expression is the need of my soul
– archy

Chapter One: The Brandy Hall Boys

It was springtime in Buckland, and old Rorimac Brandybuck had that mad gleam in his eye again. The fit took him every year around this time…it once had resulted in his persuading his father, Gorbadoc, to plant a full ten percent of Brandy Hall’s acreage in grapevines, against all common wisdom and despite the unfavorable climate. That seemingly doomed enterprise had been a wild success, much to everyone’s surprise, and Brandy Hall Vineyards was now one of the most respected names in winemaking from the Shire to Bree.

His schemes usually fared less well, however…especially his long-time obsession with pipeweed cultivation. Three times in the past he had tried—and failed—to establish the temperamental but treasured plant as a viable crop in Buckland.

But this year—the spring of 1389—was different, he assured his skeptical family. This time he would succeed. This time, he was bringing in an expert…

* * *

"Hold up there, you!"

The young hobbit, perhaps eighteen years in age, looked up in surprise, for he had thought himself alone as he ambled slowly along the country lane, lost in idle musings. He now found his way blocked by another lad, a few years older and considerably heavier. His small eyes, pug nose, and receding chin gave him an ill-favored look that wasn’t improved by his scowling expression.

"Just who might you be, and where d’you think you’re goin’?" he demanded.

The first boy regarded him with cool disdain. "My name and destination are my own business," he replied, "which I’m not inclined to share with the likes of you!"

"Well now, aren’t we high and mighty! Your own business, eh? That’s as may be, my little lordship, but right now you’re blockin’ my way, and I don’t like that, see?"

The youth glanced left and right at the wide path they stood upon, but he shrugged and stepped aside.

His challenger promptly moved in front of him again with a taunting grin. "Didn’t you hear me, lordship, I said you’re in my path!"

The boy’s eyes narrowed but he sidestepped once more, only to have the other follow him as closely as a nimble dance partner. "Now see here, I’ve had about enough of this little game…" he began, but his voice trailed off as, from behind the low stone wall flanking the path and from out of the nearby bushes, emerged a motley collection of hobbit youths. Their smiles were not reassuring.

"Ah, but I haven’t!" replied the older lad, his own smile broadening. "In fact the game’s only just gettin’ started, to my way of thinkin’! Now that we’ve more playmates we oughta have a right good time, eh? So why don’t we start by askin’ your name again, and this time you’d best answer!"

"Otis, I know who he is!" spoke up one of the other boys suddenly. "I heard my da say the Master sent for some of them Hornblowers to come up from the Southfarthing to larn him how to grow pipeweed…this must be one of ’em."

Otis peered more closely at the stranger lad, noting now his smooth hands and finely tailored clothing. "Pipeweed growers, eh? So it’s a little rich boy we’ve got us here…I thought you looked soft! Aye, we’ll have some fun with this one, lads! But I’m forgettin’ me manners…" He bowed low, smirking. "Otis Sandheaver at your service, and this lot’s me mates! Most folk knows us as the Brandy Hall Boys."

The boy looked over the rag-tag bunch with skepticism. "You live at Brandy Hall?"

"Did I say that?" snapped Otis. "We live all ’round these parts, see, and this here’s our territory. You can’t pass through wi’out our leave, and you’ll not earn that unless you pass the test!"

"And just what might that be?" the youth asked suspiciously.

"Oh, it’s naught to speak of," said Otis. "All’s you have to do is fight one of us, and if you win, you’re free to go where you please!"

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you’ll get a thrashin’ from the lot of us…" There was suddenly a much more menacing edge to his voice.

The Hornblower lad—for so he was—stood silent, looking from one to the other. There were eight of them in all, gathered round him in a tightening circle. He was trapped, and saw nothing for it but to go along with their demands. He took a deep breath. "Right, then, let’s get on with it…which of you is it to be?" he growled, trying his best to look dangerous.

Otis considered for a moment, then jerked his head toward one of his larger comrades. "Clive, why don’t you have a go?"

Clive eyed the boy, who stared back defiantly, his fists clenched. "I dunno, Otis," he muttered, scratching his head.

"Don’t tell me you’re goin’ soft!"

"Nay, never that!" protested Clive. "But…the thing of it is, Otis, t’wouldn’t be no proper fight as I’m not angry, like…he’d be gettin’ off right easy, he would, and what kind o’ test would that be?"

"Hmm, you’ve got a point there," mused Otis. He stood silent, pondering this dilemma. Then he called to a scrawny, nervous-looking hobbit, "Hoy, Bert! It’s your job to keep track of the Baggins…where would he be at this time o’day?"

Bert thought for a moment. "Usually he takes the brat swimming in the afternoon…but they oughta be headin’ back from the River by now."

"What’re you thinkin’, Otis?" said Clive, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

"I’m thinkin’ why should we get ourselves dirty when we can set Baggins on him? Now that would be a ruddy good test, eh lads?"

The others murmured and nodded their approval, recalling their own run-ins with the hobbit in question.

