A/N: This story was written over two years ago for Marigold’s Challenge 14. When I received my starter theme I knew I had some serious musing to do. At the time, I was at the tail-end of writing “Where Roses Grow”, and, for as much as I enjoyed writing that story, I felt I had been in a quagmire of drama and tears for a long while. I was bursting at the seams to write something containing laughter and jollity. As a result, The 19^th Hole was born.

Disclaimer: Hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams they belong to me.

Summary: Pippin-13, Merry-21, and Frodo-35 all play a round of golf. After some research of the game, instead of “Caddie”, I used the word, “Laddie”. “Caddie” is derived from the word, Cadet.

Challenge Starter: At least part of your story must take place in a graveyard.

The 19^th Hole

“Why do I have to be the Laddie?” Angrily, Pippin tossed away his drawn straw. “I want to play, too!” He was not happy at all with drawing the shortest one. If he didn’t know any better, Pippin would have sworn that it had all been a trick planned beforehand.

“Because you drew the smallest straw, fair and square,” said Frodo. He eyed the youngster, “You don’t think that we fixed it, do you?”

Pippin firmly crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t answer aloud, however, behind those impish green eyes, the answer was a resounding yes!

“Well, are you?” demanded Frodo.

The thirteen-year-old gazed sheepishly at his feet. “No.”

Merry patted Pippin’s slim shoulders. “That’s a good lad--or should I say, Laddie?” he said, teasing his younger cousin.

In response, Pippin whirled around to glower at Merry.

“You’re not helping matters, Merry,” said Frodo, then turned to the youngest cousin. “You may use my clubs on a few turns, Pippin.”

And so began the most interesting game of golf that Pippin would ever remember. The day started out a bit cool as they walked from the Smials to the Shire Greens, the local golf course on the northern outskirts of Tuckborough. It gradually grew warmer as luncheon drew near, but not uncomfortably so. Eglantine had packed a lovely picnic for the lads to enjoy while spending the day outdoors.

“I shall have to thank cousin Tina for her excellent provisions--they were simply delicious!” said Frodo, then shovelled the last bit of his strawberry pie into his mouth.

Having finished his meal, Pippin sat nearby in the shade of an elm tree, leaning against its trunk. “Will I be playing this hole?” he asked.

“Hole number seven? Don’t be ridiculous,” replied Frodo. “It’s surrounded by a multitude of rabbit holes and briar patches. The best hole for you to join in the game is number eight.”

Reluctantly, Pippin picked up the bag of clubs and set to following his cousins up the hills, down the hills, across the stream and back again…under trees--and even once within the nook of an old chestnut’s trunk. Those colourful little feather-stuffed balls could get stuck just about anywhere, but their favourite spot of all was deep inside the rough parts of the brush and tall grasses.

It was now Merry’s turn to take a swing, so Pippin hefted the golf bag to where his cousin stood gauging the midsummer breeze against his wet forefinger. The young teenager felt weary, sweaty, and dirty--his furry feet growing hotter by the minute as the time slowly went by. Pippin wiped sweat from his forehead and his throat felt dry whenever he swallowed. He was thirsty; they should have been at the Oak Leaf Inn by now, however, Frodo’s ball landed in the thickets--and the player had to play the game from wherever the ball fell. It took forever for Frodo to manoeuvre his way out of the underbrush and back onto the fairway. “I suppose I’m a tad over par,” Frodo commented nonchalantly--dismissing the fact that he just spent a good fifteen minutes on the task.

As he continued carrying the bag of clubs, it seemed to Pippin that his friends took no notice of the time that passed--or how miserable he had become in the growing heat. Pippin had felt every fiery ray of the sun intensify since luncheon. His head began to pulsate with the drought of his body, his feet dragged in the warm blades of grass as he walked.

“I’m tired!” he complained, and then let the heavy bag to fall on the ground with a thud. The bag didn’t feel very heavy at first, but had grown so over the past couple of hours while hauling it to every blessed hole on the playing course.

No one gave Pippin’s complaint any heed.

Merry swung his club forward and then watched his ball sail past the neatly trimmed circle of grass that surrounded the playing hole. He winced at the results then turned to scowl at his young cousin, “Yell a little louder next time, Pip--perhaps then I’ll actually land one on the putting green.”

“Don’t blame Pippin for your terrible aim,” said Frodo, sliding his club into the bag. “If you practiced your swing as much as you say you do, then your aim would be fine.”

