CHAPTER TWO:
Blunt the Knives, Bend the Forks
Bilbo could barely stop his traitorous hand from shaking. Only hours ago he found it scribbling his name on the bottom of a legally binding agreement which stated that he, Bilbo Baggins, was to become the latest act in The Company for the duration of a six-month season, with remuneration including accommodation, travel expenses, and salary. There had also been an uncomfortably long list of liability information, enough to break him out into a sweat. Bofur, who had followed them back to the trailer, said, "Don't think too hard on it, Mister Baggins. Dismemberment hardly ever happens."
"Please don't mind him," Balin said. "Bofur has a sadistic wit at times, but we're very careful about safety here."
"Right," Thorin growled with so much emphasis that Bilbo nearly balked. Before he could, however, Gandalf handed him a pen and pointed to the line on which his signature should be inked. The old man winked, and somehow, without having made any particular decision, Bilbo's hand moved. He'd been signed on and congratulated, then shoved out the front gate with the firm order that he was to settle his business, gather a few personal belongings, and be back in time for supper.
As he turned the key and let himself into his home, Bilbo found himself walking around the familiar space, touching its surfaces. When his fingers stopped, they were on a silver frame which contained a picture of his mother. She was dressed in performing apparel, full eyelashes at half-mast as though she were flirting with the photographer. Bilbo knew his father had taken this picture on the evening the two met. He stared into her face, exactly as he remembered it from his most careworn memories.
"Gandalf said you left the carny life to raise me," Bilbo murmured. "Father never told me the full story. Never told me if you missed it or if you had regrets. I hope you didn't."
He thought about the future, and it gave him a heady feeling – like his toes were hanging off a platform. What was he doing? He was much too old to begin a journey of this sort. And yet… He looked again at his mother before lifting the frame and carrying it into his bedroom.
"I don't know what I'm doing, Mum," he said as he pulled a duffel out of his closet and began packing. "But something about this seems important. Or maybe it's like Gandalf said; maybe it's time I had an adventure."
By the time he returned, the circus grounds had transformed. Bilbo barely recognized it as the same makeshift place from only hours earlier. The main tent stood against the sky in three-tiered glory, bronze flags flapping in the breeze. On tall poles, strings of lights had been raised along the path leading from the gate, and to either side the midway had been constructed. There were colorful carts of all types, filled with carnival games and apparatus for preparing popcorn and cotton candy. Here and there, seemingly at random, were platforms, and Bilbo knew that on opening night they would be populated with wonders – jugglers and fire-eaters, strongmen and tumblers. Signs, too, had already been placed to advertise the main attractions. Bilbo recognized Nori's stenciled figure on horseback and Kíli with a drawn bow. Glóin and his son were painted on a billboard that stood above the others, the headliners for the coming performance.
Distracted, Bilbo wasn't watching where he was going, and as he passed a structure draped in velvet fabric, he ran directly into the person coming out of it. "Oomph!"
The man had a wild head of grey hair, but despite this sign of age, he didn't lose his balance or stumble. Instead, he turned toward Bilbo wearing a quizzical expression, his eyes overlarge behind a pair of spectacles. Reaching into a pouch hanging from his belt, he brought out an ancient looking hearing aid, which he affixed with difficulty. A high pitched squeal erupted once he set it in place, and he gave a huff of satisfaction. "There. Now, what did you say, laddie?"
Bilbo, who had said nothing, recovered his manners enough to duck his head. "Ah, I'm Bilbo Baggins. Sorry for running into you."
"Running in – oh, don't worry," said the older man. "Happens all the time. I don't hear so well with these old ears. Bilbo, did you say?"
"Yes," he answered. "The new act. Tight wire."
"Oh!" This garnered the full interest of his companion, who looked him up and down, nodding the whole time. "I heard about you from my cousin. My name is Óin, on-site medic. If you ever need looking after, you find me. On show nights, I also read the portents." He gestured toward the tent, and through the drapery Bilbo could see a round table surrounded by hanging bits of bone and colored glass. When he looked back at Óin, the man's merry eyes were twinkling. "Tell you your future, laddie?"
"Um," Bilbo stammered. He'd had quite enough interference with his fortune for one day and decided that escape was his best option. "Actually, I was looking for Balin. Do you know where he might be?"
Óin hemmed, scratching his chin underneath his beard, which was as grizzled and disorderly as his hair. "I think he's busy with Thorin at the moment, but he should be at supper. Do you know where that is?"
Bilbo remembered the field of grass interspersed with picnic tables. Offering his thanks, he bid goodbye to Óin and made his way around the main tent. "Stranger and stranger," he said to himself. Whether or not they were truly ancestors of Durin he didn't know, but these people did have the mien of a very eclectic group.
