BIRTHDAY MORNING

I wake up to the Sun shining in my window. She’s well above the horizon. I can smell second breakfast cooking, and I hear the sounds coming from the guest rooms--Gandalf’s low singing, and the Dwarves moving about in their room. Only Dori and Nuri are staying with us. The other four are at The Ivy Bush. They’ll all make themselves scarce tonight, and Uncle Bilbo will be meeting them at the edge of the village after he pulls his little prank.

I feel once more the pangs of grief, and tell myself firmly to stop it! It is not as though Bilbo will be--dead. Not--not like my parents. And he needs this. I can tell from his manner all is not well with him: he cannot settle to his translations; he is not eating well; he is not sleeping well; and he is suffering from ill dreams. More than once I’ve been awakened by his soft cries. He is dreaming of the dragon, the spiders, and most often of the Gollum-creature. “I’m no thief,” he whimpers, “no, thief!” I do not know how to comfort him, and he is embarrassed that I know of them.

Fortunately, he has had no more of them since Gandalf arrived. But Gandalf cannot stay forever, and if Bilbo thinks this distress of his can be assuaged by leaving once more, then I owe him to much to stand in his way.

It’s with a heavy heart that I arise and make my toilet. This should be a joyous day for us. I am coming of age, though it is hard for me to feel that is real. And Bilbo is one hundred and eleven. He has passed his one hundred and tenth year, and that is a remarkable occasion. But our coming parting weighs on me, and it is going to be very hard to present a smiling face to the world today.

In the kitchen, I hear Bilbo and Gandalf speaking seriously. I cannot hear what they say, and when I enter, the conversation dies. The Dwarves have apparently finished their meal and gone out.

“Good morning, Frodo,” says Gandalf, taking a pull on his pipe. He too has finished eating. I have noticed that he eats only one serving to a
meal for the most part.

“Good morning, Gandalf,” I say. I turn to Bilbo, dropping a kiss of greeting on his cheek. He feels a bit warm to me, as though he might be feverish, but I put that down to the warmth of the kitchen, for he’s been cooking after all. “Good morning, Uncle.”

He greets me absently, and turns to dish up a plate for me.

Gandalf rises carefully. The ceiling in the kitchen is not so high as in the rest of the smial, and so he watches his head very carefully there. “I have some things to see too. Fireworks take a deal of preparation.” He leaves, bending nearly double to get out the kitchen door.

I sit down to my breakfast, and notice a small package beside my plate. I smile, and reach into my breast pocket for the package which I have. I place it on the table near his chair, as he helps himself to another serving of most everything before he sits down to keep me company. We have always exchanged our gifts to one another privately before the party.

We give lip service to the meal. The food’s good, of course, but we don’t want to waste time talking about it today, though I am sure that would appall Aunt Dora. So we eat quickly, and when we are not quite finished, I give him a sideways look, and smile. “It’s your year to go first.”

He smiles back. “Is it?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I went first last year.”

I watch him carefully. I ordered this gift for him last year, before I knew his plans. I had thought only of our tramps about the Shire--yet now, it seemed a much more useful and significant gift.

The paper falls away, and there it is: a small case of chased silver, engraved with his initials. It is only about the size of the palm of his hand. He opens it, and his face slowly breaks out into a smile of glee. “Oh, Frodo, my lad! This is remarkable.”

I am rather pleased with myself. In separate little compartments are a flint striker, a small comb, a tiny penknife, a small silverpoint stylus, and another smaller case. He flips it open and then grins at me.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asks.

“Yes, Uncle. It’s a compass. There is a bit of a lodestone in it, which will point always to the north.”

“Frodo, this is perfect.” His voice is husky. “Thank you so much. You know me all too well.” He clears his throat, and pulls out a handkerchief and blows his nose. “Now, it’s your turn.”

I draw the package towards me, and open it carefully. It is far heavier than I expect, and it makes a bit of a chink.

It is the most beautiful pocketwatch I’ve ever seen. It’s of silver, and I recognize the inlay--truesilver,mithril. I open it, and inside the front is a small miniature painting, a tiny copy of a painting Cousin Calla had done once, of the two of us, when I was only about nineteen. But that is not all. The watch is attached to a fob. And on the fob, in addition to the watch, is a keyring. And I recognize the keys to Bag End. I look at him, puzzled, for he gave me my own key to the smial years ago.

He reads my look at a glance. “Those are not copies of the keys, Frodo, those are *my* keys, now yours.”