“Speak for yourself, cousin,” Merry retorted. “I didn’t send my golf ball into the thickets.”

Frodo ignored Merry’s jest, walking in the direction of the 13^th hole. “Ah! I can see the 19^th Hole already!” he said with eagerness. Frodo had fond memories of ordering his first beer at the establishment. Winner of the game got to choose where the next round of beer came from.

“Everyone knows there are only eighteen holes in golf,” said Pippin.

A look of mutual understanding passed between Frodo and Merry, then Frodo put in, “No, there are nineteen on this course!”

Pippin shrugged in response to Frodo’s comment. Perhaps the sun was starting to have an affect on his friends. Pippin shook his head sadly as he watched Merry and Frodo walk on towards the putting green. Then the young lad worked it out on his fingers that there were only five holes left to play.

“You both said that I should get a turn at hole number 9, and then at hole number 12, but you’ve played thirteen holes already! When am I going to get a chance?”

“I know the perfect turn for you, Pip,” said Frodo, carefully choosing one of the putting clubs from the bag. “The 15^th hole - it’s one of the easier ones to play.”

“Do I look daft?” Pippin asked sardonically. “I’ve played golf before--more than either of you two gooseberries! There are only two fairways to be found in the Shire--and the other is in the Northfarthing.”

“Just because one is located close to Great Smials does not mean that you have played nearly as much as you claim,” Frodo responded. “Your family moved here only a year ago, or is there a golf course in Whitwell? Perhaps I missed it - was it beside the potato patch?” Merry could be heard chuckling is mirth at Frodo’s retort; Whitwell was a small farming village where Pippin had spent the first twelve years of his life. It was a place where everyone knew everybody. Frodo added smugly, “I would be utterly surprised if you played even once before today.”

Fire grew inside Pip’s Tookish green eyes. Frodo wasn’t far from the truth, however, Pippin wasn’t going to let him know it. Pippin shouted his response, “When will I get to play?!”

“Be patient!” Frodo replied. “Unless you can aim a ball between those tree branches up ahead, then I should say you might want to wait.”

Well, the span between the tree braches did look to be quite narrow to Pip. Grudgingly, he took up the heavy bag of clubs to once again bring up the rear behind his cousins.

Sometime (much) later…

“Come on, lads,” Pippin moaned ever-growing impatience. “It’s my turn now--I’ve waited long enough!”

“I suppose he’s been a good fellow,” said Frodo. “Besides - it’s the last hole. Let him use your club, Merry.”

“Why my club and not yours?”

“Because mine is too heavy for him.”

“You’re saying mine has no weight to it?” Merry shot back. He held his club aloft and then let it swing back and forth like a pendulum to help exaggerate its heaviness.

“He might injure himself,” Frodo replied casually.

Merry sighed, then handed his club to Pippin. “Don’t break it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Pippin lied, then stepped up to the spot where his cousins teed their golf balls. He fumbled in his breeches pocket for the wee ball, covered with bits of sewn leather then stuffed with a small rock and goose feathers. It was a ball made special for golfing. Setting it down, Pippin checked the direction of the wind…then heard his cousins snickering behind him. He reared back for a swing…

WHACK!

Pippin’s ball sailed over Merry’s ball…then over Frodo’s….then sadly veered to the left by the miscalculated breeze towards the Took clan’s graveyard.

Merry kneaded Pippin’s upper arm. “You’ve got quite an arm there, cousin,” he said with a bit of a chuckle. “However--now you have to go find your ball--in the graveyard!”

Pippin’s cheerful spirit flagged a bit. He frowned, “Who’s coming with me?”

“No one,” said Frodo, walking off. “Merry and I are going up to the putting green; we shall wait for you there. Hurry up now--and don’t chip any of the gravestones with your club!”

“My club, you mean,” Merry put in, then shouted to Pippin, “And hurry up! I’m going to need it when Frodo is done with his putt.”

In the graveyard…

Pippin looked around warily as he approached the ominous site. Large old trees with gnarled branches surrounded the small field where the graveyard was situated. It seemed to Pippin that the graveyard had darkened; even the sunny blue sky was now replaced with low, grey clouds that threatened to rain upon him at any moment. The air suddenly felt stifling. Entering through the gate, the thirteen-year-old hobbit looked down at the first grave he passed by. Judging by appearance alone the gravestone looked almost as old as the Shire itself. One read: Isumbras Took III, 1066 - 1159, 11^th Thain of the Shire, and another read: Bandobras “Bullroarer” Took, Warrior - Battle of Greenfield, 1104 - 1206. Underneath the epitaph was added, Inventor of Golf.

