A Seed is Planted at Harvestmath

Bluebell Fox curled up in a chair near the looking glass and watched Saro examine herself in the mirror, turning this way and that, and smoothing the fabric of the new frock with her hands. Bluebell, a tall, lovely girl soon to reach her fourteenth birthday, smiled at her friend. As the only daughter of the innkeeper and his wife, Bluebell never wanted for the small comforts of life, and she always gave her old garments to Saro, but Saro always refused Bluebell’s offers to give her a new frock. Saro knew the Fox family, though not poor, was most certainly not well off. Bluebell’s dresses were nice, but not what one might consider expensive in material or make, and Saro accepted her friend’s offers of the occasional garment with much gratitude. She understood these were gifts of the heart from a family that had taken pains to accept Saro on her own merits. The Fox family never judged her simply by her ill family name.

As Bluebell grew taller, the donated skirts needed hemming and the addition of a few tucks here and there, Saro being such a dainty girl. Knowing Saro’s lot in life, Bluebell often mourned the fact that she had never seen Saro in a new garment or pair of shoes. Seeing Saro with her first new dress warmed Bluebell’s heart and brought a gentle smile to her face.

“Here, try these on,” she said to Saro, and handed her a pair of slippers now too tight for Bluebell’s longer, more slender feet. Saro stepped into the shoes and a grin dimpled her cheek. Bluebell had grown a lot over the last little while, and so these slippers were nearly new, with little green wooden beads decorating the toes. “Come, let us go downstairs,” Bluebell said, eyes twinkling. “I cannot wait to see how you are received. You look so pretty! I am glad you had wine spilt on your old dress. Otherwise I might have been deprived of seeing you looking so stunning.” She took Saro’s hand and lead her downstairs, noting Saro’s cheeks were flushed a pretty pink with excitement.

Bluebell held Saro’s hand until they reached the door to the common room. Then, with a gentle push, Saro went through to door and Bluebell stood leaning against the wall to see how things went.

Saro moved slowly and carefully, as though she were dressed in the most fragile of garments, woven from spider’s webs and moonbeams. The men folk in her immediate vicinity tried not to stare at her, but they had never thought of her as anything but a hostess, just a little drudge, an assistant to the innkeeper’s wife and companion to her daughter. They knew her by name, knew her face, had heard her speak and sing, had seen her dance with visitors to make them feel welcome, had left coins on their tables for her service, but they had never truly looked at her. She was merely Saro, poor, threadbare little Saro, an invisible member of the working poor.

Now they actually saw her, and saw her for who she was. More, they saw the lass she might have been but for an unfortunate birthright. With surprise, they now saw a maiden with the potential to make any man proud. But the admiring looks of these men paled in comparison to those given her by Boromir, Merry, and Pippin. The way the hobbits looked at her made her feel proud. Had she had brothers of her own, she imagined they might very well have given her these same looks. Their bright faces and shining eyes gave her a sense of dignity. As they elbowed each other, smiling and nodding their approval, she felt enveloped in gentle warmth. But Boromir—he looked at her as though he beheld the first and fairest maiden to set foot upon Middle earth.

It mattered not to Boromir that she was not so tall or fair, that there was nothing of the Fair Folk or the nobly bred in her countenance. Indeed, Saro was short, almost petite. There were freckles on her nose, and her cheeks were tanned by the sun beneath which she toiled. Her hands were rough and red from her constant cleaning and the baking she did at the public ovens. Her hair, instead of being an immaculately and ornately groomed crown of gold or midnight black was, instead, a soft chestnut color, which she wore pulled back into a single simple braid.

She stood a few feet away from the three companions, plainly enjoying the looks on their faces. As she stood there, the innkeeper’s wife came to her and touched her shoulder gently. They could not make out what words the lady of the inn and Saro exchanged, but they must have been pleasant, because Saro smiled, and then the older woman gently embraced her. At last, placing her hands on Saro’s shoulders, she said, “Now go and have a bit of a visit with your new friends!” She turned the girl and guided her in the general direction of the table where Boromir and the hobbit cousins sat.

“I… I do not know what to say,” she said. “It’s a lovely frock, too lovely to spoil. But I have another frock at home. It will be my working dress. It used to be my best, until now. But—I do not know how I shall ever repay such kindness.”

“There is nothing to repay,” Pippin said. “It was I who ruined your dress. We only put to rights what I did wrong.”

