A New Tale: Meg

A year ago – April 23, 2014 – John Michael Greer posted an essay titled "Refusing the Call: A Tale Rewritten"on his blog, The Archdruid Report.  The essay featured a story from “an alternate Middle-earth:  one in which Frodo Baggins, facing the final crisis of the Third Age and the need to leave behind everything he knew and loved in order to take the Ring to Mount Doom, crumpled instead, with a cry of “I can’t, Gandalf, I just can’t.”  (I’m going to quote from that story below, but to read all of the Archdruid's story, click on the link above.  The whole column is well worth reading, as are, I think, all of JMG’s posts.)

The comments following the essay raised the topic of female heroes and why so few stories were told of women undertaking quests.  And then raised the question of how a woman would respond to the challenge of a quest, and whether that would be different than a man’s response.  To which the Archdruid replied, that’s a good question but one “that women will have to answer.”

Over the last year I have thought about that answer - the first draft of the story I’m about to tell is dated last June.  But now I’ve finally worked it through (and over and under and around) and am ready to offer ONE answer.   

First an excerpt from the Archdruid’s story (but please click on the link above and read the entire piece), and then “Meg” (which, by the way, does not involve The Green Dragon or a buxom hobbit barmaid, although there is ale...).

And a last caveat: I do not pretend to be an expert on Middle Earth.  I’ve loved the books since I first read them more than 40 years ago, but although I have re-read them frequently,  I have undoubtedly made mistakes (of commission or omission) in my story.  I hope that those readers who dream in Elvish will be patient and forbearing.

First, from the Archdruid.  The tale begins shortly after Frodo's accidental death.

“You’ve heard about the magic ring he had, the one that he inherited from his uncle Bilbo, the one that Gandalf the wizard wanted him to go off and destroy? That was thirty years ago, and most folk in the Shire have heard rumors about it by now. Yes, it’s quite true; Frodo was supposed to leave the Shire and go off on an adventure, as Bilbo did before him, and couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had plenty of reasons to stay home, to be sure.  He was tolerably well off and quite comfortable, all his friends and connections were here, and the journey would have been difficult and dangerous. Nor was there any certainty of success—quite the contrary, it’s entirely possible that he might have perished somewhere in the wild lands, or been caught by the Dark Lord’s servants, or what have you.

“So he refused, and when Gandalf tried to talk to him about it, he threw the old wizard out of Bag End and slammed the round green door in his face. Have you ever seen someone in a fight who knows that he’s in the wrong, and knows that everyone else knows it, and that knowledge just makes him even more angry and stubborn?  That was Frodo just then. Friends of mine watched the whole thing, or as much of it as could be seen from the garden outside, and it was not a pleasant spectacle. 

“It’s what happened thereafter, though, that bears recalling.

[Summary: While Frodo stayed home and grew rich, Sauron spread his evil throughout Middle Earth.  Rohan, Rivendell, Lorien, and Minas Tirith fell; Aragorn and Gandalf perished.  Yet there were allies who might have helped Frodo if he had changed his mind, and who might still be able to help someone who would take up the quest.]

“And there might even still be a wizard to join such a quest. In fact, there would certainly be one—the very last of them, as far as I know.... Radagast is his name; yes, that would be me.

“Why am I telling you all this?  Well, you are old Frodo’s youngest cousin, are you not? Very nearly the only one of his relatives with enough of the wild Tookish blood in you to matter, or so I am told. It was just a month ago that you and two of your friends were walking in the woods, and you spoke with quite a bit of anger about how the older generation of hobbits had decided to huddle in their holes until the darkness falls—those were your very words, I believe. How did I know that? Why, a little bird told me—a wren, to be precise, a very clever and helpful little fellow, who runs errands for me from time to time when I visit this part of Middle-earth. If you meant what you said then, there is still hope.

“And the Ring? No, it was not lost, or not for long. It slipped from its chain and fell from old Frodo’s pocket as he stumbled home that last night, and a field mouse spotted it. I had briefed all the animals and birds around Hobbiton, of course, and so she knew what to do; she dragged the Ring into thick grass, and when dawn came, caught the attention of a jay, who took it and hid it high up in a tree. I had to trade quite a collection of sparkling things for it! But here it is, in this envelope, waiting for someone to take up the quest that Frodo refused. The choice is yours, my dear hobbit. What will you do?”

