30. A Rampaging Oliphaunt

To the surprise of no one, Samwise proved to be a diligent student and an enchanting pupil. He tackled every task Bilbo set him with the same fierce determination he employed in his gardening chores with the Gaffer. Frodo delighted in helping him practice and in answering his incessant questions, and Sam was soon reading simple passages in Westron and progressing every day in his understanding and vocabulary.

Indeed, Sam made remarkable progress in his gardening lessons as well. He showed such a particular aptitude for the care of flowers that within the next several years, the Gaffer, suffering increasingly from arthritis, found himself turning over care of most of the flower beds at Bag End to Sam.

The rest of the Gamgees, for the most part, carried on as before. Halfred was apprenticed to Tolman Cotton and found that farming agreed with him very well. Hamson, by all accounts, was getting along splendidly away over in Tighfield. He returned to visit his family only once in the first three years of his apprenticeship, but he had messages sent by post several times each year, which Sam was soon reading aloud for his proud family.

Frodo, for his part, felt quite at home after a few years in Hobbiton, and he enjoyed his quiet, comfortable life with Bilbo. His bookish tendencies, already considerable, flourished under Bilbo’s influence, as did his liking for adventure. It did not take Frodo long to draw every detail of Bilbo’s famous exploit from that hobbit, or at least every detail that Bilbo was willing to admit, and the tenacious lad never tired of hearing the story, much to his uncle’s amused exasperation.

Before long, Bilbo began to go for jaunts about the Shire, as he had done of old, and he brought Frodo along if the trip was to last more than a day or two. These were the times Frodo loved most of all, for his uncle always seemed to sparkle more brightly when they were travelling. At home, Bilbo remained a devoted guardian, but he would often get out his magic ring or sword or other souvenir of his adventure, and would seem to become lost in thought.

It was perhaps because of such behaviour that around the time of late winter, 1395, folks began to say that Bilbo’s age was at last catching up with him. Frodo did not hold with this supposition at all; Bilbo had turned 104 years old the previous September, which was well into old age (hobbits did not generally live to be older than 120 or thereabouts, and the average lifespan was reckoned to be only 100 years), but he was just as spry and quick-witted as ever.

In appearance he looked hardly more than middle-aged, to the great frustration of those already jealous of the bountiful (and presumably undeserved) treasures he had come home with decades ago. The only outward sign of his advanced age that Bilbo displayed were curls that had gone a distinguished grey.

When Bilbo and Frodo were out travelling the Shire together, no one who observed them could doubt that Bilbo was just as sharp as ever. He always seemed to come alive out on the road; he liked to keep up a brisk pace, and his brown eyes would sparkle with happiness as he sang walking songs or told Frodo tall tales.

But at home, the old hobbit spent most of his days locked in his study, ‘working on the book.’ This was the same book Bilbo had been working on when Frodo first arrived at Bag End, and Frodo was at a loss to explain why the writing of it should take so many years. Frodo did not resent his uncle that passion for finishing the book, but he did not really understand it, and Bilbo could not seem to explain it.

In any case, by 1395, Frodo was twenty-six years old and beginning to have his own affairs to occupy him. Having lessons together several mornings a week had strengthened the bond of friendship between Frodo and Samwise, and Frodo was always happy to include the younger lad in his afternoon activities, on the rare occasions that the Gaffer released his son to such frivolity.

Frodo and Sam liked to go apple picking together, after Frodo taught a very hesitant Sam to climb trees, or to go playing in the little babbling brooks that ran through the woods back of the Hill. They never went down to the Water where the river was deep enough for swimming; Sam shared the disapproval of swimming and boating common among the sensible folk of Hobbiton, and Frodo, although he had learnt to swim like any other Buckland child, had disliked that pastime for many years. Bilbo had once asked his nephew about this very un-Brandybuck aversion, but Frodo could not explain how the feeling of river water rushing around his body brought back vague and frightening memories of his parents that sometimes tormented him still.

Frodo did not have a large number of friends; the local young hobbits were not as wary of anyone associated with ‘Mad Baggins’ as some of their parents were, but Frodo was naturally quiet and retiring in manner and did not seek the companionship of many. Those that he did choose to spend time with, such as Samwise and Folco Boffin, tended to be very loyal friends indeed. His old friend, Fredegar Bolger, continued to avoid associating with Frodo; Fatty’s father disapproved of Frodo’s intimacy with the Gamgees, and had decreed that Frodo was no more respectable than old Mad Baggins. Fatty had been instructed to have nothing more to do with Frodo, which saddened the young Baggins, but that had been several years earlier and he had grown to accept it.

