Sailing, Sailing, Sailing over the Sea
by Orangeblossom Brambleburr
Story Notes:
“1482...On September 22 Master Samwise rides out from Bag End. He comes to the tower hills, and is last seen by Elanor, to whom he gives the Red Book afterwards kept by the Fairbains. Among them the tradition is handed down from Elanor that Samwise passed the Towers, and went to the Gray Havens, and passed over the Sea, last of the Ring-bearers.”
--Lord of the Rings, Appendix B, p. 419
The title comes from a line of Sam’s as he laments the departure of the Elves for the Gray Havens:
" 'They are sailing, sailing, sailing over the sea, they are going into the West and leaving us,' said Sam, half chanting the words and shaking his head sadly and silently."
--Fellowship of the Ring, p. 48
I am old.
Back in those days I never thought I’d live to see One Hundred and One--by times I still don’t believe it; I reckon it up in my head over and over and yet it comes out the same. And without you it has been nearly twice the span of my life as was with you. I can’t say as I was unhappy all the time; always I knew that somewhere you were alive, and dearly I hoped you were happy. And my life has been a full one. I reckon there ain’t many who’ve been mayor seven times over as well as being a husband and a father. No, I can’t say as I suffered this whole time; there was always an aching place like a bruise that just won’t heal proper so’s every time you brush it the hurt comes. But when nothing touches it it withers to only small pain. Some nights it was worse than others, but after a time it got so’s I was used to it.
My Rosie is gone now. I still feel I gave her less than she deserved; a sweeter and truer wife I could never ask for. I loved Rosie Cotton when we were children, and I loved her dearer than most anything as my wife. She was a great comfort to me, and I miss her right sharply.
But much as I did love her she didn’t have my heart in her hands, it never gave that particular queer thump as it did for you, and for that I have always felt guilt. I tried to love her well, to give her every part of me that I had left to give. I wonder by times if that’s why we had us such a brood; I could not give her my heart but I could give her my children. Thirteen she bore for me, thirteen she raised. Even wee Tom has come into his own; it seems mighty strange that he’s so near the very age I was when I set out with you. And my little Elanor-lass shows strands of silver in her golden hair.
I’ve left the Red Book with Elanor; she among all of my children loved the stories the most. She loved to hear tell of “Uncle” Frodo, as she called you by times as a child. “Tell me about the ring, Papa, tell me about when you saved Uncle Frodo from the Spider!” Just like you said, Mr. Frodo. You might have been a Hobbit like me but you had some sort of sight about you. How much you saw of my life to come; my lads and lasses, being Mayor, the songs and stories that would be sung of us! I wonder what you saw for yourself, but then your sight was never so good when it came to you; I reckon you only saw the dark. I sometimes wonder if that’s why we fit so good when we were together, maybe you needed me to see the light for you. But then, I don’t know much when it comes down to it, so I could be wrong.
I’ve left a good deal of our journey out of the Red Book. Important things, I think, and yet things that are too dear to be spoken of or written out in cold print. For sixty years the memory of sacred times together sustained me, I couldn’t seem to bear having them put into coarse words for the world to see and read side by side by the things that don’t matter. But don’t you think for a second I forgot, Mr. Frodo.
I’m frightened, Mr. Frodo. It’s near time for me to go, I can see a strange boat coming through the mists and I am shaking. May just be my age; I find I’m not so strong as I used to be, though I’m in fair shape yet. I’d have to be cold and dead, begging your pardon, before I’d stop working in my garden. But the years do wear on a body by times; I find my old joints ache and tremble.
And now the boat has come and fair elves bear me aboard. I still don’t much favor boats but this one is different. It bears me across the sea to you--how often did I dream it? I dared not think of it when I was awake; I would never have left my Rosie or my little ones and it seemed terrible luck to think of my Rosie dying and leaving me free to go to you. The closest I came was to hope that should something happen to me that they’d bear me off to the Havens before I went...but by night my dreams were free to conjure just what I’m seeing now. The boat is soft gray like the wood that washes up from the waters but smooth and sparkling like an early frost. I sit here in the middle in my cloak, that same Elven cloak the Lady gave me so long ago, and though it seems cold I’m plenty warm enough.
