Flooding and Glamours

       As Isumbard Took emerged from the public stable in Michel Delving he saw Brendilac Brandybuck coming out of the inn, accompanied by young Fosco.  He found the sight of the young Baggins, now twenty-three, brought back memories of the year when he was twenty-five and Frodo Baggins was not yet twenty-one, when a wager made behind the ale tent at the Free Fair made it clear that Frodo was one of the best dancers in the Shire.  His heart gave a bit of a twist at the thought of his lost cousin, and he realized that Brendi must feel the same twist even more often, as he and Narcissa were now fostering Fosco and his twin sister.

       “So, you, too, are making a point of greeting our new Mayor to his office, are you?” Brendi called.

       “Of course,” Isumbard answered.  “How could I miss it?  The Master of Bag End is now the officially elected Mayor of the Shire, a long-awaited development.”

       “Although we’d always expected it to be a different Master of Bag End in that capacity,” the Brandybuck responded.  Then, after a moment, he added, “You know, he told me that Sam would be the next Mayor.  He showed the gift of foresight so often the whole time I knew him.”

       “Even when you two were little ones?”

       Brendi nodded.  “At least this time when I stand up beside someone for Frodo’s sake it will be in a more pleasant capacity than it was standing by Lotho’s co-conspirators,” he commented.   Bard smiled.

       The door to Will and Mina Whitfoot’s house opened, and Will, Mina, and their nephew Gordolac Whitfoot came out, accompanied by Samwise Gamgee, dressed as he’d been the day his position as Frodo’s adopted heir had been officially announced, the dark green jacket with the deep blue brocade lining over the brocade vest, the watch chain with its pendant key stretched across his chest, the breeze ruffling his dark gold curls.  If anyone looked like a mayor ought to look, Bard thought, it had to be Sam.  The two lawyers and Fosco hurried across the square to the entrance to the Council Hole, determined to be there before Sam entered officially for the first time.

       There were a number of Hobbits already inside the Mayor’s office, including the Master of Buckland, the Master of Long Cleeve in the Northfarthing, Odovacar Bolger, the Thain, and a few other notables from throughout the Shire, most attended by their heirs.  Even Benlo Bracegirdle and his son Laslo were there, Bard noted.  Pippin and Merry stood by their fathers, obviously proud to be there today for their friend.

       The party that had walked across from Will’s house now stopped outside the door.  “This is as far as I’m going, Sam,” Will could be heard saying.  “I’ve waited far too long to give over responsibility for these, but I do so now with a good deal of pleasure and relief.  The keys and the gavel are now yours, and I don’t ever want to be charged with them again, understand?”

       There was laughter both within and without the office.  “I see, sir,” Sam said solemnly.

       “Now, let me be the first to greet you officially.  It’s all yours, Mayor Gamgee.  And I know as you’ll do right well by the Shire.”

       “I’ll do my best--you can be assured of that, Will.”

       “I know you will, Sam.  Good luck to you.  And now, Mina--shall we go collect the trap and head for the farm?  It will be wonderful to be out of Michel Delving for more than a few days at a time, you know.”

       “Good fortune to you, Mayor Samwise,” Mina could be heard saying.  “Yes, Will, we’ll leave as soon as we have the last of the luggage and the hamper loaded.”  And they could hear the two voices heading back toward the square as Sam finally appeared in the doorway, pausing, obviously surprised, as he looked at those inside the room.

       Those within the office applauded, and Sam flushed, although he remained straight, his head high, as he waited for the clapping to die down.  When at last all was quiet again he stepped inside and examined the gathering with interest.  “Quite a number more here today than was here afore when Mr. Frodo come in the first time,” he observed.

       “That’s true,” replied the Thain; “but on that occasion there was far less time for planning, you know.  Although we look for you to do as fine a job as he did.”

       “As I told the May--Will, I’ll be doin’ my best to see to that--not that I could truly match him none.”

       Merry stepped forward to lay a thick envelope of silver silk, the flap sealed with black wax impressed with the White Tree of Gondor and seven Stars of the united kingdoms, in Sam’s hands.  “Now that you’re Mayor, here is your first official dispatch from the King,” he said.  “And yes, I know that Pippin’s the official messenger for the King’s business, but as senior cousin I insisted on the right to deliver it this time.  After all, I’m the one who collected it day before yesterday from the messenger who brought it to the Bridge.”

       Sam examined the address given, slipped a finger under the seal and carefully opened it, then extracted the enclosed pages.  His lip twitched as he unfolded and examined them.  “So much for as just how official they is,” he commented, raising his eyes to Merry’s.  “Most is pictures as the Princess Melian has done and wished to send to us and the bairns.”  He gave a broad grin which Merry found himself returning.  “Although apparently the family foresight’s struck her, it has.”  He turned one to show to the rest, showing a rough figure that might have been a sea creature apparently sitting on a chair on one side of what appeared to be an uneven table.  A line of words below in Tengwar lettering had been written obviously by an adult.  “This one reads, Uncle Sam at his new desk, like my ada.”  All laughed.  Several had met the Princess some years previously when her parents had come north to attend conferences for the Northern Peoples, and she’d spent a good deal of time playing with Sam and Rosie’s children.  Apparently the small children born to a Dúnedan and an Elf were just as likely to draw odd shapes to represent folks as did those born to Hobbits.  Sam shuffled through a few more pages until he found the actual letter the packet contained, and read it rapidly.  “Well,” he said finally, “her ada’s congratulating me on my election as well, so it appears the foresight isn’t limited to the royal daughter.  And he’s askin’ as how the West Road is doin, and if it might need proper pavin’--seems as Arnor’s willin’ to send in proper stones for pavin’ it if we was to wish it.  It is part of the official road system for Arnor, after all.”  He looked up and around the room.  “Next time as the family heads meet, shall we discuss that, then?” 

       There was a good deal of mutual sharing of questioning gazes before the Thain answered, “It sounds perfectly appropriate for the agenda.”

       Sam gave a thoughtful nod as he set the papers on his desk, then reached into a pocket to bring out a green stone disk to weigh them down.

       Both Bard and Brendi found themselves straightening with memory at the sight of that disk.  “Where did you get that, Sam?” Bard asked.

       “Found it in Buckland, first time as I went there after Mr. Frodo left,” Sam replied, surprised at the reaction the sight of the thing garnered.  “Why?”

       Merry was now sharing looks with Brendi, then turned to look again at the new Mayor.  “Where did you find it, Sam?” he asked.

       “In the old mill buildin’,” Sam answered.  “Minded me of him, you know, so I asked Mac if he thought it’d bother any if’n I kept it.”

       “Near the low space where the flour used to be scooped down into the bags,” Merry commented.  “Yes, that was where he put it, just before he left to live with Bilbo.”

       Brendi was nodding, smiling gently at the memories stirred.  “Said it was part of his life in Buckland and part of the land’s own memories of when the Men of the West used to live there, and he wouldn’t take it out again.  Left it in the Mill, which Cousin Rory and Bilbo both told us had been shown to have been built over the foundations of a much older mill, one built by Men.”

       A slow flush had been creeping into Sam’s face.  “You mean as it did have to do with Frodo after all?” he asked, looking from Merry’s face to that of the Brandybuck lawyer to that of Isumbard Took.  He looked long at Bard’s face.  “And how is it as a Took knows about such a thing as this as he didn’t bring west of the Brandywine?” he asked.

       “Brendi and I both saw it the day he found it, you see,” Bard answered....

*******

       “Cousin Bilbo, when will it get here?  I’m freezing!”

       Bilbo looked at where young Isumbard Took stood by his pony’s head as they waited for the Buckleberry Ferry to reach the near dock here on the west side of the Brandywine River.  “Stand on the other side of your pony so he breaks the wind for you,” the older Hobbit suggested.  “Stand closer to him, too, and use his warmth to keep you warmer.”

       “I don’t see why I had to go with you, Cousin Bilbo,” the young Hobbit grumbled as the ferryhobbit finally brought his craft bumping against the near dock.  “I don’t care if I get sick, too.”

