It is still in the early hours of the night, and, after defeating the wolves, we are far too alert for sleep. I watch my eight companions as they sit drowsily around the fire. Pippin is nodding on Merry’s shoulder, and Aragorn and Boromir are whispering quietly to each other. I suspect it concerns Gondor. The elf is cleaning his soiled arrows, and Gimli is talking quietly to Frodo, who looks terribly bored.
I stare up at the mountain, who hardly a day ago suffered our weary footsteps to tread upon it’s icy shelves. Curse it! To defeat us so easily, and to turn us from one danger to the next. The wolves were many, but we destroyed them, and now await the coming of day to affirm our trust in the wild.
I must admit I myself am weary of this waiting, this endless nothing of staring into the fire and smoking my pipe. I sigh, and Legolas turns, sighs, and speaks.
“Am I the only one weary of this waiting?”
“No,” replies Frodo, rubbing his forehead. “I suppose we all are, am I right?”
A chorus of agreements meets his inquiry, and Pippin, roused from his short nap, sits up suddenly.
“I have an idea!” he pipes up enthusiastically. Such energy is found in youth, at all hours of the day! Boromir turns to him and smiles encouragingly.
“We might eat something,” Pippin suggests, and I hide a smile as I watch the faces of my companions drop.
“No,” Merry says with force. “We just ate a few hours ago.”
“But I’m still hungry,” Pippin complains, and his cousin sighs drastically, turning to Frodo for help. The eldest of the hobbits thinks for a while, and I fear we are about to fall back into our past state, when he looks at Sam.
“Sam,” he asks, “Do you have anything? Perhaps, something entertaining?”
Sam blushes, and rummages through his pack.
“I have Clue, sir,” he suggests, his face still half-buried in his bag. Boromir suddenly finds new intrest in the conversation.
“There’s too many of us to play Clue,” he says with a slightly whistful air, and Sam resumes his task. After a while, he abandons that pack in place of another.
“I found a Whinnie-the-Pooh jigsaw puzzle.”
“Sorry Sam,” I apologize, “But we don’t have proper lighting for a puzzle.”
He sighs, and i notice is about to give up when something catches his eye. He attempts to pull something rather obtrusive from the bag, but it is reluctant to emerge. After a fierce struggle, Sam finally wins and jerks an unmarked box from the bag. He sets it on the ground and backs up, and I am suddenly reminded of the Council of Elrond, yet the box has taken place of the Ring.
“What, pray tell, is that?” asks Aragorn, gripping the hilt of his sword.
“Oh this?” he asks innocently.
“Yes, that, master hobbit,” speaks the dwarf. the hobbit in question answers timidly.
“Twister, anybody?”
I am surprised at the response. The elf leaps up form the ground and looks around excitedly.
“Yes!” he exclaims, “Let us play Twister!”
“Tw…twister?” stutters Gimli, and I eye it warily. Little do I know of this game, yet what I do know tells me it is meant for children, not great warriors and hunters such as are here. I am about to tell Sam to put it away, but the curious faces of my companions stay my tounge.
“It’s the jumbo-giant edition, so all of us can play at once,” Sam urges.
“Oh Gandalf, what else have we to do?” eggs Legolas, and I find myself reluctant to discourage it. But I will NOT disgrace myself.
“Very well,” I consent,”but I shall spin.”
I think I catch the elf rolling his eyes, but otherwise he seems content.
“Huzza!” he celebrates, and turns to the provider of the game. “I used to be the Twister chamion in the elven-halls of Mirkwood.”
“Used to be,” whispers Merry to Frodo, who stifles a chuckle, and Legolas turns slightly red.
“Do not underestimate an elf,” he reprimends as Sam shakes out the mat. As he spreads it out, Frodo surprises everyone by asking
“May I borrow a pair of stockings?”
“What?” asks his two cousins at the same time. Legolas points to some writing on the mat and reads out loud what is written thereon.
“This is a stocking feet game.”
The hobbits eye each other warily, and I find myslef almost amused. They have never worn shoes, let alone stockings, save for this game. Aragron seems to have the problem solved.
“Who will lend the hobbits stockings?” he asks, and there is an akward silence, broken by Pippin.
“Since Gandalf isn’t playing, perhaps he can lend his stockings!”
Strangely, I find myself removing my stockings. I immedietly regret my failure to change them a few months ago. Nevertheless, I hand them over.