My, but I shall be glad to see the Lady once more. And Gandalf, and dear Bilbo. Its been a right long time since I’ve seen any of you, and I did think of the others often over the years. But what will you all think of the Sam that greets you? I’m not little Sam Gamgee anymore, I’m Old Gardener, whether I like it or not. Will you all look so young as to make me feel my years doubly so? I should be grateful for Bilbo there, at least he might look somewhere near my age. There! That’s given me a good smile, and I must smile or cry from all that’s going on about me.
Do you know I’m coming? Will you be at the dock awaiting me? Or did you long ago forget your faithful Sam and find peace with some great sleek Elf? You never seemed like the forgetting type, Mr. Frodo, but I don’t know what you’re like now. I don’t reckon I’ve changed much but perhaps it’s different for you there.
We’ve arrive at last, the boat is so silent as it glides in and the Elves leap to secure the ropes. And there you are, and oh, Mr. Frodo, you look even younger than when I last saw you! Forty, I’d reckon, if you were a day, and here you’re Eleventy Six.. I feel ashamed now; I can’t imagine what I must look like to you. I rather think I look like my dear Gaffer did, perhaps a bit rounder, as he never quite recovered from being deprived. My hair was snow white last time I had a look and I don’t reckon it’s changed.
And who is that beside you? It must be Bilbo; surely there are no other Hobbits in the Undying Lands? Yet how can that be Bilbo, he looks in the prime of life as well, as if the years he spent here ran backwards. Oh, that’s hard, Mr. Frodo, I’d so counted on at least one person looking as old and feeble as myself.
The Elves reach their white hands to help this old Hobbit onto the dock. I hide my face; I am crying and I can’t help it. I feel a touch of hands and lips and then I’m in your arms and Oh, Mr. Frodo, you still smell the same! Nothing anywhere on earth smells as you do, sweet and clean and homelike. I would think that sixty years might change that, or might make me grow forgetful. And yet here it is and it’s as if not a day has passed for you.
I can’t even speak for the joy and for the tears. All I can do is look at you and weep as I haven’t for countless years. Joy and pain, for what a wretched and ancient creature I must appear to you... Yet you do not look away, your young eyes are full with love as you hold me, and you whisper words I’ve ached for all this time. Your arms hold me as if I were still dear to you, your hands and lips upon me as they were when we were both so young. I feel I should stop you and yet I cannot.
At last the mist of tears clears and I can see that others have come to greet me as well. There is Gandalf, and if he don’t look younger too! Much the same but his face looks less careworn and his beard and hair are brown and full. And the Lady, why, she came to greet me as well! I can scarce believe it. She still looks lovelier than a dream.
And then it is a great thing of hugs and greetings and tears and joy, and I reckon I’ve never seen anything quite like it. People talking over each other just to get the words out and said. Yet I am tired; I’m weary from the travels, from the emotions and from my age as well. And now you are caring for me, gently drawing me away to put me to sleep, much as I drew you from Bilbo back in Rivendell so long ago. And you hold my arm like the dear friend you are, guiding my weary steps.
It shan’t always be like this, you whisper to me, and tell me that in time I should find myself as you and Bilbo have, the years running back again. If that don’t beat all I don’t know what does, but trust the Elves to have a land where you can live young and healthy for all the days of the world. My heart is eased though; I do hate to think of my own wrinkled flesh, especially compared to your own perfect smoothness. I can’t get over that I’m standing beside you at last, Mr. Frodo.
You talk to me a bit as you settle me to sleep--is this your very own bed, Mr. Frodo? And though it must be early, if there be such a thing as clocks in this world, you climb in beside me to hold me close as you did in our young days. And tonight I will sleep without dreams, for they’ve come true at last. I’m home.
Contact Orangeblossom Brambleburr at rice_al@yahoo.com
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