Sat in a rocking chair too small for him, on the porch of a respectable-looking smial,1 the old man was carefully examining the road to Longbottom, which winded her beige loops to the green hills, North of the village. Inserted like two burn-fire gems under bushy eyebrows, the elder's worried and impatient eyes were gazing as if they could pierce the mist that veiled the distant valleys.
The old man cautiously adjusted his headdress just above his eybrows, a pointed and broad-brimmed hat, weather-dented and which color varied from bright blue to faded gray. Wrinkles were plying his swarthy face, from the noble brow to the aquiline nose. Slight ridges of joy fleeted on the edge of his eyes and the corner of his mouth:
- « Let us wait… », he whispered satisfied.
Relaxing then, the old man looked absent-mindedly around. Below, in the southern valley, the road ran alongside the more opulent agricultural properties of South Farthing. While this sheltered dale enjoyed a milder climate than anywhere else in the Shire, farmers had built greenhouses which foodstuffs rivaled with the productions of Far South: rare fruits, early or late vegetables were the reputation of this community.
On this may morning, the Shire awoke perky and industrious, such as a well-ordered hive, confident in the benefits of its order. Highlighted by its plump Hobbits bees, free but unconscious of their modest and decent role, the hive lived happy days in the middle of the uncertain intrigues of the wide world. Sheltered but unaware of this security, Hobbits went calmly to their field or shop. The mill was turning counting the sweet hours while cowherds returned to their domestic duties after passing through meadows…
- « … and the goodwives quack drivel. », mumbled the old man while pulling his blue scarf.
Indeed the unceasing babbling of a small but strong and active cook was flowing accross the low and round door, choking to the old man who could not pretend ignoring it. The gossip wore a dress, blooming and orange as a pumpkin. The litany of the agricultural and marriage news of South Farthing went on as she loaded a tray of food. For entertainment, the old man fumbled in the pocket of his ample gray mantle, and pulled out a motley box containing small sections of wood, the ends of which were coated with a dark, smelly substance.
Continuous gossip went out on the porch together with her author, a small cook whose smile was framed with cheeks as round as two red apples. Although the cook was hardly less than three feet2 in height as well as width, she was not particularly small for an adult, nor particularly chubby for a mature Hobbit. The babbles stopped on an anxious note, at the time the old man tweaked a wooden stick on the arm of his rocking chair :
- « You are not going to light fireworks here, are you, Master Gandalf? »
The match was kindled, emitting colored smoke that the nimble hands of the elder escalated in prancing horses, pairs of swans, eagles in flight, before vanishing in the pungent air of the morning.
« Fear not, my good Isadora, and breathe quietly - the cook had held her breath, first for fear, then for rapture – It is but a game to relax my nerves.
In any case, as agreed, here are two jars of beer, a bottle of wine, a flask of mead, half a ham, a loaf of good wheat flour, our sheep's cheese, a pie of goat cheese and squash, my last dried fruits and some cakes baked this morning. Shall we have the chance to meet you for the great fireworks, at the next fair of Michel Delving?
Isadora, I am no entertainer! I shall come if my main activities leave me leisure! »
Gandalf put the food in his bundle, leaving only the pitchers of beer and a biscuit on the table. Isadora opened big unbelieving eyes, watching all this food disappear in such a small bag.
But she quickly recovered:
« And what are your main activities?
You would regret to know!
And how's your leg? Where are you going like this with my goods? When are you going to leave? »
The old man massaging his legs over his big black leather boots, launched an incisive look that convinced Isadora not to keep on this track.
« And now if you would excuse me, I'll take care of my laundry. You can stay here as long as you want... By the way who are you waiting for?
Thank you so much, Isadora… and my compliments for your biscuits that surpass the subtle sweets of Far Harad. May you always cook them with your inimitable crispy touch! »
Our gossip was already stirred by the tight conversation. She blushed even more, if that was possible, but for pleasure this time. Never had master Gandalf yet given a "good word" about her cookies! The neighborhood, and even beyond, was to hear about it... After a delicate and ridiculous reverence, she returned in her kitchen, well determined to discover why master Gandalf, wizard well-known in the four Farthings, had stopped by her guesthouse this morning for the obviously false reason to rest his bruised legs. He was certainly waiting for someone, from her porch overseing the highway… Which victim was her eldest episodic customer about to recruit for running adventures? She already held enough gossip to prolong the suspense before an audience of a dozen blabbermouths for an entire evening, but she would have died of envy to extort information which would make her the prima of gossips until next summer. Certainly the wizard was not sitting here to taste and praise her biscuits? Or maybe?
« By the way, Isadora ?... »
The small motley pumpkin rolled up to her door, full of petulant hope after this unexpected callback.
