Family Matters

Prologue: Background and Explanation

It can sometimes be difficult to write reams of fanfic, all intertwined and related, and keep track of all the threads. The "writing reams" part came about almost by accident; LOTR was my comfort during a long stretch of ill health; I read and re-read the epic and imagined what happened to the characters during gaps and after Sam returned from seeing Frodo off at the Grey Havens. Then after the first film came out, someone introduced me to the phenomenon of fanfiction, and I had an outlet for my imaginings! Plus a wealth of related reading material. It felt, somehow, like I'd won the lottery.

The Greening of the Year (set in the summer of the year the Treasury was recovered after Pippin became Thain; see StarFire) has been nagging at me for a while now, and while re-reading Runaway I suddenly realised why. Tolly's children in Runaway are older than they ought to be, considering the timeline of stories that have written themselves over the past years. (And the fault is mine, not Jo's, for I gave her free rein in the writing, and didn't think to cross-check older stories when I fixed the date of Tolly's wedding in StarFire.)

The Muse has been chewing at the problem for some time now, and suddenly snatched this story from where it had been ripening on a dusty shelf in the lumber room, laying it out on the table and demanding that something be done. 

Originally an epilogue of sorts, detailing Eglantine's triumphant return to the Great Smials after going missing and being feared dead, this sort of ballooned into a larger story centred around Tolly, his coming to terms with to being rescued by one he was supposed to be safeguarding, and just how he and his wife came to have children older than their marriage. 

Don't worry; the other in-progress stories are still in progress. Will keep posting updates to all the WIPs as planned. While much of this is from the viewpoint of an OC, Pippin (and perhaps Sam and Merry) will have much to do in the story, at least the way the draft reads at present. I even managed to have a little fun with Pippin, who has to deal with something of a role reversal when, as the story plays out, he finds himself the only sensible one in a growing body of (seemingly) nonsensible Tooks. 

Short synopsis of The Greening of the Year:

Tolibold Took, a hobbit of the Thain's escort (expert archers who are responsible for the safety of the Thain and his family), is escorting Pippin's mother, Eglantine, through the wild Green Hills as she returns to the Great Smials from a visit to her daughter Pearl on the family farm near Whitwell. Heavy rains have led to instability, and a landslip occurs as the travellers are riding across the flank of one of the great hills. Eglantine and her escort are trapped in the debris. The mother of the Thain manages to free herself, but Tolly is caught and helpless under the bole of a large fallen tree, reversing their roles, where she is protecting him, making Tolly endure the humiliation (as he sees it) of needing help and protection. When the travellers are overdue, and a farmer brings word of the unfolding natural disaster to the Great Smials, Pippin (pardon the impending pun) moves heaven and earth to find his mother and her protector. Family Matters begins just after the missing hobbits have been found and rescued and are on their way back to the Great Smials.

*** 

Chapter 1. Awakening

~ S.R. 1435, summer ~

'Tolly!' The voice was close at hand, more of a hiss than a whisper, his younger brother's voice, he thought, and his dream turned to younger days, and he was being roused out of his bed for some kind of mischief or other. 

'Le’ me sleep,' he moaned, and tried to lift his hands to pull the bedcovers over his head, though something resisted his efforts, and the movement scored his ribs with pain. What mischief had he done himself? A deep breath sent a knife into his ribs, and without conscious thought he adjusted his breathing. Shallow breaths, yes, that was a help. It didn't hurt half so much, though he had to breathe at a quicker rate to get enough air. 

There was a rustling; he had an impression of movement nearby, of someone giving way to someone else, yes, for another voice murmured, 'Tolly! Tolibold, are you with us?' A hand touched his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze before simply resting there. 

' 'Twould be better if we could keep him awake,' he heard his older brother Mardi say from his other side. Mardi was using his healer's voice, which made Tolly wonder what hobbit had been injured. It began to dawn on him, as his dreaming burst slowly asunder and began retreating in shreds, that somehow all this bother concerned himself. 

'Mardi?' he whispered. 

'That’s it. Keep awake, Tolly-lad, mustn't sleep now,' Mardi said, still in healer's mien. 

'What...?' Tolly said, lifting his head and striving to open his eyes. 

'There now, lad,' came a soothing female voice, somewhat cracked with age and weariness, and a few strides away, he thought, not right beside him as had been through the dark hours, was it in his dream, or was it...? 

...and memory came back in a flood: riding along the muddied track partway up one of the great Green Hills, the trees above them on the hillside bending as in a strong wind when there was no wind, the sudden realisation that the whole side of the hill was coming down, pulling his unstrung bow from the quiver to strike a sharp blow upon the rump of Mistress Eglantine's pony ahead of him, the path slipping away from under their galloping ponies, the sensation of falling forever, only to waken to worse nightmare... 

Something touched his cheek and he jerked away, but his arms were pinned. 'No!' he cried. 

'Tolly, lad,' someone said. 

'The birds!' he whispered, and the Mistress spoke again. 

'They're well gone, lad, well gone... Do you not remember? The Tooks, they've come, they've found us...!' 

He opened his eyes fully, then, to the light of early morning, and saw that his arms were pinned, not by the bole of a great tree, but blankets, and he was surrounded by hobbits, a brother on either side and Thain Peregrin crouching at his head, gripping his shoulder in reassurance. 

'Tolly,' Eglantine said again, and he turned his head, scanning the faces until he found her, sitting up on a blanket at a little distance, a mug of tea in her hands, though she was too busy with concern for him to be sipping at the steaming beverage. She, too, was mud smeared, wrapped in blankets, her wet and muddy hair plastered to her head, and yet she sat as regally erect as if she were at tea in the sitting room of the Thain's apartments. 'You swooned, lad, not that anyone could blame you, after the night you've had...'

'M-mistress?' he managed. 

'There now,' someone said, Mardi, perhaps? Or perhaps it was the Thain. His head felt muddled, and no wonder. They'd spent the night on the hillside, in the cold and rain, himself half-crushed under a fallen tree and the Mistress by his side, holding onto him with hands and voice, for she'd promised not to leave him. No, she'd insisted on staying with him, even in the face of his telling her to make her way to safety, away from the landslip, to the more stable grassy ground beyond them, where the trail still stood. Some hobbit of the escort, you are, a voice in the back of his brain said bleakly. Struck helpless, and the Mistress protecting you from the carrion birds, rather than you watching over her as is your duty. And so you think you'll make an adequate head of escort when Ferdi steps down from the position?

'Tolly?' the Thain said again, his grip on Tolly’s shoulder firm, anchoring his injured cousin to the present moment. 'Are you with us?' 

'I'd like to know where else I'd be,' he muttered. At home in bed, preferably. Waking up next to his lovely Meadowsweet, brushing a wayward lock away from her forehead to lay a wakeup kiss there. 

Mardi's tired face lit up in a smile. 'There's the lad,' he said. 'Stay with us, now.' 

Tolly bit down on his reply. He remembered, too, his earlier wakening, from nightmare into deeper nightmare, the touch of cold steel on his leg as Mardi prepared to saw away. In the end the Mistress had stopped them, had not let them take his legs to save him, had ordered them to dig him free though every moment was fraught with the danger of more of the hillside coming down upon them all. His own brother... Somehow it felt like a betrayal. 

He shivered as Mardi lifted the blankets away, that had been tucked so firmly around him that he'd not been able to move. 'You've cracked some ribs, Tolly,' he said. 'We'll need to bind them.' 

He winced as Hilly and the Thain lifted him to a sitting position, for it gave not only his ribs a twinge, but his damaged leg as well. Hilly apologised under his breath. Pippin told him to be steady, as if he had much chance of anything else, held in place between them, while Mardi began wrapping a long strip of cloth around Tolly's torso, lending support to his labouring chest. 

Mardi talked as he worked, a blend of reassurances and healer-talk, about how they'd have him home soon, they had a litter ready and any number of hobbits eager to bear him back to the Great Smials in fine style (and to Tolly's annoyance, Mardi chuckled at this bit of rhyme, and Hilly chaffed their older brother, hoping aloud he was a better healer than poet). 

Tolly distracted himself by listening to other talk nearby. Aldi, the Thain's chief engineer in charge of digging, was talking about the lake that had formed below them when the hillside came down and blocked the Tuckbourn stream that ran through the valley all the way to Tuckborough, and beyond. They were calling it "Bilbo Lake" in jest, for as soon as they figured out how to let the water out without collapsing the earthen dam and sending down a flood, the lake would be disappearing and only the stream would be left to run its course through the valley. 

The main difficulty now was that Eglantine refused to recline on a litter, to allow herself to be carried homeward, at least carried by hobbits. 'I can ride a pony,' she said staunchly. 'I've been riding since before any of you were born, and there's certainly no need to treat me as if I've been injured or incapacitated, when I'm perfectly well and whole!' 

This, from an elderly hobbit covered head-to-toe with mud and soaked to the skin. 

Aldi, of all hobbits, spoke up in her support, in the face of the other rescuers' sputtering protests. He was neither healer nor escort nor son of the hobbit in question, and this gained him perhaps some perspective in the matter. In addition, the sooner the rescued hobbits reached safety, the sooner he could be about his business, and he was nothing if not efficient. 

'By all means,' he said, 'ride! I would that Tolly could ride as well. ...by any chance, can he?' This last was directed to Mardi, who had finished binding his younger brother's cracked ribs, and now turned his attentions to Tolly's injured leg. 

'Out of the question,' Mardi said flatly, his eyes on the work of his hands. 

'I'm well!' Tolly said with a wince. 'Completely well,' he insisted, and then grabbed at Mardi's sleeve. 'D'you have to wrap it so tight?' he said. 

Mardi patted his brother on the shoulder. 'Let the healer do his work,' he said, meaning of course himself. He pulled the bandaging cloth tighter yet, wrapping in an intricate pattern to support the damaged leg, though he was careful not to cut off the flow of blood. 

Ferdibrand, the Thain's special assistant and, for a few more months, the head of the Thain's escort (and the finest hobbit Tolly knew, as close as one of his brothers to his heart) rolled his eyes about the same time Tolly did, and then the two of them smiled a matching smile. Healers! Bad enough by themselves, but when one was a blood relation... Of course, Tolly could hardly demand a different healer, not, at least, until he got back to the Smials. Which was the topic under discussion, after all. The sooner he got back, the better. 

Aldi shook his head. 'I don't like it,' he said. 'In all likelihood...' 

Pippin took the hint. 'In all likelihood... what?' 

Aldi swept a hand across the brightening landscape. 'Look at the footing – treacherous for an able-bodied hobbit bearing only himself. Litter-bearers, now... one slip, and the Mistress, or poor Tolly, goes rolling down the hillside and into the lake!' 

'Ponies can slip just as well,' Ferdi began, but Aldi held up a staying hand. Tolly noticed then, idly, that Ferdi was holding a steaming cup, just holding it, letting the good warmth go to waste. Perhaps he was simply too wrapped up in events to notice.

'They've twice as many feet, to keep them stable,' the engineer said. 

'Twice as many feet to slip, that is,' Ferdi argued, but Pippin was considering, and not listening to further argument. 

'You'll be home much faster, and out of danger of the flood that might come down,' he said slowly. 

'I'm all for that,' put in Tolly, sitting up straighter from where he sat propped against Hilly, though he grimaced in pain and spoiled the effect he meant to give. 

Mardi hushed him and told him to drink his tea. 

Tolly frowned in answer, but he was shivering, to be sure, and all could see it except perhaps himself. I would, if I had any. He'd had a cup in his hands, or thought he'd had; he'd begun to drink from it, even, though he had no idea what had happened to the cup in the meantime. If I had any, I would... But it seemed too much trouble to say so. A mist was gathering before his eyes, and sleep beckoned, despite Mardi's insistence on his staying awake.

'Yes, drink your tea,' Eglantine said, gulping at her own cup for good measure. 'Drink it whilst it's hot, there's a good lad.' Ferdi gave a start at that, and reached to place his cup in Tolly's hands. Evidently it had been Tolly's cup all along, only Tolly'd not been aware of it, and Ferdi had for the moment forgotten.

Since it was a direct order from the Mistress, he swallowed the contents of his mug in a series of steady gulps, and the warmth went down and spread through his chilled innards and brought him once more to alertness. 'There,' he said. 'I did drink, I drank, I have drunk. Bring on the ponies!'

*** 

Chapter 2. The Long Ride Home

After a three-way consultation with Aldi, the chief engineer of the Tooks, and Mardi, as the healer on the spot, the Thain directed those returning to the Great Smials to ride along the dry streambed, which was “as wide as one of the King’s high-ways”, as Pippin described it. ‘A little rougher, perhaps,’ he added, conceding the jumble of rocks and silt uncovered by the damming of the Tuckbourn’s waters by the landslip that had nearly taken the lives of Eglantine, mother of the Thain, and Tolibold, her escort. 

‘But you’ll make better time in the valley than riding up and down the great hills in this part of the Green Hill country,’ he said. ‘And Aldi thinks the dam will hold.’

‘He thinks so, does he?’ said Ferdi, head of the Thain’s escort – at least until the annual archery tournament should take place later in the year, in the autumn. This year, Tolly was favoured to win, due to Ferdi’s recent fall while racing, resulting in injuries that threatened to permanently affect his shooting. He added wryly, ‘That might be a comfort... or so one might think.’

‘The dam should hold,’ the engineer clarified, unperturbed. ‘In fact,’ he said, pursing his lips and taking a moment to survey the spreading floodwaters below them, ‘did we wish for a lake at this spot on the map, ‘twould take little enough reinforcing and perhaps some yearly maintenance to ensure the dam’s continuance for years to come...’ He stomped a foot, albeit somewhat cautiously, considering the unstable slope upon which they stood. ‘See? Solid!’

‘If not Bilbo Lake, then Lake Paladin,’ Ferdi said. ‘Or Peregrin, perhaps.’

‘Lake Eglantine,’ Tolly contradicted stoutly, still feeling warmed and invigorated by the tea Mardi’d administered, even though now the fire had been extinguished and the tin cups and kettle had been packed away, preparatory to the departure of rescuers and rescued. ‘Lake Eglantine,’ he said, and of a wonder, despite the pain of his injured leg and cracked ribs and the still-fresh memories of the desperate night they’d only recently passed, he felt a grin stretch his lips as he added, ‘Sparkling in the sunlight.’ Had he been in his right mind, he might have mentally kicked himself for such familiarity, but for the feeling of relaxation spreading through his body. Taking strict hold of himself again, he blinked at his brother Mardi in sudden suspicion – had there been more than just tea and sweetening in the cup he’d quaffed?

No reprimand for his nonsense came from the Mistress or the Thain or even the head of escort, strengthening Tolly’s suspicion that he’d drunk some sort of healer’s potion, all unwitting, in the guise of a mug of tea.

‘Indeed,’ Eglantine said with a smile of her own. Under her borrowed cloak, she was covered head-to-toe in drying mud. Only her face and hands shone forth, testament to Mardi’s gentle ministrations with a cloth and the limited water the rescuers had carried with them. Though water a-plenty sparkled below them in the morning sun, getting down to the banks of the new-formed lake would have been no easy task. ‘My lake looks quite lovely in the morning light, not at all frightening as it looked only a few hours ago, lying in wait for us, as the lightning flashed and the hail pounded down in the night.’

‘I think the farmers of the Greentuck Vale would have some objection to this new lake continuing to occupy their smials and fields,’ Pippin said mildly. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but yours and Tolly’s lake must vanish again, and sooner would be better than later.’

‘Just send a messenger back when the rescue party reaches the Stone Bridge,’ Aldi confirmed, ‘and we’ll see to it that Bilbo Lake vanishes as thoroughly as the hobbit Ferdi named it for last night, once the old fellow decided to stay vanished, that is.’

‘Down to the River, and on to the Sea,’ Tolly heard the Thain mutter under his breath, quoting a sad old song, reminding him that young Pip, still only a tween at the time and years away from becoming Thain, had accompanied old Bilbo to the Grey Havens of the Elves on the Baggins’s final disappearance from Middle Earth. But when the bedraggled escort looked over at him, the Thain smiled and nodded in response, not at all melancholy as he sat with one arm encompassing his mother, cloak, blankets, and all, holding her close as if he might never let her go again.

‘We’ll send a messenger forthwith,’ Ferdi said to the Tookish engineer. ‘Far be it from me to keep you – much less, the Thain – waiting a moment more than necessary.’

‘Would you care to accompany the rescue party, Sir?’ Aldi turned to the Thain to ask.

‘No,’ Pippin said, his eyes alight with curiosity. ‘I’ll stay and watch the engineers at their work. I’m sure Merry will be fascinated to hear how we “disappeared” an entire lake without bringing down a flood on Tuckborough!’ His arm tightened in a brief hug, and he tenderly kissed Eglantine’s cheek, and then he released his hold and stood lightly to his feet, ready – even unTookishly eager, considering the subject of discussion was a treacherous body of water – to take in this novel experience.

And why not? Tolly thought to himself. Pippin’s mother, whom the rescuers had thought lost in the cataclysm, was found, and safe! ...no thanks to Tolly, her escort. The warm, relaxed feeling that had surrounded him seemed to fade now as the weight of his failure pressed down upon him once more.

He scarcely noticed the activity that swirled around him as he was lifted and eased into a saddle, nor did he hear Ferdi order Adelard (one of the more recent additions to the Thain’s escort) to remain with the Thain and his engineers, nor did he even mark when the pony under him began moving. He was only slightly aware of Hilly and Mardi, walking to either side of him, steadying him in the saddle as they made their way on a gradual diagonal down the hillside, until they reached the valley floor on the dry side of the dam.

Not far behind them, Tolly heard Eglantine conversing cheerfully with the hobbits walking on either side of the pony she rode, as well as calling occasional comments to the others walking before and after, and even to Tolly and his brothers, leading the rescue party. As for himself, he had nothing to say. In fact, it was taking all his remaining strength to concentrate on bracing himself with his uninjured leg while trying at the same time to relax his body, despite the firmly wound chest-bindings that held him upright, to move with the motion of the pony he sat upon and thus minimise the jarring that sent ripples of pain through his body.

Mardi evidently noticed Tolly’s abstraction, for more than once on their way down the great hill, he urged his younger brother to “stay with us, now, Tolly”.

Each time, Tolly blinked and sat a little straighter, but he did not have the heart nor the courage to answer in words, sunk deep as he was in feelings of shame and disgrace. 

Ferdi had assigned him to escort Eglantine safely back from Whittacres Farm, to guard her and keep her safe from any danger... yet she’d been the one watching over him through the long, weary hours after the landslip had left him pinned under the bole of a fallen tree. She’d safeguarded him, and ignored his pleas to make her way off the unstable dirt slope, at least as far as where the broken-off trail beckoned and the grass began, signalling more stable ground than that where Tolly lay, all unwilling, but unable to free himself.

When they reached the valley floor, Tolly was vaguely aware that they stopped briefly, at which point the walkers mounted ponies for the ride back to Tuckborough. Mardi coaxed some water into him, and he drank. Some minutes later, his pony began to move under him once more, picking its way with some care over the rocky streambed, occasionally splashing through the shallow puddles left behind by the dammed stream. He fell into a dream, then, consisting mainly of the pony’s motion and his brothers’ hands on his arms, steadying him as they rode onward, a journey that seemed to have no beginning that he could remember, in the moment, and no ending that he could discern. 

Though he scarcely noted Mardi’s occasional question or encouragement, after they had been travelling for some time, the cheerful tones of the Mistress of the Tooks pierced the dark fog surrounding him.

When the near-tragedy had struck the previous afternoon, Eglantine had been riding back from Whittacres Farm where the Mistress of the Tooks had been visiting Pearl, her eldest, to the Smials, where she ought to have breakfasted this morning as a part of her second-born daughter’s birthday observance.

Even now she was saying to Haldi, another hobbit of the Thain’s escort, who was riding beside her, ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever make it up to the lass, to have missed her birthday breakfast!’

‘Now-now, Mistress,’ Haldi rumbled in reply. Somehow that hobbit, amongst very few of those who lived and worked in Tuckborough and its surroundings, seemed always at ease in Eglantine’s presence, as if he were one of her grands rather than a mere archer assigned to her protection by order of the Thain. Even now, he was bold enough to contradict the old hobbit, for all she was the Head of the Took clan. ‘ ‘Twas the happiest birthday breakfast of her life, I deem, for the arrival of the messenger before second breakfast, if I’m not mistaken, with the news of your surviving – and the most memorable celebration of her experience, for the same reason.’

And Eglantine tolerated this contradiction, aye, even seemed to welcome Haldi’s observation, laughing heartily at his response and commending him, of a wonder. ‘Bless you, lad! I find myself quite heartened! You have me feeling much better...’

As for himself, Tolly was feeling worse by the moment. 

*** 

Chapter 3. The Agony of Defeat

Part-way back to the Great Smials, Tolly slumped in the saddle – or would have, if not for the tight bindings that supported his cracked ribs, not to mention his brothers Mardi and Hilly, riding to either side of him and steadying him on his pony.

He would have been chagrined at the knowledge that his collapse halted the entire rescue party, had he not been blessedly unconscious. Mardi slid from his own pony whilst Hilly held Tolly in the saddle, then together the brothers carefully eased the injured hobbit to the ground, where Mardi took his younger brother’s hand between his palms and squeezed it firmly, calling Tolly’s name. On getting no response, he lifted one of his hands to Tolly’s cheek, striking it not quite hard enough to be called slapping but still patting it vigorously as he repeated urgently, ‘Tolly! Tolly...’

From ponyback, Hilly also called Tolly’s name, for all the good it did, and Eglantine craned from where she had halted her own pony, crying, ‘Is he all right? What’s happening?’

Mardi looked up. ‘We’ll have to carry him from this point on a litter, Mistress,’ he said. ‘I cannot rouse him.’ Though his worry was plain on his face, he added, ‘Would you like to go on ahead, Mistress? We’ll follow behind.’

‘No I would not like to go on ahead,’ Eglantine returned stoutly. ‘Poor Tolibold is in these straits because of me, after all! I was the one who insisted on continuing along the path we’d begun, in the face of his protests, instead of sensibly taking the longer way around because I did not want to miss Pimpernel’s birthday breakfast. And look at how things have turned out because I insisted on having my own way! He’s been injured, and I’ve missed the celebration anyhow!’

Mardi knew better than to argue or even draw attention to his concern for the mother of the Thain by ordering more blankets wrapped around her as she waited, which he strongly suspected would raise her ire. No, but he simply made the necessary arrangements as quickly as hobbitly possible, ordering four of the rescuers from their saddles to become stretcher-bearers and others to take the reins of their ponies to lead the riderless beasts, then unrolling one of the stretchers they’d brought with them and directing the newly designated bearers to ease Tolly onto it.

After checking his brother’s heartbeat and breathing and tucking blankets more securely around Tolly, Mardi looked up again, meeting Eglantine’s piercing regard. ‘We have another stretcher here,’ he said to her. ‘Is it well with you, Mistress? Are you finding riding a strain after your ordeal in the night?’

Eglantine snorted at his mention of her ordeal but refrained from reprimanding the healer. ‘I am well,’ she replied austerely. ‘Better than I deserve, as a matter of fact.’ She fixed Mardi with a stern gaze and added, ‘If you’ve arranged all things to your healerly satisfaction, then let us be off again! The sooner we have my unfortunate escort to the Smials and surrounded with comfort and warmth, the better.’

Perhaps only Haldi, waiting on his pony beside hers, might have heard the words she added under her breath. ‘And seeing me borne into the courtyard on a stretcher would be the finishing touch on ruining my Pimpernel’s birthday, no doubt!’

‘Yes, Mistress,’ Mardi said, but of course he was agreeing with her concern for Tolly more than anything else.

Carrying an injured hobbit on a stretcher is much slower than riding, even at a walk, on ponyback, and so it took them nearly two more hours to reach the Stone Bridge just outside of Tuckborough, whereupon Mardi nodded to one of the hobbits with the rescue party, a messenger bearing a horn. ‘Blow the alarm in the town,’ he said. ‘Be sure the hobbits there know that a flood may come down some time in the next few hours.’ Mardi himself would see to starting the word spreading in the Great Smials proper.

‘Aye,’ the messenger said, and kneed his beast ahead of the group to fulfil his mission.

Mardi signalled to the other messenger who’d been sent out with the group. ‘You know what you’re to do, Asher.’

‘That I do, Mardi,’ the hobbit said cheerfully. He reined his pony around and set off at a brisk pace back along the way they had come, to where Aldi had more than likely already buried his stick of black powder (Fancy that! A single stick filled with black powder, and it would be enough to take down that enormous dam formed by the landslip! Rivers were tricksy bodies, indeed...) in a carefully selected location in the face of the dam and was just waiting for Asher’s assurance that the warning had gone out to Tuckborough before lighting the fuse.

Despite their slow progress, the distance from the Stone Bridge to the Great Smials was not far and did not take long, even at a walking pace for hobbits burdened with a stretcher, and so it was not long before the rescue party were treading the stones of the courtyard, where stable workers were ready to take charge of the ponies. On seeing Eglantine in the saddle, wrapped in blankets but otherwise apparently whole and hale, they raised a cheer that continued and grew as ever more hobbits spilled from the stables and other outbuildings and the entrances to the Smials at the hopeful sound, adding their voices to the celebratory hubbub on seeing for themselves that the beloved Mistress of the Tooks was alive and well.

Amidst the bustle, Mardi managed to convey to the bearers that Tolly should be borne to the infirmary (a part of the Great Smials that Tooks made a point of avoiding, as a rule) rather than his quarters. Though Tolly’s injuries did not seem at first glance serious, his brother wanted a closer look at them all the same than he’d been able to manage heretofore. Moreover, they could remove or cut away the hobbit’s filthy clothing more easily on a table there than to do so in his bed, and they might as well wash away the mud that covered him while they were there. If nothing more than Mardi’d already seen was amiss, they could then bear Tolly to his own bed to recover. He’d be more comfortable there, and comfortable convalescents healed faster, to the healers’ way of thinking.

Mardi was also hoping that Meadowsweet would not see her beloved in his present state but that they’d keep the news from her until her husband had been washed and dressed in a clean nightshirt and bundled in blankets. Was that too much to hope for?

Yes, as it turned out, for before they reached one of the lower doors in the face of the Great Smials (it would have been foolishness to carry a burdened litter up the steps to the main door), Meadowsweet was there, gasping and weeping, throwing herself on her husband without regard for mud or injuries or any other consideration. Thankfully the bearers’ firm hold on the stretcher prevented Tolly’s being spilled to the hard stones of the courtyard. 

All the same, Mardi bodily lifted the distraught wife away, rather more roughly than he meant to, and gave her a shake, scolding, ‘Sweetie! Calm yourself! You do him no good in this state!’

Gulping back tears, she pulled free of Mardi’s grasp, caught her balance and stared at him. ‘They told me—’ she gasped. ‘They said—’

‘Minor injuries,’ Mardi returned in his heartiest voice, ‘minor injuries only, Sweetie. He’ll be fine.’

‘But he’s—’ she said, her anguished gaze returning to Tolly.

Mardi felt the need to take her arm, to prevent any further extreme measures on Meadowsweet’s part more than to offer comfort. ‘Exhaustion – that’s what you’re seeing, lass. He needs rest more than your tears, my dear.’ And then he thought better of the words, especially seeing the hobbits nearest them listening eagerly. Exhaustion implied weakness and, perhaps, some failing on his younger brother’s part, and the word could all too easily echo in the whispers of the Talk of the Tooks long after Tolly was back on his feet and fulfilling his duties once more. And so Mardi hastily amended his response to Meadowsweet, then, saying, ‘We’re just going to get him clean and comfortable, and then you can tuck him up in your bed with your own sweet hands...’

‘He’s well?’ she said, somehow calmer.

‘Well...’ Mardi replied, signalling to Tolly’s bearers to continue on to the infirmary. If she took his answer as confirmation rather than hesitation, it was all for the best.

Meanwhile, a mob of Tooks and servants were fussing over Eglantine, crowded so tightly around her that Pimpernel found it difficult to force her way through. When she reached her mother at last, she threw her arms around Eglantine, laughing and weeping in one.

Eglantine returned the hug and then reached up to wipe away the streaming tears, small clods of drying mud dropping from her arm. ‘My love,’ she said. ‘Put your tears away. All is well.’

‘O Mum!’ Pimpernel sobbed, but then she swallowed hard and did her best to comply. ‘We thought—’ she said brokenly.

‘What you thought doesn’t matter now,’ Eglantine said, raising her voice to be heard over the murmuring hobbits filling the courtyard. ‘I’m well! As old Bilbo was so fond of saying, the reports of my demise were slightly exaggerated.’ She waited out the resulting cheer from the hobbits around her, then added, looking around at the sea of faces, ‘Thanks to the dedicated efforts of my escort, I am safely among you again!’

There. She hoped it would be enough to direct the Talk of the Tooks away from any speculation on Tolibold’s supposed failings. The unfortunate hobbit would have a difficult enough time as it was, with her riding into the courtyard in triumph whilst he was borne on a stretcher.

Perhaps she ought to have allowed them to carry her home, as well, if only for Tolly’s sake. Ah well, no use borrowing more trouble than the previous day had already imposed. If Tolly’s good reputation should be threatened by the unfortunate recent turn of events, well, they’d have to deal with icing that cake when it came out of the oven and not beforetimes. Hopefully all this excitement would blow over, and people would be distracted with all the other details of the disaster, such as housing the homeless hobbits and rebuilding after the floodwaters receded, instead of indulging in the pleasurable pastime of second-guessing the actions of Eglantine’s escort.

*** 

Chapter 4. Special Commission

Ever since he’d recovered from his injuries suffered during the landslip a few weeks past, Tolibold had seen a certain speculation in the looks directed at him, or so it seemed to him, though of course the moment they realised he had noticed, people tended to put on a bland expression. Some would even begin to speak animatedly about some minor topic, usually drawn from the latest gossip, as if to cover an awkward pause. Really, he’d’ve thought he was imagining things if he hadn’t caught glimpses of the changes in others’ faces. But then, that was part of his job as the head of the Thain’s escort since the recent Tournament. Protecting the Thain and his family meant being aware and alert, noticing the slightest details in his surroundings, and being ready to respond appropriately.

