Chapter Fifteen

A week passed before she got the summons.  Since Kira knew it was coming, she made the most of the time in between.  The mallorn’s peace wore off slowly, so that those dreams she had only began to trouble her the night of the twelfth or so.  The daytimes she busied herself about the hole with quiet tasks, and rarely went outside.

“You’ll need more sun if you’re to fully recover,” said Mother.

“We’ll be planting, though, won’t we, Mum?”

“In a few weeks.  What about Daffodil and Roland?”

Kira only shrugged.  “I’d rather spend time with you for now, Mother.”  She knew she could not hope to avoid the Burrowses—and Tom—forever, but she had some time before she truly needed to think about such troubling things again, and she wanted to use it.

Then, on the thirteenth of April, a knock came on the smial door from the postal lad.  He bowed and doffed his cap.  “Letter for one Miss Kira Proudfoot, and her mother Rosemary.”  Kira watched from the kitchen as Mother slowly took the letter and paid the postboy.  She rose and moved until she was behind her.  “Do you want me to read it to you, Mum?”

Mother turned around and closed the door behind her.  “What’s the meaning of this?”

Kira took the paper in hand—it was Michel Delving’s finest, softest grade—and looked at the seal.  “It’s from the Warden of Westmarch,” she said.  “He probably wants to know what happened last November.”

Immediately Mother’s expression turned from one of faint surprise to outright suspicion.  “What does he have to do with you?”

“It was his book.”

“And he wants to see you about that?”

“I told you it was an important book.”

Mother took the letter back.  “No.  Those good-for-nothing lackwits are not having anything more to do with you, Kira.  After all of last year I think that you’d agree with me—they’ve made you do horrible things, and made even worse things happen to you.”  She walked briskly over to the kitchen, towards the cook-stove.

Kira rushed after her as fast as she could.  “Wait, Mother!”

Mother turned around.

“He’s the Warden—one of the four most powerful hobbits in all the Shire—and we don’t even know what the letter says.  If we throw it away, he’ll probably send more, or even come for me himself.  Besides,” she added, “it wouldn’t hurt to read it, would it?  You could still say no.”  Her stomach twisted.

“Very well,” said Mother, handing her the paper.  “I suppose we should listen to what he has to say,” but the way she said it sounded as if she was only letting Kira read it so she could reject the proposal more soundly.

Kira sat down at the kitchen table and broke the seal.  There were two leaves inside: one very short note addressed to her, and a longer one addressed to Mother.

April 11, 1541
Bag End
Hobbiton

Dear Miss Proudfoot,

Your presence is requested at an audience with the Thain of the Shire, the Master of Buckland, the Warden of Westmarch, and Mr. Holfast Gardner, concerning the loss of the Red Book of Westmarch last year; to be held at one o’ clock in the afternoon this Saturday, the 15^th of April at Bag End in Hobbiton.  A response is appreciated but unnecessary.

“They’re in earnest, Mother,” said Kira, when she was finished.  Beneath were the seals of the Thain, Master, and Warden, in all their official glory, signed underneath in red ink, as well as a fourth signature in red.  She handed the letter to Mother so she could inspect the seals themselves.

She looked over them, and her jaw set.  “Read the other one.”

Dear Mrs. Proudfoot,

Enclosed is the official summons for your daughter’s presence at a private enquiry we are making concerning the destruction of an ancient and well-beloved heirloom of our families.  Because young Kira was intimately involved in this unfortunate event, we are most desirous of hearing from her exactly what happened.

This is not just for our own self-interest.  Kira was very damaged by the surrounding events, and we are concerned about her well-being.  If we can know the exact circumstances of the accident, we can make certain it will never happen again, to her or any other youth.

Rest assured that the meeting will be informal, and we will not try to press any contrary views on your daughter.

I fully understand any scepticism you may hold towards our request to see her; I admit that Kira’s previous dealings with us have left a rather unfavourable impression of us on both you and the rest of the White Downs.

As such, we request your presence at the audience as well, so that you may see that we mean no further harm to Kira.  You may withdraw her at any time that you think the conversation is detrimental to her, and if you should happen to have any suggestions for us we encourage and welcome them.

I offer my services and those of my office to you and yours.

