This was inspired by “A Tale That Grew in the Telling.” In chapter 7 of Part III, Merry reflects on Frodo and remembers a time when Frodo scolded him and Pippin for playing a trick on Sam, that inevitably got Sam in trouble with his Gaffer. I thought hard on what they could have possibly done that was so horrible (and obviously unintentional of its eventual outcome) and came up with this. 

Under the Harvest Moon

Harvest, 1400 SR.
Merry is 18, Pippin 10, Sam 20, Frodo 32 (or about of 11, 6, 13, 20 in Man years)
 

“I’m bored.”

That’s how it all started. I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand. I suppose I just got carried away. And I just know things are never going to be the same between Sam and me again. I don’t know how I know it, but I do. I could see it in his eyes as the Gaffer was hauling him away, in that brief little look of disbelief and betrayal he had shot my way. It makes me sick just to think about it. I don’t even want to think of what the Gaffer must be doing to Sam just now either.

A knock sounds on the door. Pippin stirs next to me, prepared for whatever lecture we will be getting. Bilbo was furious. After the commotion died down and the truth came out, he had been fair livid and sent us up to our guest room while he calmed down and figured out what he was going to do with us. Well, he has finally decided apparently, and he is here to deliver the verdict.

He does not wait for us to answer. The door opens and in walks, not Bilbo, but Frodo. I cringe. The only thing that can make this night any worse is that look of utter disappointment and fury in Frodo’s clear blue eyes. It cuts straight to my heart and I feel tears welling in my eyes. Pippin just leans into me and hides his face in my shoulder.

“How could you?” Frodo asks, his voice oddly calm against the storm in his eyes. “What were you thinking? Or were you even thinking at all?”

We say nothing, but hang our heads in shame.  

After Frodo’s and Bilbo’s birthday party, my parents agreed to let me stay at Bag End through the end of the Harvest. This way, I would be there to help look after Pippin when he returned on the twenty-ninth of Halimath. Eglantine always sent Pippin to Hobbiton during the final days of Harvest so the youngster wouldn’t be in the way when the reaping of the grain fields started, and the visits always left Frodo and Bilbo a bit frazzled. Everyone figured that if I was there, I could help keep Pippin out of their hair during the day.

Of course, I readily agreed. In fact, I was ecstatic. A whole week alone with my Frodo! My mind filled instantly with everything we could do in all that time. We could go to The Water. It would soon be too cold to go swimming, but we could fish at least. We could visit Folco Boffin up in Overhill and hang about with his crowd, Sancho Proudfoot, Mungo and Largo Goodbody, Angelica Baggins and Delia Bunce. We could play act some of Bilbo’s adventures. I always had to be a troll or a dwarf, but this time, I would insist on being the dragon. I had been practicing my Smaug roar at home and I must say it was very convincing. It startled one of the cleaning maids at any rate when I jumped around the corner at her.

However, this was not what happened. Frodo was now nearly of age and Bilbo seemed to think this meant that Frodo had to learn all the different responsibilities that came with being Master of the Hill. Of course, there were not many responsibilities to be spoken of, just the maintaining of the smial and paying the servants, which only consisted of old Gaffer Gamgee and his son Sam. Whatever property Bilbo owned never seemed to take up much of his time or thought, so I didn’t see why it should take up so much of Frodo’s either. Yet Bilbo was the richest hobbit in all of Hobbiton and Bywater, and he insisted that the position came with certain “unspoken” obligations, whatever those were. So Frodo was constantly cooped up in Bilbo’s company, busy with his studies or helping Bilbo with this or that, going into town and seeing to the less fortunate hobbits.

Because of this, I never got to really see Frodo until after tea, and by then there was only an hour of daylight left for us to play in. As such, we didn’t get to do much. I found myself in the unique position of having to entertain myself, by myself. This had never happened before. There was always someone for me to play with. So, I turned to the only logical solution: Sam.

Sam and I had been playmates since I first visited Frodo in Hobbiton, back when Frodo first moved into Bag End. Playing with Sam wasn’t the same as playing with Frodo. Sam was more serious for one, and he tended to be shy and hesitant about joining in certain games. He also had responsibilities of his own, being his Gaffer’s helper, but he only worked in the mornings and always had the afternoons free.

Until a couple of years ago. Sam’s duties gradually increased, until he was all but doing the Gaffer’s job for him. The last several times I visited, I had barely been able to spend more than a few minutes playing with Sam, and he had started addressing me as “Master Merry” instead of just Merry. Frodo said it was because Gaffer was coming down on Sam for being too familiar with his “betters” and that Gaffer felt Sam’s time was better spent in the gardens than with those above his station. Also, the Gaffer had terrible arthritis and his joints wouldn’t let him do the job as he used to and he was training Sam up to take over for him. I still managed to spend time with Sam though, but I had to disguise it as work. I would follow Sam through the gardens and help him with his planting and ask about all the various aspects of horticulture that I could think of.

