Chapter Thirteen: Childhood’s End

A kind of exhausted calm settled over the Hall, roiled only by the shocking discovery that Fluffy was pregnant.

"It’s that dreadful Garm, I’m positive!" wailed Hortensia, as her swelling pet waddled across the kitchen.

"Why, that’s impossible," protested Rory. "Think of the size difference!"

"I’m certain of it nonetheless! What ugly mongrels they’ll be…and now Fluffy will have to miss the Westfarthing Dog Show next month!"

Rory glared at his dog suspiciously.

Garm lay panting by the hearth, and managed to look smug.

* * *

It had been decided that Frodo would leave for Hobbiton on his birthday. The Hornblowers had chosen the same date for their journey home; with the unhappy conclusion of the pipeweed venture, there was no reason for them to linger in Buckland. Indeed, had Rory and Hamilcar not started last-minute discussions on importing some Southfarthing grape stock for Brandy Hall Vineyards, they would have been already gone.

In his final days at the Hall Frodo spent as much time as he could with Merry, visiting all of their old haunts and taking him swimming, fishing, boating, and hiking to his heart’s content. They went berry-picking and mushroom hunting—in the woods, not in Maggot’s fields—and spent long, lazy afternoons in the apple orchard, where Frodo would patiently answer every question his small companion could concoct about Hobbiton, Bag End, and Uncle Bilbo, and when might he come for his first visit?

The Brandy Hall Boys continued to track their movements, but it seemed that Otis’ heart wasn’t in it. Clive eyed him with concern one morning, as he sat despondently on the wall along the River-path, head in hands. "Why so blue, mate?"

"Haven’t you heard?" muttered Otis. "The Baggins is leavin’…"

Clive scratched his head. "I should ha’ thought you’d be right cheerful at that news!"

With mournful visage, Otis looked up at his friend and plaintively asked, "But Clive—what’ll we do for fun?"

* * *

On the eve of his departure, as Frodo lay wakeful and restless in the dark, quiet Hall, he was not surprised to hear his bedroom door creak open and then shut again. There were no telltale footsteps to give away his stealthy visitor, but a minute later there was warm breath by his pillow and then a rustling of the feather bed as a small body climbed in beside him and an arm stole around his neck.

Esmeralda was right about Merry’s growing independence—the frequency of his late-night visits to Frodo’s room had dropped off in recent months. But tonight, for this one last time, it was like all the nights uncounted over the years, when Merry had sought refuge from the shadows in the arms of his beloved cousin.

"Frodo?" came the dear, familiar whisper.

"Yes love?"

"Will Uncle Bilbo take you with him on his next adventure?"

"I think Bilbo’s adventuring days are over now, Merry."

"Oh…well then, will you take me with you when you go on adventures?"

Frodo chuckled softly. "When I go? Moving to Hobbiton seems quite adventure enough, thank you!"

"Promise me you will!" Merry insisted. "Someone’s got to protect you from the goblins and dragons!"

"All right Merry-lad, I promise. Now go to sleep!"

Merry smiled, and snuggling closer to his cousin, shut his eyes.

* * *

The morning of his birthday Frodo was up with the sun, leaving Merry slumbering peacefully in his bed. He slipped out of the Hall before most of the household was stirring—only a few servants were quietly beginning the day’s tasks. Behind the Buck Hill he took a narrow path to a small, grassy meadow enclosed by a crumbling stone wall…a quiet, peaceful place where Frodo had often retreated from the smial’s hectic bustle.

The old gate creaked loudly in the stillness of the hour. Frodo passed between rows of weathered grey stones until he came to a secluded corner of the field, guarded by a towering yew tree. Below it two mossy slabs, tilting slightly toward each other, were twined about with creeping rose, only a few windblown blooms yet remaining among the bright orange hips and yellowing leaves. Sinking to his knees beside them he lightly traced the graven name on one stone, then the other. He sighed and leant his cheek against cool granite.

"I’m moving to Hobbiton, Papa, to live with Uncle Bilbo…I know how much you thought of him, so I’m sure you’d approve." His voice was low, scarcely more than a whisper. "And Mama, I’ve met someone! She’s kind, and clever, and so beautiful…she reminds me very much of you. I think you would have liked her, Mama…"

He fell silent, lost in his memories for a time. Finally, he carefully unwrapped the birthday present he had brought—a portrait of himself that he had spent most of the previous day working on—and laid it on the greensward. Then he rose, gently touched each stone one last time, and turned away…

* * *

On returning to the Hall Frodo felt too nervous to eat breakfast, and begged off to do his final packing. In truth he had been packed since the previous afternoon, but he returned to his room for one last look. Stripped of all his possessions, with no piled-up books and strewn clothing, it looked forlorn and unnaturally neat: a stranger’s room. One of the chambermaids had tried to scrub out the ink stain on the wall, but had not been entirely successful. Now it looked like the grey ghost of a spider.

