Morning's early light shyly peeked in the parlour
window of Bag End, then quietly slipped over the casement to brighten
the room with its pink-gold presence. Soft fingers of bright
light teased along through the sleeping hobbits' rumpled curls, kept
from their faces by the sides of the chairs. Foiled in waking them, it
then petulantly faded off into a clouded daylight and they slept
obliviously on.
Bilbo woke first, bobbing up from his own vague dreaming mostly because
of an increasing pain in his neck. He shifted, then blearily
opened his eyes to a moment of disorientation. His sleep-filled
mind tried to understand why he was looking at the parlour fireplace
instead of his own bedroom walls, and why at such an angle. To his
right, a hobbit-foot that was not his own poked out from under a
rumpled lap-throw. Frodo. The chairs in front of the fireplace.
What was the time?
He rubbed his eyes and slowly unbent until he was sitting upright,
absently catching at his own blanket that slid towards the floor.
Turning his head, he squinted at the now grey, overcast sky outside the
window, then considered the cold hearth. Frodo shifted slightly,
but slept on.
Bilbo slowly knelt by the hearth and set about rekindling the fire as
quietly as he could. When he finally had the beginnings of a reasonable
flame going, he very carefully set to building a little arch of twigs
over it to catch. In the silence their small shuffling and
cracklings sounded very loud. One gave a loud pop. He glanced back to
find the flame reflected in a pair of very bright eyes that were
watching him from over the edge of a blanket.
"It's a bit nippy." he commented to the eyes, by way of apology for making noise.
The blanket lowered as Frodo briefly stretched and got up from the
chair with a grace that Bilbo only dimly remembered from his own youth.
Ah, to be so flexible. "Brr." he replied, reaching for the
blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders. "What's the time?"
"I don't know yet," Bilbo replied. He fed another bit of wood to the
fire then glanced back up. "Happy birthday. How about some
water for the tea?"
"Happy birthday yourself, " returned Frodo with a smile. He ran his
fingers through his hair. "The kettle's already filled from last night,
remember?"
"Is it? Oh, yes. Yes, well...Iah owoah ahwahn ow." he said, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.
"What?"
"I said 'I remember that now.' How did you sleep?"
"I don't remember, except there did seem to be someone snoring at some point."
"Hmph. Wonder who that could have been?"
Frodo tried to sound nonchalant, but the corners of his mouth were
twitching into a smile. "Oh, I don't know. Someone. Let's just say I'm
thankful I have my own room."
"Hmph." Bilbo repeated, adding a small log and stiffly standing up. He
looked down at his rumpled clothing from the previous day and brushed
his hands over the worst of the creases. "Well. I suppose we'll
have to put on a bit of birthday finery after breakfast, but
nothing wrong with being comfortable a bit longer." he rubbed his hands
together. "What would you like first? Eggs? Pie? I have some
apples I thought we might bake."
Frodo was looking toward the window. "Actually I was wondering if we
might start off with a walk outside, if you've anything we can carry
with us..."
"Carry? Of course I do. Here, I've some of those little cornmeal cakes
in that basket over there, just under the napkins. You know, the little
ones that hold together so well. They're better with honey of course,
but not bad just in hand. Capital idea!"
With the kitchen oven beginning to warm and the tea ready to go, they
stocked their pockets with their pre-breakfast walking snacks and
ventured out into the morning. The light breeze smelled fresh,
and in spite of the chill of the overcast sky it felt invigorating and
cheerful, walking together through the wet grasses and along the road
once again.
"Good thing we didn't have that party after all," Bilbo spoke after they had walked some distance, chewing on their cakes.
"Why is that?"
He gestured with his chin, keeping his hands warm in his coat pockets.
"Look at those low clouds there. They're coming our way, and
fairly quick. I think we would have ended up with everyone all crammed
together in the parlour to get out of the rain."
"Mm. But it smells good, doesn't it?"
