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This story does not begin as you might expect. It does not start with an unexpected party, nor a birthday. It doesn’t even begin with a pipe shared between friends.
Sigismund Burrowdowns was dead.
Due to his horrific injuries in what was classified as a terrible accident by the Bounders and the constable and the mayor of Waymeet, Sigismund Burrowdowns passed in the darkness of winter in his smial with his wife and daughter by his side.
The ground was too hard for a proper burial, and so, in hobbit tradition from the Fell Winter of 2911, Sigismund was kept in the lowest cold storage of the largest house in the area. His family could do nothing more than wait for spring to come and thaw the ground.
Myrtle, his only child (and favorite daughter) had a very long time to wait.
However, it wouldn’t be too long now. On a quiet Shire morning, Yavanna would come and warm the earth for her people. Frost would melt, all that was good and green would begin to bud once more, and on that day, Sigismund Burrowdowns could be returned to Yavanna’s embrace.
It would come.
A quiet Shire morning - much like this one.
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The Burrowdowns’ door was a faded blue - the same color as the sky on the clearest of Shire days.
It stood out against all the greens and browns and yellows of the rolling hills and other smial doors of Waymeet.
Their hill was a little more overgrown than the hills of their neighbors, drawing glances and the occasional huff, but that was the result of Mourning. No-one could say anything more about it. Some kind Grubb might come along with a little push-mower some time, but for now, the weeds and grasses grew tall and the buds of wildflowers were just beginning to show their heads.
Secretly, Myrtle liked it. It reminded her of the stories her Father used to tell of the overgrown fields and woods that bordered the very edges of the Shire.
Besides, a little extra growth never harmed anyone, and the honey and bumble bees would appreciate the wildflowers when they bloomed.
Myrtle lived with her Mother - just the two of them, unusual for a Hobbit family - but her extended family, the Grubbs ( on her mother’s side ) lived in their own smials near the family fields, and, as she’d not found someone to settle down with while her Father’d been alive, she and May Burrowdowns now lived by themselves in their hill. As to the matter of a partner - well, a hobbit’s Mourning period was no time to start thinking of courting or flower arrangements, especially less so when one hadn’t even reached their coming of age yet.
Mourning was a time for family and quiet meals served with remembrance in tender candlelight.
Of course, Mourning meant that the neighbors had filled their already stuffed winter larder with more early spring produce and goods than Myrtle rightly knew what to do with. She was ankle-deep in beets and peas from the Grubbs, artichokes from the Farrowchilds, fennel and rhubarb from the Goldhills, nearly daily deliveries of baked goods and fresh dairy from the Brownlocks, and even late summer cheeses from the Longholes!
There were only so many vegetable roasts or baked dishes that she was willing to do with her Mother still lost in Mourning, barely eating at all. Tea and toast were just about all Myrtle could get May to tolerate.
What else would a hobbit lass do on an early spring morning when she has too much produce and a Mother who can barely stomach a bit of jam and toast?
Why, the very hobbitish tradition of late winter pickles and jams, of course! Jams were easy enough to spread on toast, pickles could be very tempting, and overall, it was the perfect method for preserving all this extra produce from the kind neighbors.
Ted Brownlock had already brought Myrtle all of the jamming sugar and pickling salts she could possibly need, and all he wanted in return were a few jars of beet pickles and rhubarb jelly.
Yavanna bless him.
Myrtle rose with the sun. She’d left her east-facing windows open on purpose, even if it did mean that she’d had to bundle up against the chilly almost-spring night air. Rising early meant an early start. It was always best to start preserving and jamming early in the morning before the sun rose too high and the first warm day of spring turned her kitchen into an enormous steamer.
She dressed light - only a summer dress, apron, and bodice - and pinned her unruly honey curls back from her face. She spent a few extra seconds admiring her hair in the early morning sunlight streaming through her window. She twisted a few curls about in the sunlight, watching them shine in the pale light.
