by Daisy Brambletoes

”Always remember the End of September when leaves all turn scarlet and gold. The bonfire’s burning, The Stone is a-turning, And Trollers go Trolling a-bold.”

obbit children ran up and down the roads, across the lawns, dressed in their colorful costumes, and carrying straw baskets in their hands. Dressed as woodland animals, scarecrows and pumpkins, or just covered with hand-sewn autumn leaves. The baskets were similarly decked, with leaves and ribbons and lined with sweet straw. Running from door to door, singing the time-honored little nursery rhyme, they rang hand bells and made scary noises as they shouted, “Treats for the Trolls! Treats for the Trolls!”

The green door of Bag End opened upon five small Hobbits holding up baskets, already filled up with apples, buts, candies and cookies wrapped in bright paper, and standing toe-deep in russet leaves that had settled on the front porch.

”Well, my goodness, if it isn’t a bunch of Trolls!” Frodo Baggins beamed merrily as he opened the door, himself wearing a hat made from fresh autumn leaves. “What have we got here? A rabbit, a fox, a scarecrow, a pile of leaves, and I do believe,” he looked down at a very small Hobbit covered with a sheet, “here’s a wight. Careful, my lad,” he laughed, I hear there are plenty of very scary wights beyond the Old Forest.”

The children laughed, but they shivered a bit as well. Bedtime stories were filled with tales of very scary monsters in the Old Forest and beyond. Then the scarecrow, who was the biggest, shouted “Treats for the Trolls!”

”Most certainly! Here you go...” He produced a basket of his own, full of paper crackers, guaranteed to pop and produce a piece of candy, a funny paper hat, a riddle on a scrap of paper, and a small toy. Bilbo’s farewell birthday party, years before, had been so well supplied with crackers and other small items that there were still plenty to give out to Autumn Trollers without having to bake enough fudge squares to feed the neighborhood. In any case, the young Trollers had never grown tired of the crackers, and scampered off with loud choruses of “thank you", heading back down the Hill.

”I hope you’ve got enough crackers to make it through the day,” Merry Brandybuck came quietly up behind him, munching on a block of fudge. “I thought you would never run out of them.”

”I think so,” Frodo said mildly. “Besides, the sun will be down in about a half hour, then they’ll all go home for supper and you won’t see a Troller for miles. Then the bonfires will come out.” He spoke rather sadly because it wasn’t terribly long ago that he himself had gone Trolling on Stone-Turning Day. Making a pig of oneself on treats while running about the countryside dressed as a goblin was history now, and tonight he would be taking part for the first time in that other tradition, the turning of the Three-Farthing Stone.

The Three-Farthing Stone, an enormous boulder that marked the traditional center of the Shire, also marked the corners where East, West, and South Farthings met. The last day of September was the official start of Autumn in the Shire, and the turning of the Stone on that evening was a time-honored ritual. No one knew exactly how long it had been practiced - or even why it was practiced at all. The only thing understood was that it had to be done.

”Well, since I’m one of this year’s Stone-Turners, we should shut down shop anyway,” Frodo said. “It’s a bit of a hike to the Stone, after all. Let’s grab some fudge for the road and we’ll pick up dinner at the festival, like everyone else.”

As he pulled on his jacket, Sam Gamgee emerged from the kitchen, his apron untied, and still licking fudge batter from his fingers.

”You’re running late, Sam my lad,” Frodo grinned teasingly. “Let’s get going or we’ll be late.”

Sam blushed and looked anxious. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr.Frodo, but I had to clean up the kitchen afore we could leave.”

”Don’t mind him, Sam,” Merry scooped up a small square basket of Sam’s delicious fudge. “We can be there in an hour or so if we hurry along.” He picked up his own hat and slapped it on top of his head. Sam nodded eagerly, and flung aside the dirty apron while he reached for his coat. Well fortified with jackets for the chilly night air, and fresh hot brownies, they headed for the door with a pair of lighted lanterns, and Frodo closed the door without bothering to lock it.

The last of the trolling youngsters were still visible in the distance, but the sun was starting to sit low, and the first faint hints of sunset were coloring the horizon. Trolling, of course, was the first event of the autumn calendar, topped off with bonfires after dark and of course the turning of the Stone. It was the first and most important of all the autumn festivals, and was always accompanied by marshmallow roasts and a picnic supper. Still, there was an air of sobriety about the annual turning of the Stone that was unlike any other event of the season.