"It does."
The wind that swept over them in small gusts did have a certain fresh
fragrance to it, a freshly-washed clean and wet rain-scent that made
him think of spring, even though the damp autumn fields lay all around
them. He breathed deeply of it, then popped his last bite of
corncake in his mouth; it made a perfect seasoning. They left the Road
behind and wandered up one of the footpaths that bordered the fields,
occasionally speaking of memories of other times they had gone walking,
together or alone or comparing their thoughts on the passing
scenery. The morning seemed very quiet, though he couldn't place
why at first. He finally realized what he was missing was
birdsong. Well, it was getting late in the year...had they
already gone south?
Wood and peat scented-smoke puffed and swirled from the distant
chimneys, the only indication that someone's home lay anywhere
nearby. They passed a handful of sheep that were clustered near
their gate, waiting for someone to come let them through, made their
way through the gaps in a well-used line of wood fencing and then
across a tumbled field where the corn stood in its tall shocks among
the irregular lumps of winter-squash, still slowly swelling on their
slightly trampled vines.
The wet earth and musty-leaf scent of the corn sheaves lifted past them
in the wind, mixing with the scent of the nearby trees. It was very
refreshing, but also beginning to be a little chilly - Bilbo pulled his
hat down and buried his hands in his pockets, hunching into his
coat-collar. He glanced over at Frodo. The younger hobbit didn't seem
to be bothered by it, so he didn't mention it aloud. As they
neared the edge of the field, golden-brown leaves scattered past them
more and more frequently, the wind lifting them from among the green
ones on changing boughs and sweeping them into arcs in the air. The
very beginning of fall....
The trees rustled and creaked. Bilbo paused, looking up at their
swaying interlacing branches. "How far would you like to go?
Looks like the wind is picking up a bit."
Frodo paused only slightly. "Just a little further? I've so missed just
being able to go out like this - I guess I'm just not quite ready to be
going back..."
Against his better judgment, Bilbo assented and let the lad lead the way. "As you wish! It's your birthday, after all."
"And yours," Frodo added over his shoulder as he picked his way through fallen branches. "So we can turn back if you want to."
"No, no.... just a little further, as you said. No problem at all..."
They rustled and crunched their way through the small copse of trees,
following a path that wound among the trees and light brambles. A fork
in the path gave them an option of straight or left, and Frodo turned
left. Bilbo followed. They soon approached the growing light of
the northern edge, where a tiny, ambling stream, shining dark with old
leaves and grasses slipped along the tree-filled border of the
fields. They jumped it with small effort and continued on to a
neighboring field.
It wasn't until they stepped through the break in a low hedge and come
out into the next field that they realized what a windbreak the trees
had been. Bilbo's hat began to lift off of his head and he quickly
clapped it back down even as his other hand reached to pull his
billowing coat close and fumbled with the upper buttons. Ahead of
him Frodo stopped, and he came up beside him.
"Whoo! Looks like we're in for a bit of blow," he said over the wind.
"No wonder the birds were quiet, they've all the good sense to wait
this one out."
"Birds?" Frodo's hair was lifting and whipping in his eyes and he hugged himself to keep warm in the sudden chill.
"I couldn't hear any - I thought they'd all just gone south already but
they were holing up from this storm, that's what they were doing.
They've good sense. I'd say we head back and hole up too."
Frodo was quiet for a moment, turning away from Bilbo and facing into
the wind. Bilbo wondered if he was thinking of continuing on in
spite of the weather, reluctant to give up their walk so easily. The
lad suddenly held so still... he worried he had offended somehow.
He wrestled with himself inside, warring between wanting to encourage
that adventurous streak in his new nephew, and wanting a nice warm
kitchen with a hot kettle and a warm shawl for his shoulders.
Steeling himself for the answer that he didn't really want to hear, he
opened his mouth to ask if they should go on -
Frodo turned back to him, wide-eyed. "Did you hear that?"
