Side Trip to Brandy Hall

S.R. 25 Winterfilth, 1388

“I leave you here, my friend,” the wizard said at the gate to Bree.  “I go to the northern aeries to confer with Radagast.”

Bilbo Baggins looked up at Gandalf’s face.  Behind the thick brows and beard he saw signs that the wizard was almost reluctant to leave his company.  Bilbo liked to think it anyway.  He and Gandalf had partaken in several short trips since the episode of the dragon at Lonely Mountain and Bilbo harbored the notion that Gandalf actually sought him out as a preferred traveling companion.  And right that should be, Bilbo reasoned, since hobbits were the best of companions and he the most spirited of hobbits.

“I should hope you’ll stop by for a bit of Longbottom Leaf when you are through,” Bilbo suggested.  “You are always welcome at Bag End.”

The old wizard smiled and a twinkle graced his eyes.  “Yes, I should plan that,” he answered, stroking his long beard while mulling it over.  “Yes, yes, indeed – look for me… on November the fifteenth, in fact.”

Bilbo grinned accusingly.  “You planned to arrive anyway, didn’t you, Gandalf?  Even had the offer not been extended?”

“The hospitality of hobbits is legendary, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf rejoined.  “As I recall you, yourself, welcome strangers as readily as old friends.”

“And I should have learned better after once graciously making a luncheon offer to a dusty old wizard passing my doorstep one good morning.  I invite one and he invites thirteen!”

With a shared laugh and a handshake in truce and farewell they parted company, Gandalf atop his cart heading north and Bilbo upon his feet heading west – toward home.

*

The road from Staddle to the Brandywine River was reasonably well traveled, although generally only by hobbits from Staddle.  Trade was frequent, but the Shire folk were of the notion that the need was entirely on the side of Staddle.  In fact, Bilbo was the only hobbit he knew of who ever initiated the trip from the western end.  He prided himself on the matter, staunchly ignoring the truth that he had been none too keen on it himself one abrupt morning some forty years prior.  That upstanding and unadventurous Bilbo was now but a distant memory to him.

Not that he was disrespected in Hobbiton these days.  People there respected him a great deal – for his wealth.  They just considered him an eccentric – and not one with whom they trusted their children.  He might sway their imaginations, after all, and spirit them away on one of his adventures like he had with young Drogo Baggins a number of years ago.

‘Drogo,’ Bilbo mused to himself.  ‘Full of promise and yet made it no further than Brandy Hall.  Got all wrapped up in some pretty lass of a Brandybuck and dropped right out of his first ‘venture to get married.’  Bilbo had not seen him since.  He had come to have very little interest in relations who conformed to the hobbit perspective of respectability, the consequence of which being that he had come to have very little interest in any of his relations whatsoever. 

The thought of Drogo, however, made Bilbo consider a stopover at Brandy Hall.  Center of Buckland, the eastern periphery of the Shire, Brandy Hall was the definitive of hospitality. Bilbo knew that was due in large to the fact that there were always so many Brandybucks coming and going there that no one ever inspected a face closely enough to discern whether it might not belong there.  The table at Brandy Hall was always overflowing – as were the tankards.

Bilbo was going to be passing almost near enough to Brandy Hall on his way home to see its many chimneys.  ‘Perhaps it’s time to check in with the Master,” he thought.  Naturally he would make sure that he would arrive at one of the many mealtimes.  ‘I can stay the night in a chair by a fire.  It will be better than in a sack on the side of the road.’

*

Brandy Hall was indeed bustling.  Master Rorimac Brandybuck (‘Old Rory’ to most) received Bilbo with an eager ear.  “Sup for stories, my dear Bilbo,” he laughed. “Tis much too long since you’ve entertained us with one of your tales.”

Bilbo grimaced.  Although he knew full well that hobbits the Shire over regarded his sagas as the elaborate yarns of a far too active imagination, he didn’t appreciate the pointed reminder.  The pastoral folk knew well enough of the existence of dwarves and men from their encounters with Bree-folk, but in trolls and dragons and even the elusive elves of lore none but the children believed.

Drogo Baggins had believed, though, even as an adult.  It was his whole-hearted infatuation with Bilbo’s accounts of going to the Lonely Mountain that had brought him as far as this folksy dwelling on the Shire’s edge some thirty or thereabouts years back. 

