June 21

He awoke with a violent sneeze, followed by five or six more. He rolled over with a groan and barely caught himself from rolling into the stream, and he realised that he ached from head to foot. He crawled back on his elbows to where he had lain. The sun was up. He was still wet to the skin from last night, and shivering. He heard voices approaching and sat halfway up. Somebody had formed a searching party, which included dogs. He rolled onto his stomach and buried his head in his arms, only to erupt in another fit of sneezing.

Soon large black noses were snuffling him and concerned hands were checking his body, alarmed that he was wet and clammy. He lay still, until they rolled him onto his back. "Bolco. Wake up."

"I'm awake, " he croaked, "Let me be."

"Flushed, " a voice said. "Feverish. "

"Leave me alone."

"I'll fetch a pony." "Good thinking."

Bolco rolled onto his stomach and buried his head again. The last thing he wanted was attention, but it seemed he would not escape it. Somebody rolled him onto his back again and lifted him partway. "Bolco."

He opened his eyes, and tried to focus. "Tom." Tom Furrow. One of the field hands he used to work with.

"Yes, it's me. Are you all right?"

"Don't take me back to the Smials, Tom."

Tom nodded. "You can come to my house, if you like. My Missus will take good care of you. " Bolco lapsed back into shivering, and Tom wrapped something around him and held him tighter. "Dago is here too."

"Dago."

"Here, lad. You've seen better days."

"I have."

"Give it a few days, lad. Everything'll look better after breakfast and a nap. You just set tight, and we'll get you rested up."

His shivering got worse, and more garments were added. He squinted, and saw Tom, Dago, Bob, Ned, and Lad, all field hands he used to work with. "Jock?"

"Went to get the pony."

It was all right, then. They wouldn't embarrass him. Maybe they'd explain a few things. Knowing that he didn't have to fight for privacy made things less awful. "I don't want to be seen."

"The Took will want to know whether we found you or not, " Ned replied. "We'll keep things as quiet as we can though. One of us'll go back to the Smials, and tell him you want to lay low, and that we're allowing no visitors."

He had another sneezing fit, and one of the dogs decided to give him a face bath. Lad pulled him off.

"Jock could hurry up with that pony."

"We'll stay behind the hedges as best we can; we can stay covered most of the way home that way."

Eventually Jock trotted up, and they lifted Bolco onto the pony and set off. Dago inspected Bolco's pack, the university logo and the zipper, and touching the nylon fabric and webbing and straps, and then shouldered it. "Outlandish, " said Lad, looking too.

Eventually they arrived at Tom's house. They gave Bolco some dry clothes which Tom helped him into, and they put him in a couch in the sitting room and piled blankets on him, and brought him hot tea. They sat around him, watching, until he stopped shivering and began to show signs of drowsiness, and then they retreated.

"Tom."

"What, lad?"

"My pack."

"On the floor beside you. Something you want?"

"The book. Open the pack for me."

Tom struggled with the pack, looking for something to untie.

"Bring it here, " Bolco croaked. He unzipped it, and reached inside and pulled out Jake's bible, zipped the pack halfway and shoved it carelessly aside. Tom lifted it down to the floor, and tried the zipper himself. Bolco gently pushed his hand away from it. Tom really wanted a look at the book instead, but Bolco was holding it to his chest as he burrowed deeper under the covers. Soon only dank curls showed, and he dropped off to sleep.

Sleeping with a book, thought Tom. Maybe he really has cracked. And what a strange book it is. He would try to get a better look at it later.

Jock, meanwhile, mounted the pony and, with the Took's dogs following behind, headed back to the Smials. He left the pony tied by a back door to avoid curiosity, and sought out The Took.

"Hello, Jock. Did you find him?" Paladin was at Second Breakfast, and offered him a biscuit, which Jock gratefully accepted since there was a huge plate of them. "Help yourself, " said The Took, waving at the table. Jock took some strawberries.

"We found him, sir, but he don't want no visitors nor anybody to know where he is."

"Is he all right?"

"Well, sir, he's seen better mornings, and that's a fact, " said Jock. "He's under care and under cover, and we'll do our best by him. But he doesn't want to be seen."

"Where did you find him?" Paladin munched another biscuit and washed it down with tea.

"By the stream bordering the far North Fields, sir. He was almost in Hobbiton. He was drenched and freezing."

"You mean he'd been in the stream."

"Yes sir. Wet through to the skin, and slept that way seemingly. Sneezing up a storm." Jock had more strawberries.

"He'd had an awfully long day of travel."

"Sir?"

"The folks up at Bindbale said he'd come through the town the night before, and started very early the next morning. Said he'd come from Evendim through the wood. That agrees with what the Bounders reported. He rode or walked, all day long, on Midsummer's day. "

"Wasn't Midsummer’s Day his birthday?" said Jock, having another biscuit.

"Twenty-nine. No time to organize a party, though, or get gifts around."

"No, sir, of course not."

