The Ghosts of the Shire
(These accounts have been narrated by me at the Green Dragon Friday roleplaying event)
Introduction – The Gatekeeper
“What keeps these ghosts that haunt here now?”
By way of introduction, I should tell you that my name is Wybert Diggings, and I am a hobbit of advanced years. For some time now I have been resident in the vicinity of Michel Delving, though I was born and grew up in the Green Hill Country. Having travelled quite widely in my younger years, these days I stay close to home, and I am what might be termed a hobbit of leisure. I am, I hope, respected among my fellows here in the Shire and such little fame as I may have is derived from my tales and poems. My writing, as well as my love of fishing in our Shire rivers, pools and streams, takes up most of my days.
The occurrences which rudely interrupted my comfortable bachelor existence took place over this past Yule and into the New Year. It began when I received a letter from my sister, Daffodil, whom I have not seen for many a year. When she was still a young lass she was courted by a traveller, over from Swanfleet, a handsome enough fellow, I suppose, with a silver tongue and a roguish smile. Well, there were very few visitors from those parts came to the Shire back in those days and our poor Daffodil was quite swept off her feet. Before we knew it she was whisked off to Mossward where they were wed and soon after gave birth to my nephew, Oisean. Within a year of the lad being born the father was off on his travels and they never heard from him again!
Well, my sister was determined to bring the boy up right all on her own and that’s what she did for these past twenty or so years and from all I heard a fine job she made of it too. So, I was a little surprised when I received her letter asking if I could have the lad over to stay with me through Yule and into the New year. It seems there had been some kind of misunderstanding with a lass and her father was on the warpath, so to speak, and Daffodil thought it’d be best if young Oisean spent a little time away. I agreed, of course, curious to meet this nephew I’d never seen, though I was a little apprehensive, not being used to having a youngster about the place. I needn’t have worried – though I’m sure he missed the company of hobbits of his own age, I found the lad to be pleasant and polite. I took him fishing and showed him some of the best spots and on the day itself the two of us enjoyed a fine Yule meal together.
It was on the night of the day after Yule that it began. We had eaten well once more, making short work of what remained from our Yule feast and, having washed that down with several flagons of strong ale, we were both inclined to retire early to our beds. It was shortly after midnight when I was awakened by muffled hoofbeats outside my window. I rose at once, most curious to discover who my visitor could be at that hour, and I made my way to the front door. Upon opening it and stepping into my porch, lit by the little lamp which I keep burning there at night, I made out the dark silhouette of a pony standing in the yard and at that very moment there rose up in front of me a terrifying apparition.
A figure, dressed completely in black, a full foot taller than me, stood there and pointed straight at me with a bony finger. I wanted to look away, but I could not move or avert my eyes as, to my horror, the creature withdrew the hood that covered its face and held me in its terrible gaze. Then, there issued from its lips a deep, bass, rumbling command:
“You are needed. Tomorrow, I will come.”
As it spoke, the very earth seemed to shake, and I could only just make out the words. Before it covered its face once more, I felt a shockwave that seemed to pass from its eyes to my own and I reeled before the power that it wielded. When I could see clearly once again, the creature had disappeared, and I heard only the sound of a pony’s hooves fading into the night.
I remember that I stumbled back inside, but I can recall little of what occurred the rest of that night or on the following day. I think I must have slept a little, for I remember waking at some point, bathed in sweat, from an unsettling dream. A part of me wanted to tell Oisean what had occurred, but something seemed to prevent me from doing so and I spent much of that day alone in my study where I knew he would not disturb me. In the early evening I took to my bed, though I did not sleep.
It must have been soon after midnight that I heard that voice again – but this time it seemed to emanate from inside my own head: “Come!”
I remember that I put on my fishing jacket and made my way out into the yard where I was once more confronted by that nightmarish creature and I could not help but obey as it bid me get up behind it on the pony, whereupon, with a sharp tug on the reins, we were carried at speed into the night.
Now you should understand that although I believe I was completely in that creature’s power, that I could not help but obey its every command, a small part of me remained aware of what was happening to me and capable of independent action. I will not deny that I was filled with terror, but I knew that if my disappearance became known I had friends who would try to find me and that I must do what I could to assist them in their search. I was able to reach into the pocket of my jacket where I kept my fishhooks, and I was able to drop a few at a time at intervals on that dreadful ride in the hope that they may be found and point any who sought me in the right direction.
At last, the pony came to a halt in complete darkness, and I was urged to dismount, whereupon I felt a hood placed over my head and I felt a hand leading me by the arm, I knew not where. In a short while I heard the creaking of a door opening ahead and I was urged forward. When the hood was removed, I found myself standing in a stone chamber, before me a chair and a table upon which a single candle burned and was placed parchment and a quill pen and inkpot. In one corner was a simple wooden bedstead upon which was laid a straw-filled mattress and pillow. Standing in front of me stood a hobbit the like of which I had never seen before.
His plain garb hung loosely from his emaciated body, and as he moved to place a blanket on the bed, I observed that his back was bent, and he walked with difficulty on his spindly legs. His dry, sallow skin was deeply wrinkled, and drooping bags hung loosely beneath his eyes. His downturned mouth was tightly drawn and when he spoke, through cracked lips, his voice had the dry, rasping tone of a person very advanced in age.
