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A Tale That Grew in the Telling  by GamgeeFest

Chapter 3 - Market Day

21 Rethe

“Sam! Get up lad and help your sister in the kitchen!”

Sam rolled over and instantly jumped out of his bed, awake immediately, so surprised he was to hear his father shouting the wake-up call instead of May.  

‘Might as well get used to it though,’ he thought as he stretched and yawned. May would be gone after a few more months and it would be just the three of them, Sam, Marigold and the Gaffer, to keep each other company. Sam doubted Marigold would be working up the nerve to wake him up in the mornings anytime soon, which meant his father would be doing it from now on. Which meant Sam would have to learn to wake up on his own.

A few minutes later, Sam entered the kitchen to find only his little sister there preparing breakfast, so absorbed in her task she didn’t hear him come in. He snuck up behind her and grabbed her for a tickle, but she tensed and shied away from him, moving about the kitchen with quick and abrupt movements.

“You’re moody this morning, Goldie,” Sam observed. He settled in to help and added the onions to the frying pan with the already sizzling sausages. When his sister didn’t reply, he tried a different approach. “Where’s May?”

“May went to Jasmine’s, and from there she and the lasses are going into town to see to the dresses and whatnot,” Marigold said, slamming the oven door closed, ignoring their father’s shouted warning from the parlor to keep the racket down.

Sam was beginning to think he saw the problem. “And she didn’t want you along?”

“No, because I don’t understand about wedding dresses. I’m too young and try to be too fancy, and I’ll just wear whatever she decides on and be happy with it,” Marigold fumed and sat at the table, arms crossed.

“Well,” Sam said slowly, “you can’t really be angry at her for wanting the advice of her friends who’re already married.”

“I know,” she pouted. She got up as the onions began to sizzle and stirred them absent-mindedly.

Sam waited. He knew that May’s leaving was hard on his sister, but he had never seen her get this upset over it before. He suspected there was something more behind her mood than a simple disagreement over dresses. Sure enough, after stirring the food, she said into her bowl of eggs, “But it’s market day and we need more grain.”

“Ah, so that’s the problem then is it?” Sam asked, adding the bell peppers to the pan and seasoning the mix with salt and pepper. “Why didn’t you just say so? I’ll go into town with you, and I’ll get the grain myself. I don’t want Ted so much as looking at you if it can be helped.”

Ted Sandyman was an all right fellow when it was just him and the lads. Even Sam could tolerate his presence without any problems, but Ted tended to overdo it when a lass came by. Sam had warned him off his sisters before, but the young miller thought that if the gardener wasn’t around, then there was no harm in teasing. While May would quickly quell his vulgar nature and put him in his place, Marigold was still too timid and unsure of herself to send him off effectively.

Marigold paused in her work when she heard Sam’s offer, a look of relief showing on her fair face. “But, what about Bag End? You shouldn’t slack any more than you have Sam. You’ll get into trouble.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to look hurt. “I haven’t been slacking. I get up there late; I leave late. I wouldn’t never cheat Mr. Frodo out of any time that he’s paid for and you know it. Besides,” he said, gentler now to ease his sister’s worry, “Mr. Frodo did say he wanted me to get out and enjoy myself a bit while he’s away, and I do ought to listen, don’t you think?”

Marigold smiled, turned back to her eggs and added a splash of milk. “Thank you Sam. And I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t ever do wrong by Mr. Frodo’s garden,” she said, her mouth quirking slightly. She knew her brother had been defending his service to his master and not the garden, but she simply couldn’t resist the tease.

Sam laughed. “Is that so? I think you deserve a reward for that sauce,” he said, his hands raised, fingers wiggling threateningly.

The attack didn’t last long however before Hamfast entered the kitchen and asked why he wasn’t eating yet. His two youngest stopped their play and got to work preparing the rest of the meal, with only the occasional sideways glance and spasm of giggles.  


When breakfast was over and the dishes put away, the two siblings gathered what they needed and headed into market.

Not wanting to use more of Sam’s advanced pay than was necessary, Hamfast had Sam go next door to borrow old Daddy Twofoot’s cart and pony to take some bags of winter potatoes into market. Hamfast was the recognized authority on potatoes in Hobbiton and Bywater, and his taters always sold at a premium price, so rarely did he find need to sell them.

The drive to market was not long, but if it was slow it was only because Sam drove the pony kindly and took his time to admire the flowers that were blooming dazzlingly in the fields and gardens. There were violets and forget-me-nots, snapdragons and irises, daffodils and lilies, daisies and petunias, poppies and roses. Even the Party Tree was in bloom, showing off its delicate white and pink blossoms for all to see. Sam delighted in it all, soaking in the array of color as though he could live off that alone.