Would they shine the same in the flickering firelight of the upcoming festival for the start of Astron? She still had to mend her party dress. . ..but would Mourning even be over with by then? It wasn’t proper for a hobbit, much less a hobbit tween, to attend such large festivities in the Mourning.
She tutted at herself and huffed.
Really. Wanting a party when Father wasn’t even returned to the ground yet.
Still … the promise of bonfires and early spring flower crowns and as many baked goods as she could eat were awfully tempting.
She clapped herself on the cheeks and gave herself a good but silent scold before grabbing a small kerchief for her hair and traipsed from her room, making sure to close the door quietly behind her.
She tread lightly down the darkened hall, but she had to pause at her Mother’s door. Like most of the recent days, it was closed and no light peeped from the cracks or underneath the door. Myrtle strained an ear but heard no sound at all. Not even a light snore.
She raised a hand to knock on the door, but her hand just hung there in the air. A moment. Another moment.
Her hand fell back by her side.
She blew a kiss to the door and crept down the hall towards the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen windows.
As she entered the kitchen, she smiled at her hard work already in place. Pots on the stove, her sugars and salts with pickling spices all nicely set aside, baskets and baskets of rhubarb and beets, ready to be peeled before their journey to her pots, then to her many jars lining the glorious wooden table that claimed dominance in their kitchen.
She ran a hand wistfully over the dark stained oak. Her Father had made this table for her Mother… a labor of love while she was pregnant. He’d always wanted a large family…
She jumped slightly as her stomach grumbled loudly in the dim quiet.
“Well, if you insist,” she giggled, poking at her stomach. It grumbled at her again, making her laugh. “Fine, fine. Just something light, though,” she said as she went into their small walk-in larder and took a look about the shelves. She spotted some honey cakes from Honey Brownlock ( she had to smile ) on their decorative plate and the many tins of teas lining the shelf above.
Honey cakes with lavender tea. That sounded perfect. Her tea was quickly brewed and her honey cakes, only two or three, ( okay, four ) were quickly eaten. She tidied up, keeping the teapot on the table for later. After all, lavender tea was wonderful, cold or hot.
Speaking of hot…
She reached across the large and deep sink to open the two windows. She propped them open with two small spoons and beamed at the quiet morning beyond her kitchen. The hills looked blue in the early morning light and she could still see a light dusting of early spring frost topping the hedgerows.
It wouldn’t be long now. It had been such a long winter of waiting and mourning. But soon, Yavanna’s warmth will return and they could finally lay her Father in the embrace of Yavanna. Only a few more days, by her reckoning.
But not right now.
Right now, she had to go and open the front door to allow the early spring breezes to fill and cool the house. Of course, that meant walking through the front dining room and … and the parlor…
Her feet had stopped moving a long time ago. She stood there, in the quiet of the abandoned front parlor, and stared at the large cushy armchair in front of the riverstone fireplace. It was nothing truly special, just a wooden frame over which was stretched the brown leather body stuffed with stiff wool ( from a distant Grubb cousin who raised sheep for both fun and profit ). Still…
She stepped forward and ran a hand over the soft leather, feeling the many nicks and scrapes from a lifetime of living that her Father had worn into the leather arms. She paused at a particularly deep scrape and felt something hot and wet stinging the corners of her eyes.
“I miss your stories,” she said to the chair, pulling her hand away. “I miss you.”
The chair didn’t answer her.
She made herself take a deep breath and walk away. The chair stayed behind.
She hurried into the foyer and to the door. She pulled it open and inhaled deeply of the fresh air swirling about her face and feet to flow through the stale house.
“Oh, what a beautiful morning,” she said to herself, smiling out at the rolling hills and fields of Waymeet, dotted with early morning smoke from chimneys and the occasional wayward grazing animal. This little slice of the Shire was still. At least, for now. Astron was nearly here and then the fields would be full of the farmers and their assistants, growing all sorts of spring and summer crops for the whole of West Farthing.
