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

Chapter 4: Flood Tide

The River was life. Brown and benign, it wound lazily through the countryside, nurturing crops and livestock, woodlands and game, bringing prosperity and plenty to the little folk who clustered on its banks. Fishing, swimming, boating, commerce: the River provided well.

But what the River gave, it could also take away. Winter storms brought raging torrents that smashed docks and tore away trees, and floodwaters that surged over banks, leaving devastation in their wake. Sometimes, the River was death.

* * *

It was Frodo’s earliest memory, a jumble of images and emotions that seemed more dream than waking reality. Indeed it visited him often in the form of a dream, causing him to start up trembling in the dark.

The thing he recalled most clearly about the day was the River itself: shimmering, glorious, ever-changing as the light played across the rippling surface, seducing him with its beauty and immensity, cooling the breeze that caressed his skin, light and teasing.

Entranced, he gazed at the River and desired it with a fierce, consuming passion. It was not so much a wish to possess it, for the very young make no distinction between self and other. Frodo wanted to be one with the River—be with it, in it, of it. And he would not rest until it was so.

They were picnicking some way upriver from the Hall: he and his parents and assorted relatives. The grown-ups were laughing and talking, taking their ease on the beautiful spring day. Only Frodo’s mother was subdued, seeming tired and moving more slowly than usual. But that hadn’t stopped her from keeping a close eye on him, grabbing and pulling him back every time he got too close the water’s edge. He became quite cross with her, and all the more intent on his goal.

Finally his chance came—Aunt Asphodel had seized his mother’s arm and was chattering away about something, diverting her attention from Frodo. It was only for an instant, but that was all he needed. In a flash he was running for the River and joyfully flung himself headlong to meet it.

The intense thrill that swept through him as the water closed over his head was unlike anything he had ever felt and he forgot all else, even the need to breathe, as he drifted slowly down through a mysterious, enchanted realm of light and shadows, hazy brown shot through with gold. He was dimly aware of someone screaming, but the sound was muffled and distant, seeming of no importance.

Then it was over. As swiftly as a dream fades at waking, the spell was broken by a great splash, and now he did try to breathe, and panicked when he couldn’t. As he flailed in the suddenly roiling water he felt strong, slender arms wrap around his waist and pull him rapidly upwards, and bursting through the shining curtain of light he was thrust into the ordinary world again. He coughed and sputtered as his mother pushed him onto the bank and into the waiting arms of his father, who looked more frightened than Frodo had ever seen him.

A dozen hands reached down to help his mother out of the water. Frodo wept inconsolably, but no one understood that it was from frustration and loss at being torn so abruptly from the River’s embrace. He turned away from his mother, feeling betrayed and cheated.

Back at the smial he was whisked off to a bath by his aunts; his mother was nowhere to be seen. By now the allure of the River was beginning to fade and his mother’s arms seemed suddenly much more desirable than they had just a short while before. As soon as he could escape he ran down the passage to her chambers, but to his great shock and distress he found the door barred to him. Aunt Asphodel put her head out and said only that his mother was ill and couldn’t see him just now. There was something strange in her voice that he didn’t understand but that filled him with dread. All through the afternoon he hovered outside her room as various female relatives hurried in and out, seeming not to notice him or if they did, glancing at him with dour expressions.

A sudden sharp cry of pain rent the air, filling Frodo with panic. The next time the door opened he pushed past an aunt and dashed inside. He had one brief, terrifying glimpse of his mother lying still and silent against the pillows, eyes closed and face very pale, and of bright red blood staining white sheets before he was seized by the scruff of the neck and hauled back out again. He sank to the floor, too overwhelmed now even to cry. Something was horribly wrong, and it was all his fault, he was certain. Perhaps the River was angry that his mother had snatched him away from it…and now it was taking her away…

The door opened and closed again quietly. His face was buried in his arms, so he didn’t know his father was there until he smelled the familiar, comforting scent of pipeweed and felt the rough caress of woolen waistcoat against his skin as he was lifted up.

