He woke from uneasy dreams, hungering vaguely for a sense of peace that was just out of reach.
Odd. Usually he woke without any sense of peace at all. He got up, dressed in the dark, and slipped out of Bag End for a night walk. There was no moon, the stars were out, and it was early enough in the morning that they were still very bright. He ambled down along the hedge to the gate, and for some reason followed the road to The Water, walking on the cool grass beside the road.
The sense of peace was still there, still out of reach, and yet he thought that it was in front of him, drawing him along. How odd, he thought again. His walk became determined, and before long he had walked almost all the way to The Water.
He listened to the Mill's waterwheel, now just rolling freely, and enjoyed the rhythm of it, but the rhythm was suddenly interrupted by another water sound, a sound he knew. Diving. He froze, reaching for Sting, and his hair stood on end.
But Smeagol was dead, and Sting he had given to Sam. He shook himself. With an effort he threw off the foreboding, and cleared his mind. Someone else was diving in The Water, and at two or three o'clock in the morning! This bore investigating. He made his way quickly and stealthily forward, following a hedge right down to The Water, and watched. But the Mill wheel was too close, and he could not hear over it, so he moved further down the water ‘til the sound of the wheel receded, and then he listened.
What he heard, briefly, was the sound of somebody sniffing; but not to smell something-- he thought of Smeagol again, but this was different. This sounded like weeping, very faint and quiet. He could not see where it was coming from at first. The stars twinkled off The Water, but it was black otherwise. He could see nothing in the water to indicate who or what had dove in. He moved away from the bank and jogged downstream.
He looked all across the surface of the water, but it was all black, with twinkling stars.
He pondered whether to shout a challenge, and then decided that was foolish. Swimming was no reason to consider somebody a threat, he realised; the only reason he was on edge was the association of swimming and diving-- and sniffing-- with Smeagol. He shook himself again, and scanned the water one more time. He thought he could localize the soft weeping sound, slightly to his left.
Suddenly, right where he had been staring, someone stood up halfway out of the water. He almost gasped. A hobbit (why should he expect anything else here in the Shire?) turned upstream, swung his arms forward and pushed off, swimming hard upstream. What was odd, was that he was swimming almost silently. This swimmer did not splash. What sounds he did make blended in easily with the flowing noises of the river. He had never seen, or heard, such a stealthy stroke-- except Smeagol's, of course. If he listened quite hard, he could hear the inhale, and the bubbling exhale, rhythmic and steady. He found himself walking back upstream, following the swimmer, now intensely curious.
He followed the hobbit all the way back to the hedge row, and the hobbit swam past to the water wheel and dam. Frodo assumed that the swimmer would climb over the dam and continue upriver. But he hesitated to follow. Beyond the hedgerow he would have no cover and would be seen, and he did not want to be. But at the dam the swimmer halted. He watched carefully as the swimmer took a long drink from the river. Somehow it looked odd, but once Frodo thought it over, he supposed one would get thirsty if one swam hard enough.
Then the swimmer stretched, and rolled onto his back and disappeared. Frodo was baffled, but the harder he looked, he realised that all that was showing above the water was the swimmer's eyes, nose and mouth; all else was submerged. He floated past, drifting with the current. There was the faintest sound, barely audible, of weeping again. He wondered whether he was imagining it.
Frodo sat down under the hedgerow, and waited. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten a little, and it put a slight sheen on the river, enabling him to see a little. He watched. The swimmer got to about the same point, and without standing this time, pushed off and came upstream, again swimming hard. He swam past, and then to the dam, and turned. But this time he did not float past; he swam downstream, hard; then turned, and swam upstream, to the dam, and turned again, and swam downstream. Was there any sense at all in this? Frodo thought. He could see none. But the swimmer turned upstream and came back, working hard against the current, and turned aside to the hedge row. Frodo stiffened, thinking he had been seen, and shrank back against the hedge. The hobbit emerged from the water, and walked wearily up onto the bank, past Frodo. He was wearing hobbit breeches only; his shirt was on the bank, Frodo realised, and further up under the hedgerow, and he was going to get it. Apparently he had brought a towel too. Feeling suddenly like an interloper, but reluctant to be seen, Frodo waited, thinking he couldn't possibly remain undetected.
But he did. The hobbit dried himself off, threw the towel around his neck, stripped-- Frodo turned his head-- opened the pack that Frodo had not noticed, donned dry linen shorts and breeches, rolled the wet breeches and the towel together and stowed them in the pack, slung the shirt over one shoulder and the pack over the other, and walked away still bare-chested along the hedgerow. As he walked, Frodo noticed he had quite small feet.
It could be the Took boy who had been lost for so long and recently returned, that all the fuss on Midsummer's Day had been about. He remembered the uproar in the pavilion. He and Sam hadn't seen the young hobbit that caused the uproar, but he remembered the mention of small feet, and the swimming. Hadn't the bounders reported that he swam the Brandywine, and later Evendim too? He had to know. He stood, and followed hard until he was almost caught up, and then spoke.
"You're out quite late."
The hobbit started violently, but recovered, and then quietly replied, "I'm not alone then." He showed no signs of wanting company, and there was a great deal of sadness in the voice.
"I meant no harm, " said Frodo apologetically. "I'm only concerned, and rather puzzled. Are you all right?"
"I am."
"What is your name?"
The hobbit looked away. "Bolco Took," he said, staring at the ground.
