I have been trying to create a story line set in TA 1050 to illustrate some points about Old
Tom Bombadil and his placement in Tolkiens mythos. Some of this may be boring, as
Tom's every day life is very much the same for long periods of time, but when called upon he serves a vital purpose that, left out of the storyline altogether would have netted much different outcomes than those that we read about in Tolkiens
tales. Here is a small excerpt from "Tom Bombadil, and
Gandalf, and the coming of the
Harfoots". Please let me know if anyone would like me to try and attach the entire story as a word file...
Tom Bombadil and Gandalf and the first Harfoots in Bree.
"That wood in your hand—it grew from the earth that was spoken when
Eä rang out. It remembers the First Word, even if your head forgets it! A Wizard’s wisdom isn't in making fire out of nothing; it's in knowing that the fire, the wood, and the hand holding it are all bound together in one great, joyful thought. You hold the staff to ground yourself to the world, so you do not fly away back to the clouds before your work is done."
Tom Bombadil
The water of the Withywindle moved with a quiet, honeyed laziness as the afternoon sun dipped low over
the Old Forest. Gandalf sat near the center of a small, wooden skiff, his broad hat tilted slightly against the slanting golden light. Each measured stroke of his oars sent soft ripples across the glass-like river, parting the water lilies that gathered near the banks.
Behind a leaning river-willow on the bank, Tom Bombadil was hiding, clutching a curved wooden pipe at least three feet long. As the boat drifted near, Tom took a long pull and blew a massive plume of smoke that coalesced over the water into the perfect shape of a grand river vessel, sails set and grey oars pulling in unison. It moved on a direct collision course with Gandalf’s small rowboat.
With a startled grunt, the Wizard raised his staff from the floorboards, instinctively preparing a flash of flame to scatter the apparition. But as the smoke-bow touched the prow of his small wooden boat, there was no crash, no burst of heat—only a soft, resounding
pop, like a giant soap bubble bursting over a meadow.
The smoke dissolved into a cloud of fragrant, sweet-smelling leaf—dwarven
pipe-weed with a faint trace of dried clover—and settled thick over the rowboat. Gandalf coughed, waving his sleeve in vain against the haze, his dark mood entirely broken.
From behind a leaning willow on the riverbank came a booming, melodic laugh that shook a shower of yellow leaves into the water.
"Ho! Ho!
Bow down, great captain! Your ship is taken!"
Tom Bombadil stepped out from the roots, wearing his bright blue jacket and yellow boots, clutching a long, curved wooden pipe at least three feet from stem to bowl. A thick plume of blue smoke curled lazily from his nose as he hopped onto a mossy stone at the river’s edge.
"Mind the shoals, old grey-cloak! The Withywindle doesn't care for heavy thoughts—it turns 'em into mud if you carry too many at once!"
Gandalf let out a long, shuddering sigh, though the sternness in his eyes quickly melted into reluctant warmth. He leaned on his oars and brought the boat gently against the bank.
"I might have known," Gandalf grumbled, though his lips twitched under his grey mustache. "Only one living being in
Middle-earth would waste such fine smoke on a trick, when there are far greater storms brewing to
the east."
"Storms, storms! Always talking of storms!" Tom sang, reaching down a sun-browned hand to steady the boat's gunwale. "Let the wind blow where it will, but here the water is cool and the butter is freshly churned. Come ashore, Gandalf! Leave your heavy sack of troubles in the reeds; they won't float anyway."
Gandalf looked at Tom—so bright, so entirely unconcerned with
the shadows of
Sauron,
Galadriel’s urgent warnings, or the fate of
kingdoms—and felt the tight knot between his shoulders begin to loosen. He nodded slowly, stepping out onto the soft turf, realizing that perhaps a quiet afternoon of nonsensical songs was precisely the wisdom he had come seeking after all.
