8. Arrival in Michel Delving

At first Bandobras was surprised at the emptiness of the East Road, and he pondered the matter as Friend’s long strides steadily ate the miles away. Where were all the Hobbits? Had the goblins been here already?

Common sense reasserted itself. The farmsteads would be smoking ruins, had the goblins struck here before turning their attentions to the North-lands. 

Remembering back to his own visits to the Lithedays Faire in his youth, he realised that most (if not all) Shire-folk living within half a day of Michel Delving wouldn’t be on the Road at this time of day but at the Faire. The lack of traffic was heartening; it reassured him that he’d not misreckoned the date on the calendar, what with his muddled head and the distractions of the ongoing emergency they’d left behind in his adopted homeland.

He leaned forward and patted his steed’s sweat-soaked neck. ‘We’re almost there, my fine fellow! You’re a wonder, indeed!’

The horse responded to his rider’s anticipation by increasing speed. When Bandobras tried to pull him down to a walk from his brisk trot, Friend tossed his head and danced a bit, even broke into a slow gallop until the hobbit desisted.

*** 

Michel Delving was now visible in the distance. Bandobras could swear he heard swirls of music mingled with cheers, the sounds of celebrating crowds. The breeze carried smells he remembered from the Faire: a wide variety of foods and festive fare cooking or baking or broiling over open fires.

A rider on a pony approached; Bandobras hailed him in passing, ‘What is the day?’

...but the rider merely goggled at him, steered his pony so wide they went off the road, then applied his crop sharply to the pony’s hindquarters to speed them on their way.

Friend snorted. Bandobras agreed.

*** 

Bandobras steered for the Fairgrounds south of the town proper. His father would hardly spend good coin for a comfortable bed in an Inn; no, the visiting Tooks would be tenting or even sleeping rough on or near the pasture-land set aside for the ponies racing in the All-Shire Race on the final day. The archery butts were west of the Fairgrounds, while voting for the Mayor would be happening between the Fairground and southern edge of town.

‘Like a needle in a haystack,’ he told Friend. ‘Da could be in any of those places – or the middle of town!’

*** 

For once, Bandobras’ unusual height was an asset. From his perch on tall Friend’s back, he could easily see over the crowds. He now understood that pony rider’s reaction; everywhere they went, faces turned to them and a multitude of fingers pointed. Even so, he wasn’t sure how he’d find his father in the throng of Shire-folk who’d descended upon Michel Delving.

A shout rose above the crowd noise. ‘Dobby! What’re you doing on that Oliphaunt! T’morrow’s race is for ponies, or hadn’t you heard?’ 

Too young to be able to say Bandobras when his younger brother was born, Ferumbras had dubbed the new arrival “Dobby”, and the name had stuck.

Friend halted and jigged in place as Bandobras waved at Ferumbras. ‘Ferry!’

Ferumbras pushed his way through the crowd, staring upwards, and at last seized and grasped Bandobras’ dangling foot in a tight hold that communicated his joy at seeing his younger brother after five years’ separation since Bandobras had followed Rorric northward. ‘It has been an awfully long time, “little” brother,’ he cried, ‘but I know where we can find some mugs of beer with our names on them! Why don’t you get down off your high horse?’

***