The world was at such peace in the forest as little John had never known it
to be. Compared to living in the harsh dry climate of South Africa most of
his life this place was so strange, new, and yet beautiful in a way that
filled his heart and replenished his soul. The trees were like tall grey
pillars reaching up to embrace the sky, unfolding their golden leaves in a
blanket protecting the young seedlings from the harsh sun. John's feet
shuffled through the carpet of leaves and the smell of life filled the air
like a new spring of a new age. John hopped onto a stone from being knee
deep in leaves and looked out on the ocean of foliage open up before him.
He dug his hands deep into the fertile mulch and pushed it away from the
ground revealing the blackest top soil he'd ever seen. It was so fresh and
pulsing with life as he felt it embrace and tingle his tiny fingers. There
sprouted a tiny green shoot, so young, and small, and vulnerable. Thus was
the beginning of the new age. He felt it all around him, something was
bursting to life. But also something was dying and John tore his hands out
of the soil.
The trees sang a lament for a lost age as their leaves rustled in the murmuring wind. John closed his eyes and pictured these woods as they were thousands of years before. He saw them as flat land with no trees growing by the fate of the earth but he saw little people going to and fro the murdered planes that once held tall strong trees, wide and old. But they were destroyed by a dark will and an evil power. He saw the dead and burnt remains of the first born trees that were planted there in the making of the world. These little people were a strange and curious race. But John felt their love for the earth as if it radiated out of their small bodies, right from the heart. They bent under the harsh sun and plowed, toiled, and planted. John stood, lost in the dream world, but he felt like a ghost in the real world. He walked from person to person who took no notice to his presence. Then John heard a voice and spun around to see two of the men talking but unaware of his presence.
"Sam, what have you got there?"
John's eyes fell on the other man. He looked up, big mournful eyes fell on him yet saw through him. "I've got to do this myself, if you get my meanin`. This little box may be the thing to save the Shire."
"You better get started then."
The one called Sam let out a long sigh, "We've got a lot of work ahead of us."
John walked forward until he was standing straight in front of "Sam" and staring into his eyes. He then looked down to see what Sam's brown hands cradled so lovingly. It was a small box, the lid was open and inside was some soft grey silt. Fine as silk and yet it held a great power. John's eyes sparkled in amazement.
These people were a small folk, John observed. The eldest of them were just about his height and being six years in age himself, even John knew that that was too small for grown men. John's eyes caught their furry feet and one thousand questions ran through his mind. So fast that reality soon took him and he was back in the tall forest.
John blinked and the sun hurt his eyes. He stepped into the shade of one of the tall trees. He leaned heavily on it, remembering seeing it planted in his dream. But was this a dream? John wasn't sure and he traveled on through the forest.
How had he gotten there? It was indeed strange that he should just happen to come upon this tranquil place from whence he came. John stopped in his tracks, where was he going? He pried at his memory. He could remember returning to his home, leaving his father in South Africa and going back home with his mama and little brother. He could remember his warm bed and-
The woods suddenly ended. John stumbled out, dazed and confused as he looked out on the dead landscape before him. What had become of this land? The world was dead but he saw it alive, the dream was so real, he could still see the deep brown eyes of Sam looking out on the destruction and resigning to his duties. He had planted a forest! One so little had done all that. John thought of this Sam fellow with great reverence. But now what had become of Sam and all of his people. John swallowed around a lump in his throat and trudged on.
Now before him rolled hills and planes that had been abandoned by all life thousands of years ago. The sky was grey and the sun burned down white and still giving no color to the dead grass and withered plants. John's feet found a road and he began his journey. He heard a song on the wind once sang with joy now sounded mournful.
Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day may come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the moon East of the sun
John felt his little heart quiver but with fear or simple curious excitement his innocent mind could not tell. The road was just dust under his feet yet he could picture the pony driven carts pulling fresh vegetables and fruits just plucked from the fields. There was a mill and the party tree in the center of a great large field often used for celebrations and festivals of the jovial little people. John felt a smile tug at his lips but also a tear trickle down his cheek. They were gone. Long ago, they had gone, for their age was over. John sat on a stone and cried.
He felt he had been there for ages, the images burning in his mind. Suddenly a hand was upon his shoulder and John winced. He looked at the hand and to his surprise he only saw four fingers. John looked up, his eyes wide with fear.