“I—I do not know how to thank you all,” she said, first dropping a curtsy, then, more bold, she took Pippin’s hand and gave it a heartfelt squeeze. “You mustn’t feel badly about the wine, I am much more than compensated. Perhaps I should even thank you for it! Never would I have dreamt that wine stains would come to this, Master Took,” she said, touching the skirt of her new garment with something near to reverence.

“No, no, my dear, you must call me Pippin. All my friends do. Besides, we all made the purchase. If you really must thank us, well, if you would not think it forward, may I make a suggestion?” Pippins said, head cocked and voice soft. At his most charming, Pippin was impossible to refuse, and with his sunny smile and lilting voice, the Thain could be almost enchanting. “It is only the smallest of favors we would ask.”

“It would be my honor to hear your request,” she said.

“My wife, Diamond, and Master Meriadoc’s wife Estella, are both busy at the moment,” he said. “You see, my friend here,” he gestured at Boromir, “has none of the fairer sex to help him make his home a proper abode, and our wives are busy doing just that, so Master Meriadoc and I find ourselves robbed of dancing partners. Harvestmath Dance is, as you know, tomorrow eve. We both love to dance, but I fear Boromir here may prove an ill-fitting partner. Would you be so kind as to spare us the disappointment of missing the Dance? You see, we wish to attend, yet I fear some of the hobbit ladies may well—ahem—think we are, well, seeking female company, and we are both unwilling to indulge them in this regard. If you were there, however…”

Saro bit her lip, deep in thought. Finally, she nodded. “I will. I do not think there will be much gossip,” she said. “You are hobbits of great import, and heroes besides. I think no one will think of even the least little scandal. After all, we shall not go as a couple, but as a maid with respectable escorts. Yes, I will dance with you.” Here she paused and looked at her shoes. “The innkeeper and his wife have a daughter, Bluebell, who has outgrown her slippers. She has given me these, so my shoes will not be so ill matched. Besides, the old ones are so very worn. Those I shall wear for everyday. That way, I can save these for better occasions.”

“We saw you speaking with the lady of the inn,” Merry said. “She seems kind.”

“Yes, she is,” Saro said. “Master and Mistress Fox—that is their proper name—have been very kind to me. They helped me find my own room at the boarding house. It does not look like much, but it is my home. And the owner is a widow. She lost her husband in battle. He and some of the other Men of the village were defending the homes of hobbits. But the ruffians slew many of them before the Breelanders drove them away. She is without husband or even son, for young Tom—he too was slain—and with two daughters to feed, she made her home a boarding house. Many young ladies have dwelt there, and its reputation is without stain, else Mistress Fox would never have acquired the rooms for me. Holly, the little hobbit lass who wanted the doll, she and her mum live there, too. Holly lost her father in a cave-in before her birth. He was trying to build a home of their own between Bree and Whitfurrows, but after a terrible storm, the walls of the smial collapsed, and he was buried alive, poor thing. But just listen to me! I am babbling like a fool.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Merry said with a smile. “You are only excited a little, what with my cousin staining your frock and all. Pray, have another cup of wine with us! That will calm you.”

Saro smiled gently, and with a wink at her friends, said, “I believe I shall have another cup. Only, no toasting!”

Of course, there was no more toasting that evening. Not, Merry and Pippin quietly agreed, that Boromir would have noticed. Their friend said little, but only sat quietly much of the time, listening to Saro as she shared her memories of Harvestmaths past. When he did speak, his carefully chosen words encouraged Saro to continue, starting with asking if Holly had found a doll.

Now at ease, Saro spent a great deal of the time talking quietly, glancing often at Boromir, then dropping her eyes back to her hands in her lap or on the table. Merry and Pippin exchanged glances too, sharing a knowing look or two. Well acquainted with Boromir’s kind and gentle side, they came to understand they had never seen him apply this aspect of his nature in the presence of a maiden he found attractive, though they had seen him do so, and very respectfully, too, with their wives. Never garrulous, Boromir was a man of chosen words in regards to those he did not knew well, and he could even be quite reticent, but this was a different kind of quietness. As the evening grew old (and Saro more sure of herself) the three companions made plans to meet Saro at the pie vendor’s wagon, which would be very near to the center of the fairgrounds.

The hour grew late, and the inn began to empty itself for the night. Saro rose, bade them good evening, and vanished upstairs. As she left, Boromir gave a deep sigh, then, seeing the amused expressions on the faces of his friends, attempted to disguise the sigh with a quite broad yawn and stretch. “The day has been a long one, pleasant as it may have been,” he said. “Shall we retire to our room?”

