Ripples in the Moonlight

’I’ve heard they went on the water after dinner in the moonlight,’ said Old Noakes; ‘and it was Drogo’s weight as sunk the boat.’
Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien

***

The First of May is a noteworthy date in Buckland, mainly because it is the first day deemed safe for boats to go once more on the River. Though the Brandywine is still swollen from the Winter thaw and the Spring rains, it runs no longer like a rampaging beast, clawing at the shore, growling deep in its throat at any hobbit who might dare venture too close. Rather, it runs deep and smooth, smiling in the sunshine, hiding its powerful muscles under a deceptive quiet, much like the Master’s prize bull when he is dozing in his pen.

The Ferry hobbits know the power of the River, of course, for they ply their business most of the year save the wildest months. The fishers know its power as well, for as long as they treat its eddies and currents with respect they will reap richly and not drown in its depths. The Brandybucks know the River as well as anyone else, having lived along its banks for quite a few generations, and it was a past Master of Buckland who designated the First of May in the first place, as the earliest day when it is safe to take a boat upon the River (fishers and the Ferry excepted, of course).

October the First, of course, is the last day when it is deemed safe to take boats upon the River, though the Ferry hobbits and the fishers ply their trade some weeks longer. However, October does not come any further into this tale.

There is a tradition amongst the Brandybucks, or at least there used to be, where there was an unofficial competition to see who would be earliest on the River. Sometimes a hobbit would actually go so far as to launch a boat in the dawn light, when the Sun was still rubbing her eyes upon her arising, but Brandy Hall was famous for its victuals, and it wasn’t often that someone would miss early breakfast even to win a wager. Immediately after breakfast there would be a mad dash to the River, with a large crowd cheering the competitors on.

‘Not for me,’ Drogo Baggins said complacently to his wife as he sat back in his chair, dabbing at his mouth with a serviette. It was the last day of April, the eventide meal in the great room of Brandy Hall was drawing to a close, and many curly heads at the long tables were clustered together in little groups, murmuring plans. ‘I’m not going to gulp a fine breakfast and race down to the River to launch the first boat.’

‘Then how are you going to win your wager?’ Primula twinkled at her husband. ‘You bet Merimac that you’d be first this year.’

‘I have my ways,’ Drogo said with a wink. ‘Would you like to help me?’

‘O Drogo,’ Primula said, resting her head against his broad shoulder. She knew he couldn’t very well do without her help, Baggins that he was, poor dear, about as at home in a boat as a fish out of water.

‘I want to help too!’ young Frodo piped up.

‘And just how old are you, young hobbit?’ Drogo said indulgently.

‘I’m eleven! You know I’m eleven! But I’ll soon be all of twelve!’ Frodo said. He used the most persuasive argument he knew. ‘And I know how to manage a boat!’

‘Eat your vegetables,’ his mother said. ‘You mayn’t get up from table until every last one is gone.’

If she thought this would take the wind out of the lad’s sails, she was mistaken. He quickly gobbled the last of the hated vegetables and said through a mouthful, ‘There, I’m finished. Now may I help?’

‘You’ll soon be all of twelve, will you?’ Drogo said. ‘And when would that be?’

‘On September the twenty-second, as you know very well,’ Frodo said cheekily.

Drogo gave a convincing imitation of one deep in figuring. ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘That’s still some five months away...’

‘Four!’ Frodo said rather more loudly than was considered polite at table in the great room, under the stern eye of the Master, and he received The Look from his mother as a consequence.

‘A little more than four-and-a-half months, to be precise,’ Drogo said with a smile. ‘And what are you going to give me?’

Frodo was taken aback. ‘I--,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t thought about it yet...’ He had been successfully deflected, for the moment, from the discussion of boating.

‘What if your mother and I were to give you a present instead?’ Drogo said, sharing a look with Primula, who blushed prettily and busied herself with her serviette.

‘Give me a present?’ the lad said, puzzled. ‘What sort of present?’

‘Perhaps that little brother you’ve been bothering us about all these years... or would you settle for a sister?’

‘Really?’ Frodo’s voice squeaked in his excitement as he nearly bounced out of his chair. ‘Really and truly?’

