The Green Book - Chapter Four

Brandy Hall, SR 1389

As Merry lay in his bed, his brain filled up with things too big for the thoughts of such a young Hobbit. He was just learning to write, in a large, shaky hand, both his first and last names (which, being quite long, were difficult, lovely fun to write) all his letters, and a few other words. Merry liked to take the words he knew and make lists, with numbers before them, of things he wanted to do in the day. A typical list would be:

Meriadoc Brandybuck's List

1. HUG MUM

2. HUG FRODO

3. HUG DAD

4. WARE BLU SHIRT

5. EAT PORRIG

6. PLAY

7. EAT APLES

8. GIVE CAROT TO PONY

9. NO SPROUTS!!!

10. PLAY IN BATH

11. HAVE STORY

12. GOOD DREAMS

Merry felt very proud of his lists. He liked to consult them several times each day, crossing off items as he accomplished them. If anything stood in the way of their completion, he tended to become cross--the prohibition against sprouts being a particular hurdle, as Grandmother Menegilda believed firmly that sprouts were essential to a young Hobbit's growth.

As she liked to say, "When I was a lass, we *ate* our sprouts! Did we like them? No! But we ate them and were grateful."

Sometimes Berilac would mutter, "I wish you'd eat them now." When he did that, Merry would have to cover up his mouth with his hands so that Grandmother wouldn't see his laugh. She tended to watch him closest of all the cousins, though Merry couldn't understand why. Perhaps she just didn't like him.

This day, empty and ill, Merry made up a different list, one inscribed only in his head, not to be revealed.

1. Ask Grandfather why Frodo went away.

2. Find Frodo.

3. Say a proper goodbye.

He shut his eyes to seal the list behind them.

Presently Merry's mother came along to his room, bearing his favorite cup with the ponies round the sides. Her petticoats rustled as she settled beside him on the bed, slipping her arm beneath Merry's shoulders and lifting him so he could drink. Merry managed a few sips of something comfortingly warm, sweet and salty at the same time.

"There you are, my little lad," she said, laying him down again and setting the cup on his night table. "How do you feel, my Merry?"

"Fine," he said. "I want to get up."

Esmeralda ignored that. "Some of the other children are ill as well, though none so badly as you, poor dear. And you usually such a strong lad. Pansy Wooten brought me news that many little ones have been poorly over by Rushy. The little ones and the old ones, they say." Her gentle hand brushed back his unruly hair, lingering in Merry's curls. "You worried your mum terribly, Merry dear. What would I have done without my little lad?"

Merry couldn't imagine an answer to that question. His mum's life before his began was not a concept his mind could catch hold of, though he knew there'd been a time when he was not. The idea upset him terribly, and he flung his arms around Esme's waist, pressing his face into the softness of her stomach. Her arms enclosed him in turn, and Merry's head rested against her bosom, then, in absolute comfort and peace.

Merry fell asleep again briefly, lulled by the warm drink in his stomach and his mother's warmer touch. But when he woke again soon after and found her gone, Merry decided to take matters into his own hands. By the way the sun slanted down through the trees, it seemed close to the time when Grandfather Rory liked to sit alone in the Master's Study, smoking a quiet pipe. Merry had learned *that* time was either the best or the worst time to approach his grandfather, who sometimes seemed as fond of his privacy as his wife was of sprouts.

Merry slipped out of his small bed and was pleased to find that he could stand fairly easily. He was so rarely ill that he could scarcely comprehend a sickness lingering, and it made him happy that his legs felt like legs again.

Encouraged, he tottered round to his small wardrobe and dug through the drawers at the bottom until he found his favorite blue shirt that Auntie Egg had made him, his yellow waistcoat and his trousers. Grandfather always liked Merry to dress properly. He said no future Master of Buckland should dress like a ruffian, and he always chided Merry when he caught him with his face and hands dirty, or tangles in his curls. Because of this, Merry washed and dressed carefully, and even used the special small brush on his foot fur.

Afterwards, he felt very tired, but pleased with himself, and moving slowly (but cautiously, so as to avoid adult eyes) he made his way along the long corridor to his grandfather's study.

The carved door was shut tight, but Merry carefully lifted the latch, slipping through the narrowest of cracks. His small feet made no sound whatsoever on the tiled floor, and he stalked his grandfather as he might have stalked a nesting goose by the riverbank, never letting himself be seen until he meant to.

