Chapter 4. Just in Time for Tea

It was a beautiful spring day, all the brighter for the streamers hanging from every tree in the Old Orchard at Bag End where laughing hobbits reclined on thick coverlets, to keep away the damp of the still-chilly ground.

Baby Pippin-lad Gamgee had recently discovered his toes, and now he lay on his back, waving his feet in the air as he tried to catch the elusive digits whilst his delighted grandmother cheered him on. ‘What a sharp lad he is, Rose,’ she said. ‘He’s got all his buttons, he does!’

 'Just like the hobbit he's named for, my Sam says,' Rose said, smiling down at her littlest. 'Eyes just as bright, anyhow.'

 ‘And here’s the cake!’ Sam cried, entering the orchard surrounded by a cloud of young hobbits, Gamgees and Cottons, brothers and sisters and cousins all mingled into one excited parade, and Elanor Gamgee blushed scarlet as the birthday song arose.

 ‘Nine years old today,’ Sam said, stopping before her and bowing low to present the cake. ‘Make a wish, Ellie!’

Elanor held her breath and wished hard, and she never told a soul that she wished to travel to far places and see wondrous things, perhaps even the King and his beautiful Queen, though she rather doubted it would ever come to pass.

There was laughter and much clapping of hands at the blowing of the candles, and little Pip-lad beamed, thinking it was all for him, and snagging a toe he pulled it into his mouth and proceeded to chew with all three teeth in his possession.

The cake was divided and all were happily eating and talking and waiting for Ellie to distribute the presents she’d made—flowers she’d grown in her own little spot in the garden, and dried, and glued to stiff paper to make pretty pictures—when Sam stiffened, put down his plate, and rose to his feet, still chewing a mouthful of cake.

 ‘What is it, Sam?’ Rose asked, shading her eyes to look up at him. He was looking off down the Hill, towards Hobbiton, curiosity turning to tension as he scanned the landscape.

 ‘Firebells,’ he said, hastily swallowing his cake, ‘but no sign of smoke.’

The party fell silent as the wind carried a sudden wild music of horns from below, mingling with the bells, and then the Cottons were on their feet as well, sturdy Tom and his sons clustering around the Mayor.

 ‘Something’s amiss,’ Farmer Cotton said, and nudged his youngest son. ‘Nibs, run down the Hill and see what’s what. We’ll be coming shortly.’

 ‘Dad?’ Elanor said, scrambling to her feet and taking Sam’s sleeve.

He smiled down at her, cupping her face in his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie,’ he said, casting a look at the brilliant sky above, ‘but I’m afraid there’s a change in the weather. It looks like rain, don’t you think, Rosie?’

Rose looked at the sky, bewildered, and then at her father’s grim face, mirrored by his sons’ faces, a look she hadn’t seen since... Ruffians? But it would frighten the children to voice the thought. ‘Why, I think you have the right of it, Sam,’ she said, scooping up the babe in one arm and little Merry-lad in the other. ‘Mother, would you gather the blanket, and you, too, Ellie, and Frodo-lad, you pack up the dishes in the big basket, and...’

Swiftly daughters and daughters-in-love and cousins packed up picnic and blankets and tots and presents and traipsed back to Bag End. By the time they reached the smial they found Samwise coming out, umbrella in his hand, the Cottons waiting for him, and with swift good-byes they trotted down the lane. Frodo-lad, craning after then, saw his father cast away the umbrella just as they reached the road that went down to Hobbiton, though he was still carrying something in his hand.

Just then his mother called him into the smial, where the party was recommencing in the large, sun-drenched kitchen.

 ‘Frodo-lad, would you bring another chair from the parlour?’ his mother asked, and he was quick to do her bidding with a smile. Once in the parlour he picked up a chair... and stopped. Sting was missing from its place of honour above the mantel.

***

Pippin lay in a dark and troubled dream. ‘Frodo!’ he called. ‘Frodo!’ His voice trembled with fright and his calls grew uncertain as, instead of the reassuring face of his beloved cousin, he saw hundreds of hideous faces, all grinning at him in the most evil manner. ‘Merry!’ he whimpered as hideous arms grasped at him from all sides, and coarse voices taunted him.

He woke, feeling cold and sick, with cold air blowing on his face, staring into a dimming sky. When he tried to sit up, he found he was bound with cords: wrists, legs and ankles. It was all he could do to turn; beside him lay Merry, white-faced, a dirty rag bound across his brows. ‘Merry,’ he whispered, struggling a little.

One of the Orcs sitting near him laughed and said something to a companion in their abominable tongue, and then in the Common Speech he hissed, ‘Rest while you can, little fool!’

 “Fool of a Took” echoed in the back of Pippin’s brain, and tears came to his eyes. The companion rose, pulling a black knife with a long jagged blade from a hidden sheath. ‘If I had my way, you’d wish you were dead now. I’d make you squeak, you miserable rat.’ He stooped over the prisoners, bringing his yellow fangs close to Pippin’s face. ‘Lie quiet,’ he hissed, pricking Pippin’s throat with the tip of the knife, ‘or I’ll tickle you with this.’ The first Orc leaned forward, eyes glittering, and said something under his breath in his own tongue. The knife-wielding Orc grinned into Pippin’s face, holding the knife steady. ‘Just a little nick,’ he whispered, and his tongue snaked round his lips. ‘We don’t have to drink him dry... a sip or two, just a little sip...’ Pippin scarcely breathed.

