(This is a transcript of the narrative I told to the company at the Green Dragon Friday roleplaying event over a number of weeks starting shortly after the event moved to Meriadoc)
‘Wybert’s People’ or ‘The Meriadoc Tales’
The General Prologue
Well, good evening to you, and what a pleasure it is to join you once more here at The Green Dragon. Now some of you will remember that before we all packed our bags and loaded our wagons, I’d been telling tales about the mysterious village of Hidden – a place somewhere in The Shire from which the very few who go there can never leave! One such is my own cousin, Filibert Diggle by name, who sends me letters delivered at dead of night by a mysterious, unseen messenger telling me of his life there – and it is Filibert’s letters that provide me with the material for my tales. Well, you will be pleased to know that I received a short note from him just the other day – it seems that round about the time we made our own move, there was a terrible shaking of the earth in Hidden and a darkness fell and thunder roared and every hobbit fell to the ground where they stood and entered a deep and dreamless sleep. When they woke it seemed as if nothing had changed but you may imagine that folk were most disturbed by this, and it may take a little time for things to get back to what passes for normal there. However, Cousin Filibert assures me that when it does, he will find out my new address and write again to tell me of the goings-on in that strangest of places, and I will be able to share with you another of my ‘Hidden Chronicles’.
Now, I reckons all this moving and such brought us all a lot closer to our own families and friends. Change does that. There was much talk of who was moving and who wasn’t and who was going where and what if they couldn’t find a burrow to suit. All in all, it’s been a very unsettling time. After the move some folk felt as if they were somehow less than what they was before, as if summat had been subtracted from them – and I ‘eard some folk even changed their names! So, it’s only natural that we all think on who means a lot to us and over the next few weeks I’d like to tell you something about some of the folk what are important to me.
We all crossed over together, and for several days our little group of family and friends sat huddled together in the back of the covered wagon, lit only by the guttering flame of a single dim lantern. At first, we all sat in silence, wondering if our journey through the darkness would be successful and afraid of what we might find when we got there. At last, it was my own Uncle Humfrye who spoke up and made the suggested that we should each tell a tale to pass the time and to take our minds off our anxiety.
Over the coming weeks, if you’ll allow it, I’m going to share some of those tales with you here and tell you summat about the tellers as well. I am calling this little series of vignettes and stories ‘Wybert’s People’ or ‘The Meriadoc Tales’.
Humfrye’s Prologue
Today I’ll start by telling you about me Uncle Humfrye. When I were a lad growing up on our little farm near Woodhall, Humfrye was one of the most important folk in my life, after me ma and pa of course. He was my ma’s younger brother, so a proper uncle then, not just one of those uncles who were friends or neighbours, who visited often and who were sufficiently close to the family that a child might address them as such.
My gammer, one Dora Grubb, had two children - Myrtle, the eldest, who was my ma, and Humfrye. I cannot tell you who their father was for Dora would not permit her children to speak of him. I think my ma remembers him vaguely, for he left when she was very young, but however hard I pressed her she would say nothing of him to her dying day, and Humfrye has no memory of him at all. I have heard some rumours of Tookish blood, but that may well be tittle-tattle!
Whatever the truth of it, Humfrye takes after his mother in appearance, being of average hobbit height with dark brown hair and stocky build. He grew up in a little cottage on the outskirts of the village of Woodhall, where he lived with his mother and sister. They had a small piece of land and as soon as he was old enough to hold a spade he tended their small garden under the supervision of their kindly neighbour, old Gaffer Delving, who had looked out for Dora and the children since she had been left on her own. There he learned to grow fruits and vegetables, and from his mother he learned to cook all kinds of pies and stews.
When he grew a little older, he was often drawn to the woods and surrounding fields and at an early age he showed proficiency with a bow. So, in many ways, except perhaps for having no father to guide him, his upbringing was in no way unusual. Yet in his youth he did, so it is said, have a reputation for showing what folk in those parts might call an unnatural curiosity about the goings on and affairs of those who dwell beyond the bounds of The Shire.
