You are a hobbit. Your name is Junior. it’s the anniversary of your dad’s return from the big hike he went on, the time when all the Big Folk come out to have a party, when your Uncle Frodo’s face looks even more like glass than usual. Sometimes he’s cheered up when the littles ask him for stories, and he tells them of places he’s seen, ruins and vast empty plains where only, occasionally, kingsfoil grows.
“Well why’s that then?” you ask.
“I beg your pardon?” says Uncle Frodo.
“Why hasn’t anyone gone to perk it up a bit?” you say. You’ve been learning a bit from Dad, who can make anything grow. “Why didn’t Dad, when you were passing through?”
“We were on a bit of a schedule,” says Uncle Frodo, and you’re not quite sure what the expression on his face is, but at least it’s there.
“All right, then why didn’t you stop when you were coming back?” you demand. “You had plenty of time then. You didn’t know what was going on in the Shire, and you could have at least - at least -” Your mind is too full of all the things it takes to get a good garden growing. “I thought you said Uncle Merry and Uncle Pippin wanted to help Fangorn find his treewife, I thought they said they were going to do something.”
“You know,” says Uncle Frodo, and now there is definitely a bit of a smile in the corner of his mouth, “You make a good point. Someone really ought to go and follow through on those promises.”
The next morning, there’s a pony and cart waiting for you in front of Bag End. You think that’s a little excessive, until you see the cart is half full of tools and half full of seeds, and you know none of that was Uncle Frodo’s gift.
“Be careful out there,” says Dad, giving you a hug. “Your uncle left you his old sword under the driver’s seat, but…”
“A good whack with a shovel will do for most things,” you finish. “I know, Dad.”
And you pick up the reins and drive east.