On this particular day in early March, 1395, Frodo had brought Sam out walking with him, for the day was fine and Sam had been released from his duties that afternoon. It was too early in the year for apples, but the lads found themselves among the wild apple trees that grew along the Overhill Road nonetheless. Even without fruit, these trees held an attraction for a pair of hobbitlings out for some excitement; they were the best climbing trees in Hobbiton. This was according to Frodo, who as far as Sam could tell had climbed them all.

“Let’s go a little further along the road, Sam,” Frodo urged, jumping down from a branch to join the gardener’s son lying in the grass. “I know there are trees with lower branches just past the mill.”

Sam stretched and sat up. “If ye say so, Mr. Frodo,” the younger lad said doubtfully. Frodo had been hunting for a tree with branches low enough that Sam could try climbing without the need of a boost from Frodo, but had met with little success so far.

The fifteen-year-old hobbitling packed up the picnic basket philosophically, for he knew that Frodo was determined to make a climber of him, and Sam couldn’t bring himself to object. Sam thought it would be rather exciting, after all, to be able to climb trees as Frodo said the Elves sometimes did. And then, of course, there was the autumn to look forward to, when Sam would be able to harvest as many wild apples as he could carry, if only he could climb up there on his own.

“Will ye have another o’ May’s cup cakes, sir?” Sam asked, rummaging through the remains of their picnic luncheon.

“Why Sam, I’ve already eaten seven!” Frodo exclaimed, crouching down beside the younger lad. “Your mother isn’t still attempting to fatten me, is she?”

“She says ye look as if a good stiff breeze would blow you over, if you follow me Mr. Frodo,” Sam said matter-of-factly, eyeing his companion as though concerned about the gentle gust that was currently rustling the trees above them. “You really oughta eat more, sir.”

“Uncle Bilbo says I eat more than even a growing tweenager has a right to,” Frodo said with a smile. Indeed, despite Bell Gamgee’s scepticism, Frodo had a healthy appetite for a young hobbit; it was hardly his fault he had grown taller but was still too slender for Bell’s liking.

Sam grinned. “I told her I’ve seen ye eat, sir, and she has naught to worry over, but she doesn’t seem ta care. I think she just likes worryin’ about you, Mr. Frodo.”

“Well, we have four cakes left. I shall eat two if you eat two. Would that satisfy your mother, Master Samwise?” Frodo offered.

“Aye, that it would,” Sam decided quickly, and the lads quickly despatched the remaining cup cakes before setting off in the direction Frodo had indicated. They passed some younger children playing in the road, mostly residents of Bagshot Row, and Sam greeted several of the little Greenhands and Goodchilds. The path twisted and turned a little, and then they were among another grove of apple trees.

“Here we are!” Frodo exclaimed, his blue eyes lighting on a tree that grew beside the road, its longer branches extending far enough over the road to provide shade to any passing hobbit or pony.

Samwise, looking up, thought Frodo’s chosen tree was enormous, but the branches split off from the trunk quite low down, and Sam gamely went forward.

“Just remember what I showed you,” Frodo advised, stepping back to give Sam room.

Sam nodded and attempted to get onto the lowest branch. He slid back down with a frustrated grumble.

Frodo waited silently while Sam tried two times more, but then he spoke to bolster the younger lad’s concentration. “Come on, Sam! Think of all those delicious apples you’ll collect in the autumn!”

Sam’s mouth watered at the thought, despite the fact that he had eaten a very large luncheon not fifteen minutes ago, but he found the prospect motivating enough to put in a bit of extra effort.

“Well done, Sam!” Frodo cried, and Sam looked down in surprise to realize that he was straddling the branch; Frodo was still standing five steps away and clearly had not needed to help him.

An hour later, if someone travelling on the Overhill Road had happened to look up at a certain point, he would have seen two very odd looking birds perched in the tree over his head, occasionally shouting to each other something about Elves and chortling loudly. The sandy-haired one had ventured no higher than the fourth branch from the ground, although he had moved along it until he was directly over the road. The dark-haired one was much higher up, but not as close to the road.

It was thus that a traveller did eventually find them, or would have, had he thought to look up past the brim of his enormous hat.

“Look, Mr. Frodo!” Sam said, endeavouring to speak in a whisper loud enough to carry up to Frodo, but not down to the stranger. “There’s a fellow comin’ with a wagon and pony!”

Frodo peered down at the road, squinting to see through the gaps in the leaves. Sure enough, a wagon was rattling slowly along, heading south toward the Hill. The figure slouched in the front seat was obscured by a vast blue hat, but Frodo realized even from this angle that he was too large to be a hobbit. A Man? The blue-eyed lad was not particularly concerned; anyone travelling so far within the borders of the Shire in broad daylight would not be out to make trouble. Big Folk were rarely seen by hobbits of the Shire, however, and Frodo was so curious he could hardly stand it.

