What Was that Job Description?

          “You heard that we had need of a wizard?” the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar asked, examining the odd-looking individual who had swept up the Hall of Kings to present himself before the throne.  This one was dressed in robes of an unnatural lilac with a rimless pointed cap of the same color pressed down over artlessly windswept golden curls that Aragorn was certain must have taken quite some time to arrange so perfectly.  His face was remarkably smooth-shaven, his mouth stretched wide in a particularly troubling smile that appeared to be intended to impress one with the number of extraordinarily white teeth the Man possessed.

          “Well, you see, I’d heard that your last Wizard sailed away with a group of Elves--although why he should want to do so I simply couldn’t imagine--pathetic lot, house elves,” the Man commented, not seeming to realize that the King had suddenly gone stiff, as had several individuals in the court.  “I mean--really!”

          Legolas was exchanging glances with one of the King’s Elven brothers, and then both were fixing the self-styled wizard with their most icy and haughty stares.  “Pathetic, you say?” asked Elrohir in a particularly dangerous voice.  “And where’s your staff?”

          The Man blinked.  “What staff?  I have my wand here--nine inches, yew with a core of a unicorn’s tail hair....”  He produced a straight rod of wood.  All within the court considered it with amazement.

          Aragorn interrupted.  “And what brings you here to Middle Earth and Gondor?”

          The one who’d named himself “The Star of the King” gave an elaborate shrug.  “Well, you see, it’s like this--there they were doing their best to try to get me to stand up against the Dark Lord, and since I’d heard that you’ve just managed to get rid of yours all on your own, I thought I’d rather like a change of scene.”  He glanced around almost guiltily, then leaned forward confidentially, although a good deal of the effect was wasted as the King sat quite some way over his head.  “It was that Potter lad--him and his friend Weasley--the two of them were absolutely convinced that I ought to have willingly gone down into the Chamber and faced Slitherin’s monster myself.  I ask you--is that the way one ought to treat the five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award?” 

          Gimli stood up abruptly.  “Tell me, Aragorn, whether you’ll clap him in motley or if you’d prefer I just chop off his head and be done with it?”

          Aragorn was pleased to see the sheen of sweat break out on the Man’s forehead.  Perhaps this Gilderoy Lockheart wasn’t quite the fool he appeared to be....

Why Mums and Dads Leave Home

                Much of the past year had been difficult within the confines of Bag End, what with twelve children from faunts to young tweens, and Rosie and Sam had on more than one occasion found themselves wondering why in Middle Earth they’d ever thought they’d wanted twelve.  Elanor and Frodo-lad had finally given up raiding gardens and farms, but Merry and Pippin-lads and Rosie were just getting well into it; young Goldilocks appeared to think the entire Shire should stop and stare in wonder at her beauty as she walked by; Hamfast, Daisy, and Primrose seemed willing to do almost anything to get attention; while Bilbo, Ruby, and Robin, being faunts, truly needed to be watched constantly.

                The pressure on Elanor was often great, being the eldest and a daughter; and often she swore that she’d give almost anything not to have to be the one to be responsible all the time.

                Their mum and dad had spoken several times of going to Gondor once more to visit Minas Tirith and Uncle Strider and the Lady Arwen, and all the middle children were certain they’d all be included.  After all, they each had a pony, all the way down to Primrose, that is; and they were accustomed to riding to at least Michel Delving and back, and even to Buckland on occasion.  Going to Gondor shouldn’t be all that difficult, they’d decided; and they’d often sit about the garden or in the orchard or out in the Party Field with the ponies about them discussing what each of them would take with them when that momentous day came.

                Uncle Strider hoped they’d come down the coming spring, they knew, for there was a new monument he hoped their dad would help unveil on the Field of Cormallen.  The children were thrilled.  They’d get to see where it was their dad and Uncle Frodo had awakened after their terrible trip through Mordor, and Hamfast was obsessed with the idea of going all the way to the wastelands before where the Black Gates had stood to look on the place where Pippin-lad’s namefather had fought against the forces of Mordor and had killed his troll.  “I know what I’d of done if I’d been there,” he declared, grabbing up his dad’s largest garden trowel, “I’d of stood like this--” he took a stance; “--and I would of faced that troll--here, Pippin, you play the troll.”

                “But I’m Pippin and I oughta get to be Uncle Pippin,” his brother objected.

                “But I thought of the game this time, and you usually get to play Pippin,” Hamfast reasoned.  “It’s your turn to be the troll this time.  After all, you’re bigger’n me, like the troll was to Uncle Pippin.”

                “But you’re too young to play Uncle Pippin, and Dad won’t like it if you blunt his trowel.”

                “But I want to play Pippin this time.  It’s only fair I don’t have to be the troll every time.”

                “You don’t have to do it every time--sometimes Merry plays it.”

                “You do it.”

                “I don’t want to.  I want to be Uncle Pippin.”  So saying, the older lad grabbed the trowel from his younger brother.

                Their voices were getting louder, and Elanor came out to see what the difficulty was just in time to get hit with a clod of dirt Ham had aimed at his older brother.  Pippin-lad, however, had anticipated just such a tactic and had slipped sideways just in time to avoid getting hit, leaving his unwary sister to take the earthen missile right in the center of her chest. 

                “Mother!” she cried as she saw her new bodice she was just trying on for the first time covered in dirt.

                Rosie, however, wasn’t exactly free to come to her daughter’s side, for it appeared young Ruby had managed to find her sister’s thread scissors in her sewing bag and had begun experimenting to see what all could be cut with them.  So far she’d managed to add an unwanted fringe to the hem of Goldilock’s skirt and had cut the tassels off the runner atop the dresser  She now approached Primrose from the rear where she sat reading on a cushion on the floor in the dining room, intent on seeing what the scissors could do to hair when their mother, walking by the door and glancing in, saw her smallest lass with scissors in her hand and stopped, anticipating where this was likely to lead.  “Ruby, no!” she called out, and the bairn stopped, turning her head to look behind her, but still holding out the scissors. 

                But Primrose was turning, too, and still being young, while seated her face was much on a level with her little sister’s outstretched hand.  Immediately she was pulling back, crying out in shock and pain and anger.  “Mummy!  My eye!  My eye!  She jabbed me in my eye!  Oh, Mummy!  Ow!  Ow!  Ow!”

                And before she could quite get to her youngest daughter to remove the scissors from her grasp she could hear a most angry Goldilocks crying out in fury, “Elanor!  What have you done?  You left your sewing bag where the bairn could get at it, and look what she’s done to my dress!”

                Meanwhile, from the parlor she heard a crash, followed by Merry yelling, “Bilbo!  What are you doing?  Oh, stalks and leaves--Da’s going to be furious--you broke his favorite mug!”  Then he made a squawk.  “Daisy, what have you done to your face?”

                At that moment she heard a pounding at the door.  She saw no signs of blood on Primmie’s face and decided that the hurt most likely wasn’t life threatening, so once she’d snatched the scissors from Ruby she hurried out to find her youngest sitting on the floor with a box of sweets that Rosie-lass had bought the previous day in Bywater, Robin’s face smeared with caramel.  Daisy had blue ink all over her hands, face, and dressfront from spilling a bottle in her dad’s study where she’d hoped to write a letter to Cousin Wynnie; Ruby was now roaring with fury at having had her toy removed from her hand; and apparently Merry had picked up Bilbo and had administered a couple of paddles to his sit-down, so his cries were added to the general bedlam. 

                She opened the door to find outside her brother, his face deathly grim, herding Rosie-lass and Frodo-lad before him.  “I just caught these two,” Tom Cotton said, “raidin’ the glass house, and they’d eaten the strawberries as was spoken for by the Thain hisself.  What am I supposed to deliver to him next week, I wonder?”

                She searched her son’s eyes.  “Fro?  What in the name of all gardens have you been doin’?  You’re supposed to be beyond such things!”  At least he had the grace to look thoroughly ashamed.

                By the time Sam got home from Michel Delving that night things had gotten, if possible, worse.  Having realized they needed to avoid their mother’s ire at all costs, the children were turning to their older sister, the only one not totally in disfavor at the moment, and at last Rosie had ordered them all to bed.  Frodo-lad had taken over the younger ones and given Bilbo and Robin their third bath for the day before settling them in their cots; Rosie-lass saw to the next younger ones and finally disappeared behind her own door with Goldi and her skirt to consider how they might salvage it; Primrose, after at least fifteen assurances that she had only the tiniest of cuts just below her brow and there was no danger of her going blind, had taken Ruby into her own bed and was comforting her after having spent much of the late afternoon yelling at her; Daisy, much of her face and hands still blue, had curled up in the middle of her own bed, unwilling to let anyone see her looking like that; and Merry, Pippin, and Hamfast had all disappeared into the guest room where Uncle Pippin and Aunt Diamond usually slept when they visited to comfort one another.

                Sam stood just inside the door, startled at how unnaturally quiet it was, noting how his eldest and his wife were sitting together on the narrow sofa beside the fireplace, each with a mug of tea in her hands, Elanor’s face white with strain.  He came toward them, and Elanor, carefully setting her cup down on the table beside her, rose and came to him, holding out her arms for reassurance.  “Daddy,” she said in a small voice as he took her in his arms, “they were all horrible today--all of them!  They’ve been fighting and Ruby was cutting things with my scissors--she crawled on top of my dresser to get into my sewing bag, and she broke my glass cat!  And Frodo and Rosie-lass got caught eating the strawberries for the Thain, and then Rosie had a fit because Robin found her caramels, and Primmie’s been going blind all evening, and Daisy’s ashamed because she’s blue--never mind she spilled ink over everything and it won’t wash off and I don’t know if we can get the stain out of the carpet, and my new bodice is all over dirt, and....”  She couldn’t go on, just rested in his arms, shaking, tears flowing down her face. 

                Sam looked from his eldest to his wife.  “They’ve been right awful all day, and no mistake; and Tom’s fit to be tied, he is.  I don’t know as what come over Frodo-lad to go over there with his sister--he’s too old to be raidin’ glass houses!  As for Ham and Pip--the two’ve been arguin’ since this afternoon as to who ought to play the troll, and Merry-lad’s just been eggin’ them on.  I don’t know as to what to do with a one of them!”

                Sam sat himself down beside his wife, drawing Elanor onto his lap.  “I’ve been thinkin’ on this trip to see Strider, lasses--I suspect as it would be best not to take them all.  I mean, we’re to be there for a few months--it’d be too much to take all twelve and force them on the staff at the Citadel.  Master Balstador--he’d be ready to throw us all out double quick, the way they’ve been actin’ lately, don’t you agree?”

                Rosie nodded solemnly.

                Elanor, calming down rapidly now that her father was home and was holding her much as he’d done when she was younger, looked up into his face.  “But you’d take Frodo and me, wouldn’t you, Sam-dad?” she asked.

                “After what he did today?  No, I think he needs to stay home and keep the garden up--maybe if he has somethin’ to do every day he’ll start thinkin’ afore he acts.  Sunshine and shadow--sometimes I wonder if any of’em save you’ll ever truly grow up, my Elanorellë?  What do you say--shall we run away from home and go see Uncle Strider for a time, do you think?”

                The rest of the children were all shocked the next morning when they learned the only one of them who’d be going after all was Elanor, and by afternoon their fury was palpable.  All of a sudden if their oldest sister entered the room they’d all turn their backs on her; if she spoke they wouldn’t answer her; if she offered something they’d pretend they didn’t see it.

                After a week of this Sam had had enough.  “I’d almost thought to agree to take you all anyway, but not now,” he said very clearly.  “I’m about ashamed to have to admit as you’re all my children.  Can’t you see as how you’re hurtin’ your sister?”

                But things didn’t truly get any better over the next few months.  Elanor found her bed short-sheeted, her scent bottle filled with stinkweed sap, syrup poured on her hairbrush, and glue spread on the edges of her favorite book.

                Only in the last week before their parents and Elanor were to leave did it begin to hit home that no matter what they did, Elanor was going to get to go and the rest were not.  Finally Frodo-lad asked, “Am I going to be left in charge, Da, Mum?”

                Sam shook his head.  “It was you as put oatmeal under your sister’s sheets four days ago,” he said.  “I think as you’ve shown as you’re not exactly one as we can trust right at the moment.”

                Rosie-lass and Primrose, who was sitting with Ruby in her lap, looked at one another.  Daisy, fiddling with Bilbo’s hair, was sitting on the floor in front of the parlor fender, her lower lip trembling.  As usual Merry and Pippin were sitting side by side, glaring at their parents.  Goldi had Robin in her arms, sitting in her mother’s wing chair.  Hamfast was standing before his oldest brother, Fro’s hands resting on his shoulders.  “Then who’s going to take care of us?” Goldi asked.

                “I’ve been advised as there’ll be a nanny to watch over you while we’re gone,” Sam informed them all.  “She’s one as is trained special to see to it as children as thinks they don’t have to behave learn to do so.  She’ll be here about the time as we’re ready to go.”

                So it was that they awaited the knock at the door that would herald their keeper while their parents and oldest sister were away.  It came the morning of the day of the departure.  Bags and chests were sitting in the hall, ready to be loaded onto the wagon they’d be taking; cloaks, bonnets, and their dad’s saggy hat he admitted Rosie had made for him years ago and that had been found stuffed in the corner of a dresser in Crickhollow lay waiting to be taken up.  Their parents were in the kitchen, adding the last-minute items to the food chest when the bell rang.

                They all stood in the passageway, looking warily at the door and at one another.  After the bell rang the third time Frodo-lad took a deep, tremulous breath.  “I suppose as I ought to see who it is,” he said, straightening and raising his chin.  He advanced slowly, reached toward the brass knob and pulled back, then with decision placed his hand on it and turned it, pulling the door open decisively.

                She stood looking down the garden path, and they could see how bulbous her nose was, her double chin, how thick her eyebrow was.  She drew her attention away from the nasturtiums and sunflowers, and slowly turned to face and examine them, one by one.  There was one brown wart on the side of her nose, and another on her chin, and one front tooth was so prominent it hung over her lower lip.  But her eyes were particularly, unnervingly bright and clear and fine, and each child found himself or herself caught by that gaze.  She leaned forward slightly on her twisted walking stick as she worked through the older children in order of age, finally ending with her eyes fixed on Robin.  “So,” she said slowly, “you are the Gamgee children, are you?”

                “Gardner,” Merry corrected her.  “Or,” he amended, “they call us that as often as they do Gamgee, if not more.”

                “I see,” she said, looking him over carefully. 

                “Did they send you from Missus Fiddly’s agency?” Goldilocks asked.

                The corners of her mouth raised only slightly.  “Oh, I don’t work for any agency,” she explained.  “I’m a government nanny.  I take only special cases, and for Lord Perhael it was decided only the best would do.”

                At the use of their father’s special title and name the eleven of them looked at one another.  Finally Primrose looked up at her.  “Government nanny?” she wondered.  “What’s a government nanny?”

                Hamfast was examining her two warts with grave interest.  “And you will be staying with us while our parents and Elanor are gone?”

                “Yes.”

                Daisy, twisting one of her brother’s curls about her finger, asked, “What’s your name?”

                “Well, I am Nanny McPhee.”

                Again they exchanged glances.  It appeared that the months of their parents’ absence were likely to be--unusual.

Inequity

                Frodo Baggins followed Lord Námo through the complicated grounds of the Halls of Mandos.  “And you tell me there is a particular portion of your halls that is intended for such as me?”

                “Yes, for those who have served as blameless tragic heroes.”

                “I do not particularly consider myself blameless, my Lord.”

                Námo paused and turned to look down on the Hobbit.  “Ah, yes--I’d been told of your continued self-blame for that over which you had no control at the time.  Well, you will undoubtedly find, Lord Iorhael, that here, too, you are not alone among those you will meet within this particular hall.  Come.”  Again he turned on his way, and Frodo found he had to scurry to keep up.

                They came in time to a separate building with a long set of steps leading up to a massive portico.  On a square base on each side of the bottom of the stairway stood a great stone beast, like a huge cat with a great mane of hair about its head, Frodo thought.  Lord Namo looked at the building.  “This is the Jasper Fforde addition,” he commented.  “It is here that several worlds tend to collide.  One does need to be careful at times--the researchers from the Unseen University have detected quite a twisting in the fabric of the space-time continuum from having brought so much focus of pathos to one place.”  He led the way up the steps, having to pause frequently to allow Frodo to catch up.

                The doors opened to admit them, and he led the way inside and down a great hallway, pausing at last before a great blue door that appeared to have been carved completely from lapis lazuli.  Slowly and with great grace the door opened, and Frodo had the impression that if doors could bow, this one was doing so in its own way.  “This is the Harriet Beecher Stowe Wing,” Námo pronounced proudly.  “You will recognize some--ah, Niënor, here you are!  And how are you this day?”

                A very lovely young woman dressed in homespun that was at one and the same time rather rough and yet remarkably elegant smiled shyly up at the Vala and nodded her head before turning her attention back to winding wool into a great ball.  “She still speaks rarely,” Námo confided.  “This over here is Little Eva--people still sob over her tragic death.  And that,” he indicated a very handsome youth in black robes with a crest that contained a serpent, badger, lion, and an eagle on it, “is Cedric Digory--very nasty case, that one’s death.  Oh, and here is one I’m certain you will appreciate meeting--Déagol, this is Frodo Baggins, who inherited that golden Ring you were killed about.”

                A Hobbit with rather straighter hair than Frodo himself looked up, smiling, into the Ringbearer’s face.  “Did It do for you, same as It did for me?”

                “Well, it wasn’t for lack of trying,” Frodo admitted.  “And I had to travel for weeks with your cousin.”

                “Sméagol still knocking about, then?” asked Déagol, his interest waning a bit.  “Nasty thing to do--kill me just like that before I’d had a chance to be taken by that Ring, after all.  Well, glad to meet you--nice to see another Hobbit in here after all this time.  But I managed to get a fish or two this morning, and need to see them cleaned for dinner.”  He held up a great golden fish and his knife, smiled, and turned to his task.

                “Well, this is your new home for as long as you choose to remain here,” the Vala smiled.  “How about I leave you to it, then?”  And with a deep bow he turned away.

                Left to his own devices, Frodo began wandering aimlessly through the hall, until at last he came upon a small, rather slender boy sitting in a wheeled chair that looked far sleeker and newer than his rather plain brown clothing.  He was speaking to a ragged little girl as Frodo approached, but both turned to watch him as he joined them.

                “Hullo, then.  You a new one?” asked the boy.  “I’m Tiny Tim, and this is the Little Match Girl.  Glad to meet you.”

                Frodo found himself smiling--he’d always loved children.  “Frodo Baggins, at your service,” he said with a bow.  “You’re not from Arda, then?”

                “No--she’s from Copenhagen, and I’m from London, I am.  My dad’s Bob Cratchett--he works for Mr. Scrooge, you see.”

                “And how did you end up here?” Frodo asked.

                “Well, in a possible alternate ending Mr. Scrooge doesn’t repent when he’s visited by the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future, so in that case I die still a child due to tuberculosis in my legbone.  And that’s the me who’s ended up here.”

                “Then you weren’t blasted by the Dark Lord?”

                “Oh, no--I got to go to church and be an inspiration to others for innocence and endurance and everything.”

                “And you didn’t have to go without food or water?”  The Hobbit was growing agitated.

                “No,” the little girl said importantly, “that was me.  I starved and died of exposure, you see.”

                “And you didn’t have to hide from the Dark Lord?”

                “I think Miss Niënor had to do that,” Tiny Tim allowed with a glance toward the place where that lady still sat with her ball of yarn near the lapis door.

                “And you never had to carry an unbearable burden hundreds of leagues from your home to an unreachable bloody volcano to throw the blasted thing into it?” demanded Frodo, who was growing furious by this time.

                When the boy cheerfully shook his head Frodo pulled himself to his full height of not quite four feet and cried out, “Námo!  Lord Námo!”

                Within moments the great lord of Mandos arrived.  “What is it, Ringbearer?” he asked.  “What can I do for you?”

                “You mean that I had to go through almost a year’s torture carrying that all the way to and through Mordor, followed by two and a half years of feeling increasingly alienated and empty; and this child--this child only had to appear pitiable?”

                “Well, when you put it like that....”

                Frodo stalked off.  “It’s just not fair!”

                Tiny Tim and the little Match Girl watched after the Hobbit.  “Sensitive bloke, ain’t he?” the child asked.  “Seems a bit upset, he does.”

For Armariel, in memory of pizza and surfboarding come to Tol Eressëa--enjoy!

The Cook-off

       Frodo watched as Olórin, in the guise of the wizard he’d been for much of two millennia, passed himself, Lord Elrond, and Lady Celebrían, deep in conversation with others apparently of his calling.  It was an interesting group with costumes as varied and colorful as the land about them. 

       One appeared similar to Radagast the Brown, dressed in leggings under a skirted tunic of rough homespun, a leather vest laced across his torso under a brown mantle with slits through which his arms were thrust, a great staff of smoothed ash in his left hand. 

       A second wore robes of blue with a belt of leather dyed a royal purple under a magnificently made cloak of white and deep purple spangled with stars and moons, a conical hat also decorated with stars on his head.  Even this one's full beard appeared to have a slightly purple tinge to it, and thrust through his belt was a baton of ebony with an ivory finial at one end. 

       A third was dressed in white linen robes of such elegant simplicity they must have been achingly expensive.  He was beardless, his collar-length hair full and white save for a perfectly circular bald patch in the center of his pate that had to have been shaved on purpose. 

