Chapter Nine: In the House of an 'Intentional Enema'…

Yadda-yadda-yadda…In No Way Allegorical

(A Love Story, Part Two)

The Hobbitish 'Gang of Four' were not really interested in a leftist cultural revolution as they wandered witlessly through the Old Forest; rather, simply having dinner weighed more heavily on their minds (and tweaked their tummies) than a bold coup d'état over the power apparatus of the Communist Party. After all, they were hopelessly lost, and they weren't even Chinese Marxists. After a several hour bungle through the jungle, the Hobbits literally blundered onto the path that led to the House of Tom Bombadil, an impressive Frank Lloyd Wright influenced edifice of wood and stone. The Prairie School architecture blended so seamlessly with the woodland environment that the Hobbits might well have unwittingly passed the house by if it weren't for the garden gnomes (all with blue jackets and yellow boots, of course) that marked the pathway to the portico. John Ruskin or William Morris would not have necessarily approved of the gnomes, which were at odds with the indigenous materials and natural ambiance of the house, but given Bombadil's kitschy fashion sense, it was amazing that there weren't plastic pink flamingos and abstract sculptural elements made of hubcaps and rusty iron tie-rods littering the landscape.

Bombadil was standing at the mission-style quarter-sawn oak door fitted with ebonized wrought iron strap hinges, clavos, catches and latches (for whatever reason, one must be very specific about describing doors in fan-fiction). He had his fists planted firmly against his hips and was tapping his boot impatiently, as if he had been awaiting the Hobbits' arrival for quite a long time:

Hey-ho, the merry-o! Laggardly, lubberly louts!
Ding-dong, dingleberry, Welcome to a coming out –
Hush-a-bye me darlings,
Pay no mind to what I'm on about!

Hey-ho and cheerio! No skeletons in the closet here!
Ding-dong, dimplederry! Come as you are, m'dears –
Rush-a-bye me darlings,
But guests must enter through the rear!

And Bombadil wasn't kidding, because he had just finished shellacking the parlor floor. The Hobbits made their way through the kitchen garden, following the delectable aromas that wafted through the open windows: freshly baked bread, pungent cheeses, sweet honeycombs, manicotti and Tiramisù (Tom was trying his hand at Italian cuisine). As they quickly filed in through the backdoor, the hungry Halflings were drawn ineluctably to a substantial trestle table laden with all sorts of provender, pastries and nosh. Tom, humming and hopping as usual, whisked down four rush-seated ladderback chairs that hung from pegs along the wall for the Hobbits, and then sat himself at a more ornate, finely turned Chippendale at one end of the table. At the other end of the table was a rough-hewn ash armchair of gigantic proportions, which loomed over the far side of the table like an impending threat.

Frodo gazed uneasily at the immense chair. "Who…who sits there?" he stuttered.

The light of my days,
And my partner in rhyme.
The curds in my whey,
And lemon to my lime!

"Oh, that's quite…fruity," Frodo said hesitantly, remembering Bilbo's description of the fair-haired Goldberry as a slim, wisp of a nymph. He glanced over at the chair again. "Seems like an awfully big seat for the River Daughter."

"River Daughter? Tom grunted and stuck out his tongue in disgust. "Goldberry!" he shouted, and then sang:

Goldberry, Goldberry! Temptress and tart!
She went astray and broke my heart!
Goldberry, Goldberry! Mistress of distress!
No longer will women cause me duress,
I've given them up without lament --
Given them up like treats at Lent --
Goldberry, Goldberry! Played me like a pawn!
Goldberry, Goldberry! Up and gone!

"Oh…ummm…so sorry to hear that," Frodo fumbled, searching vainly for something comforting to say.

"No worries!" Tom said cheerfully with an unexpected wink and smile. "Please pass the butter. Would you like some salted herring to go with your Tiramisù?"

"No, no thank you," Frodo said with an expression like curdled milk.

But Frodo's glance settled back on the massive chair once again, and Tom followed his eyes. "Ah well, I suppose I shan't be able to keep it a secret much longer," Tom muttered irritably, "particularly in a parody of this nature." He took a deep breath and sighed, "The chair is Beorn's."

Frodo smiled wanly even as his face blanched white. Merry and Pippin had stopped eating and were looking down at their plates, not daring to look up. Only Sam continued eating with gusto. "Beorn," Sam said between chews, "she's a big woman then?"

"No, Samwise, my friend," Tom chuckled, "Beorn is not a woman…at least not in this relationship."

"Alrighty then," Sam burped and continued eating without any further notice of his friend's appalled looks.

"Sam, didn't you hear what Bombadil just said?" Merry, who was sitting next to the gormandizing Gamgee, whispered gingerly.

"Aye, I heard him, so what?" Sam answered aloud and then shoved a hardboiled egg in his mouth.

"Well, don't you find it shocking?"

"Nope," Sam said with a shrug, "I've had to deal with this type 'o' thing with Master Frodo for years."

"Samwise!" Frodo cried in embarrassment.

"Well, you do throw a hissy fit every time I talk to Rosie Cotton!" Sam replied sharply as he attempted to suck on a honeycomb.

"I…I do not!" Frodo shivered in rage.

