XXX

Dealing With Changes in Circumstance

The Great Road Tavern was packed to the rafters with befuddled Ruffians. Natuck and Slengan were among the crowd listening to scattered bits of other’s conversations.

"No word’s come down from Sharkey ya says?"

"Bit strange, this turn ta the weather."

"Don’t know why I showed up here. I just needed to hide er somethin’. Be with Men instead o’ with Shire Rats. ‘Tweren’t comfortable out there."

The babel wound on and on. No one really seemed to know anything, everyone seemed to guess something, one seemed to have an inkling but said nothing. Naznock sat in a dark corner alone. Alone because he had bared his teeth and made noises like he was growling whenever any of his underlings had approached. In the dark recesses of his mind, in the part of him that was orcish, goblinish, where some distant touch of the ruined Elves still lingered, in this place Naznock knew that something had gone horribly wrong. Everything; air, earth, and water, everything felt different. The Men who he had been sent to oversee appeared to have no sense of this, they only had felt a need to meet together hoping to find strength in their numbers. Sharkey wasn’t the only Big Boss. Naznock knew there was another that Sharkey tripped all over himself to please. For right now Naznock would keep himself and his underlings on the quiet side of things. Orders would come eventually, he did feel sure of that. Sharkey had his reasons to pick this runty land clean.

Saruman did not care for his situation. It irritated. It chafed. It insulted. Being a prisoner in his own tower was infuriating enough, being imprisoned with his lackey, Wormtongue, simply made it that much worse. The mewling, fool was poor company for anyone of intelligence. Saruman had spent a day or so in strange state after that oaf Gandalf had broken his staff and bid him leave. Not quite in shock, more that his mind had gone elsewhere. In a flash, a mere speck of time, he had felt himself diminish before being surrounded by a wave of pity. Pity! That rogue, that cheat, that usurper pitied him! After flinging the dolt, Wormtongue, against the farthest wall for using the palantir as a weapon, Saruman had gone into his throne room and shut all the doors fast behind him with a flick of his hand.

Eventually the doors opened and Wormtongue found his services were needed . . . as a porter. He fetched scrolls and tomes, long unused, from storage in the lower levels of the tower up to his Master’s study near the pinnacle of Orthanc. Saruman knew he had lost much of his former power, what he needed was to accurately define those powers he still possessed, then sharpen them. Later, he felt the tremor of Sauron’s fall and chuckled at his one-time "partner’s" ill fortune. It was all well and good to him, one less obstacle in his way. The Wizard of Many Colours relearned things long forgotten, small but needful things to perfect what had once been the mere conquest of a minuscule land but would now be a subtly sweet revenge.

Dark things still moved in the black of night. Gradually news came to Saruman from sources other than the monotonous Ent who insisted on rambling on about the glories of the new King of Men. News came in and orders went out.

The Prancing Pony had felt the coming spring in it’s own way. The locals began to frequent Barliman Butterbur’s house once more, slaking the thirst plowing and planting brought on. And if plowing and planting were at their peak, then the smithies, farriers and carpenters were hard at it as well. Smiles abounded, customers jested with one another while placing bets as friends competed at various games. Nearly everyone felt as though they had been barely breathing, but now had taken a good, deep breath of the new spring air before letting it back out in a contented sigh.

Not that everything was back as it had always been. The Little Folk still felt skittish, startling easily at any sudden yelling in the common room while keeping a wary eye on the few strangers, who passed through Bree.

"I’ll be feelin’ a good sight better when the look o’ them as is passin’ through improves a bit," said Wren Tunnely one evening in early Thrimidge, or May as it was to the Big Folk of Bree. "They still be the sort what won’t say as much as ‘Glad Morning!’ to us Hobbits."

"Aye and that be a true word," Thad Brier said around wiping the foam of his ale off his mustache with his sleeve. "None too friendly with we Big Folk neither, they be." He bent in closer to the center of the table and all seated there did the same. "And, it be seemin’ ta me, me and a few others as I’ve talked with, that there’s gettin’ to be more o’ them again. I’ve heard tellin’ they be passin over lands and fields with nary a ‘if you please’ ta the owners."

