Disclaimer: all of the ickle hobbitses belong to J.R.R... none are mine.
Chapter Three: Harfoots, Stoors, and Fallohides, Oh My!
It didn't really sink in that I was in Middle-earth until I awoke the next morning in a feather bed with the Old Forest visible from the window above my head, and Tom Bombadil and Goldberry singing cheerfully in the background.
Moaning, I pulled the blankets up over my head and curled up into a ball. I was in Middle-earth. I was in Middle-earth. I was in Middle-earth. Anyway I said it, it gave me the same feeling—equal parts of a terror so paralyzing that I was shivering under the blankets and an incredulous joy so strong that I wanted nothing more than to jump up and start singing along with Master Bombadil and the River-daughter.
I lay there for easily another half hour, trying to wrap my brain around the situation. Finally, I came to three conclusions.
One: I was obviously supposed to be here, since the gaming piece was said to help the wearer find their rightful destiny.
Two: I didn't particularly want to go back. Sure, I would miss my family (some of it), but I'd never felt like I fit in there. It was too... I don't know... not me.
Three: I was absolutely starving.
With a frustrated groan, I threw off the blankets and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, glancing around the room. I was still in my jeans and tee, having fallen asleep before I could ask if there was a nightgown or something I could borrow. Beside the bed sat a small table laden with a silver bowl of water, which refracted the sunlight brightly, nearly blinding me. I winced and stood up, shuffling out of the glare, and continued to explore.
The room was relatively small; I didn't remember reading about any place like it in the books. It held only the bed, the small table, a chair beneath the window, and some sort of wardrobe-type-thing. I decided that it would be a good idea to find some new clothes (my own had already been dusty and wrinkled before Middle-earth, and the Old Forest had done nothing to alleviate that), so I opened the wardrobe and began to rummage around through the clothing within. Finally I found an outfit that looked like it might fit, so I took it out and headed over to the window. A popped my head out, and saw Goldberry on her knees in the garden, fingers covered in dirt, her pale hair gleaming in the sunshine.
"My lady Goldberry?" I asked, attempting to speak in the formal way that the characters in the books had. "May I borrow this dress? My own clothes are in a sad state."
"Of course, little sister!" Goldberry said, standing and waving cheerfully at me. "What is mine is yours!"
"Mi casa es su casa, eh?" I asked softly, not thinking she'd hear.
"Pardon?"
"Oh—nothing. Thank you!" I withdrew my head—my face was burning, and I knew I was blushing brightly—and quickly changed into the dress. I resolved to ask her where I could bathe—as soon as I'd had something to eat, of course. My stomach had seemingly wrapped itself around my spine and was shaking it angrily.
I've never really been a girly-girl, but I wasn't exactly a tomboy, either. Up until—well, up until about the time I was finished cleaning Hester's attic—I never really gave my appearance much thought. I wasn't a slob or anything—it was just, to my way of thinking, no one gave a damn what I looked like anyway, so as long as I was clean, didn't smell, my teeth and hair were brushed, and whatever I was wearing was reasonably tear-free and unstained, I was good. Given this rather low-maintenance sentiment, you wouldn't automatically put me down as someone who likes to dress up, right?
Well, I do. I love to dress up. Sometimes when I was in a particularly goofy mood (or romantic—well, with me they're sometimes the same), I would put on one of my few nice dresses, apply a little light makeup, and dance around my room to stuff like Moon River and Shall We Dance, that song from The King and I.
I know. I warned you I was weird. Or did I? Well, anyway, I'm warning you now.
I think it's something in the female genes that make us love to get all glammed up. Every girl I know liked, in some way or another, to make themselves gorgeous and then show it off. (If I'm wrong, let me know. This is just from my point of view, so I guess I really shouldn't be speaking for all of female-dom, should I? Ah, well).
Wait, I lost track of the story. Okay, right, dress.
