July 17

The village of Long Cleeve was fifty-five miles from Hobbiton. He had done it in two days, talking to Iluvatar most of the way, and now he had a hill to end the trip with; the hill that had been home for the first sixteen years of his life was now just the end of a two-day journey. The village was full of subtle changes, not enough to really unsettle him but enough to prove the passage of time. Ten-- well, twelve years. He climbed slowly, wearily. He dallied the final hundred feet, wanting to catch his breath.

He stopped several paces away from the front porch, looking at the door. The front door looked different, and he was trying to figure out why-- it had been recently painted yellow-- when it opened. Banco stepped through the door, and looked up, startled to see anybody there.

"What's your business? Banco said gruffly, and then took a second look.

"Bolco?"

"Hello, Banco."

"Well, of all the ..." Banco's voice trailed off, and then he shifted his weight, looking, measuring. He saw no hostility. He saw no anger. He searched again, to be sure, but there was none. "You're back."

"Yes."

Banco waited. So did Bolco. It started to get awkward.

"Banco, you look well. Are you happy?"

What a doggone strange question to ask. "Yeah. Sure. You?"

"I'm well enough. I've come to see whether Dad will speak to me." That wasn't quite right. "I've come to visit him, I mean."

"Visit."

"Yes. Just to say hello, and see how he has been."

The door opened again, and Dondo came out. "Who have we here?" he said gruffly.

"Hello, Dondo. It's Bolco. I'm glad to see you. You're looking well."

"Can't say the same for you, " Dondo retorted. "Thin as a fence rail. They starve you in them foreign parts?"

"They fed me quite well, " Bolco laughed. "I just worked it off, is all."

"Did you see any?" Dondo asked.

"Any what?" Bolco asked, though he guessed what Dondo meant.

"Any elves."

"I wasn't in elf-country, Dondo. No, I did not see any."

"Well, where'd you go then?"

"I'll explain another time, " Bolco evaded, not sure he wanted to. "Is Dad home?"

"He's expected back in a while, " Banco said. "Why not come in and have a mug?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't, unless Dad invites me in himself, " Bolco said. He had after all been thrown out of the house and told not to return. "How about we sit outside and talk?"

"Suit yourself. It's warm enough, " Banco settled, and Dondo went in for some mugs of ale, but turned at the door. "What you want? Still not drinking beer?"

"Water, if you don't mind."

"No wonder you're wasting away. How about milk?"

Bolco laughed. "All right. Thank you. " Dondo went inside. Bolco and Banco wandered to the garden. "It's hardly used since you left. Songo keeps it up a bit when he can." It wasn't disgraceful, but there were some weeds, and they had to brush off mother's stone benches before they sat down.

"Banco. I'm so glad to see you, and Dondo too. Tell me... tell me how you fared over the past couple of years."

"Well, " Banco replied. "We never had any problems, if that's what you mean. Dad heard that the Ruffians were giving people a hard time down by Hobbiton way, and he anticipated the trouble before it got here. He always outsmarted the ruffians, always planned ahead, always was one step ahead of the game. When the gatherers and sharers started coming around down south, he started digging tunnels long before they got here. We always raised more than we needed anyway, so instead of selling off, we stored away what we could. We convinced the neighbors to do the same thing. Nobody up here went hungry, although lots of us lost a few pounds for appearance's sake." He pounded his ample waistline. "I've gained it all back."

Bolco nodded, happy. This was the brother he remembered. He was discovering that he liked him after all.

Dondo came back out with the beer and a glass of milk for Bolco. "How are the fields this year, Dondo?"

"Looking good, " said Dondo. "Workers are happy with the growth so far, and the gardens are showing plenty of promise. First cabbage crop was huge. Beets, turnips, potatoes, everything is good so far. The orchards are loaded. Upper hillside looks especially good." Dondo paused, looking out over the lower gardens, row on row of salad crops and roots, and below to the fruit fields. He looked back at Bolco, and softly added, "You could come and help us this year with the fruit harvest."

Don't cry now. He blinked hard. "Perhaps. I do get breaks in between harvests, that's how I could come today." He nodded. "I think I would like that, if it works out."

"Dad doesn't even need to know, " said Dondo, matter-of-factly. "You could work the further orchards over the hill that Dad doesn't visit very often. Stay with some of the hands, or with some friends. I could arrange it. It'd be good to have you out and about again."

There was a brief pause and then Bolco said softly, "Thanks." A slight breeze stirred the dust on the path, and then a long stillness.

"We've missed you, Bolco, " said Banco. "It took us a while to realise it, I guess. But when you up and disappeared, and nobody knew where you'd gone, nobody knew if you were alive, well, we got to thinking what if we never saw you again. It was one thing to know that you were down at the Smials, but another thing to wonder whether you were lying dead and buried, or unburied somewhere. Your name would come up at the inn every so often." He sipped his beer. "And walking home from the inn, eventually even the trees and the stars reminded us of you." Banco took another pull at his beer, and savored it. There was a pause. "Even Dad worried about you."

Bolco put his glass down, and sat back. "He didn't." He couldn't believe his ears.

Dondo nodded. "Aye, always asked for you, if there had been any news. Asked the bounders all the time. Never gave up asking, the whole two years. When he heard that you had come back across the North Moors..." Dondo nodded again, knowingly.

Bolco sat still, waiting, and there was a long pregnant pause, as they let the impact gather. Dondo looked stealthily out over the hill, but no one was in sight.