They walked together up the winding path to the thatched cottage. Feeling the deep ache of mortal weariness in his bones—a sensation still relatively new to his incarnate body sixty years after his arrival—Gandalf chose to sit outside upon a smooth oak log beside the doorway. He rested his hands upon his knees, closed his eyes, and let the quiet peace of the valley wash over him.
Presently,
Goldberry stepped out onto the threshold. She was clad in silver-green like reed-blades, her long yellow hair falling over her shoulders like autumn sunlight upon water. Seeing
the old Wizard resting there, shrouded in his grey mantle and worn by heavy cares, she smiled gently and began to sing.Her voice rose sweet and clear, flowing like cool river-water over smooth stones:
Rest now, wanderer, lay down your staff,
Leave behind the shadow and the heavy path.
No dark tower reaches to this quiet dale,
No shadow falls where the reeds prevail.
Drink of the water, cool from the spring,
Listen to the song that the wild birds sing.
The river flows on, the stars stay bright,
Peace be upon you through the gentle night.
As the last notes faded into the soft rustle of the surrounding
trees, Gandalf felt a cool, soothing calm wash over his weary mind. The knot of anxiety that had tightened during his meeting with Galadriel relaxed completely. He opened his eyes, looked up at
the River-daughter, and gave a low, deeply grateful bow.
"My thanks, Lady Goldberry," Gandalf murmured, his voice softer than it had been in months. "Your song is a medicine no forge or counsel in Middle-earth can brew."
Supper was soon served upon the scrubbed oak table: a large clay bowl of piping hot vegetable broth, thick slices of crusty dark bread, sweet yellow butter churned that morning, a wheel of sharp clover-cheese, and honeycomb dripping into wooden dishes. They ate unhurriedly, surrounded by the cozy rustle of the forest outside and the cheerful crackle of the hearth fire.
When the wooden plates were cleared and Goldberry had poured tall earthenware mugs of hot golden brandy, the lighthearted mood settled into something quieter. Gandalf leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his dark eyes fixing fondly on Tom.
He began to share the news of the wider world—the quiet shifts in
Eriador, the noble court of
Elrond, and the presence of Galadriel in
Imladris. But then his voice softened, carrying a deep, tender warmth as he spoke of his newest charge.
"In the high passes of the
Misty Mountains," Gandalf said, "I came upon a small, quiet folk calling themselves the Harfoots. They have fled the darkening shadows of the eastern vales, seeking a land where they might live in peace. They know nothing of stone castles, high lineage, or iron
armor. They are simple wanderers, weary and small, but they hold a remarkable love for the earth."
Tom listened attentively, his head tilted, his bright blue eyes twinkling in the firelight as Gandalf continued.
"I took them to
Rivendell, where Lord Elrond received them with great kindness," Gandalf said. "It was agreed that they should settle near the green slopes of Bree-hill. Elrond has offered his aid and protection, but these small folk have never farmed permanent
fields nor built lasting homes in the soil. Elrond asked if I might enlist your help, Tom—to teach them the ways of the earth, how the soil breathes, and how to make their gardens thrive."
Tom brought his hand down on the table with a firm, delighted
thump, his broad face breaking into an infectious grin.
"Yes!" Tom declared cheerfully, shaking his head with a laugh. "They need to know the earthworm to be successful! The little soil-workers, the soft dark earth, the secret roots beneath the grass—I will be glad to introduce them! We'll teach the small folk how to talk to the soil before they plant a single seed!"
Gandalf let out a contented sigh, his mind encouraged by Tom's immediate generosity.
As the rain began to tap softly against the windowpanes, they drank and laughed over ancient memories—recounting the stubbornness of
Ents and forgotten hill-streams of
ages past. When Gandalf uttered a low, clicking call into the dark, a barn owl glided onto the windowsill and two woodland mice perched on a log by the fire. Gandalf leaned forward, speaking softly in the language of beast and bird, listening to their quiet news of the night while Tom chuckled in delight. Eventually, Goldberry bade them goodnight, and Tom soon followed, leaving his yellow boots by the door with a cheerful hum still on his lips.
