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

Chapter 3: Late Harvest

It was the end of October, and that meant wine-making season at Brandy Hall. While the vineyards were quiet and empty now, as most of the grapes had been picked earlier in the month, the winery behind the Buck Hill was humming with activity. There were grapes to be pressed, stems to be strained from must, giant oak barrels to be filled and sealed, and vintages from previous years to be bottled and labeled. At grape harvest time, all hands were needed and no one was exempt.

The moist, cool climate of Buckland was not ideally suited to growing grapes, though old Rory Brandybuck would never admit it. Anyone bold enough to broach the subject with him was treated to a 10-minute discourse on the importance of upholding Buckland's status as a self-sufficient land, the equal of the Shire in every respect. His only concession on this front--after several abortive attempts--was the cultivation of pipeweed. Like the rest of the region, Buckland relied on the Southfarthing for this most treasured of crops.

Despite the odds, Brandy Hall Vineyards had enjoyed a certain amount of success, and its robust, fruity dessert wines had even earned accolades in the Shire. The most successful of these, and Rory's pride and joy, was a late harvest varietal that could only be produced when the weather conditions were perfect: a hot, dry fall and a late rainy season. Such were the conditions this year.

* * *

Frodo awoke in the grey half-light before dawn, and for a moment wondered why. But there it was again: a loud rapping on the door of his room.

"Frodo! Wake up--the Master wants to see you double quick!"

He groaned as he pulled on some clothes from the heap by his bed. What had he done this time? After hurriedly splashing some water on his face and unsuccessfully attempting to coax his hair into a semblance of neatness, he padded along the cold flagstone passage to the kitchen, where he found Rory downing a breakfast of heroic proportions.

Frodo and his uncle did not get on well together. Rory was an unreconstructed, old-style Master of Buckland--a throwback to the days of Gormadoc "Deepdelver" himself. He was a strict taskmaster who suffered no loafing, shirking, or daydreaming and often accused Frodo of these transgressions, believing that his nephew spent entirely "too much time with his nose stuck in a book." Rory himself had never learned his letters, and generally didn't hold with "all this book learnin' nonsense." He did, however, allow that the well-stocked Brandy Hall library, with its brace of Buckland historians, served the useful purpose of impressing visitors.

But whatever his shortcomings, no one knew more about farming than Rorimac Brandybuck, and he was a shrewd defender of Buckland's interests in dealings with its larger neighbor to the west. Great or small, few happenings within the borders of his land escaped the notice of this Master of the Hall.

"Well, Frodo!" he bellowed, causing the young hobbit to jump a little even though he'd been expecting it. Shouting was Rory's preferred method of communication.

"Good morning, Uncle."

"We're making wine today, boy!"

"Yes sir."

"But you're not! After what happened last year, I'll be hogtied if I let you get within 100 yards of that wine shed. I have other plans for you."

Frodo blushed recalling the incident in question, which had involved an excess of yeast and some exploding bottles.

"There's grapes that need picking today, and you're to help pick 'em," Rory continued. "I feel a storm coming on, though you'd not know it from the sky."

"I thought all the grapes were in," said Frodo, surprised.

"Nay lad, there be one vineyard left...the most important one of all." The satisfaction in his voice was palpable. "But it's not large...you and one other should be enough to get the job done. So after you've broken fast go meet Curley out by the back gate, and get yourselves down to the vineyards. Old Barden will be there to show you what to do." So saying Rory drained his cup noisily, grabbed his hat, and stumped off to the winery.

Frodo turned his attention to the first order of business: breakfast. The spread was generous even by hobbit standards, as it had to hold the workers till the noon hour...there would be no time for second breakfast today. The long trestle tables were laden with crisp rashers of bacon, plump grilled sausages, pan-fried trout, shirred eggs, hot griddle cakes with melted butter, oatmeal scones with blackberry jam, baked apples glazed with honey and swimming in cream.

Noting with disappointment the lack of mushrooms, Frodo filled his plate, found a seat and made short work of his breakfast. He then wandered over to the ovens, hoping to pilfer some fresh-baked currant buns whose tantalizing, yeasty aroma was wafting through the kitchen. Just as he reached for one his hand was slapped down sharply by Elsa Brockhouse, Brandy Hall's head cook.

"Oh no you don't Master Frodo!" she snapped, snatching away the pan. "These are for tea time, and I'll not be running short on your account. Off you get to work now!"

Frodo drifted away, but he was in no hurry to forsake the cozy warmth of the kitchen for the chill October air. He lingered by the enormous fireplace--large enough to roast several whole sheep on a spit--watching hobbits bustle in and out. The great kitchen was his favorite room in Brandy Hall, despite being the setting for most of his lectures and scoldings.