"Have some tea." Paladin dumped the contents of the sugar bowl into a spare plate, and poured the sugar bowl full of tea from the teapot. "Here."

"Thank you, sir, " said Jock, glad to dispel the morning's chill, and wondering what was making the Took so sociable this morning.

"She said he stuck to his story, " the Took said thoughtfully.

"Sir?"

"Lilac, " said the Took. "She said that she challenged him about the four months, and that he didn't budge. Said four months, mid-February through mid-June, no more." He alternated biscuits and strawberries.

"You spoke with her, then, Sir."

"I did. Frightening temper, that girl." He chewed thoughtfully. "In all the time that you knew him, Jock, in all the time that you worked with him, was he prone to strange flights of fancy? Odd spells?"

"Well, sir, he always was fond of stories of the elves."

Paladin took another biscuit. "So am I, Jock."

"Yes, sir. Well, to tell you the truth, he was always climbing trees and such, but on the other hand, he seemed pretty level-headed. Except for the wading. And there he was last night again, back into the water seemingly. Always was drawn to the water, and that's not normal." Jock nodded his head.

"Jock, what I'm asking you is, did you ever have cause to think that he might have lost his reason. Climbing trees is innocent enough if you like trees. And wading, " the Took stated, "is really not such a wild thing. I have several cousins who think nothing of wading, nor swimming either. Think, Jock. Was there ever a time when his behavior indicated he had lost his powers of reasoning?"

"Well, sir, I really don't reckon so, as best I can recall," Jock puzzled. "He could always plow a beautiful furrow, and he always knew the weeds from the crop. He could be odd, sir, but he always put in a good day in the field. Very steady that way, sir."

Paladin sat back, and held Jock's gaze, and asked very seriously, "Was he ever dishonest?"

"Never, sir, and you can count on that, " said Jock stoutly, thumping his palm down on the table, rattling the pates and cups. Paladin slowly and thoughtfully absorbed Jock's response, slowly nodded, and refilled Jock's sugar-bowl with tea. There followed a long silence unbroken except by the sounds of two hobbits munching. Finally the Took spoke again.

"When he is healthy and ready, " said the Took, "tell him, that if he likes, he can resume his old field work, if he wants to. He needn't live here if he'd rather not. One of you can find him a place, can't you?"

"I'm sure we can, sir."

"Make certain he's well looked after. Let me know how he is doing. Let me know if you need anything."

"Yes, sir."

"All right then, Jock. Thank you."

Jock drained his tea and stood. "Thank you, sir, " he bowed, and setting the sugar-bowl awkwardly down, he departed.

Tom kept checking back in on Bolco, hoping that he was awake, wanting a look at that book. But Bolco snored on. By bedtime, Tom was grateful that the sitting room had a door that would shut. He left a loaf of bread and some strawberries beside Bolco's bed, with a pitcher of water, and he and the Missus retired.

June 22

Bolco awoke in the small hours. There was enough moonlight for him to recognize the loaf and the strawberries, and the pitcher of water, which he forthwith drained. He looked at the food but it did not interest him.

He lay awake, reviewing the events of the previous two days, cringing often. His story, which seemed odd enough to him without the confusion of dates and times, was apparently generally disbelieved. Once he had been considered a daft elf-chaser; now that paled to nothing. Now he was either mad, or, irresponsible and no longer trustworthy; now, according to Lilac, he was a despicable liar. He wondered how long it would be before he could show his face in public again, and then he wondered if he cared. If Lilac turned him away, what good was a reputation? Without Lilac, what difference did anything make? He cringed again.

The field hands loved him, but did they trust him? Did they believe him? Could they? And if he stayed with them, would his reputation rub off on them and make them outcasts too? He didn't want to do that to his old friends.

He thought of James, Josh, and Jake, and the prayer that they had poured into Lilac. That thought strengthened him, a little, and he thought, perhaps there is still a chance. Perhaps Iluvatar can win her over for me. Perhaps I simply have not prayed hard enough.

He would be starting from worse than nothing, he knew. In her eyes, he was a deceitful, despicable liar: she wasn't giving him the option of madness. He thought he would never forget the contempt in her eyes. He cringed again.

Creator, is there hope? Is there a chance, even a faint one?

He didn't dare believe it, not yet. It was enough that the thought had arisen. He wrapped his arms around Jake's bible and clung to it, and tried not to think about what the entire town was thinking. The hours crawled by. Worship songs came unbidden to his mind, and he hummed them softly, and began to feel a little, just a little, bit better. The gloaming began at three, and the dawn was a little after four. He opened Jake's bible, and struggled with the strange letters, through one of the shorter psalms.

He considered staying out in the fields, living in the hedgerows, and staying out of sight as best he could. Perhaps he'd go into the woods. And he hoped that in time, he would find the strength to reach out to Lilac again.

