In the morning Bolco saddled Stormy again and they headed south, and came through Overhill. Bolco slowed as he went past The Hill, looking up into the gardens. He turned onto the road to The Water. But on a whim, he turned Stormy uphill and approached Bag End. He paused at The Gate.
Frodo was out in the garden, smoking his pipe, and he stood at the sound of hooves. He smiled broadly, and came to the gate. "Good morning, Bolco."
"Good morning, Mayor Baggins." Bolco dismounted, and stood by Stormy's shoulder.
"That's a fine pony, Bolco, " said Frodo, studying the restive little grey. "He suits you well."
"Thanks. Thank you. " There was a pause. "I'm just returned from Long Cleeve."
"What did you do there?"
"I went to see my father and my brothers."
"Indeed." Frodo studied Bolco; he seemed in good spirits. "Did the visit go well?"
"Yes. Yes, it did, quite well. In fact, the pony was given to me so that I could go back and visit regularly."
"Splendid!"
"Yes. Much better than I expected."
"Very good. Wouldn't you care to come sit for a while?"
Bolco was quite tempted. But he happened to look up towards the front door, and saw Mr. Samwise watching. "Thank you, Mayor Baggins, but I'm sorry, I must be going." And with that Bolco swung back into the saddle, gathered the reins and reluctantly turned the pony down the hill.
Frodo had followed his eyes and seen Sam. It couldn't be helped, he thought; the lad is like a wild animal. Still, he wished that Bolco would sit down with Sam.
"When will you swim next?" Frodo asked suddenly.
Bolco was startled. "Tomorrow night."
"All right then. Good morning."
"Good morning, sir." Bolco urged Stormy into a canter and they sped down the hill. Frodo sighed and watched them go; Stormy slowed to a trot to cross the bridge. He could still see them as Stormy crossed the fields, hugging the hedge rows, and disappear in the hedges.
Sam came to his side. "Wouldn't he come in, sir?"
"He was going to, I thought. And then he changed his mind. Gaining his trust isn't easy, " Frodo said.
Sam looked up. "You mean, he wouldn't stay because I was here."
Frodo just looked at Sam, and Sam nodded.
"Any suggestions on how I should begin, sir?"
"Not unless you're game for a walk at two or three in the morning, Sam."
"That's hard, Mr. Frodo, " Sam said wryly, but then searched his master's eyes. "You'd like me to do it, sir, wouldn't you."
Frodo considered. "Yes, but not yet, Sam. There are some things I want to ask him, that I don't think he'd answer if you were there."
"Well, then, sir, let me know. In the meantime, there's grass what needs cutting, sir. I'll be in the far end of the garden."
Once they were screened from general view by the hedgerows, Bolco slowed Stormy to a walk. He was still shaken that Mayor Baggins had asked after his swimming schedule. He wanted to walk with him again, but his time in the water was his own, his only freedom. Suddenly that felt intruded upon. He considered going upstream instead, or down to Bywater pool; now that he had a pony, distance wasn't an issue.
But he did want to see Mayor Baggins. He couldn't decide.
Long before he had made up his mind, he arrived at Tom's. Tom heard the hoof beats and rushed out expecting Pippin again. He was delighted to see Bolco. "You're back! You're all right?"
"I'm fine, " Bolco said with a smile, and dismounted. He was surprised by Tom's delight, and moved. He stepped forward and clapped Tom's shoulder, and they walked to the stables together.
"This is Stormy, " Bolco began. "He won't need a stall. He can just be penned outside."
"There's a stall we could clear out, " said Tom.
"All right, but I'd like him outside unless the weather's awful, " said Bolco. "Sometimes he'll be out all night with me anyway, so he'll get used to it."
Tom shook his head. "Why are you up and around at night so?"
"It's quiet, Tom. I don't have to face the people in the town."
Tom was startled to have had a direct answer, and he tried another question. "Must you swim at night?"
Bolco smiled. "You worry just like my dad."
"You saw your father then."
"He gave me the pony so I could come back and visit often, " Bolco said, smiling.
Tom laughed with delight and clapped Bolco's shoulder, and studied his face. Bolco let him.
"Did you talk much with him?"
"They caught me up on all the news. Two years and four months worth." Bolco chuckled wryly.
Tom was startled again. "Did that bother you?"
Bolco shrugged. "I seem to be the only lunatic that has any problem with the date, so I might as well enjoy the stories and get used to it. I have other things to be crazy about."
Tom put a hand on Bolco's shoulder. "What other things?"
"I was in a good mood, Tom, " Bolco evaded. "Let's not wreck it just yet, shall we?" But he was again moved by Tom's concern. He turned toward the stable again, and turned Stormy out into the little paddock. Strawberry poked his nose out of his stall, and the two snuffled noses and blandly decided to tolerate each other.
A blonde tornado emerged from the house. "Mister Bolco! You have a new pony!"
"Daffodil!" She ran to Bolco and sprang into his arms, and he held her, laughing, and then slid her down, caught her wrists and swung her around. Tom was thrilled; there was a glimpse of his old friend. When he set her down, she squealed "Tag!" and smacked him in the stomach, and fled. Laughing, he pursued her gently, letting her get up a full head of steam, and then he sprinted and caught her, and they reversed, he running enough to make her work a little, and then accepting a tag, and they reversed again. Tom beamed, his heart bursting to see Bolco laugh and play; Missus Pansy came out to watch. Tom joined her on the porch and put his arms around her.
"He's doing better, " Missus Pansy observed.
"I guess trips north are good for him, " Tom replied, still beaming. "Who'd have thought."
"The pony?"
"Says his father gave it to him, so he could visit often."
"Well, mercy me. Folks do change. And it's a blessing."
"Aye, " Tom murmured, and kissed his wife.
The game of tag slowed, and Bolco threw himself onto the grass, and Daffodil pounced on him and tickled him. He was too winded to laugh much. "Mercy!"
"Come pick strawberries then!"
"Are there any left?"
"Just a few. Let's go pick them!"
"We might have better luck with blackberries."
"We'll do those after!"
She hauled on his arm, leaning back and digging her heels into the ground. He let himself be dead weight for a few moments, rose with a dramatic effort, and then followed obediently, correctly suspecting that this was a planned conspiracy to get him to eat. There were worse things in the world.
"What'll we do when we run out of blackberries?" Missus Pansy asked Tom. Their patch was not large.
"I've checked with Dago; he says to send Daffodil to his blueberry fields. And there's the huckleberries on the north edge of the grain fields; perhaps she can take the pony out that far, as long as she's watched."
"Perhaps they can ride together. After that it'll be season for the bigger fruits. "
"In the meantime, " Tom smiled, "your husband isn't satisfied with just berries. How is luncheon coming?"
Missus Pansy squealed. "The pie! I forgot! " She ran inside.
The blackberry pie was perfectly golden, and there was bread from that morning and cheese and sliced mutton, and carrots and potatoes. They leisurely set the table together, trying to give Bolco plenty of time to fill up on the berries that seemed to be his staple; when they thought he'd been out long enough they called both berry pickers in. "He ate eighteen strawberries, Daddy, " Daffodil announced. "I had twenty."
Eighteen may be a record for him, Tom happily wondered.
Bolco asked if Daffodil could sit beside him instead of across. Silently curious, they rearranged. Bolco served Daffodil, with a spoonful of food from each serving dish. And then he made another plate just like it for himself. Tom and Missus Pansy looked at each other, wondering.
Daffodil pelted him with questions about his pony, and he occasionally got an answer in edgewise. But they noticed to their amazement that whenever she took a forkful of food, he copied her, whatever she ate. Tom's eyes met Missus Pansy, and they smiled. Fortunately for Bolco she was so busy asking questions that it wasn't much of a challenge at first.
Until Daffodil noticed. Then, wrapping Mister Bolco snugly around her little finger, she proceeded to pace herself to one mouthful for every two sentences. He began to laugh, she to giggle. She talked with her mouth full, and got away with it.
"Daddy, Mister Bolco cleaned his plate, " Daffodil announced very proudly, knowing that half the credit belonged to her. "Now we need seconds."
Bolco sat back, laughing painfully, eyes bulging, hands on stomach. "Oh, mercy!"
Tom and Missus Pansy burst out laughing.
"No pie?" roared Tom.
"I can't," Bolco moaned, managing a smile.
