The Dedication

            “Where is he?” Merry asked his cousin when Sam was not to be found anywhere within the newly finished smial of Undertowers, where Elanor and Fastred and their family were to take up their new abode.

            Pippin glanced toward the vaulted ceiling, and the two Hobbits nodded, understanding between them.  Merry led the way out, grabbing a bottle of wine to take with him, and Pippin snatched up a few cakes.  They found their way to the place where it was easiest to climb the hill, and made their way up.

            As they’d expected, Sam stood there, one hand on the base of the ancient tower, staring westward over the silvery expanse of the Sea.

            “He’d love this place, he would,” the Mayor said in greeting.

            “That he would,” the Master agreed, passing the bottle.  “To Frodo!”

            As Pippin doled out the cakes he echoed, “Yes--to Frodo!”

            Solemnly, Sam sipped.

Battle Plans

            Captain Thorongil signaled for the bottle to be given to him.  Although it appeared to be filled with wine, it truly held rock oil, which was crucial to his plan to burn the Corsairs’ fleet in their berths.  At the moment a small group of men from Dol Amroth were sailing a ship taken from the Haradrim into the bay and were preparing to set fire to it.  Certain places on the hull had been weakened, which would allow it to be sunk in the center of the harbor mouth.  In moments those braziers on its deck and in its holds would be tipped over, and its sailors would abandon ship to swim to a longboat already set in place to receive them.  He himself would lead the bulk of Gondor’s men in the expected battle on the wharves of Umbar.

            Ah--there was the signal!  It was time to fight!

The Practice Sail

            As Frodo drew his small craft into the island’s main wharf he was met by the elleth Livwen, who had befriended him soon after he’d arrived on Tol Eressëa.  She accepted the painter, and between then they soon had the tiny swanship tied in place.  “Did you have a nice sail?” she asked him.

            “Oh, yes!  The cliffs to the north of the city are beautiful in the dawn’s light!” he answered her.  “I took a bottle of wine and the violin your sister’s husband made me and tried playing it there where there was none to offend by the noise.”

            “Did you play it well?”

            “Oh, no--I’m no better with it than I ever was.  I remind myself of my Cousin Folco--he took lessons on the viol as a lad, and was always terrible.  The neighbors took to closing the shutters during his practices.”

            Together they laughed.

The Mariner’s Return

            As the moon shone brightly from over the heights of Meneltarma, Erendis led the court musicians down to the wharf.  Her husband’s ship should soon arrive, and she would be there to meet him.  She carried with her a bottle of strong spirits with which to greet and beguile him.  After all, her beloved Aldarion would be king of Númenor one day--between the two of them they would do well to beget the heir that he deserved and that was expected of them as Crown Prince and Princess of the island nation, and she was eager to do her duty by the land and people they both so loved.

            Soon, to the east, against the glimmering stars, the softly shimmering shape of a ship of their people could be seen.  She grew eager.  She smiled and signaled.  A lone violin began to play.  It came closer; the music swelled.

Peace Interrupted

            Isengar Took stretched as he reached his favorite chair on the far side of the colorful back garden behind the Great Smials.  Here, at least, he could find some peace, and be able to soak up some sunlight into his creaking bones.  Assured no Hobbitesses were about, he removed his shirt and sat down.

            “The Moon snagged the bottle from the wharf of the Sun;

            The wind’s in the sails and the ship’s on the run....” he sang to himself, then paused at the sound of a loud crack.

            “What in the name of Ossë!” he cursed as he stood up, peering into the trees that bordered the garden.  In the distance he could see that monkey, Bilbo Baggins, disappearing through the shrubs back toward the east sheep pasture.  “I swear--I will have Belladonna’s hair for my violin bow if that son of hers doesn’t stop spying on me!”

Requesting Gifts

            “Ada, what will you bring me back from Harad?” Eldarion asked.  “Will you be back for Mettarë?”

            “I hope to be back by then.  And what would you wish as a gift?”

            “A monkey!” he said happily.

            “You are a monkey,” Melian advised him.  “Look at you--you just dropped your fork again!”

            “And what do you wish me to bring you?” the children’s indulgent father asked his daughter.

            “A new instrument to learn to play.”

            “Ah--then I should probably find you a zither.”

            “Is it like a violin?” Eldarion asked.

            “It has many more strings,” his father answered, smiling.  “And you play it with your fingers, not a bow.

            “When do you leave, Ada?” his daughter asked.

            “I must be at the wharf at moonrise.”

            “What shall you bring back for Nana?” Eldarion asked.

            Melian suggested, “A bottle of scent, perhaps?”

            “Ah,” her father smiled.  “She’d like that!”

