Frodo Writes a Story

 
Frodo is 43/44, Sam and Fatty are 32, Merry 30, Folco 27, and Pippin 22 (about 28, 20, 19, 17 and 14 in Man years)

1412 SR

 
The mid-summer sun peaked over the horizon on an already warm day. Sam was in the garden getting an early start, as was his custom during the hot summer months. He whistled cheerfully while he watered the flowerbeds and pruned the bushes, feeling only slightly guilty that he was waking his master in this manner rather than throwing open the curtains and windows as he usually did in the mornings. But his master understood Sam’s need to get the heaviest of the work done before the day grew too warm and happily awoke to the expert warbling of his gardener and friend.

So it was that Frodo woke that morning to the delightful sound of Sam’s whistled song. He stretched languidly, feeling sorry for his devoted gardener outside in such heat while Frodo was already feeling the warmth inside the smial. The heat seemed ready to beat the day before as the warmest of the season.

He dressed in light clothing and went down to the cold cellar to chip some ice off the block. In the kitchen, he poured a tall glass of water, adding the ice and mixing it well for a simple but rare treat. He then took the glass outside to Sam, who was sweating already from his work, and handed the cold, dripping glass to the grateful gardener. They discussed their plans for the day while Sam took a short break.

Sam would be tending to the kitchen garden, checking the taters and other vegetables growing happily in the ground under Sam’s tender care. Frodo noted silently that the kitchen garden was also coincidentally located on the shaded, west side of the smial. Frodo then told Sam of his own plans - he would be writing a story.

“A story, sir?” asked Sam, intrigued. His master could tell many tales that would leave the mind boggling for days, but those were always from books he had read or some of old Mr. Bilbo’s adventures. His master rarely found the mood to write himself.

“I’m feeling inspired, Sam,” Frodo announced proudly. “It shall be something different, I think; it came to me the other day while I was washing dishes and I just can’t get it out of my head. You’ll be the first to read it, if you wish. I trust your critiques and would be glad for your input.”

Sam blushed, momentarily thankful for the work-induced flush on his face. Frodo only nodded at Sam’s bashful reaction, not wanting to embarrass him further, and went back into the smial, emptied glass in hand, to prepare his morning meal and begin his work.
 

Whatever story Frodo had decided to write was not revealed to Sam that day, or the next, or even the one following that. Days turned into weeks and soon a month had passed since Frodo’s announcement. Sam often retreated indoors around elevenses to escape the heat for an hour or two and see to things inside Bag End. He would find his master, every day without fail, slouched over his desk in the study, scratching away with quill on parchment. He knew better than to ask about the story’s progress, and by the many crumpled pieces of parchment on the floor and in the wastebasket, he thought he could guess well enough on his own.

Then, halfway through Wedmath, Frodo came out of the smial near the end of the workday. The sun was beginning to set, the first stars twinkling bravely in the eastern sky. A breeze had come in from the west to bless the land with a cool, refreshing breath. Sam was putting his tools away in the shed when Frodo found him.

“I’m finished,” he announced proudly, startling his gardener with his sudden, unannounced appearance. Frodo rarely came out to the tool shed, and Sam wondered what he could be talking about.

“Finished, sir?” he asked as he composed himself and put away the last of the tools.

Frodo followed him to the well and waited for Sam to clean up before explaining further. Finally, once Sam was clean, and cooled considerably by the water, they walked over to the reading bench under the elm to enjoy the refreshing evening air.

“I have finished with my story,” Frodo finally said. He beamed at his friend and swung his legs back and forth as if he was not more than ten.

Sam smiled and chuckled softly to see his master in such a fine mood. “I’m glad to hear that, sir,” he said, his voice raised only slightly at the end to indicate the unasked question he knew his master would guess.

Frodo laughed. “Thank you, Sam, and don’t you worry. I will send it home with you tonight to read at your leisure. No need to tear through it all in one night. I want you to take your time and give me an honest critique.”

“Oh, I will, sir,” Sam replied, swelling with pride to think that his master and dearest friend considered him a valuable source for critique on such matters. Though he was fairly certain anything his master could write would be above his understanding, he was not about to let that stop him from doing his best to give Frodo what he asked for. So that night when he headed home, he did so with fifty white, crisp pages bound with ribbon tucked under his arm.
 

