Chapter 7: Awakening

That night Frodo tossed in restive dreams, once again at the ball. But now it was he who danced the ländler with Hyacinth while everyone else looked on. Coronel was the caller, and his voice rose above the music:

I love thee, as I love the calm
Of sweet, star-lighted hours!
I love thee, as I love the balm
Of early jasmine flow'rs.

Around the floor they whirled in breathless exhilaration, the ball fading away in a blur of lights and colors until there was nothing left but the two of them. Hyacinth’s eyes were shining and her hair floated out behind her as they spun ever faster, Frodo’s arm clasped tightly about her waist. The stars danced above them to a music of their own, and the moonlight glimmered on Hyacinth’s white shoulders.

And now Coronel was calling, Kiss your partner! with a wink and a leer. They slowed their steps as the music stilled, and Frodo drew her yet closer, until he could feel her heart beating against his chest. Her smile as she gazed at him was tender and inviting.

Frodo brushed soft curls back from her nape, thrilling to the feel of warm, silky skin beneath his touch. Slowly, caressingly his fingers traced the graceful curve of her neck, then rested a moment at the hollow of her throat to savor the quickening pulse there before reaching up to cradle her face and gently tilt it toward his own. The light in her eyes now kindled to dark fire, until at last her lashes drifted down and her lips parted slightly as he lowered his mouth to hers…and awoke.

He shot upright in bed, taut and trembling with sharp, aching need, his breath coming in gasps and his nightshirt damp and clinging. The light of a full moon streamed in and pooled on his pillow, its radiance bright enough to read—or write—by.

Knowing he would find no more sleep that night, Frodo slipped out of bed and knelt down to pull out his wooden box. He spread out his writing materials and dipped his pen, but then hesitated. It wasn’t enough, not to assuage the intense desire for Hyacinth’s physical presence that now consumed him.

Frodo’s gaze went again to the window. Somewhere on the other side of the smial Hyacinth slept, and he imagined her nestled against soft linen, her dark tresses fanned out around her face, one arm flung restlessly across the bed…

Abruptly he rose and, swiftly repacking the box, tucked it under his arm and scrambled out of the window. He dropped lightly to the ground and crept along the darkened rows of windows lining the Buck Hill. That large one marked Rory’s bedchamber, he knew, then came the rooms of Sara and Esmeralda, then Merimac and his family…

Finally he came to the windows of the primary guest quarters—the finest rooms reserved for Brandy Hall’s most important visitors. The first, and largest, would undoubtedly be occupied by Hamilcar and his wife. He looked at the next two, considering, and decided that the Hornblowers would put Hyacinth in the chamber next to theirs.

Settling down beneath the chosen window with a happy sigh, oblivious to the dew-drenched grass, Frodo once again took up his pen:

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me—who knows how?
To thy chamber-window, sweet!

He paused to gaze up at the dark window, recalling now the fragrant scent of roses as he bent over Hyacinth’s hand, her skin soft as petals against his lips, and felt overcome by longing and self-reproach. Why, oh why had he been such a fool—no, a coward—not to kiss her properly when he had the chance? He slammed his fist against the ground in frustration, then resumed writing with renewed passion:

Oh, lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast—
Oh! press it close to thine own, my love,
Where it will break at last!

The pen falling now from his hand, Frodo closed his eyes, giving himself over at last to his fevered emotions. He rose, trembling, and took a step toward the window, not quite sure what he was doing but unable to stop himself.

Now he stood directly below it and looked up in helpless desperation. "Hyacinth?" he whispered softly. There was no sound from within. "Hyacinth?" he called again, a little more loudly.

This time he was answered by a shrill, angry yapping.

"Fluffy?" came a drowsy female voice…and it was not the voice of his beloved. "What is it, girl?"

Frodo sprang back in a panic, even as a second, deeper voice complained, "Hortensia! Make that daft beast shut up!"

From the kennel came a mournful howl as Garm took up the cry.

"Now Ham, you know Fluffy is a superb watchdog and never sounds an alarm without good cause! There must be something out there, so you’d best investigate!"

A light flared in the window but by the time a nightcapped head emerged, blinking blearily, Frodo had gathered up his belongings and fled into the night.

* * *

On the following afternoon Frodo and Coronel were in the apple orchard, the elder tween sprawled lazily in the grass while the younger sat hunched tensely beside him.

"That one was…the best yet," said Coronel with a dreamy expression on his face, as if reliving a pleasant memory.

"Really? What did she say?" Frodo asked, trembling with excitement.

"Say? It’s not so much what she said—although she did murmur something about dear Prince Udo—no no, it’s what she did…" he trailed off, then noticed Frodo looking at him expectantly. "Sorry lad! Well, upon reading your passionate verse she…was quite overcome with emotion, and she—she nearly swooned. If I hadn’t caught her she would have, I think."

"Oh!" cried Frodo in dismay. "I should have realized how such bold language would affect her delicate sensibilities…I hope she was all right?"

