59.   Merry’s Game

February 18, 1399

“I can’t fathom it, Merry.  What are you, sixteen now?”

“Seventeen next month,” Merry retorted.  “And how will I ever know if you don’t stop your dawdling and tell me?”

Frodo sighed.  “The Harfoots came West first, and the Stoors came after.  The Fallohides crossed the mountains last of all.”

“Oh,” Merry said, disappointed.  “Berilac was right, then, though he was just guessing.  I would’ve thought the Fallohides crossed first.  I have Fallohidish blood, don’t I?”

“Yes, Merry.”

“Don’t look at me like that, Frodo,” Merry said defensively.  “It isn’t as though they teach ancient history in school, you know.”

“Well, they ought to,” Frodo said.  “You’re going to be Master of Buckland one day; it isn’t right that you should be ignorant of where we came from, of the world outside the Shire.”

“I know lots of genealogy, and all about the different crops grown in each of the Farthings,” Merry said modestly.

“What about outside the four Farthings, and Buckland?” Frodo asked.  “Do you know what crops are grown by Men, for instance?”

Merry thought hard.  “Pipe-weed?” He suggested finally.

Frodo shook his head.  “Pipe-weed grows wild in the south, but Men don’t smoke it.”

“They don’t?” Merry was astonished.  “Why ever not?”

“Putting it into pipes was a hobbit invention,” Frodo said.  “Most folk in foreign parts just think the flowers smell nice.”

“How peculiar,” said Merry.  “Did you read that in a book?”

“No, Bilbo told me, and Gandalf told him.  I don’t know of any books with such information, at least not in the Shire.”

“Well, someone should write one,” Merry declared.

“Maybe I should speak to your tutors,” Frodo mused.  “Surely there’s space in the curriculum for some early history, or at least foreign geography.”

Merry snorted.  “You know more about those things than any of my tutors, Frodo.  And they don’t like me much, anyhow.”

“They’d like you more if you sat still and paid attention,” Frodo smiled.

Merry slouched down in his chair and stuck out his tongue.

“I could tell you about these things, if you have an interest,” Frodo offered.

Merry twisted in his chair to look out the window.  “But the sun is out!” he protested.  “You promised we’d walk to the Marish after elevenses and have a picnic!”

Frodo laughed at the pitiful expression on his young cousin’s face.  “I didn’t mean now, silly Brandybuck.  Of course we’re still going on our picnic.”

“Oh,” Merry said.  “Well, when did you mean?  Aren’t you going back to Hobbiton any day now?”

“What?  No!” Frodo exclaimed.  “Who told you such a thing?”

“I heard Mama say so to Old Rory just yesterday.”

“Well, she was mistaken.”

“Oh.”

The cousins were silent for a moment.  Frodo spun around once on the rickety library stool he sat on, thoughts drifting toward elevenses.

”Well, when are you going back to Bilbo?” Merry asked at length.

Frodo looked at him.  “I’m not,” he said shortly.  “I’m staying here.”

“For how long?”

“Forever!” Frodo couldn’t keep the exasperation out of his voice.  “I’ve decided to live at Brandy Hall, at least till I come of age, and then I may strike out on my own.”

“Oh.”  Merry looked at him strangely, as though he didn’t quite believe him.

But weeks passed, and Frodo gave every sign of being at Brandy Hall to stay.

It was the first really warm day of spring that Saradoc stood watching Merry and Frodo in the garden.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” Esmeralda said, leaning across him to open the window.  “You have good weather for inspecting the fields this afternoon.”

“That’s true, dear,” Saradoc replied absently.

Esmeralda paused to follow her husband’s gaze.  “Seems to be settling in for good, doesn’t he?” she said softly.

“Yes, he does.”  Saradoc frowned.  “And he seems happy.  But I can’t help feeling it’s just for show.”

“Poor Bilbo,” said Esmeralda.  “He asked us for advice, and we told him to leave as planned and go on home; that we would bring Frodo along to Bag End after he’d had time to sort himself out.  What must he think now?”

“He’s a good influence on Merry, at any rate,” Saradoc observed, thoughts turning once more to Frodo.  “Our lad has grown into quite a handful, and he’s not even reached his tweens.”

