late November, 1418

A Founding Member

            “It’s just not fair!” Otis Tunnely said as he set his beer mug back on one of the rough tables Claro Innsman had furnished his tavern with.  The beer was barely palatable, he thought, but at least it was beer.  There wasn’t a lot of beer or ale to be had right now in the Shire, after all, not since Lotho Sackville-Baggins had named himself Chief Shirriff and had begun closing down the Shire’s inns.  The Rusty Nail was not precisely an inn, having no sleeping rooms.  But it did for those who frequented it, avoiding the more genteel amenities and clientele of the Green Dragon in Bywater or the Ivy Bush in Hobbiton, or the Great Inn in Michel Delving, not to mention those inns that were popular in the Tooklands.  Those who drank in the Rusty Nail were generally those who tended to quarrel frequently with their neighbors and kindred, or who saw a good fight as the height of personal entertainment.

            Otis Tunnely was one of the former Hobbits, being certain that he’d been slighted by everyone he knew since he was a mere faunt.  He was convinced that his parents had favored his sister Sweetpea; and when they left him Greenbriars Farm and Sweetpea Palisades, certain that Palisades, the second farm they’d owned near the Road with its acres of pasturage, was the better place, he’d growled and complained until at last Sweetpea agreed to swap, willing to do anything to forestall a quarrel with him.  When she married Tod Delver, the sixth son of his own family, he’d had little to bring into the marriage save for a desire to work hard and make something of himself and his wife’s farm.  Sweetpea and Tod had indeed done well on Greenbriars, clearing away one of the three woodlots and growing among the best apples and root vegetables in the area, excepting only those from the Hill where for so long Hamfast Gamgee had guided the orchard and gardens.  Meanwhile, the fields of beets and hops that had always done so well on Palisades did worse each year, and his herd of dairy cattle failed to increase.  Otis of course was certain the fault lay in the land itself, instead of accepting that he was failing to work hard enough to remove weeds and cultivate the soil effectively, much less to make certain his cows stayed out of the swampy area in the south pasture.  He’d run off his old dad’s hands, certain they were lazing off and stealing from the storage barns, but had no real interest in truly running the farm himself.

            But when he’d approached Sweetpea and Tod about swapping back, they’d refused.  “This is our home!” Tod had said, holding his son Dodi to him while Sweetpea had her arm about their daughter Carnelian’s shoulders.  “We’ve put all our love and sweat into making a go of things here, and we don’t want to have to start over elsewhere just on your whim.”

            And so it had continued for three more years.

            Otis looked down at his empty mug thoughtfully, and repeated, “It’s just not fair!”

            “And just what is it that is not fair?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

            The Hobbit who’d spoken to Otto was as unfamiliar as the voice.  He had a properly rounded body, but his arms and legs were unnaturally thin, and his forehead was markedly pronounced, his light-colored eyes bright under sparse brows.  “Who are you?” demanded Otis.  “And what’s somebody from the South-farthing doin’ here at the Rusty Nail?”  There was something about the way this stranger Hobbit had spoken that announced that he was from far south in the Shire.

            The raising of the brow and hands and widening of the eyes were perhaps just a bit too studied to be true surprise.  “You can tell I’m from the South-farthing just by looking at me?  How wonderful!”

            Not even Otis could miss the sarcasm.  He bridled.  “You come in here, to the Rusty Nail, dressed up fine like some gentlehobbit, your voice full of the plantations, and you think as we can’t place you?  What’re you doing here?  Spying on us for that Lotho or something?”

            “And if I was doing just that?”  The facial expression was jesting, but the tone of voice indicated that this was indeed a challenge.

            “And just why would the likes of you spy for Lotho Sackville-Baggins?” Otis returned suspiciously, aware that his more customary fellows from the Rusty Nail were all listening for the stranger’s reply.

            “Mayhaps him’s a Sackville hisself,” commented one of the other of the tavern’s patrons.

            The stranger’s eyes narrowed and his voice became a hiss.  “As if I’d ever wish to be from that pathetic family!”

            “Then what family is you from?” asked Claro, setting a new mug down on the bar, but not pushing it in front of the Hobbit nor letting go of its handle.

            After a moment of glaring at the barman, the stranger admitted, “I’m a Bracegirdle.  Timono Bracegirdle.”

            The first name made no impression on anyone else in the room, but the Bracegirdle family name was easily recognized.  “One of Lotho’s kin through his old mum,” commented somebody.

            “If’n you’re spyin’ on the place for Lotho Sackville-Baggins you have t’know as you’re not precisely welcome here, considerin’ as Lotho’s been closin’ up inns left, right, and halfways t’ Sundays,” Claro said, his knuckles whitening on the mug he still held.

            Timono Bracegirdle’s face took on a sneer.  “But this isn’t precisely an inn, is it?” he asked.  “Lotho doesn’t hold much with inns, what with them encouraging idleness and gossip, folks leaving their own homes, farms, and businesses unsupervised just to waste time attending weddings halfway across the Shire and staying at inns along the way where they can be robbed and eat bad food and all.”

            “The food at the Green Dragon in Bywater’s good,” commented a patron back in the corner.

            “And that at the Ivy Leaf Hobbiton-way is even better,” agreed his fellow, nodding.

            “With both of them closed, that’s a moot argument, isn’t it?” said Timono, his eyes glittering.  The two defenders of inn food from the region of the Hill went quiet, and all watched the Bracegirdle sideways, trying to make it seem each individual present was focused on his own drink.

             Timono Bracegirdle stood up, and it could be seen that his clothing was of far better quality than that worn by the regular patrons, of excellent cloth, much of it from foreign parts, decorated with what appeared to be tasteful embroidery about collar, cuffs, and lapels.  His lip had again curled as he looked about the room.  “This isn’t much of a place compared to either the Ivy Leaf or the Green Dragon, is it?  But you will note that it hasn’t been closed—as yet.”

            The rest stiffened at what appeared to be an implied threat.

            “No, Cousin Lotho doesn’t particularly like inns, especially when they lead folks to stray from their homes or to ignore their families.  Our womenfolk ought to be home caring for their husbands and children and cooking up meals there rather than to be going off to the inns for dinners they could have bettered in their own kitchens.  And have you heard some of the rumors that seem to start in inns?  Why, just last week the rumor started in Hobbiton that Lotho was planning to close down the mill!”

            “Is it really just a rumor when it’s true?” asked someone in a low voice.  Timono glared about as if seeking the one who’d made the comment, but apparently could not identify the speaker.

            Otis knew who’d spoken—Berry-O Green had been hired to help in the dismantling of the Sandymans’ mill, after all, and had started in on the demolition that morning.  How was this Timono Bracegirdle going to respond to that one?

            Apparently by pretending it hadn’t been said.  Timono waved his right hand as if brushing the remark from the air and the memories of all within the room, and continued.  “Lotho has been concerned for some time about the inequities he’s seen in the Shire, how some appear to have everything handed to them while others must labor intensely and yet end up with little to show for it.  This Hobbit here,” he said, pointing to Otis, “caught my attention by stating the obvious—that it just wasn’t fair, although he has not as yet indicated just what specifically it is that hasn’t been fair.” 

            Realizing that all attention was now fixed on him, Otis Tunnely licked his lips, then began explaining just how it was that his sister and her husband were cheating him of his birthright, having wrongfully taken the property their parents had originally left to him….

            When Otis was done, the Bracegirdle drew himself up to his full height (at least two inches shorter than Otis) and proclaimed, “Our Chief Shirriff indeed sent me here tonight to check out the Rusty Nail for him.  He does not condemn it as he has other establishments where drinking has been traditionally encouraged, for it does not encourage Hobbitesses of good breeding to stray from their intended roles as wives and mothers as is true of inns where meals as well as spirits are served and where families may be encouraged to room whilst needlessly traveling abroad throughout the Shire.  After all, there is no need for most Hobbits to range far from their homes.  The most respectable of our people, after all, have always been those who are known to be regular in their habits and whose behavior is considered most predictable.  We have had too much influence of late from other places and peoples, influence that tends to upset the regular routine of business throughout our beloved homeland.

            “Our esteemed Lotho Sackville-Baggins seeks to set things right.  The unexpected and unnatural disappearance of the sons and heirs to the Thain and the Master of Buckland in the company of Frodo Baggins has caused much consternation throughout the Shire, and has caused many to question whether or not their own children might be encouraged by the examples of these wayward young gentlehobbits to seek adventures of their own.  It is for this reason that Lotho has sought to shut down the inns, so that it becomes more difficult for other impressionable tweens to flee the bosom of their families and follow those three and Samwise Gamgee to their destructions outside the Shire, and to encourage families to cleave to one another as is expected and desirable.