       A fourth had skin of an unusual color, almost reddish-brown in hue.  He wore a breech clout with a heavily beaded front panel, leggings of finely tanned deer skin, leather bands about his upper arms, a pectoral of beads, great claws and teeth and some kind of quill Frodo had never seen before, a beaded headband about his brow from which a cluster of eagle feathers hung on one side, his black hair streaked with grey braided on each side of his head.  He carried a rattle apparently made from a gourd in his hand and had an elaborate pipe with a collar of osprey feathers hanging from the stem thrust through his belt woven of strips of leather; on his feet he wore soft-soled boots of leather with a stylized eagle decoration done in fine beads on the front of each.

       The fifth was both beardless and totally bald, dressed in a white pleated kilt and with a strange high cap dyed red with two peaks to it atop his head, leather straps woven about his lower legs to just below the knee holding his sandals to his feet, a golden flail in one hand and a short crook in the other.  His skin was dark, and about his dark eyes his lids had been darkened with kohl.  A golden pectoral hung across his chest of a hawk in flight clutching to itself two cruciform shapes in its talons.

       There were an odd pair, both with trousers and shirts under coat-like robes of remarkably vivid colors; and a last dressed in dusty green velvet robes and a matching conical cap, wearing white boots and a black leather belt behind which his long white beard had been thrust, apparently to keep it out of his way.  He and one of the ones in trousers wore crystal lenses in metal frames perched before their eyes, and from his sleeve he pulled a slender wand with which he drew a shining shape in the air, apparently to illustrate whatever point he was making in the discussion the nine of them were enjoying amongst them.  All paused and examined the glowing diagram for a moment.  Then Gandalf shook his head, passed his hand over the diagram, at which point it disappeared.  He shifted his staff to the side, opened his right hand toward where the symbols had been, and gave a soft burst of song, at which a similar diagram appeared—similar but still distinctly different than the one the green-clad wizard had drawn.  All clustered more closely around and discussed the diagram animatedly.

       “What language are they speaking?” Frodo asked Elrond, fascinated by this tableau.

       “I have no idea,” Elrond admitted.  “But now and then they gather to discuss things with Mithrandir, and he appears to enjoy it thoroughly.”

       One of the others was shaking his head, and from the capacious pocket of his baggy trousers he produced a rectangular shape of what appeared to be bundled felt with a wooden back; he wiped it over Gandalf’s diagram and it disappeared.  He then brought out what Frodo recognized as a slate pencil and used it to draw his own diagram, an almost duplicate of Gandalf’s but with a new element in the upper left quadrant.

       Now the kilted one was growing excited—a wave of the flail and the trousered wizard’s diagram faded away; a move with the crook and a new one appeared.

       At last the red Man shook his head.  A wave of his rattle and a kettle appeared, and from a skin bag he wore at his waist he poured what appeared to be large reddish bean seeds into the kettle.

       The one in green sighed, and it appeared that all were bringing out kettles and cauldrons of various sorts and setting them up in a circle.  A female Maia appeared with a great vase filled with more bean seeds similar to those the red wizard had produced.  More came with basins of fruits and vegetables—Frodo easily recognized tomatoes and onions and peppers; and some came with slabs of meat.  The green-clad wizard went around and pointed his wand at the base of each cauldron, murmuring, “Incendio!” at which blue flames sprang up under all of them.

       Frodo could stand it no longer—he approached Gandalf and tugged at his grey robes.  “Are you cooking?” he asked.

       “Oh, yes—we’ve been debating the perfect recipe for chili.  None can agree, so we’ve decided to have a cook-off here and now.  If you’d like, you and Elrond and Celebrían there can be the judges and determine which is the best.”

       But Frodo was shaking his head.  “No,” he said, “there is no way that I, a Hobbit born and bred, will stand aside while others cook.  What is this chili and how is it made?”

       “Well, it is a popular dish in a place known as the Southwest.  It is made with red beans, a pepper-like spice known as chili, and with tomatoes, onions, and often other peppers and other spices and vegetables, and usually also with finely chopped or ground beef, although some will use pork or venison instead of or in addition to the beef.  It tends to be quite individualistic, as each person tends to prepare it subtly differently depending on what specific ingredients and proportions he or she prefers.”  In lower tones he advised, “Red Cloud there,” indicating the reddish-skinned wizard, “has the advantage as he actually comes from the land and culture in which chili originated.”

       “But as this is not a common dish within Middle Earth, or so I must suppose, any one of us might equally please Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían, is that not so?”

       Gandalf smiled.  “That is true, Frodo.  So, you wish to try your own hand?”

       “Of course.”

       Gandalf turned to the one dressed in green.  “Dumbledore, could you conjure up still another cauldron?  Lord Iorhael here wishes to join our competition.”

       In accented Westron the tall wizard asked, “Is he a wizard as well?”

       “No, but he does enjoy cooking.”

       Twinkling blue eyes behind the clear lenses examined Frodo.  “You think to challenge the greatest wizardly minds of all times, Frodo Baggins?  So be it.”  A wave of his wand and another cauldron appeared; the wand pointed and “Incendio!” voiced and blue flames sprang up under it.

       Now the various wizards were speaking with those Maiar who’d brought the various ingredients, and measuring instruments of various sorts were brought as well as other vegetables and knives and jars of water.  Frodo soon had his desired amount of water in his cauldron, and turned to the female Maia who’d first come to bring the beans to make his own requests.  Plum tomatoes, green and yellow bell peppers, sweet white onions, parsley, other vegetables were requested.  A short wooden cutting table was brought him from his home near the gardens, and then his favorite knives; he was soon carefully slicing ingredients and dicing his beef finely.  And the female Maia brought his requested items, smiling more fully with each ingredient she produced.

       It was almost two hours later that each contestant indicated he was ready to have his dish tasted.  Excess tomatoes were being taken away, spills were being cleaned up (around the kettles where the two wizards in trousers worked it was quite messy, as their magic appeared to rely heavily on bespelled constructions designed to stir their kettle at a precise speed and to alternately raise and lower the flames under the kettles), and the Maiar who’d brought the beans and meat were now bringing stacks of bowls of various colors and sheaths of spoons.

       Frodo dished up his beans with the rest.  Other Elves had appeared to watch the cooking, and now they joined Elrond and Celebrían as part of the panel of judges.  Frodo had been given a stack of small yellow bowls to apportion his chili into, setting them out on the long table that had been brought and set up for the serving.  Frodo’s most closely resembled that offered by Red Cloud in looks; that prepared by the trousered wizard with the crystal lenses before his eyes looked least like it.

       The Elves lined up, and with jokes and smiles they took bowls and spoons and began to try the various attempts at this new dish.  That offered by the wizard who wore trousers but not the crystal lenses generally got at most two swallows before those eating from his grey bowls set them back on the table and hurried away to get glasses of water.  Those who ate the offerings of the wizard who wore the white kilt also tended to reach for water, although most continued to eat his dish until their bowls were empty.  All appeared to love what Red Cloud had made; but by far the most popular appeared to be that served in the small yellow bowls.  Elves were approaching him asking to have their bowls refilled, and even the other contestants were asking for second helpings.

       At last all agreed that Frodo was the clear winner of the contest.  “And yet you are not a wizard yourself,” commented the one named Dumbledore.  “Merlin’s I can understand not being remarkably popular as leeks are not ordinarily preferred by many outside Wales.  And, Ridcully, I’m sorry but you put in far too much purple onion, and the jalapeños you added were hot enough to leave the tongue itself without taste buds.

       “But yours, Frodo Baggins—it was superb!  What did you put into it?”

       Frodo only smiled.  “Oh, but I’m a Hobbit—to tell my cooking secrets would be to betray my race, I think.”

       At last Gandalf raised his hands.  “Face it, friends, we have all been beaten by a Hobbit, whose race is renowned for its cooking skills.  However, I think that we can count on there having been mushrooms added, and, I think, some ale.”

       “Ale?” asked the wizard in the white linen robes.

       Frodo gave a mock glare at his friend before turning toward the one who’d questioned him.  “In Minas Tirith Aragorn’s cooks added different wines to various dishes; in the Shire we will often cook with ale or beer.  However, if I were to name the one addition I believe brought the judges back for more, it has to be the mushrooms.”

       “Well, we must honor you as the best cook we’ve as yet come across,” noted Dumbledore.

       “Oh, but I’m considered merely fair back in the Shire you see.  If you wish to know truly good cooking you need to try that done by my friend Sam or his wife Rosie.  Now, there is cooking to make one believe one has indeed come to the Feast!”

*******

       Not long after Sam Gamgee arrived to join his friend on Tol Eressëa there was an unexpected knock at the door one morning that Sam automatically went to answer.  Before opening the door, however, he peeked out the window to see who might be calling so early; he immediately went running through the house to where Frodo was fastening the rope girdle that he wore over his silver robes.  Frodo looked up, surprised at the wide eyes Sam displayed.  “Sam—whatever could be the problem?”

       “At the door—there’s a group of such folks as I’ve never seen afore—and I’ll swear as two of ’em’s not wearin’ anywheres near the proper amount of clothes, Master!”

       For a moment Frodo looked puzzled, then he flushed.  “Oh,” he said.  “I must suppose that Gandalf let them know you’d come.  Sam, you’ve not let Rosie do all the cooking all these years, have you?”

       “Course not,” Sam replied, almost insulted.  “Whyever’d you ask that?”

       Frodo appeared relieved.  “Very good,” he smiled.  “Have you ever heard tell of a bean dish called chili?”

       “No.  But what’s that got to do with those as is a’waitin’ now at the door?”

       “Well, it’s only that I sort of entered you into a cooking competition….”

Beta by RiverOtter, with many thanks!

A Game of Ninepins

            Strider the Ranger had seen many strange things in his lifetime.  High in the passes of the northern Misty Mountains, in spring and fall when the weather was most changeable, he’d had the chance to watch the frost giants of Middle Earth at their rough games of boulder rolling and tossing.  When he was in his early twenties he’d traveled with the Wizard Gandalf and his Elven brothers across the mountain chain into the valley of the Anduin, visiting Radagast the Brown in his house formed by the growth of living trees, Beorn the Shapechanger with his bee skeps and lodge-like home and servants of sheep and dogs and his watchful sons and folk, the great spiders of Mirkwood, the rebuilt wonder of Esgaroth on its pilings sunk deep into the bottom of Long Lake, the still-deteriorating remains of the Dragon Smaug lying visible yet well below the surface of the lake where he’d been felled by Bard the Bowman, and the newly recovering lands that had marked the Devastation  of the Dragon.

            He’d faced the wights of the barrow-mounds of what had been Tyrn Gorthad and had once, while in service to Thengel of Rohan, watched the flickering of activity about the mouth of the cleft leading to the Paths of the Dead from the high plateau of Dunharrow.  He’d passed through Moria from east to west, evading orcs, cave trolls, and worse; he’d looked down into the beauty of the Mirrormere and the horrors of the Dead Marshes.  He’d been pursued by what he was certain were werewolves and vampires outside the remains of Dol Guldur.  He’d looked in horror and revulsion on the scabrous structure of the Red Temple where rites to further empower Sauron were carried out near the Haradri city of Thetos, and had experienced the soothsaying abilities of the Priest of Amun in the Valley of the Sun during a visit to the temple of Neryet.  He’d been accepted as a guest in the hidden land of Lothlórien and had grown up in the Last Homely House of Rivendell.

            In short he’d seen great wonders and terrors during his many journeys throughout his own lands and those of the other peoples of Middle Earth.  But nothing had prepared him for what he saw now....

            He was returning westward from the forest realm of Thranduil when he found himself somewhat lost--something that ought never to have happened to Aragorn son of Arathorn.  He was tired, and relieved to at last be free of the company of the creature Gollum.  Had he ever been tempted to seek the Enemy’s Ring to enhance his own power, that was now firmly passed--how could anyone ever consider such an idea once they’d seen to what the Ring had brought the one once known as Sméagol?  And it was Gandalf’s belief that Gollum had once been a Hobbit--a distant relative perhaps of Bilbo Baggins, who now dwelt in his adar’s home?  He shuddered at the idea as he stood in these unfamiliar hills and tried to discern how he might best return to his intended route.

            However, he had to admit that he wasn’t even certain which direction he was facing.  It was noon, and what little could be seen of the Sun through the thick fog that had managed to envelop the rolling lands he’d entered in the early morning hours appeared to be right overhead, leaving him to question which direction was north, even.  All he could see was roiling mist.  All he could smell was the scent of damp soil and stone.  All he could hear----

            He turned, trying to determine the source of the rolling thunder he could hear.  No, not proper thunder, for there were no flashes of lightning to precede the bursts of noise, and there was a certain uniformity to the length of each burst of sound that indicated that this was due to purposeful activity of some sort.  Purposeful activity was indicative of living creatures of some kind, he knew; but whether said creatures were sentient or dumb, benign or malevolent, given to evil or to good or merely to their own interests could not yet be discerned.  Well, he had no means of determining the nature of the inhabitants of this region if he did not seek them out; so he at last set himself to following the sound as best--and secretly--as he could.  Quietly he climbed up onto the flank of the nearest hill and set off around it, following the sound to its source as soundlessly as only a Ranger and tracker trained by Elves could move.

            It had to have taken at least three hours to reach the cleft from which the sound emanated.  The fog was much thicker, and must reach quite high now, as he’d not been able to even determine the location of the sun for some time.  He’d seen only a rabbit and a single fox as he’d picked his way carefully though the rolling and rocky lands in which he found himself.  No birds called; he couldn’t even hear the sighing of a faint breeze through the narrow valleys and tumbled stones and the sparse heather and low brush that clothed the thin soil.  All he could hear at irregular intervals was the nearly uniform sounds of something rolling against a hard surface followed by the boom of an impact of some sort and then the falling of heavy objects in an echoing space.  He had to be close now!  Once he peered around that large outcrop of stone he ought to be able--at last!--to see whatever it was that sounded like this.

            Carefully he prepared to move forward, first making certain that no one lay in hiding watching for intruders.  Once he was finally assured the great mass of stone was not itself being watched he moved forward warily, again carefully ascertaining no one was secretly watching him before he finally looked out of his hiding place, hopeful at last to learn what might be the source of the noise.

            Were they Dwarves?  It appeared they might be, but they looked like none he’d ever seen.  They were smaller than the folk of the Blue Mountains or Erebor or the Misty Mountains he’d ever met.  Their hair was darker than most of the Dwarves he’d known, and although some had their hair pulled back from their faces and bound into a tail with a leather thong, none exhibited the often elaborate braids and gold beads the Dwarves he knew had always woven into their beards and often their hair as well.  Nor was their hair as thick and curly as that of any Dwarves he’d seen before.  They were about the size of Hobbits and dressed much as Hobbits and the folk of the Breelands dressed, actually, and certainly he’d known his share of Hobbits with hair that color; but no Hobbits grew beards of any sort, much less wore boots.  But from where might such boots have come, with their squared toes and odd brass buckles?  And these wore not hoods but hats--mariners’ hats, from what he could tell, with wide brims folded up in a most odd triangular design.  Aragorn felt himself shivering with the unreality of it.

            At least he could see what it was that was making the noise--a long flat expanse of stony ground had been cleared of all obstructions, and what appeared to be nine stone bottles had been set up at the near end--indeed, one of these odd folk was setting them into a precise alignment.  When at last he was satisfied with his handiwork he stepped well out of the way, and one of the others who waited at the other end of the cleared space took up what appeared to be a heavy ball of some sort--was it made of stone?-- readied himself, approached a few steps and rolled the ball across the ground at the arrangement of bottles.  The ball rumbled across the stony ground until it struck the stone bottles, sending them toppling and spinning, and all those watching laughed, cheering and applauding.

            Their language was clearly not Khuzdul--indeed it was one that the Man had never heard before.  Their voices were deep enough, he supposed, but not as rough as any Dwarf he’d as yet met.  The one who arranged the bottles had stepped forward, retrieved the ball from a purposely made depression behind where the bottles had stood, and rolled it expertly back to where the rest waited.  He then set himself to resetting the bottles each in its place.  The rest were talking, and one, with a sly grin said something in low tones to the others before he hefted the stone ball and made his approach, aiming it precisely at the legs of the one who was busy at this end.  At the sound of the rumbling of the ball the one setting up the bottles turned, only just managing to leap out of the way before the ball reached him, knocking down four of the bottles and just missing his feet before it fell into the depression.  Alarmed and angry, he yelled at the bowler, shaking his fist.  The rest all laughed as the offender affected an air of innocence, clearly insisting he’d only thought the fellow at this end was done.  Aragorn watched, amused, as the bowler apparently begged for the return of the ball, the one setting the bottles shaking his head, going back and replacing the downed bottles swiftly before fetching the ball and rolling it back and pointedly moving well out of range.  The bowler shrugged, made his approach, and set the ball rolling once more, managing to send all the bottles toppling before it fell into the depression.  One of the others brought forth a tankard of some kind and pressed it into the hands of the one who’d bowled, clapping him on his back as the fellow drank.

            The one who arranged the bottles was again busy about his task, then picked up the ball from its depression, this time carrying it back to the others and indicating it was the turn of another to labor at replacing the bottles once struck for a while.  There was some good-natured argument, but at last the new one started down toward where the bottles stood, carefully walking well out of the way of the one who now approached with the ball.  He who’d quit his duty with the bottles approached a roughly hewn table and picked up a tankard, filling it from a large pitcher and turning to watch the competition as he took a deep draught, laughing in derision as the ball this time just missed the arrangement of bottles and landed in the depression hard enough to almost bounce out of the opposite side.  The bottle setter laughed also, calling out what must be a friendly insult to the bowler, who made a rude gesture with his hand.  The new one at this end fetched the ball out, and as the other had done rolled it back to those waiting, and the failed bowler, plainly frustrated, tried again.  He managed to clip a single bottle, and the rest were all making rowdy comments as he sought to excuse himself.  Once the fallen bottle was righted and the rest checked to see to it their alignment was proper, the one this end again returned the ball, managing to catch the protesting bowler in the back of his legs and knocking him into the arms of the rest.  Once he was upright on his own again he turned back and yelled his own protests and threats until another impatiently pulled him back and indicated he should go to the table to fetch more drinks.

            It was as this one approached the table and the one who’d set the bottles in their places before that the Ranger saw the Man who sat slumped over the table, and all laughter at the antics of these strange folk fled him.  There rested the form of a Man, dressed in shabby clothing similar to those of the shorter folk and with the battered straw hat of a farmer by him.  He had long hair, once dark and rich but now greying, and a ragged long beard lying across the tabletop.  Whoever he was, he was plainly asleep--and had obviously been asleep for quite some time, considering the spider web that ran between the nearby shrub and the Man’s shoulder.  A dusty tankard sat near his motionless right hand, and by his sideways-turned face sat a plate empty of all save a portion of a bread roll of some sort, one that looked as grey and dry as stone.  Leaning against the table was a belled metal tube of some kind, and lying the other side of his head from the plate was something similar to a water skin, but made of heavy cloth rather than leather, and with a brass cap rather than a cork.  One of the two at the table looked at the Man, then made what seemed to be a comment about him to the other, who shrugged, gave the Man his own dismissive glance, and returned his own attention to the ongoing game.

            Aragorn couldn’t later explain what it was about the realization someone was in what appeared to be an unnatural sleep at that table that so disturbed him, but he found himself retreating from the place of the bowling game to somewhere else as far away as he could find.  At last he found an overhang where he felt he could take shelter for a time, and after placing his pack in a protected corner he unrolled his blanket and wrapped it about his shoulders, still shuddering about the unknown fate of the Man he’d seen.  He at last fell into a light doze, waking frequently as the rolling of the stone ball and the toppling of the bottles could be heard.  Near the middle of the night, however, the noise abated at last, and somehow feeling relieved he managed to sleep more deeply until shortly before dawn.

            After readying himself for the day and eating a sparse meal, he set himself to retracing his steps of the day before under a now-cleared sky and crisp autumn day.  But although he could follow many of his own tracks, he could find little that corresponded with what he’d seen in the previous day’s fog.  It was as if the landscape had changed completely since yesterday afternoon.  There was no maze of rocky hills and shrubbery, but a formation of four hills reaching out from the roots of the Misty Mountains, a formation he recognized well enough as standing somewhat south of the pass he’d been seeking.  As for the rocky outcrop behind which he’d watched the game of bowling--he failed to find it at all, much less the place where the group of short folk had rolled their stone ball at the formation of stone bottles.  At last he returned to where he’d camped to retrieve his pack and healer’s bag, bow and quiver, and only then realized he’d apparently lost his dagger.  Hefting his goods, he again followed his steps through the four hills, but after an hour of searching he realized the knife was nowhere to be found.  Cursing himself for a careless fool, he at last turned toward the mouth of the pass.  He had plenty of other daggers, of course, and the one lost hadn’t had much in the way of significance; but for a Ranger to misplace his gear was a most unusual occurrence, and he knew his Elven brothers wouldn’t let him hear the end of it when they learned what he’d done.  As for what he’d seen--again he shrugged.  He shook his head, then turned to the pass.  In four days time he’d be back in Rivendell--orcs permitting, of course.  Rivendell--the companionship of his Elven family for a couple days, a hot bath, adequate and well-prepared food for a change, clean clothes, and the retrieval of Roheryn so he could return to his place amongst the Dúnedain once more.

 *******

            He awoke to find he’d been settled against the stone walls of the canyon where he’d watched Henrik Hudson’s folk playing at ninepins.  He rose and stretched, amazed at how stiff he felt.  The tankard in which they’d plied him with beer sat on the ground by him, but it was empty and long dry, now filled with dust and the corpse of a large fly.  He shuddered to look at it.