The three Hobbits passed through Bywater at their leisure, stopping briefly by the Green Dragon Inn for a half-pint and a few compliments from local Hobbits, several of whom had also been Stone-Turners in their time. In fact, it seemed that another Stone-Turner - Ponto Brickle of Brockinborings, from way up North - had spent the previous night at the Green Dragon, and had rested there during the day while his children went Trolling.

”You’ve hiked this far, why not ride the rest of the way? There should be room in my cart for three more.”

”We’d be grateful,” Frodo accepted the invitation, and Ponto slapped down his empty mug and led the way outside.

Ponto’s wife, Violet, had made her own farewells to her Bywater cousins, and was already seated on the buckboard, rearranging the children to make room for the guests. There were three little ones, tired out from an exciting day of Trolling and eating and scaring local chickens. The squirrel and the pumpkin-head were almost dozing off, but the fox promptly pulled in his feet and gathered the trolling baskets in protectively.

”Treats for the Troll?” Merry teased, and the fox unhesitatingly handed him a yellow apple.

”Now, that was neighborly enough,” Frodo laughed. “Here - have some of Sam’s famous fudge - known throughout Hobbiton and Bywater.”

”Not to mention Buckland,” Merry added, biting the apple.

”It ain’t all that famous,” Sam looked embarrassed, mumbling under his breath.”

”Well, I say it’s the finest fudge in the Shire,” Merry insisted. And the children did not have to be convinced. Even the sleepy little squirrel woke up for fudge.

The Three-Farthing Stone was a short distance south of the East Road. The festival was plainly marked by festival banners showing the way, and a cooking pavilion was already giving off wonderful aromas. A tall wooden pyre stood in an open, sand-covered field, the site of many past bonfires, and dozens of wooden benches were circled around it from a comfortable distance. It was a clear night with a star-studded sky, and not a sign of rain - unlike the previous year, where it rained without mercy and the Stone-Turners were forced to slog almost ankle-deep in mud and downpouring rain. In any case, the Mayor had already made his opening ceremony speech, and the cart drew up just in time to see the pyre being lighted by three Hobbits with long torches. A roaring cheer went up from the crowd, and in response, the first tongues of flame leaped up. In a few minutes, the entire pyre would be a bright flame.

Ponto Brickle’s cart pulled up alongside several others, and he jumped down from the buckboard. The children scrambled out, shaking all weariness from their eyes, racing toward the big pyre. “Don’t you stray too far, now!” Violet Brickle shouted at the disappearing forms of fox, pumpkin and squirrel.

”Well, we’re here,” Ponto scratched his head under his hat brim. “I suppose I must be off now, findingf a place for my cart and pony, and I’ll be seeing you at the very latest at midnight when we turn the Stone.

”Thanks for the ride,” Frodo shook his hand, as did Merry. “It looks as if we were just in time.”

”I do believe this is the finest night I’ve ever seen for Stone-Turning,” Sam sighed cheerfully. “Mind you, it’s almost as fine a night as it was the time old Mr. Bilbo went away. He’da been proud o’ you, Mr. Frodo -- getting to turn the Stone and all. I don’t know if he ever did such himself, do you?”

”If he did, he never mentioned it,” Frodo shook his head. “All he ever said about the Stone was that it fell out of the sky a long, long time ago, before any Hobbits ever lived here.”

”And my dad always said that Hobbits settled here because of the Stone,” Merry added. “There were only three Farthings, then. The North Farthing was carved out of the West Farthing later on. A whole colony had moved here from Buckland because of that Stone. Anyway, why did Bilbo think the Stone fell from the sky?”

Frodo shrugged. “Bilbo knew a lot of things. He corresponded with people from Rivendell for years, you know.” He spoke quietly at the mention of Bilbo, because any mention of his name conjured up images of the weird, the mysterious, and the unexplainable, and he didn’t feel like answering too many questions just then. Likewise, the Elven stronghold of Rivendell was a place of mystery to almost all Hobbits, somewhere between myth and legend. No one - including Frodo - even knew where it was.