Here was the center of the controversy, then. The shame with which he said it wrung Frodo's heart. "I'm Frodo Baggins," he replied with gentleness and pity.
But the young Took started violently again, backing away several steps. "Mayor Baggins, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Frodo's jaw dropped. This was the very same young lad who had heard him singing behind the hedgerow, whom he had walked with-- the same lad who insisted on calling him Mayor. They were one and the same. He took a deep breath, recovered, responded to the lad's apology.
"Sorry for what, lad? There's been no harm done this evening." The young Took dropped his pack on the ground, and pulled his shirt on, did up every other button, and then waited, his face turned aside and down. Frodo thought he had not seen such shame or sadness in quite a while; the Shire was a bustling, happy place this summer, and this was in stark contrast. He gently walked toward the lad. But as he approached, the lad grew agitated and Frodo thought he might bolt. Frodo stopped, wanting to cheer him, not knowing how.
"You show a fine mastery of swimming, lad. I've only seen such mastery once before."
"Thank you, sir."
"Where did you learn it?"
Further withdrawal. "From a friend, sir."
"Bolco."
"Sir." He would not meet Frodo's eyes.
"Don't be afraid of me. It's all right, lad. I mean you no harm."
"Sir? " Bolco said hesitantly.
"What, lad?"
"Then, then please don't tell anybody I was here."
"I'll keep it quite quiet, lad. But I won't keep it from those I trust," said Frodo honestly. He thought that he might want to discuss this with Sam, or possibly Pippin.
"Yes, sir, " Bolco replied miserably.
"Bolco, before we part company, I'd like a promise from you."
"Sir."
"That if you need anything or want anything, you'll come and find me. Do you know where I live?"
"Bag End, The Hill, sir."
"All right. Are we agreed?"
"Yes, sir. Goodnight, Mayor Baggins." He stepped aside, waiting for Frodo to pass. Frodo shook his head. If the lad insisted on calling him Mayor, then he could extend the appropriate courtesy at least. It was customary for the Mayor to do the dismissing, and he was sure the young Took knew this. Apparently the lad had had enough company for now.
It was too much for Frodo. He walked right up to the lad, and took him firmly by both arms. "Bolco, lad, I mean you no harm. I bear you no ill will. Don't fear me so."
Bolco could not hold his gaze, and looked away.
"Yes, sir."
There was no getting through to the lad, not this morning, anyway. So he kept hold of one of his arms, and turned towards Bag End, and said, "Walk with me as far as our paths lie together." If he was headed for the Took's north fields, Frodo thought, that wouldn't be far, but it was a gesture. Whether it could be received, he did not know.
But Bolco submitted and obeyed in silence. He realised that his attempt to dismiss The Mayor had quite failed, and so now he correctly waited to be dismissed himself. The Mayor, however, did not dismiss him. He walked with The Mayor all the way to the gate at Bag End, but there Bolco's submission gave out, and he halted resolutely.
"Well, lad, now I'm quite sure that you know the way to my home."
"Yes, sir. Good night, Mayor Baggins." And then he turned and quickly retraced his steps down the hill.
The sun rose shortly thereafter, and Sam was up before long. He was unhappy to see Frodo already awake. "Didn't you sleep well, Mr. Frodo?"
"I'm all right, Sam. I went for a walk is all."
"I'll have your breakfast ready, " Sam replied, and hustled off. Frodo followed him, wanting time to talk, and loitered in the kitchen doorway. Rosie thought that odd as she did her morning chores.
"Sam, tell me about the Took lad that swam the Brandywine up at the North Moors, and caused such an uproar on Midsummer's Day. What do you know about him?"
Sam related the talk that was circulating around the inns; that he had swum not only the Brandywine, but the southern coastline of Evendim-- "And they say that that stretches for miles and miles, sir, if it's an inch,"-- and walking down through Bindbale wood, he had avoided his family at North Cleeve altogether. That the bounders had sent a message by pony ahead of him, so that by the time he got to Bywater, the town was abuzz with his arrival, and with the bounders' news that he had swum, not just across the Brandywine, but along the southern coast of Evendim; and they had bought him dinner at the inn. That he had asked what had happened to all the trees, and what else had happened in the four months that he had gone.
"That was the odd thing, sir. He kept insisting he'd only been away for four months. We asked him what year it was; he said 1418, plain as day and no mistake. And he believed it too, what's more."
Sam continued with the controversy over his travels; that he said he had been to the East Coast, but had never seen the ocean, and had no idea how he had gotten there or gotten back. "And then there was the fact that he said he'd been to the lands of men-- but not Gondor nor Rohan-- and that it was on the east coast-- but nobody can figure out the east coast of what. And he still insisted that he'd only been gone four months, sir. Very odd."
"I see." Something about the reference to Bolco avoiding his family at North Cleeve jogged Frodo's memory.
"Is this the lad who was thrown out of his father's house, that The Took hired as a field hand?"
"Yes sir, the same lad, " Sam agreed. "He's had his share of hard times, I guess you could say. And there are some as say that it has finally cost him his reason, and that's where the four months and wild story come from. I don't know about that, sir."
Frodo waited.
"Well, then, rumor has it that he went searching all through the Midsummer Festival to find his Lilac, that had been grieving over him these past two year; she wasn't there, she was at the Smials, still grieving, they say. When he heard that, he went there to find her. And when she saw him, well, sir, they say the reception was less than warm." Sam shook his head.
"Go on."
