"I recollect the time when young Frodo Baggins was one of the worst young rascals of Buckland."
- Farmer Maggot

Chapter 2: Prize Pig

Long before there were hobbits in the Shire, long even before there was a king at Norbury, there were the Old Ones. So the hobbits called them, on the rare occasions when they had cause to refer to them at all. Of course, no one knew what they had called themselves, or who they were, only that they had left behind them mysterious stone monuments and earthworks, as different from the ruined walls and massive bridges of the North Kingdom as those structures were from the smials and farmhouses of the current inhabitants. The great standing stone near the center of the Shire was the most prominent of these markers, and according to tradition it was here that the Fallohide brothers had originally determined the ordering of the Farthings when they crossed the Brandywine to establish the new land. Even today most distances in the Shire were reckoned by their proximity to the Three Farthing Stone.

It was believed by some that these Old Ones were the same people who, in long-forgotten ages, had buried their dead in barrows on the ancient downs east of the Old Forest. But no barrows had ever been discovered in the Shire, much to the relief of its folk. Indeed the largest and most curious of the sites was not to be found in the Shire at all, but in Buckland. There, just outside the hamlet of Standelf, stood a ring of enormous monoliths surrounded by a deep, banked ditch. It was said to be haunted and was widely shunned by the locals, though it was no doubt the more prosaic fear that their inquisitive offspring would fall in the ditch and be trapped that caused parents to declare the site off-limits.

* * *

"Hssst! Frodo!"

The voice was urgent, nervous, and coming from outside his window. Frodo had been lying in bed watching the morning sunlight play across the ceiling, seeing no pressing reason to rise given the events of the previous day and the retribution this one was likely to bring. But now he got up and painfully hobbled over to the window, aching in every limb, and put his head out to investigate. Gazing up at him was the anxious, freckled face of Gilbert Banks.

"Hullo, Gilly! Everything all right? Hope you didn't catch it too hot yesterday."

"'Lo, Frodo. No, it's all right. Mum and Dad were upset and all, but I think they were mostly just glad I weren't dead. What about you?"

"I expect I shan't be very popular today." Frodo tried to say it lightly, but his smile was strained.

Gilly looked away, then shot him a quick, sidelong glance and blurted out, "My folks said I was to stay away from you...they said I should be playing with faunts my own age."

"I understand," said Frodo softly.

But the thing is," Gilly went on miserably, "most everyone else makes fun of me for being so small! It's only you and Fenton and a few others as don't."

A pained expression flickered across Frodo's face. "I understand that too."

"Anyway, we're going over to the fair in a bit, so I don't have much time. But I wanted to say thanks for... for saving my life and all."

Frodo looked embarrassed. "Forget it, Gill. You'd have done the same for me."

Gilly seemed none too sure of this assertion. "Well, I hope I'd have tried, at least," he said honestly. "Anyway, I wanted to give you this."

He held up something that he had been clutching tightly in his fist, and Frodo took it from him curiously. It was a flat, circular stone about three inches in diameter, covered with strange carvings. On one side were tiny, intricate symbols--some recognizable: sun, crescent moon, and stars--but most not. They reminded Frodo of crude characters in some ancient language, though they resembled no runes or letters that he had ever seen in Bilbo's books. On the other side was a graven image of a serpent twined around an egg; above it a bird with rays of light--or were they flames?--rising from its outstretched wings. A small hole was bored near the top, as if the stone had once been worn as a talisman. Frodo felt a prickling on the back of his neck, as if sensing the presence of a power beyond his understanding.

"That there's a magic stone," Gilly offered, as if that explained everything.

"Where did you get this?" Frodo asked, trying to sound casual.

"Well, it's a bit odd, that. About two months ago we were visiting me gaffer and gammer down at Standelf, and after tea I went out for a walk while everyone else was taking a nap. And just as I was passing near the Stone Circle, a strange thing happened." He spoke now in a hushed tone befitting the mysteries he was about to impart. "A hawk flew overhead, carrying a great snake in its beak...it must have been two, three foot long at least, and it was dangling straight down by its head. I never seen anything like it."

"And you could go the rest of your life without seeing such a thing again," said Frodo, impressed.

"But that's not the strangest part," continued Gilly eagerly. "Another, bigger hawk, or maybe it was an eagle, flew up an' attacked the first one, trying to get the snake I reckon. And while they were fighting the snake fell to the ground, straight down among the standing stones. I ran up and yelled, and the both of them flew off. 'Cause I wanted to find the snake myself, see?"

"But that would mean..."

"...that I went into the Circle, aye."

"Did you now," said Frodo, surprised. He had once spent a rather fearful night in the Circle on a dare, and had felt no desire to visit it since.

