Chapter 3: Out of Sorts

22 Rethe

Frodo rose early. From across the small room came the sound of Pippin’s rhythmic deep breaths as the young tween peacefully slumbered. Frodo had no fear of waking his cousin, who could easily sleep through an avalanche, but he slipped silently out of his bed all the same and quickly changed from his rumpled clothes of the previous night. He washed quickly at the basin, then tiptoed out the door.

The tunnels were dimly lit with nearly burnt out candles, their dying flames fighting valiantly to remain lit in the dark and shadowed passages. Frodo padded softly through the hallways, passing the occasional servant and pausing to greet them pleasantly before going on his way.

The outside world greeted him with pale mist and a chill breeze. A sudden panic rose in his chest as a flash of the previous night’s terror flickered violently in his mind, but the vision slipped away as quickly as it came, and was just as instantly forgotten. He shook off the brief discomfort as nothing more than lack of sleep, then stretched long and breathed in deeply the cool crisp morning air before heading down the path away from the Hall.

He walked swiftly and confidently. It mattered little that he couldn’t see clearly through the fog: he would be able to pick out the path in pitch-black moonless night. A hundred yards from the Hall, now completely hidden in white veil, Frodo turned off the lane onto a path that led toward a vacant field seldom visited by the inhabitants of Buckland. He went swiftly to keep himself warm, and within an hour reached his destination.

He stood at a fence and looked about him. He listened intently to the deadly silence of his surroundings before he opened the gate and stepped inside the fence. Only then did he pause, to wonder briefly as to the wisdom of his actions. He knew he shouldn’t be here yet, after only one full day at Brandy Hall. He knew he should turn around and leave this place. He paused a moment longer, then firmly closed the gate behind him and continued on his way.
 

“Merry!” Pippin’s high voice rang through the dining hall as he made a beeline for his older cousin.

Merry, startled half out of his wits by the call, was getting ready to lovingly berate his cousin for calling at him so shrilly – and it only being second breakfast – when he looked up to see his friend’s worried expression. The taunt died on his lips as Pippin came to a halt before him.

“What is it Pippin? What’s wrong?” Merry asked softly.

“Have you seen Frodo?” he asked, lowering his voice now that he was aware of numerous relatives giving him curious glances.

“No,” Merry said, shaking his head. “I’ve only just returned from my rounds of the fields. Have you not seen him this morning?”

“He was already gone when I woke up. I figured he was with you, but then he wasn’t at first breakfast. I’ve looked everywhere for him, Merry,” Pippin explained.

He had woken to find Frodo’s bed empty, but as his cousin would sometimes join Merry on his rounds of the farm fields, Pippin had thought nothing of it. Having enough of farming back home, he always left Merry to his work and this morning had decided to seek out his friend Ilberic, only to find out that Ilberic and his family were staying at Crickhollow for a time. Disappointed, he then went to the dining hall, where he expected to at least find Frodo already eating first breakfast. Pippin knew that even if Merry was not finished with his rounds, he would insist that Frodo return to the Hall and eat a decent breakfast. When Frodo was nowhere to be seen, Pippin began to worry.

“Well,” Merry said, still struggling to understand his friend’s agitated state, “this would not be the first time Frodo’s given us the slip to get some time alone. I imagine yesterday rather wore him out.”

“That’s just it,” Pippin persisted. “He had the most unusual night terror last night. He wasn’t breathing, and he was cold and stiff to the touch. He said he didn’t remember any of it, but he had the most haunted look in his eyes. … Merry, I’m worried.”

“Has no one seen him?”

“One of the servants, around five o’clock.”

“So he’s been gone for four hours,” Merry murmured. The worry and fear in Pippin’s eyes was evident, and the night terror sounded frightening indeed, but Merry knew how easily Pippin’s imagination could get away from him. “Did the servant say if he seemed out of sorts or knew where he was going?”

Pippin shook his head and shrugged helplessly. He waited impatiently for his cousin to come to a verdict.