The news that he and Meadowsweet were expecting again – already! (for she'd been under the impression that she would not be able to quicken again so long as she was nursing their firstborn) – first conveyed by Mistress Eglantine while he'd been hopelessly trapped under the tree, and then confirmed by Tolly's beloved, had been heartening, to be sure. Early in the new year, or perhaps even sometime during the month of Foreyule, they'd welcome their second child to their little family. Even on a day like today, when Tolly could feel himself sinking in the bog of self-doubt, the thought brought a smile to his face, albeit a brief one. On their pledging their love to one another, Meadowsweet had confided her desire for a large family, half a dozen children, at least, to fill up their lives with wonder and noise and joy, and Tolly had agreed whole-heartedly.

Yet all too often lately, he had to fight the feeling of being lost, or at least that a vital part of himself had gone missing. He'd sworn on his life to safeguard the Thain and his family... and yet, who'd done the rescuing when the hillside had fallen upon him and Mistress Eglantine? Why, the Mistress, it had been. What use was his oath? What use were the skills he'd taken pains to cultivate and maintain, if in the end, his fate had rested in the hands of an elderly (though indomitable) hobbit matron? 

I feel as if I’ve lost myself, he thought, and not for the first time, as he walked down the corridor to the Thain's study, answering each respectful nod he received with a nod of his own.

He found himself resisting a nagging thought that kept returning as often as he pushed it down to concentrate on his duties. Should he be serving as one of the Thain’s escort at all? Much less as the head of escort, though he'd only recently been elevated to the position after winning the Tookland's annual archery Tournament? Perhaps everyone would be better served if he resigned his position as a hobbit of the escort altogether and asked to work under Verilard, the Thain’s chief hunter, instead.

He'd returned to his duties rather sooner than the healers advised, but then, that was typical for a Took in any event. The Thain and Steward had overlooked the slight limp that remained; it shouldn’t impede his shooting, at least, and he could always ride a pony to deliver a message for the Thain, even if it must be a borrowed beast. His own gelding had never quite recovered from the strain of standing up to the charge of an enraged wild boar on a hunt some months ago, in the springtide of the year. Of a mercy, the recovery of the lost Treasury of the Tooks meant that his salary had increased, allowing him to begin setting aside funds for another pony. By next year’s Pony Sale, he ought to have enough for a decent mount, and then, he vowed, he’d start saving for a second, for the sake of prudence. In the meantime, he had to ride one the ponies belonging to the Thain (or more properly, the Smials Tooks) when his duties called for riding.

Though he regretted the death of the borrowed pony that had died in the recent landslip, at least it had been a near-stranger to him. And the Thain had decreed that Tolly was not to blame for the pony’s loss which was an immense relief. At least he wouldn’t have to pay restitution, pushing the purchase of his own mount even further into the future.

Reaching the Thain’s study, he put aside all thoughts except for the reason for the summons he’d received. Haldegrim, who was on duty as doorward at the moment, exchanged a nod with the head of escort, tapped at the door to alert the Thain and Steward of an arrival and then opened it to allow Tolly to enter. 

‘Ah Tolly!’ the Thain exclaimed, rising from his desk. ‘Come in and sit down.’ He indicated the chair by his desk. The next word was directed to the Steward. ‘Regi?’ 

Reginard moved to the side table where a cosied pot was keeping warm over a candle, picked up one of the cups waiting there for guests or visitors, and poured out a steaming cup of tea, then added milk and sugar without the need to ask Tolly’s preference.

(Not that Tolly often took tea with Thain or Steward, mind, but simply stated, Reginard had an eye for detail, down to the smallest matter. Of course, this quality made him an excellent steward to the Thain and the Tookland. It was rather inconvenient for anyone who might want to put something past the hobbit, however.)

Tolly perched upon the chair indicated and accepted the cup with muttered thanks. He took the requisite sip, managed not to shudder or make a face – it was considered eccentric for a hobbit not to like the taste of tea, even when doctored with milk and sweetening – and set the cup down on the small table next to him. ‘Sir?’ he said. ‘You sent for me.’

‘I have need of a messenger,’ Pippin said, looking down at a paper in front of him and then looking up again. ‘More than that, actually. It’s something of a delicate matter.’

‘Sir?’ Tolly said again. Best to be cautious, and the less he said, the more he might hear.

‘The Master of the Flocks tells me he’s been made aware of a fine strain of sheep in the North Farthing, and he’d like to acquire some new blood to improve the wool we produce for trade.’

But Tookish wool is the finest in the Shire! Tolly thought, though he said nothing.

His startlement must have shown in his face, however, for the Steward said to him, ‘Despite our reputation for producing the finest wool, it’s good business to look out for improvement where ever possible.’

‘Aye,’ Tolly said. He had no head for business, but then, that was why he was an archer and not a merchant or decision-maker. He didn’t envy either the Thain or the Steward their positions, for all the trappings and privileges that went along with them.

‘I need to send an agent to speak for me, but it has to be the right hobbit,’ Pippin resumed.

‘The right hobbit, Sir?’ Tolly said. He was honestly puzzled. They were talking about sheep, something he knew near to nothing about, and not shooting, which was a special feature of his hunter’s training. While he might be the finest archer in the Shire, having been the favourite to win the Tournament this year, and actually having won, into the bargain, his ability to aim words and hit the mark felt dull to him by comparison. ‘Are you looking for my recommendation for someone to send on this errand?’ 

The Thain actually burst out laughing at this response, while the Steward raised an eyebrow. ‘Not at all, Tolibold! You’re the agent who was recommended to me!’

‘I—but Sir, I—’ Tolly said, at a complete loss. Still, tripping over his tongue would quickly solve this dilemma he found himself in, wouldn’t it?

Regi quietly interjected, ‘The owner of the sheep we’d like to purchase is Bolham north-Took.’ At Tolly’s blank look, he said, ‘During the time of the Troubles, he was known as “Bolham the Red”.

Tolly’s face cleared. ‘Aye,’ he breathed. ‘The Rebels of Bindbole Wood!’

Though Lotho’s ruffians had over-run the North Farthing, a small number of rebels and dispossessed hobbits, many of them north-Tooks, had retreated to the Wood, where they’d been able to hide and evade capture. From the forest, they freely harried the Men who were trying to impose their will on the inhabitants of the North Farthing. Often, they’d swooped down upon waggons full of gathered crops and other items, incapacitated the drivers and guards, and absconded into the forest with their ill-gotten gains. 

The bold and daring rebels of Bindbole Wood were never captured, unlike some of the other bands who resisted Lotho’s louts, like Fredegar Bolger’s hobbits who’d been smoked out of their hiding place in the Scary Hills and marched off to the Lockholes. Men who were ordered into the forest to capture the rebels or reclaim the stolen goods encountered such ill luck as made any of Lotho’s louts reluctant to enter the Wood. Moreover, it had been whispered at the time (but had not been made public until after the Scouring of the Shire was complete) that Bolham’s hobbits ventured out by night, evading detection and capture, and distributed goods and food to hobbits in need.

After the Battle of Bywater and subsequent Scouring of the Shire, Bolham and his band had been slow to leave the protection of the forest, suspecting some trick or other on Lotho’s part. In the end, Frodo Baggins, as deputy mayor, made a special journey to the Wood, accompanied only by his humble Sam, to persuade the Bindbole rebels that the Occupation was over, Lotho was dead, and his Men had been forcibly expelled from the Shire following the uprising of the Shire-folk under Captains Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck. Only then did the rebels put down or hang up their weapons and return to farm, field, and cot to begin rebuilding and reclaiming the North Farthing from the depredations of the invaders.

‘I’m told that Bolham has heard stories of the exploits of the Tooks who kept the Tookland free of Men during the Troubles,’ Pippin said, ‘and that he’s eager to meet some of them. And so I thought, we could employ a single stone and perhaps strike two birds at one throw.’

‘What about Ferdi?’ Tolly said without thinking, and then kicked himself for contradicting the Thain and Steward. But Ferdi, with his silver tongue...

‘The Fox, we’ll save for the next trip,’ Pippin said, tenting his hands and tapping his forefingers together.

‘And besides, he’s newly married, in case you’d forgotten,’ Reginard added dryly – which Tolly might have taken for a joke if it had been anyone else other than the Steward, who was well-known for his lack of a sense of humour. In point of fact, Tolly had stood up with Ferdi at the latter’s wedding the previous highday, a week after the Tournament. At the time The Took and The Bolger had conspired to bring Ferdi and Pimpernel together – midsummer, it had been – the betrothed had dolefully contemplated the long months that stretched before them until a traditional Springtide wedding could take place and, with Pippin's blessing, had set the wedding date for after harvest-time.

But then Pippin had thrown caution to the winds and suggested – nay, practically ordered them – to move the wedding sooner, that it might take place immediately after Tookland's annual archery Tournament, when Ferdi would officially step down as head of the Thain's escort and into his role of special assistant to the Thain. 'We've already scandalised the Tooks this far; what's a little more scandal, I say, but to add spice to the cake?'

Even having to wait until after the Tournament had been difficult enough for the two lovebirds, Tolly knew. In any event, Thain Peregrin had blithely set all tradition aside in the matter of scheduling the wedding of his sister and his chief assistant, declaring that he needed Ferdi's mind to be fixed on matters of business and not distracted by the anticipation of months more of waiting before he could be joined to his true-love at last. 'I need a special assistant with a working mind and memory,' he'd said on more than one occasion when some traditionalist had tried to take him to task for his high-handedness in the matter. 'One who can pay the strictest attention to his work and not be distracted by matters of the heart. Is that too much to ask?'

Along those lines, Regi lifted his chin and looked down his nose at the head of escort as he added, ‘Ferdi's mind is not terribly likely to be fixed on matters of business, at the moment...’

Tolly nodded. Of course they would have considered Ferdibrand first as their best choice, and settled on the head of escort as the next best possibility. His younger brother Hilly, like Ferdi, had a silver tongue and was similarly acclaimed as a Hero of the Tookland. In truth, none of the hobbits who were known as such would have claimed the title themselves, and they made themselves scarce when stories of their exploits were told by the hearthside in the great room. 

Bolham’s band had been renowned for their skill with a bow, and Tolly’s archery prowess ranked him amongst the highest in the Shire at the present time, earning him the position of head of escort. Thus, Tolly held higher status than his brother Hilly. It was the only reason that made sense to him for the decision to send him to the North Farthing on a commission for the Thain. Perhaps the Thain anticipated that Tolly and Bolham would sit down together and exchange reminiscences over pints of ale, smoothing the way for an equitable agreement regarding the purchase of a few sheep for the flocks that generated income for the upkeep of the Great Smials.

A long talk over a few pints of beer didn’t sound too onerous. Tolly just hoped that the business discussion to follow might not be too much of a trial, and that he could satisfactorily discharge this task.

Another thought occurred to him some time after he’d left the study and gone to inform his beloved Meadowsweet that he’d be away for a few days, perhaps a week, on a commission for the Thain. Perhaps Pippin had lost confidence in his abilities as a hobbit of the escort, and this was his way of easing Tolly into another occupation?

He had better set his mind firmly on the task at hand, then, so as not to fail yet again.

*** 

Chapter 5. Racing Against the Storm

Tolly set out from the Great Smials on a glorious autumnal day. Fiery trees stood out against a pale sky that deepened to an intense blue as the Sun climbed to her zenith. Riding across the fields towards Bywater and points north, he found himself breathing deeply of the crisp early-morning air, heavy with the scent of rich earth being turned over by teams of farmers and ponies who were ploughing the fields in preparation for sowing winter barley and wheat. In the meadows, the warm, dry summer and early autumn had lent themselves to a second cutting of hay. Workers were out in force, swinging their scythes, as Tolly passed by. ‘Hot work,’ he said to himself. ‘I’d rather be a hunter.’ He patted the pony’s neck. ‘Or a messenger,’ he said aloud, ‘keeping cool in the breeze of our passing.’

But by the time he pulled out the second breakfast packed away in his saddlebags, the day had warmed considerably. He stopped where a stream crossed his path to let the pony drink, and dismounted so that he could more easily remove his cloak, roll it tightly and stow it away until night fell and the air cooled to autumnal crispness once more. He paused briefly, considering, and took out the soft, wide-brimmed hat he carried to keep the sun from his head when the weather was too hot or stifling for cloak and hood. Then, mounting again, he clapped the hat firmly on his head and rode on, eating hearty sausage rolls and succulent hand pies made from the new crop of apples. ‘The cooks certainly know their business,’ he told the pony, whose ears twitched to hear him and then switched forward again. The beast’s flanks were dark with sweat, but seeming refreshed from the rest and the water it had enjoyed, it trotted along at a comfortable pace, seeming untroubled by the growing heat of the day.

He reached Bywater and The Green Dragon an hour or so before elevenses and decided to stop there for the pony’s sake, if not for his own. The escort was used to eating cold food in the saddle when carrying messages, but this “commission” was different from the usual messenger task, for the latter entailed delivering the message in a timely manner and returning promptly. In contrast, he was not on a simple there-and-back-again errand, but was expected at Bindbole Farm this evening, and he’d be stopping over for a day or three.

It would take them another hour to reach Overhill, he calculated, where the road became more of a track, suited to farm waggons. Though not as carefully maintained, the difference in the road they’d travel from that point onward would hardly slow them; they might even manage to go a bit faster on the track’s dirt surface. From Overhill to the edge of Bindbole Wood should take a few more hours. Upon reaching the southern border of the wood he'd follow the right-hand branch of the beaten track that led to the lesser north-south road running between the eastern verge and the stream that ran from near Oatbarton to the Bywater Pool. A mile or so past the small community of Bolton, he'd come to the farm where Bolham north-Took had resumed his life after the Troubles were over. Too bad they'd be skirting the Wood rather than riding through the shady woodland, which might have been cool enough for a gallop, bringing him to his destination by teatime. Considering the open country he'd be riding through, he was more likely to have to maintain a slower pace for the pony's sake. Luckily, he’d brought food enough for a day of travel. 

In any event, even if he came to Bolham’s farm after teatime, the Thain's messenger, er, agent thought he ought to arrive by eventides or not too long after. They’d be expecting him, per a letter the Thain had sent a few days earlier by Shire-post. He’d sup, enjoy a pipe with his host in the cool of the evening, and then seek his pillow. By Shire custom, they’d not discuss any business until the day after his arrival.

Though Tolly’s arrival at The Green Dragon was too late for second breakfast but too early for elevenses, he knew the proprietor as a canny hobbit who would have food ready between-times as well. Thus, while his pony, relieved of its saddle and bridle, rested in a shady stall, eating hay and a little grain and drinking freshly drawn water, Tolly was able to enjoy a plate of freshly baked scones, with crocks of butter, honey and jam to choose from, washed down with cups of tea poured from a freshly brewed pot.

When he emerged from The Green Dragon, he was surprised to see clouds building in the sky to the south, somewhat unusual this late in the year. The air felt warmer to him, as well, though the Sun had not yet reached her zenith. He shook his head at himself. Of course it would be hotter under the bright Sun than inside the shady inn. But there was a heaviness to the atmosphere that seemed to weigh upon him.

The pony, he was glad to see, was cool and fresh from its rest, and it even danced a little under the saddle. Tolly thanked the ostler as he accepted the reins from the latter’s hand, noting that the now-dry coat had been curried and brushed to remove the dried salt from the gelding’s earlier efforts. They did things properly at The Green Dragon.

‘Looks like we might be havin’ a spot of weather,’ the old fellow said, glancing southward.

‘P’rhaps,’ Tolly hazarded. ‘ ‘Tis a bit late in the year for thunder.’

‘Ar,’ the ostler said. ‘But I’ve even heard thunder growlin’ from snow-clouds in the wintertime!’

‘Snow clouds!’ Tolly said, eyebrows raised. It hardly ever snowed in this part of the Shire.

‘Ar,’ the ostler answered. ‘Up on the high downs i’ the North Farthing, it can thunder any time of year.’ 

‘You may have the right of it,’ Tolly said. ‘The air feels sultry enough for a summer afternoon.’

He gazed southward, assessing the clouds, and said, ‘Looks as if we may have a dousing if we don’t hurry on, then.’

‘D’you have far to go?’ the ostler queried. 

‘Far enough!’ Tolly replied cheerfully as he swung lightly into the saddle and nudged the beast into motion. He lifted his hand in farewell as they rode out of the courtyard, and the ostler called, ‘Safe journey to you!’ in response. 

Tolly patted the pony’s neck and leaned forward, urging the pony to move from a walk to a trot. ‘At least those clouds are behind us, Snip,’ he said. ‘We’ll just pick up the pace, if you don’t mind too much. Better yet, we’re sure to arrive in time for tea if we hurry a bit!’

They cantered the mile to Hobbiton, and then on reaching the Hill, he slowed the pony, once again sweating freely, to a walk, for the road was very steep here, all the way to the top. On the far side, the descent to Overhill was more gradual, and they’d be able to go much more quickly then. This time, at least, there would be no stopping off at Bag End part-way up the slope with a message for the Mayor, a familiar destination to Tolly.

A small group of Gamgee children were standing on the bridge by the Mill, watching the mill-wheel turning and, perhaps, hoping to catch a cooling breeze. One of them – Frodo-lad, he thought it must be – called to Tolly as he approached. ‘Do you have a message for the Mayor? We can take it to him, if you’d like to turn around sooner!’

‘Or you can stop at Bag End and wait out the storm!’ another – Miss Elanor? – said.

‘Thank you, Master Frodo, Miss Elanor,’ Tolly said, saluting them with his crop. He guided Snip to the bank of the water and loosened the reins to allow the pony to drink, then said, ‘But I’ve no message for your father this day. I’m going rather farther...’

‘Storm’s at least an hour away, anyhow,’ Frodo-lad said, shading his eyes to study the sky, ‘if it even reaches us, that is. So often, it looks like rain – and then it doesn’t!’ The lad scratched his head at this thought, then remembered he was delaying one of the Thain’s messengers with this conversation. ‘Well then, Master Tolibold, we won’t keep you!’

‘My thanks to you!’ Tolly said in dismissal, touching the brim of his hat in a gesture of respect for the Mayor’s children. He turned the pony back to the road and urged the beast to take up a fast walk, though he was almost sorry to leave the relatively cooler waterside behind.

Cantering down the long slope to Overhill felt pleasant, for their speed created its own breeze. He pulled the pony down to a walk through the town, as was only polite, and then picked up the pace on the long stretch over open country to Bindbole Wood, trotting and cantering by turns.

The Wood came into view at last and crept closer as they travelled onward, and Tolly had a fleeting wish that he might be travelling to Needlehole, instead, following the west-running road under the trees. The air felt oppressive to him as they cantered, steadily eating up the miles. Flecks of lather flew back from the pony’s neck, and the beast was breathing rapidly though not showing other signs of distress, meaning Tolly didn’t feel the need, at least not yet, to ease him down to a walk to help cool the gelding down. Too bad they were not bound for Needlehole, for the shady wood would have done the pony good, as well. If wishes were ponies... the rider thought, and then absurdly, If ponies had wishes...

When the path forked, Tolly remembered to take the first left-hand fork that skimmed the edge of the Wood and then turned north, instead of the right-hand fork that avoided the Wood altogether, part of the original road leading to Oatbarton that had been swallowed by an expanding bog some years earlier. Tolly neither wanted to ride into a bog nor did he want to have to backtrack to avoid such – not with that storm catching up to them the way it was.

As they approached the edge of the Wood and the place where the road divided a second time, one branch going north towards Oatbarton (and Bolton, his destination, some miles south of Oatbarton) and the other branch leading west, proceeding under the cover of the southern reaches of the Wood towards Needlehole, thunder grumbled behind them. ‘So often it looks like rain – and then doesn’t!’ Tolly repeated Frodo-lad’s observation under his breath. ‘Well, Master Frodo, I think this time it just might!’ Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the clouds had nearly caught them, towering yet building ever higher in the sky, the tops brilliant in the afternoon Sun. Their undersides were ominously black, and dark streaks reached from the clouds to the ground, suggesting heavy rain was about to sweep over them. 

‘Well the rain’ll be cooling, anyhow,’ Tolly said to the pony, ‘And even if it buckets down when we’re under the trees, the leaves will keep some of it off...’

Seeing how rapidly the storm had pursued them made Tolly uneasy, and either his unease communicated itself to the pony, or the beast was also unnerved by the change in the weather. A sudden blast of cold wind disrupted the still, sultry air surrounding them, lifting the pony’s mane and blowing Tolly’s hat right off his head, bowling it along. At the flash of lightning and crack of thunder that followed upon the heels of the wind gust, the pony danced under its rider.

‘I’m with you!’ he shouted to his mount and hauled its head around to follow the western fork under the trees instead of the northern fork towards Bolton, where the open countryside would leave them vulnerable to hail and lightning. He shouted again, gave the beast its head and kicked hard with his heels. The pony, in full agreement, galloped towards the uncertain refuge that the trees might offer. Better than being caught out in the open! While Tolly knew of the dangers of attempting to shelter from lightning under a solitary tree, he rather hoped the massed trees they were swiftly approaching would blunt the impact of hail, if the oncoming storm held such, as well as protect them from a direct strike of fire from the sky.

Tolly’s hair and the pony’s mane and tail streamed behind them in the wind of their passing as they raced under the canopy of the trees, managing to beat the onset of the storm even as a whoosh of wind swept down from the heavens, carrying a strong smell of ozone with it. But when Tolly pulled up the dancing, excited pony, laughing a little in his relief, he became aware of a bluish glow illuminating the treetops against the black sky and a crackling sound in the air. His skin tingled, and sudden pain assaulted his head. He lifted his hand to his brow in an unconscious attempt to soothe the ache and felt his hair standing on end. 

Instinctively he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and threw himself from the saddle. He seemed to hover in mid-air as the air around him turned to excruciating heat and unbearable brightness; the pony’s terrified shriek was swallowed in a deafening boom as if all of Tookland’s black powder had gone up at the same instant. Time froze; terrifyingly, he felt his heart stutter, stop...

A giant’s hand slammed him violently into the ground. Stunned, numb, he felt his heart beat once... again... and then as darkness claimed him, the world both inside and outside his head blurred as the storm’s intense downpour reached the woods.

*** 

Author’s note: The term “ozone” was mentioned as long ago as in the time of Homer, who connected ozone with brimstone and thunderbolts, according to the following article: https://www.oxidationtech.com/blog/the-terribly-fresh-smell-of-ozone

*** 

Chapter 6. Missing...

As he headed southwest from Oatbarton towards Bindbole Wood on his rounds, Hawfinch Brownlock, one of three Shirriffs in the North Farthing, kept a wary eye on the sky. To the south, the clouds were mounting ever higher, as if they meant to climb all the way to the waxing crescent Moon, high in the sky and beginning his descent in pursuit of the westering Sun.

On reaching the small community of Berehyll, part-way between his starting point this morning and his destination in the Wood, seeing the curtains of rain beneath the towering clouds decided him. He'd stop early for the night – or at least until the fast-moving storm had passed over.

Berehyll was not much more than a cluster of smials surrounded by fields, but he was welcomed warmly by the farmers who appreciated his diligence in keeping watch over the condition of the fences and hedges and rounding up strays in his district. He visited farmsteads and villages on a regular basis and was always ready with a jest or a listening ear. Thus, he kept his ear to the ground, in a manner of speaking, and had built a reputation for identifying problems, such as an incursion of foxes or sheep-worrying dogs, before the farmers themselves.

Stopping and seeking shelter had been an excellent decision, he thought as he watched the rapid approach of the storm from under the eaves of the Fairfoot brothers' barn.

He and the two farmers winced as the sky seemed to split itself apart and a flaming bolt issued from the clouds. 'Did you see that?'

The three all jumped at the sharp crack of thunder that followed close – too close – on the heels of the brilliant spear of fire that had leapt from the heavens to the earth. 

'Comin' from the south,' Mundy Fairfoot said. 'I think it'll pass quickly, the way those clouds are moving. And that last bolt fell in the Wood, as it were.'

'Let's hope those clouds are carrying a load of rain, then,' Hawfinch said. 'I don't fancy fighting a wildfire this day or any other, for that matter.'

'You an' me both,' Gundy Fairfoot said, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he nodded at the horn attached to Hawfinch's saddle pad. 'But if you blow the Fire Call, you know we'll come a-galloping.'

'I know I can count on you,' Hawfinch said. 'My thanks.'

Gundy snorted. 'No need for thanks quite yet, anyhow,' he said. He ducked and grabbed at his broad-brimmed hat as a sudden heavy gust of wind slammed into the barn followed by a heavy deluge of rain that bucketed down in its wake. The farmer laughed, holding onto his hat with one hand, and slapped the Shirriff's back with the other. 'There's your rain, Shirriff!'

'If only all my wishes were answered so promptly!' Hawfinch answered. His hat hadn't blown away because he was already holding it securely under his arm.

'What would be the sport in that?' Mundy wanted to know.

'None at all!' Hawfinch said, and chuckled. 'But sometimes, between you and me, I could use a little less sport and a little more certainty.'

'Naught's certain when you're a farmer,' Gundy said. 'So it's probably a good thing you're a Shirriff.'

*** 

Some time later, Hawfinch thought about these words as he drew up his pony and gazed with dismay at the hat floating in the bog that formed a natural hazard on the eastern side of the Wood. Smaller than Rushock Bog to the west of the Wood, it could still prove deadly to any animals – or hobbits – that blundered onto the marshy ground. 'Good thing to be a Shirriff, eh?' he said to himself.

He took out his horn, drew a deep breath, and blew the Bog Call as loud as he could.

It was not long before local hobbits, including the farmers who'd offered the Shirriff shelter from the storm began to gather at the edge of the swamp in response to the call, unlit lanterns in their hands and coils of rope over their shoulders. Several held shepherd's crooks, and a few others had fishing poles, each equipped with a long line and heavy hook.

'Spread out!' Hawfinch told them. 'Spread out along the edge! Keep a sharp eye out for any sign of a hobbit or pony...'

The floating hat was close enough for a hobbit with a crook to reach it and retrieve it. No need for the fishers to cast their lines this time.

'No sign where he went in,' a gaffer said. 'Not on this side, at least.'

'The deluge might've washed away any such sign,' Havers Frog-catcher said, straightening up from his examination of the soggy expanse between the grassy meadow and the tufts of iron-grass marking where solid footing ended and danger began. 

'With that wind we had earlier, could someone's hat have simply blown off his head and ended up here?' Rocky Gadwall, one of the fisher-folk suggested.

'Which way was it blowing?' Hawfinch said.

'Every which way,' the gaffer answered. 'But the heart o' the storm passed over this side o' the Wood... a gust might've blown the hat from that direction.'

'A traveller, you think?' Mundy said.

'A traveller could as well have taken the wrong fork and ended in the bog,' someone said.

'Or he rode into the Wood and his hat blew off!' Rocky insisted.

'Look! Hunters!' the gaffer pointed, and the hobbits who were spreading out along the edge of the bog stopped to look at two figures emerging from the Wood at a gallop.

Hawfinch waved his hat in the air and received answering waves from the on-comers who were rapidly approaching.

They pulled up so abruptly that one of the ponies reared in protest, and its rider had some trouble bringing the beast under control. 'Shirriff!' the other rider gasped. 'You've got to come!'

'What is it?' Hawfinch asked.

'The Wood!' said the hunter – Hawfinch seemed to remember he was a north-Took. 'Pony!'

'A rider?' Hawfinch guessed.

But the north-Took had wheeled his beast around and was already galloping back in the direction he'd come from.

'Take charge o' the search,' the Shirriff told Rocky.

The fisher, all too familiar with searching the edge of the bog for signs that a hobbit or animal had come to grief, nodded and waved at him. 'Go!'

But Hawfinch was already galloping after the hunter, even as the second rider finally brought his pony under control and stopped to tell the searchers what he and his brothers had found just inside the Wood.

*** 

'D'you suppose we ought to send another Messenger to Bindbole Farm?' Pippin asked, rolling his shoulders back and stretching after a long morning at his desk. 'Tolly's been gone for the better part of a week now!'

'A week tomorrow,' Ferdi said.

'To be precise,' Regi added.

'Let us be precise, at all cost!' Pippin said. 'But really! What do you suppose the hobbit is doing?'

'Well if half the stories about Bolham the Red I've heard are true,' Ferdi said, 'then he's probably been riveted, listening to more tales of how the north-Tooks confounded the ruffians who dared to enter the Wood!'

'Or perhaps Bolham o' the north-Tooks is keeping our Messenger longer in order to hear more about their relatives, the Tooks, under similar circumstances,' Regi said.

'Well in that case, sending another Messenger – or more of them – seems counter-productive, doesn't it?' Pippin said. 'A grand old time they'd have, swapping tales and debating strategies... We might never see any of our Messengers again! They might just decide to stay in the North-lands as my wife's illustrious ancestor Bandobras did!'

'None of your nonsense now, Pip,' Reginard remonstrated. 'And for all we know, Tolly might be on his way home even as we speak.'

'I might go,' Ferdibrand offered.

Pippin stared him down. 'Have you already forgot?' he said severely. 'Is the bloom already off the rose? You married my sister less than a fortnight ago! And you're already volunteering to travel to the North-lands and, quite possibly, never return?'

'I should have every intention of returning,' Ferdi said, meeting the Thain's stern look squarely. 'I should imagine that I'd be the least likely to stay in the North-lands of any of the hobbits of the Thain's escort! If, of course, the danger were real and not simply a piece of whimsy.' He shook his head. 'Really!'

'Really what?' Pippin asked.

'It's not my place to say... Sir,' Ferdi replied.

'Speak your mind, Ferdibrand,' Pippin said. 'And why are you "Sir"-ing me all of a sudden?'

Ferdi glanced at Regi and then looked back to his younger cousin. 'Pip,' he said. 'Speaking cousin-to-cousin...'

'Yes?' Pippin said, while Regi raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'Although I must say that Sir seems out of place in that context.'

'And as a former head of escort, as well as a former hobbit of the escort,' Ferdi said.

'Ah well, I suppose Sir might fit in that case—'

'Pippin!' Ferdi snapped. He ran his hand over his head, uncomfortable now that he had the Thain's and Steward's complete and unblinking attention. 'If you would be so good as not to make a jest of your hobbits of escort, or aim your whimsy in their direction...'

'I beg your pardon, Ferdi?' Pippin said, but he was seeking clarity rather than forgiveness.

'Our job – their job,' Ferdi said, correcting himself since he was now Pippin's special assistant, in part because of an injury that had constrained his ability as an archer. He would never again know the thrill of shooting in the Tournament against the best archers in the Shire. Though serving as a hobbit of the Thain's escort had been his highest goal in years past, he'd never again qualify as an escort. 