"Well, I'd always wanted to see it up close and all, though Mum and Dad would ha' skinned me alive if they found out. So I climbed down into that great ditch, and for a spell I feared I was never getting out again."

Frodo frowned, picturing his small friend in such a spot. "You shouldn't have done it, Gilly. What if you'd been hurt, or trapped?" he admonished, had he known it sounding exactly like the boy's father.

"I know. But finally I made it up t'other side, and started looking about. Well, I searched that whole Circle, and I don't mind saying it gave me a bit of the willies, it was that still and silent, but I never did find the snake. Maybe it was still alive and crawled into a hole or something. Finally I gave up and was just starting back toward the ditch when I tripped on something in the grass. And that's when I looked down and saw it, and now you know the whole story."

For some time after Gilly finished his tale Frodo was silent, staring down at the stone. Finally he asked, "And how did you discover it was magic?"

"Because good things happen when I carry it," said Gilly, his eyes shining with conviction. "Once I wished for the rain to stop, and it did--just a short while later! And the time I took it fishing, I caught more fish then ever in my life!"

"It sounds magical indeed," said Frodo gravely. "But tell me," and now a smile quirked the corner of his mouth, "where was this stone yesterday?"

Gilly looked sheepish. "At home in my room...I didn't want to wear out the magic, see?"

After a last look, Frodo handed the stone back. "I can't take this, Gilly. A magic stone only works for the one who finds it."

The younger boy's eyes lit up for a moment, then he looked Frodo hesitantly. "Are you sure? I thought it might help you with the trouble you're in."

"Positive," said Frodo firmly. "But it's all right Gill...perhaps I'll find my own magic stone someday, or something like it."

A slow smile spread across Gilly's face as he put the stone in his pocket with visible relief. "I hope you do," he said.

Some time later Frodo was back in bed, re-reading his letter from Bilbo, when there was a rap on the door and Saradoc came in. He tripped over a pile of books and, stifling a curse, silently vowed to get the lad a bookcase. After moving some more books off the chair he sat down.

"Well, Frodo! How are you feeling this morning?"

Frodo sat up and winced. "Like stone trolls have been dancing the Springle-ring on my back," he admitted.

Saradoc smiled despite himself, but his voice was stern. "Considering what might have happened yesterday, that's a small price to pay for your folly."

"Yes sir," murmured Frodo, resigned to the lecture he felt sure was coming.

But Saradoc surprised him. "Frodo, I am not going to waste my time or yours reciting to you all the reasons why your actions yesterday were wrong, foolish, and dangerous--not just to yourself but to your companions--for I know you are already well aware of this."

Frodo hung his head and didn't reply.

"I have just one thing to say: Father is increasingly losing patience with both your behavior and my ability to control it, and has threatened to send you elsewhere if things don't change."

The color drained from Frodo's face as he stared at Sara in shock. "Send me away? But--but...Brandy Hall is my home! Wherever would I go?" He said this so plaintively, and with such a lost, frightened look that Saradoc immediately backed down.

"There now Frodo, I didn't say that it was going to happen, just that Father is making noises to that effect," he soothed. "You know his bark is worse than his bite! What happens next is up to you; no one wants to send you away, lad."

But the damage was done and there was no undoing it. Though he could not have put it into words, on some level Frodo sensed that this moment was a turning point in his life, second only to that fateful day three years earlier. His childhood innocence had ended then, and now the last of his childish illusions--that there was a place he belonged, where all was forgiven no matter what he did--vanished as well. Now, more than ever, he felt there was nothing and no one in his life that he could rely upon, except himself. It was a cold, empty feeling--and yet strangely liberating. What happens next is up to you...

He suddenly became aware that Saradoc was still talking and had, in fact, just asked him a question.

"...do you understand what I'm saying, Frodo?"

"Yes, Uncle Sara. I understand perfectly," he said in a composed voice.

Saradoc looked relieved. "Good! I'm glad we cleared that up. Now, there's just one more thing"--and here he suddenly grew uncomfortable again--"the matter of your punishment."

Sara really isn't very good at this, thought Frodo. He's too soft-hearted.

"You are to remain in your room all this day, to--to reflect on the error of your ways."

"But what about the fair?" cried Frodo.

"I'm sorry Frodo, but you'll just have to miss it. Perhaps then you'll think twice before paying any more visits to Bamfurlong Farm."

"But Uncle--"

"That's enough, Frodo," said Saradoc sharply, showing more resolve than Frodo had expected. "I've no time to argue with you; I must help take the animals to the fairgrounds. I'll have Cook send over some breakfast for you."

