IN THE SHIRE-RECKONING by Diane Finnis-Robb  

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Part Two; Chapter Eight "A Chance Meeting"

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   Bovo Bunce, the real Bovo Bunce, was unhappy with this new Plan. Youngbuck had placed them in great jeopardy in Bovo’s opinion, and something would need to be done about it and, also in Bovo’s opinion, done about it quickly.

   Within two hours after agreeing to Swiftook’s proposal they had assembled all of the supplies on their list and more. Bovo and Gilley, who had more practical knowledge about camping and hunting than Poppy or Youngbuck, provisioned themselves from the best of the equipment to be found at Waymeet. Bovo, who had been given the name “Berno Bophin” in their current ruse, found three decent bows and three quivers of serviceable arrows, planning to teach his friends how to shoot but also thinking of their own protection just getting out of Waymeet. They each carried small eating knives already, but needed skinning knives to look the part of hunters. Bovo was happy to keep his own strapped to his belt and easily within reach.

   Bovo would have liked to leave Waymeet as soon as possible, but some more time was spent by Youngbuck, who had some knowledge of ponies, and was making a very careful selection from the few there to be found for sale. The best of the lot was a young mare named “Snips”, so called because she disliked her owners and would snap her teeth at them in disapproval of unwanted commands. But Youngbuck saw her to be a strong and keen-eyed creature in need of better handling. He re-named her “Cinders” for she had dark black colouring on her legs which turned to a cool grey at her haunches. She took to the name and Youngbuck’s commands readily, and almost immediately seemed happy to be leaving.

   Once the pony was fitted and the bags were packed the four friends walked north to meet with Reginard Swiftook on the muddy path near the border of Waymeet. The two Big Folk who they had seen earlier were with him there as were three other hobbits leading ponies of their own. These ponies and hobbits, and even the Men, were likewise provisioned for travel.

   ‘I do not like the look of this,’ the real Bovo muttered quietly to his friends.

   ‘All packed and ready, I see,’ Reginard said as Bovo and his friends approached. ‘Time to meet your companions. Here are my cousins,’ he said, indicating the three hobbits, ‘they are Gormadoc, Marcoul and Olo Zaragamba respectively, and they will be escorting you to the lands that I wish to have surveyed.’ All three of these hobbits were older than Bovo and his friends, the oldest looking closer in age to Reginard. They had sandy brown hair and held strange looking woollen caps in their hands. They wore soft roughspun clothing, dirty in places and frayed a bit in others, but despite that Bovo could see that they had scrupulously groomed their hair and their feet for this morning meeting. Their faces were kindly, but they viewed Bovo and his friends with some suspicion or reserve.

   ‘Good morning to you, master Bunce,’ the older of the three, Gormadoc, said, offering a slight bow to Youngbuck. ‘It is a pleasure to make the acquaintance of the son of an illustrious father, sir,’ this made the real Bovo chuckle darkly, ‘-and an honour to have you be the first to visit our new homes.’

   ‘Your new homes-?’ Youngbuck said. ‘I thought we were to be measuring the land for master Swiftook here.’

   ‘Oh, not for me personally, no, master Bunce,’ Reginard replied with a smile. ‘My father and I have all the land which we can possibly manage in the South-farthing. I am involved simply as a favour to my cousins here.’

   ‘I see. Yes,’ Youngbuck replied, trying to look bored with this new wrinkle in Reginard’s plan while all the time trying to understand its meaning. ‘And the three of you are farmers, then?’ The three brothers looked at one another as if uncertain how to respond.

   ‘Sure we are,’ Gormadoc said, and his brothers quickly began to nod in agreement. ‘Farmers or hunters or herdsmen or builders as we’ll need to be living so far west of other folks, I would guess. What we don’t know of those trades we’ll just have to learn in the doing.’

   ‘I see. Yes. Very well then,’ Youngbuck said. ‘Well, three days of charting three parcels of land I’ve promised and three days you will get. I’m glad to see that you are ready to depart.

   ‘Master Swiftook,’ he continued, turning to Reginard, ‘I will take my leave of you now, and would like that le-’

   ‘Oh, let us not be in such a hurry, master Bunce,’ Reginard replied with his same wolfish grin, ‘for you’ve not yet been introduced to your other travelling companions.

   ‘Here are my associates Zelik and Amram,’ he said pointing to the two Big Folk who stood a little behind, ‘two gentlemen for the Road.¹ They will assist you however they may and prevent any... dangers you may encounter.’

   ‘Oh, now that is too much,’ the real Bovo Bunce said, forgetting his role in the moment of his anger and striding forward to directly confront Reginard Swiftook. ‘I don’t know these two and have no desire to mistreat them, but the hobbits of the West-farthing remember only too well the Big Folk who worked for your father, Swiftook, and we are not ready to welcome them into-’

   ‘Yes,’ Youngbuck said, speaking over the real Bovo in order to maintain the illusion of his authority. ‘Old arguments aside, Swiftook, we have no need for their... assistance nor their protection going into the west and, I would remind you, we made no such agreement for these escorts in our talks.’

   The two men said nothing at this exchange between the hobbits. If the conversation registered with them at all their response seemed to be one of displeased boredom. The bigger of the two, Amram, looked away west towards the distant mountains and if he wished to go in that direction his face did not reveal it. He had a long drooping moustache and a bushy dark brow, but his head was otherwise hairless. Bovo could see that he was also provisioned for short travel, but at his side was a small round shield and from his belt hung an old mace of blackened iron. Beside Amram was his partner Zelik, wearing a soft grey-coloured cloak and a slouching, brimless black hat. His knife was still at his right side, but beneath the other arm there hung a scabbard of dark cloth and it held a narrow blade as long as any hobbit was tall. His arms were crossed on his chest and he watched Bovo and the others with an expression of patient distaste.

   ‘Ah, but they are not your escorts, master Map-maker,’ Reginard explained, ‘but escorts for my cousins. They will represent my interests in the venture and once our arrangement has been met, they will return to you your father’s letter, which I have countersigned with our agreement.’ At this he withdrew the folded letter and gave it to Zelik. “Surely your friends and you can put up with them for a few days. If they are unwelcome in your own camp at night,’ he said looking back at the real Bovo in response to his outburst, ‘I am sure they will watch over it carefully from a safe and respectful distance.’

   Seeing no other way forward, Youngbuck agreed to the terms. ‘Very well,’ he said, turning to the Big Folk, ‘if you two must follow along then do so. We will be leaving the Road a league or so before the Delvings and travelling in the open country to the south for a time. Keep up if you can.

   ‘I will not say good-bye to you, master Swiftook,’ Youngbuck said, turning back toward Reginard, ‘for I have very little doubt that you and I will meet again. Whatever your motivations in this arrangement may be, you’ve met your side of the deal fairly so far and so I will now do the same. Until our next meeting.’

   And with that Youngbuck turned and walked north to the Great Road, leaving the others to follow as they would. If Reginard Swiftook had any last remarks, Youngbuck was no longer listening. To his right his friend Bovo was saying softly; ‘no, I do not like this new Plan of ours one bit.’

 

*****

   Just a few hours later Poppy Noakesburrow was making good time on his bad leg, but he was a bit concerned about the way ahead. They had left the Road a short ways back and he could now see the low white hills coming up before them. The grasses and shrubs were low and the ground was fairly soft. There were fewer stands of trees here in the open as there were shading the Road, the hills themselves being a bit rocky. Youngbuck had promised they would rest a bit near the first hill and Poppy’s leg would surely need it. ‘How far from the Delvings are we?’ he asked Gilley who was walking beside him.

   ‘No more than a mile or three from the outskirts, I should think,’ she replied. ‘These are the lower and southern end of a chain of hillocks called the Chalk hills. See the whitish layers here and there? Soft earth for digging, but with little rills and streams and grassy valleys. Look there, just beyond that row of hills in the north and you can see some of the town’s many cookfires. The chain of hills turns northwest there and new settlers have built a very large town not a mile north from the Road. The Delvings has already twice the population of Buckland and is growing daily.’ Poppy was reminded here that Gilley and Youngbuck and even Bovo (the real Bovo) had been this far west, but he himself had never travelled more than five miles from his own home before last night. It excited him to do so now, even with the danger they found themselves in, but he was worried that his bent leg would slow them all down. He would need to rest it before long if they were going to travel up and down those hills he saw ahead.

   Youngbuck, in his guise as Bovo (and with the real Bovo beside him), led the way. The four friends had not had an opportunity to talk privately since their meeting with the Swiftook, but all of them realised the danger that they now were in. Did Youngbuck actually know how to make maps when the time would come for it? Poppy didn’t know if Youngbuck could or not, but he certainly hoped so. The two big warriors following them would certainly have something to say about it if he did not.

   Bovo (the real Bovo that is) had given them each bows and quivers to carry once they left the Road. He strung the bows for Youngbuck and Gilley and himself, but offered one unstrung to Poppy. ‘Use it as a walking stick if you need to, Poppy,’ he said. ‘It’s not a very good bow after all, so let it serve you however you think best.’ Poppy hadn’t had to do this yet, but the white hills made him thankful for the consideration.

   They walked in a long file since leaving the Road; Youngbuck and the real Bovo (Poppy was already finding this disguise all very confusing) were in the lead seeking the surest path. This helped to create some distance between the four of them and their unwanted companions, an the “two Bovos” in the lead took advantage of it while they could, using the opportunity to very quietly argue. Behind Gilley and Poppy came the Zaragamba brothers, each leading pack ponies of their own. These foreign-looking hobbits were affable and smiling for the most part, but they clustered to themselves since leaving the Road and Poppy could feel their watching. Behind them came the two warriors in any easy walk which never let any of the party get too far ahead.

   Quite suddenly the real Bovo raised his hand motioning the whole party to stop. They did so and remained silent as he raised his bow and rather effortlessly notched an arrow. Poppy’s breath stopped and beside him he saw Gilley hesitantly raise her own bow and look for an enemy.

