A Moment of Connection

            “Where are you going, you daft Elf?” demanded Gimli.

            Legolas gave a quick glance over his shoulder at the Dwarf seated behind him on Arod’s back, but gave no more answer than an enigmatic shake of his head.  Aragorn, who was checking the girth of Roheryn’s saddle, glanced over at his companions curiously, then nodded as if he appreciated the Elf’s purpose as Legolas turned his horse back toward the site of their recent victory.  Gimli noted that Gandalf gave them no attention at all, his own concerns apparently focused on the still forms of Frodo and Sam on their litters.

            Arod snorted a slight protest as the Elf guided him around the root of the mountains toward the battlefield.  Still, the horse proved obedient in spite of its obvious disapproval of its rider’s goal.  Carefully it picked its way amidst the rubble.  A few hardy soldiers, cloths tied over their faces, worked amidst the remaining evidence of carnage, still separating bodies of those who’d fought among the forces of the Army of the West from those of its foes, gathering weapons and armor, piling the bodies of trolls and orcs here, laying those of Easterlings there, those of Southrons there, those of Men of other lands elsewhere, now and then finding one who yet lived and calling for a wagon to bear the wounded Man off of the field. 

            Legolas appeared to be ignoring them all.  He rode on until they reached a point where he could look through the gap where the Black Gate had stood.  In the distance they could see the smokes that marked the ruins of Mount Doom, and the nearer pile of rubble that was all that was left of the Black Tower of Barad-dûr.  Here Arod finally halted.  Gimli could tell that the horse was uncomfortable by the tension he felt in the muscles of Arod’s back, but at a soothing word and touch from Legolas the horse calmed, although its ears still swiveled as if listening for the approach of an enemy.

            They sat so for some minutes, the Elf looking thoughtfully into the former land of Mordor.  At last he sat straighter, and at a slight shift in his body coaxed Arod to turn slowly.  Now he looked behind the site where the battle had raged, toward the distant shimmer of reflected light that indicated where the Dead Marshes lay.  Absently he rubbed the horse’s neck as he considered the area.  At last he spoke, his melodious voice soft.  “That is where the bodies of the dead were buried before, when my father and grandfather fought here.  Elves, Men, Orcs—I think perhaps even a few Dwarves fought at times here as well, mostly those who’d come as messengers from the upper vales of the Anduin who’d stayed to slake the thirst of their axes with the black blood of the Enemy’s forces, or who had nothing to which they might return.  Ten years of frustration and loss, constant siege, separation from families and loved ones, repeated assaults by the Enemy’s orcs and allies.  So many who marched forth from the Greenwood failed to return home again, and if any of my people ever see them again it will not be here, within Middle-earth.”

            He went quiet once more, his eyes still fixed on the place where so many lay.  Aragorn had spoken of his own sojourn there last evening when he’d come away from his labours amongst the wounded to take a brief rest, describing the appearance of ghostly bodies seeming to lie in the fetid pools.  At last Legolas sighed.  “It is over at last,” he murmured, “all the watch we have kept so long on the Black Land.  Yea, it is over, and at least, this time, no Elves or Dwarves died here, within or in sight of Mordor.  We may have died elsewhere in defense of our own lands, but we did not die here as happened before.”

            Arod, sensing that they would be leaving this dread place soon, pranced impatiently as again his rider straightened.  “Sleep well, Oropher, Ereinion Gil-galad, and so many, many others,” the Elf called out.  “Your sacrifice was not in vain, you will find.  And when the time is right, I look to behold you again within Aman, and to greet you with the word that your enemy is indeed cast down, and this time will not rise again.”  He gave a surprisingly deep bow toward the marshes, and Arod, his head raised proudly, again began picking his way through the rubble toward the way south toward the camp, the muscles under Gimli rippling as the horse and its riders put the battlefield and the dead behind them.

Anticipation

            Fabric had been brought to the camp in Ithilien, including some work from Belestor’s own tailor shop in the First Circle.  As he remembered and had instructed the messengers, all that was found in his second workroom had been brought to him, and that included the clothing he had been working on for his own son and his two nephews, shirts and trews, small clothes and surcoats, intended for the three youths to take with them when they left the city in the following fall to visit for a year with their grandsire in Dol Amroth.

