Disclaimer:  The estate of J.R.R. Tolkien owns all the characters in this story; no copyright infringement or profit is intended by the writing and circulation of this story. 

“As I lay in prison, Sam, I tried to remember the Brandywine, the Woody End and The Water running through the mill at Hobbiton.  But I can’t see them now.

 The Return of the King – J.R.R. Tolkien.

The Shire Road

Frodo lay on a stone cold floor shivering, and darkness covered his broken body like a shroud. Out of the darkness  a voice came towards him from a long way off,  a low pitched murmuring, that seemed to move closer and closer; until it swept in and around him, like a sea swell, now rising loudly, then falling softly, then retreating:

 “Go to sleep... rest... sleep... rest...”

 “But there is something I must do!  What!  What must I do?”  He tried hard to remember, but he was tired, so tired.

 “There is nothing to do little one - you have failed them all -hush now - rest... sleep... “  

“Failed...”

“Yes – failed - because of you, all is lost - rest - now... sleep...”

“Sam...”

“Dead... because of you...    hush now... sleep... ” The voice surrounded him, whispering softly,  “Worthless was their trust in you, come take my hand - sleep...  rest...”

Wearily he pleaded with the shadows, “P-please, I must get up – but I am so tired... rest... I must r-rest... s-sleep.... must sleep.”

 “Yes, little one... rest... sleep... ”

 On and on, the shadow-voices gently caressed and tormented him, till he felt himself falling into the darkness.  Then suddenly out of the whispering void Frodo heard a sweet singing running in his mind, a song that seemed to come like a pale light behind a rain glass curtain, and growing stronger to turn the veil all to glass and silver until at last it was rolled back, and a far green country opened up before him under a swift sunrise. He reached out towards it. He was not afraid, for he knew that song, the river wind was in it, and there on a far green hill stood Goldberry, beckoning him to follow.

 All at once the scene changed and he found himself climbing up between beech trees, until he reached the summit of a high hill. He stood looking down; below him, the Shire, stretching away into the distance, green hills rising, one-upon another, until their shapes mingled with the sky.  No straggling cloud or west wind disturbed the calm beauty of the day, and in all the green miles around him he was alone.  There was a bit of everything here, wildness and solitude breathing from the moor land in the North Farthing, and green and silver softness, where the Brandywine wound its way along the valley floor.  And there, like a blue-grey ribbon cutting through the green and gold, the Shire Road beckoned him home.  As he gazed on the sight spread at his feet, his thoughts turned to the carefree easy days of his childhood and a familiar voice calling:

“Get off the road Frodo and keep to the greensward,” his mother said as they walked along.

It was easy for him to keep off the road, for the wide greenways were a source of wonderment to the young Hobbit. He would scamper along, gathering flowers and squealing with delight when rabbits jumped out in front of him.  Blackbirds chattered along the hedge bottom and all around the sound of insects filled the summer air with their gentle, incessant music. 

The wide greenways sustained a variety of strange flowers, with wonderful names, wolfsbane, elfsfoot and dragonseye. His mother would point to each one in turn, and tell him their stories. Frodo’s favourite was a tiny yellow flower which carpeted the banks in early spring.  His Mother called it Woodelfinwind, and he would listen intently while his she told him the story of Tinuviel the fairest wood elf who ever lived in Middle earth.

“................and so it was that Beren died in the arms of Tinuviel and passed into the Shadowlands. Tinuviel wept for him and could not be consoled, and where her tears fell the Woodelvinwind sprang up. But she chose mortality and to die from this world, and they have lost her whom they most loved. It is said in old lore when the wind blows from the west, the flowers open, and if you listen carefully you can hear the wood elves singing of their loss,” she said softly, holding out a flower for him.  Frodo held the delicate flower to his ear and listened intently.

“Can you hear them?”

“No, mother,” Frodo said quietly.

“Don’t worry, little one, one day you will.” 