       “That may be so, Bard my lad,” Bilbo shrugged as he watched the family coming off preparing to lead the ponies pulling their wagon over the gap between barge and dock.  “However, as it’s your mother who’d have to take care of you if you did and she already has her hands full caring for your sister and your father, if she feels she doesn’t wish to have to care for you, also, I’d say she’s well within her rights to send you off for a time longer, hoping you’ll manage to not become ill as well.  Besides, I think you’ll find you actually enjoy Buckland and some of your Brandybuck cousins.”

       The central part of the Shire had been struck by an epidemic of measles, and it appeared more were ill than weren’t  between Overhill and the Great Smial in the Tooklands.  Bard had been visiting his grandmother in the Woody End when it struck Tuckborough, and his mother quickly decided she had no interest in having him contract it, too.  Bilbo had been visiting Paladin on the farm at Whitwell and was preparing to head east to Buckland next, intending to spend a few weeks first with Drogo and Primula and then at Brandy Hall.  A quick messenger was all it took to summon Bilbo to the Great Smial as he left the farm, at which time he readily agreed to intercept Isumbard and keep him away from the danger of contagion.

       Once they were aboard the ferry and had the ponies calmed, Bard asked, “How come you didn’t get it?”

       “Measles, lad, is a disease one can only get once, properly speaking.  I had it many years ago when I was about twelve or so.  Therefore I’m now proof against it and can’t carry it on to anyone else.  You, however, are a different matter, and as it’s a disease that seems to hit older youngsters even worse than it does young ones, your mum is right to want you to stay away until it runs its natural course within the Great Smial.  Then, if you do catch it anyway, your mum will hopefully will be more rested to deal with it appropriately; while if you don’t catch it at all, so much the better.”

       “Why doesn’t Mum get sick?”

       “I believe she had it when she was about nine or ten, when the measles were running rampant in the Northfarthing where she lived with her parents.”

       The ferryhobbit cast off and began poling the barge back across the river to the east bank.  Bilbo chivvied the teen between the two ponies and joined him there, then checked to make certain his cloak was properly fastened closed.  “Here,” he said, “I think this ought to be about the best we can do to keep warm while we cross the river.”

       “It is warmer between the ponies.  Where did you learn to do this?”

       “The Dwarves and I had to do this several times during our journey, especially when we were going through the mountain passes.  A good pony can be a lifesaver in the wild, we found.”

       For about the last three years Bard hadn’t completely believed Bilbo Baggins had indeed gone on his much-celebrated adventure, but now he found himself wondering if perhaps at least part of it might be true anyway.  “I’m beginning to think spring is never going to come this year,” he said, looking up at the lowering sky.  “We haven’t had a truly warm day for ever so long, it seems.”

       The ferryhobbit looked up as he poled the barge past the midway point in the river.  “If you two are wise, you’ll ride quick once you’re off the ferry.  Looks as if it might begin rainin’ again.  I’d advise you to get to the Hall as quick as you can and tuck yourselves in for the night.  I suspect we’re in for quite the storm.”

       Bilbo looked up also.  “I fear you’re right, Obi.  We’ll hurry on to Drogo and Primula’s smial, then.”

       “They live in River Place, don’t they?  River rises any this time, you may regret that before mornin’.”

       As they docked on the western bank Bilbo looked again at the growing dark of the sky with an increased level of concern in his eyes.

       They rode south from the Ferry along the river, past fields and orchards, farms and smallholdings.  Ponies ran along rail fences to keep their mounts in view as long as possible, then turned back to shelter on the lea side of byres; and here and there a dog would run barking out of a dooryard, most quickly called back by their masters.  Once they had to stop to allow a long line of ducks to waddle across the road from the river to shelter in a hedgerow; another time a child came running out of a dooryard to catch up a roaming hen and bring her back home to stow her safely in the hen house before the promised storm hit.

       Following Bilbo as he was, Bard had to admit to himself that the old Hobbit rode his pony well.  Bard hadn’t been aware Bilbo rode, as every time he’d seen him the elderly Baggins tended to be either walking or driving a trap.  Since Bard had ridden one of his family’s ponies to his grandmother’s home, however, Bilbo had agreed to ride one of the Took ponies this time instead of driving.

       Apparently feeling the weight of his young cousin’s awareness, Bilbo looked back.  “Have I grown an extra pair of ears or some such interesting event, Isumbard Took?”

       Bard flushed.  “No,” the younger Hobbit answered.  “I was only wondering when you learned to ride, is all.”

       Bilbo gave a snort.  “Do you think my mother would have countenanced me going without such training?  She was Belladonna Took, and old Gerontius’s own daughter, after all.  And how do you think the Dwarves and I traveled most of the way to the Lonely Mountain?  We did have to walk some after the goblins stole our ponies, but did get the loan of more from Beorn until we entered Mirkwood, and later we rode from Laketown to the Mountain.  I certainly rode one all the way home.”

       “Then why don’t you ride more?”

       “Why?” echoed Bilbo.  “Well, first I can go some places on foot I can’t take a pony.  Then there’s the fact I just happen to enjoy walking on my own feet, not to mention it’s much cheaper.  You see, I don’t have to buy hay and pay for stabling for feet as I would have to do if I kept a pony.  And, contrary to popular belief, I am not a spendthrift.  Plus I can carry more gifts and luggage in a trap than in saddlebags or a pack when I do decide to take transportation.  If your mother hadn’t charged me to bring you with me I would have walked this time, storm coming or no.  Although, now we’re so close I think we should encourage the ponies to go a bit faster.”  With that he kicked his pony to a canter, and Bard quickly followed suit.

       The ridge into which Brandy Hall was dug was rising in the distance on the left when they approached a copse of alders and a spreading willow just short of a low hill into which a smial appeared to be dug.  Looking up at the trees under which they were preparing to ride, Bard just had time to mark a figure on one of the wider limbs of the willow before it leapt out of the tree to light just before them.

       “Uncle Bilbo!  Uncle Bilbo!” a small Hobbit lad clad in a warm brown cloak shouted as Bilbo and Isumbard found themselves working to master their startled ponies.  “Uncle Bilbo, you’re here at last!  You’re late!  Where have you been?”

       “Hold, hold, Frodo Baggins!” Bilbo laughed as he brought his steed under control.  “Hasn’t your father taught you not to startle ponies by popping up under their noses like that?”

       The child laughed.  “My dad doesn’t know from ponies, Uncle Bilbo.  You know that!  And I didn’t pop up--I leapt down!”

       “Another thing your predictable father would never have done, then,” Bilbo said, shaking his head.  “Well, hurry on ahead and tell your mummy we’ll be there shortly.  We must get the ponies into the stable, I think.  I don’t know what you’re doing climbing trees in this weather and with a storm coming as it is.”

       “She’s been at the Hall seeing the healers,” the lad said.  He turned that way and smiled.  “Here she comes--and Sara and Mac and Uncle Rory are coming with her.  See?”

       The wind was rising, coming over the river, blowing the cloaks of the seven Hobbits eastward as the four coming from Brandy Hall came even with small Frodo and the two from the Westfarthing.  “Here you are at last!” Primula Brandybuck Baggins said with great pleasure as Bilbo and Bard dropped from their mounts.  “It’s about time, you know.  Frodo here ran out of patience sometime yesterday morning, and I see he was the first to greet you.”  She turned to her son.  “And where’s your father?”

        “Went to the river bank with Uncle Dinodas to see if the water’s rising,” the child answered.  “Aunt Esme was putting the bread in the oven when I came out.  She’s supposed to be minding me,” he explained to Bilbo.

       “And did you bother telling her you were going out?” his mother scolded gently.  At the lad’s contrite look in response she sighed.  “I see you didn’t.  She’ll be worried sick you’ve wandered too close to the water now the current’s picking up.  Come along, then.”

       The three others were shaking their heads.  Rory sighed.  “This one’s more Took than either Brandybuck or Baggins I’m afraid, Bilbo.  Good to see you at last.  And who’s this?”

       “One of our younger Took cousins, Rory.  This is Isumbard Took, Hildigar and Lily’s firstborn.  I agreed to bring him along with me.  Have there been any cases of measles here?”

       “No.  Running through the Great Smial, is it?”

