A/N This comes with thanks to Grey_Wonderer for the use of her jingle bells :-) Thanks also to my group of editors :-)

The Task at Hand

When Marjy returned, Jebbin and the Ghost were still sitting in silence.

“I thought you were going to chat while I got the tea?” She asked as she tucked the tea trolley behind Jebbin’s chair. She poured his tea, put a few scones on a plate then set it all on the small table at the right of his chair.

Merry and Jebbin still sat looking at each other.

“Tsk, tsk. You haven’t even laid the fire, Jebbin. If you two will excuse me.” Marjy stepped between the chairs, knelt down and began to lay kindling in the grate.

“Let me help with that.”

Marjy looked up to see the Ghost holding a small log out for her to take. She stared at it blankly, as though she had never seen a log before.

“I can hold things,” Merry explained. “I can sit on things as well, as you’ve seen. But, if you try to pat me, or poke me in the chest with a small book,” he winked and grinned at Jebbin, “your hand or the book will go right through me. I’ve no idea how or why things work that way, I just know that they do. It really is rather a strange feeling as where we are most of the time, in that far green country I suppose it is, there we’re just as we were here. Just as we were when we were alive here. We eat. We embrace one another. Although,” he got a bemused look on his face, “we are able to talk without speaking, if we so choose, and we can wish to be somewhere in the realm and suddenly we’re there. And, as we can see, apparently we can travel between our two realms which you cannot. All of which is quite different from life here. Yet, we also talk and walk about as folks do here in Middle-earth.” He held the log out closer to her, encouraging her to take it.

She took the log, laid it atop the kindling then turned to take another log from the ghost. She lighted a taper from the candle next to Jebbin’s chair, and soon there was a nice blaze burning in the grate. Marjy got her chair from her desk, placed in the open space between the two high backed chairs her husband and their guest occupied, then sat down. She sat there looking from one of them to the other for a few moments.

“Have you taught Jebbin to talk without speaking, Merry?” She asked. “If you have are you able to teach me as well? And if you haven’t, this is a very strange way to have a chat.”

Jebbin twitched then blinked. “Eh, no, Marjy, we aren’t chatting. He said he wished to talk to me, and I’ve been waiting for him to talk.”

“And it seemed to me as though you were wanting to say something to me once we were alone, so I was waiting for you,” said Merry. “Seems we’re not doing very well with this thus far.” He cleared his throat and placed a rather false looking smile on his face. “Ahem. Good Morning, Jebbin. How is your book coming along?”

Jebbin looked at the fire, not at Merry. “It isn’t,” he replied with an irritable edge in his voice.

The Ghost’s eyes widened a bit as his lips formed an “oh”. “All right, it’s a touchy subject I see.”

“I’ve not started it. I’ve not thought much about it. I was betrothed then I have been a newlywed. I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“It’s been on your mind, darling,” Marjy said softly. She laid her hand on his arm as he turned a shocked face to her. “The whole time we were betrothed. You mentioned it to me the day you proposed, and I’ve caught thoughts of it in your eyes ever since.” She turned to Merry’s ghost. “I fear it has been because of me, because of our becoming married, that Jebbin has put off beginning his book.”

Jebbin took his arm out from under his wife’s hand, stood, and began pacing while gesturing with his hands. “I must have been mad. No, I *am* mad. I shouldn’t have said I’d write it.” He paced a bit in silence before bursting into speech again. “But something inside me is simply gnawing at my spirit for want of writing that book. Then again, something was gnawing at me to let myself fall head over heels in love with Marjoram. And I did, and I am, but how can I write that dratted book now?”

He stopped in front of Meriadoc, looking him squarely in the eye. “He’s had dreams about it, Other has. He and Athelas both. He would go off and marry a Took. He told me about them, the daft twit. As though I needed to know. They’ve seen upheaval. They’ve seen misery and poverty. Dreams of the four of us wandering and homeless, of hobbits chucking rotten vegetables at us at fairs and festivals. It will happen too, if I write that book. I haven’t a shred of doubt that it will be just so.”

“Dreams aren’t always spot on, you know.”

