Weaving the Future

The work on the book continued. Jebbin was a hobbit driven. He ofttimes had to be reminded to eat, to sleep, to get up and move about. Always in his mind’s eye he saw Bilbo ordering the red bound book of blank pages then beginning his labor of recording the story of his journey, “There and Back Again”. He saw Frodo forcing himself to recall bitter memories so that the role he and the other hobbits had played in saving Middle-earth could be remembered. He would see Sam filling in the gaps in the tale, then handing the Red Book of Westmarch on to his daughter Elanor Greenholm to be a cherished family treasure. And Jebbin often wept at how it had all been replaced by exaggerations and lies. Though even in its hallowed pages (hallowed at least by two Brandybuck couples and the Ghosts who haunted them) untruths were to be found. For Bilbo did not record the truth of his acquiring the Ring. The Ghosts knew this.

“Frodo appended Bilbo’s account,” Meriadoc the Magnificent said as he showed Jebbin Frodo’s notes in the Red Book of Westmarch. “The old dear told Frodo the true story of his finding the Ring soon after he adopted Frodo as his heir and he came to live at Bag End. Frodo added the true story after we returned from the Quest. He said he was done with any secrecy concerning the Ring, that the only way for Its evil to be cleansed away was for everything to be told openly and honestly.”

Merry gave a soft, wry chuckle as he shook his head. “And to think, now it’s all regarded as falsehoods. It really has the two of them quite vexed.”

“They know?” Jebbin’s color ebbed a bit.

“Yes, they know. And not because we ran off and told them, so you can get that slightly accusatory look off of your face. When Pip and I first showed up and found out the muddle things were in, yes, we told everyone. But even though you said it was what you had been taught by your tutor, we didn’t take it all too seriously.” Merry looked off into some distant place only the Ghosts could see, and he sighed. “Things just seem to get known there. Not always perfectly clear, but they get known. I shan’t explain, so don’t bother asking me. Suffice it to know, Bilbo, Frodo and Sam now know how bad the situation is. We all knew before Pip and I came back that day before your brother’s birthday. It was why we came.”

Jebbin looked down at his handiwork, sheets and sheets of paper strewn over his desk.

“I’m sorry they had to find out. I’m sure it pains as well as angers them.”

“It does, and they are extremely interested in what you, what all of us, are doing. Though, at least for now, they have not been allowed to come here. That may change . . . yet again, it may not.”

Merry stood a bit straighter as he patted Jebbin on his back.

“All the more reason for us to keep at this. We’ve rounded the bend and the end is in sight, my lad. Athelas has been busily making eight copies of everything you have written. That will be nine books . . .” Merry paused. “Curious. Did you tell her specifically to make eight copies, Jebbin?”

“No. Why do you . . . Oh! Nine books!”

“That just sent a chill through me, and I didn’t think I could have a chill any longer,” Merry said as he trembled slightly. “At least not while I’m here. Write, Jebbin. Write! There is more here than meets the eye. We need to get this done!”

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

A week and a year had gone by from when the brothers and Athelas had met the Ghosts in the old mathom room. It was last day of Winterfilth and hobbits from across the Shire and Buckland had come to Hobbiton for the Harvest Festival. And there on the town green, amongst all the other booths was a small booth that was no more than a table with a cheery yellow cloth and a stack of eight books upon it.

Jebbin paced nervously in the small space behind their table. Marjoram and Athelas sat quietly at the table, watching as the first groups of hobbits attending the festival approached. Other had a booth next to Jebbin’s with a selection of his knives on display, but he stood closer to the book table than his own.

A portly hobbit and his wife approached the book table.

“What have we here, Daisy? Books!”

“Togo Goodbody, if you think for one moment . . .”

“I shan’t spend the day’s luncheon allowance on books, my dear.” Togo interrupted his wife with a smile and a wink. “Good day to you, young lass,” he said cheerfully to Marjy. “What books are you selling?”

“And good day to you, sir. We have a few copies of one book to offer to the discerning readers of the Shire.” Marjy handed one of the books to Mr. Goodbody.

The book was a sizable volume. Togo took in the quality of the brown leather cover and the skill of the binding. It was a well made book, not merely some inexpensive pamphlet. He finally looked at the gold embossed title.

“The Travellers: The Reintroduction of the Truth” by Jebbin Brandybuck.

His eyes widened. It was a short, concise and outrageously bold title. “You know the author, miss?”

“It is Mrs., sir, and . . .”

“I’m her husband, Mr. Goodbody, and the author of the book.” Jebbin had come up to the table and was holding out his hand to the old hobbit. Togo Goodbody did not take the offered hand.

“The reintroduction of the truth? That is quite a title, young hobbit. I’m assuming it is a work of fiction?”

Jebbin was pale. Despite it being a cool autumn morning, a trickle of sweat ran down from his temple, in front of his left ear and down his neck; tickling him as it went.

“No, sir. It is a work of nonfiction. It is a history, Mr. Goodbody.”