Rory sat at his ease in the leather armchair by the fire, his large feet propped up on a footstool, a tankard of ale close to hand, puffing contentedly on his long-stemmed pipe (given to him by real dwarves!) and blowing smoke rings. His hair was thick, curly and grey as wire, and his eyes glinted like mirrors beneath their bristling brows. Grandfather Rory was, without a doubt, the most terrifying Hobbit he had ever met, but Merry took that as a point of pride.

He came up quite close to Old Rory's chair, standing so still that some moments passed before his grandfather heeded his presence. When he did, the master of Buckland gave out a gigantic grunting snort, nearly dropping his pipe on the hearthrug. "Good stars above, Master Meriadoc! How long have you stood there?"

"Quite long," Merry told him.

The Master's eyes glinted with something that might well have been amusement. "Well done, my lad! And here, I never thought I'd find the Hobbit who could get the drop on Old Rory." He bent close, keen eyes peering deeply into Merry's face, wearing an expression Merry could not interpret--though, when his father's face looked like that, it meant he was thinking how much he loved him. At those times, his hand would hover over Merry's curls, then touch, stroking, so that Merry felt he must stay very still, lest the moment be lost to him forever.

His grandfather gave him the same touch, and again Merry held himself silent--both for that reason and because he knew, somehow, it was one he would want to cherish. "They told me..." his grandfather said, then cleared his throat with an alarming wrong. "Well, that's that. They told me wrong, and that's all I'll say on the subject." Still, his gnarled, rough fingers trailed down the soft curve of Merry's cheek, and he muttered to himself, "What a likely little lad. What would I have done without you?" He patted his footstool suddenly. "Sit down, Meriadoc. You're looking pale and peaky. Eat your good vittles and romp in the fresh air, that will set you on your feet again."

"Yes, sir," Merry answered, attempting to hop up as his grandfather bade him, but his legs were still too weak to achieve such a height, and he slid down the slippery leather.

To his surprise, Rory lifted him gently. "There now, lad, you'll soon be strong again."

"Yes, Grandfather," Merry answered.

"I was told you'd not be up and about for a week." Rory snorted loudly. "Shows what these healers know."

Merry's muscles had started to tremble and he couldn't help but think fondly of his cozy bed--yet he didn't say anything.

"Well?" Rory demanded.

Grandfather liked Hobbits who sat up tall and looked him straight in the eye, so that is what Merry did. "Grandfather," he said, "I want to know why my Frodo's gone away." He looked up at Rory pleadingly. "I miss him ever so much," he confessed.

"Frodo? This would be Frodo Baggins. Primula's lad."

"Yes, sir," Merry answered, clasping his small hands.

"The one who's gone to Bilbo at Bag end. Hrmph." He sat back in his chair, frowning at his youngest grandson. "He's gone because he's a Baggins, Bilbo needs an heir and Frodo has no parents. Besides which, I believe Bilbo's quite fond of the lad."

Merry frowned back, considering. As far as that went, it made sense. Bilbo gave wonderful presents and told marvelous tales and Bag End was a lovely hole and very nice to visit.

"Does that make sense to you, young Meriadoc?"

"Yes, grandfather," Merry replied, his clasped hands rising to the middle of his chest, twisting together as he tried to come up with the words to say. "Only Frodo *has* a family. He has mummy and dad and me, and I miss him so."

For a moment, the harsh lines of Rory's face softened. "Lad," he said quietly, "In this life all of us must suffer many partings."

"Not Frodo!" Merry cried. "Never Frodo!"

"Yes!" Rory surged to his feet, brows bristling, eyes full of storms. He startled his grandson so badly Merry nearly tumbled off the stool.

"As long as there has been a Buckland," he thundered, "The Master has been the first son of a first son. I will not break that line, or allow your father to do so by putting some Hobbiton Baggins in your place. My successors will be a son and a grandson of my own blood! I did this for *you*, Meriadoc!"

Merry held quite still, not frightened, despite his grandfather's rage. He was too young to understand entirely his grandfather's words, and yet he *did* understand them, and the knowledge broke and changed something inside him. He slipped down from the stool.

"Only you were born to be Master after your father," said Rory in a softer tone. "If you had not been born, he would have been required to set aside your mother, whatever love lay between them, in favor of a lass who could bear him a living child. These are the sacrifices we make for the family. Do you understand this, Meriadoc?"

Merry regarded him, cool blue Brandybuck eyes meeting Brandybuck eyes.

"Yes, " said Merry, "I understand." But inside his mind he whispered, *I understand where Berilac gets his bullying, because you are a bully. I understand that I will never forgive you.* His chest ached round the wound in his heart. "Thank you, Grandfather," he said softly.