            His brother had laughed when told that Belestor had already begun sewing garments for that time.  “As fast as they grow, they will be beyond such clothing ere they leave Minas Tirith!” he’d exclaimed.

            Belestor had snorted in reply.  “Do not think I take no care for that,” he’d answered.  “I know the ways of growing boys well enough!”

            But then had come the word that the Enemy was on the march, and the boys were sent off even as winter gave over to spring, with sufficient fabric and money that hopefully their grandfather could see them properly clothed as needed when the time came.  There had been no time to finish aught he’d been working upon.

            But now it was no longer work for naught, he reflected as he lifted two completed sleeves and considered as to whether or not they would be long enough.  He brought out his knotted string and the measurements he’d made, and compared them to the notes, his brow furrowed in thought.  Then his frown smoothed and he smiled.  They would do!

            He found his thread and three steel needles in their bone case, needles long treasured by his own grandfather, from whom he’d learned his trade.  “’Tis said that they came from the Elves who lived betimes in Edhellond,” the old Man had told him.  “They are said to have come perhaps from the Blessed Realm itself, the work of a Noldor smith.  Surely my own father and his before him treasured them, for they told me that all that was sewn with them proved true and comely, becoming well those who wore them.  They will be yours one day, if you truly intend to follow our family craft.”

            And his they were, brought by him when he followed the Lady Finduilas to the White City.  Long had he sewn garments for the use of her sons and husband from the comfort of his workrooms in the First Circle.  And her shroud, he thought, sobering once more as he began piecing together the tunic to which the sleeves belonged.  He had grieved so when she’d left the Bounds of Arda, and prayed she watched over her still living son, there in the Houses of Healing.

            Her sons were far too tall for such garments as these, he knew, but now they would serve a nobler purpose than had been intended.  Carefully he sewed, keeping his stitches properly fine and even for the needs of the ones for whom they were now intended.  Others from the camp of the Men of the City began to gather, watching with interest and pride as Belestor carefully prepared these for the use of the Ringbearers, for the day on which they would, hopefully, awaken again to receive the honor of the Army of the West.

The Mystery of the Brown Ghost

            “There!  Do you hear it?” Eldarion asked his friend Elboron.

            The son of the Prince of Ithilien peered out of the shallow cupboard in which the two of them crouched and shook his head.  They were in one of the suites of rooms in the upper level above the offices at the front of the citadel, a suite that by tradition had been inhabited by the heirs to the lordship of Gondor, first by the King’s Heir and later by that of the Ruling Steward in the millennia after the disappearance of Eärnur, before the Return of the King.  “I hear nothing!” he whispered to his companion.

            But then both went still, for definitely something had gone “Bump!” quite near their hiding place, a bump that was followed quickly by another sound that neither could identify.  There was a whirring noise, a whirring noise that was accompanied by a series of lesser bumps! in quick succession.  That was followed by a decided whine of some sort that caused the hair of both boys to rise on the backs of their respective necks.  Both were frozen to immobility until at last all again went still.

            At last Elboron stirred.  “I like it not!” he murmured in the ear of his friend.

            Eldarion almost nodded his agreement, but stopped himself.  “But we should learn what causes it,” he breathed softly.

            Elboron shrugged as if he weren’t anywhere as certain of that plan as was the King’s son, but his shoulders straightened as he put his hand on the hilt of the long knife he wore at his waist, a gift to him last Mettarë.  He took a long breath and held it, and at last, the two of them in accord, they pushed open the cupboard and slipped out into the room.

            But although they went through the seven rooms within the suite most thoroughly, they found nothing but some feathers upon the floor under the clerestory window that lit the room ordinarily used as a bedroom or office or private study by whoever inhabited the set of chambers.

            “A great owl’s feathers,” Elboron noted as they examined this find.  “Whoever lived here last must have spent some time within Ithilien.”

