The Battle of Bywater
by Lullenny
Email: gutter2stars @ yahoo.com
Summary: "There are some things that are not mine to do, Sam,"
said Frodo.
*
Dirt grated beneath Frodo's feet on the front step of Farmer
Cotton's house, a small, gritty sound nearly lost in the bustling
noise within except for Frodo's sharp hearing. Frodo absently
brushed the fine dust of the Shire from each foot against the
back of the opposite calf before he followed Cotton's youngest
son, Nibs, outside. Nibs fairly danced on the path below in
excitement, as the singing of many voices rolled over the hill.
Soon a rider crested the top of the ridge to the south, and
morning sun glinted off the small silver star on the center of
his helm. It was Pippin, and many hobbits on foot rose up round
him at the top of the hill. The singing broke into cheers, and a
small army from Tookland swarmed down.
There was a soft step behind Frodo. "Ah, they did come sooner,"
said Merry. "Good for Pippin, and better for us! Now we can
deal with those louts quickly."
"And carefully." Frodo turned.
Merry held a steaming mug; Frodo smelled coffee. Like so many
things it was a rare commodity now, according to Mrs. Cotton.
Merry's eyes were fixed on the distance, but his brows lowered as
his gaze shortened and fell on Frodo. "I will take every care to
be sure that no ruffian Man remains within the Shire's borders,"
he said, "and as soon as can be managed."
Farmer Cotton emerged from the open doorway, drawn by the clamor
of a hundred excited Tooks.
"Care must be taken, or more hobbits will be hurt," Frodo
insisted again.
"Hobbits will be hurt whether we fight or not, Frodo. These Men
are the dregs of the Enemy's forces, and you heard Mr. Cotton
last night as well as I did." Merry gestured to Cotton, and the
farmer nodded slowly, a motion at once deferential and defiant.
"He has the right of it. Unless we do something, they will only
continue the hurting they have already started."
Frodo felt as though he was trying to reach Merry by climbing the
side of a gravel quarry; the ground of rough necessity slid
beneath his reasoning, and Merry remained at the top, out of
reach. "We face dangers other than whips and clubs, Merry. I
would not have any hobbit fall as low as these Men, who hurt
others willingly."
Just then Pippin rode his pony to the foot of Cotton's steps and
hailed them. Nibs was at his side, looking up with shining eyes.
"Good morning!" said Pippin. "I've brought you a hundred of the
finest hunters from Tookland."
"And in impressive time, too." Merry raised his mug. "Let's get
to it, then."
*
Bywater Road cut through a short hill just above the East Road
and was trimmed with thick hedges on either side. Behind the
hedges on the lower side, Merry arranged for scaffolding to be
hastily assembled to give a better perch from which to hurl
arrows or rocks at targets in the road. Frodo herded the younger
hobbits away from the line of those climbing up and set them to
steady the scaffolding instead, down where solid dirt and the
thickest part of the hedges protected not only their exposure,
but also their view of the road.
Merry strode up from the other end of the ragged line of poles
and cross-boards. "Cotton and his boys are leading efforts to
block the north end of the cut, where they'll stay with the
stoutest lads of Bywater. I've put all the Took archers up high
so they can shoot over the hedge, while Pippin and I will stand
on the east side," he said. "I would have you and Sam take the
west side with the others that have swords. That is where to
make the best use of those of us properly armed, where the bank
is lowest."
"I do not wish to draw a sword," said Frodo.
Merry's eyes widened. "You may not have much of a choice, my
dear old hobbit. The Men are approaching as we speak, and they
will have no compunctions against using swords, whips, or
anything they can get their hands on to have at you."
Sam stepped up then, looking with a critical eye at the
scaffolding. The rings of his mail shirt each caught a bit of
the sun, little crescents of warm light. Though Sam had
journeyed for months attired as he was today, he looked new to
Frodo's eyes, and odd. Sam's face, set in the familiar surrounds
of Bywater, graced by the mellow light of the Shire, was as it
always had been. But his golden armor showed him changed.
"I reckon there's no time for proper bracing," said Sam, nodding
at the youngsters crowded round each upright.
"There is certainly no time for hesitation," replied Merry, and
he quickly walked away, his cloak snapping smartly in the breeze
of his passage.
Sam watched Merry's very straight back retreat before turning to
Frodo, the question plain on his face. Frodo did not let him ask
it. "Sam, I want you to take this," he said as he fumbled to
open his belt. "Take Sting."
"Mr. Frodo, what --?"
Frodo freed the belt from his waist. Sting dangled in its sheath
from the fine leather. "Here, take it."