                                                                                                                                       Sincerely, 
                                                                                                                                       Elfstan Fairbairn
                                                                                                                                       Warden of Westmarch

There was no seal on this letter, nor any red ink.  Kira briefly remembered Kerry’s conversation with her, and wondered if this was what he meant about trusting those in charge as having more experience and more wisdom.  The letter was very cleverly worded, too: if anything would persuade Mother to let her go to Hobbiton in a few days to talk with the heads of the Travellers’ Families, it would be this.  But the idea of Mother coming with her was discomfiting.  It was a lot easier to go back in her mind to November and the time before when she was surrounded by people who understood.

Mother was duly impressed by the letter, but it took a private trip over to Tom’s hole (to his father; Mother wanted to ensure that Kira had not misread anything) before she consented to letting Kira go.  The next day she went to the Post Office to dictate a short response of assent and request for transportation, if at all possible.

Very early Saturday morning a very fine carriage pulled up to the Proudfoot residence.  Kira, who had dressed herself in the same brown workdress that she had worn to her grandfather’s funeral, and her mother mounted, and with the crack of a whip they were moving east towards Hobbiton and Bag End.

Kira’s self-consciousness prevented her from luxuriating too much in the green velvet upholstery, and she contented herself with staring out a glass-paned window and watching the countryside roll by.  Yet she felt incredibly rustic, and wondered if she should have taken Mother’s advice and chosen a nicer dress.  What am I doing here?

The curtains smelled dusty, though.

Through the White Downs they rode, into flatter land and Waymoot, and then rolling again as they turned north on a back road into Hobbiton.  They passed by the Party Field, with the mallorn in her resplendence, and then—something which Kira had seen only from a distance—the Hill.  Even if New Row was not as old as her own home, something about the arrangement of the holes in one great Hill and the sprawling garden that took up every uninhabited space took on the air of ancientry to her, and she felt as if she were magically transported back to the Third Age.

The carriage wound its way up the Hill, until they reached the smial at the top, replete with round green door.  It was exactly as Kira had read it: Bag End.

Kira and Mother dismounted, and while the carriage drove round to the back walked on a white stone path through beds of jacinths and late crocuses to knock on the front door.  There was silence, then a scamper of feet, a few tumbles, and the door suddenly flew open to reveal a golden-haired faunt.  She took one look at the visitors, and then turned back and yelled, “Auntiiieee!”

Kira heard a slightly more sedate patter of feet before she saw a much older hobbit, perhaps in her seventies, come running up and scoop the child into her arms.  Then she directed her attention to the visitors.  “Apologies,” she said with a breathless smile.  “All of the younger folk went off on a fishing trip today, so we’re rather short of help.  Fíriel Bolger, at your service.”  She inclined her head, and Kira and her mother murmured their own introductions and curtseyed.

“I’m very glad both of you could make it,” said Mrs. Bolger once she had directed them inside.  “Was the journey comfortable?”

It was soft, thought Kira, but she did not say anything.

“But you must be in sore need of refreshment,” she continued.  “I’d like to invite both of you to take luncheon with the rest of us, if it pleases you.”

It more than pleased Kira, whose stomach had been rumbling for quite some time now since they had only packed one meal for the ride.  So within a few minutes, once they had freshened themselves up, the Proudfoots took seat with all the Tooks and Gardners and Brandybucks and Bolgers and many others besides.  Kira was afraid that aside from the food itself (which it might be added was excellent even by hobbit standards) the meal would be very dull, as she realised that there was no one her age for company, much less anyone she recognised.  But in time, venturing out to converse with the very elderly and slightly deaf hobbit to her left, she discovered that he was none other than Frodo Gardner, and that he had a remarkable propensity for rattling off jokes and amusing yarns at such a prodigious rate that before she knew it the meal was over.

Then Kira’s stomach knotted horribly (a feeling only made worse for being full) as the purpose of her visit returned to her.  As they were all clearing the dishes from the table, scouring and rinsing them, a middle-aged hobbit nudged her and said that as soon as she and her mother were finished they should make their way to the study.  He pointed out the way, and before he retired to that room himself Kira got a good enough look at him to guess that this was indeed Sandra’s father.  Kira sloshed some water through her milk glass and passed the news along to her mother, and when they were done they walked together down the hallway into the study.

It was a pleasant enough room, facing directly westward.  Up against the window was an upright desk with ink and quill, and there were several bookshelves to either side.  The shelves themselves were almost bare, for tables upon tables (pushed against the walls) had books stacked upon them, contrasting in their clutter with the otherwise bare room.  Six cushioned chairs had been placed in the centre, facing one another in a circle, and it was in three of these that the Warden, the Master, and one other hobbit were seated.  Kira and her mother sat down in two of the other chairs, and last of all entered a hobbit at whom Mother started on seeing.  He closed the door behind him.