   Without a sound Bovo’s arrow flew from the bow, arcing high, to hit land some forty yards away. Before anyone knew what was happening he went slowly stalking forward, another arrow already knocked and at the ready. Half a dozen yards or so on and, stopping suddenly, he fired again and then, fast and smooth and still, knocked and turned a little to his left and fired yet again. As Poppy trained his eyes to see what the target was, a fourth arrow landed in the tall grass near the hillside kicking up dust and motion. He then saw Bovo (the real one) running forward, the bow now resting on his shoulder, towards where the arrows fell. Minutes later he was returning to the party with four large rabbits in hand.

   ‘What a fine bit of shooting,’ Poppy heard one of the Zaragamba brothers say.

   ‘Oh, he truly is a notable hunter,’ said another.

   Poppy was stunned. Bovo Bunce (the real Bovo Bunce that he knew) was never much regarded by his schoolmates and the other Bucklanders for anything other than a quick wit, a tendency toward insensitive jibes, a youthful disrespect of traditions and his legendary and general lack of good manners. That he had talents beyond these came as a complete surprise.

   ‘Did you know he could shoot like that?’ Poppy asked Gilley very quietly.

   She stood beside him, smiling broadly and with an uncommon blush in her cheeks. ‘Poppy,’ she said, ‘that hobbit is continually full of surprises.’ And then she looked away as if not wanting to say more.

   ‘Yes,’ Youngbuck said, returning to his commanding guise as Bovo Bunce, master of the party, ‘it appears to be time for lunch then. We’ll stop here.’

   Poppy looked behind at their companions and saw that the Zaragamba brothers were also very happy with this decision. Further behind them the two warriors were drawn together in a quiet conversation. They were both looking at Bovo Bunce, the real Bovo Bunce, with renewed interest.

 

*****

   Gilley Bramblethorn took on the job of cleaning the conies² while the younger Zaragamba brothers, Marcoul and Olo, set up a cook fire. There was a small stream running nearby the hill, so the hobbits decided to make a stew that might feed the whole party. Olo had brought flour and salt, carrots and some potatoes and even a few herbs that were unfamiliar to Gilley. She thought that they smelled heady and rich like autumn trees in foreign lands. The hobbits were talking happily and settling into the preparation of a restful meal, but the two warriors were not agreeable with the decision for such a long pause.

   ‘We have not been on the march for three hours and you’re already stopping?’ she heard the tall thin warrior, Zelik, say to Youngbuck. ‘You hobbits will never cease to amaze me. If we are to stop every time one of you wishes to eat we will be a week in getting anywhere.’

   ‘Oh, we’ll make such good time as we wish to,’ Youngbuck answered, ‘and we will make it in the time that we wish to do so. Remember that I have promised to escort the Zaragambas just as you have, but certainly not just as you decide. We will march at my own pace and then, escorts or no, we shall be done with one another soon as we may.

   ‘But be glad, Grey-stalker! For there will be stew enough for you and your mountainous, moustachioed friend as well. Courtesy of we irritating hobbits!’

   He turned away from the warrior and toward the other hobbits at the cookfire, ‘We will take two hours to let our stew boil to its best and to ease our tired feet,’ he told them. ‘My friends and I have walked all the way from the Buckland last night with only short rests and are thankful for the pause. Tell me, Gormadoc, how far is it by the Road from Waymeet to where we are going?’

   Gilley saw the hobbit look at his brothers for a moment and then back at Youngbuck with surprise. ‘I’m sorry, master,’ he said, ‘how long by the Road?’

   ‘Yes,’ Youngbuck replied with some frustration. ‘I assume you went that way before when you first scouted the land. We are all trying to avoid the Delvings now and so must go a longer route through these hills, but knowing how long it took you by Road would be helpful.’

   ‘Oh, I see,’ the older hobbit replied. His eyes darted back to his brothers and they all looked a bit sheepish and unwilling to speak. Finally Gormadoc said, ‘well, that’s just it, you see? We’ve not been there before, by Road or any other path.’

   ‘What?’ Youngbuck asked, showing more surprise than he had done in all of his interactions that morning. ‘How can this be? Your own master Swiftook said that he had “three parcels which he wanted measured for a claim.” Are you telling me that he hasn’t visited them yet?’

   ‘Oh, I can’t say anything as to that, master Bunce,’ Gormadoc said, ‘for he is substantially better travelled than I or my brothers here. He’s gone very far and very wide in these lands, the Young Took has.’

   ‘The Young Took?’ Gilley heard Bovo (the real Bovo) ask.

   ‘Yessir,’ Gormadoc answered. ‘We call him the Young Took and his father, who is husband to my mother’s sister’s aunt, you see, we call him the Old Took.’

   ‘How very charming and, sadly, how very familiar,’ the real Bovo said dryly.

   ‘So you have never been where we are going,’ Youngbuck said, taking control of the conversation again, ‘but these lands have been promised to you by the Young Took?’

   ‘Yessir, master Bunce,’ Gormadoc replied, ‘just this very morning, though my brothers and I have been hopeful for such a chance for many months and that is why, bachelors as we are, we have been waiting out our time at Waymeet. For a chance to have lands in the far west, that is. The Tooks tell us that the west is where all hope abides, and we would like to abide in it, with your aid, master Bunce. I’m sorry if you thought we had been there first, but that is not so. We’ve only been shown the lands we are to look for on the Young Took’s maps.’

   ‘Maps?’ Gilley found herself asking. ‘Do you mean to say that he has maps, maps which you have seen, of the western edge of the Shire?’

   ‘And so we see yet another reason why unnecessary delays make time for unwanted intrusions,’ Zelik interrupted, walking back into the circle of hobbits as they talked. ‘Maybe my answers will explain better and get us back to the business at hand.

   ‘It is very true that the Swiftooks have maps of this land and I am certainly sorry to hear that it comes as a surprise to so many of you. Perhaps, master Bunce, during your extensive travels you will make some of your own. Or you may return to Waymeet after our mission to inquire of these maps further. Maybe master Swiftook will choose to share them with you. Frankly, that is no concern of mine.

   ‘But the land to be plotted is at the edge of what you Hobbit-folk call “the Far Downs” and they are perhaps, from what I have seen, four leagues along the Road from the Delvings. While I agree with skirting around the Delvings for now, I,’ and this last bit seemed to burn in the mercenary’s chest as he spoke it, ‘I strongly suggest that we return to the Road soon after and make up for this lost time.’

   And then, as a most curious and cold bit of commentary, Zelik added; ‘Respectfully speaking, of course.’

   ‘Yes,’ Youngbuck said, holding his judgement apart and making the others await his authority but still staring down the menacing Big Man. ‘I see. So I am to provide escort and leadership to first-time settlers, mark their claim and then go on my own way. Yes. I see. And you two have come along to see that I do this, is that correct?’

   ‘In keeping with your own agreement and master Swiftook’s,’ Zelik replied. Gilley saw the tall thin man and her friend look at one another for a long moment and both seemed to reach some understanding of the other’s intentions.

   ‘Very well then,’ he said, turning back to the Zaragamba brothers. ‘We shall have a stew from these conies and a rest for myself and my friends. We will then continue south around these hills and the Delvings and turn north to the Road after. From there we will go on, but it will no doubt be too late in the day to begin our explorations. We will camp and begin to examine the land tomorrow morning at dawn. After a light breakfast, of course,’ Youngbuck said, smiling darkly as he directed this comment to the tall soldier in grey. ‘I will measure your three properties, draw your maps and then my friends and I will be on our way. Berno, let us take all the canteens and fill them at that little stream before we rest.’

 

*****

   From a small stand of trees on a neighbouring hill Gondo saw the strange procession come to halt and begin to make camp. ‘Now what!’ he thought to himself. ‘Seven hobbits leading four ponies loaded with gear across the open land. Curious enough, but they are accompanied by two of the Big Folk who are very clearly soldiers of some kind. What are soldiers, big or little, doing in the west of the Shire?’

   After his shocking discovery of the newly-grown town just to the north of the Road Gondo had traveled south into the uninhabited hills to consider his position. He had clearly been gone from the Shire for quite a lot longer than he had ever expected or might account for. His time and his travels with the Elder Folk were cloudy; he had seen so many strange and wonderful things and been to so many mysterious lands that, looking back now, he could not manage to measure the days, the cycle of the Moon or even the change of seasons. Had he walked in their dream-world for one year or for one hundred? He had eaten their foods and drunk their wines and stood for countless hours listening to hear the music of the world which the Eldar alone seemed to recognize. Had he now become ageless as they were? Had the Shire and Alaura and Twoody and all that he loved passed away while he had been gone? He had come to better appreciate the enchantment of the world but could not recognize the place of his friends within it.

   ‘No, the Shire itself has grown,’ he thought further, ‘and not faded. Hobbits are here now, here in the far west end, building homes and going on outings as these seven are doing. But with soldiers among them? How can that be?’

   Earlier that morning and in this same small group of trees Gondo had berated himself for his reaction to seeing the unexpected town here in the Chalk hills. He should have asked questions, should have taken time to gather his wits and to investigate further. But he had instead run from the place fearing what may have happened to Alaura during his time away. But shortly after his initial panic his better reason took hold; he knew that he could not return to the Buckland just yet, not without knowing something of how long he had been gone and what may have happened since. So he had climbed this tall hill near the southern end of the chain to reflect on what should come next. He spent much of the early morning hiding himself among the trees and working up the courage to go back into the town. He would do so in disguise, or so he had planned, and had already chosen a name and a story for himself that he hoped would keep others from guessing his identity. But the strange town which he had seen that morning was so big, already the largest settlement of hobbits he had ever experienced, and he had to admit to himself that he was indeed quite frightened by the size of the place. Still, true to his reputation, Gondo was a hobbit who could admit to fear without succumbing to it.

