Chapter 15

What Grows in Sam’s Garden

Merry rushed to his friend, alarmed by Boromir’s appearance. “You didn’t take your medicine this morning, did you?” He scolded, “Only look at you, your lips have gone blue. Sam, put on the copper, will you? It's his heart. He needs his medicine. Pippin, do you know where he keeps it?”

“Left breast shirt pocket,” Pippin said, hurriedly dipping his fingers into the roomy pocket of Boromir’s shirt and fishing out the little bag of herbs. He looked at Sam, just standing there, his mouth agape in shock, wonder, and now –– alarm. “Sam? Sam –– the copper –– never mind, stay here with Boromir, I know where everything is.” Pippin rushed down the hall, calling for Rosie. From down the hall Boromir could hear Pippin’s urgent directions and replies in a surprised feminine voice, accompanied by the clank and clatter of pots and pans, then the rapid pat-pat of running hobbit feet and a shout of “Thank you, Rosie! He’s just here, right on the doorstep.” Returning quickly, he knelt and took Boromir’s hand. “Do you think you can get up? I should like to get you inside.”

Boromir nodded and swallowed hard. “Hurts,” was all he could manage, but he struggled to his feet and was soon in the kitchen, resting on a low, sturdy bench, surrounded by anxious hobbits. Merry pressed a cup into his hands. The draught was bitter, but Boromir swallowed it as swiftly as he could. Merry mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Faro and Theo clung to each other, their young faces clearly speaking their concern. Estella stood beside Rosie, holding her hand and murmuring explanations softly while Pippin slipped his arms around Diamond, as much to comfort himself as his wife. “He shall be all right,” Diamond repeated, as much to comfort her husband as herself.

“Will he be all right?” Sam said, at last finding his tongue.

“Oh, I think he will –– See, his color is much better now.” Merry replied.

“But how––?” Sam said.

“Perhaps it is best to let him tell you, himself,” Pippin said. “Only let us give him a little while to recuperate. It is his old wounds that plague him, Sam.” He took a closer look at his old friend, and added, "You look as though you could use a spot of tea and a comfy chair. I know it is quite a shock to you, to see him alive after all this time. It certainly was for us.”

“He’s not looking well,” Sam said, taking a seat, his eyes never leaving Boromir. “How ill is he?”

“He seems all right most of the time,” Merry said, “But of course he has to take his medicine to steady his heart and help him to breathe.”

“You said it was his old wounds––?” Sam said, looking to Merry for the first time.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Merry replied. “He took so many arrows. There are scars inside him, the healer says. They've never completely healed."

“He is looking better now,” added Pippin.

Boromir raised his head, his breathing more even now, and his color returning to a healthier tone, as was the tone of his voice when he spoke: “He, him, his! Please, friends! I am yet among the living,” he added with a self-conscious little laugh.

“I can see that right enough, you scoundrel,” Sam said, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly, and then the hobbit suddenly burst into tears. “You’re alive, you’re alive!”

“I hope that fact has not been too great a shock for you, my dear Samwise. I am sorry to have caused such a stir right on your doorstep,” Boromir rose shakily and bowed now, as if to make up for the inconvenience. He was blushing furiously. “This is not how I pictured our meeting, though to be honest, I had no idea what fruit the occasion might bear.”

“Now don’t you go gettin’ up just yet! As for causin’ a stir and wonderin’ about such nonsense, I wish you would put it out of your head for a little while,” Sam said. “Here, now, you just sit yourself down and let me have a good look at you.” Sam studied Boromir closely. He was still a little green around the gills, as the old Gaffer would have said, but it was something more that compelled Sam to look even more closely. Something whispery inside Sam told him that here was a Man that had lost his way and found it again more than a few times, though he was unsure just yet that he had found the right path. More, he was a Man pursued by that most tireless of hunters, namely himself. Obviously, Boromir was at odds with himself, and that’s the worst kind of foe there is to battle.

Sam had seen that look before on the face of his dear master. Here It’s been destroyed all these years, thought Sam, and still It reaches out from the shadows like some cold, hungry beast, looking to devour anything It can get into Its grasp. What do I do? What do I say? What would Mr. Frodo do at a time like this? I’ll tell you what he’d say, I will, ‘Sam,’ he’d say, ‘You know right well what to do,’ and he would be right. I wish he was here, now. But he ain’t. He ain’t, he left it all to you, Samwise Gamgee. So don’t you let him down!