Horticulture had become a bit of an obsession of mine shortly after Frodo moved to Bag End and started to send letters to me about everything he was learning about gardening from Gaffer and “little Sammy,” as Frodo called him back in those days. I wanted to have things to write to Frodo about that he would find interesting and, suddenly, the same old regular routines of Brandy Hall no longer seemed to qualify. After all, Frodo had willingly left Buckland, so I thought that its goings-on could not have been that important to him anymore. I knew better now of course, but back then, I was determined to learn everything I could about plants, so I could write to Frodo and impress him with my knowledge. I even secretly hoped I would learn something he hadn’t learned already or, better yet, something that the Gaffer himself didn’t know.

Over the years, I developed a genuine fascination with herbs. When Sam’s play time was taken away from him, and I started “helping” him in the garden, I started growing my own herb garden at Brandy Hall though I wasn’t very successful at it. Whenever I visited Frodo, I would pick Sam’s brain for information, as he was more approachable than the gardeners at the Hall, and I could sometimes use that time to speak with Sam about other, more mundane things when his father wasn’t around.

So now, with Frodo unavailable, I went out to the gardens to help Sam and catch up with my friend. Only it turned out that Sam was not available either. The Gaffer was getting ready to retire come next Spring, and he was adamant about checking up on Sam’s skills and testing his knowledge about the gardens.

“Now, winter’ll be here soon and the temperature’ll be dropping,” Gaffer said to Sam as he leaned against a large shovel stuck into the dirt. “What should we be a planting to bloom come spring?”

“Well, let’s see, there’s tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, irises, Anemone, and crocus as we can plant.”

“And?”

“And we should be using the bone meal or bulb fertilizer so’s we can mix it in with the soil, and the seeds should be in the ground no later’n the second week of the Winterfilth,” Sam continued and received a nod from Gaffer.

“Very good lad,” Gaffer said and continued to the next question. “Mr. Bilbo likes his begonias in the front garden as you know. What do we do with those now?”

“You store the seeds in a box of peat moss. It needs to be moist, but not too moist, and you need to be storing it in a cool dark place, somewheres inside, till the spring comes, That’s when you transfer it to the gardens,” Sam answered.

“What about these here mums blooming so nicely still? These’ll die in a week or so I suppose?”

“No sir, you can keep them blooming for another month at least, so long’s you cover them with a bit of cheesecloth on frosty nights to protect them from freezing up and dying,” Sam said automatically, not even having to think.

And on and on it went. I listened for as long as I could, marveling at how much work a garden required even as winter began to settle in. After a while though the information began to swirl about in my head and I couldn’t concentrate any longer. I eventually gave up trying to speak with Sam and went to visit Folco by myself, only to get to his Uncle Griffo’s house and discover that his parents had decided to keep him in The Yale for Harvest this year. I ended up spending the day with Griffo’s son Tosto and his friends, and they were fun enough, but it wasn’t the same without Folco and Frodo. When I returned to Hobbiton, I still had no one to spend my time with while I was at Bag End. I was terribly lonely and found myself looking forward to Pippin’s arrival more and more with each passing day.

Finally the twenty-ninth of Halimath arrived, and I waited excitedly by the lane, watching for the carriage coming up the Hill. At long last, the carriage appeared. I jumped down from the fence where I was sitting as the carriage pulled to a stop. The coach stepped down to help Pippin out and haul his things up to Bag End. Pippin came bounding down the carriage steps, heedless of the coach’s warnings, and leaped into my arms.

“Mer-Bear!” he cried joyously.

“Hullo there, Pipsqueak, I’m so glad you’re here!” I said and hugged him furiously.

“What have you been doing?” Pippin asked and started running up the path to the smial, looking for Frodo, no doubt.

“Nothing,” I replied honestly. “Spent a couple of days up at Tosto’s. Other than that, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“That’s it?” Pippin asked, disbelieving and a bit disappointed. I usually had various stories of mischief to entertain him with and he couldn’t believe I had done nothing in all my time here.

“That’s it,” I said as we entered the smial. “I’m bored. Horribly bored. Let’s do something.”

“Like what?”  

“I’m waiting for an answer,” Frodo says, his arms crossed in front of him, his foot tapping impatiently on the floor. “Well?”

How can I answer? How can I tell him the truth? That I had been frustrated and angry at being ignored during my visit, that I was upset that everyone suddenly had more important things to do than pay attention to me? How can I tell him that without sounding like a petty, jealous child?

