Author's Note

Awhile back, a friend shared an unusual dream that he had on his lj. I jokingly asked if he had eaten something spicy before going to bed. He admitted that he had and asked if spicy foods were related to strange dreams, which brought to my mind that episode of “The Cosby Show” in which Cliff eats a hero sandwich before going to bed and winds up dreaming that he and all the men of the family are pregnant. 

He then suggested that that might make an interesting premise for a story: have the hobbits eat something spicy and see what sort of dreams they have. That plot bunny bit hard and this is the result.  

This story takes place the night of 8 Halimath, 1401 SR, and will be told in six chapters.

Bilbo is not quite 111, Hamfast is 75, Frodo is not quite 33, and Sam is 21 (about 71, 48, 21 and 13 in Man years). The names for the dwarves are from The HoME, Vol VI, The Return of the Shadow.
 
 
 

Chapter 1: Sugar and Spice

Sam was busily weeding the nasturtiums beneath the kitchen window, or at least, that’s what he was supposed to be doing. What he was really doing was listening to the dwarves inside, as they moved about the kitchen preparing what Frodo had said would be a grand feast of special magnificence. Now, he wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, not really, and with all the noise they were making anyway, he hardly needed to try if he had been so inclined, which of course he wasn’t, for that would be rude and quite improper.

Sam had met them all a few days before, when they had first arrived with a cartload of party favors and whatnot, and all of Mr. Bilbo’s stories hadn’t quite prepared him for how hairy they were. That was Sam’s first impression of them, for they had a lot of hair, with long elaborate beards and long wiry curls hanging down their backs. He wondered how they could tell each other apart, with only their eyes, nose, cheeks and forehead visible. He had been quite glad when the majority of them left with the emptied cart and only three had stayed on to visit, as it made telling them apart and remembering their names much easier, but even now he could only tell which was who by the color of their hair and the tunic and cloaks they wore. Nar was the head dwarf and he always wore red against his grey hair. Then there were his sons, Hannar and Anar, who both wore light blue tunics, but Hannar’s hair was a reddish-brown, while Anar’s was just brown. During the day, Sam could usually tell the brothers apart after careful inspection, but on the few instances he’s seen them at night, he was always stumped.

They had an unusual way of speaking, with thick heavy accents that made it hard to catch their words if they spoke too fast or too low. They were speaking like that now, and so Sam, who was not eavesdropping, could only make out every other word that they spoke. This made it very difficult for him to follow along, but if he concentrated hard enough, he could usually figure out what they were saying despite their accents.

Nar’s wizened voice cut into the siblings’ argument over the seasoning they were using for the food. “Here now, your bickering is making my head pound. We’re not going to have this finished in time if you two keep fighting over the spices.”

Anar spoke up now, cutting in before his brother. “Hannar’s putting in too much spice for the hobbits' tastes, I'm certain.”

“It’s the same amount of spice I always use,” Hannar protested.

“But Bilbo’s not used to it,” Anar said.

“He’s going to have to get used to it sooner or later, and the sooner the better,” Hannar said. “Besides, Bilbo said to make it like a real Dwarven meal, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. Hand me that garlic.”

Sam finished up his weeding and gathered up his basket and tools, trying to figure out what they were cooking by the spices they were handing back and forth: ginger, cumin, peppers, garlic. He could hear and smell some beef frying on the pan when he finally had to leave his perch and get back to work. Not, of course, that he hadn’t been working before.

He made his way to the other side of the smial and dumped the trimmings on the compost, then deposited the bucket back into the tool shed. He went about the rest of the day’s work with ease, every now and again walking past the kitchen to try to discern what progress the dwarves were making by use of his ears or nose, or both.

At tea time, Frodo brought out a tray loaded with teapot, cups, sugar bowl and spoons. He sat with Sam beneath the elm tree and they drank their tea in silence, Sam studying Frodo as discreetly as possible out of the corner of his eye. Though Frodo was still all cheers and smiles as he usually was, Sam couldn’t help but think that the young master was looking a bit  careworn of late. Sam couldn’t decide if it was from the commotion of the company, the planning for the party, or something else entirely. He had a feeling it was a combination of all three of those things, but as it wasn’t his place to ask, he kept his thoughts to himself.

When their tea was finished, Frodo sat back, resting his hands on the back of the bench and kicking his legs out before him, crossed at the ankles. He looked up through the branches of the elm tree and said, “Don’t you ever wish you could be a bird?”

“Why’d I want to wish that, sir?” Sam asked.

“Because then you could fly. You could go wherever you wanted, and not only would it not be considered odd to want to go places, it would be expected.” Frodo looked up at the tree thoughtfully and nodded. “Yes, I think life would be better as a bird.”

“So long as you don’t get et by a cat or fox, or shot down or trapped by a hunter,” Sam said before he could think. Somehow, he managed not to smack himself when he realized his stupidity. “Sorry, Master Frodo. It’s a right fine wish.”

“No, you’re right. It’s good to think of such things. But if I were an eagle, like the ones in Bilbo’s story… Don’t you ever want to go adventuring?”

Sam shook his head. “Not so much, sir, unless maybe it was to see some elves. I’d travel a bit for that. I’ve gone down to the Woody End a few times on off days to try to catch a glimpse of them. Tom and Robin come with me, and sometimes Jolly and Finch’ll join us, more for getting away from chores than wanting to see elves though.”

“Is that right?” Frodo said, a look of surprise in his eyes. “Well, in that case, you’ll have to come hiking with me some day. Harvests will be under way soon so now isn’t the best time, but after that, before the weather turns chill… Doesn’t that sound delightful?”

Sam smiled and nodded. “It does, sir. Mr. Bilbo won’t mind me coming along?”

Frodo’s smile faded ever so slightly. “No, he won’t be coming. It’ll be just you and me. We could hike along The Water, follow it to Rushock Bog. We could hike under the moonlight and starlight, like the Elves.”

“That would be grand, Master Frodo,” Sam agreed. He wondered why Bilbo wouldn’t be joining them, but something told him not to ask. He thought of the dwarves again, of something Hannar had said earlier, and about several other little snippets he had heard since the dwarves’ arrival. Before he could piece anything together though, he looked up at the sky himself and realized the lateness of the hour. “I best be getting back to work now.”

“Don’t you dare,” Frodo said playfully. “As I already told you, Samwise, the dwarves are cooking up a special meal for Bilbo and his household. By Dwarven custom, that would include his servants as well. You’re technically not a smial servant, but you do so much for us that they’ve included you in their plans.”

“They have?” Sam asked, feeling surprised, touched and elated all at once. He had hoped all day since Frodo first told him about the supper that he might be able to sample some of the cooking, should the dwarves decide they needed someone to give them a hobbit’s opinion, and now he was invited to dinner!

Frodo laughed. “Don’t look so surprised! Of course they have. So right now, I want you to trot off home and let your father know you’ll be supping here tonight. Take an hour off and wash up from working.”

“Really?” Sam asked, still not able to believe that they had included him in the dinner plans.

“Really,” Frodo said and ushered Sam off the bench. “Scamper off now.”

“Yes sir! Thank you sir!” Sam called as he dashed off for the garden gate and the lane. He could hardly believe his good luck, but he wasn’t about to stick around and wait for it to turn to bad either.

He ran down the lane to Bagshot Row and then up the row to Number Three. He called hello to the Gaffer, who was chatting at the fence with Daddy Twofoot next door. Hamfast just watched as he ran past and into the smial.

“What’s that about?” Daddy asked.

Hamfast shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I’m betting it ain’t good.” He excused himself and went inside to find his youngest son starting a fire in the stove. “And what might you be doing?”

Sam looked around his shoulder at him and grinned toothily. “I’m washing up,” he answered and wrestled a copper full of water onto the stove.

“Washing what up?” Hamfast asked. “Is it somewhat for Mr. Bilbo or Master Frodo?”

Sam nodded. “I’m washing myself up so I can go to dinner with them tonight. They invited me and the dwarves are cooking!”

Hamfast pursed his lips and watched as Sam bounced in front of the stove, impatient for the water to start simmering.

“Won’t you be wanting dinner here at home?” Hamfast asked. “Daisy just went down to Woodrow’s to pick up a goose for supper, knowing how much you and Goldie like goose pie. Harman’ll be here. Don’t you think you ought to get to know your future brother-in-law?”

Sam looked back at him, nibbling on his bottom lip and looking a mixture between guilty, worried and hopeful. “But, the dwarves are cooking, and I ain’t never had Dwarvish cooking afore. I reckon no hobbit has, save for Mr. Bilbo, and Master Frodo asked me special-like. He said the dwarves counted me as part of Mr. Bilbo’s household, and they’re all expecting me. If you want, I’ll save you some and bring it down for you after and I’ll stay up with you while you eat it. Please Gaffer, can’t I go?”

“Aye, you can go, since they’re expecting you and all. Just next time, don’t go accepting invites until you get my permission,” Hamfast said.

Sam beamed up at him, all hint of guilt and worry gone. “Thank you, Gaffer!” He went back to watching the water and bouncing from one foot to another.

Hamfast went back outside and found Daddy right where he had left him. He shrugged. “Seems as he’s eating at Bag End tonight.”

Daddy hummed at this. “That’ll be his third time this month,” he said casually.

“So it will,” Hamfast said and decided that a bit of late weeding would do the garden good.  

Frodo watched as Sam ran off, then gathered together the tea tray and returned it to the kitchen. Or rather, he knocked on the kitchen door and returned the tray to Nar, who answered the knock. The dwarves were refusing to let their hosts into the kitchen while they cooked and even though Frodo tried to look past him and get a peek, he could see nothing worth noting. He supposed he would just have to be surprised.

He went into the parlor then and stood just inside the doorway, looking down at Bilbo, who sat humming on the settee, surrounded by a sea of mathoms, gift tags, string and envelopes. His cousin was quite in his element with all this party planning, and though he let Frodo help with opening the reservation letters and checking off the guest list, Bilbo insisted on doing the rest by himself.

Bilbo now dipped his quill into the ink well and scribbled out another note, which he promptly sanded dry and attached to a case of silver spoons with a string. He chuckled uncontrollably to himself as he patted the note into place and put the case aside.

“Enjoying yourself then?” Frodo asked with a smirk.

Bilbo looked up, a twinkle in his eye. “I do wish I could be here when the S.-B.s get their parting gift.”

“Really Bilbo, if you want to insult Lobelia, just send her a cracked mirror,” Frodo said.

Bilbo laughed harder at that, while simultaneously trying to look disapproving. “Now Frodo, that is no way to speak of your elders, lad. You are to show a certain amount of respect.”

“Yes, but you’ve never said that the amount has to be the same for each elder, nor that the amount has to be so large as to be noticeable,” Frodo pointed out. He waded through the sea of mathoms and sank into the chair next to the settee.

“True, true, I never did say that,” Bilbo agreed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He looked about the room thoughtfully. “Do we have a cracked mirror? I would truly hate to waste a perfectly good one.”

“I wouldn’t consider that a waste,” Frodo said and helped in the search for a mirror. He spotted one on the mantelpiece, set aside for his cousin Angelica. “However, giving yet another mirror to Angelica seems quite wasteful to me.”

“No, she’s had her eye on that little mirror for years,” Bilbo said. “Well, we’ll just have to see if we can accidentally knock a mirror over. With all the moving and rearranging we’ll be doing, that’s always a concern.”

Frodo laughed now himself. One good thing about all this hectic planning was that Bilbo was in very high spirits and was agreeable to just about anything. Why, Frodo had even been able to talk Bilbo into letting the dwarves teach him a drinking game just the other night, using actual ale instead of cider. He had paid for it in the morning, but it had been a fun night.

“Oh! Before I forget!” Bilbo said suddenly and reached beneath an overcoat on the cushion next to him. He pulled out a sheet of folded parchment and handed it to Frodo. “I have my speech all written out. Read it over and tell me what you think of it. I figured I’d play my joke just afterward; that’s what the POOF! means.”

“So you’ve figured out how you’re going to go about your joke?” Frodo asked, grinning even wider now. He has been pestering Bilbo for weeks now, since he first learned that Bilbo intended to use his Party as his sending-off as well. He eagerly opened the parchment and read through it, his smile and chuckles increasing with each sentence read. “Marvelous, Bilbo! You really aren’t pulling any stops, are you? It’s everything they ever accused you of being. And then POOF! That should be enough to keep them talking for a year and a day.” Then his smile turned to a smirk. “Or at least enough to wake them up after this horridly long speech.”

“Horridly long?” Bilbo said, pretending to be hurt by that observation. “It’s just the perfect length for a speech, I’ll have you know. It’s just long enough to have them worried that I might drone on forever, and just short enough that they won’t get up and walk out on me.”

“I concede your point,” Frodo said. He folded the parchment and placed it on the tea table. “You know what would be really funny? If you stayed after, at least into the next day, when everyone shows up for their parting gifts. Just keep the ring on and hang about. You’ll miss all the scandalized reactions and commotion otherwise.”

“I can very well guess exactly what everyone will be saying and doing,” Bilbo said, going back to his tags. “That is quite enough for me. I trust that you’ll write a full report and deliver it to Gandalf. He’ll find me and give it to me, and I can read it to the dwarves while we camp that night. And speaking of being out of doors, why don’t you go visit your friends? Folco and Fatty are already here for the Party and they’ve been wanting you to stop by. Go out. Have fun.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to spend with them after,” Frodo said lightly.

“Meaning, of course, that you won’t have any time left with me,” Bilbo said. Frodo simply shrugged. “I’ll miss you too, my lad, but we’re both ready for this. I need one last adventure, and you know I wouldn’t be leaving if I didn’t think you were ready to be on your own.”

Frodo smiled. “I know.”

“You’re much more mature and level-headed than other lads your age,” Bilbo went on. “You certainly know how to take care of yourself and you’ll have your friends here, more often than you would wish, I’m certain. Once you’re on your own, they’ll find this an even more appealing resting stop than they already do. You’ll never get them out from under foot.

“Now, I can’t promise that I’ll write very often. Won’t be time or opportunity for it while I’m on the road and once I get where I’m going, there will likely not be as efficient a post messenger service as we have here,” Bilbo said. “You just keep on celebrating our Birthday each year, and I’ll do the same, no matter where I am.”

“And we’ll toast to each other’s health when the clock strikes ten,” Frodo stated.

“Precisely!” Bilbo said and dipped his quill. He scrapped his quill across a tag and frowned at the screech it made.

Frodo chuckled and gave a knowing shake of his head. “Out of ink again?”

Bilbo nodded. “Could you run and get me some more?”

Frodo made his way to the study and grabbed a new inkwell from the desk drawer. As he did so, his eyes landed on the piece of parchment laying open on the desktop – Bilbo’s will. He skimmed the will briefly, his eyes not able to settle on any one word, then glanced out the window to the gardens and the sinking sun. He wasn’t sure if he wanted these next couple of weeks to linger, or to hurry up so he could get them over with.

He stayed there until he heard Bilbo’s impatient call. Then, inkwell in hand, he turned on his heel and returned to the parlor.  

Dinner did not get off to a good start. The dwarves had, understandably, set the table in the formal dining room and put out the very finest dining set and crystal goblets, with the red satin napkins and golden dining ware. They lit all the candles in the golden wall sconces and dressed the long oak table with the silk tablecloth, embroidered to resemble a lush landscape, and smoothed out so that not a crease could been seen. The chairs, hand-painted to match the tablecloth, were dusted off and polished to a bright shine. The crystal vase at the center of the table was full of fresh flowers from the gardens. The dining room looked spectacular and Frodo and Bilbo found themselves wondering why they didn’t entertain in there more often – until Sam arrived.

Sam’s ecstatic smile faded in an instant and his complexion went deathly white when he realized where Bilbo was leading him, and he nearly knocked Frodo over when he dug in his heels and refused to enter the dining room, never mind that the dwarves were waiting to serve them.

“Sam, whatever is the matter?” Frodo said, kneeling down to the lad’s level.

“I can’t be eating in there, Master Frodo, it wouldn’t be proper,” Sam explained in a petrified whisper.

“Can’t you hang proper for just one night?” Frodo said. He realized immediately that such a form of persuasion wasn’t about to work, so he tried another tactic. “Isn’t it equally improper to have your hosts prepare such a grand meal and then not eat it?”

“But that’s the formal dining room,” Sam said. “I can’t be eating in there. It’s for gentry only; I’m just a gardener.”

“You are our guest, and tonight the dining room has been prepared for all of us.”

“Mayhap I could serve you? Or I could eat in the kitchen.”

“You will do no such thing,” Frodo said, wishing he had thought of this before the dwarves went through the trouble of setting the dining room. He couldn’t very well ask them to take everything back into the kitchen however, so he would just have to convince Sam to enter. “You will eat with us because they invited you and I knew perfectly well that you’re ‘just a gardener’ when I told you that you could join us. You will not serve because the dwarves will be doing so. Now, you could leave, but then you’d insult them and make them feel that their cooking isn’t to your liking.”

“I’d not want them to think that,” Sam said uncertainly, peering into the dining room with fear and longing.

“Then you’d best enter and have a seat,” Frodo said. “You can sit next to me if it will make you feel more comfortable, and I’ll see if they won’t mind bringing you a more common place-setting.”

Thankfully, Sam nodded to this and, gripping Frodo’s hand tightly, followed the young heir into the dining room, the first time he had ever set foot into the room. Frodo saw Sam to his seat, then quietly pulled Nar aside and explained the situation. Nar sent Anar to the kitchen to fetch a wooden plate and cup, and the tin dining ware and a plain cotton cloth for Sam, and Bilbo nodded at Frodo with approval.

Once everything was settled, the dwarves bowed to their guests and Hannar lifted the silver cover to the main dish, roasted beef, steaming deliciously and slathered in sauce and crisp vegetables. Next to that were fried potato wedges covered in cheese and spiced bacon. The next dish was the roast stew, thick and hearty, and lastly was bread, three fat loaves of rye baked fresh that morning, a dipping sauce for the bread set out between each loaf.

“Wow,” Sam said.

“I agree,” said Frodo.

“And I concur,” Bilbo finished. “A marvelous spread, if I do say so myself. If it tastes half as good as it looks, then we can consider ourselves fortunate indeed.”

Nar bowed deeply. “You speak generously, Bilbo, as always. Hannar, serve the wine to our guests.”

Hannar did as he was bid, pouring wine for Bilbo and Frodo and juice for Sam. Anar followed with the bread and the dipping sauce. Sam watched as Frodo and Bilbo cut off pieces of their loaves and dipped it mildly in the sauce. He watched as they tasted the bread, the sauce dribbling down their chins. Bilbo looked like he was reflecting on times long forgot, and Frodo simply looked amazed.

“This is delightful,” he said. “What is in the sauce? Is that roasted garlic and…” another taste “…red pepper?”

“It is indeed, young master,” Nar said with pride.

Sam had his own taste then and had to agree that it was quite delightful, though he couldn’t find the words to say so. He settled on humming happily and taking a second large bite of bread, making sure to dunk it thoroughly in the dipping sauce.

After the bread, Nar poured the stew into deep plates and set them before their guests. The stew was equally as wonderful in its own unique way. It was a bit spicier than they were accustomed to, and they broke out into a slight sweat as they ate, but the food was so delicious that they simply couldn’t stop eating.

After the stew came the roast, vegetables and potatoes. The dwarves explained their use of the spices, in combinations that a hobbit would never use, and how the spices served to bring out the flavors of the meat and vegetables. Though they were now perspiring as if it were a hot summer day rather than a mild autumn night, neither Frodo nor Sam could complain. Bilbo started talking about his Adventure halfway through the roast, telling of the long months he had spent becoming acquainted with Dwarven cooking, commenting over and over how wonderful it was to taste such fare again.

After dinner, they moved into the parlor to talk and smoke their pipes. Sam sat on the floor in front of Frodo, sipping on his juice and listening as Bilbo and the dwarves told such tales that he had never heard before. Bilbo talked about the time in between all those grand episodes of his Adventure, when it was just walking and resting and resting and walking, and how those quiet moments were some of his favorites. The dwarves told about life in the Lonely Mountain and the town of Dale, how the bones of Smaug still protruded from the water and how the elves and men had finally learned to share the land with the dwarves again. Sam watched the smoke from the pipes swirling up to the ceiling and wondered vaguely why the smoke didn’t change colors like in Bilbo’s stories. Not that the lack of the colored smoke made the night any less magical to Sam.

When the pipes were smoked, the dwarves brought out afters, a plain and simple pumpkin pie with cream, but alongside that was mulled cider, to which they had added their own seasonings and which left a sharp burning aftertaste on the tongue and the back of the throat. They lingered over the pie, knowing that the end of the evening would all too soon be upon them, and Sam, who’s head was awhirl with all that he had seen, felt a sinking feeling that he would soon be having to go home. Then the dwarves brought out their instruments, a fiddle, a flute and a drum, and they played many songs, some of which were Bilbo’s but most of which Sam had never heard before and could only describe as strangely beautiful, the kind of tunes that struck your very core and made you hum with their splendor.

