Chapter Three: Hope Fails

“It’s all Pimple’s doing, I tell you!” Paladin was indignant. “He brought them here in the first place. Did you know that he ripped down the old mill in Hobbiton and had Menbuilt a new one for him? A horrible thing; all steam and smoke, polluting both air and water.”

Esmeralda had seldom seen her brother so outraged. His fathomless eyes glistened like livid fire and his stern face was grim and dark, as he paced up and down before them, too worked up to sit still. “I’m sure he’s also responsible for all the leaf and food that went away down the old road out of the Southfarthing. That was men too, though back then they didn’t stay in the Shire like they do nowadays. I wanted to go up to Bag End and have a word with him; tell him that he had no right to play the chief, not as long as there still is a Thain in the Shire. But then the snow came and spoiled my plans. I’m not yet done with Pimple, though. I will go up the Hill as soon as I get a chance!”

“I should come with you,” Saradoc agreed. “He put us through a lot of trouble over at Buckland. Weird folk want to cross the Bridge, but most of them have an ill-favoured look on them and we wouldn’t let them in.”

“Good! Don’t let them. Double the guard if you must, but don’t let any more in. They are too many already. People fear them, especially since they grow bolder with each day.”

At his last words he turned to Esmeralda and his face softened. “Do you see now why I wanted neither you, nor Berilac and Nel to come, even though my heart aches to see them? The roads are not safe anymore.”

Esmeralda shivered unintentionally, but quickly pushed aside the memory of a squint-eyed man, barring the road for hers and Saradoc’s ponies. He had asked them where they were going and what business brought them there. When Saradoc had told him that he was not answerable to a brute lurking on the wayside he had snapped a finger in his face and growled: “Don’t you get uppish on me, or you’ll see what’ll happen to you when the Chief finds out.”

Esmeralda took a sip of her tea to drive out the sudden cold. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again they were clear and determined. “So you would deny me to come and talk about something that concerns all – the four of us probably more than any other?” Esmeralda shook her head and looked fixedly at her brother. “You know we haven’t come to talk about the problems in the Shire, Pal. Neither do we ask your advice as Thain, though it is gladly taken.”

Paladin sighed heavily and plopped into his chair. To Esmeralda it seemed that a shadow fell over his face and for a long moment he spoke no more. Silence crept into the Thain’s sitting-room and with it an uncomfortable feeling of foreboding. Esmeralda felt her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her mouth was dry and her skin seemed to prickle with agitation. Suddenly, she caught Eglantine’s eyes, glittering ominously in the firelight, and knew that her sister-in-law would rather not have her mouth the question she had come to ask. Esmeralda looked at her apologetically and Eglantine nodded. The Thain’s wife understood her.

“What did you See?” Esmeralda asked at length and found her voice trembled.

The tension and suspense in the room seemed to increase to an almost unbearable level. Esmeralda clutched her teacup with both hands, so did Eglantine. Saradoc sat up straight in his chair his eyes fixed on his cousin. All of them knew about the Thain’s Gift of Seeing. But Paladin sat motionless, his head bowed and his hands folded on the table.

“What, Pal?” Esmeralda urged in a tight voice. “You did See something, didn’t you?”

The tension became unbearable. To Esmeralda it seemed that everybody held their breath; but Paladin sat unmoving, his eyes closed as if he was lost in deep concentration. At long last he shook his head and his expression became one of pain and sorrow. “Nothing I can make sense of.”

“But they are alive?” Saradoc pressed.

Paladin looked at him sadly. Eglantine laid her hand onto her husband’s and squeezed it gently. “I don’t know.”

Esmeralda jumped to her feet and her chair fell back behind her. “What good is that gift of yours,” she burst out, “when it can’t even tell you whether our sons are all right?”

Paladin looked startled, but before he could reply Eglantine got up as well and her eyes glinted. “Stop it, Esme! We are distraught too, but he can’t force it. You know that and I know it.” She looked at Paladin sympathetically, then bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Though I wish it was not so. Just one glimpse, one proof of his –” she paused, took a deep breath and corrected herself, “of their being alive and I would wish for nothing else this Yule or ever again.”

Esmeralda felt her body quake with sudden weakness and was glad when Saradoc got up to hold her and gently made her sit down in his chair. For a moment he knelt beside her, held her, supported her, and watched her anxiously. Grateful as she was, Esmeralda could not make herself lift her head and look into his eyes – or into anybody else’s. The constant fear had become too hard to bear and she felt ashamed to no longer control herself.

“Here, drink this.” She looked up when Paladin offered her a small glass filled with a clear, golden liquid. “Brandy,” he told her. “I’m afraid it can’t compete with Buckland’s but it will help nonetheless.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and felt the tears rising to her eyes, but wouldn’t allow them to spill over.