“I see,” Togo said, then he said nothing more for several long minutes. He simply stood there, staring at the book in his hand. “You think you know something all the historians of the Shire for many long years did not? Is that what you are meaning with this title?”

Other, Athelas and Marjoram held their breaths. This was what they had been planning for, this moment. If Jebbin’s courage didn’t fail him their own potentially turbulent journey would soon begin.

“Yes, sir.” Jebbin spoke loudly. The three other Brandybucks slowly exhaled. “It is the truth of the Quest of the Travellers and the truth of the Scouring of the Shire, Mr. Goodbody.”

The heads of several passersby turned toward the loud voice. It was nearly, though not quite, as loud as the vendors hawking their wares.

“What the historians of the past have compiled concerning the Travellers is mostly exaggeration and outright fiction. This is . . .”

“What was that you said?”

“Did ah hear tha’ proper?”

“Louder! Speak louder!”

The hobbits whose heads had turned had stopped walking past the small table. They now came towards it, calling out as they came.

“I said,” Jebbin stopped to swallow at the dryness in his mouth. His mind took a few moments to wonder how his mouth could feel full of dust while sweat was pouring off him elsewhere. “I said what we have learned of the Travellers, what we have been taught by teachers, tutors and parents for two hundred years or more is wrong.”

More hobbits were joining the crowd around Jebbin’s table. With a glare, and a more determined whetting of the knife he had picked up from his own table, Other kept anyone who might have considered doing so from coming behind their tables. If anyone might think of doing more than shouting a protest, at least they would have to do it from in front of the tables. He wouldn’t allow anyone to come up behind his brother and their wives.

“What makes you think you know better than all those teachers, tutors and parents,” Togo Goodbody looked once more at the cover of the book in his hand, then back to the young gentlehobbit. “Jebbin Brandybuck?”

“I have found and read writings of hobbits who were not that far removed from the Travellers themselves. Jebiamac Brandybuck, great grandson of Meriadoc the Magnificent and Adelard Took, great-great grandson of Peregrin the Peerless. They saw what was happening to the story of their ancestors, what was happening to the history of the Shire and Buckland, and hoped to put a stop to it. Their journals tell a very different story.”

The air was filled with murmuring.

A voice called out, “And who says they knew anything?”

“Yes!”

“Who were they? I’ve not heard of them before!”

Jebbin spoke louder. “They were both hobbits with a deep concern for the truth.” Jebbin picked up one of his books, holding it up over his head. “Those of you who are lettered. Those of you who care about who we are as hobbits. Any one seeking the truth. I challenge you to read my book. And those of you who aren’t lettered, take note of who has the strength of will to buy my book and challenge the myths we have been taught. Then I bid you to seek them out and ask them to read it to you so you may also decide for yourselves which rings true; the stories we have been taught until now or the stories told be these descendants of the Travellers themselves. And there is a deeper truth here in these pages. I’ve read the Red Book of Westmarch.”

Jebbin paused. The crowd, though not terribly noisy before now, hushed.

“I’ve read the Red Book of Westmarch. The words of two of the Travellers themselves, and it completely disagrees with every current book written about their Journey and their saving of the Shire.”

“Rubbish!”

“Mad Bilbo and Mad Frodo wrote them words. They be mad words!”

“Ravings of mad hobbits!”

“No!” Jebbin shouted. “No, they weren’t mad. We all know bachelor hobbits. We all know hobbitesses who never wed. They aren’t all mad. The Baggins’ weren’t mad. They were travelled but . . .”

“And mad hobbits go larkin’ about!”

“How many of you have been to Bree?” Jebbin asked sharply. The crowd quieted a moment as the question was considered. “How many of you, especially you merchants and tradeshobbits, how many of you have been to Bree or Kingstown? How many of you have been to the towns of Sarn Ford or Greenway Fork? You have travelled. You have left the Shire. Are you all mad?”

“’Twas different then, young hobbit. ‘Tweren’t no safe roads, no Kings Men to keep things proper.”

“True enough,” replied Jebbin. “But there wouldn’t be any of that if the Travellers hadn’t left on their journey. Why shouldn’t their accounting of their own journeys be taken as truth? They weren’t mad.”

Hobbits turned to one another to start working through this. It was a great amount of new ideas for them to take in all at once.

“Mr. Goodbody!” Jebbin returned his attention to the hobbit who had first approached the table. “Do you have enough interest in our people’s past to read my book? Do you have the courage to test new information, to challenge what you’ve been told all your life?”

Jebbin gestured with the book in his hand to the one Togo Goodbody still held in his hands. The crowd grew silent.

“I do,” Togo replied and those around him gasped. “I’ll read your book. If nothing else, it will provide me with a good laugh.”

Many in the crowd chuckled at this, but several muttered angrily. Before the crowd had cleared all the books were sold. Marjoram asked where each prospective buyer lived, explaining that as there were so few copies, they wanted to make sure they found their way to different parts of the Shire and its environs.

The eight copies were gone. Jebbin kept his original.

The battle for the Truth had begun.