            Where was his musket?  He couldn’t afford to have lost it.  But what he found, although it was the make of his own firearm, was clearly something the strange folk had left in his own piece’s place, for it was rusty and the stock gone grey from exposure.  His bag of powder had obviously been treated badly, for the fabric was torn away and only the straps and brass cap appeared to be left.  The smaller leather bag of shot in his pocket was cracked and dry, although the lead shot itself appeared unharmed.  And where was his hat?  Unable to find it, at last he moved off toward the mouth of the canyon where the game had been held, noting that a single ball, split in two, lay in the depression into which such things had fallen during the game he’d watched.  But as he passed the outcrop of stone at the mouth of the canyon, Rip saw something lying in the path--a sheathed dagger with what appeared to be a crystal set into the hilt in the midst of a silvery star.  Intrigued, he picked it up.  He saw where someone with odd boots had knelt behind the stone, apparently watching the game.  Where that one had gone, however, he had no idea, for there was no sign of any prints leading away from there.

            He looked up--he’d obviously been out all the previous day and the entire night.  The leaves on the maple tree rustled in red and gold glory, and he smiled at it.  Well, he’d best be home, he supposed.  But the thought he’d spent the eve of All Hallows out in the wilds of the mountains disturbed him.  Tucking the odd dagger into his belt, Rip Van Winkle turned toward home, but quickly realized that somehow trees and shrubbery had apparently grown mightily in the space of a single night.  Still bemused, he set himself to finding his way back to the village.

Beta'd by RiverOtter, with my thanks!

Cook Needed

            The odd creature sat on a sunny windowsill, staring out of it as if bored.  Sam, standing in the shadow of a pillar, looked at it with indecision in his eyes.

            “What is it?” he asked, looking up at his guide.

            “It’s a cat.”

            Sam examined the face of the Vala carefully, his disbelief obvious.  “That’s a cat?  Never seen no cat what looked like that, and that’s a fact!”  He looked back at the creature.  “Well,” he finally said uncertainly, “maybe if you look at it sort of sidewise, maybe it just might look somethin’ like a cat.  But I still never seen no cat like that one--not in either Middle Earth nor on Tol Eressëa.”

            “Well, part of the problem, I suppose, is that he started as a drawing of a cat.  It’s only because we’re in the Jasper Fforde Addition to the Halls that you’d be in a position to meet him to begin with, you see.  But he’s the real reason I asked you here.”

            “Why’d you want me to meet a cat, and one as looks like that to begin with?” the gardener asked.

            “He’s not been terrifically happy to be here, we’ve found, and we’re hoping you might assist him to find a level of contentment.”

            “What’s his problem--don’t like the food?” Sam suggested with a soft laugh.

            “Exactly.”

            Sam looked up sharply.  “I was only jokin’, Lord Námo,” he explained, again uncertain.

            “Well, I’m not.  He’s not happy at all with the food, and we’re hoping against hope you might be able to learn how to fix the one dish he keeps insisting on.”

            The Hobbit looked about the large chamber in which they found themselves.  “You mean that of all of those as is here in this room, there’s no other cooks?”

            “Oh, there are other cooks, but each tied to his own time and culture; there’s no one here willing to attempt the dish he craves.”

            “None?”

            “No.  The best cook we have here is that rat over there,” with a wave of his hand toward the rather odd-looking rat in the far corner who was busy working over a cooking hearth covered with various pots and kettles and so on.  “However, as he is from Paris he refuses to study Italian-American cuisine such as the cat prefers.”

            “What?”

            The Lord of Mandos sighed.  “Never mind, Lord Perhael--that’s unimportant at the moment.  Plus, being a rat to begin with he’s not comfortable working for a cat anyway.”

            “What kind of food does he like?”

            “It’s a dish made with layers of large flat noodles between more layers of soft cheeses and tomato sauces with spices and often onions and usually ground or shredded beef.  It’s very popular in some lands, you understand.  If you’d be willing to try cooking a new dish, it would be greatly appreciated.”

            Sam was looking far more interested now.  “Well, I’ll admit as I like tryin’ my hand at new dishes--certainly picked up a fair number there in Gondor and Rohan and all.  If’n you can get me the ingredients and have someone teach me as how it’s done, I’ll be more’n willin’ to give it a try.”

            Lord Námo smiled with relief.  “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve agreed--do come this way and meet him.”  And as they approached the windowsill the Vala called out, “Oh, Garfield, Lord Perhael here has agreed to learn how to cook up a pan of lasagna.”

            Sam didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more melting than the hope in the odd cat’s eyes.

Beta'd by RiverOtter

Too Many Rangers

            “Here him comes agin,” grunted Jape, barman at the Prancing Pony, to Barliman Butterbur, proprietor for the inn.  “Don’t know as where that one goes off to all the time, but if’n he don’t keep turnin’ up like a bad penny!”

            Butterbur stood up from where he’d been checking over the books, a task he hated, to watch the odd Hobbit pause in the doorway, examining the room carefully.  Apparently deciding things weren’t quite to his liking in the common room, he pulled back out of it again.  Barliman shook his head.  Now, he liked the Littles in Bree--loved them, in fact.  Far less likely to quarrel than the Bigs were most of the time, and when they did have a set-to, it tended to be localized, if you took his meaning.  And if there was a problem with one not paying his tab, all you had to do was speak to his family head and usually it was settled within an hour or two. 

            But that Trotter--if he wasn’t a strange one!  Always off on some business or other of his own, then turning up as often as not with that Gandalf.  And the clothes he’d wear!  Where most Hobbits wore good cloth done in cheerful golds, greens, browns, and the like, Trotter’s clothes were faded with long exposure to the weather.  And those wooden shoes of his!  If he didn’t make quite the clatter as he hurried about, always hurrying here or there!

            But the oddest thing--well, it was too odd to dwell on, really; but the fellow just couldn’t seem to stay a Hobbit, no matter what he tried.  You’d see him sitting at the table in the back corner with his pipe and a half in front of him, watching the room for anything odd going on; and next time you glanced his way, blamed if he’d not have grown a good three feet while you weren’t looking, and it would be a full pint before him--until he stood up, at which time he tended to suddenly be but slightly over three feet tall again.  It tended to make one a bit dizzy, you know!

            He’d not been seen for quite some time, for which Butterbur was grateful--better them odd Rangers than this one.  No one was even certain as where he’d come from--wasn’t a Bree Hobbit by birth, that was certain.  Rumor was he was originally from the Shire; certainly some of the Brandybucks seemed to recognize him, while what Tooks would on occasion come out to Bree would take a glance at him, their faces would go strained, and they’d pointedly ignore him all during their stay, while he’d just sit in his corner, going Mannish from time to time, and just watching them with eyes that didn’t appear to blink quite enough.

            Not that there’d been much in the way of custom from the Shire for quite some time.  No, times had become difficult over the past few years as rumors of distant wars were whispered quietly between patrons.

            But that appeared to change tonight when the door opened to admit four Hobbits, obviously from the Shire by their talk.

            Mr. Underhill?  Wasn’t there something he was supposed to remember about a Mr. Underhill?  He was certain there was something--but what?  Well, whatever it was, it had slipped right out of his mind as he was working at remembering their names--Peregrin Took, Meriadoc Brandybuck, Samwise Gamgee, and Mr. Underhill.  He summoned Nob to take them to their rooms, and promised a meal shortly, then went back to the common room to get some beer to take to the private parlor he’d offered to their use.

            Now, if that didn’t beat all--Strider was there, sitting at the table in the corner, that stained green cloak of his about him and his hood up, and Strider was trying to get his attention----

            ----Except there was a tug at the same time on his trousers leg.  He looked down into the stern face of Trotter.  “Butterbur, I need to know the names of those Hobbits that just came in,” he was saying.

            “Shire Hobbits--a Gamgee, a Brandybuck, a Took----”

            “A Took?  What for is a Took in the party?  What’s Gandalf playing at?  And what’s this about a Gamgee?  No Underhills?”

            “Yes, there’s an Underhill--Mr. Underhill, he said he was.”

            “But no Bolgers or Boffins?”

            “No, no Bolgers or Boffins.  I told you--a Took--seemed the youngest, a Brandybuck, and a Gamgee came with Mr. Underhill.”

            “But they’re from Tighfield way, the Gamgees are.  What in Middle Earth is a Gamgee doing with Bolger-Baggins?”

            “There wasn’t any Bolger-Bagginses--just a Took, a Brandybuck, a Gamgee, and Mr. Underhill!”

            Trotter shook his head and muttered, “Has to be him--has to be.  But where all these other folk came from----  A Brandybuck I could see; but a Took and a Gamgee?  What’s Gandalf about?”  He finally looked up, decision in his eyes.  “Well, I need to get in to see them--privately.”

            “Well, I’m not their keeper!  But if'n you want to see them, you’ll have to wait until they’re settled.  Not havin’ the likes of you botherin’ guests right off the bat!  You need a room tonight, Trotter?”

            At his indication he did not, Butterbur suggested archly that he then go to the common room and wait to see Mr. Underhill and his party should they decide to join the company.

            Grumbling, Trotter started toward his favorite corner table, only to find it had already been taken.

            “You again?” Trotter demanded, glaring up at the tall Ranger.

            “Haven’t you gotten the idea that you just don’t work out in this story?” Strider returned.

            “I work out just fine....”

            “Yes, I suppose you do, if you want a Hobbit who can’t stop turning into a Man every few pages or so!”

            “But this was to be my table, and I’m important to the story!”

            “You were important to the story until it became obvious you can’t help becoming a Man.”

            “But I’m a distant relative to Bingo Bolger-Baggins----”

            “Yes, I suppose you are--except his name’s no longer Bingo Bolger-Baggins.”

            “How do you know?”

            “When was the last time you spoke to Gandalf?”

            “I’m not certain--maybe a few years ago....”

            The Man gave a deep sigh.  “See here--you became me.”

            “I most certainly did not!  You don’t even have the same name!”

            “Well I did--the same nickname, at least, for the longest time.”

            “So why was it changed?”

            “Why do you expect?  A Hobbit wearing wooden shoes makes a trotting noise, but I was brought up by the Elves, so I walk far more silently than you can in those awful shoes of yours--and that’s another thing--why, if you were tortured by having your feet held to the fire, would you choose wooden shoes of all the possible types of footwear available?  There are some wonderful orthopedic shoes available, you know.”

            “And since when does a Hobbit shop at an orthopedic shoe store?” Trotter demanded.  “Not that you’d find one anywhere in Eriador.  Did you ever see one even in Gondor?  I certainly didn’t!”

            At that moment three Hobbits came through the door into the common room, and paused to see the whole company intent on the debate going on in the corner of the room.

            “What do you think that’s about, Mr. Frodo?” the broadest Hobbit asked the tallest one.

            “I have no idea, but I suspect that there’s a clash between two concepts going on here,” the tall one said consideringly.

            “Whoever that Hobbit is, he certainly looks familiar,” the shortest one with the fair hair commented.  “Reminds me of the portrait of my great-uncle Isengar Took that hangs in the Thain’s parlor in the Great Smials.”

            Trotter turned to face the newcomers.  “What do you mean, Mr. Frodo?” he asked.  “Since when is he Frodo?”

            “I think since about 1942, actually,” Strider suggested.

            “But it’s just 1418!” objected Trotter.

            “I’m not speaking of Shire Reckoning, or even Steward’s Reckoning.  I’m speaking anno domini.”

            Trotter gave a suspicious look at the Ranger.  “That’s neither Sindarin nor Quenya, nor even Adunaic.”

            “Of course not--it’s Latin.”

            “So what’s Latin doing in this story?  They don’t speak Latin in Middle Earth!”

            “Oops, look out!” cautioned Jape from the bar.  “Looks like he’s changin’ agin, the way as he does.”

            Strider stood up and grabbed Trotter’s shoulder.  “This is drawing far too much attention--certainly more attention than he would were he to dance on a table and then disappear suddenly,” he growled in low tones.  “I think we need to take this to the Hobbits' private parlor.”  He drew Trotter after him, and as he walked by the Hobbits he grabbed hold of the tallest of the Hobbits as well.  “Best come along, you and your party, Mr. Underhill!”

            “Wait just a moment there!” said the broad one.  “Just what is it you’re plannin’ to do with my Master?”

            “Master?” spluttered Trotter.

            “How’d he do that, Frodo?” asked the smallest one of the tall one.  “Change height like that, I mean.  That’s impressive!”

            “Mr. Pippin!” objected the broad one as they disappeared out into the passageway, turning back toward the north wing where the Hobbit-sized rooms were.  Jape and Butterbur--and all the other patrons of the common room at the Prancing Pony--watched after them.

 *******

            “Now, what is all this?” demanded Trotter once they were in the private parlor and the door was shut.  He watched as Strider went about the room, pinching out the candles, leaving the room lit only by the light from the hearth.  “I never said I would be bailing out on this story!”

            “It doesn’t appear to have been your choice,” sighed Strider.  “It appears it was done in spite of you.”  He looked about the room.  “Where’s the other one?” he asked, plainly exasperated.

            The tall one the others called Frodo answered uncertainly, “Merry said he was going out to get a breath of air.”

            “And getting into who knows how much trouble!” Trotter said with a worried look toward the doorway.  “What with Black Riders and who knows how many ruffians and half-orcs about....”

            “Orcs?” chimed in the short one.  “Are they the same as Bilbo’s goblins?”

            The Mannish Ranger nodded.  “Yes, from the Elvish word yrch.”

            The Hobbit Ranger glared at his counterpart--and he was again just over three feet tall.  “I’d thank you not to answer for me--I am fully capable of speaking for myself.”

            “You’re not even supposed to be here any more,” the Man groused.

            “Maybe if you two would explain just who you are,” suggested Frodo.

            “They call me Trotter,” the Hobbit explained.

            “And they call me Strider,” his reluctant fellow added.

            “And what are your real names?”

            The Man examined the three official guests of the inn warily.  “I don’t know--the Enemy has set traps for me before,” he began.

            The Hobbit Ranger shook his head, then turned determinedly toward Frodo.  “I’m Peregrin Took,” he explained.  “A distant cousin of yours....”

            “You’re named Peregrin Took, too?” the smallest one said, his eyes lighting up with delight.  “You mean I’m not the only one stuck with a name too big for me?”

            Trotter turned toward the smallest of the party from the Shire, obviously shocked.  “He didn’t name two of us that, did he?”

            “I don’t see why not, once you were written out of the story,” Strider pointed out.  “He wanted to do some kind of memorial to you, I must suppose.”

            “But to give my name to--to this­ miserable example of Hobbitry!  I ask you!”

            “Now, just a moment now!”  The younger, more innocent Peregrin Took was very much affronted.  “There’s no call for such things!  It’s not that I asked to be named for you--I only just learned that we’re apparently related, after all!”

            “I’m not required to explain myself to you,” Trotter said, rather rudely.  “It’s Bingo here who asked.”

            “Bingo?”  The tallest Hobbit was shaking his head, mystified.  “Who’s Bingo?”

            “You are--Bingo Bolger-Baggins, Bilbo’s nephew and adopted heir!”

            But Frodo was still shaking his head.  “I’m Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck.  I call Bilbo my uncle, but he’s really my first and second cousin, once removed on each side, you see.”

            “I told you--he’s not been Bingo Bolger-Baggins for quite some time,” Strider commented smugly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

            “When was I Bingo Bolger-Baggins?” demanded Frodo.

            “That was what he was going to call you,” advised Strider.  “And at that time you didn’t meet me--you met him.”  He indicated the smaller Hobbit before him.

            “And what is either one of you supposed to do for me?”

            Trotter and Strider answered simultaneously, “Lead you to Rivendell.”  They then glared at one another.

            The broad one was shaking his head.  “If’n this don’t beat all, Mr. Frodo!  Two guides to Rivendell!  But how’re you goin’ to pick the one as you want to help us?”

            “And who are you?” asked Trotter.  “Fredegar Bolger?”

            “Fatty didn’t even come,” said Pippin, shaking his head.  “And are you really another Took cousin?  Are you related to Isengar or Hildifons?”

            “I asked who you are?” Trotter repeated, ignoring the younger Took.

            “Samwise Gamgee.”

            “Since when did you decide to come along?”

            “I didn’t decide to come along--Gandalf said as I was to come!”

            “What kind of cousin are you?”

            Sam gave Frodo an uncertain look.  “I doubt as we’re related at all--my folks are from Gamwidge and Tighfield way, after all.  Only come to Hobbiton not that long ago--my dad, the Gaffer, come to apprentice to Cousin Holman, and now I’ve took over from him.”

            “But Holman Greenhand was Bilbo’s gardener.”

            “So he was.  You got a problem with me being Mr. Frodo’s gardener?”

            Trotter was shaking his head.  He backed up to a chair and collapsed into it.  “No--this can’t be happening!” he murmured to himself, covering his face with his hands.  “The story couldn’t have changed this much!”

            At that moment there was a knock at the door.  “Mr. Underhill,” called Butterbur as he pushed it open. “May I have a word with you?”

            Strider gave a great sigh.  It looked to be a long and contentious evening.

For the-Arc5

Light Reading

            “I think you might like these,” Gandalf said one day as he set seven books down on the bench beside Frodo.  “One of my friends brought them--he thought you would like reading of the exploits of his protegee.”

            Frodo looked at the colorful pile.  Most were in paper covers of various shades of green and gold, although there was one that was predominantly blue.  He picked up the topmost--and thinnest--and examined it before looking up at his friend in amazement.  “Is he riding on a broomstick?” he asked.

            The Wizard leaned down and examined the picture on the cover with some interest.  “So it would appear,” he finally allowed.

            “What’s that he’s trying to catch?  It is plainly not a bird.”

            Gandalf shook his head.  “I suspect, dear friend, you shall need to read them for yourself to determine that.”

            Frodo nodded thoughtfully, opened the volume, and began reading.  Most of the machines described within it he had little appreciation for, although he could imagine how such things as letter slots and cookers might be useful.  Several times he found himself laughing, for although the technology might be at great odds to that he’d known while living in the Mortal Lands, yet the emotions of the protagonists and some of their reactions to impossible situations he could fully appreciate.  He read throughout the day....

 *******

            “Did he like my gifts?” Gandalf was asked.

            “Like them?  Oh, I believe he did indeed.  However, many of the rest of us have found his reactions to the stories to be--disconcerting.”

            “Oh?  How so?”

            “Well, first, he decided to construct his own magic wand.  As there are no unicorns or phoenixes on the island, he decided the most likely material to use would be a hair from the greatest individuals he knew.  Galadriel Artanis was most upset to be awakened from a nap when he plucked a hair from her head.  Some of the Elves from the mallorn grove have complained about the branches he cut from one of their trees, yesterday he managed to get away with a whisker from my beard, and now his friend Livwen’s mother is demanding the return of her broom!”

            Dumbledore began laughing and could not seem to stop.  “Just don’t let him try ‘Accio brain’!” he advised between chuckles.

For Nimue8 for her birthday, and in special tribute to another whose birthday falls on January 3.  Enjoy!  And thanks so to RiverOtter for the beta!

Transformation

            The two American scientists emerging into the space station paused at the sight of the Russian cosmonaut who waited to greet them.  "Velcome, comrades, to the All-but-Forsaken Inn!  You have brought it?" he demanded in thickly accented English.  "The vodka?"

            "Yes," admitted one of them.  "Although we had a time convincing our superiors that it was required of us that we bring it to you.  Captain Mannix appeared to think that such gifts, and so long after Christmas, would be inappropriate."

            "You be here today, tonight--you want it, too," the Russian growled as he grabbed the padded bag presented him by one of the two Americans.  "Strange things happen, this day."

            The two Americans exchanged curious glances.  "Strange things?  What kind of strange things?" demanded the other one.

            "You will see.  Oh, you will see!"  And with bottle firmly in his grasp, the Russian led the way to the main living chambers. 

            It was an hour or two before they began to appreciate the Russian's concerns.  "What the...?" murmured one of the two Americans, who'd been using one of the onboard telescopes to observe Venus.

            "What is it?" asked his fellow, who had been checking out the hydroponics.

            The first was examining the eyepiece of the instrument he'd been using.  "I think our Russian host has been tampering with the telescopes.  Come look!"  So saying, he pulled the eyepiece free and looked at it carefully, then gazed through it at his companion.  Puzzled, he pulled it from his eye.  "No, it is clear!" he murmured.

            As he reassembled the telescope his friend asked, "What made you think he was tampering with the telescope?"

            "What I saw!  I wasn't seeing Venus--I was seeing a boat--a great crystal boat, with great sails.  And it was being captained by a great, shining Man, one with a crown of some sort, and Venus was as a great stone centered on the crown, right in the center of his forehead!"

            So saying, he clicked the eyepiece into place and once again peered through it, only to exclaim, "Then he must have done something to the outer lens!"

            The Russian, apparently pleasantly drunk, emerged from the small room in which he slept.  "What is wrong?" he asked.  "You see them?  You see the boats?"

            The other American shook his head.  "What boats? he demanded.

            "All around us!  Wessels of crystal, with shining spirits guiding them!  Look!  Look!"  So saying, he went to one of the obscured ports and slid the cover out of the way.

            And it was as he said!  Below them lay the Earth, but no longer a sphere of brilliant light blue; now it was a great shining disk!

            "My God!" whispered one of the Americans, pointing to the emerging view they had of the moon as the space station turned.  "Look at that!"

            And there was no lifeless, scarred sphere, but instead a great round coach drawn by white horses, inside of which shone a tall, glistening figure who toasted them with what appeared to be a great foaming mug of ale.

            When the Russian held out two large vessels filled with vodka to them, he was smiling sardonically.  "You see?" he demanded.  "Always this way, the third of January!"

            And surrounded by the spirits guiding the stars and planets, looking down at that odd disk that appeared to be the Earth transformed, the three Men sipped in shock at their drinks.

For Wend-Writer and Leianora, for their birthdays.  Beta by RiverOtter, with corrections from Fiondil.

