Chapter Three: Childish Things

"Frodo!"

Frodo looked up with a start. "Yes Aunt Ezzie?"

"Gracious, lad, where’s your mind run off to this time? I said, would you like a second helping of mushrooms?"

"Oh…no thank you," murmured Frodo vaguely, as his gaze drifted back down the table.

At that Esmeralda actually got up, went over to Frodo and felt his forehead with a worried frown. "Are you feeling all right, dear?" Since the death of his parents eight years ago Ezzie and her husband Saradoc had acted as Frodo’s guardians, and although he was now a tween she still mothered him. She and Sara were Frodo’s cousins, but due to the age difference he had always called them aunt and uncle.

Embarrassed by her fussing, Frodo ducked his head and blushed. "I’m fine, Aunt, really! I’m just not hungry, that’s all."

"That’s precisely what I mean, Frodo, I…" As she talked her eyes had followed Frodo’s, and came to rest on Hyacinth Hornblower chatting gaily with an attentive group of young male admirers. "Oh," said Esmeralda. "Dear!" she added. Frodo, sweet on a lass!? It couldn’t be! He was too young for that sort of thing…wasn’t he? She stole a glance at him, but needn’t have worried about being discreet. Frodo was oblivious to everything around him—everything except the one on whom he gazed with such starry-eyed devotion.

And so it starts, she thought grimly. Just when things had finally settled down these past few years, too! Frodo the troubled, rebellious teen had been challenging enough. But Frodo the love-struck tween…it didn’t bear thinking about. She seized her wineglass and drained it in one gulp.

Up at the head of the table, Rory was having problems of his own. He wanted nothing more than to remain pleasantly engrossed in conversation with Hamilcar Hornblower about the ten wagonloads of hothouse-grown pipeweed seedlings currently on their way up from the Southfarthing, nestled snugly under burlap covers against the cool spring air. However, he found himself distracted by the hostilities flaring between his wife, Menegilda, and Mrs. Hortensia Hornblower, a well-dressed, well-fed matron wearing too much jewelry and feeding tidbits to a high-strung little dog ensconced in her lap.

It was Hortensia who had started it, gazing about her disdainfully when they came in to dinner and saying in a patronizing tone, "Dining in the kitchen—how quaint and rustic!"

Elsa Brockhouse, Brandy Hall’s head cook, had just come over with the soup tureen. She looked daggers at Hortensia and set the heavy vessel down with a thud that shook the table, then stomped back to her fires. Everyone else held their breath and stole uneasy glances at Gilda.

Never before had anyone maligned Brandy Hall’s kitchen—by far the oldest, largest, and most imposing chamber in the smial, with its enormous fireplace and vaulted brick ceiling. True, there were some smaller, more formal dining chambers off the main passage, but they were seldom used. The fact of the matter was that no other room in the Hall could accommodate the large numbers that Rory so often hosted for meals.

The Mistress of the Hall looked outwardly unperturbed, but Rory could hear the edge in her voice as she eyed the lapdog and calmly replied, "At least we rustic folk don’t let our critters eat at table with us!"

Now it was Hortensia’s turn to bristle. "My dear Mrs. Brandybuck, I hardly consider Fluffy a critter," she retorted. "She’s a purebred Miniature Shire Terrier, and just like one of the family! Isn’t ’oo, snookums?" she cooed, kissing her dog on the nose. Fluffy began yapping excitedly and tried to climb up on the table.

"Looks more like a long-haired rat to me," Gilda muttered under her breath.

Ever quick to mirror the moods of their elders, Merry and his cousin Berilac began poking each other.

"Sara, tell your son to behave!" said Esmeralda sharply.

"Oh, now he’s my son is he?" retorted Saradoc.

"Ow! Berry pinched me!" yelped Merry, spilling his milk in the ensuing tussle. Sara and his brother Merimac each grabbed a son and forcibly separated them.

With a deep sigh Ezzie poured herself another glass of wine.

Even Hortensia finally seemed to weary of Fluffy’s squirming and panting, and set her down on the floor. She immediately dashed over to the hearth, where Rory’s deerhound Garm was industriously gnawing on a sheep bone, trying to crack it open to suck out the marrow. Fluffy skidded to a halt in front of him and commenced yipping ferociously.

Garm stared down at the tiny, menacing creature. He had a very expressive face, for a dog, and now managed to look both astonished and embarrassed as he stalked off, stiff-legged, to take refuge beneath Rory’s chair. Being quite a large hound, only his front end fit.

"A poor excuse for a dog you are," Rory growled at him.

Garm just whimpered.

With a final triumphant yip, Fluffy settled down with the abandoned bone, which was larger than she was, and tried to devour it whole.

