Chapter IIII

We slowly pass under the layering clouds as the autumn West Wind brings to our lungs the scent of pine and blows the nearby smoke of a chimney like a hand grasping to the failing summer. The rays of the sun reach through, in places, the overlaid canopy of branches that are forced to bow under its probing eye, as the cold wind chills the bark and the barren tree writhes in a torment of cold. I dare not look up; knowing all too well the horrific sight of life pleading for life would faithfully meet my eye, along with the sun that I cannot bear to see.

The horseÂ’s feet and the wagon wheels gradually journey across the carpet of leaves, which rustle and whisper and promise to serve us still. In the back of the wagon and facing the direction from which we came, I can see the leaves left alone, already forsaken of use and now waving to the wagon that left them lying in the road. I alone hear their whispers, their callings, their pleadings for us to come back, and so strong and desperate is their need of worth that almost I bid Sam to turn around and give them their last- once more.

We keep moving onward yet still they scream at me or whisper in low voices the last words they shall speak.

“We’ll come back,” I assure them, giving them something that death can wait for. And then suddenly, every leaf that before flew returns softly to the earth and all is still. Patience.

I turn around and look at Sam, Rose and Elanor, all smiling happily as if this were a joyful occasion, not at all aware of the funeral that was just now sentenced. But no- this is a joyful occasion: the harvest has at last come round to greet us. I return my gaze to the disappearing road, down the path we came. I risk a glance at the grey-shaded sky, the layered clouds being torn by the sharp-ended branches; and then down toward the earth with the fallen leaves that dare not breathe in the melancholy silence. A family of quails, though, seems to not take notice of the silence in which their tiny hearts beat, perhaps their ears being able to hear only the cry of other birds and the flapping of far-off wings. They heed not the trot of a horse or the creak of a wheal or the dying whispers of a leaf; they suffer the earth and its creatures but bear not their voices, and so they live peacefully in another world.

Yes, their journey is easy: soon they will fly over these trees and leave us for another road, like we left the leaves to continue down the only road we are given. And yes, this occasion could be joyful, could be just another time of year, just another side of life, but still I ask myself: “With the sun so weak, will not life fail?”

The pace of the horse seems to quicken, perhaps in attempt to race me through my thoughts or perhaps encouraged by the site of open land beyond this prison of trees. I turn around and like the gaiety of a mortalÂ’s smile, the scene that greets me seems to withhold all truth of my deepest thoughts and yet release me of them. Open fields to imitate the Sea are laid before us like a golden rug that will lead us to a paradise; the trees upon the bare horizon grow like our harbor; and the shadows of clouds sail slowly westward. Then to our left, we see a hobbit hole along with a barn, sitting humbly among all this beauty.

“There’s Milo,” says Sam, and whistles in awe.

“Sure is pretty out here,” Rosie compliments, as Elanor stirs in her arms.

“Guess we’ll go down this way,” Sam says mostly to himself as he adjusts the horse to descend the hill the woods had opened upon in a diagonal direction.

“There’s the barn,” Sam points out so Elanor, now awakened, can see.

In this world of seemingly unending glory and magnificence, the humble hobbit hole and barn seem to be the only thing that can grasp our hearts and tug at the reins. ItÂ’s an easy journey to descend the hill in this direction, with the destination of a fellow hobbit amid an endlessness of beauty and nothingness. We allow the grass-covered hole and wooden barn to take the whole of our eyes, and nothing is so beautiful as the sight that captivates us and forbids us to blink.

“There’s our haven,” I say silently.

******
Withered old hands unhitch the horse, a worn voice greets us cheerily, and the name of this being is called out by a stranger:

“Miles Haseberry! So nice to meet you.” Rosie extends her small, smooth hand, which is then taken by one wrinkled and splintered.

“Hello, hello, nice to meet you,” Milo says, shaking her and Sam’s hands and bowing slightly. “Glad you could all make it.”

He looks around and catches my eye from where I stand behind Sam and Rosie. My dark green elvish cloak is blown slightly by the wind, the brooch clasped loosely about my neck, perhaps, though I can not tell, revealing the glimmer of a jewel that lies against my chest. The locks of my hair blow into my face, but still I hold his gaze firmly and steadily without blinking. He narrows his eyes and cocks his head, and seems to stiffen as he looks me over. He takes one step forward.

“Oh, umm….” He mumbles, looking to Sam as if for an answer and gesturing his hand at me. “Who’s this?” His gruff voice seems to summon all the courage within him, but though sharp, the voice still has a subtle indication of fear that I can perceive.

Sam frowns and turns to me, and seeing only me, smiles a little nervously and answers:

“Oh, well, I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce you two. This is my master, Mr. Frodo Baggins of Bag End, whom me and my family now live with.” Sam’s voice is proud, whatever he feels, and I smile at him.