Frodo made no answer and Sara rose to leave. Just before going out he stopped in the doorway and turned. "Frodo, do I have your word that you'll not pass through this door today?"

There was a pause. Finally Frodo muttered, without looking up, "Yes sir."

Sara nodded, satisfied. "Very well, then. I'll see you tonight."

After breakfast Frodo tried hard to concentrate on a book, but the happy shouts and laughter of the fairgoers drifting through the window proved irresistible and at last he tossed the book aside and went to sit on the sill, looking out enviously. He felt that he must be the only hobbit in Buckland staying home on this bright fall morning. Never mind that he'd had to be dragged to the last several fairs, assuming an air of long-suffering boredom for their duration. Since forbidden, this fair beckoned to him as a thing infinitely mysterious, fascinating, and desirable. He glanced over at the door before turning back to the window. What happens next is up to you...

A moment later all in the room was perfectly still, save for a slight fluttering of curtains.

* * *

Bucklebury Fair was a working agricultural event held every spring, summer, and fall. It was all very well, the locals would say, for the Shire to mount the huge, extravagant Free Fair, with its fast-talking vendors and their fancy wares, its lavish banquets and long-winded speeches, its frivolous games and pony races. (Though truth be told, not a few Bucklanders looked forward to the Free Fair with great relish, making the long journey every summer.) But the Bucklebury Fair was strictly no-nonsense. The buying, selling, and trading of livestock and crops were the order of the day, and all competitions--whether livestock judging, oxen pulling, or sheepdog trials--had a direct bearing on the farmers' livelihoods.

A distinctive aroma told Frodo he'd arrived at the livestock area on the outskirts of the fair. He was threading a path though the maze of pens and corrals when someone hailed him.

"Hoy, Baggins!"

A familiar knot twisted his stomach as he spotted Otis Sandheaver--local bully, troublemaker, and self-appointed persecutor of Frodo--minding his family's livestock pens. "Morning," he replied tersely, not slowing his pace. Don't do it, he pleaded silently. Just this once...

Otis waited until he'd almost passed by, then sneered, "I hear you were thrown by a bull!" He slouched on his stool, chewing a blade of grass and watching Frodo through small, cunning eyes.

Frodo paused, seeming to take a keen interest in the black goat in the pen next to him. He was resigned now. Otis had made his play, and the next move was his. "What's it to you?" he asked, with just the slightest hint of warning in his voice.

"Nothin'...only I reckon the apple don't fall far from the tree!"

Frodo turned slowly to face him. "What do you mean?" His face was impassive and his voice calm, but every muscle tensed in readiness.

"Just that your parents found a queer way to die, and looks like you're tryin' your best to carry on the family tradition!"

As quick as thought Frodo was gripping the front of Otis' shirt, his face inches from the other boy's. "Get on your feet, Sandheaver!" he snarled.

But Otis remained unruffled. "Sorry Baggins," he smirked, "but you know my dad made me swear not to get in any more fights with you." So saying he shook Frodo off, leaned back against the fence, and tipped his hat down over his eyes.

Frodo stared at him a moment in frustrated fury, then wheeled about and stalked off, fists clenched at his sides. He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, that he didn't care...but his heart raged within him nonetheless. Would there never be an end to it?

When his parents died gossip and speculation had abounded, and some children thought it fine sport to subject Frodo to the cruel rumors overheard from their elders. He had been obliged to defend his parents' honor so often that first year that he eventually became quite good at it, and most lads were now either afraid to fight him or forbidden to by their parents. And yet the taunts had never ceased entirely. His most persistent tormenters, like Otis, had simply become more adept at finding ways to bait him and yet escape a thrashing.

Frodo wandered slowly down the dusty row of livestock pens, sunk in bitter thoughts and only half aware of his surroundings until a more welcome sight brought him out of himself. There was Fenton Longhole, sitting by his father's sheep stall. Frodo started to call a greeting, but the words died in his throat as the boy turned toward him. His left eye was blackened by a large and ugly bruise.

Fenton's mother had died during childbirth several years ago. His father, with a small farm and a large family to manage, had no tolerance for misbehavior and yesterday's mushroom raid had clearly brought swift and violent punishment. He looked dully at Frodo, then away.

Understanding that he wished no sympathy or indeed conversation, Frodo said only, "'Lo, Fenton."

The boy nodded in return, his eyes seemingly fixed on some distant object.

Frodo felt terribly guilty, blaming himself for inviting Fenton to join the Bamfurlong expedition. But he had done so because he knew that for the other boy it was more than a lark--it was a rare chance to eat his fill.

