I hail from Combe originally and I started out as a simple gardener, taking after my fathers ways, working for some of the finer houses around Combe and Bree. In summer my Pa would place all his herbs in a single layer on a sheet of paper inside the house; close all the doors and shut all the windows, and the herbs would dry out to perfection. The house would smell grand too. We also kept gardening tools in the mailbox.

One day, as I was getting squirrely, my parents decided I should marry a girl from Chetwood, Ailsa by name, who also had a green thumb. We had been great friends since childhood. She used to tell me many tall tales, many of which I completely believed, and she would always have this silver amulet around her neck that she claimed had been found under a mushroom as big as her arm. This amulet had some simple magics it could work, I was informed. Ailsa would tell me things like: 'This turnip was once a beautiful rose but it pricked my finger and my amulet punished it forever.', and: 'There is a place in the forest where spirits dance in the moonlight, but only the one wearing the amulet may see them.', and also: 'No harm may come to the wearer of this jewellery, or to her kin either.'

My Pa and Ailsa and I were in Bree every year for the Harvest festival to enter the gardening contest. One year our marrows took first prize and after that we would take first or second or third prize regularly, and then other gardeners began to respect our name and Pa became something of a local expert that folk would turn to with their gardening questions, looking for tips. But a hobbit called Childebert came out one year and ruined it all. He would take all the prizes, and every time he would not care to hide that big smug grin on his face.

We did not like Childebert or losing and so tried all our best tricks. Pa knew the correct combination of veggies to plant together so that they each would nourish the other and would also help keep pests at bay. And he knew to give your compost time to stabilize - you don't just throw it on. But nothing worked. Year after year nobody won any prizes unless it was Childebert.

One year it was particularly hot and many folk were shaking their heads before Harvest day, wondering if there was a point to a competition and saying that anything that grows would shrivel up in the heat. But me and Pa and Ailsa persevered and managed to grow some good crop. When the festival was over we were so happy because we won. The sight of Childeberts' withered veggies and withered face also helped put a smile on our faces. When the hobbit stormed off in a rage many folk had a good laugh at him.

We had a good festival then and returned home hot and tired. It was so hot that night I could not sleep easy. It was when I heard the geese flying south and I knew that dawn was on her way that I noted another noise. A creeping around kind of noise, and maybe a sniggering kind of noise. I was wide awake with a start at that and creeping around myself. Our house was not very big and I soon thought I was still asleep dreaming when I heard our front door slam shut.

'Oi!', I shouted rather pointlessly, and ran out into the pre-dawn light. It looked like a wee
boy running away but I knew who it was and gave chase. He was surprisingly nimble but I have longer legs and I threw myself at him and wrapped my arms around his knees. I still dont know what happened then but the two of us seemed to be falling for far too long. I gulped with worry and then I thumped the ground hard. When I came to, after a bit, I thought I had rattled myself and gone blind, but I discovered I was at the bottom of a hole and some unfriendly-looking faces were shouting down at me. They graciously pulled me up, but I did not know their accent or their dress. It was all foreign. My right hand hurt and when I looked there was Ailsa's amulet partly cutting into my palm with a little bit of blood. My rescuers seemed to think my predicament was good for a laugh and kept slapping my back and pushing me hither and thither, wondering at what a curious thing it was to find me down a hole.

Basically, from then on I was enslaved, sold to some miserable old man who beat me regularly but curiously also gave me quite the education in magic of all things. 'A good gardener makes a good wizard', he would say. Something I still don't understand. When I had matured my abilities somewhat and was plotting how to escape and possibly with lethal violence toward his person he suddenly kicked me out. Turns out I was in Rohan, somewhere in the Entwash Vale. I have never gone back to that place and never will.

It took me about a year to return to Combe with a few adventures along the way and then this war started.

Childebert has disappeared, that's what I have found out. Also, my family have disappeared. No one seems to have seen them leave. I am searching and searching. Eveywhere so far, it feels like. 

I still have Ailsa's amulet.

My adventure continues.

One curious thing I feel I have to mention is that folk are saying that Childebert was not a hobbit! 'What was he, then?' I ask. A shrug of the shoulders and a 'Weren't no hobbit. Weird name an' all.'