You have all heard how i am making the lord of the cakes right

well here is a place where i can only make one copy of it and you can all read it

so chapter by chapter i will be posting the whole of the first book and then the second, third, fourth, fivth and sixth

but please do not ask me things about it here if you want to ask me something post it in general

cheers

Oh, right, cool! Looking forward to it!

Lord of the Cakes

Three cakes for the Eclair-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Doughnut-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Muffins doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne,
In the land of Mordor where shadows lie.
One cake to rule them all, One cake to find them,
One cake to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the land of Mordor where shadows lie.


It began with the baking of the great cakes of power. Three were given to the eclairs immortal, wisest and fairest of all sweet delights. Seven to the Doughnut Lords great craftsmen and bakers of the mountain kitchens. And nine, nine cakes were gifted to the race of muffins, who above all desire sugary goodness. For within these was bound the strength and will to govern each race, but they were all of them deceived for another cake was baked. In the land of Mordor in the fires of Mount Doom the dark lord Cinnamon Bun baked, in secret, a master cake to control all others and into this he poured his cruelty, his chocolate buttons and his will to dominate all life. One cake to rule them all. One by one the free lands of middle earth fell to the power of the cake. But there were some that resisted a last alliance of muffins and eclairs marched against the armies of Mordor and on the slopes of Mount Doom they fought for the freedom of middle earth. Victory was near but the power of the cake could not be undone, it was in this moment when Icing-sugar son of the king took up his father?s sword. Cinnamon Bun the enemy of the free people of middle earth had been defeated. The cake passed to Icing-sugar who had this one chance to destroy evil forever. But the hearts of muffins are easily corrupted and cake of power had a will of it?s own, it betrayed Icing-sugar to his death. And something?s that should not of been forgotten were lost. History became legend, legend became myth and for two and a half thousand years the cake passed out of all knowledge. Until when chance came it ensnared a new bearer, the cake came to the creature Custard who took it deep into the tunnels of the Misty Mountains and there it consumed him. The cake brought to Custard unnatural long life and for five hundred years it poisoned his mind and in the gloom of Custard?s cave it waited. Darkness crept back into the forest of the world, a rumour grew of a shadow in the east, whispers of a nameless fear and the cake of power received, it?s time had come. It abandoned Custard but something happened that the cake did not intend, It was picked up by the most unlikely creature imaginable, Biscuit Baggins of the shire. For the time will come when Hobnobs?s will shape the fortunes of us all.

COPY RIGHT BY TDOVERLORD 2005

The Lord of the Cakes

The Fellowship of the Cake

Book 1

CHAPTER 1

A LONG-EXPECTED PARTY

When Mr Biscuit Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobnobiton.
Biscuit was very rich and very peculiar, and had been the wonder of the Shire for sixty years, ever since his remarkable disappearance and his unexpected return. The riches he had brought back from his travels had now become a local legend, and it was popularly believed, whatever the old folk might say, that the Hill at Bag End was full of tunnels stuffed with treasure. And if that was not enough for fame, there was also his prolonged vigour to marvel at. Time wore on, but it seemed to have little effect on Mr Baggins. At ninety he was much the as at fifty. At ninety-nine they began to call him well-preserved; but unchanged would have been nearer the mark. There were some that shook their heads and thought this was too much of a good thing; it seemed unfair that anyone should possess (apparently) perpetual youth as well as (reputedly) inexhaustible wealth.
?It will have to be paid for,? they said. ?It isn?t natural and trouble will come of it.?

But so far trouble had not come; and as Mr Baggins was generous with his money, most people were willing to forgive him his oddities and his good fortune. He remained on visiting terms with his relatives (except, of course, the Sackville-Bagginses), and he had many devoted admirers among the hobnobs of poor and unimportant families. But he had no close friends, until some of his younger cousins grew up.
The eldest of these, and biscuits favourite, was young Fredo Baggins. When Biscuit was ninety-nine he adopted Fredo as his heir, and brought him to live at Bag End; and the hopes of the Sackville-Bagginses were finally dashed. Biscuit and Fredo happened to have the same birthday, September 22nd. ?You had better come and live here, Fredo my lad,? said Biscuit one day; ?and then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together.? At that time Fredo was still in his tweens, as the hobnobs called the twenties between childhood and coming of age.

Twelve more years passed. Each year the Bagginses has very lively combined birthday-parties at Bag End; but now it was understood that something quite exceptional was being planned for that autumn. Biscuit was going to be eleventy-one, 111, a rather curios number, and a very respectable age for a hobnob (the Old Took himself only reached 130); and Fredo was going to be thirty-three, 33, an important number; the date of his ?coming of age?.

Tongues began to wag in Hobnobiton and Bywater; the rumour of the coming event travelled all over the shire. The history and character of Mr Biscuit Baggins became once again the chief topic of conversation; and the older folk suddenly found their reminiscence n welcome demand.
No one had a more attentive audience than old Ham Gamgee, commonly known as the Gaffer. He held forth at the Ivy Bush, a small inn on the Bywater road; and he spoke with some authority, for he had tended the garden at Bag End for forty years, and had helped old Honeyman in the same job before that. Now he was himself growing old and stiff in the joints, the job was mainly carried on by his youngest son, Syrup Gamgee. Both father and son were on very friendly terms with Biscuit and Fredo. They lived on the hill itself, in Number 3 Bagshot Row just below Bag End.
?A very nice well-spoken gentle-hobnob is Mr Biscuit, as I?ve always said.? the gaffer declared. With perfect truth: for Biscuit was very polite calling him ?Master Hamfast?, and consulting him constantly upon the growing of vegetables-in the manor of ?roots?, especially potatoes, the gaffer was recognised as the leading authority by all in the neighbourhood (including himself).
?But what about this Fredo that lives with him?? asked Old Nougat of Bywater. ?Baggins is his name, but he?s more than half Brandybuck, they saw. It beats me why any Baggins of Hobnobiton should go looking far a wife away, there Buckland, where folks are so queer.?
?And no wonder they?re queer,? put in Date-Bun Twofoot (the Gaffer?s next door neighbour). ?If they live on the wrong side of the Brandywine River, and right again the Old Forest. That?s a dark place, if half the tales be true.?
?Your right Date-Bun!? said the Gaffer. ?Not that the Brandysnap?s of Buckland live in the Old Forest; but they?re a queer breed, seemingly. They fool about with boats on that big river ? and that isn?t natural. Small wonder that trouble came of it, I say. But be it as it may, Mr Fredo is as nice a young hobnob as you wish to meet. Very much like Mr Biscuit, and in more than looks. After all, his father was a Baggins. A decent respectable hobnob was Mr Drop Scone Baggins; there was never much to tell of him, till he was drowned.
?Drowned?? said several voices. They had heard this and other darker rumours before, of course; but hobnobs have a passion for family history, and they were ready to hear it again.
?Well, so they say,? said the Gaffer. ?You see: Mr Drop Scone, he married poor Miss Pavlova Brandybuck. She was our Mr Biscuits first cousin on the mother?s side (her mother being the youngest of the Old Cookies? daughters); Mr Drop Scones was his second cousin. So Mr Fredo is his first and second cousin, once removed either way, as the saying is, if you follow me. And Mr Drop Scone was staying at Brandy Hall with his father-in-law. Old Master Ginger-Bun, as he often did after his marriage (him being partial to his vitals, and old Ginger-Bun keeping mighty generous table); and he went out boating on the Brandywine River; and he and his wife were drowned, and poor Mr Fredo only a child and all.?
?I?ve heard they went on the water after dinner in the moonlight,? said Old Nougat; ?and it was Drop Scone?s weight as sunk the boat.?
?And I heard that she pushed in, and he pulled her in after him,? said Shortcake, the Hobnobiton miller.
?You shouldn?t listen to all you hear, Shortcake.? Said the Gaffer, who did not much like the miller. ?There isn?t no call to go talking of pushing and pulling. Boats are quite tricky enough for those that sit still without further for the cause of trouble. Anyway: there was this Mr Fredo left and orphan and stranded, as you might say, among those queer Bucklanders, being brought up any how in Brandy Hall. A regular warren, by all accounts Old Master Ginger-Bun never had fewer than a couple of hundred relations in the place. Mr Biscuit never did a kinder deed when he brought the lad back to live among decent folk.
?But I reckon it was a nasty shock for those Sackville-Bagginses. They thought they were going to get Bag End, that time when he went off and was thought to be dead. And then he comes back and orders them off; and he goes on living and living, and never looking a day older, bless him! And suddenly he produce?s an heir, and all the papers made out proper. The Sackville-Bagginses won?t never see the inside of Bag End now, or it is to be hoped not.?
?There?s a tidy bit of money tucked away up there, I hear tell,? said a stranger, a visitor on business from Madeira Delving in the Westfarthing. ?All the top of your hill is full of tunnels packed with chests of gold and silver, and jools, by what I?ve heard.?
?Then you?ve heard more than I can speak to,? answered the Gaffer. ?I know nothing about jools. Mr Biscuit is free with his money, an there seems no lack of it; but I know of no tunnel making. I saw Mr Biscuit when he came to old Honeyman (him being my dad?s cousin), but he had me up at Bag End helping him to keep folks from trampling and trespassing all over the garden while the sale was on. And in the middle of it all Mr Biscuit comes up the Hill with the pony and some mighty big bags and a couple of chests. I don?t doubt they were mostly full of treasure he had picked up in foreign parts, where there be mountains of gold, but there wasn?t enough to fill tunnels. But my lad Syrup will know more about that. He?s in and out of Bag End. Crazy about stories of the old days he is, and he listens to all Mr Biscuit?s tales. Mr Biscuit has learned him his letters ?meaning no harm, mark you, and I hope no harm will come of it.
?Eclairs and Dragons! I says to him. Cabbages and potatoes are better for me and you. Don?t go getting mixed up in the business of your better, or you?ll land in trouble too big for you, I says to him. And I might say it to others,? he added with a look at the stranger and the miller.
But the Gaffer did not convince his audience. The legend of Biscuit?s wealth was now too firmly fixed in the minds of the younger generation of hobnobs.
?Ah, but he has likely enough been adding to what he brought at first,? argued the miller, voicing common opinion. ?He?s often away from home. And look at the outlandish folk that visit him: Doughnuts coming at night, and that old wondering conjuror, Gooseberry the Grey, and all. You can say what you like, Gaffer, but Bag End?s a queer place, and its folk are queerer.?
?And you can say what you like, about what you know no more of than you do of boating, Mr Shortcake,? retorted the Gaffer, disliking the miller even more than usual. ?If that?s being queer, then we could do with a bot more queerness in these parts. There?s some not far away that wouldn?t offer a pint of beer to a friend, If they lived in a hole with golden walls. But they do things proper at Bag End. Our Syrup says that everyone?s going to be invited to the Party, and there?s going to be presents, mark you, presents for all ? this very month as is.?


That very month was September, and as fine as you could ask. A day or two later a rumour (probably started by the knowledgeable Syrup) was spread about there were going to be fireworks ? fireworks, what is more, such as had not been since in the Shire for nigh on a century, not indeed since the Old Cookie Died.
Days passed and The Day drew nearer. An odd-looking wagon laden with odd-looking packages rolled into Hobnobiton one evening and toiled up the hill to Bag End. The startled hobnobs peered out of lamp lit doors to gape at it. It was driven by outlandish folk, singing strange songs: Doughnuts with long beards and deep hoods. A few of them remained at Bag End. At the end of the second week in September a cart came in through Bywater from the direction of the Brandywine Bridge in broad daylight. An old man was driving it all alone. He wore a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, and a silver scarf. He had a long white beard and bushy eyebrows that stuck out beyond the brim of his hat. Small hobnob-children ran after the cart all through Hobnobiton and right up the hill. It had a cargo of fireworks, as they rightly guessed. At Biscuit?s front door the old man began to unload: there were great bundles of fireworks of all sorts and shapes, each with a large red G and the eclair-rune, .
That was Gooseberry the Grey?s mark, of course, and the old man Gooseberry the wizard, whose fame in the Shire was due to his skill with fires, smokes and lights. His real business was far more difficult and dangerous, but the Shire-folk knew nothing about it. To them he was just one of the ?attractions? at the Party. Hence the excitement of the hobnob-children. ?G for grand!? they shouted, and the old man smiled. They knew him by sight, but neither they nor any of their eldest elders had seen one of his firework displays ? they now belonged to the legendary past.
When the old man, helped by Biscuit and some Doughnuts, had finished unloading, Biscuit gave a few pennies away; but not a single squib or cracker was forthcoming, to the disappointment of the onlookers.
?Run away now!? said Gooseberry. ?You will get plenty when the time comes.? Then he disappeared inside with Biscuit, and the door as shut. They young hobnobs stared at the door in vain for a while, and then made off feeling that the day of the party would never would come.

Inside Bag End, Biscuit and Gooseberry were sitting at the open window of a small room looking out west on to the garden. The late afternoon was bright and peaceful. The flowers glowed red and golden: snapdragons and sunflowers, and nasturians trailing all over the turf walls and peeping in at the round window.
?How bright your garden looks!? said Gooseberry.
?Yes,? said Biscuit ?I am very fond of it, and of all the dear old Shire; but I think I need a holiday.?
?You mean to go on with your plan then??
?I do. I made up my mind months ago, and I haven?t changed it.?
?Very well. It is no good saying any more. Stick to your plan ? your whole plan, mind ? and hope it will turn out for the best, for you, and for all of us.?
?I hope so. Anyway I mean to enjoy myself on Thursday, and have my little joke.?
?Who will laugh I wonder?? said Gooseberry, shaking his head.
?We shall see,? said Biscuit.