Sam frowned and held up his hands, palms out. "Now Mr. Frodo,
we've had this debate before, and we agreed that the sword went
with the crystal belt, just like them and the mithril coat all go
together."
"No," said Frodo, "we haven't had this debate before; you have
been too busy to take it back every time I brought up the
subject. I agreed to borrow it for the ceremonies, but I gave
Sting to you." He pushed the sword into Sam's reluctant grasp
and smiled wryly. "You might also take notice that I am not
wearing the crystal belt either."
Sam held Sting tucked between his elbow and side while he removed
his belt and sword.
"I do not want --" Frodo began to speak but Sam interrupted him.
"Now, Mr. Frodo," Sam looked up at him keenly, "I'm a fair big
enough fool with one sword; I can hardly go stomping out there
with two."
The smile he felt lift his face caught Frodo by surprise, and for
a moment he relaxed into it. He clasped Sam's shoulder with
affection. "None of that, Sam-lad, not when your exploits with
that very sword are sung all over Gondor. No one can wield Sting
as well as you."
Sam regarded him a moment, smiling shyly, but then his brow
creased with worry. "You can't be thinking of meeting them Men
with naught to defend yourself."
"There are some things that are not mine to do, Sam," he said.
The frown on Sam's face stiffened into stubbornness. "And one of
them is to continue this nonsense about being in a battle without
a sword, begging your pardon." He retained Sting and pushed the
bright sword from Gondor into Frodo's hands. He held Sting by
its sheath in one hand and crossed his arms, fixing his gaze on
Frodo with a look that brooked no argument. Frodo sighed,
frustrated, but he also donned the sword.
*
Led by Farmer Cotton and his sons, a score of hobbits wheeled old
carts and waggons into the road and tipped them over; soon a
great barricade blocked any passage. Merry directed others to
make ready in the fields on either side of the road below the
cut, to wheel in a second barrier at his signal. The gang of Men
would soon arrive, and Merry planned to trap them within a circle
of armed defenders.
The hedge was thick with hobbits concealed in the evergreen
leaves on the west side of the road, while others balanced on
sections of logs or barrels to peer over the top. Lower than the
east side, it sloped downward as the road ran north so that close
by the first barrier, even without finding a prop or stool, many
archers stood with their bows poised to shoot over the top of the
hedge.
Frodo and Sam took position on the west side of the road, closer
to the north barrier than the one at the south end of the cut.
They stood amongst Tooks with old swords, and with Bywater and
Hobbiton farmers holding wicked forks, hoes, and axes. The
rising edge of tension buoyed them with excitement, though Sam
looked grim, and Frodo worried at the jewel hanging at his breast
with his maimed hand. Sam and Frodo whispered answers to
questions about their long absence as best as they could when
asked. Sometimes they would stop and greet an old friend or
distant cousin with a joyous and hushed embrace, but quickly, and
quietly, anxious as they waited.
Frodo heard the Men's harsh voices. No one else seemed to hear
for long moments, and then those at the south end turned their
heads, and their stances straightened. Soon the Men could be
seen as well as heard. They moved quickly and talked loudly
amongst themselves, some arguing, some singing a crude chant,
some jeering and calling. They were many and filled the road,
seemingly larger than ordinary Men in Frodo's eyes as they passed
him, trampling the roads of the Shire. He could hear them
clearly as they encountered the north barrier.
"Garn!" said the largest of the lot, a broad Man with stringy
black hair. His skin was so sallow it looked green. "Hey, you
louse-ridden squib, you were right. The little rats are getting
uppity."
"They has swords, Ragback," said a smaller one with long arms and
a whiney voice. He pawed at the big man's elbow. "I saw last
night. Bright swords, and shields."
"Oh, he's just trying to make good in Sharkey's eyes, sending us
all this way for nothing," complained another, a tall Man with a
low brow.
"Bite your tongue out, you turd." Ragback rounded on the other
and shoved him to the ground. "You don't know nothing about what
Sharkey wants, and it's not your place to wonder, neither."
Ugly laughter erupted among some of the Men while others glared.
Two of those helped the dissenter to his feet.
"Come on, you louts," snarled Ragback. "Get your shoulders to
these little toys and clear them out!"
Some moved forward to comply with his order, but there were
protests from behind as the Men nearer the south end of the road
noticed the hobbits rolling more waggons and barrels into the
road, trapping them.
"What is this?" shouted Ragback. He looked up, and all around
him hobbits stood, silently rising high enough to be seen over
the hedges. "Hie! You rat-folk! Get this trash out of the road
and clear out!"
The Men moved restlessly, waiting for some response, but every
hobbit held motionless as if each was a new leaf on a spring tree
in a lull of wind. Frodo saw Merry rise tall from behind the
green hedge across the road, Pippin at his side.