            “He is also most concerned about the prevalence of such situations as Mr. Tunnely has related this evening, of one family member prevailing upon the good nature of brothers, parents, and in some cases even children to take from them their proper due for their own enrichment.  Also, too many, whilst supplied with far more than they require to keep themselves and their families, hoard away their wealth and refuse to help their neighbors or even kindred in times of need. 

            “For this reason, Mr. Sackville-Baggins seeks to set up a charitable trust to gather up the excess of goods and food from those who say that they are storing against mostly unlikely possible future catastrophes so that this hoarded store might more equitably be shared out by all who might benefit by having such stores made available to them.  He is now seeking to recruit individuals who are willing to take up the task of seeking out such hidden wealth being hoarded by those who do not truly need it and gathering it to storage against the needs of times of trouble.  Do not mistake me—it will not be a task for those who seek to be popular throughout the Shire, for those from whom such excess will be taken will resent those who uncover their greed.  Those who take up this eminently necessary responsibility must be able to harden their hearts against often tragic tales intended to evoke sympathy and leniency.  They must face the hard truth that loss of extra food and goods might cause some hardship to those from whom it is liberated, a hardship that will be of limited duration only.  In the long run this policy will benefit all who recognize the need for such moves.”

            “And what do we get out of it?” asked Berry-O.

            Timono gave him a wide-eyed look.  “Is not the laborer worthy of his hire?” he asked.  “Surely each of you is in some sort of need yourselves.  It shall not be begrudged you should you find your needs met by a measure of what you gather from those with excess goods or food—not as long as you do not exceed good sense, of course.

            “Only one sort of item must you forward immediately to Bag End—it is required that each and every finger ring found within the Shire must come to the Chief’s attention.  He will allow judicious liberty for all other jewelry, but lays claim to all rings.”

            “Why does him want rings?” demanded Claro.

            Timono shrugged and his face hardened.  “It is not for me to need to explain the desires and possible wisdom of Lotho Sackville-Baggins,” he said, his voice cold.  “But if he allows others to claim other, most likely far more valuable pieces of jewelry, why would anyone begrudge him rings?  Think of it as a whim on his part, and a gesture of good faith on yours.  Rings and books are the only two types of items he wishes forwarded immediately to him, and particularly books from collections belonging to the Tooks, Bolgers, Brandybucks, Boffinses, Bagginses, and the like.”

            It was something to think about.

            “It’s said as old Mad Baggins had the biggest bunch o’ books in these parts,” commented Berry-O.  “Heard tell as Lotho bought Bag End mostly furnished.  Wouldn’t him have all of Old Bilbo and Frodo Baggins’s books, then?”

            “The Baggins library was not included in the sale,” Timono admitted, and somewhat reluctantly, or so it seemed to Otis Tunnely.  “Frodo did insist on keeping some family pieces he swore Bilbo would make him pay for if he allowed them to fall into Lobelia’s hands.”

            A distinct round of snorts of amusement could be heard about the room, although as the Bracegirdle glared around the company it was impossible to be certain who’d made such noises of derision—or who hadn’t, for that matter.

            Claro cleared his throat.  “What about the Rusty Nail?” he asked bluntly.  “Is Lotho goin’ t’ allow it to stay open or not?”

            Timono shrugged, his face now studiously reserved.  “I suspect that such taverns as this will soon enough be closed, too, like the inns,” he said.  “Except for possibly a few, should the keepers be willing to restrict them to a particular—clientele.  There will be a need for private—clubs—where those who serve the new order within the Shire will be able to relax and make their reports after taking part in gathering excess hoarded foods and goods, and where decisions can be made as to how such excess should be best shared out to those deserving of the bounty so harvested.”  He turned a sharp eye on Claro.  “Would you be willing to see this become a club for a select group of gentlehobbits?” he asked.

            “With his beer?” asked Berry-O. 

            Claro’s face darkened.  “It’s only ’cause I can’t afford the best barley or hops,” he said, seeking to defend himself and his brew.  “The Tooks and Boffinses won’t sell t’ the likes o’ me, not at prices I can afford.”

            Timono’s resulting smile did not exactly indicate good will or any hint of humor.  “You will find that if you agree to such an arrangement such situations will change—most drastically.”  The smile disappeared.  “Now, tell me—are you in or out?  Would you rather host a private club for gentlehobbits, or shall we simply expect the Rusty Nail to close forever?”

            Claro’s lips twitched before he answered, “I’d be a fool to do otherwise, wouldn’t I?  Nah, count me in, then.”

            Otis Tunnely found himself smiling, too.  “If’n it allows me to get my own back on my selfish sister and her husband as well as some others as have given me the snub over the years, then I’m your Hobbit, too.”

            There were other comments of agreement, and the deal was struck.

 *******

            Otis went home an hour or so later filled with a distinct level of satisfaction.  As of this evening he was a member of a new class of Hobbits of the Shire—one of the first Gatherers and Sharers.  Oh, he’d teach Sweetpea and Tod Delver the errors of their ways, now that he had license to decide for himself just how much was being “hoarded” at Greenbriar Farm!  And he needed to increase the amount of milk his herd of cows gave him, and Sweetpea’s milk cow had won the prize for yield of milk three years running at the Free Fair.

            Oh, but he had plans….

For SpeedyHobbit, Harrowcat, and PearlTook for their birthdays.

The Beginning of Acquisitive Dreams

November, 1402

            Lotho sprawled indolently in a chair in his Uncle Tiercel’s hole in Nobottle.  As Cousin Lilac Hornblower bustled through the room he watched her progress.  “I don’t know that there’s any reason for us to be here,” he grumbled. 

            Lilac paused and fixed him with a gimlet stare.  “You’d best be respectful!” she warned sternly.  “After all, your uncle is dying today, and you were sent as your father’s representative to demonstrate your family’s concern!”

            “He’s been mad for as far back as I can remember,” Lotho said resentfully, although he did straighten up—some—in the chair.  “It’s not as if he’s done aught to add to the respect given the Bracegirdle name in all that time.”

            “Mad he might be,” she whispered fiercely, leaning down to glare directly into his eyes.  “However, he is your uncle, and deserves the respect of at least that position.  And your cousin Timono doesn’t need for you to belittle his father on this day of all days!”

            Lotho watched after her with even more resentment as she headed once more toward the sickroom with her mug of medicaments to try to feed to the failing Hobbit.

            Tiercel Bracegirdle was actually a great uncle rather than a true one.  He’d been born unexpectedly to Lotho’s Bracegirdle great grandparents many years after their last previous child had been born.  Indeed, all had assumed that Great Grandmother Gardenia had been reaching the age at which Hobbitesses lost the ability to bear further children.  Tiercel had been a rather surprising end to nearly a year of what had been thought to have been merely a growing tendency to suffer dyspepsia, as Cousin Lothario’s father Bigelow had told Lotho a few years back.

            Tiercel had always been rather unsettled, and as a result his parents had tended to keep him close at hand, seldom allowing him to socialize with other young Hobbits his age.  As he entered his tweens first his father and then his mother had died, leaving the overprotected young Hobbit able to follow his own desires for the first time in his life.  He’d fallen deeply in love with a young Hobbitess from Threadneedle, married her in spite of the advice of his cousins who knew her to be somewhat delicate, and was devastated when his wife died after the difficult birth of their only child.  His behavior had become increasingly irrational in the wake of his wife’s death, and his treatment of young Timono had been mercurial, one moment ignoring the child and his behavior totally, and the next seeking to force the youngster into some mold of his own invention that no other seemed able to appreciate.

            Timono was said to be brilliant, but if so Lotho couldn’t see it.  Otho had sought to give the youth such guidance as he could, and had convinced him to seek training as a lawyer.  Cousin Lilac had sought often to sponsor Timono within society, although she’d regretted her efforts as often as not.  There were tales told of a houseparty Lilac had given one summer to introduce her granddaughter Phlox to some of their more distant relatives much of an age with the lass.  Timono had been one of those invited, along with a number of Tooks and others, including that foul orphan Frodo Baggins; and there were whispers that during the visit Timono had proved to be a peeper and a thief.  It was certain that none of those who’d attended that party had ever invited Timono to any such party they themselves threw.

            Lotho himself had paid but scant attention to Timono over the years.  As his cousin once removed appeared from his bedroom, he found himself watching the Bracegirdle.  Timono was presently more slender than was normal for Hobbits, but this was not totally uncommon to see among those of his mother’s family.  He was of moderate height, probably no more than three foot six and a half.  His hair was a modest brown, if thin, and his complexion unremarkable.  His eyes were peculiarly light in color under sparse brows, and they did have a tendency to appear somewhat keen, if wary; and perhaps they seemed a trifle too close together.  His forehead was his most remarkable feature, seeming rather large for one of his height and build, and his legs appeared markedly thin.