Banco leaned forward and lowered his voice, speaking slowly and dramatically. "When he heard that you were back, he cried, Bolco. We saw him do it. He turned his back to us, and his shoulders shook like a pony trying to twitch the flies off his skin."

Bolco shook his head, struggling with tears of his own. "Then, " he stuttered, "I guess I come by that honestly." His sleeve was getting lots of use. "I can't believe he gave me a second thought."

"Mind you, he's not gone soft on your elf-hunting, " Dondo warned. "He's still agin it, and he figures that it took you to a bad end."

"Well. Perhaps he's right, " said Bolco.

The brothers waited, looking at each other.

"I've begun second-guessing that myself." He would elaborate on that thought no more today, he decided, but he realised it needed more consideration. He had been afraid to admit it to himself. His chasing after Something Higher, had actually lost him the love of his life. Now that Lilac was gone, it frequently felt like God was gone too. During those times when it felt like God was gone, he had never felt so lonely and alone, so empty and dry. And that was saying a lot, he thought, looking back over some pretty desolate, empty and dry times in his life. None of them had hurt like finding God and then seemingly losing him again. Except maybe finding Lilac, and within about five seconds losing her again. He shuddered.

That suddenly made him all the more appreciative of his brothers' kindly reception, and he returned his attention to them.

"How has Songo been?"

"He missed you the most." Dondo gestured around the garden. "Notice anything?"

He did. "Pink snapdragons." Lots of them. He laughed, but thought his heart would break; suddenly thoughts of Lilac intruded again. But these flowers were for him, not for her. He pushed the thoughts angrily aside.

"Dad wanted orange. He gets pink. It clashes with the yellow paint on the windows and door, but he's stopped arguing."

Bolco drew his pocketknife, knelt down, found the best one, cut it for himself, brought it back to the table, and sat down. There was a long silence as his brothers watched him linger over the scent. Again thoughts of Lilac intruded; again he shoved thoughts of her aside. He filled his eyes with the smial he used to live in, the garden his brother tended in his memory, the brothers that were letting him enjoy his silly pink snapdragons, and... he stopped.

He set the flower aside, and stood, and the silence shifted from peaceful to tense.

His father filled the garden path, seemed to fill the garden, seemed to fill everything. The stern face, the broad shoulders and deep chest, the massive feet, and still more massive hands. Bunco's shoulders stooped a little, his hair was flecked with more grey and some white; his face was careworn. But his presence was still as imposing as ever.

They stared. They had not faced each other for ten years; twelve, actually, counting the time Bolco had been away. Bunco took in the cut flower, the almost-empty milk glass. He studied his son, seeing that his eyes and cheeks were hollow, his clothes hung loose, his eyes had no spark. He searched Bolco again for any recognizable sign of well-being. He could see none.

Bolco watched his stern face, and saw no anger, no hostility, no resentment. He thought that list through carefully, three times, and took a deep breath. "Hello, Dad."

There was another moment of silence, and then Bunco snapped out an order. "Dondo. Get your brother some lunch before he dies of starvation. And refill that glass of milk."

Banco and Dondo shared the quickest of glances as Dondo seized the glass and headed for the round yellow door, post-haste.

"Banco, get inside and set the table. He'll eat inside." Banco followed after.

Bunco approached his son, carefully. "You look like famine," he accused gruffly.

Bolco smiled a little, pleased to hear such concern in his father's voice. "You look fine, dad. It's good to see you."

Bunco came to Bolco's side, took Bolco's upper arm in his massive hand, and turned him toward the round yellow door. "Come on, son. Let's get you something to eat."

Bolco walked with him toward the door, and the thought that echoed in his mind again and again was how that huge, terrifying hand was wrapped so gently around his upper arm.

They entered the front hall, and a flood of emotions rushed around Bolco's feet and knees, but he focused on that huge hand, and the gentleness he never would have suspected in it, that he had never known before. The hole was much as he remembered it, with no frills-- Bunco had removed all remembrances of his wife after she died, which had been another bone of contention between Bolco and Bunco, but he thrust that aside. For now, he had Bunco, for a meal's worth of time, and he would enjoy that, and see what came of it.

The meal wasn't elegant; Songo could put on a nice table, but Banco and Dondo just piled food in front of Bolco, and gave him utensils to deal with it. He didn't mind. Dondo brought a pitcher of beer, and kept his father's beer mug full.

Bunco watched his youngest son eat. He didn't look weak, puzzled Bunco. He remembered his grasp on Bolco's upper arm; wiry muscles had surprised him. He was strong and lean. But thin. Much too thin.

Well, then, things could only improve. But his appetite sure left something to be desired. "Eat! Suck it down," Bunco said as Bolco showed signs of slacking.

Bolco laughed. "All right."

As he ate, Bolco realised that he didn't know what to ask his father about. He pondered that through another dish of blueberries, and a serving of bread and butter. Town gossip, perhaps. How does one ask about that?

He was spared the trouble.

"Son, tell me why that Lilac girl has turned you away, then."

Speaking of town gossip, he thought. He heaved a sigh; honesty could only get him thrown out of the house again, but somehow he doubted that would happen.

"Dad, from the time that I was gone, I can only remember four months. From Mid-February: March, April, May, to Mid-June. Until the lilacs bloomed and faded, actually. I arrived at Evendim in mid June. " He paused, and looked up. "But by all other accounts and reckoning, I was gone for two years and four months." He paused again. "She thinks I'm lying."