Prepared to Live Indeed

            My Iorhael!

            The shining spirit once known variously as Frodo Baggins and Iorhael na i·lebid, and whose titles had included Cormacolindo, the Ringbearer, and Bronwe athan Harthad, Endurance Beyond Hope, as well as Prince of the West, rose from its work amongst the spirits of children preparing for their eventual birth into Arda, turning to present a visage filled with delight and joy.

            Atto!

            I have a commission for you, child, if you will accept it.

            When would I ever reject any commission you would offer me, Atto?

            A terribly wounded spirit lies within a room within Námo’s halls, one he and his companions constructed from their own experiences within Arda.  I would have you return him here, to this glade, as I would hope healing for his fëa would come to him more swiftly here than there.

          Iorhael bowed deeply.  It is long and long since I have crossed over the silver bridge, but at your word I would descend into the deepest places to bring out those you would have me fetch for you.

          Then go, beloved child.  There might have been two to fetch, but his one companion chose rather to return to his hröa once more, and finish the course set for him.  This one, however, although given every chance to redeem himself, has suffered from the dragon sickness for much of his life, and resolutely refused to learn the lessons of compassion and empathy I had set for him.  Perhaps he will do better with the tutelage of one in whom those lessons are so shiningly displayed as is true of yourself.

          Then he has become much as Curumo came to?

          Indeed so.  And do not seek to take to yourself the guilt for what came of Curumo within Arda, for then you saw how wounded he was and offered him the chance to return.  So it is that he chose his own fate, particularly as he had begun from greater knowledge than you had as to what his choices could bring him to.

          Now go, and bring back this one, one who was never intended to be more than a mortal, that within this glade he might come at last once more to himself, and perhaps accept another chance to live and fulfill our hopes for his growth.

            Iorhael bowed deeply, shimmering with joy and responsibility.

 *******

            The chamber was strange to Iorhael’s eyes as he entered it.  All here was white, sterile if shining with possibilities.  The floor underfoot was bare, laid in squares not of marble but of some thin material over ancient stone.  The room itself was long, set with lines of benches.  A sign hung upon one wall, one that read, Waiting Room.

            There was a hint that many spirits might have come and gone here, few waiting more than a brief spell of Time; but now the room was empty of life—or almost so.  There was a tortured mewling, much muted, from some distance along it.

            Iorhael sought high and low, and finally found his quarry lying under a bench, a huddled, twisted figure as if a crippled faunt had been abandoned there.  Smiling, the shining one knelt to reach down to gather the creature to himself.  So, here you are, then?  Are you ready now to accept Love?  For I have it in immeasurable amounts for your sustenance, if you will have it of me.  Atto has seen to it that we are well supplied, you must understand.  Now come, Tom Malvolo Riddle, back to the Garden.

            “Let me go!” whispered the twisted creature.  “I don’t want love!  I want respect and obedience!”

            Iorhael laughed, a mithril-pure paean of delight.  And what is true respect other than love, Tom?  And of what value is obedience if it is from aught other than love?

            “But you could never understand me.  I was raised as an orphan!”

            As was I.  The Brandywine took my parents from me.

            “But I never knew love.”

            Never?  Truly never?

            Iorhael could see glimpses of memories:  the matron who’d tried to hold him close that Tom Riddle had rebuffed; the young boy who’d been enthralled by Tom’s ability to move things with his will who’d been one of his earliest victims; the pretty girl from Hufflepuff who had been drawn to him and had followed him about worshipfully who had been used by him; the concerned teacher who would have preferred to have guided him in exploring his talents fully to the guarded watch he was forced to take; the young men who had been his companions who had wished to be his friends.  But Tom had held them all away, fearful of allowing them to come too close.  He’d used them and manipulated them all, demanding obedience in preference to fealty, fear rather than love….

            The creature whispered, “You cannot understand me!”

            Iorhael shook his shining head.  I held Sauron’s Ring for seventeen years.  I doubt you can show me a perversion he did not perfect long before your people came to be as they are and that It then presented before me.

            “I could kill you!”

            Iorhael laughed.  How can you kill what is already immortal?  But then he became more solemn.  I see that you have killed, and have delighted to do so.  I, too, killed, and had no remorse at the time.  And many—too many—died for my sake.  But those you have killed merely found the immortality within their hearts, and the Imperishable Flame within them burns the brighter now it is no longer veiled in flesh.  And those who died for my sake rejoice that their sacrifices were not in vain.  And all that I sacrificed has been fulfilled as well.

            “They are dead!”  The whispered words were less than the declaration of triumph he’d intended.  “Those killed for me—by me—they are no more!”

            Again the negation of Tom’s claims of victory.  You are no longer within Arda Marred, and neither are they.  They are far beyond the Circles of Arda, and know the fuller life granted to the Father’s Children.  You are no threat to them now, for they are held within Life Itself.  The question is, are you willing to seek Life yourself, or do you intend to continue to seek power at the cost of all others?  Atto wishes you back, you see.

            “I don’t want Love!”  The whisper was now desperate.

            Iorhael’s thought was gentle as he held the wasted form to him:  But Love wants you, child.  It is time to give over being Voldemort, for he had not the power and immortality he’d thought to command.  Remember how you have repeatedly lost the physical forms you once held.  You held not true Power, not once you turned from your Source.  Atto is the only true Source of Power we can draw upon, after all.  All else is a sham—a mere conjuror’s parlor trick of misdirection, not true magic.

            “If you think you know me, you are mistaken.”

            A sigh.  Oh, I know you better than you can yet appreciate.  You see, I knew you when you were known as Lotho.  You were my cousin then, and you fell even then to the false promise of another to grant you Power and Fame.  He made you infamous instead, and then had you ignominiously murdered.  You’ve had several chances to set things right, but you will keep trying to wrest power to yourself, and in so doing you keep allowing it to slip away from you.  You have held political power and spiritual power at different times.  You have been a series of bullies, and military commanders whose armies became increasingly impotent as you reached beyond the practical, seeking to become a tyrant based on a perversion of imagination rather than on Truth.

            Oh, you have known some triumphs, but in the end have consistently lost all by forgetting that there is no true gain not founded on Love, Compassion, and Justice.  And even the Elves, who will live until the end of Time as we knew it during our lives in Middle Earth, accept that within Time there is no constancy, but always ebb and flow.  He who was once a King knows he may be the meanest of servants in the future, and then hold Rule within his grasp once more after that.

            Iorhael’s expression became more intense.  Are you not tired of it, Tom?  Are you not tired of always being avoided and friendless, sought out only by those who want at least a portion of your power for themselves?  You can be better!  This last time you tore your very soul to pieces, and it will take much to bring you back to wholeness so that you can again hold your rightful share of the Imperishable Flame once more.  Don’t you want to know friendship—true friendship—at least once?  Don’t you want to have someone love you as much for your weaknesses as for your strengths?  And Atto wants you back again!  I can take you out of here, if you wish it.  Or I could leave you. 

            He made as if to set his charge again on the cold floor, but it clawed at him, terrified to be abandoned again to what it saw as sterile whiteness.  “No!  Please—don’t leave me here!  I am afraid to be alone…."

*******

            He who had once been Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry passed through the portion of the Gardens where Iorhael served as one who eased those children who had returned precipitously from the lives granted them and those preparing for new lives within the boundaries of Time.  Iorhael laughed with a child who fair shone with potential, as handsome a lad as the former wizard had ever seen.

            “And this is quite a fine one you have here, Iorhael,” he said.

            Yes, and soon to be sent out once again to live, we hope fully this time.

            “I see.  And has he a name?”

            He’s had several.  But this time we feel he might do well to have a new one.

            “I’d be honored to have him bear the name I once held.”

            Iorhael shone with satisfaction, and the child with surprise.  Would you like that?  Do you think that you could live up to such a name?

            The boy nodded, at first uncertainly.  “I think I could—this time.”

 *******

            “And what will we name him, Harry?”

            “Albus Severus.”

            “But you hated Snape, and he hated you!”

            “That was only because he didn’t understand me.  He looked at me and saw only the resemblance to my father, who after all at fifteen was able at times to be an insufferable git.  And I saw only the hatred I didn’t deserve, and so I reacted to what I didn’t understand.  But he was a great wizard himself, a far better wizard in every way than ever Voldemort was.  He was what Tom Riddle could have been, Ginny, had he ever allowed a human emotion to grow within him.  I can’t think of two better wizards to wish our son to be like.”

            And the infant realized that the Love it had become accustomed to would continue to surround him—this time.

Written for the LOTR Community "Lion and Lamb" challenge.  Beta by RiverOtter.

The Job Interview

            “Sir?  If you would come with me?  This way, please.”

            She was taller than most women he’d seen, and her attitude lingered somewhere between courteously indifferent and impatient.

            He slipped from his seat and padded softly after her, warily staying back from the sharp heels to her odd shoes.  He’d seen a good deal of Men’s footwear, long ago during the stay in Minas Tirith, but these looked as if they could easily prove lethal!  And with the toe as pointed as the heels….

            How is it she does not turn her ankle? he found himself wondering.

            “And your name, Mister…?” she asked as she led him down a narrow hallway.

            “Baggins.  Frodo Baggins.”  He found himself having to step more quickly to keep up with her, and realized that he was rapidly becoming winded.  Apparently the long years spent in Valinor had left him ill equipped to keep pace with those as much taller than he as she was, although he’d come in time to the ability to walk fairly easily at Aragorn’s side.  Of course, as he thought on that time, he had to admit that by that time Aragorn himself had learned to shorten his stride some so as to better accommodate the Hobbits.  “And your name?” he managed to ask.

            She turned her head slightly to answer, “Amanda Phelps, Director of Human Resources for the Council on Special Populations.”

            He stopped, and realizing he’d done so, she stopped, too, turning an inquiring eye on him.  “Mr. Baggins?”

            “I’m sorry, Mistress Phelps, but I thought I was meeting with someone who would be able to perhaps offer me employment.”

            “That is my job, sir.”

            “But I thought that the word human applied toward Men.”

            She appeared puzzled.  “Well, it applies equally toward men, women, and even transexuals, Mr. Baggins.  It applies toward all people, after all.  You do qualify as a member of the classification people, do you not?”  Her tone tended toward the sardonic, he thought.

            “Well, of course, I am a member of my own people,” he answered with as much dignity as he could muster.

            Again there was that look of puzzlement as if she didn’t quite understand his meaning, and then she shook herself and resumed leading him down the hallway, commenting, “We are almost to my office.”

            The hallway was tall and narrow—and straight—very straight lines.  Oh, so common a feature in the buildings of Men, he realized.  Although the hallways in the Citadel had been somehow easier to traverse as many were of stone and thus tended to feel natural, and others were much wider than this, usually with windows on one side or doorways at the ends, windows and doors that were usually thrown open to allow fresh air as well as light to enter.  Here there were no windows to be seen, just tall doors on each side, most pulled decidedly shut, and with a most uncomfortably pulsing and somehow unnatural strip of glowing material overhead that threw almost shadowless light on the unnaturally white walls and harsh carpeting that covered the floor.

            She stopped before the sixth door on the left and opened it, pausing to allow him to enter the room first.  At least there were windows on the far side of the room, although there were no curtains hung to filter the light should the Sun shine directly in.  A large desk stood to the right, and behind it were tall shelves rising from just above the floor to the high ceiling, and he was delighted to see that the shelves were filled mostly with books. 

            What appeared to his eyes to be a kitchen dresser stood against the wall between the room and the hallway he’d just traversed, and on it stood a number of what appeared to be drinking mugs and a caraffe.  Between the windows on the far side of the room sat a long sofa that appeared to be covered with dark green leather.  On either side of the dresser hung pictures and framed documents of various sorts, while a colorful map hung on the wall between the windows, behind the sofa.  On the opposite end of the room from the desk sat a table, on which lay stacks of documents, from what he could see.  The wall on that side sported a number of pictures with mottos of various sorts that appeared to have been printed onto rather shiny paper and then affixed in some manner directly to the plaster.

            There were a number of chairs, two before the desk and a high-backed one behind it, and others here and there against the walls and about the table.  All of them, of course, looked to be equally uncomfortably high for Hobbits, and he sighed as he examined them.  She had closed the door behind herself, and as she crossed to take her seat behind the desk she indicated the two seats before it.  “Won’t you make yourself comfortable?” she asked.

            He looked up at her ruefully.  “I can sit in the chair, yes,” he advised her, “but will not be particularly comfortable with my legs dangling as I sit.  Have you such a thing as a footstool about?”

            She appeared surprised, but looked about and then leaned down, straightening again to display an odd, round stool with a step on one side, which she brought about the desk to set before one of the chairs.  “I’m sorry—hadn’t thought you should need such a thing.”

            He shrugged.  “I am considered tall for my people, but am still quite short compared to Men.”  He quickly had himself seated in the chair with his feet propped on the top of the stool.  As he’d feared, he could barely see over the top of the desk.  However, it was the best he was likely to do at the moment.

            She was rummaging in a drawer, and quickly produced a sheet of paper.  “Shall we fill out an application for employment, then?” she asked with a bright tone that made it plain that no answer would be required.  “Now then—your name?”

            “As I said, Frodo Baggins.”

            “And you were born when?”

            “September twenty-second, thirteen sixty-eight, Shire Reckoning.”

            She stopped, and looked at him suspiciously.  “Thirteen sixty-eight?  But that was almost seven hundred years ago!”

            He shrugged.  “I suspect it is merely a difference in calendars, Mistress Phelps.  We folk of the Shire have always kept to our own calendar, and I’ve found that other than the Shire itself and the Breelands it doesn’t exactly match that of other peoples.”

            “Have you any idea as to what year you might have been born according to our calendar, then?” she asked.

            “I’m rather sorry, but no.”

            “Then how old are you?”

            “I was fifty-three when I left Middle Earth to go to Valinor.  I find I’ve not aged particularly since then, so I must suppose that that age will do for me.”

            A muscle twitched in her cheek as she apparently made the calculations in her head.  “Nineteen fifty-eight, then,” she said at last, and wrote the number down on her paper.  She met his eyes again, asking, “Birthplace?”

            “Number Five, Bagshot Row, Hobbiton, Westfarthing, the Shire.  That’s in Eriador, by the way.”

            She gave him a long look before writing anything.  “Eriador, eh?  I see.”  She considered what she’d just written, and at last continued, “Mother’s maiden name?”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “Your mother’s last name before she married your father.”

            “Oh.  Well, you see, she was a Brandybuck—Primula Brandybuck.  From Brandy Hall in Buckland.”  He restrained himself from going further, knowing from experience that other peoples found Hobbit obsession with family ties to be unfathomable.

            Without comment she wrote that down.  “Social Security Number?”

            Again he said, “I beg your pardon?”

            She examined what she could see of him for a time, and at last asked, “I take it that you are not a citizen of the United States, then?”

            “Oh, no.  I consider myself a loyal subject of the King, you see.”

            “The King?  But from your speech I’d thought you were from Britain originally.”

            “Britain?  And where is that?”

            Her expression was incredulous.  “And just where have you been in the last thousand years or so?” she demanded, her tone decidedly sarcastic.

            “I told you—I’ve been in Valinor.”

            “And how did you come to the United States?”

            “I’m afraid I simply cannot tell you that.  It was suggested by Gandalf I might do some good for a number of people should I return to Middle Earth and find employment assisting people who are not precisely like other people, and so it was arranged.”

            “Have you a green card?”

            He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and produced the stiff, slick card Gandalf had last given him.  “Is this what you are asking after?” he inquired as he set it atop the desktop.

            She reached across the desk to take the card and examined it, her expression shifting from suspicious to confused, and finally to wonderment.  She reached to one side and pulled before her on the desktop a flat, silvery casket of some kind, from which two odd black cords ran to the left.  She opened the lid, and her fingers danced rapidly across whatever filled the casket—some kind of set of squares, from the little he could see of it.  Her fingers would move, and she would stare within the lid; then she would examine the card again, she would tap again on the squares, and again she would stare inside the lid.  At last she shook her head as if she weren’t certain what it was she was considering, and slid the still opened casket to one side.  Inside the lid appeared to be a picture of some kind from what he could see—a picture that appeared to glow mysteriously.  She took the card again into her hand and examined it carefully, front and back; and finally held it out to him, almost as if she were rather glad to be shut of it, if he’d not missed his guess.

            “It appears to be in order,” she said, although her tone of voice indicated that she wasn’t completely certain her statement was true.  “By the way, rather than a Social Security number you will need to use this identification number that appears here,” and she tapped a particular line.

            “I see,” he said.  “Thank you.”  Then he asked, “Is there something unusual about the card?”

            She merely gave a wry smile and a shrug to her shoulders.  “It doesn’t matter, I suppose.  But the use of the letters SR after your birthdate is—well, I’ve never seen that on a green card before, is all.”

            He smiled reassuringly at her.  “I see,” he said, slipping the thing back into his pocket.

            She pulled the paper back in front of her.  “Address?”

            He’d worked with Gandalf to memorize this.  “Barton House, 2213 West Market.”

            For the first time she gave a true smile.  “Ah, the Barton House—an excellent place.  And what is your apartment number?”

            “Apartment B.”

            She appeared dismayed.  “They put you in one of the basement apartments?”

            “As the house is built on a hill and my entrance is at the back with a door flush with the ground on that side, I find it quite comfortable.  Much better than the rooms they’d first thought to give me, up at the top of the house.”

            Her eyebrows rose as if with surprise.  “But the views from the top floor are exquisite!”

            He shrugged, explaining, “I assure you that I much prefer to be comfortably on the lowest floor and with solid earth outside two walls.  Makes me feel as if I were living in a proper hole again, you see.”

            She blinked as if trying to figure out what that meant, but apparently decided to forge ahead.  “Your phone number?”

            “Gandalf tried to explain this.  I don’t have one as yet.  I understand someone is to come tomorrow to bring me one and show me how to use it.”

            “You’ve never used a telephone before?”

            “We didn’t have them when I was young, and never needed them on the island.”

            “Then how did you speak with those who didn’t live nearby?”

            He shrugged.  “I became practiced in osanwë.”  And in response to her blank expression, he continued, “Gandalf suggested I describe that as a means of wireless communication.”

            Her face cleared.  “Oh, HAM radio!”  Nodding, she continued, “We’ll fill that in later, then, after your phone is installed.  Now—highest level of education?”

            “Yes.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            He felt surprised.  “I was indeed offered the highest level of education available both at home in the Shire and in Valinor—whatever I wished to study, someone would be dispatched to see to it I had all information currently available on the subject at my disposal.”

            “Did you attend public school?”

            “I took lessons from my parents and uncle when I was a young child, and among the children of Brandy Hall when I was older, then private lessons again when I was a tween.”  She was again looking confused, so he clarified, “That is, I continued with my studies under my uncle again when I was in my twenties, and continued to do so until I was in my early thirties.”

            “And what did you study?”

            “World history and literature and languages for the most part, although I’ve always had a minor passion for both natural history and art, so he allowed me to indulge myself in them.”

            “Your uncle was a professor?”

            He felt uncertain.  “He was highly noted as a scholar,” he answered tentatively.  As she appeared satisfied, he found himself giving a soft sigh of relief.

            She muttered, "Home schooled," as she wrote down whatever it was she was noting.  Then she looked at him expectantly once more.  “Your last employer?”

            “Will Whitfoot as the Mayor of the Shire.”

            She appeared pleased.  “Then you have experience in administration?”

            “Well, as Family Head for the Bagginses and Master of the Hill for nineteen years, and as Deputy Mayor for the Shire for most of one—yes, I have experience in administration.”

            She smiled as she wrote this down.  “Very good—we always can do with those who have on-the-job experience in administration.  And what were your duties as Deputy Mayor?”

            “I think the most important things I did in the eyes of most of the citizens of the Shire were reducing the Shiriffs in number back to twelve and in officiating at banquets.”  Again she looked confused, so he hurried on, “But I also helped reorganize the manner in which official documents are filed, heard some disputes that Family or Village Heads didn’t wish to deal with as they felt doing so might be seen as a conflict of interest, started investigations into how it was that Lotho Sackville-Baggins managed to grab onto as much power as he wielded throughout the Shire in the year I was gone, and how he and his lawyers managed to trick so many into signing illegal contracts and thus losing their property to him.  I also helped set up the reparations fund left by Lotho’s mother to compensate those he’d cheated and stolen from, and the committee to investigate claims forwarded for reparation.  I also helped examine contracts forwarded to the Mayor’s office during the time Mayor Whitfoot was wrongfully imprisoned by Lotho’s folk to make certain that they were proper according to our laws and customs.  And,” he added, “I officiated at weddings.”

            “So, you were the equivalent of a Justice of the Peace?”

            “So Gandalf assures me.  Of course, I’m not qualified to do so here, as I’m not fully aware of the laws and customs of this land.”

            “So you are trained also in law?”

            “Well, Cousin Bard insisted that our time working together clearing up the shambles left in the Mayor’s office as a result of Will’s imprisonment was an education under pressure in the law, and old Berni certainly offered me a place as one of his students and apprentices in the law, had I been willing to accept it.”

            She appeared quite pleased with this.  “And did you have any other employment?”

            “Well, while I was still under age I did an apprenticeship under my Uncle in bookbinding and as a copyist….”

            She raised an eyebrow.  “Copyist?” she interrupted.

            “Well, yes.  I would handwrite invitations, copy out documents for lawyers and many of the Family and Village Heads, write out certificates, print out books, see official letters properly written and formatted—that sort of thing.”

            She again indicated satisfaction.  “Very good.  Were you employed by this Shire of yours, or were you self-employed?”

            “I was only employed by the Shire when I served as Deputy Mayor.”

