything else I’m saying as well, Marrin Brandybuck, lest you and your wife find yourselves on the door step of Brandy Hall, in need of new lodging.”

“What would you have me do, sir? They are both hobbits full grown and of legal age. The are their own hobbits, sir, with their own families and no longer under my authority. What would you have me do?”

“Disowning them would be a most excellent beginning. Disowning them and speaking out against them upon every possible occasion. Put it all into full and legal writing, seven witnesses, red ink, and so forth all bearing my seal, of course.

Clary choked a bit and gasped, though she desperately hoped her husband and the master didn’t hear her. Marrin was not answering. The three of them sat without speaking while the ornate clock on the mantle ticked the seconds away.

“Well, Marrin Brandybuck?”

Clary looked up. There was frost in the Master’s gaze while his question cut through the stuffy air of the room like a falling icicle.

“I will give your request due consideration, Master Macimas.” Was all Marrin said, and that quietly.

“You’ll . . . ah . . . of course.” This was not the response the Master had been hearing in his mind. In his mind, Marrin had shrunk, cowered, meekly agreeing to anything he, the Master of Buckland, had demanded. Macimas quickly regained himself. “I will expect your answer no later than immediately following luncheon on the morrow. That will allow sufficient time to draw up the paper work and gather witnesses before the close of the business day, so this matter may be properly dealt with as expeditiously as possible.”

Marrin rose, having to pull his wife to her feet to stand beside him. “As you wish, Master Macimas. Good day, sir.” Marrin gave a curt nod of his head before guiding Clary out of the Master’s study.

“Be strong, my dearest,” he muttered into her ear as he set a brisk but not hurried pace down the tunnels. “Let us get to our apartments first. Keep up with me, we’re almost there.”

Several twists and turns later, they entered their rooms. Clary nearly collapsed before Marrin set her upon the nearest chair. She sat immobile for a few moments before turning sharply upon her husband.

“How dare you, Marrin Brandybuck I . . . I . . .”

“How quickly can you pack most of your things, my dear?”

Clary’s expression went blank. “Pack?”

“We will leave as soon as most of the Hall is asleep. It should help that it is Blotmath and the night comes sooner.”

Marrin was at his desk, stuffing every item it held into a satchel as rapidly as he could while Clary still sat in the chair with her mouth agape. Marrin latched the satchel, turned, then stopped as he took in that his wife hadn’t moved.

“Clary?”

“Pack?” her eyes slowly grew more focused as she blinked a few times. “Leave, Marrin? Leave to go where, love? There is no where in the whole of Buckland or the Shire to run to.” She paused, blinking away some tears. “Is there?”

“Well, we’ve old Aunt Catmint’s small hole in Twombly.”

Clary thought a moment. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I suppose we do. I mean Aunt Catti did leave it to us.”

“And quietly. She signed it over to us with just old Nob Hedger there to witness. I don’t think anyone much knows or cares about the old hole, plus it’s a ways out of town nearly hidden in Twombly Wood.”

“But what of supplies and such, Marrin?”

“I plan on making my way to the stables as soon as it’s dark. The Master is always to bed at dusk so no word should make its way to him until the morrow. I’ll make ready our trap, that should help us take more then we could carry ourselves, though still not much. We’ll take all we can of what we have here in our own pantries. I’ll just have to hunt for our meat and we’ll gather what we can from the woods. Poor time of the year for that, but we’ll do the best we can. We’ll write the lads and post it at the Quick Messenger’s as we leave. They’ll see to it that we don’t starve, Clary.”

“Can they see to it that they and their families don’t starve, that’s more my worry. Oh, Marrin,” she sighed as new tears grew in her eyes. “Whatever is to become of our dear lads?”

Marrin went down on his knees beside Clary, pulling her into a tight hug. For a long moment he only hugged her, saying nothing as tears of his own joined hers.

“I don’t know, my dearest, I don’t know. But this I do know, it is the fire of truth that burns in their hearts. Whatever it is that stirred this passion up within Jebbin, whatever it is that has put a backbone of steel, like the swords he has forged, into Other . . . well whatever started it, all has ended in the truth. I believe them, Clary. I believe every word.”

He kissed his wife’s head then stood. “We need to get busy, dearest, if we are to get out of here and clear of Buckland before the morning comes.”

Clary squared her shoulders, nodded firmly to her husband, then rose to begin packing what she could from the pantry. As she worked, her thoughts were busy; just what was it that had so possessed her lads those few short years ago?

A/N: If you haven’t read my story, “Remembering Aright”, you should read it before reading this chapter as this picks up where it leaves off. Hmmm . . . did I have a note a lot like this at the beginning of the prologue?

And So It Began

Other’s coming of age party had been appropriately grand, considering he was a son of one of one of the Brandybuck family tree’s more nominal branches. A descendant of Meriadoc the Magnificent it was true, as were a good many of the Hall’s residents, but well removed from the branch that had produced the long and unbroken chain of Masters of Buckland. It was announced that Other’s wedding to Athelas Took would take place in six months time, with cheers and congratulations then being raised to the young couple. As in the case of a certain distant ancestor, Athelas was the older of the pair so there was little need to wait a long time after Other’s coming of age, only long enough to make all the arrangements and preparations for a proper hobbit wedding.

It was noted by some that Other’s older brother, Jebbin, seemed lighter of heart than he had for a goodly long time. It was also noted that he finally seemed to be noticing the lasses, though actually it was only one lass; that being Miss Marjoram Proudfoot. He had danced every dance with her and when not dancing they had been seen giggling together in the quieter corners of the ballroom and main dining hall. Whereas Athelas Took was a small, dainty, though sturdy blacksmith’s daughter with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, Marjoram was deemed by many of the eligible lads of the Hall to be a bit mousy. Oh, pretty enough, but . . . mousy. She was a teacher, as was Jebbin, and they seemed to suit each other well as he also chose to dress a bit plainly and had the pallor of those who spend their time indoors reading.

The next day, Jebbin and Marjoram bundled up against the brisk mid-Winterfilth day to go walking along the Brandywine River. They talked as they walked. They talked about their students, about the Hall, and about their favorite books, a conversation that had begun the evening before.

“I adored “Trampings of a Tookish Tinker”. It was amazing the things that he saw and did, going all the way to the town of Northlands, for goodness sake!”

Jebbin looked at the lass walking beside him, hurrying a bit to match his stride. He saw no mousy lass. Her hair was a rich dark brown, her eyes sparkled with the day, the exercise, and the fun of talking about something she loved. Her cheeks, nose and forehead were rosy from the crisp autumn day. Jebbin’s heart leapt, then it gave an odd twist. He was about to embark on a course of action that would most likely end in tragedy, how could he allow himself to fall in love?

Marjoram had kept talking. “. . . and I also love anything historical. I,” she paused, bringing Jebbin to a stop with a hand on his arm. “I read your pamphlet, “Brandybucks and The Old Forest: Observations on The Loss of the High Hay”. It was wonderful.” She turned a bit redder than the shade the weather had used to paint her cheeks. She turned her head away to look toward the river. “Look, there’s a fallen tree just there, out in the sunlight near the cliff over looking the river. Could we sit a while?” Marjoram flitted away without waiting for his answer but Jebbin didn’t mind. He happily followed her.

“I can’t believe you read that old dry bit of mindless musing, Marjoram.”

“Not mindless at all, Jebbin. Inspired, I would say.” She reached over to touch his hand. Not in a forward way. A butterfly would have pressed firmer against his skin. Her hand was gone nearly before he knew it had been there. “Would you call me Marjy? Marjoram seems to take so long to say.”

“Marjy,” he repeated, nodding quickly.

“It is a well written and thought out small work, Jebbin, you really should . . . Do you have a shorter name you use?”

“No, not really. Sometimes Other calls me “In” and I call him “Er”. But that was more when we were younger and only between we two. Everyone else calls us Jebbin and Other. Mum said she had tried “Jeb” when I was a faunt, but didn’t like the feel of it in her mouth.” They both chuckled at that. “And Da said “Oth” sounds like “o-a-t-h” so it didn’t seem like a name, just a word.”

“Jebbin then.” She smiled prettily then continued with the conversation. “As I was saying, it really is a well thought out work, Jebbin.” She suddenly looked down at her hands in her lap. Her voice was quieter. “I noticed you . . . didn’t dwell much on the Travellers experiences in The Old Forest. I noticed that too in your, “Changes in the Ordering of the Shire Including Changes in the ordering of Buckland and the additions of the Westmarch and Undertowers.” You mention Sirs Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the Peerless and Mayor Samwise, you even say more about Frodo Baggins than do most authors, but you really say very little about them.”

She looked up from her study of her hands to search Jebbin’s eyes.

“Do you not like the Travellers?”

For a moment he looked taken aback, though that was rapidly replaced with a smile. “To the contrary, Marjor . . . Marjy, they are my favorite characters in Hobbit history. I’m descended from Meriadoc the Magnificent,” he chuckled. “As is most of Buckland anymore.” Jebbin tipped his head a bit and added wistfully, “Descended from Peregrin the Peerless too, it so happens.”

“I am as well,” sudden enthusiasm sparkled in her voice. “Well, from Peregrin the Peerless that is. I’ve only a tiny bit of Brandybuck in me.” But the sudden glow in her voice faded away as she added, “That said, and if they are your favorites, why do you write so little of them?”

“I . . . ah . . .”

“It was actually a bit refreshing,” she said softly. “They are my favorites as well, but I . . . they usually are . . . well, I feel they’re usually over done, if you understand what I’m saying. Not,” she hastened to add, “that I don’t feel they are the most wonderful of Hobbits, they are, were. It’s just that . . .”

She looked back at her hands.

“That what, Marjy? It’s all right, truly. I like a good debate, ah, discussion of history and I’m rather good at keeping my temper and such. It’s just that, what, Marjy?”

“It’s just that, well . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’ve often wondered if they weren’t really more just like the rest of us. I mean, yes, they went on this unbelievable and dangerous journey, quest, whatever, and they came back and set the Shire back to rights. But really, were they really like the books and such all have them? Mightn’t they have just been fairly normal Hobbits when all was truly said and done? And maybe the journey wasn’t so wonderful and magical, maybe it had been hard, frightening and exhausting, and . . .”

The words had gushed forth until Marjy put her hands over her mouth to stop them. She stared, wide eyed, at Jebbin over the tops of them even now. Her face had gone pale beneath the chapped skin redness of her cheeks and nose.

“I’ve said too much,” were the muffled words that worked their way from behind her hands.

The twist Jebbin’s heart had taken earlier untwisted itself a bit. If he was hearing her correctly . . .

. . . if his heart wasn’t making his head think it was hearing what it so longed to hear, she was actually saying she felt the way he did!

Wait a moment, his mind said sternly. Athelas had been the one who had mentioned Marjoram Proudfoot two days ago in the mathom room. This was some jest on the part of that Took his brother was going to tie himself to. Yes! Of course it was. Hadn’t this lass just said a bit ago that she too was descended from good old Peregrin the Peerless? He was really beginning to dislike that interfering ghost!

Jebbin looked a bit more carefully at Marjoram’s eyes. If they were green like Athelas’ . . .

. . . but no. Odder yet, they were a lovely shade of golden yellow. Yellow eyes softly shaded with greens and browns. They were somewhat startling, though beautiful. How had he missed their unusual color up till now? Her eyes had distracted him, giving another part of his mind a chance to speak up.

How could it be Athelas’ doing? You already liked Marjoram, remember? You’ve liked her since the first day she came to be a teacher at the Hall. Other hadn’t left to learn his smithing from Athelas’ father until three months later.

All of this thinking took only a moment’s time. The terrified lass still sat before him, her hands clapped tightly over her mouth.

“It’s all right, Marjor . . . Marjy,” Jebbin mumbled. “You’re eyes are yellow.”

Her strange lovely eyes blinked a few times, but her hands stayed where they were. She nodded her head.

“They . . . they’re beautiful.”

“The lads used to call me “Cat-oram.” She still spoke from behind her hands.

“No, they oughtn’t have. Well . . . I can see why they did, but they really are lovely. I . . . ah . . .” He was embarrassed now, feeling as though he was just a young lad. What was it he had been thinking about?

“Oh, yes,” he said aloud. “It really is all right, what you were saying. As I said, I like having free and, ah, open discussions about history. Ah . . .” He paused a long moment. His heart was thudding inside him. He had fallen in love. He wondered if love could kill a hobbit? “Did you mean what you said? I mean, do you really feel that way about the Travellers?”

Marjy’s face went paler and he suddenly feared she might swoon. He hurried on.

“Because if you do, that would be grand, you see, because I feel the same way and it would be so wonderful if you did too as I’m in love with you and it wouldn’t do for me to marry you if you didn’t feel that way because I’m going to write a book about that very thing.”

Jebbin had rarely sounded so much like Other, or that meddling ghost for that matter.

Marjy’s hands dropped with a lifeless thud into her lap. Revealed with their dropping was a wide open mouth. She didn’t appear to be breathing. She simply sat there for several minutes that seemed like hours.

“Marry me?” She had at least grasped the important part.

“Yes. Yes! I love you. I want to marry you. I have since you first came to Brandy Hall. I . . . do you believe what you said?”

“Yes,” she whispered, breathless with the shock of all that was happening.

“Will you marry me?” He knew his heart was going to burst, he had to know her answer before he died.

“Yes.”

They kissed until his heart slowed its pounding and she had managed to take in a bit of air through her nose. They moved apart, smiled sloppy, love struck smiles at one another, then kissed until the cold threatened to freeze them together.

Six months later, Other Brandybuck and Athelas Took shared their wedding day with Jebbin Brandybuck and Marjoram Proudfoot. They all knew a rough road lay ahead of them.

Getting Settled and Unsettled

They slipped away from the Hall, managing to avoid detection. It’s amazing how easily the bride and groom can do that if they so choose, more amazing when it’s brides and grooms. The new Mr. and Mrs. Jebbin Brandybuck and the new Mr. and Mrs. Other Brandybuck made their way, laughing and giggling beneath the starry late Astron sky, to Crickhollow House.

It wasn’t the same Crickhollow that their forebears had dwelt in upon their return from the Quest, but it included a few rooms of that ancient dwelling as well as newer additions. The additions made the house more comfortable for a greater number of guests. It was also able to easily accommodate two separate families if the need arose. Jebbin and Other had reserved it for their honeymoons as it would enable them to be away from the Hall proper, allowing the young couples to enjoy each other’s company during the day, and ensure the desired privacy in the evenings and at night.

They gave a nod to Athelas’ oldest brother, Tobold, as they went through the gates. Hobbits were known to have a bit of fun with couples on their wedding nights, if they could get away with it, so it was quite customary to have some trusted friends, or family members keep mischief makers at bay. Not to say those same trusted friends or family members wouldn’t have a bit of fun themselves, but they usually kept it a bit nicer. Tobold was a good choice for a guard. A blacksmith by trade, as was his father and his new brother-in-law, Tobold was an exceptionally sturdy hobbit. Few there were anywhere in the Shire who would cross him, but he was really gentle at heart and never started a row. Their other guard was Macidoc Brandybuck, the Master’s eldest son, next in line to the title, and not a thing like old “Pompous”. He was an outgoing, friendly, caring young hobbit and Jebbin happened to be one of his favorite chess opponents as well as one of his best friends. The newly weds had little need to worry about rude interruptions this night.

Even so, Other and Athelas found they needed to take hammers, tongs, punches, nails, hinges, pony shoes of various sizes and a very well used smithy’s apron out of their bed. They had at first thought to use one of the other two bedrooms, but the mattresses had been removed. At least Tobold had laid his surprise between two spare sheets before covering it over with the bed’s top sheet and quilt. All the paraphernalia had not got the bedding dirty, and it was fairly easy to remove it all without having to totally remake the bed. One thing the new couple left in place. On the wall over the head of the bed hung a crossed hammer and tongs, the gift of smithies to a fellow smith to bring strength to the new marriage.

Jebbin and Marjy found a chess set on their bed. They thought they had got off easy, until they got into the bed. The pieces from several chess sets were under the bottom sheet and, like Other and Athelas, they also found the other beds in their wing to be lacking mattresses. But that was not the only “gift” left for the newlyweds. Upon a small satin pillow, set squarely in the middle between the two pillows at the head of the bed, was something very unexpected; Macidoc’s ring. Old “Pompous” had gifted his infant son with a signet ring of his own. First, it had been tied to the babe’s wee gowns, later it had been tied to his tiny shirts. From his faunthood till his teens it had been on a chain about the lad’s neck. Then, starting with his tween years, it had been continually resized so that it had always been upon Macidoc’s hand. All this so that no one should forget whose son Macidoc was or whom he would grow to become. Mac’s ring was tied to the small satin pillow with a short note beside it.

“You’ve my blessings, my dear friend. Just do return this next week when you come home so as to avoid my Father killing me. With Greatest Affection, Mac”

It was a most pleasant week. The days were warm but not yet hot. The evenings were chill enough that was fun to bundle up in blankets and sit around a bonfire before heading to their separate wings of Crickhollow House. Marjy was an excellent cook, Athelas less so but she was the quicker more efficient housekeeper. Jebbin spun good tales and Other could lighten the mood when occasionally things had got to be a bit tense. They all had good voices and loved to sing. All in all, they were a companionable foursome.

Soon, it was time to return to the Hall. The lasses had not seen their apartments, though the lads had assured them they would be comfortable and not overly furnished nor decorated, so the new lady of the house could choose things to her liking.

Marjy and Athelas had their doubts.

Brandy Hall was huge with many apartments. What had been the Master’s quarters in the days of the Travellers had been abandoned about two hundred years after Meriadoc the Magnificent had dwelt there. It had become inconveniently located to where many of the public areas of the dwelling now were placed. When new construction was added to the outside of Buck Hill, the once light airy rooms that had been the Master’s quarters went dark. They were taken over by elderly Brandybucks who liked to be away from drafts.

Until now.

It had happened the rooms were vacant when Jebbin and Other had been seeking their future housing. The large suite of rooms had been divided into two separate apartments of more reasonable size somewhere in the past, an arrangement that suited the brothers’ wishes perfectly.

With a flourish Jebbin and Other swept open the double doors that led into a large central entrance hall. Sturdy round doors, one to the right and one to the left, led into the apartments. The door to the right had a beautifully lettered sign upon it reading, “Mr. and Mrs. Jebbin Brandybuck.” The door to the left bore a sign, in the same lettering, which read “Mr. and Mrs. Other Brandybuck.” The brides both smiled. The brothers gave each other relieved looks; so far they had done well. Then, with a firm nod to each other, they turned and each escorted his new wife into her new home.

“Well, my dear?”

Marjy looked around the apartment’s parlor. It was a cozy room, a bit small perhaps but cozy.

“I think it will do,” she slowly replied. “You lads were being honest about not that much being done ahead.”

That cut Jebbin a bit. But looking around with Marjy now beside him, he could see where he and Other hadn’t really done much besides clean up and drag in a few pieces of furniture from a nearby mathom room.

But, Marjy was now smiling as she slowly walked about looking everything over. “Actually, dear, I think it will do most nicely. The fireplace is good sized. This sofa will be easy enough to reupholster. Another chair here by the fireplace and . . . ,” she walked into a corner of the room, “a game table and two chairs here . . . a couple of small tables by the sofa for holding lamps and refreshments . . . a thick rug in front of the sofa . . . Yes, definitely lots of possibilities here.”

She came over and wrapped her arms around her husband.

“No need to look like a frightened rabbit, Jebbin,” she chided. “I like it.” She kissed him then got an inviting look in her eyes. “There are other rooms, aren’t there? A dining room, a kitchen . . . bedrooms?”

Jebbin was suddenly very glad his Mum had insisted the bed be made up.

Across the entry hall, a rather different approach to showing the bride her new home was in progress. Other had insisted Athelas close her eyes as he led her over the threshold. He let go of her hand, closed the door then announced, “You can open your eyes now!”

He stood in the middle of an empty room, his arms spread wide and proclaimed, “Behold! Welcome to your new abode, Mrs. Other Brandybuck.” He hurried back to her side, grabbed her hand and walked her a few steps to the left, nearer to the fireplace, talking as they went. “Over here we’ll have the softest, mushiest sofa we can find, and the softest, mushiest chairs to match. All cozy by the fire.”

Athelas’ face shined. “Yes, perfect for reading or snuggling.”

“Exactly! And a small table and chairs here for when I feel the need to beat you at draughts.”

His wife gave his arm a punch before skipping over to another corner of the room, “And a nice writing desk here.” She paused with a thoughtful look on her face. “Or is there a study?”

“No. We’ve a larger parlor whilst Jebbin and Marjy, the scholars, have the study.”

Athelas stood looking around the room.

“I didn’t get any furniture,” Other said. He was already good at reading some of his wife’s thoughts. “Jebbin did, but I reckoned that you would enjoy the climbing about in the mathom rooms, getting filthy and finding things that caught your fancy.”

“Oh!” She exclaimed as she clapped her hands together up by her chin. “That’s a marvelous idea, Other. Shall we go now?”

“Well . . .” He walked over to his bride, wrapped his arms about her, kissed the top of her head then looked over it down the hall that led to the rest of their rooms. “Unless you might, only if you’d wish to you understand, want to have a look at the one piece of furniture I did go ahead and choose.”

Athelas leaned back against his arms. “You actually chose something? All by yourself? With no help from me? How bold of you!” She batted her lashes at him before giggling.

“Even bolder when you discover what it is I went and chose all by myself with no help from you.” Other batted his lashes back at her. “I only hope the mattress I had made is soft enough . . .” He thoughtfully rolled his eyes upwards.

“Ooo! Our bed?”

Athelas ducked out of Other’s arms to dash down the hall.

It was three weeks later on a lazy Highday morning that Marjy received another surprise. As was her habit already in her newly married life she was up before Jebbin. She liked to have some quiet time at her desk in the study.

The study was a sizable room, having at one time been the Master’s private study located in his quarters. Not as huge as the official study of course, but large nonetheless. Jebbin and Marjy each had a large desk just a few steps into the room arranged so they were up against and facing opposing walls. This gave each of them a nice feeling of privacy, of having their own study as it were, while all they had to do to speak with each other was swivel their chairs to face the other way. The fireplace was on the far wall from the door into the study, and the couple had placed two soft overstuffed chairs there, turned so they faced each other a bit as well as facing the fire. A small table, large enough to hold a snack plate and a cup and saucer or mug sat on the fireplace side of each chair, leaving the space between the chairs open to approach them in order to sit down.

Marjy was heading to the fireplace to lay the fire for the day. It was, she thought to herself as she seemed to every morning as she did this, that it was one of the more tiresome aspects of living in an apartment without outside walls. Every room needed to have a fire lit in it every day, no matter the season of the year, both for light and heat. It meant they had to have a ready supply of firewood all the year through unlike her parent’s hole or the two room apartment that had been hers when she had simply been one of the Hall’s hired teachers. At least her sitting room had had a tiny round window. She turned to place her candlestick on the table beside the chair to her left. She gave out a loud squeak while nearly dropping the lit candle to the floor.

There was a hobbit sitting in the chair.

Well, sleeping in the chair would be a more precise description. His head was tipped back against the cushion; his mouth was slightly open though she could hear no sounds of breathing. His legs stretched out toward the fireplace, crossed at the ankles, as though seeking the warmth of a fire which wasn’t there. There seemed something odd about his appearance, though in the dim candlelight, Marjy couldn’t be sure what it was. She had just decided to tip-toe out of the room to rouse Jebbin when the hobbit twitched a bit before opening his eyes.

“Oh!” He said, his eyes opening wider. He awkwardly sat up straighter. “Hello. Your name is Marjoram, isn’t it? Hullo Marjy!”

Marjy backed away a step. Her left hand moved to cover where her heart felt as though it would pound its way out of her chest.

“You know my name?” She gasped out before repeating more boldly, “You know my name.”

“Yes, yes I do.” To himself he added, “Odd how one just knows things at times.” The visitor looked her up and down before squinting at her face in the dim light. “But there, I’ve frightened you and I didn’t mean to do that. I was actually looking to speak with Jebbin, who knows . . . me.”

The visitor had suddenly become aware of his surroundings. He squinted again in the soft candle light, trying to see as much of the room as possible. “This . . . this looks a bit like my private study.” He looked around a bit more before looking again at Marjy. “It can’t be though as it was on an outside wall and had the most pleasant view out the windows and . . .”

“A lot changes in over four hundred years.”

“Jebbin!” Both the visitor and Marjy exclaimed as Marjy ran to her husband. The visitor leaned forward to get a better look at the doorway.

“Jebbin, he – he was just in here, asleep in the chair. Just sitting there, in the chair.” Marjy had tucked herself behind her husband. She was holding tightly to his left arm peering around it at the strange hobbit who was now standing up beside the chair. He was a bit easier to see in the light of her candle joined by the one Jebbin carried. It had to be a trick of the flickering candlelight, Marjoram thought, as it seemed to her that she could somewhat see the fireplace through the visitor.

“You didn’t tell her about me, Jebbin?” The stranger queried. “I’m hurt by that. One would have thought you would have told her about Pippin and me before you even married her.”

“I was waiting until we took a trip to the mathom room. I didn’t realize you could show up just anywhere.”

Marjy was feeling a bit faint. “Pippin and me?” She breathed.

The ghost looked slightly abashed. “Uh, yes. Well that is a logical thing to think, I suppose, now that you mention it. I don’t really remember showing up anywhere else myself.” He paused a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Although, I do seem to remember seeing your and Other’s wedding. And a lovely wedding it was, Marjy. You and Athelas looked beautiful,” Merry said, smiling broadly at Marjy.

“Pippin and me?” She mumbled as she started to slip towards the floor.

“Catch her!” Merry shouted as Jebbin turned to grasp his wife. He grasped her awkwardly about the waist, trying not to drop his candle. Marjy’s candlestick fell to the floor and, fortunately, went out. Jebbin carefully walked her to her desk chair instead of the more comfortable chair near the hearth. He didn’t think she needed to be any closer to the ghost at the moment.

Marjy looked up at Jebbin as he placed his candle on her desk. “Pippin and me?” She said once more.

“Yes, dear, I . . .”

“Pippin?” Marjy took a deep breath before continuing. “There was a second Thain by that name and, I dare say, countless other Took lads by that name. But . . .” She paused to swallow. “But I’ve the feeling that those aren’t the ones he means. I’ve the feeling I owe Athelas an apology.”

“Athelas?” Jebbin asked.

“She told me . . . she . . . I thought it was a jest, her being a Took and all, and a rather mischievous one at that. I thought she was having me on. But . . .” Marjy looked over at the visitor though she continued to speak with her husband. “She said that she had gone with you and your brother to a mathom room here at the Hall, and that you had all seen the ghosts of Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the Peerless there. She said that you and Other had seen them before.”

“She was telling you the truth, Marjy,” Jebbin said softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I honestly thought the only place we could see them was the mathom room.” He glared at the ghost. “I most certainly didn’t expect either one of them to simply show up in our apartment.”

“I seem to be doomed to provoke you, Jebbin,” Merry sadly said. “I really meant no harm. I didn’t even know I was coming to your apartment. I simply wanted to think about what I wanted to speak with you about. I’ve come to my study to think many times, but it always looked as it did before
. . . as it did when I . . .” Merry looked around uncomfortably. “It always looked as it did when I was alive. It did when I arrived here and sat down to think. I always had a couple of chairs over here by the hearth.”

The ghost walked about the room, though he kept his distance from Marjy.

“My secretary’s desk was here,” he said while running a finger over the edge of Jebbin’s desk. “Mine was where your desk is, Marjy. There were paintings of views of the Brandywine upon the walls and a portrait of my parents.” He turned to face the fireplace. “The sword King Eomer gave me hung over the hearth.”

Merry walked over to lean his arms and head against the mantle. His shoulders sagged as though he bore a burden.

“I took it with me when I left the Shire. When I left to say a final goodbye to my King and to see Strider, the High King Elessar, once again. Left with Pippin to find a peace that home no longer gave us.”

He remained standing thus for a long moment and Marjy’s heart was moved for him, her fear and shock at his appearing now gone. He straightened up and squared his shoulders, turning to face them again.

“My apologies, as I said, the room has always looked the same to me whenever I’ve come here to think. I had no idea you now lived here, ah, that my study was now your study. All I knew was that I was wanting to speak with you and wasn’t sure how to manage it as the other times had just seemed to happen. I didn’t know whether I could make it happen, if there was a way to let you know . . .” The ghost of Meriadoc the Magnificent tipped his head to one side. “This really is bewildering at times. I’m not as acclimated to it as Pippin seems to be.”

Jebbin looked at his spectral ancestor and his expression softened. The ghostly Meriadoc was obviously genuinely sorry for just appearing in their study. “It’s all right, Merry. No harm done, although I think my wife and I could use some strong tea.” He turned to Marjy. “Would you mind fetching some tea, love?”

“Not at all, dear.” She turned to the ghost. “Would you . . . can you . . . ah . . .”

“I . . . ah.” Merry thought for a moment before raising his left eyebrow and twisting his mouth to right in a defeated, perplexed expression. “I can’t. I’m able to eat wherever it is that I am when I’m not here, I’m sure I do, but I’m equally certain that I can’t eat here. I’m sorry. It’s rather rude but . . . I can’t. No need for that to stop you two from fortifying yourselves. Please get something for the two of you. I’ll just chat nicely with Jebbin until you return. Then I’ll get to the matter that brought me here.”

Marjy nodded to Merry and Jebbin, then went after the tea things. Jebbin picked up the candle then sat down in the chair at the right side of the hearth, placing the candle stick on the table by his right arm. The Ghost sat as he had before, in the chair upon the left. Jebbin and Merry looked at one another, saying nothing.

A/N This comes with thanks to Grey_Wonderer for the use of her jingle bells :-) Thanks also to my group of editors :-)

The Task at Hand

When Marjy returned, Jebbin and the Ghost were still sitting in silence.

“I thought you were going to chat while I got the tea?” She asked as she tucked the tea trolley behind Jebbin’s chair. She poured his tea, put a few scones on a plate then set it all on the small table at the right of his chair.

