2004 Barrow-Downs’ Birthday Celebration!

[piosenniel]

~*~ The Long Awaited Party ~*~

Rumors of the party were rife in Hobbiton and Bywater. Indeed, all the Shire was buzzing with news of the travelers on the Great East Road and the doings in the Party Field. The word, in fact, had spread in the four directions until all manner of creatures beneath the starry skies of Arda had heard whisperings of it carried on the breezes. Hearing the news, many had traveled from afar and were now staying in The Green Dragon Inn, near to bursting at its seams, or pitching tents in the fields of some accommodating Hobbit. And much of their time was spent in speculation and rubber-necking as the curious train of wagons and carts bore their goods and workers down the Great East Road, up the Bywater Road, turning north finally on Hill Lane.

A Southron troupe, all in a motley of parti-colored silks, stood up on the flat bed of their great wagon. Some played an enchanting melody on their curious instruments as others juggled hoops and bright striped balls. They answered no questions as they rolled along, only winked and nodded to the crowds that stood along the road. And one of them, a kohl-eyed woman from Khand, all in scarves and shining bracelets, threw paper-wrapped sweets from the basket in the curve of her arm. She laughed as the children, and to be sure a great many of the older folk, scrambled for the treats.

One old traveler, flicking the reins lightly against his cart horse as he passed, caused a stir of delighted whoops. He had taken the Bent Road to be here, bringing his special sort of entertainment to the party, the likes of which had not been seen in many, many ages.

But even he was silent as he nodded his head to the welcoming cries. His eyes twinkled with amusement and anticipation from beneath his hoary eyebrows as he passed by, and he kept an eye out, or both when he could spare them, for any who might ‘borrow’ a thing or two from his cart.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Clinging precariously to her brother's shoulders, the young lass flailed her arms in the air, trying to latch onto the lowest branch of an overhanging apple tree. She missed the limb by almost a foot, muttering words of frustration under her breath.

"Stop wiggling!" Holly Zaragamba commanded her brother in a stern voice. "If you'd stay still, I could pull myself up."

In recent days, workers had rumbled into Hobbiton, their carts overflowing with supplies, and had quickly constructed a thick wooden fence encircling the party field. All the Hobbits in the neighborhood could hear the intriguing sounds of saws and hammers, and even smell the enticing odor of food being prepared. Yet no one could get inside, or see anything at all except the topmost branch of the mallorn tree sticking out above the fenceline.

For most of the afternoon, Rory and his sister had searched for a peekhole and even tried to bore through the wooden planks, but had accomplished nothing at all. The front gate was still firmly locked despite all their efforts to push it open. As the sun went down, the overhanging apple tree remained their only hope.

"Look here!" Rory grinned and pointed at an upturned crate that one of the workers had left in the grass. Dragging the box near the fence, he climbed onto it, balancing his sister on his shoulders. With one valiant heave, Holly reached up and grasped the limb, slowing pulling herself up into the leafy branches until she could look out over the field.

"What do you see?" Rory demanded, his face wreathed with expectation.

"Ooohh! Lots of nice things to eat and drink, party decorations, and tables with mathoms. But wait...." Disbelieving, Holly rubbed her eyes. "There's something not so nice, too. It's a dark, scary hole, a grim place with the word "Barrow" over the door."

"'Burrow?'" Rory questioned, tripping over the unfamiliar word.

“Not a 'burrow,' silly! A 'barrow'. Whatever that is . . ."

Out of the dark recesses of the barrow came a commanding green hand, larger than anything Holly had ever seen. It was reaching out in her direction. With a shriek of terror, the lass came tumbling out of the tree, flattening her brother on the ground. The hand bypassed the two Hobbits and instead whacked up a note on the locked door:

~*~

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE BARROW-DOWNS!

On May 1, 2004, the forums at the Barrow-Downs reach the ripe (and I do mean ripe!) old age of FOUR! While the site itself is a bit older, the fourth anniversary of the opening of the forums is a cause to CELEBRATE!!!!! Therefore, we will have a PARTY in the Shire to celebrate the fourth birthday (uh, deathday?) of the Barrow-Downs forums and all members are invited!!!!!

PLACE: The Party Field in Hobbiton (located in the Shire Forum).

TIME: Saturday, May 1, 2004 beginning at 9:00 a.m. Pacific time through late Monday night, May 3, 2004.

DRESS: Middle Earth Wear – formal, if you wish, or just plain comfortable.