“Well, then,” came a gruff matron’s voice from behind.  “As I see it, if there’s a Baggins come within Brandy Hall, then a Baggins should see to the punishment of this rascal, here...”  She pushed her way visible, dragging a not-quite- adolescent lad with her by the point of one ear.   Without further introduction, she threw the hobbit onto the floor in front of Bilbo and addressed the Master directly.  “He’s been into the mushrooms again, with no regard at all for Farmer Maggot owning the land where he found them.  I heard Maggot’s dogs baying in the lane and looked up to see them nipping at the scalawag’s heels.  Never saw a lad run so fast in all my life.”

Old Rory caught his guest’s confused expression and motioned Bilbo aside.  “You mustn’t have heard of the accident, then?” he asked gently.  Bilbo shook his head.  “Your cousin Drogo and his good wife, my dear sister Primula, went boating one night a few years back whilst visiting here and went down into the Brandywine.  When we fished them out, they had both departed.  Their son – Frodo is his name – was twelve at the time.  He’s been a bit of everyone’s business ever since.”

Bilbo was shocked.  “Drowned? How is it that no one sent word?” 

The Master frowned.  “We feared it would cause a hullabaloo throughout Hobbiton should it get out.  After all, we know your townsfolk’s opinion of boating.”

“I do not hold that opinion, Master Rorimac,” Bilbo countered, offended.  “You know that I don’t.  Or haven’t you listened to my accounts of rescuing my dwarf companions by secreting them across a lake in barrels?”  Again it was apparent to him that Old Rory shared the commonly held belief that Bilbo’s adventures were mere fantasies.

Indeed, it was not the idea of boating that bred the horror that Bilbo did find himself feeling in the depths of his belly.  It was rather the thought that the tatterdemalion sprawled in front of him was an orphan that caused that shudder.  Hobbits were such a robust, salubrious folk that it was extremely rare for a child to lose a parent before coming of age.  Losing both was simply unheard of in the Shire. 

His host, in the meantime, had returned his attention to the delinquent at hand.   “This mischief can go on no longer, Frodo.”  His voice grave and reproving, he passed his verdict on the twenty-year-old.  “You disgrace this house.  In retribution you will tend to your kinsman, Bilbo Baggins, while he is here.  Whatever his wish, you will see it done.”

Shamed though he was, Frodo gaped up at the visitor into whose service he had just been sentenced.  In all his life there had been Brandybucks – great numbers by that name – and more than a few Goolds, Burrows, Boffins and Banks.  He had always been the only Baggins.  As he regained his feet, Frodo suddenly faced the realization that there were other Bagginses in the world – and this one in particular seemed to be well regarded by the Master of the Hall.  It left him quite thunderstruck. 

Bilbo stared back.  Except for the lad’s unusually elfish blue eyes, Frodo looked very much like Bilbo had at that age.  Or at least he would have had he been cleaner.  The stout hobbitess who had brought him before Master Rorimac sensed it, too.  With a sharp swat on his rear she sent Frodo off to the bath.

*

While it became quite evident that evening that this Frodo Baggins was, indeed, a bit of everyone’s business, it became even clearer to Bilbo that Frodo was a lot of no one’s business.  Throughout dinner, as the boy hurried about dutifully waiting on his temporary master, he was directed by numerous relations in the hall.  Yet none of the voices or hands expressed genuine closeness for the lad. 

*

“What’s this, Mr. Bilbo?”  Frodo asked as he unpacked the traveler’s things later.  He fingered the rich leather curiously.  As it began to part in his hands, he quickly set it down.

“It’s a book, Frodo.”  Bilbo answered.  “Certainly you know what books are?”  He picked it up, faced it in the right direction, and opened it as he handed it back to the lad. 

Frodo examined the item, cautiously turning the pages of paper.  “It has pictures,” he marveled.

“And words, Bilbo added, with obvious exasperation.  “I take it by your blank expression that no one here has bothered to begin teaching you your letters.”  Developing extremely slowly in comparison to, say, men, hobbits could start to read around the age of fourteen – if they were exposed to it.  From what Bilbo could surmise Frodo seemed bright enough to learn.  He would never get instruction here, though.  Education was generally considered the stuff of pretense and nonsense in many parts of the Shire and was valued even less in this rustic edge known as Buckland.

The lad’s only response was a flush.  He carefully placed the book on the table and returned to the task of unpacking the things that he was to wash.

Bilbo Baggins was not about to let it end there.  An illiterate Baggins was utterly unacceptable in his eyes.  He again picked up the book and gestured to Frodo to sit beside him.  “These are the basics, Frodo…”

Beyond a doubt – Frodo was indeed bright enough to learn – and quickly.

