3. Rangers

The next morning, the hobbits were roused bright and early by a light rainstorm, much to their annoyance. As they were all up, Frodo decided that they should go explore the countryside around them.

“In the rain?” asked Gorbadas in dismay.

“It’s only a bit of drizzle,” said Frodo mildly, re-organizing his pack.

Gorbadas folded his arms with a pout. “But we’ll still get wet.”

Frodo sighed, and closed the flap of his pack. “Gorbadas, we’re already wet –” he began, but Pippin cut him off, walking past with his pack hoisted onto his shoulders.

“Do you have any better ideas?” he asked, with a slight hint of annoyance; like Merry, he was always quick to get upset if anyone questioned Frodo’s knowledge or decisions.

Gorbadas muttered something unintelligible and wandered off to ready his pack. Frodo gave Pippin a grateful smile, which Pippin brushed off with a shrug and a returning grin. Merry came over, pack ready and walking stick in hand.

“Where are we going, Frodo?” he asked brightly, undaunted by the weather. “I think we’ve explored just about every inch of the land around here – except the Old Forest of course.”

Frodo hoisted the pack onto his shoulders and picked up his walking stick. “Well, perhaps we have, but they haven’t.”

“We’re not going to get closer to the Old Forest, are we, Frodo?” asked Kalimac Brandybuck fearfully from across the camp.

“Don’t worry, Kali,” Frodo assured him as everyone began to come over to hear their plans for the day. “We shan’t get any closer to the Old Forest than we are now.” Everyone sighed in relief – except Isengar. He looked quite the little explorer: pack that was too big for him hoisted high on his shoulders, walking stick in his hand, cranberry cloak secured snugly around his shoulders.

“Well, I’m not afraid of the Old Forest,” he declared stoutly.

Gorbadas stared at him in astonishment. “You’re not?”

Isengar shook his head, causing his sandy curls to bounce. “’Course not. There are only trees there. How can a tree hurt me?”

Berilac came over, grey eyes wide. “But you’ve heard the stories, Iss. The trees there are evil. They can throw branches at you, or lift their roots to trip you.”

The stubborn little Took turned to face him, hands on his hips (looking very much like a smaller version of Pippin as he did so). “Have you ever been in the Old Forest, Beri?”

Merimas also joined the group. “Of course not, Iss,” he said incredulously. “Are you mad? Only a few from Buckland have ever been in there – and with good reason, too. You don’t want to know the stories I’ve heard,” he dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper, as though sharing a great secret. “They say a ghost lives there.”

Reginard Took arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And who are ‘they’?”

“My dad, for one,” Merimas answered defensively. “And my cousin, Oakred. He went into the Old Forest once, and never wanted to go in there again.”

“Bah!” Reginard’s brother, Everard shook his head in disgust. “Surely you don’t believe those old stories, Merimas? They’re just a bunch of nonsense.”

Merimas spun around, green eyes snapping. “And how would you know, Everard Took?” he demanded furiously. “I’d bet you’re too cowardly to go in there yourself.”

Everard’s eyes darkened and Reginard jumped forward, quick to defend his brother. Soon, a loud, furious argument was underway: Tooks against Brandybucks, each furiously defending their family honor.

Only Frodo, Merry, Pippin and Isengar stayed out of it. Merry and Pippin were eager to join in and defend their families, but as Frodo did not, they would not, either. Isengar simply watched them with an unreadable look in his storm-grey eyes. Frodo sighed and raised his eyes to the cloudy sky for a moment. Then he squared his shoulders and forced his way into the middle of the arguing boys.

“Quiet, please, everyone!” he shouted over the din. “Stop arguing!”

No one paid the least attention. But Merry and Pippin, taking his example, hurried over and pulled Reginard and Kalimac apart before they tried to seriously hurt each other. Frodo, eyes closed in the effort not to lose his patience with the bickering children, tried again.

"Quiet, everyone!"

At last, he got their attention. The lads stopped mid-sentence and turned to look at him; and then quickly lowered their eyes and blushed with embarrassment. Isengar watched silently.

Frodo sighed with relief. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Then he opened his eyes and raised his voice so everyone could hear. “I hope that everyone in Brandy Hall didn’t hear all your noise – I would prefer to get through this camping trip without causing Uncle Saradoc to send a search party after us.”