Looking down at him was the kind face and strange blue eyes of yet another little man. John caught his words in his mouth. He had been seen! But how? John was stammering over his first sentence as the other man sat down and laughed at the young boy.
They were the same height, John perhaps a little taller, but this man was much older, and wise, and very- mysterious. John could not help but feel afraid. "How- how do you do- sir?" John tried his very best to sound respectful.
The man laughed, "How do you do, stranger?"
John could spit out no more words. He found himself gaping at the man. Those blue eyes were staring out at the others as they went about their work, not quite noticing the pair sitting on the stone.
It was the strange man that spoke first, "You are not from around here."
"No, sir."
"How did you get here?'
"I don't know, sir."
They were silent for a while longer. John braved to speak again, but being bold enough to ask all the questions that ran rampant in his mind was true madness. "Where is this?"
"You are in the Shire."
"Who are you?"
The man looked at him, his eyes deep and his mind contemplating something he would not let to be known. "I have a favor to ask of you."
"What sir?"
"Will you tell our story? Don't let them ever forget? Even after my people are gone."
"Sir?"
"You'll understand in time." With that the strange man stood and went off briskly. He was just a figure in the distance when he turned his head, his attention caught by another. And there John saw Sam, working deep in the soil. Sam stood and nodded his head as the strange man spoke to him. John could barely catch their movements but when the man had finished he turned and went back up the hill, disappearing into the distance. Sam stared after him a moment, scratched his head, then went back to work.
John stood abruptly almost knocking into one of the passing carts that, of course, could not see him. He spun around and fell on his behind as the cart passed swiftly. When John turned around he was back in dark reality. The small people were gone, Sam was no longer toiling in the soil and where he sat great tall trees now occupied. The strange man vanished. John stood and rubbed his eyes yet the visions no longer returned.
The road stretched out under his feet as he trudged on. He came to a sign that now lay burried in the dust. He stepped on the brittle, old wood with a crunch and lifted both pieces. He put them together and blew away the dust. In neat block letters it read, Bagshot Row.
John sighed and looked up. He had traveled on a while until his feet demanded rest once more. The hills rolled before him but there was nothing to break the monotony. He stopped and leaned against the hill, but he felt something other than the dead grass and loose dirt. He felt wood. He turned and pushed away the overgrown weeds and dead vines. He dug his fingers into the sharp and brittle stems and tore them away. There revealed a door. A round door. On it the number three was plainly written. He put his hand to the knob in the center of the door and tried to pull it open resulting in him falling back and the door with him. It cracked and broke on top of him and he scrambled to his feet.
John felt a pang of guilt at destroying the door but when he looked inside he could see what once were small rooms but he could make nothing of them now. This was a home, thousands of years ago. But now it was destroyed and mostly caved in. There were fallen pillars that held the house together and dirt filled the rooms. The floor boards were water logged and bent, cracking and broken. He saw on the floor something that was abandoned by the fleeing people. A trowel. This was a family of farmers.
John picked up the trowel and ran his fingers along it. Bored with it he tossed it to the ground and stepped away from the destroyed home. These were a people that lived in the hills. John's eyes sought where the road led and his feet complied. Weary and now covered in dust he continued. Something pressed the young boy forward and the visions were so real.
When he reached the top of the hill John was met by a broken gate. He put a hand on the gate and gingerly squeaked it open. This was too much effort for the age old hinges and they gave way. The gate fell to the ground with a clatter, John squeezed his eyes shut, cursing the noise. He stepped forward, every step was slow and gentle. Around him were once the finest gardens of all the land. And once again his visions returned, he saw Sam bent over them toiling with such love. Touching every flower so gently with such care. His face lit up as he did the work he so loved. Everything came alive again. The flowers bloomed and the leaves spread out to take in the sun. Under Sam's hand the flowers bloomed and blossomed, strong and proud. The air was filled with the sweet sent of spring and the sun lit up pouring its golden light throughout the garden. John opened his eyes. He found himself standing on the steps leading to yet another round door. The flowers withered and the stems shrivelled. The leaves turned black and then to dust. The roots pulled up and crumpled and Sam disappeared, his happy humming lingered with the fresh floral scent in the air. Two clean trails of tears were the only white stripes left on John's dust covered face. He cried for the people that were no more.