            Timono peered at him uncertainly.  “Hullo, Lotho,” he said, his voice, as usual, a bit questioning, as if he weren’t certain he ought to greet his kinsman.

            “Tough luck, Timono,” Lotho returned.

            “It happens to us all at some time,” Timono said, and Lotho had the idea he was merely repeating something he’d heard others say.  Then he asked, “Want to go out to the Worm’s Bore?”

            In minutes they both had cloaks about their shoulders and were out in the lane, heading for one of the village’s two inns.  As they walked, Timono asked, “And how are things in Hobbiton?”

            Lotho shrugged.  “Much the same as usual.”

            “Is that Frodo Baggins still lording it over everyone?”

            Lotho scowled.  He ought to be the one living in Bag End now, not that misplaced and misnamed Brandybuck.  “Yes.  Has them all fooled, of course.”

            Timono cleared his throat and asked, “Do you think he really did Cousin Bilbo in so he could become Master of the Hill?”

            “It’s always possible, although he had a party this year he called the Hundred-weight Feast in which he toasted Bilbo becoming a hundred and twelve.”

            “Makes a perfect cover, I suppose,” Timono said, and Lotho realized for the first time in his life that this cousin of his hated Frodo Baggins at least as much as he did himself.

            “And what did Frodo do to you?” Lotho asked, stopping and facing Timono directly.

            “Set me up, he did.”

            “And when did he do that?”

            “When we were lads, down in the Southfarthing.”

            At that house party he’d been thinking on, Lotho realized.  He’d not been invited, of course.  Not that Cousin Lilac or anyone on the Hornblower side would willingly invite the Sackville-Bagginses to such a party—his mother was not precisely welcome amongst most of the Hornblowers.

            Lotho examined Timono’s face and expression, and realized something else the two of them had in common—both resented the fact most people didn’t like them.  At last he tendered, “I’d love to get my own back at them all, and especially Frodo Baggins.”

            “So, why don’t you?”

            Lotho turned away, thrusting his fists into his pockets and starting off toward the Worm’s Bore again, mildly amused to note Timono had to scurry to catch up with him.  “It’s not as if I’ve not done my best.  But no one will believe he’s done what he has when he sets himself against me—they always side with him and never with me.  And now that he’s been made family head for the Bagginses, what with Bilbo disappearing as he did and Frodo being named as his heir in his will, no one appears willing to question anything he says or does anyway, not even Ferumbras in spite of his suspicions as to who glued Lalia into her chair a few years back.”

            “I’d put nothing past Frodo Baggins,” muttered Timono darkly.  The young Bracegirdle appeared to be brooding.  At last he looked sideways up at his cousin.  “Won’t your father stand up for you?  After all, he’s family head for the Sackvilles, isn’t he?”

            Lotho glowered.  “Except Frodo is now at least in part our family head, seeing we are as much Bagginses as we are Sackvilles.”  His voice grew in bitterness as he added, “And then there’s the bad luck that Dad showed such poor taste that he married my mother.”

            Timono choked back a laugh and schooled his face to a look of commiseration.  “There is that, I suppose.  Cousin Lobelia has always been rather a trial to the family.”

            Lotho shrugged.  “At least she’s not as bad as some other Bracegirdles I could name.  Bigelow and that lout of a son of his have done nothing to further the fortunes of the clan, after all.”  Cousin Bigelow and his younger son Bedro, better known as Beasty, had so embarrassed the Bracegirdle name that the two of them had been sent north and west to internal exile in the village of Westhall on the northwest borders of the Shire, and there the two of them remained to that day.  “At least,” Lotho said, “I’ll not have to deal with those two once Dad is gone and I’m the Sackville.  Leave them to Benbo and Benlo.” 

            Benbo was the current family head for the Bracegirdles, and his son and heir, Benlo, was as boring and stodgy a Hobbit as Lotho could imagine.  Still, in some ways he wished he were in line to become the Bracegirdle rather than the Sackville.  The Sackville clan had been decreasing markedly for the last fifty years, or so his father told him.  The only good thing about it was that the same was true of the Bagginses.  But had he been in line to become the Bracegirdle—well, then he would indeed have been able to command proper respect! 

            In spite of the fact there were so few Bagginses left within the Westfarthing (not to mention the stain of eccentricity attributed to Bilbo), the Baggins name still carried with it the highest air of acceptability, and particularly now that Frodo was family head as well as Master of Bag End and the Hill.  Bilbo might have gone off for a year and a day and made it obvious that he was a friend and admirer of Dwarves and Wizards (or at least of one Wizard), but he had definitely added to the Baggins family wealth and influence in spite of his disdain for convention and the opinions of others.  There was no question Bilbo Baggins had been astute, and had an eye for recognizing good investments.  Add to that his tendency to be generous without proving notably profligate, and he had been definitely well liked throughout the Shire—or at least warmly tolerated.  His willingness to share his good fortune while promoting the interests and wealth of his own family had been respected, if not his tendency toward defying what most considered proper propriety.

            “I ought to be looking forward to becoming both the Baggins and the Sackville once my dad is dead,” he grumbled, balling his fists in his pockets.  “That Frodo has no right to that post!”

            “Challenge the will,” advised Timono.

            Lotho gave a great Herumph! before admitting, “We did.  But Bernigard Took and Bilbo’s Grubbs personal lawyer worked together to craft that will, and we’ve been assured that it can’t be broken.  By five separate lawyers, the Thain, and the Mayor,” he added with a glare cast at Timono.

            The Bracegirdle’s eyebrows rose as they reached the Worm’s Bore and he opened its door and held it for Lotho to enter.  “Not even if you can prove one or more of the witnesses to it either did not understand what he was signing or was convinced to do so under duress?” he asked once the door was closed behind them and they turned to the common room.

            “Do you really believe Old Rory Brandybuck would indicate he didn’t know what he was signing, or Gaffer Gamgee admit to having been convinced to do so against his will?  Or any Took, Boffin, Hornblower, or Bolger?  Even Cousin Benbo witnessed it!”

            Timono gave a low whistle as they found a table by a window.  “They took precautions to make certain this will shall stand, then.”

            Lotho limited himself to shrugging his eyebrows before turning his attention on the barkeeper.

            “What would you like me to order?” Timono asked, turning toward the bar.

            Lotho shook his head, his mouth in a thin line.  “No, they can come to us to get our order.  Sit down.”  He stared right at the barkeeper, who glanced his way and turned his attention back toward those patrons who stood at the bar. 

            Timono uncertainly took his seat, watching the wordless battle of wills.  Mattimeo Sandyfoot could be markedly stubborn, but Timono quickly realized that his Sackville-Baggins cousin could equal the barkeeper any day of the week.  It took perhaps a good ten minutes or more, but at last Matt emerged from the bar and approached their table, wiping his hands on the towel he had girded about his waist as an apron, trying vainly to hide his disquiet behind a too-thin layer of hospitable veneer.  “And what may we bring you gentlehobbits this afternoon?” he asked.

            “Two of your best ales,” replied Lotho, his attitude superior, adding as if it were an afterthought, “and a plate of thinly sliced cheeses, cold meats, and flat breads.”

            “Two brasses and three coppers,” Matt responded.

            Seeing that Lotho made no move to fetch out a coin purse, Timono brought out his own and paid for the promised food and drink, then after giving both Matt and Lotho sideways glances he replaced it, fixing his attention on the view outside the window.  Lotho did his best to suppress a smirk.  He had no intention of spending any more coin during this required visit to Nobottle, as the Sackville’s heir, than he had to.  Let Timono pay out of his own pocket for his father’s great social gaffe in choosing this moment, of all possible times, to die.

            After Mattimeo returned to the bar and conferred with his wife, as cook for the establishment, regarding the desired food, the two cousins were left to consider one another as they waited for their orders to be filled.  After a moment of silence Timono said, “Since Bilbo’s will cannot be broken, how else can you embarrass Frodo Baggins?  Attack those who are his more common companions?”