“I apologise for the clutter,” he said, gesturing to the book-strewn tables.  “We’ve been going through our collection since the disaster to try and see exactly what we have.  I take it the audience is ready to begin?”

The hobbit whom Kira did not recognise nodded at this, and rose.  “By my authority as Took and Thain of the Shire I declare this audience to commence.”

Kira gulped.

The Thain sat back down.  “A formality,” he explained.  “If this were to stand by all the ceremony we’d have at least twice the number of hobbits in here, and a scribe to foot.”

“Oh, my.”  She was too nervous to say anything else.

“I’m afraid, though, that we have you at a disadvantage, knowing a great deal more about you than you do about us.  I am Auduin Took, Thain of the Shire, at your service.”

“Elfstan Fairbairn, Warden of Westmarch, at your service.”

“Caradoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland, at your service.”

“Holfast Gardner, at your service.”  This came from the hobbit that had entered the room last.

Kira and her mother rose, and Mother introduced them both.

“So,” said Mr. Brandybuck, “I’d like you to tell your story, Kira, starting from the earliest relevant point.”

Kira glanced at Mother, who gave her an encouraging look.  Then she thought of the fine folk seated around her, all of whom were literate and believed, and knew whence she should start.

“My father was Lagro Proudfoot, who was the son of Blanco and Hallie Proudfoot.  Hallie was, as you know, one of the daughters of Merry and Estella Brandybuck, so I do have some Travellers’ blood in me.  Maybe that was what got me all tied up in this, or maybe the fact that I’ve been lame from birth.  At any rate, my dad died shortly before I was born; and I have had as little contact as possible with his side of the family since.

“Until two winters ago, that is.  Everyone was getting sick back home, and since my health’s delicate my mother sent me over to her sister’s care in Buckland—she had married a Brandybuck, far more decent than any outlandish strain that may have entered my blood.  I made the acquaintance of Kerry Brandybuck, your son,” here she gestured at the Master, “and he offered to teach me how to read when it became clear that I would be stuck at Brandy Hall for the winter.  My foot kept me from getting up and about, so I learned to read because it was the only thing I could do.  Aunt Penny found out, and got a little angry—I didn’t understand why, then—but after having a good talk with the Master of Buckland,”—another gesture—“she relented.

“You must understand that at the time I thought the Travellers’ Tales were no more than old fairy-stories told at a fireside, and I didn’t think anything of them.  I remember I was terribly shocked when I found out that Kerry believed they actually happened.  Anyhow, I left for home in the spring, and didn’t think too much more on books until I discovered the mithril coat in the Mathom House.  After a bit more thought and a bit of luck too I managed to get to Undertowers so that I could learn more about the tales.  Sandra gave me the original Red Book, because I was one of the first children she’d met who was truly interested in them and because she wanted me to believe they were true.

“I read everything about the War of the Ring and the part we had in it, and it made my friends upset because they thought I was more interested in the Book than I was in them.  I don’t know if they thought right, but when things came to a head I was too stubborn to apologise and continued reading, even thought I’d planned to return the Book before I got to the elvish legends.  Finally one of them got a hold of the book, to try… I don’t even know what he wanted to do with it, but he wanted to change my behaviour.  When my other friends disapproved of what he was doing he threw it up into the branches of an oak tree that overhung the Ash canal.  I went after it, but it fell in the water, and when I woke up it was gone forever.

“I apologise heartily for every part I had in the destruction of the Book, and do know that none of it was intended.”

“We know that none of it was intended, and hold you entirely blameless in the matter,” said the Warden.  “If anyone is at fault it is Sandra, who let the book leave the library and accepted all the risks inherent with that action.”

“Don’t blame her!” cried Kira.  “I told you before; she only gave it to me because she wanted me to believe, and there’s nothing like the original to do that.”

“Did she succeed?” said the Thain.

“Yes,” said Kira, with a guilty look at her mother.  “I couldn’t say when, but… yes.”

“Why did you go after the book?”

“Because it was important.”

“More important than your own life?”

“I—I don’t know.  I suppose so, but I really wasn’t thinking about that when I went after it.  I just knew I was the only one who could save it.”

“But your friends were there—the ones that had driven the other to the point of throwing the book in the tree?” said Mr. Gardner.

“They weren’t devoted enough to risk their own necks going after it, and I don’t blame them.  I think I frightened them, and they left.  Daffodil went and got help, but I didn’t know that at the time and it would have showed up too late anyhow.”

“But not too late to save her life,” added Mother.

