Chapter Five: Voices

"That was touch and go: perhaps the most dangerous moment of all." The Lord of the Rings, Book Two

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There was another portal, a portal of light, and the light bore upon its shoulders a cool wind, soft yet constant.

~~~~~

Someone lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. Even that gentle touch was an agony. He thrashed violently to throw it off. A single voice spoke, feminine and heartbreakingly familiar. "Frodo. Frodo! What have they done to you?"

He thought it was Mum. He thought he had died. He thought he saw a path before him, dim and shrouded in mist, and he began to run toward her.

"Frodo, it's Esmeralda. It's Ezzie, your cousin. Frodo, can you hear me? Oh, no. Oh, no."

He found himself back in Middle-earth. He seemed to be lying on rough splintery boards. He tried to lift his battered head, but pain and dizziness made him quickly fall back. Careful to avoid his torn shoulders, Ezzie sat him up, feeling for his pulse, caressing his brow. Desperate to be comforted, he reached out to her, groping blindly for her hand, her sleeve, anything. His fingertips met her waist. It was big and round as a melon. Ezzie was with child. Wonderingly he flattened his palm against her taut belly. She placed her own hand over his.

"Oh, cousin," he said, and let his head fall against her lap as the blackness took him.

~~~~~

There were voices threading in and out of fevered dreams. He seemed to be standing on the eastern bank of Brandywine. It was a dark moonless night, with the deep chill of late autumn. On the western bank thronged an angry mob of hobbits, shouting, shaking their fists, brandishing scythes and torches.

~~~~~

"Mr. Maggot." Saradoc's pleasant tenor was urgent and intense. "My wife and I have traveled every mile of the Bounds of this country. We have seen evil things lurking just beyond them that would cause untold harm to hobbits were they not turned back by friends of our people, friends we didn't know we had."

"And what is your point, young Master Brandybuck?"

"Just this. Esmeralda and I have come home to find that not only has one of these nightmare creatures got through, but that you, Maggot, have taken it into your kennel and made it part of your household."

"And what if I have?" Maggot said. "I needed a job done. The animal appeared. It served me well enough, until Master Frodo took a rock to its head."

"Only because it would have killed him otherwise! You have kept a thing that kills, and you have turned it against a hobbit!"

"No. I turned it against a thief." "So you say. And now you have attorneys lined up from here to Hardbottle. You mean to press damages upon my father and my cousin for their transgressions of The Rules. Yet you have fostered a monster in the very heart of the Shire."

"So?"

"So the moment your suit is settled, we are going to press ours. Hard."

In the angry babble of voices that ensued, Frodo's thought slipped away.

~~~~~

He must have been very sick. He remembered Aunt Mennie bending over him, dabbing his forehead with a cool cloth, clucking and tsk-ing as though he were nothing more than a naughty fauntling. Yet all the while silent tears were running down her face. He was aware of Ezzie lifting him, bundling him in blankets while he shook with chills. Her voice was a low murmur, soothing but with an undertone of anger. His head brushed against her belly. Her baby could come at any time. In the midst of his despair he felt a stab of joy. He saw red-cheeked Aunt Asphodel, cousin Melba's mum, tearing bandages: always such a jolly lady, now all she did was frown. He saw flaxen-haired Melba herself, her face resting next to his on the pillow, her brown eyes open wide, studying him intently. She, at least, was not clucking or frowning or weeping. "You're getting better, see," she commanded.

But she could not keep him there, and his thought departed. He was gone for a long time.

~~~~~

Once again he stood on the eastern shore of Brandywine. The tall figures that haunted his dreams stood motionless as statues on the other side, man-like and woman-like yet clothed in garments that seemed part of the mist. A clear white light shone from behind them, casting their faces into shadow. Some appeared to be looking across toward him, others looked away.