“Yes, I rather think so,” Merry said with a gentle smile.

Settling in by the fire as they had done the previous night, Boromir sat quietly as Merry and Pippin enjoyed a bowl of pipe weed, watching his friends attempt to out-do one another as they skillfully blew smoke rings.

“So, Boromir, are you happy with the choices you made today?” Pippin said, his tone almost comically casual.

“In regards to what?” Boromir said, giving his friend a wary, sideways glance.

“In regards to furniture and——whatnot,” Pippin said with a slight shrug.

“If it’s the whatnot you are referring to, I am indeed happy. I only hope Miss Whatnot will reciprocate in kind. The pots and pans I particularly like, if indeed you are referring to the purchases I made today. Will your wives approve of the furniture, do you think?”

“Indeed, how not?” said Merry. “That headboard——it set you back a pretty penny, but I do like it. It is not often one finds such skilled woodworking in these parts. I expect it is due to all the harvest holidays. Many of us hobbits have never seen the sea, though we have seen seashells. The shells carved on the headboard——what are they called?”

“We call them Lion’s Paws, though I am sure they have other names among other people.” Boromir said.

“Beautifully carved,” Pippin said with a nod. “I like the little hidden drawers in it. Very clever, that.”

“Then I may assume you think my choices sound?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure I may speak for Merry as well, when I say you’ve chosen wisely, and I think our wives will approve——of all your choices.”

“Indeed, there is a blessing!” Boromir laughed. “I dare say I should pity the maiden that I might have chosen unwisely.”

“There’s the truth of it!” Merry agreed, “They are so very fond of you. I think they quite enjoy fussing after you.”

“Truly spoken,” added Pippin. “Our sweethearts are very kind-hearted, and love to do what they may for the sake of goodness, but they have especially taken to you. They cannot abide thinking of you living all alone, and worry about you, probably overmuch. Still, I do understand it. I cannot say the thought of you all alone does not bother me, somehow. If you stay all alone all the time, you’ll wind up all alone for all time.”

Boromir scratched his head as he attempted to muddle through Pippin’s little speech. Merry, however, being used to Pippin’s way of speaking at times in a circular manner, had no trouble at all. “Aye,” he said with a nod of agreement. “I sometimes worry, thinking of you rattling about in your cabin without a soul to share your days.”

“But I am not alone,” Boromir laughed. “My friends are always with me, at least in my heart, and I have my work. Also, my cats and Lady Grey are good company.”

“No doubt they are,” Merry said. “But they cannot be of much use for the purpose of good conversation.”

“But Lady Grey and my cats are most excellent listeners,” Boromir grinned. “I can share any confidence with them and they never tell a soul.”

“At any rate,” Pippin said, “I believe I have the right of it when I say that I think you are lonely, and that you might long for female companionship. Do not look at me like that! I know I am impertinent!”

Boromir, laughing, shook his head. “And so you are,” he said, “But you are, of course, right. I had my Ruby long enough to understand the rewards of such companionship. I think the both of you would have come to love her. I am sure of it.”

“I am sure in equal measure that you know best,” Pippin said warmly, and patted his friend’s arm. “You could not have loved her so, otherwise. How you must miss her. I cannot bear the thought of losing my Diamond.” Here Pippin grew silent, his brow drawn as he nibbled on the stem of his pipe. Now Boromir patted Pippin’s arm.

“I pray you do not find out any time soon,” he said. “And I pray the same for Merry. But all this talk of such sorrows has made you two miss your wives, I can tell. Such excellent ladies they are, both. You are blessed, and with such wonderful sons, as well. I should like a houseful of such offspring!”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Merry laughed. “They can be a handful; a houseful might prove too much!”

“I knew a few soldiers with children,” Boromir said. “I always liked to visit them. Children were in such scarce supply in my city. But I want many children.”

“Then you had best see to your task, for you are not getting any younger,” Pippin said with a generous helping of cheek.

“Rascal!” Boromir laughed, and gave him a playful cuff. “Much more of such sauce and you’ll not get much older!”

“I’m terrified,” Pippin said dryly. “But children are not soldiers, Boromir, most especially the lasses, and I should know, as I have three sisters.”

“Surely girls cannot be so difficult as all that,” said Boromir, an expression of doubt on his features, one eyebrow arched.