”My Gaffer always says it was brung here by Trolls; maybe it is a dead Troll. Anyways, that’s where he says the custom of Trolling came from. That’s mostly what everyone else says, too.”

Frodo smiled. “A good guess; as good as any, I suppose. But Bilbo said that the Elves saw it fall, and that it is more likely a dead star than a dead Troll. So who knows? But there it is, big as day, and there’s no mistaking the fact that it is made of no rock or mineral native to the Shire.”

The Three-Farthing Stone stood about eight feet tall at its highest point, and was wide enough for a dozen Hobbits to hold hands and form a circle around it - and as such, there were invariably a dozen selected Stone-Turners each year. The Stone had also become a traditional monument for collecting a great deal of irreverant grafitti, principally initials of sweethearts, and autographs from assorted visitors. For the festival, it was crowned with a thick garland of dead grape vines, intwined with many autumn leaves and corn-husk dolls, as well as dozens of folded pieces of paper, tucked inside the tendrils. The papers had wishes written on them, and among other traditions, it was widely held that any wish made on the Stone on Stone-Turning Day, was bound to come true. It was an awesome responsibility to many Hobbits, and often families would send at least one representative to the Festival to make a special wish - to find a husband for an unattached daughter, a baby for a childless couple, a good harvest, and of course health and riches.

Sam carried with him such a folded piece of paper, and made sure of tucking in securely under the rope.

”What did you wish for, Sam?” Frodo asked genially, “No root rot for your tomatoes next summer? Or that you might get to marry Farmer Cotton’s daughter?”

”If I tell you, it won’t come true,” Sam said evasively.

”That’s because none of 'em come true, anyway,” came a new voice from behind them. A short, well-dressed young Hobbit was standing beside Merry, with a bowl full of marshmallows in one hand, and a long stick in the other.

”Well, if it isn’t Master Peregrin,” Merry took a marshmallow from the bowl. “Where do we get some toasting sticks?”

”Over by the pavilion,” Pippin said cheerfully. “Here, have mine. Sam, when you’re done up there, will you run over and get three more sticks for the rest of us?”

Pippin Took, whose father was a principle sponsor of the annual Stone-Turning Festival, was a cousin of Frodo’s mother, just as Merry was a cousin of his father’s. He was still little more than a lad, in his early tweens, and the shortest of the three. He was also the first one to the table at every meal, and the last one to get up and do any work. Too much time on his hands, and too much money, some would have said - but he was likable and sincere, and full of fun.

”Anyway, what took you three so long to get here?” He said brightly. “I might have eaten all the marshmallows and left none for you. As it is, I ate the last of the boiled peanuts."

”Then you’ll be too fat to help turn the Stone when you’re of age,” Merry shot back amiably. “But we haven’t had supper yet, and there are some lovely aromas coming from cooking tent. What do you say if we all get something to eat?”

No one could argue with that suggestion, and so the four of them made for the pavilion to help themselves to a variety of tasty goodies, heaped upon 18-inch wooden platters. A rush of cool air loosened a flurry of golden leaves from a few nearby trees, and they floated elegantly to the ground, and the bonfire seemed to leap a few inches higher.

”You know, I’ve always wondered something,” Merry thoughtfully bit into a roasted drumstick, “What do you suppose would happen if one year nobody bothered to turn the Stone?”

”Beggin’ your pardon,” Sam protested, “but my Gaffer always says the Stone has to be turned to protect the harvest. Still, I can’t for the life of me figure out what an old boulder has to do with cabbages and taters and healthy baby chickens.”

”Probably nothing at all, Sam,” Frodo whispered, “It’s just a tradition.”

”All the same...we’d better turn the Stone anyways, because I don’t want to find out the hard way.”

”And if we don’t turn the Stone, maybe the Shire will dry up and blow away,” laughed Merry, and then we’ll all have to move to Bree.”

Pippin belched and yawned cavernously.

The Stone-Turning ceremony involved one hour of silence to be followed by one dozen male Hobbits of adult age to approach the stone in silence, carrying lanterns. After a pause and a reading, they would circle the stone, grip the ceremonial rope, and turn the Stone exactly one foot counterclockwise. And that was all.