Marigold smiled to see her brother so enthralled. ‘He truly is a gardener,’ she thought proudly.

They reached market at the height of business and soon a crowd of eager shoppers was surrounding the cart. They had brought only as many bags as they could spare and those were quickly sold, to the disappointment of many. Sam added these earnings to the money he had brought with him and counted it out as Marigold ticked off on her fingers everything they needed: grain for bread, barely for their father’s ale-brewing, yeast for both, plus milk, eggs, cheeses, various meats, flour, sugar, candles, oil and more of their father’s arthritis ointment. Sam kept what he would need for the grain and handed the rest to his sister.

“We’re going to be stretching it thin,” Marigold said. “I may have to offer the healer laundry services again to get Dad’s ointment.”

“Do what you got to,” Sam said. “I’ll catch you up as soon as I’m finished.”

Marigold nodded in agreement. She pocketed the purse and went in search of the items they needed. She was soon lost to the crowd. Sam turned and made his own way through the various booths and tables to Farmer Goodheart’s stall.

The farmers were selling their excess winter stores to make way for the new grain now being sowed. Last year’s harvest had been plentiful and there was much grain left to be had, but even those stores were slowly beginning to run low as the time of the first harvest approached. Sam would have some haggling to do to get what he needed with what he had.

The miller and his son could often be found here as well, hanging about the farmers’ stalls under the guise of procuring their own business, but mostly they sat and traded – or more often than not started – the local gossip. In fact, they dawdled around the booths so much that it could often be heard that the miller had two occupations: grain and gossip.

Yet neither miller nor son could be seen this morning as Sam approached his destination. He wondered at this but said nothing. Business came first. He found Farmer Goodheart in a happy mood and was able to bring him down to a fair price on the required items. He even had some coins left over. He pocketed this and used the farmer’s wheelbarrow to haul his purchases back to the cart.

After the bags were packed away, he returned the wheelbarrow. Then, looking around the tables once more, he asked, “Where’re Sandyman this morning? Never knew neither of them to miss a market day.”

“Aye,” the farmer said. “‘Tis strange indeed. But I heard it from the baker that there was news come up from the Southfarthing about some trouble or such with Mr. Sackville-Baggins, and the two of them took off at all haste.”

“Must of been this morning,” Sam guessed. “Ted was at the Dragon last night and didn’t seem bothered none.”

“Aye,” the farmer confirmed. “It came up this morning. They rode off while it was still dark.”

“Any word on what the trouble was?” Sam asked, concerned. He never knew anything that could get either Sandyman out of doors before the sun rose.

Farmer Goodheart shook his head. “I surely don’t know, Sam, just that there’s some trouble or whatnot. Methinks it’s got somewhat to do with Mr. Otho’s newly acquired leaf fields, as that’s why he went down there in the first place – to see to their planting.”

“Well, I hope it’s nothing too serious,” Sam said. He didn’t like the sound of this news and remembered with a start Ted’s tale from the previous night. What if Mr. Otho had encountered one of the Big Folk as well? Big Folk in the Shire causing trouble was not a pleasant thought for the young gardener. He expressed his concern to the farmer.

“Oh, don’t think on anything Ted says none. He’s always boasting, you know that as good as any,” Farmer Goodheart said with a wave of his hand. “The trouble’s of a natural sort no doubt. It would be a shame if it was serious though,” he said. “When there’s leaf involved,” he added wryly, meaning he held no concern for Mr. Otho himself.

Sam thanked the farmer for the news, then went in search of his sister, hoping to catch her before she made it to the healer’s. They could use the extra money Sam managed to save for their father’s medicine, which would free his sister’s time to work for paying customers. He bumped into her as she was coming out of the fabric shop.

“Did we need cloth also?” he asked, now concerned that they hadn’t brought near enough coin.

“No,” Marigold answered sheepishly. “I was just getting a peek at what May picked out.”

“What’s left that we need?” Sam asked. They split up the rest of the shopping and separated once more.

An hour later, Sam placed his overstuffed shopping basket in the cart and settled in the coach’s seat to wait for his sister. He spoke casually with the other shoppers while he waited and tried to find out if any of them knew anything about the news Sandyman had received. He had no luck getting new information though, until his sister returned and they were on their way back home.

