Chapter 8 – Please! Not Another Bloody Moot!

by Llinos
beta Marigold

The Great Hobbiton Race had developed into an event approaching all out war. Both Samwise and Meriadoc could be competitive when roused and their determination to win had turned into more of a grudge match than a friendly race.

Sam and Frodo-lad set to with a vengeance. They only had one long strip, about 30 feet long, left to mow and Sam directed his son to start at the Bywater end and he would take the Hardbottle end and they would meet in the middle. The lingering grass did not stand a chance as their scythes sliced and swished through remaining meadow with a syncopated rhythm that was soon taken up by the loyal, and mostly older, Hobbiton locals.

Swish! Whoosh! Swish! Whoosh! The blades sang. "May-or! May-or!" The hobbits chanted in time with their champions frenetic scything.

Much partisan feeling was beginning to emerge as an opposing team, consisting largely of younger hobbits and out-of-towners, started a conflicting mantra of "En-gine! En-gine!"

Merry, now firmly at the controls, his chin resolutely set, muttered along with his supporters under his breath as he steered the fired up monster over the patches of discarded grass. He kept the throttle low, although there was a temptation to let the engine roar as there was now a good head of steam on both the boiler and him.

Pippin proved to be an enthusiastic, albeit hazardous, rake wielder. His plan, in theory, was sound, and, it must be said, entertaining. However standing on the back of the moving steam engine and trailing the rake through the grass cuttings to scoop them up, whilst shouting "Faster! Faster!" went awry when he mistimed heaving the cut grass into the sack and sent the loaded rake flying into the air. The airborne rake quickly found it's way back down to Middle-earth and en route dumped its contents over the driver, who, sneezing and handicapped with not being able to see, ran the cutting blades over the recalcitrant rake, splintering it into a thousand pieces. Its raking, and indeed flying, days were sadly over.

Nevertheless, it had achieved fame and renown in it's last few spectacular moments and a great cheer went up from the Mayor's supporters as fragments were strewn across the field. For many months afterwards a shard of the Thain's rake was still a collector's item for those lucky enough to find a piece.

"Merry!" Pippin shouted in exasperation. "Now you've broken my rake! That's blown it! There's no time to fetch another. I said you should let me drive!"

Merry, busy with sneezing and trying to claw the verdure from his eyes simultaneously, had let go of the controls, forgetting in his haste to de-pollinate himself, that he was still meant to be driving. The Great Steam Vapour Spindle Activated Vegetation Dissection and Lubrication Apparatus, having now sampled the delights of Pippin's rake, appeared to be intent on finding something more ambitious to destroy and set off for pastures new.

Luckily Frodo-lad, although intent on the task in hand, was alerted by the amendment in tempo from the Hobbiton crowd as, "May-or! May-or!" Changed to "Look out!" and "Dog's teeth! Run Frodo – Run!"

In fairness to the opposition, it was not the engine that directly caused the demise of Frodo's implement and Frodo-lad himself was not altogether displeased with the roar of approval and the standing ovation that his spectacular pole vault over the hedge drew from the onlookers. Nevertheless, his hasty exit from the field had been prompted by a strong desire not to be run over by the out of control steam engine and his trusty scythe bore the brunt as the snathe snapped in two under his weight.

Merry, finally freed from his grassy headgear, brought the machine to a halt and climbed down to assess the situation. "All right Frodo-lad?" He called over the hedge, "no harm done I trust?" He was careful not to actually apologise, as that would imply fault on his team's part and Merry still had his eye firmly on winning.

"I'm fine Uncle Merry," Frodo-lad was not one to bear a grudge. "Just a bit of damage to my scythe but I daresay it'll mend."

"Aye, but not in time for this race!" Sam picked up the bottom end of the broken scythe, which had remained on his side of the hedge. "That'll need a new snathe, and I've none spare."

"What about the old ditch-blade?" Frodo suggested. "I could maybe use that?"

"No," Sam shook his head. "The snathe's wrong hold for you lad, and it wants peening, before it's used again."

"What are they talking about?" Pippin whispered.

"Secret gardening language I expect," Merry hissed back. "Don't let on we don't understand."

"So that's that!" Sam shrugged, turning to Merry and Pippin with a broad grin. "Since you broke your rake and our scythe, I'm guessing you'll want to forfeit?"

"Oh no!" Merry was having none of it. "We each broke – well, Pippin broke our rake, but Frodo-lad snapped his scythe all by himself. Besides," Merry waved his hand expansively at the meadow, "you're the ones who should concede. We've finished the actual mowing and you haven't!"

"Frodo-lad wouldn't have needed to vault over the hedge if you hadn't been going to mangle him in that there machine!" Sam pointed out. "As to conceding, you agreed that the grass cuttings had to be picked up."

"But we don't have a rake now!" Pippin put his hands stubbornly on his hips. "I'm not picking up grass with my bare hands."

"What's more, that wasn't really fair!" Merry was getting quite hot under the collar again. "You put those conditions in knowing that neither Pippin nor I would read them. This was really about trying to convince everyone that the machine could actually mow faster than hobbits with scythes – and we've done that pretty fair and square!"

"Maybe so," Sam too was getting frustrated with the whole business. "But that wretched thingamabob has caused more havoc and destruction than fifty Pippins put together could have done!"

"Oh Sam!" Pippin was horrified. "I don't cause havoc! How could you say that?"

Frodo-lad, who had made his way back into the field again, giggled. "I think Dad that machine just makes Uncle Pippin's destructive tendencies more effective than usual."

"If you want to carry on with this race – then we will!" Merry's voice had more than an edge to it now. "But if you don't want the steam engine just say so. We'll carry on for the sake of the bet – and the onlookers – and we're going to win!"

"Steady on Merry," Pippin was always the peacemaker, in spite of his propensity to cause most arguments in the first place. "We can always call off the bet, and if Sam doesn't want the engine, he could just put it in the Mathom Room at Michel Delving." If nothing else, the Thain was forever ambitiously optimistic, "It might fit, if we take the doors off and perhaps the back wall." Although I had hoped he would at least pretend to like it."

"Now, now," Sam realised he had overstepped the boundaries of hobbit courtesy and had also offended his two best friends. "It's a very nice engine. But you must agree there have been more than a few mishaps. I just worry that there could be a serious accident with it…" He paused and looked pointedly at Pippin, "in the wrong hands."

"Well," Merry calmed down a little, as he could not really dispute Sam on that. "It's a moot point."

"Good idea!" Sam ventured diplomatically. "We should put it to the townsfolk and see what everybody else thinks?"

"If you like! But…" Merry was determined on one thing, "I'm not calling off the race. Have your Moot, but we still have a wager to settle!"

"Oh no!" Pippin groaned. Sam's introduction of holding Moots whenever there was dissention or a serious matter to settle, severely tried Pippin's patience, especially as he was always, as Thain, required to attend and look attentive. It was not that he disapproved of democracy as such, just the time it took. Hobbits, he had concluded, possibly took longer than Ents to decide anything!

"Please! Not another bloody Moot! We'll be here until next Yule!"

0-0-0-0-0

TBC