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An Unexpected Adventure.
No, that wasn’t right.
A Hobbit’s Journey.
No, that wasn’t right either. Too prosaic. Bilbo drew a thick, black line through both titles and replaced his pen in the inkwell, sighing deeply. Through the half-open door he could hear pots and pans clattering as dinner was prepared. A little further off there was a faint buzz of voices coming from the parlour. Such homely noises only added to his dissatisfaction. He enjoyed his regular visits to Brandy Hall, generally speaking, but it wasn’t a conducive atmosphere for writing.
Maybe it was the desk that was wrong. Maybe he needed a different pen, or a different shade of ink. He took the top off a bottle filled with a deep navy liquid, considered it, and then pushed it away. No, the problem was with him. He hadn’t anticipated that writing his memoirs would be this difficult. And who would read them when he was finished anyway? Your average hobbit was more interested in almanacs than dragons and treasure and battles.
At a loss, Bilbo closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind. He had almost dozed off when he gradually became aware of another sound - the soft patter of small feet on the wooden floor just outside his room. After a few moments they came to a stop. Then there came a small cough, barely audible.
Bilbo sighed again, opened his eyes, and turned to face his visitor.
A small boy stood in the round doorway, possibly around ten years old at a guess (Bilbo’s experience with children was limited and he could have been anything from eight to twelve). His tangle of nut-brown curls was badly in need of cutting and his small face, mostly taken up by a pair of round, blue eyes, was unusually solemn for a youngster. There was something slightly skittish about him too, as if he might turn tail and run at any moment.
“What can I do for you, lad?” Bilbo asked,
The boy looked down at his feet, which shuffled a step to the side and then back again while he worked up the courage to answer. “I… Uncle Rory said you might tell me a story. He said your stories are always the most exciting.”
Oh, he did, did he? Bilbo was about to shoo the boy away when he caught the hopeful expression in his eyes. It was quite unusual for any of his relations to show an interest in hearing something exciting.
“I suppose I have been known to tell a tale or two in my time,” he mused. “All right, come on in. We’ve got half an hour or so before dinner, I believe. What’s your name?”
“Frodo.” Smiling shyly, the small figure inched into the room and stood uncertainly in the centre of the room.
Watching him, Bilbo tried to remember where he had heard the name before and how, precisely, they were related. It didn’t take long for it to come to him. Drogo and Primula’s boy. The orphan. A sudden shaft of pity shook him from head from toe. It had been a bad business, that accident on the river. Hopefully, young Frodo hadn’t heard some of the nasty rumours that had sprung up recently.
He got up from the desk and re-settled in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, indicating that Frodo should take the other. The boy did so with an enthusiasm that Bilbo couldn’t help find endearing, some of his initial shyness dropping away in favour of a bright, eager grin. When seated his legs dangled a few inches above the floor.
“All right, my boy,” Bilbo began. “What would you like to hear about? Dragons? Trolls? Elves? Giants?”
Frodo’s eyes gleamed. “Giants!”
“Very well. I think I have something that might suit. I first heard this tale from my mother, you know, and she heard it from her father, the Old Took himself.” Settling back in his chair, he steepled his fingers and began.
“A long time ago, exactly where I am not sure -”
“Not sure? How can you not be sure?”
“It was, as I said, a long time ago. And this was outside the Shire, don’t forget, where kingdoms rise and fall and boundaries shift. In fact, this story may have taken place many years before the Shire even existed.”
Frodo frowned, as if he were finding it difficult to make sense of a world where the Shire didn’t yet exist. But eventually he accepted the answer and tilted his head attentively.
Bilbo continued. “In a peaceful, prosperous country of the big folk there lived a man who many called a giant. He wasn’t an actual giant, you understand, but he was extraordinarily tall - almost eight foot.” When Frodo failed to look suitably impressed he added, “That’s more than twice the size of a fully-grown hobbit. And he was a good enough man as far as these things go, kind to his tenants, clever, and generous with his money, for although he came from humble origins he had grown rich from trade. Most important of all though, was that he was in love with a great lord’s daughter.”
At the word ‘love’ Frodo’s nose wrinkled.
Bilbo chuckled. “Don’t worry, it’s not that kind of story. But he was in love with her and so, one day, he brought a precious diamond from the dwarves who mined the mountains to the north. Then he went to her father’s house to ask for her hand. It was a grand house, much grander than his own. Still, he was undaunted. He had a good opinion of himself, as well as being clever and rich, and he saw no reason why the lady should refuse him, especially when he’d brought her such a dazzling gift. So, he got to his knees and he asked if she would give him her hand. She looked at him, shocked, and then, what do you think happened?”
Frodo curled his legs up underneath him and sighed. “She married him, I suppose.”
“Not in the slightest,” Bilbo answered, noticing with some satisfaction that his visitor immediately seemed to perk up.
“She laughed in his face, in fact. I’ll never wed with a giant like you, she said, and I don’t like the touch of your rough hands. Now, some people there felt sorry for him. Others laughed at his humiliation, and these were the ones he remembered as he turned from the hall, heartbroken and red-faced. All of his love for the lady fled in an instant. Before he reached home he had sworn to take his revenge for being slighted so.”
“What did he do?”
“Ah, I’m getting to that. First, he used his money to build a great castle down by the banks of the largest river in the land. This river was deep and fast-flowing, and vital for trade and transport and whatnot. Boats came and went all the time, much like the ones you see out on the Brandywine but many times larger.”
Here Bilbo paused, remembering anew the circumstances that had led to the death of Frodo’s parents. The lad seemed pensieve, his head turned towards the window, where there was a fine view of the river bank. Feeling awkward and inadequate, he stood and poked at the fire in the grate before throwing on another log. The flames crackled as he settled back once more and continued with the story, hoping that he might at least distract Frodo from whatever thoughts were going through his mind.
“Once the castle was finished he came to live there, leaving all but a few of his servants behind. From every passing ship he’d demand a steep toll and if they didn’t pay… well, you know what would happen? It’s a bit grisly.”
Frodo suddenly grinned, a toothy expression that made him look like an entirely different youngster to the shy, uncertain creature who had firstly appeared at the door. “I don’t mind grisly tales.” He sat up a little straighter, trying to make himself appear more adult, or so Bilbo suspected.
“Very well.” He paused for dramatic effect. “If they didn’t pay then he would cut off their hands with his great sword. That’s right, cut them clean off!”
Frodo gasped. “But why?”
“Because of what the lady had said. You remember? I don’t like the touch of your hand. It was a sort of message to her, you see. And as time went by word of this began to spread throughout the land. Merchants and travellers started to avoid the area, and the people of the kingdom began to get poorer and poorer, until many of them could hardly afford a loaf of bread.”
“How terrible! Did the giant not care?”
“He might have done, once. As I said at the beginning, he was not a bad man. But he had thought and thought about the lady’s rejection and the injury to his honour with such bitterness and for so long that gradually his heart had become twisted. It didn’t matter to him now whether the people starved, so long as he could have his revenge. This went on for a year and a day until --”
The clanging of the supper bell drowned out the second half of his sentence. Promptly, Bilbo got to his feet. This time he remained there, in front of the fire, straightening his waistcoat.
Frodo remained in his seat, a most unusual reaction for a growing hobbit at supper-time. “Until what?” he asked. “What did the lady and her father do? They couldn’t just let the giant go around chopping off people’s hands, could they?”
Bilbo took his pipe from the mantelpiece and placed it in his pocket, smiling. “You’ll just have to wait and see. Now, come along, young Frodo. I’m more than ready for something to eat.”
Together, they walked down to the dining room.