"…they keep a pretty close watch on Tookland. No one gets in nor out of it now."

"Good for the Tooks!" cried Pippin. "But someone is going to get in again, now. I'm off to the Smials. Anyone coming with me to Tuckborough?"

Pippin rode off with half a dozen lads on ponies. "See you soon!" he cried. "It's only fourteen miles or so over the fields. I'll bring you back an army of Tooks in the morning."

—"The Scouring of the Shire," The Return of the King.

Pippin leaned low over his pony's neck. The dark night made it hard going through the hedges and fens. They daren't use a light, for they didn't want to alert any Men or spies to their movements. The Bywater lads followed Pippin's lead, which was well enough. For all that it had been more than a year since Pippin had ridden this way, he knew the grounds round Tuckborough well—though even in the darkness he couldn't escape noticing the effects of the invaders' presence: here was a scarred patch of earth, blackened by some fire; here a hedge had been hacked to pieces, or a large tree left lying, lopped to bits. Yet the fields were the fields he had known, and he could have followed the undulations of the land in his sleep. But sleep was very far from him tonight, despite his long day, and the many days of travel before. No, tonight Pippin's heart had wings.

Home! He felt it in every fiber of his being. This was his place, his land—his people. For all his travels, all his adventures, all the wonderful things he had seen—this was his place. A little part of him lived here always, whether he was abrading his cheek against some orc's scratchy hide, or kicking his heels six feet off the floor, drinking a marvelous draught on the edge of an Ent's tall table.

The bushes thickened, and the little cavalcade closed up. Pippin's pony, whom he'd dubbed Cormallen, balked. He was tired from the long hours of travel, even if Pippin wasn't. Pippin patted his companion on the neck, then urged him through the brush. The land was soggy here, creating a little wooded band that divided the tilled fields southwest of Bywater from the start of Tookland proper. Branches snapped under hoofs. The ponies puffed, fretting at the bushes, or the damp, or possibly the aura of nerves that Pippin was sure emanated from every one of them. Tonight was a turning point for the Shire, and every lad amongst them was keenly aware of it.

Cormallen broke through into a clearing. The pony halted willingly when Pippin reined him in, to allow the others to catch up.

Suddenly Cormallen whinnied. At almost the same instant, a voice cried from the black woods ahead, "Stay where you are!"

The ponies behind Pippin, fresher than his own, snorted and tossed their heads. Even with the fuss, Pippin heard the unmistakable sound of an arrow being pulled from a quiver.

"Don't move!" he said urgently to those behind him, as the voice ahead of him resumed.

"You have reached the bounds of Tookland. All those who live here recognize the sole authority of the Thain. State your name and your business! But I warn you, none may enter here, unless they answer to the Thain and no other."

"Alas," said Pippin, "that I cannot do; for I am bound by previous oath to answer to the King. But I think the Thain might speak with me, despite that fact."

The unseen interrogator paused. "Who did you say you were?"

"Peregrin Took. Really, Ferdibrand, has it been so long? I thought you might do me the courtesy of recognizing my voice. But then, it has been a long year full of adventures. I suppose you thought me moldering in an unmarked grave somewhere, and had put me completely out of mind."

"Peregrin? Peregrin Took?" There was a whispered conference among the trees.

Pippin began to grow annoyed, when Ferdibrand called out to him again. "Have you a light? I want to see you."

Pippin sighed. "Very well." He climbed off Cormallen, saying to the rider behind him, "Rudi, is your torch handy?"

The party carried torches in case the going got heavy. Though they had managed so far without them, Pippin was glad now that they were prepared.

While Rudi dismounted and stumbled over the tangled roots and boggy soil to reach Pippin's side, Pippin felt inside his collar. His Gondorian armor was more tailored than his original traveling clothes had been, so he drew out the soft leather wallet with some difficulty. Within it lay only his trusty wooden pipe, and a light for it. Opening the pouch, his words came back to him, as if reverberating across the leagues from the wreck of Isengard: I keep a treasure or two near my skin, as precious as Rings to me. Pippin couldn't suppress his smile. The wallet had held two pipes at his journey's beginning. It was odd to think that the other was now in the hands of a Dwarf somewhere beneath the Lonely Mountain, half of Middle-earth away.

Rudi held out the torch, and Pippin lit it. It flared into an orange bloom, sharply outlining the naked sticks of the willow brake, and illuminating the branches and trunks of the close-set trees ahead. The area beyond the flickering glow remained impenetrable shadow.

