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In The Heat Of The Night
Sam opened the front door of Bag End to find an extremely wet and
rather bedraggled young hobbit standing there. “Post for Mr. Frodo,” he
announced, a touch grandly, as he pulled a well-wrapped small object out from
under his cloak and matter-of-factly held it out to Sam.
“Had t’cover it up a bit, seeing as how it’s that wet again, today,” the tween
hastily explained, as Sam accepted the parcel with a somewhat bemused
expression.
“And right good thinking, t’be sure,” Sam assured him with a smile. “But won’t
you be havin’ a cup of tea and dry off a bit afore you go on, Nat?”
“Ah, no, I daren’t,” Nat responded with obvious reluctance, unconsciously just
craning his head around ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of the fabled Bag
End on the other side of Sam. “My Da now, he told me t’be right on back. Summat
about a crate t’deliver to the Green Dragon. They’d be running low on their
pipeweed, seemingly.”
“Well, another time then,” Sam replied politely, starting to shut the door, much
to Nat’s disappointment. An umbrella stand, the edge of a homespun cloak, and
the business end of a walking stick were all he’d been able to see, and nary a
glimpse of dragon gold. With a resigned sigh, he turned and was quickly lost in
the steady downpour.
Frodo looked up from his reading chair, closest to the study fire, as Sam
brought in the parcel. It really wasn’t quite cool enough to need a fire, but
the thick rain clouds out of doors had left the room unmistakably gloomy, so
that a source of light besides the candle on the table next to him was most
welcome. “How curious,” he murmured, putting his book aside, and straightening
up from his normal curled reading position. “It certainly is wrapped quite well.
Looks like we’ll need a blade to cut this twine.”
“Here, m’dear,” offered Sam, handing Frodo the page-cutter from his writing
desk. “I’m guessin’ Nat’d be the one who wrapped it. A conscientious lad, that
one, and it’s pouring buckets out there, no mistake.”
“Indeed,” Frodo commented, as he worked at the creatively knotted twine with the
slender blade. “It’s been, what, almost two weeks now? I don’t believe we’ve had
a full day without rain in all that time.”
“Aye,” Sam agreed, sitting on the settle across from Frodo. “Not that a garden
doesn’t want a bit o’water, come summer, but this is taking it a little too far.
We’d be needin’ more sun soon, or nothing’ll be growing right.”
“Well,” Frodo exclaimed, letting the paper fall to the ground. “It appears to be
a letter. From Merry, no less. That’s odd,” he added, a look of concern on his
face.
Sam had to nod in agreement. In all the fifteen years that he had been living
with Frodo at Bag End, he could count the number of letters Merry had sent on
the fingers of one hand. Since Merry, not to mention Pippin, felt that
spontaneous visitation was the privilege of kinship, any visit was generally
unannounced. So he watched with curiosity as Frodo quickly scanned the brief
note.
“Now this is peculiar,” Frodo looked up with a frown. “Merry says there’s been
quite a drought in Buckland. No rain in at least four weeks. It all must be
stuck here instead. What’s worse, the Brandywine is running quite low, and the
vineyard is in jeopardy.”
“Would he be needin’ a bit o’help, then?” Sam asked, inwardly steeling himself
for an affirmative response.
“I’m afraid so, my dear,” Frodo glanced up with a rueful smile. “After all, the
year’s output of Old Winyard, excepting of course our own small batch, is at
risk of being lost, and I can’t imagine a greater tragedy that could befall the
Shire than that.”
That was a point with which Sam could not argue in the least, so he gave Frodo
an understanding look and nodded his head. “Of course we’ll have t’be helpin’,
dear. What else would family be for, anyways?”
Frodo’s answering expression was reward enough, and Sam quickly buried his
customary misgivings, as Frodo bent his head over the letter again. “He says
that his father has asked Paladin Took to send some help, so you know Pippin
will be there. It seems as if Saradoc’s also asked for Folco’s assistance, and I
suspect Fatty as well.”
Sam’s face brightened at that news. “Ah, that Folco’s a bright lad, no mistake,
and I’d be willing to wager he’ll figure out a clever solution for all of this,”
he exclaimed confidently.
“As are you, Sam love,” Frodo murmured, rising and brushing Sam’s face lightly
with the back of his hand. “If the two of you put your heads together, there’s
no problem that can’t be solved. Well, if we are to be off, shouldn’t you let
the gaffer know?”
“True enough,” Sam agreed, standing up as well and slipping an arm about Frodo’s
waist. “I suppose I’d best give him and Daisy the word. And I’m thinkin’ that an
early dinner’d be best if we are to leave on the morrow.”
