Chapter 4. Fond Farewell

I fought the chill as best I could, but it quickly overcame me, sinking deep into my bones, robbing me of my senses until I knew no more. I know now, of course, that Samwise ran to the Mill where he had every confidence of finding help, and quickly too. He might have run farther, and avoided Sandyman the Miller and his son Ted, for whom he has little regard... and I might have drowned in the meantime.

I know that the Miller and his assistants gathered round the edge of the well, shining lanterns into the depths... but I never saw the light. I know they let down ropes, and shouted encouragement... but I was in the grip of a merciless captor, beyond all reason and nearly beyond all aid. I know they groaned as they saw my head sink beneath the water and cried out as I somehow regained the surface... but I heard naught.

Had Frodo not arrived when he did and persuaded them to lower him into the well, the gathering crowd of hobbits would have watched me drown; of that I am certain. As it was, I was cognisant of none of these things; indeed, the first conscious sensation I knew was something smooth in my mouth, with a bursting fragrance upon the palate, that when I swallowed brought warmth and life into my very innards.

I had never been colder in my life, I think, and I heard someone shout in a triumphant voice, ‘He’s shivering!’ I thought it a pity that someone else should be so cold as I was at that moment. Soon I became aware that a glass was being held to my lips and more of that wondrous elixir was entering my mouth, while hands vigorously rubbed my extremities. Ah, the delicate agonies of returning sensation!

When the glass was pulled away again, I defied the painful tingling in my hands to reach for the glass, O how I wanted more of warmth and life!

Somehow I had to make them understand. ‘Is there any more of that?’ I shouted, over the roaring in my ears, though the words came out in the barest whisper. I heard Frodo’s laugh, and my Grandfather Rory’s shout of joy.

 ‘Plenty more where that came from, my lad! Old Winyards, and we’ll drink all dozen bottles Bilbo left me, if it only brings you back to us, dear Merry!’

 ‘Just a glass will do,’ I said, opening my eyes. I didn’t know where I was... some widow’s house not far from where I’d nearly drowned, as I found later, but all I knew was it wasn’t Bag End and it wasn’t the Ivy Bush where my Grandfather was staying.

Grandfather filled my glass, and one of his own, and gently clinked them together in a toast, his eyes overflowing. I was not yet aware enough to wonder, but eagerly sipped the liquid sunshine that was bringing me back to light and life. Dark red it was, in the glass, but in the mouth a cosy fire that glowed all the way down.

An old gammer with a kindly face tucked another warmed blanket round my shoulders and said she had a bed nicely warmed and ready for me. I roused at that—it was my last evening at Bag End, for my grandfather wanted to set out for Buckland in the morning! Though he was saying something about staying over a few more days until sure I’d taken no harm, I could only think about getting back to Bag End, not abandoning Frodo on his first night alone.

At last they let me have my way, perhaps thinking I’d rest better in a familiar bed. In any event, somehow I found myself clad in dry clothes and ready to set out when the healer arrived... finally! Why, I might have died in the time it took to fetch her. Worse, here I’d finally got warm and dry and she insisted I strip off that she might listen to my breathing! I told her I was breathing just fine without any help on her part, but she’d have none of it, and Frodo and Grandfather took her part against me.

Worst of all, a party was breaking out around me. Hobbits were laughing and raising mugs and glasses and teacups filled from bottles brought by the proprietor of the Ivy Bush to celebrate my survival or observe my passing; whichever way events turned they were prepared. I shuddered to think of the story being told down through the years... and thinking me still chilled, someone filled my glass once more, though not with that marvellous Old Winyards. Grandfather had toasted old Bilbo with the last of the bottle, voting him “a capital fellow” for saving my life with his foresighted gift.

At last I was allowed to clothe myself once more, and then they wrapped me in several layers of blankets, and though I insisted I was well recovered, Grandfather and Frodo took me between them  and half-carried me out to the yard, and they boosted me onto the back of a pony. I have no idea whose. In any event, I had to ride the ancient, sway-backed beast up the Hill with Grandfather, Frodo, Gaffer Gamgee, and Samwise surrounding us. I don’t know whom they intended to catch: the pony, if he collapsed, or myself, perhaps.

