Unraveling the Past

For several long minutes the six of them stared at the old, red leather bound book sitting on Jebbin’s desk. Finally, the ghostly Merry broke the silence.

“I know you want to ask it, Jebbin, because it’s what I would ask. You want to ask if we’re certain it’s the original but you’re also thinking it’s a foolish question. We’re certain. Bilbo and Frodo write reams and reams where we all are now. Poetry, songs, lengthy discourses on all sorts of subjects. We see their writing all the time. But even if that weren’t the situation, we would never have forgotten their writing from when we all lived in the Shire.”

Other tapped Jebbin on the shoulder then handed him a handkerchief. “You look like you’re either going to cry or drool or both. You don’t want to go and ruin it.” Jebbin took the handkerchief nodding his thanks as he continued to stare at the book as though if he dared glance away it would disappear like a ghost.

Pippin gently ran his fingers over the pages which were still open to Frodo’s part of the book. A couple of ghostly tears fell from his face, leaving no mark when they landed upon the parchment.

“Do you remember, Merry. Strider wanted a copy of this for the library in Minas Tirith. Remember? And I had the best scribe in the Shire do the work on the best parchment, then had it bound in the finest red leather by the best bookbinder.” He sniffed and rubbed at his nose. “Do you think Queen Arwen saw this happening? That might be why they wanted a copy. Did she see that . . . that we hobbits would . . . This is terrible.”

Jebbin shook his head. “I can’t believe this. Yet, I should. Most every historian knows there are copies of the Red Book. There is a copy of that copy you had made, Pippin, in the library at Great Smials. ‘Twas made by a Gondorian scribe some hundred years later or so. But as far as I know, no one has read any of them.”

“Not read them?” Merry asked.

“No. Let me show you.” Jebbin ran his finger down the spines of several books that comprised one of the piles on his desk. It was one of the stacks that were books of the accepted Shire history which he was using to make comparative notes in his book of the true history.

“Are you looking for Tom Burrowwell’s “Times of the Travellers: An Accurate Account of the Events in the Shire and Beyond Its Borders in the years S.R. 1418 and S.R. 1419”, dear?” Marjy asked.

“Yes.”

“I have it on my desk. I’ll fetch it.” She retrieved a blue book from her desk, thumbed through it as she walked over to her husband’s desk, then set it down. It was opened to an underlined portion of the work’s introduction. “I think this is what you want, Jebbin.”

He grabbed and kissed her hand before turning to the open book. “It is, thank you. Ahem.

‘It is known, by those interested in such trivial things, that there are numerable copies of something called the “Red Book of Westmarch” scattered hither and yon throughout the Shire proper and, of course, the Westmarch. These at one time pro ported to be actual first person accounts of much of the Travellers experiences, but as the accounts were said to be written by the notoriously humble Mayor Samwise Gamgee and else wise by such hobbits as were known to be mad as Rath hares, these quickly fell out of use as reliable sources.’

So, you see . . .”

“What!” Merry shouted as he yanked the book away from Jebbin to peer at the entry himself. “Mad as Rath hares! You mean to say after all this time Bilbo and Frodo are still regarded as ‘Mad Bagginses’!”

“Yes, I’m afraid they are; Bilbo Baggins in particular.” Jebbin sighed.

“He is used as a means of making young hobbits behave,” Athelas said as she moved to stand beside Merry.

She wished, and not for the first time since meeting them, that he and Pippin weren’t ghosts. Much of what had been happening in Jebbin and Marjy’s study the past few weeks had been very upsetting to them and she kept finding herself wishing she could give them a pat on the shoulder or a hug to comfort them.

“You know the sort of thing, I’m sure,” she continued. “‘Don’t ye be strayin’ too far from home, lad, or the ghost of Mad Bilbo Baggins’ll get ye.’”

The deep pain in Merry’s eyes made the lass sorry she had said anything. But the Ghost nodded.

“There were some that did that even when Bilbo still lived in Bag End. They would tell their children Mad Baggins would sell them to the Dwarves if they didn’t behave. It always hurt the old dear so badly. Those children who did know him, like Pip and I and the poorer children in Hobbiton, loved him deeply.”

They all stood quietly, each feeling sorry for a kindly hobbit who, even so many years after he was gone, was still being wrongly accused of being mad.

“Well,” Jebbin finally said. “It’s a shame I can’t use it.”

“What?” Pippin asked.