The dim, cavernous chamber was the oldest part of the smial by far, dating back more than 600 years to the founding of Buckland. It lay deep in the center of the Buck Hill, reached by a large, arched tunnel stretching from the main front door. Side passages leading to the other wings extended from it on all sides like spokes from a hub, and beneath it lay a complex labyrinth of root and wine cellars.

It had served as the primary living quarters while the rest of the smial was being excavated, and an entire generation of Brandybucks had eaten, worked, and slept under its vaulted brick ceiling. Even now it remained the beating heart of the Hall, the site of all important discussions, meetings and celebrations.

Esmeralda hurried in with Merry and set him down in his cradle by the hearth before going over to the breakfast tables. Merry was fussy, and as soon as his mother left him he began to whimper. When this produced no result he increased the volume, clearly working himself up to a full-scale tantrum.

"All right Merry dear, just give Mummy half a minute to eat, there's a lamb!"

In response Merry was opening his mouth for a really convincing roar when Frodo appeared at his side.

"What's the matter, Merry-lad, are you lonely? Cousin Frodo will keep you company! Here, would you like a rhyme?" He took Merry's hands in his and clapped them gently together in time to his words:

How many miles to Norbury?
Six score and ten.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Aye, and back again.

Merry was now cooing happily. Esmeralda watched Frodo, his face lit by the soft glow of the fire, and by something all too rare these days: a sweet, affectionate smile that it gladdened her heart to see.

If your feet are nimble and light,
You'll get there by candlelight--

"There you are, Frodo!"

He looked up, startled, to see his Aunt Amaranth scowling at him, arms folded across her ample bosom.

"Don't you know Curley's been waiting for you outside this past quarter-hour? Now stop idling about and pestering that baby...the morning's a-wasting and if those grapes aren't in by sundown your uncle will have your hide!"

Esmeralda moved quickly to join them. "He wasn't bothering Merry, Am, he was keeping him amused so I could finish my breakfast!" She turned to Frodo, who was staring into the fire. "Thank you, dear," she said gently, hoping to lessen the sting of Amaranth's words. But the fleeting tenderness she had glimpsed was gone, replaced by his usual veiled expression. Without a word he turned quickly and went out.

"I declare, if that boy don't get queerer and more difficult every day," grumbled Amaranth.

Merry started fussing again.

* * *

Frodo found Curley Brownlock leaning against the back gate with his hands in his pockets, whistling softly to himself. A hobbit of few words, Curley possessed a calm certainty of his place in the world that Frodo greatly admired, the more so as it was completely foreign to him.

"Morning, Curley! Sorry I'm late."

"Good mornin' Master Frodo. Don't you worry about it, I reckon we still got plenty of time."

"I wish you wouldn't call me 'Master,'" muttered Frodo, though he knew it would do no good. He was not entirely comfortable with the strictures of hobbit society, especially when they required a lad like Curley, who was older than he, to address him deferentially.

Curley shrugged but made no answer, for indeed he had none. Together they started down to the vineyards, walking in companionable silence and watching the day unfold around them.

When they arrived old Barden Smallburrow, the vineyards keeper, hurried over. "Ah, Master Frodo, Curley, there you be...I was just a-starting to wonder if you'd lost your way!"

"It's my fault, Barden," said Frodo quickly. "Curley's been waiting for me."

"Well, you're here now, and we'll say no more about it. If you'll come along this way I'll show you what's to be done."

He led them down a narrow, rutted cart-track between row upon row of gnarled, woody grapevines that snaked up and down the undulating curves of the land. All appeared bereft of their grapes until they reached a remote corner of the vineyards, where Barden halted. "Here we are," he announced with a wave of his hand, looking like a proud parent. "The last of the harvest!"

The vines in this area were still heavy with fruit, and scent of it hung thick in the air. There was a strange, silvery cast to the low-hanging clusters, which Frodo at first took for the sheen of dew. But then he looked more closely.

"Barden, these grapes have gone moldy! And they're shriveled too--they're no good for harvesting." For one hopeful moment, he thought they had been reprieved.

But Barden just shook his head with a knowing smile. "Nay, young master, quite the contrary...they're good for harvest, very good indeed. In fact, there's naught better. That be a very special mold, what draws out some o' the juice but leaves behind all the flavor and sweetness." He took a deep breath. "Ah, the noble rot! Makes me lightheaded just smelling it! Mark my words, this'll be a wine to remember!"

He then set about explaining the task at hand. "Now, here's a pruning knife for each of you. They're right sharp, so mind how you handle 'em. Grasp the stem just above the bunch, like so, and make one clean cut. There's two hand barrows for haulin' the grapes over to that cart yonder. See that you're careful now, these late harvest grapes are as fragile as a sparrow's egg. Ah! That reminds me," he added. "If you see any like this bunch here, where the skins have already split, just leave' em on the vines...they'll spoil afore we have time to crush 'em. The birds'll have a fair treat, though," he chuckled to himself. "Well, I'm needed over at the winery, so I'll be leaving you to it now. If you don't slack off I reckon you should have that cart filled by midday, when I'll be back with another...and some vittles too, if I remember." He winked and trudged off.

