When Winter Fell

Chapter 1. Maunderings of a Mad Uncle

S.R. 1310, High Summer

'What is it, Master Bag, that has your face as long as a day in November?'

Bilbo jumped at the voice behind him. It was old Uncle Isengar, who was not really "old", as he would pass fifty only next year. But Isengar's face was weather-beaten, toughened by wind and sun and tempered with fine lines, and worse, the hobbit was mad as... Bilbo suppressed a shiver as a hearty hand clamped down upon his shoulder.

'Now then,' Isengar said, a little too heartily. 'What have we here?'

The tween reluctantly lifted the fine leather-clad volume with its wonderfully wrought pages of linen-laced vellum.

'Ah,' Isengar said. 'Father has taken exception to your hand-writing, has he? Don't tell me.' He dramatically covered his eyes and threw back his head, as a soothsayer will at the Free Faire, in order to make a greater impact on his credulous audience. 'You sent him a letter...'

Bilbo opened his mouth and closed it again as his uncle continued.

'A thank you note, it was,' Isengar said triumphantly, lowering his arm to gaze piercingly into Bilbo's eyes. 'And he pounced upon you, when you arrived for Bella's birthday celebration, forced this oliphaunt into your hands, and pronounced your doom.'

'H-how did you know?' Bilbo stammered, forgetting that he was talking to a mad hobbit, for Isengar was making a wonderful amount of sense with his shrewd guesses.

Isengar smiled a secret smile. 'I have my ways of knowing,' he said, and Bilbo shivered at the look in his eyes. Ten years ago the wizard Gandalf had fetched his uncle back to the Great Smials, raving and consumed by fever, his body broken in some terrible calamity, just what the wizard had never said. The Tooks had nursed Isengar back to life, or a semblance thereof. His gait was a hobble, and one of his arms hung useless in a sling, and there was a faraway look in his eye, most of the time, and he seldom talked sense, when he talked at all. It was said he'd 'gone to sea in his youth', and from what Bilbo could see, his uncle had never returned from there.

'Y-yes,' Bilbo said, looking for some avenue of escape. But they were alone in the tunnel, deep in the Great Smials, where he'd gone to escape his grandfather's piercing eye, and to think, and perhaps to find a place to bury the fine, horrifyingly blank book so that he could say later that he'd "lost" it.

'You're to keep a journal, are you? Write a daily entry, and bring it for my father's inspection on every visit to the Great Smials, until he pronounces your handwriting satisfactory?' Isengar said.

'How did you...?' Bilbo said again, and then kicked himself for a fool of a tween. Isengar had likely kept a journal of his own in his youth, at least before he'd "gone to sea". Bilbo's mother did; the study at Bag End held one shelf of volumes with his mother's tiny, spidery handwriting, though the one he'd peeked into, once, at his cousin Siggy's instigation, held tedious household accounts. He wasn't all that interested in books, anyhow, being much more concerned with the woods and fields, birds and animals, the ever-changing skyscape, Men and Dwarves travelling the Road, with their air of far places, and rumour of Elves. Bilbo thought he'd seen an Elf, once.

'Come with me, laddie-mine,' Isengar said, and Bilbo had no choice in the matter, with his uncle's grip once more firmly prisoning his shoulder. He'd have to "lose" the book later, it seemed.

Isengar pulled Bilbo along to the more-frequented part of the Great Smials, although the room where they ended was empty of Tooks. You wouldn't find any of those hobbits, of a fine day, cooped up in the library. Sometimes on rainy days, the younger hobbits would go there to play, scampering up and down the ladders or settling to look at picture-books when an adult poked head in the doorway to scold.

Isengar led the tween to a shadowy corner. He searched amongst the books there, muttering to himself, finally finding his quarry pushed back a little, hiding behind two other books. 'I thought it would be here,' he said in satisfaction. 'Nobody ever looks for this little gem. Why, it's in the same place where I left it...'

'Where you left it?' Bilbo said. He had never seen Isengar with a book in his hand. The hobbit was too restless to sit himself down; he prowled the corridors of the Great Smials from dawn until middle night, as if searching for something, but as far as Bilbo knew he'd never found it.

'O aye, youngster--when I was about your age, as a matter of fact, or only a little younger!' Isengar said with a sharp bark of laughter.

Not long before he ran away, Bilbo thought to himself, at least, if the rumours were true.

'You and I are not the only hobbits who've been chained to a journal until we could write "in a fair hand",' Isengar said in a conspiratorial whisper.

'Whose is this?' Bilbo said. 'My mother's?'

Isengar shook his head, a twinkle in the undimmed eye. 'She was too good at hiding her journals,' he said. 'She didn't want her brothers reading them, for some reason.' He thrust the book into Bilbo's hands, and the tween opened the book automatically, looking down at the scrawl on the first page.

'I can see why he needed handwriting practice,' Bilbo said. 'Grandfather would call this "a disgrace, and no mistake".'

'He did need practice, and he got it too, and a good thing, or the Yellow Book would be nearly unreadable,' Isengar said. 'Think of all the Tooks whose names would be lost to the future.'

Bilbo wasn't listening; he had turned back to the flyleaf, to read the inscription there, very similar to the inscription on his own pristine volume, though the precise writing was in a very old-fashioned style. 'Fortinbras?' he whispered. 'Cousin Fortinbras?' He began to grin, thinking of the secrets that might be revealed, suitable for hints and jests, but then he was recalled to himself, remembering that Isengar had hidden this book nearly thirty years past, when Fortinbras would have been newly born, or perhaps still just a twinkle in his father's eye. 'Thain Fortinbras?' he amended, and he wanted to drop the book, or stick it hastily back on the shelf, anything but commit the sacrilege of reading the private writings of his great-grandfather.

He wondered why the pages were so clean-looking, except for smudges from dirty fingers, and ink-blots that testified to the carelessness of the scribe. Perhaps the book was of Elf-make, just as his grandfather had solemnly observed about Bilbo's new encumbrance as Gerontius had presented it before Bilbo's beaming parents.

'Well he wasn't quite Thain at the time,' Isengar said with a smile. 'Hadn't even reached his twentieth year, as a matter of fact. Was a bit young, as it was, to begin writing, only twelve or thirteen, but his grandfather was looking to the future, much as yours is.'

'But I'll never be Thain,' Bilbo said. 'People will never be poring over my writing! I don't see why I have to "take thought for the future"!'

'Well now, you never know, Little Nephew,' Isengar said, ruffling Bilbo's curls as if he were a much younger lad. Bilbo bridled, but his uncle only laughed, the mad light returning to his eye.

'You just sit yourself down,' he said. 'Read a bit! You'll find that young hobbits had much the same feelings you have, for all they lived over an hundred years ago, or more...'

Bilbo let himself be guided to a shabby chair, well-worn by Tookish backsides over the years, comfortable for all its ramshackle appearance. Isengar pressed hard on his shoulder and he sat himself down.

'Read,' Isengar said flatly.

Bilbo opened the book to the first page and pretended to become at once engrossed. Just as soon as the "old" mad hobbit left the room, he'd make his escape. But Isengar did not leave the room; humming under his breath, he moved to the shelves, pulled a book off, opened it and stood there, apparently absorbed.

But when Bilbo looked up from the journal, he found his uncle's one good eye upon him. With a sigh, he looked down again at the book in his lap, and began to read.

This is the dullest, most tiresome pasttime that was ever invented. Yes, Grandfa, I know you will be reading this!

Keeping a journal must be the worst use of time I can think of. A journal, for all that the Elves made it, holds no magic. It is just a pretty book that will last a long time, or so the peddler said.

Mid-year's Day

pastime pastime pastime pastime pastime pastime pastime pastime pastime pastime

Very well. I must write misspelt words ten times before tea. And I must put a date on my entries so that you may see I have written something each and every day.

2 July

I say, Grandfa, that it is hardly fair to punish me for being late to tea when it is you who told me I must write each word ten times properly before I may have my tea!

And as you have told me that I spell very well for my age I think it very unfair to punish me for reading when I ought to have been helping in the fields. After all, you boasted to Master Greenfield that I spell well because I read so much because you cannot get my nose out of a book! I do not believe your threat to apprentice me to him to keep his books. I will not be twenty for some years yet and besides you are making me keep a journal to improve my hand-writting. He does not want me to keep his books until my writting is neat and tidy. Perhaps I will never improve my writting, and so you shall never apprentice me!

3 July

writing writing writing writing writing writing writing writing writing writing

I do not think your jest at all clever, Grandfa that I ought to write the word three-times-ten for having misspelt it three times.

How does one keep a journal, anyhow? What to write?

For breakfast I had four rashers of bacon, half a dozen eggs, fried to show their suns shining, cold pork pie and two apple dumplings, though Fanny said I had three. I drank milk still warm from the cow, and cambric tea for I am still only a youth, as some hobbits seem to have forgot. And now Salsify is calling me to pull weeds.

Chapter 2. From the Frying Pan into the Fire

Bilbo chortled and then covered his mouth, looking up quickly. Uncle Isengar was studying the book in his hand, but the corners of his mouth quirked in a smile.

But then the young hobbit's stomach made its presence and state of emptiness known with a pronounced rumble, and Bilbo stood up from the chair, closing the journal on his finger and letting it dangle from his hand.

'The rashers of bacon do it to me every time,' Isengar observed to his own book.

'I--I beg your pardon, Uncle,' Bilbo said.

'You have it,' Isengar said without looking up. He turned over a page, apparently absorbed.

'It must be close to teatime,' Bilbo said.

'Rather,' Isengar agreed, drawing out the word in an affected way.

'If I might take this with me...' Bilbo said.

'If you might,' Isengar answered in an agreeable manner.

Bilbo edged his way towards the door, but his uncle never moved, nor spoke.

Once he reached the door, the tween felt as if he'd been released from restraint by some invisible rope. He was off like a shot from the bow, running towards the great room, until he collided with one of his Tookish cousins.

'Here now!' Flambard Took protested, getting up from the floor and brushing imaginary dust from his clothes. 'There's no running in the Smials; you know that!'

'Sorry,' Bilbo said, picking up the journals he'd let fall, and glancing behind as he rose again.

'What's the matter?' Flambard said. 'Is the roof about to fall in?'

'He's being haunted by the ghost of Uncle Isengar,' Sigismond said, coming up behind Bilbo.

'How did you...?' Bilbo said.

'I saw you turn into the Old Tunnel,' Siggy said. 'I thought you might be exploring, and I went to follow you, but Uncle Isen was there before me, and I wasn't about to follow him!'

Bilbo shuddered, and Flambard laughed. 'He's harmless,' the older tween said, 'even if he's off his head.'

'Gives me the shivers,' Siggy said cheerily. 'But what gives me worse shivers is the possibility of coming late to tea. Don't just stand here chatting!'

'What've you got there, cousin?' Flambard said as they walked hurriedly towards the great room.

Siggy gave a bark of laughter. 'Grandfather's taken exception to his handwriting!' he said. 'And look, his writing is so dreadful he's been given two journals!'

Somehow Bilbo didn't like the idea of his cousins laughing over the journal entries of Thain Fortinbras, even if they were written long before he became Thain. 'It's pretty dreadful,' he said lightly. 'Might take as many as five or ten journals, Grandfather told me, until "practice makes perfect".'

Flambard clapped hand to forehead. 'I see it now!' he cried. 'The Bagginses are known for their business acumen! Cousin Bilbo has convinced Grandfather that his writing is terrible, and so Grandfather is going to gift him with expensive journals, and he's going to sell them at a tidy profit in the marketplace!'

'My scheme has been discovered,' Bilbo said. 'Woe is me!'

Siggy patted his shoulder. 'Wish I'd thought of it first,' he said. 'I finished my journal-writing last year, and Grandfather pronounced my hand-writing "passable".'

'You'll have to find some other means to fortune,' Bilbo informed him.

'Don't I know it!' Siggy said. 'Perhaps I'll go to sea...'

'No fortune there,' Flambard said heavily. 'Only ruin, and madness.'

'Hush!' Fortinbras said (Cousin Fortinbras, that was, and not Great-Grandfather), coming from the other direction and meeting them at the entrance to the great room.

They entered and took their places. Bilbo put his journals under his chair, where they'd be safe from prying eyes and examination by curious Tooks. 'Well, my lad,' Bungo Baggins said. 'How is the writing coming along?'

'I haven't started yet,' Bilbo said flatly.

'But you were to have written an entry every day before teatime,' Belladonna said worriedly from his other side.

'Uncle Isengar got hold of me,' Bilbo said.

'Isen!' Belladonna exclaimed. 'What did he--?'

'He's harmless,' Bungo said. 'But I don't know that your grandfather will accept such an explanation.'

'What did he do?' Belladonna persisted.

'Dragged me to the library, sat me down and made me read a book,' Bilbo said. 'I had no chance to get away and start writing... every time I looked up, his eye was upon me. He only let me go a little while ago.'

'Dragging young hobbits to the library and forcing them to read,' Uncle Hildibrand muttered. 'What will he come to next, I ask you?'

'He's harmless,' Bungo said a little louder, and seeing tears in his wife's eyes, he reached across Bilbo's plate to pat Belladonna's hand. 'Really, love, no harm done. Bilbo could use more time in books and less in tweenish mischief.'

Sigismond, beyond them and on the other side of the table, rolled his eyes. He was the same age as Bilbo and they'd planned some wonderful pranks, to accomplish during this visit.

But all talk was curtailed in a scraping of chairs as everyone rose to acknowledge the entrance of the Thain.

Gerontius nodded graciously and took his seat, and all the Tooks and relations and guests sat down once more, ready to begin eating and drinking and gossiping: all the enjoyments of tea in company.

But no. The Thain cleared his throat and beckoned towards Bilbo. 'Yes, you!' he said impatiently as Bilbo looked from left to right.

Bungo rose from his chair and bowed toward the Thain. 'Beg pardon, Sir,' he said.

'Beg pardon?' Gerontius harrumphed. 'Beg pardon? What ever for?'

Bilbo had started to rise as well, but his father's hand on his shoulder held him in his seat.

'I am sorry,' Bungo said, 'but the lad did not complete his journal entry, though no fault of his own. I ask, on his behalf, that he be allowed to take tea, on the promise that he will present to you a journal entry, in the best hand-writing he can manage, before supper.'

'No fault of his own?' Gerontius said, knitting his bushy eyebrows.

'I assure you, Sir,' Bungo said.

'Father,' Belladonna began, but her husband overrode her. It would not do to upset the Old Took with mention of his youngest son.

'I shall personally see Bilbo to our quarters, provide him with pen and ink, and watch over him, blotter in hand, until he has finished today's entry.' Behind his hand, he whispered, and I'll make sure your spelling is satisfactory into the bargain. Bilbo gave a sigh of relief.

Gerontius seemed to consider this, and then said, 'I'm a busy hobbit. I've no time to waste with nonsense.'

Bilbo fought the impulse to roll his own eyes. Why did his grandfather plague young hobbits with journals, then? And long speeches about boring subjects? He looked to Siggy and had to look hastily away, before he was led to burst out laughing at his cousin's expression.

'Very well,' Gerontius added. 'I want you in my study half an hour before supper, journal in hand.'

'Yes, Grandfather,' Bilbo said. So much for the prank he and Sigismond had planned for after tea this day.

***

15 July

For Tea today I had four cucumber sandwiches, a helping of salmon mousse, three stuffed eggs, eight stuffed mushrooms, two seedcakes, and three scones with cream and strawberry preserves. I would have had four, but Uncle Hildibrand took the last from the serving platter.

Chapter 4. From the journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

15 July

I think that today was the hottest day of my life. The hottest day of the year, most assuredly. The old gammers were sitting on their doorsteps and fanning themselves most impressively as I walked through Tuckboro on your errand, Grandfa. And to send me back again, because I did not count the change!

If it is too hot to ride a pony, is it not too hot to send a grandson?

It is a mercy I did not melt.

When I asked Gammer Goodbody why she did not hide from the sun, deep inside the cool of her delving, she said that winter's chill would come soon enough, and she must need soak up the sunshine while it lasts.

I said it was hard to imagine winter's chill on such a day, and her old gaffer who was playing at draughts with his neighbour shook his head at me, just as you do, and muttered about the short-sightedness of youth.

But I am not short-sighted at all! Not even for all my reading, though you say I shall ruin my eyes.

Chapter 5. Baa, Baa, Black Sheep

'It must be the hottest day of the year,' Sigismond said, wiping his sleeve across his face. Bilbo followed suit, though he had a perfectly presentable pocket-handkerchief tucked away. It was much more fun to follow his Tookish cousins' lead than to remember the manners his parents insisted on. (It didn't occur to him that his cousins had parents who insisted on manners, too, when they had their children in sight.)

'I thought yesterday was,' he answered. They had made a lovely, long visit to the Great Smials, nearly a month. It was a busy time for his father, and while he attended to business he was glad to leave his wife and son at the Great Smials, rather than lonely at home in Bag End. Bilbo welcomed the change; it was certainly a lively place to be, and instead of often being asked to mind his younger cousin Falco, quite spoilt and with a piercing whine when he didn't get his own way, whilst their mammas took tea and gossip, he could gad about with more interesting cousins. Tooks were scandalously adventurous, which certainly made them more diverting than the staid Bagginses.

The market was certainly a colourful and inviting place to be on this day, at the height of the harvest season. Round, ripe, red tomatoes, green and lush lettuces, long beans, and plump tubers rioted in their various baskets. Siggy grabbed up a carrot and crunched down on it, and at the outraged squawk of the stallholder tossed a ha'penny into the air. The farmwife missed it, and it fell ringing on the stones. Without thinking, Bilbo swooped to catch up the coin and pressed it into the farmwife's hand. 'Sorry!' he gasped, and mollified, she smiled at him. ("Lovely manners, those Bagginses have," as she told her husband later, over supper. "Proper little gentlehobbit, that Baggins laddie.")

Siggy had already turned away and was browsing a table of silver jewellery, of delicate manufacture. He picked up a bracelet of links intricately twined. 'Half a moment, 'Bo, old lad,' he said.

'Nice,' Bilbo said. 'Who's it for?' He smirked. 'Is there a sweetheart we haven't heard of yet? Cousin Laburnum, perhaps?'

Siggy gave a delicate shudder and proceeded to ignore Bilbo. 'How much?' he said to the silversmith.

'A sovereign'll do,' the smith replied. His face was very red from the heat; perhaps that explained the outrageous price. Or perhaps he was all too aware that two grandsons of the Thain stood before him. Or perhaps he suspected that Siggy had stopped merely to plague him, to finger his wares fit to need polishing, and then to go off with a laugh without purchasing anything.

'A sover--' Siggy squawked, dropping the wristlet as if it burned him. 'Why, I wouldn't think it worth half a crown, even!' As a matter of fact, he had half a silver sovereign in his pocket--not nearly so valuable as half a gold sovereign, but a goodly chunk of his pocket money.

'For you, young master,' the silversmith said, measuring the tween with a sceptical eye, 'I'd take half a crown, and call it highway robbery!'

'Are you saying I'm a ruffian?' Siggy said, frowning.

'No, for he can clearly see you're only half a ruffian,' Bilbo said, and turning to the silversmith, he added, 'Name a fair price. Fair, mind you! Money don’t grow on trees, not even up on the Hill above Hobbiton!'

With a little judicious dickering, Bilbo soon secured the bauble, saw it wrapped up, and slipped it into his pocket. 'Thank you, sir,' he said with a bow. 'It is a pleasure to do business with such a fine craftsman.'

'Any time, young master,' the smith said with a bow of his own. 'My pleasure.'

'So, who's the sweetheart? Have you been toying with the affections of my sisters, or some other unsuspecting maidens at the Great Smials? Has one of them captured your heart with a treacherous batting of the eyelashes?'

Completely ridiculous; at Bilbo's age he scarcely noticed the lasses, nor did Sigismond for that matter, being the same age, but that didn't mean they wouldn't joke about the possibility, and torment each other with hints that some sweet lass was casting longing looks in their direction, a fact that, if true, would have horrified them both.

'Indeed,' Bilbo said in the same vein.

'Who is it, pray tell!' Siggy said, clasping his hands together in a pleading manner and batting his own eyelashes, managing to look quite ridiculous.

'Wouldn't you like to know?' Bilbo said smugly.

'Not at all,' Sigismond said, taking another tack by turning away as if he'd lost all interest.

'It's his birthday next month; have you forgotten?' Flambard said from behind them. He was with Fortinbras, the two walking arm-in-arm for they were great friends. 'I'd imagine he bought that sweet little trinket as a "thank you" for his mother. Siggy, I saw you handling those wares. Don't you remember Grandfather's rule? If you have no intention of buying, then look with your eyes, not with your hands!'

'Who asked you to be my minder?' Sigismond said, his eyes flashing.

Flambard's response was interrupted by a song, sung on key in a loud and tuneful voice. The bustle of the market died somewhat in its advent.

Siggy swore under his breath and grabbed Bilbo's hand, yanking him into the shadow of one of the stalls. 'Come on, cousin! Don't look now but the ghost of Uncle Isengar is haunting the market square!'

Bilbo made a face and dove after Sigismond. He'd spend much of the month trying to avoid Isengar, and for the most part had succeeded. Especially with the weather so fair, he didn't want to feel his uncle's hand clapped upon his shoulder--he didn't want to be shut up in the dusty library and forced to read any more books! (He hadn't even read much more in his great-grandfather's diary, truth be told, for there was too much diversion to be had with his Tookish cousins--picnics and pranks, fun and frolics, walking parties and pony races and all the other delights of youth.) 'Who let him out?' he whispered in disgust.

The life of a sailor's the life for me!
Give me a deck on a rolling sea!
Mountains of waves rising o'er my head,
And they rock me to sleep in my hammocky bed!
O great Sea, O wide Sea, upon thy bosom lay me!
I  know ye'll not betray me, but carry me away--hee!
O vast Sea, my beau-ty! Forever I will love thee...

There were murmurs of "poor mad Took" all around them, and Bilbo's cheeks burned with embarrassment. He wanted nothing to do with this horrible relative who stalked through the corridors like a ghost and scandalised proper hobbits with songs of the... it was really too awful... the Sea!