The tension in the room was growing so thick that when a cheery voice sang out, "Hallo everyone! Is there any food left?" a sigh of relief went up from more than one member of the company.

"Ah! There you are, Coronel! Late again, you old scoundrel," said Rory indulgently. "Hamilcar, may I present Coronel Took of the Great Smials…Coronel, this is Mr. Hamilcar Hornblower from Longbottom, the noted pipeweed grower of whom you’ve no doubt heard."

Scion of the Isembold branch of the enormous Took clan, Coronel was a tall, good-looking hobbit in his late tweens with an easy smile and the careless confidence of someone used to being master of any given situation. "No doubt indeed!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Hornblower, it is a great honor to meet the gentlehobbit responsible for the many hours of exquisite pleasure I have enjoyed courtesy of your incomparable leaf! At your service, sir!" He bowed deeply.

Hamilcar puffed with pride, his already expansive waistcoat swelling even further. "Delighted, I’m sure," he replied. "This is my wife, Hortensia, and my two children, Hyacinth and Horatio."

"Charmed, my dear lady," said Coronel, taking Hortensia’s hand with an even lower bow. She gave a high-pitched giggle and blushed like a lass. On the younger Hornblowers he bestowed a smile and polite nod. Horatio waved eagerly in response, but Hyacinth shot him a cool, suspicious look before turning back to her little coterie.

Coronel had recently arrived for an extended visit with his Brandybuck relations due to certain circumstances only whispered about in polite company, but apparently involving the pretty young wife of a distant cousin back in the Tooklands. It had been thought best to spirit Coronel away for a time, until the husband’s wrath cooled. This incident in particular, along with Coronel’s general reputation as a ladies’ hobbit and the best brawler at the Great Smials, had earned him the adulation of every hobbit lad in the vicinity of the Hall, and the whispers and giggles of every lass.

He now found a place at the head table, and the general mood relaxed markedly as he entertained the company with amusing stories about the more eccentric members of the Took family. The rest of the dinner passed without incident.

Frodo had spoken little all evening, ever since his introduction to the Hornblowers at the beginning of the meal. "We’ve met," Hyacinth had said, her demure expression betrayed by the twinkle in her eye as Frodo and Horatio both turned bright red. Much as he enjoyed watching her, Frodo was relieved when dinner finally ended and he could retreat to the quiet of his room to try to sort out the day’s confusing events.

* * *

Shutting the door behind him, Frodo quickly knelt beside his bed to drag out a small wooden chest. He lifted the lid and removed some pen nibs and holders, a bottle of ink, and a large, richly bound book—a gift from his cousin Bilbo on his fifteenth birthday. It was a journal, his greatest source of comfort and aid at times such as this. He rifled through the gilt-edged pages, by now mostly filled with his flowing, graceful script, then turned back to the first entry and began to read:

22 Halimath, 1383

I write this sitting in my room in disgrace.
Went mushroom hunting again today. The hunt was a success but alas, so was the pursuit and we had to give them back.
Also rode a bull...

Frodo smiled slightly, then turned a few pages.

The first of Blotmath, 1383

I have discovered an important rule to live by: never, ever eat late harvest grapes if the skins are split! My head still feels like dwarves have been using it as an anvil...
Aunt Ezzie came by this morning with tea and toast but just the sight of it made me get sick all over again. Yet now I’m starting to feel hungry, so I must be on the mend…

It’s a pity that I can remember so little of what happened last night…Rory’s stand against the Bunce brothers is sure to become Buckland legend, from what Feralia told me when she brought the herbal tonic about an hour ago. I wonder how poor Curley is feeling?

Skipping ahead a year, Frodo’s eyes next came to rest on the following passage:

4 Blotmath, 1384

With harvest over, the Brandy Hall school is back in session for the winter. Uncle Sara was as good as his word…now that I am sixteen he’s made me assistant schoolmaster! At last I don’t have to sit in the back feeling bored. Good old Falstaff seems quite pleased about it too…he says I can help the students who are having trouble with their reading so he can move ahead with the others.

When I arrived this morning to relieve him of his duties, Alfred Tunnelly actually shook my hand and wished me well! Ever since I tried to swim the River last year, he’s been much nicer to me. He even took me aside to give me some advice, saying, "Don’t ever let them know you’re afraid of them, they prey on weakness." Poor Alfred! I don’t think he much liked teaching. The class doesn’t frighten me in the least, we all got on famously today. Now if I just can persuade Falstaff to let me slip in some history of the Elves in Eriador…

Frodo flipped through the pages more quickly now, searching for a recent entry that had been much on his mind these past few weeks. Ah—there it was:

25 Rethe, 1389

I’ve just returned from a fortnight’s stay with Uncle Bilbo. It was splendid, as always, but for two rather strange occurrences. The first took place late one evening, when Bilbo had just finished telling the tale of his battle with the spiders of Mirkwood. I got to thinking about the magic ring that had made possible his heroic rescue of the dwarves, and asked him if he still had it.

