Story Notes and Background

(TL;DR: This story is told in a series of drabbles because... well, it seemed like a logical idea at the time. A longer version may come about at a later date, but it may not, which is the reason behind offering this background information.)

Ideas about Bandobras have swirled around at the back of my brain for some years now. But telling his story in full means going back further in Shire history to set the stage, as it were.

At the time Bucca became the first Thain, the Shire had been devastated by the Witch King's forces which had overrun the lands of the North-country after Fornost fell, burning and slaughtering as they went. Before the fall of Fornost, the Woody End was only a small part of a much larger forest that covered large portions of the Shire, including the Green Hill country, explaining why it bore the name "End of the Wood" in Bucca's time. In other words, the eastern bounds of the Great Forest of yore lay a few miles west of the Brandywine River. (The Old Forest would have been something separate, especially considering the nature of the trees there.) The Witch King's forces set fire to much of the great forest, in part to drive the forest-dwellers out into the open and in part to devastate the land. Eventually, after the Witch King's defeat, trees grew again in places where the Great Forest had stood, dotting the Green Hill country with copses and isolated woods, but much of what eventually became the Tookish homeland remained grassland, well-suited to grazing sheep or goats as well as growing barley. 

Those Shire-folk who survived the ravages of the Witch King's wrath and malice were the ones who went into hiding – in the End of the Woods (as mentioned above, later known as the Woody End), in natural caves (like those in the Hills of Scary, where rebels like Fatty Bolger and his band would find places to hide from Lotho's ruffians at a much later date), as well as caverns found or delved in the chalk cliffs that much later became the store-holes of Michel Delving, and anywhere else that offered hidden, defensible refuge. By the time of the Witch King's defeat, the Shire's rich fields lay empty and fallow, and hobbit habitations across the land, from individual farmsteads to whole communities, had been almost completely wiped out.

Thus, in Bucca's time began the recovery of the Shire as the surviving Shire-folk rolled up their sleeves and set about reclaiming the land. Hobbits began to spread out from their fastnesses into the lands around them. First homesteads, then hamlets sprung up and grew into villages and even, eventually, towns.

The wild Green Hill country did not lend itself as well to farming as did the flatter portions of the Shire. The general spread of hobbity repossession tended to follow watercourses, plains, gently rolling landscapes and natural valleys. Due to its topography, the Green Hill country was settled much more slowly than other parts of the Shire, and not by ordinary hobbits but mostly by members of the indomitable Took clan. Of note, after the last Oldbuck Thain descended from Bucca abdicated the position and removed to the independent territory that would become Buckland, the Shire-folk selected the Tooks to fulfil this vital role, in part due to their tenacious nature and ability to rise up to meet adversity head-on if necessary.

According to my idea of Shire history, Thain Isumbras III was travelling deep in the Green Hills, well beyond any established settlements, when he saw a glimmer of gold in a stream. Upon closer investigation, he found the gleam came from sunlight glinting off gold nuggets lying at the bottom of the stream bed, in the shallows of the flowing waters. After tracing the stream to where it issued from the Great Hill that he’d camped upon the night before, he resolved to claim the land thereabout and its surroundings. Without breathing a word of his discovery to anyone, he upended his family and moved to the spot to dig for gold. (Once the gold played out, the network of rough mining tunnels formed the foundation of the Great Smials which, with some careful delving, clever design, and modification with an eye for comfort, became the ancient ancestral home of the Took clan.) This origin story of the Great Smials and the Treasure Hoard of the Tooks is hinted at in several of my stories set in the Shire in the early years of the Fourth Age.

Bandobras was a younger son (perhaps the youngest) of Isumbras. Put to work digging with the rest of his brothers and uncles, he was trapped in a cave-in when some poorly cured shoring timbers cracked and gave way. His narrow escape and horror of dark, closed-in places as a result of the ordeal that followed led him to leave home and seek employment; he was recruited in the village of By-The-Water’s newly built Green Dragon Inn by a charismatic hobbit (identified in the first chapters of this tale as “the Master”) who intended to found a new community in the midst of the fertile farmland in the otherwise sparsely settled North Farthing.

By the time of this story, Long Cleeve has been in existence for five years. The community has benefited from the richness of the land and abundant natural resources in the surrounding area, helping the settlers to prosper and, consequently, attracting a growing population from other parts of the Shire. As a skilled archer, Bandobras has proven his value in helping protect the North-landers from natural enemies. However, in the past month, unnatural enemies – goblins – have begun encroaching, beginning with isolated attacks that have grown in frequency and strength. At the start of this story, the Master and his counsellors have sent out a group of scouts, Bandobras among them, to find out more about the attackers and their ultimate intentions.