When he was in view of the picnic tables, he realized he was early. The only people there were small children, running between benches and calling out to one another as they played a tagging game. There was the smell of good food, and Bilbo felt his belly grumble. He'd been so preoccupied that he'd entirely forgotten about dinner and tea. Supper would be infinitely welcome. He only wished someone would tell him where to stow his things in the meantime.
On a whim, Bilbo decided to take a look around. There weren't many people about. In fact, Bilbo found himself almost entirely alone as he reached the outbuildings. He was walking by the horses, who eyed him with benign interest, when he heard a noise he couldn't identify. Curious, Bilbo walked further into the maze of steel bars. Near the center, isolated from the other cages, he found the source, though at first the sight was so incongruous he didn't understand what he was seeing. Oh, certainly he recognized the animal, surrounded as it was by that iconic mane. Also teeth – very, very long teeth. The gravely sound came again, and this time Bilbo knew it for what it was, a rumbling growl.
'Lion,' his mind supplied at almost the same moment he made another, more horrifying realization. The beast was not alone. It was holding something between its paws, and as Bilbo watched, it gnawed on this object with relish.
Not an object. A person.
Bilbo bolted toward the barred gate, wrestling it with clumsy fingers. Somehow he worked the latch and, casting around, grabbed the only thing within reach. His heart pounding so loudly he could hardly hear his own shout, he burst in upon the scene and cried, "Back, you villain! Get off him!" and brandished the folding chair he'd seized with all the fierceness he could muster.
A young man straightened from between the beast's front paws, disheveled hair cast about in all directions. He raked his fingers through it, blinking with eyes that Bilbo recognized immediately – for he'd seen their match glaring out of Thorin's face. In fact, Bilbo knew him. It was the same young man he'd seen from a distance that morning. The one who'd struck him as so sad. Aghast, Bilbo asked, "Aren't you – is everything – I mean – the lion!"
As though aware he was the topic of conversation, the lion stretched out a foot the size of a soup tureen and spread his toes so that the tips of his claws became visible. He ran a thick pink tongue over his nose, then pressed his huge forehead against Fíli's shoulder. The young man rubbed his ears and neck. "Don't worry. Bungo was just playing."
Now that he was calmer, Bilbo found it easier to take in the entire situation, including Fíli himself. What Bilbo saw was a lad near twenty, though perhaps not yet so old. His hair, which was covered with bits of straw from the cage floor, was far curlier than it had appeared from afar. He extracted himself from the big cat, and with just a hint of humor, asked, "A folding chair, Mister Baggins?"
Bilbo lowered his makeshift weapon, feeling his face heat up. He wanted to justify his panic, yet when he opened his mouth, the only ridiculous thing to pop out was, "You're taller than I expected."
Fíli scoffed. "You must have met my brother. Kíli thinks that last growth spurt was his finest accomplishment, and, alas, he may be right."
It was exactly the kind of thing an older brother might say, and Bilbo relaxed. "Pleased to meet you officially. I'm Bilbo Baggins."
"Fíli," said Fíli and gestured toward the animal, who had turned over lazily onto his side. "And this is Bungo. You'll have to forgive his manners. He's an elderly fellow and mostly does what he pleases."
Bilbo peered closely at the animal. He could see signs of age: the ghosting of silver in his fur, the wrinkles across his face. But, no. They weren't wrinkles. Rather, they were scars. Several showed on the regal muzzle, which – Bilbo noted with a swallow of nervousness – was extremely large. "Ah," he said, beginning to edge toward the door. "Older, is he? Do you perform with him then?"
"No. Bungo doesn't perform." Fíli's expression darkened. "He used to, but his owners were mistreating him."
There was more to the story, Bilbo was sure, but the shift in mood made him reluctant to pry. Instead, he looked at Bungo. Not a performer, eh? Before he could censor himself, he asked, "What does one do with a retired lion?"
He was surprised to hear a sputtering sound from Fíli, hastily cut off and so brief that Bilbo wasn't sure what to make of it. When he looked, however, there was no doubt; Fíli's mouth may not have smiled, but there was something in his eyes that was much the same. "Bilbo Baggins," he said in an undertone, then commented, "I have to tell you, I was impressed with your routine."
"Really?" Bilbo couldn't help his flush of pleasure. It had been so long since he'd done anything but practice, and it was gratifying to know that these professionals didn't find him entirely discreditable. "Ah, I'm glad you think so. I was afraid I was going to fall off directly."
If anything, Fíli's expression grew warmer. He offered, "Are you looking for a place to put your things?"
They left the animal enclosures and entered the residential part of the back lot. Now that they were closer, Bilbo could hear the sounds of people laughing and talking out of sight. They must be resting before supper. Fíli lead him into a much smaller section were the trailers were arranged, not in uniform rows, but in a kind of cul-de-sac with its own tables and benches. A row of paper lanterns had been strung, lending the space a more homey atmosphere. There was even a tricycle. Fíli nudged it out of the way with his foot.
