Chapter 30. Warm Welcome

It was a hobbity homecoming for certain. The travellers walked down the green valley alongside the silver-shining river under the bright Sun.

 ‘Not much woodland here,’ Thorn said, ‘and if Men have been here long, why have we seen so few?’

 ‘The Men who settled this land cut down the trees and used up the rich soil, for they were careless and hasty, short-sighted, thinking only of this year’s harvest, not giving back to the land to keep it green and growing,’ Gandalf replied, his look far away as if seeing the valley filled with neatly cultivated fields and farmsteads. ‘There was a drought and a wind came to blow the soil away, and the Men moved on to other lands... This land has lain fallow for many a year.’

 ‘Is it of use?’ Thorn asked doubtfully, and the wizard laughed in reply.

 ‘The river has carried more soil into the valley and spread it nicely for you,’ he said. ‘I’d suggest farming the low-lying land but living on higher ground.’

 ‘Fallow ground for Fallohides,’ Leaf laughed. ‘Sounds quite fitting!’

 ‘There were forests here, then,’ Beech said. He saw only a blur of green and blue with a smear of silver that he knew was the river.

 ‘At one time, yes,’ Gandalf said.

 ‘So there could be forestland again,’ Beech said. ‘Fallohides without forest does not sound at all fitting.’

 ‘After we’ve planted a tree for each one lost on the way, we’ll have quite a start,’ Thorn said quietly. ‘Our grandchildren will walk in the glades and remember.’

 ‘What’s that up ahead?’ Pick asked, pointing to a grey line in the green landscape, small figures perched atop.

 ‘We come to the first of the Harfoot settlements,’ Gandalf said, ‘and I believe those are Harfoots.’ As he spoke the figures detached themselves from the wall, disappearing over the hill with a great waving of their arms. On the breeze came faintly their excited shouts. ‘Ah,’ Gandalf said. ‘The watch-hobbits have announced your arrival.’

As the Fallohides approached the wall they saw a crowd of Harfoots come over the hill and stand waiting. One jogged forward from the rest to a gate in the wall. He swung this open and waved his arms. ‘Welcome!’ he shouted. ‘Welcome, cousins! The feast is ready and your places are laid. Come! Come!’

The rest of the Harfoots raised a welcoming song. In wonder and delight the Fallohides passed through the gate, each welcomed in turn by the chief of the Harfoots, enveloped in hugs, their burdens taken from them, chattering hobbits surrounding them and leading them over the hill towards the smell of roasting meat and crusty bread hot out of the oven.

Comfortable dwellings had been delved in the hillsides. Smoke rose from every chimney and the doors were thrown wide as more hobbits poured forth. Blankets were spread on the grass of the common and huge roasts sizzled on spits in pits dug to one side, while long tables positively groaned to be relieved of the burden of food that they held.

Before the tingling in their feet from the day’s long journey had subsided, the Fallohides found themselves with loaded plates, sitting mingled with Harfoots on blankets. Indeed, they might have been all of one piece, but for the Harfoots being darker of hair and skin and shorter in stature.

 ‘Your hair is golden as the Sun!’ one of the Harfoots said in astonishment to Pick. ‘How did it come to be that way?’

 ‘Probably the same way your hair grew brown as a nut,’ Pick laughed. ‘My mother keeps telling me I have her grandfather’s hair, but I only remember his hair being white!’

Gandalf looked in satisfaction at the heads bent together in conversation: copper, gold and bronze intermingled with mahogany, ebony and silver. Songs arose and it did not take the two groups of hobbits long to blend their voices in harmony. The wizard ate his fill, listened to happy chatter and song, smoked a pipe and allowed himself time to savour the homecoming.

As the light began to fade, the Harfoots stood to fold up the blankets and clear away the feast, helped of course by their newfound friends. Beds had been made ready; the Fallohides would sleep this night as guests, and on the morrow begin the work of delving their own dwelling places, staking out their own fields and readying them for planting, finding Harfoots of similar trade to work with, and all the other details of making a new life.

Gandalf rose and stretched, knocking out his pipe. ‘So, Thorn,’ he said, interrupting that hobbit’s animated conversation with the chief of the Harfoots. ‘I will take my leave.’

 ‘So soon!’ both leaders chorused together. ‘The celebration’s barely begun,’ the Harfoot added.

 ‘Nevertheless, there is work to be done,’ Gandalf said, ‘and I have rested from my labours long enough. I bid thee fare well, good friends, and hope to find you well when my journeys take me this way in the future.’

 ‘You’ll find a warm welcome, Grey Wanderer,’ the chief of the Harfoots said with a bow. ‘We’ll always have a plate for you.’

 ‘Thank you,’ Thorn said. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done,’ he gave the wizard a keen glance, ‘whether we knew of it or not.’ Gandalf laughed and gently enveloped the small, firm hand in his large one.

 Pick threw his arms about the wizard in a fierce hug. ‘Don’t be a stranger!’ he said.

 ‘I won’t,’ Gandalf said. ‘You may be assured of that, my young friend.’

(Author's note: Don't go away, there is still a little bit left to go.)