That was as close to a reprimand as they ever got from Frodo, and all the lads knew it and heeded it. They nodded dutifully, and remained silent, not daring to look up. Merry and Pippin looked with satisfaction at their oldest cousin.

“All right then, if you are all quite ready,” continued Frodo after a brief pause, the tone in his voice telling the boys that he was no longer cross with them and that it was safe to look up. “Let’s go hiking, shall we?”

There was a cheer from all the boys, who were relieved that the reprimand was over and they were now free to enjoy the day. Even to Gorbadas, the prospect of exploring in the rain was now an inviting one.

As they tramped through the thick forest that surrounded their little glade, Merry started up a favorite Buckland song, called ‘My Home by the River,’ and everyone joined in.

‘O where do

fair green lands you find?

Along the banks

of Brandywine

O land of hills

and woods divine!

Along the banks

of Brandywine.

O Brandywine, fair Brandywine!

Lush are the woods of oak and pine

Flowers bloom and daisies grow

In wintertime, fields white with snow

Brandywine, O Brandywine!

Forests, the home of hart and hind

And countrysides of hill and knoll

That make the merry hobbits’ hole!

O, stars by night

And sun by day!

They light the

fairest land alway!

In Buckland home

I’ll always stay,

Not anything

Could drive me away!’

“Hey!” All the lads shouted, laughing, as was the customary ending to the song.

“Shall we have at it again?” Berilac asked eagerly.

“What about one from Tookland?” Reginard suggested. “‘In rolling hills, where I was born…’” 

Merimas cut him off. “No, no, not that one! What about, ‘Green Rain’?” That was a favorite song all over the Shire.

“No, I think it should be…”

Thankfully, their argument was stopped before it even started. “Hsh!” whispered Frodo suddenly, stopping in his tracks. Everyone immediately did the same, and Frodo, holding a hand up as a signal warning no one to follow him, cautiously crept forward through the undergrowth and peered through the leaves of a fern.

Speaking quietly with Pippin for a moment, Merry silently came up to Frodo’s side and touched his shoulder. “What is it, Frodo?” he asked softly.

Keeping a warning finger to his lips, Frodo soundlessly parted the leaves of the fern, pointing to what he was staring at. Merry dropped down beside him, taking care not to make a sound.

Peering slowly through the fern, Merry sucked in his breath sharply. A good distance away, in a small clearing surrounded by trees, there was a campsite. Three travelers sat or stood around the fire that burned in the center.  But these were no hobbit-travelers.

They were tall; twice the size of a full-grown hobbit, and their raven-black hair was straight, not curled. They wore travel-stained tunics, long trousers and cloaks, all of the same dark greyish-green color, and boots – boots! The long boots went halfway up their legs, and were spattered with mud.

The Mens’ faces, though weathered and shadowed by the trees, were fair and noble. Their eyes were grey and deep, like an Elf’s, and flickered in the light of the flames.

“Big People?” Merry hissed incredulously. “What are they doing here in the Shire?”

“Shh,” Frodo warned him. “They’ll hear you.”

“They’ve got bows,” Merry noticed, staring at the slender black weapons lying by the Mens’ sides. His eyes moved up to the quivers, full of long, slender arrows, strapped to their backs, and then down to their belts, where he could see the sheaths of long knives. “And knives. They look dangerous.”

Frodo nodded. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s go before they see us.”

At that moment, as though hearing his last sentence, one of the Men, the youngest looking, with a youthful, eager face, looked directly at the fern where Frodo and Merry peered through. The hobbits froze.

“Hullo! what’s that?” said the young Man to his companions. “I think I see something over there, in that fern. What d’you suppose it is, Farin?”

The one called Farin, a middle-aged Man with an honest, straightforward face that seemed apt to smile, turned his head lazily in the direction of the fern. Frodo and Merry ducked and shut their eyes, hoping that the other hobbit lads would not make a sound.

“Probably a rabbit,” said Farin after staring into the bush. “We’ve seen enough of them, although – ” he looked ruefully at the empty spit that was posted over the fire. “ – we can’t seem to coax any to join us for supper.”

The third Man laughed. He seemed to be around the same age as Farin, but with a solemn, though not unpleasant face; as though he had many worries and cares burdening him. “That’s because all the rabbits in these woods probably ended up in your stomach last night.”

Farin smiled good-naturedly and laughed as well. “Aye, you might be right there. But… Elbereth! Leofwine, would you sit down, man? I told you, it was just a rabbit.”