A shadow of pain crossed his face which he quickly wiped away, but not before the others had seen it.

'Ferdi, I—' Pippin said, completely serious now, and stopped. He held up his hand. 'I make their job much more difficult, I know,' he said, 'with my constant grumbling about the need for the escort.'

'And the job is difficult enough without making a joke of it,' Regi added quietly. He had previously argued this point with Pippin himself, but the hard-headed young Thain had not heeded him. He supposed the plaint meant more, coming from one of the hobbits directly affected.

'I beg your pardon, Ferdi,' Pippin said, and this time he was offering an apology for his thoughtlessness.

At that moment, there was a tap on the door, and Isenard, the escort currently on duty outside the Thain's study stuck his head in at the door. 'Post, Sir, from the North Farthing.'

Regi rose to take the missive from the escort's hand with a quiet word of thanks, and Isen nodded and left the study to take up his station once more, closing the heavy door behind him.

Pippin looked at the envelope. 'From Bolham himself,' he said. 'I wonder...' But he refrained from making any obvious jokes about Tolly extending his stay further for whatever reason. He broke the seal, lifted the flap, and extricated the folded paper from within. Ferdi and Regi watched the play of expression across his face as he read... mild interest, confusion, dawning realisation, consternation.

'What is it?' the Steward said as the moments stretched out. 'What's happened?'

At about the same time Pippin was saying, 'Bolham writes to ask when he might expect our agent to arrive...' there was another knock at the study door, and Isen was announcing, 'The Mayor, Sir.'

Samwise Gamgee entered, a hat on his head, another in his hand and his expression solemn. A Shirriff accompanied him, some torn and blackened saddlebags hanging from his hand. 

'Sam!' Pippin said, rising from his chair, the open letter in his hand momentarily forgotten. 'We didn't expect you! Why didn't you send word you were coming?'

'I didn't know I was coming,' the Mayor replied, 'but urgent news came to me from the North Farthing, and so I rode down here at once...' He indicated his companion. 'If I may introduce Hawfinch Brownlock, one of my Shirriffs in the North Farthing...'

'At your service, Sir,' Hawfinch said with a bow, his face expressionless. He moved to the Thain's desk and deposited the saddlebags. 'We found these... and the remains of documents within them, when we were able to piece enough of the fragments together, indicated that the pony belonged to one of the Thain's Messengers...'

'The pony?' Regi asked after a moment of silence, when it seemed everyone in the room had been struck dumb.

'The pony's alive – badly injured, but alive, and it may even recover with time and care,' the Shirriff said.

'What happened?' Pippin said numbly.

'Struck by lightning,' Hawfinch said. 'The beast's lucky to be alive at all, considering...'

'And the Messenger?' Ferdi said sharply, rising from his chair.

'I'm sorry,' Hawfinch said. 'I've no easy answers for you.'

*** 

Chapter 7. ...and...

Burned and battered, aching in every muscle, his mind strangely blank, a hobbit had awakened face-down in a growing puddle as rain bucketed down around him. He had convulsively rolled over, coughed, choked, fought for air. Tried to rise – to no avail. Blindly groped all about himself, finding only water and mud. Some compulsion had driven him to roll back to his hands and knees, but they would not bear him up for more than a few seconds before he collapsed face-down in water once more. Somehow, though he had not the words to formulate the thought, he had realised that water and life were not compatible. He had reached forward as far as he could, tortured muscles and joints protesting, grasped at the ground, and dragged himself forward. Again and again, he had repeated the effort, mindless but determined.

He had not been aware when the mud and water beneath him became moss and then a thick, wet layer of duff, with its mixture of decaying leaves, needles and branches. His fingers had dug into the duff, past the soaked surface and into the dry part, yet his mind had not noticed the difference – or even that the puddled water that had threatened him was well behind him now – but drove him onward, ever onward, even as pain wracked his body and he sobbed for breath. He crawled unthinkingly, like a wounded animal, ever onward, stopping only when he swooned. Every time he came to himself again, he dragged himself onward once more. All was darkness around him, and he was thus unaware when the light returned after the dark clouds passed, and of the later darkness that fell, followed by light, and then darkness, light again, and darkness, and finally, when his leaden limbs at last refused to obey him, he knew not the return of the light, for he still could not see.   

When his strength failed at last, he lay, covered (though he did not know it; could not feel it) in wet leaves and hidden by the brambles he'd crawled under, all unknowing. All was darkness around him, within and without. Nor had he, with his blasted, deafened ears, heard the voices calling, sometimes nearer and then farther, or the sounds made by hobbits thrusting their way through the undergrowth as they searched. For his world had gone silent as well as dark, within and without, with neither thoughts nor words remaining.

*** 

'We searched,' Hawfinch said, 'both in the Wood, in a growing circle starting from where the injured pony was found, as well as in and around the bog where his hat was found.'

Ferdi, seeming stunned, sank back into his chair as the Shirriff continued his narrative.

They'd tentatively connected the hat to the saddlebags on the injured pony in the Wood even as Hawfinch acknowledged that it was only a guess. As the Shirriff explained the actions he and the hobbits who'd responded to his summons had taken after finding the hat in the bog, Sam moved forward and placed the hat on the Thain's desk. Pippin picked up the hat and looked at Ferdi. 'Would you be able to tell if it's his?' he said.

Ferdi shook his head, passed his hand over his eyes, and said, simply, 'Rusty.'

Regi rose immediately, went to the study door and yanked it open precipitously. He told Isen, the startled Messenger standing just outside the door, 'Fetch Rusty Stubbletoes. Quickly!'

Pippin waited to speak until Regi had closed the door and returned to his desk. Then he cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. 'But if the pony survived the lightning bolt,' the Thain argued, 'then surely his rider...'

'We don't know!' the Shirriff said, frustrated. 'Had he dismounted? Was he standing beside the beast, or a few steps away? Was he closer to the tree the lightning struck – and so it burned him to coals but left the pony alive?'

'Lightning doesn't burn a body to coals,' Pippin argued. 'At least, I've never seen such a thing.'

'And how many bodies of hobbits – or any other creature, for that matter – that have been struck by lightning have you seen?' Regi asked quietly, adding, 'Sir. I mean no disrespect, but we must be practical here.'

'How many have you seen yourself?' Pippin countered. Then he turned back to the Shirriff and said, 'Were you able to determine if the lightning bolt struck the pony directly? Even there in the Wood?'

'There's a burn mark on a nearby tree,' Hawfinch answered. 'We suspect – though there's no way of knowing for certain – that the lightning struck the tree, which acted as a guide, bringing the bolt to the pony – and, we guessed, its rider.' He paused, then added, 'Perhaps he was less injured than the pony, and was able to stagger away... He might have been disoriented, gone in search of help, and blundered into the bog...? But then, that's just more guesswork.'

There was a sharp rap on the door, and then it opened and Rusty, who served both Tolly's and Ferdi's families, entered. His eyes went first to Ferdi, but that hobbit had a hand over his eyes as if his head pained him. Then he saw the Thain beckon to him. 'Sir,' he said. 'How can I be of service?'

'Here,' Pippin said, lifting the hat. 'I have a hat here that I'd like you to identify for me.'

'A hat?' Rusty said, mystified. But he came forward and accepted the hat from the Thain and turned it over. His face cleared. 'O this is Master Tolibold's hat,' he said. 'O' course.' He looked up. 'Did he lose it somewhere, and they wanted to know who to return it to?'

'How do you know it's Tolly's?' the Thain asked.

Rusty pointed to a mark on the inner band inside the hat. 'That's his mark, Sir. I mark all clothing items when they're acquired so that if something's sent out for cleaning or repair, I can verify that it belongs to one of the hobbits I serve.'

'So it's Tolly's hat,' the Thain said to no one. Before anyone else could say anything, he looked to Rusty. 'Thank you for your help, Rus,' he said. 'You may go back to what you were doing, and please accept our apologies for interrupting your work.'

'No apologies necessary,' Rusty said. He bowed to the Thain and Steward, looked uncertainly towards Ferdi, whose hand still covered his eyes, nodded to the others in the room, and moved to the door. As he exited, he said, 'Thank you, Sir,' though it was fairly clear that he wasn't quite sure why he was thanking the Thain, and he was wondering how Tolly's hat fit into the picture. 

After the door closed behind the hobbitservant, Pippin addressed the Shirriff. 'What I'd like to know is how Tolly's hat ended floating in the bog while his pony was found injured and struck by lightning in the Wood!'

Hawfinch threw up his hands. 'Did they take the wrong path and blunder into the bog?' he said. 'Did the pony leave his rider to sink and drown, and flee to the Wood, only to be caught by the storm?' He shook his head in frustration. 'Was he, as I said earlier, perhaps less injured than the pony, and able to stagger away, and blundered into the bog...?' His gaze swept the others in the room. 'Was he even there at all? The only solid evidence we have is the pony!'

And his hat was the unspoken thought that hung in the room.

'What tracks did you find?' Ferdi put in, uncovering his eyes. 'What story did they tell?'

The Shirriff shook his head. 'The storm brought with it winds and heavy downpours,' he said. 'Any sign that might have been left was washed away.'

Ferdi stood to his feet and looked to the Thain. 'I would like to go,' he said. 'Hang tradition! Please,' he said, 'my Nell will understand,' his voice was almost pleading as he ended, 'surely she'll understand...'

Pippin nodded, exchanged glances with Reginard, and nodded again. 'Go,' he said quietly, and then stronger, 'Go at once! I will explain to my sister...' And to Hawfinch, he said, 'I want you to take the fastest ponies in our stables, and ride at all speed... Ride one and lead another, so that you may go faster by changing ponies as you go. Ferdi is the best tracker in the Tookland, and if the rain and the storm have left any sign at all, he will be the one to find it.'

Though the Shirriff seemed bewildered at this turn of events, Mayor Sam took him by the arm and guided him out of the study, then pulled him along to the stables in Ferdi's wake, for the Thain's special assistant had run ahead to arrange for the ponies the Thain had ordered.

By the time Ferdi and Hawfinch galloped out of the courtyard, each leading a relief mount, a small crowd of hobbits were gathering on the stones, including Pippin and Reginard, along with Sam Gamgee.

Pippin turned to Sam. 'I must beg your pardon, Samwise,' he said.

The Mayor was surprised. 'My pardon?'

'The Shirriffs look to you, and here I am, issuing orders to your hobbit...'

'And, as I very well know, Tolibold looks to you,' Sam said quietly. 'I would expect nothing less than the fastest response on your part, if there's any hope of finding the hobbit alive.'

Pippin simply shook his head and stared at the ground without speaking. The seconds stretched out. The clatter of hoofs from the departing ponies, their shoes striking sparks against the stones of the courtyard, had been replaced by a low murmur on the part of the hobbits around them.

'Sir?' Reginard said at last.

Pippin blinked, seemed to shake himself, and looked up. 'Nell must be told,' he said.

'And Meadowsweet?'

The Thain closed his eyes as if in pain, and when he opened them again, he said, 'I don't know what to tell her.' He swallowed hard. 'What do we say to her?'

Regi had seldom seen the young Thain at a loss before, but then he was at something of a loss himself in this moment.

Mayor Sam rested a work-worn hand on Pippin's shoulder. 'Tell her the truth as you know it,' he said. 'That's all you can do.'

At Pippin's anguished look, he added, 'Tell her he's lost, and searchers are looking for him. At least, that way, she can hope... at least until something more definitive comes up.'

Pippin sighed. 'Better to hope, I suppose,' he said heavily. He looked to his Steward. 'Regi,' he said. 'I want you to inform the rest of the escort of the situation. Send as many of them as you see fit to join the search. Hunters, too. Anyone with tracking skills.'

'Sir,' Regi said, and hurried away to comply.

*** 

'Ferdi?' Pimpernel said as the door to their suite opened. It was nearly teatime, so perhaps Pippin had let Ferdibrand off early, seeing that they were still technically newly wed – and would be for six months more, at least. As long as an entire year, if they held strictly to tradition. At the lack of response from her beloved, she turned around, and her eyes widened in surprise. 'Pip? What're you doing here? I thought you were Ferdi!'

In a lighter moment, Pippin might have turned her confusion into a jest, but he simply shook his head and closed the door quietly behind him, shoulders slumping.

This did not bode well, leading Nell to gasp, 'Has something happened to my Ferdi?'

'No – yes – no, Nell,' Pippin said, lifting a hand to stay her alarm. Unfortunately, his answer had been alarming in itself.

'What is it?' she said, crossing the room to where her brother stood, there by the door – as if he wished to escape somehow – and taking his arm.

'I sent him to the North Farthing,' Pippin said.

'You sent...' Pimpernel said, unbelieving. 'But...'

Pippin shook himself free of her hold and then reached to take her hands in his. 'Tolly's missing,' he said. 'Ferdi's the finest tracker in the Tookland... maybe even the Shire. He – he hoped you'd understand why he felt he had to go...'

Pimpernel stared at her brother, stricken. 'But of course,' she said. 'I remember how we used to jest that the two of them shared a single brain between them... but what we really meant was that they shared one soul...' Her eyes flooded with tears, and she gave a sob.

'Will you be all right here, Nell?' Pippin asked quietly. 'For I must go and tell Meadowsweet... something...'

Nell wiped her eyes and lifted her chin bravely. 'I will come with you,' she said. 'I don't know what to say, but...'

'Neither do I,' Pippin agreed. 'But something must be said at this point, especially before the Talk should bring the news to her ears. Better that she hears the facts from the Thain, at least as much as we know at this point.'

With great courtesy, he offered her his arm, and together, they went to find Meadowsweet to give her as much news as might be conveyed, at least for now.

***

Chapter 8. ...Presumed...

Old Gorbyl north-Took looked out on the bright morning and breathed deeply. As his eyes had begun to dim, his senses of smell and hearing had seemed to grow stronger as if in compensation. Instead of reminding him of a cake too long in the oven, overbaked and on the verge of burning, as had been his impression of the Wood for the past week or more in the unseasonably warm temperatures, the air he smelled carried the impression of fresh greenery, leaf mould and damp soil. The recent storm seemed to have washed the air clean, and the heat had not returned. Today, the old hobbit deemed, just like yesterday and the day before, would be a pleasantly warm autumn day once the Sun chased away the night's chill. Summer's heat was well behind them. 'Lovely!' he said aloud.

'Grandfa?' young Gorbol, his oldest grandson said in response.

'No storms today,' the old herb-gatherer said. 'And with the heat spell broken... The bees will be out and about, gathering their winter supply of food, I warrant. But the berries that were drenched in the storm will be dry by now, and we must gather them while we may, for the frost faeries will be visiting us sooner than later, I deem.'

Though he was only fifteen, Gorbol immediately identified his grandfa's purpose. 'So we're to pick all the berries we can find, I take it?'

'And bring them back, and spread them on the screens in the Sun to dry,' Gorbyl said, well pleased. But then, his grands, first fatherless when his younger son had not returned from the hunt and then motherless when Dove had died after little Lark's birth, had grown up too quickly over the past decade. The old hobbit had raised Lark on goat's milk, and he'd modified a backpack to hang on his front with the babe cradled against his chest as he went about his days, and he'd fashioned harnesses for her brothers, only faunts when his daughter-in-love had died soon after childbearing, and tied them to himself with slender ropes when he went out of the little cottage, whether to milk the goat, or feed and brush Wren, their bog pony, or chop wood, or gather herbs to bind, dry and sell at market or for some other reason.

At fifteen and twelve, Gorbol and his younger brother Flamol no longer had to be tethered like goats or dogs as their grandfather considered them big enough now to range freely in the vicinity. The lads were relatively tall, like their north-Took grandfather and father before them, and as long as they stayed together, they'd be relatively safe from foxes during the day and owls at night. However, Lark, who was only ten, was only allowed to leave the house with her grandfather or a brother, though Gorbyl no longer employed harness and tether. Truly he'd learned much of child-rearing since Dove's death, when he'd suddenly had to deal with two faunts and a babe with no one else to turn to, even to answer his questions.

'Go with your brothers, Lark,' he told his granddaughter, 'but stay close!'

'O course, Grandfa!' the little one laughed. 'Don't I always?'

Gorbyl put on his fiercest expression. 'Do you, now?' he said.

'We'll keep one eye on her and one on the berries, Grandfa,' Flamol said.

'I dunno why, but that worries me,' Gorbyl said. 'Now, out wit' ye! And I'll have a fine baking of bread and a simmering stew to greet you when you come home. And wit' the milk chilling in the spring, we can have berries and milk for our sweet dish this day!'

Cheering, the two older brothers matched their little sister's shorter stride as they headed down the path to the bramble bushes Gorbyl had preserved, a wild berry-garden of sorts. He pruned them as needed to keep them from overgrowing the entire area, and he trimmed away thorns from the branches on a regular basis to spare his grands at least some scratches when they went to gather the brambles' bounty. 

The old hobbit watched the little procession from the door, marvelling anew at the gift of their presence in his life, unexpected brightness that shone amidst the shadows of loss. As if in response to the grandfa's thoughts, the Sun smiled upon the childer when they crossed from the shade of one tree to that of another, turning little Lark's red-gold curls to flame and causing her brothers' darker auburn heads to glow like smouldering embers. Their grandfa watched until they passed into the shade further along the path, banking the fires atop their heads, after a manner of speaking, and then he turned back to his meal preparations.

Humming, he cut up venison and wild onions and wild garlic and taters and carrots from the small garden he kept, added sweet water from the spring, sprinkled salt and seasoning, and set the stewpot on its tripod over the coals from the fire he'd sparked to cook their breakfast. Then he built up a fire in the clay-lined brick oven and shut the door for it to do its work heating the clay enough to bake the loaves of bread resting on the well-scrubbed table. Nothing else needed doing; the childer had made up the beds, and Lark had swept the floors whilst her brothers chopped and stacked firewood and the old hobbit had cleaned up from breakfast.

While waiting for the berry-pickers, he pulled out his pipe and began to stuff it with some Old Toby he'd bought in the market at Bolton earlier in the summer. 'Job well done,' he told himself.

But a sudden scream – Lark! – and shouts from the direction of the berry-patch had him fumbling his pipe as he was about to light it. He shoved the pipe into his pocket, pipe-weed and all, and tossed the flaming twig on the coals beneath the stewpot, before grabbing up his bow and quiver and hurrying down the path to the berry-garden.

When he reached the edge of the brambles, the old hobbit found the youngsters huddled together, the lads shoulder-to-shoulder and Gorbi holding little Lark tight to himself, hiding her face in his shirt. 'Don't look, Lark!' the grandfa heard the lad saying before he'd even reached them. 'Don't look!'

'What is it, my dears?' he said, replacing the arrow he held into the quiver when he determined no immediate danger seemed to be threatening.

'He's dead! He's dead – I think...' Flam said unsteadily, huddling closer to his older brother. Gorbi, still holding Lark close, put a comforting arm around his younger brother, though Gorbyl suspected the older lad could use a bit of comforting himself. Their baskets lay abandoned to one side, partly filled with berries, one of the baskets spilling its contents onto the ground.

'Who's dead?' he asked.

Flam pointed a shaking finger into the midst of the brambles.

The old hobbit shrugged the bow and quiver more securely onto his shoulder and followed the pointing finger, easing his way into the berry patch, cautious of thorns despite the regular trimming he did. He smelled the sweetness of ripe berries, the rich damp of the duff on the forest floor, the green of the leaves... and something else, a faint whiff reminiscent of something scorched, he thought, like bread he remembered making, when he'd first been learning to bake it and had been obliged to trim away some burnt parts of the crust.

As he passed through the centre of the large patch of brambles, heading towards the far side, he saw something there that didn't belong, half-hidden under the broad, jagged-edged leaves, a shape... a form... that resolved itself into a body. A hobbit!

He forgot all caution and sustained a long, painful scratch on his arm as he hurried forward and bent to lay his hand on the hobbit's neck. Ignoring his own discomfort, he slid his palm down to the pulse-point on the fellow's throat. 'He's alive,' he muttered, and heard a variety of responses from his grands: a sob, a gasp, a sharp exclamation...

The old hobbit looked over his shoulder. 'Childer!' he ordered. 'Go and fetch Wren! We'll need him to help us bring this wanderer to the cot... But hurry!'

While waiting for his grands to bring the pony, he slipped the hobbit's quiver and bow case from his shoulder and laid them aside, idly noting the fletching on the flight of arrows in the quiver. 'My Wallas liked to use that same blue colour for the fletching of his arrows,' he murmured. Of course there was no answer from his companion.

He shook his head at himself and slowly and carefully began to feel the fellow's limbs for breaks. Next, he checked the back of the hobbit's torso and extremities for wounds. He didn't want to turn the fellow over until they were ready to move him, and truth be told, he wasn't sure they ought to move him. Though, o' course, they couldn't very well leave him where he was lying, now, could they?

Along with bruises and scratches, he found unexpected burns to the skin. The scorched smell came from the hobbit's clothing, as if he'd been surrounded by fire some time earlier. 'It's a puzzle,' he said to himself. 'Hullo, young fellow,' he said, though he expected no answer, considering the poor shape the hobbit appeared to be in. 'Can ye hear me? Where did these burns come from?'

No answer.

'How ever did ye come to be in our berry-patch, I wonder?' he muttered. Of course, he heard no answer to that question, either.

And then the children were there, all three of them riding upon the bog pony, breathless and eager to be of some kind of help. 'Here we are, Grandfa!' little Lark sang. Gorbi slid down and lifted little Lark off the pony's back, then stepped aside to give Flam room to dismount.

'I'm going to turn ye over now, my friend,' Gorbyl said to the unconscious hobbit, for it seemed the right thing to warn the fellow he was about to be moved so as not to startle him if he were even a little aware of his surroundings. 'Here we...' He eased the limp body over onto its back – and stared. 'Wallas?' he whispered, dumbfounded.

True, his eyes were not what they had been, making it difficult to make out the hobbit's features clearly. Moreover, the face of the hobbit lying before him was scraped and battered, making recognition that much more difficult... But it couldn't be that his younger son and father of his grands, gone missing these ten years, had found his way back home again? Or could it somehow be possible? 

*** 

As gently as might be done, Gorbyl and the children lifted the tall, heavy hobbit onto the pony. It helped that Wren was small for a pony, but even so, the old hobbit was startled by a warning pain in his chest that did not wane immediately once they'd secured the unconscious fellow face-down over the pony's back.

To cover his unease, he raised his voice and said, 'Now, Gorbi, you and Flam walk on Wren's off-side, to keep him from sliding off, for I hardly think he'll be able to stand on his own two feet – whilst Lark and I walk on his near-side and do our best to keep him from falling on his head.'

'Yes Grandfa,' the three children answered as one.

The old hobbit turned the pony towards the cottage and clicked his tongue to signal a slow walk. Wren tossed his head and stepped off, not seeming to mind his burden or the hobbits walking to either side. But then, Gorbyl had trained him to accept a rider mounting from his off-side and not only his near-side, not a common practice but one he'd learned to value when riding out against the ruffians during the time of the Troubles.

When they reached the cot, Gorbyl told his grandsons to stand on either side of the pony and wait; he hurried up the step and inside, rubbing unconsciously at the twinge still echoing in his chest, at least until he reached the blanket press and pulled out a heavy coverlet.

'Here,' he said, laying it between the pony and the cot. 'We'll just ease him down off Wren's off-side, feet first – sit him down, then lie him as we roll him to the ground... Wren! Stand!' 

And together, they suited word to action, with little Lark dancing between the coverlet and Wren's lowered head, patting the velvet muzzle. 'Good pony!' she praised. 'Good Wren!' For Wren stood as still as he'd been taught. And there he'd stay, Gorbyl knew from experience, for hours, if need be. (Or until something frightened him enough to make him bolt in a panic, for that was the nature of ponies as prey animals.)

With the help of the coverlet, they dragged the injured hobbit into the cot and to Gorbyl's own bed, for Wallas and Dove's room had been closed off since the day Dove had left them. No doubt there'd be dust to deal with, and the bedlinens were ten years overdue for washing.

With a little more effort that had the old hobbit's heart hammering in his chest, he and his grandsons wrestled the limp, heavy body onto the bed, and Gorbyl sank down to sit next to him with a sigh. 'There,' he said with a cautious pat, considering the fellow's injuries. 'Gorbi, d'you think you could manage a pot o' tea? For us, if not for this fellow? And... But where's Lark gone off to? She's not gone back outside, has she? She's not out there alone with the pony!?'

But then the little lass stood in the doorway, cradling something to her chest. 'Is it...?' she said, eyes as wide as Gorbyl had ever seen them. 'But isn't it...? Could it be...?'

'What have you got there, lass?' Gorbyl said. 'What is it, you're asking?'

'You said "Wallas",' she whispered. 'I heard you! Is it... Is he... my da?' And she lowered the framed likeness she'd been hugging, the likeness she'd taken from the mantel over the hearth in the main room, painted upon a sunny day at the market in exchange for a few coins, a smiling couple holding hands and obviously in love with life and each other.

'What do ye...' young Gorbi said, falling to his knees beside his sister and placing his hand over his sister's smaller hand holding the frame. He looked down at the rendering, and then to the battered hobbit on the bed. Though the bruises and swelling made for some difficulty, the hobbit on the bed and the one in the picture might have been cousins... or brothers... or... 'Da?' he said, and burst into tears of wonder and joy.

*** 

Chapter 9. ...Dead?

The children and their grandfa tenderly cared for the injured hobbit in wonder and in hope. It had been ten years... And a body can change over ten years' time... Gorbyl himself was ten years older than he had been, though he'd probably aged more than that in his grief combined with the heavy responsibility of raising his orphaned grands alone. Gorbol and Flamol had been faunts when their father had walked out the door that fateful day, and Lark had not yet sung her first song, so all she knew of her father's face was his likeness on the mantel.

'When he wakens, we'll know for sure,' the old hobbit told the children.

'But what if it is Da? What if he was making his way back home? He looks as if he crawled a long way after he was injured,' young Gorbi argued. 'And you said his arrows were fletched blue!'

'What if it is?' Gorbyl echoed, looking around at the children's hopeful faces. 'Then we'll know for sure when he wakens,' he repeated.

'But what...?' Flam said, his dread clear in his face. 'What if he never wakens?'

'Then we'll lay him to rest beside your Mum,' Gorbyl said quietly. 'For it'll be clear, and no mistake, that he dragged himself all the way home, to be with you – and her. And even death could not keep him away.'

As he sat beside the bed that first day, Gorbyl thought of his losses. Friends, killed or taken to the Lockholes. His own son Gorbas, older brother to Wallas, captured, beaten, and marched to the Lockholes, never to return.

With no body to bury, Wallas had refused to believe his brother was dead. Even after he'd married Dove (whom he'd rescued from ruffians on their way out of the North Farthing with whatever they could carry), once or twice a year, he'd kiss his wife, hug his da, and announce he was going to go looking for Gorbas again. 

'P'rhaps he was part of the muster that drove the ruffians out o' the Shire,' he'd said more than once. 'What if they kept going? Harried them all the way to Far Harad or the Black Lands or such, just like in that old song we heard in the pub last month when we took our gatherings to market?' Or, another time, 'P'rhaps he went to Sea,' he'd said. 'Surely the Elves at the Havens could tell me...' Or, 'Maybe he went all the way to the Lonely Mountain, like Red Bolham told us about during the Troubles, whilst we sat around the fire on that cold winter night, hiding in the Wood from Lotho's ruffians...'

Perhaps Wallas had gone to the ends of Middle-earth and back again in search of his brother, a journey that had taken him the better part of the last ten years to accomplish? Of course, there'd be no way of knowing until the hobbit woke up and spoke.

Gorbyl cleaned the fellow up and robed him in a fresh nightshirt before tucking him into bed. When he'd brushed the dirt and leaves out of the matted curls, the resulting colour reminded him of Wallas's chestnut head. The impression grew stronger after young Gorbi helped him bathe the battered body and wash the rest of the grime out of the fellow's hair, that he might rest more comfortably. Moreover, Gorbyl had lifted the injured hobbit's eyelids, one at a time, to check on the response of the pupils – only to see familiar smoky-green eyes, much like he'd seen in the mirror in his younger years... much like his sons' eyes as he remembered them... and so much like the eyes of his grands. The injured hobbit's colouring matched Gorbyl's memories closely enough to take his breath away. After he'd tucked the childer into their beds, telling them he'd take the first watch, the old hobbit picked up the portrait from the mantel for a closer comparison. By the light of the turned-up lamp, the match looked exact to him.

Could a coincidence be so very indistinguishable?

Over the next few days, as hour after hour passed, the children took turns sitting bedside watch; their grandfa had to shoo them away to take care of their own needs much less their regular chores, such as washing up or milking or gathering eggs or sweeping or stirring the laundry in the tub. 'We'll all take turns,' he said. 'One hobbit cannot watch day and night without falling ill himself...' even though that was what he'd done with their mother Dove after Lark's birth while, at the same time, trying to care for a newborn and two feverish faunts. 

He finished, '...and then what good are they to the hobbit they're watching over?' For little Lark had nearly followed her mother after Dove's death, when Gorbyl had fallen ill himself with the fever that had taken his daughter-in-love and carried her two tiny sons to the edge of the grave. Gorbyl's memories of that time were, perhaps mercifully, lost in fever dreams, but they were enough to bring conviction to his tone and help him resist all wheedling on the part of his grands.

He also claimed for himself the heavy tending that would've been inappropriate for the children, all the extra work that caring for a bedridden hobbit brought. He was thankful for the children and their ability to manage the care of the chickens and the goat, as well as the demands of daily living, though the old hobbit still took care of bread-baking and much of the cooking. The extra burden told on him, however, and he gratefully rested during those times when he could just sit quietly in the chair next to the bed, holding his son's hand. For he was increasingly convinced that his son had come home to them at last. Finding out what had kept Wallas away for so long was a matter for another day.

Late on the day they'd found him, Gorbyl had the lads help him prop the injured hobbit into a sitting position. 'We have to see if we can get some water in him, at least,' he said, lifting one of the fellow's hands and showing his grands the signs of dehydration that they must look for over the coming days as they tended him. 'If he doesn't drink something soon, he'll die. He's not had anything to drink for two days, at least, and more than likely three, if I don't mistake the signs.' 