Frodo walked on, turning now toward the main fairgrounds, but in his current mood the event was rapidly losing all appeal for him. He skulked about the edges of the crowd, mindful of the need to avoid being seen by anyone who might report his presence to his relatives. Without much interest he spent a few minutes watching the blacksmiths from Newbury and Haysend compete in a pony shoeing contest, while onlookers shouted boisterous encouragement.

A few more steps brought him among the food vendors and produce stalls, where a rumble in his stomach reminded him that he was growing very hungry, and that he had come away without so much as a copper. Just as he was staring at an enticing display of large russet apples and wondering whether one of them was likely to be missed, his larcenous musings were interrupted by a gruff voice.

"Good day to you, Master Frodo! Admiring my apples, are you?"

Frodo spun around to meet the sharp, knowing gaze of old Malcolm Burrows. "Hello, Farmer Burrows," he said, hoping he didn't look as guilty as he felt. "Er--yes, they look very tempting!" He immediately regretted his choice of words, but the farmer just laughed.

"Aye, I reckon they do at that!" He gave Frodo an appraising glance from under grizzled eyebrows and remarked casually, "They say you took quite a ride yesterday."

"They do?" Frodo ventured cautiously.

"Yes indeed--in fact, it's the talk of the fair if you want to know. Maggot's been telling all comers about your escapades with Bandobras, and from what I hear the tale grows better in the telling each time! He chuckled. "Just wish I could have seen it, and Maggot's face when it happened!"

Frodo's spirits lifted a little and he smiled despite himself. "He did look a bit surprised."

"I don't doubt it. Bull-riding indeed--who knows, Master Frodo, perhaps you've invented a new competition for the fair!"

"Perhaps," said Frodo with a shrug, and started to move off.

But the farmer stopped him with a "Hold up there lad," and when Frodo turned back he tossed him an apple. "Seeing as that was the best story I've heard in a spell, I guess it was worth an apple," he said with a wink.

His curiosity now aroused, Frodo made his way back toward the livestock area. Drawing near the cattle pens, he looked about until he saw the Bamfurlong Farm banner fluttering from a nearby stall. There seemed to be quite a crowd in front of it, and Frodo crept along until he could overhear the conversation and get a partial view into the stall itself.

There stood Bandobras in all his sullen splendor. Despite Farmer Maggot's concern the bull looked none the worse for yesterday's skirmish, and in fact seemed in fine fettle to Frodo. A blue first-prize ribbon was displayed prominently on the front of the stall, and next to it was Maggot, holding forth before a group of admiring farmers.

"How far did you say he threw the Baggins lad?"

"It was 50 feet if it was an inch!" avowed Maggot, relishing every minute of this, "and he did it with no more trouble than if he was flicking off a fly!"

A murmur of appreciation went through the crowd. "When can I engage your bull's services for my herd, Maggot?" someone asked.

"Well Farley, I'm afraid you'll have to wait your turn as Silas and Tye are ahead of you," replied Maggot with a trace of smugness in his voice.

"What about me?" said another.

"And me?"

Just then Bandobras caught Frodo's scent and began snorting and stamping. The farmers stepped back respectfully.

"Aye, he's a spirited beast, make no mistake!" remarked Farley.

Frodo slipped away and, feeling he'd had about enough of the fair, turned toward home.

As he passed the Sandheaver stalls, he saw that Otis was still sitting there, sound asleep and snoring noisily. Frodo leaned against the rail of a swine pen for a minute, chewing his apple and looking idly at the family's prize pig, Priscilla, a large spotted sow sporting a blue ribbon around her neck. She was lying listless in the midday heat but on seeing Frodo she came snuffling over, smelling his apple. He gave her the core and scratched her behind the ears. Priscilla grunted delightedly.

"Poor old girl, didn't they give you any shelter?" asked Frodo, looking disapprovingly around the barren pen and then over at Otis, napping comfortably in the shade of his wide-brimmed straw hat. With sudden interest he studied the other lad's fat face, large pug nose, and weak chin. It really was striking when you came to notice it, thought Frodo, how very much Otis and Priscilla resembled one another. He smiled to himself, then stole slowly, noiselessly toward the sleeping hobbit.

* * *

The first thing to disturb Otis' slumber was the sun beating down on the top of his head. He stirred restlessly and muttered in his sleep. But it was the sound of raucous laughter that made him start up suddenly in alarm and confusion. A large group of hobbits was gathered around him, while others hung on the swine pen, pointing and guffawing.

"Congratulations Otis, are you up for best in show?" called one.

"Priscilla looks mighty fetching, don't she?" laughed another.