While Frodo was sometimes loathe to begin a task, once he did he threw himself into it wholeheartedly. He now set about cutting grapes with swift competence. Curley was a strong, stocky lad, and though not as fast as Frodo he proved a steady, tireless worker. They soon settled into a rhythm, Frodo filling one barrow while Curley wheeled the other over to the cart to unload.

By the time the slow clip-clop of pony hooves signaled the return of Barden some hours later, they had filled the cart near to overflowing. A sturdy draft-pony pulling an empty cart ambled into view, with Barden bringing up the rear. "Whoa there, girl!" he called as they drew up.

Barden was pleased with their progress. "At the pace you lads are going, you're like to be done before tea!" He unhitched the pony and led her over to the loaded cart. "When you get that one filled," he called over his shoulder as he fastened the traces, "There's no need to wait for me as I'll be busy with the crushing a good while yet. Just leave it here and I'll come fetch it when I can." He straightened up and made as if to leave, then smiled at their anxious faces. "Ah yes, knew I was forgettin' something...Elsie sent this along for you."

From inside the second cart he produced a jug of cider and a basket containing a loaf of bread, ripe yellow cheese, hard sausage, and a few sun-speckled pears. "This should tide you over till tea time! Well, keep up the good work, lads! I reckon I'll see you later tonight at the Bonfire. Gee-up now, Queenie!" They clopped away.

Retiring to the shade of a large grape arbor, Frodo and Curley attacked the food with a vengeance, not pausing until every crumb was gone. Then they lay back with contented sighs.

"Are you going to the Bonfire tonight, Curley?" asked Frodo as he watched some crows circling lazily overhead.

"Aye, Master Frodo, I wouldn't miss it for anything. I dearly love to hear Mistress Mugwort's tales, even if they do keep me up nights!"

"So you believe in them, then?"

Curley looked a bit sheepish. "Well, I did see something one Blommath's Eve, leastways I think I did..."

"What kind of a something?"

"It--it looked like someone waiting by the well out back of Brandy Hall."

"The well, did you say? Then was it one of the Bunce brothers?" asked Frodo with growing interest, sitting up a little.

"Nay, it were a she...with long, golden hair, dressed all in white. Wondrous fair she was, but sad--so sad that I almost forgot to be scared. When I rubbed my eyes and looked again, there was naught to be seen but moonlight and shadows. 'Like as not your eyes are playing tricks on you, Corwin Brownlock,' I said to myself. "And yet...I've always wondered if it was Tourmaline Took herself that I saw."

"I wonder," said Frodo, regarding him thoughtfully. It was the longest speech he had ever heard Curley make. "Well, perhaps you'll see her again tonight!"

Looking rather nervous at the prospect, Curley scrambled to his feet. "Say, Master Frodo, we'd best be getting on with these grapes afore the day runs away from us!"

With only the hint of a smile Frodo followed suit and soon they were back at work among the vines.

The day had turned fine and hot, and it wasn't long before the hobbits had shed their weskits, unfastened their shirt collars, and rolled up their sleeves. Brushing damp curls out of his eyes, Frodo envied Curley his straw hat and regretted his own lack of foresight in not bringing one. "Rory must be daft to think a storm's coming," he grumbled. "It feels like midsummer!"

Curley looked shocked. "Why, Master Frodo...I've never yet seen your uncle wrong about the weather!"

"Well, there's a first time for everything!" Frodo was in no mood to be reasonable. He straightened up to ease a kink in his back and glumly surveyed the cloudless sky. The crows were still there, circling lower now and more purposefully. Occasionally one would dive down among the nearby vines. Frodo looked at them more closely. "Curley, those crows are after the grapes! Oughtn't we to chase them off?"

"Nay, there's naught left on those vines yonder but split grapes, the ones as Barden said was no good."

"Well the crows seem to like them well enough."

The afternoon wore on. Though the cart was nearly full, there were still some grapes yet to pick. "I'm dying of hunger!" groaned Frodo. "Surely it must be tea time by now."

"Aye, it looks nigh on four o' clock by the sun."

"Bother the sun--it's four o' clock by my stomach!"

"You go on back for tea, Master Frodo, I'll finish up here."

"I'm leaving when you do, Curley, and not a minute before!" Frodo insisted, though he thought longingly of hot currant buns. "Is there any cider left at least?"

"It's long gone, more's the pity."

Frodo sighed, drawing his sleeve across his forehead. His mouth felt parched. Struck by a sudden thought, he walked over to the crows and inspected the grapes they were feeding on. While their skins were split, these grapes showed no signs of mold and they looked plump and juicy. He tasted them hesitantly, then a broad smile spread across his face. "Curley, these are delicious! Come and try some."

Curley was reluctant at first. "I don't know as it's right, Master Frodo...no one gave us leave."