The lads had responded with sober nods, while little Lark had looked on with wide eyes. Though not a healer himself, during the time of the Troubles, he'd worked with the healers hiding in the Woods who had taught him, among other things, the signs to look for when treating common illnesses and injuries. An herb-gatherer by trade before the Troubles had descended upon the Shire, he'd been fascinated to learn how to prepare and apply various herbs. As a matter of fact, after he'd fallen to a ruffian's club, he'd spent more time in the healers' company than with the bold raiders who went out from the Wood and, greatly daring, reclaimed the Big Men's gatherings and harried the ruffians to the greatest extent possible. 

Gorbyl shook off the memory of the Troubles and returned to the here and now. He drew a deep breath and lifted a mug of cool water to their guest's lips. 'You want to talk to him while you're sitting with him,' he told his watching grands, 'for though he may show no sign, he may well hear every word you say or sing to them.' 

Hadn't it been that way for him when a ruffian had clubbed him to the ground and left him for dead? Bolham the Red had helped Gorbyl's sons carry him to a safe hiding place, where some of the displaced hobbits living in the Wood cared for the sick and injured in Bolham's band as well as their homeless neighbours. Gorbyl's watchers had held his hand, had talked to him, had sung songs to him throughout the days he'd lain unresponsive, and he remembered their voices as a lifeline that had led him back to himself in the end.

'Drink now, lad; I've clear, fresh water from the spring. Drink... You must be thirsty,' he coaxed softly as he held the mug to the hobbit's dry, cracked lips. 'I know I'd be, had I not emptied a pot o' tea an hour agone.' His heart leapt within him when he tilted the mug and saw the fellow swallow the water that trickled into his mouth! Though it was slow, painstaking work to administer the life-giving liquid slowly enough to prevent a choking fit, Gorbyl was able to say, 'All will be well,' when that first mug had been emptied, both to the rescued and his grands.

Still, feeling more hopeful, he stirred up some rich broth and, after it had sent its promise throughout the cot, he poured out a mug of the stuff and let it cool to sipping temperature while he and his grands sopped up their own portions of broth with bread. He thought he saw the fellow's nostrils flare at the savoury aroma as he brought the mug close. 'That's it,' he murmured. 'That's the lad.'

'Grandfa's broth is the best I've ever tasted!' Lark encouraged from her chair beside the bed since it was her turn to sit on watch, though her brothers lingered in the doorway, watching anxiously to see if their visitor would be able to swallow the broth. Neither of them laughed, even though "Grandfa's broth" was the only broth the little lass had ever tasted. 

The children had softly cheered when the mug of water had been drunk. The visitor's response to the broth was even more heartening to everyone there, for he half-opened his eyes as he sipped, though he didn't speak. The old hobbit caught his breath at seeing eyes the same colour as those of his sons and his younger son's children. Almost without thinking, he said, 'Wallas,' when the mug of broth was empty, 'all's well. You're home now, lad. You're home.' The familiar-looking eyes briefly met his gaze before closing, and the hobbit slept again. Through the rest of that first day and well into the evening, Gorbyl coaxed alternating mugs of broth and water into the injured hobbit until the worrisome signs of dehydration diminished sufficiently that he didn't worry the hobbit would expire before the Sun rose again.

That night, the children took turns sleeping curled by the injured hobbit's side, offering warmth and reassurance to the unconscious fellow while ready to awaken if he should move or speak. In fact, the old hobbit and his grands never left their patient alone, day or night, but stayed with him, singing and speaking or sitting quietly while holding his hand. 

'He'll come back to us when he's ready,' Gorbyl told the children – and himself. By the next morning, he was heartened to see healing progressing in terms of reduced swelling. The visible burns and scrapes were also showing signs of recovery. Hopefully anything that was wrong under the skin was also responding to rest and strengthening broth and constant reassurance.

On the morning of the second day, the visitor showed more signs of life. Though his eyes were closed when Gorbyl spoke to him, he nodded at the old hobbit's question. 'Are ye thirsty, lad?' But then, when Gorbyl tendered a cup of freshly-brewed tea laced with honey and goats' milk, the eyes had opened, the forehead had wrinkled, and the fellow had weakly shaken his head. 'You don't care for tea, I take it?' the old hobbit asked. Wallas never did care all that much for tea, he remembered. How Dove used to tease him about it!

Receiving a blink for an answer, he patted the night-clad shoulder. 'Broth?' He thought he saw the lips twitch in a brief smile before the eyes closed, as if in exhaustion. He patted the shoulder again. 'Broth it is, then,' he said. 'And we'll put some meat in it later, if you're up to chewing a little.'

'He's getting better, Grandfa – isn't he?' Lark said eagerly.

'He is!' Gorbyl said firmly – for their visitor's sake as much as for his granddaughter. No doubt the fellow could hear every word.

By the end of that day, young Gorbi was able to feed the fellow soup with finely minced meat and vegetables and torn-up bread by the spoonful. 'He is getting better, Grandfa!' the teen said in excitement. 'He is!' And to the hobbit in the bed, watching him with half-closed eyes, he said, 'You are!' He received a double-blink for his reward.

Later, after Gorbyl had settled Flam in the chair next to their visitor, tucking a blanket around the lad to keep him warm since the nights were growing increasingly chilly, he went to tuck up Flam's older brother and younger sister in their beds. But young Gorbi stayed him with a question. 'Why won't he speak, Grandfa?'

'It may not be a matter of "won't" so much as "cannot", lad,' the old hobbit said slowly. 'There may be injuries inside him, besides what we can see on the outside.'

'But he'll get better... won't he?' the teen pleaded.

Gorbyl patted his hand. 'I hope so,' he said. 'We can all hope so. We'll do all we can to help him come back to himself.'

On the third morning after they'd found him in their berry-garden, the visitor groped for a piece of bread smeared with honey from the plate in his lap, managed to close his fingers around it, and lifted it to his mouth. 'Very good!' Gorbyl told him. He allowed the fellow to feed himself several more pieces, and then on recognising the signs of impending exhaustion, he intercepted the questing hand, took it between his own hands, and held it gently while squarely meeting the fellow's questioning gaze. 'Try and make haste a little more slowly, Wallas,' he said. 'You've tired yourself. I can do the rest... When we bring you elevenses, you can work at it again.'

The nod he received told him that the hobbit was taking in what he was told and understanding it, though he could not seem to manage a spoken response. Not yet, anyhow.

After breakfast, Lark had joyously wiped the honey from the hobbit's sticky fingers with a damp cloth, chattering at him, and had received a wink and a smile for her reward. Encouraged, his watchers saw growing signs of improvement as the day progressed: Flam reported that he'd been able to feed himself a hand pie at elevenses, and young Gorbi cheered him on as he lifted a few forkfuls of meat and vegetables to his mouth at noontide before tiring and accepting Gorbi's help in feeding the rest of the meal to him.

That afternoon, Gorbyl was taking another turn sitting at the bedside with Lark while young Gorbi kneaded tomorrow's bread dough and Flam stirred the soup in the kettle that would play the main role in their eventide meal. A knock came at the door, and the bedside watchers heard the door open and Flam speak a greeting that said the visitor was not a stranger.

'Grandfa!' Flam called from the front of the cot. 'You're wanted!'

'Stay close to 'im,' Gorbyl told little Lark. 'And o' course, call me if he speaks...' The hobbit had fallen deeply asleep after the noontide meal – a healing sleep, the old hobbit hoped. As did his granddaughter, evidenced in her response.

'I will!' the little one promised, cuddling closer to her charge. And then she spoke to the prostrate hobbit, as she'd begun speaking soon after his arrival. 'Da, I'm here,' she whispered. 'Your little Lark... Come back to us, Da... Please...?'

The old hobbit wiped away a threatening tear and went to the door where Flam waited with the visitor. 'Hawfinch!' he said in surprise at seeing it was one of the North Farthing's Shirriffs. 'What brings you to this part o' the Wood? Isn't your beat more southerly?' Belatedly remembering to offer hospitality, he added, 'Can I offer you a cup o' tea for your trouble?'

'It's the Tooks,' Hawfinch said, removing his feathered hat. 'They've lost one o' their own, i' the bog, we think, but maybe i' the southern stretches o' the Wood. Have ye perhaps been herb-gathering to the south, and have ye seen any sign of a visiting Took who might've lost himself?'

'What do Tooks look like?' Gorbyl said. 'I've never seen one... never been out of the North Farthing, for that matter. Don't they live off in the South-lands somewhere?'

Hawfinch brushed a speck of dust from the brim of his hat. 'A Took don't look all that different from a north-Took,' he said. 'They're relations o' yours, I hear tell, if the stories about Bandobras Bullroarer are anything to go by.'

Gorbyl shook his head. He had little time for old tales. 'I've not been gathering this past week,' he said. 'Not since that bad storm, anyhow. I've had my work cut out for me, just cutting up the trees that fell in the wind. But I'll have plenty of firewood to take me through the Winter months, at least!'

'It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good,' Hawfinch agreed. 'Well then, I'll take my leave. I've got Tooks crawlin' all o'er the southern half o' the Wood, not to mention all 'round the edges o' the bog, and it'll be a wonder if nobody else falls in and is lost!'

'I'll let ye go then,' Gorbyl said. 'And good luck to ye, and to the Tooks – and to them finding that missing fellow.'

The Shirriff shook his head and then clapped his hat back on, preparatory to departing. 'You know what they say about the luck of the Tooks,' he said dourly.

Gorbyl didn't know, as a matter of fact, but now did not seem to be the time to ask, for the Shirriff was clearly in a hurry to get back to the search. After repeating his goodbyes, he closed the door and went to make a pot of tea.

*** 

Pimpernel almost didn't hear Ferdi enter their quarters, he'd entered so quietly, easing the door shut with barely a snick of the latch. At this slightest of sounds, she looked up from her needlework, for she'd chosen to sit on the settee in their sitting room from noontide onwards, as she'd done each day for the past week – as she would have continued to do into the future days until she welcomed him home, had he come on another day. She'd calculated that, on the day he turned his face homewards, even if he should leave the North-lands before the dawning and pushed his pony to make the best speed, Ferdi would not be likely to arrive at the Great Smials until noon. And while he might travel into the night-time hours, should the darkness catch him only part-way home, she doubted he'd ride past middle night but would seek a place to rest the pony if not himself. 

Thus, from wakening and breakfast until nuncheon, she'd devoted herself to her little ones. The family ate together, and then she'd sent the older ones to their lessons with the headmaster or the tutor. After sharing the midday meal with them all again, she'd welcomed Bella, the minder Diamond had assigned so that Pimpernel might have more time with Ferdi during these "early days" of their marriage. Bella watched with the littlest after she tucked them up for their afternoon nap and took care of teatime and eventides. Lastly, after Pimpernel administered bedtime kisses and told a bedtime story, Bella would watch with the sleeping children until their mother finally stumbled to her bed in the middle night. 

'Ferdi-love!' she said, getting up from her seat. But he did not answer, simply stood by the door, his head bowed. 'Ferdi?' she said more softly. 'My heart?'

He looked terrible, tired and defeated and completely drained. She crossed quickly to him and took hold of his arms. 'Come, love,' she said, her voice low and soothing, 'Come and sit down.'

He shook his head, but then he let her draw him further into the room, towards the table where they took their meals when they did not eat elsewhere, such as the great room or when invited out to dinner. On reaching the nearest chair, he sank down and stared into space without speaking.

'Tolly?' Pimpernel whispered.

Ferdi groaned and buried his head in his hands, and then he began to weep, gut-wrenching sobs that tore at Nell's heart as she circled him with her arms and bowed her head to rest her face on his dusty curls, helpless to do more.

And though the apartments were well-separated and designed for privacy, even as her beloved mourned, Pimpernel heard Meadowsweet's anguished shriek from next door, or perhaps the news had been delivered to Tolly's wife when she'd opened the door to a knock and the sound had echoed down the corridor, announcing the terrible news to all in the vicinity.

When Ferdi at last quieted in her arms, and she raised her head, she was met with the sight of a cosied teapot, cups and saucers, cream jug and sugar bowl, all of which had appeared silently on the table before them. 

Alas, poor Rusty, receiving the news no doubt at the same time Meadowsweet did, had assuaged his grief in the only way he knew. 

She'd no doubt that freshly brewed tea had also been provided for Meadowsweet and the hobbits sent to bring her the news and who'd stay to minister to her in her grief and shock.

Ferdi stirred, and Nell released him, then went to pour a cup of steaming tea for each of them. She fixed Ferdi's cup the way he liked it, but after second thought, she deliberately doubled the sugar and stirred it in. 'Here, my love,' she said, tendering Ferdi's cup. He reached up as she held it to his lips, cradling the cup in his palm, and drank half the cup in one long swallow. Meeting his eyes, Nell released the cup and reached around to pick up her own tea, taking a steadying sip.

Tea, that soother of all ills, she could almost hear Tolly whisper sardonically in the back of her mind.

'Did you find any sign?' she asked delicately, feeling her way.

Ferdi shook his head, then drained the rest of the tea in his cup and set it gently down on the saucer. Nell refilled it, waiting for his answer, if he had one.

'It took us more than half a day, just to get there,' he said, 'even riding one pony and leading a remount. And when we did...'

'What?' she asked, feeling dread clutch at her heart like a cold hand.

'The North-landers that searched before us...' Ferdi said, 'they, and the heavy rain and wind, the damage from the storm, the flooding from the deluge... they left us no signs to find.' He breathed deeply and gave a despairing sigh. 'They think... We think... I...'

Nell took his hand and kissed it tenderly, but waited in silence for him to finish.

'The bog,' he said, and his voice broke, and he bowed his head.

'O Ferdi-love,' Nell said, her heart breaking for him. O Tolly. O Sweetie. O tiny child, and babe yet unborn...

Together, they wept.

*** 

Chapter 10. Picking Up the Pieces

Mistress Eglantine sat silently at the table in the sitting room that had belonged to Tolly and Meadowsweet. She wondered how long her son would give Meadowsweet to make other arrangements... or Regi, rather, or perhaps Diamond. She blessed the fact that she'd given up the role of The Took to her son and the title of Mistress to her daughter in love, for her heart felt hollow with sorrow, and she was tired. Wearied by life. By too many years of tragedies, including the Troubles and their impact on the Outer Shire as well as the Tookland, though Lotho's (and then Sharkey's) Men had not been allowed to defile the Tooks' homeland with their presence.

For the Thain and the Tooks and the land itself had not escaped unscathed. Paladin, the genial farmer she'd married, had to become hard, cold and calculating. He'd tried to warn the heads of the Great Families of the danger he saw creeping over the Shire like a shadow, but they hadn't believed him until they'd left things too late to remedy. He'd had more success in keeping Lotho's influence – and his Big Men – out of the Tookland, in part due to the obstinate pride of the Tooks. Nor had the current Thain – her only son, Pippin – escaped the Troubles unmarked. For he'd returned from following Frodo into the Outlands a different hobbit, not only outwardly in terms of scars and unusual stature and wearing mail and carrying a sword. He'd also grown beyond his years in wisdom and understanding and knowledge... and heartbreak.

'Tea, Mistress.' Though Rusty, who served both Ferdi's and Tolly's families – had served, she reminded herself – had spoken quietly, he'd startled her nevertheless, with her nerves so raw from old pain and the current tragedy. The hobbitservant immediately begged her pardon.

'No need, Rusty,' she answered, managing a smile. 'Very thoughtful of you.' Though she'd handed over all her duties as Mistress of the Tooks to Diamond, everyone still seemed to think of her as such.

'I looked in, and Mistress Meadowsweet is sleeping now,' Rusty said as he poured out her tea and fixed it to her taste. 'Healer Evergreen got up to tell me she'd watch through the rest of the night, and that you should lie yourself down, Mistress.'

'I will,' Eglantine said, picking up the cup and nodding thanks to him before taking her first sip. 'Ah, Rusty, that just suits. May I use one of the guest rooms?' she added. Of course, she might've slept in any bed in the Great Smials she wished, for the Tooks seemed inclined to grant her every wish. She wasn't sure why they held her in such high esteem, for she'd only done what was right over the years Paladin had been Thain. Nonetheless, it seemed she could do no wrong. O' course, it was not something she'd ever abuse or let go to her head.

'Yes'm,' Rusty said. 'I took the liberty of making up a bed fresh for you, Mistress. There's a fire on the hearth and warmers in the bed, and the ewer's freshly filled, and...'

'Very good, Rusty,' she said, trying not to show her exhaustion at this seemingly endless list of actions he'd taken to demonstrate his care and respect. 'Please convey to Evergreen that I wish to be wakened, should Sweetie come awake.'

She saw the arguments he would not voice in the hobbitservant's eyes, but he bowed and assented. 'Will there be anything else, Mistress?' he said.

'No, Rusty,' Eglantine answered. 'I'll just finish this cup, and then I'll see myself off to bed.'

'Very good, Mistress,' Rusty said, and with another bow, he left her alone with her thoughts.

Pimpernel had not wanted to live on after her first husband Rudivacar Bolger had died of a sudden onset of illness. Though the marriage had not been her choice, Rudi's love and care had won her heart. Together, they'd had five children, and she'd been expecting their sixth when Rudi was taken from her.

The Bolger had sent to the Tooks for help. Eglantine had convinced Pippin that they must bring her to the Great Smials, under the care of the Tooks, though Pippin had argued long and bitterly against the move. With Healer Woodruff's help, Eglantine had made arrangements so that Pimpernel would never be left alone but would always have someone with her to talk and sing to her, to keep her from falling into dark thoughts, to remind her of her blessings, even to bring her food and nag her to eat and drink until the babe was born – and then after.

These unconventional, and frankly intrusive, measures had brought Pimpernel through the darkest period. But then, old Odovacar Bolger and young Thain Peregrin had gone farther, stretching the bounds of propriety nearly to the breaking point... and yet... 'And yet,' Eglantine said to herself, 'it's almost as if things were supposed to work out as they did.' She shook her head in wonder.

For The Bolger and The Took had conspired to bring Ferdibrand and Pimpernel together after Pimpernel had mourned for more than a year. Though they'd been sweethearts since childhood, fate had separated them after Ferdi was badly injured – some had called him "permanently crippled" – at the Battle of Bywater. Ferdi had withdrawn from life in general and Tookish society in particular... and so Paladin had arranged for Pimpernel to marry Rudivacar, the younger brother of old Odo. Yet Ferdi never married; his heart belonged to Nell alone. Though marrying a second time was almost unheard-of in the Shire, somehow the two conspirators convinced Nell and Ferdi to marry. And so, quite recently, they had.

'From joy to sorrow...' Eglantine said, placing her teacup on the saucer and rising from the table. But then she shook her head again. 'No,' she told herself. 'From sorrow to joy.' For Nell had grieved Rudi but then married her first love, Ferdi. 

She wondered if it might be possible for Meadowsweet, widowed at such a young age, to find love again... But first, they needed to get the lass through this initial period of grief. Well, Eglantine had managed such a process once before for her daughter. Now she'd try and do the same for her daughter's bosom friend. She headed for bed but was arrested in the hallway leading to the bedrooms by desperate sobbing. Sweetie!

Eglantine hurried to Tolly's and Meadowsweet's bedroom and found Healer Evergreen standing next to the bed, holding the bereaved hobbit close and murmuring broken words of intended comfort as Sweetie wept. Tolly's name, muffled, emerged at intervals, mingled with her sobs and gasps.

Eglantine moved to them and circled them both with her arms, laying her head on Meadowsweet's shoulder. 'I know,' she murmured. 'I know, dearie.'

She did know, of course. Her own beloved husband had died some years earlier, and she knew the pain of such a loss – as if her own heart had been ripped from its place and torn asunder.

She wasn't sure how long they stood this way, but eventually, Meadowsweet slumped in their arms, and together, Mistress and healer eased her back onto the bed and smoothed the coverlet over her.

'Thank you, Mistress,' Evergreen whispered. 'I would have summoned you, to let you know she'd awakened, but...'

'Of course,' Eglantine said, and added, 'You look exhausted, my dear.'

'Grief is exhausting for everyone it touches,' Evergreen confirmed. She looked to the bed. 'I think... I hope she'll sleep for some time now.'

'A draught?' Eglantine asked delicately.

But Evergreen shook her head. 'I offered her one earlier, but...'

Eglantine nodded. It went against the healers' principles to dose a hobbit without their knowledge or permission. How difficult it must be for them to stick to their resolve in this sort of situation!

'Get some sleep yourself, Mistress,' Evergreen urged. 'I'll watch over her until Woodruff sends another healer to take my place.' She cocked her head with a keen look of inquiry. 'Were you planning to breakfast with her?'

'Well I wasn't planning to sleep in,' Eglantine said crisply. She softened the words with a smile and amended, 'Yes, that was my plan. I'll do my best to persuade her to eat for the babe's sake, if not her own.'

'Very well, Mistress,' Evergreen said, and bowed her head in dismissal.

Eglantine could take a hint.

Rusty had indeed made the guest room as comfortable as he knew how, with many small touches that spoke of his skill and dedication to his duties. Even so, sleep eluded Eglantine for a long time. 

*** 

Despite her short night, Eglantine was up well before breakfast. As the wife of a farmer, she'd arisen halfway through middle night and the dawning for years in order to provide early breakfast for the farmer, hired hands, and their children when they'd reached an age where they could help. After early breakfast, comprising freshly brewed tea with bread and jam, came the washing up and the preparation of second breakfast, a hearty meal taken at dawn. Early breakfast provided enough energy for "close in" chores such as milking, gathering eggs, feeding all the animals, and cleaning stalls. Second breakfast prepared the workers for more rigorous work, such as ploughing and planting, haying and harvesting, pulling weeds, herding goats and sheep, training ponies, and more. 

Here in the Smials, the working hobbits ate early and second breakfasts at the same scope and on the same timetable as farm families, while the gentry generally ate a hearty breakfast a little before dawn; their second breakfast was a much lighter meal taken around nine o' the clock. It had taken some getting used to for Eglantine to adapt to the Great Smials morning scheme, but she had managed it. She'd had it easier, she supposed, than Pippin's experience in the Southlands when he'd been faced with eating like a Man, both less often and lesser quantities!

When Eglantine entered the sitting room, Rusty had already lit the chafing dishes on the sideboard and placed food there to warm. A cosied teapot waited on the table with cups, saucers, and spoons as well as a pot of honey, a pitcher of milk and another of cream, and a bowl freshly filled with lumps of sugar. The hobbitservant had obviously been "there and gone" and was at this moment, no doubt, performing the same service for Ferdibrand and Pimpernel next door.

'Here we are,' Evergreen said from the door to the hallway leading to the more private rooms.

Eglantine looked up to see the healer guiding Meadowsweet to the table. She frowned absently at seeing the strain in Evergreen's face which had seemed relatively serene in dealing with Sweetie's grief last night, even though serenity was probably the appearance the healer deliberately put on in her professional capacity.

'Would you rather sit down, and I serve you, or would you prefer to make your own choices?' Evergreen said.

'I'm well,' Meadowsweet answered. 'But please, sit down with us and take some breakfast before you must go. From the delicious smells, Rusty has been making magic in the kitchen again. That hobbit...!'

And now Eglantine was suppressing a frown for a different reason, and understanding some of the strain Evergreen was showing. Had grief stolen Sweetie's wits?

Her worries were further reinforced after Sweetie had filled her plate at the sideboard, encouraged Eglantine and Evergreen to do the same, sat down and poured out tea for them all, and then proceeded to eat with a good appetite as she spoke lightly about everyday matters.

Pouring out more tea, Meadowsweet shook her head and said, 'Tolly actually detests tea! I think he only drinks it to please me and to avoid scandalising his cousins...'

Eglantine and Evergreen exchanged glances. 

After listening to a few more observances of Tolly's likes and dislikes, Eglantine put a gentle hand on Sweetie's arm. 'My dear...' she said, trying to figure out how to broach the subject.

But Meadowsweet arrested her, almost mid-word, by laughing gaily. 'O Mistress!' she said on seeing Eglantine's dismay and confusion. 'Please, forgive me. But all is well!'

'All is well?' Eglantine echoed, stunned.

'O' course!' Meadowsweet said. 'Why such a long face? Please, comfort yourself. I am well!'

Eglantine looked to Evergreen, who nodded – as soon as breakfast was over, she'd go and find the head healer and bring her here as quickly as possible. When she looked back to Meadowsweet, the lass's smile was as bright as a sunny day. 'I'm glad to hear you're feeling well,' she ventured.

'I hate to see you so worried,' Meadowsweet said, placing a gentle hand on Eglantine's. 'Please,' she added. 'Half the things we worry about never come to pass!'

'I...' Eglantine said at a complete loss. 'I don't understand.'

Meadowsweet patted Eglantine's hand and said, 'Don't worry. When Tolly comes back, I'll have him explain it to you just as he did to me, that day when all the hunters rode out to deal with that sounder of swine.' At Eglantine's befuddled expression, she clarified, 'Why you remember, I'm sure you do! For they were so dangerous, the Steward would not let your son, the Thain, ride out on the hunt but insisted that only trained hunters go out!'

She laughed again. 'And I was so worried... for everyone knows how that hunt went in Thain Ferumbras's time – hunters injured and killed and crippled, and the Thain himself scored and battered! I thought, what terrible thing might happen if a boar should charge the hunters again! But then Tolly came back, and he chided me for my worries... and we had a grand feast, did we not?'

Tolly's pony had been badly lamed, Eglantine remembered, and a charging boar had come much too close to goring and trampling Ferdibrand, who'd been on foot when the enormous creature had broken from cover, than bore thinking about. But she only knew these things because Pippin had told her much later, after receiving the chief hunter's report of the hunt.

'My dear...' Eglantine tried. But Meadowsweet shook her head.

'He's not dead,' she said firmly. 'O I know they think he is, or they wouldn't have told me so. And it frightened me terribly, I must admit, and at first I couldn't help but believe them, for why would they tell me if it wasn't so?'

'I...' Eglantine said, though her head was whirling.

Meadowsweet wasn't finished. 'If my Tolly were dead, I would have felt it. I would have felt his death – my heart would have broken into pieces, tiny pieces too small to ever put back together again.' She thumped her chest with her fist. 'But it's not... I mean, it's there. He's there. I know...' 

Her eyes demanded Eglantine's full attention. Slowly, she repeated. 'I know he's not dead.'

*** 

Haldi stood uneasily in front of Pippin's desk, though it took a sharp eye to detect his unease. The Thain surveyed the paler-than-usual face and red-rimmed eyes that told, not of tears, but of the escorts having gathered, probably in The Spotted Duck, a favourite haunt, to toast their Head out of the world after they'd returned from their fruitless search. Likely enough they'd kept on toasting and drinking up until the moment the landlord chased them out of the public house. The grief and anger were worse, somehow, when there was no body to bury.

The hobbit stood straighter under the Thain's scrutiny, though it hardly seemed possible since he'd been standing at attention from the moment he'd taken his stance before the desk and had said, 'You sent for me, Sir.'

'I did,' Pippin said at last. 'You came second in the Tournament.'

'Third, Sir,' Haldi corrected boldly, but then he'd always been one to speak his mind. 'Hally Bolger came second after Tolibold.'

'Second amongst the Tooks who competed,' Pippin allowed, shooting a staying glance at Reginard, who was poised to offer a reprimand to the escort for his "cheek". It's not cheek if I'm wrong and the other hobbit is right, the glance said. 'That means, with Tolly gone, you've already qualified for the position as head of the Thain's escort.'

When Haldi offered no response, not even a nod, Pippin spoke again. 'I'm offering you the position. You're the best candidate, according to the traditions of the Tooks going back even farther than Regi-here remembers...'

Haldi's face remained blank, expressionless, not even offering the faintest of polite smiles to acknowledge the small witticism.

'Well?' Pippin said, wondering if Haldi was even more badly hungover than he'd suspected as the hobbit had entered the study, eyes narrowing at the onslaught of light from the turned-up lamps.

'Sir?'

'Will you take it on?' Pippin pressed. 'O' course, it would mean that you and your Laura would move into the apartments set aside for the head of escort and his family. I only ask that you'd allow Meadowsweet time to absorb the shock and decide what she wants to do... We've offered her rooms here at the Smials, or we'll help her remove to her parents' farm.' When Haldi still did not speak, he added, 'And Mardi, as head of that branch of the family, has asked her to consider staying in Tuckborough with him and his family.' 

'No, Sir,' Haldi finally said.

'No?' Pippin echoed, wondering just which option the escort was objecting to.

'I won't take it on,' Haldi said, his lips set in a grim line. 'Tolly's head, not me.'

Pippin blinked. 'But he's...'

Before the Thain could pronounce the word dead, Haldi interrupted.

'I'll fill in for him while he's gone, at least until next year's Tournament, when p'rhaps the escort will find themselves with a new Head, but I'll not take the position he won with his steady hand and keen eye.' His gaze bored into the Thain. 'Finest archer in all the Shire – I'll not take that away from him.'

'You'll...' Pippin said slowly, '...fill in for him...'

Haldi gave a short, sharp nod. 'Aye, Sir,' he said. 'So do you have any orders for me this morning, Sir?'

Pippin sat staring at the escort for a long enough time that Regi felt the need to jump in. 'No orders for the moment, Haldi,' the Steward said. 'You may go.'

Haldi bowed to the Thain and then, somewhat ironically, to the Steward. 'Thank you, Sir,' he said, ostensibly to Pippin, but he was acknowledging Regi's dismissal.

When the door had closed behind the hobbit, Pippin looked to his steward. 'So what are we to do about Meadowsweet?' he said.

Regi shook his head. 'Tolly's Sweetie is a force unto herself... but at least Haldi won't be claiming the head's suite of rooms anytime soon. That means we can leave things as they are, for the moment, any road, and give her plenty of time for grieving before she has to make up her mind as to next steps.'

Pippin answered Regi's head-shake with one of his own. 'There's no such thing as "plenty of time for grieving",' he said. 'I'm almost surprised at you, Reg, for saying such a thing.'

And so, instead of saying None of your nonsense now, Pip, as he was so often moved to do, the Steward found himself begging the Thain's pardon for his careless choice of words.

*** 

Though Eglantine and Healers Woodruff and Evergreen would hardly have credited it, Meadowsweet and her babe-in-arms were gone from the Smials within the week. 'It unnerved her,' Diamond explained as she poured out cups of tea for Pippin and Eglantine after Farry had been tucked in for the night with a song and a story. 'Rattling around in that large suite, meant to accommodate even a large family since there's no telling what sort of hobbit will win the Tournament and the position of head...'

'The finest of archers,' Pippin said. 'That's the sort of hobbit we're talking about.'