"No fresh-baked golden-crusted blackberry pie?" Missus Pansy lathered on the guilt.
Bolco groaned again. "All right. But make it a small slice, Missus Pansy, I'm already in pain."
"Here, lad, you can just have a couple forkfuls of mine. No good giving yourself indigestion. There'll be some left for tea." Tom pounded Bolco on the shoulder, brimming with delight.
Bolco took a long nap after lunch. When he woke up, Tom got him started clearing out the spare stall for Stormy. "When it does rain, you won't want to be doing it then." Bolco knew that water wouldn't bother Stormy, but he cleared out the stall anyway. When he was done, it was time for tea.
"I'm warning you, I'm still quite full from luncheon. " Bolco rather warily sat down.
Tom and Missus Pansy nodded, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. Daffodil climbed up into his lap. "Aren't you better now, Mister Bolco?"
"Well, I suppose so. I did have a lunch, didn't I?"
"But you used to be able to eat all day just like the rest of us."
"Not quite. I never could keep up with your father."
"You'll be all right, Bolco. Here. Start with the pie, " Tom ordered, cutting him a generous slice.
"Not that much! Make it smaller." He managed to eat the small slice of pie, and then a slice each of bread and cheese, but did not have anything else. Daffodil was disappointed that he did not copy her plate again. Tom and Missus Pansy had hoped for better, but they put a brave face on it. "No more, Bolco?" Tom gently prompted.
But Bolco's stomach was starting to turn again, and he suddenly pushed his plate away. "I can't overdo it, " he said.
Tom was worried to see the old pained and guilty expression on Bolco's face again. Bolco saw the worry in Tom's face, but he had already pushed himself to real discomfort. "Tom, I'm trying hard. But I've got to start slowly. My brother had me so stuffed I could hardly move, I was in so much pain."
"All right, lad. You know what you can handle." But it sure isn't enough for a hobbit to live on, Tom finished silently.
"Perhaps I'll do better at supper, " Bolco tried to cheer him. "Give me time."
Tom turned to him. "I'm not sure what's making you try, but I'm glad to see it, " he said earnestly. "We sure are worried about you. "
"Tom, I've got to go back north, and spend time with my brothers and my father. And that will take some strength. So I'm trying to eat enough to keep my strength up. That's all."
"You saw all three of your brothers, then?"
Bolco nodded, and the whole story of the trip came out then, a little disjointed, but not badly so. Tom and Missus Pansy sat and listened, hearing more from Bolco over the next hour than they had in the past three weeks. They nodded approvingly at every instance of acceptance or welcome, and when Bolco got to the part about his father shaking his hand, Missus Pansy wiped her eyes with her apron, and Tom slapped the table.
That was twelve years in coming, and darned high time, thought Tom, but said only, "Worth the trip just for that."
"Yes, " Bolco smiled, "it would have been. Just for that." He sat back, and then abruptly changed the subject. "Missus Pansy, do you have a vase that I could borrow?"
"Why, yes, I have several, " she said, surprised. She and Tom exchanged glances, and she and Bolco rose, and she showed him three vases.
"Which ones mean more to you?" Bolco asked, and she told him sentimental stories about two of them. He chose the other. It was a small earthen vase, glazed royal blue. It was lovely. He suspected that it had been purchased from Nel at Bywater. He held it up, approvingly, and enjoyed the color in the sunset.
Missus Pansy studied him, baffled. Tom tried not to pry, but his eyes couldn't hide his question.
Bolco looked very sheepish but determined at the same time. "I'm going to pick some flowers for Lilac, " he said.
Well, maybe that's a step forward, thought Tom. "All right, lad. Take the vase and welcome."
"I'm certain she'll take very good care of it, and return it, " Bolco assured Missus Pansy. "She is always quite careful about ceramic things, vases especially. I was just afraid that I might drop it while I'm in the saddle. Although I suppose I could carry it in my pack until I get there," he said, brightening.
"Good idea, " Tom said. "That's settled then. When are you going to do it?"
"Oh, probably around two or three in the morning, " Bolco smiled.
Tom snorted. "You'll confuse the daylights out of that poor pony. What's wrong with normal sunlight?"
"I don't want to deal with the people and the questions and the strange looks, " Bolco said. "And if the pony gets used to moonlight, maybe he'll turn into an elf-chaser. Maybe he'll even find one."
Tom wondered at the sudden bitter irony in Bolco's voice, but let it go.
"Well, I'd best bring in my pack from the stable and check on Stormy."
"Supper in another hour, " said Missus Pansy.
Bolco sighed, carefully set the vase down on the table, and hung his head. "I'll try, " he said. Tom gave his shoulders an encouraging slap, and they went out to the stable together.
At suppertime Bolco ate as best he could, which was somewhat less than what he had had for lunch, and then he retired.
July 20
He was up at one in the morning, and headed for the road to the Smials. On the way there, he knew he would pass several fields and hillsides where there were wildflowers growing. He thought back over the decade he had collected flowers for Lilac, reviewing which were her favorites. He dismounted, and led Stormy on a long line; he scooped some water into the vase from a roadside stream, and then began gathering. Snapdragons grew here, sown years ago by some starry-eyed romantic. Bolco smiled at the memory, remembering how hard he had tried to grow a roadside strip of all pink snapdragons by sowing seeds gathered only from pink blossoms-- only to learn after they bloomed that the pollinating bees had visited other gardens, and the colors ended up being pink-and-every-other-color imaginable. Lilac had been pleased anyway.
Forget-me-nots grew by the streams, and in the fields were Poppies, Butter-and-Sugar, and a few remaining daisies, and some larkspur. The fields weren't as floriferous as he remembered them, but there was enough to fill the vase for many, many nights running, until the plants budded again.
With the vase full, he carefully folded the backpack down and placed the vase inside, and folded the pack back up around the flowers. They would be a little crowded, but the stems were short. He hung the pack off of the saddle while he mounted and then shifted it to his back from there.
The quarter moon was low and scattered clouds were scudding about, hiding and revealing bright stars. Stormy arrived at the Smials before Bolco was ready, but a day's journey might not have been enough. He rode Stormy right into the gardens, as much for the company as for the quick escape if it was necessary. He found himself outside of Isembrand's window, gazing up into the plum tree he had climbed with his cup of tea, so many nights, under the stars, and with one lovelier than the stars keeping him company. Heartache enveloped him.
He dismounted, and opened the pack, and peeled it back carefully, and removed the vase of flowers, and set it on the stone bench facing the window. Stormy snorted.
Several dogs barked and bayed. Bolco started, and Stormy started because Bolco did, and Bolco tried to calm him so he wouldn't wreck the flowerbeds. He barely had him under control when Isembrand's window opened.
"Who's there?"
"Isembrand, hello, it's me, Bolco. "
Silence. Then, "Off with you."
"Isembrand, I've brought Lilac some flowers."
"She won't want them."
"Please, Isembrand."
"Be off."
"Isembrand, please. Tell her that I love her."
"She won't be interested."
"Please, Isembrand, I beg you."
"I'll give her the message. She won't want to hear it. Now be off."
"Good night, Isembrand." Quite crushed and downcast, but telling himself he should have expected no different, Bolco led Stormy back out the way he had come.
Another window opened, toward the main south entrance. "Who goes there?"
"Who's asking?" Bolco evaded, too hurt and bitter to care about manners.
"Peregrin Took. Now state your business."
Pippin climbed out of his window in his nightshirt brandishing a sword and shield.
"Pippin... Pippin?!" Bolco whispered hoarsely. "It's me. Bolco. You won't need those."
Pippin paused, took a second look, set the weaponry down and started towards Bolco. Something about him was bothering Bolco. Stormy snorted again, setting the dogs baying and barking again. Bolco put Stormy between him and the windows, hiding himself from the onlookers, wanting to see Pippin.
"Ssshh, " Pippin ordered, and most of the dogs quieted down. "Hush." The rest did. Other windows began to open, but Pippin waved them all off. "Good night, everyone. I'll handle this. Calm those dogs down."
"Pippin." Bolco came forward, whispering. "You're ... You're so tall!"
"Hello, Bolco. Welcome home. Let me look at you!"
Pippin didn't mean it to hurt, but the words, welcome home, cut like a knife. Bolco tried hard to smile, but thought he might cry and his face went cold and angry instead. Pippin saw the struggle, and picked him up him in a bear hug; Pippin was so tall that he reminded Bolco more of a man than a hobbit.