"Well, sir, they say she dismissed him and no mistake. He fled, I guess you'd say brokenhearted like, and was sick for a week. Saw no visitors. Hasn't been seen around town ever since. They say he's staying with the field hands he used to work with before he left, but nobody gets very close, or so it's said."
Frodo considered for a while. "What do you make of it, Sam?"
"Well sir, I thought it mighty strange at the time, and wondered if it didn't sound a bit dark; but I couldn't see any logic in it, and I've had other things to worry about, sir, and I haven't given it much thought since then, if you know what I mean. I never knew the lad too well. But Mr. Pippin did. Taught him his letters, as I recall."
Frodo nodded, thinking. "All right, Sam. Thank you."
"What makes you ask, sir?"
Frodo hesitated. "Let me think about it some more, Sam. I don't know how I feel yet. I'll tell you when I do."
"All right, Mr. Frodo. Breakfast in the garden or the dining room?"
"In the garden, Sam. You'll join me, and bring Rosie too?"
"If she's willing."
Frodo turned into the hallway and started out toward the door, but on a whim, stepped in the study and picked up the second of four red leatherbound books that were lying on the desk. He opened it and leafed to the first page of narrative, and considered the title. The Ainulindale, the tale of the Song of the Ainur. He had read Bilbo's version while he had been Deputy Mayor, but his reading had been hurried and interrupted often. It was high time that he sat liesurely down with it and enjoyed it in peace. His eyes lingered on Bilbo's spidery runes, and he smiled, and sighed happily, and turned out into the old hallway and went to the garden humming.
Sam came out shortly afterwards, and Frodo smiled, and set the volume aside carefully and gently. Frodo seemed extra thoughtful.
"Is that Mr. Bilbo's Translations from the Elvish?" Sam asked.
"Yes, it is, " Frodo replied. "You should read them yourself sometime."
Sam blushed. "Well, sir, sometimes when you are taking an afternoon nap in the parlor, I pick up one or the other."
"Are you saying you've read them already?"
"All of them, sir. Some of them more than once."
Frodo laughed merrily. "You put me to shame, Sam. I must catch up to you now."
July 5
Two nights later, Frodo woke again, this time closer to midnight, with the same tantalizing sense of peace calling him just out of reach. This time he bolted out of bed and hurried down to The Water. He followed the hedge row down, but he stayed on the Mill side of it this time.
His hunch paid off. As he approached The Water, he heard the faintest singing. The Water almost drowned it out, and would have if he had not been so close. But he was close; Bolco was just on the other side of the hedgerow. Frodo sat down and listened to the singing.
He was singing to The Creator, Frodo realised. How very strange. The songs he sang were childishly simple and rather poorly composed; half did not rhyme well and the other half did not rhyme at all. Compared to the average hobbit composition, they did not fare well. Compared to the elvish songs that Frodo was used to, they were terrible. And yet, there was a strange power involved in the song, somehow. It was like elvish singing only in that there was power in it; but the power was very different indeed. It was childlike. Frodo listened and only grew more puzzled.
Then Frodo sensed something else, what had drawn him in the first place. There was that peace, that tantalizing peace again that stayed just out of reach. Could he find it? Could he enter it, or let it enter him? He longed for just that. He listened, and tried for quite a while to open himself to the music, as he had so often opened his heart to elvish music. But something blocked him from receiving it, from being inside it. He ached with longing.
From the sound of things, Bolco was not at peace, either. Sometimes Bolco's quiet weeping overrode the singing altogether.
Here was something very strange, thought Frodo. Both Bolco and I want peace, desperately. His songs bring peace, but not to him, not that he can recieve. Why? Frodo had the sense that the peace was hovering over Bolco, actually desiring to enter into him-- could peace have desire?-- but the peace was blocked from Bolco, even though Bolco longed for that peace, mightily.
As did Frodo. He struggled to maintain silence and by and large succeeded, but there were times he thought his own weeping would alert Bolco to his presence. How he longed to find peace, and how it evaded him. How it had evaded him ever since Bilbo had left, walked out of his life and left him, alone, left him holding The Ring. Between missing Bilbo and owning The Ring, any peace that he had had growing up had begun to erode after The Birthday Party. Looking back, Frodo felt that his whole life after that had been a shifting, aching restlessness. No, he countered, disagreeing with himself; his recent memories must have distorted the past. He told himself that he had enjoyed many good years between the time Bilbo left him and the time he set out on the quest. But in the past three years, there was no exaggeration; there had been no rest.
Frodo waited, listening. How long had Bolco been singing before Frodo came? Frodo sat through seven songs, and then the singing stopped. Bolco stood, removed his shirt, wiped the tears from his face with it, went down to the water, and dove in off of the bank.
Frodo rose, and went back up The Hill, and went back to bed. He slept fitfully, but he did remember several dreams when he awoke the next morning. They all involved searching and striving towards the peace that was always just out of reach.
After that Frodo was woken by that same elusive peace every other night. Most often he simply lay in bed, not wanting to intrude on Bolco, knowing that the elusive peace was beyond his reach, and not wanting to seek it and be disappointed. But a week and a half later, he went down to The Water.
July 15
Bolco was already swimming, so Frodo located his pack and shirt and towel, and waited near them, but close to the water so that he could watch Bolco swim.