            Lotho replied thoughtfully, “As those are close cousins to him and are closely related to the family heads to the Bolgers and Boffins, that’s rather difficult to do.  It’s true that Fatty Bolger is considerably younger than Frodo, but all agree that Frodo helps bring out the best in the lad.  As for Folco Boffin, not only is he closely related to the Boffin family head, but he has strong Tookish ties as well and close friendships also with his cousins in the Thain’s family.  Young Merry Brandybuck spends a good deal of time visiting at Bag End, but as he’s receiving tutoring from Frodo during his stays in how to keep family records and how to carry out family duties, of course Old Rory and Saradoc are all for it and will allow no rumors to flourish regarding what Frodo might be allowing whilst the Brandybuck brat remains in Frodo’s home.  As for young Pippin Took, his parents seem glad that Frodo is allowing the lad to visit frequently in Hobbiton and so avoid Lalia.  Lalia doesn’t appear to appreciate her husband’s heir’s son at all, at all.  As Frodo appears better able to keep the child in line than even Paladin and Eglantine, no one appears willing to believe that he might in the end prove a bad influence upon the lad.  But mark my words, one day Frodo will most likely lead all of them to a bad end.  There will come the time when Frodo won’t be able to restrain himself any longer, and he will leave the Shire in search of Bilbo and his own adventure.  No one else will admit it, but the old Baggins has managed to infect Frodo with the desire to see the world outside the Shire.  Once he decides the time is come to do so, he will leave, and,” here he leaned close so as to keep the words strictly between himself and Timono, “those who care for him most will be moved to go with him.  Just you wait and see!”

            Timono’s bright eyes grew even brighter with curiosity.  “You are certain of this?” he asked.

            “Oh, yes indeed,” Lotho assured him, leaning back again.  “We know.  You see, Frodo doesn’t lie.  Among all his many virtues, of which I’m reminded forcibly constantly by our other mutual relatives, he is honest to a fault, even when it would do him better to—dissemble—at least some.  And he’s been overheard more than once assuring one or another of his cousins that he will one day go in search of Bilbo, just to make certain the old reprobate is still living and doing at least as well as might be expected.  Oh, he won’t do it now, but he will do so one day.  On that you can lay a wager with a certainty that you will win!”

            Timono began to smile.  “It is hard to imagine exactly how you might get your own back on Frodo Baggins, but I can see how this certainty of yours could lead to the ability to put one over on other people.  You know how old Fortumbald used to state that everything should stand basically as it did at the time until the King’s Return, and even used to write that specifically into his contracts and all?  What if you were to start writing the clause ‘as long as Frodo Baggins remains resident in the Shire’ into your contracts, then put what you truly wish out of the other party after that, so that when the day comes that he does leave you can call in the surety for the contract, leaving no one with any means of keeping it from you?  That would make them realize you were far more astute than they’d ever thought, don’t you think?  You could set your contracts to end, say, twenty years from now, and everyone would think it a joke now, but that you had always possessed a high degree of foresight when the day comes that he does quit the Shire indeed.”

            For the first time Lotho began to appreciate just why others referred to Timono Bracegirdle as brilliant, for he’d never imagined anyone writing such a clause into a contract and then using it to coerce from the other party more than he meant to pay.  He straightened and examined his cousin more closely.  “You mean we can do such things and no one would question the words being included?”

            Timono shrugged.  “To everyone else it would appear a mere whim, like Fortumbald’s ‘until the King’s Return’.  Fortumbald meant to indicate that in the unlikely event the King should return all current contracts would be subject to review to make certain they fit with the laws of the outer realm, but nobody else has taken that possibility seriously since the Last-king disappeared and Bucca of the Marish returned as Thain.  Old Gerontius often included the phrase ‘until the Sun no longer shines’ in his own contracts, indicating that the end of Middle Earth as we know it would nullify any contracts anyway.”

            Lotho leaned forward, fascinated.  “And how did you learn what Fortumbald and the Old Took wrote into their contracts?”

            “Well,” Timono began, his mouth twisting slightly in a disgusted grimace, “when I was studying law my master had studied in the Great Smial with old Bernigard Took, and when studying how to write contracts they were allowed to read examples taken from the Took archives, including some written by several of the Thains.  It was fairly easy to get my master off the main thrust of the lesson for the day if we were to ask questions regarding particular individuals and how they wrote their contracts.”

            “So, how does one include such clauses within a contract without the Mayor rejecting the contract altogether when it comes to registering it?”

            “Well, when you are the Thain, who is going to contradict you?  But, if you were to insert such a clause after….”

            When at last their cold meats and cheese arrived they barely paid attention, neither noticing that Matt failed to bring the drinks until the food was already on the table.  Timono, Lotho learned, had for years been making a study of how Shire contracts were written, and had already  found ways to make sales contracts benefit his clients at the expense of the other parties.  “So far no one has had the courage to allow me to use some of the more common phrases used in purchasing and selling property to force a seller to default on the sale of a home, however,” he said.

            “You can do such a thing?” asked Lotho, his eyes bright at the thought.

            “Oh, yes—easily.  Think—how do we Hobbits usually verify that the top of a hill into which smials are dug is stable and the hill sound?”

            “We check the health of a roof tree, of course.”

            “And if the home is a house, how do we affirm that the roof won’t leak?”

            “By examining the state of the thatch or roofing tiles and the rafters that hold them.”

            Timono gave a sly smile.  “We want our homes to be stable and our roofs not to allow weather or dirt down into the rooms and hallways.  But the typical Shire lawyer tends to be sloppy when writing contracts, and will often use the same clause in all contracts for sales of homes whether the home is a hole or a house.  Usually those from the Yale and the Marish will always indicate the thatching should have been renewed within the last three years, while those from Michel Delving and the regions about the Hill and the Tooklands will almost always indicate that there must be a healthy rooftree atop the domicile, whether the place is a smial or a house.  In their minds it doesn’t really matter that a smial can’t be thatched or a house support a roof tree—they are simply wanting surety for the purchaser that the house is stable and there are no leaks.  But by writing their contracts in such a manner it is possible for the purchaser to prove that the seller defaulted by not planting a tree on a thatched roof or by failing to thatch the hill or ridge into the smial has been dug.”

            “Really?” demanded Lotho.  Oh, but the possibilities that such a realization opened up….

            *******

            It was quite late when they returned to Timono’s home, and neither paid a good deal of attention to the fact that both the knob and the bell pull had black ribbon bound about them, and the door bell had been draped in heavy black cloth to silence it, or that yew boughs had been hung over windows and doors to indicate there had been a death within the smial.  Tiercel Bracegirdle was dead, and Timono was now master of his own home.  Lotho had his arm about his smaller cousin’s shoulders as they went in, and if Cousin Lilac thought this meant that Lotho was seeking to comfort and in the future possibly be willing to sponsor Timono within the Shire, to become his patron, it meant little to the Sackville-Baggins.  Timono had little disposable wealth as yet, but it appeared his fine mind, which so few had found particularly admirable so far in Timono’s life, was likely to make the both of them quite wealthy and powerful in a matter of time.

            Oh, but Lotho Sackville-Baggins had plans.  He didn’t need to hurry the process, for to present too many such deliberately twisted contracts too quickly would most likely lead to an uncomfortable investigation.  He needed to be careful whom he targeted and when.  At first he needed to present them to individuals who had more than one property and who were too proud to admit they’d been cheated in accepting a cleverly worded contract from him.  Second, he wanted people to use homes as collateral for loans he might grant them for other purposes and insert into the loan agreements the clauses indicating that they were good as long as Frodo Baggins was resident within Bag End and the Hill, with said loans suddenly coming due should he leave the Shire.  He looked forward to using that clause particularly on individuals who had always been closer to Bilbo and Frodo.  As long as they saw the inclusion of such a clause as merely a nasty jibe at Frodo’s expense people were likely to accept its inclusion as typical Sackville-Baggins dismay that they weren’t likely to ever dwell in Bag End themselves.  And there was always a reason even the most solvent Hobbit might need a personal loan, after all.  How he could raise resentment throughout the Shire toward that foul orphan by such means, when they realized that had Frodo not held the secret dream of following Bilbo one day they would never have fallen victim to his—and Timono’s—schemes.

Written for the LOTR Community Potluck Challenge.

The Yule Raid Visit

            Otis Tunnely stamped his feet impatiently in the snow.  Where were the others?  They ought to have been there nearly an hour ago!  What if his sister Sweetpea and her husband Tod Delver left for their expected Second Yule visit to the Delver farm in the Northfarthing before the others arrived?  Then the desired effect of this visit would be lost!

            In no way did Otis Tunnely wish this visit to be unobserved by his sister and her family.  No, he needed for Tod and Sweetpea to be there to see and personally experience what was to happen.  It was Yule, after all, and this was to be his Yule gift to Sweetpea’s family.  What impact would this visit have if Tod, Sweetpea, and their two children were gone when it happened?

            The muffled creak of a wagon’s wheels coming up the farm lane caught his attention, and he stopped blowing upon his fingers to listen.  They’d managed to get hold of a wagon?  Good!  The better to carry away the “presents” he expected to receive from Sweetpea and Tod!  He peered down the lane and saw the dim outlines in the midwinter dawn of a large, open wagon drawn by a dray pony coming toward him.  Two Hobbits sat on the wagon’s seat, and behind appeared to be at least one more, along with the larger, more hulking shadows of what appeared to be three of Lotho’s Big Men, one with what was likely to be a club on his shoulder.

