Heralded By Storms

C3: Rivers Will Flood

Whitwell, August 1374
(several months later)


“Well, there you are!”

Esmeralda heard her father’s reprimand above the rhythmic clacking of her loom. The soft notes of harp song had ceased a moment before, but the sounds of the storm had buried the knock upon the door. Leaving the brightly lit room where she worked, she made her way through the smial, listening all the while to the odd conversation, of which she could only hear her father’s half.

“Well, come in from the rain, lad, or have you as little sense as punctuality? Time is a precious thing, and I’ll thank you not to waste mine!”

Esmeralda sighed and quickened her pace.

“That’s a poor excuse for being late, and on your first day too!” Her father’s sonorous voice filled the room as it seldom did anymore, but the bewildered object of his censure would likely little appreciate that fact in the face of the strange ferocity Adalgrim had always used to first impress his students. It had been decades since anyone had come here for teaching, but the past and present mingled all too often in his distracted spirit.

“Late for what, sir?” a youngish male voice responded, confusion evident in his tone.

“If you mock all your teachers this way, it is no wonder your father despairs of your education!” the old hobbit snapped, slamming the door in the stranger’s face just as Esmeralda reached the kitchen.

“Da! What is going on?” she demanded.

“Just a young cockerel in need of learning proper manners, my dear. A little rain will cool his cheek and do no harm,” he assured her, green eyes gleeful and intent.

Snow white curls grown too long brushing shoulders once broad but now bent with age and self-imposed hermitage, he was like a dim reflection seen through a cracked glass, with the kernel of greatness still in his heart, but muffled by the sleeping giant of his grief. In moments like these, Esmeralda wasn’t even sure if he truly saw her, or if fantasy overlaid her face with her childhood self, or even perhaps the memory of her mother. She shook her head, the speculation irrelevant to the present situation, and she faced him, expression firm.

“You cannot simply leave guests upon the doorstep in a summer storm, not in my house!” she scolded, turning to open the door, and she found there a pleasant surprise.

”Why, Master Saradoc! I begin to suspect you enjoy wandering in the rain,” she said, genuine warmth chasing the mingled contrition and irritation that had claimed her expression a moment ago.

“It seems to yield pleasant surprises for the most part,” he replied with a short bow.

Esmeralda laughed, glad her recollection of his forthright and forgiving nature seemed accurate. She waved him into the small kitchen, where her father now sat, a look of vague affront on his face as he distractedly plucked at the harp strings.

“Da? This is Saradoc Brandybuck, the gentlehobbit that loaned me his pony on my way to Pincup last May,” Esmeralda said, ignoring his frown. “Master Saradoc, my father, Adalgrim Took.”

The old hobbit looked up, intent gaze upon the newcomer, assessing, considering, and Esmeralda waited for his next words with bated breath.

“Another young Brandybuck, eh?” the old hobbit finally said. “Any relation to that rascal Rorimac?”

“Ah, uhm, well, yes… He’s my father, actually,” Saradoc replied with a slight blush.

“Hmmm, thought so… Well, I suppose you’ll do well enough, if you can sit still any longer than he could,” Adalgrim muttered as if doubting his own words.

“Da!” Esmeralda interrupted with an apologetic smile at her guest. “He has only happened here by chance, driven in by the storm.”

“I’m afraid I would make a poor student, Master Adalgrim. My voice is suitable for little more than tavern bawdies, when the audience cares more for enthusiasm than art,” Saradoc said.

“Humph! You’ll certainly not amount to much if you think so little of your gifts,” the old hobbit chastised.

“Be that as it may, Da, he’ll amount to little at all if he catches his death because he stands dripping in my kitchen,” Esmeralda said firmly, and he turned sulkily to tuning the harp upon his knees. “Come,” she continued, turning to her guest, “I will find you something dry to change into while we await the end of this rainstorm.”