Through good times and bad, the road wound its way round the shire, taking him from his parents’ death to Buckland and Brandy Hall, then onto to Hobbiton, Bag End and Bilbo. The road had always held a fascination for Frodo; and he would never pass the mile-long stone which marked the crossways to Hobbiton and Bree, without pestering Bilbo for stories about the lands beyond.

“It’s a dangerous business Frodo my lad going out your door,” he used to say, “you step onto the road and there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.” 

Bilbo’s voice faded and the scene changed.  He found himself leaning on a gate at the side of the road, watching meadow rooks, when out of the clear blue sky a black speck appeared.  Frodo watched the strange black bird dipping and diving in the warm breeze. Suddenly the bird wheeled high, crying wildly as it changed direction and headed towards him. It hovered above him for a while, and then stretching its wings, it shrieked out a warning call and veered towards The West Farthing.

The chilling sound pierced Frodo’s mind and invaded his peace. He felt an overwhelming compulsion to follow the dark bird as it leapt and danced in front of him.  On and on, for mile after mile, the shadow-bird beckoned, and Frodo followed.

Suddenly, without warning, it swooped down and perched on top of the signpost that marked the approach to Hobbiton and Bag End. Dark and forbidding, it stood with steady malevolence; and silently held him spellbound in its gaze.

Time passed slowly, the shadow-bird stood before him; beyond it lay home, yet still he could not pass.  It was as if some invisible force held him fast in its grip, barring his way.  Suddenly, the bird cried out a shrill call and flew ahead of him, breaking the spell.

The sun was going down in the west as he followed after the bird in silence, all his strength and purpose bent on one solitary goal, “Home.”  But, as soon as the last rays of the sun faded below the horizon, Frodo felt it! A cold creeping enchantment!  A change had come over the road; where once it had been a hard well-defined track much used by the shire folk, it was now, a thin black ribbon cutting its way through thick undergrowth and barely used. The wide greenways had gone, and the hedgerow, once a source of delight, was overgrown and threatening. The tree trunks were twisted into weird shapes, and their branches dipped low snagging his hair and clothes. And always, just ahead, the black beacon beckoned him home. 

On and on he stumbled along the thin thread that had once been the Shire Road.  Whispers of mist clung like a pale grey blanket to the ground; and it seemed to Frodo, that unfriendly eyes were watching him.  He felt a new urgency growing in his mind and his footsteps quickened,  “Home! Yes. I must go home.”  On and on he stumbled over rope like roots and fallen branches. Then suddenly, ahead of him, a wide gap opened in the trees and there, at last, was Bag End.   The moon shone out bright and clear and it seemed to Frodo that light and laughter came from the windows. Joy sprang into his heart, and he heard familiar voices calling to him and he ran joyously towards the door.

 But, just as his hand reached out for the latch, a dark shadow passed over the moon, and with a creak the door opened.  Frodo stood and looked upon the desolation that was Bag End.  Nothing was left of his home now except an empty shell, black and bleak, and all along its walls the wind stirred gently.

 And there in front of him, rising like a dark sea shadow, the bird stood, dark and terrible, wings outstretched.  It glided towards him, whispering softly;  “Welcome, Frodo!.. I am he! The one, whom thou seekest.”

 Long feathery fingers brush his cheek longingly and he cried out, “Sam... Sam...  P-please, h-help m-me!”  But Sam did not come, no one came, he was utterly alone.

 Then, with icy stealth, the shadow-bird enfolded him in a dark embrace.  And like the wind blowing through the meadow grasses, it gently penetrated his mind; and with quiet doom, tracked his memories, down every corridor, passed every barricade and through the hidden doorways, till every memory of friendship and love, every sensation of sight and sound, yielded. He was lost in the emptiness and knew he could never go home again.

 And yet still, somewhere, deep in the raven caverns of his mind, he thought he heard it!  Soft Elvin voices singing of their loss.

End

daw the minstrel: Thank you for your kind comments and encouragement.