"Put me down. Pippin, put me down."
Pippin did, but held him again at arms' length. "You're as light as a feather. It's true, you are starving. You've got to eat, lad. Aren't you hungry? You look ravenous. Come in and I'll find you something to eat."
"Like old times," Bolco said, but shook his head.
"Yes, like old times. We'll talk. Come in."
"I-- I can't." Bolco's eyes strayed to Isembrand's window, which was not closed. "I can't go back in there."
"Sure you can. Come on. I'll get the food myself. Come on in."
"No, Pippin. I can't. Look, I just want to see you, not the rest of the Smials. Maybe we can meet sometime. I've got to go now." He kept looking back at Isembrand's window.
"Bolco, we've got a lot of catching up to do. We do need to get together. How about if I come down to the fields? Tomorrow night?"
"N-not tomorrow night, " stammered Bolco, realizing that that would be a swimming night, and that Mayor Baggins would be expecting him. "The night after?"
"The night after, then. I'll come to the fields at sunset."
"Just come to Tom's house, you don't need to go all that way. I'll tell Missus Pansy to expect you for supper."
"Tom's house then. All right. What did you come here for if you didn't want to come in?"
"I left a message. Good night, Pippin." He was swinging into the saddle as he spoke.
"Good night, Bolco. Make sure that you eat."
"I'm all right." Stormy broke into a canter, and was soon speeding north along the side of the road, in the grass. Bolco let him run. He knew it was dangerous in the dark, but the pain of Isembrand's rejection made him reckless; now that he was alone, it stung all the more, and tears fell. He rode north to the river, and lingered by the banks, and suddenly dismounted and took Stormy in wading. He washed the tears from his face, hating them, feeling that they weakened him somehow, wanting to harden himself and push aside all the pain and rejection and ridicule and accusation. He began to sing softly, pressing towards the Creator.
As he did so, he realised that despite Isembrand's rejection of him, and Lilac's therefore to follow, both Pippin and Mayor Baggins had welcomed him. That comfort touched his soul, a little. He tried to open to it more. He washed his face again, and then inhaled deeply and impulsively immersed himself completely, fully clothed, exhaling slowly underwater, feeling the tension bubble away. Stormy searched for him snuffling and snorting at the bubbles. A sudden splash brought Bolco back to the present, and he dodged away from the flying hoof and hauled hard on the rope headstall before Stormy could paw again. Stormy snorted in protest and backed away as Bolco surfaced.
"I'll be getting your saddle wet. What was I thinking?" he rebuked himself. Dripping and muttering, he swung onto the pony and headed back to Tom's house. He was chilled, and urged the pony faster which made him chillier still, but at this point he wanted dry clothes most of all, and an hour's nap before breakfast. His mind was a turmoil, and he let the cold wind numb his thoughts. But once dry, he could not sleep at all. He lay awake sifting his thoughts and praying ‘til it was time to walk to the fields.
July 21
Frodo woke just after midnight, and dressed. As he was walking out, Sam met him, still in his nightshirt, in the hall.
"Mr. Frodo, I wish you'd let me come too, " said Sam.
"Another time, Sam."
"I don't like it, " Sam muttered.
"Whatever are you worried for? There's no danger at all, Sam. You worry far too much, " Frodo said, warmly. "Or you've been listening to too much talk at the Inns."
"Maybe, sir."
"I'll be fine. Don't worry about me, Sam." Frodo clasped his shoulder as he passed, and walked down the hill.
Sam stood, watching, still unhappy, and now too worried to sleep. What was he worried about, indeed? He did not think Bolco presented Frodo any danger, but there was a restlessness within Sam, and he suddenly turned back to his room. Rosie was sleeping deeply, and he dressed without disturbing her. It was warm enough without it, but at the last minute he took out his grey cloak and donned it. Soon he was melting down the hill in the shade of a hedgerow, silently as any hobbit can. He stayed well back from the water, watching and listening, ready to bolt forward at any need.
He wasn't expecting a pony at this hour, but Bolco was riding softly on the grass by the roadside. He slowed the pony to a creeping pace across the bridge, and made as little noise as possible. Sam frowned. Why all the secrecy? He wondered where Frodo had stationed himself to wait. He found out soon enough. Bolco rode around the back of the mill, to a hedgerow that ran down to the water. He crossed to the far side of the hedge and followed it to the bank. Sam checked the wind, not wanting the pony to catch his scent, and crept silently along well behind the pony, under the hedgerow. He saw Frodo step out of the shadows to meet Bolco. The pony snorted, and Frodo took his head, quieting it. Bolco dismounted. Sam crept noiselessly forward, feeling guilty but determined, until he could hear the conversation.
"I was wondering, " Frodo was saying softly, "If we could sit here on the bank for a while, like you usually do."
"How do you know what I usually do, sir? Do you mean that you've been watching me?" Bolco sounded taken off guard.
Frodo stroked the pony's nose. "I was wondering, " he said, "if you wouldn't mind singing."
Bolco's jaw dropped and he stood silent.
"Please," Frodo added.
"How.. how... I don't... "
"It's peaceful, " Frodo said simply, and looked at him. "Please sing."
The Mayor was pleading, Bolco realised.
"Why."
Frodo waited for the question to complete itself.
"Why were you listening." It was an accusation. Frodo's heart sank.
"I couldn't sleep. And I came down to the water, because I sensed peace, and it drew me. And I heard you singing. And the peace was there as you sang, and I listened, and then... you dove in, and I went home."
"When was that?"
"Not long after our first walk."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"I didn't want you to stop singing."
Bolco turned his head, a turmoil of emotions again, feeling robbed. Frodo tightened his grip on the pony's headstall, afraid that Bolco would try to ride off, but instead Bolco buried his fists in the pony's mane. Stormy turned and snuffled him.
"I sang by the river because I didn't want anybody to hear," Bolco protested defiantly.
"Why?" Frodo asked.
"Those songs aren't for listening. They're for praying-- for seeking Iluvatar's presence," Bolco said. "Can't I seek the Creator in peace?"
"Can't you?" Frodo asked, meaning something different.
"Pray in peace... I haven't, since that night... since Midsummer's night. Not since then..." His eyes filled with tears. Bolco turned his face away from the Mayor, hating himself, for the tears, for everything else about Midsummer's day that suddenly came rushing back. He tightened his grip on the pony's mane, steeling himself against the tears, angry, fighting, tired of weeping, tired of mistrust, tired of hopelessness, wanting a ray of hope from somewhere. He sent that desire toward the Creator, wordlessly, letting the want soak into the pony's mane, knowing that the Creator could find it there too.
He wasn't long in waiting. Frodo took his shoulders, pulled him away from the pony, and faced him. "If you're going to weep anyway, " Frodo said as gently as possible, "You might as well sing too. I really do want to hear you sing. I sang for you, if you remember. You pressed me to sing for you, when I didn't want to."
Bolco stood glaring at The Mayor through a haze of tears and defiant fury. He could either express his fury to the Mayor, or not. He waited, deciding. And then he realised that the Mayor wanted something from him that he could give, and his fury ebbed and began to give way to hope. Jake used to sing to the Creator while Bolco listened, and Bolco had loved it; would this be the same? Could the Mayor possibly sense the same joy and peace from Bolco's singing that Bolco used to sense as Jake sang? Or would it be different? What would happen?
Frodo waited as Bolco slowly, slowly gathered his courage and decided that as best he could, he would give the Mayor what he wanted, although he didn't know why the Mayor was asking. "If you listened before, then you know that I-- that sometimes I cry as I sing."
"I know."
"And you still care to hear it."
"Yes. Please."
"All right then, sir." At least his part was easy; close his eyes and forget everything else but the Creator. That was what Jake had always said. So he could also forget that the Mayor was there, he hoped.
Frodo tied the pony to a swinging branch, and Bolco didn't argue. Frodo gestured towards Bolco's usual spot. They each sat cross-legged facing the water, Bolco feeling entirely vulnerable, Frodo relieved that Bolco knew he knew, and worried about restoring the trust he felt was damaged.
Bolco sat for a while, and opened his heart to the Creator silently; that at least was for the Creator alone, and he would not share with The Mayor. Frodo waited.