"Right then, let’s go and meet ’em. Come along, you!"

A few minutes later they were gathered on the path leading down to the River. Otis turned to the Hornblower lad. "So you remember what you’re to say?" The youth nodded, tight-lipped. They stood waiting in tense silence, until a high, animated child’s voice could be heard in the distance, growing louder by the minute.

Bert, who had gone ahead as a lookout, now came rushing back. "Baggins and his Shadow are heading this way!"

"All right lads, in your places!" barked Otis, and they scrambled over the stone wall beside the path and hunkered down behind it, leaving the Hornblower boy to stand alone.

* * *

Two hobbits were strolling up the path from the River…at least, one strolled while the other alternately lagged behind or darted ahead like a curious puppy. The elder of the pair was a tall, rangy youth just into his tweens. He seemed not entirely at ease with himself, though glimmers of childhood’s natural grace still competed with adolescent awkwardness. The intelligence in his eyes and the refinement in his fair-skinned, striking features were almost completely obscured by his self-conscious demeanor and the dark, unruly curls that fell around his face, still damp from his swim. Hands thrust in his pockets and a book tucked under his arm, he was walking slightly hunched over to attend to his small companion’s constant stream of chatter, and wore an amused, affectionate smile.

The little one, a lively faunt of six or seven with a tangled thatch of red-gold hair and a smattering of freckles, was wielding a stick with bloodthirsty abandon against invisible but deadly foes. "Sting glows blue!" he shouted "’Ware goblins, Frodo! And look—they’ve got a dragon with them! Don’t worry, I’ll protect you!" After dispatching a particularly large, threatening bush, he scurried to catch up with the older lad and asked, panting, "Did Uncle Bilbo really slay a dragon, Frodo?"

"Well…not exactly, no. But he faced one in its den and outwitted it. He stole a piece of treasure from right under its nose and, most important of all, he discovered the secret of how it could be slain."

The youngster looked slightly disappointed, but then brightened as he confidently asserted, "I reckon I could slay a dragon if I met one!"

Frodo seemed to consider this seriously. "If any hobbit could I’m sure it would be you, Meriadoc Brandybuck."

Their conversation was abruptly cut short as they rounded a bend in the path and came face to face with a stranger lad. Frodo stopped but before he could offer any words of greeting, the other said abruptly, "I say, are you Frodo Baggins?"

The open, friendly curiosity in Frodo’s face faded at the stranger’s odd tone, and the way he refused to meet his eyes after the first quick glance. "Yes…" he replied cautiously.

At first the lad did not answer. Then he suddenly blurted out, "I hear your mother gives swimming lessons—tell her I’d like some!"

Frodo paled slightly, but otherwise showed no reaction. For a moment he stood quite still, his expression now grown curiously calm, almost peaceful. Turning to Merry, who was staring open-mouthed at the stranger from behind the safety of Frodo’s legs, he picked him up, carried him over to the wall, and set him carefully down on top of it. "Hold this for me, will you, Merry-lad?" he said, handing him the book. "And promise me you won’t stir from this spot, no matter what!"

Merry just nodded, wide-eyed.

Frodo winked at him reassuringly; if he saw the Brandy Hall Boys crouched behind the wall he gave no sign. Then in one fluid motion he spun around and drove his fist into his challenger’s jaw with a powerful right hook that sent him sprawling.

The stranger shook his head as if to clear it, and got up slowly, rubbing his jaw. Frodo waited until he was back on his feet, then closed in again. This time the other swung first but Frodo dodged his blow easily—his earlier awkwardness no longer apparent—and punched him in the eye. The lad reeled like a drunkard, but somehow managed to hold his ground.

As soon as the fight began a row of heads had popped up from behind the wall, and a raucous chorus now accompanied the action.

"Come on, Hornblower!"

"Show him you ain’t no Southfarthin’ sissy!"

Above their shouts rose Merry’s shrill, piping voice: "Go on Frodo! Give him what for!"

"Had enough?" asked Frodo, backing off slightly.

"Don’t you wish," said the Hornblower lad gamely, and launched himself into the fray once more. Though Frodo was clearly the more skilled fighter, his opponent was a sturdy lad and what he lacked in ability he made up for in dogged determination. Swinging lustily, if not very accurately, he managed to clip Frodo on the side of the head, for which he was repaid with two swift blows to his torso.

Yet now that his first flush of anger had passed Frodo seemed to be holding himself in check, as if reluctant to inflict serious injury on the younger hobbit. Thus while there was no real question as to how it would end, the match seemed likely to go on this way for some time, much to the delight of the Brandy Hall Boys.

Events, however, took an abruptly different turn when a horrified female voice stopped the fighters in mid-swing. "Horatio Hornblower! WHAT in the Four Farthings is going on here!?"

Eleven heads swiveled as one. Eleven sets of eyes grew round and large as they gazed on the owner of the voice.

Author’s note:

Opening quote from archy and mehitabel by Don Marquis.