MEG

Meg stared, openmouthed, at the wizard.  She was sitting crosswise on the broad stone wall that separated her family’s land from the path.  Her hands were clasped around her updrawn knees, and her eyes were wide with amazement and ... what? ... disbelief?  eagerness?  Radagast hoped for the latter but steeled himself for the former.   She seemed to him endearingly like a hobbit child entranced by a granddad’s scary tale around a winter fire.

“Some hero!” a voice in his head sneered.  “Heroes aren’t supposed to be endearing.  And they aren’t supposed to be children either!”

“Now, now,” a different voice replied, “remember Galahad; remember Parsifal.”

Radagast sighed inwardly.  These voices from lives he had yet to live were rarely helpful but always annoying.  He banished them to a far corner of his mind, speculated briefly on who this “Parsifal” might turn out to be, and returned his attention to Meg, who had closed her mouth and was now looking pensive.

“So that’s the story of Frodo’s ring,” she said.  “I wonder how much his friends knew.”

“Or guessed.”

“Or guessed,” she agreed.  “You know how adults are: they won’t tell you anything, even when you become an adult yourself.” [Radagast knew she had just turned thirty-three.]  “But... poor Frodo!  He’s just going along in his normal quiet life, never even leaving the Shire, and poof! a wizard pops in and tells him he must take his precious magic ring to a distant land - through heaven know what dangers - and destroy it.  It’s a wonder he didn’t go mad!  I could almost feel sorry for him, despite all the trouble he’s brought on us.”

The wizard winced at the word “precious” – he remembered Gandalf’s stories all too well – then the thought of Gandalf and all the other lost lives infuriated him.

“Save your pity,” he snapped.  “The only thing Gandalf asked him to do was take the cursed thing to Rivendell.  Frodo couldn’t even do that!”

Meg looked at him as though seeing him for the first time.  “You’re angry,” she said.  “These people who have died – they were your friends.”

“Yes, but this isn’t just about Gandalf or Elrond or Aragorn.  It’s not about any one person – or elf or dwarf – or even the whole lot of them.  Sauron hates life, life itself, in any form.  He destroys life.  His creatures are a mockery of life.  He breeds them to destroy, to kill, to create nothing but carnage and ruin and death.”

He realized he was clutching his staff tightly, although he didn’t remember picking it up.  He forced himself to relax his hands, then laid the staff aside and looked at Meg, wondering if he had frightened her, thinking it might be good if he had.

She spoke quietly.  “But you think now... this time... whoever takes the ring must bear it all the way to the end.”  She continued without waiting for a reply.  “And so I must ask, Master Wizard, if you are quite sure you are addressing the right hobbit?”

Still shaken by his outburst, the wizard forced himself to answer calmly.  “You are Frodo’s youngest cousin, are you not?”

“Probably, except for my sister....”

Radagast waved his hand to brush away her answer.  “Nonsense.  She’s five minutes older than you,” he looked at Meg shrewdly, “and, I’ll wager, never lets you forget it.”  He cocked one bushy eyebrow knowingly, and Meg grinned in reply.  “And all those nieces and nephews and third cousins twice removed whom you are about to mention – well, they’re most of them children, aren’t they?  Some barely more than babes in arms.  Hardly the proper candidates to undertake this ... ah ... task.”

“Well, yes... I mean, no... I mean.. I suppose you’re right,” she said reluctantly.  “But I’m not his heir, you know.”

Radagast nodded.  Strangely – and most uncharacteristically for a hobbit – Frodo had left no will.  The Shire buzzed with speculation.  Hobbits were fascinated by genealogy but now they were positively intoxicated by the puzzle to determine Frodo’s legal heir.  Or heirs.  Whole clans were examining their family trees in punctilious detail to find some basis to claim an interest in Frodo’s (reputedly large) estate – not to mention “Bilbo’s gold”.  To Radagast, as to the more cynical among the hobbits, it seemed that the Shire’s solicitors were far more likely to benefit from all this furor than were Frodo’s relatives – although, of course, there was plenty of overlap between the two groups.