"We are neither going to move the blockade nor clear out," said
Merry in a voice that carried loudly.
"You will if you know what's good for you!"
"You will all clear out," Merry continued as if the Man had said
nothing, "and you will never return. You are not wanted here,
and we will not tolerate your presence here any longer."
"Oh, la, la, la! You will not tol-ar-ate my
presence, eh?" laughed Ragback, and he swaggered
mockingly. "What uppity words for such soft little rabbits among
the rats! What pretty shirts you and your friend wear! Think
you're some kind of elf, puttin' on airs so fancy as that?"
Merry and Pippin drew their swords with one, ringing sound.
"You have walked into a trap," said Merry, his voice hard. "Your
fellows from Hobbiton did the same, and one is dead and the rest
are prisoners. Lay down your weapons! Then go back twenty paces
and sit down. Any who try to break out will be shot."
The small Man with long arms and several others stepped back and
sat down in the road. The other Man who had been knocked down
muttered to those who had helped him, drawing the leader's
attention.
"Hey!" cried Ragback. "What d'you think you're doing? You
filthy, cowardly dogs!" He and several more grabbed those that
sat and hauled them up to their feet, striking them about the
head and cursing them.
"Lay down your weapons!" Merry repeated. He raised his sword,
and Frodo could hear the creak of a hundred bowstrings pulled
tight.
Ragback left off abusing his men to face Merry defiantly. "The
pretty rabbit squeaks again! But we don't need no stinking
weapons to teach you more'n you can stomach."
"Harm one hobbit, and I will put steel to you."
"I'll break you in half, you worthless maggot!"
Ragback and a few of his supporters lunged forward to attack
Merry and Pippin. The main bulk of his Men took the movement as
a call to general battle and began scaling the west side of the
road. Hobbits leapt down from all around to meet them. A score
of the Men rushed to the south barrier. Half a dozen of them
sprouted sudden Took arrows and fell, but the rest surged over
the blockade, striking out with weapon and fist, pushing past the
overturned carts and knocking over barrels and farmers.
With the first yells, Sam drew Sting and set himself in front of
Frodo. Frodo, however, was watching to the south and saw two
hobbits fall into the dusty road and remain motionless after
others staggered to their feet. Suddenly he was moving, pushing
through the hedge, dropping into the road and running toward
them. Sam followed him, hardly a pace behind. "Mr. Frodo,
wait!" he cried. "The ruffians --!"
Frodo ran hard, leaving the worst of the tumult behind him as he
dashed up to the prone hobbits and skidded to a stop. Others
stooped over the figures, but they parted for Frodo. He fell to
his knees between the fallen. One lay face-down in the dirt.
The other had sprawled on his back, his arms wide, and his brown
eyes stared up into nothing, surprised. Frodo's hand rose and
pressed his mouth hard. It was Sancho Proudfoot, and he was
dead.
Sancho's brother, Blancho, shouldered through the ring of
bystanders. He choked down a sob as he crouched next to Frodo.
He reached toward his brother's face. Sancho's neck had been
broken. There was no blood, and Blancho gently stroked the pale
cheek before he drew his hand over his brother's eyes and closed
them. "Those Men, those thieving, wicked Men," he said thickly.
"They eat our harvest, ruin our homes, and take our lives. I
hope they burn, every last one of them. I hope the Tooks shoot
them all through their filthy hearts."
He climbed to his feet and staggered as if drunk. When Sam
offered help, he shrugged it away. "Leave off, Gamgee." He
stooped and picked up a hoe from the dirt of the road. Harsh
shouts and excited yells rising made them all start. The battle
was joined in earnest all around. Tears streaked the dust on
Blancho's face. "I'll show them," he said, his voice bitter.
"I'll show them good." And then he dashed off to the north end
of the cut where the clamor was loudest.
"He'll be little use to anyone like that," said Sam, his face
twisted with pity as he watched Blancho run.
"You're probably right," said Frodo. He gently turned the other
hobbit but did not recognize the slack face. He had been stabbed
in the chest. Frodo looked up at Sam. "Did you know him?"
Sam reluctantly stepped closer. "No, I don't know him," he said.
His face was tensed with sorrow nonetheless.
Frodo stood up and brushed his palms on his breeches. Sam
clasped his right hand, surprising him, and said, "I'm sorry
about your cousin." Frodo answered the pressure with a warm
squeeze, and Sam continued, "I'm sorry about this poor fellow,
too, whoever he is, and for Blancho, and all those as will be
hurt today."