“Very well, I’ll go look for him. There are a couple of places we didn’t go yesterday that I know about that are rather close. And one that isn’t. You get something to eat. I’ll be back by noon at the latest, and I shall have our meandering cousin with me.” He smiled calmly and chauffeured Pippin to one of the tables.

Merry waited until Pippin was seated and eating before he slipped into the kitchen to grab a basket. He packed it with food, plates and cutlery, then left the Hall through one of the servant doors. He retrieved a pony from the stables, mounted it swiftly and set off down the road.

Though he hadn’t shown it to Pippin, Merry was concerned. It wasn’t like Frodo to wander off and not leave some sort of word with someone, even if it was simply ‘I’ll be back for supper.’ Frodo was always careful to make sure someone knew where he was or when to expect him. Now Pippin was saying Frodo had some sort of terror, a rather frightening one by the sound of it, and had slipped off before dawn. Why? Unless… Pippin said he hadn’t been breathing.

‘Yes, that must be it,’ he thought. ‘That had to be it.’

Merry checked his pony and turned off the lane.
 

Frodo sat cross-legged in the soft grass, gazing absently at the stone before him. The sun was climbing high in the sky and the mist had dissipated to reveal clear blue skies above. The birds had awakened in the surrounding elms and filled the otherwise silent field with their sweet, whistling music. Frodo paid no heed to any of this. He was blissfully unaware of everything around him.

He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply the scent of the grass and flowers. He could almost imagine he was back home, sitting under his own elm tree in the garden with a book near at hand, and at any moment Sam would begin humming one of his many tunes as he went about his weeding or whatever else he did. If it was a song Frodo knew, he would join in and Sam would reward him with a beaming smile, brighter than the sun.

The sound that eventually entered his ears and shook him from his daydream was not the rough tenor of his young gardener but the clip-clop of hoof beats near the fence. A moment later, the gate swung open and shut again and footsteps approached him, swift and sure. He opened his eyes, but did not turn around, even as a picnic basket was placed near his left hand and his friend sat down next to him.

Merry was glad that his hunch had been correct and he had found his cousin. He was so glad that he allowed Frodo to remain silent for the time being, though he was maddeningly curious as to why his cousin would be here at all. He had only just arrived in Buckland, and this particular trip always came at the end of his visits. Merry asked no questions, knowing the answers would be short if they came at all, and instead settled on opening the basket and setting out the food.

“It’s probably cold by now,” Merry said at last, bringing up the only topic of conversation that seemed safe – food. He searched the basket for the desired morsel. “But there’s nothing in here that can’t be eaten hot or cold. Here, you must be hungry.” He handed Frodo a buttered cranberry muffin. “I forgot a blanket,” Merry apologized.

Frodo laughed, an unexpected response for its lightheartedness. “My dear Merry, I do think we will survive without a blanket,” he said, still looking straight ahead. He brought the muffin to his mouth and bit into it thoughtfully.

They ate in silence and Merry watched Frodo closely. From all appearances, his cousin certainly wasn’t suffering from any lingering effects of his night terror. He wasn’t pale or jumpy; his shoulders were relaxed and his posture open. Indeed, he seemed to be in very high spirits, despite his present location. But why was he here? The question burned in Merry’s throat, yearning to be asked.

Frodo knew how curious Merry was; there was no way he could not know. Brandybucks were well known for their inquisitiveness, more so than even the Tooks, and Merry was no exception. He could practically feel Merry’s questioning gaze drilling into the back of his neck. Frodo easily avoided his friend’s gaze, keeping his head forward, wishing to put off as long as possible the conversation that was guaranteed to take place when he eventually turned around. He began to construct his answers as he nibbled on his muffin.

Merry allowed the time to crawl by, and after many furtive glances and unspoken questions, the food was gone. Merry packed up the plates and cutlery, and could finally wait no longer. “This is rather early,” he stated carefully and Frodo knew he was not talking about the hour. There was a moment’s pause, then Merry continued, “Pip said you had a night terror. You scared him, slipping off the way you did.”