            Otis shuddered.  Lotho’s Big Men were not to be trusted—that he knew instinctively.  Nor did he particularly wish for any of them to interfere with what he had planned.  What if one of them should take a fancy to any of the things Otis particularly wanted?  That could prove—awkward.

            He stepped forward to meet the wagon, which was driven by Berry-o Green.  “What kept you?” he demanded in a loud whisper.  “I’ve been waiting best part of an hour.”

            Berry removed the stem of his pipe from his mouth and spat over the side of the wagon.  “It’s Lotho’s fault,” he muttered.  “When we went to him to say as we needed a wagon to Gather and Share from, him told us to take one from Sancho Proudfoot.  We asked him, what if Sancho Proudfoot should be unwillin’ to give us a wagon, so him sent a couple of his Big Men to see to it as Proudfoot give it over as directed.  And him told them to accompany us on today’s—mission.  The third one just tagged along, and them seem happy enough to have him.”  He shrugged and glanced unhappily over his shoulder at the Mannish escort.  “What are we to do, I ask you?”  He shrugged a second time.

            His companion on the bench, someone Otis didn’t know, gave a similar shrug, and there was nothing Otis could do but accept the situation.

            “Oh, all, right,” Otis mumbled.  More clearly he said, “Well, if there’s nothin’ we can do about it, then let’s go.  They’ll be ready to leave soon if’n we don’t get a move on.  And they need to be here for this.  It’s no good lettin’ them come home to an empty hole.”

            He gave his own appraising glance at the Big Men.  At least they were all too big to fit in Sweetpea’s place, and that would work to his good, he decided.  Hopefully the mere threat of their presence would work to convince Tod and Sweetpea to let him and his fellow Gatherers and Sharers take what they pleased.  Maybe not as bad as it had first appeared.

            A savage grin split his face as he turned back to face the farm.  “Come on!” he ordered, and the wagon with its escort of Hobbits and Men moved down the drive toward the dooryard.

            “Happy Yule, Tod and Sweetpea,” he muttered.  “And many happy returns!”

Originally posted in Another Moment of your Time.

Chance Encounter

            Carnelian Delver paused in her gathering of nuts to listen, her ears twitching slightly.  Her brother Dodi, twelve to her fourteen years, paused in his own raid on the squirrel’s cache they’d found, to watch her.  “What is it?” he asked, his whisper low and wary.

            “A pony—I heard a pony, that way.”  She pointed in the direction of the bridle path that led toward Michel Delving.

            Dodi, alarmed, moved closer to her, whispering in her ear, “Do you think as we should go hide in the bolt hole in the orchard?”

            She shook her head, but uncertainly.  “It’s not Ruffians, ’cause they can’t ride ponies anyway.  Gatherers and Sharers couldn’t come that way, either, not with wagons.”

            Dodi nodded.  “Hardly nobody comes that way no more,” he noted, “not with all the Chief’s Rules.”  His brow furrowed.  “But Da told Mummy that the Ruffians went away two weeks ago, what with that trouble over Hobbiton-way, and that they’ve not come back.  And Missus Sourloam says as they’ve all been chased out—that the Thain’s son’s come home and chased all the bad’uns away.”

            Carnelian didn’t feel convinced.  “How could Pippin Took chase the Big Men away all on his own?” she asked.  “No Hobbit could do that!  They’re too big and too strong, the Big Men!”

            Dodi was looking stubborn.  “Maybe he got other Hobbits to help him.  Get enough together, and I’d wager as it could be done.”

            She shrugged, and looked back toward the bridle path.  She could hear the pony again, nickering, and another sound, as if someone was being ill.  That noise concerned her, and she started that way, if warily.  She remembered how she’d felt three years ago when she ate some mushrooms as oughtn’t to have been eaten.  Maybe that had happened to someone else.  She knew as it wasn’t a good thing, getting so sick that your stomach itself rebelled.  She slipped from one tree trunk to another, then still another, until she peered around the bole of an ash tree, and saw a gentlehobbit kneeling by the Sourloams’ rail fence, retching convulsively.  A particularly lovely bay pony with a large set of bags across its withers stood behind him with its reins dragging, nosing at his shoulder with concern.  She could see the steam rising from the pile of vomit before him, as well as the white puffs when he or the pony breathed out.

            “Carnelian!” Dodi hissed with alarm from the brush behind her.  “What is it?”

            “It’s all right,” she said over her shoulder, straightening and stepping out from behind the tree.  “It’s just a single Hobbit, and he’s not about to hurt anyone.  I think as he needs help, maybe.”  She went forward until she stood by the stranger’s shoulder, the other side from the pony.

            He was thin beneath his odd, grey-green cloak—that was the first thing she noticed.  And he was quite pale—but then, as sick as he was being, she wasn’t surprised by that.  He was holding so hard onto the rail fence to balance himself that she wouldn’t be surprised if he had a splinter or two through his fine gloves and in his hand by this time.  At last he was done, and he straightened on his knees, his eyes squeezed closed as if it had taken all he had in him to do what he’d done.

            The pony again nosed at his shoulder, and he said, “I’m all right, Strider.  Be calm.”

            “His name is Strider?” Carnelian asked.

            He opened his eyes to look up sideways at her.  “Yes.”

            Dodi had come out of hiding, although he was ready to dart back into the woods at any moment.  He was staring at the pony’s tack, which was beautifully decorated with a silver star on each cheek-piece.  “Oh, my,” he murmured, “but that bridle’s fine!”  He turned curious eyes toward the stranger.  “Did the Dwarves make it?”

            The gentlehobbit was starting to stand up, leaning on the rail fence rather heavily.  “No,” he said.  “I believe it was made in Rohan, or perhaps in Minas Tirith.”

            Carnelian asked, “Are you bad off?  Would you like to sit down and have a drink or something?  It sounded pretty bad.”  She thought he looked far too young to need to hold onto the fence that much while rising.

            “I have a water bottle on my pommel,” he said, turning toward the pony, patting it gently to reassure it before fumbling the strap free of the saddle.  His hands were trembling slightly as he worked to remove the stopper, and he took a small sip to rinse his mouth and spat it delicately on the ground before actually swallowing any.  He drank slowly and deliberately, allowing time between swallows to assure himself that the spasms were truly over.  At last he replaced the stopper and settled the strap again over the pommel of his saddle before turning to examine the children more closely. 

            His face was still pale, Carnelian noted, but not deathly so as it had been when they found him.  “And what are you two doing out on such a cold day?” he asked.

            “We were looking for nuts.  We found a squirrel’s hiding place and were raiding it, actually,” she explained.  “We don’t have much at home in the larders.”

            “The Gatherers and Sharers took most of your harvest?” he asked, his expression gone rather stern.

            The children nodded.  “They came on the day we were harvesting the potatoes and took them right from the field, and the same with the turnips,” Dodi told him.  The lad had finally come out alongside his sister.

            “And when we were harvesting our apples they did the same.  They took all of our bushel baskets and even our canvas picking bags, as well as our cider press,” his sister added.  “We think it was because one of the Gatherers and Sharers is our mum’s brother, and he knew when we’d be harvesting.  A lot of other people could hide a good deal of their harvest before the Gatherers and Sharers could get there, but not us.”

            The stranger Hobbit’s face grew even more set.  “Turning brother against brother?  If Lotho were still here he’d have a good deal to answer for!”

            Dodi’s face had gone pale.  He leaned forward to warn, “You can’t call the Chief by his real name!  His Big Men will come and haul you off to the Lockholes, and you’ll never come home again!”

            But the gentlehobbit was shaking his head.  “No, they won’t—they’ve been driven out of the Shire, most of them.  There may be a few hiding in the woods here and there, but that’s all.”  He leaned forward to catch his pony’s trailing reins into his finely gloved hands.  “And if you see any Men at all in the Shire, all you have to do is send word to the Mayor’s office or the Thain, and someone will be dispatched to see to them.  Merry and Pippin have made it plain that they will not allow any outsiders to lord it over the people of the Shire, and especially not as long as the real King has returned.”

            He attempted to mount his pony, but found he could not lift himself up properly in the stirrup.  He closed his eyes again as he fought to keep his balance.  “Too soon,” he murmured.  At last he opened them again and looked apologetically at the two children, and addressed himself to the lass.  “I’m sorry, but I find I may need to impose upon your family’s hospitality briefly.  Do you think your parents would mind if I rested in your home for a brief while before I resume my journey back to Bywater?”

            “I suspect it will be all right, although we can’t give you any sort of a proper meal.”

            His laugh was rather bitter.  “You don’t have to worry about that—I’m not truly up to eating any sort of proper meal right now, I find.  And you said you’d found a squirrel’s cache?”

