“Now,” said Mother, “whyever would you need to know that?”

“Well,” said Kira, who was herself still puzzling over that very matter, “I had a question about something in the Mathom House and the Travellers’ Tales, and besides it’d be handy to know so that I could read over the winter.  I just wanted to find the answer quickly, is all, and I don’t think anyone around here would know it.”

“It’s not an important question, then?”

“No, but—”

“Well, the only library I know of is at Undertowers all the way over in Westmarch, and that’s over a day’s journey away; so you shan’t get it answered any time soon.”

And so Kira put the matter out of her mind, hoping that strange things like the mail-coat wouldn’t keep popping up in her life every now and then with no way to get to the bottom of them.  And that probably would have been the end of everything, at least till winter rolled around and Kira needed something to occupy herself.  But in a week’s time the Proudfoot smial received a rare visit from the Post Office’s delivery service, which gave Kira’s mind (still niggling over the Mathom House incident, but only feebly) the opportunity it needed.  Kira and her mother had received a letter.

As was normally the case when they received any correspondence, Mother requested that the postboy read aloud to them.  But before he could start, Kira held out her hand for the letter and said, “May I?”  Mother gave her a look, then nodded curtly.

In a trembling voice, aware that both the lad and her mother were looking on, Kira read the note, which was legibly penned in a large hand.

May 3, 1540

On 30 April of this year, Blanco Proudfoot, father, grandfather, and Head of the family Proudfoot, passed, having attained 108 years in age.  He was laid to rest on the 1^st of May in the New Field east of the Tower Hills.

You are cordially invited to High Hole, east of the Tower Hills, for the entering of his death in the Genealogy and the reading of the Will, on 10 May at 5:00 in the evening.  Dinner and afters will be provided.

                                                                                                                                                       Sincerely,

                                                                                                                                                       Sancho Proudfoot
                                                                                                                                                       Head of Family

When Kira was finished reading, Mother took the note from her and handed it to the postboy, who looked it over and confirmed its contents with a simple nod.  When he had been paid, Kira and her mother went inside and sat down at the kitchen table.

“We’ll have to go, I suppose,” said Mother.  “They are your family, after all, and it’d be rude not to.  But another journey, after so short a time—we’ll have to hope that the Burrows won’t need their cart and pony for a while.  Ah, well.  Third time pays for all.”

Kira had been to funerals twice before: once for Grandmother Proudfoot, and once for Grandmother Brownlock.  Even then, it had never been for the actual burial: that was only for the nearest family members, who had been called to the hobbit’s bedside as he lay dying.  Extended relations and family friends were invited to help pull the mourners beyond their grief a short time later, when the death was made part of the family’s records.  It had been a pleasant enough experience with Grandmother Brownlock, who had always talked to Kira for at least fifteen minutes at parties and who had baked sticky buns whenever Kira and her mother visited, and she had gotten to hear a good many things she had never known about her at the funeral.  Mother had seemed to like it, too; she had left Kira to stay with the Burrowses when the initial news of Grandmother’s illness came and had not seen her daughter in two weeks.

But Kira had no memories of Grandmother Proudfoot at all, and Mother had said next to nothing at that funeral.  They had both sat at supper while talk washed over them, feeling incredibly out of place; and Kira feared it would be the same way again with her grandfather.

Still, she had never been to a Will-Reading before, since both of her grandmothers had been survived by their husbands.  Now the joint will would be read, and this, aside from matters of courtesy, was why Mother at least had to attend.  Anything left to her husband would by default go to her.

Kira only vaguely understood the legalities of the whole matter, but she knew that they would have to go; so go they did.  It was not until they had reached the Far Downs late on May 9^th that she remembered that the towers in “Undertowers” and “Tower Hills” were identical.

They reached High Hole at 4:00 on the 10^th.  It still seemed a bit incongruous to Kira to have a named residence, despite having lived at Brandy Hall for the previous winter.  At least Buck Hill was more like a town in its own right—unlike the Proudfoot abode, which always had more guest rooms than actual living quarters.  Mother had told her once that their own home was where the head of the family used to live, long before Westmarch was ceded to the Shire; but as far as she was aware that one had never had a name.  Maybe moving to Westmarch signified moving up in the Shire.