A gapfiller of sorts for "Lesser Ring."

Thanksgiving for Healing

            Aragorn lay on his bedroll in the corner of his host’s tent, watching the moon through a hole in the fabric and listening to the creatures known as monkeys as they cried and gibbered while they fed in the heights of the trees that grew about the oasis in which the Bhatsis were camped.  His heart was so filled with thanksgiving he was certain it would sound as true as the string of a great violin when stroked by the bow of the master musician.  He needed no bottle of fine wine this night to feel giddy!  Against all odds he’d managed to help call back the Khafra’s son from what the Haradrim thought of as the wharf from which Osiri sailed with the souls of the dead.

            He blessed whichever Power it was that had led him to take the right fork in the marked trail two days past.

Foresight

            Pippin stood already upon the prow of stone, looking beyond the wharf of the Harlond, down the length of the river that lay silver beneath the moon, toward the distant blue glimmer that whispered of the sea.  He was quiet--a contrast to the chatter of children in the Sixth Circle, sounding like monkeys in their play.  The bottle in his hands was mostly full; a plate and fork lay beside him.

            The Hobbit looked up.  “You knew, didn’t you?  When we parted at the Gap of Rohan?”

            “That Frodo could not remain in Middle Earth?  That I could not lock him behind bars to hold him among us?  That I would never see him again?  Yea, I knew.”

            “And his going tore as large a hole in your heart as in ours, I suppose.”

            “Yes.”

            A single violin from an inn in the Fifth Circle began a mournful tune.

The Coverup

            “How did you get into the shed on the wharf?”

            “Well, I had to monkey with the locks a bit, but with the use of that bent fork in the keyhole I managed to get it open.  But then the Guards came by, so I made a show of playing my violin--the captain, he threw two coppers into my hat!  Thought I was really busking!”

            Laughter.  “You really fooled him, did you?”

            “Had no more idea who I really was than the Man in the Moon!”

            More laughter.  “What are you going to do when Father finds out you are the one who broke into Uncle Imrahil’s boat shed?”

            “Well, I was only returning that coil of rope and lantern we borrowed from it before he left.  I hid it under the extra main sheet.”

            “Well, Faramir, I suppose I owe you a bottle!”

            “That you do, brother mine!”

For FrodoBaggins252 for her birthday.

The Ringbearer Prepares to Sail

            He had worn the Ring as a pendant about his neck, a silver chain threaded through a hole of gold fit to swallow the world.  The Ring had been prepared to drink his life and the Light of his Being as if from a bottle, breaking the lock that guarded his heart and emptying his soul.

            Ever he had been played upon as if he were the string of a violin, the note trued by the vibration of a celestial fork.  The music played upon him had been written by the hands of the Creator in stars of mithril upon the sheet of night, stroked with a bow wrought of wind wielded by the moon made as agile as a monkey. 

            He stood upon the wharf, surrounded by his kin yet utterly alone, isolated by a burden that yet weighed the more for having been lost.  Círdan bowed before him.

Following Pippin's trip to Harad described in "Lesser Ring," he spends one night at Budge Hall with Fredegar Bolger while on his way home.

Assuring his Welcome

            “You shouldn’t have stayed away so long,” advised Freddy Bolger with a wave of his fork.  “Your Diamond will have locked you out of the Great Smial, and will smash your own violin over your head when you show your face.”

            “My wife would never lock me out of my own hole!” Pippin insisted, tipping the bottle of porter over his cup.  “Isumbard and I were on our way home almost as soon as the King’s ship returned to the wharf at the Harlond.  I promise you we did not monkey around in Gondor.  And remember--she agreed I should stay to go with Aragorn to Harad.” 

            “You’d best have that in writing so as to remind her.”

            Pippin laughed, “Oh, I do--the sheet of parchment, witnessed by the King himself, is in my pocket, along with a crystal pendant of the moon.”

            “Aha!  A bribe!”

            “But of course!”

Isengar’s Treasures from the Mathom Room

            Primula examined the stuffed toy warily.  “And what is it supposed to be?” she asked.

            “It’s a monkey--they live in Harad.  My Uncle Isengar said he could hear them in the trees near the wharf where his boat was docked, especially when the moon was full.  One street entertainer had taught his to play a small violin, and said he had to lock the box in which he kept his wine as the creature was so clever it would open the bottles and would get drunk.  Don’t you think Frodo will like it?”

            Drogo was examining a crystal with a hole in it.  “Is this from a pendant?”

            “Uncle Isengar hung it from a string in his window.  It throws marvelous rainbow-colored speckles of light when the Sun shines through it.  And that fork-shaped thing is to roast sausages upon.  And you bake biscuits on this Gondorian cookie sheet.”