       “Indeed it is.  Bard here’s been with his Banks grandmother near Woods Hall for the past three weeks, so we’re hoping he’s not been infected.  Both his younger sister and his da came down with it, though, so Lily has her hands full at the moment.  He was due to return home yesterday, so I just picked him up along the way as I headed this direction.”  He turned to the younger Hobbit.  “Bard, this is your Uncle Rorimac; Rory’s Master of Buckland and Brandy Hall.  And these are his sons Saradoc and Merimac.  You ought to remember Sara as he’s husband to Esmeralda, who is Paladin’s sister.  This is your second cousin once removed Primula, and this young rascal, as you can tell, is her son Frodo.”

       Merimac smiled.  “We’ll take your ponies for you.  Drogo and Aunt Primmie don’t really have a proper place for them, you know.”

       Saradoc looked at the rapidly darkening clouds, then turned to Primula with concern.  “Perhaps the five of you ought to come stay in the Hall tonight, Aunt Primula, Bilbo.  If we get much rain and snowmelt from the mountains to the east we could have flooding again.”

       “Nonsense,” Primula said, shaking her head.  “It’s only three years since the Brandywine overflowed its banks the last time.  It’s too soon for it to happen again.”

       “You really think the river counts intervals between flood years, Primmie?” Sara asked.  “This storm shows every sign of being a nasty one.”  At Primula’s scoffing expression he gave a sigh.  “We’ll leave orders for the door to be left unfastened and the door ward is to admit you if you need it.”  At that moment great drops began to fall from the clouds.  All looked up.  Saradoc looked to his father.  “We’d best get these ponies back to the stables before the rain becomes drenching, Dad.”

       “Wisely put, son,” Rory said.  “If you’ll take your saddlebags and pack, we’ll head up to the stables then.  And you are invited to join us for dinner, or at the very least for second breakfast tomorrow.”  He looked down at Frodo, his expression indulgent.  “Willow’s planning griddlecakes with brambleberry syrup, young Hobbit.”

       “Ooh,” the child said, then looked at his mother.  “Please, Mummy--can we go up for second breakfast, then?  Please?”

       Primula was already pulling her small son under her cloak as the rain became heavier.  “We’ll see, Frodo,” she said, refusing to promise.  “We’ll see what the morning brings first.  Now we’d best get our guests back to the hole.”  She smiled up at Bilbo, who was removing his saddlebag from his pony.  “Let’s hurry, or we’ll be having to wring out our cloaks.”  She smiled at her brother and nephews, accepted a brief kiss from Rory, and turned to herd Bard and Frodo toward River Place, Bilbo following closely behind with his pack on his back and the two sets of saddlebags over his shoulders.

       The doorway to the smial was a bit sunken; but the entranceway was comfortable and inviting, and the parlor quite cozy once their cloaks had been removed and hung to dry.  A Hobbitess came from further back in the smial, from the kitchen, quite familiar to Bard.  “Cousin Esme?” he asked.  “Good to see you.”

       “Bard?  What in Middle Earth are you doing here?” she asked.

       “Mum doesn’t want me to catch the measles, so she asked Cousin Bilbo to bring me here.”

       “Well, it’s good to see you.”  She fastened her attention on the small Hobbit who was hanging now on Bilbo’s waist.  “There you are, Frodo Baggins!  And where did you go off to the moment my attention was fixed elsewhere?”

       “I went out to watch for Uncle Bilbo, and he got here at last, Aunt Esme.  It’s raining now--did you realize?  Uncle Sara says the river may come over its banks again.”

       “Well, I certainly hope it doesn’t.”  She turned to Primula.  “What did the healer and the midwife say?”

       The other Hobbitess’s face was now more serious, but still she smiled.  “So far, so good.  There’s no indication I shouldn’t be able to carry this one to term--at least, not so far.”

       Bilbo gave a sigh of relief.  “That’s good to hear,” he said.  “I was wondering if you ought to try again, after the last time.  Losing three out of four isn’t a good sign.”

       Esmeralda’s sigh was even deeper than Bilbo’s.  “I just hope it keeps so, Primmie.  Well, I think your dinner ought to be ready in about twenty minutes--certainly the bread should come out of the oven then.  I’d best hurry back up to the Hall if I don’t wish to be soaked by the time I get there.”  She took the one dry cloak that hung on the pegs in the entranceway, hastily pulled it about her and fastened the cloak brooch, then after hugging each of the others she pulled open the door and slipped out, closing the door firmly behind her as she went. 

       Primmie hurried to peer out the window by the door.  “Good,” she said, “Rory waited for her and will see her back safely to the Hall.”  She turned to her guests.  “Let’s go back to the kitchen--it will be even warmer there.”

       Drogo Baggins came in almost before the four were seated around the table with warming mugs of tea.  Drogo was tall, reflecting the tendency toward greater height common to his Bolger uncles, with the broader build common to the Bolgers as well, although his face was Baggins handsome.  Young Frodo appeared to take very much after his father, although he’d obviously inherited his eyes from his mother--large, expressive blue eyes with finely arched brows and long, dark lashes.  “Well, Cousin,” Drogo said to Bilbo, “I see that even if you’re a day later than we’d expected you didn’t come unattended.  You’re Bard, aren’t you?” he asked.  “Been a few years since we saw you last.  You’ve grown a good deal.  How old are you now?”

       “Thirteen, Cousin Drogo.  Almost fourteen, actually.”

       “That’s right--you’re about five and a half years older than Frodo here.  What an introduction to Buckland, though--arriving at the beginning of an early spring storm!  But it’s beautiful country here this side of the Brandywine, you’ll find.  A different type of beauty than in the Tooklands or near Hobbiton and Bywater, though.  Dinner about ready, love?” he asked his wife as he pulled his son into his lap.

       Dinner was wonderful.  It was well worth the trip, Bard decided, just to eat Cousin Esme’s cooking.  Certainly the chicken baked with mushrooms was fantastic, as were Cousin Primula’s mashed potatoes whipped with butter, sour cream, and herbs.  All were cheerful and many stories were told, and Bard found himself laughing uproariously along with the rest.

       Once the meal was done Bilbo and Drogo cleaned the table and kitchen assisted by the two lads while Primula prepared a second guest room for Bard’s use.  Then as Drogo took young Frodo to the bathing room for a bath Bilbo and Bard found themselves in the parlor where Bilbo quickly built up the fire.  “So,” Bard commented, “that’s my famous cousin Frodo, is it?  He’s quite a bit younger than I’d thought.  I thought you told me he can read and write and all.”

       “He can,” Bilbo said as he pulled out his pipe and began filling it.  “He’s one who turned out to be a natural at reading and writing.  I’m teaching him Sindarin now.”

       “You mean Elvish?” asked the Took lad.

       “There are several Elvish languages,” Bilbo said as he took a long splinter of wood out of a holder on the hearth and lit it from the fireplace.  “The two spoken mostly here in Middle Earth are Sindarin and Quenya, although I believe there are two or three sylvan tongues as well.  I’ve studied mostly Sindarin as it’s the most widely known, although I will probably work on Quenya as well one day.  I do know a very few words already.”  He lit his pipe, snubbed out the splinter, and making certain no spark remained on its end he replaced it in the holder for use by Drogo or in lighting candles and lamps later.  He puffed on the pipe to make certain it had taken, then commented around its stem, “Young Frodo is one of the smartest young lads it’s been my pleasure to know.  He’s about the smartest and one of the most responsible as well, for all he’ll slip out in all weathers with no fear.”

       “My mum would kill to have his eyelashes,” Bard commented as he pulled himself closer to the fire.

       Bilbo laughed.  “Most of the ladies and lasses of my acquaintance would.  He and his mum have the most attractive and expressive eyes I’m aware of.  May be from the Goldworthies--certainly the combination of Goldworthy, Took, Bolger, Brandybuck, Boffin, and Baggins in him has produced an extremely good looking little lad.  Not that he’s all that small, of course.  After all, he’s the tallest his age in the area.  And you’ll find he’s quite a determined little thing.  Let him set his mind on anything and he’ll see to it he gets it or it will get done.”  He smoked determinedly for a few moments and produced a fine set of smoke rings.  Finally he sat down in an easy chair with a great sigh.  “He’s one of my favorite relatives, I must say.  But then it’s often so when you find your presence is so strongly appreciated.”

       Primula came in and sat down in the rocking chair that sat to one side, her right hand over her belly.  “This one is finally moving some,” she said, her eyes introspective.  “Frodo was the only other one who was so active.  I’m so hoping this is a good sign.”

