Eternity and the Language of Flowers

It was an incredibly hot day, although the sky was covered with thick clouds and the air was almost unbearably heavy, and Sam wished he were lying somewhere cool and sheltered. Or wished that at least there were a slight movement of air to ease the discomfort of the humidity. The atmosphere was heavier than the previous day, if it were at all possible, and the Gaffer was certain there would be rain before sunset.

“Aye, we’ve had this good weather for a fortnight now and, nice as it is, the garden needs some waterin’ more than a can gives.” He shook the earth off the weed he had pulled from a flowerbed. “Afore the day’s out, lad. Maybe even by lunchtime. An’ if it rains like it did last time we had this heat, we won’t get nothin’ done in the garden, less we want sweepin’ away with it all.”

Sam pulled another weed from a different part of the flowerbed. “Did you stay at Mrs Proudfoot’s house that time da’?”

The Gaffer shook his head. “Course not, lad! She offered, of course, she felt obliged to, but no, ‘twouldn’t have been the done thing to shelter at her home. Aye, I got wet right through gettin’ back to the Row…but it’s only water, lad. It dries.” He stood up and stretched. “Ah…I’m going to the back garden to trim them bushes now. You finished off what you’re doin’ there with the flowerbeds, lad, then come round and see me.” Sam nodded and Hamfast ambled off through the garden.

Now nine years old, Sam was gradually being given more responsibilities within the garden, and this included being left to do the weeding alone. His Gaffer trusted him enough to be able to discern weed from flower, and thus left him to deal with this menial but important task while he took care of larger, or more complex jobs.

However, Sam felt a little nervous being left alone. It didn’t usually bother him, no matter whose garden they were working in, but today the air was heavy, so heavy, and all was quiet. Sam couldn’t hear any birds singing or any leaves stirring on the trees and plants. The air didn’t move at all, not even with the warm breeze that had been such a blessing the day before, until it faded to nothing around supper-time. The thick air made Sam feel slow and tired, and hot and restless, and seemed to make his skin tingle unpleasantly.

After a few long minutes of struggling with a stubborn dandelion, he sat back on his heels with a sigh and looked up at the dark clouded sky. Then looked down again to poke aimlessly at the offending weed; then distracted himself by picking a loose thread on his well-worn breeches; then--His reverie was suddenly broken with the first distant rumble of thunder.

Sam’s eyes widened and he gasped, sitting up straight. He could only remember one or two storms, but he also remembered that he hated the lightning and thunder, and it usually kept him awake when he wanted to sleep.

Large, fat raindrops began to fall on the garden, landing with a pitter and patter on the leaves, slowly turning the pale, dry earth rich and brown. Sam stood up and looked around for his father. As he turned to face the front of Bag End, he saw a bolt of lightning slice through the heavy dark sky, his large brown eyes growing as wide as saucers. The thunder followed a few seconds after, a rolling rumble that lasted a long, tense moment.

As the rain became heavier, soaking the young hobbit right through, more lightning illuminated the sky and was followed, much too quickly for Sam’s liking, by deafening cracks of thunder. Trembling, Sam gathered up the gardening tools he borrowed from his father and hastily packed them into their carrying bag. His small hands were shaking so much he was hardly able to fasten the buckles on the bag, and as the thunder roared again, he abandoned all attempts and ran around the garden frantically looking for his dad.

“Daddy! Daddy! Where are you? Where have you gone?” He cried, his soaking face stark white. His brown curls were plastered again his forehead and the light summer shirt he wore stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He shrieked as the thunder shouted angrily at him, much closer than ever before, crackling and rumbling on and on, until Sam thought it must have ran all the way around the Shire and back to where he stood. “Daddy!”

Ham at this point, however, was approaching his home on Bagshot Row. As the thunder had started, he stopped working and, after a quick scout around the garden for his son - who was in turn looking for him - the Gaffer assumed that Sam must have set off home already and hurried down the road himself before the weather got worse.

Sam decided he’d had enough - he didn’t want to be outside anymore. He crept along the side of Bag End to the still-open kitchen door, then huddled under the slight overhang. The lightning flashed once, twice, and in a fit of sheer panic, Sam ran inside, servant of the Bagginses or no. He didn’t have a clue where he was going, just ran as far back into the hole under the hill as he could, hoping that would keep the storm away. He scurried into the last room on his left at the end of the dark passage, slammed the door behind him and threw himself under the desk that sat conveniently in the corner opposite him. The room was warm and dark. And, being the furthest room from the front of Bag End, had no windows, only lamps and plenty of candles, none of which were alight at present, as no-one was working there. From his hiding place, the thunder was only an occasional dull rumble. Shivering and trembling with fright, the little hobbit curled up and fell asleep with his thumb in his mouth.

