The spectacular roses and salmons of another perfect summer’s day faded into early twilight blues and purples. Frodo had been excused from his after-dinner chores. It was only fair, considering he had cooked the evening meal that night and it passed his Uncle’s high standards for culinary expertise. There was a family reputation to maintain, and Bilbo made sure his nephew would carry on that tradition in the style reflecting their family’s high social status and great material wealth.
Frodo was free to enjoy himself as he pleased for the moment while Bilbo finished washing up the dishes. The day had been beautiful. All warm and hazy at mid-day, then hot by mid-afternoon, as it should have been at this time of year. The evening brought a freshening breeze from the West, blowing in a slight coolness which was most welcome. The Gamgees, Hamfast and his youngest son, Samwise, had been gardening all day in the front flower beds at Bag End. Father and son had returned to their home tired, but satisfied. Now the fruits of their labors rested in the soft twilight. Luminescent nicotiana was just opening its buds to greet the waning moon’s soft light. Their sweet scent stole through the open leaded glass windows at Bag End, bringing their heady aroma into Frodo’s bedroom.
The handsome younger bachelor hobbit of Bag End sprawled across his bed, head facing the footboard. A lone candle atop the cedar chest at the foot of the bed illuminated a loosely-bound book the lad was reading. He had read this private book time and time again and never seemed to tire of its familiar words and phrases. “There and Back Again” by Bilbo Baggins. It was Frodo’s favorite book. At age twenty-two he was an unusually well-educated young hobbit who could not only read and write in the Common Tongue, but also knew passable Elvish. He could even translate a smattering of difficult dwarvish, given access to his uncle’s runes dictionary. He had learned by heart sections of some of the great Elvish epic poems and stories, and could give detailed accounts of the history of the Shire. But time and time again he returned to the well-worn, thumb-eared handmade book telling the story of his uncle’s extraordinary adventure. It never failed to capture his imagination, and frequently filled him with the urge to experience life outside the sheltered existence of Bag End in the solid, but bland region known as the Shire.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Frodo’s reading was rudely interrupted. It sounded as if someone was trying to knock in the front door!
Bang! Bang!
Frodo leapt up from his revelry and ran to the entranceway. Still holding the book, he threw open the round green door to find that his story had evidently come to life before his startled eyes. There, in the very same doorway as described in the book, stood three fierce-looking dwarves with deadly-looking weapons.
“Well? What’er you gaping at?” the closest and fiercest-looking dwarf growled. His white beard and hair glowed faintly in the moonlight. But it was the sharp two-sided axe in his gnarled fist which held Frodo’s attention.
Frodo realized he had been standing in the doorway with one hand on the central doorknob, the other holding the book, and his mouth wide open. “Oh!” Frodo managed to gulp out, “Please pardon my rudeness.”
The white-haired dwarf chuckled slightly. “I shall if you can tell me if this is the residence of Master Thief Bilbo Baggins of the Shire?”
“Thief? Why… why, yes it is,” Frodo stammered. “Please do come in.” He gestured them to step inside. “Whom may I say is calling?”
“Oin, son of Toin at your service.” The first dwarf bowed and then stepped over the mantle. He shrugged off a heavy backpack and placed his two-sided axe on top of a pile forming in the hallway.
“Khamin, son of Thangel.” The second dwarf bowed and entered. His thick, matted red beard reached below his knees. He also had a pack and axe, which joined the pile on the neatly-swept cool tile floor.
“Loin Bonecleaver, son of Din the Elder,” replied the third and youngest dwarf. His hair was jet black and he carried a harp along with his pack and two smaller axes secured to his intricately carved belt.
Frodo bowed deeply to his guests and put his book on the side table. “Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo and cousin to Bilbo, at your service, good sirs.” He showed them into the formal parlor just off the front entrance hallway. “I shall go and get my Uncle Bilbo. Please, make yourselves comfortable.” Frodo politely backed out of the parlor, then fled to the kitchen as quickly as his feet could take him.
“Well? Who was it?” Bilbo absentmindedly asked while putting away the last of the clean crockery.