It was nearly Sam’s bedtime before Frodo remembered that he had to be taking the lad home. He saw Sam bundled into his own coat, even though Sam protested that it wasn’t really all that cold outside, and they remembered just in time the plate that Sam had dutifully requested be put aside for his father. They walked in silence, enjoying the crisp night air, humming under their breaths the last song the dwarves had played. Frodo saw Sam to his door, then bade him good night.

“Sleep tight. See you in the morning,” Frodo said.

“Yes sir,” Sam said. “Thank you again for inviting me.”

“Thank you for coming,” Frodo said and waved farewell.

“Wait, sir. Your coat.” Sam started to remove the padded and comfy coat but Frodo shook his head.

“Bring it up in the morning,” he said and turned to leave.

Sam called good night and went inside, finding the smial nearly dark but for a light in the kitchen; his sisters must have already turned in. He went to the kitchen and found his father sitting there waiting for him.

“That was a mighty long dinner,” Hamfast said.

“Sorry, but they started playing all sorts of songs,” Sam said and commenced describing the entire night while his father ate the small meal that Sam had brought him.

“Isn’t the food grand?” Sam asked when Hamfast finished.

Hamfast nodded. “It’s good enough, for not being made by hobbits, not meaning any insult to those as made it. A bit too many seasonings if you ask me.” He wiped his brow and went to wash the dishes so that Sam could return them to Bag End in the morning along with the coat. “Now scamper off to bed. You best be up on time tomorrow morning, or this’ll be the last late night you ever get.”

“Yes Dad,” Sam said and slipped out of the kitchen to his bedroom, humming under his breath as he went.

Hamfast finished the washing then turned in to his own bed. Sleep came hard to him these days, especially now that the weather was starting to turn cold, and it was only after much tossing and turning that he finally drifted off to sleep.
 
 
 

To be continued…
 
 

GF 3/4/06

Hamfast: Family

The sun peeks bright into the window and beams with all the brilliance of a brand new day. Hamfast grumbles and draws a pillow over his eyes. “Blasted sun! Can’t you let an old hobbit sleep in now and again?”

The Sun clicks her tongue and shakes her yellow face, causing the room to dance with her rays as a crystal in candlelight. “You’d not be so tired if the man in the moon hadn’t come down. Frolicking with dishes and cats playing fiddles. It’s all silliness and jubilance and not what’s proper in a hobbit. You’re missing a calf, you know.”

“Calf? I don’t even got a cow,” Hamfast gripes and turns his back on the Sun.

“Well, no, not anymore, she jumped over the moon,” the Sun says, “and your calf went with her.”

He burrows back into the bed sheets and is drifting off again when down the hall the bairn cries, and Bell rolls over mumbling, reaches out, touches his shoulder. “Could you?” she asks and blinks at him and the sun. “I would, but I’m not really here.”

Hamfast nods. He’ll get the bairn and see to it, but first he turns into her touch and leans over to kiss her. She smiles sleepy, leans in.

“Dad!” Hamson waves his hand in front of his father’s face. The children stand watching him, the meal cooking on the stove forgotten as they wait for their father to come out of his stupor and sit down at the table. “Dad! Are you just going to stand there all day? You’re needed, you know. There’s important things, decisions that need to be made. No one knows which cans to use for the beans and we don’t have enough sheets to build a bridge. It’s a disaster really.”

“What?” Hamfast says, shakes his head. Had he just heard correctly? “What’re you talking about?”

“We need the bridge to get the beans from one side of the river to the other,” Hamson says, like he’s explaining it to a child. “It’s been planned for months now.”

Hamfast blinks and steps back so as not to be crowded. He looks over his children critically as the food begins to burn on the stove. “You’re not going off frolicking with dishware are you?”

Halfred conceals the spoon he had been twirling out of boredom by slipping it into his pocket. “No,” they all say as one.

“There you are, sleepy heads!” Bell says as she breezes into the kitchen and suddenly everyone is seated and awaiting their food, arranged in their seats by order of their age, Hamson the eldest at thirty-six, followed by Halfred, Daisy, May and lastly Marigold at seventeen. Bell serves them all then takes the seat next to Hamfast and all the seats are filled. Hamfast frowns down the table at his happily chatting family then frowns down at his breakfast. He lifts his fork to stab a sausage but then Marigold whisks the plate away and it is empty, wiped clean as if no food had ever touched it.

“You must’ve been hungry, Dad!” she exclaims and throws the plate out the window. She bounces off with a smile and before Hamfast can protest his lost meal, his family rises from their seats, talking and clattering about with such noise that nothing he says can be heard. They shout back and forth to each other as if they are on opposite ends of the Party Field rather than all crammed together in the tiny kitchen and though he can’t hear his own voice, over the din rises the sound of the bairn wailing. Hamfast steps into the hall and walks to the room where the crying is coming from.

“There’s naught in there,” Bell says and as she speaks the noise of the children in the kitchen fades to distant rumbles. She leans against the wall just outside the kitchen and watches him with sad eyes. “Don’t go in there, it will only get you lost. Stay here with us.”

Hamfast hesitates. “But he’s in there.”

“Who?”

“I… I’m… I don’t know,” Hamfast stammers, the name and face he’s searching for refusing to come to the surface, yet the crying pulls at him and he reaches for the doorknob, and even as he does so the wailing grows more distant and faint but no less frantic or persistent. “I don’t know, but he needs me.”

“He doesn’t even know you.” Bell crosses the hall, brushes his cheek with the back of her hand and smiles wistfully. “I’ll be gone when you get back. Do I get a kiss this time?”

Hamfast mimics her caress and she leans into his touch, closes her eyes and hums just once as is her habit, then her brown eyes meet his and there’s a fire there he had nearly forgotten. He leans in, kisses her and she fades from his touch as their lips meet, and when he opens his eyes, he finds the smial empty and dark. The wailing continues. Hamfast turns, reaches for the doorknob, pushes the door open.

Halfred looks up from the nasturtiums and smiles, blinking into the sun as the vast and seemingly endless gardens of Bag End stretch out behind him to touch the horizon. “Where did the others go?” Hamfast asks.

Halfred bends back to his digging and Hamfast sees that he is planting rag dolls deep into the ground. “Well, Hamson is at Mugwort’s growing giant mushrooms in his glass house, Daisy is being sworn in as Deputy Mayor, May’s down in Tookbank courting all the lads of the gentry, and Marigold’s… Why, I think she’s lost somewhere, but I don’t know where. She’s fine though, not to worry. She has good company.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, I’m right here, and Ma was never really here and you’re standing just there.”

“What about the bairn?”

“Bairn?” Halfred looks at him critically. “Dad, you know there was never any bairn. Are you having the fits? Should I get the healer again?”

Hamfast shakes his head, troubled though he couldn’t say exactly why. He isn’t even too sure himself what bairn he’s talking about and even as he begins to guess, the thought slips away from him to wander at the edges of his mind, cast into shadow.

“And what might you be doing?” Hamfast asks as he steps down into the garden to join his son, only to find Halfred now standing at the garden gate with his cousin Hale Goodchild.

Halfred looks back at him and Hale smiles over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t it be obvious?” Halfred asks. “We’re going to the inn, it’s a merry old inn and we’re going to balance spoons on our noses. Hale always wins but I hope to ascend and maybe get a bouquet of roses.” He walks out the gate, throws his arm around Hale’s shoulders and together they trot off, following the garden to the horizon as they laugh and chat.

“You’ll be of age soon and you’re too old to be going about adrift!” Hamfast calls after them, but they are too far away to hear. Someone laughs behind him but when he turns, the sun has set and the stars are shining against the half moon and he stands in his garden smoking a pipe twice the size of his hand. He dumps out the ashes from the bowl and is about to go inside when he hears a hiss. He pauses, waits for it to come again.

“Psst!” He looks at the Twofoot’s garden. A cow stands there and she waves a hoof at a table full of coiled ropes. “These’ll keep them where you want them,” the cow says.

Hamfast blinks to clear his vision, the sun shining brightly into his bedroom window. The bairn cries somewhere in the smial and Bell sighs in her sleep beside him. “Blasted sun! Can’t you let an old hobbit sleep in now and again?”

The Sun clicks her tongue and sighs lonely, sending a cool breeze through the closed window. “It happened again, I’m afraid. You’ll have no luck finding him now.”

“Finding who?” Hamfast asks huffily, still blocking the light from his eyes with an upheld hand. 

“Your calf, of course.”

Hamfast mumbles at this and turns his back on the sun. “I don’t got any calf.” Or does he? Hadn’t he been looking for something yesterday? Was it yesterday? It seems to him as he lays there with eyes closed that there has been many such days stretching out before that one and between this one, so many that he can’t count them for the stars in the heavens. He knows only that each day he looks for something and does not find it, that each day he grows more despairing to find what is missing and that only he seems to know that anything is different, changed, out of place. Then he shakes his head and clears the cobwebs from it and burrows back into the bed sheets. He is drifting off again when down the hall the bairn cries, and Bell rolls over mumbling, reaches out, touches his shoulder. “Could you?” she asks and blinks at him and the sun. “I would, but I’m not really here.”

Hamfast starts to nod but pauses in mid-action. This is too familiar. Why?

“Ham?” she says and reaches out to brush his curls behind his ear, her eyes full of concern. “The bairn, darling. You must see to him.”

In a fog, he finds himself nodding, throwing back the bed sheets, inching over to the side of the bed. Then he stops, remembers the kiss that is never delivered, and he scurries over to Bell, cups the back of her head and leans in to kiss her as she smiles sleepy.

“Dad!” Hamson jumps back, laughing. “What are you doing?”

Hamfast stops himself and finds his children standing around him, watching him, the meal cooking on the stove forgotten as always.

“Where’s your mother?” Hamfast asks.

“She’s dancing in the parlor with the cow,” Hamson answers as if this should be obvious. “Have you come to a decision about the bridge yet? It’s important, you know. It has to get done. No one’s been able to cross for weeks.” He gestures out the window, where Hamfast can see a long line of hobbits standing about and waiting, the line winding all the way down the Hill to The Water.

“Don’t see what we need a bridge for,” Hamfast says.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Daisy exclaims. “Just spread the sheets flat and lie them one upon the other. Tie down two corners to this side, weigh down the other corners with rocks and toss those to the hobbits on the other side of the river and they can tie their ends down and then you’ll have a bridge.”

The children turn back to Hamfast, waiting. “Should we do that?” Hamson asks.

“If you have to, but I still don’t see what we need a bridge for,” Hamfast says but Hamson is out the door and hollering down the Hill before he can finish talking and a moment later the line of hobbits is gone. Hamson comes back inside, smiling triumphantly.

“There you are, sleepy heads!” Bell says then as she breezes into the kitchen and just as before, everyone is seated and awaiting their food. She serves them happily and Hamfast tries to shovel the food into his mouth before Marigold can come behind her mother and take the plate away, but it’s no use. She’s there a moment later and the plate is empty and clean before Hamfast even touches his fork to it.

“You must have been hungry, Dad!” Marigold exclaims and throws the plate out the window.

Hamfast sits back and watches as his family stands and fills the room with their talk, sits and waits for the wailing he knows will come and sure enough, there it is, a squalling that rises over the noise to fill only his ears. Hamfast steps into the hall and walks to the room.

“There’s naught in there,” Bell says. “How many times does it take, Ham?”

Hamfast shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

“Stay with us. With me.”

“You know I want to,” Hamfast says, “but he needs me. I know he does.”

“He doesn’t even know you.” Bell crosses the hall, brushes his cheek with the back of her hand, smiles softly so that the candlelight is reflected in her eyes. “But I know you and you’ll never leave, not even to find him. Stay with me.”

Hamfast lifts his hand, cups her face, brushes his thumb across her cheek and folds his other arm behind her back, drawing her close. “But you’re the one as leaves,” he says. A tear slips down her cheek and she reaches up to kiss his brow and foolishly he closes his eyes, or perhaps wisely, for he never sees when she disappears and only knows when his arms are empty and his brow is untouched. He opens his eyes and the smial is empty and dark as he knew it would be. The wailing continues. Hamfast turns, reaches for the doorknob, pushes the door open.

Halfred looks up from the nasturtiums and smiles, blinking into the sun. The gardens of Bag End stretch out behind him, nearly every inch and foot covered in blooms and blossoms so thick that nothing else can be seen. Hamfast looks down at him and his smile slowly fades. “Your brother knew who he was going to marry before he was even your age,” Hamfast says. “They’re trying for bairns already.”

“I’m not Hamson.” Halfred pats the dirt down, fingers the sprouts where he had planted the rag dolls. “This is all I can offer you.”

A whistle sounds at the gate and Halfred looks up, beaming, and waves back at Hale. “I got to go,” he says to his father.

He’s out the gate already when Hamfast steps down into the garden and as he watches Hale and Hal walk off, someone laughs behind him and comes to stand at his side. “Are you feeling like yourself, Master Hamfast? You don’t look well.”

Hamfast regards the young lad standing next to him, a well-fed and sharply-dressed tween whose face he can’t quite see. “I’m right fine, young Master Odo,” he answers.

“Oh. Because Frodo says you’re looking a bit haggard and he seems to think it’s his fault somehow, but I explained to him that you’re just stubborn that way.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly been eating,” Hamfast admits.

“We can’t have that!” Odo exclaims. “Come inside. Bilbo’s off slaying more dragons, finding more gold and gaining more eccentricities. It’s just my brother and me here and as much as he tries, Frodo can’t really do anything for himself.”

“Now hear, hear, young master, I’ve always found your brother to be a competent and well-organized young lad,” Hamfast says.

“That’s because you’ve always found him after I’ve been there,” Odo says with a wink. “Why, he can’t even teach a snake to play the fiddle. What use is he? And yet he goes about claiming so much. Come on in and eat.”

“I thank you kindly, Master Odo, but I’ve got to be seeing to the bairn and someone should really find Marigold,” Hamfast says.

“Oh, but she’s fine. She’s wonderful even. You don’t need to worry about her.”

“Well, if you say so.”

“I do. And don’t worry about the bairn. He doesn’t really want to be found, or you’d have found him already, yes?”

“I’d still best be getting home. Hal and Hale are stirring up trouble, I’ve no doubt.”

“Yes, they’re like that. Some things can’t be changed.” He looks down at the garden and exclaims for joy. “Oh look! They’re growing!” And emerging from the ground where the rag dolls were planted are flowers shaped like hobbits, the petals hanging downward like hair. They wave about in the breeze and Odo squats down and looks at them as they bend and sway, watching with fascination. “You can only take what’s given to you.”

Hamfast walks home and sits down dejectedly in his potato garden. He picks up a stick and pokes at the soil, unearthing a half-grown spud with long twisting eyes. He lifts the spud from the ground and holds it before his own eyes. The potato shutters and shakes the loose dirt off itself, its eyes twisting about to look at him with annoyance. “Hey now! I was sleeping!” it protests.

“I’m sorry, but I’m missing something and I thought you’d might know what.”

The spud shakes again and sighs. “Now, didn’t the Sun tell you she’s got your calf? You need to clean out your ears, or you’ll grow potatoes. Ha! Potatoes!” The spud laughs at its own joke and ignores anything else Hamfast has to say. 

The next morning dawns the same as the others, only when Hamfast enters the kitchen, it is Daisy who serves and May who tells everyone where to sit. Hamson considers the food on his plate, looking at it from all angles, even lifting the plate to eye level and above, rotating the plate before setting it down again. “This isn’t my food. I didn’t sow it, or grow it, or reap it, gather it, mill it, sell it, buy it, prepare it, serve it,” he says then shrugs and digs into the food with hearty appetite.

May nods approvingly. “Some things are ours because we say so. Some things are ours because they’re given, but if they’re given, they can be taken back. Like the calf. That poor little calf.”

“You have nothing to complain about,” says Daisy, the brooch of the Deputy Mayor on the collar of her dress. “You don’t have to tell everyone what to do, where to go, how to behave, how to dress. It’s a job and a half looking after this Shire. Why, did you know that just the other day, Pansy Scruttle left her house in nothing more than a shift? It took hours to get it all straightened out and forgotten, and putting a stop to the gossip! That was a job for ten hobbits, but I managed well enough.”

“And you’re telling us about it because you think May can keep her mouth shut?” Halfred says and May swats him over the head. “I can too keep my mouth shut,” she says.

“Is that so? Half the lads in Tookbank would say otherwise. You can’t stop talking long enough for them to get a kiss in. You do know what courting is, don’t you?”

“I do, but you never will.”

“Children,” Bell interrupts and shakes her head. “Not in front of your father.”

And they all look at him as though they had forgotten he was there. Hamson tilts his head and considers his father gravely. “You’re not feeling well, Dad?” He waves his hand again. “Dad?” he says, his voice echoing off the walls as the bairn’s wails begin again.

“I have to get the bairn.”

“That’s it, I’m fetching the healer. He keeps forgetting there’s nothing to remember,” Halfred says as Hamfast stands up from the table and goes to the bedroom door.

“There’s naught in there,” Bell says.

“I know that, and I’ll only get lost looking for it,” Hamfast says and pushes the door open.

Hamfast bends over his potato garden, the little half-spud resting atop the ground at his side. “Why aren’t you looking?” the spud asks. “She was right then, and you’ll never leave for nothing.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t know what to look for.”

“Do you ever?” Odo asks from the parlor window of Bag End. He disappears from the window and reappears at Hamfast’s side a half-minute later. “You can’t even see what’s right in front of you.” And as Hamfast looks up from the hobbit flowers, the glare of the sun behind Odo casts the lad’s face into shadow and though he tries hard, he cannot recall the young heir’s face from memory, and he realizes with alarm that he’s never so much as glimpsed Odo’s face.

Hamfast paces Bagshot Row, unlit pipe in hand, the half moon hanging so low it nearly kisses the ground and lights the earth with a faint silver glow while the distant hills are hidden in darkness. “What is missing? What am I supposed to be looking for and where do I look to find it?”

A crunching through the grass and leaves draws his attention and he looks up as Odo, with walking stick and cloak, passes by. “Now, young master, it’s a mite late for a stroll,” Hamfast says.

“Not a stroll. It’s a quest,” Odo announces and produces a second walking stick from somewhere and holds it out to him. “I’m going to find the elves. I’ve been thinking on it, and I think they can help you find what you’re missing. Are you coming?”

…you’ll never leave, not even to find him…

Hamfast takes the walking stick, grips it tightly and nods, so desperate he is to be rid of this restlessness, this sense of nothingness, this void that threatens to swallow him whole with every step he takes, yet as he moves forward to follow he finds his feet suddenly leaden, resisting his command to step forward and follow Odo.

Odo nods at him, seeming not to notice his difficulty, and waves for him to follow. “Come along then, and hurry! They won’t wait forever, not with a draughts match between the Lord and the Lady about to start.” He trots off at a quick pace down the Hill, leaving Hamfast far behind. “Nothing gets accomplished by dawdling!” he calls back as he reaches the bottom of the hill and is swallowed by darkness.

“Wait! I’m coming!” Hamfast calls in a whisper and he forces his feet to move forward, inch by agonizing inch, until he sweats with the effort. At length, he reaches the bridge over The Water, and the bridge is made of sheets. He steps onto the bridge, finding it surprisingly sturdy, and a hobbit hands him a jar of beans.

“For the toll,” he explains and goes back to guarding the bridge, another jar of beans at the ready.

Hamfast crosses the bridge, and the silvery light of the moon moves over to chase away the darkness and cast the marketplace in a pale glow, and The Ivy Bush is alive with boisterous hobbits, so many that no one voice could be heard from the others until suddenly they started chanting. “Hale! Hale! Hale! Hale!” cried one half while the other half cheered “Hal! Hal! Hal! Hal!”

Hamfast hands the jar of beans to the cow and makes his way to stand at the window to the inn, his quest with Odo forgotten and with it went his leaden feet. He moves freely now and reaches the inn swiftly and stands transfixed by the contest taking place within. Hale and Halfred sit in the middle of the throng, balancing spoons on their noses as the man in the moon sips an ale and a tabby cat jumps upon the table and plays the fiddle. The scene all but freezes as he watches, so that no one and nothing moves within and the sounds of the cheering fades to nil and the moonlight dims to blackness. Behind the door, a wailing sounds and Hamfast nearly cries himself with the frustration of it all but he cannot stop his hand going to the doorknob, turning it, pushing the door open.

He lifts his hand to block out the sun as he awakens in his bed and Bell sighs beside him. “Blasted sun! Can’t you let an old hobbit sleep in now and again?”

