Troubles Brewing

"I tell you true, we be courtin’ danger if we follow along behind this Thain o’ ours like a bunch o’ Northfarthin’ sheep."

The group of farmers at the Thistle Inn was mixed, nods of approval being about even with disapproving frowns as they listened to Old Grig.

"I had a talk with him, autumn last, tryin’ to get him to see reason. But he’d have naught of it and now we all are havin’ to live with his sorry excuse for a decision. Sly he is. Right sly and servin’ his own best interests by shuttin’ us off from the rest o’ the Shire." Grigory winked and lay a finger to his nose. "But I’ve got him and his figured out, that I do. He and his will be livin’ high and mighty, they will, and on our hard work."

Isenbras Took of Whitwell sat with his arms folded and resting atop the ledge of his stomach. He was not so easily convinced. "I had my own talk with Thain Paladin afore all this got to be what it’s become." The group’s attention switched to Isenbras. "He had a good understandin’ of what be what, and a good mind to get to the bottom o’ it all. He’s a steady hobbit, is Paladin Took. Was afore he became the Took and I figure he be one still." There were a good many nods and quiet "ayes" amongst the listeners. "What proof you got against him, Grig?"

"My own head and eyes, youngster," Grigory said while sitting up as straight as his old joints would allow. "I’ve seen how it is, none what live at the Smials ever be hurtin’ for anythin’. They’ve always got plenty o’ everythin’. So it ought be easy to figure why all the grain, weed, and goods are to be sent to the Smials." Grig brought a fist down on the table, causing mugs and hobbits to jump. "There ain’t to be no Gatherin’ in Tookland he says, so he went and had us all chase them Gatherers to the borders, but . . ." he paused for effect, meeting eyes with several listeners as he slowly looked around. "But what does you call us takin’ our goods to the Smials?" The crowd murmured. "It be the same thin’, it does." More and stronger murmuring followed this statement. "As long as we keep them Men on their side o’ the Tookland border, why be there a need for goods to be ‘Gathered’ to the Smials?"

At that the group became quite raucous. Grigory gave a nod and a wink to a couple of grumpy looking hobbits sitting at a table in the shadows at the edge of the common room. They returned the gestures before leaving the inn, unnoticed, to make their way to the next Tookland public house. At the Thistle, it soon was clear which farmers and tradeshobbits supported the Thain and which did not . . . the numbers were not in Paladin’s favor.

As Thrimidge continued on in ever increasing warmth and sunshine, crops were harvested as crops were sown in the fertile soil of Buckland. While the Hobbits harvested and sowed crops, the Ruffians harvested hobbits and sowed fear.

"I did as best I could, Master Sir, but ‘tweren’t no good. Someway, they found out the where an’ why-for of things an’ near to cleaned it out."

Saradoc smiled at Fosco Bumbleroot, trying to set the frightened farmer at ease. "I am sure you did your best, Fosco, and that is all I can expect of any Bucklander."

Fosco swallowed, nodded and his shoulders relaxed a bit. "They has spies about, Master Sir. They’s got to. I had that hidey-hole well an’ goodly covered, I could scarce find it. Yet when I went last even to fetch out the sacks o’ winter wheat I’d set in there, half ‘twas gone. Twenty sacks o’ the forty we brought in from the field, gone; just plain gone, Sir."

"Have you, or your family, noticed any strangers about?"

"Ha! ‘Tis all there be about is strangers. Leastwise that be how ‘tis seemin’, Master. Though neither me nor mine could be rememberin’ hearin’ nor seein’ any about when we took our wheat to the hidey-hole."

Saradoc sighed. He brought his finger tips together, closing his eyes as he rested his lips gently on the ends of his fingers. He gave himself time to gather his thoughts and words. "Yes, well . . . I have to agree with you on the number of strangers amongst us." Saradoc raised his head to look into the anxious farmer’s eyes. "It couldn’t be helped, no fault to you and yours in the matter. Is there anything else, Mr. Bumbleroot?"

"Yes, Master Sir, there be more. There be worse, if ya please . . . well, more like if ya not be pleasin’. They went an’ took away the Knotwise lad, Sir."