At the back of my mind, from the very start, I had known that was why I was doing such things, playing that trick on Sam. I didn’t think it would go this far though. We were just having a bit of fun, and Sam had taken it all in stride really. Until tonight. Until that horrible accident. And it had been an accident. That wasn’t supposed to have happened.

“Does Gaffer know?” I ask at length. “It’s not Sam’s fault?”

“Bilbo went down to talk to him,” Frodo says quietly. Too quietly. I wish he would just yell already and stop glaring at us, just get it over and done with. But he doesn’t. He continues on in that same, too-calm tone. “He got there before Sam could get too many lashes, though I imagine he’ll still have difficulty sitting for a while. You know, the Gaffer’s never struck any of his children until tonight.”

I cringe again, my misery mounting to a nearly unbearable level. I sniff back my tears, knowing that if I start crying, I will wind up kneeling on the floor in front of Frodo, begging forgiveness with everything I am worth. “It’s not Pippin’s fault either,” I say. “He was just going along with what I told him. He didn’t know what I was doing.”

Frodo shifts his weight to his right foot and starts tapping his left. He says nothing for a long while, and I know he’s thinking of how to continue. He clearly would rather be yelling, but he holds back. He hates being yelled at and would never yell at me because of this, but that’s only because he doesn’t know how very much worse this is.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Frodo finally says. “What were you thinking?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. It was just a joke,” I say to the coverlet.

“Well, it was an incredibly stupid joke,” Frodo says, and now there’s a hint of anger on the edge of his voice, sharp as knives, piercing my heart. Then he does the worst possible thing. He shakes his head and says, “I don’t want to look or speak to either of you.” He turns and he leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.

Pippin gasps next to me and starts to whimper, but I bite back my own tears. I hold Pippin close to me, taking comfort in the fact that despite everything, he hugs me back. That’s how Bilbo finds us two minutes later.  

Pippin peeked out from around the tool shed and gave me the thumbs-up. I looked behind me, through the bushes, and spied Gaffer and Sam as they came around the other side of the smial and started working on the front garden. I caught Pippin’s eye and nodded. That was all he needed. He was in and out of the tool shed in mere seconds, his hands and pockets loaded with all sorts of tools. He ran up the path to the top of the smial and I slinked out of my hiding place and ran after him.

By the time I joined him, he had laid out everything he had managed to smuggle out of the shed. There were spades, shears and trowels, and most important of all, a can of varnish. I wondered how Pippin had known where to find all those things, as the organization of the shed had always been a bit of a mystery to me, but there was no time to ask questions now. We had to act quickly or we would lose our chance before Sam went home for the night.

The plan was quite simple really. It was a generally known fact that Sam hated wearing gloves and never did get into the habit of using them. Instead, it was his custom to cut the fingers off the gloves and glue those to the handles of his tools, as his father had done for him once when he was first learning his craft. Of course, the Gaffer rather regretted that now, as cutting up perfectly good gloves was not their “proper” use, but there was no talking Sam into wearing gloves at this point, which was what I was counting on.

I peeked over the top of the smial and tried to discern from this distance which tools Sam was using. “It looks like he’s got a spade and a hoe, and maybe some clippers. Grab one of each of those,” I whispered to Pippin.

I crawled back over to him and opened up the can of varnish while Pippin selected one of each of the tools I had named and held them up to me. One by one I dipped the handles into the varnish and scrapped them against the side of the can to remove just enough of the liquid that it wasn’t too obvious. When I was finished, I nodded at Pippin and he went running off to get into a scrape of some sort while I carefully grabbed the tools and went back to my hiding place.

A minute passed. Then another. Then a few more. Just as I was wondering what was taking Pippin so long, I heard it: his high-pitched falsely-panicked “Ouch!” from the other side of the smial. I peeked out through the bushes and saw Gaffer and Sam looking over in the direction of Pippin’s cry, startled and uncertain what to do. Then they shrugged and went back to work, no doubt figuring that I would be coming along to help Pippin with whatever it was he was yelling over. Only I wasn’t.

Another moment passed and again, Pippin’s cry rent through the air, followed by a “Help me, please!” At that, Gaffer trotted off but Sam stayed put. I frowned. That wouldn’t do at all, but Pippin was ahead of them both. Just a few moments later, another cry went out and Gaffer yelled, “Sam, get over here and help me with this… Took!”

An instant later, Sam was up and dashing over to his father and Pippin. I took my chance, knowing I would have to move quickly. I dashed over to where Sam had been working, keeping low to the ground, and deftly exchanged his tools for mine. The varnish was still moist on the gloved-handles but the odor wasn’t too obvious in the crisp, open air. Still, I figured it would only take a few seconds for Sam to figure out what had happened, but by then, I would be tucked safely inside, innocent as can be.