   But, also true to his nature (and that of many of his descendants), the Oldbuck was one to easily change a plan once a better opportunity came along. He looked down on this group of seven hobbits, four ponies and two soldiers with a renewed sense of purpose.

   ‘I will go and meet this intrepid group and their curious companions,’ he thought, seeing them make camp in the shadow of the neighbouring hill. ‘Maybe they will have the answers which I need and, perhaps, even some news of Alaura.’

 

   It is hard for us to know the Oldbuck’s mind on that morning.

   What is it like for a clear-headed person to come out of Enchantment? To discover that while you slept or you travelled or you lay in a field somewhere dreaming, the whole of the world you had known had existed, grown, lessened, breathed and managed for itself quite well without you? Imagine that you believed, in your former youthful arrogance prior to your Enchantment, that you had been a builder and a shaper of that world. Imagine what it might feel like to realise that with you suddenly gone the world had somehow gone on as if you had never been its steersman. Would this be a liberating feeling to have, or a demoralising one?

   And imagine further what it might mean to have no idea how long you had spent away in your Enchantment. This is harder for most of us to imagine. But Enchantment is timeless (of course) and the world which an enchanted person leaves behind is not. Gondo had seen enough of the enchanted world to prepare him for this shock, but, to understand him better, we must take a moment to grasp the idea for ourselves. Great buildings and cities might have risen or been caused to fall while you were away; how do we reconcile ourselves to the idea that one moment of Enchantment might last one year or one thousand? All those who we once knew and who we still loved might be long gone while we dreamed and travelled along Enchantment’s strange roads. What is it like to finally leave those roads and come once again into a new moment of time, to return to a world which is now unfamiliar?

   And what, furthermore, is it to love and to be loved but still follow Enchantment’s call?

   There are some who might say that having a fair heart and a true love should make a good person able to resist such foolishness as Enchantment. But those who say this have a more simple and defined idea of right and wrong than they have an understanding of Enchantment; for the equations of right and wrong are always clear boundaries to such people and they seem ever ready to make their harsh judgments at those borderlines.

   But a fair and compassionate heart does not accept such rules or boundaries in love and may understand better the nature of Enchantment. How, being fair, can such a heart blame a loved one for stepping away from the world to follow the call of Enchantment and their own nature?

   Fair hearts and compassionate friends, or so the Oldbuck believed, forgive most of all.

 

   Gondo, standing on the hill south of the Delvings on that morning, had no way of knowing how many years had passed, or whether Alaura was still alive. Would she have cause to hate him for his absence? Certainly, but he knew that her heart was fair and that their love was great and so he was still hopeful of her forgiveness.

   So there, alone and wondering, he had sat for hours. All that Gondo had been able to do that morning, faced with the realisation of his Enchantment, was to wonder how long he had been away, if Alaura were still alive and how, if equipped with better knowledge, he might reach her. And then, quite by chance, this strange procession of hobbits came into view to the south.

   And Gondo was ever one to seize his best opportunity when it came wandering in front of him.

 

*****

   ‘If a well-mannered and gracious-sounding snake offers to aid you on your road ahead, Youngbuck,’ the real Bovo said to Berty, ‘it's best to proceed cautiously, remembering that he is still a snake.’ The two friends were down by the little stream at the foot of the hill, busying themselves with the task of filling canteens while talking discreetly about the situation in which they found themselves.

   ‘Well, we have discovered something here, that’s for certain,’ Berty said in return, ‘and it seems to be something neither your father nor my uncle Twoody had foreseen; the Swiftook’s are trying to settle the western borders of the Shire. But why?’

   ‘Yes. I certainly do not know the answer to that,’ Bovo said. ‘They have plenty enough open lands to the south and the Far Downs are, just as described, quite far from their most western settlement at Whitwell. Do you think that these maps they have might say more?’

   ‘I do wonder about that,’ Berty replied. ‘I’d like to get a look at those and to hear who may have made them. But I doubt that “well-mannered snake” back there in Waymeet will be so cordial upon our next meeting.’

   ‘Will you be able to draw these new maps he’s looking for as you’ve claimed?’ Bovo asked.

   ‘Oh, I have copied my father’s work often enough and seen uncle Clooty’s newer drawings from the Delvings. I can manage to draw a passable map for a land deed if I need to. And I’m somewhat doubtful that the Zaragambas can read whatever I put down. But the bigger question now is whether I should.’

   ‘Yes. Well, I think we might run into some trouble with those big ruffians if you do not,’ Bovo said in his bored and unaffected way. ‘The Zaragambas seem kindly and innocent enough, however. I don’t see any harm in helping them.’

   ‘Other than in how it might benefit the Swiftooks, no,’ Berty replied. ‘I don’t see any harm in them either. But why send those soldiers? They clearly have some other purpose here, I should think. And if they already have maps of the western parts of the Shire, why is Reginard in need of my services as a map-maker? What is it about those maps that he can’t, or won’t, show to my uncle Twoody?’

   Looking back to their camp Berty could see that the two Big Folk had split off to themselves and settled for a rest. But they were still watching all the hobbits carefully. Gilley and Olo, the youngest of the Zaragambas, were leading the ponies over to the stream where Berty and Bovo were standing. Behind them Poppy and the other brothers were chopping meat and vegetables for the stew and arguing politely over the proper ratio of spices.

   It was Berty himself who was the first to see a lone hobbit, strangely clad in a grey cloak and carrying a black walking stick, come over the top of the hill.

 

*****

   Olo Zaragamba had never seen such a hobbit as this. He wore a cream-coloured shirt of some light material and a proper vest as the wealthy hobbits of the Shire often prefer, but in his left hand he held an old wooden walking stick and on his belt, very strange indeed, there hung a sword encased in a scabbard of tooled leather. The hood of his cloak was down about his shoulders and clasped with a leaf-shaped brooch of shining silver. And looking into his face, Olo thought, was the strangest sight of all; for his skin was rather light for a hobbit and the midday sun made him look remote, like a living, moving figure that had been carved from pale pink stone.

   ‘Mae govannen,’³ he called to them in some strange tongue as he walked down the hill toward the four hobbits and their ponies. Master Bunce’s pony, Cinders, they called her, whisked her tail and tossed her head happily as the hobbit spoke. Then, seeming to remember himself, the stranger waved with his right hand and said, ‘Hail and hello to you, Shirefolk!’ Looking behind himself for a moment, Olo could see that his brothers were now also walking forward to meet the newcomer. Behind them the two Big Folk were on their feet and, although still at a distance, were unhappily watching this unexpected development.

   ‘And a hale and hearty welcome to yourself, sir,’ said master Bunce (who was, in fact, not the real master Bunce, though Olo did not know this at the time). ‘You are travelling quite lightly through the open country and so far from the Road. Do you live nearby? I hope we are not unintentionally trespassing on your land.’

   ‘No,’ the stranger said, as he came closer. ‘My home is quite far from here, but I do enjoy a walk in open lands. You don’t seem to be bound for town yourselves, but packed for an excursion.’

   ‘Yes, my friends and I are hunters,’ master Bunce replied, indicating his friends, ‘and these other gentle hobbits are showing us some of the woodlands to the west and south of the Road. Do you know the area well?’

   ‘Oh, not as well as I would like,’ said the stranger. ‘I’ve recently come into this part of the land and haven’t yet had time for much exploration. But I would be happy to receive advice from those who know it better than I do.’

   As he said this the stranger came up to the four hobbits and their ponies and offered a small but very formal-seeming bow. ‘Hail, travellers,’ he said, with his hands outstretched and a smile on his kindly face. ‘May a star shine upon the hour of our meeting.’

   Olo found this idea about stars a bit queer as it was still early afternoon and a partly cloudy sky above, but he saw master Bunce step forward and take the stranger's hand. ‘A very gracious greeting, sir,’ he said. ‘And I welcome you to take your leisure with us for a bit. We will not stay long, but we have a hearty stew on the fire and, while it is meagre fare, there is enough for all.

   ‘I am called Bovo, and these are my friends, called Gilley and Berno. Our guides are the Zaragamba brothers from the south end of the Shire. This one is Olo and here coming now are his brothers Gormadoc and Marcoul. Yonder is my friend Poppy, who may seem shy at first, but at least he has the presence of mind to keep stirring the stew.’

   ‘A pleasure to greet you all,’ the stranger said with a smile, shaking hands with all as the two other Zaragamba brothers joined the group. ‘I am called Hincbert Undundol,⁴ a traveller in the land, and happy to see that the reports of Shire hospitality have not been mistaken. But tell me, friends, who are your other companions?’ His gaze turned to the two soldiers who maintained their distance but continued staring back. ‘Do they also travel with you?’

   ‘Ah, yes,’ master Bunce said. ‘Not so much with us but alongside us, I should say. They are representatives of our employer, the hobbit who outfitted our party, and they are here to collect their payment.’

   ‘Hmmn,’ said master Undundol. ‘They have a hard look for delivery boys, master Bovo. I should pay them off and be rid of them as quickly as possible if I were you.’

   ‘Hah! My thoughts exactly!’ said master Bunce’s companion, Berno.

   The Zaragamba brothers also laughed nervously at this little joke and Olo saw that master Bunce seemed to take notice of this.

 

*****

   Amram had been Zelik’s friend and partner for twenty years and could feel the man’s displeasure increase with each new and unexpected development of the Plan. He knew, from long experience, that this displeasure would eventually boil over into trouble and, in their line of work, trouble always meant violence. He knew that Zelik did not like these little people very much at all, so this displeasure had been on a very slow boil for over a year now as they were stationed in this green little land and so Amram was, as always, cautious to not bump the pot.

   ‘He is carrying a sword,’ Zelik said to his friend in their shared Dunlander⁵ tongue. He said this evenly and calmly in a tone just under his breath which Amram recognized as his friend’s most dangerous way of speaking.

   ‘A sword it is,’ Amram replied with a gentle smile. ‘But with a blade shorter than my boot and nary as wide as my toe.’