Bolco dreaded starting the first song, knowing that the tears would start again. He vaguely remembered some line from the Psalms somewhere that mentioned the Creator keeping tears in a bottle, and he thought he must have provided him with an entire cellar-full by now. He fought with himself. The Mayor was waiting.
Wrong focus.
The Creator was waiting. He took a deep breath, and imagined himself back in a Sunday meeting, standing between Jake, Josh, James and Janiece, with the first chords starting, and James already with his hands in the air before the first words of the song. He willed himself to remember who he was singing to. A fragment of Psalm 62 surfaced and he sent it softly heavenward; "It is good to give thanks to the Lord..." He drove it deep into his own soul, lecturing himself, bringing to mind the ways the Creator had cared for him in the midst of the chaos he found himself in. He thought of the field hands, especially Tom, and Missus Pansy, and Daffodil, likewise driving those thoughts into his soul. Choose to give thanks. Stormy, and Songo, Dondo, Banco, and his father, and that huge handshake devouring his own hand. He sang thru the song a fourth time, a fifth. Your faithfulness keeps me through the night.
The wind was shifting around northwards from downstream, up towards the Hill, Sam realised, and the pony might catch a scent of him soon. He rose, still perfectly invisible in his grey cloak, and melted back up the hedgerow away from the water. He should head up the hill now, he thought, but something stayed him. He swung around the hedgerow to the other side, and came down almost to the water, so that he was just opposite Bolco and Mister Frodo. And he sat down again, and watched, and listened. Bolco sang so softly that the lapping waves sometimes almost covered the sound. He could see Bolco's face glistening with tears in the dim moonlight, and still he sang on. He had moved to another song now; Sam hadn't particularly enjoyed the first one, not being very good poetry, and repeated often at that, but it had held some interesting thoughts. Your faithfulness keeps me through the night. He recalled a far-off white star, glimmering over the Ephel Duath, that had seemingly said something similar to him; he had indeed come through that long night, a darker night than anything he had known, and come through on the other side. A dark night indeed. But there had been a lovely morning to follow, returning to the Shire and Rosie, with Mister Frodo. Sam wondered what it would have been like to have come back to a completely ruined reputation, and an angry, hostile Rosie, and nothing obvious that could be done about either, with nothing to do but plow a field. He did not like the idea. He would have Mister Frodo, he thought, and Merry and Pippin, and the Gaffer would never have turned him away.
Sam strained to listen as a new song began, and his eyes widened. The song was about being held in the arms of God. Baffled, Sam shook his head. That was brash; how could any mortal ask such a thing? He's mad, all right. And yet, something held him back from finalizing his conclusion. He waited.
The next song was longer, and spoke of hunger and thirst, waterfalls and waves, and being downcast. Sam wondered why Bolco hadn't started with that one. It seemed to express his situation pretty well.
Sam grew restless. When the song was done, Bolco sat very still for quite a while. Frodo waited.
Bolco sighed, and opened his eyes, and stared at the ground, and waited.
Frodo spoke. "Thank you."
Bolco murmured an awkward "You're welcome, sir."
More silence.
Bolco inhaled, looked sideways at Frodo. "All through the past ten years," he said, "I couldn't wait to come of age, and I wanted the time to pass as quickly as possible. And now I look forward to being thirty-three, and I wonder what it means, and what the point of it is, and if I even know what to do. Or if I should even stay here and wait for it. Or if there's something else I should do."
Frodo waited.
"I don't know, " Bolco shook his head, and looked back at the water. "Well, sir, I'd like to get into the water and out of it, if you don't mind. I've an errand to run before I'm due in the field."
"Before you go, lad."
"Yes, sir."
"Can't we sit down, sometime, and trade stories? I'm curious about the lands that you've visited."
Bolco responded rather coldly. "I've only visited one, sir. I know it sounds absurd, but I didn't see anyplace but one. I didn't pass through any other lands. I went from the Shire to Acton, and back, without seeing anything in between. Unless you count following the tracks. And I hardly would, sir. There wasn't much to see along the tracks either."
The old wall was back up again, Frodo realised; he had pushed his luck too far. "I should still like to hear about it, if you don't mind."
"What would you like to know?"
"How can I know what to ask unless you at least begin to tell me your story?" Frodo controlled his frustration as best he could.
"If it comes to that, sir, I just did." Bolco stood. "The Creator has kept me through the night, one night after another. He has held me and watched over me. I hunger and thirst for him. He calls to me, deep down. He washes over me. And when I am downcast, I can still praise him. I just have to choose to." Bolco stripped off his shirt and angrily threw it aside. "And that's the hard part. Good night, sir." And he stepped to the bank and dove in.
Frodo shook his head, annoyed with the rudeness, puzzled by the sudden anger, frustrated with his progress with the lad, and considering the riddle Bolco had thrown at him. Hunger, thirst, holding, watching, calling, washing. Singing to Iluvatar in the midst of despair.
And then the anger.
The anger was what threw him. Bolco had been hurt before, shamed, withdrawn, painfully shy, but Frodo hadn't seen the anger.
"I didn't like that, Mister Frodo," whispered Sam.
"Sam!" Frodo whispered. "How long have you been there? Never mind. I'll meet you at the top of the hedgerow. Come on."
"All right, sir."
Frodo marched uphill along the hedge, but Sam lingered, stepping down to the water. Sure enough, there was Bolco, swimming hard downstream. Very hard. There seemed to be fury in the stroke. He shot past, swam a bit further, turned, put his head down, and fought hard upstream. Sam shook his head. He would have watched longer, but Frodo was waiting.
Stormy snorted, blowing long, loud and hard as Sam walked past, but Bolco was still swimming as if pursuing-- or pursued by-- demons, and he did not hear Stormy at all.
"He was rude to you, sir."
"I know, Sam. I know."
"I don't like it, sir."
Frodo sighed as they walked. "I broke his trust, Sam."
"I don't see how, sir."
"The singing." Frodo sighed again. "I took something from him he wasn't ready to give. I never should have asked. I almost wish I'd never heard him, though part of me is glad I did. But I went where I should not have gone. You could say I plundered his soul."
"You're being a bit hard on yourself, sir. He sang for you right enough. And you sang for him, Midsummer's Eve."
"He clearly didn't want to sing for me tonight. I shouldn't have pressed. More than tonight, I think he was hurt that I had listened before, without telling him I was there."
"Well, I'll hold my peace then, " Sam said.
Frodo sighed yet again. Another secret to keep. This was all getting too complicated, he thought. He wished Gandalf was here to talk to. They arrived back at Bag End and lit a fire, and brewed tea, and then they each took a short nap and got up when the tea woke them. By the time Rosie got up, Sam had all her chores done, and told her to go back to bed and sleep in.
Frodo sat staring into the fire, and decided that Pippin would have to do his own research. Frodo would work only at opening up those parts of Bolco's soul that Bolco was willing and ready to open. And first, he would have to win back his trust. Frodo brewed himself more tea and headed out to the garden, to smoke a pipe and watch the sunrise.
Freshly picked flowers in hand, Bolco trotted toward the Smials, wondering if the vase would be out waiting for him. He expected so, but something made him uneasy. This time he tied Stormy out at the south garden gate, reluctantly, but it was early, and he would be able to see the pony from the gardens.
He walked up the hill, and turned into the garden outside Isembrand's window. He scanned the bench where he had left the vase. Small, odd shadows puzzled him, until he realised that they were physical shapes on the ground. He knelt to study them.
The flowers he had left yesterday were in tatters, lying on the ground and the bench. His heart sank. He brushed his fingers over them in disbelief, but there was no mistake. He sighed, and told himself he should have expected something like this. He had known when he decided to bring flowers that it would be difficult at first; that she was starting out angry.
He stood, scanning for the vase. It wasn't under the bench, it wasn't sitting anywhere on the wall. He stepped closer to the wall, looking through the flowerbed beneath it, wondering if she had tucked it mischievously out of sight.
More strange little shadows. He knelt again, and reached for one. He paused. Suddenly he was in the flower bed on his hands and knees, gathering shard after shard. There were no large pieces, but there was no mistaking the blue glaze, even in the moonlight. Lilac had not just broken it, she had smashed it. She always could throw well, Bolco thought.
He gathered as many pieces as he could. He would be late for the fields today, he thought wearily. He suspected Tom would understand why, although he would have two reasons to be unhappy about it, the vase being the second.
