Chapter 6. Things that Go Bump in the Night

23 September, night

Eglantine woke suddenly, out of a sound sleep. She thought at first that Paladin's restlessness had wakened her, for though they'd gone early to bed, not long after the Sun sought her own rest, he'd snored at first, and then commenced twitching, with an occasional thrash. She'd had half a mind to pick herself up and sleep in one of the guest beds, but instead snuggled into her husband's side, wrapping her arms around his broad chest, humming softly. He'd stilled at last and rolled to his side with a droning sigh. Eglantine yawned, turned so that her back bolstered Paladin's, and relaxed into sleep. Only now she was awake. Wide awake, with only the ticking of the dwarf-made clock for company. Though the clock was in the parlour, its soft whispered time-keeping sounded clearly in every corner of the sleep-drenched smial, so deep was the night's hush.

That was what had awakened her: hearing just the ticking of the clock, and no snores or even soft breathing from her husband. 'Dinny?' she whispered, groping in his direction.

Finding only a stretch of empty bedding, she sat up and stretched out her seeking arm. 'Dinny?' she said, louder, her heart suddenly pounding.

Stop being a ninny! she scolded herself under her breath. Likely Dinny had drunk a cup of tea too many at eventides, and had got up to seek the privy. The weather continued fine and dry; no need at this time of year to use the covered chamber pot, waiting under the bed for illness or inclement weather.

The clock chimed three-quarters.

She forced herself to lie back down, counting the seconds along with the clock. No other sound disturbed the peace of the smial, not a creak nor a whisper, not even the pounce of a cat or scurry and squeak of a captured mouse in the pantry. It was as if the entire world slept, except for Eglantine... and Paladin.

A soft whirr came from the parlour, a sound usually lost in the bustle of the day, but clearly audible in the night's hush. Eglantine held her breath to count the hours. ...eight, nine, ten... She waited for more, but there was no more; the clock simply resumed its steady tick-tock.

Ten of the clock! They'd been asleep more than an hour, perhaps more than two... and five or six more hours due them, before it would be time for early breakfast and milking. What was Dinny about?

She rose from the bed, pulling on her dressing-gown and drawing a shawl over her shoulders, and padded silently down the hall to the side-door, worries gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. She wasn't one for worries, usually, but something in the quality of this night's stillness... The knob in the centre of the round door was cold to her touch, and she shivered as she quietly turned it. Dinny kept the hinges well-oiled so that nighttime trips to the “necessary” wouldn't disturb anyone's sleep. The heavy door swung open as easily and lightly as if it had been made of feathers.

She stepped out into the yard. The night was clear, the stars bright above, seeming close enough to touch.

A dark figure loomed before her, and she shivered again, and not just from the coolness of the air, but feeling an unexpected stab of dread. Something shrieked, high and thin, the sound carrying through the cold, clear night. It was likely a mouse, caught by a silent-swooping owl, she told herself, not very convincingly. Though every fibre of her being screamed for quiet, she forced out a gasping word.

D—Dinny?

The figure turned, approached, and then her husband's arms were around her, his comforting bulk pressing close. 'Aggie,' he whispered. 'What're you doing up?'

'I might ask the same,' she said, taking a deep breath and forcing down the ridiculous, unfounded fear. Indeed, she felt very foolish. Dinny had gone to the privy and stopped to look at the stars on his way, that was all. They were very bright this night.

'A cup of tea, I think,' Paladin said, tightening his arms about her and then letting them fall away, but taking her hand in the end. As if he hadn't drained the pot before bed!

But Eglantine was nothing if not obliging, and she led the way to the kitchen, stirred up the fire, and put the kettle on. While it was heating she brought out bread from the pantry, cut a few slices and set out butter and jam, and when the water was hot she warmed the teapot, dumped out the hot water, measured the tea and poured the boiling water over the leaves.

The calico cat entered, humping her back and then stretching her hind legs one at a time, as Eglantine greeted her with a murmur and poured a dollop of cream into a saucer. 'There you are, lass,' she said. 'No sign of mice in the pantry—reward for a job well done.' The cat deigned to lap daintily at the cream, purring a little at Eglantine's stroke.

And all the while, Paladin sat at the table, about as lively as a rock in the garden bed, and more silent.

At last the tea was poured, the butter spread, the jam laid on invitingly thick, but Paladin made no move to eat.

When Eglantine put a concerned hand on his, he started and blinked, as if coming back from some far away place.

'Dinny?'

He met her glance and looked away, seizing on his teacup for an excuse, lifting the cup to blow gently upon the surface of the tea, sending little ripples to the edges.

'Dinny, what is it? Are you ill?' Eglantine said, pushing his plate of bread and jam a little closer, to entice her husband to take a little nibble to settle his nerves.

He took a sip of his tea at last, and then a gulp as if to hearten himself. 'I'm well,' he said, setting the cup down, but making no move at the food.

'You certainly don't look well,' Eglantine said with some asperity, taking a bite of her own bread. Perhaps Paladin would take the hint if he saw her eating.

'I'm well,' he protested in a stronger tone, and picked up his own bread and jam, setting it down again untasted.

Provoked, Eglantine repeated, 'Well you don't look well! If you were to ask me, I'd say you look as if you'd seen a ghost!'