"Don’t fret little one, your Mama’s going to be all right!" his father whispered, stroking his hair. Though his voice broke a little as he said this and Frodo could see tears standing in his eyes—his father, weeping!—he smiled and tightened his arms around him. "I promise I’ll not leave you until she’s better."

And so the two of them remained throughout the long night, huddled together in the cold stone passage outside the door. In the morning Frodo was allowed to go in to his mother and she seemed herself again, only strangely sad and quiet. Frodo’s love for her was now mingled with a constant anxiety, and he was determined that nothing would ever take her from him again.

* * *

As soon as he was old enough his mother lost no time in teaching him to swim, while his father watched uneasily from the bank. Frodo was soon completely at home in the water, spending as much time in the River as out every summer. He could swim across easily, and took special delight in racing the ferry—sometimes swimming in circles around it when it was piloted by one of his more lethargic relatives.

"I love the River," he said dreamily one day, as he and his mother lay sunning on the bank after a long swim.

"Don’t ever say that, Frodo!" Primula rebuked him.

Frodo looked up, startled and a little frightened by the intensity in her voice. "Why not, Mama?" he faltered.

She reached out and gently stroked his cheek in reassurance. "What have I always told you about the River, dearest one?" she asked, more softly now but holding his gaze with her own.

"Never—never underestimate it," said Frodo hesitantly.

"Yes, but it’s more than that," she said after a pause, finally lowering her eyes to look out over the water. "Above all, Frodo, you must never trust the River…no matter how kindly or gentle it may seem, it is no friend."

Frodo did not fully understand her words until one balmy midsummer’s night when the moon hung so low in the sky it looked close enough to touch. It was a festive party at dinner, for his parents were celebrating their wedding anniversary and Gorbadoc and Mirabella had gone all out.

Frodo remembered every detail of the evening: what they ate, his uncles’ jokes, the sound of the River lapping placidly against the dock below the open windows of Brandy Hall. His mother wore her best silk dress that rustled softly when she moved, its deep blue color setting off her eyes.

The meal was over and the toasts all made when Drogo pushed back his chair and sighed contentedly. "I thank you, Father Gorbadoc and Mother Mirabella, for a truly splendid feast. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a meal more, or will again." His eyes drifted over to the windows, and he added, as if it was a casual afterthought, "It’s a fine night for boating…what say we take a dory out on the River, Prim?" Everyone stared at him, startled. Even Primula looked surprised.

"I’ve never known you to be overfond of boats, Drogo," drawled Rory, who enjoyed teasing his "landlubber" brother-in-law.

"Well, I, ah, just thought, what with the moonlight, you know, that it might be…" Drogo trailed off helplessly.

"Romantic, is that what you’re tryin’ to say?" laughed Gorbadoc. "Well now, maybe I see your point at that, you old rogue! After all it’s a bit too early to turn in, and truth be told it can be a mite difficult finding a bit of privacy in this smial," he added with a wink.

Already uncomfortable, Drogo was now actually blushing. Frodo looked at him, puzzled.

"Difficult? I’d call it well nigh impossible!" grumbled Esmeralda, looking pointedly at Saradoc who just shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"I think it’s a lovely idea, Drogo dear," said Primula, smiling at him.

"May I go too?" asked Frodo eagerly, the finer points of the conversation lost on him. His parents exchanged a glance. Drogo cleared his throat. "Well now, Frodo lad…"

"Not this time, dear," his mother said gently. It’s nearly your bed-time now. But I promise to take you out first thing tomorrow."

Though time may have embellished the memory, Frodo always thought afterwards that his mother had never looked so radiant as she did that night, standing in the doorway with moonlight picking out the silver strands in her hair, the fire casting a soft glow over her lovely features and dancing in her eyes. Drogo looked proud of her, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist while they said their good nights to the family.

Rory called out, "Mind you take a good, sound boat, Prim! That husband of yours ate as much as was good for him tonight, and then some! You don’t want to be shipping any water on account of the extra load!"