He mainly wondered why Bolco went back and forth so many times. Certainly the lad was clean after the first five minutes or so, if it was a bath he had been wanting. And why drift along lying on his back? Smeagol had never done that. Frodo had never tried it himself. He tried to remember if he knew any Brandybucks that could do that. He wondered how hard it was-- it didn't look hard, only frightening.
Bolco went back and forth, on and on. Frodo's patience began to grow thin, and he started humming songs softly under his breath, and wandering about just a little, and scanning the horizon. After what seemed like hours, Bolco approached the hedgerow. Frodo was waiting on the bank for him, holding out his towel.
Bolco saw him, and stopped, not wanting company.
"Come on up, lad."
"Yes, sir." He submitted and obeyed.
Frodo's heart sank. Once again he was reminded of dealing with Smeagol; issue orders, receive sullen obedience. Only Bolco was not really sullen, Frodo supposed; just heartbroken. Frodo handed him the towel, but Bolco was too self-conscious to use it, and stood there dripping, gaze averted.
Frodo tried not to stare. Bolco's ribs and collarbone had a hollow look; so did his eyes. He had been working full days in the fields since he had found out that the Took was paying him anyway; hardly eating, sleeping less, and still swimming hard, for two weeks now, and his body had burned all of its scanty reserves. He was strong, wiry, but skeletal. Looking at Bolco's hollow ribs and collarbone, Frodo was reminded of Smeagol yet again. The moonlight made Bolco look even more cadaverous than he actually was. Frodo shuddered involuntarily, and then regretted it. But Bolco was still looking down and away, and did not see Frodo's reaction. Frodo dismissed poor Smeagol's starving and hungry ghost, regained himself, and spoke gently.
"Dry off, lad, and then come, and walk with me a bit. I'll get your shirt." Frodo turned away, picking up the shirt, and walked well past the pack, hoping that the lad would not snatch the pack and run off without the shirt. Fortunately Bolco's respect for his Mayor was stronger than his need for the shirt, or he would have. Frodo remained with his back to Bolco and waited.
Bolco understood the courtesy extended, and he fetched his pack, and dried and changed into the dry breeches and packed the wet breeches away, and then joined Frodo, and accepted and donned his shirt.
They walked along the hedgerows, slowly, past several adjoining fields, past orchards, past gardens. Frodo guided them in a long slow wide arc around The Hill.
"Bolco, tell me why you go back and forth in the water so many times."
"I like to."
"You like to."
Silence.
"Why do you like the water so much?"
Because I'm crazy, Bolco thought flippantly, but did not dare address The Mayor that way.
Frodo tried again. "What is it about the water that makes you want to spend so much time in it?"
Bolco struggled with the question, but he did not want to tell the Mayor how he felt. He remained silent.
Frodo tried something else. "Why do you come here after midnight?"
"Why do you?" Bolco asked, and then blushed, expecting Frodo to be displeased by his rudeness.
Frodo thought. "Because I am restless, and can't sleep, and I enjoy walking under the stars when I can."
"Why can't you sleep?" Bolco asked.
"Because I am troubled, and my dreams are... upsetting."
"What troubles you, sir?"
At least this involved some give-and-take. "Painful memories. And desires that were unmet."
"What do you do about them, sir?"
"I don't know what to do about them, lad. I wish I did." His hand strayed to a chain around his neck.
There was a long pause.
"Mayor Baggins, sir?"
"Yes."
"Where do you go to find the elves?"
The faint ghost of a smile touched the corners of Frodo's eyes. "Sometimes Bindbale Wood. More often, The Woody End, or Green Hill Country."
Bolco was silent.
"Why do you ask?"
"I used to look in Woody End all the time. I never saw any."
Frodo nodded. "They know who you are."
"What?"
"They know who you are. I remember them talking about you. You had a favorite tree you used to climb. It's been cut down now."
"I haven't been back to look." Bolco sighed about the tree. "I never saw them. Never. I looked and looked."
Frodo did not think this was the time to tell Bolco that the elves intentionally evaded him for many years.
"I even followed you, more than once, sir. You always lost me. Did you know I was following you?"
"Oh, sometimes." Frodo clamped his lips. The elves had often told him that the young tree-climbing hobbit was on his trail. He remembered seven or eight times; there might have been many more.
"Now you are hiding something from me, " said Bolco, and Frodo laughed softly. There was a pause.
"The reason I like the water, " Bolco suddenly volunteered, "is because it carries me and holds me and it surrounds me." Bolco paused, then, "And it caresses me." His eyes narrowed and he watched for Frodo's reaction.
The unexpected intimacy of the response made Frodo feel as self-conscious as if he had accidentally interrupted a couple's kiss.
Well, Mayor, you've got your answer. Bolco still waited for Frodo's reaction to Bolco's test; he waited to be rejected or criticized, expecting some sign of disapproval or dismay.
Frodo walked on in silence, gently pondering, trying to think of something to ask or say that would not violate what he perceived as Bolco's sudden vulnerability and openness. However, the Mayor was too confused by his embarrassed self-consciousness to ask something else, and the silence got quite awkward. Once again, Frodo was glad that the darkness hid his blush.
Perhaps Frodo would be merciful, thought Bolco, waiting, still expecting a verbal lash. But as the silence grew, Bolco realised that the Mayor's silence came not from disapproval but from discomfort; he had embarrassed him.
Bolco relented, and began to try to set him at ease. Being on the topic of water, he stayed there. "Another reason I like the water, " he stammered a little, "is that I love the sunlight on the surface of the water; and the moonlight and starlight I love more. I love the way water moves, the way it shimmers and flows and the sounds it makes. I love the waves, especially when the wind is strong."