She left him in her workroom to change while she refreshed the guest bedroom, wondering at his presence all the while. It would have been a lie to say she had not thought often of the dashing young gentlehobbit who had rescued her that Spring, and Esmeralda chided herself for hoping he had done the same. Walking quietly back to invite him to the kitchen, where her brother and his wife already busied themselves with the evening meal, she paused a moment before entering to listen in. The loose floorboard beside the loom creaked and she pushed the door open on silent hinges. He was standing between the loom and the tapestry frame, examining the unfinished piece as he absently dried his hair with a soft towel, and the light brown strands curled wildly against his borrowed shirt. The light linen stretched a little tightly across shoulders broader than her brother’s, and she saw that he had rolled the cuffs up to shorten them a bit. Esmeralda grinned, thinking with some amusement that there was more than shirt size to differentiate the two of them, and she had to admit his easy-going temperament was a welcome change.

“It is meant to be the Brandywine,” she offered from the doorway. “I do hope it looks alright.”

“It does indeed, Miss Esmeralda,” Saradoc replied, startled from his observation. He quickly recovered his composure though, and smiled as he continued, “Though in truth, there is a golden depth to it you won’t find in most rivers, particularly at its heart.”

She came to stand beside him, considering the bright threads that picked out cloud and sun on wood and water, washed out by the thin light from the window. Perhaps a touch of amber among the broken flashes of sunlight just there…

“I’ll have to take it under advisement, Master Saradoc,” she finally said and turned to look him up and down with a measuring eye. She shook her head and sighed. “Well, it’ll have to do till morning when your own things dry out. Come along, supper will be on in a little while,” she said, gathering his wet clothes and leading the way.

********

It came out over supper that rather than an intentional visit, Saradoc had indeed been driven to their doorstep by weather and conniving Fate. Making his first tour of deliveries alone, he had inquired after a shortcut and soon lost his way among the many little lanes that crisscrossed the farmlands between Tuckborough and Michel Delving. His wagon had become stuck in a washed out portion of the road at the bottom of the gently sloping hill that was part of their property. Paladin and his wife had noticed it on their way back from a day visit to Eglantine’s parents, and it had seemed well and truly stuck.

“Well, I think we shall leave the problem to the morrow, as the sun is setting and, given the season, the rain isn’t likely to let up before the middle hour of the night,” Paladin announced as they all rose to clear the table. “You are, of course, welcome to stay the night.”

“My thanks,” Saradoc nodded. “If you will excuse me, I must check to see Mischance is behaving himself in the kind comfort of your stable.”

When he returned, a bottle of Buckland’s finest under his arm, Esmeralda made herself busy in the kitchen, but with an ear to the conversation taking place in the parlor across the hall, where he and her brother and father had retired. Eglantine gave her a long considering look and smiled, hands deep in the hot water in the basin before her.

“So… This is the famous gentlehobbit in the wood. I think I might remember him too if he rescued me,” said the dark-haired hobbitess, with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Well, it’s only proper I be grateful for his kind service,” Esmeralda replied lightly.

“Grateful, yes…” Eglantine murmured.

Esmeralda tried hard to look offended at her best friend’s insinuation and bent to give the already clean table a furious scrub.

“Oh, come on, Esmie… It seems to me I recall ‘dashing’, ‘charming’ and ‘brave’ in the lists we whispered to each other of a summer’s night. There’s nothing wrong with liking what you see in this lad,” Eglantine said, laying a soft hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tinne! I barely know him at all and him a Brandybuck, of all things.”

“Now who’s being ridiculous? I never knew you cared about the old familial prejudices.”

“I don’t. But I’m not about to jump into the arms of the first hobbit to lend me his pony, either.”

Eglantine just smiled, returning to finish her task. They worked in silence a short while, listening to the intermittent conversation in the next room, where brandy was drawing the usually taciturn Paladin into friendly conversation with their guest.

Absentmindedly drying the wide salad bowl, Esmeralda wandered closer to the arched doorway, not noticing Eglantine’s quiet departure, or her knowing smile. Between the alternating song of her brother’s soft-spoken words and Saradoc’s warm tones, she could hear the crackle of the fire and the faint scratch of her father’s quill. She took another step closer to better hear their conversation.

“I must thank you again for taking care of my sister last Spring,” Paladin said, and Esmeralda could practically see his awkward smile; he always took so much upon his own shoulders that she had once feared he would lose that pleasant expression altogether. “It is my fault, really,” he went on. “I could not escort her there and could not convince her to stay.”