“I suppose I failed think of how he would react,” Frodo said, then fell back into silence.

“And what of your dream? Do you want to talk about it? Pippin said you weren’t breathing. Was it that dream? Is that why you’re here?” he asked, indicating the grey stone before them.

Frodo shook his head. “I do not remember my dream from last night, and I have not had that dream for many years now. As for my reason for being here,” and here he paused ever so slightly, just long enough for Merry to notice the hesitation, “I’m afraid I do not have one. I just had to come.” Another heartbeat of silence, then, “It’s cracked.”

“Where?” Merry looked at the stone, unable to see any sign of wear despite the last thirty-two years.

“Right there, between their names.”

Merry strained his eyes. The stone was made of granite and was etched with roses at the center and vines of ivy around the border. The names had been chiseled into the stone in a delicate, flowing script: Drogo Baggins 1308-1380 & Primula Brandybuck Baggins 1320-1380. Merry looked for the crack, but could not see it. He shook his head.

Frodo chuckled to himself, embarrassed suddenly. “Oh, it’s not there yet, but it will be one day,” he stated simply.

“Frodo?” Merry asked, uncertain what his friend could mean. This wouldn’t be the first time Frodo said something that even Merry would consider unusual, love him though he may. He supposed his cousin just really was odd sometimes.

Frodo at last turned to look at him, with eyebrows raised in wait. Merry stumbled for something to say that would take them past Frodo’s strange proclamation. His gaze returned to the stone. “Do you remember them at all?” he asked, and wished immediately that he could take it back as Frodo’s amused smile slowly faded from his lips.

Merry was born two years after his father’s aunt and uncle drowned in the Brandywine River, and he knew of them only what others had told him. He had heard many tales of them over the years, as well as all the scandalous rumors of their drowning. A very few number of relatives entertained those rumors as the truth, but overall the majority remembered the accident for the tragedy that it was. Everyone spoke of Drogo and Primula fondly, and their passing had been hard for many to bear. Yet much as their numerous relatives and friends mourned them, no one had grieved as deeply and completely as Frodo, their only child.

Only eleven years old when fate had turned its cruel hand and stolen his parents away forever, carrying them away on unforgiving currents, Frodo had been unable to cope with the loss. An introvert at heart, inherently shy, no one had been able to reach him those first agonizing months after the accident. Saradoc and Esmeralda feared they would lose him to despair, for he refused to eat or to leave the room they had moved him into, and he would speak to no one.

No one, that is, until his beloved cousin Bilbo made an urgent visit at the request of old Master Rory. Frodo clung to Bilbo and at last allowed his tears of grief, anger, confusion and guilt to spill free. Yet he had never stopped mourning the deaths of his parents, and he spoke of them rarely. His brief mention of them yesterday morning had been his first in many years, and it had pained him greatly. Now Merry had asked him to share his memories.

Frodo turned back to the gravestone, his expression unreadable though his shoulders were now tense and his breaths carefully steady. Merry restrained from apologizing or taking the question back. Because he wanted to know. He wanted at last to hear from his beloved friend what he had to tell, wanted to know his deceased relatives through the eyes of he who had loved them most. ‘Please,’ he thought, ‘please tell me. I will help carry your wounds if you would but share them with me. Please.’

Whether Frodo guessed his thoughts, Merry could not say, but Frodo sighed then and looked down at the grass he was clutching unconsciously in his steel tight grasp. He forced himself to relax his grip and turned to face Merry again. He did not meet his friend’s eyes and instead gazed just past Merry’s shoulder as if seeing something far away in the shadowed depths of time.

“I remember my father would hold me in his lap at night,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, unsure at first but growing in strength as he went. “He would tell me stories, usually Bilbo’s, and I would drift off to sleep with his large chest rumbling softly under my ear. He smelled of musk and pipeweed and wood shavings, and he would sit by the fire on stormy winter nights, whittling barn animals out of birch wood. I remember the day he took me fishing for the first time, as if it was yesterday. He was patient always, and cheerful even more, and he claimed he could call the fish to his line simply by wishing it. And he caught so many of them I believed him. He could have told me that he caused the sun to rise and set every day and I would have believed him.

