Chapter 46. Thain: Battle Ahead

In the depths of the night, Frodo marvelled at the brightness of the stars in the sky here in the wildest part of the Green Hill country. He found himself remembering little details of his wanderings with Bilbo that he'd forgotten with the passage of the years – ah how he missed the old hobbit. While Frodo still went wandering by himself, it wasn't quite the same. He also missed hearing Bilbo tell his stories, taken from ancient Hobbit legends as well as his translations from the Elves, about the various constellations and other wonders to be seen in the dark, bright-sprinkled bowl that arched over their heads. 

'A river of milk...' he murmured, craning his neck to take in the view.

'Or star-smoke rising from the hearth of the Man in the Moon,' Isum said. He drew on his pipe to fan the burning pipe-weed within and then took it from his mouth and passed it to Frodo. 'Don't let it go out, now,' he warned. 'For 'twas difficult enough, I trow, to light it the last time.'

Frodo drew on the pipe and held the warm, comforting smoke in his mouth for a long moment before blowing it out again. 

Isum leaned far back, bracing himself with his well-muscled arms, and turned his face to the sky. As if to distract his companion in waiting from the cold, or perhaps to distract himself as well as Frodo, the Headmaster said, 'Tell me again of this Eärendil, whose Star we saw on the horizon after the Sun went to her rest...? The light comes from a bright Stone bound to his brow as he guides his ship through the heavens...?'

Frodo passed the pipe to him, saying, 'A moment, Isum.' He took up the water bottle at his side, lifted it and swallowed a mouthful of water whilst his companion waited patiently. The story of Eärendil and Elwing was lengthy – as had been the tale of Beren and Lúthien that he'd told Isum earlier, for the Took had wanted to know where the Silmaril on Eärendil's brow had come from in the first place. 

As Isum drew on the pipe once more, causing the coals to bathe his face in a red glow, Frodo took another mouthful of water, rolled it around in his mouth, and swallowed, then capped the bottle securely. 'It seems quite fitting to tell stories about a sign of hope for Elves and Men while we wait,' he said, and thought but did not add, through the long, dark hours. I hope the rescuers don't tarry overlong; the temperature's dropped so much, I can see my breath even when I'm not smoking!

But Isum seemed aware of the thought, for he answered, 'Stories of light to while away the darkest part of the night. Quite fitting, indeed. And you say old Bilbo told you these tales?'

'He did,' Frodo nodded. 'He translated many old tales and told the stories so well, people thought he'd made them up out of his own head!'

'Ah, yes,' Isum said, sounding somewhat wistful. 'I remember riding across the fields of a pleasant afternoon on my half-day – for even the hobbits of the Thain's escort are allowed a little time to relax, and don't have to be on their guard for stray dogs or wild swine or suspicious-acting Men quite all the time...' He drew on the pipe then, and fell quiet, perhaps remembering the days when he was young and strong and carefree. Before he'd thrown himself between Thain Ferumbras and an enormous charging boar, and his life had been changed forever.

'You rode across the fields...?' Frodo nudged gently. 'Where were you going?'

Isum shook himself, handed the pipe to Frodo, and adjusted the cloaks covering Pippin before he spoke again. 'To Bywater,' he said. 'To The Green Dragon on old Bilbo's usual day. Quite luckily, my half-day coincided with his usual evening there, sitting by the fire, telling his stories... I'd listen by the hour, nursing a beer (for it wouldn't do to ride back to Tuckborough across the fields in my cups!), until he'd yawn and stretch and conclude his storytelling, usually with a comical tale to go home on, cheerful thoughts to bolster his listeners against the dark (and sometimes the chill) of the night.' 

Accepting the pipe once more, the Took said, 'Wonderful stories, the old hobbit could tell... and now you say that at least some of them came from the Elves? As if they might be just regular folk, who like to sit and listen to stories as much as a Hobbit might?'  

Frodo warmed further towards the fellow for his appreciation of Bilbo's stories... and, it seemed, of Bilbo himself! Although Isum had used the phrase "mad Bagginses" earlier, he'd used it more as a Shire proverb than as representing his personal opinion of Frodo and Bilbo. 'Quite so,' Bilbo's heir answered now, taking the pipe Isum held out to him for another nerve-settling mouthful. And then he laughed the smoke out again, for their current occupation – sitting in darkness, passing a pipe back and forth – had resurrected a memory of tween mischief, not long after Bilbo had adopted him.

'I could use a good joke myself, right about now,' Isum said pleasantly.

'You know Reginard at the Great Smials, of course,' Frodo said, handing the pipe back.

