Warp and Weft
Chapter 4: Waking Up
"You became a good gardener in the end, didn't you?" Vairë asked, straightening the already even tapestry before stepping back and admiring it.
There was a lot to admire, and not just the thriving nasturtian vines with their bright blossoms of red, yellow and orange. If the scene depicted in the tapestry was true (and there was no reason to suspect that it was not), then West Hill had been not just a green and pleasant place but had become a home filled with all manner of growing things.
Frodo cocked his head and pointed to the portion of the scene showing the kitchen garden. "The tomatoes have always been particularly fine," he said. "I don't know why I didn't think of them right away, but it took several years until I asked Meril for some seedlings."
"And have you enjoyed yourself?"
Though Frodo opened his mouth to answer right away, he found that he could not. Now that the question had been posed, it didn't seem all that straightforward to him. There had been great pleasure and for many reasons. "Yes," he said finally, pulling back from his memory of growing tomatoes at West Hill, though it seemed as if his fingers had grown a little sticky from stroking strong green stems. "Making something flourish ... I enjoyed that. Oh, not that I think I'm a particularly fine gardener on my own. After all, there are special conditions that abide here, as your kinswoman was careful to show me the first time we met." Frodo stroked his chin, smiling at the memory of those alarming nasturtian vines. "Though I do have to say preparing and eating what I've grown is even better."
Vairë smiled. "I would be surprised if you had spoken otherwise."
Frodo's expression grew solemn again. "And there's been the chance to return the favors shown to me and Bilbo by the Elves."
"Yes, indeed," Vairë said, looking for a long minute into Frodo's eyes, and then stepping close to the tapestry, passing one hand across it. "It was unnecessary, but it has been much appreciated.
Frodo smiled and then looked closely at the rewoven tapestry. Sure enough, something new (or perhaps it would be better to say that it was something now recalled in greater detail) appeared in the lower right corner of the hanging: a pony hitched to a cart, Frodo sitting at the front with the reins in his hand.
"I thought you said you never altered a scene once you'd finished it," Frodo said.
A startled smile broke across Vairë's face, and her cheeks grew pink. Frodo could not help enjoying looking at her consternation. She stepped back and shook her head. "Occasionally ... very infrequently, in fact ... but occasionally I find I have neglected to include an important detail." Her expression grew guarded and she gestured with both hands held to her temples, her fingers curved protectively. "Not that the detail is not always here." She dropped her hands to her sides and said, "Tell me about what I added to the scene. Give me the flavor of it."
Frodo's smile broadened. "That was the first time the apple crop came in and I made so many pies and tarts and muffins and breads and ..." Frodo stopped for a moment to catch his breath. "I spent the entire day delivering them." He raised his eyebrows though his gaze was inward. "I've never quite been able to tell whether an Elf's pleasure in receiving something is for the thought behind the present or the thing itself. I suspect I've mostly assumed the first."
"Could it not be both?"
Frodo nodded and they stood together quietly while the light scent of cinnamon and apples baked in a good sugared crust faded and there was only the memory of them stitched into the small rectangle hanging before them.
"Is that all of it?" Vairë asked. "Was it all a joy to you?"
Though Frodo did not answer for a long time, Vairë did not rush him. She stood patiently by the wall until he spoke. "You know it was not, or I would not be here, would I? I wish it had been. It made me sad, too, sometimes."
"Why?"
"Because it reminded me so much of home ... of Hobbiton, that is, my home that was. And even though everything grew here so beautifully and so quickly and it all tasted so good ... do you know the Elves think my potatoes and lettuces are the best in Tol Eressëa? ... even though it all came out so perfectly, still it made me homesick sometimes. I would not have minded a wormy apple every now and then!"
"Or one of your companions from home to help you dig for your taters."
Frodo sighed though not before he repressed a small smile at her use of the term, quite likely the first time one of the Valar had ever uttered the homely word. "You do know how to hit the nail on the head, my lady. I do not mean to be ungrateful, but ... sometimes it doesn't seem quite natural to me," Frodo said quietly. "Sam would say it that way."
"Would he?"
"Oh, yes."
"And he would be right, though i you /i are the thing not quite natural in the setting, are you not?"
"Yes."
"But you chose to come here for healing."
"I know." But that wasn't all of it, was it? "I did not invite myself here, my lady."
"True though you accepted. So I ask you again. Were you healed?"