   ‘A narrow blade is often an indication of the skill of its master,’ Zelik said, placing his hand on his own long and dangerous weapon. ‘And mark it, Amram. That is a blade made to a halfling’s proportions and, while I cannot tell much of it from here, it is no cast-off dagger or kitchen knife. It was forged for his own hand. Who is this little princeling?’

   ‘A shiny blade does not a prince make,’ Amram replied, ‘and beside that, these little folk have no princes.’

   Amram knew that Zelik did not really hate the halflings as some other of the mercenaries did; Zelik simply hated the assignment. He couldn’t understand why they had been sent to this peaceful little land to watch over the squabbles and petty quarrels of such annoyingly cordial rabbit-folk who wanted nothing more than six or seven meals a day and a place to rest their hairy feet. As always, Zelik was restless. Amram knew that his friend would rather be on a battlefield opposed by a hundred Gondorian knights then put up with another month watching the evolving politics of these little folk and, as always, Zelik’s restlessness made him more dangerous.

   But Amram was not so restless and had a more clear understanding of the assignment that they were on. Both he and Zelik had been in enough campaigns and heard enough talk in tents of great generals to read the signs. They had both seen the maps. Here was a peaceful and open land of rolling hills and scattered forests. An Old Road ran through it, well-maintained, and on its eastern border there was a sturdy and defensible bridge. To the south there was a shallow river-crossing where their patrons had already established a beachhead. Amram did not know what or who might reside in those mountains to the west; another Gondorian outpost perhaps, for the map showed that beyond them lay a great port for ships. Clearly this land was important for the Great Wars in the North.

   Nearly thirty years ago, as he and Zelik had heard it, a foolhardy king had given this land over to these poor and unwarlike folk to use as farmland. Amram had known the fate of such “farmland” away in his native south; warring tribes took what they could hold and burnt what they could not. Amram knew that many of the halflings from his own lands had come north to the Shire to escape such wars. It saddened him to look at what they had done for themselves here, confident of their safety and ignorant as they were of what was certain to come. War was following them and they could not yet see it. Not so overtly grim nor deeply pessimistic as his companion, Amram simply wished that their assignment was over and they could simply walk away before all these poor ignorant and naive little farmers would encounter what would eventually come to this land.

   As he and Zelik stood together watching this new, and admittedly unusual, hobbit enter into their plan Amram’s attention was drawn again to the western mountains. He wondered what was there which the maps of Angmar refused to reveal. He thought, and not for the first time, about suggesting that he and Zelik abandon their current assignment and go to have a look at those mountains for themselves.

   But he knew that his friend was too honourable to quit a contract and, as the years had shown, Amram was too honourable to quit his friend.

   Together they watched the Buckland hobbits and those witless Zaragambas welcome this strange newcomer and walk with him to their encampment.

   ‘There is better work to be had not twenty leagues to the north in Fornost Erain,’ Amram reminded his companion. ‘The Sea-kings there do have princelings and a wealthy king, of course-’

   ‘Sea-kings with their swan-crowns I will not work for,’ Zelik said for what might be the hundredth time that Amram had heard it.

   ‘Be it a crown of silver and pearl or a crown of blood and cold iron, it is those kingly heads which give us our assignments,’ Amram said. ‘But are we not free of such judgements? You and I have chosen to serve no king and therefore may refuse work where we wish to, or so I understand things.’

   ‘Hmm,’ Zelik said, still frowning at the newcomer who had been led into the hobbits’ camp. ‘Then perhaps you understand me less than I thought. I will not work for the Sea-kings.’

   ‘No, of course not, my friend,’ Amram said with the same gentle smile. ‘I do not misunderstand you. But every once in a while I mean to make you realise how your intractability is part of your unhappiness.’

 

*****

   Marcoul Zaragamba found himself completely captivated by the stranger. He had never seen such a person as this. The hobbit had come out of nowhere, bearing only a small haversack beneath his cloak and walking boldly in unexplored lands. Like his brother Olo, Marcoul noted right away the strangeness of the traveller’s garb and the sword which hung on his belt. It was known that the Old Took’s grandfather, the great Priamus Swiftwalk, who was famous throughout the Lausa, had carried such a sword. The Young Took was master of that sword now, it was said, but Marcoul had heard of no other hobbit to ever wear such a bold weapon. But this stranger wore his with ease and without comment; as if it had been on his hip for many long years, a part of his person but outside of his notice.

   Olo and the young doe, Gilley was her name, remained at the stream to water the ponies. But Marcoul and Gormadoc walked back to the small campsite with master Bunce, Berno the hunter and the stranger, master Undundol. Marcoul found himself looking at the stranger, and his sword, very often. What did it mean to meet, quite by chance, a fellow hobbit who carried a sword while you were in danger? The Lausa of Marcoul’s parents’ and his grandparents’ generations had lived desperate and dangerous lives in the Weather hills. The great armies of the Sea-kings constantly fought against those of the Witch-kings in that land. Long swords and heavy hammers, great spears and wide axes would sometimes clash for a whole winter while the Lausa lay hidden in their warrens. The stories of Lausa grandparents were stories of cleverness, of wariness and of hiding. His People were diggers, listeners, runners and masters of the swift warning. They were cunning and full of tricks and so they were never destroyed.⁶ They lived each day as if they had a Thousand Enemies and taught their children to do the same.

   And while the Lausa wore no swords themselves they had many tales in which they would be led by a hobbit who did. Now, in the danger which Marcoul and his brothers all felt, what did it mean to meet yet another hobbit with a sword?

   As they approached the fire master Bunce’s man, Poppy, came forward to introduce himself.

   ‘Ah, our thoughtful and retiring cook,’ the stranger said with a smile. ‘I thank you for your diligence and attention to purpose.’

   ‘Poppy Noakesburrow, I am called, sir,’ the cook said, ‘and I am pleased to make the acquaintance of any who my friends have welcomed.’

   ‘"Noakesburrow," you say?’ the stranger asked. ‘Was there not a rather well-known Noakesburrow, a very skilled draughtsman and painter, who came early out of the Bree-land and across the Stonebows bridge?’

   ‘You have heard of my old gaffer⁷ then? Oh, but he would be glad to hear that his reputation has spread so far west, sir,’ Poppy replied, genuinely excited by the attention paid to his family. ‘Very proud indeed.’

   ‘“Gaffer”, you say?’ replied the stranger, and Marcoul could see the hobbit draw back a bit, as if trying to account for something difficult in his head. ‘Were you yourself born here in the Shire then?’ He asked.

   ‘Oh, yes sir, and proudly so!’ Poppy said. ‘Why I and my friends here,’ and with this he pointed to master Bunce and the hunter, ‘are Bucklanders, sir, and very proud of our kinfolk-’

   ‘Yes, thank you, Poppy,’ Marcoul heard master Bunce say, ‘but tell me, master Undundol, have you walked in the Shire before? For to know of the Noakesburrows is to be as a neighbour to us all. Please sit with us while the stew cooks. Berno, have you any more of that wine for our guest?’

   And so master Bunce and master Undundol sat together in the shade of some bushes near to the cookfire while Marcoul and the others went about the business of making camp and preparing the meal. Marcoul, intrigued by the strangeness of their guest, paid less attention to the stew and instead did his best to overhear all that was being said. Meanwhile, and from a distance, he could see that the two Big Folk also stood watching.

The stranger sat with his legs folded before him in a most unusual manner, unbuckling his sword and laying it beside him while setting his walking stick before him at a complementary angle. The whole of his sitting and the alignment of these items was done casually, in a familiar way, but with some sense of pageantry; as if he knew how strangers were meant to meet in wild lands and was willing to show the custom.

   ‘I have indeed walked in these lands some years ago,’ the stranger said. ‘Both before I had heard the name Shire and after. Of the Buckland I have also heard, but now there are Shirehobbits not two hillsides away...’ he said trailing his observations off as a question.

   ‘In the Delvings, yes,’ master Bunce replied. ‘It is becoming a very great city of the Shire. Do you hail from there?’

   ‘No, no, I do not,’ said the stranger, ‘though I was at the town well this very morning. Such a strange place for hobbits, it seemed. More buildings of stone and lumber than homes dug into the hillsides. For a place called “the Delvings” they do not seem to care much about digging.’

   ‘Oh, then you have seen too little of the town, sir,’ master Bunce responded, ‘for there are great warrens of homes dug into the Chalk Hills which surround the town centre and the well which you mention. But it is already surpassing the population of my own home in the Buckland and their well is four times the size of our own.’

   ‘The “Wisher’s Well” it was called, if I remember correctly?’ Master Undundol offered cautiously.

   ‘And still it is,’ master Bunce said proudly.

   ‘Yes. We are nearing the last of the good wine, gentle hobbits,’ Berno the hunter said, coming forward with a collection of small and mismatched mugs. ‘And the pour from that bottle is slight, I’m afraid, being shared by eight drinkers.’

   ‘The six of us and those friends of yours at the stream? And you are not including your tall friends there?’ the stranger asked with a smile, nodding his head slightly in the direction of the two warriors.

   ‘Oh, they are no friends of mine, sir,’ Marcoul heard the hunter say, raising his mug. ‘And I would sooner set fire to my own toes than offer a good beverage such as this to unwanted guests such as those.’

   ‘N'i lû tôl,’⁸ the stranger said, lifting his cup and drinking slowly with eyes closed. All the other hobbits drank as well, watching for some indication from their guest of what his toast meant and what they were in fact drinking to.

   ‘Oh. Why, that is very fine indeed,’ the stranger said upon finishing his first sips, ‘and I thank you for it. Where was it grown?’

   ‘In the hills north of the Shirebourn,’ Marcoul heard Berno reply. ‘Away in the East-farthing. The vines there are young yet, but the growth is plentiful, the farmers say. I am sorry that our own stores for this trip were not so plentiful.’

   ‘Have you travelled to the east, sir?’ master Bunce then asked.