'O aye,' Isum nodded. 'Rather humourless chap, that cousin o' mine. But then, when he came of age, his father chained him to a chair – in a manner of speaking – insisted that he learn all there was to learn about being Steward. Wanted to keep it in that branch o' the family, I suppose. Had he been allowed to have his own way, I think he'd'a been a poet or maker of songs.'

Frodo choked. 'Humourless? Are we talking about the same Reginard?'

'O aye,' Isum said lower. 'But then, fathers too often impose heavy burdens upon their sons, I find. The things I've seen since Ferumbras tapped me to fill the headmaster position...' He shook his head. In the darkness, Frodo felt rather than saw the Took's keen regard, but if Isum had aught else to say, such as But I doubt you'd know about such things, with your own father gone to the Feast when you were still so young, he was wise enough to keep his thoughts to himself.

Confirming Frodo's suspicion, Isum added, 'But then, perhaps it's mostly Tookish fathers who expect their sons to follow blindly in their footsteps, thinking their thoughts after them, as if their lads don't have a brain in their heads!' Lower, he added, 'P'rhaps your own father was the reasonable sort. Why, though the Tooks tend to question whether anything good ever comes out of Buckland, I heard once that the Brandybucks encourage their sons to follow their own gifts and dream their own dreams.... And even though amongst the Brandybucks, as with all the Great Families, the son of the Master is expected to follow his father as Master, young Meriadoc certainly seems to have a good head on his shoulders. Despite the fact that he's already written a book at his young age, all about the plants to be found in the Old Forest! – the other things I've heard about him seem to imply he has a great deal more common sense than many Tooks I could name!' He huffed softly, adding under his breath, 'So oft, I wish I could tell the fathers of my pupils to question their own doings before they chide their children for daring to think their own thoughts!'

But then Isum straightened and grabbed at Frodo's arm. 'Please,' he said. 'I know better than to speak so freely. But somehow, you're quite as easy to talk to as old Bilbo ever was! And yet, if the things I've spoken to you should go any further, I could lose my position and my livelihood...'

'What was that you said?' Frodo replied obliquely, and felt his companion's tense posture relax somewhat. 'I'm sorry, but my mind must've wandered. We were talking about Regi, were we not?'

'O aye,' Isum said, and then he seemed to notice the pipe in his hands, and lifted it to his mouth. But no glow came from the bowl when he drew upon it. He muttered under his breath as he pulled out his flint and steel.

The first time Isum had lit the pipe, he'd used a spill he'd stripped from a piece of the firewood Frodo had scavenged. It had been a simple matter to stick the end of the long, thin slice of wood into the fire and then light the pipe. By the time they'd smoked the first pipeful of pipe-weed, the small fire had gone out when the wood had run out, and Isum had stuffed the bowl full of fresh pipe-weed, asked Frodo if he had any paper on his person (Frodo did, as a matter of fact; a letter from Merry that he'd brought to share with Pippin), and used the strip of paper Frodo had torn away to light the pipe with his flint and steel. It had taken two attempts – two strips of torn paper.

Frodo fished the letter from Merry out of his pocket again. 'We've only burned up two of the margins,' he said. 'We've two other margins, yet, before we set my cousin's words aflame.' He folded the paper along the margin, then carefully tore away the blank paper strip and handed it to Isum.

'In my imagination,' Frodo then said, hoping to lift his companion's spirits, 'I'm helpfully handing you this tinder with a deep, respectful bow for your superior skill with flint and steel.' Isum's chuckle rewarded him for his efforts to lighten the older hobbit's mood. 'As I told you earlier, though Bilbo tried his best to teach me to light a pipe with flint and steel, I never quite caught the knack.'

'If you're going to go on wandering far from home, then I think you ought to keep practising,' Isum said, striking the flint against the fire-steel and sending a small shower of sparks onto the paper strip, standing out in the darkness as bright flecks of orange light. 'Now what was it you were about to tell me about Regi?'

Frodo drew his knees up and hugged them, shrugging deeper into his cloak against the deepening chill. He tugged the pile of cloaks covering Pippin a little higher, but his young cousin gave no sign of whether he felt cold already or whether the small change was warming at all. At least Pippin probably wouldn't be taking note of the bit of tweenish mischief Frodo was about to recount. He sighed and launched into the story. 'The first time Bilbo brought me to the Great Smials with him after the adoption,' he said, 'he made a point of introducing me to Regi. "The lad's got a good head on his shoulders," he said. "And he's about your age – a year or so older, if I remember right." Which he usually did,' Frodo added. Suddenly he wondered if Bilbo's assessment of Reginard Took having a good head on his shoulders had anything to do with Regi's youthful poetry or song-making?