“It seems like he might be a Man,” Frodo whispered down to Sam. “I intend to climb down and have a closer look!”

“A Man?” Sam gasped, crawling forward a little to see better. “And what’s that enormous beast pullin’ the wagon, sir? Why, that’s no pony! It looks like a—”

It looked like a dappled grey pony to Frodo, except much larger. He didn’t get the opportunity to say so, however, for Sam’s curiosity had led him to crawl out too far, and the branch supporting him had snapped!

“Sam!” Frodo exclaimed, horrified. Sam fell with a cry straight into the back of the Man’s wagon, making an enormous racket in whatever he had landed upon.

Just as the Man turned around in surprise, the enormous pony reacted to the commotion and bolted down the road, jerking the reigns out of the unprepared Man’s hand.

Time seemed to slow down as Frodo climbed down to the ground as rapidly as he had ever done. The wagon was disappearing around the corner as Frodo reached the side of the road, but he sprinted after it without thinking, his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Help me!” he heard Sam cry. “An old Man is stealing me!”

Frodo might have laughed had the situation been less dire, for he doubted very much that was the fellow’s intent. But he did not know the Man, and he was worried for Sam as well as the little ones playing in the road no more than a minute away, directly in the rampaging animal’s path.

Running as hard as he could, Frodo caught up to the wagon at the part of the road that twisted and turned. The animal had apparently been forced to slow down by the sharp curves, for it was whinnying in panic and darting skittishly from side to side as Sam yelled in fear and the Man, who Frodo now saw was quite old, spoke strange words to the animal in a deep, commanding voice.

Frodo had handled many ponies in his years at Brandy Hall, and without further thought he ran around the beast and snatched up the ends of its reigns from the ground where they had trailed. He evaded the enormous stamping hooves with true hobbit agility, but no sooner had the boy gotten a grip on the reigns than the beast took off again, plunging headlong around the bend and dragging Frodo off his feet.

Frodo lost his grip and scarcely noticed that the dirt road burned and scraped his knees and tore at his trousers and shirt, but he succeeded in regaining his feet a moment later and hurried to seize the reigns again when the animal encountered another sharp turn and was forced to slacken its pace. Frodo could hear the young hobbit children playing in the road just ahead now, and his panic gave him extra strength. Before the beast could bolt again, Frodo wound the reigns between both his hands and dragged the animal’s head around as hard as he could.

The brute whinnied loudly, but was forced to turn aside to follow its head, and came at last to a halt. Frodo sighed in relief and handed the reigns back to the Man, who gathered them up and jumped down from the wagon to calm his animal.

Frodo, finally catching his breath, promptly forgot the Man and hurried to lift Sam down from the wagon, his hands shaking as the crisis passed. “Are you quite all right, Sam? Did you hurt yourself when you fell?” the older lad asked in concern.

“I’m just fine, Mr. Frodo. I’ve got naught but a bruise or two,” Sam huffed. “That fellow has a lot o’ strange things in there, if ye follow me.”

“They broke your fall,” Frodo deduced in relief.

“And you, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked anxiously. “Are ye hurt? You’ve skinned your knees something fierce, and I don’t wonder! You grappling with that great beast and all!”

“Don’t worry, Sam,” Frodo said, wincing as he felt his abraded skin. “They’re just scratches.”

“All the same,” Samwise exclaimed. “Did ye see that monster? He’s huge as a—an oliphaunt! I’d bet my breakfast he is an oliphaunt, sir!”

Frodo stared at the younger lad. “I don’t think that’s an oliphaunt, Sam,” he said, and then he looked up to see the Man had approached without their noticing. The ‘oliphaunt’ was standing quietly, looking like a completely different animal, and the Man was watching Frodo and Sam curiously.

“I am dreadfully sorry, little ones, and relieved to see you are not seriously hurt,” the Man said. His voice was low and rumbling, and Frodo thought he sounded kind. “I am deeply in your debt, my boy,” he said, inclining his head to Frodo before turning to Sam, grey eyes twinkling, “and I can assure you, young fellow, I had no plan to steal you!”

Sam blushed at being addressed by the imposing Man, who towered over them now that they were all standing on the ground.

“My mount is new to me and clearly quite flighty,” the Man explained with a sigh. “She was a riding animal, you see, and does not like the wagon overmuch.”

“I’m right sorry I fell in your wagon, sir,” Sam said bashfully. “I hope I didn’t break nothin’ important.”

“Don’t fret, my boy,” the Man said kindly. “I would see my belongings broken sooner than your neck!”

