(This is a transcript of the narrative I told to the company at the Green Dragon Friday roleplaying event over a number of weeks starting shortly after the event moved to Meriadoc)
‘Wybert’s People’ or ‘The Meriadoc Tales’
The General Prologue
Well, good evening to you, and what a pleasure it is to join you once more here at The Green Dragon. Now some of you will remember that before we all packed our bags and loaded our wagons, I’d been telling tales about the mysterious village of Hidden – a place somewhere in The Shire from which the very few who go there can never leave! One such is my own cousin, Filibert Diggle by name, who sends me letters delivered at dead of night by a mysterious, unseen messenger telling me of his life there – and it is Filibert’s letters that provide me with the material for my tales. Well, you will be pleased to know that I received a short note from him just the other day – it seems that round about the time we made our own move, there was a terrible shaking of the earth in Hidden and a darkness fell and thunder roared and every hobbit fell to the ground where they stood and entered a deep and dreamless sleep. When they woke it seemed as if nothing had changed but you may imagine that folk were most disturbed by this, and it may take a little time for things to get back to what passes for normal there. However, Cousin Filibert assures me that when it does, he will find out my new address and write again to tell me of the goings-on in that strangest of places, and I will be able to share with you another of my ‘Hidden Chronicles’.
Now, I reckons all this moving and such brought us all a lot closer to our own families and friends. Change does that. There was much talk of who was moving and who wasn’t and who was going where and what if they couldn’t find a burrow to suit. All in all, it’s been a very unsettling time. After the move some folk felt as if they were somehow less than what they was before, as if summat had been subtracted from them – and I ‘eard some folk even changed their names! So, it’s only natural that we all think on who means a lot to us and over the next few weeks I’d like to tell you something about some of the folk what are important to me.
We all crossed over together, and for several days our little group of family and friends sat huddled together in the back of the covered wagon, lit only by the guttering flame of a single dim lantern. At first, we all sat in silence, wondering if our journey through the darkness would be successful and afraid of what we might find when we got there. At last, it was my own Uncle Humfrye who spoke up and made the suggested that we should each tell a tale to pass the time and to take our minds off our anxiety.
Over the coming weeks, if you’ll allow it, I’m going to share some of those tales with you here and tell you summat about the tellers as well. I am calling this little series of vignettes and stories ‘Wybert’s People’ or ‘The Meriadoc Tales’.
Humfrye’s Prologue
Today I’ll start by telling you about me Uncle Humfrye. When I were a lad growing up on our little farm near Woodhall, Humfrye was one of the most important folk in my life, after me ma and pa of course. He was my ma’s younger brother, so a proper uncle then, not just one of those uncles who were friends or neighbours, who visited often and who were sufficiently close to the family that a child might address them as such.
My gammer, one Dora Grubb, had two children - Myrtle, the eldest, who was my ma, and Humfrye. I cannot tell you who their father was for Dora would not permit her children to speak of him. I think my ma remembers him vaguely, for he left when she was very young, but however hard I pressed her she would say nothing of him to her dying day, and Humfrye has no memory of him at all. I have heard some rumours of Tookish blood, but that may well be tittle-tattle!
Whatever the truth of it, Humfrye takes after his mother in appearance, being of average hobbit height with dark brown hair and stocky build. He grew up in a little cottage on the outskirts of the village of Woodhall, where he lived with his mother and sister. They had a small piece of land and as soon as he was old enough to hold a spade he tended their small garden under the supervision of their kindly neighbour, old Gaffer Delving, who had looked out for Dora and the children since she had been left on her own. There he learned to grow fruits and vegetables, and from his mother he learned to cook all kinds of pies and stews.
When he grew a little older, he was often drawn to the woods and surrounding fields and at an early age he showed proficiency with a bow. So, in many ways, except perhaps for having no father to guide him, his upbringing was in no way unusual. Yet in his youth he did, so it is said, have a reputation for showing what folk in those parts might call an unnatural curiosity about the goings on and affairs of those who dwell beyond the bounds of The Shire.
He was still quite a young boy when, out hunting one day, he found himself on the edge of the village of Tuckborough, and in a solitary tree he spied a fat squirrel. Quickly nocking his small bow, he let loose an arrow, but it missed, burying itself in the low branch where the squirrel sat. Chattering angrily, the creature leapt from the branch and scurried up the road with young Humfrye in hot pursuit. Up the hill they ran and Humfrye was close behind when the creature sought refuge through the half open door of a large building. Without a thought Humfrye followed and found himself in a large room. Looking around quickly he spied the squirrel disappearing through another door in a far corner of the room and when the lad entered, hoping that at last he could corner his prey, he was stopped in his tracks by what he saw there.
The room was filled with shelves upon which sat rows and rows of leather-bound books, and Humfrye was at once intrigued by the lettering on their spines, some of it in gold, and he knew at once that he must learn to unlock the secrets that they held.
“Can I help you?” came a kindly voice and for the first time he noticed a lady hobbit seated at a desk. This was of course Donnamira Took, the librarian of The Great Smials, for it was there that Humfrye found himself. To cut a long story short (not like me, I know!), over the next year the kindly Donnamira read to Humfrye some of the tales of elves and dwarves, of wizards and men, found in the books and she began to teach the lad his letters whenever he came to visit the library, which he did whenever his daily chores at home allowed.
Oh – as to what happened to that squirrel? I’ve no idea!
Humfrye’s life changed when his sister Myrtle left home and got married to a local farmer, my own da, Waldo Diggings. The couple set up home on Waldo’s small piece of farmland just off the road ‘twixt Woodhall and Tuckborough. I reckon Myrtle had been a steadying influence on the lad, for when she left, he seemed to grow more restless and spent many days away from home travelling to who knows where. When he did return, he’d bring with him tales of the strange places he’d visited and folk began to talk and reckon there was summat odd about him.
Eventually, it seemed as if he’d left home once and for all – he was not seen in The Shire for several years and folk made up all sorts of stories about what might have happened to him. His mother, my Gammer Grubb, missed him a lot, I reckons, but my ma visited her whenever she could and was a great comfort to her and I did hear the old lady say once of Uncle Humfrye, “Well, I suppose it was only to be expected, really.”
I don’t know whether he somehow got news or it was just luck, but shortly before the old lady died Humfrye did come back and my ma says the two spent more than a couple of hours together on their own, but of what they spoke she could not say. He did not stay in Woodhall – he sold the cottage and moved to a small burrow close to the crafter’s market in Michel Delving where he could often be seen at the ovens or on the farm.
It did seem that he had settled down somewhat and he earned quite a reputation for himself as a poet and teller of tales at the local inns. He also took a close interest in his niece and nephew, and he was a frequent visitor to our farm, and as well as teaching me my letters he taught me much else besides. If you had asked his neighbours, they would describe him as a highly respectable but unremarkable hobbit most of the time, enjoying all the comforts dear to hobbits – good food, good company, pipeweed and ale. They might also remark, with a degree of discomfort that, from time to time, Master Humfrye had been known to don his travelling gear and set off with his faithful pony, Bogart, sometimes for a week or more, without leaving any clue as to his whereabouts, and would not be seen until he returned as quietly as he left. It might also be said that his drinking companions have noticed that on occasions, as a pleasant evening at the tavern draws to a close, good old Humfrye’s gaze has been drawn beyond the cheery company into a distance only he can see, and a glazed expression has been observed to cross his visage, broken by momentary flickers of animation. Although, as one of the more charitable of his companions remarked, ale can do that to a hobbit!
Next week I shall tell you the tale he told to us as we sat huddled together in that covered wagon.