“And speaking of that,” Meg continued, “doesn’t this ring belong to Frodo’s heir, whoever that turns out to be?”

“The ring,” said the wizard (more solemnly than he intended), “belongs to no one except its maker.  Isildur, Gollum, Bilbo, Frodo – none of them ‘owned’ the ring.  In some sense, the ring owned them.  It shaped them and bent them and in the end betrayed them.  And that’s a danger to you, too, if you undertake to destroy it.”

Meg shivered.  “A cheerful thought, Master Wizard!”

After a few minutes Radagast asked, “Have I answered all your questions?” already knowing the reply.

“Well, no, actually,” she said.  “It seems to me, Master Wizard, that you have forgotten that hobbits do not go on quests.”

“Bilbo ....”

“Went on an adventure.”

“Bilbo went on an adventure,” he continued, “and Gandalf thought highly enough of Frodo to offer him this quest.”

“Which,” she pointed out, “Frodo refused in a most hobbit-like fashion.  Simply proving my point.  Besides, they weren’t girls.  Girl hobbits in particular do not go on quests or have adventures.”

Meg stood up swiftly and gracefully, in one motion, and put her hands on her hips.  “Surely, Master Wizard, it has not escaped your attention that, despite how I am dressed today, I am most certainly a girl hobbit.”

She glared at him.

“A young woman hobbit, rather, I would say, “ the wizard replied.  He was seated on a broad flat stone that formed the topmost step up to wall.  Standing, Meg could actually look down at him (an unusual viewpoint for a hobbit, he thought).  “Although those boys’ clothes do a good job of concealing that.  Except for your hair, of course.”

Meg was slender for a hobbit (the Fallohide blood, thought the wizard) and, with her fair hair tucked up under a cap, could easily pass for a young hobbit boy.  But today her hair was braided into a long plait that no boy would ever wear.  The wizard wondered if she would have to cut her hair short.

Meg ignored the diversion.  “Nevertheless, Master Wizard, neither girls nor young women go on quests.  Or adventures.”

“Why not?”

“Really, sir!”  Her glare grew fiercer and she blushed scarlet.  “Don’t pretend ignorance or innocence!  I can think of at least one very good reason.  Unless if course it’s a very short quest!”

Radagast, whose experience with hobbit (and human) females was in fact quite limited, finally caught her meaning.

“Oh,” he said.  “Oh.”  Pause.  “You think that’s a problem?”

“Of course it is,” she snapped furiously.  “Must I spell it out for you?  Problems of scent, problems of cleanliness, problems of disposal.” 

The wizard wasn’t sure if she thought he was stupid or foolish or perhaps simply male.  Or perhaps all three at once.  He studied her thoughtfully.  Heroes weren’t supposed to raise this kind of issue.  After a long moment he said, “There is a spell for that.”

“A spell,” Meg said flatly.

“And a potion.”

Meg dropped (not so gracefully) down on the wall.  “A potion,” she repeated.  “Probably made with horseradish root.  Just my luck.  I hate horseradish.”

Radagast tried not to laugh.  “No,” he said, “no horseradish.  But it does require some particular nettles that grow by the marshy pond on your farm.”  He paused.  “And there’s a price.  Most spells come with a price, you know.  For this one – it is not reversible.  When you come back...”

“If I come back,” she said flatly.

“If you come back,” he acknowledged, “there will be no children.  No little hobbits.  It’s a steep price.  That’s why the spell is so little known and so rarely used.”

“Oh,” Meg said.

“But possible.”

“Oh.”

Meg sat silently for several minutes, then began cleaning up the remains of the food they had shared – wrapped up the last bit of cheese and the lone remaining scone; shook out the napkins and folded them up; tucked everything into her daypack; brushed the last crumbs onto the ground.  She did not look at the wizard.

At last, though, she stood up, jumped lightly down on the opposite side of the wall, shouldered her pack, and looked directly at him.