Missus Pansy's blue vase. His heart felt cold and still. This was not like the Lilac he had known. He studied one of the shards, ruefully. Had she so changed, or had he been so blind as to not see this fury in her? Where did it come from? Would she ever get over it?
Would he? He looked at Isembrand's window, and the cold feeling increased. Towards Isembrand? Or towards his daughter?
He had several week's pay stowed, at Tom's house. He was suddenly glad that Tom would accept no money from him for board; he would need it to replace the smashed vase. He once again removed his shirt and placed the shards in them, laid the fresh flowers on the bench after kissing them (wondering whether they would meet a better end than the first) and turned down the hill to Stormy.
He galloped home, set the shards in his room on the table still wrapped in the shirt, got another shirt and his money, and rode out again. Tom groggily wondered what all the galloping was about as they got up and had breakfast.
He galloped to Bywater, located a house with a shop door showing a potter's emblem on the side, and after taking several deep breaths, knocked.
"Miss Nellie. Good morning."
The door opened, and a hobbit lass in her mid-tweens smearing the wet clay from her hands onto her apron looked out with annoyance. "Awful early, " Nel shot at him, and then recognition crossed her face, and she closed the door halfway again. Wasn't this the wild Took boy who was a traitor during the war? Why did Master Meriadoc and Master Peregrin leave him running about to cause harm?
"Please, Miss Nellie, I need to hurry out to the field. I'm late already. Could you take an order?"
"Half down," she snapped.
"I'll pay for it all now, Miss Nellie. Just name the price."
"You've got to tell me what you're wanting," she snorted.
"I'm sorry, of course I do. A vase. Blue like the October sky. About this tall, and this wide. And shaped like this." He demonstrated the taper in the base, and she nodded and named a price. He immediately counted out the coins for the entire thing. "Miss Nellie?"
"Yes."
"Please, do you have any inexpensive vases already made?"
She opened her door wider, stepped well back, and pointed. "Over on that shelf."
He carefully gave her a wide, polite berth and went to the shelves. "They're lovely. How much are they?"
She named a price. He chose two. "Thank you very much, Miss Nellie." He paid her.
"You're welcome, " she said. She softened a little as she watched him carefully handling the vases. He doesn't seem horribly bad, she thought, nor particularly crazy.
He put the new vases into his pack. He mounted and started to turn for the fields, but indecision caught him, and on an impulse he trotted toward the mill. Crossing the bridge, he urged Stormy on up the hill, and stopped at the gate of Bag End.
Frodo stood, still smoking, and came to the gate, surprised. "Good morning, Bolco."
Bolco respectfully dismounted. "Good morning, sir. I came to apologize."
That caught Frodo by surprise.
"I was rude, sir. And disrespectful. I am sorry. You have been very kind, and I haven't returned the kindness very well."
"You were hurt, " Frodo replied, gently as usual. "On my part, I am sorry for prying into your songs and your time with Iluvatar against your will."
Tears welled up again. Would they never stop? Bolco fought them, hard. "Thank you, sir. "
"You're welcome. I wish you would come in, and join me for a while."
"I am late for the fields already, sir. But it is kind of you to ask, and another time, " he said, suddenly glaring defiantly towards the garden where Sam had looked up from his weeding, "another time I will, sir. Thank you. I have to go now, sir."
Frodo stretched out his hand over the gate, and Bolco shook it, once again drinking the acceptance in Frodo's eyes. Frodo for his part, saw a flame of determination he had never seen in Bolco. It was mixed with a simmering anger.
Bolco mounted, turned and galloped back down the hill, slowed to a canter over the bridge, and then galloped all but the last mile to the North Fields, greeted Tom, Dago, and Jock, apologized for his tardiness, unsaddled Stormy and went straight to work. Tom took one look at his face and decided questions could wait. Stormy grazed all day on the edges of the fields.
That evening, Bolco walked silently home with Tom, leading Stormy. Bolco wanted to talk to Tom, but didn't know how to frame the questions that he wanted to ask. Tom's simple fieldhand life suddenly held great appeal for Bolco, because he saw that Tom knew who he was. Tom didn't worry about his future, but lived contentedly within his day to day duties. And Bolco was suddenly in awe of that. He thought about it the whole way back to Tom's house.
Pippin was there waiting, chatting with Daffodil about the flowers in the front garden. "Which do you like better? The pink snapdragons or the orange snapdragons?"
"The pink ones." Obviously.
"Why the pink ones?"
"Because Mister Bolco likes the pink ones, " she said, wondering why Master Peregrin was so well respected if he didn't even know that.
Pippin laughed. "I thought so, " he said. "Well then, perhaps Mister Bolco should have gathered his flowers here." He looked up. "Where did you get them?"
"What?"
"The orange snapdragons you left in the garden."
"Orange?"
"Orange. Everybody knows you hate orange snapdragons." Pippin came forward and stretched out his hand, and Tom shook it and then Bolco.
"I picked them in the moonlight, " Bolco said, wondering what on earth Pippin was getting at.
"Perhaps you should pick them in daylight."
"Why?" Bolco put Stormy into the paddock, and put the tack on the fence, fetching one of the inexpensive vases from his pack.
"So they're not taken as an insult."
Bolco wondered if this was supposed to be good news or not. "Well, whether she liked the snapdragons or not, there was no call to smash the vase."
"Smash the vase?" Pippin suddenly became serious.
Bolco turned to Tom. "I'm sorry. I stopped in at Nel's this morning, and ordered a new one that I hope will replace it. I'm so sorry. I'll tell Missus Pansy myself. "
"It was a borrowed vase?" Pippin asked.
"Whether it was or not, why smash it?" countered Bolco. "But yes, it was borrowed. I never dreamed she would hurt it in any way."
"You have some things to learn about Lilac."
"Perhaps I do." Bolco silently wondered why the thought left him cold. Perhaps she had smashed more than the vase.
"I need to care for Stormy. He's had a rough day. But first, I need to talk to Missus Pansy, " Bolco said. "Will you excuse me for a few moments?"
He entered the house, carrying the inexpensive vase, which he gave to Missus Pansy as he promised her that a better copy of her original was on order. Missus Pansy took the news with surprise, but spoke kindly to Bolco, and thanked him for ordering the new vase, and set the inexpensive one on the shelf where the other had stood. Then he returned to the stable, passed Pippin and Tom chatting, and got a brush and a rag, and a bucket which he filled in the nearby stream, carefully wiped Stormy's face, gently washing his eyes and nose, and inspected his feet and legs, as he had several times throughout the day. He found no swelling, and his thoughts turned to Dondo. Good choice, he thought. You took good care of me, and him too; I'm glad for his sake he's strong. He gave him a good brushing, and then returned the tack and brushes and bucket to the stable, and returned to the stream and washed his own face and hands.
Now that it came down to the moment, he was reluctant to talk to Pippin. For one thing, he wasn't sure what to call him, since everyone else seemed to be calling him Master Peregrin now.
Tom and Pippin sauntered over. "All done?" Tom asked. Bolco nodded, and they went in the house.
Missus Pansy had outdone herself, knowing Pippin's appetite, and Tom tried vainly to hide his proud smile. Pippin briefly faced west before he sat.
Daffodil, as if on cue, asked him why.
"That's one of the customs of Gondor, and I do it every now and then... when I remember, " Pippin smiled. "I should try to remember more often. They look towards Numenor that was, and Elvenhome that is. And they try, I suppose, to resolve to be as noble as they can. Perhaps it challenges them." Pippin helped himself to potatoes and carrots, and golden beans, and broccoli and cauliflower in butter, and then lifted the cover off of the main dish. "Mutton and Mushrooms! Oh, Mistress Pansy, you are an artist!" He served himself a generous helping, then elbowed Bolco and gestured at the golden-crusted blackberry pie on the sideboard. "Hard choices today. Do I save room for the pie, or fill up on mushrooms?? How's a hobbit to decide?"
"Saving room has never been a problem for you, sir, " Tom laughed. "And it's less so now, I'll wager."
"Perhaps I'll stop worrying then, and eat instead, " Pippin laughed. "Bolco, your plate's empty. Do something about it, or I'll feel guilty taking thirds."
Bolco laughed, and sheepishly took one spoonful of each dish. He fretted that he might have no competition from Daffodil today, with Pippin here.