Pippin startled at reading the last part. “I’ve got some cheek!” he muttered to himself. “Probably landed my ball on top of the very one who invented the game…,” he mumbled, looking over the tombstone. Pippin felt a creepy sensation; the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. “Just find the ball and hit it--then get the blazes out of here,” he said, making a sad attempt to calm his nerves down.

He spotted his small, whitewashed ball partially hidden by dead leaves--right beside the Bullroarer’s gravestone. “Oy!” The lad squatted on his haunches to measure out the foot of the club from the grave so he could properly hit the ball and not the deteriorating stone--more specifically, Bandobras’ deteriorating gravestone. Even in the seclusion of the graveyard Pippin held to his honour. He took his golf ball and placed it one length of the club’s foot away from Bandobras’ tomb. “Of all the graves to choose from…,” he grumbled, “it had to land here.”

Pippin observed the years of weather and decay upon the gravestone. There were many nicks and chips -- perhaps due to other hobbits landing their golf balls in the graveyard. “I’ll wager you wished you had let your own people bury you near Long Cleeve,” he muttered to the air. “There you would be left in peace and not disturbed by those of us who like to play golf.”

Beads of sweat formed on Pippin’s brow as he took aim with Merry’s club. His focus was completely on his target. He heard Frodo’s warning echo in his head, ‘…don’t chip any of the gravestones with your club!’

“I’m trying not to!” Pippin cried in response to no one present. Yes, he was alone in the graveyard; he shook off the creepy feeling of someone watching him. Pippin wound back to swing; any swing would do--just to get the ball out of this creepy place!

Both of his eyes were fixed on the little ball, but when he took a swing something went wrong. Afterward, Pippin had to rethink exactly what had occurred because it all happened so fast. His club first hit the gravestone, sending pieces of the stone flying everywhere, then the bottom part of Merry’s club broke off, flying up towards Pippin’s face….and then…

“Hullo!”

Simultaneously, Pippin screamed, jumped, and nearly wet his breeches. “Who...who are you?” he demanded--that is, once he caught his breath again. For a brief moment, Pippin’s eyesight was a tad blurred and his ears had a ringing in them.

Once his eyesight cleared and the droning noise in his head softened, Pippin noticed the translucence of the stranger-hobbit. The lad fell back, flinging himself behind Isumbras’ gravestone to hide. Pippin gasped, seeing the old fir trees as clear as day on the other side of the graveyard--through the very tall hobbit. “I-I-I’m sorry,” stammered Pippin, getting up the gall to head towards the gate. “I’ll leave r-r-right now!”

“Not so fast, laddie,” said the apparition, grabbing the young teen’s breeches from behind on the waistband. “I can see you’re in a bit of a fix, here. Bandobras is my name,” he said as an impromptu introduction.

Pippin was able to wriggle out of the creature’s grasp, once again hiding behind Isumbras’ gravestone--where he was much too frightened to make another move to escape. Pippin clamped his eyes shut, figuring the being would go away if he ignored it.

Not one to be put off so easily, Bandobras squatted down much like Pippin did just a few minutes ago to get a better look at the ball. “Golf, isn’t it? Yes, yes, yes…of course it is,” he said absentmindedly, eyeing the trajectory of the ball. He was assessing the distance the ball needed to clear the trees and land outside of the graveyard.

“You can move the ball over a wee bit further away from the stone to get a fair swing,” he said, then looked at the shaken teenager. “It’s in the rules. I should know,” he smirked. “I wrote them myself.” He stood up to his full four foot-five inches of height. “Are you all right, laddie?” Pippin said nothing, merely nodding his head vigorously in uncontesting agreement. It wouldn’t do to anger the Hobbit-Wight.