Everyone laughed at that, including Drogo. "Good night, my boy," he said, ruffling Frodo’s hair. Mind you get right to sleep now…no waiting up for us, hear?"

"Yes, Papa," said Frodo, feeling a little forlorn.

His mother must have sensed it, because instead of a quick kiss on the cheek she knelt down and pulled him into her arms for a tight hug. "Don’t be sad, love," she whispered in his ear. "We shan’t be gone long. I’ll look in on you when we get back, all right?"

Frodo clung to her a moment longer before reluctantly letting go. "I love you," he murmured.

"Mama’s boy! Mama’s boy!" tittered his cousin Cederic.

Frodo ignored him and watched his parents as they went out, arm-in-arm, into the night.

"It’s downright unseemly how those two carry on like a pair of tweens," sniffed Amaranth after they’d gone.

"Fiddlesticks, Am, you’re just jealous, seeing how you never snared a husband yourself," said Asphodel tartly.

"Oh, jealous is it? And Rufus is such a cooing lovebird that you’d surely have no cause to be jealous yourself, now would you?" her sister retorted.

Asphodel’s husband Rufus harrumphed at being dragged into such a shrewish exchange.

"Prim is prettier than the both of you put together, so why shouldn’t Drogo appreciate it?" smirked their youngest brother Dinodas.

"May I be excused, Grandfather?" said Frodo quickly, not wanting to hear any more.

"Aye lad," sighed Gorbadoc, weary himself of his daughters’ bickering. "Good night to you Frodo, and pleasant dreams."

Frodo never lost his fascination with the River, though from that night forward the desire was mixed with an equal share of hate. In the summer it seemed to mock him with its gentle, lazy current as if to ask, How could I harm anyone? During the winter it issued a deadly challenge in its wild fury: Defy me if you dare…

And he could never rid himself of the notion that it took his parents as recompense for being cheated of him…

* * *

Longfathers Day

2 November, 1383

With the last of the harvest in, the Brandy Hall school was now in session. It was a small, one-room affair, attended primarily by the scions of the Brandybuck clan, along with the eldest sons of some of the more prominent local farmers. Despite Rory’s own lack of schooling, at Gilda’s insistence he had retained a tutor for their son when he was young. As a result Saradoc was more enlightened than his father regarding the value of education, and this year he had quietly revived the school that had languished neglected since Rory became Master.

Frodo chafed at having to attend school, feeling there was nothing he could learn there that he had not already gleaned from his own reading. However, attendance was required until age 16. Saradoc said he couldn’t make an exception for Frodo without setting a bad precedent for the rest of the family; as it was many of the students were there only reluctantly. However, he promised Frodo that after next year he could be the schoolmaster’s assistant.

Falstaff Goodbody, Brandy Hall’s head librarian and official Buckland historian, also served as schoolmaster. He and Frodo enjoyed a very cordial relationship, in fact he sometimes thrilled the young hobbit by consulting him on matters of Elvish lore and letting him help with research on the history of Eriador. During school sessions they had an understanding whereby Falstaff usually let him sit in the back of the classroom and quietly read a book of his own choosing.

Today Frodo’s mood was as black as the lowering clouds he could see through the schoolroom window. Rory had been right, as always, about the weather: the first storm of the season was brewing and the air was still and breathless.

That morning he had attended the Longfathers Day ceremony at the cemetery, an event he always dreaded. While he found it comforting to visit his mother’s and father’s graves alone, when he could sit peacefully and think about them, or even talk to them, it was a very different matter to be there amidst crowds of hobbits paying their respects to departed loved ones. Most of them were there to honor gaffers and gammers who had passed away peacefully at the end of long, productive lives. There were precious few like him, a faunt mourning the untimely death of his parents.

As usual, he had been baited surreptitiously by Otis Sandheaver and his friends. "Did you see your parents this Blommath’s Eve, Baggins?" whispered Otis.