He ought to have been nettled by her nagging; he ought to have replied, 'I don't recall asking you, if you ask me!' And then the both of them would lapse into chuckles, and all would be well, and they'd talk of inconsequential little things until they'd drained their cups and eaten a slice or two of bread and jam, and then they'd seek the pillow again.

But he turned haunted eyes to her and said nothing, and then she knew.

The Tooks, they say in the Shire, are a fey folk. O they might seem solid and hobbity as any other Shire family, but... There was the occasional Took that would break out – quickly hushed up by the family, of course, but still a matter for gossip and speculation – and do something completely mad. Run off to sea, or befriend a wizard, or even travel far beyond the Bounds of the Shire, to a far country. And sometimes they even came back.

It was whispered that the Tooks had faerie blood running in their veins. Eglantine always snorted a bit, to hear it whispered, except for the rare times her husband awoke from one of the dreams. He'd look... he'd wear an otherworldly look. It might be joy – as when he'd wakened her from a deep sleep, hugged her tight, and told her they'd have a son. Never mind that three daughters were born before the son arrived. Somehow he'd known. It might be sorrow or alarm. She'd pressed him to tell her, in the early days, but he'd shake his head, yet later, (as when his father died) she'd seen him nod, a shadow in his eyes, as if he'd been expecting something of the sort.

They didn't talk about the dreams. It was a Tookish thing, that separated Eglantine, with her Bankish good sense, from her solid-seeming husband, and she would brook no such separation. Nor would he. In her mind she explained away the dreams. They were just dreams, that's all. Why, she had dreams herself, did she not? Most everyone did.

But this time, she pressed, drawn by the look in Paladin's eyes, and the sense of dread she'd felt earlier. 'What is it, Dinny?' she whispered. 'Something's wrong.' She shivered again, drawing her shawl closer about her shoulders. 'I feel it in my bones.'

He looked at her then, surprise stirring in his eyes. 'You feel it, too?' he said.

Eglantine nodded, though she wasn't exactly sure what she was supposed to feel. 'Makes me shiver,' she said truthfully.

As if a spell had been broken, Paladin looked down at his plate, seeming to see the food for the first time. He took up his untasted bread and jam and bit off a hearty mouthful, chewing with vigour. He washed the food down with hot tea, finished the slice in short order with a swig of tea after each bite.

Eglantine refilled his cup when he set it down, watching his face out of the corner of her eye. She didn't want to put him off again, seeming too demanding or too interested. She topped off her own cup for good measure and took a bite of bread to fill her mouth. It was a good excuse not to talk, and the food steadied her nerves into the bargain.

'It was just a dream,' Paladin said at last, 'that's all. I must admit, it unsettled me a bit.'

Eglantine made an encouraging sound, her eyes on her cup as she stirred her tea thoroughly.

'Just a dream,' Paladin said, his tone growing stronger, as if he sought to convince himself along with his wife.

'Was it,' Eglantine said, elaborately casual. 'Do have another slice, dear. It'll only go stale, now it's cut.'

'It's been unsettling,' Paladin said, seeming to change the subject. 'The Birthday yesterday, and no sign of Bilbo all these years – he came back after a year, that first time he went away, but it seems he really is gone for good this time...'

Eglantine smiled, a little sad smile, for she knew how Paladin had grieved the loss of the old hobbit, after the passage of days, and then weeks, and then months that turned into years made it clear that it was no “little joke” and Bilbo really had left the Shire, seemingly for good. Or ill, as it were. She wished the old hobbit the best, but really, he'd been a bad influence, filling the heads of young Tooks with nonsense. Even Paladin had once, aloud, likened the waving grain to the billowing Sea, though he'd quickly sobered at the expressions of his wife and hired hobbits, and then laughed and made a joke of it.

He never spoke of the Sea again, and Eglantine was glad. Her husband was much too sensible to run off to Sea, Tookish blood or no.

Frodo was perhaps beyond redemption, having lived with Bilbo during his impressionable tween years and now going off to live in the wilds of Buckland. But Eglantine was glad that Pip had been too young at the time of Bilbo's final departure, to have been greatly affected by the old Baggins' nonsense.

Paladin had been speaking, and she'd missed a few words. '...and today the lads were to set out from Bag End, and perfect weather they had for the walking – why, we cut more hay this day than I'd thought we would, but dry and fine it's been, and the Sun so strong and warm...'

'Hot, rather,' Eglantine said, for though the night was chilly, the day had been hot enough for certain, and the morrow promised to be as fine. And then, in spite of herself, she suddenly said, 'What was the dream, then, Dinny? Somehow I feel I must know.'

He blinked, taken aback, and then said slowly, 'It's likely just fancy...'

'Very likely,' she agreed, to humour him. 'Too much spice in that batch of sausages; I told Mrs. Grubb that...' And watching him out of the corner of her eye, she fell silent again, for she thought he might be ready to speak.

As he was. 'Likely,' he said, 'but such an ominous feeling as it brought...'

'Ominous,' she murmured, remembering that inexplicable dread.

***

A/N: Some turns of phrase borrowed from “Three is Company” in The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Chapter first posted 11/9/2008