       “Does he understand, do you think?” Bilbo asked.

       “Not completely, I’m afraid.  Because of the other losses we’ve not spoken a great deal about it, although we aren’t hiding the pregnancy from him.  If I make it through the next month we’ll discuss it with him at length and explain he’ll soon have a little brother or sister.  If I don’t----”  She gave a sigh and an expressive shrug.  “He was such a delightful bairn and is such a dear child, it’s a shame not to try at least this last time for another.”  Her eyes were sad.  “That Esme and I should both have difficulties wasn’t something either of us anticipated.”

       Bard felt embarrassed.  The knowledge that Primula Baggins had suffered multiple miscarriages had made it to the Great Smial, of course; but he’d not been aware that she was again carrying and wasn’t certain how he should react.  At almost fourteen he was expected to know the reality of how bairns came into the world, of course; but his parents hadn’t discussed associated subjects with their son such as how they might be lost before their time.  However, living in the Great Smial made it impossible not to learn of such things, for with so many families so close together it was inevitable there would be at least a couple such incidents each year along with the successful births.  Adalia Took, Ferdinand’s bride of a year, had lost a child in December, just before Yule, at which time the subject of Primula Baggins’s repeated attempts to carry a child to term had been brought up, with the successful birth of young Frodo pointed out by Eglantine as an example of hope, followed by the loss of the next child after Frodo offered as a warning by Lalia.  As one of Isembold’s grandsons, Isumbard hadn’t previously thought much as to why some Hobbit ladies had so many children while others might have but one or two.  However, Ferdinand and Bard’s own father Hildigar, one of Isembold’s several sons, were close friends, and so of course his own family and that of Paladin Took had been seeking to offer Ferdinand and Adalia comfort when Lalia admitted herself to the company and made all equally miserable.

       Bilbo smiled as he finished his pipe and tapped it out on the hearthstone.  “I’ll tell you what--I’ll prepare late supper for you.  Would you like something like potatoes fried with bacon and eggs and mushrooms?  And perhaps some toast?”

       “Oh, that would be nice, Bilbo.  And there is a pie made from the last of the winter apples in the second larder for afters.”

       “Well, if there’s any heavy cream in the cold room I shall certainly see to it, Primmie.”

       Moments later Bard was with Bilbo in the kitchen assisting in fixing the meal and setting the table when Drogo and Frodo emerged from the bathing room, both laughing, Frodo clinging to a wooden duck that had been painted yellow.  Frodo was sent to join his mother in the parlor while his father turned to assist in the preparation of the meal.  Bard could hear the sound of the child’s conversation with his mother, more laughter, and then the sound of singing, at first from the mother but swiftly joined by the small lad, who had a clear, sweetly high voice.  Bilbo paused in his work to listen, a gentle smile on his face.  “It’s always such a pleasure to hear those two sing, Drogo,” he commented.  “And after what Lobelia had been saying I was beginning to wonder if Primmie would ever sing freely again.”

       Drogo gave a snort.  “Well, we know what sort the S-Bs are, Bilbo.  Lobelia couldn’t dampen Primula’s spirits indefinitely, you know.  At least here we don’t have to deal daily with the old harridan or hear others spouting all her mischief as if it were true.”

       The meal was quickly on the table, and soon they were all sitting down to enjoy it.  Primula was sparkling with pleasure, Isumbard decided.  He hoped that when he was old enough to marry he might meet such a lass as she.

       They had repaired to the parlor again to hear a story by Bilbo when the knock came.  Drogo opened the round blue door to admit Dodinas, one of Rory and Primula’s brothers.  “Thought I’d come in and dry off for a time,” he said, smiling after hanging his wet cloak in a corner of the entranceway.  “I’ve been walking the banks of the Brandywine.  The rising of the river slowed about an hour ago, so it appears that the threat of flooding is past now, particularly as the rain has also slowed down a good deal.”  He turned to lift small Frodo onto his shoulder.  “And what have we here?  Isn’t it the question box?  Tell me, Frodo Baggins, why is the sky darker at night than it is in the daytime?”

        “Because the moon doesn’t give as much light as his sister the sun,” Frodo explained.

       “Ah, very good--you remembered,” the older Hobbit laughed.

       “Why are the stars so small?” Frodo asked.

       “That is a question to ask your Uncle Bilbo, Frodo.  He’s certain to know the Elves’ story for it.”

       “Well, as it happens,” Bilbo said, “I happen to have a book with the story of how the Lady Elbereth scattered the stars in my pack.  Shall I fetch it out, lad?”  And in moments he had done just that, bringing out a book bound in leather dyed a deep blue with silver stars embossed on it, then sitting again in the easy chair and taking the child in his lap before he opened the volume.

       “Did you bind this one, Uncle Bilbo?” the child asked.

       “Yes.  I translated it a few months ago from a work Lord Elrond sent to me, and I sent it back while on my way to visit Paladin and Eglantine on the farm at Whitwell.”

       “Do they like it there since the bairn came?”

       “Pearl is already two, Frodo.  And they say it is a wonderful place to have a child, away from the gossiping of the Great Smial.”

       “Away from Lalia,” muttered Dodinas as he accepted a mulled cider from Drogo.  “I swear she’s as bad or worse than Lobelia Bracegirdle.”

       “Don’t you dare refer to her as that should you see her again,” Bilbo warned.  “She’ll give you an earful and then some about how she’s a Sackville-Baggins, thank you very much, and then begin making up some story to tell Peony as to how you are suffering from some dread disease and will die an awful death.”

       “She still predicting your death due to dire circumstances, Bilbo?” Dodinas asked him.

       Bilbo laughed.  “She’s finally about given up on it, as I’ve outlived three such predictions already, and I’m bound and determined to outlive her and Otho both.”  He found the page he wanted and said, “Here we are now.  Now, attend, all, and hear the story of how it was that Light was given to the world, according to the Elves.”

       Frodo’s face was alert and his eyes bright as he listened to Bilbo read.  Now and then he’d stop Bilbo and ask how particular letter combinations were pronounced.  He was an attractive child, his skin pale, his cheeks nicely colored, his intent blue eyes clear and watching everything.  He was clearly following along the story as Bilbo read it aloud, and would reach to turn the page for Bilbo without being told when.  Only when the story was finished did he sit back and take his eyes away from the pages of the book.  “I wish I could meet an Elf,” he sighed.

       “You undoubtedly will some day, Frodo Baggins,” Bilbo said.  “And I think you and the Elves will get on famously.  They admire intelligence, you know.  When you’re older and your mum and dad allow you to accompany me on my rambles I’ll be certain to introduce you.”

       “Who are the ones in the grey and green cloaks who ride along the road, Uncle Bilbo?  Are they Elves?”

       “Elves?  No, those are Men, although I’m told they’re Men who have some Elvish blood in them.”

       “Not particularly fair to look on,” Dodinas sniffed.  “Although they tend to be taller than the Men of Bree, I think.  Their faces tend to be rather grim.”

       “If you faced the dangers their people have faced over the millennia, you’d look grim, too, Dodinas,” Bilbo sighed.  “I’ve met with a few of their folk over the years.  Don’t like to talk that much about themselves--very private folk they are.  But they’re very honorable, and associate with the Elves of Rivendell.”

       Dodinas didn’t look particularly convinced.

       At last Dodinas took his leave, and those remaining in the smial of River Place went to bed.

       It rained all night, and continued raining the following day.  They did go up to Brandy Hall for second breakfast, where Frodo, who’d obviously charmed Willow, the main cook, reveled in griddlecakes, brambleberry syrup, and sliced ham.  They visited with the Master and Mistress and Saradoc and Esmeralda, but were back at River Place by elevenses. 

       Shortly after noon the weather grew worse, and the rain grew heavy, blown by strong west winds.  The windows on the side of the smial toward the river rattled, and Bilbo went out to fasten the shutters closed.  It seemed dark and unaccountably dreary, particularly compared to the preceding night when all had seemed warm and cheerful inside the hole.  Dinner and late supper were light, and all tended to be distracted during them, listening to the wind as it slammed at shutters and the creepers growing on the side of the hill. 