Frodo gulped. “There are… there are three dwarves asking for you, Bilbo. Asking for the Master Thief, just like in your book!”
“Oh, botheration,” Bilbo whipped off his apron and threw it across the table. “I do hope Gandalf has not chosen now to restart my former career.” Bilbo headed towards the front of the smial, then suddenly stopped and turned. Frodo almost bumped into him in his haste to keep pace. “Frodo, be a good lad and fetch us all a mug of beer.” Bilbo frowned slightly. “Better use the good crystal goblets.”
“For beer?” Frodo asked in confusion.
Bilbo smiled. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Dwarves will think any old draft is the finest ale in Middle Earth as long as you can impress them with fancy dishes. Now, be quick about it.”
Frodo returned to the kitchen for the formal stemware. He picked up four, then, seizing his opportunity, added a fifth one for himself. He quickly went into the cellar. Tapping the keg as quickly as he could without causing the beer to over-foam, he hurriedly walked to the front parlor, balancing two crystal goblets in one hand, two in the other, and the fifth between the rest.
The three dwarves were comfortably settled into the oversized parlor chairs, their traveling cloaks, packs, weapons and musical instruments safely stored in the hallway. Bilbo was already deep into conversation with the trio as Frodo entered the room and presented their guests with the cool beers. He seated himself on the fireplace hearth, as all the chairs were already occupied.
“Ah! The rumors of your rich and thoughtful hospitality are true!” Oin exclaimed. He raised his goblet in a toast. “To your continued wealth and long life, Mister Bagggins. May your nimble fingers never fail to find their intended target, and may your sword always remain as sharp as your legendary wit.”
“Here! Here!” Khamin and Loin echoed.
Frodo smiled and also raised his goblet.
“And to a successful venture for you all, “ Bilbo rejoined. “May your beards grow long and full. May your coffers overflow. And may your journey ultimately lead you to safe harbor.” He turned to Frodo and whispered, “Bring in the chesses and breads. Oh, and the left-over chicken and apple tarts, too. Use the good silver and plates.”
Frodo nodded slightly, put his beer down on the hearthstone and ran off to do his uncle’s bidding. He was dying to be allowed to stay and listen in on the news from outside the Shire. But politeness in offering your guests refreshments came first. He soon returned to the parlor with the foodstuffs and Bag End’s finest gold-rimmed plates and silverware.
Bilbo was talking. “… but I can provide you with a map to the Lonely Mountain.” Bilbo motioned Frodo to retake his seat at the fireplace and listen in to the talk while the dwarves availed themselves of the food. “I made one after our adventures with Thorin Oakenshield, Gandalf and company. I can copy it out for you tonight. It will show you the safest route through the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood Forest. There are plenty of dangers along the way, but if you follow my suggestions and keep to the marked paths, you will increase your chances of arriving at the Kingdom under the Mountain safely.”
“With all our hearts, we thank you,” Khamin said as he admired the gold-rimmed platter holding one remaining chicken leg. “But is there another halfling thief you could recommend which we might hire? Thorin Oakenshield and King Dain only achieved what they did with the help of a halfling thief. Even though our tales of that adventure minimize your assistance, we can read between the lines, so to say, and want to increase our chances of success.”
“Hobbit,” Bilbo corrected. “We prefer to be called hobbits, please.”
“A thousand pardons, my most excellent host,” Khamin rose and bowed low, then resumed his seat.
“I do not think there is another hobbit who would be willing to travel outside the Shire, much less all the way to the Lonely Mountain and then travel all the way back by himself,” Bilbo diplomatically replied. Frodo started to open his mouth, but Bilbo quickly shot him a look which made him shut it immediately. “And besides,” Bilbo continued, “you are not on an expedition which requires the services of a professional thief, if I understand your intentions correctly. You simply need a guide, or a good map in order to successfully reach the Lonely Mountain and avoid the known dangers along the way. Correct?”
“Yes, you have the gist of it,” Oin grunted. “But we would feel luckier with a hobbit along, just to be safe. One never knows when one is going to need an extra pair of hands and a stout heart whilst traveling this journey. And having a hobbit in the party certainly helps if you run afoul the Elves.”