            Disappointed to find nothing else out of the ordinary, the two of them slipped out of the suite and closed the door behind them, just in time to hear the bells summoning those residing within the Citadel to their dinners.

            “And where have the two of you been all afternoon?” inquired Prince Faramir as the two boys arrived to join their families at the high table in the greater dining hall.  “Your tutors have reported you have been nowhere to be found much of the day.”

            The two boys exchanged looks that were cut short when the King and his wife entered together.  The Lord Elessar and Lady Arwen said nothing as they took their place at the center of the high table, although their looks at the boys still managed to repeat the question wordlessly.  But it was not until after the Standing Silence was complete that either of them could answer.

            “There has been a strange apparition in the upper levels of the Citadel,” Eldarion explained, nodding to the page who came forward to proffer a basin of water in which to lave his hands.  “Thank you,” he said, accepting the towel offered and then returning it to the youth’s arm.  “We went to investigate it.  One of the younger maids who cleans was unnerved by the noises, and told me of them the other day.  I went to the room and found nothing, and today Elboron went with me.”

            “And again you found nothing?” the King asked.

            “Naught but some owl feathers,” Elboron answered.

            King and Steward exchanged glances, and the two boys could see that Elboron’s father had a mysterious smile on his face.  “Do you know what could have caused the noise, my lord?” asked Eldarion.

            “Ah, but it appears that the Brown Ghost may have returned to the Prince’s Chambers,” Faramir said.  The Queen and the Princess of Ithilien exchanged inquiring looks before returning their attention to their menfolk.

            “A Brown Ghost dwells at times in the Prince’s Chambers?” asked the Lord Elessar.

            Faramir nodded.  “Such was true when my brother and I were young.  Many of the maids would refuse to go into those rooms for fear of it, uncertain as they were of the apparent moans and thumps and other odd sounds such as were often heard there.  Although there were those who would take those rooms at times and who swore they heard no such things.  It appears that the Brown Ghost is not a constant inhabitant there.”

            He paused as the servers arrived with the first course of the meal.  Once all had served themselves and he had himself eaten some of his soup and bread, he continued.  “Boromir was certain that there was some great mystery here, so he determined to spend the night within the bedchamber, and I, not being willing to be denied a night in his company, declared myself his companion, and nothing would turn me from my decision.  Our father merely smiled indulgently and ordered Boromir’s governor and my nurse to allow us our way.”  He swallowed several more spoons of soup before continuing.

            “The bed used by the last one to inhabit those chambers was still there, and all disapproving, Boromir’s governor accompanied us there with proper linens and blankets, and saw the bed made up for our use, once Boromir had pulled the white dust sheet from it with his own hands.  Then my brother sent him away most imperiously—and, I fear, quite cheekily for a youth of a mere twelve summers, and we went to the bathing chamber and prepared ourselves for our night of watching.

            “I had brought several books with me, for we were quite determined to remain awake throughout the whole night.  At first I read aloud to Boromir, although I doubt he enjoyed the story I read half as much as he did simply listening to my voice. 

            “But I was but a small boy of seven, and soon tired.  In the end, Boromir took the last of the pile of books I’d brought and began reading it to me.  I refused to lie down, but sat up, leaning more and more against his side as the evening progressed, and at last I fell asleep.  He told me later I had my thumb in my mouth when I did so, a detail I denied but must admit might well have been true at the time.  He laid me down more comfortably, and set himself to watch.  But he, too, was beginning to nod when he felt a shadow fall upon him, briefly obscuring the light from the clerestory window in the room; but when he looked upwards the light of the moon shone down upon us once more.  He heard nothing more for quite a while, and at last he drowsed for a time, until he heard shrill cries over us as the light again was darkened.  Something dropped upon the bed between us, and he was so terrified he grabbed me and dragged me from it, fleeing the room as swiftly as he could induce me to go with him.  Afterwards he berated himself for a craven coward, but our father merely shook his head and told him a wise captain knows when to retreat until he has more knowledge.”

            “And did you never find out the true history of the Brown Ghost?” the King asked him.

