Chapter 11. Settling In
The day after Shirriff Hawfinch had knocked at their door, the injured hobbit seemed to come fully awake for the first time. He'd gained in strength, as well, for that day, he fed himself his entire breakfast, and little Lark clapped her hands and danced with joy, bringing a smile to the long face. 'He's getting better, Granda!' she carolled.
'So he is,' Gorbyl said, returning her smile. 'Why soon, lad, you'll be out o' the bed and going about your business without a second thought!'
'What is his business, Granda?' Lark asked curiously.
'He'll be better at telling you than I will, surely,' Gorbyl said. 'Well, lad? What d'you have to say for yourself?'
The hobbit opened his mouth to speak, but then he shut it again and shook his head. Seeing Lark's distress, he smiled gently and patted her hand.
'Don't pester him, lass,' Gorbyl said. 'I think he's still a bit tired. Now, aren't you supposed to help Flam with the washing up this morning?'
'Yes, Granda,' Lark said obediently.
But the injured hobbit's trouble became clearer as Gorbyl turned towards the door to the bedroom, saying, 'I'll just let you rest, now, shall I?'
For the fellow caught at the old hobbit's sleeve to stay him.
Gorbyl turned and asked, 'What is it, lad?'
He waited patiently as the hobbit strove to speak, but the words that emerged floored him. 'Who – who are you?'
'Why, I'm Gorbyl north-Took!' he said, offering a bow, though he was shaken by the implications of the question. Had he been mistaken in thinking this hobbit, who looked so much like his Wallas, might be his Wallas, returned home?
The fellow didn't seem to recognise the name, and the old hobbit's heart sank, until the next question brought him up short. 'Who... am... I?'
'Ye... ye...' he stumbled. He took hold of the hobbit's hand and sat down in the chair beside the bed. 'Are ye sayin' ye don't know who you are? Ye don't remember yer own name, lad?'
If this fellow was indeed Wallas, what had happened to his son, that he did not remember his own father? It was understandable that he didn't know the children, for the lads had been faunts when he'd left, and he'd never known Lark. And yet, he'd dragged himself to the cottage from... Gorbyl wasn't sure where he'd started from, or what had happened to him in the Wood to inflict the injuries they'd seen.
And if it wasn't Wallas but simply someone passing through the Wood, then why would the fellow have dragged himself to this cottage that was so far from the road running from East to West in the southern stretches of the Wood, and even farther from the road that ran between the Eastern edge of the Wood and the bog that lay beyond? No, but there was some mystery here.
Gorbyl solved the most pressing problem by patting the hand he held. 'Well then,' he said. 'I cannot simply say "Hoi, you there!" for it hardly seems practical. Why, I might be calling for anyone's attention, including the fox trying to sneak into the coop!' He got a faint smile for his efforts.
Looking earnestly into the troubled face, he said, 'How 'bout if we just call you "Wallas" for lack of another name, at least until you remember if you're called otherwise?'
The hobbit hesitated, then nodded. 'It's... as good as any,' he said. 'But what if I never remember?'
'Well then,' Gorbyl said practically, 'then we'll just keep calling you Wallas, for it's a sight better than "Hoi!" – wouldn't you say?'
Wallas's smile became more real, and Gorbyl nodded in satisfaction.
The old hobbit then tried to ask a few other pertinent questions, but besides not remembering his own name, the hobbit did not know where he'd come from or what his occupation was. 'One thing I can tell you,' Gorbyl said, and he turned over the fellow's hand in his palm. 'See those calluses,' he said. 'You're an archer, for certain, whatever else ye may do.' He smiled. 'O' course, the bow case and quiver on your back when we found ye may have given me another clue as to that.'
'Archer,' the hobbit said, rolling the word around his tongue as if it was somehow unfamiliar.
'O aye,' Gorbyl said. He reached under the bed and pulled out the quiver of blue-fletched arrows. 'This is yours.'
The hobbit took it, stirred the shafts with cautious finger and thumb, and then looked up and shook his head. 'I don't – don't remember.'
'We'll see,' Gorbyl said. 'In a day or two, when you're feeling stronger, we'll see if your body remembers how to shoot, even if your mind doesn't.'