"W - b...Hear what?" Bilbo's tongue stumbled as he shifted gears.
Frodo didn't reply, but looked past Bilbo's shoulder and his eyes went
even wider. "Run!" he said and grabbed Bilbo's arm, yanking him along
after him as he ran back towards the hedge.
Alarmed, confused and staggering to keep his balance as he was towed
along faster than he normally could go, Bilbo ran after. They
burst through the bush but Frodo didn't even slow down. He thankfully
lost his grip on Bilbo's sleeve before the older hobbit ended up going
face-first into the ground, but continued at a breakneck speed straight
through the fronds and brambles. Bilbo tried to keep up; he was
rapidly falling behind and still had no idea what was behind them that
could inspire such terror so close to home. Whatever it was it
appeared he would be the one caught, so he hoped it wouldn't be too
painful.
He crashed out of the wooded copse back into the cornfield. The
wind and rain hit him anew and he gasped for breath, looking for
Frodo. The youth was nearly to one of the largest corn shocks
when he glanced back, and turned, dashing back towards his uncle.
He still looked frantic. They met about halfway to the corn
shock.
"Hurry!" cried Frodo, all but pulling him along again.
"What....are we....running...from?" gasped Bilbo as he was bodily flung
around the corner of the shock. He found himself in a sudden pocket of
calm as the wind was blocked, the two of them pressing back into a
little alcove among the corn stalks. Frodo began to speak but was cut
off by a sound both of them heard all too well.
"Grrr...Arrrrooooo! Rah! rah! raroof! rah!" It was rapidly drawing closer.
Don't run from dogs, he told his body firmly. Don't run. It only makes them chase you. Don't....
His legs took off for home.
I hate dogs! he lamented as he was carried away by his sprinting legs. They always do this to me...
Frodo made a wordless sound of dismay behind him, and he frantically
overrode his own self-preservation to turn back. The dog was crossing
the field behind them, gaining at what seemed an impossible
speed. He could hear it growling, excited by the chase and intent
on its prey. Frodo slipped in the soft tilled earth and it was
closing in too quickly - Bilbo knew if they could somehow get beyond
this field it would probably turn back, but it was too far...
Without thinking, Bilbo ran back towards them, shouting something - he
couldn't even remember what. He stooped as he ran, seeking a rock to
throw, but there weren't any to be found in this neatly kept field.
Bits of corn sheaves rattled uselessly past in the rising wind. His
hand closed over a wad of dirt and he flung it with all his strength at
the dog's face.
It fell short, but served to distract the animal from Frodo long enough
for him to recover his footing. The dog hesitated, unsure which
target to chase, then dashed for Frodo again. Temporarily forgetting
his own fear, Bilbo grabbed up handfuls of clods and a small, mottled
squash and began flinging them with hobbit-accuracy at the creature's
slavering head. The squash smacked it on the side of the nose
with a spattering of stringy pulp, making it yelp and snarl.
Angry, it turned towards its tormentor and lunged for him
instead. He ran for the boundary fence again, trying to grab up
more dirt to throw as he went, desperately wishing he had brought his
walking stick with him. He grabbed a stray cornstalk for lack of
anything else and kept going. His breath felt cold and ragged in his
breast, and his blood beat in his ears. The dog stopped barking and
settled into a low growl behind him which was far more frightening.
Something brushed his pantleg, breathed on his ankle. He
frantically lashed out with the cornstalk, hitting the animal across
the ears and gaining another yard of space. Where was Frodo?
Across the fence, he hoped. He was nearly there. It was so close...
There was a low growl; he staggered and nearly fell as the dog laid its
teeth into the hem of his coat. He lashed out with the cornstalk again,
but it snapped off in his hand. Blindly he kicked at the dog in an
utter panic, still struggling to reach the nearby fence.
"Eeeyah!" said Frodo someplace behind him.