The next day more carts rolled up the Hill, and still more carts. There might have been some grumbling about ?dealing locally?, but that very week orders began to poor out of Bag End for every kind of provision, commodity or luxury that could be obtained in Hobnobiton or Bywater or anywhere in the neighbourhood. People became enthusiastic; and they began to tick off the on the calendar; and they watched eagerly for the postman, hoping for invitations.
Before long the invitations began pouring out, and Hobnobiton post office was blocked, and the Bywater post-office was snowed under, and voluntary assistant postmen were called for. There was a constant stream of them going up the Hill, carrying hundreds of polite variations on Thank you, I shall come.
A notice appeared on the gate at Bag end: NO ADDMITTANCE EXEPT ON PARTY BUSINESS. Even those who had, or pretended to have Party Business were seldom allowed inside. Biscuit was busy: writing invitations ticking off answers, packing up presents, and making some private preparations of his own. From the time of Gooseberry?s arrival he remained hidden from view.
One morning the hobnobs woke to find the large field, south of Biscuit?s front door, covered with ropes and poles for tents and pavilions. A special entrance was cut into the bank leading to the road, and wide steps and a large white gate were built there. The three hobnob-families of Bagshot Row, adjoining the field, were intensely interested and generally envied. Old Gaffer Gamgee stopped even pretending to work in the Garden.
The tents began to go up. There was a specially large pavilion, so big that the tree that grew in the field was right inside it, and stood proudly near one end, at the head of the chief table. Lanterns were hung on all its branches. More promising still (to the hobnobs? mind): an enormous open-air kitchen was erected in the north corner of the field. A drought of cooks, from every inn and eating-house for miles around, arrived to supplement the doughnuts and the other odd folk that were quartered at Bag End. Excitement rose to its height.
Then the weather clouded over. That was Wednesday the eve of the Party. Anxiety was intense. Then Thursday, September the 22nd actually dawned. The sun got up, The clouds Vanished, flags were unfurled and the fun began.
Biscuit Baggins called it a party, but it was really a variety of different entertainments?s rolled into one. Practically everybody living near was invited. A very few were overlooked by accident, but as they turned up all the same, that did not matter. Many people from outer parts of the Shire were also asked; and there were even a few outside the boarders. Biscuit met the guests (and additions) at the new white gate in person. He gave away presents to all and sundry ? the latter were those who went out again by a back way and come in again by the gate. Hobnobs give presents to other people on their own birthdays. Not very expensive ones, as a rule, and not lavishly as on this occasion; but it was not a bad system. Actually in Hobnobiton and Bywater every day in the year it was somebody?s birthday, so that every hobnob in those parts had a fair chance of at least one present once a week. But they never got tired of them.
On this occasion the presents were unusually good. The hobnob-children were so exited that for a while they almost forgot about eating. There were toys the like of which they had never seen before, all beautiful and some obviously magical. Many of them had indeed been ordered a year before, and had come all the way from the Mountain and from Dale, and were of real doughnut-make.
When every guest had been welcomed and was finally inside the gate, there were songs, dances, music, games, and, of course, food and drink. There were three official meals: lunch, tea, and dinner (or supper). But lunch and tea were marked chiefly by the fact that at those times all the guests were sitting down eating together. At other rimes there were merely lots of people eating and drinking ? continuously from elevenses until six-thirty, when the fireworks started.
The fireworks were by Gooseberry: they were not only brought by him, but designed and made by him; and the special effects, set pieces, and flights of the rockets were let of by him. But there was also a generous distribution of squibs, crackers, backrappers, sparklers, torches, doughnut-candles, eclair fountains, grape-barkers and thunder-claps. They were all superb. The art of Gooseberry improved with age.
There were rockets like a flight of scintillating birds singing with sweet voices. There were green trees with trunks of dark smoke: their leaves opened like a whole spring unfolding in a moment, and their shinning branches dropped glowing flowers down upon the astonished hobnobs, disappearing with a sweet scent just before they touched the upturned faces. There were fountains of butterflies the flew glittering into the trees; there were pillars of coloured fires the rose and turned into eagles, or sailing ships, or phalanx of flying swans; there was a red thunderstorm and a shower of yellow rain; there was a forest of sliver spears that sprang suddenly into the air with a yell like an embattled army, and come down again into the water with a hiss like a hundred hot snakes. And there was also one last surprise, in honour of Biscuit, and it startled the hobnobs exceedingly, as Gooseberry intended. The lights went out. A great smoke went up. It shaped itself like a mountain seen in the distance, and began to glow at the summit. It spouted greens and scarlet flames. Out flew a red-golden dragon ? not life size -, but terribly life like: fire came from its jaws, his eyes glared down; there was a roar, and he wizzed three times over the heads of the crowed. They all ducked, and many fell flat on their faces. The dragon passed like an express train, turned a somersault, and burst over Bywater with a deafening explosion.
?That is the signal for supper!? said Biscuit. Then pain and alarm vanished at once, and the prostate hobnobs leaped to their feet. There was a splendid upper for everyone; foe everyone, that is, except those invited to the special family dinner-party. This was held in the great pavilion with the tree. The invitations were limited to twelve dozen ( a number called by the hobnobs one Gross, though the word was not considered proper to use of people); and the guests were selected from all the families to which Biscuit and Fredo were related, with the addition of a few unrelated friends ( such as Gooseberry); and a selection of Burrowses, Blogers, Bracegirdles, Brockhoses Goodbodies, Hornblowers and Proudfoots. Some of these were only very distantly related with Biscuit, and some of them had hardly ever been in Hobnobiton before as they lived in remote areas of the Shire. The Sackville-Bagginses were not forgotten. Orange and Lemon were present. They disliked Biscuit and detested Fredo, but so magnificent was the invitation card, written in golden ink, that they had felt it was impossible to refuse. Besides, their cousin, Biscuit, had been specialising in food foe many years and his table had a high reputation.
All the one hundred and forty-four guests expected a pleasant feast; though they rather dreaded the after-dinner speech of their host (an inevitable item). He was liable to drag in bits of what he called poetry; and sometimes, after a glass or two, would allude to the absurd adventures of his mysterious journey. The guests were not disappointed: they had a very pleasant feats, in fact an engrossing entertainment: rich, abundant, and prolonged. The purchase of provisions fell almost to nothing throughout the district in the ensuing weeks; but as Biscuit?s catering has depleted the stocks of most stores cellars and warehouses for miles around, that did not matter.
After the feast (more or less) came the speech. Most of the company were, however, now in a tolerant mood, at the delightful stage, which they called ?filling up the corners?. They were sipping their favourite drinks, and nibbling at their favourite dainties, and their fears were forgotten. They were prepared to listen to anything, and cheer at every full stop.
My dear people, began Biscuit, rising in his place. ?Hear! Hear! Hear!? the shouted, and kept on repeating it in chorus, seeming reluctant to follow their own advice. Biscuit left his place and went and stood on a chair under the illuminated tree. The light of the lanterns fell on his beaming face; the golden buttons shone on his embroidered silk waistcoat. They could all see him standing, waving one hand in the air, the other was in his trouser-pocket.
My dear Bagginses and Boffins, he began again; and my dear Tooks and Brandybucks, Grubs, and Cubbs, and Brokhouses and Proudfoots. ?ProudFEET!? shouted and elderly hobnob form the back of the pavilion. His name was of course Proudfoot, and well merited; his feet were large, exceptionally furry, and they were both on the table.
Proudfoots, repeated Biscuit. Also my good Sackville-Bagginses that welcome back at last to Bag End. Today is my one hundred and eleventh birthday: I am eleventy-one today! ?Hooray! Hooray! Many happy returns!? they shouted, and they hammered joyously on the tables. Biscuit was doing splendidly. This was the sort of thing they liked: short and obvious.
I hope you are all enjoying yourselves as much as I am. Deafening cheers. Cries of Yes (and No). Noise of trumpets and horns, pipes and flutes, and other musical instruments. There were, as has been said, many young hobnobs present. Hundreds of musical crackers had been pulled. Most of them bore the mark DALE on them; which did not convey much to most of the hobnobs, but they all agreed they were marvellous crackers. They contained instruments, small, but of perfect make and chanting tones. Indeed, in one corner some of the young Tooks and Brandybucks, supposing Uncle Biscuit to have finished (since he had plainly said all that was necessary), now got up an impromptu orchestra, and began a merry dance-tune. Master Everad Took and Miss Merlot Brandybuck got up on a table and with their bells in their hands began to dance the Spring-ring: a pretty dance, but rather vigorous.
But Biscuit had not finished. Seizing a horn from a youngster near by, he blew three hoots. The noise subsided. I shall not keep you long, he cried. Cheers from all the assembly. I have called you all together for a purpose. Something in the way that he sad this made an impression. There was almost silence, and one or two of the Tooks pricked up their ears.
Indeed, for three purposes! First of all to tell you all that I am immensely fond of all of you, and that eleventy-one years is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable hobnobs. Tremendous outburst of approval.
I don?t know have of you as much as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve. This was unexpected and rather difficult. There were some scattered clapping, but most of them were tying to work it out and see if it came to a compliment.
Secondly, to celebrate my birthday. Cheers again. I should say: Our Birthday. For it is, of course, Also the birthday of my heir and nephew, Fredo. He comes of age and into his inheritance today. Some perfunctory clapping by the elders; and some loud shouts of ?Fredo! Fredo! Jolly old Fredo,? from the juniors. The Sackville-Bagginses scowled, and wondered what was meant by ?coming into his inheritance?
Together we score one hundred and forty-four. Your numbers were chosen to fit this remarkable total: One Gross, if I may use the expression. No cheers. This was ridiculous. Many of his guests, and especially the Sackville-Bagginses were insulted, feeling sure they had only been asked to fill up the required number, like goods in a package. ?One Gross indeed! Vulgar expression.?
It is also, if I may be allowed to refer to ancient history, the anniversary of my arrival by barrel at Esgaroth on the Long Lake; though the fact that it was my birthday slipped my memory on that occasion I was only fifty-one then, and birthdays did not seem so important. The banquet was very splendid, however, though I had a cold at that time, I remember, and could only say ?thag you very buch?. I now repeat it more correctly: thank you very much for coming to my little party. Obstinate silence. They all feared that a song or some poetry was now imminent; and they were getting bored. Why couldn?t he stop talking and let them drink his health? But Biscuit did not sing or recite. He paused for a moment.

Thirdly and finally, he said, I wish to make an ANNOUNCEMENT. He spoke this last word so loudly and suddenly that every one sat up who still could. I regret to announce that ? though, as i said, eleventy-one years is far too short a time to spend among you ? this is the END. I am going. I am leaving NOW. GOOD BYE!
He stepped down and vanished. There was a blinding flash of light, and the guests all blinked. When they opened their eyes Biscuit was nowhere to be seen. One hundred and forty-four flabbergasted hobnobs sat back speechless. Old Oat Proudfoot removed his feet from the table and stamped. Then there was a dead silence, until suddenly, after several breaths, every Baggins, Boffin, Took, Brandybuck, Grubb, Chubb, Burrows, Bloger, Bracegirdle, Brockhouse, Goodbody, Hornblower, and Proudfoot began to talk once.
It was general agreed that the joke was in very bad taste, and more food and drink were needed to cure the guests shock and annoyance. ?He?s mad. I always said s,? was probably the most popular comment. Even the Tooks (with a few exceptions) thought Biscuits behaviour was absurd. For the moment most of them took it for granted that disappearance was nothing more then a ridiculous prank.

But old Raspberry Brandybuck was not so sure. Neither age nor an enormous dinner had clouded his wits, and he said to his daughter ? in ? law, Esmeralda: ?There?s something fishy in this, my dear! I believe that the mad Baggins is off again. Silly old fool. But why worry? He hasn?t taken the vittles with him.? He called loudly to Fredo to send the wine round again.
Fredo was the only one present who had said nothing. For some time he had sat silent beside Biscuit?s empty chair, and ignored all the remarks and questions. He had enjoyed the joke, Of course, even though he had been in the know. He had difficulty in keeping from laughter at the indignant surprise of the guests. But at the same time he felt deeply troubled: he realised suddenly that he loved the old hobnob dearly. Most of the guests went on eating and drinking and discussing Biscuit Baggins? oddities, past and present; but the Sackville-Bagginses had already departed in wrath. Fredo did not want to have any more to do with the party. He gave orders for more wine to be served; then he got up and drained his own glass silently to the health of Biscuit, and slipped out of the pavilion.

As for Biscuit Baggins , even while he was making his speech, he had been fingering the golden cake in his pocket: his magic cake that he had kept secret for do many years. As he stepped down he slipped it in his mouth, and he was never seen by any hobnob in Hobnobiton again.
He walked briskly back to his hole, and stood foe a moment listening with a smile to the din in the pavilion and to the sounds of merrymaking in the other parts of the field. Then he went in. He took off his party clothes, folded up and wrapped in tissue paper his embroidered silk waistcoat, and put it away. Then he put on quickly some old untidy garments, and fastened round his waist a worn leather belt. On it he hung a short sword in a battered black leather scabbard. From the locked draw, smelling of mothballs, he took an old cloak and hood. They had been locked up as if they were very precious, but they were so patched and weathered that their original colour could hardly be guessed: it might of been dark green. They were rather too large for him. He then went into his study and from a large strongbox took out a bundle wrapped on old cloths, and a leather-bound manuscript; and also a large bulky envelope. The book and bundle he stuffed in to the top of a heavy bag that was standing there, already nearly full. Into the envelope he slipped his golden cake, and its fine chain, and then he sealed it, and addressed it to Fredo. At first he put it on the mantelpiece, but suddenly he removed it and stuck it in his pocket. At that moment the door opened and Gooseberry came quickly in.
?Hullo!? said Biscuit. ?I wondered if you would turn up.?
?I am glad to find you visible,? replied the wizard, sitting down in a chair, ?I wanted to catch you and have a few final words. I suppose you feel that everything has hone off splendidly and according to plan??
?Yes I do,? said Biscuit. ?Though that flash was surprising: it quite startled me, Let alone the others. A little addition of your own, I suppose??
?It was. You have wisely kept that ring something of a secret all these years, and it seemed to me necessary to give your guests something else that would seem to explain your sudden vanishment.?
?And would spoil my joke. You are an interfering old busybody,? laughed Biscuit, ?but i expect you know best, as usual.?
?I do ? when I know anything. But I don?t feel too sure about this whole affair. It has now come to the final point. You have had your joke, and alarmed or offended most of your relations, and given the whole Shire something to talk about for nine days, or ninety-nine more likely. Are you going any further??
?Yes, I am. I feel I need a holiday, as I have told you before. Probably a permanent holiday: I don?t expect I shall return. In fact I mean not to, and all preparations have been arranged.?
?I am old Gooseberry I know I don?t look it, but I am begging to feel it in my heart. Well preserved indeed!? he snorted. ?Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter spread over too much bread. That can?t be right. I need a change, or something.?
Gooseberry looked curiously and closely at him. ?No it does not seem right,? he said thoughtfully. ?No, after all I believe your plan is probably the best.?
?Well I?ve made up my mind, anyway. I want to see mountains again, Gooseberry ? mountains; and then find where I can rest in piece and quite, without a lot of relative prying around, and a string of confounded visitors hanging o the bell. I might find somewhere where I can finish my book. I have thought of a nice ending for it: and he lived happily ever after, to the end of his days.?
Gooseberry laughed. ?I hope you. But nobody will read the book, however it ends.?
?Oh, they may in many years to come. Fredo has read some already, as far as it has gone. You?ll keep an eye on Fredo, won?t you??
?Yes, I will ? two yes as often as I can spare them.?
?He would come with me, of course, if I asked him. In fact he offered to once, just before the party. But he does not really want to, yet. I want to see the wild country again before I die, and Mountains; but he is still in love with the Shire, with the woods and fields and little rivers. He ought to be comfortable here. I am leaving everything to him, of course, except a few oddments. I hope he will be happy, when he gets used to being on his own. It?s a shame he was his own master now.?
?Everything?? said Gooseberry. ?The ring as well? You agreed to that, you remember.?
?Well, er, yes, I suppose so? stammered Biscuit.
?Where is it??
?In an envelope, if you must know,? said Biscuit impatiently. ?There on the mantelpiece. Well, no! Here it is in my pocket!? he hesitated. ?Isn?t that odd now?? he said softly to himself. ?yet after all, why not? Why shouldn?t it stay there??
Gooseberry looked again very hard at Biscuit, and there was a gleam in his eyes. ?I think, Biscuit,? he said quietly, ? you should leave it behind. Don?t you want to??

COPY RIGHT BY TDOVERLORD 2005

Chapter II

A Shadow of the past

The talk did not die down in nine or even ninety-nine days. Indeed, the story of Biscuit Baggins, who used to run around naked at night and ravish young maidens, became a favourite story, not least among those who could lay a claim to belonging to that category. Fredo, however, remained wed to celibacy. He lived alone, as Biscuit had done; but he had a good many friends, especially among the younger hobnobs. His closest friends were Pofiterole Took and Macaroon Brandybuck, one of them friendly and willing if somewhat pimply, the other as cold as ice and as ruthless as a society hostess. Not for nothing were Macaroon and his family feared throughout the Shire, even by the Sheriffs though those were all on the Brandybuck paylist. Fredo enjoyed being his own master and the Mr Baggins of Bag End. He lived on quietly, increasing his inherited fortune through wise investments and high-interest loans, which earned him many nicknames until his fiftieth birthday drew near. Then Gooseberry turned up again. Fredo welcomed his old friend with surprise and great delight. They looked hard at one another.
"You are becoming grossly fat, Fredo," said Gooseberry. "Luckily, I have some really good exercise in store for you."
"You are too kind," murmured Fredo. "Please don't exert yourself on my behalf."
"I'm afraid I have to," replied the wizard. "That ring of yours - do you still have it?"
"Yes, of course," said Fredo. "I would gladly get rid of it; every time I've tried it on I kept stumbling over my own invisible feet since I could not see them. I wish I had never accepted the pesky thing. Will you not take the cake, Gooseberry!"
"No!" cried Gooseberry, springing to his feet. "That cake would bugger up my spells completely. No, no, I refuse! But I can give you some advice about how to get rid of it, if you want."
"What is that?" shouted Fredo.
"Take it to Mordor and drop it in the Cracks of Doom," said Gooseberry. "If you don't, Cinnamon Bun will come and take it. And you don't want him to do that; he gets pissed off at people who have touched his precious ring." He lit a cigar. "But if you put an end to the ring, you bump off Cinnamon Bun too. The little dimwit infused so much of himself in the ring that his destruction with it is certain."
"But I remember how you once told me that Cinnamon thought the ring had been destroyed."
"I did. He thought it had been thrown into the Cracks of Doom, as should have happened. Now, however, he knows that it isn't so."
"But how can he have thought any such thing? If the cake had been destroyed he wouldn't have been around; so he should have realised that the ring had not been destroyed."
"As I told you, he is a dimwit. He really is incredibly stupid. All the same, there was a scholarly article in The Minas Tirith Review about the Cake yesterday, written by the learned Dr Fruit-Pastel. Cinnamon Bun must have read that article; he subscribes to an excellent news-cutting agency. His emissaries may be on their way to the Shire at this very moment."
"I had better leave at once," said Fredo.
"I agree," said Gooseberry. Suddenly he stopped as if listening. Fredo became aware that all was very quiet, inside and outside. Gooseberry crept to one side of the window. Then with a dart he sprang to the sill, and thrust a long arm out as if to catch somebody. Then his movement stopped. He straightened up and snorted.
"No one has been eavesdropping," he said. "Excellent. You'd better leave as soon as possible, Fredo. Take that servant of yours, Syrup, with you. He looks like a sturdy lad and might come in useful."


