Chapter Text
“Did you pack your winter coat, Billa dearest?”
I looked to the corner where my luggage lay heaped all together. The winter coat was rolled up and tied to my backpack, just under a basket full of waybread and dry cheese and nuts and a jar of honey and other food, and atop it all, a fresh apple pie that Mama had baked in the morning just for me, all wrapped in paper and still hot. “Yes, Mama, of course I did.”
We were sitting around the table: Mama, wrapped in her plaid, looking grey and tiny and tired and occasionally wracked by coughs; Uncle Isengar, grim and worried; and I. My tea was getting cold, and though the air around us was permeated with the warm scent of cinnamon and baked apples, I was neither thirsty nor hungry. Frankly, I was scared.
“Maybe if you went to Bree instead,” Uncle Isengar said to his teacup, not looking at me. “At least that is close enough, I’m sure between us we could dig up a cousin or two who would be happy to put you up. Or maybe one of those Rangers would...”
I shook my head. “We’ve been through it, Uncle. Bree is no better off than the Shire, and is by now most probably flooded by Shire hobbits looking for work. There would be little for me to do. And the Rangers are nice and all, from afar, but they’re just so awfully tall. Can you imagine me working in one of their kitchens? Most likely I couldn’t even reach their cutlery drawer. At least the Dwarves are more reasonably sized.”
I sighed. The Shire had been facing some difficult times, and many younger people had been moving out, trying to find work elsewhere. Most had gone to the villages in Breeland, some had moved south, to Tookland and beyond, or to the Mannish settlements around Tharbad. Now it was my time to go, for it was getting more and more difficult for Mama and me to get by with what we had, and Mama, of course, was no longer able to work.
So I had to leave, and I had decided to try my luck with the dwarvish settlement in Ered Luin.
“What will you do there?” Uncle asked. “It’s not like you’ve learned any craft. At least most of those who went through Tookland knew how to work fields and gardens and grow crops. Now, I don’t want to say anything against your father, but he should have at least seen to it that you learn something reasonable. This flower garden that you have is all good and well, but I do not see dwarves growing flowers in their caves.”
“Don’t be silly, Gar,” Mama said in her whispery voice. “Billa knows plenty. She even speaks the Elven tongue.”
“Well that is the problem!” Uncle Isengar snapped testily. “She is not going to the Elves! She’s going to the Dwarves! Whatever would she do with the Elvish language there?”
“But surely, they must have dealings with their closest neighbours, the Elves of the Grey Havens...” I hesitated. I had studied Papa’s maps, many times, but I did not know much about these Dwarves. I supposed nobody did. At least, nobody in the Shire whom I had asked. I had also asked a Ranger, who happened to be stopping at the Green Dragon about a month ago, but he only laughed and said that the Dwarves were known to be a secretive lot.
“Have you packed your cardigan, dear?” Mama started again. “And your mittens. These caves are bound to be cold in winter.”
“Yes, Mama. And also the blue woollen dress.”
She stroked my hair. “Don’t you worry, my little girl. Your Papa taught you everything you need, so you’ll manage just fine. Most of all, he loved you and he taught you to be a good person.” She paused, and then added almost shyly, “Write, when you can.”
“Of course, Mama,” I choked out, trying to hold back tears.
***
Uncle Isengar decided to accompany me for a few days, because as he said, he had to see the Mayor in Michel Delving for some business on behalf of his brother the Thain, who was elderly and unable to travel. I suspect he actually was accompanying me mainly to see whether I could handle the pony and cart, and to maintain his reputation as The Wandering Hobbit, a notoriety he was milking for all it was worth. Nevertheless I was glad for his company; after all, this was my first longer trip, whereas he had been as far as to the sea and knew all there was to know about Travelling. I felt safer with him.
At Bywater we took the East Road, and travelled rather merrily to Michel Delving. The weather was warm and sunny, the rolling of the wheels on the road seemed like a kind of chant, and Uncle Isengar was calling out merry greetings to the hobbits we met on our way. There weren’t many solitary farms or smaller villages along the way, because Hobbits generally preferred to keep away from all sorts of Big Folk who now and then travelled along the Road; so we only passed through Waymoot where the Road branches off southwards, towards the tobacco fields of Southfarthing and further on to lands of Men, before we reached Michel Delving.
I had counted on meeting Dwarven travellers along the way, who would be headed to the Blue Mountains. After all, it was well known that Dwarves travelled often, to sell their (unquestionably unparalleled) skills and peddle their metal wares in the lands quite far from their own. But apparently I had not reckoned with the fact that it was just the beginning of the summer season.
“Towards the Blue Mountains?” Harro Twofoot, the publican at the Goat & Cabbage inn where we stayed, laughed. “Not likely at this time. They’re all outbound. Why, you just missed a caravan. You should have seen them! All decked in armour and weapons, a sight to see and no mistake. My own old missus could hardly take her eyes off.”
Uncle Isengar frowned at this. As we were sitting down for supper, he said, “I had planned to stop here and then circle back to Tuckborough, but I hate the thought of you travelling all alone, Billa-pumpkin. Maybe I should come with you, to see you off safely.” I must have looked very frightened, because he hastened to add, “Not that there is much danger. The roads have been quite safe, after all.”
Poor Uncle. I knew I really shouldn’t keep him any longer. He had his own business to do, and I was an adult, and quite able to look after myself, or at least I liked to think so. Besides, as he had said, the road was quite safe. The lands of the Hobbits stretched past Michel Delving all the way to the Far Downs, and among my own people I would surely be safe, welcomed and well cared for. Not very far from the borders, in Tower Hills, began the realm of the Elves of Lindon. I had studied Papa’s maps so often that I practically knew them by heart. And what could happen to a traveller under the protection of Elves?
That is what I told him. “I’ll be just fine,” I said, trying to be brave, but the squeak in my voice was really quite embarrassing. “No need for you to spend more time on me than you absolutely must.”
“You sure? Because I would, if you felt you wanted me to.”
I just patted his hand and told him to be on his way before I regret it. He shook his head, saying I was shockingly like my Mama, which I took as a compliment. I knew it wasn’t true, though. My Mama was the bravest Hobbit I knew; she would never have been so scared of travelling alone.