“Never mind,” Paladin replied and once again offered her the glass which she now gratefully accepted.

~*~*~

Esmeralda started blankly into the impenetrable darkness of their room and listened to Saradoc’s heartbeat and his breathing. She felt the regular rise and fall of his chest beneath her ear and smelled the musk of pipe weed, ink, dry grass, and the damp smell of the riverside. She took peace from it in spite of the tumult in her head.

It had been a tiring day. Esmeralda had to prepare rooms for another family of five coming in from the vicinity of Newbury, where they no longer felt safe. An oppressing silence had settled on Brandy Hall, especially in the last couple of days. Adamanta, whom she had grown to love like a sister, was quiet and pale and though she did not admit it Esmeralda knew that she feared for Berilac. It was now ten days since her nephew had been injured and still he would only wake from time to time and when he did he was delirious. Fastred had checked on him several times, but no matter what he did the fever still burned in Berilac and the wound, though cleaned and treated with care was inflamed. Esmeralda found she worried as much about Berilac as she worried about her own son, fosterling and nephew of late. Her heart struggled to hold on to hope for all of them. Giving in was too easy, yet she wouldn’t let despair claim her as long as she had enough strength to fight it.

“No help will come, will it?” she asked in a low voice and Saradoc turned to look at her even though he could not see her.

He kissed her hair and held her tighter but made no reply. Esmeralda knew the answer. The Tooks, she knew, had trouble enough themselves. There was a close watch on Tookland and no one got in or out. Paladin had gone to Bag End and this was the price he paid for it. Perhaps it was the Brandybucks’ luck that Saradoc had never got a chance to take Lotho to task. The assault on Haysend had bound him to his own land and though Buckland was similarly cut from the outside world it could have been much worse. Saradoc might have joined Will Whitfoot in the Lockholes, as they had come to call the old storage tunnels in Michel Delving. The ruffians had taken the Mayor there only two weeks after the Brandybucks’ visit to the Tooks. He wanted to have a word with Lotho about the damage that had been done. Not that the Men had not done any damaging before, but they had stopped making amends, and nowadays all the Shire was slowly turning into a waste.

The rivers had been fouled and not even the Bucklanders would dare any longer to have a swim in the Brandywine, even if they had a mind for such leisure. Trees had been cut down and burned in horrible new machineries that stank and smoked. If Esmeralda had considered the roads unsafe half a year ago they were now positively dangerous. The ruffians had founded their own little communities in the Woody End, Longbottom; and Waymeet where they lived in ugly un-Shirelike sheds. As if that wasn’t enough everybody now had to answer to the Shiriffs and explain their business. They had put up a huge Shiriff-house in Frogmorton, the seat of the First Eastfarthing Troop. It was ridiculous and true enough, most hobbits were not there of their own free will but even among the Shire-folk were some that liked to stuck their noses into other people’s affairs. They spied, too, and used the old Quick Post service for their abominable business.

There was no way of getting news from other parts of the Shire anymore and the hobbits had become too afraid to rise up. Dear Fatty Bolger and his band of rebels were the last to stand up against the ruffians up in Brockenbores by the hills of Scary and now they all sat in the Lockholes as well.

Esmeralda shuddered and drew the blankets closer about her and Saradoc. The Master and the Hall were the only ones left in Buckland that still resisted the rule of the ruffians and every minute Esmeralda feared the next blow. She could not bear even the thought of Saradoc being taken to the Lockholes. Sudden fear clutched her and she clung to her husband and pressed her body against the warmth of his as if to assure herself that he was still with her. Then she kissed him and smiled in spite of herself. He had already fallen asleep. She closed her eyes to follow his example.

~*~*~

Merimac sat on his bed, slightly bent to ease his back which had still not quite recovered from the blow he had received. His expression bore the strange calm of one lost in a pleasant dream. His eyes were closed and his fingers twitched and flexed in rhythm to a slow, smooth tune he was humming, as if he were playing on an invisible instrument. The melody was melancholy, yet not sad, but full of remembrance. Its notes were mellow and in spite of their poignancy they had a strangely soothing effect. It lifted the grief from his heart, although his mind was borne to the past until he was entirely lost in memory.

Merimac found himself sitting in one of Brandy Hall’s common rooms. It was late evening and a fire flickered in the hearth plunging the room into pleasant warmth and light. Several generations of hobbits were assembled, the youngest of which sat on their parents’ knees, several of them already struggling to keep their eyes open. Others were engrossed in some game or other, or listened to one of many stories told. The elders sat on a table with a pint and a pipe, wrapped in a cloud of smoke, talking about days gone by and at the same time enjoying to watch the younger generations grow into their own.

