Chapter 2: A Most Respectable Hobbit

Sara moaned and opened her eyes, her head pounding with a sharp pain just behind her left ear. What had happened? Her vision was blurred as she blinked owlishly at her surroundings. What on earth was wrong with her. None of it made any sense. All she remembered was opening a door and seeing a pan flying at her head. That's right, the door! The random door in a cave. She tried to sit up, but the sudden movement sent her head spinning. Her stomach threatened to rebel. Leaning forward she put her head between her knees trying to regain control.

“Who are you?” squeaked a voice to the left. She jumped and then moaned at the sharp pain in her head. That was the voice she had heard earlier. Before she could turn to look her attacker slid around to face her. Sara grimaced as she took in the face of her would-be captor. His cheeks were round and framed by dark honey-colored hair that fell in loose rings and waves just past his pointed ear tips. Wide brown eyes scowled down at her as the little man hefted his frying pan aloft, poised to strike if need be.

“Who are you and what were you doing in my pantry?”

She opened her mouth to reply but nothing came out as she looked him over in confusion. He was short about the height of a child, although his size suggested that he had more of an appetite than any child she had ever known. He was not fat, but pleasantly plump. He wore short-cut brown trousers that were suspended over a bright yellow shirt and a green button up vest. His overlarge feet were bare and covered in thick curly hair that appeared to be well-groomed. Sara gaped at him.

“Well?” prompted the small man again, raising his frying pan higher still. “Who are you and what rights do you have being in my pantry?” Sara braced her hands on the floor and pushed herself to her knees pulling her arms out of her backpack straps. The little fellow took a step or two back, still brandishing his pan. She groaned and felt the lump behind her ear. It was going to be one doozy of a headache.

“I'll be asking you just once more er I let my pan fly,” he warned. “What are you doing in my house?” Sara held up a hand trying to gather her thoughts as she looked up at the pan wielder. Lights were popping in and out of the edge of her vision. That was one sturdy frying pan.

“Sara” she croaked out.

“What did you say?” he asked, startled that she had finally answered.

“Sara,” she said again, her voice growing stronger. “My name is Sara Miller and I would appreciate it if you did not whack me with that particular frying pan. I am seeing enough stars as it is."

The little man let the pan drop an inch or two.

"I'm sorry to have intruded. I was lost and hoping you could give me directions. As to how I wound up in… your panty did you call it… I haven't the foggiest idea. Last thing I knew, I was lost in a cave trying to find my way out and I heard your voice. I opened the door hoping to find help, only your frying pan found me first."

"What nonsense are you spouting?" asked the man suspiciously. "What cave?"

"The cave I was lost in when I found the door to your panty?" His eyebrows rose. "Who lives deep in a cave anyway?" She asked defensively. The little fellow looked slightly affronted by this.

“This is not a cave. Caves are nasty wet places full of dark and unpleasant things. This is my smial, and while it is set quite cozily into a small hill, I can assure you I don't live in a cave. No respectable person would. The nearest mountain with caves is quite a long holiday away from here and most likely inhabited by orcs or some other foul creature. So I will thank you not to insult my home again." He let the pan drop even more at the confused look on her face.

"What are you talking about? I was five hours into that cave in Kentucky. Of course you live in a cave. I'm not crazy."

Looking worried that his intruder was not altogether right in the head but still offended the little man puffed out his chest. "I do not live in a cave. Come, I will prove it to you.”

He stepped back and gestured for her to follow, still keeping a tight grip on the pan. Sara got slowly to her feet and followed the little man down a hallway and into a cheery kitchen. The sun shone brightly through a little round window set over the sink. She paused her mind not quite sure what to do with this new turn of events. The man waved her forward to take a look. Hesitantly she stepped up to the window and peered outside.

It was definitely not a cave. Well-tended flowers swayed gently in a breeze just outside the window and green hills dotted with trees rolled away into the distance. It was a trick. It had to be. She rushed from the kitchen and back into the hallway in search of a door leading outside.

“Hey! Where are you going?” cried the man, huffing irritably as he chased after her.

"Where is it?" she asked frantically, trying a door but getting a closet.