            “In time we did.  We were much older when we did so, my brother and I.  But we learned by watching from outside the Citadel.  The Brown Ghost remained in residence for the rest of the summer after we slept in the room, but did not return for several years.  Then when I was fourteen summers the maids again spoke of fearful noises within the Prince’s Chambers, and Boromir and I again slipped into the rooms to search for clues—but in the daylight this time.  What I found gave me an idea as to the nature of the apparition, and I suggested to my brother that we could most likely confirm my theory by watching the clerestory window that allowed the moonlight to fall upon the bed below from the outside of the Citadel on the night of the next full moon.  Boromir thought at first I was as afraid as he’d been at twelve, but agreed afterwards with me that we saw far better from our vantage point below the branches of the White Tree than we would have seen from inside the room.  Father was most impressed at the time.”

            “And what is the truth of the Brown Ghost?” demanded Eldarion.

            But the Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor merely smiled mysteriously.  “And where is the challenge in telling you what you will best learn on your own?” he asked.  “You and my son are wise and brave beyond your years.  Let you find your own way to understanding the nature and aims of the Brown Ghost much as my father allowed us to do when Boromir and I were young.”

            The moon was full the night that Elboron and Eldarion chose to spend the night keeping watch on the windows of the Prince’s Chambers from the Court of Gathering before the Citadel.  The King and his Steward gave orders that no further guard needed to be kept on the two youths beyond those who kept the watch on the White Tree and those who stood guard before the doors of the Citadel itself, but as the hour of midnight neared the two Men and a single bodyguard slipped out to take cover under the White Tree where they could keep an eye on their two sons, who had unrolled bedrolls under the light of the moon itself.

            “You have not told me the true nature of the Brown Ghost,” breathed Lord Aragorn Elessar in his friend’s ear.

            Faramir again smiled mysteriously as he replied softly, “And shall I deny you the right to learn as do your son and mine, as did Boromir and I?”

            The King shrugged, and settled down. Pulling his grey-green cloak about himself, he willed himself to stillness.  So the two former Rangers kept watch on the two boys as the two boys watched the window.

            There was a soft murmur between the two youths that at last went quiet.  It appeared the two of them would fall asleep and leave the mystery unsolved, when suddenly there was a dark winged shape that threw a shadow upon the two bedrolls.  No, they were not asleep after all, as both boys immediately rose to their feet and peered toward the dark gap that marked where the clerestory window to the Prince’s Chambers stood open to allow air to move freely into the upper levels of the Citadel.

            “What is it?” demanded Elboron.

            But Eldarion was smiling broadly.  “I saw it!” he said.  “If we go in now, we can perhaps see more clearly!”  He leaned down to scoop up the blankets and rug he’d rested upon and headed swiftly toward the Citadel, and Elboron was left to hurry after him, wrapping the loose ends of fabric from his own bedroll about his arms to keep them from dragging the ground to trip him up as he did his best to follow his friend as swiftly as he might.  And without making any noise, the three men followed after the boys.

            The door guards kept the doors open for the fathers and their guard, and soon the men were climbing the stairs to the upper story at the front of the Citadel.  Elboron and Eldarion had left the door to the Prince’s Chambers open, and Faramir grabbed up an oil lamp that stood in a niche to take with them.  Within they could hear a series of shrill cries, and they found their way to the door to the main bedchamber.

            Not far inside the room stood the two boys, peering upwards intently.  Above them, over the place where the bedstead should lie, they could see the light falling upon the floor from the clerestory window, and opposite it in the dormer in which it had been placed was a ledge.  The boys did not appear surprised to be joined by their fathers.  Now the four of them crowded to a vantage point where they could see the ledge clearly.  And looking down at them round yellow eyes----

            “An owl!” whispered Elboron.

            “A family of owls!” amended Eldarion as the parent turned its head to regard the shrilly crying young who were demanding their share of whatever delicacy it had brought.  A second shadow followed the first, and a second large owl landed beside its mate, clearly bearing a mouse in its beak, the mouse’s tail trembling as the parent shook its head.

            “Had Boromir considered the sheet that covered the bed on the night we slept here,” Faramir commented as they peered upwards together, “he would have realized that birds nested up there.”

