Chapter Twelve: Day of Reckoning

The Brandy Hall Boys were loitering near the River-path, smoking pipeweed and shooting dice. At Frodo’s approach all laughter and bickering instantly stilled, and the faces turned toward him were tense and wary. Yet there was also something approaching admiration in the expression of more than one youth; word of Frodo’s exploits in the garden had reached their ears as well. Otis Sandheaver, sucking on a blade of grass, leered at him. "So, how was she, Baggins?"

"Shut up, Otis!" Frodo turned to the others. "Have any of you lot seen Merry?"

His query met with silence as the hobbits all looked to their leader to speak first. Otis spat out the grass. "Does we look like nursemaids?" he scoffed. "My lads are not so daft as you that way—we’ve no interest in faunts!"

"We only keeps track of the Brat if he’s with you," added Clive Underhill, tossing a die from one hand to the other and wondering if a fight was in the offing.

"Maybe he fell in the River and drownded!" moaned another boy in mock distress. Several of his friends guffawed.

While in the past this would have been enough for Frodo to start swinging, now he merely glared at them and turned away. He had no time for these fools while Merry was missing. But as he started down the River-path he was stayed by a furtive tug on his sleeve.

It was little Bert Diggins. "He’s down by the swimming hole," he muttered, glancing nervously back at Otis. "Leastways, I saw him there not an hour ago, and he ain’t come back up the path since."

"Hey Bert, what are you whisperin’ about there?" shouted Otis, and cuffed him as he scurried back to his comrades. "No chattin’ with the Baggins!"

Frodo tried not to worry as he hurried on toward the River, telling himself that Merry was a good swimmer. Just as his mother had been…

* * *

Frodo found Merry lying on the bank by their favorite swimming spot, dropping sticks in the River to watch them float away on the sluggish current. His curls were bright as dragon’s gold in the late afternoon sun.

"Merry!"

The boy looked up, startled, and saw the drawing in Frodo’s hand. In a flash he was up and running.

Merry was fast, but Frodo was faster. He brought him down with a flying tackle, and though Merry struggled wildly, kept a firm grip on his ankle.

"Let go of my leg!"

"Not unless you promise not to run away!"

Merry gave him a cautious sidelong glance. "Are you angry about the picture?"

Frodo sighed. "No Merry, I’m not angry."

"All right then, I promise."

Frodo let go. They sat there for a moment in an uneasy truce. Finally Frodo broke the silence. "Just tell me one thing, Merry—why did you do it? Why would you give Hyacinth a drawing and pretend it was from me?"

Merry looked down and swallowed hard, but said nothing.

"Come now, Merry-lad, don’t be afraid. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

Finally Merry spoke, though he still wouldn’t look at Frodo. "I was hiding under the sofa while you were talking to Dad, and I heard you say you were going to—to leave and go live with Uncle Bilbo. So I just thought…since I spoiled your drawing, that if I made a new one for you and gave it to Hyacinth, then everything would be all right…and then maybe you’d like me again, and you—you wouldn’t go away." His voice quavered dangerously on the last words.

Frodo stared at him, stunned. Merry’s face was now twisted up with his effort not to cry, but it was Frodo’s eyes that filled with tears first. "O Merry," he whispered. He pulled the faunt into his arms and murmured, "Did you think that I was leaving to get away from you, because I was angry about the drawing?"

Merry nodded, and now he began to weep in earnest, his face pressed against Frodo’s shirt and his small body shuddering with sobs. Frodo just held him until the worst had passed, then pulled back slightly and tipped Merry’s chin up so that he could look into his eyes.

"Dearest Merry," he said gently, brushing away his cousin’s tears, "there’s nothing you could ever do, there’s nothing in this world that would ever make me want to leave you. When you upset the ink I was…well, not at my best just then, and I was wrong to get so angry over something you didn’t mean to do. Can you forgive me?"

Merry nodded, his chest still heaving, and tightened his grip around his cousin’s neck. "But Frodo," he finally managed to get out between hiccups.

"Yes love?"

"Why are you leaving then?"

Frodo sighed again, wondering how he could explain in a way Merry would understand.

"Well, Uncle Bilbo wants to adopt me, you see, and—"

"What’s that mean?"

"It means…it means he wants to be like a father to me."