“Which is of the utmost importance,” said the Thain.  “Kira, you must never hold your life in such low esteem as to risk it for the sake of a mere object: even one as precious as the Red Book of Westmarch.”  Mother opened her mouth, perhaps to object to the direction the conversation was turning to, but Kira spoke before she had the chance.

“What if it had been lost and I had done nothing?”

“You would have been considered prudent,” said the Master, “and no one would have blamed you.”

“But would it have been the right thing to do?”

The four hobbits looked at each other; if they were taking Mother’s suspicious glares into account they did not show it.  Finally the Warden spoke for them all.  “Yes,” he said.  “While what you did was doubtless… heroic, it was still misguided, and thus wrong.  We’re not exactly a people built for heroism.”

“Really?  I thought that’s what the Red Book was all about.  We may not look like much, but we can rise to the occasion.”

“And would you make yourself the heroine of this tragedy, Kira Proudfoot?”

“Of course not!  Besides, I thought that folk died in tragedies.  The only thing that’s gone here is the Book, and a heroine would hardly have a part in its destruction.  What would you have done in my place?”

Kira was dimly aware of the other people in the room rising in indignation, but her eyes were fixed on the Warden’s.

“That is neither here nor there,” he said, after a few moments’ reflection.  “If you made a mistake in going after the book, it has been forgiven, for your life has been spared.  And it is hardly fair for you to compare our two cases: you are a child, and are not bound to the Book by any sense of duty.”

Kira lowered her eyes.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I didn’t mean to talk out of turn.”

“I know.  You were speaking out of your zeal, of which perhaps there is too much for one of your age.”

And too little for one at yours, she thought.  She felt Mother’s hand gripping her wrist.

“All this has moved beyond the point,” said Mr. Gardner.  “The problem of the Book is not in what happened at that oak tree, but what happened before.”

“And the problem of my daughter’s health?” said Mother.

“Is wrapped up with the same.  Right or wrong, Kira could not help going after the Book—which I think you, my cousin, would understand as much as I—so if we are to ensure that this does not happen again, we should examine the underlying causes.”

“None of your friends could read, then?” said the Thain.

“No, none of them.”

“Well, there’s half the problem!” said the Master.  “And most of them thought that Travellers’ Tales were for faunts, too?”

“All of them.”

“I told you this would happen, Auduin,” he said mildly.

“I know,” said the Thain.  “But I’d say this whole thing started because the girl learned to read, not because her friends couldn’t.  Funny how disasters like this never happened in the Third Age, isn’t it?”

“Not really—I think most of the disasters back then stemmed from hobbits wandering Outside and never coming back; and even then, they weren’t disasters,” said Mr. Fairbairn.  “Hardly a big matter, except to their loved ones.”

“I couldn’t have wandered Outside anyway,” put in Kira.

“And if she could have, it would be a disservice to give any hobbit in her situation the sole option of leaving the Shire.  We can’t all be Tooks, can we?” said Mr. Gardner.

“Are you suggesting—” said Mother.

“Not in the least.  I’m only saying that Kira should not be made to feel miserable simply because she can read.”

“I’m not miserable, sir.”

“Perhaps not, dear, but you got into plenty of thorny situations because of it.  We can’t punish Kira for reading, and we can’t punish her friends for not reading.  What do you suggest that we do, Auduin?”

“I think we should try to keep these situations as calm as possible, should they arise.  You’re right, of course, that we can’t prevent the situations themselves.  So I suggest that we keep books from leaving the libraries, permanently.  That way people who are not accustomed to reading won’t be tempted to push their luck; and there is no longer any risk to the books themselves.”

The four hobbits conferred for a few minutes; it seemed that their private disputes had cooled down.  When they broke from their discussion they had reached an agreement.

Caradoc Brandybuck spoke.  “We will uphold the Thain’s decision, if not permanently then at least for the time being.  It will prevent another disaster like this one, if it does not make any social situations more stable.  This may be an inconvenience to you, Kira; but it will be better in the long run.  I am sorry.”

The Thain rose again.  “This audience is at an end.”

Kira left the room bewildered, not at all comforted that Mother looked pleased at the meeting’s outcome.  During the general pleasantries before taking leave of Bag End she singled out Mr. Gardner; he seemed the most sympathetic out of the lot.  “Why do you think everything will get better if it’s harder to get at books?”

He shrugged.  “The books last a good deal longer.  Our oldest Shire record hasn’t left the room it’s kept in for at least a century.”

“What is it?”