'That's all fine and well,' Diamond said, 'but Tolly and Sweetie have only the one babe, as it were, and one on the way...'

'Had,' Pippin said, quietly emphasising the word. At Diamond's questioning look, he clarified. 'Tolly had only the one babe, as it were. To hear folk speak of him as if he's still in the world and will walk in through the door at any moment, well, it gives me a turn.'

He looked from Diamond to Eglantine and said, 'Dead is dead, so far as I'm concerned.' He spoke with an air of confidence that shook his listeners to their core, for he'd first been forced to look Death in the face at too young an age, had anticipated Death's touch too many times from that point onward, and now, he daily walked with the knowledge that he was fated to die sooner than later, considering the state of his lungs since the Old Gaffer's Friend* had got its hooks into him just after he'd come of age.

But Diamond caught her breath sharply, and her eyes shone with tears. 'Is that how you think of it?' she half-sobbed. 'You'll be dead and gone... really gone... cut off...'

Understanding, he took her hand in a firm grip between his two hands, squeezed her hand and then patted it gently. 'But I won't be gone, not at all,' he said quietly. 'I'll be at the Feast, waiting for you, of course, my heart. I'll only be a breath away...'

'While there's breath, there's life,' Eglantine murmured incongruously.

But Pippin nodded at his mother with a smile. 'Exactly!' he said. And turning back to Diamond, he said earnestly, 'And when you've taken the last sip that's in the cup, my love, and you put the cup down upon the table and look up, why... there I'll be, my arms spread wide to welcome you, and it'll be as if no time at all has passed since our parting.' His voice lower, he said, 'As if there were no parting at all, once we're there together again...'

But Diamond buried her head in his shoulder and gave herself up to her tears. Pippin released her hand, encircled her with his arms, and held her close and patted her back. Eglantine quietly rose from the table and left the room, groping her way to where little Faramir slept with a smile on his face. There, she sank down beside her small grandson and quietly wept at her own losses, both past and too clearly anticipated.

About a week later, bearing a lantern as if he meant to explore one of the abandoned, closed-off tunnels deep in the Great Smials, Pippin stepped over the threshold of the head of escort's apartments, for he and the Steward had discussed only that morning what to do with the furnishings belonging to Tolly and Meadowsweet.

Belonging to Meadowsweet, he reminded himself firmly. For where Tolly was, he'd have no need of the kind of furnishings to be found in the Great Smials. Not for the first time, Pippin wondered about the furnishings at the Feast. Did the hobbits there recline on blankets and picnic cloths on a grassy meadow? Were there tables and chairs, or one long table, stretching into the far distance, with benches lining either side? He shook his head to dispel the fancy and looked up to survey the sitting room, the first room one encountered after passing through the entryway from the public corridor.

Though he'd expected to see a darkened room sporting a fine layer of dust on all the surfaces after nearly a fortnight of emptiness, the lamps were lit and a small, cheerful fire burned on the hearth. Fresh fruit filled the bowl resting in the middle of the table, which had been polished to a high sheen. Pippin, blowing out his lantern and setting it upon the table, looked down to see his reflection in the wood.

No dust was evident, either, on the chairs or the mantel or the sideboard or the settee and easy chairs by the hearth. No spiders had been allowed to spin their webs in the absence of hobbit occupants. He wrinkled his nose and inhaled as deeply as his damaged lungs would allow, but no smell of dust came from the carpet or tapestries. Even the andirons in the fireplace gleamed with polishing.

Someone – Rusty, no doubt – was keeping the apartments as if Meadowsweet – or Tolly, he had to admit – might walk through the door at any moment.

'Have half the hobbits in the Smials lost their wits?' he wondered aloud. For over the past fortnight, too many of the Tooks and Tooklanders and servants he'd spoken with had talked about Tolly in the way one talks about someone who has just stepped out for a moment and will soon return. Sooner or later, Pippin thought, and shook his head at himself.

You're already daft enough that Regi has to regularly remind you to rein in your nonsense, you fool of a Took! he chided himself. Someone around here has got to keep a cool head.

But why does that have to be me? he thought rebelliously.

With a sigh, he took up the lantern, rubbed at the mark his carelessness had left on the glossy surface of the table – suddenly sure that if he should return later, the mark would have been buffed away – and took his leave, closing the door silently behind him.

*** 

Author's notes:

*Old Gaffer's Friend: Shire term for pneumonia, which could take a terrible toll on old and young alike.

The story of how Pimpernel and Ferdibrand finally came together as a result of a conspiracy between Pippin and Odovacar Bolger appears in Flames.

Even though it goes against a healer's principles to slip a potion into someone's drink without asking or telling them, I wouldn't put it past Mardi to have done something like that after they pulled Tolly out from under the fallen tree in the earlier chapter...

The disastrous hunt when Ferumbras was Thain is described in Pearl of Great Price, and more graphically in a dream Pippin has in StarFire. The hunt that Steward Reginard prevented Thain Peregrin from joining happens in The Thrum of Tookish Bowstrings (Part 1).

*** 

Chapter 11. Settling In

The day after Shirriff Hawfinch had knocked at their door, the injured hobbit seemed to come fully awake for the first time. He'd gained in strength, as well, for that day, he fed himself his entire breakfast, and little Lark clapped her hands and danced with joy, bringing a smile to the long face. 'He's getting better, Granda!' she carolled.

'So he is,' Gorbyl said, returning her smile. 'Why soon, lad, you'll be out o' the bed and going about your business without a second thought!'

'What is his business, Granda?' Lark asked curiously.

'He'll be better at telling you than I will, surely,' Gorbyl said. 'Well, lad? What d'you have to say for yourself?'

The hobbit opened his mouth to speak, but then he shut it again and shook his head. Seeing Lark's distress, he smiled gently and patted her hand.

'Don't pester him, lass,' Gorbyl said. 'I think he's still a bit tired. Now, aren't you supposed to help Flam with the washing up this morning?'

'Yes, Granda,' Lark said obediently.

But the injured hobbit's trouble became clearer as Gorbyl turned towards the door to the bedroom, saying, 'I'll just let you rest, now, shall I?'

For the fellow caught at the old hobbit's sleeve to stay him. 

Gorbyl turned and asked, 'What is it, lad?' 

He waited patiently as the hobbit strove to speak, but the words that emerged floored him. 'Who – who are you?'

'Why, I'm Gorbyl north-Took!' he said, offering a bow, though he was shaken by the implications of the question. Had he been mistaken in thinking this hobbit, who looked so much like his Wallas, might be his Wallas, returned home?

The fellow didn't seem to recognise the name, and the old hobbit's heart sank, until the next question brought him up short. 'Who... am... I?'

'Ye... ye...' he stumbled. He took hold of the hobbit's hand and sat down in the chair beside the bed. 'Are ye sayin' ye don't know who you are? Ye don't remember yer own name, lad?'

If this fellow was indeed Wallas, what had happened to his son, that he did not remember his own father? It was understandable that he didn't know the children, for the lads had been faunts when he'd left, and he'd never known Lark. And yet, he'd dragged himself to the cottage from... Gorbyl wasn't sure where he'd started from, or what had happened to him in the Wood to inflict the injuries they'd seen.

And if it wasn't Wallas but simply someone passing through the Wood, then why would the fellow have dragged himself to this cottage that was so far from the road running from East to West in the southern stretches of the Wood, and even farther from the road that ran between the Eastern edge of the Wood and the bog that lay beyond? No, but there was some mystery here.

Gorbyl solved the most pressing problem by patting the hand he held. 'Well then,' he said. 'I cannot simply say "Hoi, you there!" for it hardly seems practical. Why, I might be calling for anyone's attention, including the fox trying to sneak into the coop!' He got a faint smile for his efforts.

Looking earnestly into the troubled face, he said, 'How 'bout if we just call you "Wallas" for lack of another name, at least until you remember if you're called otherwise?'

The hobbit hesitated, then nodded. 'It's... as good as any,' he said. 'But what if I never remember?'

'Well then,' Gorbyl said practically, 'then we'll just keep calling you Wallas, for it's a sight better than "Hoi!" – wouldn't you say?'

Wallas's smile became more real, and Gorbyl nodded in satisfaction.

The old hobbit then tried to ask a few other pertinent questions, but besides not remembering his own name, the hobbit did not know where he'd come from or what his occupation was. 'One thing I can tell you,' Gorbyl said, and he turned over the fellow's hand in his palm. 'See those calluses,' he said. 'You're an archer, for certain, whatever else ye may do.' He smiled. 'O' course, the bow case and quiver on your back when we found ye may have given me another clue as to that.'

'Archer,' the hobbit said, rolling the word around his tongue as if it was somehow unfamiliar.

'O aye,' Gorbyl said. He reached under the bed and pulled out the quiver of blue-fletched arrows. 'This is yours.'

The hobbit took it, stirred the shafts with cautious finger and thumb, and then looked up and shook his head. 'I don't – don't remember.'

'We'll see,' Gorbyl said. 'In a day or two, when you're feeling stronger, we'll see if your body remembers how to shoot, even if your mind doesn't.'

He called the children in then and introduced them formally to their guest. After the fellow had repeated each one's name, Gorbyl said to the children, 'We have a little problem. Our friend here doesn't remember his name. So... we're going to call him Wallas for now. At least until he knows if he's our Wallas or not.'

'If I'm your Wallas?' the hobbit repeated quizzically.

'O aye,' Gorbyl said. 'If you're not our Wallas, then you could well be his twin!'

Lark said, 'Just a moment!' and scurried from the room. She was soon back with the picture from the mantel, which she thrust into the injured hobbit's hand. 'There!' she said triumphantly. 'That's you!' And she pointed to her father's face in the rendering.

'That's me?' the hobbit said, looking carefully. But he shook his head. 'I don't even know my own face, it seems,' he muttered.

Gorbyl nudged Flam. 'Bring your mum's looking glass,' he whispered. The lad nodded and left the room, not quite so quickly as his little sister. But he quickly returned, the silver-handled looking glass in his hand. It had been Gorbyl's "welcome" present to Dove upon her wedding to Wallas.

Flam extended the looking glass to the hobbit in the bed, and he shifted the painting to his left hand and took the hand-mirror with his right and held them up together, scrutinising his face and obviously comparing his reflection to the likeness. 'So that is my face?' he said. 'That's what I look like?' He nodded and added, 'I can see why you think I'm your Wallas...' He laid the glass and the painting down gently in his lap and looked around the circle of watching eyes, tears in his own. 'And this is my beloved? She's so lovely...' He stroked Dove's face with a gentle finger. 'How I wish I could remember...'

'But you're weary,' Gorbyl said, taking up the hand-mirror and the painting from the bed. He placed both on top of the chest near the bed. 'I'll just leave these here so you can get to know your face again whenever you feel the need,' he said. His heart twisted for the poor fellow – what must it be like not to know his own name, his own face, his own family and history? To reach for memories and come up with only emptiness?

But all he said was, 'As I said, if you aren't our Wallas, then you could be his twin! Why, you look more like him than his own brother – or your own brother – Gorbas, whom Wallas and Dove named young Gorbol-here for! That's why we thought you showed up at our door in the first place; we thought you were doing your best to make your way home again, and you weren't going to let any injuries stop you!'

'I have a brother?' the hobbit said, his face showing his distress. 'But I don't remember him! And I don't remember any of you! It's as if you're all strangers to me!'

Lark's face showed her distress. 'But you're our Da!' she protested.

With obvious reluctance, the hobbit said, 'I'm sorry, lass... but I don't know you.' With an attempt at a wry smile, he added, 'But then, I don't even know myself...'

'She wasn't born yet when you went away, Da,' Flam said earnestly. 'That's why you wouldn't know her.'

'She wasn't... d'you mean I went away when she wasn't even born yet? And I've been gone so many years?' the fellow said to the lad, obviously horrified. He looked at Lark in apology, then turned to Gorbyl and demanded, 'What kind of rogue am I?'

'You're not a rogue!' Gorbi said fiercely, throwing his arms around the fellow in a hug. 'Mum always said you were kept away against your will, she knew you were! She said you'd come back to us again, Da, no matter what!'

'And you did!' Flam agreed. 'You came back!'

Returning Gorbi's hug, the hobbit looked helplessly at the old grandfa.

'I think that's enough for now,' the old hobbit said, picking up Lark and then gently pulling his older grandson away. 'Come, my lad and my lass, I think we've wearied our friend beyond his strength. We must let him sleep. Flam, you'll stay?'

'O' course, Grandfa,' Flam said with a firm nod. He sat down in the watcher's chair next to the bed and took hold of the injured hobbit's near hand. 'All will be well, Wallas,' he said. 'You don't mind if we call you "Wallas", I think you said? Now, close your eyes and rest, as Grandfa said, and I'll sing you a song to ease your aching head.'

'How did you know it was aching?' Wallas said, looking from one hobbit to another one more time. He nodded as if in apology for his weakness, and then he obediently lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

Instead of answering, Flam began to hum and then to sing.

The leaves are all turning now deep in the Wood, (deep in the Wood)
Greens to yellows and golds 
  (and with reds they are burning).
Deepest blue is the sky shining high o'er the trees (o'er the trees)
As the clouds go bowling by.

So we'll sing of the Winter, we'll sing of the Spring (sing of the Spring)
While the wild birds take wing to go look for the Sun.
  (Still the world goes on turning.)
We must gather the nuts and the berries and seeds (berries and seeds)
Now that Autumn is begun.     

Humming along with the gentle lullaby, Gorbyl stole quietly from the room with his other two grands.

The old hobbit returned after second breakfast and found the fellow still sleeping and Flam drowsing though still holding the injured hobbit's hand. 'Go and eat, laddie-mine,' he said softly. 'There's scones from yesterday's baking, and honey or bramble jam to sweeten them, and a pitcher of fresh milk to wash them down.' He put the plate and mug he'd brought on the chest to await their patient's awakening and then took Flam's place next to the bed.

When he saw the eyelids flutter, he leaned forward and murmured. 'Are ye hungry, lad?'

The fellow's eyes opened ­– eyes of the same dark, mysterious green as Wallas's eyes; surely the hobbit in the bed was his son! ...and he nodded.

Gorbyl helped him sit up, propped pillows behind him, and turned to pick up the plate and mug. 'Milk,' he said in answer to the questioning glance, 'as you don't appear to care all that much for tea...?'

Another nod, part confirmation and part thanks.

Gorbyl had smeared some of the scones on the plate with honey and the rest with jam. 'I didn't know if you had a preference, but if you don't care for one or the other, I'll finish them off and spare you the trial of choking down food that's not to your taste just to be polite.'

He got a grin for his efforts, and the hobbit picked up a scone and took a bite, then gestured to the plate, indicating that Gorbyl should help himself.

The old hobbit leaned back in his chair, still holding the mug of milk, and said, 'I et already.' He lifted the mug and said, 'Just let me know when you'd like some milk.'

'Thankee,' the hobbit said.

Gorbyl talked quietly as the fellow ate and drank, carrying the majority of the conversation. Perhaps the sound of his voice, the sound of words strung together, would help unlock Wallas's memories.

And it seemed to be working! For after washing down a bite of his fifth or sixth scone, Wallas said thoughtfully, 'I dreamed...'

'What was it you dreamed, lad?' Gorbyl said, infusing his tone with all the encouragement he could muster.

Wallas seemed to look into a far distance. 'I held a babe in my arms – and I knew that the babe was mine! As if I were remembering in my dream what my waking mind cannot.'

A babe, Gorbyl thought. Though Lark had not yet been born when Wallas disappeared, young Gorbi and Flam had been mere faunts. Was the hobbit, perhaps, remembering the early years of one or both of his sons?

The old hobbit cleared his throat. 'Speaking of babes...' he said.

Wallas favoured him with a look of inquiry.

'It's little Lark,' he said uncomfortably. 'She's that upset that you don't know her – that you don't, at this point, consider yourself her da. It's got her very upset... She hardly ate a bite of second breakfast. And she's such a little thing, she's likely to blow away on a light breeze if she doesn't eat!'

Not to mention, a hobbit that doesn't eat is all too soon no hobbit at all, as the old Shire proverb warns. Though adults could get by on fewer than six meals a day and had even survived on starvation rations during the Dearth of historical times and in the Lockholes during the Troubles, children could become seriously ill or even die for lack of food. Their bodies needed sustenance to grow on as well as for the energy they expended in daily living.

'And so,' the old hobbit said hesitantly, 'I'd consider it a personal favour, like, if you could... if you would...'

'If I would what?'

'If you'd allow the childer to call you "Da". I know it's a great imposition, when you don't remember them and feel you might not merit such an honour, but...'

'But it's for the little one's good and not her harm,' Wallas said, his eyes darkening with sorrow at the thought he was stumbling such a little child, and over a point that might be construed as pride on his part.

The hobbit in the bed was a thoughtful fellow, it was clear to the old hobbit. Doing right by others seemed important to him. At least, that was Gorbyl's impression from their interactions over the past few days.

But the matter was not to be so simple. For when the little family gathered together for their usual evening singing after eventides, and Wallas invited the children to address him as "Da", little Lark burst into tears and ran from the room.

*** 

Chapter 12. Home Is Where the Hart Is

A week after they'd found him in the berry garden, Wallas was on his feet, seeming fully recovered except for his halting speech. When the hobbit had first indicated he wanted to get out of the bed, just after finishing breakfast, Gorbyl had helped him dress in some of long-ago Wallas's old clothing, kept folded in the clothes press waiting for their owner's return. The fine fit of the clothing only reinforced his conviction that the recovering hobbit was his own son, returned to the Wood after unknowable experiences.

'My... my own clothes?' Wallas asked.

'These are your clothes now,' Gorbyl said. 'The clothes we found you in aren't fit for rags.'

'What...?' Wallas said. 'How...?'

The old hobbit shook his head. 'I don't know, lad,' he said. 'I don't know what happened to you, but you were at death's door when we found you in the berry garden.'

'Berry garden?' Wallas asked, then said, 'Show me. Please.' Perhaps he was naturally polite, or perhaps he'd heard Gorbyl talking to Flam about forgetting to use please and thank you consistently. 

In any event, the old hobbit nodded and sat himself down next to Wallas. 'Here now,' he said. 'You're a solid-enough fellow. Put your arm over my shoulders and stand up when I do.'

After they stood up together, he instructed Wallas to take a few steps whilst he provided support to the fellow. 'Don't want you to fall on your nose, after all,' he said. When they'd walked to the bedroom door, they were greeted by the two lads' cheers, along with a solemn Lark who simply nodded and said, 'Good.'

Wallas pulled his arm from Gorbyl's shoulders and bent to address the lass. Though he was a bit wobbly, it was clear that he was rapidly improving in terms of balance and strength. 'How is it with you, Lark?'

She shrugged, but then stared into his face and said, 'You don't know me. You're not my da.'

'Now lass,' Gorbyl began, but Wallas held up his hand as he straightened, still looking into Lark's face.

'I hope to know you,' he said. 'If you'll give me the chance, that is.'

But a child's heart is not always easily won. 'I have eggs to gather,' she said, and turned on her heel.

And when Gorbyl opened his mouth to speak to her about her behaviour, Wallas caught his eye and shook his head. 'Don't,' he said. 'I think she...' he paused, and a faraway look came into his eye.

'Are you remembering something?' Gorbyl asked slowly, pushing down excitement lest he scare the memory away somehow.

Wallas came back from where ever his mind had wandered. '...she needs some time,' he said, and blinked. 'I remembered someone... but she's gone again.'

'Dove?' the old hobbit ventured in a whisper, but Wallas shook his head and repeated, 'Gone.'

'No worries, lad,' Gorbyl said, patting Wallas on the shoulder. 'It's a good sign. You had a flash o' memory just now; I could see it in your eyes. More will come in time. I'm sure of it.' His brows knitted in thought. 'The memories may come first in small flashes and be gone again, or they might come in your dreams. And from what I know, if you tell me or the childer about your dreams as soon as you awaken, you'll have a better chance of holding on to the memories they bring.'

Wallas favoured Gorbyl with a keen, questioning look. 'Are you a healer?' he said. 'I don't... remember if you said...'

The old hobbit chuckled. 'I'm an herb-gatherer, lad, so I do work with healers on occasion. And I spent the better part of a year in their company, back when Bolham's band was worrying at the ruffians that young Pimple Baggins loosed on the Shire. Mine is no seven-year knowledge,' he said, naming the term of apprenticeship that most healers served at the beginning of their training, 'but still, they taught me a lot, there in our hiding in the Wood as we cared for the sick and injured and wounded.'

'An herb-gatherer,' Wallas said, and the faraway look was back. 'My da...' he said.

'What about your da?' Gorbyl said, again adopting the quiet tone that, from his experience, could encourage half-remembered memories to become clearer.

'I remember herb-gathering,' Wallas said vaguely. 'I used to help him in the Wood...' And then his eyes focused once more, and he goggled at Gorbyl. 'Does that mean...?' he said, and wonder shone in his eyes... and a small dawning of hope, perhaps?

'It just may be,' Gorbyl said, patting him on the shoulder again. 'We'll just go on as we are unless something happens to turn us from our course.' He added, more deliberately, 'My boy.'

'I want...' Wallas said, and continued, '...to see the Wood! To...' After another momentary pause, as if he had a basket on his arm and was gathering the words from the ground at his feet, he said, 'To renew our acquaintance!' And then, to Gorbyl's delight, he laughed and poked the older hobbit's arm. 'Didn't think I had it in me, did you?' he jested.

'O nae,' the old hobbit said, returning the poke. 'You've much more in you, I'm sure! But make haste as slowly as need be, Wallas. Don't strain your brains by wracking them, as Gorbas always used to tell you!'

'Did he now?' Wallas said, and he smiled. 'Sounds like just the thing an older brother would say.'

'As it was,' Gorbyl said.

Wallas nodded. 'Be that as it may,' he said, and stopped as if savouring the phrase that had emerged so smoothly. Then he gestured towards the door of the cottage ahead of them, which Lark had left open when she'd gone to feed the chickens and gather eggs.

'I'm always reminding the lass to close the door,' Gorbyl said apologetically as they walked towards the doorway and the gold-and-scarlet Wood shining beyond.

'Children take time, and if you'll give them the time, in time you'll see the reward,' Wallas said, and cocked his head. 'Where did I hear that?'

'It's a common enough saying,' Gorbyl responded. 'Dove said it often to you when the lads were only faunts.'

An expression of pain crossed Wallas's face. 'I wish I could remember,' he said wistfully. 'I've missed so much of their lives... you'd think I could remember them for the years I was here.'

'You will,' Gorbyl encouraged him. 'If you give it the time, in time you'll see the reward.'

They paused at the threshold, drinking in the sight of the flame-coloured canopy under an intensely blue sky, accompanied by a faint smell of wood smoke and crumbling leaves and leaf mould. 'How could I have forgot this?' Wallas said, drawing a deep breath.

Gorbyl nodded. 'It's ever changing and yet ever the same,' he said. 'The Wood looked just like this, that autumn when the ruffians came and began to harry the Shire-folk with their cruelties and thievin' ways. And it looked very much like this when we finally chased them away again a year later!'

'Ruffian traps,' Wallas said thoughtfully, and Gorbyl clapped him on the back.

'Aye!' he said. 'That's right! You and your brother and a few others of Bolham's band grew quite skilled at digging pits and covering them over, as well as setting snares for Lotho's louts to step foot into!'

'I remember...' Wallas said in wonder. 'I do remember that...'

They stepped out of the cottage, and walked across the large covered veranda that Gorbyl had built, years ago, for a place to hang wet laundry of a rainy day, or to sit and watch the rain, or to enjoy some extra shade in especially fine weather. 

They walked out into the yard, the fallen leaves crunching pleasantly under their feet. Both of them drew a deep breath at the same time, let it out again, exchanged a wry glance and laughed. 'How I love this season, when the Wood dons her brightest gown and dances under the autumn sky,' the old hobbit said. 'The squirrels are storing up nuts, and so are we! And the berries are still to be found in the brambles, though perhaps not as thick as they were a month ago...'

'And wandering hobbits can also be found in the brambles,' Wallas said slyly. His speech was coming more smoothly, Gorbyl noted, for he did not seem to be groping for the words he wanted as much as he had previously. He had great hopes that the younger hobbit's memories would return in the same way his speech seemed to be recovering.

But before Gorbyl could guide him towards the bramble patch that constituted the family's berry-garden, Wallas stopped at seeing the target fixed to a mound of dirt. When Gorbyl had built their homemade shooting range, he had placed the butts with forethought so that the archer would be shooting into the woods and not towards the smial or byre or coop.

'Our own archery butts,' the old hobbit said now, noting his younger companion's curiosity. Was that a look of keen interest in the fellow's eye? Casually, he added, 'I've been teaching the lads to shoot...'

'Good,' Wallas said. 'I thought they looked old enough.' And then he looked surprised, and said, as if to himself, 'How do I know that?'

'You're an archer yourself,' Gorbyl said, 'remember?'

But Wallas shook his head.

Gorbyl whistled sharply, and Flam soon appeared in the doorway to the cot. 'Bring Wallas's bow case and quiver!' he said to his grandson, and Flam waved a hand and disappeared again.

Soon the lad was jogging towards them, carrying the quiver of blue-feathered arrows and bow case.

Wallas slowly took the bow from its case, but to his surprise, the unstrung weapon did not look at all familiar. Even so, when he closed his eyes, somehow his hands seemed to recognise the feel of it. He opened his eyes again, but fumbled in his attempts to string the bow – and ultimately failed. From the corner of his eye, he saw Flam's mouth open, but old Gorbyl shushed what ever the child had been about to say.

Wallas closed his eyes once more, running his hands over the bow before stringing it in a swift, smooth motion. 

Why, I can string and nock and shoot with my eyes closed! rang in his memories, a familiar-sounding voice, though he could not have named the speaker. 

And perhaps you can string the bow and nock a shaft with your eyes closed, he thought. But no one can shoot and find the target so!

He slung the quiver over his shoulder and fumbled to select an arrow. 'This is not as easy as it looks, I fear,' he murmured to the wide-eyed lad. Nocking the arrow, too, was difficult so long as he was thinking about what he was doing. He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and forced his muscles to relax and then, once again as smoothly as if he'd been born to the bow (or so my brothers used to say to me, the voice in the back of his mind whispered, but that was wrong – he couldn't trust that voice – for he'd had only one brother, Gorbas, as far as he knew), he touched the shaft to the string, felt it nock, and drew.

But his troubles returned when he opened his eyes to mark the target. He adjusted his stance without thinking and did his best to aim. His fingers seemed like a stranger's to him, and the bow, with his eyes open, transformed from a familiar presence to a stiffened piece of unliving wood. Doggedly, he completed the motion. Aim. Release.

'Missed,' he said aloud, watching the shaft speed past the mound, having bypassed the target by a wide margin.

Gorbyl stepped forward and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. 'You were at one time a fair shot, as I remember,' he said. 'It'll just take some practice to hone your skills once more, I deem. Even the finest of archers must practise.'

'A far cry from the finest of archers, I am,' Wallas said ruefully. 'Still, perhaps I can paralyse a deer with laughter when my arrows miss him by a mile, and...'

His self-deprecation was interrupted by a high-pitched scream that arose part-way between the shooting range and the coop. All of them turned – Gorbyl, Flam and Wallas – to see a wild-eyed stag, pawing the ground, head lowered to bring his rack of antlers to bear on... tiny Lark! ...her egg basket hanging forgotten from her arm, her eyes wide with terror and her face devoid of all colour.

'Stand still, lass!' Gorbyl cried in a shaking voice. 'Don't run from him! Walk away, slow-like!'

But the maddened creature charged.

In little more than the time it might take to wink an eye, Wallas reached over his shoulder, retrieved – by the feel of it alone on his fingertips! – an arrow tipped with a wicked hunting pyle, and nocked and loosed in a smooth motion without even seeming to take aim.

All three archers standing there – old Gorbyl, Wallas, and young Flam – stood frozen, staring as the bow thrummed on a deep note and the arrow sped to the target. Wallas, shooting by instinct and relying purely upon the memory his muscles retained, rather than using his head, had so skilfully aimed that the hart ran straight into the arrow's path as he charged, head down, at the petrified child in front of him. 

The power behind the speeding shaft knocked the deer from his feet, and as he tried to rise, a second arrow hit home, and he staggered and sank to the ground.

By the time the second arrow found its mark, Flam was already running to his small sister, and Gorbyl followed more slowly, his hand pressed to his chest. Young Gorbi practically flew from the doorway of the cot, where he'd paused on seeing Wallas draw the bow, so that the brothers almost collided as they reached their sister and fell to their knees in the dirt and crumbled leaves, begging Lark to speak to them. For the tiny lass had dropped to the ground as the hart charged and now curled in a small, terrified ball, hiding her eyes from onrushing death.

Wallas still held his bow at the ready, a third arrow nocked to the string, as he moved to the fallen stag. It looked to him as if the second arrow had impacted in or near the beast's heart, bringing it a mercifully quick death. As he stared in disbelief at the results of his split-second shooting, he heard Gorbyl's voice, soothing, 'There-there, lass. All's well. All's well. But if a rutting stag challenges you, you must never drop to the ground! Just back away, slowly, lass. Climb a tree if you can. Remember that for me, child.'

Half-listening, but reassured by the old hobbit's words and tone that little Lark was safe and well, Wallas reached the deer. When he was certain the creature was dead, he un-nocked the shaft he'd held in reserve and slipped it back into his quiver, then closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

Wallas heard Gorbyl's voice approaching, and opening his eyes, he turned to meet the old hobbit, trying to put on a smile and speak lightly despite the tension still zinging through his frame. As he started to say, 'Meat for the pot,' he was interrupted when Lark launched herself from her grandfa's arms. Somehow, though the bow was still in his hand, Wallas managed to catch her in mid-air and pull her to his chest.

The little one was gulping and sobbing, and Wallas held her close, secure, murmuring words of comfort. 'You're safe, my lass. Safe...'

And then he heard the words she was repeating, over and over, laced with her sobs. 'Da...! Da...! You saved me! O Da...!'

He felt Gorbyl's hand on the bow and surrendered it, gladly hugging Lark against his chest, the fingers of his bow hand now freed to stroke her hair gently. 'My little lass,' he said. 'My own.'

*** 

Chapter 13. A Visit to the North Farthing

'I don't know about this,' Steward Reginard said slowly, looking down at the message sheaf in his hand and then up again to meet the Thain's demanding gaze. 'Look what happened when you sent your Messenger in response to Bolham's earlier invitation! Bindbole Wood has already claimed one Took! I'm not sure we ought to risk more – especially not when one of them would be our Thain!'