Taking his wooden chair out to the covered stone patio overlooking the dark valley, he sat in the cool night air. A small, low fire crackled softly in the outdoor pit before him, casting a warm, dancing glow over his grey robes and long silver beard. With his rowan staff leaning against his knee and his long pipe lit, sending thin blue rings floating into the starry night, Gandalf sat in deep, quiet meditation—pondering the small folk, the journey ahead to Bree-hill, and the future taking root in the ancient soil of Middle-earth.
The morning sun rose over the Valley of the Withywindle, burning away the mist until the river sparkled like beaten silver. After a hearty breakfast of toasted oats, honey, and fresh cream, Tom hopped out the door in his yellow boots, twirling a walking stick cut from a willow branch.
"Up, up, old grey-cloak!" Tom sang out, clapping his hands. "The sun is climbing, the sparrows are whistling, and the wood-folk have work to do! Come see the neighbors before the day gets away!"
Gandalf, feeling remarkably light after a night of sound sleep, retrieved his rowan staff and followed Tom down the winding path along the riverbank. The air was crisp with the smell of damp pine needles and wet earth.
"Who are we visiting on such a fine morning, Master
Bombadil?" Gandalf asked, matching Tom’s brisk stride.
"The Paddles!" Tom chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling. "Old Barnaby Paddle and his kin down at the Oxbow Bend! Seven of 'em in one lodge, and every one busy as a bee in a clover patch. But there’s trouble on the water today, grey-cloak—young Pip took his first big bite of an old alder, and the wood had a mind of its own!"
They rounded a bend in the river where a wide, still pool was held back by a meticulously crafted dam of mud, stones, and woven branches. On top of the dam stood a stout, graying beaver—Barnaby Paddle—slapping his flat tail against the wood in deep frustration, while his wife and five grown children chattered nervously around him.
Stretched awkwardly across the water, wedged fast between two large rocks and blocking the underwater entrance to the lower chamber of their lodge, was a thick, crooked alder trunk.
"Ho there, Barnaby!" Tom called out, leaning over the bank. "What's the news at the dam? Did the river get too narrow, or did the trees start walking?"
Barnaby turned, chittering in the sharp, rhythmic tongue of the river-folk.
"Ah, Master Bombadil! Look at this mess! Young Pip here thought he was a master carpenter! Aimed for the bank, dropped it straight across the east door! Now the cold draft is coming in, and the winter stores are pinned beneath the branches!"
A young, sleek beaver tucked his head down behind his mother, looking thoroughly ashamed of his maiden felling effort.
Gandalf stepped forward, his tall frame towering over the bank, a fond smile breaking through his beard. He leaned his weight upon his staff and addressed the distressed family in their own chatter-speech—a dialect he had practiced in his decades of wandering.
"The wood is stubborn when the wind turns, young master," Gandalf murmured gently to Pip.
"Even the oldest oaks fall where they choose, not where the woodman asks."
Barnaby blinked in surprise, bowing his sleek head toward the Wizard.
"A guest of Old Tom’s! Welcome, sir! But unless your tall stick can lift ten stone of wet wood, we’re sleeping in the draft tonight!"
Tom laughed, stepping right down onto the slippery log with absolute balance. "No need for heavy lifting when the wood just needs a friendly push! Come, Gandalf—give us a hand with the lever, and let’s see if the alder remembers how to float!"
Gandalf waded into the shallow water, rolling up his grey sleeves. Together, with Tom singing a rhythmic song to coax the stubborn log and Gandalf applying his staff as a steady lever against the fulcrum of the rock, they pried the heavy trunk loose. With a loud
slurp of mud and a splash, the alder shifted, caught the current, and swung clear of the lodge door.
A chorus of joyous chitters erupted from the seven beavers. Pip immediately dived under to clear the remaining twigs, while Barnaby clambered up to slap Gandalf’s wet boot in
gratitude.