"Where is what?"

"The door outside?" But no sooner had she asked than she spotted what looked like a little entryway. Rushing past the man she wrenched the round door open only to be greeted with the same unfamiliar green countryside. No this was not possible!

She ran down the little stone walkway and out onto the dusty dirt road, looking for anything familiar; anything to tell her where she was. Nothing. This was not Kentucky. The stinging panic was clawing its way up her throat and threatening to send tears spilling from her burning eyes. Nothing. Nothing looked familiar. Further down the road a small cart was being drawn by a pony. The little man came down his walkway watching her warily. She could see more little people like him, short and round, but there were no cars or telephone poles. Not even cement. She glanced to the sky hoping to spot the white tail of a jet plane, but the blue sky was clear of all but a few fluffy clouds and birds warbling out their merry songs. She fumbled for her phone but dropped it. Snatching it up she looked for a signal… nothing. She opened Google Maps hoping it would show her location but something was wrong with the app.

This was all wrong! Where was she? Who were these people? Her heart hammered in her chest and her head throbbed as she sank into a crouch. She raked her fingers through her hair, catching her headlamp and pulling it off. What was going on?

Large hairy feet appeared before her in the dirt.

“Are you alright?”

"Where am I?" she asked, quickly swiping at her eyes before he could see. He crouched down in front of her, peering into her face. She looked away. Tutting he dug a handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out to her.

“Here,” he said when she didn’t immediately take it. “I don’t know what's happened to you, but clearly it’s been quite a shock.”

“Mr. Baggins, is that you?” called a voice from behind the round hill this man called home. “I have those flower bulbs you asked for yesterday.” The little man looked over her shoulder, startled, and then glanced back at her. He hastily stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket before looking her up and down in a panic.

“Quickly, back inside before he sees you. I’ll take care of Mr. Gamgee. We’ll get this all sorted out soon, but if someone were to see you crying on the road there will be no stopping the rumors of a strange woman staying at Bag End.” Gripping her elbow with surprising strength he helped her stand, shooing her back toward the open front door before disappearing around the corner and into the garden.

Sara rushed back inside. She had to get out of here. Quickly she found her way back to the pantry and snatched up her backpack. She gripped the pantry door and holding her breath opened it. It was the pantry. Close, open. Still the pantry. She slipped inside the small room. Hoping against hope she once again closed the door shutting herself in. She stood in the dark, counting her heartbeats in the silence. She opened the door. Hallway. No! She slammed the door closed. Open…. closed… open… closed… open. Thud… Thud… Thud... Thud. Where was the cave?

She sank to the floor in the dark room, banging her already pounding head on the door. Tears slipped in earnest down her cheeks now. Vaguely she registered the sound of the front door closing and feet padding softly through the house before coming to stop outside the door.

“Ms. Miller?” She didn’t answer. The door creaked open, spilling light into the pantry. It was silent for a few moments. Once again he crouched down in front of her.

“Are you hungry?” he asked at length. She looked up at him surprised by the concern in the sudden question. His stomach gave an indignant little gurgle.

“I was about to make afternoon tea when you arrived. Would you like to join me? We could discuss what has happened to you at length. Something tells me it’s quite a strange story.” Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand she nodded stood following him back to the kitchen. He seated her at a small nook table and went to the sink, pumping water to wet his handkerchief, before offering it to her once again.

“For your face,” he said as she took it. “It would be a shame to hide all those freckles behind the dirt and tear marks.”

Gratefully she pressed the cool cloth to her face, the damp soothing her burning eyes before she rubbed at her cheeks and forehead. The coth came away pink with the dust of the road she had smeared across her face.

“Thank you." He took it, washed it, and then offered it to her again.

“You're quite welcome,” he said, watching her curiously.

“What?” she asked when he continued to look at her, his eyes darting to and fro over her figure. “Did I miss a spot?”

“No,” he said, puffing out a little breath. “Forgive me for being blunt, but you look very strange to me. Your hair is the color of the turquoise gem in my grandmother's ring. I have never seen it’s like before. Your clothes are odd as well and your boots left the most peculiar prints behind in the dirt.”