“Where did your book come from, Mr. Bilbo?” yawned Frodo after several hours of concentrated introduction to language and the art of writing as a way of capturing thoughts and history.  The subject of the book he was learning to read was a race of beings he had never heard of before.  His tired yet observant mind seriously doubted that any hobbit had written it.

“I got it from a friend of mine while I was in Rivendell visiting the elves,” Bilbo answered.  Despite the lad’s obvious exhaustion, Bilbo found himself launching into a lengthy discourse to answer Frodo’s immediate barrage of questions about elves.

*

 Bilbo awoke in the middle of the night and fingered the ring in his pocket nervously.  Finding it safe, he looked about the dark of the small sitting room.  There was not even a candle to light in the room.  The fire was mere cinders.  “Bother,” he grumbled aloud, shivering slightly.  “That boy should have left some wood to stoke the fire before he retired.”

He threw aside his blanket and rose from the couch.   It was not hard to guess where wood could be found in this house.  He headed toward the massive Brandy Hall kitchen.

The cloud-shrouded moon contributed nothing to his search, but fortunately his eyes could make out the tables blocking his path to the hearth.  As he rounded the last he spotted the wood – and a dog tightly curled on a plump cushion in front of the embers still smoldering in the grate nearby.

Bilbo hesitated.  He wasn’t at all certain the wood was worth approaching the sleeping creature.  Hobbits on the borders of the Old Forest were apt to keep dogs to protect their homes against wild animals and other intruders.  They were not the coddled little companions of the kind found in Hobbiton, but fearless and frightening guards that it was best not to arouse.

Bilbo, though, was cold enough to take his chances.  He tiptoed past the animal and reached for a log.

The figure stirred but did not awaken.  Bilbo quickly grabbed two more logs and some kindling and backed away.

A glimmer of light passed through the window as the clouds parted.  It was sufficient to highlight the form of Bilbo’s slumbering nemesis.  To his relief he realized that it was not a dog at all.  To his dismay he realized it was a hobbit – and not just any hobbit.

“Frodo?” 

This time the stirring completed.  “Mr. Bilbo, sir,” the youth gasped in recognition and subsequent alarm as he saw the logs in the elder Baggins’ arms.  “Your fire – I’m sorry!”  He jumped to his feet to take the load from Bilbo.

The silence bothered Bilbo as he followed the fellow in the dark.  He searched for something worth saying to fill the void.  As Frodo dropped the logs into the sitting room grate, Bilbo finally came up with something. “‘Mr. Bilbo’ is a bit formal, I think, considering we’re related,” he said as Frodo lit the fire.  “Perhaps you can call me ‘Uncle Bilbo’ instead.”

Frodo looked up from the tiny flames that were beginning to catch and shyly smiled at him. 

*

“He sleeps on the kitchen floor?”  Bilbo asked Rorimac in the quiet after second breakfast.  He was well aware of how rude it was for a guest to criticize a host in his own house, but he felt compelled to breech the subject. 

“It keeps him under our noses,” the Master of Brandy Hall explained.  “We’d probably lose track of him otherwise.  This way we know where he is in the evening, for he helps with the cleanup.  He has to be in his bed when the last person leaves for the night.  In the morning they make sure he’s up to help with the breakfast preparations.”  He held up his hand to stay Bilbo from voicing his disapproval.  “Not to worry, the pillow is clean and comfortable, and it is probably the warmest place in the entire Hall.  It is a solution that has worked for us all.  Frodo is happy enough.”

Bilbo didn’t push the issue.  He realized it was more diplomatic to take a deep breath and go for a walk in the sun.

*

There could not have been a fairer early fall day – crisp air offset by warm sun.  It was perfect for a stroll about the fields of the river’s eastern shore.  He watched a group of youngsters rolling down the gentle knolls, and was pleased to recognize Frodo amongst them.  The lad was laughing heartily with the rest, his mouth wide and round in his delight.  ‘Yes,’ Bilbo thought, relaxing, ‘he is happy.’

One of the other young hobbits noticed Bilbo and nudged Frodo.  All activity came to a halt.  Frodo brushed himself off and hurried over to see what his master needed.

“No, no, lad,” Bilbo responded as the lad approached.  “Go have fun with your cousins.  I came out here to watch you play.”  He motioned him back towards the group.

A few of the children came towards them.  “Mr. Baggins,” said one, “I hear you tell stories.  Would you tell us one?”

“Yes, please,” they all chanted, gathering around eagerly. 

