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When Winter Fell  by Lindelea


Chapter 15. Taking the Long Way Home


Bilbo nearly toppled over as Bungo slapped the reins on the ponies’ backs and the waggon lurched forward.

‘Goodbye!’ hobbits in the crowd shouted, and a song arose to cheer them on their way.

Bilbo would rather have sneaked away in the dark of night, than to have to endure this! And having to suffer the stares of the hobbits of Tuckborough, not long after his family drove away from the Great Smials, was worse. The hobbits of Tuckborough all knew Isengar by sight, “the mad son of the Thain, poor benighted hobbit”. Yes, they knew him all too well. Mothers would take hold of their little ones’ hands and cross the street to avoid him, on the days he escaped the Smials, and they’d breathe sighs of relief when his cousins or brothers would take him captive once more, and sometimes complaints even came to the steward, with the plea that “something be done” though of course, nothing ever was. And now here was Bilbo, riding in the back of a waggon bearing the wretch away, right there up front for all to see, tucked between Bilbo’s mother and his father!

And just when Bilbo thought things could be no worse, Bungo felt Isen squirm beside him, as if the poor hobbit were once again thinking of seeking his freedom and only gathering the nerve to jump down, to risk being crushed under the wheels of the waggon. Thinking quickly, Bungo said cheerily, ‘What was that lovely song you were singing, the other day? I’ve never heard the like. Wasn’t it something like...’ (And he lifted up his voice, loud and hearty.)

O great Sea, O wide Sea, upon thy bosom lay me!
I  know ye'll not betray me, but carry me away--hee!
O vast Sea, my beau-ty! Forever I will love thee...

He broke off to call to the ponies. ‘Get up there, Whitefoot! Get up, Tangle!’

The only noise was a clopping of pony feet and Bilbo, head buried in his shirt, thought the worst was over, but then Isengar began to sing softly.

O vast Sea, me beau-ty! Forever I will love thee.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Bungo joined the song, swelling the sound, and Isengar’s singing grew stronger. Bilbo peeped from his hiding place (under his shirt) to see wondering hobbits turning to stare at the waggon as they passed. His only comfort was that it would not be long before they were out of the town. He could see the fields spreading ahead of them. He wished he could take wings and fly away from his troubles.

Blow forth O winds out o’er the Sea,

And then, to make matters absolutely abysmal, in Bilbo’s estimation, Belladonna joined in, and the song grew until the last word was a shout, echoed by a few small children who ran alongside the waggon, waving.

And carry me away—hey!

‘That’s it!’ Bungo said with a nod, and he and Isengar launched into the song from the beginning, and the ponies, as they left the confines of the town, pricked up their ears and picked up the pace, trotting along as if keeping rhythm.

The life of a sailor's the life for me!
Give me a deck on a rolling sea!
Mountains of waves rising o'er my head,
And they rock me to sleep in my hammocky bed!
O great Sea, O wide Sea, upon thy bosom lay me!
I  know ye'll not betray me, but carry me away--hee!
O vast Sea, my beau-ty! Forever I will love thee...

Workers in an orchard stopped their apple-picking to wave as the waggon with its tuneful occupants passed by. Bilbo wondered if dying could be any more painful than this. He rather doubted it.

And then he had rather more on his mind than mortification, for Bungo steered the waggon away from the road, and over the stubbled fields, something of a bumpy ride for the lad in the waggon bed, without the springs holding up the seat where his elders sat in relatively more comfort.

It took all his determination not to be sick at his stomach, at the jouncing. But his hard-hearted relatives took no notice, singing along as they went. At least their only spectators now were a few astonished cows, grazing placidly behind stone walls, and once a flock of sheep in a wildflowery meadow.

Uncle Isengar taught the Bagginses quite a few songs as they drove the dozen-or-so miles across the fields, from Tuckborough to Bywater. By the time they reached Bywater, as a matter of fact, they’d worked out quite a nice little harmony between the three of them, with Belladonna’s sweet soprano and Bungo’s solid bass, and Isen holding his own in the middle.

