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Liebestanz
Sam jerked his head up, startled, as Frodo
suddenly addressed him from his position leaning on the stone wall
at the side of the kitchen garden. “That’s a pretty tune, Samwise.
Wherever did you learn it?” The late afternoon sun was falling low
across the far row of alder, but the days were nearly at their
longest, and there was just enough time to get a last row of
seedlings in.
Momentarily confused, Sam blinked, since the unexpected sight of the
newest resident of Bag End had completely whisked whatever he had
been singing entirely out of his mind. “Nowt but an old tune, Mr.
Frodo. I ain’t sure as it has a name, no ways.” Since that was a
full sentence more than he had ever spoken in the young master’s
presence before, he promptly blushed scarlet and stared at the
dibbler in his hand in some bewilderment, as if expecting the
unassuming tool to advise him on the matter.
But Frodo gave a light laugh, which unaccountably made Sam feel more
at ease at the same time it increased the scarlet hue currently
staining his cheeks, and stood up straight. “Never mind, I’ll leave
you to your chores. I just thought it was a rather nice melody. And
Uncle Bilbo wanted me to let you know that there’s a new wheel of
yellow cheese in the cooling house. Far more than the two of us can
use, so he wanted you to take some back to your family. Lovely
evening, isn’t it?”
Sam rounded the corner behind the tool shed, watering can in one
hand and a gardening rake in the other, and stopped in his tracks.
There was the young master, back to him, involved in some odd
twirling procedure. The rusty golden leaves from the oak were
beginning to skim across the grass in the warm late summer breeze,
and autumn was not far behind. With a graceful swirl and dip, Mr.
Frodo flew as lightly as any leaf, and this was as far from the
deliberate plodding and clumsy turns that Sam knew as dancing as the
soar of a lark was from the waddle of a duck. Entranced, he stood
with open mouth, all chores and responsibilities erased from his
mind until the dancer, as he bent to his side, caught sight of him.
“Oh, hullo, Sam,” he greeted the gardening lad, unconcernedly
straightening his jacket and brushing an errant dark curl from out
of his eyes. “What did you think? You needn’t tell me, of course,”
he immediately added with a laugh. “I’m afraid Uncle Bilbo would
think I’m making a proper fool of myself, but the Harvest Festival
is only a couple of days off, and I’ve noticed that they seem to
expect something out of the ordinary out of a newcomer from
Buckland.”
“ ’Twas a wonder,” breathed Sam, his round eyes shining with
admiration.
“Well, now, I could take that two ways, I suppose, Samwise,” Frodo
teased him, giving a merry bow. “But I choose to take it as a
compliment. Will you be at the dancing as well?”
“Me mum says as I’m not old enough,” Sam confessed reluctantly, his
face clouding over, and readjusted his grip on the watering can.
“Really? You seem quite old enough to me, Sam. But mothers do know
best.” And for a brief moment, his dark lashes dropped down. But
nearly as quickly, he gave an amused chuckle, and admonished himself
lightly. “Dear me, I’d best not let the gaffer find me holding you
up from whatever you need to be doing. I’d never want to get you in
trouble, my good lad.” And with a last chuckle, he was gone up the
hill, and Sam stood where he was for a moment longer, and watched
the golden leaves drop gracefully from the oak branch, and stored
the memory in his heart.
The wind was cold and bitter as they started the long trudge from
Hobbiton back to Bag End. Sam had taken care of the marketing, and
Frodo had poked about a bit in the shops, obtaining a nice new nib
for his pen, and a small bottle of dark, very nearly violet ink, not
to mention a well-wrapped packet of pipeweed, primarily for Bilbo.
There had only been a couple of new volumes at the booksellers‘, and
he had considered the purchase, but thought he’d wait for better
weather and the chance of something a little more alluring making
its way to Hobbiton from remote and mysterious parts. But time had
fled unnoticed while he had been engaged in that internal debate,
and then there had been the customary parting mug at the Green
Dragon, and all thing considered, the light had quite gone by the
time Sam found him and they started back home on that late winter’s
evening.
