Rivers and Willows – Part One
[Third Tale in the BFS series
Westel
"Frodo Baggins, just look at you! If it weren't for your eyes I'd have mistaken you for a mushroom!"
The pretty, dark-haired matron stood with her arms akimbo, glaring with feigned anger at the little boy who had pulled himself up smartly, arms crossed.
"Mum, you know mushrooms don't walk!" he said, his chin quivering in an effort not to grin.
"Well, this one obviously does!" Primula answered, her face lighting with a smile, and knelt before the dirty child. His blue eyes danced with merriment as he put two grubby hands on her shoulders.
"Do I have to take a bath now? We were just startin' to have fun!" Frodo begged, as his mother began to help him off with his shirt. A copper tub sat in the corner of the room, steam rising from the fragrant water; fresh towels lay folded on a chair nearby, along with a clean set of clothes.
"Start-ing," she corrected him. "I'm sorry, dear, but your father and I want a little time together alone tonight. Goodness knows it's hard to find any privacy around here," she said, chuckling as she reached to undo the buttons of Frodo's braces.
"Mum!" he complained, his eyes widening. "I'm big enough to want privacy, too!" He clutched at the waistband of his trousers, a rose tint spreading across his chubby cheeks.
Primula leaned back on her heels, seeing her son in a new light. "Such a change all of a sudden! You're only a little hobbit-boy, after all," she teased, her eyes twinkling.
"I'll be twelve next month," the child responded, still holding tightly to his breeches.
His mother looked at him again, her smile a thoughtful one now. "So you are," she agreed. "Only another year and you'll be in your teens. It doesn't seem all that long ago when I was your age, wanting to grow up in such a great hurry." Her eyes grew distant.
"So can I take baths by myself from now on?" Frodo asked, bringing his mother back to the present.
"May I," she corrected, patiently. Really, she would have to take her young son in hand very soon, what with the words and phrases he was picking up in the smial of Buckland. "Very well," she sighed, rising from the floor and tousling Frodo's hair. "First a good soak to loosen the layers," she instructed him, "wash your hair next, then scrub everywhere before you get out. No shirking, you understand."
"All right, Mother," Frodo answered, 'obedient son' etched on his face. Primula went out of the room, holding the door ajar momentarily. "Prepare for full inspection when you're done, my young hobbit! Especially behind the ears and under the fingernails!"
Frodo grinned. He waited for her to close the door, then scrambled out of his clothes and crawled into the tub. He sighed as he lowered his body into the delicious hot water, toying with the soapy bubbles with his toes and fingers and making rhythmic splashes with the bathing tune as he sang:
Oh! water hot upon my toes,
It's in my ears and up my nose!.
All dirt and grime are washed away
Until I start another day.
Oh! water hot...
Frodo's song was interrupted by a tap at the door. "It's just your old dad, Frodo. Is that the sound of a proper washing I'm hearing in there?"
"Yes, Sir," Frodo answered, somewhat guiltily. He hurriedly picked up a wash cloth and began applying it vigorously to his sturdy little body. "I am," he said, with more conviction.
"Very well, then," came the answer from behind the door. "Don't take too long. Your mother and I want to be leaving soon."
"I won't," the boy assured his father, and scrubbed away, humming to himself, not uncommon for a happy hobbit. Going to Cousin Aster's burrow was always fun. There would be apples and popcorn for snacks, and a good bedtime story, something he always enjoyed, especially when it was about elves or wizards. He thought he had seen a wizard once at a distance, talking with cousin Bilbo, but wasn't sure. He hoped someday he would get to meet a real, live wizard—after all, he planned on being one when he grew up.
His mother and father didn't leave Frodo often, but they did occasionally contrive a 'Night Out', a time for them to be with each other without interruption. Their little boy knew instinctively that this was a good thing; their affection for each other was strong and spilled over onto their child like spring water. He had grown sturdy in body and spirit under their loving care, and though he had a tendency to precociousness, he never strayed too far thanks to their guidance—and the occasional application of a hand to the backside whenever necessary.
The youngster finished only when the water began to cool, drying off quickly and putting on the clean clothes his mother had laid out for him. He buttoned his braces and left the room whistling, looking forward to the evening's delights.
--
"Dad?"
"Yes, Frodo?"