Humfrye’s Tale
Humfrye had been the last of us to climb aboard and as he did so he had complained loudly that he was far too old for new adventures and it was a crime that we were being made to leave our homes behind and that the mayor would hear about it, just see if he wouldn’t! Yet it was Humfrye who broke the silence once the journey was under way, suddenly lifting his head and asking:
“What say you each of us tell a tale to while away the time and distract us from our disquiet?”
At first none replied, then came murmurs of assent from across the company.
‘It all took place many years ago when I were a young hobbit. Unlike many of my friends and relations back then, I were much given to explorin’ and wandering beyond the bounds of the Shire, always wondering what might lie over the next hill or beyond them dark woods up ahead. At last, there came a time in my life when I set off from home thinking I would explore every corner of this earth, hopin’ to find, some of the strange peoples and places told of in the books I had read. I was away from my home in Woodhall and my poor dear mother for a good number of years and many is the tale I could tell you of the adventures I had then, and this is but one of them.
I had been walking many days without seeing a soul when I came upon a narrow, wooded valley. It were close by that place the mapmakers call The Angle, as I recall, somewhere south of The Trollshaws and south and west of The Last Homely House which was where I was headed, hopin’ to meet elves!
A seemingly little-used path, off the well-worn track I had been taking, led down into the trees which hid the valley bottom from view and hoping to find a source of water and a place to camp for the night, I followed it down. I was at once struck by how quiet it seemed – the unending background noise of animal cries and bird calls had ceased, and I admit that I was beginning to feel a little uneasy when something caught my eye through a gap in the trees.
Ever curious, I made my way towards it and emerged into a small clearing at the centre of which stood a tall tower built of pale brown sandstone. I was just about to approach a small wooden door at its foot when I was assailed by a shrill, raucous cry from somewhere behind me and felt a sharp blow to the back of my head. Stunned, I fell to my knees and when I looked up I saw circling in the air before me a giant black bird, the like of which I had never seen or heard tell of before.
It seemed to be of craban-kind, but much bigger than those foul creatures which infest the fields near Buckland Gate, being the size of a pony with wings as wide as the Bywater Bridge from tip to tip. Its dark feathers shone with a dull sheen, yet its coal-black eyes were bright as they fixed their gaze upon me. As it turned towards me I shook in terror of its cruel grey beak and sharp claws. I felt something sticky upon my face and realised that as it had knocked me to the ground those claws had raked my scalp, and I was bleeding profusely. Friends, I own I thought my time had come!
At that moment the door at the base of the tower flew open and a robed figure emerged and ran towards me, distracting the creature for a moment. I was pulled to my feet and bundled through the door which was firmly shut and bolted behind us. Without ceremony I was half-dragged up a flight of stone steps and into what seemed to be a well-appointed study or library, with book-lined walls and a number of benches and tables upon which were assembled a disorganised array of glass jars and all manner of equipment containing powders and potions of all kinds.
My rescuer bustled around the room and appeared to be looking for something. He was nearly as tall as an elf and sported a mouse-brown head of hair which hung to his shoulders with a beard to match. He wore a long robe which I can only describe as light-greyish yellowish brown in colour. A pair of silver-rimmed spectacles sat atop his head.
“Now, where did I put them? I must have had them earlier when I saw you from the window. I can’t see anything without them.”
I pointed to his forehead and with a delighted cry he pulled them back into place.
“Excellent,” he cried. “How clever of you to spot them. They must have been displaced when I was pulling you in. Oh, I see now, you are a hobbit – you folk are famous for finding things, I know. By the way, I am a wizard.”
“Oh, how exciting,” I replied. “Like Gandalf and Saruman!”
“Well,” he said “maybe not quite like them, no, but a wizard none the less. Broderick the Beige at your service.” He gave a polite bow.
He wasted no time in bathing my wound and applying a soothing salve from one of the many jars scattered about the room and when he was satisfied with his work, he bade me sit down and peered at me over his spectacles, a serious expression on his face.
“It is most fortunate that you have come at this time,” he said. “You and I have a serious problem right now and there is a job you must do.”
“Oh, and what is that?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“Well, it concerns that terrible creature which attacked you earlier.“ My curiosity subsided somewhat.
“It arrived in this valley some months ago and in all that time I have scarcely dared to venture beyond my front door. By day, it circles the valley. Like many of its kind it feeds mainly on dead creatures, but it is quite ready to attack and kill anything that moves as well. It would be picking at your bones right now if I hadn’t let you in. The animals and birds in these parts live in fear and many have left since it arrived. At night it sits atop the tallest oak in the woods where it has built a giant nest of sticks and twigs and branches.”
“But,” I said, “aren’t you a wizard? Can’t you use your magic against it?”
“Oh, I could,” he replied. “If only I had my staff.”
“What happened to it?”
“I, er, lost it,” he replied somewhat shamefacedly. “Truth is, that bird stole it and flew off with it to its nest. Which is where you come in, master hobbit,” he went on quickly, “I need you to climb that tree as soon as it is dark and burgle it then bring it back to me!”
Of course, I started to object at once, but he reminded me of famous hobbits who have stolen things back from the most dangerous of places and he finally won me over with the most convincing argument of all.
“Besides,” he said slyly, “until I get my staff back, we’re trapped here, and I’ve run out of food!”
So it was that at dead of night I crept from his front door to the base of the tallest oak in the forest and started to climb. Now I’d done plenty of tree-climbing as a lad in the woods up by Woodhall but this was different – it was pitch black and I had to feel my way up, reaching for each hand and foot hold as I climbed. Fortunately there were plenty of offshoots growing from the main trunk and I made fair progress, albeit slowly, until I reckoned I was nearing the top. Suddenly, from the darkness above, came a shrill, raspy voice:
“Well, well, who might you be,” it shrieked “and what are you doing in my tree? Never mind, I shall call you Breakfast.”
Yes, like many of its relatives the crows, this creature could talk. I was so surprised I nearly lost my grip on the branch I was holding and that would have been the end of me, but I somehow held on.
“I suppose you think you’re clever, do you, sneaking up on me like that?” it asked. “Well you’re not as clever as I am, for I am the cleverest of all my kind!”
I had to think fast, friends, and I was reminded of a story I had read somewhere once.
“Clever are you?” I retorted. “I bet you can’t solve a riddle. Besides, how many of your kind are there anyway?”
“Well, only me so far as I know,” it replied, somewhat deflated. “But I live in hope. Now tell me your riddle.”
“First you must promise that if you can’t find the answer you will give me the wizard’s staff you stole.”
“Oh, very well. And if I can, you’re Breakfast!”
“Then listen carefully. I am right in front of you, but you’ll never see me. Try as hard as you can to reach me, but you’ll never get here. What am I?”
There followed a long silence, punctuated by a series of exasperated squawks and screechy mutterings. All this time I took the opportunity to climb a little higher until I reckoned I’d reached the top of the tree and must be close to the foul creature’s roost. The putrid smell that assailed my nostrils supported my assumption.
Suddenly the creature cried out in frustration.
“There ain’t no answer,” it shrieked. “You’re a cheat and I’m going to eat you.”
At that very moment the full moon emerged through a break in the cloud, and I saw the creature there, right in front of me on its giant nest built at the very top of the tree. It was constructed of twigs and sticks woven tightly together and at its base sat a stout length of wood with a carved handle at one end supporting it across two boughs of the tree. I knew at once what it must be. I grasped it straight away and to my surprise the nest, and the creature with it, began to fall towards the ground in a flurry of leaves, bark and feathers. I lost my grip and began my own downward descent, my fall broken at intervals by the tree’s leafy branches. As soon as I hit the ground I ran as fast as I could to the wizard’s tower, always keeping a firm hold on the staff. Broderick met me at the door and in the light of the moon we saw that dark bird plummeting down towards us screeching furiously and bent on revenge. Broderick took the staff which seemed to quiver in his hand and from its tip there emanated a tongue of silver flame which shot towards the creature as true as any arrow and in a flash that evil abomination was incinerated and was no more.