“True, true,” Loin nodded his agreement. “And times are worse than when you last traveled the great East Road, Master Baggins. Orcs freely wander the countryside, with the exception of a few well-tended areas such as your pleasant little farming country. Orcs and much more dangerous, if you catch my drift.”
“In deed, I do not,” Bilbo replied. “We have heard no tales of orcs roaming the countryside around the Shire. The last goblins I ran into were from the Misty Mountains, well over a fortnight’s journey from here. Then again, that was quite a few years ago, and times may be changing.”
“They are,” Khamin said, “and not for the better. We come from the Ered Luin, or Blue Mountains as they are known here. The kingdom of Belegost under the mountains. But our folk are dwindling. Most of our distant kinfolk removed themselves from Belegost and Nogrod to Khazad-dum during the Second Age. But some stayed behind at Belegost. Now there are too few dwarves to properly defend the realm. Orcs have infiltrated Ered Luin, coming from Mirkwood and points South.”
“We would like to join up with our cousins at Erebor under the Lonely Mountain,” Oin continued. “For mutual safety, you understand. We can no longer keep at bay the growing threat of evil which assails us from the South.”
“The South?” Bilbo questioned. “I always heard that the Shadow was headquartered in the East. Somewhere in Mirkwood. Has this changed?”
“Quite a few years ago,” Oin politely belched, then continued. “The Necromancer was driven out of his stronghold in Dol Guldur about fifty years ago. At the same time Thorin Oakenshield and your estimable self went on your adventure. Rumor has it that your own Gandalf and some high-born Elves were the ones which drove the Dark Lord out of Mirkwood.”
“But they did not engage the Nameless One in battle, or cause him much grief,” Loin snorted. “Typical Elf tactic. Overly cautious. Wait and see. Do not engage the enemy on his land. Ha! If Gandalf had asked the dwarves to take care of the Necromancer, the Dark Lord wouldn’t have survived to regroup in Mordor!”
“He’s in Mordor?” Frodo whispered.
“Aye, lad,” Oin frowned. “Back in his stronghold of Barad-dur. And he’s rebuilding all the defenses again. Gathering all sorts of evil unto himself. Despite what my foolish and terribly young cousin here might think,” Oin shot a withering glance at Loin, “the Great Deceiver is more powerful now than ever. He grows bold in his rebuilding, and there is none now to stop him. Neither dwarves, nor Elves, nor Men. Nor hobbits, evidently.”
Bilbo sat back in his chair, took out his pipe, and proceeded to light it.
“His spies roam freely throughout the countryside,” Khamin said, “Our own lands are now under infrequent, but decidedly vicious attack by these new Southern orcs.” He spat at the word.
“But why hasn’t Gondor or King Balin of Khazad-dum seen to stopping these raids?” Bilbo asked. “The orcs would have to pass through or near Moria to reach the Blue Mountains.”
“There is no word from Moria,” Oin sighed. “Twice we have sent messengers there. Twice now no one returns. Either the messengers were ambushed on their way to the great realm, or they were unable to convince the King to lend aide. Moria is a mystery. It is closed to us. That is why we look now to the Kingdom of Erebor under the Lonely Mountain. We three must reach it at all costs. You see, we are the third and final group of messengers to be sent out from besieged Belegost. Now you understand why we need the services of a thief. A halfling … sorry … a hobbit of the Shire. So we may have the same good fortune as King Dain and Thorin Oakenshield.”
“Frodo,” Bilbo quietly said, “be a good lad and fetch us another round of beers.”
Frodo was extremely reluctant to miss out on more conversation, but politely did as he was bid. He gathered the five goblets and ran to the cellar. He could hear the conversation start up again as he left the parlor. The voices faded as he went out of earshot. In his impatience, he tapped the keg too quickly, causing foam to spill over on the first draw. Silently cursing his impatience, Frodo slowed down and finished drawing the beers without further delay. He scampered back as quickly as he could. He wasn’t watching his steps and stumbled on one of the packs stored in the hallway. Beer spilled onto the floor. Frodo mentally cursed himself again, this rime for his clumsiness, and put the fancy crystal goblets down on the floor. He could just make out the words coming from the parlor as he got on his hands and knees to wipe up the spill with his handkerchief. He gathered the goblets and was about to enter the parlor when something Bilbo was saying made him draw up short and eavesdrop.
