Rowan scurries down the dirt road as fast as her little hobbit feet can carry her, a wicker basket tucked under one sun-browned arm. The dust stirred up as she hurries along dirties her toes and drifts up to her nose, making her sneeze.
Oh, bother! What a nuisance! the tweenager thinks as she lifts the nicely-written note up before her grey eyes. She scans the message again and then tucks it back into the basket in aggravation. The prospect of a picnic is lovely enough, but her mother had not derived the same pleasure at the arrival of the basket on the step of their humble cabin. “More charity!” Mrs. Ploughman had exclaimed, folding her arms sternly and sniffing with indignation and pride. “We may not be rich folk, but we aren’t going to start takin’ fine donations from our betters, an’ that’s a fact.” And so her daughter had found herself quickening to the Old Forest to return the fancy dishes, not without regret.
As she nears the forest, Rowan feels a twinge of nervousness. The note had hinted at mysterious beings, and she had heard a good tale or two about the shades said to haunt the woods. The trees seem to tower before her, and as she advances Rowan feels that she is being buried alive.
The hobbit gathers her courage, follows the weaving path and, after a while, begins to hear snatches of conversation. She comes upon an unusual sight. Before her stand all manner of guests that could possibly be expected: men, elves, hobbits, ghostly specters, animals, and even a large dragon. Rowan stops in her tracks and considers leaving the basket in the road and running all the way home. But that would be quite rude, and, besides, the prospect of venturing back into the silence of the woods all alone for any amount of time is very unpleasant indeed. The hobbit lass sighs and creeps forward, avoiding eye contact and trying her best to remain inconspicuous as she seeks out the leader of the merry gathering.
[ September 20, 2002: Message edited by: ElanorGamgee ]
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Soli Deo Gloria
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