            He helped them empty out the store of nuts, and spotted a second cache on their way home.  “I rather hate robbing the squirrel, although I know they tend to be rather scatterbrained creatures who forget where they hid many of their stores before the winter is over anyway,” he commented as he saw the last few nuts into the pillow slip Carnelian had been using to gather the food into.  He might look tired, but his fingers were as dexterous as were those of the children.

            As they were walking together back to the farm followed by the pony, the lass asked, “Then it’s true—the Thain’s son has come back?  Everyone was certain he was dead by now.”

            “Not for want of trying,” he muttered.  “Oh, yes, Peregrin Took has returned,” he said more loudly.  “As has Meriadoc Brandybuck.  And the two of them are intent on seeing the Shire restored to our own folk.”

            “And we don’t have to worry about the Big Men any more?” Dodi asked a bit anxiously.

            The stranger shook his head.  “No—I doubt any of Lotho’s Ruffians will want to face down Merry and Pippin.  They were furious when we found Lotho had erected a gate at the end of the Brandywine Bridge and was setting up huge lists of silly rules to lord it over the Shire.  Will Whitfoot’s already let me know that the Shiriffs are to be reduced to the proper number of twelve again, also; although a few who’ve been dismissed already seemed to want to argue about it.”

            Soon enough they were back at the Delver’s house.  Their dad came out of the byre, a pitchfork in his hands, staring warily at the Hobbit who walked with his children.  “It’s all right, Da!” Dodi said, skipping ahead of his sister with his nearly full bag lifted to show his father.  “He helped us, and we have lots now!  And he says the Big Men are almost all gone!”

            Still, if it hadn’t been for the fact their helper was standing there shivering with the cold in spite of the warmth of his garb and the presence of that fine pony of his, Carnelian was certain neither of their parents would have allowed him on the place.  But his lips were looking a mite blue, and as she stepped out of the farmstead’s hole their mother gave a cry of alarm and in a moment had their visitor by the shoulder, shepherding him into the relative warmth of the kitchen, where she settled him into the rocking chair in the corner, sending Carnelian off to fetch the rug from the foot of the big bed to wrap around him.   Dodi had remained outside to help his father see to the pony’s comfort, leading the fine animal into the byre where their missing milk cow had been stabled, divesting it of its beautiful tack, and rubbing it down with twists of straw, seeing the manger filled with hay (that at least they had in plenty) and the bucket with clean water.  Their father then shouldered the large bag and the tooled saddlebags and carried them into the hole, settling them into the corner by the door to the nearly empty first larder.

            Mummy was plying their guest with a hot cup of tea.  “I’m sorry as there’s no milk to go with it,” she said.

            He nodded his understanding, although his pale lips were a thin line.  “They took your cow?”

            “Well, someone did,” she answered with an anxious glance toward her husband.  “She was taken in the middle of the night during the summer.”

            “We think Uncle Otis took her, really,” Dodi volunteered, although his mother had gone pale and was shaking her head in warning.

            The stranger sighed, noting the wordless concern shown by their mum.  “I understand—truly I do.  It’s all really too bad, what happened while we were gone.  But we’re working to set things right.  Although it doesn’t appear that the Big Men cut down all of your trees as they did elsewhere.”

            “No,” Dad said, “the Big Men didn’t come here themselves.  But Otis saw to it as the Gatherers and Sharers came ’round more’n our fair share, I’m thinkin’.”  He drew another chair from the table and set it opposite the stranger.  “So, you was one of them as left the Shire through the Old Forest, was you?  You that Sam Gamgee as we’ve heard tell of?”

            For the first time their guest appeared amused.  “Sam?  Oh, no!”

            Mum was shaking her head in exasperation.  “Really, Tod—don’t you recognize Frodo Baggins when you see him?”  She turned apologetically to face the Hobbit.  “Forgive him, Mr. Baggins.  Tod’s not much for recognizing gentry, you see.”

            But Mr. Baggins was shaking his head as he sipped appreciatively at the tea in his hands.  “There’s nothing to apologize for, mistress.  And I do thank you for allowing me to warm myself.  But do know that Lotho’s rules are worth less than the paper they’ve been copied to.  Indeed, you might look to burn that list there to add to the warmth if you’d like.  No more restrictions on fuel for your fires, you’ll find.”

            The family all exchanged glances until at last Dodi, greatly daring, reached out to yank the list Uncle Otis had so ceremoniously nailed to the larder door last time the Gatherers and Sharers had come through, and in moments it was shoved gleefully into the flames, along with a few solid logs.  And when Mr. Baggins told them they could have the contents of the large bag their dad had carried in, they found they had even more food than they’d anticipated.

            “Not all of the storage rooms in Michel Delving had Hobbits imprisoned in them,” he explained.  “Many were full of food they’d taken from various people.  I’d intended to bring this to the Cottons, seeing they’re playing host to so many right now.  However, they were able to hide a fair amount of stores from the Gatherers and Sharers, and it appears you couldn’t.  So, take it with my thanks.  And we’ll be having wagons heading out across the Shire to see more food returned to those who’ve been robbed, definitely before Yule.”

 *******

            A week later Otis Tunnely answered a call to Michel Delving, along with several others who’d taken part in the Gathering and Sharing in the region north of the Road between the environs of the Hill and the White Downs country.  Some might have thought to have refused to go; but the fact the requests to come to the Council Hole were being delivered by Tooks and Boffins armed with hunting bows made the invitations harder to ignore.  And when two of the Tooks cut a cow out of the surprisingly substantial herd Otis had in his front pasture, he looked on them with disapproval.  “Leave my cows alone!” he demanded.

            “How many are truly yours is still up for question,” announced Ned Boffin from Hobbiton.  “But this one with the white off-hoof is definitely not yours, and we’ve been told particularly to look for her and see her returned to her own family.”

            The righteous anger Otis had been ready to loose at these interlopers reduced some as he realized that none of them were looking at him any too kindly.

            At last he was led into the banquet hall in the Council Hole, where he found himself forced to stand with his fellows across the table from that Frodo Baggins, several family heads including the ones for the Tunnelies and the Delvers, and a number of Tooks armed with statute books and pens and ink.  A quick glance indicated that several of his fellows recognized their own family heads sitting along the other side of the table.  And when Paladin Took entered from the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea and settled himself alongside the errant Baggins, the seriousness of the situation finally hit home with Otis, who tried to step back to hide himself more behind his fellows but was prodded forward again by Ned Boffin.

            They were allowed to stand there in an increasingly heavy silence, aware of the unfriendly stares of all in the room.  But it was the examination that Frodo Baggins was giving them all that bothered Otis most, for there was no question that the Master of the Hill found him wanting.

            “What are you doing here in Michel Delving, Baggins?” he finally said, forcing bravado into his voice.  “Thought as you was dead and gone—or at least gone from the Shire.”

            “I was.”  Frodo’s voice was cool and measured.  “I am here today, however, as deputy Mayor, to see to how you and your companions here discharged your duties as Gatherers and Sharers.”

            “Mayor don’t hold no authority, not any more,” Otis declared.

            “No?  And who does?  Lotho Sackville-Baggins as so-called Chief Shiriff?  Alas, I fear that he’s lost that role, along with his life.  Oh, yes,” Baggins said in response to the startlement of several of them, “Lotho is gone.  Murdered on the orders of Master Sharkey, you see.  He’d been dead at least a couple of weeks before we returned.  And Sharkey himself is gone, too—dead at the hand of his fellow, after he admitted he’d ordered that—execution.  And their Big Men?  Well, the ruffians and footpads that Lotho accepted as his private army are gone, also.  And some of those are dead as well, at the hands of those who fought them in Bywater.”

            He stood, and it was as if he wore a cloak of solemn authority about him.  “I am here both as the deputy Mayor and as the representative of our new King to see the King’s justice as well as the Shire’s justice done here today.  Let us see which of those who did the Gathering and Sharing are before us, shall we?”  He took up a list that lay upon the table.  “Terence Banks.  Otis Tunnely.  Bosco Banks. …”  And the names dropped from his lips as if each were facing a doom he’d never anticipated.

            As Otis noted that his sister’s husband and son were among those who’d been entering as witnesses and observers to today’s proceedings, he felt the hair on his feet and his scalp stirring.  Maybe answering the call put out by Lotho and that Bracegirdle lawyer cousin of his hadn’t been such a good idea after all….

Written in honor of the Master's own birthday.  Posted a day late due to travels and travails.

Self Justification

            Otis Tunnely sat on one side of the table while Frodo Baggins sat on the other, Paladin Took and other officials of the Shire ranged alongside him.  There was something about Baggins’s expression that made Otis most uncomfortable, and in response he felt his hackles rise.  As he read the reports lying before him, Mr. Baggins was different from what Otis remembered, more solemn, somehow; harder, less tolerant.