‘If all goes well,’ Drogo said, putting an arm around his wife for a loving squeeze. Primula laid her head against his shoulder again with a happy sigh, as congratulations showered down upon them from all the hobbits at their table. The Master got wind of the excitement and came over to hear its cause, and of course he called for brandy all around, and not the everyday brandy but the special vintage residing in dusty bottles in the third cellar. Even Frodo was allowed a sip of the heady beverage, as brother-to-be.

It was only as his mother was tucking him into bed after eventides that he remembered about the boat. He looked to his father, settling into the chair by the bed, ready to commence the nightly story, and said, ‘Can I help?’

It took a few moments to establish the topic of discussion, but when they did, Drogo returned to the subject of Frodo’s age. ‘Not this year,’ he said. ‘You’re not quite old enough.’

‘How old do I have to be?’ Frodo asked. He was not at all sleepy, and Primula despaired of keeping the lad in bed, lively as he was.

‘Well, to stay up until late supper you must be a teen, and to stay up until midnight supper you must be a tween,’ his father said, ‘and to help me with a boat you must be large enough to handle the oars all by yourself.’ This was true. Drogo was as helpless in a boat as he was fat, and while he could row, he could hardly steer. His best efforts often sent a boat in circles, his wife laughing at him, until she’d take pity and the two would change places so that she could row them to the bank again.

‘You’re going out after midnight supper?’ Frodo whispered, his eyes dancing with excitement. His father boomed with laughter.

‘Bright lad! You’ll go far,’ Drogo said when he could speak. ‘But of course! After midnight ‘twill be the First of May, will it not? I’ll have the earliest boat on the River, win my wager with Merimac, and no need to huff and puff with a belly full of breakfast!’

‘How beautiful it will be,’ Primula said. ‘The Moon is full tonight, shining with all his might. I love how the oars leave little ripples on the surface of the water in the moonlight.’

‘O please! Mayn’t I go, Papa?’ Frodo pleaded.

Drogo squeezed Primula’s hand. ‘Someday, Son,’ he said, ‘you’ll go out on the water with your true-love, your treasure, and you’ll understand why parents tuck their little ones into bed and go on to have adventures without them.’ He laughed, and so did Frodo, though the lad did not understand, not truly.

‘Now he’ll never go to sleep!’ Primula said in mock despair, but she had not credited her husband’s storytelling skills. Drogo was a Baggins, and the Bagginses were specially known throughout the Shire for their ability to spin a yarn.

Drogo launched into this night’s episode of the long tale he was spinning, with such exciting adventures that it was a wonder Frodo’s eyelids grew heavy, and yet, such was his father’s skill, heavy indeed they did grow. With satisfaction, Drogo let his voice drop and slow as the little head nodded. ‘There now,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll tell you the rest on the morrow.’

‘I’m not sleepy,’ Frodo protested, but the sentiment was rather spoilt by the yawn that came in the middle.

‘Of course you’re not,’ Drogo murmured. ‘But my throat is dry from all the talk, and your mother’s half-asleep in her chair...’

Primula smiled at her beloved, dimples deepened by joy. She was always sleepy these days, but for such a wonderful reason.

‘Tell you what,’ Drogo said. ‘You just lie back on your pillow and close your eyes for a moment whilst I rest my voice, and then I’ll go on.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ Frodo said drowsily, allowing his father to pull the coverlet up to his chin.

‘Good night, my love,’ Primula said, rising from her chair to lay a soft kiss upon his forehead. ‘I am too weary to hear any more, so I will take my leave now.’

‘Good night, Mama,’ Frodo said with another yawn. Primula crept from the room while Drogo kept his watch.

When Frodo’s breathing settled deep and even, Drogo brushed his own kiss over the forehead. ‘I love you, lad,’ he said, and softly for all his bulk, he stole from the room.

***

The Great River rolled deep and smooth, deceptively calm as the paddles dug into its surface, leaving ripples in the moonlight. Frodo wakened from his half dream and slipped his hand beneath his shirt, to clasp the treasure hanging there from its chain.