       Primula was feeling heavy and uncomfortable and went to bed with little Frodo soon after late supper; and once her door was shut Bilbo and Drogo, without a word between them, began going through the smial, rolling up rugs and stowing them on higher shelves in the store room, and with Bard’s help picking up items off the floor and seeing them stowed securely.  Finally Bard and Bilbo went to bed while Drogo went to take a turn watching the river’s level.

       Bard woke in the night with no idea as to where he was.  Things, he noted, sounded odd, as if there were a strange echo from the floor.  Then he heard the movement of water as his bedroom door was opened.  “Bard,” called Bilbo, his voice carefully controlled, “are you awake?”

       “Yes,” the younger Hobbit answered.  “I just woke up.  What’s wrong?”

       “That flood they were predicting has hit, Bard.  We’re going to have to leave the smial by the back door and go up to the Hall.  We may be able to come back tomorrow to fetch things, but I suspect we’ll have to wait at least two days.  But we need to go now.  The water is rising pretty quickly, and I have no idea how high it will rise in here.  It’s ankle deep at the moment.”

       Bard quickly located his pants where he’d placed them on the chair in the corner of his room, pulled his shirt and jacket over his nightshirt, grabbed his saddlebags off the chair, and joined Bilbo in the hall.  Bilbo had Frodo in his arms while Drogo was carrying a protesting Primula, who’d been wrapped in a blanket and a thick cloak. 

       “I can walk by myself, Drogo!”

       “You were starting to spot earlier this evening, love.  I’ll carry you now, so you may as well stop the complaints.”  Drogo’s voice was steady, but Bard could make out the deep shadows around his eyes as he moved to hold his wife more securely.  He looked at his son in Bilbo’s arms.  “You have your arms about your uncle’s shoulders, son?”

       “Yes, Daddy.”

       “Good.  Don’t let go, but try not to choke him.  Is he properly covered against the rain, Bilbo?”

       “As well as I can.”

       “Bard, will you go into Bilbo’s room and get his pack and put it on, then his saddlebags.  And I have a bag there on the table in the kitchen I wish you to take before we go out.  Your cloak is there, too.”

       Bard fetched the saddlebags and Bilbo’s pack, made certain they were carefully closed, settled the bag from the kitchen table over his right shoulder; and they crept into the pantry beyond the kitchen where a side door led outdoors.  The water was now midway up Bard’s calves, and he felt a wave of anxiety rise in him as Bilbo opened the side door and saw to it the rest left ahead of him.  Water was pouring down the ramp into the pantry from the level of the garden, and it was difficult walking up the incline against the current out of the slightly sunken smial, but Bard made it and offered what support he could to Drogo and then Bilbo.  They were now working their way through the flooded garden and out the side gate in the low hedge.  It was impossible to shout over the noise of the wind, and Bard found himself grateful that it was at his back.  Two Hobbits, one of them Dodinas, were headed their way carrying canvas cloths they wrapped around Frodo and Primula, and with their extra help they worked their way up out of the rising water the half mile to Brandy Hall where Saradoc was helping another family into the larger smial.

       Water was being heated in the old boilers in the bathing rooms, and soon all were being washed clean of the mud they’d gathered along the way, the memory of the chill of the rising river’s overflow cleansed away by the hot water in the great copper baths.

       Then Merimac was showing Bard and Bilbo to a large guest room in which Bard learned Bilbo usually stayed when visiting the Hall, and the older cousin insisted Bard, now wearing a clean nightshirt loaned by a younger cousin, get into the bed and then drink some chamomile tea.  “I’ll join you in a moment, but right now you should get as warm inside as you are outside.  I want to go check on Primula and make certain she didn’t take any harm.  This was a great disappointment to her, and I don’t want her so distressed she loses the child.”

       Bard nodded, and sipped again at his mug.  He was three quarters asleep when the door opened to admit Bilbo again.  He felt the mattress give on the opposite side of the bed, heard a brief, indistinct mutter as the old Hobbit settled his dressing gown over the back of the chair on that side of his bed and blew out the low flame of the lamp, and felt the tug of the blankets as Bilbo pulled them over himself.

       “Is she all right?” Bard asked, yawning.

       “She seems to be, although she’s been crying with disappointment,” Bilbo sighed.  “I think she’ll be well enough.  I certainly hope she will, at least.  You comfortable, lad?”

       “Yes.  Night, Cousin Bilbo.”

       “Good night, Bard.  Sleep well.”

       And in moments Bard was doing just that.

II

       After second breakfast the next morning they went out.  A wind was still blowing, but it was considerably warmer than they’d seen in some months.  The clouds had mostly blown away eastward, and the sky was now almost completely clear, with scudding clouds here and there against a washed blue.

       Many stood on the rise outside the main doors to Brandy Hall and looked westward toward the river, and saw what appeared to be a great lake spread across the land on both sides of where the river ought to be.  Bard could see the rise of the hill into which River Place had been dug, and the lower one on which the alders and the willow grew where Frodo had met them two days earlier.  “They look like islands,” he commented.

       “For the moment they are,” Bilbo answered him, young Frodo lifted to his shoulder as he ran an experienced eye over the waterscape below them.  He turned to look at where Primula stood, Drogo’s arm securely about her, slightly behind him and to his left.

       “I suppose it will have drowned the garden again,” she sighed.

       Drogo nodded reluctantly.  “The one good thing is the rich silt it will leave behind, if it’s anything like the last time,” he said.  He turned to look down at her.  “We could go back once it’s dried out again, love, but we know it will only happen again--and probably again after that.  I think we’d best look at moving again, don’t you?”

       “You’re right, Drogo,” she said sadly.  “I don’t really want to do so, but I think we have to be realistic.”

       “I see why Gart called it River Place, with the river moving into it on occasion,” Drogo said, looking back at the hill with regret.  “However, from now on in my mind at least it will be known as Drogo’s Folly.”

       Primmie laughed.  “It’s as much mine as yours, love.”  She shook herself.  “I think I want to go in again,” she said.

       Over the next two days Primula appeared cheerful enough, although Bard realized it was somewhat forced.  Drogo, whom Bard learned was a carpenter and joiner, went through many of the rooms in Brandy Hall seeing to it that wardrobes and dressers were solid and renewing the glue for some older chairs and benches, intent on having some employment for his hands while they waited for the waters to abate.

       Merimac had been down to the abandoned smial the first afternoon, reporting that the water had risen slightly better than a foot from what he could tell.  On the third day, the water of the river almost all drained back within its proper banks, Drogo, Bilbo, and Bard, accompanied by an irrepressible Frodo, walked back down to River Place to examine the damage for themselves.

       Two of the shutters on the river side of the hill had been lost to the storm, and one of the windows was gone.  Tree branches lay in the garden on that side, left behind from the detritus carried by the racing flood.

       The missing window was to what had been the room in which Bilbo had slept, and all within it appeared to be covered with mud and was still totally soaked.  “Looks as if we got out just in time,” Bilbo sighed.  Drogo nodded.  

       The lowest drawer of the dresser in the dining room was water stained, but they couldn’t see signs of warping, although that in the kitchen hadn’t gotten off so lightly.  “I’ll have to redo the lowest drawer, the legs, and the bottom,” Drogo said.  A chest in Frodo’s room and the blanket chest in the main bedroom had managed to keep out the water, and again there was staining, but no apparent need to do more than let them dry under controlled conditions and see then restained and put back to use.

       Bard went back out into the garden where Frodo had stayed while the older Hobbits checked inside the smial, looking into one of the puddles which remained.  The child looked up at his older cousin with a preoccupied air.  “Come and look,” he invited.  “There’s a great fish here!”

       The child was right--in the puddle a large trout had been stranded.  Bard smiled.  “Would you like to have trout for dinner?” he asked.

       “Could we?” Frodo asked.

       In answer Bard went to fetch one of the stouter sticks from the other side of the smial, and catching it in the fish’s gills he lifted it out of the puddle just as the older two Hobbits emerged from the hole, bringing with them a couple chests of clothing for the family for the time being.

       “What have we here?” asked Drogo.

       “We caught a fish,” his son explained.  “Can we eat it tonight, do you think?”

       “Why not?” Drogo asked, smiling at last.  “At least one good thing come out of the flood.”

       And with somewhat better cheer they headed up to the Hall again.

