Push it
The Green Dragon was lit up so bright an orange glow danced across the purple face of the Hill. Noise poured out in a great gush of excitement as the working class hobbits sewed mischief into the night.
The clamor was furious. Each had been well into their mugs since sundown. Spontaneous dancing, wild laughter and more than one set of hurt feelings were drowned in grog. There was no occasion; there didn't need to be. A hard life spent coaxing food from the jealous ground needed no excuse to go wild.
The hobbits drank and swore and acted a third of their ages well away from the scornful eyes of women who needed no such release. The males affirmed their virtue with sweat and the hurts of their bodies – hurts that would fester with age until each was laid low. This night they warred against that inevitability by driving back the dark with merriment. A half pint of grog, a fat wedge of mince pie, a mate to share badly realized stories with; life was complete.
Frodo walked through the gathering in his shirtsleeves, feeling the pulse of his land. Every tenant and farmer in Bywater and Hobbiton were there to wish him a happy homecoming and welcome him back into the fold.
They had decided to like him. Frodo decided to be gracious; his place here in the loud, simple, well intentioned heart of the Shire. He reveled in his maleness and stuffed himself with food, affirming that indeed he was a hobbit, and that he was hungry for life.
All present were well concerned about food. Rose's duty was to provide it. She lost count of how many faces were present, but she knew to the penny how much was owed and how much of it was hers.
The noise was caustic, but she heard her name well enough. The rowdy crowd would shout it until she closed the Green Dragon down. That was her job; breaking up the party. Considering the amount of trouble they all made, Rose considered it justice.
Tonight she had some extra help from a few young lads from down by the mill. They were dull and slow as the mill folk were, but earnest as well. Now and then she bit a coin to make they weren't duped, and barked at those who tarried at the kegs. They jumped when she willed it. That was all she had time to care about.
The owner of the Green Dragon, Little Shanks, had begged off earlier in the day. One of his imaginary illnesses was troubling him, and Rose wasn't surprised. He'd long since stopped enjoying the revels, but not the coins they brought in.
She kept her sharp ears tuned to the overflow of gossip, fished out morsels the village wives would value. She swatted pinches at her bum, smacked groping hands judiciously. Rose knew the wife and lover of every soul present, and knew precisely what they would not like to hear.
Samwise turned up an hour past sundown. Rose smiled at him as he elbowed his large body into the tight room: he was his own hobbit now. Word had spread quickly that the old Gaffer had given his son the Tools. Sam wore his new status proudly; he'd earned his place.
Rose thought he looked fine just then – finer that she'd ever known him. He smiled and flipped her a wink. She knew where he was off to.
Rose faded back into the thrum where she continued to watch Sam as he weaved through the crowd. He soon found Frodo and welcomed him with a hug. The big hobbit slapped his lover's slender back, but there was more: all one need do was open their eyes.
Rose felt the spark. The quiet part of her sighed: there was love right here under everyone's nose and the rest were all too selfish to see it.
Good for those two, she thought. At least they had each other.
Frodo had given up his swag and finery, spoke his mind and listened closely. He made a great show of fussing about with the lads. Rose thought that was good. He deserved to fool about. That one carried too much inside. Now, it was if he'd finally fixed his whole heart on taking up his uncle's role, and was determined to make it his own.
Sam was happy as a duckling in a rain barrel. He was laughing and easy as he shifted from welcome to welcome: blessings all around. People agreed with him, wanted their own sons to follow his example.
Big, honest, plain said and worthy; Sam's life was set .
Not so for Rose. She'd always been a bit of a one off compared to her brothers who were always thick with mates and friends. Their interests were broad, but centered squarely within the realm of the known and probable: they were born humble and would die with dirt between their toes. Rose had always wanted more. Then there were her other problems.
Until she was married or bore a child, she was fixed as a maiden. She could grow old as the Mother Herself and she would never be more than a burden, a non-starter. Someone else would make her decisions; someone else would be pressed with supporting her.
She'd fought against this role since she'd learned to walk.