"Don't be silly! Barden said they were useless for winemaking, didn't he? Why should the crows have them all?"

Curley couldn't deny the logic of this, and soon both boys were feasting happily. After consuming quite a lot between them, they felt greatly refreshed and invigorated. Frodo's mood had brightened considerably; indeed at that moment he couldn't imagine a more delightful place to spend the afternoon.

This pleasant interlude was abruptly shattered by a loud honking coming from the direction of the cart, and they looked up to see it surrounded by an invading gaggle of geese with a keen interest in its contents. Several had already flapped up to balance awkwardly on the cart's rim and were stretching their long necks in a determined effort to reach the grapes inside. With a shout of alarm Curley dashed over and began waving his arms at them, but no sooner would he drive one off than two or three more would slip in behind him.

"It's no good that way Curley, you're outnumbered!" laughed Frodo. "But I've another idea." He cautiously approached the geese, a bunch of grapes in each hand. "Here, you greedy things--try these," he called, and tossed them toward the birds. The diversion worked and soon Frodo and Curley were at the center of an eager press of geese, their necks weaving and darting like deranged serpents as they adeptly caught whatever was thrown their way.

Frodo had just tossed a particularly large bunch toward a goose some distance from him when Curley, coming back from the vines with a fresh supply of grapes, unwittingly stepped right in its path. The overripe fruit hit him square in the chest and splattered over his clothes. Frodo doubled over laughing at his dumbfounded expression, but the next instant something soft, wet, and sticky smacked into the side of his face. He looked up to see Curley grinning wickedly at him, a challenging gleam in his eye.

And the battle was on! Grapes flew thick and furious and the hobbits were soon covered in fruity gore, a pair of bloodied warriors with crimson-stained clothes and skin. The ground became slippery with squashed fruit as they laughed and staggered, smashing grapes into each other's hair and lobbing missiles that went increasingly wide of their mark. The geese followed happily in their wake, gobbling ammunition as quickly as it fell.

A crow, lighting on a nearby arbor, seemed to jeer raucously at them. Frodo threw a grape at it but missed so badly that it didn't even stir from its perch.

"I guess he knows he has naught to fear from you!" laughed Curley.

Frodo glared at him. "I suppose you can do better?"

"Aye, I reckon I can at that!" Taking careful aim, Curley scored a direct hit and the crow plummeted to the ground like a stone. They stared at it in stunned silence.

"I think you've killed it, Curley," Frodo murmured.

The soft-hearted boy's eyes filled with tears. "So help me, Frodo, I didn't mean to! 'Twas only a grape."

Frodo started over to examine the victim, but at his approach the crow roused itself and flapped groggily away. He gazed after it, puzzled, and saw a number of crows flying about erratically. Another bird fell from an arbor, this time for no apparent reason. The geese were acting queerly too, wandering in aimless circles and bumping into each other. Frodo rubbed his eyes, feeling suddenly woozy. Everything seemed to be spinning around him and he clutched at the arbor to steady himself. His last clear memory was of Curley's voice somewhere behind him mumbling, "I don't feel so good!"

* * *

It was the perfect night for a bonfire: mild and still, a hunter's moon on the rise. In the master bedchamber of Brandy Hall Rory was laying out his Harvest King robes and crown as Saradoc looked on disapprovingly.

"Sure you'll not change your mind, Sara? It's a right good time you'll be missing!"

"I'm quite sure, Father. And what's more you should miss it too."

"Nonsense, boy, for time out of mind the Master of the Hall has been Harvest King on Blommath's Eve, as you know full well, and I ain't about to break with tradition!"

"But it's so undignified," protested Sara. "For someone as concerned as you are with Shirefolk's opinion of Buckland, I'm surprised you would do anything so likely to encourage their thinking us queer and backwards as celebrating Blodmath's Eve!"

Rory sighed; they had much the same conversation every year. "Sara, I'm not saying you don't have Buckland's best interests at heart, but sometimes you're too forward-thinking for your own good! Those uppity Shirefolk may choose to forget the old ways, but before hobbits ever had a Shire, or a King's Calendar, they had a year that died at harvest and was born anew come Blommath. And so long as I'm Master of Buckland, the memory of those days will be honored!"

Setting his crown firmly on his head and drawing his robes about him, he swept regally out of the room.

* * *

Most of the hobbits of Bucklebury and the surrounding farmlands had turned out for Blotmath's Eve Bonfire. With the day's winemaking activities successfully completed, everyone was in the mood to celebrate. By dusk the huge bonfire was lit, musicians were tuning their instruments, and children were chasing each other around the fire in costumes and masks.

A shout went up as the Harvest King made his entrance. Resplendent in his trailing cloak of woven corn husks and his crown of stag's antlers, Rory strode slowly through the crowd, nodding to acknowledge the bows and curtsies on either side, and seated himself on an elaborately carved wooden chair. With his arrival festivities could officially begin.