Restlessly he wandered outside to watch his trunk being loaded on top of the carriage. He was immensely relieved that Sara, Ezzie, and Merry were accompanying him on the journey to Hobbiton; the most painful partings would thus be deferred a while longer. He had already taken leave of most of the family at a quiet birthday celebration the night before, and this morning had exchanged last, tearful hugs with Auntie Gilda; more reserved ones with Amaranth and Asphodel. That left only Rory.

Relations had been somewhat strained between Frodo and his uncle since their words over Bilbo’s letter. While Rory had expressed his gruff approval of Frodo’s decision when informed of it, and while outwardly their manner toward each other was stiffly cordial, Frodo found himself apprehensive about their final meeting. However, it could be avoided no longer. He had been instructed to report to the Master’s study at 8 o’ clock sharp, and that time had now arrived.

When Frodo reached the study Hamilcar Hornblower was just coming out, tucking a folded parchment into his waistcoat pocket with a look of profound satisfaction. He tousled Frodo’s hair and clapped him heartily on the back. "Best of luck to you lad!" he boomed, adding with a broad wink, "See you again in a few years, eh?"

"Yes sir," said Frodo politely, but his heart sank. A few years! He fervently hoped it would not be so long.

Rory was standing before the fire—the weather had finally started to cool—and on hearing Frodo enter, he looked up. "Ah! There you are, Frodo. Come in, come in." He gestured toward a chair and took one facing it. "So, lad, you’re leaving us today."

"Yes, Uncle Rory." As long as they stuck to good, obvious statements of fact, Frodo thought, perhaps the conversation would not prove too difficult…

"As I’ve said before, it’s for the best, and I’m glad you’ve come to see it that way."

He paused, as if waiting for a reply, but Frodo remained silent, fearing to tread too close to their earlier disagreement. Rory cleared his throat and continued, "Yes—well, before you go, there are some legal matters to be discussed…a question of your inheritance."

This was not expected. Frodo stared at his uncle. "But—I thought Uncle Bilbo was making all the arrangements!"

"Not that inheritance, boy, your Brandybuck inheritance! Mind, it’s not much…as the last of seven children, and a female at that, your mother was entitled to no more than a token share of the family estate. But her dowry included a small property upriver from the Hall—a mushroom farm—that brings in a tithe every year from the farmer who works it. That income has been held in trust ever since your parents died, and upon your coming-of-age it reverts to you, along with the deed to the farm."

Frodo listened in growing surprise as his uncle talked, and couldn’t help but smile at the irony. He, the owner of a mushroom farm! Had he but known, and made it the target of his raids all these years rather than Maggot’s fields, who could have objected?

"I know this may seem like small potatoes to you, now that you’re sole heir to the Baggins fortune and lands. But it’s only proper that you should know of it before you go…I’ll not have it said that Rory Brandybuck kept from you what was rightfully yours!"

"Thank you, Uncle." Frodo wondered if this concluded their conversation, but it seemed that Rory wasn’t through quite yet.

"Now then, Frodo, you may be leaving Buckland, but you must never forget you’re a Brandybuck as much as a Baggins…mind you behave in a manner that does credit to the family! And be careful—Hobbiton’s a strange place, and its folk are stranger. As for old Bilbo, he’s a good hobbit, and thinks the world of you, but he’s not overly endowed with common sense, to my way of thinking. If you have any problems with him, or with anyone else there for that matter, you let me know straightaway, do you hear? And keep a sharp eye on those Sackville-Bagginses…they’ll be looking for a way to make trouble between you and Bilbo if they find they can’t contest the will. And that’s just what they will find…I sent my solicitors off to Bag End last week to inspect the documents, and they assure me that Bilbo’s done it up right. Sara will sign as the seventh witness when you reach Bag End."

Rory finally seemed to have run out of advice. "Well, safe journey to you, lad, and good fortune at its end. Give Bilbo my regards!"