"Belongs to one of Bombur's kids," Fíli said, "He has a half dozen or so. Those trailers facing the other way are his, a bit apart, since his wife prefers the privacy. The rest of the performers live here."
Bilbo was lead to a trailer, up the stairs and into a narrow space outfitted with a desk, a set of bunks, a bureau, and another single bed. It was mostly tidy, though there were clothes lying in a pile on the topmost bunk and a stack of books and folders on the desk. There wasn't much decoration, but two posters had been pasted on the ceiling. Bilbo looked up, expecting obscure band titles or pinups, but recognized instead a print of Van Gogh's Starry Night and, beside it, a faded circus poster – the kind that advertised a main attraction. Bilbo was squinting to discern its subject when the door behind him banged open.
"Fíli!" cried a familiar voice as its owner bounded inside. Hoping onto the top bunk, Kíli collapsed onto his back and spread his arms. "You'll never believe it. Gandalf convinced Thorin to let that Bilbo fellow stay after all."
Fíli moved Bilbo out of the way so that he could shut the door. "You don't say."
"You could sound a little more excited about it," Kíli said, rolling over. That was when he saw Bilbo, and his face broke out into a smile. "Mister Boggins!"
"Bilbo will be fine," Bilbo said, leaving aside the odd mangling of his surname. "Anyway, 'Mister' hardly seems appropriate if we'll be working together. But surely I'm not staying with you two." For it had occurred to Bilbo that this was where Fíli and Kíli lived, and with all the hints about outsiders being unwelcome, he'd received the distinct impression he was going to be shuffled to the furthermost reaches of the back lot.
Fíli seemed to sense what he was thinking, and gestured toward the empty bed. "You'll be staying here. Balin told me just an hour ago. Go ahead and make yourself at home."
"I can still hardly believe it," Kíli said, hanging off his bunk. His eyebrows were tangled in his unruly bangs, which Fíli tugged with a sigh as he walked past and seated himself at the desk. "Uncle hasn't brought on anybody new in ages. He argues with Mister Gandalf whenever someone crosses the threshold."
"Well, my father always said providence favored the foolhardy," Bilbo said, dropping his duffel. "And I really must be a fool, losing my head like this. I don't know what I was thinking."
Kíli grinned. "Oh, don't worry. You'll do fine! Anyway, we'll help you. Won't we, Fíli?"
Picking up a dirty sock from the floor, Fíli tossed it in his brother's face. "Perhaps you'll show a little decorum now that we have a roommate."
Nose wrinkled, eyes deeply censorious, Kíli said, "I know you have fig rolls hidden under your pillow."
Although he covered his mouth, Bilbo's sound of amusement wasn't completely muffled. Both boys turned in his direction. "Sorry, sorry. It's just, I didn't have any siblings myself."
"Lucky you," Kíli said, which made Fíli roll his eyes and turn his back, putting on a pair of reading glasses. "We have a million cousins. Practically everyone here is related to us somehow."
"Balin did say it was a family circus." Bilbo wanted to ask more about their history. He felt sensitive to the fact that there were many things going unsaid, however, and didn't want to risk falling on a painful topic, so instead he unzipped his bag and began placing his few belongings in the only bureau drawer that remained empty. He paused when his fingers touched the picture of his mother, but it was too late. Kíli's sharp eyes had already seen it.
"Who's that?"
Fíli looked up. "Leave it alone, Kíli. He's barely been here five minutes. He doesn't need an interrogation."
It was a gracious redirection, and somehow that made it easier for Bilbo to lift the frame and hand it to Kíli. "It's alright. This is my mother, or it was, a long time ago."
Kíli gazed at the petite woman with her rouged cheeks and vibrant, sequined outfit. "She was a carny."
Bilbo nodded. "As I understand it, she was born into the circus, but she left after she met my father. Still, she had a cloud swing that she practiced with. Some of my earliest memories are of swinging in it, tucked up against her." A smile came easily to his lips, for it was a gentle memory. Downy sunlight and the smell of talcum powder, the kind his mum had used for her hands. "We had a wire, too, when I got a little older. Of course, I thought it was a great game."
It seemed he'd found a firm foundation for kinship, because Kíli's limbs had gone loose with his own recollections. "I was more than nine before I realized not everybody had elephants living in their backyard or spent their afternoons learning tricks on a trampoline. Da was an acrobat, and he had us bouncing from the time we could hold our heads up, or at least that's what Balin says."
There was a touch of sadness there, and Bilbo ventured a guess. "They passed away?"
