thespiritintheglass

The Spirit in the Glass

“Whatever are you doing in there, Samwise? Get out here, lad, and eat your breakfast while it’s hot. We’re wanted up at
the Smial.”

“Coming, Dad, I’m just….”

Sam dropped his knife and stared at the apple that he’d been about to cut open. What was he doing after all, besides
paying too much heed to some foolish nonsense that Tom Cotton had learned from his nan? If apple pips belonged
anywhere, it was inside the apple or in the ground, and not stuck to the face of some mad fool of a hobbit by the name of
Samwise Gamgee.

Still, he wondered if it might work when he wanted it to so badly.   If he thought very hard whilst he was splitting the apple
in half, then his eyes would somehow convey his need to the fruit, wouldn’t they? His greatest fear was that there
wouldn’t be enough pips for all the lasses in Hobbiton that he’d had his eye on a time or two. And what if there weren’t
any pips, not a one?   You could never tell with apples.   Would that be a sign that he should try again or leave well
enough alone?   It seemed as if he was tempting fate by seeking to uncover what the future had in store for him. He
might not like the answer once he’d got it and if all the pips fell off at the same time…. Sausages!   He didn’t want to
think about that; no he surely didn’t.

Tom hadn’t tried it himself, of course. Tom never tried any of the crazy fancies that sprouted from his brain like weeds
on fallow ground. He loved to put a bee in Sam’s head and watch him worrit and fret over nothing. Sam would have had
more questions for him at the time if he’d thought Tom really knew the whys and wherefores. The trouble was that Tom
usually had an answer for everything and appeared to know more of the world than the other lads his age. Sam couldn’t
imagine where he’d learned it all, though he’d had a suspicion a time or two that Tom was making his tales up as he
went along. He had an awful glib tongue, did Tom.

Mr. Frodo, now -- there was a hobbit who had read books and seen more of what lay beyond Hobbiton than Sam could
ever hope to in a long lifetime. If Mr. Frodo said a thing was true, then it was; Mr. Bilbo was canny, too, of course, when it
came right down to it. A vague notion of asking Frodo about this matter of the apples had flitted through Sam’s mind but
he’d dismissed it out of hand. What would such as the master and his heir know of the ways of simpler folk? Like it or
not, he’d have to stick with what Tom had told him this Highday past.

They’d been sitting in Sam’s special place down near The Water, in amongst the birches where no one could see
them. Sam liked to lie back in the tall grass and quietly breathe in the scent of greenness while Tom rattled on about
summat or other. This time, Tom had been remembering how his nan used to dandle him on her knee as if she were
his hobby-horse. Up and down he’d go until it made Sam dizzy trying to picture it. He’d let his mind drift some, as he
often did, until Tom had reached the point where his nan had told him how she’d known even as a young lass that she
would marry a Cotton. Tom had paused, waiting for Sam to rise to the bait, and he had.

Then Tom had told him that there were secret ways an apple could reveal who your beloved might be, if you didn’t
already have an inkling. The simplest way, according to Tom, was to pluck the pips from the apple and lay them on your
face, just as they were. You named each pip after a lass you fancied, and made note of where you’d put them. After
awhile, they would drop off one by one, and the last to fall was the maiden you’d be handfasted to as sure as fate. Sam
thought it a chancy thing and said so, yet Tom was adamant. His nan had done it herself and she’d married a Cotton,
hadn’t she, as the apple had foretold?   To Sam’s way of thinking, if you threw a stick in certain parts of the Shire you’d
hit a Cotton, but he didn’t voice that opinion to Tom. It seemed more than likely that it depended on which part of your
face you stuck the pips to; mayhap there was a method that some folk knew to come by the answer they wanted to hear.
Apple pips had a way of looking right similar, and who was to swear which one fell off first or last, when all was said and
done?

Nevertheless, Sam happened to have an apple tucked in his pocket and would have tested the trick right then and there
only he was too embarrassed to do it with Tom watching him so close.

The other way and the better way, Tom had said, was to stand in front of a mirror by candle-light and eat your apple right
up while you stared into the glass. According to Nan Cotton, it worked best if you combed your hair at the same time,
though Sam figured you’d look daft as a brush if anyone caught you at it. His sisters would give him an earful about
hobbits who were such greedy-guts that they couldn’t stop eating long enough to groom themselves proper. He
sighed.   He might try that method if the pips didn’t give him his answer first. Up to this moment he hadn’t so much as
gotten his knife through the apple’s skin before someone had interrupted him. If it wasn’t one thing it was another.

“Samwise!”

The Gaffer’s voice broke into his thoughts once more.

“The sod won’t turn itself. If we don’t get up the Hill sharpish, the master will send you off to work somewheres else,
and then where will you be?”

Sam quickly shoved the apple into a drawer underneath a thick pile of woolly vests where his sisters weren’t likely to find
it, hoping to have another go at bedtime, and dropped the knife into his pocket where it belonged. He didn’t want to
imagine what would happen if Mr. Bilbo sent him away. Nearly everyone he knew was right here in Hobbiton, and
although he loved to listen to tales of far away places he truly didn’t want to be anywhere else.   There was Tom for a
start; he supposed Tom was his best friend even if he was right annoying at times, mooning after Marigold like a love-
sick calf. He would miss Tom. And there were the rest of the Cottons as well: Rosie, Jolly….   There were his sisters,
too. He wasn’t so sure about them sometimes.

Last of all, and this was a quiet thought that he didn’t allow too near the surface, there was Mr. Frodo.   He hoped it
wasn’t very daring on his part to be thinking of the master’s heir as a friend. His old dad had repeatedly shared his
feelings about hobbits as got above their stations. His words were enough to freeze the blood in your veins.

On the other hand, there was simply no use denying that one glimpse of Mr. Frodo’s face had a way of lightening his day
that naught else could match.   Mr. Frodo ever had a kind word for him or a story about elves and such. Mr. Frodo never
made him feel small or ignorant.   In the summer, when the young master would sit outside with a book, he would
sometimes ask Sam to come and sit next to him and they would look at the book together. The Gaffer wasn’t too
pleased the first time he caught them at it, but Mr. Frodo had explained, in that way he had, that he was teaching Sam
about some of the herbs they used in the old times as he would one day like to have a physic garden of his own. The
Gaffer had finally allowed that a reasonable amount of book learning would do no harm if it was kept to useful subjects
such as herb lore. Sam could have sworn that Frodo had winked at him, just as the Gaffer was turning to leave, and he
felt as if he were party to a special secret. It was a warm kind of feeling.

But if he didn’t get out to the kitchen to eat his porridge, there’d be no more Bag End for him. The Gaffer would see to it if
Mr. Bilbo didn’t.

His dad looked up at him with a worried frown as Sam pulled a stool over next to the fire and ladled out a bowl of gruel
from the pot.

“You’ll have to stop lazing in bed of a morning, Samwise. How do you expect to earn your keep up at Bag End when I’m
gone?”

“I’ve got summat on my mind.”

The Gaffer shook his head.

“Ah, lad, I told you that young Mr. Frodo would be giving you ideas unfit for hobbits such as you or me. He’s not of age ‘til
Halimath next year and don’t understand Shire ways.   You mustn’t let his idle fancies get in the way of your duty to the
family.”

Sam didn’t like to hear the Gaffer saying a bad word about Frodo, especially when it wasn’t true.

“It wasn’t Mr. Frodo putting ideas in my head, Dad, it was Tom Cotton.”

“Aye, well, that’s another thing. You spend a deal too much time traipsing after those Cotton boys. It’s no wonder you
can’t raise your head from the pillow.”

Sam could sense that the conversation was circling round to where it had begun, as it often did with his Gaffer, and he
determined to let the matter rest. By the time they’d walked up the Hill, the Gaffer would have forgotten about it in any
case.

Sam was blowing on his porridge and supping it down as fast as he could, but he hadn’t quite scraped the bottom of
the bowl before the Gaffer had him by the arm and was leading him out through the door.

It was a bitterly cold day for the time of year and Sam wished he’d brought his muffler with him.   He’d work up a good
sweat once he got to digging the garden, but for now the wind was sneaking between his shirt and his skin, making him
tuck his head down and turn up the collar of his jacket against it.

