Chapter 6 - Tempest

24 Rethe

The lightning lasted through half the night, the last flash striking the sky as the clocks struck three. The heavy downpour continued on into the morning with no signs of letting up and the occasional rumble of thunder could still be heard as folk sat down to second breakfast.

Sam braved the storm to go up the Hill to Bag End the moment he woke. He wouldn’t be getting any work done today, but he wanted to check the door and make certain it hadn’t swung open again. He didn’t trust its odd behavior and he regretted that his plans to go into town today and fetch the locksmith would have to be put on hold.

He found the round green door sealed shut and, to his continuing bewilderment, once again locked. The handle wouldn’t budge an inch. Shaking his head at the mystery, he carefully made his way through the garden to the back door and checked that as well, then the windows that dotted the west side of the smial. Satisfied that all was sound, he quickly surveyed the gardens.

The ground was waterlogged and thick muddy puddles took over half the garden. Sam sighed, disheartened at the sight. If the rain didn’t stop soon, there would be no garden left. Already the flowerbeds he had lain down just a week ago were flooded over. He would have to replant those and many others. Knowing there was nothing he could do against the unrelenting torrent, Sam begrudgingly left the garden and returned home to wait out the storm.

May met him at the door. Within seconds, his raincoat was removed and replaced by a thick wool blanket. She placed a steaming mug of cider into his icy cold hands and led him to the parlor where a fire roared in the hearth. She ordered her brother to stay put as she went to the kitchen to fetch him first breakfast, only it was Marigold who brought out the tray. She placed it on the table next to the hearth, swatting away her brother’s hands and feeding him a couple of spoons of steaming oatmeal.

“Just you keep your hands nice and warm inside that blanket Samwise Gamgee,” she ordered and fed him another bite.

“Where’s May?” Sam asked between bites. “How’s Gaffer?”

“Not well. Storm’s not doing him any favors. He’s lying in bed. May’s tending to him, so don’t you even think of getting up,” Marigold finished when she noticed her brother getting ready to rise. “How’s it looking out there?”

“Ugly,” he answered only to get cut off as Marigold placed another spoonful in his mouth. He swallowed, annoyed. “Now, really Goldie, I can feed myself.”

Marigold smiled and lifted another spoon to his lips. “I know that,” she said, “but then I’d have to go back to work and I want to hear how supper went yestereve.”

So Sam told his sister about supper and all that happened, from the meal they ate to what everyone was wearing as best he could remember. She beamed when he mentioned the dress Rosie had worn and how much he liked it. Turns out, Rosie had come over to talk about more than wedding dresses the other day. The girls had spent the good part of their visit planning the supper and deciding what Rosie should wear. Marigold suggested the two or three dresses she knew made Sam drool.

“You told her I drool? Goldie!” Sam admonished.

“Well you do.”

“You know I don’t. That’s plain not true.”

“If you say so, brother,” Marigold conceded. “So then what happened?”

He then related all the news discussed at supper, trying in vain to skim over what he and Rosie had talked about by the river, but Marigold got it out of him in the end. “You know she’s going to tell me anyway,” she reasoned.

By the time they reached the bottom of the bowl, May had joined them with her needlework as she took a break to hear about her brother’s evening. May noted the sparkle in his eyes as he talked about Old Cotton’s only daughter. She smiled, knowing exactly how he felt and wondering how long it would take him to propose to Rosie once she came of age. Not long was her guess.

When Sam finished his recount of supper, he insisted on helping with the household chores. They set to work in the kitchen, which doubled as a wash room when need called for it and gossiped as they sewed, ironed and folded clothes for themselves and their customers.  

The rain finally subsided to a steady shower after luncheon. Hamfast came out from his room, hobbling painfully but tired of being in bed. He came into the kitchen and his children smiled to see him up, May and Marigold with full grins, Sam with an uncertain smile. He had not seen his son since their talk last night and he was just as uncertain as Sam was about what would happen next between them. He sat down carefully in his chair and opened the oven door to toss a few more logs onto the dying embers. He poked the flames to life, then sat with his back to the fire to keep himself warm as he watched his children work and chat.

He remembered back to a time when all six of them were still young and at home and how they used to crowd into the kitchen to help prepare meals. They would stand around the table or stove, each with their own task, the older ones chopping vegetables or minding the pots and pans, the younger ones beating, whipping or stirring things around in bowls – and sneaking a chopped carrot or two when they thought no one was watching. He thought back even further, to when Bell was still with them and how gracefully she would supervise her children, cleaning up messes even as Sam, just a baby upon her hip, would reach out and spill a bag of flour or tip a bowl of eggs in his efforts to help.

Sam.

Hamfast’s thoughts returned to the present as he watched his youngest son expertly folding sheet after sheet as he laughed with his sisters. What was he going to do about Sam?