“Despite what I know it to be, I can’t use it. At least Jebiamac’s and Adelard’s books may carry some weight. This is held to be a totally useless resource. I can’t back up my statements with it.”

“Useless!” It was Peregrin the Peerless’ turn to lose his temper. “Useless! The High King of Gondor didn’t feel it was useless. My King valued this book, and the ones who wrote it. Fools! Block headed, ninny hammer hobbits!”

In spite of how upset he was he managed to gently pick up the ancient book and place it carefully in front of Jebbin. He wasn’t as gentle with Jebbin. Pippin grabbed hold of the young scholar’s head, twisting it around and pushing on it until Jebbin was nearly nose to page with the book.

“You see this! This, this, Jebbin Brandybuck is the truth of it all. These are the facts of it all. This is Bilbo’s blood and tears. This is Frodo’s blood and tears. Sam’s blood and tears. This . . . this . . .”

Pippin dropped to his knees beside the chair, leaning his head on Jebbin’s shoulder. For a few moments he clung to the young Brandybuck as he cried out his dry, ghostly tears. The odd cold that emanated from the ghost was not all that chilled Jebbin. He also felt the pain of the situation.

“This is all you need, Jebbin,” Pippin finally said softly. “That the so called scholars think so poorly of it is of no consequence. Quote it like you have Adelard’s and Jebiamac’s books. But you will hold this up as the primary source of the truth, Jebbin, because that is what it is. It has our stories too, Merry’s and mine, exactly as we told them to Frodo. He would always have us check them over to make sure he had those entries all written right and proper. Just you make it clear that Adelard’s and Jebiamac’s books lend support to the Red Book, not that it lends support to them.”

Merry placed a hand on Jebbin’s shoulder. “What say you and Marjy get started. Finding this means we have a fair amount of rewriting to do. You can now be quoting an original source instead of the third and fourth hand ones you’ve had to use till now.” The ghost then helped his cousin to his feet, hugging Pippin about the shoulders as he walked him over to the chairs by the hearth.

Six weeks later, a small cart was travelling slowly down a road in the Westmarch. It would have seemed to a passerby that the driver was talking to himself, but that wasn’t quite the situation.

“You’re sure everything is taken care of? What if we go past and he doesn’t notice us?” The driver said not much louder than a whisper.

“Everything is just as we agreed. He’ll notice. Just you keep this nice steady pace, as though you just happen to be ambling along.”

In the yard of a fairly large farm holding up the road from the cart, Lightred Greenholm was scratching his head as he looked at the hinges on his byre door. “They look as though someone’s gone and melted them or such. They were all right yesterday, I’d swear to it.” And indeed, the hinges looked warped. There was no way to open the doors.

“You could use that tinker chap as fixed the hinges in your study.”

Lightred jumped a bit looking all about. He could have sworn someone just spoke to him.

“Is that a cart coming down the road?”

He twisted quickly around to where it seemed the voice was coming from. He now was facing down his drive, and yes, there was a familiar cart just drawing nigh the gate.

“Hullo!” Lightred shouted. “Hoy there, Robin Slowfoot! Stop!”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Greenholm, sir.” Robin called back to the hobbit who was hurrying toward him. He touched the fingers of his right hand to the edge of his worn and shapeless felt hat. “A good mornin’ to ya, sir. Is there aught I can do fer ya this pleasant morn?”

Lightred stood a few moments waiting to catch his breath. “Ah! Yes . . . yes there is, lad. The hinges on my byre doors look right strange and I can’t open the doors. Might you be able to have a look at them?”

“Aye, Mr. Greenholm, sir,” the odd-jobs hobbit smiled broadly. “Be a pleasure to be workin’ fer ye again, sir.” Robin turned his cart into the drive and up to the byre.

At elevenses the tradeshobbit and the framer sat on a bench beside the byre door, resting their backs against the building while they shared a bite to eat supplied by Mrs. Greenholm. They chatted as they ate.

“Well, you did a right fine job on the study door, Robin lad, so it’s glad I am that you happened by today.”

“Thank, ya most kindly, Mr. Greenholm. I do have a touch with hinges, sir.” Robin paused to enjoy another bite of his ham and cheese, then continued. “You must be one of those scholarly hobbits, sir. Havin’ yer own room just fer studyin’ in.”

Lightred laughed heartily. “No, lad, not I. My great-great-grandfather was a scholar though. Leastwise, ‘twas he as bought all them books then added a room to the old hole just for keeping them in.”