“Oh, no question,” Frodo agreed quickly, his hands resting lightly on Sam’s
shoulders. “Not that I mind a bit of a hike, mind you, but sometimes a nice soft
bed is just the thing, wouldn’t you agree, love?”
“Hmmm,” Sam wordlessly granted, giving Frodo just the least of nibbles under the
ear, and then continuing down the fair-skinned throat. “Pillows are right handy,
likewise,” he nonchalantly mentioned after a few moments, now with both arms
quite firmly entwined about Frodo.
“Ahh,” gasped Frodo, in perfect agreement, his hands creeping hungrily down
Sam‘s back. “And the sooner you return, the sooner we can continue, Sam-love.”
That was incentive enough. Sam was gone very nearly instantly, and when he
returned, dinner was quite a hurried affair.
&&&&&
“I suppose we might have to put up at the Toad and Whistle,” Frodo softly
murmured, curled up like an extremely satisfied cat at Sam’s side and running an
unobtrusive hand up Sam’s chest, gold-tinged in the candlelight. The downpour
continued unabated out of doors, but the window, cracked slightly open, allowed
the sweet smell of rain to waft into the room.
“Camping’d be out, this side of the Water, no doubt,” Sam agreed with a slight
smile, dreamily watching the play of light on Frodo’s profile. “ ‘Tis where this
wet’s likely to be.“ He lay contentedly stretched out, hands resting comfortably
behind his head, and the most delicious sense of lassitude still tingling
through his limbs, not to mention elsewhere. Both the soft feather bed, as well
as the pillows had come into play not too long before, and both of the lovers
were catching their breath for the moment.
“At least it shouldn’t be too difficult to get a room to ourselves,” Frodo
continued, with a wry smile. “Not too likely there’ll be much traffic in all of
this.” And he waved an eloquent hand towards the window. “You wouldn’t mind the
inn, now, would you, dear?” he added, a bit guiltily.
“Frodo-love, if there’d be anyone this side of the Water that would not be that
familiar w’us, I’d not be knowin’ who that would be,” Sam responded with a warm
chuckle, removing one of his hands from behind his head and catching up Frodo’s
hand in his. “The goodwives of Hobbiton have long since stopped tryin’ to pair
you up with their daughters, dragon gold or no, and even Rosie has finally given
up on me. Seemingly, the rest of the world has finally decided t’let us be.”
“Not that it ever mattered a whit, dearest,” laughed Frodo, raising Sam’s hand
to his mouth and tenderly kissing it, “but it really is much more convenient
this way.”
“Aye, dearie, that it is,” agreed Sam, slowly running his other hand up Frodo’s
neck and through his hair. “So I suppose that makes us old stick-in-the-muds,
these days.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Frodo murmured, now making his way slowly down Sam’s arm.
“Quite firmly planted in it, without question. But live, and let live, you know.
Very admirable sentiment, I’ve always felt.” And there was that delectable spot
right at the base of Sam’s throat that always made Sam moan softly and squirm a
bit.
“Each to his own, no mistake, and that’s just what you‘d be, my own Frodo-love,”
Sam answered, a bit breathily, and with a sudden move, flipped Frodo onto his
back.
“Ah, that I am, Sam. Entirely and completely yours. Really, there’s no need to
rush out early tomorrow, I’m very sure. We’re not quite out of butter yet, are
we, dearest?” Frodo stretched and arched his back up, his eyes shuttering closed
in delight at Sam‘s dexterous touch.
“Not to worry, me dear,” Sam answered throatily, putting the pillow into play
once again with a deft move. “And let tomorrow come when she will.”
Frodo’s verbal response was much less succinct, but unmistakably enthusiastic.
It was well after second breakfast when they left Bag End, the next morning.
&&&&&
“There’d be the fork to Frogmorton,” Sam announced quietly, brushing his hair
out of his eyes for at least the tenth time, and trying his very best to ignore
the drenched curls that seemed to want to impede his vision. “We’re nearly to
the inn. And a good thing, I’d be thinkin’. It’s near enough to tea time as
makes no matter.”
Frodo cast an amused glance in his direction, as they walked side by side, quite
alone, down the remarkably mucky road in the steadily pouring rain. “It’s a
wonder you can tell,” he chuckled. “How long has it been since your hair was
cut, anyway, Sam?”
