CHAPTER 12
The party at Crickhollow all slept late the following morning. Sam was first to arise, and noticing that it was nearing time for elevenses, he busied himself with preparing a meal.
As he had thought, the smell of food cooking soon lured Pippin and Merry out of their beds, as well as Gimli. By the time it was finished they had been joined by Legolas and Frodo.
After they had eaten, they went outdoors into the fine spring morning. The hobbits and Gimli lit their pipes; Legolas took himself up a nearby tree for a view of the surrounding countryside. This was a green and pleasant land, gentle and tame compared to his home in the east. But he could see the Old Forest from his vantage point. There was a forest perhaps as old as Fangorn. It might be worth exploring before they left the area. He felt a bit of movement from the tree, and realized he was being joined.
“Hello, Pippin.”
“How did you know it was me?” said the hobbit. “You didn’t even look.”
Legolas laughed. “And who else here climbs trees?”
“I’ll have you know Frodo taught me to climb when I was only a faunt.” He sounded indignant.
“Perhaps so,” said Legolas “but that was long ago for your kind. I doubt me that he climbs so much anymore.”
Pippin leaned back against a convenient limb. Though he was not nearly so graceful in the trees as an Elf, he was very much at home. He sighed.
“No, I fear you’re right. I don’t think Frodo has climbed a tree in a long time.”
“And how is Frodo?” Legolas asked gently, not really sure that he wanted to know the answer, and very much afraid that he already did.
“It depends on who you ask. I thought he was doing all right; so did Sam--up until a couple of weeks ago anyway. I don’t believe Merry ever agreed with that. But Merry doesn’t want to discourage us. And I think he hopes he’s wrong. I’m beginning to see that it’s going to take a lot longer for all of us, but especially for Frodo.” Pippin looked away from the Elf’s concerned gaze.
“What happened a couple of weeks ago?”
“Anniversaries. For all of us.” His voice was low and subdued.
“Ah.” He made no other comment. He had known Aragorn’s opinion about what the hobbits might suffer from their experiences, and he was sorry to see that the healer had been correct.
They sat silently for a few moments; then Pippin began to pick at some dead twigs stuck in the limb where he was perched. He looked down, where Sam and Merry stood at the foot of the tree, and gave Legolas a mischievous grin. Then he began dropping the twigs on their heads.
“Hey!” called Sam. Merry, with more experience of his cousin’s tricks, moved away from the tree.
“You’ll have to come down sometime, cousin.”
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Esmeralda knocked upon the door of Bergil’s room.
“Come in.”
“Are you feeling better this morning, Bergil?”
“Yes, Mistress Brandybuck. I feel much better now, thank you.”
She had sat with him late into the night, first patting and rubbing his back until she had brought forth a few great belches; then she had given him some ginger and chamomile tea, and stayed by him until he had fallen asleep.
“I hope you realize now that you do not have to eat like a hobbit just to be polite?”
“I am glad. Is it really true that you have six meals a day?”
“Yes, lad, it is. And sometimes on special days we have seven. But you are only used to three, so do not feel that you must eat every meal with us. Or if you choose to join us, then just have a cup of tea and something small to nibble on. That will keep us company and be polite enough, without making yourself sick.”
“Thank you. I am sorry I was so much trouble.”
She laughed. “Do not worry about that. You could not possibly be the trouble that my son and his younger cousin were everyday growing up. Sometimes I thought they had been misnamed, and should have been called Trouble and Mischief.”
Bergil laughed, too, then. Esmeralda thought it a lovely sound. He truly was very young, but he was such a solemn child.
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Paladin and Berilac had made an early start, and now had stopped in Woodhall to take luncheon. The village was too small to boast of a real inn, but there was a small eating house there. They hoped to make good time to Bucklebury, perhaps arriving there as early as mid-afternoon.
Berilac was enjoying this little journey. He’d not much occasion to deal with the Thain in the past, but he was finding him to be a good companion. Paladin had a good sense of humor--he didn’t know why that surprised him, knowing Pippin as he did--and was very shrewd. He could tell that the Thain was worried about his son. It must have been very hard for him to allow him to go live in Buckland when the lad had been gone for so long. But Berilac was one of the few who knew the real reason for that.
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After luncheon Pippin walked to Brandy Hall; he wanted to spend time with Bergil. The rest of them were deep in a discussion of the political situation in Gondor, something which Pippin found less than enthralling. Besides, having invited the child, he was not about to just abandon him.
As soon as he arrived, he sought for Esmeralda, and found her overseeing the turning out of one of the linen storerooms. He came up behind her and enfolded her in a hug. “Hullo, Aunt Esme. Where’s Bergil?”
She turned to him sternly. “I thought you’d abandoned us.”
“No! No.” He was taken aback. “We just got a very late start today! I came over as soon as I could. Now, how’s Bergil?” For he was concerned that she had not answered yet.
“Bergil had a difficult night. He had quite a stomachache.”
“He’s sick!” Pippin’s panic stricken face went pale. “Why didn’t you send for me?”
Esmeralda relented. She had to remember that Pippin was not *used* to caring for someone younger. He was used to being the youngest. “No, Pippin. He had a stomachache from overeating. The poor lad thought he had to eat everything put in front of him in order to be polite. If he had really been sick, I should indeed have sent for you.”