"What happened to the other two years?" Bunco asked.

"Dad, I don't know. I wish I did. If I knew, I'd tell her. But I don't remember any months but those four."

"Were you lost? In Jail? Under a spell? Buried in a barrow by a barrow-Wight?"

"Maybe. Or maybe I was just crazy." Bolco shrugged. And then he laughed. "That's what people said for years, isn't it? Maybe they were right all along."

Banco thought hard. "But you say you do remember four months."

Bolco nodded.

"What happened then?"

Why hide it? "I stayed with a family; a wonderfully kind, gentle, open-hearted family, who taught me to read and sing about Iluvatar, and... swim."

Stunned silence.

"Swim," Bunco echoed.

"Swim?" Banco repeated.

"SWIM??" Dondo gasped.

Bolco nodded. "Josh is a lifeguard, a swimming instructor, and he competed in high school and college swimming competitions. He is an expert. And he taught me well." He looked up. "In four months. "

"You turned into a Brandybuck on us, " said Bunco, and his tone had changed.

Bolco winced and his eyes darted to Bunco's huge hands. They were still. No clenching, no twitching, no sudden movements.

Bunco saw the wince, followed Bolco's gaze to his own hands, realised what his frail son was afraid of, and his heart smote him. He placed his hands flat on the table, sighed, reached into the pile of food, and thrust something orange at Bolco. "Have another carrot, son. Dondo, boil him up some potatoes. Get more butter. Let's get some meat on those bones."

"Dad, I can't eat much more."

"It's almost time for tea. You'll get a second chance."

"Thanks." My stomach hurts already, he thought.

"So you can swim. Well, at least that way you won't drown, with your crazy wading all the time. You still go wading in that river?"

"No, I swim now, Dad."

"Damn fool. Don't drown. But if you haven't by now, I guess maybe you won't."

Something stirred in Bolco, and he looked his father in the eye. To his surprise, he saw something he had never seen, or perhaps never recognised, in the dark brown eyes.

"Dad."

"I sure wish you'd stay away from that damn river. " Vehemently.

"Dad, you were worried about me."

"Course I was!" Bunco exploded. "Damn fool son risking his damn fool neck day after day wading in the lake right up to his damn chest, whether the lake was rough or calm. And the harder I fought you the more you did it," he roared, suddenly red in the face. "And then you move south, and then it's the river. And even taking a girl in with you, what's worse. Course I was worried about you, you damned idiot."

Bolco was afraid enough to shake, but tense enough to stop it.

Banco sat as still as possible and watched, hardly daring to breathe.

Bunco shifted angrily in his chair, glowered at Bolco, but then softened. He dropped his eyes, and considered shoving another carrot at his son, but he hadn't finished the first.

Bolco was reviewing the whole wading-war, seeing it from his father's perspective for the first time. As terrified as Bolco had always been of Lake Evendim, his fear was tempered and overcome by his passionate love of it.

His father had no such love, only the fear, and his son had flirted with the murderous Lake time and time again. Bunco had tried repeatedly to beat the deadly water-obsession out of his son, and failed. And when he realised his failure was final, he had thrown him out of the house-- exactly why, Bolco still did not comprehend, but the realization that Bunco had been afraid for him and frustrated with his inability to protect Bolco from his own stupidity, changed something.

Bunco suddenly sat back and roared towards the door. "Dondo! How long ‘til those damn potatoes are done?" He got up and walked towards the window, not waiting for an answer.

Bolco took several deep breaths, and succeeded in controlling his emotions. He refilled his glass from the pitcher of milk Dondo had left him, and sat back in his chair.

The outer door opened. Footsteps in the hall approached, and Songo looked in. "Who--"

"Songo." Bolco stood.

"What--" Songo came forward, inspecting, and disbelief swept over his face. "Bolco??" He dropped the dirty gardening tools he was carrying onto the dinner table, and whooped, and swept Bolco up into a crushing bear hug.

Bolco clung to him, unable to breathe in and not caring, and Songo held him tight until they both ran out of air. They separated to arm's length, and Songo studied him some more. "I'm glad Dad fed you, " Songo said. "You look like you're going to die. Dad, can he stay for tea?"

Bunco turned from the window, in control of himself again, and said, "Yes, he's staying for tea. Dondo's got the potatoes on to boil."

"Well, I'd better check on him, then, " Songo laughed. "Come with me to the kitchen, Bolco."

Bolco met his father's eyes, asking permission. Bunco nodded, with just a hint of a smile, the first that Bolco had seen. Bolco went with Songo, whose large hand was around his bicep just like his father's had been. The difference, thought Bolco, was that he had never had anything to fear from Songo.

Once they were inside the kitchen, Songo threw his left arm across Bolco's shoulders. Dondo had stepped out of the kitchen, sure enough, thought Songo, as he reached for a fork and tested the potatoes. They were done. He drained them and left them steaming in the sink, and turned his attention fully to his brother, holding both shoulders at arms' length.

"Did you find them."

"What?"

"Elves! Did you?"

Bolco hung his head. "No elves. Just men."

"You could have gone to Bree for that."

"Not quite. I'll tell you more about it later. It's a long story. Oh, Songo, it's good to see you again. "

"Well, I can't wait to hear it. I'd climb one of your trees to hear it. I was so sure you'd found the elves."