“It’s parky this morning,” the Gaffer observed. “Snow on the way, maybe.”

“It won’t last long if it does come, I’m thinking,” Sam mumbled, the warmth of the porridge going out of him with each
frosty breath.

“There’ll be a skiff to cover the ground, enough for pretty but nowt more. It’s as well if we’re to get them taters in before
mid-Astron. Himself has summat in mind for the vegetable garden but I don’t know what it is. Nothing fancy, I trust.”

Sam laughed.

“Do you recollect those queer-looking roots he had one year-- what did he call them?”

The Gaffer nodded.

“Goat’s Beard.   I planted them where he told me to, and come autumn Mr. Bilbo had so many he didn’t know what to do
with ‘em all. Every hobbit who paid a visit took a bundle home with him and none of us were the wiser as to their
purpose. ‘Spect most of ‘em went for kindling.”

“Mr. Frodo told me they were for eating.”

“Fodder for animals, I shouldn’t wonder. No one in the village could puzzle it out.”

There was unquestionably something a mite skittish about those who bore the name of Baggins; maybe it was the Took
blood in the line, or more likely the Boffin temperament. There was ever a waywardness to the Boffins, though it was
known to skip a generation more often than not.

Sam thought he could see a trace of it in Mr. Frodo at times, a thread of mischief and a fey unconcern for village opinion.
He wouldn’t tell the Gaffer-- not when he'd have to go without his supper for a week -- that he found it both mysterious
and exciting. There was a light that shone out of Mr. Frodo as he spoke that made his very words sparkle. Sam was
captivated by it, every time, but it was a private feeling, one that he knew to keep to himself.

The Gaffer had been finding the walk to Bag End more tiring this past winter. Sam knew that it wouldn’t be long before
he’d be taking over the garden chores altogether, at least for the colder months. Hill Lane was steep and somewhat
rutted, slippery during the winter and muddy at other times of the year. Sam walked slowly beside his dad, keeping one
eye on him and ready to put out a hand in case he should stumble. The other eye he kept on the sky and the smooth,
dark mass of cloud that was gathering on the horizon.

“If we don’t have snow it will be fog and rain on the morrow, if I’m not mistaken.”

The Gaffer stopped to catch his breath and stare down the cloud as if he could ward it off with a look.

“There’s shelter in the garden. The plants will fare well, whatever comes.”

Sam knew that there would be no less work in spite of weather, not in Astron, but Mr. Frodo wouldn’t venture out of doors
if it was wet. On the whole, Sam preferred the summer months.

As they unlatched the gate to the front garden, the green door flew open and Mr. Bilbo stepped out, sporting a fine
mulberry-coloured cloak with a fur-lined hood. He must have been waiting for them.

“Good day to you, Master Hamfast, and to you, Sam. How are you both faring? You’re weathering the cold no better than
I am, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Ah well, I do feel the damp, Mr. Bilbo, thank ‘ee for asking. I don’t sleep neither, and yet it takes more time to rouse
myself of a morning, if you understand me. The old joints forget their purpose and need a longer spell by the fire.”

“Indeed I do understand, Master. Have you tried that liniment of Celandine Grubb’s? A dab or two in the right spot will
have you acting twenty years younger. I don’t know what I should do without it.”

“I can’t say as I’ve heard tell of it. She’s not from around these parts, is she? You’re sprightlier than I am for your age,
sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, and that’s a fact.”

“I owe it all to the liniment. It smells like an old dish-rag, though; you wouldn’t forget it if you’d ever come across it.”

The Gaffer chuckled.

“Sometimes what’s fairest ain’t what’s best for you, as I’ve often told young Samwise here.”

Bilbo glanced at Sam with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, I’m sure Sam knows a thing of value when he sees it, don’t you, Sam? Not to worry, Master Hamfast, I don’t think
Sam can go far wrong from what I’ve observed of him.”

Sam scarcely knew where to look while they were talking about him, but Mr. Bilbo patted him on the shoulder so he
smiled shyly down at his feet.

“Come up to the smial when you’re finished for the day, Gaffer, and I’ll give you a jar of the salve. It will set your joints to
rights in no time. I wouldn’t want to lose your services after forty years, would I?”

“No, indeed, Mr. Bilbo,” the Gaffer answered with a wheezy laugh. “It wouldn’t do for me to be laid up in my bed
permanent and only the lad to tend your garden.”

“Speaking of beds, Gaffer, I’ve had an idea for some new ones in the vegetable garden and I’d like to show you what I
have in mind. Come along and we’ll take a look at the site. I’ve drawn up a plan or two, so you can see what I’m after.
And by the way, what were you telling me yesterday – was there a new tea that you’d discovered? Knapweed, was it?”

The Gaffer followed Bilbo into the kitchen garden, explaining the benefits of greater knapweed for a poor appetite as they
went, while Bilbo nodded and asked the occasional question. Sam sighed. If the number of potatoes the Gaffer had
laid out to chit was anything to go by, there was nought wrong with his stomach. As for Celandine Grubb -- well,
according to Mr. Frodo, what she put into her remedies didn’t bear close inspection and Sam wasn’t having them near
his body anytime soon. Hobbits had gone mad from less.

He hadn’t been told what he was supposed to do while his elders were off having a chinwag about outlandish
vegetables and weak digestions, so he remained on the path, poking at stray pebbles with his toes to keep his feet
warm. The longer he stood there waiting for the Gaffer to return, the more he became aware of a queer furtive rustling
noise from the bottom of the garden. He hadn’t noticed anything right off; the garden was still as could be one moment
and then, in the next, full of a frantic clatter that faded into silence once more. As the minutes passed, the sound
became more constant and more desperate.   Mayhap a lost sheep had strayed into the shrubbery and snarled its
horns amongst the firethorns. He began to walk cautiously towards the east wall where the garden curved round to a
secluded nook.   He had built Mr. Frodo a willow arbour there this past summer; he hoped that nothing had gone amiss
with it.   He could see the hazel bush at the corner of the smial swaying back and forth as though a sudden whirlwind
had touched the branches.   Sam knew it must be a full grown ewe to make the bushes thrash around like that.
Someone’s dog would need a good talking to before the day was out.

Well, as long as he was lazing about, kicking his heels as the Gaffer would say, he should go and see to it. Mr. Bilbo
wouldn’t be too happy if the flower beds were trampled or eaten when he might have done something to prevent it.

When he came round the corner, he was brought up short by the sight of a smooth velvety brown rump and two dirty legs
half submerged in the wet grass. He’d never seen a sheep akin to it; it was no ewe and that was certain, if he knew
aught of stock. He leaned forwards.

“Mr. Frodo? Is that you? Have you lost summat?”

There was a quiet ‘oof’ from under the branches, and the brown rump wiggled backwards followed by the damp,
bedraggled remainder of Frodo in his best jacket. His dark hair was speckled with drops of water and one dry curled
leaf was caught in the tangles just above the point of his right ear. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, his eyes wide
and bright. If he’d been a lass, Sam would have said that he was the handsomest lass he’d ever seen. In fact, Sam
was reminded of that old tale -- what was it now? -- hair dark as a blackbird’s wing, skin white as milk, lips and cheeks
as rosy as a new morn. Sam shook his head.   He didn’t know why he should be thinking of that.

“Oh -- hullo, Sam. You’re early.”

“Not so very early, Mr. Frodo. If you’d heard the Gaffer yelling at me this morning you’d know that I’m late -- begging your
pardon, sir, and perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you that. I didn’t have time to put honey in my porridge, I was that rushed.”

“No honey in your porridge? Oh dear.”

Sam suddenly felt a mite shy about his breakfast and wished he hadn’t mentioned the honey. He didn’t think,
somehow, that Frodo had much experience of porridge.   He wanted to ask why Frodo had been crouching behind the
bushes and getting himself all over muck up to his knees, but it wasn’t the sort of question that you could easily broach
to your master.

“Sam?”

Sam looked up again. Mr. Frodo was holding out his hand, a hand that Sam could now see was clutching a large posy
of violets, bluebells and tiny jonquils. He was watching Sam rather closely, and Sam forgot the honey. Sam was like to
forget his head at moments such as this.