Rory tousled his curls. "And no tears, either! There's a good lad."

Merry gave the little bow that one was meant to give the Master when taking leave.

Silent, thoughtful, aching, he walked out of the study, trying to decide what hurt him most.

He thought it might be that he still loved his grandfather.

* * *

Merry did not want any supper that night, but he went to the Great Dining Room along with his aunts and uncles (great or otherwise), his parents and grandparents, his cousins. He sat in his own seat, on the little stand that raised him to the height of the table, ate one bite of everything set before him, and all of it tasted of mud, sand and sickness.

The family exclaimed over him, made much of him. Merry gave a version of the smile that had earned him his nickname, suffered to have his curls ruffled, endured the warm embraces of his aunts and older cousins.

"He still looks peaky," Cousin Hilda whispered to Cousin Peony, and Great-Aunt Amaranth asked his mum, "Ought young Merry to be up and about yet?" Merry noticed that the cousins closest to his age, Merimas, Mentha and little Melitot, did not come to supper.

After supper his mum took Merry by the hand and led him to his room. In a little wheeled tub set before the fire, she bathed him and washed his hair, then dried him off gently. After dressing him in a fresh nightshirt that smelled of rain water and sunlight, she took him into her lap in the rocking chair, the two of them rocking together, flickering light warm on their faces, his mum singing all the songs he'd loved so much when he was an even smaller lad. Merry pressed his ear to her chest, loving the soft thrum of her ribs as she sang.

At length, Esme fell silent. Merry almost thought he could hear her think.

"Did your grandfather explain?" she asked at last. Merry nodded against her. She fell silent for a time, her hand stroking gently up and down the length of Merry's arm. "We Tooks see things so differently," she said. "Did you know Cousin Ferumbas has named your Uncle Dinny as his heir? If the new baby's a lad, that is."

"I hope he is," Merry murmured.

"'*He*' is it?" Esme laughed. "You seem very certain, my Merry."

"I am certain," Merry told her. "He kicked so hard." He'd had the shock of his life, leaning his cheek against Auntie Egg's rounded belly to see if he could hear anything, and receiving that sudden swift blow. "But Vinca kicks hard too."

"And bites." Esme smiled down into Merry's face. "Like some other wee Hobbits we might name. We must see that poor Rags receives a new eye."

"He'd like that," Merry said. "He finds it hard to get safe into his warren with only one. A hawk might eat him!"

"A very good point," his mum answered seriously. "I shall certainly need to rummage through my button bag tonight. Rags must remain safe at all costs."

"You mustn't worry or be afraid," Merry told her suddenly, the closest he could come to admitting his plans.

"Oh, my Merry," Esme sighed, "You are my sunrise and my moonrise, how could I not worry?"

"Because you know I'm safe," Merry answered. He stroked her hand a bit, then raised it to his lips and kissed her dimpled knuckles.

"What a funny lad you are tonight!" Esme laughed. Then, even though he was too big, lifted him in her arms and whisked him into bed.

Merry felt so secure and so loved there, once his mum had tucked him in and kissed his brow, that the thought of rising again seemed impossible. Yet he waited until Esme had gone and Brandy Hall quieted with sleep before he rose, careful to make no sound at all, drew out his rucksack from the bottom of his wardrobe and began to pack.

That accomplished, Merry dressed in his warmest clothes, caught his cloak down from the peg and padded down the corridor to raid the pantry. He took a small loaf of bread, a little cheese, four apples and a paring knife to cut things with, even though he wasn't allowed to touch knives.

Thus provisioned, he dragged up a stool to climb on, the only way he could reach the bolt of the kitchen door. The old ironware was stiff and he had to struggle with both hands, wrapping a corner of his cloak round the knob in order to work the slide. The lock gave way suddenly, spilling Merry to the floor, and the impact of his head against a leg of the kitchen table sent fireworks whirling across his eyes. He crouched for several minutes in the shadows beneath the table, waiting for one of the cooks or scullions, alerted by the noise, to burst in and discover him, but no one came.

Merry crept out again, restored the stool to its proper place and slipped out into the night, shutting the large door quietly as he could behind him. It gave him a pang to leave his home so unguarded--in Buckland, unlike the rest of the Shire, one did not leave doors unlocked after nightfall--but it wasn't to be helped. He asked the Valar (whom he pictured as a group of very wise grandmother and grandfather Hobbits in long white nightshirts) silently to look after his family.