Merry and Jebbin still sat looking at each other.

“Tsk, tsk. You haven’t even laid the fire, Jebbin. If you two will excuse me.” Marjy stepped between the chairs, knelt down and began to lay kindling in the grate.

“Let me help with that.”

Marjy looked up to see the Ghost holding a small log out for her to take. She stared at it blankly, as though she had never seen a log before.

“I can hold things,” Merry explained. “I can sit on things as well, as you’ve seen. But, if you try to pat me, or poke me in the chest with a small book,” he winked and grinned at Jebbin, “your hand or the book will go right through me. I’ve no idea how or why things work that way, I just know that they do. It really is rather a strange feeling as where we are most of the time, in that far green country I suppose it is, there we’re just as we were here. Just as we were when we were alive here. We eat. We embrace one another. Although,” he got a bemused look on his face, “we are able to talk without speaking, if we so choose, and we can wish to be somewhere in the realm and suddenly we’re there. And, as we can see, apparently we can travel between our two realms which you cannot. All of which is quite different from life here. Yet, we also talk and walk about as folks do here in Middle-earth.” He held the log out closer to her, encouraging her to take it.

She took the log, laid it atop the kindling then turned to take another log from the ghost. She lighted a taper from the candle next to Jebbin’s chair, and soon there was a nice blaze burning in the grate. Marjy got her chair from her desk, placed in the open space between the two high backed chairs her husband and their guest occupied, then sat down. She sat there looking from one of them to the other for a few moments.

“Have you taught Jebbin to talk without speaking, Merry?” She asked. “If you have are you able to teach me as well? And if you haven’t, this is a very strange way to have a chat.”

Jebbin twitched then blinked. “Eh, no, Marjy, we aren’t chatting. He said he wished to talk to me, and I’ve been waiting for him to talk.”

“And it seemed to me as though you were wanting to say something to me once we were alone, so I was waiting for you,” said Merry. “Seems we’re not doing very well with this thus far.” He cleared his throat and placed a rather false looking smile on his face. “Ahem. Good Morning, Jebbin. How is your book coming along?”

Jebbin looked at the fire, not at Merry. “It isn’t,” he replied with an irritable edge in his voice.

The Ghost’s eyes widened a bit as his lips formed an “oh”. “All right, it’s a touchy subject I see.”

“I’ve not started it. I’ve not thought much about it. I was betrothed then I have been a newlywed. I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“It’s been on your mind, darling,” Marjy said softly. She laid her hand on his arm as he turned a shocked face to her. “The whole time we were betrothed. You mentioned it to me the day you proposed, and I’ve caught thoughts of it in your eyes ever since.” She turned to Merry’s ghost. “I fear it has been because of me, because of our becoming married, that Jebbin has put off beginning his book.”

Jebbin took his arm out from under his wife’s hand, stood, and began pacing while gesturing with his hands. “I must have been mad. No, I *am* mad. I shouldn’t have said I’d write it.” He paced a bit in silence before bursting into speech again. “But something inside me is simply gnawing at my spirit for want of writing that book. Then again, something was gnawing at me to let myself fall head over heels in love with Marjoram. And I did, and I am, but how can I write that dratted book now?”

He stopped in front of Meriadoc, looking him squarely in the eye. “He’s had dreams about it, Other has. He and Athelas both. He would go off and marry a Took. He told me about them, the daft twit. As though I needed to know. They’ve seen upheaval. They’ve seen misery and poverty. Dreams of the four of us wandering and homeless, of hobbits chucking rotten vegetables at us at fairs and festivals. It will happen too, if I write that book. I haven’t a shred of doubt that it will be just so.”

“Dreams aren’t always spot on, you know.”

A good deal of credit must be given to Marjy, she hardly jumped at all when a second ghost faded into view, sitting in the chair Jebbin had previously occupied.

“Sometimes things aren’t as bad as the dreams show them to be.” Pippin paused a second, then added, “Although, sometimes they’ll be worse.”

Jebbin glared at him. “Your as helpful as Other. If all you have to offer are further such encouraging comments, you can just disappear yourself out of my home.”

The second Ghost calmly looked at Jebbin. “Have you bothered to ask Marjy what she thinks?”

Pippin turned to the lass sitting beside him. He smiled charmingly, though the effect was somewhat less than it should have been since Marjy could see the chair back through him.

“Hullo, Marjy. I’m Peregrin Took. One time Thain and Took now at your service as a meddling ghost, at least that is what your husband considers me to be.” He took her hand in his and kissed it. His hand was cold and so were his lips, but Marjy was able to overlook it somewhat, due to the gallant humor of the gesture. He laid her hand down on the arm of the chair then turned his attention back to Jebbin. “Well . . . Have you?”

Jebbin stood gaping at the specter as though he were suddenly speaking Elvish. The dratted ghost somehow knew what Jebbin thought of him.

“Oh look, Pip! He still is good at looking like a fish out of water. I would have thought he’d outgrown that look by now.” Merry said, chuckling as he did.

Pippin grinned. “He does at that, Merry. But, come now Jebbin, you’ve not answered my question. Have you talked to your beautiful young wife? Have you given her a chance to make any choices for herself in this matter? You know, old lad, she might surprise you.”

“Remember Frodo the night we told him of our conspiracy?” Merry put in. “He couldn’t believe we would still wish to go with him, after the Black Riders showed up while you, he and Sam were still in the Shire.”

“Exactly. That is just it exactly, Merry. He could have been eased of that burden much sooner if he’d chosen to take us into his confidence. Remember, when all was said and done he felt like dancing. He was so glad that we understood he was facing something troublesome and dark yet still wanted to stay by his side.”

Both the Ghosts looked up at Jebbin. “You’ve no idea how Marjy feels, Jebbin, because you haven’t asked her,” Merry said.

“Wives are often like best friends,” Pippin added. “They often are made of tougher stuff than you think.” Pippin craned his neck around so he could see a corner of the tea trolley sitting behind his chair. “Thought I smelled scones.” He looked at his cousin. “Merry, what do you say to our leaving this nice young couple alone to talk things over whilst eating their first breakfast, and we can go back and have whatever meal they’re having back . . . eh . . . home?”

“But what if we come back six years from now or some such thing. Time here and time there hasn’t matched up well when we’ve done this on other occasions.”

“That’s because there is no time there. I think I’ve worked it out though. At least I hope I have. Well, I asked for help in the matter. We aren’t the only ones wanting this book to be written and all, you know.”

“Yes, I know, Pippin, but they,” Merry gestured toward the young couple, “aren’t supposed to.” Pippin faintly blushed, his ghostly pallor looking ever so slightly less pale. Merry turned to Jebbin. “We will be back, soon we hope. You two talk things out.”

The Ghosts faded from view. Marjy got up, helped herself to two scones and a cup of tea, then sat in the chair the ghost of Peregrin the Peerless had just vacated. She looked up at Jebbin expectantly. “Well, dear?” She asked lightly.

He landed with a “plumph” in the chair opposite his wife then reached for his tea and scones as she held them out to him. “Well what? With any luck they won’t be back for six years, as Mr. The Magnificent said, and by then I’ll have had time to work out a way not to have to write it.”

Marjy bowed her head a bit, stirring absently at her tea. “Why say that when you want desperately to write it?”

“I . . . I don’t want desperately to write it. I . . .”

For several minutes he busied himself with drinking tea, buttering and eating a scone. Anything other than deal with the issue at hand. His thoughts were out of control. One moment he had perfectly sound reasons for never writing a word about The Travellers, the next moment writing the book as soon as possible was all that made sense. The last time his thoughts had behaved so erratically was the time he was talking to Marjoram and wanting to propose. He hated this. Jebbin Brandybuck liked calm and order. Any of his students would tell you that. Of the teachers and tutors at the Hall, and there were several as there were a good many young hobbits to be instructed, his were the most disciplined classes. Normally, his thoughts were as well controlled as his classes.

Finally, he set down his plate and saucer then let his head fall against the high back of the chair. He stared blankly at the dimly lit ceiling. “Hold still,” he muttered.

“I am holding still, dear,” Marjy said in reply.

“No. My thoughts, Marjy, my thoughts. How can I consider them, weigh one against the other, if they refuse to hold still? It’s easier to catch minnows with your bare hands than to catch such flitting thoughts.”

She smiled as she darted her hand out toward the ceiling. “Here,” she said holding her closed hand out to her husband. “I’ve caught one. Hold it to your ear and tell me what it says to you.”

Jebbin raised his head to stare at Marjy. Gradually, he smiled as he took her hand in both of his. “No wonder she worked so well with the younger children of the Hall,” he thought.

“Let go carefully or it will slip away,” he said. “They’re slippery wee things.” She eased her hand out from between his, then he tipped his head a bit while placing his hands up to his right ear. Slowly he opened a gap between his thumbs.

He listened a few seconds. “This is one of the, ‘Of course you must write this book, you idiot. You’ll be miserable if you don’t.’ thoughts.”

“Interesting that it was one of that kind which was caught first. Why will you be miserable?”

He closed his eyes and let his hands fall to his lap. “The Travellers have been . . . special to me . . . I’m not sure that is a strong enough term, but it will have to do. They have been special to me my whole life.” Jebbin opened his eyes. As he looked at her, Marjy noticed there was a pleading look in them.

“No other stories Grandda or Da told ever held me as their stories did. No other subject taught by my tutors held my attention like Shire history that involved the Travellers. Then Other and I had our first visit to that mathom room and I was overrun with wanting to know why Meriadoc the Magnificent would have said ‘This all seems in order.’ after reading a short bit Jebiamac’s book. Those words burned in my head, Marjy. How could what Jebiamac wrote ‘seem in order’ when it wasn’t anything like what I had been taught?”

Jebbin sighed before rising to pace about the room.

“Then so many years later, just last year, it came full circle. They,” he gestured broadly into the air, “showed up again. ‘Jebiamac has it right.’ they said. ‘You’re to write all about it so everyone has it all straight again.’ they said.” He paced a bit more before coming to a stop in front of his wife. “Athelas teased me about you, you were at Other’s party, I was feeling euphoric about getting to do something grand and important, and I fell in love and proposed.” He moved off around the room once more. “And here we are, married and I’m supposed to write a book that will make us the scourge of the Shire. Yet I’ll be miserable if I don’t write it because for years I’ve known I was meant to write it.”

He dropped himself into his desk chair then laid his head upon the desk in the crook of his left arm.

Marjoram rose, stood behind her husband and began to rub his shoulders. “You haven’t asked what I think, as the ghosts said you should.”

“What do you think of it all?” Came his muffled response.

“You just said you feel you were meant to write this book. I agree.” She rubbed his shoulders in silence for a while before speaking again. “I told you the day you proposed that I felt the stories we had learned of the Travellers might be wrong. I never had an experience like you and Other had, well, not until this morning I should say. No finding a book with a different version of their journey, no conversing with their spirits, but I had long felt as you have; that we hadn’t been taught the truth. That the tales had done as tales will; that they had grown in the telling until little of the real story remains.”

Marjy pulled on Jebbin’s shoulders until he sat up. She turned the seat of the chair until enough of his lap was out from under the desk, then settled herself there. She caressed his cheek while her eyes smiled into his.

“Mind you, at the time I was more caught up with the words, ‘marry you’, than what followed after. But later that evening, alone in my room, more of the conversation came back to my mind and I was thrilled with the thought that I would be married to the hobbit who would put the story to rights.”

Jebbin started to protest but Marjy laid a finger over his lips.

“Shortly after the thrill of that thought, I started to think about what might really happen when the Master, especially if it’s still old Pompous and not Macimas, the Took and Thain, the Mayor, all the other teachers in Buckland, the Shire, Westmarch and Undertowers and any hobbit who dearly loved tales of hobbit history heard what you would be saying. What they all would do when the book was finished and talk of its contents spread. It didn’t take long for me to realize that it most likely would not be very well received.”

She removed her finger from his lips, replacing it with her lips. She kissed him tenderly then withdrew while gently putting a hand to each side of his face.

“I want to be the wife of the hobbit who tells the true story of the Travellers. I’m certain they went through hardship and trials to rid Middle-earth of the Dark Lord Sauron and the One Ring. We won’t be saving the whole world,” she smiled lovingly, “but we will be doing something important for our own people. I want to walk that road with the hobbit I love.”

The forms of two hobbits slowly appeared by the fireplace. No sooner than they were as solid as they could be, they were both grinning. Over by one of the desks, Jebbin and Marjy were engaging, not in a discussion of the book, but in a deep kiss. They waited a few minutes, politely looking elsewhere about the room.

“I thought we had suggested they talk.” Pippin eventually said, loud enough for the newlyweds to hear him.

“They are, Pip. They’re speaking volumes to each other,” Merry said trying to contain a chuckle. “Just not about writing books.”

“You two need to quit just popping in on people,” Jebbin mumbled around Marjy’s lips.

His wife broke off their kiss. “Perhaps we can put bells on then, as one bells a cat.” She kissed the tip of her husband’s nose before turning to smile at the ghosts.

Merry started to chuckle and the ghostly Pippin again managed a faint blush whilst glaring at his cousin.

“Enough of that, Merry, or they’ll want an explanation,” Pippin hissed.

“An explanation sounds good to me,” Jebbin grinned. “As you two know, I’m supposed to be collecting stories about the famous Travellers.”

“Yes!” Pippin jumped in. “Yes, stories. The book. Remember the book he’s to write, Merry? We need to discuss the book.”

“But Jebbin wants a story, Pip. I can’t not tell the lad a story.”

“He’s not a lad. He’s - he’s married, Merry. We’ll just get to the book.” Pippin looked eagerly at the young couple. “Have you talked it over? Of course you have, you’re a good couple of hobbits. And what did you decide?”

Marjy grinned. There were times she reminded her husband a bit of Athelas. “Oh, yes! We decided we want to know what is so funny about belling the ghosts.”

Merry was now doubled over with laughter. Pippin sighed the sigh of the resigned.

“Very well,” he said as unenthusiastically as possible. “When I was a wee lad, just starting to crawl about . . .”

“Run about . . . was more like it,” Merry wheezed. “Not . . . sure he ever really crawled all that much. He was too eager to follow me all over.”

Pippin rolled his eyes at his fellow ghost. “Yes, well, when I was just starting to follow after trouble here.” He jerked his head toward Merry. “His mother, Esmeralda (Took) Brandybuck, tied wee bells to my trousers so she could find me. She said I would just suddenly disappear, and she couldn’t find me. The bells solved the problem.”

“Until . . . till he . . .” Merry was still having trouble with laughing too hard. “Oh!” he breathed. “Until he got to be about four years old or so. Then he figured out . . . if he took . . . took off his breeches, he also . . . took off the bells.” He took another deep though unneeded breath. “When Mum finally found him, he told her they were playing “Find Pippin” and that it was more fun without the bells.”

Jebbin and Marjy joined Merry’s laughter. Pippin stood silent, arms crossed over his chest, tapping irritably with his right foot.

“Yes, yes. Fine, Merry. That was great fun for everyone, I’m quite certain,” Pippin was trying to sound upset, but as he had begun grinning broadly it wasn’t working. “What about the book.” He gave Merry a hard nudge in the ribs.

“Ahem! Yes, Jebbin Brandybuck.” The ghost of Meriadoc the Magnificent straightened his shoulders while trying to adopt a stern look. He didn’t really succeed. Merry was more anxious and hopeful than irked at this point. “What have you two decided? You *did* discuss it, didn’t you?”

Jebbin took a deep breath to settle himself. He looked into Marjoram’s amber eyes, tightened his hold around her waist then answered the Ghost without taking his eyes from his wife’s.

“We will write the book.”

*******************************

The next several months were spent in a flurry of work. Marjoram Brandybuck had not returned to her teaching after her marriage, as was usually the way with hobbit brides. What seemed a bit unusual, however, was that Jebbin Brandybuck informed The Master’s secretary, who handled matters of education at the Hall, that he would also be taking a leave of absence for one year. Their budget was tight, but each had saved a good percentage of their pay all the years they had taught but been unmarried. They knew they could live comfortably from their savings for one year, or live tightly off of it for two.

Other and Athelas had been brought in on everything the very day that Jebbin told the Ghosts that the book would be written. Other worked extra hard at the Bucklebury smithy, saving all he could. Old Marric Brandybuck hadn’t had any sons and he had been hard pressed the last few years to keep up with demands as his arthritis became worse. He was more than happy to let Other work as much as he wanted. Many evenings, Other worked alone in the shop making swords. It was a slow process, since he couldn’t give it all his time, but he had been trained by Tobius Took and that meant a great deal in the larger world just outside the borders of the Shire. His swords were fetching a good price, and he knew they would all have need of the money.

Toby’s family for many long years had the reputation of being fine sword smiths. For the Hobbit trade their blades were knife blades, as hobbits rarely had need for swords. Swords in the Shire were for hanging over mantles, and telling your guests that it was great-great-great-great-grandfather’s, used in the Battle of Bywater, or in one of the skirmishes that saw the Ruffians across the borders and out of the Shire. But, good sharp knives were treasured in a land that so valued cooking. Outside the Shire in Bree, East Way, and Kingstown, and south to the towns of Sarn Ford and Greenway Fork, swords were needed for protection, and the short swords of the Tooks of Thistleburrow were highly valued. The blades were strong, they held a keen edge and the tang was set wide and long into the grip. It was said that long ago, early in the Forth Age, a Took had learned the art from the Dwarves then settled in Thistleburrow as there was a good supply of the necessary raw materials to be found in the area.

And so it was the two young couples worked on the book in some way or another. Marjy and Jebbin hunted up the books they had been told to find, as well as Jebiamac’s book that had started it all. They read and made notes. They compared accounts, always being careful to weed out the exaggerations and myths that gradually crept into the accounts. Athelas had lovely clear writing, so in addition to keeping house for both couples thus freeing Marjy’s time, she wrote out the final copies of each chapter.

The Ghosts would often appear to help keep them on the proper path. There was no longer any being caught unawares for the young couples. The next time the Ghosts had appeared they had found two watch chains lying on Marjy’s desk; one labeled, ‘for Meriadoc the Magnificent’, the other ‘for Peregrin the Peerless’. Each chain was adorned with five small bells. Both the living hobbits and the spectral ones were intrigued by the fact that the chains held to the Ghost’s watches. Merry in particular, but Pippin as well, found it rather fun to have their presence announced by the jolly jingling of the wee bells.

One of the biggest surprises as the work progressed, was the day Other and Athelas came into the study with something wrapped in one of Other’s smithy aprons. Other plopped it down in front of his brother with a flourish.

“What’s this?” Jebbin asked, reaching to unwrap the parcel.

“One of the copies of the Red Book of Westmarch.”

Jebbin jerked his hands away as though the cloth had suddenly burned his finger tips.

“It’s what?”

“One of the copies of the Red Book of Westmarch.”

Jebbin turned in his chair to stare at his brother. The ghosts of Meriadoc and Peregrin had been sitting in the high backed chairs near the fire, but now were at the desk, peering around the brothers to get a look.

“The Greenholms, Gardeners and their kin guard these like dragons hoard gold. There are only about six of them in existence and many of them aren’t complete. How did you get this, Other?”

“This is a good one, too. A good copy that is. I’ve heard it was the main one that scribe from Minas Tirith used for the copy he made for their libraries. I’m thinking it is quite complete, Jebbin.”

“Other.” There was an intensely parental edge to the older brother’s voice.

“Athelas was interested in it as well. She said it looked as though more than one scribe worked on it. She said . . .”

“Er? How did you get this book?”

Other was caught off guard by Jebbin’s use of the short version of his name. The name no one but Jebbin ever used.

“Well, In,” Other replied with his short name for his brother. “I . . . I . . . It got confused with a book on “The Various and Sundry Ways to Mine Iron Ore: A Comprehensive Compendium of Mining Iron Ore in the Shire”. I seem to have sat that book down in Lightred Greenholm’s study whilst I was repairing the door hinges, and apparently picked this up by mistake when I packed up my tools.”

“How did you happen to end up in the Westmarch to fix door hinges? I’m assuming they have blacksmiths over there.”

“I’m sure they do, yes. In fact, Millet Whitefields is a very good . . .”

“So why wasn’t he fixing Mr. Greenholm’s hinges?”

“He might have if a traveling tinker, smith, farrier, all round odd jobsman hadn’t happened by asking whether Mr. Greenholm might have some odd jobs that needed doing.”

Pippin and Merry looked over Jebbin’s head at each other. This explanation had a familiar ring to it. It reminded them of conversations they had once had with their fathers.

Jebbin was scowling, his voice sounded a lot like a father’s. “And I don’t suppose I know this traveling tinker person?”

“Well . . . ahem.” Other ran a finger under his collar. He was starting to perspire. “You might at that. It, ah . . . I think he was there when we visited Lightred Greenholm’s holdings a couple of years ago. You remember, when you were first making an effort to find all these old books.” Other waved his hand at the books that were on both Jebbin’s and Marjy’s desk.

“You stole the book.”

“Well . . . I didn’t actually . . .”

“You stole the book, Er.”

“I can return it whenever you and Marjy are finished with it. That makes it borrowing .”

“You stole it!” Jebbin shouted as he rose to his feet. “You . . . you stole it! It is one of their family’s treasures. Mr. Greenholm refused to even let me touch it when we went out there. And now you’ve gone and stolen it!”

“But it is something you need, isn’t it?” Asked a softer voice.

Jebbin whipped his head around to glare at Athelas. “And what did you do all that time, eh Mrs. Tookish Brandybuck, while the tinker here was stealing this book? Did you . . . do whatever that is you do when you confuse people? Well, did you?”

Athelas said nothing. She looked down at the rug while edging closer to her husband. This wasn’t a good time to go eye to eye with Jebbin as he had hit the truth dead on.

“That explains that,” Jebbin huffed.

Other put his arm around his wife and smiled at her. “I didn’t know you did that! You needn’t have; I could have managed without . . .”

“Other!” Jebbin interrupted again. He sat down and put his face in his hands. “Wonderful, as though Mr. Greenholm isn’t going to realize what has happened and come looking for you.”

Other kneeled down beside Jebbin’s chair, placing an arm about his brother’s shoulders as he did so while once more using his nickname. “In, he won’t even notice, and I wore a disguise so he won’t know it was me. The case book was in was dusty and untouched when we were there before. I noticed it when I snuck a peek at it. I was very careful to only touch the edge of the cover so as to not disturb the dust. It looked even dustier this time. It may be a family treasure, but they don’t keep that case very well cleaned off. The other book is just a bit bigger than this and is the same color. That’s what gave me the idea. I was careful about touching the case, like last time, and simply switched the books. They never touch this book, In. They’ll never know the difference. When you’re done, I’ll sneak it back.”

Meanwhile, the ghostly Peregrin Took had edged the still wrapped book away from the brothers, unwrapped it, and he and Meriadoc had opened it up to have a look.

“Ah, Jebbin?” Merry spoke in an oddly strangled sounding voice.

He received no response.

“I really will return it, Jebbin,” Other continued. “I promise. Safe and sound to its dust encrusted case.”

“Jebbin,” Merry said again, nudging his descendant in the shoulder.

“What?” Jebbin said irritably without looking up, his face still cradled in his hands.

“Did you know? Did you have any reason to suspect . . .”

“Merry, this is old Cousin Bilbo’s writing!” Pippin exclaimed, having totally ignored Merry’s attempts to say as much to Jebbin.

Jebbin’s head shot up. “What? What did he just say?”

Merry nodded at the book lying open on the desk. “It’s our cousin Bilbo’s writing.” He stuck a finger further along in the pages to open it to a section about one third of the way into the book. “And this,” he pointed to the open page, “this is Frodo’s writing.”

“That’s the original?” said every hobbit in the room at the same time.

Unraveling the Past

For several long minutes the six of them stared at the old, red leather bound book sitting on Jebbin’s desk. Finally, the ghostly Merry broke the silence.

“I know you want to ask it, Jebbin, because it’s what I would ask. You want to ask if we’re certain it’s the original but you’re also thinking it’s a foolish question. We’re certain. Bilbo and Frodo write reams and reams where we all are now. Poetry, songs, lengthy discourses on all sorts of subjects. We see their writing all the time. But even if that weren’t the situation, we would never have forgotten their writing from when we all lived in the Shire.”

Other tapped Jebbin on the shoulder then handed him a handkerchief. “You look like you’re either going to cry or drool or both. You don’t want to go and ruin it.” Jebbin took the handkerchief nodding his thanks as he continued to stare at the book as though if he dared glance away it would disappear like a ghost.

Pippin gently ran his fingers over the pages which were still open to Frodo’s part of the book. A couple of ghostly tears fell from his face, leaving no mark when they landed upon the parchment.

“Do you remember, Merry. Strider wanted a copy of this for the library in Minas Tirith. Remember? And I had the best scribe in the Shire do the work on the best parchment, then had it bound in the finest red leather by the best bookbinder.” He sniffed and rubbed at his nose. “Do you think Queen Arwen saw this happening? That might be why they wanted a copy. Did she see that . . . that we hobbits would . . . This is terrible.”

Jebbin shook his head. “I can’t believe this. Yet, I should. Most every historian knows there are copies of the Red Book. There is a copy of that copy you had made, Pippin, in the library at Great Smials. ‘Twas made by a Gondorian scribe some hundred years later or so. But as far as I know, no one has read any of them.”

“Not read them?” Merry asked.

“No. Let me show you.” Jebbin ran his finger down the spines of several books that comprised one of the piles on his desk. It was one of the stacks that were books of the accepted Shire history which he was using to make comparative notes in his book of the true history.

“Are you looking for Tom Burrowwell’s “Times of the Travellers: An Accurate Account of the Events in the Shire and Beyond Its Borders in the years S.R. 1418 and S.R. 1419”, dear?” Marjy asked.

“Yes.”

“I have it on my desk. I’ll fetch it.” She retrieved a blue book from her desk, thumbed through it as she walked over to her husband’s desk, then set it down. It was opened to an underlined portion of the work’s introduction. “I think this is what you want, Jebbin.”

He grabbed and kissed her hand before turning to the open book. “It is, thank you. Ahem.

‘It is known, by those interested in such trivial things, that there are numerable copies of something called the “Red Book of Westmarch” scattered hither and yon throughout the Shire proper and, of course, the Westmarch. These at one time pro ported to be actual first person accounts of much of the Travellers experiences, but as the accounts were said to be written by the notoriously humble Mayor Samwise Gamgee and else wise by such hobbits as were known to be mad as Rath hares, these quickly fell out of use as reliable sources.’

So, you see . . .”

“What!” Merry shouted as he yanked the book away from Jebbin to peer at the entry himself. “Mad as Rath hares! You mean to say after all this time Bilbo and Frodo are still regarded as ‘Mad Bagginses’!”

“Yes, I’m afraid they are; Bilbo Baggins in particular.” Jebbin sighed.

“He is used as a means of making young hobbits behave,” Athelas said as she moved to stand beside Merry.

She wished, and not for the first time since meeting them, that he and Pippin weren’t ghosts. Much of what had been happening in Jebbin and Marjy’s study the past few weeks had been very upsetting to them and she kept finding herself wishing she could give them a pat on the shoulder or a hug to comfort them.

“You know the sort of thing, I’m sure,” she continued. “‘Don’t ye be strayin’ too far from home, lad, or the ghost of Mad Bilbo Baggins’ll get ye.’”

The deep pain in Merry’s eyes made the lass sorry she had said anything. But the Ghost nodded.

“There were some that did that even when Bilbo still lived in Bag End. They would tell their children Mad Baggins would sell them to the Dwarves if they didn’t behave. It always hurt the old dear so badly. Those children who did know him, like Pip and I and the poorer children in Hobbiton, loved him deeply.”

They all stood quietly, each feeling sorry for a kindly hobbit who, even so many years after he was gone, was still being wrongly accused of being mad.

“Well,” Jebbin finally said. “It’s a shame I can’t use it.”

“What?” Pippin asked.

“Despite what I know it to be, I can’t use it. At least Jebiamac’s and Adelard’s books may carry some weight. This is held to be a totally useless resource. I can’t back up my statements with it.”

“Useless!” It was Peregrin the Peerless’ turn to lose his temper. “Useless! The High King of Gondor didn’t feel it was useless. My King valued this book, and the ones who wrote it. Fools! Block headed, ninny hammer hobbits!”

In spite of how upset he was he managed to gently pick up the ancient book and place it carefully in front of Jebbin. He wasn’t as gentle with Jebbin. Pippin grabbed hold of the young scholar’s head, twisting it around and pushing on it until Jebbin was nearly nose to page with the book.

“You see this! This, this, Jebbin Brandybuck is the truth of it all. These are the facts of it all. This is Bilbo’s blood and tears. This is Frodo’s blood and tears. Sam’s blood and tears. This . . . this . . .”

Pippin dropped to his knees beside the chair, leaning his head on Jebbin’s shoulder. For a few moments he clung to the young Brandybuck as he cried out his dry, ghostly tears. The odd cold that emanated from the ghost was not all that chilled Jebbin. He also felt the pain of the situation.

“This is all you need, Jebbin,” Pippin finally said softly. “That the so called scholars think so poorly of it is of no consequence. Quote it like you have Adelard’s and Jebiamac’s books. But you will hold this up as the primary source of the truth, Jebbin, because that is what it is. It has our stories too, Merry’s and mine, exactly as we told them to Frodo. He would always have us check them over to make sure he had those entries all written right and proper. Just you make it clear that Adelard’s and Jebiamac’s books lend support to the Red Book, not that it lends support to them.”

Merry placed a hand on Jebbin’s shoulder. “What say you and Marjy get started. Finding this means we have a fair amount of rewriting to do. You can now be quoting an original source instead of the third and fourth hand ones you’ve had to use till now.” The ghost then helped his cousin to his feet, hugging Pippin about the shoulders as he walked him over to the chairs by the hearth.

Six weeks later, a small cart was travelling slowly down a road in the Westmarch. It would have seemed to a passerby that the driver was talking to himself, but that wasn’t quite the situation.