And so the day progresses (and several others just like it, or so it seems) until he is again alone in the gardens of Bag End, watching the hobbit flowers dance in the breeze, and Frodo appears before him. “Can I help you, Master Frodo?”

Frodo shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m the one who took your calf, not the Sun. She was just being kind to me, knowing that your calf brings me such joy, but I had no right to be taking without asking. I’ve been trying to give him back for a long while now, but it’s not working.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, sir.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Frodo says and sighs with relief. “I’m glad you see the problem, but I think I have the solution at last.” He hands Hamfast a plain wooden box.

“What’s in this?” Hamfast asks.

“The answer to her question, and yours. Take it with you tonight when he comes and you’ll see.”

Hamfast tucks the box into his breeches pocket and touches it through the fabric. When he looks up again, Frodo is gone and Odo stands there, looking down at him without emotion. “It’s not for Frodo to give,” he says, then turns and walks away.

Hamfast waits that night under the glow of the half moon and this time when Odo comes to him, he has no problems following. Odo takes him down the Hill, and they pause only at the sheet bridge to get their jars of beans for the toll and again on the other side to exchange the beans for jars of mustard. They walk past the inn without looking inside, though Hamfast notes with satisfaction that it’s Halfred’s name the patrons shout out in triumph. Odo rounds the back of the inn and shouts, “They’re here!”

Hamfast is just behind and he comes around the inn to find themselves standing in the middle of some woods. Ahead in a clearing there is a faint glow that does not come from the moon but instead appears to shine upward from the ground. Odo stands at the opening of the glade and he beckons for Hamfast to join him even as he stands in awe and joy at what he sees there. Hamfast gulps down his anxiety and walks with silent steps until he stands at Odo’s side, and he turns to the source of the light: wood elves of golden hair, their white gowns shimmering in gentle waves to spread upon the ground around them.

“Odo tells us you seek something that you have lost,” an elf lady says. “You do not remember what you lost and so do not understand this longing, but be warned: in finding what you seek, you can lose even more. Step forward, both of you.”

They enter the glade and crane back their necks to look into the elves’ timeless and graceful faces. The elf who had spoken holds out her hand. “Give me the box.”

Hamfast fishes the box out of his pocket, hesitates only a moment before doing as he was bid.

“Not all questions should be asked. Not all answers are to our liking,” says the elf beside her.

“Are you ready for the answer?” the elf lady asks. “Are you ready for the consequences?”

Hamfast nods. “I need to know,” he says.

“Then open it.” She bends down to bring the box within his reach and from its depths, he can hear the elusive wailing. His hands shake as he reaches up and slides his hand over the lid, as he bends his fingers to capture the lid in his grip and pauses. He looks into the elf’s eyes and she looks back, neither encouraging nor discouraging. He looks at Odo, who stands staring at the box, his face again expressionless.

Hamfast lifts the lid, the wailing stops and a breeze sweeps warm and gentle through the glade, coming from the treetops to settle at the grass under Odo’s feet. Hamfast watches in stunned amazement as Odo fades away and is replaced by a young tween that Hamfast knows in a heartbeat as the one he had lost. Brown skin crowned with sun-bleached curls, brown eyes full of laughter and sunshine and set into a carefree face.

“Sam!” Hamfast cries. How could he have forgotten that face? How could he have not seen it before? He throws his arms around Sam and cries for joy. “My own Sam!”

But Sam steps away, slipping from his grasp. He looks at Hamfast questioningly. “Sam?” he asks in Odo’s voice. “Who’s Sam?”

“You are! Sam, my son.”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m Frodo’s brother and Bilbo’s heir, and they’re expecting me.”

“But I’m your father,” Hamfast says. “You’re my son… Sam?”

“I’m not.” He steps back further. “I’m sorry.” And he fades away and is replaced by Odo, whose face Hamfast could never see or remember, and Odo turns and walks away, leaving Hamfast standing in the glade with the elves.

Hamfast turns back to the elf lady and stutters, “But, but… I don’t understand!”

“It is not for us to explain. Did you bring the mustard?” she asks and Hamfast nods, hands over the jar. She smiles and turns to the others. “Excellent. Let’s go now before we miss the start of the draughts match.”

And they leave and with them goes the light.

GF 3/11/06

Bilbo: Adventuring

Bilbo grips Sting in his hand, watching the cold blade for a blue glow as he creeps forward down the tunnel to the dragon’s lair. His heart pounds loudly in his ears, and in this narrow dark passage, even his near-silent footsteps seem to shout and echo down the tunnel toward his destination. His nerves rattle through him, shakes him to his very core, and as he nears the lair he is so tightly wound that he nearly jumps straight up and through the ceiling when something taps him on the shoulder.

“Aaaahhh!” he shouts in a high-pitched squawk, his heart now pounding in his throat, making it difficult to breath. He spins around to find Frodo standing sheepishly behind him. “Frodo!” he hisses in hushed, urgent tones. “What are you doing? You don’t sneak up while burglarizing a dragon!”

“Sorry Bilbo, but you did tell me not to be late,” Frodo says, making no effort to keep his voice down. He pulls some chestnuts from his pocket and proceeds to crack them open with an eagle beak nutcracker, making a terrible riot.

“Considering that we’re standing just ten feet from the dragon, I’d say that you are very late indeed,” Bilbo whispers. Frodo shrugs and cracks another nut, and Bilbo yanks both the nuts and the nutcracker from Frodo’s hands. “And will you please stop making such a racket. You’re going to wake the dragon.”

“But he wakes up anyway,” Frodo points out.

“Not right now, he doesn’t!” Bilbo says, still keeping his voice low for all that their surprise attack is now hopelessly foiled. “Am I invisible? Am I wearing the ring? No, I’m not, which means this is my first time through. I steal the cup and Smaug remains asleep – or he’s supposed to.”

Frodo’s eyes widen with abashment and guilt. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t realize about the ring.”

Bilbo impatiently waves his hand for silence and motions for Frodo to fall in behind him, then he uses his forefinger and middle finger of his left hand to pantomime how they are going to sneak up on the dragon. Frodo nods along, munching away on a chestnut that Bilbo hadn’t managed to take, and Bilbo repositions himself to spring into the lair. He steadies his grasp on Sting and creeps forward along the wall with hobbit stealth, as Frodo walks casually behind him. Bilbo pauses at the entrance to the lair, braces himself for the confrontation that is about to come, and slips into the dragon’s den.

Frodo follows after and looks about the vast and looming – and empty – inner cave. “Wow!” he exclaims out loud, his voice echoing off the high walls. “It’s so big! But, there’s nothing here. Where are the dragon and the treasure?”

Bilbo lowers his sword and looks around the den, duped by its emptiness. He scratches his head and turns all around but there is nothing there but him and Frodo. “Well, this isn’t right,” Bilbo says. “There should be a big pile of gold and jewels, just here, and on top of it, a dragon, red-scaled and filling the cave from floor to ceiling.”

“Maybe it’s the wrong cave,” Frodo suggests.

“No. No, this is the right cave, I’m certain of it. This is what it looked like, well enough. It’s just empty,” Bilbo says as he sheaths his wooden sword.

“Empty?” hisses a voice from the far corner. Yellow eyes appear in the deepest of the shadows and peer at the hobbits with venom. “Nothing? So you think yourself safe? You think your task is complete?” The eyes narrow at them and a menacing laugh creeps through the air toward them. Bilbo draws his sword again and stands between Frodo and the voice, blocking the lad even as Frodo stands on tiptoe to try to see around him. “You think you’ll walk out of here alive, do you?”

Frodo lights a torch and hands it to Bilbo, who holds it high to cast its light into the shadows, revealing there a common garden lizard no more than ten inches in length, with wings of parchment glued to its back. The lizard lays upon a small pile of gold-painted rocks and transparent marbles. It speaks again, and this time the voice is high-pitched and excited, reminding them of Pippin when he eats too many sweets.

“You do not comprehend the extent of my power! I will hold you helpless in my gaze and strip you of everything you know!” it boasts. “You have not seen evil yet! Oh no, not yet!”

Bilbo and Frodo share a quick and dubious glance before going to stand over the lizard. The lizard looks back at them, flicking its tongue in a way that can only be described as adorable, for all that it was glaring at them. Frodo tries hard to keep from laughing as he kneels down and looks it in the eyes.

The lizard jeers triumphantly, and now they’re reminded of Pippin when he is tickled. “That’s right, young one. Look into my eyes and I will break you to my will.”

Frodo giggles. “So you’re Smaug, and this is your treasure?” He reaches out to toy with a marble that has rolled away from the rest of the nest.

“Stop it!” the lizard spits indignantly. It redoubles its efforts, opening its eyes wide. “Your will is mine!”

Frodo smiles at it as he would a bairn or a kitten. “Look Bilbo! He’s trying to draw me into a stupor and drive me mad! He’s so… so… precious! Yes, you’re such a precious little thing, yes you are!” He looks up at Bilbo expectantly. “Can I keep it? I’ve never had a pet.”

“I am NOT a pet!” Smaug huffs.

“No, we can’t keep it,” Bilbo says, thoroughly put out by the way this has all turned out. “It’s evil and we’re supposed to kill it, not adopt it. This isn’t how this is supposed to go.”

“I’m ruining it by being here, aren’t I?” Frodo asks, sobering immediately. “This is the sort of story best heard and not seen.”

“Hoi!” Smaug scolds. “Look at me when I’m hypnotizing you, young lad!”

Frodo ignores him, only concerned for Bilbo. “Should I go?” he asks, looking downcast but accepting of the inevitable answer.

“Yes lad, I think that would be for the best. Go on home. I’ll fetch the dwarves,” Bilbo says and watches as Frodo walks away with head bowed. When he’s sure Frodo is gone, he bends down and picks up the lizard by its fake wings. “You are not Smaug.”

“Are you so sure of that? All those embellishments over the years, one growing upon the other… Perhaps your little adventure wasn’t so adventurous after all.”

“You are not Smaug,” Bilbo says again. “That is not his treasure and this might look like the right cave, but it isn’t either. I’m going to find the real cave and then we’ll see.”

Bilbo turns and breezes back down the tunnel to the cave entrance with Smaug the Lizard on his shoulder. When he steps outside, he sees Thorin Oakenshield standing before the other twelve dwarves and himself as they stand around the chieftain and listen to him ramble on. Bilbo blinks at the sight, not having any way of explaining how he can be in two places at once, and Smaug laughs in his ear.

“You see,” Smaug says. “You haven’t even gone in yet.”

“So it appears,” Bilbo says. “But I will soon, I’m sure of it.”

“Shall we wait and see then?” Smaug suggests and Bilbo finds a notch in the rocks in which to hide and watch from a distance.

Thorin continues to drone on while slowly, one by one, all those listening nod off to sleep. Balin makes a valiant effort to remain awake, even going to such lengths as to hop about a bit and walk up and down the length of the alcove, but he too succumbs to sleep in the end. Even Bilbo finds himself having a hard time staying awake and Smaug snoozes lightly into his ear.

“…on this quite momentous occasion for which we have traveled through all of Arda, that being the land between the Sea and the East and including such memorable places as Bree, Combe, Archet, the Troll Shaw, Rivendell, the Gladden Fields…”

“Why, he didn’t even mention the Shire!” Bilbo says, insulted, and Smaug stirs lazily on his shoulder.

“…the Misty Mountains, the Silverlode, Mirkwood, which is also a haven for the most despicable and deplorable of all races, the so-called fair ones with their golden hair and bright eyes, yet not so bright personalities…”

Bilbo yawns and wavers a bit on his feet, then shakes his head to help keep himself awake. He looks up at the sky to find that the sun has set and twilight is upon them. “Now, I know his speech didn’t take this long!” he mutters to himself.

The stars are shining brightly when he awakens and finds himself slumped against the rocks. He straightens and stretches, remembering just in time the lizard on his shoulder and is careful not to knock the tiny beast to the ground as he works the knots out of his shoulders. He rubs his eyes and yawns, then peeks out from behind the rocks certain that by now his other self must have ventured into the cave, yet he finds that Thorin is still talking, not being at all concerned at the various snores that surround him.

“…if they had any sense of justice or hospitality, we would have been here much sooner than we have arrived and needless to say that they have delayed us terribly, an injustice that will not go unpunished once we succor our treasure from the worm, which brings me back to this most momentous of occasions…”

“Dear me, but he hasn’t broken that sentence even once, has he?” Bilbo says in horrified shock. “Well, this isn’t getting me anywhere. This is clearly the right cave, yet there is nothing significant inside. Perhaps Elrond would have a solution to this problem.”

So with that thought in mind, he pushes himself out of the crevice and tiptoes around the slumbering dwarves and his snoozing other self, and Thorin never even notices when Bilbo steals one of the pack ponies and rides away.

He reaches the river in quick time and looks at it in astonishment. He knows he never embellished about the river and always reported it as being exactly what it was: fast, strong and wide across. Yet this river is barely more than a trickle of water running down over the hillside and the pony, as if only to make the realization worse, walks directly over it, its left hooves on one side and its right hooves on the other, and follows the rivulet all the way to Lake Town, stopping only to take a drink when it gets thirsty.

Smaug keeps Bilbo company during the week-long ride, which is substantially longer than it should have been by rights, and Bilbo gets to know Smaug quite well. As it turns out, Smaug enjoys many of the same pastimes as Bilbo does and they swap many of their favorite cooking receipts during the long uneventful days. Smaug even gives Bilbo cooking tips and Bilbo repays him by demonstrating how to go about crocheting a sweater that will accommodate the lizard’s wings.

At long last they reach Lake Town and it is, thankfully, exactly as Bilbo remembers it. The lake is crystal blue, reflecting a cloudless sky, and the town rests upon its surface, balanced on stilts of thick wood. Bilbo urges the pony over one of many bridges and into the main thoroughfare of the town. Smaug looks about in awe, his eyes lighting on any trinket of gold, silver or jewel that they pass. He convinces Bilbo to linger in the marketplace, but every time he reaches out his tiny hands to grab upon an item, Bilbo walks away to inspect something else.

“I’m not going to increase my wealth if you keep doing that,” he complains.

Bilbo turns his head to scoff at the lizard as best he can. “I’m not here to help you, you know.”

“If you say so.”

“Look, that trip down the river took longer than it should have, even with no breaks. I need to replenish my stores,” Bilbo says. “That’s the only reason we’re here.”

They come to a booth selling cured meats, dried fruits and nuts. A customer is there already, grabbing handfuls of nuts with great enthusiasm. When the customer’s bag is full to bursting, the customer turns and beams happily at Bilbo.

“Look Bilbo!” he says and Bilbo realizes with a start that it is Frodo. “I’ve got more nuts, and these ones are already cracked. I’ve also got enough supplies to get us home.” He waves his hand to the left and Bilbo turns to see a cart piled with so many parcels and packages that they block out the sun. Frodo strolls to the cart and tosses the bag of nuts to the top of the pile, easy as you please. “Just let me pay for this,” he says and hands the merchant a marble. “These are really quite valuable, you know.”

“Frodo,” Bilbo starts. “I’m fairly certain I told you to go home.”

“And I am going home, but I can’t get there without food. You know how I’ve been going through these growth spurts,” Frodo says, hopping onto the coach seat and patting the space next to him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose that would be for the best,” Bilbo says. “Just let me find Bard first so I can dispose of this lizard.”

“You would just get rid of me?!” Smaug exclaims, faux tears in his voice. “After all that we’ve shared? I even gave you my best receipt for hot cocoa.”

“Oh, Bilbo, look at him,” Frodo says and Bilbo looks to see that Smaug has worked up quite a few tears indeed. The other shoppers in the marketplace turn to look at Bilbo disdainfully. “Can’t we keep him? Please? I promise to look after him and feed him.” He lifts Smaug off Bilbo’s shoulders and rests the beast in his palm, the lizard’s tail curling around his slim wrist.

“You don’t want to do that, Frodo,” Bilbo warns. “I need to take him to Bard.”

Frodo fervently covers the lizards ears and gapes at Bilbo with horrified shock. “But Bard kills him!”

“Frodo! He is not a pet or a toy!” Bilbo exclaims, at the end of his tether. “He’s a dragon!”

“I thought you said he was just a lizard,” Frodo points out, releasing Smaug’s ears.

“A lizard who can teach you how to make s’mores,” Smaug says and bats his eyelids innocently.

“Ooh! S’mores! I heard those were good!” Frodo says, his face full of eagerness and determination. “Please Bilbo. I’ll take real good care of him. I won’t let him put me in his thrall. I’m not like you, and I know the warning signs: crankiness, grouchiness, tiredness, feeling like too much butter over not enough bread. Or is that the other way around?”

“Oh all right,” Bilbo gives in. “But he’s only coming as far as Mirkwood.” He climbs onto the coach next to Frodo. The lad brings a handkerchief from his coat pocket and makes a cushion for Smaug to curl up in while Bilbo takes the reins and steers them out of town.

The river is now a full-sized river, but instead of one, there are many coming from countless different directions, pouring into the delta at the western side of the town. Bilbo doesn’t recognize any of this and is uncertain which river to follow and he hesitates before making up his mind to follow what appears to be the widest of the rivers, for surely that must be the one he and the dwarves rode down on the barrels. After following the tributary for just a few minutes, they see many barrels coming down the current toward them but there is something about these barrels that is not right, and it is not long before they discover what. The first of the barrels reaches them and quite to their astonishment, there is an elf sitting tucked tightly inside it, his head and shoulders sticking out of its open top.

“Hoi there!” Bilbo calls. “What is this?”

The elf sees them and nods his head in greeting. “Good day, Bilbo!” the elf says. “I told my father about your little escapade with the dwarves, and he agreed that it was a very inventive way to transport persons. So now we all get to ride down the river in barrels!” The elf and barrel zip past them, the barrel hitting a rock near the riverbed and spinning the elf back into the middle of the river. “Wheeee!” the elf exclaims.

Bilbo stares after the elf in disbelief, which is not helped by the innumerable other elves that closely follow the first. Frodo says nothing either and Smaug watches with a bored glaze over his eyes. When all the barrels have passed, Frodo turns to Bilbo, his expression quite unreadable and Bilbo waits to hear what the lad will say. Finally, Frodo says, “Can we do that too?” Then he looks down at Smaug, frowning. “It would too be fun,” he argues, as if Smaug had said something, but for all appearances, Smaug is nearly asleep with boredom.

“Frodo, I think it’s time you drive and let me mind the lizard,” Bilbo says but Frodo crosses his arms over Smaug and his frown deepens.

“He’s just fallen asleep,” Frodo says and shakes his head with disapproval, then looks up to watch the scenery as they ride along.

The flowers grow as big as trees and their fragrant blooms fill the air with their heady scent. The trees stand leafless, as if in slumber for the winter, and the shrubs grow fruit that upon closer inspection is actually uncut jewels of rubies, rhinestones, sapphires and emeralds. Smaug opens his eyes and flicks his tongue when they pass near a particularly laden bush and he gets Frodo to take a few of the jewels to add to his makeshift bed. “Just enough to make him comfortable,” Frodo reasons.

Before long, they pass into Mirkwood and skirt around the realm of the Woodland elves, even though they can hear the sounds of revelry and celebration much as they would hear in the Shire. They soon reach the dark heart of the forest and Smaug is awake and alert now, listening intently to the deadly silence that surrounds them. Frodo squirms uneasily in his seat and folds his arms around himself as he gazes cautiously up into the treetops.

“Isn’t there a Necromancer in these woods,” Frodo says.

“Gandalf should have expelled him by now,” Bilbo says.

Frodo is not comforted. He slips down into his seat and tries to hide from the forest. “I don’t like it in here,” he says.

“This is the only way to get to Rivendell,” Bilbo says. “Don’t be so silly. There is nothing dangerous here.”

“Nothing dangerous!” Frodo says. “There’s spiders! Giant spiders that come out of nowhere and wrap you up in webbing, and your sword is made of wood and not even the useful kind.”

“Sting serviced me quite successfully the first time through,” Bilbo says, trying not to voice his sense of insult, to little avail. “There is no reason to assume it won’t get us through it again.”

Frodo looks up at him uncertainly, then moves his gaze past Bilbo’s head to regard the forest with earnestness. “There are eyes everywhere.”

“There is no such thing,” Bilbo says. “Now, the first time, the dwarves and I got into trouble for letting our stomachs and imaginations run away from us. But now we’ve plenty of food and we’ll follow the path to the end.”

“What path? What food?” Frodo asks, and Bilbo pulls on the reins hard, stopping them with a jerk. He looks behind them and finds the cart bed empty but for a couple of blankets and a nearly empty bag of nuts. He turns to face forward again, and finds them in the middle of the forest with no sight of the path they were previously traveling upon. “I don’t like it here,” Frodo repeats and Smaug hisses in the lad’s ear reassuringly.

“We’ll be out in no time,” Bilbo promises and hopes fervently that he is correct.