She had no more interest in taking a husband than Frodo Baggins did in taking a wife. Her relationship with her own gender was more than friendly. Ever since Rose understood what sex was, she' only had eyes for women. There was no arguing with it; she'd tried.
This was her lot; she accepted this. The rest of the village never would. She'd accepted that as well.
But oh, to see what she did.
Frodo and Sam made their choice and kept it discreet. Few in the villages could summon the heart to believe they were anything more than devoted to each other in the most familiar way. The villagers were like that: what they refused to see could not annoy them, nor could they judge.
No one showed the same grace for Rose. Whenever possible, someone prodded her to grow up, move on, go forward with what was surely the life the great Mother intended for her. It seemed that her business was open to anyone who had an opinion. She hated this worst of all.
The suspicion, the jibes, the little threats couched in concern; all of these she could stomach if she tried. The insistence that her desires were childish cut her deeply. She still lived under her parent's roof. While not unusual for her age, this was perceived as evidence of her lack of maturity. At a time in her life when other girls were laying out their dowries, Rose refused to.
Her mother constantly reminded her of this. Rose shut her out. As her father had determined long ago, there was no reasoning with the woman. Rose had his sympathy in this, but nothing more. He expected her to do her duty and get on with it, which she was in her own way, but this wasn't good enough: it would never be good enough.
She sneaked a glance at Frodo as he shared his mug with Sam. They were happy, accepted, and together. If the village could find a blind spot for those two, perhaps they might find one for her? As Frodo and Sam's star rose, perhaps she might find shelter in their light? She hoped so.
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Frodo measured the distance between himself and the tree. The sun was almost directly overhead. He had no shadow to judge the straightness of angle, so he guessed. Frodo stepped two paces off the road and began to dig a hole.
The Prince of Oaks, as the tree was known, marked the end of Bywater – or the beginning, depending on approach. The grand old tree sat next to the Great East Road where it served as a border for longer than living memory. No one had ever bothered to commit such a thing to paper; officially, such a border did not exist.
Legends served to mark the beginning and end of things. When legends faded, others took their place. The Prince of Oaks was how most knew they were leaving or entering Bywater. For those that didn't know, it was just nice big a tree alongside the Great East Road.
Today he aimed to change that.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The day was warm and Rose was sweating. She'd slept at the inn on a pallet on the cold floor of the storeroom because all the rooms were let. She'd been too tired to walk back to her family's farm, and so she and the cellar cat had enjoyed a quiet night.
She'd spent the morning sorting through stacks of paperwork. Her mind was reeling and she had a slight headache. Frodo trusted her to keep track of the leaf share business while he was away. The business was thriving, but Rose kept up. She had no choice; it was either that or collapse in frustration.
This was the first time she'd put it all together. She prayed she'd got the important parts right for she had no idea what she was doing. No one did: no one had ever sold 'shares' of anything as far as she knew.
There was no preface to help sort out what Frodo wanted, so she had to imagine one. The work was slow going and brutal on her nerves. After many false starts she decided to go with what she knew – how to track and shift money.
Dealing with merchants was obvious. They dealt in tangible goods. Each merchant sold from a specific category dependent on season. Some were reliable, some were not but all eventually delivered. That was the basis of their reputation – the quality of their product.
Frodo had no product; just little bits of paper that were promises for something that did not yet exist. These shares of leaf were based on speculation – something villagers stayed well clear of. There was nothing to hold in their hands and judge. If the weather turned foul or pests thrived, there might never be.
The common folk had no notion of intangibles. Their lives did not allow for such. The same was true for Rose, but she wasn't afraid to imagine the concept: she just needed a place to start.
She worried about finding buyers for such a dodgy abstraction; she was wrong. Akron Hornblower's reputation as a leaf farmer was impeccable and his product was legend.
Master Hornblower had helped the whole idea along by gaining the backing of the mighty Southfarthing leaf council. Orders for shares followed soon after. Merchants liked the idea, and liked the ease of trades. Notes moved farther and easier than large barrels of leaf. All one need do was find someone to buy them.
