56.  Back To Where It All Began

December 20, 1398

Frodo set out before dawn, grimly determined.  He didn’t trouble to be quiet as he gathered his things.  What did it matter if he woke the Sackville-Bagginses?  He was finally doing what they had wanted all along; they would probably give him a sending-off party.

Defeat tasted bitter, but Frodo didn’t look back as he descended the Hill and turned toward Hobbiton.  The village was nearly deserted at this hour, exactly as Frodo wanted.  On the Bywater road, he looked straight ahead as he passed Sack Top.  The sky began to lighten to the east; it looked like a clear, bright winter’s day, the very opposite of Frodo’s black mood.

He hesitated at the Ivy Bush Inn; the sun was nearly up, and he found he had no wish to meet anyone on the road.  He cut across the meadow next to the Inn.  He could follow the Water all the way to Buckland.

As usual, the sight of the river brought Frodo no peace, but he didn’t want to feel peaceful.  He tightened his warmest cloak against the chill breeze and continued on.

December 22, 1398

Frodo was exhausted.  He was already among the farms outside Buckland, and in a few hours he would be in the lands owned by his kin.  He could be at Brandy Hall by nightfall.  But Frodo could barely keep his feet under him; he had already been weakened by fever, and walking so far with hardly any rest had not helped.

A numb despair had long since replaced the rage that had driven him this far.  Frodo longed to rest, even sleep, though it was only mid-afternoon.  He sat down on the cold ground and got out his water skin.  Empty.  He sighed.  He could hear the river, but this part of it was rocky and swelled with winter rains, and he was some distance away in any case.

Frodo turned the other way and squinted through the naked trees.  He could see a thin plume of smoke rising from a small farmhouse close by.  A farm likely meant a well.  Frodo gathered his things and made for the cottage, driven by his parched throat.

There was a well, sure enough, but Frodo wasn’t so desperate as to ignore the bounds of politeness.  He went to the door, which was decorated with a colourful Yule wreath—was it Yule-time already?—and knocked.  He resisted the urge to lean wearily against the thick sod wall.  He could hear a baby squalling from somewhere inside the little house.  Finally there were footsteps, and then the door opened.

Frodo bowed slightly.  “Forgive the intrusion, sir, but would you permit me to fill my water skin from your well?”

“Why, o’ course, help yourself,” the farmer said, then paused.  “Why—Mr. Frodo?  Is that you?”

Frodo, startled, looked more closely at the hobbit before him.  He seemed an ordinary young farmer, light brown hair, in his early sixties perhaps, approaching middle age.  But he looked strangely familiar.  “Alar Goodbody!” Frodo exclaimed, suddenly realizing.  “How do you do, sir?  It has been a long time.”

“Indeed it has, indeed it has,” Alar grinned delightedly.  “Won’t ye come in?  Take supper with us?  You look like you’ve had a tirin’ journey.”

“Thank you,” Frodo said gratefully.

“Poppy-my-love, look who’s here!”  Alar closed the door behind Frodo and took his pack before he could protest.

The well-remembered former cook of Brandy Hall emerged from the back room and set a squirming baby in a basket.  “Who is it, Alar?”

Alar stooped over the basket to coo at the baby and Frodo came hesitantly forward.

Poppy’s round face lit up.  “Mr. Frodo!” she cried, and rushed forward to embrace him.  “What a wonderful surprise!  And just in time for Yule, too,” Poppy exclaimed.  “Well, let me look at ye.”  Her delighted expression changed to concern as she took in Frodo’s pale face and drooping posture.

He tensed, realizing she would want to know what had happened, and the last thing he felt like doing was telling her the whole catastrophe his life had become over the last few months.

But all Poppy did was press her lips together for a moment.  “You look as if a stiff breeze could knock you over,” she said finally, “but never mind that.  You’ve come to the right place for supper; Alar will tell ye I’m still so used ta cooking for a hundred or more, I always make far too much.”

“True enough,” Alar agreed.  “I’ll show ye where to wash up.”

Frodo enjoyed a delicious (and abundant) meal with Poppy, Alar, and their daughter, a tiny thing with big green eyes and honey coloured curls they had named Emerald.  He was struck by how altered Poppy and Alar were as a married couple; they each seemed more sure of themselves, and somehow more light-hearted, than either had been alone.  At least he could congratulate himself on helping to bring them together, even if he had done nothing else worthwhile in his life.