Frowning slightly, Merry tried to take this in. "But he can’t be your father—not your real father!" he objected.

"No," said Frodo softly. "Not my real father…no one could ever take his place. But my father in all but name, Merry—just as you are my brother in all but name."

Merry looked at him, wide-eyed. "Did you adopt me?" he asked.

Frodo smiled. "Yes, I suppose you could say that." But he quickly turned serious again. "I claimed you as my brother long ago, Merry-lad, and nothing will ever break that bond. And even if we can’t always be together now, I’ll still be with you, right here," he said, putting his hand over Merry’s heart, "just as you’ll always be with me."

Merry looked down at his chest in confusion, then back up at his cousin. He appeared unconvinced. "But you won’t," he said woefully. "You’ll be at Bag End, and I’ll never see you anymore!" His lower lip started to tremble again.

Frodo thought quickly. "Of course you’ll see me—I promise I’ll be back for Blotmath’s Eve, and Yule, and in between if you like. And just think of the jolly times we’ll have when you come to visit me!"

Merry considered this carefully. "Do you think Mum and Dad will let me visit by myself?"

"Since I’ll be there to keep an eye on you, I fancy they will."

"And will Uncle Bilbo let us stay up past bed-time?" Merry pursued, eagerness creeping into his voice now.

"He always does, Merry-lad…we’ll get to sit up late by the fire while he tells exciting tales of Elves and goblins!"

Merry smiled then and laid his head back against Frodo’s chest. "Frodo?"

"Yes, Merry?"

"Did Hyacinth like the picture?"

Frodo tightened his arms around his cousin. "She loved it."

* * *

Since learning of his imminent change in fortune, Hortensia was now much more cordial toward Frodo, magnanimously excusing the incident in the garden as "youthful high spirits" and even calling him by his correct name. He spent an excruciating afternoon at tea in the Hornblowers’ chambers, grilled by Hamilcar about his knowledge of pipeweed cultivation as Hyacinth smiled at him sympathetically from across the table.

Nevertheless, their families took great care to ensure that the tweens had no further opportunities to be alone together, and as Frodo was still far too young for chaperoned courting, he and Hyacinth saw little of each other except at meals. "But I daresay there will be time enough for that later," said Hortensia with a wink. Amid Frodo’s frustrated longing for later to be now, he took some consolation in the fact that Coronel seemed to be making an effort to keep out of his way.

The time for the pipeweed harvest was fast approaching, and for once Frodo welcomed the incessant discussions and preparations as a distraction from the torment of his enforced separation from Hyacinth. On the eve of the harvest, Rory’s agitation was near uncontainable. He could scarcely be persuaded to sit down to dinner, and even then he was continually springing up to pace the hearth.

Hamilcar sought to reassure him. "Calm yourself, Rory—’twill all be over soon enough! There’s naught to worry about now, old boy."

"Hold your tongue, Ham!" growled Rory. "Every time you say that, something bad happens!"

"But Rory, think on it! This crop has survived root rot, budworm, blue mold, weevils, brown spot, suckfly, and spotted wilt…what could possibly happen to it that hasn’t already happened?"

"You forgot black shank and hornworm," said Rory peevishly, but he appeared slightly mollified nonetheless.

"To the future of Buckland Broadleaf!" cried Hamilcar, and all present raised their glasses high.

* * *

Rory awoke at dawn to a hard drumming sound coming from outside the smial. He lay there a moment, struggling to break free from the lingering fog of sleep, then as comprehension dawned he shot from his bed, reaching the window in one bound. Hailstones the size of hen’s eggs were pelting down furiously, piling against trees and walls and battering the flower beds around the smial. Beneath the dark, high clouds the sky was strangely bright, and the rising sun sparkled in the drifts of fallen hail.

Stunned, Rory stared down at the mangled flowers below the window, but his mind’s eye was elsewhere. In the surrounding fields grapes hung heavy on the vines, ripe grain nodded on its stalks, food crops to see hobbit and beast through the winter stood ready for harvesting…

With an oath he whirled about and seized a great hunting horn that hung from a peg above the mantel, then rushing to the door blew a mighty blast that reverberated down the passages of the Hall.

Awake! Awake!

It was the Horn-call of Buckland, and all through the smial it was met with the sounds of slamming doors, startled shouts and running feet.