“Here you are, young Took,” I say as he receives them.
“Whew!” he exclaims in disgust. “Don’t you have another pair? These smell terrible, and they are much too long.”
I chuckle as I answer.
“I have no other pair, and unless you want the mat to stick to your feet. You must make do!”
Pippin shrugs and pulls them on as Aragron rumages through his ranger pack and removes two very long balck stockings. He hands them to Sam and says
“There you are, Sam. They might be a little long, but you can fold them down.”
“Thank you,” Sam replies, and puts them on. They reach over his knees, and I catch Frodo smiling behind his hand. This leaves only two hobbits to still attain sockings. Legolas gingerly pulls out a pair of genuine elven-wool stockings from his neatly organized bag, fold crisply and with a sweet aroma as of the halls of Mirkwood far away. To the surprise of us all, he then approaches Merry and measures his feet, and repeats the same procedure to Frodo. The elf-prince ponders something for a moment before delicately handing his stockings to the ringbearer.
“Be very careful with these,” he emphasizes. “I brought them all the way from Mirkwood.”
“Why did you measure my feet?” asks the bewildered recepient of the sacred articles of elf-wear.
“Your feet are smaller and cleaner than Merry’s,” he answers as Frodo pulls them on carefully. I smile at the uncommon sight of three hobbits in socks. But there is still one more hobbit to go. I glance around the group looking for another lender.
“Don’t look at me!” wards off Gimli. “I have not a spare pair.”
Aragorn turns to Boromir.
“Do you have a pair Master Merry may borrow?” he asks, and Boromir’s repsonse is rather hesitant.
“Well, I suppose I do,” he says as he pulls out a pair of pink leapord spotted toe socks. Everyone stares, and Merry groans.
“Leave it to the last person to get the most difficult socks,” he complains. “How am I supposed to put these on? I’ve never worn those socks,” he points to his cousins’ whole, closed sockings, “let alone…what did you call them?”
“Toe socks,” answers a blushing Man, handing them over. I watch in silent mirth as Merry attempts to put them on the wrong feet. Boromir points out his mistake and Merry responds tiredly
“How was I supposed to know?”
Soon he has them on correctly, and Sam asks excitedly
“Sooo, are we all ready to play?”
“I am still not accquainted with the rules, oh Twister-King,” grumbles the dwarf.
“Oh, bother it all,” complains Pippin. “He can learn as we play. Let’s start!”
“Everyone take your positions!” shouts Sam, the fire dancing in his brightened eyes.
“Stand around the edge of the mat,” hints Frodo., and Gimli moves reluctantly to the edge of the mat. I take up my position at the top, and stare at the ominous rows of red, blue, yellow, and green dots. The poor fellows. They know not what they are getting involved in. Of course, none of us did when we started on this cursed quest. I wrench myslef from my ponderings and spin the spinner.
“Left foot blue,” I say.
“Uh, one problem Gandalf,” says Legolas.
“Eh, what is that?”
“There’s a cat on the mat.”
“Oh really? Tell him to shoo.”
“Shoo, cat,” says Pippin, but the cat only blinks at him stupidly.
“Aww, he’s so cute,” murmers Sam in awe.
“Only a hobbit could think that,” says Boromir, half to himself.
“How did a domesticated gray cat come to be in the middle of the wilderness?” wonders Aragorn.
“Why don’t you ask him,” says Legolas, and he thinks for moment.
“Maybe it was a swallow,” suggests Frodo.
“No, a swallow is too small,” mumbles Leoglas.
“Who ever heard of a swallow carrying a cat? Cats come all the way from Rivendel,” I say.
“Perhpas it was an African swallow. It is larger, and can carry more weight.”
“But that still leaves the question of why,” says Gimli.
“Perhpas it was a migration pattern.”
“Who ever heard of a sparrow carrying a cat all the way from Rivendel simply to follow a migration pattern?” groans Aragron.
“I don’t know,” muses Sam, “But I do know if we don’t get started we will never finish Twister.”
“Very well,” I say, and I pick up the cat and throw him into the darkness. Two eyes glare at me as they vanish into the night.
“Let’s begin,” I sigh, and spin the spinner.

** Did the sparrow really carry the cat all the way from Rivendel simply to follow a migration pattern? Will the fellowship actually get started? Stay tuned to find out…**