The Miscreant

            “There you are!” Isengar Took said as he found the cook’s monkey hanging pendant by its tail from the rail over the captain’s cabin.  “What do you have there?  The crystal bottle of scent the mate bought for his sweetheart?”

            The creature’s clever fingers had failed to undo the silver wire holding the stopper.  “Good thing you didn’t drink that,” he commented, “or I suspect you would have been dreadfully ill by moonrise.”  He took the creature in his arms.  “The captain isn’t happy with you since you put that sheet of parchment containing a letter from his wife through the hole of his violin, you know.”

            The creature pulled at a button.

            As he walked into the galley he called out, “Cookie, you’d do well to keep this one under lock and key while we’re at the wharf in Pelargir, or someone will skewer him with a cooking fork!”

Grief for the Living Son

            Nerdanel removed the last shining opal from the necklace, and set it as a pendant, hanging it from a mithril chain.  Only one of her menfolk remained alive, of her husband and seven sons.  And when she might ever see her Macalaurë again none could say, not for love nor money!

            The Moon rose over the eastern horizon, its light shining on the sheet of music and small crystal ink bottle she’d found in the room once his.  What a monkey he’d been as a child, into everything not behind a locked keyhole, ever begging another cookie, branding each possession with the letter M, even his violin!  But there at the wharf of Alqualondë--what he’d done had been written in the blood of innocents!

            Her family had reached a fork in the road of life, and only she’d continued on the straight way.  Holding his music, she wept bitterly.

Aftermath

            “I’ll go get started on dinner,” Eglantine said, fork in hand.

            Little Pippin, just turned four, danced after her, the stuffed monkey Frodo had given him dangling from his arms, its tail dragging.   “I help cookie!” he cried.

            “If one could just bottle that child’s energy one could make a good deal of money,” Bilbo commented.  “I doubt the monkey will see another owner--from Isengar to me to you to Pippin to rags!”  He brushed a lock of hair from Frodo’s forehead.  “Eglantine loves the crystal pendant you gave her.” 

            “I don’t know what I’ll do with Ferumbras’s violin,” Frodo sighed.  “I’ve no interest in it.”  He glanced out at the quarter moon sinking toward the horizon.  “It’s been a good Yule, but I feel like a rowboat with a hole in it sinking just short of the wharf.  Now--a sheet of paper for a letter to Menegilda....”

At the Wedding Feast

            “Hail, Lock-bearer!” 

            Gimli bowed.  “My lady!  Take a chair.  I would show you the crystal housing for your gift.  I lined it with a sheet of mithril to reflect light of Sun, Moon, or star.”

            A server paused with a bottle of wine and glasses, pouring a drink for each.  On his tail came another, a wizened monkey of a Man, offering meats and cheeses.  He used a silver fork that hung pendant from a chain to serve them.

            The Dwarf looked after him.  “He came with us from the wharf at Pelargir,” he said, “where he’d served as Cookie on a merchant’s ship.  Money could not buy his loyalty, but he gave it freely to Aragorn.  His captain gave him a letter freeing him of his commitments to the fleet, although he said his leaving left a hole in his crew.”

            A violin began to play for the dancing.

Avoiding the Lesson

            “Abelard, you brought your violin?  Then take your chair.”

            “Yes, sir.  Uncle Isengar?”

            “Yes, lad?”

            “Bilbo says you have a picture on your chest.”

            “Yes.  It’s a tattoo of a monkey with a bottle.”

            “What’s a monkey?”

            “A creature from Harad.  They have arms and legs like Hobbits, but are furry all over, and have tails.  Our ship’s cook had one--bought him for a good deal of money off the wharf at Risenmouthe.  It stole things like loaves of bread, sheets of parchment, and crystals, and would slip through the portholes to get them.  You had to keep things under lock and key with him around.  One day it stole a letter I was writing to Father and a silver pendant of the Man in the Moon from me and hid them in the crow’s nest along with Cookie’s favorite roasting fork.”

            Isengar continued to talk, the lesson forgotten.

Monkeyshines

            Húrin keyed the lock and slipped into the room where his two young cousins were imprisoned.  “Here,” he commented as he produced half a loaf of bread, a bottle of preserves, cookies, sunflower seeds, a few slices of ham and a fork or two and breadknife, setting them on a chair.  “Where did you find the monkey, and why did you turn it loose in the guest hall?”

            “At the wharf.  A sailor from the Silver Moon was playing his violin and the monkey was dancing for money until his captain called through a porthole for him to stop.  Faramir and I threw one of the sheets from Uncle’s skiff over it and caught it, and it got away before we made it to our rooms!”