« … What have you just said about young Mister Took ? »
Isadora squinted her usually round eyes with an air of cunning. Gandalf behaved indeed like all wizards were known to: distracted demeanor, but intense attention to any index that could serve his mysterious activities. He had obviously lost none of the banal news that she had casually stripped earlier.
« Which one? Because obviously you may not know that, but the cadet branch of the Smallborrough Tooks allied with the Almonds from Scarry. Which makes that … »
« I mean The Took3's son, the young mister Gerry! », interrupted Gandalf.
« Yes, Yes, I'm coming to that, said Isadora, There is he not cute, this young hot fellow... Well I know from my gossip Whitegoose, that he was repeatedly seen, pursued by father Hornblower, out of his plantation Ford's Comitia, while the beautiful youg lady Priscilla Hornblower stood tearfull at her window. If you want my opinion, she should be wed very soon! »
Isadora interrupted to assess the effects of the earth-shattering revelations she had just distilled would produced on the wizard.
An indifferent, almost unbelieving « Oh yes? », had her fly off the handle :
« Don't you dare, Master Gandalf, to question the credibility of my information or the likelihood of my deductions. I know it from respectable source: he conquered as many bridesmaids as feathers are stuck in his hat! I kindly ask you: what do you want from him? », did Isadora yelp, wielding her spatula.
The suddenness and the liveliness of the assault confused the cunning wizard for a time; a glimmer of annoyance passed into his dark eyes and then a quiver of fun. He sat square in the back of the rocking chair that groaned. He scratched a match, had a fumes rooster parade on a slope, had the rooster feed a Tomcat wearing a wizard's hat, and at last declared:
- « Mother Isadora, I can tell you that the rooster has finished forcing the hens in the area. The Thain has decided to make a worthy heir out of him. We could help the scamp to get useful…»
Isadora knew that she would not learn anything more from him but she had plenty to think about. The enigma of a wizard always has more than one meaning... Gandalf scratched another match and fashioned his smoke with fantasy: a homely home at the bottom of a deep dale, high mountains, a profile of dragon glittering in gold and exploding as fireworks. Isadora frowned, somewhat arranged the brown frizz that framed her jovial face and withdrew in the kitchen for her laundry.
The wizard, trapped in the rocking chair, chuckled: informing neighbours that the Thain was finally taking his son's education into his own hands, would benefit the Took more than the educated son himself. The Gossip Isadora Plump was the surest way so that this takeover was known and commented by the neighbourhood by tomorrow, and the whole Shire the following week!
All he had to do was to lay hands on the shameful son... who was precisely approaching, perched on a small pony, singing a fairly saucy tune, he no doubt learned from travellers at the sign of the Green Dragon. On a fine unbleached shirt with lace barrister, the young Hobbit wore a blue jacket woven with silver, which gold buttons threw sparkles afar.
On his expertly neglected blond curls, he sported an elegant bottle-green felt hat, in which a string of feathers was plugged. His brown leather pants, with a "Dwarf-fashion" wide cut, left his half legs as bare as his feet, that curled harsh and coarse, despite the young age – twenty-six years old - of the lad.
His pony, richly saddled and furnished with apparently full holsters, strutted around, driven by the furious pace of the song, that its master accompanied with a small improvised bow-violin.
The round and delighted face froze and singing strangled when the young Hobbit saw the wizard sitting on the porch of Mother Plump's Guest House. Without allowing him any time to recover, Gandalf hailed him courteously :
- « Master Took, may your hair always grow on your chin and on your feet! So join me for some well-earned pint! You are singing like a gai finch! »
The desire for a free beer debated in Gerry's spirit with the intuition that this affable old man could conceal dubious intents. The Hobbit considered him a suspicious freeloading tramp with a great reputation in pyrotechnics, but also one of the few advisers having access to his father.
But « beer is good when got», as they say in Longbottom, and the scamp soon had attached his pony and joined Gandalf before - rather behind, given the size of the jug! - a rather poorly earned pint.