Forever I will... Isengar sang, throwing his good arm out to the side for emphasis and knocking down a neat pile of cabbages, so that they rolled off the table and onto the stones. Siggy groaned beside Bilbo, and the tweens' eyes met to share a glance of complete mortification.

Isengar stared in astonishment at the cabbages rolling at his feet. 'Hoi, shipmates!' he shouted. 'Seems to be a gale blowing up out of the nor'eastern quarter! It's hailing cabbages!'

'Is it now?' Fortinbras said, digging in his pocket as he moved to intercept his uncle. 'Well then, we had better get in out of the weather, wouldn't you say, Uncle?' Coming up with a handful of coins, he pressed them into the hand of the sputtering farmer with a nod of tacit apology, and then he took Isen's elbow. 'Come, Uncle,' he said firmly. 'If we lean into the wind, and keep close together, we shan't be swept from the deck.'

At a swift glance from Fortinbras, Flambard stepped up to Isengar's other side. 'Yes, Uncle,' he said. 'Let us get in, out of the weather...'

'Batten down the hatches!' Isengar roared, and Bilbo winced at the scandalous sea-talk. In the Great Smials there was usually a bustle when Isengar got started in a crowd, and he'd be quickly hushed up and hustled out of the room.

'Turn her into the wind!' Fortinbras responded.

'Aye, lad, you have the right of it!' Isengar said with an approving nod. 'She won't founder in the waves, not with the Captain at the wheel!'

'Hurrah!' Flambard said, for want of anything better, and between them, Fortinbras and Flambard escorted their uncle from the marketplace, leading him firmly back towards the Great Smials, and not a moment too soon, so far as Bilbo and Sigismond were concerned.

An old man in grey--a Man, mind, for he was not one of the Shire-folk--who was sitting on his rolled-up cloak on the floor to put the table at a convenient height, turned away from the window of the Spotted Duck, having watched the entire scene with a great deal of interest, and not a little sorrow, and lifted his mug to signal for more of the fine ale to be found at that establishment. He'd have another mug, before he went to visit his friend, the Old Took, and allow the lads to bring Isengar safely back to the Great Smials before he made his appearance. He had only all too clear an idea of the scene poor Isengar would make, and it was better that it happen inside the Great Smials, than in the open square.

Chapter 6. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

14 August

You say you are tired of reading menu lists, Grandfa, and that my writing shows a certain lack of imagination on my part. I assure you, Sir, of a great deal of imagination. It takes imagination to pull carrots from the ground for hours on end without a grumble.

Or perhaps it does not, when I think twice upon the matter.

But why does Uncle Isembold drive us from dawn to nooning with such a grim face?

It used to be we'd do our lessons in the morning and work in the fields for an hour or two before tea, because a gentlehobbit's hands won't fall off if dirtied with honest work, or so you say.

But now we must work half the day and take our lessons after nooning, tired and aching, and have time to ourselves only after teatime when it is much too hot to do anything of interest.

I am not grumbling. Uncle Isembold says that grumbling is not productive.

But I have produced two pages for your reading pleasure now, Grandfa, and only barest mention of food.

Chapter 7. Topics of Interest

Bilbo hovered outside the Thain's study, listening to the rise and fall of the talk between the Old Took and his distinguished guest, though he'd hardly looked distinguished to the young Baggins when he'd emerged from the Spotted Dog. He'd been bent nearly in half to go through the doorway, and as he'd straightened, he'd risen higher, and higher... towering above the hobbits in the marketplace.

Bilbo and Siggy had frankly stared, mouths open in astonishment. Bilbo wasn't quite sure what was most amazing: the long white beard, tucked neatly into the old man's belt, or the shaggy eyebrows that stuck out beyond the brim of his hat.

'Ah, some young Tooks!' the old man had said. 'Grandsons of the Old Took, are you? Perhaps you'd be so kind as to escort me to the Great Smials.' He had seen them hiding themselves during Isengar's outburst, and wondered for the first time, if he'd made a mistake to bring the hobbit home again, after...

'Sigismond son of Hildibrand, at your service,' Siggy said smartly, with a jaunty bow. He cocked a thumb at Bilbo, adding, 'And he's not a Took, but a Baggins!'

'Bilbo son of Bungo, at your service,' Bilbo said hastily, though his bow was a shade more respectful than his cousin's had been.

The old man bowed in return. 'Gandalf the Grey at yours, and at your family's,' he rumbled, and the eyes of both young hobbits nearly popped out of their heads. A wizard! A real wizard was before them! They'd heard of Gandalf, of course. He'd visited each Thain in turn, as far back as the history of the Shire went, and had even been friends with some of them, as he was with Gerontius. There were tales of marvellous fireworks still told in the great room whenever the Old Took's birthday came around, though Gandalf's last visit ten years ago had not included fireworks, or any sort of celebration whatsoever. He'd brought Uncle Isengar home to die in the bosom of his family, and left again straightway. But Uncle Isen hadn't died... not completely...

'Did you bring your fireworks?' Siggy blurted, and Bilbo bit his tongue in consternation at his cousin's rudeness.

But the wizard only laughed. 'I don't seem to have any with me at the moment,' he said, patting his robes. At the young hobbits' crestfallen expression he laughed again. 'But of course, your grandfather's birthday is still a few days away, and anything could happen between now and then.'

'Indeed!' Siggy said, brightening, and dancing a few steps, he thrust out his hand in the direction of the Great Smials. 'Shall we?'

And so they went, the two young hobbits chattering away and the old man listening, for the most part, and chuckling. And when they reached the Great Smials, they stopped, and the old man regarded the face of the great hill thoughtfully, perhaps comparing it in his mind to an earlier memory. Siggy said rather breathlessly, 'I'll tell Grandfather that you're here!' and ran in at one of the lesser doors, leaving Bilbo to entertain the old fellow.

A cautious crowd began to gather, staying well back, until Gandalf recognised several of the older ones and called greetings. These came forward rather shyly, to bow and offer their services. It was all politeness, of course, for what service could a wizard possibly ask of a hobbit?

At last the Old Took himself emerged from the Smials, beaming in welcome. 'Gandalf! It has been too long since you graced our humble abode! Welcome, welcome! You're well in time for tea... come in, come in!' He glanced about the yard, looking in vain for a waggon or cart and added, 'But did you not bring your fireworks?'

The old man threw back his head and laughed. 'I have not forgotten,' he said at last. 'It is your birthday this week. One hundred and twenty years! I would be seriously remiss, not to mark the occasion!'

The Old Took hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat and puffed up with pleasure as he rocked back on his heels. 'Not that it's a grand accomplishment,' he said. 'Just living, that's all.'

'Just living,' chuckled the Wizard. 'Worth celebrating, when you spend your life living for others and not for yourself!'

The Old Took blushed with pleasure. 'Well now,' he said dismissively. 'There's a glass of ale in my study with your name on it, old friend. Shall we go in?'

Though the occasion might seem to call for a grand entry, the Old Took led his visitor through one of the lesser entrances on the ground level, rather than leading him up the steps to the Great Door--steps made for the feet of hobbits, and rather awkward for a man to tread.

There was quite a buzz of conversation in the yard for some time after. 'Do you think we'll have fireworks?' was the main theme, though there was an undercurrent of grumbling as well. Always brings bad news when he comes...

And so Bilbo found himself waiting outside the study door, which was slightly ajar, for it was just before teatime and he had his journal under his arm. He was supposed to bring his daily writings to his grandfather before teatime, but he hesitated to interrupt the conversation. He didn't want to go away again, and have his grandfather's public scolding at tea in the great room for not having brought his journal for approval. No messenger waited outside the Thain's study, so there was no one to take the journal from him. He could wait for the messenger to return, or he could wait for his grandfather to emerge, or he could tap at the door. He just had to make up his mind.

Meanwhile, the listening was fascinating.

'...storeholes are full to bursting, all over the Shire,' his grandfather was saying. 'We're in the middle of harvest now, and frankly, I don't know where we're going to put all the stuff!'

'I'm glad to hear that you've had good harvests, the past few years, and have not squandered the bounty in feasting and frolic,' Gandalf said.

'I should say we learned our lesson in the time of the Dearth,' the Old Took answered, and Bilbo shivered. 'Certainly bounty is to be celebrated. We are not misers, to squirrel away our nuts and forget where we buried them! Or dragons, to sit on our useless hoards. No, we make good use of the bounty of the earth, but we store as much as we use, and we take care to use it lest it spoil and be wasted.'

'The years have taught you wisdom, old friend,' Gandalf said, and Gerontius laughed.

'Well, they've taught me something or other,' he answered. 'That's to be sure... but I do appreciate your coming to warn us...'

Bilbo missed the rest of the sentiment for a hand seized his shoulder. 'Listening at doorways?' a voice growled. It was the messenger, returning to his post outside the Thain's study.

'Really, Tally,' he said, trying to twist out of the grasp, and holding up his journal. 'I was only waiting...'

'Ah,' said Talibras. 'Best excuse for eavesdropping I've heard yet.' He tapped at the door, and the talk within stopped. Swinging wide the door, the messenger said, 'Visitor, Sir.'

'Ah, my grandson!' Gerontius said. 'Come in, Bilbo! Mind your manners.'

'We've met,' Gandalf said, rising from his seat, and rising, and still rising, until his head nearly brushed the tall ceiling. 'This is one of the young hobbits who so kindly escorted me from Tuckborough Market.'

Bilbo bowed to the old man and then extended the journal to his grandfather's waiting hand. The old hobbit turned to the proper page and harrumphed.  'Well now, your handwriting is coming along,' he said. 'But more menu lists! I tell you, I tire of reading of crumpets and cakes! A little more meat, that's what's wanted!'

The wizard chuckled. 'Perhaps your birthday fireworks will give him something of interest to write about.'

'P'rhaps,' the Old Took said, scowling at his grandson from under his eyebrows. 'One can only hope...' He thrust the journal back into Bilbo's hands. 'Off wit' ye, now! And don't let me catch you writing another list of foodstuffs in your journal for the next fortnight!'

'Yes, Grandfather!' Bilbo said, and with a hasty bow to the guest he turned once more to leave. As the door closed behind him, the wizard spoke again and his grandfather laughed, and if Tally hadn't been standing at his post, Bilbo would have taken up listening once more. It wasn't every day a wizard came to the door...

10/31/05

Chapter 8. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

And so, Grandfa, my handwriting is "passable". I need no longer bring my daily writings to you, for you to knit your eyebrows together as you peruse the fruit of my labour. Or rather, that you have given me a holiday from writing, and we will take up the exercise once more when winter gains us more leisure so to do.

A holiday! Hah!

And so I am to lay my journal aside, and revel in the extra time such freedom gains me. What holiday? What extra time?

Today I laboured in the fields from dawning until we were too tired to see the potatoes we were grubbing from the ground, by lamplight, after the sun had sensibly sought her bed. Too tired, almost, to notice the magnificent sunset, the clouds towering high. Because the rains are threatening, all Tooks have been ordered into the fields, and with the farmhands all at the haying, we soft-handed gentlehobbits must dig in the dirt with our fingers.

I am nearly too weary to write, and now we are ordered to save candles and lamp oil. Why were we not saving them by coming in from the fields when darkness fell?

You think you can order me to write, and I'll write, and then you can order me to stop, and I'll stop.

But I will not stop. I will write to the end of this book, as you first told me I must, and only then will I be done with writing!

Chapter 9. Change in the Weather

Bilbo's pen nib hovered over the page, but at last he sighed and laid the pen down and cradled his chin in his hands. "No menu lists" his grandfather had said, and he supposed that included the grand feast to celebrate the birthday of the Thain. Bilbo's mouth watered at the memory.

At last he gave a nod, picked up the quill, and dipped it into the inkwell.

Some day I should like to have such a Birthday Party, he wrote, and tilted his head to look at the words. It was a good beginning, he thought. Now, how to describe the food without listing the menu?

First of all, a very pleasant feast, in fact an engrossing entertainment: rich, abundant, varied, and prolonged. Afterwards, my guests would sip from their favourite drinks, and fill up the corners with their favourite dainties, and I suppose I should have to render some sort of birthday Speech, though I haven't the faintest notion what I might say. "Thank you for coming to my Party," I suppose.

His grandfather had said a great deal more than that, all the sort of fine and obvious stuff that guests enjoyed applauding, about abundant harvests and good friends and the richness that the years had brought, golden coins in the treasure box of memory.

There would have to be fireworks, of course, Bilbo continued, after some thought. Flowers and trees, showers and fountains, storms and rainbows and even an eagle or some other flying creature, to swoop over the crowd and burst into a thousand sparks! He thought back over the fireworks of the previous evening. How he wished he could paint pictures with words!

'Are you going to be all day about it?' Siggy said at his shoulder, and Bilbo jumped and nearly blotted the page.

'Don't do that!' he scolded. 'I'd've had to start all over again!'

He wiped his pen nib and laid the quill down, stretching in the chair, and then he sanded the page to seep up any extra ink. 'There,' he said with a sigh. 'Done for to day, and the rest of the day ahead of us! What shall we do?'

'Your last day at the Smials,' Siggy said, pulling a long face. 'To morrow you must go back to dull Hobbiton, with no Tooks about to make life interesting.'

'Ah, but it'll be my birthday, not long after,' Bilbo said, 'and perhaps you can come to Bag End to help me celebrate!'

'I'd like that!' Siggy said. 'Why, it would be like travelling the world! What is it, a dozen miles or so, across the fields?'

'At least that,' Bilbo said, 'but if your whole family came you'd likely take a coach to Stock, and then north to Bridgefields, and then West to Bywater, and spend the better part of a week in travel!'

'Quite the adventure,' Siggy said with a grin. 'And all that travel will stand me in good stead when it comes time to travel to Michel Delving to cast my vote for Mayor.'

'That's some years off,' Bilbo said, for they were a dozen years or so too young to vote.

'Ah, but it is never too early to begin to make a plan,' Siggy observed.

The wizard, sitting in a shadowy corner of the Tooks' library, smiled at this. How he loved hobbits and their orderly ways; they planned everything from meals to memorials well ahead of time. They loved routine, and yet could greet such surprises as fireworks with clappings and cries of delight. They seemed to be such ordinary folk, and yet, just when he thought he'd learned all there was to know about them, they would surprise him.

One would hardly expect such settled, complacent creatures to be capable of great sacrifice and pity for others, and yet Gandalf had observed just such qualities in hobbits over the years. His brow clouded as he considered the time when his interest in the Shire had kindled. Another severe winter was in the making, though he'd brought a warning in good time for them to make their preparations, and so he certainly hoped the hobbits would come out of this one better than they had, that earlier time.

The young folk exited the library, chattering happily, and the wizard laid aside the volume he had been perusing and rose, stretching his old bones with an audible creak. Taking on this form had the advantage of being respected for his age and experience, but it had its drawbacks as well. A change in the weather was on the way, and with the departure of sunny days, he too must be going. The dwarves who'd driven the waggon of fireworks had already left after early breakfast, and Gandalf would say his good-byes at luncheon. Likely the Thain would press him to stay a few days more, and he'd make his excuses, and be about his travels just in time for a good, drenching rain. At least they'd had a fine, starry night for the Birthday fireworks, and some brightness and joy to carry them through the winter darkness ahead.

There was a fine feast in the great room that day, to honour the guest who'd brought so much pleasure the previous night, with his rockets and sparklers and strings of crackers, and Gandalf rose from his seat more than once to bow and receive the Tooks' applause.

'I thank you,' he said at the last. 'But the pleasure is all mine, to have been invited to celebrate with my good friend Gerontius and his family at this splendid occasion. And now, I fear, I must be about my business. My holidays are over, and I thank you for making them most agreeable ones.'

There was a general groan at this announcement, though it was mostly politeness on the part of the Tooks. Having a wizard about the place was pleasing diversion, and the fireworks had been spectacular, but there is an old saying amongst hobbits, that "fish and visitors begin to stink after three days", and Gandalf had been at the Smials a week or so, and there had been some speculation as to whether he might become a permanent fixture.

'We were glad to have you,' the Old Took said, standing to his feet and extending a hearty hand to the wizard. 'We wish you good journey, and...'

'Take me with you!' It was a cry from the heart, and another groan emerged from the crowd of Tooks, a more genuine protest, as mad Isengar hobbled forward. 'Take me with you, Gandalf! Take me back! Please, I'm so much better than I was, and I know the Captain will see that! I can swab decks, I can do the washing up, I can polish the railings; I can do anything, if you'll only take me back! Please!'

The mad hobbit fell, sobbing, at the wizard's feet, and Gandalf bent slowly to lift him, even as old Gerontius hurried to his son's side.

'Please,' Isengar said, and as Gerontius reached for him he shrank away. 'No!' he cried. 'No! Don't let them lock me away!' and to Gandalf, begging, 'Please! Take me with you!'

'I cannot,' Gandalf said gently, as Gerontius took a firm hold on his son, one arm about Isengar's shoulders and his other hand clamped on his son's good arm.

'I won't be a bother,' Isengar pleaded. 'Just take me to the Gull; they'll take me onboard; the Captain will understand--'

'There is no Gull,' Gandalf said, and the murmur of the Tooks cut off abruptly at the look on his face and the sorrow in his tone.

'Take me...' Isengar whimpered.

'There is no Gull,' Gandalf repeated, 'no Captain to receive you, lad.'

Isengar's harsh breathing was the only sound in the great room.

'I don't understand,' the Old Took said, steadying his son.

Gandalf laid a gentle hand on Isengar's head. 'The Gull sailed away from the Havens of a lovely spring day, and a late storm blew up, and she never returned...'

Isengar's harsh laughter grated on the ear. 'Sailed West, the Captain did?' he gasped, incredulous. 'Followed Earendil at last, did he?'

'I am sorry,' Gandalf said, giving weight to each word.

'Only the Elves may sail West,' Gerontius said, his eyes steady on the wizard's. 'There were Men on that ship, as well as Elves.'

Gandalf slowly shook his head. 'She was lost with all hands,' he said quietly.

'No-o-o-o-o-o!' Isengar's shriek echoed in the silent room, and then wrenching himself free of all holds, he fled the great room, and out of the Smials.

Chapter 10. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

O Grandfa.

You have not the time to read my journal, or so they say. When I come to the study to ask a question, Uncle turns me away. When I bring my journal, pretending that you wish to see the progress of my handwriting, Uncle shakes his head and tells me I must come on the morrow. But when I come on the morrow he turns me away again.

Grandfa, I have heard the whispers. I must know.

Is it that you have lost your wits? Are you mad? Have they locked you away?

Chapter 11. Sea Change

Isengrim rose, looking about as cheerful as his name, and stalked over from his place at the head table. 'Now perhaps you'll listen to me, Father,' he said in an undertone, and had the wizard been an ordinary Man he would not have heard much more than a sibilance.

Gerontius drew himself up, staring up at his relatively taller eldest son. 'We will discuss this in decent privacy,' he said, pointedly not looking in Gandalf's direction.

'You're not going to...' Isumbras, the father of Bilbo's cousin Fortinbras, rose to say, and Bungo Baggins rose as well, with a squeeze to his wife's shoulder in signal to remain seated, though he himself moved to join the hobbits gathering around the Thain.

'You cannot lock him away,' Isembard, Flambard's father, burst out, joining the fray. 'He's no madder than I am!'

'That's a matter of opinion,' Isengrim said, and it looked as if a fine row was under way, with the other sons of the Thain rising to join the battle, when the Thain spoke again, and at his tone all his sons fell silent.

'We will discuss this matter in decent privacy,' he repeated.

Lock him away, the wizard was thinking with a chill, his black eyes stony and unreadable. That was the phrase Isengar had used, shortly before breaking away from his father's firm hold and escaping the great room. It might have been better, after all, to allow the hobbit to die in peace in the Grey Havens, albeit far from his home and loved ones. He began to wonder how he might pry Isengar loose... he really did not have the time, at the moment, to encumber himself with another charge, but the way things stood he felt he ought to make the time. Some of the responsibility for the whole mess was his, after all, for filling the lad's head with stories of Elves and the Sea, on a long-ago visit.

'If you please, Sir,' Bungo dared to say into the silence, and the wizard's attention turned to the interloper, along with the rest of the Tooks.

'Well?' the Thain harrumphed, when the Baggins hesitated under the combined scrutiny. Though he was head of the Baggins family, a distinguished, influential and wealthy family in its own right, Bungo was still a bit daunted by the Tooks, when they surrounded him, in their stronghold that was the Great Smials.
 
Bilbo, himself, wished that he could sink down in his chair, under the table. His father's opinion was never offered when it came to Took family matters, nor would it have been wanted. His interference now could well cause a rift, to the detriment of his wife Belladonna--to be separated not only by the distance between Tuckborough and Hobbiton but by family matters on top of that. And not just Belladonna would be affected, but Bilbo as well... what if his father offended the Tooks so badly that Siggy couldn't come to Bilbo's birthday a few weeks hence?

'If you please,' Bungo said again, and he pulled at his collar with a nervous finger before standing straight again, "facing the dragon" as the saying was amongst the Tooks.

Belladonna rose from her chair and moved to stand beside her husband. She had no idea what he was thinking, but she trusted his kind and loving heart, and his tact even when dealing with Tooks. He glanced at her and took her hand as they stood side-by-side, facing the Thain and his sons.

'If you please,' Bungo said, his voice growing stronger with his wife's hand squeezing his. 'I'd like to take Isengar home with us, home to Bag End. He and Bella were close, in their youth, and some time away, in a quiet place, might be healing...' He stopped before he said too much. The Thain never acknowledged that anything was amiss with his youngest son, and it was not wise to bring the topic up in his presence.

Bilbo's heart thumped all the way down to the tough soles of his furry feet. Asking mad Uncle Isen to come home with them? For how long? He glanced at Sigismond, and saw that his cousin looked nearly as sickly as he felt at the prospect. For starters, there would be no birthday visit. Of that, Bilbo was sure.

'Take Isen home with you?' Gerontius said.