"Now, now, we are all friends here," Tom laughed, "if Frodo wishes to keep his orientation a secret, then we should honor his wishes." He looked sympathetically at Frodo and added, "But it's not healthy."

"But…I am not gay!"

Merry rolled his eyes and Pippin spat out a bit of sweet potato.

"Well, I'm not damn it!"

"Denial!" Everyone at the table said in unison.

"Beorn acted the same way," Bombadil said with a sad sigh. "Poor chap, always skin-changing and shape-shifting – never quite sure who or what he was. First he was a bear, then a tree sloth -- even now he sometimes changes into a giant beaver when he gets uncomfortable with himself."

"Beorn…the Beaver?" Frodo muttered in confusion.

"Ah, 'sose it was Beorn that were the beaver what frightened the piss out 'o' Old Man Willow!" Sam shouted in delight, for he dearly loved beavers, as well as Elves (not that there's anything wrong with that).

"Yes, 'twas I that sent Beorn to your aid," Tom said with a twinkle in his eye. "That sort of thing gives him a purpose. I like to keep him happy. It's miserable around here when he gets all grumpy and ursine -- it's unbearable."

"And where is Beorn now?" Frodo asked quickly, glad that the subject had changed.

"For a big fella, he's actually quite shy," Tom smiled warmly, "which is why he is usually more comfortable interacting with animals."

"But what about you?" Merry interrupted. "How do you fit in…with…Beorn…" He suddenly tapered off as he realized the words hadn't come out quite right.

"Me?" Bombadil said with a shrug. "I'm an enigma."

"What, like in constipation relief?" Sam said rather stupidly.

"Not an enema, Sam," Frodo growled, still irritated at Sam trying to out him, "an enigma: something that baffles understanding and cannot be explained – an oddity of nature."

"Well, that's hit the nail on the head, if ever there was a head to nail, if you get me meaning," Sam analogized.

"In any case, you four aint traipsing about my forest to hear tall tales of Tom!" Bombadil said, just as keen as Frodo to change the subject. "Just what are you running from?"

"Snufflin' black riders, mostly," Sam answered offhandedly.

"Black riders, eh?" Tom said with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, we believe they are servants of the One Enemy…" Frodo said and then his voice fell to a hoarse whisper and he croaked, "…you know…Sauron!"

"Never met him, personally," Tom replied, misunderstanding Frodo, "but I heard tell he's a nasty bloke, from all accounts. Definitely not tree-friendly, and certainly not the type that's healthy for wee lil' Hobbits to associate with." But Bombadil suddenly squinted an eye shrewdly and stroked his beard. "Now, what would a blighter like Sauron be wanting with a few sexually ambiguous Hobbits? I haven't heard he's interested in breeding smaller Orcs, he usually prefers the bigger-the-better."

Frodo, not at all interested in where the conversation might be heading, blurted out, "It's the Ring! I have the One Ring!"

"Ah, so that's it!" Bombadil laughed with a strange gleam in his eyes. "Well, bring it out…let's see this Ring!"

Frodo was reluctant, but he brought out the Ring in spite of himself. Even more surprisingly, he found himself handing the Ring to Bombadil!

Tom held the Ring between two fingers and peered through it at Frodo as if he were gazing through a looking glass. "Hmmm…I don't see things differently from this perspective, although I'm sure it'll make a neat CGI effect." Tom chuckled. "Still, it was rather daft of Sauron to place all his power into the Ring, even for a fantasy story. He should've used an anvil or a boulder – not as portable." Then Bombadil spun the ring on the tip of his finger like a Harlem Globetrotter, flipped it nonchalantly in the air, and suddenly…POOF! It was gone!

Frodo gasped and quickly stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. "Where…where did it go?"

"Nowhere, silly, "Bombadil laughed and placed the Ring back in Frodo's shaking palm. Frodo stared down at the Ring in his outstretched hand and then he held it up nervously. "Wait a moment…" Frodo griped, "this isn't the One Ring!"

"Of course it is," Tom replied with a nervous smile.

"No, it is not," Frodo shot back. "The One Ring is gold, this is silver."

"Oh, that's just the lighting – it's terrible in the dining room!" Bombadil said, thinking quickly, "I usually have to do my needlepoint in the parlor."

"The One Ring does not have a pink quartz setting!"

"That's not quartz," Tom retorted indignantly, "it's tourmaline, and it's very rare in these parts." The flustered Bombadil suddenly added, "at least, it looks like tourmaline in the bad lighting of this room. Oh! How my eyes hurt from squinting!"

"The inscription says 'XOXOXOX T.B. FOR BEORN, ONE YEAR'," Frodo grumbled.

"Give him back his ring!"

All eyes turned to the shadows in the kitchen where the rumbling snarl of a voice had spoken.

"Give him back his Ring, Bombadil!" the voice growled so deeply that it rattled the silverware. Suddenly, a huge, bearded man entered into the light, glaring crossly at Tom with thick eyebrows like hairy, horizontal apostrophes emphasizing his demand.

"Oh, all right, Beorn, m'dear," Tom said with a roll of his eyes. "It was only a parlor trick. You know how I love making magic!"

Then he gave Beorn a knowing wink, who smirked in spite of his exasperation.