Former Mayor of the Shire, Will Whitfoot, paced in the confines of his cell in the Lockholes. He didn’t have much space to traverse, six hobbit-strides in length or four in width. The dim light of a lantern out in the hall shone through the small barred window in his door. In that faint glow he could see the packed dirt floor, the slop bucket in the corner by the door, his thin sleeping pallet with its thin blanket against the back wall, the slightly damp feeling bricks of the walls and the somewhat rotted beams of the ceiling. "Not a very pleasant place, this," he thought for what was most likely the millionth time since the day the cell had become his home. He knew he was not alone in this dank place. He had been in the Lockholes only a few days when other hobbits began to be dragged in. Sometimes he saw them through the small window, but more often he knew because the pleading voice was higher pitched than the voices giving the orders. The only prisoners in the Lockholes were hobbits.

"Well, I suppose that is fitting in an odd way," Will said aloud as he chuckled grimly. " ‘Twas a jail in the far back times when Hobbits first settled here and we weren’t as well behaved as we are now." He ran his fingers over the chill surface of the bricks. "I wonder who was in here back then and what he had done? I’m sure it was something much worse than riding down the road on one’s own pony." It wasn’t the first time Will had wondered that. He sighed as he sat down on his pallet. He would pace some more later. When that is the only entertainment you get it is best to spread it out over the day, or over the night. There was no difference between the two for the prisoners in the Lockholes.

Out in the light of day, the Hobbits of Michel Delving glanced fearfully at the Lockholes as they passed it going along on their day to day business. At first, it had been a bit of a lark, seeing hobbits whom they figured deserved it, for whatever reason, being hauled into the old place. But with the posting of the Chief’s Rules any humor to be found in the matter was gone. Hobbits, hobbitesses, and even a few lads not quite of age had been dragged into the prison by the Ruffians. Neighbors, friends, family; hobbits they knew and cared about were now hidden away in the Lockholes. The residents of Michel Delving felt shamed by its presence in their town.

The oddly harsh weather the Shire had been having finally started to break. The sun at last made her way weakly through clouds that were considerably thinner than before, bringing the first flowers of spring out of the ground. Farmers began getting their equipment and seeds ready for spring planting. It was hard to stay in a gloomy frame of mind with the sun shining enough to cast faint shadows and the air smelling better than it had in months. Many hobbits began to think that even the Chief’s Rules weren’t really that bad after all. "Everything will be easier in the spring and summer. Just you wait and see," was heard on the streets and roads of the Shire.

Not everyone was content to wait and see.

Two Men and a Hobbit Sherriff walked up to the round door of the hole belonging to Posco Broadbelt, an elderly hobbit who lived between Bucklebury and Newbury in Buckland. The Sherriff stepped back a bit in surprise when the door opened to reveal a rather tall, strongly built, middle-aged hobbit who scowled at his visitors.

"Who be you?" the Sherriff spoke up, having recovered himself.

"I’m Marroc Bunce, not that it’s any of your business." Marroc set his fists on his hips as he spoke. "Who be you?" He pointedly ignored the Men.

"Where’s the old one what lives here?" asked one of the Men.

"Yes," said the other Man. "You’d best not be breakin’ none o’ the Rules, bringin’ food or aught to him or you’ll be seein’ the inside o’ the Lockholes. If there be food to spare then there be food that’s needin’ Gathered."

"Old Posco be yonder." Marroc pointed to a tree a short ways away from the hole where, quite plain to see, there was a freshly dug grave. "I’m the only relation what needed a hole of my own, so the place is mine now. Any more questions?"

The Sherriff looked relieved. "Just see to it you be mindin’ the Rules and there’ll be no trouble. Good day to ya."

Marroc shut the door and leaned heavily against it, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never been much for telling lies so he figured the Sherriff and Ruffians would see through his story. It had only been the night before last that old Posco Broadbelt had been hidden in a farrier’s wagon and taken to safety and comfort at The Hall.

Brandy Hall, like The Great Smials, was a maze of hallways and tunnels causing even life long residents to occasionally become lost. Never before had the Master of Buckland and his Mistress been so grateful for their confusing home. Twice already the smial had been searched, under the guise of a mere visit, by Lotho’s Ruffians. But it was impossible to tell from the outside how big The Hall was on the inside, enabling the hiding of many hobbits. Nearly fifty of Buckland’s oldest, poorest or most infirm citizens were now living in The Hall, with plenty of room for a good many more. Though Esmeralda Brandybuck hoped fervently that there would not be a need to fill all the space they had available. She now spent her mornings going around to the rooms in the most distant parts of the smial to visit their guests.

Bramblerose Knotwise, age one hundred one years, was tucked up in bed, at last getting the warmth and nourishment she needed to fight off her cold. Esme had been chatting awhile with the old hobbitess as she ate her second breakfast.

"The weather is finally breaking a bit as well, dear." Esme patted the elder’s hand. "I shall be able to bring you some flowers soon. Do you have a favorite spring flower?"