       On the fifth day they returned to the smial in the low hill by the river, accompanied by Esmeralda and a few others, all intent on seeing to it the place was fully cleaned.  Primula, Bard noted, was constantly being returned to the parlor and made to sit down; but the moment eyes were taken off her she would slip into one of the rooms to clean up silt or sort through linens and clothing or take down curtains.  Bard and Bilbo helped as they could, and by nightfall all were satisfied that the hole could be lived in again by the next day.

       But somehow the knowledge that the flood had occurred dampened the pleasure of knowing it was again habitable.  It was as if, having allowed the water to enter, the smial wasn’t quite trustworthy any more.  And Bard noted after they’d returned to stay there the next day that Cousin Drogo was now examining paneling and plaster as well as lower cupboards and shelves, concern in his eyes.  “This will have to be done all over yet again,” he said, “if we were to stay, that is.”

       “I know you love the place,” Bilbo said.  “I’ll gladly help if you’d like me to.”

       “But it would only need to be done again in a few years time,” Drogo objected.  “No, we’ll stay a few months until I can arrange for us to move.  But I’m not certain where we’ll go.”

       “How about Whitfurrow?” suggested Primula from where she sat in her chair in the parlor, working rods through the recently cleaned curtains so they could be rehung.  “It’s about midway between the center of the Shire and here, and we’ve both liked it, after all.”

       “It’s an idea,” Drogo admitted as the rest of the group joined her.

       “What family do you have there?” Bilbo asked.

       “Some from Dad’s mum’s side,” Primula said.  “And a few Goolds by marriage.”

       “And some from my mother’s side as well,” Drogo added.  “It’s not as if we had no ties there at all.  We’d be less than a day’s journey from anywhere we’d want to visit.  Who knows--perhaps we’d be able to convince my brother and his family to actually visit us there--Camellia isn’t particularly fond of traveling all the way here, after all.  And maybe we’d even get Dora to visit there as well.  She refuses to travel here as she hates staying at inns along the way.  Never has quite approved of inns, my sister.  And, I think, the Brandywine frightens her.”

       “Since we moved here to Buckland you’re the only Baggins who comes to see us, Bilbo,” Primula said.  “Not even Ponto and Iris will come this side of the Brandywine ‘where folks are so strange’.”

       “Plain foolishness,” Bilbo grunted.  “They’re no more strange here in Buckland than anywhere else I’ve traveled, and that’s saying quite a lot.  Save, of course, for the Brandybuck enjoyment of swimming, mind you.”

       “As if,” Primula laughed, her eyebrows raised, “you didn’t enjoy a swim yourself from time to time.”

       “Just don’t tell Dora,” Bilbo cautioned.  “She already is half convinced that Lobelia’s right about me, you know.  If she knew I swim on occasion she’d be in no doubt.”

       Still laughing, Primula added, “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins doesn’t know the half of it about you, does she?  Talking to Men and Elves and Dwarves as well as dragons....”

       “She certainly knows about Dwarves,” Bilbo said, shaking his head.  “They continue to visit me from time to time, after all.  Received a letter from Balin not that long ago, you know.  Quite a decent chap, Balin son of Fundin.”

       “And they say we Bucklanders are strange,” Drogo laughed.  “Yes, I’ll admit it--I’ve become somewhat of a Bucklander at last.”

       “He only refuses to learn to swim properly is all,” Primula said, smiling fondly into her husband’s eyes.

       The door opened and Frodo came in accompanied by another small Hobbit child his age and what appeared to be the child’s mother.  Drogo smiled at the Hobbitess.  “Carnation!  Thanks for bringing our lad back down to us.  Has he been giving you any problems?”

       “No,” Carnation answered.  “Both Frodo and Brendi have been examining the areas where the water stood deepest.”  She looked back at where Frodo was trying to get the door to shut properly.  “What is it, Frodo?”

       “It won’t shut, Aunt Carny.  It’s sticking.”

       Drogo went to examine it.  “I think it’s just the door frame’s a bit wet,” he advised his son.  “When it dries the door should open and close properly.  If not, it’s not much to sand it back into shape.  And what have the two of you been doing?  Have you been staying away from the river bank?”

       “Yes, Daddy,” Frodo answered him, while Brendi nodded and echoed, 

       “Yes, Cousin Drogo.”

       Frodo continued, “We’ve been looking through the mud and things the water left behind.  I found an old pot that was mostly broken, and inside it was this.”  He reached into his pants pocket and brought out a green stone disk with a hole in the center of it, handing it to his father to examine.  “What is it, Daddy?”

       Drogo examined it with interest, then handed it to Primula, who in turn passed it on to Bilbo.  The older Hobbit turned it over with curiosity, then held it down where the two little ones could look at it more closely.  “The stone is one the Dwarves told me is called aventurine.  They use it for some fine beadwork, boxes, and the like, and carve it into small ornaments,” he said.  “Look here, how pale a green it is, and how the light shines through it, and the tiny black speckles.”

       Frodo’s face was lit with pleasure as he reached one finger to gently stroke the disk.  “Do you think Dwarves carved this?” he asked.

       “I don’t think so,” Bilbo said, turning it to look at it from several angles before passing it to Bard to examine.  “Doesn’t have the feel of something Dwarves would carve.  Nor does it have the delicacy of Elven work.  No, I suspect that this was shaped by Men.”

       “Really?”  Frodo looked up at Bilbo with deep interest, his cheeks growing quite pink.

       The older Baggins nodded.  “It has a solid feel to it that I’ve come to associate with Men.”

       “What’s it for?” Carnation asked.

       Bilbo shrugged.  “Hard to say.  Perhaps just an ornament, or it might have been worn on a thong or ribbon about someone’s neck.  According to the old stories, rounded stones with holes in them were considered good things to have, for it was believed that when you looked through the hole in the center you would see things as they are and not as they only appear to be.”

       “So, they’d be useful to see past glamours,” Primula commented.

       “What’s a glamour?” Frodo immediately asked.

       “A sort of spell to make something appear to be somewhat different than it actually is,” Bilbo explained.

       Bard, who was still holding the stone disk in his hand, lifted it to look at Frodo through it.  “Well,” he said decisively, “apparently there’s not a glamour on you, Frodo Baggins, for you still look like a small Hobbit who’s full of questions, even through this.”  He turned it toward Bilbo, then paused, for through the isolation of the hole somehow the old Hobbit appeared taller, more noble.  But when he dropped the stone and looked at Bilbo directly he looked as he always did--slightly shorter than average, his eyes bright and clever, his expression hiding jokes and secret thoughts.   He looked again at Frodo through it, and saw the intense interest reflected in the expressive eyes, the delicacy of the face, the strong character already making itself clearly seen.  Again he dropped his hands away from his face, looked once more at the disk, then handed it to the other child to examine.

       Brendi wasn’t quite as tall as Frodo, although he was built much like him and with hair almost as dark as Frodo’s own, but with more of a reddish tone to it.  His eyes were a darker blue-grey than Frodo’s, but his nose and brows were distinctly from the Brandybucks.  The expression on the child’s face was as intent and curious as that on Frodo’s, Bard realized.  Brendi looked through the hole in the stone disk first at Bilbo and then Frodo, then paused and pulled it away.  He rather quickly handed it back to his younger Baggins cousin, then turned to Bilbo.  “You think Men made it round like that?” he asked.

       “Yes, I suspect they did.”

       “But how did it get here?” Bard asked.  “Men don’t live in the Shire.”

       “Not now, but that wasn’t always true,” Bilbo explained.   “After Elendil the Tall of Númenor and those from his ships blown here to the northern coasts of Middle Earth created the great Kingdom of Arnor, they filled all of the lands west of the Misty Mountains with their descendants, to the point that the time came when there were so many people living in Arnor it was split into three kingdoms.  Here where we live was called Cardolan; and although not that many Men appear to have lived in the lands west of the Baranduin, as they called the Brandywine, there were a fair number who settled here on its eastern shore.  When the Brandybucks built the old mill, they built it on the foundations of another one, one which had been built by Men; and in many of the fields farmed by the folk of Buckland the foundations of old houses, barns, and other buildings can be found.

