by Sally Gardens
Chapter Four: Mending Begins With the Torn
Strange sounds intruded upon his slumber. A clatter of dishes. The chatter of voices. High voices.
Hobbit voices.
He was home.
Frodo felt a lazy smile spread over his face. Slowly, leisurely, he opened his eyes, blinking at the sunlight seeping between the drapes.
He was home.
He knew he wasn't healed. He knew he should be feeling wary, shadowed, dreading the next descent of darkness. And descend it would, he had no doubt. October lay not far around the bend. But it could not touch him now. Now, he felt and cared for only one thing.
He was home.
Breakfast with the Gardner clan was a jolly, chaotic affair. It was a bit overwhelming for one who was long unused to the bustle of family. Frodo ate mostly in silence, content to observe and to absorb and to consider himself the luckiest Hobbit in the Shire.
"It was awfully good of you to keep my old clothes handy," he said when Sam walked into the dining room.
Sam shrugged and reached for the cider. "Lucky for you I'm such a keeper of mathoms," he gruffly replied. "Else you'd be swimming in one of my suits, or stuck wearing that one outfit till we get you some new clothes, and if you'll pardon my saying so, it is a bit travel-worn."
Frodo smiled and asked Sam to pass the scrambled eggs.
He was finishing a second helping of potatoes when Sam spoke up. "Have you given thought to sending word to Merry and Pippin that you're home?—though in the case of Master Took, sending word round the inns would do the job quicker—"
"Sam."
Sam glanced across the table to his wife and began to frame a suitably contrite response, but before he could speak, the doorbell rang.
"Got it," said Sam, rising and dropping his napkin on the table.
Frodo exchanged knowing looks with Rose, and they both suppressed smiles, Rose shaking her head. From down the hall came Sam's voice at the door: "Well, lass, and a fine morning it is to see you. I've got someone here you'll want to meet."
"Meaning me, I presume," called Frodo toward the hallway.
"Meaning you, Mr. Frodo." Sam beamed at Frodo as he stepped into the dining room with a stranger—more woman than lass, Frodo observed, probably no younger than Sam himself—at his side. "This is Miss Molly Piper. She keeps a bit of a garden and does a bit of crafting in a little hole on the westskirts of Hobbiton."
Molly curtsied. "I've been waiting to meet you," were the first words out of her mouth—and the color rose in her cheeks as she realized what she had said.
"I—I had a feeling you'd be coming back, somehow," she stammered, looking round at the circle of stunned faces. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Baggins, sir."
"No pardon is needed," Frodo kindly assured her, quelling his initial shock with some effort. He stood and bowed. "It is a pleasure to meet you Miss Piper, and I look forward to making your acquaintance." He smiled. "However, if you and the mayor will pardon me, I really am in need of a brief stroll." He patted his small stomach gingerly, as if about to burst.
"Have you had breakfast, yet, Molly?" inquired Rose, bearing a platter to the table even as she spoke.
"Go on, then, Mr. Frodo," agreed Sam. "Molly here'll probably still be here when you get back. And I'll be in the study, doing my mayoral duties."
"Oh, yes, Rose," Molly answered. "Thank you, I have."
"Ah, yes." Frodo's eyes sparkled. "I remember well the endless pile of papers to be filled and signed."
"Well, it won't be hurting you to have a bit more," Rose said to Molly, smiling.
Sam glanced at Frodo shrewdly. "Might be you'd like to run for the office yourself, next term."
"Well, since you insist, Rose," returned Molly with a smile of her own. "I'd be remiss to turn down your kind hospitality."
"Not a chance, thank you all the same, Mayor Samwise." Frodo smiled to himself and pulled a pipe out of his jacket as he stepped into the hall.
After partaking of Rose's kind hospitality, Molly thought a walk sounded like a fine idea. She had no more in mind than to help the surfeit of breakfast settle in her stomach; but when she stepped out on the front porch, she caught sight of Frodo sitting beneath the great beautiful tree that had grown to replace the Party Tree of old. And seeing him reminded her of something she wished to ask him, so she crossed the lawn and stood by his side.
"Mr. Baggins, sir."
Frodo looked up from his pipe. The sun caught his brown eyes, warming them to deep amber. "Hm?"
"Do—d'you mind if I sit with you a moment?"
"Oh. No, not at all, Miss Piper. But please," he added, as Molly settled next to him on the grass, "call me Frodo. All of my friends do."
Molly let her gaze wander down the side of the hill, over the fields and the Water to the little houses and holes on the other side. "The mayor calls you Mr. Frodo." She glanced out of the corner of her eye to gauge his response.
One corner of Frodo's mouth tugged up. "So he does," he murmured, puffing on his pipe.
