Hidden Chronicles by Wybert Diggings
(This is the introduction in three parts to the background and setting for a series of stories to be read at the Green Dragon Friday roleplaying event in The Shire. Each part was published here after it had been read to the audience at the event.)
Introduction - An Unexpected Letter – Part 1
I doubt whether even those travellers most familiar with the highways and byways of the Shire, with all its back lanes and secret places, could tell you with certainty the exact location of the village of Hidden. The few hobbits who have even heard of it might say that it lies to the south of Rushock Bog, or a little way east of The Hill. Then again, some may suggest that it will definitely be found north of the Water, while others will insist that it is located somewhere to the west of the Marish. The truth of the matter, I suppose, lies in the name.
For my own part, I am not sure when or where I first heard of that place – maybe in a child’s story learnt at my mother’s knee – and I had certainly not given it a moment’s thought in many long years. Until, that is, some months back when I received a most unexpected letter from my second cousin, Filibert Diggle. I had not heard from Filibert in years, and I confess that I never knew him well. He is a member of my very extensive family from that region close to the village of Woodhall, which as well as we Diggings is home to many Delvings as well as a smattering of Smallburrows, Longholes and, of course, the Diggles.
Now even back then, as I recall, the Diggles had something of a reputation for being possessed of an insatiable curiosity, even as much it was said as ‘them foolish Tooks’, and from what I heard young Filibert was not only more curious than most, but it is said that once that lad got a mind to find out about something he just wouldn’t let it go and this had got him into trouble more than once.
Well, judging by the letter he sent me, the years have done little to diminish that streak of curiosity in him. It did not arrive by the regular Quick Post, but I found it pinned to my front door one morning, more than a dozen handwritten sheets stuffed into a plain, cream envelope which bore only my name, penned in Filibert’s meticulous copperplate. Of course, I opened it at once, wondering what it could be that my cousin was so anxious to tell me. This is what he wrote.
Dear Cousin Wybert,
I imagine you will be surprised to hear from me after all these years, but I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to tell you about the remarkable thing which happened to me recently and to let you know of the strange situation I now find myself in.
As you may remember, I have always taken an interest in some of the more unusual tales and legends of the Shire, and a month or so ago I happened to take my lunch at the Floating Log in Frogmorton. While there, I overheard a carter telling old Ponto Hopsbloom, the barkeep, a tale about something he had seen on the road that very day.
I was at once intrigued by his claim that earlier that morning, as he went about his deliveries around the Shire, he had suddenly been stopped in his tracks by the sound of a most beautiful refrain. He straight away stopped the cart and looked about him for the source of that exquisite melody. He claimed that much to his astonishment he saw a badger, standing there at the roadside on its hind legs, singing and playing on a silver lute. He sat there and listened entranced for some time until the music ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the singer vanished into a nearby bush.
Now I have heard many tales of singing badgers down the years, and I was most excited by the carter’s account. I at once pressed him to tell me more and asked him if he might take me to the place where this occurred. However, he turned out to be a crafty fellow and claimed that he couldn’t quite remember exactly where that place was, but that perhaps another ale might jog his memory. I don’t recall exactly how many ales I bought him, but he insisted that I join him every time and I confess that when, at last, he said he thought he could recall the place, and we staggered to his cart, my head was spinning.
It was a warm afternoon as we set off and, cousin Wybert, I am rather ashamed to say that the drink had left me worse for wear, and I must have fallen asleep. When I awoke, I found myself lying in a narrow lane with tall hedgerows on either side and the sun was slipping down in the western sky. There was no sign of the carter or his cart, and no sign of my purse either. I rose unsteadily to my feet and looked about me.
The lane, with its tall hedges, stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions, but I noticed a narrow gap quite close by and, hoping to get a better view by which I might ascertain my location, I squeezed through and at once found myself falling down a grassy bank, before landing in a heap at the feet of a clearly astonished hobbit.
“Goodness!” came a voice, “where in the world did you come from?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I managed to reply, “I came through that hole in the hedge.”
“What hole?” he asked incredulously.