The evening wore on with much merrymaking, and at eleven o’ clock sharp, a noticeable hush came over the crowd. One by one, the lights around the festival went out until the only ones left were the bonfire and the twelve lanterns to be given to the twelve Stone-Turners. The Mayor solemnly ascended the podium and began to read a short speech which few really listened to, and then began to read off the banes of this year’s Turners.

”Frodo Baggins...Milo Bramble...”

”That’s me,” Frodo wiped his hands and jumped up.

”...Meriadoc Brandybuck...”

Frodo looked at his friend in surprise. “You never told me...”

”You never asked.” Merry also rose.

”...Ponto Brickle...Cubby Chubbs...Arlo Diggersby...Pinky Grubb...”

”Good,” Pippin yawned drowsily. “They passed your name up, Sam.”

”Why is that good?”

”Then I won’t have to sit here by myself.”

”Well, I’m going in for a closer look,” Sam got up. “Aren’t you coming too?”

”...Curly Harfoot...Willie Proudfoot...Bertie Rustle...Bosco Tunnelly...and Hugo Underhill.”

There was a round of applause, and Pippin rubbed his eyes with one hand. “If you don’t mind, I’ll watch from here. It’s been an awfully long day, and I’m rather tired.”

Sam looked a bit disappointed, but he didn’t stick around to commiserate.

The fact is, Pippin had indeed put in a full day working for the Festival, mostly carrying out his father’s instructions as he thoroughly expected to be late. The aged and venerable Thain, Pippin’s old grandfather, had been ailing lately, and had spent much time in consultation with his son, Paladin, over important family matters. Therefore, much of the festival burden had fallen on Pippin’s shoulders this year. He seemed to have done an admirable job, which surprised many. He rubbed his sleepy eyes once more and took a long drink of cider from his mug to keep himself alert.

Merry and Frodo, in the meantime, were lined up with their lanterns for the hour of silence, and each put on a pair of well-used, sturdy leather gloves, along with the other Turners..

An almost eerie atmosphere now settled over the once noisy festivities, and the twelve Hobbits circled the Stone, their faces shining a dull, glowing yellow from underneath, causing deep shadows where eyes and upper lips had once been. And just when the silence seemed intolerable, someone began to chant a time-honored verse that all Hobbits knew only too well.

”In the final days of Olden Tymes,
the Hobbits came down from the North.
They settled in the lands of Bree,
among Other folk of worth.
But they wanted a land they could call their own
And they found a land with a wond’rous Stone,
So when Spring came ‘round,
They quitted the town
And removed to the Land of the Stone.
‘Tis a prosperous land that grows green and good,
But at all times be this understood
If the Stone stands still and does not move,
Whatever the reason, it must behoove,
That the Shire will come to no good.”

”Well, that’s a cheerful thought,” Pippin muttered glumly to himself.

At exactly five minutes to midnight, the twelve Hobbits advanced to the Stone and laid their gloved hands upon the ceremonial rope. Then the countdown began. The countdown of the last one hundred seconds before midnight, upon which the Stone would turn.

”100...99...98...97...96...”

Frodo looked up at the Stone, which had never seemed so big before.

”...74...73...72...71...”

Merry looked over his shoulder and gave Frodo a wink and a grin. This was, after all, getting very exciting.

”...51...49...48...”

Sam folded his arms and studied the Stone, wondering what really would happen if the Stone went unturned one year.

”...26...25...24...23...22...21...”

Pippin opened his eyes a little wider and stood up. He could see the Stone-Turners had their hands firmly around the rope, but they were leaning into it, shoulders pressed to its surface, and legs ready to start pushing. He found himself joining the chant along with the rest.

”...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1...Time!”

The Hobbits put all their combined weight and strength against the Stone as the crowd now began to shout in chorus, “Turn the Stone! Turn the Stone! Turn the Stone!”

And that was when a rumble of unexpected thunder rippled across the sky, and a bolt of lightning ran from one end of the horizon the other, followed by an ear-splitting crack.

”Oh, noooooo....!” Pippin groaned from where he stood. The last thing they needed was sudden rain and a lightning storm. He began to shout all the louder, then, “TURN THE STONE!”

”It isn’t moving, Merry!” Frodo gasped.

”Nonsense,” Merry managed to grunt as he strained. “It always moves.”

But the Stone wasn’t turning.

It was just sitting there, as if stuck, and no amount of shoving, pushing or pulling seemed to have the slightest effect on it.

