Once upon a time, east of the sun, west of the moon, long ago and far away, there was a hobbit-lad named Berimac, Berry for short. He, unlike a certain other famous hobbit, often dreamed of adventure.

This is the tale of his adventure, as it was told to me.

Berry was out wandering in the Old Forest, in the days before the trees had changed. He knew the forest well, having grown up right by it; his mum threw out the washing-water on the roots of the first trees, but never without hollering out first, to chase away any of the fairy-folk.

So, Berry was out wandering on this day, when he came to a tall, tall stone wall, with a tiny, hobbitlad-sized door in it. He had never seen it before, and highly suspected that this was the beginning of an Adventure. As I said before, best beloved, Berry always wanted to have an adventure, so he happily pushed the door open, and ran through. He turned around, once through, to look at the wall once more, and the door, had disappeared!

Berry, however, was the seventh son of a seventh son, and thus very lucky. His mum had always told him so, and so he feared very little. The others in the village thought him very odd, with his unhobbitlike behavior, but his mum would always give him a secret, knowing smile, and whisper that he would do great things someday.

All that is to say that Berry simply continued on his way. He did not walk long, when he found a house. He was getting a little hungry, just then, and so decided to ask for a bit of food at the house. He entered the low gate, and knocked on the door, receiving no answer.

When he knocked again, the door seemed to open of its own accord, and Berry went in, calling hallo.

No one answered, but there was a table filled with all of Berry’s favorite foods in all the world, and would you blame him if he took a bit here, and a bite there? I certainly don’t.

His hunger satisfied, Berry went to leave the house, but found himself unable to pass the gate! His furry feet were simply stuck to the ground, and would not move.

Now, Berry was a sensible hobbit at heart, despite his adventuring nature, and instead of crying “Help! Help! Oh, someone please help me!”, as you or I might, he simply stood there, trying to find out why he could walk about the yard just fine, but could not leave it.

“It was the witch that done it,” he heard a clear voice say.

“What? What witch? Who’s there?” Berry turned around quickly, trying to locate the lovely voice, one that sounded as though it could help him.

“Down here! The toad!” And Berry looked down, and saw that, indeed, there was a toad at his feet. He sat down on the ground, feeling a bit awkward to be both craning his neck down and talking to a toad. That talked back.

“What witch?” he asked again.

“The witch who lives here, and captures young hobbits, and turns ‘em into unnatural things,” the toad continued blithely, apparently unaware or uncaring that it was a talking toad. “That’s what she did to me.”

“Oh,” was all Berry could say, suddenly a bit frightened. His adventures tended to involve beautiful princesses with oleanders in their hair, and evil dukes who needed to be killed. Not witches who wanted to turn him into things.

“Oh, indeed,” the toad said. “I may free us, for I am the daughter of December, and I have Powers, but you must do something for me first.”

“December?” Berry was getting more and more confused, and more and more worried that the witch would appear at the house soon.

“December,” the toad said, which apparently explained everything. “Now, first you must catch flies, and feed me.”

And Berry did, and the toad’s quick tongue snapped them out of his hand, where the poor flies lay stunned.

“And now you must bathe me, in that little pond over there,” the toad commanded, and Berry did.

When the toad was in the pond, she began to sing:

Oricoco! Oricoco! December’s daughter calls!
Oricoco! Oricoco! Let magic be undone!
Oricoco! Oricoco! December’s daughter wills it so!

And, in a flash of light that made Berry tumble backwards in surprise, the toad was gone and a pretty hobbit-lass stood there in her place. Her face was round, with rosy cheeks, and auburn hair tumbled in curls over her shoulders. She wore a gown of green, and smelled of pine and woodsmoke.

“Quickly! The witch knows her spell has been broken, and we must leave and run to my father’s house!” The lass then grabbed Berry’s hand, and led them through the gate.

Aiiieeeee! Berry heard a shrieking that chilled his bones and tore his soul, but December’s daughter kept pulling him on, urging him to run ever faster. They ran over fields rich with crops, and meadows, and through a bare, still forest, where dried leaves crunched under Berry’s feet. And still December’s daughter urged him on, and the ground flew beneath Berry’s feet.

At last, just when Berry was about to drop, they reached a huge wooden house, made of logs and with a big plume of smoke coming out from the center of the roof.

Berry was pulled into the house as well, and the door slammed shut, and Berry was inside the House of the Months.

They wandered about, cooking, or sewing, or warming their feet by the fire. All the months of the year. The beautiful hobbit-lass pulled him over to the fire, to an old man wrapped in a grey cloak, with a huge grey hat drawn over his eyes. What could be seen of his hair was pure white, and his hands were wrinkled and spotted with age.

“Why is it, daughter-mine, that I have not seen thee for four turns of the Wheel?” December asked in a voice like a crackling fire.