            “And that is the source of the owl feathers we found,” Elboron said softly.  “How wonderful!  We have peregrine falcons that nest on window ledges outside, and owls who nest here, in the Prince’s own chambers!”

            Eldarion’s wide smile continued.  “And I’ll be glad enough to share with them, when these rooms are my own,” he declared.

            His father placed his arm about his son’s shoulders as one of the young owlets clattered its beak and shook its wings, thumping softly against the wall as it took the mouse from its parent.  With a soft hoot the two parents turned and ghosted out the window once more….

The Reluctant Spring

            Carefully looking both ways to see that none of Lotho’s Big Men were about, Robin Smallburrow turned off the Road and slipped across the south pasture toward the low house lying at the center of his family’s farm, staying close to the hedge that bounded the lane.  Not, he knew, that anyone would easily see him, as lowering as the brown clouds were.  The days were dull and sullen and the nights miserably dark, and had been for the past month or so.  It might be nearing midday, but it might as well be twilight.

            Reaching the door, he gave the agreed upon signal to let his old mum know that it was him—two quick raps and three slow ones, followed by a scratch of a horny fingernail across the wood.  He heard the chair his mum kept under the battered knob scrape as she pulled it away, and the door slowly opened.  It was dark inside the place, and he could see his mother only as a slightly darker shadow against the already dark entryway.  “That you, lad?” she whispered.  “Thought as you’d be here afore dawn.”

            He slipped past her and closed the door behind her, then pushed the chair back under the knob once more, making certain it was firmly wedged.  “Couldn’t make it—got called to Bag End along with my mates.”

            “Bag End?  And what new mischief does Pimple plan for us now?” she demanded, drawing him down the passage to the kitchen.  A single candle sat on a saucer on the table—for some reason the last time the Gatherers and Sharers had been through they’d taken all the lamps and lamp oil, as well as the three brass candlesticks his family had owned.

            He shook his head as he dropped his pack onto a chair, then doffed the now hated feathered cap he had to wear to identify himself as a Shiriff and tossed it onto the table.  “He’s got a bunch of new lads—says as we need more Shiriffs, so’s we can make sure as folks don’t break the new Rules.  We’re to be put into troops----”

            “Troops?”  Her voice rose in outrage.  “Since when does the Shire need troops of Shiriffs?  Just how many do we need to find a strayed lamb or walk a drunk Hobbit home from the inn?”

            “What inn?” he asked bitterly.  “Ain’t no inns open nowhere about here in the Westfarthing no more.  Mr. Lotho, him don’t hold with inns, or so he says.”

            She gave a sniff.  “I member well enough when his old dad was a regular at the Ivy Bush when I worked there, back afore your dad’n me was married.  And Pimple himself certainly spent a good deal of time there, up till a year or so ago.  Was drinkin’ there the day his daddy was buried, if’n I member rightly.  Showed up to the funeral drunk, if’n Sam Gamgee’s to be believed.”

            Sam had accompanied Frodo Baggins to Otho Sackville-Baggins’s funeral, and had helped fill in the grave while Mr. Baggins, as the Baggins family head and almost the only mourner besides that awful Mistress Lobelia, had ended up directing matters in the absence of Lotho.  It had been rather a scandal, in spite of the fact that Lotho was known to spend hardly any time at all at home with his mother or taking care of family business.  Robin remembered Sam sitting here at their table, telling of it that night.

            “They got you goin’ around counting logs in woodpiles now?” she asked.

            “Not yet, but I expect as it’s comin’.  We’re to make certain as there’s but one bucket for each well, and no more than one boiler for laundry for each house.  And we’re to inspect washin’ lines and make certain there’s not extra sheets bein’ washed, since no one’s to be visitin’ from other parts of the Shire no more.”