The excitement of meeting old friends gave Frodo a surge of energy, but that soon wore off, leaving the tween nodding off into his afters.  Alar fixed him a bed in the main room, and Frodo remembered nothing else till morning.

December 23, 1398

“You’re more than welcome ta stay and celebrate Yule with us,” Alar said after second breakfast.

Frodo hesitated.  Both Alar and Poppy had tactfully refrained from inquiring into his affairs, for which he was grateful.  And they seemed to sense that he was reluctant to go on; it was tempting indeed to spend a few more days here, among pleasant company, with nothing to think on or worry about, and no vast warren of tunnels filled with inquisitive relations.

But Frodo had to face his kin sometime.  Suddenly, he just wanted the whole thing over with; he couldn’t simply refuse to face what had happened.  Saradoc needed to know what Lobelia had done, and Frodo needed to face the possibility that no one spoke of in his presence: the possibility that Bilbo was not coming back.

He arrived at Brandy Hall just after luncheon.  He looked at the gatepost on which he had perched years ago, lonely and wretched, waiting for Uncle Bilbo to come for a visit.  He touched the post lightly as he passed but didn’t look at it again.  He arrived at one of the side entrances and stepped out of the way reflexively as a gaggle of shrieking youngsters surged past, bundled in scarves and cloaks to play outside.

Two of the children abruptly detached from the group and reversed course.

“Frodo!” screamed the taller one, jumping up and down in excitement.  The shorter one simply ran forward and attached itself, leech-like, to Frodo’s legs.

“Merry!  Pippin!”  Frodo’s heavy heart lifted slightly, at the sight of his favourite little cousins.

“Oh, Frodo, I can’t believe you’re here!  What luck!  First Pippin came with his family, and now you’re here, oh!” the sixteen-year-old paused to launch himself, flying squirrel-like, at Frodo for an enthusiastic hug.

Frodo crouched down to Pippin’s level.  “And how are you faring these days, Master Pippin?”

“Very well,” the eight-year-old said solemnly.  “I’m glad you’ve come.”

Frodo fairly melted under Pippin’s adoring gaze.  He kissed the little lad on the forehead.

“Where are your parents, Merry?” he asked reluctantly.  “I need to speak with them right away.”

January 2, 1399

“I’m worried about him,” Esmeralda confided to her husband.  “He’s not adjusting well.”

“He’s only been back a week,” Saradoc said.

“Over a week,” Esmeralda corrected.  “He goes off by himself at every opportunity, he scarcely talks to anybody but Merry and Pippin.  He’s a tweenager, Saradoc!  He ought to be flirting, playing pranks, anything!”

Saradoc sat down.  “Does it feel as if we’ve had this conversation before?”

“Aye, a hundred times,” Esmeralda sighed.  “It’s just like when he first came to live with us, after Drogo and Primula…”

“He feels abandoned,” Saradoc said.  “Again.  Bad enough what happened to his parents; for Bilbo to up and vanish on top of that, it’s no wonder Frodo doesn’t feel like talking to anyone.”

“Do you… do you think we did right, letting Bilbo adopt Frodo nine years ago?  Everyone said something like this might happen, that Bilbo might go off again and not come back…”

“Except we know Bilbo intended to come back,” Saradoc said quickly.  “He loves that boy.”

“Drogo and Primula never intended to leave Frodo either, but the outcome is the same either way,” Esmeralda reminded him.

Saradoc had no reply for that, and they sat in silence for awhile, looking out the window of their parlour. 

“Is there anything we can do about those vile Sackville-Bagginses at least?” Esmeralda asked at length.

Saradoc looked down.  “We can discover where the will is hidden, or the fourth witness,” he said.  “Our resources are much greater than Frodo’s.  If he considers Bag End his home, then the least we can do is get it back for him.  I’d also like to make some inquiries into the records fire and burglary; if Lobelia is behind them, she should be punished.”

But when the question was put to Frodo, the tween was disinterested in Bag End.

“Bag End isn’t my home,” he said quietly.  “Without Bilbo it’s just a smial.  Lobelia is welcome to it.”

Saradoc didn’t fail to notice that Frodo spoke as if he did not expect Bilbo to return.  “Bilbo will come back, if he is able.  You know that, don’t you, Frodo?”

