Garden Song by StarSpray

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Garden Song

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1506
Shire Reckoning

 

It was a quiet, peaceful summer evening in the Shire. The sun had not quite set yet, but twilight was approaching, and in the east the first stars were starting to glimmer. Frodo Gardner sighed in contentment as he lounged on a blanket beside the Water, watching young Sam splash about trying to catch tadpoles. “Look, Granddad!” Sam cried, pointing to a nearby log. “One, two, three, four, five frogs! Just like the song!”

Frodo sat up to see better, and spotted a sixth farther along the frog. He decided not to point it out. “So there are,” he said. “Well spotted, Sam.” He went to take another puff of his pipe but found that he’d used up all the pipe weed. Ah well. “It’ll be supper time soon,” he said. “Let’s go get you cleaned up so your grandma and ma don’t scold the two of us for tracking mud into their nice clean dining room.”

Sam splashed out of the water as Frodo rolled up the blanket and pocketed his pipe. It was a very pleasant walk back up to Bag End. The Party Field remained a field, but Frodo’s father had spent much of his time in later years, after he gave up the mayorship for good, expanding the already famous gardens of Bag End so that they trailed down toward the field. A path lined with small white stones led down from the Hill to a bench that old Gimli had made for them, settled beneath the branches of the mallorn tree. It was carved with many interesting images, all ripe for stories both remembered and newly-made up.

As they made their way up the field, Sam merrily sung the speckled frog song, looping back to the beginning once he got to the end. Frodo hummed along, half his mind on his grandson and the other half on what they were to have for supper that evening, until Sam paused, and tugged on Frodo’s hand. “Granddad, who’s that?”

“Who’s who?” Frodo asked, glancing down, and then up to where Frodo was pointing. There was a tall figure standing beneath the mallorn tree—quite unexpected, since no Big Folk had entered the Shire since the King had made his edict, except for Elves, but everyone agreed that they didn’t really count, especially since they never stayed for long. The only elf who had come and gone more than once from the Shire was Legolas, but even he had not visited since Frodo’s father had gone away. “Well, would you look at that,” said Frodo. “Come on, let’s go say hello.”

“Can we invite him to supper, Granddad?”

“He might be a she,” Frodo said. “But yes, of course. Only most Elves don’t want to linger very long here in the Shire, if they’re coming through on their way to the Havens.”

“What if he’s coming the other way?”

“I never met an Elf coming the other way, my lad.” It was a sad thing. The Wandering Companies, like those who traveled with Gildor, had been one of Frodo’s favorite parts of the story in the Red Book, and he had been bitterly disappointed to learn that they were no more. He’d spent a great deal of time in his tweens wandering around the Woody End hoping for a glimpse of them anyway.

This Elf was not like the others Frodo had met before. His clothes were worn and a little ragged around the hems, much mended and patched. His boots were scuffed and equally worn, though his cloak seemed to be relatively new. His hair was long and loose about his shoulders, dark and wavy. When he turned to look at them Frodo saw that his eyes glinted with a light that seemed more than just starlight. He stopped a respectful distance away and bowed; Sam copied him, a little clumsily. “Well met, my good Elf,” said Frodo. “I’m Frodo Gardner, at your service, and this is my grandson, Samwise.”

The Elf bowed, far more gracefully than either Frodo or Sam. “Well met,” he said. “But forgive me—I thought that both Frodo and Samwise had departed these shores.”

Frodo smiled. “Oh, you mean Mister Frodo Baggins—that’s who I’m named for, but he went away with Master Elrond and the Lady Galadriel, before I was even born. And my dad, Samwise Gamgee, he went away west some twenty years ago after my ma died. What brings you to the Shire, Master Elf?”

It was the Elf’s turn to smile, though it was a sad, wistful sort of look. He laid a hand on the mallorn tree. “I heard of a mallorn growing west of the Mountains and east of the Sea, the fairest of its kind in Middle-earth. I was coming this way, and wanted to see it for myself.”

“Ah, yes.” Frodo nodded. “Lots of folk come to take a look at it. My Dad planted that—the little nut, he said, was a gift from Lady Galadriel herself, with some soil from her own garden away in Lothlórien.”