The color came back to her nephew’s face, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “So, if he’s all right then, where is he?” He asked with Tookish persistence.
“I believe that right now he’s in the great hall with some of the other children. I’ll walk back with you.”
Aunt and nephew made their way through the maze of passages.
“Pippin, how old is Bergil in hobbit terms? For you told me that Men and hobbits age differently.”
“I’m not truly certain myself, Aunt Esme, but I would guess he might be about the same as a hobbit lad of , oh, sixteen or seventeen. But it’s hard to be sure.”
“I think you are probably right. Yet he seems entirely too serious for one so young.” She stopped for a second, and looked at Pippin. “In fact, the last child of that age that I remember being so solemn was your cousin Frodo.”
Pippin knew what she meant. “Yes, Aunt Esme, he knows death. He lost his mother a few years ago; his father is a soldier, and he has grown up among soldiers. And he has seen War, and known his father’s comrades who died, and has feared often for his father’s life, and even for his own. And no cousin Merry--or indeed, many other children at all--to cheer him up.”
“Well, then,” said Esmeralda briskly, “you will need to make it your job to bring some laughter to his young life!”
They had come into the great hall, and Pippin saw his young charge seated on the floor by the large round window, and surrounded by nearly two dozen young hobbits in their teens and tweens. He was talking animatedly, and holding them enthralled by some tale.
“It was as large as--oh,” he gestured out the window “maybe half as tall as that tree out there.”
Pippin’s smile at finding the lad at the center of attention suddenly faded as the young voice continued. He had also caught the attention of a few adults scattered through the room, among them Pearl, who was talking to cousin Doderic.
“It had a great spiked club. Adrahil said that it swung down in one blow, knocking Artamir unconscious, and wounding Adrahil, my--my father was already unconcsious, smitten by the creature's first blow--”
No. No, not that.
Pippin froze as the blood drained from his face.
Suddenly he was no longer at Brandy Hall, but on the blistering plain of Morannon, a year and a day gone. There the sight of Frodo’s mithril shirt, Sam’s sword and an Elven cloak being boastfully displayed by the Mouth of Sauron had pushed him beyond the brink of despair into a blind rage.
Over and over, Boromir had drilled it into him and Merry: “Topple your enemy first. Go for feet, heels, ankles, knees--use any means you may to bring him down.”
And so he had, a furious small whirlwind, screaming his rage. Heedless of his own life, wanting only to avenge Frodo and Sam, he went somehow unscathed as he cut a swathe through the enemy, leaving them on the ground for larger folk to finish off. His barrow-blade was sharp, and bit deeply into Morgoth’s brood, and he was drenched in black blood.
Then he saw the troll.
Just like the troll that had speared Frodo in Moria.
And it was turning its attention to his comrades of the White Tower.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard a child’s clear voice telling him what to do.
“It was raising its club again, and Adrahil said he thought he had breathed his last. But then he heard a fierce yell, and he saw Peregrin come running up from behind it. He slashed at its heels, and then ran beneath its great legs to face it.
He stabbed up as the troll toppled down. The last thing Adrahil saw before he swooned of his injuries, was that troll lying dead, with the foot of a perian, a hobbit, sticking out from beneath it.
So you see, Sir Peregrin saved them all from the troll. And that is why Artamir and Adrahil wished to come here to the Shire. And it is why I will always be forever grateful, that he saved my father."
The room was silent.
The children were all staring wide-eyed at Bergil. The adults were staring at Pippin. Esmerelda placed her hand upon her nephew’s arm.
Pippin felt time begin to move. He could still hear the pounding of his own heart, loud in his ears. He found he could breathe, which meant he was not underneath a dead troll. He looked down at his aunt.
Just then Bergil spotted him, and gave him a welcoming grin, pleased to see that his friend and hero had arrived. “Sir Pippin!”
Pippin forced a smile to his face. Bergil had no idea of what he had done, other than to boast of his friend. How could he be angry at him?
He walked over to the little group. “Hullo, Bergil.” He hoped that his voice did not sound as strained to them as it did to his own ears. The children and tweens all stared up at him, as though they had never seen their Took cousin before.
One of the tweens got nerve enough to speak. “Cousin Pippin, was that true?”
Pippin wet his lips. “As far as it goes, Sarimac. But Bergil, you must tell them the rest. You must tell them who really won that battle for us.”
Bergil looked at him astonished, as if everyone should know this already. “Why, Pippin, it was Frodo the Ringbearer, of course! For if he had not accomplished the Quest at that very time, the Enemy would have won!”
Pippin’s heart filled with pride for his friend, and he gave him a hug. “Come away with me, Bergil. I’ve not had much time to visit with you yet.”
He turned to lead Bergil away, and saw his sister approaching, tears in her eyes. He looked entreatingly at his aunt. He could not deal with Pearl right now. Esmeralda saw, and intercepted her niece.
“Pearl, not right now.”
“Let’s go for a walk, Bergil; I’ll show you the sights of Buckland. You have not really seen the River Brandywine yet, have you?” Pippin and his young guest left the hall, and behind him he heard the talk begin. He would have to have a word with Bergil about what stories were appropriate to tell young hobbits.
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