He loved his son and no mistake. The lad had many fine qualities that gained him the respect of all in Hobbiton and Bywater, and Hamfast beamed with pride whenever someone mentioned what a fine job he was doing as gardener of Bag End. ‘Sam was born with his hands in the dirt,’ he often liked to say. He had always known Sam would one day take his place and the lad had proven himself more than worthy for the job at a young age, just barely into his tweens. At a time when most lads and lasses were getting into mischief, his son had taken on full employment in a prime occupation, for the kindest and most respected hobbit in Hobbiton, no matter how much people may have called Mr. Bilbo ‘mad.’

Hamfast secretly admired his son’s natural curiosity. Or ‘unnatural’ as others would call it. It was another trait he had received from his mother, though she had been better at hiding it than he was. Most often he put it to practical use, to find new ways to improve the garden or navigate through the local gossip to come up with the truth. But there were times when that same curiosity caused Sam to do silly things, and it would get him into trouble one of these days, or his name wasn’t Gamgee.

When Sam was just a little lad, the Gaffer had drilled into him the importance of keeping his proper place and not harassing his betters by asking too many questions. But then Mr. Bilbo would invite him inside for sweets and Elvish tales, or young Master Frodo would insist on helping in the garden or propose that Sam learn to read and write. Young Sam would forget everything his father told him about ‘proper place’ and ‘not speaking out of turn’ and would start yammering away with his masters about dragons and elves and hidden gold.

It was a constant struggle as Sam was growing up, but he gradually learned his lesson. By his teens he had learned to always address them by their titles and keep his questions to himself, though he still tended to lapse into yammering when he became excited about something. By the time he had taken over the garden, he had learned to conduct himself properly and professionally at all times, and it showed in the ever-blooming flowers and neatly-trimmed shrubs. Hamfast rested happily, knowing he no longer had to worry about his son not keeping in his place and he hadn’t worried for many years.

But now Sam had done the unthinkable: entered Bag End without leave, while his master was away no less, and went through it top to bottom like he owned the place. Hamfast sighed and pulled out his pipe. What was he going to do?

He tried to think of what Bell would do, but they had never had this problem with the other children, and she had always been soft on Sam. He thought he had a fix on what Mr. Baggins would do – nothing. He knew his threat of Mr. Baggins punishing Sam was as empty as air. The young master was far too fond of Sam to be upset with him for too long, if at all, and Hamfast knew it. No doubt Sam knew it too, otherwise he wouldn’t have dared what he did. Sam had said as much the other night.

Then there was their talk from yestereve. In a way, that quiet fireside conversation had caused more tension and disapproval between them than Hamfast’s frustrated lecture. His son never butted heads with him over anything. He always conceded to his father’s advice and wisdom, but something about this was different. Sam could be stubborn in his own way, and Hamfast had noticed Sam’s squaring of his shoulders last night. His son for the first time in his life had put his foot down, and he knew there was nothing he could do against it.

He understood Sam’s fondness for Mr. Baggins. As Sam had pointed out, Hamfast had been quite fond of Mr. Bilbo when the elder Baggins was still around. Hamfast had taken it upon himself to check in on Mr. Frodo from time to time after Mr. Bilbo disappeared and knew from those brief visits how easy it was to care for the new Master of the Hill. Mr. Frodo was a proper gentlehobbit, sincere in all he did, and one would be hard pressed to find another who was as open and kind. Everyone who knew him well loved him dearly and would do anything within their power for him, and that was what worried Hamfast the most.

Sam was devoted to his master, as was proper of any servant, but he was unable to separate dedication in his work from his feelings for his master. If he tended the flower gardens, he had to tend to his master. If he served Mr. Baggins tea and saw him fed, he also had to stay up nights when his master fell ill. If he went to market to fetch some items missing from Bag End’s pantries, he had to slip into the novelty shop and see if any interesting books had come in so he could alert Mr. Baggins about them. He lived for his master and was happiest when Mr. Baggins was content and at peace. And at home.

Oh sure, Sam carried on well enough when Mr. Baggins went on his little adventures. He woke early, went to work, took up at the Dragon, gossiped with his friends and neighbors, and generally went about his business as he always did. But Hamfast noticed that his step had a little less bounce and he spent more time in quiet contemplation than he did in merriment and laughter. In a week’s time, Sam would be up at Bag End, waiting eagerly for his master’s return, and he would stay up there until Mr. Baggins was settled into his home once again. Then Mr. Baggins would invite Sam in for tea and tell him all about his trip to Buckland, and Sam would listen eagerly, keeping his questions to himself, but happy and complete once again.

Hamfast lit up his pipe. He supposed he should have been harder on Sam when he was younger, insisting he keep to the gardens rather than spend his time inside with his masters. Now he found himself in a bit of a tight spot, trying to make Sam understand too late the importance of not getting involved in the affairs of one’s betters, and he feared it would be his son who would pay for his bad judgment in the end.

