It was a risky thing, trying to reach Bree ahead of Frodo Baggins. I had
no guarantee that Bree was actually where he'd end up, and if he didn't, I
stood a good chance of losing him for good. Still, if he did make it to
the village, I was sure I'd be able to find him. Hobbits aren't common
enough in Bree to not generate gossip. Besides, my office was right beside
the Prancing Pony. Theoretically, all I had to do was get there, then
watch and wait.
Luck seemed to be on my side when, a month later, young Billy Butterbur knocked on my door in the middle of a rainstorm to tell me four hobbits had just arrived at the Prancing Pony. He said one of them had called himself "Mr. Underhill", and he matched my description of Frodo Baggins. I remembered Gandalf telling Frodo to use an alias outside the Shire. That was enough to send me over to the Prancing Pony.
Sure enough, there was a party of hobbits sitting at one of the small tables, and Frodo Baggins and his friend Sam were among them. I remembered the other two from their song and table-dance at The Green Dragon. I wondered what had possessed Frodo to drag a couple of yahoos like that along if he wanted not to be noticed.
I got an ale, lit my pipe, and sat where I could keep an eye on Frodo and his friends. Didn't take long for Sam to start pointing across the room and whispering to Frodo. I took a look myself.
Strider was keeping an eye on my quarry. He's a tough guy, a Northern Ranger. Got a big reputation around town--folks tell all kinds of stories about him, half of which ten men couldn't do. No one knows exactly where he's from, what his real name is, or how old he is. Looks Gondorian to me, but that doesn't seem exactly right. Some say he's got elf blood. Me, I think he's got a Dunlander in the woodpile.
My big question was why he was watching Frodo. Some of the stories around town have Strider being friends with Gandalf. That could complicate things, if Gandalf sent Strider in to keep an eye on Frodo. Gandalf, I could take. Strider was something else altogether. Even though I didn't believe most of the stories people told about him, one thing was easy to see: Strider was a dangerous man.
A sudden ruckus got my attention back on the hobbits. Frodo jumped up from his seat and went running for one of his friends, who was seated at the bar. Then he slipped . . . and he disappeared.
Right into thin air. I never saw anything like it. One second, he was lying on the floor. The next, he was just gone. I heard a couple of words that would've made my Mama wash my mouth out with soap, and I realized I was saying them.
The whole scene replayed itself in my head: Frodo running for his friend, slipping on spilled ale, falling back--and flinging something shiny up toward the ceiling. The something shiny had fallen back toward Frodo, he reached for it, and that was when he disappeared. The way Lobelia said Bilbo had at his birthday party.
The story was just getting stranger. I stood up. There was enough chaos in the room that no one would notice me actively looking for Frodo myself. Then I realized someone had beaten me to it. Strider was hustling Frodo out of the barroom and up a staircase.
I went to follow, but again, someone beat me to it. Sam and Frodo's other two friends ran to the staircase after Strider and Frodo. By the time I could follow without being seen, there was already shouting coming from a room at the top of the stairs. A few seconds later, Strider came out, trailed by the four hobbits.
The rest of the evening was spent watching from the courtyard while Strider and the hobbits scurried back and forth between two rooms on opposite sides. One was a hobbit-sized room, and the other was regular size. I just wanted to know what the hell they were doing. To me, it looked like they were trying to throw someone off of Frodo's path.
After two or three trips, Strider sent the hobbits up to the regular-sized room, telling them, "I have something to take care of, but I'll return presently." I sank back into the shadows until he passed me, then followed him outside the inn.
It's embarrassing when you fall into the oldest trap in the known world, especially if you're supposed to be a professional. I'd barely taken one step into the quiet street when someone grabbed me and threw me up against a wall. It was Strider.
"What is your business?" he demanded. "Why do you follow the hobbits?"
I decided to bluff, just to see how serious he was. "What do you mean? I'm not following anybody!"
He wasn't buying. "Frodo is not the only one I have watched this night. What is your interest in him?"
Damn. This guy was good. The only thing left to do was go on the offensive. "What's your story? I've got a legitimate business in this town, but you? You could've fleeced half of Rohan before getting chased here. What're you doing with those hobbits?"