At the desk Fíli stiffened, but Kíli only shrugged. "Da died of influenza somewhere in Europe. Mum just isn't around anymore." Handing back the frame, he rolled over onto his back and yanked a magazine out from under a pile of laundry. Flipping through the glossy pages, he sighed longingly. After a moment, he turned the centerfold toward Bilbo. "One of these days I'm going to get me one of these." Bilbo moved closer. It was a beautiful old Harley, ablaze with chrome and long, curving handlebars. A truly impressive machine, just the kind to possess the fantasies of an adolescent male. No wonder Kíli sounded as though he were in love when he spoke of it. "I've been thinking of a routine I could do riding in on it, shooting from the saddle."
Fíli snorted. "In your dreams."
The younger of the two protested, "I've seen things like it done. Or with the horses! I tried to convince Nori, but he won't let me near the animals."
"That's because Nori is intelligent."
"Well, Bofur thinks it's a great idea. He might even go with me to pitch it to Uncle."
"Make sure to tell me when you do," Fíli said. "I wouldn't want to miss the inspiration for one of Bofur's comedy routines."
Kíli stuck his tongue out at his brother, who paid him no mind. Throwing his legs over the bunk, Kíli dropped to the floor and wrapped an arm around Bilbo. "He's no fun when he gets like this. What do you say we go find some entertainment before supper?"
Bilbo was interested in seeing more of the residential side of camp; however, he hesitated at Fíli's averted back. Balin had described Fíli as one who kept to himself, and he did have a reserve that Bilbo didn't sense from the others, except maybe Thorin. It was something behind his eyes, something that could be discerned but not approached, and though Bilbo didn't know why, he sensed Fíli's mood had changed since they entered the trailer. Perhaps Kíli felt it, too, because he made a gesture with his fingers, almost like a kind of sign language, and waited until his brother waved them off. It confirmed what Bilbo already knew; these two might bicker, but even after observing them for so short a time, he was sure they were extremely close.
The screen door slammed against the trailer with a crash, and then they were out in the open air. The sun was almost down, and things had grown cool and pleasant. As they passed through the common area, a ginger head appeared. Ori stopped when he saw them. He looked high school-aged, maybe fifteen, with a scruffy goatee on his chin and freckles by the buckets. He clutched several notebooks to his chest and was shrouded in what looked to be an overlarge, hand-knitted jumper.
"Oh," he stammered, smiling tentatively at Bilbo. "It's you."
"And you're Ori," Bilbo said. "Balin told me you have a wonderful magic show."
The young man turned bright pink. "It's not that good. But you'll see for yourself. We have a show tomorrow." He turned to Kíli, somewhat bashful. "Is-Is Fíli in? I wanted to ask for his help." Kíli jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and Ori hurried off at a trot, his books slipping in his grasp.
Bilbo waited until the adolescent was out of sight, then had to chuckle at the look of exasperation on Kíli's face. "Ori a bit devoted to Fíli, is he?"
"Seriously, you have no idea. Not that I blame him. He has his own brothers, but they treat him like a baby."
Bilbo thought back over his own abbreviated childhood. He'd liked his family and neighbors well enough, but there was no real connection. It was strange, but he already felt more rapport with Kíli and his quiet brother than anyone in his regular life. Vexed by his irrationality, Bilbo coached himself, 'You're colleagues, allied in a common business. Don't get attached so easily.' Aloud, he said, "I imagine Gimli looks up to you older boys, too."
"Gimli?" Kíli laughed, as if the very idea was ridiculous. "Gimli was born a senior citizen. To listen to him, you'd think he was the oldest. You certainly won't catch him mooning like Ori does."
Was that so? It was an interesting personality quirk, if it was true. But then, everyone here was strange. Kíli, who fit that description to a T, took hold of his arm and dragged him toward the eating area, which was illuminated by fluorescent lights on poles. Several children were still present, and Bilbo noticed they were dressed in a bizarre mishmash of patterns and fabrics – velvet stripes, polyvinyl polka dots, silk diamonds, and felt spirals – all of them stitched together with what seemed like a lunatic wit. The only thing tying it all together was the startling ginger hair possessed by so many of The Company's performers.
Kíli caught him looking and explained, "They're Bombur's. His wife sews all their clothes, and she hates to waste material. Uses the old costumes when they need replacing. They look a motley lot, don't they?"
Actually, Bilbo thought they looked whimsical, like they belonged in a dream rather than the real world. He soaked in the sight of the children, warmed by their untroubled dance of protected childhood. Adults were gathering as well, drawn by the hearty smell which emanated from the open kitchen and its adjoining trailer. A surprising number wore trimmed, well-tended beards, and all of them seemed to know each another. One smiled and waved, and Bilbo recognized Bofur's long mustaches.
"Kíli!" he hailed. "I was just looking for you. Thorin wants to see you before supper."