She glanced down at her clothes. Nothing too crazy. Tan cargo pants tucked into high-top hiking boots, green gravity falls cartoon t-shirt, and her marron college hoodie tied around her waist. The hair she could kind of see as odd, but it’s not like you couldn't get a box of hair dye at almost any grocery store, though it didn't look like there was a Walmart to be found for miles. She got the feeling this man had never seen a Walmart in his life. He had to pump water at the sink, there was no paved road outside, and not a single electrical outlet to be seen.

“They're just my clothes,” she hedged. “Nothing special.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, a frown on his lips as his brows pulled close together. He turned around and poked at the little fire inside the stove, before pulling bread from a box and a large red tomato from the counter. After retrieving his frying pan from the other room he began to slice both the bread and tomato and put them in the now buttered pan. While he worked Sara dug through her pack and found her Tylenol, swallowing two pills with a gulp from her water bottle. Stuffing everything back into the bag she kept her car keys in her hands, idly playing with the laser pointer on the key ring as her mind tried to process the situation. She traced the tiny red dot around the edge of the little table. Finished, the man turned to regard her.

"Are you a type of wizard then?" he asked. She looked up at him, coming back from her train of thought.

"Am I a what?"

"A wizard" he repeated. "That dot you made appear on my table, is it magic? " He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She frowned at him.

"No, of course not,” she said. “Haven't you ever seen a laser pointer before?"

"I've never seen anything like that, and I would wager good money no one else in these parts has either." He turned to flip the bread and tomatoes in the pan.

“What exactly are these parts?” she asked cautiously.

“Hobbiton of the Shire. My home is called Bag End. How do you take your eggs Ms. Miller?” he asked, scooping the pan empty and reaching into a woven basket full of eggs.

“Fried thanks,” she said, slipping the keys into her pocket and picking at the handkerchief on the table. There were two red capital B’s embroidered in a corner of the cloth. Hobbiton... Shire… Bag End? And that voice outside had called the man in front of her Mr. Baggins. Why did all those things sound so familiar to her?

“Hobbiton?” She asked, wanting to be certain. He nodded the affirmative, now cracking eggs into the pan. She didn't think she had ever heard of a place like this; but why did it remind her of something she felt she had forgotten. She ran her fingers over the embroidered letters again, her mind spinning. Then it all fell into place. It had been years since her grandmother had read the books to her or they had watched the movies. Still, they were not easily forgotten. No way, this had to be some elaborate joke, that or this person was some crazy Tolkien fan.

“I suppose,” she said carefully, “If this is Hobbiton as you say, and this is Bag End, then that would make you Bilbo Baggins." She looked up at the sound of an egg smashing on the floor. The little man stood frozen, his back turned to her. There was a slight quaver in his voice as he spoke.

“How… how did you know my name?" Slowly he turned to face her.

"Oh come on,” she said, frustration rising in her. She just wanted to get home. “I will admit that it's been a crazy day, but I'm not about to be suckered into believing that I'm actually in the Shire and Bag End of all places. I’m not that big of an idiot. Sorry, try tricking the next sorry sap who stumbles into your pantry.” But as she spoke, there was an edge of panic gnawing at her. More and more began to come together in her mind. “If you want me to believe that you are the one and only Bilbo Baggins, you're going to have to try a bit harder short stuff.”

He puffed out his chest indignantly and set a plate of food in front of her with a loud thump. "It just so happens, Ms. Miller, that my name is Bilbo Baggins and this is Bag End in Hobbiton of the Shire. Wherever else in Middle-earth should we be?”

“Middle-Earth?”

“Yes Middle-Earth,” he said angrily. “And dip me and fry me in butter if ever I tried to hoodwink anyone. I am considered quite a respectable hobbit, thank you very much.” With this he sat and took a rather large bite of his sandwich, chewing and swallowing altogether too quickly. He looked up at her, his eyes reproachfully, if not a bit watery. “Also, I'll have you know I'm considered quite tall, for a hobbit anyway. Three foot eleven is a perfectly respectable height for our kind and I don't take kindly to being called short.” There was heavy silence at the little table for a while, as the two sat quietly. Sara picked at her food, her appetite flagging.