Following their eyes, Otis looked down to find the Prize Pig ribbon hanging around his neck. Dumbfounded, he felt for his hat, then with a growing, awful realization he ran to the pen and looked in. There lay Priscilla, wearing his straw hat and looking most content as she chewed lazily on one edge of it.

Cursing, Otis jumped the rail and warily approached the pig. "Now then Prissy, let's just have that hat, eh?" He made a grab for it, but it was tied securely in place and Priscilla had no mind to part with her new-found treasure. Squealing irritably, she jerked her head away and heaved her considerable bulk off the ground to move out of reach. Otis lunged after her but the pig was surprisingly quick for her size, and so a wild chase around the pen now ensued, accompanied by enthusiastic cheers from the onlookers. Some rooted for Otis, others for Priscilla. At one point he nearly had her cornered, but then lost his footing and slipped in the muck. As he looked up grimly, the laughter ringing in his ears, Otis was certain that his adversary's porcine features bore a distinctly triumphant expression.

* * *

When Saradoc returned to Brandy Hall later that day he found Frodo reading on his bed. "Well Frodo, I trust that you found your day of solitude and reflection beneficial?"

"Yes sir, very much so. How was the fair?"

"Oh, about the same as always...except for one rather strange incident." As Saradoc recounted the unusual events at the Sandheaver stalls, Frodo was unable to suppress a wicked grin.

"I wish I could have seen it!"

"Now that you mention it, Frodo," said Saradoc with studied casualness, "Otis insists it was you that must have done it, though he can't prove it. I told him that was impossible, as you had been confined to your room all day."

Frodo quickly hid his face behind his book.

"Frodo?"

After a moment's hesitation, Frodo met Sara's eyes. "Upon my honor, Uncle, I did not set foot through that door today."

Saradoc looked hard at him, then the corners of his mouth twitched. "Very well, Frodo, I believe you--that you've carried out my orders to the letter, if not the spirit. I can see that I'll have to choose my words more carefully next time." He rose and stretched wearily. "Well, it's been a long day...I'm off to get cleaned up for supper. You may as well join us, Frodo, as I doubt you're likely to get any more good out of this confinement than you already have."

Not quite sure how to take this, Frodo gave his cousin a cautious smile. "Thank you, sir!"

After Saradoc had gone Frodo breathed a sigh of relief, then dove under the bed for his box and journal. He sat chewing on his pen holder and thinking...all told, it had been a good day--ending as well as it could have, at any rate. Though he had not forgotten Saradoc's words of that morning, he had made a kind of peace with them. He started to write.

23 Halimath

Still in disgrace.

However, I did get to judge the prize pig competition at the fair today. The winner was most deserving...even Uncle Sara thought so, though he'd never admit it.

I know I shouldn't complain, as there's some with worse problems than mine--like poor Fenton--but that Otis Sandheaver does get me hot...

For a long time, I used to wonder why the death of my parents would cause louts like Otis to taunt me so, why they would be so keen to heap more pain and misery where there was already plenty and to spare? But try as I might, I could find no answer.

Then one day, while I was watching Amos feed the chickens, I saw them pecking one poor bird and chasing it away every time it tried to eat. I asked Amos why and he said, "’Cos one of its wings is smaller than t'other." I just stared at him, not understanding, until he added impatiently, as if I was thickheaded, "It's different, see? They don't like that."

Suddenly I did see, and what's more I saw myself too. Having no parents was bad enough, but the way they died made it even worse. I was different and the other lads didn't like it...it was that simple. "What will happen to it?" I asked Amos, watching the poor chicken cower in the corner.

"They'll probably peck it to death," he replied in an offhand way.

I was feeling pretty low when I noticed another chicken that stood out from the others. It walked oddly, with a kind of strange, hopping gait. But every time one of the other birds went after it, it fought back, squawking fiercely. It forced its way into their midst and started eating. "What about that one? Why don't they chase it off too?" I asked.

"Oh, that little scrapper, it lost its toe to a fox. They try, but it won't back down. I reckon it's 'cos it weren't born that way, so it don't know its place in the pecking order."

How proud I was of that brave, stubborn little chicken! Long after Amos had left I stood there watching it.

Frodo set down his pen and smiled. Then he jumped up and ran out of his room, down the passage, and into the kitchen where he snatched a piece of bread before Cook could stop him. It was only the matter of a few minutes more to run out the back way, through the kitchen garden, and out to the chicken yard. He looked eagerly about, but without finding what he sought.

When Amos came ambling out with the evening feed Frodo asked anxiously, "Where's that chicken, Amos, the one with the missing toe?"

Amos looked at him blankly for a moment, then replied, "Oh, that 'un...I seem to recall it was Highday dinner about a fortnight back."