Kíli tensed. "Did he say why?" Bofur didn't answer directly, but the way he glanced in Bilbo's direction made him wonder if the summons were connected to him somehow. Kíli seemed as though he were wondering the same thing. "Bofur, will you keep an eye on Bilbo?"
The man clapped Bilbo across his shoulder blades. "I'll steer him right," he said, and once Kíli disappeared into the gathering darkness, "It's Bilbo, right? We'll probably see a lot of one another. My people bridge most of the acts."
It was a typical custom. Clown bits were used to tie the different performances together, bringing a continuity to the show as a whole. However, the reminder that he would soon be performing was like an elbow in the stomach. Bilbo squeaked out, "Yes, I suppose I will be working soon."
Bofur's smile was kind. "Not with this show, though. Thorin will expect you to work up to our standards, get to know the rhythm of things. I expect we'll be in the next town before you take center stage, in a manner of speaking."
Without the immediacy, Bilbo's nerves calmed. He even managed a tentative grin. "I see." He gazed at the gathering people. "I just wish I knew more. I feel so out of place."
"Such is the way for a First of May," Bofur said brightly. "But don't worry, you'll find your feet soon enough, and in the meantime, there's plenty of opportunity to make a few good friends." The offer was as clear as the look on Bofur's face, and Bilbo's heart swelled, but before he could stammer his thanks, Bofur had made a set of colorful balls appear in the palm of his hand. "Do you know how to juggle?"
The rest of the time before dinner was spent learning this fundamental skill, dropping the balls repeatedly on the ground or off his head while Bofur and the children laughed at his attempts. Soon, though, with much effort and encouragement, Bilbo began to get the hang of it. A prediction of his future here, he certainly hoped.
Supper, to Bilbo's surprise, did not take place in the public eating area. When the dinner bell rang, Bofur hustled Bilbo back in the direction of their trailers. There, the picnic tables had been pressed together, and a much more intimate group was gathering. Bilbo recognized Dwalin with his immense height and smooth head. He eyeballed Bilbo as the new performer was ushered into a seat near him, and Bilbo was freshly impressed by the bands of ink covering his muscled forearms and even the knuckles of his hands. Surreptitiously, he tried to take a closer look, but the runic symbols meant nothing to him. Also at the table was Balin with his dignified white beard, and the three brothers, Dori, Nori, and Ori. The older two seemed to be bickering with their smaller brother squashed between them. Across from Bilbo, Óin winked through his magnifying spectacles, and just down the line, Bilbo spotted the two aerialists, Glóin and Gimli. He didn't see Kíli yet, nor Fíli, and certainly not Thorin, whom he suspected could fill a room just by being present.
He jerked when a someone thumped down beside him, and his eyes went wide as he met the wild gaze of a stranger whose face was fringed by tangled salt-and-pepper hair. A glint caught the light, and Bilbo realized with a surge of horror that he could see bit of metal embedded in the newcomer's forehead. Shrapnel? The stranger stuck out an arm with sudden, jarring force. In a deep, gravelly voice, he grunted, "Добро пожаловать."
"A-ah." Bilbo hesitantly accepted the offered hand. Although he had enjoyed languages as a teenager, enough to recognize Russian when he heard it, he'd retained nothing but the most basic greetings. Profoundly nervous, he tripped his way around a garbled, "Очень приятно."
To his surprise, the crazy looking man laughed aloud, clapping Bilbo's shoulder so hard he almost knocked his forehead on the table. He spoke again, but this time Bilbo recognized nothing he said. He was saved by the timely arrival of Bofur, who solved at least one mystery with an introduction. "It seems you've met my cousin. This is Bifur. He's little on the rough side, but there's no one braver!"
"The bear tamer!" Bilbo remembered, and looked at Bifur with new appreciation. He could see a few old scars, white against the leathery skin, but none looked new. Shyly, he glanced away, already embarrassed by his outburst. "I mean, Balin told me about you earlier."
Bifur, whose gnarled features were still fixed in an expression of abiding pleasure, spoke again, and though Bilbo stared without comprehension, Bofur nodded. "Well said," he remarked, then pointed down the table. "That would be the other half of my family, my brother Bombur. We owe him the bounty of today's meal."
At the head of the table, laying down another platter, was the fattest man Bilbo had ever seen. His hips were easily wider than the table, and his pump face was cheerfully florid, though it had nothing on his hair, which was the most vivid shade yet. With an indulgent look, Bombur eased a bread roll into a grasping little hand peeking above the table top, then unselfconsciously helped himself to two more. He cleared his throat, as though to announce the readiness of the meal, and everyone settled in for what appeared to be nothing short of a feast.