He gave me a queer look and said, sounding a bit testy, "Of course I still have it! Did you suppose I would just toss it away at the end of my adventure?"

"May I see it, then?" I asked, feeling suddenly curious.

For a long moment Bilbo sat quite still, then he slowly reached into his pocket and drew out something on a chain. He uncurled his fingers, and there in his palm lay the ring!

It wasn’t much to look at: just a plain gold band. I had imagined something far more lavish, set with precious stones. And yet…as I gazed on it, I began to think that its rich, gleaming luster, indeed its very simplicity, was more pleasing than any jewels.

I found my hand reaching for it, as of its own will, whereupon Bilbo immediately snatched it away with a scowl that was most unlike him. "Don’t touch it!" he snapped, thrusting it back into his pocket. I must have looked as startled at I felt, because just as quickly he seemed to collect himself, passing his hand over his eyes and murmuring "I’m sorry lad, I didn’t mean to carry on so. But there you are; magic rings are best kept out of sight and mind! Don’t want to wear out the magic, you know!" he added, with a laugh that sounded rather forced. I couldn’t help but think of Gilly Banks saying the same thing about his "magic stone" so many years before. Whatever became of it, I wonder?

The other odd thing happened over second breakfast on my last morning at Bag End. We had been discussing plans for our next birthday—whether I would visit him again, or whether he would make the trip to Buckland. Suddenly he looked up from stirring his tea and said, "You had better come and live here, Frodo my lad, then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together!"

It was such a strange thing to say, even for Bilbo, that it caught me completely by surprise and I just sat there for a moment, staring at him. Then I laughed, which must have been a mistake, because he looked rather hurt and quickly changed the subject. We didn’t speak of it again, and passed the time pleasantly enough until my departure.

Yet now I find that I can’t forget the look on Bilbo’s face when I tried to touch the ring, nor his words on that last morning. At the time I felt certain he must be joking, but now I’m not so sure. Is it possible that he meant it when he asked me to live with him? Though I can’t imagine why…I thought he liked living alone. I’ve always felt so close to him, but am starting to wonder if I really know him at all. Perhaps everyone is right when they say he’s gone a bit queer. Or perhaps he’s just lonely. I’m rather worried about him, truth be told…

Frodo stared down at the page for some minutes, brow furrowed, before turning to the journal’s last notation:

12 Astron, 1389

Uncle Rory’s great pipeweed adventure (Auntie Gilda calls it his "pipe dream") has begun in earnest. I just hope I’m not asked to help, or if anything goes wrong he’ll blame it on me.

The Hornblower family arrived late last night from Longbottom to advise him but I haven’t seen them yet. The talk at dinner has been nothing but pipeweed for days; I suppose that will only get worse now. I’ve heard there are some faunts, though, perhaps they’ll prove amusing…

Amusing indeed! Frodo sighed and lowered the book. All his old escapades and concerns—mushroom raids and magic rings—now seemed very childish. He dipped his pen and began a new entry:

Later

So much has happened since last I wrote in these pages—was it only this morning?—that I scarcely know where to begin…
Today I met

There he stopped, unsure of how to put his strange new feelings into words. Moreover, it seemed all wrong to be writing about Hyacinth like this, as if she were just another item of interest to be duly noted and analyzed in a journal that suddenly seemed completely inadequate and unworthy of her.

Frodo searched his memory for some more fitting means of expression and suddenly he was back at Bag End, curled up by the fire listening, entranced, as Bilbo recited Elvish poems and lays—sometimes translating, sometimes in the High-Elven speech. In either language, the words held a beauty and mystery that moved Frodo deeply, even when he did not fully understand them. Could he write something like that about Hyacinth? Perhaps, just perhaps…

Turning back to the wooden box, he removed a sheet of parchment, stared at it for some minutes, and then carefully wrote in his best hand:

I love thee

As he paused to contemplate these words, a wondering smile crept over his face. Then he resumed writing—tentatively at first, but soon his pen was scratching furiously across the page.

Next week
Chapter Four: A Friend in Need

Author’s notes:

I apologize if some of Frodo’s early journal entries seem cryptic; they refer to events in my first story, "The Terror of Buckland." However, none of these incidents are essential to understanding the current story, although there are some connections.

Bilbo’s words,"You had better come and live here, Frodo my lad, then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together!" are, of course, from The Fellowship of the Ring.