They walked in companionable silence for awhile, at least after
Frodo had pressed Sam for all the bits of news that he had picked up
about town, for he had noticed that folk never seemed to notice
whether Sam was around or not, and said all manner of things in his
presence, whereas in his own company they tended to be woefully
mindful of their manners. Sam genially obliged, but there had not
been many events of interest, and the topic was quickly exhausted.
Frodo gave a slight shiver, as a particularly vicious gust hit him
just about the knees, and then realized that there was a sort of hum
coming from Sam’s direction.
“What are you singing, Sam?” he peered as best he could in the gloom
at the hobbit walking at his side.
“Oh!” exclaimed Sam, his mind suddenly returning from whence it had
wandered. “Summat about a dead rose, I think.”
Frodo gave an unmistakable snort, as Sam continued, slightly
defensively, “Well, I liked the tune well enough. Words never made
much sense, no how.”
“You are absolutely right,” Frodo hastened to assure him, the
laughter still undeniably in his voice. “It is a very lovely tune
indeed. And most of the songs I know make far less sense than that.”
“I never hear you sing, Mr. Frodo,” Sam was now suddenly quite
curious. “What would those songs be like, I wonder?”
“Well, there is the one about the Man in the Moon come down to
Bree,” Frodo replied thoughtfully, mentally reviewing his
repertoire. “And then the one about the old farmer and the umbrella
and the cow… No, not that one,” he added hastily.
Sam gave a slight snicker in the dark. “Aye, me gaffer’d know that
one,” he chuckled. “But about this Moon, now. How’d that one go, Mr.
Frodo?”
With a preliminary clearing of his throat, and testing of a few
plausible keys in which to start, Frodo eventually found the right
pitch, and began, “Oh, the town of Bree lay silent that… Tell me,
Sam, how old are you again?” he abruptly interrupted himself.
“I’d be a teen now, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied stoutly. “Fifteen years
come spring.”
“Ah, is that all?” Frodo mentally tossed a couple of the verses out.
“You always seem so much older to me. Very well, then, let me start
again.” And he launched back into the tune.
Sam listened as he walked by Mr. Frodo’s side, and completely forgot
the cold damp night, the bone-chilling gusts, and the heavy burden
of his shopping in the pack on his back. Mr. Frodo’s voice was light
and lovely and he could have listened to it all the night long. Mr.
Frodo had been quite right about the song, he had to agree, for it
was indeed silly, but it didn’t matter at all, and it was with a
good deal of regret that he saw the faint outline of Bag End appear
in the dark.
It was definitely a surprise when Frodo caught sight of Sam on the
party field in the midst of the dancing. He almost thought he was
mistaken, but the full summer moon hung heavy and golden in the warm
night air, and it was most assuredly Sam, his face flushed and
happy, in the middle of the lads’ line. Why he should be surprised
to find him there he didn’t know, for Sam was very nearly a tween,
and an unusually handsome one at that, and Frodo couldn’t help but
notice that he was rather lively on his toes as well.
It was just that he had never seen him at the dancing before, and he
had no doubt that he would have remembered if he had. He had
wandered back out to the edge of the great lawn, where the dancing
took place, after a short breather in the tent and a quick swig of a
cool draught, and had come out to find Sam, strong arms glinting in
the light of the colorful lanterns strung from the tall tulip trees,
lifting a giggling lass into the air, and returning the laugh a bit
himself. But then the fiddle struck up a brisk tune with a skip and
a twist, and the lads’ line began to twine in and out of that of the
lasses, Sam keeping up the pace with confidence, and his feet in
time with the rhythm and tempo.
When did he get to be so good at this, Frodo wondered, an
unconsciously dreamy look stealing across his face, had anyone
noticed. There certainly was no time to practice, given the brisk
pace the gaffer set in regards to the gardening chores. And yet here
was Sam, weaving in and out of the lines of the dance, with never a
misstep nor falter. Another natural talent, Frodo had to conclude,
and he had begun to suspect the quiet gardener’s son of having more
of these than he had hitherto expected.
He had had his rest though, and when the dance reached its merry
conclusion, he applauded heartily, and rejoined the participants.