"Why?"

"Why else would you not come back to Lilac?"

"Oh... sore subject."

"What's the matter with her, anyway?" Songo demanded, angrily.

Bolco didn't know they had cared enough even to follow the town gossip, and apparently, the town gossip knew as much about Lilac's attitudes as he did, perhaps quite a bit more. Bolco shook his head. "I don't know. I mean, she doesn't believe me. Maybe I was lost for a lot longer than I thought. Maybe I'm crazy, maybe time flows differently. I don't know."

"Time flows differently?"

Bolco sighed. "I was gone for four months, " he said, "And then I came back, to see Lilac. And I found that I had actually been gone for two years and four months."

Songo whistled, and his eyebrows went up. "Elf-magic."

"Oh, Songo." He fidgeted. "I don't know. Maybe. But I didn't see any."

"Well, they starved you, " said Songo. "Time to fatten you back up."

"I stayed with a family called the Scotts. And the Scotts were very kind to me, and fed me as much as I wanted. I've lost all this weight since I came back."

"What!"

Bolco dropped his voice way down. "I miss Lilac so. I can't bear to be without her. I can't live without her. I can't believe I've lost her. I don't know what to do. I just want to give up. I can't bear it. I can hardly sleep, I can hardly eat. I have to make myself eat. Dad has been torturing me with all this food, " he confessed.

Songo looked at him again, with a mix of worry and compassion. Bolco found himself enfolded in another bear hug, but a gentle one this time. He put his head on his brother's shoulder, and suddenly thought of his mother; perhaps being in the kitchen had something to do with it.

Songo was deep in thought. "Do you remember much about Dad before Mom died?" He released Bolco to arms' length again.

"No, not really, he was always out in the fields and orchards and whatnot. What do you mean?"

"Was he angry?"

"N-no. He was just out all the time."

"When did he get angry?"

Bolco thought back. "When I was twelve. "

"That's right. You were twelve, I was fourteen. And that was just after Mom died." Songo shook his head. "He couldn't take it either."

Thunderstruck, Bolco wondered why he had never thought of that before. Songo spoke softly. "He admitted it, just last year. Admitted that he couldn't stand losing Mom, and that he didn't know how to go on, but he had to, lonely and angry, or not. He said losing you, knowing you had disappeared without a trace, brought it all back. He couldn't stand losing you, because it reminded him of losing her. And that, he could not deal with."

Suddenly a roar came through the hallway. "Songo, you done with those potatoes yet?"

"Almost, Dad. How about some ham to go with them?" Songo evaded.

"All right. And beets."

Songo led Bolco out into the hallway and they headed for the pantry closest to the garden door. With a wrench, Bolco realised it had been his old room. Songo loaded him up with a cabbage and five turnips. He collected several bunches of beets and carrots and a bunch of young onions, and they stopped by the cold cellar for a smoked ham and a slab of butter. They returned to the kitchen and began peeling and chopping. With another wrench, Bolco thought back to the last time he had had Cabbage and Roots, and wondered how Jake and Josh and James were doing. And lovely Janiece. He sighed, and then shook himself; Songo was here. Enjoy him, he thought to himself.

Suddenly, Bunco filled the doorway. "Cabbage and Roots, Dad, " Songo said, cheerfully. "It'll be worth a little extra wait, won't it?"

"All right." Bunco loitered, awkwardly. Songo marveled; Bunco did not darken the door of the kitchen, ever, because it reminded him of Mom. But there he stood. Songo wished he could tell Bolco that. Later.

"Dondo's in the dining room, shall I send him in to help chop?"

"Good idea, Dad, " Songo agreed brightly.

Bunco departed, and they heard him order both brothers into the kitchen. To Bolco, the scene became eerily familiar. As the brothers passed him, they nudged his elbow or ribs. His mind went back to that first Friday night with the Scotts, and he once again wondered how they were, but suddenly that memory was driven out by his father's frame filling the doorway again. Banco and Dondo were both startled.

He entered, and to their astonishment, came and got the ham, put it on a platter, got out a carving knife, and took it out to the table. He returned for glasses and plates.

They exchanged glances, but did not dare say anything.

Out in the dining room, they heard the window open, and Songo's forgotten gardening tools clanged and clattered on the stone walkway. Songo smiled. He would pick them up later. Bunco was clearing the table. Songo was in awe.

"So Bolco, " Banco said, "When was the last time you had Cabbage and Roots?"

"I was just thinking of that, " Bolco laughed uneasily. "Actually, the first Friday night that I spent at The Scotts, Janiece asked me if she bought the vegetables, if I would show her how to make it. That night her three sons joined in, and chopped and peeled, and we had as much fun making it as eating it. We made it again after that, but only when all three sons were home."

"Sounds like you were fond of them."

"I am. But I was also just thinking how similar this is, to that memory." And how different, he thought, but let's not go there just now.

"What were they like?" Songo asked.

Bolco thought it over. "Jake was loyal and fiercely protective. Josh was easy-going and free, in various ways. Great swimmer. And James was solid and steady and dependable." He paused. "They wanted to visit The Shire. They always were curious about it."

"We've had enough of men to last us a lifetime, " said Dondo.

"Yes, of course, " said Bolco, supposing it was pointless to argue.

