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Long before the forests of Fangorn curled its roots into the earth below, before the blue wizards’ names were lost to time, before the Valar spoke of Arda’s change, there was the Peddler, and he knew all.
No one in Hobbiton could quite remember a time without the small shop nestled deeply between the crooks of trees. From Bagginses to Bolgers to Banks, all families of the Shire could feel their eyes drifting to the shop on their morning strolls, like moths to the flicker of a flame.
The petrichor filled the air, dew settling across the pale blades of grass in the autumn chill as night turned to early day. The hour was late, far too late for any hobbit of practical standing to be up, and yet, one amongst the Shire stirred restlessly.
Dawn was nigh approaching when the Mathom Peddler set down his quill. A wrinkled hand, calloused and dry and stained with ink, swept gray curls from his face as he shuffled the papers around, tired eyes reading over various strange markings and runes.
The Mathom Peddler rose from his seat, the wooden chair scuffing the floor as he pushed it back. His eyes trailed across his papers, fervidly written notes scattered across his desks, when he paused on a letter.
Idyllic and ethereal be your tale!
Your words come merrily and they shall regale!
My darling and dearest Goldberry agrees,
Tom’s in a hurry, so write back to me!
He never quite understood his dear friend’s way of speaking, but that never did trouble the Mathom Peddler, as things little did. He found few sorrows in Middle Earth beyond full despair, for he always knew.
Except, at this moment, he didn’t. His story was left incomplete, with no response to Tom Bombadill on the state of the world’s future. He knew very well what mathom would befall on whom, but he knew not how their journey should end until his quill signed the last dot on his book.
It was this very matter that troubled the Mathom Peddler that dismal morning as birds began to flutter past the windows and hop their way across the sills. He watched, a frown creasing his face for any inspiration. But the wisdom of birds proved fruitless. A bird could not spread his wings and fly if he spent so long in a gilded cage of safety, and it had been quite a long while since the Mathom Peddler had found a new hero of his tales.
With heavy eyes from a restless night and a heavy heart to accompany it, the Mathom Peddler began his morning routine. He dusted off grimoires and polished spoons until they shone brighter than the sun rising outside. He rewound the clocks- although some ticked not forwards but back- and filled vases with begonias and asters, nearly forgetting the forget-me-nots. He cleaned every alcove and nook until the light chased away the dark shadows that filled the corners of the night.
Just past Elevenses, he heard a knock on his door. A very peculiar occurrence in Hobbiton, for every hobbit preferred to have at least a day’s warning before a mealtime visit. The Mathom Peddler’s mind briefly flashed to a not-so-very-long ago story he wrote in his books, one of a most unusual company arriving quite unexpectedly for an unlucky hobbit.
“Excuse me, Master Peddler, sir?” A voice rang out from beyond his door.
“Ah, come in my friend!” The door opened to reveal a hobbit. A fine layer of freckles coated his rosy cheeks, alongside a layer of dirt.
“Master Peddler, I hate to borrow you so close to Elevenses, I really do sir, but myself and my boy had work to do over at Bag End and found ourselves fresh out of seeds. You wouldn’t happen to have any hidden amongst these trinkets, would you?”
“But of course, Master Hamfast, if you’d come right this way, I believe I have some right around here.”
A blond head peeked from around Hamfast Gamgee’s legs, eyes wide as he took in the small shop. As the boy’s father made his way forward, the boy tottered clumsily behind, hands latched onto his father’s vest.
“Now, they should be right around here somewhere.” The Mathom Peddler searched through his baubles, trinkets, and trifles, finding an armful of jars and setting them on the shelf. “Here! Each of these contains some seeds, these here are the iris, they famously represent hope and courage. In fact, I believe it was the Old Took who grew the first in Hobbiton…”
Master Hamfast listened with rapt attention, but the young boy beside him paid little heed to the conversation at hand. His eyes danced across the different jars, squinting at the words sprawled messily onto labels. He wasn’t the best at reading quite yet, but if there was one thing the young Gamgee knew, it was flowers.