There will be an open bar, entertainment, and meals will be served buffet style.

COME CELEBRATE THE BARROW-DOWNS, AND PAY YOUR RESPECTS TO THE WIGHT!

(ANYONE TRYING TO SNEAK INTO THE PARTY BEFORE THAT DATE WILL BE DEALT WITH PERSONALLY BY ME)

Signed – The Barrow-Wight

~*~

Quickly scanning the placard, and noting the sharp words near the end, Rory and Holly took off for the Green Dragon where their family was staying at a dead run . . .

[piosenniel]

Pio took one last look at herself in the polished buckler that hung in her tent, near the Green Dragon Pavilion. It was almost time for the party to begin. And this year she was going as the Elf she’d always wanted to be. She grinned, as she adjusted the flame red wig and popped in the emerald green contacts. Crossing the field, she took note of the small barrow to her left.

Ah . . . good . . . the Guest of Honor had arrived. . . .

In the shade afforded by the tall mallorn in the middle of the field, The Party Tree, a curiously out of place mound had sprung up over the past few days . . . pushed itself up, rather, from the ground beneath the bright green field. It, too, was green, but of a mouldering hue . . . the doorway into it opening onto a deep, darkness from which a deep, sing-songy voice issued in sepulchral tones.

‘Throw me another word, Sharkey! I’m on a roll here!’

‘Handsel, then,’ came the acerbic reply of the Old Man’s voice.

‘Too easy by half!’ chuckled the Wight.

After the Bywater Battle was won
And Sharkû was gone, for his time was done,
The hobbits then wondered just where to begin,
So they turned naturally to the Green Dragon Inn,
Unboarded the windows, unlocked all the doors,
Invited all Fallohides, Harfoots and Stoors,
They filled all the chairs, and tables and stools,
And broke every one of The Chief’s stupid rules,
The first rule of which was the one about drinking,
And Sam was the one who was quickest in thinking
To climb on the bar to a boisterous cheer
And handsel the place with a splash of cold beer.

Pio could hear the Wight clapping his cold green hands together in delight as Sharkey muttered something incomprehensible. ‘If only he’ll stay in such a good mood when the well-wishers pin their birthday greetings to the tree or put their mathoms and gewgaws on his treasure table. I can’t afford to explain to Hizzoner, the Mayor, why Hobbits and other party goers have gone missing . . .’

She ran to the gates, one hand clapped on her head to keep the wig in place . . . time to announce the party is starting . . .

[piosenniel]

The moment she’d heard the first words ring out over the gate she regretted having given the out-of-work Elf the job of announcing the opening of the celebration. Quenyan! The misbegotten Elf was addressing the good folk waiting patiently at the gate in that musty old language. And to top it off, he’d drug out some old catch-phrase of his, dusted it off once again, and was intoning the words in a very loud and measured way . . .

Utúlie’n aurë! . . .

‘The day has indeed come,’ Pio hissed at Fingon, taking the steps two at a time to the small platform that ran the length of the gate. ‘But it’s the party you’re announcing, not the Nirnaeth Arnoediad!’ In the background she could hear Gothmog and his fellows snickering at the old King. ‘Quiet, you lot!’ she growled at them. ‘Just open the gates when I give the signal.’

Ignoring the irritated flapping of their wings at being addressed so rudely, she pulled out her new timepiece from the watch-pocket of the poppy red vest Cami had made for her, and checked the time.

Two minutes . . . just . . .

The watch had been a recent present from one of her friends in the Shire. ‘Traveled all the way to Canoni City for that,’ he’d told her.

Where in Arda is that? she’d wondered as he’d proudly pushed the myriad buttons for her, showing all the varied interpretations of the time of day one could display on it.

‘Who knew?!’ she’d said, wondering what committee had put together the unwieldy contraption. With a smile on her face, she’d thanked him; then promptly set the dial to read Shire time.

**********************************************

Child's Post

"Daisy Zaragamba! What are you doing?"

Cami glared in the direction of her youngest daughter who had managed to comandeer all her mother's perfume and cosmetic bottles and now had them lined up atop the bar counter in the Dragon's Comon Room.

The young lass turned a pouting face back towards her mother and impatiently stamped her foot, "But, Ima , I just wanted to look pretty. Anyways, it's time for the party. It's time to go."