Frodo had said not to tear through it all in one night. He had also warned Sam, while tentatively handing over the velvet-smooth pages, that it was a short story, perhaps a bit rushed. He seemed reluctant to let Sam take the manuscript from his hands, but looking into the gardener’s soft and caring eyes, he knew without doubt that he could trust Sam with this. Even if his new idea turned out to be a horrible one, Sam wouldn’t make him feel foolish or silly. Frodo let the pages go and watched Sam walk away with his very first creation, his stomach aflutter with nervous excitement. He would not get any sleep tonight.

And neither would Sam. He was absorbed in Frodo’s story, sitting in his bed with candle in hand, forgetting the wax and letting it drip onto the bedding. His Gaffer would scold him in the morning for being so careless, but he simply could not tear his eyes away from the words his master had written.

He found that Frodo had been correct. It was short and did feel rushed in some places perhaps, but Sam felt that was only because it was too short, and not because it was lacking in quality in any way. He flipped through it, page after enchanting page, amazed at the workings of his master’s mind. He never knew his master was so creative as this! As for the style in which the story was written, Sam couldn’t begin to fathom where Frodo had thought up such a thing, but he found it delightful in its uniqueness. He read the whole story in one sitting, and didn’t go to sleep until the wee hours of the morning.

As it was, neither gardener nor master had more than an hour or two of sleep that night, so that Frodo was wide awake and waiting for Sam on the porch as Sam came up the Lane the next morning. Frodo’s stomach clenched when he spied the manuscript under Sam’s arm, a silent confirmation that Sam had finished the story; the ribbon was carefully tied back in place so that none of the pages would slip out and become lost on the road. 

Frodo unclasped his hands and stood. "Well?” he asked, unable to wait for Sam to close the gate behind him. “What did you think? It was horrible wasn’t it? It wasn’t conventional and didn’t have enough narrative and I perhaps put too much of my own thought into it…”

“Mr. Frodo, really, at least let me answer one question before you go asking another,” Sam teased lightly, smiling tiredly but happily at his anxious friend. It wasn't often that Sam saw his master so unraveled and in this instance it only made him more endearing. Looking at Frodo, Sam was reminded of his younger sister Goldie and she had fidgeted waiting for Daisy's approval after finishing her first dress on her own. He couldn't help smiling but he did his best to look encouraging all the same.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Frodo replied. “I’m just eager to hear what you thought is all.”

“Well,” Sam began slowly, organizing his thoughts as best he could. There were many things he wanted to say but he had to fit them together in just the right manner, so that his master knew he was being sincere and not just being respectful to his betters. “I thought it was wonderful, sir. I liked that it wasn’t ‘conventional’ as you say. It makes you pay attention to it more, so it does just rush by, but it isn’t a bad thing, not at all. As for it having too much of your own thought in it, well…” and here Sam stumbled, wondering if perhaps there were such a thing as being too honest. “Well, it was rather like seeing you for the first time, sir. I mean, really seeing you, if you follow me, seeing what’s locked up inside your head all day long. It… it was lovely, sir.” He blushed at his friend’s grateful smile and lowered his gaze to the ground. “Besides, all stories are told by the thoughts of those who write them. There’s no getting around that,” he finished, too embarrassed at his own words to meet his master’s gaze again.

Frodo on the other hand felt elated, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Sam liked his story! Loved it even! He didn’t think it was horrible or silly or odd.

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said and reached out to raise Sam’s chin until their gazes met. “Now get to work or I shall garnish your wages,” he teased, laughing at Sam’s relieved smile. He waited until Sam rounded the smial towards the tool shed, then took his manuscript back into the smial with him. He would begin copying a cleaner volume immediately. He wanted it to be perfect when Merry and Pippin came for his birthday next month, as it would be his present to them.
 

