Chapter Two
Marcho was standing upon damp grass, the blades emerging between his hairy toes. He did not know how he arrived here, or indeed where he was. But he did not care. As far as the eye could see were rolling hills on which the spring sun shone upon. He had never seen so much green before, such vibrant and pleasant green. Tiny rivers flowed around the land, appearing golden and alive. As he gazed at this paradise in the distance, Marcho did not notice his brother standing at his side, smiling. Without saying a word to one another, the two raced down the hill that they were standing upon and across the countryside.
In the distance they could hear talking and laughing. Many voices together that almost sounded like music. It was coming from over the hill from where Marcho and Blanco were stood, so they ran up it, clutching at the grass to stop them from sliding down from the damp. And they were more hills. But these were quite different. In each hill were several doors. Round doors painted red, green, blue and yellow. Chimneys poked out from the hills, emitting smoke. A small marketplace could be seen, with various stalls and wagons stacked with goods. This was where the noise was coming from. Hobbits! Hobbits in such a great number; greater than had ever been seen together. All chatting and laughing together in perfect unison. The brothers continued on down the hill towards this haven.
But something struck Marcho’s toes, a stone, perhaps. And he fell to the ground, his face planting into the wet grass. And he awoke.
Once again, he did not know where he was. But this time he did care. He felt stiff and pained, unable to properly move his head. But he was warm. Peering up at the ceiling, he saw that it was a round room with a low ceiling. Upon the walls were various trinkets. Mathoms! He realised at once where he was. Grandfather’s Burrow. It was the largest home in Staddle, home to the Thain. It was made up of a single round room where Grandfather could always be found. He was a collector of mathoms and other trinkets that were displayed on the walls. Even for a hobbit, the ceiling was rather low. Now Marcho could hear the crackling of the hearth. Crack, crack, crack. Now he remembered what had happened in Bree. Turning his head as best as he could, he found Blanco lying beside him, his face bruised and bloodied. The strain on his neck caused him great pain, and Marcho cried out.
“Try not to move.” A kindly, frail voice said. It was Grandfather coming to his side.
“W-what happened? Is my brother well?”
“You were cast out from Bree by the guards, who left you out in the field. It was fortunate that you were discovered by passers-by and brought to me, or else you may have been feed for wolves. Blanco is well enough, in that he is alive. He appears to have received a worse beating than you.”
“I dreamt, Grandfather. Of paradise.”
Grandfather smiled, his wrinkled face tightening up. What remained of his white hair was now very thin. As always, he was wearing his matte brown robe.
“To ease your pain, I have burned many herbs and allowed you to inhale their fumes. They have been known to induce pleasant dreams.”
Everyone knew that Grandfather was a skilled herbalist and healer. From a blocked nose to a broken leg, he had a cure. But Marcho was not prepared to believe that his paradise was simply the product of herbal smoke. At length, he described to Grandfather his experience in that green utopia. A place of hobbits, away from Big Folk such as Goodtwig and his cronies. As always, Grandfather listened intently. Among all his skills, what Marcho loved most about Grandfather was his ability to listen.
Blanco began to stir at this point, before Marcho could finish his tale. Grandfather went to attend to him, applying a damp cloth to his brow. For several days the two brothers convalesced under Grandfather’s care. It was often silent, apart from the crackling of the hearth and Grandfather’s pleasant and soothing humming. In good time, Blanco finally awoke. His pain was clearly greater than Marcho’s, despite Grandfather’s good work. He did not utter a word for days.
“I dreamt of it too.” Blanco finally said, in the dark of the night. Marcho was taken aback by this.
“You saw the green land?”
“Yes.” He replied simply, before going back to sleep.
Soon enough, the two were able to walk again. The pain for both of them had eased considerably. They did not leave Grandfather’s Burrow yet, though. Despite his best efforts, Marcho could not get Blanco to speak more of their dream. As the two brothers and Grandfather ate supper one evening, Marcho could not contain himself any longer.
“It is real. I am certain of it.” He announced.
“The best dreams are those that seem most real to us, but the herbs were responsible for this.” Grandfather replied calmly before returning to his supper.
“It was real.” Blanco added in, having not said a word all evening.
Grandfather sighed. “I ask you, if this paradise of your dreams was indeed real, what then?”
The two brothers did not answer for a moment, for they did not know for sure. “Then we go there. We and all hobbits go there to live as we wish to live. It is a land made just for us. For hobbits.”
“Green hills.” Grandfather muttered to himself before leaving the table to rummage through one of his chests. From it he pulled some rolled up map which his unfurled on the table. His long finger pointed to the west of Bree.
“If your land truly exists, then it is there. Many miles west of here, across the Baranduin River.”
“Our paradise.” Marcho quietly announced.
But Grandfather shook his head. “Not ours, no. The land that I speak of is the hunting ground belonging to the King of Arthedain himself.”
“Would the King allow us it, then?” Blanco asked impatiently. “Our need must be more important than hunting.”
“I do not know the King’s mind, nor shall I try to guess. Only the King knows what the King might do, or not do.”
“The Bree-land is no place for hobbits now. They say that we cannot hold back this darkness any longer. The land we speak of is far from the dangers of war. This is not the land you knew, Grandfather, look what they did to Marcho and I!””
Grandfather considered for a moment. “I see some reason in what you say, but also some foolishness. If one wishes to be granted land from the King, one must gain an audience with His Majesty himself. In Norbury, the capital of the realm.”
“Excellent.” Blanco smiled. “Marcho and I have seen the capital from a distance. We know the way.”
“It is not that simple. To seek an audience with the King, then you will need the written consent from the local lord.”
“Goodtwig.” Marcho realised. “We have to ask the Sheriff’s permission to see the King.”
“Can you not write to him, Grandfather?” Blanco asked.
Grandfather smiled weakly and shook his head. “I am afraid it will not help your cause. I know full well what the Sheriff does to my letters.”
“Then we have no other choice. We must go back to Bree.”