"That be the truth and for certain, Thad." They all looked up to see Will Thistledown. He had walked quietly up behind those who sat at the table. Will was a well respected, well landed, farmer whose holdings lay a bit of a distance to the north of Bree. He leaned in over two of the hobbits, but they felt no threat, Will was known and trusted by all of Bree’s folk. "O’ more concern to me is them Rangers goin’ off and not being back here ‘bouts. I know," he said as he shook his head, closed his eyes and briefly waved his hands before him, "many o’ ya didn’t be trustin’ ‘em at all, and grant ya I will that most were none too fair seemin’ ta look upon. But nary a one there was that ever treated me badly. Always respectful, never a crossin’ my land without my say so. Never leavin’ no mess behind ‘em for my stock ta get inta. And, I’ll be tellin’ ya this true," Will leand even further in and lowered his voice to the faintest of whispers, "None o’ these here rowdies ever set foot ta my land whilst them Rangers was about it. Never. But now they be walkin’ on through like it be their lands and not mine." He looked into the wide eyes of those around the table. "I’ve a thought and more that we’re goin’ ta rue them leavin’. Us Bree-folk and the Shire-folk too. I’ve a thought that . . ." Will swallowed hard, "that we’d best not be a’lettin’ this fair spring lull us o’er much. Best be keepin’ our eyes open and our doors locked tight."

"Dearest Brother and Sister,

While it appears that our former situation,    and yours, might have eased somewhat, I am making an attempt to better my poor writing habits and get word to you. Esme and I hope this finds you,    and those in your care all well.

We lost some of our folk due to the harshness,    this past winter’s weather, but not as many as there might have been. We had some at the Hall who were brought,    down by illness. Esme says to let you know that Lanti’s skills would have been much appreciated. Still, we have been fortunate.

The spring looks to be a good one with the weather cooperating nicely in the planting, sprouting and growing of fields and gardens. We have heard nothing, opposite of such matters, from your part of the Shire and so choose to assume that all is the same for the Tooks.

The good to come of summer, remains yet to be seen, with caution remaining the good friend of farmers everywhere.

Word is that Hobbiton is having a, tall, sizeable crop and,     much activity seems to be normative for all dwelling there.

Esme says that you should know that there,     is good life, hope and strong love now, for those about whom you had great concern. Their strife seems ended and the relationship stable. Yet I fear,     only time will tell the full tale of what life is left to them.

Be well. Be of good cheer. You are ever in our thoughts.

Saradoc and Esme

Paladin read through the letter again, this time marking certain places with red ink. It was an old trick between two old friends and Saradoc would be well aware that his letter might end up at Bag End as easily as at Great Smials. It was a bit complicated for anyone else to figure out, which of course was the whole point to their coded way of phrasing things.

The comma and odd spacing between "our former situation, and yours" was Saradoc’s way of saying things had been bad in Buckland and that he had at least heard rumor of the same in Tookland. Saradoc had excellent writing habits, so the point of that comment was that he was "attempting" something on the chance of it working. Another oddly spaced comma, ". . . hope this finds you, and those . . ." a way of saying they knew there had been nothing getting into Tookland.  More extra spacing in the next paragraph: they had been treated harshly by the Ruffians and they were bringing hobbits into the Hall to give them aid. There was nothing of note in the next paragraph.  The next two sentences were isolated unnecessarily, it meant read them carefully, they say more than they appear to. In the first, Saradoc is warning against any letting down of their guard. In the second, he is making it clear that Ruffians are still numerous around Chief Lotho Pimple and that there appears an increase in their activity. The last paragraph was . . . Paladin closed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair . . . it was both assuring and disturbing. It seemed Esme’s gift was leading her to believe that their sons, their cousin and the lads’ friend were alive and well. Yet Saradoc was not so certain.

Paladin let go of the letter and his left hand joined his right, fingers entwined in grey hair. Believe Esmeralda? Believe Saradoc? "What do you believe, Paladin Took?" his mind asked him. "You aren’t much of a Took, you have never been oddly different from other hobbits. Why should you believe this outlandish tale your younger sister presented you with? And yet . . ." He thought about those strangely compelling green eyes. The same in both his sister and his son, eyes that could hold you in place or make you move at their desire. And yet . . .

He opened his eyes to look at the letter. "If," he said aloud to himself, "they live, they will not linger long from home. If they have indeed faced some great evil and have survived to tell the tale, they will have questions about what may have happened at home. If what Esme feels is indeed the truth, our dear ones will be home in two months time, I should think. Perhaps two and half the next, but no more than that." Paladin slowly picked up the letter, as though he feared it would hurt him to touch it. He stared at it, but the answers he sought were not there. He closed his tired eyes and tears found their way past the clenched eyelids. "If they aren’t back by part way through Afterlithe . . . Oh Saradoc, how I pray that you are wrong."