Sam cast a critical glance in his direction, but had to privately admit that
there was no fault to be found in Frodo’s appearance, extremely soaked though he
was as well. The wet dark hair clung to the perfect planes of his face in
well-behaved curls, and the raindrops collected on the long lashes and then ran
down his fair cheeks in the mostly curiously tempting manner. In Sam’s fond
fleeting fancy, Frodo was a spirit of the forest, a beautiful wild creature only
partially tamed. Whereas he felt more in the order of a large, undeniably
scruffy water rat. But Frodo’s infectious laugh dispelled his whimsical notion
immediately, for that was the laugh of an extremely tangible, flesh-and-blood
hobbit, and there was no denying, as if he would ever want to, how very
deliciously substantial his companion was.
“Oh, aye, been some time, I’d wager.” He scrambled to recollect what the
question had been before his thoughts had gone awandering.
“Well, we can’t be having that,” Frodo replied warmly, giving him a cheerful
hug. “Perhaps the innkeeper will be able to accommodate us with a pair of
scissors. I want you looking your very best if we end up doing battle against
Aunt Esme again.”
Sam responded with a noncommittal sound at that thought, but Frodo laughed
again. “Entirely, my dear. My sentiments, exactly. Ah, but look. There it is
now.”
They had arrived at the Toad and Whistle. Frogmorton was a fair size village, to
the south of the Water, on the main road to the east. Thus, the inn was rather
large, and used to a more diverse clientele than was the norm. Frodo and Sam, on
route to their visits to Buckland, had always found it more than accommodating.
And so it was this evening. There were no hobbits peacefully seated on the
benches outside of the weathered inn, with smoldering pipes and a cheerful
greeting for any travelers, as was the usual custom, but the company inside more
than made up for that lack. The crowd inside was rather sizeable, but nearly all
local, and Frodo and Sam found themselves greeted with a hearty cheer of welcome
when they pushed the door open.
“Why look here, if it ain’t Mr. Frodo Baggins!” exclaimed an exceptionally stout
hobbit seated near the door, the gregarious innkeeper himself. “An’ Mr. Gamgee,
likewise! These two’d be needin’ a mug of our finest each, Bob, for they surely
are the wettest two hobbits I’ve ever laid these eyes upon.”
Bob, a sprightly young hobbit, sprang up from behind the well-polished ancient
wooden bar, and quickly complied. Several of the hobbits sitting closest to the
fire immediately got up and made way for the dripping newcomers, but not before
both Frodo and Sam had been stopped to shake hands by at least half a dozen of
them. Another hearty call from the publican, for in truth Old Smithy did not
move from his seat much these days, brought forth his goodwife, who bustled out
from the kitchen and immediately made off with the travelers’ wet cloaks,
hanging them on the rack to the side of the fire to dry.
“Ah, ‘tis not a day we expected much in the way of company,” she exclaimed with
a bit of concern, “for ‘tis truly that wet out of doors, but I might have a bit
of cold meat pie, to have with your mug, and fix you something better for
dinner.”
“That sounds lovely, Mistress Lily,” Frodo assured her warmly, gratefully
sitting down and stretching out his muddy feet before him. “Anything you choose
to prepare will be as delicious as it always is, I’m quite sure.”
She returned to the kitchen then, no end pleased to have someone different to
cook for, and the other occupants of the inn impatiently gave the travelers only
a couple of chances to sip from their mugs before the greedy demands for the
news from Hobbiton could be restrained no longer.
It wasn’t until the various events in the lives of the Gamgees, Cottons,
Burrows, Hoarfoots, Proudfoots, Sandymans, Sackville-Baggins, and any other
Hobbiton resident whose name could be even vaguely remembered were all
thoroughly discussed, that the conversation returned, as it invariably did, to
the weather.
“ ‘Tis like naught I’ve ever seen, in all my days, and that’s sayin’ quite a
mouthful, t’be sure,” muttered an ancient hobbit, accorded one of the warmest
seats quite close to the fire. “Why, I’d not be a’tall surprised if there’d not
be some evil afoot, outside of the Shire, that’s the cause of all this
mischief.”
“Old Ben’s got it right, no mistake,” agreed an only slightly less elderly
hobbit. “Too much rain here, and not enough there. It just don’t seem right, no
ways.”
“ ‘At’s what I’ve heared.” The older hobbit nodded his head, and thumped his
cane once for added emphasis. “An’ what about all that snow this winter? Wolves,
too, seemingly, in the North Farthing. Mark me well, m’lads, there’s summat
abroad, what ain’t right, and ill times ahead.”
“Ah, ‘tis always gloomy weather with you, Old Ben,” a younger hobbit laughed,
shaking his head dismissingly. “I says it’s bad weather, no more and no less,
and that’ll be all there is to that.” Most of the hobbits present nodded in
agreement with this sentiment, and called for more beer, but Old Ben ignored
them, staring glumly into the fire.