'Regi,' Pippin said in exasperation. Honestly, had he not known that his Steward possessed not a single grain of humour, much less imagination, he'd've accused the older hobbit of engaging in whimsical thinking. It seemed to be his lot to be surrounded with such these days, and in his estimation, the whimsy was growing ever stronger with the passing of time.

First, the day after she'd been informed of her terrible loss, Meadowsweet had awakened and thrown off her mourning. Not long after, Haldi, that stalwart and steady Took, had refused to acknowledge Tolly's death. And even today, Rusty continued to maintain the apartments of the head of escort as if he expected Tolly's return any day now. Daily, the Tooks around the Thain were increasingly referring to Tolly in the present tense when they mentioned him. On further thought, it seemed to Pippin that the hobbits he encountered on a regular basis were mentioning Tolly much more often than was usual more than a fortnight after a hobbit's departure for the Feast.

'There's historical precedent!' Regi argued. 'In the time of Bandobras Bullroarer, many Tooks went to the North Farthing and never returned to the Tookland again!'

'D'you honestly think Tolly's followed suit?' Pippin challenged. 'Found a new life in the North-lands, and changed his name to "north-Took"?'

'None of your nonsense now, lad,' Regi chided.

To tell the truth, Pippin nearly breathed a sigh of relief at hearing the familiar rebuke aimed at him rather than feeling the need to issue it himself, which was happening all too often these days.

'P'rhaps there's something in the water,' he muttered under his breath. He wasn't sure whether he was referring to Tooks becoming north-Tooks or the spreading absurdity he perceived in the Great Smials and surrounding area. Why, he himself had even recently referred to Tolly as if the hobbit were in the present and not relegated to the past!

'What was that?' Regi said.

'I could use a glass of water,' Pippin amended, a little louder. Regi nodded and poured him a glass from the pitcher, refreshed hourly with icy spring water per Diamond's request, that stood upon the side table in the Thain's study. 

Pippin thanked him, drank deeply, and then returned to business. 'Detail Haldi and Hilly to ride with me,' he said. 'Tell them we'll overnight at the inn in Bolton, or perhaps we ought to plan on two nights, to allow a full day to inspect Bolham's flocks and two days of unhurried travel.'

*** 

A few days after Lark's rescue from the charging stag, Gorbyl and Wallas had followed a footpath to the eastern edge of the Wood, intending to gather some plants and their roots that grew under the trees, along with a few to be found in the marshy ground on the other side of the lesser road to Oatbarton. That road ran between Wood's eastern reaches and the Oatbrook, a stream that flowed southward, winding its way somewhat east of Overhill and Hobbiton and ending in the Bywater Pool. 

From where they stood, just inside the canopy of trees, they could see the outskirts of Bolton a mile or so north of them, standing on the far side of the road on rising ground past the end of the marsh. The small community, which had been rebuilt after the Scouring of the Shire, was situated near the lands that Red Bolham farmed, perhaps a dozen miles south of Oatbarton. 

About five miles or so south of where the herb-gatherers looked out on the day, the soft, soggy ground that lay just beyond the road gave way to a treacherous bog near the south-eastern corner of the Wood. Now, as he pointed out various features and landmarks visible from where their path emerged from the Wood and joined the north-south road, Gorbyl warned Wallas to steer well clear of that area if he were to go out hunting or gathering alone. 'Too many have been lost in the bog,' he said, 'never to see the light o' day again.'

'I've no intention of going near the place,' Wallas said. He shifted his large gathering basket on his arm.

'I'm that glad to hear it,' Gorbyl responded. He studied the sky for a few moments, taking advantage of the clear view provided by the open fields. 'Another fine day,' he observed to Wallas. 'I'm thinking the weather will hold a few more days, at the least, which bodes well for the gathering.'

'Make hay whilst the Sun shines,' Wallas said inconsequentially.

'If we were farmers, perhaps!' Gorbyl laughed. 'But I'm glad enough to work in the Wood and not in the open fields... We can start in the marsh and work our way homewards through the Wood,' the old hobbit concluded, but as he began to move into the open, with Wallas at his side, both gatherers were arrested by the sight of travellers, coming from the South, trotting their ponies northward on the little road.

'Well now!' Gorbyl said. 'I wonder who these might be! Harvest is still in full swing, and Bolton's Yuletide Faire is still weeks away – a good fortnight more than a month off! It's not the usual time of year for Outlanders to visit the North Farthing...'

'How d'you know they're Outlanders?' Wallace asked, for the figures seemed somehow familiar to him, though he couldn't begin to fathom why that might be.

'Their dress, for one thing,' Gorbyl said. 'The styles in the South-lands are just a bit different than sensible hobbits wear hereabouts. But then, the Wind blows colder here in the North-lands. See, lad,' he said, pointing at the travellers now passing on the road, not quite close enough to where the gatherers stood for a halloo though close enough for a wave if they'd been so inclined. 'Those rolls tied on top of the saddlebags? Heavy cloaks! And see how they're dyed – dark-green! Winter cloaks ought to be woven of bleached wool, to blend in with the snows that fall upon the downs!'

He shook his head and added, 'Not to mention that these Southerners are carrying heavy cloaks with them, as if it's winter already... If they think the North-farthing wind is cold now, when it's only autumn, I'd hate to see them freezing their bums off in winter's icy chill! It's enough to make you wonder about how Southern folk manage...'

And then he turned to Wallas and said, 'Beg pardon, lad. I ought not to say such a thing.' At least he hadn't vented his feelings in front of the childer, for (as is a byword, and not only in the Shire), little pitchers can have big ears.

'Beg pardon for what?' Wallas said in return, slapping Gorbyl on the back, even as his eyes continued to follow the northbound riders. 'For my part, I'd hate to see them freezing any body parts off, including their backsides!'

***

Only a few days ago, Hawfinch had confirmed to Gorbyl and Wallas that they'd identified the missing hobbit connected with the pony that had been found a few weeks ago as a Southerner in part because of the heavy, dark-hued cloak that had been tightly rolled and fastened to the empty saddle, and that's why the Tooks had come north to mount a search in the southern part of the Wood where the pony had been found, as well as in the environs of the bog where the hobbit's hat had been discovered. 'Lost in the bog, it seems. What a pity.'

The Shirriff had stopped by the cot as Gorbyl and Wallas prepared for their gathering expedition, which included leaving instructions with the childer as to keeping themselves safe and completing the necessary chores until the grown-ups returned. Gorbyl had introduced him to Wallas – whose memories of the past remained almost non-existent, making it likely that he wouldn't know Hawfinch even though they'd hunted ruffians together during the Troubles. When Wallas had turned to face him, the Shirriff's eyes had widened in recognition. 'Wallas?' he'd gasped. 'You're back?'

The Shirriff had only to look to the children's shining faces to confirm the situation.

'So it seems,' Wallas had answered with a sheepish look and a shrug. It bothered him more than he'd like to admit that the sight of Hawfinch's face stirred no memories at all, though the Shirriff had known him immediately, even ten years after they'd last talked or hoisted a pint together.

Hawfinch had seized his hand and drawn him in for a backslapping hug. 'I thought I'd ne'er see you again in the life! Welcome home, you blast... er... blessed wanderer!'

Wallas managed a chuckle at the Shirriff's quick-witted change to avoid using rough language in front of the grinning children, and he slapped Hawfinch's back with equal enthusiasm. However, his smile dimmed as he stepped back and offered Hawfinch an archer's salute. 'It's good to be home,' he said. 'I wish I could say the same for my brother.' He shook his head. 'For all my wanderings, I've naught to show but empty hands.'

Gorbyl, sensing Wallas's disquiet, laid a soothing hand on the younger hobbit's shoulder. 'He managed to find his way home to us again, even though he had no memory of us or the place when he awakened,' the old hobbit explained. 'He still doesn't know how he came to be here, or even where he'd come from before turning his face towards home.'

'You came back to us; that's the important thing,' Hawfinch maintained. 'Bless you, lad... and I'm sorry for the loss of your lovely Dove while you were gone. I'm sure it was a shock...'

Wallas looked down and shook his head sadly, and Hawfinch dropped the subject, saying only, 'Well, I've got to be about my rounds. I'm out o' my territory, but I thought I'd bring ye the news about the missing Took since I was the one who told ye about him i' the first place.'

The others followed him out the door, where they stopped for a few parting words.

'Much obliged to ye for bringin' the news,' Gorbas said. 'But remember you're welcome here any time you should stray out o' your territory. There's always time to brew a "pot o' hot" cheer.'

'Make mine bark tea, and I'll take you up on it,' Hawfinch said, stepping off the veranda and turning back to say his good-bye.

Wallas's smile became more genuine as he lifted his hand in farewell. 'A hobbit after my own heart,' he said.

Hawfinch grinned. 'Aye,' he said. 'We always were, were we not?' He chuckled, shook his head, and said, 'Good to ha' ye back, for sure and all, old friend.' And then he turned and walked away.

*** 

'Heavy cloaks,' Wallas said meditatively, wrenching Gorbyl's thoughts back to the present. 'How curious...' he said, and stopped, watching the riders pass.

It wasn't the heavy cloaks he found curious, as it turned out, but the riders themselves. 'Two of them are archers,' Wallas said, turning his head to follow them as they continued northwards. 'But the third bears no weapons, to all appearances. You'd think, if it were a hunting party, that all of them would have quivers on their backs.'

'True,' Gorbyl said. 'I would hazard that they've not come to hunt the deer, at that.' He scratched his head under his cap. 'Besides,' he added, 'there must be plenty of deer in the Southlands! No need for hunters to ride all this way to find deer! And they've no pack-beast with them to carry the carcases home again.'

'I might think they were more protectors than hunters,' Wallas mused. 'Two who bear arms, flanking one who is unarmed...' He shook his head and flashed Gorbyl a wry smile. 'To be honest, I find such a thing appealing...'

'You do?' the old hobbit said in surprise.

'O aye,' Wallas answered. 'Certainly, we hunted ruffians in the old days, but I don't remember ever taking much joy of it.'

'You remember hunting ruffians?' Gorbyl probed.

Wallas shrugged. 'A little,' he admitted. 'Flashes here and there. Bits and pieces of a dream when I awaken...' He shuddered then, but did not explain further. 'And o' course, I killed that stag that was practically in our yard... but I took no pleasure in bringing down that magnificent creature.'

'No, but you had to bring him down, or we'd've lost our Lark for sure and certain!' Gorbyl protested.

Wallas shook his head. 'I know,' he said, but his tone was rueful. 'Just as I know that hunting for the pot is needful for hobbits, and cutting down a certain number of deer is necessary for the deer themselves, else they'd grow too numerous for the Wood to sustain them, and starve...' He sighed. 'But, as I said, I take no satisfaction in taking a life, whether it be a deer or a fox or a rogue Man.'

'Since when ha' ye felt this way, lad?' Gorbyl said. In the dim recesses of memory, he could see Wallas's grin as his older brother Gorbas clapped him on the back after a well-placed shot. Hobbits did not hunt for sport, of course, but they could still derive a thrill from the chase and the reward, whether eliminating a predator that menaced the coop or flock, or hunting with an eye to filling the larder with smoked or dried meat and the stewpot with fresh venison or fowl or coney.

That faraway look was back as Wallas said, 'I don't know...'

Gorbas patted him on the shoulder as he so often had over the past few days, whenever Wallas's memories troubled him with their elusiveness. 'All's well, lad,' he said. 'Something probably happened to you afore you came here, to make you feel that way.'

Wallas nodded, looking a last time after the receding riders, and said, 'I expect you have the right of it, old hobbit.'

*** 

After they'd returned home, while Wallas and the childer tied the gathered herbs in bunches to hang and dry, Gorbyl went to see the bees, as he always did at the end of the day. He laid his palm against the nearest hive to feel the deep humming inside as evening came on and the temperature dropped. 'Hurry yersel' home now, ladies!' he called to the few stragglers returning.

'It was a good day,' he told the bees. 'With Wallas's help, we gathered twice what I might've gathered alone... and o' course there was the pleasure o' his company...' But then his smile faded. 'But I ha' to tell ye, ladies...' He fell silent then, groping for the words. 'He's changed, my Wallas,' he said at last. 'I can't quite account for it. I don't know what to think, at all.'

He listened to the steady hum of the bees warming their home with their wings and said, 'How's he changed, you'd like to know?' He drew a deep breath and sighed it out again. 'He's a crack shot, for one. I hate to think how he learnt such... them Outlands must be a dangerous place, for him to have learnt to shoot so well. He must've trained, or practised without ceasing, or somethin' to that effect!'

The bees never left off their quiet hum as Gorbyl stopped speaking. At last, the old hobbit resumed. 'And that shot that took down the stag... not many I know of could've made that shot, not even Bolham himself on his best day in the Wood, back when we were hunting ruffians. Must've been desperation that done it, aye, that's what it must've been.'

The old hobbit nodded to himself and to the bees, but then he burst out, 'Yet he took no pleasure innit! I can remember so well his whoop when he made a clean kill i' the past – no, not that he hunted for the sport of it, mind you, but... but he used to be so pleased after bagging a good-sized hart, proud of hisself, and basking in our praise, Gorbas's and mine... But e'en though he shot to save our Lark, he looked almost sad to have brought down that magnificent creature, not happy or proud...!'

In a lower voice, he confided, 'I don't know what to make of it at all.'

And then young Gorbi was calling from the cot, 'Tea's on, Grandfa!' Why, his communing with the bees must have stretched much longer than he'd realised!

'G'night, ladies,' Gorbyl whispered.

Then he removed his hand from the hive and its soothing, steady humming, and began to trot back to the house. Happily, he hadn't noticed any chest pains of late. Perhaps Wallas's return had healed his broken heart. When he deemed he was far enough from the hives that he wouldn't disturb the bees, he raised his voice to shout. 'I'm coming!'

Wallas met him at the door. 'Good thing I don't care all that much for tea!' the younger hobbit said. 'Or I'd've drunk up the pot by the time you got here!'

'He was going to eat up all the buns and scrambled eggs, but I told him he had to wait!' Lark said officiously.

'Aye, that she did,' Wallas confirmed. 'I tried to tell my little songbird that it's the worm the late bird gets, not the buns and scrambled eggs, but she wouldn't believe me!'

'That's the early bird!' Lark corrected.

Laughing, the adults shooed her before them as they walked to the table where the lads were already standing and waiting for them. And after the eventide meal was done, Wallas tucked the childer into their beds with a kiss for each and a lullaby for all before joining Gorbyl to finish the washing up.

Pity we cannot wash our worries away as quick as we can clean these plates, the old hobbit thought to himself, but when Wallas joined him and began drying and putting away, Gorbyl only smiled at him and did his best to tuck his worries away. He remembered the bees' advice: stay steady. Worries never do a body good.

'Aye, and they ha' the right of it,' he said aloud.

'What's that, old hobbit?' Wallas said.

'Just something the bees told me,' Gorbyl answered.

'Ah,' Wallas nodded wisely. 'We could learn a few things from those busy lasses.'

'Indeed we can,' Gorbyl agreed.

And then it was time to turn in and seek their own pillows. But sleep eluded Gorbyl that night, and what dreams he had, though he did not remember them upon awakening, were not restful ones.

***  

Chapter 14. Heroes and Otherwise

After a pleasant and uneventful day in the saddle, the travellers pulled up in the sunny yard of a prosperous-looking farm. 

A tall, well-muscled farmer emerged from the long, low smial, booming a greeting. 'Well come, Captain Peregrin and company!'      

'Captain Bolham, I presume!' Pippin called in reply, swinging down from his pony. 

'You'd presume rightly, my friend!' Bolham said. 'Or should I call you "long-lost cousin"?' He took the hand Pippin held out to him and drew the Thain into a brief, back-slapping hug, then stepped back and beamed at his visitors. 

'I should think it was the other way around,' Pippin said, recovering from his surprise at the hearty greeting. But then, Diamond's family had welcomed him and Merry like long-lost family on their first acquaintance. Perhaps it was the north-Tooks' custom to be warm and welcoming rather than clannish and suspicious like their Southern counterparts. He wondered what Regi or Ferdi would think of that. 'The Tooks have remained where they settled, how ever long ago it might be, while it was the north-Tooks who were the ones that wandered off and ended up putting down their roots in the North Farthing!' 

Bolham laughed heartily in response to this observation. At last, wiping his eyes, he said, 'We're as bad as the Brandybucks, I suppose...' 

'Worse!' Pippin said. 'For you had the Brandybucks' example before you (seeing as how they were the first to wander out of the settled lands and into the wilds), and yet you still chose to wander!' 

'There's something to that,' Bolham admitted. He looked then to Pippin's companions. 'And have you brought some heroes of the Tookland with you, as I requested?' His smile took on a grim look at seeing the glance that passed between Hilly and Haldi, and he addressed the archers directly in a lower tone. 'Not heroes, neither of you, or so you'd say. But then, so would I.' 

At Pippin's quizzical look, the north-Took said, 'No, Thain, I am not demeaning your escort or questioning their courage. What I meant was, I am no hero myself, no matter what the songs may tell you.' 

The visitors' faces cleared at his explanation, and Hilly was bold enough to say, 'Not heroes at all! We simply did what was needed at the time...' 

Bolham laughed again and said, 'I might say the same!' Then he stepped forward to repeat his welcoming back-slapping embrace with each of the hobbits of escort. 'Well come!' he told each in turn. 'It's about time the Tooks and north-Tooks became reacquainted! It has been a long time since Bandobras Bullroarer chased the goblins from the North-lands...' 

'Well he had a bit of help, as I heard it,' Pippin said diffidently. Did Bolham not know Diamond was a north-Took? He wondered. But now seemed neither the time nor place. 'Thain Ferumbras – the Second, that is, brother to Bandobras – and an hundred Tookish archers rode to battle in aid of the North-landers...' 

'He wasn't quite Thain at the time, no more than you were at the Battle of Bywater,' Bolham said. 'But I should say the both of you were similar in that you proved your mettle in battle!' 

His look swept the visitors, and he said, 'But come! Let us not stand stupidly about in the yard when there are stalls prepared and waiting for your ponies and mugs just waiting to be filled and quaffed for your refreshment! Harlow!' The last word was a summons, bellowed at the top of his voice and accompanied by a hearty wave. 

A slightly shorter hobbit, limping on a crooked leg, came from one of the outbuildings. 'Hullo!' he said in a friendly way. 

'My forehobbit,' Bohlam said, '...and my right hand, frankly.' He exchanged a grin with his forehobbit, then threw back his head and laughed. 'Good thing I'm left-handed! I should have an awful time trying to carry Harlow about with me otherwise!' 

Harlow, obviously familiar with the farmer's joke, chuckled and shook his head. 'Ai, and I'm hoping someday to work up to the exalted position of Red's left hand, but he tells me I've a long way to go to get there!' 

The visiting Tooks smiled, though the archers looked somewhat lost at the different customs to be found here in the North. Pippin was the only one who seemed at ease. 'I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Harlow.' He held out his palm to the hired hobbit. 

Hilly and Haldi noticed the absence of the honorific "Master" and wondered. Was it part and parcel with Bolham's casual tossing about of "Captain" and "Thain" without the usual respect the titles commanded in more southern regions? Nor had Pippin rendered the customary "At your service... and your family's service" to the Northerners. 

Harlow confirmed the escorts' perception of different customs as he reached out and touched his palm briefly to Pippin's, saying, 'The pleasure is mine, Captain Peregrin.' 

Pippin then half-turned to the hobbits accompanying him and said, 'And these are my cousins, Haldi and Hilly.' It did not escape the escorts' attention that the Thain deliberately used the informal form of their names instead of saying Haldegrim and Hildibold, and they wondered. 

But Hilly was skilled at landing on his feet. He held out his palm before him and said, 'Pleased to make your acquaintance.' It must have been the right move, for first Bolham and then Harlow touched their palms to his while tendering an appropriate response. 

Haldi, not one to let the grass grow under his feet, followed Hilly's example. 

Bolham cocked a bright eye at Pippin. 'I commend you, Captain,' he said. 'The hobbits you have chosen to bring with you are both observant and intelligent.' 

'Pippin, please,' the Thain said. 'Captain sounds so formal... it has me looking around for Beregond – a friend of mine in the Southlands – or perhaps my cousin Meriadoc, though he's left Captain aside for Master these days.' 

Bolham seemed to find the idea comical, for he laughed, but when he was finished laughing, he nodded and said, 'Pippin, then,' adding, 'Now, how about that beer?' 

'Let me take your ponies,' Harlow said at once. 'I promise, we'll bed them deep and grain and groom them well. And if you're staying over tomorrow, we'll be happy to turn them out to graze and roll on the grass and have some time to refresh themselves before the journey homeward.' 

'Thank you, that would just suit,' Pippin said. 'We thought we'd take tomorrow for business, and then home the next day, unless there's some reason to extend our stay...' 

'We'll do our best to find such a reason!' Bolham said, gesturing towards the long, low smial to one side of the yard. 'I, for one, am eager to hear more of life in the South-lands,' (and by this, the escorts divined, he meant the Tookland and not Gondor or other foreign lands that the Thain had visited). As they walked towards the smial, he continued, 'I've also invited some members of my old band to join us for supper this evening! We're all quite curious about the methods and means the Tooks used to keep the Tookland free when Lotho's ruffians were overrunning the land... As it was, we were hard-pressed simply to keep the Wood free of the scoundrels, and it required constant vigilance on our part! Or, I've no doubt, they'd have burned the forest over our heads!' 

***  

They'd had a productive day of gathering, if Gorbyl did say so himself. 'For all your recent trouble with your memory, you certainly have not forgot the look of the healing plants we were after!' 

Wallas shook his head with a thoughtful look. 'I knew them all – I knew each one of them as soon as you named it,' he said. 'I wonder if I might do the same if you were to name a particular Hobbit from my past. Would his face suddenly come to mind? Would I know him once more?' 

Gorbyl's eyes narrowed as he studied Wallas's face. 'I don't know,' he said slowly. 'For you know your own sweet Dove – still – as only a painted face. Even just this morning, before we set out, you said you have no memories of her laughter, her voice, her songs...' 

Wallas blinked away the sudden tears that rose at this reminder. 'Too true,' he said. 'And yet, the childer... I feel as if I have known them all my life!' 

'But you knew the lads only as babes and faunts, and the lass not at all before you came to us...' 

'This is true,' Wallas had to allow. His shoulders slumped. 'Perhaps I've only come to know them since I've been here, and the memories I think I have are only... only suggestions, or the like, and not true remembering at all!' 

Gorbyl put a hand around Wallas's shoulders and tried to comfort him. 'You're healing still, my son,' he said. 'Give it more time. Not all that long ago, you were barely able to move, and you could speak no words at all! And look at you now! You can speak, you can shoot – and better than you ever did before! – you can walk for miles and find the plants we're looking for and harvest them as they should be harvested...' 

'Foot by foot, as you keep telling me,' Wallas said, straightening and putting on a smile for Gorbyl's sake. 

'That's the spirit, lad,' Gorbyl said. And then his voice changed, and he glanced at Wallas from the corner of his eye. 'But... there's some news I feel I must share with you, lad, and I do hope you won't be put out with me for speaking for you without talking to you first...' 

'What is it?' Wallas asked. 

'Our old Captain, the Red – you do remember calling him that in the old days, don't you? – just as is his custom every so often, he's invited some of the old band to gather to swap stories and raise a glass or three,' Gorbyl said, eyeing Wallas closely. 'I wasn't sure if being there would be helpful or only confusing to you and, perhaps, wearisome until you've regained more of your memories...? Hawfinch brought the word of the gathering with him the other day.' 

At Wallas's hesitation, the old hobbit nodded. 'I told him you weren't quite up to assembling with a host of others quite yet, but I thought you'd like to come the next time. As you may or may not recall,' and the old hobbit smiled as he said the light words that were too close to truth to be taken as a jest, 'Bolham always invites all the band at Yule, to lift a glass to fallen comrades and remember the good with the bad.' He swallowed hard, tears coming to his own eyes, as he added, 'It'll be wonderful to toast in remembrance to only one of my sons and not the both of you this year...' 

Wallas quickly moved to hug the old hobbit. 'I'm here,' he said. 'And I think... Gorbas is gone. He is.' He hesitated, and then asked slowly, 'Isn't he?' 

Gorbyl nodded wordlessly against Wallas's shoulder. 

'And so, it seems rather cruel... and pointless...' Wallas said, groping for words not because of his damaged memory but more for the strong emotion of the thoughts he was expressing, '...for me to leave again, and go searching for him, and leave you and the childer to limp along without me for any length of time...' 

'O aye,' Gorbyl breathed. 'Though I've never begrudged your longing for your brother's return in the past...' 

'I've given him ten years of my life, and more,' Wallas concluded. 'I...' he faltered, and then gathered his nerve and continued, 'I think... I hope he'll forgive me for turning my heart to home from here on out, even if he is still out there somewhere.' 

The old hobbit, his head still bowed, gave a single sob within the circle of Wallas's arms. 

'And if one son could find his way home, we can always hope...' Wallas said.  

Gorbyl nodded and then straightened, and Wallas stood back as the old hobbit wiped the tears from his face and said, 'O aye... we'll keep on hoping... after all, our hopes brought you home at last...' 

That evening, as Wallas and Flam fed the animals and milked the goats, and young Gorbi and Lark took care of the washing up, Gorbyl went out to his hives to say good-night to the bees. He laid his palm against the side of one hive, and then the other, feeling the steady hum of the bees inside, fanning their wings to warm their home, and stood a long time in silence, taking comfort in the sound.

'I don't know what more I might tell ye than I told ye last night,' he said. 'Winter'll be comin' soon, and ye'll be staying snug in yer home...' But he had the feeling the bees were listening for him to say more, that they knew of the burden lying heavy on his heart and mind. It's nonsense, he told himself. The bees would tell ye the same, were ye to ask them! Wallas was a fair shot when he went away, and when he came back, his shooting was a sight better than fair... But for sure and all, there's a perfectly good explanation for the change in him. Practice, for one!

Though he stood a long time listening and waiting, the bees offered no insights of their own to ease his concerns. They simply hummed as they always did, steady, unchanging... unlike Wallas, Gorbyl's mind whispered. He pushed the thought away, said his good-nights to the bees, and walked back to the cot, where Wallas was telling the childer a story about a clever coney that fooled a fox.

Later that night, the old hobbit stood just outside on the veranda, breathing the rich smells of a crisp autumn evening. He'd left the door open to let out some of the heat of his earlier bread-baking, and now, alone in the darkness, he wept freely as he listened to Wallas sing a lullaby to the young ones after the younger hobbit had blessed each of them with a kiss on the forehead and pulled the covers smooth and tucked them in, one at a time, against the chill of the middle night that would descend a few hours from now. 

The wind walks wild o’er the darkling world; 
‘Tis time to seek my resting place. 
The trees their banners of leaves unfurled
Are waving their farewells. 

I’ve wandered far from my familiar home
My hidey-hole where my true love waits. 
Forgetting the reasons I e’er sought to roam, 
No more will my straying feet lead me away... 

When the song finished, Gorbyl wiped his face and took out his pipe. He had it going well by the time Wallas stepped outside and proceeded to fill and light his own pipe which Gorbyl had presented to him as a gift on the day he was well enough to get up from the bed. 

Gorbyl drew on his pipe and said, 'The stars'll be bright this night.' 

'O aye,' Wallas agreed. They smoked for a few moments in silence, and then he spoke again. 'Truth be told...' 

'Aye?' 

'Truth be told,' Wallas began again, 'I think I'd almost rather sing lullabies and tuck little'uns into their beds than sit about telling stories of rogue Men and their cruelties, no matter how clever we might've been dealing with them...' 

***  

'Now that's what I'd call a convivial evening,' Haldi said as he and Hilly settled to their beds in one of the guest rooms of the smial, for Bolham had insisted on putting them up here on the farm rather than sending them off to the inn in town. And likely to find the door tight-shut and the innkeeper abed by the time the last pint is hoisted and the last story told!  the farmer had said. No, but we've beds a-plenty here, all made up fresh and likely to go wanting should you decide to try to find an inn in town that's still open after we've finished our singing and storytelling for the night...

'Convivial!' Hilly said. 'My but we're fancy this evening!' 

'You must admit, these north-Tooks are the souls of hospitality,' Haldi countered. He put his hands behind his head on the pillow, splaying his elbows out comfortably as his brain absently formed constellations from the knots in the heavy beam running from wall to wall under the curved whitewashed ceiling. 'They know a thing or two about brewing, as well...' 

'Are you planning on removing to the North-lands as Bandobras did before you?' Hilly asked acidly. Although he would not admit such a thing to anyone, riding past the bog that had claimed the life of his beloved older brother had left him deeply shaken. He still could not understand how Tolly could have blundered into the bog, though Hawfinch and some of the others had described a violent storm that had rolled through the area on the day Tolly had been expected to arrive at the farm. They'd conjectured that Tolly's pony had panicked at a too-close bolt of lightning, shied violently at a place where the road ran uncomfortably close to the treacherous ground and thrown his rider, and then bolted in the other direction, fleeing into the Wood in a vain attempt to escape the storm before, unluckily, being found by another spear of lightning thrown down from the clouds.

Truth be told, in trying to forget his grief for a time, Hilly had probably quaffed a few beers over his usual limit and expended more energy than his usual mien in his storytelling, as well as in his enthused responses to the stories told by the members of Bolham's band of rebels as they debated the best strategies for dealing with foes twice as tall as hobbits – and tenfold more evil, or more, from the grimmer parts of their recollections, which they tended to skim over in the telling. 

Pippin had tried to put in a good word for the Men of his acquaintance, but the north-Tooks, though polite, had seemed to share the Tooks' scepticism in this matter at least. When the Thain had proposed a toast to the King, the response had been half-hearted at best. 

At least everyone had drunk the toast. Eventually. Though for some, it had taken a stern look from The Red before they'd done the polite thing and lifted their glasses to echo the toast. 

As it was, Hilly had some doubt as to whether all the north-Tooks gathered that night to welcome the visiting Tooks had actually swallowed any beer in toasting to the King, but at least they'd kept up appearances for their Captain's sake. He supposed that counted for something, though he wasn't sure just what. 