            “Well, Lady Celebithiriel just presented your father with a letter of protest.  It took her crystal pendant and dragged its tail in her soup.”

Waiting on the Dock of the Bay for Reunion

            He prepared a small meal to take with him--cheese between slices of bread sprinkled with poppy seed; a crystal bottle of peach juice; a dish of curds and whey covered by a sheet of parchment, several carrots, a large cookie.  He fetched fork, knife, spoon, and cup, and headed for the wharf, grateful there was no reason to lock up behind him.

            One of the waiting Elves played a violin, and overhead children climbed like tailless monkeys in the trees.  The sea lay like crystal, and upon its surface the wind wrote its own strange letters.  The moon hung like a pendant in the western sky as the dawn brightened that to the east.  No amount of money could have purchased such beauty, he thought as he settled himself in the chair set for him.

            Sam was coming, and the final hole in his heart would at last be healed.

Gifts Intended

            They brought him snowy rounds of flatbread cookies spread with a paste made of crushed sesame seeds, sheets of thickened leathery stuff made from the juice of peaches, a stoneware bottle of date wine, smoked meats, and cheese made from goat’s milk as the ship left the wharf at Risenmouthe.  He pulled a fork from his pocket with which to eat his meal as he reread the letter from his queen.

            Our daughter plays her brother like a violin, beloved, assuring him you will bring no monkey.

            He sighed--if only that were true.  He glared at the locked cage on the chair opposite wherein his gift for Eldarion slept, its tail about its body.  He had spent a fair amount of money purchasing a scrying crystal and a silver pendant of the moon’s disk that it had then stuffed through the hole in the sound board for Melian’s zither!

First Snowfall in Imladris

                Moonlight reflected from snow awakens Frodo, and he rises, walks out.  No lock to door here.  He is taut as the string to any violin, alert to all that moves.  A fork in the path, and pristine snow lies on the sheet of ice covering a decorative lake.  Icicles glimmer like crystal, pendant from the rope binding small boat to miniature wharf.  With a stick he painstakingly draws each letter of his name in Tengwar upon the virgin white. 

                “The moon is the north wind’s cookie,” he sings as he forms a number of snowballs, each the size of a large peach.  Upon a garden chair he sculpts a monkey of snow, adding even the tail.  By it he sculpts a bottle and a loaf to represent drink and bread.

                He scoops a hole in the whiteness--forms another ball.

                Sam comes forth to seek him.

                Thwack!

                On the money!

A Hard Mercy

            Far from any wharf Ossë found the ship, the sailors cursing the great hole in the limp main sheet, Cookie swearing he was down to his last loaf of bread and bottle of peaches, the Captain seeking to establish their location by dangling a crystal pendant over the charts, the mate’s violin strings refusing to match tone with the tuning fork, the monkey clinging to the rope attached to the ship’s boat by its tail.

            “I cannot get a lock on our position,” the captain confessed to the steersman as he dropped into his chair.  “I fear we sailed under an evil moon.  And if our cargo spoils, there will be no money for any, no letters patent.  And if the threatening snow falls, it will be very hard on us.”

            Ossë knew the storm he would raise would try these men, but offered them their only seed of hope....

The Pilgrimage

            The lock clicked, and Pippin entered the parlor that had housed the Old Took.  He peered through the dust--saw the painting over the mantel of boats with baggage roped to a foreign wharf, by a figure of the Haradri monkey god holding a crescent moon.  A dusty violin, bow, and tuning fork lay on the round table by Gerontius’s chair with an empty bottle and crystal goblet.  Over the sofa hung a still life of a pomegranate, a cookie, a peach split to show its seed, and a slice of bread on a snowy cloth.

            A sunbeam slipped through a hole in the curtains, illuminating a desk on which lay some money, a pendant, and a vase of feathers from a pheasant’s tail.  On the blotter lay a faded sheet of vellum, an ancient letter.

            Dear Father, it began.

            It ended, Please forgive me!  Hildifons.

            “Thain Gerontius, I understand.”

The Return of the Prodigal

            “Mr. Gerontius, there’s a Hobbit in the hole to see you.”

            “Eh, Peach?  Well, show him in.”

            The candle illuminated the newcomer.  A lock in his heart gave way, as if the snow atop the Great Smial had just melted.  His baggage was tied with rope, the end hanging like a tail.  He wore a pendant of a crystal moon.  He carried a battered violin case. 

            “You came home!”

            “Yes, Da.  The ship’s boat put me ashore near the wharf of Mithlond two weeks past.  Missed one fork in the road, or I’d have been here two days ago.”

            “You’ve a scar!”