It was here that Frodo's heritage finally managed to do him a service; everyone knew of his uncle Bilbo's mad adventures with dwarves in the Misty Mountain and in the green kingdom of the Elves. Fabulous parcels and letters bearing strange writing flowed into Bag End where Frodo read every word of that silvery script.
He was also acquainted with a powerful wizard friendly to the Shire who was known to enjoy a pipe or two. Where there was one, there were bound to be others, so the saying went.
Suddenly Frodo didn't seem quite so odd.
Rose had done her best to spread the legend while standing fast on Akron's reputation. The results fairly frightened her. There was a panic to buy up Frodo's shares. If this worked, and she thought it would, a tiny wish kept deep in her heart might come true: she'd be able to live independently and exactly as she pleased.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Rose found Frodo by the Prince of Oaks. He was a nailing a large board atop a stout post. He'd sweated though his shirt down his back and sides. The top of his shirt lay open. High color ran from down his throat to the cleft of his narrow breast. His hair was askew in tangles and knots meshed with grass seeds.
Rose thought him exquisite. Everything Sam saw in him was justified. Frodo possessed a rare beauty – something she guessed he must struggle with for there was nothing soft or feminine about him. He was intrinsically masculine in speech and deed, although his clothes were frequently foppish. She wondered if he knew how well simplicity suited him.
She smiled as she drew up beside him. He turned around, and the board turned with him. Her attention wavered as she looked at the letters which quickly twisted into a mess.
Caught off guard, Rose tried to focus. The letters jumped and shuffled. Her temples began to throb.
Frodo was watching her, eager and smiling.
"What's this?" she said, trying for distraction as she pulled her wits together.
"A border," Frodo answered as he steadied the sign and turned it back around. It stuck upright at an authoritative angle a little above his head. He walked under it and gestured for Rose to join him.
Rose wiped her hand across her brow, took a deep breath. Earlier that morning, she'd struggled to finish opening a growing stack of mail. Her mind jumbled before she was done. Now, the letters refused to settle into place. The noon light seemed suddenly strong. A long runnel of sweat stole down her cheek.
"'Tis nice," she said weakly. "If it pleases you, then it's fine."
"Is it clear enough?"
She gave it another glance – quick and sharp. "Yes."
Frodo grew curious. Rose was rarely this timid with her opinions. "Are you feeling well?"
Rose opened and closed her mouth. She looked up at the sign. Her mouth formed the letters over and over, willing them to behave. Her face grew pink with strain. An embarrassing noise burst from her throat as her eyes grew slick.
"Be…no, no! We… Hobbits Free All…" she stammered. "B-b-bonds."
Frodo touched her shoulder. She was shaking with effort. "Welcome f-f-free hobbits of… bond ronhor… No! Bond honor."
"My dear," he said in the gentlest voice he could summon. "Let me help."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
All across the gentle rises and falls of the lush, green fields, riots of wildflowers nodded lazily. The hard packed dirt of the Great East Road was still solid and tight. The mud of late spring was still a few weeks off. Road and field, sky and orchard glowed softly alive.
"Welcome Free Hobbits of the Shire," Frodo read to her. "No bonds honored past this point."
Rose cursed under her breath and swiveled away from the sign. She crushed a fist against her brow. A tight band of iron throbbed just above her eyes. "I'm…I feel as if I might be sick."
Frodo lead her under the cool shadow of the oak and offered her water from his flask. She squeezed her eyes shut and drank.
Frodo prized little stones from between the roots of the tree. He skipped them along the ground, aiming for the sign. A breeze echoed off the nearby Bywater pool pushing back his hair. He closed his eyes, relaxed. Playful wisps chilled his sodden shirt, dried the sweat from his throat. In a moment, he resumed skipping the little stones.
He managed to hit the base of the sign twice – three times if he counted a near miss. The breeze flirted with a thatch of wild barley, took a fickle turn and vanished. The air under the oak grew cooler. A humid, earthy smell rose from roots. Frodo found a forgotten acorn and added it to his collection of stones.