            His mother was shocked.  “What?  And what about folks like the Delvers?  You know how it is with old Blotho, all stuck in bed since that brainstorm a year ago.  They have to change his beddin’ at least once a day.  It’s not like he can help it, after all!”  She shook her head in dismay.  “And with Will Whitfoot gone, all locked up in those old storage tunnels Michel Delving way, there’s not a soul as can put a stop to it all!  I’ll tell you what—that Frodo Baggins comes back and I’ll have a word to put in his ear!  Sellin’ Bag End to those uppity Sackville-Bagginses and lettin’ Pimple’s head swell up like that!  Much less draggin’ that Sam off into the wild the way he did!”  She turned angrily toward their larder and began to pull out enough to fix him some elevenses, and he started unpacking what he’d brought in the pack.  It wasn’t a great deal, but it was about enough to help offset what she’d not been able to get for herself due to the Gatherers and Sharers depleting the stores of the merchants she used to buy from in the village.  ’Twasn’t the best of quality, perhaps, but it was filling, at least.  As he worked, he pondered what he needed to tell her.  At last he felt he’d waited long enough.

            “Mum,” he began slowly, “I don’t know as I’ll be able to come by as often as I do now, come next month.”

            She stopped in the process of slicing the half loaf of bread she’d brought from the larder, gripping the bread knife more tightly so as to whiten her knuckles.  “Why not?”

            He took a deep breath before explaining, “Like I said, Pimple’s organizing us into troops, and I’m to be part of the troop workin’ out of Frogmorton.”

            She stared at him, disbelieving.  “Frogmorton?  But why?  Why, that’s a day’s walk away from here!”

            “I know.  But he wants Shiriffs in force along the Road.”

            She set down the knife rather deliberately on the worktable, and just looked at him, her arms akimbo, her balled fists against her ample hips.  She was shaking her head.  “This ain’t right—not right at all!  You know what, son—it’s time you gave over bein’ a Shiriff, when you are sent a day’s journey from your home, and when you’re made to spy on decent folk who never did wrong to anyone.”

            “I can’t quit.”

            “But why not?”

            “Member Chico Bottomly, there from Overhill?”

            “The one who got away with my prize turnips back when you was teens?”

            “Yes.  You know as he went for a Shiriff same time as me.”

            “Yes, I know.”

            “Well, last week he went up to Bag End to tell Pimple as he was quitting being a Shiriff as it just wasn’t right what we was expected to do, and we’ve not seen him since.”

            Her face went white.  “They drug him off to the Lockholes, you think?” she whispered.

            “We don’t know for certain, but I expect as that’s what happened.”

            “If’n they didn’t kill him,” she murmured, looking down at the bread and knife lying before her on the worktable.

            “Lotho wouldn’t let them kill nobody—or at least I don’t think as he would.”  But even Robin heard the uncertainty in his own voice.

            “Who’s to say as what Pimple would do?” she muttered, picking up her knife and savagely finishing her slicing.  “Always was a lout, and he’s just gettin’ worse the older he gets.”

            He nodded.

            Elevenses were rather sparse, but at least he wouldn’t faint with hunger as he returned to his rounds.  He hitched his now lighter pack up on his shoulders, gave a careful look about to make certain no one was watching his mum’s house, and headed back toward the Road.  The day was no lighter—in fact it seemed even more bitterly dark than it had been, and there was a distinct feeling of anger and malice in the air.  “You’d never figger as today’s the twenty-fifth of March already,” he muttered as he reached the Road and looked carefully each way to make certain no one else was in sight.  “Will spring never come?”

            Usually by now the crocuses would be in full bloom and the daffodils would just be beginning to show their golden crowns.  But there were no spiked leaves from bulbs to be seen, and no blossoms of any kind.  The willow shrubs hadn’t yet produced their catkins, nor had the aspens begun to bud.  Trees were still bare, and even the plants of the hedges were still sporting leaves spotted with last fall’s signs rather than showing any indications they were still wick.  There’d not even been any snowdrops, and those were always the first plants to waken with the brightening of the year.

            He felt clammy, in spite of the closeness of the atmosphere, and he drew his cloak tighter about himself.  He felt reluctant to leave the concealment of the hedge, as if were he to step out upon the Road he’d make himself conspicuous to the eye of some fell enemy.  He wiped his forehead with his jacket’s sleeve while peering left and right.  Somewhere, he suddenly realized, something was decidedly wrong!  What it was he could not say and would not guess; but there was a decided feeling of impending doom hovering over him, and he knew somehow it was best he remain still and draw no attention to himself!