Her mouth watered at the thought of fresh peaches, straight from the tree and still warm from the summer sun. She could hardly wait.
But for now, she pulled a wooden umbrella and walking stick stand in front of the door, propping it open nicely.
“That’ll do just fine.”
A familiar squeak of hinges alerted her that the Brownlocks’ smial door was opening. She peered out to see Ted Brownlock kissing his sweet wife, Honey, and their new baby, Daffodil, goodbye before heading off to the pastures.
“Good mornin’!” she called out, waving a hand to them. They returned her greeting cheerfully, and Ted tipped his hat before heading off to his fields where he raised dairy cows and goats.
“How’re you holdin’ up, Myrtle?” Honey asked over the hedge, bouncing Daffodil on her hip as the baby whimpered and cried for her papa. “How’s your ma?”
Myrtle chanced a look back into the smial before stepping out onto the front porch, bordered with her Mama's herbs and flowers. “About as well as can be expected, Honey,” she said over the baby’s squalls. “She’s … well, you know.”
Honey nodded sagely.
“I’m jamming and preserving today,” Myrtle continued, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her apron. “I thought it’d help… and of course, save all the produce in my larder.”
“Yes, sometimes that’s the best thing to do,” Honey agreed, switching her still crying baby to the other hip. “Good to give your ma a bit of variety. Helps with Mournin’.”
Mrytle nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard too,” she said with a small smile. “Maybe it’ll remind her that there're other things to do besides lock yourself away and cry.”
“Still, she’s gotta get all of that Mournin’ out of her,” Honey warned, running a hand over the brown curls of the quieting Daffodil. “It’ll be worse later iffen you don’t.”
“I honestly don’t see how much worse it could get,” Myrtle responded, glancing back into the darkened smial again. “She still won’t-”
“Myrtle, Sigismund and May were made for each other by Yavanna,” Honey lightly scolded, “the bond between soulmates like that doesn’t break so easily. She’s hurtin’. She’ll always be hurtin’, in a way. Let her grieve.”
Myrtle nodded. “I know, I know.”
“Just keep being there for her, dear,” Honey advised, smiling down at her own happily giggling baby. “Spring always brings change, thank Yavanna.”
“Thank Yavanna,” Myrtle repeated, smiling at the tender scene. “She’s almost a year, isn’t she?”
Honey nodded, tapping the end of Daffodil’s nose, making her shriek and giggle. “The twenty-seventh of Astron. She’s made it through her first winter.”
“It was a hard one, wasn’t it?” Myrtle said, looking back out over the (now greenish-white) hills. “And cold.”
Something … was howling. Or was it?
“It was indeed, but that means a good strong year,” Honey said, still playing with her little Daffodil. “Winter’s rage is done. I think this summer’s going to be nice and mild. Just perfect.”
“That certainly sounds perfect,” Myrtle said quietly, ears straining. She thought … “Can you hear something? I thought I heard howling.”
“Howling?” Honey asked, holding Daffodil a little tighter and looking out to the hills as well.
They stood there and fell silent, listening with all their might.
Howling meant wolves. Howling meant Myrtle running for the warning horn at the end of their lane. Howling meant winter was not over. Howling meant … howling meant a dead father.
They listened.
Nothing but birdsong and rooster crows on the cool morning breeze. “I don’t hear anythin’, Myrtle,” Honey ventured cautiously. “Nothing but the early sounds of spring.”
Myrtle stared out at the hills and fields.
“Must’ve been a rooster with a head cold,” Honey laughed, returning to bouncing her precious baby on her hip, “that’s all.”
Myrtle’s hands were clenched fistfuls of apron cloth. She stepped out further and strained to hear.
Howls.
“There!”
Honey listened intently again. Myrtle’s hands began to shake. A faint echo of something carried on the breeze...
“There!”
“There’s nothing there, Myrtle,” Honey said comfortingly, shaking her head. “Nothing at all.”
Myrtle shook her head. “No, I heard something.”
