At the time of the events of this story, Frodo had been ill and depressed since the beginning of March. When he was well enough to travel, I had, with much cajoling and insistence, persuaded him to come and stay with me at Crickhollow for a few weeks. The changing of the season, from frozen winter to rushing spring, had always been my favorite time to be in Buckland. Recent rains had turned the hills around the Hall lush and green, the daffodils were thick in bloom, and the River was swollen and noisy from the melting snows. Even so, a darkness and blackness of mood remained upon Frodo despite the growing warmth and promise of renewal all around him, and I despaired of being able to pierce through that cloud to shed any light. It has taken time and the absence of him all these many years since to realize that my sun could never have burned brightly enough to effect that thaw and sudden spring that I so hoped would heal him.

When I came out to breakfast that bright April morning, Frodo was already awake, though still in his nightshirt and dressing gown. He said not a word to me, and ate nothing - I couldn't remember when last I had seen him set to a proper meal. He sat in the drawing room, curled up in the overstuffed chair that had been Bilbo's favorite when it was in Bag End. I left him there, sullen and brooding and wreathed in pipe smoke, when I went for my morning walk. I was therefore much surprised, and indeed gratified, to find upon my return a few hours later that he was engaged with Samwise Gamgee, his former gardener and companion upon the Quest, and a stranger - a middle-aged hobbit dressed in a well-cut suit of dark green. The remains of tea and iced lemon shortcake were scattered about the tea tray between Sam and the guest. Frodo's own teacup remained full, the slice of cake at his elbow untouched.

"Oh!" I exclaimed upon entering, "I'm dreadfully sorry. I didn't mean to intrude." I made as if to withdraw, but Frodo jumped up from his chair and grabbed me by the arm.

"Don't be silly, Merry," he said, shepherding me back into the room. "Mr. Buckthorn, this is my cousin and partner in all things mysterious, Merry Brandybuck."

Our guest was of something less than average build for a hobbit, about fifty years old or so I would say. His cheeks were a bit paler than a hobbit's wont, but that was still all too common in the Shire these days. His hair was brown and grizzled, showing a bit of grey about the temples; and he had a small cut above his left eye. But he smiled warmly at me, and upon being introduced, he stood and bowed.

"Mr. Marlo Buckthorn, at your service," he said.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck, at yours and your family's!" I replied. I settled onto an ottoman beside Sam. "What brings you and Sam here on such a fine morning?"

"Indeed, that is the very question upon my own lips," Frodo interjected, rather impatiently I thought. He was sitting now on the edge of his chair, staring keenly at our guest. "While I can see that he is a tailor by trade, is originally from Buckland but has relocated to the Marish within the past year, and has recently recovered from a long illness, the reason for his visit here remains obscure."

"Why, Mr. Baggins!" Mr. Buckthorn replied, eyes wide, "How ever could you possibly know all that? I haven't told you a bit of it."

Frodo shook his head and chuckled - the first sound of merriment I'd heard from him in months, even if it was a bit dry. He waved a dismissive hand, replying, "It's quite simple, really. Obvious, if you know what to look for. You see it all, don't you Merry?"

"Well..." I said, not liking to be put on the spot so. Sam grinned at my discomfiture, which only made me more flustered.

"Oh come now, Merry," Frodo chided, "You know my methods. Observe!"

I took another look at our guest from head to toe, and ventured an answer. "Of course, the stub of pencil poking from behind your ear marks your trade. And Buckthorn is a common enough surname in Buckland. But honestly, I'm stymied about the rest of it."

"His feet!" Frodo cried. "You can practically read a hobbit's whole life by looking at his feet, my dear Merry. That fine powder dusting his toes is from dried mud being brushed out. The grey-green color of it indicates the peat mud that is distinctive to the Marish. The amount of it denotes much time spent there, rather than a single visit. And the presence of it at all shows he has not yet been there long enough to adopt the native's predilection for wearing boots in wet weather."

"And the illness?" I inquired.

"Why, the cut of his clothes, of course," Frodo responded. "You see how they hang off of him - too loose, especially 'round the collar. He has experienced weight loss, and that can only mean illness or great hardship for a hobbit. As the Troubles were neatly dispatched last year, in no small part due to you and Pippin and Sam, and this past harvest was a good one, I can only conclude that illness is the most likely cause. And since he quite heartily partook of elevenses here this morning, I should say he has since made a full recovery."