"Something that does not concern you," he growled, menace in his eyes. "If you value your life, stay out of this."
"That a threat?"
"A warning. There are forces at work here that do not look kindly on interlopers. Take my advice: if you do not wish to come to harm, stay away from Frodo Baggins." He let me go and moved away, back toward the inn.
Call it an instinct, but I knew this was my last chance to get any information. My only hope was to lay all my cards on the table. "Bilbo Baggins," I called after him.
Strider stopped and looked at me. "What?"
"I was hired to find Bilbo Baggins," I said. "That's why I'm following Frodo."
Men like Strider and me can tell when someone's telling the truth. Guess that's what made him answer me.
"Master Bilbo Baggins is at Rivendell," he said. "At the house of Lord Elrond. I hope that satisfies you and whoever hired you."
He walked away, leaving me with my thoughts. I was sure he'd told me all he knew about Bilbo, but that didn't answer any of my questions about Frodo and what was happening here. Against Strider's warning, I decided to stick around.
Looking back now, the rest of the night seems like one long nightmare, the kind you get after smoking bad pipe-weed. I was sitting in the courtyard, thinking, when they appeared.
I don't know what they were, and I don't want to know. All I could see was black cloaks and sharp swords as they rode in on their black horses and dismounted. I pressed myself into the shadows, terrified in a way I haven't been since I was a little boy and my cousin told me orcs would come and get me in my sleep.
They didn't even seem to notice me. There were four of them, and they went straight into the inn and up to the hobbit-sized room Frodo would have been staying in if Strider hadn't moved them. I didn't have any illusions about what would've happened if he'd been there.
I guess Strider got the better of them, from the unearthly shrieks that came from the room. Eru himself would've shuddered at the sound. Me, I ran. I didn't care anymore about Frodo or Bilbo Baggins or Strider or anything except getting to my office and the whiskey I kept there, and drinking until I forgot all about the Black Riders.
But when the next day came, with a troll-sized hangover and reports of demons that had terrorized the town last night, I knew there would be no way I could put this all behind me until I solved the mystery behind all this. To do that, I needed to find Bilbo Baggins.
I needed to go to Rivendell.
Next time: Finding Bilbo!
Luck seemed to be on my side when, a month later, young Billy Butterbur knocked on my door in the middle of a rainstorm to tell me four hobbits had just arrived at the Prancing Pony. He said one of them had called himself "Mr. Underhill", and he matched my description of Frodo Baggins. I remembered Gandalf telling Frodo to use an alias outside the Shire. That was enough to send me over to the Prancing Pony.
Sure enough, there was a party of hobbits sitting at one of the small tables, and Frodo Baggins and his friend Sam were among them. I remembered the other two from their song and table-dance at The Green Dragon. I wondered what had possessed Frodo to drag a couple of yahoos like that along if he wanted not to be noticed.
I got an ale, lit my pipe, and sat where I could keep an eye on Frodo and his friends. Didn't take long for Sam to start pointing across the room and whispering to Frodo. I took a look myself.
Strider was keeping an eye on my quarry. He's a tough guy, a Northern Ranger. Got a big reputation around town--folks tell all kinds of stories about him, half of which ten men couldn't do. No one knows exactly where he's from, what his real name is, or how old he is. Looks Gondorian to me, but that doesn't seem exactly right. Some say he's got elf blood. Me, I think he's got a Dunlander in the woodpile.
My big question was why he was watching Frodo. Some of the stories around town have Strider being friends with Gandalf. That could complicate things, if Gandalf sent Strider in to keep an eye on Frodo. Gandalf, I could take. Strider was something else altogether. Even though I didn't believe most of the stories people told about him, one thing was easy to see: Strider was a dangerous man.
A sudden ruckus got my attention back on the hobbits. Frodo jumped up from his seat and went running for one of his friends, who was seated at the bar. Then he slipped . . . and he disappeared.
Right into thin air. I never saw anything like it. One second, he was lying on the floor. The next, he was just gone. I heard a couple of words that would've made my Mama wash my mouth out with soap, and I realized I was saying them.