“I don’t know,” Frodo says uncertainly. “Being lost in a haunted forest with no food and water is a bad thing. I’ve done that; it’s not fun.”

“This will be different,” Bilbo says. “I know how to get out.”

And out he gets them, in much less time than he had hoped, and Frodo almost seems disappointed that they avoid danger so easily. He sits up and looks behind them as the forest quickly recedes into the background, then he reaches over and tugs at Bilbo’s arm, pointing back to where they had existed the trees. “Look!”

Bilbo stops the cart and cranes his head back to see a bear standing at the edge of the woods. The bear is twirling rope and pulling spiders from the trees. “Is that Beorn?” Frodo asks.

“No,” Bilbo says. “But at least he kept the spiders off us.”

Frodo nods but Smaug smiles malevolently. “This time,” he says, peering up at Frodo, who is still watching the bear.

“And as for you,” Bilbo says, liking the lizard even less now. “You’ve come as far as you’re going. You can take your leave now. We’re out of the forest, so he’ll be safe of any dangers,” he says to Frodo, who is starting to protest. He takes Smaug by the wings and drops him off the cart, then flicks the reins and urges the pony forward.

“You know, Bilbo,” Frodo says as he faces forward again, the lizard instantly forgotten, “this adventure of yours is turning out to be rather dull. I know you said you embellished a little, but I didn’t think you meant it in this way.”

“In what way?” Bilbo asks.

“In the way that you took little adventures and made them grand, rather than taking grand adventures and making them a little grander,” Frodo answers, crossing his arms before him and scowling. “Now that I think of it, I don’t think I want to go with you to Elrond’s after all. I’m just going to go on home.” And with that, he jumps down off the cart and stalks away.

Bilbo sighs with relief and continues on his way, glad to finally be at peace and alone. The world seems to come just a little bit more alive, the colors slightly more vibrant, the birds somewhat more musical, the breeze just a tad more gusty. He starts humming under his breath and so in that way passes the time between Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains. He comes to the High Pass and dismounts the cart, setting the pony free and taking on his back all that he can carry. He trudges up the pass to the back gate of the mountains and there he finds Frodo sitting on a rock and looking thoroughly bored.

“I wish you would make up your mind,” Frodo says and stands to join him. “Are we there yet?”

“This isn’t any more fun for me, you know,” Bilbo says.

“Then why do you go?”

Bilbo considers this for a moment but doesn’t answer. He finds the gate open and passes through it but Frodo makes no move to follow, and after waiting a moment or two, Bilbo continues on without him.

The Misty Mountains turn out to be more of a mole hill than a mountain, and Bilbo is through it and out the other side in just a few paces, having spied no evidence of goblins or gollums. Frodo is waiting for him on the other side, leaning against the rocky wall of the mountain. He pushes himself off the wall and follows Bilbo at a distance, and Bilbo can feel the lad’s contempt burning him even from that length. He endures it until they reach Rivendell and discover it to be no more than a shallow pit between two hills, the immortal waterfall actually part of an elaborate birdbath and the Last Homely House made of gingerbread and candy. Frodo peels a taffy piece off the wall and munches on it thoughtfully. He nods after a moment and announces, "Raspberry crumb cake," and  Bilbo finally loses his temper.

“This is just ridiculous!” he says. “Frodo! I didn’t ask you to stick around and make this journey a misery! This was real! This was a haven, a wonderful place to stay and rest! Not this… this… mockery of an elven home!”

“How is it my fault that it isn’t?” Frodo asks, losing his own temper. “I didn’t ask to come in the first place, but you said it would be so grand and you kept insisting that I follow after, and what do I get for it? Phony dragons, droning dwarves, floating elves and a forest full of nothing but trees. If the Great Eagles had shown up, they would have been stool pigeons! Well, I’m done following. I’m not your shadow.”

“I never wanted you to be.”

Frodo snorts at that, his opinion on that matter clear without having to utter a word.

“Well, if you’re so miserable, why don’t you leave?” Bilbo asks and waves his hand in the general direction of home.

“I will go!” Frodo says.

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

“Then go then!”

“I’m going!”

“Wonderful!”

“Splendid!” Frodo stamps his foot, turns and stalks away, his arms crossed before him. “See you later!” he calls over his shoulder, somehow managing to sound both annoyed and uncertain.

“Yes you will!” Bilbo calls after him, somehow managing to sound both frustrated and reassuring. He turns and goes inside the Last Homely House in search of Elrond and answers.

What he finds instead is Gandalf lounging on a settle of marshmallows in the gingerbread library, smoking a pipe and sipping on a glass of wine, his grey robes for once clean and his beard for once combed and tidy. The wizard waves at Bilbo then goes back to smoking and drinking while Elrond stands behind an easel on the other side of the room, paintbrush in hand.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Bilbo exclaims. “You’re supposed to be fending off the Necromancer!”

“Oh, I just made that up,” Gandalf says nonchalantly. “Did you really think I’d want to wander through Mirkwood with a hobbit and thirteen dwarves until I was nearly starved to death? Pah! I’ll just hop a ride from Gwaihir when the time is right and all the danger has been averted already.”

“You’re having your portrait done?!” Bilbo storms over to Elrond’s side and stares agape at the painting, which depicts Gandalf as rather muscular and young for a wizard.

“Don’t you think it odd that I’m older than dirt and yet have no representations of myself?” Gandalf says. “I’m important, you know. People should be able to remember what I look like when I’m gone.”

“Then shouldn’t it look like you?” Bilbo asks, to which Gandalf and Elrond laugh.

“Of course not,” Elrond says. “What would be the point in that? People want a young, vibrant hero, not a washed-up old has-been who can't stop telling stories about his glory days.” Elrond sweeps his brush across the canvas, giving Gandalf thick, wavy blond hair.

Bilbo stamps his foot and storms over to Gandalf. “This is quite outrageous! I only came on this little adventure because of you, and here you sit doing nothing!”

“I sense that you are upset about something,” Gandalf says.

“Of course I am and it’s you I’m angry at, you old oaf!” Bilbo says and starts to pace back and forth, quite getting in Elrond’s way so that the elf lord has to stop and wait for the rant to end. “I was perfectly happy in the Shire until you came along to whisk me away on this malarkey of an adventure! Why, the dragon wasn’t even there! It was some lizard with delusions of grandeur and do you believe that Frodo wanted to keep it as a pet?”

“The dragon wasn’t there?” Gandalf says, sitting up and growing serious.

Elrond puts down his paintbrush and comes to lean over Bilbo, studying the hobbit intently. “Are you certain?” he asks.

“Of course I am,” Bilbo says. “The dragon was gone and so was the treasure, and there was only a lizard and Frodo and… what?”

Elrond smiles at him and Bilbo finds it most unsettling, though he cannot pinpoint why. The room melts away from around him, the candy and sweets of which it is made peeling away and running off down the sloped floor until there is nothing left but Elrond standing before him, smiling still, and around them is the lair, still empty, still large and echoing.

“A lizard, you say?” Elrond asks. “And now I suppose you’re going to tell me that you rode on the pony with the lizard on your shoulder, that Frodo was waiting for you at Lake Town and that you got through Mirkwood with nothing worse than an empty cart?”

“How did you know?” Bilbo asks, stepping away from the elf lord.

“Because that’s what I made you see,” Elrond answers and his smirk widens into a wicked grin and his eyes gleam. “You never saw me at all.” He laughs, a short, triumphant shout, then he throws his head back and roars with cocky mirth. As the eye contact breaks, Bilbo feels a sudden clearing of his mind, followed by a brief, blinding flash of pressure upon his head, and as Elrond continues to laugh, the pressure fades and with the headache goes the illusion that the dragon has placed upon him. Elrond is gone in a puff of smoke, and the smoke is steaming and hot and all around, the cave is bathed in the red light of dragon flame. Smaug looms over him, slinks his scaly tail around him and fills every space in the cave so that Bilbo has no way of escape.

“I was here the whole time,” Smaug says. “I never left or rather, I should say, you never left. You think you’ve lived these past sixty years? You think any of that was real? Warning Frodo not to fall into my thrall when it was you who was entrapped the whole while.”

Smaug opens his mouth, dives down and Bilbo feels the dragon’s hot breath surrounding him and he is certain that he is about to be finished for good, when they both hear a shrill voice rising up to halt the dragon.

“No Smaug! Bad dragon! Bad, bad boy!” Frodo exclaims, running up to swat the dragon upon its snout with a rolling pin. “How many times do I have to tell you: No. Eating. Relatives! Unless it’s Otho, Lotho or Lobelia. Now go to your corner!”

Smaug slumps at the shoulders and walks away, dragging his feet and looking apologetic. Bilbo watches in dazed surprise, his relief at finding himself not made into dragon fodder too fresh to be processed fully. “Frodo? How did you…?”

“You really shouldn’t have dumped him from the cart outside of Mirkwood, Bilbo,” Frodo says, hands on hips. “You need to apologize and make it sincere. Are you hungry? I made ginger snaps.”

Frodo turns about and walks into the kitchen and Bilbo turns around in surprise to find himself standing in the middle of the Bag End garden. “How did I get here?” he asks to himself, but Sam hears him and answers, “Same way you left, I expect.” Then Sam brushes off his breeches and goes to feed the dragon a cartload of chestnuts.

“Bilbo!” Frodo’s voice calls from inside. “The food’s not getting any hotter!”

Bilbo lingers in the doorway, not able to cross over the threshold. He’s had quite a bit more heat than he can take as it is anyway, or so he tells himself.

GF 3/18/06

Frodo: Memories and Memoirs

“You have to record your memories, Frodo,” Bilbo instructs as he moves about the study, dusting shelves and straightening books. “You simply have to if you are to remember things properly.”

“What do you mean? I remember things quite well. Too well,” Frodo says as he fingers the small blue journal, gifted to him by Bilbo. “I remember everything.”

“That’s quite unlikely,” Bilbo says and sits at the desk, looking pointedly at Frodo, his eyes full of concern. “No one remembers everything, not even the elves, which is why an accurate memoir is so important.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A memoir is a record. It tells us what happened, be it a grand event, a journey through the Shire, or an ordinary day, and as they're usually written near to the event, they tend to be more accurate, more factual. Once it’s recorded, so it shall remain forever.

“A memory, well, that’s a living thing. It shifts, changes depending on what others tell us of the event or what we think we remember later on. It effects the way we view our pasts and therefore ourselves, effects the way we see others, and here’s the rub: they don’t even have to be real. If you're told something false often enough, or simply just imagine it enough times, it can become like a memory even though it never took place, even if you weren’t there to see it if it did take place. I’m sure if I asked you, and if you were honest in your reply, that you would be able to tell me exactly how your parents drowned. You’ve played it out a hundred times in your mind’s eye and it has become as real to you as that chair you are sitting upon right now.”

“I didn’t make up my parents dying,” Frodo says hotly. He clutches the book in his hands, his knuckles white. “How dare you imply—”

“But I don’t Frodo. You misunderstand and I picked a poor example. I apologize. I meant only that you have a memory of something that you did not witness. With a journal, you would be able to keep track of your real experiences more easily, more clearly. I’ve found that journals are excellent sources for studying the accuracy of our memories, and it happens more often than not that what we remember years later is quite different from what we recorded at the time of the event, which is why I’ve been trying so hard to give you an interest in journaling. I know you think it trite, but I cannot stress enough how important it is. You torment yourself because you do not remember the truth.”

“So what is the truth?”

“That’s for you to discover and all you have to do is open that book.”

Frodo looks down at the book resting in his hands and opens it. He flips through the pages then looks up at Bilbo, bewildered. “The pages are blank.”

“Then I suggest you get to it,” Bilbo says and relinquishes the desk to his cousin. Bilbo leaves the room and goes outside to take a walk with the dwarves, and they sing as they head down the Hill.

Frodo leaves the chair and stands before the desk, looking out the window at the crisp autumn day. In the distance he sees Sam loading a barrow with firewood and hears the lad humming to himself a song of harvest. Frodo sets the book upon the tilted surface of the writing table and opens it to the first blank page as he sits upon the stool. He breathes the scent of the fresh parchment before he dips the quill in red ink. He carefully scrapes the nib against the inkwell and ponders the first memory he wants to commit to paper, his first swimming lesson when he was but eight years old, then puts the quill to paper.

The grass crunches beneath their feet and broken leaves of amber and gold scent the air with their faint musk. Leaves flutter from the trees in an endless rain of autumn’s farewell, and petals fall off the flowers, the beds preparing for winter’s chill. The air is thick with fog and their breaths mist around them as they wind their way in and around the trees. His parents stroll hand in hand, and he walks in front of them, kicking at the leaves every once in a while, then looking back to make sure his parents are still following. He gives no thoughts to where they are for he knows these woods well, or used to before he moved away. Many times has he walked them to clear his mind from the noise and bustle of Brandy Hall, and they are as familiar to him now as they had been when last he lived there.

They come to the glade where they will picnic and wait for the mist to burn away. Alders stand tall and proud, encircling the glade, and on the far side between a wide break in the shrubs can be seen the Brandywine River, flowing fast and sure.

When the sun rises fully and the fog lifts, they go down to the river, to the little wading pool there, which is protected from the main current of the river only by a small protrusion in the bank. Drogo lays upon the grassy bank on his side, propped up on an elbow and whittling at a woodblock. Primula strips down to her smallclothes and stands ankle deep in the water, smiling encouragingly at little Frodo, her arms held open before her as Frodo hesitates on the shallow shore, his feet just inches from the water.

“Come on now, love,” Primula says. “It’s just water, just like it is when you take a bath.”

“This is a very big bath,” Frodo says.

“You’ve the right of it son,” Drogo says. “Don’t let her talk you into such nonsense.”

“Drogo! He has to learn to swim if we’re going to live so close to the river,” Primula says.

“We don’t live so close to the river,” Drogo reasons. “We’re clear on the other side of Bucklebury, for the very purpose of being far away from the river, and now you’re going to teach him to swim.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to learn either.”

“Me? Swim? I’d sink first, even if I knew how. Nope, it’s land or boats for me.”

Primula laughs and shakes her head. “That’s well enough for you, but Frodo needs to learn. Now, sweetheart, you are to ignore your father. I give you leave to dismiss anything he says about swimming. Take my hands, there you go, and step into the water. That’s right, Fro! Your mama’s got you.”

Drogo watches as little Frodo steps further and further into the river, beaming up at his mother as he grips her hands tightly. Drogo smiles and says, “You’re letting your Brandybuck side get the better of you, acorn. Where’s your Baggins sensibility?”

Frodo stands knee deep in the water, still clutching his mother’s hands, and she beams down at him proudly. “Good, Fro! You’ve done marvelously. Now, the first thing I’m going to teach you is how to float.”

“No.”

“Yes, you need to know. That way, you know you won’t sink,” Primula explains, “and then you won’t be so afraid when it comes to learning your strokes.”

“No, it won’t work,” Frodo says, his lowering lip trembling.

“Of course it will,” Primula says soothingly, crouching down so that she is eye level with her son. “It’s very simple. We’ll start slow, dear. Now, remember, it’s just like the bathtub. Put your face under the water, hold your breath and then come back up. Like this.”

“No!” Frodo tugs fruitlessly at her shoulder, attempting to keep her from demonstrating. “It won’t work. You won’t float.” Tears stream down his face and Primula pulls him close, holding him tightly.

“Good going, Drogo,” Primula says.

“I don’t know what this is about,” Drogo says, his voice full of concern. “I was only teasing, acorn. It’s quite safe to swim here and your mother’s one of the best there is.” He feels his father’s hand warm and heavy on his shoulder. “Come on, acorn, come sit with me here on the bank and let your mama show you how to do it.” Drogo lifts him out of the water and sits him on his lap, holding him tight to keep him from squirming, and making soft shushing noises in his ear.

“Very well, then,” Primula says, frowning at her son. She moves so she’s further out in the pool and is able to fall forward into the water without bumping her head on the riverbed. “Now, as I said, you just put your face under water and then just let yourself relax, and you’ll float. Easy as pie.”

She demonstrates and Frodo holds his breath, waiting for her to resurface, waits until he nearly passes out from the lack of air. “Papa!” he cries and turns to find his father gone and when he looks back to the river, the wading pool is also gone and a circle of hobbits stand around two forms on the ground, yards from a full and raging river.

Sam whistles as he walks by, close to the study window, shaking Frodo from his writing. Frodo blinks at the bright sunlight and smells deep the scent of leaves being burned. Sam comes past the window again and laughs heartily. “Why there you are, Mr. Grubb!” the gardener says to the toad that has taken to visiting the Bag End garden of late. “Where’s Mistress Grubb? I figured as you’d gone off to get yourself wed. I’ll have to find you a mate if you don’t find one on your own.”

Frodo sighs, laughing a little himself as Sam goes about his work and Mr. Grubb croaks. He stretches his neck and hands before turning to a fresh page. He can see now that Bilbo may have had a point about memories. That last one went horribly astray. He knew for a fact that he never put up such a fuss when learning to swim. Why, hadn’t Aunt Asphodel told him over and again how he took to swimming like a fish after just one lesson? He dips the quill again, searches for a new memory to put to paper.

The house at the far end of Bucklebury is dilapidated, the verge that once lined the walk path long ago wilted and dead, the windows covered in dust and mud, the round door hanging off its frame, holes in the roof. He goes up the walk path and pushes the door open. A musky scent fills the air inside, stuffy and stale, his eyes fill with tears at the sting of the stench, but he crosses the threshold anyway and strolls through the house, room by room, all of them empty but for the rocking chair that sits near the hearth in the parlor, where his mother would spend her days during that last long winter.

He sits in the chair, tips it back and forth with the rhythm of his feet, closes his eyes, and suddenly the stale musk is replaced by the sweet juices of ham cooking and yellow squash broiling and bread baking. In the hearth he can hear the fire crackling and he can feel the warmth of its flames. He opens his eyes, a small smile on his lips for being home again, but the smile disappears instantly when he looks into the kitchen and sees his mother standing there, hunched over the cutting board and crying silently as the food goes ignored. Drogo comes through the kitchen door, a pile of wood beneath his arm for the wood box. He lets the wood clatter to the floor and he dashes to Primula’s side, attempts to take her in his arms and comfort her, but she pushes him away and goes to the corner as if she hopes to hide herself away there.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, her voice so hollow it can hardly be recognized as hers. She pushes herself from the wall and shuffles through the parlor for the hall and the bedchambers. Frodo sees red on her sleeve as she passes.

“Mama, you’re hurt.”

“It doesn’t matter. It makes no difference.”

“Prima!” Drogo calls and follows after her, telling Frodo with a glance to stay where he is.

Frodo doesn’t listen this time. He runs out the door and away from the house before the argument and the sobs can reach his ears.

“Now, now, there Mr. Grubb, you won’t be winning any lasses with that sort of attitude,” Sam says outside.

Frodo pulls himself out of this last memory, which he is fairly certain never happened. He knows at least that the house was never allowed to reach such a state of disuse, as Milo had moved into it as soon as he married Peony. He must have been confusing the smial that his father had built, the one they had never lived in, for the house.

“Mr. Grubb! That’s no way to be a gentletoad!”

Frodo looks up at the window, perplexed, and stands to look outside and find Sam crouched in the flowerbeds, holding out a small toad to what he assumes is Mr. Grubb. “Sam, whatever are you doing?”

“I found him a Mistress Grubb but he keeps turning his back on her,” Sam explains, not looking up and continuing to frown down disapprovingly at Mr. Grubb. “Are all the fellows of Bag End bent on being bachelors all their lives?”

“So it seems,” Frodo says. “But do you think you could keep it down? I am trying to work in here.”

“Of course sir.”

Frodo sits back down and turns to a fresh page. He hesitates before dipping the quill this time, then decides to skip ahead a couple of years and see what that will bring up.

He runs through the oak grove just north of Bucklebury and south of Crickhollow Road. He hears Milo’s voice not too far behind him telling him to slow down and wait up, while Aunt Del and Uncle Rufus call out to them both and say they will picnic where they are. He is twelve in this memory and the ground is sprouting with new wildflowers for the spring as the sun shines down cool and bright upon the damp soil of the earth.

Aunt Del lays the blanket upon the ground and she and Uncle Rufus spread out the food while Milo dashes after young Frodo. He catches the lad and mimics him by bending low to the ground. “What are we looking at?” he asks and Frodo holds up an acorn.

“What do these mean?” he asks Milo.

“What do you mean, what do they mean?”

“Are they special in some way?”

Milo shrugs. “Well, it’ll be a tree some day.”

“What kind of tree?”

“An oak,” Milo answers.

“What does oak mean?”

“What does--?” Milo considers him closely for a moment, clearly thinking him odd. “It’s just a tree, like any other. It doesn’t mean anything, except perhaps good shade in the summer.”

“But Papa called me that.”