The job done, I ran off as fast as I could to my hiding place and waited. Nearly five minutes passed before Pippin came running past me and into the back door. I looked back over my shoulder, and Sam and Gaffer had returned to their previous positions, Gaffer standing over Sam, watching him like an overly-fussy instructor, and Sam was digging through the dirt. Every few seconds, Sam would stop and frown down at his spade or smell his hands. I laughed softly to myself and slipped inside to find Pippin.

He was sitting in the kitchen, munching on some biscuits left over from tea and his left arm was flushed pink.

“What did you do?” I asked and hastily hid the good tools in one of the cupboards behind the fancy plates that Bilbo only used when he was hosting a party. I would have to sneak out sometime at night and return them, and the ones on top of the smial, to the shed, but right now, I wanted to know what Pippin had done to distract the gardeners.

“I got myself stuck like you said to,” Pippin answered. “I found a pile of wood waiting for chopping and got it to fall on my arm.”

I managed not to smack my forehead on the table, but I couldn’t stop myself from groaning. “You weren’t supposed to get stuck for real, just for pretend,” I explained.

“That wouldn’t have taken as long and then you wouldn’t have been able to switch the tools,” Pippin said and grinned around a mouthful of biscuit. “Did he notice?”

I grinned back. “He noticed. Now come on, let’s see if Frodo’s almost done with his studies.”  

Bilbo doesn’t stay in our room for very long. He looks at us sternly, his eyes on fire and his jaw set, his lips nothing more than a tight, narrow line. He stays in the doorway, as if he doesn’t trust himself to come any closer.

“I will be penning letters to your parents,” he states in harsh, flat tones, tones that neither of us had ever heard from Bilbo before, and never want to hear again. “You will pack your things and will be leaving first thing come morning with the post messengers. You will carry the letters yourselves and deliver them to your parents. You are not to leave this room until the carriages arrive in the morning. Now go to sleep.”

And with that he storms out the room, slamming the door behind him, the crash echoing through the room like thunder.

“Merry, they hate us,” Pippin cries and clings to me tighter.

I lie down and take Pippin with me. There is no way I will get any sleep tonight. No way I will get any rest, for every time I close my eyes, I see those eyes, those gentle, trusting brown eyes, glaring at me. What have I done?  

Sam did figure out what had happened with his tools, but he didn’t rat us out. Instead, he mentioned casually the following morning, while he and Gaffer were telling Bilbo of their plans for the day, how all of his tools had been disturbed over the night by some moles or such. Gaffer only grunted and told him in no uncertain terms to make sure he locked the shed door next time and “not leave it open to the wilds.”

After that small exchange, they had gone to work and I didn’t see either one of them again until luncheon. Bilbo had decided that he was taking up too much of Frodo’s time and let him off his studies for a couple of hours, and Frodo took his lunch with us outside on his reading bench. Sam wandered over then, on break himself, and asked, “Would you like me to fetch you anything to drink, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo looked about us and frowned in surprise. He always forgot the drinks and he always seemed surprised with the discovery. This was a routine of sorts really. Sam would go inside and get us tea or whatnot and then he would sit and talk with us for a spell until his father came to fetch him back to work.

“Yes, Sam, that would be lovely, thank you,” Frodo accepted the offer. “And would you bring something out for Merry and Pippin also, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course, Mr. Frodo. I’ll be right back,” Sam said and strolled off to fetch the drinks.

Pippin and I just shrugged at each other and returned to our sandwiches. Sam came back a few minutes later, tray in hand, and it was loaded with three tall glasses of tea. Sam handed Frodo his glass, and Frodo took a long drink.

“Mmm, this is delicious Sam. What kind is it?” he asked, intrigued, which instantly caught my attention. It seemed impossible that Frodo wouldn’t know what kinds of tea there were in the smial.

Sam smiled sweetly and winked down at Pippin and me. “It’s raspberry, sir, with a little something extra. A secret ingredient you might say.”

“Really? A secret? Sounds mysterious,” Frodo said and took another sip. “Is it mint?”

“No,” Sam said with a shake of his head and then extended the tray to us. “Do you want your drinks, sirs?”

“Go on, don’t be rude,” Frodo said and took another long drink.

Pippin and I glanced at each other, then up at Sam’s unassuming face, then down at the drinks. I had a bad feeling about this, but we had no choice. We didn’t want to risk being rude, not in front of Frodo, not to Sam. So we took the drinks and took cautious sips. It tasted sweet at first, and that encouraged us to take longer drinks ourselves. Then the aftertaste hit us, strong and pungent and musky, and Pippin spluttered uncontrollably. I managed not to choke, but I couldn’t stop my face from scrunching up. Frodo and Sam only frowned down at us, and Frodo looked upset.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t you like your tea?”

“No, no, it’s… good,” Pippin managed to get out and coughed some more.