He was still quite a young boy when, out hunting one day, he found himself on the edge of the village of Tuckborough, and in a solitary tree he spied a fat squirrel. Quickly nocking his small bow, he let loose an arrow, but it missed, burying itself in the low branch where the squirrel sat. Chattering angrily, the creature leapt from the branch and scurried up the road with young Humfrye in hot pursuit. Up the hill they ran and Humfrye was close behind when the creature sought refuge through the half open door of a large building. Without a thought Humfrye followed and found himself in a large room. Looking around quickly he spied the squirrel disappearing through another door in a far corner of the room and when the lad entered, hoping that at last he could corner his prey, he was stopped in his tracks by what he saw there.
The room was filled with shelves upon which sat rows and rows of leather-bound books, and Humfrye was at once intrigued by the lettering on their spines, some of it in gold, and he knew at once that he must learn to unlock the secrets that they held.
“Can I help you?” came a kindly voice and for the first time he noticed a lady hobbit seated at a desk. This was of course Donnamira Took, the librarian of The Great Smials, for it was there that Humfrye found himself. To cut a long story short (not like me, I know!), over the next year the kindly Donnamira read to Humfrye some of the tales of elves and dwarves, of wizards and men, found in the books and she began to teach the lad his letters whenever he came to visit the library, which he did whenever his daily chores at home allowed.
Oh – as to what happened to that squirrel? I’ve no idea!
Humfrye’s life changed when his sister Myrtle left home and got married to a local farmer, my own da, Waldo Diggings. The couple set up home on Waldo’s small piece of farmland just off the road ‘twixt Woodhall and Tuckborough. I reckon Myrtle had been a steadying influence on the lad, for when she left, he seemed to grow more restless and spent many days away from home travelling to who knows where. When he did return, he’d bring with him tales of the strange places he’d visited and folk began to talk and reckon there was summat odd about him.
Eventually, it seemed as if he’d left home once and for all – he was not seen in The Shire for several years and folk made up all sorts of stories about what might have happened to him. His mother, my Gammer Grubb, missed him a lot, I reckons, but my ma visited her whenever she could and was a great comfort to her and I did hear the old lady say once of Uncle Humfrye, “Well, I suppose it was only to be expected, really.”
I don’t know whether he somehow got news or it was just luck, but shortly before the old lady died Humfrye did come back and my ma says the two spent more than a couple of hours together on their own, but of what they spoke she could not say. He did not stay in Woodhall – he sold the cottage and moved to a small burrow close to the crafter’s market in Michel Delving where he could often be seen at the ovens or on the farm.
It did seem that he had settled down somewhat and he earned quite a reputation for himself as a poet and teller of tales at the local inns. He also took a close interest in his niece and nephew, and he was a frequent visitor to our farm, and as well as teaching me my letters he taught me much else besides. If you had asked his neighbours, they would describe him as a highly respectable but unremarkable hobbit most of the time, enjoying all the comforts dear to hobbits – good food, good company, pipeweed and ale. They might also remark, with a degree of discomfort that, from time to time, Master Humfrye had been known to don his travelling gear and set off with his faithful pony, Bogart, sometimes for a week or more, without leaving any clue as to his whereabouts, and would not be seen until he returned as quietly as he left. It might also be said that his drinking companions have noticed that on occasions, as a pleasant evening at the tavern draws to a close, good old Humfrye’s gaze has been drawn beyond the cheery company into a distance only he can see, and a glazed expression has been observed to cross his visage, broken by momentary flickers of animation. Although, as one of the more charitable of his companions remarked, ale can do that to a hobbit!
Next week I shall tell you the tale he told to us as we sat huddled together in that covered wagon.
Humfrye’s Tale
Humfrye had been the last of us to climb aboard and as he did so he had complained loudly that he was far too old for new adventures and it was a crime that we were being made to leave our homes behind and that the mayor would hear about it, just see if he wouldn’t! Yet it was Humfrye who broke the silence once the journey was under way, suddenly lifting his head and asking:
“What say you each of us tell a tale to while away the time and distract us from our disquiet?”
At first none replied, then came murmurs of assent from across the company.