“Oak?”

“Acorn.”

“Never heard that for a nickname before,” Milo says as Aunt Del calls from the picnic area, “Time to eat, lads!”

Uncle Rufus calls now too. “I know you’re both hungry, so step to it! You lads can explore later.”

Milo goes to his parents but Frodo lingers, staring down at the little acorn that fills his small hand. At last he puts it back upon the ground and turns to join his guardians, but something catches the corner of his eye and he moves to meet it. In the middle of the grove, surrounded by numerous thriving oaks is one dead oak. He comes to the base of its bole and glances up at the tree, reaches out for it with his right hand. The bark is dry and flakes off under his touch, and the bare branches creak with the wind.

“Frodo!” Uncle Rufus calls. “I said you could explore later.”

But they don’t explore. Instead they return to Brandy Hall and Frodo takes his riding lessons from Aunt Ami, then goes to the nursery to help the nursemaids with the bairns and faunts, then seeks out Uncle Dino about his numbers lesson, and finally returns to Aunt Del and Uncle Rufus’s apartment, where he sees the calendar hanging from the wall by the clock, and he notices that the sixth of Astron is just two days away. So that’s why they’ve been keeping him so busy of late. He had allowed himself to forget, the first anniversary of his parents' deaths. He stands staring at the calendar for several minutes and possibly closer to an hour, then goes to the bathing room and draws himself a bath. His mother had said it was just like a bathtub.

“I brought you luncheon, Master Frodo,” Sam announces and sets a full tray of food on the table next to the desk. “It’s a fine day, isn’t it sir?” He hums as he straightens out the areas of the room that Bilbo had overlooked. His steps have a carefree bounce to them and there is an ever-present smile on his lips.

Frodo looks at the food, not really registering its presence in the room.

“Aren’t you hungry sir?”

Frodo shakes himself and with effort reaches for the sandwich. He takes a large bite and munches until Sam nods with satisfaction and leaves the room. Frodo washes the food down with some water and goes back to his writing, turning to yet another clean page. He stares at it for long moments before reaching for the quill, and dips the nib into the ink.

“I can swim much better than you!” Merry says proudly as he darts about near the shore of Bywater Pool. Frodo sits on the bank with his feet in the water and watches him closely, making sure that the lad’s strokes are clean.

Folco and Fatty watch with puzzlement. They only come to the pool for the fishing, which they are currently doing though they have no hope of catching trout while Merry is swimming about and chasing the fish away. They are determined to get some trout for Aunt Dora’s birthday dinner and they have been coming to the pool every day for the last week. They could have hunted dove instead, but Folco had explained very clearly why they could not. “It was either trout or dove, and I explained that it’d be a lot easier to catch fish because the birds fly too high for our lines to reach them, even if they do like worms. You see, it’s because the line is too light to stay up in the air and the birds aren’t going to come swooping down to catch the worm before the line starts coming down again.”

“You don’t fish for birds, Folco.”

“But fish love birds. Where else would they live?”

Frodo had turned to Fatty for clarification, but Fatty had been doubled over, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Now Frodo gives up trying to figure it out and follows Merry into the pool. They swim together near the shore for a half-hour, then Frodo swims out toward the deeper middle portion of the pool, being very stern with Merry that the lad is not to attempt to follow him. Merry agrees to stay near the shore and Frodo dives beneath the surface of the water, coming up again when he’s at the midway point of the pool. He looks back to make sure that Merry has indeed not followed him and sees his little cousin on the bank fishing with the other lads.

Frodo swims a few short laps, diving and staying under the surface for longer periods of time, until his friends are used to seeing him do that, then he takes a great breath and dives deep, swimming straight down, wanting to touch the Pool’s floor. It’s farther than he anticipates and he’s nearly out of breath already by the time he reaches it. He turns about and kicks himself off the ground, propelling himself to the surface and kicking furiously as his breath runs out. He starts taking water as he nears the surface and when he breaks water, he is spluttering and coughing. He looks at the shore, hoping that his cousins haven't become distraught about him being under the surface so long, but he sees only one solitary figure sitting on the bank. He swims slowly toward the shore and as he gets closer, he sees that the figure is Sam.

“Sam? Are you in this memory?”

Sam shakes his head. “No sir, but Mr. Bilbo wanted you to have this.” He hands Frodo the little blue book. Frodo takes it and studies the cover, which is starting to show wear at the corners, the spine creased. He flips through the book and finds the pages filled with first his mother’s elegant scrawl and later with his rigid writing from when he was younger, the writing becoming more refined with the passage of time. “What is this?”

“Well, I told Mr. Bilbo as you were having trouble with recollecting everything, so he found the real book and wanted you to have it so as you could remember right,” Sam explains.

“Why didn’t Bilbo come himself?”

“He had to leave.”

“How long have you been here?”

Sam laughs and winks. “Oh, you know that.”

“I suppose.”

“Aren’t you going to read it Frodo?”

Frodo nods and sits down next to Sam, asking him with a look to stay where he is sitting. Sam leans back on his elbows and watches the clouds float by overhead as Frodo starts from the first page and skims through the book to its end, the memories flooding back into his mind with such clarity and in such a jumble that it startles him: him with Merry, examining the bug life; with Gil and Edon, collecting likely branches for whittling; with Fendi and Morti, Tucker and Tobias and the other lads, knocking fruit from the trees, eating stolen pies, hiding from furious pursuers; with Saradoc and Merry, picking flowers for Esme’s birthday; by himself, eating his stolen horde of mushrooms with guilty satisfaction; he hears sniffing and snarling behind him and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he runs, the farmer’s heated words following him as surely as the dogs all the way to the Ferry.

The memories still and thin out, coming now one at a time.

He sees the great field just north of Bywater Pool, between the river and the Hill. The field is full of tents and booths and merry hobbits drinking and eating their fill, and at the center of the glade, just yards away from the platform for the band, stands the maypole, its brightly colored streamers hanging down in loose threads from its top. Frodo sits with Bilbo, Dora and Dudo. Dora reaches over to swat his back and tells him to sit up proper, no slouching, and wipe that pout off your face, young lad, you’re too young for worry lines. Dudo hands him a mug full of mulled cider and tells him to sip on it and maybe he’ll feel more inclined to join in on the games and festivities. Bilbo chuckles and tells them both that Frodo’s just fine where he is and doesn’t have to be polite or sociable if he doesn’t want to. Of course after that, Frodo has no choice but to mingle and soon he’s chatting with Halfred Gamgee and playing with little Sammy and the Cotton children, and the Smallburrow lads come over and Frodo instructs Sam, Tom and Robin in a play about the first Spring Festival, and they run up to the band platform and perform it for everyone to enjoy, even though they can’t remember half the words.

Frodo laughs at the memory; he had quite forgotten it. But the next one…

“I bought a property in Crickhollow,” Drogo says as Aunt Del brings tea for him and Uncle Rufus. Milo sits at the other end of the parlor doing his studies and simultaneously helping Frodo with his, but both lads keep one ear to the conversation of their elders. “I’m going to build a small smial there, or have one built for us. Prima doesn’t know yet.”

“You didn’t discuss this with her?” Aunt Del says.

“She’s in no position to make this decision,” Drogo says, his voice tired and strained, dark bags beneath his eyes making him appear forty years older. “Once we’re out of that house, things will improve. Once she’s away from the memories. She hardly ever sleeps in our room anymore.”

“And how are you holding up?”

“It was going to be a daughter,” Drogo says, choking on the last word. He hides his face in his hands and for a brief moment his shoulders shake. Uncle Rufus reaches out and clenches Drogo’s shoulder tightly, keeps his hand there until Drogo takes a huge breath and lets it out. His father lifts his head and though his eyes are dry, they are also red. “We named her Miradora, for her mother and my sister.”

“I was going to call her Mora,” Frodo tells Milo, who smiles sadly, then takes the lad’s hand and leads him outside to race up and down the slopes of Buck Hill.

Frodo frowns at that memoir. It says he went to bed happy that night.

His parents sit on the banks of the Brandywine with Saradoc and Esmeralda, and they sit upon the grass, the lasses leaning against their fellows. Esme is wearing her red wedding dress, the one that matches her hair and makes her green eyes so bright, and Sara still wears his wedding suit, though the waistcoat is unbuttoned and the coat is spread out on the ground beneath him and Esme. They all laugh at something that Drogo has just said and Primula responds, “But it’s true enough I suppose. It does not happen often, that a lass has to wait for the lad to come of age to marry.”

“Or perhaps it was I who did not want to wait,” Saradoc says. “Did you think of that? After all, most fellows don’t marry until they’re nearing forty.”

“I think it’s that you just love a good scandal, Sara, taking a wife as is older than you,” Drogo says with feigned sternness.

“Oh, hush you,” Esmeralda says with a laugh, which highlights her Tookish lilt. “It was my doing actually. I find younger fellows much more accommodating and easier to manage.”

“What? I am not,” Saradoc says in an offended tone, then dissolves into laughter with the others.

The memories speed up again, one building upon the other, so that he barely has time to blink before another presents itself.

His first visit to Hobbiton after his parents’ deaths, standing outside Number Three, Bagshot Row, listening to the new bairn wailing inside while Halfred stands in the lane with him and tries to cheer him up. His third visit to Hobbiton, standing outside Bag End and watching in awe as Halfred laughs and plays with his little brother; one would never know he’d also lost his mother, but Sam… There is a seriousness to Sam that isn’t normally found in children that young. His first summer living in Bag End and his first harvest, Sam showing him around and teaching him the ropes despite being years younger. His first formal ball in Tookland, Bilbo insists on preparing him for it and Sam sits in the corner of the parlor, covering his snickers behind his hands as he watches Bilbo teaching Frodo how to dance. His first attempt at baking by himself, and Sam is there to salvage the mess and then teaches him how to pay more attention rather than wandering off in his mind and forgetting the food.

Frodo closes the book and sits for a time staring out over the surface of the water. Then he blinks up at the sky and the clouds and sees far above, so high they are mere black specks against the blue, eagles circling.

“So what’s the point?” Frodo asks.

“Point to what?” Sam says.

“To everything! Why make me write out my memories if I already had a memoir?”

Sam shrugs. “Can’t say. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

Sam considers him for a moment before answering. “Well, that’s hard to tell. There are any number of reasons.”

“Then tell me what you do know,” Frodo requests.

Sam nods and joins him in looking up at the sky and he too sees the eagles. “I know you’re not as much in need of looking after as some folk think, and that you’re stronger than the rest give you credit for, and you’re by far the smartest hobbit to ever live next to Mr. Bilbo and you don’t much need help with anything, especially not from the likes of me, but it never hurts none to go the extra mile or so my Gaffer says.”

Frodo fiddles with the book, flipping through the pages, spinning it between his hands, flipping it side over side. “I’m not so sure I’m as smart as all that. None of this makes any sense,” he complains.

“Doesn’t it?”

“No! What kind of stupid dream is this anyway?”

“It seems to me as it’s trying to tell you something, but you knew that already. You often have dreams like this after all, though you hardly tell anyone about them.”

“I tell you.”

“Sometimes, but not always, though you hardly need to. I can always tell when you’ve been dreaming something awful. You’re more quiet than usual to start with, and you never bother to comb your hair until round about noon, and your face gets real pinched up and your eyes go far off, and you’re so deathly white it’d be near frightening but that I know you’re alive and well and just needing to let the darkness slip off you a bit.”

“Why do you know me so well?”

“That’s my job.”

“Only your job?”

“That’s my purpose.”

“Yet I don’t know you. Not like that.”

“It’s not time yet, but it will be soon.”

“Then will this dream be over?”

“You’ll find yourself wishing for this dream to come back.”

“I somehow doubt that.”

“We shall see,” Sam says.

He stands and offers his hand to Frodo and helps steady him as he stands up. They walk across the field toward the eastern slopes of the Hill and the gate through the hedges to the lane. They walk in silence until they reach Bag End and Sam goes back to his trimming and pruning. Frodo looks into the study window and decides to remain outside. He goes to the top of the Hill and sits beneath the oak tree there. He picks up an acorn from the ground and squeezes it in his fist. What had Bilbo said about the acorn?

“You can’t grow if you never take root, my lad. This is where your roots are, your shelter.”

“But not you. Not after the Party,” Frodo says.

“No, not me. But your friends and your family and yes, even this protector of yours, whoever he is, though I think if you really tried to puzzle it out, you’d know in a heartbeat.”

“Do you know?”

“Of course I do. I’ve known from the moment you moved here,” Bilbo says.

“Well, who is it?!”

“That’s for you to discover,” Bilbo says and points at the book. “And you need look no further than that.”

Frodo looks down at the book, and recalls the riddle he had been given, how he is to identify his protector, promised to him by his parents in another dream: someone he had met but could not remember, and someone who had never known him up to that point.* Then he looks into his cousin’s laughing eyes and smiles.

GF 3/26/06

* - references “In Darkness Buried Deep” and “When One Door Closes”

There are also some references to the dreams that Frodo has in “A Tale That Grew in the Telling”.

Sam: Legends

“My leg is starting to cramp up,” Tom complains and shifts his weight to his other leg. The movement causes him to pop up over the top of the shrub that he, Sam and Robin are hiding behind.

“Shhh! They’ll hear you!” Sam warns and gently tugs on his friend’s sleeve, urging him back into hiding. They are crouched in the middle of the Woody End, with tall birch trees all around, a shallow embankment in front of them leading up to the road lined with shrubs.

“They got to be here first to be hearing me. They ain’t coming,” Tom says.

“Just give it more time. They’ll come.”

“We’ve given them all morning,” Robin says. He shifts next to Tom, moving from squatting to sitting tailor-style. He peeks through the shrubbery with one hand and picks the berries with his other. He plops the plump juicy berries into his mouth and munches thoughtfully. “Still, it couldn’t hurt none to wait longer. They do say as there are elves living in these woods. We’re bound to see one sooner or later.”

“Really? They say that, do they. And who are ‘they’ and how do ‘they’ know?” Tom asks, copying Robin by sitting tailor-style and leaning forward to keep low.

“They’d be Mr. Bilbo and Master Frodo, and they know because they talk to the elves at times and they’ve seen them down here afore,” Sam says.

“Maybe they only come through at night,” Robin suggests, picking more berries. He offers some to Tom and Sam.

“What do you reckon elves look like?” Tom asks, taking some berries to munch on while they wait. “Mayhap we’ve seen one but didn’t know it because we don’t know what they look like and all.”

Sam shakes his head, both to the berries and to Tom’s theory. “No, ‘tisn’t possible. By all accounts, there’s no mistaking an elf. They’re grand and fair, they are, and they’re as tall as three hobbits standing one atop the other.”

“Why would hobbits stand on each other?” Tom asks.

“To be as tall as an elf,” Robin replies.

Tom looks about the woods where they’re hiding and waiting, measuring the trees with his eyes, and frowns. “Well, if they’re as tall as all that, mayhap these trees just through here are too short for them. They’d have to bend over to walk, and I don’t reckon why anyone’d do that if they don’t got to.”

“Have to,” Sam corrects without thinking and Tom ignores him easily. He and Robin ponder Tom’s point and study the trees as if for the first time. Sam gets up and leaves their hiding spot and stands in front of a slim white birch, looking up at it and trying to measure the height of the lowest branches with his eyes. “You think they’re too short?”

“Could be,” Tom says as he and Robin join their friend.

“Well, you know how to find out for certain?” Robin says, grinning impishly. “Stand on top of each other. There’s three of us here.”

“I ain’t standing on no one’s shoulders,” Tom says with a shiver. The very thought of being even twice as tall as he should be left him dizzy and cold.

“No need for that,” Sam says, squeezing Tom’s shoulder briefly. “Look for branches that equal your height. We’ll tie them together with somewhat and then lean them up against the bole.”

Tom and Robin agree to this plan and they split up to look for branches. Before they are too far spread out, Tom turns around and calls to the other two, “Don’t get too far off now. It’s getting late and if we return home after dark again, Pa’ll put me to mucking out the stables for a month – alone.”

Sam nods and follows a slight slope down a shallow hill, searching the ground for branches as he goes, and soon he can no longer hear or see his friends anywhere. This does not concern him though. He knows that they will be there when he gets back. He continues on with silent stealth and finds several branches of various sizes. The longer ones he grabs up and stands in front of him, but none of them come higher than his torso. He searches for what seems like an hour or more, and finally finds one that is close enough to his height to take back. He frowns as he slings it across his shoulders and carries it like a yoke, thinking of how they will tie the branches together once they all return to the tree. He supposes they can use handkerchiefs to do the job, assuming that Tom or Robin have any with them.

“Shoulda brought rope,” he mutters to himself.

No sooner do the words leave his mouth than a rope drops down like a vine from the tree beside him. Sam stares at it in wonder for several long minutes, blinks at it to see if it will disappear or drop fully to the ground. It continues to hang there and after a while, the rope jiggles as if someone or something is shaking it back and forth from its source in the tree.

Sam looks up into the boughs, and there to his astonishment, hiding up high in the tree, is an elf maiden. Sam’s breath catches and he stands rooted to his spot, afraid to move for scaring the elf away, afraid to blink for finding it all an illusion. He looks up into the elf maiden’s fair face, aged with wisdom, young with vigor and shining with a luminous pale light from within. Her long dark hair, crowned by golden flowers, slips from behind her back to hang loose about her face, and her grey eyes sparkle as stars in the night sky. If he were a poet, maybe he could think of words to describe her beauty and grace, but the best he can come up with is that she reminds him of a pale spring morning after a light shower, dew sprinkled upon the green and the promising smell of new things growing.

He watches entranced as the maiden raises one finger to her ruby lips, gesturing for Sam to be silent, as if Sam can even think enough to make a sound if he wanted to. Realizing this, she smiles kindly and beckons Sam forward with a wave of her slender hand. Sam steps forward, his branch fallen to the ground and forgotten. He hardly feels the ground beneath his feet and he stops when he stands beside the rope, never taking his eyes off the maiden, somehow managing not to trip over himself like the ninny he is.

The elf maiden’s smile widens and she shakes her end of the rope. Take it, the motion says. Sam glances at the rope dubiously, then casts about the forest for sign of his friends. He still cannot see or hear them anywhere, and the golden sunlight that streams down through the boughs of the trees seems frozen by enchantment, just as he is.

The rope shakes again and Sam turns to examine it: silky grey, soft and supple in his hand, yet strong, somehow he understands how strong it is. He looks up at the maiden, who gestures at the rope and grabs hold of it, twisting it around her free hand. Then she frees her hand again and gestures for Sam to do as she just demonstrated. Take it, is the unspoken request. Sam gulps and tries to measure the height of the branch she is sitting upon with his eyes. It is easily more than three hobbits, and possible even more than six. She smiles again, a smile more brilliant than the sun and moon together, and Sam nods: I’ll come.

Sam takes the rope again, still marveling at the almost liquid smooth feel of it, like softened cream running as silk over his hands. He takes a deep breath to cover the pounding of blood in his ears and the rapidness of his pulse, wraps the rope around his hands and grips the rope tightly against the shaking of his body. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath, waiting for the ground to fall away. What he feels instead is a gentle touch upon his shoulder and when he opens his eyes, he cannot help gasping again.

Though he has not moved an inch that he can tell, he finds himself no longer in the Woody End. He turns full circle, taking in with one slow glance the hill upon which he stands. The grass is greener than any he’s ever seen before, sweet grass growing wild and tall, up to his knees, and all along the westward slope to a valley below is a blanket of buttercups, golden and filling the air with the sweetest of nectars. Just behind them are the broken bones of an ancient watchtower, clovers overgrowing the remnants of the shattered foundation. Far off to the east are trees as old as the earth itself and birds of every sort fly in and about the treetops, singing merrily.

Sam smiles at it all, his eyes drinking in the glory that surrounds them, and he rests his hand upon the chalky and crumbled remains of the watchtower’s outer wall. “Where are we?” he asks the elf maiden and looks up at her fair face, seeing her clearly for the first time. From a distance, she had been luminous. Now, she is beyond description and Sam finds he wants to cry at the sight of her. Who is he, to look upon such a vision?

She smiles and gestures to their surroundings. She speaks in the language of her people, her voice silky and melodious and full of radiance. Sam shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he says.

She considers him for a few moments, her eyes searching but not invasive. Then she smiles again and holds out her hand. Sam takes it with utmost gentleness, either from fear of holding on too fast and hurting her, or fear of besmirching her with his dirt-encrusted skin. As they head down the hill and through the buttercups, she gestures toward the valley and says, “Beleriand.”

“Beleriand?” Sam repeats in wonder. “But that was all destroyed. Where in Beleriand are we?”