Unexpectedly Isengrim threw his support to the Baggins. 'What a capital idea!' he said. 'A nice, quiet place, very good for the nerves...' He was on thin ice, he knew, and in danger of slipping, but he plunged on. 'And it is true, he and Bella were very close as children...' Another precipice yawned before him, and he stopped himself just in time, before saying the un-sayable: that Belladonna had been the only one Isen had told, when he ran away to sea. That was why, in part, Gerontius had accepted Bungo Baggins' suit and allowed his daughter to wed and move out of the Tookland, which of course, paved the way for her younger sister to marry a Brandybuck and move to Buckland--which is another story altogether. But Bella's marriage had been a sort of banishment, at first, until an uneasy truce was established after the Old Took's anger wore down.

...to be rekindled ten years ago, when Isen returned, broken and, as they thought, dying. In a heart-wrenching moment of lucidity, in the midst of his ravings, he had expressed as his dying wish that Belladonna be forgiven and returned to the bosom of her family. And old Gerontius had broken down, weeping, and promised, and his wife had held him to it when it turned out that Isengar was not to die after all.

Isengar healed, so much as was possible, and though he haunted the corridors of the Great Smials, his father acted as if nothing were wrong with the hobbit. But Isen's state was a silent reproach to poor Bella, whenever Bungo brought his family to the Great Smials.

'A nice, quiet place,' Isembard said, and his brother Isembold put a hand on his shoulder and added his own agreement.

'It might do the hobbit some good to get out of the Smials, new sights, new air...'

Bungo kept his eyes fixed on the Thain, though he was aware of the nodding going on around him. Getting Isengar out of the Smials would certainly relieve the Tooks of an ongoing embarrassment, as well as the shame of locking Isengar away if consensus said the hobbit was irretrievably mad.

'Well, Bella?' Gerontius said, fixing his daughter with a fierce gaze, and his wife, Adamanta held her breath as she moved to her husband's side. Anything that might bring healing to her youngest...

'If... if you please, Father,' Belladonna said, taking Bungo's arm in a strangling grip. 'I would love to have my "baby" brother come for a good, long visit. And it would be good for young Bilbo to have a better acquaintance with the Tookish side of the family.'

Gandalf relaxed subtly. Gerontius appeared to be half-persuaded, and from what the wizard had seen of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins, this could be the best possible development for Isengar.

From the look on his face, Isengrim was rather sceptical as to whether this "better acquaintance" would be good for the lad, but it would certainly solve a thorny problem to have Isengar gone from the Great Smials. O there would be talk about shunting the hobbit off, out of sight, but nothing so bad as if they had to lock him up for his own good and the good of the Tooks. He'd been greatly disturbed when he'd heard how the hobbit had pounced on the young Baggins and forced him to read a book for the better part of an afternoon. Who knew what else might happen, the way old Gerontius allowed his mad son to wander about without supervision? No, this was by far the best solution: minimize the gossip, and give Isengar a keeper, and with the guilt Bella bore she'd likely be attentive and devoted to her duty.

And so he spoke again. 'I think it is a fine idea, Father,' he said. 'A nice visit, a few weeks, perhaps, or if things go well he might stay as long as Yule...' Or longer, he thought to himself. "For the rest of his days" might be nice. If only...

Chapter 12. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

Even the blackest cloud is crowned with silver.

Or so the gaffers say. But I shouldn't think the saying true at night, unless the moon shines bright above the clouds. But how would we know if the moon is there, or if he has gone off to sunnier clime? We certainly have not seen his face, nor his sister sun's, this past fortnight.

Rain! Fully two months early, and had it not been for Grandfa's "madness" we'd have been caught short in the middle of the hay harvest. As it was, the last of the hay was got in by the skin of our teeth. Well, not my teeth, for I was pulling carrots and digging potatoes with the rest of my cousins, while great clouds loomed ever greater. And we got nearly all the crops safely in before the rains came.

I have heard whispering that the ground is too wet for the planting of winter wheat and barley. But the planting is not for another month or two, and so why should the farmers be worried?

I suppose Grandfa's "madness" was a good thing, in that we got the crops in. The heavy rains would have made for spoiling and a great deal more of labour. But it is also perhaps a mercy that the Uncles have taken the reins from Grandfa's hands, for I was so hungered--and us in the midst of harvest!--as were my cousins, that not a few carrots were eaten secretly, bent over the row, brushing the sandy loam off as best we could before crunching, as if we were rabbits gathering from some crofter's garden patch. I ate a few potatoes along the way as well, but they were not so sweet as the carrots. Potatoes are much better when they are cooked.

But now instead of the half-rations that Grandfa ordered a month ago, when we were in the midst of harvest, we are back to eating full portions, which is only right.

Chapter 13. Long Winter Ahead

Any pleasure Bilbo might have felt at the prospect of going home to Bag End was quite spoilt. Indeed, he wished that he could stay with his Tookish relatives, rather than bringing a Tookish relative home with him! He didn't quite know how to broach the subject, and his father turned a deaf ear to his hints at staying behind "to further his studies" at least until Yuletide, when all of the children of the Old Took, and their families, were duty-bound to come "home" for the annual celebration.

Isengar seemed no less miserable as his brother Isembard hefted the bag with his few belongings into the waggon. Bungo had decided to travel across the fields, perhaps a day's journey, rather than in a coach the "long way round"--more comfortable, but something like a week of travel, and, he deemed, much more tearing at the nerves of his brother in love, to stop at inns and public houses along the way for beds and meals, to have to endure the pointing and pity, the whispers of strangers.

'Well, Isen,' the Old Took said, stepping forward to embrace his youngest.

Isengar looked as if he might flee, when Isengrim and Isembold released him into their father's arms, but Gerontius had a goodly hold, even as he patted Isengar's back with one hand and whispered reassurance. It'll do you good to have a nice long visit with Bella. At least Gandalf had departed the previous evening, and so there was no chance of such a scene as had disrupted the festive meal the day before.

The Old Took did not release his grip on Isengar's good arm as he stepped back to allow his wife her own leave-taking. Adamanta's eyes were wet as she hugged her youngest tightly to herself. She wanted to keep him with her, to keep him "safe", but knowing Isengrim's feelings on the matter of his youngest brother--for he'd become more vocal on the necessity of locking Isengar away "for his own good, and the good of the youngest of the Tooks in the Smials"--she bitterly gave in to her husband's acceptance of Bungo Baggins' offer.

Bungo was a nice enough fellow, with a kind and generous nature, and Adamanta had been a childhood friend of his mother. Indeed, when Adamanta had been expecting her seventh (and surely this time it would be a daughter, after six sons!), she and Laura Baggins had laid plans for the betrothal of one-year-old Bungo to Adamanta's babe--only the babe had been yet another boy, Isembard, and spoilt their plans. Still, Isembard and Bungo had grown up good friends, and Bard had been happy to throw his support behind Bungo's propositions over the years, from business matters to the matter of "rescuing" Isengar out of Isengrim's dismal devices.

'Be well, my lad,' Adamanta whispered. 'Be well, and...' She stopped at a loss. What did a mother say to a son who was half-mad, to all appearances, who stalked the less-frequented corridors hobbling on one good leg and one that was twisted, with one useless arm in a sling, and one eye covered with a patch, who spouted riddles and rhymes and other nonsense and nearly broke his mother's heart, every time she laid eyes on him.

'Please,' Isengar whimpered. 'Please don't let them...'

'O my lad,' Adamanta said, holding him tighter. And then Gerontius was pulling him away, and Isengrim and Isembold moved in, and Isengar was trapped once more between father and brothers.

But Bungo stepped up, taking Isengar's good arm in a gentle hold. 'Well now, Brother,' he said, and he spoke as if to one with all his faculties, and not a dullard or one who'd lost his wits. 'It is time to depart, if we're to come to Bag End by teatime. We sent word to Missus Greenhand that we'd be returning today, and she's likely to have tea ready for us when we come. 'Twould be a shame to put her out by arriving belated.'

'It would indeed,' Belladonna said, taking a cue from her husband. She gave a withering glare to Isengrim when he maintained his grip on their younger brother, such that he stepped away, startled, and she stepped in to take his place, tucking her hand under the elbow in its sling. 'Come now,' she said, her voice gentle. 'Mrs. Greenhand is a wonderful cook, and she's sure to have made seedcake, seeing as it's Bilbo's favourite.'

'I love seedcake,' Isengar said vaguely, the hunted look fading from his eye as he became aware of the kind hands taking the place of those that had prisoned him before.

'Seedcake!' Isumbras said heartily. 'Why, it makes me wish that I could come with you! If only the haying were finished...'

'Why don't you go, instead?' Isengar said in a rare moment of clarity, which degenerated quickly into nonsense. 'I've always liked the haying... riding atop the waggon piled high, seeing the golden fields spread out all around me, the wind sending wave-ripples...'

'Come, Isen,' Belladonna said, coaxing, and Bungo put one arm about Isengar to urge him towards the waggon. 'Seedcake, mmmm. I can nearly taste it, can you?'

'Seedcake,' Isengar agreed, lifting his nose in the air. 'Why don't we stop and eat some?'

'O no, there's no seedcake here for tea,' Belladonna said hastily, and her arm went around Isengar as well so that between them, she and Bungo had him moving forward, away from the face of the Great Smials, out of the clutches of his well-meaning relatives. 'They're having... what was it, Bungo?'

'Prune cake,' her husband said promptly, 'and stewed prunes.'

Isengar made a face. He detested prunes. He did not resist as Bungo helped him up onto the waggon seat, and sat calmly enough as Bungo assisted Belladonna to sit to his left and then hurried to the driver's place on Isen's right.

Bilbo, sitting in the waggon bed with the baggage, made a face of his own. Uncle Isen loved seedcake, did he? Dratted relations. It had been bad enough to share a table with Uncle Hildibrand, who always took more than his share. But now Bilbo faced the prospect of having to share his favourite seedcake with this interloper Uncle who didn't even belong at Bag End! Worse, the dates of Isengar's visit had not been laid out. There was no end in sight.

He caught Sigismond's sympathetic look and gave a grimace of a grin. It was going to be a long winter.

Chapter 14. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

When first I began to keep this journal, I thought journal-keeping a great chore, and difficult. Now it is not so great a chore, I confess, for it is a good thing to have some"one" to tell my thoughts to, thoughts that would have me restricted, perhaps, to one sweet at teatime should I voice them in the hearing of my mother or aunts.

But I find the task difficult even now, for a different reason.

Da is home!

I cannot find the words to express my joy and relief. My father has been away for so very long!

I thought perhaps he might never return. I thought perhaps some day he'd send for us, and we'd remove to the North-lands as Uncle did. It is true that he has had his differences with Grandfa.

But Uncle Bandobras is very much better, after they despaired of his life in early summer. Sun-struck, he was, and very ill for months after, and Grandfa sent my father to oversee Uncle's holdings in the North-lands.

Father said at teatime on his arrival that the North-lands are looking very much like any of the other Farthings, though it has been only ten years or so since they drove out the last of the wolves and goblins. Now there are smials and settled fields and clotheslines and other sorts of homey things.

Father said a great deal more, not at teatime but in the Thain's study. It was difficult not to hear what he said, the way he and Uncle were shouting. He called Uncle Isenbras names, like "pompous ass", and said he was... but I fear I cannot spell the next... presumtuous and premature.

And his next words made me tremble, I know not why. He said that he would be Thain over Grandfa's dead body.

And then Mum caught me listening at the study door and shooed me away.

But Grandfa was at late supper in the great room tonight for the first time since...

He looked smaller somehow, not so straight and proud as I remember him. And his hand shook when he sugared his tea.

His eyes were hooded, and he looked at no one.

But Da spoke loud and jolly, as if it were any other occasion, and had many a story to tell of the hobbits who have gone to farm the North-lands. Their harvest was in long before ours, for winter comes earlier to their lands. Already the hills in the North country are wearing a dusting of snow.

I expressed my astonishment. It is not even October!

My father laughed, tousled my hair and said how good it was to be home, to hear the wise pronouncements of his young owl.

I have no idea what he was talking about, but at least it made Grandfa smile.

***

Author's note: There are two "uncles" under discussion here, Bandobras and Isenbras, in case you were confused. Fortinbras doesn't always clarify; he knows whom he means!

Chapter 15. Taking the Long Way Home

Bilbo nearly toppled over as Bungo slapped the reins on the ponies’ backs and the waggon lurched forward.

‘Goodbye!’ hobbits in the crowd shouted, and a song arose to cheer them on their way.

Bilbo would rather have sneaked away in the dark of night, than to have to endure this! And having to suffer the stares of the hobbits of Tuckborough, not long after his family drove away from the Great Smials, was worse. The hobbits of Tuckborough all knew Isengar by sight, “the mad son of the Thain, poor benighted hobbit”. Yes, they knew him all too well. Mothers would take hold of their little ones’ hands and cross the street to avoid him, on the days he escaped the Smials, and they’d breathe sighs of relief when his cousins or brothers would take him captive once more, and sometimes complaints even came to the steward, with the plea that “something be done” though of course, nothing ever was. And now here was Bilbo, riding in the back of a waggon bearing the wretch away, right there up front for all to see, tucked between Bilbo’s mother and his father!

And just when Bilbo thought things could be no worse, Bungo felt Isen squirm beside him, as if the poor hobbit were once again thinking of seeking his freedom and only gathering the nerve to jump down, to risk being crushed under the wheels of the waggon. Thinking quickly, Bungo said cheerily, ‘What was that lovely song you were singing, the other day? I’ve never heard the like. Wasn’t it something like...’ (And he lifted up his voice, loud and hearty.)

O great Sea, O wide Sea, upon thy bosom lay me!
I  know ye'll not betray me, but carry me away--hee!
O vast Sea, my beau-ty! Forever I will love thee...

He broke off to call to the ponies. ‘Get up there, Whitefoot! Get up, Tangle!’

The only noise was a clopping of pony feet and Bilbo, head buried in his shirt, thought the worst was over, but then Isengar began to sing softly.

O vast Sea, me beau-ty! Forever I will love thee.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Bungo joined the song, swelling the sound, and Isengar’s singing grew stronger. Bilbo peeped from his hiding place (under his shirt) to see wondering hobbits turning to stare at the waggon as they passed. His only comfort was that it would not be long before they were out of the town. He could see the fields spreading ahead of them. He wished he could take wings and fly away from his troubles.

Blow forth O winds out o’er the Sea,

And then, to make matters absolutely abysmal, in Bilbo’s estimation, Belladonna joined in, and the song grew until the last word was a shout, echoed by a few small children who ran alongside the waggon, waving.

And carry me away—hey!

‘That’s it!’ Bungo said with a nod, and he and Isengar launched into the song from the beginning, and the ponies, as they left the confines of the town, pricked up their ears and picked up the pace, trotting along as if keeping rhythm.

The life of a sailor's the life for me!
Give me a deck on a rolling sea!
Mountains of waves rising o'er my head,
And they rock me to sleep in my hammocky bed!
O great Sea, O wide Sea, upon thy bosom lay me!
I  know ye'll not betray me, but carry me away--hee!
O vast Sea, my beau-ty! Forever I will love thee...

Workers in an orchard stopped their apple-picking to wave as the waggon with its tuneful occupants passed by. Bilbo wondered if dying could be any more painful than this. He rather doubted it.

And then he had rather more on his mind than mortification, for Bungo steered the waggon away from the road, and over the stubbled fields, something of a bumpy ride for the lad in the waggon bed, without the springs holding up the seat where his elders sat in relatively more comfort.

It took all his determination not to be sick at his stomach, at the jouncing. But his hard-hearted relatives took no notice, singing along as they went. At least their only spectators now were a few astonished cows, grazing placidly behind stone walls, and once a flock of sheep in a wildflowery meadow.

Uncle Isengar taught the Bagginses quite a few songs as they drove the dozen-or-so miles across the fields, from Tuckborough to Bywater. By the time they reached Bywater, as a matter of fact, they’d worked out quite a nice little harmony between the three of them, with Belladonna’s sweet soprano and Bungo’s solid bass, and Isen holding his own in the middle.

Bilbo would have stuck his hands over his ears when they reached Bywater, encountering ever more curious hobbits, but for the fact that the music was catching. He could only hope that the hobbits they passed didn’t catch the words as well as the melody, in passing. In all probability they didn’t, for the hobbits were left smiling at their tuneful passage, seeming not at all scandalised by the seaworthy subject matter of the singing.

And so on, through Bywater and to Hobbiton, waving greetings to hobbits they knew (and Bilbo wanted to sink into a hole, and pull the turf over himself, impractical as such a wish might be. If only he could make himself invisible!) they went, singing songs in rounds now, with joyous gusto, and waving to the hobbits they knew. Bungo knew a great many, as it was; and Belladonna, usually with a basket on her arm, going about doing good in the community, was well-known in Bywater and Hobbiton and the farms thereabout.

The songs were catching. Bilbo found himself at one point humming along, and firmly stifled himself. None of that, now!

The waggon slowed as they started up the Hill, and the ponies threw themselves into their collars for the long haul. Bilbo stood up and took hold of the side of the waggon. ‘I’ll just give them a little help!’ he called, meaning of course that he’d lighten the load by abandoning the sinking ship. It seemed a suitable metaphor, considering the song they were singing at the moment.

Belladonna cried out in alarm, but he’d already jumped over the side, staying well clear of the wheels to his mother’s great relief, and he began to run up the Hill, trying to put as much distance between the singing society and himself as he could manage.

He was puffing like a little engine when he reached the lane leading past Bagshot Row to Bag End, but it didn’t matter. He put his head down to push the last little way, ending with a burst of speed, to run panting against the door of his home at last, pushing it open as it had already been ajar. A wave of good smells rolled over him. Seedcake! And roasting apples, he thought, with plenty of cinnamon!

He slammed the door behind himself, wishing for a lock such as hobbits used in Buckland, unnatural as such a thing might be. He quite understood the use of a lock, now, to shut out unwanted things.

‘Welcome home!’ came a call from the kitchen. ‘Young Master Bilbo! Is that you? Seems like for ever since I’ve heard your step in the hall!’

‘Mrs. Greenhand,’ he panted, bracing himself on the kitchen doorsill.

‘Look at you, young hobbit!’ she said in alarm, turning from the oven where she was just taking out a pan of baking. ‘You’re more flushed than I am, myself, and I’ve been baking away the afternoon! Come in, lad, and sit yourself down!’

Laying the baking sheet down on a pad, she pounced on the young hobbit, seizing him by an arm and propelling him to the old rocking chair that waited by the stove for his mother to sit with the winter mending, now that Bilbo was too big to sit upon his mother’s lap. It was a pleasant place to retreat with needle and thread and a pile of torn clothing, when a storm was howling outside. It had been a favourite place of Bilbo’s, when he was little enough to fit on his mama’s lap, rocking and suckling, when he was very young, rocking and listening to story and song, when he was older, and his mother rocking and singing while Bilbo sat on a little stool at her feet, when he was older yet.

Mrs. Greenhand gave Bilbo a glass of water, fresh-poured, and fanned him as he sat, and he thanked her as best he could, what with the feelings churning inside. It was a good thing she attributed his being out of sorts to the heat. ‘And what were you doing, running up the Hill, I’d like to know? Mister Greenhand is in the orchard with the children, picking apples, and like to melt in all this heat, I should say!’

And then the voices of his parents were heard at the door, calling, and Mrs. Greenhand bustled out of the kitchen, leaving Bilbo alone in the singing chair.

But now Uncle Isen was here to sing with his parents, and they didn't need Bilbo at all, to make a pleasing harmony... the thought gave Bilbo a sharp pang, and he swallowed down his resentment. It wasn’t fitting for hobbits, he’d been taught. But fitting or not, he felt it all the same.

Chapter 16. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

We were picking apples in the Southwest Orchards today when a contest broke out amongst the tweens, to see who could throw quickest and with the most accuracy at a mark. Of course there were plenty of apples at hand for the throwing, and the rest of us became involved as well, the younger set setting up a mark of our own and doing a creditable job, if I do say so.

And then Grandfa and Da and two of the Uncles came riding, probably to check on the progress of harvest but in any event drawn by the noise and confusion.

Apples are to be taken gently in hand, plucked with tender firmness from the parent tree, and laid with their fellows to sleep for the short journey to the storage caverns where they will spend the winter, fetched for apple tart or apple sauce or baked apple or apple cake or any number of delights, until the last of them, wrinkled with age, give up their sweetness at last, not long before the new harvest.

Apples are not to be jostled or thumped. One bruised apple can rot an entire barrelful.

Grandfa was livid. He was almost his old self again. I might have been glad to see it, but for the discomfort of enduring the scolding and the lecture that followed.

All of the “wasted” apples must be pressed into cider, and when our day of picking apples from the trees is done, the day is not done, so to speak. For after, whilst the rest of the Tooks take tea, we must pick up all of the windfalls, until the ground is as clean as if an old sharp-eyed gammer had been watching her daughter sweep.

The most chilling moment, I think, was not the scolding nor the lecture, but after, when they began to ride away, and then Grandfa stopped his pony, and turned stiffly in the saddle, and said, ‘Waste not... want not.’

Some of the tweens groaned, thinking the lecture was about to start once more, but Grandfa only shook his head and there was something in his face that made the words we’ve heard so often take on a darker meaning. I know you’ll say I’m full of fancies, but...

It makes me shiver, even now, and the day is yet quite warm though the Sun is low in the sky. Fanny saved me a plate from tea, for she said it wasn’t right that a growing lad should go hungry, and so I am eating and writing, hid away in the Thain’s garden, behind the old iron bench.

And soon I must take my plate back to the kitchens (or I’ll never hear the end of it from Fanny), and myself off to bed, for there are still orchards-full of fruit to be picked before harvest is done.

It might be worse. I’d rather pick apples than be out haying in the heat of the sun. Apples are cool and crisp, and hay is dry and prickly, and you haven’t the shade of the trees when you’re haying, either. Still, all the tweens who were picking with us today will be out haying on the morrow, and that leaves more work for us who are left behind to pick.

Serves us all right, I suppose.

But it was a lot of fun while it lasted.

Chapter 17. Settling In

Tea was a jolly affair, almost hobbity, with Bella and Isen reminiscing about growing up in the Great Smials, the pranks played, the adventures lived (Bilbo stared at his mother in frank astonishment—adventures!), the traditions and customs, the special times and everyday occurrences. Bungo, of course, was fascinated.

‘And to think I took you away from all that,’ he said. ‘It’s no wonder you cried your eyes out as we drove away...’

