Chapter Two - A Story for Pippin

Bilbo sat upon his favorite chair in his study while sketching out on a piece of paper an outline for his next entry into the Red Book. He was now pressed for time as the plans he had formulated in his mind were now beginning to take shape. He had much to write and much to do, and the time in which to do it all was dwindling. He decided to wait a bit more before letting the wizard in on the plan, but a plan it was nonetheless.

Things had calmed down some in the last two days. He tried to keep Merry and Pippin busy with light chores around the Smial to help keep their minds off of Paladin, but it was becoming more and more difficult. At the request of Bilbo, the Gaffer sent Sam over to Bag End to help Frodo entertain his young guests. It was the middle winter, and not much else was happening when it came to gardening.

Bilbo smiled to himself, listening to the banter and laughter that drifted in from the sitting room down the hallway. Earlier this afternoon it was a round of checkers, then followed by the telling of some outlandish stories (the sillier, the better), and now it was a game of marbles--something tailored more to the youngest member of the group. Bilbo was quite absorbed into writing his notes when the laughter suddenly became a low murmur. The older lads quickly tired of marbles--particularly when young Pippin kept trying to make up new rules as they went along.

“Hullo.”

Bilbo startled at the high-pitched voice. He looked about him to find a young boy standing in the doorway. “Hullo, Pippin,” he replied, quickly covering the paper he was writing on.

“What are you writing? May I see it?” Pippin stepped up to the desk for a better look.

Bilbo continued to hold down the covered paper. “Now lad, this is not for your eyes--in fact, it is not fit for anyone’s eyes just yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is private; like a lass’s diary.”

“Oh.” Pippin put his hands in his pockets, gazing round the dusty room.

He looked at Pippin, “Why aren’t you with the other lads?”

“They all got angry because I’m better at marbles than they are,” he said, bouncing his lucky shooter in his hand. “Now they’re talking about lasses.” He said the last part with much distaste.

Bilbo hid his smirk, “Don’t you like lasses?”

Pippin was wandering around the room looking at various objects. He picked up an old umbrella and was whirling it in the air as his imaginary sword. “No,” Pippin said in a firm tone. “My sister, Pervinca, is all right sometimes--for a lass. She’s staying with our auntie Violet.”

Bilbo tried to keep pace with the child and also his writing; mostly so the child would not injure himself with his ‘toys’. “Where are your other sisters? Did your mother not send them away also?”

Pippin put the umbrella back in the rack. The music box with the glass ball on the bookshelf now received his attention. “Pearl got to stay behind and help, and so did Pim,” he replied, “but only because she made a fuss at breakfast.” He turned the glass orb upside down to make the snowflakes fall to the bottom. “When Pervinca and I tried to make a fuss before we left, all we got was a swat on the bum and told to mind our manners.” He turned it upright and smiled as the flakes floated back to the bottom of the little house inside the ball, then he turned the key one round and set it back on the shelf. “I wish I got to stay behind.”

Bilbo looked up to see the lad gazing at the various books on the shelf. “Why not read a book? There are plenty in here and in the library.”

Pippin came back round to the desk and watched Bilbo carefully writing in his spidery script. “I tried reading this morning,” Pippin answered, “but my mind wouldn’t stay with the book.”

The old hobbit took the near finished outline and placed it between two leaves of his engagement tablet that sat off to the side. He gave Pippin his undivided attention, “Well, where in the Shire did you let it wander off to?”

Pippin shrugged, looking at his feet. He let his toes dig into pages of a thick book lying at his feet. “My papa.”

That was enough for old Bilbo. “Come along, laddie,” he said, taking the boy by the hand and found a seat in a soft leather chair near the window. He sat down and then brought Pippin onto his lap. “What kind of story do you want to hear?”

Pippin’s spirits lifted a couple notches; he smiled. “You’re going to tell me a story?”

“I asked you what kind you wanted to hear, didn’t I?”

“I want to hear all of them!” Pippin was smiling wide now.

The elder hobbit winked, “Let us choose only one for this evening, is that all right with you?”

Pippin nodded in agreement. He leaned against Bilbo and settled in for a long story. “My papa tells me lots of stories,“ said Pippin wistfully. He would lay aside the depressing thoughts of his father for a while and enter Bilbo’s world of adventure. A sad smile appeared briefly, “I want to hear about...” he paused a long minute, “Smaug the Dragon!”