~~~~~

The room was filled with everyday noises: pouring water, clinking crocks, flapping cloth. In the midst of it a baby woke up and bawled its song of hunger. Is that my little sister, Mum? Has she come at last? Eagerly he turned toward the baby, toward the round portal of light with its lace curtains dancing on the stiff warm breeze. The figure silhouetted against it had a mass of curls like Mum's, dark with a gleam of red about the edges. As he watched she put the baby to her breast, and the crying ceased. My sister, my little flower. He sank into a deep peaceful sleep.

~~~~~

When he dream-woke he was standing in Maggot's field. The mushrooms were singing to him, moist and gleaming in the starlight. For a moment his yearning for them returned, and he hoped, he believed, that things could once again be as they were.

He remembered then the dogs, and the wolf-creature, and the pain of the lashes on his back. He quickly turned his dream-face from the mushrooms and walked away. Their voices, which had been so lovely and so enchanting, rose to a discordant shriek.

~~~~~

"So now we begin to reach an accord, Maggot." Rory was speaking. Frodo was wide awake, hungry as a hunter, but he kept his eyes tightly closed. The two terrible old men filled the room, their bitter debate raging right over his bed.

"Do we?" Maggot growled. "I'm not so certain. If you pay the damages I will drop my suit, but the fact remains: those southerners, whom your Saradoc seemed to think needed rounding up and escorting to the Bounds, would have paid me twice the business-as-usual at Bucklebury grange."

"It's not that easy, Maggot," Rory said. "You talk like a hobbit that's got hold of some mouldy leaf: you're raving. There's no raising prices at Bucklebury without paying dearly at Michel Delving. You know this. Now, then. Quote me the value of what you have lost—in Shire terms—and I will consider it."

Even at a fair rate, Maggot's quote made Frodo feel ill. He opened his eyes, no longer even pretending to be asleep. What a horrible mess he had made of things!

"Ho! He's awake at last!" Maggot gloated. "Now the thief can argue his own case."

"Leave him out of it, Maggot. He's a boy. He's my responsibility. I'll deal with him later."

"Yes, please, Maggot." Aunt Mennie spoke from the doorway. "Haven't you punished the poor child enough already?"

But a queer gleam had appeared in the farmer's eye. He looked from Frodo to Rory and back again, and said, "I don't suppose this boy has any sort of a legacy?"

"I said, leave him out of it!" Rory barked.

"Perhaps you should be going, Mr. Maggot," Mennie said. "We haven't dropped our suit, you know. And we're not about to, unless—"

Maggot opened his mouth to protest, but then he caught the look on Mennie's face and the gleam in her eyes. "Well, you're right, perhaps I should be going, at that," he said. He turned, hesitating, in the doorway. "But before you decide anything—about your suit, that is—well, there may be room for further discussion regarding damages and such—"

Rory and Mennie said nothing.

"Yes. Well. Good-bye, then." The farmer bowed nervously and departed in haste, nearly colliding with Mennie.

When he was gone Mennie came to Frodo's side, took his hand in hers and stroked it awkwardly. Rory stood with his arms folded tight across his chest and his grizzled old features folded even tighter.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Rory," Frodo said miserably. "If I had anything of my own, I would beg you to use it to pay Mr. Maggot for what I stole."

"What do you mean, if you had anything of your own?"

"If I had a legacy."

"What are you talking about? Of course you have a legacy. Did you suppose that any child of a Baggins and a Brandybuck would be left penniless?"

"Of course not!" Mennie said earnestly. "Now, it's no fortune, not by a stretch, but it earns a bit of income. Rory puts it all back in against your coming-of-age. We're taking care of you, Frodo, never think for a moment that we're not."

"Then please pay him back," Frodo said. He felt stunned and confused. "Please, Uncle."

Rory was silent for a long time, a succession of emotions playing across his face. "Well, lad," he said at last, "I am pleased to see you offering to repair what you have done. But why did you not save us all sixteen cartloads of trouble and expense—not to mention the threat of the entire Eastfarthing rising up against us, not to mention the weeks of worrying that you were going to die from that idiot's beating—by developing this wholly admirable sense of responsibility just a bloody damned bit sooner?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Frodo put his hands over his head and cowered beneath the blankets.