“Look!” May’s sudden exclamation cut through his reverie. He looked to where she was pointing, to the kitchen window. Outside, the sun was shining.

The Gamgees cautiously filed outside their front door and looked about. The sky above was still dark and grey, but the rain had slowed to a sparing drizzle and the sun was bravely shining through a break in the looming clouds. The road outside their gate was a muddy mess, a river of water rolling down the middle. Their garden looked no better than Bag End’s and a tree branch had fallen, knocking over part of the gate.

Sam once again trudged up the Hill to Bag End. The damage was worse than that morning, but nothing was completely unsalvageable. He grabbed a shovel from the shed and went about the garden, digging trenches leading out of the flooded flowerbeds to encourage runoff. Nearly all of the beds required this. He found Mr. Frodo’s reading bench at the bottom of the path, displaced by a small mudslide from its proper place beneath the elm. He sat the bench upright where it had landed, then walked the entire path up to the mighty oak that sat atop Bag End. One giant branch had broken off and lay dejectedly upon the ground. Sam would chop that up for firewood later.

He turned his attention to the land spreading out before him. All of Hobbiton could be seen from this spot and he surveyed his homeland with a sharp eye. From this vantage point, the damage appeared minimal at best; moderate at worst. But appearances could be deceiving from such a great distance, and the storm wasn’t over yet.

He looked up at the sky and felt the wind. The rain had paused during his inspection of the garden, but more rain would come before the day was over. Still, he thought it might hold for a while, long enough for him to go to town and gather some news.

He walked back down the path and made a final round of the garden, making a list in his head of the work to be done in the next few days. As soon as the water receded, he would get to work making all the necessary repairs. He was confident he would have everything back the way it was by the time Mr. Frodo returned.  

After tea, Sam headed into town, looking around his homeland as he went. As he had suspected, the damage was worse than what could be seen sitting atop the Hill. Many fields and gardens had suffered from the storm and it pained Sam to see the bright crimson and amber blossoms crushed into the mud or floating in muddy pools. He didn’t like to think of how things would look when this was all finally over.

Rain was a blessing he often took joy in, but too much of it was a curse. ‘Too much of a good thing will undo you in the end,’ his Gaffer would say. Sam first came to understand that statement many years back, when he was just into his tweens and newly appointed to Bag End. The Great Storm had hit that year, wreaking much havoc and destruction throughout the Shire. He had seen for the first time just how deadly and powerful something as simple and pure as water could be. He had hoped it would be the last time he would have to witness such a thing.

He reached The Ivy Bush a half-hour later, his breeches soaked up to the knees from falling in a hole he had mistaken for a puddle, and his teeth chattering to beat the band. He ordered some ale and sipped on his mug as he sat near one of the hearths and warmed up. The inn was just beginning to crowd as hobbits started streaming in, talking excitedly about the storm. They would come to hear and give reports on damage and other happenings caused by the downpour, as well as find out who needed help with repairs and who was able to offer it.

Sam listened to the various reports as he dried out by the fire. A fig tree in Mr. Proudfoot’s field had suffered a lightning strike and caught fire, which spread to the gate, burning half of it down before the rain put it out. Missus Burrows’s cat was missing. Farmer Goodheart’s herd had been chased off into the hills by the thunder and lightning. The postmaster Mr. Sarco had left a window open and the supplies cellar had flooded. But the most exciting and talked-about news came in at the four o’clock hour.

Young Missus Scarlet was expecting her first child in a few weeks, but at the first lightning strike, she had gone into labor and woken her frazzled husband to run for the midwife. He had done that, not even stopping to pull on a coat, and ran all the way to the midwife’s house in naught but his undergarments. He barely paused long enough for the midwife to grab her satchel before hauling her back to his home. Only she had tripped on the way, spraining her ankle, and poor Harper had been obliged to carry her the rest of the way, then go out to fetch the healer for the midwife. The impatient newborn who caused all the ruckus was a bright-eyed lad they named Anson, though he was quickly nicknamed Torrent, which was just as quickly shortened to Tory, and for the rest of his years no one ever remembered his proper name.

The inhabitants of The Ivy Bush clapped Harper on the back for the good news and drank to his family’s health. Then they drank again to the midwife’s health for good measure. Pipes were taken out and lit up and the fathers began regaling everyone with accounts of their children’s births, though it was generally agreed none could top the one that brought them a Torrent in a tempest.

A gust of cold wind from the front door blew into the inn as another bustling hobbit came rushing inside. Sam looked up to see who the new customer was and was surprised to see young Finch Fernbrook, a friend of the Cotton brothers, standing at the bar, his hair and coat soaking wet. The barkeep pointed the lad over in Sam’s direction and soon he was making his way through the crowd.