"Hold it up," Pippin instructed. Standing so the light would catch his face, he turned and faced the trees. The orange light gleamed dully in the sable links of the armor of Gondor. The silver tree on the front of his breast was kindled into flame.

There was a rustling from the trees, and the hunters emerged. Pippin's relation, Ferdibrand, walked in front, followed by Rollo, also of the Smials, and a lad from Tuckborough, whom Pippin remembered seeing, although he couldn't recall his name. Ferdibrand advanced, eyes fixed on Pippin's face. He stopped a pace off, staring in wonder.

Pippin didn't move. "Hello, Ferdi," he said softly.

Ferdibrand's lips moved. "Pip," he whispered. He stared a moment longer—then stepped forward and clasped Pippin in a hearty embrace. "Pippin!" He hugged his cousin joyfully, then pulled back half a pace, staring upwards in fascination. "It really is you."

Pippin smiled. "Who else would it be?"

Ferdi's eyes traveled over him. "Well, in that gear, and with that voice and size, it could have been anyone. Anyone else, I mean."

"Not anyone. A messenger from the King, who's returned to the Shire with his three companions, safe and sound. The four of us intend to set the present situation right, starting now."

Ferdi shook his head. In the torchlight, his eyes looked glassy. "This will be the news to heal the Thain's heart. But, what happened to you?" Ferdi's eyes traveled upwards, with confusion in his face. "You must be four inches taller than you used to be, and your voice has grown along with it."

During the journey, Pippin usually forgot about his increased height. The Elves and Men were so tall in comparison, an inch more or less hardly amounted to much. Of the hobbits, Merry had grown right along with him, and Pippin had always been taller than Sam anyway. Frodo, true, had seemed to shrink; but Frodo was so altered by his ordeal that Pippin had classed mentally him in a category of his own. Whatever Frodo did or looked like, was right.

So it was strange indeed to come home to Tookland, and stand toe-to-toe with a well-known face belonging to somebody who'd always been taller than he (Ferdi was, after all, seven years older)—only to find the tables turned, and Pippin looking down at him. Pippin suspected his voice might have become slightly deeper with his growth, but he hadn't noticed such a drastic change as Ferdi seemed to imply.

Yet here Ferdi stood, dumb with amazement, his relief and happiness glittering in his eyes. Pippin clasped his cousin's shoulder gently.

"I should like to tell you all, but we haven't time. A battle is brewing at Bywater; we have raised the Shire. I reckon they can handle the gang from Hobbiton; there are some stout fellows there. But it will not be enough, if these rogues send for reinforcements. I promised Merry and Frodo that I should bring them an army of Tooks by morning. What say you? Will Tookland come?"

Ferdi drew himself up. "That it will. Yes, we certainly will! Rollo!" The other hobbit from the Smials jumped forward. "Ride west to the next post. Tell Everard the news. Have him send one of his lads westward to spread the alarm, and bring one of them back with you. Leave him and Hamil here to guard the trail, and then continue south. We must get word to Faramond's lads at Pincup, to keep that mob in the South Farthing at bay. Hamil," he continued, turning to the younger lad from Tuckborough, who stood dazzle-eyed with excitement. "Stay here, and watch for any Gatherers who might have followed Pippin's trail. Do not engage them! It's vitally important that you remain undetected, and report the intrusion to Everard's chaps, or to the next post south, so we can deal with them. Do you understand me?"

Hamil looked thrilled and terrified at once. "I'll do my part, Ferdi!"

"Here." Ferdibrand removed a horn that hung from his belt, and handed it to Hamil. The younger hobbit took it with awe. "Remember," Ferdi instructed, "use it only in dire need. But, if you must, don't be afraid to give it voice. Whatever you do, you mustn't be stopped before you send on the alarm."

Suddenly, with other sight, Pippin recalled the grisly scene at Amon Hen: Boromir, surrounded by at least a hundred orcs, trumpeting valiantly under a rain of arrows, his great horn calling again and again for aid that never came. A mist appeared before Pippin's eyes, and he swallowed back the tears.

But Hamil, pleased with his commission, stood straighter. "You can count on me, Ferdi. All of you chaps can."

Ferdibrand clapped him on the shoulder. "I was certain that we could. And now, Pip, I'd best take you in. Else you'll be stopped by every watch along the way, who will be just as incredulous as to your identity as I was."

Pippin forced a smile. "Lead on, Ferdi. The night is passing, and we shall need every minute of it."