Chapter 7 – Invitations and Cherries

Saradoc, Rufus, Dodi and Dino found nothing in their search of Buck Hill and Bucklebury, as they had suspected. No one had seen Frodo the day before and anyone who did last placed him at the Gate. They were not worried that the lad might have slipped through the Gate; with so many witnesses and bounders on guard, no one could have made it through undetected, not even Frodo with his wily ways.

They ate luncheon in Bucklebury and listened to the gossip, none of which was very exciting or important; those that had been speaking of Frodo quickly changed the topic of their discussions when the Master’s relations entered the inn.

After luncheon, they continued on their way, going as far as Crafter’s Field before turning back, returning by Crickhollow Road so they could detour around to the burial grounds and check there, just in case. They returned to Buck Hill near teatime and entered Brandy Hall preparing to give the bad news to Esme.

Esmeralda took her husband’s news in stride. She was still visiting Berylla when Saradoc returned and they were taking their tea in Berylla’s apartment. Scarlet had directed Saradoc to find his wife there and he told her of what they had found, or had not found as the case may be.

“We knew we wouldn’t find him,” Esme said, trying to sound confident. “He’ll return tomorrow night, or the next.”

Saradoc nodded. “I’m going to the Bridge Gate,” he stated. He would join his brother for the end of the day again and help with the clean up, as Mac had done the day before. “Maybe I’ll look about a bit at the Hay Gate on my way up. It will likely be impossible to pick out Frodo’s tracks from everyone else’s but I may get lucky. At the very least I may discover which way he might have got himself off to.”

Once Sara was gone, Berylla shook her head and clucked her tongue. “That Frodo’s a handful,” she said sympathetically. “Whatever will you do with him?”

Esme shook her head, at a loss. “I don’t know. He’s not done this with us before.”

“Do you think it was prompted by what Gil said to him?” Berylla asked.

“Perhaps, but what could Gil possibly say to Frodo to cause him to go off like this?” Esme asked. “Frodo doesn’t pay a mind to anything Gil says, nor anyone else that takes a mind to taunt him. It has to be more than that.”

“Perhaps Gil made it sound more harmless than it actually was,” Berylla pointed out.

Esme stared into her empty tea cup, tracing its flowery design thoughtfully. “I think I need to speak with Gil again, and perhaps Edon also if he’s about.” She reached over and clasped Berylla’s hand thankfully. “I’ll speak with you later and tell you how it goes.”

“I’ll be here,” Berylla said and saw her friend to the door.  

Edon wasn’t able to get to Brandy Hall until nearly teatime, so busy they were at the vineyard. He navigated his way through the tunnels deep into Brandy Hall on his way to first Fendimbras’s and then Morton’s apartments, catching snatches of conversation on the way.

“…still not back. No good can come of this…”

“…been saying all along that lad has more wiles than are good for him. Maybe now the Master will listen…”

“…always pulling such stunts. It’s a wonder this hasn’t happened sooner.”

“There’s something wrong with that child, I’ve been saying it since they brought him here…”

“…had more sense than this, but you know that Bilbo Baggins is always filling his head with tales of adventure and whatnot…”

“Well, you remember what happened just after his parents drowned, don’t you? If it hadn’t been for Milo…” 

At long last, Edon reached Fendi’s apartment, a mixture of anger, guilt and pity running through him at the things he had overheard. It seemed folk either felt sorry for Frodo or blamed him entirely for his current circumstance. That was hardly fair, yet what could Edon do against it? He couldn’t very well turn around and stand up to these gossipers and he knew it. This was a family matter and he had no say in it. What happened at the Gate however, losing sight of Frodo as he had done, was his doing and he needed to speak to his friends about it as soon as he may. Why hadn’t he watched Frodo more closely?

He knocked upon the door, hoping desperately that his friends would be there so he wouldn’t have to walk past more gossiping hobbits. For a time, no answer came to his call and Edon was about to knock again when the door finally opened. The chambermaid let him in and led him to the parlor.

Mistress Goldworthy smiled warmly at him from her settee. Like many others, she had been slow to warm up to Edon when his family first arrived here from Northfarthing, but as soon as his father’s reputation for quality wine had been firmly established, she had finally accepted Edon as a suitable friend for her son.

“Hallo Edon,” she said. “Fendimbras isn’t here just now. He’s over at Morton’s, I’m sure. Tell me, what do you think of all this noise? I’m sure you’ve heard by now.”

“Ma’am?” Edon asked, though he knew perfectly well what the Mistress was referring to.

“Frodo’s missing. My son tells me the four of you had seen him yesterday, just prior.” Mistress Goldworthy looked at him sternly and with a calculating eye that put Edon on edge. “Funny, that you always seem to just miss the excitement.”