Mr. Frodo had the gift of making you feel special, as if you were the Mayor of Michel Delving himself and there was no
place in the Shire he’d rather be than right here talking with you. Even if you were a hobbit with nothing to say for
yourself, Mr. Frodo would still pin you with that clear, bright gaze and pull the words out of you somehow.   Maybe he
looked inside and saw all of you, including the things that you wouldn’t normally tell to anyone. That’s how it felt
leastways. Sam had never met a hobbit who had that skill; it was nigh to being uncanny. It made him wonder if he
ought to confide in Frodo about the apples, but then he reminded himself that his master was the same with everyone.
It was part of being a Baggins of Bag End. He didn’t find anything special in young Samwise Gamgee; he was only
being kind. Sam’s head cleared.

“Sir?”

“Would you like to take some home with you? I could put them in your buttonhole.”

So that’s what had gotten Frodo out of his bed so uncommon early; he’d been picking flowers while the dew was on
them.

“It might draw attention, sir, if you see what I mean, but thank you all the same.”

Frodo appeared somewhat crestfallen. He stared absently at the flowers.

“Oh. I suppose it might. I’ll take them into the smial then, though it does seem rather a shame. They’d look very fine in
your buttonhole. I thought you’d have a lass to give them to, or perhaps one of your sisters?” he added hopefully.

“No, sir. There’s no…they’d be wilted by the time I got them home. Violets and jonquils – ‘tis an unlucky pairing.”

Frodo started.

“Is it? I didn’t realise that. I’m afraid I don’t have your knowledge of flowers. You’ll have to explain it to me some time.
Perhaps later today, over a cup of tea, when you’re finished your chores? Or during a short break to warm yourself in the
kitchen? You’re half frozen.”

“I’m not so frozen as I was. When the Gaffer comes back he’ll set me to work and I won’t have time to be cold.”

“Come inside later anyway. I’ll be expecting you.”

When the Gaffer returned, Mr. Bilbo did not come with him. He had apparently gone over the Hill for what he termed his
‘constitutional’. The Gaffer was muttering to himself something fierce and scratching his head in bewilderment. Sam
couldn’t get much out of him other than a short rant on gentlehobbits and their odd notions about vegetables and what
was wrong with a few parsnips and carrots next to your Highday roast? He finally went off to prune the winter shrubs
and left Sam to the heavier work of mulching and fertilizing.

Sam worked steadily through the day, stopping only for a hasty lunch with his dad in the shelter of the potting shed
doorway. It had settled in to rain midway through the morning, but it was warmer and it seemed that the danger of snow
had passed. Sam had eaten his piece of mutton pie as quickly as he was able. He was tired of listening to the Gaffer
complain about his digestion and the sorry state of his finger joints. He’d spent such a deal of time pointing out chores
for Sam, that Sam wasn’t surprised the joints were aching. That first finger, now, that had passed the morning stiff as a
poker for the most part.

By mid-afternoon the Gaffer had pruned his way round to the far end of the garden. Not ten minutes after he had
disappeared, Frodo stuck his head out the kitchen door and beckoned Sam over.

“The water’s hot. Step inside and have tea with me. You’re drenched to the skin and there can’t be anything left to do.
You’ve been out here all day.”

“Thank you, Mr. Frodo. A cup of tea would go down a treat.”

Sam leaned his tools against the wall under the shelter of the overhang, wiped his feet on the mat in the hall and
followed Frodo through to the kitchen.

Frodo poured hot water into the pot and set out cups and saucers and a selection of biscuits with cheese. The vase of
flowers he had cut that morning shone brightly in the middle of the table.

“You were going to tell me about the violets and jonquils. That’s curious. I didn’t realise that flowers could be unlucky.”

He put a plate in front of Sam and offered him a biscuit.

“It’s a common belief in the Westfarthing. Not all folks believe it, mind, but it’s best to be cautious.”

“And what, exactly, do some folks believe?”

Frodo sat down next to Sam and poured the tea.

“They say that any house where violets are kept will see a death, most often the death of a child. Jonquils aren’t unlucky
in themselves, but the bulbs are a powerful poison, and if in times past a child ate one and…well, I think you take my
point, sir. My sisters wouldn’t like it. They look right pretty on your kitchen table, though, if I do say so. “

“That’s a shame; I did so want you to have them.”

Sam munched thoughtfully on a wedge of cheese.

“I never believed it myself. Old Nan Bracegirdle told me that syrup of violets comforts the heart and helps you to sleep. If
that’s so, how can it be ill-omened?”

Frodo shrugged.

“I don’t know, Sam. Shire-folk hold to strange customs at times. I don’t pretend to understand them.”

If Sam hadn’t had a mouthful of cheese and biscuit just then he might have mentioned the apple pips, but the moment
passed. He was reaching for a second biscuit when Bilbo popped his head round the door.

“Ah, Sam, there you are. Master Hamfast asked me to tell you that he’s finished his chores for the day and has gone
home but that you still have some cleaning up to do.”

Sam couldn’t tell why, but even after all these years he felt shy when Mr. Bilbo was talking to him. He set his tea cup
carefully on the table and pushed his chair back.

“No, don’t get up, lad. I’m not bothered. Stay and finish your tea first. Frodo could do with the company, couldn’t you, my
dear?”

Frodo glanced over at Sam and smiled warmly.

“Yes, indeed I could. Are you coming in or going out, Bilbo?”

“I’m strolling down to the village to buy some ink and post a letter or two. Is there anything you need, while I’m there?”

“A quarter pound of Gammer Bunce’s treacle toffee wouldn’t go amiss, if you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not, of course not. Yes, well, I’ll be back when I’m back. Don’t worry about the garden, Sam. It’s early
yet. Goodbye.”

Frodo nudged the platter of biscuits in Sam’s direction.

“Have another. If you’re to go out into that weather again then you’ll need it.”

“It’s not so bad, Mr. Frodo, but I’ll gladly have a second. Thank you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t…oh, bother.”

Frodo bit his lip and poked the crumbs on his plate. Sam felt an odd tightening in his chest.

“Have I said ought wrong, sir?”

Frodo’s head jerked up and his eyes opened wide.

“Good heavens, no. Why ever would you think that? Never mind, Sam, I have a purchase I’d like to show you. In fact,
I’ve been waiting the entire day to show it to you.”

He stood up rather too hastily and his chair legs grated loudly across the stone floor. Sam watched the slim figure
disappear down the passage, his voice drifting back at intervals.

“I was in Buckland recently and I found the most fascinating manuscript …”

He turned into the study and his voice was lost for a few seconds amidst sounds of objects dropping on the floor and
cabinet doors being opened and closed.

“Where did I put that…ah, here it is.”

He staggered into the passage burdened with a massive folio volume that nearly obscured him from sight. Sam ran
forwards and grabbed the top end of the book. For an instant, their hands touched and then the book was settled
between them and they carried it out to the kitchen.

“I’d have asked you into the study, but there’s more room for us to sit side by side at the kitchen table.”

“You didn’t bring this all the way from Buckland yourself did you, sir?”

“No, Sam, the carter brought me and it together, both of us well wrapped up and the book lying in the bed of the
waggon. It was far too interesting to leave in the shop, and Mr. Goldworthy said that no one seemed to want to buy it, so
I was forced to take it off his hands. Plop it down there next to the teapot; it won’t come to any harm. It has an
exceptionally sturdy binding or I should have been more worried on the journey from Stock.”

The book’s cover was hard, coarse-grained leather of a dark blood red. The peculiar colour made it difficult for even
Sam’s sharp eyes to see the letters that were stamped deeply into the binding. He traced one sinuous shape with his
fingertips while Frodo watched closely.

“Can you read it? The script is uncommonly ornate.”

Sam thought for a moment, measuring the flow of words as if they were seedlings waiting to be thinned out.

“I think it says: ‘A Book for the Understanding of Dreams and Omens’.”

“Yes, near enough. Bilbo and I believe that it’s a translation into the Common Speech, but from what tongue I can’t
begin to tell. The sentences have an unfamiliar rhythm. The book is incredibly disturbing, to be honest.”

Frodo paused. He was gathering himself together; Sam could see it writ plain in the taut curve of his spine.