All down the joined tables, plates of food had been spread out. Heaping piles of sliced beef and chicken, platters of roasted red-skinned potatoes and almost overflowing tureens of gravy. Bread in plenty, thick slabs of cheese. Grilled tomatoes, pickles and other cold niblets, plus pots and pots of condiments – brown mustard, mayonnaise, vinegar, and olive oil. The performers went at it with gusto, reaching over one another, serving themselves and eating with their hands. Great glasses of beer were poured and just as quickly disappeared, all amid a great convivial atmosphere of talking and joking. Bilbo hardly knew where to begin, and he was thankful when Kíli leaned over his shoulder.
"Help yourself, Mister Boggins," he said. "Otherwise you may go hungry!"
Glad to see a face he knew, Bilbo turned eagerly, only to stop when he saw Kíli's anxious expression. It was quickly gone, however, covered by a ready smile. Concerned that his meeting had not gone well, Bilbo wondered, "Are you alright?"
"Of course, absolutely." Kíli's head rattled, yet his dark eyes tracked around the gathering. "You haven't seen my brother yet, have you?"
"Ori is there," Bilbo answered, nodding in his direction, "But I haven't seen – oh, I've spoken too soon."
Just as he framed his response, Fíli appeared over the shoulders of the other performers. He spoke to Ori, who eagerly made space for him, and Nori, who had been arguing with his older brother so strenuously that bits of food kept flying out of his mouth, quieted down. Bilbo saw Ori sigh with relief.
"My brother the hero," Kíli muttered, the admiration in his voice liberally mixed with long-suffering. However, when Bilbo glanced at him, he seemed strangely troubled.
After that they tucked in with gusto, including Bilbo, who found his appetite restored. While they ate, he talked with Kíli, who gossiped in his ear about their table companions and answered any questions that sprang to Bilbo's mind. "So, why aren't we eating near the cookhouse?
"A good-sized circus has to have a pretty large crew. There are animal handlers and vets, lighting and sound technicians, carpenters, security. Plus plenty of other laborers called roustabouts, the folks who do most of the heavy lifting during the haul, putting up and breaking down tents and equipment. A few of the specialists stay with the circus indefinitely, but most come and go every few seasons. The roustabouts are temporary hires."
"Where do you hire people for that kind of job?"
"Oh, anywhere. Most every town has its share of folk looking for a paycheck. It's hard work and long hours, but we provide lodging and meals. It appeals to the kind who don't like punching a clock."
Bilbo mulled over this information. He remembered that Kíli and Fíli said they were born to circus life. Certainly for all those gathered here, The Company was about much, much more than a paycheck. "Then the ones who come and go eat at the cookhouse," he ventured, "but the performers eat here."
"Most of the acts have been a part of The Company for years and years," Kíli agreed. "We're family, many of us by blood. It's nicer to create our own little village."
"Does that mean we'll be seeing Thorin soon?" It occurred to Bilbo that he still hadn't seen the circus's leader, and as nervous as Thorin made him, it still bothered him that the ringleader was missing.
Kíli cleared his throat. "He won't be here tonight; too busy with last minute preparations. Actually, he often works late and eats on his own. Still, you'll see him from time to time."
One more question came to Bilbo, and though it clung to his throat, in the end he felt he must ask. "Kíli," he asked. "I appreciate how kind you've been to me so far, but I have to know – if the temporary crew eat by the cookhouse, then why am I here?"
"Because you belong here."
The new voice broke in even as Kíli opened his mouth, easily shouldering aside any other answer. Bilbo looked over his shoulder and found that Fíli had come to join them. Kíli shone like the sun after a cloud had passed. "I wondered if you were going to ignore me all night."
"I'm sorry," Fíli said. He ruffled his brother's hair, sending his bangs flying. "Ori was in dire straits."
"You don't always have to bail everyone out, you know," Kíli muttered under his breath, just a touch too solemnly to be joking.
His brother ignored him. Instead, Fíli turned to Bilbo. "You're a performer, Bilbo, and even if you're just here for the season, you're a part of our troupe now. Besides, I have a good feeling. New blood will be good for everyone."
Bilbo wasn't sure what to say, so instead he helped himself to another sandwich, letting his mind drift from conversation to conversation, listening and observing and trying to absorb it all. The meal continued for a rambling length of time, barely slacking in exuberance until finally the bottoms of plates began to be visible again. As belts were loosened, a humming started somewhere along the table, which was picked up by other voices. Within moments, the low, long murmur had turned to melody, and Bilbo heard his first after-dinner song:
"The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone,
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.
The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep."
As the voices faded, Bilbo felt his eyes shining. There was something about the deep-throated voices, and though the song itself had little meaning to him beyond the whispers of an old, old story, he couldn't help but be moved by it. After that, several tobacco pipes came out, and a pleasant aroma filled the area as trails of blue smoke began to twist their way up into the night sky. A woman sitting with a small boy in her lap swatted at Bombur when he stoked her cheek with his thumb, and that was when the stories and conversations started, separate now rather than part of the general clamor.