"Yes, quite, she came round again in no time." Abruptly Coronel’s mood seemed to change and, propping himself up on his elbows, he frowned at his cousin. "But now that you mention it, Frodo, I’m starting to think that perhaps this is all a bit too much for her."

Completely blindsided by this turn in the conversation, Frodo stared at him in surprise and alarm. "What—what do you mean?" he faltered.

"I mean all these poems, of course! After all, they are rather strong stuff for an impressionable lass like Hyacinth. I don’t know if her nerves can take many more like the one you sent today!"

"But Coronel," began Frodo.

His cousin cut him off. "And there’s another thing as well…it’s getting rather tiresome, this role of delivery boy! I was glad to help out a friend in need and all that, but this has gone on for too long, I’m starting to think. I’ve my own affairs to attend to, you know!"

For all his annoyance with Coronel at the ball, the sudden prospect of losing his assistance threw Frodo into a panic. "Coronel, you know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me! Please, there must be some way I can make it worth your while to continue, if you’d only tell me how," he pleaded.

For a long minute Coronel was silent. Then he glanced up, his eyes sharp with cunning. "Worth my while? All right then, I’ll tell you what you can do if you really want to show your appreciation."

"Anything!" said Frodo eagerly.

"Well, I’ve heard that you have something of a talent for mushroom harvesting," Coronel remarked with a conspiratorial wink.

Frodo’s face quickly fell. "I…don’t do that anymore," he muttered.

Coronel continued relentlessly, "Yes indeed, your exploits in the fields of Farmer Maggot, cultivator of the finest mushrooms in the Eastfarthing, are spoken of with great admiration by the other lads of the Hall." He watched Frodo closely, marking well his discomfort. "I must say that I have rather a fancy to sample these famous mushrooms myself, just to see what all the fuss is about! So why don’t you nip over to Bamfurlong Farm tomorrow and pinch me a few, eh?"

"Didn’t you hear me Coronel, I said I don’t do that now!" snapped Frodo. Then he quickly added, in a more placating tone, "I’m sorry, Cousin, but I just can’t get you any of Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms. Ask anything else of me, and I’ll do it gladly, but…not that."

"No Frodo, I’ve named my terms and I’ll not back down now," Coronel insisted firmly. "It’s Maggot’s mushrooms or nothing!"

Frodo made no reply.

"Very well," said Coronel after a pause, "in that case, I’ve delivered my last poem!"

At this Frodo met Coronel’s eyes with a look of pure anguish. He seemed about to speak, but suddenly jumped up and stalked away.

Coronel lay back in the grass and breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Well, that should finish it," he murmured.

* * *

A bedraggled figure dashed toward the Bucklebury Ferry, glancing fearfully over his shoulder as he ran. His breeches were torn in several places and his shirt was partially pulled loose from the waistband, one brace slipping off his shoulder. A frenzied cacophony of barking could be heard growing rapidly nearer as he stumbled onto the dock and almost fell, choking back a sob. Just as he cast off, four large and ferocious-looking wolfhounds raced up to the dock, barking and growling.

"Yah!" he shouted at them defiantly. "Guess you’ll have to go home hungry!"

But his bravado was short-lived, and by the time he reached the farther shore and started slowly up the path toward Brandy Hall, he seemed exhausted and in pain.

* * *

When Frodo reached the Hall, he knew that Maggot had arrived before him by the look on his Aunt Asphodel’s face when she met him at the door. "You’re wanted in the kitchen," she said curtly. "And don’t be hoping to get off easy, either…they found weevils in the pipeweed fields today and your uncle is in a foul temper!"

The farmer was standing by the hearth flanked by Rory and Sara: a stony-faced tribunal called to pass judgment on his crimes. Frodo paused in the doorway, wondering bleakly how many times such a sight had confronted him.

"Here he is at last, the varmint!" growled Rory. "Frodo, Farmer Maggot and I would like a word with you, if you can spare us a minute!"

Frodo leaned against the doorframe, feeling slightly sick.

"Stop stalling and get yourself over here," his uncle ordered, glowering at him.

Straightening up with an effort, Frodo limped toward the hearth.

Rory looked at him sharply. "What ails you, boy? And what’s happened to your clothes? Biddy’ll have a fit when she finds you’ve torn up another pair of breeches!"

Frodo just stood there, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Come lad, speak up now," encouraged Sara.

But Frodo remained stubbornly silent, only shooting a sidelong glance at Farmer Maggot.

Now thoroughly exasperated, Rory strode forward and grasped Frodo’s shoulder, giving it a shake. "Now see here Frodo, when I ask you a quest—" but he broke off suddenly as Frodo winced at his touch. "Turn around, lad," he said more gently. Carefully he lifted Frodo’s shirt to briefly expose some angry red welts running up his back. Similar marks could be seen on the backs of his legs.