Sure enough, as I looked back up the bank I could see only the unbroken line of the tall hedgerow, as impenetrable as any wall.
“Never mind,” said the other cheerily, “let’s get you back to the village.”
“Where are we exactly?” I asked.
“Welcome to Hidden,” he said. “My name is Dudo Underfoot, and I am the watchman here. We’d best hurry along before the sun goes down.”
So it was, cousin Wybert, that I followed that fellow down a stony path next to the grassy bank, along the top of which that tall hedge ran. At last, the path turned sharply to the left and I could see a cluster of small cottages, some with wisps of smoke issuing from their chimney tops and some with lights showing at the windows, for by now dusk was upon us.
“Come along,” urged my companion, and he led me to the door of a square brick-built building, slightly larger than the rest. This is the Watch House, and I reckon you’d better stay the night. You are looking a bit worse for wear if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Indeed, my head was throbbing, my legs felt weak, and my clothing was dishevelled. He led me inside to a small room with bars on the door and window and a bunk bed, saying,
“I’m afraid this is the only spare bed I have. I won’t lock the door, of course.”
Wearily I lay down on the bunk and my eyes must have closed almost immediately but before they did, I heard him muttering to himself:
“I suppose we’ll have to decide what to do about you in the morning.”
Introduction - An Unexpected Letter – Part 2
The next morning, I was woken by sounds of a disturbance, and, still a little groggy, I made my way outside to find Dudo engaged in an animated conversation with a plump hobbit woman who was clearly in a state of some distress.
“When I called him for his breakfast there was no reply, and when I went to look his bed was empty and he was gone. You needs to send out a search party, Dudo, he’s only a little lad and who knows where he might have got to!”
The woman wrung her hands, and I could see that she had been crying.
“Now calm down Alyssum,” replied Dudo soothingly. “He’s probably just woken up early and gone out to play. He’ll be back soon. Where’s Bodo?”
“His father’s back at the cottage. In case he comes back.”
“Well, you go back there too, and we’ll take a good look round the village and ask if anyone’s seen him.”
Reluctantly, she started to make her way back towards a row of cottages a little way away and Dudo turned to me, saying,
“Come on then. You look like you could do with a breath of fresh air.”
“Who are we looking for?” I asked.
“Young Waldo Buggins,” he replied. “Son of Alyssum and Bodo Buggins. Quiet lad, and a bit of a dreamer. it’s unusual for him to go wandering off, though – but you never know with children.”
We made our way back along the same path which had brought us to the village the previous evening, and although Dudo urged me to keep my eyes peeled for any sign of the missing boy I confess, Wybert, my eyes were firmly fixed on the high hedge atop the grassy bank that ran alongside it, hoping to see a small gap or break by which I could return to the lane and find my way home. Yet it seemed that its dense, thorny branches formed an unrelenting barrier as far as the eye could see in both directions.
As we passed by the place where I think I must have come through, although there were no clear landmarks by which I could be sure of this, I noticed that the ground ahead started to rise steeply, and I remember thinking that when I awoke in the lane the previous day I could see no corresponding rise on that side of the hedge.
As the path grew steeper, I noticed a sharp change in the surrounding countryside – heathers, gorse and bracken replaced the more verdant vegetation below and stony outcrops punctuated the landscape. Sheep grazed up ahead and we were suddenly assailed by the excited barking of a black and white collie dog which bounded down the slope and jumped up at Dudo, licking his face enthusiastically.
“Hello, Sam. Where’s your mistress?”
The dog bounded back up the slope and we followed as it left the path and headed across the heath to the right. Looking ahead I could see that the Hedge to the left of the path ended abruptly at a steep cliff face and as we made our way up, a low rumbling, as if of thunder, grew louder and I saw a rush of water cascading down from the top of the cliff.
“The Swashing Falls,” said Dudo. “The River Swashing runs the length of our village until it reaches the Slue at the other end.”
“Slue?” I enquired.
“The marshes,” he replied.