A hush fell over the crowd as a tall female hobbit bearing a staff stepped forward and bowed low before Rory.

Mistress Feralia Mugwort was the most renowned--some said notorious--healer in Buckland. She was originally from Bree, which straight off marked her as different, an Outsider. No one knew how old she was and it was impossible to judge from her appearance. Though her face was smooth and unlined, her long, flowing hair was silvery grey. Her eyes were a light brown flecked with gold, and seemed able to look deep within you, discerning your heart's secret fears and desires.

Some whispered that she dabbled in sorcery; some hinted darkly that it was more than dabbling. Her supporters maintained it was simply that her skill at healing was so extraordinary as to appear magical. But whatever they thought of her, most Bucklanders were quick to seek her out when the need arose. And none disputed her reputation as the best storyteller from Bree to the Marish, her knowledge of old tales and lore being equal to her mastery of healing herbs and roots.

She said now, "Lord of the Harvest and people of Buckland, I bid you good Blommath's Eve! What does it please you to hear this night?"

"The Winter of the White Wolves!"

"The Curse of the Barrow Wight!"

"The Stone Circle of Doom!"

"The Adventures of Tom Bombadil!"

But there was only one story they really wanted to hear on Blotmath's Eve, as Feralia well knew, and shouts of "The Bunce Brothers!" soon drowned out all other requests. She looked questioningly at Rory, who nodded. "So be it." Feralia stood a moment with head bowed and eyes closed. Then she whirled around to face the crowd and thumped the ground with her storyteller's staff. Any lingering murmurs and children's chatter were immediately silenced as she cried in a clear, ringing voice:

"Listen! For I will tell you now the tragic tale of Malo and Moro Bunce and the fair Tourmaline, who lived in the days when the Shire was new. It was a dark time, the Plague Time. Many were lost, women and children most of all. A dearth of hobbit maids gave rise to fierce rivalries and bitter feuds, the like of which had not before been seen in these parts.

"But none was more bitter--nor more deadly--than the quarrel between the Bunce brothers of Oatbarton in the Northfarthing. Twins they were, and none could tell them apart: both tall and fair of face, with hair raven-dark and keen grey eyes.

"Malo was a mighty hunter, roaming the Bindbole Wood with his bow and his knife and his great wolfhound. It was said that he sent game at times to the King's house at Lake Evendim, away beyond the North Moors, and that the hound was a gift from the King himself.

"Moro was a smith and craftsman of great renown. Some said he had learned his art from the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains away to the West. Others said it was the Elves who once dwelt in these lands who had taught him their secrets. But all agreed that his skill was unsurpassed among Hobbits.

"They were alike in looks only: Malo being proud and quick-tempered, while Moro was quiet and brooding. Yet never were brothers closer than these two, and they swore that no strife would ever part them. Alas! They did not look for the coming of a day when their words would be forsworn. But come it did with the arrival in Oatbarton of Tourmaline Took. She was the fairest maid in the Four Farthings, with hair like a golden waterfall tumbling down her back and eyes like the summer sky, possessing a grace of movement that was a delight to see.

"Her mother was a weaver and dyer of cloth who had come to town to earn her trade, as her husband was dead and she had no other means of support. For in those days, good people, the Tooks were not yet a rich and powerful family. While Tourmaline was a help to her mother in many ways, she was never allowed to dip the cloth lest the dye sully her lovely skin. But late each evening she went to the well on the edge of town to draw water for the dye vats.

"Tourmaline was courted eagerly by many suitors, but none proved more fervent than Malo and Moro Bunce. At first each pursued her unbeknownst to the other, and this was the first secret ever to come between them. But one day Moro saw his brother walking with Tourmaline, and marked well how he looked at her. That night in their smial he confronted Malo and all was revealed. Hot words were exchanged and at last Malo departed in anger, his hound at his heels. From that day forward the Bunce brothers renounced their bonds of love and kinship and declared themselves brothers no more."

Gasps and murmurs went up from the audience. Of all the tale's terrible deeds, none seemed more evil or incredible than this breaking of family ties. The Northfarthing setting made it more plausible, for while no Bucklander could ever be imagined committing such a heinous act, however long ago, there was no telling what those queer Shirefolk were capable of in the dark, uncertain past. (It must be reported, however, that the version of this story told in the Shire took place on the banks of the Brandywine.)

Once quiet was restored Feralia continued, "The last time the brothers appeared willingly together was to confront Tourmaline and demand that she choose between them. But alas! For she loved them both and could not choose. She sent them away with a promise to give her answer on the morrow. And then, good people, she made a fateful decision that would bring grief on them all.

"At daybreak she sent a note to each at their separate abodes, saying that he and he alone was her own true love. To Malo she wrote that he should meet her that night when she went to draw water from the well. And to Moro, that he should do the same one night hence.