Chapter III

THREE IS COMPANY

Despite Fredo's resolution to leave at once, he was in truth very reluctant to start, now that it had come to the point. One afternoon two or three weeks after Gooseberry?s warning (or maybe four, or perhaps just one; Fredo spent most of the days that followed drunk, and rather lost track of time), Fredo went to the wizard for advice.
"Gooseberry," he asked, voice filled with concern, "I can't just vanish without a trace. After Biscuit's farewell stunt, I'd never be able to look the old hobnob in the eye again if I didn't keep up the family tradition. Like father, like son, you know." Gooseberry, confused, said,
"Father? What are you talking about? Biscuit was your first and second cousin, once removed either way... I should know, I had to sit through two and a half hours of old Gaffer Gamgee's genealogy lectures at the party. Seating me next to him was one of Biscuits little jokes."
"Oh, well, you know," Fredo fumbled, "Biscuit did have the Cake and all, and my mother was quite comely when she was a lass... the whole thing has been discussed before, though not generally in polite company. I'd rather not talk about it. And anyway, this isn't getting me any closer to an excuse to leave."
"Don't worry, Fredo," replied Gooseberry. "I thought you might prove to be hesitant, so I've taken some steps of my own to provide for a suitably ignominious departure for you." Just as Fredo gave Gooseberry a sharp, suspicious look, a hammering sound came down the hall from the front door.
"What in the heavens is that?" cried Fredo.
"Unless I miss my guess," Gooseberry explained, "those will be your creditors. I took the liberty of closing your bank accounts and taking out a number of short term loans in your name from some of your competitors in the business. As I recall, they come due today. Incidentally, I've got to be off to, er, scout out the road ahead, so I'll just slip out and catch up with you later. Look for me in Bree!" And with that, the old wizard dashed off and was gone. Fredo leapt out of his chair in a panic, as the hammering on the door became more insistent.
"What have you done with my money?" he yelled in the direction Gooseberry had run, but he knew that chasing the wizard would only waste valuable escape time. Fortunately, Pofiteroll and Macaroon were visiting for the day, accompanied by Pofiterole?s annoying younger brother Fudgy, and Syrup was back in the cellar doing some unspecified repairs. Quickly, Fredo rounded up his friends and explained the situation.
"The Sackville-Baggins 'family' is here to take everything they can get their grubby hands on," Fredo explained, "and that includes me and all of my friends. We'd better clear out in short order if we don't want to end up at the bottom of Bywater Pool. Quickly, now, run through the hole and grab everything valuable that isn't bolted down: the thought of the Sackville-Bagginses getting a hold of my things makes me sick, and anyway, I'll be broke if we don't pile up some of this loot before we go." Quickly the five hobbits scattered throughout the hole, filling old pillow cases with whatever they could carry. Fredo had a strong door, but now the pounding gave way to a repeated ramming sound; he knew they didn't have much time. He met Pofiteroll, Macaroon, and Fudgy in the study as they had agreed: it was on the left-hand side of the hall (going in) like all the best rooms, for these were the only ones to have windows large enough for a desperate hobnob to climb out in an emergency. After a tense minute's delay, Fredo shouted back into the hole.
"Syrup!" he called. "Syrup! Time!"
"Coming, sir!" came the answer from far within, followed soon by Sam himself, wiping his mouth. "I was just saying farewell to Rosi--um, the beer-barrel in the cellar." Fredo looked down at Sam's hand.
"Give me that Ring," he snapped, as he yanked the ancient artefact off of Syrup's finger. With that, they all scrambled out of the window along with their bags of loot. Just at that moment, a great crash came from the hall as the door finally gave way.
"Syrup," said Fredo once they were outside, "take this key to your father, and tell him to hold on to it. We're going need it when we come back for revenge. Then cut along the Row and meet us as quick as you can at the gate in the lane beyond the meadows. We are not going through the village tonight. Too many ears pricking and eyes prying." Sam ran off at full speed, while Fredo and the others loaded the cart that Macaroon had fortunately brought along that morning. The sun went down. Sad and frightening sounds came from within Bag End in the dark, as the Sackville-Bagginses wrecked and looted the place in their search for Fredo. Once the cart had been hastily packed, Fredo sent Macaroon and Fudgy with it on ahead. Macaroon was, as a rule, terrible company on a hike, and Fudgy was a hundred times worse.
"Syrup and Pofiteroll and I will meet you at the safe-house in Crickhollow the day after tomorrow," he said, and they drove away as quietly yet quickly as they could. Fredo looked back at the dark black windows of Bag End, some of which were being smashed out as he watched. One of the windows near the cellar seemed to have a ripped piece of a hobnob lass's dress torn and fluttering on a nail. He waved his hand to his long home.
"Good-bye!" he said, and then turned and (following Biscuit, if he had known it) hurried after Pofiteroll down the garden path. Taking the most secret route they knew, they jumped over the low place in the hedge at the bottom and took to the fields, passing into the blessed concealment of darkness like a cattle rustler into the grasses. They met Syrup at the gate, and proceeded along the deserted lane for a mile or two, at which point they cut off into the fields to throw off pursuit. After some time they crossed the Water, and made their way toward the hilly country to the south.
"Well, I'll say this," remarked Fredo as he looked back into the valley of Hobbiton and back to the Hill, where tiny flames had begun to rise from the vicinity of Bag End, "that was quite an exit. I wonder if I'll ever be able to show my face in that valley again?" Syrup and Pofiteroll were walking on ahead exchanging dirty stories, and Fredo's question went unanswered. The three friends walked on and on into the night. Eventually, the moon set, and after Pofiteroll nearly fell into a deep streambed for the third time, the hobnobs agreed that they should stop where they were and sleep for the night. Of course, none of them had thought to take any bedding with them on the trip, so they all curled up on top of the tree roots nearby, ignoring the soft, comfortable bed of fir-needles that covered the ground beyond the roots. They set no watch: they had drawn lots, but when Fredo and Syrup noticed Pofiteroll cheating they all decided it was a lost cause and went to bed. A few creatures came and looked at them as they slept. A fox passing through the wood on business of his own stopped several minutes and sniffed.
"Hobnobs!" he thought. "And sleeping out of doors under a tree at that. There's something mighty queer behind this. I'd better head off to tell my friends Tom Blueberry, Gooseberry, and Eccles all about it in short order. Good thing I can speak Western."
The next morning came, pale and clammy. The three friends went on walking
through the trees, and Fredo began to chant to himself in a low voice;

The Road goes ever on and on, and on and on and on and on, and on and on the Road has gone, why did I let Macaroon drive the cart?

Syrup and Pofiteroll stopped and gave Fredo an odd look, but when he didn't respond they all went on their way, deeper into the wood. The sun was beginning to get low and the hobnobs had just passed into a stand of beech trees when they heard hoof-beats on the road behind them.
"Quick!" whispered Fredo, staring back the way they had come. "They must have found our tracks sooner than we thought. Hide behind the trees!" He turned back around, and realised that his friends hadn't needed his advice: they had already run a good ways into the wood and buried themselves under a pile of leaves. Fredo himself only had time to duck behind a nearby statue of a Pukel-muffin when a tall black horse came into view. On it sat a large black muffin, wearing a dark, dark grey cloak and hood. When the horse reached the statue level with Fredo it stopped, and the black muffin started looking from side to side, breathing heavily. A light breeze blew in Fredo's direction, and Fredo caught a whiff of a terrible smell like last Easter's missing egg. He gagged, and the black muffin stared toward his hiding place and began to climb off of his horse. But at that moment there came a sound like mingled song and laughter. The black muffin started to tap his foot, then hum along with the music. Finally, he started singing out loud, and then suddenly realised what he was doing. He got an extremely sheepish look on his face, leapt up on his horse, and rode away in utter embarrassment.
"Eclairs!" exclaimed Syrup, coming with Pofiteroll to Fredo's side. "Eclairs, sir!" Fredo nodded, and as the voices drew nearer, their song became clearer:

O! What are we doing, And where are we going? We're soon barbecuing! The river is flowing! O! tra-la-la-lally up out of the valley! O! What are we seeking, And where are we making? The faggots are reeking! The bannocks are baking! O! tril-lil-lil-lolly the valley was jolly, ha! ha!

Well, okay, not that much clearer, but Eclairs are like that. Nevertheless, Syrup stood enchanted.
"Is it true, Mr. Fredo, that Eclairs have drugs the like of which no mortal has ever known? It certainly sounds like it." Fredo answered, with awe but not without disappointment.
"Yes, Syrup. These are, indeed, High Eclairs. Sadly, they share not their precious drugs with outsiders. Still, they can be good company, and they sure throw a great barbecue." As the Eclairs drew near, Fredo stepped out into the path.
"Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo!" he said in his most friendly tones. The Elves appeared confused.
"What do you mean, Fredo, that your sister has a wombat through her tea-time?" Fredo cursed under his breath, and swore a silent oath to himself never to trust Biscuit's language lessons again. The Elf went on, "No matter. You look weary and hungry; would you like to come with us to dinner?"
"Certainly, good people," replied Fredo gratefully, for the dinner invitations of the High Elves are rare and prized indeed, "but how do you know my name?"
"We have watched you long," they laughed, "and your father Biscuit before you." At this, Fredo winced, but they took no notice. "Your adventures with that young Cassiopiea Took were quite amusing, and as for Biscuit, well..." Fredo was now blushing furiously, and the Eclairs (together with Syrup and Pofiteroll) simply laughed again and said no more. They passed on into the night, until they came to a clearing in the wood. In the clearing, there stood a ring of great upright standing stones, connected from top to top with other great stone slabs all around the circle.
"Welcome to Sto-wan-hensh, our hall of feasts," said Gob-stopper, the leader of the Eclairs. "You are fortunate: it is almost time for supper." Even as Gob-stopper spoke, an Eclair sighting along two tall stones cried out,
"The stars are now in place! It's ten o'clock; soup's on!" Torches and bonfires leapt into life all around the stone circle, and soon the entire company was happily eating barbecued fox and toasted cornbread. A large flat stone in the centre of the ring had been scrubbed clean, and was surrounded by blazing fires that heated it almost until it glowed; an Eclair was frying bacon on its top. The hobnobs tried not to feel disappointed when the High Eclairs didn't offer them any miruvor when it was passed around, but other than that the evening was perfect. Fredo soon decided to share some of his fears and concerns with Gob-stopper as they ate.
"Gob-stopper, what would a black muffin be doing in the Shire? We were pursued by one today, and he only left when he heard your company approach."
"A black muffin? In the Shire?" said Gob-stopper doubtfully. "I have never heard of such a thing, not since the old days of the Kings and their battles with Angmar. Just about everyone in this part of the world is Caucasian, and that's a fact."
"And yet," explained Fredo, "he was there, and I was frightened. I've never been comfortable around minorities." From the background, Pofiteroll spoke up,
"Be sure to tell him about the smelling! I'm sure it is very important!"
"Well," Fredo said to Gob-stopper, "he did have this awful odour..."
Gob-stopper cut Fredo off sharply.
"Hold it right there. This story is racist enough as it is; we don't need any comments about 'Black Breath' making it worse."
"Right. We'll drop the subject," said Fredo. "Nevertheless, I am pursued, even before I have left the Shire. I am supposed to meet Gooseberry in Bree, but I don't know how I'll even make it that far, or what to do if he isn't there. I'm at a loss, I'm frightened, and I'm bearing a terrible burden on which may rest the fate of all Middle-earth. Can you give me any advice?"
"No. Yes." said Gob-stopper.

COPY RIGHT BY TDOVERLORD 2005

Ermm, WOW! Don't have time to read it now, though. :(

Chapter IV

A SHORTCUT TO MUSHROOMS

In the morning Fredo awoke refreshed. He was lying in a bower made by a living tree with branches laced and drooping to the ground; his bed was of fern and grass, deep and soft and strangely fragrant. The scent was almost intoxicating and Fredo was dizzy with light-headedness. He jumped out and went down. Syrup was sitting in the grass near the edge of the wood quietly giggling to himself. Pofiterole was standing studying the sky with open-mouthed awe. There was no sign of the Eclairs.
"They have left us some fruit and drink, and bread," said Pofiterole. "Come and have your breakfast. The bread tastes strange, but wonderful! I didn't want to leave you any, but Syrup thought it might do you some good." At this the hobnobs laughed under their hands at Fredo. Unperturbed, Fredo sat and sampled some of the Eclairs' bread. It was brown and sweet and had an unusual peppery tang that he couldn't identify. Syrup came and sat by him as he broke fast.
"What's the plan for today?" asked Pofiterole. "To walk to Buckland as quickly as possible," answered Fredo, and gave his attention to the food. Odd as it was, it seemed to make him feel better and better.
"Do you think we'll see those Riders?" asked Pofiterole cheerfully. Under the Eclair bread's spell, a whole troop of Black Riders did not seem so alarming to him.
"Yes, probably," said Fredo, "but I hope to get across the river without their seeing us."
"Did you find out anything from Gob-stopper?"
"No, not really."
"Did you ask about the smell?"
"We didn't discuss it," said Fredo with small embarrassment.
"You should have. I am sure it's terribly important!" The hobnobs eyed Pofiterole for a most before they all broke out into peals of laughter that they did not understand.
"My," gasped Fredo after regaining some control over his mirth, "this is fine bread!" They soon broke camp and started again their long trek. After a while, Fredo called a halt and the Hobnobs discovered that they had walked too far to the south. After some small debate, they made straight East into a wood that offered some shelter against the coming rain. As they marched, Syrup thought he caught a glint of steel in the distance and stopped short. As he turned his head to look, Syrup could have sworn he saw an eclair-maid heavily armed and camouflaged peering from behind a bush at him, but when he blinked, nothing was there.
"What's the matter, Syrup?" asked Pofiterole.
"What? Oh, nothing master Pofiterole, sir. Just the rain playing tricks on me, I suppose. I could use a rest for a bit, and that's a fact." To this they all agreed and made for the shelter of a majestic Elm. Fredo propped his back against the tree-trunk, and closed his eyes. Syrup and Pofiterole sat near, and they began to hum, and then to sing softly:

Yo! Ho! Ho! and a bottle of rum! Fifteen muffins on a dead man's chest, The cabin-boy and Cap'n, an outrage to some. But me Parrot on me shoulder, he's the best. An the scurvy dogs a lyin' in davy Jones' locker Will rise at the latter day - oh what a shocker! Yo! Ho! Ho!

They began again louder. They stopped short suddenly. Fredo sprang to his feet. A long-drawn wail came down the wind, like the cry of some fell and lonely creature: (heh) (hehhehehheh) (snicker) (SLAP) (SPANK) (heh) (heheh) (heheheh) (snicker) (heh) (Bwwwaaaahahahahahahaa!) (Heheheh) (..........heh) It rose and fell, and ended on a high piercing note. Even as they stood, another cry fainter and further off, but no less blood chilling answered it.
"What do you think that was?" asked Pofiterole in a terrified voice. "That weren't no bird I ever heard."
"It wasn't any bird or beast," said Fredo, "There were words in that cry, though I could not catch them." No more was said and the Hobnobs quickly gathered their gear and moved on through the woods. Very soon they came to a clearing and beyond to fields planted with poppy and a strange variety of mushroom.
"I know these fields!" cried Pofiterole. "We've wandered farther south than we thought. These are Madeira Delving's fields."
"Who's that?" asked Syrup.
"I'm sorry. You'd know him better as Farmer Maggot, I think."
"One trouble after another," said Fredo. "I've been horribly afraid of Farmer Maggot ever since he caught me trying to steal some of his mushrooms as a lad. He beat me and then showed me to his wood shed. 'See, lads,' he said, 'next time this varmint sets foot on my land, you can eat him. Now see him off!' They chased me all the way to the ferry and I've never got over the fright!"
"Well, it's time you made it up, then, cousin," said Pofiterole and headed off across the fields.
"Don't you worry, master," said Syrup, "I won't let no one beat you this time, and that's a fact." Fredo screwed up his courage and set after them, to what doom he knew not. Suddenly, as they drew nearer to the farm-house, a terrific groaning and grating broke out, and a loud voice was shouting,
"Grip! Fang! Wolf! Come on, lads!" The Hobnobs stopped dead and very soon the gate opened and three huge dogs came rolling out into the lane and dashed towards the travellers, barking fiercely. They took no notice of Pofiterole but two of them cornered Syrup and looked at him in a way that can only be described as woodenly. The largest and fiercest of the dogs halted in front of Fredo, bristling and growling in a deep timbre. Through the gate came the largest man any of the Hobnobs ever saw.
"Hallo! Hallo! And what may you be wanting?" he asked.
"Good afternoon, Mr Delving," said Pofiterole. The farmer looked at him closely.
"That's Maggot to you, master Pofiterole - Mr Pofiterole Took, I should say!" he cried with relief. "It's been a long while since I saw you about these parts. It's a good thing I recognised you; I was about to set my logs on you after the queer visitor I had this morning."
"Who would that be, Mr Maggot?" asked Fredo.
"You didn't see him? He left not half an hour ago. All dressed in Black he was and as foul smelling a customer as you could hope to meet. Came riding right through my poppies, he did, and right up to my door bold as you please. 'This path don't lead no where,' I said to him, 'your best way is straight back to the road.'
"'I'm looking for Baggins,' he hissed at me. "'Who are you?' says I.
"'Ummmmm.....'
"'Your name's "M"?' "
'Yeeeessss, that's right, my name's M. Now will you tell me if Baggins comes? I will bring gold!' he said.
"'Oh no, you won't,' I said. 'You'll bugger off back the way you came and double quick! You can use the path this time.' I set the dogs onto him but he struck a match and they shied away even as he stormed out right over my poppies again! Now then, Pofiterole, who're your companions?"
"Well, this is Syrup and that's Fredo Baggins," said Pofiterole.
"Well, if that isn't queerer than ever. You best come inside," said Maggot and waved his arm for them to follow him. Later, they all passed the news while waiting for Mrs Maggot to finish preparing dinner. Fredo and Syrup learned much about Mr Maggot and his doings. He told them that the guard logs were given to him by his brother who lived in the enchanted part of the old forest (or 100 acre wood as it is known in latter days) and told them also of his dealings with the Eclairs and their lust for the distillation made from his poppies known as Morfeen that brought Mr Maggot most of his business these days.
"Haven't seen much of old Tom Blueberry in a long time though," Maggot said, "lives in the old forest, too, he does. Used to buy my mushrooms by the bushel-full, but now with all the ill news and all, I can hardly push off my special 'shrooms to the Hobnob teens down Buckleberry way." Then the table was set with all the Hobnobs could eat, and the centrepiece was a large bowl of steamed mushrooms.
"I'm sure our master Fredo still has a liking for mushrooms, I daresay," jibed Maggot.
"How did you..."
"Oh, I remember you all-right, Mr Baggins!" A cough from Syrup drew attention.
"I'm afraid Syrup has heard about your beating me and is a little wary of you, Mr Maggot," put in Fredo quickly, secretly waving Syrup into closing his flick-knife.
"Well, I'm sorry I beat your master, Syrup, but he oughtn't have thieved my mushrooms. Least of all those kind. Only for special customers I grow them. Cost me a bundle, your Mr Fredo did, and right sick he would have been, too, if he'd've eaten them. No, these mushrooms are better for you and me!" said Maggot digging another spoonful of buttery fungus onto his plate. After a respite and a further dinner and another respite, Mr Maggot offered to take the travellers to the Buckleberry ferry in his cart to avoid any strangers waiting to waylay them on the road. When all was prepared and the cart loaded, it was well after dark and Fredo worried they might miss the last ferry and Macaroon both. But his fears were eased when after the Hobnobs climbed aboard the cart and were hidden under a tarpaulin, Mr Maggot lifted mightily on the two levers and set off at a great pace down the road. They were bumped and bruised as the cart's single wheel endeavoured to find every crack and rock in the road, or so it seemed to Fredo. To break the agony of their journey, Fredo slipped into his mouth the cake and called in a cooing voice,
"Ohhhhh Syyruupp. Syrupmy Syrupmy Syrupmm-Saammmm.."
"Now cut that out, Mister Fredo! It not funny trying to get me all hot and bothered just so's you can laugh at me, and that's a fact!" Syrup spat indignantly.
"Oh, Syrup, I'm only having you on. No need to be upset." said Fredo.
"Well as long as you're not trying to have it off with me, we'll get along just fine, and that's a fact!"
"Do you end all your sentences with and that's a fact?" asked Pofiterole.
"I don't know what you mean, Mister Pofiterole, and that - " The Hobnobs rolled with laughter for the rest of their trip. An hour later they felt a sharp bump as Mr Maggot dropped his load heavily. They could hear him whispering to someone on the road.
"Don't you come a step nearer, missy! Who are you and what do you want?" There were sounds of a struggle and then a sharp high-pitched yell followed by the sound of something large being dropped into the river. Soon, Mr Maggot opened the make-shift cover concealing the Hobnobs and bade them get out.
"What happened, Mr Maggot?" asked a very worried Fredo.
"Well, there was this queer looking lady in the road holding up the brightest sword ever I saw. I went up to her and her face was painted all green and brown like. She's an eclair if ever I saw one, but why she looked so fearsome, I do not know. Anyway, she takes a swing at me with her sword, but missed her mark, so I gave her a shove just to learn her who her betters are, but I shoves too hard and wouldn't you know - straight over the side of the Bridge she drops right in the water. I looked for her and thought of calling you all out to help me, but she disappeared just as any frog might do. No sign of her now, though." As he was finishing his tale, the sound of hoof-beats approached and they all were relieved to see Macaroon riding up across the bridge to meet them.
"There you are, Fredo!" he cried "I was worried when you didn't arrive by nightfall, so I came looking for you. Halloo, Mr Maggot!"
"Good Ev?nin to you, master Moribund! Well, I'll leave you all now and get my secular home. I hope you'll stop travelling and settle down, Mr Fredo, now you're here with us."
"Thank you," said Fredo, "and thanks for all your kindness."
"Well," he said after Maggot had gone a fair distance, "what are we waiting for? Let's get to the ferry."
"Begging your pardon, Mr Fredo, sir," said Syrup, "It seems to me we could cross just as well by this here bridge, if you take my meaning." The Hobnobs' blank expressions showed they clearly did not.
"Why can't we just cross here the way Mr Macaroon did and save ours Eclairs some time and maybe trouble of another sort? We'd be a dead target for that eclair-maid - or whatever she was - us riding on the water, and that's a ....." Again Pofiterole and Fredo howled with laughter, and Macaroon led the way down the side of the bridge to where the ferry was tethered.