And that, friends, was the end of my career as a burglar.
The History of Clan McCool
My own connection to the McCool family began with my own dear sister, Daffodil. She’s a few years older than me and I loved her dearly then and still do, though I hadn’t seen her for many long years until recently. When we were just children, I used to follow her everywhere around our farm and into the surrounding countryside. Such adventures we had together – she had a rich imagination and through her eyes the woods and hills roundabout Woodhall became strange and wonderful lands, the barns and sheep-huts were castles and palaces, and we rode our make-believe steeds into all kinds of danger, the princess and her loyal attendant, until we were rescued by a handsome prince. For there was always a prince in Daffodil’s enactments and she usually ended up marrying him.
Now you may think that Daffodil was one of them foolish girls, rather like the one from Bree what went wandering around on the Barrow Downs looking for that ‘Last Prince’, but the truth is that for all her fantasizing back then and what me da called her ‘head in the clouds nonsense’, she was clever too and a dutiful daughter. We helped our father in the fields, and he taught us what and when to plant and sow and we helped our ma in the kitchen, and she taught us the art of cooking and how to make many a tasty dish. Unlike me, she was nimble fingered with needle and thread too, and in her tweens she could often be seen about the village wearing brightly coloured creations of her own design.
I would not say that Daffodil was a beauty – but she was a pretty lass with a mischievous twinkle in her deep brown eyes and a bold manner to boot. She soon caught the eye of any number of the local hobbit lads, but those who came a-courting were swiftly dismissed with a cheery chuckle and a pitying glance. Until, that is, Conall McCool arrived on the scene.
I well remember the day I first saw him. He had come up along the road close by our farm driving a brightly painted wagon pulled by a piebald pony and had stopped by the gate to our farm. Da, myself and Daffodil had been weeding in a small field of pipeweed which was more than half-grown. Most of our fields were planted with barley and vegetables but Da liked to grow a small crop of pipeweed each year for his own use and that of his friends in the village. The stranger hailed us and Da went over to speak to him by the fence. We followed and watched and listened from a little distance away. He was striking in appearance, being of stocky build and taller than any hobbit I had ever seen. His weatherbeaten visage was graced with soft blue eyes and a permanently quizzical smile and, most striking of all, atop his head grew an unruly shock of bright red hair. His manner of speech was unfamiliar to us, his voice rising up and down in lilting tones giving it an almost musical quality. I was unsure what to make of him, but when I glanced at my sister, I saw that she was gazing at him with flushed cheeks, quite transfixed.
We learned that his folk were river people from over in a place called Swanfleet, which is far away and which at that time I’d never even heard tell of. He said he was a trader and he’d stopped by when he’d seen our crop of pipeweed – he said he’d buy the lot, for he knew it would fetch a tidy sum back home. Da said no at first, of course, but when he saw the colour of the gold in Conall’s purse and learned how much he was willing to pay for it he quickly changed his mind. We weren’t poor, but nor were we rich enough to miss the chance to make such a handsome profit. So, it was agreed that Conall would wait a few weeks until the crop was ready to harvest, for he said he had business in the area, on the lookout for more deals no doubt. He asked if he might stay in our hay barn, but ma wouldn’t hear of it, and he was put up in one of the spare rooms in the farmhouse.
In the space of those few weeks our beloved Daffodil was quite lost to us, as surely as if she’d been bewitched by some sorcerer, for she fell under that charmer’s spell quite completely. She hung upon his every word, and his words were many as he regaled us ceaselessly with tales of the distant lands he’d travelled and of his splendid home set amidst the marshes. Our own walks together ceased abruptly, for at his request she would walk or ride out with him, promising to show him one place of interest or another, and I could not help but notice that when his blue eyes rested on her or he flashed one of his captivating smiles in her direction, her face glowed and came to life in a way I had never seen before.
When the pipeweed was harvested, dried, packed into barrels and loaded on to his wagon, Daffodil was at his side. He said that they should be wed as soon as they arrived at his home in the village of Mossward and she had readily agreed. She wept gently as she made her farewells to Ma and Da and to me, but we could see that she was excited to leave. I’m sure Ma and Da had their doubts, but they loved their daughter and could see how happy she was. Connall offered a cheery wave, and they set off. I watched the wagon growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared completely around a bend in the road. I did not see my sister again for more than thirty years!
What happened next I have pieced together from bits and pieces of information which has reached me through a couple of my sister’s letters, what my nephew Oisean was able to tell me when he visited me a year or so ago and from Daffodil herself when we met again at last, only a few weeks ago.
As soon as the couple reached Mossward they were wed in a simple ceremony attended by a small gathering of Conall’s friends and neighbours. It seems that Conall McCool’s residence was not quite as opulent as he had made out, but it was comfortable enough, a small cottage built of wood and thatch looking out on to the marshes but with a small patch of fertile land attached at the back. While both the cottage and the land showed signs of neglect, Daffodil put this down to the long months Conall had spent away and the hard-working lass rolled up her sleeves and set about making a home for them both. Conall was always attentive when he was there and I am sure that the couple were happy in that first year – but he was there less and less as time went on, always making the excuse of ‘business’ keeping him out late, sometimes into the early hours. Daffodil asked him about his family but although he came up with various stories about them having to leave the area, she never really found out any more about them.
Just over a year after their arrival in Swanfleet Daffodil gave birth to twin boys. She couldn’t have been happier, and she hoped too that being a father would keep Conall at home more, but sadly the opposite seemed to be true. He became restless and irritable, stayed out more and within a month of their birth he left for good and never returned. Daffodil’s heart was broken, and for many months she hoped he might come back but as time passed the realisation dawned that he had left her for ever.
Now you might think that she would have sought help from her own family and might even have found a way to return to The Shire, but she was proud and independent and never even wrote home to let us know about the boys and what had happened. The one thing their father did for them when they were born was give them the names Ffionn and Oisean, which he said were McCool family names, and even as babes it was clear that they took after their father in appearance, each sporting a sprouting of bright red hair. Daffodil determined that she would raise them on her own, there among the river folk, and to that end she devoted the next thirty years of her life.
When Conall left, her neighbours were not greatly surprised. It seems that the name McCool in those parts was often preceded by words such as ‘rogue’, ‘rascal’, or worse! They were kindly folk, though, and with Conall gone they rallied round to help her in whatever ways they could and though it was exhausting work making ends meet and being a mother to the twins, with help Daffodil came through it. She grew vegetables and kept a pig and chickens, and the boys never went hungry, for a mouthwatering array of aromas wafted from her kitchen at all times of day. Her skill with a needle allowed her to make a little extra gold, too, mending clothes for neighbours and even making some clothes to sell at market. As years passed, she became an important member of the community, valued for her knowledge of many things – folks would come to her for advice on all sorts of matters and my big sister was no longer Daffodil Diggings of The Shire but Mammie McCool of Swanfleet, for that was the name by which she was known there.
As I have said, the boys were near enough identical in appearance, and they grew tall and stocky like many of the river folk. But in character they couldn’t have been more different. Oisean was quite shy and very close to his mother. As he grew older, he did everything he could to help her with her tasks around the cottage. He loved hunting and fishing in the surrounding marshes too and was liked by all who met him for his kind and gentle manner. This, together with the good looks and easy charm both boys inherited from their father, attracted the attention of more than one of the local lasses and I’m sorry to say that this sometimes got him into trouble with their fathers. Indeed, it was on one such occasion that I first came to hear of him in a letter from his mother, which came one Yuletide, asking if he could come to visit me in The Shire to get him away from a particularly angry parent for a while. This was the first communication I had had from her in all those years, and I was both surprised and delighted to hear from her and more than happy to have the boy come and stay. I am very glad that I did for he did me a great service at that time as some of you may recall – but that was another story.