The Ranger who appears in the story is Arassuil, who was the Chieftain of the Dúnedain from 2719 to 2784. According to Tolkien Gateway, which draws its information directly from JRRT's writings, during his time, the Orcs of the Misty Mountains grew bolder and "dared to invade Eriador. The Rangers fought many battles trying to hold them back, but one party of Orcs managed to reach the Shire, where they were fought off by a party of brave Hobbits under Bandobras 'Bullroarer' Took in 2747 at the Battle of Greenfields." 

Accordingly, in this story, as mentioned earlier, I have Bandobras working for the head of a relatively large hobbit settlement in the North Farthing, scouting the areas where Orcs have been reported so that the North Country hobbits can figure out just how much trouble they're in and form some kind of plan, while Arassuil is doing much the same from the Rangers' side.

*** 

1. Hail Fellow, Well Met

Slumped in exhaustion from long effort, tears running down his cheeks, Bandobras missed the first tentative nibble along his shoulder. The sharp following nudge that sent him sprawling would have been difficult to ignore. 

Though hobbits often give the impression of being slow, sleepy folk, he turned and lunged, quick as a striking fish to the lure, grasping the bridle that encompassed the long nose now lowered in curiosity. The head jerked up belatedly, and the hobbit held grimly to his purpose as he felt his toes leave the ground.

‘Hi, now!’ he scolded, albeit softly. ‘Hardly a good beginning!’

***

He looked up to the tall, dark figure slumped in the saddle. ‘Got him now, Captain!’ he called. ‘Give us a merry chase, he did, but we’ll soon have you put to rights.’ Captain was merely a term of courtesy as he didn’t recognize the fellow. But he thought he knew a warrior when he saw one, even here in the North Country, from the evident wounds on Man and steed. The horse had eluded his attempts at capture up until this moment, but weakness or perhaps wisdom had brought the beast within reach at last. 

Now for the rider.

***

‘How are we to get you down?’ he wondered aloud, and the next moment had to scramble to safety as the horse folded its legs and sank to the ground. Wisdom or weakness indeed, he muttered. 

Might as well take advantage of the situation—he moved to the saddle, positioned his shoulder to catch the Man’s weight, seized the nearest arm and tugged. In a slow collapse that reminded the hobbit of a falling tree, the rider’s weight settled onto his shoulders. ‘Now I’ve got you where I want you,’ he grunted. ‘And what am I to do with you?’

***

A crackling fire, that’s what was wanted, in the sheltered hollow where he’d secreted them, having dragged the Man, the horse stumbling after. A pot of water put on to boil, for brewing tea and cleansing wounds. Mushrooms and bacon roasting on a stick, his reward for tending both Man and beast and giving comfort where he could. And a pipe to practice his smoke-rings whilst watching the twilight settle around them. 

But the night sounds unsettled him. To supplement his arrows and bow, he pulled the Man’s sword from its sheath—and stared in wonder at the broken blade.

*** 

2. At Your Service

Man and beast together had depleted the small store of healing salve in his pack, even with reserving it for the worst of their wounds. He’d sought out fresh healing herbs in the nearby thickets to crush and steep in hot water before sponging the shallower wounds, his ears tuned for trouble all the while. When he’d returned to their hiding place, horse and rider hadn’t moved.

Now Bandobras dropped the freshly bloodied pocket-handkerchief back into his cookpot. ‘There,’ he said to the horse, lying on its belly, shivering, forelegs folded underneath, rather uncannily cat-like. ‘That’s the worst of them.’ 

*** 

He jerked awake, not sure what had changed. Use your eyes, you fool of a Took! rang in his memories. Cautious, he opened his eyelids to mere slits. He’d escaped the goblins once before by feigning unconsciousness and then jumping up, darting into the underbrush, and exercising the hobbity art of disappearing swiftly and silently to its utmost. All he saw were stars shining overhead, and two large lumps that resolved into the horse and his rider, apparently asleep. He’d put out his fire as darkness fell, had huddled in his cloak, bow held ready – and fallen asleep! Fool, indeed.