“Master Wizard, what you say is well nigh unbelievable.  It may be true.  On the other hand, it is possible that you are seriously out of your mind.  But you are a wizard and so entitled – no, expected – to be odd.  So I am going to think about what you have said.  Yes, I will think about it quite seriously.  Would you meet me here tomorrow at noon so we may talk further?”

“Yes, I will meet you,” Radagast said formally, inclining his head.

“Thank you,” Meg said, bowing.  She turned and walked a few paces, then stopped and turned back.  “Tell, me, Master Wizard, if I do not agree to undertake this mad reckless quest, do you intend to turn me into a newt or a toad?”  She laughed, turned again, and started away.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to show respect to wizards?”  Radagast called after her, amused at her impudence.

“Even daft wizards?” she laughed over her shoulder. 

“Especially daft wizards!”

Without turning, she waved to him and, still laughing, trotted away over the fields.

-----------------------------------

Radagast did not sleep well that night.

Oh, his “bed” in the loft of Sam Gamgee’s largest barn was comfortable enough.  The straw was clean and dry and deep, and Sam’s wife had insisted he take a quilt along for warmth.  Old Father Cotton had been quite generous when his daughter Rosie married Sam.  With hard work, persistence, and common sense, the couple had improved and enlarged their farm.  Sam was one of the few hobbits who had continued to welcome Gandalf after Frodo fell out with the wizard, and now Sam was happy to see Radagast whenever he appeared, and to trade a place to sleep and a hot meal (or several) for news of the world outside the Shire.

Radagast sighed.  Usually the proffered “place to sleep” was a comfortable bed, and Rosie had suggested that again tonight.  But he was reluctant to keep the ring overnight in the Gamgees’ house.  If it was going to cause mischief – just what, he wasn’t sure, but he distrusted it deeply – if the ring was going to cause mischief, best that it not be under the same roof with Sam and Rosie and their little ones.

Sam had been one of those young hobbits who puzzled out some of Frodo’s secret.  He had been both employee and friend but, although he continued to defer to “Mr. Frodo”, after the break with Gandalf Sam had been quick to marry his Rosie and move away from Bag End.

At dinner tonight, Sam had wondered aloud what had become of Frodo’s ring, and what relationship it might have to the evil happenings in the world.  Radagast had wondered right along with him, but had watched him closely.  Not for the first time, Radagast wondered what went on behind the hobbit’s honest face and guileless eyes.  But he had never sensed anything evil or traitorous about Sam or Rosie or their house or this barn.  No, there was no threat from that direction.  Besides, his many friends of the night had been alerted – badgers, raccoons, owls, and the occasional fox were helping to keep watch.

No, the two things that troubled the wizard’s sleep were the ring and Meg.

The ring was quite literally disturbing.  It would not shut up.  Its voice (female of course) alternately nagged and cajoled him.  Its theme was always the same:  he and the ring working together would be the most powerful force in Middle Earth; a mighty wizard (such as himself, naturally) would have no difficulty using the ring to accomplish all the good he had ever dreamed of; the power of the ring would enable him to end all the war and struggle and oppression and to protect the Life he valued.

The voice was seductive and the arguments tempting.  Radagast had never worn a ring of power, but he knew well the fate of those who had.  He knew that what he had told Meg – the ring would shape and bend and ultimately betray whoever wore it – he knew this was as true for himself as it had been for Frodo.  He knew that the temptations must be rejected.

But the effort was exhausting.

He had found that putting the ring in its envelope into a basket, covered with a cloth and set a little distance from where he slept, seemed to help.  He had tried fencing it about with spells, but the spells always went awry. 

He wondered what the ring would say to Meg.

Ah, Meg.  There was the other troubling thought.  He had encountered Gandalf frequently as both wizards travelled from one beleaguered part of Middle Earth to another, trying to help men and elves and dwarves resist the spreading evil.  Whenever they met, Gandalf talked about the ring.  He had guessed that it was only a matter of time until the ring tried to escape from Frodo and return to its Master, and he repeatedly urged Radagast to be ready when the time came, ready with someone to accept the ring and take up the challenge.  Radagast had agreed – reluctant only because to accept the task was to acknowledge that Gandalf might not be alive to complete it himself.  And now that time had come and Gandalf was dead and the brown wizard was left with the ring and ...  Meg.