"On the appointed nights she gave to each a token of her love: to Malo a scarf of finest silk from about her graceful neck, to Moro a velvet ribbon that tied back her golden hair. Both of these were deep crimson, which was of all colors her favorite. And each brother swore to her that never while he lived would he part with this token.

"So for a time Tourmaline's ruse succeeded, and she met her lovers by turns for many a moonlight tryst, thinking herself clever indeed. And when Malo, or Moro, depending on the night, gazed down at the lovely maiden lying soft in his embrace each thought himself happier than any hobbit that lived.

"But greed and deceit have been the downfall of many, and Tourmaline was no exception. One night Malo's passion for her burned so fiercely that he went to the well even though it was not his night to do so. And great was his amazement and wrath to find his brother there before him--though no greater than Moro's own anger and surprise on seeing him.

"It took but a few words to discover how things stood, and well might you suppose, good people, that on learning of Tourmaline's ill use of them the brothers would join in spurning her love, and reconcile with one another. But such was the strength of her charms that each thought of nothing but how to do away with his rival.

'It seems Tourmaline has chosen one lover too many,' said Moro, his voice soft but menacing.

"Malo looked at him darkly and spoke his last words to his brother: 'Ere this night ends she will have but one.'

'So be it,' answered Moro. And he lunged at his brother and seized him by the throat.

"Then Malo drew his hunting knife, and lo! It was a blade of fine and intricate workmanship, and had been wrought by Moro as a gift for the brother he loved. At the sight of it now turned on him Moro was all the more incensed, and redoubled his attack.

"And so they strove, brother against brother, locked in deadly combat on the very brink of the well. But so evenly matched were they that none could have said which way the fight would go.

"Now strange though it seem the hound, that would have braved a pack of wolves for its master, did not come to Malo's aid. For like Tourmaline, it too loved both brothers, having been raised by them since it was a pup. Whimpering in sore distress, it jumped at them as they fought, and became entangled with their legs. And thus unbalanced they staggered back against the well, swayed on the edge for a heartbeat, then still clutching one another plunged down into the water's cold embrace.

"As chance would have it Tourmaline was that night delayed, as her mother had taken ill and for the first time she had been required to dye the cloth. When at last she hurried to the well it was long past the appointed hour, and her fair arms were stained crimson to the elbows.

"Upon her arrival, great was Tourmaline's distress to find that Moro was not there, and greater still her fear to see instead the dog of Malo lying forlorn by the well. She paced fretfully to and fro, but Moro came not and her sense of foreboding grew. Finally she could tarry no longer, but let down the bucket to draw water and return home. And when the bucket was brought up, good people, Tourmaline screamed and fainted dead away. And the great hound threw back its head and howled.

"When villagers heard the cries and came running to the place, they found Tourmaline lying insensible on the ground, the dog at her side. In the upturned bucket lay a scarf and a ribbon, and the water that pooled around them was red as blood. And by this did they discover the fate of the Bunce brothers.

"The fair Tourmaline woke never again, and within three days she was dead. Some said she was stricken by the plague, others that she died of grief. And they said it was the blood of the two brothers on her hands that had stained them so, even in death. But still the hound guarded the well, though the brothers were laid in their graves, and there it remained until it too was dead. The well was shunned by the villagers from that day forth."

Feralia paused, and for a moment the only sound was the hiss and crackle of the fire. No one moved, or even breathed. Then she gazed darkly upon her audience and said, "Yet even now, those whose paths take them by wells on moonlit eves see at times a fair maiden with woeful countenance. Or perchance 'tis the hound they see, its howls echoing in the night. But the most dreadful sight of all is that of two grim and bloodied figures, who struggle on the brink of the well or slowly approach the hapless passerby uttering fearful groans. And the night they are most oft to be seen is Blommath's Eve, when restless souls travel once more among us."

When Feralia finished speaking there was a heavy silence among the gathered hobbits. Some sighed and wiped away a tear, while others shifted uneasily and glanced behind them into the deepening shadows outside the circle of firelight.

Shaking off the feeling of dread that had settled over him, Rory sprang to his feet and called out, "The tale is told, let the feast begin!" The mood was broken, the hobbits cheered, and the Blotmath's Eve revelries commenced in earnest.

* * *

Biddy Twofoot, the Brandy Hall laundress, pushed a straggling wisp of grey hair out of her eyes as she bent down to pull another sheet from the basket. At least there was no wind, she thought, taking a clothes pin from between her teeth and securing the wet linen to the line. Made her job just that little bit easier when she didn't have to wrestle with flapping sheets...