'He usually did what?' Isum said, then shook his head at himself and added, before Frodo could explain, 'Never mind, lad. The old hobbit usually remembered right, is what flew right by my head just now. The temperature's still dropping, and I'm afraid it's slowing me down.' He left off his spark-making, laid aside the tinder beside his waiting pipe and set the flint and steel upon it to keep the scrap of paper from blowing away in a puff of wind, and hugged himself, rubbing his arms vigorously. 'If I still had sound legs, I'd stand up and jog in place and swing my arms to warm myself. P'rhaps you ought to give it a try?'

Isum's suggestion made sense. Frodo stood up and began to trot in place and swing his arms vigorously. The idea worked; he felt much warmer by the time he felt out of breath and sat himself down again. By that time, Isum had loaded the pipe with fresh pipe-weed and had managed to get it going. Frodo warmed his mouth with a heartening puff, handed the pipe back, and continued his story.

'We were young tweens at the time; I was one-and-twenty, and Regi was only a year older. Neither of us had yet been allowed a pipe or half a pint of cheer. To make a long story short, we talked about "the great mystery" and grumbled at the limitations the grown-ups imposed on us. Here we'd both passed the ripe old age of twenty – we were no longer children, but tweens!'

'O aye,' Isum murmured around the stem of the pipe. His pupils ranged in age from ten to thirty, and he was quite familiar with the delusions of young tweens who thought themselves much more grown-up than they actually were.

'To make a long story short, we went "exploring" the back corridors of the Smials whilst Bilbo was meeting with Ferumbras, and we found a back way into one of the cellars where beer and ale barrels are stored...'

'O aye,' Isum repeated.

'Of course, we found the barrels that had taps in them, the ones by the front door – which was locked, by the way,' Frodo said. 'And so, of course, we had to sample both the ale and the beer in order to determine which would be better to ask for – once we were old enough to ask for a half pint at the local, that is!' He accepted the pipe from Isum with a nod.

'As if that weren't enough, the head of the Smials' ale and beer cellars had left his pipe and pouch and box of strikers upon the table where he did his record-keeping...'

'O' course,' Isum said.

'Well,' Frodo said. 'You can imagine what happened next...'

'Since you knew nothing yet of the fine art of smoking, you smoked yourselves sick, I'd imagine,' Isum said. 'After you each had probably drunk more than the half a pint tweens are usually allowed, for empty-headed tweens are already too adept at finding trouble... I shudder to imagine the antics of drunken tweens!' 

By the light of the rising Moon, Frodo saw Isum's expressive gesture towards Pippin, and he nodded and said, 'You can say that again.'

But Isum shook his head. 'No need,' he said. 'And so did they catch you?'

Frodo sighed. 'The owner of the pipe found us sound asleep, on the floor of that cellar, when he returned to his record-keeping – and his pipe.' He rolled his eyes. 'You'd think we'd burnt down the Thain's stables, or some such!' He passed the pipe back to Isum. 'Good pipe-weed. Is it Old Toby?'

'O aye,' Isum answered, waving to Frodo to continue the story.

'And so Bilbo took me back to Bag End in disgrace, with Mistress Lalia insisting I be punished appropriately, and Regi and I were banned from associating with each other again – not on Bilbo's part, but by Lalia's decree. It's a pity,' Frodo said, feeling an echo of the bewilderment he'd known when Bilbo had informed him of that fact, 'for I found him quite an amiable companion...'

'Ah,' Isum said wisely.

Frodo sighed again. 'So perhaps that memory is not quite so comical as I first thought...'

Isum made an inquiring noise.

'For it seems that Regi's punishment was much worse than mine,' Frodo mused sadly. No poetry! 'I'd heard he grew up into a "fine, upright, no-nonsense fellow" – but only now do I realise how I might have contributed to his... his...'

'Downfall?' Isum said, sucking on the pipe. He carefully added more pipe-weed so as not to extinguish the slow-burning glow and drew again to fan the fire within.

'Downfall?' Frodo said, confused.

'From young and carefree tween who could make up a comical song off the top of his head at the snap o' your fingers, he could,' Isum said. But it seemed that he could perceive Frodo's deepening distress, for he laid a gentle hand on Frodo's arm and added, 'Do not blame yoursel', lad. By no means would Adel ha' allowed his elder son to go on the way he was going. He'd've nipped Regi's song-making in the bud in any event, sooner or later.'

The headmaster sighed. 'It's no wonder that so many young Tooks – and a Boffin – went off to Sea in their youth.'

