Roots and Shelter, Fire and Scars
by Sally Gardens

A bit of jam and bread, I think, is the perfect finish to a perfect picnic in my favorite picnic spot.

Of late I've noticed that I seem to be filling out my clothes again; for a long while the image in my mirror gazed back at me as if I were a child playing dress up, a gaunt frame swathed in too much cloth. Gaunt, thankfully, has been put behind me, to trouble me only in memory; Sam has been keeping us both well fed, and for this I am grateful. I never want to be hungry again.

I watch my hand as it holds the jam knife, the knife's rounded blade painting strawberry jam in little whorls over the golden-crusted white bread. My hand, too, has filled out, broadened; it looks less awful, somehow, with a layer of flesh between bones and world. Even the stub of my third finger, in this context, appears unremarkable. It could be nothing more than the memory of an accident, a most unfortunate slip of a sharp blade.

Of course, then my mind has to consider that any slip of a blade that would take the ring finger would almost certainly have taken the little finger as well.

I think, instead, I will occupy my mind with strawberry jam and fresh bread.

What is the use of dwelling on it? I cannot change what happened. I am here, today, in my beloved Shire, sitting upon my favorite hill beneath my favorite tree, and the loss of my finger and all the sacrifices and gains contained in the memory of its loss demand to be honored by not allowing the blessing of sweet jam and soft bread to pass without due reverence.

I lean back against the tree, settling comfortably, as if in the embrace of an old friend.

I had discovered this hill, this tree, on a ramble. I'd started out walking one morning last summer, north and west, driven by a desperation to feel rooted in the Shire again, and to feel the Shire take root again in me. Walking did that, somehow, and on that particular day it seemed as if I could not get my fill.

By the time I'd come to awareness of such distractions as heat and fatigue, the sun was high in the southern sky. I had lifted my head to drink from my water bottle, and that was when I found my tree: a striking, lone tree, set high in defiance against the northern winds, a dark and twisted silhouette against the clear blue summer sky. It looked as if it would hardly give shade to a robin, but I climbed the hill, all the same, and for my labor I was rewarded: Despite the tree's bent and barren appearance from a distance, up close I could see clusters of leaves growing from some of its branches on the far side, the side that had been hidden to me from where I had stood before.

I'd sat in the shade of that tree, taking my rest as I leaned back against its battered, scarred trunk. And when at last I returned to the front porch of Bag End, the sun hovering low in the west, I got the scolding of my life from Sam. How could I go wandering off without my Sam and leave him to worry himself sick and prepare a day's worth of meals to be left sitting on the table feeding naught but the flies?

"I found the most splendid hill for a picnic," I told him, and in spite of himself he gave me that odd little grin of his, and I knew all was forgiven, if not forgotten. Later that week, we'd set out with the ponies and a picnic lunch to make a day of it.

Sam, I could tell, had not been nearly as impressed with my splendid picnic hill as I had been; but, bless him, he'd simply spread the cloth on the ground beneath the tree and started unpacking our basket.

We've come back quite a few times since then. We make the time; Sam sees to it. Even when I insist on taking a picnic out of season, he may shake his head, but he is there, packing the lunch and riding with me to spend a noontime with me on my hill.

I'm not sure where he's wandered off to, now. I think it's a sign of spending too much time with me; he seems to have acquired my appreciation of the merits of a solitary walk, though his solitary walks tend to be of a more reasonable duration than mine. Or maybe he simply wanted to allow me the company of my thoughts for a while, leaning against the old tree.

*

My thoughts return to another tree, back in the Woody End. The night that we were met by the Elves, and by Elrond, and by Galadriel, is never far from my mind. It was a blessed night; it was a bitter night. The hardest thing I have ever had to do, apart from the Quest itself, was to meet Bilbo's expectant cheer with the announcement of my decision:

"Only as far as the Havens, dearest Bilbo; but I will see you on your way."

He did not understand.

All that long road through the Shire, we three Hobbits, Ring-bearers all, were honored greatly by the Elves who traveled with us. Along that road, I often felt Elrond's gaze upon me; I sensed he was trying to understand how I could have rejected so great an offer, so singular a gift, one that countless others among Mortalkind had coveted but been denied.