The creases etched in the manÂ’s face smooth with a small, nervous smile as he nods to Sam. And it seems to me that he unclenches his fists before he extends an open hand to welcome me.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Frodo,” he says with a small, humble voice, without any traces of the strong one that he seems to have abandoned. “Sorry for my sharpness, the troubles are still to near for me to be warm and welcoming to strangers.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Haseberry. Yes, I understand, but there’s nothing to worry about anymore.” I give back the smile and handshake.

“Yes, Mr. Frodo’s right,” Sam puts in. “Mr. Merry Brandybuck and Mr. Pippin Took showed the surviving ruffians to the borders. Everything’s safe now, so you needn’t worry.”

Milo eyes Sam doubtfully, and then hobbles over and continues unhitching the horse. His back to us, he mutters:

“We used to think we were safe too, but you can’t trust nothing.” His hands fumble with the harness, and I discover I am the only one as heard the words.

“Ya’ll want some water or something before we start the pickin’?” he asks with a louder voice.

“Water would be nice, thank you, after our trip,” Sam replies gratefully, after a questioning look towards his wife.

Milo nods as he walks to the round door and enters. A moment- and then the sound of pouring water can be heard from within.

******
Life had become so pale to me. It was but a faint glow in the darkness that was long ago but a shadow. I still can only vaguely remember the shadowÂ’s beginning, when first my soul endured the possession that later lead to my corruption. Only vaguely.

Only vaguely I can remember the evil, only vaguely I can remember the power, only vaguely I can remember the exhaustion, and only vaguely I can remember It. Right now, death seems so far away, away in the same place where I was once near. Here in these cornfields that stretch for miles and miles, with the infinite sky overhead, still death seems farther than the distant horizon, beyond even the bliss I can finally feel.

I smile as I watch little Elanor walk for a short while on her own two feet, looking up in wonder at the towering corn stalks that seem to touch the sky. Her right hand still held within her motherÂ’s, she reaches her left up- up toward the heavens as if the angels would take her by the hand and let her in.

“What are you doing Elanor? Huh? Reaching for the sky?” I ask her quietly as I walk up behind her. “May I?” Rosie nods, smiling, and so I lift Elanor into my frail arms. She giggles and laughs, and soon falls to smiling at the cornstalks, now a little closer to reach. She lifts her arms up as I hold her from within my own, yet being a hobbit, I know she will never reach the top but that is something I would never tell her. Her arms flail and extend their full yet short length. I laugh.

Sam looks behind at us and stops a moment, a laugh betraying the tear in his eye as I look at him suddenly. I know his happiness is beyond the kind I shall ever feel, and knowing I at last gave this to him brings a happiness that even the sorrow only I know cannot taint.

“Elanor wishes to reach the sky,” I inform her father, who laughs again.

“And it looks like you’re helping her,” Rosie says, eyeing me as she continues walking.

“Well, of course I am. Aren’t I, Elanor?” She looks at me and squirms as I try to kiss her.

Sam shakes his head and turns back to the road ahead with Rose alongside, and I continue walking again, still holding Elanor as she strives to reach.

******
The silence soon steals our consciousness of each other, though, as we begin the harvesting of corn. The menacing stalks begin to merely blend in with the thoughts that seem so alien to this place and time, and yet everything lives on perfectly within our dreams. The only sound is the awaited rustling of the stalks and faraway trees, a sound that seems to only push us onward into our own world. The numbness of my arms, the closing of my eyes, the surrendering of sorrow to this blissfulness that cannot be eternal. And yet it pretends to be.

SamÂ’s strong hands taking with sureness the corn, RoseÂ’s delicate hands placing the corn in the basket, and their daughter sitting contentedly on the earth, playing with some pebbles, is a sight that should be eternal. This should have been years ago, and the reality of this moment should be well awarded to us. But where are those smiles, those un-rhythmic beats of the heart, which I would have exchanged with my friends? Those smiles that live in our dreams, in our thoughts, in the shards of our broken hearts, in the faded moments that seemed so vivid when they were lived, and time had not yet taken them away. Where has time taken them? Is this where they return, in these cornfields, is this where time gives us back what he stole from us? Can life ever provide what was already provided so many years ago?

I look to my left slightly as I steal a look at the face of Milo. His narrowed eyes creating the creases that age has given to that stern forehead, deep thoughts drawing themselves all along his body. The eyes faded by sorrow, the mouth soured by stinging words, you can take one glance of him and see every trial, failure, and success worn clearly as war wounds or ribbons upon his small figure. After a while standing is too much for him, and so he sits on his knees and picks at the lower produce of corn.

“Sure is peaceful out here,” Rosie comments, probably trying to make polite conversation.

“Indeed it is,” Miles says back, and silence soon again allures all minds to fill it with thoughts rather than words. I, of course, am content with this, though most hobbits are not.