“Great-granddad used all that to make everything grow again like magic after Sharkey’s Men came and ripped up all the trees!” Sam announced, bouncing from one foot to the other. “And that’s why Great-Auntie Elanor has golden hair, because all the hobbit-children born that year did, just like the Lady Galadriel.”

“I don’t know about that,” Frodo said. “Anyway, Master Elf, you’re quite welcome to join us for supper if you like. Don’t worry about fitting in the furniture—we have seats made special for when Legolas comes to visit.” When the Elf hesitated, glancing over his shoulder toward the road West, Frodo added, “The Sea isn't going anywhere, so far as I know. Certainly it’ll be there tomorrow.”

“That is—very kind. Thank you.” The Elf followed them up through the field, and lingered in the garden, gazing about with obvious appreciation at the riot of flowers. The colors were muted in the growing twilight, but their fragrance hung in the air around them. “It has been a long time since I have seen such a lovely garden,” said the Elf. “Your family’s name is well earned.”

“Thank you!” said Frodo. “My Dad, Samwise, and his dad before him, were gardeners for the Bagginses all the way back to when Mister Bilbo lived here. Mister Bilbo always did love his flowers, and my dad especially loved them, though Granddad Hamfast was the one to go to for questions of tubers. No one grew better potatoes! There’s niphredil growing over there, and plenty of elanor. Those were gifts from Legolas, back a few years after the war. Brought them all the way from Lórien, he did. And there are the snapdragons that Dad said were Mister Bilbo’s special favorite after he came back from his Adventure.”

“Where he helped slay the dragon!” Sam said.

“That’s right,” said Frodo. “And, Master Elf, I beg your pardon, but if you told us your name I’ve forgotten it.”

The Elf bowed again. “I apologize, Master Gardner. I did not tell you—I did not intend to stay. My name is Maglor, and I am at your service and your family’s.”

“Maglor! Very nice to meet you.” The name niggled at the back of Frodo’s mind, but he couldn’t place it. Perhaps he had been mentioned once or twice in the old tales—but there were so very many names that it was difficult to keep track. And he wouldn’t be the first figure of the Elder Days to have supper in Bag End, certainly.

Inside several of Frodo’s siblings, and their families, were bustling about in preparation for dinner. “Violet!” Frodo called over the din, “Sam and I have found a wandering Elf in the garden and brought him home for dinner. Have we an extra place at the table tonight?”

“Of course!” Violet came out of the kitchen with a platter. “Welcome, Master Elf! Bard, will you be a dear and fetch the special chair? We can’t have our guest banging up his knees on the table. Samwise, you go right back out to the garden to wash that mud off your feet! And wash your hands when you come back in, with soap, mind you!”

“Yes, Gran,” said Sam, and scurried back outside. Frodo deposited his blanket near the door and went to help Bard rearrange the furniture. Maglor hung back, keeping out of the way and looking rather overwhelmed at all the activity. He had the air of someone very unused to company, but who still wished to join in.

Once the chairs were properly set, Frodo dropped into his own at the head of the table, and gestured to Maglor. “Come have a seat. You can leave your cloak there by the door.”

“Do you often have Big People as guests?” Maglor asked as he settled into his seat.

“Oh, never these days. There’s an edict, you know. But Elves don’t count, and anyway they need to use the Road to get to the Havens away past the Tower Hills, and even the grouchiest hobbits don’t mind that.”

“You entertain Elves often, then?” Maglor asked, smiling.

“Not since Dad went away, actually,” said Frodo.

“No, Legolas and Gimli came to visit ten years ago—you remember, it was after that storm tore the roof off the Green Dragon,” Robin said from down the table. “Gimli thought we were making a mess of the repairs and did half the work himself.”

“Oh, that’s right. Was that only ten years ago?”

“Aye. And your Heather half fell in love with Legolas, too.”

“And there was that time a little after that the Sons of Elrond came through,” said Primrose. “They didn’t stop for long, but we had that lovely picnic in the Party Field—it was on Mister Frodo’s Birthday, and they sang the Lay for us.”

“I don’t remember that,” Frodo said.