Merry crept between the rows of herbs and vegetables in the kitchen garden, certain at any moment to be discovered. His feet walked in shadow but a large, round moon shone overhead and stars glinted in the velvety sky like bits of broken glass. Merry's breath steamed in the air and he shivered a little despite his warm clothing. He hadn't thought how cold it might be.

For a moment he almost abandoned his plan, almost turned round and scampered back to his inviting bed.

Instead, thinking of Frodo, he squared his small shoulders and marched out through the yard.

His first obstacle would be the river. Merry knew he could never walk all the way to the Brandywine Bridge this night, and he'd be caught trying to cross by daylight. Neither could he pole the Bucklebury Ferry across the River--he simply hadn't the strength.

The older boys kept coracles on the mill pond, though, small, round crafts made of hides stretched over wooden frames. He'd often played in those little boats, coming home damp, tired and happy after a day of splashing and racing on the still pond. Merry trotted there now, thinking that, with some effort, he might well be able to drag one of the light crafts down to the Brandywine.

Merry picked the smallest and balanced it on his back, the paddle tucked under one arm. Like a small, determined turtle he made his way to the water, stopping often to rest his rubbery legs.

A Brandybuck through and through, he'd learned to swim before he could walk and had no fear of water. He also possessed an affinity for watercraft, and was able to float his coracle easily enough. He'd picked for his launch a little pocket in the bank, where the river moved particularly slowly, and he was good with a paddle and with centering his weight so as not to swamp the little boat.

What Merry hadn't counted on was how buoyant a coracle occupied by only one small Hobbit could be, and how swiftly the river could carry it--far beyond his power to control. He managed to keep his head and not panic, but it did frighten him rather to see how the banks swept by, the country he knew soon replaced by foreign soil.

He finally came to ground at a place where the river began to broaden and grow marshy, forcing his boat through the thickened water until he could propel it no further and he was forced to abandon ship. Merry moved cautiously then, carrying his paddle, poking its point into the swampy ground before he placed his feet. He'd once seen a pony run afoul of such dangerous terrain, and how hard a great group of Hobbits had to work to get it free again, and so he worked his way through with as much patience as a young Hobbit can muster, until he came out on firmer, higher ground.

He'd come into a tufted green land with a great many rocks poking out from the thin earth and a number of willow trees. The wind had picked up, whipping the willow-withies stingingly across Merry's face as he walked, the sharp stones bruising his feet. His foot-fur was caked with mud, as indeed were his legs, his breeches and the hem of his cloak, affording him very little warmth. The sensible thing, he knew, would be to admit he'd been wrong in leaving his home, go up to the first farmhouse or hole he saw and beg shelter, but a combination of pride, stubbornness and longing for his cousin would not allow him to do so.

Settling his rucksack more firmly on his shoulders, Merry trudged onward, doggedly, knowing he'd already lost himself but trusting to a natural sense of direction to keep his nose pointed the right way to Hobbiton, and to Frodo.

Eventually, the rocky, willowy land gave way to actual forest, alders, oaks, firs and a number of other trees rising thickly and darkly around him. Briars and creepers tore at Merry's legs, and the air was filled with a thousand small, suspicious noises: rustlings, creakings, scurryings. His skin crawled, and his heart beat wildly. He only wished that he could see; the sounds could not possibly be so frightening if he could only see what made them.

Merry began to trot, wanting to leave the forest behind as soon as he possibly might, but the trees seemed to stick out their roots specifically to trip him up, and once he ran directly into a huge, rough-skinned trunk he'd been too tired and frightened to see, though it stood directly in his path. He sprawled backward, his face stinging where the bark had scraped his skin, head ringing from the impact.

The forest floor was soft beneath him, and for a moment Merry thought of staying there, curling up in some little burrow and sleeping 'til daylight--but then a branch cracked loudly, quite near by, and he scrambled to his feet again. No, he would not stay here. He couldn't.

His trot speeded up into a run, with arms stretched out before him, and though a part of Merry knew that wasn't sensible, that he was bound to hurt himself if he didn't keep his head, he'd grown so afraid he'd gone beyond thinking, to the place where his instincts took over.

By the time he broke free of the forest, scratched and bruised and so winded he could hardly breathe, the sky had begun to take on a faint pinkness. Off to his left lay a grassy dirt track that led between tilled fields. He passed sugar beets, then onions, then cabbages, and finally came to a place where red wheat nearly ready for harvest swayed in ranks three times as high as his head. His legs felt ready to fold beneath him, and Merry knew he could go no further. He wriggled his way between the furrows, taking care not to damage the crop, curled into a little ball on the chilly earth, covered himself with his cloak, and slept.