(**Some Spoilers in this paragraph if you haven’t read The Hobbit**)

Bilbo smiled wide; dealing with Smaug was one of his favorite parts of his journey. He began with how he stole the heavy two-handled cup, and then the ensuing argument with the dwarves about how they were to remove the dragon’s horde. He carefully left out the element of the magic ring, but went into full account of his riddling talk with old Smaug. Bilbo laughed at the memory, “I saw as plain as day the large patch near his left breast, but then I got full of myself--never laugh at live dragons, my boy!” He watched Pippin smile; his green eyes were shining as Bilbo’s embellished but true story unfolded more. “...and I barely escaped with my skin still attached!” He chuckled, “all because I was Belladonna Took’s son!”

Pippin nestled closer to Bilbo. He could hear the beating of the old hobbit’s heart as his head rested upon his chest. His fingers were tracing the elaborate patterns of the brocaded fabric of Bilbo’s vest as he spoke, “Do you like your Took side?”

Bilbo let out a long breath when he responded, “I do now, but back then, having an adventure was the last thing on this Baggins’ mind.”

“I like your Took side.“ Pippin took Bilbo’s hand and flexed out the fingers, placing his small hand against the grown-up’s larger hand. “I want to go on an adventure someday.”

“Really? And where would you go?” Bilbo enclosed his hands over Pippin’s; trying to keep the boy from fidgeting.

“I heard Isengar went to sea when he was a lad. I think I’ll start there--going to sea, I mean.”

“That sounds like a splendid idea,” said Bilbo. “but you must grow up first. Little laddies cannot go on adventures until they’re all grown up--they’re mummies and daddies would miss them terribly.”

Pippin grew uncomfortably quiet. “Bilbo?”

“Yes, lad?”

Pippin looked up, “Do you think my papa misses me--even though he’s very sick?”

“I am most certain he does. I know I would.”

Then Pippin again rested his head against the old hobbit. He had been trying to be the brave lad his mother told him to be before he and Merry left for Hobbiton, but he didn‘t feel very brave right now as he blinked back his tears. He swallowed a rising sob; his voice trembled when he asked, “Will my papa die?”

Bilbo was struck speechless. He couldn’t say yes--it was an outright lie--many folks survived the Sickness. Yet he couldn’t say no, either, and risk lifting up the boy’s spirits only to watch his father perish; because for as many whom survived the illness, the same amount died--though mostly the very old and the very young. But before Bilbo could make any type of answer to him, Pippin already had his hand over his eyes, quietly sobbing. “Shhhh, now lad.” He drew the child closer into a soothing embrace.

Bilbo sat for a long while with Pippin until the boy was finished weeping for his father and had fallen asleep in his arms. He carried the child over to the couch nearby, gently lying him down and covering him with a lap quilt that was spread across the back. While he was sitting with the despairing boy, another plan was forming in his head. Taking a lead stick, a slip of blank paper, and an envelope from his desk, he padded out to the parlor where the other lads sat about and chatted.

“Where’s Pippin?” Merry looked around the parlor, and then towards Bilbo, “I thought he was with you.”

“He was. Now he’s sleeping on the couch in my study.” Bilbo was leaning over the tea table, scribbling letters on the piece of paper.

Frodo watched Bilbo with great interest, “What are you writing?”

“I am writing a note to Mistress Eglantine Took.” He finished off the note with his signature, then started writing on the envelope, “I am asking for news of her husband. Perhaps one of her daughters will be able to respond to this note.”

Frodo glanced at his young cousin sitting across from him near the hearth. Merry returned his gaze with a surprised one of his own.

“But we won’t receive a reply for at least a day after,” said Frodo.

“It may be sooner than that,” Bilbo answered, taking a small candle and letting several drops of wax fall to seal the envelope. As it solidified he pressed it with his thumb and wrote his initials in it with the lead stick. “I am sending you lads to the Market tomorrow to find a courier who will accept the task of delivering it. He is to hire a pony, if he doesn’t already have one,” Bilbo dropped five silver pennies onto the table, “then ride to Tuckborough to deliver the note.”

Merry’s eyes lit up as he watched the discourse between the old hobbit and his heir. So far, no letters or courier notes had arrived from Tuckborough; Bilbo was actually sending for news of his uncle!

Bilbo laid the envelope under a crystal paperweight, “The Market is closed down for supper now, but I want you lads to leave immediately after first breakfast tomorrow.”