Cami stared at her daughter aghast. Her young face was covered with enough layers of paint to look like one of the pictures of the entombed dead from the isle of Numenor. "Get that garbage off your face right now, or you're not going to any party!" Running over and snatching up a wet rag that was generally used for cleaning off tables, she stuffed it into Daisy's hands. "I don't know where you get these ideas from! And "Ima"! What kind of a word is that? That's no proper Hobbit word."

"Rory taught me. He says Mister Tolkien knew a lot of different languages. Once he helped translate the Jerusalem Bible. He must know "Ima" so we know it too. And Rory says......"

At this point, her mother interrupted, "That's enough! I don't know any Mister Tolkien, and we're going to be late if you don't hurry."

Cami grumbled to herself under her breath, "And why does she remember only the crazy things her brother teaches her. When he tells her I want her to help with the dishes, she conveniently forgets."

By this time, the three children had lined up at the door and were tugging at their mother's sleeve in their eagerness to depart. Cami went over to inspect her crew, giving a downward yank to Holly's skirt to make certain it wasn't too short. Merimac disliked seeing his daughter in dress that he considered inappropriate, although Holly had a way of sneaking out the back door and rearranging her clothing before she ran off to see her friends'.

Giving Rory a last minute kiss on top of the head, Cami surveyed her young charges one last time and barked out a final order. "Now, everyone, I want you to listen to me. These parties can get a little wild. This isn't just good folk from the Shire, but lots of outsiders with strange ideas and stranger looks. Stay close together and don't go wandering off on your own!" With that Cami turned and marched the Zaragamba brood (formerly the Tooks and Goodchilds) purposely towards the party field. She expected her huband and the older boys to show up later.

[piosenniel]

Standing on the platform, Pio looked back a last time at the Party Field. There on the large, green expanse of it were set about all manner of pavilions, their beribboned banners fluttering prettily in the morning’s breeze. Some held tables groaning with all sorts of savory foods; others held bars with any and all libations and spirits to offer. And even now she could see Amanaduial giving last minute instructions to the sturdy Hobbit who would man the large tent set up by the Green Dragon staff.

Here and there were set small stages – some with jugglers practicing their arts, some with musicians, and some were empty, awaiting the party-goers who might like to sing or recite a poem or two. In one of the corners stood the old wizard, sorting through his fireworks. The trees in the field were festooned with bright silk streamers, and from their branches hung little lanterns waiting for evening’s lighting.

A few bars of Saucy’s new ditty ran through her mind:

. . . Let me take you down,
‘Cos I’m going to the Shire Party Field.
Where Hobbits are real
And gather there to celebrate.
Shire Party Field forever.

Lanterns shine from the Party Tree,
With fireworks bursting high and low.
Samwise tells the tale of Turin
Turambar.
That one I think is rather sad.

Let me take you down,
‘Cos I’m going to the Shire Party Field.
Where Hobbits are real
And gather there to celebrate.
Shire Party Field forever . . .

With any luck, she thought, he’ll grace us with the song in its entirety.

~*~*~*~

The sound of rapid pounding drew her attention back down to the patient crowd gathered before the gates. Two burly Dwarves, hammers in hand, were affixing a large scroll to the wooden fence. ‘Give us some room to finish,’ they grumbled as the curious throng inched forward to read the hasty script:

Rules for the Partygoers

• 1.) Come as yourself (your Barrow Downs' name) but dressed Tolkien appropriate.
  
• 2.) Bring a dish of food for the table or your favorite libation if you wish.
  
• 3.) Nail your birthday greetings/well-wishes to the Party Tree or get up on the stage and recite it/sing it for the folk. Leave a mathom or some shiny bauble on the table by the Wight’s barrow.
  
• 4.) Organize some sort of entertainment if you wish.
  
• 5.) Try to be mostly descriptive in the posts and not too chatty. No chat-speak spellings, please
  
• 6.) No violence, swearing, or sexual innuendos in the Party thread.
  
• 7.) You may bend the canon somewhat, just try not to shatter it into pieces.

[piosenniel]

The alarm on her timepiece beeped in an insistent manner. ‘0900, Ma’am,’ said Fingon, pointing at Pio’s pocket. She turned to bellow down to the Balrogs. ‘Open the Gates!’

One leap brought her breathless to the entry way.

‘Welcome! Welcome! To the Barrow-Downs’ Birthday Party!’ she babbled, wig askew, as the partygoers streamed in . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Rory and Daisy were at the head of the mob that went charging through the gates as soon as they were opened. Cami and Daisy followed close behind. They were considerable masses of folk, all jammed together and trying to squeeze through the entrance at once. Some were familiar faces to Cami; others less so. A few even had a certain sinister presence about them. Still, the tables that had piles of inviting mathoms along with the sight of so many dancers and entertainers, and the booths scattered all over the field, each one featuring a different treat, did a great deal to raise her spirits.