Rory stood quite still for a moment, then turned slowly toward the farmer. "Might you be knowing something about this, Harlan?" he said with an air of exaggerated calm that fooled no one.

"’Course I know something about it," blustered Maggot, not one to be intimidated. "I gave the scamp a good hiding before I had my dogs run him off my land!"

Rory’s simmering anger exploded in an instant. "This time you’ve gone too far, Maggot!"

The farmer stared at him in surprise. "What are you on about, Rory? Haven’t you always said what that boy needs is a cane to his backside?"

"That’s as may be…but if and when Frodo needs a thrashing ‘twill be me that sees to it, not some muddy-footed mushroom farmer from the wrong side o’ the River!"

Sara, with a skill born of long experience, quickly stepped between them.

Maggot eyed Rory balefully. "Well well Rory, so your true colors come out now, do they? Aye, and in truth it’s no more’n I’d expect from you. The apple don’t fall far from the tree they say, and I reckon I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d take this young miscreant’s side…"

"Just what are you getting at, eh?" said Rory. But there was now a hint of unease in his voice.

"Well now…" Maggot was taking his time, savoring the words in his slow Eastfarthing drawl. "I do seem to recall my old gaffer telling me stories when I was a lad, about troubles he used to have with the local lads stealing his crops. And by his account the biggest thief—the worst young rascal of Buckland, were his very words—was a certain Rorimac Brandybuck."

Utter silence greeted this news. Frodo stared at his uncle with amazement—and a new-found respect—as Rory flushed deeply.

"Yes indeed," Maggot continued with obvious relish, seeing that he’d hit his mark, "Gran’dad said as how he almost had to give up growing mushrooms, he lost so many to you!"

"That was a long time ago," muttered Rory. "We’re all of us young once after all, Maggot!"

"Yes, we are that, Master," replied the farmer coolly. "But if this particular youngster sets foot on my land ever again, then I can’t answer for what any dogs of mine do to him, for I won’t be calling them off!"

Rory’s face had now turned an alarming shade of purple; he looked angrier than Frodo had ever seen him. "And should it come to that, Maggot, then I can’t answer for any arrows of mine that end up in your dogs’ throats!" he roared.

Saradoc was now physically separating the two hobbits, and for one wild moment Frodo wanted to laugh, as an image flashed through his mind of Sara doing exactly the same thing with Merry and Berry at dinner. But this was quickly replaced by a more sobering thought. They won’t back down, either of them. And then it dawned on him: he and he alone could resolve the standoff. "Stop it, please!" he cried.

They both stared at him.

"It won’t come to that, for I won’t be visiting your fields again, Farmer Maggot."

As suddenly calm as moments before he was livid, Maggot regarded him thoughtfully. "Well Frodo Baggins, a thief you may be but I’ve never known you to lie," he mused, "and in all the useless apologies you’ve given me these many years, you never once promised not to do it again. So if you’re promising now, I reckon I can take you at your word."

"You can," said Frodo, meeting the farmer’s gaze steadily.

"All right then, so be it." Maggot now looked a little sheepish and glanced sideways at Rory. "If I, ah, got a mite carried away just now, Rory, I…"

"Forget it, Harley, and get on back to your precious mushrooms," said Rory gruffly, "before anyone else makes off with them."

Maggot laughed. "I’m not so worrited about them now as I was," he said.

After he had left, Rory sighed wearily, then turned to Frodo. "And as for you, you young scoundrel," he began, with something less than his usual vehemence.

But before he could say anything more Frodo hurled himself at his uncle and gave him a quick, fierce hug before rushing out of the room.

Rory stood staring after him, for once at a loss for words. "Well, I’ll be hog-tied!" he murmured at last.

* * *

Frodo’s dinner was sent to his room that night for the first time in years. But he didn’t mind the banishment as he knew what whispers and stares would have greeted him at the table, and couldn’t bear the thought of Hyacinth seeing him in the depths of his humiliation.

There was a rap at his door, and he opened it to find Coronel standing there, looking uncharacteristically ill at ease. "Hullo Frodo," he said.

Feeling equally uncomfortable, Frodo looked away and mumbled, "I’m sorry Coronel, I tried but I…couldn’t get you any mushrooms."

"I know what happened, lad," said his cousin contritely, "and I’m sorry for putting you up to it. Hope you’re not too banged up?"

"I’ll live," said Frodo briefly. After an awkward silence he forced himself to add, "So that’s it then…"

"That’s what?"

"You won’t take any more poems to Hyacinth."

Coronel looked at Frodo’s bruises and forlorn expression, and sighed. "Oh, very well Cousin, I suppose I can still manage it…if you write them, I’ll deliver them."

Next week
Chapter Eight: Udo Unmasked

Poetry notes:

Coronel’s call in Frodo’s dream is, again, an excerpt from "I Love Thee" by Eliza Acton.

Frodo’s "night poem" is an excerpt from "The Indian Serenade" by Percy Bysshe Shelley.