By the time Tom came in to check on him, he had fallen asleep again, burrowed under the blankets. Tom refilled the water pitcher and brought a second to keep it company, and then he saw the book lying open on the covers. He bent over and inspected it, fascinated. All the runes were in mighty straight lines. The runes seemed so tiny, tinier than any writing or runes he could remember seeing, and all so closely spaced. Strangest runes I've ever seen, he thought squinting and frowning, not that I can read the normal ones anyway. Dago could, or almost; he would ask him, if he got the chance. Meanwhile he inspected the binding, and the paper, and the little ribbon lying on the bedcover that was attached to the book at one end. He picked it up, turning pages, looking at the title page and the colorful maps in the back, and inspecting the binding again. He shook his head, wondering if it really was as outlandish as it seemed, or whether he was just ignorant of such things.

Then he had another look at that strange backpack. While he was involved in this, his Missus came in, followed by a golden-haired hobbit-lass four years old. She had been named Daffodil before they were quite sure her blond hair would remain blond, but it had.

Daffodil came around the side of the couch, and looked at the side table. "Oh, Mister Bolco, you didn't eat your strawberries."

"Shush, lass!" Tom and Missus said.

But Bolco stirred, and his sleepy head emerged from under the covers. "Daffodil?"

"Daddy says you're sick. When will you be better so we can play tag?"

Bolco tried to smile at her. "I don't know, Daffodil. Soon."

"Why didn't you eat your strawberries?"

Bolco shook his head. "I'm not very hungry, darling, I'm sorry."

"But I wanted to pick some more for you."

Bolco sat up slowly, and saw the water, and reached for that, draining the pitcher and setting it back down.

"Well, I guess we know what he does want, " said Tom.

"Thanks, Tom." Bolco reached out to Daffodil, who perched herself on the edge of the couch.

"Can you come and see my pony?"

Tom spoke up. "Daffodil, that's the family pony, not just yours."

She pouted.

Bolco normally enjoyed children, especially the field hands' unpretentious and playful children, but he was numb deep in his soul, and felt guilty about it, and wished he wasn't such a wet blanket as far as Daffodil was concerned.

She turned back to him, and said, "It's okay, Mister Bolco. I understand that you're sick. Mom says you have to rest. So you can come and see my pony another day and we'll pick strawberries together then." She hopped down, and skipped out of the room.

"You rather have something besides strawberries and bread?" the Missus asked, noting they were untouched.

Bolco shook his head. "I'm just not that hungry, " he apologized. He gathered Jake's bible up off the bed, to Tom's disappointment, and once again held it against his chest, and crossed his arms over it. He lay back down, and was fast asleep in seconds.

Tom shook his head. "I reckon the sleep's good for him; I just wish he'd eat. Wonder what we can tempt him with."

Bolco slept through the day again; the Missus came in at suppertime with a dish of steaming mushrooms and garden vegetables, with potatoes and mutton; and she woke him. He sat up, and sniffed; then he smiled at her. "Missus Pansy, you are a sweet lady and a wonderful hostess. I am sorry to say I am not hungry. Tom will enjoy them, though. I'm amazed he gave me first crack, " Bolco smiled again.

"Never fear, " she replied, "he's got his own dish. This is all for you. Come on now, eat up, lad."

"I, I can't, " he apologized again. "I'm just not hungry. I'm so sorry."

"Mister Bolco, " she began, "You must eat to regain your strength. You can't be starving yourself like this. That won't do anybody any good."

"All right, " he said, and she handed him the platter, smiling, and sat on the foot of the couch. He took a forkful, and chewed it slowly and carefully, and she smiled. He swallowed, concentrating hard, and took another forkful. She watched him eat about a dozen forkfuls, and then she stood and left. He immediately set the dish aside, shuddering, and put his face in his hands, and then curled up under the covers again, and was asleep in minutes.

Tom came in twenty minutes later, and found the still-full platter. He woke Bolco.

"Come on, Bolco, lad. You've got to eat."

"Tom, I can't."

"Whyever not? Come now, lad. My Missus worked hard cooking this. It's good, I can tell you."

"I can smell it, Tom. I'm sure it's delicious. I, I just can't eat. I'm so sorry."

"You need to eat, Bolco, lad. You're already too thin. Come on. Have a forkful."

Bolco sighed, reached for the pitcher of water, drained it, and looked at Tom.

Ton held the plate out to him, and tried to give him the fork, and studied Bolco's face. Bolco looked at the plate, and struggled inwardly, and tried to talk himself into eating, but his stomach turned, and he shuddered and cringed.

Tom's eyebrows went up.

"I can't, Tom. I'm so sorry." Was there anyone in the Shire that he was not destined to disappoint? Bolco wondered, and looked guiltily at Tom, pleading with his eyes for forgiveness. Insulting Missus Pansy's cooking was the last thing he wanted to do.

"All right, lad. Tomorrow then. You need rest. Sleep a while; eat tomorrow. " He watched as Bolco curled up under the covers, and fell fast asleep again.