"Really truly? You are Bilbo Baggins the hobbit?” she asked meekly.

“Realy, truly." He reached into a jar on the table and pulled out a cookie, offering it to her. She took it, turning it over and over in her hand before giving it an experimental nibble.

“Now,” said Bilbo. “Tell me, Miss Miller, if you don't mind, just where do you expect to be if not in Hobbiton or the Shire?” He sat back in his chair munching his own cookie watching her.

“If you are telling the truth,” she said quietly. “Then I am an offly long way from home. I don't think we are from the same world.” Bilbo's hand paused on its way to his mouth. “I was lost somewhere in a cave in Kentucky.”

“Where is Kentucky?” he asked, returning to his cookie. “And what were you doing mucking around in a cave in the first place? Seems quite silly to go poking around in the dark wet places.”

“It’s a long story, and not important,” she replied. “Kentucky is in the United States of America. We call our planet Earth as well just not Middle-earth. I was on a camping trip to explore a cave. It was supposed to be for fun over the weekend, but I got lost. I have no idea how, but the next thing I know I wind up in your kitchen with a bump the size of a goose egg on the back of my head.” She looked up at him ruefully, rubbing the back of her head.

“I do apologize,” he said, rising. “I have something that may ease the pain and stave off any headache.” He set to work preparing some tea. “Truly I am sorry. We hobbits are usually quite peaceable, but we can be rather obstinate when defending our food or home.”

Sara took a bite of the cookie. “I'll survive,” she assured. “So where is Frodo?”

“Who?”

“You know, Frodo. Your sort of nephew,” she said.

“I have no family by that name,” said Bilbo, looking confused.

“Oh,” said Sara, pondering this a while. Had she been confused? Bilbo placed some tea in front of her, keeping a cup for himself.

“Here, drink this, it should help.” She sipped idly. No Frodo? Not at all, or just not yet? Come to think of it, this Bilbo didn't look as old as he ought to. She tried to remember the Fellowship of the Ring. At the beginning of the book, Bilbo was celebrating his eleventy-first birthday and Frodo his thirty third. Certainly, her Bilbo was nowhere near that old. So the quest to save Middle-Earth had not yet happened. Thinking of the ring prompted her next question.

“Have you gone on your adventure yet?”

“Adventure? I should say not! Hobbits don't go on adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner. I should hope no one would ever catch me on one.” He stopped when he caught her smirking at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. She may not have read The Hobbit, but she could not have read and watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy without knowing that its story was predicated on the events of Bilbo's little adventure.

"You know it's odd,” said Bilbo with a frown. “You are the second person in as many days to talk of adventures.”

“Who was the other?” queried Sara.

“You know it was Gandalf the wandering wizard." This was a name Sara also recognized.

“Gandalf was here yesterday?” she asked, her mind racing ahead. Gandalf might know what to do to get her back home.

“He was. Said he was looking for someone to share in an adventure of all things,” continued Bilbo, not noticing her agitation. “I told him he would be hard put to find a willing soul to accompany him on an adventure in all the Shire. What’s more, he seemed to think I would go with him.” Bilbo gave a slight shudder. “Gave me quite a turn I must admit, but I suppose that's the nature of a wizard, popping up and...”

“Did he say where he was going?” asked Sara, reaching for her backpack, already half standing.

“No,” said Bilbo, confused by her sudden interruption. “Why should he tell me that? He is a wizard after all. Goes and comes....” Bilbo paused, his face blanching.

“Oh no!” he gasped, turning to stare at the little clock over the sink. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” Frantically he began to tidy the small kitchen.

“What's wrong?” asked Sara, pausing as she slipped her backpack on.

“I just remembered, oh bother my poor memory!” he said, now scrubbing vigorously at the dishes. “I invited Gandalf to dinner this evening. It was an invitation I made in passing, he had me so flustered with all his talk of adventures and all that it just sort of slipped out. But he is an old friend of my mother's and I would not be at all surprised if he turns up for dinner this evening."