The Hobbit sat down, rejected his hat back, retained by a tidy silver wires cord, and sipped his pint. Immediately disconfort settled in persistent silence, only punctuated by Isadora's sounds of laundry. After a good beer shot, Gerry made efforts to break the ice:
- « What a fine weather today! »
Silence stubbornly resumed while the wizard's matches and passes molded smoke billows into a pretty female face framed by long curly hair. The soft foggy face soon turned into the head of a mule wearing a feathers-ruffled hat. Gandalf considered the Hobbit :
- « Do you mean the weather is fine and that you are confortable with that? Or maybe that it is well true that the weather is beautiful, unlike what you may have feared? Perhaps do you mean that the weather is definitely warmer than yesterday? Is this a statement reinforced with satisfaction or a disappointment moderated with hope? Do you, from your current agricultural point of view, find advantage with rain or sun? Unless you mind the weather may spoil the crops? Would you fear that the sun may not rise tomorrow? But in fact, why are you talking about the weather that everyone can see? Would you have nothing to say, Master Gerry, you who sang loudly a moment ago? »
The Hobbit was sweating buckets under the inquisitive eye of the wizard. He chose the detached demeanour that usually succeeded him so well with a female audience :
- « I'm talking about the weather, like everyone else, to initiate a conversation with a host who had the courtesy to invite me but not yet to tell me why. Without any claim for wizard's subtleties, I hope, by trial and error, soon to find a topic and develop it together in a way that would prove pleasant for you and profitable for me. »
The whole lot was given with great ease and ended with a distinguished head nod. Gandalf appreciated the ability of the young Hobbit to hold his rank in oratory jousts. To aggressive inquisition, he opposed disarming candor, to assumptions collection, the humility of a practical approach, and finally to the pressed scorn, a deference mocking wizards, while still adding a slight and exquisitely polite rebuke.
- « You have succeeded, said Gandalf, pleating eyes and smiling inwardly. Let's talk about you! What are your plans? »
Gerry felt his bowels knotting - so the old Fox had something in mind and was playing a game with the Thain. He swallowed a long and dilatory sip of beer which allowed him to mentally review the errands that his father had entrusted to him. He selected one that would justify his presence in the area and declared:
- « I am looking for a beautiful race bull for an exchange of breeding covering next season.
- I was thinking about more... personal projects, although I noticed your interest in covering.
- Family business takes most of my time.
- Don't mess with me, Gerontius Took!…»
The commanding and annoyed tone of the wizard stunned the young Hobbit with his pint to his lips. He swallowed noisily. The wizard continued:
- «… You are wasting your time in unnecessary, if not immoral occupations… »
- You search for an exchange partner for covering, you sweet scamp, breathed a mischievous voice in the kitchen. Hu, hu, hu, I may propose several solutions…
Gandalf raised a skeptical eyebrow : Mother Plump had come to the rescue of the scamp, with a playful, otherwise prank tone, that she had never let known. Gerry put back his bold front and caught this unexpected help. He drank a strong sip, stood up, apologized to the wizard and went into the kitchen, armed with a pencil and a small leather notebook.
Come along, and I'll show you… said the mischievous voice. And also you'll give me your opinion. »
Snatches of hushed conversation then reached his ears for several minutes, pitted with some "and do you love this?" and several "or rather that way? ''. Gandalf rose two shocked eyebrows. Finally the conversation fell completely silent. This unseemly delay had iritated the wizard who broke into the kitchen, hit his head several times on beams and furnitures, before getting scold by Isadora who came out of her bedroom.
Why are you browsing in my kitchen ? By the way, since you are here : what do you think of my new dress ?
Gandalf nearly strangled before Isadora's extravagant costume. The housewife, strapped in an indigo taffeta dress, could hardly breathe but she blossomed like the green fields in June.
But where has Gerry gone?, asked the wizard while looking in the bedroom.
Certainly not in this room, roared the cook; He helped me to choose and adjust my dress, and then he came out in the garden to assess my bull. He will return in a moment. He is a scoundrel, but he has such a good taste! »
Gandalf, feeling guilty about his previous suspicion, realized that he had been fooled. The young Mr. Took had bypassed the smial and straddled his pony. The wizard only had time to reach the porch and grab his staff. The fugitive rushed down the road. Laughing, the Hobbit shouted to the wizard's attention :
« Thank you so much indeed for this beer, Master Gandalf ! I'm sorry I have to leave you, but my father's errands cannot wait... Please do express my regrets to Mother Plump, about the non-covering ! ».
Worried both by this improper behaviour and his own ingenuity, Gandalf opened his mouth send a peremptory admonition to the brash lad. At this time a cart full of hay came on the road in the opposite direction and hid the fugitive; the peasant driver looked cumbersome and was chewing a wheat straw, as his donkey masticated hay in its jute bag. The fat Hobbit stared down at Gandalf, seeming to blame him for the useless and imature agitation he was indulging in. The wizard, sighing, adopted a more dignified bearing and picked up his bundle. Young Mister Took was far away now. Joining Isadora in the kitchen, Gandalf quite severely scolded her:
- « Frankly, Isadora, such a giddiness surprises me, from a cook as wise as you are! Helping this scoundrel to escape his duties!»
He unleashed a river of Hobbit tears.