“A witch imprisoned me, Father. Berry freed me,” she explained, her voice ringing through the hall.

All the other months stopped, and turned to look at Berry.

“You have freed my Ilona, Berry,” December said, and Berry saw his eyes were grey also, though they were alive with light. “I shall grant you your dearest wish.”

“Please sir,” Berry said, “I’d like to go home.” For Berry had decided he didn’t like adventuring very much, at least not this one, and he missed his Mum and Da and cozy hobbit-hole.

December nodded. “Excellent, lad. For hearth and home are to be treasured above all else, and you will reach yours again. Remember, though, no path is clear, no choice is made without a sacrifice. In thanks, I give you three gifts. I give you the gift of home. I give you the gift of a taste of my mead, so that you may win any argument. And I give you my daughter to be your wife, for I see it is her wish as well.”

Berry bowed, and thanked December politely. A mead-horn, nearly as tall as Berry, was brought over, and he took a drink from it. It had no taste, and yet tasted of nine thousand drops of honey, ninety thousand blossoms, and nine times ninety thousand summers.

“Fare thee well, Berry and Ilona,” December said, and the other months bid them farewell as well.

They began to walk back the way they came, hand-in hand. They crossed forest, field and meadow again, but as they drew near the witch’s house, Ilona cried out.

“She sees! She sees!” she cried, and grabbed Berry’s hand, starting to run again. Berry heard a peircing scream behind him again, and stumbled, and fell. Ilona tugged him up, howling at the sky.

And enormous grey wolf appeared. “I have come, daughter of December,” it said. “Ride my back, you shall not fall.” And the two climbed aboard, and the wolf sped off, just as Berry felt the witch’s ice-cold fingers on the back of his neck.

The wolf ran faster than Berry had ever gone before, and he clung to its fur. Ilona, though, rode tall and proud, one hand resting on the wolf’s neck.

They stopped at a river. “I may go no further,” the wolf said, “but my brother, Fish, will take you. Ride him, and you shall not fall.”

Ilona and Berry got off, and thanked the wolf. Berry saw the witch appear, just within sight, a grotesque woman, bent and hobbling and screeching after them.

And then Ilona had grabbed him, and they were riding a great silver fish, and Berry was diving under the water. He did not drown, though he held tight to the fish’s fins. Again, though, Ilona rode tall and beautiful and proud.

At the other end of the river, the fish surfaced. “I may go no further,” it said, “but the witch can trouble you no longer. There is a gorge ahead, my brother Eagle will bear you across.” Again, Berry and Ilona thanked the fish, and it swam away.

They walked, now, unafraid of the witch. Sometimes, Berry thought he could still hear her shrieking, but Ilona assured him they were safe now, no matter how angered the witch was.

When they reached a deep, deep gorge, Berry peered across, and could just make out the little wooden door in the great stone wall. A huge eagle was perched on the edge of the gorge nearby.

“I may take you across, daughter of December, and Mead-drinker,” it said, and they climbed atop him. Mighty wings beat, and they soared across the deep crack in the earth.

Once on the other side, they climbed down and thanked the eagle, and then it was Berry who grabbed Ilona’s hand, and started running for the gate.

They passed through, and through the Old Forest before it was old, and then Berry saw his house. It looked smaller, older, shabbier. A woman who looked like his Mum, but with grey hair, sat in the yard, stitching in the sunlight.

Berry walked more slowly now, still holding hands with Ilona, but the woman looked up and recognized him immediately. She cried his name out and swept him up in her arms, sobbing.

“Mother, what has happened?” Berry asked. “I wasn’t gone for even a day!”

“Lad,” his mum replied, wiping her eyes, “You’ve been gone for twenty years! Oh, so long I’ve waited for you. They all said you’d never return, your father and your brothers, but I knew. No seventh son of a seventh son could become lost forever.”

And, indeed, Berry finally noticed that he was taller, and had become a grown hobbit.

“Mum, this is December’s daughter. She is to be my wife,” Berry said, and his mum welcomed her to their hearth and home.

That night, Berry told her and his Da and his brothers and their families the story. The next day, he and Ilona were married, and they set up their own hobbit-hole, right up against the Old Forest, in the days before it was old.

And they lived happily ever after, until the end of their days.

“Merry, will we have adventures someday?” Pippin asked eagerly.

“I think we will, Pippin,” Merry replied, and tucked the blanket around his young cousin snugly as the winter wind whistled outside.

“Will we meet December, and drink his mead?” Pippin asked, his eyes closing slowly, drowsiness overcoming him.

“I don’t know. It would be nice to, though. Sleep now, Pip, for it will be Yule soon, and Father Frost cannot come if you’re awake.” Merry snuggled under the blankets, as well.

“G’night, Merry.”

“Good night, Pip.”

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