COPY RIGHT BY TDOVERLORD 2005

Chapter V

A CONSPIRACY UNMASKED

"Well," said Macaroon, as the laughter subsided, "we'd best be going ourselves. I'm looking forward to a meal and a pint of ale." Across the river the hobnobs could see the cheerful glow of neon lights blinking in the windows of Brandy Hall. Long ago, Gourmet Oldbuck (Macaroon's great-great-great- grandfather, his great-great-uncle, or his third cousin once removed, depending on which branch of the family tree you trace) was the town drunk of Bywater. People called him all kinds of names -- Drunkenbuck, Alebuck, and the like -- but the name that stuck was Brandybuck. Unfortunately for him, he lived at the time of the Shire's great experiment with prohibition. Unhappy with the dry state of affairs, he moved across the Brandywine River and set up his own little country, where the alcohol flowed freely. Pretty soon, the greater portion of the Shire's population was packed into a small strip of land between the River and the Forest. The mayor of Michel Delving finally admitted defeat and repealed prohibition. Most hobnob folk returned to the four farthings, but Brandybuck and his family had set up a nice home in Buckland, so they stayed behind. To this day, Buckland is still known for it's cavalier attitude towards the Shire's laws (making it the perfect place for Fredo to hide out from tax laws and bill collectors), and also for the fine quality of its many pubs. As the ferry-boat moved away from the shore, Syrup peered uneasily at the darkly swirling water, convinced that an armed eclair-princess would jump up and bonk him on the nose. Knowing the Bucklanders' reputation, he wasn't sure that he liked the idea of taking a boat piloted by Macaroon (after all, Fredo's parents Gummy-Bear and Pink-Wafer had died in an accident involving drinking and boating).
"Um, about that bridge," he offered, "couldn't that Black Rider fellow just ride across and attack us on the other side?"
"Syrupwise, my butt," grumbled Macaroon to himself, "Syrupfool is more like it." Aloud he answered, "It's clearly posted that you have to take boats eastbound, and since this is the last boat, we'll be safe." Peering into the murk, Syrup could just make out a dark figure walking around on the west bank. The figure moved towards the bridge, but noticing a sign it turned dejectedly and disappeared into the night.
"Here we are," declared Macaroon as the ferry pulled into its slip. "Coming, Syrup?" Looking around, Syrup realised that Pofiterole and Fredo had already scrambled ashore.
"C'mon, Syrup, Crickhollow is just around the corner and Fudge?s getting dinner on." Entering Crickhollow, Fredo could tell that his friends had taken great pains to set it up just like his old home at Bag End. All of his posters were already up on the walls, his fish were swimming happily in an aquarium set up in the corner, and they had even left a pile of his dirty laundry beside the T.V. He felt ashamed that they'd gone to all of this work and he was going to have to leave them.
"Dinner smells great," said Pofiterole to Fatty, who was just coming out of the kitchen, "but after sleeping under a tree last night I need to wash up first. It's bath time."
"Which order shall we go in," said Fredo. "Smartest first, or cutest first? You'll be last either way, Master Pofiterole."
"No fear!" said Merry, "There are two tubs back there. You're left with the shower, though, Syrup. In a class-based society such as this you really can't expect a servant-boy like you to enjoy the luxuries as your betters." As the three travellers filed back to the washroom, Syrup was muttering something about
". . . first one up against the wall when the revolution comes." Soon, though, the sound of splashing and wallowing was mixed with the sound of Pofiterole's favourite bathing song.

Rubber Ducky, you're the one, You make bath time lots of fun, Rubber Ducky, I'm awfully fond of you; (woh woh, bee doh!) Rubber Ducky, joy of joys, When I squeeze you, you make noise! Rubber Ducky, you're my very best friend, it's true! (doo doo doo doooo, doo doo) Rubber Ducky, you're so fine And I'm lucky that you're mine Rubber ducky, I'm awfully fond of - Rubber ducky, I'd like a whole pond of - Rubber ducky I'm awfully fond of you!

There was a terrific flush, and a shout of "Whoa!" from Syrup as he was scalded in the shower. It wasn't long before all three were drawn back to the dining room by the smell of Fudge's roasted mushrooms. Now, if you've ever met a hobnob, you know that they love to eat. For such little guys, they can pack away a lot of food, which is why you'd better be sure you've a well-stocked larder before inviting a hobnob home for the weekend. Above all, though, hobnobs loved mushrooms. Hobnob gourmands had identified seven hundred and thirty eight varieties of edible mushrooms, and from the look of his waistline, you could tell that Fatty was familiar with them all. He'd prepared a sumptuous six course feast based completely around fungus. He started with a nice little appetiser of mushrooms stuffed with cheese, followed by a salad of morels, stir fried shit-shakes, grilled portabellos, and roasted truffles. He ended it all with mushroom ice cream, but curiously everyone decided they were full at that point, and pulled their chairs around the fireplace to talk.
"Well, I'm not sure exactly how to say this . . ." started Fredo when Pofiterole interrupted.
"Years from now," he began, "when someone writes the story of our adventures, no one is going to want to dwell on this scene. They'll want to move ahead into the action, so let's not draw this out. Let's just pretend that you already know that we know all about the Cake . . . "
"But how?" protested Fredo. "Do you think we're idiots?" Macaroon piped in. "You'd never have a chance with Pofiterole's cousin Cassiopiea without magical help. You're my friend, man, but I've got to say that you've got a face only a mother could love. A blind mother."
"Anyway," continued Pofiterole, "let's just pretend that we've already told you we're going with you, you've protested, and we've insisted. Syrup's nice and all, but let's face it, he's a bit of a stick in the mud. Adventures will be a lot more fun with Macaroon and I along."
"You are a set of scoundrels!" cried Fredo. "Bless you one and all." They all danced around Fredo (not that there's anything wrong with that) and Macaroon and Pofiterole started a song they'd apparently composed for the occasion.







Farewell we call to hearth and hall! To hobnob lasses one and all. To Cassiopiea, Mary Jane, To Beth, and Ruth, and sweet Lorraine. To the wafflefoot twins with kisses sweet, To all the gals with those sexy bare furry feet. Someday we'll return to this corner of the world, And maybe even Syrup will meet a nice hobnob girl. For now we're off on a quest of sorts, To meet the women found in exotic ports. We might find elf-maids with pointy ears, Or even kiss dwarf girls (after eight or nine beers). We must be gone, we must be gone. We leave before the crack of dawn!

"Actually, guys, if it's okay with you, could we wait until about nine or so?" asked Fredo. "I'm exhausted."
"Well, of course we'll sleep in. 'Nine' just doesn't rhyme. 'We must be gone, we must be gone, we leave before the crack of nine'? Old Biscuit would have never let me get by with a song like that," said Macaroon. "I've got it all set up. We'll wake up at nine, Fudge will make up a nice breakfast of mushroom omelettes, Syrup will pack all of our bags while we have a nice leisurely smoke, and we'll be gone by noon. Our route takes us hiking through the Old Forest." Fatty suddenly went pale.
"Wait a minute! No one told me anything about the Forest! I can't go in there, I'm afraid of trees!"
"You're afraid of trees? What kind of pansy are you?" demanded Fredo. "If you can't handle a few trees, you're not going to do us much good on the road. Maybe you should stay behind and tell Gooseberry where to find us." Fatty seemed relieved that everyone agreed to this plan. After some final preparations, they all settled down to bed. After tossing and turning for some time, Fredo finally settled down into an uneasy sleep. Eventually he fell into a vague dream in which he seemed to be looking out of a high window over a dark sea of tangled trees. When he turned away from the window to face the classroom, he noticed he wasn't wearing any clothes. Just then, the teacher started to pass out an exam that he hadn't studied for. In a panic, he woke up.

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Chapter VI

THE OLD FOREST

Fredo woke suddenly. It was still dark in the room, and he felt almost as if he were falling. A moment later he hit the floor. Blearily he looked up to see the light of a candle flame burning in the doorway.
"What? What is it?" said Fredo, still shaken and bewildered. Out of the fire there spoke a voice.
"What is it!" cried Macaroon. "I have been pounding on your door for five minutes. It's nearly ten, Fudge's eaten half your breakfast and we must be leaving soon. You'll have to make do with the scraps while I get the ponies ready." It was, of course, not so bad as all that. Fudge had prepared more than enough for a hobnob twice Fredo's size and there was plenty left. So Fredo had a nice breakfast with eggs and sausages while the others finished preparations for the journey ahead. Soon after twelve o'clock the five hobbits were ready to start. Fredo was still yawning. Macaroon went in front leading an overburdened pony, and took his way along a path that went through a small grove behind the house, and then trampled across several fields. In a shed they found their ponies: four sturdy beasts of the kind loved by hobbits. They mounted, and were soon riding along under the midday sun. Ahead of them loomed the Hedge.
"How are you going to get through the Hedge?" asked Fudge.
"I will show you!" said Macaroon. He turned left along the Hedge, and they came to a ramp leading down. A passage had been dug into the earth and walled with brick, forming a tunnel leading under the Hedge and into the Forest on the far side. Here Fudge stopped, quailing at the sight of the trees.
"Good- bye friends!" he said. "I wish you were not going into the Forest. I'm afraid there won't be anyone to rescue you, but good luck to you."
"Tell Gooseberry to go along the East Road; we shall soon be back on it ourselves," said Fredo. They waved and disappeared into the tunnel. They passed a gate on the far side and Macaroon locked it behind them.
"Well!" said Macaroon. "We have left the Shire, and are now on the edge of the Old Forest."
"Are the stories true?" asked Pofiterole, casting a glance back to the tunnel.
"I don't know which stories you mean," answered Macaroon. "I don't believe those old bogey stories such as Fudge's nurses used to tell him. Goblins and wolves and walking trees! No, I don't think so, but the Forest is queer. Sometimes you'll feel someone watching you, but when you look about there's no one there. There are queer things living deep in the Forest, and in the downs on the far side and someone makes tracks amongst the trees. Not far from this tunnel there should be a path which will take us north east through the Forest. Due east would put us onto the Downs and south would take us to the Witherwander River which starts out on the Downs and joins the Brandywine in the south of the Forest. No hobbit has ever charted its full course. We don't want to go THAT way! The Witherwander valley is the worst part of the whole wood - full of bogs and swamps, sinking sands and unfriendly creatures."
The hobbits now left the Hedge and rode up another ramp to the floor of the Forest. The trees were thick about them almost immediately, trunks of innumerable sizes and shapes: straight or bent, twisted, leaning, squat or slender, smooth or gnarled and branched or branchless, clustered or scattered, tall, short, lightning scarred, intertwined, infested, bewebbed, mossy, dark, damp, shimmering, peeling, vine covered, young or old, flowering, deciduous, coniferous, fruit bearing, creaking, cracked, hollow, budding and dying, burned, slimy, shaggy, scaley, green, grey, brown, and, well, just a very lot of different kinds of trees. They went on for some time, the ponies carefully picking their way through the twisted and interlacing roots. The ground rose steadily, and as they went forward it seemed as if the trees became taller, darker, thicker, danker, and a great many other ominous adverbs as well. They could catch only occasional glimpses of the Sun through the thick trees overhead, and each time they did they seemed to have veered somewhat off course and would have to turn again to the northeast. After an hour or two the trees closed overhead completely, wrapping them in a twilight gloom that left them guessing at their direction and able to do little more than move steadily forward. The afternoon was wearing away when they stumbled into a deep fold in the ground. It was so steep and overhung that it proved impossible to climb out of, in either direction, without leaving their ponies behind. As that would require carrying their own food, and rather alot of it at that, it was completely out of the question. All they could do was to follow the fold - downwards. The ground grew soft, and in places boggy, and soon they found themselves following a brook that trickled and babbled through a weedy bed. There was not yet any sign of a path, and the others began to wonder if Macaroon were not completely lost. Pofiterole suddenly felt that he could not bear it any longer, and without warning let out a shout.
"Oi! Ai! Ee!" he cried. No one was quite sure why. "You don't have any idea where you are going, do you!" Macaroon shot him a venomous look, a glare that would have warned any of his business associates against further words.
"I should not shout if I were you," said Macaroon. Pofiterole, however, was undeterred.
"It has not taken you long to lose us!" Macaroon's face became grim and he nudged his pony forward with blood in his eyes. It might have gone badly for Pofiterole then, but just as Macaroon was drawing close Syrup let out a whistle and pointed ahead.
"Look, isn't that an opening up ahead?" asked Syrup. A short distance ahead the gully came to an end and led quite suddenly out of the gloom. The stream flowed down into a dark river of brown water, bordered with ancient willows, arched over with willows, blocked with fallen willows, flecked with thousands of faded willow leaves. The late afternoon sun shone golden through the break in the trees, illuminating a faint footpath running along the bank of the river.
"Well, I know precisely where we are," said Macaroon, speaking quickly before any more comments about his navigational abilities might be made.
"This is the River Witherwander! We have strayed just a little from our path." Pofiterole looked about to protest, but Macaroon spoke on unheeding. "Perhaps there is some truth to those old stories about the trees moving of their own accord after all. They could have cut off our path and herded us here. That must be it."
Seeing nothing else for it, the hobbits filed out and Macaroon led them down to the riverside. There they stopped to water the ponies and take a brief rest. The long ride had worn them down and the soft grass beneath the willow trees was a welcome change of seating as they refilled their own water bottles. They yawned, lightly at first, weariness seeming to creep over them now that they could take a break at last. Fredo felt his chin go down and his head nod. Off to his side Macaroon and Pofiterole had wandered over to a great knotted old willow and were resting against it. Syrup had stopped, pretty much where his pony had, and sat blinking stupidly about himself. Fredo felt that some cool water might help revive him and wandered towards the riverbank, half in a daze. He did not even know he had reached the riverbank until he tripped over a root of the old willow and fell headfirst into the water with a great splash. He broke back to the surface a moment later, gasping and sputtering.
"Help! Help!", he cried, as he attempted ineffectually to reach the shore. As the slow current carried him away Fredo could see his friends half stirring in response to his cries, but then settling back into weary sleep. Choking now and fearing he would follow his parents into a watery grave Fredo thought he dimly heard a voice as he drifted out of sight and consciousness: a deep glad voice, singing carelessly and happily:

Hey doll! merry doll! ring a ding dial-O! Ring a ding! hop along! follow the willow! Tom Blue, jolly Tom, Tom Blueberry!

With a last gasp of effort Fredo kicked himself to the surface of the water and cried out once more before sinking beneath the surface. He felt the cold darkness settle over him, and knew no more. Until a moment later when he was pulled coughing and sputtering from the water by strong hands. He hung helplessly, spitting up water and a tragically large portion of his breakfast, before he could begin to breathe normally again and get his first clear look at his rescuer. It was a man, or so he seemed. At any rate he was too large and heavy for an ordinary hobbit, if not quite tall enough for one of the Big People. He had a long brown beard; his eyes were blue and bright, and his face was red as a ripe apple. He wore yellow boots, a blue coat and a battered hat with a tall crown and a long blue feather stuck in the band. In his free hand (Fredo was dangling precariously from the other) he carried on a large leaf as on a tray a pile of white water-lilies and a small doll. Fredo found himself noting that the doll looked much like the man himself, save that its hat seemed to sport a peacock feather rather than a kingfisher.
"Whoa! steady there!" cried the old man, and Fredo stopped squirming as if he had been struck stiff. "Now, my little fellow. Where be you a-going to, breathing like a fish? What's the matter here then? Do you know who I am? I'm Tom Blueberry."
"My friends and I were lost. I fell in the water and they all went to sleep. I could have drowned!" cried Fredo breathlessly.
"What?" shouted Tom Blueberry, leaping up in the air and giving Fredo quite a jolt. "Friends napping when help is being needed? Let's go and see this." He set Fredo down and they made their way back up the path to where the other hobbits were sleeping. Tom let out a great laugh and sang a bit of his nonsense rhyme, though Fredo looked fit to boil. The three hobbits woke and sat up, rubbing their eyes at this strange apparition.
"Fredo!" cried Syrup, seeing his master all wet and bedraggled. "What happened?"
"What happened?" yelled Fredo with some heat. "I nearly drowned while you three had a nice nap." The three jumped up, all trying to explain at once:
"We were be-spelled!",
"The sleep...",
"I just closed my eyes for a moment!",
"Why'd you go fall in the water anyway..." Looking around Syrup suddenly pointed at the great grey willow under which they had all slept.
"That... that there willow, it must be one of those walking trees. I'd bet it put us all to sleep I would!" The others gaped and then nodded quickly in agreement. Tom regarded the hobbits with great amusement and laughed again.
"Oh, the old 'willow-man' was it? Well, that's as may be, but Tom Blueberry must be going. You should all come home with me. The table is laden with yellow cream, honeycomb, and white bread and butter. Goldberry is waiting. You follow me as quick as you are able." With that he gave a beckoning wave and went hopping and dancing along the path eastward, still singing loudly and nonsensically.