I nodded along vigorously. “It’s wonderful,” I said and smiled, patting Pippin on the back the whole while. “He probably just got it down the wrong pipe,” I offered and Pippin nodded along.

Frodo smiled then and pointed at our glasses. “Finish it up then,” he said and started talking to Sam about the upcoming Harvest Moon Dance. “It’s going to be in the Party Field again. Will you be coming?”

“Oh, aye sir, everyone will be there,” Sam said and went on to list just who everyone was.

Pippin and I were trapped. Frodo wouldn’t be returning to his studies, not for another few hours, and we had no hope of subtly feeding the plants this tea – or whatever it was – that Sam had given us. We couldn’t not drink it, for that would upset Frodo, who would no doubt take it as an insult to Sam, who Frodo was always saying was the best cook in all the Shire. We couldn’t just get up and leave, because Frodo would never believe we were full when there was still food on our plates. All we could do was barrel it down our throats and take large bites of our sandwiches in between gulps to keep the taste from taking over our mouths and watering up our eyes.

Frodo hardly noticed, he was so involved in his discussion with Sam, and Sam for his part didn’t seem to notice either. They just sat there under the tree, Frodo sipping his perfectly delicious tea, and Sam explaining all the preparations that were being made for the dance.

“Jolly and his friends’ll be playing in the band,” Sam said, casual as can be. “I’m in charge of keeping the lanterns lit and lighting the bonfires when the time comes. It’s the first year as I’ll be getting to do it and I’m a mite nervous.”

“Aren't you a bit young for that job?” Frodo asked with concern.

“I am, but Gaffer reckons as I can do it,” Sam answered. “I'm not so sure though.”

“Your father wouldn't put his confidence in you if he didn't think you were up to the task,” Frodo reassured. “You’ll do a wonderful job.”

“Mayhaps I will, but those bonfires can be tricky things as it is, and when you’re smoking up papers and whatnot it’s all the more risky,” Sam said and fiddled with his shirt buttons as he often did when he was nervous.

“Well, as long as there isn’t any wind, it shouldn’t be a problem,” Frodo said and finished off his tea. He looked critically at the glass in his hand. “Is it rosemary?”

“No,” Sam answered and took the glass back. Then they turned their attention on Pippin and me, just as we were gulping down the last of the wretched tea.

“Done!” Pippin announced happily and slammed the glass down on the tray. He looked up at Sam triumphantly, thinking he had won the game.

I put my glass on the tray alongside Pippin’s and smiled forcibly. “Thank you Sam, that was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before,” I said truthfully.

“How about another glass then?” Frodo asked.

“No!” Pippin and I shouted together, and Frodo frowned at us again. “It’s just that Sam has to get back to work,” I offered by way of explanation. “And we’re full.”

Pippin nodded, and Frodo raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “You’re full?” he asked Pippin.

“Stuffed,” Pippin said. “Couldn’t get another drop in me.”

“Indeed?” Frodo said and smiled up at Sam. “Do you hear that Sam? He’s full. I think we just witnessed a miracle.”

“Oh, indeed we did,” Sam agreed and stood up. “I best be getting back to work now. I’ll just return these to the kitchen.” He walked off without a single look back.

Of course, after that, it was war. It took me a while to figure out what I could do to get back at Sam. He had taken his father’s advice and started locking the tool shed door when he wasn’t using it, so doing any further sabotage there was out of the question. There was also no way for us to pull any pranks on him in the gardens, not with his Gaffer so close at hand at all hours of the day. As it happened, the next opportunity didn’t arise until the night of the Harvest Moon Dance.  

I wake up, surprised to find I had fallen asleep after all. Pippin is sleeping beside me, his thumb in his mouth and a dried tear on his cheek, his other hand curled around a lock of my hair. I gently wipe his face and carefully pry myself loose. I get up to peek outside the door. I’m dismayed to see that it’s still dark outside and I realize that I hadn’t been asleep that long after all, maybe just an hour or two. I feel exhausted.

I go back to the bed and lie down again. I stare up at the ceiling and try to think of where and when everything had gone wrong, but I can’t think about any of it without feeling sick to my stomach. I should have called it even; I see that now. We had scored a point and Sam had scored one in return. I should have left it at that; Pippin was more than happy to do so. I on the other hand…

I couldn’t let it go. That has always been my problem. I do something to someone, they retaliate, and then I have to do something even grander to get back at them. This is what my father means when he says I’m too competitive. This is what Grandfather means when he tells me I have to learn to lose graciously. This is what Mother means when she shakes her head and clucks her tongue and tells me I’m behaving like a hooligan.