            She nodded as she noted this down.  “Have you any experience with business besides your clerking enterprise?”

            “Well, I administered the portion of the Baggins family assets with which we provide for those who can call upon family ties for assistance due to death of a spouse, parent, or child, or through loss of employment or natural disasters such as crop failure, the drying up of a well, and so on.  My uncle also taught me how to invest wisely, so I helped others start small businesses and sometimes helped shore them up until the businesses became self-supporting; and we held a goodly number of farm shares, which helped to provide us with produce we could not grow ourselves or purchase locally.  Of course, I helped keep records while my uncle remained with me, and kept them for myself after he left.”

            “And did you have any other employers?”

            He felt a bit uncertain.  “Does working for the King count?” he asked.

            She appeared startled.  “You worked for the King?”

            “Well, yes, during the months after his coronation while we remained with him.  Not that we were there all that long—just a matter of a few months, I fear.  But he had me assist Prince Faramir in researching precedents for proposed changes in the law to better benefit those who’d been crippled in the war or who had lost husbands, sons, and fathers to the Enemy.”

            He noted her smile as she jotted down some more on the paper and turned it over.  She examined the back side for a few minutes before asking, “And you said you studied languages, also?”

            “Yes.”

            “And what languages were those?”

            “Oh, let’s see.  Westron—the Common Tongue, you see.”  She gave a brief nod, so he continued, “Sindarin, Quenya, a few other dialects such as that commonly used in Lothlórien, Adúnaic, a surprisingly good amount of Khûzdul, a smattering of Rhohirric and rather less of Haradric….”  He allowed his voice to trail off as he saw her becoming increasingly confused once more.  “Haradric is the tongue spoken by those who live south of the King’s lands, you see.  Where the oliphaunts come from?  One of the former black lands?”

            Suddenly she appeared to understand.  “Then you come from Africa, then?”

            He wasn’t certain what this meant.  “I was living on the Lonely Isle last.”

            She shrugged once more as if she didn’t care for such niceties of distinction.  “Doesn’t matter.  If you know so many obscure languages I’m certain we can put you to use.”

            “Well, both Bilbo and Elrond claim that once you are fluent in two languages it is easier to learn others.”

            She nodded as if she agreed completely.

            “Now, what kind of public recognition have you received? Any special prizes or awards?”

            He gave a sigh.  How he hated going through those!  “My friend Sam and I were called the Cormacolindor, and were named Lords of all the Free Peoples, and Princes of the West.”  She appeared unimpressed.  “And I used to win prizes for dancing and my artwork when I was younger.”  She appeared more interested.  He thought more deeply.  “And I once received the prize for best roasted chicken in the competition for tweens at the Free Fair.”

            She tossed her head.  “Nothing that anyone else would be particularly interested in, I suppose.”  She finished making a few last notes, and at last held out her writing stick and the documents to him.  “If you’d like to check things out and sign here?  I took the liberty of putting in the date already.”

            Frodo took the document and turned it toward him.  He found that handwriting had changed considerably in the Mortal Lands since he was here last, and he couldn’t make out much of what she’d written.  “I must assume that you’ve done it properly,” he hazarded.  “And where do I sign this…?”  He looked up at her inquiringly.

            “Application for employment.”

            “Yes, I see.”

            “Sign here, on this line, by that X.”

            He nodded and turned the writing stick, hoping to see how it worked.  “Have you any ink?”

            She again appeared confused.  “The ink is inside the pen.”

            He met her eyes.  “This is a pen, then?  And the ink is inside it?  Ingenious!”

            She pointed uncertainly.  “That’s the tip that you press against the paper,” she explained.

            He realized he’d watched her do this repeatedly, and shook his head at his own thickness.  “Of course.”  He stood up on the stool and affixed his signature, and started to hand both pen and document back to her, stopping as he realized her own attention was fixed on that gap where his ring finger was missing.  He could feel his throat tighten familiarly as he explained, “It was lost due to my own stupidity, a good long time ago, during the war.”

            She was shaking her head, and for the first time she appeared to see him as a real person rather than as merely someone whose vital statistics needed to be elicited.  “Please forgive me, Mr. Baggins.  Many of those with whom we work have lost far more than merely a finger.  You need not feel ashamed here.”

            They looked at one another, sharing a moment of mutual appreciation.  At last she said, “We work with special populations here—people who’ve been displaced by war and genocide, who’ve been tortured or have lost loved ones to torture, whose homes have been wiped out by other people’s bombs, whose children were maimed by carelessly strewn landmines.  You may be particularly small compared to most people and may be self-conscious of your missing finger, but I think I agree with this Gandalf of yours who thinks you to be particularly fitted to help those whom we serve.  I think we will be particularly honored to have you as part of our organization, and those we help will find you someone with whom they can particularly identify.  I fear I’m not best fitted to serve our clients, which is why I’m here in personnel rather than out working as a counselor or advocate.”

            She smiled and rose, extending her hand, and after a moment he extended his in return.  Her grip was firm and surprisingly warm.  “Welcome aboard, Mr. Baggins,” she said.

            He pulled his hand free and straightened proudly.  “Frodo Baggins of Bag End in the Shire,” he said, bowing as best he could, “at your service and that of your family.”

            She nodded.  “Now, as you have the phone company coming tomorrow, and they will never commit themselves to a particular time, we’ll look forward to you starting work the following day.  If you’ll return here to my office on Thursday, then, at eight o’clock sharp?  I’ll introduce you to the rest of the staff, and our CEO will explain your duties and assign you an office and so on.”

            At last he was free to go, and as he stepped off the stool he assured her that he could find his own way out of the building.  “Years spent in Brandy Hall and visiting in the Great Smial have trained me to find my way through such environments,” he explained as she came round the desk to accompany him to the door.  They shook hands once more, and he gave her what he considered his most courtly bow, suitable for Aragorn’s throne room.  “Until Thursday, then?”  So saying, he left the room and turned back the way they’d come, unaware that she was now staring at his feet as he hurried away, her eyebrows lifting high toward her hairline in shock.

Written for the LOTR Community "Outside the Box" Challenge.  For Harrowcat for her birthday.

The Enigma of the Mysterious Shop

           As the hansom cab rolled over the pavement Holmes was questioning the ragged boy who sat across from him.  “Now you say that this morning there was a full store where the chemist’s shop was before it burned down?”

           “Yessir,” the lad said solemnly.  “Never seen nothin’ like it in me life, guvnor.  Toby was there last night, watchin’ t’see as nobody started siftin’ through the ashes, like, an’ he admits as him may’ve drifted off not long afore dawn.  Wakes up, and there’s this other shop there where the chemist’s wasn’t no more.  Full’ve odd bits, don’t ye know—strange instruments an’ odd clothes an’ the like.  Him’s right spooked!

           Holmes and Watson exchanged looks.  It took a good deal to spook any of Holmes’s Irregulars, and particularly Toby Boggs, who was considered by the rest of the boys as particularly unflappable.

           They had to pause at a crossing to allow a particularly fine carriage to turn onto Greater Portland Street, and the cabby managed to cut across just ahead of a heavy goods wagon, leaving that carter shaking his fist and bawling imprecations in their wake.  But at last they arrived at their destination, and Holmes was leaping out of the cab before the cabby had the chance to pull to a complete halt.  The boy scrambled out in the great detective’s wake, leaving Watson to alight as he could, throwing the cabby a handful of coins and directing him to wait for them.

           The chemist’s shop had been a thriving business until the early hours of yesterday’s morning when it had inexplicably burst into flame.  Swift work by the Fire Brigade and thick stone walls had saved the adjoining structures, but the interior of the chemist’s shop was reduced to rubble, its front windows shattered by the heat, and parts of the upper stonework fallen in.  The store’s owner had retained Holmes late yesterday afternoon to determine whether the shop had burned as a result of his apprentice’s carelessness or if it were arson, which had led Holmes to employ some of the lads who served as his extra eyes and ears to keep watch over it until daybreak.

           There were a number of the Baker Street Irregulars standing in front of the former chemist’s shop, staring warily at the edifice that had taken its place and shifting uneasily from foot to foot.  There were enough shops of this sort in other parts of town—the East End, for instance; but hereabouts shops tended to be solid places with clean stonework and smooth paint on doors and window frames, signs artistically and elegantly lettered, brass work polished and impressive.  The wavy glass of this shop’s windows couldn’t have been properly cleaned and polished in anything less than a decade or two; and the uniform coat that hung on a headless clothes dummy inside the main show window was faded, its metal buttons tarnished, its colors unsuited to any of the empire’s armed forces, much less to its constabulary.  As for the construction of unnamed metals and multiple glass lenses that stood next to it—what it was supposed to be or do was anyone’s guess.

           Toby Boggs’s face was a study in perplexity.  “Ain’t never seen nothin’ t’match this,” he muttered to the two men who’d just arrived. 

           Holmes’s eyes were alight with interest as he began examining the stonework of the store’s front.  “Fascinating, Watson,” he commented.  “Nothing from anywhere in England I’ve ever seen.  In fact, I’d say it would have to have been imported from the Basque area on the Continent.”

           Suddenly the door opened, and two very small individuals tumbled out onto the pavement, the taller, slighter one giving a despairing look about himself.  Neither stood higher than Dr. Watson’s chest, and they were quaintly if shabbily dressed, although even Watson could recognize that the fabric the taller one wore was finely woven and had most likely been expensive when it was new.

           The shorter, heavier individual was looking about with unbelieving eyes.  “Now, this is a shock, and no mistake, Mr. Frodo,” he said to his companion.  “How in Middle Earth do you think as we ended up here in the middle of what seems a city of Men?”

           “I don’t know, Sam,” the taller one answered, slumping back against the door.  “We can’t have lost our way that badly!  We were just there in Ithilien when we came across this shop….”

           “And you would insist on going inside,” muttered the broader one.

           “We had to have directions,” insisted the taller one.  “After all, we wouldn’t have lost our guide if it hadn’t been for you!”

           “Some guide that villain was!” objected his companion.  “Why we wasn’t murdered in our sleep weeks ago----”

           “I told you—he’d not have done anything to us, not as long as the Ring held his promise.”

           “And how much longer would that of held him, tell me that?” demanded the shorter one.  “Stinker and Slinker was gettin’ close t’agreein’ that we needed gettin’ rid of, you know.”

           “Maybe, Sam Gamgee, but you didn’t have to tell that guard of Captain Faramir’s to shoot!”

           “I wasn’t goin’ t’skip my sleep keepin’ an eye on him no more, I tell you, Master.  That Gollum was that close to throttlin’ us both in our bedrolls!  We’re well rid of him, I tell you!”

           “And then you had to go and burn up the written directions Captain Faramir gave me----”

           “We had t’get a fire started, and all of the moss thereabouts was damp, Mr. Frodo, sir.   What was I t’do?  And why you didn’t read them directions and commit them t’memory when he give them to you is beyond me!”

           The one called Frodo threw up his hands in exasperation.  “You think it’s so easy remembering directions, you try wearing this cursed thing about your neck and see how well your memory works!  It’s all I can do to sort out your constant grumbling from Its taunts and threats at times!”

           They were glaring daggers at one another.  At last the broader one shifted the apparently heavy pack he carried upon his shoulders as he stared about the area.  “Well,” he said, “what are we goin’ t’do now?  Wherever we is, it ain’t Ithilien no more, and nowhere near them Mountains of Shadow from what I can tell.  And I wish that that Captain Faramir could of told us more bout this mysterious pass what Gollum was plannin’ on takin’ us through.”

           “As do I,” agreed Frodo.  He looked behind him at the shop’s door with a grimace of distaste upon his emaciated features.  “If only we knew how we ended up here,” he muttered.

           “Well, we don’t,” the other said flatly, eyeing Holmes, Watson, and the boys suspiciously.  “And these don’t look as if they have any more idea of the way into Mordor than we do,” he added.  “Not, of course, as we’re anywheres near Mordor now, apparently.”

           Frodo turned to face the one called Sam.  “We’ll have to go back in there,” he said, indicating the door through which they’d emerged onto the street.

           Now it was Sam’s turn to eye the door with unease.  “But we wouldn’t be here if’n we hadn’t gone in to ask directions,” he pointed out.

           “Just because you can’t follow directions when you hear them,” Frodo muttered.  Sam glared at him, and Frodo added more loudly, “And because you’re too proud to admit you need them.”

           “And you see a shop like that,” Sam fired back, jerking his thumb at the door, “there in the middle of nowhere, out in the center of the woods, and you just go in, as if it was the most natural thing in the world t’find such a place in the wilderness, like!  And then you wonder just why we end up half a world or better away in the midst of some Men’s city of some sort, with no walls of Mordor in sight, just a bunch of stupid-lookin’ big-job lads and Men.  You stubborn Baggins, you!”

           “Not half so stubborn as you, you hard-headed Gamgee, you!  Are you coming or not?  I never intended to have you dragging on behind me, you know.  You didn’t have to throw yourself into the lake the way you did, necessitating me having to turn back to save your foolish self from drowning, you know!”

           “And if you wasn’t too proud t’admit as you can’t do ever’thing on your own!”

           “Are you coming or not?” demanded Frodo again.

           Again Sam looked uncertainly as the shabby shop front.  “And what if we ends up somewhere even further from Mordor?” he asked.

           Frodo gave a quick examination of the faces surrounding them and turned back to his fellow.  “Well, it can’t be worse than this,” he insisted.  He straightened his thin shoulders and shook himself.  “I’m going back in,” he said with decision.  “I have a job to do, after all.”

           “And you think as I didn’t mean it when I said as I have a job t’do, too, sir?” Sam asked.  “You just lead the way, and I’ll follow, like I always do,” he said, his bitterness plain to hear.

           Half under his breath Frodo said, “And is that a promise or a threat?”  He took the door handle and jerked it open.  Deep inside a strange-sounding bell rang.  “Well, come on if you’re coming, Sam.”  With that he disappeared back inside the shop.

           Sam grabbed the door before it could swing shut again before he could follow.  “As if I hadn’t been a-followin’ you across half the world or better,” he said between gritted teeth.  “Why I ever chose t’come with you I’ll never understand, Frodo Baggins.  I swear as Ted Sandyman was right about you bein’ as cracked as your old uncle.  Second Mad Baggins in a row, you are!”  And he followed the other strange being back into the shop, pulling the door shut after him with a slam, that strange-sounding bell tinkling once more.

           Even Holmes’s eyes were wide with surprise as he looked to share a glance with John Watson.  Watson cleared his throat.  “I’ve never seen the like of them before,” he said.

           The boys who comprised the Irregulars looked from one man to the other and back, as uncertain as were the detective and his companion.  “What were them?” demanded Toby Boggs of Holmes.

           “I don’t know,” the detective began, turning toward the shop’s door----

           ----Except that it was now gone again, and only the ruins of the chemist’s shop remained, that and one small, bare footprint amidst the ash and splintered glass.

For our beloved Harrowcat for her birthday.

Hobbit and Mouse

            Often Frodo Baggins frequented the western heights of Tol Eressëa, looking ever Westward, and particularly as his time upon the island lengthened and he knew his ending within this world approached.  He never evinced fear, those who found him in such contemplation noted.  Instead, as time passed his eagerness to go further grew increasingly noticeable.

            One day Olórin found him walking along the western shore of the island under the light of the lowering sun, a great twisted shell to his ear, and his hair still damp from a swim in the Sea.  His eyes were luminous with contentment as he raised them to meet those of his friend.  Hello, Gandalf.  A fine afternoon, is it not?

            “Indeed, Frodo.  You are far from home today.”

            The Hobbit laughed delightedly.  And how could I remain within the guesthouse with such a blue sky beckoning me to explore? he asked.  This is so beautiful a beach, don’t you agree?  What can you tell me of the creature that once lived within this shell?

            The former Wizard shrugged, smiling at his small friend.  “It housed a great snail, one they call a nautilus.”  He went on to describe the snail and its habits, Frodo listening attentively, as curious as he’d always been about the lives of other creatures, until a distant hail caught their attention.

            “Hail the island!” came the call of a clear, high voice from the direction of the Sea.

            Both turned to peer across the waves, and saw there what appeared to be a distant coracle with but a single passenger.  However, as the small craft approached the shore with unprecedented swiftness, they realized that it was far smaller than either had appreciated, and that its occupant did not have the usual form as one of the Children of Ilúvatar.

            Is that a mouse? asked Frodo, his face filled with surprise.

            The Maia murmured, “So it would appear, my friend.”

            But it’s wearing a hat, and carrying some sort of sword I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

            And so it was.

            There were blossoms lying inside the coracle, blossoms apparently gathered from the lilies that grow in fresh waters, breathing their delicate fragrance into the air.  The mouse carefully steered the boat onto the sand with the paddle it held in its forepaws, then leapt ashore, its eyes bright with curiosity.  “By the Lion—Aslan has brought me to where he said I might know delightful companions until I am fully ready to return to the Halls of the Emperor-Over-the-Sea.  Is one of you the Lord Iorhael?”  So saying, it doffed its feather-bedecked hat and bowed with a flourish before Hobbit and Maia.  “I am known as Reepicheep of Narnia, one of the former knights to serve King Caspian, at your service!”

            Frodo bowed automatically, saying aloud, “Frodo Baggins of the Shire, former Companion to the King Elessar, at that of yourself and your family.”

            The mouse smiled broadly.  “Then is this Elessar King here of this island?  Will he welcome my service, do you think?”  It whipped its weapon out of its belt.  “My rapier I will lay gladly at his feet.”

            Gandalf laughed aloud at the thought of Aragorn’s face should such a valiant—creature—come before him to offer him his sword.  Although, as with Hobbits, he realized that all would do well not to underestimate the worth of this one based only on his size and apparent nature.  “I fear that you will not find the Lord Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar here on the Lonely Island, friend Reepicheep, although I believe he would be honored to accept your service.  But we here in Tol Eressëa will welcome your presence for as long as you choose to stay.  Ever has this land been a place offering rest and healing for those come from the trials and stresses of life elsewhere until they feel ready to complete their journeys to their true homes.  And one known as Aslan sent you here, did he?”

            “Oh, yes.  He indicated that I had yet some living and learning to do, and recommended me to the companionship of one he called the Lord Iorhael until I am ready to go on further.”

            You came out of the west to here, Frodo noted.

            “Oh, yes, I have been seeking the uttermost East and Aslan’s country most of my life.”

            While I know increasing curiosity regarding the uttermost West.  Well, here they call me by the name Iorhael, so you have found the one recommended to you.  I will be glad to offer you room in the house given to my use while I remain here, and to show you about the island.

            “You live nearby?” asked the Mouse.

            Frodo shook his head.  I live across the island, but come here often enough, although rarely right down to the shore as I have today.  But I cannot see how you would wish to go east from here back into the Mortal Lands from whence I came.

            Olórin interjected, “You do not understand, Frodo—from here for mortals the uttermost East and West are the same direction.”

            Reepicheep peered up at the Maia with surprise and even some suspicion.  “But how can this be?  East and West have ever been opposite to one another!”

            Olórin’s appearance clarified into that of the Grey Wizard as he examined the mouse, his eyes twinkling.  “For the Creator, my friend, all things are possible.  Now, come—if I know my Hobbits, this one will be craving some nourishment soon, and I dare say you will do so as well.”  And as he led the two of them toward a fishing settlement nearby, he pondered on the capricious humor and compassion of Ilúvatar as shown by the arrival of what appeared to be a creature from a world he’d not visited as yet.  I will need to learn more of Narnia and this one known as Aslan, he thought to himself.

For KayleeLupin and Starli-ght's birthdays.  Much joy, my friends!  Beta by Audrey.

A Battle of Wolves

             The two princes of Mirkwood lay in wait, their bows and white knives at the ready, for the beasts they sensed were coming through the darkness of the trees.  So many evil allies had the Necromancer gathered to himself over the years—at least one of the Nazgûl, orcs of many types, the vampire bats that drank the blood of whatever warm-blooded creatures they could find, wargs, trolls, and werewolves.  Rarely did the last come out of the safety of Dol Guldur, but when they did they tended to ravage viciously any living things they came into contact with, sometimes attacking the trees themselves.

            Those on patrol in this portion of the forest, therefore, had been surprised to see two of these monstrosities so far from the Necromancer’s keep.  That the two were reported to be fighting was not that unusual—if they were both alpha males a struggle for dominance would be inevitable, the two Elves knew.  But so far north of Dol Guldur it was likely that they would be unaccompanied by other fell companions, and thus easier to slay.

            There was a glade ahead of them, uncharacteristically open to the light of the full moon.  “Will they come under the light of Ithil, do you think?” the darker of the two whispered.

            “I do not know,” Legolas answered.  They lay in the shadows of the trees, intently listening.  At last they heard it—the snarls of two battling monsters as they pursued one another through the darkness of the untracked forest, approaching the one available open space where they could fight unimpeded.  Legolas nudged his brother, indicating an opening between two great beeches, beyond which a mighty oak raised its boughs.  “Theron!” he hissed.  “They come!”

            Before he’d finished his short warning to his brother, two horrible shapes broke into the open, and the one leading turned, viciously growling, in threat toward the other.

            Both were heavily muscled, but the second seemed to be in worse condition, as if it had not been able to exercise properly for some time.  It appeared to have eaten less than it needed to maintain its best health, and its coat was less sleek than that of its enemy.  But where the first slavered with battle-madness, the second showed purpose in its clearer eyes.  The first was a danger to anything or anyone with which it might come into contact; the second had one enemy and one alone, or at least at the moment—the werewolf it faced.  The muzzle of the first was stained with gore; the second’s muzzle was clean save for saliva, although blood still oozed from an ear that appeared to have been torn far earlier in their conflict.