Bilbo would have stuck his hands over his ears when they reached Bywater, encountering ever more curious hobbits, but for the fact that the music was catching. He could only hope that the hobbits they passed didn’t catch the words as well as the melody, in passing. In all probability they didn’t, for the hobbits were left smiling at their tuneful passage, seeming not at all scandalised by the seaworthy subject matter of the singing.

And so on, through Bywater and to Hobbiton, waving greetings to hobbits they knew (and Bilbo wanted to sink into a hole, and pull the turf over himself, impractical as such a wish might be. If only he could make himself invisible!) they went, singing songs in rounds now, with joyous gusto, and waving to the hobbits they knew. Bungo knew a great many, as it was; and Belladonna, usually with a basket on her arm, going about doing good in the community, was well-known in Bywater and Hobbiton and the farms thereabout.

The songs were catching. Bilbo found himself at one point humming along, and firmly stifled himself. None of that, now!

The waggon slowed as they started up the Hill, and the ponies threw themselves into their collars for the long haul. Bilbo stood up and took hold of the side of the waggon. ‘I’ll just give them a little help!’ he called, meaning of course that he’d lighten the load by abandoning the sinking ship. It seemed a suitable metaphor, considering the song they were singing at the moment.

Belladonna cried out in alarm, but he’d already jumped over the side, staying well clear of the wheels to his mother’s great relief, and he began to run up the Hill, trying to put as much distance between the singing society and himself as he could manage.

He was puffing like a little engine when he reached the lane leading past Bagshot Row to Bag End, but it didn’t matter. He put his head down to push the last little way, ending with a burst of speed, to run panting against the door of his home at last, pushing it open as it had already been ajar. A wave of good smells rolled over him. Seedcake! And roasting apples, he thought, with plenty of cinnamon!

He slammed the door behind himself, wishing for a lock such as hobbits used in Buckland, unnatural as such a thing might be. He quite understood the use of a lock, now, to shut out unwanted things.

‘Welcome home!’ came a call from the kitchen. ‘Young Master Bilbo! Is that you? Seems like for ever since I’ve heard your step in the hall!’

‘Mrs. Greenhand,’ he panted, bracing himself on the kitchen doorsill.

‘Look at you, young hobbit!’ she said in alarm, turning from the oven where she was just taking out a pan of baking. ‘You’re more flushed than I am, myself, and I’ve been baking away the afternoon! Come in, lad, and sit yourself down!’

Laying the baking sheet down on a pad, she pounced on the young hobbit, seizing him by an arm and propelling him to the old rocking chair that waited by the stove for his mother to sit with the winter mending, now that Bilbo was too big to sit upon his mother’s lap. It was a pleasant place to retreat with needle and thread and a pile of torn clothing, when a storm was howling outside. It had been a favourite place of Bilbo’s, when he was little enough to fit on his mama’s lap, rocking and suckling, when he was very young, rocking and listening to story and song, when he was older, and his mother rocking and singing while Bilbo sat on a little stool at her feet, when he was older yet.

Mrs. Greenhand gave Bilbo a glass of water, fresh-poured, and fanned him as he sat, and he thanked her as best he could, what with the feelings churning inside. It was a good thing she attributed his being out of sorts to the heat. ‘And what were you doing, running up the Hill, I’d like to know? Mister Greenhand is in the orchard with the children, picking apples, and like to melt in all this heat, I should say!’

And then the voices of his parents were heard at the door, calling, and Mrs. Greenhand bustled out of the kitchen, leaving Bilbo alone in the singing chair.

But now Uncle Isen was here to sing with his parents, and they didn't need Bilbo at all, to make a pleasing harmony... the thought gave Bilbo a sharp pang, and he swallowed down his resentment. It wasn’t fitting for hobbits, he’d been taught. But fitting or not, he felt it all the same.





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