"And in any event," Rory went on, not relenting, "if I were to spend your legacy paying your debt—and believe me, boy, it would require every penny of it and more—where do you suppose you'll be when you turn thirty-three and have nothing?"

Suddenly Frodo sat up, ignoring the way it made his head spin. Really, they ought to have given him this information long before now! "Nothing is all I ever thought I'd have," he said hotly. "No one told me differently. No one said a single word about it except for Uncle Di and Uncle Do, who went on and on about what a worthless lout my dad was, how he left me in poverty, how I was nothing but a poor relation—"

Rory's frown deepened. Mennie looked dumbfounded for all of an instant, but at once she recovered herself and began, "Oh. Well. Those two. You listen to them, you'll never want for moonshine. Dear, dear. Whatever were you thinking of, Frodo, paying a moment's worth of attention to such stuff? You should have come to us. Why didn't you come to us?"

"Why did you let them burn my Mum's things?" Frodo said.

"Oh!" Mennie exclaimed, all the air let out of her. There was another very long silence. "Well. They never told me they were going to do that. Why, if they had, I'd have never allowed it—"

Rory said nothing, but he went crimson to the tips of his ears.

Frodo turned away and buried his face. He felt heartsick and ill-used, and the room spun so horribly he had to cling by his fists to the bedsheets. He fell into a troubled sleep.

He dreamed of a black tower, endlessly tall, piercing a sky like fire and blood.

~~~~~

The baby's crying woke him. The room was chill. The breeze had died, and through the round window he could see a grey storm-filled sky.

"Ezzie," he whispered.

"I'm here," she said. "You've come back to us, bless you! I wouldn't blame you if you stayed away forever. I—well, I could say a thousand things, most of them unflattering, regarding my in-laws. But I live here now, so I'll keep my tongue on its leash. And there's been too much unpleasantness lately as it is. Anyway, I brought someone to meet you. He's here, he's come: your newest cousin, Meriadoc. He arrived a week ago today."

"Meriadoc?" said Frodo, propping himself on one wobbly elbow and craning for a better look at the baby, for there is nothing that can make a hobbit forget all pains and fears like the arrival in this world of a brand new hobbit.

"A large name for such a little person, don't you think? Rory chose it, from what mildewed old book of Buckland lore I couldn't guess. But I'm sure the little fellow will grow into it. He's grown into everything else we've given him and right out of it again. You might say he's thriving. He seems to like it, here on Middle-earth."

Ezzie draped a nappie over her shoulder and down her front, slipped the wee one beneath it and placed him to her breast. Frodo could see nothing but soft honey-coloured wisps of curl.

At last his cousin fell back satiated, infant eyes lolling half-shut. Ezzie dabbed his face with the cloth. "There," she said, composing herself. "We'll call that luncheon. He had elevenses an hour ago. And before that his fourth breakfast since daybreak, assuming I haven't lost count. No wonder he's growing so fast."

Meriadoc wriggled languidly and fussed against oncoming sleep. "Would you like to hold him, Frodo?"

Ezzie didn't wait for a reply. She placed the baby in his arms, gently positioning Frodo's wrists and elbows to form a cradle. It took him a few moments to get used to holding the precious thing, but he quickly caught on.

"Drogo holds him for hours on end, just gazing on him in stunned adoration. We are besotted with him." The sudden memory of Mum's words brought stinging tears to his eyes. What a gift it was to be held so, and loved so! If he did nothing else to honour the memory of Mum and Dad, he must at least do this: he must pass that gift along. He loosened one hand, gently stroking his cousin's little brow. "You're so content, Meriadoc," he said. "So happy. We should call you Merry."

At that, little Merry smiled and gave a cooing laugh, and his tiny hand closed around Frodo's finger, hard. Then he sighed and snuffled, settled comfortably into Frodo's arms, and fell asleep. But like a bird, he did not loosen his grip.

"Why's he doing that?" Frodo said, laughing with delight.

Ezzie settled beside Frodo and put her arm about his shoulder. "Well, having learned a great many of my son's ways in the past week, I'd say that he knows he needs to sleep, but he wishes to keep on protecting you."

"He's protecting me? But I'm so much bigger than he is!"

"I don't believe size matters to Meriadoc. Or, rather, to Merry—it's a good name, Frodo. I like it."