"I'm sorry, too, Sam," said Frodo gently. "This isn't the
homecoming I would have for you." He released the small comfort
of Sam's hand to tap gently the shoulder of a young lad kneeling
by the body and said, "You keep watch over these two until we can
give them proper attention." The boy nodded silently, his face
pinched and white.
Sam seemed to understand that Frodo had plans, for he asked,
"Where to now?"
"I'm going after Blancho to make sure he doesn't harm himself in
his grief."
"All right then, but please," he leaned in closer and spoke
urgently, "Mr. Frodo, take out your sword." Sting was clutched
in his fist, held steady below his worried expression.
Frodo smiled sadly. "I cannot help Blancho if I have a naked
sword in my hand."
Sam's mouth thinned. "And a sheathed sword can't help you none
if one of them Men attacks you."
Frodo shook his head and moved quickly along the lane, avoiding
the argument all together. He heard Sam follow as he forced a
hole into the hedge, leaves and twigs pulling at him, and ran
along the east side, behind the scaffolding to where the noise
was loudest and then pushed back through to the road. He emerged
into the lane where clouds of dust disturbed by the scuffling
figures nearly blinded him, and then slithered down the low bank.
Harsh grunts and the cries of hobbits filled the air. For the
Thain! For the Shire! rang out high and clear from Pippin's
kin, while Frodo could hear other shouts: Back to the wilds,
you foul things! and Bywater! Bywater!
The Men flowed and eddied in the road, surrounded by hobbits on
most sides. A knot of them gathered to Frodo's right, and there
were sudden shrill screams and hoarse shouts. Through the chaos,
Frodo hear Merry's voice: "Forward! Forward!" and then the Horn
of the Mark pealed with the Buckland horn-cry. A wall of armed
hobbits emerged from the dust and confronted the Men.
Some of the Men broke away from their mates and dashed back the
way they had come, looking to escape, and were immediately set
upon by more hobbits. Frodo saw Blancho in the midst of those
and made his way there quick as he could, dodging fallen bodies
and leaping over wreckage and abandoned weapons. A Man staggered
in his path, a hobbit wrapped round his knees, another dangling
from his neck, and Frodo had to dig his heel in the dirt and
pivot away as though dancing to avoid slamming into him and his
wicked pike. An arrow suddenly bloomed in the Man's hair, and he
fell, forcing Frodo to bound further back before he could dash
forward.
He stopped when he reached the far side of the lane. Several Men
had been subdued and lay flat under the weight of grim hobbits.
Others struggled but were slowly buried into immobility as more
sturdy farmers and merchants, blacksmiths and craftsmen jumped
on. All the captured Men were eventually trussed up and dragged
out of the fray. Some Men ran, to be felled by canny Took
archers, but a few threw down arms, begging for mercy.
One Man fell to his knees and dropped his cudgel immediately,
suing for surrender, and was knocked to the ground, stunned, when
Blancho picked up the cudgel and struck him on the head. Blancho
raised his weapon again, his face so screwed into red rage he
appeared blind.
Frodo moved quickly and clasped him around his chest, pulling him
back. "No!" he said into Blancho's ear. "He is unarmed; he has
surrendered --"
"That filth killed my brother!" Blancho butted his bony skull
painfully into Frodo's cheekbone and nearly knocked him off, but
Frodo clung tight.
"Then let him face justice!"
"Let me kill him!" he bawled.
"No!" cried Frodo. He leaned back until Blancho's feet came off
the road, paddling in the air and thrashing so vigorously he
threw Frodo off balance. As they fell, Frodo turned and pushed
Blancho to the ground where they struggled.
Frodo heard Sam's distant shout. He rolled quickly and with a
felid twist he put his knee into the small of Blancho's back and
yanked his arm up between his shoulder blades.
"No," Frodo said, breathing hard. "I will not let you commit
murder."
Blancho went limp under him, gasping for air and coughing in the
stirred dirt.
"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Frodo, but it looks like you have things
well in hand, if I may say so," said Sam admiringly, if
breathlessly, suddenly at Frodo's elbow. Frodo threw him a quick
glance and saw Sam's expression was as satisfied as his voice
despite a wide smear of mud along his cheek up into his tousled
hair.
"Here, Sam," he said, gasping a little from effort, "help me get
him to his feet and away from all this."
Together, they hauled him to his limp legs and supported him back
to where his brother lay. Loved ones of the other dead hobbit
had gathered already: a maid and an old gaffer. Their tears and
the terrible tenderness with which they arranged his limbs broke
Blancho's silence; he crumpled and was caught by the girl. With
a wrenching sob his rage broke utterly, and his grieving finally
began.
Frodo and Sam stood back. In a low voice, Frodo said, "I think
we can leave him here. He seems to be in good company; let's go
back and see what help we can give."
