Chapter 55. Echoes out of the Past

Frodo awakened the next morning feeling possibly more drained than when he’d stumbled to his bed the previous night. It had taken nearly all the strength of his considerable will to conceal the depths of his distress from Sam, and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d manage the rest of this day. With any luck, Sam would be preoccupied with Rose and domestic affairs. Frodo would take himself off for his usual morning walk and shut himself safely in the study for the rest of the day and evening, alarming no one. He did not want sympathy, he did not want to see worry, even alarm, in the eyes of those who loved him. He wanted to continue as always, in the ordinariness of the everyday. The only problem with his plan was Freddy. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to evade his cousin’s sharp eye. It had been easy enough when Freddy was too sick to notice, but now...

The darkness that had seemed to grasp him in a great claw had retreated to its usual lurking place at the edge of thought. The cold laughter that had surrounded him as he struggled, helpless in an unrelenting grip, was again subdued to a painful tickle, an itch beyond scratching. The Shadow that sought to pull him down into the darkness had retreated, awaiting its next opportunity, ever patient, ever watchful. And the wanting, the empty, lost feeling, the craving that never quite went away, that last March and then again yesterday had swelled to an overwhelming flood that threatened to drown him... Frodo shuddered. As long as he stayed strong, he could continue to fight. He fingered the white jewel that hung at his breast.

He stretched cautiously. The pain and stiffness in his shoulder and side had eased and the sense of frozen chill was nearly gone. He considered missing second breakfast, but Freddy would surely suspect something was amiss if he did. No, the best course was to muster his strength and follow his usual routine.

Splashing his face with cold water, Frodo noticed anew the missing finger. Wounded with wraith-blade, sting and tooth, he was a battered and bedamned fellow indeed. He raised his face from the basin, to meet his own haunted eyes in the mirror. He tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace than a grin. With a stern look at the poor pathetic hobbit reflected there, he said, ‘Get a hold of yourself, Frodo son of Drogo. One would think the cares of the world have fallen upon your shoulders!’ He bent over the basin again and scrubbed at his face until he thought the skin might possibly wear away then looked up again. The dripping face before him was reddened from rubbing; better than dead-white at any rate. Briskly he dried his face and dressed.

Frodo forced himself to step quickly down the corridor to the kitchen, past Freddy’s door. Freddy never rose until second breakfast, which gave Frodo a space to recover himself. He stopped in the kitchen, poured himself a cup of tea, exchanged greetings with Samwise—thankfully his voice was firm and cheerful, no sign of the weakness he felt. ‘How’s Rosie?’ he asked casually.

’Wretched,’ Sam said, shaking his head.

’I remember at Brandy Hall they were always trying to get eggs or cheese or meat into the young mums suffering the all-day-long sickness,’ he said. ‘It seemed to help once they got past the initial difficulty.’

’Rosie’s mum said much the same,’ Sam replied. ‘I’ve stirred up a nice custard and I’m going to coax it into her one way or another.’

Frodo laughed. ‘You do that, Sam!’ He drained his tea. ‘Well, I’m off to see what Nature’s wrought this day. Should be some glorious colour yet. If the wind keeps on as it did last night, the trees will be bare soon enough.’ That last might have been a mistake. Sam gave him an odd look. Perhaps the rushing he’d heard had not been outside the shutters after all. ‘At least I dreamed a rushing wind,’ he added hastily, to cover his unease. ‘I’ll find out if there was a wind in truth on my morning walk, I suppose.’

’I wouldn’t know,’ Sam said. ‘I slept like the rock before it got pried out of the garden bed.’

’Ah,’ Frodo said briskly, setting down his empty cup. ‘Well then, Sam, I’ll see you after my walk!’

’Yes Mr Frodo,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll have your breakfast laid out for you when you get back. Anything you want in particular?’

’Just as long as it’s hot and plenty!’ Frodo said cheerily, though his stomach turned at the thought. He took his cloak from the peg, threw it around his shoulders, and let himself out with relief, walking briskly until out of sight of the smial, where he stopped to rest and catch his breath. Odd, to be out of breath when he’d barely begun. He decided not to walk down the Hill to the Mill as he often did, for he was not sure whether he’d manage the climb to return to Bag End. Instead, he walked slowly up the road towards Overhill. At least it would be downhill all the way home.

Reaching the crown of the Hill, he paused. The Shire spread out on all sides dressed in her autumn finery. The fields were mostly stubble now, golden-brown in the morning light. The trees still bore many of their leaves, and a carpet of gold spread about their feet. Washing already flapped on lines, spots of bright colour in the landscape. Frodo watched a flock of sheep moving along the road far below him; a farmer’s cart piled high with colourful produce stopped to let them flow around it, a brown-orange-green-gold island in a sea of white. He heard the tinkle of a cowbell as a hobbit lad drove the neighbour’s cows to fresh pasture, and the harsh caw of a crow.

Frodo took a deep breath of the fresh crisp air, seasoned with woodsmoke and the smell of burning leaves. How he loved the Shire, in all her moods and seasons. At moments like this, he was glad that they hadn’t died upon that Mountain after the Quest was completed. Perhaps he’d failed, ultimately, but the Quest had not failed. The Ring had gone into the Fire (he felt a twinge of loss and firmly pushed it down) and the Shire remained.