There was a wet thump and a muffled yelp; his coat came free. Not
sure what had happened but grateful it had, he reached the fence and
forced himself between the boards. Falling to the grass on the other
side, he rolled over and fought back to his feet to see what had
happened. His hat blew off.
The dog was still there on the other side but its head was an almost
unrecognizable mass of mud. Frodo was just pushing through the boards a
few yards down, his hands, arms and shirtfront bearing witness to his
part in the mud-flinging.
Why, he must have pulled up a chunk of dirt the size of a watermelon!
Bilbo thought with admiration. Well done! He wanted to drop
back to his knees, so glad that it was over, but stiffened his legs
lest he alarm his young charge. He gathered his hat and stuck it, wet and
dripping, back on his head.
They went to one another, and gripped each other's forearms with a long
look, then assured of both being well, looked back at the dog. It
pawed at its head, whining and snorting under the coating of mud, still
stunned.
"So" said Bilbo, still trying to catch his breath, "that was a bit of
an adventure." He appraised the muddied condition of his nephew.
"Only a bit?" said Frodo, bending to wipe his hands off in the wet
grass. He looked up at Bilbo apologetically, squinting in the rain.
"That was some throw, you did..."
"You too! How you lifted that dirt..."
Frodo laughed breathlessly. "I don't know. I was... just so afraid it... was going to hurt you..."
"So was I, if I say so myself..."
"I guess we shouldn't have run... it..."
"...Makes them...chase you. Yes. But..."
"I'm terrified of... big dogs. I'm sorry, Bilbo..."
"So am I. Terrified that is."
He reached to help Frodo back up. Together they turned towards home
again, wiping at the mud on their clothes. The bedraggled dog
barked after them a few times from his side of the fence but made no
effort to follow any further. Still, just the sound of its voice
was sufficient to move them along at a very quick walk. Bilbo
realized he was still clutching a small piece of the cornstalk in his
own muddied hand, as if it were a talisman that would protect him from
further canine assaults - He dropped it, and shivered in the wet
cold.
He wasn't even sure which he was trying to get away from more, the
faint growling voice of the dog behind them or the cold, pelting fist
of the oncoming storm. The wind pushed at his back, then knocked
into him sideways, as if determined to sweep him off his feet. The
dog's barking faded away but still they moved quickly. Coming over the
rise to cross the lower field the wind suddenly hit them both with such
force Bilbo had to grab his much-abused hat off and ram it into his
pocket quickly lest he lose it entirely. Gritting his teeth at
the cold, icy rain now pelting down his neck he clutched his
coat-collar closed and tried to face it head-on.
Frodo had gone slightly ahead of him but now dropped back, a hand
pressed to his side and his steps slowing for a moment. Wordlessly,
they linked arms to face the force of the wind and rain together,
leaning into it as the packed earth of the path beneath their feet
began to turn to slick mud and rippling puddles.
They were just turning onto the Road when the wind-driven rain became
an out-and-out icy downpour. They both began to run again; bits
of twigs and leaves whirling past them as they dashed up the steps and
burst through the welcoming door of Bag End.
The door closed behind them with a thump and the quiet, mild warmth of
the smial felt as hot as summer after the chill. Unable to follow
them any further, the frustrated wind smacked a parting handful of cold
rain against the windows with a small spattering sound and hissed its
disappointment.
Bilbo leaned his head against the wall and gasped, looking down at the
water trickling off of the hem of his breeches and down into his
already soaked and matted foothair. Beside him, Frodo was drawing
great ragged breaths. He flopped down on the floor and leaned his back
against the wall, looking up at Bilbo. He looked as elated as someone
who is completely out of breath, chilled and soaked to the skin could
look.
"We...did it! We're....safe." he said with a note of triumph.
"That....we....did...." managed Bilbo. "But next....time....you want.... a walk.... I won't listen..."