Snatches of music and laughter drifted through the cool twilight, coming from the direction of Bonfire Hill. Biddy sniffed. She had begged off the festivities, citing the large mounds of washing to tend to. Let the others carry on like fools, she was too busy and too old for such nonsense. She'd never had much truck with Blommath's Eve anyhow, with all its malarkey about spirits and offerings. Oh, she'd heard the tales of strange sightings and mysterious goings-on, but all that could be put down to the fancies of faunts and the over-indulgence of pub-goers. Let the dead rest in peace; they had no call to go gallivanting about the countryside, let alone any need for the fruits of the harvest...

"Boo!"

Biddy jumped at the sound, almost dropping a sheet. She spun around to find three small hobbits doing their best to look menacing in black cloaks and crudely painted masks.

"Be off with you now! Go find someone as scares easier," she snapped. They rushed off giggling, and Biddy just shook her head. It seemed there was no avoiding such foolishness this night. She turned back to her work, anxious to finish up and return to the Hall. If not for the full moon she would have been forced to stop long ago, but as it was she had enough light to get the last of the laundry hung before going home to supper.

She heard another noise behind her, and turned in real annoyance this time. "All right you young scamps, I thought I told you--" But the words died on her lips as she stared, open-mouthed, at the eerie white shapes flitting among the clothes lines. Just as she felt a scream rising in her throat, the nearest of them careened into a bush and in the process managed to divest itself of what she suddenly recognized as one of her sheets.

"What in the name of...?" The spectral being was now revealed as a large goose that waddled unsteadily toward her, honking rather plaintively. She saw that they were in fact all geese, which for some reason had blundered into her clothes lines and entangled themselves in the linens. "Shoo! Shoo!" she cried, flapping her apron at them until they slowly moved off.

"My nice clean sheets!" She surveyed the damage in dismay: some half-dozen newly soiled linens. There was nothing for it but to wash them again. "Just when I was near done, too!" She gathered them up, cursing and grumbling. It seemed even the birds and beasts were taken by Blommath's Eve madness. "And you're not much better, Biddy Twofoot, carrying on like a flibbertigibbet yourself, all on account of some daft geese!"

A breeze gusted up as Biddy trudged to the well, lugging a bucket in each hand. The weather's changing, she thought gloomily, though she would have known it well enough, breeze or no: her every joint was aching. If only the rain would hold off until she could take the washing down on the morrow...

As she reached the well a cloud scudded across the moon, plunging everything into darkness. Somewhere in the distance a dog howled. She shivered--from the growing chill, of course, what else could it be? Groping blindly for the well chain, she hooked it onto a bucket by feel and began turning the rusty crank to lower it until she heard a splash far below.

She had almost hauled it back up again when she thought she heard something over the slow clanking of the chain. She paused, and heard it more clearly now: a low, keening moan. Odd that, she thought uneasily, how the wind could sound just like a person at times. But the wind had died down and in the sudden, unbearable stillness she heard another sound, small but very distinct: that of a twig snapping.

Slowly, Biddy raised her head. The moon sailed out of the clouds and two forms emerged in its pale light: hobbits they seemed, but terrible to behold as they lurched toward her haggard and staring. Biddy's nerveless fingers slipped off the crank and the bucket hurtled unchecked back down the well, the chain spinning wildly. One dreadful figure stretched out a blood-drenched arm as it came and cried hoarsely, "Help us!" Biddy, who had stood transfixed, seemed suddenly roused by these words. Throwing her apron over her head and shrieking uncontrollably, she rushed off into the night.

* * *

The wine and ale were flowing freely on up Bonfire Hill, and the crowd grew ever louder and more exuberant. They roared their approval when the first Harvest Dancers appeared in their masks of carved, painted wood and hollowed gourds: some like skulls, some like animals, or the sun and the moon. Two had teamed up to form the front and back halves of a great bull that pranced and tossed its head. "Bandobras!" the hobbits shouted in delight. Some were on stilts beneath their robes and wore towering headdresses of woven straw, making them stand as much as six or seven feet tall.

They approached the Harvest King's throne in pairs, bowed, then parted to formed a circle around the fire. Four burly hobbits stepped forward and, lifting Rory on his chair, carried him thrice around the circle, the dancers following in procession to the music of pipes, horns, drums, and cymbals. When Rory was returned to his place of honor, the music grew faster and the dancers began to dip and whirl.

Now and again as they moved around the circle a hobbit would leave the crowd to join them, bearing bounty from his fields. Many farmers were cloaked and masked in animal skins and heads: rams, goats, even the occasional wolf or bear. These costumes had been handed down from father to son for time out of mind. Each in turn danced forward and hurled his harvest gift into the heart of the fire, the crowd joining him in shouting, "Offered!"

A great straw figure, representing the year past (by the Old Reckoning) was being tossed about by the crowd; soon it too would be thrown onto the bonfire. Goodwives and maids stood at the ready with their ember pots, waiting for their turn to join the dance and receive the glowing coals from which to relight their hearth fires. The pipes skirled wildly, the drums throbbed, the dancers spun and leaped.