"If I had been, would I be here with you now?" Frodo bit out the words, angrily this time, and then swallowed hard, pushing away the strong feelings she had stirred up. That feeling ... oh, that feeling Vairë gave him, that feeling of being able to look clearly at his thoughts and actions. Well, sometimes it was not exactly comfortable to be able to do such a thing. It was all very well and good to stare enough at her work until he could literally smell the apple tarts, enough so that his mouth watered from anticipation, but there were darker things to be dredged up from his divided past. As usual, Vairë did not respond to his sharp words, merely stood still looking at him in her solemn way, waiting. Frodo took a deep breath and then continued his answer to her question of whether he had been healed. "Yes, in some ways," he said quietly, lifting his chin. "My bodily wounds stopped troubling me so much beginning with the day I stepped onto Avallónë's quay. I had not expected that, though I soon grew to take it for granted. Though not all ills are of the body, are they?"
Vairë answered with a question of her own. "Did Bilbo help you much?"
"What?"
The center of music and poetry in Avallónë (and indeed in Tol Eressëa) was to be found at The Silver Blossom. It was not precisely an inn though there were accommodations for travelers and a fine common room for people to gather in. In fact, it had all the qualities of an inn, but for some reason Frodo always hesitated to call it that. He thought long and hard on the matter and had much opportunity for observation, for he and Bilbo visited this pleasant establishment many times over the years. Finally, he decided it was the lack of ale. There was plenty of wine, in both quantity and variety; there was the finest mead he'd ever tasted; but there was no ale on Tol Eressëa. Once Frodo really thought about the lack, it all came clear to him why he could not really call the Silver Blossom an inn.
But it was a merry place even if it was not hobbit-like, and about once a year Bilbo was asked to recite a new poem. This year the subject was to be the white tree Celeborn and its connection, down through the centuries, to the one that now thrived (or so Bilbo and Frodo assumed) in the courtyard of the King in Minas Tirith. For research purposes, Frodo and Bilbo spent many an hour at West Hill discussing the latest scion of Celeborn, of its finding and shape and location in the Citadel. On occasion, Frodo even became rather testy about the matter and more than once wished heartily that Bilbo would either be done with this grilling or, if he could not trust Frodo to provide enough information, to set sail across the Sea and find out himself. If he could find a ship willing to take a doddering, garrulous old hobbit on such a voyage.
But tonight all was forgotten, and Frodo smiled as he and Bilbo were greeted by the group assembled in the common room.
There was something about stepping across the threshold of the Silver Blossom that always quickened Frodo's step and made him breathe light and easy.
"Why, it's like Rivendell's Hall of Fire!" he had said to Bilbo the first night they went there.
The smile of delight on Bilbo's face had spoken his agreement.
But the Silver Blossom was not entirely alike. Elrond's Hall of Fire looked inward, with few doors and no windows, unless one could call the hearth a window. In some ways it was, for Frodo always recalled with great clarity hearing the Lay of Luthien told in full there; all during the recitation he looked into the hearth and watched the bright images come alive before him. Though even more tales and songs of the past had been sung (and would be sung in the ages to come) in the Silver Blossom's common room than in the Hall of Fire, it looked outward.
The Silver Blossom was built on a steep slope; it had large windows and a broad terrace that overlooked the quays. There was also a small walled courtyard behind the building, and from there Frodo could see the Tower of Avallónë gleaming on its hill, tall and fair in the moonlight and the starlight. It was all very blue and silver, so unlike Rivendell, which wove its dreams out of dark, polished wood and firelight. And yet this place cast its own spell, and to Frodo it was even more powerful to look out the windows and let the cool light of sun and stars bathe his face. Here he did not sink into a weighted sleep as he had done in Elrond's house, but that did not mean the enchantment was any less, and certainly not on this night when the speaker was Bilbo, his voice quavering a little with age.
Around
its trunk the King's hand was clasping.
Slender
and graceful the tree grew through fearless nights,
Yet
strong even then, with new life brightening
And
awakening beneath smooth skin of silver-white.
"Frodo?" Bilbo asked after he finished his recitation and took his smiling bows, retiring to the quiet corner where Frodo sat. His cheeks were pink with exertion and excitement. He sat down next to Frodo and leaned close.
"Yes?" Frodo tried to gather his thoughts. How well Bilbo had done this year!
"I should think the Elves could tell you where you mislaid my Ring, don't you?"
This was not the first time Bilbo had made the suggestion.
"I don't think so, Bilbo."
The rest of the evening crept by while Frodo jammed his maimed hand into his pocket, squeezing his fingers into a tight fist, his fingernails marking his palm with an incomplete pattern.
It was as fine a Shire morning as Frodo could remember.
He woke a little earlier than usual, though not before Bilbo was up and about. Actually, it was the smell of breakfast cooking that woke him up. His stomach simply demanded that he get out of bed immediately, and he obeyed that sharp command, pulling his clothes on quickly after dousing his face and neck in cool clean water.