‘I had a speck in my eye,’ Belladonna said with dignity. ‘You know how it affects me—one speck and I’m blinded for the duration.’

‘Both her eyes flood with tears,’ Isengar confirmed. ‘One little speck of dust and the poor lass is as helpless as if you’ve been tickling her without mercy.’

‘I’ve noticed that,’ Bungo said with a fond smile for his wife. ‘Why, if I even crook my fingers at her as if I’m about to tickle, her eyes overflow...’

‘Stop!’ Belladonna said, overcome with laughter, and as was her lot, soon the tears were overflowing on her cheeks. ‘Stop! You’ll have me weak-eyed and puffed and everyone will think something awful’s happened.’

Something awful has happened, Bilbo thought, but looking from his laughing parents to his uncle’s twinkling eye, and being drawn in by the infectious laughter surrounding him, somehow his resentment drained away.

Perhaps this would not be quite so awful as he’d feared. It was too soon in the baking to see if the cake would turn out, however. He’d reserve his judgment.

Bungo and Belladonna escorted Isen to his room, still talking and laughing, and Bungo returned to the kitchen to report in an undertone that Bella was sitting with her brother yet a while, for Isen was understandably a little restless in this strange new place.

Bilbo pulled one side of his mouth in a grimace, but quickly smoothed it away when his father’s glance turned to him. Bag End, large as it was, didn’t have the miles of corridors to be found in the Great Smials. Uncle Isen wouldn’t have much scope for his wanderings. Likely Bungo and Bella feared the hobbit would wander right out of the smial and down the lane, scandalising the neighbours.

He and his father did the washing up together—usually Bungo sat in the rocking chair and smoked his pipe while Bilbo and Belladonna did the honours—and then Bilbo went off to his bed, and for the first time in his young life his mother didn’t tuck him in and leave him with the blessing of a kiss.

He wakened suddenly in the night, feeling unaccountably restless. He could hear his father’s snores filling the night air, but something else, some movement, had disturbed him.

Creeping from his bed on soft hobbit feet, he moved into the hallway, wondering... and then he heard it, the soft whisper of movement, from the direction of the guest bedroom, and he remembered. Was Uncle Isen trying to make his escape? He tiptoed to the guest room and peeked round the door frame.

Belladonna was fast asleep in the chair beside the bed, and Uncle Isen was up, out of the bed, and tucking a blanket tenderly around his sister’s shoulders. He looked up, somehow divining Bilbo’s stare, and nodded with a crooked smile before turning back to his task, tucking the blanket securely so that it should not fall away and allow Bella to be chilled. And then the old hobbit looked up again with a finger to his lips, and then he eased himself down on the bed once more, turned over so that his back was to the door, drew the coverlet over himself, and sighed.

Bilbo nodded, though of course Uncle Isen wouldn’t see it, and turned away to seek his own bed. And silence, and peace, reigned for the rest of the sleep-drenched hours.

Chapter 18. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

Snow! Snow! And not even the first of October!

Awakened this morning to shouts of excitement in the corridors.

Fanny made me put on a jumper, and I couldn’t get away before she’d half-stifled me with windings of a muffler, but at last I was able to run through the corridors with the other young Tooks, to the door, to the yard and out into the wonder.

Fully ankle-deep of white and fluffy stuff, and more falling from the skies!

How glorious the snowball fights, I can tell you. Why, we don’t often have snow in the Shire, and never in September, at least not that I’ve heard of, from the oldest gaffer, not even from Grandfa!

We made snow-hobbits and snow-castles and the lasses even made snow-smials for their dolls, and still the stuff was coming down... and our elders let us play in the stuff, for more than likely it’ll all be gone by the nooning, melted away and remaining only in memory.

It was a great pandemonium, there in the yard, and even the das and mums got into the spirit as if the years had fallen away and they were heedless tweens once more!

And we all went into the great room, after a magnificent lark, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes and high spirits, laughing and talking and gobbling our food as if we were starving.

And Da declared today a holiday, and it not even highday, and we shall go out in the snow again to play while it lasts... No haying this day! No apple picking! Just joy!

Chapter 19. Doing the Most Good

Bilbo wakened to the teakettle’s morning song, and as he stretched and inhaled deeply he took in the enticing aroma of bacon, crackling in the skillet. Bouncing out of bed, he quickly pulled on his clothes, poured a dash of water from the ewer into the bowl, scooped up a double handful and rubbed at his face with a glorious blubbery sound.

He tripped into the large, homely kitchen that his father had built for his mother (though when they’d married, she hadn’t known how to boil water!) with a bright face and a song on his lips.

Belladonna stood at the stove, a fork in hand, turning the bacon that it might cook evenly, and hearing her son’s voice she hastily straightened her slumping shoulders and passed a hand over her eyes. Saving Isen from the clutches of their cold-hearted older brother was not going to affect Bilbo, as she’d told herself over and again ever since Bungo had first brought up the idea of bringing Isen to Bag End.

It was to be hoped, with a little love and understanding and a great deal of care and attention, her youngest brother would be restored to himself—or as much to himself as possible. Enough to escape the threat of being “locked away”, in any event. And if that day never came, Bella thought to herself, standing a little straighter, well then, Bungo had made it clear that Isen would be welcome for... for... She couldn’t quite bring herself to say for life, but for years, if need be.

And it needn’t rob young Bilbo of any of the joys of childhood, she told herself. The lad was a bit spoilt, as it was, being an only child. She wiped a tear from the corner of one eye, inwardly blaming its advent on the onions she’d cut up earlier, that were browning nicely with the grated potatoes, adding their notes to the bacon’s song.

‘Hullo, Mother!’ Bilbo sang, dancing up to the stove, to stand upon his tiptoes to peck a quick kiss on his mother’s cheek, for Belladonna was taller and fairer than many hobbits, a Tookish trait, though not so tall as great-great-uncle Bandobras had been said to stand; and Bilbo looked more to be following his Baggins father in height, in any event.

‘Good morning, my love,’ Belladonna said, forking bacon onto a warmed plate. ‘Breakfast is just on...’

‘Good!’ Bilbo said, snatching a toothsome bit and cramming it into his mouth.

‘Careful! It’s hot!’ Belladonna said, and her son obligingly blew on his fingertips, and shook these with vigour.

‘It is!’ Bilbo said. ‘Just as I like it! I’m that ravenous, I am, Mum! I feel as if I hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks!’

Belladonna smiled fondly at her son. She wouldn’t embarrass him by observing aloud that he was “growing so very fast” but it was the truth. Why, she thought he might even be a little taller than when they’d set out for the Smials.

Instead, she filled a plate with crispy golden-brown taters and sunny fried eggs and bacon and sausage and laid this on the kitchen table for Bilbo.

Bungo was in the study already, and had been before the sun arose, for he had some catching up to do with his affairs, after their holiday at the Great Smials. However, the smell of bacon drew him forth as effectively as it had his son, and it was not long before the three Bagginses were breakfasting together in the kitchen, as warm and cosy as if nothing had changed.

Bilbo gathered that Uncle Isen had spent a restless night, and was sleeping in this morning, and secretly he was pleased. He liked having mother and father all to himself. He rather hoped that Uncle Isen would make a habit of sleeping in, so that at least the beginning of the day would be “like old times” and he could pretend that all was as it ought to be. Being a heedless tween, he didn’t notice the dark shadows under his mother’s eyes, or the tenderness with which his father poured out another cup of tea for Belladonna.

Breakfast over, Bungo jumped up. ‘Help your mum with the washing up, will you, lad? I’ve a stack of papers nearly so tall as you are, to go through this morning, that Gordo left off whilst we were away.’

‘Yes, Da,’ Bilbo said, falling into the Tookish form of address after so many days amongst the Tooks. Bella smiled at this, and Bungo ruffled his son’s hair. Tookish the lad might sound, but he had a solid Bagginsy air about him, and Bungo was certain the lad would grow into a fine and steady hobbit. He was already well on his way...

Bungo filled his teacup and started out of the kitchen, peeping into the best guest room on his way to the study. He saw the bedcovers moving as Isen turned over. That hobbit would be arising soon, then. Bungo nodded to himself. He’d go back to the kitchen to warn Bella, and then to the study, but he wouldn’t immerse himself in his papers, not right away. He’d keep a discreet watch on the hallway, through a crack in the study door, and if Isen showed any signs of trying to sneak out of the smial instead of going to the kitchen, Bungo would be ready to catch him up and shepherd him to his breakfast. Isen was much too insubstantial, in Bungo’s opinion. He needed a great deal of feeding up.

Just before he reached the kitchen, he heard Belladonna speaking to Bilbo, and paused in consternation at his son’s reply.

‘So, Bilbo, will you take your uncle to see the sights this day? Isen’s not been to Hobbiton before, though he’s been much farther from the Smials in his life... Westward, that is, and all over where the Sea might lead him...’

Bilbo was scandalized at mention of the Sea and his uncle’s outrageous wanderings. He stiffened his back, threw his head up and said, ‘Is that to be the way of things, then? Am I my uncle’s keeper?’

He felt immediately ashamed at his mother’s sharp intake of breath, for though he couldn’t see the hurt on her face, for she had turned away in her distress, he could certainly hear it, could see it in the way her hands flew up to her mouth, though she immediately forced them down again.

Before Bella could speak, Bungo had re-entered the kitchen, his face bland and smiling, his tone pleasant. ‘On second thought,’ he said, just as if Bilbo hadn’t spoken in a sharp and selfish tone a moment before, ‘the papers will comfortably wait another day... they’ve waited this long already. It looks to be a glorious day, and with winter coming on we mustn’t waste the sunshine. What do you say, my love...’ he didn’t miss Bella’s grateful look, or the shame in Bilbo’s, ‘...that you pack a picnic for Isen and myself, and I’ll take him for a good, long walk to stretch his legs.’

It might work some of the restlessness from the hobbit, to take some wholesome exercise under the Sun’s benevolent gaze, rather than prowling dark tunnels. Bag End was not so sprawling an affair as the Great Smials in any event, without a lot of scope for wandering, and Isen had shown an alarming tendency in the night, pacing the length of the main hall in the little smial, back and forth, from front door to back cellar, there and back again. Bungo and Belladonna had taken turns walking with him, to keep him company, and to make sure that he didn’t go out the front door into the darkness.

Bungo could see Bella’s exhaustion, though he himself could get along with less sleep than his wife needed. He only hoped that she’d lie herself down for a little rest while they were gone.

‘For Isen and yourself, dearest?’ Belladonna said, blinking a little. ‘But what about Bilbo?’

That lad was sullenly piling the plates together, preparatory to bringing them to the washstand, his head down and his shoulders tight.

‘I had the impression he wouldn’t care for such,’ Bungo said carelessly, though he was watching his son with a sharp eye. ‘If he’d rather, he may go and play, after the washing-up is done.’ He saw Bilbo’s shoulders slump a little at this, and so he added, ‘But of course we’ll miss his company... If he wanted to go a-wandering with his old dad...’

‘O but I do!’ Bilbo burst out.

‘Do you, lad?’ Bungo said in mild surprise, and then a pleased smile lighted his countenance. ‘Well, that’s fine, then.’ And to Belladonna he said, ‘Make that a picnic for three, will you, my dear?’

‘O happily,’ Belladonna said, with such a shining face that Bungo couldn’t help going to her, putting an arm around her, and dropping a kiss where it would do the most good.

Chapter 20. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

The snow is gone, all of it, as if it were just a dream.

I hopped out of bed very early, managed to sneak out of our apartments, evading Fanny, and a good thing, too, for she’d have it that a young hobbit must have breakfast before he stirs foot out the door. There were apples on the table in the sitting room, and with one for each pocket and one in each hand I was well supplied. It might not be hot breakfast, but it’s quick and easy to take away.

It was really very early; no one was about in the corridors. How I looked forward to the first magical glimpse into the torchlit courtyard... only to encounter dull, pounding rain. No soft, sparkling, snowy blanket, as had been there at last glimpse, yester eve, before Fanny caught me at the doorway and took hold of my ear, to drag me off to my bath and bed, as if I were years younger! She takes her duty much too seriously, in my considered opinion.

There was muttering in the great room at breakfast, and long faces every where I looked. One of them was mine, of course, and all the others of us who’d planned a glorious snow-castle, a fitting abode for the snow-hobbits we’d made yesterday. Of course the mufflers and mitts and knitted hats and carrot noses are lying in puddles, now, and Fanny was quite put out when she was sent out to gather these up and hang them up from the launderers’ lines, to steam before the blazing fires there, that warm the great cauldrons for wash and bath water and dry the wet things nearly so quick as the summer sun.

Uncle says it doesn’t matter about the second cutting of the hay fields, as the first cutting is safely in and stacked to shed the rain, and was so prodidg prodig much larger than usual. He says we have enough hay to last us until Yule after next, even with the animals eating themselves fat in their stalls, should the winter prove a snowy one. Grandfa pulled his lip, but seemed somewhat comforted when Da agreed with Uncle.

The tweens were sent out in the rain to gather apples. We younger ones were not sent out, for fear we’d “catch our deaths”, but that did not spare us an onerous task. As the baskets of sopping apples were brought in, it was our lot to pick the fruit out, one round, red, sweet-smelling globe at a time, wipe them carefully dry, and lay them on paper. There they’ll dry an extra day before being packed away in barrels.

And does it not matter if the tweens should “catch their deaths”, I ask you?

Chapter 21. Taking the Air

It seemed as if Isen’s steps grew lighter, the higher they toiled up the great Hill. His hobble grew less, and his weight on Bilbo’s shoulder eased gradually until he broke away entirely, dancing upwards, good arm thrown in the air and beaming face to the sky.

‘Doing some good already,’ Bungo panted, wiping at his face with his pocket handkerchief. ‘Come now, Bilbo-lad, help me with this hamper, there’s a good lad, and we’ll soon be skipping about on the hilltop with your uncle.’

Bilbo was glad to be free of his unclesome burden—the basket seemed light by comparison. But he put a good face on the matter, saying only, ‘It’s a beautiful day for a picnic.’

‘Beautiful,’ his father agreed. ‘Does me good to get out of that stuffy study.’

Bilbo might have pointed out that the study was hardly stuffy, with all the windows open to the garden, but he didn’t. It was taking most of his breath to trudge up the Hill, sharing the weight of the heavy picnic hamper, at the pace his father was setting, trying to keep up with Isengar.

His uncle might be crippled, but he was unburdened, and managing the steep last stretch at an astonishing pace, at last disappearing over the lip of the Hilltop.

At this, Bungo let down his side of the hamper entirely, and Bilbo heard him mutter something about “running halfway to Overhill” as he jogged upwards.

The hamper was very heavy, stuffed as it was full of good things to eat. Bilbo considered lightening the load by sitting down and eating something, but the better course seemed to be to struggle along as best he could. After all, his father had hauled the hamper most of the way, by himself, while Uncle Isen was leaning on Bilbo.

He was glad when his father reappeared, very red in the face and puffing hard, but smiling for all that. ‘Very good, lad,’ he said. ‘I knew I could count on you to hold up your end.’ And Bungo took more than half the weight from Bilbo and heaved himself, the hamper, and Bilbo by virtue of his hold on the handle, up and over the lip of the Hill.

Isengar was spinning slowly on the grassy meadow, good arm thrust outward, singing a song Bilbo’d never heard, something wild and sweet, soaring high like the hawk that floated high above, then fluttering soft as if it were merely a part of the breeze that blessed their hot and sweaty faces. He didn’t understand the words at all—but they formed images in his head, and though he’d never seen the Sea in more than dreams, somehow he seemed to smell the tang of salt on the air, to hear the cries of gulls winging overhead, and the rush of cool waves.

He realised he’d been standing still, transfixed, when his father tugged the hamper out of his hands, opened it up, and began to spread a great cloth on the grass. He hurried to help—the exercise had given him quite an appetite, and soon the cloth was spread with cold chicken and salad, bread and butter and pickles, jellies rather battered but still delectable, little cakes and sweet biscuits, and a jug of cool buttermilk with tin cups to drink from. At last the feast was ready, and Bilbo’s mouth watered at the sight as he awaited a word from his father, to begin to eat.

Isen’s song was done, but he still stood in the centre of the meadow, good arm flung out, face to the Western sky, eyes closed.

Bungo arose and went to him, stopping short of touching him. ‘Well, Isen,’ he began, as if the hobbit were a wild bird that might be startled into flight.

For Isengar murmured, and this time the words were something Bilbo could understand, and they struck a pang in his breast. He remembered his uncle’s grief at the wizard’s words, and now, without onlookers to marvel and pity at his uncle and cause a tween to suffer consternation, he could understand something of Isengar’s sorrow.

From the great rolling Sea the West Wind flies, past the Towers and the Downs;
The wailing of the gulls it bears, and in my ear it moans.
What news of the waves, O sighing wind, do you bring to me this day?
Where sails the Gull, so swift and fair, since I have come away?

The sad sentiment trailed away in a sob, and the wretched hobbit drew his good arm across his eyes. Bungo reached, very slowly and tentatively, to settle his arm about Isengar’s shoulders, and stood steady as the hobbit turned to bury his head on the Baggins’ sturdy shoulder. Bungo reached up his other arm ever so gently, lest the embrace be perceived as prisoning rather than comfort, and loosely held fast.

Bilbo sat still, stricken at the sight, but his father caught and held his gaze, nodding slightly to his son in reassurance, or perhaps tacit warning, as he stood rooted, sheltering the grieving hobbit within the circle of his arms.

At last Isen stood silent, and Bungo slowly dropped his arms to his sides. Isen breathed deeply and lifted his head, a wondering smile on his face, but his next words had nothing to do with what had just happened, or so the watching Bilbo thought. ‘What a lovely view,’ the Took said, staring out over the landscape, the golden fields of grain ripe for harvest, trees heavy with rosy apples, smoke rising from stovepipes and chimneys, children chasing each other in a yard, a mother hanging out her washing, a farmer communing quietly across a fence with an old retired plough pony.

‘And the air,’ Isen continued, lifting his head higher to take more deep breaths. ‘The air here is so fresh... so free...’

‘It is that,’ Bungo agreed, with a deep breath of his own. ‘Take in as much as you will, Isen. Plenty more where that came from.’

Bilbo’s stomach rumbled, embarrassingly loud, and his father chuckled. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I suppose we ought to eat before a young hobbit dies of lack of nourishment!’

Isen smiled, too, and it was not the old mad grin, but the sort of smile one might surprise on just about any hobbit’s face, a good-natured look, springing from pleasant thoughts. ‘I suppose we ought,’ he said.

Bungo’s smile widened, just a little, for he didn’t want to alarm Isengar with too much approbation, and to hide his delight he bent at once to the feast, to heap all three plates high.

***

A/N: Isengar’s song is based upon the song of the Three Hunters in The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien, in the chapter entitled “The Departure of Boromir”.

Chapter 22. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

There is a Wizard among us!

I feel torn between shouting the news in the greatest glee, and whispering, caution being the better part of valour, as they say. After all, I’ve heard the dark rumours, of how Wizards can turn themselves into different things, and how they can turn a mischievous young hobbit into a toad... until bed-time.

His staff, as tall as he is, is leaning against the wall of the Thain’s study where he is taking tea with Grandfa.

Such a to-do! Fanny is pink with excitement, and she says she doesn’t half-envy the maids who must carry the tea trays from the kitchen. A proper high tea it is, too, which I suppose the fellow will take sitting in front of the fire in the study, which Grandfa has ordered to be stoked until it roars, as if he means to roast the stranger!

Of course, he’s dripping wet, likely wet to the skin. I got a glimpse when he took off his sodden cloak, which Uncle S. carried down to the laundy, to hang on the drying lines there, before Grandfa closed the study door. He wore a robe under his cloak, long and dark with rain, and he has a long white beard, curling and disordered with the damp

I must say, he doesn’t look at all like a Wizard, how I’ve imagined one to look. One would think he was just any old man, with his immense black boots and long grey cloak. It was the tall blue hat that was the first clue. Most Men that I have seen passing through Tuckboro, tinkers or jugglers or peddlers, wear caps or hoods suited to travelling. I do not see how suitable the Wizard’s hat may be. I suppose it sheds the rain, all very well, but since his eyebrows bristle out past the brim they were drooping and dripping when Grandfa led him in through the Great Door.

He’d found him along the road while taking his afternoon ride, and invited him to tea. Grandfa is always doing such improbable things, inviting Men and Strangers to tea. We’ve had tall, dark, cloaked Men with silvering hair, and a trader who carried silken gauds in his pack, from some land far to the South, he said...

But I am called away! Grandfa has sent for Mum, and Da, and my sisters, and myself, to take tea in the study!

***

A/N: Description of the Wizard taken from The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

Chapter 23. Tickling the Fancy

Bungo neglected his business for several days more, enjoying the mild autumnal weather with his family—his wife and the two lads, in a manner of speaking. It was rather like having two lads, actually, having Isen and Bilbo. In some ways Bilbo was the elder, as a matter of fact, and it touched Bungo to see his lad adopting rather a protective air towards his Tookish uncle. It was an older-brotherly sort of attitude, not the smothering attentions Isen had suffered in recent years, with his grown-up brothers trying to protect the family name more than the hobbit himself, but more like the old days when they'd all been lads and older had looked after younger as a matter of course, treating him with a mixture of childish condescension and brotherly camaraderie.

They walked to the top of the Hill for fresh air, or they walked down to Hobbiton to buy a few sweetmeats at the dry goods shop; and on market day they walked all the way to Bywater, and Bilbo and Isen browsed the toy-seller's table (and the bookseller's, of a wonder!) whilst Bungo followed Belladonna about with a large basket on his arm.

When Isen stumbled on the walk to market, it was Bilbo who was beside him (they'd been discussing the merits of tops and their design—whether a pulled string was a superior method to a twist of the wrist, and so forth), Bilbo who picked him up, brushed the dust from his clothes, straightened the lame arm in its sling and offered his own arm in support as they resumed, as if there had been no interruption.

It was Bilbo, too, who was responsible for the biggest change in his uncle, the dawning of hope, and healing. At least, it was Bilbo who set things in motion, all unaware.