"Aye," replied Sam.
More hobbits than Blancho had suffered cruelty and loss at the
hands of the Men, and some continued their attacks even when the
Men would throw away their weapons and plead for clemency. Frodo
convinced them to stop, with words when he could manage it, but
more often by dragging angry hobbits from Men prone on the
ground. Sam remained close as he could throughout: fending away
danger at Frodo's back; helping him to subdue the angry and
grief-stricken; binding the surrendered Men with lengths cut from
a rope; carting wounded hobbits away from the melee.
The morning wore on drearily. Frodo and Sam supported a bleeding
old gaffer slung between them, dragging him from the battle into
the keeping of helping hands at a nearby farmhouse. The mothers
and sisters and daughters of Bywater and Hobbiton had gathered
there to tend the injured and lay out the dead. They said little
to Frodo, but Rosie Cotton spared Sam a worried frown and
encouraged him to take a drink of water. "And bring one for your
master as well," she said. "You both look fair wilted."
The effort had begun to weigh on Frodo, and his steps back to the
road felt as hard as the broken gravel of Mordor, not the soft,
dry grass of a Shire winter. A great reluctance settled on Frodo,
and he wanted nothing more than to turn away and leave the noise
and clamor behind rather than march right into it; walk away
until he found nothing but the tranquility of wind in the trees.
There was a difference in the activity, however, and he nudged
Sam with his shoulder.
"Mr. Frodo?"
"Listen," said Frodo. "Can you hear? The battle: it's ending."
The din that had beat upon their ears was changing and failing.
One last roar from the north end of the road started both
hobbits, and Frodo clutched the cloth of Sam's sleeve just as Sam
reached for him. It was a terrible sound, angry and despairing.
Ragged cheers split the air then, and as they cautiously
approached, Frodo and Sam saw the hobbit fighters waving their
weapons in the air and crying out victoriously.
Sam smiled wearily. "That's it, then. It's done and over."
Frodo saw Merry walking away from the center of the worst
fighting. He emerged from settling dust, his head bowed and
shoulders slumped, as if weary. Frodo watched Pippin reach out
and touch his arm, speaking, though Frodo could not hear the
words. Merry nodded slowly and left Pippin looking after,
concerned, as he walked toward Frodo.
"He's dead," said Merry. "The leader, Ragback." He clutched his
sword still, though it seemed he could hardly lift it, and both
arm and blade were covered with thick, blackish blood dripping
off the tip that nearly dragged on the ground.
"Merry! Are you hurt?" asked Frodo, and he stepped quickly to
Merry's side. Sam moved to flank his other side.
"No, I'm not hurt," replied Merry. "There is nothing wrong with
me that a good washing up and a few mugs of ale wouldn't cure."
"But your arm, Mr. Merry," said Sam. He looked at it worriedly.
"It's just a little tired," he said. His arm twitched. "A bit
cold. That's all his blood, not mine."
*
The cheering ended quickly. Hobbits stood in the road, murmuring
amongst themselves, unsure what to do, but their hesitation did
not last. Soon, a low hum of industry replaced indecision as
hoes and forks and waggons were put to their proper use. Busy
hands cleared the road, and one young hobbit began smoothing the
disturbed dirt with the very rake he had used to defend himself.
Wounded and dead hobbits were removed and carefully tended while
the last of the captive Men were trussed and hauled to a barn
under heavy guard. Merry and Pippin ordered the bodies of the
Men dragged off the road and piled until they made a gruesome
heap.
"So much to be mended," said Frodo.
"And cleaned up," added Sam. "But all that can wait at least
until after we've had a bite."
Sam promised to prepare a place to wash, as well as find some
food and ale, and left at a trot towards the Cotton farm. Frodo
and Pippin and Merry followed at a slower pace. When they came to
the Cotton farm, they found Sam in the back yard filling tubs
with hot water, towels for drying and clean shirts laid close by.
"It's all I could find on such short notice," said Sam. He was
cleaner about his head and hands, and he wore a different shirt.
"Oh, it's perfect," said Pippin.
Sam looked pleased and returned inside; he claimed he would help
with the midday meal, but Frodo caught a gleam in his eye and
thought he was probably planning to wheedle Cotton into breaking
out the last keg of good ale, carefully hidden all these months.
Pippin squirmed out of his surcoat and hauberk, draping each
carefully over the top rail of the back fence. The linen shirt
under his mail was soaked with sweat despite the cold, spattered
with black blood and torn. He removed it and ducked his head
into the tub of warm water, splashing his neck and ribs with
great enthusiasm.