"Enough of bad men, you mean, " said Songo. "These don't sound like bad types. If they could take enough interest in hobbit life to learn how to make Cabbage and Roots, and teach Bolco how to swim, then maybe they weren't bad men. Like Bree-landers, maybe."

"I've never been to Bree, " said Dondo. "And neither have you."

"Can't say that I have either, " put in Bunco from the door, and they all jumped. "But if a man-family is willing to feed a hobbit Cabbage and Roots, why then maybe they're not all bad. And if they can teach a hobbit how to swim, then they've got to be pretty different sorts. You got those roots peeled yet?"

"What's left? Three beets, and a turnip."

"Give me that." Dondo surrendered his knife, and Bunco actually peeled and chopped the beets. Bolco, Banco, and Dondo all blinked, but Songo covered his surprise, found the turnip, and peeled and chopped alongside.

They finished; Songo already had the onions and butter spattering away, and the carrots and turnips would go in next. Bolco liked adding beets to the concoction, because they colored everything.

"So you're working for the Took, still, " Bunco said, lounging against the counter.

"Yes. I'm up in the north fields now, close to Hobbiton." Meaning, I can swim at night, thought Bolco.

"You can come and visit us often, then. Come for dinner, supper. Spend the night if you like."

It was fifty or fifty-five miles from Hobbiton to Long Cleeve, taking short cuts and following the river, and Bolco had done it in two days hard walking. How his father expected him to drop in for dinner puzzled him. But it didn't matter. He was wanted.

Bolco carefully maneuvered so that he was standing across the room where he could look his father in the eye. He was sorely tempted to reach for him; he desperately wanted an embrace from his father, but knew the odds were heavy against it. He was right. Bunco simply stared back.

But if food was love, as he suspected his brothers' waistlines proved, Bunco was lavishing affection on him beyond measure. Take what's offered, enjoy what is there to be enjoyed. So Bolco nodded and smiled. "I'll come when I can, Dad. Thanks."

Bunco stepped into the middle of the room, and extended his right hand. Bolco extended his hand in a daze, Bunco's meaty paw swallowed Bolco's hand completely, and Bunco gave him the first handshake Bolco could remember ever receiving from him. Somehow, Bolco managed not to cry, and met his father's eyes, and found acceptance there. The brothers noticed that Bunco restrained his usual bone-rattling vigor, perhaps still worried about his son's seeming frailty, but he did not let go in a hurry, and the brothers were thoroughly satisfied that Bolco was welcome home at last.

Bolco stayed through tea, dinner, and supper, and got caught up on all the news; the health of the livestock, the latest purchases of cattle and sheep, the stable full of ponies; the newest foals; local courtships, including a romantic interest of Banco's, but this was not discussed much; neighborhood marriages and births, likewise skimmed over quickly; various crop blights and detailed explanations of what was done about them; and their varied methods for dealing with the ruffians' crop collections last year. These had even included early harvest of a third of the fruit, and storing it unripe in the tunnels. At Bunco's urging, the whole neighborhood had done so. "Hard fruit is better than none, " Bunco said. "Tasted fine in the pies anyway." Songo had taken to burning smelly stuff just outside the chimney to disguise the aroma of pie-baking. The neighbors complained, until they were invited for a pie and sworn to silence; before long the entire hillside reeked every night. But they never had much garbage to deal with, having burnt it all. And the ashes went into the flower gardens.

Bolco enjoyed the evening tremendously, and did not relish the idea of leaving. His brothers heartily resisted his attempts to leave after supper, but he argued that he had a long walk ahead of him and had to be back to the fields two mornings after, he had fifty-five miles to go, and he walked well at night. They argued anyway.

Bunco settled that issue. "Give him his choice of the ponies. You'll have no excuse about visiting us, then."

Bolco tried to argue, but the truth was, he wanted one. Sudden possibilities opened in front of him; the possibility of trips to the Smials to try to woo Lilac; ready access to the river, ready access to Green Hill Country, or even Bindbale Wood, largely unscathed by the Ruffians. He stuttered a little, and the brothers laughed at his obviously feeble resistance. "Come on down to the stables, and choose." They shoved their chairs back, made short work of clearing, left the dishes for later, and headed down the hill. Even Bunco came.

There were plenty to choose from. When the ruffians had come looking for ponies, Dondo had gotten word ahead of time, and had released them into the wild. They had been feral for a year, and had been rounded up with buckets of grain after the Scouring of the Shire. Bolco walked down the aisle considering pony after pony. The selection was wonderful. Every stall was occupied. There were mares and foals out in the fields.

He faced Dondo. "I may be living out in the fields, remember, and I wander quite a bit. I'm hardly ever on the roads. He may have to live under hedges and in field-sides, grazing in the rough all the time and clambering around in odd places. He's got to be tough, and with good feet, and an easy keeper. That's a tall order. Never mind looks; I need practicality."

Dondo nodded, and began walking the aisle. They followed. He paused beside a chestnut and thought a bit, but then went on. He paused beside a small dappled grey, and thought hard, looking in.

"His back hooves are pink, they're too soft," said Songo, also thinking that Banco's girlfriend Emerald liked that one. "How about his brother?" Banco shot Songo a grateful look.

In the next stall, the younger, darker grey had four black stockings, and black feet, good and hard. He was stocky, close-coupled, on the small side, and inquisitive. He was also, Bolco thought, too small for his brothers, and would probably not be missed much. Bolco went into his stall, and made friends easily.

"He's energetic, and you're light, " said Songo. "He'll carry you well."