       “King Argeleb the Second of Arthedain granted the lands of the Shire west of the Baranduin to Hobbits from the Breelands that desired lands of our own.  These lands were largely empty at the time, but only because first warfare and then a great plague had killed most of the Men who once lived here.  Those who survived of the Dúnedain mostly moved either north toward Lake Evendim or east into what was once the portion of Arnor that was called Rhuadar.  Then the Oldbucks chose to move east of the Brandywine, as it was now called. and they changed their family name to Brandybuck and called the new lands they claimed Buckland.

       “This area used to be the part of Cardolan that was inhabited by their royal family, according to what I’ve been able to garner from the information Lord Elrond has given.”

       Frodo looked impressed, and examined his find even more closely.  “Then a prince may have carried this?” he asked.

       “Yes, or one of the royal descendants of Elendil and Isildur themselves who served as King of Cardolan,” Bilbo smiled.  “Although we must also accept that it might have been kept by a man-at-arms or a royal cook, or even a chambermaid.  Perhaps one day you will be able to ask Lord Elrond himself and find out.”
      
       There was a musty smell to the hole that appeared to bother all of them, and on their third day Primula came down with what appeared to be a severe cold.  Drogo was most concerned, and spoke of returning to Brandy Hall for a few days while the smial was aired out, but Primula refused.  Drogo finally went up to the Hall to consult with the healer, while Bilbo went out to walk with Frodo and Brendi along the river bank, looking for more treasures from the days when kings of Men lived in what was now Buckland.  Bard stayed in the smial with Cousin Primula, bringing her mugs of chicken broth, cider, and herbal teas and stacks of clean handkerchiefs.  She was doing a fair amount of sneezing when suddenly she went stark white.  “No!” she cried aloud.  “No!  Not now!”

       Bewildered, Bard paused in the doorway and turned to look at her.  She looked at him, her eyes stricken.  “Run, Bard--run and fetch Drogo and the midwife--hurry, lad.  Mistress Menegilda, too.  Tell them----”  She was taken with what appeared to be a great cramp in her stomach, and what she’d intended to say was lost.  Bard suddenly recognized what must be happening, and he turned to run through the smial for the side door, which was closest to him, and pelted toward the front door of Brandy Hall.

       Drogo was on his way back, accompanied by Mistress Menegilda and one of the healers.  The three stopped momentarily to see his break-neck career for the Hall, then hurried forward to come to him.  “What is it?” demanded Drogo.

       “She sent me to the Hall, bade me call you, the midwife, Mistress Gilda!” Bard panted out.  He needed say no more.  

       Mistress Menegilda paled.  “Go on to the Hall, have them send Mistress Poppea down to River Place as soon as she can get there,” she said.  “We will go now.”

       “Where’s Frodo?” demanded Drogo.

       “Out, walking along the riverbank with Cousin Bilbo.  I took her some more handkerchiefs.  She was sneezing----”

       The three nodded.  “Go, then,” Mistress Gilda commanded; then turning, she lifted her skirts and began running down toward the sunken smial by the river.

       By the time Bard, accompanied by Master Rory and cousin Esmeralda, returned to Primula and Drogo’s home, about a half hour later, it was already over.  Primula Brandybuck Baggins had lost her child, and she was prostrated by grief.  Mistress Poppea had done her best to stop further hemorrhaging; Menegilda was carrying out heavily stained sheets and blankets, and the healer carried out a small, covered basket that held what was left of the hope for a second living child.

       Bilbo and the two children hadn’t returned yet, having taken sufficient food with them to allow them to explore past luncheon.  On speaking quietly with the burdened healer, the Master and Esme gave their own cries of grief, then Rory turned to hurry into his younger sister’s home.  Esme paused to turn to Bard.  “It would have been a daughter this time,” she said.  “Do you have any idea which way Bilbo went with the lads?”

       “Downstream, I think,” the young Hobbit answered her.

       “Go after them and fetch them back.  It will help her hang on to have her son at hand, I think.”

       Bard thought on that, then nodded and hurried on the new errand.  He found them within moments, already returning back along the river bank.  Bilbo paused as he saw Bard’s approach, and put his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, halting his progress.  Once their Took cousin had come even with him, he appeared to divine what had happened by the expression on Bard’s face.  “She miscarried again?” Bilbo asked simply.  Bard merely nodded.  Bilbo gave a gasp of breath that sounded like a cry bitten off, then gave a nod to his own head.  “We’re coming, then.”

       Yet he didn’t hurry forward right away, instead turned Frodo toward him.  “Lad,” he said gently, “while we were gone there was a--an accident--with your mother.  She’ll be all right, but for now she’s very shaken and upset.  She’d so hoped to be able to give you a new little sister or brother, but it appears it won’t be so after all.”

       “A daughter,” Bard gasped out.  “She lost a daughter, the healer told us.”

       Bilbo’s face went paler.  “A new sister it would have been for you, Frodo my lad.  But she came far too soon, before she was ready.  Your mummy will need you by her, to help her with her grief.  Do you think you can be brave for her?”

       It was obvious Frodo didn’t understand it all, but he nodded, and then they were hurrying onward.  As they approached the gate Bilbo signed for Bard and Brendi to remain outside.  Then, a few moments later, Esme, paler than she’d been before, came hurrying out.  “Go to the Hall, and fetch Master Beldir back again,” she said.  “Frodo’s fainted right away.”

       Drogo and Primula were moved that afternoon back to their quarters in the Hall, Master Beldir and Mistress Gilda both having declared the mold found growing since the flood in the walls of the smial by the river unhealthy for all.  An additional week Bard and Bilbo remained in Buckland, and both Dudo and Dora Baggins came with Dudo’s family to the comfort of their brother and his wife.

       Within a few days both Frodo and Primula were recovering, but there appeared to be a good deal of concern shown the small lad.

       Bard saw the family next at Yule when all came to the Great Smial for the feast.  Frodo was taller, and was definitely the tallest of those of nine years present.  His family indeed had moved to Whitfurrow in the Eastfarthing, and his description of the new smial was lyrical.  But there was a gravity to the child Bard didn’t remember from the previous spring, although that began to relax as he made friends with young Reginard Took, who was but five months younger than his Baggins cousin.

       The news a few years later that Drogo and Primula Baggins, during a visit to Brandy Hall, had drowned in the Brandywine shook the entire Shire.  Bard and many others from the Great Smial and the Tooklands attended the funeral, including Cousin Ferumbras himself.  There were rumors Frodo wouldn’t attend the internment, but he came nonetheless to the graveside accompanied by Bilbo, who kept protectively at the lad’s side throughout all.

       Gossip indicated the lad was sickly, but Bard could see no sign this was true.  As pale as ever--yes; sickly, no.  Slender, yes; but composed and with a marked dignity to his bearing as he faced all his relatives and greeted them properly and accepted their compassion and scrutiny.

       After that the rumors continued to circulate about the Baggins lad--he had a weak heart; he was a terror throughout Buckland and the Marish for his pranks and raids on the farms and dairies; he was a strong swimmer who’d saved three fishermen caught in a flood; he was likely to die if he did aught stressful.  Then came the news that at the last Bilbo Baggins had taken his courage in both his hands to face down Rory and Menegilda Brandybuck, taking Frodo as his own ward, removing him from Buckland to come to live in Bag End in Hobbiton, above the smial where he’d been born; and that was when Bard’s sympathies toward the younger lad died, for by then the two of them were rivals for the affections of Paladin and Eglantine’s oldest daughter Pearl.

       And now all that was past, also, for Isumbard Took, one of the legal minds of the Great Smial and an advisor to the Thain himself as well as his son-in-law as Pearl’s husband, had found himself giving over his envy of Frodo Baggins during the months Frodo had served in this office.  Every individual now within the Mayor’s office grieved equally for Frodo’s absence from the Shire.

       It was Brendilac Brandybuck who reached out for the green disk Sam had set atop the Princess’s childish pictures.  He held it in his hands and shared a look with Meriadoc, heir to the Master of Buckland and Knight of Rohan.  He smiled as he held it.  “The morning he was to leave Buckland Frodo slipped away alone from the Hall, and Merry and I went in search of him.  We guessed he’d have gone to the old mill building, the one left dry when the stream which had powered it had shifted its bed.  He wasn’t sad to be leaving--not really.  He was keeping his growing excitement and all pretty closely contained--he’d become good at that during the last few years, for any time he grew greatly excited or upset Mistress Menegilda would watch him so carefully as if she feared he might fall down at any minute.