"It's all too true, Mr. Baggins," Mr. Buckthorn replied. I'm a tailor and originally from up Newbury way. It was just less than a year ago I crossed the River and came to work for my uncle Milo - him being a tailor also and with his own shop in Rushy. He was ailing and up in years and starting to loose his eyesight. His shop always did a fair business, and he just couldn't keep up with it anymore. Well, he died around the first of this year and left the shop to me, and what with that and having suddenly to run the whole thing and being all on my own, I fell ill myself - my nerves never have been strong, even worse since the Troubles. Hasn't been but two or three weeks since I started feeling myself again, and back to six meals a day - and that with the help of Miss Peony Maggot, you see. Although I could have made the alterations in my vestments for fit after my illness had passed, I expected to be filling out my clothes properly again in no time at all. So I didn't see the point, really. Of course, now that you've explained how you knew all that, it's as plain as a pikestaff. Nothing to it at all!" he laughed.

"Indeed!" Frodo snorted, and flashed me a peevish look that made me grin. "Now, Mr. Buckthorn, please be so kind as to relate those events of yesterday as clearly and explicitly as possible. Leave nothing out - no matter how trivial or insignificant it may seem to you." Frodo settled back into his chair, closing his eyes and adopting an attitude that was deceptively indolent, for I knew him to be at his most receptive to information and perceptive to its implications when he was thus composed.

"Certainly," Mr. Buckthorn replied. He blinked a few times and looked about, first to Sam and then to me, perhaps looking for the validation of an alert audience, before he continued. "I was walking home, it must have been about 8:30 in the evening or thereabout. I had been up to the Maggot's farm for a visit that afternoon. You see, I've been courting his eldest daughter, Miss Peony, whom I've mentioned to you already. We're to be married in just a few weeks, as a matter of fact. There was a light rain most of the day, so we stayed inside chatting and playing forfeits and lookabout. I ate dinner with the family, and then set off for home. I didn't take Mr. Maggot up on his offer of a ride, since the rain had stopped by teatime. I honestly wish I had now. Miss Peony thought I should, seeing as how I've only been back on my feet less than a month. It was a bit of pride I guess, that I wanted to prove I was well enough to walk the few miles back home.

"At any rate, I figured it wouldn't be too dark with the moon near full and the clouds mostly gone. Miss Peony and her brother Dino kept me company on my walk down the lane as far as the Causeway, and there we parted. I kept to the road for about half a mile, and then, since it was getting late and I was more than a bit tired and wanting my bed, I took a bit of a shortcut I know. There's this footpath just to the west of the road that cuts across country and lands me right behind my house, which is just at the north edge of Rushy. I'd used that path often enough, though always in daylight. I didn't think twice about using it at night, though I should have.

"About another quarter of a mile along, this path plunges into a thicket of trees, and then passes by an old abandoned homestead. It was dark under those trees, and there were strange noises all round about me - owls hooting, and some scratching and creaking and moaning - probably just the wind in the trees. I started to call myself a fool for first refusing Mr. Maggot's ride, and second for taking this blasted shortcut. But it was too late now, and another mile or so and I'd be home. Which is what I kept telling myself to still the hammering of my heart and keep my feet moving.

"Well, when I got to where the path goes close by to the homestead, I got a bit of a shock. Through the trees, I thought I could see a light shining. It wasn't an ordinary light, either. It had a sickly greenish glow to it, and it seemed to be coming from the old house. I really don't know what possessed me. I suppose I was more than a little annoyed at myself for getting all riled up and nervous over noises and nothing. I had to face my fears and screw up some nerve, or else what kind of a husband would I ever make for pity's sake? So I stepped out of the thicket and onto a muddy path that led to the house to take a closer look.