In any event, after rubbing elbows with these north-Tooks and other Northlanders, he was convinced that they'd done their best by Tolibold, had searched diligently and thoroughly, not leaving a single stone unturned. When the Northerners had realised he was the missing Took's brother, they'd sobered briefly, and each had come up to him individually to express regret and condolences. 

The Northlanders were solid folk, Hilly decided, and he'd be proud to call any one of them his comrade and not merely a distant cousin. 

*** 

Chapter 15. Remembering

'I think you'd like the north-Tooks,' Pippin said as he accepted a steaming cup of tea from Regi, black and strong and scalding, just as he liked it. And Regi's shudder at seeing him sip from the cup never failed to amuse him. 'They're not quite so Tookish as the Tooks, of course...'

'None of your nonsense now, lad,' Regi said, and winced.

'And so early in the morning, too,' Pippin observed. 'What ever shall we do if you use up all of your none-of-your-nonsenses before the day is over?'

'I shudder at the thought,' Regi said honestly, and determinedly took up his own cup for a cautious sip. Even though he'd added a splash of milk, his tea was still hotter than he preferred.

'...at least, not to the degree of Tookishness that the Tooks have achieved from long practice,' Pippin said as if he might be deliberately baiting his Steward. And so Regi ignored him. Yet the Thain, in the fey mood that had seized him, would not be quelled. 'In fact, I fear they might find the Tooks rather wanting by their standards.'

'Wanting?' was forced out of Regi.

'O aye,' Pippin said in his broadest Green Hills back-country intonation. And then he took another satisfying gulp of still-steaming tea before sitting back with a sigh of satisfaction. 'At least Bolham and his band found naught out of the ordinary with drinking water off the boil, with no milk or sweetening added.'

'And no tea, either, I presume?' Regi said dryly.

'They ran out of tea fairly early in the Troubles,' Pippin said, draining his cup and setting it precisely on the saucer, 'Ah, that just suits. Though sometimes, I think he said, they added some shredded tree bark to the brew, just to add some sort of flavour.' And looking up, he said, 'But of course, water was plentiful, and in the bitter temperatures of winter as icy winds pummeled the North-lands, drinking hot water or bark "tea" from a sturdy mug was a comfort of sorts.' He ran his finger around the rim of the teacup. 'Served well as a handwarmer into the bargain.'

'They sound like a hardy folk,' Regi said. Though he was not one to exercise his imagination, the idea of wintering in a Wood without other solid shelter – especially in the North Farthing, where snow and ice were common in wintertime – made him shiver and determinedly turn to a warmer subject. 'Of course, Diamond's family are the souls of hospitality...'

'The north-Tooks of Bindbole Wood are not terribly different from those of Long Cleeve that you've met,' Pippin said, 'even though they settled their piece of the North Farthing some time after the Battle of Greenfields.' He eyed his Steward keenly. 'As a matter of fact, Regi, Diamond's family didn't surrender to the ruffians that overran the North Farthing... Instead, my father-in-love picked up his entire family and all the remaining animals after a raid by Lotho's Men – for when they'd come, intending to gather the family's goods, he and his hired hobbits turned them away with bows drawn and faces grim – and then they removed to Bindbole Wood. He and his family joined others from farms and towns in the region, who'd either been burned out or were determined to resist, and he and his hired hobbits became part of The Red's band, harrying the ruffians and re-gathering their gatherings and distributing goods to those in need. Bolham spoke very highly of him.'

Regi hadn't known this piece of Diamond's history, and hearing it now startled him to the point where he spilled some of his tea. As he mopped it up, he couldn't help asking, 'Mistress Diamond spent the Year o' the Troubles with Bolham's band?'

'O aye,' Pippin said, eyeing his Steward with satisfaction. No doubt Diamond's reputation amongst the Tooks would rise a few notches over the next few days. 'She stayed within the confines o' the Wood, o' course, and did not ride out with the raiders who harried Lotho's ruffians and reclaimed the goods they'd gathered.'

'O' course,' Regi echoed. 'That's just good sense.'

But Pippin wasn't finished. 'My wife is a better shot with a bow than I am, as you know,' he continued. 'And so she joined the guard – north-Tooks that perched in the limbs of the trees within the Wood and at its edges – as part of Bolham's strategy to deter any Men from entering, or even, during the dry season, approaching the Wood since Bolham thought Lotho might order them to try to fire the Wood and drive the rebels – and the refugees they protected – into the open.' His face took on a grim expression as he concluded, 'None of the Men who dared enter the Wood on Lotho's orders ever came out again, or so it was said...'

Regi blinked at this suggestion of Diamond's capability for ruthlessness, amidst the determination of her fellow north-Tooks who had guarded the Wood from invaders. Despite the sweet and gentle-spoken appearance the Mistress presented, he'd long suspected the presence of a steel blade hidden within her velvet manner. For one thing, she managed her volatile husband subtly but effectively, almost imperceptibly curbing his more capricious impulses while standing staunchly at his side in all circumstances. 

Meanwhile, Pippin had picked up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and jotted down a few notes on the paper that lay before him.

Regi frowned absently at his Thain's use of this innovation, a gift from the Master of Buckland on Merry's last birthday. He'd take a proper quill any day, and none of these wood-and-metal contrivances! 'And what sort of deal were you able to strike with that branch of the north-Tooks regarding wool and sheep?' the Steward said, getting down to business himself.

'Fair all around, I'd say,' Pippin said, leaning back in his chair and tapping the desk with the wooden end of his pen. 'Bolham was rather impressed – if I do say so myself...'

Regi resisted squandering one of his none-of-your-nonsenses for such a mild offence.

But Pippin went on, '...and I do – for my apprenticeship, brief as it was, to old Brockbank, to learn the ways of a shepherd and the sheep and the dogs, bless their brave and loyal hearts and intelligent souls, taught me a great deal about sheep and their ways. Why,' he said, his face brightening at the memory as he laid down his pen to gesture expressively, 'I was even able to get his dogs to heed my whistles!'

'Intelligent, indeed,' Regi muttered, and at Pippin's inquiring look, he said, 'Dogs respond most reliably to their own Hobbit... I remember the farmer we took in – during the Troubles, it was. His dogs followed him all the way from the Outer Shire. They hung around the outside of the Smials for days, and no one knew who they belonged to, and none could whistle them in, not even Goodchild who, I think, apprenticed with Shepherd Brockbank after you did?'

Receiving Pippin's nod, he continued, 'But when we'd finished vetting him and knew he hadn't come to the Smials to betray the Tooks or the Thain to our enemies, Paladin brought him out and asked him to try whistling the dogs in from the field where they were lurking.'

Pippin smiled faintly. 'Don't tell me,' he said. 'They were his dogs...'

Regi's look grew faraway. 'They were,' he said softly, in a tone of wonder. 'They raced in out of the darkness, and I watched their greeting, and his joyous welcome...' He shook his head. 'I've never seen anything like it before or since. If the dogs had turned themselves inside out in their delight, I would not have been surprised. Why, they covered that farmer with their bodies as if they meant to become fur coats, and they jumped and danced and turned circles and licked at his hands and face. And your father...'

After a moment of silence, Pippin prompted, 'My father?'

Regi blinked – and might that have been a tear? Pippin wondered – and shook his head. 'He hadn't laughed – really laughed – since the word came that you'd disappeared. But seeing that reunion – so much joy, heaped up and overflowing... his laugh rang out, just as it had in the old days, when he was still just a simple farmer and the burden of the Thainship had not descended to weigh so heavily upon him. The well-being of all the Tooks and Tooklanders – and all of it depending on him, and him alone...'

'But he wasn't alone!' Pippin protested. 'He had you, for starters, for you were practically his right hand throughout the Troubles, and Ferdi, and Tolly...' But at the name of Tolly, he stopped, sat staring a moment, and then sighed.

'No further word of the hobbit from the north-Tooks, I take it?' Regi said quietly.

Wordlessly, Pippin shook his head. And then he seemed to shake the rest of himself, and he picked up his pen. 'And so,' he said, 'Bolham will be sending us a small flock of yearlings next week, from the bloodlines we spoke of. I inspected them thoroughly. Not a bad one in the bunch, I warrant!'

He jotted another note on the paper and added, 'And then, he'd like some of the lambs that result from the crossing of our strains with his, though of course that would be some time in the future...'

'Of course,' Regi agreed. 'And how much did he ask for the yearlings?' Pippin told him, and he recorded the figure in the ledger, saying, 'A fair price, indeed! ...especially if they are as fine as you said they are.'

'It helped, I think, that I brought two "Heroes of the Tookland" along with me,' Pippin said. 'O' course, they did not take part in the bargaining nor the vetting of the sheep, but they still played a vital part, I deem. On the evening we arrived, The Red had invited a dozen of his former band to meet us. He framed it in the guise of a welcome, a celebration of sorts... but I had the feeling that he and the hobbits he trusted most implicitly were sizing us up throughout the evening. If we had failed the test, I think, there'd be no new sheep coming down the Oatbarton Road from Bolton to improve the bloodlines of Pearl and Isum's sheep, much less the flocks belonging to the Great Smials.'

'I'm sure Tolly would be capable of winning the north-Tooks' respect and approval quite as well,' Regi said.

'I'm sure Tolly would have been,' Pippin said, emphasising the past in his reference. 'And how are things with Meadowsweet? Apart from missing her husband, that is? Does she want for anything that we might be able to provide?'

'She has not lost the child, as Woodruff feared she might from the shock and loss,' Regi said.

Pippin closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them again. 'I'm glad,' he said. 'A child to remember him by. For all the good it does.'

'It does a great deal of good!' Regi said, startled.

'No, you mistake my meaning,' Pippin said, holding up a staying hand. 'All I mean to say is that the child cannot bring Tolibold back from the dead or even stand in as a substitute for a loving husband, no matter how much of a comfort it may be to its mother. And I grieve that the child will never know its father – one of the finest hobbits I've ever known. I hope...' and he broke off, staring into space before returning his gaze to Regi.

'You hope,' the Steward prompted.

'I was wrong,' Pippin said – to his Steward's surprise – 'in being disturbed at our cousins talking about Tolly as if he were still among us. In fact, it is my hope that we all will continue to keep him alive in our thoughts and our stories, that we might somehow make him real to his children – the babe already born, and the new one to come – that they would come to know their father, and his deeds, and his character, and every little detail...' He stopped and swallowed hard and then finished in a voice that was husky with grief, '...every detail of what made him who he was. For if we cannot restore the hobbit to his children, the least we can do is to help them see him, if only in their mind's eye, as someone who lived and was real and loved and loving, and not simply a hollow memory, a name to be spoken on Remembering Day.'

*** 

Autumn was deepening in the North Farthing. Though the Sun did her best to warm the days, the weather had turned cool, and the nights were becoming more icy than crisp. These days, when the Sun rose to greet the day, her playful beams often lit up the frozen paintings left by the frost-faeries on the windows of the herb-gatherer's cot in the Wood, causing them to sparkle until they melted away. The Sun, herself, seemed increasingly reluctant to rise from her bed in the mornings and ever more eagerly went to her rest, seeking her pillow a little earlier every day and leaving the frosty air to the Man in the Moon to cope with. 

Wallas and Gorbyl redoubled their gathering – collecting nuts and the last of the berries and wild grapes along with digging the wild roots growing in Wood and meadow and marsh. The children stayed closer to home, for their task was to collect the bounty in the kitchen garden Gorbyl had dug in the part of the clearing that received the most sunlight, onions and carrots and potatoes, which had to be gathered in before the rains began, saturating the soil, rotting the crops and then freezing on the ground in the form of ice and snow. And though the summer cabbages had all been harvested some days earlier, the winter cabbages were not quite ready to gather in.

'And Yuletide is just around the corner!' Gorbyl said at eventides one night. 'And you know what that means!'

Wallas didn't, but the childer did, and raised a cheer.

At her da's blank look, little Lark climbed onto Wallas's lap and framed his face with her hands, looking deep into the eyes that looked so much like her own, the dark, smoky green of the deep forest where the evergreens grew thick. 'You remember, Da,' she said persuasively. 'We all go out together to gather the greens for the Yuletide market in Bolton! Granda's told us stories about you and Mum and him gathering greenery in the Wood, and throwing balls of snow at each other, and the time Mum put a snowball down your back and ran away and you chased after her and caught her, and you were going to wash her face with snow, but you said you couldn't bring yourself to it so you washed your own face with snow!' And Gorbyl and the childer laughed at the story, and Wallas smiled.

But Lark wasn't finished. 'And then we'll all go together to the market! And Granda will buy us sugared nuts! But you have to be careful,' she said, her bright smile dissolving into a solemn look.

'And why is that, my little songbird?' Wallas asked, and Gorbyl saw his lips twitch as if he were suppressing a smile of his own.

The child shook her head slowly and earnestly. 'If you try to snatch the nuts from the paper cone too quickly, you'll burn your fingers!'

'O my precious!' Wallas exclaimed, and he reached up to take one of her hands from his cheek and examined it closely. 'And have you burnt these delicate little fingers, just so?' And he tenderly kissed her fingertips, and little Lark giggled at the tickly sensation.

And then Wallas lifted the little one high into the air and "flew" her to her bed, and helped her with the fastenings on her dress, and popped her night-gown over her head and tucked her in warm and snug, and as he sat down on the side of the bed, before he leaned to bless her forehead with a good-night kiss, he whispered. 'I think I'm looking forward to Yuletide.'

'Good!' Lark said, arresting her da in the middle of bending down, his lips pursed. 'I think everyone should!' And then the two of them, Wallas and Lark, laughed until Gorbyl and the lads were drawn to the doorway to find out what delight might be sparking the peals of laughter.

Gorbyl found himself watching Wallas more closely as the days grew shorter, for he thought he recognised the signs of winter sadness in the hobbit, which surprised him. Before leaving ten years earlier, Wallas had been remarkably unflappable and even-tempered, but since his return, he seemed to brighten with the Sun and struggle to keep his spirits up during the darker hours or on gloomy days when heavy clouds hid the Sun, as was happening oftener as the world turned inexorably towards Winter. The old hobbit wondered what had happened to him, that his moods were so closely tied to the light, or lack of it?

Lark, too, sensitive creature that she was, seemed to notice her da's changes of mood. In the dark of early morning, as the little family sat down for breakfast, she'd climb into Wallas's lap and lay a kiss upon his cheek, and then she'd smile into his eyes and sing a morning song to him, bringing a smile to the long face. And when the song ended, Wallas's arms would tighten around her in a hug, and then he'd lift her high in the air to make her squeal, and then set her carefully on the floor, and call her his little songbird, and tell her she had better go and peck up all the caterpillars on her plate (or in her bowl) before they crawled away!

And she would laugh and scold, 'They're not caterpillars, silly Da! They're scones!' (or eggs, or porridge, or whatever the breakfast offering was that day). Wallas's resulting smile from Lark's antics often lasted until the Sun's light grew strong enough to sustain him through the rest of the chilly day.

His dreams, too, began to trouble Wallas, but though he'd admit to Gorbyl that he'd dreamed in the night, he was unable to describe the dreams themselves in any detail. Sometimes he would cry out in the night, and Gorbyl would get up and go to him, rub his back and murmur soothing nonsense until the hobbit quieted again. In the morning, he'd remember frustratingly little of the dreams that had disturbed him. 'I saw places so different from the Wood,' he'd said after one such awakening, 'but I could not put a name to them or find them on a map, and there were people I felt I ought to know, but they turned and walked away before I could see their faces clearly, and I knew not their names that I might call to them...'

'I think your mind is trying to remember what you saw and experienced before you came to us,' Gorbyl said gently. 'But such memories can be like butterflies; the tighter you grasp them in your hand, the more they batter themselves to pieces until they're tattered and torn and hardly recognisable.'

Wallas's long face grew longer at this thought, and Gorbyl patted him on the shoulder. 'Let them go,' the older hobbit said. 'When the time is right, you'll see them clearly – so clearly, and likely so unexpectedly, it'll make you wonder why you had so much trouble in the first place!'

'I hope you're right,' Wallas said.

Gorbyl laughed. 'Yer old da is always right!' he said stoutly.

'Except when you're wrong,' Wallas said. 'If you do say so yourself.'

'And I do,' Gorbyl said ruefully, and then he brightened as if he'd just had a wonderful idea. 'But what's a mind for, if you can't change it?'

In the moments that followed, the old hobbit savoured the sound of Wallas's laughter.

*** 

'Yuletide is just around the corner,' Pippin said, holding a message sheaf that had arrived just that morning.

'So it is,' Regi said. 'I suppose I ought to check on that shipment of nuts from the Woody End...'

'I suppose you ought,' Pippin agreed, and then he shook the message at his Steward. 'But that is not what I was going to speak with you about.'

'What's in the message?' Regi asked.

'Very good, Regi,' Pippin said. 'You're on exactly the right track!' He put the opened message down on his desk and smoothed it with a thoughtful hand.

'If you won't tell me what it says, at least tell me who it's from,' Regi persisted.

'I'll do both!' Pippin said, beaming with pleasure. 'Bolham the Red has invited us to visit, with several aims in mind: He wants us to walk the Bolton Yuletide Faire since none of us, save Diamond, has ever seen it, and apparently the event is quite famous throughout the North Farthing.'

'When?' Regi said, picking up his quill to make notes.

'The Faire opens on the first Highday of the month. Mayor Sam will be there to open the Faire, and the Thain is among the notables invited to the opening ceremony.'

Regi looked at the calendar and pulled at his lower lip, considering. 'It might be possible,' he said. 'It's early in the month, for a mercy, and as long as you're back by mid-month, the Tooks shouldn't grumble too oppressively.'

Pippin muttered something under his breath about grumbly Tooks.

But Regi had seized upon an earlier phrase the Thain had employed in the current discussion. 'Who is "us"?' he asked patiently. Honestly, sometimes when Pippin was in high good spirits, it took more effort to pry all the necessary information out of him than for a woodpecker to pry bugs out of an old tree.

'Apparently, Red always has a Yuletide gathering of all his band – all those that are able to come, any road – on the first Highday of the month, to coincide with the opening of the Faire, and many of the band bring their families along to Bolton for the festivities, and so he's invited some heroes of the Tookish Resistance, as well,' Pippin said, somehow sort-of-answering while not-answering Regi's direct question.

'So, Hilly and Haldi, I should imagine,' Regi said, 'and their families?' he guessed. 'And you and Diamond and the Mistress and the lad?' No guess required as to that point, thankfully. 'At least, I should think your family would enjoy a famous Yuletide Faire, with all the sights and smells and festive fare...' He scrutinised the Thain. 'Were you thinking of descending unannounced upon The Red with a large body of Hobbits, or has he issued a sweeping invitation to begin with, as it were?'

Pippin laughed and said, sidestepping the point, 'But when and where have you been to a Yuletide Faire before, Regi? For I'm not aware of anything out of the ordinary happening during Yuletide in Tuckborough...'

'That's neither here nor there,' Regi began, but Pippin interrupted him.

'O it's there! It's definitely there and not here!' 

Regi shoved aside the None of your nonsense now, lad! that he was sorely tempted to say, instead asking, 'And I should think Bolham's band would be particularly interested in meeting Ferdibrand, as the Fox of song and story and even, it seems, growing legend, and since this appears to be a family affair, if you were to invite your sister, and the children, o' course, to come along, then he'd be able to travel to the North Farthing and not violate the Tooks' "early days" tradition.' 

'Capital idea, Regi! That's absolutely splendid!' Pippin said, clapping his hands together. 'And I like your word-play: family affair and Yuletide Faire... not to mention the festive fare you mentioned earlier...'

By no means had Regi deliberately engaged in word-play, but he scarcely wanted to dignify the idea by refuting it. So he fell back on asking a question. 'And did you want me to attend?'

'Well,' Pippin said, tilting his head thoughtfully. 'You are invited, as a matter of fact. You, and your wife, and your children... though I suppose you'll have to leave the children at home since you haven't got any of those quite yet...'

Regi gritted his teeth at this excess of whimsy and said, 'So would you like me to set out the dates and make the arrangements, Sir? For we'll have to work around the Yuletide preparations here at the Smials and schedule everything very carefully to avoid setting off a lot of grumbling amongst the Tooks.'

'That's very kind of you, Reginard,' Pippin said, nodding his appreciation. 'Why don't you do just that, and let me know when we'll be travelling there and back again so that I can give Diamond plenty of notice to do her packing.' Behind his hand, he added, 'She is the preparingest hobbit I ever knew, next to my cousin Merry, you know.'

'Indeed,' Regi said dryly, and then, to his immense relief, the conversation moved on to other topics.

***  

Author's notes: 

The story of the farmer and the sheepdogs during the Troubles is found in the story collection This and That in the chapter titled, 'Sheepdog Trials'.

Tolly's (Wallas's) winter sadness is a remnant of the Black Breath, as described in The Farmer's Son.

*** 

Chapter 16. Observances

On Remembering Day, Gorbyl lit a candle in the window for Gorbas, and Wallas placed a candle beside it and lit that one for Dove, for although neither had been lost since the previous day of remembrance, still, Wallas had first heard of Dove's death when he'd wakened a few weeks earlier, and Gorbyl had kept hoping for Gorbas's return up until Wallas had promised not to go searching for him again. There seemed little point in carving candle-boats and joining Bolham's observance with the residents of Bolton and the surrounding area. Gorbyl had set Dove's memorial upon the waters ten years earlier. And Gorbas? For all they knew, he'd gone to Sea, as other hobbits, including a Boffin and a Southern Took, had done before him. 

The childer, too, were sombre, and little Lark burst into tears, though she'd never known either mother or uncle. Wallas picked her up and cuddled her close, murmuring soothing words and phrases in an undertone until she quieted. And then he lifted his chin from atop the little one's head and said to Gorbyl, 'But there's more than just candles!' 

'O aye,' the old hobbit said. 'There's the stories! And I've made all of their favourite foods, Dove's and Gorbas's, and so we'll feast and tell stories and sing all the old songs...' 

'And it'll be as if they're here with us,' young Gorbi said softly, 'gathered just behind us, out of sight...'  

'...but not out of mind,' said his younger brother. Lark nodded solemnly from her da's arms. 

And then Gorbi concluded, '...feasting and singing and listening to the stories...' 

'And so it will be,' the old grandfa said, smiling tenderly at the young ones. 'So come along and set the table! Else how can I say, "The feast is laid!"?' 

Wallas had no stories to tell, but he listened well, and laughed, and added his voice to the songs they sang. 

At one point, Gorbyl poured goat's milk into Wallas's cup, saying, 'And Dove was always trying to get you to drink tea! "It's so unnatural for a hobbit not to take tea!" she used to say. "Try a sip or two, just a little every day, until you get used to it!" But you would always answer that tea brewed of tree bark was more to your liking than "that awful stuff in the pot"!' 

Wallas startled him by laughing and saying, 'I remember!' ...but when he saw the old hobbit's hopeful glance, he added, 'I remember you telling me about it. But I have to confess, I never have learnt to like tea, no matter how much Dove – or anyone else, for that matter – might have tried to get me to change my mind.' 

'Stubborn north-Took that you are,' Gorbyl said, but there was no sting in the words.

***    

Halfway through November, a knock came at the door, and Wallas got up from the chair where he was telling stories to the childer sprawled on the floor at his feet. Old Gorbyl was sleeping, though it was mid-afternoon; he'd laid himself down after the washing-up from the nooning was done but before starting on tea preparations. Wallas had thought he'd looked tired and pale – so pale, it was as if the old hobbit's skin was tinged with grey, and so he'd said, 'Go to your bed, old gaffer, and rest yersel' a spell.' 

'But the teacakes,' Gorbyl had protested. 

'So what if we end up with griddlecakes for tea?' Wallas had said. 'I can stir them up just as well as you can! And something hot will go well on this chilly day, into the bargain!' 

So now, Wallas hurried to the door, lest another knock should come and disturb the old hobbit's rest. He opened it ­– to see a tall stranger standing there. Taller than Hawfinch, any road. A north-Took, most likely. 

'Wallas?' the stranger said uncertainly. 'I'd been told you'd come back...?' 

'I'm sorry,' Wallas said, feeling awkward. 'But I...' 

He'd been about to say I don't know you, but he was saved by the childer, who'd jumped up and were now gathered behind him to welcome the visitor. 

'It's the Red!' young Gorbi said in excitement. 'Mr Red! We haven't seen you in ever so long! At least a week!' 

A week? Wallas thought, confused.

The visitor read Wallas's expression accurately and said, 'I've called several times over the past month, but you and Gorbyl were always out gathering. O' course, 'twould ha' been rude o' me to turn mysel' about and leave without sitting down and telling the childer a story or two, and sing a song with them, and ask after what they've been busy about lately!'

'O' course,' Wallas said with a nod. Old Gorbyl had described how The Red wandered this part of the North Farthing to check on the former members of his band, along with those who lived under his jurisdiction, for he was the arbiter in the local area, responsible for settling any disputes that might arise. Wallas couldn't remember if he'd been appointed to the position or, perhaps, elected, or if the folk hereabout simply looked to him for guidance since the leadership he'd shown during the Troubles.

'I beg your pardon, Gorbi,' the visitor said, bending to address the young hobbit and removing his cap to disclose a headful of dark red curls with a few silver threads. 'Farmers are eternally busy at harvest-time or I'd've come right away to welcome your father home from his journeys as soon as I heard he was back! And then after we finished the harvest, every time I have come by, your da and your grandfa have been busy about their own business!' 

When he straightened again, his smile was warm and welcoming, as was the hand he held out to Wallas when Wallas took hold with a firm grasp. And then he shook Wallas's hand heartily, saying, 'Ah, but it's so good to have you home, old friend! We feared...' And then he shook his head at himself. 'There I go again, speaking nonsense!' 

The visitor's manner completely disarmed Wallas's caution and set him at ease. 'You meant to say, you feared I would disappear completely like my brother,' he said. 'And it's true enough. I nearly did.' 

Red threw back his head and laughed, and then, withdrawing his hand from their handclasp, he wiped at his eye. 'As plain-spoken as you ever were,' he said. 'Ah, but you haven't changed a whit since the last time I saw you.' 

He crouched again to exchange a few words with Flam, and then he turned to Lark and his eyes widened. 'Why,' he said, 'who is this charming young lady? She looks a bit like the little lass who told me stories, the last time I was here, and sang me the loveliest song!' He tilted his head as if considering. 'She even had the name of a songbird, as I recall...' 

By this time, Lark was giggling, and her older brothers were laughing, and then Red reached out to Lark and sprang to his feet and swooped the lass high in the air, saying, '...and she could fly like a bird, even as you can!' 

'It's me, Uncle Red!' she laughed. 

'It's you, is it?' Bolham said, sounding incredulous. 'Will wonders never cease!' 

And then, tucking Lark into the crook of his elbow, he turned to Wallas. 'Is Gorbyl about?' 

'He's not,' Wallas said, which was strictly true. The old hobbit was asleep in his bed and not up and about. 'But if you'd like to stay until teatime, I'm sure he'd be glad to greet you.' 

'I cannot stay,' Bolham said regretfully, carefully setting Lark on her feet again. 'I have many more calls to make today. But the reason I stopped was to ask if you wanted your usual spot at the Faire...' 

Wallas knew the answer to this question already, for Gorbyl had discussed the matter with him. 'That'll be fine,' he said. 'We don't need to be right in the middle of the bustle... off a side branch from the main stretch of booths is a little quieter, allowing the lass to sleep when she needs a nap...' 

'I'm too old for naps!' Lark insisted. 

'Or an old hobbit like me, I like my naps, I do,' Wallas said, smiling down at his lass. 'And the folk have found us there year after year, Gorbyl tells me, so they'll know just where to go to find their Yuletide greenery. Why, if you were to move us to a busier spot, they might miss us completely!' 

'Very well,' Bolham said with a chuckle. 'I'll mark you down for your usual spot. And the other matter... will you and the old hobbit – and the childer, of course! – be attending our gathering at the farm? I know you weren't quite up to the last one, but this is Yuletide! All the band who can come will be there, and we'll also have some special guests from the South-lands...' 

'I wouldn't miss it for the world!' Wallas said honestly, even though he doubted he'd know Ned from Tod by then. But perhaps seeing the faces of the other hobbits who'd been his comrades in resisting Lotho's ruffians would jog his memories. He clung to that hope, anyhow, that and Gorbyl's prediction, When the time is right, you'll see them clearly – so clearly, and likely so unexpectedly, it'll make you wonder why you had so much trouble in the first place!

*** 

Old Gorbyl seemed to tire more easily these days, and there were more days when the grey pallor returned, such that Wallas insisted on taking over more of the cooking duties and other tasks that Gorbyl usually claimed. But when the younger hobbit expressed concern and asked if they should consult the local healer, Gorbyl demurred. 'It's the cold weather,' he told Wallas. 'Gets into my bones.' 

'Then keep warm by the fire with Lark,' Wallas said. When Gorbyl looked sceptical, he added a more persuasive argument. 'I' truth, it would set my mind at ease to leave the lass home and warm... but if we all go out, we ha' to take her with us! She cannot stay here by herself!' 

'I s'pose you ha' the right of it, young hobbit,' Gorbyl said slowly, but then he gave Wallas a suspicious look. 'You're not coddling me, are ye?' 

'Not you,' Wallas insisted. 'Lark!' 

'Verra well then,' the old hobbit grumbled. 

To assuage Gorbyl's feelings, Wallas always laid out the greenery they'd gathered that day for the old hobbit's inspection, and only after Gorbyl approved of the day's work would he and the lads tie the assorted evergreen and prickly holly branches together and stick them in buckets of water in the shed attached to the byre. They'd stay cool and fresh there, but the water wouldn't freeze. 

By the last Highday before the start of Yuletide*, portending a week to go before the opening of the Yuletide Faire, the shed was full, and their work was done. They'd have a full week of rest with just routine chores. Wallas hoped that the respite would be especially restorative for Gorbyl and not just the rest of them. At least he'd be at home now, and not out gathering with his lads, and so he could insist that the old hobbit lie himself down oftener and for longer than old Gorbyl would, otherwise, without Wallas there to remind him. 

***  

Meadowsweet's decision not to honour her departed husband on Remembering Day caused a stir amongst the Great Smials Tooks. Compounding the problem and the critical Talk, Mardi had decreed to his brothers that none of them would carve a candle-boat, nor would any of them take part in the observance or the feast to follow in the great room of the Great Smials. Instead, they'd have a small family gathering at the family home in Tuckborough. 