"I tried," Rose said, feeling foolish. She felt her dreams spin away to join the rest that never were. Why were some things so impossible? Why did she even care?
Frodo threw a stone. "Feel better?"
Rose watched the stone skip along the grass and land just short of the sign. "Yes, thank you."
Frodo repeated the words from the sign as he twirled a pebble between his thumb and forefinger. "What do you think of that?" he asked.
"Why, it's daft!" she said as she stifled a laugh with her hand.
Frodo smiled, flicked his wrist. The stone bounced along, once, twice – then struck the base of the sign. "But effective?"
She noticed that his nails were dirty. "I should say so. Any who see's it will think twice about bringing a fetchit down the road. What will you do then?"
"Confiscate the contraband," he said dryly, "then offer them a homestead in the Southfarthing where all bonds are void."
"They are?"
"They will be." Frodo reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief. He poured a little water from the skin on it, reached over and dabbed at Rose's brow. "We can talk about it later."
"It's my job to know," she said as he helped to press the cool cloth against her eyes. "I'm so sorry, I'm…"
"We can talk about it later, Rose." He handed her the cloth. "Would you mind if I made us some tea?"
"What?"
"Sam says I'm a terrible cook," he grinned. "I'd like to prove him wrong."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
A shock of angry noise battered against the front door. Sam's head snapped up with a start. Without thinking, he twirled the broom in his hands so the blunt end was facing the foyer. He approached slowly, gripping his improvised cudgel as the racket grew louder.
The freshly painted green door of Bag End burst open. Sam's youngest sister stamped in. She was livid, skirts twisted from running and chest heaving with rage. "That bitch has cheated me for the last time!" Marigold erupted. Her face was ruddy and streaked with tears.
Sam did not release the broom. "Lobelia?"
"Who else? Her and that shit for brains Lotho!" Marigold punctuated this with a scream.
Sam's eyelids fluttered. He winced, backed away. He hadn't known her to be this angry since she was a toddler. "She try to get you to do Lotho's washing?" he guessed.
"For the same price!" Marigold yelled, "Or else she wouldn't pay at all! To hell with her and her stupid bahstud son!"
Sam knew that Frodo had taught her this word, for only he knew it. Absurdly, he thought to ask Frodo to curb his language around his sister, for evidently she was a quick study.
Marigold advanced, fist pumping against her hips. Sam took another step back. The hall was just behind him. He tried to think. "Ye quit her, then?"
"YES!" Marigold shrieked. The jagged sound echoed off the foyer's marble tiles. Then she brought her arm across her face and started to sob.
Sam rested the broom against one of Frodo's old trunks. Gently, he gathered his baby sister into his arms and shushed away her tears.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Frodo held the kitchen door for Rose, as she stepped inside. "I didn't ask you to look after my uncle's crop shares because of your reading skills," he said as dashed to the sink and put the kettle under the spout. A few quick cranks on the pump filled it. He heaved it up and carried it to the hearth.
"Then why did ye?" Rose said weakly. Her head was better but she was starting to grow hungry. Little Shanks told her he'd look after the pub until dinner, which meant he would be fussed an hour before.
She looked out the window at the garden. Sam's handiwork was thriving, giving off tender green shoots and tiny buds. The sun was starting back down the long silhouette of the party tree. She judged that she had about an hour, maybe two.
"Because you know your business," Frodo answered as he set the kettle on a hook. He then fiddled about with the tinder box, nearly burned the end of his fingers as he coaxed a spark onto the kindling. He blew gently until the spark winked flame. He took some coals from the chute and stacked them around the wood.
"Pub business?"
"People," Frodo continued as joined her at the table. "You know people very well."
Rose considered this, and shrugged. "'Tis nothing special."
"Priceless to me, for I don't know any of the people you do, Rose. Neither do I know how to approach them. Sam does my buying. I scarce know the name of half the people whose goods stack my home. You not only know them, you conduct business with them."
"That I do."
"Which is where you must instruct me," he smiled. "I trust you, Rose. Your competence is outstanding."