"I'll admit to you my knees were a bit shaky as I walked up to that house. I was going pretty slow, but even so I tripped over a root or something on the path, and I lurched forward, though I didn't fall. My feet sank deep in the mud with a loud squelch, and you'll think this queer enough I should warrant, but it was at that moment I could swear I heard a bell ringing. Well, that was it for me. I ran back along the path towards the thicket, but I didn't get more than a half dozen paces before I tripped again. This time I fell and cracked my head - on a rock I suppose. I was knocked right out, at any rate.

"When I woke up, I couldn't quite get my bearings, for I wasn't anywhere near that old house anymore. After a time my head cleared a bit, and I saw that I was in fact lying in the ditch on the side of the Causeway, just near the lane to the Maggot farm! Well, I was a bit dizzy, but there wasn't much for it. I got up and walked the couple of miles back to Maggot's and, after I told him all that had happened, he insisted I spend the night there. Miss Peony nursed my aching head, and after a brandy or two, I felt much better. In the morning Maggot's son Dino drove me home. I was determined not to let the events of last night unsettle me, so after washing up and changing my clothes, I went and opened my shop. It was there that Mr. Gamgee came to see me, and encouraged me to come and talk to you. Though really," he added with a shamefaced chuckle, "I don't see what interest this might be to you. It's more embarrassing than anything else."

"How did you find out about this, Sam?" I asked.

"Well, since the weather's turned warmer, me and Hal have been making the rounds of the Shire - making sure folks have what they need and that there's no new trouble brewing. Pippin's been doing the same around the Tookland. Hal and I have been in the East Farthing for a few weeks, and these past couple of days we've been staying at Rushy in the River Reed Inn.

"Mr. Buckthorn's story didn't sit too well with old Maggot - he thought there might be more going on than met the eye so to speak. So knowing I was about, he sent Dino over to the inn to tell me the story after he'd dropped off Mr. Buckthorn at his home. It seemed odd enough, and I thought perhaps it was just the sort of puzzle that Mr. Frodo should look into, especially since I knew the two of you were staying at Crickhollow. Rather than messing about at the old place myself to see what was what, I thought it best we should come talk to you first."

Frodo smiled, but his eyes remained close. "That was well done, Sam. Please continue."

"I went straight away over to Mr. Buckthorn's shop, and convinced him to take a ride with me here. There weren't no customers waiting, and although he did put a brave face on it, I could tell he was still a bit shaken by it all. So he agreed to close up shop for the day and here we are."

"Aye, we set off at once - and me with my pencil still tucked behind my ear. Such is the force of habit, I suppose," Mr. Buckthorn laughed.

Frodo opened his eyes then and leaned forward. "Have you any notion yourself as to what could explain these events, Mr. Buckthorne?" he asked.

Mr. Buckthorn's face lost its mirth, and he squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. "Well, Mr. Baggins. I know this will sound queer, but I almost thought..."

"Yes?" Frodo prompted.

"Well, sir, you may laugh, but the first thing that went through my head was that old rhyme about the Mewlips - sitting in their cellars, waiting for trespassers to come along and sink into the mud so they could...well...you know."

Frodo's only response to this outlandish theory was a furrowed brow and a slight frown. It was Sam who piped up with a bit of reason.

"Oh come now!" he said. "I've seen some strange things in my time, as have Mr. Merry and Mr. Frodo here. But there's no cause to go believing in every queer creature and bogey story we heard tell of as lads. There's a simple explanation to all this, I'll be bound."

"Right you are Sam! And we shall find it," Frodo cried, and sprang up from his chair. He bustled out of the room, calling out, "Saddle up the ponies, Merry! We shall take a ride out to the Marish, and see if we cannot bag us a Mewlip or two." He came back a few moments later, dressed in his waistcoat and trousers. He grabbed his coat off the peg by the door and pulled it on. "Come, come!" he cried, "the game is afoot!" And with that, he was out the door.

Mr. Buckthorn made some protestation as we followed after Frodo that it was nearly time for lunch. It was to no avail - Frodo insisted on leaving directly. While we three gadlings had on the Quest become accustomed to long journeys on short rations and even now could still miss a meal without undue hardship, it was difficult for poor Mr. Buckthorn with his recently recovered appetite. He grumbled a bit as he and Sam clambered up onto a smart little pony trap that Sam had borrowed from the innkeeper, and his mood did not improve as I quickly saddled up two ponies and we set off towards the Ferry.