“Oh, ho!” Pippin rolled his eyes. “If you truly believe that, well, you are badly mistaken!”

“Come, come, now, surely not! I love little girls, they are so sweet and soft, and very affectionate.”

“You only think that because you are so easily wrapped around their fingers, Boromir; I’ve seen you playing with Sam’s daughters, and with other lasses. But sisters, or daughters—they are another matter altogether, I tell you.”

“Now, now, children,” Merry said with his best mock scowl, “Enough of this squabbling. Tomorrow is another day. More to the point, tomorrow night is Harvestmath Dance! I think we should turn in soon.”

“Aye, that we should,” Pippin said.

Boromir saw Merry grimace, giving him a sympathetic glance. Merry knew, of course, why Boromir felt the way he did about little girls, it was because… No! Do not think of it just now, Boromir scolded himself, not when it is bedtime, and dreams lie just beyond the closing of your eyes. You shall have that inquisitive Took worrying himself again. Does he think you are hiding something from him? He would be right to do so… You must think of something else!

Forcing these thoughts from his mind, he watched Pippin yawn, and wondered for the thousandth time how anyone so small could yawn so hugely and so very, very loudly. He allowed himself a grin and a chuckle, but the yawn spread between the three of them like a cold, and he found himself stretching and yawning as well. “I’m for bed,” he said, rising and scratching his ribs. Merry and Pippin did likewise—an onlooker would have found the sight rather comic as the three all scratched and shuffled off to their beds to undress and slip between cool sheets over which cozy blankets lay spread. They bade each other goodnight, making quite a round robin of the business. The day had been a busy one, and they were drowsy with weariness and wine. As Boromir shut his eyes, he turned his mind to the evening to come. The possibility of dancing with Saro under the Harvestmath moon soon drove away any other thought. Sleep claimed them swiftly— and especially for Boromir, peacefully.

After breakfast, they decided to go back to the fairgrounds. To the delight of the three, they ran into some of the little children Boromir thought of as his urchins. Most of the little ones had taken their coins home to their families, so that all might visit the fair. Some of the young ones had lost a parent to ill health or ill fortune, and these were delighted to introduce at last the remaining parent to their friend ‘the Beeman’. Standing near them, and a little apart from the others they saw little Holly, and beside her, holding her hand was a hobbitess who in every aspect seemed the grown-up version of little Holly. In one arm she held a little hobbit doll made of cloth, with wooden beads for eyes and a shock of brown yarn for hair.

“I am so pleased to meet the friend of my Holly,” she said. “I am Lily Thornbush. May I thank you for your kindness, sir?”

“How good it is to meet you, my lady,” Boromir replied with courtly bow. “But if you please, Ma’am, it would be my preference that you not thank me, Ma’am, for it is I who should thank you, so fond am I of little Holly. She is a delight, and my day is made brighter each time we meet.” He looked from little Holly to her mother and added, “ May I ask if you have attended any tea-parties yet?” He indicated the little doll, and Lily smiled warmly.

“Oh, yes, we have had tea, and breakfast, and second breakfast, and soon will be enjoying elevenses,” she smiled. “Her name is Saro, for it was Saro who helped Holly to find the doll maker.”

“A most fortunate happenstance,” Boromir said. He knelt before Holly, and bowed himself still lower to be at her level. “And who chose your doll? Was it you?”

“Saro picked Saro,” Holly said, then, realizing what she had just said, gave a bubbling little laugh. “That sounded silly, didn’t it?”

“Oh, not at all, not at all. Such a lucky little doll, to be picked by Saro.” He gently tugged at the doll’s forelock with a soft smile. “And now she has you and your mother to take care of her. She is a lucky doll, indeed. I wager Saro was more than happy to help you find just the right one.”

“Yes, Saro is always so very nice. She lives in the same place as Mum and me.”

“Does she, now? Saro is very fond of you, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Holly said. “She is going to come to Harvestmath Dance tonight. She has a new dress. It is very pretty, and some day I should like to have one like it.”

“Oh, but that is the dress of a grown-up lady,” Boromir said. “I hope you shan’t be wearing grown-up dresses too soon, for I would miss my little friend terribly.”

“Don’t worry, Mister Beeman! I shall be a little lass for a while just yet.” She suddenly threw her arms about his neck and hugged him tightly, dropping a wet little kiss on his cheek. “Thank you ever so much for being my friend,” she said.