He had spent some time researching likely candidates for this quest and was admittedly dismayed when his most likely candidate turned out to be a girl.  Well, a young woman, really.  He had investigated her more thoroughly than he would have a man; he didn’t want to make a mistake.

He snuggled deeper into the straw.  Rosie’s quilt reminded him that she had been the first to mention Meg’s name.  More than a year previously, he and Sam had shared a bowl of hot and surprisingly potent cider at the Gamgees’ hearth.  Sam offered him a pipe, apologizing for the poor quality of the weed, but Radagast had never acquired a taste for the stuff.  The wizard had wondered aloud whether any of the upcoming generation of hobbits would challenge the Shire’s traditional attitude that what happened outside the Shire was of no concern to the Shire, especially considering the threats that were already apparent.  Sam had caught the unspoken invitation and began to name and critique those young hobbits who showed any signs at all of doing more than “hiding in their hobbit holes”.  (Radagast knew most hobbits lived in houses these days, so he guessed Sam’s dart was aimed at a particular target.)

As Sam proceeded through the list – none of his candidates seemed promising – the clatter of dishes and pans from the kitchen grew louder and louder until finally Rosie stepped firmly into the room, dishtowel and skillet in hand, and said:

“Sam, you know perfectly well that none of those young bucks will ever do anything more than talk.  The only one in that generation with any spine at all is Meg Burrows, and no one will pay enough attention to what she says because she’s a girl.”

“Meg Burrows?” asked the wizard, trying not to show too much interest.

“Oh, she’s the younger daughter of old Tom Burrows,” Same said.  “His farm is just east of here.  The four boys and their families live in the main homestead now and work the farm.  Old Tom is too senile to do much more than play with the littlest children.  Meg and her sister live in the old house at the edge of the family lands.”

“Don’t they get on with their brothers?”

“They most certainly do,” Rosie said indignantly.  She came closer to the fire, still wiping the skillet.  “The family gets along as well as most families, better than some.  But the girls’ mother was Tom’s second wife – his first wife died when the youngest boy was eight – so the girls are quite a bit younger than their brothers.  When their mother – old Tom’s second wife, that was – when their mother died five years ago, the girls set up their looms in the old house and moved there permanently.  High time, too: their brothers’ wives were always after them to babysit and clean up after all those little nieces and nephew, and the girls never had time to do their own work.”

“What kind of work?” asked Radagast.  “Are they weavers?”

“Oh, aye,” said Rosie.  “Most excellent weavers.  As was their mother, Madora.  She taught them.”

“Do they work for their brothers?”

“Well, I don’t know the exact arrangements, you understand.” (Meaning, thought Radagast, that you know the details near enough as makes no difference.)  “They seem pretty independent.  Most of the wool they use does come from the family flocks, but lots of other folk bring them yarn for special weaving.  Their work is very fine.”

“And very expensive,” said Sam.

“Oh, not so much,” said Rosie.  “Not for the special work they do.”

Sam harrumphed and Radagast interrupted.  “But what do you mean by ‘more spine’?  That doesn’t seem to fit the picture of a young woman weaver.”

Sam began to answer but Rosie spoke first.  “Why, she led the petition to the Mayor to organize more defense training, didn’t she?  And to add more Shirriffs?  And when the Mayor said that wasn’t necessary – almost laughed at her, he did, the old fool – she found some teachers and organized the training herself.  She got her brothers and some of the other farmers to pay for it, in the bargain.  Told them it was their lands as would need defending, and somebody better know how to do it.”

“Rosie...” (that was Sam).

“And then there was that business when one of her cousins married the youngest son of the Sandyman the miller.  The old man wanted Meg to weave the bride’s veil.  Offered her a good deal of money (so he said) to make something better than what anyone else had.  Meg refused.  Told him she would make a veil for her cousin out of love, but wouldn’t make one to his order or for his money.  Told him she thought he cheated his customers on measure and charged them too much in the bargain.  We all knew that but no one called him out on it because he had so many  well-placed friends.