By two o'clock we reached the scene of Mr. Buckthorn's unfortunate adventure. It was an old fashioned homestead, long in disrepair, set back from the old Causeway Road that ran south through the Marish, and approached by a muddy track that bent round the south side of the house. There was no glass in the two small, round windows at the front, the thatched roof was mostly gone, and the stonework was crumbling in several places. Weeds grew up to the window frames, and slimy moss practically carpeted the two stone stairs leading up to the door, which remained surprisingly stout and firm upon its hinges. The ground round about was muddy, even boggy in places. To the right of the door, a shallow pool of standing water held the rains of the past few weeks. Willow trees grew in abundance around the whole place, which was enough to give me the shivers, even in daylight.

We dismounted, and Frodo had us stand where we were while he tried to discern any footprints in the mud leading up to and around the house. He had picked up more than a few tracking tips from Strider on our journey south. Indeed, he reminded me keenly of the Ranger just then, stooping low to the ground and making his way slowly and methodically down the path, disappearing around the corner of the house. In a few long moments he was back, and beckoning us to come along inside.

The old house was just a two-room cottage. The only furniture was a rickety old table with a couple of chairs, and some built in shelves in what was probably once the kitchen area. Frodo had us stand by the door while he quickly scanned the floor for footprints. The floor was covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt, so they were fairly easy to pick out.

"At least one hobbit has been here," Frodo mumbled as if to himself. "He or she has a limp. Two sets of boot prints belonging to Men - they are far too large for hobbits, even in Dwarf boots." As he passed round the table, he stooped quickly and picked something up. "This is more your specialty, Merry. Tell me what you make of it," he said.

He handed me a large burr. It had long, hooked tips interwoven with a white, cottony substance.

"It's from a burdock plant," I said. "Not the cockle buttons you find in the Shire, though. This is much bigger and not quite so downy. I think I've seen this type before, if only I could remember...Ah ha! Of course, it was after we'd taken up with Strider at Bree, and he led us on that shortcut through the Chetwood. It was all over the place. I was picking it out of my clothes and toes practically all the way to Weathertop."

I stopped short and glanced quickly at Frodo, afraid that a reminder of that awful place would be disagreeable for him. But he only smiled broadly and clapped me on the back.

"Merry, you're a marvel!" he cried. "That's most helpful! Most helpful, indeed."

There wasn't much else to see, and it didn't take Frodo long to scour the place. On the table he found some marks where the dust had been disturbed, probably by a pair of heavy booted feet propped upon it. There was also a nearly empty leather tobacco pouch, and a silver match case with the initials H.G. engraved upon the face. Frodo opened the pouch and retrieved a bit of the tobacco, rubbed it between his fingers, and sniffed it.

"Not Longbottom leaf, nor any other Shire variety. This stuff is the much inferior Breeland weed. Ah, and here," he said, walking across to the shelves, "some wax candles with green glass shades. The source of your mysterious light, Mr. Buckthorn."

We soon left that dismal place and made our way back north. The road wasn't a very busy one, but still the tangle of cart tracks was difficult even for Frodo to make much of. He was, however, able to pick out the tracks of a cart that had pulled over near to the ditch, just where the lane to Maggot's farm met the Causeway.

Mr. Buckthorn pointed to a spot near a wooden fence post. "There!" he said. "That's about the place where I woke up."

"Then these are likely the tracks of the cart that carried you here," Frodo replied. "You see, as they come from the south, the impressions are deeper - the cart was laden with something. As they pull away and head north again, they are not so deep."

"Well, I'll be knackered!" exclaimed Mr. Buckthorn. "It's just as you say."

"Perhaps the Mewlips thought you were not meal enough for them, and decided to be neighborly and give you a ride instead," Frodo said, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Mr. Buckthorn's cheeks flushed apple-red. "All right, all right - I know I let my fears get the better of me, Mr. Baggins. I did tell you my nerves have been rather frayed of late. But who was it that picked me up out of the mud last night, then? And why would they just dump me like a sack of potatoes on the side of the lane, instead of taking me up to Maggot's farm?"

"That," Frodo replied, "shall require further investigation. Merry, why don't you and Sam take Mr. Buckthorn up to Maggot's and wait for me there."