"Good morning!" Bilbo said when Frodo trotted into the kitchen, still buttoning up his favorite linen shirt (which was odd since it was new and it usually took him months if not years to grow attached to a piece of clothing). "And a fine one if I do say so myself. It was that lark which lives in that big tree that did it, that woke me up, I should say. It's usually most annoying," Bilbo said as he expertly turned the frying bacon and mushrooms and stirred the gently scrambling eggs, moving with deft rhythm between the two pans. "But for some reason today when she started singing, it just made me hungry!"
Frodo grinned and sat at the table. "Well, it woke me up, and I'm glad," he said, patting his stomach and laughing when it grumbled loudly.
"The lark?" Bilbo said, tossing Frodo a fond look and a smile over his shoulder. "Silly thing."
"No," Frodo answered and waved his hand in the general direction of the stove. "The smell of breakfast! Don't know why it smelled so delicious this morning when it's always so good every day."
"Well, then," Bilbo said, swiveling from the stove to the table, the cast-iron skillet with the eggs in his hand, its handle well-covered with a thick dish cloth. "How about a helping of these to start you off? I have some scones in the oven as well that should just about be ready to take out."
Bacon and mushrooms followed the eggs on Frodo's plate a few seconds later, and then he had to make room for the promised scones, exceptionally fluffy and large ones, Frodo noted with happy approval, and plentifully dotted with currants.
Big mugs of milky tea, butter and jam for the scones, and a bowl of stewed apricots completed the menu, and the pre-breakfast chatter made way for a serious half hour of eating, with nary a word spoken other than requests to pass this or that item.
At length, Bilbo pushed back his chair and sighed. "Ah, that was a proper breakfast, if I do say so myself. What are you plans for today, Frodo?"
Frodo stood up and stretched, chewing on a last bite of jam-loaded scone. "Dishes first, I expect. And then I think I might take a walk to Overhill around lunchtime. I heard the innkeeper there has a new supply of ale. Come with me?"
"That sounds grand," Bilbo said, rummaging around the counter until he pulled out his pipe. He clamped it between his teeth and said, "I think I will. I suspect a good walk will do us some good."
Frodo thought he'd take a quick turn round the garden before settling in to do the dishes (no doubt with a little encouragement from Bilbo if not actual assistance). "I'll be back in a minute."
Busy filling his pipe and getting it lit, Bilbo mumbled something that Frodo didn't catch. Frodo walked through the house to the front door, opened it, stepped outside and breathed in the fresh sea air. Ah, what a view. Really, there was no beating the view from Bag End, homely as it was, with the Sea bright and sparkling in the sunshine and the glimpse of the white shores and the steep cliffs and ...
Frodo bolted upright in bed, shaking. His heart was beating so hard and fast that he not only felt it, he was sure he heard it, or if not that, the blood pumping in his veins. He leaned back against his pillows and rubbed his hand against his face. There were tears on his cheeks.
He knew there was little chance of falling back to sleep right away, so he did what he'd grown accustomed to doing after the dreams had started. He got up, threw on his robe, and walking as quietly as he could so as not to wake Bilbo, he went out the back and stumbled through the wet grass, heading for the cliffs. He was drawn by the cliffs after he woke from one of these dreams.
It was a quiet night. He'd always thought the deep silence of a Shire night was the epitome of quiet, but he had not come to the West when he thought that. So Frodo stood in the silent night and tried not to think too much. He did not care much for the thoughts that came to him on such nights.
Coward.
Ran away.
Couldn't do it.
Not that anyone cared.
Prideful.
No, Frodo did not much care for the thoughts that came to him on nights like these or any other time, so he did what he always did to quiet them. First, to calm his mind and heart, he looked out at the Sea and up at the sky, breathing deeply. This night, the moon and stars were out in great force, and they made the cliffs shine like bright opals, which was really the object of his coming outside. To look at the cliffs.
There! Frodo knelt at the very edge of the grass, actually just barely onto the white rock of the cliffs. Oh, it was there! The path: he could see it. He knew there was a path, had known it from his earliest days at West End, when Hal had been with them; how simple after all it was to find it. When morning came, he would come back and begin to explore its ways.
He went back to bed soon after and slept like a log, dreamless as far as he could tell when he woke up to the smell of frying bacon and eggs.
After breakfast, he went to the cliff and looked down, and the path was gone.
He stood for a while in thought and, turning to go into the house, murmured, "All that time in the Emyn Muil, trying to get down and get to that place, that one place I had to get to, that one place I never wanted to go." He stopped at the kitchen door and leaned against it a minute before going in. "And if I did find a path down these cliffs, what would I do? Where would I go? What would be my quest?"
"Ah, we are lucky, aren't we, Frodo?"
"What do you mean?"
"To be here."
Tears pricked behind his eyelids, but Frodo turned away and busied himself with the kettle while Bilbo nattered on about the night before and the reception of his poem.
"I should fancy a trip into Avallónë today, Frodo. Frodo?"
TBC