This was unprecedented and alarming. Eyes were now turning anxiously toward the skies, which were rumbling fiercely, and the bright stars now completely obscured behind clouds. It was almost like the cloudburst last year, except that despite the rain the Stone had turned then as easily as it always had. What could be wrong?

That was when Mayor Whitfoot stepped up to the struggling Turners and faced the hundreds of onlookers. “Gentlehobbits all, this is an emergency. Are there any strong backs out there who can step forward and lend our Turners a hand?”

An unpleasant murmur went up, because never in anybody’s memory had anyone other than selected Stone-Turners taken part in the turning ceremony. It just wasn’t done that way!

Suddenly Sam stepped up, “I’ll help, sir.”

He was followed by two more Hobbits, and then another three. They sprang to the Stone and took hold, pushing and pulling as hard as they could.

Nothing happened.

That was when bedlam broke loose. Before the Hobbits could say, “Give us a hand,” Hobbits flowed into the circle and started pushing the Stone, desperately trying to make it turn.

Nothing happened.

The sky was so dark and treacherous now that it seemed to be turning red at the horizon, and Pippin suddenly got to his feet and stepped forward, onto the open green. Something was not right.

Things happened.

The ground began to shudder beneath his feet; and before he could run back to the dubious safety of the pavilion, the very ground he stood on split in two, accompanied by a violent cracking sound. With a shout of fright, he fell to his knees.

As the whole earth trembled, the Stone-Turners sprang back from the great Stone, and the ground split again beneath them, dropping the Stone and two of the Turners - poor Pinky Grubb and Bosco Tunnelly - into a huge crack which was alive with flaming, red magma, never to be seen again.

”Get down!” “Get out of the way!” “Oh my stars and comets!”

Hundreds of shrieking, panic-stricken Hobbits began to flee in all directions, but the cracks just came more frequently, more horrendous - and with a great shudder, hot magma began to spout like a geyser, pouring out upon the festival field with unbridled ferociousness. A buildup of molten matter, rock and ash piled up before their reddened eyes, and seemed to keep on growing.

Pippin knew from his tutor’s lessons that he was bearing witness to the formation of a volcano, but that wasn’t what was important just now. This was a terrible catastrophe, and somehow he had a horrible feeling that his father would tell him it was all his fault!

And like everyone else, he was making the fastest possible exit from the area. Lives were being lost, vendor stalls obliterated, and if the cone grew much higher, farmland and homes would be swept away.

The cone built up with horrible speed, but even that was not the worst of it. As everyone beat their hasty retreat, there came a roar from above and a rush of what seemed to be giant wings, and an enormous red beast rose out of the crater with several long horns on its ugly head, wings like a gigantic bat's, and a lashing, spiked tail. If anything, it was like a dragon. No one stopped to ask how such a thing was possible, they just kept running.

Pippin suddenly turned to stare, and his feet seemed frozen to the ground. His mouth hung open, his heart pounded, he was unable to move, just as the Stone had been!

And the dragon saw him!

It saw him, Peregrin Took, and no one else.

It shrieked and snarled and breathed a great flame from its jaws, and rising up in the air with a mighty flap of wings. As it circled the sky, the cracks spewed forth even more horrors. Shrieking black ghosts shot out like prohectiles before they flew in wide circles around the fairgrounds, hovering lower and lower so that no one could escape. And then came the zombies!

Zombies - yes - climbing out of the ground with their rotting skin and bulbous eyes, moaning and groaning as they lurched across the landscape in search of living prey.

"The dead have come out!" Somebody screamed, "The graves in the cemetary are opening up!"

Zombie Hobbits were terrifying enough, but who knows what other undead monsters would now appear?

Then the flying dragon above them began to laugh - a maniacal, ear-splitting cackle - and a female voice came from its jaws. "You foolish little people," she cried, "You did not turn the Stone properly, and now you shall pay! The restless dead will come for you, and it is all the fault of Peregrin Took!"

Pippin found his voice at last. "Me? Why me?"

"Because you ate the last of the boiled peanuts!"

He remembered having claimed that! "Oh, no--you're mistaken!" He gasped. "I was only teasing..."

"Then where are the boiled peanuts, Peregrin Took?"

