3.  Bounders Welcome (Or Not)

Despite having slept away some ten or twelve hours in the supply cache, the ride to Long Cleeve and the questions that had followed had exhausted him, and Pippin was glad to drop into the well-appointed bed of his borrowed room.  His saddlebags and gear had been set upon the trunk at the foot of the bed and a cheerful fire had been laid in the small fireplace.  Realizing that one last task would put off his rest a few minutes more, Pippin rolled across the bed and flipped open the well-worn cover of his satchel.  It was the very same one that had accompanied him from the Shire to the Falls of Rauros.  The endlessly mended pack, which had contained many treasured and useful items he would have been sorry to lose, had been retrieved for them before they left Gondor for home, and he carried it still, the material rubbed soft in all the right places, as comfortable as an old shirt.  As he reached into it for his report journal, a small bundle of fur pounced from its darkened depths and raced up his arm, chattering furiously in his ear.

   “Settle down, little fellow,” Pippin laughed, pulling the angry squirrel from his shoulder.  “I thought you’d abandoned me with the first snowflake!  I’ll bet you’re hungry, though,” he said, digging in his pocket for a slightly crumbled biscuit he’d sneaked from the kitchen, more out of habit than real need.  The little animal snatched up the offered treat and bounded away to perch upon the nightstand.  The woodland creature, unusually bold and friendly for its kind, had attached itself to him when he and Sancho had come upon the second deserted farmhouse on their rounds.  The family that owned and worked the surrounding fields had been particularly welcoming to the two young Bounders since they had taken over this route last year, and the thought of those brave and cheerful souls coming to harm was very disturbing to them both.  Pippin admired the spirit that prompted these families to move away from the more settled lands in the heart of the Shire, carving out home and bread from the wilderness here on the bounds.  If duty had not tied him to Great Smials…

   The tired hobbit shook his head and yawned hugely, dismissing the impossible notion.  He glanced guiltily again at the opened bag that sat near at hand.  Self-discipline had always been a challenge, particularly with anything even resembling bookwork, and the daily entries into the report journal were the only part of riding the bounds he didn’t care for at all.  Brushing from the slim leather-bound volume the crumbs that the hungry stowaway had made of his rations, Pippin unwound the thong that secured it closed against his sketchbook amidst the other odds and ends that he carried.  Opening the pages to his previous entry, he read back his awkward words of two days ago.

                 “Feb. 20, 1427.  5 more farms abandoned.  No sign of life or struggle.

                   Livestock set loose.  Sancho Proudfoot reporting to Michel Delving.

                    Am heading to Long Cleeve for aid.  I hope they are still there.”

There followed a list of the eight holdings they had found empty, new friends, some of them kin to either of them or both, and all gone without a trace.  Pippin sighed, adding a few brief sentences about his last two days, as well as Angrim Took’s decision.  He closed and tossed the journal into his satchel and lay back down, stretching out his long frame as best he could on the small bed.  Diamond Took’s sharp features swam across his closed eyelids and he thought she must have a smile to dazzle even the Sun, if one could manage to earn it.  Sleep stole quietly over him and spirited gray-green eyes pursued him into his dreams.

                                                                 ***   ***   ***

   Sancho Proudfoot was coming close to losing his temper.  Pacing the small confines of the entry hall of the Town Hole in Michel Delving, he had waited through the morning and nearly half the afternoon to make his report, and his long patience, well exercised by his partner’s idiosyncrasies, was wearing thin.  He came again to stand over the busy scribe that sat behind the small desk that guarded the Mayor’s door.

   “Hello there.  Remember me?” he asked.

   “How could I forget?” the functionary replied with a grimace and a sniff.

   “Now, look, I’ve watched a dozen hobbits pass those doors in either direction since I arrived this morning, and while I’m sure they all had good reason to be here, I have very important news to deliver.”

   “You should have made an appointment.”

   Sancho forcibly restrained himself from simply picking up and shaking the annoying creature behind the desk and he put on an exaggeratedly friendly smile.

   “May I *please* have an appointment then?  As soon as possible?”

   “The Mayor can see you two days from now, first thing in the morning.”

   “Two days!  Have you no concept of life and death, you useless paper pusher?” the dark-haired hobbit shouted, finally at his wit’s end.  “I should have gone straight to Great Smials with this!”

   “I’m sure Reginard Took guards the Thain’s valuable time as effectively as I do the Mayor’s, something you young lounge-about dandies obviously do not understand,” the gray secretary said primly, seemingly unruffled and unimpressed by Sancho’s outburst.