In that first letter to me my sister made no mention of Ffionn. Very unlike his brother, he was a wilful and unruly boy and as a child it was all his mammie could do to control him. As a tween he ran wild, causing all sorts of trouble in the neighbourhood. He became obsessed with finding out more about his father, who he came to believe had left to recover the family fortune and would return one day. He badgered his mother constantly to tell him the truth about his daddy’s family and refused to believe her when she said she knew so little. He became boastful and rude to any who would not believe him when he said that his father would return one day to restore Clan McCool to its former glories; glories which existed only in his own fevered imagination. For all his faults his mammie never stopped loving him and when one day he left for good, just as his father had left before him, she was heartbroken and could not bear to speak of him, even in her letter to her own brother.
What became of Ffionn you shall learn next time from his own lips, for as the covered wagon which brought us to this place rolled on through the void, one of three figures seated together at the rear moved forward into the lamplight and a voice spoke up:
“Fer sure, I’ll tell you all a tale, so I will!”
Ffionn’s Tale
The speaker, his face lit by the flickering flame of the single lantern, was a young hobbit, his animated visage partly hidden by an unruly mop of bright red hair.
The lilting voice continued. “And I’d bid ye all to listen well, for I swear that every word of it is true, so it is.” He went on.
“I am Ffionn McCool, heir to Conall McCool, Chief of that Name. I grew up in Mossward and lived there with my mother and younger brother, though I am his senior by only a matter of minutes. While they both seemed content with our humble circumstances, I could never accept that I was born to live such a dull and inferior life. My father left when we were still very young, and my mother refused to speak of him. It was supposed he had abandoned us, but I knew this could not be true. I met a man who had known him, and he told me that he had always insisted that his drinking companions should refer to him as Squireen McCool, and surely only a great lord could take such a grand title for himself! So it was that I came to believe our family had suffered a great wrong by which our lands and fortune had been stolen, and I determined that it was up to me to find a way of leaving Swanfleet and setting out to find him.
One day I met a man coming up the road leading a string of fine ponies. He was a stranger, a horse trader, and one of his ponies especially caught my eye. It was beautifully proportioned, and its pure white coat shone in the sunlight. I greeted him and asked how much he would want for it. He told me and I said I would buy it and pay him when I had recovered our family fortune, but he just laughed at me. I pretended not to mind and asked him if he’d care to join me at my camp for a meal, a little way off the road, since there were still many miles to travel before he would arrive at his destination in Mossward. I said that he should leave the ponies by the roadside, for it was boggy underfoot, and I led him into the marshes. His curses rang in my ears as I rode the white pony off down the road, but I did not hurry for I reckoned it would take him a good hour to free himself from the deep muddy hole into which I had led him, and I laughed aloud, delighted at my own cleverness.
Many are the tales I could tell of my journey then as I began the search for my father in earnest. Along the Old South Road I rode, through Enedwaith and Dunland, into the Gap of Rohan then across the river at the Fords of Isen. From there I made the perilous journey across the White Mountains and into the Green Hills of Gondor until I arrived at last at the sandy beach of Anfalas on the northmost shore of the Bay of Belfalas. I fought with many beasts and brigands along the way, always emerging victorious, and I survived all kinds of extreme weather for the McCools are made of stern stuff, so we are!
None I met could tell me ought of my father, but I knew that he must have been a great trader and adventurer, and I thought to take my search beyond the sea, perhaps as far as Umbar or Harad, of which exotic lands I had heard only in travellers’ tales. I met a man upon the beach who owned a fine skiff with a single sail, and I offered to trade it for my pony. At first he refused, saying it would not be a fair trade, but I told him that the pony had probably been sired by a Rohan steed, maybe even by Shadowfax himself, and the fellow at last agreed. I have always had a gift for spinning a yarn to my advantage.
I had always been known as one of the finest rafters among my acquaintances back home and I readily adapted those skills to sailing the ocean. I was making fine progress when I was spotted by a pirate vessel, flying a flag with a black star on a red background and my vessel was quickly run down and I was captured by corsairs. The pirate captain set me to work as a slave, scrubbing decks and working in the galley. He was a cruel man, and his crew were little better than slaves themselves for the first mate, known as Black Bob, used the lash freely on any who shirked their work. I took every chance I could to whisper in the ears of the crew that they should revolt against the captain and the mate, both of whom they hated, and they said that they would if I would lead them. Lesser folk are quick to recognise the powers of leadership in those of us of noble blood! So it was that at my signal the crew mutinied, and the Captain and Black Bob were set adrift in a small rowboat with only one flask of drinking water and a single oar.
The crew gave a great cheer, and I ordered them to set sail at once for their home port in the Havens of Umbar. As our vessel rode the gentle swell with a fair wind behind us I kept watch on the foredeck, and it was my eagle eye which first spotted something bobbing on the waves close to the horizon. I ordered the helmsman to change course and as we approached, I saw that it was a large piece of driftwood and clinging to it the fairest maiden I ever did see. Without a second thought I leapt into the water, for I am a strong swimmer, and I took her in my arms and carried her back to our vessel where the crew helped us aboard. Her ship had been lost in a terrible storm and she alone had survived. She hailed from Belfalas, a Gondorian princess, no less, and it was to her father’s palace that we set sail at once. Throughout our voyage there she never left my side once. She begged me to stay at the palace awhile, which I did, and we would sit together looking out to sea making beautiful music, she on a golden harp and I playing a silver lute which she gave to me. When I said that I must continue the search for my father she wept and her grateful father loaded our ship’s hold with many treasures before we set course for the Havens of Umbar once more.
The port city of Umbar teems with life and in its bazaars may be found all manner of exotic wares. I ordered the crew to carry the treasure I had been given ashore and bring it to the marketplace that it might be sold, and it fetched a tidy sum, so it did! When I told them that the profit was to be shared equally among them, they were thankful beyond belief. Let it not be said that the McCools are not a generous bunch! However, their joy turned to sadness when I told them I must leave their company so I might continue my quest to restore my family’s fortune.
I spent the next few days visiting the haunts of pirates, sailors and traders, asking questions and constantly listening out for any news of my father. It was in one such place that I was accosted by an old seadog who hailed me and greeted me as if I was an old friend. However, as he came closer his face became puzzled.
“I’m sorry, matey, I mistook you for someone I haven’t seen in years,” he said. “It was the hair you see. The man I knew had hair the same colour and, looking at you now, your face is very like his, though he was much older.”
Of course, I asked him to tell me all he could remember of the man he once knew, and I quickly realised that it was indeed my father of whom he spoke. It seems they had been shipmates on a merchantman trading out of Dol Amroth.
“Your father was a true adventurer at heart, and he chose not to make the return trip but went south alone to seek his fortune. I’ve heard nought of him since, lad.”
Far from being dismayed I was greatly heartened and vowed to set out at once to follow in my father’s footsteps. Once more I travelled many miles and had many great adventures, too many to relate here. I crossed mountains and desert and made my way deep into the jungles of that land filled with many dangers known as Far Harad, where strange beasts roam and stranger folk too. As I took an overgrown path which led into a particularly dense and steamy part of that forest a net fell about me from above and a band of spear-wielding warriors, their faces and bodies painted with strange symbols, beset me and carried me off into the trees, entangled in the mesh. I can tell you I thought that my luck had run out at last and that I was done for!