   ‘The road east is a road to danger, but, yes, I have travelled it some, but not for some time,’ he answered rather mysteriously. ‘But you are Bucklanders, I hear? And is that not in the west of the Shire?’

   ‘I and my group are Bucklanders, indeed,’ master Bunce replied. ‘Which is to say Berno, Gilley and Poppy there. The other hobbits accompanying us are the Zaragamba brothers. They are from the South-farthing.’

   Marcoul felt that hearing himself being talked about was an invitation enough for his curiosity, and so he came closer to the two speakers and sat with them.

   ‘"Zaragamba," did you say?’⁹ the stranger asked, looking at Marcoul. ‘That is an old name from a very large family.’

   ‘Yes, sir, it is,’ Marcoul replied, anxious to speak and flattered to be so noticed, ‘and I am surprised to hear that you know it. Have you travelled in the Weather hills then, sir?’

   ‘No, I have not had that pleasure,’ the kindly stranger said with a soft bow of his head, ‘but travellers hear stories from other travellers of course, and I have wondered about our Lausa cousins for some time.’

   Hearing this, Marcoul’s older brother came and sat beside him. ‘You honour us, sir,’ Gormadoc said to the stranger, ‘for, if you will forgive me for saying it, master Bunce,’ he added looking respectfully to the other hobbit, ‘we folk have felt quite forgotten and disregarded by the Shirelings for some time.’

   Master Bunce looked surprised by this comment, and sought the eyes of his companions, who looked equally unaware. ‘The “Lausa” you say-?’ he asked, leaving the question hanging in the air between them all.

   ‘Do not feel ignorant... master Bunce, is it?’ the stranger said, looking the other hobbit over as if some new piece of a puzzle had been discovered. ‘For the Lausa have lived long in hiding and, it is sadly true, they have been forgotten by many of their kin. But disregarded? No, that would not be very hobbit-like, master Zaragamba, and not what I would make of this pleasant meeting in the fair hills. For here you are, Shirefolk all, and exploring the land together just as the King’s Agreement allows.

   ‘I had not heard that the Lausa had come to the Shire,’ he continued, with a glad smile on his face, ‘but it makes me happy. And in the South-farthing of all places? Now that is interesting! For the South, as I understand, is a beautiful land where few have chosen to settle.’

   ‘None but the Tooks, sir,’ Marcoul said.

   ‘The "Tooks?"’ the stranger asked. ‘And who might they be?’

 

*****

   The water which the ponies drank was cool and refreshing, but the attention of Sharp-ears (who had recently found herself renamed “Cinders”) kept drifting back to her new Master and his Important Guest.

   Sharp-ears had disliked her time with her former Masters, but that did not mean that she had any particular likes or dislikes of hobbit-folk in general; they were not cruel by nature, as Men often were, and they did not use harm to instill their demands as some other two-legged folk do. But the hobbits she had met so far were not Wise as she was, and they communicated their rather simplistic orders without listening to her response. This ignorance of simple discourse had fretted her greatly under her old Masters and she was happy to now be in the service of one who, if not truly Wise as she was, at least exhibited a caring nature.

   For Sharp-ears was aptly named; in her youth she had been awakened by the Elder People and so she knew the words and the language they spoke to all beasts and peoples. It is sometimes a difficult thing to be a Wise servant of simple Masters; one can find themselves owing their allegiance to people who are too naive to listen to reason. She was happier with this new Master who, if un-Wise, was at the least attentive.

   But the Stranger they had met was quite something other than Sharp-ears had ever encountered; he was a hobbit who spoke the Elder language. Now that was certainly something to capture all of their attention, but only Sharp-ears seemed to understand the significance of such a thing. The water she drank with her other pony-friends was sweet and cool, but her eyes and her sharp ears kept returning to the Stranger and her new Master. Would the Stranger travel with them for a time? Would he teach these other hobbit-folk the Elder language? Sharp-ears most certainly hoped so. But in the meantime she drank as the other ponies did and watched the campsite as she could.

   Her new Master and the Stranger sat on the grass and began to talk. She could not hear much from where she stood and eventually gave up drinking to turn away from the stream to watch all the better. In this way she could turn her sharp ears on the conversation.

   ‘Here, now!’ Sharp-ears heard the hobbit-mare say to her, ‘you should be drinking, Cinders, while the opportunity is in front of you. We will be carrying canteens west, but not water troughs. Take what you can while it is before you, girl!’

   Well-intentioned as the hobbit-mare’s command was, Sharp-ears did not obey it. She did not snap at the hobbit-mare as she might have done with her old Masters, but her attention was more focused on her new Master and the Stranger as they talked together at the campsite.

   ‘The Tooks, or the Swiftooks as we call them,’ her Master said, ‘own much of the South-farthing. The Zaragambas here, and many other of these “Lausa” hobbits as you have called them, are their kin. But I have not been to the South-farthing myself and cannot speak to what goes on there as others might.’

   ‘“Swiftook”? That is an unusual and unfriendly name for a hobbit,’ Sharp-ears heard the Stranger tell her Master. ‘I suspect there is a story behind it.’

   ‘A long and unfortunate one, I am afraid,’ her Master replied. ‘And an embarrassment to the Shirefolk which I do not readily share with newcomers to our land. It is not a story of our better nature,’ her Master said.

   ‘Well,’ the Stranger replied, ‘I will not be so ungracious a guest as to ask for such a tale, master Bunce. Thank you for your candor.

   ‘Now I have some other questions I would like to ask about the Shire,’ the Stranger continued, ‘but I do not wish to be unfair. We each meet upon our roads and the very oldest customs suggest that we should share our knowledge of the way with one another. You go west and I, or so I think, will be going east. What can I tell you about your way ahead?’

   Then there was silence. Her new Master, who might not have been so un-Wise as Sharp-ears expected, seemed to realise that he was, quite unwittingly, about to be caught in a Bargain; and a Bargain, all living creatures knew, was a precarious situation which could afford great reward or equally great devastation.

   Her ears were her best trait, but even at this distance, Sharp-ears could smell the cautiousness of this moment from both her Master and the Stranger. Everything between them stopped.

   From further away to the east Sharp-ears could see, and smell, the Men coming forward. She did not trust Men in general, but these she knew to be both dangerous and deliberate. These Men looked at hobbits and at ponies as if they were chickens in a yard; these were the kind of Men who would recklessly kill any of them for their own petty reasons.

   Now, after only watching for a time, these Men were walking toward the campsite with grim expressions on their faces. They were dangerous, and Sharp-ears and the hobbits and even all the other ponies, knew it. The weapons which they wore were not drawn, but any sensitive creature could read that there was a potential for violence in their step.

   Sharp-ears did not wholly love her new Master yet, but she cared for him and respected him for his kindness. She knew that this Stranger, who seemed equally deserving of her respect, had put her new Master into jeopardy somehow and that these Men would oppose him. She had no idea what to do about this problem but she did know that this was not a good time for a Wise pony to have her head down in a stream.

 

*****

    Gondo had learned much and more, but had to proceed with caution. How fortunate that he had found Bucklanders this far into the west! He could not have imagined such a thing and tried very hard to maintain his mask of calm curiosity rather than reveal himself. A Noakesburrow and a Bunce of all the people he might meet! Their parents, or possibly their grandparents had attended his own wedding. But how long ago? He still could not be certain. What in the world was a “Gaffer”? It might mean anything from grandfather to distant ancestor. Gondo had never heard such a term before. The Horris Bunce whom he knew when he left had no children, but a decent number of brothers. This leader of theirs was a Bunce, or so they said, but he had none of Horris’ looks. He was clearly a young adult out of his tweens, but he commanded everyone’s respect in a way that Horris had never shown. How had the Bunce’s become so lordly?

   And the name “Swiftook?” Was this some off-shoot of Twoody’s own Swiftalk family? Bunce seemed hesitant to speak of them and Gondo had been careful not to press the matter, but it still gave him very little clue as to how long he had been away.

   The accents on the Lausa were thick and foreign to his ears, just as Gondo would have expected. But these Bucklanders also had a strange way of speaking! Bunce, and his archer friend Berno, had all of the same turns to their accent as the other Bucklanders had, but they knew their speech and their courtesies better, as if they were lettered. Had Alaura’s idea of schools been responsible for this? Gondo was excited to ask, but needed to maintain his calm and get to such answers more slowly.

   ‘Now I have some other questions I would like to ask about the Shire,’ he asked cautiously, ‘but I do not wish to be unfair. We each meet upon our roads and the very oldest customs suggest that we should share our knowledge of the way with one another. You go west, you say, and I, or so I think, will be going east. What can I tell you about your way ahead?’

   And then there was a longer pause. This young master Bunce seemed to understand the old Rules of Bargain;¹⁰ he had freely given information as a host to his guest and now, in offering to return information of his own, Gondo was suggesting that they would enter into the old conditions of Bargain. Gondo had seen it done many times in his travels, but had never imagined doing so himself with a fellow hobbit.

   The younger hobbit was likewise cautious. Gondo could see that the Zaragambas and the other Bucklanders, unaware of the weight of this moment, were looking to him for a response.

   ‘Oh, he is well-respected, and long in his consideration,’ Gondo thought. ‘Horris, if this is your son he does you proud.’

   ‘Yes. I see,’ master Bunce replied calmly. As he did so his eyes swung slightly right and behind Gondo, as if to warn him of an impending threat.

   There was no need. Gondo had heard the warriors leave their distant post and come walking forward. He had very consciously put his back to them when he first sat so they would have less chance of hearing his words as he spoke to the other hobbits. But now he could hear them loudly and incautiously stamping forward to join the conversation. Gondo, who knew better than most how dangerous Men like these could be, let them come.

   ‘So, master Bunce, what may I tell you of the way ahead?’ he asked the younger hobbit.

