No Swan So Fine
"Look", says Sam. Frodo kneels back on his haunches, following the line of Sam's arm as it rises to mark where a
wedge of swans flies low across the stubbled fields. The midday sun burns through the wash of thin cloud brighter
than a silver penny and Frodo squints into the unforeseen glare.
The bare ground near the water's edge is hard as an anvil, and beyond its margins long grass lies flat beneath a pale
rime of snow turned to ice.
"A great white company," Sam murmurs, "like a plume of smoke stooping to touch the face of the water."
He shifts his grip on the sickle haft, and as the swans come down--their wide black feet splayed out on the pond's
surface--his lips move in a silent tally.
"Only seven," he says, then leans to grasp a handful of reeds, swinging the sickle with practised ease. His face is
bleak. "They've been in the fields all morning," he continues, voice rusty from cold. "Swans like taters."
"Sam?"
As Frodo lifts his head in question the world spins for an instant, tipping sideways till the sun hangs blazing and lidless
in the grey-green shallows.
He blinks and the swans drift right side up again beneath arching sprays of yellow cat's-tails and a sky pinned to the
four corners blue and tight as a matron's apron.
He draws a deep, unsteady breath, his fingers stiff and awkward on the pile of cut reeds. Sam watches him slantwise
as the swans circle, the sallow smudges of reflected sunlight breaking and mending in their wake. Weeks of watching,
Frodo thinks. Dear Sam.
"I should have brought my woollen gloves," he says at last, with a smile that crumples as the pain settles in its
accustomed place.
"When Da's hands cramped from the screws, Halfred bundled the reeds. Then Halfred went away north and it was my
turn." Sam's palm moves, warm and easy, on Frodo's shoulder. "Now it's yours."
"I'll never be any good; I don't have the knack."
Sam's breath comes out in a puff that is almost laughter.
"Naw, you're all right. Give them a shake, pick out what don't belong, and bundle them with a strip of twine like so."
Sam loosely twists the length and then gives the reeds a knock against the earth to even the butts before he tightens
the cord. "You're done."
Yes, he is, but for now the reeds lie waiting in a tidy row where Sam has placed them and if the shed isn't thatched
soon the rains will spoil Sam's new hedge trimmer.
"Seven?" Frodo asks.
"Ah." Sam studies the ground as if more might be read in the packed dirt than the faint traces of a hobbit's passing.
"Eight flew north in the spring. One's been taken."
"I see." And he does see, but as a lone swan breaks from the water he hears in its cry the echo of a vast throng fleeting
westward in the night. "Why so few?"
"Most journey to the Havens." Sam turns to Frodo and his eyes are full of the slow, solemn beat of wings over green
hills. "Happen you might catch a glimpse of them from the White Towers, if you've a mind to walk that far in winter."
"I could." Frodo looks away. "If I had a pair of seven league boots."
"There and back again," Sam says briskly and stoops to gather the first bunch into his arms. "I wonder--" His words
are muffled as he hoists the reeds to his shoulder, but Frodo knows each one by heart. "Will we ever see them?"
"We may," Frodo answers, offering in recompense what Sam has given him. "I hope so."
wedge of swans flies low across the stubbled fields. The midday sun burns through the wash of thin cloud brighter
than a silver penny and Frodo squints into the unforeseen glare.
The bare ground near the water's edge is hard as an anvil, and beyond its margins long grass lies flat beneath a pale
rime of snow turned to ice.
"A great white company," Sam murmurs, "like a plume of smoke stooping to touch the face of the water."
He shifts his grip on the sickle haft, and as the swans come down--their wide black feet splayed out on the pond's
surface--his lips move in a silent tally.
"Only seven," he says, then leans to grasp a handful of reeds, swinging the sickle with practised ease. His face is
bleak. "They've been in the fields all morning," he continues, voice rusty from cold. "Swans like taters."
"Sam?"
As Frodo lifts his head in question the world spins for an instant, tipping sideways till the sun hangs blazing and lidless
in the grey-green shallows.
He blinks and the swans drift right side up again beneath arching sprays of yellow cat's-tails and a sky pinned to the
four corners blue and tight as a matron's apron.
He draws a deep, unsteady breath, his fingers stiff and awkward on the pile of cut reeds. Sam watches him slantwise
as the swans circle, the sallow smudges of reflected sunlight breaking and mending in their wake. Weeks of watching,
Frodo thinks. Dear Sam.
"I should have brought my woollen gloves," he says at last, with a smile that crumples as the pain settles in its
accustomed place.
"When Da's hands cramped from the screws, Halfred bundled the reeds. Then Halfred went away north and it was my
turn." Sam's palm moves, warm and easy, on Frodo's shoulder. "Now it's yours."
"I'll never be any good; I don't have the knack."
Sam's breath comes out in a puff that is almost laughter.
"Naw, you're all right. Give them a shake, pick out what don't belong, and bundle them with a strip of twine like so."
Sam loosely twists the length and then gives the reeds a knock against the earth to even the butts before he tightens
the cord. "You're done."
Yes, he is, but for now the reeds lie waiting in a tidy row where Sam has placed them and if the shed isn't thatched
soon the rains will spoil Sam's new hedge trimmer.
"Seven?" Frodo asks.
"Ah." Sam studies the ground as if more might be read in the packed dirt than the faint traces of a hobbit's passing.
"Eight flew north in the spring. One's been taken."
"I see." And he does see, but as a lone swan breaks from the water he hears in its cry the echo of a vast throng fleeting
westward in the night. "Why so few?"
"Most journey to the Havens." Sam turns to Frodo and his eyes are full of the slow, solemn beat of wings over green
hills. "Happen you might catch a glimpse of them from the White Towers, if you've a mind to walk that far in winter."
"I could." Frodo looks away. "If I had a pair of seven league boots."
"There and back again," Sam says briskly and stoops to gather the first bunch into his arms. "I wonder--" His words
are muffled as he hoists the reeds to his shoulder, but Frodo knows each one by heart. "Will we ever see them?"
"We may," Frodo answers, offering in recompense what Sam has given him. "I hope so."