They brought me into a clearing where a primitive stone building stood. I was carried inside and there at the centre of the room lay a figure upon a rude bed. My captors threw me to the ground and all bowed down before the figure on the bed who spoke a few words in a language I could not understand. One of them at once freed me from the net and pushed me towards the bed and as our eyes met, we gazed at one another in astonishment. Though I was little more than a year old when he left, we recognised one another instantly.
“Father!” I gasped.
“Son,” he replied softly.
I listened as he told me his story. Like me he had been captured by the tribe native to that place. They had looked to kill him but when they saw his red hair they had instead treated him with great reverence, for their lore told of a red-headed god who would bring good fortune to their people. He had lived with them for a good many years, learning their tongue and enjoying every comfort they could bring him. When I told him of my quest to right the wrongs I believed he had suffered and to restore the family fortune he smiled at me and said I was a good boy. He said that he was sorry to have left my mother but that he had been young and restless and, of course, he dearly wished that he could now return to make amends, and I must tell my mother that, but the natives would never let him leave so I must do it in his stead.
I had noticed that the men and women of the tribe all wore shiny beads of different colours around their necks, and I was astonished when he told me that these were in fact diamonds and emeralds, rubies and sapphires which could be found in abundance in a nearby mine and which the natives considered to be merely decorative and of little value. He ordered them to fill my backpack and pockets with these treasures and to guide me on my way back as far as the edge of the jungle. So it was that after several more adventures I made my way back to Mossward and I have sworn that when we reach that place to which we are now travelling in this wagon I shall set our family up in a fine abode in the Wells of Langflood and the Clan McCool shall be restored to its former glory once more under my leadership.”
His tale done, the young hobbit sat back with a satisfied grin across his face. The company sat in silence for a moment, and I found myself wondering if any there believed so much as half, indeed anything at all, of what we had been told. However, I have to tell you that since that time I have visited a very fine little estate quite near the village of Lyndelby where my sister now abides with her two sons. So, it must be said that at least some members of Clan McCool can boast of good luck, if nothing else!
Oisean’s Tale
The teller of the previous tale retreated to the rear of the wagon where he took his place once more alongside the two other figures seated there, half-hidden in shadow. It was one of these that now moved forward into the lamplight, a little uncertainly, and as he looked around shyly at the company some there gasped in surprise and confusion, for in appearance he was the spitting image of the last storyteller.
“My name is Oisean,” he said. His voice was a soft, lilting brogue and the name he spoke sounded like the word ‘ocean’. “My brother Ffionn just told you his tale and now I shall tell you mine.” Without further ado, he began.
“Once there was a boy who lived together with his mother and his twin brother in a little cottage on the edge of the marshes. Their father had left when the boys were very young, and their mother had had a hard time of it making ends meet on her own. Their neighbours had not always approved of the boys’ father, for even the kindest of them considered him to be a rascal and many had thought of him as a downright rogue. However, they had taken pity on his young wife when she was left on her own and had rallied round to help her as much as they could.
This made it very difficult for her when the twins grew into tweens, for the boy’s brother was a wild and unruly boy who got into all sorts of trouble in the village and the surrounding area. He knocked on doors in the middle of the night then ran away, he stole apples and mushrooms from farmers’ orchards and fields, he used to hide and call out rude names to passers-by on the road and once he even stole a cartload of fresh manure and emptied it into the local inn yard because the innkeeper would not serve him with ale.
As the boy’s brother grew older his behaviour got worse and almost every week there would be a knock on the door from someone or other complaining about him to his mother. The boy tried to talk to his brother, asking him to think about how his behaviour was making life for her more difficult than it already was, but he wouldn’t listen. He said that their mother couldn’t have done enough to keep their father with them when he had been driven out by the people round about and that they must have done him a great wrong. That was what he believed, and he said that one day he would leave to find his father and make things right.
And one day he did just that! When the boy’s brother had been gone for a week and it seemed he was not coming back their mother was distraught. The boy did all that he could for her. He had always been the one to help her around the house and now he made an even bigger effort, helping with the cleaning and cooking, tending the vegetable patch and running errands. In the evenings he would sit with her and listen as she told him tales of her life in a place called The Shire before she met their father, and she would smile and hug him and tell him that he was a great comfort to her.
His mother often said to him that he must not spend all his time with her at home and that he should make some friends of his own age. So, as always, he did as she asked and whenever he was out and about on his daily tasks, he made a point of making friends with some of the young folk that he met.
There was Poppy Ifans, the boatman’s daughter, who used to hide in the reeds when the boy was fishing for some supper, and when he spotted her, she’d giggle and stick out her tongue before running off calling ‘Can’t catch me!’. One day he did chase her all the way back to the boathouse but when he followed her through the door he ran straight into her father who stood there with arms folded, a stern frown upon his face. As the boy retreated hastily, he could hear Poppy chuckling uncontrollably from within.
Breda Beery lived at the little general store in the village which the boy visited every week when he did the shopping for his mother. She was plump and pretty, and she used to peep at the boy from behind the counter while her father served him. One day her father was called to collect a delivery and while he was outside, she beckoned to the boy and led him into the storeroom at the back of the shop. “Let’s play a game,” she said. “If I shut the door, it’s completely dark in here – I’ll try to find you in the dark and if I do you’ve got to give me a kiss.” She didn’t wait for his answer but shut the door and at the very moment that she caught him the door opened again and there stood her father. For the next few weeks his mother did the shopping herself.
Arabella Lochlainn was the daughter of the head of one of the most important families thereabouts and they lived in a large smials just outside the village. The boy had to call there from time to time because his mother repaired clothes and even did some laundry for the family to earn some extra pennies. Arabella was tall and slim, and she always seemed to be wearing long, flowing dresses made from some diaphanous material. Whenever the boy visited he couldn’t take his eyes off her and she made a point of smiling at him and standing very close before whispering ‘Hello’ in a throaty voice. The boy was speechless before her and when he didn’t reply she would turn away with a toss of her head before walking off with a pitying laugh. One day she took him by the hand but before she could lead him off the housemaid ran out and told him to “Be off with you, before I call the maister!”
Sometimes the boy would run into Ted McTavish, the pedlar, who travelled the roads in his wagon selling all manner of useful items to the local housewives. He was always accompanied by his daughter, Iris, a bold and shapely lass who seemed experienced beyond her years. She always gave the boy a big cheery smile and a wink and one day she jumped down from the wagon and grabbed his hand, saying “Alright if we go off to the fields to play, da?” and Ted McTavish grinned knowingly. “Off you go,” he said, “and don’t go doing anything I wouldn’t do!” With a great guffaw he drove off and Iris dragged the boy through the hedge and into the field. I will not describe in any detail what happened next, but I can tell you that the boy was quite terrified and it ended with him running all the way home to his ma!
His ma told him that she hoped he had learned his lesson, for she had already started to hear complaints from one or two fathers about the boy hanging around their daughters. She asked him if there weren’t any lads of his own age he could play with, but he said there weren’t. There were some, of course, but he somehow didn’t find the games they played interesting enough.
The boy often found himself near or at Farmer O’Maille’s farm. His ma would send him there to buy produce they couldn’t grow themselves and sometimes, too, he would visit a nearby field where tasty wild mushrooms grew. He would often see her there, out in the fields or minding the sheep - the farmer’s daughter, Rosyn O’Maille - and she was by far the loveliest girl the boy had ever seen. She had nut-brown skin with big hazel eyes, rosy cheeks and chestnut hair which fell in coiled tresses about her shoulders. A playful smile was never far from her lips, and she would often see the boy from afar and greet him with a cheery wave. As time went by it seemed that he needed to visit that place more frequently and, by accident, he seemed to bump into her whenever he visited.