            “Cookie’s monkey cut me with a broken bottle.  It’s nothing.”

            “I got but one letter.”

            “Not many sheets of paper at sea, Da, and little money for messengers.”

            “Have a chair, and bread and jam.”  A seed of hope stirred.  “Your brother Hildifons?”

            Sadly, “I never found him.”

And now for something decidedly different!  Heh!  Merry Christmas!

Disturbed Rest

            Frodo ran as swiftly as he was able along the road, knowing that if he arrived too late the grey ship would sail from its wharf without him, taking Bilbo away forever, leaving him behind to die ignominiously, far away from friends and family.  But he could not seem to run quickly--it was as if he had to pry his feet from the ground for each step.  He came to a fork in the road, and stopped in frustration, for he knew not which path to take.

            It was odd, for the road under him was no longer graveled, but was paved with brick--with yellow bricks, in fact.  He looked down one way, and then the other.  “Which do I take?” he asked aloud.

            “Many go that direction,” advised the scarecrow in the adjacent cornfield.  One hand pointed to the right.  “Although some prefer that way,” he added, pointing the other way.

            “Don’t listen to him,” suggested a cat that sprawled along an overhead branch, smiling hugely down at him.  “He has no idea at all.”  It tapped its head meaningfully.  “No brains, you see.”  It smiled again, and its tail disappeared.

            Frodo looked up at it openmouthed, never having seen such a thing before.  At that moment a small, brown, hairy creature ran across the road, carrying a yellow hat much like Gandalf’s, although not anywhere as tall and not quite as pointed.

            “What is that?” he asked in alarm.

            “Just a monkey.  It appears George is being rather too curious about the man in the yellow hat again.”

            A similar creature, but much larger, tailless and ginger in color, now walked by rather uncertainly, a peach in one hand and a book in the other.  It was looking about as if searching for something.  Then suddenly appearing relieved, it said, “Ook!” and hurried to the right, disappearing amongst shelves of books.

            Frodo watched after it in surprise.  “Is that a monkey, too?” he asked the cat, whose hindquarters had begun to fade away.

            “Shh!  Don’t let him hear you call him that--he’s an orangutan, and is offended if anyone calls him a monkey--he’ll have you know he’s one of the great apes, although it’s said he was once a wizard.”

            The cat’s hind legs were now quite gone.  It made Frodo feel rather queasy to look at it.  He looked again at the two yellow-bricked roads.  “But which way do I take?” he asked himself.

            “Doesn’t really matter,” the cat answered.  “As long as you don’t end up in Cheshire.”  It smiled more broadly, and its belly began to disappear.

            Frodo shivered, and started down the road to the right where he thought he saw the gleam of water.  He soon came to a stream surrounded by ramshackle houses that made the sheds Sharkey’s Big Men had erected in Bag End’s gardens appear substantial.  By the banks of the stream a large, handsome and amiable looking Man sat at his ease, leaning back against a tree trunk, a fishing pole in one hand and a brown stoneware bottle in the other.  “If I had my druthers, I’d rather have my druthers, than any other druthers at all,” he was singing between sips from the bottle.

            Frodo examined him, noting the patched trousers, and the braces the fellow wore over a white singlet, and the extraordinarilylarge black boots that managed to look nothing like those worn by Gandalf.  “Hello,” he said tentatively.  “Frodo Baggins at your service.”  He bowed politely if hurriedly, and looked into the face of the Man.  “Is this the way to Mithlond?”

            “Mithlond?” the Man asked, obviously not recognizing the name.  “Is that anywheres near Skunk Holler?”

            “I see,” Frodo said, realizing the Man hadn’t heard of the place before.

            At that moment a skinny woman in a skin-tight skirt and dark jacket with the oddest bonnet the Hobbit had ever seen on her head and an even odder pipe in her mouth came out of the nearest shack.  “Li’l Abner?  You gonna bring in some fish fer supper or sit out there jawin’ with strangers all day?”

            “Comin’, Mammy!” the Man called, handing the bottle to Frodo and getting to his feet.  He reached down and pulled a string of fish that had been anchored to the tree’s roots out of the water.  Carrying it and laying the pole over his shoulder he paused, telling Frodo, “You can drink the rest of the Yokumberry Tonic if’n you wants.  You’s a bit on the scrawny side--do you a passel of good, I’m thinkin’.”  He winked at Frodo and headed for the shack, whistling “The Country’s in the Very Best of Hands!”

