The ‘thock’ an arrow makes when it lodges itself in something is unmistakable. It’s especially hard to miss when it lodges itself into one’s leg, that leg happening to belong to Edwin. Edwin, having more than two decades of training in combat and wounds, still found it difficult to bite his tongue and hold back the pain.

‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’ he berated himself. What was he thinking, traveling in the Shire, wearing that pin? Cocky lad. After his father had told him that the pin was like a target! Granted, that had been almost twenty-six years ago, but still! Now there were ruffians hot on his trail, and he was injured. Stupid!

He looked down at his wound. The arrow wasn’t too deep, and it wasn’t likely he would get very far with it still in his leg. Which was worse, pulling the arrow out now, or the alternative, waiting for the ruffians to catch up, who had more than just arrows?

No question about that.

Bracing himself, he took a firm grasp on the shaft and yanked. The arrow came out with an odd squelch and Edwin let a small groan escape before dropping the arrow and running as fast as he could, considering the circumstances.

His father’s instructions came to mind. “If it’s a wound that bleeds, cover it! They can track you faster and much more easily if you leave a trail of blood.” Well, that wasn’t much use now. They could see him, for Eru’s sake! But he tore a strip off the hem of his shirt, the cleanest cloth in his reach, and began to bind the wound as he fled.

‘Where am I now? Where can I hide?’ he thought quickly, which was rather frantic for him, as his father had taught him to be cool and collected. What had Holly told him about the Shire? There were a few places ruffians hadn’t gone, superstitious lot that they were. He knew he was in Hobbiton- he had passed an ancient sign, the words barely legible, faded beyond almost all recall. There was a tree, she had said, in Hobbiton. A tree wouldn’t be a very good place to hide- he wouldn’t be able to shimmy up any trees with high branches with his leg.

As he reached the top of the hill the path he was on climbed, he saw the tree. Incredible! Even if he had been at the peak of his strength, he couldn’t have reached the first branch.

Something else caught his eye. A hill, overlooking all of Hobbiton. Something tugged at his memory. There’s a large hill near Hobbiton... Ruffians don’t go in there... Haunted? He didn’t think so. Safe? Yes!

With an almost superhuman burst of speed, he raced to the hill, not bothering to take the winding road up to the hole- it was probably as overgrown as the rest of the land was, having had years in which to grow a good layer of grass. Nearing the top, he began to look for the door. Green, she had said, with a gold knob and an X over it... there!

He charged towards the door, flung it open, threw himself into the tiny entryway, and kicked the door shut with his good foot. Limbs shaking, he crawled as fast as he could far down one of the halls until he was in a segment of the hole that had no windows. Breathing heavily, he listened to the drunken voices outside the door:

“Gone in there, ‘as ‘e?”

“Aye! He’ll go mad after hearin’ voices fer a day!”

“And if not, he’ll starve.”

“‘E won’t come out, not if ‘e thinks we’re out ‘ere.”

“I think he might come out.”

“O’ course not! He’s got a bad leg! He can’t go anywhere until it’s healed!”

“‘E got up the ‘ill.”

“He was on his last legs there! Get it?”

“Aw, shut up. That was a bad joke. Now let’s go. I’m not stayin’ ‘round here another minute!”

Edwin was panting hard and gritting his teeth from the pain. He took out a knife and made a slit up his trousers until it reached the wound on his thigh. His makeshift bandage was already soaked through, so he just cut that off to look at the wound itself.

It would need stitches, he was sure of that. But not now- that could wait. He carefully checked for any splinters from the shaft, and, seeing none, took a waterskin, packet of herbs, and some clean cloths out of his pack. He cleaned the wound as best he could with his water and the herbs before binding it tightly with the cloths. Exhausted, he dragged himself into the nearest room and fell asleep, using his pack as a pillow.

It wasn’t the pain that woke him up, as he’d thought it would, but the sound of crackling flames. He quickly sat up (a motion he regretted almost instantly), and looked for the source. He was in a room with a fireplace, a few empty shelves, and a desk- the room that Holly had described to him.

There was no smoke, and no heat, but the fire sounded like it was coming from the fireplace. ‘I’ve gone mad,’ he determined.

Deciding this phenomenon would be better appreciated if he closed his eyes and imagined he was warm, he scooted towards the wall and leaned on it, tilting his head back. Funny thing really, but he could swear that he really was getting warmer! Not willing to break the spell of warmth that his mind had obviously cast, he didn’t open his eyes when he heard the sound of soft feet in the hall. He wasn’t worried it was the ruffians- and if it was a daring young hobbit child, then they’d just get a fright to see a half-asleep Ranger in the study. When the door opened, he prepared himself for a high screech of surprise, but nothing happened.