The twenty-second of Halimath dawned on a blessedly cool morning, the breeze from the west bringing the barest hint of salt sea air. Sam paused in his march up the Lane to revel in the refreshing wind. He had noticed long ago that the wind was always from the west on Frodo’s birthday, a confirmation in his simple mind that this day truly was one of great importance in the world. He continued his way to Bag End, where he would be working primarily inside today, helping his master care for his friends and fixing the evening meal.

The day passed quickly and eventfully, thanks to an irrepressible Pippin. Frodo finally had to send the lad into town with Sam to do some “overlooked” marketing while the others remained at the smial, cleaning the spilled honey and attempting to keep the blueberry jam from setting into Bilbo’s old rocking chair. If it left a stain, Frodo would simply have to strangle the tween and send a letter of apology to Paladin that his son wouldn’t be returning to him in one piece. Or breathing.

Thankfully, Merry was an expert at cleaning up after Pippin's many messes. He not only managed to keep a stain from showing, but also cleaned the upholstery to such a degree that even Sam gawked in amazement when the pair eventually returned from market.

“It’s like new,” Sam said as he admired Merry’s handiwork.

“Thank you,” Merry said. “Old family secret,” he added elusively and left the gardener still shaking his head at the bright red chair.
 

The time for present giving finally arrived. Frodo was beyond nervous and was contemplating his alternate presents until he thought again of Sam’s heartfelt praises. No, he would give his cousins the story and let the dice land where they may. Sam received his present first, as he had to be returning to his own home to look after his Gaffer, whose arthritis was starting up again now that the weather was turning cold.

Sam’s gift was a mathom of Bilbo’s: a paperweight of clear glass with an eagle etched onto the surface. Frodo rarely had use for it, and he constantly caught Sam fingering it while he was watering the indoor plants. Sam’s eyes lit up when he saw what he held. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Frodo!” he exclaimed. “I always did love this thing. It reminds me of Mr. Bilbo’s story, about riding on an eagle. Do you ever wonder what that would feel like, sir?”

“I imagine it would be frightening to be so high up; I’d probably pass out from the shock,” Frodo answered truthfully. He might be an accomplished tree-climber in the Shire, but there was a point when even he became afraid of heights. He walked Sam to the door, grateful that the Rules of Gift-giving made it impossible to refuse a gift. He would not have to endure Sam claiming that the paperweight was worth too much for someone of his station, or some other such nonsense.

Fatty’s and Folco’s presents followed, each of them receiving brand new pipes made of cherry oak. Hand painted on the side of each was a replica of their homelands, Budgeford and Overhill. Fatty and Folco were so elated with their gifts that they wanted to smoke them immediately, just as Frodo had hoped. He waited until they were safely outside before giving Merry and Pippin their present.

“You’ll have to share it I’m afraid. I didn’t have time to pen a second copy.” They opened the box to find his completed manuscript, bound along the spine with braided thread. “I wrote it myself,” he added quietly.

“A story?” Pippin asked, intrigued. He loved his cousin’s stories. “The one about the gollum in the cave. I like that one.”

“No. It’s an original.”

Now Merry’s curiosity was peaked. His cousin didn’t often write his own tales. “What’s it about?” he asked.

“You will have to read it to find out,” Frodo said, getting up and feigning sleepiness. “Good night.”

Merry and Pippin mumbled their replies as Merry lifted the pages from the box and turned to the first page. 
 

Frodo had slept soundly that night. He was eager to know what his cousins would think of his story but he was confident they would enjoy it. After all, if Sam could appreciate it, then surely his cousins would be able to grasp the concept without any problems.

He woke up at his usual hour, which was well past first breakfast, and went into the kitchen to nibble on whatever food had escaped being devoured by his cousins. He found a plate prepared for him, with a note written in Sam’s round slow hand that no one was to touch anything on, near, or around the plate except Mr. Frodo.

Frodo smiled, not at all surprised that his gardener would think to save him a plate, but he was surprised that the note was enough to keep his cousins off it. He ate his meal and wondered how long exactly Sam had to stand there watching Pippin like a hawk before the tween gave up on getting the plate out from under his nose. After he finished his meal, he went into the parlor to find his friends.