“So Meg made her cousin the most exquisite cloth I’ve ever seen.  Sheer as gossamer it was, and shimmered like starlight on a lake.  At the wedding, everyone ooh’d and ahh’d, but Meg just said it was her gift to the bride.  The story would never have come out except the old man drank himself silly and started ranting to Meg’s brothers how they should keep their impudent little sister – that’s what he called her, an impudent little girl – keep her under control.  Well, the brothers weren’t too happy with either the old man or Meg, and neither was cousin Frodo, I’ll tell you, but the brothers would not be pushed round, so they told the old man to keep his opinions to himself, and later they started taking all their business to the Brandybucks’ new mill.”

“Rosie,” exclaimed Sam, “we don’t need to bore Radagast with this local gossip.  Although,” he sighed, “I have to admit everything you said about Sandyman is true.”

After that evening, Radagast asked his local friends – the wren he had mentioned to Meg, and others as well – to gather information on what the girl was like.  That’s how he learned that she and her sister Amy were nearly inseparable and very much alike, although Meg was more outgoing and had more male friends (but not more suitors) than Amy.  Their brothers had taught them both how to use a bow and arrows, and Meg sometimes went hunting with her (male) friends.  She could throw a ball or a stone or a dart as well as any hobbit, and she appreciated a good ale more than her sister did.

It was the wren who observed and reported that Meg’s most frequent companion, Robin Brandybuck, had asked her to marry him, and that she had cried when she thanked him but refused, and that she had cried again for a long time when she told her sister about it.  “I can’t explain it, Amy” (so went the conversation the wren recounted) “I just don’t know.  I do love him.  But it’s the wrong time.  How can I explain it?  It’s just not the right time.”

None of these recollections gave Radagast any comfort.  He was offering the ring to Meg because she seemed the only plausible candidate, but as he went over and over what he knew about her, he became more and more convinced she would say no.

------------------------

And so the next day, when Radagast, crabby from want of sleep, trudged up the path along the stone wall, he was further disheartened to see that Meg had already arrived and was spreading out food from an oversized hamper.  A large slab of cheese, another of ham, two loaves of crusty bread, three small pots (butter and jam for scones, thought the wizard hopefully), six apples, a plate of early strawberries, a good sized flagon of what he hoped would be ale, and, yes, a large napkin full of scones and biscuits.

Meg was busy unknotting the napkin holding the scones and did not see him approach.

The wizard groaned inwardly.  He would enjoy the scones, but in his experience a meal – even a lunch as modest (by hobbit standards) as this one – meant “sitting around and talking”; it never seemed to mean “make a decision and get on with it.”  He realized suddenly that he wanted a decision, a step forward – or backward, maybe, if she refused – but in any event movement!  Action!  This scene did not look at all promising.

“Told ya!” said the voice in his head.  Radagast resented the anachronism as much as the taunt.  “Shut up!” he growled at the internal voice.

And must have growled aloud too because Meg looked up, startled, and said , “What?  Don’t you approve of lunch?”

The wizard forced himself to smile.  “I certainly approve of your family’s good ale and your sister’s fine scones.”  (Amy was known for her baking almost as much as for her weaving.)

“Then let me offer you the ale to begin with.”  Meg filled two mugs and handed one to him.  “Bread?”

Meg served the wizard and then herself, and the two ate silently for a few minutes.  Then Meg said,  “After I talked with you yesterday, I went to see my father.  And last night I had a long walk and talk with Amy.  And another this morning – walk, that is.

“My father lives over on the home farm, in a giant rambling old house with my brothers and their wives and all those nieces and nephews you mentioned yesterday.  Although I don’t think there are any third cousins twice removed staying with them right now.”

Radagast smiled and kept silent.  The ale was unusually welcome.

“My father ... my father seems to have travelled back to some past time and gotten stuck there.  He doesn’t recognize me or my sister, or my brothers for that matter, but there are a couple of little girls – cousins – about seven years old now – he calls them Meg and Amy – sometimes Marigold and Amarantha.  Not their names, of course.  He’s always sending them on errands: “Go ask Madora this” or “go tell Madora that.”