I managed to get myself into the clothes, which fit surprisingly well. In fact, they fit me perfectly. I couldn't help but laugh a little. "It's kismet!" I spun around quickly, watching as the red skirt flared out. Besides the skirt, there was a fawn-hued bodice, and under that, a plain white blouse with loose sleeves. I knew how to put it on because, style-wise, it wasn't too different from my costume in Brigadoon, our school musical the previous year. I slipped my feet back into my Birkenstocks and headed out of the tiny room, looking for a way out into the garden.
I needn't have bothered. I'd barely stepped out of the room when Goldberry entered, her arms laden with flowers. "Ah! Gwen! You look charming, little one! Come, help me put these flowers in some water, and then we must get you fed, yes?"
"Yes!" I agreed heartily, taking a handful of blossoms from her. Soon they were soaking up water in a glass bowl, and Goldberry was slicing some bread while I poured (with a somewhat guilty conscience) a little bit of red wine into two pitchers, at her behest. "Do you mind if I—er—water this down a bit? I've never really had any sort of alcohol before, and... well..." I shrugged, embarrassed.
She gave a musical laugh. "As you will, little one. You've a wise head on your shoulders! Perhaps you will be a good influence on our halfling friends!"
My eyebrow quirked. "Halflings? Am I going to meet some?"
"Of course you shall! The Old Forest is no place for a daughter of Men, and, poor lost child, you will be best cared for among the little folk." The sideways glance that the River-daughter sent in my direction then gave me the uncomfortable feeling that she knew I wasn't from Middle-earth. "Once you have had a chance to fill your belly and wash, Tom Bombadil shall take you to the halflings. Oh, but you must return to us and visit, sweet child! You've a lovely laugh and a charming accent, though I know it not, and Master Bombadil and I do crave company from time to time."
I blushed at her compliments. "I will," I promised, accepting the plate she handed me. It was simple fare—freshly baked bread, a wedge of cheese, an apple, and some carrots to munch on—but it sated my hunger, and the water-down wine gave everything the nicest hint of rosy gleam.
After we had finished eating, I helped Goldberry haul in a few buckets of water from a stream near the house. When she'd asked, I'd confessed having a few qualms about actually bathing in the stream; I was immensely relieved when she admitted that there was a 'washing room,' as well. The extra labor was well worth the privacy, in my mind.
Goldberry sat just outside the 'washing room' while I bathed, embroidering, and kept me company with her cheerful flow of speech. Soon I knew more than I'd ever wanted to about the comings and goings of the trees (yes, the trees) and the beasts of the Old Forest. When I confessed my encounter with Old Man Willow, she gasped, making me drop the soap.
"Little one, there is certainly more to you than might have been expected! Old Man Willow is a deadly foe—many, far too many have fallen prey to his traps..." her voice drifted away for a moment, before returning, contemplative. "I wonder, how did you know to escape him? So few have such knowledge."
I nearly dropped the soap again, but forced myself to laugh a little. "I had heard a story of a few hobbits who were very nearly snared by his song, and just as I began to fall asleep, I remembered it and ran as far away as I could," I said. Speaking in this lyrical way was becoming very comfortable.
She made a little affirmative sound, but I could tell that she didn't completely believe me. Luckily, I was done at that point, and after dressing and dumping the bathwater out onto the lawn, it was time for me to find Master Bombadil and be on my way.
I stopped at the top of the hill, swiping the back of my hand across my forehead. It came away with a frosting of sweat; it was a warm day, and the long walk and heavy skirt weren't helping much. I'd rolled up the sleeves past my elbows and ditched the petticoat-type-thing that went under the skirt not long after Master Bombadil left me.
He had taken me only as far as the edge of the Old Forest, leaving me with directions to Brandy Hall and a note for the Master of Buckland; he swore that it would earn me a place in Brandy Hall. I attempted to read it once I was far enough away from the Old Forest that I could be sure Master Bombadil wouldn't see, but much to my dismay, though the language Westron was indeed (pretty much) the same as English, the script was entirely different. I couldn't make out a word of it.