*** 

Grey morning light. Bandobras lifted his head from his breast, though he hadn’t slept again. The Took hadn’t heard them move in the night, so intently had he been listening to the nightly noises, but the horse had rolled to its side and now lay stretched out, rider kneeling beside him. The Man’s steady gaze met his. Too late to disappear. Though he’d seen Men in the North-country before, he’d typically watched them from cover. They were different from goblins, he deemed, but also nearly twice his height – and he was remarkably tall for a hobbit, even a Fallohide.

*** 

He’d lit the fire again at dawn; flames wouldn’t betray them now, and his chosen fuel would give off little smoke. Bandobras raised his steaming mug of tea to the stranger, saying, ‘Wanderer. Can’t say I’ve ever heard that name before, or even that sort of name.’ 

The Man smiled, lifting his own mug, larger than the hobbit’s. ‘At your service,’ he said with a dip of his chin.

‘And at yours,’ Bandobras returned.

‘Indeed,’ the Man said. He drank, set his cup aside, and carefully rotated his injured shoulder. ‘Nearly as good as new.’ Grey eyes darkened as he surveyed his prostrate horse. ‘If I might ask...’ he added.

What he wanted was for Bandobras to heat more water, as it turned out. As the Took watched, he extracted leaves from a pouch at his neck, crumpled them and cast them into the steaming pot, from which a refreshing fragrance arose. ‘What...?’ the hobbit said, leaning forward.

‘Athelas,’ Wanderer replied, leaving Bandobras no wiser. But bathing the horse’s wounds seemed to ease the beast. ‘He’ll grow stronger,’ the Man said, sitting back on his heels. ‘But I cannot wait. Can you keep my Friend for me until I can return?’

*** 

3. By Any Other Name

‘I forgot to ask him your name!’ Bandobras said, clapping his hand to his head in consternation. The horse’s large dark eye regarded him thoughtfully. 

The Man had sniffed the air – seeking what? Bandobras had wondered – stood up, and bowed gracefully. ‘I cannot tarry,’ he’d said before bending to murmur in his steed’s furry ear. Rising, he’d said, ‘He’ll obey you now.’  

The next thing the hobbit knew, before he could ask even the first of the many questions bubbling to the surface of his mind, Wanderer was gone, having disappeared with almost a hobbit’s skill into the surrounding country.  

***  

‘Limper,’ he tried, looking over his shoulder at the lame horse that slowly followed him.  

The ears did not even twitch. 

‘Gimper,’ Bandobras said next, but the horse only snorted and shook its neat mane, trimmed close, the hobbit suddenly suspected, to keep from catching in branches whilst galloping through woods, pursued by – or perhaps pursuing – ravening goblins.  

Big Men were not Shire-folk but merely visitors from elsewhere. In his scouting for the Master of Long Cleeve, Bandobras had worked out that the bands of raiding goblins came from somewhere East – was the beast’s departed Rider a goblin hunter of sorts? 

*** 

Oddly enough, when dealing with an incursion of goblins, safety meant travelling by day and hiding by night. A day’s limping journey from where he’d acquired this outsized pony, Bandobras and his companion went to ground as the Sun painted her evening colours on the sky. A tug at the reins and tentative “down” sufficed; the horse folded its legs and lowered itself to the ground. After piling leaves over its back and hindquarters, he settled to a cold meal, not wanting to risk a fire in the rapidly deepening twilight. ‘Dog?’ he said. 

The horse paid him no heed. 

***  

‘Two more days to Long Cleeve,’ he told the beast next morning as they walked, ‘though without your help, I’d ha’ made it in one.’ He studied its gait and nodded. ‘You’re better today,’ he said. ‘What shall we call you, then? Walker? Strider?’ 

The horse whuffled at him, then lowered its head to snatch some grass. 

‘Very hobbity of you to be always eating,’ Bandobras said, ‘Like a tween: we ought to call you Bottomless Pit.’ Then he shuddered, thinking of his father’s mines, and his narrow escape that had driven him to seek the open skies of the North-lands. 

***  

‘Slow Coach?’ Bandobras tried, but the horse snorted softly, tossed its head, then lowered its face to hobbit level and shoved at him with its nose. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘I can’t say I would care for that, either.’ All the while they kept walking towards settled hobbit territory, foot by foot closer to safety. Relative safety, anyhow. The goblins were growing bolder. 

Another gentle push made him chuckle and fend away the long face. ‘Easy, friend,’ he said.  

The horse nickered softly. Bandobras halted, turned around, and stared eye to eye. ‘Friend?’ he whispered, incredulous. 

The horse nodded. 

Bandobras grinned. 

*** 

4. “Troubles Shared...”