“And my mother… She took me everywhere, insisting I get my head out of my books and play with my cousins more. She would sit with her knitting by the fire or out in the garden and she would mutter to herself as she knitted. What she said I could never tell, but she would chuckle at times and I would laugh also to see her happy. Her smile could light up a room and when she sang it was as if the stars had come down from their nightly perch to kiss the ground with their radiant light, if only to hear her the clearer. She would tuck me in at night and she would sing to me of spring meadows, summer barley and autumn leaves, and she always smelled of jasmine and thyme, and her hair was soft as silk.”

Frodo looked up at Merry then, a sadness and yearning filling his eyes where just moments before had been contentment and merriment. He seemed ready to say more, but in the end remained silent and turned back one last time to the gravestone.

“We should get back.”

Merry stirred and swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. He had not really expected Frodo to tell him anything, and now that he had Merry wasn’t sure what to make of it. The pain in his friend’s eyes was enough to pierce his heart and he felt he could cry for time unending. Instead, he took a deep steadying breath and forced himself to remain calm. It would do no good to fall apart on his cousin now.

At last he stood up and made a show of stretching, and then gazed at the sky. The sun has nearing its highest peak and he realized with a start it was already near noon. How had the time passed so quickly without him noticing? Pippin would be waiting for them and he would be frantic if they did not return as promised.

He reached down to help his cousin up. Frodo accepted his hand and stood on legs weary from sitting in one position for so long. Merry took up the basket and slipped a supportive arm around Frodo’s waist to help him walk back to the gate as circulation slowly returned to his legs. Merry insisted Frodo ride back to the Hall, and Frodo knew better than to protest at this point. He mounted the pony and let Merry lead them home. They went silently, each lost in his own thoughts.

Merry had many memories of his own. He remembered how Frodo was withdrawn from much of the family, and was often lost in the bustle and shuffle of Brandy Hall. His cousin had never grown accustomed to the Hall’s hectic routines in his ten years under the care of Saradoc and Esmeralda. He remembered how Frodo used to cling to him at times, so that Esmeralda could hardly get two minutes together with her own son. He remembered how Frodo would come alive when their cousin Bilbo would visit, and how lonely he would be after Bilbo left.

He remembered that Frodo would sometimes cry himself to sleep, especially on special days, like his birthday or holidays. He remembered how Frodo would often disappear and no one would be able to find him. They had soon stopped searching altogether, knowing he would return by the following morning from wherever he had been. Merry had always found sleep difficult on those nights and would only drift off when he heard Frodo finally slip into the room in the predawn hours. He remembered when Frodo started sneaking out at night and he would wake up to find Frodo gone, and how that was almost worse than getting no sleep at all.
 

They arrived at Brandy Hall at half-past noon and found Pippin waiting for them outside, surrounded by a group of young cousins. He was trying to get them interested in a game of hide-and-seek when he looked up and saw his friends approaching, just as Merry had promised. He noticed the silence between them and a thousand questions popped into his mind, all of them running along the line of ‘what happened?’ He met Merry’s eyes. Merry shook his head: he would explain later.

Pippin nodded and turned to the children around him. “Well, see now, you waited too long. Go off with you then, and find someone else to torment. Cousin Berilac is setting to ask some lass he fancies to the Feast. I’m sure he’d love your assistance.”

The children brightened at this and went off in search of their unsuspecting cousin as Merry and Frodo finally reached the smial. Frodo dismounted and took the basket from Merry. He gave Pippin an apologetic squeeze on his shoulder, then left them, saying he must wash up for luncheon. When he was safely inside, Pippin turned to Merry.

“Well?” he asked.

He followed Merry as his cousin led the pony back to the stables. “Well what? I said I would find him and I did. He’s well enough, just thinking on his parents is all. He’ll be fine.” He left the pony with an ostler and the two friends returned to the Hall.