&&&&&
There was no competition for the Toad and Whistle’s finest room on this
inclement evening, and without any questions or comments, Frodo and Sam found
themselves in it not too much later. And what was even better, as far as Sam was
concerned, than the lack of comments, was a large copper tub, and several
buckets of hot steaming water. “Ah, ‘tis only my own welfare I was thinking of,
Master Gamgee,” the innkeeper’s wife laughed, when Sam tried to thank her, “for
‘twas a muddy trip getting here, for the pair of you, and I thought you might be
wanting a bit of a washup before you went to bed.”
“Well, we are most grateful, indeed,” Frodo smiled beguilingly at her as he
hastened over to help her and Sam bring the buckets in from the hall. “But I was
wondering if we might be able to borrow a pair of scissors, as well.”
Mistress Lily cast a quick glance at first to Frodo, and then Sam, and chuckled.
“Aye, wants a bit of cutting, indeed it does,” she agreed, with a quick smile,
and left and returned in no time with the desired article.
“Thank you ever so much,” Frodo smoothly thanked her, walking her to the door,
“and I believe we might be a trifle late to breakfast tomorrow, especially if it
continues on like this. No need to hasten another day’s soggy journey, don’t you
think?”
Mistress Lily found herself agreeing and out in the hall before she knew it.
With a reluctant sigh, and a slight shake of her head, for surely that Samwise
Gamgee was the likeliest lad she’d seen in many a day, she left for the kitchen.
There were fires to bank and ashes to rake, and breakfast for the morrow to
contemplate. She was always fond of a hobbit as loved his meals, and Samwise
Gamgee was undeniably that.
&&&&&
Sam sat in the burnished copper tub, his knees drawn up, and one arm propped on
the side of the tub in a noticeably relaxed manner. The other hand aimlessly
trailed through the water at his side, but he was very careful to keep his head
back and motionless, and his eyes closed. Frodo, who had taken a quick bath
first, was now seated, cross-legged and quite devoid of clothing, on a folded
rug on the floor behind the tub, and was engrossed in evening up Sam’s wet
curls.
“Your hair certainly does grow fast, Sam, my dear,” he murmured, halting the
process for the moment, and giving the result of his handiwork a critical gaze.
“What has it been, only a month, then?”
“Mmm,” Sam confirmed, with a happy sigh. He always considered Frodo’s strong
fingers running through his hair a remarkably pleasurable sensation. If it took
fast-growing locks to savor it more often, why, that was perfectly fine with
him. Especially when Frodo never seemed to be able to complete the task without
delivering the occasional kiss or half a dozen or so. He had heard tell that
there was a hobbit in town that performed this service, but he hoped he never
had need to take advantage of that specialist’s skills. Whatever Frodo wanted to
do, in the way of improving Sam’s appearance, was fine by Sam. After all, it
would be Frodo as saw it, not himself.
With a few more snips, the task was completed, and Frodo rose to toss the cut
strands out of the partially opened window. It was still raining, of course, but
when the sun finally was ready to come out, the birds might find them useful for
nesting. He turned to find Sam standing up in the tub, with a forgotten towel in
his hand. Frodo’s smile widened at the picture before him.
“You really do enjoy this hair-cutting business, don’t you, Sam,” he laughed in
fond delight. “Well we may as well be taking care of that, don’t you think? We
can take the tub out to the hall later, I suppose.”
Sam had no reservations whatsoever on the matter, so with only a perfunctory
wipe with the towel, he flung himself into the sturdy bed, and reached
wordlessly out to Frodo. With a happy sigh of appreciation, Frodo stretched
himself promptly on top of Sam, clasping Sam’s head with both hands and kissing
him in quite a thorough and open-mouthed way, as Sam slid a voracious hand up
Frodo’s backside, and raised both of his knees on either side of Frodo. Not
breaking from his kiss, Sam had just let his hand slide between them, as Frodo
gave a blissful wiggle, when there was suddenly the sound of hushed voices, and
a distinct giggle in the corridor to their room.
It was well they had that much warning, for with only the most perfunctory of
knocks, the door was suddenly opened by two of the serving lasses, a matching
pair of healthy tweens with bright eyes, and red, exceedingly plump cheeks. Sam
had instinctively yanked the blanket over himself as Frodo hurdled off the bed
and sprang to his feet, very nearly getting a towel around himself in time. Very
nearly.
The lasses burst into simultaneous giggles, and a thousand pardons for
disturbing their illustrious guests, as they had been sent to clear the tub out
of the room. They left almost as quickly as they had arrived, but both travelers
heard one feminine voice utter, as the door closed, “Bollocks! ‘Twas the
dark-haired one, curse the luck.”