‘...and so the Master sent out scouts,’ Bandobras explained as they walked. On the morrow, talking aloud to the Man’s horse would carry much more risk. ‘To find out whence they come, what their numbers might be, whether there are more besides those we’ve seen and driven away.’

He eyed Friend and shook his head. ‘But you’ve rather interrupted my endeavours,’ he chided. ‘How can I go softly with a great, bloody, platter-footed beast at my heels?

‘And so I’m little wiser than I was when I set out,’ he added in a rueful tone. ‘Whatever will the Master say?’

*** 

That night in their hiding place, the Master's scout slept fitfully, resting propped against the horse’s side. Whenever he woke and looked over, he could see that Friend was wakeful as well, head high, ears swivelling to catch any sound, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Somehow the beast’s alertness gave him comfort.

He stroked the warm, soft shoulder, and the great head came around and nuzzled him gently.

‘I could get used to you,’ he said. ‘You’re not half as much trouble as I thought you’d be.’

The breezy exhalation of Friend’s silent snort washed over him like a benediction.

*** 

‘One more day,’ Bandobras murmured companionably. His casual tone was belied by his elevated level of alertness. His bow was strung and in his hands, an arrow nocked and ready to loose whilst his eyes continually scanned their surroundings as they walked.

Friend seemed to share his unease, walking at heel like an oversized dog, his head extended over the hobbit’s shoulder.

Both stopped and listened intently for a moment. ‘Oddly enough,’ Bandobras whispered as they resumed walking, ‘the closer to home, the greater the danger. Our troubles started with farmers attacked in the fields. They think us easy prey.’

*** 

Easy prey. Mid-afternoon, blood-chilling shrieks sounded on all sides. Surrounded! Bandobras froze, but Friend did not: the horse nudged the hobbit, folded his front legs and dropped his nose to the earth.

Taking this broad hint, Bandobras scrambled up onto the horse’s back, twining his fingers in the small patch of long mane left within a rider’s grasp though the rest was shorn close to the sleek neck. Friend regained his feet, looked around as if to ascertain the hobbit was secure, lifted his head to neigh defiance, then flashed from stand-still to gallop in the space of a heartbeat.

*** 

5. “...Are Divided”

‘My poor Took, I fear you are done.’

Bandobras came to himself slowly, fighting his way free of the mists of nightmare, mingled images of charging the line of horrid, weapons-brandishing creatures. He’d had no time to loose one or more arrows, even had he had the inclination to abandon his death-grip on Friend’s mane and risk falling in the midst of the howling goblins, obviously maddened with excitement and bloodlust. His shafts remained in his quiver; somehow, he hadn’t dropped his bow, even unconscious. He became aware of his aching fingers, still clutching weapon and mane in their grip.

*** 

He realised he was lying face-down on Friend’s neck. He remembered nothing after they’d charged the encircling goblins. Blows had rained upon them as they passed through the line. Pain bloomed in his head, shoulder and thigh. No doubt Friend had his own share of bruises. 

Driven by concern for the horse, he straightened, sparking exclamations all around him. A hand closed around his foot, and he looked down to see the Master’s upturned face, where relief was replacing sorrow.

‘I’m not done yet,’ Bandobras answered. ‘Not quite done yet, anyhow.’

‘You might have fooled me,’ the Master said wryly.

*** 

‘We’ve been trying to work out how to get you down from there.’ Rorric Goodfellow, Founder of Long Cleeve, stared up at his Chief Scout. The hobbit-bearing horse had come galloping right up to the makeshift barricade and stopped, so smoothly that his unconscious rider had remained on his back. Then it had stood, head high, surveying its surroundings yet seemingly oblivious to the coaxings of the ever-growing throng crowding around them.

‘Friend, I’d like to get down,’ Bandobras said. He untangled his fingers from the mane and stroked the soft neck.

Friend bowed his head and then knelt down.

*** 

With Bandobras within reach, it was quick work to ease him from the horse’s back, whereupon Friend scrambled upright and closely eyed the surrounding hobbits, quite as if he was supervising their treatment of his rider.

‘No, don’t try and move him,’ Healer Nettle said sharply, bending over Bandobras, who had shook off the helping hands and then crumpled to the ground. ‘A stretcher, Master, that’s the thing. Bear him to the infirmary...’

‘But what about my horse?’ the scout roused enough to enquire.

‘Your horse!’ Rorric said in surprise, then, ‘Don’t you worry, lad. I’ll care for him myself.’

***