'A Boffin?' Frodo said in astonishment, distracted momentarily from his grief at the shackling of young Reginard's blithe spirit.

Isum shook his head, then took the pipe from his mouth and handed it to Frodo. 'That Buffo Boffin o' the Yale must've been a piece of work,' he said. 'For one of his sons removed to Bree, and another was said to have gone to Sea. His daughter – your great-great grandmother, so I'd expect you already know this – escaped through marriage to a Baggins. Out o' four children, only one stayed under old Buffo's thumb, his eldest son Bosco.' He snorted. 'And he died relatively young – Bosco died at one-and-ninety. One might wonder how much all the aggravation heaped upon him by his father wore on him.'

Frodo shook his head. 'Most of his descendants did not live to see an hundred years,' he said. 'And Vigo's quite a pleasant fellow – in fact, he probably lets young Folco have his head too much of the time! ...for that young hobbit could use some reining in; even a rascal and wastrel like myself can see it.'   

They continued to talk pleasantly about genealogy for half-a-pipeful of pipe-weed, and then as Isum carefully added more fuel to the "fire" in the bowl of the pipe, he said, 'But you weren't banned from the Smials overall, for I remember seeing you there nearly every time old Bilbo visited.'

'I'm not quite sure how Bilbo talked Mistress Lalia around,' Frodo confessed. 'Or perhaps it was Ferumbras who did so. I do remember overhearing Bilbo tell Uncle Saradoc, some years later, that he'd put his foot down, told "the Tooks" he'd not be coming to the Great Smials again unless he could bring "his heir" with him! And then the both of them laughed as if it were a great joke, and then Auntie Esmeralda caught me listening at the door and shooed me away, so I know no more than I'm telling you now.'

'Mmm,' Isum said.

'In fact, I suspect that Mistress Lalia, though she was always polite to me when I was with Bilbo, considered me a young rascal right up until Bilbo left the Shire,' Frodo said. 'I restored some gate-leg tables to her that she'd bought at that auction after he'd been declared dead, and that Ferumbras had compelled her to return to Bag End as "the right thing to do". When I gave her the tables after Bilbo left the Shire for good, her face lit up and she declared me a kind and thoughtful fellow, and invited me to visit the Great Smials often (even without Bilbo, as it were)!'

Isum chuckled, though it wasn't a happy sound, and shook his head. 'That sounds just like the Mistress,' he said.

The two smoked in silence for a while, but then Isum said suddenly, 'Weren't you going to tell me more about Eärendil?'

'O aye,' Frodo said in a passable imitation of the Tookish phrase. He handed the pipe to Isum, took another swig from the dwindling supply in his water bottle, and launched upon the tale.

As the story progressed, they passed the pipe back and forth until all the pipe-weed Isum had carried had been consumed, and then the headmaster knocked out the pipe a final time and restored it with a sigh to the pouch that hung from his neck.

'And we'll see him again, proclaiming the coming o' the dawn,' he said when Frodo finished the story. 'Seems fitting somehow.'

*** 

The half-full Moon had risen around midnight, and so Frodo knew that dawn was still hours away. By the Moon's pale light, Frodo saw Isum bend closer to Pippin and straighten again. 'Still breathing,' he said. 'But he's cold. Even with all the cloaks we've wrapped around him.' The limited amount of firewood Frodo had managed to find in the vicinity was long gone, for though they'd tried to ration the wood, to make it last, eventually they'd burned it all in their attempt to keep the injured tween warm as the chill of night had deepened.

But now Isum was unwrapping Pippin from the cloaks that cocooned him. 'What...?' Frodo said. 'But I thought you said he's cold!'

'Come closer, laddie mine,' Isum said. 'We're about to make a hobbit sandwich of sorts... Come, help me lift him, that I may slip another cloak under...' Next, the older hobbit directed Frodo to remove his cloak even as he divested himself of his own covering. 

Frodo shivered. He could see his breath emerging in puffs of white smoke, even without the aid of a pipe, but if it would help Pippin, he was all for it.

'Now we'll lay oursel's doon, o' t'either side o' th' lad,' Isum said, betraying his weariness, his own shivers evident in his voice. 'And...'

Frodo lay himself down on one side of Pippin and was aware of Isum prostrating himself on the tween's other side, and then Isum was reaching over Pippin to thrust one side of the stack of cloaks at him. 'Spread them as far as they'll go o'er yersel' and tuck them under,' the headmaster instructed. 'Cuddle close now! Pretend nigh lad is the bonniest lass you've ever set yer eyes upon...'