Tom sighed, brandished the fork, and cleaned the plate, figuring tomorrow they'd try bread and cheese and fresh fruits again. But for the next four days, it was always the same; no amount of convincing could get him to eat more than a few forkfuls before he cringed and turned away. Other than those times of conversation and struggling over food, Bolco drank water and slept.

June 27

On the fifth day, he got up and went outside. Daffodil ran to meet him, and then she ran circles around him. "Chase me, Mister Bolco!" But he sat down and watched her run circles around him.

When she realised he would not play tag, she came and sat in his lap. "Are you still sick, Mister Bolco?"

"Not really, " he said. "Just sad. But you are cheering me."

"Come and see my pony."

"All right."

She led him by the hand into the stables, which fortunately were not far. A glistening black pony, smaller than most, thrust his nose at Bolco.

"What's his name?"

"Strawberry."

"But he doesn't look like a strawberry. He's not red, he's black."

"He likes to eat strawberries."

"Oh."

"Would you like to come and pick some strawberries with me?"

"All right."

She led him out of the stable and back to the garden, and then through a field, to the Strawberry patch.

"But we have no baskets, " Bolco objected.

She smiled precociously. "Eat what you pick."

Bolco tried. Daffodil chattered and lectured and ate her fill, and got red stains on her hands and face. Bolco ate seven strawberries and stopped.

"My pony can eat more strawberries than you can, " Daffodil admonished, and ate another.

The sun was warm, and Daffodil's lecturing was somehow soothing, and Bolco curled up on the grassy border next to the strawberry field, and fell asleep.

Daffodil got her father. "Mister Bolco is asleep on the grass. Daddy, is he still sick?"

"Darling, we don't really know. But if he can sleep, we'll let him, if he's that tired. All right?"

"All right."

"Show me where he is." Tom fetched a dark blanket that would be warm in the sun, and covered Bolco with it, and brought out the pitcher of water and set it down by him. "Did he eat any strawberries?"

"Yup. But not as many as I did."

"Better than none. Go and pick him some blackberries, and we'll leave some of those by him too." She came back shortly with a little basket full, which they left beside the pitcher.

Tom went back into the house, into the sitting room, and scanned for that book. He cound't find it, look though he might. But that pack, now; Tom knew that that pack was strange. That fastening method, now. Like stitching a seam closed, only it was openable again. It intrigued him. He tried the zipper again, and it moved a little; he tried it again, and it slid back smoothly.

What was that? Brown leather... ...shoes. Tom sat back aghast. Now he definitely felt that he'd been trespassing where he should not have been. Suddenly very cold inside, and shaking a little, he zipped the pack closed, and set it aside. He would mention this to no one, he thought. At least not today. At least not until he figured out what it could possibly mean. Talk about Bolco had gotten bad enough; there was no need to add shoes to the general scandal. Poor Bolco. Tom wondered what on earth had possessed him to own a pair of shoes. He shuddered, more determined to protect Bolco than ever.

That evening, while Bolco was still asleep by the strawberry field, under little Daffodil's watchful eye, the field hands all gathered for a beer in Tom's dining room. Tom told them about the strange book, and that Bolco was protective of it, and often slept with the book clasped tightly to his chest. They all agreed that that was odd. And then Tom mentioned the backpack; the strange cloth that it was made of, the strange straps, and the odd embroidery on it. Dago and Lad, feeling very knowledgable, nodded in agreement. (Tom did not, however, mention the Zipper or the Shoes at all.)

They agreed that that was all very strange, and they collectively worried about Bolco's lack of appetite. And then they decided that he should not spend the night outside in the cold, and so they went out to where he was asleep, and pulled the blanket off of him, and put him on top of it, and then each took a corner and two in the middle, they carried Bolco, still asleep, back into the sitting room, and wrapped him up well.

The backpack, lying on the floor beside the couch, they all closely inspected, and all agreed that it was outlandish, although Tom (terrified that the shoes might be discovered) carefully prevented anyone from trying the zipper. The mysterious book they did not find; Bolco had stowed it and the notebook under the couch cushions. They left the pitcher of water and the berries there for him, added a fresh loaf of bread and a different type of cheese, and let him be.

June 28

He woke at one am. He could smell the berries, and the fresh bread, and he sat up and looked at the side table, and wearily stifled a laugh. What good friends, and how they tried to tempt him. He felt guilty leaving such good food uneaten. Guessing who had picked the blackberries, he couldn't leave them untouched. He ate six. He cut a slice each of the bread and cheese with the knife they'd left him, and nibbled at them, and succeeded in eating half of each slice. Three more blackberries, half the pitcher of water, and then his stomach turned, and he pushed it all away.

The moon was out; he stood, having been wearing these clothes far too long, and cast about for something to change into; he located his own clothes, now clean thanks to Missus Pansy, and turned his attention to his backpack. He emptied it out; setting the shoes, socks, and notebook carefully aside with Jake's bible, he placed those in a pile on the couch, and then thinking better of that, stowed them under the couch. He put the clean clothes into the pack, went stealthily to the bath and found a towel, and added that to the pack, and then slipped out of the house.