He put a hand on the doorknob but was hesitant. Slowly, very slowly, he turned it and the door opened with a slight squeak. He only opened it a crack and slipped in so that he would disturb very little. Nothing had collapsed in this home. John looked up and the ceiling was only half an inch above his head. He looked about but very little was left in the home. There were walls and the ceiling and the floorboards. Not even furniture was left. These people left this land long before it was destroyed. John sighed, at least they were not here when it was, but what drove them to leave? John wiped some tears with his filthy sleeve and continued through the rooms. There were precious glass cupboards, most were shattered long ago and the doors hung off the hinges. John ran his hand along the intricately carved pillars collecting the grey dust and ash then sending it floating back to the ground. His eyes took in all he saw and he stored it safely in his memory.
There was one room that had something left in it. John tried his hardest to restrain himself from dashing towards it. He saw small chest in the corner covered in thick grey dust. John lay his hands on the top leaving his distinct prints in the ash. He felt for the lock and when his fingers came upon it he gave it a light tug and it snapped off along with a plank of wood. John set it aside and curled his fingers under the wood. He lifted the trunk and a swarm of white moths filled the air. John let out a little cry and swatted them away falling to his behind again. The house creaked and moaned with the sudden disturbance and John caught his breath.
He peered in the trunk and found a small book. He took it ever so gingerly age worn papers stuck out here and there. The cover was so torn that the color it once had been was undistinguished. John guessed from the odd brown it had turned it was once red or green perhaps. He lifted the cover and looked over the writing briskly. It was strange and still barely able to read he could not decode the script. It was written in a thin wandering hand the spidery script filling hundreds of pages. John flipped gently finding to his dismay that many were torn or ruined with age. As he went on the script changed to a more legible, bold script. His eyes took in all that he could. He noticed Sam's name popped up a good many times.
His eyes flitted over the first page. He read with some struggle. Concerning Hobbits. Hobbits? What are Hobbits? John tried to make out what was written but came to the only conclusion he could. Hobbits were the little people he had seen in the visions. John quickly flipped to the end and found many notes. He read over the last page carefully.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* I am getting older now. And the tale has finally drawn to a close. What more is there to say. I cannot possibly portray all that Mr. Frodo had meant for me to do. But I hope I have done what was asked of me and that my business here is done. I will be leaving for the havens in the morn and this will be given to Elanor. Strider will copy it and hopefully Mr. Frodo's last wishes will be fulfilled. They will know of the great danger and come to love their land all the more. But I want this copy to be kept and held onto. There was something else that Mr. Frodo asked of me which I never understood. He wanted me to take this copy and put it in a trunk and keep it there forever more. But even though I do not understand, there are a lot of things in this world that I do not, I will do as Mr. Frodo asked. Frodo-lad will keep it. I suppose he is the Mr. Frodo of Bag-End now. It is funny how such things come to be. I cannot help but wonder why Mr. Frodo had asked that of me that day as I worked in the fields. He was acting awfully strange that day. I often saw him sitting alone, unnoticed, talking to himself. Now I will meet you again, sir, I suppose. What will become of our little tale now? What did you mean for it anyway, sir? Do you suppose someone will find it? I shall have Frodo-lad lock this away in the study and it shall remain there ever and anon. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
John sniffled. Whoever the writer was the words were filled with such a sad uncertainty of things to come. John ran his fingers along the book. Something told him all the answers to the thousands of questions that ran through his mind could be answered with that book. John hesitated, perhaps it was wrong, to go against "Mr. Frodo's" wishes and take the book away. He closed his eyes and heard words echo in the back of his mind.
"Will you tell our story? Don't let them ever forget? Even after my people are gone."
John quickly shoved the book under his arm and began walking out of the house. The world outside was so dark. It felt like it was falling away. He pictured Sam and the strange man and then a voice reached his ears.
"John!"
The world began falling away and John gripped the book tightly.
"John! John Ronald Reuel Tolkien! You get down here! It's time for school!"