Cami intended to place her gift for the wight on the large table designated for that purpose. After hearing Rory's lively tale about the menacing green hand that had reached over the fence, she'd decided she'd rather not meet him in person. She was also toting a sack with an assortment of meat pasties and a smaller dish of sweet rugelach that she'd brought along as her contributions to the potluck.

But before she took care of these personal things, she wanted to make sure that Aman and Piosenniel were here, since they were supposed to be in charge of running the party. She clambered up on a nearby tree stump, one that had never been removed after the Scouring, and peered out over the crowd. Aman must have been busy inside the tent as Cami could not see her anywhere; neither could she glimpse anyone who resembled Pio.

It was sharp-eyed Daisy who finally spotted the Elf. "Aunt Pio! Aunt Pio!" Jumping up and down with glee, Daisy pointed a finger towards a retreating figure some ways distant.

Cami glanced over and rubbed her eyes. Surely, that wasn't Pio! This strange-looking Elf had Pio's figure and lively step, but even from this distance Cami could tell that she sported a mop of red hair and eyes that were emerald green! Pio would never appear out of canon at such a fashionable event. She was very insistent about such things.

There had been a great deal of talk recently about exactly what canon was and wasn't. The whole conversation had been too hard for Cami to follow. But she was quite sure of one thing. Elves with red hair and green eyes stood on the wrong side of canon.

Cami looked over again and shuddered. The Elf was definitely Piosenniel, since she was wearing the colorful vest that Cami had recently embroidered for her as a present. Unfortunately, the bright red color of the vest now matched her hair to a "T". She stood out in the crowd like a blazing torch.

Frankly, Cami did not approve of this strange get-up, but what should she tell her friend? She shook her head and sighed. This party was not getting off to a good start!

[Arry]

Arry walked through the gates with a sense of great anticipation. He’d not been in the Shire long. Passing through, really. Didn’t intend to stay. But the bright flyers tacked to the verandah post of the Green Dragon Inn had caught his eye.

A party! There was to be a party! he’d read. A sure chance for him to make a few coins before he made his way to Sarn Ford and from there to parts east.

Once inside the Party Field, he ducked behind the nearest pavilion. The Floating Log’s big striped tent bearing a sign affixed to a sturdy pole in front of it. ** First Chance ** - it read, with a large tankard of foaming ale painted next to the words. Arry pulled his juggler’s motley from his pack and hastily pulled it on. Digging deep into the bottom of a side pocket he fished out three brightly colored balls – red, blue, and green.

Entering the pavilion, he stowed his pack with the barman and asked if he might stand outside the tent. ‘Draw the customers in, if you will,’ he said winking at the fellow. The man nodded, promising him a meal and a drink for a job well done.

Arry spied a suitable place to call out to the passersby and sat his tri-cornered hat on the ground in front of him. Placing a few coins in it to give the partygoers a hint, he began to juggle, his hands and the balls weaving intricate patterns in the air as he kept of a steady patter to draw attention.

‘First chance for a tall cold drink here!’ he said smiling to a thirsty looking farmer who’d sent his wife and children on ahead to the Party Tree. ‘Come in, come in!’ he called out to the party from Rohan who caught his eye. “And you there,’ he’d yelled in a loud voice to a small troop of Dwarves who’d just marched in. ‘Come wet your beards at The Floating Log. Finest spirits you’ll find in this corner of the field!’

Arry chuckled as some took up his offer and others passed by with a raised brow or two. Coins clinked in his hat as appreciative gawkers nodded at his tricks and then moved on.

[Kransha]

Kransha, feeling particularly jocund this fine day, made his way as silently and politely as he could through the upturned mob maelstrom, constantly mouthing off random, “Excuse me’s” and “pardon me’s” to the wide variety of party guests in an insect swarm about him. Clamoring madly through their numbers, he managed to alight as a nimble bird upon a spot of open grass and sighed happily. There were so many people, which he noted quickly as he gazed around at the multicolored pavilions in their elegant stripped grandeur, the fluttering banners that pulled to and fro in a gentle wind, and the impossible to follow mélange of chatty conversations that sprung up like over-watered flowers around him.