“Mr. Frodo?”

“I am wounded, Sam. Wounded, and will never really heal.”

Edwin held his breath, his eyes screwed shut tight. ‘There must be someone in the room, that’s all. There’s no such thing as ghosts, especially ones that were supposed to have gone to the Undying Lands hundreds of years ago. I must have a fever, that’s it. My leg is infected. That’s probably why I’m so warm. I’m hallucinating...’

The voices had gone, and the feeling of a roaring fire slowly changed into the warmth of dying embers on the hearth. The first voice came back.

“All right, one tale before bed. Which shall it be?”

There was a restless rustling, and then several children chorused amid giggles, “Let’s hear about Frodo and the Ring!”

“Yes, that’s one of my favorites!” a little boy chirruped. “Frodo was really courageous, wasn’t he, dad?”

The first voice said warmly, “Yes, my boy, the most famousest of hobbits, and that’s saying a lot.”

A little girl’s voice said, “You’ve forgotten one of the chief characters! Samwise the Brave! I want to hear more about Sam!”

“I think you’ve heard this story a bit too much, if you’ve memorized the lines!”

“Please tell it!”

“Yes! I want to hear about Aragorn!”

“I want to hear about Gandalf!”

“The Elves, dad! The Elves!”

“And what about those two dashing warriors?” a voice from the back of the room interjected, with a satirical seriousness. “Meriadoc the Magnificent! And that other... well, he wasn’t quite as important.”

“Oh yes he was!” another voice from the back said cheerily. “Ernil i Pheriannath! The Prince of the Halflings! Much more important than that ruffian Rider of Rohan!”

‘I’m mad. I’m hearing conversations of the three famous hobbits, and, presumably, their children,’ Edwin thought. But soon he just stopped thinking and listened to the voices, for the first voice, a warm, comforting voice, began to tell a tale that he had not heard in a long time, of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom. Some parts were missing, though. Wasn’t there a part in there with a giant spider and an orc tower? And ruffians in the Shire? Where were the Nazgul stabbing Frodo?

When the story ended, he grudgingly opened his eyes, hoping that it wouldn’t break the warm silence that had just fallen. When he looked around the room, he resisted shutting his eyes again. ‘I’m mad. I’m insane. This is not happening!’

He could see the room as it once was, not a dirty mess, scattered with papers with a fine layer of dust over everything, but a cozy study. There were dying embers in the fireplace. The shelves were lined with many books. The desk was polished and tidy. In an armchair by the fire sat a hobbit- obviously the one who had been telling the story. Sprawled on the floor in front of him were several hobbit children, all asleep. In the back of the room, two very tall hobbits leaned against the wall, smiling.

“Is this how you get them to sleep every night?” asked one.

“Mostly. Some nights they fall asleep to Mr. Bilbo’s tale.”

“And that’s all they want to hear?”

“Yes.” The storyteller smiled down fondly on the children, obviously his children. “And they ask for it the same way, too. Someday, maybe I’ll tell them the full story, but not now. Not yet.”

Edwin resisted blinking as long as possible- he felt that if his eyelids even flickered for one moment, he would lose this vision completely. His eyes watering and itching, he blinked. The scene dissolved, until Edwin was left alone.

“Maybe I’m not mad,” he whispered. “Maybe it all really did happen.” With that, he turned to tend to his leg.

Edwin spent two weeks in that hole while recovering enough for his leg to be useful. He grew accustomed to the cramped spaces, the occasional giggle, and the voices that were still there. He grew to believe that he wasn’t mad, or not as mad as some people, in the least. He learned why it was that his father had stressed the value of rationing food, and was highly grateful for it. What he was even more grateful for was the water pump in the kitchen- although it spewed rust the first few pumps, it gave clean water soon after.

In his time under the hill, he heard silent sobbing from the study and one of the bedrooms when the storytelling hobbit was gone, felt an oppressing chill, like he would never be happy again (he dubbed the feeling “Nazgul-like”, owing to his father’s descriptions of the air of a Nazgul), and saw visions of the storyteller’s family in times that were happy and times that were sad. Sometimes, when he was attempting to stand and test his leg, little hands would reach up and steady him. Occasionally, when he was eating, even tinier hands would tug at his sleeves until he “accidentally” dropped a sizeable piece of his meal.