Hey! Come merry doll! daring doll! My darling! Hop along little friends, up the Witherwander. Tom's going on ahead to get the ponies fodder. Goldberry will make the beds and set the board, With bread and honey and sweet delights, the River daughter. Hey now! merry doll! We'll be waiting for you!

They all stared after him for a long moment, but the promise of food and good beds would draw any hobbit. And so they started after him, still arguing amongst themselves:
"You know, now that I think of it... that willow root that tripped me DID seem to move of its own accord."
"I think he was an curlywirly-wife," opined Pofiterole.
"A what?"
"An curlywirly-wife. Old Biscuit told me a story about them... no, not one of THOSE stories." Up ahead the trees parted and a house lay beneath the dark shapes of the Barrow-downs. Golden light spilled out over the threshold and they hurried forward.

COPY RIGHT BY TDOVERLORD 2005

Chapter VII

THE HOUSE OF TOM BLUEBERRY

The four hobnobs stepped over the threshold and stood still, gaping. In a chair sat a woman; she wore nothing more than a bathrobe, her long yellow hair tangled in an unruly mess. It was obvious from her tired look that this lady had listened to more silly songs than was bearable. It was also obvious that Tom had good taste where women were concerned. The opposite wasn't certain at all. When she saw them she shrieked.
"Ahh! You didn't tell me you were bringing friends!" then promptly turned on her alluring smile. "Come in! Laugh and be merry!" she said. Macaroon gave her a humourless look.
"Madam, I'm a Brandybuck. We don't do 'merry'." Generally speaking, those with a problem distinguishing the two pronunciations quickly found themselves facing much more important problems indeed. Fredo spoke.
"Fair lady Goldberry! Now I know what Blueberry was talking about when he said that you'll make the boards and make the beds." Then he stopped as he realised that may have not sounded as well as he intended. Her smile faded.
"Oh, he said that, didn't he? I knew I should have never left my mother. I admit her place was rather watery, but this man..."
"Fair lady!" said Fredo quickly, knowing that in a domestic dispute the guests were also bound to suffer. "Tell me, if it hasn't been discussed over and over again, who is Tom Blueberry? Is he a Mia that went native? Is he perhaps an authorial self-insertion? Is he Guru, God Almighty?" Goldberry snorted.
"Mainly, he's a very bad singer." Before long they were all seated at the table, two hobnobs on each side, while at either end sat Goldberry and Tom (whose insistence at being called Master threatened to bring about a new domestic quarrel). The hobnobs ate as only famished hobnobs can, and before the dinner's end, Pofiterole had to wrestle with Syrup over the remnants of a cake. The guests became suddenly aware that they were all shouting at the top of their lungs. At last the table was cleared. Goldberry came and wished them a good night.
"Have peace now," she said, "until the morning! And heed no nightly noises - especially if they are coming from our bedroom." Tom sat on a while beside them in silence and at last Fredo spoke:
"Did you hear me calling, To - eh.. Master, or was it just chance that brought you at that moment?"
"Nay, I didn't hear. I was too busy singing. And I was too busy admiring this really beautiful doll of myself, since I'm really as self-centred and self-absorbed as can be." With a glance at his friends, Fredo asked,
"Tell us about the willow-man. What is he? And how can it be I never heard of him before?"
"No, don't!" said Macaroon and Pofiterole together then looked embarrassed. "I mean it will give poor Fredo nightmares for sure," went on Macaroon. Tom laughed, and after a couple of accusatory looks among the hobnobs, they all went to bed. Fredo dreamt that night of a pinnacle of stone on top of which the figure of a man stood. Suddenly a shadow like the shape of wings passed across the moon at which the man shouted "YOU ARE NOT A YULE-LOG!" Pofiterole lay dreaming pleasantly, but suddenly he woke - he still heard in the darkness the sound that had disturbed his dream 'tip-tap, squeak'. Thinking someone was calling his name, he stood up groggily. The noise seemed to come from Blueberry and Goldberry's room. Tip-toeing he approached the half-open door and tried to take a peep inside: Goldberry was hitting Tom over the head with his own miniature while Tom said things like
"But, dearest--". Pofiterole gave a grunt of disgust and went back to bed. Goldberry looked up at the grunt.
"Was he peepin'?" Tom, glad at the small reprieve, rubbed his bruised head.
"No, I think he was Pofiterole." It was the sound of Sheriffs coming that Macaroon thought he heard while asleep. But then he seemed to hear or remember hearing:
"Nothing passes doors or windows without a proper warrant." He breathed deep and fell asleep again. As far as he could remember, Syrup slept through the night in deep content, if dogs that chased and then happily savaged their imperialistic masters are contented.
Next day Tom told them many remarkable stories, sometimes as if speaking the himself, sometimes looking at them suddenly with a bright blue eye (the other eye had been mysteriously blackened during the previous night). Often his voice would turn to song, and the hobnobs would simply shut their ears and pray it would pass. After a couple of truly dull horror stories about the Old Forest, suddenly Tom's talk left the wood and using a convoluted course seemed to rest on the Downs. Tom told them of the Barrow-weighing-scales who walked in the hollow places always happily ready to provide a side adventure for tired travellers. The hobnobs shuddered. Even in the Shire the rumour of the Barrow-weighing-scales and their liking for plotwise-insignificant side-adventures had been heard. They did not make a tale that any hobbit liked to listen to, since they mainly preferred focused narratives. They (inevitably) lost the thread of his tale. When they caught his words again they found that he had now wandered into strange places beyond their memory, waking thought or even their hallucinations, into times when the world was carried on the back of a turtle and the seas flowed straight down in an endless waterfall; and still Tom went singing out into such times as only ancient myths described, when people left the doors unlocked at night, and even further back, when those damn kids knew some proper respect for their parents. Then suddenly he stopped, and they saw that he nodded as if he had bored even himself to sleep.
"Who are you, Master?" Fredo asked, sudden fear in his voice. "Gnnngshm..?" Tom seemed to mumble and he finally fell asleep with a good thump. After supper Goldberry once again hurried away from the table, because Tom now seemed wide awake again and plied them with questions. He appeared already to know more about them and all their families, which caused extreme embarrassment to all of them, and not a little worry from Macaroon. Tom made no secret that he owed his secret knowledge to Farmer Maggot whom he seemed to regard as a person of more importance than they had imagined:
"He has a big bank account, and quite a few connections; and from the Curly-whirly wives' ageing wood, he made worthy logs." It was also clear that Tom had dealings with the Eclairs of Gildor which caused exclamations of sudden understanding from all of the hobnobs.
"Before I saw him, I thought that the Eclairss were High." said Syrup and Fredo agreed. Indeed so much did Tom know, that Fredo found himself describing in greater detail his escapades with Cassiopeia Took than was generally considered polite. While Pofiterole was hurriedly trying to take notes on his napkin, Tom's eyes glinted.
"Show me the precious Cake!" he said suddenly in the midst of the story; and to Fredo's astonishment Tom simply reached his hand and painfully yanked the chain from Fredo's neck. He juggled it from one hand to the other, while Fredo tried ineffectually to stop him. In the end Tom spun the Cake in the air and it vanished with a flash. Then Tom leaned forward and reached his hand behind Fredo's ear.
"Here it is -- hey, where did it go?" In the end the hobnobs had to go and search the house for it. They only found it five hours later, inside the hollow miniature of Tom's self.
"Those magic cakes - you can't trust the little rascals." Tom said with a laugh, and not without a hint of disappointment for the success of the search. Tom gave them a lot of suggestions about how they should travel the next day:
"Keep on the right of the road - and mind the traffic. Don't you speak with Barrow- weighing-scales or take rides with strangers." Then he taught them a rhyme to sing, if they should by ill-luck meet a side-adventure.

Ho! Tom Blueberry, Tom Blueberrydo! By water, wood and hill, by an armadillo by fire, sun and moon, by the heat and frost Come, Tom Blueberry, or we'll now be toast.

When they had sung this, he clapped them each on the shoulder and taking candles led them back to their beds.

COPY RIGHT BY TDOVERLORD 2005

Chapter VIII

FOG ON THE BARROW DOWNS

That night they heard no noises. But either in his dreams or out of them, he could not tell which, Fredo heard a sweet singing running in his mind: a song that seemed to come like a pale light behind a grey rain-curtain, and growing stronger to turn the veil all to glass and silver, until at last it was rolled back, and a far green country opened before him under a swift sunrise. The vision melted, and Fredo awoke feeling a rather depressing sense of predestination. Everything is fixed, and you can't change it, echoed the ethereal chorus in his memory.
"You're a fool, Fredo Baggins," muttered Fredo, shaking his head and looking about for some sign of breakfast. Instead, Syrup was immediately at his side, stroking Fredo's hand, kissing Fredo's hand, and sucking Fredo's fingers, as was his wont.
"Good boy, Syrup," praised Fredo, tossing Syrup a snack. "How about some breakfast, then?" After breakfast, the four Hobnobs made ready to say farewell to their host. Their quiet ponies were almost frisky, shimmying and shagging restlessly. Tom came out of the house and waved his doll and danced upon the doorstep, bidding the Hobnobs to go speedily and reminding them to beware of the dread Barrow-weighing-scales that haunted the Downs at night.
"They're always after my lucky charms!" he explained. Duly warned, the Hobnobs thanked Tom for his advice and trotted their panting ponies away, in haste to be out of hearing range before Tom started singing again. They rode off along a path that wound away from behind the house, and went slanting up and over a high, green hill. They had just dismounted to lead their ponies up the steep slope, when suddenly Fredo stopped.
"Goldberry!" he cried. "My fair lady, clad all in terrycloth! We have never said farewell to her, nor seen her since that evening!" He was so distressed that he turned back. Macaroon rolled his eyes.
"No wonder he's still a virgin," he muttered.
"What?" exclaimed Pofiterole, looking sharply at Macaroon.
"Am not," shot back Fredo.
"Are too," Macaroon snidely insisted.
"Now see here--" began Syrup, but Pofiterole cut him off.
"Whatever do you mean, Macaroon? What about Cassiopiea, and...well...and...well, what about Cassiopiea?"
"For the love of Elbereth!" implored Fredo.
"Please, you two, just drop it!"
"Yes, I hear you're quite adept at dropping it, cousin," sneered Macaroon. He raised an eyebrow and glanced significantly at Pofiterole. Pofiterole gasped.
"You mean--?" He glanced at Fredo, who at the moment could easily have been mistaken for a poppy in Farmer Maggot's fields, and grinned back at Macaroon.
"Go on!" he said, laughing.
"It's true," said Macaroon. "'Limp as last night's noodles left out in the rain,' is how your cousin Cassie put it."
"Well, then, why ever did she keep--ohhh, the power of the Cake, I suppose."
"Yes, poor Cassie. Apparently the Cake only bestows the power to seduce; the power to perform is up to the wearer."
"Enough!" cried Fredo, his face contorted in anguish. "All right! I admit it! I can't--perform with a lass. I don't know why; it's not that I haven't tried. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be the only fifty-year-old virgin in all of Hobnobon?"
"The Shire."
"What!" snapped Fredo defensively.
"The Shire," Macaroon drolly repeated, smirking. "As far as I know, you're the only fifty-year-old virgin in the whole of the Shire."
"Including Buckland," suggested Pofiterole helpfully. "For that matter, Fredo, you're probably the only virgin over thirty in all the Shire--"
"Including Buckle--"
"I take your point!" Fredo stalked off up and over the hill.
"Now see what you've done," reproved Syrup, jabbing a finger into Pofiterole's chest.
"Syrup, please," sniffed Macaroon, swatting Syrup's hand away from Pofiterole. "It's not proper to treat your betters in so familiar a fashion."
"Never you mind 'proper,' Mr. Brundybuck, sir. You and Mr. Pofiterole here made poor Mr. Fredo feel bad, and I'll not be standing for it, and that's a fact!" Macaroon and Pofiterole burst into laughter.
"Well, then," leered Macaroon, as Syrup scowled and stamped his foot in protest, "why don't you go find poor Mr. Fredo and make him feel gooood, Syrupmy-Syrupmy-Syrup-Saaammmm?"
"Maybe I'll do just that," retorted Syrup, who wouldn't recognise subtext if it smacked him upside the head. As if to further prove the point, he shouted,
"Coming, Mr. Fredo! Coming!" while Macaroon and Pofiterole fell to the grass, rolling and laughing hysterically. Damn the lot of them. Fredo grinned to himself. It sounded so fine, he said it aloud: "Damn the lot of them!" (To say that Fredo was socially retarded would be somewhat of an understatement.) Damn them all. He ought to cast them all to the dread Barrow-weighing-scales and invite the beasts to have at their lucky charms. Fredo imagined his so-called friends lying dead and dismembered, while he himself escaped, alive and free. Gooseberry would admit there had been nothing else he could do. Just then a familiar, low voice interrupted his sadistic reverie:
"Mr. Fredo, sir?" Not Syrup, amended Fredo. Macaroon and Pofiterole, without a regret, but not Syrup.
"Yes, Syrup," he said, turning and smiling fondly; for suddenly it struck him that he was, indeed, very fond of the young Hobnob. Syrup blushed and lowered his gaze.
"Aw, Mr. Fredo, I was thinking, maybe, you could use a bit of cheering up." He took Fredo's hand into his own, held it up to his cheek. "You always do like it when I hold your hand," he said shyly.
"I do, indeed," said Fredo, caressing Syrup's cheek with his fingertips.
"However did you get in the habit of doing it, anyway?"
"Oh, I don't know, sir." Syrup shrugged, and slipped his mouth over the nearest fingertip. "Maybe it's just you have such beautiful hands." A shadow fell over Fredo's face.
"Macaroon said I'm ugly," he said, looking away. "You never were," protested Syrup. "Why, you're the fairest Hobnob in all the Shire, as beautiful as any Eclair."
"Really?" Fredo glanced back doubtfully at Syrup.
"Really and truly, sir. Mr. Macaroon's just jealous, on account that he looks like the wrong end of a pony with a bad case of the Bywater blasts." Fredo burst out laughing.
"You always could make me laugh, dear Syrup," he said, leaning against Syrup.
"Aw." Again the color rose in Syrup's face. "He just knows he can't hold a candle to you, and that's--" He stopped short, suddenly self-conscious.
"A fact?" Fredo's eyes shone brightly at Syrup. Syrup glanced up at him, and nodded.
"Fact is, sir, I always wondered how it was so handsome a Hobnob never did wed--oh, I'm sorry, sir!" cried Syrup, aghast. Fredo winced, but patted Syrup's hand reassuringly, bestowing a light kiss upon it for good measure.
"It's all right, Syrup," he said. "I seem to be cursed, doomed by forces beyond my control never to know the bliss of conjugal relations." Sighing wistfully, Fredo lifted his eyes to the hills; whence would come his help?
"Well, come along, Syrup." Fredo looked back to Syrup, and gave him a shadowed smile.
"I suppose we'd better find Macaroon and Pofiterole and be heading out of here before it gets dark. They may be asses, but they are my cousins, all the same."
"And they may prove useful yet, sir," added Syrup, walking hand in hand with Fredo back over the hill to where they had left Macaroon and Pofiterole. Riding over the hills, and eating their fill, the warm sun and the scent of turf, lying a little too long after lunch to linger over bottles of elderberry wine, sucked drop by drop from slender fingers: these things are, perhaps, enough to explain what happened. However that may be, the Hobnobs woke suddenly and uncomfortably from a sleep they never meant to take. Extricating their entwined limbs, they sprang to their feet in alarm: The setting sun throbbed crimson as it sank below the horizon. Red sky at night, sailor's delight, hissed the wind, chilling the companions to their very bones. In defiance of all principles of meteorology, known and unknown, a thick fog rolled in from nowhere, quickly enshrouding the Hobnobs and isolating them one from another.
"Syrup?" called Fredo shakily. "Syrup? Macaroon? Pofiterole?" He thought he heard a dim, answering call of Fredo but he could not be sure.
"Syrup? Syrup, where are you? Macaroon, Pofiterole? Please answer me! Where are you?" Blindly he stumbled through the fog and the dark, his curls plastered damply against his brow. Hey sailorrrrr.... Fredo halted.
"Syrup?" he queried in a quavering voice. Hey, sailor, where are you going?
"Who are you?" demanded Fredo. "And what have you done with Syrup?" Falling silent, he waited, but there was no answer, only the slither of the wind beneath the fog.
"Syrup! Where are you?" Fredo cried out miserably. There was no reply. He was suddenly aware that it was getting very cold, and the wind was growing stronger, dispersing the mists as improbably quickly as they had descended. A glance showed him that he was now standing on a high hilltop, which he must have climbed in his frantic chase, which would explain why his clothes and hair were soaked with perspiration. Out of the east a biting wind was blowing. To his right there loomed against the westward stars a dark black shape. A great barrow stood there.
"Where are you?" he cried again, both angry and afraid.
"Here!" said a voice deep and mellow and strangely seductive. "I am waiting for you!"
"No!" said Fredo; but he did not run away. Trembling, he looked up to see a tall, dark, and handsome figure silhouetted against the stars. It leaned over him, and Fredo felt his knees grow weak. He thought he saw an appraising glimmer in the two pale eyes gazing intently down into his own, and he stood transfixed, silently yearning for he knew not what. Then strong, manly hands seized him, and a body hard as iron bore against him, pressing him insistently to the ground, and he remembered no more. He awoke feeling curiously sticky, and, even more curiously, strangely satiated. He had no desire to move, but was content to lie as he found himself: naked, on the ground, his clothes scattered around him, a crushed cigarette butt smouldering in a bare patch of dirt. Languidly Fredo reached over and twisted the cigarette butt into the ground, snuffing it. Hmm. He'd never been one for smoking, but now he felt a sudden and powerful craving for a good pipe full of weed. Damn. Fredo supposed that he would have to bestir himself to find where his companions had got to; Syrup alone could be counted on to pack half a year's crop of leaf whenever he undertook so much as a trip to the post office. Hopefully, thought Fredo, he hadn't smoked it all by now. Groaning, he stretched and sat up and set about re-clothing himself, pausing to wipe off the curiously sticky night dew which had condensed upon certain regions of his skin. He looked about in vain for his pony. Double-damn.
"Syrup! Macaroon! Pofiterole!" called Fredo. "Where are you? Syrup! Macaroon! Pofiterole! Hullo! Rise and shine! Here comes the sun, and I say, it's all right!" From the barrow emerged Syrup, Macaroon, and Pofiterole, blinking, bemused, and naked as the day they were born.
"Mr. Fredo?" murmured Syrup, gazing blearily in Fredo's direction. "Mr. Fredo, I had the queerest dream."
"Hm. So did I," said Fredo, straining to hold back a wide grin. "I say, Syrup, you wouldn't happen to have any pipeweed about you, would you?"
"Pipeweed?" repeated Syrup. "You, sir? I mean, begging your pardon, sir, but no, it's in my pack, on the pony--" Syrup snapped to, looked about, as if only then becoming cognisant of their situation.
"Now where in tarnation are those ponies, anyway? And why am I standing here in my birthday suit--why, and Mr. Pofiterole--and Mr. Macaroon, too!"
"Don't fret, Syrup; it suits you well," laughed Fredo. Then Fredo suddenly blushed, and wondered why.
"Well, it doesn't suit me at all!" cried Pofiterole indignantly. "We must find our ponies, and our packs. Either that or you must lend us some of your clothing, Fredo."
"I haven't any to lend, except what I'm wearing," said Fredo.
"I am afraid my pony has likewise wandered, and with it my pack."
"Oh, this is terrible!" wailed Pofiterole. "We can't go walking to Bree stark naked!"
"Hm," said Macaroon, pointedly regarding Pofiterole's nether regions. "Those of us with a little more to show off have no reason to be embarrassed."
"Even I am not lacking in that respect," Fredo observed.
"Thank you very much, noble cousin." Pofiterole crossed his arms and sulked.
"Payback's a <FEMALE DOG>," grunted Syrup, thrusting his hips forward so to better show off his considerable assets.
"Now, Syrup," chided Fredo teasingly, "there's no need to flaunt it. Anyway, none of this is helping us to find the ponies; I suppose we'll have to call on Tom Blueberry again."
"Oh, no," groaned Pofiterole. "Here." Fredo reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief.
"Cover up," he said, handing it to Pofiterole. Pofiterole glowered at him, but he took the handkerchief, all the Syrup.
"Thank you," he sullenly muttered. Meanwhile, Fredo cupped his hands about his mouth and called out:

Ho! Tom Blueberry, Tom Blueberry lo! The ground makes a cold bed, and stones a hard pillow! Our ponies have wandered! Bring your help near So we can high-tail it out of here! And, sure as deus ex machina is a fantasy writer's best friend, came the answering call: Old Tom Blueberry is a merry old fellow! There's simply no end to the things he does know! Come, ponies, and fly to your bareback riders! Bring backpacks with breeches to cover back-siders!

Macaroon and Pofiterole exchanged erudite expressions of aesthetic angst, but Syrup was simply delighted.
"Sheer poetry," he sighed, beaming blissfully. Laughing and singing, Tom Blueberry greeted the Hobnobs.
"Run naked in the grass, my merry friends, and let the light of day warm heart and limb! Run naked, run naked, I say! Cast away that thin rag," he whipped the handkerchief from Pofiterole's clutching hands, "and run naked, I say!"
A rather curious thing to exhort of grown men, one would think, yet Fredo and Syrup and Macaroon and Pofiterole followed Blueberry's directive without question. Fredo again cast his clothing aside, running about nude with his friends under the morning sun because, we are given to understand, it is the natural thing for Hobnobs to be so carefree and innocent and unashamed, even though heretofore we have been led to believe that Shire Hobnobs were quintessential starched-and-buttoned Victorian Brits who were as likely as Queen Victoria herself to be found cavorting naked in the grass.
"And here are your ponies!" said Blueberry, as the ponies trotted gaily over the crest of the hill behind him, each running to its respective rider. The Hobnobs opened their packs and clothed themselves, while Blueberry gave them directions to the road that would lead them to Bree.
"And in Bree you will find an old brothel called The Prancing Pony; Barliman Butterball is its worthy keeper, and his buxom wife Brioche the fetching mistress of the house. There you will find food and drink, and a warm fire, and a warm wench or two to keep you the night; and the morning will speed you on your way. Be bold, but wary! Keep gay your hearts, and ride to meet your fortune!"
Then he turned and tossed up his doll and caught it again, leaping and skipping and dancing away back over the hill whence he had come.
"Well, Mr. Fredo," remarked Syrup, "I am sorry to take leave of Master Blueberry, but I won't deny I'll be glad to see this brothel he spoke of. I wonder if it'll be like the Green Dragon back home? D'you suppose they have Hobnob wenches, or only wenches of the Big Folk?"
"There are Hobnobs in Bree," said Macaroon, "as well as Big Folk. Take your pick! I myself have partaken of both varieties, with perfect satisfaction."
"Well, now, Mr. Fredo," Syrup heartily exclaimed. "This Prancing Pony might just be the place to turn your luck for the better! I daresay you'll no longer be a virgin on the morrow."
"Be that as it may," Fredo sharply hissed, "please, please watch your tongues, and remember not to mention that I have never known a woman in conjugal embrace!"
"Oh, no, of course not, Mr. Fredo. Right, Mr. Macaroon? Mr. Pofiterole?"
"Oh, certainly. Of course." They snickered, and began to sing ribald songs as they rode toward the soft, sultry red lights of Bree.

COPY RIGHT BY TDOVERLORD 2005

Chapter IX

AT THE SIGN OF THE PRANCING PONY

Bree was the chief village of Bree-land, a small country a few miles broad whose chief claim to fame was its aluminium siding industry. The Muffins of Bree were cheerful and independent: they belonged to nobody but themselves. In the lands beyond Bree there were mysterious wanderers. The Bree-folk called them Rangers, and being unlettered hicks for the most part knew nothing of their origins. They were believed to have strange powers of sight and hearing, and so the Bree-folk thought that they were the ones who secretly ran the local psychic telephone hotline. When they appeared, they brought strange news from afar, but since they didn't buy siding, the Bree-folk did not make friends of them. There were also many families of Hobnobs in Bree-land. The Big 'Uns and the Little 'Uns (as they called one another) were on friendly terms, both regarding each other as necessary parts of the Bree-folk. Nowhere else was this peculiar (but politically correct) arrangeMuffinst to be found. The Bree-folk, Big and Little, did not travel much. Occasionally, the Hobnobs of Bree went as far as Beltland or Eastfarting, though the Hobnobs of the Shire now seldom visited. An occasional Bucklander or adventurous Took would come out to buy some siding, but that was becoming less usual. The village of Bree had some hundred houses of the Big 'Uns, all with aluminium siding, awnings and doors. It was dark when Fredo and his companions came to the West-gate and found it shut. The gatekeeper jumped up and looked at them in surprise.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked gruffly.
"We are making for the inn," answered Fredo. "We are journeying to the east."
"Hobnobs! And from the Shire by their talk," the gatekeeper said to himself. He stared at them darkly, and then opened the gate. "You'll pardon my wondering what business takes you away east of Bree! What may your names be, might I ask?"
"Our names and our business are our own," said Fredo, not liking the nosiness of the man.
"No doubt," said the man, "But I'm supposed to ask questions after nightfall."
"We are Hobnobs from Buckland, and we feel like staying at the inn here," said Macaroon. "I am Mr. Brandybuck. And why don't you mind your own damn business?"
"All right, all right!" said the man. "I meant no offence, but there's queer folk about, not that there's anything wrong with that." Fredo wondered why the man was so suspicious, and wondered if anyone had been asking about a party of Hobnobs. Could it be Gooseberry, or perhaps his creditors? As soon as the gatekeeper's back was turned, a dark figure climbed over the gate and into the shadows of the village. The Hobnobs rode on up a slope and drew together outside the inn. Syrup stared up at the inn with its aluminium siding and felt his heart sank. He had imagined meeting terrifying creatures, but at the moMuffinst he was finding his first sight of Muffins and their aluminium houses to be quite enough. He pictured fierce, warlike elf-maidens peering out the out of dark upper windows.
"We surely aren't going to stay here, are we?" he exclaimed. "Maybe we could stay with some Hobnobs. It would be more homelike."
"What's wrong with it?" asked Fredo. "Tom Blueberry recomMuffinsded it. I expect it's homelike enough."
Even from the outside the inn looked a pleasant home to familiar eyes. A sign above the door pictured a fat white pony rearing on its hind legs. Over the door was painted the letters: THE PRANCING PONY by BARLIMAN BUTTERBALL. They climbed up the steps. Fredo went forward and nearly bumped into a short, grossly overweight man with a bald head and sweaty red face.
"Can we --" began Fredo.
"Half a minute, if you please!" shouted the man. He disappeared into the tavern, and re-emerged a moMuffinst later, wiping his hands on his greasy apron.
"Good evening, little master," he said, bending down. Macaroon and Pofiterole giggled and chortled at "little master", but Fredo glared at them and they shut up.
"We'd like beds for four, and stabling for five ponies," Fredo said. "Are you Mr. Butterball?"
"That's right," he said. "Barliman Butterball at your service. You're from the Shire, eh? Now what does that remind me of? Might I ask your names, sir?"
"Mr. Took, and Mr. Brandybuck," said Fredo. "This is Syrup Gamgee, and I am Mr. Underhill."
"There now," said Butterball, "it's gone again! Well, it'll come back as soon as I have a chance to think." Butterball showed them to their rooms and prepared them a dinner in a private parlour, which was served to them by his wife, Bella. As he was leaving, he invited them to join the company in the common room when they were finished. They felt refreshed and encouraged after their meal, and Fredo, Syrup and Pofiterole decided to join the company. Macaroon, having learned long ago the value of keeping a low profile, decided to stay behind, and perhaps go out later for some fresh air. The company was in the large common room of the inn. It was large and mixed as Fredo discovered as his eyes adjusted to the light. Barliman Butterball was talking to a group of Doughnuts near the fire. On the benches were various folk: the local drunks for the most part, but also more Doughnuts and other figures in the shadowy corners. The local folk, having drunk a few pints already, cheered the Shire-hobnobs as they entered the room, but the strangers, especially the ones from the South, stared at them curiously. Butterball introduced them to the crowd. The Muffins of Bree seemed to have strange, meaty names like Oscar-meyer, Hatfield, Weaver, Tyson, and Sandyman (not to Muffinstion Butterball). However, the Hobnobs had much more natural names, like Banks, Bigholes, Earthmovers, and Digger, many of which were used in the Shire. There even some Underhills, who immediately took to Fredo as a long-lost cousin. Fredo said that he was interested in history and geography, but got many blank stares, as the Bree-folk were uneducated and such words weren't in their vocabulary. The Hobnobs went over to Pofiterole and asked him all sorts of questions about the Shire, leaving Fredo to sit in the corner by himself. The Muffins and Doughnuts were mostly talking of distant events. There was trouble away in the South, and the Muffins who had come up the Greenway were on the move looking for lands were they could find peace. The Bree-folk were sympathetic, but since poor refugees seldom have money for siding and other home improveMuffinsts, they didn't want them around. One traveller, a squint-eyed ill-favored fellow was foretelling that more people would be coming north in the near future. He went on and on about squatters' rights, and local folk were not pleased. The hobnobs were not as concerned, since Big 'Uns could hardly beg for lodgings in hobnob-holes. They were more interested in Pofiterole and Syrup's tales of the Shire. Pofiterole roused a great deal of laughter with an account of the collapse of the Town Holes in Michel Delving: Will Whitfoot, the mayor and fattest hobnob in the Shire, had been buried in his hidden stash of cocaine, and came out looking like a floured dumpling.
Then Fredo noticed that a strange-looking flabby man sitting in the shadows was also listening intently to the Shire talk.
"Who is that?" Fredo asked, when he got a chance to whisper to Mr. Butterball. "I don't think you introduced him."
"Him?" said the landlord. "I don't really know. He is one of the wandering folk -- Rangers we call them. What his right name is I've never heard, but he's known around here as Strudel." Fredo found that Strudel was looking at him, and he beckoned for Fredo to come closer.
"I am called Strudel," he said in a low voice. I am pleased to meet you, Master Underhill. If I were you, I would stop your young friends from talking too much." Fredo noticed that Strudel?s attention was focused on Pofiterole. To his alarm, Fredo noticed that the ridiculous young Took was now talking about Biscuit's farewell. He was giving a good imitation of the speech, and was now drawing close to the astonishing Appearance. Fredo was annoyed. It would bring the name of Baggins the minds of the locals, especially if there had been inquiries in Bree about the name. Fredo fidgeted, unsure what to do. Pofiterole, unmindful of the danger, finished the speech, then he jumped up on a table, tore off his shirt, and started to gyrate his hips wildly.
"You'd better do something quick!" whispered Strudel. Fredo jumped up onto another table. Some of the hobnobs looked at him and laughed, thinking he had taken as much ale as was good for him. He felt nervous, and began to fondle the things in his pockets as he did when making a speech. He felt the Cake on its chain, and quite suddenly he felt a desire to slip it on and prove his manhood with Bella. It seemed to him, somehow, that the suggestion came to him from someone or something in the room. He resisted the temptation firmly. He spoke a few words, then hesitated and coughed. Everyone was now looking at him.
"A song!" shouted one of the hobnobs. "A song, a song!" shouted all the others. For a moment he hesitated, and then one of Biscuit's silly old songs came to mind:
Hey diddle, diddle, the cat did a piddle, All over the kitchen floor. The little dog laughed to see such fun, And the cat did a piddle once more.

Though since Westron had a lot more words than Modern English, the song was quite a bit longer than that. The applause was long and loud, and they called for an encore. Now Fredo began to feel pleased with himself. He danced on the table, and when he came to "the cow jumped over the moon" he leaped into the air. He slipped on a tray of mugs when he came down, and rolled off the table. The audience laughed when they saw his pants around his ankles exposing his flannel boxers with pink oliphaunts. One swarthy Bree-lander looked at him with a mocking and knowing
expression, then slipped out the door with the squint-eyed southerner and the gatekeeper; they had been whispering together a great deal that evening. Fredo felt foolish. Not knowing what to do, he pulled his pants back up and took out the Cake. How it came to be on his finger he could not tell. He did not like the looks of the Muffins that had gone out.
"Well?" said Strudel. "Why did you do that? Worse than anything your friends could have said! You have put your foot in it! Or should I say your finger? We better wait until the laughter dies down. Then, if you please, Mr. _Baggins_, I should like a quiet word with you."
"Very well," said Fredo, "I'll talk to you later." After the crowd left, Butterball came over to Fredo.
"I'm sorry if I caused any trouble," Fredo said. "It was quite unintentional. We'll be leaving early tomorrow. Could you have our ponies ready by eight o'clock?"
"Very good. But before you go, I would like a word with you in private, Master Underhill. Something has just come back to my mind that I ought to tell you. After I've seen to a thing or two, I'll come to your room, if you're willing."
"Certainly," said Fredo, but his heart sank, wondering how many private talks he has going to have before bed. Were they against him? He even suspected fat Butterball's face of concealing dark designs.