            They faced one another, both breathing hard as if to catch their breath as they each circled the clearing, walking sideways so as to keep their eyes on one another.  Lying prone behind a fallen elm’s trunk as they were, the two Elves could not hope to use their bows as yet, and neither was willing to face either of the horrors to be seen in the clearing armed with knives alone.  Both jumped, therefore, when they heard a human voice issuing from the first of the creatures.

            “Give it up, Lupin!” the madder of the two werewolves growled.

            “Never, Fenrir,” the second answered.

            Unexpectedly, the first suddenly sat down, its tail about its haunches, its mouth looking as if it were grinning wickedly.  “I’ve done for a few of your precious Order and the students tonight,” it said, and gave a yawn with an oddly dog-like yip to it.  “I’ll not go unforgotten by those who have fought at Hogwarts on either side!”

            The other did not give up its defensive stance.  “Do you think that you’ll find any more innocents to bite and tear, here in this dark forest, Greyback?  For I tell you, this is not the Forbidden Forest.  I don’t know where we are, but it’s nowhere near Hogwarts, much less anywhere in Britain.”

            “Just because you used Apparition on us when our jaws were locked….”

            The second wolf shook its head, and its ears could be heard flapping with the movement.  “One cannot Apparate into or out of Hogwarts—you know that!  Nor can we in our lupine forms usually communicate with words, can we?  We aren’t where we were.  In fact, I suspect that we are both dead, although until you accept that idea I doubt either of us can go any further.  Do you yield, Fenrir?”

            “No, I don’t!”  And the first was immediately upon its feet and leaping on the other, who sidestepped neatly and fastened its jaws on the throat of its enemy.

            The Elves could barely make out the words it uttered as it held the first in its death grip, but somehow they understood.  “No-other-person-shall-ever-be-bitten-by-you-again, Fenrir Greyback!  No-one-else-shall-ever-be-cursed-as-I-was-or-as-Bill-Weasley-by-your-blood-lust!  It ends----NOW!”

            Legolas and Theron Thranduilionath heard the bones of the throat crunch under the pressure exerted by the second wolf, and they saw the realization that it was indeed dying—or perhaps dead already as the second had suggested—growing in the first’s eyes before they suddenly lost their luster.  The second continued to hold on and shook the body of its foe to break its back.  Finally it let go and stepped backwards, and the moonlight fell fully upon it----

            ----as it changed form, and stood up upon its hind legs, and showed itself a Man of a sort neither Elf had ever seen.  One ear was barely clinging to his head.  His hair was shorn unusually close to the scalp.  He wore clothing such as neither Elf recognized, the shirt and leggings ripped ragged, one sleeve ripped from elbow to wrist.  He was covered with bloody bites and tears over much of his body as he raised his face toward the moon and gave a howling cry that appeared to be equal parts of triumph and grief.

            The two Elves rose to similar crouches, watching the unknown Man with disbelief and awe, awe that became sharper a moment later as a brilliant figure appeared before them with the scent of loam and wood smoke about it.

            You have done well, child.  Although the one who stood before the former wolf did not speak aloud as do most of the Children of Ilúvatar.  You have won your battle, and at last he accepts his death, coming as it did in the end in the manner he expected, the proper manner for his kind.

            The ragged Man was shaking his head.  “Do you think that I wanted to kill anyone—or anything—in that manner?  I never asked to become a werewolf!  He made me one!”

            And you have fought the baser tendencies of that curse ever since the day he did so.  We are proud of you, Remus Lupin.

            “Who are you?  What more do you want of me?”

            As you deduced, you are no longer in Britain, or in the world you knew.  Nor are you alive as you were.

            “I certainly feel agonizingly alive now, and wish that I were dead indeed!  Why didn’t you let me stay dead when I was killed?  My wife is dead, and her body lies in the ruins of Hogwarts.  I only wish to be with her!”

            And if we give the two of you the chance to live again—here, in my train, will you both accept it, do you think?  This is, as you divined, a far different place, one in which creatures of evil such as he still abound.  Will the two of you help to track them down and see them slain?  For I am the Huntsman….

            “Tonks?  You can bring back Tonks?  But our son----”

            You knew when you went forth to fight that you might very well be forced to leave him to be raised by others.  Indeed, you did so to make certain that he should not be threatened by the very curse you have borne.  You almost hoped that you would end in the battle against this one and his fellows, that you should be free from the curse, did you not?

            For a moment the Man stood still, thinking on the question.  At last he admitted, “Yes, I wanted to be free of the curse, to be a Man fully once more—but that cannot be in our world.”

            But you are no longer in your world.  And here your condition can be far more of a blessing than it could ever have been there.  He sought to bring you down to his level, but you would not be what he would have made of you.  Only you, one of those intended to be his victim, could finish him in the end.  But here those who are able and who do take both forms but who fight the baser tendencies can be blessed as they deserve.  Again I ask you, will you join the Hunt?

            “And Tonks can be with me?”

            If it is her desire.  The visage of the Huntsman became half wild with anticipation.  You can know the blessing of the chase when the prey is of Evil and seeks to spread its evil widely.  It is your choice, and hers.  Will you hunt with me?

            The Man’s expression became as feral as that of the Vala he faced.  “If my son is in safe hands and safe also from following me as a werewolf, yes!  If I cannot go back to him, then, yes, I will be willing to follow you, if Tonks is willing, too.”

            Oromë gave a triumphant smile.  Even now she is being questioned by our brother, into whose keeping she has come for the moment, and her answer is the same as yours—if you so desire, she wishes the same as you.  Then come, friend!  The Hunt awaits!  Huan!

            And a great hound came to stand beside him, even as the one called Remus Lupin took again the shape of a wolf, one that now healed as the two Elves watched even as he was nuzzled by the Hound of the Valar.  His body filled out, and his coat grew as lustrous as that of Huan, and no longer did his ear bleed.  Oh, there was a scar there, but it was blessed….

 *******

            It was some time before the glory faded, and the two Elves finally stepped out into the clearing to look down on the body of the one Lupin had called Fenrir Greyback.  It was caught midway between the shape of a Man and that of the wolf that had embodied his nature.  There was in its visage that surprise to be seen so often on the faces of the slain, the surprise to learn that death could come to them as well as to those they’d delighted to rob of life.

            In unspoken agreement, the two sons of Thranduil set about preparing a fire to see this carrion properly burned so as to free Arda of its stain.

Written for the LOTR Community "Special Occasions Recipe Fic" challenge.  For SpeedyHobbit and Dawn Felagund for their birthdays.

A Gift from Afar

            The two women sat opposite one another in the parlor of Bag End, a narrow, high table between them on which was set a formal tea.  Both were of indeterminate age, one with dark hair caught in a severe bun at the back of her head, her nose small and pointed, her mouth primly pinched; the other with light brown hair also caught in a bun, but a far looser, more friendly one, and her nose was finely sculpted—although there was a sensation that this particular nose just might have appeared differently in the past, and a mouth on which there was the hint of a smile.  Against the stonework of the mantle leaned a gnarled cane with a silver tip and an umbrella with a parrot-head handle, and on the chest between the Master’s chair and that of the Mistress lay a flat-brimmed blue hat atop a worn carpetbag.

            A handsome Hobbit lad entered from the kitchen, an overflowing platter in his hands.  “Nanny McPhee, would you and Mistress Mary like some more scones and raspberry jam?”

            Nanny McPhee smiled warmly.  “We would be most pleased to have more, Frodo-lad.  Thank you so much.”

            Mistress Mary watched the lad set the platter on the table, check the teapot and carry it away.  “And they have no cook?” she asked.

            Nanny McPhee smiled.  “They are Hobbits, Mary.  I’ve not yet met any Hobbit who hadn’t begun learning to prepare food from the moment he could stand and reach.”

            Mary gave a thoughtful nod as she stared at where Frodo had disappeared into the kitchen.  “Interesting,” she commented, giving a small sniff.  “I can’t imagine turning Jane or Michael loose in the Banks’ kitchen,” she added.  “Mrs. Banks would have no idea as to how to supervise them.”

            “I can appreciate that, Mary.  But these are actually very capable children, I’ve learned.”

            “Do they truly need you?”

            Nanny McPhee’s brow furrowed slightly as she also turned her attention toward the kitchen door.  “Perhaps they don’t need me now, but there is no question that they did when I arrived.  Being capable does not mean that they were being respectful to one another, their parents, or their older sister.  Originally it was planned that all of the children would accompany their parents to the King’s City, but all of these younger ones began getting into mischief one day, and having started just could not seem to stop again.  And what they did to their older sister was simply unconscionable.  Elanor is a dear girl—sorry, lass—and most unflappable in most cases.  They had her reduced to tears!  It was truly too bad.”

            Mary sniffed primly.  “That does not sound particularly good.  But now they are better?”

            “Oh, yes.  They had to learn a few lessons, of course, but learned them and began applying them very nicely.  I am certain that their parents will be most pleased when they return.”

            “And when will that be?”

            “Perhaps in two months’ time.  They would have been home by now had their mother not proved to be expecting once they reached Minas Anor.  She should be delivering at any time now.”

            Mary’s eyes widened with interest.  “So that makes a full dozen, then?  My stars—they have been quite busy, the parents to these ten!”

            “Not that the Bankses haven’t seen to it that the nursery at Number 17 Cherry Tree Lane is also full,” Nanny McPhee responded, her eyes twinkling.  “Jane, Michael, Annabelle, the twins….”

            “So,” Mary said, changing the subject, “just why did you invite me to bring the children here today of all days?”

            “Well, it is the Birthday, you see, and usually Mayor Samwise and his family host quite a large party for their friends and the byrthings' relatives.  But with the Mayor and the Master and the Thain and their wives and some of their children gone off to be with the King for the memorial celebrations last spring and not able to return until Mistress Rosie’s newest is safely born, the children needed someone with whom to celebrate the Birthday here.  I did believe that the Banks children would enjoy themselves thoroughly, and certainly they can come to no harm in the kitchen of Bag End surrounded as they are by Master Sam and Mistress Rosie’s brood.”

            “And which of the children is celebrating a birthday today?”

            “These children?  Why, none of them, although their littlest brother will bear that distinction.  No, none of them was born on this day in years past.  It’s their birthday.”  And she pointed to two portraits that hung over the mantel, one of an older Hobbit with a decided sparkle in his eyes, and the other of a younger, dark haired Hobbit with a gentle smile and a most responsible mien.  “It’s Lord Iorhael’s birthday today, his and Master Bilbo’s.”

            Mary paused, her mouth open in an O of appreciation.  “The Cormacolindo!” she whispered.  “So, this is that Mayor Samwise, then.”

            “Indeed!  And it is the greatest of honors to remind his children of the place they hold in having been recognized as the nephews and nieces of Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer.  In Gondor and the rest of Arnor this is the Ring-day, when they remember that Bilbo Baggins found the Ring while Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, and Sméagol between them saw to Its destruction.  But here in the Shire it’s remembered that Bilbo and Frodo Baggins shared the same birthday, and that each in his time was the Master of Bag End and the Hill before that responsibility was ceded to their father.  And here within Bag End the children continue to honor this day.  Now, the King sees to it that his friends within the Shire receive frequent gifts of luxuries such as citrus fruits, almonds, olives, and chocolate, and the children here have known great satisfaction in devising numerous recipes for the use of such things.  The recipe book I asked you to bring this day is precisely what Lord Iorhael was saying recently he wished he could gift to Sam’s children, and it will be greatly prized.”

            “Mary!”

            They turned to see Michael and Jane Banks emerging from the kitchen with a large plate laden with chocolate biscuits between them, their eyes sparkling, their clothing liberally smudged with flour and dollops of chocolate cookie dough. 

            “Can you see what Michael and I baked, Mary?” asked Jane, her tone triumphant.  “I never baked biscuits before.  But Frodo and Rosie were right—it was really quite simple!”

            “And they are very good,” Michael added as they set it carefully on the crowded table.  “We all sampled one when they came out of the oven.  Although I burnt my lip a bit.”

            “Do say that you like them!” Jane begged.

            “And neither of you thought to wear an apron?” noted Mary with a tone of disapproval.

            Jane explained, “Well, the children didn’t have any that would fit us.”

            Michael straightened, shaking his head.  “They tried tying towels about us, but the towels would come undone!”

            “Do try them, please, Mary!” Jane pleaded.

            Raising her nose slightly, Mary reached out to take one from the plate and took a ladylike bite.  Her eyes widened with pleased surprise.  “I must admit, Jane, Michael, that they are indeed very good!  Excellently done, children.”

            Their eyes shone with delight at the unaccustomed praise, while the faces of the Mayor’s children displayed satisfaction as they followed Michael into the parlor, Frodo-lad now with one of the twins on his hip and Rosie-lass carrying the other, Ham leading Anabelle by the hand.  Goldilocks carried the teapot covered with a beautifully embroidered tea cozy and settled it amongst the plates and platters, cups and saucers and spoons that already sat there.  “The shepherd’s pie is baking now,” Frodo said, “and Rosie-lass has finished icing the cake.  We will take dinner down by the mallorn tree.  Perhaps our Sam-dad and Rosie-mum will be by the White Tree in the King’s City and Uncle Frodo by his on Tol Eressëa, and they’ll realize that we are celebrating the Birthday, too.”

            Jane watched Goldilocks return to the settle where she took little Robin onto her lap.  “Doesn’t she have the prettiest curls you ever saw, Mary?” she asked.  “And she never has to use curling papers!”

            “I still think it very queer for the ones who are having the birthday to give presents to their guests,” Michael said, reaching for a biscuit that he shared with Anabelle.  “And their Uncle Frodo and his Uncle Bilbo aren’t even here, even though it’s their birthday!”

            Mary was eyeing the twins critically, noting the chocolate liberally smeared around their mouths and the partial cookie each held.  “I can see that all of you will need full baths tonight, and then, spit-spot right into bed with each one of you,” she said as she poured out another cup of tea for herself.  “And would you like some more also, dear?” she asked her companion.

            Frodo-lad wiped the face of the baby he held with its bib.  “Well, old Mister Bilbo most likely wouldn’t still be here even if they’d stayed here in Hobbiton and Middle Earth,” he said absently.  “Sam-dad doesn’t think he remained in Elvenhome more than a year and a half after they got there, actually.”

            “Where did he go after that?” Michael asked.

            Rosie-lass was shaking her head.  “He was terrible old by that time,” she explained delicately.  “I mean, he was a hundred and thirty when he and Uncle Frodo sailed away.  But our da thinks that he stayed on there, probably for Uncle Frodo’s sake, for at least that long.”

            “So, did you get a letter telling him that Mr. Bilbo died then?” Jane asked.

            “We can’t get letters from Elvenhome,” Pippin-lad said, his tone indicating he was hard pressed not to tell her she’d asked quite a silly question.  “We can send letters there, you see, by way of the ships that go that way.  But we can only do that if we manage to meet with some of the Elves going to the Haven on their way to Elvenhome, too, who will agree to take the letters with them.”

            Michael said, “But they never write back?”

            Merry gave his curly head a shake.  “You don’t understand—the ships that go there, they can’t come back again.  Dad says that there are rules.”

            Michael and Jane exchanged surprised looks.  “That doesn’t sound quite fair,” Jane noted.

            Frodo’s face had gone solemn.  “As Dad tells us, life isn’t always fair.  It certainly wasn’t fair for our Uncle Frodo.”

            Nanny McPhee spoke up.  “Unfortunately, that is all too true, Frodo Gamgee-Gardner,” she said gently.  “Although I suspect that your Uncle Frodo is now glad that he did accept the Queen’s gift.  I know he’d still rather he could have remained to know all of you, but he is now able to enjoy so much he could not have known had he remained here.”  She turned her bright gaze on Jane and Michael.  “And the rules, no matter how unfair they seem, have good reasons that you cannot begin to appreciate without knowing all that happened before they were made.  Some very terrible things happened when people broke the old rules, so new ones had to be made and things had to be changed so that the new ones will always hold people from endangering themselves by trying to defy them.”

            Michael’s face had gone stubborn, and it was plain he didn’t fully understand, but he left the subject alone.  But now they heard wheels along the lane, and the children, Hobbits and the Bankses, all hurried out to greet the new arrivals. 

            There were greetings as Berilac Brandybuck arrived with his family and his cousin Merry’s children and his cousin Pippin’s daughter Wynnie.  Others, Tooks, Brandybucks, Cottons, Smallburrows, Bolgers, Boffins, and others whose names couldn’t be remembered afterwards, poured into what the children called the Party Field where tables had already been set up.  Piles of plates were carried down from the smial to the tables, along with cups into which forks, spoons, and knives were thrust.  Each family arrived with baskets filled with food that they added to the feast. 

            There were buns and breads and scones; shepherd’s pie and bowls of taters boiled, baked, roasted, and mashed; there were salads and mayonnaises; tureens of mushrooms and soups; roasts and haunches, whole chickens and baked geese; there were salmon, trout, and perch; there were bowls of peas and beans and sprouts and various greens, turnips and squashes.  There were wedges of various cheeses, fingers of celery and carrots.  There were bowls of butter both sweet and salted, and jars of jam.  Jellies shimmered on plates, and fruits of all kinds filled baskets and platters.  And for afters there were cakes and sweet buns, puddings and biscuits—platters and platters of biscuits!  Oh, Michael and Jane had never seen so many good things to eat at one meal in all their lives!  And there were Hobbits everywhere, laughing, talking, singing, dancing, and (sorry to say) even quarreling some, although the quarrels were quickly sorted out so that soon those who’d been at odds with one another were now sitting at a different table sharing old stories about happenings long ago and laughing and nudging one another familiarly.

            At one point Frodo Gamgee-Gardner rose and pounded upon the table with a spoon, and all went respectfully silent as he said a Few Appropriate Words, and all raised their glasses high in honor of the byrthings, Bilbo and Frodo Baggins.  There had been small packages by each place, and at last when Mary decided that the Banks children had known far more excitement than was strictly good for them she indicated they needed to come away now, and they obediently moved to her side, each clutching his or her birthday present in his hand.  As they started to leave the party field Primrose brought them a basket wrapped in a great handkerchief to take with them, and hugged Michael and Jane and Annabelle, and nuzzled at the twins’ ears, making them both giggle.  “Thank you for coming,” she said.  “We don’t ever get to see Big Folks’ children except when we go out to Bree or to Annúminas, you see, for usually Big Folks aren’t allowed to come into the Shire, although children are all right.”

            Michael looked up at Mary, and then back at where Nanny McPhee was leading the smallest Gamgee children back into the smial to put them to bed.  “But these two are Big Folks, aren’t they?”

            Primrose gave Mary a wary look, and leaned in close to whisper to him and Jane, “It’s different for them.  We think that they’re related to Gandalf, and so they aren’t really exactly Big Folks, either.  Not like Lotho’s Big Men, you see, or the King’s people, or the folk of Bree.  But we were glad to have you and hope that you enjoyed yourselves.”

            “Oh, but we did!” Jane sought to assure her.  And holding tightly to the basket, they came away home, where the twins played with their brightly painted yellow ducks in the bath they shared, and Michael carefully placed the carved red dragon he’d received on the headboard of his bed.  As for Jane, she took the delicate dollies she and Annabelle had received and placed them on the mantel on either side of the Doulton bowl on which three boys played, the knee of one tied up in a scarf.

            Sam and Rosie sloughed off their traveling cloaks and gave them into the hands of Rosie-lass and Frodo-lad, while Goldilocks saw to helping Elanor shed her outer garb.  Merry was holding little Tolman, his eyes alight as he examined his newest little brother.  “And he was truly born on the Birthday?” he asked once more.

            “Indeed he was,” Sam said, reaching out his hands to take the small, wriggling bundle into his arms once more.  “And I can’t imagine a more wonderful Birthday Gift for us to have received.”

            “We got another one,” Frodo said, sharing a look with Rosie-lass and Goldilocks.  “One of Nanny McPhee’s friends came with the children she cares for, and they brought a present that Nanny McPhee said that she was certain that Uncle Frodo wished for us to have.”

            He went and fetched it from the kitchen, and it proved to be a book—quite an odd book, in Sam’s estimation.  The covers appeared to be pasteboard covered not with leather but with something that appeared to be somewhere between paper and cloth, and there was a thin paper sheet with its ends tucked inside the covers with the picture of a smiling woman upon it holding up a platter on which lay what appeared to be a particularly large turkey fully roasted!

            “What is it?” asked his beloved Rose, coming close to see, too, and reaching to take her newest son from his father.

            “It’s a cookery book,” Rosie-lass explained.  “And Nanny McPhee said that the pictures on each page are done with some way of making them she called fo-to-graphs.  Never heard such a word before, but she says that where the book was made they are very popular.”

            “Such a funny way to wear her hair!” Elanor noted as she leaned forward to examine the picture on the front of the book for herself.

            Sam took the book and began turning pages randomly, amazed by the colorful pictures of this dish or that one, glancing quickly at the receipts for a few of them.  “Well, I never!” he grunted.

            “Look inside the front cover,” Frodo-lad advised, so his father followed suit.

            And there, in a familiar script, he saw inscribed:

To my beloved brother Samwise and his brood, with much love.

            It wasn’t signed, but then it didn’t need to be.

-~0~-

Chocolate Shortbread

Ingredients

·         1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature

·         3/4 cup all-purpose flour

·         1/2 cup confectioners' sugar

·         3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

·         Simple Icing

Directions

1.  Step 1

Preheat oven to 300 degrees. With an electric mixer, beat butter until creamy. Add flour, sugar, and cocoa; mix just until combined. (Chill dough in the refrigerator 10 minutes if it is too soft to handle.)

2.  Step 2

Pat dough into an 8-inch round cake pan; press edges down with the tines of a floured fork. Bake until firm, 30 minutes. Immediately score into eight wedges; cool completely. Turn out of pan; break wedges apart. Decorate with icing .