"Another haul done," said Dori. He had a handkerchief out, which he used to mop his forehead. "It seems longer every time."
"That's because you're getting old," Nori goaded, but he did add, "Though it did seem longer today."
"Not enough hands," Óin said with disapproval. "We needed at least half a dozen more to erect the main tent, and lucky we are that no one was seriously hurt. As it is, I've had three sprains today, plus more bruises and smashed fingers than I care to mention."
"Please don't," muttered Ori under his breath, looking green. "I can't stand blood."
"Baby," Gimli hissed, only to be squashed under his father's armpit. The boy flailed, trying to free himself, but Glóin only tightened his punitive grip.
Balin, meanwhile, stood from his seat and set down his drink. The table silenced. Smiling, the elderly man braced his hands on the table. "As you all know, I've been a full-time performer with The Company for more than thirty years. I've enjoyed every minute, loved every crowd, but it seems that age is finally getting the better of me." There were murmurs around the table, but Balin silenced them with a generous wave of his hand. "No, it happens to us all. Yet my absence will leave a gap, and to fill it, Gandalf has arranged for us to take on a new performer. Some of you have met him already, but for those who haven't, I would like to present Mister Bilbo Baggins."
All eyes turned toward him, and Bilbo felt himself break out in a sweat all the way to the bottoms of his feet. He tasted salt on his upper lip and sank down into his seat.
"Mister Baggins is a tightwire artist," Balin went on. "And a good one, as many of you witnessed. With the support of The Company, I think he could become one of the best. I hope you'll all do what you can to make him feel at home. Mister Baggins," Balin looked him directly in the eye with unambiguous warmth. "Welcome to The Company."
A roar of applause and the thumping of mugs rose to answer him, and Bilbo was once again treated to Bifur's profoundly strong grip. On his other side, Fíli raised a glass, and Bilbo could see Kíli over his shoulder, beaming. However, not every face was welcoming. Even amid the general din of approval, he spotted Dwalin, who had not moved except to cross his arms, and – to his surprise – he spotted Dori and Nori exchanging dark looks. And there was still Thorin's absence to contend with. Nonetheless, Bilbo lifted his mug in a nerveless hand, stammering, "At your service."
The volume settled back to its original volume, but now Bilbo found himself the center of attention. Bofur leaned toward him. "So tell us, Bilbo, how did you come to be able to do those tricks. I've seen cartwheels before, and flips on a slack line, but I've never seen anyone tumble like that. Where did you learn it?"
Bilbo answered, "My mother taught me."
"She did an excellent job," Glóin praised, and his compliment carried real weight since he spoke with the authority of one who did such things for a living. His laughter rumbled deep in his chest. "My heart was in my mouth when you lost your footing. I thought for sure you were going to break your neck."
Bilbo rubbed the back of his still-intact neck. "I am a little rusty." In an attempt to direct the conversation away from himself, he said, "Honestly, I'd rather talk about The Company. Balin said it's been around a long time, but I don't recall hearing the name."
A subtle disquietude slipped through the gathering. Somber faces looked around at one another, and then Óin spoke. "We haven't always been called The Company. That name is relatively new. In times past, our folk were called the Sons of Aulë, and we were known far and wide as the Erebor players."
Bilbo was so stunned he sucked in breath through his teeth. "Erebor? But I have heard that name. A famous circus, three hundred years old and more – the best talents in the world, or so they said. But I thought there was a fire." In the sudden dead silence, he looked uncomfortably at Balin. "Is that not right?"
The profound quiet made it easy for Balin to be heard. "No, you're right, laddie. There was a fire. It destroyed nearly everything, and not a few of our people. A tragedy that can hardly be felt, still less named."
Around the table, eyes stared solemnly. The young people ducked their heads, avoiding eye contact. Bilbo felt their hearts contracting, even after so much time, and his own squeezed in sympathy. "Was everything lost?
"The equipment, trailers, and facilities were all gone," Óin said. "Not a scrap of canvas remained. Just charred poles liked burnt bones and a few twisted bleachers. Moreover, it happened during a show and several audience members were hurt."
"And one child died," Glóin added.
Dwalin growled, "More than one child died."
No one dared speak for a long time afterward. Finally, though, Bilbo murmured, "I'm sorry for bringing it up. I can hardly believe such an accident happened."
"Accident?" Óin said, shaking his head. "Oh, no. I don't think so. It's true that there's an inherent risk to our occupation, but we know how to handle accidents. This fire wasn't a mistake. It blazed too hot and burned too readily. Something was feeding it."
"You can't mean you think it was sabotage." Bilbo's heart thumped at the very idea. He could hardly countenance such willful destruction and death. "Who would do such a thing?"