“Well, well, well,” Sam said gently, “Ain’t you a sight. After all this time, here you are, as alive as I am! I only wish my master could have seen you.”

“Frodo is much on my mind ––– and in my heart,” Boromir said. “I hope he did not… that is, that he… ” Boromir struggled with himself. What could he say? What could he do? Had he made a mistake in coming here?

As Sam looked at Boromir, he could not help but see the look of self-doubt and pain stamped on the man’s face. The hobbit looked into his own heart and found there the memory of the brief but powerful grip of the Ring, swift and dagger-sharp, like the grip of icy talons, and the insidious insinuations of its seductive beckoning. Even as devoted as Sam had been to Frodo, the Ring had managed to slip into Sam’s thoughts somehow with promises falsely made yet sorely tempting just the same. The whispering of the Ring, overpowering, like the rancid-sweet smell of death, could blot out a noble nature, fouling the mind as a corpse might foul the sweet water of a clear brook.

As though it were but yesterday the memory of seeing Frodo as he climbed Mount Doom came to him. He could almost see Frodo flinging Gollum away, the latter bearing the grievous marks of the Ring upon him. Thin and drawn and shrunken, all bones under fleshless and tattered skin, Gollum had become a pitiful and ragged creature under a dire doom. For Gollum had become through and through forlorn, ruined and utterly wretched. Sam had not been able to bring himself to slay this pitiful wreck of a creature, for the simple gardener had borne the Ring as well, though but a short time. Yes, the time he had borne the burden was but brief yet long enough for him to guess what agony enslavement to the cursed thing must have meant, never to know relief or peace or even the simplest of joys in life ever again.

Then Sam saw, in his mind's eye, his dear master at the very edge of the chasm, unable at the last to cast the Ring into the Crack of Doom. His poor, dear master! Yes, the two hobbits were linked to this man Boromir in a way that no one else in all Middle-earth could ever grasp. The Ring had touched the three of them, brushed their very souls with madness most foul. Only one other had known that cloying horror, and that pathetic wretch had died as he clutched his dreadful treasure, devoured by the spell of the Ring so completely that he fell to his death unaware of anything but the sickly glee of reclaiming his prize. Who now in Middle earth yet lived, that knew this horror besides himself and Boromir? Sam placed his hand on Boromir’s hand and patted it gently, and as Boromir raised his face, Sam could see a kind of pain and loneliness in his eyes, so tear-brimmed that the green of his eyes looked like seawater.

“Well, then,” Sam said, “Don’t we have some catching up to do? Only not on an empty stomach, if you are hungry. If you’ve already eaten, then a sip o’ ale would go down nice, wouldn’t you say?”

Boromir knelt before Sam and bowed his head in silence; the gesture as one of high nobility to another, wholly sincere and not lightly or frivolously given. Sam embraced him, murmuring softly, “Now, don’t you fret none, I should know better than to offer the likes o’ you plain ale; a fine gentleman such as yourself will want wine.”

“Sam, my dear, dear Sam,” Boromir said, and wept amid his laughter.

“Come on, then,” Sam said warmly. “You must meet my family. This here is my Rosie.”

From behind a long table where she had stood observing this strange meeting stepped forward Sam’s bride, the storied Rosie Cotton Gamgee. She was a pretty, apple-cheeked little thing with soft, golden-brown curls that tumbled about her shoulders and down her back, a small, shapely mouth and large, soft, brown eyes. She gave him a shy smile and dropped him a curtsy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said.

Boromir rose and stepped forward cautiously, for Rosie seemed to be a little shy. Also, she was in a delicate condition, quite obviously. At last remembering himself, he bowed low, gently taking her hand to give it the courtly kiss of a gentleman high-born. “The famous Rose Cotton Gamgee! Your name precedes you, my dear. I have long wished to put a face to your fair name. Such a shame there is no lovelier flower to name a lass after, for a rose does not do you justice,” he said.

Rosie blushed and tittered. So this was the famous Son of Gondor she had heard so much about, long thought dead, but alive and well and now in her kitchen, bowing before her as though she were a princess. I heard he was a grand one, she thought, and now I see it is true when I had thought that his praises were but sentiment for a heroic death. How wonderful that some things are as true as true!