An answering smile flickered upon Molly's face before she turned back to meditating upon the countryside below. She sighed, and settled back upon the grass, her hands stretched behind her for support. "That you may love it all the more," she murmured, her smile softening.
A sudden fit of coughing snapped her out of her reverie.
"Mr. Ba—Frodo!" she exclaimed, immediately sitting up and taking the pipe from where, stubbornly, it remained clenched in his teeth. "Good heavens! Can I—?" Frodo shook his head, coughing harshly into his fist.
"I'm fine," he at last rasped out. He drew a long breath, and let it out slowly. "Caught the smoke the wrong way in my throat, 's all." His eyes watered profusely as he blinked, striving for focus.
"Here." Molly thrust a lace-trimmed handkerchief at him. "It's clean," she assured him.
Frodo burst out laughing—and was caught short by another round of coughing. "Oh. Oh, Miss Piper—"
"Molly."
He looked up at her, eyes still brimming, and winked. "Molly it is." Blotting his eyes with the handkerchief, he went on, "Molly, I cannot begin to guess how long it's been since I last laughed so well."
"Well, if telling you I did my laundry's all it takes, then I say it's long overdue." Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh! Begging your pardon! What my mother would say, to see her daughter exhibit such cheek towards her betters—"
"I am not your better." Frodo was completely sober, now, as he carefully reached for her hand and gave it a brief squeeze, drawing it away from her face. "I am your neighbor, and, I hope, to be numbered among your friends, as Sam and Rose plainly number you among theirs; and a friendlier welcome home I could not have wished for. And," again his eyes twinkled, and he held up the now-sodden handkerchief, "I will be sure to wash this before I return it to you."
Molly couldn't help but return his smile, though hers held more gratitude than mirth. "Thank you, Mr.—I'll remember, I'll remember!" she protested with a little laugh as she could see the correction forming on his lips. "Thank you—Frodo."
"And thank you—Molly."
They sat a while, then, in silence. Frodo had put his pipe aside to lean back against the tree, hands behind his head. Molly settled back on the lawn, once again joining Frodo in his watch over the peaceful country. The air was cool, but not uncomfortable, and now and then a little breeze would ripple the golden leaves on the alders along the stream.
When the sun was growing high in the south, Molly stirred. "Best I be taking my leave now, Mi—Frodo."
"Very well." He rose and extended his right hand. Molly barely got a glimpse of a great gap where the ring finger should have been before Frodo hastily withdrew his right hand and thrust out his left. "Here."
"Thank you," she said, accepting as he helped her to her feet. "You are a true gentlehobbit," she added, trying not to notice how he now kept his right hand hidden in his pocket.
"You are kind to say so," he answered, walking with her across the grass.
Where the path met the road to Hobbiton, Molly halted and turned back to Frodo.
"I nearly forgot," she said. "I had a dream, just this past week, it was, and I was wondering, well, if you might help me make sense of it. It had you in it," she quickly added, "so that's why I was thinking, now, you might know, because I couldn't make head nor tail of it."
Frodo blinked, raising his eyebrows. "What was the dream?"
"Oh—not much, really. Just you standing on a ship, sailing, sailing, over a wide gray sea. And you were coming to, not going away, and there was a voice, speaking. Poetry. Like someone standing and reciting for a party."
He could feel his heart pounding in absurd anticipation—or, possibly, and even more absurdly, dread—as he asked, hopefully, hesitantly, "Do—do you remember the poem?"
Molly nodded. "Yes, I do, and I hope you can make sense of it." She drew herself up straight, folding her hands behind her back, and recited:
Blessing from what was thought to be curse;
From deepest wounds springs healing.
Happy the wise who holds the path;
The reward of endurance: revealing.
From the instrument meant to destroy us,
The peace of the kindreds is born;
From darkness, vision of the light,
And mending begins with the torn.
She let out a slip of breath, letting her arms settle back to her sides, and looked expectantly to Frodo. He was frowning, deep in thought, and Molly wasn't sure whether he liked at all what he had heard.
"Well, that's it." She shrugged. "I can't blame you if it makes no sense to you, either, but I supposed it was worth asking."
Frodo looked up. "No, I can't say I quite understand it, myself," he admitted. "Well, it seems I should, but—but you're right." His face lit up with a bright smile. "It doesn't make any sense. Dreams can be like that."
"Indeed they can," replied Molly. Then she smiled in return. "But I shan't delay you any longer. I'm sure Sam and Rose have got your lunch waiting, and I do need to be getting home. Good afternoon, Frodo."
Frodo nodded and lifted his left hand in farewell. "Good afternoon, Molly."