“And?” Pippin asked. He wanted to know where they had been, and what they had talked about, how long it had taken Merry to find him and what state he was in when found. He wanted to know why they had been gone so long and every single word that was spoken between them.

“And,” Merry said, “Frodo’s right. We had best be getting ready for luncheon. Wouldn’t want to show up looking like paupers. Though I imagine you would be mistaken for one anyhow the way you eat.”

Pippin nodded, accepting for the moment the unanswered questions. He clapped Merry on the back. “My dear Merry,” he said, “if eating habits are the mark of a pauper, then you must be the poorest hobbit in the Shire.”

Merry laughed, grateful for his friend’s understanding. “Thank you, Pip.”

“You’re welcome, Mer.”
 

Luncheon passed easily and the cheer returned to Frodo’s eyes as Pippin told them about the trick he played on Berilac. Frodo then laughed with outright glee when Berilac barged in at the end of the meal and chased Pippin out of the hall. Apparently, he had not been pleased by the arrival of a swarm of children just as he was kissing the lovely Ivory Burrows for the very first time. Merry and Frodo allowed them a minute’s head start before giving chase themselves. After all, they didn’t want anything to happen to either cousin that would cause any lasting regret or hard feelings.

They were not difficult to find. The chase had stirred many of the residents of the Hall, and they followed the curious onlookers outside. Once outside, they found that Pippin had squirreled his way up a tree and Berilac, who was afraid of heights and couldn’t climb, was roaring at him to come down.

Merry, ever the persuasive charmer, somehow managed to get Berilac to see the humor in the situation and give Pippin a break. Berilac agreed but he vowed to one day get even, and Merry warned his impish cousin that Berilac was not one to break his word. Pippin only shrugged unconcernedly as he jumped out of the tree and reminded them that they were supposed to be fishing at some point today.

Frodo was eager to see more of the countryside so, still laughing from the excitement, they returned to the Hall and prepared to leave. There was a creek Merry knew that had good fish this time of day, on the other side of the river past Bucklebury Ferry. Frodo and Pippin retrieved the fishing gear from the storage rooms while Merry saw to the food. They met in the entrance parlor and proceeded on foot.

They walked at a leisurely pace, the Hall and Buck Hill receding steadily in size behind them. Pippin finally got the story out of his cousins of their graveyard visit. Merry did most of the explaining, with a nod or two from Frodo. Pippin listened in wonder, suddenly sorry that he had not insisted on going along. Like Merry, he had never heard his cousin speak of his parents. More than that, he had never been to their resting place. Up until today, he had never given much thought to the fact that Frodo may still be missing his parents after all these years. He realized with a sudden sadness that Frodo would feel that grief and longing for the rest of his life, that he had, in fact, already felt that longing for nearly three-quarters of it.

The sadness didn’t last long however. Pippin was cheerful by nature, as most hobbits were, and he couldn’t stay melancholy for more than a few brief moments. In fact, he saw it as his duty to keep his cousin in good spirits and was soon singing a lively fishing song his Uncle Merimac had taught him many years ago. They all were familiar with the song and were soon singing together in high, fair voices.

They came to the ferry and Merry guided them across the river. Pippin switched to a boating song, another one of Merimac’s and thought too late of how Frodo might react. But Frodo joined the chorus with ease and they continued with the tune as they reached the other side of the river and continued south. A few miles and many songs later, they reached the outlet to the creek and Merry turned them right and took them west into a small grove of birch trees. They set down their gear and looked around.

The grove was only a half-mile wide and they could see either end of it with little trouble. The trees were close together where they sat and shaded the hobbits from the sun. All around, the air was filled with a peaceful silence, accentuated with an occasional bird singing in the trees above. No flowers grew here, but the grass was green and soft and seated them easily. There were many rocks near the shallow shore of the creek, but the water ran deep in the middle and that’s where Merry told them to cast their lines. They sat three in a row, enjoying the comfortable silence between them and the gentle babbling of the water at their feet.