&&&&&
The travelers from Hobbiton arrived at Brandy Hall little more than a day later,
in the mid-afternoon. The rain had ceased just outside of Frogmorton, and as
they crossed the Brandywine Bridge, the river was definitely at the lowest level
Frodo could ever remember having seen it. The weather had been so stifling, that
they found that they could not walk at their normal speed, but were forced to
camp one night just outside of Buckland. It was not only the great heat that was
troublesome, but the heavy stillness of the air, that seemed to make merely
breathing an immense bother, and hardly worth the effort. Great thunder clouds
built up on the horizon each day, but remained stubbornly to the west, where
they knew they were unloading their burden of rain over the center of the Shire,
and came no farther eastwards. It was almost a relief, therefore, to catch sight
of Brandy Hall in the distance at last, for there could be no less pleasant
weather for tramping about than this.
Merry had ridden forward to greet them, on his pony, and the strain was on his
face even when he smiled at them in greeting. “I knew the both of you would
come,” he exclaimed in relief, springing down from his mount. “You saw the
river, didn’t you, Frodo? Not a bit of it coming down the ditches into the
vineyards, and the grapes but a couple of weeks from harvest.”
“We’re here, my dear, don’t you fret, now.” Frodo embraced him warmly and gave a
quick kiss on the cheek. “We can tote buckets as well as any other hobbit, if
that’s what it takes.”
“That’s what they’re doing now,” Merry shook his head with a frown, but still
clinging to Frodo. “But it just goes into the ground as soon as it’s poured out.
It doesn’t really seem to be doing a bit of good. But on the other hand,” he
looked up with a slight smile, “Folco just got here an hour before the both of
you. He’s out in the vineyards with Pippin now. Father’s been so hoping all of
you would come. He says if the cleverest hobbits in the Shire can’t come up with
something, well, then he’ll pack it in. But not until then. Oh, yes, and Fatty’s
here, too. But practical matters have never been much up his line, you know.”
Frodo chuckled a bit at that judgment. “No doubt. But one never does know. Well,
let us take our packs in, and then we’ll join the others.”
“Oh, I’ll take them on in,” Merry exclaimed, quickly taking Frodo’s pack from
his back and holding out his hand for Sam’s. “You know where to go, don’t you,
Frodo?“ He slung them over the pony’s back, but then hurriedly turned back to
Sam, with a rather sheepish expression. “I’m sorry, Sam dear, it’s wonderful to
see you too,” he added, hastily embracing him and giving him a kiss on the cheek
as well. “This really has me in a spin, I must say.”
“Don’t you worret yourself,” Sam laughed warmly, “I knew that. An’ if I know
that Folco Boffin, that lad’s already got half a dozen schemes going about in
that head o’his. We’ll just go find him then, and don’t you fret.”
&&&&&
They found Saradoc Brandybuck standing at the river’s edge, or what had been the
river’s edge, where the water normally ran into the irrigation ditches. Now,
however, there was a dried strip of mud between the edge of the ditch and what
water still remained in the Brandywine. A number of hardworking hobbits were
making wearying repeated trips from the river with buckets of water for the
ditch, but it was sinking fruitlessly into the earth, and not flowing to where
the parched vineyard lay waiting. Folco and Pippin were standing next to him,
studying the situation, and Fatty could be seen lounging under a willow not far
off. He joined the others as Frodo and Sam walked up, and warm greetings were
soon exchanged. But then the entire party, quickly joined by Merry, turned to
stare at the Brandywine in glum silence.
Saradoc broke the silence with a sigh. “Short of carrying the buckets all the
way out to each vine, I don’t know what we’ll do,” he said sadly. “And we don’t
have near enough hobbits for that. If we lose these vines, we’ll have to take
them out and replant, and it will be several years before we get a decent crop
again. We might be able to save a few, but only a few.”
“We could grow something that would come to harvest faster,” Merry ventured,
“and would handle a drought year or two better.”
“Aye, son, that’s true enough,” Saradoc lay a hand on his shoulder, “but we’ve
always given the Shire the best wine there is. And I’ve been prouder of that
than anything else we’ve ever planted.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to think of something, won’t we.” Merry’s chin set
itself in a familiar stubborn way, and an abnormally silent Pippin moved just a
little closer to him.
“I hope so, lads, I hope so,” Saradoc replied heavily. “Well, those in the field
have worked long enough in this heat; ‘tis time they came in for tea, or
something cooler to drink, more likely. I’ll be going, then, and come along to
the smial when you wish. There’s naught more to be doing now, I’m afraid.”
After the older hobbit had left, the others turned back to their contemplation
of the shrunken Brandywine. “Water there,” Folco mused with a frown, “but no way
to get it to the ditches.”