It was one of the evenings Merimac nowadays associated most with life in Brandy Hall. The peaceful togetherness, the silent understanding, the knowledge that there were always new generations of hobbit children that would one day step into the footsteps of their elders. It was one of those evenings when Merimac would have plopped down near the fireside, one arm around Adamanta, the other holding Berilac or, later on, Bluebell and feel blessed and content.

It was on evenings like that that he would from time to time have brought one of his pennywhistles to entertain family, friends and distant relations. He was considered one of the best players and everybody would listen with joy on their faces. Sometimes they would clap along or even get up and dance, and sometimes they would simply sit still, lost it seemed, in some other time or world. Berilac would listen with pure admiration on his young face and it was him Merimac now thought of most. Shining green eyes, rosy cheeks and curly light-brown hair, leaning sleepily against his mother’s chest and yet he watched the quick movement of Merimac’s fingers as if memorising it.

He never took to playing. The boy had too much energy to be bothered with a musical instrument, but to this day he would listen with the same rapt attention as back then.

Merimac opened his eyes and found he still sat in the dimly lit room he shared with Adamanta. Yet, his mind was made up. He was ready to face another day and he would share this new song with his son. Quickly he went to the chest on the other side of the room and chose one of the lower tuned pennywhistles to take with him to Berilac.

Every morning his way brought him to his son first and like on most other mornings Merimac found Pimpernel already at his side. Merimac stopped in the doorway and watched her with compassion. After some pressure from Adamanta and himself the girl had finally agreed to take more care of herself, but to Merimac she still seemed pale and drained. She did no longer bother to bind her long auburn curls, but let them dangle freely over her shoulders. Her eyes were swollen and though she never showed her anguish in front of him or Adamanta Merimac did not doubt that she cried herself to sleep every night, much like Bluebell wept in silence. Hope waned and the strain became harder to bear every day. Merimac, too, felt a gloom stronger than he had ever imagined possible. It was not in the hobbits’ nature, much like what was happening in the Shire did not fit anymore.

He leaned his head against the doorframe, silently taking in the intimate scene before him, unsure, if he was allowed to interrupt. Nel knelled beside Berilac’s bed, one hand caressing his cheek, the other holding one of his hands. The light of the fire was on her back and her languid shadow danced over Berilac’s unconscious form like a timid animal.

“Don’t give up, Berilac,” she entreated him and kissed the back of his hand. “Don’t leave me now. I need you and,” a quiet sob escaped her lips as she brought his hand to her cheek, “so does our child.”

Merimac’s heart skipped a beat. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. His fingers loosened the grip around the wooden pennywhistle only to clasp it the tighter a moment later. Unbelievable joy flooded through him, closely followed by dismay and horror. “Not into a world like this!” he thought. “Not without the father.” His eyes fell upon Berilac’s pale, thin face and the sunken cheeks, and now it was him who silently entreated his son. “Wake up, Berilac. For all that’s still good and green on this earth, wake up!”

Without a sound Merimac walked into the room to place his hand on Pimpernel’s shoulder. The girl jumped and her head jerked round sharply. “Merimac?” her voice was full of disbelieve, fear even.

He nodded and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. Nel’s eyes were wide and a shiver ran through her body. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t --, I don’t know anything anymore.” She buried her face in her hands and wept helplessly.

For a long moment Merimac stood beside her, unmoving, hardly breathing. He saw Berilac and Pimpernel, heard her hopeless cries, yet he was blind and deaf, struck by the same numbness he had felt when Berilac had sunk to the ground with blood sipping from his belly. Never had he expected to feel like this the day he learned he was going to be a grandfather.

“Nel,” he forced himself back to the present and got down to his knees to gather the weeping girl up and pull her to her trembling feet with him. “It’s going to be fine, Nel.” The meaningless words left his lips before he could repress them. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

And as Pimpernel buried her face in his chest and he combed through her hair to sooth her, he wished more than ever that the road to the Tooks was still open. Pimpernel needed her family, her mother, not her father-in-law who was himself struggling with everything that had come to pass.

~*~*~

“They came just before dawn. There were at least twice as many as last week. They were upon us before anybody could raise the alarm. They beat up me brother and everybody who didn’t relent willingly. They said they’re taking them to the Lockholes. All of them! How shall I ever tell my poor ma?”

Saradoc hastened through the corridors in search of his brother. Already he had sent Marmadas, Seredic, Milo and several others to the southern fields, though if young Tip was right, the crop and everything else he had so eagerly awaited to harvest was lost to the Hall. The tween’s words echoed in his mind. “It was mere luck that saved me, but I just couldn’t run. I stayed and watched from a distance, and – oh, it’s all my fault! If only I hadn’t waited!”