John cringed at the use of his full name and opened his eyes to find the plain off-white ceiling of his England home meet his clouded vision. He gripped he covers around him and groaned. Then memories of his dream hit him like a strong wave. He hopped out of bed, startled as he was and began pulling on his socks for school. He reached over the foot of his bed and grabbed his breeches when his eyes fell upon a piece of very old paper. He pulled away his covers and there sitting contently on his bed was a very old book, stained and battered, beaten and age worn. He lifted it up, eyes wide with fear and opened to the first page. Concerning Hobbits. John caught his breath again and the world reeled around him. Was it a dream?
"John! If you don't get down here now you won't get any breakfast!"
John hid the precious book in his coat and raced down the stairs. "Coming Mama!"
The trees sang a lament for a lost age as their leaves rustled in the murmuring wind. John closed his eyes and pictured these woods as they were thousands of years before. He saw them as flat land with no trees growing by the fate of the earth but he saw little people going to and fro the murdered planes that once held tall strong trees, wide and old. But they were destroyed by a dark will and an evil power. He saw the dead and burnt remains of the first born trees that were planted there in the making of the world. These little people were a strange and curious race. But John felt their love for the earth as if it radiated out of their small bodies, right from the heart. They bent under the harsh sun and plowed, toiled, and planted. John stood, lost in the dream world, but he felt like a ghost in the real world. He walked from person to person who took no notice to his presence. Then John heard a voice and spun around to see two of the men talking but unaware of his presence.
"Sam, what have you got there?"
John's eyes fell on the other man. He looked up, big mournful eyes fell on him yet saw through him. "I've got to do this myself, if you get my meanin`. This little box may be the thing to save the Shire."
"You better get started then."
The one called Sam let out a long sigh, "We've got a lot of work ahead of us."
John walked forward until he was standing straight in front of "Sam" and staring into his eyes. He then looked down to see what Sam's brown hands cradled so lovingly. It was a small box, the lid was open and inside was some soft grey silt. Fine as silk and yet it held a great power. John's eyes sparkled in amazement.
These people were a small folk, John observed. The eldest of them were just about his height and being six years in age himself, even John knew that that was too small for grown men. John's eyes caught their furry feet and one thousand questions ran through his mind. So fast that reality soon took him and he was back in the tall forest.
John blinked and the sun hurt his eyes. He stepped into the shade of one of the tall trees. He leaned heavily on it, remembering seeing it planted in his dream. But was this a dream? John wasn't sure and he traveled on through the forest.
How had he gotten there? It was indeed strange that he should just happen to come upon this tranquil place from whence he came. John stopped in his tracks, where was he going? He pried at his memory. He could remember returning to his home, leaving his father in South Africa and going back home with his mama and little brother. He could remember his warm bed and-
The woods suddenly ended. John stumbled out, dazed and confused as he looked out on the dead landscape before him. What had become of this land? The world was dead but he saw it alive, the dream was so real, he could still see the deep brown eyes of Sam looking out on the destruction and resigning to his duties. He had planted a forest! One so little had done all that. John thought of this Sam fellow with great reverence. But now what had become of Sam and all of his people. John swallowed around a lump in his throat and trudged on.
Now before him rolled hills and planes that had been abandoned by all life thousands of years ago. The sky was grey and the sun burned down white and still giving no color to the dead grass and withered plants. John's feet found a road and he began his journey. He heard a song on the wind once sang with joy now sounded mournful.
Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day may come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the moon East of the sun
John felt his little heart quiver but with fear or simple curious excitement his innocent mind could not tell. The road was just dust under his feet yet he could picture the pony driven carts pulling fresh vegetables and fruits just plucked from the fields. There was a mill and the party tree in the center of a great large field often used for celebrations and festivals of the jovial little people. John felt a smile tug at his lips but also a tear trickle down his cheek. They were gone. Long ago, they had gone, for their age was over. John sat on a stone and cried.
He felt he had been there for ages, the images burning in his mind. Suddenly a hand was upon his shoulder and John winced. He looked at the hand and to his surprise he only saw four fingers. John looked up, his eyes wide with fear.
Looking down at him was the kind face and strange blue eyes of yet another little man. John caught his words in his mouth. He had been seen! But how? John was stammering over his first sentence as the other man sat down and laughed at the young boy.
They were the same height, John perhaps a little taller, but this man was much older, and wise, and very- mysterious. John could not help but feel afraid. "How- how do you do- sir?" John tried his very best to sound respectful.
The man laughed, "How do you do, stranger?"
