Chapter Nine: Useless Words

Frodo slipped in a back door of Brandy Hall as quietly as possible. He felt physically and emotionally drained, and his only thought was to reach the solitude of his room undetected. But a horrified voice dashed his hopes immediately.

"Frodo!" cried Esmeralda, rushing up to him. "Good gracious—what’s happened to you?"

"Nothing, Aunt Ezzie, I’m fine," Frodo muttered, not meeting her eye.

"Don’t ‘nothing’ me, lad, I’m not blind! You’re hurt…you’ve been fighting again, haven’t you?" Taking him by the chin, she turned his face toward her to get a better look. "Oh, your poor jaw! Let me—"

"Leave me alone, can’t you?" said Frodo harshly, shaking her off and turning abruptly away.

Esmeralda stood there, stricken.

After a moment Frodo stopped too, and slowly came back to her side. "I’m sorry, Auntie," he said gently, reaching down to stroke her cheek—he was now much taller than she. "I just need to be by myself right now."

Esmeralda took a deep breath and brushed impatiently at an errant tear. "That’s all right, dear. I will keep treating you like a faunt, when you’re all but grown up now." She smiled a bit wistfully. "At least Merry still lets me baby him, though for how much longer I daren’t guess…that one’s got an independent streak as wide as the Brandywine!" She sighed. "Well, be off with you then. Just promise me you’ll see to that cut…or better yet, have Feralia look at it."

* * *

Frodo stood in the center of his room, swaying a little, and struggled to collect his thoughts. He swiped his arm across his forehead, then stared down at the bloodstained sleeve as if at something foreign and unconnected to him. He was dimly aware of an envelope lying on his bed, addressed to him in Bilbo’s thin, straggling hand, but for once this discovery brought him no delight. Picking up the letter and tossing it aside, he sank down on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. The bleeding seemed to be slowing, at least.

Finally, more from force of habit than anything else, he reached down to pull his wooden box out from under the bed. As he fumbled with the clasp he noticed for the first time that his hands were shaking. Lifting the lid he stared down at the sheet of parchment lying on top: an unfinished poem for Hyacinth.

The wondrous moment of our meeting . . .
I well remember you appear
Before me like a vision fleeting,

His anger came rushing back as quickly as if it had never gone…I have no more use for words! He tore up the sheet and threw it into the fire grate. At this time of year there was no fire, of course, and as he stared at the scraps lying amid the dust and cobwebs, he knew with a bleak certainty that never again would he write poetry for Hyacinth—Coronel had robbed him of all joy in that pursuit. Yet he felt the loss as of something precious to him, and his soul cried out still in its need for expression.

Briefly he considered his journal, but what would he write—that he had been an utter fool, a naive dupe, an unwitting pawn in Coronel’s scheming game? True though it might be, he could not bear the thought of admitting it in writing.

He looked back down at the box, still sitting open before him as if waiting expectantly. And then he remembered—with the guilty start of one who has suddenly recalled an old, dear, but neglected friend—that it yet held something that belonged to him alone, unbeknownst to and unspoiled by Coronel.

Long before he had composed poems, or kept a journal, he had found comfort in a form of expression that needed no words…was even, perhaps, better than words. He rummaged among the contents of the box until he found what he sought: a heavy sheet of drawing paper, some fine-tipped pen nibs made especially for sketching, and a fresh pot of ink. He closed his eyes for a moment, and saw once more the face of his beloved. Then, fitting nib to holder, he dipped his pen and began to draw.

As he worked he became completely absorbed, the day’s painful memories receding—for a time, at least. Afternoon drew on to evening and shadows crept across the room but still Frodo drew, stopping only long enough to light his bedside lamp then returning eagerly to his task.

Finally it was finished. Frodo set down his pen and regarded the portrait approvingly: it was a good likeness, very good. Hyacinth gazed back at him from the page, head tilted slightly to one side, eyes bright and laughing, lips curved up in a saucy smile, hair pinned back with a spray of roses as at the ball. The sight was strangely comforting, as if the mood of the pen-and-ink Hyacinth could somehow influence the real one, and for the first time since the fight he began to feel a small stirring of hope. Perhaps he still had something to offer Hyacinth after all, something that would make amends for the disastrous events of the afternoon, or at least soften her wrath enough to give him a chance to explain…

His reverie was broken by the sound of a high-pitched, eager voice in the hall, fast approaching his room. "Frodo? Frodo!"

Frodo groaned. Not now, Merry…

Merry burst in, shouting happily, "There you are, Frodo! Why didn’t you come to dinner?"

"I wasn’t hungry," muttered Frodo, not looking at him.

"Gran’dad wanted to fetch you, but Mummy wouldn’t let him," continued Merry. He examined his cousin’s face with interest. "You’ve been in a fight, haven’t you?"

"Never mind that! Isn’t it your bedtime, Merry?"

"Yes, but I missed you." Now he noticed the drawing. "Oh, who’s that? Is that Hyacinth? I saw you dance with her at the ball…you like her, don’t you?" He jumped onto the bed for a closer look—and in the process knocked over the inkbottle. A pool of dark liquid instantly flooded over the portrait.

What little self-control remaining to Frodo suddenly snapped, and he turned on Merry in wild fury. "Look what you’ve done! That was for Hyacinth, and now you’ve ruined it—you’ve ruined everything!" he shouted. "Well now you can just clear out! Go on, get out of my room!"

Merry flinched as if Frodo had struck him. He stared up at him, unmoving, until Frodo screamed again, "Get out!" Then he turned and fled.

Frodo seized the inkpot and hurled it at the wall with an oath. It shattered and left an ugly stain like a large, misshapen spider. Then he threw himself on the bed, his body wracked by violent, heaving sobs.

Next week
Chapter Ten: Change Partners

Poetry note:

Frodo’s unfinished poem is an excerpt from "Wondrous Moment"by Alexander Pushkin.