The maiden does not attempt to understand or answer this. He follows closely at her side, running to keep pace as she glides along the knoll. As they reach the bottom of the hill, the valley stretches out before them, enfolded between two tall hills that block out the sun so that nothing grows there. The hillsides are littered with rocks and boulders, the ground nothing more than grey sand and loose rock chips. The valley is long and after a time, Sam can no longer even see the entrance between the hillsides, the grassy knoll they came down is nothing more than a distant orange glow on the horizon. Sam glances up at the elf maiden, wondering if perhaps he should attempt to ask where they are going and when they will get there, but he cannot begin to think of a way to make himself understood. He knows only a small scattering of Sindarin, none of which will help him here.

The valley floor begins to climb, so gradually that Sam doesn’t even notice the incline until he is huffing for breath and rest. The maiden slows her pace, just as a soft buzz begins to fill Sam’s ears. The buzzing comes from up ahead, at the top of the incline toward which they are heading. Sam glances up at his guide uncertainly, but she does not look down and continues forward without concern, slowing only for his comfort. Sam looks behind them, down the slope to the lower valley, then turns face forward as they reach the upper level and the source of the buzzing comes into view. Sam stops, not even able to gasp this time, his breath is stolen right from him at the sight that greets him there.

The buzzing stops and the multitude gathered in the upper valley turn as one to regard him. Sam steps back and the maiden tightens her grip on his hand, gentle but strong. She looks down at him and motions towards the others. “Mellon,” she says and Sam finds himself corrected – one word at least has come in useful. Friends.

Sam looks back at the elves, men and women gathered there, too many to count. For several minutes he simply stands there, taking in the long, endless stretch of the upper valley, packed with noble and formidable figures out of legends and myths, come to life from all those stories he had listened to as a lad while sitting upon the parlor floor at Mr. Bilbo’s feet.

The men and women are shorter than the elves and rougher about the edges, their stature and manner more brute and hardy but no less noble or imposing. There are simple folk and peasants, as well as warriors and nobles. Most of the elves wear headdresses in their long and flowing hair, their raiment simple and elegant, free-flowing yet heavy enough to keep out all weather. The men and women wear more rustic and worn material, and their faces show their years and worries openly.

“Who are they?” Sam asks. His guide is regarding the crowd with a wistful longing, a single tear sitting unshed in her eyes as she searches the crowd. She squeezes his hand and now it is Sam who offers the support, reaching up with his free hand to pat her arm. He knows not why she is sad, but it breaks his heart to see her so. “There, there,” he says, though he knows she cannot understand him. “No need for tears. These are your folk here, or some of them are? They’re right glad to see you, I’m sure. At any rate, I’m right glad you’re here, keeping me on my feet. I’d likely collapse otherwise. This is somewhat that I’ve always dreamt of seeing one day. It’s overwhelming coming all at once, and unlooked for.”

A smile graces her lips and to his relief, her grief lifts a bit and she takes him forward into the crowd. She leads him slowly through the multitude, and Sam looks up in amazement at all the stern and hardened faces looking back at him with what can only be described as respect. As they pass through the crowd, the men and women bow and curtsy, and the elves nod their heads low. Most of them go by unnamed, but occasionally the maiden will stop before someone and introduce them. Some of the names he knows, some he does not, but all of them he understands to be great warriors or leaders, men and elves of unquenchable valor and strength, and they each bow before him as though he is the one worthy of praise and not themselves. Turin, Tuor, Gil-Galad, Fingolfin, Finarfin, Finrod, Gwindor, Angrod.

The names go on and on, until Sam becomes so overwhelmed his head begins to whirl. At length they come to a tall elf of silver hair and grand stature. Here, Sam feels the elf maiden’s hand shake in his and he looks up to see her eyes brimming with tears that do not fall, and he looks at the elf king and sees that only by great will does he remain silent and still, though the grief flows from him as water down a mountain – unstoppable. Sam’s heart weeps for them both and he wonders why they do not embrace to comfort each other. The maiden gestures toward the king as she has all the others, and with a voice strained to its limits, she says in a whisper, “Elu Thingol.”

Sam searches his memories, desperate to recall the name but he cannot remember ever hearing it before. The king does not bow or nod as the others, and instead places his right hand upon Sam’s brow. He speaks some words that Sam cannot understand but that fill his heart with a heavy peace all the same. Then the king looks upon the maiden and he reaches out as if to touch her cheek, his hand stopping just shy of contact. He withdraws with great reluctance and the maiden curtsies low, kneeling upon the ground, her head bowed. Now Sam can see her at eye-level, and her face is lined with grief unbearable. He reaches out and touches her cheek as the king had not, and her breath hitches slightly, the only sign she makes of the wretchedness that fills her heart. The king steps back, pauses, then turns and walks away, and when Sam looks up, the valley is empty but for a gate at the far end, and a line of guards that stand before it.

“They’re gone,” Sam says and the maiden looks up. She composes herself with one great breath and in an instant she is standing again and smiling down at Sam as though nothing sad had ever befallen her. Sam smiles back, but the heaviness in his heart does not go away. He knows what he saw, and he knows also that he will be in her place one day.

She leads him forward toward the gate. The gate is set between a great wall of iron and is encrusted with gold and silver lining, and bejeweled with glittering gemstones of sapphire, ruby and emerald. The guards stand as still as stone, swords at their sides, and quivers of arrows and bows at their backs. They are imposing to look upon and Sam finds himself slowing as they come closer to them. His guide senses his hesitation and slows her pace until they stand a good twenty yards from the gate. From behind the guards, movement can be seen and a man comes forth.

The man is surpassing beautiful, if such a word can be used for a man, and his face shines with a soft glow. He is hardy and robust, thick muscles sitting upon a tall and wiry frame, and in his eyes is an old wisdom and the conviction of integrity. Upon his brow is a bright golden jewel and sitting on his left shoulder is a great white bird. Again, the elf maiden curtsies, a look of the uttermost respect and love in her bright face and the man bows to her with equal regard. The maiden stands and gestures toward the man, a proud smile glowing upon her fair face. “Eärendil,” she says.

Sam’s jaw drops and he stares up at Eärendil Halfelven, the Mariner, with awe and amazement. “Eärendil?” he manages to croak. “As in, the Star of Eärendil?” He reaches out with his free hand and, in a bold move, takes the man’s hand, shaking it heartily as a smile spreads wide across his face. “It’s a mighty grand honor to meet you, sir. It’s beyond aught I could of hoped for. I always figured as I’d have to grow wings and fly before I’d have a chance of meeting you, and here you are. Folk back home aren’t going to believe this for naught. Why, I’m standing right here and I don’t even think I believe it.”

The Mariner laughs, the most carefree sound that has ever met Sam’s ears. He crouches down to look Sam in the eye, and with great effort and concentration, he says in jilted Westron, “The honor… is mine… Master Samwise.”

“Yours?” Sam says, so bewildered he does not even stop to wonder how this noble warrior knows his name. “But I ain’t never done naught.”

Eärendil searches the gardener’s honest face and softly touches his brow. A warmth spreads through Sam and he closes his eyes against it, feeling it as it travels down his neck and back and stretches out to his fingers and toes. When Sam opens his eyes again, the crowd of elves and men are back, milling behind him some many yards away, and before him still stands the gate, the door now open and the guards standing aside. Sam blinks several times and shakes his head, for his vision has changed and he can see further now, more clearly, and every small speck jumps and dances before him. Eärendil stands and steps aside, waving his hand once toward the gathering behind them and once toward the open gate.

“You must choose, Samwise. Remain or follow,” the Mariner says.

Sam steps forward, once, twice, his hand slipping free from the maiden’s. He peers through the gate to the darkness that lies beyond, then back at the valley full of all those brave and shining heroes from Mr. Bilbo’s stories, and he hesitates. How can he make this choice, to stay among the legends, the greatest and mightiest Arda, where he knows he does not belong; or to follow… what? What will he be following? He looks back at the Mariner and his guide and says, “I can stay as long as I want?”

Eärendil shakes his head. “Stay, or follow.”

“Follow what? Who? To where?” Sam asks, but no answers are forthcoming. Then he understands: his choice is between a known existence that is not his to live, or an unknown path that he may not survive.

They do not rush him, for his is a difficult decision and is not to be made lightly. Sam lingers between want and fear, wanting to stay and hear all the tales these folk have to tell and wanting to go forward to the next adventure, fearing what might lay ahead and fearing that if he stays, he will never be able to return to his friends and family, to see his Shire and its flowers and gardens again.

He sits upon the ground and looks at the elves and men in the valley. They all too had hard decisions to make and they always choose the more difficult path, once push came to shove. Sam figures as that’s what makes them brave and strong, two things that he is not and will never be. He also recalls that by choosing the harder road, they all perished and he had always wondered why they never just stayed home with their families and loved ones, and just like that the choice is made for him. Leave the brave deeds and songs of great praise to the mighty warriors; Sam will go home and help his sisters make dinner for their father, and in the morning, he’ll go out to the Cotton farm and help his cousins mend the barnyard fence and in the afternoon, if there is time, they’ll go to Bywater Pool and paddle in the water.

He stands up and bows to his guide and host. He knows without asking or being told that the elf maiden will not accompany him out of the valley. “Thank you kindly,” he says. “It means more than I could ever say to have met you all.”

“Until next we meet,” Eärendil says and bows.

Sam turns and walks with hesitant yet determined steps toward the gate. The improved vision he had been gifted is now gone, a brief spell quickly faded, and all he sees beyond the gate door is black upon black, no more half-seen shadows as he saw before. He reaches the gate and looks up at the archway towering over his head, and puts a foot through the threshold before he realizes something and stops, turns around, runs back to his host and the elf maiden, who stand watching him. He puffs slightly from the run and looks up at the maiden’s face with guilt and shame.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I never asked your name.”

The Mariner whispers a translation to the maiden, who answers in her melodious voice. Eärendil translates for her. “You will know it when you hear it.”

Sam nods, accepting the riddle. He bows again and says to her, “Until next we meet.”

She shakes her head, and Eärendil says, “You will not meet her again. Go now, Master Perhael, to your journey’s end.”

Sam turns and this time he walks right to the gate and through it without faltering. The gate close to behind him and Sam journeys through the darkness of the black valley until he reaches its end, not more than ten yards away. The hills fall away quickly on either side and a mouth opens to vast plains beyond. The sun shines brightly still and the sky is of the purest blue. Grasslands stretch out before him as far as his eye can see, wildflowers dotting the ground here and there, the occasional tree offering shade from the sun when desired. Sam looks around him but sees nothing familiar. He covers the sun with his thumb and waits for the sun to move, to poke out on the left side; he is facing north, but this does not help him for he knows not where he is to begin with. All he knows is that he does not want to go south again, so he continues north, hoping for the best.

He tracks the time by the position of the sun and after two hours of walking, he stops by a tree and leans against the bole for a bit of rest. He has no food or water, nothing but the clothes on his back. He knows he could walk himself to death before he might find anything that he can eat or a sign of where he is, yet he won’t get anywhere just standing here either. He rests only for a few moments, then continues on his way. Dusk gathers and he comes to a small river. He steps into it gratefully, and both bathes himself and drinks his fill.

He sleeps by the river, drying during the night, which is warm and balmy. The next day, he follows the river west, gathering the edible wildflowers as he goes. It’s not much, but it’s something other than water and he needs the nutrients they provide. At noon he reaches a shallow point in the river and sees salmon swimming by. Carefully and slowly, he steps into the river, crouches, rests his hand on the riverbed, his fingers curled up, ready to grab at the right moment. This can take five seconds or five hours depending on your luck, but Sam only has to wait a minute and-a-half before a salmon swims over his open hand. He grabs it and in one swift motion he tosses it to the riverbank. He catches five more fish in this manner, and at the next tree, he digs a fire pit with his hands and stacks branches for a fire. He searches the riverbed and the bank for a firestone but finds none. He searches his pockets, knowing he will find nothing there. He attempts to start the fire by rubbing two sticks against each other, but he cannot get enough friction to make smoke, much less a spark. He goes back to the river and finds some flint stone. He clacks them together until he breaks off a piece sharp enough to use for a knife. He guts the fish and eats them raw.

At noon the following day, he comes to a bend in the river that will take him south again. So now he has another choice: follow the river, or cross it and continue west. He growls in frustration and runs his hands through his hair, pulling at it tightly. What to do? How to choose? The plains continue on in all directions and for all he knows, he should be going east. But east does not sound good to him, for whatever reasons, yet if he continues west or north, there will be no way of knowing when he will come to the next river. The food doesn’t concern him as much as the water. The days are beginning to heat up and he won’t last long without water, and he has no means of taking any with him if he leaves the river behind.

He sits upon the ground, as good as stuck, and weeps. I should have stayed with the Elves. I was silly to think that I could go on alone. Now I’ll likely die out here, in the middle of nowhere, and no one will ever know. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I can go back. But you can’t go back. You made your choice. Stay or follow and you choose to follow.

Then Sam smacks himself on the forehead and laughs. “Follow, you ninnyhammer. Follow the river.”

But I am following it the right way? Should I have gone east instead?

“There’s no way to be answering that one. Best to go on as I have been and hope for the best.”

The next day, his journey south brings him back to the bare and rocky hills, and the river turns sharply again, running west once more along the feet of the hills. Sam remains on the hilly side of the river, and there he finds the firestones he had been looking for earlier. He clacks them together for good measure and delights at the long-living spark that flies from them to the ground. The spark lives for a few seconds before dying in the dirt, nothing for it to catch hold of and feed upon. He stones a rabbit at mid-morning and crosses the river to a tree in the distance. He makes a fire easily this time, and uses his flint blades to prepare the rabbit for roasting, with some herbs gathered from the fields for seasoning.

After he eats, he buries the fire pit and returns to the river to bathe. Once he’s clean, he cups water into his mouth until his thirst is quenched. That evening, he finds a shallow cave in the hillside and camps there. 

He awakes to a loud, high-pitched screech. He bolts upright and looks about, momentarily disoriented. The screech sounds again, nearby outside. Sam listens to it closely, determines it is some sort of bird, probably going after the remains of the fish he had eaten last night before turning in. He stands, stretches, scratches his chest and yawns. He steps outside and blinks into the morning light, lifting his hand to block the rays from his eyes. He goes to the river, drinks some water as the bird screeches again.

“Sam?” he hears a familiar voice from behind him, high up on the hill.

Sam whirls around, looks up and freezes. A giant eagle sits crouched upon the hilltop, its head twisted to one side so that the bird can look at him with one great amber eye. Sam stares at it, wondering if perhaps he’s gone mad. Did that bird just talk to him?

As if in answer, the bird’s head twists skyward and the eye blinks. The beak clacks open and closed a couple of times, screeching in confusion, then says again, “Sam?”

“M— Master Frodo?” Sam says in disbelief. “You’re… you’re a bird!”

“A great eagle, like you wanted,” Frodo says proudly and puffs out his neck feathers a bit.

“How did you manage it, sir?” Sam asks, too dazed to stop and think about the impossibility of it all.

“Oh, well, that would be Gandalf’s doing,” Frodo answers. “I was worried about you. You’ve been gone so long. So Gandalf made me into a bird so that I could look for you, and I remembered what you said about getting shot down by a hunter, so I had him make me into one of the great eagles.”

“You… you came to look for me?” Sam asks. He walks up and down the riverbank, looking at Frodo from all angles, the massive talons crunching the two-ton boulders to dust, the wings tucked into his sides, brown feathers specked with black and white, the beak sharp and the tail feathers kicking up dust as Frodo adjusts his position upon the hill.

“Of course I did,” Frodo says. “I was afraid I would have to look for quite a while, you’ve been gone that long, but it’s only been a day. I’ve been scanning the rivers and streams for you since I left. I figured you’d stay near any water sources if you found them.”

“We’re only a day out of the Shire?” Sam says, his heart filling with delight and cheer. “That’s good news.”

“Well, a day as a giant eagle flies,” Frodo answers. “It’s probably a good four or five day journey as a hobbit walks.”

“That long?” Sam says, but this news doesn’t abate his joy. He’ll be home soon, no matter how long it takes. “Will you stay with me and keep me company? It’s awful lonely out here.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Frodo says and stretches out one huge wing. Its span is long enough to reach down the hill to the ground where Sam stands. “Hop on. I’ll have us home in no time, since I won’t be spending so much time looking for you.”

“Hop on?” Sam says, doubt trickling down his back, raising goose pimples on his arms. “I don’t know, Master Frodo.”

“Why not?” Frodo asks.

“Well, flying, sir… I’m not much for heights,” Sam says. “What if I pass out and fall?”

“I won’t let you fall,” Frodo says, his voice sounding slightly hurt that Sam would think such a thing. “Just keep your eyes closed tight, and I’ll fly as smooth as I can. You won’t even know you’re moving.”

“But… is this really proper, sir?” Sam asks next. “I should be carrying you, not the other way about.”

“Why ever not?” Frodo asks. “If you can carry me, then I carry you. I’m not a weakling.”

“I know you’re not! I’d never say as you were!” Sam says. He shuffles his feet in the dirt and twirls his shirt buttons absently. He is being silly and he knows it. This is the fastest way back to the Shire and he knows that no matter what happens, no matter how scary it is, Frodo will never let any harm come to him. He screws up his nerve and lets out a steadying breath. “All right sir. I’ll… hop.”

Frodo screeches with delight and stretches the wing a bit further. Sam reaches up, grabs a feather in his hands and holds on as Frodo draws his wing back in, bringing Sam to his broad, feathered back. Sam scrabbles up to the eagle’s neckline and grabs the feathers there, trying to ignore how high off the ground he is and remember that this is his Frodo carrying him. “I’m not holding on too tight?” he asks.

“Not at all,” Frodo says and spreads out both wings. “Now, close your eyes and hold on as tight as you need. I’ll have us home before you know it.”

“Yes sir,” Sam says and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the lift off.

“Sam!” Tom shouts into his ear and waves a hand before his eyes. “What are you doing? We’ve been a calling you for near an hour.”

Sam shakes his head and steps back. He blinks at Tom and Robin, both of whom are looking at him as if he’s lost all hobbit sense. “Sorry,” he says, looking around for any sign of elves, half-elves, men or eagles. “Must of dozed off.”

“On your feet?” Robin says. “That’s a neat trick. You’ll have to learn us that sometime.”

“Come on. We got to get going. We’ll measure the trees next time out,” Tom says. “If we're late and I get stuck with mucking duty, you're both coming over on Highdays to help.”

“Why both of us?” Robin asks. “Sam’s the one as got lost and nodded off.”

Tom claps Sam on the shoulder and guides his friend out of the woods and towards home. Robin offers him more berries and this time he accepts them. As they leave the forest behind, Sam glances back, trying to see any sign of movement in the trees, but the boughs are still and the woods are silent and dim in the failing light.
 
 
 

GF 4/8/06

Chapter 6: Awakenings

Hamfast woke to the sound of someone pounding on a door down the hall. Once. Twice. Then Daisy’s voice cut through the silence. “Sam! Get up lad! You need to fill up them wood boxes.”

No response came that Hamfast could hear and for several minutes the only noise he could discern were the lasses in the kitchen, getting what they needed from the larder and pantry to cook first breakfast. Then Sam’s door creaked open and the lad’s feet shuffled down the tunnel to the front door. As Sam passed the Gaffer’s closed door, the lad grunted in surprise and a loud thump hit the wall a half-second later; at that same moment, the cat hissed.

“Nibbler!” Sam cried in exasperation. Over the last several months, whenever the portly tortoiseshell decided to grace them with his presence, he planted himself outside the Gaffer’s door to keep the floor there warm. Sam always forgot that. “That ain’t no place to be sleeping. I’m going to break something tripping over you one of these days.”

The cat yowled pathetically and Sam shushed it with some soft coos and most likely a few pats on the back and scratches under the chin and around the ears. Then the front door opened and closed.

“Enough for both wood boxes, Sam!” Daisy called out the kitchen window. “And Nibs is just behind you!” she warned, and Marigold peeled with giggles. The young lass always found it so delightful that the cat had the same nickname as the Cotton’s youngest lad, and she always denied that it was actually her who had nicknamed Carl after the cat.

Hamfast yawned and stretched, sat on the edge of the bed and yawned again. He felt drained, as though he had hardly slept a wink, yet the dream he had awoken from still clung to him in whispers, as cobwebs over skin. He tried to shake it off as he stretched once more, eyeing the curtained window critically. He turned his head halfway to the side and eyed the cold, empty half of the bed as he listened to his daughters in the kitchen and caught the faintest hint of Sam whistling to the birds outside.

He was fairly certain he was awake this time, but he pinched himself to make sure. “Ow!” He rubbed his arm and chuckled softly. “Strange dream,” he mumbled and stood up with creaking bones. He washed and dressed, then opened the curtains and stood in the cool sunlight as was his custom. This was a habit he had picked up from Bell, and even after all these years he couldn’t break it, even if he wanted to.

