Disturber of the Peace
by Marta Layton
Last Edited: 03 May 2004
Movieverse: On the eve of Bilbo's 111th birthday, Gandalf rides into the Shire. Written for a Writers' Circle exercise to try to capture the sound of language in written prose.
The wind blows through the will-o-the-wisps, blowing them to one side, then to the other, as the grass-blades bend and blend together. The sun beats down on hobbit holes, rows of taters and tobacco alike, goodwifes grinning at passers-by -- but not at me. I am, as young Master Baggins points out, a "disturber of the peace." Pity.
"If you're referring to the incident with the dragon," I mutter so that only he can hear, "I was barely involved." I look around me, at the streams singing their gentle songs, the rolling knolls as far as any could see. Age-old lips wrap 'round well-loved pipe, and I blow raspily, smokes wreathing 'round blessed blue hat. "All I did was give him a little nudge out the door."
"Gandalf! Gandalf!" Gay footsteps frolic over fence, past path toward my cart as we head up the Hill. "Fireworks!" they demand, little voices fretting. Frodo looks at me, his eyes imploring, pleading even. How dare I disappoint such innocence?
I open my mouth to speak, but no answer comes, only smoke wisping away into nothingness, like those poor dreams of a fiery display. The birds sing their merry tune, but that is poor substitute, and I know it. Curly-haired heads droop. Shoulders sag. Faith has proved folly.
We turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and single crack breaks the silence. Bracegirdle, Brockhouse, and Bolger look up, their bright eyes glowing. The crack is followed by its cousins: Whiz! Fwat! Shwee! Woop! Bang! Sparks fly across the sky. Children's laughter rises as high as Bilbo's butterflies.
And then, as the music dies, a door clangs shut. Goodwife Goodbody sighs loudly, silencing her husband's chuckles with a Look.
Ah, I have been away too long.