Meg looked up at the wizard.  “Madora was my mother.  She’s been dead these five years.  At first the little girls were confused and a little frightened, but their mothers explained that grampa was playing an elaborate game where Madora, his wife, was still alive and his daughters Meg and Amy were little girls.  And that to him the game is real.  So now the little girls just play along, and he’s happy.

“One of the older girls – she’s nine, I think – has started to ask him to tell stories about when he was young and about their grandmother, his first wife.  He can remember all that.  But he doesn’t recognize me.”

Meg smiled sadly.  “I didn’t go to him for advice.  I wish I could!  I went so I could watch him playing with his grandchildren, and so I could watch my brothers working with their sons, and my sisters-in-law teaching their daughters.  Because, you know, I want to watch those children grow up.  I want to take them for walks in the fields and the woods.  I want to teach them to weave and to cook and to raise a garden.  Yes ... girls and boys both.

“And I want to do all that with my own children, and with Amy’s too – to watch them grow up strong and kind like my father, and gentle and clever like my mother.  I want to see my father playing with my children.”

She sighed.  “I want to weave bridal veils for all the girls and for the brides of all the boys.  I want to weave Amy’s bridal veil, and I want her to weave mine.”  Her voice faltered.  “Because, you know, I do want to be married.  In fact,” she said, sounding surprised, “in fact, I want to marry Robin Brandybuck!”  She paused.  “I ... I guess I didn’t know that until I said it.”

Radagast could barely hear her.  The voice in his head had resumed its taunting, mocking Meg’s affection for the children and her desire to marry.  “Some hero!” it exclaimed repeatedly and scornfully.  And the ring was loudly berating him for his foolishness in even thinking about turning the ring over to “an insignificant little nobody.”  But Radagast forced himself to respond to Meg and said gently, “And yet, you refused Robin.  Why?”

“Because it wasn’t the right time!” Meg said, very distressed.

“And is it the right time now?”  the wizard asked.

Meg shook her head.  “I’ve thought this through and through and over and over and I think I really must go with you.”

The world seemed to go suddenly still.  “What?” Radagast said.  “What did you say?”

“I said I think I really must go with you.  Oh, I know that’s not the right way to put it.  I suppose if I’m carrying the ring then you are going with me.  But....”

“But why?  You have just told me all these things you want in life, and none of them involve walking into Mordor!”

“If I go with you,” Meg said slowly, “none of those things will happen.  I won’t marry or watch my children grow up or weave Amy’s wedding veil....  Look, there is much of this I don’t understand.  You or Gandalf or both of you have known for years what needed to be done.  For some reason you felt you could not just take the ring from Frodo and go on and destroy it yourselves.  But I’m not Frodo.  I don’t already have the ring.  You could take it now but, no, you need someone else to carry it, and that someone must be a hobbit, and apparently that hobbit must be me.  I’m not asking for an explanation, at least not yet, but it seems to me that if I am your hope, if I am your last chance, then the situation for all of us must be exceedingly desperate.  And so if I don’t go with you, it very well may be that none of those things I want so much will happen anyway.

“There is already evil around us, and if what you say is true – I see no reason to doubt you – there will be much more.  And if as you say this evil is bent on destroying life, I daresay that neither I nor Amy nor our children – nor our nieces and nephews and second and third cousins – will be spared.  So better, I think, to confront the evil and try to defeat it.”  She laughed.  “Well, not really confront it.  Rather, sort of tiptoe inconspicuously around the side and sneak up on it from behind.”

She began picking up the remains of their lunch.  “I’m afraid,” she said matter-of-factly, “that we’ve finished the ale and ham, but there are scones and bread and cheese to take along with us.  And I have some food in my pack.  I’ll leave the rest of these things in the hamper here by the wall.  Amy said she would come along later to pick it up.”

She jumped down from the wall on the farmland side, tucked the hamper neatly under a bush, and climbed back over the stone stile.

“Well,” she said, picking up her pack.  She walked over to face Radagast, who was standing in the path watching her silently.  Her declaration had surprised him, and her laughter had left him speechless.  What had Gandalf said about hobbits?  That you could study them for years and think you knew all about them, only to have them do something totally remarkable and unexpected?  Radagast was seeing the truth of that.