The collie had stopped up ahead and I saw there, sitting on a mossy bank surrounded by heathers, a pretty young woman dressed in a plain blue dress, her hair falling about her shoulders in dark ringlets. At her side lay a shepherd’s crook and in one hand she held a set of pipes.
“Miss Lorelei,” said Dudo, bowing low. “May I introduce you to a newcomer, recently arrived here in Hidden.”
I bowed before her. “Filibert Diggle, at your service, Miss”
“I am Lorelei Goosefoot”. She rose, with a polite curtsey. “Greetings to you both - what brings you up here today, may I ask?”
“Young Waldo Buggins has gone missing, and his ma is worried,” replied Dudo. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything of him?”
“Oh dear, no – if he had been up here Sam would have been sure to let me know,” she said, patting the collie affectionately. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything of Ivo recently, have you Dudo?”
“Not recently,” replied the watchman.
“Well, if you do, please tell him…tell him…” She broke off for a moment. “Tell him I said hello.”
“I will.”
With that, Dudo headed towards the falls, and I followed to a place from where we could peer down a steep cliff face and look below to where the waters seethed and swirled, before rushing onwards. I shuddered a little, remembering that we sought a missing child.
As we bade farewell to the pretty shepherdess I thought I saw in her face marks of a deep sadness and longing, and as we made our way down along the cliff edge, following the course of the river below, I heard a mournful melody accompanying the incessant boom of the falls, Looking back, I saw that she had put the pipes to her lips as she gazed into the distance at something only she could see.
“Poor Lorelei,” said Dudo. “She’s all alone here at the croft since her father passed. She tends the flock with only Sam for company – and it can be a lonely place up here.”
We made our way to the bottom of the slope and up ahead, some way to the right, I saw a stone cottage and from the tall chimney of a nearby outbuilding rose a thin plume of smoke.
As we approached a muscular figure emerged wearing a leather apron and wielding a steel hammer in one hand. I must have shown surprise for he addressed me directly, greeting me with,
“Aye, I’m a dwarf. And I’ll have you know that I’m the only dwarf in the village.” He stared at me hard, as if I might challenge that assertion. “Durnir Ironfinder, at your service and that of your family, whoever they may be.”
Dudo introduced me, informing me, somewhat unnecessarily, that Durnir was the village blacksmith. The dwarf said that he had seen nothing of the missing boy, and we made our way back to a narrow wooden bridge across the river.
Just beyond the bridge on the opposite bank stood a mill, powered by a water wheel, for the river still raced along a narrow strait here, before it widened beyond the mill. We crossed the bridge and were met by a jolly fellow who was clearly the miller himself, for he was covered in white dust from head to toe. Dudo introduced him as Bill Bakewell and when he told him that they were looking for Waldo he said he hadn’t seen him then laughed, saying:
“Children, eh? I’ve lost count of how many times mine have gone astray, but they always turn up! Tell his mother not to worry.”
As we walked on Dudo muttered a little drily,
“I reckon Bill’s lost count of how many children he’s actually got, there’s so many of ‘em!”
As I looked behind us, up the slope and far off to our left, I saw what seemed to be a dense area of woodland and, somewhat to my consternation, I could just make out that where the trees ended there emerged another tall hedge, very like the one on the other side of the village across the river.
A little way off to our right a large building came into view, its design quite unlike any other I had seen in the village and, for that matter, quite unlike anything I had seen anywhere in The Shire.
Dudo saw me staring and said:
“That’s the Big House – some call it The Hall. They say ‘The Maister’ lives in a room in that tower in the west wing…” he pointed, “…but I don’t know any who’ve seen him for certain. They say it was there long before the rest of the village was here – I’m certain the boy won’t have gone there.”
We were now passing farmland to the left of the track we were taking where a field of barley grew, and I could see what looked like taters and cabbages planted in neat rows.
“This is the Muckle’s farm,” said Dudo as a tall, fair-haired hobbit hailed us. He was introduced as Digbert Muckle, one of the sons of Farmer Hereward Muckle. On hearing of the missing lad, a worried frown crossed his face.