I am glad that he contented himself with wondering, and did not ask; for I would not have been able to give him an answer. I did not know why I could not choose the Sea; I knew only that I wanted the Shire, and Sam at my side. I had already paid a great price for the Shire; if I must continue to make payment in order to keep it, then so it would be.

As we neared the end of our road, we were met by Gandalf, who was, to no surprise of mine nor Sam's, riding Shadowfax. I would swear that Gandalf saw my choice in my eyes, before I had said so much as a "good evening" to him. When I did tell him, he looked gravely at Elrond, then back at me, but said nothing.

That night, as Sam and Bilbo lay sleeping, and the Elves were taking rest in their own way, Gandalf spoke quietly to me as we sat a little apart from the rest of the company.

"Are you sure, Frodo, that you have made the right decision?"

I sighed. Heavily, and rather dramatically, as I recall.

"No, Gandalf," I said to him, and there was a bit of an edge to my voice when I said it. "Of course I am not sure. As you are fond of saying, not even the very wise can see all ends."

He said nothing to that, but I saw a distinct gleam in his eyes. Or perhaps it was only our little camp fire reflecting off their jet-black depths.

I tempered my voice as I continued talking. "And even what I see, or think I see, I trust not to guide me. I fear such visions are like Galadriel's mirror, showing only possibilities, hopes, fears; not what shall be, or what must be, but what may be. And there are many such may-be's on my road, Gandalf. In the end, I have only my heart to guide me, and my commitment to sustain me, and to trust that wisdom will find a way to meet me wherever I walk."

I watched him as he puffed his pipe.

"Why don't you blow smoke rings anymore?" For it suddenly occurred to me that I had not seen him do so since long before that day I had awakened in Ithilien. And he looked sharply at me, his great bushy brows knit close, as if he were pondering what sort of an odd creature had all of a sudden landed in his path. And then he laughed, quickly suppressing it lest he wake the others, but still, he laughed.

"My dear Frodo," he said. He regarded me anew, and there was a glimmer of—hope?—in his regard. "Perhaps...perhaps..." His voice faded, and he was left smiling to himself. He lifted the pipe again to his lips, and to my delight—I was still capable of delight; what wonder—he took great care in creating a series of perfect smoke rings. One ring, two rings, three rings, more, linking together in a great chain like a bridge spanning the Shire and the Sea.

I was content to sit in the stillness of the night, watching him indulge my simple amusement with the smoke of his pipe, but after a time he spoke up again, a gentle murmur beneath the soft breaths of our slumbering companions.

"Sam chose you."

I watched the chain of smoke ascend. "He did."

"He might have wed, raised a family; yet he turned his back on that may-be and instead took the road that followed yours."

"Yes." I silently prayed that Sam would not rue that choice.

Gandalf's eyes were on me then, keen and searching. "Why, then, do you not sail, and bring him with you?"

That I had not considered.

But, considering the question, I found myself shaking my head. "I cannot do that to him. The Shire is his home—" I looked away, back toward the land I had left behind me, the land to which I had pledged my return. "As, someday, I hope, it shall once again be mine."

Gandalf said nothing at first; then, gently, his hand came to rest on mine. "And so may it be," he softly blessed me. "And so may it be."

*

And so, I think it shall be. If, indeed, it already has not become.

I am leaning on the old tree. It is not really old, as trees are accounted; but it bears the marks of hardship, scarred by axes that would have felled it, scorched by fire that would have consumed it, bent and twisted by exposure to wind and rain and storm on its high, barren hill.

And yet it lives, to green anew with every spring.

"Frodo."

I turn. He smiles, and I am in his arms, embracing him, feeling my roots sink deep into the soil of the Shire. My eyes are closed, my face burrowed into his shoulder, and I breathe deeply of the earth.

He holds me, saying nothing, just clinging and sheltering and strengthening with nothing more than the clasp of his arms around my back.

Eventually, and quite reluctantly, he says, "We'd better be going home."

That is all, but I hear all that it carries that he does not say: I want you safe in your own bed tonight. Safe at home where I can watch over you and care for you, because we both know what tomorrow will bring.

Tomorrow is March thirteenth. There will be storms, and fire, and wounds to tend.

And yet...

And yet.

I live.

Text © Sally Gardens