Kransha was, in fact, an orc, (or an uruk, goblin, hobgoblin, or some such thing like that, he really didn’t know). He had the gait, the build, the head, and the surly, sinuous silhouette of such a creature, but certainly not the air or the dress. Instead of the limping, crude swagger of your average, run-of-the-mill orc, Kransha stood upright, as if balancing a stack of books atop his Neanderthal brow, which was surprisingly well groomed for his being. The dark and rough-skinned figure was stuffed rather foolishly into a blindingly cerulean waistcoat with tails and an overflowing mess of frills and things that probably looked extremely silly, a flawlessly cleaned white shirt, a trimmed little green vest with countless tawdry sequins, and a pair of ironed evergreen breeches. Though he was sure to elicit some unwelcome guffaws from more crude folk, Kransha considered himself a particularly civilized individual for being able to summon an aspect of formality to the event. His clawed hands cupped together in front with a pair of spatula-sized thumbs twiddling, the orcish non-brute made his way quietly through the swelling ranks of the crowd as he inspected the party field.

Smiling a toothy grin of an orcish smile, Kransha proceeded coolly past the many pavilions and stages brimming with entertaining folk doing all manner of things. He chuckled, a low grumbling sound the grunted as a guttural noise in his throat. He headed with a jump in his step and a humming tune upon his chapped lips, towards one of the few empty stages that was, of course, being crowded around already. Swinging the dangling tails of his waistcoat behind him, the orc marched merrily up onto the platform and over to its center. He gave an acknowledging cough, which didn’t really seem to alert anyone to his presence at all, but he continued on anyway.

“Greeting, party-goers, innocent bystanders, and all those caught up in this business. I suppose, if no one else would prefer to, I shall get the proverbial ball rolling, for my kind at least. If I may give a brief introduction, my name is Kransha and I must admit I haven’t been here a very long time…In the Shire that is…yes, right, in the Shire…Point is, I find that this place is the quaintest, most enjoyable little place I’ve ever been to in all my days, however many those may be. So, I wrote…or rather, I stole and revised, a little piece to commemorate this most happy, celebratory, jocund, merry, jubilant, exultant, exuberant, and joyous of occasions as an ode to the most respected person I know, the respected person who dreamed him up on technicality, and another respected person who has little or nothing to do with the other two respected people who I mentioned about ten seconds ago." he concluded delicately.

Kransha stood, rocking back and forth as he enveloped himself in recorded memorization, and summoned up a voice’s fullness as he cleared his orcish throat with a pompous flourish. Slowly, but with more jaunt then solemnity, Kransha began in true Ozymandian verve.

“I met an elf-chap from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless kegs of beer
Sit in the Shire. Near them, on the grass,
Half green, a regal visage stands, whose gear,
And creasèd lip, and smile of welcome crass,
Tell that its maker well those fashions lead,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lively things,
The lips that sip them, and the mouth that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Barrow-Wight, Wight of Wights:
Look upon my works, ye happy, and prepare!"
And all beside remains, Round the partè
Of that colossal place, boundless and fair
The lone and crowded fields stretch far away.”

With that grin still plastered on his face, Kransha gave a very curt bow and sprinted off the stage, but not before dashing off very gracefully (for an orc) to the ready and waiting table that sat near a very particular barrow and dropping something on it. The orc spun on his shoeless heels and sped off yet again in the opposite direction, the merry tune present again upon his lips, and headed deep into the surging tidal wave of the massive crowd, leaving behind only some clawed footprints that tore up the grass and a gleaming lump of ebony with the letter BW carefully etched onto it. Kransha knew not how much the material was worth, or even the aesthetic value of the bauble itself, since he’d been told by the other Mordor orcs that he had lousy taste, but it was probably good enough. If not, he had plenty of orc draught. He journeyed on, determined to find somewhere to sit down.

[mark12_30]

A young Gondorian just entering his 'tweens' walked side by side with an average-looking Mirkwood elf. They chatted and swapped snatches of songs, and tried to look casual, but both of them were quite excited about this upcoming party. Bree had been their first view of hobbits, and they had been well-pleased.

There were hobbits around, but they soon also realized LinGalad wasn't the only elf at the gathering.

"Will you look at that, Hîriest! A Noldorin prince, if I am not mistaken. Listen to him speak! That is a very ancient tongue."

"What's he saying?"

"I do not know! And look, over there-- a red-haired, green-eyed... well, I must be naively mistaken, for I know of no red-haired green-eyed elves in all of Arda. Of course, perhaps that is my mistake. I do wish the Songmaster was here so that I could ask him."

