Most Beautiful
 
 

Summer 1390 SR
Sam is 10, Frodo is 21 (or 6 ½ and 13 in Man years)

“Sam? What’s wrong, lad?”

Sam turns a tear-strewn face up at the young master and holds up his dirt-covered hands. In his hands are a couple of frail seedlings, browned and without bloom, the roots still clinging to the earth that failed to give them life. Frodo looks at the flowerbed that Sam is kneeling over and notices many more such dead flowers slumped upon the ground. More have already been uprooted and tossed into the bucket at Sam’s side with the weeds and trimmings.

“They died, Frodo,” Sam explains unnecessarily and a small hiccup escapes him as he turns away and tosses the seedlings into the bucket with the rest. He picks up his trowel and sets to work removing the last seedlings, sniffling as he works.

Frodo watches him work, unsure what to say or do. He is quite fond of the lad and has been ever since he first met him four years earlier during one of his visits with Bilbo. Now that he has been living here officially since last autumn, he has come to regard Sam as a friend. It helps that Sam often forgets to add honorifics in front of his name, not yet being of the age when proper decorum at all times is demanded of him. Frodo can almost pretend that Sam’s a cousin, and he’s even been helping Bilbo teach the lad his letters, lessons he would have been giving Merry still if he hadn’t left Brandy Hall. He stifles a wistful sigh, surprised as always to realize he misses that overcrowded warren when he had been so happy to leave it, and refocuses on the issue at hand.

Sam is still pulling out the seedlings, and each one pulled from the earth seems to pierce straight through the novice gardener’s heart. Frodo is sure he understands why. This little flowerbed at the back of the smial, near the elm tree where Frodo likes to read on balmy afternoons, is the first bed Sam has been responsible for all on his own: he prepared it and planted it from start to finish, and has been caring for it by himself ever since, relying on what he has learned so far at his father’s side to see the seeds mature into full grown blooms. However, the seedlings had taken longer than usual to sprout and they have been slow to grow. In truth, they haven’t been looking very good for a while now and Sam has been visiting the bed every day for the last few weeks, vainly tending the withering seedlings. The battle, it seems, has finally been lost. Naturally, Sam will be upset that his first assignment has gone so badly but Frodo isn’t certain what to say to make the lad feel better about it. He has never seen Sam upset before.

Sam pulls out the last of the dead seedlings and, with a shuddering sigh, he dusts off his hands, stands up, drops the trowel in the bucket and takes the bucket in hand. He turns around and jumps in surprise; somehow, he had forgotten that Frodo is still there. He shifts from foot to foot and peers down in the bucket to avoid Frodo’s eyes. However, staring at the evidence of his failure doesn’t appease Sam in the slightest and fat tears pour from his eyes as his crying begins anew.

Frodo looks around the garden in desperation, hoping for some sign of Hamfast. Not finding him, Frodo kneels in front of the lad and gently takes the bucket from his small hands.

“Sam, don’t feel bad about it,” Frodo soothes. “It will be all right.”

“But they’re dead!” the lad cries, his doleful brown eyes spilling over.

Frodo gathers Sam to him for a hug and pats the lad on the back as Sam keeps crying silently into his shoulder. Not knowing what else to do, Frodo begins to babble. “You know, the first time I got to ride a pony on my own, I was thrown off the pony’s back onto the ground. I sprained my ankle and couldn’t walk for a week. I thought I knew what I was doing because I had ridden plenty of ponies with the trainers and with Saradoc and Esme. But you know what happened? We startled a rabbit from its hiding spot under some brush. It darted out across the lane, spooked the pony, and instead of keeping calm and regaining control, I got scared too. When I got scared, the pony became even more scared, and it threw me. I couldn’t have known about keeping calm and regaining control though, because this situation simply never came up before. I had to learn the hard way about how to soothe a spooked pony.”

“You sprained your ankle?” Sam asks, pulling back to look at Frodo in concern. “Did it hurt?”

“Not so much as landing on my bum from a four-foot drop did,” Frodo says and grins. To his relief, Sam offers a small smile in return. “We learn as we go, Sam-lad, and sometimes things come up that no one taught us.”

“But Gaffy taught me everything he knows about gardening,” Sam protests, defending his father stoutly.

“I’m sure he’s taught you a lot of what he knows, but I doubt he’s taught you everything,” Frodo replies gently. “Everything will take years, Sammy, and sometimes, lessons don’t get taught until they’re needed to be taught. I think that’s what your father is doing here. He’s trying to see what you’re good at and where you still need some lessons.”

“I need lessons everywhere,” Sam says, frowning. “I couldn’t save a single one of ‘em.”

“Well, these are the seeds Bilbo got from those dwarves, aren’t they? Your father did say they were a breed of lilies that he’s never tried to grow before,” Frodo reminds the lad. “With all due respect to your father, I don’t think he should have made you responsible for them.”

“But he did make me responsible,” Sam says, tears brimming again. “I did everything you’re supposed to be doing with lilies but none of it worked right. And Mr. Bilbo said as they were going to be the most beautiful flowers ever to bloom in the Shire, and now it’s come to naught. They’ll never bloom here now.”