Rose blushed at the compliment. She did know her business, counted on it to keep her away from her family's farm. So long as Little Shanks found value in her skills, she was one step closer to independence. Two steps, if Frodo's plans came through.
"What is it you wish to know, sir?"
"Why not just start with how things are now?"
She told him of the system she created to keep track of the shares. Initially, Frodo authorized the sale of ten shares of leaf to Morris Sedgeford in order to satisfy Bilbo's debt. The merchant had accepted this, and aside from all the fuss and trouble, had traded them again for a profit.
Rose realized that unless someone controlled the trades that the price would never be stable. To stop random dealings, she refused to honor shares she had not recorded. Each time a share of Old Toby changed hands, she issued a new certificate bearing her official signature as proof of registration.
Unregistered trades dried up immediately. All the major merchant's guilds quickly adapted to the new system. Original shares were sent back to the Green Dragon by Shire Post. Rose kept the old certificate, issued a fresh share at the new price, and sent it on its way. All prior shares could be sold for no less than the last recorded sale.
Her workload doubled and her time compressed, but Rose kept up. It was more a matter of pride than pragmatism at that point. If someone wanted to trade, they would do it through her or not at all. She was the only one she trusted to keep the system in order and free of mischief. So far that was working out.
She secured permission from the Shire mayor (who was also the Postmaster in Chief) for a chalk board to be hung at the Post Office in Bywater. Each morning on the way to work, Rose would update the price for a share of Old Toby on the board. She kept a similar board inside the Green Dragon where the price fluctuated throughout the day. When the post office closed, Rose was delivered the remaining trades which she tallied every night.
Since the initial offering, Rose had released thirty additional shares, which were the ones Frodo left with her. Those thirty shares had been traded many times over, and the price had climbed accordingly.
"Last close of business they was up well past four gold each," Rose told Frodo. "T'would likely be a bit higher, but I'm a wee bit behind. I've also not seen the day's last post."
Frodo was rocked back in his chair. "Four gold pieces for one share of Akron's leaf?" he stammered. This was far more than he anticipated.
"Aye," Rose said proudly. "I've got it all down in a ledger along with the rest of my report for doings since you've been away. All who can pay are wanting more shares, but I said not 'till I spoke to you. Word's come today that them up by Michel Delving have thought to split what there is and trade that."
"One share is enough for one pub for one month – and that's only for Old Toby. Half of that would be just two weeks?"
"And a quarter would be one week," Rose agreed. "Which is what they're playing at now. One week of leaf for one gold. Makes it easier to keep track o', to be honest."
"That's far more than it sold for last year!" Frodo was finding it hard to imagine how this could be.
"Greed," Rose explained in a softly wicked voice. "They're wanting what they can't have, Mister Frodo. They'll pay double that before the end of the month. Then if there's no more shares to be offered, you better be believin' they'll split it into days." Rose reached into her pocket and produced a heavy little bag. She snatched open the ties and upended it on the table.
A stream of silver and gold tinkled against the salt cellar and rolled around. "I charge five percent o' the new price per trade for me recording and postage," Rose explained. "They pay that bit up front. When they get their leaf, we get the gold."
"Oh my word!" Frodo whispered. Gold, silver and copper coins winked up at him. He judged there was enough before him to run Bag End for six months.
The whistle went off on the kettle. Frodo didn't hear it.
"Yes," Rose laughed. "'Tis well enough to take the words right out of yer mouth!"
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
"What ye need to do," Rose said as she sipped her tea. "Is make certain yer uncle's crop is solid. We need to start posting a report up where all can see it so's they ain't jus' hearing gossip."
Frodo nodded as he pried wedges from a ham. He'd already sliced up a nice round of cheddar Sam had been saving. Now they could afford a cart full of fine cheeses and refill the cellar for a fraction of the silver on the table. "Consider it done."
"Once ye have a look and come back, I reckon we can issue more shares." Rose's mood changed as she considered the massive amount of book keeping that entailed. The promise of a headache lurked just behind her eyes. "I'll be needing help."