A gleam from one of the jars drew the boy towards it. Bluebells , the label proclaimed outside the jar filled with dark seeds. He knew of the plant, it grew throughout the garden of Bag End, a favorite of the hobbit who lived there. Truth be told, it was also the favorite of the small hobbit boy learning his father’s trade. Out of every plant he had helped his father with, something drew him to the dainty flower.
The boy’s hands, not yet calloused with work like his father’s, reached towards the jar, which sat slightly over the shelf’s ledge, but fell just short. Not yet old enough to be out after dark, the young Gamgee was small, even in hobbit terms.
He huffed, disappointed at his lack of reach. The boy pulled on his father’s jacket, but Master Hamfast paid little mind to the tugs of his son, who pouted in return.
The boy was stumped, but hope still remained as he noticed what lay beside him. An old oak chair, similar to the one his father sits out on during afternoon tea, stood precariously by the shelf. It was chipped and tattered with age, but the hobbit cared little. All he cared for were the seeds.
He hoisted himself over top of the chair, legs kicking to pull himself onto the seat. He looked up, eyes now level with the jars. The bluebell jars sat just next to the wisteria the Mathom Peddler was gesturing at, glinting in the light of the room.
The boy reached, fingers grazing the jar and pushing it further back. His lips twisted into a frown, fingers splaying out as he leaned forwards.
His hand crept closer, just a breath away from the jar, when a loud cracking split through the room and the boy tumbled to the ground, chair and all.
A quick intake of air, a stuttering breath, and then a wail filled the air as Master Hamfast scooped the crying boy into his arms.
“There, there, Samwise,” he hushed. “Whatever were you doing?”
“The seeds!” He bawled, fists rubbing at his eyes.
The Mathom Peddler watched, a curious look in his eyes as Master Hamfast continued to comfort the weeping boy.
“Which seeds, Sam?”
A hand pointed towards the shelf. “The ones Master Bilbo loves, the bluebells!”
“I’m so sorry, Master Peddler, Samwise here may not mean to go looking for it but manages to always find himself surrounded by trouble.” Master Hamfast apologized for his son, tucking him to his chest as he withdrew coins to hand to the man.
“It’s quite alright,” the Mathom Peddler reassured. “Trouble tends to find us, whether we look for it or not.”
“Yes, well,” he set the boy back onto his feet. “Samwise means good nevertheless. I’ve never seen another hobbit with such a fondness for making people happy, I’ll tell you that.” He smiled at his son.
The pair followed the Mathom Peddler up to the counter, coins in hand.
“The wisteria, some foxgloves, daisies, violets, poppies, and of course,” he set the last jar onto the counter. “Bluebells.”
Master Hamfast slid the coins across the counter and picked up the jars, setting them carefully in his son’s waiting hands.
“Now, you be careful carrying all that, alright, Samwise? Goodness,” he turned to the Mathom Peddler as Samwise marched out the door. “Barely up to my waist and the boy already wants to help carry everything. Can you believe it?” Master Hamfast held his hand out in a goodbye as he made his way out the shop, jogging to catch up with his son.
The Mathom Peddler stood for a moment, eyes trailing the pair out the window, money still gripped in his hand. He set the coins down on the counter, gaze never leaving the young boy as he slowly made his way up the hill and out of sight from the shop.
It was silent for a moment, a strange stillness taking over the world. Not a bird chirped or bee hummed, nor did the clocks tick or the wind whistle as the Mathom Peddler made his way towards the back of the shop and to his desk, where his papers lay awaiting.
He picked up his quill and dipped it in ink, a thoughtful look on his face as he wrote, hesitantly at first, then hastily as the ideas flowed through his pen to the parchment.
There the Mathom Peddler stayed for the rest of the day, taking no pause in his works, no need for water nor meals as he spun the threads that wove into the very world beneath his feet into being.
“Yes,” he spoke to no one in particular, and yet, deep within the Old Forest, a bearded man tilted his head in thought, eyes alight with mirth. “I believe young Master Samwise will carry the fates of us all one day.”