Fatty and Folco were enjoying a game of draughts, while Merry and Pippin were discussing something in quiet whispers. When Frodo entered the room, they stopped talking, a look of guilt on their faces as if they had been caught doing something naughty. Frodo felt a twinge of apprehension at this, but he quickly dismissed it as unfounded paranoia and approached his friends.

“Well?” he asked. “What did you think of my gift?”

Merry and Pippin exchanged a quick look. They seemed to be conversing with their eyes. ‘You tell him.’ ‘No you tell him.’

Finally, Merry sighed and answered. “It was good, Frodo, it truly was. We laughed quite a bit and learned many of the perils of sleeping out of doors, but… it’s just…”

“What?” Frodo asked, concerned now. “You didn’t like it?”

“No, we did,” Merry answered quickly, but then faltered once again. He wasn’t good at criticizing Frodo, who was nearly a brother to him and who he loved and admired above all others.

“It’s just not a story,” Pippin finally blurted. Best get it over and done with, he figured. “It’s not even a poem. Just lines of dialogue, with narrative inserted here and there.”

“I’m sorry, Frodo,” Merry said, looking as if this hurt him more than it did his friend.

“Not a story?” Frodo asked, crushed. “I know it’s not structured like a typical story, but I wanted to do something different, to have something where you could act out the story yourselves, perform it as you might say. There’s not supposed to be much narrative, except to clarify the actions that are being taken or explain why I thought certain things happened. I thought you would understand that. … Sam liked it.”

“Well, of course Sam is going to tell you he liked it,” Merry said. “He thinks the sun rises and sets for you alone. You could write a formal proclamation from the Mayor, and he’ll think it’s the greatest thing ever written.”

“You don’t know Sam if you think that’s true,” Frodo said, irritated that his cousins always saw Sam as ‘the help’ and thinking the only reason the gardener took care of him and Bag End was to ‘fulfill his duty’. “I’m sorry you didn’t like it. I’ll get your other presents.”

Only he did not go into the study to retrieve the waistcoats he had planned on giving them as their alternate gifts. Instead, he walked out of the parlor, down the hall, then out the door into the cool, crisp air of the garden. He slumped onto the bench under the elm and sat staring blankly at the grass under his toes.

On the other side of the smial, Sam heard the round green door open and close. There was only one hobbit he knew who could slam a door so politely and mournfully as that. He put down his trowel, brushed the dirt off his breeches and hands and sought out his master. It didn’t take Sam long to find him, sitting on the bench looking as if all the joy had leaked from his life.

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked as he sat next to his master. “What’s wrong, sir, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Oh, Sam, they didn’t like the story. It isn’t even a story, according to them.”

“How could they say that?” Sam asked before he could think better of it. He knew he shouldn’t be questioning his betters, especially the future Master and Thain, but he quickly tossed aside propriety when he looked into Frodo's mournful gaze. “They just don’t know any better is all. It’s got characters in it, doesn’t it? And a setting, and a plot and everything else that’s required. So what if it doesn’t read like a normal story?” And then he said something he knew he might likely live to regret. “Why don’t we show them? Play it out for them proper like, so they can see it better.”

“You would do that?” Frodo asked amazed. He knew how shy his gardener could be, especially around gentlehobbits.

“Of course I would,” Sam said.

Frodo smiled. “Thank you, lad, but that won’t be necessary. I’ll have them act it out themselves, then maybe they’ll understand. That’s an excellent idea, Sam!”

“Thank you, sir,” Sam replied, both for the compliment and for his master’s saving grace.

“I’ll come and get you when they’re ready to perform,” Frodo said, then ran off for the smial, determined to enlighten his cousins.
 

“All right, all right,” Merry said after a grueling rehearsal. He had not eaten in nearly two hours and felt his stomach would collapse after all the work Frodo had subjected him to. Next to him, he could hear Pippin’s stomach growling loudly in protest and, if he wasn’t quite mistaken, even shaking the ground in its demand for food. “I concede. It’s a story. Now, please, cousin, let us eat something before we pass out from hunger.”

“Don’t let them do it, Frodo,” Fatty warned from his vantage point on the gleaming clean rocking chair. “You’ll never see them or your food ever again.”

