The three Dunedain found benches in the back yard. Set in the shape of a triangle around a circular table, the benches were stout wooden planks set on wooden posts. Each post was raised or lowered by shifting the spot of the post plug. Odofur had fashioned them to make the apple harvest easier than ladders for lower hanging fruit. Now they made dinner easier.
Gandalf wandered off to talk to Odofur and savor the aromas Delfina was teasing out of herbs, root vegetables and mutton. The grandchildren merrily raced through the kitchen tugging mischievously at Gandalf’s grey cloak. Merioc and Derioc stood in the doorway to the kitchen with their young wives, laughing at the children along with Gandalf.
Outside it was quieter. The men had made inroads into some ale and cheese, taking measure of each other while feeling a deep sense of pride and fellowship. Aranuir broke the ice.
“So, Aragorn, you roam the lands as chieftain to be. What strikes you so far?”
“The emptiness, grandfather. Often leagues go by without seeing another soul, whether man, elf, dwarf or hobbit.”
“It was never a full land, even in my grandfather’s youth.” Aranuir replied. Now men dwell in Dunland, some in Bree, others scattered.”
“What of Gondor and other lands?” Aragorn asked
“Gandalf says Gondor prospers though they are ever vigilant. The Woodmen go about their business in Mirkwood’s northern eaves. The horsemen who are known as the Eotheod expand their realm in the far north of the Anduin. On this I have direct news to share later.”
“The hobbits of the Shire have grown and prospered, though. We see them expanding into empty lands, raising crops and families.” Aravir commented.
“For one, they do not make war amongst each other. They are skilled at growing things, living orderly lives.” Aranuir replied
“And they quietly benefit from our vigilance in their lands. I begrudge them not. Odofur and his family have wrested much from the land.” Aravir added.
“Well Odofur is my first hobbit. More adventurous than hobbits as taught to me. A fine steward of the land.” Aragorn commented.
“He was my first hobbit as well, Aragorn.” Aravir replied. “Years ago he nearly met his end in a boat. His bold nature far exceeded his water skills in those days. Not so now. Fortunately on that day I chanced to be there. Chance seems to be toying with us again today with our arrivals.”
“Chance too played a part in my journey north. Picking my way along the high ridges of the east side of the Misty Mountains, I came upon the future chieftain of the Eotheod, grievously wounded by a wolf.”
Aranuir told the rest of the story. Restoring Wulfric to health. Being escorted to his father, the chieftain. Enjoying their hospitality and trying to establish a sense of shared interest. He shared his hopes that Aravir and Aragorn might attempt to keep alive in years to come.
“Perhaps. Though in time they may see little purpose in our visit as we add little to their lives save the one chance which favored you to their welcome. That will be of their choice.” Aravir concluded.
Gandalf stepped away from the bustle of the kitchen area and stood quietly outside, smoking his pipe, leaning against the brick facing of Odofur’s house. He watched the three Dunedain in earnest conversation. They were all dressed similarly. Boots, dark deerskin pants, woven tunic, light leather curiass and grey hooded cloak pinned with a rayed star clasp.
But one was white haired, skin deeply tanned and lined. The second man had dark brown hair, streaks of grey. His noble face bore lines around the mouth, a crease or two in his forehead. His expression was outwardly austere, though he was quietly generous with his strength and kindness.
Next to him the youngest, Aragorn. A full head of dark brown hair over a face that strikingly resembled a younger version of his father. His expression was that of curiosity, taking in for the first time the world his father and grandfather had guarded for long years. And an eager face as well, anxious to prove himself, be deemed worthy.
Gandalf had seen it before when Aranuir was a youth. No doubt he would see it again. It was part of his duty to insure that he would see it again, that the line would continue. He did doubt he would see three generations of Dunedain around one table again. The coincidence was a little unsettling. Such things he should know or be the reason for their occurrence. He would inquire with Elrond as to his thoughts the next time he paid a visit to Rivendell.
He returned his gaze to the men, listening in now.
“And he called himself Bombadil…” Aragorn interjected.
“Bombadil?” Gandalf said out loud, surprised to hear the name. He walked towards the Dunedain.
“Bombadil?” he said again, now close to them. “What do you know of him?”
“He rescued Odofur from the clutches of an unfriendly ash tree. We knew him not upon first encounter and drew our swords, unsure if he was helping or hurting our hobbit friend.” Aragorn replied.
“Well you sheathed them back, young man. Bombadil is old. Older than the elves, older than the trees. He lives a simple life with Goldberry but do not think him a forest bumpkin. For all the wars across the ages, the raising of mountains, the sinking of entire realms, he has shrugged them off as mere distractions. He is unique, with unique strengths still to be tested.”
“You have met this Bombadil?” Aranuir inquired.
“Long ago when time was young. Now it is getting old. Tom stays put, bides his time. The rest of us seem in motion as our destiny. One day when my tasks are less pressing I should like to pay a call on Tom. But I cannot yet see that day.”
Gandalf’s words hung in the air for a moment. They were soon swept aside by the sound of clattering dishes, cups and cutlery approaching from the house.
The Oldbucks were serving dinner.
First was a bowl of steaming vegetable soup served with crusty bread. After the last drop left their spoons the bowls were whisked away. A minor course followed, slices of spiced dried apple and cheese.
Then the main event, mutton with a savory gravy, carrots, potatoes and mushrooms. Small children dashed out with fresh loaves of bread to keep up with the appetites of the Big Folk. Flagons of ale were refreshed. Conversation had long ceased as the repast set by Delfina Oldbuck had them all absorbed in the bounty of the land.
At last they eased back from the table where they’d had their fill. The table was cleared.
Before they could utter a word, Delfina came out with a large tray laden with spice cakes, apple tarts, and cookies.
“My, Mrs. Oldbuck, you do set a fine table indeed.” Gandalf intoned while reaching for a spice cake and two cookies.
Grunts of agreement came from the Dunedain who were quickly grabbing their share of dessert.
Odofur Oldbuck was immensely pleased with himself. He had ventured across the river, encountered a rogue tree, saved by someone named Bombadil, accompanied home by descendants of the first king of Arnor, then visited by a wizard with another Dunedain. And they were all here, guests of his for dinner. All in one day.
A far better day than his pushy cousin Primadoc was having, he was sure.
The sun was beginning to set. The air was cooling. Arrangements had been made for overnight.
“Ah, gentlemen. We sadly do not have room for you in the main house. Our beds and spaces are much too small. If you care, we have made beds for you in the barn. Fine hay topped with layers of warm blankets. It is not the Prancing Pony, but what we can do this unexpected evening.”
“It will do well, Odofur.”, said Gandalf, “Hobbit hospitality is well known and you are an exemplary example. We accept your invitation and will sleep well tonight.”
Odofur beamed. A most successful evening. He bowed to the gathering then turned and went back into the house where Delfina and the grandchildren were cleaning the cutlery. Behind him Aravir and Aragon had started a fire in the outdoor hearth. The Dunedain would be up late.