Ink Stains

Tiny clever fingers gripped the quill pen tightly, while equally tiny down-covered bare feet swung to and fro, high above the floor, as the hobbitchild perched in his uncle’s old desk chair. Brow wrinkled, bright blue eyes unwavering, tip of the small pink tongue poking out the side of his mouth, the faunt was a picture of earnest concentration. He stared intently at the mostly-blank piece of paper on the desk before him as his quill, unnoticed, dripped black ink on one corner of it. There were words at the top of the paper, or at least that’s what the child was fairly certain the graceful, flowing marks were supposed to be, though they meant nothing to him.

Frodo was in a quandary. He had watched Uncle Bilbo using the quill pen and the ink to make those little marks on papers, every evening while Frodo played at his feet, and the marks seemed to be so interesting and pleasant! Uncle Bilbo’s face would light up and sometimes he would laugh while he wrote (sometimes he would scowl and mutter to himself, too, but that didn’t happen as often and Frodo was not thinking of that at the moment).

Frodo liked it when Uncle Bilbo smiled, and when he laughed; it made him feel warm and happy and safe, almost like when Mumma and Da were with him. It even made him forget to be sad that they had left him alone at Bag End for a few days while they visited somebody closeby.

Today Bilbo had been about to fix luncheon when kind old Gaffer Gamgee, whom Frodo was rather fond of, had come to the front door with a question. So Bilbo had left Frodo in the sitting room— just for a moment!—and instructed him to be a good lad and not get into mischief. Frodo had sat quietly in the room for a few minutes, playing with a wooden toy horse Da had made for him, but when Uncle Bilbo did not return he grew bored and decided to look for something else to do.

Somehow he had ended up in Uncle Bilbo’s study, and the idea had come to him suddenly to make some marks of his own on a paper, and make Uncle Bilbo happy. So now Frodo sat staring at the paper uncertainly. He did not notice the dark ink dripping from the quill onto his small fingers clutching it, while he sucked his free thumb thoughtfully.

The quill had seemed much smaller in Uncle Bilbo’s hands, and Frodo was fairly certain that the desk had been much lower, too. Uncle Bilbo hadn’t had to stretch flat across it to reach that inkwell, either. After a moment of consideration he set the quill down on the paper and pulled his legs up, tucking them underneath himself so that he was perched on his knees.

There, now the desk wasn’t quite so tall! At least Frodo could see all the way over the top of it now. He reached out to retrieve the quill, but just as he did so a voice in the doorway caused him to freeze.

“Frodo! Just what are you up to, young hobbit?”

Uncle Bilbo strode into the room, and for a moment Frodo was afraid that he was cross with him. But no, the old hobbit had a rueful smile on his face as he picked up the quill, dried it on an already-blotched rag, and screwed on the cap of the inkwell. Then he used the rag to wipe up a few drops of ink that had spilled onto the desk, before turning to the four-year-old in the chair.

“Well, sir, what have you to say?” he inquired. He did not seem cross at all.

Frodo took his thumb out of his mouth. “Gonna mak’ marks onna paper,” he explained solemnly. “Like Unca Beebo.”

It took Bilbo a moment to translate Frodo’s words, but once he’d worked it out he smiled at the faunt. “Make marks on the paper like me, eh?” he said. “Well then, let’s make sure you do it properly, my lad. Here, this desk is much too tall for you. Wait a moment…”

Bilbo picked the child up and held him while he settled himself in the chair, and then he placed Frodo in his lap. Frodo was delighted; now he was as tall as Uncle Bilbo! He giggled happily and reached for the quill pen.

“Hold on a moment, you little rip,” Uncle Bilbo laughed. He reached past Frodo to get the quill and inkwell, and unscrewed the cap of the latter. “Now, don’t be impatient,” he said as Frodo wriggled with excitement, “you must be careful with all this ink! It could stain. There now, see? The quill’s dipped in the ink—but not too much, mind you!—and now we can write.” He glanced at the paper Frodo had been about to work on and winked at the child. “I see you’ve already decided which paper to use. Just as well; that was a letter to your Da, but now he’s here so there’s really no point.”

Frodo popped his thumb back into his mouth and sucked it impatiently. Bilbo chuckled and at last handed him the quill. “Here you are, my lad,” he said. “Wait, wait, you can’t hold it like that! You’re throttling the poor thing. Here.”

Bilbo reached out and covered the child’s tiny hand with his own, adjusting Frodo’s fingers so that they held the pen more easily, if not quite correctly. “There you are, now,” he said when he’d finished. “What say I help you with those ‘marks’? They can be a bit tricky to make at first.”

Frodo nodded agreeably, and Bilbo smiled and dropped a kiss to the top of the dark curly head. “Right, let’s get started then. What shall we write first? How about your name, eh?” Again there was a happy nod from the child, who bounced in his lap and giggled. Bilbo had to smile again; Frodo’s laugh was incredibly infectious. He gave his nephew a little squeeze and tightened his fingers around Frodo’s, helping him shape the letters.

Uncle Bilbo was naming each letter as they wrote it, but Frodo was not listening. As he watched his own small hand, enveloped in his Uncle’s, form each letter, he noticed one thing: his fingertips were stained with ink, just like Uncle Bilbo’s.

Somehow this made him even happier than the marks.

~The End~