The Master of Buckland broke out in a sudden chill sweat. His eyes widened in shock, then narrowed. "They did what?"

Fosco swallowed hard again as he nodded vigorously. "They took him off with ‘em. Said they was needin’ more helpers, an’ as he were a strappin’ young lad they could make use o’ him. His dad, old Milner Knotwise that be, said as they tied the lad’s hands behind him and marched him off."

"Thank you, Mr. Bumbleroot, thank you." Saradoc’s words were slow, his voice, oddly quiet. "I . . . you . . . said you have twenty sacks of wheat left from that field?" The farmer nodded. "Keep them for your family. Dig a cellar in a bedroom floor and put the opening into it under a bed. Hopefully, the Men will not find it there. Thank you, again."

Fosco Bumbleroot waited a few moments, but the Master of the Hall said nothing more. He bowed awkwardly before leaving the Master’s office as quickly as he could without being rude. Saradoc Brandybuck sat in the stillness of his empty office as the daylight faded through the windows, trying to imagine why the Ruffians needed more workers.

In the White City of Gondor the days of spring had been filled with joy, sorrow and hard work. Sorrow at the burials of the fallen soldiers and citizens, sorrow over families forever sundered as well as homes and businesses destroyed. Hard work, as the people of Minas Tirith began to repair their city. Yet over all there was joy. There was new life in Minas Tirith, there was hope . . . there was a King.

On the first day of May as Men reckon and name the months, Thrimidge to the Shirefolk, Aragorn had been crowned and proclaimed before his people as King Elessar. The hobbits were among the lords who stood with Aragorn as witnesses. Frodo of the Nine Fingers, The Ring-bearer, bore the crown to Gandalf who then set it upon the King’s brow.

In peace and joy the members of the Fellowship, save the one who gave his life for his friends, lived in a stately home in the King’s City. Merry attended Eomer and Eowyn until they left for Rohan to make ready for their uncle’s funeral. Pippin had light duties with his King and Faramir, who had been made Prince of Ithilien. But for the most part Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf and King Elessar (Strider as the hobbits still called him) spent many happy hours in one another’s company. But despite the restful effects of the evening’s wine or ale, the hobbits were plagued from time to time with nightmares. All the other members of the Fellowship were warriors, as such they were troubled less often by the shadows of battles fought. For the sons of the peaceful Shire, it was a different matter altogether.

Pippin’s sleep was not being restful. Hazy dreams of dark foreboding figures grew in his mind, then slowly faded, back into the mist. He heard the voice from the palantir. He shrank from the sound into a deep place. He felt things crunching against the back of his head, matting into his hair. He smelled drifts of dead leaves in the autumn.

Peregrin Took stood on the wide lawn to the south of Brandy Hall. A thinly shrouded moon shone eerily over the landscape while lighted windows, like little yellow eyes, gazed out from the huge smial. But he knew, too few windows were lit.

Suddenly he was inside the Hall, in a section of tunnels he did not recognize, with hobbits hurrying about him. None saw Pippin. They seemed to see, they seemed to even pass, right through him. Esmeralda Brandybuck stopped before him. She sighed. She lowered her head while pulling up a corner of her apron to wipe her brow. She walked through the astonished Pippin, who then turned to follow her.

Old hobbits, sick hobbits, hungry hobbits who ate their food faster than even Pippin could imagine, Esme visited them all. Pippin watched her hugging them, tending their needs, feeding those too weak to feed themselves. After what seemed like hours, his Aunt sat wearily down at her dressing table. She put her head down on her arms and sobbed. Pippin reached out his hand, gently touching her grey hair. She raised her head, looking into the mirror.

"Pippin! Where are you?" Tears rushed down her pale cheeks.

He tried to speak. He tried to give her comfort. His reflection faded in the mirror.

Peregrin Took hugged his Elven cloak tight about him with his left hand while carefully carrying a small oil lamp with his right. The troubling dream had ended his sleep. He climbed the stairs to the roof of the house in Minas Tirith where he could gaze off to the north west . . . where his homeland lay far beyond his sight.