“You’re sure everything is taken care of? What if we go past and he doesn’t notice us?” The driver said not much louder than a whisper.

“Everything is just as we agreed. He’ll notice. Just you keep this nice steady pace, as though you just happen to be ambling along.”

In the yard of a fairly large farm holding up the road from the cart, Lightred Greenholm was scratching his head as he looked at the hinges on his byre door. “They look as though someone’s gone and melted them or such. They were all right yesterday, I’d swear to it.” And indeed, the hinges looked warped. There was no way to open the doors.

“You could use that tinker chap as fixed the hinges in your study.”

Lightred jumped a bit looking all about. He could have sworn someone just spoke to him.

“Is that a cart coming down the road?”

He twisted quickly around to where it seemed the voice was coming from. He now was facing down his drive, and yes, there was a familiar cart just drawing nigh the gate.

“Hullo!” Lightred shouted. “Hoy there, Robin Slowfoot! Stop!”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Greenholm, sir.” Robin called back to the hobbit who was hurrying toward him. He touched the fingers of his right hand to the edge of his worn and shapeless felt hat. “A good mornin’ to ya, sir. Is there aught I can do fer ya this pleasant morn?”

Lightred stood a few moments waiting to catch his breath. “Ah! Yes . . . yes there is, lad. The hinges on my byre doors look right strange and I can’t open the doors. Might you be able to have a look at them?”

“Aye, Mr. Greenholm, sir,” the odd-jobs hobbit smiled broadly. “Be a pleasure to be workin’ fer ye again, sir.” Robin turned his cart into the drive and up to the byre.

At elevenses the tradeshobbit and the framer sat on a bench beside the byre door, resting their backs against the building while they shared a bite to eat supplied by Mrs. Greenholm. They chatted as they ate.

“Well, you did a right fine job on the study door, Robin lad, so it’s glad I am that you happened by today.”

“Thank, ya most kindly, Mr. Greenholm. I do have a touch with hinges, sir.” Robin paused to enjoy another bite of his ham and cheese, then continued. “You must be one of those scholarly hobbits, sir. Havin’ yer own room just fer studyin’ in.”

Lightred laughed heartily. “No, lad, not I. My great-great-grandfather was a scholar though. Leastwise, ‘twas he as bought all them books then added a room to the old hole just for keeping them in.”

“Then that book that was all in a glass case must o’ been his?”

“It was. Why do you ask, lad?” Lightred suddenly had a defensive look in his eyes.

“Well, fixin’ and makin’ thin’s as I do, I notice such as that there case. It caught my eye so I took a closer look at it. Could tell even through the dust, I could, that it were a fine bit o’ work.”

The farmer relaxed a bit. “Oh, yes, it is. I looked at it a few times, back when I was a lad. Looked at the case that is. But as books and such hold little interest for me, I never paid it much mind. My pa told me as it was just some piece of folly, and that was good enough for this hobbit.”

“Piece of folly?”

“Yes. He said his pa had told him it was supposed to be some copy of some book. Ah . . . eh . . . Old Book of the West . . . No, that wasn’t it.” Lightred thought a few moments. “No. No, I can’t recall it proper. But pa said as grandpa said that there were more copies of that book about than there are cats on farms, and that 'twas naught more than made-up stories that were different in every copy. He said we were far better with the stories we all knew from hearing them told as those were more trustworthy. We don’t hold that well with what is put into writing, lad, and neither should you. I read enough to run my farm and sign my name to papers. There’re a good sight more hobbits in the Westmarch and the Shire who don’t read at all. Why should we trust what we can’t understand?”

Robin nodded. “Just as my pa taught me. That them as want ta can tell ya what e’re they want them squiggles to mean. He said a hobbit should be as good as his word and he’d no use fer one as thought he needed them squiggles to make a deal binding.”

Lightred patted the tinker on the shoulder. “Your pa taught you well, lad.” He stood stretching as he did so. “We did justice to those victuals. I’ll just take the basket and all back to the kitchen and save my missus a trip back out here.”

Robin stood and moved towards where he was working on the new hinges, but paused. “Why is that book in such a fine case, if it be just a folly?”

Lightred turned. “Pa said his pa said that was where it always was. That grandpa had asked his father and he had some story about that all them books was kept in fancy cases in all the holes and smials that had one. He reckoned they must have been sold to folks that way.”

Lightred walked on toward his home. Robin made quick work of putting the new hinges he had made ahead of time on the byre doors and was on his way after luncheon.

Once he was well away, Robin took off his shapeless felt hat, and the false dark brown hair he had been wearing. His own hair was sweaty and stuck to his head. He ran a hand through it then shook his head a bit before combing his fingers through it some more to help the breeze dry it out.

“Well Other,” said a voice that seemed to come from the air itself. “Now we know a great deal more about what happened.”

The ghost of Peregrin the Peerless slowly took shape on the seat beside Other Brandybuck.

“Yes. I should have known. I’ve had a great deal more contact than Jebbin has with the more common hobbits.” He quickly caught himself. “Not to imply anything by calling them common. Not that our small family is anything all that important or anything. I just meant I know the illiterate hobbits better than he does. I’ve heard that all before, that distrust of anything put into writing as well as those who can read; or claim they can read.”

“Aye,” the Ghost sighed. “It was the same way when I was alive. I should have thought of it as well. It just didn’t occur to me that any of Sam’s descendants would be illiterate. Sam valued knowing how to read and all of his children knew how.”

“It does explain a lot though. No wonder they didn’t bother with the book.”

“No, no wonder at that at all. Those who can’t read don’t trust anything that’s written down while those of Sam’s descendants who do read don’t think the Red Book is of any value. The next question on my mind is how did the truth come to be so strongly regarded as untruth.” Pippin shook his head and sighed. For a while neither of them said anything.

“But we’ve done well with our plan.” Pippin broke their silence, smiling cheerily. “We’ve had a look at every copy of the Red Book in the Westmarch and Undertowers, every copy that folks know about at least.”

“And that will be giving Jebbin some help indeed.” Other smiled in return. “It’s well established that Bilbo Baggins, Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee wrote the original Red Book. It’s a fact that is even made a mockery of; the whole ‘Why trust a book written my two mad hobbits?’ way of thinking. We can now say with the utmost confidence that the book he is using is not a copy because every other book we saw was entirely in the same hand. Several different scribes made the copies, but each scribe made a full and complete copy. None are in the scripts of three different writers.”

“Aye. I’ve a notion that information will be useful later on. For now, I think we need to head for home.” The Ghost began to fade. “Well, you need to head for Brandy Hall. I’ll meet you there later.”

In a moment, Other Brandybuck was alone on the driver’s seat of his cart.

Weaving the Future

The work on the book continued. Jebbin was a hobbit driven. He ofttimes had to be reminded to eat, to sleep, to get up and move about. Always in his mind’s eye he saw Bilbo ordering the red bound book of blank pages then beginning his labor of recording the story of his journey, “There and Back Again”. He saw Frodo forcing himself to recall bitter memories so that the role he and the other hobbits had played in saving Middle-earth could be remembered. He would see Sam filling in the gaps in the tale, then handing the Red Book of Westmarch on to his daughter Elanor Greenholm to be a cherished family treasure. And Jebbin often wept at how it had all been replaced by exaggerations and lies. Though even in its hallowed pages (hallowed at least by two Brandybuck couples and the Ghosts who haunted them) untruths were to be found. For Bilbo did not record the truth of his acquiring the Ring. The Ghosts knew this.

“Frodo appended Bilbo’s account,” Meriadoc the Magnificent said as he showed Jebbin Frodo’s notes in the Red Book of Westmarch. “The old dear told Frodo the true story of his finding the Ring soon after he adopted Frodo as his heir and he came to live at Bag End. Frodo added the true story after we returned from the Quest. He said he was done with any secrecy concerning the Ring, that the only way for Its evil to be cleansed away was for everything to be told openly and honestly.”

Merry gave a soft, wry chuckle as he shook his head. “And to think, now it’s all regarded as falsehoods. It really has the two of them quite vexed.”

“They know?” Jebbin’s color ebbed a bit.

“Yes, they know. And not because we ran off and told them, so you can get that slightly accusatory look off of your face. When Pip and I first showed up and found out the muddle things were in, yes, we told everyone. But even though you said it was what you had been taught by your tutor, we didn’t take it all too seriously.” Merry looked off into some distant place only the Ghosts could see, and he sighed. “Things just seem to get known there. Not always perfectly clear, but they get known. I shan’t explain, so don’t bother asking me. Suffice it to know, Bilbo, Frodo and Sam now know how bad the situation is. We all knew before Pip and I came back that day before your brother’s birthday. It was why we came.”

Jebbin looked down at his handiwork, sheets and sheets of paper strewn over his desk.

“I’m sorry they had to find out. I’m sure it pains as well as angers them.”

“It does, and they are extremely interested in what you, what all of us, are doing. Though, at least for now, they have not been allowed to come here. That may change . . . yet again, it may not.”

Merry stood a bit straighter as he patted Jebbin on his back.

“All the more reason for us to keep at this. We’ve rounded the bend and the end is in sight, my lad. Athelas has been busily making eight copies of everything you have written. That will be nine books . . .” Merry paused. “Curious. Did you tell her specifically to make eight copies, Jebbin?”

“No. Why do you . . . Oh! Nine books!”

“That just sent a chill through me, and I didn’t think I could have a chill any longer,” Merry said as he trembled slightly. “At least not while I’m here. Write, Jebbin. Write! There is more here than meets the eye. We need to get this done!”

**********************

A week and a year had gone by from when the brothers and Athelas had met the Ghosts in the old mathom room. It was last day of Winterfilth and hobbits from across the Shire and Buckland had come to Hobbiton for the Harvest Festival. And there on the town green, amongst all the other booths was a small booth that was no more than a table with a cheery yellow cloth and a stack of eight books upon it.

Jebbin paced nervously in the small space behind their table. Marjoram and Athelas sat quietly at the table, watching as the first groups of hobbits attending the festival approached. Other had a booth next to Jebbin’s with a selection of his knives on display, but he stood closer to the book table than his own.

A portly hobbit and his wife approached the book table.

“What have we here, Daisy? Books!”

“Togo Goodbody, if you think for one moment . . .”

“I shan’t spend the day’s luncheon allowance on books, my dear.” Togo interrupted his wife with a smile and a wink. “Good day to you, young lass,” he said cheerfully to Marjy. “What books are you selling?”

“And good day to you, sir. We have a few copies of one book to offer to the discerning readers of the Shire.” Marjy handed one of the books to Mr. Goodbody.

The book was a sizable volume. Togo took in the quality of the brown leather cover and the skill of the binding. It was a well made book, not merely some inexpensive pamphlet. He finally looked at the gold embossed title.

“The Travellers: The Reintroduction of the Truth” by Jebbin Brandybuck.

His eyes widened. It was a short, concise and outrageously bold title. “You know the author, miss?”

“It is Mrs., sir, and . . .”

“I’m her husband, Mr. Goodbody, and the author of the book.” Jebbin had come up to the table and was holding out his hand to the old hobbit. Togo Goodbody did not take the offered hand.

“The reintroduction of the truth? That is quite a title, young hobbit. I’m assuming it is a work of fiction?”

Jebbin was pale. Despite it being a cool autumn morning, a trickle of sweat ran down from his temple, in front of his left ear and down his neck; tickling him as it went.

“No, sir. It is a work of nonfiction. It is a history, Mr. Goodbody.”

“I see,” Togo said, then he said nothing more for several long minutes. He simply stood there, staring at the book in his hand. “You think you know something all the historians of the Shire for many long years did not? Is that what you are meaning with this title?”

Other, Athelas and Marjoram held their breaths. This was what they had been planning for, this moment. If Jebbin’s courage didn’t fail him their own potentially turbulent journey would soon begin.

“Yes, sir.” Jebbin spoke loudly. The three other Brandybucks slowly exhaled. “It is the truth of the Quest of the Travellers and the truth of the Scouring of the Shire, Mr. Goodbody.”

The heads of several passersby turned toward the loud voice. It was nearly, though not quite, as loud as the vendors hawking their wares.

“What the historians of the past have compiled concerning the Travellers is mostly exaggeration and outright fiction. This is . . .”

“What was that you said?”

“Did ah hear tha’ proper?”

“Louder! Speak louder!”

The hobbits whose heads had turned had stopped walking past the small table. They now came towards it, calling out as they came.

“I said,” Jebbin stopped to swallow at the dryness in his mouth. His mind took a few moments to wonder how his mouth could feel full of dust while sweat was pouring off him elsewhere. “I said what we have learned of the Travellers, what we have been taught by teachers, tutors and parents for two hundred years or more is wrong.”

More hobbits were joining the crowd around Jebbin’s table. With a glare, and a more determined whetting of the knife he had picked up from his own table, Other kept anyone who might have considered doing so from coming behind their tables. If anyone might think of doing more than shouting a protest, at least they would have to do it from in front of the tables. He wouldn’t allow anyone to come up behind his brother and their wives.

“What makes you think you know better than all those teachers, tutors and parents,” Togo Goodbody looked once more at the cover of the book in his hand, then back to the young gentlehobbit. “Jebbin Brandybuck?”

“I have found and read writings of hobbits who were not that far removed from the Travellers themselves. Jebiamac Brandybuck, great grandson of Meriadoc the Magnificent and Adelard Took, great-great grandson of Peregrin the Peerless. They saw what was happening to the story of their ancestors, what was happening to the history of the Shire and Buckland, and hoped to put a stop to it. Their journals tell a very different story.”

The air was filled with murmuring.

A voice called out, “And who says they knew anything?”

“Yes!”

“Who were they? I’ve not heard of them before!”

Jebbin spoke louder. “They were both hobbits with a deep concern for the truth.” Jebbin picked up one of his books, holding it up over his head. “Those of you who are lettered. Those of you who care about who we are as hobbits. Any one seeking the truth. I challenge you to read my book. And those of you who aren’t lettered, take note of who has the strength of will to buy my book and challenge the myths we have been taught. Then I bid you to seek them out and ask them to read it to you so you may also decide for yourselves which rings true; the stories we have been taught until now or the stories told be these descendants of the Travellers themselves. And there is a deeper truth here in these pages. I’ve read the Red Book of Westmarch.”

Jebbin paused. The crowd, though not terribly noisy before now, hushed.

“I’ve read the Red Book of Westmarch. The words of two of the Travellers themselves, and it completely disagrees with every current book written about their Journey and their saving of the Shire.”

“Rubbish!”

“Mad Bilbo and Mad Frodo wrote them words. They be mad words!”

“Ravings of mad hobbits!”

“No!” Jebbin shouted. “No, they weren’t mad. We all know bachelor hobbits. We all know hobbitesses who never wed. They aren’t all mad. The Baggins’ weren’t mad. They were travelled but . . .”

“And mad hobbits go larkin’ about!”

“How many of you have been to Bree?” Jebbin asked sharply. The crowd quieted a moment as the question was considered. “How many of you, especially you merchants and tradeshobbits, how many of you have been to Bree or Kingstown? How many of you have been to the towns of Sarn Ford or Greenway Fork? You have travelled. You have left the Shire. Are you all mad?”

“’Twas different then, young hobbit. ‘Tweren’t no safe roads, no Kings Men to keep things proper.”

“True enough,” replied Jebbin. “But there wouldn’t be any of that if the Travellers hadn’t left on their journey. Why shouldn’t their accounting of their own journeys be taken as truth? They weren’t mad.”

Hobbits turned to one another to start working through this. It was a great amount of new ideas for them to take in all at once.

“Mr. Goodbody!” Jebbin returned his attention to the hobbit who had first approached the table. “Do you have enough interest in our people’s past to read my book? Do you have the courage to test new information, to challenge what you’ve been told all your life?”

Jebbin gestured with the book in his hand to the one Togo Goodbody still held in his hands. The crowd grew silent.

“I do,” Togo replied and those around him gasped. “I’ll read your book. If nothing else, it will provide me with a good laugh.”

Many in the crowd chuckled at this, but several muttered angrily. Before the crowd had cleared all the books were sold. Marjoram asked where each prospective buyer lived, explaining that as there were so few copies, they wanted to make sure they found their way to different parts of the Shire and its environs.

The eight copies were gone. Jebbin kept his original.

The battle for the Truth had begun.

Behind the Scenes

There have always been spies.

They are sometimes people who believe wholeheartedly in the cause of the one for whom they glean information. Sometimes it is merely for the remuneration, be it goods or coin. Sometimes it is to have a secret kept, to receive favor or in lieu of payment of debts. This spy worked for the latter. He was from one of the higher branches of the Bolger family tree. Indeed it would only take the death of Adalbert Bolger, the sole heir of the current head of the family, to put him next in line to be head of the clan. But he had no such dreams in his head. His only concern was that it might become known that he had squandered his personal fortune gambling in the pubs and inns of the Shire. He was heavily in debt to the secretary of the Master of Buckland.

He sat in the secretary’s office , clutching nervously at a package wrapped in plain paper.

“Well, what is it that was so important that you took me away from my card game?” The secretary’s tone made it quite obvious that he was irked.

“This.” A shaking hand proffered the package. “I . . . I managed to purchase it from a booth at the Harvest Festival. There weren’t very many copies. You . . . You’re lucky I managed to get one.”

The Master’s secretary smiled. His father, who had held this post until his death, would have been proud of the way the young Bolger was squirming. He calmly took the package.

The spy hurried on as the secretary unwrapped the parcel. “’Caused quite a stir, the young Brandybuck did. Spoke up quite boldly, all about the Travellers and Shire history. It seemed something that might be of interest to you, since it got the crowd so riled.”

The secretary’s pulse quickened with the information his spy was providing. He ripped off the rest of the paper and stared at the thick brown leather book. “The Travellers: The Reintroduction of the Truth” by Jebbin Brandybuck was boldly embossed across the cover in gold letters.

“Thank you. You may go now.”

The spy started to say something but swallowed it back. He stood, bobbed his head to the Master’s secretary, then hurried from the room.

Longo Caskbury glared at the book in his hands. The gold letters shone like fire, reflecting in his dark eyes. Just how much did Jebbin Brandybuck know?

*******

Bellflower Took enter Tollo Grittison’s office with her usual flourish, her curls, ribbons and flounces all bouncing. She was carrying a somewhat large, garish bag. She closed, and bolted, the door behind her.

“I bought something for you at the Festival, my naughty Ducky.”

Tollo gritted his teeth. He despised being called “Ducky”, but he was smiling as he looked up at her.

“Naughty, my love?”

“Of course! You didn’t come with me to the Festival, Ducky dear.” She sat her narrow bottom on the corner of his desk.

“I don’t think my wife would have approved, Sweetums.”

Bellflower giggled. She always giggled. Tollo hated that giggle.

“You worry too much, Ducky. You could have said you had to attend on Thain’s business and the wee mouse would have been content. Then you could have listened to the daft Brandybuck at the Festival blathering about Shire history and bought this great, heavy, worthless book for yourself. Oops!” she said, while dramatically covering her mouth with her limp-wristed hand. “I went and said what it is.”

“Shire history, Sugarplum?” Suddenly the simpering, homely lass had his full attention.

“Yes, and completely dull. I tried reading a bit of it on the ride home, but there wasn’t any romance in it all. Just boring drivel about Mad Bilbo Baggins and the Travellers.” She held out her right hand to look at her nails. “The Brandybuck had the crowd all stirred up blabbing on about “the truth”. Everyone was all a-buzz with it the rest of the day.” Bellflower leaned well forward to tickle him under his chin, intentionally displaying what bosom she had. “You do always enjoy it when I bring back the latest gossip to you.” She leaned closer. “And they say only old gammers love gossip. We could give them plenty to gossip about, couldn’t we, Ducky my pet. Maybe I shouldn’t let you have your present until you’ve made it up to me that you didn’t come along.” Her bosom was scant inches from Tollo’s face. “I did bolt the door.”

Thain Adenbras’ secretary had learned well from his father, who had been secretary to the Thain before him. Tollo performed his penance and a contented Bellflower left him to peruse his present.

Some spies don’t realize they are spies.

Finding Friends

The two young Brandybuck couples had left the Harvest Festival as soon as the books were all sold. Other packed his knives away, they folded up both tables, loaded everything into Jebbin’s carriage and headed back the way they had come.

Other was driving. He and Athelas had started to climb into the back seat but Jebbin had stopped them.

“Other, no,” the elder brother said. He laid a trembling hand on Other’s arm. “Drive. I’m not sure I can.”

Other turned to look at Jebbin. At first, after he had finished his presentation of the book’s subject matter, Jebbin had been flushed with excitement. He had stood at the table between Athelas and Marjoram handing each book to its buyer himself and shaking the hobbit’s hand. But the thrill of it had now faded away, leaving Jebbin tired, pale and looking much older than his thirty-nine years. His knee gave out under him as he tried to step up into the carriage. Other had steadied him, then helped him settle into the seat.

Jebbin slept the whole way to Frogmorton, his head in Marjy’s lap. He had managed to eat a reasonable amount of the supper the proprietor of the Floating Log served them, but was asleep as soon as he lay down upon his bed. He was better the next day as they made their way to Brandy Hall, though his eyes were still shadowed. When they were home in their apartment in the Hall, he ate a light supper then went straight to bed.

Most of those attending the Harvest Festival stay for the Harvest Festival Ball. The Festival itself only lasts one day and those in Hobbiton, Bywater and Underhill are out and about the next day, albeit somewhat later in the day than usual. Those from further off usually would spend one more day in Hobbiton in order to recover from the night before. The hobbits who had bought Jebbin’s book most likely would not start to read it for three to four days after they had purchased it.

The third day after the Festival, Jebbin spent in bed. The fourth day he didn’t rise till luncheon, then spent the afternoon, still in his nightshirt and dressing gown, in the parlor staring at the fire. The next morning he dragged himself to the table for second breakfast, still in his nightshirt and dressing gown, then shuffled into the parlor to sit in a corner of the sofa in front of the fire. Marjy left the meal’s dishes on the table to follow after her husband. For a while they sat in silence, holding tightly to each other’s hand.

“Nothing to do now but wait,” Jebbin finally said. “Wait. For what? And for how long?” He sighed, laying his head back to stare at the ceiling. “It will take a while for even a quick reader to finish it. A week? Perhaps two, if he is a gentlehobbit of leisure. More if he is a merchant or business hobbit. Then there will be time spent in telling those who cannot read all about it at the taverns and inns as well as passing it along to others who wish to read it for themselves. Then they will come for me . . . for us.” Jebbin sighed again.

“It might not be that way, Jebbin. They . . .”

“They what?” He cut her off, his voice expressionless. “They will come to carry me about on their shoulders, thanking me for bringing them the light of the truth? I’m certain that is how it will happen” Jebbin gave an defeated grunt. “They will storm the Hall like the orcs stormed Helm’s Deep, wanting the traitor’s head on a pike.”

“Jebbin! These are hobbits you’re talking about, not orcs or Ruffians. I’m sure they . . .”

“Sure they won’t try to kill me?” Jebbin cut Marjy off again. He closed his eyes. He said nothing for several long minutes. “No. You’re right, my dear, dear Marjoram. Just drag us off and lock us up, have a hearing at which no one will hear anything we say, then banish us to roam in the Wilds till death finds us out there.”

Marjy had no answer to this. It was an outcome that was all together possible. They sat there, each wishing they had some word of cheer to lighten the other’s load.

Their thoughts were interrupted by the soft sound of jingling bells.

“May we be here?”

Jebbin grinned. As best he could remember, it was the first time the Ghosts had asked leave to appear. “Yes,” he replied.

Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the Peerless slowly became visible, seated in the two chairs that stood set off at an angle from either end of the sofa.

At the same time a soft knock sounded at the door before it opened and Other’s head poked through the narrow opening. “Might we come in?”

“Yes,” Marjy called out. Other and Athelas came in and sat beside Jebbin and Marjy on the sofa.

For several minutes, no one spoke.

“You did very well, Jebbin.” Pippin finally offered. “You truly did. But then again, you’re a Brandybuck and they have always been powerful speakers.”

Jebbin huffed.

“They’re reading it,” Merry said.

Jebbin looked at the ghost. “One of those things you just happen to know?”

“Yes. Or well, that we know a little about, yes. We don’t exactly know where every book is at any given time, but things are stirring, getting talked about. That we do know.”

“It won’t all be bad, Jebbin,” Athelas said softly. “They won’t all turn against you. Marjy felt as you and Other do even before you met her. I had too. There are others.”

Jebbin perked up a bit at that. “You’ve made a good point, Sister. You both fell right in with all of this. There must be others, mustn’t there?” He looked eagerly from one ghost to the other.

“Yes,” Pippin said, dragging the word out a bit as he said it. He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them to look at Jebbin. “Yes, there are others, but . . .” He paused.

“But?” Jebbin asked.

“It’s not as though . . . It won’t be as if . . .” The Ghost straightened up in the chair, pursing his lips as he gave the slightest nod of his head, as though bringing himself to a decision. “You’ve a battle ahead. There. I’ve gone and taken the starch out of you as I feared I would. But I’m not being discouraging.”

Jebbin had slumped back against the back of the sofa.

“I’m not! You’ve a confrontation to face and that’s not all that bad a thing. Evil doesn’t always come marching in bold as brass with Ruffians at its head. It was already at work in the Shire of our day before ere a Ruffian set foot over our borders, and it’s been at work now. It is hard, it isn’t an easy, fun lark, but good comes from standing against evil.”

Jebbin turned his head toward Merry. “I thought he was known for being cheerful,” he moaned.

Merry smiled. “He is. He just doesn’t want you to start deceiving yourself into a false sense of security. We really do have a good feeling about all of this though it won’t be easy.”

“We do!” Pippin said brightly. “So get yourself up off of this sofa, Jebbin Brandybuck. Get yourself dressed and presentable. They will start coming. The ones that come to you, straight to you personally, they will be the ones who either already agree or are only needing a bit more convincing. You need to show yourself as a steady, right-minded hobbit.”

“Marjy,” Athelas rose to her feet and held out her hand to her sister-in-law. “Let’s plan for some extra baking. It will help immensely if those visiting doubters can be well fed while questioning your husband.”

“I really should check my supplies. Jebbin?”

Jebbin had also got to his feet. “I’m fine. Off to get myself dressed as I’ve been told, like a good lad.” He winked at the ghost of Peregrin Took. “You and Athelas go and make your plans. Make a list of anything you need. We’ll all go into Bucklebury this afternoon, shop and then have tea at that tea room you lasses are so fond of.” He looked at the ghosts. “You’re right. Chin up. Shoulders back. Chest out. I’ll only make everything worse if I cringe in the shadows. Other,” he turned to his brother, “I’ll meet you in the Hall’s game-room for some darts in fifteen minutes.”

Jebbin left to get dressed. Other stood, then looked back and forth at Merry and Pippin, winking at each of them.

“I told you that you two could get him going.”

The grinning ghosts faded from view as Other headed for the game-room.

Two days later Macidoc Brandybuck sat across from Jebbin at the small game table in Jebbin and Marjy’s parlor. The Master’s son toyed idly with his signet ring as he considered not only his next move on the chessboard, but also his next comment in the conversation. He had his reasons for inviting himself to Jebbin’s apartment as opposed to having their game in the common game room.

“I’ve missed our weekly games these last few months,” Mac said as he moved his knight to threaten Jebbin’s queen.

Jebbin’s eyes widened at the unexpected move on the board. “I’ve been busy of late, but I have some free time just now.”

“Writing a book so it seems. I was a bit hurt that I knew nothing about it.”

Jebbin looked up to find Mac’s deep blue eyes staring back at him.

“I was at the Harvest Festival, Jebbin. You know I often go even though Father doesn’t. He and Thain Adenbras only go to the Free Fair as is customary. Be that as it may, I was there on the edge of the crowd. Why hadn’t you told me?”

Jebbin shifted his gaze back to the chessboard. He began to reach for his queen, but ended up putting his arm down on the table at the side of the board. He sat for a bit just staring. This was something he should have foreseen but hadn’t. He wasn’t sure how to handle it.

“It was something that . . . well it wasn’t something we made a specific decision about, it . . . we, Other and the lasses and I, we . . .” He paused a bit longer. He picked up one of Mac’s pawns that he had captured earlier and rolled it about between his fingers. “We never gave thought to telling anyone else. It’s a dangerous thing. Like an herb that in the proper dose heals but a bit too much of it kills. One needs be careful how one handles it. We . . . we weren’t . . . we weren’t sure how to handle it other than keeping it all to ourselves until it was completed.”

“I’d like to read it, Jebbin.”

“There aren’t any copies left to sell you, Mac.”

“I know better than that, my dear friend. You wouldn’t have sold the original, so there is a copy available.”

Another pause. “As you say, I can’t sell the original.”

“That all came out wrong, Jebbin. I didn’t mean you should sell me the original. May I come to your apartment and read it?”

Jebbin’s eyes returned to those of his friend. Mac saw hesitation and, yes, more than a touch of fear in his eyes.

“You’d best not refuse me just because of Father. You know full well I’m my own hobbit and never have been the sort to run to him with everything I see or hear. He’ll hear all about it anyway, you can be sure of that, but it won’t be from me if you bid me be silent. I want to read it for myself, Jebbin, not just hear what others think of it. Especially, I want to know what it says before Father has had his reports. How can I defend your work if I haven’t read it?”

“Defend?” The look in Jebbin’s eyes changed. For a moment hope replaced the fear. But the doubt quickly returned. “Defend, you say. Defend what?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Jebbin. I said I was at the Festival at the edge of the crowd. I heard your speech, old lad. You are a most convincing speaker. I have never thought too much about the stories of the Travellers. I always took the tutors at their word and went on. But I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about them now, after hearing you that morning, and I must say that when one thinks about it, much of what we were taught does sound a bit outlandish.”

Mac placed a hand over Jebbin’s that was fiddling with the pawn. He leaned forward until he was nearly nose to nose with his friend.

“Please, let me read your book, Jebbin.”

“Yes, let Mac read the book, Jebbin.”

Both hobbits jumped a bit, turning to stare at Athelas.