"In a big pot under the tent!" He cried, gesticulating wildly, "I'll show you!"

Half stumbling, he ran back to what remained of the pavilion and the big cauldron, still steaming - but to his horror, it was overturned and empty. He looked around for the table, which once held numerous small bowls of hot peanuts, but there wasn't a single one to be found any longer.

"You ate them all and left none for me! That's why you turn my stone every year, foolish one - so that I can have some of your tasty peanuts after you've all gone home. Why else would I grant you such rich farmlands?"

Pippin's head was reeling. He couldn't possibly have eaten all the peanuts by himself.

"Thanks a lot, Pip!" Merry snarled at him, picking up the nearest empty bowl he could find and flinging it in Pippin's direction.

"Pippin, how could you!" Frodo looked as if he would weep. "You didn't even save any for your friends."

"Now you've gone and upset the...whatever she is! And the Shire really is going to come to no good!" Sam added angrily.

Pippin shrieked. He shrieked as loud as he could, for the dragon's mouth was opened wide and coming straight for him.

Pippin’s eyes flew open to see a huge, glowing Jack-O-lantern slapped down in front of his face, and the crowd of Hobbit celebrators laughing and dancing around the bonfire. All the festival lights were back on, and Merry Brandybuck was staring down at him with a surprised grin.

”Good heavens, Pip, you look like you just saw a ghost! It’s just an old pumpkin, you know.”

”I do believe you woke him up from a sound sleep,” Fatty Bolger laughed, joining him. “Can you imagine dozing off like that?”

”The Stone!” Pippin cried. “The Stone won’t turn!”

”Are you crazy?” Fatty laughed again. “They turned it several minutes ago, and you must have slept right through it.”

”I did?” Pippin gasped with relief, “Oh, thank goodness...I guess I did. Oh...what an awful dream I just had.”

”What about?” Frodo asked. Like Merry, he was now wearing a medal pinned to his coat, showing that he had turned the Stone. Most such trophies usually ended up pinned to people’s hats, along with other similar hat pins.

”Oh no, it was terrible! You don’t want to know!”

”Hmph! If you think this is scary, then maybe next year we’ll spend an evening at my place, over in Buckland. There, hardly anyone makes this trip. We just build bonfires at the edge of the Old Forest to make sure that the spooky things living there stay in there.”

There was, of course, more to it that that. Bucklanders had always celebrated their autumn festival at the start of November, beginning with the last night of October when the Master himself blew the Horn of Buckland. But the Stone-Turning business was not normally of interest to them.

”I think next year I’ll just go Trolling,” Pippin shuddered.

”Like a little bitty laddie? No thankee!” Sam laughed.

”Then I’ll tell you what...” Frodo interjected. “We’re here in Tookland, why don’t you invite us all over to your house for the rest of the evening and we’ll have our own little party? Make a sleepover of it.”

Pippin perked up at once. After all, he had recently been given his own set of private rooms in the great Smials, and was overdue for a Hole-warming party.

"Of course," Merry grinned. "We can stoke up a nice fire and have some extra cots brought in. Maybe you, cousin Frodo, can tell us some of those stories your Uncle Bilbo used to tell you. I’m sure you’ve got plenty more to share than we already know, and we'll sit around eating some of those nice, boiled peanuts."

Pippin turned pale. "I didn't really eat them all."

"We didn't really think you did," Frodo laughed.

"The dragon said I did," Pippin lowered his voice to an embarassed whisper, but his friends simply gave him an odd, sideways glance and didn't bother to ask the obvious, 'what dragon?'.

And though they had arrived in a farmer’s cart, Frodo and Sam joined Merry and Pippin in a roomy carriage belonging to the Tooks, and they rode off with their lanterns and pumpkins and baskets of leftover goodies to start their own party afresh, and stay up till dawn.

Only Fatty Bolger declined, as he had come with other friends and could not keep them waiting. But as he crossed the field to find them, he stopped briefly beside the Stone to look at it. Perhaps next year it would be his turn to help turn the Stone...

...but the slight glimmer of light he thought he saw on the Stone’s face made him think twice.

He could not be sure, but it almost looked like a large blinking eye!

Fatty left as quickly as he could, but he did go back to the pavilion for a last bowl of hot boiled peanuts.

The End, I think...

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!