Mardi, in his capacity as the oldest brother, obtained Hilly's acquiescence by explaining that he didn't want to upset Meadowsweet when she was so close to her time. He was able to satisfy his other brother Fredebold, with that hobbit's limited understanding, by telling him that they'd planned a special feast, with all of Freddy's favourite dishes; but of course, Freddy was welcome to take himself off to the Smials instead, if he wanted...? Quite conveniently, the small suite that Mardi rented for Freddy at the Spotted Duck was only a few doors down from the healer's smial. Thus, Freddy would be much more inclined to show up at Mardi's door than to walk all the way to the memorial feast at the Great Smials at the edge of the town.

When Pippin was informed of Mardi's plans – which Mardi had every right to make, being the head of that branch of the family – it went against the grain. 'His brothers will carve no boat for the hobbit?' he said, flabbergasted. 'They'll not light his candle and lay the boat upon the water to be carried to the Sea? They'll not even drink a toast to him, or tell a story, or raise a song? What kind of...?' 

'A healer kind of plan,' Regi cut in. 'Sweetie is close to her time, but she's still a good week from safely delivering a babe that will be strong and hale enough to draw breath! Mardi is doing all he can think of to help bring about a safe delivery and healthy babe, and that means not upsetting Tolly's wife. For that reason, and as his way of honouring his brother's memory by protecting Tolly's true-love along with his littlest babe, Mardi solemnly insisted that they'd speak Tolly's name and set his boat on the water next year.' 

'I don't like it,' Pippin said. 'It seems...' 

Regi gave a bark of laughter. 'You?' the older hobbit said. 'A traditionalist? You're going to start now?' 

Pippin seized on the idea. 'Ferdi's such a traditionalist,' he said. 'Surely...' 

Regi shook his head. 'Mardi also went to him and pleaded his case,' he said. 'And o' course Ferdi understands. And so he promised that he would mourn with them. Next year. And devil take the Tooks if they grumble about it!' 

'Very well, Regi,' Pippin said. 'And since the Tooks still listen better to you than to me, for I've not been Thain long enough for them to begin to heed me, I will leave it to you to bedevil anyone who chooses to besmirch Tolly's brothers or his wife or his closest cousin with any scurrilous Talk about this matter.' 

'You can leave it to me, Thain,' Regi said, his expression equally grim. Watching his Thain take as deep a breath as his damaged lungs would allow and then let out a heavy sigh, he softened slightly and offered what comfort he might. 'Though I do think at least some of the Tooks are beginning to listen to you. At least once in a while.' 

The corners of Pippin's mouth tightened in what might pass for a smile. 'Thank you, Regi. For my part, I hadn't noticed, but I'll take your word for it.' 

***  

A little more than a fortnight after Remembering Day, Meadowsweet was relieved of her heavy burden. 

'A fine, strong babe, for all she was a month early,' Regi said, pouring steaming tea into Pippin's cup from the teapot he'd brought to the study, along with the news that had just arrived from Tuckborough. 

'A lass?' Pippin asked. 

'Isn't that what I said?' 

The Thain sighed. 'O aye,' he said. 'That's just what you said.' 

And keeping to himself the thoughts that caused him to swallow hard, sniffle, and rub at his eyes, Pippin picked up his pen, dipped it slowly and deliberately in the inkwell, and began to jot down notations on the paper before him, letting the tea go cold in the cup sitting beside him. 

***  

Author's note:

*"Yuletide" is a general term used in my stories to refer to the month of Foreyule on the Shire calendar, meant to help readers who (like me when I began writing fanfic) aren't all that familiar with JRRT's calendar. According to the Tolkien Gateway website, the month of Foreyule runs from 20 November to 19 December, and 1 Yule corresponds to 20 December on modern calendars. In the same vein, Remembering Day falls on the day the Travellers arrived in Bywater, one day before the Battle of Bywater which took place on 3 November according to JRRT. I have no idea if he simply translated "Blotmath" to "November" or, perhaps, if he did the date conversion from our calendar to the Shire calendar, which would put Remembering Day around 13 Blotmath. Numbers have never been my strong point. Ideally, Remembering Day should fall on the Highday (which I see as a half-holiday celebrating the conclusion of another week in the life) closest to our All Saint's Day.         

*** 

Chapter 17. Shock and Awe

The passage of the (south-)Tooks, with the Thain riding at their head, to the North Farthing was something of a grand event in the Shire. The journey took on epic proportions, at least in the eyes of the Shire-folk. Because it would have been unconscionable for such a procession to travel roughly thirteen miles across the fields, taking a direct line from Tuckborough to Bywater and northwards, the large body of Tooks followed a circuitous route that would add more than one hundred miles to their journey. 

('But doesn't the plan sound wasteful to you? Perhaps we ought to reconsider taking the long way round,' Pippin had suggested to Regi during the planning process. 'And think of it! If we were to travel over the fields to Bywater, the wheels of the coaches and waggons would forge a new road of themselves! No need for road-workers, even!' At the time, the Steward had deemed the sentiment worthy of one of his sternest 'None of your nonsense, lad!' rebukes. Though the New Road was coming closer to reality these days, they had not yet been able to work out an agreement with the farmers whose fields would be affected. Those same farmers would likely take a dim view of a road being forged without their blessing.)

Because of the difficulty with the farmers between Tuckborough and Bywater, instead of following a direct line as the crow flies, the riders and coaches travelled along established roads, including the refurbished Stock Road, which had quietly fallen to ruin beginning in Thain Ferumbras's time. One of Pippin's first decrees on becoming Thain had prioritised the restoration of the Stock Road, justifying the move as part of the Thain's duty to speed the King's Messengers on their way. (Of course, this decision also smoothed travel between Brandy Hall and the Great Smials, though Pippin airily waved away the idea whenever it was mentioned.) The body of Tooks also brought with them pavilions and portable kitchens and waggons of supplies, for no inn along their way would have been able to accommodate so many travellers at one time.

In sum, the cavalcade travelled "the long way round", from Tuckborough to Stock, where they set up the pavilions at the end of that first long day of travel. Master Merry and Mistress Estella took the Ferry to meet the Thain and Mistress Diamond for a convivial evening at the Golden Perch, renovated and refurbished after the Troubles, with beer that continued to live up to its previous reputation. The next day, as the Tooks travelled north alongside the Brandywine to the Bridge, Merry and Estella laid aside their usual labours for the day (despite the busyness imposed by Yuletide preparations on top of all the usual business) to ride with their dear friends in the Thain's best coach, a party on wheels of sorts. Their own ponies would meet them at the North-gate for the ride home to Brandy Hall the next morning, after another pleasant evening at the Stonebows Inn at the Bridgefields end of the Bridge.  

'The scenic route!' Hilly snorted to Haldi as they mounted their ponies on the Western side of the Bridge, ready to begin their third day of travel now that the pavilions had been packed away again and the gentry were climbing into their coaches. 'I wish we might've taken a page out of Ferdi's book...' The newlyweds had been allowed (nay, even encouraged) to ride across the fields to Bywater and enjoy two nights alone together at The Green Dragon while waiting for the parade to catch them up. Rosa, Regi's wife, was watching over Nell's children (Nell's and Ferdi's, actually, since Ferdi had adopted them, more or less, on their wedding day, though they retained their father's name of "Bolger" for legal reasons) in one of the coaches going the long way round. 

'At least you got to see the Great River you've talked so long about wanting to see,' his unflappable companion returned.

Hilly snorted. 'From a distance!' he said sourly. For Hilly was one of those rare Tooks with a fascination for moving water, whether it be dancing brook or flowing river or even, perhaps, the restless Sea.

Haldi laughed. 'O aye,' he said. 'And here you wanted to dabble your toes in it... and...' he cut the thought short before the rest of it could emerge to distress his friend... and no Tolly watching o'er your shoulder, ready to jump in and save you from your own foolishness...

Now the escorts sat their ponies, waiting for Thain and Master to finish their farewells. 'You ought to come with us!' Pippin urged Merry for perhaps the hundredth time since the two had hugged each other in greeting at Stock. Yet again, Merry demurred, offering no reasons that Pippin might refute (which Estella had advised him was the wisest course) and thereby putting himself at risk of being argued into giving in to his younger cousin's wishes... as in too many times past.

'Sorry, Pip,' the older cousin said. 'But I do hope you all have a wonderful time! And at least Samwise will be there to open the celebration, should you need to seek out a voice of reason amongst all the daft Tooks who'll be travelling with you!'

At the same time Pippin was protesting Merry's mention of "daft Tooks", Estella was telling Diamond, 'Bring me back something from the famous Yuletide market at the Faire!' With a sly glance at the two husbands, she added, 'Since my hard-hearted husband will not even think of tearing himself away from his responsibilities to take his hard-working wife on holiday!' At Merry's look of surprise, she winked at him with all the sauce she could muster. And, it being Estella, she could muster quite a lot.

But Merry recovered himself quickly. His years of close acquaintance with Pip and later years of marriage to Estella had taught him to stay on his toes. 'Yes!' he said brightly, taking Estella's hand and lifting it close to his face in order to scrutinise her fingers carefully. 'My work is not yet done! For you have not worked them to the bone – not quite yet, anyhow!' He followed this remark by gently kissing Estella's fingertips, enjoying the laughter of the hobbits around them.

Rising again from kissing Estella's hand, Merry said, 'Ah! But see – your escort is about to fall asleep in the saddle if you keep them waiting much longer! And the day is not getting any younger... You've a long way to reach Bywater by this evening if you are not planning to break your journey at Frogmorton, as all sensible Shire-folk do!'

But Pippin answered, 'While I would be gratified to give Ferdi and Nell three days of blissful quiet in Bywater, the Tooks who were left back at the Great Smials will make Regi's life miserable if we are away a day longer than the schedule he set out for them in persuading them that this diplomatic mission of sorts will not completely ruin Tuckborough's Yule celebrations!' 

Though his younger cousin's tone was light, Merry could feel the underlying strain in this rather long-winded speech. He suspected Pippin was in need of a good, long holiday... but the single day of respite planned in the North Farthing, combined with several days of travel to reach their destination, would have to suffice. 

From what Diamond had told Estella the previous night, Pippin would not be returning to Tuckborough by way of the "long way round". They'd reach Bolton around teatime after leaving Bywater – or that was the plan – and rest from their travels while enjoying Bolham the Red's hospitality. The next day in Bolton would officially begin when Mayor Sam opened the festivities at noon, leaving the morning hours refreshingly free of any scheduled commitments. Following the opening ceremony, the plan was to walk the market, which would also open at noon, and enjoy the Faire until after the lamp-lighting ceremony, when the festive lanterns with their coloured glass would transform the town into a wonderland of sorts. Afterwards, while most of the Tookish visitors continued to enjoy the evening festivities in the town, the Thain and the Defenders of the Tookland would attend Bolham's annual feast with the Defenders of the North Farthing. 

The next morning, the plan called for Pippin to rise early and ride southwards on pony-back, taking the direct line down the Oatbarton Road to Bywater and across the fields back to the Great Smials with his escort and Tookland's Steward. Everyone else would travel in relative comfort, with stops at Bywater, Frogmorton and Stock before finally reaching Tuckborough.

After Pippin handed Eglantine, Diamond and Farry into the coach and mounted his pony to lead the train of travellers, Merry and Estella stood on the approach to the Bridge and raised their hands high in farewell. They stood a long time watching the procession pass, until the last supply waggon had passed them by. (Though Estella complained halfway through the process that her arm was about to fall off, thankfully no such disaster happened). At last, both of them let their arms drop to their sides with a sigh, it must be admitted, and Estella said, 'So much for so little!'

'Eh?' Merry said, still staring after the tail of the parade. But then he turned, took Estella's hand, and tucked it into his elbow, tugging her towards the Bridge and their waiting ponies. 'What was that, my love?'

'For one day!' Estella said. 'It's madness!'

Merry shook his head. 'I'm sure Bolham knows what he's doing,' he said. 'He's a canny hobbit...'

'Did you put him up to this?' Estella demanded.

'I?' Merry said in astonishment. And then he stopped walking. Estella waited, despite the chill of the wind blowing down from the North-lands. Finally, he said, 'Y'know, The Red is entirely too easy to talk to. He reminds me of Frodo in many ways.' 

'I must say, I have trouble imagining Frodo with red hair,' Estella said inconsequentially. 

But Merry shook his head at himself. 'I suppose I did mention the hidebound Tooks, and their resistance to any new ideas, no matter how sound Pippin's proposed innovations might be... and the heavy burden they place upon our younger cousin as he tries to see his way clear to a brighter future...'

'And so The Red has invited half the Great Smials at this festive time to see how the "other" Tooks live,' Estella said. 'That sounds just like him. Didn't he invite half the North Farthing to take refuge with him in Bindbole Wood during the Troubles?'

'More than half, from the stories they tell,' Merry said thoughtfully. He patted Estella's hand. 'You may have the right of it, my dear.'

'As I always do,' Estella said breezily.

'As you always do,' Merry acquiesced, beginning to walk again, 'but I'm afraid we're going to catch our deaths if we linger here any longer!'

'Who would ever want to do that!' Estella said, hastening her steps to keep up with her beloved's long strides. 'That old saying has never made sense to me! For what person in their right mind would ever go running after Death to try and catch him, I should like to know!'

Like Pippin, Estella could always make Merry laugh, and he did so now, setting aside his concern for his cousin, difficult as that might be, along with the heavy burden that Pippin must carry since becoming Thain. 'Bless you,' he said.

'Why? I didn't sneeze... though I might, if it gets any colder!' Estella said. 

Merry couldn't help but laugh again.

*** 

After their restful week, Gorbyl looked and felt much better. Wallas used the excuse of keeping Lark out of the cold once more to spare the old hobbit the work of packing the cart with the greenery they'd sell. He and the lads managed everything that needed to be done. As a finishing touch, they decorated the cart by hanging garlands from the long poles that Wallas fixed at the four corners of the cart.

Gorbyl, however, reserved to himself the duty of telling the bees they'd be gone to the Winter Market for several days. While they were gone, a neighbouring woodcutter would check in twice a day to milk the goats, collect the eggs, and feed and water the animals. The arrangement benefited everyone, including the animals: the neighbour would receive payment (and the green-gatherers' tangible gratitude) in the form of the milk and eggs he'd gather while they were gone.

With all their preparations finished, it was at last time to make the half-day journey (at the walking pace of a hobbit teen) to the town.

'But will it be too much for Wren?' the old hobbit fussed, when Wallas and the childer insisted he ride upon the pony's back even as the beast pulled the cart filled with their wares.

'The cart is not as heavy as it might be,' Wallas said. 'I've dumped out the water from the buckets... In these freezing temperatures, the greenery will stay fresh in the open air of the market for as long as need be. That saves a great deal of weight in terms of the load Wren must manage. Moreover, I'll be carrying Lark instead of Wren this year.'

'Wren would be much too heavy for you to carry!' young Gorbi jested. The resulting laugh dissolved the tension between Gorbyl and Wallas, and the old hobbit conceded the point and allowed Wallas to help him onto the pony's back.

The town of Bolton was anticipating an influx of visitors from all over the North Farthing, which meant the inns would be filled to capacity over the week, and many of the residents in the community and its surroundings would rent out rooms to accommodate the overflow. Bolham himself would host the notables amongst the Southern Tooks – the Thain and Steward of Tookland and their families. His winter-fallow fields would provide plentiful space for the pavilions housing and feeding the rest of the visiting South-landers. The Red also ensured, as he did every year, that any of his band who planned to travel to Bolton would have accommodations, either in his sprawling smial or in the town.

Thus, Gorbyl's family was assured of warm beds and a groaning board while in town for the market's duration. In addition, Bolham provided the sellers' tables, along with the booths that stood behind the tables of wares for the market, including charcoal warmers and benches inside the booths where the vendors could rest and warm themselves should the weather prove bitter. Every day during the week of the festival, the market would open at noon and close at sunset with the lighting of the colourful lanterns, though the festivities would continue well into the night hours both in the streets and in the inns of the town.

Part of the market's attraction was the variety of vendors and their wares, including greenery, decorations, a plethora of items featuring North Farthing wool and wood and wax, and more. The smells of spiced cakes and biscuits, roasting nuts, and mulling wine would soon mingle with the mouth-watering scent of various meats roasting over open fires and the warm, inviting aroma of baking breads. Musicians would fill the air with festive tunes. A raised platform where the two main streets intersected was set to feature a rotating roster of musical groups, while wandering minstrels strolled from one end of the Faire to the other, including all the side branches, to bring cheerful songs to the vendors at their tables.

Thus, the town, a pleasant-enough destination during the rest of the year, was completely transformed during an entire week of Yuletide into a magical place, the embodiment of resisting the encroaching darkness and welcoming the return of the light with the turning of the year. Even on the evening before the opening ceremony, as Gorbyl's family and other visitors entered Bolton, the town welcomed them with the glow of the festival's colourful lanterns which were already lit and shining brightly on the eve of the Faire. Little Lark broke into a happy little song and clapped her hands, nearly dislodging Wallas's warm hat, riding as she was in a backpack he'd modified for her comfort. As part of his preparations, Lark's da had stitched woollen "pockets" to the holes he'd cut in an old pack for her legs. Her feet and legs thus had stayed warm throughout the long hike from the middle of the Wood to the town.

Wallas left off Lark and her grandfa at the inn where Bolham had reserved their accommodations. 'You can make sure the lass gets a good supper and goes to bed when she ought, whilst the lads and I set up our table at the market,' he said. 'And then we'll be back to see to Wren's comfort and our own suppers! For the morrow will be a busy day!'

To Wallas's relief, the old hobbit agreed with the practicality of his plans. And so Wallas and the lads drove the cart to their side-branch of the market, conveniently near the inn, and laid out their wares on their long table as attractively as possible. Then they lined up the extra buckets of greenery between the table, where whoever was selling would stand, and the booth where the family could take turns warming themselves. They also took down the garlands that had festooned the cart and hung them above their table. When they were finished, Wallas beckoned to young Gorbi and Flam to join him in the middle of the side street. He rested an arm on the shoulders of each as they stood and admired their work by the light of the lanterns shining in the street.

'I think that'll just suit,' he said. 'O' course, it may all look different by daylight.'

'I think it looks just as well as it did last year!' Gorbi said, and Flam added, 'I think Grandfa will be pleased! Especially with your idea to add bows made of Mum's red ribbon!'

'Well the spool of ribbon was doing nobody any good sitting in a chest,' Wallas said. 'And when I asked Granda, he said he thought our Dove would agree... so you can thank your mum for the festive touches more'n your old da, I should think.'

For his effort to include Dove in their efforts, he received tight hugs from the young hobbits, until he protested that he felt like the middle part of a sandwich, being squeezed between two slices of bread – and that was making him hungry! ...and weren't they wanting their suppers as well?

When they returned to the Third Breakfast, the inn where they were staying, the lads helped Wallas put Wren away in his reserved stall. Wallas was pleased to see that the waiting bedding was piled deep, the haynet and feedbox were filled, and the well-scrubbed water bucket held a fresh supply of water. He pointed out the innkeeper's attention to detail to the lads. 'If the innkeeper's hospitality is anything like the ostler's, we should do very well indeed!'

'The Red holds hobbits to an exacting standard,' young Gorbi informed him. 'The landlord knows which side his bread is buttered on! And since Jabo's also one of Bolham's band, he sees his efforts as a way of honouring Grandfa – and you – for your service to the hobbits of the North Farthing, by making sure we're all as comfortable as possible. Including Wren!' 

Wallas nodded thoughtfully at this illustration of Bolham's continued leadership and care for the hobbits of the North Farthing, long after the end of the Troubles. It reminded him of something or someone... if he could remember, that is... But the memory proved elusive.

He escorted the lads quickly past the common room, where it seemed quite a loud and lively celebration was in progress. He'd heard from Toby, the ostler in the stables, that a large body of South-landers had arrived just before teatime. 'The Red's putting them up on his farm,' Toby had said, 'but some of the archers rode into town to sup and try the local beer instead of what they'd brought with them.'

'Brought with them!' Wallas had been astonished at the thought.

'Aye,' Toby had said. 'The Red, he invited the Thain o' the Shire, imagine it! ...and a whole host of Tooks with 'im. And the Thain, he said – it's said about him, any road, that he said such a thing – that because he'd thought to bring so many, to introduce them to the wonders of our famed Winter Festival, he believed it best to order their "bed and board" to travel with them, so as not to put out the regular visitors from the North Farthing who come every year!'

'That sounds right thoughtful of the fellow,' Wallas had said, impressed at the level of planning such accommodations must have been involved.

'Aye, he's said to be full o' good ideas... exceptin' in the eyes of the Tooks,' Toby had said, scratching his head. 'But then, there's no accountin' for South-landers, I expect.'

Wallas had chuckled. 'I expect they'd say the same about North-landers,' he'd said. Toby had been dubious about this point, but he'd wished them all a good night nonetheless.

They found Lark and Gorbyl both asleep, and so Wallas and the lads were as quiet as possible as they ate the cold supper laid out on the side table and then deposited the trays that had held the food and plates and cosied teapot and mugs in the hallway to be collected by one of the servers.

Next morning, a light sifting of snow graced the opening day of the celebration. The vendors staying at the Third Breakfast arose early to break their fast in the now-quiet common room. 'What d'you suppose folk eat at third breakfast?' Wallas asked Gorbyl. 

The old hobbit laughed. 'Same as they eat at elevenses!' he said. Truth be told, he looked a bit tired, yet, from the journey despite going early to bed, and Wallas resolved to send the old hobbit back to the inn when it was time to tuck Lark in for her nap. While ostensibly watching over the lass, her grandfa would – hopefully – find some extra rest into the bargain. 

Since Wallas and the lads had set up their offerings the previous night, they were able to linger over their tea (and Wallas over his mug of milk) and  second breakfast and  third (meaning elevenses served a little earlier than usual, as it were), which had the benefit of keeping Gorbyl and Lark in the cosy warmth of the common room for longer. An hour before the festival opened, however, the old hobbit marshalled his forces, and they made their way down the main road to the side-branching street where their table stood. Lark oohed and ahhed in delight, while the rest of the family grinned at the bright decorations that hung from the buildings and lantern-holding poles and graced the market tables and booths.

Gorbyl pronounced everything in order and admired the added bright notes of the red bows made from Dove's ribbon, still as vibrant and cheerful as the day she'd put it away in the chest and tucked it under an assortment of table linens, away from the Sun's light. 'I think we'll draw a fair bit of coin to carry us through the winter months, what with our festive touches!' he told Wallas and the childer.

Crowds were beginning to fill the streets, and good smells were arising from the food vendors, and winter-themed tunes wafted from several directions as musicians warmed up their voices and instruments. At noon, the sound of a horn cut through the bustle from the centre of the town, and Gorbyl turned to Wallas. 'Would ye like to go and see the Mayor open the Faire?' he said. 'Just down to the main road and then left, to where it crosses the main street... That's where the dignitaries will stand, the Mayor o' Michel Delving and Thain o' the Shire and Bolham o' Bolton. There'll be music later, and dancing...'

Wallas shook his head. 'Too much noise for me,' he said. 'It echoes in my head, somehow. But you go, and take the childer to see the spectacle. It only happens once in the year, as it is!'

The old hobbit nodded his understanding. 'We'll join you here soon after the market is declared open,' he said. 'For believe me, we'll do a brisk business on this opening day, right up until teatime!'

'Last year, we sold all our greens on opening day!' Flam told Wallas in excitement. 'But Grandfa let us stay over an extra day so that we could be Faire-goers for a day and not just market-sellers!'

'Well then, I shall hope for the best, e'en though your granda told me we gathered much more this year than last!' Wallas said. 'And then on the morrow, Lark can ride upon my shoulders to see all the sights from on high as we explore the wonders of the Faire!'

Lark jumped up and down in her excitement and delight, while her brothers cheered the idea, and then Gorbyl shepherded the childer down their branch of the market to the street beyond.

Standing behind the table holding their offerings, Wallas heard a burst of music from the town centre, followed by a cheer and then a hearty voice, though he couldn't make out individual words. The Mayor, he thought, or perhaps Bolham. And then another booming voice sounded, and Wallas construed, accurately, in fact, that The Red had introduced the Mayor, and the Mayor was now ceremoniously and officially opening the celebration. More cheers punctuated the speeches. Wallas was somehow familiar with such speeches (probably from previous years at the Winter Festival and Yuletide Faire, he imagined), and so he knew that the speakers were recommending the various delights that visitors might explore, as well as introducing notable guests to the crowd.

But Wallas, content with his lot, had no need to stand in a crowd and crane to see the faces of those who'd won fame or recognition amongst other Shire-folk, nor even the other members of Bolham's band, with whom he'd be celebrating this evening. A small part of him hoped against hope that he might begin to recognise their faces by this time. It had been months since his... accident? Mishap? Injury? His body had healed completely, leaving no reminders behind in the form of scars or discolouration or lingering aches or other sign. Would his mind not follow suit?

At last, a flourish of drums, a blast of horns, and a rousing cheer signalled the end of the ceremonies and beginning of the festivities, and Wallas prepared himself for an onslaught of buyers. Luckily, Gorbyl and the childer were not long in returning. They'd stood at the edge of the crowd and had taken their leave before the final speech was quite finished. They'd also hurried, leaving Gorbyl enough out of breath upon arriving that Wallas sent him to the booth behind their table, presumably to watch over Lark as she benefited from the warmth of the charcoal brazier inside the shelter. The old hobbit's pallor worried him.

Almost immediately after Gorbyl and Lark disappeared into the little shelter, the Faire-goers thronged the market, distracting Wallas from further thought. Even with young Gorbi's help, and Flam moving between the tied-up bunches of greenery in the buckets behind them and the table where they'd laid out their display items to fetch the choices that their buyers pointed out, Wallas found himself in constant motion to keep up with the demand. Many voices gabbled at him at once, and the faces in front of him were continually changing. The entire street where their table stood was a joyous pandemonium of noise and colour and movement and varied scents. Luckily, Wallas was too busy to take it all in, or he might have found it overwhelming after the peace of the Wood he'd grown accustomed to.

Grown accustomed to... the thought fluttered at the back of his mind. After... what? The sudden realisation broke upon him then that he'd grown accustomed to the quiet Wood. Which suggested that he'd known something else, some other environment, some other kind of surroundings, before that time... The thought was disquieting, but he had no time to entertain it at the moment as one face after another pushed to the fore of the crowd. He maintained his smile, met each customer's eyes, followed their gestures, turned to take up the garlands or bunches of greenery that Flam brought him, handed the purchases to the customers, and accepted coins and passed them to Gorbi to put away safely... 

In the noise of the happy crowd, individual voices and even words were difficult to make out. Though some hobbits in the throng might have tried to talk to each other or to Wallas, they were soon forced to give up. Unless one was standing next to someone, shouting directly in their ear, one had little chance of being heard, much less understood! Thus, quite a lot of the buying and selling employed gestures and pointing or raised fingers – one for a copper penny, two for tuppence, and such, or a fisted left hand paired with counting fingers on the right hand for silver pennies in the case of more expensive wares, such as a woven blanket of Bolham's fine wool at a weaver's table...

So many faces... one blurred into the next, and if some seemed familiar, well, wasn't that the way of things with people? Everyone had eyes, a nose, a mouth, ears, chin... It was no wonder that some people might resemble others at a casual glance.

*** 

After the mother of the Thain had been introduced with the rest of the "notables" ("Notable!" she'd snorted to herself, though her fixed smile hadn't wavered. "Why, I'm just an old granny! What's all that notable about me?"), Eglantine had taken young Faramir around the market with her to give Pippin and Diamond some time to enjoy the Faire, just the two of them (with the inevitable escort following on their heels, of course). When Regi, who had charge of the escort and their duties, had been occupied elsewhere, the Thain's mother had persuaded Pippin that she and Farry would hardly need any escorting as they walked the market, and he'd let her off with little more than a murmur of regret that he wished he might enjoy the same good fortune. 

Unfortunately, that meant Eglantine had no idea where her son was at the moment – or her daughter Pimpernel and Ferdi – or any of the Tookish archers attending the Fest! – and just when she needed to find one or more of them, and urgently!

'Keep your eyes open, Farry!' she told the little lad. 'Let me know the minute you see your mum or your da, or your Uncle Ferdi, or Regi, or—!'

'I am!' Farry said, and for certain, his eyes were open as wide as he could make them, and his head was moving in every direction as he scanned the crowds around them, even as Eglantine searched the faces surrounding them and scanned the cloaks people were wearing... but would Pip's Elvish cloak, which had served him so well in his journeys, also conceal him from his mother's eyes in the midst of the crowds? She certainly hoped not!

Diamond's cloak, too, had stood out in the Tookland, but now Eglantine realised the lass must have brought it from the North-lands with her, for she saw many such cloaks of creamy wool embroidered in bright colours worn by hobbits in the surrounding crowd as well as hanging on racks and on offer in the market.

Suddenly, she caught a flash of bright red hair. Pulling Farry after her, Eglantine pushed her way through the crowd in that direction. Upon reaching her objective, she grinned in triumph! For she'd found some of Bolham's large brood, walking the Faire together. She grabbed one of the tweens by the sleeve. 

'Mistress!' he greeted her. 'Glad Yule!'

'Your da!' she gasped. 'I need to find The Red – and the Thain! – just so soon as possible!'

'Is there some sort of emergency?' a slightly older tween said, taking Eglantine's arm. To the rest, he said, 'Scatter and search!' Soon, his was the only ruddy head in sight. When Eglantine would have moved on, to continue her own search, he stopped her. 'Wait,' he said. 'They'll meet us here where we stand, but if we move, we might keep missing each other.'

It was a sound strategy, Eglantine had to admit, which was proved when another of Bolham's tweens soon came through the crowd with her father and Pippin and Diamond in tow, Hilly and Haldi behind them. Diamond quickly surged ahead of the rest and bent to ask Farry, rather breathlessly, if he'd been hurt? Was everything well with him?'

'What is it, Mother?' Pippin asked, reaching Eglantine and taking her hands. 'Are you ill? Do we need to summon a healer here in the town? Or would you like to go back to the farm and have Agate,' (naming Bolham's healer wife), 'take a look?'

When it came down to the moment, Eglantine froze under her son's intense gaze and the weight of his obvious concern. But Farry broke free of Diamond and pulled at his grandmother's cloak. 'Tell them, Gran!' he said.

Eglantine found her voice. 'It's Tolly!' she said. 'I'm sure... he's here! I know I've seen him! I'd stake my life on it!'

***