The young Man named Leofwine frowned and reluctantly sat down again, still staring at the fern. He shook his head in frustration. “That’s what you say every time I see something, Farin,” he complained. “I thought a Ranger was always ready for anything.”

“They are!” Farin exclaimed indignantly, but Leofwine went on.

“Well, if all the Rangers thought every noise was a rabbit, there’d be no Rangers left! How can you say…”

“Enough, Leofwine,” the third Man interrupted sternly, though not harshly. “You have made your point. But do not judge Farin too hastily – he is wise and experienced, and has spent many years out in the Wilds. You could learn much from him.”

Leofwine bowed his head respectfully. “Yes, sir,” he said softly. “I am sorry. I spoke out of turn.” He looked at Farin. “Forgive me, sir, for judging you too harshly.”

Farin good-naturedly waved off the apology. “Ah, Estel,” he said to the third Man, “the boy does have a point, you know. Perhaps I’m losing my edge?”

The Man called Estel laughed, and young Leofwine’s face brightened somewhat. “The day Farin of the Dúnadain loses his edge is the day I become King.”

“Which may not be so far away as you think…” muttered Farin to himself.

As the Men went back to their conversation, Frodo and Merry felt it safe to cautiously back away and return to the others, who were waiting impatiently – but silently. “What was it?” Pippin hissed eagerly. “What did you see?”

Frodo glanced back nervously towards the clearing. “First, let’s get back to the campsite where we can speak freely. Move quickly, but try not to make a sound.”

The lads, though anxious to learn more, obeyed, accepting that Frodo knew what he was doing. They turned and began to head back to their campsite, but suddenly, someone stepped on a twig, which broke with a sickeningly loud snap.

Everyone froze. Each could hear his heart beating frantically. Pippin swallowed hard and glanced at Merry, who was biting his lip nervously. Frodo’s face paled and his eyes widened as they heard noises from the Men’s camp.

“There! That was no rabbit!” The voice of Leofwine rang through the forest, and to the lads’ horror, they saw the three Men’s heads and shoulders appear over the bushes, bows drawn and ready. 

“Run!” cried Frodo, still keeping his voice soft, in the hope that they might still escape without detection. The boys took to their heels instantly, and though they tried to be silent, they were in such a panic that they could not help stepping on dried leaves and sticks.

Shouts were heard from the Men, and a sudden twang was heard. Frodo gasped and shouted, “Duck!” forgetting all thoughts of speaking quietly. The lads instantly dropped down into the undergrowth, just in time to feel a rush of air over their heads and hear a dull thud as an arrow embedded itself in a nearby tree.

“Go!” Frodo hauled Pippin to his feet. “Keep going!” The hobbits’ senses were now straining to the utmost, and they managed to successfully avoid the few arrows that whistled past them. Frodo stayed in the back, making sure no one was left behind, and helping those who stumbled to scramble back up to their feet again. He glanced back to see the tall shapes of Men darting from shadow to shadow, but still a good distance behind them.

The shouts slowly began to fade, and Frodo heard, “Stop! They are only Halflings – don’t shoot!” before they disappeared entirely. He breathed a sigh of relief – or as much a sigh as he could manage in his current, breathless state.

The lads finally reached the clearing, and after glancing back to reassure themselves that they were not being followed, they collapsed, exhausted, in the grass. They lay there for several moments, trying to slow the frantic racing of their hearts and catch their breaths.

“What—who were they?” Pippin gasped after a few minutes.

“They were Men,” said Frodo with a cough. “Big People.”

There was an astonished murmur among the boys, and Reginard propped himself up on his elbows to stare incredulously at Frodo. “Big People?” he repeated. “What are Big People doing in the Shire?”

Frodo managed to sit up and lean against a tree trunk, closing his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “They called themselves Rangers.”

Merimas sucked in his breath sharply. “Rangers? I’ve heard of them! They’re –”

“Not another one of your stories,” Everard groaned. “I don’t want to know any more about them. I’m just glad they didn’t follow us.”

There were scattered murmurs of agreement around the campsite, and Frodo opened his eyes again, brushing the dirt, pine needles and leaves from his shirt. “Well,” he said, “I, for one, am done with hiking for the day. What about the rest of you?”