John could spit out no more words. He found himself gaping at the man. Those blue eyes were staring out at the others as they went about their work, not quite noticing the pair sitting on the stone.
It was the strange man that spoke first, "You are not from around here."
"No, sir."
"How did you get here?'
"I don't know, sir."
They were silent for a while longer. John braved to speak again, but being bold enough to ask all the questions that ran rampant in his mind was true madness. "Where is this?"
"You are in the Shire."
"Who are you?"
The man looked at him, his eyes deep and his mind contemplating something he would not let to be known. "I have a favor to ask of you."
"What sir?"
"Will you tell our story? Don't let them ever forget? Even after my people are gone."
"Sir?"
"You'll understand in time." With that the strange man stood and went off briskly. He was just a figure in the distance when he turned his head, his attention caught by another. And there John saw Sam, working deep in the soil. Sam stood and nodded his head as the strange man spoke to him. John could barely catch their movements but when the man had finished he turned and went back up the hill, disappearing into the distance. Sam stared after him a moment, scratched his head, then went back to work.
John stood abruptly almost knocking into one of the passing carts that, of course, could not see him. He spun around and fell on his behind as the cart passed swiftly. When John turned around he was back in dark reality. The small people were gone, Sam was no longer toiling in the soil and where he sat great tall trees now occupied. The strange man vanished. John stood and rubbed his eyes yet the visions no longer returned.
The road stretched out under his feet as he trudged on. He came to a sign that now lay burried in the dust. He stepped on the brittle, old wood with a crunch and lifted both pieces. He put them together and blew away the dust. In neat block letters it read, Bagshot Row.
John sighed and looked up. He had traveled on a while until his feet demanded rest once more. The hills rolled before him but there was nothing to break the monotony. He stopped and leaned against the hill, but he felt something other than the dead grass and loose dirt. He felt wood. He turned and pushed away the overgrown weeds and dead vines. He dug his fingers into the sharp and brittle stems and tore them away. There revealed a door. A round door. On it the number three was plainly written. He put his hand to the knob in the center of the door and tried to pull it open resulting in him falling back and the door with him. It cracked and broke on top of him and he scrambled to his feet.
John felt a pang of guilt at destroying the door but when he looked inside he could see what once were small rooms but he could make nothing of them now. This was a home, thousands of years ago. But now it was destroyed and mostly caved in. There were fallen pillars that held the house together and dirt filled the rooms. The floor boards were water logged and bent, cracking and broken. He saw on the floor something that was abandoned by the fleeing people. A trowel. This was a family of farmers.
John picked up the trowel and ran his fingers along it. Bored with it he tossed it to the ground and stepped away from the destroyed home. These were a people that lived in the hills. John's eyes sought where the road led and his feet complied. Weary and now covered in dust he continued. Something pressed the young boy forward and the visions were so real.
When he reached the top of the hill John was met by a broken gate. He put a hand on the gate and gingerly squeaked it open. This was too much effort for the age old hinges and they gave way. The gate fell to the ground with a clatter, John squeezed his eyes shut, cursing the noise. He stepped forward, every step was slow and gentle. Around him were once the finest gardens of all the land. And once again his visions returned, he saw Sam bent over them toiling with such love. Touching every flower so gently with such care. His face lit up as he did the work he so loved. Everything came alive again. The flowers bloomed and the leaves spread out to take in the sun. Under Sam's hand the flowers bloomed and blossomed, strong and proud. The air was filled with the sweet sent of spring and the sun lit up pouring its golden light throughout the garden. John opened his eyes. He found himself standing on the steps leading to yet another round door. The flowers withered and the stems shrivelled. The leaves turned black and then to dust. The roots pulled up and crumpled and Sam disappeared, his happy humming lingered with the fresh floral scent in the air. Two clean trails of tears were the only white stripes left on John's dust covered face. He cried for the people that were no more.
He put a hand on the doorknob but was hesitant. Slowly, very slowly, he turned it and the door opened with a slight squeak. He only opened it a crack and slipped in so that he would disturb very little. Nothing had collapsed in this home. John looked up and the ceiling was only half an inch above his head. He looked about but very little was left in the home. There were walls and the ceiling and the floorboards. Not even furniture was left. These people left this land long before it was destroyed. John sighed, at least they were not here when it was, but what drove them to leave? John wiped some tears with his filthy sleeve and continued through the rooms. There were precious glass cupboards, most were shattered long ago and the doors hung off the hinges. John ran his hand along the intricately carved pillars collecting the grey dust and ash then sending it floating back to the ground. His eyes took in all he saw and he stored it safely in his memory.
