by Sally Gardens
PART TWO: WINTER
Chapter Nine: Barren Lands
The very next morning Sam declared that it was time for Frodo to pay a visit to Hobbiton. Keeping a gentle but firm hold on Frodo's arm, Sam directed him from shop to shop, insisting that Frodo allow him to buy a few things that he would be needing and be fitted for some new clothes.
By nightfall the word had gotten around that Frodo Baggins had returned to Hobbiton. It caused more than a bit of a stir, especially in regard to Sam's continued claim to Bag End. Frodo, having deeded it to Sam as his heir, had been presumed dead, or as good as; with it clearly evident that Frodo was very much alive, the deed would no longer be in force, until such time as the esteemed Mr. Baggins were to clearly and evidently show signs of decease.
The matter was summarily resolved when Frodo gathered the necessary witnesses and drew up a new deed declaring that he, Mr. Frodo Baggins, hereby and immediately transferred Bag End and all its associated properties to Mr. Samwise Gardner, formerly Gamgee, current Mayor of the Shire. A simple transfer of property from living to living, and that was that, though folk still thought it more than a little odd.
October was waning. On one of the last sunny days of autumn, neither too warm nor too chill, Frodo set out on an afternoon walk into Hobbiton. He walked at an unhurried pace, deep in reflection as he followed the lane that wound down the Hill into town.
I tried to save the Shire.
Crossing the bridge, he turned right on the Bywater Road. He nodded politely to those who met his eyes; few spoke, and those who did gave but a token, "Good day." Slender young trees stood watch as he passed along the road, trees flourishing beyond hope yet conspicuous against the memory of the venerable chestnuts which they had been planted to replace. To a stranger, or to a child too young to remember, Hobbiton would have seemed the very picture of serenity: neatly-maintained homes, well-tended lawns, not a hint that a mere nine years earlier the village had been shattered by war. But to one who remembered the destruction, the rebuilt village was an ever-present reminder of what had been lost.
I tried.
His earlier joy in homecoming seemed to have faded with the autumn leaves. Of course, he wouldn't let Sam see it; Sam would no doubt blame it on Pippin's rude conduct, though Frodo blamed himself for his own display of temper, a temper he thought had been extinguished by the long burden of his Quest.
So much else had been extinguished.
Frodo sighed. Where shall I find rest?
At last he admitted to himself the truth he had been evading: He would never be free of the wounds of his Quest.
Half a lifetime, Sam. As much as half a lifetime to fill.
Half a lifetime of October sixths. Half a lifetime of March thirteenths, and of the dreadful path through Mordor to Mount Doom that followed each March thirteenth.
He had been a fool to return. Or, perhaps, he had been a fool to sail in the first place. Wherever he dwelled, he was doomed to remember, doomed to suffer, doomed to be marked forever as the Ring-bearer, doomed to live the remainder of his years in exile.
Frodo continued along the Bywater Road into the countryside west of Hobbiton. To his left rose a low, round hill, dotted with round green front doors. To his right, the Water flowed onward in its journey to the Sea.
Somewhere, just around the next bend, a high female voice was lifted in song. The tune was all too familiar, that of an old walking song he'd known in another life, but the words being sung to it he'd never heard before:
When barren lands before me rise
With no green to refresh my eyes,
And, shadowed by their height, I see
No place of rest to hearten me,
I falter, and despair's dark load
Would turn me from my appointed road.
Still round the corner there may wait
A point where shadows shall abate;
And though today my view is bleak,
At times the clearest sight grows weak.
So I press on, that I may see
What hope this road might show to me.
"Good day, Frodo," greeted Molly Piper. She was hanging laundry on a line stretched in front of a modest but well-tended hole in the hillside facing the Water.
Such a sweet, naive little song. He hadn't the heart to tarnish her hope-filled illusions with the truth.
"Good day, Molly." Frodo nodded politely. "A fine day for hanging laundry."
"It is, indeed." She pulled a couple of wooden clips from the pocket of her apron, slipping them over the hem of a dress to hold it fast on the line. "Not many more like this before the winter rains set in."
"No," agreed Frodo.
Molly slung a sheet over the line. "A fine day for a walk," she said.
Frodo nodded. "It is." He smiled. "And if you will excuse me, I ought to be getting on. Sam will be expecting me home before supper."
"Good day, then." She clipped the sheet into place. "I expect I'll be seeing you at Sam and Rose's, next time I drop by."
"I expect you shall. Good day." With another nod, he walked onward along the road.