"Those who wished great harm on the Durins. Our people have always had enemies, down from the ancient days. The extinction of our bloodline, or at least our widespread dispersal and dissolution, would please some." Balin's hand strayed to his white beard, which he stroked thoughtfully. "In some ways, they have succeeded."
Kíli thumped the table. "Succeeded my foot. We're here."
"But diminished," Balin said with a sigh. "And so many spread throughout Europe, eking out a living where they may. So many children, growing up without a heritage."
The heritage he spoke of Bilbo knew little about. Of course, carny folk were known for their nomadic lifestyle, but these people were more than nomads. He remembered the runes on Dwalin's knuckles, the black tent with its copper stripes, and remembered the whispers about dwarves. Dwarves were a child's fantasy, beings separate from ordinary people with extraordinary abilities and a long history stretching back to the times before men clustered in cities and forgot the age of heroes, battle, and treasure. 'That isn't what they mean,' Bilbo told himself. 'It's their family heritage they speak of. They were a dynasty of performers and now they're struggling. There are no such things as dwarves.'
Balin took back up the tale. "With everything gone and with public opinion against us, our people struggled to rebuild. It was hard to find the heart, there were so many burials. Moreover, although suspicions were explained to law enforcement, it was felt that blame laid with Erebor. We tried to start again, yet when we went to collect the insurance money, we were told the claim had been denied."
Bilbo exclaimed, "But how could they? Surely the circus was protected from fire, no matter what the cause."
"It certainly was. Yet our people were denied all the same, and though Thorin's grandfather took it to court and fought with heart and soul, the appeal was overturned and not one cent was awarded. The court costs only added to our burden, and we found ourselves destitute. The strain all but destroyed Thror, Thorin's grandfather. He died much too young, barely sixty, and it wrecked his son, who turned to despair. No one has seen Thráin for years."
"And everything fell to Thorin," Bilbo finished. Profound sympathy filled his heart. "That's terribly shameful."
"One of many shameful things," someone murmured, and Bilbo heard Kíli's sharp intake of breath.
Balin went on. "But Thorin has risen to every expectation. He scraped together a livelihood, held us together when many were drifting away. We found work, and with time we were able to purchase a stake in this circus. With it, we hope to rebuild something of what was taken from us. So far, we've done well. There's not so much fear as before about making ends meet."
"Yet there's still a debt," Nori spat. "Still the banks breathing down our neck, and still the stink of what happened poisoning our reputation whenever it becomes known. Having to bear whatever outrage, no matter how vulgar –"
"Enough!" Dwalin's interruption cracked out like a whip, and though Nori fumed silently, he did subside.
"Patience, brothers." Balin raised his hands, but he looked older than before, alluvial ridges spreading from eyes that spoke of pain. "We have overcome all suffering and survived. Let us think of future prosperity. Future healing, and not the pain of the past."
Such a thing was easy to say, but profoundly difficult in practice, Bilbo knew. Though years had passed since he watched his mother waste away, the pain of it was still an ache in his heart, dim in some moments but often keenly acute. He had not lost everything as these around him had, but he felt an echo of their loss in his own spirit, and he found himself longing to do anything that might help. He looked at his hand. Only hours ago, he had called it a traitor for signing that contract, but now he felt oddly resolved, his nervousness gone. His powers were small, but he would do what he could. He would try.
Eager to offer some small show of solidarity, Bilbo pushed to his feet and raised his mug. "To the success of The Company," he said. "May wounds be healed and your home be returned to you."
To propose a toast, especially one so lofty, was far bolder than Bilbo's usual character, and at first he stood in mortification when, instead of taking up his salute, the entire body stared at him without a single sound. Bilbo was stricken to find that he had so misjudged the moment. Yet when he looked around the table, what he saw was not disapprobation. Instead, there were several moist eyes. Slowly, Bifur also lifted his mug.
"За нашу дружбу!"
The spell broken, mugs filled the air and a great shout went up. Bilbo sunk back into his seat, a comfortable pool of warmth forming inside him, and he might have been wholly happy had he not looked to his left. There he saw Fíli, with his head bowed almost upon his crossed arms, and his brother beside him, an arm wrapped mutely around his shoulders.
Next Chapter Summary: Bilbo attempts to (literally) find his footing, but he remains a stranger in a strange land.
Footnote(s):
[1] First of May is a term used to describe those joining the circus for their first season.
[2] The after-dinner song performed by the company was actually sung by Gimli during The Fellowship of the Ring as they traveled through the mines of Moria. Its whole title is "The World was Young, the Mountains Green", but it's also referred to as "The Song of Durin". Its melancholy tone seemed right for this establishing moment in the story, even with the more modern setting.
Author's Note(s): Why are you so long, chapter?