At the Bywater market that day, as the “lads” discussed tops with the toymaker, a farm lad had been walking through the maketplace with a basketful of pups, ready to sell away from their mother.

'Sheepdogs!' he barked importantly. 'Finest sheepdogs in the farthing! Sheepdogs for sale!'

'Look, Isen!' Bilbo said, for he'd found his uncle responded better to his name than to “Uncle”, perhaps because “Uncle” carried with it a weight of responsibility and impossible expectation—impossible for a crippled, daft hobbit at any event. 'Look, pups!'

They turned from the toys to intercept the farm lad and his three fat, roly-poly pups.

'They hardly look like sheep dogs,' Bilbo observed. His hand went out of itself to stroke a silky ear, though the task was made difficult by a busy canine tongue that insisted on thoroughly exploring his fingers.

'O' course they're sheep dogs!' the farm lad said, his tone indignant. 'His dad won the trials last summer—finest sheepdog in the Farthing! And his mam...'

'I only meant that sheepdogs are long, lithe things, slinking along on the ground with an evil eye.'

'If you're a sheep, that is,' Isen agreed.

The farm lad spared him a glance, but no more than that. Word had gone round the area that Belladonna and Bungo had taken in the unfortunate Took, whose family had been about to lock him away for eccentricity. Isen had been carefully, if unobtrusively, observed in his first descents of the Hill, and having shown no sign of dangerous insanity, had been dismissed as an object of pity, perhaps an embarrassment to the family, but nothing more.

Those who remembered Isen as a bright, mischievous young lad, gallivanting about the countryside with an older brother or two, shook their heads in sorrow at his current state, and offered him friendly greetings when they saw him.

'May I hold him?' Bilbo begged, rubbing his wet fingers dry on the pup's coat. At the farm lad's lofty nod, he lifted the wiggly little charmer to his chest, receiving a thorough chin-wash for his reward. 'Here, Isen,' he said. 'Feel how soft he is, the little fellow! Too soft by half to herd those big brutes of sheep!'

'He'll grow out of it,' the farm lad said with a laugh.

'Here, Isen,' Bilbo pressed, shoving the pup against his uncle's chest. 'He's an armful, but lovely for all that!'

Startled Isen brought up his good arm to cradle the pup, and then he was laughing as the pup strained upward to reach his face with its busy pink tongue. 'I washed this morning, I did!'

And then the pup collapsed, as pups do, in the sudden exhaustion that overwhelms them and sends them off to snuggling sleep, draping itself along Isen's good arm. He lifted his bad arm in its sling, just a bit, to help support the weight, and wiggled the lame fingers under the pup's chin, laughing again as the little tongue emerged one last time for a series of sleepy endearments. 'Tickles!'

Bungo and Belladonna had come up to them by this time, to suggest tea at the Ivy Bush and then home, and Bilbo turned eagerly to them. 'May we have him?' he begged. 'He's such a fine pup, and look how well he's getting along!' (With Isen, he didn't need to add, though it was in point of fact his strongest argument. Belladonna had shown an astonishing capacity for giving in to all sorts of requests that were for Isen's benefit.)

'No,' Bungo managed to say, through Belladonna's laughter. 'No, lad, we've no sheep to keep him contented.'

'But...!' Bilbo protested.

'No,' Bungo said, in a firmer tone. It is difficult to say “no” when a chuckle is threatening, but to his credit he did. 'No, lad, he's sweet as jam tart now, limp and sleepy as he is, but all too soon he'll be grown and wanting occupation. He was bred for sheep...' He looked to the farm lad and received a nod of confirmation '...and he'll only pine, or find himself mischief to relieve his energies, if he doesn't find a place with sheep.'

He could see that Bilbo was considering the idea of suggesting they acquire a few sheep to keep the pup occupied, and it really was deucedly difficult not to laugh, spurring the lad to further pleas. No, 'twas wiser to nip the weed in the bud, before it could come to flower and then seed, and so he fought down the laugh, his hand tightening on Bella's basket of purple onions and carrots and potatoes and a bottle of wine and a nice piece of meat wrapped up in paper and destined for tomorrow's table, plus a few things tucked away down underneath towards Bilbo's birthday a few days hence.

'Tickles, does it, lad?' a cracked old voice said near at hand, and Isen shied away, nearly dropping the now-sleeping pup. Bilbo caught the pup neatly, so quickly that the little creature never woke, but burrowed against his jacket. His arms tightened a moment, revelling in the warmth and weight of the pup, and then he reluctantly laid it back in the farm lad's basket with its two companions.

'I'm sorry,' he told it with a gentle pat for the limp head.

'I'm sorry too,' the farm lad said with unexpected understanding.

Bilbo barely heard, busy as he was soothing and calming his uncle, pulling him along to a table of sweets where the candymaker displayed his wares and fishing in his pocket for a copper. 'Here, Isen, what do you think? A stick or a paper full of drops?'

The farm lad looked on for a moment, then lifted his basket higher and resumed his sing-song. 'Sheepdogs for sale! Sheepdog pups, finest in the Farthing!'

Meanwhile Bilbo's parents were greeting the oldest resident of Bywater, Haselwort, who happened to be the old healer, retired now, having trained up a son, Spikenard, to take over the family business, and he in turn having trained up a daughter, Ginger, who now did the bulk of the healing for the hobbits of Bywater.

The old healer was one of those who remembered young Isen from long-ago visits before he ran off to Sea and was forever changed. She might be bent with age, her fingers grasping her walking stick gnarled as old wood, but her faded eyes were still sharp and her mind clear.

She responded politely enough to the greetings, and then cut straight to the heart of the matter. At her age, one did not waste time. 'He felt that,' she said.

Bungo and Belladonna exchanged glances. Who felt what?

'I beg your pardon?' Bungo said with a little bow and a tip of his hat.

'He felt it!'

'Did he?' Belladonna said, not one to be left out, though she was decidedly not following the conversation.

'The hand may be twisted, but it's not dead!' Haselwort said, jabbing her walking stick into the ground to emphasise her words.

Bungo was the first to take her meaning. He put a hand on the old healer's arm. 'Not dead,' he agreed. 'But... do you mean there might be something to be done?'

Old Haselwort sniffed. 'How would I know?' she said irascibly. 'I just wonder... he wouldn't let me get near him, Took that he is, when he was a young whip-snapper and that pony threw him on his head... He howled as if the North Wind was after him, when I tried to staunch the bleeding, and his brother picked him up in his arms and ran away with him... as if I meant to do him harm!'

Bella caught her breath, remembering an older brother bearing Isen home, head roughly bandaged with a shirt-sleeve and no explanation forthcoming. They'd both been dishevelled and dusty, and had nothing to say how they got that way, when they'd been going to Bywater market on a lark. As she remembered, they had gone off on their own feet, and hadn't been riding ponies, not even one pony shared between the two of them.

'Ah, the Tooks and their healers,' Bungo soothed, but old Hasel wasn't finished yet.

'He wouldn't let me near him now, I'm sure, and he'd likely tie himself up in knots should I try, but...' She set her lips in a thin line.

'If you'd like...' Belladonna said, in her best placating way.

'I wouldn't!' the old healer snapped. But she watched Bilbo and Isen, now fully engaged in choosing from the available sweets, the best and biggest they could get for Bilbo's copper penny, and sighed. 'If you'd just...'

'Something we can try?' Bungo said delicately. 'A suggestion...?'

'A ball,' the old healer said, looking back to the Baggins. She nodded to herself. Bungo was a good fellow, had taken on a wild Took of a wife and tamed her nicely, and now he was raising up his son to have a kind heart as well as an eye for business. 'A soft ball, perhaps of wound wool, and if he were to squeeze it in that hand, squeeze and relax, squeeze and relax...' She nodded again. 'I saw him move those fingers just now. There may be something there... but it'll take slow and patient work.'

Belladonna was blinking in astonishment, but Bungo nodded slowly. 'I take your meaning,' he said, and he did. He gently took the healer's gnarled fingers in his, careful not to squeeze the painful joints, and shook her hand solemnly. 'We'll do all we can,' he said, 'and let you know the result.'

'I thank you,' old Hasel said, and when Bungo released her hand, she settled her skirts and stalked off, her sturdy walking stick punctuating her steps.

'Bungo, I--' said Belladonna. 'What was that all about?'

'Just a bit of kindness,' Bungo said with a smile for his wife. If Bella hadn't caught the significance of the old healer's words, well, he didn't want to get her hopes up. Better to work with Isen, come up with some excuse or another for squeezing a ball of wool in his bad hand, and see if anything came of it.

He eased the heavy basket that had hung forgotten on his arm during his exchange with Hasenwort. 'Come lads,' he said, raising his voice, 'Bilbo! Isen! Finish buying your sweets, but put them here in the basket for later! It's teatime, and I don't want you to spoil your appetites!'

Chapter 24. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

O Journal. If only there were someone with whom I could share my wonder. But you are all I have. You will have to do.

Journal, do you know that beyond our high, green hills there are hills yet higher, majestic mountains so lofty that their heads are crowned with snow even in the height of summer? O my Journal, there is more! Beyond our high, green hills, to the West is a restless Sea, so great that you cannot see from one end to the other. Imagine it!

Far away to the south are mountains that smoke and spit fire, lighting the night with their unrest. To the north are mountains fiery for another reason, for they harbour dragons, fabled beasts that are not mere fable, but truth!

There are forests greater than our Woody End, and a river broader than our Brandywine. To the North are to be found ice and snow that never melt, and to the South are lands of heat and sand that never knew snow, or even rain!

How I long to set my eyes on such sights!

Uncle Bandobras might understand, perhaps, for he followed his desire, to leave home and family behind. But he only went as far as the North Farthing. Father said I might visit him, some day, though it is a long way away and will take some planning for the journey.

A long way away! How I wish...

Chapter 25. Ruminations on a Bitter Morning

Bilbo awakened suddenly with the feeling that he'd only just fallen asleep, and yet...

When he'd gone to bed, certain in his state of anticipation that he'd never sleep, no, not a wink, his parents had been talking, and he'd listened for some time, secure in their quiet conversation. Oh, not the actual talk itself, mind, for they were in the kitchen sharing a final pot of tea and he was snug in his bed down the hall a little way; rather, he heard the rumble of his father's voice, his mother's tinkling laugh, even a cough from Uncle Isen as of a hobbit caught unaware by a witticism, mid-sip.

The smial was dark, dark and quiet, the kind of quiet that told Bilbo he'd been asleep some hours, and it was the middle night. There was a chill in the air, pinching his nose when he inhaled--unusual for September. He shivered and huddled closer under his bedcovers, which, he realised, were heavier than they'd been when his mother had tucked him up and kissed his forehead with wishes for pleasant dreams and peaceful sleep. She must have added extra blankets after he'd fallen asleep, and he was glad of it.

The next thing he knew, the windows were pale with morning light, and more. Bilbo sat up and rubbed his eyes, then stared. The frost faeries had been in the night, painting the most fantastical designs upon the windowpanes, a delicate gift to greet his birthday, short-lived--they'd disappear as the sun warmed the air--but all the more beautiful for that.

He jumped out of the bed and, without thinking, undid the catch and pushed open the window. The air was absolutely still, but his breath smoked outward as he thrust his face into the icy air, quite as if he'd taken up a pipe at his young age. He sucked in a breath, and the chill of it nearly took his breath away.

Bilbo thought for a moment he'd fallen into Fortinbras' diary, snow in September! ...before he realized that the landscape was white, yes, but no flakes were falling from the pale, clear sky, nor had they fallen, gently drifting into piles and heaps and drifts, inviting young hobbits out to play. This was, instead, a heavy frost, sparkling on the grass and the autumn flowers but not weighing them down to the ground as snow would have, outlining the trees and roofs, leaving the path just outside the garden bed pristine and white, unsullied by footprints. It was as if the world had been made new while Bilbo slept.

But cold it was, and the cold was flowing in through the window almost as if it were a malevolent force, bent on enfolding him in a deathly embrace. He pulled the window shut again and hugged himself tight, shivering to his toes as he stood there a moment more, admiring the lacework etched upon the panes by an invisible frosty hand.

...but what was he doing, standing here? (Not, of course, that he worried over taking a chill, though his mother certainly would have had a choice word or two to say about him standing in the leftover chill from opening the window, and not even a blanket wrapped about himself!) Why, here it was, his much-anticipated birthday, a day to savour, the first day of his tween years. He felt as if he stood (unBagginsly as it might be) on the brink of adventure!

He drooped a little, then, at the recollection that this would not be the special party he'd envisioned for this auspicious day. He ought to be arising early, yes, because the Twentieth Birthday was by custom a day of special celebration. If not for unforeseen events, he'd have been getting up early to see to the last-minute details of rather a large party, of his own planning and execution. Certainly his parents would stand behind him, to help him bring about his first social success, but the planning would have been up to him. If he'd had his way, of course, he'd have had fireworks, like the Old Took, but since old Gandalf had taken himself off rather suddenly, Bilbo hadn't had to work up the courage to ask for such a favour. Hah. As if he could... Still, no harm in dreaming, or so the gammers amongst the Tooks would murmur, though your typical hobbit would consider such a thought faintly reeking of scandal.

Ah, the food, now that was a topic worth considering. His parents had let him plan a tidy feast, all his favourites, but they'd been spared the expense of all the guests he'd hoped to invite, Siggy not the least among them.

He sighed. Guests.

Guest, rather.

When he'd brought up the subject of the Birthday, not long after their return to Bag End with Uncle Isen, his father had cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject, so quickly that Bilbo thought perhaps his mother and uncle hadn't even noticed. Bungo had drawn the lad aside later, taken him off for a walk whilst Belladonna and Isen were stirring up cakes in the kitchen, yes, taken him off for a walk and an Explanation.

Bilbo, my lad, he'd said, rather awkwardly, which had caught Bilbo's attention at once, for Bungo was seldom at a loss for the right word. Bilbo had looked up quickly, and Bungo had put his arm about Bilbo's shoulders as they walked slowly along under the heavily laden apple trees in the Old Orchard. The teen had been admiring the reddening apples and thinking of apple tarts and apple compote and all manner of pleasant things, but at his father's tone...

Bilbo, my lad, I know that your birthday will soon be here...

My Twentieth!

Ahem. Yes. Your Twentieth. A special day, indeed, the beginning of your Tween years, and leaving Childhood behind...

Bilbo hadn't been sure he liked the sound of that. His Tookish cousins were very free, as Tweens go, often going about on walking tours to visit various relatives, invariably arriving just before a mealtime, and staying until politely invited to go along home, "as your mother must surely be missing your company, my dear." It was said (quietly, of course), that the Old Took encouraged such a thing, to save the depredations on the pantries of the Great Smials. Yes, they'd left the strictures of childhood behind, but enjoyed the freedoms of Tweenhood without much burden of adult responsibility upon their shoulders. At least, that was the way of things in the early Tween years, even if they were required to look toward Coming of Age toward the end of the Tweens.

Yes? he'd said, when it seemed Bungo had faltered. And then Bilbo had stopped, with the sudden fear that his father was about to engage in The Talk. (No, not that as the Tooks called gossip, but another Talk that was customary in the transition from Childhood into Youth.)

Bungo had stopped, too, and as they stood there, Bilbo was almost certain that this was The Talk an older cousin had hinted at, with a mixture of dread and embarrassed glee, early in the spring during lambing time.

But no.

About the Birthday, his father had said at last, and sighed.

Yes, Dad?

I know, custom is... but your mother and I have... I mean, I've been giving it some thought, and...

After another long pause, Bilbo had said, ...giving it some thought?

Poor Isen, you know, your unfortunate uncle, well, I'm afraid that a crowd of hobbits... well, it wouldn't be good for the hobbit, not so soon, anyhow...

And Bilbo's dreams of a grand affair had dissipated, somewhat like the smoke of his breath on the frosting morn.

It would be a small affair, this special Birthday. Intimate, his father liked to say, whenever Belladonna's chin would begin to quiver at Bilbo's loss, and Bungo would wink at Bilbo as if at another adult. And Bilbo, not to add to his mother's distress, would raise his chin, almost defiantly, to say cheerily, What could be better?

And though, after that picnic on the Hill, when he'd caught a glimpse of the depth of Isen's loss, and in the days the followed, as Isen became steadily more hobbity and less like a wild creature in a trap, Bilbo had found himself less tempted to sulk, and more thoughtful about the whole affair, though still disappointed, of course... Though he'd been less tempted to sulk, still, the fact remained, that he could imagine a lot of things that could be better.

Still, for his beloved mother's sake, and the good opinion of his father, and yes, for the sake of his poor ruined uncle, whom he'd learnt to pity, he'd make the best of it all.

As he chewed over these thoughts once again, on this Day of days, he found all bitterness gone, as if leached away over time. Fondness for his uncle was growing, and tempering his pity; and his sacrifice, which had seemed as big as a mountain to him, now shrank to the size of an anthill.

He'd make the best of it all, and his finest and most thoughtful gift to his family would be his joyful celebration, embracing the circumstances that had been thrust upon him.

In his youth he did not stop to think that it would do him some good as well.

***

A/N: Some ideas herein are borrowed from Dreamflower's excellent Miss Dora Baggins' Book of Manners, here on SoA.

Chapter 26. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

The Wizard is gone. Just like that.

No, my dear friend and Journal, he did not disappear, poof, into nothing, but he did leave abruptly, spurning Grandfa's hospitality in a way that would have been most impolite, if not for his grave manner and regretful mien.

Grandfa urged him to stay, most earnestly, but no! ...he must go, and reach his destination (where ever that may be--over rivers, perhaps? beyond mountains?) ahead of the snow.

One might laugh, as Uncle S. observed, and yet, the snow last week...? Fully a week before Even-night, the day when Light and Darkness are in perfect balance, before the long, slow slide into darkness and long winter nights. Long before the First of October, the earliest that the oldest among the gaffers and gammers can remember even the merest dusting of snow. Mid-September, rather. Odd, that, very much out of the ordinary, even, one might say, extra-ordinary, and that is not a word used lightly, not even by the Tooks.

No indeed, no one, not a one, laughed at the Wizard's excuse, poor as it might have seemed in days gone by, in other years.

And to night we celebrated as we usually do, Even-night, with feasting and frolic and harvest songs, roasting apples over the fire in the great room (for the rain is still pounding, and there is no Bonfire this year in the courtyard of the Great Smials, with all of Tuckboro invited to join the Thain and his family), and drinking punch, and playing at games, and all the rest of the things that strengthen the spirit to meet the encroaching darkness.

But for some reason I kept thinking of the Wizard, gone his solitary way, out in the pounding rain, sopping no doubt, perhaps in danger of catching his death.

Do Wizards fall ill, I wonder? Can a Wizard catch his death, as any other Man, or Hobbit, even?

I must ponder this. Uncle S. says that Wizards are like Elves, and go on for ever (and a day into the bargain). Perhaps that is why the old man looked so weary.

I wish he'd stayed longer, until he was well rested, before he recommenced his journey.

He told such wonder-full stories.

***
A/N: Thanks to Dreamflower for working out the term Even-night, from Old English, as a plausible Shire term for the autumnal equinox.

Chapter 27. Of a Birthday Breakfast

'Ah, awake then!' his mother's voice came, and he turned from the window with a bright smile.

'Good morning, Mother!' he said. He hurried to take the ewer from her hand, full of steaming water, ready for his Birthday morning ablutions. 'My thanks!' He carried it over to the dressing table and set it down, returning for a hearty hug.

'You are most welcome, my dear,' his mother answered, returning the hug with a will and burying her face for a moment in his curls. She raised her face again to add, 'And happy birthday! Breakfast is ready in the kitchen.'

The kitchen? Bilbo didn't have to say the words aloud, though he looked his puzzlement. Of course, they breakfasted in the kitchen most days, but this was a special day, after all...

'It's so very cold outside,' his mother answered, in tacit apology. 'So unusual for September – there's not been such a hard frost in my remembering in just years, even in the depths of the Winter...'

Bilbo looked, a little guiltily, it might be said, towards the frosted window, but it was shut tight. Cold air was seeping in around the corners, perhaps, but not pouring in as it had just a little while ago, when he'd had it open.

'In any event,' his mother said, 'the kitchen is the warmest room in the smial at present, what with the fire in the stove and the kitchen hearth, and your da said we might as well kill two birds with one stone... Though there's a fire laid in the parlour for later, it would take some time to warm up the room, and as for the dining room...'

'We wouldn't want the food to go cold, after all,' Bilbo said. As it might, being carried through to a cold dining room, and sitting on platters on the sideboard in between helpings. In coming years, when he would be master of Bag End, he'd have chafing dishes to keep the food warm during the splendid parties he'd have for company, but that time was some years away.

'No, we wouldn't,' his mother agreed with a smile of her own. 'Well, it's keeping warm, so you have time to wash while the water's still hot, and dress.' With another birthday hug, she turned and left the room.

What a treat to bathe in steaming water on such an icy morn! It struck Bilbo anew, as it occasionally had in the past, how his mother cozened and cared for him. Of course, his father set the tone for the family, rising early as he did to make sure that the fire was going well in the kitchen stove before Belladonna awoke.

They were well enough off to afford to keep servants, and the smial was big enough to house such along with the family, but that Belladonna had had quite enough of servants (and their bossiness, er, managing ways, and their Talk), growing up in the Great Smials, and Bungo deferred to his wife's wishes. Mrs. Greenhand came in several days of the week to “do” for the Bagginses (especially heavy duties such as laundering, floor scrubbing, and washing windows), but Belladonna managed most of the day-to-day business of smialkeeping.

In any event, before he got down to the business of pouring the warm water into the bowl and splashing himself clean, he fingered one of the carefully wrapped packages nestled under his pillow and hoped his mother would find it pleasing. Oh, he hoped so, indeed he did! He hoped they'd all find their presents pleasing. He pursed his lips and allowed himself a brief frown of puzzlement, once more, thinking of his father's odd request, but then he shrugged his shoulders and replaced the pillow over the small assortment of packages. No doubt Uncle Isen would be polite, at least, in receiving the present Bilbo had prepared for him. Still, he might as well bathe whilst the water was still hot!

Ah, yes, very pleasant, indeed. Morning ablutions were pleasant when the water was hot... He found himself humming an old tune as he scrubbed and then rubbed himself dry. O water hot...!