Esmeralda smiled distractedly.  “Frodo was a handful at that age, too, although in a different way.  He was so independent, we never heard about the scrapes he got into till they were long over.”

“He still is independent.  Takes after Bilbo that way.”

“Stubborn fools, the both of them.”

Saradoc looked up at the tremor in his wife’s voice.  “What’s the matter, love?”

“I just wish there were something we could do, to set things to rights.  Frodo’s suffered so much, and we’re partly responsible.”  She choked a little on the words, and turned away to dab at her eyes.

“What do you mean, Esme?” Saradoc exclaimed, fumbling for his handkerchief.

“All those years he lived with us, after Drogo and Primula passed… I can’t help but think we could have done better.  We didn’t give him near enough attention, especially after Merry was born.  And—well, he seemed to practically raise himself, didn’t he?  Never asked for anything, never needed any help—and we were so busy, both of us.”

“I fear you are right, though it pains me to say it,” Saradoc said slowly after Esmeralda had lapsed into silence.  “But you musn’t forget, we were young, untried... we had just gotten married, for goodness sake.  We did our best, the best we knew how, and Frodo has turned out extraordinarily well.”

“He has,” Esmeralda agreed with a fond smile.  “But he isn’t happy, it’s plain as day, whatever he may say about it.  First his parents, then us, and now Bilbo—Frodo has convinced himself he can’t depend on anyone.  He’s isolated himself from those who love him.  I’ve tried speaking with him—he acts as though he hasn’t a care in the world.  Yet he hardly has a word to spare for anyone, except Merry.”

“This place holds bitter memories for him, and he’s made them all the worse for cutting himself off from Bilbo,” Saradoc said slowly.  “He remembers parts of the day they drowned, did you know that?  Bilbo told me.  Frodo remembers them arguing.”

Esmeralda turned to him in surprise.

“And he remembers being on the boat with them,” Saradoc added.

“How can that be?”  Esmeralda gasped.  “He was found ashore, not far from Crickhollow.”

“We may never know for certain what happened that day,” Saradoc said.  “But he knew enough details that Bilbo believes he truly was on the boat with Drogo and Primula.”

Esmeralda turned back to the window with a faint smile on her lips.  “You see?” she said.  “He confided these things in Bilbo.  We can at least congratulate ourselves on predicting they would be good for each other, when we advised the adoption.”

“Now if only Frodo would recollect the love he bears Bilbo, and that Bilbo bears him, all might be well,” Saradoc mused.

“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” Merry said.

Frodo shrugged.  “Sorry, Merry-lad.  Must be the heat.”

Merry shifted position on the grass and plucked his shirt away from sticky skin.  It was unseasonably warm for early March.  “Must be,” he agreed.  He thought privately it was rather more than that, but he had enough hobbit sense to know that any comments about tweenaged mood swings would be ill advised.

Frodo yawned and tipped his straw hat down to shade his face.

“I’m bored,” Merry announced, rolling over to look up at the cloudless sky.

Frodo sighed.  “You aren’t the only one.”

Merry frowned unhappily at this response.  “Can’t you think of something for us to do?  Something amusing?”

Frodo smiled a little.  “Why must I always think of something?  I think it’s your turn, cousin.”

“I don’t have any ideas, Frodo,” Merry protested.

“Use your imagination,” Frodo said.  “Your friend Berilac says you have quite a vivid one.”

Merry sat up.  “When did you talk to Berilac?” he asked curiously, for Frodo mostly kept to himself.

“I didn’t,” Frodo replied.  “I heard him talking yesterday about some ridiculous tale you told Old Rory to explain how the two of you tracked mud all over his study.”

“You see?  I only use my imagination when I have imperative circumstances to motivate me,” Merry retorted, but Frodo merely smiled.

Merry’s eyes drifted toward the sparkling surface of the Brandywine.  “Wait, I know what we can do.  Let’s go swimming!”

Frodo sat up slowly.  “I don’t think so.”

“Why ever not?” Merry demanded.

“It’s only March!” Frodo said.  “Who swims in March?”