Jebbin did what he usually tried not to do, he looked into the lass’s green eyes. Green eyes. Green stars. And a voice that was as much deep in his mind as it was in his ears.

“Let Mac read the book, Jebbin.”

“Yes, of course. Foolish of me, Macidoc.” Jebbin spoke to his friend but still looked at his sister-in-law. “We’ve sold the copies. It is being read here and there about the Shire. Why shouldn’t you read it? Would you like to start now?”

Athelas closed her eyes, then opened them to look at Mac. “I’ll just go and fetch you lads some refreshments. I’ll bring them to you in the study,” she said brightly, then left the parlor.

Mac stood. “I would love to start now, Jebbin! I’ve been champing at the bit to have a go at it.”

Jebbin rose slowly. He blinked and shook his head a bit as though he had just awakened from a nap. “Yes. Ah . . . it’s in the study, Mac. I . . . I’ve some reading of my own to do, I’ll keep you company.” They headed toward the hallway that led to the study. “Did she say something about refreshments?” Jebbin asked as they left the parlor.

A short time later letters began to arrive, all being variations on; “You’re book has piqued my interest, Mr. Brandybuck, and I’m wondering if I might call on you to discuss these matters further.” A letter from Togo Goodbody, who first stopped at Jebbin’s table at the Festival and who lived in Oatbarton. One from Myrtle Fairbairn from Undertowers. One from Isenbras Took who owned a large farm near where the Longbottom Road split off from the Waymeet-Sackville Road.

They came to Brandy Hall, meeting in the humble apartment of the young Shire historian and his wife. When they left, they did so with dates set for Jebbin to come and speak to the hobbits in their Farthing of the Shire, so others could learn the truth.

Provoking Ire

“You have read it, I assume?”

“Of course.”

Longo Caskbury and Tollo Grittison sat in a dim corner of the Tree and Leaf Inn which sat, where it had sat for centuries, just off the Tuckborough-Stock road halfway between the two towns.

“And, what opinion have you formed?” Longo asked.

Tollo sighed, took a pull of his ale and sighed again before answering. “They do not know everything, but they know more than enough to set too many others to wondering. Wondering leads to seeking and that to finding, which simply won’t do.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Longo nodded. “Have you any ideas of what should be done?”

“A few. Yourself?”

“A few.”

The two secretaries turned their attention to their supper, eating in a comfortable silence for the two were lifelong friends. In fact, they were kin. It wasn’t until they had set their plates to the end of the table and dabbed at the corners of their lips with their serviettes that the conversation continued.

“I have heard that speeches are to be made in Oatbarton, Undertowers and at Isenbras Took’s holding off the Waymeet-Sackville Road.”

“Yes, Tollo. I’ve heard the same.” Longo nodded. “I was told when Togo, Myrtle and Isenbras came to Brandy Hall to meet with Jebbin, even though they avoided using the main entrance.”

“What of the rumors I’ve heard of the Master’s son frequenting Jebbin Brandybuck’s apartments?” Tollo had a triumphant smirk on his face.

Longo’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve got eyes and ears everywhere, don’t you, Cousin?”

Tollo’s smirk turned into a full smile. “As do you. As do you. But what about this? What about Macidoc?”

“Harmless. The two of them have been friends most of their lives, which troubles old Pompous as Jebbin’s line isn’t a very important one. If it had not been for the fact that Jebbin was a newly wed, there would have been more suspicion raised by he and Mac not having their regular chess games.” Longo softly snorted. “If it hadn’t been for his being newly married, we would have known about what the lad was really up to long before the business at the Harvest Festival. But much leniency is traditionally given to the newly married, though I should have been more curious when he requested a full year sabbatical instead of the usual single term.” He blushed a bit. “My apologies, Cousin. I failed our calling at that point.”

His cousin waved the apology aside. “What is done is done, Longo. I propose we make good use of the month we have before the first of young Mr. Jebbin’s speeches are given. I will obviously see to dealing with the one at Isenbras’ farm, but what of the other two? Have you people in Oatbarton? And what of Undertowers? Do you have anyone out there? I know I do not.”

“No, Tollo, I haven’t anyone that far out. I have a few people in Newton and one, no make that two, in Westview. But that is only a bit further than halfway across Westmarch. Oatbarton, however, is well covered.”

“That is better than no one at all. We’ll just have to be extra cautious out west.” Tollo thought a few moments. “The Brandybuck quotes the original Red Book, or claims to. Could that be possible?”

Longo shook his head. “I rather think not, Tollo. It took a great deal of effort to get it out of the hands of the Fairbairns all those years ago, and that only by pulling a switch using one of the better copies. Whoever did the deed died with the knowledge of what happened to the original. That I know for certain.”

Tollo slowly nodded his head. “Yes, that seems in keeping with things. The Fairbairns have always given more credence than most to the older versions of the tale. They could pose a problem if we aren’t careful. Most of the rest of Samwise the Stalwart’s spineless descendants shouldn’t prove too difficult, being ‘simple folk of the good Shire soil’ as he was.” Tollo grinned and winked as he said that. Longo chuckled.

“We have time,” Tollo continued. “We should be able to have everything in place by the time the young fool gives his first speech over in Oatbarton.”

“We’ll turn him into the most evil being in Shire history since the Dire Year when his precious Travellers were off gadding about, and we will make sure our bosses get the credit for bringing him down. Must keep the Brandybucks and Tooks thinking they are actually in charge of the Shire.”

Loud laughter suddenly came from the previously quiet corner of the Tree and Leaf Inn.

***********

The Grange at Oatbarton was well lit with lanterns and a fair sized crowd of hobbits milled about or sat upon the benches that had been set out for the meeting. In a small room off the left side of the dais, Jebbin Brandybuck strode nervously back and forth.

“Easy there, my lad,” Togo Goodbody said soothingly. “You convinced me, you’ll convince a good number of them. They’re good hobbits, most of them. You’ll be fine, lad.”

Jebbin grunted in acknowledgment but kept pacing.

Out with the crowd, Marjy, Other, Athelas and Mac stood in a corner watching the locals as they began to fill in the empty spaces on the benches. It was almost time for Jebbin’s speech to begin.

“Good evening citizens of Oatbarton!” Mr. Goodbody said as he stepped out onto the platform. He stopped at the center and faced the crowd as they gave various replies to his greeting. “This evening I bring to you a fine young hobbit of the Brandybuck family, Jebbin Brandybuck. Jebbin took training as a teacher and has taught for six years at Brandy Hall. His passion is Shire history and he began serious study of the subject as a young lad in his teens. In particular, he has made a thorough study of all matters relating to the famous Travellers. Jebbin Brandybuck is himself a descendant of both Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the Peerless. He has, as some of you are aware, made claims to finding out some vitally important information about not only his ancestors but about all four of the Travellers. Information that will change how we view these great heroes as well as how we view ourselves as Hobbits. My dear citizens of Oatbarton, I give you Jebbin Brandybuck!”

A slender hobbit came out onto the stage. Too slender, by hobbit standards, and obviously nervous, as several wives pointed out to their husbands. A hobbit lad followed after him carrying a stand which he set down beside Mr. Goodbody, waved jauntily to the crowd then stepped down off the platform to sit with his parents. The slender hobbit, who was quite obviously the evening’s speaker, placed the papers he carried on the stand before turning to Togo and shaking his hand.

“Thank you for your kind introduction, Mr. Goodbody,” he said a bit quietly.

Togo nodded, then stepped down to sit in the front row next to his wife Daisy. Everyone looked expectantly at the speaker.

“Ah . . . Good evening everyone. I’m, eh, as Mr. Goodbody said, Jebbin Brandybuck. I’m . . .” Jebbin paused. he closed his eyes, drew in a deep enough breath that folks several rows back saw him take it, then slowly let the breath out.

“I’m hear to tell you a marvelous story. A story made all the more marvelous because it is the truth. It is the story of the Travellers as we should have known it all along. The full details are in my book and it would make this meeting much too long to recite it all, but even with the shorter version I will tell in the next few hours, you will realize how different the true story is from the myths we have learned.”

Jebbin began the story, his voice quickly gaining strength and confidence.

Athelas looked nervously about at the crowd. Jebbin had just finished telling of the Council of Elrond and the choosing of the Nine Walkers. He had told most plainly how Meriadoc and, even more so, Peregrin had nearly been made to stay behind. Athelas felt a subtle change coming over the hobbits on the benches.

It had started when so much was made of Frodo Baggins’ Ring being vitally important. Then there was the shock of hearing that Gandalf had not come seeking the courageous Brandybuck and Took to help him battle the troubles in the world outside the Shire. She had felt a twinge of something amiss when Jebbin stressed that the Ring was the trouble. That It was at the heart of the whole situation and that the wizard had come to take care of Frodo because he had the Ring. Athelas sensed the crowd’s unease grow as it became clear that Samwise going with his master was an afterthought, and that Meriadoc and Peregrin’s going had been unplanned by anyone but themselves.

But with the ending of the four hobbit’s time in Rivendell, there was no missing the change in the crowd of listeners, and the discontent grew as Jebbin continued the tale. They faced the challenge of Caradhras, the dark journey through Moria, the fall of the Wizard, the calm of Lothlorien and then Parth Galen.

“Things had got terribly out of control as Frodo and Samwise made their way to the opposite shore,” Jebbin was saying. “Boromir’s gallant attempt at rescuing Meriadoc and Peregrin failed and they were rendered unconscious to be born away by the Orcs as the great man lay dying.”

“That’s enough of this, that is!” a voice called out from the crowd.

Another hobbit called out. “A lot of tosh, this is. They chased those Orcs to revenge that man’s death.”

“What do you take us for, fools?” said a third and soon the voices of the crowd were indistinguishable from each other.

Jebbin froze like a rabbit in the light from a hunter’s lantern. Other and Mac each slowly made their way closer to the dais on opposite sides of the room. Athelas and Marjy quietly left the Grange to see to the ponies and carriage. Togo Goodbody mounted the platform and stood next to Jebbin.

“My good friends . . .” Togo began, but got no further.

“No friends of ours, nor anyone else’s if you want to believe this drivel!”

“It’s the truth!” Jebbin’s voice rose above the crowd. “I swear to you. I will take any oath you wish. Give any proof you ask. It is the truth.”

“Based on what?” one well dressed hobbit shouted. “Books written by hobbits of whom we have never heard. Books, journals more like, written by some long gone Brandybuck and Took? Or based on the “Red Book of Westmarch?” That book has long been held as worthless, being nothing more than Bagginses trying to lay claim to more than their due and Mayor Gamgee trying to make the story seem less marvelous than it truly was. You need more than that, young hobbit if you’re setting to change what we all know to be the real story. What is your problem that you are seeking to discredit your own ancestors?”

“No! No. Not discredit,” Jebbin replied. His face was flushed, his eyes flashed with indignation. “The truth shows them as the heroes they truly were. They made it through the Great War of the Ring by being strong in who they were as hobbits. By staying true to each other and the others in their company. They are real heroes who were hurt and frightened but struggled on, never quitting. That is what heroes are, not those who hide behind magical powers and trickery.”

The room erupted in booing. Small pieces of rotten, inedible, fruits and vegetables flew through the air, most of which found their target. Other and Mac ran onto the platform and grabbed Jebbin under his arms. Hoisting him off his feet they carried him out through the small room off the side of the dais and out the back door of the Oatbarton Grange. The lasses had the carriage by the door and were already seated inside. Other and Mac shoved Jebbin in with the lasses, jumped into the driver’s seat, and they left as fast as the ponies could run.

Jebbin looked up at Marjy from where he had landed on the floor of his carriage.

“You’re a mess,” she said as a tear ran down her cheek.

He got off the floor and onto the seat opposite his wife and sister-in-law. Despite the mess and stench of rotted food that clung to him there was a fire burning in his eyes. He turned and slid open the small window in the wall of the carriage that enabled occupants to speak with the driver.

“Isenbras Took’s farm, Other. We’re going to Isenbras Took’s farm. Don’t you dare take us home.”

Jebbin snapped the window closed before turning to face the wives. They both stared at him, eyes and mouths wide open.

“I’m not finished with my tour of speaking engagements,” he said firmly. “Why are you two looking like fish out of water?”

Back at the Oatbarton Grange a different meeting was convening. The malcontents were ready to listen to the hobbits who had warned them ahead of time what the devious Brandybuck would be trying to force on them. They were ready to do what they could to rid the Shire of the wicked hobbit.

Daisy Goodbody helped her husband wave down as many as they could of those hobbits who sidled out the doors of the Grange, inviting them to come over to their smial. Togo smiled at his wife. After forty-six years of marriage, she still could surprise him. The new meeting at the Grange wouldn’t be the only one in Oatbarton that night.

Drawing Lines in the Dust

The talks at Isenbras Took’s farm and at the Grange in Undertowers went much the same as the one at Oatbarton. The crowds of listeners began to grow uneasy and, at about the same point in the story, finally voiced their outrage and pelted Jebbin with rotten produce. What the carriage full of Brandybucks did not know, because of their hasty departures from each location, was that in each one a clandestine meeting was held by those who had been more intrigued than upset by Jebbin’s lecture.

At Togo Goodbody’s, Isenbras Took’s and Myrtle Fairbairn’s, those home meetings had ended in the same manner; the hobbits there all demanded of their hosts to have Jebbin’s book read aloud to them. Those who were literate volunteered to take turns doing the reading. In Oatbarton, Undertowers and at the Isenbras Took farm, the smials of those who had first read the book welcomed their friends and neighbors in to hear it all for themselves starting the very next evening. For the next fortnight hobbits came to listen. Heads nodded in agreement. Questions were asked. Discussions arose about various points in the narrative. They wanted more. They wanted to have Jebbin return and enlighten them further.

But the meetings of those who remained at the two Grange Halls, and the one at the Crowing Cock near Isenbras Took’s holdings, also resulted in further meetings and further discussions. Those hobbits had no desire to hear Jebbin elucidate his version of the Travellers’ tale. They had no desire to hear him at all. The hobbits at these meetings wanted only to have the young upstart run out of the Shire. The old stories were what they knew and in each location there were several most convincing hobbits telling them that the old stories were all the Shire needed.

Soon it became noticeable on which side of the line a hobbit and his family stood. Arguments broke out in the taverns and in the markets. The Crowing Cock was a “Shirests” inn and woe be it to any “Seekers” who stuck their noses in the door. The Thyme For Tea tea room and pastry shop, run by Miss Thyme Marchfoot in Undertowers was a “Seekers” establishment where “Shirests” were served lukewarm tea and day-old pastries.

Nor were things quiet at the Great Smials or Brandy Hall.

The day after Jebbin’s speech in Oatbarton, Longo Caskbury, asked his employer if he might have a word.

“I suppose, Longo,” Macimas II sighed, waving his secretary to be seated in the chair the secretary usually occupied when taking dictation or notes of meetings. “Concerning what do you wish to speak to me?”

“Jebbin Brandybuck, Master Macimas.”

Macimas looked blank for a moment before the light of recognition came to his eyes. “Macidoc’s chess playing friend?”

“Yes, sir. I fear the lad must have contracted some ailment or such that has affected his thinking. It appears he is quite mad, sir.”

“And why does this concern me, Longo? Do you feel I should send condolences to his parents and . . . he was married awhile back wasn’t he? Condolences to his parents and wife?”

“No, Master Macimas. Although speaking with his parents might be called for. The poor demented lad’s wife seems to be as deluded as her husband, so I fear no good will come of speaking to her. They are, together with his brother and his wife, causing a most horrible stir over in the Shire. It’s to be feared, sir, that the unrest they are wreaking will eventually spread back to Buckland.”

“Really, Longo. As usual you are making very little sense. How could that bookish shadow of a hobbit cause trouble, even if he is mad as you say?”

Longo sighed heavily, hanging his head for a moment as though hesitant to share the grim news. The Master of Buckland could not see the sinister smile that graced his secretary’s face for a moment before he raised his head to gaze forlornly at his boss.

“The poor mad hobbit has spent a year, sir, rewriting the history of the Travellers. He claims all that has been taught for the past four hundred years is exaggerations and lies.”

“How absurd. What does he say happened?”

“That Frodo Baggins was the most important hobbit of the four Travellers. Well, he and Old Mad Bilbo Baggins are the important ones even though Bilbo wasn’t even one of the Travellers. That the whole fuss was over that ring they owned. He claims that your esteemed ancestor, Meriadoc the Magnificent, and the esteemed Peregrin the Peerless, went on the Quest only as a result of their own conniving and that they were almost forbidden by Lord Elrond to go on the Journey at all.”

“Nonsense!”

“Moreover, he claims that they did not lead the company that went east. According to him Captains Meriadoc and Peregrin were frightened and more than a bit bumbling. He says they were taken captive at Parth Galen . . .”

“Outrageous!” Macimas II slammed his fist upon his desk, interrupting Longo. “Traitorous! This must be brought to a halt. Why, no hobbit in the Shire will have any respect for the fair name of Brandybuck if they are told that Meriadoc the Magnificent was a weak, frightened captive.”

“That is a reasonable concern, sir.”

“I . . . we . . . I . . .” Macimas II was quite beside himself with rage. Actually, he was rather enjoying it. Here was something that would set his name among the great Masters of Buckland. Perhaps, perhaps even set him beside Meriadoc the Magnificent himself! “I must tend to this errant, deluded, traitorous, mad hobbit and his family at once. You say he and his wife along with his brother are currently off in the Shire proper?”

“Yes, Master, they are indeed off spreading this poison to the unsuspecting hobbits of the Shire. I think they feared to expound such nonsense here in Buckland, sir.”

“Have them arrested and returned here at once!”

“Arresting them will have to involve the Mayor, sir, and then he is apt to be the one to garner the praises of all the Shire and Buckland.”

The Master paused to think. “True. Go and find them and bring them back to the Hall. Better yet, send for their parents. I’ll have them write a letter to their evil sons demanding they return home. Yes. Yes that will be even better. That will bring them back and not involve anyone outside of the Brandybuck family.” Macimas II paused again. “Do we know where in the Shire they are, Longo?”

“Not exactly sir, but I’m sure they will be easy enough to find.”

“Well, let me speak with the parents. As soon as I have what I need from them, you will send our fastest riders out after the traitors. You are to send word to . . . to . . . What are their parents names?”

“Marrin and Clary Brandybuck, sir.”

“Yes, you will send word to them that I wish to see them in this office . . . when?” Macimas II looked confused. He wasn’t used to acting so decisively. Most of the affairs he dealt with were not as overwhelmingly important. He did not know that was because Longo usually took care of important matters himself while claiming to be speaking for the Master of the Hall.

“It is nearly time for second breakfast, sir. Why don’t you wait until after you have eaten, then you and I will work out the best way to handle Marrin Brandybuck and his family.”

“Splendid, Longo! No need to deal with this horrible matter on an empty stomach and a much more sound approach to work on this together; two heads being better than one, eh Longo? Or perhaps three would be better. Shall we call in my son?”

“No, sir. He left word on my desk this morning that he was going to Bree to visit friends and did not know when he would return. Shall I send word for Jebbin’s parents to be here after tea this afternoon, Master Macimas?” At this time, Longo had not received reports of what had actually occurred at Oatbarton, but he would soon find out that the Master’s son was with Jebbin Brandybuck; Macidoc’s note being a ruse.

“Yes. That will do nicely, Longo. See to that, then have your own meal. I will see you back in my office after second breakfast.”

“Sir,” Longo said as he bowed to the Master of Buckland before leaving the office.

To the best of Longo’s knowledge, everything was going exactly as planned. Jebbin and Other Brandybuck would be coming home in a couple of week’s time to find the Hall had become a stirred up hornet’s nest

*****

There was no denying that Adenbras Took, The Took and Thain of the Shire, was a bit addlepated but that often happened to hobbits in their early hundreds. No matter, Tollo Grittison had been running the Tookland the whole time he’d been secretary to the Took, as had his father before him. It had been as easy for the Grittisons in the Tooklands as it had been for the Caskburys in Buckland. Once the two families had worked their way into the confidences and graces of the first Master and Thain they had served under, it was easy to train up each successor to accept that it was really the secretary’s job to run most of the affairs of their Office so they had their time free to attend social functions. It had been several generations since either Master or Thain had been more than a figurehead.

“Sir?” Tollo asked as he poked his head around the Thain’s office door. “Might I have a word with you, sir?”

“Only one word?” Adenbras blinked his hazy eyes, looking about the room until he managed to spot his secretary.

“You are the clever one, sir,” Tollo said condescendingly. “You do always catch me with that. No, sir, several words, if I may.”

“Come in, you fool lad, I can’t hear you with you standing aways over there. Daft lad,” Adenbras added under his breath, which actually meant he said it quite loud.

Tollo came in and sat across the desk from the Took. “There is trouble in the Tookland, sir. Down by Isenbras Took’s holdings.”

“There’s double? Double what, lad? Quit mumbling.”

“Shall I deal with it for you, sir? I’m certain it’s just a trifle.”

“Oo! I like trifle! I like mine with extra berries and extra custard. Now hurry along and get me some before it’s all gone. There’s a good lad.”

Adenbras went back to trying to read a book. Tollo left the office smiling happily. No one could say he hadn’t told the Took and Thain of the disturbance at Isenbras Took’s. No one could say he hadn’t been told to take care of the matter - with extra berries and custard!

The really interesting thing was that Jebbin Brandybuck would not even be speaking at Isenbras’ farm until the following evening.

*****

Macidoc Brandybuck, heir to Macimas II, was an anomaly.

His mother was a sister of the current Took and Thain, being the youngest of seven children. She was eighty-one years old and not in the least addled like her eldest brother. Much had been made of the fact that she was the first green-eyed Took in several generations born in the Thain’s direct line. She had been given in marriage to the son of the Master because he had approached his father about wanting her. She never knew exactly how it had happened, but something told her that it had all been arranged by the Master’s secretary and her father’s secretary. Henceforth, she had never trusted either secretary.

Macidoc had been sent off to the North Farthing for long stretches of his youth. His mother’s favorite aunt and uncle had a large holding at Midton, near the center of the North Farthing. Macidoc had helped with farm chores, played with farmer’s children and grown up with more hobbit sense than any Master’s son had in many a long year.

He had never trusted Toldo Caskbury, nor his son Longo. For his part, Longo loathed and distrusted the Master’s only son. The secretary had early on made a good friend of the Master’s oldest nephew. Longo only hoped there would be an easy way for the nephew to inherit the title.

This trip with Jebbin wasn’t the first time Mac had slipped away without the nosey secretary knowing about it. The longer he, Jebbin, Other and the lasses were on the speaking tour, the more Mac began to wonder about the ferocity of the negative reactions in the crowds. He was certain he smelled a rat and he was certain he knew the rat’s name. Mac decided, as he and the others at last were heading home to Brandy Hall, that it was about time he dealt with his father’s secretary.

A/N: We now pick up where the prologue left off.

A/N: We now pick up where the Prologue left off.

**************

At the Hole in Twombly Woods

Marrin and Clary cautiously opened the door to Aunt Catamint’s former hole near Twombly. The hole had been closed up and shuttered for several months and the air inside smelled a bit musty, a tad unlived-in, but really not that bad. Their escape from the Hall had been flawless and by dawn they had been well away from the huge smial. Marrin said they should rest a bit in a small copse of trees then have their elevenses in Standelf. They had stayed on the Buckland side of the Brandywine until they reached Haysend where a bridge had been built over the river since the days of Meriadoc the Magnificent. There was a bit more regular road from the bridge to Deephallow then from there it was slower travel on a small road, hardly more than a lane, that ran from Deephallow to Twombly. They had been one night and two full days on the road.

They pulled the trap into the barn and tended to the pony before beginning to unload the few belongings they brought with them. Only when everything had been brought in and the kitchen door shut did they dare to light a lamp. Marrin used a bucket of water he’d drawn from the well to prime the pump then Clary washed the dust and cobwebs out of some pans and dishes. She made a simple dinner of ham, potatoes and dried mushrooms they had brought with them while Marrin washed off the table and chairs. Finally they sat down together to eat.

“Do you think there is any chance they got your letter, Marrin?”

“Other said they were going to Oatbarton first then to Isenbras Took’s farm in the South Farthing. I sent it to Oatbarton with instructions that if they had moved on to their next engagement that it was to be sent on.” Marrin paused a bit to eat then continued. “I’m just grateful Other finally told us about all of this, that he told us a month before the Harvest Festival. I cannot imagine how I would have coped with all of this if I’d had no idea of what might be coming.”

Clary nodded. “Athelas actually. You remember Other said she insisted we should be told.” She shook her head. “Odd lass, his Athelas. Odd but good. “After all,” Clary added with a shrug, “she is a Took and they’re known for being a bit eccentric.”

Marrin grinned at his wife. “And Brandybucks aren’t?” He reached over and took Clary’s hand in his. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“Thank me?”

“For . . . for . . . Well, just for everything. You controlled yourself when Old Pompous insulted you. You are more concerned for our sons than you are for yourself. You left nearly everything we owned behind at a moment’s notice without complaint. I couldn’t have a better wife.”

Clary blushed and with her other hand patted his hand that held hers. “And who has always taken care of me so well and so kindly? Who was a caring, loving father to our sons? Thank you, my dear.”

They sat that way for a few moments before returning to their meal.

After dinner, they washed up and began tidying the rest of the hole. It wasn’t that late, though the Sun had long ago set, and despite the long journey taken in haste, they weren’t very tired. It wouldn’t take long to have most of the light cleaning done. Clary would be giving the hole a good scrubbing the next day, but for now it was mostly taking the covers off of the furniture and dusting. The hole was small, having only a large kitchen that was also the dining room, a parlor, two bedrooms and a bathing room.

Clary was off cleaning the back bedroom, the larger of the two and the one they had decided to use, while Marrin was busy in the parlor. They had brought some good, dry wood with them and he was lighting a fire in the hearth when he thought he heard a sound like the soft jingling of tiny bells. He shook his head, stuck a finger in each ear, wiggled it about a bit before popping it out. At first it seemed to have worked and he finished lighting the fire.

Then he heard the bells again.

“Must be more tired than I thought,” he said aloud to himself as he once again dug at his ears. “Perhaps if I blow my nose.”

He stood as he felt in his pocket, but his handkerchief wasn’t there. “Left it in the kitchen,” he muttered. Marrin turned to fetch his handkerchief and nearly ran into a rather tall hobbit. His initial surprise was quickly replaced with a surge of fear mixed with defensiveness.

“Who are you and what are you doing here,” he demanded with only a bit of shakiness showing in his voice.

“How odd, he hasn’t gone all fishy looking like his sons did at first.”

Marrin looked to his right. Whoever they were, there were two of them.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir, but that is not the issue here. The issue is who are you two and why are you in my home?” Marrin turned back to the stranger he had nearly run into.

At that moment, Clary gave out a loud gasp while dropping the load of furniture covers she had been carrying. They fell to the floor with a soft plumphing noise as her hands went to cover her mouth. What Clary was seeing was much different than what Marrin was seeing. Marrin had the soft light of the small fire behind him. With most of the room still quite dark, the strangers looked perfectly normal to him. Clary had come into the room to find herself looking at her husband and the fire through two misty beings.

The ghosts quickly turned towards the gasp. “Now there, Merry. She has the right look on her face.”

It took a moment before Marrin realized that he hadn’t needed to lean over or move to one side in order to see his wife . . . he was looking at Clary through the stranger in front of him. His mouth slowly fell open.

“There, Pip.” The first ghost had heard Marrin’s quiet intake of breath. “He has it too now. I think he couldn’t see through us at first, the light being behind him and all.”

“Good point,” Pippin said as he walked over to Clary. He held out his hand. “Good evening, Mrs. Brandybuck. I am Peregrin Took.”

Without thinking Clary gave her hand to the ghost. As her daughter-in-law before her, she found the cold of his touch a bit startling. Pippin bowed and kissed her hand. Clary shivered even as she nervously giggled at his formal greeting.

“You with your charming the lasses, Pippin,” Merry chided while rolling his eyes. “She’s married, as are you. Plus she’s several hundred years too young for you.”

Pippin winked as he let go of Clary’s hand. “I know all that,” he said moving back to stand beside his cousin. “But it never hurts to make a hobbitess feel special.”

“You’re them.” Clary whispered.

“They’re who, Clary?” There was irritation in Marrin’s voice. He was uncomfortable being confronted with ghosts and he wasn’t sure he liked the one ghost being so familiar with his wife.

“Remember when the lads were little, Marrin?” she replied softly. “Remember they said they had met the ghosts of Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the Peerless?”

“But Clary, dear, they were children . . .” Marrin’s voice left him as the ghost in front of him offered him his hand.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck, at your service.”

“Marrin Brandybuck at yours and your family’s.” Marrin replied mechanically while taking the proffered hand. It was cold, and yet there was an unexpected warmth in the firm handshake. A warmth of the heart. They were kin, he and this ghost. It’s living blood flowed in his own veins. Marrin smiled at his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.

The other ghost had begun taking the covers off of the chairs and the sofa while Marrin and Merry stood there still holding onto each other’s hand.

“No need to stand on ceremony when we can sit on our bums.” Pippin said cheerily. He stooped to pick up the covers Clary had dropped. “And where, good Madam, would you like me to put these?”

“Ah . . . in the front bedroom, please. The door on the right of the hall.”

Pippin went where he was told and started to walk through the door without opening it. He went through the door. The furniture covers fell to the floor against the door. The door opened, the covers were pulled into the room as Pippin’s voice could be heard saying, “Idiot!” before the door was closed again. Seconds later he was back in the parlor.

“What do you say to me setting the hole to rights while you tell Marrin and Clary all about what has been going on?” Pippin said brightly to his cousin.

“Thank you, Pip. Leave me with the touchy task while you are blithely off away from answering any difficult questions.” Merry raised a critical eyebrow at Pippin.

“Not at all, Merry. You’re a Brandybuck, you think the way Marrin thinks. He’ll understand it all better coming from you. And it really would be quite rude to keep them up talking, then leave them with no warm comfy bed to climb into when we leave.”

Merry sighed. “Very well. It would be rather a rude thing to do.”