Source

Everyday Food, October 2005

*

Shepherd’s Pie

INGREDIENTS

·        4 to 6 medium potatoes, may be peeled or merely washed and cut into large cubes for boiling

·        2 pounds of hamburger or minced lamb

·        1 can green beans—I prefer French cut

·        1 cup baby carrots or regular carrots cut into thick chips

·        1 cup broccoli broken into bite-sized bits

·        1 cup celery slices

·        1 cup mushrooms cut into thin slices

·        Onion flakes or fresh minced onion to taste

·        Minced garlic, fresh, canned, or dried, to taste

·        Other seasonings as desired

·        1-2 tablespoons wheat bran (if desired) 

·        1.5 cups brown gravy or one can cream of mushroom soup

·        Other vegetables as available and desired

·        (for mashed potatoes) butter, milk, salt, pepper, and parsley flakes as desired for family’s preference to prepare mashed potatoes

DIRECTIONS

Step 1

Peel potatoes or cut them into cubes suitable to boil for mashed potatoes.  Set to boil.  Boil on medium heat until a fork thrust into them easily breaks them into two.

Step 2

In large skillet (I prefer to use my large, square, cast-iron skillet) brown meat.  I usually season the meat with seasoning salt, onion flakes, and minced garlic as it browns.  When meat is browned, add in can of green beans.  At this point I usually add in brown gravy mix and perhaps some extra water, as I’m hopeless at making a gravy from scratch, OR I will add in a can of cream of mushroom soup and sufficient water to get the soup to a gravy-like consistency.  The wheat bran is added here to thicken the gravy and add even more roughage. 

            I then add in the vegetables, starting with those that are hardest (usually carrot pieces) and work to the more delicate vegetables, usually adding the sliced mushrooms last.  Simmer until carrots are at an al dente stage.

Step 3

Heat oven to 350 F.  I leave the stew portion of the shepherd’s pie to simmer, and drain and mash the potatoes.  I usually add up to a half cup of milk, about a teaspoon and a half of salt, and a tablespoon of soft margarine, and shake over it dried parsley flakes, whipping it all with my electric mixer until the potatoes are evenly mixed and the parsley is evenly dispersed throughout.  I then bring out a rectangular or oval glass casserole dish and pour the stew into it so that it is about an inch deep at most.  I spoon the mashed potatoes over the stew and use a rubber or silicon spatula to spread it evenly over the whole dish.  I then bake it in the oven for about fifteen minutes and serve.  I’ve not met anyone yet who doesn’t like my shepherd’s pie.

NOTE:  Traditionally in Britain it’s only Shepherd’s Pie if it is made with minced lamb or mutton; otherwise it is Cottage Pie.

Written in honor of the Master's Birthday.  Also for SurgicalSteel, Nimue_8, Ainu_Laire, and CuriousWombat for their birthdays.  Also in honor for what has become another British icon.  Enjoy!

Disturbances of the Peace

            “Are you quite comfortable, my Lady?” asked Spratt as he settled a cup of herbal tea on the table beside the chair of Lady Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, where she sat in the mid-spring sunshine that shone upon her garden.  “It is so very soon after you were so ill with the grippe, after all.”

            Lady Violet sniffed.  “They now call it the influenza, Spratt.  And I assure you that I feel much, much better.  Had Doctor Clarkson insisted I spend one more day in bed I am certain that I would have gone quite mad with boredom.

            “Although I must admit,” she added, rather reluctantly, “that the medications he prescribed for me have left me with quite odd dreams.  I am not certain that I should agree to take them again.”

            “I see, my Lady.  Is there anything more I can bring you?”

            “Perhaps some fruit—if you will ask Cook, please?  Thank you—you may go.”

            The butler gave a bow and withdrew back into the house.

 *

            “You have quite nice manners—for a thief!”

            “What?!” Lady Violet cried, looking about her swiftly, uncertain as to where that most rude comment had come from.

            A voice that sounded unusually high but still appeared to be male sang, “Attercop!  Attercop!  Can’t catch me!”

            Was there someone truly hiding there under the lilac bushes singing such a crude song? she wondered.

            “Nasssty, sneaking thief!” she heard muttered from her left, and with a swift look she saw a slinking creature that appeared to be all but naked disappearing into the herbaceous border. 

            She straightened in her chair and shivered.  She wondered if that madness she’d so lightly mentioned, she’d thought in jest, to Strapp was indeed coming upon her!

            At that a curiously small person oddly dressed in garb that in spite of being filthy and tattered once must have been quite rich and expensive ran in front of her.  She just had time to notice that his feet, in spite of being bare, appeared to have thick curly hair atop them before someone else appeared out of the forsythias and fled after the first.  He, too, was comically short if still markedly taller than the one he followed, but his face in spite of the desperate fright it displayed appeared to be strong featured behind his elaborate beard.  And was he wearing leather armor and chain mail?  The one who followed him had what appeared to be a battle-axe in his hand and a remarkable club at his belt, while the next carried a sword that blazed blue!

            Swift in pursuit came four creatures of such supreme ugliness that she started back in shock, jostling the table and causing tea to splatter over the table’s top.

            “What is this?” she cried, watching after them with wide eyes.

            Overhead there was a terrible roaring, reminding her of the descriptions of barrages of cannon fire the healing soldiers housed in Downton Abbey during the Great War had described, and a great shadow fell across the lawn, darkening the day. 

            But then a tall man with the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen in one so slender appeared, a greater bow than she’d known an archer to bend in his hands with a long, black arrow nocked to the string.  He fired into the air….

 *

            Suddenly all was quiet again, and a merry breeze played amongst the branches of the lilac, the forsythia, and the tulip tree, and apple blossoms borne by it from the orchard fell across her lap and the table, some landing on the spilled tea.  Her hand shook as she stretched it to take up her cup.  She took a healthy swallow, and looked up to meet Spratt’s eyes as he returned with a small plate with apple slices and grapes from the conservatory upon it.

            “Remind me,” she said, lowering the cup carefully to set it upon its saucer, “to tell Richard Clarkson that if he should ever prescribe such medications for me in the future I shall never call upon his services as a physician again!”

For Linda, who issued the challenge; and for Lily_the_Hobbit, Cairistiona, Ellynn_Ithilwen, ArmarielRozita, LilyBaggins, Ansostuff, and Ysilme for their birthdays.

A Little Surreptitious Help

            The bearded man in grey with the cane that appeared to have been made of ivory asked, “Can you trust me, Mr. Gibbs?”

            Leroy Jethro Gibbs grimaced.  “Just Gibbs is enough, Mr. Greyhame.  As Director Vance has told me I must trust you, and as our Secretary of the Navy says the same, do I have any choice in the matter?”

            Mr. Greyhame gave a smile that at one and the same time appeared both apologetic and not-so-secretly amused.  “No,” he said, “I suppose that you do not.  I am sorry to tell you that I must first blindfold you.”  He brought out a dark, variegated scarf that appeared to be of fine silk with a lace extending each way from what must be the top edge.  “Would you like to examine it first?”

            Gibbs held it up, noting that the weave was so close that little if any light would penetrate it.  “It’s soft,” he commented.

            “Yes,” agreed Greyhame.  “These were woven to be both practical and comfortable.”  He held out his hand to accept its return.  “You are greatly honored—this was last worn as a blindfold by one for whom we have the greatest respect.  He was not required to wear such a thing at the time, but suggested that he, too, should do so in order to avert what could have been a—nasty diplomatic incident, as I understand you term such situations.  If you would turn, please.”

            “But it was not primarily designed as a blindfold, however,” Gibbs observed, turning as directed.

            Greyhame had rolled the lower half, but was now fan-folding the rest.  “Indeed not.  These face scarves are worn by the Rangers of the southern region of the place to where we are going, so as not to show sufficient of their faces for enemies to easily recognize that men lie in wait for them.  I will be placing this over your eyes now.  It may help you to close them first.”  He laid the rolled and folded fabric in place and brought the laces all the way around to tie the ends at the back of Gibbs’s head.

            “Where are we going?” Gibbs asked.

            “Nowhere you have heard of before, I fear.”

            “May I ask the nature of our mission?”

            “We are going to see to it that the stories told in the future fit the circumstances as much as is possible.”  Now, that was an interesting mission!  Greyhame continued, “This weapon of yours—it will not cause harm in its current condition?”

            “It’s designed not to fire as long as the safety is engaged.”  Gibbs held out his arms and his sniper rifle was laid in them with what he sensed was a good deal of suspicion.  He shifted his grip and felt for the safety lever, and held it so hopefully his companion would have a good view of it.  “This is the safety.  In this position the rifle is not supposed to fire, while if it is in this position it is ready for service.  However, as anything mechanical can malfunction, we always treat our weapons with a good deal of respect.”  So saying, he flicked the safety back to the proper position, and slung the rifle by its sling across his back.  “We carry the rifle with the muzzle aimed either up in the air or down toward the ground except when we are preparing to use it.”

            “And this—garb you wear—it is designed to make it harder for an enemy to see you as you lie in wait, then?” he was asked.

            “When we get there I will put branches and leaves from local plants into the webbing of my helmet so as to help me blend more successfully into the area and to make me more invisible to the eyes of others,” Gibbs explained.

            “Considering the mode of transportation we will be using, it would perhaps be better should I carry your weapon while we are in motion, then.”  Greyhame’s voice was full of consideration.  “It would be perhaps too easy for that lever to be accidentally dislodged by Landroval, and with it aimed upwards he might unwittingly be injured or possibly even killed.  And that would not be a particularly good event.  How would it be best that I hold it?”

            “Keep your hands on the wood and the muzzle aimed away from anything you don’t wish to shoot, and all should be okay,” Gibbs said.  He didn’t like the idea of letting someone else hold his weapon, but again, what choice did he have?  “Why the blindfold?” he asked as he reluctantly relinquished his weapon to his companion.

            “It is more for your comfort than for secrecy, actually.  We have found that traveling the—route—we will use tends to cause some people to become terribly unwell or unmanned, and we should not wish to cause you to vomit or grow paralyzed with terror so that once you arrive you will not be able to do what is needful.  Would it bother you to have your body gripped about so that for a time you shall not be able to move your arms?”

            Not be able to move my arms?  Now, that was an unusual question, Gibbs thought.  He thought of the pods on the skids of many rescue helicopters they’d used during the Korean conflict.  They were necessarily narrow, and the patient for the most part could not move at all once he was strapped in.  Perhaps that was how he would travel.  “I don’t think it should cause much difficulty,” he said uncertainly.

            “That will be good.”

            They heard the cry of an eagle in the distance.  “Aha!  But here comes Landroval now!”

            Gibbs heard nothing for several minutes, and then what sounded like the beats of very large wings and then a solid sound as if a very large body had settled down on the ground nearby, a sound more felt than heard, actually.  He smelled something that he did not recognize but that still seemed somehow familiar.  Greyhame spoke in a language Gibbs did not understand at all, and he heard the name “Landroval” repeated a few times.  The responses sounded—unusual—yes, very, very unusual.  They were definitely words in the same language used by Greyhame, but he could not tell what kind of instrument they were spoken through.  Has this Landroval lost his vocal cords? Gibbs wondered.  Was he speaking through some kind of voice enhancement device?  It certainly had a different tone to it than he’d ever heard before!  And was that laughter?

            “I must climb up now.  Here—please hold the weapon so that I might do so unencumbered.” 

            Gibbs reached out and had the rifle pressed properly into his hands, muzzle up.  He checked and noted that the safety was still set, and nodded, encouraged.  He could hear sounds that indicated the other man was apparently scrambling up, but onto or into what he could not tell.  There was more talk between Greyhame and this odd-sounding Landroval, and at last Greyhame called down from above him, “Now, hand me the weapon, wood first.”

            Gibbs reversed the rifle to present the stock and lifted it, and felt it pulled upwards out of his hands.

            “Good!  And the lever is as you showed it to me.  All is well.  Now, put your arms straight down with the palms to the side of your legs, and lean as much as you can to—”

            There were directions from Landroval’s unusual voice, and Greyhame continued, “Lean as much as you can to your right.  Yes, like that.  Landroval says he can now take your torso.  Do not fear, Mr. Gibbs.  He will then lift up and take your legs.  Keep them together if you can.  Do not fear.  He will be very gentle.  He is experienced at this.  Keep your legs together as you are lifted upwards, and all will continue to be well.”

            Something closed about his torso, at first squeezing tightly, and he felt a distinct pull upwards.  At the same time he felt a tremendous movement of air, although it certainly did not feel like the wash of a helicopter.  Then something was reaching for his legs, and wrapping itself around them.  The grip on his chest relaxed once his legs were secured, and he realized he was being lifted up, off the ground, as whatever it was that gripped him rose in the air.  The grip on his chest shifted, and he realized he was being repositioned from sideways to lying on his back within whatever it was that held his chest and legs, that whatever the tubular things that held him were, they were capable of changing the angle at which he was being held.  He was being brought somehow forward as well as up, and the strangely familiar smell grew stronger; and then he realized he was being drawn up out of the wind, up against something—something alive!  Something warm and soft—and feathery!  He felt himself being pressed against the warm body of what appeared to be an impossibly great bird, or so it felt to be, and he could feel, almost hear, the beating of a great heart above him.

            For a moment he heard bits of a conversation between this Landroval and Mr. Greyhame, the man’s voice distant while that of Landroval seemed to come from the bird itself.  But there is no bird so large! he thought.  Then there was something like humming—or humming with words he could not understand but that appeared to touch him at a deep level.

            He felt his body relax, and he drifted into a deep sleep….

 *******

            “Mr. Gibbs?  It is time to awaken!”

            Gibbs slowly opened his eyes, wondering where he might be.  He lay along the shadowed eaves of a wood on one side, with a large, open field on the other.  Somehow the greens of the foliage of the evergreens and oaks seemed more intense than he’d seen before, and the air was sweet and wholesome, in spite of wood fires in the distance.  As he sat up, aided by Greyhame, he examined all about him.  It felt almost as if he were in one of the northwestern states, although he could not remember oak trees being that common in either Washington or Oregon.  Was he in Great Britain, then?  No, that could not be true, not with woods this thick and with such ancient trees!  Then where was he?

            “Where’s your friend Landroval?” he asked as he stood up, relieved to find his legs capable of supporting him.

            “He left once he was assured you had taken no hurt from the journey,” Greyhame said.  “He’s gone in search of Strider so as to send him in this direction.”

            The grey-clad man held out Gibbs’s rifle, which the former Marine examined closely.  The safety was still set properly, and he could not see any signs that it had suffered any mishandling.  He opened the breech to assure himself the chamber was empty, and felt in the leg pockets of his trousers for his ammunition bag.  Still there!  “So, may I know the details of the mission now?”

            Greyhame shrugged his shoulders.  “It is a simple matter, but also a rather delicate one.  We are making certain that certain tales of a particular time will come about as they are told.  Within a few hours two groups are going to be meeting here in this cleared area, one of citizens of this land, and the other of invaders so coarse, vicious, and ugly as to be unbelievable by your standards.  One of the locals is to charge the leader of the invaders wielding a club, and with it he is to strike off the leader’s head.  Except that, in spite of his unusual height, by Hobbit standards, that is, there is no realistic way in which this can be done.  The invaders are certainly not particularly large, either, but they still would tower over even Bandobras Took were he not mounted upon a horse!  Plus, although they are not known for being particularly intelligent, they are famous for being extraordinarily hard-headed and difficult to kill.

            “In short, our local hero needs some—discreet—aid if the head of his enemy is indeed to separate from the body as he swings his club at it.  All you need do is to shoot it in the neck just as Bandobras swings his club.”

            “So, this is why you need a sniper?”

            The older man gave a smile.  “Indeed, this is so.”

            Gibbs could barely credit what he’d been told.  “I wouldn’t exactly consider a sniper rifle particularly discreet,” he pointed out.  “First of all a silencer would hamper its accuracy, so everyone would hear the shot and realize someone besides this—local hero of yours was involved in the killing of the invader.  Not, of course, that I even brought a silencer with me.”

            Greyhame gave a short laugh.  “No one within the Shire would have the least idea of what could make the noise your weapon emits, my friend.  None here is familiar with—rifles of any sort.  You will see that the local defenders will be armed with slings, hand catapults, hunting bows, clubs, and stones.  Indeed, throughout this continent explosive powders are in remarkably short supply and have been used in warfare most sparingly, and then used more to confuse the enemy than in any practical manner intended to efficiently kill others.  They are barely used even in mining activities.  And as I have been their primary user and with them I almost exclusively create fireworks, and especially since I’ve not done an exhibition of my fireworks within two hundred miles of this place in living memory, no one will have any idea at all that Bandobras didn’t behead the creature unaided.

            “Plus,” he added, “you will be up there, on that slope, quite far away, and the blast will thus be sufficiently distant as to make it difficult for those present to necessarily realize it had anything to do with the loss of Golfimbul’s head.  Also, at the time of Bandobras’s charge both invaders and defenders will be yelling so loudly as to make it even harder for anyone to even hear the shot.”

            “So, you want me to shoot him in the neck?  Back at the spine?”

            “Yes.”

            “Okay!  I can do that!  But I don’t understand why me!”

            Greyhame sighed.  “You have to understand, Mr. Gibbs, that in this place and time there are no weapons such as yours.  I understand well enough how it works—no one better within Arda, perhaps, save of course Aulë himself.  But at this time there are no weapons that use explosive powders as propellants.”

            “No firearms.”

            “Correct—no firearms.”

            “So there’s nobody who could shoot this guy from a distance and make it look like this Bando-person knocked his head off?”

            “Again, correct.  Oh, several people could kill him at a distance—even Strider could.  Certainly we could have brought in Legolas to do so if necessary.  But an arrow would give the whole thing away.

            “It’s all the fault of the good Professor,” Greyhame continued with a degree of sadness.  “You see, when he started this tale, he was still looking to entertain his children.  Children love bloody deeds such as heads being stricken off terrible creatures by a single blow from a club wielded by much smaller defenders.  But it doesn’t do well when the physical laws of the greater work to follow are closer to those in reality.  So, we began to play the scene out and it just didn’t work.  And when I took the problem to the conclave of Wizards, Ponder Stibbons ran the question through HEX and it was suggested we bring you into the Shire to—well, to help the whole thing work out properly without the Hobbits realizing that dear Bandobras couldn’t truly do what he is supposed to have done.”

            Gibbs shook his head.  He still didn’t have any idea of where on earth he was or why he was among people who didn’t know about rifles or firearms of any sort, but he’d been told off by Vance to come here and help, and help he would.  Maybe he’d ask McGee to explain when he returned to Washington—somehow he was sure that his geeky agent would appreciate what this might be all about, although there was a good chance he, Gibbs, wouldn’t understand an explanation any better from Tim than he did from Greyhame.

            “Has he agreed to assist, Gandalf?” asked someone at Gibbs’s elbow.  The NCIS agent jumped—no one should be able to sneak up on him in any manner!

            Mr. Greyhame gave Gibbs another smile that was half apology, half amusement, turning his attention then to the newcomer, an exceptionally tall man clad in well-worn leather garments that had once been dyed a rich green, his hair shoulder length, a dark brown near to black threaded with silver at the temples.

            An officer, Gibbs knew immediately from the man’s stance.  Quite a high officer by the looks of him.

            “Good to see you at last, Hir Strider.  Where did you leave the invaders?” Greyhame asked the newcomer.

            “About forty minutes by a Dwarf-made clock northeast of here,” the man answered.  He was examining Gibbs’s camouflage garb.  “Interesting—patterns dyed into the cloth to make it appear to be leaves!”  He asked Gibbs directly, “Is it effective?”

            “As effective as that scarf he used on me as a blindfold.”

            Greyhame retrieved said scarf from his pocket.  “Faramir gave it to me before I left the White City as a memento.  It was used last as a blindfold on the Cormacolindo.”

            “Ah!  I still have the one given me when I served his grandfather—Arwen was intrigued by the pattern of the weaving and how the threads were spun of different colors, similar to the threads her grandmother used in the weaving of the cloaks we received in Lórien.  The spinners of Gondor gained her respect as a result of that scarf.”

            “High praise from the Lady’s granddaughter,” the grey-clad man commented dryly.  “So, Strider, where are they most likely to enter the clearing?”

            Strider pointed.  “From the near side of those trees.  Too many brambles on the far side.”

            “And the Tooks will most likely enter from there.”  Greyhame indicated a wide track on the southern side of the clearing.  “Bandy, at least, will be mounted.  He’s riding the horse of a Ranger that’s being treated by one of his healers.”

            “Do I know him?”

            “The Ranger?  No—long before your grandfather’s time, child.”

            “Perhaps I should look in, just to see that he’s doing well.”

            “Perhaps you might, but not before the fight.  Now, where would be best for this one and his weapon?”

            In moments Strider was leading Gibbs up the hillside Greyhame had indicated earlier.  “How much might you need to loft your weapon so that its stone properly hits the target?” Strider asked.

            Gibbs had been watching Strider with growing respect as he noted how surely yet carefully he set his feet so as to cause as little displacement as possible for the surrounding grass and foliage.  Only an exceptional tracker would be able to follow this man’s trail, and Gibbs wondered if he’d be able to do so if he’d not been following so closely in this Strider’s footsteps.  “I don’t need to loft my rifle—merely to aim it.  With a rifle it’s not anywhere as important to allow for wind as it would be with a bow and arrow, although one does need sometimes to do some compensating.  I take it you use a bow.”