He was not far from The East Road, beyond which lay Hobbiton if he cut straight across the fields. He thought about The Mill. Below The Mill, the bottom was sandy, and level, and the water was turbulent enough, he thought, to cover the sounds of swimming. Elsewhere the river was too tranquil; he'd be heard; although his freestyle did not splash, he still could not be totally silent. His breaststroke was quite quiet, but he didn't want to limit himself to that. The Mill would afford him peace within the turbulence, and privacy in the midst of the town. He set off through the Hobbiton fields, and sighting along The Hill, arrived at The Mill five miles later.

The near side of The Water was a little town, but the far side had hedges and fields. He crossed the little bridge by the Mill, turned right around the back of The Mill, and followed a hedge row down to The Water.

He plunged in fully clothed, since the clothes needed as much of a rinse as he did. He swam hard upstream towards the dam, fighting the drag of the turbulence made worse by the drag of his shirt and breeches, and fought his way to the dam well to the left of the wheel, and turned and floated back downstream to the hedgerow. It wasn't far enough, but for now he would just keep going back and forth. After ten minutes he grew weary of fighting the shirt, and stripped it off under the hedgerow and hung it on a branch there to drip. He was tempted to add the breeches, but if he was discovered in just his linen shorts, the scandal would be far too great; he should at least be decent from the waist down. He consoled himself that it would make him work harder.

The rhythm soothed him. It was not by any means the first comfort offered to him since Midsummer's day. Tom and Missus Pansy had tried hard to offer Bolco every comfort they could think of. But this was the first comfort his soul had been able to really receive since Midsummer's day-- the memory of which made him cringe even as he swam. He shook off the memory, and focused entirely on the form and rhythm of his stroke, and the water flowing past his body. He thanked the Creator for water, for this water, for having taught him how to swim, for this night to swim in, for the fact that he was alone, that he was free to swim. He swam until he was utterly exhausted, and as he climbed up the bank toward the hedgerow, he was already planning his return trip two mornings hence. He was tempted to come every night, but he knew he was too weak for his body to maintain that pace; every other would have to do. He sighed.

The wet clothes he rolled into the towel, and stuffed them into his pack; he put on the clean dry clothes; gave the water one last caress, and headed back the way he came. The sun was up when he arrived at Tom's house, but nobody else was. He hung the wet clothes out to dry, finished the remaining half-slice of bread and cheese, ate six more blackberries, climbed back into bed, and was asleep in minutes.

He awoke at noon. He got up and went to see Tom's Missus, who insisted on feeding him; he ate a few mouthfuls to satisfy her (of course she didn't feel it was nearly enough) and asked her what field Tom was in today. She told him, giving him more food to eat on the way, with which he had about as much success as normal. He wandered over to the field, taking his time, torn between the desire for company and for solitude.

Today all six field hands were in the same field, which happened sometimes depending on the harvest schedules. Dago saw him arrive, and gave a shout, and in moments he was surrounded by all six friends. Welcoming hands patted his shoulders and mussed his hair, and then there was an awkward silence which Jock eventually broke.

"You're not strong enough to work yet, Bolco, but you should know that the Took says you're welcome to work whenever you feel ready. But for now come and talk to us as we work. The sunlight will do you good."

"All right."

They were hoeing a potato field. Bolco stubbornly managed to pull some weeds and cultivate a few rows, and then weariness caught up with him. They made him sit down at the end of the rows, and they each spent a minute with him before they turned down the next row. He eventually dozed off, and slept for three hours. They woke him when it was time to return home. He and Tom walked home together.

He joined Tom, Missus, and Daffodil for supper. Daffodil was beside herself with delight and pelted him with questions of every kind, some of which she even gave him time to answer. All this pleased Bolco, partly because he loved Daffodil, and partly because it gave him an excuse to eat slowly. She wanted him to visit Strawberry after dinner, but he excused himself and retired. As he was crawling under the covers, however, there was a nicker at the window, and Strawberry's jet black nose poked in.

"Since you wouldn't come to see him, I brought him to see you."

Bolco laughed, weary as he was, and got up and went to the window. "Hello, Strawberry. Hello, Daffodil." Bolco opened the window up wide, and let Strawberry explore him through the window, watching for nippy behavior, and hoping not to get too much horse-slobber on his relatively clean shirt. Tidy little Strawberry did not disappoint him. Having decided that Bolco was a good, acceptable, friendly pony, Strawberry gouged his chin hard into Bolco's shoulder and then clonked his head against Bolco's and nuzzled his cheek. Bolco chuckled, quite pleased by the pony's acceptance of him, and obligingly gave Strawberry's mane a firm pull up by his crest. Only then did Strawberry gave a satisfied snort, and remove his head from the window.

"He likes you, " Daffodil observed as she followed him away.