"I wouldn't worry about that so much as..." began Hîriest, pointing at Gothmog and his crew.

"Oh, my! " said LinGalad.

"The bar. It'll all look much friendlier after an ale."

LinGalad raised an anxious eyebrow. "No wine? They have no wine?"

"We will see, " said Hîriest. Passing numerous hobbits, they bowed in greeting, smiling, nodding, and enjoying the Halflings' strange manner of speech.

"Look! They spout smoke, just like King Elessar!" said Hîriest.

"Ah. They do have wine. Now, let's see, we've been practicing our toast for several Inn-stops now; shall we?"

They both raised their glasses quite high, and cried as one in their best heraldic voice: "Gimli drinks his 9787354967th beer!"

"Wwwhat did you SAYYYYYY?!?!" wailed an icy voice from deep underground.

"Hello, Wight. Just seeing if you were listening. Happy Birthday, " LinGalad shouted at the ground. Several hobbits gave them a strange look.

"Yes, Happy Birthday," added Hîriest.

They took their second drinks for a walk around the field.

[Orofaniel]

The gates were finally open and everyone was allowed to enter the Party Field. Orofaniel walked graciously through the gates, as some had already done before her. She had brought cookies with huge chocolate chips, since those were her favourites. For this very special occasion, Orofaniel had dressed in her finest Elven cloak.

Orofaniel looked around to see if some of the guests that had arrived were well known to her. At the moment she had difficulties finding them though. It was probably because of the huge crowd that all of a sudden, had gathered in front of her. Yes, even though she had been early, or at least felt that she was early, she could now see that there had already arrived many people to participate in this magnificent event. She hoped however, that one or another would catch her eye. In the meantime, she figured that her cookies would be better fit on a table than in her hands. Her eyes moved quickly from side to side, as she was scouting for a table.

Orofaniel noticed the small stages and the jugglers. To her big surprise she also noticed an...Orc? Was it really an Orc? No....could it be? Orofaniel looked closer and walked towards the stage where the Orc was standing. It looked an awful lot like an orc, she thought. People had now gathered around him to hear what he had to say, and to Orofaniel's big surprise she heard the very merry and delightful poem that brought joy among those who heard it. As soon as the Orc was finished though, he jumped off the stage and dissapeard. At least it had been a nice preformance, Orofaniel concluded.

Then she reminded herself what she was supposed to do. "Find a table for the cookies...." she muttered to herself and grinned.

[Imladris]

I stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the crowd's head. I was shorter than most people, I suppose, and it was a sore thought with me. I pushed the thought aside, determined to enjoy the party.

I clutched my small basket to my chest and took a deep breath. Parties tend to make me nervous...I don't know why. There were so many people at parties, people jostling each other, knocking into each other. But then again, parties were so fun to go to...I sighed.

I glanced down to make sure that my dress was neat. My light blue bodice had silvery vine embroider curling about the front. There was an ornate, gold embroidered "I" in the midst of silver vines that stood for my name: Imladris -- or Immy as my friends called me. My darker skirt fell in soft, slightly wrinkled folds to my ankles. My feet were bare and I wriggled my toes in the soft green grass. Shoes were despicable things. They made you hot and they just clomped around like a heavy oliphaunt.

I looked into my basket to make sure that the jar of canned peaches was still nestled safely in its depths. It was, along with the sealed pitcher of apple cider and the mathom. I smiled. Everything was safe.

The balrogs opened the gates and I was pushed through the gates along with the rest of the mob. I caught a glimpse of an orc...and the greeter was a woman with a flaming red wig. Interesting...

I put my jar of peaches on the table and arranged it so that the sun made it glow with a luminous, lucid golden orange light. I opened the pitcher of cider and put it next to the peaches.

Now all I had to do was to put my mathom on the table by the Wight's barrow...

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Well, well, well,’ said Primrose to herself as she drove her cart through the vendors’ gate and spied the juggler hustling the crowd in front of the Floating Log pavilion.

A last minute delivery of sloe-berry spirits had been sent by the Innkeeper, along with a cask of blackberry brandy from old Gaffer Holman. ‘Lumbago’s actin’ up, dearie,’ Holman had told her, as he sat on his rocker watching her load the cask. ‘Otherwise I’d go with you.’ He nodded at a small package wrapped in a piece of old cotton cloth. ‘Take that, too,’ he said. ‘Been meaning to get that back to him, but the years just caught up with me.’