-« But I did not know about that… I simply wanted to show him my new dresses and learn from his good taste… And then he lured me with selected compliments it is so easy to believe… »
Bending to embrace the red apples that the peasant cook used as cheeks, Gandalf complimented her for her dress and handed a few coins for payment of her victuals.
- « But these are King Crowns! Isadora exclaimed, soon revived by the kisses,
Coins always come from a King, Isadora,
But which King is it?
Farewell, Isadora! – he said cheerfully
Where did you find them?
Goodbye, Isadora! – he said firmly
And since these coins date back to the king's time, are they of good valuable alloy?
To the King, Isadora! – the wizard said exasperated.
But Gandalf stopped after several steps. The gossip had serious doubts. The wizard, with his thin smile, turned back to the Hobbit peasant:
-« When the King's coins survive him, they remain worthy as long as his people remember that his effigy garantees the coins silver content.
Oh! So if these coins are still here, thus the King is still there too, for sure?
- You are right, Isadora, this is exactly the meaning of this currency! The King, whose times are passed, nevertheless left us a part of his kingdom... He's probably still there, in the shadows, ready to come back if we help him at the appropriate time. Make good use of these King's tokens and think of him from time to time! Goodbye for now! »
X-X-X
The old wizard, cursing his clumsiness, resumed his walk once more. Getting fooled by this whippersnapper had somewhat irritated him - he was going to change his manners. He strode a few miles southward along the road, under an increasing heat. He was brewing his grievance, punctuating his paces with strokes of his long wizard's staff.
Hobbits smials went gradually fewer and plusher on either sides of the track. Emerald groves and sparkling gardens of multi-coloured flowers gradually gave place to rich soft green crops, that came out of the ground for barely a few inches.
A happy hive of bees followed the wizard as he walked along the ditch, that fragrant shrubs and brooms had invaded. The valley was slowly expanding to join the Baranduin river basin, that was still veiled in its thick morning mist.
Gandalf scanned the road before him, which was running straight towards the river. An unusual sensation, as a gaze in his back, held him still for a moment. A trill hailed him from the dark woods on the left of the road. Attracted by the song of the bird, he paced a few steps among the trees, seeking under the branches. A thrush escaped from beneath a bush, fluttered a few moments around the wizard, then came to land on his shoulder.
- « Hey well, You beautiful, you flew from far away ! You look exhausted ! »
The bird began to chirp wildly. Gandalf gently had it climb on his forefinger and listened carefully. When the tweets dried up, the wizard issued a curious jerky and extended hissing between his teeth, while the thrush leaned its head on side or the other. The animal resumed its cackle, on a lower tone and a slower pace.
- « Hum, thought Gandalf, the King, like your fellow magpie, takes its flight towards what shines,… »
His face darkened for a moment, revealing many wrinkles of concern.
- « … but all that glitters is not gold… », he added sadly.
Gandalf delicately caressed the bird on the top of the head, and smoothed his feathers to the end of the tail. The small thrush rubbed the two sides of her nozzle on the extended forefinger, giving back his lenient smile to the wizard.
- « You well deserved to rest. As for me, it is necessary now to catch up with time and this young imp. Go find your King!»
The bird plunged to the ground more than it took its flight, hopped to a rock on which it perched. The wizard loosened a large stone near the small throne. Large worms were twisting in the uncovered earthen hole.
-« Have your supper ! Goodbye for now !»
Again Gandalf took his bundle and staff. While walking on through the wood towards the east, he reminded his last meeting with Master Elrond :
« All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;4
Renewed the splendor dispersed
Wilderness re-peopled Kingdom. »
« A dream came to me on the wings the night. The heir of the Kings of old, rises to face his destiny. His parents wrote this poem for his line, but I know in my heart that he is not ready yet. »
Master Elrond was not strictly speaking a magician or a wizard, although he was powerful among Elves and Men, but he could read many signs and his premonitions were respected. A hazardous adventure seemed about to start, for a man with an inflexible will. If Elrond foresaw a perilous test, thus was Gandalf to hurry.
Soon his large boots made broad prints in the carpet of mosses and leafs of the previous autumn. As the ground dropped and became wetter, the prints became true holes which a muddy water filled in a few seconds.
The woods cleared and lilies appeared, then snap rings and one-day lilies blazing under the midday sun. The wizard located an elevated road which ran from West to east, climbed there towards his left and strode to the entrance of a beautiful property.
Aligned like a regiment of tortoises with their green fabric back, greenhouses sheltered the plantations of young vegetables and pipeweed of several varieties. His eyebrows drawn up, the wizard observed the neighbourhood; here was certainly where the small cock was hiding. Further in an orchard, he hailed a small group of young Hobbit-girls who were tending the trees:
- « Here is an admirable bunch of flowers under the spring sun of South Farthing! »
A chorus of cluckings followed the compliment.