There was one room that had something left in it. John tried his hardest to restrain himself from dashing towards it. He saw small chest in the corner covered in thick grey dust. John lay his hands on the top leaving his distinct prints in the ash. He felt for the lock and when his fingers came upon it he gave it a light tug and it snapped off along with a plank of wood. John set it aside and curled his fingers under the wood. He lifted the trunk and a swarm of white moths filled the air. John let out a little cry and swatted them away falling to his behind again. The house creaked and moaned with the sudden disturbance and John caught his breath.
He peered in the trunk and found a small book. He took it ever so gingerly age worn papers stuck out here and there. The cover was so torn that the color it once had been was undistinguished. John guessed from the odd brown it had turned it was once red or green perhaps. He lifted the cover and looked over the writing briskly. It was strange and still barely able to read he could not decode the script. It was written in a thin wandering hand the spidery script filling hundreds of pages. John flipped gently finding to his dismay that many were torn or ruined with age. As he went on the script changed to a more legible, bold script. His eyes took in all that he could. He noticed Sam's name popped up a good many times.
His eyes flitted over the first page. He read with some struggle. Concerning Hobbits. Hobbits? What are Hobbits? John tried to make out what was written but came to the only conclusion he could. Hobbits were the little people he had seen in the visions. John quickly flipped to the end and found many notes. He read over the last page carefully.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* I am getting older now. And the tale has finally drawn to a close. What more is there to say. I cannot possibly portray all that Mr. Frodo had meant for me to do. But I hope I have done what was asked of me and that my business here is done. I will be leaving for the havens in the morn and this will be given to Elanor. Strider will copy it and hopefully Mr. Frodo's last wishes will be fulfilled. They will know of the great danger and come to love their land all the more. But I want this copy to be kept and held onto. There was something else that Mr. Frodo asked of me which I never understood. He wanted me to take this copy and put it in a trunk and keep it there forever more. But even though I do not understand, there are a lot of things in this world that I do not, I will do as Mr. Frodo asked. Frodo-lad will keep it. I suppose he is the Mr. Frodo of Bag-End now. It is funny how such things come to be. I cannot help but wonder why Mr. Frodo had asked that of me that day as I worked in the fields. He was acting awfully strange that day. I often saw him sitting alone, unnoticed, talking to himself. Now I will meet you again, sir, I suppose. What will become of our little tale now? What did you mean for it anyway, sir? Do you suppose someone will find it? I shall have Frodo-lad lock this away in the study and it shall remain there ever and anon. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
John sniffled. Whoever the writer was the words were filled with such a sad uncertainty of things to come. John ran his fingers along the book. Something told him all the answers to the thousands of questions that ran through his mind could be answered with that book. John hesitated, perhaps it was wrong, to go against "Mr. Frodo's" wishes and take the book away. He closed his eyes and heard words echo in the back of his mind.
"Will you tell our story? Don't let them ever forget? Even after my people are gone."
John quickly shoved the book under his arm and began walking out of the house. The world outside was so dark. It felt like it was falling away. He pictured Sam and the strange man and then a voice reached his ears.
"John!"
The world began falling away and John gripped the book tightly.
"John! John Ronald Reuel Tolkien! You get down here! It's time for school!"
John cringed at the use of his full name and opened his eyes to find the plain off-white ceiling of his England home meet his clouded vision. He gripped he covers around him and groaned. Then memories of his dream hit him like a strong wave. He hopped out of bed, startled as he was and began pulling on his socks for school. He reached over the foot of his bed and grabbed his breeches when his eyes fell upon a piece of very old paper. He pulled away his covers and there sitting contently on his bed was a very old book, stained and battered, beaten and age worn. He lifted it up, eyes wide with fear and opened to the first page. Concerning Hobbits. John caught his breath again and the world reeled around him. Was it a dream?
"John! If you don't get down here now you won't get any breakfast!"
John hid the precious book in his coat and raced down the stairs. "Coming Mama!"