"Yes, I think he does, " smiled Bolco, absentmindedly using his sleeve to wipe the snort from his face. It had been ten years since he had had a pony of his own. Well, twelve, but never mind that. He thought back to his adolescent years galloping over the North Moors and following the coast of Evendim and the Brandywine. In a way, losing his pony had been one of the hardest things about being disowned.

He lay back down. That night he dreamed of riding a black pony at night, northward to Long Cleeve. He grew tense as he approached the town, and just before he arrived at the hillside he grew up in, he woke up.

June 29

It was just past midnight. He lay awake wondering if the dream was important, and guessing that it was.

If so, it would be a long walk. He sighed, and rolled over, but now he was wide awake. He prayed about the dream, and knew the Creator was going to ask him to go north, but not yet, not now. Well, that was a relief, he thought. He walked outside, and lay out under the stars, and waited for dawn. He was sleepless until the sun was up, and then dozed off as it warmed him.

Tom checked his room, found it empty, and sent Daffodil out to look for him; she found him quickly, and Tom covered him again, shaking his head. He heartily wished that his old friend would eat. Eat, and gain weight, and sleep like a normal field hand, and smile, and laugh like old times. He had his good friend staying right in his house, and yet he missed him. "Eat, lad, " Tom whispered, looking down at him, and then he turned, heavy-hearted, and left for the fields.

Bolco woke around noon, ate what he could, and set off for the fields. He was able to do about twice as much as he'd done the day before. He stubbornly ate a little more during meals, which the hobbits brought with them, and his nap was shorter before they left for home that evening.

Eating was a huge struggle for him. The food looked and smelled good at first, but almost as if the aesthetic sense was separated from his appetite. Bringing food to his mouth caused his stomach to turn. Eventually food ceased to even have aesthetic value and he forced it down out of a sense of responsibility. He worked hard that evening at eating dinner, wanting to have some energy for his swim, and retired immediately.

June 30

He woke at midnight. He should have been tired, he thought, but the lure of the water sent him north to The Mill at surprising speed. He paced himself this time, resting often, wanting to work in the fields that day.

The stars were glorious. He wished Lilac could see them like this.

The thought was too much for him and he burst into wracking sobs. He tried to choke them back, but to no avail. He turned over, swimming hard towards the dam, but the sobs continued even underwater; he was more grateful than ever for the turbulence he was swimming in. He thought of his baptism suddenly, and the hands that had held him in the water, and the hands that had supported him as he learned to float, and he asked the Creator to hold him now; feeling the water flow around his body only made him cry harder. He thought of Jesus offering the Samaritan woman a drink, and diving under, he drank long and hard from the river, filling his stomach, asking the Creator to fill his soul like that. And still the sobs came. He threw himself towards the dam, swimming as hard as he could, and then turned and swam hard downstream, and back up to the dam, and still the sobs came. He was growing hoarse again.

He came under the hedgerow, sat in the shallow water under the overhanging branches. He finally reduced the sobs to more quiet gasps, but he couldn't stop them. He thought of his reputation, once just crazy, but now completely irresponsible and despicably dishonest. He thought how he really didn't care about that, except that it mattered to one girl, the girl that for ten years he had dreamed of sharing his life with, and how that dream was shattered all in one day. He let himself sink into the misery again; holding it back hadn't done him any good as far as he could see. He set it all down-- his reputation for craziness, irresponsibility, and despicable dishonesty, and his loss of Lilac herself-- all this, he set down in front of the Creator, and stared at it. Then he tried to look at the Creator instead. He couldn't see him. He mentally scanned through the chapters of scripture that he was familiar with, but nothing jumped out at him. He waited, feeling more alone than he could remember.

The sobs finally slowed, leaving him exhausted, but the tears did not. He went back into the water, and swam quietly for a while, but the tears didn't stop. Finally he got out, dried off, changed, and went back to Tom's house.

Occasionally the tears paused, but the least thought would set them flowing again. He tried not to think and quite failed. He hung out the wet clothes, slept fitfully til noon, let the Missus try to feed him-- he could hardly even look at the food, and tried to hide his face from her-- and set out for the fields. The hands had split up, so he met up with Tom, Dago, and Jock.

He was able to work harder today, and pushed himself the whole afternoon, taking no nap but sitting down for the last half hour before the field hands were done. But his friends were deeply worried, since he ate nothing the whole day and evaded their gaze. It was a dry and dusty day, so as he worked, his face grew more and more grimy with dust and salt mixed. His friends exchanged glances, and frequently asked him how he was, and if there was anything they could do. But he would turn his face away and silently shook his head, until he felt that if they asked him one more time he would scream. Then he curtly responded, "Change Lilac's mind." At which they dropped their gaze and did not ask him any further questions. The day ended in awkward good-evening's, and he and Tom walked home. The first stream they came to, Tom stopped Bolco.

"Wash up, lad, or Daffodil will ask why your face is all smudgy."

Bolco saw the sense in that, and obeyed. He was refreshed for a moment, but then the tears started up again despite his clenched teeth. Try as he might he could not stop them. Once again he turned his face away.