Fear! Fire! Foes!
Awake!

Minutes later the kitchen was packed with anxious, bleary-eyed hobbits. The male-folk were clustered around Rory by the fire, while their wives brewed pots of strong tea and readied the canning jars for any salvageable produce. The faunts giggled and whispered excitedly at all the commotion.

Still in his nightshirt, Rory strode up and down the hearth, barking orders around the unlit pipe clenched between his teeth and jabbing the air with the fire poker for emphasis. "Saradas, you ride to Bree to negotiate contracts with the grain merchants. Mind you go posthaste…once they get wind of our misfortune they’ll triple their prices."

"And if they do…?" said his brother dubiously.

"Then we’ll just have to pay it… ’twill be famine in Buckland if we don’t! But if anyone can squeeze an honest price from ’em it’s you, brother…I’m counting on you." The poker now pointed toward his eldest son. "Saradoc, as soon as this storm lets up, go find Barden and survey the crop damage."

"He’s already started. I told him it wasn’t safe with the hail still coming down, but he insisted…"

"Good old Barden! Well, you can join him when we’re finished here, and salvage what you can. Mac, head over to Bamfurlong, see how the Marish fared. Dodinas, Dinodas, ride out to the Great Smials…Lalia will help us, she won’t have forgotten our aid in the year of the drought. Take Coronel with you, mayhap he can be of some use."

While he talked, the hail gradually tapered off then ceased altogether, and in the eerie silence that followed a door banging open sounded loud as a firecracker, making everyone jump.

Barden burst into the kitchen, showering all who stood near with melting ice crystals. He pulled off the bucket that had served him as a makeshift helmet and breathlessly exclaimed, "The vineyards are untouched, praise to all powers and guardian spirits that be!"

"I’m delighted to hear it, Barden," said Rory cautiously, "but what of the food crops?"

"They’re most of ‘em safe, Master." When everyone stared at him in disbelief, he added, "Seems it was a summat…ah, local hailstorm!"

"Local?" Rory’s eyes narrowed. "Just how local?"

Barden began to hem a little. "Well sir, only the crops nearest the Hall were hit bad…the cornfields are buried in hail three fingers deep, so ’twas a lucky thing most of the ears were already picked. Then there was the pumpkins, but their rinds are that hard it didn’t hurt ’em none…" he trailed off, not meeting Rory’s eye.

The room had grown deathly still. "And the pipeweed?" said Rory very quietly.

Barden took a deep breath, then plunged bravely on. "It’s a queer thing, Master, but the pipeweed fields, they—they was hit hardest of all. Never seen anything like it," he continued in a rush, "though it brings to mind a like occurrence me gaffer used to speak of, that happened back in the spring of…"

But Rory wasn’t listening. Indeed he was already halfway to the back door, and minutes later was standing among the shredded, flattened remnants of the pipeweed plants, shaking his fist at the sky—now a limpid, mild blue—and shouting maniacally. "All right, whoever or whatever you are—I give up! You win! Are you satisfied now?"

"It’s a sign," muttered Barden to no one in particular. "’Twasn’t natural, and I’ve said all along no good would come of it…"

Merry came running in with a bucketful of hailstones, which Elsie crushed in a bowl and drizzled with blackberry syrup. Soon half a dozen faunts were happily spooning up fruit ice.

Next week
Chapter Thirteen: Childhood’s End

Author’s notes:

While the Red Book of Westmarch states that "the Horn-call of Buckland…had not been sounded for a hundred years" prior to that dark night at Crickhollow, Frodo was tactfully ignoring Rory’s erroneous blowing of the call during the freak hailstorm of 1389. As it was heard on that occasion only within Brandy Hall, few knew of the incident in any event.

"Lalia will help us…" According to Letter 214 in The Letters of J.R.R Tolkien, Lalia the Great was head of the Tooks upon the death of her husband, Thain Fortinbras II, in 1380 until her own death in 1402. In 1389 her son Ferumbras was Thain, but since his mother "ruled the Tooks and the Great Smials for 22 years," she would have been the logical recipient of Rory’s appeal.

Yes, I know corn and pumpkins are New World crops…but since Tolkien didn’t worry about the presence of tobacco and potatoes in Middle Earth, I’m not going to worry either!