"Go on, " said Frodo, feeling a little safer. "Why the wind and the waves?"
Bolco struggled for words. "I always love the wind anywhere I find it. But the wind on the water reminds me of, of freedom, of hope, of longing for something. When the wind and the waves are strong, I want to throw myself into it, surrender to it. As if it would take me to what I want. And I want the wind to take me wherever the wind wants me to go, as if it knows better than I do what I really need. As if it would set me free from myself, somehow."
Frodo drank his words. And what I need, is peace, and the wind and the waves will take me there, he thought. Out loud he said, "Surrender to the wind and be driven by it-- do you mean sailing?"
"I've never been in a boat, sir."
Frodo laughed. "Never?"
"No, sir."
"Is that why, " Frodo said, "when you made a raft for your backpack to cross the Brandywine, you didn't just make a raft big enough to carry you too?"
"It didn't even occur to me, sir. But no, I wouldn't have done it anyway."
"Why not?"
Bolco's passion surprised Frodo again. "Because it meant so much to me to be swimming home to The Shire. To actually swim across the border, to swim home. And later, to swim all along the south shore of Evendim. I wouldn't trade that for anything." He paused. "Well, almost anything."
Frodo hesitated, and then asked very gently, "What is that, the one thing you would trade it for?"
But Bolco looked away again, and would not answer.
Frodo was lost in thought for a while. "Is Evendim like the sea?"
"I don't know, sir. I've never seen the sea."
"Neither have I, lad."
"Do you want to, sir?"
"Yes. Yes, I do. " He sighed, and then fell silent. They went past several more fields.
"Sir, have you ever been to Evendim?"
"Yes, I have."
"I used to go there when I was a teenager, as often as I could."
"Why?"
"After my mother died. I went there because of that."
"How old were you when she died?"
"Twelve, sir."
"I was twelve when my parents drowned." Bolco grew nervous; he had forgotten that Frodo's parents had drowned. But Frodo did not dwell long on that. Frodo thought for a minute, and then asked, "You went to Evendim for comfort."
"Well, at first, sir, I went just to get away from home."
"What about Evendim drew you back then?"
"Well, at first, sir, I was running away, just going as far north as I could, and the water stopped me and I had to turn east or west. But I followed the lake east, and the sunlight on the surface drew me, and the wind-- there's something about the smell, the scent of the wind when it comes across the water. It smells different. Wild and compelling."
"I've noticed that, " Frodo agreed softly. "So you returned to Evendim whenever you could."
"I went there all the time, " Bolco admitted. "It became my escape from everything, duties included."
Frodo smiled. That made him a standard, wild teenage hobbit, as far as Frodo was concerned, looking back at his teenage years at Brandy Hall.
They had come around to the South side of The Hill, and the road down to The Water was in front of them. The sky in the east was beginning to look less inky black. "I need to be in the field at sunrise, sir, but..."
"Yes, lad? What is it?"
Bolco fidgeted. "If you wouldn't mind, sir, I, I think I still have enough time to, to walk you to your gate. If that's all right, sir."
"Come on, lad." They walked the scant mile to the gate in gentle silence, and when they arrived, Frodo reached for Bolco's hand, and shook it. "Good morning, lad. "
As he let go of Frodo's hand, Bolco shyly looked up, and met Frodo's gaze, and held it; and the acceptance he saw there gave him hope. He rested in that gaze for a few moments more, and the hope took root in his soul.
He was in the field by sunrise, and for the first time in three weeks, he noticed the colors that the sunrise painted in the sky.
Frodo sat up in the parlor thinking, about the waves, about the wind, about the sea. Sam found him there several hours later, wrapped against the morning chill.
"Hullo, Sam. "
"I'll have some tea for you as quick as I can, Mr. Frodo dear. You've been up again with Bolco Took."
"I have."
Sam sighed, and headed for the kitchen to build a fire and get the kettle on. He thought better of it, and returned to the parlor, and built the fire there.
"The Thain has asked Mr. Pippin to come back to the Smials, sir."
"Oh? To stay? How does Merry feel about that?"
"I don't know how permanent it is, sir. Pippin says that it's about Bolco. We had a beer last night at the Inn."
"And?"
"The Took wanted Pippin to try and talk some sense into that Lilac. But Pippin wasn't making much progress, he felt."
"No?"
"No, sir."
There was a long pause. "I wonder if she would talk to me." Frodo was faraway, thinking again of waves, wind and the sea.
"I don't know about the girl, sir, but I think Mr. Pippin would like to talk to you, " Sam volunteered.
"Of course!" Frodo snapped back into the present. "Of course. I can head for the Smials this afternoon."
"If it's all the same, sir, I suspect that Pippin and The Took will come down to the inn tonight."
"We'll get a small room, and discuss it there, " said Frodo. He vaguely felt that he was violating a trust talking about Bolco at all, even though he had never promised not to, and indeed had warned Bolco that he would. He sighed.
That night, the innkeeper set aside a parlor and built a small fire in the fireplace-- there was no chill in the air, but it helped drive out the dark. Pippin, Paladin, Sam, and Frodo sat around a small table. Many curious eyes had followed them, wondering what brought four of the most important hobbits in the Shire together in a secretive meeting, but the door had closed shutting all the inquisitors out. Sam wondered if that was a good thing. The three weeks had not been kind to Bolco's reputation, and many had accepted the opinions of the most vocal skeptics concerning Bolco and his travels.