"When?"
"Now," she said plainly. She simply could not keep up. "Letters swim in front o' me," she admitted. "They won't stay still. I can force 'em to, but mind, I pay each time I do. Makes me sick as a cat."
"We'll work on it." Frodo started to slice up a wedge of thick, brown bread. As he paused to take a sip of his tea, the knife slipped out of his hand. He shouted as the keen blade nicked the webbing of his thumb and forefinger. Blood spurted onto the bread as he snatched his hand away.
Rose stood up and calmly smoothed her skirts. She crossed to the sink. She pumped the handle with one hand, and cradled Frodo's hand with the other. He hissed through his teeth as cool water ran across the little cut. Carefully, Rose wrapped his hand in a handkerchief, then had him hold it just above his heart.
"'Tisn't bad," she said brightly.
"I'm hopeless," Frodo moaned.
They both broke into hiccuppy laughter.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The sound of the front door banging open drifted down the hall. Frodo snaked his head around the corner. Sam and his younger sister emerged from the foyer. Marigold looked as if she'd swallowed a storm cloud.
Sam noticed Frodo and grunted. His eyes told a difficult tale – one that Frodo was certain he'd get the true measure of later. Marigold dashed ahead into the kitchen, saw Rose, and immediately told her everything.
Frodo turned to Sam.
"We went to get Mari's last pay." Sam offered.
"Did you get it?"
"Oh, aye. Otho – don't you know. He's buyin' peace where ever he can get it."
Frodo nodded his sympathy for Lobelia's husband, then sprang up to fetch the kettle.
&&&&&&&&&&
"What are you going to do, then?" Rose asked Marigold as she nibbled at the board of fruits and cheeses.
"Nothin'," Marigold said smartly as she dunked a chocolate wafer in her tea. Her stout little fingers toyed idly with the scattered pieces of silver as she wondered why Mr. Frodo had decided to dump his purse in the middle of the table?
Rose watched her flick the coin into neat stacks. She wondered what Marigold would say if she knew half of that considerable pile belonged to Rose?
"That one's gone," Marigold continued as she bobbed her head at Sam. "Daisy and May have their washin' up money so's I'll look after 'da until summat else pops up. Ah, it nettles me to think of that cheeky wench miserin' me out of a silver to wash Lotho's drawers."
"Should'a charged double jus' for that bit," Rose snorted.
Marigold grinned. "She won't be findin' better, unless Otho takes up washing."
Rose began to reply, then stopped short. A twinge of pain shot across her brow. She brought her hands up under her reddish gold curls, rubbed her temples.
Frodo asked Sam to get a cloth soaked in cool water from the cold cellar.
Marigold frowned with concern. "'Tis yer head again? You been readin'?"
Very gently, Rose nodded. "Since early. A real cracker, this one is."
"Yer knowin' not to strain yerself, so." Marigold cooed. Sam emerged from the cellar with a damp cloth. She took it from him and pressed it to her best friend's brow. "'Tis the candles, I tell ye. They always give ye a turn like that."
"'Tis the letters, Mari," Rose relied as she held the cloth over her eyes. "They won't be still for me."
"Then I'll do it."
"Alright then," Rose agreed, and then laid out what she needed her to do.
"Excellent!" Frodo declared as he opened up his last tin of raspberry chocolate biscuits. "I guess I owe my cousin thanks."
Sam yawned and started back to the cellar for a beer.
"Bring us a tot o' that good brandy, eh?" Rose said to his back.
"As ye like," he answered, and disappeared down the little flight of steps.
Frodo leaned against the sink as he watched the women breathe life into his plan. It seemed so ordinary. Things were falling together one by one. A part of him could not help but wait for the other shoe to drop. For now, he found himself content, which was the strangest feeling of all. He could feel hope here.
The dutiful son, errant nephew and long suffering student of a mad old hobbit all wound together inside him and cringed. He hadn't asked anyone's permission to do this – he'd set this all up himself from an idea that began and ended with him. It was going to work; he could feel it in his bones.
That scared him most of all.