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"To make some inquiries in the village, I should think. I won't be too long. I expect I should be back by dinner." With that he mounted his pony and was off, heading south towards Rushy.

"Come on, Mr. Buckthorn. I'm sure Mrs. Maggot won't mind fixing you up something to tide you over until teatime," I said.

The three of us rode a mile or two up the lane to the Maggot's farm, where the ever-gracious Mrs. Maggot treated us to a nice snack and a lovely tea while we waited for Frodo to come back with some news. Indeed, Mr. Buckthorn's spirits were soon quite mended - somewhat by the food, but I would wager more so by the attention lavished on him by Miss Peony.

A hearty dinner was laid about six o'clock. We three guests joined the Maggot household at the kitchen table, yet still there was no sign of Frodo. We had finished eating, and old Maggot, Sam, and I had just made up our minds to go out looking for him, when there came a ring at the door. Within a few moments, Mrs. Maggot was leading Frodo into the kitchen. He greeted Farmer Maggot warmly, and we made room for him at the table. He beamed at Mrs. Maggot as she filled a plate for him, and I was pleased to note he refused none of the food that was offered. I was even more pleased to see him dig in with gusto, and took that as a sign that things had gone as well as he could wish that afternoon.

As curious as I was about his doings, I hadn't the heart to interrupt his meal, knowing as I did how long it had been since he'd had a good one. But Mr. Buckthorn, I'm sorry to say, felt no such compunction. Frodo had barely spooned himself a second helping of bacon and mushrooms when Mr. Buckthorn's impatience got the better of him.

"Please, Mr. Baggins! I'm worn down to my last nerve! Were you or were you not able to find anything more out about this mystery?"

"My dear Mr. Buckthorn," Frodo said, pushing back his plate. "I have done more than that - I have solved this little puzzle of yours."

"Have you?" Mr. Buckthorn cried. "By all means let's hear it then!"

"Well, I have found that if you want information about the locals, it's always best to hit up the local tavern. So after I left you, I rode on to Rushy and stopped at the River Reed. Fortunately, I was able to find an old gaffer deep enough in his cups despite the early hour that he didn't so much mind a stranger for an audience, but not so deep that he didn't know his business. He was quite knowledgeable about the lands within twenty miles of Rushy, his family being one of the oldest in the Marish. He knew the old homestead as I described it, and said it belonged to the Beetle family. They lived in the village proper now, the old place being abandoned for nigh on thirty years or so, but they still own the land. Or rather, Fosco Beetle, the village baker owns it.

"My new acquaintance didn't have many good things to say about the Beetle family. Fosco's brother, Rosco had taken up with the ruffians that overran the Shire under Saruman's command. He even fought on their side when Merry and Sam here, and Pippin Took, led the Battle of Bywater. That only got him killed - by one of the very ruffians he counted among his friends.

"His brother Fosco, however, seems to have kept his nose pretty clean. He never outright aligned himself with the ruffians, but people around there suspected him of collaborating with them. And what's more, during that first winter after the ruffians were thrown out and food and supplies were so scarce, he never seemed to go without. He was just free enough with the baked goods, giving loaves to widows and extending credit to others, that nobody complained. But they were suspect of him all right. Oh, and one other thing he told me about old Fosco - he's got a gammy leg.

"I gave the old gaffer a silver penny for his story, then went in search of Mr. Fosco Beetle's bakery. It was less than a quarter of a mile down the road, and the lass who greeted me when I walked in was pleasant enough - Mr. Fosco's niece, I believe. She informed me that the proprietor was away north on business in Stock, and would return tomorrow evening. I thanked her, purchased a raspberry tart, and made my way here. So there you have it"

"Have it?" Mr. Buckthorn spluttered. "Have what? I still don't see how that explains anything!"

"It is my opinion," Frodo responded coolly, "that you were simply in the wrong place at the most inopportune time. Beetle and several of his unsavory cohorts were meeting at the old homestead when you bungled past. It was not a root you tripped over that first time. On our little field trip, I found a wire rigged to a bell hanging in a willow tree just to the side of the path around the back of the house. I picked up your tracks there, clear enough. That wire rang the bell, which alerted them to your presence. Perhaps most fortunately for you, you knocked yourself out with your fall, so that they did not have to do you any violence. The one thing we can say in their favor is that they are not murderous - they put you in a cart and dumped you off at Maggot's lane, before Beetle headed north on his "business" trip.