After pleasantries were exchanged, Paladin spoke first.
"Frodo, Pippin says that Sam says that you've spoken with Bolco. Recently."
Frodo nodded. "I have."
"I need to know, Frodo, what you think of him now that you've spoken with him."
"What do you mean?"
"Is he honest?"
"Painfully."
"Is he sane?"
Frodo laughed bitterly. "Yes. Painfully sane."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that he is quite aware of how skeptically he is viewed, " said Frodo, and felt that he should not say more.
Pippin spoke. "Frodo, what do you think of the whole idea that he was serving under Mordor in the war?"
Frodo sat back. "What!"
Pippin shrugged. "He said he went to the East Coast. People get strange ideas. But some can make it sound reasonable." Pippin was obviously confused about it himself.
Frodo puzzled. "The East Coast."
"Some folks think he means the sea of Nurnen."
Frodo shrugged. "I don't know what to think of that. I'll try and ask him."
"Haven't you talked about his story at all?"
"No. We've only spoken twice. We've talked about swimming, mostly, and the water. A little bit about elves, not much."
"Swimming. And elves."
Frodo nodded.
"Does he swim well?"
"Yes."
"You've seen him swim."
"In the river, yes. He swims beautifully. And almost tirelessly."
"But he's emaciated."
"He is far too lean. But his endurance in the water seems unaffected by that."
So was Gollum's, thought Sam, but said nothing.
Pippin sighed. "Well, whether he is lean or emaciated, that's only part of the problem. The larger problem is what Lilac thinks of him, and that involves what the Shire thinks of him. Too many people are convinced that Bolco is lying to cover some alliance or service with Saruman, or Mordor. Or that he's mad, or just selfish and irresponsible and lying to cover that. And Lilac is influenced by all that, except that she doesn't give much credence to the possibility that he's mad. She's rather strongly inclined towards one of the dishonesty options. And I don't know how to talk her out of it; indeed, I seem only to convince her further, or perhaps she convinces me. Frodo, I need to find out more about what happened to Bolco. If I could talk to him myself that would be even better. Can you help me?"
"As long as it doesn't violate Bolco's trust." Frodo pondered the options: madness, dishonesty and selfish irresponsibility, or dishonesty and fraternizing with the forces of Mordor. Frodo shook his head. "From what I see, he seems neither mad, nor dishonest, nor dark. But I will ask him if I can."
"Can I meet with him?"
Frodo winced. "He takes some taming. I'll ask him if he'll meet with you, but I can't promise."
Sam frowned. Remembering his master's patience with Smeagol, he suddenly wondered if Frodo was giving Bolco far too much trust. "I'd like to be there, Master."
"Sam, he's too brokenhearted to want to talk to anybody. He barely tolerates me. If everyone thought you were mad or deceptive, how much company would you want? And wouldn't you weep too?"
Paladin nodded thoughtfully, but Pippin leaned forward. "Weep?"
"He sheds tears as he swims, as he walks, as he sings. Fear of me seems to be the only thing that makes him stop."
"He sings and weeps at the same time?" said Pippin.
Frodo wished he could unsay that. "I've said too much already. Forget that, if you can."
"But what's the harm in it?" Pippin fairly exploded, frustrated by his friend's closed demeanor. "Frodo, we've got to help him if we can, and being secretive won't help him, or Lilac."
"I don't know that, " Frodo replied evenly. "Who does he have that he can trust? If everyone thinks he's lying or mad, why shouldn't he keep secrets? And until we gain his trust, why should he let us help him?"
Pippin fumed silently. Frodo looked hard at him, and finally saw through to Pippin's heart. "You're right, Pippin, when you say that we've got to help him, " Frodo said in a softer voice. "But the question is how to best do that. And I don't think we know the answer yet. If he's unwilling to talk about his journey, I'm not going to force it out of him."
"But we've got to know if we want any chance of convincing Lilac of Bolco's honesty, " Pippin argued.
Frodo snorted and threw his hands in the air. "If he had decided to lie, wouldn't he have come up with something a little more convincing than: I fell asleep, I woke up across the world, I was there for four months, and then I woke up on the North Moors? If he was lying, wouldn't he at least make up enough of a story to cover two years and four months?"
Paladin nodded. "And why would he stick to his story even after three towns and Lilac all turned on him for it?"
Sam frowned. "Begging your pardon, sir, but to just fall asleep and wake up somewhere else, now that's odd."
"We did that, Sam, " Frodo argued. "And if nobody had been there to explain that Gandalf and the Eagles had come to find us and rescued us, how would we have known? If they'd just dropped us off at nighttime on the king's doorstep, and flown off? I can't discount his story just because of that."
There was a silence as the others digested this. Pippin shifted in his seat. "And the time difference? "
"Tell him, Sam, " Frodo said.
"Sir?" Sam blinked.
"Lothlorien?" Frodo prompted.
Suddenly Sam's eyes widened. "Bless me, Mr. Frodo, I'd clean forgot."
Pippin nodded. "We spent a month there, and it hardly seemed like a week, " he explained to his father. "Time seemed almost to stand still there, or to mean something different."
"Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but I don't see that in Bolco's case, sir, " Sam frowned. "The folks at the inn say he remembered crocuses, daffodils, lilacs. Seems he had his seasons right."
"All right, " said Frodo, "I see your point. But I don't see that that makes him a liar, or mad. We just don't understand something still."