“May I be so bold as to enquire when the blessed event is to take place?” Boromir asked Sam.

“Please, sir,” Rosie laughed, “It is a hobbit-hole you are in, not a fine courtyard full of nobles! There ain’t no need to ask my Sammy first; we are plain folk here and do not expect such formalities. The little one is due next month.”

Just then what seemed to be a small swarm of young hobbits gathered in the kitchen. The eldest of these was a little lass with golden curls. Rarely had Boromir beheld a fairer child of any race.

“Faro, Theo! Did you bring me some more of those lovely candles?” the lass asked the hobbit lads.

“Elanor! Shush!” Theo hissed.

“Oops… ” Faro said. Pippin scowled at Faro. Merry scowled at Theo. Both of the lads squirmed. Boromir, unsure what was about to happen, but he was sure that something was about to happen, all right. However, Sam diffused the impending crisis, patting the boys on their heads.

“The lads spoke of a beekeeper friend, and I overheard the name ‘Boromir,’ but I never did put two and two together, ninnyhammer that I am. I should have remembered that bee-charming bit. And now, I’m owed a story, or I’m a troll,” was all Sam said. “You young ’uns go and play, now. There is sugarplums in the pie-safe, but don’t be fillin’ up on ‘em! It’s almost time for afternoon tea!”

As the youngsters filed out of the back door, Faro said, “Lasses! They never can keep a secret.”

“I heard you, Faro,” Elanor shot back. “Just remember, it was you told me about the Beeman!”

Pippin held one of Boromir’s hands, Sam captured the other hand, and the two hobbits pulled their friend into the hallway, then led him to the sitting room. Now that he felt better, he noticed his surroundings with no small amount of delight, in spite of his hunched-over walk. It was exactly as he had heard it was, a long, tubular hallway with all the best rooms on the left-hand side, each with merry little round windows giving a view of the lovely, rolling hills of Hobbiton. He had become accustomed now to looking for the sturdiest place to sit, and found a well-built stool on which to perch.

The Gamgee brood (and their numbers certainly qualified them as a brood) were a happy and noisy lot. They frequently tore through the hole, out the back door and back into the front, until Rosie chased them into the nursery. Boromir observed that Sam and Rosie had certainly been, well, rather productive, but said nothing aloud. What a wonderful family they seemed to him, and he wondered if Sam knew how blessed a hobbit he was.

Soon tea (just good old plain tea this time, thank goodness!) was served, and Boromir gave Sam and Rosie his tale. By the time he was done the afternoon was creeping away. Before supper Boromir and Pippin looked to the West together, as was their custom when they were together. After supper, well before the golden sunlight of a long summer day faded, Sam was eager to show off his garden, and Boromir was eager to see it. His days as a gardener were dear to him, and he had a hundred or more questions to ask Sam on the subject. Merry had almost accompanied them, but Pippin put his hand on his cousin’s arm, and with a conspirators wink, whispered, “Stay.”

They watched to two from the kitchen window as they walked and talked. Sam sat Boromir down on a broad bench just beyond the rose-bed and sat beside him, fishing his pipe out of his shirt pocket. Sam related to Boromir his own experience with the Ring, and described what had happened at Mount Doom, how the Ring had, at the last, all but devoured Frodo. Sam wept a little at this, and Boromir wordlessly laid his hand gently on Sam’s shoulder.

“Well, that’s what happened and now it comes back around to us, here and now,” said Sam, removing the stem of his pipe. He handed the stem to Boromir. "Take a look inside that,” he said. “See how it’s all clogged up? It needs cleanin’ out. Folks are kind ‘o like that, too, if you take my meanin’. Beggin’ your pardon, and no offense meant, but I’m thinkin’ you need to clean out your own stem, so to speak. You feel bad on account of what you done, and that’s a good thing. It shows you’re a gentleman o’ quality, plain as day. Only let me say a few things before we go any further. Did you ever think what might have happened if you hadn’t tried to take the Ring?”

Boromir bowed his head, seeming to draw into himself. “Every day, Sam. No matter how I try, it is always on my mind.”