“And the ditches won’t carry it on, no ways,” Sam added, casting a glance at
them. “They’re that parched, I’d be thinkin’.”
“So it’s going to be a matter of bringing the water to vines themselves,” Merry
sighed.
“And you don’t begin to have enough of us for that,” Frodo shook his head.
“Perhaps Father could send some ponies to help?” Pippin suggested hesitantly. “I
know he would do whatever he could to help."
“I know he would, my dear,” Merry gave him an appreciative smile at this offer.
“But that would take a good deal of time to get the message to him and get the
ponies here. Not to mention that feed for our own stock has been decidedly on
the spare side.”
Fatty, who had returned unnoticed to his post under the willow, suddenly cleared
his throat. “River’s still running,” he mentioned laconically.
Folco turned quickly at that comment. “Well, yes, it is,” he said, staring at it
in sudden fascination.
But Merry shook his head impatiently. “I don’t know what else it could be
expected to do.”
Sam though, was suddenly intrigued by the river as well, and quickly walked over
to Folco’s side, Frodo following him with interest.
“Matter of raising the level, really,” Folco muttered cryptically, turning to
Sam with a grin.
“Don’t be needin’ t’break our backs, if we can get the river to do the work,”
Sam nodded, returning his grin.
“Ah!” commented Frodo, suddenly enlightened.
Merry and Pippin couldn’t resist any longer, but turned to Frodo as the most
accessible of the three. “What are they on about, Frodo?” Pippin asked
plaintively. “I don’t understand at all.”
But Frodo gave a short chuckle, and led them unobtrusively away. “Let the two of
them work it out,” he told them confidently. “”They’ll explain themselves soon
enough.”
Meanwhile, Folco and Sam were standing side by side, staring with rapt
fascination at the sluggish Brandywine. “Not much of a current,” muttered Folco,
“but enough, I’ll warrant.”
“Aye,” Sam agreed, decisively. “A wheel’d do it, likely enough.”
“Oh, definitely a wheel,” Folco nodded with assurance. “Buckets along it. It’ll
have to be lined up right for the current, of course.”
“Wagon wheel’d be just the size,” agreed Sam. “Could line up some troughs. Might
not hold as much, but less weight. But it’ll take a fair amount of time t’get
those ditches t’fillin’ up again, so we best be on it right away. Those vines
still won’t see any water for another couple of days, and grapes can be right
thirsty.”
It was reward enough to see Saradoc’s face break into a wide smile when Merry
brought him back, and Folco explained their solution to him. “A great water
wheel, sure enough!” he exclaimed. “With a downward slope to the ditch. ‘Twould
only need a hobbit or two to tend it, and it would free up the rest.”
“Why, that’s brilliant!” Merry added in delight, his expression matching his
father’s. “And it can run all night, as well, if we can get it up by then. We
might even be able to get the water to the vines by tomorrow before the sun gets
too high.”
“Good point, Merry,” his father nodded decisively. “Very well, lads, here’s what
we’ll do, then. Pippin, run and fetch the wheelwright. You know where to find
Tobias. Tell him we’ll need the largest wagon wheel we have brought up here at
once. Merry, you go down to the river with Folco and decide exactly where this
is to be set up. Fatty, if you would be so good, go to the stables and tell the
pony master that we will be needing at least half a dozen troughs brought here
as soon as possible. I’ll be off to have some clay fetched here at once for
waterproofing. And Frodo and Sam, I know the both of you never had a chance to
get a thing to eat or drink since you got here. Why don’t the two of you go to
the Hall and let Cook know that we’ll be needing plenty of food and ale out here
this evening, for I am determined that this wheel shall be up tonight, and get
both of yourselves a bite while you’re at it.”
And without a question, each sped, even Fatty, off on his appointed task.
&&&&&
Sam stood in the great kitchen of Brandy Hall, and wondered, not without some
dismay, how the kitchen staff managed it. As stifling as it was out of doors,
the kitchen was far worse, since the ovens were roasting meat for dinner. The
scullery lasses were sitting at the great table, their faces flush with the
heat, and their hair pinned haphazardly atop their heads, peeling mountains of
taters and carrots for the meal only hours away. Others were dexterously
shelling heaps of peas into great bowls, and yet another was slicing tomatoes
and cucumbers onto plates for the salad. And Cook was everywhere, checking a
sauce here, testing a roasting fowl there, with her broad face red and damp.
Yet upon sight of Sam, she broke into a wide grin and hurried over to him. “Ah,
‘tis that good t’see you,” she exclaimed with delight. “And sure enough, I’ll
warrant that Master Frodo won’t be far behind you.”