I had been walking for quite some time since he left me, always with an inner doubt that I'd gotten lost. After all, I'm quite notorious for my lack of sense of direction. My relatives all used to make fun of me for it—in fact, once one of my cousins bought me a shirt that read "Not All Who Wander Are Lost," and then, using fabric paint, added the words But Some Are!
Yeah, I'm really that bad.
But as it turns out, Master Bombadil's directions were absolutely on the dot. I arrived at a small hill not more than a mile or so away from a—please bypass the rest of this sentence if gushing makes you squeamish—frankly quite adorable little town. It was nestled right into a little hollow in the surrounding hills, with roads leading up and about. Outside of the town itself, which centered around a long, stout hall (no doubt Brandy Hall), there were several dozen small, rotund houses perched like cheerful, brown beetles in the green grass, and from here I could just see smoke rising out of a few hills—hobbit holes, no doubt.
I'm ashamed to admit it but I squealed with delight. I am, after all, but a mortal girl who'd found herself in her favorite book.
Feeling somehow refreshed, I started down the hill towards Brandy Hall—
And found myself living up to my nickname, 'Clutz.'
I didn't completely pass out, but after tumbling over the edge of the hill—I swear, I didn't notice that it ended so suddenly—and landing rather roughly with a patch of parched, hard earth as a pillow, I was definitely more than just a little out of it for a few long moments.
After a while, my thoughts became far more coherent, and I realized that the voices I heard around me weren't just in my head.
"—that hair—"
"--quite a tumble—"
"—what's she doing h—"
"Look! A note!"
Small hands flicked into my pocket, where the note that Tom Bombadil had given me was kept. It must've fallen out a bit when I took my little shortcut. I mumbled something that even I didn't understand.
"She's awake!"
I heard a few delighted shrieks and footsteps. Blinking and cursing, I opened my eyes and frowned up into the round, cheery faces surrounding me. "Good morning!"
"It's afternoon, you twit."
"Yes, well, she doesn't know that, now does she? Besides, it does have the right connotations if you say 'good afternoon,'" responded a little girl with a pert nose and large eyes, glaring at a boy who could only have been her brother.
"I'm awake! Stop bloody talking about me like I'm not here," I growled, sitting up. My head spun dizzily, and I felt small hands steady me as I swayed where I sat.
"Careful now, Miss, you've got quite a bump there! I'm Daisy."
"Mmf," I grunted noncommittally.
"Leave her be, Daisy," chided one of the other hobbit-children. "What's your name, Miss, and what brings you to Buckland? I'm Faramir Took, third cousin twice removed to the Master of Buckland," he said rather proudly, puffing out his chest.
Who could help but smile, when faced with the incorrigible charm of one young Master Took?
"I'm Gwen," I said, staggering to my feet. When I felt steady enough, I brushed the grass and dirt off my skirt, then glanced back up at the embankment I'd tumbled over. I whistled lowly through my teeth. "Yowch."
"Is that Elvish? That sounded Elvish, didn't it, Daisy?"
"No, I'm sure it wasn't, Ham."
"But—"
"It wasn't," I confirmed to Daisy's brother. He looked a little disappointed.
"But Gwen! That's an Elvish name, that is—not a very creative one, mind you—"
"Hamfast!" Faramir Took hissed, glancing sideways at me.
"—well, it isn't! Who would name their daughter 'girl'?"
"My parents," I said dryly, snatching the letter that Hamfast held in his hands and turning to Faramir. "You said you know the Master of Buckland?"
"Yes, I did!" Faramir said, glowing with pride once again.
"Oh, goody. Can you show me the way, then?" I asked, tempering my sarcasm with a small, not-exactly-heartfelt smile. After all, I still hurt like hell. That was like a fifteen foot fall—I was lucky I hadn't broken anything.
"Indeed, I can. Follow me, Miss Gwen!"
As I followed the three happily skipping hobbits, I was torn between the urge to vomit from the sickening sweetness of the scene or burst into spontaneous song, á la Broadway musical. Either way, I was immensely amused.