"What's his name?"

"Stormy. He's only five." And too wild for any of the local girls.

Banco was rummaging around in the storage area. He came out with a smallish, well-made saddle, and a small enough bridle; Stormy had a little head.

Bolco surveyed them, and thought about the bridle. "This pony will have to eat when and where he can, sometimes tacked up. I'd rather not have a bit on him if I can help it." Bolco hated cleaning grassy-green saliva off of bits and reins and bridles. He remembered a rope headstall with rope reins, and went into the storage area, and dug hard, and found it. It had been unused since he left, and was in fair enough shape. "And if there's a spare brush, and a spare file, he'd appreciate them, " Bolco nodded back at Stormy.

Banco added a saddlebag, and put the brush, the file, and an extra long lead rope into it.

"You're spoiling me rotten, " Bolco smiled, "but I hope the pony doesn't feel he's gotten the bad end of the deal."

"Bring him back often, and we'll check on his health. If he gets skinny like you, we'll take him back, " they warned him, laughing.

Just then a nicker came from the far end of the aisle. Bolco turned, and walked that way. "Barley?" A chestnut nose whitened with age poked out over the stall. He was far too old to even consider. Barley had carried him time and time again up to Lake Evendim, where Bolco had fallen in love with water in the first place. "Hello, old friend." Bolco walked right up to the door, and Barley reached way over Bolco's shoulder, gouged his chin hard into Bolco's back, and knocked his jaw against Bolco's head; Bolco smiled, and firmly pulled Barley's crest in return. Then Bolco gently cradled Barley's head in his hands, kissed the old face, and rubbed his forehead while Barley sniffed his shirt. "I wish I could take you, old friend, " he murmured, "but that would be cruel. Stay here, warm and dry and well-fed, and take it easy." He rubbed his ears, his eyes, his jaw, all the old itchy spots. Barley's eyes closed in bliss.

The brothers watched, intrigued. They never knew Bolco cared about ponies. Bolco didn't know his brothers did either. Tenderness was something you hid, back then. They waited, and when Barley was fairly satisfied, Bolco came back down the aisle, thoughtful.

He said goodnight to Stormy, and hung the tack outside the pony's door for the night. Then they headed back up the hill. Bolco slept on a couch moved into Songo's room.

July 18

He was awake at two, and up at three. He dressed, and raided the pantry, filling his backpack quite full. They would expect him to. Then he crept back into Songo's room, and said "Ssshhh" into his ear.

Songo sat up. "Ssshhh," Bolco repeated.

"What? You're not leaving now?"

"Yes. I can't sleep. And I do hate goodbyes. But I couldn't just leave you. Good-bye, Songo, until I come back for dinner and supper."

"Wait. Wait, I'll be dressed in a second. I'll at least go with you to the stable." He bounded out of bed and threw on some clothes. "Can't I ride with you just a little ways? "

"If you're quick, " smiled Bolco. "Don't hold me back though. And don't wake up your brothers."

"We'll go out the garden entrance, " Songo said. They slipped down to the stable, and Songo saddled a tall bay pony, and was ready when Bolco was. They swung down through the village of Long Cleeve, trotting fairly quietly on the sod, and when they cleared the village they were able to talk.

"Someday, " said Songo, "I want you to teach me to swim."

"What?"

"Teach me to swim. Someday. Not now. Later. Maybe, you know, when things don't matter to Dad as much, or something. Or when I'm living by myself, or married. Someday."

Bolco nodded, amused, bemused. Then he sighed. "All right. " He took a deep breath, nervous, and another, and got up his nerve. "I would rather teach you to pray."

"...what?"

"To talk to the Creator, " Bolco explained. "He's a good listener. " Silence. And it was too dark to read Songo's face. "Look, I wouldn't talk to the others about this, but if I learned anything in the land of Men, it's that we ignore the Creator too much."

"So, who is the Creator?"

"He's the being who made Middle Earth, and the sky, and the seas. Arda. Ea. Everything that is. He made it all. He's caled Eru, The One. And he's also called Iluvatar, which means All-Father."

"Huh."

There didn't seem to be much to add. Bolco tried again. "Haven't you ever wondered if he watches us?"

"Nope, " said Songo. "Never gave it any thought."

"I have. I'm quite sure he does." He stroked Stormy as he said so, and looked over at Songo, still barely visible in the dark. "He got me back up north to see you."

"Seems to me your own feet got you there, " said Songo.

"Of course. But he made the time, and the welcome, and set everything up."

"You're sure about that."

Bolco heartily wished that he could see his brother's face. "Why, does it sound so crazy to you?"

"Well, yes. Yes, it does."

Bolco sighed, and decided to let Songo pick the next topic. He did.

"So-- if this, this Creator, Iluvitter--"

"Iluvatar. Eru Iluvatar."

"Right. So-- if he made everything, and created everything, he must be pretty strong. So if he's watching over you, and listening to you, then why is Lilac turning you away?"

"Well, you've got me there." Bolco tried to sound cheerful, but he felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach, and not by his gentle brother; he heartily regretted ever bringing the subject up. Why indeed, he thought. Someday, Creator, perhaps you'll tell me. He tried not to be bitter. Or angry.