Frodo beat the dirt from his clothes with the heels of his palms,
and then stood next to a tub, rinsing his hands and running them
over his face and the back of his sweaty neck. He took time for
his feet, too; the steaming water washed away the dust, though a
brisk toweling left the fur standing up untidily. He noticed
Merry, moving with less energy, as he peeled off his armor and
wiped each piece as clean as he could with a damp rag. Merry
tended his sword, rubbing blood and gore from it before drying
the steel thoroughly. At last he slid it into its sheath with a
sharp singing sound and looked up at Frodo. "You are remarkably
clean, cousin," he said.
Frodo frowned at the queer tone in Merry's voice. Merry sat on a
section of sawn tree holding his sheathed sword across his knees.
He had not yet removed his shirt. Sweat and dust had made mud
around the collar and tails. The right sleeve was heavy with
blood and clung to his arm wetly.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Merry as he undid the buttons of his ruined shirt
with small jerks, "that you don't look as if you've been in a
battle."
Pippin stopped his splashing.
"And you are covered in the blood of your foe," Frodo said
calmly.
"Yes, exactly right." Merry stood up and buckled his sword belt
in place. "I did what I had to do."
"Just as I did what I saw fitting," said Frodo. "I am no Knight
of Rohan or Gondor."
"But you are a hobbit of the Shire." Merry stepped closer. "Did
you even draw your sword out there?"
Frodo looked up at Merry and shook his head, a small movement.
"But why? Why didn't you help us defend our home?" he asked,
pained.
"I did." Frodo spoke gently. "I merely took a different
approach."
"Then explain it to me, because I don't understand."
"I would have the Shire as I remember it," said Frodo, and his
throat felt tight. "Not filled with those so changed by the
influence of the Chief and his Men that they accept those
ridiculous rules and find that they like bullying others around."
Merry frowned. "And we were not doing that very thing all this
day? Driving out the Men and taking back the Shire?"
"The Men are gone," said Frodo, "but hobbits are still here, and
they were changed by the hardships they endured all this year,
just as they were changed by the violence they witnessed today.
Don't you see it?"
Merry's face darkened. "Of course they changed; we all changed.
There is no stopping that now --"
Frodo raised a palm and shook his head. "Please, I don't want to
argue. The day has been hard enough."
"There was a time," Merry said slowly, "when you would have stood
with Pippin and me. There were times when you did stand with us,
just as we stood with you."
"I am with you," Frodo said, but Merry turned away. Before he
washed and donned a clean one, Merry stripped off his bloody
shirt and let it fall into the dirt.
*
If Merry and Frodo seemed quiet at the table, none mentioned it.
Sam cast suspicious looks at Frodo and his cousins, and Frodo
caught him giving Pippin a particularly disproving frown. The
morning had asked much of everyone, however, and so the loaded
glares of four guests shot over their plates meant little to the
Cottons. More excitement in the course of a single day they had
never seen in the Shire, and there was some concern for Tom, for
he had taken a deep gash to his leg. He sat in the corner with
his leg swathed in wrappings and propped on an old pickle-barrel.
Sam's sister fussed over him, tempting him to eat, and he endured
with good humor, having been dosed with half a bottle of strong
spirits to dull the pain. Nibs and his brothers offered little
chance for anyone to slide into the conversation anyway, for they
bubbled like kettles fit to boil with all they had seen and done
that morning.
"I heard 'em first," said Nibs, "before they got close. They're
so loud, with voices like a gears in the new mill." He talked
around a mouthful of potatoes. "And nasty! Phew, I thought Big
People looked more like hobbits, except bigger, but these fellows
looked like a pack of trolls to me: all alike, and all ugly."
"Men look as different from one another as hobbits do," said
Pippin, "and Big people aren't like that lot at all. These ones,
I think, came from an evil place that's been destroyed. There
shouldn't be any more coming up from the south anymore."
"What place is that?" asked Nibs, and then hushed his voice.
"Mordor?"
Merry said, "He's talking about Isengard, I think." Pippin
nodded. "Pippin and I watched that place get washed clean in a
great flood. It's a lake, now, with a forest of Ents all around
it."
"Ents?" said Nibs.
"Ents. They're like, well, great walking trees," said Pippin,
"but old, and wise."
"Walking trees?" For once, Nibs looked skeptical.
"Just so long as we get no more of those bad Men," Mrs. Cotton
said. "We could do without such ruffians roaming about, stealing
our food and hurting folks."
"Ha! Let them come; I'll deal with them again. This morning I
jabbed one good with my hayfork," said Nibs, demonstrating with
his dinner fork. "He squealed like a stuck pig and bled almost
as much, too."
