“Frodo is not noticing much of anything,” answered Merry flatly, “except for the empty path in front of Bag End where that blasted wizard should be.”
Ring Around the Merry Prelude Part 4/5
“Farewell Feast”
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Sept 22, 3018, Third Age, Frodo’s Farewell Party, Bag End
(It is Frodo’s 50th birthday, Sam is 38, Merry is 36, Pippin is 28)
“Will you be needing anything else, Mr. Frodo?” asked Sam as he set the last piece of luggage upon the porch atop an ever-growing pile.
“No Sam,” answered Frodo. “You have been more than helpful. More helpful than I can possibly repay.” Frodo cast a quick glance about them to make sure that neither Merry, Pippin, Fatty, or Folco were in earshot before he let the subject chance and his voice fall to a whisper. “Sam, are you still quite sure you want to leave your home behind and accompany me on this fool’s errand?”
“I am, Mr. Frodo,” replied Sam resolutely. “Lor bless me, I do want to see elves, sir. But more than that, I don’t mean to abandon you! It’s like Gandalf said about not needing to go alone- ‘not if you know anyone you can trust and who would be willing to go by your side,’ he said! Well, Mr. Frodo, I know I’m naught but a gardener, but you can trust me, sir, and I’m full willing to stay by your side whichever path you choose.”
Frodo suppressed an urge to open his arms and embrace Sam, dear loyal Sam. Sam’s words warmed Frodo to the core, allowing him to forget for a fleeting moment his anxiety at Gandalf’s failure to materialize.
“Well then, dear Sam, if your mind is made up on that account, are you also sure you don’t wish to join the four of us at my farewell feast?”
Sam shook his head. “No, sir. It wouldn’t be proper,” said Sam as he raised a calloused palm to the germ of his master’s protest. “Besides, sir,” added Sam with a wry grin. “I ain’t saying ‘farewell.”
Frodo let a warm smile glide across his soft features and placed his hand affectionately upon Sam’s broad shoulder. “Good-night Sam. Until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow,” said Sam.
Frodo watched as his gardener, his traveling companion, his friend treaded back to his smial down the hill, the afternoon sun falling golden upon his back as he disappeared behind the bend. Frodo silently pleaded with the powers that at least Sam be able to return whole to his beloved Shire.
* * *
“Master Brandybuck! What brings the likes of you to our door?”
The Gaffer had not expected company at 3 Bagshot Row that evening, and certainly not in the form of the future Master of Buckland.
“Good evening, Hamfast,” said Merry in a formal tone. “Mr. Baggins has sent me to ask Samwise a few questions.”
“My Sam’s been servin’ ye well enough, then?” asked the Gaffer with a trace of worry.
“Oh, dear, sir-yes!” reassured Merry. “Mr. Baggins has just misplaced a few items for the party and hopes your Sam might have come across them.” Merry raised his eyes over the Gaffer’s head to see if he might catch the attention of Sam. Failing that, he asked, “May I come in?”
“Well, it ain’t much to look upon, Master Brandybuck, but make yerself at home.”
The Gaffer motioned Merry to a large lumpy stuffed chair at the center of the parlor, obviously the Gamgee’s best piece of furniture. True, he had always thought the Brandybucks eminently odd, but when it came pedigree, the old man would brook no disrespect for his ‘betters.’
“Can I fetch you some tea, sir?” asked the Gaffer.
“No thank you,” answered Merry. “Just your son, if you please.”
As the Gaffer shuffled down the corridor to find Sam, Merry sank down in the chair and took in the Gamgee’s parlor. It was tiny compared to Brandy Hall, and humble by Brandybuck tastes. The house seemed to be scattered with a dizzying hodge-podge of sturdy hand-hewn wooden furniture, not one piece matching another. Yet the room was pleasant, cheerful, and spotlessly clean. And Merry, even as his eyes focused upon the threadbare chair arms, observed with some envy that it was the most comfortable thing he had ever sat upon.
Merry knew that the Gamgee garden, and not the parlor, was the true showpiece of this large family. No home in Hobbiton, nor Buckland, as far as Merry had seen had such a magnificent garden, except, of course, Bag End. Sam, just as his father before him, saw Bag End as an extension of his own piece of land. The rose bush that began at the edge of the Gamgee land blended seamlessly into the yew trees that lined the uphill path leading up to Bag End, ending on Frodo’s doorstep with a twin rosebush. The reds and yellows of Bag End’s garden carried straight through to 3 Bagshot Row, as Sam would not dream of planting something in his own garden that might jar the eyes when crossing from Bag End. The two pieces of land, one humble, one grand, were, in Sam’s eyes, part of an organic whole, impossible to separate. It was a connection that was mirrored in his heart when it came to his dear master. It was a connection that Merry was just beginning to understand.