The poor lad was devastated and nothing Saradoc said would console him. He had left him in Esme’s care and run off to find his brother. He didn’t even know why he was looking for him. Tip was convinced the ruffians were having as close a watch on the fields as the Bucklanders had, and nothing Merimac could say or do would help him regain them. Yet Saradoc needed him at his side, where he had always been; a source of support and encouragement.

Saradoc heard his brother before he saw him. A sweet, peaceful melody reached his ear as he advanced Berilac’s sickroom and went straight into his heart. Saradoc stopped short, strangely touched by the tune. It seemed to him that it felt both, sad and hopeful and he could not help but wait and listen. Silently he walked to the door and watched his brother from its frame. Merimac had his back turned to him. His body was bathed in firelight and his head moved unconsciously in the rhythm of the tune as he played his pennywhistle. To Saradoc he seemed at that moment neither young nor old, strangely detached, and somehow he knew that, even if he wanted to, he would not reach his brother while he played.

Slowly the melody faded and Merimac stirred as if wakened from deep slumber. He lowered his pennywhistle, looked at his son and sighed deeply before he sank tiredly onto the chair.

“That was beautiful.” Saradoc stepped into the room, and before Merimac could reply he let him in on the latest news. “The guards on the fields have been overtaken and captured. According to Tip there is no chance of regaining anything, but I still want to have a look at it. If what he says is true, though, we’re cut off of our main food supply.”

Merimac stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded and turned his attention back to Berilac. All of a sudden Saradoc felt hot fury rise within him and clenched his fist. “Is that all you have to say to it?” he demanded fiercely.

Merimac looked over his shoulder. “What else would you have me say?”

“Come with me!”

“What use would that be?”

The callousness of his voice, the sheer disinterest made Saradoc’s blood boil. His muscles tensed as he stomped towards his brother keen on shaking some sense into him. It was Berilac’s pale face that stopped him and had him shake his head instead. His voice was almost compassionate though with a hidden sting. “Don’t let it pull you down like that.”

That hit a nerve. Merimac jumped to his feet and wheeled round, his eyes glimmering. “What do you know about it?” he growled through gritted teeth. “He’s my son. I carried him home with this only hope of rescue and it is me who shall sit by his side until he wakes up or until my heart is broken.” Merimac shook his head in irritation. “You know nothing about it!”

Saradoc grabbed him roughly by the collar to keep himself from slapping him. “Don’t I?” he demanded. “My son went out into the wild months ago. No one knows where he is or how he fares.” His throat was tight with fury and his white-knuckled fingers trembled as he paused for breath. “My sons could be dead already and I would never learn of it. You, at least, can sit at your child’s side and hold his hand should it come to the worst. So don’t tell me I wouldn’t know the despair of losing the pride and hope of my life. I know better than I ever cared to do.”

He pushed Merimac from him, thinking of his boys. His anger at Frodo was long forgotten. He now understood that the boy probably didn’t have any other chance. The boy. Saradoc closed his eyes sadly. Even though he had come of age long ago, Frodo would always be his boy, his first son, brother to his own child and heir.

His ire subsided as quickly as it had come and as he looked at his brother now his expression was one of silent understanding. Merimac stood motionless, his head bowed and his fists clenched, probably with a thousand retorts ready in his mind, but he made no reply. Saradoc stretched out an arm to place it on his shoulder, but Merimac evaded his touch.

It was all the answer Saradoc needed. He left Merimac to his own broodings. He had hardly made it around the first bend when Marmadas’ son Merimas came running towards him and told him in a hurry of what he had seen in the south. A group of fifty ruffians with clubs and whips guarded what used to be the Hall’s potato field and main vegetable garden, along with several crop and maize fields. The riders they had sent out reported that there were another fifty men close by. “Every single ruffian in Buckland must have come for the fields.”

Saradoc could see why. The Hall’s greatest enemy, hunger, would be upon them far sooner than he had feared. He retreated into his study, for the moment unable to give any more instructions. On his way through the corridors he stumbled across several unknown faces. Another family of refugees had come to the Hall, and they looked just as Saradoc felt: careworn, heartbroken, sad and desperate.

By the time he reached his study he felt like choking. He did not know whether to feel relieved or annoyed to find Esmeralda sitting in his chair. “I failed them,” he breathed and pressed two fingers on the spot between his eyes as he shook his head as if denying his own words. “I was never prepared for anything like this, and now I have failed them.”

Esmeralda stood up and when Saradoc looked into her eyes he knew that he had taken from her the last bit of hope she had still had. It did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. There was nothing he could do to help his people. Hope was vain.