He stepped into the hall as Sam came back inside, Nibbler following right behind. Sam’s arms were loaded with wood, so he hooked the door with his foot and shut it closed that way, keeping his balance with ease. Sam beamed up at his father as the cat ran up and circled around the Gaffer’s ankles, purring loudly. “Morning Dad,” Sam greeted.

“Morning son,” Hamfast said and followed Sam into the kitchen.

The lasses looked up as they entered and smiled in their turn. “Morning Gaffer,” Daisy and May said as Goldie abandoned the dough she was pounding to hug him tight around the middle. “Morning, Daddy.”

“Morning, loves,” Hamfast said and kissed the curly top of Marigold’s head before taking his place at the table.

Sam went to the wood box next to the stove and dumped his load into it. He picked up the logs and chips that fell to the side and tossed them into the stove, arranging them just so. Then he reached for the striker that hung on the hook above the wood box and, after considering it for a while, he struck a spark and started the fire. Once the fire was going to his satisfaction, he put the striker back and headed back outside for more wood for the parlor. The cat started to tag after him again, but Sam pointed behind him without looking and said, “Stay Nibs.” The cat paused, as if considering if he should listen to the command or not, then sprawled out on the floor near the warming stove, right in the middle of everyone’s way.

When Sam was outside, Daisy took over the dough preparation from Goldie. “Go down to the cold house and fetch up some fresh milk,” she instructed. “May, go with her and gather up some rosemary while you’re out. I’ll finish the bread.”

May and Goldie stepped over the cat and went outside. A few moments later, Sam came inside, shutting the door again with his foot, and went into the parlor with his second load of wood. He returned to the kitchen, stepped over the cat, washed his hands clean, then stood by his sister and took over dicing up the vegetables and scrambling the eggs. When the lasses returned, Daisy put the dough aside to set and quickly crushed the rosemary in a mortar. May started cooking the meal and Sam moved on to skin and grate the potatoes for hash. Goldie found a piece of string with a bell tied to one end and curled up on the floor next to Nibbler, dangling the bell in the cat’s face and teasing him with it, pulling it away as he reached up to bat it.

Once first breakfast was served and everyone was seated, Hamfast cleared his throat. “You all have plans for your day off?” he asked.

His children nodded. “I’m going to Widow Rumble’s and helping her with her washing,” Daisy said. “Then I’m going over to Harman’s and helping Mother Woodrow sew the matrimonial gown for his cousin Acantha.”

“Do you know what ‘day off’ means?” May asked with a grin but didn’t wait for the answer. “Jasmine, Viola and I are going to Mable’s Teahouse to meet with the other tweens for elevenses. After that, we’ll probably just poke about the market and then maybe go fishing. We might even go down to Tookland to fly kites again. Marlin made a new one that’s shaped like a fish. He’s going to see if he can get a fish to fly. He’s such a silly little goose.”

“Is that why you’re blushing,” Daisy teased. “Just keep away from the cottages this time. I don’t want to be hearing any more complaints about my unruly sister and her unscrupulous friends.”

“Yes, Mother Daisy,” May said, teasing back. “And we weren’t being unruly or the other thing either. We were just showing that nice Banks lad how to have a good time.”

“By fluttering about him like moths to a flame?” Daisy said. “I don’t think so. No more of that.”

“Fine, fine,” May submitted and dug into her eggs.

“Well, Goldie and I are going down to the Cottons,” Sam announced next. “But first I got to take Master Frodo’s coat and Mr. Bilbo’s plate back to Bag End.”

“That can wait until tomorrow, surely,” Daisy said.

Sam shrugged. “It could, but I need to ask Master Frodo about something. What about you Dad? What are your plans?”

Hamfast cleared his throat and looked his children each in the eye before speaking. “Your brothers will be here end of next week,” he announced, but they already knew that. They were coming in for the Birthday Party. Hamson was close enough to come every year, when he was able to get away for a few days, but Halfred hasn’t been to one since he was prenticed. Master Frodo had sent him a special invitation early, so he could make arrangements. “We got to start preparing for them. Hamson and Carmen will take your room, Sam. You and Fred can fight over the settee in the parlor and the cot I’ll be borrowing from Cartwright.”

Sam shook his head and held up a finger while he munched on a particularly large bit of sausage he had just taken. He swallowed as quickly as he could and said, “Hale’s coming too. Got the letter in the post yesterday morning, but I didn’t have time to tell you, what with everything else.”

Hamfast’s face shadowed in disappointment. “Come on, Gaffer,” Daisy said, knowing her father’s opinion of their cousin. “Did it ever occur to you as Fred’s the one who’s a bad influence on Hale and not the other way about?”

Instead of answering, Hamfast said, “Daisy, I want you to start taking your days off seriously. Tell Amelia you’ll help her tomorrow with the washing while you’re doing everyone else’s, then go pick up Harman and take him to Mable’s to meet up with your sister and her friends.”

“What!” May exclaimed, not the least bit tongue-tied as her sister was. “Gaffer! I said I’d behave. I don’t need a chaperone.”

“There’ll be lads there?” Hamfast said.

“Yes.”

“Then Daisy’s going, but I don’t want you chaperoning necessarily,” Hamfast said to Daisy now. “Take Harman and have some fun.”

“Fun?” Daisy said. The word was not foreign to her but this was quite possibly the first time she ever heard that word pass her father’s lips.

“It’s your day off. No working,” Hamfast said sternly. “Sam and Goldie will go with me to Cartwright’s to retrieve the cot and extra bedding as we’ll need. We’ll come back here and store it in the Goodlove’s shed and then we’ll go down to the Cottons together. I want to spend some time with my youngest saplings.”

“Truly?” Goldie asked brightly. She didn’t get nearly as much time with her father as the other children did.

“Truly,” Hamfast said.

An hour later, as Sam was headed for Bag End, Hamfast caught him up at the garden gate. He measured his son with a thoughtful glance. The lasses might have missed it but Sam had been unusually quiet throughout breakfast and seemed to constantly be lost in his thoughts. Hamfast suspected that whatever was gnawing at his son was the reason Sam wanted to speak with Master Frodo so urgently; he tried to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that told him Sam should be confiding in him instead of the young master.

“Sam,” he said and paused as Sam waited patiently. “Mind your manners lad, but remember what I said afore – no more accepting invites to naught ‘til you speak to me.”

Sam held his gaze and clutched a little tighter at the plate and coat he was holding. “Would that include the hiking trip Master Frodo’s wanting to take after the harvests?” he asked reluctantly, as if he already dreaded the answer he would hear.

Hamfast nodded, considering his words carefully. “You’re a tween now, Sam, and Master Frodo will be of age soon enough. He’ll be as good your master as Mr. Bilbo is. It ain’t proper to be acting like best of friends with your betters. Friendly-like, that’s well and good by all means, but you can’t never forget your place. These little trips and hikes and whatnot as you go on at times, they’re going to stop. Master Frodo and Mr. Bilbo will just have to get on without you.”

Sam continued to hold his gaze for several long moments, during which his grasp on the plate became knuckle-white and even his breath seemed to stop. At last, he let out a slow breath and nodded, his grip relaxing noticeably. “I know where my place is.”

“Good, because I’ve been thinking we’ll go back with Fred to Little Smithy and stay on for a spell, after the Party and the harvests.”

“I’ll tell Master Frodo I can’t go then,” Sam said and turned down the Row for the Lane.  

Frodo woke up smiling. He could hear Bilbo and the dwarves shuffling about in the pantries and kitchen, and could smell the ham and bacon sizzling on the grill. Dwarven customs might not include six square meals a day, but their guests had quickly become used to having first and second breakfasts, even if they ate smaller portions than their hosts and skipped elevenses. They also had embraced the observance of afternoon tea like an old friend long missed. Frodo’s smile widened as he imagined all the dwarves of Lonely Mountain stopping in the middle of their mining and smithy work to sip tea and munch on biscuits and wafers.

Frodo rolled onto his side and snuggled back into the bed sheets for a light doze. Sometimes, if he was patient enough and could hold onto the last image from his dream as he drifted back to sleep, he could fall back into the dream and explore it a bit further before waking fully. He very much wanted to go back into this dream, to that last image under the oak tree with Bilbo at his side and the book in his hand.

The book!

Frodo’s eyes popped open against his will; he was wide awake. He groaned in frustration, knowing his opportunity was lost for good, then slipped out of bed and went to the little desk that sat in the corner of his room. Everything he wrote, for whatever purpose, he kept in that desk and he searched through every drawer until he found the little blue journal Bilbo had gifted him on their Birthday last year. Bilbo had found it, he said, during their last visit to Brandy Hall when he and Saradoc went through Drogo and Primula’s mathom holdings to check the inventory.

He found the book and held it briefly to his chest, then swiveled back on his heels to sit tailor-style against the wall between the desk and the wardrobe. He brought the book to his nose and smelled its musty scent before turning to the first page and reading over the entry. He had never made it past this first entry, but he was determined now to do so. He let his fingers drift lightly over the page and his mother’s writing. This had been her journal from when she was lass, or so the date on this first page indicated. Frodo flipped to the last page and read the date there, then quickly calculated the years in his head. This was her life, from the time she was fifteen to nineteen. There must be other journals, before and after this one, and for the first time he wondered if his father had kept any such journal.

He skimmed the well-known first entry, which told of one of the Hall ponies that passed away, then turned the page to the second entry and began to read.
 

3 Foreyule, 1335  

It snowed last night! At first I was rather annoyed at Dino and Dodi for bursting into my room and yanking the covers off me, and Delly wasn’t much happier when they attacked her next, but once they dragged us outside – in just our nightshifts! – and we saw the snow, we weren’t annoyed anymore. Mother wasn’t very happy to see us outside and she made us come in and eat and dress up proper. We were afraid the snow might melt before she let us out again, but we got to play in it all morning and we made snow hobbits and went sledding down the summit of the hill. Gor-gor said that if we waxed the bottom of the sleds, they’d go faster – and they did! Then Dino and Dodi got tangled into a tree and Dino busted his nose and Dodi broke a couple of fingers on his steering hand and we all had to go inside. Dino and Dodi are always ruining the fun for the rest of us, but it was all right because Manthy, Rory and Adas brought some of the snow inside to one of the large wash tubs that the laundresses use and we played in that until it melted. Then we had to mop it all up because somebody – not me! – started a snowball fight and snow got all over the washroom floor.  

I hope it snows again tonight!

4 Foreyule, 1335  

It didn’t snow last night but there was still some left from yesterday and we got to go outside after second breakfast again. It wasn’t as much fun as yesterday either, but Father showed us how to make a snow smial with what was left. 
 
  

7 Foreyule, 1335  

Dino and Dodi are still upset about their accident and that they didn’t get to play in the last of the snow. Rory told them that next time, they shouldn’t go taking silly risks and pay more mind to where their sled is pointing. Dino and Dodi aren’t talking to Rory right now.  
 

10 Foreyule, 1335  

Mother told us this morning at elevenses that Uncle Fosco and Aunt Ruby are coming for Yule. It’s been ages and ages since they’ve visited, not since Grammie passed ten years ago, or so Father says. They have three children, my second cousins once removed on my Father’s side: Dora, Drogo and Dudo. I was just a little lass last time they came – 5 years old! – so I don’t remember them but Mother says they’re real nice. They live away in Hobbiton, in the Westfarthing somewhere. All their children are tweens, so they’ll probably spend all their time with Gor-Gor and the others.  

Oh, and after tea, Delly tried to show off her new Yule dress for Rufus and she fell flat on her bum and her dress flew right up over her head! She swears she’s never coming out of our room again. Dino and Dodi said it could be worse and that she could have forgotten to put on her smallclothes that morning, but that just seemed to upset her more. Manthy smacked them both over the head for saying that.  

I wonder what my cousins will be like…  
 

14 Foreyule, 1335  

Uncle Fosco and Aunt Ruby arrived this morning and Mother was right – they are really nice. Uncle Fosco said we all look like little adults and Aunt Ruby had little trinkets for us all. The lads all got new cufflinks and us lasses got hair ribbons. Mine was pink. Their children are real nice too. Dora is really quaint, or so Adas said. I’m not sure what that means, but if it means that she dressed real pretty and looks a portrait, then that would be her! Dudo and Drogo don’t say much but they seem real sweet.  

At luncheon, which we took in our private drawing room, Dudo kept making funny faces with his food to make us laugh, and Drogo always made sure we had plenty of food on our plates, pretending to steal it from the main platter while the grown-ups weren’t watching. After luncheon, all my sisters, brothers and I showed them all around Brandy Hall, Buck Hill and Bucklebury. When we got to the sweets shop, Dudo bought all of us younger children lollipops and Drogo bought us a pie from the bakery to snack on. Then Dora took us lasses into a hat shop and bought us all hats with ribbons and flowers around the brim. Mine was yellow with pink ribbon and pink and white lilies. We modeled them for the lads, who pretended to be real impressed, though Drogo said I should have got blue to match my eyes. Then Rory said I looked just fine and what did it matter if the hat matched my eyes? Then we had to come home.  

I like them all very much. They’re so different from Bucklanders but that’s all right. They’re still interesting enough and Drogo’s eyes change color in the sun.  

When Delly comes in from washing up, I’m going to see if she’ll trade me her blue ribbon for my pink one.
 

“FRODO!” Bilbo knocked loudly on the door. “Are you still asleep, lad? I’ve called you four times.”

“Sorry Bilbo! Coming!” Frodo called, shaking himself from his stupor. He stood up and put the journal on his bedside table, then quickly washed and dressed. He found Bilbo and the dwarves in the breakfast nook, where they’ve been eating since their guests arrived, and he took his seat next to Bilbo.

Bilbo poured him some apple juice and looked at him curiously. “You look rather chipper this morning,” he noted.

Frodo smiled. “I feel rather chipper,” he said and dug into his stack of hotcakes.

“So,” Bilbo said and turned back to Nar. “As you were saying…”

“The road was fairly quiet coming out,” Nar reported. “Mirkwood’s always an unpleasant place, but the spiders are fewer now and so long as you can keep clear of the elves – though they’ve promised not to imprison us anymore – the journey can be made without too much trouble. You still have to be watchful coming over or through the mountains; goblins are spotted every now and again, but in small numbers. They’ll usually scatter off on their own if they see too big a party coming through, which is why we’ll be meeting up with the others in Rivendell. It's still no guarantee that you'll get through without a fight; some of the bands are getting bolder but we can generally avoid them. The East Road is a strange stretch, but you can most times get through it without incident. Once you reach the hills around Bree, you’re in safe country. With luck and skill, the journey should be free of any worries, outside of keeping our rations between Bree and Rivendell, and Rivendell and Dale.”

“Is that so?” Bilbo said, sounding rather disappointed. “No spiders, goblins or ruffians about? Not even trolls?”

Frodo chuckled. “Honestly Bilbo, one would think you’re actually looking forward to having your life in certain peril again.”

“Of course not,” Bilbo said crossly. “I wouldn’t mind a little bit of an adventure though, for old time’s sake.”

“We’ll take you to the Iron Hills, if you want adventure. We can explore the caves and old mines there and many of the oldest tunnels haven’t been traveled in well over a hundred years,” Hannar said. “There’s no telling what we’ll eventually find in the deeps.”

“I wasn’t aware that you still had folk living there,” Bilbo said.

“Indeed we do, a good many still,” Anar assured. “Most have returned to the Lonely Mountain, but a couple of the older clans remained there.”

“There is talk about attempting to excavate the Grey Mountains,” Hannar said then.

“Really?” Bilbo said, astonished, and a flicker of excitement flashed in his eyes. “But aren’t there still dragons in the Ered Mithrin?”

“The rumor is that they’ve left or died out,” Nar said, his voice heavy with doubt. “There is much debate. Some don’t want to risk it, for they can’t remember anything valuable ever being in those mountains. Others think it’s worth at least a scouting party, but then there comes the question of who to send. No one wants to go.”

“I’d go,” Hannar said in a low voice.

“No you will not,” Nar said sternly. “It’s madness, such talk. It started when Balin left to resettle Moria. You think they’d learn their lesson. It’s been years since we’ve had word from the south. It can only mean an evilness.”

“I had heard that you lost contact with Balin,” Bilbo said, the excitement gone and replaced with gloom. He and Balin were great friends. Frodo had met him on his last visit to Bag End, so many years before, and he had quickly grown fond of the dwarf. It was disheartening not knowing what had befallen him, if anything.

They ate in silence for a time, each lost in their own thoughts. At length, Frodo said, “Well, I think the Iron Hills sound like a grand adventure. I expect to receive many letters telling me all about it.”

Bilbo nodded, understanding the meaning behind the words: keep the adventures safe and don’t leave Frodo wondering what happened to him. “And so you shall receive them,” Bilbo said, raising his glass in toast.

“Did we tell you that we stopped to visit Beorn on our way out?” Anar said. “When we told him that you’d be returning with us, he insisted that we bring you for a visit.”

“Is he still about then?” Bilbo said, astonished. “I may not have told you this Frodo, but he makes the very best honeycakes.”

From that point on, they spent the rest of first breakfast planning out their return trip, and Bilbo contemplated going to the Trollshaws to see his would-be foes again as well. He was determined on making the most of the journey, though the dwarves didn’t think much of the detour, trolls in the hills or no.

After first breakfast was eaten and the dishes washed and put away, Frodo retrieved his mother’s journal and sought refuge on the roof.  

Sam was coming through the gate as Frodo stepped out the front door. “Morning Sam,” Frodo greeted with surprised delight. “What are you doing here?”

“Morning, Master Frodo,” Sam returned the welcome, smiling to beat the sun. “I brought your things back.” He held out the coat and plate for Frodo to take.

Frodo placed the items just inside the entryway before closing the door. He would retrieve them later when he was ready for second breakfast. “I was just heading up to the roof. Will you join me?” Frodo said.

Sam nodded and fell in behind Frodo as they made their way through the garden. “I can’t be staying too long though,” he said. “Gaffer woke up in one of his moods.”

“Oh?” Frodo led them to the elm tree and up the path to the roof of Bag End. They sat beneath the shade of the oak and looked out over the town and The Water sparkling in the morning light. “I hope it’s not an unpleasant mood.”

Sam shook his head. “No, he just up and changed all our plans for the day in a wink. He gets like this at times but he seems right worked up over something this time. It’ll pass in a day or two.”

Frodo hummed at this and rested the journal in his lap. Sam looked at it with interest. “Is that a new book?” he asked.

“In a manner,” Frodo answered, fingering the spine. “It’s my mother’s journal. I’ve had it for almost a year but was too afraid to read it before. I thought it might make me sad.”

“And now?”

Frodo smiled. “She wrote about when she first met my father. She was fifteen at the time, so my father would have been about twenty-seven.”

“They were that far apart?” Sam asked.

“Twelve years,” Frodo said, then something seemed to dawn on him, for he gave Sam a long, searching look. “Just like you and me.”

“He must’ve known,” Sam said, regarding the little book thoughtfully. “He must’ve known from the time he met her, that she was the one. That’s why he waited.”

“You think so?”

Sam nodded. “That’s a good eighteen years from the time they met that he’d have to wait for her to be old enough to marry, unless your grandfather was one of them hobbits as let his daughters marry young. But even then, that’s a long time to wait. I think he knew, like my Gaffer knew. He and Ma were six years apart, which isn’t too bad, but still, he knew from the moment he saw her standing out in the market square in the middle of a rainstorm, and he waited near on ten years for her even though he couldn’t be sure she’d have him in the end.”

“Is that how your parents met?” Frodo asked, intrigued. He had never heard Sam talk about his mother before.

Sam shook his head. “Oh, they’ve always known each other in one form or another, seeing as they were both from Tighfield, but that was when he knew he wanted to marry her.”

“Well, my mother didn’t seem to think along those lines – she was only fifteen after all – but she did notice him right away from all appearances,” Frodo said. He opened the journal to the last page he had read. “Do you want to hear?”

“I’d love to, sir, but I do have to get going. Gaffer’s waiting and he’s in a mood as I said,” Sam said. “I was wondering if maybe I could ask you somewhat, if it’s not too much of a bother.”

“It’s never a bother, you know that well enough,” Frodo said, setting his book aside. “What is it?”

“Well, I had this odd dream last night and seeing as you’re always having strange dreams, I thought maybe you could tell me if it meant aught at all. It weren’t like no dream as I ever had afore and I’m not even sure I’d really call it a dream, it were that real-like,” Sam started.

“Really?” Frodo said, images from his own dream coming back to him in whispers, in particular the one of him and Bilbo under this very tree, when Frodo found the answer to his riddle. In waking, he knew it was likely nothing more than wishful thinking, knew that in all likelihood he had no such protector, yet here he was under the oak tree again and Sam next to him, talking about dreams. “What sort of dream?” he asked, immensely interested to hear what his friend would say.