Honey sighed and reached over the hedge to take Myrtle’s shoulder. “Myrtle, it’s okay. This is the first time since Sigismund was transported to the Grubbs’ that you’ve been out of your smial.”
Myrtle started. Had it really been all winter?
Honey smiled gently, holding both her baby and Mrytle’s shoulder. “Of course you’ll hear howls. You’re still scared.” She squeezed Myrtle’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s okay to be scared.” Honey looked thoughtful for a moment. “If you’d like, I’ll send my little Rowan out with a message for Ted. Tell him to watch for howling or the like.”
Myrtle felt her shoulders relax and she nodded with a relieved smile. “I don’t want to impose-”
“Nonsense,” Honey chided gently, “it’s no trouble a’ ‘tall.”
Myrtle thanked her profusely and Honey went back into her smial, closing the bright marigold door behind her.
“Just … just a rooster with a head cold,” Myrtle muttered to herself, with a firm nod of her head. “Yes, just a rooster with a head cold.”
She turned about firmly and strode back to her (safe) kitchen. She grabbed up a kitchen knife, her favorite, but found her feet going into the larder instead of sitting at the table. She glanced about before sighing and giving in to the very hobbitish need for something comforting to munch on. She cut a wedge of the latest cheese wheel that Harrow Longhole had brought over the other day. She chewed as she wandered back out into her kitchen.
Good ole Brurmound cheese. Soft enough to chew, creamy and tangy with a slight nutty flavor. The specialty of the Longholes. She took another bite and, for a few extra moments, looked out over the hills through the open windows as she slowly chewed.
There’s nothing out there, she told herself firmly. Stop it. Papa’s death was an accident. A horrible accident. There are no wolves out there in the Shire woods. The Bounders made sure of that. They told you so! Stop it. That’s enough. She slapped herself on the cheeks. It stung.
She went to the table, pulling a basket of beets with her. With a firm plant of her butt onto her chosen chair, she began to peel the beets and set them aside. She’d pickle the beets first, then start the process of making rhubarb jam. Her favorite knife flashed in the morning light as she continued to peel.
She began to hum as she worked. A soft song, a simple song, but one she needed right now. She began to softly sing to the early spring outside her windows.
“Four months of winter cold and joyous holidays, we’ve kept our families warm at home, with time off from work to play.”
The peels piled up in the bucket as the beets rolled in her hands and against her knife.
“But the food we’ve stored is runnin’ out and we can’t grow in this cold,” she smiled as she mimicked the fauntings' stanza, “ and even though we love the snow, this white is gettin’ old! ”
The beets were staining her hands red. Such was the risk of working with this winter vegetable.
“Please, Yavanna, bring back spring and all things warm and green. It’s time for us to say goodbye to winter’s icy sheen. ”
Whoop, her knife almost slipped.
“We love to hear the return of birds, their songs bring joy and cheer. They sing to let us know that spring is here. ”
Birdsong drifted in the window. It sounded so sweet.
“Manwë, please clear the gloomy skies and let the sunshine in! We ask that you move the clouds and melt the cold snow, so when the sun comes out, its warmth and beauty will glow! ”
This basket of beets was nearly done.
“Lady Yavanna, bring back spring and all things warm and gree- ”
A bone-chilling howl crept up Myrtle’s spine, freezing her in place. A cold wind blew through the entire hill, swirling and chilling and shrieking.
The rattling BOOM! of the front door slamming shut shook the windows and rattled the spoons out of place. The windows banged shut.
Icy cracks scattered along the panes of glass and one pane shattered entirely.
The house fell silent and the gloom once more settled in the halls like an old shed skin.
Myrtle sat there, shaking. She slowly set her knife down, the beets lay forgotten at her feet. The smial was too quiet now. She looked at the windows, then back towards the front door. She braced her hands on the table and slowly stood, her skin prickling under the sudden cold and frights.
She had only just begun to move - either to the windows or the front door, she hadn’t made up her mind yet - when May’s bedroom door slammed open.