A good deal of credit must be given to Marjy, she hardly jumped at all when a second ghost faded into view, sitting in the chair Jebbin had previously occupied.

“Sometimes things aren’t as bad as the dreams show them to be.” Pippin paused a second, then added, “Although, sometimes they’ll be worse.”

Jebbin glared at him. “Your as helpful as Other. If all you have to offer are further such encouraging comments, you can just disappear yourself out of my home.”

The second Ghost calmly looked at Jebbin. “Have you bothered to ask Marjy what she thinks?”

Pippin turned to the lass sitting beside him. He smiled charmingly, though the effect was somewhat less than it should have been since Marjy could see the chair back through him.

“Hullo, Marjy. I’m Peregrin Took. One time Thain and Took now at your service as a meddling ghost, at least that is what your husband considers me to be.” He took her hand in his and kissed it. His hand was cold and so were his lips, but Marjy was able to overlook it somewhat, due to the gallant humor of the gesture. He laid her hand down on the arm of the chair then turned his attention back to Jebbin. “Well . . . Have you?”

Jebbin stood gaping at the specter as though he were suddenly speaking Elvish. The dratted ghost somehow knew what Jebbin thought of him.

“Oh look, Pip! He still is good at looking like a fish out of water. I would have thought he’d outgrown that look by now.” Merry said, chuckling as he did.

Pippin grinned. “He does at that, Merry. But, come now Jebbin, you’ve not answered my question. Have you talked to your beautiful young wife? Have you given her a chance to make any choices for herself in this matter? You know, old lad, she might surprise you.”

“Remember Frodo the night we told him of our conspiracy?” Merry put in. “He couldn’t believe we would still wish to go with him, after the Black Riders showed up while you, he and Sam were still in the Shire.”

“Exactly. That is just it exactly, Merry. He could have been eased of that burden much sooner if he’d chosen to take us into his confidence. Remember, when all was said and done he felt like dancing. He was so glad that we understood he was facing something troublesome and dark yet still wanted to stay by his side.”

Both the Ghosts looked up at Jebbin. “You’ve no idea how Marjy feels, Jebbin, because you haven’t asked her,” Merry said.

“Wives are often like best friends,” Pippin added. “They often are made of tougher stuff than you think.” Pippin craned his neck around so he could see a corner of the tea trolley sitting behind his chair. “Thought I smelled scones.” He looked at his cousin. “Merry, what do you say to our leaving this nice young couple alone to talk things over whilst eating their first breakfast, and we can go back and have whatever meal they’re having back . . . eh . . . home?”

“But what if we come back six years from now or some such thing. Time here and time there hasn’t matched up well when we’ve done this on other occasions.”

“That’s because there is no time there. I think I’ve worked it out though. At least I hope I have. Well, I asked for help in the matter. We aren’t the only ones wanting this book to be written and all, you know.”

“Yes, I know, Pippin, but they,” Merry gestured toward the young couple, “aren’t supposed to.” Pippin faintly blushed, his ghostly pallor looking ever so slightly less pale. Merry turned to Jebbin. “We will be back, soon we hope. You two talk things out.”

The Ghosts faded from view. Marjy got up, helped herself to two scones and a cup of tea, then sat in the chair the ghost of Peregrin the Peerless had just vacated. She looked up at Jebbin expectantly. “Well, dear?” She asked lightly.

He landed with a “plumph” in the chair opposite his wife then reached for his tea and scones as she held them out to him. “Well what? With any luck they won’t be back for six years, as Mr. The Magnificent said, and by then I’ll have had time to work out a way not to have to write it.”

Marjy bowed her head a bit, stirring absently at her tea. “Why say that when you want desperately to write it?”

“I . . . I don’t want desperately to write it. I . . .”

For several minutes he busied himself with drinking tea, buttering and eating a scone. Anything other than deal with the issue at hand. His thoughts were out of control. One moment he had perfectly sound reasons for never writing a word about The Travellers, the next moment writing the book as soon as possible was all that made sense. The last time his thoughts had behaved so erratically was the time he was talking to Marjoram and wanting to propose. He hated this. Jebbin Brandybuck liked calm and order. Any of his students would tell you that. Of the teachers and tutors at the Hall, and there were several as there were a good many young hobbits to be instructed, his were the most disciplined classes. Normally, his thoughts were as well controlled as his classes.