 

*****

   Drowsy with contentment as they drank from the cool stream, the heads of the three Zaragamba ponies suddenly snapped up as they sensed danger in the air. Just like their Masters, the three ponies had foaled together and a deep trust lay between them. Travaldo was eldest and swiftest of the three, and he quickly turned his body toward the potential violence. Ahead of him the kind Hobbit-mare and their new friend Sharp-ears were already leaving the stream and walking back to the campsite. Beside him his sisters, Cluster and Hum, awaited his advice on what to do.

   The three ponies were not Wise like their haughty new friend Sharp-ears was; they did not understand the conversations of their Masters beyond the few words which brought them rewards. They had learned their names from their Masters and they knew some words which related to their tasks, but mostly the ponies considered the constant chatter of people who go on two legs to be nothing more than a dissonant interruption of the Music of the World around them; they tolerated it and took from it only those few words which they needed to do their work and earn their rewards. Most ponies, in their own aloof way, pitied their Masters for their incessant need to fill the World with such noises as words.

   But all ponies who work among two-legged Masters have learned to carefully listen to the tone of such noises and to smell the change in the air when violence was near. Travaldo, Hum and Cluster all raised their heads to the unmistakable scent of the potential threat of violence.

   Sharp-ears and the Hobbit-mare seemed to have smelled it too, but they behaved very differently. They walked toward the campsite and toward the danger. They denied the Common Sense of most creatures and walked forward into the smell of potential violence. Travaldo wondered at that. He believed, as most ponies do, that any creature can smell a storm and there are few but the old and the mad who would go willingly into it. Travaldo watched and sniffed at the air and wondered. His Master was there among the danger and Travaldo loved his Master, but he also loved his sisters. He did not wish to return to the campsite, but neither would he call for them all to flee. From the distance he wondered again about Sharp-ears and her ways; haughty she seemed, but willing to walk into danger for a Master she had known for only hours.

   Bravery is not uncharacteristic in ponies, but they have no expression for it in their own language. They much prefer the exercise of Common Sense for all circumstances and do not seek situations which call for any other response. But ponies, even those who are not Wise, can identify this unusual trait in one another when they see it and, like most living creatures, they find Bravery to be both stupid and admirable.

   Travaldo whisked his tail and threw his head back to tell his sisters to wait, to stand and to watch here by the cool stream. None of them knew the best way forward and they were now in strange lands. Hum and Cluster and he might find their way back to Waymeet if their Masters should die. If violence should come then, Travaldo told them with a stomp and a neigh and a turn, then they should run swiftly away.

   Then Travaldo looked at Sharp-ears and the Hobbit-mare, and now Cluster’s own Master, walking boldly forward towards the threat of violence.

   He flicked his tail, stamped his right foot, threw his head back with a proud call, and went out to join his Master and the others.

 

*****

   ‘Oh, I don’t think we will be looking for any further advice in how to move forward, little traveller,’ Zelik said, quite loudly as he approached the seated hobbits. ‘Indeed, if you are looking for your own way east, well, I might suggest that the Road opposite of the setting sun should be more to your liking.’

   The brash and “princely” hobbit did not flinch nor turn as the warriors came up behind him, and this irritated Zelik all the more.

   ‘Roads may offer speed but provide few insights,’ the stranger said without turning and still looking into Bunce’s eyes. ‘But travellers who meet in out of the way places may sometimes offer one another aid.’

   The Map-maker did not respond, but Zelik could see him considering this peculiar comment.

   ‘Well,’ Zelik said, as he came around the seated hobbits to look into the new-comer’s face. He did not like what he saw.

   Being an experienced campaigner, Zelik first took note of the miniature sword and walking stick the hobbit had placed before himself. He did so as quickly as possible for, as he had expected even from a great distance, the sword which lay in the grass was indeed a princely work; the tooled surface of its scabbard carried runes upon it which Zelik could not read and, though it had no other adornments, the hide itself was of a peculiar colour and the leatherwork as fine as any that he had ever seen. The furniture of the sword’s hilt was also quite fine; the guard was made of coiled iron which formed two wide loops around the ricasso and extended down into a light quillion there to trap blades and then up to a knuckle bow which adjoined the pommel. The grip was wrapped with leather of the same soft grey colour as the scabbard and fit specifically to the small size of a hobbit’s- this hobbit’s- hand. It was a fine sword, no matter the scale, and in some cities that Zelik knew of such a sword might fetch a price greater than he and Amram were being paid for this whole past year of their wretched service here in the Shire. A princely thing, just as Zelik had suggested to his friend but now, upon seeing it, more alarming was the very fact that this was not a sword of decoration or ceremony; it was a finely-wrought but practical weapon clearly made to fit the small hands of this potentially dangerous stranger.

   ‘And he lays it in front of his host like a general at a parlay,’ Zelik thought darkly. He had seen the great captains of Gondor in the south sit in this way, legs folded beneath them and their swords presented just such,¹¹ while they passed their judgements on allies and prisoners alike. ‘How has a Shire-hobbit come to find such customs and learn such arrogance? First we see the uncanny skill of that bowman, and now there is this unwanted guest. I dislike this errand more and more,’ he thought to himself and shared that thought with his friend Amram in a familiar and knowing glance. Accustomed to these unexpected dangers as the two were, Amram had walked left around the seated hobbits as Zelik himself walked right. They took up positions of watchfulness together, but Amram, on unspoken cue, made sure that he was within a lethal arm’s reach of that talented little bowman.

   ‘Well,’ Zelik said, standing hard by Bunce’s right arm and looking down on the new-comer, ‘we have now found another delay for food and gossip. Perhaps, master Bunce, this new friend of yours can suggest a good publichouse nearby and we can all go there and forget whatever purpose we had in coming this far. If you wish to aid us then tell me, master, what is your name and where can my companions here find better than rabbit stew for their always-hungry mouths and better than grass and rocks on which to lay their furry feet and heads? I worry that they miss such luxuries as I am sure you do.’

   His plan was to actively goad this little hobbit princeling; no matter the quality of the hobbit’s sword Zelik trusted the resourcefulness of his own. If he could intimidate this little prince (and intimidation had been the only martial skill he had employed thus far with these folk) into leaving all the better. Killing him would be the easier, and most relaxing, solution of course. ‘Perhaps,’ Zelik thought to himself, ‘the rare hobbit who wields such a rare sword could be goaded by pride into my easier solution.’

   The hobbit glanced up to meet Zelik’s face for the first time. ‘Give me your name, longshanks, and I will give you mine and more besides,’¹² he said. And then, with the utmost arrogance, he looked away dismissively. ‘But, master Bunce here, my host,’ he continued, looking back to the other annoying hobbit who sat to attend him, ‘tells me that you are errand-runners for his client and not part of his company. That may explain your impertinent interruption but does not make you part of our conversation.’

   ‘Impertinent!’ Zelik found himself saying as he drew back in surprise at the arrogance of this little princeling. He felt his legs square in their stance and his hand ready to draw his sword. ‘The plan of goading this little hobbit might not be working,’ he thought to himself, ‘for I seem to be the one that is goaded.’ Still, a confrontation would most readily solve the problem and let Bunce and these other upstart hobbits know their place. Zelik would not let himself be the one to draw first of course, there was no honour in that, but he would happily kill this little nuisance and take that lovely sword of his in doing so.

   But the little princeling made no move toward his own blade nor did he even look up to meet Zelig’s eyes again. He sat there calmly on the grass and, as the moment stretched out among them all, and his eyes seemed to move around to the other hobbits present, reading their fear.

   ‘Impertinent, you would call me?’ Zelik said again, as if it was some kind of challenge.

   ‘Master Bunce,’ the stranger finally said, the calm smile returning to his face. ‘I thank you for that wonderful wine we hobbits have shared and I am sorry to hear that there is no more. I certainly would agree with Berno here that I would rather set my toes afire than share such a marvellous thing with an unwelcome guest,’ and here his head seemed to gently indicate Zelik rather than look at him. ‘I thank you for that honour. Will you allow me to return it in kind? Berno, might you rinse and bring me the cups?’

 

*****

   Gormadoc Zaragamba felt in mortal peril during this whole time for, as the eldest of the three brothers, he knew more about these dangerous Big Folk than anyone else present. Not seven hours ago he had been called to the young Took’s tent where, though he had seen these Men often enough, Gormadoc had the very specific displeasure of meeting them for the first time.

   ‘Gormadoc, good of you to come,’ the Young Took had said, ‘please sit with me.’

   The Young Took’s tent itself was big and dark; not a comfortable place for hobbits at all. The hobbits of Waymeet shied away from it and treated it as an unwelcome centre of their developing town. Its high oilcloth ceiling and tall flapdoors showed it to be a Man-sized construction and Gordo and his brothers could not imagine why the young Took, who had been in Waymeet for months now, had not chosen to make a nice little hole for himself in some hillside as many other of the Lausa here were hoping to do. The tent was large, much bigger than all the other upright buildings in Waymeet, but it smelled old and foosty¹³ and looked drab and cheerless from the outside. It was imposing in its way, but from outer appearances seemed hardly a palace and much less comfortable looking than a good old-fashioned hole. Gordo had never been inside it before and had never spoken with any other hobbit who had. Those who had been invited in the past (and they were rumoured to be few) rather quickly went on their way right after; running tasks for the Young Took it was said, but disappearing from the Waymeet thereafter. Being “called to the tent” was a saying among the hobbits of Waymeet which carried a very dubious honour.

   Gordo was quite surprised to find that the insides of this warlike tent were rather comfortably furnished. There was a small stove near its centre, unlit now in the summer, and in one back corner Gordo had seen a very fine-looking four poster bed. In another corner there was a small dinner table, with three hobbit-sized chairs, and a kitchen pantry. Here Gordo had seen fruitbowls, small but filled, jars of cream and hooks of curing meats; all of which were dainties not readily available in the shops of Waymeet. There had been elaborate salt vessels, tubs of jams and butter, bottles of wine, a small rack of dinnerware and a collection of cups finely crafted in clay or silver. If the dingy outside of the tent had suggested a kind of austerity for the Young Took among the Zaragambas and their neighbours then the comfortable settings in the rear of the tent belied this notion. The exterior of the tent kept the hobbits of Waymeet away and the interior revealed that the Young Took was very comfortable and content with that arrangement.