“Well,” Meg repeated.  “If I’m going to carry this ... ring ... I should probably start now.”  She sighed and held out her hand.

Radagast found himself reluctant to give the ring to her.  It seemed wrong, somehow, to burden her with so much responsibility....  With a shock he realized the ring had just, slyly, whispered this very thing to him.  “Curse you,” he thought.  “Burden her with so much evil, I should have said.”  Quickly he pulled the envelope from his pocket, ripped off the end, and dumped the ring onto Meg’s upturned palm.

“Hulloo!  Am I too late?”

Startled, the wizard whirled toward the call.   He heard Meg gasp, and from the corner of his eye saw her close her hand around the ring and shudder.  “That seals it,” he thought grimly. 

Then, astonishingly, he looked down the path and saw a perfect duplicate of Meg trotting toward him – same tunic, cloak, and pack, same long braided fair hair draped over one shoulder, same eyes and nose and impudent grin.

“Amy!” Meg exclaimed behind him, and pushed past him, running to embrace her sister.  “What are you doing here?  You aren’t supposed to be here yet!”

“Why, I’m coming with you, of course,” Amy replied.  “You don’t really think I could let you go alone, do you?”

“But who will collect the hamper?”  Meg said stupidly.

Amy laughed.  “I asked one of the boys from the farm to pick it up.”  She hugged Meg again.  “But really, love, I think that’s the least of our concerns.”

“Oh,” said Meg, “yes, of course.  Sorry.  I wasn’t thinking.”  She turned to the wizard.  “Master Radagast,” she said, “this is my sister Amy – Amarantha, that is.”

“So I surmised.  A startling likeness, if I may say.”  He bowed deeply.  “Amarantha, I am most pleased to meet you.”

“And I you,” Amy said, bowing in return.  “But, I beg your pardon, what is all that noise?  I can hardly think!”

“It’s this,” Meg said opening her clinched fist to reveal the ring.  “It started chattering as soon as I touched it.”

Amy bent over Meg’s hand and peered at the ring, but made no move to touch it.  “Pretty, isn’t it, but it feels ... somehow ... vile.”  She too shuddered and then, suddenly, sharply, barked, “Oh, be quiet!  Leave her alone, can’t you?”

The ring was silent.

“Well,” said Amy, shocked at her success.

“Well,” said Meg, startled at her sister’s audacity.

“Well,” said Radagast to himself, “that’s very interesting!”  But aloud he said, “I think it would be best if you put that away out of sight.”

“I brought a chain for it,” Amy said, looking at the wizard.  “Will that work?  It seems like it would be safer on a chain than in a pocket.”  She unclasped a long silver chain from around her neck and held it out to Meg.

“Yes, that will work,” Radagast replied.  “Just do not,” he stressed the word, “do not put it on your finger.  Yes, it will make you invisible to humans and hobbits, but it will also make you much more vulnerable to the evil it carries, and much more visible to the evil things it attracts.”

Meg threaded the ring onto the chain and slipped it over her head.  Both sisters grimaced.  “Meg, my dear,” Amy said, “I’m so sorry you must carry this wretched thing.”

“Yes.”  Meg dropped the ring inside her tunic and straightened her hair and cloak.  “But that’s exactly the point, Amy.  I must carry it.  This is my burden.  You can imagine as well as I how horrible this task will be.  You can stay here.  You should stay here.  Why should you go with me?”

“Because I cannot stay here in safety while you go out alone.  You must know that!  Why should I go with you?  For the same reason you are going at all.  For love, my dear Meg, for love.”  She took both of Meg’s hands in hers, and the sisters looked at each other for several long minutes.

“Well, then.”  Meg dropped her sister’s hands and gave a little shake, as if rousing herself awake.  “Where do we go now?”  She looked at Radagast, but Amy answered first.  “To the marshy pond for nettles, of course.”  She linked her arm through Meg’s and then turned to Radagast with a little bow. “Master Wizard, I hope you have your spell and your recipe ready.”

She laughed, and Meg smiled, and they started down the path arm in arm.

“Well,” said Radagast to himself and to whatever future selves might be listening, “this promises to be very interesting.  Very interesting indeed.”

And he hurried down the path after the sisters.