"I have no doubt that Beetle is picking up a shipment of loot from somewhere around Stock. We have found many, but I'll warrant not nearly all, of the caches the ruffians hid about the countryside. Beetle will take his cut and hand off the rest to the Men who were hanging about the old homestead last night. By my estimation, they're probably Breelanders operating out of the Chetwood, if I'm not much mistaken."

"Aye," Sam interjected. "I've heard tell of a gang of ruffians still holed up in the Breeland. Up around Archet or thereabouts. Could be Beetle's got ties to them."

"I think it highly likely," Frodo replied. That would be consistent with our findings at the old homestead, anyway. There were Men there who had recently traveled in the Chetwood, according to Merry's astute analysis of the burrs. And I think it also likely that our old friend Harry the gatekeeper is among them."

"Harry?" asked Sam, surprised. "What makes you think he's mixed up in this?"

"You probably didn't notice, but when we first met Harry at the West Gate in Bree, the boots he was wearing had square toes. I only marked it because I had never seen square-toed boots before, and thought it rather odd. Imagine my surprise when I noted square-toed impressions in the mud outside the old homestead. And the silver match case we found on the table had the initials H.G. engraved on it."

"Harry Goatleaf! Of course!" I said.

"Yes, it seems our Harry's come up in the world since last we saw him. An engraved silver match case is more of a luxury than a humble gatekeeper would have. Unfortunately, he has chosen to make his fortune through thievery and preying on the misfortunes of others."

"Well," Mr. Buckthorn said with a shake of his head, "I don't suppose a gang of thieves is anything to be thankful for. All the same, it's a relief to have an explanation for my little adventure last night."

"Quite right, Mr. Buckthorn. You needn't worry about phantom mewlips dogging your steps on your way home tonight."

"No indeed, Mr. Baggins," Mr. Buckthorn laughed. He reached over and squeezed the hand of his fiancé, who sat just across the table from him. "And by the end of the month, I won't have cause to walk by that evil old place any more, as Miss Peony here will be keeping me safe and sound in my own home...as my missus."

"I wish you much happiness," Frodo said, before turning to me. "Merry - you and Sam might want to round up a dozen or so stout lads and shirriffs and prepare a little welcome for Mr. Beetle and his gang when they hand off the goods at the old homestead place tomorrow night. If you miss them there, I fear you will never find them once they cut across country to Sarn Ford. Now if you would all excuse me, I have a plate of mushrooms growing cold and in need of my attention."

The End

END Additional Notes:
Gadling = a companion or fellow, in good sense; esp. a companion in arms (gacked from Semyaza's Sam's Word of the Week)

For those of you who have never read it, here is Tolkien's poem The Mewlips (from The Adventures of Tom Bombadil):

The Mewlips

The shadows where the Mewlips dwell
Are dark and wet as ink,
And slow and softly rings their bell,
As in the slime you sink.

You sink into the slime, who dare
To knock upon the door,
While down the grinning gargoyles stare
And noisome waters poor.

Beside the rotting river-strand
The drooping willows weep,
And gloomily the gorcrows stand
Croaking in their sleep.

Over the Merlock Mountains a long and weary way,
In a mouldy valley where the trees are grey,
By a dark pool's borders without wind or tide,
Moonless and sunless, the Mewlips hide.

The cellars where the Mewlips sit
Are deep and dank and cold
With single sickly candle lit;
And there they count their gold.

Their walls are wet, their ceilings drip;
Their feet upon the floor
Go softly with a squish-flap-flip,
As they sidle to the door.>

They peep out slyly; through a crack
Their feeling fingers creep,
And when they're finished, in a sack
Your bones they take to keep.

Beyond the Merlock Mountains, a long and lonely road,
Through the spider-shadows and the Marsh of Tode,
And through the wood of hanging trees and the gallows-weed,
You go to find the Mewlips - and the Mewlips feed.