Finally, he set down his plate and saucer then let his head fall against the high back of the chair. He stared blankly at the dimly lit ceiling. “Hold still,” he muttered.

“I am holding still, dear,” Marjy said in reply.

“No. My thoughts, Marjy, my thoughts. How can I consider them, weigh one against the other, if they refuse to hold still? It’s easier to catch minnows with your bare hands than to catch such flitting thoughts.”

She smiled as she darted her hand out toward the ceiling. “Here,” she said holding her closed hand out to her husband. “I’ve caught one. Hold it to your ear and tell me what it says to you.”

Jebbin raised his head to stare at Marjy. Gradually, he smiled as he took her hand in both of his. “No wonder she worked so well with the younger children of the Hall,” he thought.

“Let go carefully or it will slip away,” he said. “They’re slippery wee things.” She eased her hand out from between his, then he tipped his head a bit while placing his hands up to his right ear. Slowly he opened a gap between his thumbs.

He listened a few seconds. “This is one of the, ‘Of course you must write this book, you idiot. You’ll be miserable if you don’t.’ thoughts.”

“Interesting that it was one of that kind which was caught first. Why will you be miserable?”

He closed his eyes and let his hands fall to his lap. “The Travellers have been . . . special to me . . . I’m not sure that is a strong enough term, but it will have to do. They have been special to me my whole life.” Jebbin opened his eyes. As he looked at her, Marjy noticed there was a pleading look in them.

“No other stories Grandda or Da told ever held me as their stories did. No other subject taught by my tutors held my attention like Shire history that involved the Travellers. Then Other and I had our first visit to that mathom room and I was overrun with wanting to know why Meriadoc the Magnificent would have said ‘This all seems in order.’ after reading a short bit Jebiamac’s book. Those words burned in my head, Marjy. How could what Jebiamac wrote ‘seem in order’ when it wasn’t anything like what I had been taught?”

Jebbin sighed before rising to pace about the room.

“Then so many years later, just last year, it came full circle. They,” he gestured broadly into the air, “showed up again. ‘Jebiamac has it right.’ they said. ‘You’re to write all about it so everyone has it all straight again.’ they said.” He paced a bit more before coming to a stop in front of his wife. “Athelas teased me about you, you were at Other’s party, I was feeling euphoric about getting to do something grand and important, and I fell in love and proposed.” He moved off around the room once more. “And here we are, married and I’m supposed to write a book that will make us the scourge of the Shire. Yet I’ll be miserable if I don’t write it because for years I’ve known I was meant to write it.”

He dropped himself into his desk chair then laid his head upon the desk in the crook of his left arm.

Marjoram rose, stood behind her husband and began to rub his shoulders. “You haven’t asked what I think, as the ghosts said you should.”

“What do you think of it all?” Came his muffled response.

“You just said you feel you were meant to write this book. I agree.” She rubbed his shoulders in silence for a while before speaking again. “I told you the day you proposed that I felt the stories we had learned of the Travellers might be wrong. I never had an experience like you and Other had, well, not until this morning I should say. No finding a book with a different version of their journey, no conversing with their spirits, but I had long felt as you have; that we hadn’t been taught the truth. That the tales had done as tales will; that they had grown in the telling until little of the real story remains.”

Marjy pulled on Jebbin’s shoulders until he sat up. She turned the seat of the chair until enough of his lap was out from under the desk, then settled herself there. She caressed his cheek while her eyes smiled into his.

“Mind you, at the time I was more caught up with the words, ‘marry you’, than what followed after. But later that evening, alone in my room, more of the conversation came back to my mind and I was thrilled with the thought that I would be married to the hobbit who would put the story to rights.”

Jebbin started to protest but Marjy laid a finger over his lips.

“Shortly after the thrill of that thought, I started to think about what might really happen when the Master, especially if it’s still old Pompous and not Macimas, the Took and Thain, the Mayor, all the other teachers in Buckland, the Shire, Westmarch and Undertowers and any hobbit who dearly loved tales of hobbit history heard what you would be saying. What they all would do when the book was finished and talk of its contents spread. It didn’t take long for me to realize that it most likely would not be very well received.”