Such a request Bilbo never refused.  He spun his magic before their enchanted eyes.  He found himself equally spellbound by their involvement.  Thoughts of anything else entirely melted away.  Even elevenses were forgotten as his story unfolded, carefully abridged for the youngest members of his audience.  He was quite surprised, then, when Frodo suddenly left the circle and vanished into the Hall, not to return.

Bilbo cut his story to a quick end when he heard the luncheon bell ring, and followed the excited exchanges of the children into the dining hall.  There he found his place meticulously set, with full plate and cup, and Frodo holding a small dish of soapy water and a towel for him to refresh his face and hands.  As he sat, Bilbo whispered, “I’ll finish the story for you later, then, lad.”  The youth’s eyes displayed his eagerness.

*

“I wish I could go on adventures with you, Uncle,” Frodo said wistfully that evening as he carried extra logs to Bilbo’s sitting room.  They had been talking throughout the afternoon and the promised story had been retold in its full and proper version after the dinner dishes had been cleared away. 

“Your father voiced that very same wish, Frodo.  It brought him this far, but no further.”  Bilbo eyed the boy critically.  “Drogo Baggins was the only relation of mine who ever showed any true spirit.”

The younger Baggins politely bid the elder goodnight and padded off towards the kitchen, looking disheartened by the insinuation that his uncle had evidently not seen that kind of spirit in him.

In truth, however, in the last two days Bilbo had seen more spirit in Frodo than he had ever seen in Drogo.  As he stood there absently fiddling with the ring in his pocket, Bilbo realized he had seen more in Frodo than in any hobbit he knew – maybe even more than he thought he had ever seen in himself.

“I need to teach that boy to be a Baggins,” he vowed to himself… and that gave him an idea.

*

“I’d like to borrow Frodo for a spell,” Bilbo told his host the following morning.  “I’ve been away for nigh three months now, and my home needs a good cleaning.  Frodo is just the sort who can help me with it, and I’ll give him a few lessons in return.” 

After much discussion, it was agreed that Bilbo would take possession of his young cousin.  Many a head shook at the news, for most in Buckland were of the opinion that Bilbo was cracked.  “No good will come of this,” was heard time and again. 

“That Frodo barely has any common sense in him as it is.  Wait until ‘Mad Baggins’ gets through with him.”

“You can bet any lessons he gets will be full of elvish, runes and other such worthless nonsense.”

“He’ll be sent back here soon enough – mark my word – once Bilbo loses interest.”

“By then he’ll be nothing but a dreamer – just like his father was.  Not good for anything ‘cept cleaning a plate.”

“He’ll be thinking that he’s better than we are, too, once he picks up all those confounded Hobbiton airs.”

*

The two Bagginses were seen off by the entire Buckland population, every set one of whom had an opinion to voice at a great volume.  From all the naysay it sounded to Bilbo as though none of their onlookers were well wishers.  He couldn’t blame them.  He was beginning to question his own sanity for deciding to take a twenty-year-old into his tutelage.  Frodo didn’t even come with a change of clothes.

“Here, Frodo,” whispered a tween-aged lad as he offered an apple to the Hobbiton-bound traveler.  “Course, I know you’d prefer mushrooms, but I couldn’t slip off this morning to gather any.”

“Thanks,” Frodo answered in the same hushed tone as he tucked the apple into his pocket, “and who will you train to fetch unsecured bits and pieces for you now, Folco?”

“Probably the Berry, here,” his friend explained with a grin, pointing to one of two chipper young Brandybucks at his side.  “Or maybe even our little ‘Merry Master-ling’.  I just hope you’ll be coming back before next mushroom season, Fro.  You are the best; no one has the nose for mushrooms that you do.”

Frodo grimaced.  He knew his penchant for mushrooms was excessive, even for a hobbit – and it had gotten him into a fair amount of trouble.  “Just make certain that whoever you choose doesn’t get caught, Folco,” he warned seriously.  He didn’t want Berilac, Meriadoc, or anyone else to be taken to the woodshed as he had been.  “Farmer Maggot wields a mean strap when he’s mad, and sets his dogs on trespassers he catches.”

 He saw Bilbo beckon that it was time to depart.  The boys embraced quickly, in the fashion of their people.

“Bye, Frodo,” added the six-year-old future Master of Buckland as Frodo scooped him up and tossed him gently above his head.  “Don’t become odd like my dad says you will.”

“Don’t worry, Merry,” reassured Berilac.  “According to my dad, he’s already odd.”

*

TBC