“Well, I ain’t seen him, but I’ll have a quick run around the farm and ask the others and tell ‘em to keep their eyes open for him. I just hope the boy hasn’t gone anywhere near The Slue.”
Dudo thanked Digbert for his help and we hurried on past the farm. The track took us close to the river, which widened considerably once it had eased its way past a stone bridge across which a road led back towards the village centre.
We carried on straight ahead and soon came to a muddy place where pigs wallowed lazily, and we could see several sties clustered there. From inside one of them could be heard a pleasant tenor voice singing a song of heartfelt love. Peering into the sty, we saw a young hobbit seated there, quite unconcerned by the mud as he unburdened his soul to a group of contented oinkers who seemed, so far as we could tell, to return his affection as they gazed up at him lovingly.
“Hello Ivo,” said Dudo. I’ve a message from Miss Lorelei. She asked me to tell you ‘Hello’”
Ivo at once rose to his feet and as he came to greet us, I could see that he was blushing profusely.
Dudo introduced him as Ivo Mudd, Farmer Muckle’s pigman, and he at once offered to help us look for Waldo. He led us down to the edge of The Slue, a fetid expanse of marshland into which the Swashing drained. Tall reeds grew at its edge and the cries of waterfowl could be heard across its treacherous expanse of slime and sludge. The three of us called the boy’s name but there was no reply, and it was clear that if he had ventured into that mire there was little we could do.
“I don’t think he’s been here,” said Dudo. “But I’m starting to worry now. Let’s see if he’s made his own way home.”
Dudo and I hurried back along the track, across the stone bridge and into the village centre where we were greeted straight away by Alyssum Buggins. It was clear that young Waldo had not returned and on learning that we had found no trace of him she at once burst into tears.
“Oh!” she cried, “where’s Wally?”
Introduction - An Unexpected Letter – Part 3
“Oh Dudo.” cried Alyssum, “my poor little Wally. You’ve got to find him.”
A stocky fellow, who turned out to be Bodo Buggins, the boy’s father, put a comforting arm around his wife, saying,
“There, there, dear, I’m sure he’ll be alright,” but the worried expression on his face belied his words.
By now a small crowd of villagers had gathered and it was plain that they were looking to Dudo for some direction.
“We’ve looked all over,” said Dudo, “and there’s no sign of him. Maybe we should search closer to home – in the gardens and sheds, anywhere in the village he might be hiding.”
I suddenly had a thought.
“Can I ask you something?” I said, addressing the boy’s parents. “What was he doing the last time you saw him?”
“Oh, it was when he was in bed – I went in to tell him his bedtime story,” said Bodo.
“Bodo always tells the children a bedtime story. He’s such a good father,” sobbed Alyssum, gazing up at her husband proudly.
“Might I ask what story you told him last night?” I asked, remembering some of the tales my own ma and pa told to me when I was a youngster and how they fired my imagination. I always wanted to try to find out more, and if they were true.
“Oh, it were just one of the tales about the far woods. Folks say there’s someone or something strange living up there and there’s lots of stories about who or what it might be. No one really knows, but we don’t go up there unless we have to, and even the woodcutters stay close to the edge. I told him the one about elves coming through the Hedge and passing through the village hundreds of years ago and one got left behind and they say he’s still there, up in them woods.”
“I reckon that’s where he might’ve gone,” I said. We should go and search.”
Dudo looked doubtful, and I sensed a decided reluctance in the assembled hobbits to take up this suggestion.
“Well, I’ll go,” announced Bodo.
“No,” said Dudo. I’m the watchman and it’s my job. You stay here Bodo and organise the search around the village centre.”
I confess, Wybert, that my curiosity had been aroused by these mysterious woods and I at once blurted out,
“I’ll come too. It was my suggestion, after all.”
So it was that Dudo and I set off once more, munching on apples thoughtfully provided by Bodo, for I remembered that I had not yet eaten that day.
