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The week after Fordogrim Chubb’s funeral was a long, dreary one. The settlers were already in a thoughtful mood as they dealt with the loss of one of their own and readied themselves for their arrival in the White Downs. The weather seemed to grieve with them, raining for four days off and on. The journey was a heavy weight that lay across their shoulders, and they wished to be through it.
On the seventh day the land began to slowly rise and fall once more, and spirits rose slightly as these small hills marked their entry into the White Downs. If only the weather was more agreeable, they could have celebrated. A grey rain pelted down once more and the ponies and wagons were having a difficult time climbing the hills. More than once a wagon or cart slipped and several hobbits would have to help push it back on the road or up one of the increasingly steeper hills.
The convoy rode late into the night before camping, and then was back on the road just after sunrise. No one complained because they knew that this was the day…the day they would see their home.
With each rising hill, Marcho came closer to his dream, and the Fallohide was more than a little anxious. The moment of his arriving in this place had played over in his mind for many years, and he struggled now to grasp its reality. All of the hard work and time spent away from Estella was paying off before his eyes.
As the day wore onto the afternoon, the hills became smaller and soon Marcho could see their end. They would stop at the slopes’ feet and from there they would cultivate and populate the land. The rain stopped as they slowly ascended the last hill as though nature understood the importance of the moment. When the Bolgers reached its peak they stopped their wagon and let their fellow travelers and neighbors crowd around them. Then as though it was a sign from above, the dark clouds parted and a single shaft of light slid down and lit all the land at their feet.
Marcho was overwhelmed by its beauty and a single tear slipped down his cheek.
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