            Frodo wasn’t certain he ought to drink the tonic after all, and set the bottle gingerly on the ground near the tree before continuing on his way.  He realized the road here was rutted dirt and gravel, the yellow brick having apparently been abandoned some time ago.  As he went further, it became smoother, and then smoother still--smoother and harder, now a dark grey near to black.  A strange music began:  Da da Da da Da da Da da, Da da Da da Da da Da da.... He heard a loud purring that became a roar, and suddenly a strange, shiny black chariot not pulled by horses or any other beast swept down upon him.  He leapt aside just in time, watching after with alarm.  There were two figures in the vehicle, appearing to sit within it, the taller one apparently steering it through the use of a black wheel of some kind.  He’d worn a tight black hood over his head with what appeared to be ear-like horns on each side, and black gauntlets along with a flowing black cape.  The other person appeared to be a boy who wore a black mask over his upper face.  He heard the Man ask, “Did you see that, Robin?” before they roared out of sight.  Some kind of pendant fell clinking to the ground in the wake of the vehicle, and Frodo went to pick it up, shuddering to see it was in the shape of a bat.  He let it fall and wiped his hands on his jacket in disgust.

            The road became a dirt path and led him into a dark woods.  Frodo found himself reminded of Bilbo’s descriptions of Mirkwood, or that given him by Merry and Pippin of Fangorn Forest.  It was dark under the trees, which nevertheless appeared to be properly treeish and decidedly unlikely to try to swallow travelers or dump them into streams.  Suddenly he heard someone calling, “Harry!  Haarrrryyy!  Come on, Harry--this isn’t funny at all!” 

            As the path wound around the roots of a decidedly gnarled oak he found himself face to face with a tall, rather skinny red-haired boy dressed in worn black robes over a rather grimy white shirt, its top buttons undone, and dark strip of cloth hanging untidily from either side of his neck.  There was a sort of badge with a snake, a lion, a badger, and an eagle surrounding a shield on the boy’s left breast.

            If Frodo was surprised to see the redheaded boy, the youth appeared even more startled to see him.  He reached into a pocket of his robes and pulled out a baton of some sort, pointing it at Frodo in apparent fright.   Then he dropped his hand, apparently realizing Frodo was no threat.  “Sorry,” he said.  “Was looking for my mate--haven’t a clue which way Harry went.  You seen him?  Rather small, skinny chap, with untidy black hair and round glasses?”

            Not trusting himself to speak, Frodo shook his head.

            But the boy had noticed the jewel Frodo wore around his neck.  “Oh, a cool crystal!” he exclaimed.  “It have any special powers or something?”

            “I’m told it’s to help balance my fëa,” Frodo admitted, “although I don’t have precisely how that works figured out as yet.  It does help me feel better when I hold it if my shoulder is paining me or if I’m upset.”

            “It’s not a horcrux, is it?” the boy asked cautiously.

            “Horcrux?”

            “Never mind,” the boy said.  “Have to find Harry, but need to stay away from the area where Aragog’s family lives.  Don’t go that way----” he pointed down a dark path Frodo sensed was anything but wholesome.  “That’s where we met them, Aragog and his lot.  Not a good group to meet, believe me.  And what are you doing here?”

            “I’m trying to get to Mithlond before the grey ship sails.”

            The boy’s eyebrows raised in surprise.  “Ship?  But the Castle and the Lake are that direction!  But where can you sail to in the lake?  This grey ship--it’s not like the Durmstrang ship, is it?”

            Just then they heard another voice calling from a distance.  “Ron!  Ron!  Where are you?”

            The red-haired boy looked relieved.  “Look here, mate, don’t know where this Mithlond is, but I doubt its the way you’re going.  Be careful--Hagrid’s lump of a brother is wandering around in here someplace.”  He called out, “I’m coming, Harry!” and turned away toward where they’d heard the voice, then turned back to ask, “Are you a house elf or something?  You related to Harry’s Dobby?”

            The idea of himself as an Elf made Frodo laugh.  “An Elf?  Do I look like an Elf?  I fear Gildor Inglorion would find that good reason to shout with laughter.”

            “It’s just you’re so short, and your ears--well, they’re pointed and all.  No offense.”

            “Well, no, I am definitely not an Elf.  I’m a Hobbit.”  The boy’s face was blank.  Frodo tried again.  “A Hobbit--a halfling--Perian.”

            “Haven’t seen them yet in the Monster Book of Monsters--but then we didn’t keep taking Care of Magical Creatures, so maybe Hagrid just hadn’t gotten to them.”

            “I’m not magical.”

            “Oh.  Well, maybe the centaurs could give you directions or something, although they’re not the best at answering questions straight.  Good luck finding this Mithlond place.”  So saying, the boy headed off in search of the source of the voice.  “Hey, Harry!  You still there?” he called.

