[Birdland]

The Shire, 1611 Third Age, (Year 10, S.R.)

It was a perfect Mid-Year day, and the celebrations were already well under way. The hilltops overlooking the Water and its wide pool were covered with tents and tables of planks, draped in every kind of summer flower and herb, and piled high with the foods that had been grown and gathered from throughout the fields and forests of the Shire. Many of the goodwives had been baking and cooking for days, and yet still worried whether there would be enough for all. (There was, but barely.) Casks of ale had been cooling in the stream, and the first of many had been tapped but an hour before. They made fine seats for the old gaffers and gammers, once they were empty.

Yet there was still plenty of open areas left for the games and the dances. At the top of the highest hill, stacks of wood, some as high as two hobbits, stood waiting to be lit for the bonfires. The straw images of dragons, trolls, wolves, goblins (and yes, Men) were getting good use from the archers and tilters, and later they, too, would be thrown on the bonfire. A quarter mile stretch of the road had been closed for the pony racing, and the wagering had come as fast and furious as the hoofs of the racers charging for the finish line. A large, makeshift stage had been constructed for the musicians - of which there were many - and for the speeches - of which it was hoped there would be few. Already the band members were warming up, offering a sprightly reel which the younger folk had already taken up, filling the dancing ring and pounding flat the grasses. Of course, the real dancing wouldn’t start until after the sun went down and the bonfires were lit.

Everyone said that there had never been a bigger, or better Mid-Year celebration since the founding. And why not? For this was a special celebration; the Ten Year Anniversary of the founding of the Shire. For ten years, this land had been theirs. And it would be theirs for a thousand more.

And into the midst of these festivities rode the two who had made it all possible. Cheers and laughter rang out as two tall, strong Fallohides of middle years rode into the gathering. They were mounted on matching white ponies, a gift from the settlers of the Woody End. The brothers, (for such they were) joined in the laughter and shouting as their ponies sidestepped through the crowd, bending down to accept a wreath of flowers from a maiden, or a hearty handshake from grinning hobbit freeholder. Marcho and Blanco, the heroes of hobbits everywhere, the leaders of the Shire, had finally arrived at the celebration.

Behind them rode others, whose welcome was just as loud and boisterous as their leaders. 24 young hobbits, the best and brightest of the West, accompanied the two Fallohides up the hill to the center of the Mid-Year Festival. Each was mounted on a pony of their own, and twelve pack ponies also made up the train. A wide swathe was cleared for the riders as they approached the make-shift stage, and then closed behind them. The 24 hobbits split into two groups and lined their mounts up on either side of the riser, 12 to a side. The Fallohide brothers jumped down from their snow white steeds, flinging the reins to waiting lads who wrestled to have the honor of leading the mounts away. Then Marcho and Blanco leapt to the stage, raising their hands to silence the grinning musicians, and turned to face the crowd.

It took some moments before the shouts and cheers finally settled down, as Marcho looked down in pride and love at the faces gathered around him. His people, living in his country, The Shire. They had come so far, and accomplished so much. But there was more to do. Then the elder brother stepped forward to address them all.

“Gentlehobbits all! Fallohides!” A mighty cheer went up. “Stoors!“ Again the crowd acknowledged the call. “And Harfoots!“ And the hills echoed with the loudest, longest cheers of all. The band struck up a gallop, which set the ponies dancing, as well as quite a few of the young hobbits still gathered on the dance ring. Laughing, Marcho stepped forward, waving his hands, while Blanco turned to quiet the band. Then Marcho bowed low to the players, and turned to the crowd again.

“As I look around at you all, gathered here today to join in Mid-Year celebrations, my heart swells to see how all we have all grown and prospered here, on our own native soil. The Shire!” The twenty-four riders took up the call “The Shire!” and the crowd around them answered. “The Shire! The Shire” The brothers let the chant continue for a moment, then waved their hands for silence again.

“Many of you have traveled far to be here today, from the four farthings of our land. We number almost two thousand folk now, and our numbers continue to grow!” Much laughter accompanied this statement, and Malva, the wive of Marcho, blushed as she laid a hand on her stomach and looked up with pride at her husband.

“And yet, as I look out on our fair country, I see the miles of wilderness still laying fallow and empty within our boarders. At night as I lay in bed, I think of all our fortune, of all the hobbits that have come to make this land their own. And then I remember the others. Throughout all of Middle Earth, there are many of our people who still wander. Lost, alone in a wilderness of dangers that we can now only imagine. And I think to myself ‘Marcho, where are your people? Where are the hundreds of hobbits, separated from their kinfolk, lost in the wilderness. With no real homeland to call their own. You must bring them home Marcho…for they, too, are Shire Folk!“

The crowd shouted to the sky, until it seemed that the echos would carry the word to every corner of Middle Earth. “Shire Folk!“ Marcho again raised his hands to his followers.

“And so tomorrow, we will begin a Gathering In. Tomorrow, the finest of all Hobbitkind, the flower of our youth, will begin a quest. These 24 riders you see here will leave the Shire on a great undertaking. They will ride throughout the four corners of this Middle-Earth. They will carry the word to every hobbit who still dwells in the wilderness, from the farthest North, to the mouth of the Anduin. They will carry the word of our country to every hobbit they meet. They will say ‘Brothers! Come home! Come home to the Shire!‘ And so, good hobbits all, I present to you…The Twenty Four Messengers!”

This was the moment all had been waiting for. The cries, cheers and roars enveloped the 24 young hobbits, some who raised their hands in acknowledgement of the applause, while others, blushing, bowed their heads and fidgeted in embarrassment. Most were Harfoots, of course, those being the most numerous of the hobbits within the Shire, but there was a good representation of Fallohides as well. (Indeed, Marcho had disappointed more than a few young lads, since every Fallohide youth had stepped forward to answer his call.) The Stoors were there as well, smaller and darker then the usual hobbit, almost resembling dwarves in aspect, but true-hearted hobbits, all.

There were many tears in the audience as well, as families gazed with pride at their sons, and worried silently about their fate, wondering if after tomorrow, they would ever meet again. There were also more than a few tears of heartbreak and vexation as well from the hobbit lasses in the crowd. More than a few engagements had been broken as the young ones had answered the call of their adored hero.

Marcho turned and bowed low, first to the right, then the left, as he honored the 24 volunteers. “My sons, for I consider you all my sons, now. You each carry a copy of the decree, signed by our lord and king, Argeleb the Second, granting all Hobbits rights to the land west of the Branda-nin for all time. You also carry with you a copy of a Map of Middle-Earth, drawn from the very map that was presented to my brother and I by King Argeleb, which I hope will guide you well on your journeys. And lastly, you carry a map of your own land, The Shire, which you can show to all hobbits you meet. So that you may show them the land that is now their birth-right. So that you may show them their home.

“I now release you to your families and friends, so that you may share with them this truly special Mid-Year’s Fest. A fest that will be remembered by all hobbits, and will go down in our history. And next year, we will look for you all to be with us again, when we will light the Mid-Year bonfires with all our brothers and sisters around us. And so this will be your call: “Next year, in The Shire!“

The crowd went wild as Marcho waved to all the hobbits gathered round. Then jumping down from the stage, he grabbed a mug of ale and downed it with one gulp. The players struck up their instruments, and the party began again. The sun was just setting over the hills as Marcho, Blanco, and The Twenty Four Messengers carried their torches up the hill, and lit the Mid-Year bonfires.