Excitement had reached a fever pitch when a piercing scream tore through the air and brought everything to a dead halt. Biddy Twofoot broke through the circle and stumbled toward Rory, wild eyed and babbling hysterically. About the only words anyone could make out clearly were,

"The Bunce brothers!"

"I'm sorry Biddy, you missed Feralia's story," said Rory, quite taken aback. "But you're not too late to join in the merrymaking..."

"No no! I saw the Bunce brothers! Just now, down by the well. They came after me...it was horrible!" she sobbed on his shoulder.

A startled murmur rose among the hobbits. Glances were exchanged, eyebrows raised, a few nervous chuckles were heard, but for the most part everyone looked at Rory, waiting to see his reaction. He hesitated. On the one hand, such a claim could not be taken lightly on this of all nights. And yet...if he disbanded the gathering and Saradoc found out why, he would never hear the end of it. It seemed a shame, too, to cut things short when everyone was having such a good time.

"There now, Biddy," he soothed, patting her awkwardly on the back. "Perhaps you've been working too hard...why don't you let Barden here fetch you a nice mug of beer and I wager you'll be feeling much better in no time."

Biddy just stared at him reproachfully and quavered, "Believe it or not as you please Master, but mark my words them brothers is walking among us this night, so beware!"

Rory looked helplessly around.

Feralia stepped forward and put a comforting arm around the trembling laundress. "Now Biddy, why don't you come over here and tell me exactly what you saw?" she said kindly. "I'm always interested in learning more about the Bunce brothers."

Biddy allowed herself to be led away and Rory breathed a sigh of relief. He signaled the musicians to begin playing again, but before they could do so more screaming broke out on the far side of the circle. The crowd drew back in terror to let pass two ghastly figures, hollow-eyed and deathly pale. They staggered toward the fire, their disheveled garments and matted hair dark with blood. Farmers brandished pitchforks and knives, mothers drew their children behind them, old gammers muttered charms to ward off evil. Biddy took one look and fell down in a faint.

As the musicians and dancers scattered around him, Rory stared in mingled shock, horror, and fascination. "Can't you do something, Feralia?" he muttered over his shoulder.

"Nay, lord!" The healer's eyes glittered gold in the firelight. "'Tis the duty of the Harvest King to defend his people."

Rory swallowed hard, nodded, drew himself up to his full height and pointed an only slightly trembling finger at the apparitions. "Begone, ye spirits of darkness!" he intoned in the deepest voice he could muster. "Begone and trouble us not, for we have made the requisite offerings and ye have no claim on us."

One figure took several faltering steps, then swayed and collapsed. Encouraged, Rory looked hopefully at the other. It, however, uttered a blood-chilling moan and continued to advance slowly toward him. With a supreme effort he stood his ground, took a deep breath and began again: "Begone foul spirit--"

"I say, isn't that Master Frodo?" whispered Feralia from behind him.

"What?" Rory started and took a closer look; at that moment the figure stepped full into the light. "Frodo Baggins! I should ha' known this was one o' your tricks!" he roared. "You young scoundrel! What have you got to say for yourself?"

Frodo opened his mouth and seemed to be struggling to speak, but no words came forth.

Some angry mutters--and not a few snickers--could be heard from the crowd.

"Well, we're all waiting...out with it, boy!"

With a last despairing groan, Frodo was suddenly and violently ill down the front of the Harvest King's robes.

* * *

Once the commotion died down, it was generally agreed that Frodo and Curley could not really be blamed for the incident, since they had been unaware of the tendency of late-harvest grapes to ferment on the vine, or that split grape skins were a telltale sign of this process. Even Biddy Twofoot forgave them eventually, though it was long before she would venture out to the clothes lines at dusk without a stout club clutched firmly in hand. The geese all made a complete recovery.

Still, Frodo tried to avoid Rory when he was well enough to get up the next day, and when they did cross paths his uncle scowled at him and muttered something about hogtying.

As it happened, the late harvest of 1383 produced the finest dessert wine in the history of Buckland viticulture. When it was bottled Rory gave it the fanciful name of "Brandy Hall Vineyards 'Bonfire Spirits' Vintage 1383." It was much sought after throughout Buckland and the Shire; indeed Bilbo Baggins himself was so fond of it that he ordered several cases. He served the last of it at the infamous Party in 1401, as Rory was pleased to note, and after Bilbo's disappearance he called for Frodo to send it round again.

Author's notes:

Rory's grapes were infected with botrytis cinerea, or noble rot, a parasitic fungus or mold that produces the greatest sweet, late harvest wines of the world. Late harvest grapes not affected by this mold may split and then ferment on the vine.

On Blotmath, Blodmath, and Blommath: According to Appendix D in ROTK, Blotmath (November) was pronounced Blodmath or Blommath. Thus in this chapter the narrator uses Blotmath while most of the hobbits say Blommath. Only Saradoc uses what I take to be the more "cultured" pronunciation, Blodmath.