Tom's heart broke for him. "Go straight to your room if you like; I'll bring you dinner, " he said.

Bolco shook his head. "Forget the dinner, Tom. Don't waste it. I can't face it."

Daffodil ran towards them, and Tom picked her up and headed for the stables, chatting. Bolco went straight to his room, shut the door, and got out his notebook.

Something drew him to his Rune-version of Ephesians. He read the whole thing, not absorbing any of it, and then began to reread it. The first chapter, with all its grand and astounding spirituality, fuzzed into a blur, and out of the blur came a certainty, and a fragment of a verse. He repeated it.

"...according to the purpose of him who works all things according to the counsel of his will..."

Bolco let that echo for a while, and then mulled it as he fell asleep on his damp pillow.

He heard Missus Pansy come in, late, bringing more water and a fresh loaf, and Daffodil's basket of blackberries. He did not look up. The smell of the freshly baked bread turned his stomach, and he buried his face under the covers as soon as she was gone.

July 1

"....works all things according to the counsel of his will..."

The moon was high. The bread had finally cooled to where he couldn't smell it as well, so he lay awake staring at the ceiling. Works all things according to the counsel of his will. Works all things...

So this, too, was being worked according to the counsel of the Creator's will. "Even this?" he whispered. He turned unwillingly back to Midsummer's night, the sea of suspicious, angry or pitying faces at The Green Dragon; the pandemonium at the Midsummer Festival between the Tooks and Tad's friends; lingering over his meeting with Lilac, cringing, remembering the look in her eyes. "Even that." Even the contempt. Even the disgust. All things according to the counsel of his will.

"You wanted this? You ordered this? This is your will?" he said aloud, and it was too much to bear. Bad enough that Lilac should completely despise and reject him; far, far worse that God ordained and intended it be so. The wracking sobs started again. Try as he might to quell them, he could not. He buried himself under the covers, under the pillow, but they didn't silence anything.

The door opened, and Daffodil padded in. "Mister Bolco?"

He was far too miserable to hear anything. She called him again. And again. Then she slipped out, and headed for her parents' room, but Tom was already awake, and spared her having to knock.

Tom pulled the covers back, took Bolco by the shoulders, picked him up as easily as if he had been a child, and sat down on the couch, and held him as the storm raged in his soul. Tom had no idea what to do or say, so he just waited. Daffodil climbed up beside her father and stroked Bolco's hair, and promised him that he would feel better soon and they could play tag again and that she would pick him some more blackberries tomorrow. Missus Pansy came and stood in the doorway, and then went and stirred up the fire, and put some coffee on.

Finally the storm ebbed and passed. Tom tried asking him some questions, but Bolco merely shook his head. Tom gave up, and Bolco rolled over and slept as if dead; he would sleep the entire day. Tom stood looking out the window at the moon.

When the eastern sky turned pale, Tom dressed, saddled Strawberry and headed south to The Smials. Paladin received him at dawn, wearing a robe and looking groggy, and offered him tea.

"How is Bolco doing?"

"Sir, he's not doing well. He can't eat. We can't make him eat. My Missus can cook with the best of them, sir, but he can't face any of it. He comes to the fields in the afternoon and works, sir, but I'd almost rather see him not; he's dropping weight fast. He wanders off at night sometimes, and my daughter finds him asleep outside."

Paladin raised his eyebrows; he knew of somebody else that wandered about at night. That was elvish business. At least Frodo sleeps in his own bed most of the time. Still, he thought, I'll ask my son if he knows anything about this. He sipped his tea. No appetite, he pondered. That was far more difficult. If only that darned girl would soften. He swirled his tea and pondered some more.

"You say he's been working afternoons in the fields."

"Three afternoons, now, sir. Not a full day, and he's not strong. The first day, he did the work of a distracted child, " said Tom, feeling that he was saying more than he should, but on the other hand, the Took was known for being compassionate and fair and even on occasion, gentle. "The next day he improved, and yesterday afternoon, he did the work of a weary, weak man. Which makes sense, seeing that's what he is, " Tom finished with a mutter into his teacup.

Paladin considered Tom. "What brought you here, today, first thing in the morning?"

Tom grimaced. "Yesterday Bolco arrived at the field weeping, sir. And all day as he worked, quiet like, but steady. Wept all the way back to the house. Then late last night..."

"Go on."

"He woke us up, sir. Sobbing. Bellowing like a calf." Tom shook his head. "It's been a week and a half, sir. I thought... I thought..."

"You thought he'd be over it by now."

"Yes, sir."

"Tom, Tom, think. This girl was not some passing fancy, not some casual interest. He loved her for ten years. Ten years. Didn't he ever talk to you about her?"

"No, sir. Hardly ever. Once in a while, he'd say she had the prettiest hair in all of Tuckborough, or the shiningest eyes, or something like that."

"He never told you about all their adventures together." The Took shook his head, wondering at children and their secrets that everybody knew-- but nobody knew. How could Tom not have known?