“He just went up to his room for a moment,” Sam assured her with a smile. “I
know he’ll be down to see you as soon as he can.” Quickly, he relayed Saradoc’s
message, and she shook her head with relief at the thought that the crisis might
be soon behind them.
“Indeed, it does my heart that good t’hear that, Master Sam,” she assured him,
quickly pouring him a drink of cool lemonade, and slicing some bread and cheese
for him as she did so. “ ‘Tis only a quick bite for you and Master Frodo,” she
said slightly reluctantly, “but I doubt if you’d be wanting to stay in this
kitchen long.”
Sam shook his head with admiration. “Indeed, Mistress Rosa, I don’t know how you
and your lasses manage it. I thought it was hot out of doors, but naught like
this!”
“Oh well, now, this is just the way it is come summer,” she replied
depreciatingly, but with an grateful smile. “As long as the baking is done early
of a morning, ‘tis not really so…” Her sentence remained unfinished as, eyes
widening slightly, she turned around quickly to tend the saucepots, her jaw set
in an angry manner.
Sam spun hastily around to discover that the mistress of Brandy Hall was
standing behind him, her hands on her hips and a frosty expression on her face.
“Apparently Frodo has arrived, although what he can be expected to do, I’m sure
I do not know,” she murmured, giving Sam a disdainful look. “And it seems that
you are still tagging about at his heels. Afraid I can’t remember the name, but
no matter.”
She swept past him then, on her way to give Cook further commands regarding
dinner, but Sam had finally had enough. Perhaps it was the obvious contempt for
Frodo in her voice, or perhaps it was merely the heat, but he felt a sudden
loathing rush through him, a very nearly unknown emotion for such a kindly
heart, and was struck by the determination that, at the very least, she could
acknowledge him by name.
“I find it that odd, I must say,” he spoke in a firm voice, as she whirled
around to stare at him in amazement, “that ‘tis been ten years, and half that
again, that I’ve been comin’ here with Frodo, an’ you’d still not be knowin’ my
name.”
Her mouth dropped open at this insolence, but there was something in Sam’s level
look at her that made her hold her tongue. There was a sudden silence in the
kitchen at this confrontation, and not a sound to be heard save the occasional
spit of the roasting fowls.
“My name is Samwise, or Sam to my friends,” he continued crisply, holding her
stare with determination, “but those as ain’t my friends, why, they call me
Mister Gamgee.”
With a choked gasp of indignation, she whirled about and flounced furiously out
of the kitchen, but Sam didn’t really notice, no more than he noticed the
expressions of awe on the faces of the scullery lasses or the broad grin of
Cook. All he saw, instead, was Frodo standing in the doorway of the kitchen, and
the most remarkable look of pure love and undisguised admiration on his face.
&&&&&
Great trestle tables had been set up, in the dusk, in the fields near the river,
and it was here that the kitchen staff set out the bountiful meal. Lanterns were
strung carefully through the trees, to provide light to work by, as well as to
eat by, for the water wheel was not completely erected until late into the
night. Sam had not realized that there were quite so many workers under the
surveillance of Brandy Hall, but apparently there seemed to be at least three or
four dozen at all times at the tables taking a hurried meal, as well as at least
that many still at work.
Merry, who had quickly grasped the concept of the wheel, was directing its
construction, his shirt sleeves well-rolled up, and a streak of mud unnoticed
across his forehead. Folco was at his side, watching with a keen eye to ensure
there was no detail that could be improved upon, and Fatty had, for whatever
reason, taken it upon himself as his own personal mission that no hard-working
hobbit should go without a jug of cool water nearby. He enlisted Pippin, who was
eager for some way in which to help, and the two of them tirelessly filled and
refilled countless jugs, toting them out to the most far-flung of workers.
Saradoc had pounced on Frodo and Sam, as soon as they had returned, to enlist
their expertise in the waterproofing of the troughs, and had left the both of
them to direct that effort, freeing him to take some of his hobbits along with
him to inspect the drainage ditches. There was no point, after all, in getting
the water to flowing if it was not going to end up where it was most needed.
After a certain amount of experimentation with the water and local clay soil,
Sam hit upon the proper mixture, and soon had Frodo mixing up batch after batch
of it, as he and his assistants set to caulking all possible cracks in the
troughs. One of the scullery maids, in passing, had had the fortunate notion of
setting them just above the roasting racks to accelerate the drying process, so
several trips were made back and forth to the kitchen as the troughs were
finished off, and then taken to Merry and Folco for attachment to the wheel.