“I’ve been anxious lately. I keep imagining a watcher at my back.   I was reluctant to venture further into this book without
– well, you might find it odd, but the idea of reading it with you came to me when we met in the garden this morning;
somehow I feel less defenceless as long as the two of us are sitting here together. When Bilbo goes out for the day, as
he often does, the smial is very dark and lonely. You’d think I’d be used to it after all these years. “

Frodo had his eyes turned to the book whilst he spoke, not wanting Sam to note the expression on his face maybe. His
lashes were sooty dark against his cheek, and Sam could only see the narrowest glimmer of blue like a hint of summer
to come. He had the finest, smoothest skin; Sam’s sisters would be fair green with envy if they ever got close enough to
stroke Mr. Frodo’s skin. Sam doubted they would, somehow. Mr. Frodo didn’t seem inclined to get close to any lass, as
far as he could tell.

Sam cleared his throat. There were times when he found it hard to speak to his master, at least where his deepest
thoughts and feelings were involved.

“I don’t think you ever get used to it, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he said softly.

Frodo’s gaze shifted from the book to lie full on Sam’s face. It was akin to being pinned by the blaze of a light too bright
to bear; it made Sam’s eyes water.

“You, too, Sam?”

“Hobbits weren’t meant to be alone seemingly. Mr. Bilbo is more solitary than most. The rest of us, well, we need a bit
of companionship as night draws in, if you take my meaning.”

“Yes, Sam, I do, and thank you for being here when you should be outside at your chores. I love Bilbo dearly, but it’s not
the same.”

He patted Sam’s arm and then opened the book as though the touch had never happened, but for Sam it was like
someone placing your chair a little closer to the fire of an evening.

Frodo flipped past the title page to the first chapter.

“I’ll read you a short passage, shall I? We should start at the beginning, I suppose, and then if you’re interested we can
continue whenever you have a spare half hour. I know you prefer to read about elves, but you might find this intriguing
as well. It starts – “

Sam hunched over so that he could follow the words on the page as Frodo spoke them, for although he was able to
read well enough for everyday purposes, there were many words that he didn't recognise and was eager to learn.

“‘It has been said”, Frodo read, running his finger along below each line, “but with how much truth I cannot answer for,
that the men of Gondor were the first among the wise to order dreams in a system of their own devising. This may be
so; however, I do not believe they were the first to make use of dreams to foretell the future….’ “

Frodo laughed.

“Indeed they were not. This fellow has a dry wit.”

“ ‘The true prophetic dream,” he continued, “ takes place when the mind, moved by some power outside itself, gives
birth to forms and visionary fancies that may point to either good or bad events in the dreamer’s future….’ Hm. Well, I’m
curious as to how one is supposed to distinguish ordinary forms and fancies from ones that foretell future events, but
no doubt he is going to tell us. Let me see – ‘ I seek not to concern myself on this occasion with the mundane causes
of dreams -- heat, cold, a portion of undigested chicken -- so much as with the events that dreams may portend, and the
proper meaning of those images that convey the future to us from some higher realm.   I will say, in my own defence,
that were it not for scholars hostile to my arguments, I would not find it mete to delve so deeply into this matter.’ Snarky,
isn’t he?”

“He does seem a mite touchy, if I understand him aright. “

Sam kept his eyes on Frodo’s hand where it rested on the page. It was a fine hand, a hand that looked most at home
when it was holding a goose quill or a glass of Old Winyards, yet Sam knew the true strength of it. Frodo had helped
Sam last summer when he had woven the withies into hurdles for the kitchen garden, and Mr. Frodo had worked as
quickly and easily as anyone Sam had ever seen.

“Yes, he’s rather testy, like so many scholars. Sam,” Frodo paused, frowning, his hand tense. “What do you dream
about?”

“Oh, nothing of interest, sir. I don’t rightly remember my dreams now that I think on it. Everyday matters, I shouldn’t
wonder. Why?”

“No particular reason; it’s only that I’ve been having such queer dreams of late. I’ve trekked round the three Farthings
and beyond, yet I visit places in my dreams that I’ve never seen in waking life.   Could they be real? When I spotted this
book in Stock I had hopes of it easing my worries. Now I’m not so sure that I want to know the truth. Even sitting here
with you, like this, I’m still somewhat unsettled by it. Perhaps it’s best to face down terrors when they come to you and
not go looking for them in advance. What do you think?”

“It might ease a hobbit’s mind to know what’s in store for him, mightn’t it, sir? Surely that can’t be wrong?”

“What if finding out the truth dashes your hopes? What then, Sam?”

“I can’t say as I have an answer to that, Mr. Frodo. I don’t hope for anything beyond…,” Sam near bit his tongue, wishing
that he could take back those words. They came too close to the subject preying on his own mind. If Mr. Frodo asked
him what he meant, he’d have to lie. The hopes of a Gamgee didn’t weigh much against the hopes of a hobbit like
Frodo Baggins. He didn’t want to speak to Frodo about his own small dreams and wishes.

His master was looking at him, waiting for something, a funny, almost wounded expression in his eyes that Sam
couldn’t answer.

Sam gripped the fabric of his breeches tightly. He’d never learned how to give comfort; he had three sisters at home,
and none of them inclined to be mothered, not even little Marigold who was the youngest. Tom often treated him as a
younger brother, though they were of an age. Mr. Frodo, he was nigh on thirty-two, and independent-minded if ever a
hobbit was, but he had grown up in Brandy Hall and mayhap he wouldn’t take it amiss if Sam just….

Sam let go of his clothing and rested his hand on his master’s, not daring more but wishing that he could.

Frodo tilted his head slightly and raised his eyebrows.

“Sam?”

Oh sugar, trust Samwise Gamgee to do the wrong thing. His hand didn’t seem inclined to move away in spite of his
dismay.

“I only thought -- You looked sad, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo’s eyes warmed.

“Not sad, Sam. I’m puzzled. There are many things that I don’t fully comprehend. I should have thought that no hobbit
would have dreams beyond those of green pastures and rolling hills. At times I feel as if I were someone else,” he
smiled wearily. “That’s all.”

Sam didn’t care to think of Frodo being someone else, or somewheres else for that matter. He needed Frodo to be right
here, in the kitchen at Bag End, drinking tea and reading aloud. It made his heart go shrunken and dead to imagine
Frodo vanishing away. He pulled his hand back.

“What else does the book say, sir?”

Frodo shrugged.

“I’m waiting nervously to find out. Do I really want to know what my future holds? Will the book tell me, I wonder.”

Sam feared that his thoughts were visible on his face; it was lucky that he didn’t have an apple burning a hole in his
pocket at that very moment or Mr. Frodo would likely have seen straight through the wool and spied the fruit a-laying
there. He would ask why Sam had an apple sitting snug in his jacket, and Sam would have to tell him. Sam wasn’t
ready to tell anyone about the apple pips, not yet.

Frodo turned over several pages and paused at an illustration. Sam leaned forward, shoulder almost nudging Frodo’s,
and peered closely at the drawing. It showed a hobbit standing in a field at night, holding a lantern high above his
head. In front of him was an emaciated figure wrapped in a burying cloth with its chin tied up and a face whiter than a
sack of Sandyman’s flour. Sam shivered.

“If that don’t give me the pip, I don’t know what does. I wouldn’t want to see that in a dream; I surely wouldn’t.”

“Oh, well, this isn’t a chapter on dreams as it happens; it’s about ghosts. I gather that most ghosts are known to those
who see them. Isn’t that interesting? I wonder who could be wandering the confines of Hobbiton? I’ve never seen
anything hereabouts.”

“There are those who have, Mr. Frodo, begging your pardon.”

“Really? How fascinating. The ghost in this particular story had unfinished business. They usually do. Personally, I
should have thought one would be glad to go to one’s rest after a full life, though I can see that one might have left some
things undone. I hope I don’t.”

Sam, feeling a tad white himself, pushed his chair back and stood up.

“Speaking of unfinished business, sir, I’d best be seeing to the garden. The Gaffer will have my neck if any of the tools
are left out in the rain.”

“Of course, Sam.   I’m sorry to have kept you away from your work all this time.”

