[piosenniel]

Fordim Hedgethistle's post

“What’s that he said?” Fordogrim asked the young hobbit who stood next to him, “The Brandywine River?”

“The Baranduin,” the hobbit lad replied. “It’s a big River hundreds and thousands of leagues away.”

“Eh, what’s that, what’s that?” Fordogrim scoffed. “It’s not that far off I’m sure, though it’s a goodly step. What’s he talking of that for?” The lad tried to fill him in on the details of Marcho’s speech, but the people about them hushed him into silence. Glowering at their temerity, Fordogrim turned his attention to the little stage to hear what young Master Bolger had to say. He could not believe his ears: had the young fellow gone completely mad? The more he heard of the proposal the less it made any sense to him. Rich land? Wasn’t the land hereabouts rich enough? For seventy years Fordogrim had cultivated the dark earth of Bree and for seventy years it had rewarded him with its bounty. As to the promise of trade, Fordogrim snorted loudly. Leave trade to the likes of the Whitfoots, he thought. What’s a hobbit got to worry about trading with Elves and Men from Faraway for? We’ve everything we need right here already.

As the Bolger boys continued their speeches, Fordogrim moved to an unoccupied bench at the side of the square and sat down slowly, sighing audibly as he took the weight off his right leg. It had been getting worse lately, what with the weather changing, but it was still bearable. Fordogrim knew that he would outlast his leg. Leaning his head back against the wall of the house behind him, he closed his eyes and thought about the letter that he had been composing to Primrose on the ride to town. It would need to be amended.

My Dearest Prim, he began in his mind,

I couldn’t find any decent seeds for the side-garden. Ferny had naught but pumpkins today, and Thistletoe was no better: lots of seeds, but the moisture’d got into them. The only thing they’ll grow is mouldy. I know how much you like sweet peas, but there’s still that stand of them in the kitchen garden, right where the scent can make it inside, so that will do for this year. Perhaps I can take a small clipping from that and plant it round the side garden? It would go nice with the marigolds when they come in full.

Still haven’t got round to fixing the barn door, but I will be sure to do it soon. When the rain starts to come on heavy again the wood’ll swell right up and we’ll have a back-breaker time trying to open it up. Must remember to talk to our son about that this afternoon.

And before you start to worry, don’t: I rode Stout into town this morning to save my leg. Better that than listen to our son’s wife nag at me about doing the walking myself. I’ll walk back halfway to give Stout a rest but then he’ll have to carry me up the hill himself. I feel bad a-asking it of him as he’s almost as old as myself, so far as ponies go that is. I know I keep saying I’m going to put him out to pasture once and for all, but each time I try he gives me such a look that I know he’d rather do his best with me than do what’s best by him.

You won’t believe what I heard in the town today. Masters Blanco and Marcho Bolger have gone completely cracked. Making speeches they are, about leading a lot of Bree folk away from here to some uninhabited waste miles from nowhere. There are a lot more folk than you’d think willing to listen to them too! Lucky for me, they’re so eager to hear this foolishness that there’s an empty bench in the square (for once) so I’m able to take a bit of rest and send you this letter.

I’m finding it hard to do much but think of you my dearest Prim, for it was just about this turn of season that you went away all those years ago. I’ve done my best by our boy since you went, but I can’t help but think that he missed of having his mother about. No-one knows better than you that I can be a cussedly hard-tempered hobbit, and I admit that more than once I’ve spoken hard words to the boy when you would have spoke softer and to better purpose. He misses you more than he lets on, I think – just the other week I caught him a-putting a nice posy of wildflowers on your grave and crying over it, just as he has since he was a young hobbit.

The crowd is breaking up, my love, and those wild-eyed Bolgers seem to be finished. I hope that you are well and happy. I miss you awfully.

Your husband,

Grim

Fordogrim tried to pull himself to his feet, but his leg gave way beneath him and he stumped down again. From out of nowhere appeared the young hobbit with whom he had been speaking earlier. The lad took Fordogrim’s elbow and tried to help him rise, but Fordogrim flared out at him, “What d’yer think yer doing!? When I need your help laddie I’ll ask you for it! Now if you please!” and he wrenched his arm free from the lad’s clasp. Staggering to his feet and hiding the discomfort that he felt, he walked off through the thinning crowd, tapping out his frustrated anger on the cobbles with his cane.

As he was leaving the square he saw his son and daughter-in-law amongst the crowd. He wondered what they had made of the speeches. And then a terrible idea occurred to him: what if they actually approved of the crazy plan? And then a horrific idea occurred to him: what if they agreed to go along with it? He shook his head to drive away all such nonsense and whistled for Stout.