He told Marigold what the farmer had told him. Marigold nodded in agreement. She had heard the same news as well, and she had also heard that the messenger sent to fetch the miller had knocked upon the wrong door first and awoken the Widow Burrows. His news had apparently been too urgent to bother with the widow’s ranting chatter. He had hastily pressed her for directions then promptly left, with no more than an “I’m sorry for waking ye” thrown over his shoulder as he jumped upon his pony and dashed off up the road. Less than an hour later, the same messenger, now accompanied by Sandyman and his son, went thundering by in the same direction from which the messenger had come.

Brother and sister rode in silence after this, each wondering what it could all mean. Then Sam asked about the fabric May had picked. Marigold wrinkled her nose and told her brother about the horror their sister had picked out for the Best Maid dresses. “Fuchsia!” she complained. “And she said I didn’t know anything about dresses!”  


The rest of the day passed quickly for Sam. Too quick. He would have to double his work tomorrow to make up for what he didn’t get done today.

After they returned from market and Sam returned the cart, he made luncheon while Marigold put everything away. After a laid back meal, he headed up the hill to get to work. Half the day was gone and while he knew he wouldn’t get in trouble for it, he felt guilty for taking so much time away from work. He was grateful now that he had taken the time the night before to water the garden, but the rest of the plants still needed watering. He also had to plant a row of ferns along the path leading up to Mr. Frodo’s reading bench under the elm tree.

He managed to get these two tasks completed. He also picked some berries from the laden bushes to make preserves for Mr. Frodo when he returned, and maybe a loaf of that blackberry sweet bread with frosting his master liked so much. Mr. Frodo said he’d be back in time for Sam’s birthday party. Sam could make him a loaf for his present.  

‘Wonder what he’s up to now?’ Sam thought, looking wistfully over at the silent and darkened smial. ‘Probably eating a fine supper in that grand dining hall he’s always talking about.

Normally, Mr. Frodo would just be sitting down to a supper of his own making, and Sam would be going inside the cozy smial to ask his master if there was anything else he needed to do before retiring for the night. Most often than not, Frodo would send Sam home, insisting that his young employee had already done enough. There were times though when he would invite Sam to sit and enjoy a snack before going home to supper, or to sit for a smoke and talk out by the front door as they looked down upon the Party Field. But now the sun was setting and the glow of fires that would usually be burning inside at this time of day was absent, leaving Bag End with an oddly abandoned feel.

Sam sighed deeply, missing his master’s calming presence. Sam couldn’t quite explain it, this feeling he had for as long as he could remember, that as long as Mr. Frodo was around everything would be perfect. Mr. Frodo just seemed to, what was the word… fit into Bag End, but it was more than that. It was the way his master would bring him a glass of ice cold water on hot summer days, the way he would roll up his sleeves after a heavy rain to help set the garden to rights, the way he could sit for hours on his bench and read to Sam while the younger hobbit labored in the garden or joined in with one of Sam’s silly made-up songs as if they were the most elegant Elven poetry. It was the way he laughed at even the slightest of jokes and delights, his clear ringing laughter filling the garden with such joy, Sam could swear the plants leaned in to hear it the better.

“It just ain’t the same,” the gardener muttered to the blueberry bush he was plucking, unable to articulate his thoughts anymore than that. “He belongs here, is all.”

Yet his master never seemed content to just stay here. He was always going off on long trips or hikes, sometimes with his friends, but more often than not by himself. To gather news about Gandalf, he always claimed, for he was worried that the old wizard hadn’t visited in so long. Yet Sam knew, though Mr. Frodo never said and he never asked, that it was really news of Mr. Bilbo he would go in search of. It broke Sam’s heart each time his master returned home with no news to comfort him. Each passing year, the worry weighed upon his master’s shoulders more than the last, and his trips became more frequent.

Not for the first time, Sam wondered what it would be like to accompany Mr. Frodo on one of his longer treks instead of the occasional one-day hike to Three Farthing Stone, the Green Hills, or some other such place. He wondered what it would be like to camp out under the stars, with nothing but bare green fields surrounding them as far as the eye could see, staying up late into the night to listen to his master’s many stories. Yet no sooner did the thought enter his head than he pushed it out again. No, he knew he could never stray so far from home. ‘Not for any money,’ he told himself for what seemed the millionth time.

“Not for any money,” he said now aloud, as if trying to convince himself once and for all. “But maybe…” he whispered a moment later as he watched the sun sink at last below the horizon, bathing Bag End in soothing pink and amber hues. “Maybe…” he muttered again. Then letting the thought drop before it could even form, he picked up his basket of berries and went home to supper.

 
 
 

To be continued…





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