Sam couldn’t help but think that Frodo sounded disappointed, but not at all sorry. For his own part, he found it harder
and harder to leave the comfort of the Baggins kitchen as time passed. It was childish, he knew, yet there it was.

“That’s fine, sir. It’s only the tidying up that’s left. I’ll be here on the morrow I shouldn’t wonder. Mr. Bilbo has made
plans for an extension of the kitchen garden and I’m the one who will have the doing of it if I’m not mistaken.”

Frodo winced.

“Well, I would say I’m sorry for that as well, Sam, but the garden has never looked more beautiful and you know how
deeply I’d miss talking to you if you never came.”

Sam put his cap on and buttoned his jacket.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Frodo.   I’ll see you in the morning then.”

                                                                                                ~***~

Sam took a fresh apple from the shelf, thinking that this morning’s pick might not taste so sweet now that it had spent
the day amongst his vests and linen drawers.   He’d give the old apple a wash when no one was at home and slip it into
the pantry with the others. He was just checking the new apple over for worm-holes -- he wouldn’t want to name a worm
by accident -- when the door burst open and Marigold swept in. She stopped in her tracks and stared at the fruit in his
hand.

“Oh, Sam,” she said sadly, “you aren’t still brooding over that are you?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mari. I’m choosing an apple for my tea.”

She shook her curls.

“No, you’re not. You’re trying that old custom of the pips again. I saw you sneaking out of here this morning with your
pocket bulging.”

Sam blushed to his eyebrows; he could feel the blood rising hot under his skin.

“I like apples.”

She sighed loudly and snatched the fruit away from him, sticking it into the pouch on the front of her apron.

“Not that much you don’t. Tom Cotton told me all about his nan t’other day, right afore he told you. He had a distant,
dreamy look in his eyes, like he wished for me to try the pips myself. Knowing Tom as I do, I’ve no doubt he thinks that if
he can niggle you into doing it first you’ll have me at it, too, ere long. Well, I won’t have it.”

“Why ever not?”

“He’s always hanging about, that’s why. I’m not ready to look into my future; there’s May and Daisy ahead of me. Why
should I give any thought to handfasting when I’m only six and ten years of age?”

Sam couldn’t bring himself to argue with her, not when she was looking at him seriously out of those cool grey eyes so
like their mother’s. Her features went soft of a sudden and she touched his arm gently.

“Sam? There’s no need. The right one will come along. You’ll see.”

Sam didn’t have an answer for that, or not an answer he was willing to share with his sister.   The terrible truth was that
oftimes he wasn’t bothered whether it was the right lass. He only needed it to be settled one way or the other, simple as
that. He hated being the last hobbit let in on a secret. Deep down he wanted life to stay the way it was.

He liked waking up of a morning with the awareness that he was to spend most of the day at Bag End under the intent
but companionable eye of Mr. Frodo. He enjoyed tending the garden in that comfortable silence only a good friend could
give you. He loved the stories they shared, and when he slipped away to dream in his special place he carried those
stories with him. Then in the evenings he would walk down to The Ivy Bush with Tom and the other lads. They would
buy a round of ale, or maybe two, and swap yarns, though not the kind of yarns that Mr. Frodo would know of, leastways
Sam hoped not. The tips of his ears prickled a little at the very idea.

He was unhappy with the possibility that all of this could change in an instant, as if he’d had no hand in the affair. He
needed to be prepared. If he was afraid of anything it was that there might be no one; he didn’t care to spend the rest of
his life alone. There were hobbits like old Mr. Bilbo who chose that path, but it wasn’t for him. Rosie now, she was a
splendid lass; best if it was her. He just needed a private moment to give the pips a chance to tell him the shape of
things to come.

“It’s alright, Mari, I think it’s time we went for our tea.”

She shrugged her shoulders as if tea were the furthest thing from her mind.

“I came for another loaf of bread, but if you ever want somebody who will listen, you know I’m here, don’t you? Of course
you do.”

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and as she turned to go, Sam reached behind her and lifted an apple from the shelf,
deftly dropped it into his pocket and then followed her through the door.

The Gaffer was sopping up the last drops of gravy from his plate with a scrap of bread when they returned to the kitchen.

“Ah, there you are, Samwise. I’m off to The Ivy Bush with Daddy Twofoot. You should take to your bed as soon as may
be. A proper night’s rest will get you off to a timely start on the morrow.   We don’t want the Widow Rumble knowing
you’re a slug-a-bed. If the weather closes in she’ll want you in her garden like as not.”

“But what about the plantings at Bag End? I thought….”

The Gaffer swallowed a mouthful of bread and wagged his head.

“Then you thought wrong, lad. Mr. Bilbo tells me that he wants to draw up another plan before we lay out the new beds.
There’s nothing else needs doing up there that can’t wait for better weather. You do what the Widow tells you, and don’t
be so eager to be at the Smial every moment of the day, wool-gathering with Mr. Frodo when my back is turned.”

Sam sat down to his supper with less than his usual appetite. Lamb stew, with barley and carrots, and a generous
helping of potatoes hidden underneath. It was his favourite, and yet the lowering sensation in the pit of his stomach
kept him from giving it the attention it deserved. When the Gaffer finally took his leave of them, Sam scarcely noticed.

He had nearly asked Mr. Frodo that afternoon if he believed the future could be foretold in dreams or mayhap in some
other fashion. He couldn’t have come right out and explained himself, but he might have felt less foolish over the
business of the pips if Frodo could have shown him some lines in a book where someone else had done a similar
thing with fruit. Frodo wouldn’t know anything about apples, of course; that was a tradition of common Shire-folk. But
elves would have ways of seeing the future, too, wouldn’t they? He wished he wasn’t young and ignorant. There was so
much that he wanted to find out, and no one to ask but Mr. Frodo.

“Sam?”

Daisy’s voice broke in on his ponderings. There was a single lump of potato left on his plate. He didn’t think he could
eat it now.

“We’re going out. Do you want me to set aside a bowl of pudding for you? It’s piping hot. You look a mite peaked. You
should finish your supper and go to bed like Da said.”

“I’ll bide by the fire for awhile. I’ll have my pudding later if I don’t go to bed afore you get home. Where are you going?”

“Over to visit the Goodbodys. We’ll be back before you miss us.”

May, who had been weaving a pale blue ribbon into her hair, turned and gave him a little pinch on the cheek.

“Don’t sit by the fire too long, Samwise, or the Boggle-boo will come down the chimney and grab your toes. You know
what will happen if he does, don’t you. He’ll ask for something from you and what he wants might be what you’re least
prepared to lose.”

Sam brushed her hand away.

“Oh, go on, May. That’s a tale for the nursery.”

“Even so, it’s happened to many from what I’ve heard tell, the honest as well as the guilty.”

Marigold kissed the pinch mark and Sam rubbed it away self-consciously.

“Don’t you worry, my dear. There’s nothing here to fright you.”

Nevertheless, Sam watched them leave with a faint unease that he couldn’t seem to shake off. He put his empty plate
where his sisters had left the others, and took his usual seat by the fireplace, resting his feet on the warm slates that
fronted the hearth.

He wasn’t reassured by Mari’s remark. He could never forget that dreadful night so many years ago when the Gaffer
had gone down to The Ivy Bush, just as he had tonight, and left him in the care of his sisters. They had been reciting
tales of haunts and frights that could suck the juices right out of a hobbit, whilst he sat wide-eyed and believing at their
feet, almost forgotten as they talked the evening away. Then May had laughed and said she was bored and why ever
couldn’t they walk over to the Cotton farm? Sam would be safe enough on his own, she had said; he was a stout lad.
So they had gone, and taken Marigold with them, and Sam had been there alone, listening to the wavering call of a night
jar somewhere out in the darkness, and the quieter rustles and creaks that the smial made to itself as it was settling
down for the night. As the fire grew dimmer and the room ever colder, Sam had become frightened. He didn’t know
where to go, but somehow he knew that he would be safe if only he were outside, in the garden. The vast depths of the
night sky were less terrifying to him than whatever lurked in the chimney. So he took his toy pony and crept out to the
porch, settling into the corner of the wooden bench and pulling his knees up for warmth. The Gaffer found him there fast
asleep when he came home after midnight, and his sisters got a right talking to come morning. They never left him like
that again, at least not until he was older, yet each time the memories returned.