So Sam told him everything he could remember, every detail that was still etched vividly in his mind’s eye, from beginning to end. He kept his eyes far off as he spoke, and only when he reached the point of meeting Eärendil did a smile brighten his face and he looked at Frodo with earnestness. “It was really him, sir, I know it was, because he didn’t look anything like I thought he would. I had this idea of what he would look like, since I was but a faunt, and I even tried drawing him once but I can’t draw for naught. When I saw him, I didn’t recognize him and it wasn’t until the elf maid told me his name that I knew who he was. So it had to have really been him, right? I mean, why would I dream him looking different?”

“I’m not sure,” Frodo said. “Maybe in your dream, you realized he might not look how you thought he would.”

“Maybe,” Sam said and paused before continuing his commentary. The far off look came back, until he reached the point where Frodo found him. “You’ll never guess what you looked like,” he said with a grin.

“I’m afraid to ask,” Frodo said with a laugh.

“You were an eagle, one of them great ones, and it was a grand sight. You brought me home, and then I was in the woods again, with Tom and Robin, and the elf maiden was gone and so were you.”

“But I brought you home,” Frodo said. “I wasn’t there?”

Sam shrugged. “No sir. I looked for you, but it was just us three. So what does it all mean?”

“I think,” Frodo said, “that if your Gaffer is in a mood, and Bilbo’s acting odd himself, and me reading this journal I’ve ignored for a year and you of all hobbits wondering what a dream means… I think it means we should stay away from dwarven food.”

They laughed for a time over that, then Sam brought up the second item of business. “Speaking of my Gaffer being in a mood, I’m afraid I can’t go hiking with you after the harvests. Gaffer’s got it in his head that we’re going to visit Fred for a spell. I’m sorry sir. I know as you were wanting to get away for a bit.”

Frodo shrugged and forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, hoping to hide his disappointment. “That’s all right. It was just a spur of the moment thing. I was just thinking out loud, nothing more. Maybe I’ll go down to Tookland and visit my relations there for a spell.”

Sam nodded and let the matter of Mr. Bilbo’s whereabouts after the Party remain unspoken between them. They sat in silence for a time, until Sam felt he couldn’t delay his return home any longer. He stood up and brushed the grass and leaves from his breeches, then bid his master farewell. He was on the path down the roof when Frodo stood up and, quite without meaning to, called after him. “Sam, wait.”

Sam paused and turned about. “Yes sir?”

Frodo peered up at the tree overhead, reached out and fingered the bole, sturdy and solid to his touch. “What does oak mean to you?”

“Mean to me, sir?”

“A rose means love and sunflowers mean pride, I know that. But what about oak? Does it mean anything?”

Sam came back to the tree and placed his hand on the bole next to Frodo’s. He considered the tree for a time before answering – its thick trunk, its large sheltering canopy of leaves and boughs, its roots entwined deep in the earth. “It’s strong,” he said. “It grows wider and thicker than any other tree, so it’s got a more commanding presence, but not in an arrogant way. It’s just more noticeable is all. It gives the most shade than any other tree. It’s sheltering, nurturing. It’s everlasting, always here; it endures.”

A genuine smile graced Frodo’s lips then, but uncertainty remained in his eyes. “And what of an acorn?”

“Well, an acorn grows into an oak. It’s wonderful, isn’t it, how something so grand and strong can come out of one small seed. You wouldn’t think it by looking at it, if you didn’t know what it was, that it will one day be a mighty oak, the greatest of the trees. So I guess, if you think on it, the acorn is the promise, the… what’s the word?”

“Potential?” Frodo said and Sam nodded. “You really believe that?”

“I do.”

Now the smile reached Frodo’s eyes and he felt tears of joy forming. He had forgotten until last night his father’s old nickname for him, simply because no one else had ever called him that. Just as only his mother ever called him ‘Fro’, his father was the only one to address him as ‘acorn’. He looked up at the tree with new appreciation, his hand still pressed firmly to it alongside Sam’s. He looked at his friend who, in the course of one dream and one speech, had become so much more.

“My father used to call me that,” he said now. “I was his little ‘acorn’. I was his promise?”

“No sir,” Sam said and gently placed his hand over Frodo’s. “You’re the tree.”

Frodo beamed as bright as the sun then, and the tears that streamed down his cheeks were of joy. Sam may or may not be his protector, if indeed he was truly meant to have one, but Frodo promised himself again what he had promised upon their first meeting: he would be Sam’s protector and friend, for as long as the gardener would let him, and he had better start now. He slipped his hand away and ruffled Sam’s curls.

“Trot on home now lad,” Frodo said, “before your father comes tearing up the Hill to look for you.”

“You’ll be all right?” Sam asked.

Frodo nodded. “I will.” He sat back down and returned to the journal. “I’ll sit here and read while I’m waiting for Gandalf to arrive.”

“He comes today? With his fireworks?” Sam asked, excited, and in that quick instant, he was again the jubilant and carefree hobbit he had always been. He hopped a little where he stood.

“He does, which means he’ll be here tomorrow. Enjoy your day off,” Frodo said.

“Very well, sir. Have a good day yourself, Master Frodo. See you in the morrow.”

Sam was gone in an instant. Frodo sat back against the bole, meaning to close his eyes for a brief moment and enjoy the serenity that surrounded him. He was fast asleep and dreaming peacefully when Gandalf arrived an hour later.

The End

GF 4/18/06

Author’s notes to follow. :)

This is my brief and inadequate attempt to explain just what I was thinking when I wrote this story. ^_^
 

Sugar and Spice

Of Dwarves and Spicy Food

I’m not sure how I came to the conclusion that dwarves cook spicy food, but I’m pretty sure that the concept goes all the way back to my “Real World” parody. The idea started off as a throw-away joke in that parody, in which Sam attempts to save Frodo’s digestive system from Gimli’s over-zealous use of cayenne pepper, and is the only parody element to survive into my regular fanon. Spicy foods just seem to fit the dwarves for some reason, but I’ve never had an opportunity to use this idea in a story before since most of my stories are pre-Quest and therefore do not involve dwarves. So I was very excited at being able to use this element here.

Of Dreams

What can I say? I’m a sucker for dreams. I always love it when I can work dream sequences into a story because I think dreams are just trippy and weird. They allow you to go out of the norm and get really scary or even over-the-top silly. They’re also a wonderful platform to use to analyze the deeper workings of a character’s mind without the character himself having to get all introspective and pensive.

I also always wanted to do a “Restless” type story and this provided me the perfect opportunity to do so. “Restless” is the Season 4 finale of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, and in that episode, all the main characters are examined via dreams – we see where they are currently, what they fear, what they’re hiding, what their pursuits are, and we see glimpses and hints of where they are going. This story became the perfect opportunity to not only do the trippy dream sequences that I love so much, but to really dig into the hobbits’ psyches and see what they are really about at this moment in time.

Of References

The dwarves’ names come from volume VI of the HoME. Also from “Return of the Shadow”, I took the original concept that Tolkien had in his first draft of “Long Expected Party” about Bilbo hiding in a cupboard the day after the Party, and gave that idea to Frodo here. I can very much see Bilbo doing something like that if it were a different point in time, and I can also imagine Frodo making such a suggestion, in a vain attempt to keep Bilbo with him just a little bit longer. The gifts, of course, are from FOTR. The description of the dining room comes from my story “A Tale That Grew in the Telling”.
 

Hamfast: Family

Of all the hobbits, the Gaffer would be the one least likely to realize that he is dreaming and so would be least likely to control what happens in his dream. His is therefore the most nonlinear and incoherent. He’s also been a father for thirty-six years now, and has been raising his children alone for seventeen of those years. His children would be foremost in his mind, and any parent can tell you that no matter how old their children get, they still worry about them.

The Groundhog’s Day effect:

The Gaffer is the most homebound and least adventurous hobbit of the four. It only makes sense that his dream would repeat on a loop, much the same way as his days do. One day is just like the last, with some mild variations here and there to distinguish the passing of time. Even then, after each change occurs, that sequence then repeats itself several times before another change takes place. Hamfast isn’t one who initiates or tolerates change and he’s slow to accept it.

The Man in the Moon:

Yet, despite his unwillingness to change and his insistence on everything and everyone being in their place, there is no denying that he admires Bilbo and Frodo greatly. Buried very deep under that rough and gruff exterior is an almost childlike soul. This perhaps explains why he will listen, though be it halfheartedly, to Bilbo’s stories about elves and dwarves, and why he doesn’t mind Sam spending more time inside Bag End than out.

Children and woes:

The loss of Bell forever changed the Gamgee family, in both obvious ways and in ways they hardly think to take notice of. Hamfast will always be yearning for that one last embrace, though there could never be enough last embraces. She fades out of his dreams the same way she disappeared from his life – unexpectedly and far too soon.

Hamson, the eldest of the children, would have found himself, at the age of eighteen, suddenly in the position of surrogate caretaker to his younger siblings. He would have been forced to come of age over night. As a result, he thinks too much and too deeply about everything, analyzing things from every angle before coming to the same decision that common hobbit sense would have arrived at much sooner.

Halfred, already the troublemaker in the family, relied on what he knew best – jest and banter. He would rather play about and have fun than think about anything serious – quite the opposite of his older brother. The more set apart he was from Hamson, the better, as far as he was concerned. The thought of settling down irks him, and he’s found a like-minded friend in his cousin Hale. Gaffer must cringe every time he hears stories about the sorts of trouble Hale-and-Hal are getting into.

Daisy would soon find the job of surrogate caretaker coming to her after Hamson was apprenticed to Tighfield. She had taken the mantle of Mother Daisy with her younger siblings soon after her mother’s death, but she didn’t truly start acting it until Hamson was gone, and Halfred clearly was not going to take on the job. She found herself not only responsible for her young siblings but Halfred also. She took her duties to the next level, extending herself to her friends and neighbors as well. She truly does feel like she is responsible for everyone and everything, but she’s carried the burden so long that she hardly registers it anymore.

May would have just started to receive lessons from her mother about the practical things in the life, most importantly about how to be a proper lass. Those lessons would have been cut terribly short and never really taken up again, until she came to the age that she started to become interested in boys. She would then rely on her friends’ opinions and wouldn’t have the benefits of her mother’s sensibilities. She would go from lad to lad, and often set her sights on those above her station, looking for that perfect lad and not realizing that there is no such thing, yet once she had the lad in her clutches she wouldn’t really know what to do with him. The headaches are just beginning for the Gaffer!

Marigold was most affected by her mother’s death and also the one least aware of how she was affected. She’s been raised by the village: first her siblings, then Missus Rumble who took the girls and Sam in while their father and brothers were working, then Lily Cotton, and anyone else who was able to look after her once her sisters started working. She is the most insecure about her place in the family and has the least time with her father. It’s no wonder she kept ‘getting lost’ in Hamfast’s dream, and why no one bothered to bat an eye about it.

Of Sam and Odo

While the Gaffer might not mind Sam spending time at Bag End, there is no denying that Sam is being greatly influenced by his masters, learning to read, hearing all those elven tales, getting fanciful ideas put into his head day and night. Hamfast might love his son and admire his ability to read, but he’s also worried about what all this individual attention from his betters is having on Sam. It’s come to the point that Hamfast at times barely recognizes his own son, or perhaps more accurately, hardly sees any of himself in Sam.

Through Sam, Hamfast is continuously reminded that he has none of the appeal of Bilbo and Frodo, and he fears the day that Sam might be seduced away for good. Yet even this fear, as great as it is, is not enough to propel him away from his home or cause him to even be the tiniest bit less homebound. He sees no reason or purpose in adventuring. Indeed, he doesn’t even see the purpose of having a means of leaving town! When the ‘bridge’ it built, its made of the flimsiest material there is.

Odo is so named because that is the name of the Gaffer’s neighbor in Number One, Bagshot Row. Hamfast wouldn’t make up an outlandish name for his dream and would simply borrow one that he already knows. Odo’s seeming arrogance towards Frodo is the Gaffer’s own sense of jealousy and inadequacy coming to the fore. Yet even in his dreams, he is unable to admit that he does have such feelings of ill-will toward the masters that he admires, so it must be delivered by an unknown person he can’t really see. Being unable to see Odo for who and what he is therefore becomes two-fold, for when Odo turns into Sam, it becomes clear that Hamfast no longer really recognizes his own son.
 
 
Bilbo: Adventuring

Of all the dreams, this one borrows the most from “Buffy”, most especially the opening sequence in the cave. The idea of nonchalant Frodo ruining Bilbo’s stealthy entrance to the dragon’s den was inspired by the episode “Fool for Love”; the big bad dragon who’s a little less frightening than you would expect was inspired by the two-apples tall fear demon from “Fear Itself”. Smaug the Lizard also seemed at times to be channeling Ming T’ien from “Xena”, Mushu from “Mulan”, and Yzma from “The Emperor’s New Groove”.

Of Cracked Nuts and Marbles

Well, the inspiration for this should be obvious, or so I would hope. It’s because Bilbo is cracked, and Frodo is cracking (and proud of it!) ^_^ Marbles are quite valuable things to lose, and while Frodo has the opportunity to get some of his back, he goes and squanders them on nuts that are already cracked! There’s just no helping those two.

Of Bilbo’s Not-So-Great-Adventure

It’s a fact of life that we can sometimes remember things being better or worse than they actually were. Bilbo may have enjoyed the more humdrum parts of his adventure but now that the date of his departure is fast approaching, a certain amount of cold feet is only to be expected. He worries that this adventure might not be as exciting as the first, filled with nothing but those humdrum moments, and that he might have tricked himself into believing his first journey was grander than it actually was (rather ironic, if you consider the advice Bilbo gives Frodo at the beginning of Frodo’s dream.)

Then there’s Frodo. Bilbo is keenly aware that Frodo would go with him in a heartbeat, yet he himself is not ready to have Frodo join him. He also knows that Frodo is not yet ready for such an adventure. Enthusiasm is all well and good when listening to a great tale, but it can land you in trouble on a real adventure.

Of Smaug, Rings and other Perilous Things

Smaug may have been the big bad on Bilbo’s adventure, but the worm is nothing compared to what Bilbo faces now: the temptation of the Ring and knowing that he’ll be leaving that ring to Frodo. The dangers from his adventure have now been supplanted by those closer to home – his feelings of detachment and fading away, his growing moodiness and wanderlust, feeling trapped in the confines of his very own Shire and itching to get out of it. Frodo might be able to bat these things away with a rolling pin and send them to time-out, but Bilbo has lost his ability to do so. He must leave and feels that he should not even be lingering this long; the only reason he does so is because that is what he had promised Frodo and he believes that it will make it easier for him to give up the Ring.

He worries though that these feelings of restlessness that have been growing on him over the years will also slowly start to take Frodo over. Frodo at first merely laughs at Smaug’s attempts to hypnotize him but, quite without realizing it, Frodo begins to be lured by the dragon’s whispers and suggestions, until they share an almost symbiotic relationship. What will happen to Frodo when Bilbo is no longer there to protect him? Yet it is equally obvious that Frodo is ready to stand on his own two feet and Bilbo hopes that if Frodo remains in the Shire and doesn’t venture Outside, that he will continue to be able to tame his dragons with ease (even if the same cannot be said of the SBs).
 

Frodo: Memories and Memoirs

This dream gave me the most trouble to write. I could only get snatches of it at a time and even then, the whole memory/sequence would not be complete or would shift on me to something else. So I decided to make this Frodo’s problem by making him the one who couldn’t piece his dreams together coherently, and as soon as I did that, it all fell into place. ^_^

Of Bilbo

Bilbo bookends the dream in much the same way as he bookends Frodo’s life in Bag End. Frodo goes to Hobbiton to live with Bilbo there, and he eventually leaves the Shire to live with Bilbo in Valinor. Bilbo also dispenses some valuable last-minute advice on a matter that has plagued Frodo greatly thus far in his life: his memories.

Of the Nature of Memories

While Frodo does have many fond memories of his life in Buckland, much of it (and indeed, most of his very earliest memories) are overshadowed by the death of his parents. They are overshadowed so much that Frodo cannot remember anything else of those earlier years and is reluctant to think on them too long. Bilbo attempts to show him how his mind is tricking him by first making Frodo write down what he remembers (the distorted memories reshaped by tragedy) and then giving him the memoir (the actual recordings of that timeframe). By doing this, Frodo is able to see that while there certainly was grief and tragedy, there was also great joy and love, and that sometimes, those two emotions overlapped. Once Frodo realizes this, he should be able to look at that time in his life realistically and begin to let go the last of the ghosts that cling to him.

Of Sam

It was in another dream that Frodo is told (or believes that he is told) that his parents, before they died, chose a protector for him, someone that would stay by him always and never leave him. He wasn’t told who that protector was or when he might meet him, but was given a riddle of how to identify him: it was someone who Frodo had met but did not remember (at the time that he first received the riddle) and was someone who never knew Frodo. Frodo clung to this promise during the rest of his stay in Buckland, but after moving to Bag End, the need for that reassurance was no longer needed, for he had Bilbo to watch over him. Now, Bilbo is leaving and he is beginning to feel again the depths of the uncertainty that defined so much of his childhood. Naturally, his subconscious would return again to this forgotten promise of a protector.

As it turns out, the answer to the riddle was there the whole time, and it took the two versions of Sam to see it. There is the carefree Sam that Frodo sees every day and knows so well, and the thoughtful, introspective Sam who Frodo almost never glimpses. It is the carefree Sam that constantly pulls him out of his reveries and despair, as had been his role all along, and it is the thoughtful Sam who brings him the answer to his worries – the real journal, which contains the memory that answers the riddle indefinitely: the first time he met Sam. It’s no wonder that the answer to the riddle eluded him for so long. Frodo didn’t remember meeting Sam as a newborn and standing outside Number Three listening to the baby cry, for he himself was lost in his own despair at the recent loss his parents.

At the end of the dream, Frodo believes that he has the answer to the riddle (and he does) but he will not confirm it for many more years to come, not until the Quest.
 

Sam: Legends

This one came as a surprise to me. It had been my intention to have Sam’s dream would be the most carefree and inane of the four, and instead it turns out to be the most prophetic! I knew only that it would begin with him and his friends in the Woody End, that Sam would see an elf, and that it would end with Frodo as an eagle. Everything else came in the writing of it.

Of Elves

Naturally, if Sam is going to dream about anything, it would be elves. Lúthien is his guide for their stories have many parallels once the Quest is under way. As Lúthien follows Beren and helps him to retrieve the Simaril, Sam follows Frodo and helps him to destroy the Ring, both items that Sauron coveted. When Beren is captured, Lúthien saves him with her song. Sam sings in Cirith Ungol and in that manner finds Frodo and is able to get him out of the tower. Beren is maimed when he claims the Simaril; Frodo is maimed when he claims the Ring. Lúthien leaves behind everyone she loves to be with Beren at the end of their lives. So too does Sam leave the Shire to join Frodo in Valinor.

Sam has admired Eärendil since he first heard the story of how that great star got set into the heavens. For Sam, meeting Eärendil would be like our version of meeting Jesus/Buddha/Krishna, whatever be your deity. So it’s only fitting that Eärendil deliver him the choice that will forever be Sam’s to make: stay or follow. Stay in the Shire, or follow Frodo on the Quest. At Cirith Ungol, that choice is reversed: stay with Frodo’s dead body, or follow through with the Quest and destroy the Ring. At the Grey Havens and again at the end of his life, he must choose to stay in Middle Earth or follow Frodo. Sometimes his choice is to stay, sometimes to follow; the choice is always difficult but the answer always comes clearly and suddenly to him.

Of Being Lost

Clearly, I had “The Valley of the Horses” by Jean Auel in the back of my mind while I wrote this section. Sam is left completely to his own defenses and he pulls through with little complaint or despair. He uses all the resources and intelligence he has available to him to make it through, and even though he knows not where he is or where he is going, he remains optimistic and keeps one foot in front of the other. Very much like he will later on, and under much more dire circumstances.

Of Frodo

And just when I have you all thinking that everything in these dreams have a deeper significance, Frodo being a great eagle has none whatsoever. Frodo is an eagle because he and Sam talked about Frodo being a great eagle just before they ate dinner. However, that it is Frodo who comes for him, and not the Gaffer or any other of Sam’s family or friends, is significant. Sam looks to Frodo to be his guide and he knows, deep down, that there is nothing Frodo wouldn’t do to for him. He has no doubts that Frodo would protect him at a moment’s notice, nor does he ever doubt Frodo’s friendship of him. His mind tells him its not proper, but his heart knows full well that this is simply the way it was meant to be. Frodo bears him home, and just as will happen later, once Sam is home, he looks around and finds that Frodo isn’t there. Yet his other friends still are and they make sure he is take care of, even as Sam now looks after Frodo.

Thank you all for reading! I know it was strange at times but hopefully it was worth it. :) 
 
 
 
GF 4/18/06