They quickly became good friends, and the boy no longer bothered finding excuses to visit the farm, but instead they would agree to meet secretly, for she told him that her father would not allow her to meet with boys on her own. Those were some of the happiest days of the boy’s short life up to that time. They would go skipping hand in hand through the meadows or walk by the river to a place they knew where they could sit among the rushes and watch a pair of bright kingfishers nesting in the riverbank. They loved sharing all the sights and sounds of nature together under the warm early summer sun, but for much of the time they had eyes only for each other.
One of Rosyn’s duties about the farm was minding the sheep while they grazed in the grassy meadows and returning them to the sheep pen before evening to be safe from predators. The boy would sometimes visit her there, first making sure that her father wasn’t around. On one such occasion they spent the whole day together while from time to time she would check that the sheep were not straying. Lambing season was long past and most of the lambs were by now well-grown and grazed placidly, but one little fellow had been born very late and still gambolled energetically in and around the flock. Rosyn said she had named him ‘Frisky’.
As evening drew near Rosyn reluctantly bade farewell to the boy and guided the sheep back towards the sheep pen. The boy took his time as he began his walk home, enjoying the warm summer evening, when he suddenly heard a series of cries coming from the path behind him. It was Rosyn. She approached him breathlessly, gasping,
“Oh please, you’ve got to help me. Frisky is missing! He must have wandered off and got lost when I took them back.”
Of course, the boy said he would help and together they began to search for the missing lamb. They searched down by the river and even went a little way into the marshes, holding on to each other securely in case one missed their footing and stepped in the mire, and they searched the dark woods, clasping each other’s hand tightly when they heard the haunting cries of the night creatures all around them. No sign did they find of the missing lamb, and it was near dawn when they came once more to one of Farmer O’Maille’s far fields and fell asleep exhausted, lying in each other’s arms under a haystack.
They were woken by the sounds of dogs barking. They emerged sleepily, strands of hay hanging from their hair and clothing, to see the farm dogs approaching excitedly, closely followed by Farmer O’Maille himself and some of the farm labourers. The missing lamb had returned by itself but they had searched through the night for Rosyn. When she saw her father standing there she paled, but his furious gaze was directed at the boy.
“Why, you!” he began, “I’ll…”
The boy did not wait to hear what he would do but ran as fast as he could with the dogs at his heels all the way home.
Of course, his mother took one look at the state of his clothes and the straws in his hair and demanded to know where he had been all night. He tried to explain as best he could but the look of disappointment on her face was almost more than he could bear. She sighed and went to the front door, showing no surprise when she spotted Farmer O’Maille heading purposefully down the road in their direction. At once she sent the boy to his room, telling him that under no circumstances should he come out until she fetched him. The boy could not guess at the conversation that followed, but when his mother bade him come out from his room the angry farmer was gone.
“Listen carefully,” she said. “I am going to write to my brother and ask if you can stay with him for a while. He lives far from here, back in The Shire where my own family comes from, and although I have not been in touch with him for many years, I know him to be a good fellow who might teach you something. In any case, you need to leave this place for a while and until you leave you are to stay here at home. Do you understand me?” The boy was devastated and at the same time ashamed to have let his mother down so, and he nodded meekly.
So it was that when a letter arrived agreeing to his visit he travelled there and shared a strange adventure with his uncle until one day his mother wrote asking him to come back, for she had wonderful news. Excited to learn what this might be the boy returned to their home at once and when he arrived, he was amazed to be greeted by his brother.
“Look who’s here,” his mother cried delightedly, “the wanderer has returned! I have invited the neighbours to come to a party to celebrate! You must help me with the arrangements – and I sincerely hope that you have thought about your behaviour while you have been away!”
The boy was far too kind to wish to spoil the joy that his mother felt for his brother’s return but inside he could not help feeling some resentment. After all, he was not the badly behaved son when they were younger. He was the one who had stayed to support and comfort his ma when his brother abandoned them and the business with Farmer O’Maille had surely just been a complete misunderstanding. Furthermore, it seemed that whatever his brother had got up to while he was away, he had fallen on his feet for he had gold aplenty in his pocket and the boy could not stop thinking about how unfair it all was.
As the day of the party approached he found it harder and harder to hide his feelings and one day as he sat brooding on his discontent his mother came and sat beside him.
“I can understand how you feel,” she said, “but you are wrong to think as you do. Let’s have the party and then one day I shall explain it to you.”
She kissed him gently and left him to his thoughts.
Mammie Sets Things Straight
Oisean looked at his audience uncomfortably for a moment before returning to his place at the back of the wagon alongside Ffionn, his brother, and a third figure. It was this figure who now rose to her feet and moved into the lamplight.
The grey hair, loosely tied in a bun above a wrinkled brow, attested to her age and perhaps, too, to a life lived fraught with cares and concerns, but her brown eyes still sparkled in the reflected lamplight and a face which had undoubtedly once been pretty was set in an expression of firm resolution.
“I was born Daffodil Diggings,” she began at once, “and I was born in The Shire. Most of you know my brother Wybert here.” She gave a slight nod in my direction. “He has already told you something of my early life there and you have also heard tales from my two sons, Ffionn and Oisean, in which they have chosen to portray their lives, thinly disguised, as they would wish them to have been. Tales, I might add, in which I have played a significant role. So, although I had not thought to speak here, I think it is time that I set things straight. But be warned – I’ll tell you how it is!
As a girl, I was quite content, for the most part, with my life back in Woodhall. My ma and da were good folk and they taught me a lot of practical stuff which has served me well down the years – cooking, needlecraft and cultivating the land sufficient to keep us alive when I were left on me own with two hungry boys to feed!
I’ll not pretend I couldn’t have wished for anything more – I had an imagination, and I often found myself wondering what life might be like beyond the narrow bounds of our village and the surrounding farms. We heard stories, of course, and sometimes I dreamed of meeting elves or being carried away by a handsome prince on a milk-white steed – or even of one day going to Michel Delving to visit the crafters’ market there. But like all of us hobbits I had my feet firmly on the ground and I was content to act out my dreams in play with my brother or to share them in the stories we told each other.
That is until the day I met Conall McCool, my husband-to-be, the rogue! Oh, he was a charmer and no mistake, and he changed my life forever. He was more handsome than any prince I could have imagined. I’ll always remember the day I first saw him, when he pulled up alongside our farm and leapt from his wagon with that unruly mop of flaming red hair and that irresistible smile. And call me a fool, but when the gaze of those soft blue eyes fell upon me it made me feel that being with him was all that mattered in the world.
So, I was swept off my feet and I hung upon every honeyed word that fell from his lips as he told me of his splendid home in far-off Swanfleet, and the tale he wove made it sound as grand as any Cardolan royal palace and as magical and beautiful as Rivendell itself and how was I, a simple hobbit girl, to know better. He asked me to go with him as his wife, and I said yes without a second thought and that was one of the happiest days of my life!”
As I watched my sister speak of those days with Conall it seemed to me that there in the flickering lamplight, as our wagon rolled on through the void to its uncertain destination, I no longer saw a grey-haired, careworn old woman but, just for that moment in time, there stood before us the smiling playmate of my childhood, her face lit up and filled with wonder and joy! She paused and seemed to stare into the distance at something only she could see before continuing.