‘It all took place many years ago when I were a young hobbit. Unlike many of my friends and relations back then, I were much given to explorin’ and wandering beyond the bounds of the Shire, always wondering what might lie over the next hill or beyond them dark woods up ahead. At last, there came a time in my life when I set off from home thinking I would explore every corner of this earth, hopin’ to find, some of the strange peoples and places told of in the books I had read. I was away from my home in Woodhall and my poor dear mother for a good number of years and many is the tale I could tell you of the adventures I had then, and this is but one of them.
I had been walking many days without seeing a soul when I came upon a narrow, wooded valley. It were close by that place the mapmakers call The Angle, as I recall, somewhere south of The Trollshaws and south and west of The Last Homely House which was where I was headed, hopin’ to meet elves!
A seemingly little-used path, off the well-worn track I had been taking, led down into the trees which hid the valley bottom from view and hoping to find a source of water and a place to camp for the night, I followed it down. I was at once struck by how quiet it seemed – the unending background noise of animal cries and bird calls had ceased, and I admit that I was beginning to feel a little uneasy when something caught my eye through a gap in the trees.
Ever curious, I made my way towards it and emerged into a small clearing at the centre of which stood a tall tower built of pale brown sandstone. I was just about to approach a small wooden door at its foot when I was assailed by a shrill, raucous cry from somewhere behind me and felt a sharp blow to the back of my head. Stunned, I fell to my knees and when I looked up I saw circling in the air before me a giant black bird, the like of which I had never seen or heard tell of before.
It seemed to be of craban-kind, but much bigger than those foul creatures which infest the fields near Buckland Gate, being the size of a pony with wings as wide as the Bywater Bridge from tip to tip. Its dark feathers shone with a dull sheen, yet its coal-black eyes were bright as they fixed their gaze upon me. As it turned towards me I shook in terror of its cruel grey beak and sharp claws. I felt something sticky upon my face and realised that as it had knocked me to the ground those claws had raked my scalp, and I was bleeding profusely. Friends, I own I thought my time had come!
At that moment the door at the base of the tower flew open and a robed figure emerged and ran towards me, distracting the creature for a moment. I was pulled to my feet and bundled through the door which was firmly shut and bolted behind us. Without ceremony I was half-dragged up a flight of stone steps and into what seemed to be a well-appointed study or library, with book-lined walls and a number of benches and tables upon which were assembled a disorganised array of glass jars and all manner of equipment containing powders and potions of all kinds.
My rescuer bustled around the room and appeared to be looking for something. He was nearly as tall as an elf and sported a mouse-brown head of hair which hung to his shoulders with a beard to match. He wore a long robe which I can only describe as light-greyish yellowish brown in colour. A pair of silver-rimmed spectacles sat atop his head.
“Now, where did I put them? I must have had them earlier when I saw you from the window. I can’t see anything without them.”
I pointed to his forehead and with a delighted cry he pulled them back into place.
“Excellent,” he cried. “How clever of you to spot them. They must have been displaced when I was pulling you in. Oh, I see now, you are a hobbit – you folk are famous for finding things, I know. By the way, I am a wizard.”
“Oh, how exciting,” I replied. “Like Gandalf and Saruman!”
“Well,” he said “maybe not quite like them, no, but a wizard none the less. Broderick the Beige at your service.” He gave a polite bow.
He wasted no time in bathing my wound and applying a soothing salve from one of the many jars scattered about the room and when he was satisfied with his work, he bade me sit down and peered at me over his spectacles, a serious expression on his face.
“It is most fortunate that you have come at this time,” he said. “You and I have a serious problem right now and there is a job you must do.”
“Oh, and what is that?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“Well, it concerns that terrible creature which attacked you earlier.“ My curiosity subsided somewhat.
“It arrived in this valley some months ago and in all that time I have scarcely dared to venture beyond my front door. By day, it circles the valley. Like many of its kind it feeds mainly on dead creatures, but it is quite ready to attack and kill anything that moves as well. It would be picking at your bones right now if I hadn’t let you in. The animals and birds in these parts live in fear and many have left since it arrived. At night it sits atop the tallest oak in the woods where it has built a giant nest of sticks and twigs and branches.”
“But,” I said, “aren’t you a wizard? Can’t you use your magic against it?”
