the next day

Bilbo and Frodo got a late start to their adventure. Most of the morning was taken up with packing enough foodstuffs to last them for two weeks, plus enough clothes to anticipate any change in the summer weather. Frodo was placed in charge of packing the maps, bedding, cooking utensils and safety equipment such as ropes, a small axe, and a couple of sturdy utility knives. Bilbo spent an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Gamgee going over what he wanted done at Bag End while they were away. The most important item was who was not allowed inside the house. Under no circumstances were the Sackville-Bagginses to be allowed through the front door.

By late morning Frodo had the two packs and walking sticks ready to go. He was standing at the front door when Bilbo emerged from one of the back storage rooms. He was wearing a sword at his hip and carried another in his hands.

“Do you really think it necessary to carry weapons?” Frodo asked. He had never been terribly keen on learning swordsmanship or any other defensive art.

“Yes, given the news from the dwarves,” Bilbo replied. “I’ll carry Sting, as I am quite used to using her. I am afraid your sword is not as elegant, but it will serve if we come into a tight place and have to use it. Here. Put it on.”

Frodo took the smaller hobbit-made blade and scabbard and bound it round his slender hips. Bilbo helped him arrange the scabbard so that it was secure without interfering with the backpack, rope or bedroll.

“We’re off!” Bilbo cried to the Gamgees who were standing in the garden beside the front door. “We’ll be back in two weeks or so.”

“Bye bye Mister Frodo,” young Samwise waved. His younger sister, Marigold, peeked out from behind her mother’s skirt.

The two set off north on the footpath to Overhill at about eleven bells. The day was already turning hot and steamy as a bank of thick clouds had rolled into the area. Soon Frodo abandoned his overcoat and loosened up his shirt collar. He and Bilbo had taken many smaller business trips throughout the Shire in the years since Frodo had come to live with his Uncle. He had been to the Mathom House in Micheldelving where Bilbo’s mithril coat hung on display. To Tookborough to visit with his relatives. To Buckland too many times to recall. And even down to the pipeweed farms near Longbottom in the South Farthing. Bilbo held part interest in a farm there. Tramping about the countryside with pack on back was nothing new to Frodo. Having a sword whacking him in the leg as he strode along the byways, however, was new. And annoying.

They forded the north branch of the Water just past Overhill as they were heading northeast through farm lanes and back trails. A cattle crossing provided muddy but safe footing over the Water, which was no more than a little stream in the summer heat. Frodo and Bilbo both knew this part of the Shire extremely well, as Bilbo owned land around the Overhill area and frequently made business trips there. They soon reached the main North/South Shire road and turned left, leading them northwards into the heart of the North Farthing.

The rest of the day was spent traveling up the ancient Dwarvish road leading to Oatbarton. They set themselves a leisurely pace, occasionally stopping to rest under the shade of a knotted old tree in one of the numerous orchards in the region. The North Farthing was well known as the Shire’s major fruit producing area. Pear, apple, fig, plum and apricot orchards fanned out from the road as far as the eye could see. Deep green vineyards with red rose bushes at the end of each neat row lined the hillsides. The occasional vegetable garden or dairy cattle farm punctuated the pleasant landscape. They stopped at one of the many roadside fruit stands and purchased fresh peaches and tomatoes for a late lunch.

Not much was said between Frodo and Bilbo as they walked. Frodo had learned from Bilbo how to enjoy the sights and sounds of the road, leaving talking to the end of the day. Infrequently one would point out a particular item of interest to the other. Bilbo usually took it as an opportunity to continue Frodo’s education, telling him of the plants and animals in the area. But Bilbo seemed more preoccupied with his own thoughts this day. He rarely looked around at the lovely well-tended farms, orchards and roadside stands, preferring the company of his own thoughts. Frodo could tell he had brought his gold ring, as Bilbo would frequently reach into his pocket and finger the precious item.

“Bilbo?” Frodo finally spoke as they strode along the hard-packed earthen road.

“Oh. Yes?” Bilbo’s attention came back to reality. He quickly removed his hand from his pocket.

“Why did you bring your magic ring along?” Frodo asked.

Bilbo thought about it for a moment. “I don’t rightly know. Normally I would have put it away under lock and key; not taking the risk of losing it on a trip.” He reached into his coat pocket and looked at the ring lying in the palm of his hand. “I’ve had this ring for years. Years. Never really thought too much about it. But lately …” His voice trailed off as he became lost in contemplation again.

Frodo took up the lost thread of conversation. “You’ve been keeping it in your pocket lately.”

Bilbo stopped toying with the ring and abruptly shoved it back into its pocket. “Yes. It’s been on my mind a lot recently. Don’t know why. I keep thinking I have to do something with it.” Bilbo smiled at his young nephew. “Maybe I should donate it to the Mathom House like I did with the mithril coat.”

Frodo smiled. “But then you couldn’t sneak away from Aunt Lobelia when she comes over.”

“You saw that, did you?” Bilbo chuckled. “Ah, I can’t abide that woman. Otho’s not so bad, really. But Lobelia is a real pain in my side. That son of theirs thinks he’s entitled to everything I have too, just because he’s my closest relative. Can you blame me for wanting to disappear whenever she’s around?”

“Not really,” Frodo laughed. “Best keep that ring on you at all times. You never know when you might need to use it.”

“Or it use me,” Bilbo whispered to himself.