“Then that book that was all in a glass case must o’ been his?”

“It was. Why do you ask, lad?” Lightred suddenly had a defensive look in his eyes.

“Well, fixin’ and makin’ thin’s as I do, I notice such as that there case. It caught my eye so I took a closer look at it. Could tell even through the dust, I could, that it were a fine bit o’ work.”

The farmer relaxed a bit. “Oh, yes, it is. I looked at it a few times, back when I was a lad. Looked at the case that is. But as books and such hold little interest for me, I never paid it much mind. My pa told me as it was just some piece of folly, and that was good enough for this hobbit.”

“Piece of folly?”

“Yes. He said his pa had told him it was supposed to be some copy of some book. Ah . . . eh . . . Old Book of the West . . . No, that wasn’t it.” Lightred thought a few moments. “No. No, I can’t recall it proper. But pa said as grandpa said that there were more copies of that book about than there are cats on farms, and that 'twas naught more than made-up stories that were different in every copy. He said we were far better with the stories we all knew from hearing them told as those were more trustworthy. We don’t hold that well with what is put into writing, lad, and neither should you. I read enough to run my farm and sign my name to papers. There’re a good sight more hobbits in the Westmarch and the Shire who don’t read at all. Why should we trust what we can’t understand?”

Robin nodded. “Just as my pa taught me. That them as want ta can tell ya what e’re they want them squiggles to mean. He said a hobbit should be as good as his word and he’d no use fer one as thought he needed them squiggles to make a deal binding.”

Lightred patted the tinker on the shoulder. “Your pa taught you well, lad.” He stood stretching as he did so. “We did justice to those victuals. I’ll just take the basket and all back to the kitchen and save my missus a trip back out here.”

Robin stood and moved towards where he was working on the new hinges, but paused. “Why is that book in such a fine case, if it be just a folly?”

Lightred turned. “Pa said his pa said that was where it always was. That grandpa had asked his father and he had some story about that all them books was kept in fancy cases in all the holes and smials that had one. He reckoned they must have been sold to folks that way.”

Lightred walked on toward his home. Robin made quick work of putting the new hinges he had made ahead of time on the byre doors and was on his way after luncheon.

Once he was well away, Robin took off his shapeless felt hat, and the false dark brown hair he had been wearing. His own hair was sweaty and stuck to his head. He ran a hand through it then shook his head a bit before combing his fingers through it some more to help the breeze dry it out.

“Well Other,” said a voice that seemed to come from the air itself. “Now we know a great deal more about what happened.”

The ghost of Peregrin the Peerless slowly took shape on the seat beside Other Brandybuck.

“Yes. I should have known. I’ve had a great deal more contact than Jebbin has with the more common hobbits.” He quickly caught himself. “Not to imply anything by calling them common. Not that our small family is anything all that important or anything. I just meant I know the illiterate hobbits better than he does. I’ve heard that all before, that distrust of anything put into writing as well as those who can read; or claim they can read.”

“Aye,” the Ghost sighed. “It was the same way when I was alive. I should have thought of it as well. It just didn’t occur to me that any of Sam’s descendants would be illiterate. Sam valued knowing how to read and all of his children knew how.”

“It does explain a lot though. No wonder they didn’t bother with the book.”

“No, no wonder at that at all. Those who can’t read don’t trust anything that’s written down while those of Sam’s descendants who do read don’t think the Red Book is of any value. The next question on my mind is how did the truth come to be so strongly regarded as untruth.” Pippin shook his head and sighed. For a while neither of them said anything.

“But we’ve done well with our plan.” Pippin broke their silence, smiling cheerily. “We’ve had a look at every copy of the Red Book in the Westmarch and Undertowers, every copy that folks know about at least.”

“And that will be giving Jebbin some help indeed.” Other smiled in return. “It’s well established that Bilbo Baggins, Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee wrote the original Red Book. It’s a fact that is even made a mockery of; the whole ‘Why trust a book written my two mad hobbits?’ way of thinking. We can now say with the utmost confidence that the book he is using is not a copy because every other book we saw was entirely in the same hand. Several different scribes made the copies, but each scribe made a full and complete copy. None are in the scripts of three different writers.”

“Aye. I’ve a notion that information will be useful later on. For now, I think we need to head for home.” The Ghost began to fade. “Well, you need to head for Brandy Hall. I’ll meet you there later.”

In a moment, Other Brandybuck was alone on the driver’s seat of his cart.