Frodo didn’t reply.

“He would never willingly abandon you,” Saradoc pressed.

“I couldn’t really blame him though, if he did,” Frodo said dully.  Saradoc was too surprised to think of a response.

No one knew where Frodo disappeared to every few days.  Most of the residents of Brandy Hall remembered how Frodo had behaved similarly, years ago, when he had last lived there.  Saradoc and Esmeralda knew all was not well with Frodo, but since their efforts to talk to him failed, they thought it best to allow him the time he needed to be alone, reassuring him at every opportunity that he still had relations who loved him and would do whatever he needed.  If only he would tell them what he needed...

Merry followed Frodo one day, feet silent on the nearly frozen ground.  It was Frodo who’d taught him to walk silently, in fact.  Frodo who’d taught him how to creep into the pantry, undetected, and creep back out with his pockets full of mushrooms.

He felt bad using Frodo’s own tricks against him, but then he remembered he was trying to help his cousin, so maybe it wasn’t quite so bad.

Thus encouraged, Merry rounded the corner a minute after Frodo and concealed himself behind a rotted stump.  He spied his cousin opening a door that had been half-covered with weeds.  Merry frowned; he hadn’t known there was an abandoned smial here.  He spotted a glimmer of sunlight reflecting off a pane of glass, and crept forward to peer in the window.

Frodo was walking slowly around the dusty room, eyes downcast.  Suddenly he paused, crouched down, and picked something from a crack between floorboards.  Merry watched as Frodo examined the object, but he couldn’t tell what it was.  He pressed his nose against the glass, and evidently the movement caught his cousin’s attention.

Frodo looked up at him, his expression quickly changing from alarm to exasperation.  He rolled his eyes and gestured for Merry to come round to the door.

“Were you following me?” Frodo asked incredulously when Merry opened the door.

“Yes.”  Merry hung his head, suddenly afraid that Frodo might be angry.  Some of the older lads at Brandy Hall would throw him in the swine barrel, at the very least, for following where he wasn’t wanted.

“Why?” Frodo asked.

“I was worried about you, Cousin Frodo,” Merry admitted.  “I wanted to see where you’re always disappearing to.”

Frodo sighed.  “You shouldn’t worry about me, sprout.”

“You’re not angry I followed you?” Merry asked hopefully.

“No,” Frodo eyed Merry.  “Just don’t do it again.”

“What is this place?” Merry wanted to take advantage of Frodo’s talkative mood.

“This is where I used to live.”

Merry looked around sceptically.  “Why is it so dusty?”

“No one has lived here since my parents died.”

“Oh.”  Merry paused.  “Why are you here now?”

Frodo was silent for so long, Merry was sure he wasn’t going to answer.  “I’m not sure,” he admitted finally.

“Miss your parents?”

Frodo looked at him.  “I can barely remember them.”

“Truly?”  Merry frowned.

“I was very young when they died.  Four years younger than you are now.”

Merry hesitated, but he really wanted to know.  “What happened?”

There was a long pause.  “I’m told they drowned in a boating accident.”

“You were told?  You mean you don’t remember?  Where were you?”

Frodo was beginning to look irritated.  “Nobody knows for sure.  I may have been there, but I don’t remember.”

“Goodness!”  Merry was impressed.  He remembered the mysterious thing Frodo had picked up.  “What’s that you found?”

Frodo looked down at his hand in surprise, having forgotten anything was in it.  He opened his fingers slowly, to reveal an old bit of wood that might once have been a spool of thread.  It was empty, and the wood was cracked down one side.  “Nothing, just a bit of old rubbish.”

“Oh.”  Merry looked up to see Frodo’s stony expression and bit back his next question.  “Can we go back now?” he asked instead.

“All right,” Frodo said reluctantly, still fingering the spool.  Then he saw Merry watching him and dropped it carelessly on the ground.  “Let’s be off, then.”

Merry followed his cousin out the door, still not quite sure what had happened, but the grim look on Frodo’s face kept him quiet.

“What are you making, Mama?”

Azure eyes smiled kindly down.  “This?  This is to be a new shirt for you, my little love.”

He fingered the clean white linen as she stitched nimbly away at the cuff.  It looked as if it just might fit over his own wrist.

“Why?”

“Because you’re growing like a weed, Frodo-lad.  I can scarce keep you in clothes!”  