There was a long, long silence. The dawn came, and still they trotted up and down the hills of the North Moors; Bolco wondered how long Songo would be with him. The road slowly veered south, and far in the distance lay Oatbarton, a large town. Songo had been fond of one of the inns there, he remembered. They had usually opened for breakfast. This would give Songo a good excuse to visit it. Oatbarton was roughly twenty-five miles from Long Cleeve. They would be there in another couple of hours. These were fast ponies. Bywater was another thirty-five miles south of Oatbarton's north edge. Bolco had a good trip still ahead of him. He intended to give his pony some rest along the way; he also intended to follow the riverside, and find an out-of-the-way place to swim.

Bolco yawned. "Stormy has such a smooth gait, he's putting me back to sleep." He stroked the dark neck, grateful for the speed, but more so for the promise of companionship. "How's that bay you're riding?"

"A bit rough, " Songo admitted. "But he's steady and fast when he needs to be. I take him around to the orchards, and up to the Lake."

"The Lake? When do you go up to the Lake?"

"Oh, sometimes."

"Come on. You never went before."

"Not ‘til you disappeared two years back. At first, I went there looking for you, remembering that that had been one of your favorite haunts. The East Farthing searched The Water for your body, but nobody thought of searching Evendim. I went, and followed the shores."

"Everybody just thought I had drowned? In February??"

"No. Not everybody. But some did. Pippin swore you hadn't had time to drown, that he'd seen you asleep in the parlor late the night before, that you were too tired to make the trip to Bywater, and it was too cold even for you to be wading, in February. He felt that something strange was up, that you had been somehow spirited away. But everybody else figured since you were known to go wading at night, the water was the obvious culprit, and so assumed the worst."

"Including you. Well, I'm very touched that you went looking."

"I spent a lot of time up there. Eventually I went up just because it was beautiful. The sun on the water, now, at sunset, or a couple of hours before. Blinding, but it breaks your heart, at the same time."

"I'm amazed Dad let you go."

"He did. I had to promise not to go wading myself, of course."

"So you didn't."

"Well, not in February." Songo shrugged.

Apparently in the summertime he had not felt bound by February's promise. "So what you're telling me, is that you want to learn to swim in Lake Evendim."

Songo nodded.

"Well, then, all right. All right. I'm glad that I have a pony." He thought back to his return through Annuminas, and the swimming he had done then. He would be delighted to go back. More than delighted; his heart swelled and sang. The Lake's innocence beckoned him, the blue, surging waves, the far, far horizons, the endless shallow sands, the caressing breezes that quickly became wild and driving winds. He checked Stormy and looked north; they could be there by noon.

Songo laughed. "Not today! I've got to check the orchards this afternoon! And I want breakfast first."

Bolco shook himself, and then laughed, trotting to catch back up. "Will you be taking that poor bay?"

"No, I'll rest him." Songo stroked the pony's neck, and combed the mane with his fingers.

"What's his name?"

Songo blushed. "His name's Bolco."

"You named a pony after me?"

"I changed his name two years ago, on one of my trips to the Lake. He used to be named Bob."

"Why did you change it?"

Songo laughed. "I found out he loves the water."

"Really?"

"Ever since then, when I go up to the Lake, I always take him. He goes right in, til his barrel starts to touch, and swishes the water with his nose. Sometimes he paws, great big splashing motions. He rolled once, and I had to get off, and got soaked. Saddle did too. Scared the blazes out of me. Now I don't let him stop."

"What does Dad think about that, that he likes the water?"

"I've never told Dad. He still thinks his name is Bob." He slapped the pony's shoulder, laughing.

Bolco considered the pony. "Does he go the rest of the way in, to where he has to swim?"

"He wants to, but I've never let him. I'm too scared."

"I never thought of riding a pony into the water." He wondered what Stormy would do; old Barley had always waded in deep enough for a drink but no further. He also wondered what his Dad would say; he began to wonder, if Bunco knew the whole story-- that Songo was wading, and riding a playful, unpredictable pony into the water-- whether Bunco would prefer that Songo learn how to swim. He rather thought that he might.

But he also thought it would be easier to get forgiveness than permission. He began to plot when he and Songo could get away north.

"I wonder what it is about Evendim, " he murmured. He had sometimes wondered whether he was a water-lover because he was some sort of small-footed throwback to one of his Tookish ancestors; perhaps that supposedly mythological fairy wife, or something similar. But here was a classic Long Cleeve Proudfoot hobbit, wading and riding a pony into Lake Evendim. No river that he knew of had that kind of power to woo a conservative hobbit, but Evendim had. Perhaps Evendim had won him, too, all on its own.

So absorbed was he in his shimmering memories of the Lake, they rode into Oatbarton almost before Bolco noticed. Songo's favorite Inn was on the north end, not far into town at all, and they dismounted, brought their ponies into the courtyard, and handed them off to the stablehands with a few instructions. Songo led Bolco into the dining room, saying that breakfast was on him. They had arrived towards the end of first breakfast, so they ate both first and second breakfast in quick succession.

Songo could put food away with a vengeance, and Bolco did not try to keep up, but still ate well. He was already feeling more solid than he had at the beginning of the weekend. He wondered whether he should try harder to eat. Perhaps. Perhaps Lilac would be more interested in somebody that cast a shadow. He thrust that thought aside, and focused instead on the third round of buttered muffins that had just landed with sausage and eggs. If he was going to be able to travel to Evendim and teach his brother to swim, he'd need to be able to pull his brother out if he got into trouble. There; he would need to gain some weight then. He forced himself to have two more muffins than he thought he could hold down.