            Frodo watched after him, shaking his head about the curious nature his adventure was taking him.

            It became colder, and snowflakes began to drift down through the trees.  He pulled his Elven cloak more closely around him.  Then he realized he’d managed somehow to leave the woods behind, and he was now in a city somewhat like Minas Tirith, although it was nowhere as beautiful--nor as steep.  The snow was thick upon the ground now, and he encountered Men and women who were dressed in an odd fashion, many of the Men wearing tall black hats and the women all wearing bonnets of various styles.  Many of them turned to look after him curiously as he passed by, and  an older boy made to follow him for a time until a Man wearing a blue uniform with brass buttons took notice of him, at which time the boy paused, giving the Man in blue a wary look before turning about and disappearing into an alley.

            The houses were often grimy, and a good part of the snow as well.  Up ahead he could see a Man in a nightshirt and wearing a cap upon his head and a grey shawl about his shoulders standing at an open window.  “They did it in a single night!” he was crowing before calling down to a boy standing on the pavement.  “Say, do you know the poulterer’s shop on the next street but one over?”

            “I should rather say I do!” the boy answered in pride.

            Realizing the child was about to be sent off on an errand, Frodo hurried past.

            He appeared to be in the same city, but the dress of the folk was changing, and now instead of dawn it was nightfall.  A great dog began barking furiously, and Frodo looked up in alarm--he still had rather a fear of dogs, particularly large ones.  Far above him he saw a window open, the light of candles flickering, reflected from the panes.  On the windowsill he saw a curiously attired boy, who was calling behind him, “Well, come then!  First star to the left and then straight on till morning!” as he leapt out into the air and soared away.  Frodo watched after in awe!

            He soon found himself in a forested area.  He saw an open glade and the enticing glow of firelight under the glow of a round moon.  He paused on the edge of the clearing, hidden still by the trees, and saw there were a good many people there, almost all Men, listening to the words of one clad all in green, who stood upon the stump of a what must have been a giant among trees, a woman beside him.  “You have heard what Maid Marion has said!” he was saying.  “Our own folk and a few others are to be hung at dawn by the Sheriff of Nottingham!  We must see to their escape!  Now, I have a plan....”

            Frodo slipped away, carefully skirting about the place.  He’d had quite enough in the way of adventures and rescuings, thank you very much!

            Not long afterward he saw the bulk of a house behind a white picket fence that made him think nostalgically of that before Bag End.  The windows were warm with light, and he found himself quietly opening the gate so as to explore the place’s gardens.  It appeared to be a pleasant place, with many of his favorite flowers.  He wandered over near the open window beneath which delphiniums and heliotrope grew tall and colorful, even in the dusk that encircled the place.  He heard as a  woman within spoke, then raised his eyes to see two women there within the house, the older one seated in a cushioned chair, the younger standing over her.  The older one examined a strip of paper.

            “That’s a great deal of money, Jo!  And what is it you will do with it?”

            “Oh, Marmee--I’m to take a house by the shore next week, for you and me and Beth for the summer!  With Amy off in Europe with Aunt March, Meg will be happy enough here on her own with John to keep her company!  You’ll see, Marmee--we’ll soon have Beth well once more!”

            The older woman appeared struck with dismay and compassion at her daughter’s words.  “Oh, Jo--she has her good days and her bad ones, but I think you know Beth is unlikely to ever properly recover.”

            This was too strongly reminiscent of Frodo’s own situation, and he almost fled the garden, letting the gate bang closed behind him.

            He found himself back within the city, watching the wind blowing a woman along the pavement.  She clutched at the flat hat on her head, and in her hand she carried a piece of baggage that appeared to have been made of carpeting.  She had her black hair pulled into a well disciplined bun at the nape of her neck; her cheeks were quite pink.  She turned as if annoyed by the insistence that she hurry forward.  “That’s quite enough, you know!  I know my duty by these children!  Now, which is the Banks’ house?  That one, there, right opposite the entrance to the park?  Oh, I see!”

            A Man, blackened by soot and carrying a long brush over his shoulder, passed her, then stopped and turned back, his face alight with delight.  “Mary!  You’re being sent here, then?”

            Frodo smiled, for it was obvious the Man was quite taken by her.  The woman merely lifted her nose some and gave a self-satisfied smirk.  “Yes, Bert, I’ve been sent to tend to Jane and Michael and those to come.  Now, I mustn’t dawdle!”

            Frodo was smiling still more broadly as he continued on.