Frodo found himself staring at the Man with interest. Now that the calamity was over, his un-hobbitlike curiosity had returned in full force. The fellow appeared to be an elderly Man, as Frodo had first thought. He wore a tall, pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, a sliver scarf over which his long white beard hung down below his waist, and immense black boots. He carried a very long, peculiar-looking walking stick as well.

Frodo shook himself when he realized he and Sam had been staring. “I apologize, sir,” Frodo said quickly. “It’s just that we very rarely see Men near Hobbiton.”

“And never oliphaunts!” Sam put in loudly.

The old Man laughed. “Hwesta has been called many things, my dear little fellow, but never an oliphaunt!”

Sam glowered suspiciously at the Man. “Are you sure he’s not an oliphaunt?” the little hobbit asked sceptically.

“Quite certain,” the old Man replied. “He isn’t even a ‘he’!”

“A lady oliphaunt?” Sam inquired, not to be put off.

“Is she a... a horse?” Frodo asked curiously. He had never seen one, but he knew of such creatures, and he knew a horse strongly resembled a pony in everything but size.

“She is, at that,” the Man said, clearly amused. “Have you young fellows never happened to see one?”

“No, sir,” Sam said, his eyes wide as he stared up at the enormous creature. “What did ye say her name was, beggin’ your pardon?”

“She is called Hwesta,” came the reply.

“The breeze...” Frodo muttered to himself, and looked up at the old fellow.

The Man was staring at him, clearly shocked. “Why, I had no idea knowledge of Elvish had become so general among Halfling children!”

“That it ain’t,” Samwise said proudly. “Mr. Frodo here is the only one I know to’ve learnt it.”

“Indeed? A most unusual hobbit, then,” the Man looked consideringly at Frodo. “Could it be that you know a friend of mine? A fellow named Bilbo Baggins?”

Frodo and Sam both gave a start. “Why yes, we both know him, sir,” Frodo said politely. “He is my uncle. Er, my cousin, rather...”

The old Man raised an eyebrow, but let the question pass. “How extraordinary! Is he at home this day, do you know?”

“He is, sir,” Frodo replied, brimming with curiosity as to who this old Man could be who claimed to be a friend of Bilbo’s. “Shall I show you the way?”

The Man seemed about to decline, but looking into the two hopeful faces he relented at last. “It has been many a year since I’ve come this way,” he mused, eyes twinkling. “Perhaps I would benefit from a bit of direction. Come along, both of you! Up here on the seat!” He lifted first Samwise and then Frodo and set them beside him on the wagon bench.

“May I... may I ask your name, sir?” Frodo said once the Man had urged Hwesta into a steady walk. The tweenager knew he should wait for the stranger to introduce himself, but he couldn’t contain his curiosity.

“My dear boy, I do apologize!” the old Man exclaimed with a chuckle. “I am so accustomed to being recognized, I quite forgot you might not know me. I am called Gandalf the Grey.”

Frodo began his response automatically. “This is Samwise Gamgee, and I am—” The young hobbit never finished his sentence, for his jaw had dropped, and it was some seconds before he was able to close his mouth again. “You are Gandalf! The Gandalf who took my uncle on an adventure?”

Gandalf laughed merrily and gave Frodo a wink. Sam was staring now, and Frodo couldn’t take his eyes off their tall companion. The travel-stained cloak, the dusty boots, the wrinkled hat and the face creased with many years... he seemed far too ordinary to be the fabled Gandalf of Bilbo’s great adventure.

“Why, I thought you were a Man!” Frodo exclaimed in awe, too surprised to mind his manners, “but you’re one of the Istari! A real wizard...” He had never seen a wizard, of course, but he had expected such a person to look rather more frightening, or magical, or something.

“Quite so, quite so,” Gandalf rumbled.

“A—a wizard?” Samwise squeaked, far less sanguine about this development than Frodo was.

“I’ve heard the most remarkable tales about you, sir,” Frodo said earnestly, unable to help himself.

“Indeed?” the wizard said, his mouth twitching behind his long white beard. “Nothing unseemly, I trust?”

“Well—” Frodo did not know what to say. In Hobbiton, he had heard Gandalf called a bad influence, a disturber of the peace, a cheap conjuror, and worse. But naturally, Bilbo’s opinion was the only one Frodo put any stock in, and so Frodo knew that this wizard was undoubtedly an interesting fellow.

Gandalf appeared unfazed by Frodo’s lack of response, and calmly got out the longest pipe Frodo had ever seen. The wizard transferred Hwesta’s reigns to one hand, filled and lit the pipe in what seemed to be the space of an eye blink, and settled the stem comfortably between his teeth as he took up the reigns in both hands once more.

* The description of Gandalf is taken directly from The Hobbit.