He called the children in then and introduced them formally to their guest. After the fellow had repeated each one's name, Gorbyl said to the children, 'We have a little problem. Our friend here doesn't remember his name. So... we're going to call him Wallas for now. At least until he knows if he's our Wallas or not.'
'If I'm your Wallas?' the hobbit repeated quizzically.
'O aye,' Gorbyl said. 'If you're not our Wallas, then you could well be his twin!'
Lark said, 'Just a moment!' and scurried from the room. She was soon back with the picture from the mantel, which she thrust into the injured hobbit's hand. 'There!' she said triumphantly. 'That's you!' And she pointed to her father's face in the rendering.
'That's me?' the hobbit said, looking carefully. But he shook his head. 'I don't even know my own face, it seems,' he muttered.
Gorbyl nudged Flam. 'Bring your mum's looking glass,' he whispered. The lad nodded and left the room, not quite so quickly as his little sister. But he quickly returned, the silver-handled looking glass in his hand. It had been Gorbyl's "welcome" present to Dove upon her wedding to Wallas.
Flam extended the looking glass to the hobbit in the bed, and he shifted the painting to his left hand and took the hand-mirror with his right and held them up together, scrutinising his face and obviously comparing his reflection to the likeness. 'So that is my face?' he said. 'That's what I look like?' He nodded and added, 'I can see why you think I'm your Wallas...' He laid the glass and the painting down gently in his lap and looked around the circle of watching eyes, tears in his own. 'And this is my beloved? She's so lovely...' He stroked Dove's face with a gentle finger. 'How I wish I could remember...'
'But you're weary,' Gorbyl said, taking up the hand-mirror and the painting from the bed. He placed both on top of the chest near the bed. 'I'll just leave these here so you can get to know your face again whenever you feel the need,' he said. His heart twisted for the poor fellow – what must it be like not to know his own name, his own face, his own family and history? To reach for memories and come up with only emptiness?
But all he said was, 'As I said, if you aren't our Wallas, then you could be his twin! Why, you look more like him than his own brother – or your own brother – Gorbas, whom Wallas and Dove named young Gorbol-here for! That's why we thought you showed up at our door in the first place; we thought you were doing your best to make your way home again, and you weren't going to let any injuries stop you!'
'I have a brother?' the hobbit said, his face showing his distress. 'But I don't remember him! And I don't remember any of you! It's as if you're all strangers to me!'
Lark's face showed her distress. 'But you're our Da!' she protested.
With obvious reluctance, the hobbit said, 'I'm sorry, lass... but I don't know you.' With an attempt at a wry smile, he added, 'But then, I don't even know myself...'
'She wasn't born yet when you went away, Da,' Flam said earnestly. 'That's why you wouldn't know her.'
'She wasn't... d'you mean I went away when she wasn't even born yet? And I've been gone so many years?' the fellow said to the lad, obviously horrified. He looked at Lark in apology, then turned to Gorbyl and demanded, 'What kind of rogue am I?'
'You're not a rogue!' Gorbi said fiercely, throwing his arms around the fellow in a hug. 'Mum always said you were kept away against your will, she knew you were! She said you'd come back to us again, Da, no matter what!'
'And you did!' Flam agreed. 'You came back!'
Returning Gorbi's hug, the hobbit looked helplessly at the old grandfa.
'I think that's enough for now,' the old hobbit said, picking up Lark and then gently pulling his older grandson away. 'Come, my lad and my lass, I think we've wearied our friend beyond his strength. We must let him sleep. Flam, you'll stay?'
'O' course, Grandfa,' Flam said with a firm nod. He sat down in the watcher's chair next to the bed and took hold of the injured hobbit's near hand. 'All will be well, Wallas,' he said. 'You don't mind if we call you "Wallas", I think you said? Now, close your eyes and rest, as Grandfa said, and I'll sing you a song to ease your aching head.'
'How did you know it was aching?' Wallas said, looking from one hobbit to another one more time. He nodded as if in apology for his weakness, and then he obediently lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
Instead of answering, Flam began to hum and then to sing.
The leaves are all turning now deep in the Wood, (deep in the Wood)
Greens to yellows and golds
(and with reds they are burning).