“But it’s so hot…”

“I think I feel a chill in the air.”

Merry looked at him incredulously.

“If this warm spell holds till tomorrow, then we’ll go,” Frodo finished lamely.

“All right,” Merry agreed reluctantly.

The weather did hold.  Every day that week, Merry tried to coax Frodo into swimming, but every day Frodo had some excuse. 

By the end of the week, all the young Brandybucks were in the river at every opportunity, and Frodo ran out of excuses.

“So, swimming today?” Merry asked briskly after second breakfast.

Frodo sighed.  “Why don’t you go with some of the others?” he suggested.  “I’m not feeling very well.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Frodo,” Merry told him.  “Come with me!  Or have you forgotten how to swim after all those years among the queer folk of Hobbiton?” he teased.

“I’m not going,” Frodo said sharply.

“Then I won’t either,” Merry declared.  “I’d rather be with you than go swimming, if those are my choices.”

Frodo surveyed his cousin in mounting exasperation.  He was beginning to feel a little guilty that he was the reason Merry hadn’t yet joined in the fun all the other young folks were having with their swimming parties.  “How about if I come and watch?” he offered finally.

“Good enough,” Merry assented with a brilliant smile.  “Let’s be off!”

All that morning, Frodo sat on the grassy banks and watched Merry splashing with the other teens and tweens.

“Come on, Frodo!  The water’s fine!” some of the older lads urged.  But Frodo just smiled and shook his head.

He did eventually move to a large rock at the edge of the pool so he could cool his furry toes, as Merry discovered when the others went home for luncheon.  He hauled himself out to sit beside Frodo.

“Did you have a nice morning?” he inquired politely.

“Yes, thank you,” Frodo replied.  “And you?”

“Splendid.”

“Delighted to hear it.”  Frodo inclined his head.  “Well, Master Meriadoc, shall we go home for our repast?”

“Not yet,” Merry said.

“Oh?” Frodo had never known Merry to delay the eating of a meal.

“I rather fancy some conversation first.”

“Oh?” Frodo said more warily, suddenly worrying how much Merry might have guessed.

“Promise you won’t be angry?  I couldn’t bear it if you were angry with me, Frodo.”

“How could I be, when you ask forgiveness before you even begin?” Frodo said dryly.

Merry fidgeted.  “Are you—you’re afraid of the water, aren’t you?”

Frodo stared at him, not expecting such a direct question.  “I... How did—how long have you known?”  Frodo didn’t think he had ever been so embarrassed.  And here he thought he had done such a good job of averting Merry’s suspicions.

“I’ve wondered for years.  But I didn’t know for certain till this week.”

“So, you’ve known all this time you have a coward for a cousin,” Frodo said bitterly.

“What?  No!”  Merry was genuinely alarmed by Frodo’s reaction.

“The Bucklander who’s afraid to go swimming, that’s me.”  Frodo fiddled with a blade of grass, not wanting to look at Merry just now.

“I think you’re the bravest hobbit I know,” Merry said simply.

Frodo looked up at this innocent declaration, but the open admiration on his young cousin’s face made him feel even worse.

“You should find someone else to revere,” Frodo told him, flinging away the blade of grass and watching it float off on the slow current of the Brandywine.  “I’m nothing much.”

“That’s not true,” Merry objected.  “You’re brave, and kind, and steadfast.”

“I’m nothing but a burden on the folk who love me,” Frodo said softly.

“Frodo!”

“My parents were arguing the night they died, did you know that?” Frodo continued so quietly that Merry had to strain to hear.  “For all I know, he pushed her in, and she pulled him in after.  And Bilbo—for years I kept him from doing what he really wanted to do.”

Merry was quiet for a long time.  He’d heard that dreadful story of Frodo’s parents, but Saradoc and Esmeralda had told him it was a lie.  He couldn’t imagine that Frodo himself really believed it.  But Frodo had never spoken to him like this before, and he wanted to think carefully before responding.

Something clicked suddenly.  “Is that why you don’t like the water now?” he asked.  “It makes you think of how your parents drownded?”

“I suppose so.”

Merry frowned and thought hard.  He didn’t know how to convince Frodo he was wrong about the other things, but there had to be some way he could help.