It certainly seemed that way when they were let inside, for the smial looked even more dazzling than Kira had remembered from Hallie’s funeral.  As Mother inquired about accommodations for the night, Kira sat down at a polished mahogany table, seating about thirty, and stared at her reflection.

After a few minutes Kira could hear the pad of feet on the cobblestone floor, then see a face reflected across from her.  She looked up.

“Hullo,” said a lady whose dark brown hair was tied in a bun.  Kira remembered her somewhat from the few other times she had seen the Proudfoot family together, but could not think of her name.  “Are you Kira?”

Kira nodded.

“I’m one of your aunts—Lagro was my youngest brother.  He was a good hobbit.”

Kira could not think of anything to say, so she just smiled at her.

“My name is Foxglove.  You may not remember me, but I did talk to you a little last—”

She was interrupted by Mother’s arrival, telling Kira that they knew which guest room they were staying in and that they should go and freshen up before the funeral began.  Kira rose and followed her, but she did wave goodbye to her aunt as they left the room.  There was something in her expression that made Kira feel odd.

Since she could not focus on the conversation around her at dinner, Kira turned her attention to the meal, which was simple but filling, the way any hobbit meal ought to be.  She talked to as few people as possible aside from Mother, because it did not seem like the right time to make new acquaintances and because Mother did not like the Proudfoots that much.  There were a few other children, clad in the sombre browns and greys of mourning, at the large table, but they were too far away for Kira to even greet.

Wine and ale flowed around the table as the meal drew on, and continued well after it was over; and before anyone had even thought of leaving for the sitting room, where the day of death would be inked into the genealogy and the will would be read, someone (Kira supposed it was Sancho’s wife, for she sat just to the right of the table’s head) announced that it was getting late and that the children should go to bed.  After casting an enquiring look at her mother, Kira rose from the table, along with the other children, and made her way to the room as best as she could in the gloaming.  By the time she fell asleep, Mother still had not come back.

She woke up shortly after sunrise, but Mother was fast asleep next to her.  For a while Kira stayed where she was, not daring to awaken her, but once her stomach began rumbling she slipped out of bed, found a clean shift, and dressed herself for the journey back.  Since Mother had not so much as stirred, Kira grabbed her crutch and set forth in quest of breakfast.

After the previous night’s bustle the entire hole seemed steeped in quiet.  Two other children were up, and Foxglove was preparing food for them, but apart from that there was no activity.  As Kira downed a bowl of porridge she learned that the will had not been read until midnight, and that even though Kira’s mother, at least, had retired immediately thereafter, it was doubtable that any adults would be up in the near future.

“And at any rate,” said Foxglove, “I know that your mother has some unfinished business to discuss with Sancho.  So I don’t expect either of you will be leaving till eleven at least.”

Kira quietly thanked her, and when she had cleaned up after herself left to go outside.

The sky had a greyish cast to it, which made the entire land seem half-asleep.  It did not quite feel like the Shire, even—at least not the Shire proper (which of course it wasn’t).  The matter was not helped by the lofty towers she could see to the West.  They looked as if they belonged to stories or songs more than the everyday world of planting and reaping.  Kira had heard from someone—she had the distinct impression that it was the old Mayor’s son, though she wasn’t entirely sure—that you could see the Sea from the top of the farthest one.  There was no way of knowing that for sure, however, and so Kira rather doubted it was true.

But to think—at least, going by the name “Undertowers”—that there were hobbits living beneath such items of legend, or at least storing their books there!  Mind, the very fact that they kept a lot of books there did not speak well of their hobbit-sense, but neither did living on the far reaches of the Shire—just like the Brandybucks, as a matter of fact, Kira realised.  The more she thought about them, the more the thought formed in her mind: it could not be later than eight o’clock in the morning, and Foxglove had said she and Mum would be leaving at eleven.  She was going to visit Undertowers.

Even though the towers were clearly visible from High Hole, the walk took twice as long as Kira had thought it would and eventually she was grateful for a lift from one of the local farmers who was going almost, but not quite, that way.  It was not until after nine that Kira found herself in front of the massive wooden door of the farthest tower.  The knocker had been moved down to suit a hobbit’s height, but that did little to still the apprehension that swelled in Kira as she stood there with her hand poised upon it.