Inside was an old gold torc set with a single red jewel he’d gotten on one of his excursions to the barrow-downs with friends. ‘Found that right inside a barrow,’ he went on. ‘Reached my hand in through a crack between the stone and the entry way it covered. Pulled it out and we high-tailed it outta there . . . afore that old Wight knew we were even there.’ He nodded his head remembering his younger glory days. ‘Still – it’s his. Best he gets it back.’

Prim delivered the spirits to the barman and threw a copper penny in the juggler’s hat as she passed by him on her way out. He gave her a saucy wink, and she returned it in kind, laughing at his cheekiness. Across the field she went, toward the Party Tree and the barrow beneath it. It was colder here in the shade of the limbs, and made colder, she thought, by the presence of the barrow with its endlessly dark interior. She thought she could just see some greenish glow away at the back and here the deep mutterings and rumblings of someone talking.

With a shiver, she ran quickly to the mathom table and laid the old gaffer’s present on it. A big-folk girl in a light blue dress with silver tracings was approaching, basket in hand. Prim nodded at her as she approached.

‘Pretty dress!’ she said, looking up at the girl. Then glancing back over her shoulder at the barrow and its table she pointed and said in a low voice. ‘Careful! He’s awake. I heard him moving about and muttering.’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

The Bracegirdles had got off to a late start it would seem. Hilde had impulsively begun some house cleaning to get ready for a very special guest who would be arriving so soon, but the time had flown and she had lost track. Now all she could think about were the dining chairs clogging her kitchen and the floor waiting to be thoroughly scrubbed, and yet it had to wait. “Priorities”, she told herself. “Birthdays come but once a year! And a little good fun won’t hurt anything.”

Making his way across the field, Mr. Bracegirdle headed for the growing pile of gifts, and set down a large jug of Hilde’s homemade wine, a little strong this year but still good - to his mind anyway - and a small brightly wrapped packet, that contained a rather gaudy broach Hilde had assumed some past relative had received, but that was more suited to be housed in a dark dank place than to be worn. Costly no doubt, but hideous all the same.

Balancing her cookery, Hilde carefully wandered through the spring grass until she found the buffet tables. choosing a good spot she carefully unwrapped a platter of mushrooms stuffed with blue cheese, noting that they were still warm. Next was her husband’s beautiful roast mutton encrusted in garlic, black pepper and all manner of green herbs, all surrounded by lovely red potatoes, and asparagus. Ah, this was going to be a feast! Now if she could just find a good hot cup of ginger tea to start off.

Searching for Mr. Bracegirdle, Hilde winked at a maiden in a light blue bodice who stood at the gift table, as she past by. She had looked so familiar. Finally catching up to her husband, she saw that he was looking at the colorful messages affixed to the party tree, and laughing, quite loudly too. “Oh dear woman!” He said spotting her approach. “We do have a witty gathering here, read these.” And Hilde stood beside him as together they read the clever verses, one by one, pointing out their favorites.

[Ithaeliel]

The sun was hot and high at that time of day, and clouds were scattered in wisps across the deep blue sky that hung over a traveling procession of elves. Their path took them through the Shire, where today it was serene and peaceful... supposedly.

Suddenly, the procession came upon a large field packed with people of all different shapes and sizes (hobbits, elves, humans, even a performing orc!), all of whom were making a great deal of noise and dancing around like a bunch of drunken fools. One elf who seemed to be quite occupied with the gathering was sporting a bright red mop of hair and glancing about with emerald eyes. One elf in the procession turned to another and whispered, "Contact lenses, perhaps?" The other shook his head in disdain and continued walking. The first elf, however, was interested in the spirited display, and she gazed curiously at the people there. I do wish that I could stay and see what they're celebrating...

"Lady Ithaeliel, we cannot make delays to accomodate your distractions," one of the elder elves called back. Ithaeliel scowled, and when no one was looking she took off her pendant and hid it. Eager to join the party, she called ahead to the front of her group. "I have lost my pendant while we have walked through these green hills! I must go back to find it. I'll rejoin all of you after a time. Namarië, for a little while, friends!" Ithaeliel ran back over the hill to to field as quickly as possible, trying to think what she could offer to the partygoers...

[Luthien_ Tinuviel]

Luthien ambled into the Party Field, having held back a bit to avoid the mobs that had been swarming through the gates earlier. She was the first of her group to arrive, that much was sure. Now, where could she find a place for all of her friends to settle down and have a good time? She suryeved the Party Field, and decided she wasn't nearly tall enough to see anything. Noting a nearby elf, she hailed him, hoping that he would notice.