- "Have I found the property of the Ford's Comitia ? "
A melodious ovation of approvals answered the question.
- "Couls you please indicate to me the smial of Miss Priscilla Hornblower? »
An aria of small acute and hystericals cries confirmed to Gandalf that the young lad had indeed preceded him within the orchard.
- « The direction, young ladies, if you please? Misses?».
An anthology of whispers, going up and down like a waltz, covered the wizard's voice. However the sprightiest of the young Hobbit-girls, a bad smile hung at the corner of her lips - perhaps a rival of Priscilla, most probably the junior girl Whitegoose - ended up pointing out with her fatty finger, a broad paved avenue a little further on the left. Gandalf greeted with his hat and went in this direction, under the dissonant recriminations of the female assembly.
For ages, the Hobbits who lived close to the Brandywine river had inspired from the art of men, the practice to build in height. Influential people had preserved the ancestral habit to build smials, but in a much more luxurious way: the inside of a Hobbits hole was comfortable, warm, aired and dry. Panelled walkways paved and lit, led to many bedrooms and living-rooms and cellars full of food, appliance and furnitures. But the Hornblower had innovated by building, on and under the headland in the center of their estates, a mixed residence, including burried parts and floors above the ground. The building did not obviously match the size or the prestige of the ancestral residences of the old clans such as Tuckborough or Brandyhall, but the Big Folk of Sarn ford reffered to it as the "Hornblower Manor". The authority of the father Harold Hornblower was recognized from Longbottom to the ford and beyond, among the men exploiting the river fish and the hills of red sandstone.
The father Hornblower had crossed the lines of eccentricity when he installed, up the ridge of his house, a large horn taken from a wild cow of remote Rhûn. The instrument, more than five feet long, was fixed on a large conical pipe which led to the roof. The vicinity had laughed at the Master of the manor who "took airs". Neither Harold's generosity nor the professional rigour of his pipeweed selections were to have the scorn cease. The comments would undoubtedly have calmed down more quickly if Harold had not have his sons regularly blow the horn to mark the hours from dawn to twilight!
The Hornblower residence appeared at the end of the alley. The wizard sadly reminded the manors once scattered around the King's lands, in the Baranduin valley.
The king's glass-makers from the alley of lanterners –Rath Celerdain- at king's Norbury –Fornost Erain- had mastered the techniques to build a green-house from flat glass, thus increasing the plantations yield. Yet the help of certain wizard had been necessary...
However this masonry beared neither the pride nor the marks of its former military functions. A low hill spread its soft slopes out, comprising a dozen round doors with spring colours. Thousands of blue flowers framed the opened windows, while a small army of Hobbits extended linens to dry on the lawn. Over the hill, a long and squat beige house with brown half-timberings, resounded with the tinkling of kitchens and various workshops. On the second floor, a bunch of high windows aligned under a large thatch revealed the pageantry hall, where the Big Folk could have stood at ease. The hill could easily shelter about sixty people, without counting the neighbouring buildings and holes.
Gandalf reached an oaken porch where two characters were gesturing around four foaming hounds. The dogs, out of breath, sneezed, yawned and howled in a pitiful way. The most vigorous Hobbit gave them to drink and flattered them, explaining that the animals had been victims of too vile a foe for them. The opulent and stale character seemed to arch backwards to retain his enormous paunch. With his right hand, between the index and the major finger, he held a bar made of brown leaves rolled on themselves, and from time to time he chewed it with an important and opposed look. The wizard addressed him respectfully:
- « Master Hornblower, I see that your pack was put at evil. May I assist you?
- Good morning, grey Foreigner. I do not appreciate the presence of intruders on my property. But since you came up here, now go useful! »
Both by reputation and personnaly, old father Hornblower indeed knew Gandalf, that these peremptorily tone and selective memory iritaded further more:
- « I will soon tell you why I followed this road, which was built long before you Hobbits settled the area and does by no means belong to you, answered Gandalf controlling his anger. By the way, you and I met at Michel Delving's fair, a few years ago. You certainly do remember that you were then quite polite and benevolent towards honest old men. Concerning your pets, let us see what we can do… »
Gandalf knelt and cherished the head of a large foaming hound. The wizard opened the mouth of the dog, smelled and examined its truffle.