"Give my love to Tourmaline Took," sniggered his mate Clive Underhill.

Surrounded by relatives, there was nothing Frodo could do but glare.

Old Falstaff was down with a touch of influenza, and his young assistant Alfred Tunnelly was teaching in his stead. Alfred was 21 with greasy hair and pockmarked skin, and he hid his adolescent insecurity behind a strict, domineering manner. He felt threatened by Frodo who, though younger, knew far more than he, and he never passed up an opportunity to "put the young show-off in his place." In the middle of a lesson on the founding of Buckland, he noticed Frodo staring out the window.

"Master Baggins! If you do any more wool gathering, you’ll soon have enough for a fine winter coat!" Alfred’s tone was jocular and the other students laughed, but his eyes flashed a cold warning that Frodo, in his present dark mood, chose to ignore.

"Then at least I’ll get something useful out of this class!" he retorted.

A hush fell over the room. A muscle in Alfred’s jaw twitched. His eyes fell on the book propped in front of Frodo and when he spoke again all pretense of geniality had vanished. "Is that the history of Buckland you’re reading?"

"No."

"No, sir!"

"No sir," mumbled Frodo.

"Perhaps you think you can better instruct us all on the history of Buckland?"

Frodo was silent.

"Come on then, don’t be modest! Why don’t you start by telling us the year it was first inhabited?"

"By Hobbits, Men, or Elves?" asked Frodo loftily.

"What?"

"Well surely you know, sir, that we were hardly the first settlers in these parts. It was during the First Age of Middle Earth that Elves would have passed through the area on their way to the western shores, and some may have dwelt here for a time. But the first recorded inhabitants—"

Annoyed at being shown up in front of the class, Alfred hastily cut Frodo off: "This is a history class, not story-hour, Master Baggins. Have you been spending too much time in the nursery with Mummy?"

Frodo’s face went white as he stared speechlessly at Alfred. A sudden, blinding flash lit the room for an instant, and the charged silence was broken by the low rumble of approaching thunder.

Now Alfred Tunnelly may have been an overbearing and insensitive hobbit, but he was not a particularly cruel one and his remark had been made in thoughtlessness, not malice. He belatedly realized what he had said and looked uncomfortable, but was not about to back down.

"I’ll take that book, if you please."

Frodo didn’t move.

"Master Baggins, bring me the book now!"

Slowly, Frodo rose and advanced toward the teacher. The others held their breaths and even Alfred had to will himself not to step back a pace when Frodo reached him. But Frodo merely handed over the book and returned to his seat.

"You may all put away your books and take out your slates; we will now practice our sums."

Frodo sat gazing down at his slate, Alfred’s words a meaningless drone in his ears as he struggled to master his emotions. Slowly he regained a measure of composure. He picked up his chalk and with a small, furtive smile began to draw.

After a few minutes Halimac Brandybuck, who sat next to Frodo, looked over at his companion’s slate and snickered.

Suddenly Alfred was standing over them. "Perhaps we can all enjoy whatever it is that you find so amusing, Master Brandybuck!" His glance fell on the slate, which Frodo had made no attempt to hide. On it was a remarkably like portrait of Alfred, save that his eyes, ears and teeth had been exaggerated to resemble the features of a goblin. Alfred flushed and when he found his voice it shook with a barely contained fury. "Master Baggins, Master Brandybuck, you will go outside to the wood pile and wait for me there. And while you’re waiting, you can each cut a long willow switch."

When they reached the woodpile Frodo didn’t even slow down, but strode on toward the River. "Well, are you coming?" he snapped over his shoulder at Halimac.

"But…Mr. Tunnelly said to wait for him here!"

Not bothering to reply, Frodo just shot him a contemptuous glance and kept walking.

After a moment’s hesitation, Hal hurried along behind him. He didn’t ask where they were going; he thought he could guess.