Merry woke, shivering wildly, long before it was fully light. His cloak crackled with he moved, stiff with frost, and his feet felt like small blocks of ice. He'd no way to warm himself except by moving, and so he pressed onward, curly head bent, shoulders hunched. After a bit, to cheer himself, he fetched out an apple from his pack.

Merry meant to eat half and save the rest for second breakfast. He tended to get cross when he missed a meal, and when he'd missed two, would often become quite muddled. Young Hobbits, even more than their elders, needed to eat frequently, their small bodies, no matter how much they consumed at a go, simply incapable of storing sustenance for any length of time. He meant, too, to make the apple last, but the moment the golden juice burst upon his tongue, he knew he could not. He gnawed the apple down to stem and pips and tough, fibrous core, and when he was done thought longingly of the three that remained.

Oh, but he was hungry! So hungry his stomach pained him. He'd walk better with a bit more food inside him, and so served himself the smallest possible piece of bread and a meager morsel of cheese, trying to make this repast last as best he could by pretending he was Little Brown Mousekin from his mum's nursery stories and taking tiny nibbles round the edges until his insubstantial breakfast had been entirely consumed.

Merry walked and walked and walked, feeling like the only Hobbit in all the world, until he could no longer bear to be so alone. He clasped his hands together tightly, trying to make believe that it was Frodo, not his own lonely self holding so firmly to his hand. He tried to hear Frodo's voice in his head, playing a game they often played while walking, finding one thing they could see for each letter in the alphabet:

"A is for alfalfa," Merry muttered, "B is for bumblebee, C is for corn..." And so on. It calmed him a bit, this list-making, naming the familiar comforting sights of his Shire home, but with the calm came another trouble. Walking so, without friend or companion to actually talk to, or sing with, got dull very soon. Merry half wished he'd catch sight of an adult, for that would be his cue to scamper off, secreting himself quickly and silently as only a Hobbit (particularly a young one) can--but he saw no one. He tried singing for himself all the songs he thought he knew, but wished Frodo or his mum were there, to remind him of the right words.

When the sun rose to the middle of the sky, Merry ate another apple, and when the shadows grew long he tucked himself into the dimness beneath a hedgerow to make himself another bit of bread-and-cheese. The bread, no longer perfectly fresh when he'd taken it, had grown drier and harder during the day. It tasted like sand--but the cheese was good.

After a short rest, Merry determined to go on. His body ached, and he felt rather light-headed, but he knew many miles lay between him and Hobbiton, and the further he was able to travel in a day, the sooner he'd see Frodo again. Though he climbed to his feet, his legs seemed to have other ideas entirely: they dumped him to the ground. and would not consent to hold him up again until he'd lain beneath the hedgerow a good, long time.

As he lay upon the damp earth, utterly exhausted, a hedgehog came poking its pointed small face out of the row. When Merry didn't move it trundled closer, nosing round his rucksack and the remains of his meal, its sharp little tongue licking up tiny crumbs. Merry, in his loneliness, reached out to touch it, running his hand over its quills, but the hedgehog, startled, only curled itself into a ball and stayed that way, refusing to come out again.

"I wouldn't hurt you," Merry told it. "I'm not like some of the other lads. I only wanted to see how you felt."

The hedgehog, however, would not uncurl, and to see it so unwilling to make friends only made the young Hobbit feel lonelier than ever. He forced himself upright, and though he needed to cling onto the thorny branches of the row for quite some time, at last his legs consented to bear him. He set out into the growing dark.

The moon rose, and the path angled steadily upward, until Merry had reached enough of a promontory that he could make out, by moonlight, the lay of the land. Below him, to his left and right, lay a pair of streams, the left-hand course wider and stronger than the right. Fairly far in the distance, also to his left, shone clustered lights that must belong to a town or village, and beyond that rose rolling green hills crowned by many trees. Merry, despite his weariness, felt somewhat cheered: those hills and trees resembled the those of the Green-Hill Country where, in the western part, his Tookish cousins lived. If he was right, and he'd actually come there, then it meant his was heading in the proper direction to reach Frodo. However, it also meant he'd need to be especially cautious: the Tooks were clever and numerous, and they spent a great deal of their time roaming their lands--much more so than other Hobbits, who tended to stay close to field and hearth. He also knew that, with their close familial ties, the Tooks might well have been alerted to look out for him, to see him safely home again, and that Merry would not allow. He *would* reach Frodo. He would.

He hurried down from his high place and, keeping to shadows, journeyed on, determined to reach that far, green land before he halted for the night.

To be continued...