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According to the map legend, the pink areas had the plague, and the darker the color, the more affected the area. |
So, here's my story - Mab's Tree, written in the dark hours of a long day, so any errors are totally my own, and as always, all thanks to Tolkien, the Master of the story.
Mab's Tree
She was known as Mab. It was a certainty that her name had
been far more than a single breath. Indeed, if rumors were to be believed, she
had been a great beauty in the days of her youth. But those days were far
behind her and on this day, as she fought the crank of the bucket, drawing cold
water from the well, those days seemed centuries in the past.
This was the fourth hole she had been visited - the tears
and entreaties of the other inhabitants of the small settlement having pulled
her away from her own cozy bed and into the chill of the pre-dawn hours. The
fever had hit hard, with almost every family affected. As the healer of the
vale, she was in demand, despite the fact that her own sleep had been scant and
spotty at best.
In truth, there was little she could do. The sickness had
passed up from the South, hitting all races, save perhaps the dwarves and
elves. "But, o' course, there's no tellin' if the tales of such beings
even be true," she muttered to herself as she unhooked the bucket,
wrapping a cloth around the metal handle to protect her hand from the added
chill. "Mab," she chided, "you ha' no time for stuff 'n such
nonsense."
As she entered the hole, the rank smell of the sickness
assailed her once again. She had wrapped her head well, cloth across her nose
and mouth, yet this was the fourth family she had visited this morning and the
sun hadn't reached its zenith yet. There were many holes she had yet to visit.
She clamped down on a sigh. Such sounds would inspire none
to bravery, stiffen no spines, comfort no fears. She knew the only thing to
pull her friends and neighbors from this miasma would be faith and hope. It was
not her job to tamp those feelings down. Such actions would only allow despair
to enter through the broken shards.
She heated water and added herbs from her ever dwindling
supply, making sure each one in the small family drank of the tisane after it
was heated. After all had the hot tea and she had straightened their beds, she
banked the fires and left, promising to return that evening. As she closed the
door gently behind her, she wondered if any of them would be alive when she
returned that night. Setting her sights for the next hole, she began walking,
leaning on her thick staff.
In the days and years to come, the sickness was renamed by
those in power and became what is now known as the Great Plague. By the time nearby
hobbits checked on the small settlement in the vale, four of every five holes
had been abandoned. The small graveyard, in the nearby grove, had grown large
and now held the memories, history, and tears of hobbits of all ages. In the
center of the cemetery was a tree which grew strong and tall. 'Mab's Tree' they
called it, honoring the one who had given everything she had, including her
life, to save her fellow Hobbits. Her name may have been short, but the
memories of Hobbits were long, and for many years and in fireside tales she was
remembered and celebrated.
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