“Do you have more seeds?” Frodo asks delicately, afraid of the answer. Sam’s lower lip begins to quiver and Frodo nods his understanding. Sam had used all the seeds in this one bed and none of them had taken hold.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Sam says miserably. “They were supposed to be the most beautiful lilies, and I wanted to grow them here so’s you could enjoy ‘em while you’re reading and whatnot, but now all’s you got to look at is dirt, and there’s no more seeds, and now Mr. Bilbo’s money has gone to waste and it’s all my fault. I’m a bad gardener.”

“That’s quite enough, Sam,” Frodo admonishes firmly, causing Sam to step back in alarm. He looks up at Frodo with apprehension, and Frodo immediately softens his expression and tone. “I won’t have you berating yourself. You’re not a bad gardener. You’re a very good gardener, but you’re still just learning. It’s certainly not your fault that Bilbo bought so few seeds. He should have known it might take more than one attempt before you could discover what soil they prefer and how much light or shade they need. Lilies they might be, but if they’re from the dwarves, they might require special conditions that our normal Shire lilies don’t require. We’ll tell him to get more seeds next time, and then you can plant them all over the garden and see where they grow best. It will be an experiment of sorts.”

“Experiment?” Sam says, repeating the unfamiliar word.

Frodo nods. “That’s when you try something to see what will happen. If you don’t get the results you want, you try again but you change something to see if you can get a different result. Haven’t you ever made up your own receipt when cooking?”

“May has,” Sam says, wrinkling his nose. “They’re not always very good, but after a couple more times, they start tasting better.”

“See there! That’s the same with gardening,” Frodo says. “The lilies obviously didn’t like something about this flowerbed. It could be the soil, or the shading. Maybe there’s too many pests gnawing on the roots, it being so close to the tree and all. Or maybe, if they are the most beautiful lilies in the world, they weren’t meant to be hidden away where only a few of us can enjoy them. Maybe they would rather have been planted along the gate so that everyone passing by can enjoy them too.”

“You think so?” Sam asks.

“I bet you that’s it,” Frodo says with finality. “And now you’ll know for next time. Divide the seeds up and plant them in different soils and different shadings and different locations. Then we'll know where they like to grow.”

“But,” Sam says and bites on his bottom lip uncertainly. He’s no longer crying and his eyes have cleared up, though he will need to blow his nose before Frodo can allow him to go on his way. Sam shifts uncomfortably again and looks pleadingly at Frodo. “But, I planted them here for you. Now there won’t be naught for you to be looking at.”

Frodo looks at the empty flowerbed and tries to remember what had been planted there last year. Sam will have a greater chance of success at plants that have already proven well-suited for the soil. “I’m rather fond of peony,” he says. “Some bearded iris and mullein wouldn’t go amiss either. They may not be Dwarven lilies, but so far as I’m concerned, anything you plant here will make it the most beautiful garden in all of Middle-earth.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What if I miss up again?” Sam asks.

“You won’t miss up,” Frodo assures. “If you do have a question or concern, tell your father and get his help. Part of being responsible for something is asking for help when you need it. You’ll have to ask for help a lot to start, but after a while, you’ll find you need it less and less. It’s all part of learning.”

“Like with my letters,” Sam says, grinning at last. “I can read lots of words by myself now.”

Frodo beams at the lad. “Yes, you can, and that’s how I know you can do this too.”

Just then, Hamfast appears behind Frodo in the distance. He goes into the shed and starts shuffling things about as he looks for some garden tool or other in the cluttered outbuilding. Sam’s face falls once again and he frowns at Frodo. “How do I tell Gaffy I failed with the lilies?” he asks.

“You go right up to him, tell him you tried your best and you want to try again,” Frodo says. “He won’t be disappointed in you Sammy. If anything, he’ll be proud that you want to keep on trying.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Sam nods and throws his little arms around Frodo’s neck. “Thanks, Frodo.”

“You’re welcome, lad,” Frodo says and pats his back again. He takes a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and holds it under Sam’s nose. Sam hesitates for only a moment before blowing. Then Frodo wipes away the tear tracks on his face. When Sam is presentable again, Frodo sends him on his way.

He watches from his spot under the elm tree as Sam timidly approaches the shed, stopping to stand outside it, the bucket held in the circle of his arms. Hamfast comes out and peers down at the contents of the bucket as Sam bravely puffs out his chest and announces that the lilies are dead and he wants to plant peonies next. Hamfast scratches his chin as he looks from the bucket to his son and back again. Frodo holds his breath, as he knows Sam must be doing also, and they both sigh with relief when Hamfast nods and says, “All right then. Go toss that on the compost heap and I’ll tell Mr. Bilbo we’ll be needing some potted perennials for planting. ‘Tis too late in the season to be sowing seeds.”

Then Hamfast reaches down and pats his son’s head, ruffling the curls. Frodo knows this is his way of showing approval, and this is all the reassurance that Sam needs. Sam spins on his feet and darts off to the compost heap, beaming as bright as the sun, as Hamfast goes back into the shed, mumbling something about trying to grow outlandish Dwarven lilies in the Shire.

A month later, the little flowerbed under the elm tree is thriving with peonies, bearded iris and mulleins. Sam tends the flowerbed all by himself, with the occasional question directed at his father, and Frodo finds that his guess had been correct: it’s the most beautiful little garden he has ever seen.

GF 8/13/07