Chapter Nine - The Greenhills

Later, in the afternoon, Merry was feeling better and actually ate a few morsels of bread and butter. Pippin kept him company most of the day and stayed close by in case his ‘brother’ needed anything.

For his part, Merry had a hard time forgetting the dream, and it weighed heavily upon his mind. When he couldn’t stand one more minute in the bed, Merry spoke up, “Pippin, lets go for a walk.”

“Papa said you have to stay in bed today.”

“Pippin, I can’t. I must see something for myself.”

“What is it do you have to see?”

“I don’t know quite yet,” he answered, “I just want to go outside and look around....but I don’t want to go alone. Understand?” Pippin nodded. Merry slipped out of bed and got dressed while Pippin snuck out to the foyer to get their cloaks, as the afternoon had cooled down some.

Pippin returned with their cloaks in hand and snickered, “That was easier than I thought!”

“Going somewhere, lads?” An elder hobbit leaned in on the doorway. Pippin was tongue-tied. Paladin entered into the bedroom. “Pippin,” he said, “when I see you carrying a bundle of cloaks down the hallway, don’t you think I’d be just a smidgen curious?”

“But I looked and saw you were sleeping on the sofa.”

Paladin sat down in the beside chair he’d occupied earlier in the day. “I was only dozing. You have to creep up to investigate the sleeper without making a sound--that’s how real burglars do it.” Paladin was a bit of a mischief-maker as a child himself, and was passing down his words of wisdom to his son, expert to beginner.

Merry sat down on the bed quite disappointed. “But I really need to take a walk outside.” Merry had since got his bearings back, remembering Paladin was his uncle...not his dad. “Please, Uncle.”

Paladin studied the face of the lad. He didn’t seem out of sorts or ill. “How’s your head?”

“Much better after the nap I took. That’s funny,” said Merry, “I’ve never felt that sleepy after sipping broth before.”

That pleased Paladin. “Very well. You may take your walk, but I will go with you.”

Walking about in the bright sunshine, Paladin noticed Merry repeatedly squinting and shading his eyes--more so than usual, anyway. They were passing Thatch’s Market booths to their left when he remembered his daughter’s slingshot. “Half a minute, boys. We’re forgetting Pervinca.”

They meandered up to the Mercantile booth and inquired about the toy. “No, sir, I don’t suppose we have any.” It was the older lad who minded over the younger ones. There was another boy standing next to the first, “I’ll bet Ollie (pronounced O-lee) could make one.” The first lad gave a look to the boy, and then to Paladin. For some reason, he wasn’t too fond of this stranger. “Ollie!”

From the back of the booth, a teenage hobbit appeared. He was frightfully thin; his clothes hung upon his shoulders, and a belt around his waist revealed just how thin the boy truly was. His hair was unkempt, as were his clothes. Without another word, the older lad retreated to the back of the booth.

Paladin wasn’t so keen on the older lad, either. He seemed a little too bossy--almost a bully. “Hullo, lad. Are you Ollie?”

“Yes, sir!” The boy replied, smiling. Paladin noticed the boy’s teeth were in desperate need of cleaning. “At yer service, sir!”

“I was inquiring about a slingshot, and someone said that you could fashion one?”

“Yes, sir. I can make just ‘bout anythin’ out o’wood.” He eyed the elder hobbit, “Yer needin’ a slingshot?”

Paladin sighed uneasily, “It’s not for me, lad, it’s for my daughter.”

The boy raised his eyebrows, “For your daughter?” He decided not to ask--perhaps this was how lasses were catching lads these days.

Paladin blushed, though he acted as if he were unfazed, “What do you think would be a fair price?”

The lad shrugged. No one had ever asked him that before. “Don’t know, sir. A penny?”

“Good. I shall return in an hour and make my purchase.” Then Paladin saw the puzzled look on the boy’s face.

Merry leaned in close to his uncle and whispered, “I don’t think he’s allowed to keep a timepiece.”