“Oh, Uncle!” I cry, overcome with emotion. I feel anew the grief of losing him, and yet also, I feel pride that he is entrusting me this way, and so much love for him--he’s given me a home, a place to be, himself.

“Now, now, Frodo,” he pulls out a second handkerchief and passes it over to me, and I cannot help but chuckle at this. He clearly knows me very well, also.

After a few moments, we both get control of ourselves.

“Now, I need to talk to you seriously, before the guests begin to arrive, and we’ve not a moment to ourselves. Today is going to be far too busy for us, and I am not sure I will have another chance.”

For a brief and wild second, I think he is going to relent, and allow me to come with him. But no, I know better.

“I want to apologize to you in advance for something, Frodo. Today *is* your coming of age. By all rights you should be getting just as much attention as I--perhaps even more.”

I shake my head. The one thing he has never understood about me is that I am not nearly so fond of the limelight as he. In that regard, I am far more Brandybuck than Took. But he goes on.

“I am sure that it has not escaped your notice that most of the talk has been of *my* birthday--which, while eleventy-one is remarkable, it is not as important as all that. But I have my reasons. I have been deliberately playing down your coming of age.”

I am not understanding this, and I suppose it shows on my face.

“You know as well as I do, Frodo, that the least suspicion of a whiff of what I plan would be enough to set Otho and Lobelia on our tails like hounds. I have taken the precaution of having Mr. Grubb go over all the documents once more--my will, and your adoption papers--to make sure they are airtight. I am making certain that the people who signed that document will be in attendance at the supper tonight. When I make my speech, there will be a key phrase in it, to assure that you will receive all your due. I will bury it among other things in the hope that the S.-B.s will miss it.”

I nod. I do understand his concerns. If the S.-B.s are not taken by surprise, they might be able to cause troubles for us--for me, I should say, since hopefully Uncle Bilbo will be far away from any such unpleasantness. I suppose I made an expression of distaste.

“I know, my boy. It really is disgusting, but they’ve no right to any claim on me, and I don’t wish them to give you the same sorts of trouble they gave me.”

Again I nod. But privately I am of the opinion that the S.-B.s will be cold and in the grave before they stop making trouble. I shudder. Otho and Lobelia are bad enough, but Lotho is far worse.

He is looking at me with concern. I have been silent too long. I look at him desperately. “Uncle, are you sure--”

I get no further.

“Frodo, it is not the right time for you to follow me. I am counting on you to take good care of Bag End, and the people who rely on it.”

I push my plate aside. I can’t even pretend to fill up the corners right now.

“I love Bag End, Uncle Bilbo. But I love you more. I would give it all up for you--you know that.”

The look on his face is one of quiet determination. “Frodo, don’t you see--that is precisely the *reason* I want you to have it all. Because you *don’t* want it; because people are more important to you than things.”

I subside. This opinion of me is very flattering, and I am glad he thinks that of me, but it is not especially comforting.

“I have been a selfish old hobbit almost all my life--no, no, don’t protest that. I know myself. I can be generous with what I have--that doesn’t mean a lot to me either. But I have cherished my solitude and my peace and quiet far too much. I nearly let you slip through my fingers, nearly gave in to Gilda and Esme, because I knew the disruption you’d cause me--the way you would plant yourself in my heart and life. I didn’t. Having you here with me was the best thing I’ve ever done--including facing Smaug. But I want you to know I love you just as much as if you were my own son.”

This is not the first time he has told me this. But I am keenly aware that it will be the last time I will hear it, and I am nearly undone. “Uncle Bilbo, I’m going to miss you so much.” I hear a childish note of begging in my voice, and am reminded of how Merry sounds when I finish a visit at Brandy Hall.

“There, there, my lad,” he pats me on the back, and he is sniffling as well, and then both of us blow our noses at the same time, and end up breaking out in laughter.

“Well,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I think I’ve had as much breakfast as I care for. I’ve a few things to deal with before the guests begin to arrive.”

I stand up. I feel exhausted, as if I have been running a mile. “You go and do that, Uncle. I’ll see to the washing up.”

He smiles, pats me on the back again, and taking his tea with him, leaves the kitchen. I gather up the plates and forks, and go over to the dishpan. I still feel weighed down. But as I pump water into the kettle to heat, I look out the window.

I see Sam, directing the hanging of paper lanterns in the front garden. And then I see a pony trap pull up by the gate, and two small familiar forms leap out--it’s Merry, and Pippin with him.

And my heart feels lighter. For there will still be a few who love me in the Shire.