   “Reginard Took I could trust to resolve this matter, and I’m off to put it to him now.  I’ll be back in two days, with a troop of Tookland archers in tow, to deliver my report.  And by the way,” he added over his shoulder as he turned to leave, “Master Reginard’s desk is *inside* Thain Paladin’s study.”

   Stopping outside the door to calm his angry breath, the young hobbit sat upon the low stone wall that enclosed the colorful garden that had been planted around the Town Hole.  He wasn’t sure which made him angrier, the fact that it had been an empty threat, or that he had had to make it at all.  The Thain was on the outs with the Mayor again, mostly because he had accepted Pippin into the shirriffs, and for outside work no less.  Thain Paladin had some rather set ideas on where his heir’s duties and loyalties should lie and despite all evidence to the contrary, he seemed to feel he could still impose them upon his son.  This was, of course, the very reason for Pippin’s decision and a year had not yet been long enough to soften the old hobbit’s stance.  Tookland Bounders, of which there were only a few, came home with their caps tucked into their saddlebags or not at all.  Setting his own cap back on his head, Sancho sighed and was rising to leave when the door edged open and the Mayor’s new deputy stepped out.

   “Master Bounder,” the round-faced hobbit said, offering his hand in greeting.  “Samwise Gamgee, at your service, sir.  I overheard a shout…?”

   “Master Chickenscratch and I simply disagreed on the urgency of my dispatch,” Sancho replied acidly, returning the firm handshake.

   A small smile quirked the other’s lips.  “You’re not the first he’s rubbed rather the wrong way, lad, but tell me, what’s so urgent?”

   Sancho hesitated a moment, looking down at the shorter hobbit’s brown eyes and serious face.  This was someone Pippin trusted implicitly, and whom he had praised countless times for his courage and honesty.

   “That serious, eh?  Where is your partner?” Sam asked, noting his reticence.

   “Fifty or more hobbits have disappeared along the bounds.  Peregrin has gone to Long Cleeve, hopefully to find help rather than more trouble.”

   Any trace of humor immediately left Sam’s face and he signaled the young Bounder to follow him over the wall and into the garden.

   “You’ve got my attention.  What’s going on?”

   “Eight farms, at last count, have been abandoned and their folk vanished since we last rode by in January.”

   “Vanished?”

   “Without a trace.  They were isolated holdings and no one else seems aware of it yet, though I hope Pippin has reached the North-Tooks by now.  If they are still there…”

   “Did you warn anyone on your way back?”

   “Not specifically, I didn’t want to cause a panic, but I told them to watch for anything odd and keep the children close in for a while.  They already lock their doors that close to the bounds.”

   Sam stood a long while in thought, fingers moving unconsciously along the crackled bark of the small tree that shaded the corner of the garden where they stood.

   “Alright.  Listen, here’s some more news for you to keep under your hat.  The Mayor’s not well, he’ll be resigning at the end of June.  I’ll do what I can to get a few more shirriffs together and sent your way, but you’re right about doing things quietly, at least right now.  A panic this soon after the Troubles would throw all awreck and likely for no good reason.  Wait for me at the Red Hill House,” he said, naming the one of the local inns.  “I’ll find you there as soon as I can.”

   The Sun sat like a red egg upon the Downs when Sam found Sancho at the inn’s common room.  The Mayor’s deputy looked tired and frustrated, and he sat down heavily, sliding a thin envelope across the table.

   “I hope you’ve had a restful afternoon,” he said, nodding his thanks to the lass who plunked a full tankard in front of him. “Make straight for Brandy Hall and have them find you Master Meriadoc Brandybuck.  Give him this and he’ll hear you out.  I can’t go into the details, but don’t wait on the Mayor’s office on this matter.  I’ll do what I can, but…” he shook his head worriedly.

   “I’ll leave right away, then, if you don’t mind,” the young Bounder said, dropping a few coins beside his empty mug as he rose.

   “I’ll join you as far as the Bywater road,” Sam replied, draining his ale with a sigh.  “You’re welcome to rest up at Bag End, though it’s a mite crowded and out of your way.”

   “I’d like nothing better, sir, if I weren’t so pressed for time.  Pip’s gone on quite poetically on the delights of Mistress Rose’s pies.”

   “He would,” Sam laughed, hoping the young Took would indeed find help among his northern kin and not more desolation. “I certainly suspect he would.”