The fire was low this night, as well, but the flames still reflected eerily from the surface of the copper boiler and the
brass tongs that lay on the hearth. He felt ringed by fire, the colours swaying and reaching outwards, then drawing back
in on themselves. Sam was mazed by the light, his eyelids drooping as he followed the movement to and fro. If the
Boggle-boo came down the chimney for him now, and well it might, he’d be too sleepy to put up a struggle. It could
nibble his toes quite away and he’d never notice. His eyes closed, and his head nodded forward.

He was standing on a narrow garden path, a mirror of the one at Bag End, but bordered on either side by a dark yew
hedge. He could sense the smooth stone flags beneath his feet, a little moist and cool from lack of sun. The path
stretched out before him until there, in the far distance, it turned at an angle towards the smial, or where the smial
should be if this were indeed his master’s garden. Somehow he thought it wasn’t. The sky, what he could see of it,
was a deep and angry grey shot with yellow. It spread only a sickly, mottled light on the path ahead. The worn stones
were scattered with withered leaves and clumps of brown and rotting petals; the garden itself was long abandoned and
unloved. He knew himself to be utterly alone.

Then, like the wavering reflection thrown by a magic lantern, a slight figure in a dark ashen cloak appeared, walking
slowly away down the path. Sam tried to call out, yet no words came from his mouth, only a dull cry quickly stifled. He
couldn’t remember how to run; he couldn’t even lift his feet more than a few meagre inches at a time. It may have been
a trick of the queer pale light, but it seemed at times as if the unfamiliar figure were the one motionless and waiting, and
he himself was shifting backwards, ever further and further away.    He didn’t understand why, but he couldn’t bear this
thought. He would never move away, would he?

Sam stopped struggling against the weights that gripped his ankles. He held his breath and watched. The figure was
nearing the bottom of the path and Sam knew with all that was in him that if it disappeared out of sight before he had
come level with it, he would have lost it forever. Then, at that final instant when it should have turned the corner, the
figure stopped. Sam noticed, for the first time, that there was a fountain set into the garden wall with water pouring out of
it by some dwarvish contrivance.   It fell into a pool below, a pool edged by a low bench. The figure knelt and looked into
the water, and as he did so, Sam was surprised to find that he, too, was standing right there, close enough to touch.

Sam could see his own face clearly, gazing into the green depths, and knew that if he leaned over the tiniest fraction, he
would also see the face of the cloaked hobbit. However, as he shifted his weight forward, the figure stretched out a thin,
pale hand and ruffled the surface of the pool. Sam strained to catch even the briefest glimpse, but all at once the pool
was engulfed by a ring of fire that burned through the water and left everything at its heart the deepest black. He was
afraid that the hobbit, whoever he was, was going to be pulled down into the fire. He put out his hand to draw him away,
and woke up.

Oh my, if ever a dream had brought him out in a cold sweat that one surely had. He didn’t want to imagine what it could
mean. Maybe the Gaffer had the right of it; Mr. Frodo’s book-learning would bring him only grief. He didn’t want to talk
about dreams and omens any more; he’d stick to elves from hereon in.   He’d not been so afrighted since that winter of
the great fever when the fits had near taken him. He was only a wee lad, but he would never forget it.   Why did he so
often wake up alone, sitting by the fire? Why did everyone have to leave him? He hated being without help in the dark.
Sometimes he hated the fire, too.

He needed to be outside now in the freshness, however cold it was, just as he’d needed it that other time. If he could
look up at the stars he wouldn’t be so fiercely gripped by the dread rising in his chest. He took his pipe, a thing only
lately acquired and more precious for all that, and sat on the doorstep, allowing the smial to cool off behind him and not
caring one whit. The thin crack of light from the hallway fell across his hand and he gripped it as if it were something
real.

Some day he’d love to sit and smoke a pipe together with Mr. Frodo. It was true that he’d shared a pipe with Tom a time
or two, but Tom was always pressing in on him, challenging him, making him want to throw up a wall and block him
out. Mr. Frodo knew how to be keep his own counsel.

It wasn’t long after that the Gaffer and Daddy Twofoot could be heard coming up the Hill, the tap of their sticks on the
road echoing in the stillness. A whiff of his Dad’s pipe-weed tickled Sam’s nostrils, and the Gaffer was there at the gate,
saying goodnight to his neighbour and weaving up the path a mite unsteadily. He stopped and peered towards the
porch.

“Samwise! Haven’t you gone to bed?”

“No, Dad. I fell asleep by the fire after supper and I thought to clear my head first.”

“Why ever would you need to clear your head afore going to bed? You’re odd for a Gamgee, I’ll say that for you. Well, be
off. I can feel the dampness settling in my bones. It will be a wet morning unless I’ve learned nothing in three and
seventy years. You’ll be glad then of a good night’s sleep.”

Sam stood up dutifully and tapped his pipe against the side of the smial to empty the bowl. The Gaffer was right, as
usual. It had been a horribly tiring day and he would be thankful indeed for the warmth of his cot and the softness of his
pillow, even if it weren't goosedown like Frodo’s.

Soft pillow or no, he found it hard to sleep. As he lay there, not in total darkness for he had left an end of candle burning
at his bedside as he often did, his thoughts and daydreams and the memories of the day were jumbled up in his head.
He could see Mr. Frodo standing in the long spring grass, face glowing and the flowers in his hand, but this picture was
overlaid by that ghostly figure in the book, its jaw pulled up tight. Surrounding them both was a ring of fire. He didn’t
know why the idea of Mr. Frodo fearing to leave things undone bothered him so, but it did. That Mr. Frodo worried over
such matters or had such dreams, young and alive as he was…. It made Sam heart-sick. His own worries were small
by comparison. He could see now that it was best for some folk not to know their future, even if other folk were more
than usually fixated on the notion.

The apple, he’d forgotten the blasted apple. Oh fiddle. All evening alone and he hadn’t once thought of it.   He would try
again tomorrow, as soon as he was able, and if that didn’t work, well, he was too tired to care.

                                                                                             ~***~

He had made his plans for the apple the night before; unfortunately, when he rose at first light, the Water was covered by
a fog so dense that he couldn’t see the roof of the Mill from the kitchen door, and the air was thick with an icy drizzle that
had him feeling clammy right through his clothes before he’d so much as stepped out into it. By now he was thoroughly
resigned to being waylaid by one thing or another, and if he’d been of a superstitious disposition, which he wasn’t of
course, no not at all, he’d have begun to believe that he wasn’t meant to learn who was waiting somewhere in his
future. Mayhap that book of Mr. Frodo’s and the fear that had gripped him after the dream were meant as a caution. He
hoped it wasn’t so, because he was beginning to get downright stubborn over the entire business. Time to dig in your
heels, Samwise, and hop to it.

He endured the wet morning while he prepared the Widow Rumble’s garden for planting; he wasn’t needed at Bag End
until afternoon on the morrow and the Widow had a mind to stay indoors and tend to her knitting on this cold damp day.
He couldn’t blame her.   No doubt she was resting snug by the fire wrapped in a score of shawls and reeking of
liniment. That Celandine Grubb had a thing or two to answer for, if ever a hobbit did.

By noontide he’d finished the chores and was thoroughly soaked and miserable. He then spent the better part of an
hour drying out by his own fire, eating a hearty bowl of beef stew and dumplings, followed by a noggin of ale. Marigold
asked, with a barely stifled giggle, if he fancied a baked apple for afters, but he didn’t think he could face it, not even if it
was stuffed with raisins. He already had an entire bushel full of apples dancing circles in his head and eager to be
made use of.

When he rose from the stool to set his dish and mug by the sink, he looked out the window and was surprised to see
that the sky had cleared, the clouds bunching along the horizon before a strong wind running from the southwest. With
nothing to do for the rest of the day except knock about the smial twiddling his thumbs, it seemed he might at long last
find time to make a second attempt on the apple. He patted his pocket. He hadn’t forgotten to bring the apple from his
room and there was no need to pinch another from the pantry.