       “He’d decided to leave certain things behind.  He didn’t take his journals, and I’d heard Cousin Sara telling how he’d been found the night before burning the last one.”  Saradoc Brandybuck nodded in confirmation.  “Now he was leaving this behind him, for he said it was a part of the Brandybuck Frodo he wouldn’t be any more.  He used to carry it everywhere when he was a lad, and said it was his lucky piece.  Now he said he didn’t need that lucky piece any more; and as it perhaps had come from the household of the King of Cardolan he was leaving it in the remains of what had been as much the King’s mill as it had been the Hall’s mill for so long.”  Brendi looked up to catch Sam’s eyes.  “And that’s where you found it?”

       Sam nodded.  “Yes, that’s where I found it.  Mr. Merimac took me there, to show me part of where it was as he’d loved most there in Buckland.”

       Brendi smiled, lifted it up and looked at the smooth, translucent stone.  “Bilbo said the Dwarves call this stone aventurine, but that he thought it had been shaped by the Men of Cardolan, one of the three kingdoms Arnor had been divided into during the days our land was as heavily populated by the descendants of Númenor as was Gondor.  He said that such stones were believed to be useful in detecting glamours, for if you raised it to your eye and looked through it you’d see not what something appeared to be but what it actually was.”  He peered through it at Sam, and smiled.  He then passed it to Bard, who also peered through it for a time, before returning it to the Brandybuck.  As he replaced the stone on Sam’s desk Brendi’s smile widened.  “An interesting superstition, don’t you think, Mayor Samwise?”

       Sam’s eyebrows lifted.  “Yes, indeed an interesting superstition.  I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

       A time later Brendilac Brandybuck, Fosco Baggins, and Isumbard Took left the Mayor’s office together.  Finally as they approached the inn’s door Brendi said quietly, “When I looked at Sam through it I seemed to see a great lord, his eyes keen and discerning.”

       Bard nodded.  “I saw the same.”  Then, after a moment, he added, “It was much as I saw Bilbo, so many years ago.”

       The two of them looked at one another, and smiled.  Brendi opened the door to the inn and gestured for Bard and Fosco to precede him.

Author’s Notes

       I’ve wanted to write a story in which we see Frodo Baggins as a child with his parents; but what specific situation I would cover was the question.  In the end I examined the stories I’ve written previously, and chose one of the pivotal moments I’ve touched on in several of my stories beginning with For Eyes to See as Can--the choice of Drogo and Primula to move out of Buckland first due to the second flooding of their smial by the river followed soon after by the ending of Primula’s last pregnancy by miscarriage.  The next question was that of the primary point of view from which the incidents should be seen:  in the end I chose the character of Isumbard Took, another of the descendants of old Gerontius and thus a second cousin to Frodo.  Here is a lad who probably has seen little enough of young Frodo and probably doesn’t know Primula and Drogo all that well either.  What would such a one have come to believe of his cousin Bilbo, and what would strike him about his visit to Buckland?  For those who’ve read my stories Bard is now a familiar character--some years older than Frodo, Bard yet found himself in a couple situations in which two of them became rivals, first in dancing and then for the affections of Pearl Took.  What might not only Frodo but Isumbard have been like when young?

       Several of us have explored the idea that Primula Baggins might have experienced miscarriages, perhaps several of them, with only one successful live birth.  I’ve been asked if Primula would have allowed herself to be subjected to multiple miscarriages, and I could certainly offer living examples to bolster the idea.  A close friend of mine so desperately wanted a child she went through nine before she was forced to stop so torturing herself and had to undergo an emergency hysterectomy.  Her sister had similar experiences.  Both became mothers as I was also forced to do by way of adoption.  That in Primula’s last pregnancy she should have managed to keep the child through the stress due to the flood only to lose it as a result of a sneezing jag is deliberately ironic.

       Into my first story I’d written the idea that after leaving Hobbiton in response to Lobelia’s poisonous rumor-mongering, Drogo and Primula first settled into a smial near the Brandywine, down in the flood plain area.  Here I was influenced by the location of the Quaker woman Hannah’s hut in the classic The Witch of Blackbird Pond as well as the footbridge across the Mersey we traversed with a friend in Sale, now a suburb of Manchester, England.  We stood in the middle of the bridge as he pointed out the borders of the flood plain area, explaining how the Mersey will on occasion overflow its banks, and how it was necessary to enact legislation to keep folk from trying to develop the area only to have all flooded out on an irregular basis.  That there might be such a feature in Buckland within sight of Brandy Hall was too attractive an idea to ignore, I found, and now I felt inclined to expand on it.

       The idea of the fairy stone with a hole in it having special powers to allow the one viewing the world through the hole to see beyond appearances is an old one, and appears in many stories based on Celtic and Welsh legends.  I recently came upon it once more in Coraline, in which a young girl must use such a stone to find the hidden souls of three kidnapped victims of a demon who takes the guise of a loving mother.  As just before I read that story I’d written the final chapters of Reconciliation in which Sam found just such a stone in the old mill building near Brandy Hall and had chosen to keep it as it reminded him of Frodo, although he had no real evidence the thing had anything to do with his departed Master, I found the impulse strong to write a story in which the green stone disk was used to reveal the True Shapes of some of our beloved characters to others.

       Aventurine is a semiprecious stone as I’ve described it, although the presence of the black speckles in it is not a constant.  Necklaces of beads shaped from lapis, aventurine, jade, malachite, and other stones with beautiful colors and visual textures we offered fairly commonly in our antique store.

       The device of the abandoned mill building I first encountered in stories written by Anglachel; as to explaining why that mill would have been abandoned by such a tradition-loving folk as Hobbits, it was obvious that the stream which had powered it must have shifted its bed, probably in spring flooding.

       If the Shire itself depicts England, it stands to reason that at least parts of it would have remains of prior settlement.  Certainly in the walking song Frodo sings as he and Sam meet with the last riding of the Elves this is indicated:

       Still round the corner there may wait
       a standing stone or secret gate....
 
       In the Appendices, Tolkien explains that after the ninth King of Arnor the northern kingdom was divided into three:  Arthedain in the northwest, Rhuadar to the east nearest Imladris, and Cardolan to the southwest.  Warfare and a virulent epidemic of plague proportions so diminished the Dúnedain populations of Rhuadar and Cardolan that in the end they lost their integrity as independent kingdoms, eventually leaving the rulers of Arthedain resuming the Kingship of all of Arnor by default.  That Buckland might have been the site of settlements of Cardolan is reasonable in light of the fact that the Barrowdowns, which are not that far off, comprised the royal cemetery for this division of Arnor. 

       A review of the occupation layers of the city of York in England shows how many different civilizations have recognized the advantages of the confluence of the rivers there.  Below the foundations of York Minster lie those of an earlier church from the early medieval period, with foundations of homes and businesses under that, then storage areas from the Viking era of occupation, several buildings from the Roman fortress of Eberacum (most notably the administration building), and underneath all a round bothie houseplace from Bronze-era Britain.  That the original Brandy Hall mill was built on the foundations of its Dúnedain predecessor seemed both logical and romantic.

       The influence of mold growing as a result of the flood leading to respiratory illness is consistent with real life, as is the damage flood water can do to masonry, plasterwork, and woodwork.

       In The King’s Commission I’d written that Rose Gamgee/Gardner was born the same day as the royal Princess Melian, the first child born to the King Aragorn Elessar and the Queen Arwen Undomiel.  In wanting to send pictures to Sam to honor him being elected Mayor of the Shire I was modeling after the hundreds of children I’ve worked with over the years who have done similarly to adults they’ve loved.

       Brendi Brandybuck and Bard Took, as two cousins with quite different experiences with Frodo Baggins over the years who yet in the end developed a deep love and respect for him, have appeared in several of my stories, particularly since The Ties of Family.  That their mutual caring for Frodo would lead to a similar vision of Sam as seen through the green worrystone again seemed proper.

       I hope all enjoy this story, and hope you will check out a few of the others I’ve written as well.  And I hope all will forgive its relative shortness.  I just found this one wasn’t inclined to drag on to a hundred chapters.  Rejoice that this is so.