Twilight was falling as they arrived at the Wood Chip Inn in Oatbarton. They spent the night there, joining in with the locals in enjoying a merry night at the pub. Bilbo recited several of his own original humorous poems, to the great delight of the local populace. They were always eager to hear the latest news from Hobbiton, and Bilbo obliged them in that also. Frodo sat by, quietly enjoying seeing his Uncle relax.

The next day they continued up the North Road towards the little village of Northway at the top of the North Farthing. Orchards and vineyards gave way to gentle rolling hills with the occasional outcropping of hard grey stone. They passed through some stands of dark evergreen, passing in and out of shadow and dappled sunlight. The road dwindled into a deeply-rutted dirt path between farms and fenced sheep pastures. For lunch they wandered a little off the road and into a meadow full of blueberry bushes. The Shire always provided for the hobbits, being blessed with gentle weather and rich soils.

They reached the outskirts of Northway at supper time. The little village was not more than a bump in the road, with few houses and a couple of businesses whose main occupation reflected the needs of its rural families. There was an Inn where the North/South road met up with another ancient trail leading southwest towards Little Delving in the West Farthing. Frodo and Bilbo spent the night at the Blind Pig Inn, delighting in a surprisingly excellent ale brewed by the master of the Inn, and a lovely dinner of lamb stew prepared by the master’s wife. After supper, the Inn began filling with local farmers and workers of the field coming in for a nice evening at their pub. Once again Bilbo was the center attraction; bringing news from Hobbiton and the East Farthing, and letting the locals get a close look at his sword, Sting.

“What brings you up this far north, Mister Baggins?” one of the patrons asked.

“Fishing trip,” Bilbo said as he sipped his ale.

That brought a round of laughter to all assembled. “Ya won’t catch much fush with this sort of hook!” a grizzled old farmer roared, flourishing Sting before handing it back to Bilbo. Bilbo smiled and replaced Sting into its weather-beaten scabbard.

“There ain’t no fishing up here,” one of the other locals laughed. “Whoever told you to go fishing in the North Farthing was either having you on, or doesn’t know a fishing hole from a cow patty.”

“But we’re not going fishing in the North Farthing,” Frodo said. “We’re going up to Lake Everdim.”

The laughter immediately died down. “Everdim?” the host asked. “That’s outside the Shire, you know.”

“Yes, we know,” Bilbo calmly replied, sipping his beer.

“Taint safe to go outside the Shire,” one of the rough farm lads piped up, gesturing with his corncob pipe. “There’s wolves and beasts and other strange things outside the borders. Wild Men too. Only folk which go out past the borders are some shepherds and dogs running herds in the summer high pastures. I don’t think you want to be going up into them hills. Folks say they’re haunted.”

“Haunted?” Frodo whispered.

Everyone in the pub quieted to hear the story. “Them hills are haunted by the ghosts of dead Big Folk,” the farmer continued. “I hear tell that fierce warriors used to live up near that lake a long, long time ago. But they was forced to move out by a powerful curse.”

“A curse?” Frodo’s eyes were as wide as saucers. He loved a good ghost story. Bilbo snorted and got out his own long-stemmed clay pipe.

“Aye, lad,” the farmer addressed Frodo directly. “A curse placed upon the land itself by a mighty witch king long, long ago.” Seeing as he held the attention of the entire bar, the farmer continued. “They say he was a King of Men. A right good King too. But he was put under a terrible spell by another King. Forced to live on and on and on. Never really dead. Never really alive either. Always hunting in the wilds for new blood. The story says he was double crossed by some high and mighty feller from that lake town. So he placed a curse on the rocks and stones of their houses so that no one would ever live there ever again. All the Big Folk living there became sick and died. Or worse ….”

His voice became a whisper. “Some went mad from losing their kin to the curse. The poor blighters would run down to the shore and jump into the deep part of that black, icy lake with all their fancy warrior armor on, only to sink like rocks till they joined the other dead folk drowned in that cursed lake. Some fell into cunning hidden traps the witch king set, and ended up starving to death in holes in the ground. He also turned some of the stones into trolls who would lie in wait for the unsuspecting traveler. And when one would come along trying to escape out that cursed place, the troll would snatch him up in his rocky arms and carry him off to be sacrificed on a giant stone altar by the witch king himself! Slashed to pieces with an iron blade dripping acid while the wolves circled round and round!”

“Oh, Carl, you’re making that all up,” one pretty hobbit lass giggled nervously.

“Am not,” the farmer leaned back in his chair. “My dad told me that story when I was a wee lad. And he got it from his dad and his dad before him.”

“And embellished at each retelling,” the innkeeper laughed. “Next you’ll be saying the trees are enchanted too and walking about; ready to snatch up any unwary fisherman who comes through your land and filtches an apple or two.” The mood was lightening considerably at the jest.

“Aw now, Robin,” the farmer said, “you’re spoiling me ghost story!” He smiled at Frodo and winked. “Don’t pay me nor him no never mind, young master. I’m just having you on a bit with them curses and things.” He turned to Bilbo. “But I really wouldn’t go on up to the lake if I was you. It’s a hard climb in the hills and there really are lots of nasty places where you could get lost or bring down a rock slide on top of your head.”

“And the weather’s unpredictable too,” the innkeeper added. “Nobody goes up there anymore, so if you get in trouble, you’ll just have to get your own self out of it.”

“Well, thank you for all the warnings.” Bilbo drained his mug and grabbed Sting. “Come along Frodo. We have an early start in the morning.”

Frodo stood and bowed to the farmer. “Thank you for an excellent ghost story.”

The farmer shook Frodo’s hand. “Pray you don’t meet up with any. Good luck young sir.”