Samwise helped Frodo get me into the smial; for some reason I was stiff and found movement painful. Grandfather and the Gaffer stirred up the kitchen fire and brewed a pot of tea whilst Samwise built a fire on the guest hearth and ran back and forth to the kitchen filling hot water bottles. Frodo tucked me up; my, but I was sleepy.

He tousled my hair, much as if I were a much younger lad. ‘Sleep,’ he said. ‘You’re warm and safe, and we’ll have a chance to talk on the morrow. Old Rorimac says he’ll stay over a few days, just so he can get over the shock, and so that means you’ll have that much more time to clutter up Bag End.'

I smiled and closed my eyes and felt him rise from the bed. I heard him whisper that he’d keep watch over me, but that he thought I’d sleep well for the moment, tucked up with hot water bottles all round, and would everyone please stay and join him in a cup of tea?

He left the door ajar, and I relished the warm, cosy feeling, feeling myself start to drift... but the darkness when I closed my eyes hovered threatening, and though it wasn’t deathly chilling as the well had been, still, it was... dark.

Thankfully Frodo had left the lamp burning on the dressing table, or I might have crept from my bed like a small frightened child, in search of grown-ups and comfort. This would never do!

I thought, then, of a book. I’ll admit, I’d read myself to sleep on many an occasion in that spare room of Bilbo’s and he’d kept the bookshelves stocked with books he knew I loved: tales of great deeds, and maps, and accounts of natural wonders, and picture books of flowers and trees and herbs and bushes. If I read until I dropped off, then I’d have good thoughts to sleep on, and not be so bothered by that dreadful dark.

I crept from my bed, hoping to reach the bookshelf and back again without discovery (and associated scolding). When I reached the bookshelf I found a curious thing. My two favourite books had been shoved apart and a brown paper parcel placed between them. Intrigued, I carefully removed the parcel, finding my name inscribed on the front in Bilbo’s spidery hand: “To Merry, in memory of many a ramble in wood and field and word”.

I stopped then and there, turning the parcel over in my hands. Bilbo had left me one of his parting gifts! I hesitated to open it. So many of his final words had been jabs at faults, a last way of offering advice or suggestion for improvement. Of course, others had been charitable in nature. As I was in no need of charity, being son of Brandy Hall’s heir, I suspected a “jab” was in the offing.

I took a deep breath, determined to take good and not ill of this final thought of Bilbo’s. I must admit, my hands trembled slightly as I untied the ribbon that bound the parcel. I shivered then, feeling anew the chill I’d fought off earlier, and so I took myself off to the bed once more, slipping between the bedcovers and snuggling down into the hot-water-bottle-warmed nest.

I propped myself upon one elbow and slowly unfolded the paper cover. There lay a leather-bound journal, not as large nor as thick as the Red Book I’d glimpsed in Bilbo’s study, but more slim and elegant. I wondered what the pages contained. Slowly I opened the cover, to read the inscription on the flyleaf.

Merry, lad,
I found in you a kindred spirit
Always interested in this leaf or that blossom
A veritable fountain of words and wit.
’Twould be a shame if the pen should pass
  from the family,
And so I give you this book
  for your very own,
To record your finds, a fine life’s work.
And with each new treasure, I hope
  you’ll spare a fond thought for
    Your loving cousin Bilbo

There were drawings on the first few pages, delicate pen-and-ink sketches of the flowers and herbs growing in the garden outside my guest room window, carefully tinted and labelled. The rest of the pages were blank, but slipped in between were folded papers, each containing a pressed leaf or blossom, identified in Bilbo’s hand. Elven-bells of Rivendell, from the eastern bank of the stream near the Last Homely House, Dwarf-stars found growing on the southern slopes of the Lonely Mountain, and Common thistle-wort culled in Troll’s dell, amongst them.

For the first time since his disappearance in a blinding flash, I wept for my loss, hugging the book close. At last, wiping away my tears that they might not mar the fine leather cover, I laid the book down upon the pillow and pillowed my cheek on its cool, smooth surface.

 ‘Goodnight, Bilbo,’ I whispered. And I felt, somehow, as if his gentle old hands pulled up the coverlet as they had on so many other visits, and a feather kiss fell upon my cheek as I slowly slipped into sleep.