“Oh, I could,” he replied. “If only I had my staff.”
“What happened to it?”
“I, er, lost it,” he replied somewhat shamefacedly. “Truth is, that bird stole it and flew off with it to its nest. Which is where you come in, master hobbit,” he went on quickly, “I need you to climb that tree as soon as it is dark and burgle it then bring it back to me!”
Of course, I started to object at once, but he reminded me of famous hobbits who have stolen things back from the most dangerous of places and he finally won me over with the most convincing argument of all.
“Besides,” he said slyly, “until I get my staff back, we’re trapped here, and I’ve run out of food!”
So it was that at dead of night I crept from his front door to the base of the tallest oak in the forest and started to climb. Now I’d done plenty of tree-climbing as a lad in the woods up by Woodhall but this was different – it was pitch black and I had to feel my way up, reaching for each hand and foot hold as I climbed. Fortunately there were plenty of offshoots growing from the main trunk and I made fair progress, albeit slowly, until I reckoned I was nearing the top. Suddenly, from the darkness above, came a shrill, raspy voice:
“Well, well, who might you be,” it shrieked “and what are you doing in my tree? Never mind, I shall call you Breakfast.”
Yes, like many of its relatives the crows, this creature could talk. I was so surprised I nearly lost my grip on the branch I was holding and that would have been the end of me, but I somehow held on.
“I suppose you think you’re clever, do you, sneaking up on me like that?” it asked. “Well you’re not as clever as I am, for I am the cleverest of all my kind!”
I had to think fast, friends, and I was reminded of a story I had read somewhere once.
“Clever are you?” I retorted. “I bet you can’t solve a riddle. Besides, how many of your kind are there anyway?”
“Well, only me so far as I know,” it replied, somewhat deflated. “But I live in hope. Now tell me your riddle.”
“First you must promise that if you can’t find the answer you will give me the wizard’s staff you stole.”
“Oh, very well. And if I can, you’re Breakfast!”
“Then listen carefully. I am right in front of you, but you’ll never see me. Try as hard as you can to reach me, but you’ll never get here. What am I?”
There followed a long silence, punctuated by a series of exasperated squawks and screechy mutterings. All this time I took the opportunity to climb a little higher until I reckoned I’d reached the top of the tree and must be close to the foul creature’s roost. The putrid smell that assailed my nostrils supported my assumption.
Suddenly the creature cried out in frustration.
“There ain’t no answer,” it shrieked. “You’re a cheat and I’m going to eat you.”
At that very moment the full moon emerged through a break in the cloud, and I saw the creature there, right in front of me on its giant nest built at the very top of the tree. It was constructed of twigs and sticks woven tightly together and at its base sat a stout length of wood with a carved handle at one end supporting it across two boughs of the tree. I knew at once what it must be. I grasped it straight away and to my surprise the nest, and the creature with it, began to fall towards the ground in a flurry of leaves, bark and feathers. I lost my grip and began my own downward descent, my fall broken at intervals by the tree’s leafy branches. As soon as I hit the ground I ran as fast as I could to the wizard’s tower, always keeping a firm hold on the staff. Broderick met me at the door and in the light of the moon we saw that dark bird plummeting down towards us screeching furiously and bent on revenge. Broderick took the staff which seemed to quiver in his hand and from its tip there emanated a tongue of silver flame which shot towards the creature as true as any arrow and in a flash that evil abomination was incinerated and was no more.
And that, friends, was the end of my career as a burglar.
The History of Clan McCool
My own connection to the McCool family began with my own dear sister, Daffodil. She’s a few years older than me and I loved her dearly then and still do, though I hadn’t seen her for many long years until recently. When we were just children, I used to follow her everywhere around our farm and into the surrounding countryside. Such adventures we had together – she had a rich imagination and through her eyes the woods and hills roundabout Woodhall became strange and wonderful lands, the barns and sheep-huts were castles and palaces, and we rode our make-believe steeds into all kinds of danger, the princess and her loyal attendant, until we were rescued by a handsome prince. For there was always a prince in Daffodil’s enactments and she usually ended up marrying him.