“Begging your pardon, Milo,” Rosie tries again, “but have you been married before?” This, of course, is a simple attempt to pry some words out of his mouth, just for the sake of talking; but Milo bows his head and is quiet for a while still.

“When the troubles began, they took her,” he says, in a very gruff voice. “I was down at the Sagebush’s, helping them fix their gate, and when I came back she was gone.”

The wind blows, as if the very voice of death has come to remind us all of what awaits us all. Silence.

“Gone?” Sam tries, his voice unable to keep from breaking in syllables. “The ruffians took her? Did they take her to the Lockholes?”

“Well, yes… they did. But… when they released everyone they a’ tol’ me she had passed.”

The wind shatters a tree and a whirlwind of leaves blow upon the grass, as if dancing in the ending celebration of life.

“Milo,” I whisper, as if the instinctive comfort falls dead upon my lips. There are no words to say. So much destruction, and hurt, so many wounds that were given to the innocent because the evil I bore alone could strike so many from where it hung around my neck. And because I cowered under its weight.

“I- I’m so sorry, Miles. So sorry,” Rosie says, voicing the words that must be spoken though they are never heard.

Milo nods. “Yes. She was the most beautiful lass I ever saw in my life.” He sighs and starts picking the corn again. “Sometimes I can still hear her laughter, as if she never was gone at all.”

And for some odd reason he smiles, he smiles at the clouds with such joy that he closes his eyes as if such beauty can only be found within his own being. And it strikes me like a blow, that he who lost his love can still smile, when I who lost my precious can not. Such a craved love as mine can never heal when lost; such a love as his can never be lost at all. And as I look at this hobbit, I envy him: he who loved and lost. When I am lost whenever I love.

“What was her name, Miles?” I ask him quietly. What is the name of this most pure being that can still bring a smile to his face when gone?

“Daisy,” he answers.

The wind sweeps through the row of cornstalks and takes with it the name of someone past, so it can echo it in foreign lands and so brings tidings of one whose thread did not reach their distance.

******
“Are you getting tired, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asks upon hearing the soft sigh that I release.

Hours have tugged at the sun and have at last brought it down to meet our own eyes from where we still stand, only a ways away from where we began earlier. The earlier large, white sailing vessels have now dissipated and have become thin, feathery clouds with the slightest tinge of grey. Soon the light blue sky will darken and will open like the oceanÂ’s fathomless abyss, with the scattered stars as the only fish in the sky.

Seeing all this beauty and magnificence, cradling it within my own narrow eyes, my soul is as lost as it were when all I beheld was shadow. The sigh I let go was only released in hope of letting my memories go with it; memories only now prevailing to taint the day as it appears the sun is loosing its battle with the moon. ‘What light will the stars bring? What guidance will be offered of the moon?’ Such thoughts tangle themselves with memories, memory battles against reality, all this occurs within my soul as Sam can see clearly the toll it inflicts upon my body.

“Yes, Sam, I am a bit weary,” I say softly, as I bow my head and yet reach up another time for another ear of corn.

SamÂ’s face is, of course, very gentle, as if the beauty we see in all living things was determined to grace this mortal in particular; as if able, for once, to create oneÂ’s body as the exact image of its soul. My face, once soft and willowy, is now hard and aged, yet still very honest upon the life it has lived: it is like the innocent clouds that somehow become engaged in a storm. Sam knows this; he has seen this face ever since the day the other one received its first scar. And he accepts it now, but never without the concern my anguished eyes give to his.

“Maybe you and Milo could go back to his hole, and rest a bit,” Sam suggests, eyeing the leisured form of Milo that sits propped up against some sturdy stalks of corn behind me. “We can finish this row and follow you both later on.”

Rose Gamgee continues picking the corn, humming quietly some song as she smiles down upon her daughter who is playing with some pebbles. The farmerÂ’s daughter and gardenerÂ’s wife, Rosie, seems to be not weary a bit, plucking the corn and putting it in the basket, glancing at the sky, and breathing deeply, she seems perfectly content.

I smile at Elanor and Rosie, and then at Sam as I answer him thus: “Okay, but I suppose I should wake Milo up though, eh?” I smile as Sam laughs.

I walk over to Milo and shake him slightly on the shoulder.

“Milo,” I whisper, “Milo,” until he wakes up with a start and he agrees with apparent relief that he’ll take us to his home.

The stalks cast long shadows along the ground as we start walking the long walk toward our haven: the humble barn and hole. The wind is up and blowing again, and the sun is strong and blinding as I look back towards my friends.

“See you later, Rosie and Sam. Good-bye.”

To Be Continued…

A N Again, thank you all for Reading and Reviewing! I’ve worked very hard on this story, and it has become very dear to me, so please keep reading and telling me your thoughts!

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