They stood up and shook hands awkwardly. Frodo waited for Rory to give him leave to go, but instead he merely moved to the window and stood gazing out.

Frodo waited a bit, then ventured carefully, "Will that be all, sir?"

"Eh? Yes, that’s all," Rory muttered, not turning round.

Frodo stood there a moment longer, uncertain, then started for the door. But just before he crossed the threshold, something made him pause and look back. Rory was still staring intently out the window, as if at some distant object. He ran his hand through his grizzled hair, and Frodo saw with surprise that it was trembling. Suddenly a light broke on him…and a slow smile spread across his face. "I love you too, Uncle," he said softly. Then he turned and was gone.

Rory looked after him, blinking hard. "So very like her…" He pulled out a large pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "I’ll be hog-tied and horsewhipped for a sentimental old fool," he muttered.

* * *

Although Frodo had secretly resolved to see Hyacinth alone before they departed, so far he had not managed to get past the vigilance of her mother. And now it had come to the point: he must meet her this morning or not, he feared, for a very long time. He had pored over maps in the library, charting the shortest routes between Hobbiton and Longbottom, but had no great confidence that he would be able to put the information to use anytime soon, if Hamilcar’s parting words to him were any indication.

Somehow, then, he must find a way to see Hyacinth this morning. But before he could seek her out, there remained one last errand…

Summer hyacinths bloomed yet in Gilda’s garden, slender white bells drooping daintily on their stems. But the forget-me-nots were long since spent, and Frodo stood dismayed amidst their fading foliage. He had set his heart on these two flowers, and no others would do.

His last hope lay with the River. For there, among the bulrushes and cattails, water forget-me-nots might still be found, bidding a lingering farewell to summer. There was one spot in particular where they flourished, if he dared venture there. As Frodo walked down to the River-path, carefully cradling the hyacinths, he contemplated with growing dread the one leave he had not yet taken…

The River lay shimmering before him in the morning light, smooth as amber glass and as tranquil as on that midsummer evening when his parents had gone boating… Since then Frodo had often fancied that the River spoke to him, mocking him in its summer calm and challenging him in its winter fury. He had answered the challenge once, and nearly paid for it with his life.

He wandered now along the path, heading downstream where the banks were lower, searching carefully but not finding what he sought. His steps gradually slowed, his hope fading that he would find the flowers before he reached the place he had avoided these many years.

And then Frodo rounded a bend in the path and saw it: the wide, marshy spot where forget-me-nots thronged in such glorious profusion that they seemed to float above the water like a trembling, ethereal mist, blue as the mirroring sky. It looked just as he remembered when, undetected, he had followed his grandfather and uncle down to the River after the summons had come in the quiet dawn. Then, too, the flowers had grown in such abundance as to stay his parents’ capsized, drifting boat in its slow, meandering course downriver. And his parents, in their turn, had been caught up in the flowers’ embrace…a vision of beauty and death entwined that had burned itself indelibly into his soul.

As he stood there remembering, the words of an old song came to him unbidden:

A gallant knight and his betroth'd bride,
Were walking one day by a river side,
They talk'd of love, and they talk'd of war,
And how very foolish lovers are.

"Dear Edwin, if your love be true,
I ask one favor now from you:
Go! Fetch me a flower from across the river,
To prove you love me more than ever."

Frodo stepped into the chill, murky water, and felt as he did so that he was stepping back to that other, long-ago morning. The flowers came up to his chest on their tall green stalks, swaying in the current with slow, dream-like grace. He reached out his hand to grasp one.

So he leap'd into the river wide,
And swam across to the other side,
Where he pluck'd a flower right merrily
Which gladdened his young bride to see.

But when he tried to swim across,
All strength of body soon was lost,
But before he sank in the river wide,
He flung the flower to his lovely bride.

Then, as now, he had gathered flowers here. After they had taken his parents away he had gathered them, to lay on the fresh graves…

And he cried, "Alas! Hard is my lot,
My dearest Ellen! Forget me not:
Of my devotion let others tell,
My dearest Ellen! Fare thee well!"

Then she wrung her hands in wild despair,
Until her cries did rend the air;
And she cried, "Edwin, dear, hard is our lot,
But I'll name this flower Forget-me-not."

With an effort, Frodo pulled his thoughts back to the present. The sun was climbing higher…time was growing short. He scrambled back up to the path, but still he could not turn back, not yet. He looked out over the glittering expanse of water, winding in great, looping bends off into the hazy distance. Somewhere hidden on the far shore, a heron cried.