 ‘Do it,’ the first Orc whispered. ‘Tender and juicy; we’ll say he tried to escape...’

 ‘Orders,’ the knife-wielding Orc growled, pulling back the blade and staring down in obvious dissatisfaction. He started to turn away, but then thrust his face into Pippin’s, eyes inches away from the hobbit’s. Pippin wanted to look away, to close his eyes, but he didn’t dare. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself, or I may forget my orders. Curse the Isengarders!’ He launched into a tirade that Pippin couldn’t understand, but the tween closed his eyes, sick with relief, and fear...

The tirade faded and changed into something else, something eerily familiar, and a tear squeezed from between Pippin’s eyelids as he recognised an old Tookish lullaby. How would the creatures know to torment him with that? He drew a shuddering breath, and it hurt. ‘Merry,’ he whispered. ‘Please...’

 ‘All’s well,’ the Orc growled. ‘Just a little sip.’

Pippin began to struggle wildly against his bonds as he felt himself lifted to a sitting position. He waited for the flash of pain at his throat, the warm trickle of life-blood, but instead a cup was held to his lips and the Orc guard growled again. ‘Just a sip, that’s all.’

He locked his teeth but was afraid to turn his face aside, for fear he’d present a better target for the knife: the side of his throat, where the large veins bulged.

 ‘Mistress,’ the Orc growled. ‘I’m that glad to see you. He said something about a little drink, but when we tried to give him one he fought us.’

Gentle hands came to rest on either side of Pippin’s face, hands that were cool against his fevered cheeks. ‘Pippin-love,’ Diamond said. ‘Waken now. Time to wake up. We have a drink here for you, cool, fresh water, or tea if you’d prefer.’

He opened his eyes to see Diamond’s face, her eyes staring into his, a slight frown of worry creasing her brow though she smiled bravely. ‘That’s the thing, my love,’ she said. ‘There we are.’

With difficulty he pulled his arms free, arms that had become prisoned when someone pulled the bedcovers up, and flung them round her, not even noticing the pain of bruises or the throbbing of his injured forearm. Burying his face in the fragrance of her shoulder, he gave himself up to weeping, and felt her long, slim fingers stroke his hair.

 ‘All’s well, my love,’ she repeated, over and again, as if it would come true if only she said it often enough. And finally he shuddered, spent, and stilled, and raised a shame-faced countenance; but they were alone in the room, for the servants had silently withdrawn at Diamond’s nod. One of them sat in a chair just outside the door, ready to jump up at her call, and the other was already in the Master’s study, pouring out a report of this latest nightmare.

***

Halfway down the Hill Sam and the Cottons met a single rider coming up, pushing a weary pony to its best pace, Nibs running alongside.

 ‘Ilberic Brandybuck!’ Sam exclaimed. ‘Has something happened to Mr. Merry?’

 ‘Yes, and no,’ Ilberic said, sliding from his saddle and swaying. ‘There may be Orcs in the Shire, Mayor Sam, and the Master sent me to warn you.’

 ‘Orcs in the Shire!’ Sam exclaimed, while the Cottons exchanged horrified looks.

Ilberic rapidly filled Sam in on happenings.

 ‘Master Saradoc sent a score of us to ride the East-West Road, to alert the Shire-folk,’ he said, ‘and another score to ride the Stock Road, to tell the Thain. I sent the riders on towards Michel Delving and turned up the Hill to warn you.’

 ‘He’ll be calling a Shire-muster for certain, if he hasn’t already,’ Sam said grimly. He turned to his father-in-love. ‘Dad Cotton, I want you to organize Bywater. Gather hobbits together in the sturdiest diggings and bar the doors. We’ll leave some to guard while the rest march to muster.’ He’d be doing the same in Hobbiton, and in the meantime he sent Ilberic on up the Hill and over, to warn the good hobbits of Overhill to gather in a few sturdy holes and barricade the doors, to be ready for further orders as soon as there was more information to be had.

***

Merimac Brandybuck led his score of riders through Tuckborough at a fast clip, ignoring the shouts of scandalised citizens. They’d be sent scurrying soon enough.

He winded the horn he carried as they rode into the yard of the Great Smials, slid ponderously from his pony, jarring his feet on the stones, and tossed the reins to a cousin.

 ‘State your business,’ snapped a bristling Took, barring his entrance.

 ‘Orcs,’ he said. ‘Orcs in the Shire.’

Stupified, the Took stared at him, jaw dropping.

 ‘Goblins,’ Merimac said. ‘You do know what those are, don’t you?’

 ‘I don’t need a Brandybuck to tell me...’

Merimac shoved him aside, by virtue of superior bulk. In point of fact, he was carrying as much muscle as he was fat. ‘It appears that you do,’ he cast over his shoulder. ‘Now take me to the Thain, or tell me where to find him, but I’ve news that won’t keep, no, not a second more!’