“To market, to market to buy a fat pig,” Faramir chirped.

“Home again, home again, jiggedy–jig,” Boromir replied, the “jiggedy-jig” always accompanied by bouncing and tickling that left them both rosy-cheeked with laughter.

Other than a garbled version of his brother’s name, those were two-year-old Faramir’s only words so far. I was not worried, though the Lord Denethor seemed somewhat concerned; I had seen enough babies to know that each moved at their own pace, and would speak when they were ready. Boromir, though, was sorely frustrated; he was eager to have long brotherly conversations, and pestered me every day: “When do you think he will talk?”

One day, as I sat mending, I was startled to hear a quiet voice, not too far from my knee, asking, “Will we go to market for a present for Bo’mir?” The only human anywhere in the vicinity was Faramir, sitting on the floor amidst his pile of wooden soldiers, eyeing me solemnly.

“What shall we get him?” I asked, too stunned to think of any other reply. I had heard of children who kept their own counsel, waiting to speak until they had (to their own mind) mastered the intricacies of grammar and conversation. I knew from observation that Faramir was a bright child; I should have realized that he would be one of these deep thinkers.

“A fat pig!” He chortled at his own wit, and went back to arraying his armies, refusing to speak again, merely smiling. I began to wonder if I did, in fact, spend too much time with children and not enough with adults.

~*~

I occasionally brought the boys to visit the market with me, accompanied by a guard, so it was a simple matter to slip away one morning while Boromir was occupied with his tutor. For several weeks Boromir had been excitedly discussing his birthday, considering the likelihood of receiving various gifts. A real sword? Perhaps, I told him, or at least a metal one, a step up from the wooden practice sword he had been using for the past two years. A pet basilisk? He had become quite intrigued by these mythical creatures, reading all he could find, steadfastly refusing to accept that they might not exist. A horse of his very own, to replace the staid pony who had been his patient companion for so long? This was a distinct possibility, in fact a very likely probability, though I of course would never spoil that surprise.

We enjoyed our morning’s excursion. Faramir was light for his age, and not a squirmer, but good-natured and curious. I kept trying to draw him out, hoping he would speak more, but he merely smiled mischievously at me. I planned to visit a certain baker’s stall, famous for gingerbread pigs; and sincerely hoped that Faramir was not expecting to see a real pig. I had not quite figured out how I would deal with his disappointment if he did not get to see one. Faramir was not usually prone to tantrums, but knowing now that he did observe and digest everything that went on around him, I could no longer be quite sure of the predictability of his behavior. How much had he chosen to learn from his brother?

“Lookit! Look!” My musings were interrupted by his piping voice.

“Where, love? What am I looking at?”

“There, there, look! Fat pigs!”

I whirled around, trying to figure out what he was pointing at so excitedly. We were in the greengrocer’s area, surrounded by stalls full of fragrant melons and blackberries, carrots and kale and red onions. What was he talking about?

“Look, look!” He was pointing at a basket of lemons, huge and golden, their scent bringing me back immediately to the lush groves near my home. But what on this good earth did they have to do with pigs?

~*~

When Boromir returned, grumpy as usual from his morning’s lessons, he got the surprise of his young life: Faramir running to greet him, shouting “Happy birthday, Bo’mir! Here’s your fat pig!” as he proudly presented his brother the lemon. It was the first, and last, time I ever saw Boromir at a total loss for words.