And suddenly Frodo understood. For lack of a crackling fire to warm them all, but for Pippin's sake most especially, they were sharing their body heat with the tween with cloaks spread under and over them to try and trap what warmth they could manage to generate. He turned on his side, eased one arm under Pippin and the other over him, and nestled as close as possible to his younger cousin. He felt Isum's arms come to rest beside his as the headmaster did the same. Perhaps even their warm breaths, now directed at Pippin's face and neck, would also provide some sensation of warmth. Frodo hoped so, anyhow.

*** 

Frodo didn't remember falling asleep, but he was wakened by a commotion around them; hobbits exclaiming, commanding shouts, snorts and the tip-tapping of dancing hoofs, conveying the arrival of excited ponies, a blend of various bustling sounds, including blankets shaken out of their folds, the creak of saddles suddenly vacated, jingling of bits, and more. He opened his eyes to twilight – early dawn, he thought, for surely he'd have noticed daylight and its waning had he slept through the rest of the night and the following day!

'How are they? Have they taken harm? How's the lad?' a deep voice rumbled, from the sound approaching rapidly.

Though Frodo was having trouble opening his eyes, he grabbed at the coverings as someone tried to lift them away. 'Mr Baggins!' a female voice said close by, only to be overtaken by the deeper voice, rumbling, 'Cousin Frodo!' followed by 'Has The Baggins taken any harm, Bittersweet? And what about the lad?'

'That's what I mean to determine, Sir,' the female voice answered.

Healer Bittersweet, Frodo thought confusedly. Head healer at the Great Smials.

'And the Headmaster?' the Thain rumbled.

'The temperatures dipped quite low in the High Hills this night,' Bittersweet answered, and raised her voice. 'You! Get a fire going with the wood we brought with us!' To the Thain, she said, 'There was a heavy frost, as you can well see!' Again shouting, she ordered, 'Blankets! We want blankets, and we want them now!'

'Skies were clear last night.' Frodo recognised the voice of Baragrim, who had replaced Isumbold as the Thain's head of escort after Isum had thrown himself between a charging boar and Ferumbras eight years or so earlier. The hobbit occasionally brought messages to Bag End from Ferumbras, usually invitations to grand social events but sometimes asking him to the Great Smials to consult on matters of business or even, on occasion, a request to accompany the Thain on a fishing trip in the high Green Hills when the salmon were running. Frankly, Frodo had enjoyed fishing with Ferumbras above any other reason for travelling to Tuckborough. Away from the Great Smials, he was a completely different hobbit, easy to talk to, quick with a jest, and keenly interested in the goings-on in the Outer Shire.

From the sound, he thought Baragrim must be kneeling on Pippin's far side, next to Isum.

'That would've made the temperatures drop precipitously,' Frodo murmured, remembering Bilbo's lessons for the preparations needed before wandering the fair Green Hills of the Tookland – fair as the back-country might be, it was treacherous as well. A hobbit lulled into unwariness by the breath-taking surroundings might not be taking any breaths at all by the next time the Sun rises to smile upon the high hills, the old hobbit had told Frodo more than once.

'Mr Baggins!' the healer said. 'Are you injured?'

'Just cold,' he muttered. A handful of cloaks might shelter a single hobbit in freezing temperatures, but they'd barely covered the two searchers and their quarry.

He felt a heavy hand squeeze his shoulder. 'We'll soon put that right,' Ferumbras rumbled. Almost immediately, someone was tucking a blanket – or several blankets – around him, and someone else was gently lifting his head to lay softness beneath it, raising his head and shoulders off the cold, hard ground.

Beneath the blanket, someone was unbuttoning Frodo's shirt. He gasped at the warmth of the hand that was laid upon his breast; hot as coals it felt to him in his semi-frozen state. 

'They're all as cold as ice!' Bittersweet exclaimed. 'And the lad...'

Somehow the dismay in the healer's voice roused Frodo from his half-dream. He strove to lift heavy lids and lifted his head. 'Pip?' he whispered.

'You just lie yourself down, Mr Baggins!' Bittersweet snapped, and he felt her pressing against him as she leaned further to inspect the young Took. 'Don't get in my way!' And then, sounding intensely irritated, she snapped, 'Haven't you got that fire going yet?'

'I think we used the last striker. Just let me find my flint and steel,' Isum murmured from where he lay just beyond Pippin. 'I know I had them with me...'

'Steady, Isum,' Baragrim said to his former head of escort. 'All's well.'

'Are ye daft?' Isum retorted querulously. 'All's not at all well! The Baggins has likely frozen to death, with the lad following close on his heels, I've no doubt!'

Frodo raised his voice to reassure the headmaster. 'I'm not quite dead yet!'

***