Edon couldn’t respond for several moments. His throat dried in an instant and refused to allow any sound to escape it. Finally, he swallowed deeply and cleared his throat, then said, “I would consider it unfortunate, Mistress, that we hadn’t been able to avoid this.”

Mistress Goldworthy smiled tightly at him. “Avoid?”

“Prevent this.”

“I’m sure you would at that, lad,” she said and her smile turned warm. “Run along now and try not to get my son into too much trouble.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” Edon said with a nod, remembering just in time not to bow. The mistress would see such courtesy as a submissive gesture and would only be reminded of his family’s position which, considering the encounter they’d just had, would not help Edon’s position here. He simply wanted to leave as quickly as he could. “Sorry for the interruption. Good day.”

He turned away with a mixture of gratitude and regret. He was glad to be leaving but did not look forward to any further rumors he might hear as he made his way to Morti’s apartment. He let himself out and sought out his friends.

By the time he arrived at Morton’s, he’d had more than his share of run-amok gossipers to last him a good long while and was very much relieved to find both his friends there. They retreated to Morton’s room and the cousins sat upon the bed as Edon sat on the floor, his back against the wall.

“We heard it same as you,” Fendi began after Edon related what he knew, “only Saradoc came to us in the dining hall last night. He asked us if Frodo ever showed up at the boulder and how long we waited.”

“Was he very angry?” Edon asked.

Morton shook his head. “No, just a bit disappointed.

“He doesn’t blame us?” Edon asked.

Morton shrugged. “Probably a little, but there’s not much that can be done about it now. We could have been sitting out there all day and Frodo would never have shown his face. When that lad wants to get gone, he does. He’ll be back in a day or two.”

Edon nodded numbly, wanting to accept this assurance, but the nagging feeling of the day before was back and all he could see were the trees of the Old Forest looming menacingly in the distance. “You don’t think there’s any chance he could have gone into the Forest, do you?”  

Fendi snorted at this. “Impossible. He’s too afraid of his own shadow to go near the trees. Gil wasn’t lying about that.”

“Perhaps,” Edon said, reluctant to admit that Gil could be right about anything. He sat thinking for a moment, trying to sort out his confusing thoughts, when a knock rapped lightly on the door.

“Yes, Mother,” Morti called and his mother opened the door.

She looked down at the lads and crooked a finger to Edon. “Esmeralda wants to see you, lad,” she said and handed him what looked like an invitation. “You’re to be here for first breakfast tomorrow and dine with her in the first main sitting room.”

“Me?” Edon asked, a rush of panic and confusion rippling up his back and making his hairs stand on end. “Why would she want to have first breakfast with me? Or, do you mean my parents?”

“No, I mean you and she didn’t say why,” Mistress Goodbody continued. “She seemed rather put off though. You best show up early if you know what’s good for you.” She left the room then and the three friends looked at each other, dumbfounded.

“What was that about?” Morti asked.

Fendi shrugged. “I don’t know, but we’re off the hook. It must have been something Edon did by himself. Are you causing trouble without us? Now, you know that isn’t allowed.”

Edon looked down at the invitation in his hand, in no mood for jests. There was only one thing this request could be about.  

The sun was nearing its high point before Frodo picked himself up again. His stomach had ceased its grumbling, and instead had shrunken in on itself, making an unhappy knot in the middle of his belly. He was also in need of water, but just as the food appeared nonexistent within the forest, so too did a water source.

The trees had remained quiet and Frodo’s fear had subsided somewhat. He wandered aimlessly, knowing there was little point in attempting to find the border or any food source, moving more for the sake of doing something.

A breeze found its way through the trees to him and soothed his sweat-drenched face. He turned his face up to it and closed his eyes to the wind, still stumbling forward. Branches cracked and snapped under his feet and leaves were scattered in his wake. Nothing sought to block his path and he could only assume this meant he was going in a direction that was pleasing to the watching trees. This should have distressed him, but he found himself unable to care. He was thirsty and exhausted, hungry and worn, and he was beginning to feel as though he had been in this forest his entire life.

He came to a small slope that led down into a somewhat darker part of the woods. Hoping the darkness would mean cooler surroundings and respite from the near intolerable heat, he deftly made his way down the slope, the dirt loose and slippery under his feet, threatening to slip him up. He kept his feet under him and picked his way slowly down the small hill, then looked about him in partial interest.

This part of the forest was much the same as the rest of it, except the trees now seemed to back away and afford him more room to walk and move about, while at the same time providing him with more shade from the unrelenting summer sun. He turned about, the song of birds high above reaching his ears for the first time since entering these woods. He delighted in their lovely song and as he looked for the source of the music, he spotted a tree that stood somewhat away from the others, its branches flooded with sunlight. He studied the tree with interest, wondering vaguely at this vision, and found there to his surprise, far above in its high branches, cherries ripe for the picking.