***

Frodo looked out of the kitchen window. The sky had brightened and the storm had moved on, leaving the ground all over Hobbiton refreshed. He smiled as he took in the lush vibrant colours of the garden, then lifted the tea tray he was preparing and carried it through to the living room. “The garden looks wonderful now the rain has been, Uncle,” he said as he poured Bilbo a cup of tea.

“I don’t doubt it, lad. We were in sore need of it. Even Ham can’t revive a rain-starved flower. He can only give them what there is to give, and in just the last few days, that hasn’t stretched as far as rain.”

“Where is the gaffer, Uncle Bilbo? I saw him first thing this morning…”

“I suspect he may have gone home, Frodo, unless he is hiding in the shed.” Bilbo said, giving his nephew a somewhat cheeky grin. Frodo rolled his eyes and laughed good-naturedly before heading towards his study to practice translation on the poetry Bilbo had given him.

He pushed open the door and reached for the taper to light the lamps and candles. As he was doing so, he became aware of a few dark wet patches on the soft, thick carpet, and wonder if the roof was leaking. Once the last lamp was lit, Frodo could see that there were more than just a few of these wet patches, and they led up to his study desk.

Seeing no apparent problem with the low roof, Frodo walked over to his desk, knelt on the floor and peered underneath. What he saw made his eyes nearly pop out of his head and his mouth opened in surprise. “Sam?!”

The boy awoke with a start and tried to sit up in the cramped space under the table. “Oh, Mr Frodo! Oh, you frighted me!” He struggled to sit up then looked at Frodo with wide, scared eyes, and didn’t make a move to come out from under the piece of furniture acting as his shelter.

“How long have you been there? How did you get there? Won’t you come out?”

Sam crawled forward until he was out in the open again and avoided gazing up at Frodo. “I’m s-sorry, M-Mr Frodo!” Sam’s eyes flitted around the room nervously as he tried to hold back his tears. “It-it’s just…it was stormin’ so bad outside and…and I got so scared with the lightnin’ and thunder!” He sniffled loudly and added quietly, “I just wanted to hide from it.” He wiped his eyes on the still-wet material of his shirt.

Frodo pulled they soggy-Sam into his lap and hugged him. “Oh, it’s alright, dear Sam! The storm has passed now, I think its going to another part of the Shire. I don’t mind that you hid in here from it. I don’t like them much either, but I had Bilbo to tell me it was all right. I wish I had seen you or heard you come in, Sam. Then we could have sat together and listened to Bilbo’s stories.” Sam sighed deeply and leaned heavily against Frodo. “You want to go home now?”

Sam nodded. He’d have to face his gaffer sometime and, boy, he wouldn’t be happy with this.


As Sam squelched his way down the path from Bag End, he spotted a small group of children, no older than himself, throwing stones and acorns at something at the side of the muddy path. He squinted and saw the something fluttered weakly. As he approached, he realised it was a bird, which had likely fallen out of it’s nest during the storm.

“Hoy! Leave it alone!” He shouted and pushed his way through the throng of hobbits to get to the injured creature.

“Oh, Samwise, it’s just a bird.”

“It fell out its nest durin’ the storm - it’ll probably die soon, anyway.”

“Aye, a cat’ll eat it.”

“Yes, my cat, Ginger!”

“No! Leave it!” Sam pushed one of the bigger lads out of the way and stooped to pick up the bird. But before he could scoop it up, the lad he had pushed grabbed hold of his shirt and shoved him across the path into the hedgerow. “Oh, Hugh, let him alone! He’s jus’ bein’ Sam, not doin’ no harm.” Hugh’s sister reached to pull him back.

“He pushed me out of the way, so I’ll push him an’ see how he likes it!”

Sam flailed around in an effort to untangle himself from the spiky thorns and twigs. Hugh grabbed one of his arms and yanked him up hard. “Yow! That hurt, stop it!” Sam made to push the older boy again but was prevented from making any movement by a fist in his face. He cried out and fell to the ground, lifting a hand to tentatively touch his bruised face, then felt a hard foot connect with his mouth.

“Hugh Brambleleaf! That is enough!” His sister shouted and grabbed her little brother fiercely by the ear, ignoring his squeals for her to let go and marched off in the direction of their home. “Jus’ you wait ‘til I tell mam what you’ve done now!” The other children followed after Rose Brambleleaf, wanting to see how Hugh would be punished.

Sam, on the other hand, crawled over to where the bird still lay and carefully scooped it up. The poor creature was wet and cold and very quiet, and it quivered slightly, which upset Sam a little. As he stood gently stroking the bird’s soggy feathers, Bilbo came to the door of Bag End, having heard all the commotion. “Samwise! What was all that about?” He shouted as he marched down the path. “Have you been fighting?”