They became so involved in their fishing that they at first failed to notice when the sun was once again cloaked by the clouds overhead. Frodo at least eventually noticed the drop in temperature, or the dimming of the light, or perhaps even the biting cold of the wind that unexpectedly swept through the glade. For suddenly, he felt a cold dread spread throughout him and he looked about for the source of it. He hoped it was merely the weather but a deep nagging suspicion told him it was not. Seeing nothing out of sorts however, he forced himself to focus on his friends next to him and the creek before him and the fishing rod held loosely in his hand.

Had he guessed the true source for his sudden discomfort – that at that very moment away in Hobbiton, Sam was peering under the hall bench in Bag End and making his small discovery – Frodo undoubtedly would have insisted they stop what they were doing and have Pippin lead them through the Woody End to the Stock road, and on to home. But as far as he was concerned, his ring was still tucked safely into the pocket of his traveling cloak, which now lay peacefully at the bottom of his pack, so the possibility that the ring was missing never occurred to him. Nonetheless, he began to feel that something was not right and the thought distracted him ceaselessly. With great effort, he shook off his unfounded foreboding, thinking perhaps he was still feeling some of the effects of the night terror Pippin claimed he had.

They fished through afternoon tea and packed shortly after. Pippin and Merry made three catches each, and Frodo had managed two despite his distraction. Not until they were crossing back over the river did Merry notice anything amiss with Frodo. His cousin was staring into the depths of the river, his eyes unfocused and his expression restless. Merry waited until they were on land once more and headed toward the Hall before he said anything.

“Frodo?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Hm?” Frodo replied absently, then shook himself from his reverie. He forced his head to clear and focused on his cousins. “It’s nothing, Merry. Perhaps I simply did not get enough sleep last night after all.” And then, as if saying it had made it so, he yawned widely and tiredly. He suddenly felt as if he could sleep for a week. Thinking that he at last found the source for his uneasiness, he sighed with relief and smiled at his friends. “Yes that must be it. And don’t look at me so. Honestly, Merry, you worry after me like a mother hen. There’s no cause for alarm.”

“Maybe so,” Merry responded, “but I’d feel better if you got a good night’s rest tonight. Don’t let this one jabber in your ear till the wee hours of the morning.”

“What?” Pippin exclaimed. “Me keep him up? He’s the one who snores incessantly. It nearly brought the ceiling down on my head last night.”

“I do not snore, Peregrin Took,” Frodo laughed.

“No, but you do talk in your sleep,” Merry said. “Sometimes that’s the only way to discover what’s bothering you.”

“There’s nothing bothering me,” Frodo insisted. He was beginning to regret his hastiness at slipping away this morning. The last thing he needed now was everyone watching him like a hawk day and night. No, that wouldn’t do any good at all. Certain he would feel better once he returned to the Hall and had a short nap, he quickened his pace and forced his cousins to do likewise. “Now come on,” he said, “or we’ll be late for dinner, and I for one do not want to be caught out in open country with a hungry Took and no food.”

Pippin scoffed, then grinned widely. He was getting rather hungry. “Well, we do have the fish,” he pointed out as his stomach gave a soft rumble.

They managed to return to the Hall with the fish still intact and Frodo did take a short nap before dinner. He awoke feeling much more refreshed and his friends relaxed their vigilance.

After dinner, they discussed their plans for the next day and what kind of food there would be at the Feast. Then Esmeralda came over and invited Frodo to a private afternoon tea before the Feast with just her, Saradoc, Merry and Pippin. Frodo accepted heartily. Though he thought he could guess what the main topic of discussion at tea would be and wasn’t looking forward to it, he always enjoyed his private meals with his former guardians and wouldn’t miss it for anything.

Then Merry turned to him at the eight o’clock hour and insisted that Frodo get a decent night’s sleep. Seeing that his cousin was serious, Frodo obliged. He yawned widely then, proving Merry’s point about needing proper rest despite himself, so he said good night to his relatives and friends and gratefully turned in early. After all, it would be a busy day tomorrow, and he would need all the energy he could get.
 
 

To be continued...