5. remembrance
The old hobbit missed the bright fire in his smial. He missed his soft bed and his warm, fragrant kitchen. The trees swayed in the cold wind and water drizzled over the company of three dwarves and one hobbit huddling miserably beside the East Road. Water dripped from the hobbit's hood and he shivered, pulling his old cloak around him.
He did not regret his decision, though. The open road gave him back the exhilaration of youth, the thrill of the unknown and the promise of adventure. His legs were aching but he felt that he could walk for at least another league or two before night came to end the dismal grayness of his third day on the road.
But still, when he lifted his eyes to stare at the bleak, pale sky, he thought of how much the rain reminded him of his beloved boy.
"And that's the black river there, that one that springs from the marigold clumps and joins the bigger stream before it reaches the snapdragons. Look! There's the boat! Look! Look! It's moving very swiftly, isn't it? The current whips around the strawberry bush. I don't think the boat will be able to float past that boulder. Oh! It's been upturned! I wonder if there is any survivor. Surely some of the dwarves will be able to reach the banks. They have to. They are the only remaining hope that the dwarves can reach the Apple Tree Mountain and re-claim their lord's magic sword. Oh, the banks are too slippery. Look! Oh, the poor thing! He fell into the river again. Pull him out! Pull him out before he gets swept away! Heave now! Heave! Oh, he's saved! He's saved! …"
Bilbo massaged his temples and put down the book he had been trying--with very little success--to read for the past hour. He glanced sideways to the window seat where a lad was kneeling, facing the window, face cupped in two slender hands, elbows resting on the windowsill. He was excitedly describing the adventures of a host of dwarves in the wild and wet world of the Bag End garden on a rainy autumn day. At first, Bilbo was fascinated with the fourteen-year old imagination: he could see a mere puddle transformed into a great lake filled with monstrous flesh-eating fish, while the rose bush served as a veritable enchanted forest filled with elves. The tool shed in the corner of the garden was the kingdom of the dwarves and the apple tree was the dreaded Mountain where an evil wizard resided in a fortress guarded by dragons.
At least he was kept busy for a while; Bilbo had thought when he left the boy's side to continue his reading. A fourteen-year old hobbit cooped up on a rainy day was not the best of company, especially for Bilbo, who enjoyed spending his afternoon reading in the warm quiet of his study. There were not many things in Bag End to occupy the active lad's mind. Bilbo had tried giving Frodo books to read and though the lad was quickly engrossed in reading, after an hour or so his attention wavered and he began to fidget again. Bilbo had made the mistake of setting the lad loose in the kitchen, with disastrous results. The cakes that came out of the oven were perfect, but Bilbo still wondered how Frodo got those blobs of batter on the ceiling. The two hobbits iced and cut one of the cakes for elevenses. The boy kept giggling whenever a bead of batter fell onto the layer of flour on the table and he nearly fell off his chair laughing when a particularly large drop splashed into Bilbo's tea.
Of course, compared to the kitchen scene, the saga of the imaginary dwarves in the garden was tame and harmless. Still, Bilbo wished that the boy would keep his commentaries to himself. A throbbing ache began to thump behind Bilbo's eyes. Frodo's steady drone, interspersed by high-pitched squeals, made it difficult for Bilbo to concentrate, let alone enjoy his book.
"Frodo," Bilbo called.
"Jump! Jump over the creek! Hurry!"
"Frodo!"
The boy stopped suddenly and turned. "Yes, Bilbo?" he asked, all innocence and sweetness.
"Would you find some place else to play, lad? I wish to have some peace and quiet for a few hours while I finish reading this book," said Bilbo.
Frodo's eyebrows crept up into his bangs. "Oh, of course, Bilbo," he said, jumping off the couch. "I'm sorry I've disturbed you. I'll leave you to your book then."
He gave Bilbo a cheery smile as he ran toward the door. Bilbo shook his head fondly. The lad seemed to delight in getting anywhere in a gallop as though he had very little time in the world. The eagerness alerted Bilbo, though. He quickly raised his voice to a bellow and shouted, "No need to cook, Frodo! We have plenty of cake for tea!"
He could hear a solicitous "Yes, Bilbo!" somewhere in the many rooms of the smial.
"And leave the laundry and the laundry soap alone!" added Bilbo.
He could hear Frodo's laugh coming from rather far away. Bilbo heaved a deep breath of relief and returned to his book.
In the end it was the silence that distracted him. Frodo had been altogether too quiet for too long and Bilbo was suspicious. With a sigh he put down his book and went in search of the lad.
He could not find Frodo in his room. He was not in the kitchen, not in any of the various pantries, not in the bathroom; nowhere, in fact, inside the smial. Only when he passed the foyer did Bilbo notice that the front door was slightly ajar. His brow furrowing in anger Bilbo took his cloak from the peg near the entrance and, pulling it about him, went out in search of Frodo.
He did not have to look for long. He found Frodo standing in the center of the garden, looking up with an enraptured look on his face.
"Frodo," began Bilbo, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice. "What do you think you're doing, lad, standing here in the rain?"
"Bilbo!" gasped Frodo. His hair was plastered like dark weeds onto his face; his eyes were huge and ecstatic, despite the way he shivered and the bluish tint to his lips. "I'm watching the rain! It's like magic."
"Fiddlesticks! There's no magic in the rain!" was Bilbo's clipped retort, putting a hand on the lad's shoulder and attempting to steer him into the smial. "Come inside before you catch a cold."
"But Bilbo," Frodo stubbornly held his ground, clutching at Bilbo's sleeve with one hand and pointing at the sky with another. "There is no watering can. There is no bucket. Where does the water come from then? Empty air? And it's everywhere! Look! Bilbo, this is magic!"
Bilbo stared at Frodo's face and thought that the only magic in the world was the look of wonder in those bright, spellbound eyes.
The old hobbit drew in a deep, quivering breath. He was suddenly glad it was raining and water was coursing freely down his face. He closed his eyes and a touch of warmth slid down his cheeks as he remembered the hobbit he left behind.
~fin~