The elf proceeded over to her, looking a little confused. This was not surprising, really. One didn't see an shortish elf dressed like a hobbit every day.

"Excuse me, sir, could you please look around and tell me where I could settle down and wait for a party of friends? I'm afraid I'm not quite tall enough to see over this crowd."

"If you keep going, you will find smaller pavilions beside the food tables. There, perhaps, you may be able to place yourself, provided the pavilion you choose is empty," the elf replied, and walked away, giving Luthien another odd look. Empty pavilions? she thought. Not likely. But we shall see.

Pushing her way through the crowd, Luthien made her way to the busiest area of the field. This was no easy task for her to carry out, especially in a polite manner. She resolved that she would under no circumstances resort to pushing and shoving her way through, and luckily it didn't come to that. But it did come mightily close before she could actually find a gap in the crowd and rush through it.

Had her baggage been spoilt? She carried a basket of food in her arms, and on her back was a pack containing her present for the Wight and various assorted speeches, poems, and tales to read during the entertainment.... Whether she would be able to choose between them, or work up enough nerve to actually read them to the crowd, was still undecided. Finally Luthien came to various small pavilions. The elf had been right! There were various awnings, tables and pavilions set up near the food tables to accomodate guests. What luck! And she was one of the first to claim one, too. Choosing a good-sized blue pavilion, Luthien plunked herself down on the grass inside it and checked to make sure all was well. Nothing had been damaged. That was fortunate, and more than she had expected in that bustling crowd. She looked at her basket of food in satisfaction. It contained various baked goods, fresh and still warm. Nestled among a towel were tartan scones, plaid cookies, and some very appetizing-looking shortbread.

With nothing else to do, Luthien looked at her attire. She had chosen to come in hobbit garb, and was enjoying it immensely. She was wearing short, wide tan pants, a crisp white collared shirt which she was certain wouldn't stay crisp for long, and a green and yellow vest decorated in a tartan-like pattern. There were golden ribbons in her hair, and her only piece of jewelry was a very thin silver ring with an intertwining gold thread. Did she look alright? Did she care? She decided that she must look at least farily presentable, for the looks she had gotten from various passersby were looks of surprise, not contempt. She attributed the surprise to the unusualness of a barefooted elf in hobbit clothing.

As she waited, she suddenly began to worry that no one of her group would be able to find her. She could not take her offerings to the various tables, in fear that someone else would come and take the pavilion while she was away. She stood up and proceeded to the front of the tent, and strained her eyes, trying to find her friends. Was that Firi in the distance? Perhaps it was. She carefully placed her basket on the ground, popped a scone in her mouth, and began yumping up and down, yelling at the top of her lungs. Unfortunately she had forgotten the scone.

"Firi! Over here!!" she called, but her cries were somewhat muffled by the food in her mouth. Would her friend hear her cries and find her? So far all she had done was illicit more strange looks, but that was unremarkable.

[piosenniel]

‘Too much?!’

Pio flipped her long red tresses behind her shoulders and winked one bright green eye at Cami. The look on her old friend’s face was priceless, and she could tell the Hobbit was desperately searching for something ‘nice’ to say. ‘It is just for the day, my dear. Tomorrow I shall be back to my grey-eyed, dark haired self.’

The Elf leaned in toward Cami and spoke low. Though I am thinking of having a tattoo of a green dragon put here on my forearm by that fellow over there.’ She nodded her chin at a brown clad Southron who was plying his trade in the shade of the linden tree. ‘A few drinks of Dwarf Spirits he says, and he promises there will be no pain.’

Cami’s jaw dropped several inches at this last announcement, and she spluttered something incomprehensible. Pio howled with laughter at the Hobbit’s discomfiture. ‘Just joking . . . really . . .’ she chuckled, poking her friend in the ribs.

‘Oh, Auntie Pio,’ cried Daisy, that would be so cool!’

Pio raised her brows at this bit of slang dropping from her ‘niece’s’ lips. Cami sighed and gave a ‘what’s-a-mother-to-do’ shrug. But before she could admonish her daughter for the use of such language, Daisy went on, her eyes shining as she fingered the Elf’s red locks.

‘And Ima, can I please, please have my hair this color . . .puhleeeeeese!’

[piosenniel]

~*~ FINIS ~*~


(See you all next May!)