She removed her finger from his lips, replacing it with her lips. She kissed him tenderly then withdrew while gently putting a hand to each side of his face.

“I want to be the wife of the hobbit who tells the true story of the Travellers. I’m certain they went through hardship and trials to rid Middle-earth of the Dark Lord Sauron and the One Ring. We won’t be saving the whole world,” she smiled lovingly, “but we will be doing something important for our own people. I want to walk that road with the hobbit I love.”

The forms of two hobbits slowly appeared by the fireplace. No sooner than they were as solid as they could be, they were both grinning. Over by one of the desks, Jebbin and Marjy were engaging, not in a discussion of the book, but in a deep kiss. They waited a few minutes, politely looking elsewhere about the room.

“I thought we had suggested they talk.” Pippin eventually said, loud enough for the newlyweds to hear him.

“They are, Pip. They’re speaking volumes to each other,” Merry said trying to contain a chuckle. “Just not about writing books.”

“You two need to quit just popping in on people,” Jebbin mumbled around Marjy’s lips.

His wife broke off their kiss. “Perhaps we can put bells on then, as one bells a cat.” She kissed the tip of her husband’s nose before turning to smile at the ghosts.

Merry started to chuckle and the ghostly Pippin again managed a faint blush whilst glaring at his cousin.

“Enough of that, Merry, or they’ll want an explanation,” Pippin hissed.

“An explanation sounds good to me,” Jebbin grinned. “As you two know, I’m supposed to be collecting stories about the famous Travellers.”

“Yes!” Pippin jumped in. “Yes, stories. The book. Remember the book he’s to write, Merry? We need to discuss the book.”

“But Jebbin wants a story, Pip. I can’t not tell the lad a story.”

“He’s not a lad. He’s - he’s married, Merry. We’ll just get to the book.” Pippin looked eagerly at the young couple. “Have you talked it over? Of course you have, you’re a good couple of hobbits. And what did you decide?”

Marjy grinned. There were times she reminded her husband a bit of Athelas. “Oh, yes! We decided we want to know what is so funny about belling the ghosts.”

Merry was now doubled over with laughter. Pippin sighed the sigh of the resigned.

“Very well,” he said as unenthusiastically as possible. “When I was a wee lad, just starting to crawl about . . .”

“Run about . . . was more like it,” Merry wheezed. “Not . . . sure he ever really crawled all that much. He was too eager to follow me all over.”

Pippin rolled his eyes at his fellow ghost. “Yes, well, when I was just starting to follow after trouble here.” He jerked his head toward Merry. “His mother, Esmeralda (Took) Brandybuck, tied wee bells to my trousers so she could find me. She said I would just suddenly disappear, and she couldn’t find me. The bells solved the problem.”

“Until . . . till he . . .” Merry was still having trouble with laughing too hard. “Oh!” he breathed. “Until he got to be about four years old or so. Then he figured out . . . if he took . . . took off his breeches, he also . . . took off the bells.” He took another deep though unneeded breath. “When Mum finally found him, he told her they were playing “Find Pippin” and that it was more fun without the bells.”

Jebbin and Marjy joined Merry’s laughter. Pippin stood silent, arms crossed over his chest, tapping irritably with his right foot.

“Yes, yes. Fine, Merry. That was great fun for everyone, I’m quite certain,” Pippin was trying to sound upset, but as he had begun grinning broadly it wasn’t working. “What about the book.” He gave Merry a hard nudge in the ribs.

“Ahem! Yes, Jebbin Brandybuck.” The ghost of Meriadoc the Magnificent straightened his shoulders while trying to adopt a stern look. He didn’t really succeed. Merry was more anxious and hopeful than irked at this point. “What have you two decided? You *did* discuss it, didn’t you?”

Jebbin took a deep breath to settle himself. He looked into Marjoram’s amber eyes, tightened his hold around her waist then answered the Ghost without taking his eyes from his wife’s.

“We will write the book.”