Pippin smiled, then with a bow of his head, left to clean the hole as Merry began the story of their meeting Jebbin and Other and the writing of Jebbin’s book from its beginning. It was a bit jarring to Clary who occational saw a bucket and mop, a dust cloth or a broom go floating by as Pippin didn’t bother to stay visible as he worked.

Eventually the end of the tale and the end of the cleaning were reached and both of the Ghosts were sitting in the parlor with Marrin and Clary.

“And that is how we got to where we are now,” Merry said, concluding his recitation.

“Why aren’t you with the lads now?” Clary asked. “Surely they could use your help and support.”

The Ghosts looked uncomfortable and didn’t answer quickly. Finally, Pippin leaned forward in his chair and spoke up.

“When the lads were little and learning to walk, did you catch them every time they started to fall on their wee padded bottoms? Did you help them up each time?”

The two parents shook their heads.

“Exactly! No, you didn’t. You knew they had to do it all themselves or they wouldn’t learn how to walk. They wouldn’t grow strong and determined if they didn’t go through the sometimes hurtful experience of falling and the struggle of getting back up.” The ghost leaned back again. “This is the same thing. Harder to go through in some ways, though how many of us remember learning how to walk? It’s likely much harder than we think.”

His expression grew thoughtful. “It is like the Quest was for us. Particularly for Sam, Merry and me as we lived out our lives in the Shire.” Pippin wondered if that had been the right thing to say, not wanting to sound as though the Quest hadn’t been a trial for Frodo, but he couldn’t think of any other way to say what he was wanting to say.

“We went through dreadful things, but we came back strong enough to reclaim the Shire for the Hobbits. We were good leaders later on as well because of what we went through. I think there might have been times Gandalf or . . . well . . . let me just say a few others as well, I think there were times they could have helped us. But they didn’t because they knew we needed to learn we could do things for ourselves.”

Pippin’s voice faded off. He was looking at the floor, not at Marrin and Clary. Merry picked up the thread of Pippin’s thoughts.

“We’re curious sorts, Pip and I. We wanted to follow along with Jebbin and Other, but there are others involved with this and they helped us see, as we’re hoping this helps you to see, that they need to do this on their own.”

“Macidoc is with them. There are lessons to be learned,” Pippin said. There was an odd quality to his voice.

Marrin started to speak but Merry motioned for him to stay quiet.

“Feelings being stirred in sleeping hobbits. Decisions to be made. They really aren’t alone. Even when they will be taken from each other, they won’t be alone. And the sleeping hobbits will awaken and find they are strong, even without any magic. Friends are stronger than magic. Love is stronger than magic. It wasn’t magic that destroyed the Ring. You are not alone.”

Silence filled the passing seconds until the ghost of Peregrin Took looked up.

“It’s time to go, Merry,” he said as he started to fade from view.

“He says such things now,” Merry said to the two anxious living hobbits. “They are comforting when you think them through. We’ll meet again. Good night!”

Clary and Marrin were alone in the parlor of the little hole on the edge of Twombly Wood.

No Welcome - No Home

It was about two weeks after the Ghosts had visited Marrin and Clary that Old Martin, the ferryhobbit at the Bucklebury Ferry, gave the driver of a carriage seeking passage over the Brandywine an odd look.

“What did you say yer name were, young hobbit?”

“Other Brandybuck. You know me, Martin.”

“I s’pose I might. Then again, I might not.” The old hobbit paused before adding, “Pull yer carriage onta the ferry, lad, and be quick ‘bout it.”

Macidoc looked at Other from under his hood, there was a look of alarm in his eyes. Mac had pulled up his hood so as not to be recognized as they returned to the Hall. Neither he nor Other spoke until they were off the ferry and on their way down the road to the Hall.

Mac gave a low, soft whistle. “That was strange,” he added.

“It certainly was. I can’t count the times I’ve used the ferry and Old Martin has seen me most every time.”

They drove a bit further when Other reined the ponies to a halt. There was loud shouting coming from the direction of Brandy Hall while light that looked like fire light shone in the gloaming.

Somehow, by some mysterious coincidence, Other stopped the carriage right where they had wanted him to. With the quickness inherent to hobbits the carriage was surrounded by angry Brandybucks. Those who didn’t have a bow, drawn with an arrow nocked and ready, had a stone in their hand. One particularly large hobbit stepped forward.

“You will dismount the carriage.”

“I think not, if it’s all the same to you,” Other replied with an easy manner that belied how afraid he felt. One of his best swords was within easy reach, tucked behind him. However, he really did not like the thought of drawing it out. “You look a bit too angry for me to just step down.”

“You will dismount the carriage, or be dragged off of it.”

Macidoc threw back his hood. There was no fear at all in Mac, he was, after all, the Master’s heir. “You will step back from this carriage and let us pass, if you know what is good for you.”

The armed hobbits didn’t move.

“The order extends to you, Macidoc Brandybuck. Dismount the carriage, sir. Now!”

Several things happened at once. Other drew his sword only to drop it with a gasp of pain as an arrow pierced his forearm. Mac dove at the nearest hobbits only to be overpowered by the others nearby. He was rolled to his back and his arms were bound in front of him before he had a chance to try fighting them off. The carriage door was jerked open. Jebbin was hit in the head with a well aimed stone as he tried to leap out at their captors. With the lads all injured or bound, Marjy and Athelas were forced out of the carriage. The arrow was roughly snapped then drawn from Other’s arm, a handkerchief was bound over the wound. Other and Jebbin were bound, like Mac, then the five of them were led off to Brandy Hall.

But they didn’t go into the Hall. It had indeed been fire light they had seen as the Sun set. There was a huge bonfire out on the front lawn of Brandy Hall. Hundreds of Brandybucks stood about it, watching as the two young couples and the Master’s son were led up to the edge of the circle of light. Macimas II looked even more pompous and puffed up than usual. Longo Caskbury stood at his side holding some papers.

Old Pompous did not bother with any preliminaries, which was unusual for him, but went straight to the matter at hand.

“Jebbin Brandybuck. You are a traitor to the heritage of the great family of Brandybuck. You have sought to dishonor our most Noble Ancestor, Meriadoc the Magnificent. You have tried to make him out as common, as fearful and as weak. Your actions are a disgrace not only to all Brandybucks but to all of Buckland and the Shire as well. The ingenuity of Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the Peerless in acquiring the magic talismans and skills of those around them, enabled them to rise to great heights. To conquer every enemy. To lead the weak in their company to victory over the Dark Lord. If not for them, Frodo the Faithful and Fearless and Samwise the Stalwart, would never have made it to Mount Doom. Without our Noble Ancestor and the Noble Took, Frodo Baggins would have faded sooner than he did. It was only by the magic they had acquired that he survived in Middle-earth as long as he did. He did little to help the Shire in either the Battle of Bywater or afterwards. Samwise returned to being the simple gardener he had always been, and though he performed adequately as Mayor of the Shire, the Quest had rendered him nearly as weak as the Baggins. Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the Peerless shone forth to their fellow hobbits as the true heroes and saviors of the Shire.”

Macimas II paused. All eyes were on him, particularly those of the three bound hobbits and the two frightened wives. The only sound was the roar and crackle of the large fire.

“You are held most accountable for this act of treason.” The Master held aloft the only copy of Jebbin’s book that had been in Brandy Hall; the original. “You are a traitor.”

The hobbits holding onto Jebbin heard him gasp. They felt him tremble. They thought he might swoon, or at lest lose the strength in his legs. But the young scholar stood firm.

“Other Brandybuck. You have given your support to your brother in his act of treason. You have aided him in every way you were able. You therefore share his guilt. You are a traitor.”

Other drew himself up as tall as he could. “You’re the traitor!” he shouted, and was immediately slapped across the mouth. He somehow stood firm, but said no more.

“Marjoram Proudfoot Brandybuck. You are wife to Jebbin Brandybuck, The Traitor. As a wife you are bound to the support of your husband. But it states in this treasonous rag,” Macimas once more shook Jebbin’s book. “that you helped with the supposed research. That is more than mere moral support given to one’s mate. You are a traitor.”

Marjy walked away from her guards to stand beside Jebbin. For a moment the Master was afraid. The lass’ eyes glowed yellow like the flames behind him and he wondered if the fire of them could burn him. He quickly looked away.

“Athelas Took Brandybuck. You are the wife of Other Brandybuck, A Traitor. As a wife you are bound to support your husband. But the author of this treasonous rag is *not* your husband. It clearly states that you produced all the known copies of this filth. That is more than moral support to a family member. You are a traitor.”

Athelas walked forward to stand between Other and Jebbin. Macimas caught a flash of bright green eyes. They were like his wife’s eyes, and he had a good many suspicions of what her eyes could do. The Master quickly looked away.

There was another pause. Every eye turned upon Macidoc Brandybuck. His signet ring upon his bound hands glinted in the firelight. Surely the Master would spare his only son.

“Macidoc Brandybuck.”

Macimas II paused again. Those standing near to him saw him swallow hard a couple of times. He seemed to look at his secretary, who gave his boss a subtle nod.

“Macidoc Brandybuck. You are the son of the Master of Buckland, Master of Brandy Hall. Your tie to Jebbin Brandybuck, The Traitor, is that of friendship. There . . . there is no excusing your actions. You lied to cover your going forth with The Traitor to spread his filthy treason. There is no evidence of coercion in this matter.”

Again Macimas II paused. His heart pained him so he could barely breathe. His face twitched and a tear came from his left eye to slowly meander down his cheek. In a choked voice he spoke the words.

“You are a traitor.”

Macidoc felt he was being torn apart. No physical pain he had ever known compared to this. Tears streamed down his face.

“I am no traitor,” he said in a voice much stronger than he felt.

His father did not respond. Longo held out one of the papers he held in his hands. The Master of Buckland took it, cleared his throat and read aloud.

“Jebbin Brandybuck. A place of incarceration has been prepared for you in Brandy Hall. It is not the way of Hobbits to condemn anyone without giving them a fair hearing. You will be held for three days in isolation prior to your hearing.”

The same was read to the others, though the wives were to be incarcerated together, confined to a small apartment. Another paper was handed to the Master.

“Jebbin and Other Brandybuck. With this document you have been officially disowned by your parents. They have stricken your names from all family records. You have no claim on them or their possessions. You are orphans.”

The brothers looked deep into each other’s eyes. They wanted to not believe it. But the secretary took back the paper and brought it over to them, holding it out so they could see. Their parents signatures were there along with the signatures of seven witnesses in red ink. Other sank to his knees. His head spun. The thought, ‘What has this all come to?’ kept tumbling about in his brain. Somehow, Jebbin still stood. He moved a bit behind his younger brother to rest his bound hands on Other’s shoulder.

“I don’t believe it, Er. Don’t believe it. Don’t,” Jebbin whispered.

Another paper had been given to Macimas II. His voice interrupted Jebbin’s whispering.

“Macidoc Brandybuck. With this . . . With this document you have been officially . . .”

The Master could go no further. He handed the paper to Longo Caskbury who read the words in his thin voice.

“With this document you have been officially disowned by your parents. They have stricken your name from all family records. You have no claim on them or their possessions. You are an orphan.”

Lies. Mac knew it all had to be lies. His mother would never agree to such a thing, and indeed, he had noticed she was not to be seen amongst the crowd of gawking hobbits. Macidoc made a decision. He jerked free of his guards and strode up to his father, working at something with his bound hands as he walked. He stopped a few paces away from the Master of Buckland. The guards were waved back. Macidoc stood alone.

“You are wrong, sir. You are the one who is being deceived.” He turned so he faced the throng of Brandybucks. “Believe what and who you will. I know the Truth when I hear it. Jebbin Brandybuck speaks the truth and I will stand with him, no matter what fate awaits him and his family.” Macidoc turned back to his father. “I am disowned? So be it.”

As he had strode forward, Macidoc had worked loose his signet ring. He held it up for all to see before he threw it into the fire. He turned his back on his father and walked back to stand beside Jebbin and Other.

Oddly, it was Longo Caskbury who broke the silence.

“A fitting gesture but of little consequence. A new ring has already been ordered for the new heir, your first cousin, Gorgulas Brandybuck. But . . .” Longo paused. He took a slow look at the five traitors, “this fire wasn’t built for your use, orphan.”

He snatched Jebbin’s book from the Master and tossed it in a high arch into the heart of the fire.

“Noooo!” Jebbin screamed and tired to dive toward the fire. The guards grabbed him and held him fast as he, like Other before him, sank to his knees.

A wheelbarrow was wheeled out from the shadows by the Hall. It was filled with books. Not a word was said, but Jebbin knew. If they had the original of his book, they had gone to the apartment. He knew these were his reference books.

Longo nudged The Master forward and, one by one, they tossed the books into the blaze. Longo saved the deathblow for the last.

Jebbin swooned as he saw the Red Book of Westmarch flash into flame in the ferocious heat of the bonfire.

Marjy threw herself upon her unconscious husband. The guards stood back and let her have her moment of grieving. What they did not see was her taking two small books from her husband’s jacket pockets and stuffing them down her bodice. She feared her husband would be searched. Because of her quick thinking, Jebiamac’s and Adelard’s journals survived.

*********

A/N: Tolkien states that the original of the Red Book of Westmarch had been lost, and that he had used the copy made in Gondor that had been kept in the library at Great Smials to write “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings”.

Gathering Witnesses, Giving Assurance

There was a knock on the door of the hole in Twombly Woods. A knock at the kitchen door, not the front door.

Marrin and Clary looked at each other over their supper plates.

“The children?” Clary whispered. “Might they have come straight here after getting your letter?”

Marrin shrugged his shoulders as he stood to go answer the door.

He barely opened it when Tobold Took, Athelas’ older brother, came in like a gust of wind. Toby had the door shut before Marrin had a chance to do it himself.

“You needs come to the Hall,” Toby gulped in some air before hurrying on. “Brandy Hall. There’s been trouble and Athelas said if ever there was trouble for them, or you, that I should look for you here. There’s been trouble, bad trouble. You needs come as fast as you may.”

The lad was pale and swayed as he spoke. Clary pulled out a chair as Marrin guided Toby to sit down.

“No! My pony. My pony is needing to be walked. He’s near to falling over himself from getting me here so fast.”

Marrin spared a moment to pat Toby’s shoulder. “I’ll tend the pony, Tobold lad. Clary will see to tending to you.” He looked at his wife. “I’ll be a while walking the pony. Get some food into the lad and some tea. We’ll get the news from him when I come back in.”

Three quarters of an hour later, Marrin returned. Clary and Toby were in the parlor. Toby sat wrapped in a quilt with his feet on a footstool in front of the small fire. He looked anxiously at Marrin.

“We’ve really no time for all this, sir. We needs get back to the hall. A whole day has already past. The ride back will use up all of tomorrow and that leaves only one day until the trial.”

“Trial?” both Brandybucks exclaimed at once.

“They’ve been locked up by the Master of Buckland, your sons and their wives that is, and Macimas’ son with them. Our family had a letter come from Athelas, ah . . . let me think . . . four days ago. She said I should ride to Buckland, to Bucklebury not to the Hall, and to keep an eye out for their return. I did as she asked. She wrote before the Harvest Festival telling us of Other’s brother’s book and that trouble might come from it. And trouble’s come indeed.”

Toby paused a moment. Marrin had sat down beside Clary on the sofa and they were holding tightly to each other’s hands.

“’Twas almost as though Athelas knew what was waiting for them, but then, she gets those sort of thoughts. They came back to the Master and a whole crowd of Brandybucks waiting for them. The lads were all roughed up and bound, even Macidoc, but the lasses only had hobbits guarding them. The Master read from papers how they were all traitors to their family, to the Brandybucks, and the whole of the Shire. Then he read how you both had disowned your sons. It nigh onto . . .”

“Disowned our sons!” the older couple gasped. Marrin leapt at Toby and grabbed him by his shirt. “We haven’t . . . could never . . .”

Marrin took a deep breath. “Old Pompous tried to force us to do that, it was why we left the Hall to hide here. We’ve done no such thing.”

Toby nodded. “I wondered about it, though the paper seemed all drawn up proper. Other took it hard, but I don’t think Jebbin believed it at all. If it hadn’t been for my sister’s letter and her telling me to be there, well . . . I don’t know as I would have come looking for you. I had searched the crowd and couldn’t find you. I even snuck into Brandy Hall, to your apartment. When I saw you were gone, I figured it was a lie. But lie or not, the Master has a document saying it’s so. He disowned Macidoc as well.”

Clary gasped, her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh! Poor Mac! I can’t believe Chalcedony would allow Old Pompous to do such a horrible thing.”

Toby looked over at Clary. “I didn’t see the Mistress anywhere so I asked after her. Apparently word came from Great Smials that her brother had taken ill and the family was wanting her to come home. She left last week. But, truth be told, I think it was all to get her away from Buckland. There’s been nothing said in the Tookland about the Took and Thain being any worse than usual.”

Toby patted Marrin’s hands, which were still holding fast to his shirt. Marrin let go then backed away so Toby could stand up.

“They burned all of Jebbin’s books,” Tobold continued. “His study books I mean, and the copy of his book he wrote that they had left at the Hall. I learned a lot by asking a few questions. I think there are some Brandybucks that have their doubts about all that has happened. The lads were to be put in what were once small storage rooms in the lowest level of Brandy Hall. Each in a separate room. My sister and Marjy were to be put together in a one room apartment in some remote tunnel. We need to go. We need to help them.”

“We’ll go,” Marrin said. “but not to Brandy Hall.”

Clary and Toby looked stunned.

“Do you think they will let us anywhere near the Hall? We’re supposed to have disowned our sons, do you think they will let us come back and say that was all a lie?”

Clary burst into tears and Toby put his arm around her shoulders. Marrin gave her a small kiss then moved to the small desk in a corner of the parlor.

“I think I might need some of my things. Clary, get what you think you will need most, not much as we will be riding, not using the trap. Toby, your pony is too tired to make the return trip now. We will walk him to Hamsom Mudge’s farm, just a mile down the road. He’s one of Clary’s cousin’s. He will let us leave your pony there and borrow one of his for you to ride.”

Within ten minutes, they were on their way.

***********

Chalcedony Took Brandybuck was far more than peeved. She was infuriated. First there had been the unusually slow coach ride to Great Smials. Three days it had taken instead of the usual two. ‘One of the ponies has gone a tad lame. Don’t need to stop but we have to take it slow.’ was the excuse she had been given.

Then, when they arrived at the Smials, she was rushed off not to her oldest brother’s side but to the guest rooms that were always held for the Master and Mistress of Buckland. She was put in the apartments and told to wait, that someone would be along to see to her needs as soon as possible. Half an hour later a servant brought her a light repast.

Just an hour ago, Chalcy had awakened. A familiar, urgent, voice had awakened her, then told her that her arrival at the Smials had all happened three days ago.

Now, she burst into Tollo Grittison’s office.

“Just exactly what are you up to, you snake!”

“Mistress Chalcedony, you’re awake. What a pleasant . . .”

“Don’t bother, Tollo! Don’t bother with your bowing and scraping and feigned courtesies. I was sent for only to be drugged into a deep sleep, and I know you are at the bottom of it.”

Tollo looked shocked. “Mistress Chalcedony! How can you possibly hold me accountable for your falling ill? The healer said it was most likely fatigue from your journey combined with your concern for your brother.”

For a moment Chalcy Brandybuck said nothing. Slowly, a smug smile grew upon the lips of the Thain’s secretary. That was his first mistake.

“I was ill, was I?” Chalcy placed both her hands upon Tollo’s desk, leaning in towards him until their noses were a mere foot or so apart. “I was ill?” she repeated in low, measured tones.

Tollo had two choices, look down her bodice or into her eyes. He made what he thought was the safe choice. It actually was his second mistake. He was drawn into the fiery green depths of her eyes before he knew it. He twitched a few times then went eerily still.

“Oh yes, you’re caught now you evil wee spider.” Chalcy’s voice was in his head, filling his mind, drowning out any thoughts of his own. “You are usually the one spinning webs. Treacherous webs. Like your fathers before you. Evil spiders weaving webs around a long line of Took and Thains. But it will be over soon.”

Her voice changed timber, but its bell like tones were those of funeral bells echoing in Tollo’s head.

“The time has come. The Truth is being raised from where you thought it would lie hidden for all ages. All the Truth, Tollo Grittison. Spiders in the Smials. Spiders in the Hall. But Spider Slayers have been born to the Shire. Spider Slayers born to Buckland. Your evil is at its end.”

Tollo felt fire coursing through him. Though his body did not move, he felt he was writhing in torment. Then it stopped. His hands and feet were cold and numb. His arms and legs were becoming numb.

“I need no herbs or venoms to make you sleep. My kind have their own ways with your kind. Sleep, Tollo Grittison. Sleep and waken not until my voice again you hear.”

His body was numb, his thoughts sluggish. Tollo barely heard her parting words.

“You had best pray no ill tide befalls me.”

Chalcedony Took Brandybuck strode out of Tollo’s office with the grace and power of an approaching thunderstorm. She told one servant to have her coach readied this instant. She informed another that they should see to the Thain’s secretary, that he had looked unwell. She went to the apartments of her nephew, Thain Adenbras’ son. When she left, for reasons he did not understand, Adelbras was initiating the necessary steps to assume, temporarily, his father’s offices . . . with a clear understanding that he would have no Grittison for a secretary. Chalcedony then met with her brother, Hildifons, who was next in age above her.

A short while later, when Chalcy’s brother showed up in the office of the Thain, his nephew was already there seeing to the infirm, addlepated Thain Adenbras. Adelbras’ father was being taken from the room in a wheeled chair.

“I’m here to help you, Adelbras,” Hildifons said. “I’m here, so you won’t need young Grittison for a secretary. I’m told his father has been struck ill. He should be told to tend to his ailing father.”

“ Yes, of course,” Adelbras replied. Neither he nor his uncle knew why they both felt as though they had had this conversation before.

The coach of the Master of Buckland was speeding on it’s way east as fast as the team of ponies could run. Inside, a smug smile graced the lips of Chalcedony Took Brandybuck.

******

In a dank, small, windowless room at the lowest level of Brandy Hall, Jebbin Brandybuck sat forlornly on the thin pallet that was his bed. At least, he was thinking, they were feeding him well. He had awaked in the small room, his head aching, only to wish sleep would once again claim him. In his dreams he had been free and with his dear Marjy. The gloomy light coming in the small window hole in the door matched well Jebbin’s mood. Long, weary hours had passed with nothing to do but think.

“What have I done to us all?” he asked himself aloud. “I’ve even brought dear Mac to ruin.”

Jebbin sighed as he ran his fingertips down the cold, mouldering bricks that made up the walls of his cell, for a prison cell it was.

“We’ve no home. No possessions. Other and I quite possibly have no family, though . . .” He searched his heart and all his thoughts carefully. “No. I can’t bring my heart to believe that Mum and Dad would cast us aside. Nor can I believe it of Mac’s mum either.”

His heart hurt. “They’re gone. Jebiamac’s book started all of this and now it’s gone. Adelard’s book is gone as well. They went through my pockets before dumping me in here.” He also no longer had his pocket watch nor his pipe and leaf pouch. “The Red Book of Westmarch.” Jebbin’s heart twisted, he felt as though he might be sick. “Bilbo, Frodo and Sam’s hard work. Their blood and tears. The most precious book in the Shire: gone. The Red Book is gone.” Jebbin’s head hung until his chin touched his chest.

“But the copy in the Smials is safe, and it’s a first rate accurate copy.”

Jebbin looked up to see a hobbit he did not know sitting on the dirt floor opposite him. He squinted into the shadows, trying to see the stranger better. “Who are you, my jailer?” he asked though he felt sure the door had not been opened.

The hobbit smiled a sad smile as he shook his head. “No. Though I feel somewhat to blame for your being in this situation.” He extended his hand to Jebbin. “Frodo Baggins, at your service.”

Jebbin was well past looking surprised at the appearance of ghosts. But this ghost, to be met in this circumstance . . . the young scholar was speechless for several moments.

Finally, he took the cold hand in his. “Jebbin Brandybuck, at yours and your family’s. Though the service I’ve given to date is poor indeed.”

“That’s not our opinion of it. Not in the least,” the ghostly Baggins smiled. This time it was a warm, encouraging smile. “In a way you’ve mirrored my own journey, and that of your forebears and Sam. You have been willing to leave everything behind . . .” the smile broadened. “Well, nearly everything. You did take your wife along. But there it is none the less. You wrote. You spoke. You did it because you had to, because you knew it was the right and only thing to do. Even though you were warned the road would not be easy, you stepped out on it anyway. No one could ask for better ‘service’.”

“But to what end?” Irritation rose in Jebbin. He would have liked to get up and pace but the room was too small to allow a decent pacing. “The Red Book is gone! And we were chased out of the towns where I spoke. We’ve been expelled from our home and, perhaps, even from our families. I’ve accomplished nothing. Nothing.”

“I was there. We all were. Bilbo and I, Sam, Merry and Pip. We watched your book and mine get burned by fools.”

Jebbin felt he had been punched in the stomach. After all the hurts in this hobbit’s life, he had watched that horrid affair?

“It hurt,” Frodo said in answer to Jebbin’s thoughts. “It hurt horribly, as much for the loss of your book as ours. But all is not lost. There are copies of my book and copies of yours. What is more, you left Oatbarton, Undertowers and Isembras’ farm so quickly, and understandably so, that you don’t know what happened afterwards.”

“What happened afterwards? Did they burn me in effigy?”

The ghostly Frodo Baggins laughed heartily at that.

“No. Not in the least. Well, at least not all the hobbits wanted to do that. It has been nearly one to one. For almost every hobbit that thinks you’re cracked, there is one who thinks, or hopes, that you are one hundred percent correct. Those against do out number those in favor, but not by as great a margin as they think. Besides, you’re in good company, you know. A good many of the residents of the Shire have always thought Bilbo and I were cracked.”

“Some think I’m right?” Jebbin whispered.

“A good many think you’re right. You aren’t in this alone, my lad.”

Jebbin looked at the Ghost. “They had said you couldn’t come. Merry and Pippin said that someone would not let you come.”

“I’ve been know to be quite persuasive, Jebbin Brandybuck.” Frodo Baggins smiled as he began to fade. “We are all very proud of you.”

“They’re proud of me? They’re proud of me!” Jebbin hugged himself, though he wished it was his dear Marjy doing the hugging. He now had some hope to cling to. He laid down on his pallet, softly repeating it until sleep overcame him.

*****

Macidoc was pacing. Though his cell was no bigger than Jebbin’s, Mac paced anyway. He had slept little and paced much since he had been unbound and shoved into the small musty room.

“He’s an idiot! A fool! He’s . . . he’s . . .” Mac threw the thin, useless excuse for a pillow against a wall. No matter that it made him feel worse, he loathed his father. “Why can’t he see what Longo is doing? Then again, why couldn’t Grandfather see what Longo’s father did to him? For that matter, how long has this been going on and no one seems to have noticed?”

Mac scooped up the pillow and dropped himself down upon his pallet. An action he immediately regretted. He’d forgotten the pallet was no thicker than the so called pillow. After rubbing the bruise on his bum, he drew up his knees and sat, rocking slightly backwards and forwards, hugging the pillow.

“Why haven’t any of them seen it?” Mac leaned back against the crumbly bricks and closed his eyes. “Perhaps, more to the point is why can I see it?”

“Green eyed Tooks.” said a voice that blended with a sound like jingling bells.

Or perhaps they were keys on a ring, like those the hobbit carried who opened the door when they fed him, Mac thought. He sighed. Bells or keys, it made no difference.

“What would you know of ‘green eyed Tooks’? You’re just my guard.”

“I’m not your guard. I don’t think they would trust me.”

Mac looked up. Though the light in his cell was dim, something didn’t look quite right about this visitor.

“If they wouldn’t trust you, why have they let you in?”

“They haven’t.” The hobbit said, smiling broadly. “I let myself in. Jebbin didn’t tell you about me, did he?”

“You let yourself in?” Mac stared at his visitor. Then quick as a lightening flash, he made a grab for the hobbit’s legs to pull him down. If he’d let himself in he had to have a key.

But Mac tumbled over, losing his balance as his arms met no resistance. He scrambled to right himself while staring at the hobbit.

“How did I miss you?”

“You didn’t. You went through me, and it feels very odd when that happens. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do it again.”

Mac ‘s mouth dropped open.

“Splendid!” the ghost said as he laughed. “I’ll have to tell Pippin you looked just like Jebbin and Other did. He’ll be unbearable. I bet him you wouldn’t.”

“Pippin?”

“Yes, and I’m Merry, or should I say Meriadoc the Magnificent. And you are my great six times over grandson. I like that you have the “doc” in your name.”

“Meriadoc?”

“Yes, my lad.” Merry sat down opposite his descendant. “Now, gather your wits about you, Macidoc Brandybuck. I’ve a lot to say to you and not a great deal of time in which to say it. If all goes as it’s hoped it shall, you will be the Master of Buckland someday. You need to be prepared. First, about how you escaped the folly of your forebears. Your mother had you visit her relatives a great deal during your youth, didn’t she?”

Mac learned a lot from the ghost of Meriadoc the Magnificent. How things work together so when the time is right, the right hobbits are ready to do what is needed. And that he, Macidoc Brandybuck, was one of those “right hobbits”.

******

There is little to relate of the time the ghost of Peregrin the Peerless spent with Other. They told each other jokes and sang. But really, it was what Other needed.

***********

A/N: Chalcedony is member of the quartz family. The gemstone is said to aid in promoting stability, balancing energies of the body, mind and spirit. Chalcedony also encourages the wearer to be more responsive and receptive. *This suited well who this particular Took hobbitess needed to be.*

ORIGIN late Middle English : from Latin calcedonius, chalcedonius (often believed to mean [stone of Chalcedon,] but this is doubtful), from Greek khalkedon.

Timely Arrivals

It was about two hours past midnight of the third day of the accused traitors’ incarceration. In about thirty hours their trial would begin.

Three riders approached Crickhollow House at as stealthy a walk as their ponies could manage. They skirted along the hedge, all of them wishing there was more than one entrance onto the grounds.