“Well, if it was just me, I would be more than willing to drop everything and join in with your little group,” Bilbo said. “But as you can see, my circumstances have changed considerably since my last adventure. I have to think of the lad first now. He has no father or mother, and is far too young to take on such a dangerous journey.”
“But you just said your heart has been set on traveling again.” Frodo thought it was Khamin speaking. “That you are restless and unhappy being cooped up here in your Shire. Doesn’t the lad have a relative he could stay with until you return?”
“That’s the whole point,” Bilbo replied. “I probably will NOT return. I may not look it, but I am quite old, my good sir. And if I leave the Shire, it will be to never return.”
“The leave the lad with a relative and come with us, Mister Baggins.”
Frodo noticed he could see into the parlor by looking into the hallway mirror. Loin was speaking. “We need your services. We would pay you handsomely. And I’m sure the lad will be fine staying with a different Aunt or Uncle.”
“No,” Bilbo gestured emphatically with his pipe. “I will not leave Frodo to be ignored by the Brandybucks again. Or the Tooks. Stars! That would ruin whatever education I’ve given him. And that leaves the Sackville-Bagginses. I would rather jump into a raging river than send him there! Somehow this journey of yours does not feel right to me.” Frodo could see Bilbo lean forward, his hand reaching into his vest pocket. “Yes, I am restless. Something is nagging at me. Making me want to travel again.” Bilbo sat back and took his empty hand out of his pocket. “But this journey doesn’t seem right for me, or for Frodo. I will not leave him behind.”
“I could come with you.”
Frodo stood in the doorway; five full goblets in his hands. All conversation abruptly stopped as everyone realized what had been overheard.
Oin cleared his throat. “Ah hmmm …. Yes … We could take both of you along.”
“Absolutely not!” Bilbo stood and stomped his foot on the polished wooden floor. “I’ve had one adventure which ended in the death of several dwarves and Men of Dale, not to mention Thorin Oakenshield himself being killed in battle. And I almost died several times if not for my quickness and extreme good fortune. Frodo, adventures are dangerous in the best of times and fool-hearty under these circumstances. Something unexpected always comes along, and usually not for the best.” He turned to Oin. “Neither Frodo nor I will be joining you on this journey, and that is final!”
There was an awkward silence as the three dwarves frowned upon their clearly-upset host. After a moment, Frodo timidly handed each guest their beers, then resumed his place seated by the fireside. Bilbo sat down again and tapped out his pipe. Loin sighed.
“Is your offer of the map still good?” Oin quietly asked.
Bilbo nodded. “It is the best I can do, my good sirs.”
“Then we give you thanks and offer what we can for your generosity,” Oin replied, climbing out of his chair and disappearing into the hallway. In a moment he returned with a small leather sack. The sack jingled with the sound of coins clinking together.
“No, no,” Bilbo protested. “I am well off. There is no need for payment.”
“But a worker must be paid his wages,” Khamin said. “And all business transactions are honorable and just.”
“Name your price for the map,” Loin demanded. “We are not beggars. It would dishonor us if we do not pay.” He sat back and crossed his arms in displeasure.
“Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo quietly asked.
“Yes, Frodo?”
“Could we trade the map for a song?” Frodo asked. He turned to the dark-haired younger dwarf. “I would dearly love to hear you play on your golden harp, sir.”
Bilbo and Oin smiled at each other.
“All right then,” the elder hobbit said. “I shall provide you a copy of the map as long as songs are sung and tales told while I am doing the work. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Oin smiled.
Ch. 2: Maps
Ch. 3: Classes
Ch. 4: Background
Ch. 5: Ghosts of the Lake
Ch. 6: Shepherd’s shelter
Ch. 7: In the presence of mine enemies
Ch. 8: Signs
Ch. 9: Shared Visions
Ch. 10: Home