Title: The Wanderlust of a Gamgee

Author Pen Name: Arwen Baggins

Disclaimer: No, I am not making a single penny off of this little story!

Prologue: Disturbers of the Peace

Setting: Hobbiton, Number Three Bagshot Row; September 22, 1418

Gaffer Gamgee was certainly not an unpleasant soul but when he heard a loud knock on the door, he muttered some words that were not even suitable for the ears of his own grown children. It wasn’t really a polite knock, more like a persisting racket fit to wake up the dead. "Open up if you value your skin!" came a low haunting voice. It would have scared any sensible Hobbit out of his wits, but Hamfast Gamgee was certainly not in a sensible mood tonight.

Giving a sigh of resignation, he picked up the Bag End keys from the table and went to answer the door. No doubt, it was that dratted Lotho Sackville-Baggins trying to scare him over nothing. Well, it wouldn’t work. A child, in his way of thinking though he was really 56 years old, would not get the best of him, gentry or no.

"Just you wait one second for these old bones, young sir!" the Gaffer called back. Boy did he hate having to call that spoiled, obnoxious brat "sir". Pity that he and Mr. Frodo were related. If their family names had been unknown, not a soul would ever have been able to guess – or believe – the truth about their being cousins. The Gaffer’s bones were stiff all right, but not so much as all of that. But the young ‘master’ didn’t know that and it would behoove him to respect the elderly. What could be the harm in teaching the youngster a belated lesson and at the same time slightly post-pone that which he had been dreading for months? None whatsoever.

The pounding became unbearably persistent until at last he stood before the door and reluctantly opened the door. "Now, here, then young sir. You just take these and –" He was about to relinquish the keys when he realized two things: One, the sale of Bag End did not take effect until dawn of the 23^rd and Second, this visitor was tall enough to block all light into the little smial.

Swallowing a lump in his suddenly dry throat, the Gaffer glanced up hesitantly at the hooded figure in his doorway. All dressed in black he was, as if he was on his way to a funeral. Now a Man dressed in black was nothing to be overly afraid of under normal circumstances. But these were not normal conditions, if the sword at his belt and the tone of his voice were any indication.

"Baggins!" the Man hissed impatiently through his teeth. The barely intelligible whisper came out as more of a demand than a question.

Of all the nerve! No greeting! Not a "Hullo, how’d ya do, Mr. Hobbit?" or "Might it be too much trouble to ask for a cup of tea?" Such manners had never been heard of. Why even the hated Lobelia had the courtesy to pretend interested in the goings-on of her neighbors.

"No, Mr. Baggins has gone away. Went this morning, and my Sam went with him: away all his stuff went." Why he felt the need to add that last part about Sam, he couldn’tcould not rightly say, except that he felt that the more he told the sooner the stranger would leave. He was right queer: stranger than any lot from Buckland he’d heard tell of by Mr. Frodo and his cousins. It would not have been near as intimidating if the Man had had the courtesy to remove the hood of his cloak. A Man, who would not show his face to the person he was calling on, was not entitled to the same respect given to the rest of the population.

"He sold his home?" The stranger seemed slightly alarmed at this information, if that was even possible.

"Yes, sold out and gone, I tell’ee."

"Why did Baggins go?"

The Gaffer gulped and took a step back. If he could just step far enough away to get out of the Man’s shadow, that ought to give him some breathing room. "Why’s none of my business, or yours," he replied with all of the defiance he could muster. Who did this Man think he was that he had to know all about Mr. Frodo’s business? It weren’t none of his concern no-how.

"Where is he? Where did Baggins go?" the Man hissed again. To the naked eye he appeared just like any normal foreign Man would – or at least what the Gaffer assumed any normal foreign man would look like based on his lack of expertise. Nothing that Hamfast could see accounted for the tremors that ran up his small body. The sound of his raspy voice was cold and hostile for sure, but nothing that accounted for such fear.

"Where to? That ain’t no secret. He’s moved to Buckleberry or some such placed down yonder."

"Is this place far from here?" the stranger continued in that same hollow voice. Fiddlesticks! Why couldn’t he not just speak like a normal person for a change?

"Yes it is – a tidy way. I’ve never been so far myself: they’re a queer lot in Buckland." But ain’t no one so queer as the likes of you! Not that he would ever have the nerve to say such a thing aloud. The mind was a place for one’s private thoughts, and there that would stay lest he say something out of place which he would sorely regret.

"Will you give a message to him?”

"No, I can’t give no message. I told’ee before, sir. I ain’t never been there myself."

The stranger made a strangled grunting noise before kicking his horse off into a gallop.