"There now!" Tom beamed, wiping his hands on his trousers as they stepped back onto the dry bank. "The door is open, the lodge is dry, and young Pip has learned to watch the wind next time!"
Gandalf sat down on a sunny stone, squeezing the river-water from his hem, watching the beaver family happily set to work repairing the lodge. For the first time in many years, the heavy fate of Middle-earth felt a million miles away, replaced by
the simple, joyful triumph of a cleared doorway on a quiet river.
Leaving the Paddles to their repairs, Tom led Gandalf away from the sparkling waters of the Withywindle and up into the cool, shadowed folds of the surrounding
hills. Here, the canopy grew thick with ancient oaks and tangle-rooted rowans, and the carpet of dry leaves muffled every step.
"Now then, grey-cloak!" Tom chirped, swinging his willow stick in lazy arcs. "We’re going down to see Old Brock and his clan. They don't care much for bright sun or big talk, but they know what the earth smells like six feet down, and they’ve lived under these roots since the trees were twigs."
They halted at the mouth of a grand burrow, tucked beneath the immense, arching root-system of an ancient hill-oak. The archway was smooth, dark, and worn as soft as velvet by generations of stout velvet-furred shoulders.
Tom leaned down, cupped his hands, and sang a low, rumbling song into the dark earth—a sound like stones rolling softly down a riverbed:
Ho! Brock! Brock! Wake from your napping! Tom’s at the door, and the hill-roots are tapping! Bring out your whiskers, uncoil from your bed, Here’s an old wanderer with grey on his head!
A low, grumpy snout-snort echoed up from the gloom. A moment later, two black-and-white striped faces emerged into the twilight of the roots. The first was Old Brock himself—grizzled, broad-chested, with claws like small iron mattocks and eyes as small and sharp as dark beads. Beside him stood his partner, Grimba, sniffing the air with deep suspicion.
"Master Bombadil," Old Brock grumbled in a thick, subterranean dialect that sounded like grinding pebbles.
"You bring a tall tree-walker into our porch. The roof shakes when he treads."
Gandalf did not stand tall. Instantly, the Wizard lowered himself onto one knee, bowing his grey head until his long beard touched the moss. He spoke in the deep, ancient grunt-tongue of the badger-folk, a tongue slow to learn and heavy on the throat.
"Peace to your halls, Lord of the Roots," Gandalf murmured softly.
"I step lightly, and I bring no iron to your earth."
Old Brock blinked his small eyes in astonishment. He waddled forward, his heavy belly scraping the earth, and sniffed Gandalf’s dusty boots, then his sleeve, and finally the palm of the Wizard’s outstretched hand.
"Hmm," Brock grunted, his whiskers twitching.
"Smells of sweet leaf, river-mud, and old rain. Not like the badgers of the dark places, nor the Men with their axes. Come in out of the sky, tree-walker. The roof is low, but the air is cool."
Gandalf had to duck his shoulders and leave his tall hat outside beside his rowan staff, crawling on his hands and knees behind Tom into the vast, winding network of burrows. Beneath the hill lay a hidden world—cool, earthen chambers smelling of rich leaf-mould, dried roots, and ancient stone.
They sat in a wide central hall where three generations of badgers sat curled in alcoves. Grimba brought out a earthenware slab set with sweet, nutty roots, dried truffles, and cool water drawn from a spring deep in the heart of the rock.
"How are the deep roots, Brock?" Tom asked, taking a hearty bite of a crisp, peppery bulb. "Do they still dream of the spring?"
"The roots are quiet, Master," Brock growled softly, leaning back against the earthen wall.
"Though far to the east, deep down where the earth is hot, there’s a trembling now and then. Bad dreams in the dirt. But not here. Here, the oak holds fast."
Gandalf chewed slowly on a earth-truffle, listening to the badgers talk of small subterranean things—the shifting of clay, the underground streams, and the slow growth of flint.