He was wrong. Daffodil took a forkful of potatoes, and met his gaze, and waited. Surprised at how grateful he felt, Bolco meekly followed suit, locking his eyes on her, and blocking out the rest of the table. As she paced him like a drill sergeant he thanked the Creator for her honest and bossy friendship.
He was unaware that Pippin had practically stopped eating to watch. Tom smiled, and he and Missus Pansy kept eating steadily, sharing several smiles.
Bolco got through the potatoes, the carrots, and the beans, but at the broccoli he stopped, covering his eyes with one hand. Daffodil waited.
Tom waited too, expecting the plate to be thrust away and Bolco to sit back, finished. But Bolco sat, eyes covered, struggling. Pippin was baffled; Tom signaled him to be quiet; Pippin obeyed. Bolco put his fork down, covered his face in both hands, and breathed deeply several times; and then met Daffodil's gaze again. That was another first, Tom thought. We're just making all sorts of progress this week.
"How about the Mutton, Daffodil, " Bolco requested.
She nodded, and took a forkful of that. He paced her again, and they finished that. Then she started back on the broccoli and cauliflower. He tried, but something about it was getting to him.
"Leave it, lad, " said Tom. "Pass that broccoli here, I'll polish it off. What would you rather have instead?"
"I don't know, " Bolco said queasily from behind both his hands again. "Perhaps the carrots."
"How about potatoes. Stouter stuff. " Put some meat on those bones, Tom thought.
"All right."
Tom passed him the potato dish, and Bolco took another spoonful. Daffodil pushed her plate to him and he served her too, and then she paced him through the potatoes. He managed, but his face went back into his hands when he was done, and he shuddered, fighting for control.
"Daddy, Mister Bolco had seconds on potatoes, " Daffodil announced. Tom and Daffodil and Missus Pansy all exchanged happy smiles.
"Perhaps, " Bolco replied from behind his hands, "Perhaps I'll have thirds, Daffodil. Give me a little time, and then I'll try."
"Daddy, " she said, awestruck, "Did you hear that?"
"Yes, I did, darling. You and I will wait, won't we?" Tom put his own fork down.
She nodded solemnly, putting down her fork. Tom couldn't have been more proud of his little girl. Bolco silently blessed them both, still breathing deeply behind both hands.
Missus Pansy continued eating, smiling peacefully, and then she looked at Pippin and smiled. Pippin could think of nothing to say, but Tom thought he looked a little green himself. Pippin realised Tom was staring at him, and he shook himself, and smiled reassuringly at Missus Pansy, and started back in casually on the carrots. But he was stunned that a grown hobbit in his late tweens was thoroughly dependant on a little hobbit-lass to get him through a magnificent dinner such as this. Lovesickness, he thought, was obviously hell on earth. Not quite as bad as the Black Breath, maybe, but gazing at Bolco, he still resolutely hoped that he never, ever got it. His own heart ached for Bolco, and he redoubled his inner determination to help him. And that made his difficulties in getting through to Lilac all the more ominous to him. He fretted silently as he ate. What if she never turned around? What if she remained as obstinate as ever, as belligerent as ever, as angry as ever? Bolco had to have something else to live for, Pippin thought. But what?
As Bolco reached for the potato dish, Daffodil cheered. "I haven't gotten it down yet, darling, " he laughed. But she pushed her plate forward too, and then paced him til he was done, and then jumped down off of her chair and into his lap. He kissed her forehead and then took her face in his hands. "Thank you, Daffodil."
Then he turned to Tom and Missus Pansy, and said, "I need some air. Excuse me." They nodded, and he stood, and started to put Daffodil down, but she clung to him. "Daddy, can I go too?"
Tom waved them both out.
Pippin waited ‘til they were outside, and then demanded, "How long has that been going on?"
"Just two days. Since he came back from Long Cleeve. Before that, he hardly ate at all. Just a mouthful or two. And not every meal, either."
"He can't live like that!"
"I told you, sir, we've been frantic about him. At least now, he's riding, and not walking everywhere. Truthfully, sir, this was the most we've ever seen him eat. Although he says he ate more at his father's house."
"Did he say what they fed him?"
"No, he didn't, " Tom frowned. "Now why didn't I think of asking him that?"
"Why indeed!" Missus Pansy reproached him. She stood, and swept out the door after Bolco. She returned shortly.
"And?"
"Cabbage and Roots, " Missus Pansy announced.
Pippin burst out laughing. "Poor Tom!"
Now it was Tom's turn to shudder. "Oh, Missus Pansy, I'll do it, I'll do it, I'll let you cook the stuff. But only ‘til he fattens back up again!" Tom shuddered again. "I never thought I'd have to have cabbage again, not ever, not once I had my own house. " Tom hated the taste of cabbage, but he hated the smell of the boiling cabbage far more. He had visions of not being able to enter his own house.
"Wait, wait." Pippin laughed. "Maybe the other field hands can invite him over. Missus Pansy, must you torment Tom in his own house?"
"I'll not let it be said, " declared Missus Pansy stoutly, "that Bolco hungered needlessly under my very own roof. If Cabbage and Roots is what he wants, then that's what he'll have, and we'll just air out the kitchen as best we can."
"Air out the whole doggoned house, what's more, " groused Tom.
"Perhaps, " said Pippin, "we can lure him over to the Smials with it. It's a staple over there. Missus Pansy doesn't need to torture you."
"Besides," said Tom, "Even if he loves the stuff, I'm still not sure how much he'll be able to choke down. And then we'd have leftovers, " he cringed.
Pippin grew suddenly serious. "Tom, this whole lovesickness thing has me quite worried. I've been talking to Lilac for over a week now, whenever I can. She's showing no signs of bending." Pippin shook his head. "What an incredibly stubborn girl. And angry. I dread, I hate facing her myself. And I don't have ten years invested in her."
Tom waited.
"I'm sorry that she broke your wife's vase."
Tom snorted. "That was no fault of yours. Nor Bolco's, neither."
"I know. But still." Pippin shook himself, and looked out the window at Bolco and Daffodil, who were over at the stables talking to Strawberry. "He needs something else to live for, " Pippin declared. "I don't know what it's going to be, but it can't be that girl. It'll kill him-- she'll kill him, if he doesn't let go of her. He's got to eat."
"I don't know, sir, " Tom said. "Your father now, Took Paladin, he said that Bolco thinks that the sun rises and sets on her."
"Exactly. And that is why he has got to let go, let her go. Forget about her." Pippin shook his head, and said with sudden intensity, "I don't want to have to bury him, Tom."
"What shall we do about it, sir?"
This was way out of Pippin's league. Journeys, battles, trolls and orcs were one thing; love was another. Then again, perhaps there were some similarities... "What do you normally do about lovesickness?"
"Late nights at the inn, I suppose, sir."
"That won't work. He hates beer. What else?"
"Just running about with the boys, " Tom shrugged, "joking and talking, and thinking of something else. Anything else. But we've tried that, too, sir. The field hands. He can't stay with the talk. His attention wanders. He doesn't laugh, doesn't join in. He's not really there."
"He's such a loner. He's never run with anybody else anyway. Always off chasing elves." And then Pippin paused.
"Sir?"
"Perhaps, " said Pippin, "perhaps now he'd be interested in talking to other elf-hunters." Pippin suddenly smiled. "Running about with the boys. " He laughed.
"Sir?"
"Maybe we just have to choose the crowd carefully enough. Some won't qualify anymore as boys, they might even be a little grey-haired around the edges. But it'll be a small crowd; he'll like that."
"I don't follow you, sir."
"I'm not sure I do, yet. But I think I'm onto something." Pippin reached for the Mutton And Mushrooms; he felt better now, and hopefulness has a good effect on the appetite.
Pippin dove into the food, which although cold now was still delicious. But Missus Pansy noticed that the dishes were chilled, and set about warming them in turn over the fire, and so Pippin and Tom feasted on ‘til twilight deepened.
They were on their second slice of pie when Bolco came in, sending Daffodil to bed.
"Bolco, come join us, " Pippin urged him.
Bolco reluctantly obeyed, wanting to go back outside, or anywhere else. He loved Pippin, but he felt beneath him, as if his fallen reputation would somehow tarnish Pippin's.
"Tell me, " said Pippin, "About the house that you stayed in. In Acton."
Bolco was startled, but he gathered his wits. "Anything in particular?"
"Who lived there?"
"Janiece, and her three sons, James, Josh, and Jake."