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

The next several months were spent in a flurry of work. Marjoram Brandybuck had not returned to her teaching after her marriage, as was usually the way with hobbit brides. What seemed a bit unusual, however, was that Jebbin Brandybuck informed The Master’s secretary, who handled matters of education at the Hall, that he would also be taking a leave of absence for one year. Their budget was tight, but each had saved a good percentage of their pay all the years they had taught but been unmarried. They knew they could live comfortably from their savings for one year, or live tightly off of it for two.

Other and Athelas had been brought in on everything the very day that Jebbin told the Ghosts that the book would be written. Other worked extra hard at the Bucklebury smithy, saving all he could. Old Marric Brandybuck hadn’t had any sons and he had been hard pressed the last few years to keep up with demands as his arthritis became worse. He was more than happy to let Other work as much as he wanted. Many evenings, Other worked alone in the shop making swords. It was a slow process, since he couldn’t give it all his time, but he had been trained by Tobius Took and that meant a great deal in the larger world just outside the borders of the Shire. His swords were fetching a good price, and he knew they would all have need of the money.

Toby’s family for many long years had the reputation of being fine sword smiths. For the Hobbit trade their blades were knife blades, as hobbits rarely had need for swords. Swords in the Shire were for hanging over mantles, and telling your guests that it was great-great-great-great-grandfather’s, used in the Battle of Bywater, or in one of the skirmishes that saw the Ruffians across the borders and out of the Shire. But, good sharp knives were treasured in a land that so valued cooking. Outside the Shire in Bree, East Way, and Kingstown, and south to the towns of Sarn Ford and Greenway Fork, swords were needed for protection, and the short swords of the Tooks of Thistleburrow were highly valued. The blades were strong, they held a keen edge and the tang was set wide and long into the grip. It was said that long ago, early in the Forth Age, a Took had learned the art from the Dwarves then settled in Thistleburrow as there was a good supply of the necessary raw materials to be found in the area.

And so it was the two young couples worked on the book in some way or another. Marjy and Jebbin hunted up the books they had been told to find, as well as Jebiamac’s book that had started it all. They read and made notes. They compared accounts, always being careful to weed out the exaggerations and myths that gradually crept into the accounts. Athelas had lovely clear writing, so in addition to keeping house for both couples thus freeing Marjy’s time, she wrote out the final copies of each chapter.

The Ghosts would often appear to help keep them on the proper path. There was no longer any being caught unawares for the young couples. The next time the Ghosts had appeared they had found two watch chains lying on Marjy’s desk; one labeled, ‘for Meriadoc the Magnificent’, the other ‘for Peregrin the Peerless’. Each chain was adorned with five small bells. Both the living hobbits and the spectral ones were intrigued by the fact that the chains held to the Ghost’s watches. Merry in particular, but Pippin as well, found it rather fun to have their presence announced by the jolly jingling of the wee bells.

One of the biggest surprises as the work progressed, was the day Other and Athelas came into the study with something wrapped in one of Other’s smithy aprons. Other plopped it down in front of his brother with a flourish.

“What’s this?” Jebbin asked, reaching to unwrap the parcel.

“One of the copies of the Red Book of Westmarch.”

Jebbin jerked his hands away as though the cloth had suddenly burned his finger tips.

“It’s what?”

“One of the copies of the Red Book of Westmarch.”

Jebbin turned in his chair to stare at his brother. The ghosts of Meriadoc and Peregrin had been sitting in the high backed chairs near the fire, but now were at the desk, peering around the brothers to get a look.

“The Greenholms, Gardeners and their kin guard these like dragons hoard gold. There are only about six of them in existence and many of them aren’t complete. How did you get this, Other?”

“This is a good one, too. A good copy that is. I’ve heard it was the main one that scribe from Minas Tirith used for the copy he made for their libraries. I’m thinking it is quite complete, Jebbin.”

“Other.” There was an intensely parental edge to the older brother’s voice.

“Athelas was interested in it as well. She said it looked as though more than one scribe worked on it. She said . . .”

“Er? How did you get this book?”

Other was caught off guard by Jebbin’s use of the short version of his name. The name no one but Jebbin ever used.