“No, sir! I-I- I was walkin’ home and there was these children throwin’ stones at the bird, Mr Bilbo! And then…then Hugh Brambleleaf hit me, cos I pushed him out the way to get to the bird.” Sam held the sparrow closer, as if Bilbo were a predator who would take it away.

Noticing Sam’s bloodied lip, Bilbo pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to him. “Here you go, lad. I’m not angry with you, don’t look so worried!”

“Thank you, Mr Bilbo.” Sam took the pro-offered handkerchief and wrapped his precious bundle in it, allowing his small fingers to stroke the bird’s head again.

Bilbo opened his mouth to tell Sam the handkerchief was for *him* to use, but was touched by the picture presented to him: his littlest gardener nursing the tiny creature that now looked up at the provider of its new security. “Hello, birdie,” Sam whispered.

“Samwise, come back inside and we’ll get you…both…cleaned up.”

Once inside, dried and warmed up, Sam helped Bilbo look over the sparrow for signs of injury. “I think it may have a broken wing, Sam. See how it hangs limp? And I think he needs to sit in your hands and stay warm.”

Sam looked sadly at his little pet. “Can you fix his wing?”

Bilbo, looking slightly pained, replied as truthfully as he dared. “I could try. But I do not wish to get your hopes up Sam - he might be too ill, or too sad to get better again.”

“Too sad?”

Bilbo bit his lip and thought carefully. “Well Sam, he loves to fly, and sing and be free. It makes him happy. That’s where he gets his cheerful spirit.”

“Just like gardenin’ makes me an’ the Gaffer happy? And reading makes you an’ Mr Frodo happy? And…it makes me happy too?”

“Yes.” Bilbo stroked the bird’s broken wing gently. “What would happen if you weren’t able to work anymore? Or read, or do all the things that made you happy?”

Sam’s eyes clouded with tears, remembering how devastated he had been when his father threatened to stop his lessons, and after only his first, too. “I-I’d be so, so sad…I…” Sam suddenly understood why Bilbo said his little bird may be too ill to get better. “But I love him…he looks at me like…like he knows I won’t never hurt him, and I’m his friend and I’ll look after him…” The sparrow gave a tiny shudder and moved in Sam’s gentle hands. Sam looked back up at Bilbo.

“I could try splinting the wing, but it could only delay…the inevitable. What is going happen.”

“Could we try anyway? I’ll try anything to help the birdie…even if it’s only for a little while.”

Bilbo diplomatically agreed, and that evening, Sam went home with a sparrow tucked safely inside his coat pocket. As soon as he walked through the door, he hurriedly said goodnight to his mother and father, leaving his explanation of where he had been all afternoon until the following day. He went to his bedroom, and changed from his damp clothes into a fresh, warm nightshirt. Then he lay down on his right side under his blankets with the tiny bird at beside him, and he nursed it and sang hushed lullabies until he fell asleep.

***

The next morning, Sam awoke to find the sparrow dead. His mother came in to rouse him for breakfast, and found him already sat at the edge of his bed, crying over a small object wrapped in a red and white-spotted handkerchief. “Sam-dear, whatever are you crying for?”

“Birdie died while I was asleep! I tried to help him get better, but-but Mr Bilbo said he might not get better and…he didn’t…Because he was too ill. And too sad.”

Bell was reminded of the gentle singing she had heard coming from his room as she passed by the previous night, then saw the reason for his abruptness when he arrived home that evening. She sat beside Sam and ran her fingers through her dark chestnut hair, pushing stray bits behind her ears. “I’m sure you and Mr Bilbo did all you could for it, love. And I’m sure the little bird wouldn’t have been too sad when he died. You mind o’ your Great Aunt Lily? When we heard she wasn’t going to get better, your father and I went to visit her, and stayed over. In the mornin’, she…had passed, too. But we knew that she hadn’t been sad, because we were there. She wasn’t alone, and she had people around she loved and knew loved her.”

Sam sighed and sniffed wetly, wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his nightshirt, and looked back at the still bundle of feathers in his hands. “I should prob’ly put him somewhere where he can sleep then.”

Bell smiled and hugged her son close, one hand around his shoulders and the other stroking his brown curls soothingly. “Aye, there’s m’lad,” she whispered, then kissed his brow.

“Love you, birdie. I’m sorry you couldn’t get better. It was nice havin’ you for a little while, anyway. Better than lettin’ those others hurt you more.” Sam placed the box into a small hole in the ground and covered it, patting the earth carefully into place. “Bye, bye, little friend.”

Then he stood up, brushed dry earth from his trousers, and followed his father up to Bag End.

~End, part 3~