“It seems to me that your sister does as her spirit calls, whether anyone would have it or no,” Saradoc replied.

“I hope you can forgive her forwardness.”

“I think very well of your sister,” he said, and she blushed brightly in the dim light of the hallway, the cloth and dish in her hands entirely forgotten. “I think… I think she is beautiful and clever and brave, and unlike any lass I have met in my life.”

“My daughter is my most prized jewel, young buck, and you’d do well to remember it!” Adalgrim spoke suddenly from his deep-cushioned chair. Esmeralda heard the small inkpot shatter as he rose, striding from the room without another word.

All was quiet for a long moment, until Paladin set down his glass with a sigh.

“Time to turn in, I suppose…” he said softly, rising from his chair.

“I need a moment more to find my legs. I’ll be off in the morning.”

Leaving the room on quiet feet, her brother turned down the curving hallway towards the bedrooms, his worried frown illuminated for a moment by the brightly lit kitchen as he walked by without seeing her.

Slipping into the darkened parlor, she found the young Bucklander kneeling beside the fireplace, picking glass from the puddled ink at the edge of the hearth’s gray stone. She debated for a moment the wisdom of trying to explain her father’s strange behavior, but there truly was nothing to be said that could do so; she could only hope the young hobbit was as well-bred as he seemed and would ignore the strange outburst rather than embarrass her further.

“I hope you will not let my father’s protectiveness scare you off, Master Saradoc…” she whispered. “I have too few friends as it is.”

He looked up at her with a crooked smile. “I’m not easily parted from friends, miss, but I would stay in your father’s good books if I can.”

“I suppose that is the wiser thing to do…” Esmeralda said, bending to clean the dark spatter off the floor.

“Take care, there may yet be a few shards I missed in the poor light,” he said, dropping the pieces into the bowl she had carried in with her.

“Trying to save me again? It’s becoming a habit,” she chided teasingly.

“Seems like a full time occupation for someone.”

Esmeralda couldn’t be sure if his sober tone made promise or excuse in the wavering light, and his eyes were firmly fixed upon their ink stained fingers.

********

The next morning arose clear, the sky a high blue to rival any she had ever seen, but Esmeralda couldn’t find it in herself to enjoy it. She had slept ill, uneasy dreams and half-waking thoughts torturing her imagination, and she woke later than was her habit. She came upon Eglantine in the kitchen, clearing the breakfast dishes and she understood from her friend’s apologetic silence that their guest had already gone. She took a cup of tea and a sun sweet peach back to the workroom, gazing at the tapestry as she ate, lost in thought. Unable to make more excuses, Esmeralda finally opened the large trunk whose many tiered trays held a wealth of colored thread, from hair-fine strands-of-gold to thick velvet-soft hanks of umber. She needed to find the right shade of pale mead to add to the Brandywine’s autumnal course.

A soft knock upon the open window startled her from her search and she saw him standing just outside, an uncertain smile lighting his face. Esmeralda came close, still holding the small bobbin of amber thread she had just picked up.

“I could not in all justice leave without saying goodbye,” he said. “Thank you for your lovely hospitality.”

“It was very pleasant to see you again.”

He was quiet a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, or perhaps his courage. At last, his grey eyes met hers.

“Do you think that I might be permitted to call on you again, later in the season?” he asked.

“I don’t know… My father…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what he will think of you the next time. But he would never turn away a hobbit driven here by ill weather or mischance.”

“I shall wish for rain every time trading takes me through Tookland if there is no easier way to see you again, Esmeralda,” he said, and the promise in the words and the sudden flash in his eyes made her heart beat faster.

“Then I fear the River may flood its banks before season’s end…” she whispered. “Yet I too will hope for rain and dream of rivers amber in the sun. Fare you well on your road, Saradoc Brandybuck.”

She started to draw away from the window when he leaned forward, catching up her hand, and he set a burning kiss upon it.

“Rivers in flood have moved mountains before,” he said, turning to climb over the fence to cut across the fields to the lane and his waiting wagon.

Esmeralda watched him go, savoring the feel of that bold kiss and the strange excitement that now tingled through her. She had little doubt that this Autumn would see unprecedented rains.