Sam had got us back, and got us good, and I had to take it one step further. My mind became obsessed with it, so that all my time was spent devising schemes and plotting mischief. I watched Sam’s every move, as discreetly as possible naturally, trying to discern some sort of routine to his days. I asked Frodo and Bilbo seemingly innocent questions about the garden and when Sam would do this or that.

There were plants in the house and flowers in vases, and I thought to maybe surprise Sam when he came in to look after them, but it was always Gaffer who came inside to see to those things. So I went outside and tried to catch Sam off his guard, but he would spot me and just smile and wave and ask how my day was going. He had put it all behind him too and Pippin was getting bored with me, I could see it in the way he rolled his eyes – and his head right along with them.

But I could not leave it be. I had felt that my pride and honor were at stake, that I couldn’t allow myself to be beaten by the gardener’s son.

I roll away from Pippin and sigh. I stare at the wall and let my mind go blank. If I can stop myself from thinking, I might actually be able to get a few more hours sleep. Not that I deserve it. What I deserve is exactly this, lying here in the dark with my tormented thoughts and overpowering guilt. I deserve to be sent home, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I am never invited to Bag End ever again, though the thought of never seeing Frodo again leaves me cold and hollow inside.

Then a new thought occurs to me. If I leave in the morning, if I never come back, how do I apologize to Sam? How do I apologize to Frodo and Bilbo and the Gaffer? I suddenly feel like I am being sent into exile and Pippin’s being sent along with me. What if Mother and Father decide I shouldn’t be allowed to see Pippin ever again either?

I close my eyes and groan, and the groan turns into sobs. I finally let myself cry. How could I have been so stupid?  

“Oh, it looks wonderful!” Frodo exclaimed as we emerged from the smial and looked down at the Party Field.

Preparations had been going on all day, and the Field looked spectacular. There were streams of lights hanging between the tents and pavilions and numerous strands leading up to the Party Tree. Table clothes were covering all the tables and bows were tied to the chairs and around the lanterns that were standing all about the Field on tall poles stuck into the ground. An area had been cleared for dancing, and a stage had been put up nearby, and at the very far end of the field were the bonfires, waiting to be lit.

“Come on lads, hurry up,” Bilbo said and pushed us along.

We didn’t need much prodding really. We ran down the walk path, out the gate and down the lane to the Party Field, Bilbo following behind at a more leisurely pace. Frodo took us over to look at the food – no touching – and then we walked over to add our own contribution to the bonfires.

In Hobbiton, it had become a tradition long ago to give to the bonfires a sacrifice so that your wishes for the next year might come true. Legend had it, the tradition started when old Baldo Baggins had got too drunk at one such dance and had thrown his new jacket onto the bonfire. Baldo’s wife was a terrible seamstress and was forever sewing her husband the most hideous outfits, and that night it became too much for him. He took the jacket off and threw it on the fire and exclaimed for all hear, “Here’s wishing she learns how to sew, or gets someone else as can do it for her!”

After that horrid display, everyone else had thought it would only be kind to do something similar to take the humiliation off poor Berylla, and they had offered up their own sacrifices and wishes for the coming year, and the tradition was set. Over the years, it had become a much more festive and hopeful event than that first awkward one, and now hobbits spent just as much time thinking of their wishes and creating their sacrifices as they did on reaping the fields.

Frodo had copied a poem in Elvish, in the Quenya, and he was going to wish for patience in mastering the ancient language. Pippin had hastily drawn a picture of his sister Pervinca playing the lap harp and his was going to wish that she learn mastery in her skill also, or at the very least that she lose interest in it. I had drawn a picture of my herb garden, which I hated to admit had developed some sort of disease and had died just before my visit. I kept doing something wrong, and I was going to wish for a thriving garden in one year’s time.

We added our sacrifices, slipping them in between the gaps in the fire logs, which were piled high in imitation of a pyre, but for the ribbons tied here and there. Sam was standing close to the pyres, talking with his cousin, Tom Cotton, and another lad I had never seen before. Sam saw us and waved.

“Hullo Sam. Hullo Tom, Robin,” Frodo greeted and we walked over to the small group. “It’s turned out to be a lovely night.”

“It has indeed, Mr. Baggins,” the lad named Robin agreed.

“Merry, Pippin, you’ve met Tom before haven’t you?” Frodo said. “And this is Robin Smallburrow. These are my cousins, Pippin Took and Merry Brandybuck.”

“Hullo Master Took, Master Brandybuck, sirs,” Robin said and nodded formally.

“Hallo,” we returned and listened as Frodo asked after Jolly.

“Sam told me this morning he isn’t feeling well,” Frodo said.

“No, poor thing, he got into something as he shouldn’t of at a harvest party the night afore and he’s got a bit of the stomach flu now,” Tom said. “Hasn’t been able to keep aught in him till just this morning and only liquids at that.”

“Who’s replacing him in the band?”