“Best to get Sam in there first before letting these two loose,” Folco piped in. He had been impressed at the gardener’s way of handling Frodo’s cousins at breakfast that morning, Pippin in particular. No one back home would believe it when he told them how all Sam had to do was raise an eyebrow to stop the Took’s hand from getting too close to Frodo’s plate. Before that moment, Folco had always held the firm belief that nothing short of rampaging oliphaunts could keep the tween away from food when he was hungry, and Pippin was always hungry. 

“No food,” Frodo said firmly. “Not until you learn your parts properly. You want to give us a good show, don’t you?”

“All I can say is, no story I’ve ever read before has ever been this much work,” Pippin said, frowning as his stomach grumbled again, more loudly than before.

“It’s getting angry,” Merry said. “I think we should feed it.”

“Yes, Frodo,” Pippin pleaded, “just a nibble of something.”

“Very well. Folco dear, would you be so kind as to retrieve a wheel of cheese and a jar of peanuts from the pantry?” Frodo said, keeping his attention on Merry and Pippin. “You can munch on those while we continue the rehearsal. If it helps, Sam will be finished with his tasks outside soon enough. I’ll ask him if he doesn’t mind cooking something extra special for all your hard work.”

“His pork roast with mushroom gravy?” Pippin asked, salivating at the thought of it.

“If he has time and the necessary items,” Frodo promised. “Now, from the top…”
 

The smells wafting from the kitchen were nearly enough to drive the young Took and Brandybuck mad with desperate hunger. The cheese and peanuts had not lasted long and while the food had quieted their stomachs for a while, they were now grumbling again. Even Fatty and Folco found it hard to concentrate on anything else, and after another half hour, Frodo gave up the effort altogether as his stomach began to grumble softly in anticipation of the food being prepared. He brought some buttered bread to settle the stomachs of his depraved cousins, then went to help Sam with the final preparations, setting the table and pouring the drinks. He insisted Sam stay and eat with them and gathered everyone around the kitchen.

The pork roast was quickly devoured, and Pippin would have drunk the gravy directly from its bowl had Fatty not restrained him. Or more correctly, had Sam not raised his eyebrow. The salad met the same terrible fate as the roast, as did the mead and bread. Afters followed quickly afterward, a simple but delicious bread pudding. Once his cousins were satisfied, Frodo clapped his hands and headed for the parlor.

“It’s show time! Merry, Pippin!”

Merry groaned. “One thing’s for certain: we’ll have a story to tell our parents when we get home.”

Pippin grinned, then allowed Merry to pull him to his feet and drag him into the parlor. Fatty, Folco, Sam and Frodo took their seats, and waited for the story to unfold before their eyes.

The story was a simple one really, about two friends on a camping trip and their many misadventures, from losing their camping gear, to raccoons stealing their food, to rain dousing their fire and soaking their clothes. By the end of the trip, the friends had decided to never go camping again, but they were closer in their companionship for the experience. Merry and Pippin managed to perform with very few flaws, improvising when they couldn’t remember a line exactly. Their audience applauded enthusiastically at the end, and the performers bowed low and proudly.
 

The end of their visit came too soon for Frodo, as it always did. He hugged his friends good-bye and wished them safe journeys to their homes. Folco left in the morning for Overhill. Pippin, Merry and Fatty left after elevenses for Great Smials, where they would join the Tooks for the harvest. Pippin was eager to get there and have his sisters to put on a play with him, where he was the sole child and his sisters were servants made to obey his every command. Frodo shook his head as the trio walked off. Somehow, he didn’t think the play would go as Pippin was planning it, which Merry undoubtedly had in mind when he suggested the story to the tween.

Frodo stayed by the gate until he could no longer see or hear his friends in the distance, then went back to the quiet of the empty smial. He walked the silent halls to the guest rooms and began to gather up the rumbled bed sheets and used towels. He always missed his cousins terribly the first day after a visit, but before he could get too lost in his brooding, something drifted in through the window to ease his heart: a whistled tune, that gave way to softly sung words.

Frodo smiled. As long as Sam was there, he would never truly be without a friend.
 
 

The end.
 

GF 4/27/04
Revised 12/31/06