They stopped. They all could hear the approach of a carriage. Without a word all three dismounted and led the ponies a few paces forward into a place along the hedge that was shadowed.

The carriage pulled up to the gates. A female voice said something to the driver, who jumped down to open the gates. He hopped back into his seat, slapped the reins on the ponies’ rumps and they went up the drive at a fast walk. Oddly, the driver did not stop to come back and shut the gates.

“That’s the Master’s carriage,” Marrin whispered to his wife and Toby Took.

“Aye,” Toby whispered back, “but ‘twas a hobbitess’ voice speaking to the driver.”

Toby could barely see Marrin’s nod. “Yes. Yes it was. I think it was the Mistress. I only wish I could be certain.”

“It most certainly wasn’t the Master,” Clary said. “And none but one or the other of them would be riding in that coach.”

“I say we go in and have a look about,” Toby pointed to the still open gates as he spoke. “If it’s the Mistress, she may well be able to be brought over to our side of this mess. As I said back in Twombly Woods, the Master said they had both disowned Macidoc but she had been gone for a couple of days by then.”

“I agree,” Mac replied and motioned for them all to move toward the gates. “More to the point, if she had been in agreement with Old Pompous, she would be at the Hall, not out here.”

They moved silently through the gateway, up the drive toward the house and the outbuildings.

Toby looked in through a kitchen window. He could hear a bit of what was being said as well as see. It was indeed the Mistress of Buckland and her driver. The driver was quite upset.

“I’ve followed yer orders, Mistress, but I put ma foot down at this. I didn’t dare refuse ta brin’ ye back ta Buckland, though I’d been told ye were ta stay at the Great Smials at least a fortnight. But I will not let ye hide here. The Master’ll have ma hide if I do such a thin’. I had orders ta bring ye straight back ta the Hall, Mistress. I at least have ta go and tell the Master you’re in Buckland, if you’re insistin’ ta stay out here.”

The Mistress was rather calm in light of her wishes being questioned.

“I understand, Tad. Of course, you must tell the Master I’m here. I shouldn’t have suggested other wise.” She gave a start. “Is that someone at the window by the door!” she shouted, pointing toward the kitchen door.

Toby was at a different window so he knew he hadn’t been spotted. Tad the driver turned to look where his mistress was pointing. As soon as he turned, he crumpled to the floor. Chalcedony Brandybuck stood over the fallen hobbit with a frying pan in her hand. Toby was amazed. He wouldn’t have thought she could move that fast.

“Now then, Tad,” she said to the unconscious hobbit on the floor. “I really can’t have Old Pompous finding out I’m back just yet. Sorry to have to do this to you.” She went into the parlor, returned with the ties from the curtains, knelt down and began binding Tad’s hands.

“Might you . . .”

Chalcy let out a startled shriek. Toby, Marrin and Clary had come into the kitchen while she had gone for the ties.

“Might you need some help with him, Mistress?” Marrin finished his question.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t just kill me, Marrin Brandybuck,” Chalcy finally managed to gasp. “Oh, my!” She took a few deep breaths before she continued. “Yes, thank you. I really don’t know what to do with him. I simply could not let him walk out that door and tell Macimas I’m here.”

“If I may, Mistress. I’m Tobold Took. Athelas Brandybuck is my sister,” Toby explained as he doffed his hat to Chalcedony. “There are enough bedrooms here, we could board up the windows and door on one of them so he can’t be getting out. How long are you thinking you need him kept away from the Master?”

An odd gleam lit Chalcedony’s green eyes, then it was gone. “Yes, Athelas. A fine young Took lass. A Brandybuck now, of course, as am I. The trial is tomorrow.” She looked down at Tad. “I did manage to get that much information from him. Since I have every intention of being at that trial, I should say we only need to keep Tad here until tomorrow morning when we leave for the Hall.”

Marrin and Toby carried Tad into one of the bedrooms which was quickly boarded up. They put a chamber pot, some ham, cheese and bread, a small cask of ale and a mug in the room with him. He would not suffer during his day as their “guest”.

Soon the two Brandybucks, Tobold and Chalcedony were settled into the other bedrooms. As urgent as their business in Buckland was, they all knew they would have clearer heads after a bit of rest.

******

In Brandy Hall, the Master’s rest was not easy. In fact, he wasn’t resting at all. Macimas II had been plagued by the most unusual dreams ever since the night the Traitors had been captured and incarcerated.

Images of his life floated in his mind and he would suddenly find himself reliving certain moments with an intense clarity. But always, this happened as though he were an observer outside himself. Macimas Brandybuck watching Macimas Brandybuck as he was growing up, or as Master of Buckland going about the affairs of his office. Strangely, he was finding he did not always like what he heard or saw.

He saw Longo’s father rewording things so they seemed either less important than they were . . . or sometimes more important than they were. He clenched his teeth at the sound of the placating, condescending, patronizing voice that toyed with his father. Then trembled with growing anger as the same voice came out of Longo Caskbury as his secretary toyed with him.

When he awoke after the first night, Macimas easily brushed it all aside. Dreams were nothing more than . . . well, dreams, after all. He went through his day barely noticing how he and his secretary worked.

That night was more of the same. This time, along with reliving so much of his life, there was a voice, a voice not his own, that kept commenting on what he was experiencing.

“That wasn’t really what *you* wanted to do, was it, Macimas?” the voice would ask.

“You felt a fool for not knowing about that incident. And you looked a fool to those Brandybuck farmers as well. Why was it you didn’t know what had happened, Macimas?” The voice was firm in his mind.

It angered him. It was a rather pesty, pushy, nosey voice. Yet, it didn’t patronize him; didn’t speak down to him as though he were an ignorant hobbit; didn’t go out of it’s way to placate his rising anger.

In other words the voice was much to be preferred to that of Longo Caskbury.

But once more, the new day saw the Master of Brandy Hall carrying on with his life as ever he had before.

This night, the night before the last day he and his secretary had to prepare for the hearing, Macimas decided he wouldn’t sleep. He had gone through sleepless nights before and was always fine the next day. He was weary of those dreams. By the night before the trial he would be so tired he would have a dreamless sleep. At least that was what he hoped.

******

After having only a few hours of rest, first breakfast was somewhat hurried for Clary, Marrin, Chalcy and Toby. Like most hobbits, they preferred not to detract from the enjoyment of a well prepared meal by discussing the distressing matter before them while eating. Yet, it was because of not discussing it that they rushed through the meal, ruining their enjoyment of it anyway. The dishes were cleared and washed. Ponies were fed and watered. Soon the four once more sat at the table with mugs of coffee and some scones set before them.

They shared their stories of how and when they had found out about Jebbin’s quest for the truth about the Travellers; about his writing his book. Marrin and Clary told of their meeting with the Master. Chalcy told about the false story of her elder brother being near death that drew her away from Brandy Hall, and what had happened to her at Great Smials. Toby told of his family receiving word from Athelas regarding what should be done if trouble arose.

“If trouble arose?” Clary asked in a puzzled tone. “But surely they had received Marrin’s letter and knew there was trouble. That was how she knew to have you look for us here, Toby.”

The young Took looked at Clary rather blankly. “She didn’t mention your letter. When did you send a letter?”

“I sent it by the Quick Post on our way here from the Hall.” Marrin said.

“After the festival then?”

“Yes.”

Toby sat back, slowly shaking his head. “That doesn’t make sense. The letter that said I should come here to find you was the one she wrote before they went off to the Harvest Festival, not the one that came just before them getting back to the Hall after this trip around the Shire. She didn’t mention hearing from you in the second letter.”

Chalcedony spoke up, her voice was soft and low. “Macimas, well Longo, would have thought of you trying to get word to your sons once it was discovered you had left Brandy Hall. He would have sent quicker riders around to say the letter was not to be delivered.”

“But . . . but . . .” Clary stammered. “That’s unheard of! Everyone knows it is a horrible thing to interfere with the post.”

“It has been done before,” Chalcy was still speaking quietly. “In a long past time. I’ve heard it happened in the Dire Year while the Travellers were away on the Quest.”

“How would Athelas have known we would be here if not for my letter?” Marrin asked. “It isn’t as though we had discussed needing to flee the Hall at any time before this. Why would we? We never thought such a thing would be necessary.”

Chalcedony did not respond immediately. She had her own thoughts about such things. Nothing she could prove. But she knew there were Tooks, and then there were other Tooks; slightly different Tooks. Chalcy had long known she was one of the different ones, and she had learned how to tell it in others. Athelas was a different Took.

“She’s a bit strange, is Athelas.” It was Tobold who answered, not Chalcedony. “Not in a bad way, mind you, but she’s different. It doesn’t surprise me she would know where you would go to if there was a need to leave your home.”

No one spoke for a few moments. They all had a lot to think about, strange Tooks being only a part of it all. Finally, Marrin broke the spell.

“Well. Now that we all know how we ended up here, we need to decide what we are going to do tomorrow. Our loved ones face a trial tomorrow, and I don’t think it will be as fair as it should be.”

Of that, they were all certain.

Nearly What They Expected

The bright light of a new day was a bit hard on the eyes of Other and Athelas, Jebbin and Marjoram, and Macidoc. Their three days of confinement had them accustomed to much dimmer lighting than the sunlight that illuminated the ballroom at Brandy Hall.

There weren’t often trials in the Shire or Buckland. Most hobbits were normally well behaved and when problems did arise, they were usually dealt with in the offices of either the Master, the Thain or the Mayor. But this was treason, and that’s an all together different matter. Also, Longo Caskbury insisted the trial should be held where a good number of hobbits could view the proceeding.

And a good number there were. The accused were seated on the platform that on happier occasions held the band. The Master of Buckland was seated on another, smaller, platform off to the right from the viewpoint of the assembled citizenry. There was the expectation, amongst the crowd that was gathered, that this would be a good meeting with considerable debate to be heard. For Shire trials were run a great deal like town meetings. The accused would have someone trained in Shire Law to speak for them, but they would also speak for themselves. Someone trained in the Law would also pose most of the questions for the presiding official, though the official could ask questions or make comments himself if he chose. The citizens who came to the trial could also make comments as long as the presiding official recognized them. The decision on the guilt or innocence of the accused would rest upon the decision of those hobbits present when the debate was over. The Mayor, Thain, or Master would decide the punishment meted out should the accused be found guilty.

“This trial of the Traitors, Jebbin Brandybuck, Marjoram Brandybuck, Other Brandybuck, Athelas Brandybuck, and Macidoc Brandybuck is hereby called to order.” Longo announced loudly. The room became quiet.

From their places on the platform the accused looked carefully at the crowd seated before them. Jebbin and Other saw no signs of their parents, aunts or uncles, or closest cousins. Athelas saw none of her family, nor did Marjy see any of hers. Macidoc saw his father of course, though he would have much preferred not to. His first cousin, Gorgulas, was seated next to Macimas II as was to be expected now that he was next in line to be the Master. There were assorted other relations of varying degrees of closeness scattered amongst the crowd. However, Macidoc saw no sign of his mother.

“The first question will be posed to Jebbin Brandybuck, the Traitor,” Longo said. It was easy to hear the sneer in his voice. “Did you or did you not write a book with the intention of changing all that is known of the time of the Travellers?”

Jebbin rose. “Yes. I wrote a book to . . .”

“He admits to the writing of his book of lies, Master Macimas.” Longo shouted over Jebbin.

“Let that be recorded,” Macimas said immediately, and Longo’s son, Rollo, wrote it down.

“I wrote a book of truth.” Jebbin asserted.

But the young scholar was ignored. Longo simply proceeded onto his next question.

“Did you or did you not speak of these lies at the Harvest Festival, held the thirtieth day of Winterfilth?”

“Yes, I did, but they aren’t lies. They are tru . . .”

“He admits to speaking these lies at . . .”

“They aren’t lies!” Jebbin shouted to be heard above the secretary.

“I heard him! I heard him at the Festival, Master Macimas!” A hobbit in the crowd stood to his feet to be recognized by the Master.

“Your name, sir?” Macimas inquired.

“Tod Holeman, Master, from Bywater.”

“I recognize Tod Holeman of Bywater. Speak.”

“I heard him with his talkin’ at the Festival. Right nonsense it were, sir. He didn’t have nought of it right.”

“That is because what you and all of us have been taught is wrong, Mr. Holeman.” Jebbin said, but no notice was taken of him.

“There weren’t no magic in it at all. And goin’ off to fight the Dark Lord weren’t the big reason for the Quest. It were to throw the Baggins’ ring in the Fiery Mountain.”

Other stood, moving to stand beside his brother. “And what is so wrong about that? It was the One Ring, the Dark Lord’s own Ring and it held much of his power.”

“See!” Mr. Holeman shouted. “See, Master, sir! They all are sayin’ that same nonsense.”

The gathered crowd joined in and nothing could be heard for several minutes until calm and quiet were restored and Longo resumed his questioning.

So it went: questions were asked, the accused were ignored, the crowd would become unruly. Now it was nearly noon and the trial had been going for four hours with only two twenty minute recesses for second breakfast and elevenses.

To the amazement of the accused traitors, Longo Caskbury looked at his pocket watch then announced, “We shall now vote upon the guilt of the accused.”

Jebbin, Other and the wives were dumbstruck. Macidoc rose to his feet.

“I believe the correct phrase is ‘vote upon the guilt or *innocence* of the accused’. Also, how can a proper vote be taken when we have had no opportunity to fully present our side of this issue?”

As before, the Master’s disowned son was ignored.

Longo continued. “All who have decided that the accused are guilty of treason against Buckland and the Shire by promoting lies regarding the honor of our glorious heroes of the past, signify your decision by saying ‘Aye’.”

The ballroom of Brandy Hall rang with the word, “Aye!”

“All who have decided that the accused are innocent of the aforementioned treason, signify your decision by saying ‘Aye’.”

Not a single voice was raised.

Longo waited longer than was necessary. He wanted the moment to hurt the five traitors as much as possible. Finally he announced that sentencing would take place after a long recess for the partaking of a proper luncheon. Jebbin, Other, and Macidoc were returned to their cells. The wives were returned to their small apartment.

************

Jebbin wasn’t sure if he was more angry than hurt, or more hurt than angry. The tea he was given with his luncheon did much to soothe his aching throat. He had shouted himself hoarse trying to be heard.

“Why did I bother?” he asked himself aloud. “None of them listened to me at all, even when Longo actually let me finish a thought.”

He sighed as he pushed a piece of potato around in his bowl of beef stew.

“And, where were Mum and Dad?” He sighed again. ‘If they haven’t really disowned me and Other, surely they would have been here. They couldn’t have really . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to voice those thoughts aloud. It was this matter that had his emotions so confused. He was angry at the way the trial was being handled, or mishandled to be more accurate. But he was losing his confidence regarding having been disowned by parents he thought loved and supported him.

He knew he should eat, but he simply didn’t feel that he could.

************

Other was pacing.

“All right,” he said to the gloomy air of the cell, “where were you? Where are you? You should be here, you wretched ghosts!” He completely ignored his luncheon tray. “You . . . you . . . You ought to have shown up, you wretched ghosts! How dare you sit and laugh with me, Peregrin Took, sing songs with me and then not be there this morning?”

The young blacksmith stopped at the brick wall before him. Other rested his head against the decaying bricks, then slowly pounded them with his fists.

*********

Macidoc’s thoughts were following a slightly more productive path.

“If I start speaking before Longo, perhaps I’ll get heard, and I had better be heard. This is a farce! A total disregard for Shire and Buckland law. There is no one speaking for us!” he ranted aloud. He shoved a spoonful of beef stew into his mouth, chewed it twice and swallowed. Macidoc didn’t even realize he was eating. “I’m trained in the law. Ha! Of course I am, I’m supposed to be the Heir of the Hall. But it isn’t really seen as proper for the accused to defend themselves without someone else also representing them, even if they are capable of doing so.”

He shoved in and swallowed another untasted spoonful of stew.

“Maybe it will delay things. Maybe I can push this into tomorrow by insisting that we be represented as we should be by law. And then . . .”

Macidoc stopped. His stomach felt queasy. He set down the bowl of stew.

“. . . maybe my Mother and Jebbin’s parents will be here.” Macidoc closed his eyes as he laid his head on his drawn-up knees. “Maybe someone will be here to help us.”

********

Marjy was meandering about the small apartment, not really pacing, just wandering about. Her hands were knotted up in her handkerchief which was damp from dabbing away tears.

“Where is everyone?” she muttered.

She said nothing for a few moments.

“No one was there for us, not anyone.”

Another long pause.

“Not their parents, nor ours, nor Chalcedony Brandybuck, nor the Ghosts.”

Pause.

“No one.”

She put her hand to her pocket, hoping to find a fresh handkerchief. Instead, her hand touched the faint outline of one of the small journal books she had taken from her husband’s pockets the night of their arrest. She reached under the waistband of her skirt to fish the one of the books out of the purse that hung from her waist under her skirt and petticoat. She looked at it, it was the journal of Jebiamac Brandybuck.

This had started it all. Long before she had even known Jebbin, this book had brought the Ghosts and had started a little boy wondering. Marjy drew back her arm.

“You horrible, stupid book!” she cried as she threw it against a wall.

It hit in a manner that caused the back cover to be roughly pulled back against the book itself and land on the floor with the pages fanned out in a graceful arch.

Marjy crumpled to the floor herself to lie in a heap, crying.

Athelas quietly went over to the book and picked it up. The binding was split. As she moved the pages back and forth, she noticed something sticking out from the torn hinge of the back cover. It looked like a piece of paper that was different from the endsheet. She worked the paper out from under the book’s cover. Actually, it was two pages of lightweight paper written upon in a small tight hand.

“Marjy.” Athelas barely spoke her sister’s name aloud as she stood reading the pages.

“What?” Marjy muttered from the floor without looking up, her voice raspy and tear-filled.

Athelas sat down with a thump beside Marjoram. While she continued reading the pages, her left hand reached over to firmly pat Marjy’s shoulder. “Marjy, you have to see this. Read this. Marjy, it’s what will turn the tide!”

***********

Luncheon was not pleasant for Macimas the Efficient.

Chalcedony, Marrin and Clary, and Tobold Took had arrived at Brandy Hall to find a large crowd standing about on the front lawn.

“It’s the Mistress!” someone shouted, and the hobbits parted for them as they made their way to the main door of the large smial. The crowd had more than Brandybucks in it, and the family members of the accused traitors quickly understood why.

Three hobbits and two hobbitesses stepped forward to meet them just before the door was reached.

“Mistress Brandybuck, I am Togo Goodbody of Oatbarton,” said a portly older gentlehobbit as he held out his hand. Chalcedony shook his hand firmly. “And this is my dear wife, Daisy.”

“And I,” said the other hobbitess, “am Myrtle Fairbairn of Undertowers.” Myrtle gestured to the hobbit on her right. “Along with my cousin from Bag End in Hobbiton, Holman Gardner.”

Chalcedony shook hands with them.

“Isenbras Took, Mistress,” said the last of the group. The Tooks nodded to each other as well as shaking hands.

“These folks,” the Mistress of Buckland said, gesturing to those with her, “are Marrin and Clary Brandybuck, parents of Jebbin and Other Brandybuck, and Tobold Took, brother to Mrs. Athelas Brandybuck.” Chalcy looked out over the crowd. “Perhaps one of you can explain to us why all of these people are standing about out here?”

Togo answered. “We have been informed there is no more room in the ballroom of the Hall, where the trial is taking place, Mistress.”

“Though we were here more than early, Ma’am,” added Holman Gardner.

“I’ve looked in through the windows. They have already begun the proceeding,” Isenbras spoke up. “And the room is indeed filled.”

“It’s already in progress?” Chalcy queried. “According to the accepted handling of such matters, it shouldn’t start for another hour.”

“True, it should not have. I’m practiced in Shire law, and I’ve a very bad feeling about it all, Mistress Brandybuck,” Togo said. “It seems odd to me that none of the hobbits in that ballroom seem to have been waiting outside with us this morning. I’m quite certain that no matter where some of them may hail from, they were already at Brandy Hall last night. Which indicates to me that it was the wish of the Master that only hobbits of his choosing are present for the trial.”

“Implying, Mr. Goodbody, that my husband is conducting a false trial?”

Togo stared at the Mistress of Buckland, the others stared at Togo. The old hobbit drew himself up.

“Yes, Mistress Brandybuck. I am saying exactly that. I think your husband is conducting a false trial.”

Everyone looked back and forth between Togo and Chalcedony, many held their breath.

“With what I’ve heard this morning,” Chalcy intoned. “ I agree with you.”

There was an audible sigh of relief.

“I am mistress of this smial. I don’t think they shall be able to keep me out.”

Chalcedony walked up to the door, turned the knob as she pushed . . .

. . . and nothing moved. She tried again, shoving against the door with her ample hip. Still, the door didn’t budge.

“We’ve tried that,” Holman said.

Chalcy’s shoulder’s sagged for a moment, but when she looked up, her eyes were blazing. “There is more than one way into this smial.” She looked at the small group standing with her by the door. “Would all of you come with me?” she asked. Receiving their nods, she turned to the crowd. “I ask that you remain calm and that you act with proper decorum while the families of our heroes, these other leaders and I find another way into Brandy Hall. If all goes as it should, I hope that many of you will be inside shortly.”

With a wave of her hand beckoning the small group to follow her, Chalcedony led the way to the Master’s entrance to the Hall. But as they drew near, they could see that entrance was guarded. Chalcy stopped the group. She wasn’t sure what to do. It usually was not the best of ideas to use the abilities she had with her eyes in front of others. Too many questions would arise; questions she really did not wish to answer. As it happened, she didn’t need to.

“There’s another way in.” whispered Clary. The others all turned to look at her. “It’s small and hard to find. My sons . . .” she paused to quiet her rising emotions at the thought of her lads. “My sons found it years ago. I couldn’t figure out how they were getting outside so I followed them once. It is tight for adults, I’m not sure all of us could get in this way, but some of us should be able to, then we can see to letting the others in a larger way.” Clary thought a moment. “Mistress, do you know where the north servant’s entrance is?”

Chalcy smiled brightly. “I certainly do, Clary. That should be perfect. We will meet you there.” The north servant’s entrance was little used, being far from the parts of the Hall that were most occupied.

The smaller amongst them, being Clary, Daisy, and Isenbras, set off in search of the secret entrance. It took them rather a long time to find it, hidden behind some bushes and a growth of ivy on the east side of Buck Hill. They had to slouch to fit into the tiny tunnel. Isenbras wondered why such a small tunnel had been dug into the Hall, but the knowledge was lost in the long centuries of Brandy Hall’s existence.

They were all a bit achy by the time they shoved open the small hatch at the inside end of the tunnel. The three of them stood in a storeroom filled with casks; brandy casks. Clary waved them on and soon they were moving quietly through the halls and tunnels of the Hall, heading for the north servant’s entrance.

Luncheon was not pleasant for Macimas the Efficient. No sooner than he had tucked his serviette into his shirt collar than the door to his study burst open.

He had never seen Longo Caskbury look so shaken.

“You need to come back to the ballroom, Master,” was all Longo said before heading back out of the study.

The Winds of Change

There was an entrance into the ballroom of Brandy Hall that was very close to a side entrance into the Master’s study, so it did not take very long for Macimas and Longo to reach the room where the trial was being held. Longo swept the view with a shaky arm, inviting his boss to survey an unexpected scene.

The room was full of hobbits taking away all the chairs that had been so carefully set up the night before.

As they stood gaping, a stout, elderly gentlehobbit approached them with his hand extended.

“Master Macimas?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the Master as the stranger pumped his arm. “And you sir, are whom?”

“Togo Goodbody, Master. I am here from Oatbarton to be the legal spokeshobbit for the accused.”

“There is no need . . .” Longo began, but Togo cut him off.

“No need, you say? Not according to the laws of both the Shire and of Buckland, sir. We are aware that some sort of proceeding took place here this morning, but seeing as it was quite clear, even from what we could hear and see through the windows, that there was no one speaking for the accused, we are assuming that it was some sort of preliminary meeting and not the actual trial.”

Longo thought fast. Going on the offensive seemed his best course of action. “Upon whose orders are these hobbits removing the chairs?”

Togo smiled brightly. “And who are you, sir?” he asked as he grasped Longo’s hand that hung at his side.

“Longo Caskbury, secretary to Master Macimas II. Who let you in here and who ordered the removal of the chairs?”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Caskbury. From what was observed through the windows this morning, you were handling the preliminary meeting this morning.” Togo continued to shake Longo’s hand until the later jerked it away. “To answer your questions, it would be the Mistress of Buckland on both counts.” Togo looked about the room. “I do not see her here at the present, but she had mentioned something about finding her son.”

It was to Longo’s credit that he did not show how thoroughly shaken he was. The Mistress was not supposed to be here. She was supposed to be safely tucked away at Great Smials. How could Tollo have lost control of things so badly as to let her return to Brandy Hall early? The portly hobbit before him had continued speaking.

“These hobbits who are removing most of the chairs are the ones that were made to wait outside this morning. Certainly an oversight on the part of those you had stationed at the door.”

Longo caught the edge in Togo’s voice. It was extremely clear that the old hobbit knew it had been no oversight.

Togo Goodbody had turned his full attention to Macimas. He gently took hold of the Master’s left arm, guiding him away from the secretary. “If the hobbits who were present this morning are to be able to return for the trial this afternoon, Master, there was need to remove the chairs. There isn’t going to be enough room for everyone otherwise. We will, of course, leave chairs along the walls for those who are unable to stand for long periods of time.”

The Master and the newcomer walked away. Longo knew he had just lost control of what had been the best laid plans.

****************

There was more noise outside his cell than usual and Macidoc stood up to see what he could from the tiny window in the door. It was a useless gesture as his ears told him everything he needed to know.

“I am not here to help him escape, for goodness sake, but it is inconceivable that he is not allowed a visit from his own mother.”

Mac heard the keys fumbling in the lock as his jailer stammered, “There will be mischief, Mistress. I was told they were to have no visitors.”

The door opened. Chalcedony Brandybuck pushed past the jailer to envelope her son in her arms.

“You’re here!” was all Macidoc could manage as emotion tightened his throat.

“I’m here. Jebbin and Other’s parents are here and the half of the Shire that was made to stand outside all morning is now in the Hall as well, my dear lad.”

For a few minutes there was nothing more said, then Mac took his head from his Mother’s shoulder to look into her eyes.

“I . . . we all . . . we felt so abandoned this morning. I didn’t think you had disowned me . . .”

“Never!” his Mother huffed. “And I don’t care what it says on any piece of paper, neither has your Father. There is treachery afoot here and you and your friends are not the ones perpetuating it.” She took hold of her son’s shoulders. “The bottom of this will be got to, I promise you that. But for now, I have to leave you. I will see you in a while in the ballroom. You will find things quite changed in there this afternoon.”

“But, Mum, the vote was taken before luncheon. We have already been found guilty.”

Chalcedony blinked a bit at this revelation. “Have you indeed? Would you say fairly or rightly so?”

“No,” Mac said firmly. “Not in the least. Not only was there no one to speak for us, we were totally ignored when we tried to speak for ourselves. It was a sham. But the papers were signed. According to that the only thing left is for the Master to mete out our punishments.”

Again his mother paused before speaking. When she spoke, she did so slowly and carefully. “As I said, I think you will find things quite changed this afternoon.” Chalcy kissed her son’s cheek. “Be strong, Macidoc. You and the others are no longer facing this alone.” She turned and left the cell. The door swung to and Mac heard the keys turning the lock.

***************

Other dove at his parents, hugging them both at once.

“You . . . you . . . didn’t . . . didn’t . . .”

“Never.”

“They tried to force us . . .”

The rest was lost amid their happy tears.

“We can only stay a few minutes, Other,” Marrin finally managed to say. “The Mistress . . .”

“Mac’s mother is here!” Other pulled back to exclaim.

“Yes, dear,” Clary chuckled as she dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. “She is here and a force to be reckoned with. I almost feel sorry for Macimas, but I assure you I’ve no pity to spare for his horrible secretary.”

“Have you seen Jebbin yet?”

“No, not yet,” said Marrin

Other started to push his parents out of the cell. “Go! Go! Before these spineless jailers gain some nerve and make you leave. He needs to see you. This morning . . .” Other paused. He now held his parents arms to keep them a moment. “I’ve never seen him look so helpless, so hopeless. He needs to know you still . . . want us as sons.”

Clary gasped. She grabbed Other and held him fast. “My poor dear lads,” she moaned.

“Come now, Clary,” Marrin soothed as he gently drew her away. “We need to go see Jebbin.” He looked deep into Other’s eyes. “We will see you upstairs in a while, Other.”

Then they were gone and the door shut tight behind them.

******************

Jebbin sat on the floor of his tiny cell. What did it matter if he heard keys in the lock. They needed to remove his uneaten luncheon. Well, at least the mug of tea was empty.

He suddenly found himself enveloped in a warm, loving hug.

He drew a deep breath of her rose water scent. “Mum,” he sighed. “It was another of their lies after all.”

“Yes, my dear Jebbin. Macimas and that awful Longo tried to make us . . .” Clary simply could not bring herself to say the word ‘disown’. “But we left Brandy Hall instead.”

“We are here to stand with you and Other, son.” Marrin firmly squeezed his son’s shoulder. “We would have been with you this morning but they wouldn’t let us in.”

Jebbin looked up at his father. “Wouldn’t let you in? I suppose that does make sense as you were supposed to have disowned us. But you’re here now, how did you manage that?”

“The Mistress of Brandy Hall is hard to refuse, my lad.”

“The Mistress! Does Mac know?”

“She is with her son now, I’m thinking.”

The guard stuck his head into the small room. “Out wi’ ya all. Now! It’s a good bit of trouble you’ve put me in. Word’s just come down as that I shouldn’t have let none o’ ya in.”

Clary gave Jebbin another squeeze before Marrin helped her to her feet.

“We will see you in the ballroom, Jebbin,” Marrin said with a wink as the left the cell.

******************

“Sorry, Ma’am, but I’ve just been told no one is to see the accused.”