Bathing finished, Bilbo dressed himself hastily, but then, in honour of his twenty years, he took a good long look in the mirror to set himself to rights. He untwisted the twist in his collar, and then he settled the sleeves of his shirt properly, and he made sure the buttons lined up with the right holes down his front. He smoothed the curls atop his head into tidiness and grinned at the mirror. All grown up, and twenty years...

...but delicious smells were wafting on the air, and he raised his head to sniff. Delightful! Bacon, and frying potatoes, and if he didn't miss his guess, there were sausages, and fresh-baked bread, and...

Bilbo entered the kitchen to the greetings of mother, father, and uncle, and a chorus of, “Happy Birthday!” followed by a solo rendition of, “and many happy returns!” from his grinning uncle.

His father rose from his seat to escort Bilbo to the place of honour. The kitchen table might have been humble, without the highly polished surface boasted by that of the dining room (for it was a place where bread dough was kneaded, and pastry dough was rolled out, and other such mundane uses), but it was this morning covered with a bright cloth and practically groaning with bounty – food covering the majority of its surface (except for where the place settings reposed), and a tidy pile of presents before Bilbo's place.

While the presents were exciting to contemplate, and inviting to look upon, of course the food took priority. (In point of fact, it was hobbit custom to downplay the receiving of birthday gifts, as everyone knows it is more blessed to give than to receive, and a part of child-raising is to cultivate a spirit of generosity, much to be preferred to a spirit of greed.) The little family ate, filling their plates, emptying them, and filling them again more than once, and drinking quantities of tea while cheerful talk ran round the table.

Isen and Bella reminisced about birthdays in the Great Smials, and all remembered with wonder the fireworks of the recent Birthday, (and if Isen or Bilbo wondered where the wizard had got himself off to by this time, well, it didn't seem a matter for inquiry at the present moment, polite or otherwise), and there was much remarking over the lightness of the bread, the perfect blend of spice in the sausages, the freshness of the tomatoes (last of the garden, sun-ripened, and picked just the previous day, and a good thing, too, for they'd've been spoilt by the frost if they'd been left on the vines), and other pleasant observations about the breakfast feast.

Bungo jumped up at intervals to fetch more food from where it sat keeping warm on the stovetop, or freshen the teapot, '...for if I recall rightly, my dear, you had quite as much to contribute to the Birthday, originally, as our son, here!' He would not let his wife stir a finger in service, not this day at least.

Isen beamed on everyone impartially, and he ate quite as much as Bilbo, and had as much to say about past birthday antics as anyone else, much as if he were any regular hobbit. It was he, in point of fact, who dabbed his mouth with a serviette and laid the cloth down beside his plate, the last to finish eating, and said, 'Well, then, lad! What about clearing away?'

...and jumped up, to pile his plate and Bilbo's together, and add Bungo's and Belladonna's plates, and somehow manage the small stack with his one good hand, while encouraging Bilbo to bear away the empty platter and serving plates to the wash stand, ready for washing up.

When the table was cleared, all but the teapot, cups, milk and sugar, Bilbo thumped himself down again with a sigh, but Isen stood behind his chair and said, 'Not quite finished, eh, my lad?'

'Not quite?' Bilbo said in bewilderment. His father was sipping at his teacup, and his mother was just stirring more sugar into hers. Surely Isen didn't mean for them to clear away the tea things when his parents weren't quite finished?

But with a grin, the hobbit gestured to the small pile of presents before Bilbo's place. 'Don't you think you ought to tidy those away? Bit hard to whisk the cloth from the table and shake out the crumbs with that lot still there, what?'

'Oh,' Bilbo said, and, 'oh, yes!'

He'd already had gifts from the Greenhands and other neighbours, and those sent from cousins nearer and farther away (and most were understanding about the small, intimate Birthday celebration that his parents had deemed wise, despite the august occasion of Bilbo's Twentieth), for all had been delivered the previous day, or earlier, and he'd opened them the previous day, in point of fact, that they might not clutter up the Birthday itself. His mother had seen to it that he'd spent much of the previous afternoon writing thank you notes, as well. It was best to get such things out of the way early, to strike when the iron was hot, as the farrier in the village was fond of saying, to express one's gratitude and delight when both were still fresh and get the notes sent off before the flowers wilted, as it were, and the gifts of food were but a pleasant memory, nothing left save perhaps a gentle belch or hiccough.

He looked over the tags and chose to open his mother's present first, as he always did, that he might give her pleasure in his choice. He extended the suspense by fingering the package, squeezing the contents in their paper wrappings. 'Oho,' he said. 'Soft! And plump! I wonder what it could be...!'

'Open it, you goose,' his father said fondly, 'before your dear mama pops from anticipation.'

Bilbo grinned and tore the wrapping away, unveiling a knitted muffler, cap, and mittens, all of the softest, warmest wool he could imagine, dyed in bright colours and knitted in stripes. 'Oooh,' he breathed, all unknowing, and in a twinkling he'd donned the cap, wrapped the muffler round his throat, and had pulled on one of the bright mittens, stroking it with his unmuffled hand. 'It's so warm! And soft!'

'Wool from The Took's own sheep,' Belladonna said, well pleased with his reaction. 'And so it is from your grandfa and grandma, as well as myself.'

'Thank you,' he said, rising from his chair to throw his arms around her, following with a kiss to each cheek and one for her forehead. 'Thanks to all of you, then!'

He sat himself down again, well rewarded by his mother's bright face. He reached for the gift with the tag, from Isen, but Bungo cleared his throat.

'Mine next, I deem,' he said.

Isen nodded with a smile. 'Ah, yes,' he said. 'Perfectly right.'

'Very well,' Bilbo said with a nod, pulling his father's gift to him and picking it up to weigh the contents. Hmmm. It didn't feel quite as he thought it would. It was elongated, as it ought, and there was a certain heft to the package, but... it wasn't quite as he thought it would be.

(It must be explained here that in some families, though not all, it was – to put it in Dora Baggins' words, the Custom to present a Lad with his first Pipe, and a pouch of pipe-weed upon the Occasion of his Twentieth Birthday. However, some Families prefer the habit of Smoking to be taken up at a Later Age, and so wait until the Lad turns Twenty-five. It was by no means a sure thing that Bilbo would receive a pipe on this, his Twentieth. If his parents were impressed with his behaviour, and wished to reward his maturity with a token of their regard, well, that was one thing. If they'd found him wanting in that respect, on the other hand, they were well within their rights to put off the gift of a pipe for another year. Or five.)

'Carefully, lad,' Bungo said, and Bilbo nodded. A good pipe was easily broken, after all.

His heart sank, however, as he eased the wrapping away, to reveal not pipe, but fine pen, along with a shining bottle of the most expensive ink to be had, the kind that went onto the paper in smooth and shining lines and did not fade, even years afterward.

Looking up to meet his father's keen gaze, he forced a smile. 'Oh, Father,' he said formally. 'Thank you. Thank you very much. It's beautiful, and ever so much nicer than what I've been using to write in my journal.'

The flat package that had rested beneath this one, he rightly guessed to be another journal, and his smile was more genuine as he unwrapped it – bound in bright red leather, the pages of fine, white paper gilded on the edges, '...altogether too fine to write in!'

'I hope it's not too fine,' his father said. 'Or what would be the point?'

Bilbo made a show of picking up the pen and scrutinizing the tip. 'No,' he said, 'the point is fine, indeed. Perfectly crafted.' He met his father's eye once more, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. 'Thanks, Dad,' he said, sincerity in his tone, and he meant it. Perhaps he'd have the pipe on next year's Birthday. He hoped he'd prove his merit to them by then, at least, if not now.

'And now, mine,' Isen said, pushing the last package towards the tween. 'It's not much, but I hope you'll like it.'

'I'm sure that I will!' Bilbo said gallantly, though he couldn't imagine what Isen might have managed. After all, they'd spent almost every waking moment together, since Isen's arrival, including visits to the shops in Hobbiton, and Bywater market. Sweetmeats, perhaps. Though, as he lifted the package – 'Gently!' warned Bungo once more, as if he knew what the paper wrappings protected – it didn't feel as if it were full of a jumble of sweetmeats. It felt rather more like the pen-and-ink package had felt, as a matter of fact. Something long and slim, and something bulky, with a little heft to it.

He laid it down and carefully tore away the paper, to reveal...

'Ohhhh,' he breathed, unaware that Bella and Bungo sighed at the same time, on the same note, for they'd heard of the present Isen intended, but had not seen it. 'Ohhh,' he said again, lifting the carven wonder carefully in his hand, separating it from the accompanying pouch of what was undoubtedly pipeweed. It was a pipe, but such a pipe, pure white, and intricately shaped.

'It's of dwarvish make,' Isen said softly. 'The longer you use it, the darker it grows with the use, and so you can tell a well-loved pipe that has been long in use, and carefully preserved from breaking.'

'It's... it's... beautiful,' Bilbo whispered.

'Exquisite,' his mother agreed, barely breathing the word. 'Why, the Thain himself hasn't anything so fine...!'

'Not the Thain himself,' his uncle agreed. 'Why it was the Captain... just before...' His smile dimmed suddenly, and he blinked his good eye, and Bilbo feared for a moment that his uncle's madness would return once more to mar the day. But then Isen seemed to return from far away, and shook himself, and smiled again. 'The Captain, he gave it to me, and I put it away safe, for just the right occasion, and well...' He shrugged the shoulder of his good arm. 'Well, it seemed like the right occasion,' he ended lamely.

'Oh, Uncle,' Bilbo said, and he carefully laid the pipe down, safely away from the edge of the table, and rose, hurried around the table to Isen's place, and threw his arms around his uncle. 'It's quite the most wonderful gift I could ever imagine!'

And Bungo and Belladonna were in complete agreement, and not at all put out to have their own offerings diminished by comparison.

***

A/N: A little bit of material quoted above was from Miss Dora Baggins' Book of Manners, by Dreamflower, posted here on SoA.

Chapter 28. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

22 September

Not much to say. Heavy rain continues. Gammer B. sings insess insec without ceasing her little song about “wash all our cares away”. How do I know this? It seems to be my fate to know such things.

23 September

Heavy rain continues. Fanny has decided, yestre day and to day and for the forseeable future (or is it foreseeable?), that I need to be kept from mischief, and so I am to take my place each day, from morning until bed-time, in the gammers' sitting room, where the knitting and gossip continue as relentless as the rain. It is my duty to pour out the tea, and sweeten it – one lump, or two? – and hold each skein of yarn to be wound into a ball. And more such things. I am nearly too weary to write at the end of such a day, much less two.

24 September

Heavy rain continues.

27 September

Yes, yes, I know, dear Journal. I have missed several days. Would it have been better to write, “Heavy rain continues” over and again, like Gammer B. and her little ditty? I would not think much of such an account, weather whether I were the reader, or the writer.

30 September

Need I say more?

Chapter 29. To Give is Better than to Receive

Bilbo gently closed Fortinbras’ journal and patted the cover with a pitying hand.

‘I don’t think much of your diary, Great-grandfather,’ he said. ‘Heavy rain continues on October the twelfth: there was no need to take pen in hand to report that!’

He lifted the book from his lap and eased it into a place on the small bookshelf in his room, between two picture books of his childhood, fondly remembered when he remembered them at all.

He sighed and slapped his knees with his hands. ‘What to do? What to do?’ he asked himself. He was waiting here by his mother's request, that she might put the finishing touches on his feast. The great Birthday Party was to be an intimate Birthday supper instead. He wouldn’t be standing by the gate, handing out his presents, but would be called to table when the feast was ready – so that he might not be underfoot as Belladonna was busy with the last of the preparations. Good smells wafted in the air from the kitchen, and the sun was dimming outside his open window, where the last of the birdsong was sounding, before the birds took themselves off for their rest.

After the frosty start, the day had warmed rapidly under the Sun’s rays as She rose in the sky, and they’d been able to have a picnic just after noontide at the top of the Hill as originally planned, with the Shire spread out before them like a quilt, bright with autumnal colours. It had been a lovely day, full of sunshine and laughter. Isen had been like a changed hobbit, so different from his first picnic with the Bagginses. Why, he’d walked up the Hill with Belladonna on his arm, while Bilbo and Bungo carried the hamper between them.

No presents had been involved; it had been enough to carry the prodigious amount of food Belladonna had packed away. And they’d eaten it all! …and laughed, and sang, and told stories, and generally had a delightful time. Bungo had taken the entire day, away from business, to devote himself to his son. Belladonna had baked quantities of Bilbo’s favourites, including seedcake enough that he could have it at each of the six meals that day. And Isen… Isen had put away all scandalous behaviour, and had been just like any other hobbit.

Years seemed to have dropped away, and even though he still wore his arm in a sling, and hobbled on a twisted leg, he had left off the eye patch, revealing not only a fading scar that crossed his face from nose to temple, but a perfectly bright eye that had heretofore been hidden from the world, as the hobbit had been hidden. It was no longer difficult to believe that the hobbit was not yet fifty! (Though fifty still seemed awfully old to Bilbo…)

Bilbo checked the presents under his pillow, still safe in their wrappings. A fine muffler for Papa, knitted of the finest Tookish wool, and the lovely bracelet for his mother, and for Isen, a pouch of the best pipe-weed available in Bywater, and a paper full of the sweets his uncle loved best. But there was also… and Bilbo frowned, but his father had been so earnest, and insistent that it would be best if the present came from Bilbo, and not from an adult…

Bil-bo! came his mother’s sweet sing-song. Bilbo Baggins! It’s time!

‘Coming, Mother!’ he called back, and scooped up the presents. He hurried to the door of the formal dining room, to await his guests. Peeking through the doorway, he saw the table gleaming with candlelight, set with the finest of the family silver and china, a snowy cloth of linen, and a veritable feast of bowls and platters of lovingly prepared food.

‘Peeping, are we?’ came Isen’s voice, and Bilbo jumped, nearly dropping his packages.

‘Of course!’ he replied. ‘Who wouldn’t?’

Isen chuckled, but when he looked quizzically at his nephew, as if waiting for his gift to be presented, Bilbo said, ‘Ah-ah-ah! Mama first! She did most of the work, or so I’m told!’

Laughing, his mother came from the kitchen, wiping her hands. ‘On that notable day, and on this one!’ she agreed.

Bilbo managed to hold out her present without dropping the others, and she took it and thanked him with, ‘But let’s open them all together, shall we? Such a tearing of paper as we’ll make…!’

‘One at a time, my dear,’ Bungo said, from behind his wife. ‘One at a time, that we may show the proper appreciation for the giver…’

Belladonna affected a frown. ‘Oh, you’re not at all adventurous!’ she accused.

Bungo laughed. ‘I’m more adventurous than you’d think,’ he teased. ‘I married a Took, after all.’

‘And this is for you, Papa,’ Bilbo said, separating his father’s bulky package from Isen’s.

‘And this last for me, I hope?’ Isen said. ‘Or is it for some other guest who has not yet arrived, and nothing for your poor, hopeful uncle?’

‘Well, since no other guest has arrived, I suppose you may have the last of the presents,’ Bilbo said. ‘But don’t let it go to your head!’

‘Not a hat, then, I deem,’ Isen said, tilting his head to one side. ‘Pity, that, for it was so very chilly this morning. I could use a good hat!’

‘I’ll keep that in mind for my birthday,’ Bungo said. ‘But now, lest the food go cold…’

‘We cannot have that!’ Belladonna said. ‘Not after I’ve been slaving half the day…’

‘And slave-driving into the bargain,’ Isen said, putting on a long-suffering tone. ‘Who do you think had to taste everything, to make sure the seasoning was right?’

‘Come in, come in,’ Bilbo said, remembering his duties as host. ‘Come and take your seats! Let us feast!’

This was answered by hurrahs from his guests, and all of them took their places around the festal board.

Not much was said until the first part of hunger was satisfied, and satisfied well. The roast was succulent, the potatoes done to a turn, and all the accompaniments were “perfection itself”, as Bungo declared each one. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘the Brandybucks themselves could not have set a better table, and you know what they say about Brandybucks!’

‘But not in polite company,’ Isen said behind his hand, and all the adults laughed.

‘Someday I am going to know what that means,’ Bilbo said, looking from one adult to another.

‘But not yet,’ Belladonna said hastily. ‘You’re young yet. Wait until you reach your majority.’

At last it was time to open the presents, and despite Belladonna’s wish for a grand, loud tearing of wrapping paper, she gave in and consented to go first, though she tore her paper wrapping just as loudly as she could, all by herself.

‘Oh!’ she cried, on seeing the contents. ‘Oh, Bilbo, it’s lovely!’ And she held the bracelet up, to show it off to greatest advantage, sparkling in the candlelight.

‘Well done, my boy,’ Bungo said. ‘You’ve made your mother very happy.’

‘In more ways than just this,’ Belladonna said, and her smile was luminous. ‘I couldn’t have asked for a better son, over all these twenty years, and I have no doubt for the future.’ She held the bracelet out to Bungo, and he solemnly fastened it on her wrist, which she moved to catch the light, that all might further admire the gift.

At last she said, ‘But it’s Bungo’s turn, now! He contributed a little something, after all.’

‘Very little,’ Bungo said with a laugh.

‘He is the image of a Baggins,’ Isen pronounced, after a careful examination of Bilbo. ‘I don’t see any Tookishness at all, as a matter of fact.’ He peered at Bilbo more closely. ‘Are you sure we’re related?’

‘I’m certain,’ Bilbo returned. ‘And after Papa opens his gift, you may open yours.’

‘I thought it belonged to some other cousin,’ Isen said.

‘No. I’ve decided it’s for you,’ Bilbo said.

‘Very well. Bungo! I’m perishing of curiosity!’

‘We cannot have that!’ Bungo said, unfolding the paper around his gift, though his wife most earnestly pleaded with him to tear it. ‘Ah,’ he said, unrolling the muffler and wrapping it about his neck, caressing the soft texture. ‘Finest wool imaginable. It must have come from Tookish sheep.’

‘It did,’ Bilbo said, well pleased. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘It will be perfect if we have any more mornings like this morning,’ Bungo said. ‘And now, Isen, it’s your turn. You had better open up that package before some long-lost cousin shows up on the doorstep to claim it.’

‘I’d like to see him try,’ Isen said. ‘Finders ought to be keepers, I always say.’ He pulled his package to him and held it down with the weight of his crippled arm, while tearing at the paper with his good hand.

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘A new pipe-weed pouch! I’ve been needing one of those.’

‘And filled with pipe-weed,’ Bilbo said proudly. ‘The finest Longbottom Leaf to be had! I tried for Old Toby, but there wasn’t any.’

‘I’ve always preferred Longbottom Leaf to Old Toby anyhow,’ Isen said complacently. ‘Ah, but it’ll be a treat to have a pipe after this fine meal. Will you join me, nephew?’

‘I’ll be happy to,’ Bilbo said, thinking gladly of his new pipe.

‘And peppermints!’ Isen said, opening the paper of sweets. ‘Such a treat!’ And nothing would do, but that he should pass the paper around, and everyone must pop a sweet into his or her mouth, before he would go on.

‘And yet one more thing,’ he said, looking quizzically at the last tissue-wrapped object that had been in the parcel. ‘Seems to me as if three long-lost cousins ought to be showing up at the door! I have three in my parcel! Nephew, what is the meaning of this?’

‘Well, I knew you’d be sharing the sweets, for you always do,’ Bilbo said honestly, ‘and so that could not be your main present. And Mama had such trouble trying to mend the torn seam of your pipe-weed pouch, that I thought I’d spare her the grief by giving you a new one, and what is a pouch without pipe-weed, I ask you?’

‘And so you didn’t regard either one as a proper present, eh, lad?’ Isen said with an approving nod. ‘You’ll go far!’

And Belladonna fought a sudden chill, hearing these words from her ill-fated, far-travelled brother to her beloved son, but she fought the shivers down bravely and covered her unease by saying, ‘So what is the last bit? What do you consider a proper present, anyhow, Bilbo?’

‘Open it and see,’ Bilbo said, covering a bit of unease himself by putting on a jolly tone. After all, it was properly his father’s present, and not his own, and he wasn’t sure what Isen would say… but his uncle, at the very least, would have to be polite, and even if he put the present away with other mathoms, to be re-gifted at a later time, politeness said he’d have to make a show of finding it useful, at least for a little while.

Isen squeezed the tissue-wrapped bundle. ‘Feels like a ball,’ he said. ‘A ball of wool? Is it that I’m to take up knitting?’ He laughed, for with a useless arm, it was a ridiculous idea.

Bilbo held his breath, and Isen, glancing into his nephew’s face, stilled a moment, still stroking the tissue. Somehow the uncle sensed that this was something of import to Bilbo, and he didn’t want to hurt the lad’s feelings, not on this special day.

‘Let me see, now,’ he said, working at the tissue with the fingers of his good hand, until he found an opening and was able to tease the wrapping away. ‘Ha.’

‘What is it?’ Belladonna said, peering in puzzlement at the ball that was revealed, apparently made of strips of woollen fabric, wound round and round, wrapped and sewn together to make a ball, firm, yet squeezable.

‘Is it so that we can play “catch and throw”?’ Isen said. ‘I thank you, nephew, for thinking of me, and wanting to spend time together.’

‘It’s for your hand,’ Bilbo said, fumbling for words.

‘My hand,’ Isen said, lifting the ball in his good hand and giving it a firm squeeze.

‘No,’ Bilbo said, and rose from his place. ‘No, you take it… so…’ He took the ball from Isen, and eased it into the curled fingers protruding from the sling. ‘Now, squeeze.’

The fingers moved, ever so slightly. ‘That’s right,’ Bilbo said in encouragement. He added the words his father had told him to practice, over and over, until he could own them. ‘You keep on squeezing, as often as you can every day, whenever you have nothing else to demand your attention, or even if you do. You squeeze, and release, and squeeze again, and work the hand…’

‘Work the hand,’ Isen said absently, staring at his useless hand, with the ball in its grasp.

‘Work the hand,’ Bilbo said. ‘Like a babe, learning to walk… He doesn’t just get up on his feet one day and walk, but he crawls first, and strengthens his legs, and then when he gets up, he stands, and bounces on his legs for quite some time, and then he takes a step…’

‘What do you know about babes?’ Isen wanted to know. ‘There are no little brothers or sisters crawling about, that I didn’t know about, are there?’