There was hearty agreement from everyone. Now that the initial exhaustion was beginning to lessen, they resumed their usual chatter. All were still shaken by their near escape, but hobbits have an amazing power of recovery, and by that evening, they were beginning to go back to their usual, cheerful selves.

“Frodo?” asked Merry as they ate supper that evening.

“Yes?”

“What does Estel mean? Isn’t that Elvish?”

Frodo was silent for a moment as he translated. “Very good, Merry. Yes, it’s Elvish. It means ‘hope.’”

“‘Hope.’ Strange name, when you think about it.”

“It doesn’t sound strange to me,” Pippin put in, through a mouthful of cornbread. “I’ve heard stranger ones. Like my cousin, Oleander – who’d want to be named after a poisonous plant?”

“You’re named after an apple, I might remind you.” Merry’s voice was teasing.

“That’s only my nickname. And besides, an apple is still better than something poisonous. Which reminds me… isn’t Lobelia a poisonous plant?”

“Actually, I think it’s a healing herb, but yes, I've heard that it can be poisonous, if given in large amounts,” Frodo replied with a grin.

“Ugh, and we all know what that’s like. Celandine is poisonous, too. Hmm, that clears up a lot of things…”

“Hey, what about a story?” Merimas interrupted.

“Not one of your ghost-stories,” Kalimac said, giving his cousin a playful elbow in the ribs. “What about something new? Surely someone knows a story we’ve never heard before.”

“You know what I think?” little Isengar spoke up, pausing to produce a chorus of  “What?” from the other boys. “I think -- oh my, look at all those mushrooms over there!”

Instantly, all heads whirled around to where Isengar pointed, while the small miscreant calmly took a few slices of blueberry pie from the others' plates, casually stuffing them into his mouth.

Gorbadas turned back around. “I don’t see any – Isengar Took, you little thief! Where’d you put my pie?” Isengar gave him a wide grin, showing the pie in his mouth. Gorbadas jumped to his feet, and Isengar gave a laughing squeal as he jumped up and ran away from his older cousin.

“Hey, my pie’s missing, too!” exclaimed Reginard suddenly.

“So is mine,” said Kalimac.

“And mine,” added Merimas.

"Isengar Took!" Almost everyone in the clearing was now chasing after the mischiefmaker, shouting all manner of threats, but not truly angry. Eventually, they managed to catch him, and pinned him down in the grass.

“Where’s our pie?” Merimas demanded.

Isengar swallowed and patted his belly. “In here,” he said with a grin.

“For the Thain!” Pippin shouted, springing up and coming over to join them as Isengar was almost buried beneath a pile of tickling older lads. Shouts of “For Tuckborough,” or “The Eastfarthing,” or other similar war cries filled the air. Merry and Frodo watched for a moment in amusement.

“You think we should go help him?” asked Merry calmly.

Frodo shook his head. “Let them have their fun – serves him right,” he said with a grin as he took the last bite of his own pie.

Merry nodded in agreement, also finishing the last of his pie. He laughed as Pippin disappeared beneath the pile of playfully wrestling hobbit lads, although his cries for help could still be heard.

“I think I might go join them,” Merry announced, standing up. “Someone’s likely to get hurt if an older, more mature hobbit doesn’t step in.”

Frodo arched an eyebrow. “And that hobbit is you?” he asked teasingly.

“Of course,” Merry replied, straightening himself up like a trained soldier, and without another word, marched into the loud pile of wrestling boys. Frodo watched as he stood there a moment, and then suddenly dove into the midst of it, shouting, “For Buckland!”

Frodo sat by the campfire and watched for a while, glad that everyone seemed to have recovered from their fright earlier. For his part, he was beginning to worry about Saradoc's reaction when he told him of their near-escape. His uncle had always been kind and understanding, but Frodo had promised to keep the boys safe. He hoped Saradoc would not think his trust had been misplaced. 

After a while, he stood up and walked over to where the boys were wrestling. Shouts and challenges rang through the air, sounding much like they had that afternoon when the boys had gotten into that quarrel – but they were playful this time.

Frodo watched them for a moment longer, and then with a shrug, he shouted, “The Westfarthing!” and joined in.

TBC...

Yes, I made up ‘My Home by the River,’ sadly, and I wrote the beginning of Reginard’s song of Tookland (which took a whole lot of effort…), but I didn’t even write the title of ‘Green Rain.’ It’s a poem by Mary Webb, and as usual, no copyright infringement was meant. :)