“That would be me,” Robin answered sheepishly. “Prepare to cover your ears.”

“Now, don’t be so harsh on yourself, Robin,” Sam encouraged. “You’re the one as taught Jolly the lute after all.”

“Aye, but that was years ago,” Robin said. “I ain’t played in so long.”

“You’ll do fine,” Tom joined in now. “It’ll come back to you and it’ll feel like just yesterday you last played.”

Pippin tugged on my sleeve then. I looked down and he pointed at the food tables. With Frodo preoccupied, and Bilbo making the rounds as well, we scampered off to see what food we could eat. We found the snack table and loaded up a plate each of as much food as we could fit on it. We sat at one of the tables and watched everyone around us as they mingled and joked and finished setting up.

There were various Bagginses here, as well as Boffins, Bracegirdles, Chubbs and Goodbodies. I saw Sam’s sisters, May, Marigold and Daisy, and his older brother Hamson, who must be visiting from Tighfield. He had a pretty lass on his arm and was proudly introducing her to everyone he saw. Pippin spotted Folco and his gang, and we finished off our food and went over to join them and whatever games they were playing.

The night passed quickly. Once the food was ready, everyone tucked in to eat. The Field grew quiet but for the many exclamations over the delicious food. Another tradition of the Harvest Moon Dance was the unofficial cooking contest. Everyone who cooked prepared their best dishes and tried to outdo each other for the most compliments received in one night, making for a very delightful meal for all. No wonder Pippin always agreed to coming to Hobbiton for Harvest’s end.

When the food was finished and the desserts were polished off, the band started playing and everyone got up to dance. If Robin was as rusty as he claimed, no one noticed it and the dancing went on for the next few hours, with hobbits taking turns dancing and sitting out. I got pulled into a few of the dances by Angelica Baggins and Delia Bunce, and Pippin had the time of his life laughing at me attempting to do the Twist About, a grueling dance of complex steps one after the other meant only to trip up the uninitiated.

By the time I got away, it was nearly time to light the bonfires. I looked about as I caught my breath and noticed Sam right in the thick of the dancing. That’s when I got my idea.

I leaned over and whispered in Pippin’s ear, “Follow me.”

I got up and walked up to one of the food tables, Pippin following behind, not even questioning what we were doing or why. I grabbed a bottle of fortified wine, checked to make sure no one had seen me, and then hid the bottle under my jacket. Still, Pippin asked no questions, but he looked at my inquisitively. I raised a finger to my lips and walked around behind the many tents to the bonfire pyres. No one was guarding them.

“Perfect,” I said and ran to the nearest pyre. Pippin ran after me. “What are we doing?” he finally asked.

“Sam will be lighting the fires soon,” I said and removed the bottle from under my jacket. “I’m just going to pour a little bit of this on the wood. Keep a look out and make sure no one comes.”

Pippin went to do as he was told and I sprinkled the wine onto the wood. I could just imagine the look on Sam’s face as he lit the fire and the flames leapt up in one spontaneous, short-lived blaze. I had seen the bonfire keepers in Buckland do this numerous times to keep the flames going so that all the wood burnt down to cinders. Of course, they always used ale, but as kegs were far too big and heavy to carry over here undetected, I had improvised. I emptied the bottle and gave a small whistle. Pippin came and we snuck back the way we came.

“Why did you do that?” Pippin asked after we had returned to the table.

“Just because,” I said simply and sat back to wait.

And Sam was surprised. Everyone was, including me. The fire did leap high into the sky as I had thought, but it did not die down to a normal flame after a few short seconds. It continued to blaze out of control and everyone jumped back out of the way, screaming and crying at the heat and sparks. Not until the fire hit another patch of the fortified wine did the panic truly set in. The fire flared up again and the flames jumped onto the closest tent and set it ablaze as well, then jumped over to the next pyre and lit that up also. Now mothers were grabbing their children and running from the Field, and fellows were grabbing emptied barrels of ale and tearing down the Hill to the Water as fast as their legs could carry them. Someone came up behind us and grabbed us out of our seats; it was Bilbo, and his face was pale and stricken. I looked about wildly for Frodo, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s gone to help fetch water and get help,” Bilbo explained. “Right now, we need to get down the Hill and over the Water out of harm’s way.”

The minutes had dragged by at an agonizingly slow pace. Despite all the chaos around us, despite all the hobbits running about, fetching water and soaking blankets, time had ceased to move at all. I felt like I was in haze, everything dimmed, the sound, the lights, the stinging cold wind upon my face. … The wind! There was wind tonight, and I hadn’t even noticed until now. It was blowing north, up the Hill, toward Bag End. What had I done?

“MERRY!”

I jerked to attention to find Frodo standing over me, shaking me hard. He had soot and ashes all over his face, arms and clothes and in his hair, and his face was also streaked with dried sweat.