~~~~~

"Well, Frodo, it's done, lad," Rory said. Frodo was up now and well enough to be called before Rory in the parlour that served as his uncle's office. Aunt Mennie and Saradoc were there, and Ezzie with little Merry in her arms. They all looked dazed, wide-eyed and pale, as though they had just gotten very bad news about the prospects for harvest. "It's settled," Rory said again. "Paid up. The farmer went away satisfied. But—Mr. Maggot says he wishes never, never to see your face on his property again, to the uttermost ending of the world."

"Yes, Uncle."

"Now, then. Maggot may be satisfied, but I'm not."

"No, Uncle."

"Come here, boy." Frodo obeyed, bracing himself for another beating. Instead, to his surprise, Rory came around the table and laid a callused hand on his brow in what was almost a gesture of blessing. "I am at my wits' end with you, lad. I don't know what to do with this Tookish thing in you, not to mention the confounded Baggins..."

"Oh, let up on him, Dad," Saradoc said. "It's none of those things. Don't you see? He's still in mourning for his folks."

"Well, who isn't? Who among us doesn't wish Primmie and Drogo had never set out in that accursed boat? I took my heaviest wood-axe to it, did you know that? And after I hacked the bloody thing to splinters I burnt it to ashes and stomped it into the ground."

Rory ran his hand over his face. "But time doesn't stand still," he said. "Neither does the work that's to be done. Life is for the living. The dead get to rest. The ones left behind can't afford to stand about moping year after year."

"Well, Dad, not everybody handles it the same," Saradoc argued.

"No," Rory said. "The rest of us aren't carrying on like an invasion of goblins. Maggot was my ally. In not paying attention to the needs of this boy I have allowed a Baggins to come between me and my oldest neighbour and friend."

A look passed between Saradoc and Esmeralda.

"You know, Dad," Saradoc ventured, "since the name Baggins has come up, I think I should mention that Uncle Bilbo has asked after Frodo."

"More than once," Ezzie added.

"He can ask all he likes," Rory said. "The boy's a Brandybuck. He stays here."

"Bilbo," Mennie said. "My, my. And how is that queer old duck? Silly fellow, making all that up. But in the end I suppose he's harmless."

"The only way of knowing what's harmless in the end is for the end to come, and then we'll see what's harmed and what isn't," Rory grumped. "And don't be forgetting that it's my job to keep the end from coming for as long as I possibly can."

"Well, nobody does it better, Dad," Saradoc said. "From the Bridge to the Downs you're considered among the wisest of hobbits. A real leader of our people."

"That's right," Ezzie said. "I've often heard Uncle Bilbo say so."

"Well, there, you see," Mennie said, beaming with pride.

But Rory was not to be flattered. "Now, listen to me. As if my neighbours near to rioting weren't enough, I've got calves with pink-eye and weevils in my malt. I've got no time for dwarves and dragons! Why do you think I kept the boy here? Did you think I'd turn him over to those outlandish Hobbiton folk? And to Bilbo Baggins in particular? Though the deuce knows they've been trying long and hard enough to get their hands on the lad...."

"They have?" Frodo cried. Somebody wanted him, and he didn't even know.

"They have. Don't look at me like that, boy. I did what I thought was best."

"Best for you, Rory, not for him," Ezzie said sharply.

"Esmeralda, what's best for him is if that bloody boat had never gone under," Rory snorted, and returned to the pile of papers on his desk. He would say no more that day.

But Saradoc had plenty to say, and in the end got his way: a Shire Post rider set out for Bag End the following morning.

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NOTE on Chapter 5

"...as though he were nothing more than a naughty fauntling..." —A faunt is a hobbit who has attained toddler age and is walking and talking, formally by his or her third birthday. It's a charming word and one the author has always wanted to use in a sentence. From Letter #214 to reader A.C. Nunn, dating from late 1958 or early 1959.