Boromir held her gently for a moment, and kissed her cheek in return. “No, little lady, it is I who should thank you.” Then he stood and waved at the modest crowd of young ones and parents as they moved off. Pippin couldn’t help noticing the unusual look on his face, as if his friend was remembering something which saddened him, but before he could ask if all was well, Boromir cleared his throat rather loudly, and then with a “Let us find that pie-vendor!” the man turned quickly and strode away.

Pippin watched him walk a few steps ahead before following. He turned to Merry and said, “He bears his wounds secretly and very deep, I fear.”

“Yes, Pip, he does,” Merry said, laying a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “I know it is hard for you, but we both must let him carry his wounds as he will. You worry too much. I thought worrying too much was my post.”

“Yes, you do it so well,” Pippin grinned. “Here you are, worrying about me worrying! Well, whatever it is, I hope some fine day it will haunt him no more——or at least not so much.”

“I wish that as well, but for now, let us leave it behind, and catch up with him,” Merry said, giving Pippin a nudge with his elbow. “I am sure he has sniffed out the pie-vendor, and I am ready for more of those lovely stuffed mushrooms.”

Pippin beamed. “That does sound tasty,” he said, and they trotted together to catch up with their friend.

Boromir had indeed sniffed out the pie-vendor, and the tables were laden with pies and tarts of every kind, along with the savory stuffed mushrooms they enjoyed so much. Having made their purchases, they set to the pleasant duty of filling their bellies. After they accomplished this task, they decided to retire to their room for a nap, and later a nice, hot bath. The bathhouse overflowed with patrons making ready for the evening, and red-faced attendants bustled about with buckets of steaming water, brushes, towels, and soap. Pippin had changed but little in regard to his bathing habits: They still involved enthusiastic splashing and very loud singing. His voice, though pleasing to the ear, rang loudly throughout the bathhouse. To Boromir’s amusement, some of the other bathers even joined along. Apparently, the bath-song was popular in these parts.

After bathing, back in their room, they brushed their clothing, and then Boromir polished his boots. Regardless of the many times they had seen Men do this chore, the process fascinated Merry and Pippin, and Boromir hid a smile at the close attention they paid to his busy hands. The afternoon dragged on for the three of them, most especially for Boromir, but for the hobbits as well: They were eager to see what would happen at the dance. The remains of the day they filled with small talk and tea, along with the bitter herbs in Boromir’s cup and the comic faces he always made upon drinking it; he dared not miss a dose with Merry’s hawkish gaze on him, knowing his friend’s willingness to give him ‘what for’ should he attempt to skip his medicine.

At last, the skies grew darker and the first stars began to kindle in the autumnal sky.

Before leaving their room, Boromir went to the mirror to inspect his appearance. All but nose-to-nose with his own image, he re-brushed his hair, re-smoothed his brows, re-examined his beard, and re-tugged at his clothing—all for the sixth time in the last half-hour. Hearing the stifled laughter of his friends, he graced them with a look that came near to an outright glare. Of course, this made Merry and Pippin laugh harder still.

“Friends, I am not myself,” he said.

Pippin snickered. “Indeed,” he said, “You are to be pitied, I think. And now you have gone to sulking.”

Boromir, red-faced with embarrassment, stammered. Then, struggling for something to say, sputtered, “Nothing!” He stalked to the door, then, turning to his friends, he paused. His embarrassment slowly abated, and he leaned against the door, laughing so hard at himself that he had to wipe his eyes. “Come, come,” he said, gesturing to them to join him.

The streets were filled with folk both little and large: In Bree, Hobbits and Men shared almost all aspects of their lives, both the joyous and the sorrowful, and this evening they all moved together in the direction of the fair-grounds. So many were there that the three companions walked together in a tight little knot, so that they should not be separated, and though they walked crowded together, they walked nonetheless merrily.

Though they did not notice, one figure walked behind them, careful not to lose sight of them. Pale and weak, it was quite a struggle for him to keep up, but he did manage to do so, and hung back a way, watching as the three friends meet up with Saro, who had brought along her friend, Bluebell Fox.

Already the minstrels had begun to play. Pippin, smiling, held his hand out to Saro. “Lady, will you dance with your friend a while?”