"What were they like?"
"Wonderful."
Pippin waited.
"Janiece befriended me first. She was kind, generous. Caring. Patient."
Pippin nodded. "Go on."
"I'd been traveling since Monday morning early, and she found me on a Friday morning. She stayed home from work, and called her youngest son, Jake, and told him to come home, and skip his lessons." Bolco smiled. "I was terrified of him at first, but he was as patient and as kind as his mother."
"Why were you terrified of him?"
Bolco shrugged. "I'd barely avoided a fight the day before-- or was it two?-- with another man-child. Tall, angry. I was afraid of the same thing. But there was no comparing them. Jake defended me against any and all foes, real or imagined." Bolco laughed. "Sometimes he protected me so fiercely that Josh and James told him to back off. He always tried to protect me from hearing or seeing things he didn't think I should hear or see."
"Like what?"
"Well, take the beach, for instance. They never let me near it-- not that I wanted to-- because they said that the women there wore even less than the women at the pool."
"Wore...? What?"
"Swimming. When people there swim, they wear very little, " Bolco shook his head, eyes wide. "Men wear shorts. Like Linen shorts, only different. But at the pool, the women wear something called racing suits, which are skin-tight, and cover only from here to here, " Bolco said, putting one hand at his breastbone and the other at his hipjoint.
Pippin's jaw dropped.
"But at the beach, they wear less! I can't imagine. And I never wanted to find out. So that's why I never saw the east coast, I mean the shore, the ocean."
"I can't blame you there!" Pippin shook himself, trying not to blush. "They wear that little in March and April?"
Bolco frowned. "I doubt that they swim at all outside in March and April. It was quite cold. I never even thought of it that way. But then, why go if you can't swim?" he shrugged.
"I don't follow you there, " Pippin said. "Do you always have to swim?"
Bolco gave him a wry look. "Well, I suppose not, but if I had to choose between the ocean that was too cold to swim in, and a pool that was warm enough to swim in, it's an easy choice."
Pippin returned the wry look. "Brandybuck."
"Worse. Toradoc said so."
Pippin laughed, and Bolco joined him. It felt good, he thought. Was Pippin actually believing him? He decided not to ask.
"So go on, " Pippin said. "What about the other two...? Men? Sons?"
"Josh taught me to swim, " Bolco said, and paused, suddenly overwhelmed at the gift given.
Pippin waited.
"The first day, they were so patient, the three of them. I was in over my head-- the pool was three feet six inches deep. They surrounded me, and never let me out of their reach, and were always there. They taught me to float on my back that day."
"Three men teaching one hobbit to swim."
"I can't describe it, Pippin... er.. Master Peregrin...."
"Oh Bolco, for crying out loud. Pippin. Call me Pippin, would you please?"
Bolco's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thanks."
Tom silently approved.
Pippin prompted again. "So all three of them taught you together?"
"Whenever they could. But I was never alone, never vulnerable. I've never felt so safe in all my life as I did around them. And when they left, they insisted I keep a low profile; they wanted me to just stay in the house. And when I didn't, I did get in trouble, " he recalled.
"Trouble?"
"Somebody thought that they had kidnapped a child. They thought I was eight, or ten years old."
"What!"
"I'm telling you, Pippin, either they believed in hobbits, or they didn't. You would have thought you were in the Shire talking about dragons. Some were so sure I was a man-child, they went around in circles explaining my height and my furry feet. And others, when they figured out I was a hobbit, they were so pleased, but determined to protect me against everybody else. Anne felt the same way."
"Anne."
"Well, she was interested in Jake. But she treasured me, too. She was from church."
"Church."
"Oh, " stammered Bolco. "It was a place people went and sang, and listened to, to stories."
"An inn?"
"Not really. Anyway, " Bolco stammered, "the three sons, Jake, Josh, and James, were all still in school. Still studying. Pippin, you wouldn't believe how much they study there, and how much they read. They studied from the age of six, and James was still studying at twenty-four years of age."
"Studying."
"All week! Classes, and homework, and projects, and papers, and books, and reading, and designing things I didn't understand at all. Endless studying."
"History?"
"Everything. History, science, languages, stories, maps and countries, politics, wars, money and what to do with it, everything. It made my head spin."
Pippin took another serving of Mutton and Mushrooms, and considered his next question. He pointed his fork at Bolco accusingly. "Church, Bolco. You're hiding something from me. What's church?"
Bolco struggled, but realised Pippin was testing him. "Let me think of what I can say... It's a group of people that all believe in the Creator, and they sing, and seek the Creator's presence, and study what the Creator has said and done," Bolco stated firmly.
"The Creator?"
"Iluvatar. All-Father. Eru, the One. The being that created... well, everything. All of Arda, all of Ea. You know. Everything, " Bolco said, waving his hands a little. Missus Pansy was listening from the doorway, and Tom looked over at her. Tom and Missus Pansy's eyes were soft and thoughtful. But Bolco wasn't sure that Pippin had followed so far.
"Ah," Pippin said, and paused, considering and absorbing Bolco's statement, a little glassy-eyed. But then he spoke again, pointing accusingly with the fork. "What did you mean, when you said, Let me think of what I can say?"
"Some of it they thought I shouldn't talk about in the Shire."
"Why not?"
"Because there are, there are some things about Iluvatar that the Shire probably isn't ready to hear."
"Try me."
"Pippin, I don't think I should."
"Bolco, you need to trust me."
"It's not that."
"What is it?"
"It's that some things are too hard to believe until you are ready."
Pippin glared at him. "Try me."
"You can't tell anyone, then."
"Should we excuse Tom?"
"Yes! I'm sorry, Tom. It's just not time, not right."
Tom got up, surprised, and nodded. Bolco stood with him.
"Tom." He stopped. Bolco touched his shoulder. "I shouldn't even be telling Pippin. I'm sorry. I trust you. It's not that."
"All right, " said Tom, not understanding. He went out into the kitchen, and Missus Pansy followed him, taking his hand as they left.
"All right, " said Pippin, quietly. "Tell me about Iluvatar."
"Wait. I will. Just wait."
Pippin watched as Bolco drew up his legs to sit cross-legged in the chair, kneading his hands together, and closing his eyes. Tears started and Bolco made no effort to fight them. Pippin stared, astonished. Bolco wrung his hands steadily as he wept.
"What are you doing?" Pippin blurted.
"Asking for wisdom and guidance, do you mind?" Bolco retorted, indignant. "I'm taking a terrible risk telling you anything at all." He curled forward, putting his hands over his face. "It's too soon."
"What is too soon?"
"It's not time."
"You're not getting out of this, " Pippin warned sternly. He had to hear it, moonshine or not.
"Then you have got to swear that you won't tell anyone. Anyone! Do you understand?" Not waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes again, pressing into Eru's presence and asking again for wisdom and guidance.
Pippin sat back, astonished.
Tom and Missus Pansy, stunned at what they had unwillingly overheard, left the kitchen and went outside for a walk down the stream.
Bolco begged for mercy and covering and safety and protection for Pippin, and for himself, wisdom, and guidance, and more wisdom and guidance. And suddenly he sensed freedom. He knew he could speak.
Just then Pippin spoke. "All right. I swear."
Bolco gave his face a single swipe with his sleeve, sat up straight, and faced Pippin, and spoke, slowly, cadenced, clearly, and with finality.
"Iluvatar is one God-- but three people. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The three love each other beyond what we can understand, and mortals are their gift to each other. But mortals aren't holy, and they need to be made holy before they can be the proper gift. So the Son-- Jesus-- in the fullness of time, the Son will come as a man, and live on earth, and then die a horrible, torturous death, to give mortals holiness with the blood of God himself. And then he will rise from the dead, and in so doing, give them life, his own life. And those who believe in him and follow him as king, will become his own possession, and he will bring them eternally into Iluvatar's presence-- the Three In One. But those who reject him, will be rejected, and cast out of Iluvatar's presence forever. Everyone will choose one way or the other. "
Pippin stared.
Bolco waited.
Pippin shook his head, overwhelmed.
"Were you ready for that?" said Bolco.
"I-- " Pippin shook his head again. "Perhaps not."
"Neither is The Shire."
"Perhaps not."
Bolco waited. He uncrossed his legs, thought better of it, and folded back up, turning inward again.