“Wait,” said Sara. “Gandalf will be coming here for dinner?”

“Very likely,” bemoaned the hobbit. “And I am not at all prepared to receive guests, and dinner is no more than an hour and a half away.” He was wringing his hands, quite agitated.

“Well, what can I do to help?” Sara offered. “What needs to be done?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” said Bilbo reluctantly. “You are a guest.”

“An unexpected one,” she pointed out. “Besides, I want to meet Gandalf. He could help me get home.” Bilbo brightened.

“That is true, if anyone can help you, I bet it would be him.”

“So, what needs to be done. Put me to work.” Bilbo began to list off things that needed to be done. Finally, it was decided that Sara would start in the kitchen while Bilbo saw to some of the other chores, as she was not familiar with the rest of the house. She finished the kitchen quickly, tidying, sweeping, and cleaning, her many odd jobs bussing tables coming in quite handy. As she was setting the finishing touches on the table she glanced into the cookie jar and saw it to be empty. She picked up her pack and set out to find Bilbo.

"Mr. Baggins?” she called, looking down the long hallway only to see him pop his head out of a door. “Where should I put my pack?”

“Second guest bedroom; fourth door on the left” he called, returning to the task at hand. Sara found the room, deposited the pack on the bed, and came back to Bilbo who was finishing up in one of the three bathrooms.

"Mr. Baggins, the cookie jar on the table is empty. Would you like me to fill it?” she asked.

He stopped and frowned. “Oh bother,” he said. “Those were the last of them and I haven't had time to go to the bakery to get more. They are some of the best in the Shire but I’m afraid the old baker guards his recipe quite jealously.” He looked a little downtrodden.

"I could make some if you like,” offered Sara. The hobbit perked up that.

“Oh, you know how to bake?”

“Well, no, not really. Normally it's all I can do to make a cup of instant noodles or microwave a dinner. I only know how to make these particular cookies because I used to make them with my grandmother all the time. Let's just say I've perfected this one particular recipe.” He regarded her carefully.

“I don’t know what instant noodles are. Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Positive,” she replied. “I saw all the ingredients needed while I was tidying up.”

“If you are certain, then yes that would be quite helpful,” he agreed.

She returned to the kitchen and soon had the dough mixed. She turned to the oven. That might be a problem. How did one bake in a stone oven with a real fire? Well, first she needed a fire. She asked Bilbo where to find wood and soon she had an armful of wood. She was coming back around the corner of the hobbit hole on the well-worn stone path when she spotted something odd on the front door. She put the wood down and ran her fingers over the scratches in the green paint, a frown on her face. She returned to the kitchen and started a fire in the oven before she called for Bilbo, asking him how to adjust the temperature for baking.

“Mr. Bilbo, did you see the scratches on your front door?” she asked as he turned to leave the kitchen once again, feather duster in hand.

“What? Scratches on my front door? No can’t be. I painted it just last week.” She shrugged.

“There are scratches on it now.” He followed her back to the door in question and his agitation grew.

“Confounded it all! One more thing to do and Gandalf set to arrive at any moment.” He ran his fingers through his hair setting it on end making him look positively mad. There was a moment of silence as Bilbo stared at his feather duster dejectedly.

“Do you have any extra paint?” asked Sara. “I can paint over it for you while the fire burns down in the oven if you like.” He looked up at her, the gratitude clear on his face.

“Yes, of course, thank you, Ms. Miller. Follow me, I think I put the extra paint in the storage closet by the master bedroom.”

He rummaged around and produced a brush and a small can of paint. They were headed back down the hall when they heard a loud knocking at the door. Bilbo gave a defeated little sigh, pressing the paint and brush into her hands. He tidied himself as best he could and went to let the wizard in. Sara took the paint into the sitting room and tucked it safely out of the way on a shelf for later.

She dusted the flour off her shirt and pants, trying to look presentable. She was a bit nervous to meet the wizard. Bilbo was right, wizards could be downright capricious at times, no matter where they were from. She heard a deep voice conversing quietly in the kitchen with Bilbo. Taking a steadying breath she steeled her nerves ready to meet the wizard.