“It seems to me that you would like the water more if you had some happier memories to think about when you were in it,” he said slowly.

Frodo hesitated.  “Perhaps,” he said finally.

“Then come in with me now!  I’ll use my vivid imagination to think of a game we can play.”

“Merry...”

“I know you can’t think you’re a burden on me, Frodo.  If anything, I’m the one plaguing you to distraction,” Merry teased.

Frodo smirked at that but made no reply.

“Please?  I promise you can get out after five minutes, and I won’t say a thing.”

Frodo hesitated again.  “All right, five minutes,” he said at last.

Merry gave a whoop and clambered off the rock. 

Frodo undressed slowly as Merry paddled backward.  “What are we playing, then?” he asked, resigned.

“We’re playing... ‘Rory Says’,” Merry replied.

“Won’t that be a little ridiculous, with only the two of us?”

“Special rules: every time you miss one, that’s a bite of your dessert you have to give me tonight.”

Frodo laughed.  “You’re a scoundrel, Meriadoc,” he said, but stepped gamely into the water.

“Rory says, wade over to where I am,” Merry began promptly.

Frodo hesitated a long moment, but finally obeyed, sloshing slowly over to Merry, where the water was waist deep.

“Quack like a duck,” Merry ordered.

Frodo laughed and folded his arms.  “You’ll have to do a great deal better than that if you expect to have any of my dessert,” he said sternly.

“Clearly,” Merry sighed.  “All right, Rory says quack like a duck.”

Frodo quacked, and Merry didn’t giggle.  Much.

“Rory says, bend down till your shoulders are in the water,” Merry said, demonstrating.

Frodo followed suit.

“Rory says, pretend to be Aunt Gardenia.”

“What’s that, Sonny?  ‘Pick out a hen for dinner’?  I’ll do no such thing, let the servant do it!” Frodo said in a high, wavering voice.

Merry applauded the uncanny impression of their elderly and hard-of-hearing aunt.  “Very nice, Frodo.  Now splash me.”

Frodo immediately slapped the water in front of him, sending an arc directly onto Merry, whose sputters quickly turned to gleeful laughter.

“Ha!  Rory didn’t say!  I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist,” he shouted.

Frodo groaned, realizing his mistake.  “It’s been well over five minutes,” he told Merry, wading over to where he’d left his clothes.  “Time for luncheon.”

“Can we do this again tomorrow?”  Merry asked hopefully.

Frodo paused.  “All right,” he said.

Merry smiled and nodded and said no more about it, but inwardly he was leaping with delight.

The game became a daily ritual for the two cousins, and grew more boisterous every time they played, until the two of them were swimming races back and forth across the wide, slow-moving stretch of the Brandywine that was so popular with the young Bucklanders.

Frodo wistfully wondered sometimes what his Hobbiton friends would think if they could see him now.  He could picture young Samwise Gamgee, appalled at him for giving in to the queer Bucklander habit of playing in the river.

“What’s so funny?”  Merry demanded.

Frodo coughed.  “Just thinking of what the good folks of Hobbiton would say if they saw me swimming.”

Merry looked at him hard but said nothing.  Frodo marvelled, not for the first time, at the tact and good sense Merry had somehow developed of late.  He hadn’t mentioned Bilbo or Hobbiton again, for which Frodo was grateful.  But he suddenly found himself wondering what Merry really thought about it all, and asked him.

“You should go back to Bilbo,” Merry replied immediately.

Frodo stared at him, surprised by the rapid answer.  “I thought you liked having me here,” he joked feebly.

“This has nothing to do with me.”  Merry would not be distracted.  “You belong with Bilbo; Bag End is your home.”

“I can’t,” Frodo said stubbornly.  He remembered the numbness when Bilbo finally reappeared; the realization that Frodo was keeping him from his true desires.  He remembered the hurt look on the old hobbit’s face when Frodo had coldly refused to return to Bag End; it made his insides squirm.  But it was for the best.

“Why?”

Frodo hesitated, for he had no real answer for that.  “It is... complicated.”

“Is it?” Merry asked curiously.

Frodo frowned and looked away.