“Hullo Sam,” he said as he approached the young gardener.

“Hullo Finch,” Sam replied. “How’re you fairing through all of this?”

“Well enough. And you?”

“As best as could be hoped for. What brings you here?” he asked, curious to find out why the lad had come all the way to the Bush instead of heading for the Dragon.

Finch sank gratefully into a chair, his hands held out to the warmth of the fire. “We’re short-handed,” he answered simply. “This storm’s making a mess of things and no mistake. Me and a few other lads came in hopes that you folk had faired better and could lend some hands to help out.”

“How’re my cousins?” Sam asked concerned. The last time the weather had raged on as it was, The Water had flooded. Entire crops had been lost and Cotton had to struggle to feed his family.

“Not so bad as last time,” Finch said, thinking the same thing. “There’s some flooding, that’s to be expected, but Cotton doesn’t look to lose that much and it’s early in the season yet. He’s thinking it won’t set him back too bad, as long as the rains stop soon that is. If it doesn’t, well, then we’ll see won’t we? No, it’s mostly wind damage and the like. The wind rips through the valley pretty strong on the best of days. Add the storm and lightning to it, and it makes a right fine mess. Everyone’s got some sort of property damage. Old Tom got a hole punched into his barn by that old oak tree. Went and toppled over right into it. House is fine though, everyone’s safe and sound.”

“How soon are they looking for help?” Sam asked. He would have to put his other plans on hold for as long as it took to fix the farm, but there was no helping it. Crops were more important than gardens, and he knew his master would understand the circumstances. The garden had gone neglected for two weeks last time, as Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo had insisted on seeing to others first.

“It was starting to rain again when I left, light rain, but it could pick up still. They’ve got the hole covered over and the animals moved to some stables up at his brother’s place for now. They’re hoping to set to work first thing in the morning if at all possible.”

“Well, count on me to be there come morning,” Sam vowed. “Weather allowing.”

Finch smiled. “Now how did I know you’d say that?”

Sam chuckled. “I suppose us Gamgees are predictable is all.”

They sat another hour longer, sipping their ales and joining the conversations around them. Finch recruited another fourteen volunteers for the Bywater folk, with promises from all that they would bring more help with them if they could.

A threatening rumble of thunder sent many people home. Sam offered for the lad to stay at Bagshot Row, but Finch turned him down with great regret. He had only been allowed to come as long as he promised to return immediately and he didn’t want his parents to worry about him. Sam saw Finch to the stable, then turned toward his own home.

The light shower Finch had reported earlier found its way to Hobbiton just as Sam stepped away from the inn. The mildness of the rain didn’t ease Sam’s heart though. This shower was moving slowly and would do no one any favors.  

His sisters had dinner on the table by the time he returned, soaked and shivering once more. Again they ushered him to sit by the hearth and moved the meal into the parlor to keep their brother comfortable. Sam reported on everything he’d heard at the Bush. Hamfast agreed to let both him and his sisters go to the Cotton’s as soon as the rain went away. Lily and Rosie would need extra hands in the kitchen as well to feed all the workers laboring to repair the fields and barn.

After dinner, Gaffer turned in for the night. He raised his hand as if to pat his son on the shoulder as he passed him. It was a ritual way of saying ‘good job’ whenever he was pleased with something his children did, but he stopped just short of contact and continued without looking back. His sisters could not help but notice as Sam watched his father’s retreating back, his expression troubled by a heavy heart. He wondered how long the strain between them would last. Perhaps he should have kept quiet last night, but somehow Sam knew that would have only made things worse. Well, if Hamfast could be stubborn, so could Sam. He was his father’s son after all.

Resigning himself to another night out of his father’s good graces, Sam made his way to the kitchen and set to work making some preserves from Mr. Frodo’s berries. His sisters came to help him, both to repay him for his help that morning and to silently offer him some much needed emotional support. They were soon chatting and laughing again as they had that morning. They were finishing up the last jar of mixed-berry marmalade when the thunder sounded again and the rain began pouring once more, fiercer than ever before. The kitchen was soon too cold to stay there. They quickly put everything away and put out the ineffective fire in the oven.

The lasses went to their rooms and brought their needlework out to the parlor as Sam built up the hearth fire a final time. They sang softly as they worked, their sweet voices filling the smial with cheer and delight. Sam retrieved a book from his nightstand and sat with them as he read. The book was on loan from Mr. Frodo and was filled with many of the stories and poems Mr. Bilbo used to tell when Sam was a child. Most of them he knew already, but others he had never heard and he went in search of those now. He found a tale even May would not be able to protest, and waited until his sisters finished their song to read them a poem about a Maia goddess who fell in love with an Elf lord.

And so the three siblings passed the long rainy night in each other’s quiet company, as their father snored softly in his bed.

To be continued…