The salt spray and the creak of timbers had been Maimie the hobbit’s world for many months. Captain Maimie, they’d called her, sailing the Somewhat Salty Seas on her surprisingly seaworthy vessel, ‘The Determined Turnip’. But even the thrill of discovering hidden coves and bartering for unusual spices couldn’t quite banish a growing unease. A feeling, deep in her hobbit bones, whispered that things weren’t right back home in the Green Knoll.
She’d finally traded her pirate hat for her familiar travelling cloak, paid off her crew with fairly-won shiny buttons, and pointed her hairy toes towards the rolling hills of her homeland. The journey was long, but the thought of her cosy burrow, the smell of baking bread, and the cheerful, tinkling presence of her best friend, Martha the fairy, spurred her on.
As Maimie crested the final rise overlooking the farm, her heart plummeted. Instead of neat rows of prize-winning cabbages and the welcoming curl of smoke from the chimney, she saw chaos. The picket fence was smashed in places, the garden trampled, and rough, ugly tents were pitched haphazardly near the barn. Worst of all, a group of large, brutish figures – not hobbits, nor dwarves, nor any pleasant folk – were lounging about, tossing empty cider jugs and kicking clods of earth. They looked mean, grubby, and thoroughly unpleasant. Maimie recognised them as the infamous Mudfoot Gang, local thugs known more for their bullying than their brains.
Panic seized her. Where was her friends? Where was Martha? Then she saw it. Hanging from a hook on the barn door, glinting miserably in the afternoon sun, was a tiny, crudely made cage. And inside, fluttering weakly, were the unmistakable, gossamer wings of Martha the fairy.
A red mist, fiercer than any sea squall, descended upon Maimie. All thoughts of weariness vanished. Her time as a pirate hadn’t just taught her how to tie knots; it had taught her how to act decisively when things went wrong. Dropping her travelling pack, she snatched up the heaviest thing nearby – Old Man Grumple’s discarded prize-winning marrow (surprisingly solid) – and charged.
“Oi! Get off my land, you lummoxes!” she roared, her voice surprisingly loud for a hobbit.
The Mudfoot Gang looked up, startled. Seeing a small, furious hobbit wielding a giant vegetable wasn’t something they’d expected. One, a burly fellow with warts on his nose, guffawed. “Look what the cat dragged in! A half-pint!”
That was his mistake. Maimie didn’t slow down. With a mighty heave, she swung the marrow, catching the laughing thug square on the shin. He howled, hopping on one foot, right into the path of another thug carrying a bucket of something slimy. They both went down in a heap.
“And stay down!” Maimie yelled, dodging a clumsy grab from a third thug. She ducked under his arm, grabbed a nearby broom, and used the handle to trip him neatly into a pile of manure. The smell alone was enough to make him regret invading her farm.
She was a whirlwind of hobbit fury. She whacked shins with the broom handle, kicked over buckets onto muddy boots, and even employed a surprisingly effective head-butt against the knees of the tallest thug. They were bigger, but Maimie was faster, angrier, and fighting for her home and her friend. They stumbled, they slipped, they complained loudly, utterly unprepared for such a ferocious defence from someone half their size.
Finally, only the leader, a greasy-haired brute who had been trying to poke Martha’s cage with a stick, remained between Maimie and her friend.
“Clear off!” Maimie demanded, planting her feet firmly, the battered broom held like a sword.
The leader sneered. “Or what, little fluff-foot? You’ll tickle me?” He lunged.
Maimie didn’t try to match his strength. She sidestepped, stuck out her foot, and the leader, caught off balance, tripped spectacularly over his own big feet, landing face-first in the mud puddle created by the earlier bucket incident.
Wasting no time, Maimie scrambled to the barn door and carefully unhooked the cage. “Martha! Are you alright?”
Martha fluttered weakly, her light dim. “Maimie! Oh, thank goodness! They’re horrid! They trampled my favourite patch of bluebells!”
“We’ll sort that out,” Maimie promised grimly, fumbling with the cage latch. It sprang open, and Martha zipped out, shaky but free.
Seeing their leader face down in the mud and the tiny fairy now free (and looking remarkably cross), the rest of the Mudfoot Gang decided they’d had enough. Grumbling and nursing their bruises, they scrambled to their feet, gathered their pathetic belongings, and fled the farm as fast as their muddy boots could carry them, never looking back.
Silence fell, broken only by Martha’s relieved fluttering and Maimie’s heavy breathing. They looked around at the mess – the broken fence, the trampled garden, the general chaos.
“Oh, Maimie,” sighed Martha, landing gently on her shoulder. “It’s dreadful.”
Maimie surveyed the damage, then took a deep breath, the familiar scent of home soil filling her lungs, even beneath the mess. “Well,” she said, rolling up her sleeves. “Nothing for it. Let’s get this sorted. Piracy was exciting, but fixing your own home is important work too.”
And together, the hobbit and the fairy began the task of rebuilding. Maimie started righting overturned pots and gathering broken fence posts, while Martha, with tiny flicks of her wings and whispered encouragements, helped coax bruised flowers to stand tall and seemed to magically encourage the dirt to smooth itself out. It would take time, but Maimie was home, Martha was safe, and the farm, under their care, would soon be thriving once more. The sea was grand, but the Green Knoll was home.
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