"Then, " persisted Pippin, "perhaps we should ask him."
Frodo laughed wearily. "I'll see what I can do." He looked at his tall friend, and suddenly a wave of sadness washed over him, as he thought of the wind and the waves, and the sea, and the shore receding as the ship sailed away from Pippin, Merry, and dear Sam. He tried to shake it off. Pippin looked up and saw the clouds in Frodo's eyes, and attributed it to Frodo's concern for Bolco.
"We'll help him, Frodo. We'll get Lilac turned around, and then he'll be all right." Pippin said.
"I wonder, " said Frodo, after a pause, and sighed.
The friends rose, and Pippin and Sam went out into the main room. Frodo headed for the gate, and Paladin accompanied him that far. They paused, and looked out at the stars.
"He loves the stars, Paladin, " Frodo said softly. "He lies on his back in the water and stares and stares at them."
"He always loved them, " Paladin replied. "It's good to hear that he does still. He hunted and hunted for the elves, back then. Does he now?"
"Not that I've noticed, " said Frodo. "He swims and he walks between the fields and The Water. But I suppose if he went to Woody End, I wouldn't know it."
"You said to forget that you said he sings, " Paladin lowered his voice. "But does his singing tell you anything? About how he is?"
That he sings to Iluvatar with the clumsy, sweet intimacy of a small child running to its father? That such singing, and weeping seem to go together? That he seeks peace and can't find it, and the peace seeks him and cannot enter? When he sings... "No... No... I can't say. I mustn't."
"All right."
Frodo nodded in farewell. "Good night, Paladin. "
"Good night, Frodo." Paladin went back inside and rejoined Pippin and Sam. Frodo lingered a few moments, and heard Pippin arguing heatedly with one of the locals about something involving dishonesty and the passage of time. Pippin was fighting for Bolco's reputation even now. Love for Pippin burst from Frodo's heart, followed closely after by a heartache. In his mind he heard the sound of crashing waves on a receding shoreline.
Frodo turned, leaving his three friends, and walked home. As he walked he thought of the peace hovering over Bolco, the peace that somehow desired to enter into Bolco's soul, and wished it had been pursuing him as well.
Perhaps, he thought, over the sea, it will seek me, and find me. Or perhaps I can only find it there.
July 16
Late the next afternoon Pippin rode to the North fields and inquired after Bolco. Tom came to meet him.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pippin, but Bolco has gone north to Long Cleeve, in between harvests. He left this morning. But you'll come in for supper?"
Pippin laughed, and dismounted. Strawberry neighed from the stable and Pippin's pony answered. Pippin loosened his pony's girth and gave his pony to Daffodil, who led him away.
Pippin and Tom ate and talked for quite a while about Bolco. Tom examined every nuance of Bolco's behavior, especially over food. Tom rattled off the lists of foods they had tried to tempt him with, and the varieties of berries and cheeses and freshly baked breads they always left by his bed. "And he eats as much of that as he does a proper cooked meal, " Tom marveled. Tom was borderline frantic about Bolco's trip north. "He's so thin, and he won't eat on the way with nobody to make him. We didn't want him to go, but he was adamant about it. Seemed to think it was something he was supposed to do."
Pippin sat back and studied Tom. "Tom, what do you think about Bolco? Is he all right? Or not?"
Tom struggled hard, and then bowed his head and wiped away a tear. "Daft as a sparrow," he said, very softly. "Swimming in the river every other night, and hardly ever waking up of a morning in his own room. Sleeping with a book."
"Sleeping with a book?" That was news to Pippin.
"Aye, sleeping with a book. And that hollow look in his eyes. No, he's not right in the head, Mr. Pippin."
"What book? "
"Outlandish book. He holds it tight against his chest, every night. Crosses his arms over it." Tom demonstrated.
"Did he leave it here? Show me." Pippin stood.
"I don't know, sir, but let's have a look, " Tom said. "Your father told me to leave it alone, sir, but it just doesn't seem right. I've only had one good look at it myself, sir. Thinnest paper you ever saw."
"Let's have a look, " echoed Pippin. Tom led him into the sitting room, which had been closed. The sun would be setting in an hour, but the slanted rays gave them some light. The bedclothes were pulled up over the couch, and Pippin stood well back surveying the room. On a hunch, he bent over and looked under the couch, and then bent down and pulled out a neat stack of clothes. Tom's eyebrows climbed-- on the top of the stack were the shoes. Tom silently panicked.
Pippin picked up one of the shoes, and studied it intently. Tom stood stock-still with his heart in his mouth. Pippin ran his finger along the edge of the tread, feeling the material.
"I've never seen shoes with a bottom like these, " murmured Pippin, "Not on dwarves, not on elves, not on orcs or trolls or anything else I've ever seen in all my travels. Not on men of any land, either. Rohan, Gondor, Dol Amroth, nor any of the outlying lands. Not even Saruman or any of his strange orcs wore anything this unusual."
Tom's mouth was too dry to let him speak.
Pippin ran his fingers over the shoe. It certainly wasn't well worn, in fact the shoes hardly looked used at all. There were strange runes inside them, which he studied in depth but could make no sense of. The rivets along the sides held his attention for a while.
Pippin set the shoe back down and stood for quite a while lost in thought. Tom suddenly remembered to breathe.
Pippin eventually roused himself, and returned to the stack. He set the shoes aside, and picked up the stack, but it was only clothes. He felt the bedclothes. "No book." He turned to Tom.