“Well of course, his home wasn’t all that he had claimed, but it had four walls and a roof, and it was all that we needed, for I do believe he loved me then and I loved him, and never let it be said that I regret a single second of the time I spent with him. How can that be so, I hear you say. Surely, he beguiled you, took advantage of you when you knew no better, stole you from your family and then left you on your own with nothing and two young boys to raise! True enough, most of it! Yes, he was deceitful, selfish and irresponsible and I have since learned that he was a fraudster and a horse thief as well but never let me hear you say that he left me with nothing.
First of all, he left me with precious memories of a love that burned brightly, and those memories can never be taken away and have sustained me down the years. Then he left me with the greatest gift of all.” She turned her head to the back of the wagon where Ffionn and Oisean sat, slightly apart. “My two boys! And for that, if nothing else, I would take him back in an instant if he returned to me tomorrow, though I’m not expecting it, for they deserve a father in their lives.” As she finished, I detected a brief note of sadness in her voice, but she recovered quickly, straightening her shoulders as she turned purposefully towards her two sons.
“You have heard the tales told to you by these two,” she said, “and fine pieces of fiction they were. Why their father would be proud of them!” Both boys seemed about to protest but were silenced by their mother’s stern glance.
“Ffionn was always a handful, to be sure. He was always after asking me about his da and where he had gone and why, and he was never satisfied with the little I could tell him. He would accuse me of keeping things from him and he took to asking the neighbours what they could tell him about Conall – and when he didn’t like what they told him he’d accuse them of lying and having driven his father away. He started to make up stories about his father and when folk didn’t believe him, he’d lose his temper and get into fights and cause damage to their property and it was all I could do to protect him from the stream of people knocking on my door complaining about him. I reckon he got in with a bad crowd down at the inn, too, and one day, just like his da before him, he left without a word, and it broke my heart, it did!
Now Oisean was different. He was a good boy and helped his ma a lot, for those were difficult times and I worked my fingers to the bone just to make ends meet, so I did. Not that I’m complainin’ – I’d have done anything for my boys! As Oisean grew into a tween I started to realise that he had this one weakness – and I reckon he must’ve got it from his father. He just couldn’t resist a pretty face! Now the only silver lining for me once Ffionn left was that the complaints about him stopped. So, you may imagine how my heart sank when the knocks on the door started again, this time mainly from fathers warning me that I should tell Oisean to stay away from their daughters.
Now I know he’ll tell you that it’s not his fault – that the girls just seem drawn to him and he does nothing to encourage them, but they just won’t say no. I admit that he’s a good-looking lad, just like his da – and I know only too well how Conall could turn a young girl’s head! Funny though, ain’t it, that it was always the pretty ones that got him into trouble with their daddies, and he always seemed to find a reason to be in a place where he was most likely to meet them. All of them girls in that tale he told live in our neighbourhood, and I’ve had visits from most of their fathers and many more beside. The business with young Rosyn O’Maille and the night spent under the haystack with her was the last straw. Farmer O’Maille is an unforgiving man with a nasty temper and it was all I could do to stop him from thrashing my boy within an inch of his life. I had to send the boy away for a while, so I swallowed my pride and asked for help from my brother Wybert here, and I’ll be ever grateful to him. In case you were wondering, O’Maille married Rosyn off to a fellow from Clegur soon after the incident, and I’m told they are happy enough.
Can you imagine what it was like for me then? Abandoned by my husband and then by one of my two sons and I had to send the other son away as well. Left alone, those were the darkest days of my life. So, I hope you’ll understand my joy when Ffionn came back to me, even though he came with the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard. I still don’t know where he got to, but I doubt he got too far and I am quite sure that he never got to Harad, near or far, to find my husband lying abed somewhere in the jungle treated as a god by the adoring natives of that place. It was almost as unlikely as some of them tales old Wybert here tells – it must run in the family. But I was so pleased to see him back I took him at his word, though I confess I couldn’t resist a chuckle behind his back. I might also add I never got to see any of that treasure he says he brought back.
So, I was so happy that I wrote to Oisean and asked him to come back to have a celebration of his brother’s return, and it wasn’t just for his brother but because the three of us would be back together again and I hope you understand that, Oisean, because I love you both equally and neither of you is perfect but that doesn’t matter for a mother’s love doesn’t come with conditions…”
Her face was flushed and she seemed to have run out of breath and after glancing round nervously at her listeners she ran to the back of the wagon where her two sons rose as one to clasp her in their arms.
Oxslip’s Prologue and Tale
There was a moment of quiet in the wagon then as we all reflected on the tales we had heard from the McCool twins and their mother. It was my Uncle Humfrye who broke the silence at last. “It seems to me that since young Wybert here is busy recording our journey, there’s just one hobbit left who might tell us a tale.” Our eyes turned as one to a small figure huddled in the corner of the wagon, who seemed as if she wished she could shrink away under our gaze. It was my own dear little cousin, (many times removed, as she always insists on saying), Miss Oxslip.
She looked up nervously and when it was clear that we would not take no for an answer she said,
“Well, there was talk of treasure in those last tales and it reminded me of a story about treasure I once heard myself. But this treasure wasn’t to be found in far off lands, but in our very own Shire! I could tell you that tale?”
There was a murmur of approval and with a little further encouragement she came into the lamplight at the centre of the wagon. She was dressed plainly, and her dark, glossy hair was cut into a short, rounded bob. She had a nut-brown complexion, suggesting an outdoor lifestyle, and her wine-red lips seemed to promise a smile at any moment, although they quivered slightly now, for she was clearly nervous. At last, she began.
“Once there was a little hobbit lass who went by the name of Peony Chubb. Her family lived on the edge of the Marish, close by the Brandywine, not too far from the village of Stock. Her father, who was a carpenter, kept a small rowboat which he had built himself, for use in his leisure time. Peony had learned to row from a very young age and since her father always seemed to be busy, she often took the boat out on her own. The place she loved to visit above all others was the Buckland Faire, across the river, with its bright pennants fluttering in the breeze above the tents and awnings. When the fair was on, there would be minstrels playing, dancing and sometimes jugglers and acrobats too. But what Peony loved most of all were the storytellers. She would listen for hours, enthralled by their tales of battles lost and won, of brave heroes and star-crossed lovers, the tangled histories of dwarfs and elves and men.
One bright summer morning she rose very early and, with her mother’s assurance that she didn’t need her help that day, she took the boat and rowed across the river to the fair. She went straight away to the story-tent and was surprised to see there a man she had not seen before seated in the storyteller’s chair. He was dressed in a dark robe and wore a bright red turban. His face was thin and sported a long, crooked, hawk-like nose. A black jewel gleamed on one of his fingers, set in a ring forged of some dull metal. The brief moment of deep unease she felt when first setting eyes on him evaporated as soon as he began his tale, and she sat mesmerised by his smooth, seductive tones.
He told of treasures, hidden in dark places. Of hoards of gold and jewels, buried then forgotten, their owners slain or fled. Of dragons’ dens, deep within mountain caves, awash with stolen riches, of ancient kings buried in their barrows with all their worldly goods. And he told of the treasure hunters, the fortune-seekers, venturing all in hope of finding untold wealth and living their lives in luxury. As he spoke, Peony began to feel a deep sense of discontentment. How ordinary her own life seemed compared to the lives of these adventurers, filled with excitement and danger. How dull to live out one’s life within the narrow confines of The Shire when there was a whole world out there to be explored and savoured!
At last, there was a pause, as the man took some refreshment from a goblet set before him, and Peony left the tent in a daze. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do and without a second thought she set off purposefully across the meadows, heading away from the river and towards the High Hay, the hedge beyond which lay that unbroken darkness of trees which was The Old Forest. Treasure was often found in such dark places, so the tales tell, so where else should she look?