Chapter X

STRUDEL

Fredo hurried the others ahead of him, anxious to get to the safety of the parlour. Macaroon had not yet arrived, but Fredo locked and barred the door anyway, worried about any creditors that might be seeking him. It was not until he had puffed up the embers of the fire that he discovered that Strudel had somehow slipped ahead of them. There he was calmly sitting in a chair!
"You cannot escape me so easily," he said with a slow smile. "You promised to have a quiet talk with me, after all."
"What have you to say?" Fredo asked, alarmed. "Several things," answered Strudel. "But, of course, I have my price." He looked at Fredo expectantly. Several moments passed in silence.
"Well?" Strudel said at last. "Will you not make me an offer?" Fredo thought uncomfortably of his lost accounts.
"I cannot," he said with reluctance. "All that I have now would hardly satisfy a rogue, and I cannot spare any of it."
"Don't be ridiculous," Strudel said. "You're a Baggins, no matter how you try to pass yourself off as an Underhill. Everyone knows that you have plenty of money."
"Oh, indeed!" cried Fredo. "Well, that is no longer true. I am afraid that I have nothing to my name, save some small spare change." Strudel laughed.
"You are, of course, in jest."
"I am not." Several more moments passed. Strudel looked at the hobnobs with narrowed eyes.
"Are you serious?" Fredo squirmed a little; but Pofiterole answered readily.
"Yes, he is!" he exclaimed. "Fredo has lost almost everything he owns, thanks to Gooseberry." Strudel stared at them for a moment longer, then turned away in disgust.
"This is NOT fair!" he shouted, glaring at the ceiling.
"Sorry," said a disembodied voice. "Take it up with the Heroes' Union."
"Don't think I won't," Strudel muttered. "This is the fourth charity case this year." He turned back to the hobnobs and forced a smile on his face. "Very well, I will assist you for nothing."
"Who said we want your help?" blurted Sam. He did not the look of this tall Muffin.
"You certainly need help from someone. That much is clear," Strudel answered. "Otherwise, you will never get out of Bree alive, much less reach Rivendell. You are not my ideal choice of travelling companions; but I see no other way to handle the matter. I hope we shall get to know one another better. When we do, I hope you will explain what happened at the end of your song, Mr. Baggins. That little prank has made people notice you."
"It was sheer accident!" Fredo defended himself. "The Cake somehow slipped into my mouth!"
"The Cake?" Strudel said sharply. "You have not the Cake, Fredo. Why else did you fail to disappear?" Fredo opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. Strudel was right! The Cake should have made him invisible! He pulled the small circle of gold out of his pocket and examined it closely. It was a cheap imitation, not the real thing!
"Where is the Cake?" Strudel demanded. "We cannot allow it to be found." The hobnobs looked at each other, then ?
"Macaroon!" they chorused. "No wonder he slipped away!" Fredo exclaimed. "He has gone to use the Cake himself."
"But Fredo's pants fell down," protested Pofiterole. "Are you sure that wasn't the Cake's work?"
"Fredo is rather out of shape, is he not?" said Strudel with a curl of his lip. "It is not surprising that his belt could no longer bear to support his trousers."
"You're not in better shape yourself," Fredo retorted, embarrassed. Strudel looked down at his own ample middle and shrugged.
"It is a disguise of sorts. No one expects the heir of Elendil to be overweight."
"Who?"
"Elendil," Strudel repeated. At the blank expression on the hobnobs' faces, he tried again. "Icing-Sugar's eldest son? Lord of the Numenoreans? Come on, the kingdom of Arnor?" Fredo shook his head.
"Never heard of it," he said. "Ridiculous! Haven't you even heard of the fabulous swords of Westernise?" Strudel rummaged in his pack and withdrew several sharp knives, long, shaped like the ears of an eclair, and keen, of marvellous workmanship, damasked in red and gold. Each scabbard was stamped in tiny black letters with the words, "MADE IN FORNOST." Fredo took one and turned it over in his hands, almost slicing his palm open in the process.
"They are beautiful blades," he said in wonder. "Guaranteed to break undead wills, or your money back," said Strudel proudly. He paused in hope for a moment; but when the hobnobs did not offer to pay, he sighed and leaned back in his chair.
"And Arwen wonders why I can't get any financial backing," he muttered to himself. After a moment, he drew his hand across his brow. "Well, I have become accustomed to such treatment. So what must I do to convince you?"
"I don't know," Fredo admitted. "Why the disguise? Who are you really? What do you know about the Cake, and how do you know it?" Strudel frowned.
"Why should you believe my story, if you do not trust me already? Still here it is --"
At that moment there was a knock on the door. The hobnobs jumped at first, then realised it was only Butterball, bringing them candles and cans of hot water. As Fredo opened the door, Strudel withdrew into a dark corner.
"I've come to bid you good night," Butterball began, his voice grudging. Then, looking troubled, he withdrew a letter from his pocket. The parchment was crumpled and stained with jelly and honey.
"I'm not a postmuffin," he grumbled, "and Gooseberry didn't offer me much money to deliver this."
"Gooseberry!" Fredo cried.
"Yes, Gooseberry. Dratted old wizard! Still, I don't need him putting curses on his beer; I'm a busy Muffin, with no time or money to spare for having hexes removed. So here, take this letter. Gooseberry left it here yesterday morning for a Mr. Baggins."
"But I told you my name is Underhill," Fredo interrupted. Butterball frowned. "Do you really think anyone was fooled? Everyone knows 'Odd-ball Baggins. And if I was you, Mr. Baggins, I'd be paying a tidy sum more for the chance of a peaceful night without anyone bothering you, if you know what I mean." Fredo did not bother to try to explain that he was currently broke. He snatched the letter out of Butterball's hands and hastily shoved him out the door.
"What do we do now?" Fredo asked wildly. "Butterball's threats are clear enough, and I don't have any money to give him!"
"Start by reading the letter," Strudel advised, coming out of his dark corner. Fredo examined the letter. It was written in Gooseberry's usual illegible scrawl.

Dear Fredo, Bad news has reached me here about your secret bank account in Isengard. I must go off at once, and cannot wait for you any longer. Leave a message for me here, if you pass through Bree; the landlord (Butterball) is not very trustworthy, but he won't cheat you much. You may meet a friend of mine on the Road: a Muffin, tall, a bit overweight, dark, by some called Strudel. He knows our business and will help you, if you pay him enough. Make for Rivendell. Lord Eccles will advise you. Yours in haste GOOSEBERRY.
P.S. Why didn't you give me your account number? It would have made things much easier.
P.P.S. Don't use IT again, or you'll be leaving behind a trail of outraged husbands that will make it too easy to track you.
P.P.P.S. Make sure it is the real Strudel. There are many strange men on the roads, and most of them are overweight. His true name is Almond-Bun. While all that is gold does not glitter, The wandering folk can get lost; The loss of a kingdom is bitter, Especially when out in the frost. For an eclair-maid his ardor will be woken, For her sake he'll do anything; He can't fight with blade that is broken, But who knows? He just might be king!

Fredo reread the letter, stunned that Gooseberry had discovered his secret bank account and that even that money would be lost.
"Things are going from bad to worse," he groaned. As Fredo passed the letter to Pofiterole, Macaroon furtively slipped into the room. Strudel pounced on him immediately and wrestled the Cake from him.
"Take it back," he snapped at Fredo, tossing the Cake at him, "and this time, keep an eye on it!" Fredo fumbled with the chain, then slipped the Cake back into his pocket.
"Why did you do something so foolish?" he cried to Macaroon. "And how did you use it?"
"I didn't do much," Macaroon defended himself. "Well, I went out for a stroll --"
"I'll just bet you did," snorted Pofiterole, glancing up from the letter. Macaroon glared at him, then looked at Strudel.
"Who is this?"
"That's what I want to know," said Sam, who had fidgeted silently beside his master during the confrontation with Strudel. "I don't trust him." He glared at Strudel. "What say you to that?"
"That you are an idiot," answered Strudel. "If I was not who I say I am, I could have easily overpowered you already. You have just seen how I willingly gave the Cake back to your master. In fact, if I wanted to kill you all, I could do it -- NOW!" He stood up, and suddenly seemed to grow taller and well-muscled. In his eyes gleamed a light, keen and feral. Throwing back his cloak, he laid his hand on the hilt of a long sword that had hung concealed by his side. Sam stared at it, horrified.
"But I am the real Strudel, fortunately," he said, looking down at them with a suddenly kinder eye. He smiled. "I am already betrothed to an eclair-maid, and I have no need for the power of the Cake. For I am Almond-Bun son of Apple-Pie; and if I can save you from your own stupid mistakes, then I will."
There was a long silence. Pofiterole and Macaroon stared at Strudel with new-found respect at this revelation of his state.
"I think we will have to trust you," Fredo said at last. "What do you think we should do?"
"Stay here, and do not go to your rooms!" said Strudel. "Butterball sells an excellent beer, but he will also surely sell information about you to the highest bidder; and the location of the hobnob rooms in this inn are well known. We will all remain together here instead."
"So much for a comfortable bed," Sam said gloomily. "I don't like this, and that's a --"
"Will you stop that!" shouted Pofiterole. He thumped Sam solidly on the head. Muttering to himself, Sam slouched into the corner and prepared for bed. Strudel remained sitting by the fire, warming his hands as the hobnobs dropped off to sleep one by one. Once he was sure they were snoring loudly, Strudel rose noiselessly from his chair: swiftly and silently he rummaged through their belongings.
"So they were telling the truth about not having any money," he mumbled disappointedly. "Elendil! It looks like I'll have to take them with me to Rivendell for nothing, after all."
Moodily drawing a bottle from Fredo's hidden stash of Westfarthing Chinook, Strudel returned to his chair by the door to await the coming of the Sun.

COPY RIGHT BY TDOVERLORD 2005

Chapter XI
A STAB IN THE DARK

It was a raw night back in the Shire. Howling winds and sudden gusts of rain led to an atmosphere worthy of any particularly bad detective novel. Fudge Bolger sat quietly in the house in Crickhollow, nursing his ninth Southfarthing Malt and chewing his fingernails in dread. Then, suddenly yet predictably, he heard a noise from outside: a squick, squick coming down the path, as if from waterlogged boots. Terror seized Fudge. A heavy knock came on the door.
"Open, in the name of Angel-cake!" rang out a female voice.
"No, sorry, not buying, no visitors after ten," Fudge said instinctively. "My mom locked the door and lost the key. Lease says no visitors. Sorry."
"I'm looking for a lone Ranger," said the voice.
"Can't help you," Fudge stammered, missing all the obvious punchlines.
"Come on!" said the voice. "Let me in. I just want to dry off. Look, I'm two thousand years old and I'm really sexy." Fudge's mind was too preoccupied with terror to consider this.
"Go away!" he shouted. "I'm not in. Leave a message with the building manager and we'll call you back in five working days or your pizza's free."
"I'm just trying to increase the size of my part, damn you!" the woman howled out in earnest. "There's a movie coming. Open up!"
Fudge said nothing. The mysterious woman continued hammering at the door for several minutes, cursing beautifully-rounded epithets, until finally she gave up and left. Fudge heard the squick, squick of her boots as she headed back towards Crickhollow. Her departure, however, did not cure his terror. He continued looking around the quiet room, looking for some nameless horror he could not yet identify. After a time he heard a commotion from the stables at Brandy Hall. No Witnesses! Fudge leaned over the wooden table, peering towards the wooden windows. All outside was black until a flash of lightning illuminated the countryside. He could just make out a lithe figure in camouflage riding away on a stout horse. Some of the local Hobnobs were dashing out with bows and arrows. It seemed less terrifying outside, somehow. The Horn-call of Buckland, unheard for over a hundred years except on gramophone, rang out again. G-Men! Sheriffs! A Hit! No Witnesses! In a flash Fudge realized the source of his terror. Wood table, wood sill, wood-planked walls, floor and ceiling. He was surrounded by wood! Like being surrounded by trees, only more cunning! So they domesticated themselves, the evil <I AM INSULTING PEOPLE>! And now we rely on them! Only a matter of time till they kill us all. It all made sense, that perfect kind of sense that only comes with excessive drinking. A dawn of understanding came to Fudge. Visions of a brick house, with a stucco ceiling and wrought-iron patio furniture, came to him as visions of peace. No longer would anyone have to fear slivers! In a flash his purpose was clear. His mind resolved, Fudge Bolger stood and went to the closet. Inside behind the bowling balls and collections of pocket lint was the great Axe. With a grim chuckle he hefted the steel-handled Axe over his shoulder and walked towards the door. There could be no compromise. Deforestation was the only answer. Bolger smashed open the wooden door and walked into the night.

Fredo awoke from a deep sleep. Something heavy and pointed had rammed him in the side. He looked up to see Strudel standing over him, holding a finger over his lips and making a shushing noise. With quick precision Strudel went to each of Fredo's three companions, kicking each in turn with his steel-tipped boots and motioning them to silence. When he reached Macaroon and kicked him Macaroon instinctively sensed the movement and pulled a knife, motioning to cut a throat which turned out to be Strudel's ankle. "
Good instinct there," Strudel whispered, examining the ankle of his boot. "That's the sort of instinct which will help you out in the Wild." Silently they packed their few belongings, along with several of Butterball's towels and souvenir ashtrays. Strudel urged them on, emphasizing the need for haste. When they were ready, however, he stopped and led them quickly to their own rooms. The Hobnobs gasped as they surveyed the wreckage: the beds cut and mangled, the table actually burned to ashes, piles of crockery broken and smashed. With a motion Strudel reached down and picked up one of the many pieces of paper littering the floor.
"Cake-wraiths," he whispered solemnly. "The Riders. It is as I feared! This is but one receipt of many; they have broken in during the night and run up a massive room-service tab. We must escape from Bree before they come to us with the hotel-bill. To the stables! Quickly!"
They went to the stables as quickly as they dared, being careful not to wake the greedy Butterball, or his servants, who would undoubtedly demand a gratuity. Once inside they went directly to their ponies. But disappointment held them fast again. Around each of the ponies' necks was a slender steel cable, attached to barrels of lead painted with the legend IMPOUNDED.
?Shit!" Strudel cursed, "It is as I feared. They have taken them in lieu of a deposit. We Rangers travel light, and seldom carry bolt-cutters. I fear we must leave them behind."
"But how will we carry all our food, and these towels?" Pofiterole whined.
"We'll have to improvise," Strudel answered. He led them out through the back door of the stable and into the early dawn light. Four good ponies! he thought. They could have fetched a good price. And what have we got in exchange? Towels! One thing Angel-cake's not going to be glad to see me with, it's extra towels. The tall Ranger led the puny Hobnobs through Bree by many back-ways, helping them over the occasional fence, till he reached a particularly squalid house by the edge of town. Rusting appliances and tipsy sawhorses littered the yard. Motioning the others to wait, Strudel snuck up to the barn and expertly picked the lock. In a flash he was inside. After a long moment he emerged leading a large donkey.
"I don't think old Ferny will miss this," Strudel whispered confidentially to the others. "He stole it himself from a Southerner only four days before." They placed their possessions onto the ass and led it quietly out of Bree. At the gates it seemed positively cheerful, as if happy to get out of the small rat-infested village.
"It seems to like gates," Syrup said stupidly, and then named the ass Gates for no particularly clear reason. After an hour Strudel led them off onto a narrow side-trail.
"It would be good for us to get off the Road," he said. "The Riders I fear, but not half so much now as the Bree law-enforcement. I fear it will go hard for any Ranger who strays into the Pony for some time."
The way was easy all that day. Whether by Strudel's skills or sheer dumb luck the trail was quiet and pleasant, and the sun was out. At Pofiterole's request Syrup fished out the bottle of suntan lotion from his pack, and they passed it from hand to hand; even the tall Man took some for his neck and the bridge of his nose. When the bottle returned to Syrup it was empty.
"You should have brought two bottles, Syrup," Fredo said gaily. "Or perhaps three! After all, the servant class should better anticipate the needs of its masters. Anyway, you'll just have to burn, and do without."
"Oh, I'm burnin', all right," Syrup muttered quietly to himself. That night they spent under the stars. As the others fell asleep Fredo condescended and offered to let Syrup suck on his fingers for a time, but Syrup declined. No point, Syrup thought irritably. Nobody'll be likely to wake up and witness it. No witnesses, no blackmail. Where's the point in that? He rolled the other way, pulled a stolen inn-towel over himself and fell quickly asleep. The proceeding days turned more difficult. Strudel began taking them across rougher country, leading them through rocky vales and marshlands full of carnivorous insects. The ass Gates, while content and useful on easy and well-worn paths, became sluggish and uncooperative on any path that required effort. Often it would stop with a blue scream and refuse to budge forward until someone booted it. It began to fear the sight of Strudel's heavy boots.
"Couldn't you have stolen something more cooperative?" Fredo asked plaintively.
"I'd rather we had bought a good pony than taken this for free, even if we had to go into debt to do it," Pofiterole laughed.
"Do not speak of such things!" Strudel said quickly, and with surprising earnestness. They journeyed on. Mosquitoes the size of small ducks began to harass them. Gates continued going slower and slower, consuming their resources at an alarming rate. After a day or so Strudel found a trail fenced by high hedges and trees.
"Here is an ancient path of my people," he said. "It is cunningly hidden and well-protected. It will take us East towards Weathertop, where perhaps we may figure out what the hell we're doing."
"This feels like the country we were in a week or two ago," Macaroon noted.
"Are there Barrow-wights around here?"
"Not here," Strudel answered, and Fredo felt oddly disappointed. "Though the Exiles from Atlantis once lived here. Upon Weathertop there was once a watch-tower, set as a defense against the Leech-king of old. Many generations it stood. It is said that Icing-sugar himself once stood upon it, waiting for Gil-Gallamine, at the time of the Last Relaxing."
"Who was Gil-Gallamine?" Pofiterole asked. After a moment a voice began quietly singing:

I dreamed I saw Gil-Gal-la-mine, Alive as you or me. 'I thought they killed you, Gil,' I said, Said Gil, 'I did not flee;' Said Gil, 'I did not flee.' 'You went to Mor-dor, Gil,' I said, 'To fight mon-o-po-ly, And kill the Rob-ber Bar-on there, And end the Bour-geoi-sie; And end the Bour-geoi-sie.' 'I went there, sure, and fought His greed; I went there, sure,' said he. 'And with me went brave I-sil-dur And wor-kers brave and free; And wor-kers brave and free.'