"Adventures, sir?"

"Tom, this girl climbs trees day and night; races ponies anywhere anytime; wades in the water above her knees. At least, she did. And always, always, with him. For ten years. They were inseparable."

"Sir?"

"Walking together down to Bywater, to the pool, and wading for hours and hours in the sandbars. She came back one day with her skirts wet almost to her waist. About gave her father a fit, and he put a stop to it; but she still went wading, just not so deep. Rambling all over the hedgerows and climbing as many trees as they could find. Working every fruit harvest together, always-- always-- the two of them managing to end up in the same tree. Didn't you ever wonder why he was so dedicated to being at every single fruit harvest?"

Tom waited, his eyebrows climbing.

"After he was done in the fields, once he had entered his tweens, Bolco would come home to The Smials, and eat a quick dinner. Then he would take a cup of tea, and go outside, and climb a tree. In the starlight."

Tom's eyebrows couldn't go much higher.

"And Tom, she'd join him! Her father would go outside and putter around, to keep everything proper, and she'd climb the tree, and they'd be sitting out in the tree still until ten or eleven at night. Isembrand would leave his window open-- they were usually in a tree just outside his tunnel-- and as soon as they climbed down he'd be snoring." Paladin laughed, and shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder if he snored first and they climbed down when they heard him." He shook his head again. "No, Tom, as far as Bolco is concerned, the sun rises and sets on Lilac. And if she has turned him away, then there's no sun anymore. Or at least no reason to be interested in it, " Paladin sighed.

Tom realised the implication, and his shoulders sagged. "Well, sir, what's to be done then? If the girl is the key to his sanity and health, I can't fix that. I can't fix the girl or the relationship. But Bolco needs fixing, sir. He's in bad shape. He wasn't plump when we found him, sir. Now his eyes are starting to look hollow. I picked him up this morning and he was too light, sir. Too light."

"Keep him home, lad, and feed him as best you can. I'll see what I can find out. And let him know he's been in my pay these past three days. For a full day's work."

"Sir?"

"Don't worry about what kind of day he puts in. Just charge me whenever he shows up and does something. He needs something to get himself back on his feet. I wonder what happened to all of his things when he disappeared; not that he had much."

Paladin got up. "Follow me, Tom. Bring your tea." They walked to Paladin's office, and he rummaged a paper and pen and ink, and began to write.

"That reminds me, sir."

Paladin looked up, not liking to have his letter-writing interrupted. Patience.

"He's got a mighty strange book with him."

"A book."

"Yes, sir. Thinnest paper I've ever seen, and runes I've never seen the like of before. He keeps it hidden."

"Well, he doesn't want anybody to see it then. Let him be." Paladin dismissed the issue.

"And there's his backpack, sir."

Paladin sighed and glared. "What about it? The bounders said it looked outlandish. Black, strange embroidery, different kind of cloth."

"Yes, sir."

"All right. We won't pry into his private affairs and possessions any more than we have to, will we?"

"Yes, sir."

Secretly Tom was relieved. He had been worried that he might end up accidentally divulging the shoes. He shuddered. If only the lad would eat.

Paladin finished his letter to Pippin, signed it, sealed it, addressed it, and handed it to Tom. "Take this to the post, and tell them it's for quick post. I'll try bringing Pippin home, and we'll see if he can make any headway in all of this."

That gave Tom hope. "Thank you, sir. Right away, sir."

"And, Tom."

"Sir?"

"Your wife did try feeding him mushrooms, of course."

"First thing, sir! " said Tom, indignant.

"You married a wise lady. All right, then. Hurry now."

"Good morning, sir, " Tom said, hurrying out.

July 2

Bolco woke just past midnight. The previous night's scripture came back to him, and he thrust it aside, afraid to wake the household again, until he could be dressed and on the road to The Mill. He did that rapidly. Towel, dry clothes, out the door.

He walked and thought, and brought the scripture back. He needed to worship, he realised. He needed to think about the reasons that Eru is Eru; and he needed to let Eru make up his own mind about the way things should be, and stop trying to tell him how he wanted everything to work out. He knew he had been served notice about the way things are; he needed to accept that. Tomorrow might change, he thought, but today is the way Eru wanted it to be.

"...according to the purpose of him who works all things according to the counsel of his will..."

Your counsel, Creator, is more important than mine. I don't see how the world can be right if I am not with Lilac nor she with me. But your counsel is your own. And so am I; I am your own. And if I could only believe it, Lilac belongs to you too. And no doubt, you know what you are doing. It may kill me yet, but that is your business, not mine.

He struggled all the way to The Mill. He decided to sit down under the hedge, where there was enough turbulence to still cover his voice, and sing for a while. He sang as softly as he could, looking up at the stars, and tried to picture himself singing with James, Josh, and Jake. He succeeded, a little. He raised his hands, this time not a reach toward, but a surrender to. He sang for an hour. And then he stretched briefly, and swam.

*******

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