The light from the setting sun slowly faded, and the sky became streaked with
bright orange and pink. It was an unmistakably muggy and breathless night, and
not exactly that much cooler, but all were grateful to lose the direct rays of
the sun, at any rate. It wasn’t until the sky had become quite dark, and the
stars were clearly visible in the still moonless sky that a hearty cheer went up
from those near the river. The great wheel had at last been completed, and had
started to turn, carrying troughs full of water up and dumping them into the
drainage channels before dropping them empty again to pick up a fresh load. The
ditches, initially, merely soaked up the water, but it wasn’t long before it
began to puddle on top of the wet soil, and at last, finally at last, water
began to trickle in the direction of the vineyard.
Saradoc let out the loudest whoop of all, when he realized that the vineyards
had indeed been saved, and ordered that on this special occasion, nothing would
do but that every hobbit present be given a full measure of Old Winyard,
something most of them never tasted save perhaps at Yule. Gathering every hobbit
around the table, he proposed a toast to the two incomparable hobbits Folco
Boffin and Samwise Gamgee, as the creators of the marvelous device that had
saved the fortunes of Brandy Hall. Fatty Bolger came in for a special toast as
well, although he depreciated his efforts, insisting that he had merely noticed
a natural phenomenon, and that greater minds than his had taken advantage of it.
The mistress of Brandy Hall was there as well, but kept out of the light, and
Sam quite forgot her, as he and Folco accepted the hearty congratulations of a
seemingly endless stream of hobbits. It wasn’t until very late at night that he
managed to escape, with Frodo, into the darkness.
&&&&&
He clung tightly to Frodo’s hand, trusting that he knew where he was going in
the light that grew fainter the farther they walked from the trestle tables, and
only then realized that they were walking in the opposite direction from Brandy
Hall. It was the river that Frodo was following, walking sure-footedly along the
dried bank, and now that they were away from the lanterns of the grassy fields
beside the river where the wheel had been erected, Sam finally saw that the moon
had at last risen. It was a sliver of a moon, a shimmering white narrow slice in
the dark sky, but it was enough to lend a faint glow to the countryside and the
water glistening at their side.
“You are quite the hero, tonight, Sam,” Frodo murmured at last, giving Sam a
sideways glance as they walked on.
“ ‘Twas Folco’s doing, really,” Sam mumbled, rather embarrassed. “I might have
helped out, just a bit, but it wasn’t me as thought of the water wheel, no
ways.”
“That wasn’t the only thing I was thinking of,” Frodo replied warmly. “The
kitchen certainly thinks you can do no wrong.”
“”Put my foot right in it, t’be sure,” Sam ducked his head down. “I never should
have said that. It’d be her smial, after all, an’ she’s your own kin. ‘Twas
never my place to be so forward.”
“No.” Frodo stopped short, and reached out for Sam’s face. Gently, he raised it
up so that Sam’s gaze met his in the dim light. “It was your place, Sam, and no
one else’s. She has been intolerably rude to you for far too long. I can’t tell
you how glad I am that you said what you did. Whether she likes the idea or not,
I am part of the Brandybuck family, and that makes you part of it as well. I
never expect kindness or even tolerance from Aunt Esme, but the bare minimum, I
should think, is civility. Perhaps you have drawn her attention to that fact
today, and perhaps not. But there was many a time, Sam, when I should have stood
up to her, and addressed her rudeness and contemptible behavior, and I did not.
I can’t tell how proud I am of you, Sam, that you did.”
Drawing him forward, he met Sam’s willing mouth in a long searching kiss, and
only finally pulling slightly back, met his eyes with a smile. “I have been
waiting all evening to tell you this, Sam, but you are a glorious creature, and
I can think of no better place to be, this night, than in your arms. No one will
come up to my room to look for us, and there is a place not far up the river,
where the water is cool, and the grass is green, even in the driest of years.
Come with me, my love.”
&&&&&
It was much later that evening when they finally fell asleep, curled together in
the grass under the sweeping willow. But sometime during the night, after the
sliver of moon had sunk once again below the horizon, Frodo awoke to an unusual
sensation.
Rain, he realized drowsily, lifting his head up slightly from Sam’s sleeping
embrace. With a drowsy chuckle, he tucked it back again, without another
thought. It didn’t matter, not really. He was, after all, exactly where he
wanted to be, and there wasn’t another thing in all the world that could concern
him now. Sam shifted slightly, and murmured something unintelligible, but Frodo
kissed him at the base of his throat, and felt Sam give a happy sigh and settle
back into his dreams.
And as the dawn broke, cool at last and misted with the promise of rain, Frodo
dreamed of lush fields, and rippling water, and his Sam lifting up his face to
the fresh breeze, laughing.
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