            At last Baggins raised his eyes to meet those of Otis.  “So,” he said, “your sister’s one milk cow was found in your herd, where she was apparently not treated well.  There were signs she’s been beaten with willow whips or worse, and she had lost considerable weight, indicating she’d been denied food.”

            “You cannot prove as this was my sister’s cow,” Otis growled in return.

            “Except that she responded immediately to the voices of your sister, your brother-in-love Tod Delver, and their children, and they all immediately recognized her; and once she was led onto their farm she immediately went to the byre and to her manger and began calling for her calf.”  Baggins lifted a few pages and set them aside.  “Also found in your hole and about your farm were a large number of items taken by the Gatherers and Sharers from the Delver home—three quilts put together by your sister and your mother; five of the set of six silver spoons your brother-in-love brought to the marriage—we still haven’t found the sixth one; a set of Dwarf-wrought mugs that were a gift from his father; many pieces of your mother’s jewelry that had been left to your sister, all save her rings, which had been taken by Lotho as Sharkey’s share of the loot; six warm blankets; even the cradle in which your niece and nephew slept as bairns; and all of your brother-in-love’s fishing flies, including one that had been put into a frame that was not of a quality to use in catching fish but had been made by your nephew and that had somehow attracted the attention of what must have been the most stupid bass in the pond on their farm.”

            “I inherited the quilts and the jewelry!  After all, I was the elder….”

            But Baggins interrupted him.  “Excuse me?  I will remind you that copies of your parents’ wills were filed in the Mayor’s office, and I have read them.  You are not even living on the farm that you inherited—you convinced your sister to swap with you as you were convinced that the one she’d received was better than yours, and neither she nor her husband wished to have bad feelings between you.  And those quilts and three of the blankets as well as all of your mum’s jewelry were definitely left to your sister, while the other three blankets were sold by my Aunt Eglantine to your sister and her family.  Or are you going to claim that the Thain’s Lady is a liar?  As for the spoons and the mugs, I have read the will of your brother-in-love’s grandmother, who left him the spoons, and have a letter from Gimli Gloin’s son confirming that his kinsman Dorlin from the Blue Mountains crafted those mugs and sold them to Tod Delver’s father at the Free Fair eight summers ago.  I will admit that many of the farm implements that were taken are difficult to distinguish, but the harrow found in your barn has the maker’s mark of the harrow-maker in Gamwidge to whom one of the Cotton lads is apprenticed, and I have the sales agreement that shows this harrow was sold by him to Tod Delver, your sister’s husband, and not to you.

            “As for the fishing flies, and particularly the one made by your nephew—there are many witnesses to the fact that the majority of them were made by your brother-in-love and his father, and your nephew’s name and the legend on the back of the frame in which it was placed make it plain that it was not made for you.  Indeed, it is well known that when you fish you do so with fish eggs or worms, and have never been known to fish the streams your brother-in-love prefers.  So, it would appear that this theft, at least, was not done for profit but primarily out of spite.”

            Having done, the deputy Mayor fixed a stare upon Otis that made it plain he was to at least try to explain his actions.

            Otis was angry.  He had well convinced himself over the years that he was badly done by, and particularly by his parents and his sister’s family.  He was certain that their parents had favored his sister over himself, and that the better production seen on the farm his sister had agreed to accept in exchange for that left to herself was due to her tricking him somehow into taking the less fertile land rather than accepting that he did not have the heart of a true farmer.

            “But I was the elder!  I ought to of had the choice as to which farm I got!”

            “But you were left the farm where she dwells now.  You only have the farm you live upon because you insisted you deserved it more, and your sister and her husband decided it was not worth it to argue with you.  It appears that you only want something if your sister had it first.  But you took things that have absolutely nothing to do with you at all!  You took the Delver spoons and the Dwarvish mugs that belonged to Tod Delver, and you took his fishing flies, which you neither needed nor knew how to use.  And you took that one fishing fly made by your nephew Dodi, one that is most likely useless to anyone else, one that has absolutely no value at all to anyone other than his family, a sign of his love for his dad.”

            Baggins straightened and rubbed absently at his left shoulder as if it pained him somewhat.  “According to your fellows, every time your sister and her family did any harvesting at all, you saw to it that their farm was raided by the Gatherers and Sharers.  You saw to it that their farming implements were taken as well as bushels for carrying and storage, picking bags, even their ladders and their cider press, which was found in one of your storage buildings this morning.”

            “But you can’t go sending folks into private property to search it without permission!” Otis blustered.

            “But is that not what you did, directing your fellows to denude your sister’s home, emptying her larder and taking the vegetables out of her fields and the apples out of the orchard after they went to the work to harvest them?  Is that not what you did, going into her home to take her jewelry and her quilts and her blankets, leaving her family with inadequate food for the winter as well as inadequate warmth against the weather expected?  Was their cow not found in your herd, along with animals from other farms about?  I recognize the Sweetloam’s cuts to their cattle’s ears, at least; and others have identified at least seven more animals taken from the fields of other farms.

            “But, again, you took some things not because they were of any value to anyone other than your sister and her husband Tod.  Why did you take that framed fishing fly?”

            Suddenly the store of resentment Otis Tunnely held broke open.  “What right does that one have to anything as ought to of been mine?” he spat.  “He’s no kin of mine!”

            “But he and your sister between them made the farm on which they dwell something to be proud of, while you allowed your own place to fall into neglect.  Their cow had been a fine milker while none of your cattle produced much to boast about.  Their home, while not as substantial as the one you dwelt in, was yet snug and warm and happy while yours needs substantial repairs because you have done little to see to its upkeep.  And this does not answer the question:  why did you take the fishing fly your nephew Dodi made for his father?”

            “’Cause he don’t deserve it!” shouted Otis.  “He don’t deserve nothin’ as he had.  It ought to of been mine!  All of it!”

            Frodo Baggins was shaking his head.  “No, you have it wrong.  He worked for what he had.  He was a youngest son in a large family, and there was no land to spare from his family for him to work.  He and his wife had land of their own to work in the farm she inherited, and agreed to swap for the other farm solely to keep the peace with you, the brother she loved but who has apparently never loved her.

            “Know this—no one is owed anything for which he has not worked.”

            “What would the likes of you know about workin’—everyone knows as you was given Bag End, what wasn’t yours by rights, in spite of there bein’ a proper heir in Lotho Sackville-Baggins!”

            Baggins’s face had gone stony.  “It was Otho, not Lotho, who was properly Bilbo’s heir before Bilbo adopted me.  But the idea that Otho deserved Bag End more than I did was laid to rest many, many years ago.  Lotho was not left destitute when his father died—far from it.  I’ve been able to read Otho’s will, and both Lotho and Lobelia were left well provided for.  Plus, Lotho has done nothing but add to his holdings since his father’s death, and mostly through cheating or threatening those whose properties he took.  Bag End was probably the only property he acquired that he was forced to actually pay a fair price for, and even then he used trickery involving its purchase to cheat others.

            “And I certainly worked within Bag End while I lived there.  I helped polish every piece of wood or stone within the place, and cleansed the tiles and renewed and resealed every line of grout.  I washed every dish and cared for each piece of silver or pewter.  I dusted every single shelf and book or curio.  I swept the floors and the hearths daily, carried in the wood and carried out the ash.  I helped beat the carpets and washed the linens when that job fell to me.  I helped in the gardens and the orchard, and I learned to keep the books long before Bilbo left the Shire.  I even polished the glass in the windows at least twice each year.  Can you say the same for the home you live in?”

            “But I oughtn’t have to!”

            “Why not?  Do you have the wealth to hire others to do the caring for you?”

            “But I oughtn’t have to!” Otis repeated stubbornly.

            “Then have you the magical skills of a Wizard to have things renew themselves on their own?  I tell you, Mr. Tunnely, that unless things are cared for regularly they will begin to fall apart, and that is obvious by looking at the state of your home and your farm.  Face it—if you love something well enough you will work for it and its welfare, but you have failed to do so.  And there is nothing that has ever given you the right to take that fishing fly within the frame that you took that your nephew made for his dad for his birthday.  You do not have any right to a sign of love given by someone else to another.”

            “But it ought to of been given me instead!”

            Frodo was shaking his head.  “No one who has done nothing to earn love deserves to be given signs of said love intended for others.  You have not shown love to your sister or her children, much less her husband.  Instead, you have acted as if the fruits of their labor was due to yours instead.”

            Frodo Baggins sighed, again rubbing at his shoulder, and then at his temple as if his head ached.  He finally dropped his eyes to the papers before him, his face grim.

            Otis tried to be belligerent as he demanded, “Well, what you gonna do with me?  Stick me down in those new Lockholes you had fixed up?”