Never trust the River… So his mother had taught him; so he had taught Merry. But why then had his mother’s wisdom not saved her? He had heard all the whispered rumors and dismissed them as absurd: that his father’s weight had sunk the boat, that his mother had pushed him in, and been pulled in after…

But far worse than the taunts of others were his own tormented questions as he lay aching and alone in the blank, pitiless night. How could it happen with the River so calm? How, with his mother so strong a swimmer? True, his father swam not at all, but that fact alone could not explain the evening’s grim conclusion. More than once Frodo had arisen on such sleepless nights, and stolen from the smial to take a dory out on the glimmering water. He would let the craft drift with the current and wait, breathlessly, for the River to take him too, or at least to give him some sign, some clue to their fate. But it never did.

For years the River’s unyielding secrecy had gnawed at him, filling his heart with bitterness and anger. But then Merry had laid claim to his love—had awakened his desire to protect and care for another, until the loneliness and pain had eased, and he had slowly forgotten his obsession. Until now…

Yet now, as he faced his old nemesis with his still-unanswered questions, he felt a strange sense of acceptance. The River no longer called to him, either in mockery or challenge. It was neither friend nor foe but, in the end, nothing more than a river.

He plucked some flowers from the bunch he had gathered and tossed them out over the water, then watched them catch in an eddy and spin slowly away. "Fare thee well," he whispered.

* * *

"She said she was going for a last walk in the garden."

Frodo had cornered Horatio as he was coming out of the Hornblowers’ guest chambers, and his heart leaped at this reply. If he could meet Hyacinth anywhere, the garden would be his wish. And Hortensia, as Horatio further reported, was currently occupied with telling her servants how to pack…

As he hurried along, Frodo thought again of the words he had rehearsed over and over in his mind: Twelve years might seem long to some…yet they matter little for those whose love is true…

On reaching the garden Frodo went first to the sundial, but Hyacinth was not there. His pulse began racing nonetheless, as he thought of their last meeting. He sat for a moment on the stone bench, trying to recapture the sensations that had so overwhelmed him that he could recall them now only as an exquisite blur.

This time would be different. He would memorize every detail: the scent of her skin, the taste of her lips, the beating of her heart as he clasped her to his breast…

With a guilty start he realized he was crushing the flowers. He jumped up and wandered deeper into the garden…past the rose trellises, past the lily pond, past the little fountain singing all to itself. He was now growing anxious; the farthest bounds of the garden approached yet he had seen no sign of Hyacinth.

Close by the outer garden wall, screened by a camellia hedge, was a small pavilion. Either he would find her there…or she had left the garden. He drew nearer, clutching his flowers with trembling hands and trying to master his excitement.

Then he stopped cold, the blood draining from his face as if he had suddenly taken ill. He desperately wanted to flee, but his limbs would not obey and he stood there, white and still as one of the statues that dotted the grounds. The world seemed to spin around him and his vision darkened; indeed all his senses seemed to have abandoned him, save hearing only. For he heard with perfect clarity the low murmur of voices issuing from the pavilion.

"…you know I do, my darling."

"Then say it!" came Coronel’s insistent demand.

Hyacinth’s next words were shy and tentative, but stung more cruelly than the keenest blade. "I—I love you, Cory!" After that the pavilion was quiet for a time…

* * *

Hyacinth started and drew back, a look of alarm on her face.

"What’s the matter, Hy?" said Coronel, trying to pull her close again. "I didn’t frighten you, did I?"

"No darling, it’s just—I thought I heard something."

"I heard nothing save the beating of our two hearts as one," he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

"No Cory, really—I think there’s someone out there! Let me go and see, I’ll only be a minute."

Slipping out of the pavilion, Hyacinth ventured a few steps along the path, looking left and right but seeing no one. Puzzled, she glanced down—and a hand crept slowly to her mouth.

"Hyacinth? Is anyone out there?"

Raising her head she stood silent a moment, gazing out over the garden but seeming not to see it.

"Hy?" Coronel called again.

"No one, Cory dear!" she answered at last.

"Well come back then—I miss you!"

And Hyacinth turned and ran lightly up the steps of the pavilion to the arms of her lover, leaving behind her only some scattered flowers, white and blue, on the path.

Next week
Epilogue One: Cold Comfort

Poetry note:

The old song Frodo recalls is adapted from the poem "Forget Me Not" by William McGonagall, based on a romantic medieval legend.