"Hmph!" The Gaffer stared off with a suspicious scowl before turning his heels and walking back to his smial. Men in The Shire! What was Middle earth coming to anyway? Right queer it was. He would be the happiest hobbit in The Shire if he never set his eyes on them again.

*************

There was nothing in Middle earth quite like a lovely feather pillow. So nice and soft it practically begged you to come to bed at night and to stay there in the morning. Which This was precisely why the Gaffer tried to pull it down over his ears to block out the sound of the doorknocker intruding upon his precious sleep. Good gracious! Lobelia had waited 70 years for the key to Bag End, was it so much to ask her to wait until a decent hour? The Gaffer hadn’t been too keen on the idea safe-guarding the key. But However, when Mr. Frodo had said there wasn’t was not a more trustworthy soul residing on Bagshot Row, he hadn’t had not the nerve to politely turn-downturn down politely his master’s request. And it was indeed a request, just one which he felt obligated to accept at the time. Nevertheless, propriety was not in his dictionary as he heard Lobelia’s demanding curses from behind the think door.

"Hamfast Gamgee! You open this door right now or I’ll call the Shirriff!" he heard the shrill voice scream again. Not that there was much to be heard over the pounding.

Hamfast yawned and shook his head as Lobelia continued to rant.

"Don’t make me come in there! I’ll tear this door down if you don’t give me what is mine! I can have you arrested for thievery!"

Rolling his eyes and mumbling under his breath, he grabbed his coat and went for the door. She did have a point, much as he hated to admit it. The deed signed by herself and Mr. Frodo stated that Bag End would be hers promptly at midnight of the 23^rd of September. Midnight was nigh upon them, either that or just around the bend. He couldn’t tell, not with the blinds closed and he hadn’t dared to open them for fear that she would notice and show her ugly face but now he had no choice. The Shirriff would see the reason behind Hamfast’s side since no decent soul intruded upon another before the cock crowed unless it be an emergency of some kind. However, Hamfast had never known Lobelia to be decent in any sense of the word. But decency was not in question: it was the law. The deed said it was hers and he for one had no intention of going before the mayor or the sheriff over a matter of a few petty hours. The Shirriffs had to deal with Lobelia’s ludicrous complaints far more than he did and he felt obligated to spare poor Robin Smallburrow from the venomous tongue and twisted mind of the S.B.s at this time of night – or day which ever one it was. Bracing himself for a verbal whip lashing, Hamfast reluctantly turned the brass key in its hole and opened the door.

From the looks for of Lobelia S.B.., you would have thought it to be high noon, not pre-dawn. "Well, Gaffer, have you got it? I haven’t got all day!"

Hamfast peered from behind her. "Quite to the contrary, Mistress Lobelia. You have indeed the whole day, for it has not yet begun."

He attempted in vain to hide the smile that crept up the corner of his mouth at the look of her red face, which looked nigh on ready to explode with indignation.

"One moment, Ma’am," he said bowing politely before shutting the door in her face and locking it once more. Hamfast remembered perfectly well the number of times Bilbo claimed Lobelia had stolen his things from Bag End. He doubted that there was anything in his own smial that would be considered of any worth to her: but better safe than sorry since the Gamgees had precious little to part with. He had the key in his pocket all right, but not the one to the backdoor. He took his sweet time finding the key that was right under his nose, all the while trying to ignore the sound of Lobelia’s threat. The most obnoxious of them being, "You better not’ve been plundering my home, you good for nothing gardener or I’ll call the Shirriff if even a single spoon is missing!" What was it with her and spoons anyway? And from listening to her ceaseless ranting one would have thought that the sheriffs were her dearest friends, when in truth everyone knew that they couldn’t could not stand the sight of her. Besides that, only the greatest fool would attempt to steal from Bag End. Honestly, of all the nerve.

Having found the key, Hamfast reopened the door and shoved it into her cold hand before turning his heel, locking the door and heading back to the comfort of his warm blankets, without even so much as a "g’night". Not that Lobelia cared any about that last bit. She immediately began occupying herself with triple-checking her inventory list. When she had done so earlier in the day in the presence of Frodo and his impetuous cousins, everything had been accounting for. But the Valar only knew what little remained after having been at the "disposal" of the poorer folk such as the Gamgees. Honestly! She knew Frodo Baggins had been raised by the wild lot in Buckland along the despicable river – but could he really be all that stupid? Lobelia shook her head. No time to think about that. It was hers at last – hers and Lotho’s anyway. Her dear boy was on his way with the last cartload, and then the fun could begin at long last.