“You were away, love,” said Violet as she brought in a basket of fresh rolls, shining with butter. “Up in Annúminas visiting Ham. Have a roll or three, Master Maglor. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in ages.” She didn’t wait for his reply before filling his plate for him, a veritable mountain of food—little more than Frodo’s own plate would hold, but clearly more than Maglor had intended to eat, judging by the faint alarm in his eyes.

But he was very polite about it. “Thank you, Mistress Gardner,” he said, before picking up his fork and digging in.

“I must apologize for the carrots,” Violet said as she took her own seat. “We’ve been having trouble with some kind of blight, and not even Hamfast could figure out the problem when last he was here.”

“Well, Ham is more used to fine flower gardens than vegetable patches, these days,” said Primrose. “Not that we aren't terribly proud of him,” she added to Maglor. “Gardener to the king! But both he and Frodo like flowers more than vegetables.”

“Well, I have to tend the flowers if we want the bees to be happy, don’t we?” Frodo said. It had been Violet who’d brought the beehives to Bag End, and everyone in the neighborhood had applauded the decision ever since. The Rumbles down the lane made a honey cake to rival the Beornings, according to the Dwarves.

Supper was, as always, a prolonged and merry affair. Maglor managed to eat all that was on his plate, and narrowly avoided having seconds forced upon him by Violet. And afterward, when the table was clear and they were settled in the biggest parlor with pipes and cups of tea, someone called for a song, and of course everyone turned to the guest, who was most likely to have something new. Or old, Frodo thought, but new to Bag End’s parlor, anyway. Frodo more than half expected Maglor to demur, but he quite happily agreed, and laughed when the first handful of songs he suggested were known to them already.

“All right,” he said finally, “I shall sing you a song written long ago—”

“That’s most songs you Elves sing,” someone remarked, to general chuckles.

“Longer ago even than that,” said Maglor, grinning. “This song is older than the Moon or the Sun, written in Valinor by Elemmírë of the Vanyar in honor of Vána the Ever-young.” And with that he began to sing. He sat by the hearth on the floor, and his fingers moved a little in his lap, as though remembering the notes on an imaginary instrument. He was clearly a singer of great skill, and Frodo settled back in his chair to enjoy the song. Like the best Elvish songs, it seemed to transport the listener directly into it, as Frodo’s father would have said, and for a little while it was as though the loveliest gardens and glades of Valinor had been brought across the Sea into Bag End, filled with flowers of all sizes and kinds and hues, and fragrant herbs, and trees tall as towers and even sturdier. And through it all danced Vána Ever-young, who in Frodo’s mind looked rather like Goldberry the River-daughter, with golden hair and a gown of green shot with silver like the freshest dew.

Maglor sang several other songs from the Blessed Realm for them that night, and then insisted that they teach him songs from the Shire. Before being sent to bed, young Sam gave a rendition of the spotted frogs on a log song, after proudly telling of how he had counted five little frogs down by The Water that very evening. Then Frodo read from the Red Book, and by then it was quite late, so he showed Maglor to the room made up for their taller visitors, and everyone went to bed.

The next morning, before dawn, Frodo awoke to someone singing outside his window, an elvish song. He knew just enough of the words to know it was a song of health and growth—but, most strangely, it was to the tune of the silly little frog song. It ended before he was able to get out of bed and to the window. He knew that Maglor would be gone by the time he came outside, but he went out anyway, wrapping a robe about himself against the faint chill of the morning. There was no sign that an elf had been there, not even an impression in the silvery dew on the grass.

But the carrot patch was positively flourishing, where the day before Frodo had been ready to give up on it that year entirely. And the rest of the garden, too, seemed more lush and healthier than it had before. The flowers were brighter and the grass was thicker, and when Frodo plucked an apple from the tree near the front door, the fruit was juicier and sweeter than he’d ever tasted it.

“Well,” Violet said when Frodo told her about it, “that was very kind of him. And do you know, I feel like we’ve heard that name before. Maglor.”

“I thought so too, but I can’t place it,” Frodo agreed. “I’m sure it will come to us.”

That afternoon he wrote to tell Elanor about their visitor, and about the carrots. Two days later he received her reply, written in an indignant hand with ink splotches across the paper: You had MAGLOR FËANORION visit Bag End and you wrote to me about the CARROTS?!