            He was now going through a village that somehow reminded him of Hobbiton.  He heard the sound of a violin and looked up, and on the roof of the nearest house sat a fiddler!  Before the house stood a flat cart with a placid cart horse before it.  A broad-chested bearded Man came out of a barn with what was plainly a huge milk jug that he lifted carefully into the back of the cart.  “And you?” he addressed the horse.  “Do you intend to play at being lame again?  The Rabbi will not thank us if we are late again with the milk and cheese he has ordered!”  He called out, “Golda!  Golda!  I’m off on my rounds!  Have Tzeitel clean the stalls before I return, will you?”

            The fiddler raised his bow and began to play a tune that was both wary and hopeful, filled with a sadness Frodo associated with the Elves as well as a level of playfulness.  He nodded thoughtfully before going on.

            Was that the gleam of the Sea at last?  He hurried forward again, finding himself under such trees as he’d seen pictured only in the book Aragorn had given him about the animals of Harad.  Before him on the pale sand lay a boat with what appeared to be a great hole in its prow, but it could not be Elven in manufacture!  Its keel was blue, and across its stern was written in strange letters the word Minnow.  A young Man came out of a nearby hut, dressed in dark blue trousers and a red knitted garment over a white shirt, an odd white hat on his head, well worn white shoes of an strange design on his feet, and a coil of thick rope about his upper arm.  He stared openmouthed at Frodo, a growing hope in his eyes.  “Rescue!  Are we being rescued at last?”  He turned, not giving Frodo time to answer, and called out, “Skipper!  Professor!  Come quick!”

            More folk wanting rescue? Frodo thought as he turned and fled.  He was soon running down a road alongside a strange being who looked as if he were made of cookie dough!  “What are you doing?” gasped Frodo.

            “I’m running, running, running as fast as I can!  The woman’s husband wants to eat me, the gingerbread man, as if I were a common snickerdoodle!”

            They were running under a line strung between poles, with obviously drying laundry hanging from it.  Frodo tried to duck under the bedding that flapped in the breeze, but a sheet wrapped itself about him, trapping him.  His last glance was of a neatly attired white rabbit that was also running even as it consulted a large pocketwatch.  “Oh, but I’m late again!  The Queen will be insisting ‘Off with his head!’--just you wait and see!  If it hadn’t been for the hedgehog escaping--again--during that last croquet match....”

            He awoke with a thump as he fell out of his bed and landed on the floor, linens and blankets wrapped firmly about his legs.  The door burst open and Sam entered hurriedly, his expression alarmed.  “Mr. Frodo, sir--what happened?” he demanded as he helped the older Hobbit free of his entanglement.

            Frodo looked at him with relief.  “Well,” he said in a shaky voice as he wiped his brow.  “Not precisely a nightmare, but the most outlandish dream!”

            “You’re all right, then?”

            “Yes.  You need not have worried, Sam.  But I wonder about these new herbs Lord Elrond has sent to be added to my tea.  If all my dreams should be as odd as this last one, I’m not certain I would wish to continue using them!”

            “Speakin’ of which, Master, I’d just finished makin’ up a pot of common black tea, and my Rosie just pulled trays of seedcakes and oatbread out of the oven.  Would you like some?  We’ve some fresh honey sent over from the Cottons’ farm, and a small jug of thick cream.  Or, if you prefer, we could lock up and head off for Bywater.  The Green Dragon’s servin’ fresh lamb and Tooklands pudding tonight.  Add some mashed taters and maybe a dish of peas with mushrooms, and it will be a meal fit for Lord Strider hisself.  What do you say?”

            Frodo found a smile forming on his lips.  “And would they have that mint jelly, do you think?”

            Sam grinned outright.  “Took delivery on a case of it from the Marish yesterday, or so I’m told by Jolly Cotton!” he said smugly.  “Well, let me fetch you some tea at least while you straighten up the bed.”

            By the time Frodo had the bed made properly, Sam had returned with the promised tea and a still-warm seedcake spread with sweet butter and peach jam.  Frodo sat down on the side of the bed to enjoy these while his friend went out to tell Rosie of their plans and help her ready herself.  At last he finished off the last of the tea and cake, and set the cup and plate under the bed, ran a quick brush over his head and feet, and donned his waistcoat and jacket, having assured himself his trousers and shirt hadn’t been too badly mussed during his nap.  Finally satisfied with his appearance, he left the room, carefully closing the door behind him.

 *

            The dormouse peeped cautiously out from under the bed and looked around carefully.  Too bad!  There over the mantel he saw the Cheshire cat’s toothy smile appearing.  Knowing it wasn’t safe at this time to venture out, it ate the last crumb of seedcake from Frodo’s plate, and curled up in the empty teacup to nap until the cat finally gave it up as a bad job.  Didn’t matter how long it took, really.  The dormouse had all the time in the world!