The musicians were off once again, and he made his way through the
figures with a broad grin, and an especially warm smile every time
he and Sam crossed paths in the intricate pattern.
The great moon rose higher and paled, losing its golden hue as the
dancing continued, but the music continued long into the night. As
he walked home with his family, Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo having
already gone on ahead in the pony cart, Sam thought it quite the
happiest evening of his life.
It was unmistakably poor timing, Sam concluded, to have the Harvest
Festival follow so closely behind the double Baggins’ birthday. For
the last thing Mr. Frodo seemed to have a mind to do would be to
enjoy himself at the annual Hobbiton celebration. Neither of his
cousins had been able to stay on, they both having family
obligations along the same line with their own harvest festivities,
and he also suspected neither of them really understood the impact
that Bilbo’s abrupt departure had had on Mr. Frodo.
But Sam did. There was a sadness and lethargy about the young master
that reminded Sam of when he had first come to know Mr. Frodo, all
those years ago when he had originally come to live at Bag End. He
had almost thought that Mr. Frodo would not come, but at the last
moment, he had seemed to shake off his sadness, and had accepted the
Gamgees’ invitation to walk along with them. He had danced a bit
initially, although not with the spirit and joy that Sam remembered
from past years. But then he had retired to the tent after not too
long, and when most conversation the other hobbits seemed to be bent
on having with him appeared to revolve around the same repeated
questions, he had left the tent as well. Sam had had no small
difficulty finding him, but here he was at last, silently leaning
against a sturdy spruce, on a small ridge that overlooked the field
upon which the dancing was taking place.
“Hullo, Sam,” he said, with a slightly guilty start as Sam walked
over to him. “You shouldn’t have come out looking for me. You’re too
fine a dancer to be missing out on this.”
Sam paused, and glanced back at the field himself. The moon was
still low on the horizon, and everything was nearly as brightly lit
as if it had been day. “Now I am,” he said softly, not looking at
Frodo.
“How is that, Sam?” Frodo asked him, curious despite his melancholy
mood. “You surely can’t have had much time to practice, as busy as
the gaffer keeps you.”
“I’d watch you,” Sam admitted, turning to face Frodo with the
slightest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’d not
see me, but all these years, when I’us too young t’be dancing, I was
watching you.”
Frodo’s heart suddenly stopped in his throat at this admission. “I
used to watch you in the garden, when you were singing,” he murmured
haltingly. “I don’t think you saw me either.”
Sam’s smile deepened. “Ah, but I did, at that,” he confessed. “Not
all I hoe’d up those afternoons was weeds, no ways. I was that glad
the gaffer had left over tending the kitchen garden t’me, for he’d
have had my head on that, like enough.”
Frodo’s laugh was a little shaky, but it was more beautiful than the
finest music Sam’d ever heard. “I’d never have given you credit for
being such a sly fox, Sam,” he shook his head, his brief smile
beginning to fade. “But they’ll be looking for you soon, Sam, you’d
best go back.”
“I’d rather stay here with you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam shook his head
stubbornly, and gazed at the silver glints lighting up the face
before him, and felt his heart pound harder than ever in his chest.
There could still be heard music floating up from the field, but it
was now a slow and haunting tune.
“Would you really, Sam?” and there was a question in his voice that
neither one of them needed to have spelled out.
“Aye. Aye, that I would,” Sam answered softly, answering both
questions with those few words, and felt tears of joy spring to his
eyes at the sight of Frodo’s expression at his reply.
“Well, then,” Frodo’s voice was slightly choked as he took a
hesitant step toward Sam, holding out his hands to him. “There’s
only one thing I ask of you, Sam. Promise me that you will never
call me Mr. Frodo again in private, I beg you.”
“Frodo, me dear, you’ve my promise on it,” Sam responded happily,
grasping Frodo’s hands in his, and stepping closer as well. The
music swelled sweetly, floating through the warm evening air, and it
was a matter of debate for the rest of their lives who had kissed
whom first.
But it was not long before any discerning bystander might have heard
the ditty of the Man in the Moon come down to Bree, sung by two
blithe voices, on the road back to Bag End that night.
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