   But if there was comfort in the rear of this place then the front of the tent, Gordo had also discovered, was all about business.

   There the Young Took was seated at a small and simple wooden chair before a low table. Another chair had been brought to this table, but even Gordo could see that it matched those of the dinner table and was added here only for such a rare occasion as the welcoming of a guest. The table itself was lit by a small hanging chandelier and, even in the late morning, all of the room's light seemed focused around this place. There had been a cup of wine in the Young Took’s hand as Gordo entered, but the hobbit continued to stare intently at the table before him while ushering in his guest with a gesture.

   Behind his host, resting on a stand all its own, Gordo had seen the legendary symbol of the Young Took’s office. Many of the Lausa had discussed this artifact among themselves but few had ever seen it. Gordo saw it then and marvelled at its power. Undrawn, its slightly curved scabbard pointing upward as if to revolt against oppressors, there was the Dragonsword¹⁴ of Priamus Swiftwalk.

   The Lausa do not carry weapons. For many generations living in dangerous lands their survival and their pride had been based upon their cunning and their wariness. Over one hundred years ago, as the older Lausa tell it, Priamus the Bold led thirty-five score of hobbits through the Weather Hills in search of a land which they might call their own. He had come out of the East, they said, through the great Darkening Forest and across a Great River and through mountains populated by trolls and giants and goblins. And all that way Priamus carried with him the Dragonsword, pointing with it to lead his people into the peaceful West.

   These legends also say that Priamus and all of his folk had come to the Weather hills and bid all of their cousins there to join them in their march toward a peaceful land. And many of the Lausa did indeed follow; for a hobbit, like any creature, can only live so long in hiding before the idea of escape, and the leadership of a sword, may inspire them to action. Many of the Lausa of Gordo’s grandfather's generation left the Weather hills to join with Priamus and so were taken to a new life in the Bree-land.

   And so the Dragonsword had remained legendary among the generations of the Lausa who did not go, those who remained in their old warrens beneath the Weather hills. They listened for rumours of the success of their bolder relatives and many waited to be drawn west again. The war between the Big Folk and the forces of Angmar had slowed in those years and there were many Lausa, Gordo’s own father among them, who wished they had gone forth with the others and followed the Dragonsword.

   For all the Free-people of the North, Hobbits and Big Folk alike, hope had always lay in the West.

   When the Young Took returned to the hills with this same sword a dozen years ago he used it to rally the Zaragambas and the other great families behind him, leading them into the peaceful lands of the Shire. The sword had become a symbol of peace that all of the younger generation of the Lausa had learned to follow. Now Gordo saw it resting there behind the Young Took, an emblem of his authority, which all the Zaragambas, Gordo, his fathers, uncles, aunts and his many brothers and sisters, had come to respect.

   ‘Sit beside me, cousin,’ the Young Took had said to Gormadoc in the tent earlier that day. ‘Here. I have something to show you.’

   Gordo had been cautious; he did not know why he had been called or what the Young Took might have wanted. He was the first of his brothers or cousins to be “called to the tent” and he found the young Took’s casualness to be surprising.

   ‘Would you care for some wine?’ the Young Took had asked. ‘It is still very early in the day, I know, but I like a glass or two myself when examining serious matters.’ At this comment the Young Took had risen and poured wine into a ceramic cup for Gordo. ‘Thank you, sir,’ Gordo had said, not entirely sure of how he should address his worthy cousin. ‘You honour me.’

   ‘No no,’ the Young Took had said, ‘I am not some flatterer to honour a person more than their worth, cousin. And I find that today your own worthiness and the desires of you and your brothers will be very important to our mission here in the Shire.’

   Gordo had taken a sip of the wine he had been offered, a bit befuddled by the Young Took’s response, not wishing to seem ingracious, and hoping that he would explain further.

   ‘We have a rare opportunity at the moment, you see,’ the Young Took continued, ‘to register our claim to the western edge of the Shire. The son of Horris Bunce, who, I am sure you know has been no friend to our family, has wandered west to make maps for his father. It seems that the Bucklanders wish to lay claim to these western lands before we can and I have been instructed by my father to ensure that this does not happen.’

   The Young Took had leaned in closer as he spoke and Gordo had listened very closely. ‘But,’ the Took continued, ‘the son of Firebrand Bunce has himself gone off unprepared; he is here in Waymeet asking for my help with supplies. And he shall have it. And so, in return, shall you and your brothers as well.

   ‘Zelik!’ the Took had called out suddenly, looking past Gordo’s shoulder.

   From the rear of the tent, perhaps through another door which had not been noticed, the two big soldiers had come silently forward, startling Gordo so that he spilled some of his wine.

   ‘Hah!’ the Young Took had laughed. ‘Don’t worry about them, cousin. They’re here for your protection and mine. Zelik, Amram, please join us,’ he had said. The tall lean-muscled Man had then knelt himself down beside the table (there being no Man-sized chairs present) as the Took rolled open a large piece of old leather. The other soldier, the one with arms like wine barrels and a head as bald as an egg, had taken up a position standing near the front of the tent. From his belt there hung a blackened metal bludgeon, its dark head nearly as large as Gormadoc’s own.

   As he put weights down the edges of the unrolled document the Young Took had begun to explain his plans. ‘Zelik, I should like you and Amram to accompany my cousins on this little map-making excursion. We will want Bunce and his friends to measure three parcels for registry. He will believe that these are for farms and homesteads, but you will take note of other conditions which might make them attractive to our needs and ensure that they are appropriate in size. Now look here, both of you.’

   The Young Took had then pointed to the piece of leather which he had so carefully unrolled on the table before them. Gormadoc was not lettered of course, but he had seen letters and documents enough to recognize them. This was something else like he had never seen; there were unusual marks of all sorts made across the surface and a number of long lines which seemed to divide certain areas. And there were colours too which seemed dyed into the leather; golds and reds and greens and deep browns which did not seem to have any logical placement. This was the first map Gormadoc had ever seen and he would never again see another like it.¹⁵

   ‘Now the map shows us that the second line of hills ends here along the Great Road. The Delvings are here,’ the Took had said, repositioning his finger, ‘along the eastern side of the first line; the Chalk hills they call it, not far west of our current placement.’ Here he repositioned his finger. ‘If that farther line of hills is the Shire’s border as we currently claim it, then that’s where we must put our next settlement. The old road from ford goes past the southern edge of these hills at Nobottle, where Gormadoc and his family have been living,’ he said, drawing the line with his finger. ‘On to who knows where beyond. Those ancient towers, perhaps.’

   ‘If those towers do yet stand,’ Zelik had added off-handedly, ‘or if they ever did.’

   ‘Yes,’ the Took had replied, ‘that is beyond our reports. But we’ll see about that in due time and, if I am correct, you may be the first travellers to confirm them. It is reported that the southern side of the area is heavily wooded, but there should be good spots for farming and irrigation on the northern side of the Road. And we’ll want to control that strip along both sides.’

   ‘I am sorry, cousin,’ Gormadoc had asked, ‘but what does all of this have to do with me?’

   If poor Gormadoc was in dreadful fear of the current situation they were in it was because, apart from these very dangerous soldiers, he was the only one who knew some of what the Young Took had planned. Master Bunce and his friends (who seemed to be very gracious hobbits for Northerners) were to map the lands so that the Zaragamba brothers could register them in the Buckland; for all hobbits had equal rights to settle the land, or so it was said, and no Bucklander could gainsay them that right under the king. They might try to refute the maps made by the Tooks themselves, but they would not dispute maps drawn by the son of Horris Bunce. Once the land was registered, the Young Took told Gormadoc, then he and his brothers and all of their clan could expand and populate it freely, having all of the provisions and help which they might need with their building and, by years end, the Young Took told him, neighbours enough to build a whole town. In this way the Zaragambas were to be the first settlers on the western edge of the Shire and, by Gormadoc’s understanding at the time, that seemed a very proud and important thing to be.

   ‘We can have them draw these maps, of course,’ Zelik said to the Young Took, ‘and we can have one of these cousins of yours deliver the maps to the Buckland for registry. It is quite a boring task you set my friend and I to oversee, but it suits us better than being guardians of this mudhole of a town.

   ‘But tell me, master Took,’ the man had asked with a sneering look on his face, ‘What is to happen to master Bunce and his friends after the maps are made? Do you mean to let them go free into the west about their business when it seems to compete with your own?’

   Whatever orders the Young Took may have given were not said during that moment together in the tent and Gormadoc had never asked. Instead the talk turned to the logistics of what the Zaragambas would need in this faraway place and what they should take for the next few days. They talked of wagons and provisions and when they might freely declare their intentions to settle the far western edge. When the other Zaragambas might come and what they might need. Nothing was said during this talk of the Bucklanders or if they were to help them in their enterprise after the maps were made in the next few days.

   But Gordo had seen how the arguments had gone between master Bunce and their escort and he did not think things would go well once the job was done. No Lausa, other than the Tooks that is, had any trust for the Big Folk and, thankfully, never had much reason to meet them. But all hobbits, Lausa and Bucklanders alike, could smell danger when it was in the air. Gordo had smelled it there in the tent on these two Men and he smelled it again now.

   Now this stranger had come, wearing a sword of his own no less, and had made matters much the worse.

   ‘Master Bunce,’ the stranger said calmly, ‘I thank you for that wonderful wine we hobbits have shared and I am sorry to hear that there is no more. I certainly would agree with your friend Berno here that I would rather set my toes afire than share such a marvellous thing with an unwelcome guest.’ He paused for a moment and Gordo felt the insult register on Zelik. ‘I thank you for that honour,’ he said, turning back to master Bunce. ‘ Will you allow me to return it in kind? Berno, might you rinse and bring me the cups?’