He watched the tiny stitches appear, as if by magic, in a neat, even line under Mama’s flashing needle.

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose we feed you too much.”

He looked up in alarm, but the bright eyes were twinkling with amusement, and he smiled.

“Why?”

“Because we love you, of course, and want you to grow up big and strong.”

“Why?”

A sigh.  “Come sit on Mama’s lap, Frodo, that’s it.  You can wind a spool for me, would you like that?”

He nodded, and held the little wooden spool carefully so he wouldn’t drop it.  Mama tied the thread on for him and wound it around a few times to get him started, and then only his hands were on it.  He wound carefully, the tip of his tongue poking out just a bit, he was concentrating so hard.

“That’s it.”  Mama went back to sewing, and they were quiet for awhile.  Frodo kept winding, trying to make his spool as neat as the ones Mama made herself, which were there in her sewing basket.  Round and round went the white thread.

But no matter how hard he tried, it didn’t look as nice as Mama’s.  In fact, it looked a mess.  Frodo frowned and undid some of his work, determined to do better.  Mama looked up and watched him for awhile, but she said nothing and, smiling, went back to her work.

He was getting frustrated.  A lot of thread was on the spool now, and it didn’t look any better.  His hands were too clumsy, not like Mama’s clever hands.  The spool slipped out of his hands then, and rolled away on the floor, trailing thread.  Frodo watched all his careful work undone and started to cry.

“Oh, Frodo, Frodo, don’t be troubled, my love!” Mama said.  She put her arms around him and held him tightly, and he sobbed into her apron.  “There, there.”  Her hand began to rub his back, soothingly, until the awfulness didn’t seem so near.

He peeked out again to see if he’d imagined it all, but there was the spool, lying on the floor, thread still attached only where Mama had tied it.

His face crumpled again at the sight of all the pretty thread undone, but before his tears could flow anew, Mama scooped him up and held him against her shoulder, so that he was facing the other way.  Mama’s quick footsteps took them over to the fallen spool, and she crouched down to pick it up.  Frodo tightened his arms around her neck, but the arm supporting him never faltered.

Then they were back in the chair, Frodo on Mama’s lap.

“Well now, see here, this is the problem,” Mama said as if everything made sense now.

He twisted around to look, tears forgotten.  “What?”  He didn’t see anything remarkable about the empty spool.

Mama pulled off the end of the thread and held up the spool to the light.  “Oh, I should have realized, yes, I should have.”

“What, Mama?”  He wriggled with impatience, trying to get a better look.

“This is one of those special spools, Frodo-lad.  This one just wasn’t meant to have thread on it.”

“Why?”  She let him hold it, and he turned it over and over in his hands, looking closely.

“Why?  Well, look at this little crack here.  Do you see it, Frodo-lad?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“That looks like a nose to me.”

“A nose?”  Frodo laughed.

“Yes, a nose,” Mama said primly.  She leaned over and scooped up a charred twig from the hearth. 

Frodo watched, fascinated, as she drew two eyes on either side of the nose, and a smile below.  He crowed with delight and seized the spool.  “Because the thread would cover up his face, is that why, Mama?”

“That’s exactly right,” Mama confirmed.

Frodo clambered down from her lap and went outside to play, the spool clutched tightly in his hand.  It had a short, squat shape, and not really any legs, so he decided it was probably a Dwarf.

When they were almost home, Frodo surprised Merry by taking his hand.  Merry looked up to see that Frodo’s expression had softened.

“I’m sorry I’m not any fun, Merry,” Frodo said quietly.

Merry stopped, concerned.  “Everyone’s worried about you, Cousin Frodo.”

“I know,” Frodo said.  “I wish they wouldn’t.”

Merry impulsively hugged his startled cousin.  “If this is how you’re going to be, then I’ll just have to be twice as fun until Uncle Bilbo comes back, to make up for you being a stick in the mud.” 

Frodo couldn’t help smiling, much to Merry’s delight, although the younger cousin wasn’t sure if it was a result of the teasing, or his assumption that Bilbo was coming back; for Merry was well aware of what folks said about that. 

Or maybe it was the hug. 

Merry hugged his cousin again, to check, and Frodo’s smile widened.  Yes, definitely the hug.  He rested his cheek against Frodo’s waistcoat and squeezed more firmly.