            The day suddenly went completely still.  There’d been no smaller birds to be seen throughout the Shire for all the weeks of the darkness that had come from the south and east, although there were plenty of crows of scruffy appearance to be found.  Even they, however, had seemed either unnaturally subdued for their kind, or would be particularly raucous in their calls, as if in defiance of the unnatural silence to be found throughout the Shire.  Now, however, even they were quiet!  The wind had died, and all seemed to wait for some great, killing stroke to fall upon the land!  Robin Smallburrow felt as if he were stifling, and clawed at the top button to his shirt!

            And then, when he felt he must go mad from the tension of the moment, at last he felt some great balance shift!  A wind sprang up, bending the hedge eastward, and suddenly he could breathe again, even if it was labored in the face of the gale!  He turned west and watched as the great pall of brown murk began to tear apart, as the blue of the sky at last could be seen and as light began tearing away at the remnants of the reek!  The crows rose from where they’d huddled in the tallest of the trees, crying aloud to herald the end of the darkness, seeming just as glad as Robin himself to see the end of the shadow that had hung for so long over the whole world, or so it had seemed to the Hobbit!

            Far to the west clouds were beginning to gather, but they were natural clouds, clouds from proper weather rather than darkness, and he knew that soon rain would begin to fall, washing away the brown ash that he could see darkened the leaves and stifled the very earth.

            “Yes!” he said in a soft exclamation as he saw a great flock of small birds at last soaring over the Westfarthing, each chirping loudly.

            Honk, honk!  Honk, honk, honk!  Honk!  From the south came a great V of geese, followed by a second flank, all crying aloud the gladsome news—somehow, in some strange way, the land itself was awakening, and all hurried to see to it that spring caught up with the calendar.  The true clouds of the west swept eastward, dropping their burden of moisture upon the land, and Robin stood there in awe, watching them roil overhead in rolls of white, purple, indigo, silver and darkest grey, lit here and there with rosy pink and even crimson.  A silver curtain of rain arced toward him, and he let it come, rejoiced to feel the honest touch of it upon his face, saw it scouring away the darkness.

            A flock of ducks struggled to keep together as they flew by toward Bywater and the Pool there.  A hawk suddenly appeared, tilting first this way and then that as the wind buffeted its wings, glad apparently merely to be aloft no matter how heavy the winds might be!

            Then the clouds were past, chasing the brown gloom further eastward and south, and sunlight followed the rain, showing sparkling jewels here and there across the land as it glinted from drops that clung to the bare stems and stubborn, brittle leaves of the hedge by which Robin stood and as they stood upon grass that at last seemed tinged with green.

            Cheer up!  Cheer up!  He turned to find a tiny goldcrest had lit on the hedge near his hand, and was clinging onto a sturdy stalk determinedly as it turned its head to examine him.  Cheer up!  Cheer up! it advised him before suddenly letting go and allowing the wind to carry it away.

            Robin Smallburrow stood there for some time, his cloak now steaming, and the feather in his cap shedding its burden of dampness and taking again its proper shape.  He suddenly shivered, and then laughed aloud.

            “Don’t know as what’s just happened,” he said aloud to himself, “but it does appear as spring’s finally come.  And about time it is!”

            He now stepped boldly upon the Road and turned east.  He might be forced to stay in Frogmorton and he might remain for a time at the beck and call of the likes of Lotho Pimple, but he knew now he could bear with it, and would survive the storm.  The sun had come again past all hope when it seemed the brown must overshadow the world forever; and he knew now there would come an end to the tyranny of Lotho and his Big Men.  He’d be like the goldcrests, and would cling on until the winds of the heavens at last washed them away!

            “Cheer up!  Cheer up!” he sang aloud, mimicking the call of the birds as he turned toward the future—and through it to the good he knew was headed their way at last!  And he whistled one of the songs old Mad Baggins had used to sing as he headed toward Frogmorton.