Now you may think that Daffodil was one of them foolish girls, rather like the one from Bree what went wandering around on the Barrow Downs looking for that ‘Last Prince’, but the truth is that for all her fantasizing back then and what me da called her ‘head in the clouds nonsense’, she was clever too and a dutiful daughter. We helped our father in the fields, and he taught us what and when to plant and sow and we helped our ma in the kitchen, and she taught us the art of cooking and how to make many a tasty dish. Unlike me, she was nimble fingered with needle and thread too, and in her tweens she could often be seen about the village wearing brightly coloured creations of her own design.
I would not say that Daffodil was a beauty – but she was a pretty lass with a mischievous twinkle in her deep brown eyes and a bold manner to boot. She soon caught the eye of any number of the local hobbit lads, but those who came a-courting were swiftly dismissed with a cheery chuckle and a pitying glance. Until, that is, Conall McCool arrived on the scene.
I well remember the day I first saw him. He had come up along the road close by our farm driving a brightly painted wagon pulled by a piebald pony and had stopped by the gate to our farm. Da, myself and Daffodil had been weeding in a small field of pipeweed which was more than half-grown. Most of our fields were planted with barley and vegetables but Da liked to grow a small crop of pipeweed each year for his own use and that of his friends in the village. The stranger hailed us and Da went over to speak to him by the fence. We followed and watched and listened from a little distance away. He was striking in appearance, being of stocky build and taller than any hobbit I had ever seen. His weatherbeaten visage was graced with soft blue eyes and a permanently quizzical smile and, most striking of all, atop his head grew an unruly shock of bright red hair. His manner of speech was unfamiliar to us, his voice rising up and down in lilting tones giving it an almost musical quality. I was unsure what to make of him, but when I glanced at my sister, I saw that she was gazing at him with flushed cheeks, quite transfixed.
We learned that his folk were river people from over in a place called Swanfleet, which is far away and which at that time I’d never even heard tell of. He said he was a trader and he’d stopped by when he’d seen our crop of pipeweed – he said he’d buy the lot, for he knew it would fetch a tidy sum back home. Da said no at first, of course, but when he saw the colour of the gold in Conall’s purse and learned how much he was willing to pay for it he quickly changed his mind. We weren’t poor, but nor were we rich enough to miss the chance to make such a handsome profit. So, it was agreed that Conall would wait a few weeks until the crop was ready to harvest, for he said he had business in the area, on the lookout for more deals no doubt. He asked if he might stay in our hay barn, but ma wouldn’t hear of it, and he was put up in one of the spare rooms in the farmhouse.
In the space of those few weeks our beloved Daffodil was quite lost to us, as surely as if she’d been bewitched by some sorcerer, for she fell under that charmer’s spell quite completely. She hung upon his every word, and his words were many as he regaled us ceaselessly with tales of the distant lands he’d travelled and of his splendid home set amidst the marshes. Our own walks together ceased abruptly, for at his request she would walk or ride out with him, promising to show him one place of interest or another, and I could not help but notice that when his blue eyes rested on her or he flashed one of his captivating smiles in her direction, her face glowed and came to life in a way I had never seen before.
When the pipeweed was harvested, dried, packed into barrels and loaded on to his wagon, Daffodil was at his side. He said that they should be wed as soon as they arrived at his home in the village of Mossward and she had readily agreed. She wept gently as she made her farewells to Ma and Da and to me, but we could see that she was excited to leave. I’m sure Ma and Da had their doubts, but they loved their daughter and could see how happy she was. Connall offered a cheery wave, and they set off. I watched the wagon growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared completely around a bend in the road. I did not see my sister again for more than thirty years!
What happened next I have pieced together from bits and pieces of information which has reached me through a couple of my sister’s letters, what my nephew Oisean was able to tell me when he visited me a year or so ago and from Daffodil herself when we met again at last, only a few weeks ago.