After a good two minutes she finally summoned the nerve to knock at the door.  The boom of metal echoed around her.  She waited.  It felt as if whole minutes were ticking by, and Kira was about to turn around back when the door was opened.  On the other side was a fair-haired hobbit lass, quite young but nonetheless in her tweens.  “Hello,” she said, “and how may I help you?”

What little courage Kira had fled, and she mumbled something about towers and a library.

“Well,” the girl replied, a smile spreading across her face, “you’ve come to the right place.  Undertowers has the largest library in the whole Shire.  Come in and I’ll show you.  Would you care for any refreshment?”

Though it had been over an hour since Kira had last eaten she remembered that she and Mum were to leave at eleven and decided not to risk any delay.  “No, thank you,” she said as she stepped inside.

Her hostess shut the door behind her.  “What is your name, and where are you from?  There are really so few visitors here these days—most of them old learned folk that just want to see the Red Book or look at the pedigrees we have.  I’ll admit we’ve never had anyone as young as you come, not without an adult pushing them.  And are you injured?”

“No.  I was born lame.  My name is Kira Proudfoot, and I come from the White Downs, but I’m here visiting my relations at High Hole.”

“I’m Sandra Fairbairn.  My dad’s the Warden here.  Normally I’d have to show you to him and ask him if you were allowed in, but he and my brothers are out on business, and my mum and grandmother are at market, and I haven’t any sisters.  So for the moment, I’m in charge.”  A glint came to her eye, and she led Kira down the central hallway of the tower.  “Not that you wouldn’t be let in, of course.  Dad always likes it when the younger folk come in—though that’s such a rarity now.  And that’s nothing to how Grandmother feels.  She is, you know, the last of the people from the Red Book that’s still alive.  Well, at least the last in the Shire—the King’s still alive, and Legolas and Gimli, and of course all the elves that sailed West—”

“You believe in elves?” Kira interrupted.

“You don’t?”

“N-no—almost no one does, I thought.”

“But that’s absurd!  How could you read the Histories and not believe in elves?”

“But I haven’t read the histories.  That’s why I came here: I had a question about the Travellers’ Tales, and I was hoping that one of your books would have an answer.  I learned how to read this past winter, all the way over in Buckland, and the fellow that lent me the book I was reading from said it had Travellers’ Tales in it later on.  But that’s all I know.  I don’t even know if that book would answer the question I had.”

Sandra grinned.  “It was probably the Red Book, then, though it sounds as if you didn’t get very far in before you stopped.  What was the last thing that happened?”

“Bilbo Baggins returned to the Shire just as they were trying to auction off everything he had.”

“That’s the book—the bits about the Travellers pick up right after that.  But there are still elves in Bilbo’s tale—lots of them!”

“I know.  But it’s such a wild tale, I didn’t think it could be real—especially the elves.”

“Well, if it’s the Red Book you want, I know no one will mind if I show you the library.  We all love it when someone reads it for the first time.”  She led Kira to a stairwell leading down to a cellar, grabbing a lantern and a set of keys.

Kira got down with some difficulty, and then Sandra unlocked the library door and let her in.  It was roomy and well kept, though the torches that lit it were so far apart that it would be difficult to read anything without a lamp.

“Usually one of my brothers is down here, but as I said I’m the only one in today.  Besides, we’re taking a break in copying and editing and things like that,” said Sandra.  “Which gives us free rein.”  She cast the light of her lantern over a portion of the shelves.  “These are all the copies my family has made.  It takes a very long time—at least a year—to make one, and still keep up with regular tasks.  It’s a good thing my family’s so large; otherwise we shouldn’t have had the time.”

“Why do you make so many?” said Kira.

Sandra sighed.  “Oh, we always hoped that there’d be a lot of people reading them—and there used to be a decent number of them, before the Falling-Out.  We didn’t put everything in them, though—it took long enough to make a copy as it is—and only Grandmother really liked reading the elvish legends, anyway, back before her eyes went bad.  But we never left a single word out of the true story in there, which was after all the reason we got the books to begin with.  We always figured that if somebody really wanted the old legends they could just read the original.  And here it is!”

She pointed to a book to the left of all the others, almost four times larger and bound in a darker shade of red than the rest, and bearing no inscription.  Standing on the tips of her woolly toes, Sandra slid the book out of the shelf and set it, with the lantern, on the floor.