“The Yellowskin.  It’s a record of births, marriages, and deaths in the Great Smials, among other things.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, that’s Tuckborough business.”

“And is the War of the Ring Family business, then?”

“Ah, that’s the debate.  I’d say ‘no,’ but reality seems to disagree with me.”

“How do you mean?”

“The Red Book went outside the Families, and we lost it.”

“I am a quarter Brandybuck, you know.”

“Sometimes that’s not enough.  You weren’t raised a reader, lass.”

“But I became one.  Couldn’t you have pulled that off with my friends?  Then we wouldn’t have a problem at all.”

Mr. Gardner stared at the rug on the floor.  “If only it were that easy.”  Suddenly he looked in Kira’s eyes again.  “I’m dreadfully sorry that you had to get caught up in this whole business.  In an ideal world you could not only read in peace, but discuss it with your friends and face something better than ridicule.”

“But why haven’t you at least tried?”

He shook his head.  “We have, only—you’re too young to understand something so complex.  Suffice it to say that not all the change from the Third to Fourth Age was good.  We—the Thain, Master, Warden, and the Mayor, that is—have had to change with it.  This—all of this—is a consequence.”

“Sometimes I don’t, either.  Which is probably why the other three have authority and I don’t.  But I’ll do what I can to help you.  Tell me, what was the name of the fellow who threw the book in the tree?”

“Tom.  Tom Whitwell.”

“Thank you.  It’s high time we had a talk with the person who was actually responsible for the loss of the book, isn’t it?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet, but I promise it’ll at least make some amends.”

“Good.”  She sighed.  “I am sorry for getting angry at the Warden, by the way.  He was right; I shouldn’t have risked my neck like that going after it.  But I wasn’t trying to be a heroine.”

Mr. Gardner smiled.  “Neither was Samwise.”

Kira looked at him in amazement.  That would mean…

“Of course, it worked back then, but a lot of things that were brave and right—right, to the point of folly—worked in the Third Age.  I have a feeling we’d have done a lot better back then, you and I.”

Mother, who had been speaking to the Master of Buckland on account of his having provided aid for her sister’s children over the winter, came over to prevent Mr. Gardner from pressing any more “contrary views” on her daughter.  The carriage was sent for, Kira and her mother mounted, and they were off.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Mum?” said Kira as she watched the Hill in all its storybook glory receding from her line of sight.

“I suppose not,” said Mother.  “My faith in the Thain has been considerably restored—not that he matters that much compared with the Mayor, who’s a very decent person.  Maybe the Tooks are starting to get some hobbit sense in their heads, finally.”

The carriage rolled along.

“Still, I didn’t follow all the conversation well enough to be sure that they weren’t just putting more notions into your head.”

“They treat the Travellers’ Tales like history, Mum.”

Mother fixed her eyes on her.  “And you do, too, don’t you?  I was able to follow that much.”

Kira nodded.  “But it’s no use getting upset at them for it.  I believed in the Tales long before, even if I didn’t think of them as carrying on into today.”

“Even if those tales were true, Kira—which they aren’t—they’d still be past and gone.”

“As Mr. Gardner was just telling me.”  She smiled.  “Really, I’m the one with the most contrary views of all, and they’re just trying to make me a little more normal.”

Mother leaned her head against the window.  “Well, they can believe whatever they want, as long as you don’t get caught up in their business again.”

“You’re not upset at me for believing in the Tales?”

“Ah, but that’s only because you got caught up in their business.”

Kira knew that it would take a bit more than staying out of libraries to go back to “plain old hobbit sense,” but she decided not to tell Mother.

“And they’re doing the right thing by keeping those books of theirs to themselves.  I daresay they’ve learned their lesson.”

“Will I be allowed to see people like Kerry, then?”

“Who?”

“He taught me how to read.  He’s really quite nice.”

“Certainly not.  If you happen to run into him or some such people at a party or something, you can exchange pleasantries—no use in being rude—but no actively seeking them out!  They’re a bad influence.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Kira, but thinking back to the Tree Party she was happy.  She had been actively sought out then, and since there was no use in being rude she’d just have to talk with them a little whenever she was actively sought out in the future.  That, at least, comforted her as she examined a future filled with no books and little reading for the rest of the ride home.

When she got home that night and went to bed, she dreamed of trying to climb the old oak and being held back by invisible hands, and of the Past being carted up into the Lockholes and the doors nailed shut.  She thought she could hear pounding within the walls as hobbit hands drove the nails in, but she couldn’t be certain.