The whole scene replayed itself in my head: Frodo running for his friend, slipping on spilled ale, falling back--and flinging something shiny up toward the ceiling. The something shiny had fallen back toward Frodo, he reached for it, and that was when he disappeared. The way Lobelia said Bilbo had at his birthday party.
The story was just getting stranger. I stood up. There was enough chaos in the room that no one would notice me actively looking for Frodo myself. Then I realized someone had beaten me to it. Strider was hustling Frodo out of the barroom and up a staircase.
I went to follow, but again, someone beat me to it. Sam and Frodo's other two friends ran to the staircase after Strider and Frodo. By the time I could follow without being seen, there was already shouting coming from a room at the top of the stairs. A few seconds later, Strider came out, trailed by the four hobbits.
The rest of the evening was spent watching from the courtyard while Strider and the hobbits scurried back and forth between two rooms on opposite sides. One was a hobbit-sized room, and the other was regular size. I just wanted to know what the hell they were doing. To me, it looked like they were trying to throw someone off of Frodo's path.
After two or three trips, Strider sent the hobbits up to the regular-sized room, telling them, "I have something to take care of, but I'll return presently." I sank back into the shadows until he passed me, then followed him outside the inn.
It's embarrassing when you fall into the oldest trap in the known world, especially if you're supposed to be a professional. I'd barely taken one step into the quiet street when someone grabbed me and threw me up against a wall. It was Strider.
"What is your business?" he demanded. "Why do you follow the hobbits?"
I decided to bluff, just to see how serious he was. "What do you mean? I'm not following anybody!"
He wasn't buying. "Frodo is not the only one I have watched this night. What is your interest in him?"
Damn. This guy was good. The only thing left to do was go on the offensive. "What's your story? I've got a legitimate business in this town, but you? You could've fleeced half of Rohan before getting chased here. What're you doing with those hobbits?"
"Something that does not concern you," he growled, menace in his eyes. "If you value your life, stay out of this."
"That a threat?"
"A warning. There are forces at work here that do not look kindly on interlopers. Take my advice: if you do not wish to come to harm, stay away from Frodo Baggins." He let me go and moved away, back toward the inn.
Call it an instinct, but I knew this was my last chance to get any information. My only hope was to lay all my cards on the table. "Bilbo Baggins," I called after him.
Strider stopped and looked at me. "What?"
"I was hired to find Bilbo Baggins," I said. "That's why I'm following Frodo."
Men like Strider and me can tell when someone's telling the truth. Guess that's what made him answer me.
"Master Bilbo Baggins is at Rivendell," he said. "At the house of Lord Elrond. I hope that satisfies you and whoever hired you."
He walked away, leaving me with my thoughts. I was sure he'd told me all he knew about Bilbo, but that didn't answer any of my questions about Frodo and what was happening here. Against Strider's warning, I decided to stick around.
Looking back now, the rest of the night seems like one long nightmare, the kind you get after smoking bad pipe-weed. I was sitting in the courtyard, thinking, when they appeared.
I don't know what they were, and I don't want to know. All I could see was black cloaks and sharp swords as they rode in on their black horses and dismounted. I pressed myself into the shadows, terrified in a way I haven't been since I was a little boy and my cousin told me orcs would come and get me in my sleep.
They didn't even seem to notice me. There were four of them, and they went straight into the inn and up to the hobbit-sized room Frodo would have been staying in if Strider hadn't moved them. I didn't have any illusions about what would've happened if he'd been there.
I guess Strider got the better of them, from the unearthly shrieks that came from the room. Eru himself would've shuddered at the sound. Me, I ran. I didn't care anymore about Frodo or Bilbo Baggins or Strider or anything except getting to my office and the whiskey I kept there, and drinking until I forgot all about the Black Riders.
But when the next day came, with a troll-sized hangover and reports of demons that had terrorized the town last night, I knew there would be no way I could put this all behind me until I solved the mystery behind all this. To do that, I needed to find Bilbo Baggins.
I needed to go to Rivendell.
Next time: Finding Bilbo!