by Char Hornblower (@charredtree)
[From the journal of Samwell Hornblower. Samwell Hornblower is Char Hornblower’s grandfather. It is unclear from the journal if “Gramfer” referenced here was Theodrick Hornblower (Sam’s grandfather) or Diggle Hornblower (Sam’s great-grandfather). The Softburrow records and memory of their oldest family members don’t recall when, if ever, their family grew pipeweed to any large degree. If there is any veracity to this story, then the Hornblower clan of Longbottom has long held an agricultural secret that has helped them prosper beyond the bounds of ordinary Hobbits. I let you be the judge of that.]
When I came of age, I thought I knew what was what and how to twist the day to suit my wants. I was little more than a fool, bless me! T’wasn’t but a few turns of the year later that I learned different. Gramfer was feeling his cups while sitting in the garden, and Flora asked me to sit with him while she bathed little Arlo. My plans for the day were to hoe the bottom field up by the Shireborne, so I welcomed the chance to leave that work ‘til the morrow.
“Samwell, pack a pipe for an old man with the ache an’ I’ll tell ye the secret of why us Hornblowers are so good at growing pipeweed.”
While Gramfer could spin a yarn like none other, he had a way of making sure you knew it was a yarn and not anything to be tellin’ ‘bout as actual fact. He gave none of those signs, and I pondered if the dandelion wine had inspired something new in him or if he was going to tell me some secret in truth while loading his second-best pipe with Southern Star.
He took the pipe from me and lit it smoothly. Soft clouds of blue smoke drifted away on the breeze. He eyed back over his shoulder and then t’other way. “None’s ‘round but us, so this stays with us, y’hear?”
I nodded.
“Good. You know how to grow pipeweed—we raised you on it, an’ ye’ve been helping grow it for over twenty year’ns, but you don’t know the secret. Yet. We’ll fix that today. First, set by all that about soil and sun and water and dung. It’s not pigswill, but it’s also not the secret.”
He drew on his pipe and blew the smoke from his nose, which made him look a bit like Farmer Puddifoot’s bull when he’s been topping the cows and will put up with no nonsense; that big mean one with the long hair like a goat. Gramfer looked off across the field almost like that bull looking for more cows before he continued.
Back before the Hornblower name was associated as much with pipeweed as it is now, the Softburrows grew some fine leaf down further south, towards the Ford. That was...oh, I’m not sure…very long ago. Quite a few generations back. Anyway, it’s no matter; what’s done is done, and today’s worth about half o’ tomorrow. The Softburrows were never as prominent as them Brandybucks, but they was more prosperous than many another family in the Southfarthing. Old Tiggle was their leader down near the marshes. He could grow pipeweed anywhere he wanted—dinna matter if the soil was too wet or too hot, he could make it grow wherever he put it. I once heard a Hobbit from Sackville that had been down that way say he saw some Softburrows growing a fine field of leaf, but it weren’t as good as our’n. The snotty git wouldn’t know good leaf if it up and smoked him! Ain’t no Softburrows grownin’ no leaf there n’r anywhere. They swore off growin’ in after they lost the secret. But it’s a good thing my Gramfer’s gaffer’s gaffer learn’t it, and now we Hornblowers have it, and we’re the only ones who know it.
When Deagol Hornblower was a Bounder, probably ‘bout the same as you right now, down in the south, he saw Old Tiggle Softburrow out walking his fields in the misty dawn. It was too early to be working the crop with the dew an’ all, but Deagol figured the farmer was just out stretching his legs. He’d catch him up shortly and exchange pleasantries. But just then Deagol saw Tiggle step off the path and into the field; he bent down and ran his hands through the leaves. ‘Now that’s right odd,’ and he slowed his pace to see if he could tell what the farmer was doing. Deagol stepped off the path into the brush opposite the field and watched as the older Hobbit walked closer before going back into the field and bent down, not even a stone’s throw away. Deagol strained to see and hear.
‘And that was when Orchid finally let everyone back into the hole to be greeted by a warm hearth, a mug of beer, and a table laden with food more delicious and satisfying as any they’d had before. And after everyone had their fill and the rooms put in order, the entire family gathered in the parlor with coffee, tea, and the most enjoyable pipeweed that could be found in the land.’ And the old Hobbit’s hands gently swept across the leaves and star-like flowers, but not before Deagol saw the plants shiver, as if they heard the words and were filled with wonder and joy.
Deagol gasped. Oh, don’t give me that face—you’d have done so, too, had it been your feet on that track at that very moment. Tiggle turned and saw him. ‘Oh, good day, Bounder! How fare you on this misty morn?’
‘I fare well, Farmer Softburrow. Well, indeed, but I couldn’t help but hear you speaking to your crop. That it responded as it did chased the breath right out of me.’
‘What? This field of pipeweed? What response mean you?’ The older Hobbit seemed a bit put out of sorts that anyone had espied his exchange with the plants, but he made a valiant effort to regain his composure. “Surely, a Hobbit of my years can mutter to his plants as he goes about his morning constitutional.”
‘Sir, as a Bounder I am trained to watch for the unusual, so the Shire will be protected. It’s not too strange to talk to plants—bees in a teacup, my own Gammer prattles on all day to the violets she insists on bringing inside the smial—but I’ve never seen any plant do anything in response but sit there. Your pipeweed did not just sit there. It seemed excited to hear your words and practically jumped to your touch like a wee one on Mid-Winter morn.”
Old Tiggle Softburrow knew he’d been found out true and proper. ‘I fear you’ve discovered my secret to good pipeweed. Please, I beg of you, do not share this around the Shire. This is my livelihood and reputation, and I know you wouldn’t want to see me ruined and all the Softburrows begging about for odd jobs just to keep bones and spirit together.’
‘I’ll keep your secret if you’ll but explain it to me. What did I just see?” Deagol was still confused about what had happened.
‘Well, you see, ‘tis not the sun nor soil nor water that is the secret to producing the best pipeweed. Mixing the dung of ducks and chickens with that of black cows helps, too, you know, but that’s not the secret either. Nay, what makes the pipeweed the best is the stories we tell them: tales of brave hobbits, good meals, comfortable homes, and peaceful evenings around the hearth. Pipeweed grows best when it knows what sort of comfort it’s meant to bring.’
Deagol never told anyone other than his own Da and, eventually, the eldest of his children. The Hornblower fields began that very season to produce a quality of leaf that would become Southern Star and Longbottom Leaf, and the Shire has been the better for it ever since.