Thatch, cheat. Synonymous words to Paladin. “My apologies, lad. I shall return in a little while--enough time for you to fashion the slingshot and have it ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paladin spotted a certain hat on the top shelf and thought it would help shield Merry’s eyes. “Oh, and by the way, I’d like to purchase that hat now, if I may.”

Ollie reached up and pulled down a brimmed hat and handed it to the stranger, receiving from him the marked price.

Merry got a terrible feeling that the hat was for him; Pippin was already wearing his hat. He half pleaded, “Not in front of the lads, Uncle--please.” Pippin held his hand over his mouth to squelch his amusement. A playful grin appeared on Paladin’s lips as he plopped the hat onto Merry’s head, but left the strings untied.

Onward the trio went, heading west up the road and soon Merry could see the millhouse. “Look!” He pointed away into the fields to their left. “It’s the graveyard. Do you see it?”

“Yes.” Paladin answered. He could see rows of markers in the hazy distance. As he gazed at them he caught sight of his nephew as he tried to make his way toward the graveyard and grabbed his arm; Merry didn’t notice that he was walking straight into the open fields again. “Merry! Keep away from the field--you almost got yourself killed yesterday!”

“But this is the same path I took yesterday coming home from the mill.”

Paladin held his nephew’s shoulders, “No, Merry--you’ve never worked at this mill.” Then he saw the desperation in the teen’s eyes, “It was only a dream--no more.” He looked towards the side of the mill. “There has to be another way. It’s too perilous to cross here.”

As they made their way toward the mill, they could hear the deafening sound of the grinding wheels. Merry couldn’t help but gaze at the open yard that he felt that he himself had worked in just the day before--though was it really a dream? It all felt so real.... Stacks and bales of grains were sitting and waiting to be hauled in by some young hobbit boy. He could hear the shouting of the Overlooker, “Get to work ye slackers! If I hear one more word, ye’ll be quartered thrice!” Merry froze in place; he knew that voice, and it made his skin crawl. The memory of his punishment was ever so clear in his mind. He looked behind at his legs, but the welts were not there.

“Come along, Merry.” Said Paladin softly. The look of sheer terror on Merry‘s face made Paladin even question the validity of the dreams--could they have been real? He put his arm around the lad and drew him further up the hill. “Are you all right, lad?” Merry nodded, though still obviously shaken.

They passed the mill and afterward came upon a narrow lane on the left that led far behind it and back towards the empty field. “This must be the way,” Paladin said, leading the boys onto the path.

“I don’t like this place, papa.” Pippin’s green eyes were wide open as he followed his father and cousin down the creepy path.

Paladin lifted the child up and carried him further toward the graveyard. “There’s nothing here that will hurt you, Pippin.”

Merry ran up to the gate and took in all the grave-markers. He proceeded to jog to the other side--where he had come in to see his parents during his dream the day before.

“Don’t go too far, Merry,” Paladin called after him. “Make sure you stay out of the field!”

Merry readily identified the well-worn path that he walked on in his dream. He stood upon the pathway and then faced inward towards the graveyard. He saw them--the very same markers that he bid farewell to. He ran up to them, immediately recognizing the etching on his father’s grave--the father in his dream. “It’s them.” He announced, as Paladin strode up with Pippin in his arms.

Paladin looked at the markers and read them aloud. The first one read,, “Gayla Greenhill, S.R. 1341 - 1391.” Then he looked at the other, “Wilby Greenhill, S.R. 1339 - 1396.” They stood gazing at the markers in silence.

Merry listened to his uncle read the names on the markers and shook his head sorrowfully, “But....yesterday I couldn’t read them, and yet I knew in my heart that it was you.”

“Thank you, Merry,” Paladin answered. “I, for one, am glad that it wasn’t.”

Paladin half turned to view other markers around and nearly dropped Pippin as his knees grew weak. One grave was so freshly dug, it looked as if it had been excavated just days ago. Upon the marker it read, “Tad Greenhill, S.R. 1382 - 1397.”