Frodo shook his wet hair out of his eyes and would have laughed if he
could. He leaned over and propped himself on the side of a bench,
closing his eyes to give more attention to regaining his breath.
Bilbo slowly slid down and sat beside him. His face felt like it was
tingling between the sudden warmth and he felt lightheaded after the
running. He glanced over at Frodo, whose face was already beginning to
flush pink, then closed his eyes also.
There is companionship between those who face dangers, he mused.
A camaraderie that goes deeper, delving into concern for one another's
very life. Strangers facing great danger come from it closely
bonded, bound together by a mutual fear and mutual survival; he knew
how even those of other races, strangers separated by looks and customs
and language could become fast friends after they had run for their
lives from a mutual enemy. For some reason, what came to mind was Ori's
nose sticking out of a mass of spider-webbing. Maybe because it had
made him so breathless, even after he was out...
He opened his eyes and pulled a jacket that had fallen from the coat-hooks a bit closer. He wiped his face with it.
"Breakfast." said Frodo.
"Eh?" Bilbo handed him the dampened jacket, which he took and swiped over his own face and hair.
"We haven't had breakfast. No wonder we're feeling faint." He
levered himself up off the floor and nabbed a pair of apples from the
basket on the hall table. Polishing them briefly on his wet shirt, he
tossed one to Bilbo and sat back down beside him again.
Bilbo wondered how Frodo had known he was feeling a bit faint. I must
look worse than I think I do, he thought. He accepted the fruit
gratefully and took a large, crunching bite. It was juicy and sweet and
perfect, and he felt better almost immediately. Beside him, Frodo
was already a third through his, his cheeks bulging with apple.
Now freeing dwarves - that had been dangerous. This wasn't true danger
at all. A dog and a rainstorm were hardly life-threatening, but
to a young hobbit with little experience in the world perhaps it could
seem so...perhaps it was a good thing... Not that he and Frodo
didn't already have much in common...even their...
"Happy birthday." he said. Frodo rolled his eyes, said something unintelligible and took another bite.
Bilbo took another bite also, then climbed to his feet. "I'll get the
fire built up, then we can change into dry clothes. We've a grand
breakfast still to make, after all."
Their breakfast was grand, as grand as Bilbo could contrive with a
little help from Frodo's willing hands. Warmed and dried, they were
soon so hot from the oven's heat in the kitchen that they cracked open
one window to the dying storm to cool it off. The table was spread with
a fresh cloth and clean plates heated at the warming shelf were set
upon it.
They eagerly spooned up hot coddled eggs with thick slices of buttered
toast as they waited for some of the apples, all stuffed with spices,
ground nuts and raisins to bake. A frothy batch of pancake batter
yielded huge, golden pancakes as big as they could make them in the
pan, generously drizzled with strawberry syrup and sprinkled with
hazelnuts, or spread with swirled honey and butter.
After the eggs and pancakes were gone, the baked apples came from the
oven all steaming under their topping of clotted cream, smelling
intensely of rich sweet fruit and spices. Slices of soft white butter
melted into the filling and dripped with the juices from their
forks. The apples in turn were followed with small slices of
sweet squash pie and more cream, then rose and pansy petals set in
sugar and hot tea.
Finally full as only hobbits can be full, they sat contentedly filling
up the corners with tiny pancake droplets they had made from the last
of the batter, dipping them in soft butter and the sugared flower
petals.
"Ah." Bilbo said. "This is more like it."
"Like what?" asked Frodo, sipping his second cup of tea.
"Like a birthday ought to be." He lifted his tea mug. "A toast."
"A toast!" said Frodo obediently lifting his mug also. "To what?"
"To nephews and uncles. And giant dirt-clods."
Frodo laughed. "One of the oddest toasts I've ever heard. But I agree
wholeheartedly. To us! And dirt-clods." He took a sip, then
lowered his mug, his blue eyes laughing across the table. "And
thank you for the walk, Uncle Bilbo. Happy birthday."