"Are you saying, " Pippin said very softly, "that you have given Iluvatar your allegiance?"
"I have."
Pippin numbly nodded, and Bolco turned inward again. The room was silent for a long time.
Pippin reviewed Bolco's careful statement about Iluvatar, all of Bolco's words ringing with strange clarity in his mind. He turned it over and over, and tried to find pieces of it he could relate to. There were a few. Of all the hobbits in the Shire, Pippin was one of the best equipped to understand allegiance to a king. And the king's willing self-sacrifice to give others forgiveness and life-- he pondered that, thinking he had seen some die, and some go to the brink of death, that others could live.
Pippin remembered a conversation of his own, with a young man-child. "Aragorn? Who is that?" "Oh, he was a man who went about with us. I think he is in Rohan now." It had not yet been time to reveal the identity of the king. No one in Gondor had been ready.
Bolco was listening, and hearing nothing, but he was sensing peace and patience, and so he waited.
"Well, " said Pippin, "You are right, I don't understand. But I have known, " he said, as Bolco opened his eyes, "a king whose identity had to remain hidden until the proper time. And I won't disclose that."
Bolco met his gaze earnestly. "I don't know what the proper time will be, " he said. "You may take that secret to your grave."
"So be it, then, " said Pippin. "There were those who did so for another." He thought of Boromir. "But tell me. In Acton, did everyone know this king?"
"Everyone that I got to know, did. But perhaps not everyone that I met. I wonder if that's part of what Jake was protecting me from."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. There were some people that Jake and Josh and James trusted deeply, " he thought of Anne, " and some that they didn't." He thought of LeeAnne. "And they only let me spend time with the people that they trusted."
"I suppose, " Pippin considered, "anyone would do the same for any guest."
Bolco nodded. "I never gave it a second thought. But it does make some of your questions hard to answer. Mostly because I saw so little public life."
"What do you mean?"
"We never went to an inn, ever. We went to a few stores, but never talked to anyone else. We went to the pool, but only talked to other people if it was absolutely necessary. But at Church, we talked rather freely, once they got used to me there."
"Used to you."
"Like I said, most people thought I was a child, or the shortest man they'd ever met. And the ones that realised I was a hobbit, tried to hide it from everybody else, or not mention it."
"How strange." Pippin considered. "But there's something I still don't understand. There were lots of people in Acton, in the church, that knew this king. And yet you say that he will come, in the fullness of time; he will come as a man, and will live on earth, and will die. You talk as if it hasn't happened yet."
Bolco stared at the table, and began absently tracing designs with his fingers. "Josh told me, that first Saturday night in the kitchen, that he and James didn't know whether I came from the present, or the past. I didn't understand that at first. I think I still don't understand it. But I remember he said it. And I don't think that Jesus has come yet."
"You don't think."
"Word would have spread."
"You don't know."
"No, " Bolco snapped. "I don't. And I assume that my ignorance is as dismissible as my sanity and my honesty, and the rest of my once fragile and now dead reputation. Is there anything else that you would like to know?" He stood as if to leave.
"Steady, " Pippin soothed as if Bolco was a spooked pony. "Bolco. Calm down." Pippin stood too, gently. "Bolco, I don't think you're mad. Or flighty. Or dishonest."
"Well, you're alone then, " said Bolco, but he softened. "But thank you." His shoulders sagged. "I'm sorry. I've been rude again. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry. Look, there's more in this world than I understand. Elves, wizards, dragons, Iluvatar. Kings. And maybe other things. Maybe there's more magic out there than we know. Actually, I'm sure of it. I don't know how a palantir works, but I've looked in one, and seen what I wish I hadn't. And Frodo's seen the past, and the future, in Galadriel's mirror. Sam too." Pippin shrugged. "Maybe instead of looking into something magic, you climbed in. Or fell in. Who knows."
Bolco still looked like he wanted to leave. Pippin walked forward slowly, and towering over him, took him by the shoulders. "I trust you, " Pippin said. "How about you trust me. And stop running."
"Stop running. What do you mean?"
"I think you know." Pippin held Bolco's gaze. "You mentioned your reputation. How will you ever get it back, if you hide away for the rest of your life? Stop. Stand and fight for it."
"I don't know how. What's to fight for? They always thought I was crazy."
"They. They who?"
"The whole Shire."
"Not me. Not my father."
"Your father?"
"Do you think he'd have you working in his fields, if he thought you'd lost your mind?"
"I don't know."
"That's because you don't know my father. No. He wouldn't. And now you tell me. Name somebody else that doesn't think you are crazy."
Bolco thought for a moment, and couldn't think of anyone. He sighed. Creator, there isn't anyone else, he complained. And then he remembered. "Songo."
Pippin's eyebrows went up. "Your brother!"
Bolco nodded. And then he thought of one more name. "I wonder... I think..."
"Who else?"
"I think maybe... I think Mayor Baggins might not think... might not..."
Pippin nodded. "There, you see. That's four. I think that's a good start, don't you?"
"Well, it's more than I would have counted."
"Four more."
"Yes."
"All right then!" Pippin thumped him on the back, and looked out the window. Tom and Missus Pansy were still studying the stream, now gleaming dully in the moonlight. He called to them, and they turned toward the house.
Pippin turned back to Bolco. "There's one more thing."
"What?"
Pippin took a deep breath, and tried to sound casual. "Lilac. Forget about her, lad."
"What!!!"
"Let her go." Pippin came back to Bolco, taking his shoulders again. "Look at you. Thinking about her has only brought you to the brink of starvation. She's only one single person in the entire Shire. Forget her. Shrug her off, lad. Live life. There's a lot of life out there to be lived, whether you are married or not. "
Bolco stared at him, glassy-eyed, uncomprehending. Pippin willed him to listen, to hear, to be freed from his lovesickness and be a hobbit again instead of a wraith. Most of all he willed Bolco to get his appetite back.
Tom and Missus Pansy came in.
Pippin turned toward the healthy, happy couple with a sense of relief. "Let's have some more pie, shall we?" he suggested brightly, siezing the half-pie and brandishing it as if he were the host. Tom laughed, and the three sat down, and looked up at Bolco.
"Come on, lad, " Pippin urged heartily. "It'll make four slices all right."
"I have a lot to think about. Thanks. Excuse me."
Bolco went outside and meandered through the yard, the stable. Vaguely he somehow hoped to leave his thoughts, himself, behind, and move on to something else. The stars weren't much help that night, nor was Stormy. He wished Daffodil was up. He considered riding over to the Mill, and swimming, even though he had swum last night. If his thoughts didn't stop racing soon, he might as well; he suspected he had a sleepless night ahead of him anyway.
He meandered, around the stream, around the stables, around the strawberry patch. He watched the house, and saw that the dining room was still lit. He wondered how long they would talk into the night.
He decided not to wait. Swimming sounded too good. And then he realised, Mayor Baggins would not be expecting him; he could swim anywhere. He could swim for hours.
He turned toward the stable, and softly whistled his call for Stormy. He saw Stormy's head pop up in the moonlight, ears pricked. And then to his astonishment, Stormy circled, head high and tail streaming, and with three short strides cleared the fence, and appeared in front of him, snorting. Bolco laughed aloud. What a gift this pony was.
"I should call you Nathaniel, " Bolco murmured, stroking his forehead.
He would start several miles above the mill, he decided, and swim leisurely downstream, until he had had enough. Stormy would follow.
He headed for the stable, with Stormy tagging along, and got just the headstall and reins. No saddle tonight, no pack. He decided he would bring a towel and use it as a bareback-pad on the way home. He was tempted to leave his shirt behind, but he decided to stash that somewhere on the way, just in case. He tied the towel around his waist, gripped a handful of mane and swung up, and headed north through the fields.
Pippin had heard Bolco's whistle and Stormy's jump. He was leaning back and looking out the window when Bolco left the yard.
"Off for a swim, I suppose. How's he supposed to gain weight?"
Tom frowned. "It's not his night for a swim. Something's not right."
"He has a strict schedule?"
"Every other night. Like clockwork."
"Perhaps I upset him."
"Could be, " Tom said.
Missus Pansy frowned. Pippin met her gaze, and with an effort, she smiled reassuringly at him. What a lady, Pippin marveled; he wondered if she ever, ever failed to put other people before herself.
Pippin rode home with his mind in turmoil, and did not fall asleep ‘til the might was far spent.
*******