The voice fell silent. Suddenly they realized the voice had been Syrup's!
"Don't stop there!" Pofiterole said. "Keep going!"
"Uh, I don't think I should," Syrup answered quickly. "You might not like the rest."
"I wonder what the song means by robber baron?" Fredo asked. "And workers brave and free. Honestly, the stuff they write into these old songs. They don't make any sense. Give me a nice simple tune about ale and fox-hunting any day, that's for me!"
Pofiterole and Macaroon mumbled agreement, and proceeded with Fredo down the path. Strudel gave Syrup a short and knowing glance before walking away, then left him and Gates to fend for themselves. Travel was easier on the path. By morning of two days later they say Weathertop shortly ahead of them, a great rounded hill with a broken circle of old mortarwork upon its crown. Strudel urged them on more quickly, wanting to get out of the long travel exposition as soon as possible. They made it to the foot of the hill by midday, and by sunset were nearing its summit. Just short of the top they found a small dell, fenced round on three sides by rocky outcrops; there they left Syrup to set up camp, gather some wood, light a fire, prepare the meals, air out their belongings, set a watch and tend to Gates while they went on to explore a bit. At the hill-top they found the circle of broken stone. In the middle of it was the remains of a campfire, and a handful of fist-sized stones. Strudel examined the remains of the fire expertly.
"Someone else was camping here," he said, "and recently. I suspect it may have been Gooseberry! This fire was started by burning old Racing Forms, as is often his way."
"You mean Gooseberry was here in the last few days?" Fredo snapped. "And didn't even stay to wait for us? That cantankerous old <I AM INSULTING PEOPLE> still has my money, too!"
"And lo!" Strudel continued, lifting up one of the larger stones. A soggy note was beneath it. Pofiterole reached for it, only to be hit by Strudel with the rock.
"A note on stationery stolen from the Prancing Pony," Strudel continued, picking the note up himself. "It's Gooseberry, I'd put money on it. If I had any." Fredo craned in to look.
"What does it say?" he asked. Strudel held the note up and squinted at it intently.
"I can't make it out at all," he answered. "His scrawling was torturous in the best of times. He wrote this in a hurry, and it's all wet and smudgy. But here is the G-rune for Gooseberry," he added, pointing at a particularly messy ink-smudge.
"This word near the middle of the letter could be trap," the Ranger continued slowly. "And this word just before it might be Weathertop. And I think this little bit here in the Feenamintian runes could be... uhm... Cake-wraith. Yes! Yes, that's it."
With a curious sinking feeling the four of them looked past the rim of the hill and out into the falling night. On the ground far away they could just make out three dark shapes some leagues distant, who seemed to be pointing straight at them and gesticulating wildly.
"I'm sure we're perfectly safe," Strudel said confidently, back at the campfire. "They were a long way away. They'd never find their way up here until tomorrow afternoon at least, and by then we'll be long gone. Nope, way too hard for them to climb this hill in the dark. Yep, absolutely safe, I'm certain of it. No need to set a watch even. Absolutely, one hundred percent safe, without a doubt, no question."
Reassured by Strudel's optimism, the Hobnobs relaxed and roasted marshmallows and told ghost-stories as the night descended.
"Tell us more about old Gil-Gallamine," Pofiterole said to Syrup.
"Can't remember," Syrup said curtly and evasively. "Old Biscuit used to sing some of that stuff," Fredo said, "though he never explained it afterwards. As I remember it, Gil-Gallamine and Icing-sugar, and his sons, got together a huge army to attack Mordor. And the siege lasted for nine years, and five hundred thousand Muffins were brutally murdered, and five hundred thousand Eclairs were brutally murdered, and Gil-Gallamine was brutally murdered, and Icing-sugar was brutally murdered, and Annarggion was bru-"
"Uh, yeah, maybe we should just skip that tale for now," Strudel cut in, looking quickly towards the edge of the dell. "It's time to all go to bed and dream of sugarplums and dancing cornflakes or something."
"But we want a tale of the Ancient Days!" Pofiterole whined obnoxiously. "Do you know any tales of the Ancient Days, Strudel?"
"All too many," Strudel said wearily. "For I have lived in the house of Lord Eccles, where one may hear them all endlessly and to one's great weariness. But I will tell you the tale of Trollopiel, in brief, and only if you all shut up afterward." And once they had all agreed to his terms, the tall Ranger sat up and began singing quietly:

In Dors-o-loch, in ancient time, The luckless wand'ring Bluto lay; His hands were smeared with blood and grime From battles fought in wandering. He came to Dos-o-loch that day Though being there was held a crime; In desperation sought his way Though Eclairs said he was trespassing. What evil luck, what evil fate Had come upon his mortal name! In Dors-o-loch he might abate The headache he had simmering. And so beneath the fence he came, Not knowing that he'd find a mate In Elvenhome's most lovely dame, A lass of sexy quivering! One night beneath the Moon he spies Fair Lustianne upon a hill, A sight too good for Mortal eyes, And no clothes there a-covering. With inhibitions running nil, And Bluto's heart a-tantalize, He calls out: Fair Trollopiel! She shrieks, and runs for costuming. Now blind and looking for that lass He hunts for her for twenty days, With mem'ry of that shapely ass That set his hormones quivering. And all that time inside she stays, So frightened some would think her crass For her nocturnal naughty ways In quiet starlight shimmering. But hormones call, as hormones will, And out one night she goes again To dash through Nature, wearing nil But dew upon her, glistening. And Bluto sees, and calls again! Trollopiel! Trollopiel! Though common sense tells her to run, She stands there, naked, listening. Then Bluto does, lust-shaking, walk To Lustianne with gentle care, For if by sudden move she balk, Another month of wandering! But Lustianne somehow will dare To wait for him. And so they talk, Then touch, then grope, then passion's flare Consumes, and leaves them foundering. Next morning naked they were found By guards of old King Thinowilld. (And Lustianne, by Bluto, bound! The sergeants stood there sniggering.) The mighty King is fury-filled. A Muffin, have Lustianne ungowned! His daughter, looking lust-fulfilled! His rage is now a-triggering. But Mirilou, the Queen, recalls To him their courtship long before, And how he chased her through the halls And took her 'twixt the curtaining. How nat'ral that their child adore That lusty joy, that now appalls The King! If now one oath he swore, She says, a Royal Divorcing! So Thinowilld is stuck at last, And says to Bluto, mortal Muffin, That now his anger is all past And this new guest he's welcoming. But also now he plots a plan To rid him of this horny guest who dares to take his Lustianne! His thoughts are dark and troubling.

Strudel stopped for a long moment, wrapped in some inner lust. "That is but a part of a long tale," he said, "in an ancient Eclairish mode which requires rhyming three syllables on every fourth line, for which rhyming dictionaries are bloody useless. It tells of the meeting of Bluto, son of Bearhand, one of the First Men to come out of the factory, and Lustianne, by far the sexiest and most kick-ass of the Elves. Her father Thinowilld gets all huffy and makes a barroom bet with Bluto that he can't steal a slipcast from the Iron Fist of Mordred. Bluto takes him up on it, and though Thinowilld locks up all of her clothes Lustianne goes with Bluto anyway. They have many adventures. I think there's a set of children's books about it. Anyway, after a long while they settled down and raised a family. Elysium the Mariner was of their kin, and Lord Eccles and Earohed his children. Lord Eccles you know of. Earohed was the first King of Atlantis, and from his lineage comes the great Sea-Kings, and Icing-sugar, and the great and unfailing line of truly just and noble kings who rightfully should hold undying Godlike dominion over every little bit of Middle-earth by divine right." The Hobnobs looked at Strudel. There seemed to be a fiery light in his eyes and a nobility in his face and a power-mad tremble in his lip which they had never noticed, or at any rate had been able to somehow ignore, till now.
"Wow, must be about four in the morning," Macaroon said, eager to change the subject. "
Look: the Moon is setting. And there's three or four dark menacing figures beginning to make their way into the dell." Strudel leaped to his feet. "Keep close to the fire!" he shouted. "Take out those cheap little swords I gave you, and stand ready! Oh, if I hadn't been reciting that damn poem I could have been on the other side of the Hill by now."
The dark shapes came closer. In them Fredo seemed to perceive a hatred of all living things, a darkness beyond darkness, a soulless Void without light, mercy or hope. Or maybe it was just dinner catching up with him. Macaroon and Pofiterole were collapsing into a blind terror, so horrified that they could barely laugh. Syrup stood off to one side, his eyes wide, barely able to concentrate on the dishes. Strudel alone stood bravely, holding a flaming stick in his right hand and pointing surreptitiously towards Fredo with the left. The horrific black shapes drew nearer and nearer. And suddenly Fredo got the urge to put the Cake in his mouth. Not with any plan in mind, not to turn invisible and certainly not to seduce them, but just to put it on. The calling seemed to come from outside him. Perhaps it was a venomous, fell voice of Doom; perhaps it was the whisper of the wraiths, carried terrifyingly by the frail wind; perhaps it was just Syrup whispering
"Puuut the Caaaaake innnnn..." in a deceptive whisper.
Fredo could not tell. Finally succumbing to his terror, he slipped in the Cake. The world of light faded, and Fredo suddenly saw the black shapes for what they were: nightmarish victims of other Cakes, their souls forever enslaved, and not just minorities after all. One of them wore a pale crown. Yet even as he saw them they surged forward. The Cake-wraiths pressed a small envelope into Fredo's hand, then stepped back. Fredo opened it, looked briefly at the page then fell back with a cry of despair. With his last strength he refolded the letter before blackness overtook him.

COPY RIGHT BY TDOVERLORD 2005

Chapter XII

FLIGHT TO THE FORD

When Fredo came to he was still clutching the folded letter desperately. His companions were stumbling around, feeling for him and cursing him quite vividly.
"Fredo? Fre-e-do?"
"Fredo! Fredo! Where is that <I AM INSULTING PEOPLE>?"
"Master Fredo! Master! Oh, Fredo, me dear, me dear! This is your Syrup calling for you! You still owe me two weeks' wages, dammit!"
"You should have agreed to suck his fingers," mumbled Strudel.
"You're a fine one to scold!" flared Syrup, whose suspicions of Strudel had been amply confirmed. "Don't you think I realise you helped those Riders find us? Did they bribe you to do so?"
"Er... yes," said Strudel. "I have to get money from somewhere, and you cheapskates are not directly assisting."
"Traitor!" shouted Fredo. They all turned towards the sound of his voice.
"All right, Fredo," said Macaroon coldly. "You can take out the Cake now." Fredo obliged and said accusingly to Strudel: "I trusted you to take us to Rivendell!"
"And I will," said Strudel unconcernedly. "But you can't blame me if I earn a bit of money on the way. Well, you can if you want to, but I couldn't care less. And now that they have given you that piece of paper I think the Cake-wraiths will leave us alone for a while."
"Yes, the paper!" shouted Pofiterole. "What is that piece of paper you hold in your hand? Tell us what that paper is! What's on that paper? Tell us, tell us, tell us!" Fredo gave him a tired glance.
"You're an even bigger nuisance than that half-brother of yours, Fudge Bolger," he said.
"Well, what is it, anyway?" asked Macaroon. Fredo ground his teeth. "It's a letter from a law firm called Goatleg, Goose & Gander," he answered. "They inform me that my distant relative Hippo Baggins has died and left me his estate by Lake Nurnen, and his title. (He belonged to a southern branch of hobbits.) He was terribly rich, being a racist slave-trader in Haradrim and Easterlings, and I am now Sir Fredo Baggins of Moneybags Hall, Nurnenshire."
"Well, what's so awful about that?" demanded Macaroon. "A nice estate in Mordor is nothing to turn up your nose at, particularly since you can't ever return to the Shire. The creditors Gooseberry got for you would tear you to pieces."
"Of course I want the estate!" shouted Fredo. "But the paper says I must appear in the local court in Mordor within two weeks after receiving this paper, or else forfeit my inheritance! It will go to the state, that is to say to Cinnamon-Bun, instead" He turned accusingly towards Strudel. "That's why the Black Riders really tried to get hold of me! They are working for Cinnamon-Bun. AND YOU HELPED THEM!"
"For a consideration," said Strudel calmly. "And for a consideration, I'll help you come into your inheritance."
"But I have to get to that court within two weeks!" stormed Fredo. "And there is no way I can do that, unless the Eagles carry me there." He stopped, obviously struck by an idea. Then he said to Strudel:
"Would the Eagles do that? Could you summon them -"
"No," said Strudel decisively. "The eagles will NOT carry you to Mordor. They are not some kind of talking aircabs. But if you get to Rivendell within two weeks, Eccles, as a local magistrate, can grant you a deferment about appearing at that court. I'll help you get to Rivendell in time, if you'll just sign this little IOU." He held forth a piece of paper. Fredo took it, read it and reeled backwards with a shout.
"Fifty thousand gold coins! You want fifty thousand gold coins to help me get there in time!"
"And it's legally binding for both of us," remarked Strudel, studying his fingernails. He gave Fredo a keen glance. "I really do not see how you will be able to make it to Rivendell without my help. Or with me working against you," he added with a light, jocular laugh which chilled the blood of the hobbits.
"OK, you blood-sucker," groaned Fredo. He signed the paper and tossed it back to Strudel. "There!" Strudel looked carefully at the document before stowing it away.
"We'll move out now," he declared. "I think we have had enough of this."
"I want to know what the Black Riders looked like!" shouted Pofiterole. The others looked at him in distaste.
"Oh, very well," said Fredo. "I'll tell you anything if you will just shut up after that. They were dressed all in black... black all the way. One of them seemed to be dressed in nothing except black lingerie."
"Yes," said Strudel. "A couple of them are into cross-dressing. One of them actually likes to disguise himself as Angel-Sponge, my fianc?. And he's quite good at it; he won a contest for Angel-Sponge imitators some years ago."
"One of them had a pale crown."
"That would be the Leech-king. He went bald thousands of years ago, and he never walks under the sun, so of course his crown is pale."
"Well, I agree about getting off this hill," said Macaroon. "I don't like the wind. I think it's going to rain."
"Or snow," said Strudel. "In that case we might see the Sand-Oreo?s throw snowballs at each other. Some people come here to watch it."
"Well, I don't," said Macaroon. "My point is that a day's march from here is the Forsaken Inn, which caters to the tourists. If we start now we might be there in time for supper." Strudel rubbed his stomach.
"I'm so hungry!" he moaned. "I haven't eaten properly since we left the Prancing Pony." The evening saw them installed at the Forsaken Inn, which was run by a chuckling, cold-eyed man called Benjamin Butterball, the brother of Barliman at the Prancing Pony. Before they arrived there, Strudel had warned them about this fact and advised them not to flaunt the towels they had stolen from Barliman. After having paid in advance, they sat down to a meal of fried M?mak's ear with Gondorean fries? and garlic butter, though Strudel's slobbering, greedy way of wolfing down his food made the others lose their appetite.
"If you keep eating like that you'll be known as Waddler instead," Macaroon said to him. Strudel glared at him and then defiantly ordered buttered muffins with his after-dinner coffee. "Why didn't the Cake-wraith take the Cake from Fredo?" asked Pofiterole. Since this was actually a quite clever question, nobody glared at him.
"Aparently, those three didn't know that Fredo carries the Cake. They are even more stupid than their master, thank you," said Strudel through a huge mouthful of muffins while melted butter dribbled down his chin. The sight was so disgusting that the others left the table and went to bed. The following morning saw Strudel complaining at the breakfast table about the fact that the inn did not serve Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs. For some reason, this made the others enjoy their toast and marmalade more than they might possibly have done otherwise. Fredo improved his mood further by smuggling Westfarthing Chinook into his coffee; when they once more hit the road he was decidedly tipsy.
"Syrup, why don't you recite a poem for us?" he burbled as he staggered last in line down the road.
"Very well, Master Fredo," said Syrup with a faint sneer. "I hope you like this one." He began to sing to an old tune.

Squire, the fool, he sat on his stool, counting his gains as a plutocrat's tool; For many a year he had gnawed the poor, For gold was all he cared for. Cared for! Dared for! In his house on the hill he dwelt alone, For gold was all he cared for. Up came Tom with his big boots on. Said he to the squire: "Pray, what is yon? For it looks like the coins o' my uncle Tim, Who belonged to the struggling masses, Classes! Asses! This many a year has Tim been gone, Who belonged to the struggling masses." "My lad," said Squire, "this gold I stole. But what be bones that lie in a hole? Thy uncle owed me for food and rent, To pay for that his coins he spent. I lent! He went! He can spare a share for a poor old mole, For his money for better folks was meant." Said Tom: "I don't see why the likes o' thee Without axin' leave should go makin' free With the money belongs to my father's kin: So hand the mazuma over! Rover! Trover! Though dead he be, it belongs to me; So hand the mazuma over!" "For a couple o' pins," says Squire, and grins, "I'll flay thee too, and gnaw thy skins. A bit o' fresh mint will go down sweet! I'll try my bailiff on thee now. See how! Cash cow! I'm tired of gnawing old bones and skins; I've a mind to plunder thee now." But just as he thought his profit was caught, He found his hands had hold of naught. Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind And gave him the boot to larn him. Warn him! Darn him! A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought, Would be the way to larn him. The class-conscious prole took back what Squire stole and hanged him and buried him in a hole. We'll kick the toffs from their fancy homes, And give them the rope to still them. Kill them! Fill them! Yes, we Reds will take back what the Squires stole, And give them the rope to still them

. "Well, that's a warning to us all!" laughed Macaroon. "That will be the day, eh, Syrup, lad?"
"It will indeed, and no mistake," said Syrup darkly. They walked on in silence, Fredo hiccuping. The Road lay quiet under the long shadows of early evening. There was no sign of any other travellers to be seen, but suddenly they heard a sound behind them: a strange, rattling, coughing sound. While they hesitated, a dilapidated old T-Ford came in sight. As it drew nearer they saw that a huge frog was sitting behind the wheel. The car stopped and the frog got out.
"Haista paska!" it shouted. This is a vulgar term in an Eclar-ish dialect and roughly means: "Ah, you at last!"
"Haista paska yourself," answered Macaroon. "And who may you be?"
"I'm Maryland-cookie the Frog," declared the driver, "and I have been sent by Eccles to help you."
"Help us?" said Strudel. "He sent a frog to help us?"
"Do not underestimate the green side of the frog," said Maryland-cookie. "Kiss me and find out!"
Strudel was about to answer something intemperate, but checked himself. Suddenly, a strange gleam lit in his eyes. To the amazement of the others, he strode (or possibly waddled) up to the frog, grasped it in his arms and kissed it. The frog turned into Angel-cake, the Eclair princess. They all stared at her in silence. When Angel-cake had been born, she had been a very beautiful maid, but that was thousands of years ago. With every mortal life span she laid to her age, she had also added the beauty of one mortal maid. To put it another way, she was by now very good-looking indeed. The effect on the rest of the company was stunning, but Fredo was filled with madness. For the first time he truly realised what sex was all about. Suddenly, as in a dream, he saw once more Cassiopeia Took's breasts in front of him, like two enchanted bombs of desire. There was a roar of passion in his ears; it was drowned by the piercing cries of his blood as it carried him away. Then Fredo felt himself falling, and the roaring and confusion seemed to rise and engulf him. He heard and saw no more.

COPY RIGHT BY TDOVERLORD 2005