“Well, In,” Other replied with his short name for his brother. “I . . . I . . . It got confused with a book on “The Various and Sundry Ways to Mine Iron Ore: A Comprehensive Compendium of Mining Iron Ore in the Shire”. I seem to have sat that book down in Lightred Greenholm’s study whilst I was repairing the door hinges, and apparently picked this up by mistake when I packed up my tools.”

“How did you happen to end up in the Westmarch to fix door hinges? I’m assuming they have blacksmiths over there.”

“I’m sure they do, yes. In fact, Millet Whitefields is a very good . . .”

“So why wasn’t he fixing Mr. Greenholm’s hinges?”

“He might have if a traveling tinker, smith, farrier, all round odd jobsman hadn’t happened by asking whether Mr. Greenholm might have some odd jobs that needed doing.”

Pippin and Merry looked over Jebbin’s head at each other. This explanation had a familiar ring to it. It reminded them of conversations they had once had with their fathers.

Jebbin was scowling, his voice sounded a lot like a father’s. “And I don’t suppose I know this traveling tinker person?”

“Well . . . ahem.” Other ran a finger under his collar. He was starting to perspire. “You might at that. It, ah . . . I think he was there when we visited Lightred Greenholm’s holdings a couple of years ago. You remember, when you were first making an effort to find all these old books.” Other waved his hand at the books that were on both Jebbin’s and Marjy’s desk.

“You stole the book.”

“Well . . . I didn’t actually . . .”

“You stole the book, Er.”

“I can return it whenever you and Marjy are finished with it. That makes it borrowing .”

“You stole it!” Jebbin shouted as he rose to his feet. “You . . . you stole it! It is one of their family’s treasures. Mr. Greenholm refused to even let me touch it when we went out there. And now you’ve gone and stolen it!”

“But it is something you need, isn’t it?” Asked a softer voice.

Jebbin whipped his head around to glare at Athelas. “And what did you do all that time, eh Mrs. Tookish Brandybuck, while the tinker here was stealing this book? Did you . . . do whatever that is you do when you confuse people? Well, did you?”

Athelas said nothing. She looked down at the rug while edging closer to her husband. This wasn’t a good time to go eye to eye with Jebbin as he had hit the truth dead on.

“That explains that,” Jebbin huffed.

Other put his arm around his wife and smiled at her. “I didn’t know you did that! You needn’t have; I could have managed without . . .”

“Other!” Jebbin interrupted again. He sat down and put his face in his hands. “Wonderful, as though Mr. Greenholm isn’t going to realize what has happened and come looking for you.”

Other kneeled down beside Jebbin’s chair, placing an arm about his brother’s shoulders as he did so while once more using his nickname. “In, he won’t even notice, and I wore a disguise so he won’t know it was me. The case book was in was dusty and untouched when we were there before. I noticed it when I snuck a peek at it. I was very careful to only touch the edge of the cover so as to not disturb the dust. It looked even dustier this time. It may be a family treasure, but they don’t keep that case very well cleaned off. The other book is just a bit bigger than this and is the same color. That’s what gave me the idea. I was careful about touching the case, like last time, and simply switched the books. They never touch this book, In. They’ll never know the difference. When you’re done, I’ll sneak it back.”

Meanwhile, the ghostly Peregrin Took had edged the still wrapped book away from the brothers, unwrapped it, and he and Meriadoc had opened it up to have a look.

“Ah, Jebbin?” Merry spoke in an oddly strangled sounding voice.

He received no response.

“I really will return it, Jebbin,” Other continued. “I promise. Safe and sound to its dust encrusted case.”

“Jebbin,” Merry said again, nudging his descendant in the shoulder.

“What?” Jebbin said irritably without looking up, his face still cradled in his hands.

“Did you know? Did you have any reason to suspect . . .”

“Merry, this is old Cousin Bilbo’s writing!” Pippin exclaimed, having totally ignored Merry’s attempts to say as much to Jebbin.

Jebbin’s head shot up. “What? What did he just say?”

Merry nodded at the book lying open on the desk. “It’s our cousin Bilbo’s writing.” He stuck a finger further along in the pages to open it to a section about one third of the way into the book. “And this,” he pointed to the open page, “this is Frodo’s writing.”

“That’s the original?” said every hobbit in the room at the same time.