- « These dogs have sniffed a prickly powder spice, probably caraway. Here is what we should do… »
The dog handler guided Gandalf up to the manor's kitchen. Together they prepared a thick mixture which they gave for the dogs to ingest, by force for some. Gandalf joined Harold Hornblower then, letting the animals rest under the guard of the pack master, after the terrible heavy sneezes the wizard's potion had caused. The dog handler saw the two old people discussing with animation. Leaving the hounds which had fallen asleep, he finally heard Master Hornblower conclude, shaking Gandalf's hand:
- «… I wish you find him before me: he already robbed me of some pipeweed bundles, if not worse! Several jewels of great value disappeared these last days… You can go and see my daughter, but I doubt she would help you! Please come back when you feel like it, you will always be welcome, Master Gandalf. »
The wizard stepped around the hill, strode the small way up to the thatched cottage and saw a young Hobbit-girl at her round window. She was completing an elaborate hairstyle, inserting small brilliant pearls in her brown finely plaited hairs. Several minutes passed before Priscilla pretended to realize Gandalf stood in front of her window.
- « You should not rove in a private property!, she said with a stiff smile. My father could release the dogs after you. »
Gandalf, showing roughcast eyebrows on a severe face, approached the window above the lawned slope, put his bundle and rested with his two hands on his staff:
- « You should not so inadvertently deny your father's hospitality! As for these brave dogs Chewer, Grumbler, Devourer and Howler, we are in excellent terms. I came here on behalf of the Shire's Thain, who charged me with guiding his useless son in the way of uprightness. The young rascal preceded me here - without any doubt to meet you – and hopes to escape his duties. Could you please ask him to join me immediately? »
The beautiful Hobbit-girl looked at the wizard behind her long lashes, and launched a well-prepared sentence she thought was irresistible:
- « Formerly, your sprite tricks impressed me very much, … when I was a child. But for now, Master Gandalf, I inform you that my Promised will not be taken away from me…
- Formerly you had the courtesy to greet your father's hosts. The future Thain needs to see the world, thus I take him along to teach him to become who he should be: a gentle-Hobbit, in the full and noble sense of the term. Such are the wishes of his father, who happens to be head of his clan and first character of the Shire.
- I've already undertaken to put him in the right way! »
Gandalf considered her with pity. He could not bring himself to reveal to her the many feathers the young ladykiller collected on his hat:
- « You will reach your majority of thirty-three years old in several years only. Up to then, your father will not let you lead Gerry in the right way of marriage as long as he won't show more seriousness and respect for his future charge. »
This obviousness was welcomed with a black look, that Gandalf disregarded :
- « As for you, please stop polishing the anatomical details of your pleasant person, and try to show yourself useful to your people. Stride across the Shire, learn how to know the hearts, courage and the weaknesses, practise arts or trade, help the needy ones… Make useful work of your life, for the time you are assigned! »
The Hobbit-girl slowly started to cry, feeling her own resolution blunting in front of the scarecrows of parenthood and thainhood.
- « I will not let you take my Gerry along as you did with all these lads!
- You don't know what you are talking about! Indeed I took some young Hobbits along for their own good and I brought back ripe Hobbits, the Shire remembers with pride! … most of the time…»
After a pause, Gandalf lent his handkerchief to the girl who refused it; he added gently, though feeling guilty and without illusions about Gerry's sincerity:
- « If you still love each other when he comes back, you will find the strength to convince your father to settle down with Gerry's. »
The prospect of her beloved's departure completely closed the Hobbit-girl: her mind, her face, her window and finally her curtains.
- « Go away ! I won't speak with you any more! »
But Gandalf had caught a rebellious glimpse of hope in the wet eyes of the girl, just before the cascade of closings. He understood at once that Priscilla would seek to inform Gerry of the wizard's dangerous intentions. Sighing and moaning, as for lumbar pains - or more probably because of real pains - Gandalf once again took his bundle on his back, and seemed to leave. Actually he posted himself discreetly on a hillock within a furlong5, North of the "Manor". He settled comfortably on his observation post amidst the trees and restored himself while blessing Mother Plump's delicacies, without forgetting to scan the neighborhood.
His waiting, though long, was successful: in the middle of the afternoon - the large horn had just blown the fourth hour, which is first snack time - the pretty damsel Priscilla, whose conspirator look and overflowing food basket were cloaked under her charming blue hood, silently flew from the manor by a side door.
Since the remote times of their first wanderings, Hobbits have developed an innate sense of discretion and furtivity. For their Big Folk neighbors, this art of stealth could not be explained only by Hobbits small size; a rumour of magic veiled this nearly-miraculous skill.
As for now, Priscilla had many turns and precautionous detours to escape her family's monitoring; but Gandalf, who laughed at such tricks, had set his ambush.
The young Hobbit-girl stepped very close to him, and even turned next to him, to check that she was not followed, but the grey-clad wizard lowered his hat, clung still to a trunk and was not noticed under the leaves. Then he followed the enamoured girl who soon led him, without even knowing, to the "hut of the Elves", a platform builtupon a beech for forest game spotting. Gandalf lurked in the scrubs while the Hobbit-girl climbed on a rope ladder that was dropped when she called. He failed to be trampled by Gerry's pony, that was fastened there for hiding, and that nibbled the leaves around. The wizard paid close attention and managed to catch small parts of the couple's conversation.