            Baggins raised his eyes again to meet Otis’s.  “Alongside Marcos Smallburrow and Timono Bracegirdle?  Do you think you deserve to go there?”

            “Them didn’t do nothing against you,” Otis began.

            “Oh, no, not against me; but there is no question both worked hand-in-glove with Lotho to despoil the Shire while I was gone, and both had a good deal more of other people’s goods in their own hands than you did when they were brought here.  They were both in danger of bringing upon themselves deadly vengeance for the damage they did and the thefts they engineered and even deaths they’d plotted.  What you did was far more petty than anything they did.

            “The question I must deal with is what to do to see you pay for what you did while working with Lotho Sackville-Baggins.  I have read your parents’ wills carefully, and find that there was yet one other property that was theirs that was granted to yourself that you have never done anything with.  It was one your mother inherited from her brother on his death, a smallholding down near Needlehole.  It has languished from lack of care over the past fifteen years since her death.  I believe that it is time you saw to it and its upkeep.  Considering the damage you have wrought upon your sister and her family, you are now to be divested of your claims to the farm that was originally left to her and her husband as well as the one you insisted she should accept so that you could take what you saw as the more profitable property.  When you do so badly by what you have been granted, what you have misused shall be taken from you.  Once the ownership of all of the cattle found on the farm on which you dwelt is officially confirmed, those cattle proved to be yours will be herded to your new home outside Needlehole.  The Village Head for Needlehole will be advised to look for your arrival there within a week’s time, and if you leave your farm there for more than a week the Mayor, the Thain, and the Master will all be advised, at which time you will be taken and transported here to our new gaol.”

            “You mean as I’m to be exiled from my own home?”

            “Did you wish to be taken to the borders and sent Outside with no possibility of ever returning to the Shire?  Yes, you are being exiled from the Westfarthing, and you had best never set foot anywhere inside it or near the properties now to be owned solely by your sister and her family.  You will at least remain a Hobbit of the Shire, unless you continue to neglect your own responsibilities, and ever again work to take what belongs to others.  If that should ever happen, then you can indeed expect to be shown the Borders.  And I promise you—those who work against others are not treated any better Outside than they are here within the Shire and Buckland.”

            “But you don’t have the authority—”

            Thain Paladin, who’d sat quietly beside the deputy Mayor of the Shire, finally spoke.  “Oh, but as he told you when this series of hearings began, he most certainly does bear the authority to do as he says.  This is attested by the letters sent to me as Thain, to the Master, and the office of the Mayor by the King’s own hand and as confirmed by Will Whitfoot’s appointment of him as deputy Mayor while Will recovers from the injuries he suffered while imprisoned by Lotho and Sharkey.  And you are fortunate that it is Frodo who has been granted this authority, as I would have had you and certain others exiled to Outside days ago were it up to me.  Internal exile for what you have done, and particularly to one who loved you such as your sister, is too good for you as far as I am concerned.”

            “But I don’t deserve to be treated this way!” Otis insisted.

            Paladin Took stood and glowered at him.  “You certainly do, and more so because of the manner in which you have treated others.  To those to whom much is given, much is expected.  And when you don’t meet those expectations, then you can expect yourself to be deprived of what you had that you have misused and neglected and abused.  Now—begone, and you are to load up your own goods into the farm wagon you will find upon the farm where you’ve been living under the eyes of three Shiriffs and be on your way to Needlehole within two days.  Or are you going to question my authority as Thain of the Shire to confirm what Frodo has said?”

            So it was that Otis Tunnely found himself headed back to his farm under escort of two Tooks from the Hobbitry-in-Arms from the Green Hills district to remove himself and what possessions he would be able to take with him from the Westfarthing, unwilling to appreciate what he’d done to deserve even internal exile.

            At the same time Frodo was approaching Tod Delver to deliver into his hands that clumsy fly that his son Dodi had made for him, still within the frame that Tod had made to hold it, this sign of the love his son held for him.

Written for the birthdays of the Master and Lindelea.  With love and thanks to both.

A Reluctant Admission 

            Isumbard Took was forced to wait while two members of the Took Hobbitry-at-arms marched a burly Hobbit out of the Banquet Hall in the Council Hole.  Was that Otis Tunnely, he wondered?  Well, Otis had been identified as one of the earliest members of the Gatherers and Sharers, or so he understood.  Considering the expression on the Tunnely’s face, he was not happy with the sentence handed down by the deputy Mayor.  Had Frodo pronounced him banished outside the Shire?  It was what Paladin had said was appropriate for the greedy Hobbit.

            Once the doorway was cleared Bard entered to see Frodo handing what appeared to be a framed picture to Tod Delver.  Tod accepted the item diffidently, and it was apparent that the young farmer had tears in his eyes.  His son—was the lad called Dodi or something like?—stood at his father’s side, his eyes alight with excitement, reaching up to touch the object his father now held.

            Frodo reached up to lay his hand on Tod’s shoulder and said something in a low voice, then pulled away, turning toward the table where he was officiating at the judgment of those who’d worked with Lotho Sackville-Baggins and Timono Bracegirdle in robbing their fellow citizens of their goods, homes, and property.

            “Should of been sent down to one o’ the cells in that new gaol, you ask me!” pronounced Tom Oatbarrow to his neighbor, finishing off with a swig from the tankard he held.  Tom’s family’s home had been hit heavily as Bard understood it.

            Frodo had almost reached the table where Paladin Took stood by what must be Frodo’s chair, but before he reached the Thain’s side Frodo suddenly blanched and turned hurriedly toward the privy.  Bard recognized the signs—once again Frodo was about to lose whatever he’d managed to put into his stomach so far that day.  Bard sighed, hurried forward to set the papers he’d brought with him before Pal, and set himself to seeing if he could help Frodo.

                He’d been correct in anticipating that the Baggins would not have had time to latch the door.  He found Frodo kneeling in one of the stalls, retching terribly.  Bard knelt beside his distant cousin and held back his hair to keep it from getting fouled.

            Fortunately the bout did not last long.  “Are you all right now, Frodo?” the Took asked.

            Frodo raised his head, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.  “I believe so,” he managed.

            Bard nodded, and rose to fetch a dipper of water.  “I hope this helps,” he said.

            “At least I don’t appear to have gotten it on my clothes,” Frodo noted, once he was certain there would be no more spasms. 

            “Did you banish him from the Shire?”

            “No, not this time.  Internal banishment to Threadneedle.  He has property there.  I did confiscate the farm he’s been living on and gave it to his sister and her family, so Sweetpea and Tod now have two properties.  The one he’s been at was originally left to her, but he’d made a fuss so she had agreed to trade it for the one he’d been left.  He was so certain his parents had left her the better farm to begin with, and insisted on the swap.  The problem is that he’s a poor farmer to begin with, and doesn’t treat the land, buildings, or animals as they deserve.  And his jealousy toward his sister and her family is terrible, Bard!  I can barely believe a Hobbit of the Shire could be that jealous of his own sister!”

            “And you became so upset that you had to run so as not to vomit on Pal’s feet?”

            Frodo gave a weak laugh.  “That would have been quite the spectacle, don’t you agree?”

            After a pause, Bard asked, “Were you reaching for that Ring?  I’d wager you were wishing to blast a hole right through him.”

            Frodo paled.  “Do you think I would willingly curse him?”   His voice was being held steady by sheer force of will, or so Bard thought.

            Isumbard Took was sorry he’d asked the question.  “I remember when your aunt’s cousin and her husband were insisting you were drunk.  I am certain you would have cursed them had you had It on you at the time.  And yes, I know that it was indeed the Ring you carried when you left the Shire.  Between them Ferdi and Pippin have made that plain to me.”

            It was almost a minute before Frodo answered in a whisper, “Oh, but I indeed wished to do so.  I am so glad It is gone now.  I do not wish to curse anyone else, not ever.”

            Bard’s interest was piqued.  “Then you did curse someone with It, back while you were gone?”

            “Yes.”  The word was almost dead.

            “Who?”

            “Gollum.  I cursed him, telling him that if he tried to touch me or—or It again, he himself would fall into the fire.  And he did—just as I’d said.  He took the Ring from me, and in his glee at having It once more in his possession he leapt into the air—and he fell, with It—with It in his hand.”

            “Sweet stars!” Bard whispered.  “And that’s how you lost your finger?  He cut it off of you?”

            But Frodo was shaking his head.  “No—he bit off my finger.  He was much too given to biting, I fear.”

            He shuddered, and glanced over his shoulder.  “I need to go back out there.  My work for the day is not finished as yet.”  He combed his fingers through his hair, turned decidedly, and led the way back to the Banquet Hall.

            It was a moment before Isumbard could bring himself to follow the deputy Mayor.