“My master bids you welcome,” he croaked. “I will attend to your needs during your stay here. My master commands that I tell you the task he requires you to perform – but first you should rest awhile, until I return.” With that he left by the door through which we must have entered, and I heard a key turn in the lock.
So began my days in that chamber – how many, I could not say, for in that place I seemed to lose all track of time, and in that windowless room I knew not even if it was night or day. He returned a little while later and brought me a bowl of oatmeal gruel and a pitcher of water. When I had eaten, he began to speak of his master and what he required of me.
“I should tell you first that my master wields great power, and before I reveal that service he requires of you, there are things I must explain. He is charged with the oversight of all the ghosts that haunt these lands – those whose spirits have not passed on when their corporeal lives have reached their end.” The ancient hobbit’s reedy voice delivered the words he spoke tonelessly, as if he was reading from a script.
“Ghosts!” I exclaimed.
“Some may have witnessed terrible crimes, or have themselves been victims of great injustice, or perhaps they have died in possession of momentous secrets, and they have been unable, or for some reason have not chosen, to reveal the knowledge they took with them to their graves. Others had developed such close attachments to the people and places they knew in their lives, and now linger where once they lived.
“Many such restless spirits, compelled to remain on this earth, may be found across these lands. My master is tasked with their care, and with doing what he may to ease their stay and to speed their passing.”
He paused, and the room was silent for a moment while my racing mind tried to absorb what he had told me.
“But what can your master do to help them pass on and leave this earth?” I asked.
“In order to leave they must come to terms with what has happened to them and relinquish those burdens which they bear. For some it happens naturally over time, and their passing is easy, but in more extreme cases they must wait until their stories are made known to the world.”
The old hobbit’s monotone ceased once more, and having seemingly reached the end of his script, he resumed in the dry, croaking voice with which he had first greeted me:
“That, I believe, is what my master requires of you.”
I gasped, trying to make sense of what he was telling me.
“Who exactly is your master?” I spluttered.
“He told me once that he is a Gatekeeper,” he replied, “one who serves those powers beyond our understanding who grant access to and from The Halls of Awaiting, that place known to the elves as the Halls of Mandos. Through that place must pass the souls of all the dead before they are permitted to continue their journey, according to their kind. He it is who allows passage there to all who die here in the Shire, and those who will not pass at once remain under his care.”
This was almost too much to take in, but before I could speak again, he shuffled to the door, put a finger to his dry lips and croaked:
“Hark! He comes!”
At that, the door opened with a slight creak and two figures entered the room. The first was the cowled figure who had visited me at my burrow and who had brought me to that place, and with it came an indistinct form which appeared to shimmer in the candlelight and seemed to glide across the stone floor as it moved to stand next the table.
This second figure had the size and appearance of a well-dressed hobbit, yet I felt sure that had I reached out to touch it my hand would not have met with solid flesh. It stood staring in my direction, as if expecting something of me, and it was then that the creature its servant had called ‘Gatekeeper’ raised its arm and bade me sit at the table. When I obeyed it pointed to the quill pen and parchment upon the table and, without a word, turned and left the room, followed by its impossibly elderly hobbit servant. As I heard the key turn in the lock once more, the apparition spoke. The voice was soft and sad, and hinted at a deep weariness which I could scarcely conceive in a hobbit.
“I am Hugo Longbuck. Many years have passed since I lived out my days here in the Shire. I would tell you my tale and I ask that you should write it down that others may know the secrets I have guarded for so very long.”
As I have stated, time meant little in that place. It may have been hours, it may have been days that I sat and listened to that sad spectre’s story, all the time making notes and scarcely pausing for sleep or to eat the scant repasts brought to me by the Gatekeeper’s servant. The ghost seemed to need no rest or sustenance, but paused in its tale and stood patiently waiting until I resumed my place at the table. When the tale was concluded, I was quite exhausted. I observed that the wraith gave a slight bow, as if of thanks, and then it was gone, although I do not recall the door being opened or closed behind it. Satisfied that my notes were complete, I carefully folded the sheets of parchment into one of the pockets of my fishing jacket and I slept once more.
I do not clearly recall all the circumstances of my ‘rescue’ from that place. I remember that I was grasped by the arm, ushered from that chamber, and hurried along a dark corridor, and was then thrust out into the night. I know that the Gatekeeper was there, and I recognised Tubblo’s voice challenging him and immediately after he did so I felt a surge of power close by and a faint whimpering cry, which I was sure issued from Master Tubblo’s lips. The rest of that night is a blur – I was bundled on to a pony and after a long ride in darkness I ended up in my own bed and slept for nearly two full days.
The next day I set about the one task I believed I must perform before I could put that whole terrifying episode behind me. I began to write ‘The Tale of the Ghost of Hugo Longbuck’, so that the whole world might know it and his ghost might at last find peace.
For that, I believe, was the obligation placed upon me by that terrifying creature, the Gatekeeper.