Belladonna and Bungo were holding their breath, and Belladonna had taken her husband’s hand under the table, and was squeezing it hard. She had suddenly understood where the ball had come from, and what her husband had intended, and why he had used Bilbo in his scheme.

‘See?’ Bilbo said, distracting his uncle. ‘See? Your fingers moved, even if it was only a little! Why, I think if you were to exercise them, like a babe, learning to walk, why…’

‘Why…’ Isen breathed, and something like hope bloomed in his face. ‘Why, I just might learn to dance, even, to fly…’

***

A/N: Bilbo's response to Fortinbras' journal was modelled on Frodo's thoughts on Caradhras, in "The Ring Goes South" from Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien. Thank you to Dreamflower for supplying the quote, when I could not find a single copy of the three sets of LOTR we own...

Chapter 30. Golden Days

The weather continued mild, with chilly mornings (though no more frosts so sharp as the one that had painted pictures on the windows at Bag End, to grace Bilbo’s Birthday) and warm, sunny afternoons. The farmers were bringing in their harvests as quickly as possible, however; for they had been alarmed by that very frost, and the deep freezing weather that it portended. The old gaffers shivered in the warm autumn sun, predicting a harsh winter, pointing to such things as the thick fur coats the animals, both wild and domestic, were growing, the burgeoning nuts and acorns on the trees, the frantic gathering of nuts by squirrels, competing with hobbits…

‘…and the holly berries, see how thickly they’re growing,’ Gammer Goodbody said, gesturing to her garden. Bilbo and Isen stood before her door, having brought a basket of good things from Belladonna’s kitchen. ‘And that spiderweb above the eves of the shed – see how thick it’s woven? My Lemson knocks it down, and I warrant that spider spins it thicker each time she remakes it!’

She lifted the cloth that covered the basket and gave a pleased exclamation. ‘A roasted chicken! O but your mum ought not to spend so much time and worry on my account…’

Bilbo didn’t have to answer this, for the Widow, being lonely for company, went on chattering, releasing all the pent-up words she’d been saving. ‘And apple butter, fresh-made, I deem, and from the apples in Bag End’s orchards, I’ve no doubt…!’

Bilbo simply nodded, and Isen’s grin broadened at his nephew’s dilemma. It would be rude for them to simply turn and walk away, but the old hobbit gave Bilbo no chance to break in and begin his farewells.

‘But you must come in! Come in!’ Widow Goodbody said, recalled to her duty to visitors at her door. She turned into the smial, gesturing to Bilbo and Isen to follow, Bilbo still bearing the heavy-laden basket.

‘No, really, I…’ Bilbo attempted. He wanted to say that his mother expected him back directly, that his tutor would be arriving (for now that the Birthday celebrations were safely behind, it was time to resume his studies) and he did not care to keep that hobbit waiting – though in reality he wouldn’t have minded at all.

‘Come in! Come in!’ the old hobbit was still exclaiming. ‘Set the basket on the table there, and sit yourselfs down. I’ve just baked some lovely biscuits this morning, for my tea later today, and while they’ll be a bit soft and crumbly, this fresh out of the oven, well, they’re still tasty! As a matter of fact, I ate one or two just now – they smelt so good that I couldn’t wait until teatime…’

The smial was filled with the good smells of baking, and so as soon as Bilbo had put the basket down in the indicated spot, it didn’t take more than a nudge on Isen’s part for him to perch on a chair, expected tutor or not. In no time at all they were each served with a plate of warm, sweet and spicy biscuits, and cups of milky tea. The Widow sat herself down as well, happily sipping and talking without pause.

‘…and the mice! I tell you, the mice, the way they’re so determined to take up homes here – if it weren’t for my good Maisie, I’d be driven to distraction!’ The calico cat, reclining on a cushion, twitched her tail at hearing her name, but otherwise showed no interest in the conversation. ‘Why, she’s hunting all the night through, and leaves me a neat line of vermin on the doorstep each morning, to show me that she’s earning her keep.’

‘The mice are bad at Bag…’ Bilbo began, but he might as well have saved his breath, as the Widow went on to categorise that morning's bounty, ...and a vole, and two moles, and a rat! ...into the bargain...

Isen simply smiled through it all. He enjoyed a plateful of biscuits and two cups of milky tea, letting the Widow’s conversation flow around him. He quietly squeezed the woollen ball in his lame hand, enjoying the sensation of improvement that but a fortnight of consistent effort had brought. Why, he was halfway to making a fist!

There was no need for him to think of something appropriate to say, no worry that well-meaning relatives would jump in to stifle his very thoughts, lest he say something to embarrass them.

Come to think on it, there hadn’t been any of that at Bag End. He’d been allowed to say whatever he might wish to say, off the top of his head, conventional or outrageous. Bungo might have blinked a few times, surprised, but he never chided. Belladonna was so glad to have him there that she spoilt him shamelessly, as if he were still the toddling baby brother she’d adored, in their young days, amid the bustle that was the Great Smials.

Because Bungo was an upright and influential hobbit in the area of Hobbiton and Bywater, people tended to follow his lead. They might have begun with a little caution towards Bungo’s brother in love, but as Isen showed no dangerous tendencies nor overt signs of madness, they soon accepted him in their midst. He was no different than the Quick Post rider who’d been thrown from his pony some years ago, and could not walk unaided now, though he still rode to take messages. Or the gaffer with the withered arm, who’d fallen from a tree in his youth. And now that he’d left off the eyepatch, they could easily see the honest light in his eyes. A scar? What did that matter? It was simply a mark of life experience, to them.

And Bilbo – his nephew had resented him when he’d first come; he was sharp enough to realise it. Bilbo had been something of a difficulty, and Isen was sorry to have caused him pain, but that his own pain had been so overwhelming, he hadn’t time for Bilbo’s. Yet things had changed. The young hobbit had grown to accept him as he was (following Bungo’s example, it must be said), did not seem to wish to change him, or avoid him as a liability. They were good friends now, and Bilbo truly seemed to enjoy passing the time with Isen, taking long walks, observing the countryside, delivering Belldonna’s baskets to gammers and gaffers, taking messages for Bungo, to be sent by Post, or even Quick Post on a rare (but exciting!) occasion.

The other young hobbits of the area accepted Isen, simply because Bilbo did. They welcomed him into their social circle, which came in very handy when a prank went wrong and a responsible adult was wanted to smooth things over.

Isen did not quite realise it, but some of the healing he was experiencing came from the fact that he was enabled to be a tween among tweens, something he’d missed in his life. He’d been about Bilbo’s age when he’d run off to Sea. Working on a ship amongst the sailors, clambering up and down the rigging, helping in the galley (and eventually becoming the ship’s cook), and all the serious responsibilities of being a part of a ship’s crew had robbed him of the latter part of his childhood, though he would have denied any loss.

In any event, when he finished his second cup of tea, Isen stood to his feet.

Surprised, the Widow paused in her flow of words.

‘We thank you, Missus,’ Isen said. ‘The tea was delicious, the biscuits delectable.’

She beamed at this praise, and was slow to launch into another flow of words, lest she interrupt more delightful compliments that were about to fall.

‘Such a cosy smial, I might be tempted to while away the day,’ Isen continued, then shook his head with a rueful look. ‘But my young nephew is in danger of neglecting his studies,’ he added. ‘He has had a long summer holiday, very long, but my dear sister has told me to bring him home without fail, in time to take up with his tutor.’

‘Ah,’ the Widow said, but before she could speak further, about the importance of young hobbits obeying their parents, Isen persisted.

‘And if I’m reading the time right,’ he said, looking to the window at the bright morning sun, and back to the Widow, ‘he will be arriving within the half hour. For it’s nearly time for second breakfast, if I don’t miss my guess!’

Bilbo rose hastily from his chair as he realised the lateness of the hour.

Sweet biscuits! Before second breakfast? rang Belladonna’s dismayed tones in Isen’s ears, and his grin brightened.

‘O and I was about to invite you…’ the Widow said, but Isen shook his head regretfully.

‘Another time, perhaps,’ he said. ‘It would be my pleasure – for if your biscuits are any indication, Second Breakfast would be an absolute bliss! No less!’

The Widow sighed happily. ‘You’re too kind, sir,’ she began, but Isen held up his good hand.

‘You don’t have to “sir” me!’ he said. ‘I’m nobody special.’

Gammer Goodbody might have told him that he was, indeed, someone special. He was the youngest son of Gerontius Took, for one thing, and thus part of an old and distinguished family. He was something of a legend amongst Shirefolk, having run off to Sea (though the family had tried most diligently to hush it all up) and returned.

More importantly, he was the brother of Belladonna Baggins, possibly the kindest hobbit in the area, who did much good in the community. That’s what made him special, that, and his own natural kindness, his polite and gentle manner, especially with children and elderly hobbits.

But it’s not the sort of thing one would tell a hobbit, especially to his face.

So Gammer Goodbody’s face simply crinkled up in a smile, and she said, ‘Well, I’ll thank you for your visit, and tell you that you are welcome to come at any time you wish. Any time.’

Isen gave a bow, and nudged Bilbo to do the same.

‘I don’t know about my nephew here, but it would be my pleasure,’ he said.

‘Oh!’ Bilbo said. ‘Mine, too!’ Without thinking, he added, ‘Do you like to make seedcake?’

Both the Widow and his uncle laughed merrily, peals of laughter that could be heard clearly down the street, and hobbits passing by on their way to the market smiled at the sound.

‘I do, young fellow!’ Gammer Goodbody said. ‘Indeed I do! Come round for tea tomorrow, and I’ll let you sample more of my baking! Your parents are welcome, too, if they’re free.’

And Bilbo, who might at one time have been horrified at the idea of spending a pleasant, sunny autumnal afternoon inside a stuffy smial, chit-chatting with an old widow, grinned and echoed his uncle’s earlier words. ‘It will be my pleasure!’

‘And mine,’ Isen said. ‘Don’t forget, but I like seedcake as well as you do!’

Chapter 31. A Night to Remember

The origins of Remembering Day are lost in the mists of days long past, but in the Shire it is generally acknowledged that the custom was first observed by the Tooks, and taken up in turn by the Tooklanders, and brought from there to Buckland by a Took who married into the Brandybuck family. It is somewhat curious that the Tooks would use boats for any purpose, but that is the centerpiece of the Remembering Day observance: to carve a small boat, make a hollow, fix a candle wick within, and pour in melted wax. Some would carve the name of a departed loved one – lost since the previous Remembering Day – into the sides of the boat; others might paint or ink the name there. At sunset, the candle-boat would be lit and set upon moving water, to be carried away.

Some have said, uncharitably, that it has something to do with the Tooks’ faerie ancestor, and certainly not in a complimentary sense. Legends of faeries paint these as mischievous beings (a hobbit might say “tricksy”), capable of doing good, but also to be blamed for many ills, such as souring milk, laming animals, and withering crops. Then there are those cousins of the faeries, the Will-o’-the-wisps, who with their little, ephemeral candles are inclined to lead an unwary traveller off of safe paths, to become lost; or even from solid onto boggy, perilous ground.

The flickering of a few small lights in a brook, or many candles, floating down a river or stream in the autumn darkness, calls forth differing emotions among Shire-folk. A Took or Tooklander grieves, remembering those who have gone before. Young hobbits who are out when they ought to be in bed know a sense of wonder and delight in the beauty of the moving light. Older hobbits, those who are not Tooklanders or Bucklanders, will shudder with superstitious dread, thinking of the faerie lights that are said to lead to enchantment or death, and hurry home as quickly as possible. Spirits have long been said to wander on this night of nights, and no sensible hobbit cares to be haunted by such.

For those who are Remembering on this night, a memorial feast follows, with all the favourite foods of the departed hobbit or hobbits, filled with story and song. Not only the recently departed, but also those long gone, but never forgotten, are remembered at the feast. Missed and not-so-missed hobbits are celebrated, remembered and honoured, and then the next day, it is time to put away grief and take up the necessary tasks of life once more.

On this early November day, Bilbo and Isen wandered the windswept Hilltop above Bagshot Row. If Isen was a little subdued, the younger hobbit was excited by the gusts of wind, the bowing of the trees below, the swirling of the birds in the skies. The wind portended a change in the weather, Belladonna had said, and sent the lads out to fill themselves with sunshine and fresh air. Once the autumn rains set in, they might find themselves indoors for days at a time, or in danger of catching their deaths if they went out in the damp cold, whether soaking hard rain or bone-chilling drizzle.

Bilbo held out his arms, with his face to the sky, feeling the wind tugging at him. ‘I could almost fly!’ he shouted to his uncle.

Just then a particularly violent gust roared over them, and Isen ran a few steps (luckily he had stayed close to Bilbo) and grabbed at his nephew, holding tight, as the wind filled the lad’s jacket as if he were a ship with sails, and propelled him across the hilltop. ‘You nearly did!’ he shouted in reply. ‘Come, ‘Bo, let us seek shelter before the wind carries us both away!’

Bilbo protested, but Isen prevailed, and soon the Overhill road took them down towards Bagshot Row, in the lea of the hillside, out of the worst effect of the gusts. ‘O but that was glorious!’ Bilbo enthused. ‘It really felt as if I could fly on the wind to far countries, to see mountains and oceans…’

‘Wind’s coming from the wrong quarter for oceans,’ Isen said. ‘Mountains and forests, perhaps, though I’ve not been to that part of the world.’

‘We could go together!’ Bilbo said, still excited.

Isen chuckled and shook his head. ‘You’re as bad as your mother ever was,’ he said.

‘My mother?’ Bilbo was astonished.

‘She and I used to…’ Isen said, but then he shook himself. ‘But perhaps she wouldn’t like that tale told…’

‘Then tell another!’ Bilbo insisted. Somehow the wildness of the wind was stirring the Tookish part of his blood, and he felt uncharacteristically reckless.

‘Well, there was the time we…’ Isen said, and stopped himself again. ‘But then she swore me to silence…’

‘Swore you to silence!’ Bilbo said, his eyes dancing. ‘Sounds…’ and he said a word that was seldom said in polite society, ‘adventurous!’

‘It was,’ Isen said, but he lost his smile. ‘Bella, Hildifons and I… but no, lad, that’s not a tale for the telling, at least not this day.’

And Bilbo could get no more out of him on the topic of adventure, as they walked back down the Hill to Bag End. No, but Isen insisted on speculating about what might be for tea that day, whether it might be seedcake, which the both of them dearly loved, and rued that it was only baked twice a week, or whether it would be Bungo’s favourite dried-cherry scones.

They met Erling Pott, who carried the Shire Post in the Hobbiton area, coming from Bag End. ‘Hoi there, Mr Pott!’ Bilbo said in greeting. ‘To day is not your usual day…!’

‘No, it is not, young hobbit,’ that worthy said in reply. ‘How ever, special deliveries may be made on any day of the week, and this was one of those, if you take my meaning.’

‘Special delivery!’ Bilbo said in excitement. ‘To Bag End, I hope? I wonder what it might be?’ Off the top of his head, he could not think of any birthdays, not even those of any twelve-mile cousins this day. Bungo would receive sheafs of paper to do with business, but these almost always arrived by regular Post.

‘That would be telling,’ the Post hobbit said with a tip of his cap to Isen. Hobbits who carried the Post might enjoy gathering details and gossip, but they knew better than to spread their knowledge abroad, lest a complaint come to the Mayor’s ears and they’d be out of a job. Erling knew very well where he had delivered the package, and the young, inquisitive hobbit (and inquisitiveness was a thing frowned upon by sensible folk) would find out soon enough, after all.

In any event, the package had not been addressed to young Bilbo, and so it was none of his business.

When Bilbo and Isen swept into Bag End on a sudden, rogue gust of wind, there was no package sitting on the table in the hall, and Bilbo felt a shock of disappointment. He so loved surprises. It seemed likely, however, that the package had gone to a neighbour, especially as his parents said nothing as the family sat down to tea.

A variety of tea sandwiches and scones fresh and warm from the oven, it was that day, with cream and sweet butter and strawberry preserves. Something delicious was roasting slowly in the kitchen, but that was to be “for later” as Belladonna said. Between them Isen and Bilbo (and Bungo, it must be said, though his only exercise thus far that day had been moving papers around on his desk, making entries in his account-books, and writing a few letters) were able to put away an astonishing amount of food. Though Bella was unusually reserved, she did smile to see all three of her lads eating with such good appetite.

In point of fact, she got up more than once to bring out more food, and to freshen the teapot, and laughed once to hear Bungo liken them all to squirrels, putting away their winter store and fattening themselves for the cold weather to come.

‘Cold weather is to come, and sooner than later,’ she said with a little shiver, though it was pleasantly warm in the parlour, with the bright sun shining in at the windows, belying the strong wind that blew the leaves about.

At last the platters were reduced to crumbs, and only a small scraping of strawberry preserves remained, and Bungo poured out the last of the tea, distributing it evenly amongst the four cups. And then he rose from his chair, motioning to the others to keep their seats. ‘Please excuse me for a moment only,’ he said. ‘I shall return shortly, before the tea is cold in the cups.’

He left the room and was as good as his word, returning with a fair sized paper-wrapped parcel in his hands.

Bilbo punched Isen in the arm in his excitement. Erling’s special delivery had been to Bag End after all!

He was only a little disappointed when his father laid the package gently on the table before his uncle. ‘Isen,’ Bungo said. ‘This is for you.’

‘From the Great Smials?’ Isen said. ‘My mother has sent me somewhat? Not my father, surely…’

‘No,’ Bungo said, ‘no, this package is from myself, and your sister.’

‘You hardly need to send me packages through the Post,’ Isen said with a quizzical smile. ‘I am right here, and hand-to-hand seems a bit… handier… way to do things. You needn’t stand on formalities or ceremony with me, brother!’

‘It was a special commission,’ Bungo said. ‘I arranged for it, for it was not something I could manage on my own, and I thought it might be important to you, and while your hand is improving, I knew you might not be able to manage it yourself…’

‘You’re talking in riddles,’ Isen said, a frown of puzzlement creasing his brow before he smiled once more. ‘I know that you Bagginses love your riddles, but really, brother, this is…’

‘Open it? Please?’ Belladonna said. Despite the smile she wore, it was clear that she was anxious in a worried kind of way, rather than pleasant anticipation, as if she was not quite sure of Isen’s response to what ever was concealed in the wrappings.

‘Very well, sister,’ Isen said gently. He lifted his lame hand with a little grimace, using it to steady the package, and touched the paper with his good hand, looking to his sister. Of a wonder, Belladonna did not urge him to tear the paper with just as much noise and bustle as he possibly could. He pursed his lips in thought, and looked down to the paper wrappings once more. Gently, carefully, he loosened the paper (Bungo had already cut away the string that had tied it all up securely for transport) and eased it away.

Seeing what lay within, he stopped, staring, his face marked with strong emotion that Bilbo could not name. Belladonna’s eyes filled with tears that spilled over, watching her brother, and Bungo was very sober.

Bilbo found himself holding his breath for a long moment as Isen stared – it was something carved of wood, the lad could see, but what it was, he couldn’t quite tell, half-obscured as it was. Then Isen seemed to return to life from his frozen state, and pulled the rest of the paper away.

A ship, it was, tall masted though the carven sails were furled, with a number of wicks standing up from the wax-filled centre. It looked just like a ship in one of Bilbo’s picture books. He wasn’t sure how they’d come by the book; it was from Belladonna’s childhood and quite possibly of Elvish origin, with its pictures of a ship on the Sea and later sailing in the sky, a bright star shining from the Captain’s brow, and other pictures of warriors in bright armour. Bilbo found the pictures fascinating to peruse, though the writing itself was in a language he could not read, nor could (by their own admission) his mother or father.

‘I had it carved by a gaffer I know, in Bywater,’ Bungo said. ‘He’s a master at carving – I showed him a picture in a book,’ (and Bilbo was suddenly certain, which book), ‘and he was able to do the rest, though he’s never seen a ship in the life, of course.’ He drew a deep breath and let it out again. ‘I hope it wasn’t an impertinence on my part. I only wanted…’

But Isen was scarcely listening. He traced the letters carved into the side of the exquisite little ship. ‘Gull,’ he breathed, and his breathing hitched as if he were about to weep.

After a long moment, he looked up, to meet Bungo’s worried gaze. ‘Not an impertinence at all, dear brother,’ he said, and drew a shuddering breath of his own. ‘Not at all.’

‘We’ll take it – her,’ Bungo said, remembering the proper term of address for a ship, ‘down to the Water,’ he continued, ‘for the dusk will be falling soon, and the wind will still as the darkness comes down, and that would be a good thing, that the candles might not go out as she makes her way to the Sea, and beyond…’

‘Aye,’ Isen breathed. ‘It is something I would do, to remember the Captain, and the Third Mate, and the Bosun, and the rest. They’d never have let me, the Tooks,’ he said, blinking away his tears. ‘To remember how I shamed them, as I did?’

Bilbo stared from face to face in bewilderment. He was no better informed when Bungo placed a gentle hand on Isen’s hand, resting on the carven wonder, and his father said, ‘It is never a shame to follow your heart, or it ought not to be.’

Belladonna gulped back a sob, and Bungo reached his other hand to his wife, taking her hand and squeezing it gently as he smiled into her eyes. ‘Though your family made it as difficult as possible, in my case,’ he said, ‘I followed my heart as well.’

Chapter 32. Yule Preparations

Yule was fast approaching, and with it some problem to which Bilbo was not privy. Or at least, he thought there was some problem or other, for sometimes he’d wake in the night, to hear his parents whispering in their room, beside his. Isen had been given the best guest room, a little way down the hallway and away from the others, to give that hobbit more privacy now that the Bagginses no longer worried about his wandering off in the middle night, and so he likely did not hear the whispered conversations – but Bilbo did.

Not any of the words, mind, strain though he might to hear, but the conversations were serious and not playful, that much he knew, and not about Yule presents nor happy surprises. There were times when Bella’s whisper would break into a sob, and then Bungo would make comforting noises.

Clarity came at last at breakfast time, about a month before the celebration to mark the turning of the Year. Isen looked up from his bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes to say, ‘So, when do we leave for the Smials?’