“Well, I thought as much,” replied Sam softly. “Well, I’ll tell you what might have happened. If we had all been together, the Orcs would have surrounded us, and they’d have killed all of us what weren’t hobbits. Then they’d a-taken us all to Isengard, and I shudder to think what would have happened then. Saruman would have got it out of us, one way or t’other. I seen how Orcs work first-hand. They’d a-started with Pippin, on account of him bein’ the youngest and smallest. And in the end, they’d a-got it all out of us. And then it would have got really bad.”

Boromir’s head snapped up. Stamped on his face was a look of horror. His jaw worked, but no words came from his mouth. Sam retrieved the pipe-stem from Boromir’s hand and plucked a slender twig from a nearby shrub. He used the twig to clean the pipe-stem as he continued to speak. “You don’t have to tell me you’re sorry for what happened. The time we had together was only a short time, but we, that is my Master and me, we knew you well enough to know you would never have done what you done if it hadn’t been for that thing.” Putting the stem of his pipe back into the bowl, Sam sucked on it as though to test it, then pointed the stem at Boromir for emphasis. “You was always a fine Gentleman, even if you was a little hard-headed, beggin’ your pardon. Now don’t you go getting’ hard-headed on me about this! My old Gaffer taught me to always respect my betters, but it’s plain you need someone to talk some good hobbit sense into you!”

At this last, Boromir gave Sam a grin. “I would say now that which of us is a ‘better’ is open to fair debate, dear Sam,” he said humbly. “Goodly and comforting are you words to my ears,” he continued. “But for one thing, I would say no more to discomfit you. You see, Sam, I do have to say I am sorry, and in no small measure. I must do what I may to mend my wrongdoing. I cannot go back to the Light unless I do what I can to mend what I harmed, you see.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, but unless I’m mistaken, you do understand that things went the way they did for a reason,” countered Sam.

“Aye, I do understand that,” Boromir said, “But you see, I still must do all I can to make right my wrongs, dear Sam.”

“Well, now you’re talkin’ like a ninnyhammer,” Sam grinned, placing his pipe in his mouth. “See, it’s like my old Gaffer used to say: a black hen may lay a white egg. You just lay enough white eggs and that’ll take care o’ that, if you take my meanin’.”

“Still, my dear Samwise, I must beg your forgiveness.”

Sam watched Boromir closely. No doubt Boromir meant what he said. He needed to put things right if he could. “Well, if it means that much to you, then I’ll go along with it,” Sam said thoughtfully. “But there’s somethin’ else I’d like to tell you.

“Not so long before Mister Frodo left, I came in from trimmin’ the hedges one day. He was starin’ into the fire, and he looked like his heart was mighty heavy. ‘Sam,’ he says, ‘Do you ever think o’ Boromir?’ I told him that I did. ‘When I think of the last time I saw him, I never think of how frightened I was anymore,’ he says. ‘All I see now when I think of him is the torment in his heart. Even now I can hear him as he cried out for forgiveness as I ran away. I could feel the pain in his heart as clearly as if it was my own pain, yet I dared not turn back. How I wish I could have seen him, just once more, just to tell him that I understand. But I never did, and I never will.’ And then he wept. He wept for you. And I wept right along with him. He was your friend, as he told your brother. I know you think we must both have hated you, but we never did, and if you still think that after today, then you are a right ninnyhammer.”

Sam handed Boromir a handkerchief, and Boromir blew his nose loudly. “There’s a dear lad, now,” Sam said. “As soon as you have sorted yourself out, let’s go to the Green Dragon for a nice drink, Merry and Pippin and you and me.”

“A most agreeable suggestion,” Boromir said. “Only one more thing will I ask.”

“And what might that be?”

“Are you going to fill your pipe and have a smoke? An empty bowl cannot give you much satisfaction, I should think.”

Pippin and Merry could only smile as they watched Boromir and Sam laughing together in the fading sunlight. “Well,” observed Pippin, “I knew Sam could grow most anything, now I’ve seen for myself.”

“What have you seen, Pippin?” Merry asked. Pippin could make some wonderful observations. Who knew this better than Merry Brandybuck?

“That among all the other wonderful things, what grows in Sam’s garden is pain’s ease.” Pippin smiled.

Merry could only grin to himself. Let no one call Peregrin Took a fool, he thought. How he has grown from the sweet little baby I used to rock to sleep! I miss my little Pippin terribly sometimes, but what a wonderful hobbit you have grown to be!

But Merry said nothing at all, and only gave his cousin a little hug. It was all that needed to be said between these two.