By the time they reached the ferry and cast off, the rain was coming down in earnest and the crossing proved slow and difficult. More than once the quickening current threatened to wrest the poles from their grasp. They reached the far side at last, and tying up the raft set off for Bamfurlong Farm. Upon their arrival, however, they discovered that their trek had been in vain—all the crops were in and the fields barren. The mushroom plots were a lake of mud.

As they slogged wearily back through the stubble of the cornfields, Frodo couldn’t resist stopping to peer over the wall of the bull pasture. Bandobras, looking thoroughly wet and miserable, was standing under his tree with his head down, and paid him no heed.

Sodden and dispirited, Frodo and Halimac were glad to finally see the ferry dock looming ahead through the slanting downpour. But when they reached the water’s edge, they stood staring in shock and dismay. The River was now surging and swollen and the raft was gone, torn loose from its mooring.

"Save us," groaned Hal. "Why did I ever go along with you, Frodo Baggins? A thrashing from Mr. Tunnelly would be a right treat next to what’s going to happen to us when we get caught on the wrong side of the River come nightfall!"

"I’m not going to be caught," said Frodo quietly.

"What do you mean? You know there’s no way across for miles in either direction!"

Frodo did not reply, but only gazed down at the churning, muddy water. He felt anger coursing through him, as strong and unstoppable as the flood tide itself: a heady, potent draught distilled from all the grief, pain, and confusion of the past three years…

Anger at the River for this latest betrayal. Anger at the clumsy gibes of Alfred Tunnelly and the relentless bullying of Otis Sandheaver. Anger at his Brandybuck relatives for what they could not be, or give him. Anger at Bilbo for living too far away to offer any real comfort. Anger at his parents for dying. And above all, anger at himself for being powerless to alter the unhappy circumstances of his life.

Still he looked down at the River, and the old feelings of hatred and desire flared up as strongly as ever. He peeled off his jacket and weskit.

"Frodo, what are you doing?"

Perhaps this one thing lay in his power—to challenge and defeat the River, to cheat it of its mocking victory…

"Frodo!"

Verily, I come to you...

The roaring of the River filled his ears as he dove.

He broke the water cleanly with hardly a splash, but that was his last moment of control in the hopelessly one-sided contest. When he surfaced the River slammed into him with the brutal force of a charging bull and bore him swiftly away.

Halimac’s screams sounded thin and distant, and with difficulty Frodo managed to twist around and look back. The rapidly receding dock, with the hobbit a tiny speck on it, was already far behind, and soon disappeared completely around a bend in the river.

Frodo had no more thought of trying to reach the far shore—all his strength was now required just to keep his head above water as he was buffeted about like the River’s plaything. All about him swirled the debris of the flood tide: logs and planks, a tangle of fishing net, a bucket, a child’s toy boat. The bloated body of a goat bumped up against him, lifeless and staring, and he pushed it away in horror. The numbing cold felt like a steel band drawing ever tighter around his chest. He felt himself tiring, and wondered how much longer he would be able to stay afloat. For a moment he was pulled under, and only with a great effort fought his way back to the surface.

Just as he felt his strength failing he managed to catch hold of a large plank as it sped by. He clung desperately to the end of it, gasping for breath. If he could just manage to hold on until he reached the hythe at Grindwall, he might have a chance…

Some sudden instinct or premonition made him look back to see a huge uprooted tree bearing down on him, moving fast. Frantically, he tried to kick out of its path. Then he felt a sharp blow to his head and everything went black.

Author’s note:

Re: Gorbadoc death date - There is a discrepancy in LOTR that makes any attempt to write about Gorbadoc problematic: while the Gaffer says in "A Long-expected Party" that Drogo and Primula were visiting Gorbadoc at the time of their boating accident, according to the Brandybuck family tree in Appendix C he died before Frodo was born. My opinion is that narrative trumps appendices and so I've included him in this chapter, but as a compromise kill him off as quickly as possible--within a year of the drowning—as the next chapter discloses. (And while my story does not tell what happened to Mirabella, I imagine she would have returned to Great Smials after her husband's death, having found she could no longer bear even the sight of the River.)