Bolco walked out to front for some fresh air after Songo was absolutely certain that Bolco could not hold down one more bite. Bolco was certain too. As Songo paid, he asked them to wrap the rest of the muffins on the table and pack them into Bolco's saddlebags. They nodded. "Looks awfully thin, " they said. "We'll do right by him." They added more muffins, some blueberries, and cheese, until the saddlebags were fairly bulging.

Songo came out front to join Bolco, who was sitting on a bench just trying to breathe. Songo laughed at him. Bolco smiled weakly; laughing would really hurt. Songo sat down. "Full enough, or shall we stay for lunch?"

"I thought you had to check the orchards, " Bolco groaned.

"Sure. I can do that between three and nightfall. "

"Songo, if I rode up after the next harvest-- about a week-- could you get away to Evendim?"

Songo's eyes got really wide. "So soon?"

"Yes." Bolco looked at him. "I want to get you started. The sooner you know how to swim, the happier I'll be, and the safer you'll be."

"Do you have any idea what you are getting yourself into?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you're terrified of the idea? So was I."

"I thought you loved the water."

"I do, " said Bolco passionately. "But just because I love the water, doesn't mean it can't still kill me. Never stop respecting the water's power, Songo. It's always dangerous. But you can learn how to work within the danger, and make decisions carefully and wisely."

"I think I understand."

"All right. One. You do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it."

"All right."

"If I raise my voice, it means you are in danger; save your questions until I am satisfied that you are safe. Then I'll explain whatever you want to know."

"All right."

"One more thing. From now on until I tell you otherwise, every time you get into a bathtub, if the water's clean enough for you to stand it, practice blowing bubbles underwater."

"What!"

"Put your whole face underwater. Thirty rounds each day. "

"You've got to be joking."

"Just make sure you inhale air, not water. Breathe in above water, breathe air out under water. Got it? It's very important."

"Blowing bubbles."

"I know it sounds ridiculous. But if you won't do that, I can't teach you to swim. You need to know when and how to breathe. Breathe in above water, blow air out underneath the water. Forget that, and you could drown."

"I... I'll give it a try."

"Every day, if you can."

"That's a lot of face washing."

"Get muddy, then." Bolco gave him a shove, and then his stomach told him how stupid he was for it. Bolco groaned.

Songo laughed. "Hadn't we both better be going?"

"I can't, not yet. I can't move."

"Well, I need to be off, then, " Songo said. They stood and walked back to the stables.

"What about next week? If I can't come, I'll send you a letter. If I'm coming, no letter."

"Not next week. The one after that."

Too long, he thought. I hope there's enough of a break between that harvest and the next. But it would have to do. "All right. In two weeks, then. That field's a bit bigger, it might be two and a half weeks til I can come. Wash your face every day. Thirty breaths, remember."

The ponies were hitched with loosened girths, and Songo tightened the bay's girth up and unhitched him. "I'll be looking for you."

Bolco embraced him. "Don't squeeze!" he gasped.

Songo laughed. "I didn't!"

"Good-bye, Songo."

"Good-bye, Bolco." He mounted and rode out of the courtyard, turned and waved, and was gone.

Stormy looked at Bolco, and Bolco walked to him. "You and I will be friends, I hope." Stormy nudged him. "Not the stomach!" Bolco twisted away, laughing, and then the bulging saddlebag caught his eye. He opened it, and shook his head. "Songo."

Both saddlebags and his backpack were now full of food, not to mention his stomach. And the thought of food was beginning to make him sick again. He sighed. Evendim, and Songo, he reminded himself. Remember that.

He lay down on a nearby bench and slept for an hour, until a passing stablehand's clanking bucket woke him. He mounted then, and rode west through the town, and followed the river south.

Stormy made good time. They jogged roughly twenty miles, past fields on the east, and came to an unsettled area on the river with sandy banks and riverbed. Bolco unsaddled Stormy and let him graze for a while, holding the end of the long lead rope. At odd intervals he pulled handfuls of lush green grass, drew Stormy over and fed it to him, whistling. The rest of the time he opened his notebook and read from the Psalms he had transcribed into runes.

As the sun was sinking down, Bolco climbed onto Stormy bareback and rode him up and down the river along the bank, surveying the riverbed again. All sand for quite a while. He rode back upstream, and dismounted, taking the lead rope into the water. Stormy stood on the bank for a moment, and then trotted into the river, snorting loudly. Bolco laughed with surprise and delight. Stormy rolled, stood, and shook, and then splashed around with his nose sending sprays of water into the air. Then he trotted over to Bolco and shoved him over with his nose. "Hey!" Bolco sputtered, and then had to dodge flying hooves as Stormy pawed, splashing. That sobered Bolco; if he had gotten knocked out by one of those flying hooves, all his swimming skills wouldn't have helped him at all. Bolco backed away to a safe distance, and then realized he'd be safer on the pony's back, so he led Stormy deeper into the water and got on him again. This was not a game for non-swimmers, he thought. He suddenly worried about Songo and his bay pony, and his resolve to teach Songo to swim strengthened yet again.

He let Stormy play ‘til he was bored, content for now to watch the stars come out from his pony's back. Then they walked back to where the saddle and pack were, and Bolco tied Stormy to a long swinging branch, and settled in for the night. They both slept quite well. Bolco didn't wake until the sun was almost up.

*********

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