Scarcely thinking for a moment what danger might lie ahead, the little girl passed through the arch of the tunnel built into the hedge and at once found herself enveloped in gloom, her ears assaulted by the cries of unseen creatures. Undeterred she followed the path that led deeper into the forest looking about her all the time for some sign that might show a place where treasure might be hidden. Perhaps some disturbed earth indicating where something had been buried or a hollow in the trunk of one of the giant trees. As she searched, she strayed from the path and was drawn further into the trees where it grew ever darker, and the shrill calls of the forest creatures grew louder.
Suddenly she heard ahead of her a deep, throaty growling which grew louder and louder until at last there emerged before her, out of the gloom, a terrible creature. It was a giant wolf, and it approached her stealthily, baring its huge, yellowed teeth set in slavering jaws. Terrified, she took a backward step just as the beast sprang forward and she tripped on a tree root, falling on to her back and looking up to see the creature standing over her.
As she stared in horror at those monstrous fangs, barely inches from her face, there came a sharp, piercing whistle from close by and the wolf turned at once towards the place from where it came. Out of the trees there skipped a small man the like of which Peony had never seen before. His face seemed old, yet the smile that played about his lips was as bright as the new day itself. He had a long, brown beard and wore a blue jacket and yellow boots.
The wolf lowered its body to the ground before him, whining, its eyes turned away, as he addressed it thus:-
“Be off with you, Old Yellowtooth, back to the deep forest where you belong! There’s naught for you here. Be quick now, before I call the hunters!” The huge animal rose at once, turned tail, and disappeared into the trees. The little man approached the girl, who lay there sobbing, and lifted her gently to her feet.
“No need for tears now, little one. What brings you into the dark forest, for this is no place for a child of the Little Folk? If that Old Yellowtooth don’t get you the spinners will, but I’m here now so ye’re safe. So, tell me, what do you seek?”
“Please sir, I was looking for treasure. The Storyteller at the fair says it may be found in dark places, so I thought…”
She broke off, for she saw that the little man was laughing out loud. “Oh, treasure is it you seek, little one? Hah!” And he broke into song in a deep rich voice…
“They say treasure may be found,
If you dig deep underground…”
He chuckled, then laughed out loud again when he saw the girl’s crestfallen expression, before speaking to her in kindly tones.
“Well, my dear, those seekers be looking in the wrong places, and I should know, oh yes, I’d know!”
Peony sniffed as the little man gave another whistle, gentler this time and drawn out longer, the notes rising and falling. Shortly there came trotting towards them the fattest little pony Peony had ever seen. Without a word the little man lifted her from the ground and sat her on the pony’s back, whispering gently into its ear.
“Now then, little one, you shall go a-treasure -hunting after all, but you’ll need to learn to see things aright if it’s treasure you’d be a-finding. Now, sleep a while.”
With this he lifted his hand to the girl’s face and as he lightly brushed it across her cheek and eyes it seemed to Peony that she fell into a deep sleep and when she awoke, she was clutching the plump little pony’s thick, coarse mane as they raced at what seemed impossible speed across broad fields.
The countryside seemed to rush by in a blur and Peony could not make out distinctly any details of the places they passed by, but the pony slowed as they came to a settlement, and she looked all around carefully for any sign of treasure. It was late afternoon, and a group of children played happily in the street, many of them wearing garlands in their hair, bejewelled with brightly coloured flowers plucked from the meadows earlier in the day. As their cheerful cries rang out, in the gardens of the cottages their mothers could be seen, always keeping a watchful eye, and smiling and chattering to one another as they worked. An elderly hobbit sat in his porch contentedly puffing on his pipe and from the forge she heard the blacksmith’s hammer ring out as he went merrily about his work. In the distance she could see farm labourers returning from their work in the fields, but of treasure she saw none.
Unbidden, the pony sped on once more until they came to a halt by the bank of a lazy river which flowed through low marshland. From all around she could hear the haunting cries of the waders and the waterfowl, and smaller birds flitted to and fro from their nests within the reedbeds. A grey heron stood statue-still at the centre of a pool and she caught a fleeting glimpse of iridescent sapphire-blue and bright copper-orange as a kingfisher flew low across the water. She slipped from the pony’s back for a moment while he took a drink from a pool and she stared hard into the water wondering if treasure might lie beneath but she was greeted only by an emerald-green frog which seemed to mock her with its low croak. Everywhere she looked the scene teemed with life, but of jewels she found none.
The fat little pony gave a short, insistent whinny. She clambered on to his back and their journey continued at the same impossible speed. This time they stopped at a farm where the fields shone golden with ripening corn and in the orchard the branches were weighed down with juicy red apples. A dairymaid called the cows to the milking parlour and in the sties fat porkers wallowed contentedly in mud. Peony spotted a weatherbeaten old hobbit digging in a field and excitedly she slipped from her mount. Could this be the clue she was seeking? Was this a treasure-field? As she approached, she saw him bend down and lift something from the earth, holding it up before him and nodding appreciatively. When she drew closer still, she saw that he held in his hand a perfectly formed Golden Shire Tater.
“Finest in the Shire,” he muttered to himself contentedly as he walked straight past her. It was as if he didn’t see her there at all.
Disappointed, she returned to where the fat pony stood waiting, and they were off once more!
Although they travelled too fast for her to see clearly, she sensed that the sun no longer shone overhead, and they had come to a darker and chillier place. When at last the pony came to a halt she heard at once the sound of running water and there before her, she saw a sparkling silver waterfall cascading down a sheer cliff face where it seemed the waters had carved from the living rock wondrous and intriguing shapes of great beauty. A deep pool lay below the falls where the waters were stilled momentarily before rushing down the hillside once more. The land beside the stream was wooded and Peony saw several squirrels among the branches of the trees. A fox slipped stealthily by and in the undergrowth at the edge of the trees a badger rooted. This was a wild place and just for a moment young Peony felt in her hobbit heart that she belonged here, that she was accepted by the wild creatures, and by the trees and by the very earth itself. But she saw no treasure.
The pony snorted a little and their journey continued. Peony had no sense of time passing as they sped on. This time the pony brought her to an inn yard, and she saw several hobbit lads and lasses hurrying in. A large sign hung there, and she saw depicted there a green-scaled dragon, its wings unfurled. Peony knew from the stories that dragons are famed for their treasure hoards and thought at once that this must be the clue she had been looking for. She hurried in and gasped in amazement at what she saw there. Music played, hobbits were chattering and dancing, tankards of amber brew and ruby-red wine overflowed and there was even a storyteller, although she thought he was not as good as the regular one at Buckland Fair. She saw that nearly everyone there was smiling, and she dearly wanted to join in, but she quickly realised that no-one there could see her at all. For a moment she thought of her own friends and the good times they had had together and when she returned to where the fat little pony waited she felt a little sad to leave and only as she took a final look at the inn sign did she realise that she had found no treasure.
This time the pony did not speed up but carried her at a gentle trot up the road to a place close by, high on the hillside where a stage was set. The little man was there to greet her, asking,
“Well, little one, did ye find your treasure?”
She hung her head.
“No?” he said, smiling. “You know, sometimes you young folk don’t know what you’ve found. You needs to learn to use your eyes to see.”
He took her by the hand and led her to a place where the broad expanse of The Shire lay before them, lit by the light of the setting sun. There were the farms and villages, the woods and meadows, the rivers and pools, the hills and valleys. As they gazed upon that panorama it seemed that scales were lifted from the girl’s eyes. She gasped.
“Oh!” she said. “I see.”
The little man smiled again.
“That’s good,” he said, “now let’s be getting you home for we both have folk a-waiting!”
(I hope to tell you about some of the other folk on board that wagon at some point in the future, along with some of the tales they told. All of the tale tellers are in-game characters)