 

*****

   Berty wondered how long this would go on or what, if anything, he might do about it. The whole of his Plans, some very long thought out and others very hastily decided, had led him and his friends into what seemed to be a deadly predicament; and endangering his friends was something he had never meant to do. What had begun as a pleasant prank to be played on black sheep cousins had, within six or seven short hours, turned into an adventure which he now believed might get them all killed. ‘For those Men are surely more than just thugs,’ Berty knew from the first meeting, ‘and may have planned to kill us right from the start.’ Berty had not had the chance to tell Bovo (the real Bovo) this when they were talking by the little stream, but he had started piecing the Plans of Reginard Swiftook together and did not like the conclusions.

   But then, while they were at the little stream and as Berty had hoped to share his own idea of the trouble they were in, up from out of nowhere came this stranger and his sword. And Theudebert Youngbuck, like his legendary father before him (and that of many of his descendants who would come after), was one to easily change a plan once a better opportunity came along.

   ‘I will meet this intrepid stranger and invite him into our camp,’ Berty had thought upon seeing him come down the hillside. ‘Maybe he will have some answers which might help us out of this predicament.’

   But now this very same stranger, master Undundol, seemingly careless of the danger, was pushing them deeper into trouble.

   ‘I thank you for that honour,’ he was saying while casually insulting the two warriors. ‘Will you allow me to return it in kind? Berno, might you rinse and bring me the cups?’

   ‘Yes. Certainly,’ Berty heard Bovo say from over his shoulder. As he rose to fetch them from the other hobbits Berty noticed that the big warrior, the bald one with the heavy black mace, moved with him and stood between Bovo and his bow.

   ‘Do you think that offering my comrade and I a tiny sip of wine will restore goodwill, little traveller?’ Berty heard Zelik say from beside him. Master Undundol looked quite unphased by the hinted challenge and, still sitting comfortably on the grass, opened his travelling cloak slowly and drew forth his haversack.

   ‘I have travelled far in the Northlands and even further to the south, master Bunce,’ Undundol said, seeming to ignore the soldier, ‘and I have met many wellspoken people who meant ill and many others of rough speech who showed me great kindness. I am glad to say that I have never yet met a hobbit who wasn’t worth my liking. And here,’ he said, nodding his head past Berty’s own in the direction of the stream, ‘here come two more worthies with two intrepid ponies. Suilad!’

   Berty turned to look behind him and saw his new friend Cinders kick his back hooves and lower his head with a snort as if he understood the strange speech of his guest. Just behind came Gilley and the younger Zaragamba brother, Olo. Behind, and at a safe distance came one of the other ponies. Beside him Berty could feel Zelik square his posture so as not to leave his back unguarded. ‘Come and sit with us, friends,’ he heard Undundol say, ‘all is well, despite the bluster, and I’ve a gift to share in our chance meeting.’

   Bovo returned with eight cups as Gilley and Olo sat beside them. There were now eight hobbits sitting more or less in a small circle and the two large warriors standing beside them looking uncertain. It seemed to be dawning on everyone that this calm little stranger was somehow beguiling them by foreign and unusual ways.

   ‘We want none of your gifts, halfling,’ Berty heard Zelik say, his voice now somehow less than confident. ‘I don’t care what these other Shirelings have said, but I do not want you here and you are not invited.’

   ‘And you, longshanks, just as I have said, are not part of our conversation,’ Undundol replied, looking up coldly at the soldier, ‘and I will thank you to not interrupt it again.’

   Berty saw Zelik’s face struggling; his eyes twitched and his mouth turned in jerking motions as if he was trying to remember how he should act. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, but his fingers danced over it as if he had forgotten how to grasp it. Looking to the other soldier, Amram, Berty could see that he had stopped paying attention altogether and stood with his shoulders stooped and his gaze, unfocused, was directed at the western mountains.

   ‘Master,’ Berty heard Gilley ask, ‘who are you?’

   Undundol smiled and set the eight recovered cups on the grass before him. Berty could do nothing but watch as he then took a small winesack from his bag and, opening it slowly and with great reverence, began to pour a golden liquid into the cups. ‘I am a hobbit just as you, young one,’ he said, ‘though I have travelled further than most and seen more than any other hobbits whom I’ve ever met. And today, through chance, I’ve come as a friend that we might exchange gifts.’

   As the liqueur fell into the cups there was a smell that came up which Berty and the others had never encountered before; not a pungent or savoury smell like most of the ales or wines popular with the Shirefolk, but something much more, well, wholesome and refreshing he might call it, as if all the smells of springtime had been held in that small winesack and were just waiting to burst forth. For a moment Berty felt as if the flavour of the aroma had awakened some memory of high towered cities and still waters which he had never seen or known before. Looking forward to master Undundol, Berty saw the eastern sky behind the hobbit dissolve into a charcoal drawing of a dark night fixed with stars.¹⁶

   The stranger leaned forward and passed the cups into the hands of each of the hobbits. Sitting back down he raised his own saying;

   ‘Av-’yosto, i pheriain. Tolo ar nin.’¹⁷

 

*****

   And they all drank together and their troubles went away. For a time.

 

end chapter eight

---

Chapter End Notes

Notes (08/09/2024)

1)  These names, and their titles, are a reference to Michael Chabon’s 2007 novel, “Gentlemen of the Road.” When I first added them to the scene a few chapters back I had Michael Moorcock’s Fahfird and the Grey Mouser in mind, but those characters are really just a distant memory to me now. Chabon’s book, which I haven’t read since its release, is a closer model for what I had in mind, even though the characters themselves are entirely different.

2)  ”Cony” is an English slang term for rabbit and such a Tolkienian word that I had to find a way to fit it in here somehow. The idea to make a stew comes from Sam in LoTR.

3)  This is a strange tongue to these poor hobbits but it is, of course, the Sindarin common meeting; “well met”.

4)  “Undundol” is an adaptation of a name Gondo may have earned in his travels with the elves. “Dol” is the Sindarin word for hill and “undun” the prefix “under the”, therefore spoken in Sindarin to mean “underhill”. Readers of LoTR will of course recognize the name “Underhill” which Frodo used in his travels. I’d like to suggest that Gandalf knew or perhaps met Gondo and therefore chose that name to give Frodo. “Hincbert” is, of course, a credit Gondo gives to Twoody’s father Hincmar, who was like a father to him. “Bert” being a diminutive suffix for a male hobbit as in “Theudebert”.

5)  A rather sudden decision was made to make these two characters come from the Dunland far south of the Shire. As I said in the note above, I modeled these characters a bit off of Chabon’s “Gentlemen of the Road” which had the working title of “Jews with Swords” for some time. The Dunlander’s seem to have had a wide bit of land to themselves before it was given to the Rohirrim and I thought that might be a good echo for the lost Jewish empire of Chabon’s novel. By the time of LoTR “Dunlendings” would be the more proper term for these people, but that term comes from the Rohirrim and not themselves.

6)  In a second draft, after finally getting a solid handle on the many hanging threads of the story, I decided that the Lausa needed more development and this chapter was one of the few places in which I might manage it. This little Easter Egg of the “Prince of a Thousand Enemies” comes from a book I have quoted too little in this novel, Richard Adams “Watership Down”. In many ways that is the most perfect ideal of what a book about hobbits should be.

7)  For many years in my reading of LoTR I was unclear about the word “Gaffer’” and whether Gaffer Gamgee was Sam’s father or grandfather. The idea that this term might’ve been introduced while Gondo was away puts him in the same unexplained space. It’s such a great, such a hobbitish word that I need to bring it into this book.

8)  A Sindarin toast. This translates to “until the time comes” and is often used as a parting, but I like it here in reference to what Bovo says about “setting his toes on fire”.

9)  Okay, kind of a long time coming, but here’s what’s up with this odd sounding name. Sources say that “Zaragamba” was the original hobbitish name of the Oldbuck line, being changed to “Brandagamba” when Gorehendad crossed the Brandywine in Year 740 of the Shire-reckoning. When I first started this book I toyed with the usage of hobbitish names but, realising that there were far too few to choose from for so many characters, relented and began defaulting to the Anglicized versions more familiar to readers. But I always wanted to use the Zaragamba name and so, when I needed to create some characters who came from the older “Lausa-hobbits”, using it here seemed perfect. It is an Easter Egg, pure and simple; Gondo’s recognition of it is meant to give a hint to the idea that he knows more of the real history of LoTR than most of us do.

10)  This “Rules of Bargain” custom is an invention of my own that I use a bit in The Fall of Arnor. It has some of its origin in the Riddle Game that Bilbo and Gollum play, but is more of a condition of what travellers might owe to one another in meeting and parlay. It may have some original context in Medieval manners, but I’m mostly making it up for my own stories; a code of conduct which is mystically binding. We will learn more of it in the next chapter.

11)  The connection here is that the Gondorian captains who Zelig has dealt with in the past learned this custom from the same place Gondo has; the Elves.

12)  This is a reference to Gimli’s first conversation with Eomer in LoTR.

13)  “Foosty” is an Ulster-Scots word meaning mouldy-smelling or mildewy. It seems a very appropriate word for a hobbit to use. On a recent edit I find that I use it more than once in this novel.

14)  I have mentioned Priamus’ sword more than a few times in this narrative, but more of it will be found in Book Three of The Fall of Arnor. The grip of this sword may be made of Dragon bone.

15)  This map will very likely never surfac eagain; there isn’t time nor place within this story fo rit. But where the Swiftooks would’ve gotten such a map will cast a longer shadow through my work in The Fall of Arnor.

16)  The description of first encountering this aroma is cribbed from my own first chapter of The Fall of Arnor. This is to suggest that the drink might be miruvor, a draught made by the Elves of Rivendell. Obviously there are elements here which are specific to Berty’s point of view.

17)  “Av-’yosto, i pheriain. Tolo ar nin.” means “do not be afraid, hobbits. Come with me.”