Pippin used to beg Frodo and Merry to tell him ghost stories as a young child--but after today, not any more! After listening to more nonsensical speech, Pippin heard Bandobras cackling. “You had to be there, I suppose,” he said. Pippin figured his great-great--great-great-uncle was in the middle of spinning a yarn. “There was more than one gross of those evil things! Imagine them--trying to threaten my family and the rest of us respectable Shire hobbits. What else was I to do? I cut down that leader of theirs is what I did! ‘Always start at the top’ is what my old Dad used to say--but he wasn’t speakin’ of Orcs, mind you. The whole lot of us took to playing golf after that. I wanted to make a 19^thhole, but--”

Suddenly there was nothing; the continuous ranting had ceased. Pippin remained motionless, hunkered down behind his great-great-great-great grandfather’s gravestone with his eyes shut tightly and fingers in his ears. After a moment of further silence, Pippin unplugged them. All was indeed quiet with the exception of some old dead leaves stirring in the breeze. Pippin slowly opened his eyes, easing himself around Isumbras’ gravestone to see a little better. The area that Bandobras had previously occupied was now ghost-free.

Pippin’s fear abated long enough for him to spring up out of his hiding place. His honour went out the window -- so to speak. Taking the small ball in his hand Pippin flung it out over the trees towards the 18^th’s putting green. He then grabbed the broken club and bolted.

Back with his cousins…

Merry was first to spy Pippin running up the hill with the broken club in his hand. “I should have known,” he grumbled. “You rarely return my things to me undamaged.” Merry then noticed the expression on his young cousin’s face. “What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I did!” Pippin shouted back at a distance, out of breath. He stopped just short of running into Frodo. “I did see a ghost! It was Bandobras of all ghosts…and he gave me instructions in how to play golf and…and--”

“What happened to you?” asked Frodo, brushing aside locks of hair that hid a small knot on the teen’s forehead. The skin was broken and oozing a little blood. Frodo became worried at this turn of events. “Sit down on this stone, Pip,” he said, the mirth having disappeared from his face. Pippin gasped sharply when his cousin examined the wound. The elder cousin bit his lip in concern. “How did this come to pass?”

“I was telling you,” Pippin replied. “I was in the graveyard and then--,” he hesitated. “And then…” That was rather strange--how did he obtain the injury? “I don’t know,” he finally answered after a pause. “All I know is that the Bullroarer’s ghost came to visit me in the graveyard.”

“Most likely in your head--or on it,” said Merry holding his broken club in his hand and surveying Pippin’s injury. “This club may have had a hand in your seeing old Bandobras.” He handed Frodo a clean handkerchief from his pocket to clean Pippin’s cut.

“He was really there, I tell you!” Pippin said emphatically. “He even taught me how to play the ball from his gravestone.”

“Right,” said Merry, winking to Frodo. “Perhaps Frodo ought to lose his golf ball once or twice in the Took’s graveyard. Might do him some good.”

Still wiping away at Pippin’s forehead, Frodo smiled sarcastically at Merry’s jest. “Or perhaps he’ll teach me how to knock the golf ball of a saucy Brandybuck off of the green and away from the hole.”

Pippin sighed; these two would never believe him. “Oh, forget it.”

“Pippin,” said Frodo, growing more serious. He sat down beside the teen, “I think your injury holds the answers to some questions I have. Did you swoon? Did you fall and hit your head? Was this the result of an object striking your head - and how?” Pippin made no comment. Frodo gently squeezed the lad’s shoulder, “I think the latter happened. I should like to know the how, though.”

“I agree with Frodo,” said Merry, holding up his broken club as evidence. “Say, Pip--why don’t you go ahead and finish the hole? Frodo and I already have.”

Pippin slowly stood up, looking around for his ball. He saw that it was on the putting green near the hole. “That isn’t where it should have landed,” said Pippin, eyeing it warily. He was careful not to divulge that he actually threw the ball from the graveyard. “My...umm... My aim was somewhat reckless.”

“It was lying there when we heard you running up the hill,” answered Merry. “It’s your turn so hurry up. We still have the 19^th Hole!”

Pippin looked up, “The 19^th hole?” Pippin then recalled that Bandobras was about to speak about a 19^th hole right before he vanished. Pippin sighed, “What are you two talking about? There are only eighteen holes, I tell you!”

An hour later…

“Ah! Beer in a dry throat!” said Merry, then took a drink from his mug.

“This is the 19^th Hole, Pippin,” Frodo explained to the young lad. He raised his own mug in a toast. “To friendship!”

The threesome happily clinked their mugs together whilst echoing Frodo’s sentiment.

Too young for beer, Pippin nodded, then sipped on his dandelion and burdock. “I suppose there are nineteen holes in golf. And...I believe I like this one the best!”

In the blink of an eye, Bandobras’ spirit sat beside Frodo while drinking a mug…he winked at a dumbfounded Pippin and then he was gone.

The End