Finally, when his leg was healed enough to travel, he stood up straight (or as straight as he could) and said, “Thank you for everything. I understand better now the entire story, and I believe that it is true.”

With only the slightest twinge of pain, he walked, hunched over, towards the door. It was night outside- the perfect time to flee. He put his hand on the doorknob, and stopped. There, lying on the doormat, were four painted wooden carvings, about two inches high- hobbits. One was the storyteller, two of them were the tall hobbits, and one was the one hobbit he hadn’t seen in all of his time there. He fingered them, naming each individual as he studied them.

This one, the storyteller, was Sam. His father hadn’t told him what had happened to the hobbits once Frodo had sailed to the Undying Lands, but he was certain that Sam was the storyteller. The detail was amazing- Edwin could pick out individual curls on the hobbit’s head, count the buttons on his shirt, trace a finger over the wrinkles on his rolled-up sleeves, and see the rippling folds in the cloak, as if the hobbit had been standing in a breeze. Sam had a wide smile on, and in his hand he held a single rose.

This tall hobbit must have been Merry. He was taller than Sam, and wore armor and carried a shield with a horse. Somehow, the carver had managed to get a small twinkle in his eye. Or was that paint? No- it was a tiny speck, a miniscule crystal imbedded in the eye, giving Merry an air of humor and happiness.

The same thing had been done with the other tall one, Pippin. Only this crystal was slightly larger, making Pippin’s eyes laughing eyes. Pippin was wearing armor as well, with a white tree surrounded by seven stars etched into the wood and traced in silver. There was a worn-looking scarf draped over one arm.

The fourth was the one hobbit he had never seen- he had heard his voice many times, and was certain that the soft, pained sobs had belonged to him. Frodo, the Ringbearer. Edwin wasn’t sure if this was Frodo before the Quest, or after the Quest: he just had a look of peace, like one who has woken up to find that everything is better, and that all of his problems had been solved overnight. Such an awe-inspiring look of hope!

Edwin drew a soft leather pouch from his breast pocket and reverently slipped the four figures in. “Again, my thanks. You have been kind beyond belief, just by allowing me to stay.”

A soft voice brushed his ear like a cobweb. “Any Ranger is welcome here. Thank you, my friend.”

He nodded, smiled, and then opened the door and stepped out into the night air. He shut the door firmly and turned to look at it.

“Haunted,” he said pensively. “I think not. Inhabited is a more appropriate word.” He turned and strode down the hill, taking care to avoid anyplace there could be ruffians. He wasn’t quite careful enough, though.

“Hey! What’s that, over there?”

He’d been seen. He drew his sword and prepared to fight, a grim look on his face. Five ruffians approached. He could take them- as long as they didn’t have arrows.

The first ruffian had a torch. Lifting it to see better, the light glinted off of his sword and the silver star pin. The ruffian blanched and froze. The other four came up behind him and stopped short. Edwin did not lower his blade, nor did he remove the look from his face, although he was highly confused.

“It’s that Ranger! The one we left in the old hill!”

“He’s one of them now!”

The ruffians turned on their tails and fled. Edwin, to say in the least, was bewildered. What were they talking about? He glanced down at himself and started laughing, which sounded like rather maniacal laughter to the ruffians- the very sound gave them wings.

Edwin was covered in dust from head to toe, turning his dark garments grey and his skin very pale. No wonder! He had practically been rolling in dust for the past two weeks. And they thought he was a ghost!

Years later, tales would circulate amid the ruffians about how unlucky it was to kill a Ranger- they would surely come back to haunt you!

Holly was in the mushroom patch, waiting for a visit from her old friend. He was late. Unpunctual Big People! Perhaps there was something wrong, as she was the one that was usually late...

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped and whirled around to see... Edwin!

“You scraggly Ranger!”

“I missed you too, Holly.”

“You’re getting better at that sneaking, I’ll admit.”

“A compliment? From Holly? Surely not!” he teased. “I am shocked to death! As a matter of fact, I have something to say that will shock you.”

“What?”

“You were right and I was wrong.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember when you were younger, you went into the haunted hole in Hobbiton? You were right. It’s haunted.”

Holly opened her mouth with a smart reply to that, but Edwin cut her off.

“That doesn’t always mean that you will be right!”

“We’ll see about that. Now, care to tell me about the nature of your venture?”

Edwin laughed and began to tell his tale.