Laughing, she accepted his hand and returned his bow with a curtsy. The tune was a lively one, calling for a dance which involved a great deal of circling about one another as they wheeled around a slender alder in the exact middle of the field. From its branches hung a great many tiny lanterns, lending an enchanted quality to the dancing area, and Merry, Boromir and Bluebell watched Saro and Pippin, smiling and laughing as they danced, wheeling and whirling around the tree. Merry held his hand out to Bluebell, and soon they had joined Saro and Pippin, swirling and spinning about the little alder. The wheeling dancers moved closer together, and as Bluebell caught Saro’s eye, she indicated that Saro should look in Boromir’s direction. Merry and Pippin glanced at their friend and grimaced. The poulterer’s daughter had found him.

“Oh, dear, what ever can he do?” Merry moaned.

“We have made a mistake, leaving him on his own like that,” Pippin said.

The music ended and the next tune taken up. Merry and Pippin, along with Saro and Bluebell paused briefly to catch their breath before taking up the tune. Saro watched Boromir closely. What would he do? She knew what most men would do—they would find whatever excuse they might to get away from an undesirable girl. Though Saro knew the poulterer’s daughter to be kind-hearted, poor thing, she really was a homely girl with her large, sharp nose, bug eyes and tiny chin. So unfortunate, that it made her look too much like a chicken to suit any of the town’s men. Surely, Boromir would scorn her, just as Saro, herself had been scorned by so many.

Then as the music rose, Saro saw something she would never forget. Boromir took the homely girl’s hand and walked with her under the alder, where they took up the tune and danced. He smiled kindly at the girl, and one might never have known whether he felt discomfited to be seen with her. Like something from a storybook—a noble fellow who could never humiliate a woman, no matter what the circumstances, Boromir demonstrated only the kindliest manner with the girl.

Bluebell placed an arm around Saro’s shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Well, will you look at that! I have never seen the poor thing dance before. She has always been left standing all to herself. I do not think I have ever seen her smile so. How happy he has made her!”

“She looks so…different,” Saro said. “See, he is talking with her as well. I thought surely he would have told her some tale to get out of it, but he has not.”

“Because he would not embarrass her so,” Merry said. “If you knew him as we do, you would know that, Saro.”

“He has always seemed quite the gentleman to me,” Saro said. “Only, I did not know him to be so…so…”

“Kind? Charming? Or is it something more?” Pippin prodded.

“Yes,” Bluebell said. “It is something more, I think, but I do not know the words to use.”

“My dear ladies, as Merry said, if you but knew him as well as we, you would understand. She could be a dowager with a hump and warts on her nose, and he would not insult her,” Pippin said. “Nor would he see her made a fool before the whole town. No matter how he may feel about her, it is a matter of principle: To dishonor a lady is to dishonor himself.”

“Yet…it is more than even that, I think,” Saro said. “I do think it has to do with kindness, or perhaps…. Gracefulness. It is as if he feels that treating her as one who is as pretty as any other girl will make her so in her own eyes.”

“Yes, that is the very truth of it, Saro! He is making her feel…well… at ease with herself, I think,” said Bluebell. Her smooth brow furrowed in thought. The word for which she sought was elan, though she would not have known it. “I hope you have the sense to dance with him, should he ask. And I am sure he shall ask!”

“I suppose that is a possibility,” Pippin said, and squeaked as Merry dug into his ribs with an elbow. “In the meantime, lest I forget my own manners, would you care to have a wee dance, Miss Fox? No sense in the rest of us missing out the rest of the tune!”

“I will, kind sir,” Bluebell said with a smile as pretty as her name. They joined the rest of the dancers, and soon Merry joined in with Saro. When this last tune ended, they all stopped for a bit of wine. The poulterer’s daughter, flushed with her first dance with anyone besides her brothers or father, skipped off to chat with her sisters. From a distance they looked like a flock of plump hens. Saro, Boromir and the rest were only just finishing their wine and were about to return to their places near the minstrels when Boromir felt a tug at his sleeve.

“Holly!” Boromir grinned, lifting the little one in his arms.

“Why, Holly,” Saro said. “I am so happy to see you!”

“Hallo, Saro,” smiled Holly. “You look so very pretty tonight! Mother says we must go home soon—it is past my bedtime. But I wanted to ask…”

“Yes, darling?”

“Is it at all proper for a little lass to dance with a grownup? Mother said I shouldn’t ask, but I really would like to dance.”

“Holly…where is your mother?” Boromir asked.

He felt a tap on his arm and turned to find a breathless Lily Thornbush. “Here I am, and this little imp has given me the slip once too often tonight! Holly, you must come away. We shouldn’t be bothering these good folk; they are here to dance with one another.”