He sank down on a handy boulder a little ways from the road. He didn’t feel like walking any further this day. Pulling his cloak more securely about himself, he sat and drank in the beauty around him, finding solace for his weary heart even as the jewel clenched in his fist drove the last of the shadows from his conscious thought.

When it was nearly time for second breakfast, Frodo rose, feeling stiff from sitting so long in the chill of the morning, on cold hard rock in the bargain. He shook his head at himself, saying, ‘You’ll catch your death!’ in perfect imitation of one of the old aunties at Brandy Hall. The opposite was true; he felt much better than he had upon arising. He retraced his steps down the Hill, and the odd breathless feeling he’d had earlier did not return. Of course, there was much less effort going down the Hill than ascending, and there was not far to go to reach Bag End, but still, he entered the smial feeling fresh and rejuvenated.

’Did you have a good walk?’ Sam said, turning from the oven with a pan of freshly-baked breakfast buns.

’I did indeed, Sam,’ Frodo said, putting his walking stick in the stand and hanging his cloak. ‘It’s a glorious autumn day! You ought to take Rosie out for a walk; there is something marvellous about the air this morning!’ Sam nodded and smiled, and Frodo was glad to see the last traces of worry wiped away.

Sitting down to breakfast with Freddy, Frodo maintained a casual mien, though he felt not at all like eating. Each time he felt Freddy’s eye upon him, he’d smile and force himself to take another bite, washing the tasteless food down with flavourless tea that had the mercy of being hot at least. The cousins chatted about things of little consequence as Sam was in and out of the room, refreshing the teapot and making sure the food was hot and plentiful. Once he’d cleared away and was busy at washing-up in the kitchen, Freddy and Frodo got out the papers that Freddy had worked on the previous day and began to go over them.

They were finished by the time elevenses were served, cooked by the energetic Mrs Stubbletoes from Number Five, and Frodo took himself off for a ride on brown Strider. He never ate elevenses, after all, odd though that might be for a hobbit. Sam was used to his master’s eccentricities, but Mrs Stubbletoes was a bit startled, not to say put out. Freddy ate enough for two in an effort to pacify her.

Frodo and Freddy shared the midday meal. Once again, Frodo forced himself to eat. He felt Freddy’s quizzical eye on him more than once though Frodo kept his attention on the food, keeping to safe comments such as the lightness of the roasted taters and the juiciness of the meat.

’Are you well, cousin?’ Freddy said at one point, out of the blue, and Frodo laughed in surprise.

’Couldn’t be better!’ he answered cheerily. ‘However, the day’s a-wasting, and the story won’t write itself! I had better shut myself up and get back to work!’ He rose and threw down his serviette.

’Will there be anything else, Mr Baggins?’ Mrs Stubbletoes said, entering with more taters to replenish the serving plate.

’No, I couldn’t eat another bite!’ Frodo said truthfully, patting his stomach. He only hoped he’d be able to retain what he’d forced down. Though retching was to be expected of Rosie at this time of her life, it would generate unwanted concern were Frodo to exhibit the same symptoms. ‘Excellent meal, Mrs Stubbletoes, top-notch!’ Looking back to his cousin, he said, ‘Have a good nap, Fredegar, and I’ll see you on the morrow.’

He’d take tea and supper in the study, and if he didn’t eat much, well, that was nothing out of the ordinary. Writing gave him a wonderful excuse. Sitting in the chair, he pulled out a fresh sheet of foolscap and picked up his pen, but the trembling in his fingers forced him to lay it down again. Burying his head in his hands, he allowed himself to sink back into the unthinking state he’d achieved the previous day when the Shadow had begun to tighten about him, and there he remained until the tap on the door that meant teatime.

’Come!’ he forced out, managing to sound abstracted and deep in thought. Seizing his pen, he dipped it and was busily writing when Sam entered with the tea tray.

‘Tea and biscuits, Mr Frodo,’ he said cheerily.

Frodo waved the quill to an empty spot on the desk, as he usually did, and grunted. Sam laid down the tray, poured out the cup, put it at Frodo’s elbow, and touched his master on the shoulder.

’Eh? What? Did you want something, Sam?’ Frodo said, looking up, giving a most convincing performance of having been interrupted in the midst of a sentence.

’Yes,’ Sam said. ‘I want you to take at least a sip of this tea before you forget it altogether and leave it to go cold on the desk.’

Frodo chuckled. ‘You and Rosie know me too well,’ he said.

’Indeed we do,’ Sam agreed, but he waited. Heaving a sigh, Frodo put the pen down and took up the cup. Once again, he tasted nothing, but at least the beverage was hot and stimulating. He sipped and set the cup down. ‘Have a bit more,’ Sam said.

’I’ll float away!’ Frodo joked, but he took up the cup again.

’How is the work coming?’ Sam said. ‘Do you need any help?’

’No, I’m working on the part about Cormallen, after we awakened, so I remember everything quite well,’ Frodo said. ‘I thought I’d skip over some of the darker stuff this day; the sun is much too bright to think on gloomy things!’

’A fine idea, Mr Frodo,’ Sam said, taking up the teapot to freshen his cup. ‘Well then, just call if you need anything.’

’Be sure that I will,’ Frodo said. He waited until Sam had let himself out, waited quite a bit longer as a matter of fact, in case the gardener had a sudden thought and opened the study door again to voice it. Once he was sure he would not be disturbed until supper time, Frodo laid his pen gently down and once again buried his face in his hands.