Deepest blue is the sky shining high o'er the trees (o'er the trees)
As the clouds go bowling by.
So we'll sing of the Winter, we'll sing of the Spring (sing of the Spring)
While the wild birds take wing to go look for the Sun.
(Still the world goes on turning.)
We must gather the nuts and the berries and seeds (berries and seeds)
Now that Autumn is begun.
Humming along with the gentle lullaby, Gorbyl stole quietly from the room with his other two grands.
The old hobbit returned after second breakfast and found the fellow still sleeping and Flam drowsing though still holding the injured hobbit's hand. 'Go and eat, laddie-mine,' he said softly. 'There's scones from yesterday's baking, and honey or bramble jam to sweeten them, and a pitcher of fresh milk to wash them down.' He put the plate and mug he'd brought on the chest to await their patient's awakening and then took Flam's place next to the bed.
When he saw the eyelids flutter, he leaned forward and murmured. 'Are ye hungry, lad?'
The fellow's eyes opened – eyes of the same dark, mysterious green as Wallas's eyes; surely the hobbit in the bed was his son! ...and he nodded.
Gorbyl helped him sit up, propped pillows behind him, and turned to pick up the plate and mug. 'Milk,' he said in answer to the questioning glance, 'as you don't appear to care all that much for tea...?'
Another nod, part confirmation and part thanks.
Gorbyl had smeared some of the scones on the plate with honey and the rest with jam. 'I didn't know if you had a preference, but if you don't care for one or the other, I'll finish them off and spare you the trial of choking down food that's not to your taste just to be polite.'
He got a grin for his efforts, and the hobbit picked up a scone and took a bite, then gestured to the plate, indicating that Gorbyl should help himself.
The old hobbit leaned back in his chair, still holding the mug of milk, and said, 'I et already.' He lifted the mug and said, 'Just let me know when you'd like some milk.'
'Thankee,' the hobbit said.
Gorbyl talked quietly as the fellow ate and drank, carrying the majority of the conversation. Perhaps the sound of his voice, the sound of words strung together, would help unlock Wallas's memories.
And it seemed to be working! For after washing down a bite of his fifth or sixth scone, Wallas said thoughtfully, 'I dreamed...'
'What was it you dreamed, lad?' Gorbyl said, infusing his tone with all the encouragement he could muster.
Wallas seemed to look into a far distance. 'I held a babe in my arms – and I knew that the babe was mine! As if I were remembering in my dream what my waking mind cannot.'
A babe, Gorbyl thought. Though Lark had not yet been born when Wallas disappeared, young Gorbi and Flam had been mere faunts. Was the hobbit, perhaps, remembering the early years of one or both of his sons?
The old hobbit cleared his throat. 'Speaking of babes...' he said.
Wallas favoured him with a look of inquiry.
'It's little Lark,' he said uncomfortably. 'She's that upset that you don't know her – that you don't, at this point, consider yourself her da. It's got her very upset... She hardly ate a bite of second breakfast. And she's such a little thing, she's likely to blow away on a light breeze if she doesn't eat!'
Not to mention, a hobbit that doesn't eat is all too soon no hobbit at all, as the old Shire proverb warns. Though adults could get by on fewer than six meals a day and had even survived on starvation rations during the Dearth of historical times and in the Lockholes during the Troubles, children could become seriously ill or even die for lack of food. Their bodies needed sustenance to grow on as well as for the energy they expended in daily living.
'And so,' the old hobbit said hesitantly, 'I'd consider it a personal favour, like, if you could... if you would...'
'If I would what?'
'If you'd allow the childer to call you "Da". I know it's a great imposition, when you don't remember them and feel you might not merit such an honour, but...'
'But it's for the little one's good and not her harm,' Wallas said, his eyes darkening with sorrow at the thought he was stumbling such a little child, and over a point that might be construed as pride on his part.
The hobbit in the bed was a thoughtful fellow, it was clear to the old hobbit. Doing right by others seemed important to him. At least, that was Gorbyl's impression from their interactions over the past few days.
But the matter was not to be so simple. For when the little family gathered together for their usual evening singing after eventides, and Wallas invited the children to address him as "Da", little Lark burst into tears and ran from the room.
***