In minutes Sam dashed out of the hall, leagues ahead of his muttering father. He immediately threw Merry a questioning look, sensing this had something to do with their conspiracy. Sam feigned a neutral tone.
“Hullo Master Brandybuck,” said Sam. “How can I help you? All going well with Master Frodo’s farewell feast?”
“Shall we speak outside, Sam?” cut in Merry brusquely, seeing no need to manufacture chit-chat for the benefit of the half-deaf elder Gamgee.
The conspirators were a dozen yards into a field of the Gaffer’s corn before either hobbit uttered a word.
“Won’t Mr. Frodo notice you being gone, Master Merry?” asked Sam as he filled his pipe.
“Frodo is not noticing much of anything,” answered Merry flatly, “except for the empty path in front of Bag End where that blasted wizard should be.”
“Gandalf,” sighed Sam. “Poor Mr. Frodo’s been uncommon anxious about him. You don’t think any harm’s come to him, do you Master Merry?”
“Frankly, Sam,” replied Merry. “I don’t care much for Gandalf these days. I don’t trust him.”
“Mr. Frodo stands by him, just as old Mr. Bilbo did,” countered Sam. “Mr. Frodo trusts that Gandalf or he don’t trust nobody.”
“Well, if you must know, Samwise,” said Merry, “it is the matter of Gandalf that I have come to speak with you about.”
Sam looked at Merry quizzically and took a drag from his pipe, watching as Merry clasped his hands behind his back as if he were about to deliver a speech.
“Sam, what is //your// view of Gandalf?”
“I reckon if Mr. Frodo trusts him, I can as well,” said Sam.
Merry heaved a dramatic sigh.
“Sam, you are a loyal servant to my cousin. In fact, you are the most loyal servant I’ve encountered in all my life, and” Merry added, “I have encountered a lot of servants.”
Sam made a non-committal noise in his throat, waiting for Merry to come to his point.
“I know, Sam that this spying business has left a poor taste in your mouth, so to speak,” continued Merry, who had begun to pace. “But, of course, you saw that the situation demanded it. This business is very important and requires that we, Frodo’s //true// friends, work together for his best interests.”
“But when it comes to Gandalf, sir, Frodo thinks--”
“Frodo,” cut in Merry, “has a mind too clouded by his uncle’s history with that conjurer to see Gandalf for what he really is.”
“And what //is// Gandalf, if I may ask?” questioned Sam in a tone that had suddenly sharpened.
“Well, he’s a wizard, Sam,” answered Merry benignly. “A wizard who may or may not have Frodo’s well-being at heart. He seems to disappear into thin air whenever Frodo needs him most keenly. He saddled the poor fellow with this dangerous task, sending him into the wilds with –and please take no offense—only a gardener for protection! Well, Sam, does that sound like the actions of someone who has Frodo’s best interests in mind?”
“But you and Master Pippin are coming too!” offered Sam
“Yes, Samwise, but that wasn’t Gandalf’s doing, was it?!” exclaimed Merry. “If you remember, he threatened to turn you into a toad if you told a soul! Well you did tell, Sam, and you are a capital chap for doing so. Frodo will need more than one companion on this bleak journey, and we hobbits ought to stick together.”
Merry turned suddenly to face Sam, his eyes intent.
“Isn’t it clear that Gandalf is more concerned with men and elves than doings of the Shire?”
“Mr. Gandalf wants to protect all of Middle-earth including the Shire, Merry,” answered Sam forcefully. “He said so!”
“Do you honestly believe that Gandalf holds hobbits in his very highest priority, Sam?” argued Merry. “We are a mere dalliance to him, a curiosity, a hobby, if you will. Hobbits are only something he calls upon when we can be of use to him, Sam. Take Bilbo—Gandalf and his gaggle of dwarves only invited him on their big adventure because they thought he’d make a good burglar. A //burglar// Sam! That is where we fall on Gandalf’s rank of races. If that is all we are to him, then one wizard will do just as well as another.”
