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Year 19, Fourth Age
22 Halimath, S.R. 1440
“Mari? What d’you suppose is keeping Dad Tom?” Sam asked his sister as the two of them worked in Bag End’s kitchen together, setting up last-minute preparations. His sister had come up from Bywater the previous day to help him set things in order for The Birthday. Some there were, of course, who thought Sam Gamgee, or Gardner as he was called, had cracked for continuing to keep up The Birthday with his Masters gone, but Sam wouldn’t give it up, not for anything. And their father-in-love had always supported the Bagginses. Farmer Cotton wouldn’t miss it, even ill as he’d been. Mari had said herself, she was sure he was getting better. Why, Young Tom had promised to drive his dad up to the Party himself…
“I’ve no idea, Sammy,” she sighed. “My Tom’s promised he’d bring Dad Tom over to us, but if he’s taken a turn for the worse…” She shook her head, frowning. “Surely my Tom would’ve sent a message over, by Nick or Nibs or even Rosie…” Rose, too, had gone down to Bywater to see to her father, and Sam hoped that being close to him would relieve any stress on his wife – she was, after all, soon to give birth. “Mum Lily could’ve come, but…” Marigold shook her head. They worked in silence, a cloud of worry hovering over them. What do you think, Frodo? Sam asked, and the feeling of despair that welled up inside him made him even more concerned.
Fastred, a local tween with an eye for Elanor, who had taken to coming round Bag End, poked his head into the kitchen. “If you please, Mr. Gardner, sir, a Quick Post rider’s come from Bywater. Says it’s urgent.”
Sam didn’t need to be told twice, and he headed outside, taking the letter from the rider and slitting it open. Unfolding it, he felt his stomach drop down to his curly toes.
My dear Sam and Marigold…
Sam headed back inside to get Mari’s attention before continuing the letter with her.
My dear Sam and Marigold, it said.
It is with a heavy heart I write to tell you that Tolman passed very suddenly in the early hours of the morning. The Healers have determined it was a seizure of the heart, and that his end was painless. Lily and the children are all quite distraught. Will and I shall remain as long as we are needed. The funeral will be on Highday next. Lily does not wish you to cancel the Birthday, as she understands it is of utmost importance, but your presence afterward would be welcomed.
Love,
Aunt Wisteria
Wisteria Cotton, formerly Banks, was Farmer Cotton’s brother’s wife, and she would be a great comfort to Mum Lily, Sam thought. But for Tom to pass so sudden-like…He felt torn. Should he stay here, and pay tribute to his departed Masters – his honoured mentor, and beloved brother of the heart – or go to his wife, to comfort her in her loss?
“Mari? What do you think we should do?” Sam asked, feeling at a loss.
“We’re needed, Sammy,” she said quietly. “We can have a quiet toast to the Ringbearers, later. I’m sure they’d understand. Dad Tom…” She swallowed a sob. “My Tom needs me, and your Rosie, and the baby.”
Sam glanced aside, and nodded, reluctantly. To cancel the Party and break tradition…it would be, after all, what was proper, he supposed.
“Gaffer would tell us to go to Bywater,” Marigold added. That decided it.
“There’s always next year,” he agreed soberly, and Marigold kissed her brother’s cheek. “I’ll go tell the little ones, Sammy. Pack for us?”
They parted ways, and Sam set to his task quickly. He had to go to Rose – and before long, the carts were loaded up with eleven young Gardners and almost half as many young Cottons, piled in with the luggage as their parents drove to the Cottons’ farm.
Rowan, Tom and Mari’s middle daughter, tried starting up a song as they drove, but it quickly faded on her lips. This was no time for singing, but for haste and silence. None of them took in the scenery – none of them could describe, later, when asked, what they had seen or heard around them, even though they knew the road all too well. All they could remember, besides Rowan’s abortive attempt at song, was numbness – the cold chill and fear that stemmed from losing one they had loved. Sam’s fear was greater – what if Dad Tom’s passing had hurt Rosie so much the babe was harmed? She was very close to her lying-in time, and all – just a month to go before the birth.
So when they finally reached the farmhouse, to be met by a white-lipped Lily and sober Tom, the latter carrying his newborn nephew In blankets, Sam was struck dumb with shock. “Rosie?” he managed to stammer.
“She’s well, brother,” Tom said. As well as she can be. “So’s your son. He’s a bit small, though.” Tom transferred the babe to Sam’s arms, and the shocked father managed not to drop him. “When?” he asked.
“She’d been in labour since we got the news, and the little one made his presence known just an hour gone.” Tom gave Sam a smile, despite his pain. “That’s twelve, Sam – are you and Rosie going to stop now you’ve matched the Old Took?”
Sam nodded, and went straight back to see Rose, while the children crowded around Young Tom. He pushed his way through to Marigold, and kissed her. “Good news and bad often go hand in hand, Mum always says,” Tom whispered.
“We have a birth to celebrate after all,” Marigold replied. “Maybe he was Dad’s last gift to our family.”
Tom nodded, and herded the children inside before taking Marigold off alone.
Inside the Cotton farm, the gaggle of cousins curled up together, while in separate rooms, their parents mourned, once more, the passing of a beloved father and grandfather.
Birth, death, sorrow, joy – they were all bound up together, and on that day all the family realized it, from the youngest faunt to the eldest of the family.
Sam, for his part, hoped it would be a long time before his children had to do without him. He held Rose as she wept, and wept with her, for joy and for sadness. The babe began to cry, too, and the song Rowan had begun to sing floated into Sam’s mind; he couldn’t help himself.
“Up in the green orchard there is a green tree,
The finest of pippins that ever you see;
The apples are ripe and ready to fall,
And Rolly and Robin shall gather 'em all.
Sing hey! Sing ho!
To harvest we go!
Sing high! Sing low!
To harvest we go!
Out in the field the barley is gold,
The bread will be brown, the beer will be cold.
Now is the time, let the reaping begin,
And Rolly and Robin shall gather it in.
Sing hey! Sing ho!
To harvest we go!
Sing high! Sing low!
To harvest we go!
Down in the dingle the mushrooms are brown.
Penny Buns and White-caps all cover the ground.
Creep into the dell before the Sun’s up--
And Rolly and Robin shall eat them all up!
Sing hey! Sing ho!
To harvest we go!
Sing high! Sing low!
To harvest we go!”
Rose laughed weakly as Sam sang, as their son calmed, and the babe slept.
“Robin,” she said thoughtfully, looking at Sam. “What do you think, Sam-love?”
“Not Tolman?” Sam asked. Rose shook her head.
“We’ve enough of them in the family – or we had,” she said quietly. “Robin is a good name.”
“Robin, then,” Sam added, thinking of his friend, the once-Shirriff Smallburrow, and imagining how pleased he’d be. “A fine name.”
Wearied by grief and joy, Sam and Rosie followed their newest son into slumber. It wouldn’t be long before they had to wake – but for now, they could rest.