“When I was younger I used to sneak out of bed in the middle of the night and look at this,” she said.  “I love it so because it’s genuine.  It wasn’t even supposed to be a history at first—just a diary.”  She opened it to the first page.  “Just look at how long it took them to select a title!”  Kira looked, and saw indeed that there were many titles, one crossed out after another.  “The Tale of the Great Ring?” she said.  “What Great—”

Sandra promptly closed the book.  “I forgot you haven’t read all of it yet,” she said.  “But look!  You can see how it came together—there’s Bilbo’s writing,” opening it to one of the beginning pages written in a spidery script that Kira could not read to save her life, “and then Frodo’s,” flipping ahead to a section written with bold, flowing letters, “and finally, my great-grandfather—Sam Gardner!”  Here she showed a page written in a somewhat clumsy hand; and Kira saw that originally the book had ended there, but someone had sewn on three more volumes!

“He wrote part of that?” said Kira.

“He’s the one who gave us the copy!  My grandmother was his eldest daughter.  Anyway, yes, he had to finish up the story after Frodo left.”  She closed the book again.  “Are you staying here long?”

“Mum and I are supposed to leave sometime before noon.  But that’s all the way back at High Hole.  Really, if you could just answer the question I’d be—”

“If you don’t believe in elves I shan’t be able to answer it to your satisfaction, Miss Proudfoot,” said Sandra.  “Best if you read it for yourself.  Can you take good care of things?”

“Why?”

“Can you?”

“Yes, if I have a mind, but—”

Sandra placed the heavy book in Kira’s hands.  “Take it,” she said.

Kira nearly stumbled under the weight, but was able to shift the load to her hip before she could topple over.  “What?”

“You don’t believe the stories yet—and you should.  If you take one of the copies, I’m afraid it’ll just waste your time.”

“But this one’s so old!”

“Kira, if you’re going to try reading the tales, I want you to read them from this one.  Maybe it’s because it’s old, but nothing makes the stories come to life the way this one does.  Hardly anyone comes to the library these days, and none of them are even close to being my age.  You’re a special visitor, and you deserve a book this special.”

“But your father and grandmother?”

“I’m sure Grandmother will agree with me, at least.  If they have a problem with it, I’ll talk to them.  You’re leaving, anyway, so you can’t get in any trouble.  Just keep it for as long as it takes you to read it, and then you can return it here and we’ll have a nice long chat about it.  We’ll see if you believe in elves by then.”

“You really trust me that much?”

“You came here on your own, to find out more about a book you’ve never read.  Of course I trust you.  Just don’t place it anywhere dangerous, and put it away when you’re done.  Tell you what, when we go back upstairs I’ll get you a bag you can keep it in, just to keep it safe.  I’ll help you up the steps.”

She led Kira into one of the pantries, where a number of sacks were strewn on the floor.  She rummaged around in the back and found hanging up an old leathern bag with a wide shoulder strap on it, brought it back, and held it open so Kira could heave the book inside it.  She then found a bit of bread and cheese to give Kira “for the journey.”

“Sandra, are you sure?” Kira said as they stood at the door.

The girl with the golden hair took Kira’s spare hand in both of her own and looked her in the eye.  “I am sure and certain, Kira.  Now go, and read your book; and when you bring it back you can talk elves with me and Grandmum.  Good luck!”

Kira made her way back down the road towards High Hole.  Just as it was about to dip behind a hill, she turned back to see Sandra lingering at the doorway.

“Do try and be careful with it,” she called out, waving farewell.  “There is only one of it, you know.”

*  *  * 

Much to Kira’s frustration, there was no assistance from any well meaning-planters along the way back.  The sheer length of the walk, along with the additional burden of the book, meant that she had to rest very often, but Kira did not know what else to do.  By the time she reached the Proudfoot residence the sun was high in the sky, and she was sweaty, dusty, and exhausted.  For a few minutes she leaned against the front door and panted, but finally opened it and stumbled in.

The foyer was empty, and so was the dining room.  She did not feel comfortable enough in this setting to call out, “I’m home!” so she went back to Mother’s guest room and found it, too, empty.  Even their bag was gone.

It was only on the way back outside that she even saw another hobbit.  She recognised him from the dinner the previous night; he had sat at the table’s head so she supposed he must be Sancho.  “Where have you been?” he demanded.

“Er…” said Kira.  “Foxglove told me that Mother wasn’t going to be ready to leave until eleven, so I visited the Towers.  I didn’t realise they were as far away as they are.”