As he sat under the heavy weight of the hill, shielded from the sun and the vast, troubled skies above, Gandalf felt a different kind of peace settle into his bones. Up on the surface, the world was full of grand schemes, dark lords, and shifting kingdoms. But down here, in the quiet dark of the earth, life went on as it always had, rooted, enduring, and untouched by the pride of
kings.
Gandalf already knows the information that Brock tells...he doesn't say anything, But Old Tom starts to instruct Brock about not worrying about things that far away as they have plenty to keep them busy right here at home. Brock agrees and begins a discussion about the new tunnel they are digging for their grandson whose wife is about to have a baby.
Gandalf did not speak. Deep beneath the roots, he merely nodded, his dark eyes reflecting the dim glow of the earthen chamber. He knew those far-off tremblings all too well—the subtle, unmistakable pulses of Sauron’s awakening in
Dol Guldur that had driven his recent meetings with Galadriel.
Before the shadow of the East could settle over the room, Tom let out a bright, rumbling laugh that seemed to loosen the very dust in the rafters.
"Ho now, Brock! Leave the distant mountain to the
mountains!" Tom chirped, leaning over and slapping his knee. "Trouble three hundred leagues away isn't going to dig your halls or sweeten your turnips! Let the dark places grumble if they like—we’ve got the Withywindle under our feet, sunlight on the grass, and plenty of work to keep stout badgers busy right here at home!"
Old Brock blinked his small, dark eyes, the tension leaving his whiskers as he let out a long, snorting breath.
"Aye, Master Bombadil," Brock grunted, nodding his broad head until his snout nearly touched his paws.
"True enough. The earth is deep, and a badger’s claw is better spent on good dirt than worrying over distant rocks."
The old badger turned his snout toward the dark archway at the back of the chamber, his tone brightening into the practical pride of a master builder.
"Speaking of good dirt," Brock continued, gesturing with a heavy, thick-clawed paw,
"we’ve broken ground on a new eastern drift—six paces past the big oak root. Young Grimbal’s wife is expecting her first litter before the acorn-fall, and a growing family needs a dry bedroom with two escape-sallys, as every sensible badger knows!"
Tom’s eyes lit up with delight. "A new drift! And two sallys! Now
that is news worth hearing!"
For the next hour, Gandalf sat quietly, content to listen as Brock and Tom animatedly debated the finest points of subterranean architecture—the ideal slope for drainage, how to weave wild willow-twigs to hold back loose gravel, and which clay made the warmest bed for newborn cubs.
Sitting in the cool, dark comfort of the hill, listening to a grandfather plan a safe home for his unborn kin, Gandalf felt the heavy knot in his chest loosen a little more. The shadow in the East was real, but so was this—the simple, stubborn, enduring life that went on beneath the grass, completely oblivious to dark lords, and entirely worth protecting.
Before leaving the cool earth of the burrow, Gandalf knelt before the fresh opening of the eastern drift. He reached out and touched the soft, damp clay of the archway, his eyes closing as he spoke softly in the deep tongue of the stone and root.
His voice rose low and resonant, carrying the warmth of a hearthfire into the dark hall:
Deep beneath the oak and thorn,
Where quiet roots and clay are born,
May bedrock hold and roof stand fast,
Till winter's bitter wind has passed.
No water break, no cold draft chill,
Within this chamber under hill;
Safe sleep the cubs in mossy bed,
With sturdy earth above their head.
Peace to the claws that dig the way,
And joy return with morning’s day.
As the final words echoed into the dark tunnel, a faint, golden warmth seemed to shimmer across the damp clay before sinking into the soil.
Old Brock bowed his striped head low, his whiskers twitching with deep satisfaction.
"A fine song for good dirt, tree-walker," the old badger grunted softly.
"The roof feels stouter already."
With a final nod to the clan, Gandalf retrieved his tall hat and staff at the entrance, stepping out alongside Tom back into the bright, amber sunlight of the late afternoon.