Priscilla, worried and voluble, told Gerry about Gandalf's pursuit and his paternal mandate. She advised to him, quite wisely, to disappear for a time and move away, far from Tuckborough and Ford's Comitia. She brought to him a basketfull of food and first quality pipeweed. Like a knight of the old times, he was solemnly given the damsel's handkerchief and a token of love: a strange golden trifle, that looked like both a ring and small scissors. Moved as for an engagement, she entrusted her treasures to him while whispering tender words, with a romantic smile on her lips, so that Gandalf had no knowledge of it.
This gold jewel was not an ordinary ring. Two curved blades were hidden in the thickness of the noble metal; they left their housing to cut what laid inside the ring, when the two small clear gems on the top were pinched. This was the Hornblower's leaves-cutter, a luxury tool ment for cutting properly the rolls of pipeweed leaves, that the chief of the household jalously kept for himself.
The pipeweed leaves-cutter is a typical object of South Farthing. Of course it is usually less luxurious and of more a conventional shape. It is not known who introduced the pipeweed in this area of the world. But the time the practice of smoking pipeweed spread in the Shire has been recorded. It is Tobold Hornblower, the grandfather of Harold, who invented this art, nearly two hundred years ago in the South Farthing. The most beautiful pipeweed plantations obviously grow here, from Longbottom to the banks of river Brandywine. If Harold's recent work allowed a rigorous selection of the seedlings and a considerable increase in the leaves quality, the methods for cutting, drying and conservation were developed by Tobold himself.
The famous ancestor also inaugurated the sumptuous tradition of the leaves-rolls, that his sibblings still jealously maintain nowadays. This is a secret technique for rolling several leaves - of exceptional quality and subtly matched varieties - on themselves. The leaves-roll obtained with that precise overlapping made it possible to smoke the pipeweed… without pipe, but with an incomparable refinement. Still it was necessary to cut the end of the roll with understanding, and to have the leaves-cutter adapted, because an incorrect cut ruined the pulling of the invaluable object. The rollers constituted, at the time of Gerry, an amazing luxury for master Hornblower's personal reserve. He used to offer some, although seldom, to a narrow selection of close friends and business connections.
So you see how Master Hornblower golden leaves-cutter, the treasure of his house and token of the genius of his dynasty, was indeed a gift of a high symbolic sense! The leaves-cutter of the grandfather founder could not leave the Hornblower family. Entrusted to Gerry, the jewel could not miss reinstating the aforementioned family. In Priscilla' mind, it should come back the matrimonial way…
For the time being, Gerry did not understand the chivalrous allegory, but he quickly and carelessly put the leaves-cutter, object of a priceless value, in his pipeweed purse, right in the bracket of his waistcoat, under his left armpit. Nonetheless, from the bottom of his heart, the childish pride of success balanced with a pinching of guilt. Cunningly, he agreed with Priscilla's advice, shamelessly swearing to be discrete and to behave… without engaging further. After a short snack - for a Hobbit - with her beloved, Priscilla came back to the Hornblower Manor before the fifth hour horning, promising with a saucy smile to come back after supper, provided with a suitable blanket.
Once the young Hobbit-girl had left, Gandalf waited a few minutes for her to reach her home, then he rose quietly and detached the pony that he loaded with his bundle. The wizard whispered a few things to the ear of the animal, went to the foot of the beech and called the rascal:
- « Come down, Master Gerry, it is time to go… »
Terror seized the Hobbit lad, who had neither seen nor heard the wizard arrive and could not escape. First of all Gandalf required Gerry to write a full and fair letter for Miss Priscilla. The missive was to explain his absence from the Shire for a few months, and begged her not to blame him for his unexpected departure. To achieve that, Gandalf had to specify that the father Hornblower was determined to impose marriage to Gerry if « interesting circumstances »6 forced him to. If Gerry was not to go down the tree, he would be delivered to the old Harold and his dogs. The "circumstances", although dubious, or because of their uncertainty, prejudiced Gerry's case, so that the Hobbit wrote the letter, signed and gave it to the wizard who checked the coarsest mistakes with grumbles. After which Gandalf ordered the Hobbit to go down, threatening to seek him byforce. The wizard's impatience flashed when the detached rope ladder fell entirely to the ground. Then the old man showed a surprising agility by climbing the trunk of the beech in a few moments, which destroyed the young Hobbit's fighting spirit. Gerry was not let the opportunity to touch the ground: he felt the weight of the wizard's staff tracing on his head signs of application and obedience that terrified him.