He sighed heavily.  “I suppose I’ll have to call off the search party, then.”

“There’s a search party?  But Mum lets me come and go from home as I please!”

“Unfortunately this isn’t your home, and since you didn’t tell a soul where you were going we didn’t know if you’d dozed off in a meadow or fallen down a well.”

“I’m sorry!” cried Kira, but Sancho had already turned around to go back outside and alert the searchers that the missing hobbit had been found.

Mother was not pleased.  “If this is how you think you can conduct yourself when you’re a guest at someone else’s home, in a land you don’t know, then I’m quite glad you were cooped up all that time you were in Buckland.  You could have gotten hurt, and nobody would have known!”

“I didn’t stray from the road, Mother.  And I didn’t think I’d be back until you were ready to go!  It’s just that you said the only Library you knew of was—”

“You mean to tell me,” said Mother, “that you wandered off into the blue to find a Library?”

“I had a question, Mum, and otherwise it wasn’t going to be answered.  And they gave me a book, too, so it’s not as if the visit was fruitless.”  She hefted the book before her, in case Mother had not already noticed.

“They gave you a—”

“Mother, I’m very sorry and I won’t let it happen again.”

“I think we should return it to the nice people who gave it to you.”

“But—”

Here Sancho, who had been passively observing the entire exchange, stepped in.  “If you try returning the book, you’ll have to travel in the dark, Rosemary, or you’ll be another day on the road.  Maybe if Kira has to take care of this book she’ll learn something of responsibility.”

Mother looked between the two of them, and sighed.  “Very well.  I suppose we should leave now, since we’ve had such a delay.  But this means no luncheon for you, Kira.”

Kira nodded.

They did not speak for most of the journey back.  Kira got so bored that she wanted to look through the book, just for something to do, but she did not think Mother would like that.

“All that trip for a book?” said Mother, eventually, just to relieve the monotony.  “And when are you going to find the time to read it?  You do have chores, you know, and your friends to play with.”

“Maybe I’ll put it off till I’m stuck in bed over the winter,” said Kira.  “But even then, I don’t play all the time.  Sometimes I have to rest, even though no one else is resting.  I don’t really see what the harm is.”

Mother sighed.  “You don’t know what you’re getting into, lass.  Back when I was young we used to hear about folk that read tales, and then disappeared into the unknown without so much as a ‘goodbye.’”  She shook her head.  “Not that you’d ever do that, but they’re still a very dangerous business if you ask me.”

“I’ll be careful, Mum.  I promise.”

“Ah, well.  I’m sure it’s only a passing fancy anyhow.”  She laid her hand on her daughter’s head and patted the curls a few times.  “And even then, what can I do about it?”

*  *  *

After they had returned home and eaten a sizeable meal together, Kira excused herself and went to her room, wanting to see precisely what kind of book she had acquired.  She flipped through it, not even trying to decipher Bilbo’s handwriting, until she found something that she could read.  “When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton…”

And though Kira had only planned on looking at it briefly, just to see what it held, somehow the words on the page pulled at her, drew her into them.  Instead of doing her chores, instead of walking down the lane to see what Tom was up to, she read.  She read for a long, long time, longer than she had ever intended or even believed possible, stopping only for meals and sleep.  There was something queer about it—either a shadow across the words, or else a feeling that she, Kira Proudfoot, was touching a piece of living history—after all, she told herself, the Travellers were historical—that would not let her put the book down for long.  She told herself to stop, but then a part of her wondered why she couldn’t stop, what the strange mystery was about this book that made her want to keep reading, even though after all it was a fantasy.  It made her feel as if she were by the Sea, even though she had never thought of the Sea in her life, dipping her hand into the surf, and feeling the tide, calling, calling her away.  It frightened her.  And the strange force that compelled her onward eluded her, no matter how hard she sought it, until it finally presented itself on the pages.

“‘There is only one way:’” she read, “‘to find the Cracks of Doom in the depths of Orodruin, the Fire-mountain, and cast the Ring in there, if you really wish to destroy it, to put it beyond the grasp of the Enemy forever.’”  Heart pounding, she closed the book and set it down.  She thought she heard something click, like two objects sliding together.

“So… so that was why they left the Shire?” she said to herself, and although she could not explain why, Kira shivered.