Ellienad Telcontar 
Less than halfelven of Gondor
Posts: 634
(10/5/02 10:43 pm)
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Short story: Bran's Adventure
Bran’s Adventure
In a house in the Cup there lived a hobbit. The Cup was not a teacup and not a water cup either. It was not a wine cup, it was not a beer cup, it was not a milk cup, and it wasn’t a dinner cup. In fact, the Cup really wasn’t a cup at all. It was called the Cup because that was its name. It was a short, sturdy town, officially known as Pincup, in a low dell in the Green-Hill country. In that little town, or, rather, on the outskirts of it, was the hobbit’s house. However, it was not an ordinary house (At least, not by our standards for such things), any more than the Cup was an ordinary cup. The house was low, and rounded, with barely any corners. The doors were round, and the windows were round, and the garden was round. And the hobbit who lived in that house was also round. His name, Bran Gardener, was well-rounded from many years of use by his various cousins, uncles, gaffers, gammers, and other assorted relatives. And he himself was respectably short and rounded, as every hobbit should be. He was not fat, and anyway it was considered vulgar to use the term about a hobbit. He was a gardener, and that was that.
One day, Bran finished his work and went inside to eat. This was ordinary. After supper and before it was quite dark, he went for a walk. This, also, was ordinary. But then, on the way home, he saw a tree walking over the Small Downs. This was not ordinary. In fact, it was quite uncomfortably like an adventure. Adventures, as every sensible hobbit knows, are nasty disturbing uncomfortable things. They make you late for dinner, and never give proper warning before they happen. But, as the tree was walking away from him, Bran decided to ignore it. He continued on to his comfortable home in the Cup, and sat down to read a book. While not usual for most hobbits, reading was quite normal for Bran. It was relaxing, it could be done while one smoked one’s pipe, and it did not require unnecessary energy.
But, the next day, Bran could not seem to get the walking tree out of his head, no matter how busily and carefully he trimmed the lawn and pruned the trees. He thought about it through weeds and wheelbarrows, ‘taters and turnips. He thought about it through vegetables and vines, apples and asparagus. By supper, his thinker was paining him. Tea helped, as did brown bread, taters, fresh butter, and lots of mushrooms.
After a good meal and a pipe, he felt so much better he decided to go on his usual walk. After all, he thought to himself, walking trees are child’s nonsense. The light must have been playing tricks on my eyes.
All the same, he kept glancing over his shoulder. In fact, by the time he turned around at the old well in Tun and started back through the Small Downs, he was looking over his shoulder so much that he did not look where he was going nearly enough. Because of this, he didn’t see the tree till he was almost at it. Or rather, he saw it but didn’t notice it. There were trees everywhere, after all. But when he did notice it, he gave a start and jumped quite backwards, tripping to land solidly on his rear. The tree was shaped uncannily like an old woman, only much, much bigger. It was stooped as though from many years of toil, knobbly and with very wrinkled bark. It had two very long, hanging branches that could be taken for arms, and the trunk split about halfway down to form “legs”. In addition to all this, it had long, streaming leaf “hair” which was golden brown, the colour leaves get when they know they’re going to fall and decide to do it with as much joy and laughter and colour as possible. Altogether, it made a very passable tree person.
Standing up, Bran laughed nervously at his foolishness. It was a tree, and nothing more. But, he thought to himself, it does look so very much like a person grown overlarge! Why, that branch makes quite a handsome nose, and the eyes would go just there, where those creases are…Picturing how odd such a treeish face would look, Bran laughed out loud.
And then the tree woman opened her eyes. Bran gave a yelp of surprise and tumbled over backwards again. He curled into a little ball, trembling all over. But then the tree woman laughed. It was such a rich, hearty, kind sound that he stopped trembling at once, and even dared to look at the tree woman, indirectly. He started at the long, root-like toes, then the long-fingered hands almost directly above. He planned to stop at the neck, not really wanting to look this…creature…in the face. But there was no neck, so directly he found himself staring into the face. It was a kind face, though extremely treeish. It had huge, golden, liquid eyes like wells twinkling in the sunlight with unknown depths beneath. Bran had never known that eyes could be so thoughtful and so wise and so twinkling-in-the-sunshine all at once. They were not cruel at all, or mean or sly either, so he uncurled himself and stood up, dusting himself off. “Ahem! Ahem,” he said, “I am Bran Gardener. Good evening to you, ah, er…”
“I am called Thielwientil, Ent of the South Farthing,” she replied in a deep, warm voice.
“Ah, oh, um, yes, I see,” replied Bran, still very muddled.
“Yes, you do. But do you understand what it is that you are seeing?” Thielwientil queried gently.
Bran thought through this question very carefully before answering. “Ah, um, I understand that, well, I’m in the middle of an adventure. And it’s just as uncomfortable as everyone says. However,” he paused for a moment, “however, looking into the eyes of an Ent quite makes up for my sore rear, ahem, so, well, what I understand is that I’m a very lucky hobbit.”
The Ent smiled. “Then you do understand,” she said happily. She closed her eyes again, still smiling. Bran waited for more than a polite amount of time, but the sun was quite down now and he wanted to be in his warm house. He waited a bit, and a bit more, and then started to edge away. But, he had barely taken a step before the Ent, opening her eyes, spoke again. “I shall not be seeing you again for perhaps a very long time, but nevertheless it is time to say farewell. So, fare well, Bran. Fare very well wherever you fare. May your plants be ever fruitful.”
Bran, surprised by the old way of saying goodbye to a gardener, managed to stutter out the proper response, “May your gardens be ever weedless,” and scurried off home.
The next day, Bran couldn’t stop thinking. He thought about adventures through apple gathering and Ents through evergreen trimming. He thought and thought and thought, and by the end of the day he came up with an entirely new thought. Perhaps, just perhaps, adventures weren’t such a bad thing after all.
The End
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