"Yes, Mistress. I like lilacs right well."

"Then lilacs you shall have as soon as they bloom."

Bramblerose became serious and leaned closer to Esme. "Mistress, ya say that it be gettin’ better out and about?"

"Yes, dear, it is."

The old hobbitess looked about as though she feared someone would hear that shouldn’t. "Then why do I still have the dreadin’?"

"The dreading?"

"Yes, Mistress. A feelin’ deep in ma bones that there be danger about. That there be somethin’ that still be not right."

Esme slowly nodded her head. She had been hearing similar things from many of the older hobbits, especially those who had been farmers or master gardeners. Hobbits who had a close relationship with nature and the soil of the Shire. It brought a small degree of comfort to Esme knowing she wasn’t alone with her feeling that there was evil abroad in the wide world, evil wanting to claim the Hobbit’s peaceful Shire.

Esme rose and kissed the older hobbitess on the forehead. "I hope, dear one, that it is only having to be taken from your home that is causing your dreading. Take comfort in knowing that you are now being loved and cared for by those of us here at The Hall. We will see to it that no evil reaches you here."

Bramblerose kissed Esmeralda’s hand before dabbing at her tears with a handkerchief. Esme left to go visit another of her guests.

No such help could be offered to Gaffer and Bell Gamgee. Life was harder for the hobbits who lived in Hobbiton and Bywater. With Hobbiton being the home of Chief Lotho Sackville-Baggins there was a higher concentration of Ruffians and Sherriffs there than anywhere else in the Shire. There could be no sneaking away to better housing those hobbits who had been moved into the miserable shacks. Everyone was too well watched. So it was rather surprising that Farmer Cotton and Young Tom were able to pay a visit to the Gamgees at the same time.

The Gaffer stood aside motioning for them to come in without saying a word. The weather may have improved somewhat as Rethe progressed toward its mid-point, but Bell Gamgee had not. She no longer could get out of bed. The Cottons saw the bowl of soup and bit of bread on the small table beside her. Bell’s arms were tucked under many layers of blankets and comforters; she had not been feeding herself. The senior Tom felt his stomach knot up inside him, it sickened and angered him to see these dear folks living in such mean conditions. The weak sun, though able to start warming the ground outside did nothing to warm the tiny shacks in which so many of Hobbiton’s poor and elderly now lived.

The Gaffer touched his wife’s shoulder. "She’s a-sleepin’ again. Barely stays awake ta sup a bit o’ soup." He bent to kiss her head then turned to face the Cotton’s. "Olo Proudfoot’s been ta see her. Least them Ruffians still be lettin’ the healer come ‘round." The old gardener sighed as he pulled himself up as straight as his work worn back would allow. "He had naught that was good ta say. I keep her as warm and comfortable as I’m able. She’s done a right fine job o’ carin’ for me an’ all our children these many years, ‘tis the least I can be doin’ for her." The Gaffer sighed again as he turned back to look once more at Bell as she slept. "I wish ‘twas more." He shook his head a bit then looked at his visitors. "What brings the two o’ ya here?"

Young Tom went to the larger table in the middle of the shack’s single room and began to empty out the pockets on the inside of his jacket. Taters, carrots, turnips and onions, dried beans and peas appeared on the table along with a nice sized hunk of ham. His father took several small logs out of his coat.

The elder Cotton placed an arm around the Gaffer’s shoulders. "Those logs be good hard wood, should burn right slow and last a good bit. You know we wish it be more, Ham. We’d be takin’ you and Bell in if ‘twern’t for them fool Rules, but ‘twould be no good landin’ us all in the Lockholes."

Hamfast reached his gnarled hand up to pat the hand that was draped over his shoulder. "I know. We know. And it be right fine of ya to be doin’ what ya are for us. Don’t rightly care for takin’ charity, but then, starvin’ from pride won’t do a body no good neither. Thank ya both and Lily too."

"And Rosie," put in Young Tom as he set two loaves of bread and a seed cake on the table. " ‘Twas she as made the bread and cake this time. Told Mum she wanted to be a helpin’ you and Bell."

The Gaffer nodded. "She still be holdin’ to the notion that our Sam will be comin’ back?"

Tom nodded back. "Aye. The lass holds her head high, looks ya straight in the eye and says she be knowin’ for a fact that he’ll be comin’ back."

"I hope her knowin’ be right."

"Aye, Ham, as do we." The elder Tom gave the old hobbit’s shoulder a firm yet gentle squeeze. "We’d best be on our way. Won’t be doin’ to stay too long if we were seen a-comin’ in. Ya won’t be forgettin’ that ya can send Dimm ta fetch us if ya be needin us?" he said as he, his son and the Gaffer walked to the door.

"Nay. I won’t forget, and our thanks to ya," said the Gaffer, his gratitude showing in his trembling voice. With nods of farewell all around the Cotton’s left. Hamfast Gamgee settled himself back into the chair at his wife’s bedside.