“Ilberac Brandybuck,” Chalcedony sternly replied to the guard outside of the apartment where Marjy and Athelas were confined. “I can not believe that you would refuse kin the right to make sure the lasses are being properly cared for. Mr. Took here is Athelas Brandybuck’s brother . . .”

“And . . . and I am . . .” an out of breath young hobbitess came running up. “I am . . . Marjoram’s sister, Rosemary.”

Chalcy smiled at Rosemary but continued speaking to the guard. “Exactly, Ilberac, these are the accused’s kin. I will not allow that they be refused the opportunity to see that their sisters are being properly cared for.”

Ilberac fought a battle with himself for a few moments, then, with a pursing of his lips and a nod to the Mistress, he opened the door.

There was a great deal of hugging and tears before Athelas pulled away from Toby.

“Mistress Chalcedony . . .” she began, but was interrupted by the guard coming in.

“That’s enough.” Ilberac said loudly. “You’ve seen they are well. You need to be on your way.”

“Tell me when you tell everyone in the ballroom this afternoon.” Chalcy managed to say to Athelas before the door closed behind her.

As they walked down the tunnel two guards passed by them on their way to escort Marjy and Athelas to the afternoon session of the trial.

******************

Togo was joined by Holman Gardner as he walked about the ballroom with Macimas II.

“Really, eh . . . Mr. eh. What did you say your name was, sir?” the Master asked Togo.

“Goodbody, Master, Togo Goodbody. My friend here is Holman Gardner of Bag End, Hobbiton.”

“It seems you are confused, Mr. Goodbody, about what happened here this morning. You see, actually, to be honest . . .”

Macimas stopped. He was feeling terribly bewildered. This hobbit had waltzed him away from his secretary with the ease of an expert dancer. Now what was he to do? Everything had been, “I’ll see to that, Master.” and, “No need to concern yourself with that, Sir. I’ve already tended to it.” And now Longo wasn’t at his side to explain things.

“Yes, Master Macimas?” Togo wore a patient look.

But the Master turned to Holman. “Gardner did he say your name is?”

“Yes, Master.”

“From Hobbiton? From Bag End?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are a descendant of Samwise the Stalwart, aren’t you?”

Holman smiled at the Buckland titling of his ancestor. “Yes, sir, I am.”

“And do you?”

Holman looked puzzled. “Do I what sir?”

“Why, garden, Mr. Gardener. Are you a gardener as he was?”

Holman laughed heartily. “As a pastime, Master. Only as a pastime. I consider my occupation, such as it is, to be that of scholar.”

“I see,” replied Macimas, who then turned back to Togo. “You said, Mr. Goodbody, that the proceeding this morning had to be a . . . a . . . sort of a preliminary meeting; not the trial. But . . . ah . . . it, it was the trial actually.”

They had arrived at the small platform upon which the Master of Buckland has sat during the trial. Off to the side was the desk at which Rollo Caskbury had sat. Rollo’s notes of the trial were in plain view upon the desk.

“As you can see for yourself, sir. There it is in the notes. The accused . . .”

Macimas had picked up the paper and was looking at it himself. He grew pale, his hands shook. He looked around as an air of desperation formed around him. Where was Longo? He had put this all in order. He had said to leave everything to him and it would all be well. But - Macimas looked back at the papers - it wasn’t.

“They were questioned, and they . . . Well, I thought they answered.” Macimas looked hard at the pages in his hands. He now spoke to himself, Togo and Holman had disappeared from his thoughts. “I could have sworn my son spoke out. I remember hearing . . .” He swallowed hard. “I heard Macidoc speaking, and he sounded so strong. Proud of what he was saying. Proud of his friend.” His voice was slowly growing softer, and the other two hobbits barely heard him say, “Not like me.”

“Is there something amiss, Master Macimas?” Togo asked.

In a quiet, dull voice, Macimas continued. “They spoke for themselves, I’m sure of that, yet, there is no mention of it at all here. They spoke, but Longo didn’t listen. He talked and talked. Everything he said is here but . . .”

Quicker than anyone would have expected for a hobbit so obviously in a daze, he turned away, still looking at the papers in his hands. He nearly ran into several hobbits on his way to the ballroom door that was nearest his study.

“That was an interesting turn of events,” Holman said to Togo. “I wonder where it will lead him?”

A/N This has not been edited/betaed. The last few chapters haven’t needed too many changes so I’m going to be brave. If you find some rough spots, let me know. I wanted to get this posted, I’ve kept you all hanging enough as it is. :-)

A Second Chance

The accused were gathered together outside the entrance into the ballroom nearest the Master’s office. A hush spread over the crowd as nudges and shushes were passed from that doorway back until the room was virtually silent as the five traitors took their places on the dais. Elderly or infirm hobbits sat down upon the chairs along the walls. Everyone waited for the afternoon’s proceedings to begin.

Much of the crowd was expecting to be hearing the sentencing of those they had found guilty of treason that morning. The rest of the crowd was expecting a trial to begin. Neither group was expecting to wait.

But wait they all did.

Eventually the room filled with a soft buzzing as hobbits began to ask one another what was going on. The accused on the platform looked at each other and at the empty desks of the Master and Rollo Caskbury, his acting secretary. They also looked at their kin and supporters who stood at the front of the crowd.

Finally, after a delay of nearly twenty minutes, the door near the Master’s office opened to reveal Longo and Rollo Caskbury. Rollo shut the door behind them, then he and his father took their places. There was no sign of the Master.

Longo stood before the dais. “If I may have your attention, everyone!”

The crowd fell silent.

“The Master of Buckland, Macimas II, has become indisposed and has assigned me the duty of reading the sentencing of the accused.”

He raised a sheaf of papers in order to read from them, but never had the opportunity to do so.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Caskbury,” Togo Goodbody said as he stepped forward. “There are a good many of us present here who know that what went on in this room this morning was not a proper trial.”

“How dare you, sir!” Longo interrupted.

“I dare because of that exact action on your part, Mr. Cask . . .”

“What action on my part?”

“Let him finish a thought!” came a shout from the crowd.

“Yes!” voiced several others.

Many of those who had been in the ballroom that morning looked about uncomfortably. They were realizing that theirs was no longer the only opinion represented.

With a nod to the crowd, Togo continued. “It was observed, and at times heard, this morning through the glass of the closed windows of this room, that you were not allowing the accused to say anything in their own defense. That when they did speak, you would interrupt them or simply continue to speak over them.”

Longo took in a breath to begin speaking, but Togo forestalled him with an upheld hand.

“Not only that, Mr. Caskbury, but it was also painfully obvious that they had no one else speaking on their behalf. As I’m sure you are well aware, by all the customs of Shire and Buckland law, either lack of the accused being allowed to speak for themselves and or lack of a qualified person to speak on their behalf, nullifies any supposed decision that was reached as to their guilt or innocence.”

“B-but it . . . they . . . those present voted, sir,” Longo stammered.

“Where are the notes of the meeting? I would have myself and others be able to see the record of the events leading to this vote you held.”

“The, eh. Ah the notes are . . .”

The pale and shaken secretary to Macimas II, Master of Buckland, was interrupted by a soft but most familiar voice coming from the door near the Master’s study.

“Here. The notes are here in my hand, Longo.”

Everyone turned to look at Macimas. He held the papers aloft in a hand wrapped in a handkerchief as he walked unsteadily toward his secretary and Togo Goodbody.

“I have them here. I had to ruin that drawer in my desk that you locked them into, Longo. I feel rather bad about that. That desk has been the Master’s desk since time out of mind. Hurt my hand as well while breaking it open. But here, the notes from this morning are here, Mr. Goodbody.”

“Master Macimas,” Togo said brightly. “It *is* good to see you, sir. We had been informed that you were indisposed.”

“I am. I fact, I think I need to excuse myself, though I promise you that I will be back.” with that, the Master handed the notes to Mr. Goodbody then hurried from the room through the door by which he had entered.

Longo stared wide eyed at the papers Togo held, but he quickly regained himself. “Those are not complete, sir, which is why they had been set aside. The acting secretary has not had time to go over them.” He held out his hand for the papers. “Those are the property of Brandy Hall, Mr. Goodbody.”

“Really? If these notes are incomplete, then I say they match your legal education, Mr. Caskbury. If you had been properly trained you would know that the notes of any town meeting or trial are the property of the citizens of the Shire or Buckland, to be made available to anyone wishing to examine them.” Togo paused, then said, “I for one, wish to examine them.”

“As do I!” said Holman Gardener.

“And I,” echoed Chalcedony Brandybuck

“Might I suggest that there be a recess of half an hour,” Togo said to Longo. “That will allow for you, Mr. Gardener and myself to look over the notes while, if I may suggest,” he looked at Chalcedony, “you, Mistress, tend to your husband and bring back to this gathering a report on his condition and his ability to oversee further proceedings this afternoon.”

Longo was silent for several moments. Though nothing was voiced by the hobbits gathered in the room, he could feel that it would not be advantageous to decline Mr. Goodbody’s suggestion.

“That is agreeable to me, Mr. Goodbody,” Longo said with a good deal more conviction than he felt. To the gathered hobbits he said, “We will recess for one half hour. You may leave the room if you so choose. The accused will remain where they are.”

Longo, Holman and Togo walked over to where Rollo was seated at his desk. As acting secretary, it was proper that Rollo be part of their reviewing of his notes. Chalcy, Isenbras and Clary went to see about Macimas’ condition. Marrin, Toby, and Rosemary stayed and smiled at Jebbin, Other, Athelas, Marjy and Macidoc.

When the half hour had passed, two hobbits came into the ballroom and moved the desk and chair the Master had used during the morning’s proceedings to the side of the room nearest the door. Shortly after that, Macimas, his lady and Clary entered the ballroom. Clary went to stand with Marrin while a chair was placed next to the desk for Chalcedony. Isenbras Took stood back and to one side of the Master’s desk.

Macimas remained seated as he brought the gathering to order.

“I have been informed as to the decision that was reached after I left this room. It was decided that the notes of this morning’s meeting would be reviewed. I will hear the report of those who reviewed those notes in a moment.” He paused. To those nearby it was obvious that the Master was unsure of himself. He looked to his wife and did not continue until he had received a nod from her.

“I would like to say, and I have a written statement to be added to the notes that will eventually be taken this afternoon as no one is officially taking notes at this juncture; I would like to say that I am not in the best of health at this time. I will be here for as much of the proceedings as possible, but will need to leave from time to time. At such times as I am absent from the room, I give my wife, Chalcedony Brandybuck, the Mistress of Buckland, the authority to act in my stead upon anything that arises that would, in the normal manner of trials, need action on my part. Is this understood by the concerned parties?”

Longo spoke in answer. “Whom do you mean by “the concerned parties”, Master?”

“That would be yourself, Rollo Caskbury, Mr. Togo Goodbody, as I have been informed that he would like to speak for the accused, and Mr. Holman Gardener, whom I would like to have take notes as well as Rollo Caskbury. This will be to assure that everything is completely and adequately recorded. Is this understood by those named?”

“Master Macimas, having two secretaries and having a female preside in your stead are highly unusual conditions to place before us.” Longo replied.

Macidoc recognized the smooth and subtlety authoritative tone in the secretary’s voice. He looked to see what affect Longo’s voice had upon his father. For a moment, the Master paled. He slowly blinked and made a couple of attempts to speak before he at last found his voice.

“Yes,” Macimas said, dragging the word out longer than was normal. “Unusual. But . . . that is what is needed.” He paused, breathing deeply before continuing in a stronger voice. “Unusual is what is needed as this is an altogether unusual situation, as is my having become ill so soon after eating the small luncheon I had.”

Holman noticed Longo twitched a bit at that comment . He himself had wondered at the Master’s sudden attack of ill health.

The Master repeated his question. “Are the stated conditions understood by the concerned parties?”

The four concerned hobbits answered in the affirmative.

“Then I declare the actions of this morning null and void on the grounds that they were not in accordance with the laws and customs of the Shire and Buckland. This is, therefore, the beginning of the trial to determine whether Jebbin Brandybuck, Marjoram Brandybuck, Other Brandybuck, Athelas Brandybuck and Macidoc Brandybuck are guilty or innocent of treason. Mr. Goodbody, you may proceed with the first question to the accused after a table, chair, paper, blotter and ink have been procured for Mr. Gardener.” Macimas turned to his wife. “If you will see to it that this is done and the questioning begins,” he said, then he hurried out of the room.

Chalcy nodded to Isenbras Took, who had already begun to follow the Master. This had been arranged to ensure there would be no further interference in regards to the Master’s health.

The items needed by Holman to act as a second secretary were put into place and Chalcedony Brandybuck called the trial to order. Togo Goodbody stepped toward the dais to ask his first question of the accused.

“Jebbin Brandybuck. You are accused of treason because of a book you wrote. Is that correct?”

Jebbin stood. “Yes, sir.”

“What is contained in your writings that might be construed as being treasonous?”

“All of it!” Longo interjected.

Togo gave Longo a searing look then turned back to Jebbin. “You will answer the question, Jebbin Brandybuck.”

“The book contains what myself, my brother and our spouses had come to regard as the truth about the time of the Travellers in Shire history. I became . . .”

“Not the truth but heinous lies!” Longo shouted.

The crowd of hobbits in the ballroom of Brandy Hall started shouting out their own opinions and for several moments nothing could be understood in the confusion. Chalcedony spoke in the ear of a nearby servant, who left and returned with a hand bell, which the Mistress promptly rang as hard as she could. The room went silent.

“I realize, Mr. Caskbury,” Chalcy said in a firm but soft voice, “that such a manner of making a comment is not uncommon at such meetings and trials as this. However,” she paused to look sternly at as many hobbits as she could make eye contact with. “it is the opinion of the presiding authority that this does little except cause endless delays. You will be given ample opportunity to question the accused, Mr. Caskbury. Until that time I will insist that you forgo such outbursts as we have just witnessed. If you shout out in that manner again, I will have you removed from the room and someone else will take your place as speaker for the Shire and Buckland’s concerns in this matter.”

Chalcedony then made an interesting request. “You will look me in the eye, Mr. Caskbury, as it appears quite dishonest when someone refuses to do so.”

Longo did not wish to look the Mistress in the eye. He had seen the affect it had on Macimas all the years that Macidoc was growing up. How Macimas would not want the lad sent off once more to the North Farthing to be with his wife’s kin, but how she always got her way. But Longo could feel the pressure mounting in the room; he looked into her eyes.

“Do I have your word that you will cease these outbursts, Longo Caskbury?”

Her voice seemed to echo in his head. He thought he could see the sharp lights of stars swirling in her eyes.

“Yes, Mistress Brandybuck,” he heard himself say, then the stars faded and he felt as though he had just awakened from a brief nap.

“Thank you, Mr. Caskbury. Jebbin Brandybuck, please continue with your answer to Mr. Goodbody’s question. Do you need the question repeated?”

“No, Mistress,” Jebbin began, but stopped as the Master entered the room and sat beside his wife. Rollo Caskbury read Togo’s question from his notes, Holman agreed it was correct and Jebbin continued.

“I was saying that I had become curious about the story of the Travellers as I was being taught it both by my tutor and my family. As a youngster I . . .” Jebbin paused. He was a bit hesitant to mention the mathom room, but he had to mention Jebiamac’s book as it was credited in his own book as a primary source.

“As youngsters, my brother, Other, and I were playing in a mathom room in Brandy Hall. I found a book that told a different version of the Traveller’s story. It was written by an ancestor of mine named Jebiamac Brandybuck who was the son of Master Periadoc “the Cheerful”, who was the grandson of Master Meriadoc “the Magnificent”.”

“Is that when you acquired your ancestor’s book? When you were a child?” Longo asked the question quietly and so it was allowed by the Master.

“No, sir. At that time I left the book in the mathom room. But it was that brief reading of Jebiamac’s journal that started my wondering if we were really being taught the true story.”

Jebbin continued with the story of continuing his studies of the Travellers as he grew older. Marjy had drawn in a breath to speak when Jebbin mentioned the journal, but in that instant, Athelas grabbed her wrist and squeezed it. Her sister-in-law then barely shook her head, mouthing the words, “Not yet.” Marjy held her tongue but, if not then, when should she produce the two books that were in the pouch under her skirts?

Athelas was listening for a familiar voice. Something inside her knew there would be a moment when it would be to their best advantage to produce the items she and Marjy held; Marjy having the journals of Jebiamac and Adelard, she herself having the pages that had fallen from under the cover of Jebiamac’s book. Until those moments, they would sit silently.

Jebbin continued with his accounting of his life’s search for the truth about the Travellers. Though Longo Caskbury continued to interject comments and questions, he did so with proper decorum. Though the crowd at time grew a bit loud with murmurings, there were no further times of uncontrollable chaos. The Master had needed to leave a couple of times, but he had been there more than he had been absent.

Everyone could feel the tension that was building in the ballroom of Brandy Hall.

Finally, Jebbin began to speak of when his search had become the driving passion of his life. He spoke of the two journals, and of seeking out other sources - letters, diaries, mentions made in books other historians had written about the Travellers.

“Rubbish!” Longo shouted. Now was his moment. Now was his time to strike at the heart of the whole matter. He glared at the Master and Mistress. “I know I gave my word, but this is becoming ridiculous!” He turned his blazing eyes on Jebbin. “And what are these ‘other sources’ but hearsay? Hearsay and copies of copies of a book that was supposedly written by the two Baggins and Mayor Gamgee! If you found them, why had no other historians found them? Why should you trust these ‘other sources’ when scholars had declared them untrustworthy? Produce them. Produce these ‘other sources’ and let them be examined by recognized scholars of hobbit history.”

The crowd rumbled. Hobbits on both sides of the issue at hand started calling for the materials to be produced. Macimas rang the bell. He opened his mouth to speak.

“You burned most of them.”

A voice spoke softly in that momentary gap between the ringing of the bell and the Master speaking. A soft voice that somehow seemed to fill the room. Everyone looked about to see who had spoken.

Gasps were heard coming from those hobbits at the front of the room. A couple of hobbitesses swooned.

The figure of a hobbit had slowly materialized on the dais beside Jebbin Brandybuck. There wasn’t a hobbit present who could see the dais that doubted for a moment that a ghost now stood beside the accused. Longo Caskbury stood there, gaping.

Primary Sources

From the front of the room to the back the whispers rippled out.

“Who spoke?”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s a ghost!”

“A ghost!”

“Bah! There’s no such a thing.”

“It’s a ghost!”

Then the room went silent again.

“W-what k-kind . . .” Longo Caskbury stopped to swallow. “What sort of trickery is this, Jebbin Brandybuck?”

“No trickery,” answered the Ghost. “Come. Examine me in whatever way will satisfy you, sir.”

Longo approached. He could feel a chill in the air surrounding the being, and he could see through it to an even greater degree as he drew nearer. Quicker than his eyes could see the being grabbed his left wrist with its right hand. He heard words in his head:

“Do you feel the touch of the grave upon you?”

The voice was pleasant, when by rights, saying such a thing, it should have given Longo the shivers. The translucent face before him wore a smile and it’s blue eyes were oddly bright with a hint of mischief. Longo looked at the hand, it’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. There were only three fingers.

“Does that stir a memory in your mind?” the Ghost said aloud this time. Longo looked up and the ghostly hobbit winked at him.

Longo shook his wrist free then started backing away. “You’re . . . you’re, th-the Baggins!”

Frodo smiled. “I am indeed. Frodo Baggins to be more precise. Now, Mr., eh, Caskbury was it?” Longo nodded. “Good! As I was saying, Mr. Caskbury, most of the books you insist need to be examined are no longer available as you ordered them burned. In fact, you yourself threw many of them into the flames. I think many of the hobbits here remember this event?” The Ghost looked around at the crowd.

Though they were more than a little frightened, many of the hobbits nodded or murmured a “yes” in answer to the question.

“I know I remember it all too well.” There was a touch of acid in Frodo’s voice, but Longo seemed not to hear it.

“Well, then.” Longo was regaining himself. “It’s a moot point. If the books in question are no longer to be had, then there is nothing upon which the accused can substantiate his claims.”

Once more, the crowd murmured. The Master’s secretary was making sense.

“Oh really!” someone said frustratedly.

Three more spirits faded into view upon the dais, one still talking.

“This is a rather pathetic bit of begging the question, isn’t it?” ***

This time the accused on the platform were nearly as surprised as the onlookers. The hobbit who spoke was clad in the livery of the High King. Beside him another ghost was clad in livery of the realm of Rohan. On the other side of Frodo Baggins stood a spirit in the garb of a gentlehobbit. Neither Jebbin, Other, Marjoram, Athelas nor Mac had seen the Ghosts in their finery. The ghost of Meriadoc turned and gave them all a wink. Pippin continued happily on.

“You say you need to view the sources for Jebbin to support his claims, but you can’t view the books you say you need to view bacause they were burned. You happen to be the one who ordered it and now you’re saying they should be available! There’s logic for you.”

“You are starting to not look so well, Mr. Caskbury.” Meriadoc said. “Things not going quite as you planned?”

“Of course they aren’t, Merry,” Sam said, chuckling. “He’s backed himself into a proper corner, he has, and ways out are lookin’ scarce.”

The hobbits near the front of the room were astonished. Could there be any doubt that the four ghosts on the platform were the Travellers themselves?

“You burned the Red Book of Westmarch, Mr. Caskbury. Were you aware of that?” Frodo asked.

“Another copy of a copy of a copy. Worthless! So full of errors that burning was all it was fit for. As are all the copies of that book.” Longo still had better use of his voice and demeanor than the Travellers, the accused or their supporters had suspected.

“True! That’s what has always been said,” came a voice from the crowd, followed by many voices in agreement.

“No,” Frodo said. His words grew hotter as he continued. “No. You burned the original Red Book of Westmarch. The book Bilbo Baggins began in his own hand. The story I continued in my own hand, and that Sam here finished in his. The book . . .”

Frodo turned to look at the crowd.

“Who amoung you are descendants of Mayor Samwise Gamgee? Who here are Gamgees or Gardeners or Fairbairns?”

As one would expect, knowing how many children the good Mayor had fathered, many hands were raised.

“You all bear a bit of the blame,” Frodo continued. The raised hands slowly lowered. “You were to treasure that book, especially those of you descended from Elanor, who was called “The Fair”, as her father gave it to her and her descendants for safe keeping.”

The feeling in the room grew heavy. A shame deeper than any of Sam’s heirs ever expected to feel settled upon their hearts. It was painfully obvious to everyone in the ballroom that the spirits of the Travellers were there in support of the accused traitors. Frodo continued, his voice soft and sad.

“But, it isn’t entirely your fault. Familiarity and forgetfulness are common to all. And there were other forces at work besides those. There were hobbits who wanted the importance of the Red Book to be forgotten.”

Merry and Pippin stepped down from the dais. Pippin loomed over the seated Rollo Caskbury, Merry went to stand in front of Longo Caskbury. Both father and son could feel the dead chill of them even as they felt the heat from their furious eyes.

“And who might that be?” the ghost of Meriadoc the Magnificent asked Longo.

Longo didn’t answer.

Athelas did. The voice had spoken to her.

“The Caskburys! I have the proof!” Athelas said clearly. She and Marjy stood.

Athelas turned away a moment, then turning back, waved in the air the hidden pages from Jebiamac’s journal which she had tucked into her bodice.

“And I have further evidence,” Marjy cried. “Not all of Jebbin’s sources were destroyed!” She reached under the waistband of her skirt to produce the two journals.

Chalcedony Brandybuck stood. “Add to your accusations the name of Grittison, Sir Meriadoc. If Tollo Grittison, secretary to my brother who is Took and Thain, had not become indisposed while I was at Great Smials, I would have brought him along with me. Brandy Hall isn’t the only place infested with coniving spiders.”

Athelas walked over to the desk and handed the papers to the Master. “Sir. Here you will find an account written by Jebiamac Brandybuck, who has been mentioned before during this trial. He withdrew himself from the everyday life of the Hall because the knowledge he had was a danger to himself and all those he loved. He chose to have his line become a lesser branch on the family tree in order to protect them. He wrote it all down, hid it in the cover of his journal, then hid the journal itself, hoping that someday the time would be right for the truth to be heard.” She returned to the platform to stand beside Jebbin.

Macimas looked at the pages.

“I will ask for quiet as I read these,” he said, than began to read. He hadn’t read very far when he stopped. He stood and went up on the dais. “I would have all of you stand,” he said to Other and Macidoc, who did as they were bid and came forward to be with Jebbin and the lasses. “I think this needs to be read aloud,” the Master said.

He cleared his throat and began.

“I am taking a great risk in writing this down. As far as I am aware, they do not know that I have found them out.

I had begun my recording of the accurate account of the times of the Travellers, those great heroes of Shire history. To me they are all the greater when stripped of the nonsense that has arisen of late and which is swiftly becoming accepted as their true story.

As that accounting drew to an end (I did write out the facts in full), I found myself wondering where and when had all the foolishness started? Stories will change as time passes, parts are added to, parts are forgotten. But what was happening with the tale of my ancestor and the others was happening too quickly, as though there was some will behind the changes and their acceptence. The changes were even appearing in books, which should be even slower to occur than changes to the story as it is told orally.

I soon realized that the rot had started here, in Brandy Hall. That it had simultaneously arrisen in the Shire proper. Most strongly in the Tookland, at the Great Smials, and also to a lesser degree in Michael Delving where the Mayor of the Shire lives. I also ascertained that its seeds have begun to be sown in the west, in the Westmarch and even to Undertowers.

I now knew the where. I needed to find out the who and the why of it.

Here is where the ice I walk upon grows thin.

I was playing at a game of anagrams with a cousin in the gameroom of Brandy Hall. An innocent game. Something to take my mind off of the worries that had come to occupy most of my thoughts. My cousin put down the word “sack”.

I changed “sack” to “cask”. An easy change, but one with terrifying results for suddenly I knew the who of my search. A quiet trip to Hobbiton, and eventually to the Town Hall in Overhill, was all that was needed for me to begin piecing together the why.

I had wondered before at the name of my father’s secretary. Caskbury. It wasn’t, I was relatively certain, an old, established, hobbit surname.

Indeed . . . it was not.

In Solmath, in S.R. 1420 there were born to one Daisy Sandyman twin boys, who she named Lotho and Ted. Daisy and her sons seemed to disappear after the lads were born. It has taken a great deal of time, as I had to be extrememly cautious, but I have managed to put together most of what happened.

Daisy had been the youngest sister of Ted Sandyman, the son of the miller in Hobbiton. Her brother had chosen to align himself with Lotho Sackville-Baggins during Lotho’s ruling over the Shire. From the names Daisy chose for her sons, I concluded that Lotho Sackville-Baggins was father to her children. Whether he took her by force or she was compliant there is no way to know. That there was no marriage is clear as there is no record of one, and she still used her family’s surname. There were Sandyman kin living in Overhill and the poor lass had gone to stay with them, most likely to hide her pregnancy from those she knew in Hobiton. The lads were raised by their mother in a small hole about halfway between Overhill and the Bindbale Wood. Whether their mother died or the boys simply left her I could not discover as there was no record of her death or burial to be found. What I did find was in the year 1436 two boys named Lotho and Ted Sandyman apprenticed themselves to a bookbinder in Oatbarton. The name Lotho might have been suspect in that part of the Shire, but most likely not the name of Sandyman as Ted Sandyman was a nuisance in Hobbiton but not elswhere. In the year 1449, when the lads would have been twenty-nine years of age, there are records in Oatbarton of a Lotho Caskbury wedding Nightengale Brandybuck, and of a Ted Grittison wedding Cairngorm Took.

My game of anagrams had brought me to this sad story of a lass, most likely ill used, and her sons. It also explained how the rot had come to the Hall and the Smials.

“Cask” is an anagram of “sack”. “Bury” indicates a town or village. There is no town of “Caskbury” in the Shire, the Westmarch, Buckland or any of their environs. “Caskbury” was “Sackville”. Lotho had taken his father’s name.

“Grit” is another name for “sand”. “Son” on the end of a name of course means whoever’s son. “Grittison” was “Sandyman”. Ted kept his mother’s, and his odious uncle’s, name.

The son of Lotho Caskbury, Toldo, became the secretary of Periadoc “the Cheerful”, the Master of Buckland and my father. The son of Ted Grittison became the secretary to Borogrin Took, Took and Thain of the Shire.

I have noticed, regarding my father, that his secretary seemed to know a great deal of what are considered sensitive matters in Buckland. My older brother, Saradoc, already seems very close with Toldo’s son Pronto Caskbury. I fear things are the same in the Tookland. These secretaries have a great deal of access to everything that is said and done in Brandy Hall and Great Smials, and other of Lotho’s and Ted’s sons have taken positions as secretaries to important hobbits in other parts of the Shire. There is some evidence of an ill fate befalling a few hobbits who have tried to speak out against either family.

It has been since their becoming important parts of these houses, and other major Shire families, that the changes in the perceptions of the Travellers began. Lotho Sackville-Baggins was ever the enemy of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. Ted Sandyman hated the Baggins’ and Gamgees. By association, they both hated the Baggins’ kin and friends, who included Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. What better way for Lotho’s sons to gain revenge than by erroding the honor given to the Ringbearers (though not enough honor has ever been given to Frodo Baggins by any but the Brandybucks, Tooks and the Gamgees, Gardeners and Fairbairns). While truly, due to their twisting of the tale, my own ancestor and his first cousin are becoming parodies of the honorable hobbits they were.

I am hiding these pages in the cover of my journal. I am hiding the journal in the pocket of an old jacket, placed in an old trunk that is in a mathom room in a part of Brandy Hall that has been closed down for fear of collapsing tunnels.

May all that is good in Middle-earth, may my famous ancestor, may the Valar and Eru, forgive me my cowardice. Yet, I feel most strongly that now is not the time for this to be known. I have a strange confidence that someday a time will come when the truth can be heard and my journal will be found.

I pray this is so.

Jebiamac Brandybuck”

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***A/N: “begging the question” is the older way of saying “circular reasoning”.