As soon as the couple reached Mossward they were wed in a simple ceremony attended by a small gathering of Conall’s friends and neighbours. It seems that Conall McCool’s residence was not quite as opulent as he had made out, but it was comfortable enough, a small cottage built of wood and thatch looking out on to the marshes but with a small patch of fertile land attached at the back. While both the cottage and the land showed signs of neglect, Daffodil put this down to the long months Conall had spent away and the hard-working lass rolled up her sleeves and set about making a home for them both. Conall was always attentive when he was there and I am sure that the couple were happy in that first year – but he was there less and less as time went on, always making the excuse of ‘business’ keeping him out late, sometimes into the early hours. Daffodil asked him about his family but although he came up with various stories about them having to leave the area, she never really found out any more about them.
Just over a year after their arrival in Swanfleet Daffodil gave birth to twin boys. She couldn’t have been happier, and she hoped too that being a father would keep Conall at home more, but sadly the opposite seemed to be true. He became restless and irritable, stayed out more and within a month of their birth he left for good and never returned. Daffodil’s heart was broken, and for many months she hoped he might come back but as time passed the realisation dawned that he had left her for ever.
Now you might think that she would have sought help from her own family and might even have found a way to return to The Shire, but she was proud and independent and never even wrote home to let us know about the boys and what had happened. The one thing their father did for them when they were born was give them the names Ffionn and Oisean, which he said were McCool family names, and even as babes it was clear that they took after their father in appearance, each sporting a sprouting of bright red hair. Daffodil determined that she would raise them on her own, there among the river folk, and to that end she devoted the next thirty years of her life.
When Conall left, her neighbours were not greatly surprised. It seems that the name McCool in those parts was often preceded by words such as ‘rogue’, ‘rascal’, or worse! They were kindly folk, though, and with Conall gone they rallied round to help her in whatever ways they could and though it was exhausting work making ends meet and being a mother to the twins, with help Daffodil came through it. She grew vegetables and kept a pig and chickens, and the boys never went hungry, for a mouthwatering array of aromas wafted from her kitchen at all times of day. Her skill with a needle allowed her to make a little extra gold, too, mending clothes for neighbours and even making some clothes to sell at market. As years passed, she became an important member of the community, valued for her knowledge of many things – folks would come to her for advice on all sorts of matters and my big sister was no longer Daffodil Diggings of The Shire but Mammie McCool of Swanfleet, for that was the name by which she was known there.
As I have said, the boys were near enough identical in appearance, and they grew tall and stocky like many of the river folk. But in character they couldn’t have been more different. Oisean was quite shy and very close to his mother. As he grew older, he did everything he could to help her with her tasks around the cottage. He loved hunting and fishing in the surrounding marshes too and was liked by all who met him for his kind and gentle manner. This, together with the good looks and easy charm both boys inherited from their father, attracted the attention of more than one of the local lasses and I’m sorry to say that this sometimes got him into trouble with their fathers. Indeed, it was on one such occasion that I first came to hear of him in a letter from his mother, which came one Yuletide, asking if he could come to visit me in The Shire to get him away from a particularly angry parent for a while. This was the first communication I had had from her in all those years, and I was both surprised and delighted to hear from her and more than happy to have the boy come and stay. I am very glad that I did for he did me a great service at that time as some of you may recall – but that was another story.
In that first letter to me my sister made no mention of Ffionn. Very unlike his brother, he was a wilful and unruly boy and as a child it was all his mammie could do to control him. As a tween he ran wild, causing all sorts of trouble in the neighbourhood. He became obsessed with finding out more about his father, who he came to believe had left to recover the family fortune and would return one day. He badgered his mother constantly to tell him the truth about his daddy’s family and refused to believe her when she said she knew so little. He became boastful and rude to any who would not believe him when he said that his father would return one day to restore Clan McCool to its former glories; glories which existed only in his own fevered imagination. For all his faults his mammie never stopped loving him and when one day he left for good, just as his father had left before him, she was heartbroken and could not bear to speak of him, even in her letter to her own brother.
What became of Ffionn you shall learn next time from his own lips, for as the covered wagon which brought us to this place rolled on through the void, one of three figures seated together at the rear moved forward into the lamplight and a voice spoke up:
“Fer sure, I’ll tell you all a tale, so I will!”
(I hope to tell you about some of the other folk on board that wagon in the near future, along with some of the tales they told. All of the tale tellers are in-game characters)