"Do mums ever stop kissing their little boys?"
Drogo looked down at his child, whose hand was clasped firmly in his own, and smiled knowingly. "Hmm. I'm afraid they don't."
Frodo's eyes widened as he scurried along beside his father's longer steps. "Not ever? Not even when they're all grown?"
"Are you in such a hurry to grow up?" Drogo asked, giving his boy's hand a little shake.
"Aye, that I am," answered the child.
Drogo winced, remembering the conversation he'd had earlier that day with his wife. "Say, 'Yes, I am', Frodo," he corrected the lad.
"Why?" the boy enquired, guilelessly. "All my friends talk that way, " he added.
Because everyone—Brandybucks, Tooks, distant relatives, household help and long-tenured wayfarers— mix and mingle here like so many rabbits, Baggins thought, frowning. Prim's right. I need to be thinking about ending our holiday and going back home, and soon.
"I'm sorry," Frodo said quietly, looking down at his hurrying feet, mistaking his father's frown for displeasure with him.
"Oh, it's all right," Drogo reassured the boy, picking him up and tossing him in the air, evincing a burst of giggles from the dark-haired child. He held the boy close, momentarily eye-to-eye with his son. Their eyes matched: in colour and size, and in eloquence. For a moment, when their eyes locked, their expressions were identical.
"No gloomy thoughts, now," Drogo said, picking his child up again and giving him a little shake, causing the boy's feet to dangle like a doll's. "Let's you and I take a little walk tomorrow and we'll talk all about growing up, shall we?"
"Oh, I'd like that!" Frodo exclaimed, throwing his arms and legs around his father, hugging him fiercely.
Drogo laughed, shifted the boy onto his shoulders, and carried him all the way to Cousin Aster's burrow. Frodo, at least for the moment, had forgotten entirely that he was 'too old' for such things.
--
Frodo woke suddenly, his heart racing. There were voices outside the bedroom door, whispering urgently. Curious, he crawled from the bed, careful not to disturb the other two hobbit children who slept there, and brought his eye to the keyhole.
He couldn't see much; the other room was lit only by a few dying embers in the fireplace, but Cousin Aster was there—he recognized her voice—and at least two others whom he couldn't readily identify. Why are they up so late? he wondered. Turning his head and having to balance his weight on his tiptoes, he put his ear to the keyhole instead. What he heard next would change his life forever.
"Saw 'em both floatin' in the water. Stark they were, too. No life left in 'em," said one of the unidentified hobbits. "The current's swift – they're still workin' t'get 'em out of the deep water."
Cousin Aster was crying. Frodo could tell she was trying to be quiet for the sake of the children in the room with him, but her sobs were deep and heart-broken, nonetheless. The young hobbit began to feel something he had never before known creep coldly into his heart—fear. He pressed harder against the door, listening intently.
"Poor darlings. Poor, lovely darlings. I can't believe they've left us. I just can't," Aster wailed.
"Who's left?" Frodo mouthed, his limbs slowly growing cold.
"Shush, now," said the other unknown hobbit, a female with a high, scratchy voice—someone much older. "This won't help them, dear, they're gone and no mistake. It won't help you, neither, just findin' out you're expecting again. You hush, now."
"But Frodo," Aster said haltingly, sniffling. "Who will look out after him?"
Me? Frodo wondered, his eyes widening. What do they mean?
"He can stay here," rasped the other female. "In this warren there'll be plenty to look after him, more than he'll want, I expect."
"But he's an only child, Mother Grubb! And so young! We can't just..."
"Now, now," comforted the newly identified elder. "I don't mean to sound cold, Aster. Goodness knows the lad will be tended to, and well enough."
Frodo's head came away from the door as he settled back on his heels. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest he could feel it thumping against his ribs. Unfettered, the fear within his breast had sprung, full-fledged, into terror.
"Who will tell the boy?" he heard clearly through the door.
For this voice was not whispered, and it was Mellun, Cousin Aster's husband. Frodo heard footsteps approaching. He looked frantically around the room before his eyes lighted upon the window, unlatched and ajar for ventilation. He ran back to the bed and grabbed his clothes hung upon the bedpost...
When the adult hobbits entered the room, there was one less hobbit in the bed, and the window was swinging.
Frodo Baggins was gone.