All his limbs shaking, he let be installed on his own mount, looked at Gandalf transferring the food from Priscilla's basket to the pony's holsters. Gerry saw the wizard lead them to Sarn ford, without even being able to move or emit a sound. They had not stridden more than a mile when they heard the call of the marshes, horned at the manor, and then repeated from time to time by the Hobbits who left their home. Formerly horned when it was feared that somebody might have got lost in the misty marshes, this tune was now blown as soon as a Hobbit needed urgent and pressing assistance from his neighbors. Gandalf had no doubt father Hornblower had surprised his daughter. Dissatisfied by her answers, he would have launched his dogs and his people after the ladylover.
- « He had promised to let me do it my way, grumbled Gandalf between his teeth. What midge has bitten him? »
Gerry wondered whether the beating had a vague relationship with the gift taken from Priscilla, the large gold ring which he now held in his inside pocket. But he had no time to look further into his assumptions nor to formulate his deductions. With a sharp order to the pony, Gandalf had it gallopping and ran by its sides. But their race was vain. The dogs found them in an alley between two lines of greenhouses. Gandalf slowed down his pace and unsheathed his sword. Gerry then realized that the wizard carried a long weapon that sparkled in the half-light. Determined to try something, the Hobbit took a caraway mill from his pocket, ready to re-do this morning's trick. The wizard realized that and shouted :
- « Let this apart, stupid Took, the dogs are aware of it now! Watch our back! »
Controlling the terrorized pony, Gandalf stood in front of the four hounds while raising his staff that blazed with a sharp light :
- « Down ! » he said with of a strong voice but curiously veiled, as if sounding through the mists of unmemorable times.
The four mastiffs were immobilized in a plaintive yap and laid down, aligned like for the parade, at wizard's feet.
- « Now, Grumbler, go and carry this to your mistress. Go, to Priscilla! »
The wizard fixed Gerry's letter into the studded collar of the dog, which left running towards the manor. Once the leader of the pack was drawn aside, sending the others towards a lure was a breeze. Gandalf looked them to the bottom of their eyes, then after a short order, released each of them :
- « Chewer, to the hut, run after the boar! »
- « Devourer, to the canister, on the deer! »
- « Howler, to the warrens, taïaut! »
The three hounds obeyed. They disappeared howling, gathering towards themselves the neighbors torches and dogs, who had dangerously approached. Gandalf seized the lead of the pony and carried out his guest out of the property of Ford's Comitia. Taking by-paths, they soaked in the maze of the muddy grounds, seeking to reach the river. They walked on for hours, directed first by the wizard's memory, and then by the gleam of the slowly revealed stars.
Quickly any rumour of pursuit had completely vanished behind them. They were now walking through a sea of rushes under a new moon, sometimes dropping on a gloomy mud pond. On several occasions Gerry protested and advised for a track rather than another "to avoid moving sands". His right intuition astonished Gandalf, who attributed it to years of stealthy approaches and escapes. They ended up reaching the river, soaking to the – Hobbit's - knees and followed the bank downstream. The progression was painful and dangerous; the moon, that lighted their steps from time to time, crossed the sky slowly. The ground became gradually firmer under their feet, and then they reached the bank and followed it towards south-west.
With the first lights of dawn, they had reached Sarn ford. On the opposite bank, two large raised stones pointed towards the last stars, as a warning to the traveller who would risk his steps beyond the limits of the Shire. A breeze from the South uplifted the edges of Gandalf's hat. He scanned and sniffed around, and then blowed a small whistle. No answer came except some croakings, so he blew again, in vain. The Hobbit was aware of the wizard's irritation but he did not figure out his distress.
- « The ford is not guarded any more, said Gandalf to himself. Something unusual has happened… »
Despite his doubts, the wizard strode with resolution, raising his staff and leading a pony loaded with his pupil. Once again he was on the road with a reluctant beginner...
1 Smial : word used in the Shire, meaning a Hobbit-hole, built following their tradition of digging their homes in the soil of a hillside.
2 Length unit of around thirty centimeters.
3 In the old scottish or irish families, tradition remains to call this way the chief of the clan.
4 J.R.R. Tolkien
5 The « furlong » is a length measure unit of a little more than 200 meters.
6 The expression « the circumstances » means, in the Hobbit gossip talk, that avoid using crude terms, the uncertain and transitional state of a Hobbit-Woman that precedes a happy event for several months – these are then « conducive circumstances ». When a false alarm resolves in disappointment or relief, then they are « unrealistic circumstances ». Cases of miscarriage, rare among Hobbits, bear the terrible name of « ill fated circumstances ».