Without thinking, without so much as pausing to wonder about this miracle, Frodo stumbled forward eagerly until he was standing beneath what he believed to be the fruit-bearing tree. He looked up the bole, straining his neck, and squinted to see into the branches high above. Yes! Yes, there they were, he could see them clearly, bright red and fat with juice. Now, if only he could get up there somehow. There were no branches low enough for him to jump onto and no boulders nearby to use as a stepping stone.

Frodo walked around the bole and found it was not very thick around at all. He could attempt to climb up bare handed. Biting on his lower lip, he measured the distance to the first branch and decided to take the risk. He brushed his hands against his breeches, rubbing off the sweat and dirt, and scraped his feet against the bole to clean them off as well. Then he stepped back several paces and got a running start. He jumped as he neared the tree and grabbed hold of the bole with an iron grip. He looked down; his attempt had not served him very well. He was only a few inches off the ground, but at least he was started.

He placed his feet at either side of the bole and steadied himself before releasing the bole with his hands. He stretched up and wrapped his hands again around the bole, then used both his arms and his feet to propel him upward. Inch by inch, he crawled his way up the tree, his prize coming closer with each attempt. He could almost taste their sweetness already, and the expectation gave him extra motivation to scramble up all the faster.

Before he knew it, he had reached the first branch and he wrapped his arms around the sturdy stem to pull himself up into a sitting position. There he stood up and now his prize was almost within his reach. Just a few more steps up and he would have them. He climbed the branches like a ladder and didn’t stop until he had reached the first of the cherries. He sat down against the bole, panting happily, his tired hands and legs shaking with the exertion, his vision swimming with his exhausted reserves. He sat for many long minutes, until his breathing returned to normal and the ground below ceased to spin, then he moved forward to lie flat upon the branch and reached out to pluck the heavy fruit.

He did not look at it and did not see past its round shape and bright red color. He only mildly noticed its small size before popping it into his mouth and biting down, so eager he was for nourishment. Not ten seconds passed before the bitterness of the fruit assaulted him, causing him to gag and making his eyes water. He spit the fruit out and tried to rid his mouth of its sour taste and acrid smell. Curious, he reached forward and picked another to look at it more closely.

The fruit was large for their sort, but there was no mistaking them now that he looked at them more closely. He had been warned against them numerous times, but he had never seen them grow upon a tree before. Still it must be the same as the other bush-born ones, its taste told him as much, but those berries were much smaller in size than these and their color paler. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered learning that the richer the color, the more potent the poison. Frodo dropped the fruit and spit out as much saliva as he could, trying his best not to swallow any more of the juices than he already had but feeling some of them leak down his throat all the same.

In his panic, Frodo knew only one thing: he had to get down from this tree and quickly. He scrambled back toward the bole, and carefully lowered himself to the branch below. He tried to ignore the shear terror threatening to take hold, tried to ignore as his vision began to swim before him in odd, fragmented colors and quivering, disorienting shapes. He closed his eyes, and felt for the next branch with his feet, keeping close to the bole for support. Down one and then another, until he was certain he was at the last branch.

Daring to peek, he opened his lids only slightly and the ground below him rolled and shook and the leaves littering the ground danced and grew, taking shapes of unnatural sort, while lines of unexplainable origins and colors ran across his vision, disorienting him further. His head swam, and he teetered back, only by instinct reaching out and supporting himself against the bole. He closed his eyes again and tried to stop the spinning in his head. Gradually, the world came back to a resting place, and he felt along the bole for a stronghold. Keeping his eyes clenched shut, he felt his way to standing and wrapped his feet around the bole just below the branch. He made sure his hold was secure and, still feeling with only his hands and feet, he inched slowly down the bole toward the ground.

He had no way of knowing how close he was getting to the ground, or how far up the tree he still was. He dared not look, dared not open his eyes to the world gone mad, and waited only for the feel of dirt and earth beneath his feet. It never came.

He had no sense of time, no more than he did of anything else. Even the tree was beginning to fade from his senses and the spinning came back with full force, turning him upside down though in fact he had not moved at all. Desperate, Frodo reached down with one foot, feeling, stretching, and found nothing but air. Yet he figured he must be at least halfway down, which meant only a couple of feet were between him and the ground. Not wanting to remain on the tree any longer, wanting only to get under a bush and hide from the world and his hallucinations, he did the only sensible thing he could think of: he let go.

He was already unconscious when he hit the ground.
 
 
 

To be continued…