There was a sheltered hollow along the western edge of the beck--within a stone’s throw of the Water but well away
from Hobbiton--where Sam would go when he needed quiet. The beck was dry below its ford for part of the year, but
now that the spring rains had begun, the stony bed was slowly filling and he could hear the tiny trickle of run-off tumbling
down its well-worn path. When the ramsons were in bloom he had to stay away for a time; the smell was overwhelming
and unpleasant. It made him value the hours he was able to spend here all the more; with the happenings of the day
before    whiirring in his head like a cloud of gnats, it was perfect and just what he needed.

Next to the garden at Bag End, which had its own special glamour, this was his favourite spot in all the Shire to sit and
ponder.   Not many knew of it seemingly, for when Tom wasn’t with him, Sam could dream the entire day away without
fear of any waifs and strays breaking in on his thoughts.   He didn’t have much time for daydreaming now that he’d
reached his tweens; he had too many responsibilities at Bag End, and elsewhere. The trouble was, of course, that the
more talks he had with Mr. Frodo, the more he had to think about and the fewer hours were left to do it in. Frodo would
set his mind buzzing with tales of dragons and elves and lovers fated to be forever apart; he’d feel himself pulled back
and forth between sorrow and amazement, his eyes fixed on the movement of Mr. Frodo’s lips as he told the story or the
spark in his eye when something amused him. He surely knew how to tell a tale if anyone did. Sam had never met his
equal, not in the countless evenings spent at The Ivy Bush listening to old Gaffers’ yarns.

It wasn’t Mr. Frodo he needed to be setting his thoughts on though was it, it was that blasted apple that was sitting snug
in his pocket. He plucked it out and turned it over, staring at it as if he could read his fate in its streaky red skin.

“You’ve been in my pocket since yestereve; you’d better have summat useful to say now that we’ve gone this far
together. Aw, what are you doing, Samwise? You're talking to the fruit.”

He unclasped his knife, briskly split the apple in two before it could answer him, and popped out the seeds one by one.
There were twelve all told. That wouldn’t do, would it; there weren’t twelve lasses in the whole of Bywater or Hobbiton
that were of his age and station. He picked up several of the smallest seeds and threw them into the beck.

He looked at the five remaining pips sitting in his palm, and wondered if he could cheat by dipping a few of them in the
water. Would they stick fast if they were wet, or would they drop off quicker? That plump brown pip there on the left with
the ruddy sheen to it, that must be Rosie Cotton. It was more handsome than the rest. And that odd stunted one--it bore
a disturbing resemblance to Angelica Baggins, if he squinted hard. The apple hadn’t put its best efforts into growing
that one. The other three might have been sisters, for all he could tell the difference between them. What if one of those
was to stick? How would he know whose pip it was? It was a puzzle right enough. He weighed the pips in his palm
wistfully. If Rosie’s were to fall off first, then he truly didn’t care which one was left; it was much of a muchness.
Somehow he thought Angelica would stick faster than a bloodsucker. He sighed.

He tipped his head back and placed three pips on his forehead and one on each cheek. He almost forgot to breathe
with the worry of balancing them there like that. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t rightly recollect what
Tom had said, and he daren’t stay here all day. He’d have a frightful crick in his neck.

“Hoy, Sam-lad. Why are you sitting out here by yourself with apple pips on your cheeks?”

He moved quick as a dog with a burr up its backside, brushing the pips off as if they were flies that had settled on him
while he dozed and turning to glare at his friend.

“It’s your fault, Tom. You’ve been putting ideas into my head and they’re nagging at me. Now I’ve gone and wasted the
pips. Aw, it’s no use anyway.”

Tom hunkered down next to him and threw a stone or two into the water. He didn’t so much as glance at Sam.

“You don’t need none o’ that nonsense. Rosie’s already sweet on you; you know that without needing apple pips to tell
you so.”

“I know no such thing, and besides, who says I’m interested in her? Tell me that, Tom Cotton?”

Tom smiled.

“No one’s a-saying anything, Sam-lad. Here, give me half of that apple; I’m a tad peckish.”

Sam handed him a piece, glowering at his own half and the narrow holes where the pips had lain. It clearly wasn’t
meant to be; if the third time paid for all, then he’d missed his chance.

“Why did you tell me then, if you thought I already knew summat?”

Tom gave him a sly look, and spat out a pip.

“Seems you missed one. I told you it was for those as didn’t already have an inkling, didn’t I? I think you know. I think
you’ve always known. Never mind Rosie.”

Sam bit into his apple and munched it in silence for a few minutes, while Tom waited, quieter than usual. When he’d
finished, he threw the core into the bushes and wiped his hands on his breeches.

“The only thing I know, Tom, is that I’ve muffed it good and proper. My sisters think my brain’s gone wandering and – oh,
never mind. My old dad is right; my heart should be on what needs doing up at Bag End, and not out hunting thistles
with the brownies.”

“Your old dad is right about that, Sam-lad. Still, you might want to try using a mirror next time, like I told you afore. You
can’t mistake what you see in the glass, can you?”

“Did your nan do that?”

“She didn’t need to; the apple pips knew their duty and did it, and their foretelling came true. Nan Cotton was born
knowing what she wanted. I think you were, too. If you’re not sure, though, look in the mirror, and do it where you won’t
be interrupted. Do it where you feel safe and private.   Wouldn’t want to see Marigold in the mirror, would you?”

Sam shuddered.

“I wouldn’t. Seems to me that others would, but I’ll name no names.”

Tom laughed.

“Just try it.”

He stood up, brushed the dirt from his breeches and looked out over the beck to the green hills in the far distance.

“You‘re uncommon keen on stories of the old days. You’re forever talking about how Frodo Baggins has told you this
and that; you never stop. Maybe you’re part of a story that you can’t see the end of yet. Look in the mirror if you’ve a mind
to.”

He tapped Sam on the shoulder and headed towards the village with his hands in his pockets. Sam watched him go,
wondering if Tom was ragging him again, or if he knew something this time that he wasn’t prepared to share. That
wasn’t like Tom; Tom could talk the ears off a coney. Oh, it was no use. He’d have to do as Tom had said or he’d never
get any rest. He’d ever been one to see a matter through to its finish and he wasn’t going to give up now. But if he
couldn’t do it in his own bedroom, where was he to do it?

A notion began to take shape in his mind, a notion that made him so nervous he could barely draw breath. What if he
were discovered, what if he had an accident with the mirror or the candle, what if…? However it might be, he knew that
this seed of Tom’s had been planted in soil more than ready to bring it to fruition and there was nought he could do
about it. One more time, and then he was done. If no one came to claim him, he would give it up for good and accept
his fate. He’d be at Bag End on the morrow, and then he would see what he would see.

---------

It was almost completely dark in the potting shed after he’d shut the door, a darkness filled with the smell of earth
mould, pine resin and oiled leather. His water-proof cloak sagged from its nail, a pair of boots that the old master had
brought from Buckland once on a time sitting disconsolately below.   Tools and shadowy tottering stacks of pots loomed
in the corners, and underneath the benches the silvery edge of a cobweb was visible here and there in the crannies.

The solitary window outlined a patch of pebbly pink-streaked sky, but it was barely enough to cast more than a faint glow
onto the table along the far wall. He could only hope that no passing hobbit would see the fitful glimmer of candle-light
as he worked the charm. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could be hasty with. It would take however long it took for the
face of his beloved to show itself in the glass. Soon or late was the same to Sam provided that it worked in the end.
He did wonder if he ought to have hung a scrap of sacking over the window; he thought not, as Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo
would be at their tea, and no one else was liable to come up the path to the smial and see him standing there in the
shed.

He lifted his mam’s mirror from its worn flannel bag, and polished it up to a satiny sheen with the cuff of his shirt. It
wasn’t much to look at, he supposed, not like the fine silver mirrors that adorned the dressing tables at Brandy Hall.   No
doubt Mr. Frodo would think it quite common if he were to see it, but it was the only possession that he had to remind
him of his mam and he had felt rather uneasy taking it away from the shelter of his drawer. He was uncertain what his
mam would say about him using it for such a purpose; he didn’t think she’d mind. For all he knew, she might have
done it herself, when she was a tween.   She would want him to be happy. If knowing the name of the lass waiting in his
future was what he needed most, well, he couldn’t see the harm in scrying for it and neither would she have done.