“Do not fret, Mistress Thornbush,” Boromir said. “Holly could never be a bother. Would you be so kind as to allow me to dance with her before she must go?”

“Well, I…” Lily looked from Boromir’s hopeful expression to Holly’s small face.

“Please, Mum,” said the child. Her eyes were wide and pleading.

“I suppose one dance can’t do too much harm,” Lily relented, grinning at her inability to refuse her daughter something she wanted so badly to do.

“My thanks to you, lady! I’ll bring her straight back!” Off Boromir went with little Holly squealing in delight. Their companions watched him spin about a while with Holly still in his arms, but then the dance turned into a pony-ride before Boromir returned the giggling lass to her mother’s arms. “Remember now, Holly!” Boromir said, wagging a finger at the tiny lass. “No more running away from your mother!”

“I promise!” Holly said, giggling and bright-eyed. As Lily led her little one away with a smile and a wave, each one holding a doll’s hand, Boromir watched them go.

“No more running away,” he mumbled.

Something about the way he said it caught Pippin’s ear. Looking at Boromir, he saw something sad, some dark memory, flit across his friend’s face, and then he saw Boromir shake it off. “Saro, would you like to—“

“Ladies round the tree!” cried one of the singers. “Gentlemen round the ladies!”

Laughing, Saro and Bluebell skipped off to take their places. Boromir groaned, “Will I never dance with her?” He strode away with his friends to form a circle around the ladies. The musicians struck up the tune and the ladies, joining hands, began to move in a counterclockwise motion about the tree, whilst the gents, also joining hands, moved in clockwise motion around the ladies. Whoops and shouts of encouragement filled the air. Those not dancing clapped their hands and stamped their feet in time. After the dance ended all the dancers were truly thirsty, and wine of every kind flowed, along with beer and cider. Feeling a bit tipsy, Boromir grew bolder, and when the musicians next struck a tune, livelier than any yet heard, he grasped Saro’s hand.

“Now really,” he said with a smile, and cleared his throat impressively. “You must dance with me, Saro,” he said. “I have a dance to show you. I learnt it from a lady of Harad, and I daresay you have never seen its like.”

“A lady of Harad?”

“Indeed. She was a dusky, sloe-eyed lass. Her people are wonderful dancers. I met her at court, when I—when I was still a soldier. Her sire was an emissary.”

“Well, I…are you sure I can learn it?”

“Do not worry, I have seen you dance. Come, I shall show you.” Taking her hand, he led her to the outskirts of the dancing field.

From a distance their friends watched. Boromir stood behind Saro, and taking her wrists, he raised them above her head, then placed his hands about her trim waist, guiding her to sway, and began to move with her. Though the dance was in no way vulgar, there was something about it that seemed quite sensual. Drums drove the dancers on and on, the pulsing beat calling forth in all who danced all the wonderful passion of a harvest season, rivaled only by the ardent dances of spring. Now, moving around to face Saro, Boromir locked eyes with his partner

Their friends watched with fascination, for this new dance had a definite flavor of the foreign and exotic, like a rare spice from some far away place, perhaps a distant desert or the darkness of a steamy forest, where strange birds in brilliant plumage called to their mates and unknown flowers filled the air with unfamiliar perfume. Saro and Boromir danced as though mutually enchanted, neither seeing or acknowledging anyone or anything around them. At that exact moment, their friends witnessed a remarkable thing: They saw two dancers caught in each other’s eyes, as though in a spell, saw two hearts suddenly linked, irrevocably and completely. As though in a vision, the dancers transformed before their eyes, becoming something else, something new and bright and enduring, like the birth of a star. More wonderful still, when the dance ended, Saro went willingly into Boromir’s arms, and as they embraced, she offered him her mouth, oblivious to all around her. Boromir gathered her trembling form in his arms, as though to do so was to make her safe from any harm, any sadness, any wrong, and kissed her tenderly, as if in doing so he could mend all hurts and dry every tear. The spell was cast, their fates entwined, and it seemed the harvest moon burned all the brighter for all who saw. The seed, planted firmly, quickened, and as the leaves of the alder fell, the spirits of Saro and Boromir rose to join the stars and moon, now dancing invisible to all but their friends.

A new tune rose. Boromir, still embracing Saro, still caught in her eyes, guided her into the crowd of dancers, where the music, this time a slow, romantic song, moved all the dancers about the way the breeze moved the falling, golden leaves of the autumnal alder.