            “Yes, and I am considered quite good, although I am no real competition for either of my brothers or Legolas, of course; and even Faramir is better than I with a bow.  Although I can best Faramir quite regularly with a blade for all his skill; and I have been known to beat both my brothers.  Although I have to admit they best me as often as I do them—or perhaps more often.  But to be able to best them at all is quite the feat in itself.  I was never truly able to beat Glorfindel, although he admitted I gave him a good workout on more than one occasion.”  All of this was said with good humor.

            “You certainly know how to hide your tracks.”

            “When one is trained by those who trained me, one learns to do so automatically.”

            “You’re the best I’ve seen in years, and the only one I know who did better was an Apache who was part of my unit in Iraq.”

            Strider paused and looked back.  “My brothers would be honored to meet him, then, or so I’d think,” he commented.  He looked around, then turned to look back at the glade below them.  “We still have somewhat short of half a mark before the goblins arrive.  They will come from that direction.  They will do little to hide their arrival.  Goblins are not known for subtlety.  Their advantage is usually due to lack of care for their own safety and the sheer viciousness of their assaults.  Their leaders are usually the largest individuals within the colony, so you will be able to recognize Golfimbul fairly easily.  He is a good head and a half taller than most of his warriors, and the others will be doing their best to stay out of his way as much as possible.  They will be armed mostly with clubs and crude long knives and short swords.  Why in Middle Earth they’ve decided to attack the Shire no one seems to know, but they have.  Perhaps the Witch-king has thought on some of the prophecies that the ones to destroy him and his Master will come from the banks of the Baranduin; or it may simply be that they’ve heard that food is plentiful within the Shire.  The weather near the feet of the mountains where the goblins live has been exceptionally dry this year, so food has been as sparse for the goblins as for others who reside near to the passes.”

            It did not take long for Gibbs to break up the shape of his helmet so as to make it hard to detect, using grass and those plants that grew close to the ground upon the hillside as well as a sprig from an oak tree.  Strider smiled as he recognized the intent of Gibbs’s actions, and in moments he melted into the bushes and trees behind Gibbs’s position.  The former Marine pulled a clip out of his ammunition bag, and at last lay down, glad he’d chosen one of his older and more faded camouflage outfits to wear today as it would be harder to detect from a distance.  He loaded his rifle, and checked his sites.  He could see the clearing easily from his location, and as he peered through the scope he saw movement on the edges of the cleared field below.  He realized that the defenders must already be moving into their own positions, although he found he could not count how many there might be.  He saw only a handful clearly, one of whom appeared to be wordlessly directing others where to take cover.  He smiled.  He was certain that the invaders would be taken by surprise.

            He could feel the approach of the enemy before he could actually hear them: a low rumble of the ground as if many, many heavily shod feet tromped closer and closer, and not in the cadence of a march.  He found he didn’t approve of what passed for discipline or training with the approaching troops, for as they came nearer he could hear whines and squeals that were most unprofessional for any trained force.  As verbal squabbles between individual attackers became more readily recognizable, he found himself wondering just whether this army had any training at all!  Then all went quiet—or almost quiet, for there were repetitions of Shhh! and You, there! before the invaders went completely silent.  Still, was that slavering he heard?!  A deeper, more incredulous part of his mind thought, And just when did I ever even think of the word slavering, much less use it?

            He did not understand the order to attack, for it was uttered in a foreign language he’d never heard before, one that sounded particularly uncouth and guttural.  But there were defiant cries from the hidden invaders before they streamed into view.  He swiftly realized that when Greyhame described them as coarse, vicious, and ugly he was not exaggerating.  As they poured into the open field they were indeed as ugly a bunch as he’d ever seen, and as they engaged those defending the field they proved vicious as well.  But how was he to tell his specific target in this roiling mass of—well, it could not truly be described as humanity!

            And then he saw what must be Golfimbul, and as described by Strider, he was indeed a good head and shoulders taller than those who fought under him!  And ugly!  Never had Gibbs seen such an ugly creature walking on two feet and carrying a sword!  And toward him atop a finely contoured horse with a rather shaggy red-brown coat rode his opponent, a rather round figure somewhat too small for the horse he rode topped with a face that must be usually jolly in countenance, but that now shone with a desperate determination as it held aloft its only weapon. 

            “A shillelagh?” Gibbs asked aloud.  “He’s attacking that beast with a shillelagh?”

            He readied his rifle and took careful aim, tracking the moving creature that now was focused on the rider.  He could hear the cries from the battle below, and saw as the great form of the—had they indeed called this a goblin?—saw the goblin raise its dark-bladed sword, and then the shillelagh was being brought forward, and at just the right moment Gibbs squeezed the trigger…

            …Just as the rider brought its shillelagh forward to connect its heavy grip with the goblin’s head!

            The goblin’s head leapt from the body as if with a life of its own, and flew through the air.  Gibbs, tracking it through the scope of his rifle, watched as it headed to a place where a rabbit, which had stood statue-still, frozen with the shock of watching this great battle, suddenly saw that head was coming toward it.  Galvanized into action by this direct threat to itself, the rabbit turned and fled in great leaps, finally bounding down a rather large hole, with the goblin’s head following it immediately afterwards. 

            There had been a sudden cessation in the noise of the battle, and as he lowered the rifle he could see that almost everyone who’d been fighting had turned to see the head of Golfimbul disappear after the poor, feckless rabbit, down the rabbit hole.  “It wasn’t white, carrying a pocket watch, at least,” Gibbs murmured, a feeling of unreality washing over him.

            At that moment a flight of arrows arched over the battle, falling like deadly rain on those goblins at the back, and there were cries of pain and alarm where they fell, and those goblins who’d been involved in the immediate fight turned to watch those they’d expected to reinforce them falling, each impaled by a short but still deadly bolt from above, and the invaders were now definitely disheartened.  A few on the sides were now beginning to retreat, flowing around those goblins that had fallen to the arrows, and others were beginning to pull away from the fight as well, following their bestial brethren as they joined what swiftly proved a full rout.  The defenders came after, racing after the one of their own who was mounted.  That one was barely managing to stay seated on his horse, although now and then he was able to use that club of his to good purpose as several more goblins were cracked over the head with it.

            And then, as swiftly as it had begun the battle was over, and he saw those defenders who were armed with bows stepping out of their hiding places, shouting and cheering and dancing with delight!  Soon enough the others of their fellows began returning, with the mounted one returning last. He sought to dismount from the great steed he’d been riding, and did so clumsily, falling rather heavily onto his rear end.  But no one seemed to think this a particularly inelegant means of reaching the ground once more, for they crowded about him and lifted him to their shoulders, one of them taking up the shillelagh and waving it triumphantly about as they all cheered and began singing—unfortunately apparently each singing a different song, considering what Gibbs could hear at this distance.  There were muffled cries from the one who’d been atop the horse until at last they set him on his feet, and he realized that this one was also decidedly taller than his fellows, although he indeed did not appear to be as tall as those he’d faced during the fight.  He was now directing the defenders to search amongst those still lying upon the ground, and they were quick to begin separating their fallen comrades from the dark-skinned invaders.  The tall one led what appeared to be a ragged line of farmers, bending over those of the goblins who lay there, now each producing knives from pockets and using them to cut the throats of any goblin they found still breathing.

            “That’s one troop of yrch that won’t be bothering anyone else for quite some time,” breathed Strider, who’d materialized soundlessly at Gibbs’s shoulder.  “Considering that Hobbits usually don’t wield anything more threatening than a stone they intend to throw at creatures invading their fields and gardens, they have done well, don’t you think?”

            The two men shared a smile before Strider gave a summoning gesture of his head and led Gibbs about the top of the hill to a place where they were hidden from the sight of any of those who’d taken an active part in the battle.

            Strider was unusually tall, although well proportioned from what Gibbs could see, and he certainly knew how to move both undetected and leaving little if any trail behind him, as Gibbs had noted earlier.  He would be the one to follow, Gibbs decided, in any warfare within this area.  They now descended the hillside, still leaving as little sign of their passage as possible, until they came to an open glade where Greyhame awaited them accompanied by a second, far smaller figure who carried—a tray?  Where had this one come from, and why was he carrying a tray of what appeared to be refreshments, way out here in what appeared to be unsettled lands?

            “Lady Vairë appears to think as you all deserve a good cup of tea,” the small one said, “although she directed as Mr. Gibbs here would prefer that.”  With an uncertain nod of his head he indicated a large paper cup that was so familiar to Gibbs, apparently having come from his favorite coffee shop near the Navy Yard.  “Seems t’be coffee, but I’d say as it’s strong enough to strip paint off’n the shutters of any hole as I’ve seen throughout the Shire.

            “That was as good a shot as I’ve ever seen, and that’s a fact!” the small fellow added to Gibbs.  “So that’s how it was done, eh?” he asked Greyhame.  “I’d begun questionin’ the Bullroarer story once we begun encounterin’ orcs ourselves, you know.”

            “Yes, that was how it was done, Sam,” Greyhame responded with what appeared to be affectionate pleasure, beaming down at the small, curly haired fellow beside him.

            Sam nodded, turning his attention to the taller fellow.  “Good t’see you again, Strider.  Although I’m certain as your lady wife is all upset as you’d come out again in those old green leathers once more.”

            Strider laughed.  “These have always been my preferred garments when wandering the wilds of the north, and you know it, my beloved Lord Perhael!  And thank the Lady Vairë when you return to her side again for her thoughtfulness.”

            He breathed deeply, his eyes closing with pleasure.  “How wonderful to breathe the fragrant air of the Shire once more,” he murmured with appreciation.  “But now we’d best return to our own places and times, supposing we wish to remain undetected by Bandobras’s people.  They’d think little enough of you, of course, Sam.  But we who appear to be Men would draw unwanted suspicion on Bandobras’s famed accomplishment, don’t you agree?”  

            He drew back, gave a most respectful and graceful bow, and vanished once more into the foliage surrounding the glade, and when he turned Gibbs noted that Sam, who was looking after the tall Man with a good deal of affection, was smiling and surreptitiously wiping away what appeared to be a tear, his tray tucked under his other arm.  “There’s just no one else quite like our Lord Strider,” the small person commented in a low voice.  “Ain’t that true, Gandalf?”

            Greyhame nodded.  “True enough, Samwise Gamgee.  Now, off with you back to the Lady, and thank her and her spouse for allowing you to join us this day.  And I will see Mr. Gibbs here returned back to his own place as well.”

 *******

            Gibbs awoke lying down, although he lay not on the soft grass of a cleared field as had happened the last time, but now on clean sheets on a bed.  He could hear the soft beeps of equipment about him, and realized that once more he was lying in a hospital room, hooked up to a variety of monitors of several sorts, his left hand temporarily immobilized to keep him from compromising the IV line on the underarm there.

            “Boss, are you awake?”

            He turned his head to see Tim McGee rising from the visitor’s chair, setting aside the large, heavy book he’d been reading.  “Yes,” he rasped, remembering it wasn’t that long ago that they’d removed his ventilator.  “All going well at the Yard?”

            “Yes.  Tony and Bishop are finishing up the paperwork from the investigation of you being shot this last time.  You really need to start wearing your vest more often, Boss.  It was a very close thing this time.”

            “It’s always a close thing,” Gibbs growled.  After a moment of thought he added, “But I don’t regret giving that kid a chance.”

            Tim held his tongue, his mouth twitching wryly.

            “Got some coffee?” Gibbs asked.

            “They told me I’m only allowed to give you water or juice for right now,” Tim said apologetically, and he retrieved a plastic cup with one of those corrugated plastic straws hospitals seemed to favor, holding it so Gibbs could take a sip.  Apple juice this time, he realized. 

            “What you reading?” Gibbs asked as Tim replaced the cup on a bedside tray.

            “I’m not sure why, but I brought my copy of The Lord of the Rings this time,” Tim answered.  “My sister spilled a Coke on my old paperback copy I’d had since I was at MIT last time she visited, so she sent it to me for Christmas.  It’s the illustrated edition printed up for Tolkien’s centennial celebration.”

            Gibbs considered, and at last asked, “You been reading that aloud to me while I was asleep?”

            Tim flushed as he shrugged.  “Doc said that you might benefit from hearing things read to you.  You don’t mind, do you?”  After a moment he added, “I was reading the description of Rohan and Edoras as Gandalf led Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli to the confrontation with Wormtongue and Théoden after they left the eaves of Fangorn Forest.”

            Gibbs had caught the trilogy on TV a few times, or at least parts of it.  Was that what had fueled his peculiar dream, he wondered?  But still he had that unfamiliar name in mind.  “You know anyone named Landroval?” he asked.

            “Landroval?”  Tim seemed confused.  He started to shake his head, then paused, a memory obviously hitting him.  “Oh, yeah, in the last volume, considering the way the story is usually divided up.  He’s in the movie, too, but they don’t give his name there.  He’s----”

            He stopped, his attention fixed on something in the corner.  “Boss!” he said, his attitude becoming serious and professional.  “What is that doing here?”

            Gibbs turned his head.  Leaning against the corner, stood up on its stock, was his sniper rifle.  And on the windowsill sat his helmet, with oak leaves and grass caught in its webbing.

For Dreamflower and others for their birthdays, and for Linda who again issued a challenge I couldn't resist.

A Nun in the Closet

            It was quiet within Bag End as Pippin made his attack upon the second larder, where he knew that Cousin Bilbo had been stockpiling goodies for the party being planned for the Gaffer’s birthday in three days’ time.  Frodo and Merry were down at the Water, swimming; Cousin Bilbo and Da were in the study discussing how best to approach the Thain regarding obtaining the new plow needed by the Whitwell farm for the coming year; Mum and the lasses were at the village market where they hoped to obtain some Dwarf-wrought pins needed for sewing and tatting, after which they were to have tea with Frodo’s aunts Dora and Iris at Iris and Ponto’s smial; and Aunt Esme and Uncle Sara weren’t due from Buckland for at least two more hours.  That ought to be time and enough to enjoy some of the seed cakes and various biscuits put by for the old Hobbit’s party, Pippin thought.  How he loved the cakes and biscuits Bilbo and Frodo baked!  And there were at least two pots of May Gamgee’s currant jam in there, too, as well as one of Missus Rumble’s brambleberry preserves and one of Aunt Esme’s apple butter that Merry had brought with him.

            In order to release the latch to the larder door he had to bring over the stool on which Frodo often sat, peeling taters into the dry sink while Bilbo kneaded dough on the stone slab on which bread was usually prepared in Bag End, allowing the two of them to work together and continue whatever discussion they’d been involved in for the day.  Always before it was the sound of that stool being dragged across the tiled floor of the kitchen that had advised anyone in the rest of the smial that Pippin was trying to get into that larder; but now he had a fool-proof idea.  He brought in lengths of toweling from the laundry basket in the little office where Bilbo’s mum used to do her accounts, and with great care he slid cloth between the brass-bound feet of the stool and the tiles, and then carefully pushed on the stool. 

            It worked!

            There was but a whisper of sound, and the stool moved far more easily across the green and gold ceramic tiles than it did usually.  He smiled with triumph as he maneuvered the stool to the proper place where he could climb upon it and release the latch toward the top of the door, then he scrambled down and slid it out of the way so he could pull the door open, and in a trice he was inside, not really minding that it was swinging closed again as there was a tube carefully screened with bars and fine cloth that allowed fresh air and some light into the small storeroom from the top of the hill whilst deterring bugs and mice.  The door would appear closed to anyone passing by, and he could sample goodies to his heart’s content! 

            Only----

            Only he quickly realized he wasn’t alone in the room!

            There was a Big Folk there already, sitting on the floor, one clad in a rather plain blue dress that must have reached her feet when she stood up but was now rucked up her legs to show she wore bulky knit garments of some sort on each foot under heavy black shoes that had thick, black laces.  Pinned to the front of her dress was a white apron, and her hair was hidden under a starched, white cloth veil, carefully folded and held in place by a strap under her chin.  She wore also a necklace of wooden beads, from which hung a strange shape made of two crossed lengths of wood, the upright one longer than the other.

            Her face was long, narrow, and filled with creases.  She must have been quite old, the young Hobbit realized.  What in Middle Earth was she doing in Bag End’s second larder, and how had she come there?

            Sitting on one hip as she was, she was at a proper height to look at the shelf where Bilbo had set the trays of cakes and biscuits, and she had a large pot of some kind of preserves beside her on the floor, the cloth and ribbon used to seal it carelessly discarded in the corner.  There were traces of the dark preserves at the corners of her mouth, on her long, wrinkled fingers, and even on her white apron.  Her ancient eyes were opened wide with surprise and alarm at being found so, until she’d had time to examine him as thoroughly as Pippin was examining her.

            “What sprite is it that had joined me here, here in this room filled with delights?” she asked aloud.  “Is it Puck, or perhaps one of his fellows?  Peaseblossom, perhaps?  Or Mustardseed!  Tell me, manling, doest thou also seek sweet things to eat?  Do join me!  Here—I shall give way so that you, too, may take your ease as you eat.  Would you like a biscuit?  These here appear to be covered with colored sugar and are quite delectable!”

            So saying, she handed him one of the fancy sugar biscuits Frodo and Merry had made that morning.

            “I didn’t know that this room existed!” she added as she took a snickerdoodle from a different tray.  She bit into it, and spoke on even though her mouth was now full.  “There’s been this strange, small door at the back of the broom closet that has always intrigued me.  I’ve always been certain Sister Evangelina has the key to it, and that this was where she puts those cakes sent back with her by some of the mothers she serves.  So this morning when I went in to place her clean laundry upon her bed and I saw a key on a faded purple ribbon upon her shelf, I took it to try.  And I was right!  It opened into this room, which is absolutely filled with sweeties!  And the preserves here—I don’t think I’ve tasted their equals ever!  How has she managed to gather so much here?”

            “Bilbo and Frodo made most of this,” Pippin explained.  “It’s for the Gaffer’s birthday, you see.  And if those are the brambleberry preserves, Missus Rumble from down on the Row made them.”

            “She is a mistress of the art, then,” the strange woman said, and she dipped her hand into the jar and sucked the preserves off her fingers.  Around the fingers she mumbled, “I remember when, as a child, I would go out from the Hall to the woods a half mile distant from our gates to gather berries with some of the girls from the village.”  She swallowed, licked the last remains of the juice off her index finger, and continued.  “My mother would be most upset when she realized I’d done this, however.  The daughter of the Hall ought not to stoop to manual labor—this she sought to impress upon me by striking the backs of my hands with a ruler from the school room.  But I was not to be deterred.  Of that you may be certain!  Ever I sought to fulfill the desires of my heart, which led me to befriend those beneath my station and to help others as I was able.  Oh, it was considered admirable by my parents to provide charity, as long as one did not truly seek to be kind when it was offered, of course.  My father, after all, was far too important to truly be part of the village’s life.  He was a member of Parliament, you understand.”

            Pippin didn’t understand at all.  But then she straightened as if listening.  “Sh!” she whispered.  “Mrs. B. has come into the pantry behind me.  I mustn’t be caught!”

            In the distance he could hear a woman’s voice calling, “Sister Monica Joan?  Are you in here?  Oh, but where has she got to this time?  Sister Julienne charged me to keep an eye on her today while she’s away to the church speaking with the Vicar.”  A door closed somewhere, one that didn’t sound like any he was familiar with here in Bag End.

            The old woman sighed.  “She’s gone out and will be looking for me in the chapel, I suppose.  I fear I must leave now, or she might come back and check in the broom closet and find the little door open.  Then I shall be subjected to extensive lectures of correction from Sister Evangelina that would be most tiresome.  Well, you remain here and enjoy the good things that fill this room with such abundance.  I must return that key on the faded purple ribbon at once!”

            With that the strange Big Person crawled backwards out through a small door Pippin had never seen before, one with long, straight sides and a narrow width.  Never had the young Hobbit seen such a thing anywhere within the Shire!  It looked as if it would be a good height for himself to go through, but far too small for this odd person to have walked through upright.  He watched it close behind her and heard a key being turned in a lock, and knew that she must be hurrying out of the pantry of which she’d been speaking.

            He ate several more biscuits and at least five of Bilbo’s seed cakes, and then lay on the floor upon his back, feeling the last of his corners must be satisfactorily filled before he closed his eyes—just for a minute, you understand—and fell asleep.

            “So, this is where the young scamp is, then?  I should have realized when I saw the tea towels under the feet of the stool!”

            He awoke to find Bilbo, Merry, and Aunt Esme all three looking down at him.

            “And he’s been into the brambleberry preserves,” Aunt Esme said in her tssking voice.  “See how he’s thrown the cloth and ribbon into the corner?”

            Merry was dragging Pippin to his feet.  “I ought to have known when you said you’d not go swimming with Frodo and me that you had plans for such mischief,” he said.

            Bilbo sighed as he reached down for the jar and cloth.  “I don’t know how he reached the preserves,” he said.  “I put the jar upon the top shelf.  He must have climbed up them to get to it!  I suppose we’re fortunate he didn’t break it as he brought it down again.”  He looked inside and exclaimed, “Half the jar gone!”

            “And see how many cakes and biscuits are missing!” Merry said, obviously distressed.  “Frodo and I had thought we had enough for everyone who’s to come!”

            “But we’d not taken into account one small Hobbit who nevertheless has a stomach of epic proportions!” Bilbo said.  He leaned over to pick up the ribbon that had held the cloth over the preserves pot, but it wouldn’t come away easily.  “What’s this?  It appears to have gotten stuck under the trim, back here on this wall.  Now, how on earth could that have happened?”

            “It must have been dragged under the door as the strange Big Folk crawled out of it,” Pippin said.

            But there was no door there, neither comfortably round or oddly straight and rectangular.  Pippin was to continue searching for it for years, but he never saw it again.

~0~

The title is taken from a book by Dorothy Gilman, and the characters from "Call the Midwife."  Blame Linda, who again sought to find ways to get me to combine our favorite series with Middle Earth.