Belladonna choked on her tea, and Bungo was very occupied with patting her back, murmuring his concern and encouragement.

Bilbo, who’d been wondering much the same thing – and was very glad it was Isen who’d asked, and not himself, looked from mother to father in astonishment. You’d think that their usual visit to the Great Smials to see in the New Year was something unusual, even unwelcome!

At last Belladonna seemed to have regained her ability to breathe, though she circled her cup with her hands and gazed down into its depths, as if to keep the rest of the contents at bay. Bungo calmly met the two pairs of inquisitive eyes that turned to him and said, ‘Yes. Well.’

‘Well?’ Isen said helpfully, when the silence threatened to stretch the rest of the breakfast time.

Bungo took a deep breath. That hobbit was nothing if not courageous in the face of a daunting task. ‘We’ve been talking…’ he said.

‘Talking?’ Isen prompted, when Bungo seemed to be stuck.

‘Bella and I,’ Bungo clarified. ‘We’ve been talking about… perhaps we’ll give the celebration a miss this year.’

‘Bella, are you well?’ Isen demanded immediately in alarm. ‘Is it that you’re deathly ill, and feared to tell me, lest it “set me off” or some such? I hope you know that you’re more important to me than…’

But Belladonna was protesting, even as fear stirred Bilbo to jump up and circle his mother in a hug. ‘No, no, Isengar dear, I’m well! I’m well.’

‘Then,’ Isen said, looking shrewdly from his sister to Bungo and back again. ‘Then it’s on my account, is it?’

Bungo pulled at his collar, much as he might when “facing down the dragon” or standing to speak an opinion that was not quite in full accord with that of the Tooks, the Old Took in particular. He took a deep breath and nodded at last. ‘It is,’ he said, and then he raised his eyes to meet Isen’s piercing regard. ‘It is on your account. Are you strong enough, lad, to eat the dish they’ll set before you?’

‘I think that you mean,’ said Isen, ‘am I strong enough to let Tooks be Tooks, and keep my scandalous thoughts to myself, to limit my conversation to safe topics, to allow my family to express the most outrageous of opinions… and to agree with them.’

‘O Isen!’ Belladonna reproached, but Bungo was nodding his head.

‘Yes, brother,’ he said. ‘This is not a game, where you sons of the Old Took can score points off one another with witty repartee, but deadly serious business. Your life is at stake.’

Both Bilbo and his mother gasped at this statement, but Isen regarded Bungo thoughtfully.

‘What?’ he said at last. ‘Do you think they’ll banish me, cast me over the border with a sack of food and a few coins, mark me so that the Bounders would stop me from returning?’

‘No,’ Bungo said. ‘I think they’ll lock you away, in some deep, dark place, where you can’t disturb them with your… adventurous spirit, your courage, your daring…’

‘Bungo!’ Belladonna said, aghast at all these uncomplimentary terms.

‘…to contradict them and their comfortable opinions, that they know all there is to know that’s worth knowing.’ Bungo finished.

There was a long silence.

At last Isen said quietly, ‘Is this what you think of me? That I ought to be locked away?’

Belladonna gasped, and her eyes overflowed.

Even as Bilbo hugged her tighter, he protested. ‘No!’

‘It’s not what I think that matters so much,’ Bungo said. ‘As a matter of fact, things have been quite inter—I mean, you’ve rather stirred us up, since you’ve come, brought light and life to the place, taken us out of ourselves, as it were, and given us new food for thought to be chewing over.’

‘But what you think doesn’t matter, or so you say,’ Isen pressed.

‘No, brother,’ Bungo said, his tone so serious that the three others stared at him, wordless now. ‘No, what matters is what the Tooks think – and they were this close,’ and he held his thumb and forefinger so that they nearly touched, ‘to locking you away, and who knows when or even if they’d ever have let you see the light of day once more?’

‘O Bungo,’ Belladonna breathed.

Bungo shook his head. ‘I cannot bear to contemplate such a thing,’ he said, ‘and yet I can clearly see it happening. All Isengrim has to do is convince the old hobbit that it’s what’s best for you, and for the rest of the family. Oh, he’ll couch it in terms of “helping” and “sheltering” and “healing” but I fear what the reality might be. I know him too well… better than I’d like to know him.’

‘You’re not saying…’ Belladonna said.

Bungo looked at her sadly. ‘O my love,’ he whispered. ‘I can see your family clearly, more clearly than you can, with the blinkers of love that were shaped for you to wear, growing up in the Smials amongst all those brothers and sisters, under your father’s thumb.’

‘My father is a loving…!’ Belladonna said indignantly.

‘He might well be,’ Isen interrupted. ‘But Isengrim…’ He looked from Belladonna to Bungo and nodded slowly. ‘Grim was brought up to follow our father as family head,’ he said, ‘and he’s had his own ideas, for years, about how he thinks things ought to be. He’s always felt he knew better than anybody else…’

‘And he will be the next head of the family,’ Bungo said, ‘and nobody to dispute his word, when the time comes, for he’ll be The Took, even if he’s not the Old Took, nor even a shadow of the old hobbit…’

‘And so you’re saying,’ Isen prompted, when Bungo fell silent once more.

‘And so, brother,’ Bungo said slowly, weighing each word. ‘You must be strong enough to play a dangerous game – you must convince him that he was wrong about you, that you are healed, nay, that you are not yourself!’

At the others’ quizzical looks, he forged on determinedly, ‘For if you are your delightful self, brother, he will see the potential for scandal and embarrassment to himself as head of the family, which he is anticipating with each day that passes…’

Isengar began to nod. ‘He will set everything aright, that he perceives as amiss,’ he said.

‘And so you must play at being someone completely different,’ Bungo said. ‘I know that you have the wit to do it, and the courage, but do you yet have the strength? Can you keep your temper, and control your tongue, in the face of all your loving relations?’

‘I think I can,’ Isen said.

‘One slip could undo all the good that has been done,’ Bungo warned. ‘I would not see your family destroy you, brother. I and your sister love you too much for that.’

‘Destroy him!’ Belladonna gasped. She’d been too hurt to speak until now, by Bungo’s candid slur against her father and her family, and by implication, herself. This was too much!

But Isen turned sorrowful eyes to his sister and nodded. ‘Aye, Bella,’ he said. ‘Your husband is as wise and courageous as he is kind and gentle of heart. You know very well that Grim values not the heart so much as the outward appearance. Think how it looks! and What ever will they think of us? are words I remember from my earliest days, and I’m sure that you remember such words as well—you had your share of scrapes, and some we shared together, you and I.’

‘But—‘ Belladonna said.

Isen was nodding as he spoke. ‘It would destroy me, to be locked away, never to see the Sun smiling down, or even if they did let me out to visit her upon occasion, always with hands holding my arms, to keep me from running free, or running away… and all for my own good.’ He dashed away a sudden onslaught of tears, and looked again to Bungo. ‘You have the right of it, brother, and I thank you for loving me, more than I love myself, perhaps, for I did not see the danger so clearly until this moment.’

‘Ah, lad, don’t sell yourself short,’ Bungo said. ‘You saw it clear enough, that day in the great hall, when you begged Gandalf to take you away. I knew then, looking at Isengrim’s face, that you spoke the truth, and your days of freely wandering the corridors were numbered, and once locked away, there’d be no chance… no chance at all.’

‘O Bungo!’ Belladonna sobbed, and she was up out of her chair and hugging her husband. ‘Surely I don’t deserve someone like you!’

‘Surely you don’t,’ Bungo said mildly, and his wife choked on her tears, until he added, ‘Surely you deserve much better than myself. But I fear that you are stuck with me, Bella darling, for the rest of your days.’

‘And glad of it!’ Belladonna said, laughing through her tears.

‘That calls for a toast, I should think!’ Isen said, holding up a piece of toasted bread, as his teacup was empty.

‘A toast!’ Bungo echoed, picking up his teacup in one hand and a piece of toast in the other, which he proceeded to knock against Isen’s toast each in turn. ‘To love!’

‘To love!’ the others echoed, and Bilbo seized his own piece of toast from the plate to join the lighthearted moment, knocking it against father’s and uncle’s raised offerings.

‘(And none of such nonsense, while we’re at the Smials),’ Bungo reminded.

‘I’ll eat to that!’ Isen said, and took a great bite out of his buttered toast.

For, as has been mentioned, his teacup was empty.

Chapter 33. Yuletide Journey

The plans for their Yuletide had been laid; instead of travelling across the fields, this time of year, Bungo would hire a coach, that his beloved wife might ride in comfort through the wintry rain and chill – for it had not yet snowed, nor had there been another hard freeze, since the frost faeries’ visit to grace Bilbo’s birthday. They would drive east on the Stock Road, stopping over in Frogmorton, and again at the inn by the Brandywine Bridge, then drive south along the Causeway to Stock and, after that short day’s journey, stop at the Golden Perch (for Bungo thought Isen ought to sample the beer there, made according to an old family recipe, and quite the best in the Eastfarthing, so far as Bungo was convinced). Another two days’ travel westward, with a stop overnight at the newly built Crowing Cockerel, would bring them to Tuckborough and the Great Smials. Thus it would take them a little less than a week to travel from Hobbiton to Tuckborough, a distance as the crow flies of a little more than a dozen miles.

But Bella would ride in comfort, which is what mattered most to Bungo.

Isen had a new suit of clothing for the occasion, for he’d put on weight, what with Bella’s delicious cooking along with all the good his stay at Bag End had done for his nerves. Though he was fond of walking with Bilbo each day, to take the fresh air, gone was the restless, near-constant motion that had reflected his inner disquietude. Bungo had arranged for the suit, walking with Isen to the tailor in Bywater, to have his measurements taken, all “for a surprise for my dear Bella”, and when he modelled the finished result, his sister clapped her hands in delight.

‘You look quite the gentlehobbit!’ she said. ‘Even Hildibrand at his finest couldn’t hold a candle to you!’

‘I should hope not!’ Isen said in mock alarm. ‘For he’d set my new suit of clothing afire, and then where would I be?’

‘In your birthday suit,’ Bungo said dryly, while Bilbo looked on, wide-eyed, not quite daring to laugh.

‘Bungo!’ Belladonna reproved.

Bungo and Isen exchanged glances, something like a smile passed between them, a conspiracy of males, and then Bungo said in his mildest tone, ‘Forgive me, my dear. I shouldn’t have…’

‘No, you shouldn’t!’ Bella said, aiming for the last word. Because she was looking at her husband, Isen risked a wink in Bilbo’s direction, and suddenly the tween felt as if he’d been admitted to the world of grown hobbits, or at least afforded a glance therein.

‘Bilbo,’ Belladonna said, to change the subject, ‘I want you to look through your bag, and make certain you packed enough pocket handkerchiefs for a fortnight!’

‘They have launderers at the Smials, as you know,’ Isen said, but his sister was not to be reassured.

‘One can never have too many pocket handkerchiefs,’ she said quite seriously. She was raising Bilbo to pay attention to such matters, asking him each morning at breakfast if he had a clean pocket-handkerchief on his person, and more often than not, by dint of consistent effort on his mother’s part, he did.

***

Next morning found them climbing into the coach, while the Greenhand family waved from the doorstep. ‘We’ll take good care!’ Mrs. Greenhand called. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing!’

Belladonna knew that when they arrived home, everything that could be polished would sparkle or shine, everything that could be washed would be clean, and the rugs would be thoroughly beaten, and all the dust of the Old Year would be swept out the door. Bag End would start the New Year fresh and new, and that was just the way things ought to be. (And as Bungo would pay the Greenhand family well for their effort, everyone would benefit, all round.)

The hired driver had made sure the footwarmers were filled with fresh coals, for it was one of those damp, cold winter days that chill the bones. Bungo helped his beloved up into the coach and tenderly tucked blankets around her, while Isen placed a footwarmer where it would do Belladonna the most good. Bilbo settled beside his mother and snuggled close with a shiver, and she opened the outermost blanket that she might share it with her son.

Isen, having seen his nephew’s shiver, shook another blanket from its folds and made sure Bilbo was warmly covered. ‘There you are, lad,’ he said kindly. ‘Quite as cold as the Ice Bay, or so it feels, even though there’s no ice to speak of…!’

‘Ice Bay?’ Bilbo wanted to know, and Isen laughed.

‘That’s a tale for another day,’ he said, ‘when we’re sitting by a warm fire, and not out in inclement weather, attempting to stay warm…!’

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Bungo said, seating himself without benefit of blankets, though he availed himself of one of the foot-warmers. He didn’t want to scorn the driver’s efforts, after all, and possibly hurt the fellow’s feelings.

The driver folded the step and looked in at the door. ‘Will there be anything else, sirs and missus?’

‘We’re very comfortable, thank you,’ Bungo said. ‘Drive on, there’s a good fellow!’

The driver saluted, shut the door, and fastened it.

The coach was the fanciest one could engage, with windows of real glass, that one might ride through the winter landscape in bright, light comfort, even if the sky was overcast, enjoying the scenery if they wished, or rolling down the shades if they wished to dim the interior for a nap.

With the door closed, the coach soon felt warmer, and Bilbo emerged from his blankets to stare out the windows in growing delight as they rolled along. He never tired of watching the landscape, ever the same and yet subtly changing as they travelled. The stretch of East-West Road from Bywater to Frogmorton, along the Water, was fairly flat with a gently rolling landscape to either side, through settled, well-ordered country of neat farms and small villages, some so small that they appeared on no map, simply a small cluster of buildings straddling the road. Bilbo liked to look into the windows of the buildings they passed, almost like illustrations from a book, little slices of life: a maidservant dusting a shelf of interesting-looking mathoms, a hobbit mum rolling out pastry in a kitchen, three children bent over a picture book, a milliner stitching fancy feathers to a hat, a grocer scooping peppermints into a paper twist.

Bilbo’s mouth watered at the latter, but Isen was prepared. When his nephew said, ‘Mmmm, peppermints!’ under his breath, Isen pulled a paper of the treats from his pocket and offered them around.

‘Don’t spoil your second breakfast!’ Belladonna warned, but her brother only laughed.

‘One won’t spoil!’ he said, and continued to hold out the treats until at last Belladonna relented and took one for herself.

‘Mmmm,’ she said, in spite of herself.

Second breakfast was in a hamper – sausage rolls still warm from the oven, hard-cooked eggs, sweet and crunchy salad of mixed apples, sultanas and nuts in a creamy, tangy dressing.

Elevenses was in another hamper, a cold meal, and then they would stop for a late noontide meal, a hot meal of roasted meat and vegetables and fresh-baked bread, at a place where Bungo liked to take Belladonna on occasion, for a special treat. The food was especially good, and even though Bella would fuss about going “half-way to Frogmorton!” they always enjoyed themselves immensely before driving back home to Bag End once more.

Luncheon was, of course, wonderful – a very pleasant feast, rich, abundant, varied, and prolonged. Bilbo, at the ripe old age of twenty, was allowed to eat in the Common Room with the adults for the first time, instead of having his luncheon on a tray in a private room set aside for families with children. His parents even allowed him half a glass of the fine wine that was served with the meal!

…as a result, he fell asleep, once they were back in the coach, for much of the remaining journey, blinking sleepily when the coach clattered into the yard of the inn at Frogmorton.

‘There’s a good day’s journey!’ Bungo said. ‘Only four more to go!’

Isen laughed. ‘That one was so fine, I’m half-inclined to go back to Bag End and do it over again!’

‘O let’s do!’ Bilbo said, sitting up with a yawn. ‘That was quite the finest dinner I’ve ever had!’

‘The Road goes ever on and on,’ Isen said kindly. ‘You’ll see, lad – there’ll be more fine meals in your future. Just wait and see.’

‘Are you sure?’ Bilbo said, and the adults exchanged fond smiles.

‘Very,’ came the answer, and it didn’t matter which of the adults said the word, for all were in agreement.

***

A/N: Some little turn of phrase from “A Long-Expected Party” in Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Chapter 34. A Dusting of Snow

Bilbo slept well that night, his parents not quite so well – for it seems, the older we get, the more used to our own beds we become, such that we notice somehow the strangeness of a strange bed, no matter how comfortable. Of course, Bungo had paid well for the best room in the inn, and all the comforts that could be provided. As a result, the travellers were so very snug, it was a surprise to waken to see a dusting of snow had fallen in the night.

‘Winter is upon us at last!’ Belladonna said, sitting up and pulling the bedcovers to her chin. ‘Will we be stranded here, do you think, my dears?’ She shivered. ‘Oh, now I wish we’d stopped at home!’

For though they travelled every Yuletide to the Great Smials, in varied weathers from sun to snow (driving a sleigh over the snowy fields) to pounding rain (snug inside a cosy coach, taking the safer, long way round by road), Belladonna was quite spoilt by the comforts heaped upon her by her doting husband. Though in her earlier days, she had braved hardship and discomfort, even danger (though such is not commonly spoken of in polite society), she was older now, wiser, and more steady in her ways. If the Old Took had married her off to a Baggins to settle her restless spirits, as some had whispered, well, the plan had been successful.

Belladonna was as content as a soul could be, and had settled nicely, so far as polite society was concerned.

The others quickly pulled on their clothes and gathered by the window to confer. Isen pulled at his lip as Bungo studied the dusting of snow on the ground and asked, ‘What do you think, Brother? The Road is easy enough, in this part of the country. But might it be more treacherous, when we reach the Green Hills, in the last part of our journey?’

Bilbo held his breath. The little bit of snow he saw on the ground seemed but a trifle – why, he wouldn’t even be able to gather enough from the whole courtyard of the inn for a decent snowball, to cast at a mark, or another young hobbit, say, his cousin Siggy, and certainly there wasn't enough snow to be had for Siggy to form a snowball to cast back in Bilbo's direction!

He understood that his father was giving his uncle one last chance, to turn aside from their journey, to put off visiting the Great Smials – with a plausible excuse! – for at least a little longer. But how he longed to see his best friend!

Isen pursed his lips in a thoughtful manner and stroked his chin. At last he nodded, and Bilbo’s heart sank. But then he spoke.

‘The roads are well-kept by my father, the Thain,’ he said, and nodded again. ‘And while the snows may heap themselves high atop the Green Hills, it may not be so in the valleys through which the Stock Road weaves its way. The Wood,’ – and here he meant that part of the Shire marked on maps as “The Woody End” – ‘is more or less low-lying land, at least the eastern stretch of woods, sloping gradually to the River, and so should be passible. I see only a problem there, if we should have a great storm with high winds to bring down limbs or even trees across the Road, but,’ – and here he lifted his half-crippled arm – but improving! with patient work on his part, with Bungo's help, and Belladonna's, and even Bilbo's – ‘if such a storm were on the way, I think I should know it.’

He meant a weather ache, Bilbo supposed. He’d heard his elders discuss such things – his mother had a weather ache in one of her feet, from a bone that had been broken in the distant past. (A part of him, in the far back corner of his mind, wondered… had it been on one of the “adventures” Uncle Isen had hinted at? But then his good sense reclaimed him, for he could not imagine his staid, settled mum having such a thing as an adventure.)

‘And the western part of the Wood?’ Bungo asked humbly, of his far-travelled brother in love. ‘Where the Green Hills begin, and mount nearly to the sky before you come to Tuckborough?’

‘We’ll be out of the woods well before Tuckborough,’ Isen said with a twinkle in his eye for the play on words. ‘And I think, while the snows may drift high at the top of those great hills, the valley should be clear,’ he reiterated. ‘And if it is not…’

Bilbo held his breath again, though his heart was light now, and he had complete confidence in his uncle.

‘Why,’ Isen continued, ‘we’ll send word to the Thain, and he’ll send a sleigh for us, to take us the rest of the way.’

‘Why so he will,’ Bungo said, a smile lighting his face. ‘If only to keep his dear wife happy, in gathering all of her chicks about her once more…’

‘Peep, peep!’ Isen said, in creditable imitation of a new-hatched chicken. And to Bilbo’s astonishment, Belladonna cheeped as well, and then all of the adults had a hearty laugh.

***

Please see Author's Notes in the last chapter of this story for a word about updates.

Notes on the Story:

Chapter 9. Change in the Weather
The description of Bilbo's planned Birthday Party comes straight from J.R.R. Tolkien.

Chapter 12. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158
Edited to show that the heavy rains have come fully two months early, not one. (After all, how would they get the winter wheat planted if it is scheduled to be planted during the heavy rains? Thanks to k! for continuity check.)

Overall note (4 March, 2015):

This story was predicated on the dates in the appendices. Now, you may know from Author's notes in other stories, or from conversation, that I am number-challenged. For the first months, perhaps even years, of my fanfic writing, I mistook Estella Brandybuck's age to be ten years younger than JRRT indicated in his family trees -- through a simple math error!

Thus, when well into posting this story, I found that I had made a mistake in the year of the Fell Winter. (Thanks to Dreamflower and Larner for helping me puzzle through JRRT's timeline. It was a puzzle, or maybe "muddle" is a better term, for me, but they seem to have a good grasp on how the Tale of Years works. And they seem to have a nodding acquaintance with numbers, whereas numbers and myself... well, let's just say we (numbers and I, that is) often have disagreements as to how things work.)

As originally written, the story moved smoothly between Fortinbras' journal and Bilbo's story, both winter timelines matching nicely, chapter by chapter (and it was a thing of balance and beauty). This is in a draft version of the story written all the way to the end. However, somehow I discovered I had mistaken the timing of the Fell Winter by an entire year. Naturally, my perfectionism would not allow me to just leave it alone and call it "AU" in my own mind. I have had to do quite a bit of re-writing and infilling, backtracking, in order to re-set the story properly in JRRT's timeline. Therefore, Isen moves in with the Bagginses the winter before the Fell Winter, in case you were wondering. (I realise that you probably weren't, and all this is too tiresome, and could we get on with the story, please? Believe me, I feel the same way.)

Anyhow, that's an explanation of sorts for the long delay in getting on with the story. And Fortinbras' journal entries will resume when, once more, the two stories touch at the right places on the timeline.

Thank you for bearing with me. I'm really hoping to get this story posted in full before another Long Winter threatens. Sometime this summer, perhaps, when in the middle of a heat wave, thoughts of winter's chill are actually a comfort.

Think good thoughts.