The mirror had a simple brass frame so worn with age in places that it was hard to make out what the tiny pattern
circling the edge had once been. Flowers maybe, or stars. Sam couldn’t say.   His mother’s fingers had rubbed the
metal quite smooth where they had held it while she combed her hair. He thought he could remember watching her do
it, but perhaps it was only that Daisy had told him of it so many times as she brushed the knots out of his own hair when
they sat by the fire of a morning. He traced the initials of his mother’s name on the back of the frame—B.G. He knew
that much, even though they could scarcely be read any more.

He leaned the mirror gently against one of the many clay pots that cluttered the table and got out his stub of candle. As
soon as he had it lit, he dripped a bit of tallow onto the worn wood and stuck the end firmly in place. It wouldn’t burn for
more than a quarter hour, but he hoped it would do. Tom hadn’t said how long this might take.   Whether he ate the
apple fast or slow, it only made sense that someone’s face would have appeared by the time he’d eaten down to the
core. If not, he could surely find another use for the pips. He had a hazy recollection of Tom saying that you could place
the pips in the fire and find your answer that way, but he didn’t understand how to go about it or what the pips would do
once you’d got them into the flames. It seemed a tricky business with his sisters keeping a watchful eye on him every
moment of every day. He’d have to store the pips in his pocket and ask Tom when he had a chance. Maybe they could
build a fire by the beck. No, this final time and no more. He was tired of having his head crowded with apples.

The apple that he’d taken from the pantry that morning was a mite soft when he bit into it, although it tasted well
enough. He was too nervous to really notice or care. Should he have brought the comb? My stars, but you think too
much, Samwise Gamgee. Eat the apple and be about your business as fast as you can. If this didn’t work then he was
done listening to Tom. He felt such a dreadful idiot.

He hadn’t gotten more than half-way to the core when there was a strange stirring behind him, a shiver of air lifting the
hair off his neck as if something uncanny was passing by. He could feel his skin coming up in goose bumps, and a
quiver ran through his flesh like cold hands pawing him everywheres. Oh glory, mayhap he shouldn’t have tried this, not
after the warning dream of the night before.   He’d stirred up what should have been left alone, a goblin as liked the dark
and out-of-the-way places and had come a-seeking him.

Then an eerie sound came, a soft moan or cry echoing in the closeness of the potting shed.   He’d heard many a story
at the fireside, of how a haunt was seen at times on the Hill, shimmering over the bare ground before it melted into the
hillside. The village gossips said that it was the spirit of Berylla Boffin in her flowing white nightgown. Sam had always
understood that Berylla, in life, had been more inclined to keep to her bed than get out of it, and never ventured so far as
the front hall if she could help it. He hadn’t entirely credited the tale of her wandering spirit. He’d thought it far more
likely that it was a stray sheep. However it might be, there was something nearby him now. He could clearly imagine
the whatever it was that crouched behind him.

He froze with the apple raised halfway to his lips, the candle near guttering in its pool of tallow, and gazed into the
mirror. At first there was only the faintest glimmer of white, a suggestion of a face seen through a mist. Then two
gleaming eyes appeared and a mass of dark hair writhing like snakes, coiling and glistening and rising upwards. This
was far worse than the picture in the book. It was Berylla for sure. What would happen when she touched him? They’d
find him in the shed after breakfast, lying stark and stiff next to a blackened piece of candle and an apple core and he’d
be a legend and a warning in the Shire for many years to come. It wasn’t a fate that he would wish on any hobbit.
Whatever was he to do? There was only one way out of the shed, and that was through the door. He’d never fit through
that poor excuse for a window; hobbits weren’t shaped for squeezing through holes that tight.

The apparition opened its mouth; it was getting closer; it was….

“Whatever are you doing here, S-s-s-am? You should have gone home long ago,” a soft voice whispered, sibilant in the
stillness of the shed.

It knew his name. The mirror had drawn it sure as sure and it would take him away into its earthy lair. There was a
sudden gust of cold from the doorway and the flame grew tall with a twist and a flicker of black smoke as the tip of the
wick flared. The brightness made him squint, but the face that lurked behind the mist loomed toward him out of the
shifting darkness. He braced his shoulders for its coming, and wished for a painless death.

He could sense the thing at his back, almost touching him. The candle sputtered and dimmed. Not now, please not
now; he couldn’t be here in the night with it now.   He dared a swift glance in the mirror, and, without truly meaning to,
looked straight into the eyes of what hovered behind, right between him and the door.   Oh tripes and trillibubs, it was
worse than he could ever have imagined.   He was done for, one way or another.

Sam couldn’t turn around; he simply couldn’t. Turning around would make the horror real. He didn’t know if this answer
to his wish counted for ought. The custom said that you’d see your beloved’s face in the mirror next to yours. It said
nothing about the reflection of someone who was standing close enough to lay a hand on you, so close that you could
feel his warm breath against the hairs on your neck; a someone who was the cousin of the master of Bag End, and not
a lass as far as he could tell.   No, it had said nothing at all about that. He knew that superstitions were tricky things and
often turned against the unwary hobbit who had mistaken their true meaning. Blast that Tom Cotton for starting this in
the first place. Look what had happened after his fruitless attempts to get it right.

Frodo seemed quite normal of a sudden, not like a fetch at all. His eyebrows were slightly raised maybe, but Sam
couldn’t quite see the expression on his face, as Frodo had glanced away, his attention focussed on the apple core in
Sam’s hand. That was just as well, if the expression was anything like Sam’s own. Sam didn’t have any use for a
mirror and never thought a great deal about his appearance.   No doubt this was a good thing, because if anyone had
ever looked like a great juggins, it was Samwise Gamgee. His eyes were as round and shiny as the buttons on the
Shirriff’s weskit, and his mouth was agape.

“Sam? Are you alright?”

“Oh, Mr. Frodo, sir. I’m fine. I was…I wanted to…”

”I asked if that was a good apple. It appears somewhat wizened.”

“I stuck it in my pocket this morning without thinking I suppose. No, it’s not very good, but thank you for asking, sir.”

Frodo reached around, his arm almost brushing Sam’s shoulder and picked up the mirror, and so, thankfully, Sam
didn’t have to look at his own face in the glass. He was none too pretty with that hectic flush mottling his cheeks, but at
least he didn’t have to see it any more. The trouble was that he couldn’t see Mr. Frodo’s neither. He shouldn’t stand
here staring at the wall like a dafty; he would have to pay the piper sooner or later.

“This is a pretty mirror. You didn’t find it in the potting shed, surely?”

Perhaps turning around wasn’t a good idea, since his face was likely to give the game away, if it looked as hot and
bothered as it felt.

“No. No I didn’t, sir. It was my mother’s. I don’t know why she gave it to me and not to one of my sisters.”

“Oh. Well, how did it come to be here, with you, just before supper-time? And you’ve a candle lit, I see. How interesting.”

There was a horrible silence.

“Sam, whatever are you doing?”

The only thing that Sam could think to do right then was to blow out the candle, and he did. The sun was so low in the
sky by now that only the palest, narrowest band of light fell through the door against the back wall of the shed.

Sam turned around at last. Frodo was watching him steadily, but Sam had no way to read his expression in the fading
light.

“I’ll be going home, if it’s alright with you, sir. Marigold will box my ears if I’m late to my supper.”

Frodo sighed, such a gentle sigh that Sam barely heard it.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

Sam swallowed hard and shook his head.

“There’s naught to tell, sir. I’ll take my mirror and be off. I shouldn’t have come in the first place. If Mr. Bilbo wants to
dismiss me, well, you can tell him it was a bit of foolishness between some of us lads and it won’t happen again.”

Frodo placed the mirror in Sam’s hand.

“A mirror, a candle, and an apple?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s your own business, I suppose. I won’t mention it to Bilbo.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s as I said – a silly whimsy that one of the lads put into my head.”

“Lads will do that, won’t they. I expect I’ll see you tomorrow then. From what Bilbo tells me you’ll be very busy in the
garden for several weeks. I doubt if there will be any time to finish that book we were reading yesterday. Pity.
Goodnight, Sam.”

As Frodo stepped out into the evening Sam could have sworn that he heard him say ‘but I don’t think it’s foolish at all’.
He must have been mistaken.