“Merry, are you all right lad?” Frodo asked worriedly.

I was lying on the ground, though how and when I had come to be there, I couldn’t remember. I sat up and spotted Pippin whimpering silently in Bilbo’s arms just a few steps away. I looked around and noticed that everyone was slowly making their way back over the bridge and up the Hill to the Party Field. They were muttering, quiet and subdued, and up above, the sky was shrouded with black smoke.

I stood up and followed the crowd, not answering Frodo. My legs were leaden and my stomach was tied in thorny knots and my heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice, but somehow I moved forward. Eventually, I came to the Field and pushed my way through the crowd. I gasped at what I saw.

The bonfire pyres were still there, but the logs were scorched black and the burnt and charred remnants of the sacrifices were scattered about the field, littering the ground. The tent was a tattered rag on bent and broken frames, and the grass all around the pyres was burnt. The fire had begun to move up the slope toward Bag End and the flowers and bushes there were singed and shriveled.

Past the crowd, near the pyres, was a group of fellows and lads putting out the last hot spots. Sam was among them, and he looked shaken and pale. I wanted to go to him, to apologize, but my legs wouldn’t let me move and my voice refused to pass the lump in my throat. I could only stand there and watch, as everyone else did, as the fire was declared put out and everyone breathed sighs of relief. And then…

“Samwise Gamgee!” Gaffer yelled and turned on his youngest son. “How much fuel did you put on that wood!”

“Just what you told me to, sir,” Sam said, cowing back instantly.

Little good it did him. Gaffer grabbed Sam by the ear and turned him to the bonfires. “That’s a mite more that what I told you, boy! Now how much did you put on there? What’s got into you, lad?”

“Nothing, I swear, I don’t know what happened,” Sam tried to defend himself, but Gaffer wasn’t hearing it.

“You could have burned the Hill down!” He started hauling Sam off by the ear. As they passed us, I tried again to speak up, but all I could get out was a squeak. Sam heard it and looked down at me, and the guilt on my face must have revealed all he needed to know. His expression changed from one of utter bafflement to understanding to disbelieving betrayal.

“I’m sorry,” I mouthed and Sam just stared at me like he had never seen me before in his life. Like I was some strange thing eating up his favorite flowers.

“Hurry up, boy!” Gaffer barked when Sam stalled and the two of them were through the crowd and down the Hill before I could find my voice again.

“Wait!” I called after them in vain. Frodo held me back. He was every bit as shocked and confused as everyone else, and one look at his face told me he couldn’t believe for a second Sam had deliberately, or even accidentally, created such destruction. “Wait!” I tried again.

“No, Merry, calm down,” Frodo tried to restrain me.

“But it wasn’t his fault!”

“I know that, but there is no other explanation,” Frodo said.

“But there is! I did it!”

“What do you mean?” he asked confusedly. “Merry? What did you do?”  

A loud rapping on the door awakens Pippin and me. Frodo comes in with a breakfast tray and sets it on the desk. “Eat up,” he says tersely, without looking at us. “The coaches will be here in an hour.”

He starts to leave, but I leap out of bed and run over to him. I grab his hand. “Please Frodo, don’t hate me,” I say. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“I know that, Merry,” Frodo says and pulls his hand sharply from mine. “But I’m still not ready to talk to you. Just eat and pack your things. I’ll see you at Yule.”

That is the last I see of him. He doesn’t come out to send us off, though he does call Pippin into his room to have a word or two with him before we leave. Bilbo walks with us down to the gate and hands us our letters. Near the back of the garden I can see Gaffer and Sam, and they have their backs turned to us. I tell myself they’re just discussing the plants, but I know it’s really because neither of them want to look at us.

Pippin and I hug good-bye and I ask Pippin what Frodo had said. Pippin shrugs. “He said I shouldn’t always listen to you, and that I should question you when I think you’re doing something stupid. But I didn’t know it was stupid.”

“I did,” I say quietly. “I should have. I’m sorry, Pip. See you at Yule.”

The coach helps Pippin into his carriage and I climb into mine, the letter to my parents in my hands. It feels like a mighty weight, and I’m surprised I have the strength to lift it. I can’t even begin to imagine my parents’ reactions when they read it, but I know that if there is any justice in this world at all, I will get ten times the lashes Sam had to suffer.

I sit back dejectedly in my seat. Sent from Hobbiton in shame, I may as well be banned. I don’t see how I can ever return here again.

The carriage starts to roll away and I get what I believe to be my last look at Bag End. Just as we pass the edge of the garden, Sam turns around and looks right at me, his face blank of any expression. And I know. Things will never be the same between us again.
 
 
 

The End.
 
 

GF 1/18/05