"I guess he took them with him, " Tom said.
"Them? He has two books?"
"One that he sleeps with, and another that he writes in sometimes."
"Writes in, did you say? He's been writing?" Pippin was suddenly suffused with pride.
"Aye, " said Tom.
"All right, then," said Pippin, smiling broadly. He restacked the clothes carefully, with the pair of shoes on top just like they were, and returned them to their place under the couch.
"Mr. Pippin, sir?"
"Yes, Tom."
"About the shoes, sir. What are you going to do about them?"
"Do?" Pippin puzzled. "Nothing."
"But, " Tom said.
Pippin smiled. "Hobbits aren't supposed to wear shoes?"
"No, sir."
"They're not supposed to wear armor, either, " laughed Pippin. "Strange things happen in foreign lands."
"Yes sir, " said Tom, but his panic had quite unsettled him. He didn't figure out what Pippin meant about the armor until after Pippin had gone.
Singing softly, Pippin rode to the Smials as the stars were coming out. He thought back to the many nights that he had saved Bolco his dinner and set it by the fire to keep it warm until he came in from his stargazing, and wished he could offer him dinner now, and ply him with questions as he ate. He wondered where Bolco's adventure had really taken him, and what the place was like. It was too bad, thought Pippin, that he'd only been there for four months. He wondered what kind of stories Bolco could tell.
Frodo went to bed that night expecting to be awakened by Bolco's quiet singing, or rather by the peace that eluded them both when Bolco sang.
July 17
He woke, but there was no peace. He rose anyway, and went down to the water, but Bolco was not there. He was surprised how disappointed he felt.
That morning he was tempted to send Sam to find out if there was any news about Bolco, but there was no need; Pippin brought it himself. Leaving his pony tied to the gate, Pippin joined Frodo and Sam and Rosie for second breakfast.
Frodo was relieved to know that Bolco's absense was due to travel. Pippin told Frodo and Sam about his discussion with Tom. "I asked Tom what he thought of Bolco, and he told me firmly that Bolco is as daft as a sparrow."
Frodo considered Pippin. "You say this as cheerfully as if you are talking about a good harvest of plums."
Pippin smiled. "I noticed that Tom gave no hint of any sort that Bolco had been in any way dishonest or dishonorable."
"Go on, " said Frodo.
"In fact, " Pippin continued, "Tom so loves and trusts Bolco that even though he believes that Bolco is daft as a sparrow, Bolco is still welcome in his house, around his daughter and wife and all his possessions, whether Tom is there or not. Tom may think that Bolco is mad, but he doesn't question his honesty, his virtue, his courage, or any other part of his character. And Tom is so grieved by Bolco's suffering that he can weep about it; which means that he loves him a great deal. Which again means that he trusts him. "
"And why, " asked Frodo, " is Tom so certain that Bolco is mad?"
"He swims; he wanders at night; he sleeps where he likes, outside; and, " said Pippin raising a finger, "he sleeps with a book. That seems to put the lid on it for Tom. Tom just can't see anybody sleeping with a book."
"What book?" said Frodo.
"I don't know, " replied Pippin. "I haven't seen it. Tom says he's only had one really good look at it. But when he said that Bolco slept with the book held tight to his chest, I'll tell you what it reminded me of: Gandalf sleeping with the wrapped palantir under his arm."
Frodo started. "You think he's protecting other people from looking in the book?"
Pippin shrugged, smiling. "Or wanting to keep it only for himself? I don't know. But he didn't leave it; he carried it with him to North Cleeve, over fifty miles. He's either very possessive of it or very protective."
"Or, " put in Sam, "he just wants to read it while he's there. Maybe it's just a book he's fond of."
"There's another thing, " Pippin said.
Frodo was pleased to see Pippin happy. "What?"
"I was looking in his room, and I found a pair of shoes."
"You were looking in his room?"
"Yes, I was, " Pippin replied impatiently. "And you have never seen shoes like these, I'll wager."
"Never?"
Pippin shook his head, smiling. "You would know if you did."
"Why?"
"The shoes were made of brown leather, but the bottoms of the shoes were white."
Sam and Frodo looked at each other with consternation. "White." They knew how dirty their own feet got. How any pair of shoes would stay white on the bottom for very long baffled them.
"And, " Pippin continued, "I wish I could describe what the bottoms were made out of."
Frodo and Sam both waited, raising their eyebrows.
"Not leather. Not cloth. Not any kind of wood or metal. Not horn, not hobnailed or anything like that. Soft, white, and almost, well, sticky."
Pippin sat back, satisfied.
"I take it, " said Frodo, "that you're telling me the shoes were so outlandish as to make you believe his story?"
"He didn't get those shoes this side of the Anduin, I'll wager, " said Pippin. "And as for the other side, you and Sam will have to decide that. But I'm satisfied."
Pippin was eager to talk to Lilac. He wanted to talk to Bolco too, but Bolco was not expected ‘til the next field harvest began.
"Are you going to tell Bolco that you went looking in his room?"
"It's a sitting room." Pippin shrugged.
Frodo sighed.
Sam sat and thought. Frodo seemed convinced, Pippin seemed convinced. But Sam wanted to see Bolco himself, and he sat quietly, thinking and thinking. They finished dinner and Pippin rose to go. Frodo thanked him for coming, and asked him to keep Bag End abreast of any news.
*********