The arrogant pride in the young hobbit's voice shocked Frodo, but
before he could react, Cotton slammed his own utensils onto the
table, and everyone fell silent.
"Nibs!" exclaimed Cotton. "I will not abide vulgar talk at the
table, nor will I put up with such disregard for something as
serious as battle and death."
His face ashen, Nibs stared at his plate and whispered, "I'm
sorry, Dad."
"Not as sorry as them that died out there today," said Cotton,
his voice tight and loud, "and don't you ever forget that both
Big People and hobbits paid for all the misery that's been
plaguing us this past year and more. This is a war, son, and not
just something that happened away down in Woody End, or even away
in them foreign parts as Sam and Mr. Frodo and his cousins went.
People died out there on our own Bywater Road: hobbits we know,
and will miss; hobbits we must lay in the ground."
He picked up his fork and continued eating grimly. Nibs clenched
his hands in his lap and ducked his head low over his plate.
Frodo saw tears fall onto his food. An idea occurred to him, and
he longed to break the strained silence, but he could think of no
fitting words; he felt drained from the battle, and tender from
the raw exchange with Merry before dinner. The determined
movement of Cotton's hand, plate to mouth, plate to mouth, was
joyless.
Frodo cleared his throat, a soft sound audible to all over the
small sounds of cutlery on plates. He wondered briefly what had
possessed him to do so, as sober faces turned his way, but the
right words finally came. "We must tend to all the fallen," he
said, "the ruffians as well as the hobbits, but the ruffians will
be the harder task: unpleasant but very necessary. Perhaps, Mr.
Cotton, your Nibs might do well to help."
Cotton looked up from his plate. "It should be done soon,
however it is done."
"It hardly bears thinking about," said Mrs. Cotton, tears in her
throat, and Nibs watched her with wide eyes as one hand rested at
her breast while the other pushed away her plate. Mr. Cotton
patted her shoulder and said, "War is ugly business, and the
costs only begin with the battle. We'll be paying a long time."
Like the others, Pippin said nothing, but his face was troubled
as he nodded. Frodo noticed that Nibs, his eyes hungrily darting
between his parents, whom he loved and respected, and Pippin,
whom he admired to the edge of worship, nodded as well, his face
comically the same as Pippin's; the observation brought no mirth
to Frodo but an unexpected needle of pent tears he swallowed.
"The Rohirrim burn their dead enemies," Merry said grimly.
"Burning, aye, that would be quickest," said Cotton, though he
sounded unhappy.
"And yet there is so much smoke rising up all over," said Frodo.
He looked through the open door to the horizon, and his shoulders
slumped, saddened at the thought of dead Men's ashes settling on
everything he loved most in the Shire.
"We could put them in the ground," Sam declared suddenly, his
face stern. "Make 'em give back some of what they took."
Pippin's expression lightened a little at that suggestion, and
Nibs' brightened similarly.
"That's a lot of shovel work," said Cotton. "Though nothing new
to any of my boys, turning the good earth of the Shire, though
never for such a sober purpose."
"Sober, yes," said Frodo, "but Sam's right: give them into the
ground to replace some of what they took."
Nibs' brow creased heavily in thought. "Give back our food?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Sam. "They'll go back to dirt in
the ground, and give the trees and such what they need to grow."
"The Shire's too good a resting place for the likes of them,"
said Merry with distaste, but then he continued thoughtfully,
"and yet, I think that's the very purpose to which the Ents put
the orcs of Isengard."
"It's a strange fate, but oddly neat," said Pippin.
The meal finished quickly after that. Mrs. Cotton began clearing
the table with Rosie and Nibs' help. Merry stood and thanked
her, and Pippin bowed over her hand, which made her blush like a
lass. Frodo pushed his chair back and stood to give his thanks.
With Sam they stepped outside, Farmer Cotton following them.
Merry sucked on his pipe while touching a reed lit from the
kitchen stove to the bowl even as he walked to the bench by the
front flowerbed. Frodo said, "Well, I suppose it is time now
that we dealt with the 'Chief'."
"Yes indeed; the sooner the better," said Merry. He stood by the
bench and gestured with the pipe stem. "And don't be too gentle!
He's responsible for bringing in these ruffians, and for all the
evil they have done."
"He's responsible for being a fool, but he was never behind the
worst of this," said Frodo. "He'll need our help."
"Dashing off to save Pimple." Pippin shook his head. "It still
staggers my imagination."
"We should muster together those with swords able to accompany
us," said Merry.
"No." Frodo shook his head. "This is a parley with the Chief,
not a battle."
"Frodo!" exclaimed Merry. "How can you say that after facing
those scoundrels today? And how do you know there are no more
lurking about?"