Sam screwed up his face, wondering what this last bit might mean, trying to make sense of any of it. Merry had not expressed any of these fears before and was acting rather odd, odd for even a Brandybuck.
“Mr. Frodo is much more than a burglar to Mr. Gandalf,” countered Sam, now speaking in a raised voice. “He’s like family, he is!”
“Gandalf is //NOT// Frodo’s family!” Merry blurted back. “WE are. The Brandybucks and Tooks, we are Frodo’s family, not that untrustworthy conjurer of fancy lights and cheap tricks! And the more quickly you get that through that thick head of yours, the sooner you will be equipped to make decisions that are truly in your master’s interest!”
A look of suppressed rage shot across Sam’s face. Had Merry been one of Sam’s own class, he would have been knocked flat on his back and staring stupidly at the sky by this point. Sam took a steadying breath and let his down-to-earth working class sensibilities guide his next words.
“See here, Mr. Merry! What are you driving at? If you got a destination for this talk, let’s come to it and have done, as this road’s getting mighty rocky. You may be the Master of Buckland’s son, but I’ll not stand in my own father’s cornfield and be insulted for my lack of wit!”
Merry stood down and took a cleansing breath of his own.
“I apologize, Samwise,” said Merry demurely. “That was unnecessarily harsh if not outright rude. You see, Sam, Frodo’s well being is a very emotional topic for me.”
Merry turned his back on Sam’s blazing eyes and stared up at the rutted brown face of one of the Gaffer’s proud sunflowers peeking up through the corn.
“But you asked me to come to my point, and I shall,” said Merry, turning himself to face Sam. “I propose that from here on out we “conspirators” follow our own course of action, and not necessarily Gandalf’s, when it comes to Frodo. Can you agree to that, Sam?”
Sam was taken aback and said nothing at first.
“I’m asking this, not as the Master of Buckland’s heir, but as one friend of Frodo’s to another.
Sam puffed on his pipe in quiet contemplation for a few moments. He could not cast aside his awe of the wizard, or, more to the point, his master’s trust in the wizard. Yet Gandalf had not come, causing his master undeniable anguish. Sam took his promises seriously, and was not one to vow to anything without thought. Finally he spoke.
“I do not know about crossing wizards, Merry, but I’ll grant ye this. I promise to act in my master’s best interest, whatever they may be. That I can promise.”
“Very well then, Samwise!” exclaimed Merry and gave Sam a strong slap on the back. “Frodo is lucky to have a friend like you!”
Sam gave a weak smile, suddenly wondering what might happen if different interpretations of “Frodo’s best interest” arose.
“You best be getting back to Mr. Frodo if you don’t want him to suspect nothing,” offered Sam.
“Yes, Samwise,” answered Merry. “There is just one more subject I must broach with you, Sam, as this may be the last time we may speak alone before we meet at Crickhollow.”
Sam raised his eyebrows.
“You have been an efficient spy, Sam, but you rather dried up after Gandalf caught you last spring. In light of our agreement to do right by Frodo, is their anything you may have inadvertently neglected to tell Pip and I? Anything Gandalf may have said between April and when he left in June that might be of help?”
Sam shook his head, but not with particularly convincing force.
“Last we heard, Gandalf had said that you were to go with Frodo to see elves. Surely he eventually mentioned //which// elves.” chased Merry. “Because the way I read it, Sam, seeing the elves could mean one of two destinations –the Grey Havens or Rivendell. Did Gandalf and Frodo sort that last detail out before June?”
Merry’s speech had become more forceful, and Sam suddenly felt as if he were being interrogated; it made him uneasy. A strange tightening in his gut made Sam hesitate. This was, perhaps, the last lingering piece of information he owned that none of the other conspirators had—the last chance to maintain a shred of his promise to keep Frodo’s destination “dead secret.”
“Rivendell,” Sam heard his voice blurt out before his brain could consent. “Gandalf suggested Frodo to go to Rivendell.”
“So Gandalf would have Frodo bring the Ring of power to the land of the High Elves,” muttered Merry softly, though he did not seem to be directing the statement at anyone in particular.
“Yes,” conceded Sam, newly uneasy. “So we will all be heading East, I’spose, after Crickhollow.”
Merry shook himself out of his own reverie and smiled wanly. “Yes, Sam,” Merry answered blandly. “After Crickhollow.”
TBC