Across the stone bridge we turned left and made our way back along the track we had taken beside the river that morning, but we soon headed off to the right, on a much narrower path which led towards the wooded slopes I had seen earlier in the distance. The country here was a mixture of grassy meadows and scrub, sparsely populated by trees and bushes and in the distance to our right I saw once again that formidable high hedge, unbroken until it disappeared behind a screen of trees as the path grew steeper and we drew nearer the high woods.
We had seen no one for some time but I saw ahead, right on the edge of the trees, a few simple sheds and piles of logs neatly stacked nearby. A well-built hobbit wielding a woodcutter’s axe appeared as we approached.
“Hello Arno,” said Dudo. “We need your help.”
Dudo explained to the woodcutter, one Arno Tiptree, that we were looking for the missing boy and asked if he could help us search the woods.
“You want to go in there?” asked the woodcutter, nervously. “We don’t like to go in there.”
Reluctantly, he agreed to lead us in a little way but as we came to a place where the trees seemed to grow closer together and the woods grew darker, and the sound of creaking branches and the strange calls of woodland creatures filled the air it was clear that Arno was quite terrified, and he said he would go no further.
“Alright,” said Dudo, “You go back to the timber yard and have a good look around for any sign of the lad there. We’ll carry on.”
As we progressed deeper into the trees, pushing through the dense vegetation, Dudo suggested that we split up, but should call to each other every few minutes so that we didn’t lose contact.
I admit, cousin Wybert, that I was by now extremely nervous, but I was also intrigued to discover what secrets we might find here. I was, of course, concerned for the boy, but I wondered too whether there might be some way out from this place by which I could find my way home.
As I pushed through a patch of brambles which grew between two tall trees. I came quite suddenly upon a cleared area in which stood a ramshackle shelter constructed from fallen branches. At once I called out to Dudo and as soon as I did something sprang from the shelter and disappeared into some nearby bushes. As it fled, I heard the snapping of branches as it crashed wildly through the undergrowth.
When I approached the crude shelter and looked inside, I found there, fast asleep on a bed of dried grasses, a young hobbit child. Dudo joined me and knelt down to gently wake the boy. As I stepped outside the shelter, I could make out through the trees behind it the steep face of those cliffs I had seen near the falls earlier that day, and I guessed that where the cliffs ended that high hedge resumed.
As we led the boy back to the village he explained that he had indeed woken earlier and gone off in search of the elf in his father’s bedtime story. He had become lost in the woods and said he must have fallen asleep, but he couldn’t explain how he came to be in that shelter and had no idea who or what had taken flight when I called out.
“Well thank goodness you’re unharmed,” said Dudo.
When the boy was restored to his family and his mother had finished hugging him and reprimanding him in equal measure, Dudo and I found ourselves seated at a table in the village inn, The Singing Badger, replete after a very fine repast prepared for us by the patron’s wife, one Marigold Brockhouse.
“You know,” said Dudo, “you’re quite a hero with the villagers. I’m afraid you’ll have to spend another night in my jail cell, but tomorrow we’ll sort you out with your own place.”
“Oh no,” I exclaimed, “tomorrow I really must check out that Hedge and find my way home.”
Dudo looked at me kindly, saying,
"Relax. Here in Hidden we only receive visitors. I’m rather afraid that you’ll find you can check out the Hedge any time you like, but you can never leave!"
I confess, Wybert, that I shuddered slightly on hearing those words. If you have received this, you will know that I have discovered a means of sending letters out of the village, but I have found no means by which I might leave myself.
I chose to write to you because I think you are someone who might believe my story and that, like me, you will take an interest and be curious to learn more about this very special and mysterious place.
I remain your affectionate cousin and most obedient and humble servant,
Filibert Diggle.
My cousin Filibert always did like to use a dozen words where a couple would do – maybe it runs in our family!
Now, friends, since receiving that first letter from cousin Filibert I have received several more. He is still in Hidden and in each of his letters he has told me more about his time there. At his suggestion, I have started to write down some of the stories he has told me about the folks who live there and the mysteries to be found in that place., under the title ‘The Hidden Chronicles’.
(The stories will be published here separately after each reading at The Green Dragon).