Cotton agreed. "It's only a guess that there is no ruffians left
at Bag End. We can't know for sure."
"But how can I not say that after all the bloodshed today?" Frodo
retorted. "Hobbits I've known for years cut down in the road,
waggons broken up like firewood, the hedges along the road cut
and torn almost to bits. This is my home, but I hardly recognize
it, and I cannot see how more battling can cure it."
"We can't wish the evil things away, Frodo; we have to force them
out." Merry's cheeks were reddening in anger. "We had to do it
in Rohan and Gondor, and now we have to do it here." His pipe,
ignored, had gone out. "Things have changed," he continued, and
suddenly he sounded stricken, "but not as much as you have."
The cool soil of the Shire seemed to lurch under Frodo's washed
feet. Beyond all hope he had returned, yet it was not quite his
home, not from his first steps at the border: The Brandywine
Bridge had been gated, the Bridge Inn torn down, and Frodo and
his companions had been afflicted with Bill Ferny's unsavory
presence before being subjected to orcish rules and a distinctly
un-hobbit-like parsimony by the Shirriffs at the Shirriff house.
This was not the same Shire he had expected to find at the end of
his long journey, and sorrow cleaved him deeper than a Morgul
knife.
"I only wanted the chance to sit once again on those awful
benches at the Log," Frodo whispered harshly.
"What?" said Merry.
Frodo shook his head, unable to explain. Sometimes, after his
mind had been scoured by the burning of the Ring, he would recall
that memories had lived there once, even if they were gone.
Green grass was a concept he knew, though he couldn't imagine how
it felt under his toes. Beer at The Floating Log was nutty and
brown, but the words conjured no taste. The benches there were
made of logs sawn in half with the bark still on, worn smooth
after years of polishing by countless hobbit-breeches, yet still
prone to shedding the odd splinter.
There were many funny stories and lewd jokes told about the
dangers of the benches at the Floating Log; Frodo had one of his
own to tell about a night of revelry with Folco Boffin. They had
danced on the tables and made drunken attempts to win the
affections of the innkeeper's pretty daughter, a contest both
hobbits lost. Though he'd been totally smitten with her, while
he carried the ring Frodo couldn't remember what she had looked
like. He could not recall how his pride had pained him when he'd
picked up a sizable sliver while falling off the table and onto
his inebriated arse. He forgot how Folco's fulsome laugh rang
when the moon stood tall and misty in the small hours as they
staggered outside to duck their heads under an icy splash from
the water pump.
While he carried his burden, the simple fact of his knowing that
the grass was green in the Shire, that the benches at The
Floating Log gave splinters, and that Folco Boffin had a laugh
like no other gave him strength enough to resist madness even
though the image of each thing seemed made of smoke effortlessly
burned away by a wheel of fire until only the empty words
remained.
And though his memories of good things returned after, flimsy as
ghosts, they had been lost to Frodo while bearing the Ring. Sam
had helped him tolerate that mad loneliness. In the desert plain
of Mordor, Frodo could endure without his memories because Sam's
stout presence at his side reminded him that the home of his
memories remained safe.
But the Floating Log was closed now. Its old tables and benches
had been burned for warmth. And blood ran even in the dirt of
Bywater Road. Nothing would be the same again.
Sam was at his side, gently shaking his shoulder. "Frodo," he
beseeched. "Come sit."
Cotton looked at him with stern pity. Merry stood aside, his
face pale as Pippin helped Sam guide Frodo to the bench, and
Frodo wondered with a sick feeling how long he had stood in a
fit, and if he had spoken, and what he might have said. He
realized he clutched his white gemstone on its chain only when he
loosened his fist.
He sat seemingly removed from the world, alone on the bench. He
had witnessed so much destruction, and none so painful as the
scars all through the Shire, and he looked at the distant fires
that smudged the skies all round. The gray dusting of their
ashes settled: a bitter rime over all Frodo loved best in Middle-
earth.
Frodo sighed, and turned his regard to the others once more. He
apologized for his momentary lapse -- it was just a twinge;
I'm fine, really -- and he tried to put from his mind the
upcoming confrontation with Lotho and the new Chief. Like most
hobbits, he knew no tomorrow was certain, and all must sleep
under the soil of the Shire one day. Yet he had a sense of his
own future, and it was hazy, as if obscured by a silver veil, and
he saw not woods and fields and little rivers, but long gray
shore. His thoughts sifted slowly through the day: the furious
battle, Sancho Proudfoot's dead stare, the ruffian Men, Merry and
Pippin in their blood-stained liveries, Nibs' open face, and the
stirred dust of the Shire that had fallen on everyone but him.
*