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A/N 2: The idea of the anagram - changing “sack” to “cask” was Dreamflower’s, and I am extremely greatfull! I had come up with a different name, one *I* wasn’t even happy with, and she solved the problem with this wonderful idea. I never would have thought of it. Thank you so much, Dreamflower!

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A/N 3: In her review of Chapter 8 of this story, Larner asked, regarding the secretaries:

“Are they descended from Ted Sandyman or Lotho's folks or something?”

*I* looked like a fish out of water! I thought, “Oh no! Is it that obvious?” I really was hoping for it to be a surprise.

As you all now know, she had it right on both counts. That had been my plan long before chapter 8. Larner, you get a prize for correctly guessing the lineage of Longo Caskbury and Tollo Grittison. If there is a plot bunny you would like me to write, let me know :-)

Oh my! I just read Larner’s response to Chapter 16 - and she also guessed right that it’s Frodo who showed up first at the trial. Larner, do you have the Took Faerie Blood? Are you an Elf? I think you’ve been reading ahead by looking into my thoughts! LOL! Now you really need to find a plot bunny for me to write ;-)

Another Trial

No one in that large gathering of hobbits spoke a word.

When the Master had begun reading Jebiamac’s papers aloud, all eyes had been on him. By the time he finished, all eyes were on Longo Caskbury. The color had first drained from Longo’s face, but as the story had unfolded his face flushed. He stood rigidly beside his son, who was still seated at his desk.

At last, Macimas addressed the gathering.

“It appears there may be a chance the wrong hobbits have been on trial here. I think . . .”

The Master stopped. He still was not feeling particularly well, but more than that, in a short span of time Macimas’ entire world had been turned on its head. He had not really wanted to disown his son, but it had seemed the right thing to do at the time. He had been uncomfortable with the tiny, dank rooms in which the accused hobbits had been kept, but they were, after all, traitors deserving of punishment, were they not? He had felt in a daze through most of this mornings proceedings, like a puppet waiting for its strings to be pulled while someone provided its voice. Over the luncheon recess, he had begun to realize he had always felt that way. Now, he was saying, ‘I think’. He realized that, for what might be the first time, he, Macimas II the Master of Buckland, was thinking and speaking for himself.

It was a bit frightening.

“I think there is need for a recess . . .”

“Ha!” Longo roared. “A recess for what? So your wife and these . . . these illusions ,” he waved at the Ghosts, “can twist you about their fingers.” He glared at the ghostly Baggins. “Or lack of fingers. This is all a sham! Some sort of trick set up to confuse you. To confuse all of you.” Longo turned and gestured at the assembled hobbits. He turned back and walked to stand at the edge of the dais. He looked up at his boss. “Why take a recess? If they have something to prove against me then let them do so now, without giving them time to play with your sympathies.”

“So be it,” Macimas replied. He was feeling different, somehow stronger than he had ever felt. The Master did not see his son, his wife and the ghost of his ancestor looking at him with love and encouragement in their eyes.

“We first need to tend to the conclusion of the trail of the accused traitors, Jebbin Brandybuck, Marjoram Brandybuck, Other Brandybuck, Athelas Brandybuck and Macidoc Brandybuck. They stand before you, hobbits of Buckland and the Shire, accused of promulgating misinformation regarding the history of the Shire and Buckland, particularly that which relates to the Travellers Journey and the Dire Year of the Shire.”

Macimas looked over the crowded room. He looked to his left and right at those who stood accused, then returned his gaze to the assembly.

“Those who are convinced of the guilt of the accused, say “Aye”.”

To the surprise of all who stood on the platform, there were a few cries of “Aye”.

“Those who are convinced of the innocence of the accused, say “Aye”.”

The response reverberated off the walls and ceiling of the huge room.

The Master smiled, enjoying the response, then held up his hand for quiet.

“It is decided by this gathering of the citizens of Buckland, and those here who hail from the Shire, that the accused traitors, Jebbin Brandybuck, Marjoram Brandybuck, Other Brandybuck, Athelas Brandybuck, and Macidoc Brandybuck, are innocent of the charges that were brought against them.”

The crowd cheered. Jebbin and Other picked their wives up and spun them around while kissing them soundly, before they all fell upon Mac hugging him and slapping his back.

Macimas however was speaking to Togo Goodbody and Holman Gardner, while the two Caskburys were also having an animated conversation. Eventually, the room began to quiet down. The Master looked at his wife and wiggled his arm and hand in the air, Chalcy understood and proceeded to ring the hand bell, bringing quiet to the room.

“The previously accused may step down,” Macimas said, then waited while they did so and while their kin greeted them before speaking again.

“I hereby declare this the opening of the trial of Longo Caskbury, the charge being treason against Buckland and the Shire. I have asked Mr. Goodbody to speak for the citizenry of Buckland and the Shire, Mr. Caskbury. Who would you like to have speak for you?”

“I will speak for myself, thank you,” Longo snidely responded.

The Master raised an eyebrow but nodded to the accused.

“As you wish, Mr. Caskbury. I give you the floor to say what you wish in your own defense.” Macimas stepped down, returned to the desk and sat down.

Longo stepped up onto the dais then faced the assembled hobbits.

“I find it ludicrous that one accounting written by one solitary hobbit should be considered anywhere near enough evidence to find me guilty of anything. More so since that hobbit is long since dead and unable to be questioned. If he could be questioned then perhaps his claims could be substantiated.”

Interestingly, Longo seemed to have forgotten that there were in that very ballroom four hobbits, long since dead, who had spoken to the gathering. The crowd began to chuckle. They had not forgotten the Ghosts, they were looking at them.

“Would you like to question the dead, Mr. Caskbury?” Togo asked.

“Would I . . .” Longo stopped. The ghost of Samwise Gamgee had moved to stand close beside him and Longo felt the chill against his face. He quickly turned, looking at the ghost as though he hadn’t seen him before. “Would I, eh, yes! Yes I would like to question the dead, but none of these are the right one, are they?”

No one replied.

“Well? Are they? No. They are not.” There was a note of triumph in Longo’s voice. “And unless they can produce the correct ghost, the writer Jebiamac Brandybuck, their presence has no bearing on this matter.”

The Ghosts looked at each other a bit helplessly.

Togo cleared his throat. “Ahem, ah, sirs?” he addressed the Travellers. “Are you able to, eh . . .”

Merry stepped forward a bit. “No. We didn’t bring ourselves here at the start. There are . . . there are others who, well, it is their decision, not ours nor yours. It . . .” The Ghost shrugged his shoulders.

A spirit appeared behind Marrin and Clary Brandybuck, their sons and their wives. At first, no one seemed to notice him as he looked about, confused. Other turned around first.

“Jebbin.” Other poked his brother in the arm.

“Not now, Other,” the elder brother hissed. “All could be lost, if no one can answer this challenge.”

Other didn’t bother trying to explain. He took hold of Jebbin’s shoulders and turned him to face the newly arrived ghost.

“Jebiamac?” Jebbin whispered, then “Jebiamac!” he exclaimed.

But the ghost of his ancestor passed through him without as much as a glance at his descendant. His eyes were fixed on Longo Caskbury.

“P-P-Pronto?” the ghost of Jebiamac Brandybuck stammered. He stopped a few feet from Longo. “P-Pronto Caskbury?” Jebiamac then looked about himself. “What are you doing here? You aren’t allowed anywhere near here. They know what you and yours have done, and they forbad most of you from being here.”

“That isn’t Pronto Caskbury,” Meriadoc’s ghost said to the confused spirit.

“Of course it is. If it isn’t, than this hobbit is the spitten image of Pronto Caskbury.” Jebiamac snapped back, then he turned to look at Merry.

“Merry?”

“Yes, Jebi, it’s me.”

Jebiamac looked at Longo then back at Merry. “What is all this, Meriadoc?”

“It is a very important moment.” Merry pointed to Jebbin and Other.

Jebiamac stared a moment then exclaimed, “The lads! I’m there! I’m here! It truly is them?”

Merry nodded.

Jebiamac looked around the room, then stared once again at Longo Caskbury.

“It’s time, isn’t it, Merry?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the current Master?”

Merry pointed to Macimas. The newly arrived ghost went to stand before the Master of Buckland. He bowed slightly before he began to speak.

“I had no way of knowing, sir, the disaster that would come of things when I decided to hide my journal and the papers that were hidden in its cover. But, it appears there were reasons that it had to be so. They have told me since I’ve been there, since I’ve been beyond the bounds of Middle-earth, sir, that it is something hobbits need. That we need to be shaken up from time to time because we forget what stuff we’re made of.”

He hung his head a moment before continuing. “I swear to you, sir, that everything that was written in my journal and in those loose pages is the absolute truth. You saw for yourself that I at first thought this rather distant descendant of Lotho Sandyman Caskbury was instead Lotho’s grandson Pronto.”

“Oh, there’s solid proof for you!” Longo huffed. “He thinks I look like someone else. He says he told the truth. How convenient! And who will confirm that?”

“You requested the correct ghost be produced and he has, Mr. Caskbury. You have what you wanted, why shouldn’t his word be accepted?” Togo Goodbody asked.

“Yes, well. I meant, of course, that I could question him as I had stated.” Longo turned to Jebiamac Brandybuck. He really found this whole situation foolish. Treating these *things* as though they were real, but he proceeded anyway. “Why should you be believed, sir?”

Jebiamac had no immediate answer. He looked at Macimas. He looked at Merry and the other Travellers. They said nothing for they had nothing to say in the face of such a question.

“You know why he should be believed.” Came the small voice of a hobbitess from within the crowd. To the shock of everyone there who knew her, Longo Caskbury’s youngest child, his daughter who had recently come of age, stepped out of the crowd. She stopped about five feet away from her father and began speaking quickly.

“The story in his book and those papers is true and you know it, Father. You told us yourself from whom we are descended. You told us how we are kin to the Grittisons. And you made it very clear . . .”

Longo howled as he lunged at her, teeth bared and claw-like hands outstretched. Had she been any closer, he would have had his hands about her throat. Macidoc dived at his father’s secretary colliding with him in midair before they both fell to the floor.

“You lying little piece of filth!” Longo screamed as he struggled to get out from under the Master’s son. “You’re soft and useless! I tied to beat it out of you when you were little, you filth!”

Longo was soon on his feet, being held by Macidoc and two other hobbits from the crowd, as he continued to struggle and scream at his child.

“You are weak and useless like their mother was! You lying piece of filth!”

The Master had stood and now yelled to be heard above Longo’s raving.

“Get him out of here at once!”

Tobold Took stepped forward to take Macidoc’s place and Longo Caskbury, one time secretary to the Master of Buckland, was dragged from the ballroom of Brandy Hall. An uneasy quiet settled over the hobbits in the room.

Rollo Caskbury had not moved, neither to help his sister nor to help his father. He sat as though turned to stone. Togo and Holman stood on either side of him lest he try to leave . . . or lest he should swoon.

Macidoc returned to stand with his friends and their families. The Master turned to Delphinia Caskbury. “Are you all right, Delphinia? Would some one please get her a . . . Oh! Thank you, my dear!” he said as Chalcedony came over to the lass then guided her to sit in the chair beside the Master’s desk. Isenbras Took poured some water into the glass that had been set on the desk for the Master’s use, then handed it to Delphinia. She nodded her thanks and took a drink.

“Delphinia,” Macimas said gently. “Do you feel you are able to finish what it was you were trying to say?”

She nodded, finished the water then set the glass down. Her eyes were downcast, she placed her hands in her lap. “We, my brother and I, we were told we should never tell anyone that we were the descendants of Lotho Sackville-Baggins. We were told to be proud of it because he had tried to bring the hobbits into the world. That others had twisted what he had done. But that we couldn’t tell anyone.”

She sighed and said nothing for a few moments. Her voice was steadier when she spoke again.

“We were taught that the lies about Lotho had been told too well, that the hatred of the other hobbits ran too deep and we would be exiled if they knew there were descendants of his still living. But we weren’t told what had been done; done to the history of the Shire and done to the Master and the Thain. We weren’t told why we had to never waiver from the stories we were taught. But I wondered.”

Delphinia looked at Jebiamac and Jebbin. “If what we had to believe so fiercely was the right and proper story, why did I have to have it beaten into me? Any time I asked a question, Daddy would take me out of the Hall and into the woods and hit me. Then . . .” She looked at her hands in her lap, her voice was a whisper. “I heard Mr. Jebbin Brandybuck speak at the Harvest Festival and I had hope. I knew I was not alone.”

“I never questioned.” Rollo could barely be heard. He still sat immobile, staring at the ghosts of the Travellers. Only his mouth moved. “I was pampered and coddled. He never hit me. I was told I would have power and riches. Buckland would be mine to control.”

Rollo blinked. A tremor ran through him. He stood and walked slowly to stand in front of Macidoc. “You were to be my plaything. That was what Father called you, what he called your father. Playthings. And I loved the thought that I would be stronger than you and in control.”

He looked at his sister and tears began to run down his face. He walked to her then knelt before her. “You were always so kind, Del. Father would be mean to my friends, cruel to his ponies and dogs. He wanted me to be that way, and . . . I-I did it to please him. But the ponies loved you and the dogs would follow you about . . . and I envied you.” Rollo sniffed hard then rubbed his nose on his sleeve, he was beyond caring how he appeared. “I didn’t know he beat you, Del. I would have hated him if I had known.”

He struggled to get to his feet then turned, holding out his hands to the Master of Buckland. “Have me bound, sir, and taken away. I was becoming like my Father and I would have ruined your son, or your nephew. I only ask that you not put me with my Father as I fear that I might then become a murderer.”

Macimas looked at the shattered young hobbit and tears formed in his eyes. “You will be confined to your family’s apartments, Rollo Caskbury, and I see no need to bind your hands. Miss Delphinia?”

“Yes, Master?”

“Would you wish to care for your brother?”

The lass smiled for the first time. “Very much sir!”

Macimas appointed two Brandybucks to escort them to their quarters and to stand guard. He returned to the dais and addressed the assembly.

“Do you, citizens of Buckland and the Shire, find that Longo Caskbury is guilty or innocent of treason? Those who are convinced of the guilt of the accused, say “Aye”.”

Though many hobbits spoke, the reply was subdued.

“Do any gathered here find Longo Caskbury innocent of treason? Those who are convinced of the innocence of the accused, say “Aye”.”

No one spoke.

“I feel,” the Master said sadly, “that their is much to be pitied in the Caskbury family, and that my secretary is quite mad. There is also the matter of the Grittison family. The testimony heard today has also implicated that family in this treason against the Hobbits of the Shire and Buckland. For these reasons, I declare that there will be no sentencing until after a proper trial of Tollo Grittison has taken place and the Took and Thain, the Mayor of the Shire and I have opportunity to discuss these matters and agree upon an appropriate sentence for Longo Caskbury and for Tollo Grittison should he also be found guilty. Is that agreeable to all gathered here?”

“Aye!” came the strong reply. The hobbits who stood in the ballroom were pleased that the Master was taking his proper place.

“Then this trial is closed.” The Master turned to the ghosts. “I thank you all. I don’t understand by what magic, if I may use the word, you have been able to be among us, but I am most greatful you were allowed to be here.” Macimas II stepped down from the platform and left the room. Soon the ballroom at Brandy Hall was empty.

Does One Say “Farewell” to a Ghost?

There was a joyous meeting in the game room of Brandy Hall, as neither Jebbin and Marjy’s nor Other and Athelas’ apartments were large enough. Their parents were there, Toby Took and Rosemary Proudfoot, Macidoc and his mother, Togo and Daisy Goodbody, Myrtle Fairbairn and Holman Gardener, and Isenbras Took. The ghosts of the Travellers and Jebiamac Brandybuck were there as well.

Chalcedony sent for refreshments to brought from the Hall’s kitchens along with several decanters of the Hall’s best brandy. All of which was rather hard on the Ghosts, seeing as they couldn’t partake of the repast,but they were gracious and didn’t let on.

“It seems so strange,” Myrtle was saying to her ancestor’s ghost. “That those families, the Caskburys and Grittisons, could have such a hold on the Brandybucks and Tooks.” She hung her head a moment. “And they were able to change our thinking even out in the Westmarch and Undertowers.” She sighed then looked at Sam again. “From all that was said, it seems to have happened so quickly.”

“I was thinkin’ that myself, Myrtle,” Sam Gamgee replied. He thought a moment then called out. “Frodo?”

“Yes, Sam?” Frodo looked over from where he had been conversing Rosemary Proudfoot.

“Have you any ideas as to how those descendants of old Lotho’s took over the Masters and Thains so easily?”

“Well . . .”

“I do,” said Chalcy.

The others in the room became aware of the question being asked and everyone’s attention was now on the Mistress.

“As do I,” Pippin added, while Athelas, her mouth currently full of biscuit, nodded to indicate that she also knew.

Beside Jebbin, Merry muttered, “Green-eyed Tooks.” Jebbin grinned.

“Then share the tale with us,” several of the guests said at once.

Chalcedony and Athelas both inclined their heads to Pippin. He cleared his throat and began.

“Well, from what I saw for myself in how Mac’s father behaved, from what I’ve learned from Jebi, what we now know of the way Longo raised his children, and what I know from . . .” Pippin paused.

His head tipped to one side as though he was listening to something, then his eyebrows raised as a big grin brightened his features.

“Actually, I’ve learned most of it from a certain ancestor of mine. It’s an interesting tale. Saruman, Sharky when he came here to the Shire, was diminished in his wizardly abilities; but they certainly weren’t gone completely. Lotho apparently, though he had no desire to help young Daisy Sandyman, was rather pleased with himself for having sown his seed. It made him feel he had once more bested Bilbo and Frodo.”

Pippin looked at Frodo who said, “Lotho would see getting a poor lass pregnant as another score against us.” Frodo sadly shook his head.

Pippin continued the story. “He apparently thought quite often of taking the child away from her after it was born and hiring a nurse to care for it. He had no desire for a wife, only for an heir. Saruman knew the thoughts in Lotho’s mind. He already had in place his plans for wreaking as much havoc as he could while he was in the Shire and here was an opportunity to go one better. He found out where Daisy was living and visited the lass. We don’t know in what guise, perhaps saying he was a messenger from Lotho. While he was with her, he cast into her babes, for he knew immediately that she carried twin lads, a bit of his own power and wrath.”

Sam perked up. “His voice! The old serpent gave the lads his powers with his voice.”

“Exactly, Sam. The lads were bound together in spirit. It was why, even though Daisy was a sweet and simple hobbit lass, they grew to carry so much hatred for the respect that was given to us, the Travellers. It was why that hatred grew without Lotho or Ted there to encourage it along. They learned early that they could make others do what they wanted by how they used their voices.”

Here, Pippin blushed a bit. He looked down at the floor, but from under his lashes, he exchanged brief glances with Chalcedony and Athelas. There were others in the Shire with a similar gift, but the source of their gift was benevolent.

“Ahem! Yes, well, so they used this ability to get the apprenticeships with the bookbinder, reckoning they could then learn to read and write. They charmed a Brandybuck lass and a Took lass into marrying them so to gain access to Brandy Hall and Great Smials. Their sons charmed their ways into becoming secretaries to the Master and Thain. The rest is easy to follow. As each new generation came along, they were taken in under the spell of the secretaries and their sons. Lasses born to the Caskburys and Grittisons didn’t carry Saruman’s curse, nor is there any record of children born to any Caskbury or Grittison lasses carrying the evil traits. It only fell upon eldest males who would carry the family names and positions. The lasses, it seems, were most often like dear Daisy had been, sweet and shy.”

“Like Delphinia,” Macidoc murmured and those standing near him nodded in agreement.

“Rollo,” continued Pippin, “had not yet taken his place as secretary to a Master of Buckland and apparently the curse wasn’t yet fully developed in him or I don’t think we would have seen what we did at the trial.”

“I agree.” Frodo was nodding his head. “He would have begun raving like his father if he had been completely under the curse. Rollo could still accept mercy. Longo, like Sharky, could not.”

Soon, the room was filled with the hum of several conversations all taking place at once and the evening went on. Gradually the refreshments were eaten, the brandy depleted, and the guests began to leave. Chalcy had ordered guest rooms made ready as well as sending servants to tidy the apartments of Marrin and Clary, Jebbin and Marjy, and Other and Athelas. Eventually, the only hobbits left in the game room were the four Travellers, the five Restorers (as they would come to be called) and Jebiamac.

Jebbin looked at Merry and Pippin and sighed. “I don’t know what to say. I was thrilled to meet you two, then I was sorry we met you. I loved you both and I hated you both before coming to love you even more dearly than I had at first.” Jebbin bowed. “Honored Great Grand Sire and,” He looked up from his bow with a twinkle in his eyes, “Honored Meddling Great Grand Sire.” He was rewarded with Peregrin’s ghostly blush. Jebbin straightened up, then turned to look at Jebi. “And Jebiamac . . . dearest several times Great Grandfather. None of it would have happened at all if you hadn’t written the truth in your journal.”

He paused, then addressed Frodo and Sam. “Honored Ring Bearers, for so I’ve always thought of you both. You were always two sides of the same coin to me, as much as Meriadoc and Peregrin were. I’m unable to speak for the hobbits of the Shire and Buckland, but for my part, I will endeavor to make sure that you aren’t swept aside again, most especially you, Frodo Baggins. I will see to it more copies of my book are made. I will make sure all the copies of the Red Book of Westmarch are found and restored, and I will continue to speak so that your true place in history is remembered.”

He took a few moments to look each ghost in the eye.

“There is nothing I can do or say to thank any of you enough.”

The Ghosts all muttered various forms of, “Quite all right, lad. No need to thank us. It was our pleasure.”

“We won’t see you again, will we?” Other asked. He voice was shaky and tears flowed unchecked down his cheeks. He suddenly found himself in a cold, ghostly hug. He heard Pippin’s voice at his ear.

“No, Other, lad. I don’t think you will.”

When the ghost finally stepped back from the embrace, Other saw its face was shiny with ghostly tears. Yet, Pippin was smiling. “At least, not here,” he added with a wink.

Jebbin found himself similarly engulfed by Merry. Then there were hugs all ‘round.

“Farewell!” all of the Ghosts exclaimed as they began to fade from sight.

The living hobbits began to return the sentiment but stopped.

“Does one say farewell to ghosts?” Other voiced what they were all wondering. “After all, where they are, all is ‘faring well’.”

The Restorers smiled at each other, then Other remembered what Pippin had said.

“Till we meet again!” he said with a wink.

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Finis

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A/N: Once again I owe thanks to Dreamflower. She mentioned in her review of Chapter 18 that:

“I'm wondering how Lotho's descendants had maintained their power over the years. I have some very odd ideas...”

I asked her to share her “odd ideas” and the explanation given here is the result of one of her ideas and some feelings of my own on the matter that hadn’t coalesced until I read what she thought. Thank you so much again, Dreamflower.

Oh, and I had forgotten. Way back when I first started working on this story, my sweet husband suggested a heated trial, like the Scopes trial, for the climax. He also suggested the Ghosts appear at the trial to speak on behalf of the accused, like in a bluegrass song we both know, “Polly Vaughn”. So that was all part of the plot since very early on. Many thanks to my dear hubby!

Epilogue

Macidoc had been told by his mother that he was more than welcome to return home, back to his rooms in the Master’s quarters. So when he took his leave of the other Restorers, after the Ghosts departed, that was where he headed.

He reached to open the apartment door only to have it fly open. Mac was nearly rundown by his distraught mother. She clutched a paper in her hand.

“He’s gone, Mac. H-he wasn’t h-here when I re-returned. I thought he was f-finishing up. But . . . but . . .”

“I’m here now, Mum.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her into the family parlor, seating her in her rocker by the fire. He draped her shawl over her shoulders, then knelt in front of her.

“Do you know where he is, Mum?”

“Gone. H-he’s gone, Mac.” She held the paper out, her hand shaking badly.

Macidoc took the paper. It was a note from his Father.

“It was on my pillow, Mac. On my pillow on our bed, and some of his clothes are gone. I had thought,” she rambled on as her son read the note, “that he was finishing up the business of seeing to Longo. And his satchel. H-his s-satchel is g-gone too. Why, M-Mac? Why would h-he l-leave?” Chalcedony was starting to panic again.

The note read:

My Dear Ones,

I feel I am as guilty as Longo. I do not see myself as fit
to be part of a trial against Tollo Grittison, nor to take
part in the setting of any punishment for either him
nor Longo.

Macidoc, you are now Master of Buckland. I have left a
properly made out document to that effect in my - your
office. Please go to the Great Smials with your mother
and see to the trial of the Grittisons.

Chalcedony, I can say, truthfully, that I was never
unfaithful to you. However, I know your life with me
has been difficult because of the person I am. You are
free of me. Consider me dead.

As Master of Buckland I lied, falsified documents and
ignored the needs of the hobbits who were supposed
to be under my care. I was a pompous arse. But the
worst atrocity I have committed was disowning my own
son, my dearest Macidoc. For that alone I deserve
this punishment I am imposing upon myself.

I am leaving. I am leaving Buckland and the Shire.
I place myself in exile.

Good bye

Macimas Brandybuck

“I think I know where he is going, Mum,” Macidoc said. He stood, kissed his mother, then rang for a servant. He instructed the serving lass to have the Mistress lie down in his bedroom and to send for the healer to be certain she would be all right. Then he left.

********************

Macimas had crossed the Brandywine using the ferry, then set off at a gallop. He was now well along his way heading south. He would leave the Shire at Sarn Ford. He was less known down there and he was wishing to leave without being recognized. From there he planned on going to the town of Greenway Fork. There were hobbit merchants that did business there, so a hobbit would not be unusual enough to cause talk. There he would see if he could find work as a clerk.

He heard hoof beats coming up behind him. Macimas turned his pony off the road into a stand of trees and bushes. The ridder appeared, coming at a fast trot, but he pulled his mount to a stop near to the copse Macimas was in.

“Father?”

Macidoc received no answer.

“Father? Are you here? Please answer me.”

No reply.

Macidoc sat on his puffing, lathered pony, listening. His shoulders soon slumped and his head hung down. He tapped Star’s sides and the tired beast began to slowly walk on down the road.

Just then, Macimas’ pony nickered to his stable mate. Both Macidoc’s and his Star’s heads came up.

“Socks? Is that you lad?”

Star turned towards the clump of trees, whinnying as she did so.

Slowly, Macimas and Socks appeared out of the gloom. For a few minutes, father and son sat upon their ponies in the moonlight simply looking at each other.

“Why did you follow me?” “Why did you leave?” they spoke at the same time. There was another long pause.

“I have behaved abominably,” Macimas said sadly. “How could I stay?”

“You left too soon, Father. Peregrin’s ghost told the full tale of what the Caskburys and Grittisons had done, and how they were able to do it.” Macidoc moved Star closer to his father and Socks, dropped the reins then took hold of his father’s hands. “You had been under a spell. All the Masters and Thains have been from the time those two families moved into the Hall and the Smials. Saruman cursed Daisy Sandyman’s babes, so they would be filled with bitterness and could control others with their voices.”

Mac leaned forward to look into his father’s eyes.

“That was why you were able to recover so quickly, Father. It wasn’t you, not the real you. It was Longo using you.”

Macimas said nothing.

“Please. Mum is beside herself with worry for you. I’ve never seen her so frightened. And if you don’t come back, how can I ever get to know the real hobbit who is my father? Please come home, Da.”

“My son!” Macimas sobbed as he and Macidoc hugged each other as well and tightly as they could whilst mounted on ponies. They had the first of many good father and son talks as they rode home on that moonlit night.

Macimas II remained the Master of Buckland until his death. He was remembered, not as “the Efficient” nor as “the Pompous” but as “the Merciful”. The trial of Tollo Grittison was conducted with proper decorum with Macimas II Master of Buckland, the Mayor of the Shire, and the new Took and Thain presiding. Adenbras Took’s senility was more than just his being manipulated by his secretary and it had been decided that Adlebras would assume the Took and Thainship even though his father still lived.

After the Master and the Mistress of Buckland arrived at Great Smials, Tollo Grittison awakened from the strange slumber he had been in for nearly a fortnight. At his trial, he came unhinged just as his cousin Longo had at his trial. Longo Caskbury lived out his life in a special wing of Brandy Hall where Brandybucks who went mad were tended with loving care. Tollo Grittison lived out his life in a similar wing of the Great Smials. Neither hobbit ever recovered their sanity.

Chalcedony Took assured all present that she would see to the removal of the curse from both the Grittison family and the Caskbury family, though no one seemed to be able to remember if she had stated how this would be accomplished. Rumors later spread that Rollo Caskbury and Mungo Grittison had each experienced a strange dream in which a petite being with red-golden hair had sung over them, freeing them from Saruman’s curse. Whatever was the truth of the matter, both young hobbits became fine, upstanding citizens, both choosing to leave the great houses to set up shops in Bucklebury and Tuckborough, respectively, as scribes.

It was decided by the Mayor, the Master and the Thain that the sentence meted out to the traitors, Longo Caskbury and Tollo Grittison would be as follows: The traitors themselves would remain in seclusion at Brandy Hall and Great Smials. That the celebration of the Raising of the Shire on 2 Blotmath, formerly observed only in Buckland with the blowing of the Horn of the Mark, bonfires and feasting, would now be celebrated throughout the lands of the Hobbits, and that the Caskbury family and the Grittison family would in perpetuity be responsible for planing and conducting the celebrations in Bucklebury, Tuckborough, Hobbiton, Michael Delving, Middowns, and Undertowers. It was also decreed that part of the celebrations in each town would include the telling of the true Tale of the Travellers.

Macidoc Brandybuck married Delphinia Caskbury one year after the trials.

Also, in that fascinating way that fate would have things, seven months after the trials, Marjoram Brandybuck and Athelas Brandybuck each gave birth to their first born. On 30 Blotmath, a son, Periadoc Brandybuck was born to Other and Athelas Brandybuck at ten o’clock in the morning. On 30 Blotmath, a daughter, Jebia Brandybuck was born to Jebbin and Marjoram Brandybuck at ten twenty in the morning. The next day, a watch chain with five small bells hanging from it was found in each babe’s cradle.