Reluctantly, the two packed up and got back on the road after promising to return to Pincup. Frodo hinted that he wished to discuss business with the inn keep after he’d met with Acron Hornblower. He’d also suggested that he wished some business with Sam, but wouldn’t say what it was. Since last night, Frodo appeared at odds with his own behavior. As he and Sam both trundled through the wide green hills, Frodo looked like he wished to say something vital, but couldn’t find the words. For long stretches he said nothing, but stirred with busy thoughts. Sam couldn’t figure it out. After having a few slashes at a wineskin the Inn keep had topped up, Frodo started talking. Sam minded the road and listened.

“I tried to run away from the Hall, once,” Frodo confided. “After my parents passed on, I decided I’d had quite enough of Buckland. Like most things, it all went quickly wrong. The whole ‘packing enough food to travel’ issue I had yet to master. Thankfully, a shirrif came upon me before it got too dark and something sinister occurred.”

Sam knotted his brows, imagining Frodo stubbornly attached to the base of some tree, torn between following his heart’s desire and filling his belly. “Where were you going?”

“Away. Just away. Across the Brandywine to be gone somewhere hobbits weren’t nattering on about food, and clothes, and all those ordinary things that are at once safe and endearing, boring and stunningly maudlin.” Frodo reflected on his words with a wry smile. “Whatever unique qualities perceived in me always lent suspicion. It was generally agreed that I would grow to be quite useless, as those things my family prided simply escaped me.”

“Useless?” Sam laughed. “Who’s the one says what purpose any o’ us have?”

“The Thain, The Master of the Hall, My blessed Aunty Esmeralda...” Frodo recited. “Unless, of course, you think they’re all narrow old twits more concerned with appearance than effort. Far be it for an original thought to ever enter the minds of those so burdened with responsibility. My parent’s position in things allowed them to criticize. Inheriting that skepticism did me no favors.”

“Didn’t anyone keep your back?” Sam had always wondered if Frodo’s cousins had the mettle to defy their parents early on? They seemed to speak out of both sides of their mouth when it came to picking alliances, although it was obvious they were both infatuated with Frodo. In the Gamgee household, it was the solemn duty for all siblings to unite in thwarting the ambitions of the parent. Should someone switch allegiances in order to gain favor, the wrath of the majority interceded. In Sam’s case, a caning from his father was nothing compared to retaliation from his sisters, who did not temper their vengeances with adult restraint.

“I never expected them to. It would have been unconscionable to place them at odds with their parents over something they will likely never understand. While they did rebel, it was always within the scope of the known and probable. With myself there was no such generosity, although I didn’t know it back then. I simply thought there was a far higher purpose to life than sitting about in some great wretched smial wondering on about which frock coat went best with which breeches.” He squeezed his lips together then took a deep slash from the skin. “Or how best to manage the destinies of those common hobbits whose fates were bound to the whims of the elite.”

“It’s very hard to own anythin’ in Buckland, aye? ‘Tis all divided out into holdings?” Sam said.

“Yes. Courting favor is a high art amongst the various councils. It’s terrifically dreary, although taken very seriously. Nor are ones doings entirely one’s own. The only way out of your lot is to attempt to cross into one of the land owner’s families. No doubt this is why Brandy Hall is constantly overflowing with children from all manner of ill considered relationship.”

Sam’s eyes opened wide. “You’re jokin’!”

“You’ve no concept of bastardry in Hobbiton,” Frodo laughed dryly in that self-deprecating manner that sounded cruel, but wasn’t meant to be.

“Why did Master Bilbo come and get you out of Buckland, then?” Sam said. “You were there a fair bit after all that went on…”

“What caused them to be rid of me, you mean?” Frodo smirked. “My Aunt took it upon herself to quick my interest in the fair sex. Sadly, it all ended in tears,” He said breezily, as if this was the manner of all things in his life. “For while I found my third cousin on the Tookish side enticing, I had no desire for the level of obligation her position required.”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t marry her, because I didn’t used to believe in it.”

“You got her with child?” Sam could scarce believe what he was hearing.

“Of course not.” Frodo paused to consider something. He turned a little around in the seat until he had Sam’s full attention. Very gently he said, “In my family, nothing is taken lightly. That’s what the kitchen staff is for, or the ladies maid who wishes nothing more than to add to the clatter of children inside the Hall, and perhaps come away with something for her troubles. It is the way things are done until after marriage. It’s all quite common, almost a requirement in some circles. Aunty was more than willing to concede that my preferences would conflict with the usual arrangements. Therefore, she hired on the loveliest stable lad in anticipation of my betrothal, being, of course, that it was set to last for many years…”

“Gardeners?” Sam blurted, then wondered at once why he was being so obvious. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean…”

“Yes you did, and you are correct. There was quite a stunning collection of gardeners all too eager to accede to whatever demands the household placed upon them.” Frodo said, not begrudging Sam his insistence. “When I chose to wander off after the stable lad and ignore Edlyn Took’s advances, my rebellion was complete.” He chuckled a little as embarrassment colored his cheeks. “And of course, once Edlyn stormed back off to Tuckburough, Auntie’s concession was assigned to a distant holding, never to return.”

Something turned over in Sam’s stomach. “Stars…your goin’ on like the Master’s wife was about pullin’ fanny up the pub!” Sam shook his head, amazed. “Not even that, for the doxy’s are a might prized as it were, and no secret I’m knowin’ of. Truth be told, Bywater would likely collapse should ‘ol Ruby Smithchild get shut o’ us. M’ gaffer would go daft inside a fortnight!” He was struggling for words. “Queer doin’s ain’t the half of what I am hearin’!”

“I used to despair of it, but now I understand some of their reasonings.” Frodo’s face showed no anger, but instead, a long ago acceptance that not every choice presented him suited. “My parents never once abided a bit of it. Hence my own refusal surprised no one. I must say, I found it all enormously depressing - using hobbits like bits of money to be exchanged back and forth. It did press me to some interesting conclusions.” He smiled, and appeared to wish for Sam to know his heart then, as if he had been saving himself for a time when he was sure someone would be interested enough to listen. “The foremost being all Hobbits bring in the harvest, together.”

Sam grunted sagely. “Ol’ custom that. Brings the high w’ the low.”

“Sweating together in some daft great wheat field tends to focus ones priorities a bit. Mind, I understand Uncle Saradoc has managed it in velvets a time or two…”

“Lobelia’s blasted parasol near took my eye one year.” Sam considered something he’d heard. “If its true then that the gentry never marry outside o’ their own, doesn’t that make…”

“Surely it’s occurred to you that my predilections and appearance are somewhat extraordinary, Sam?” Frodo laughed a little to himself. “And yes, as you are well aware, unbalanced behavior runs on both sides of my family. I’ve no doubt it’s a result of one too many cousins being paired off together.”

“Not me.” Sam nodded his head with certainty. “M’ thinks you’ve heaped all upon your shoulders in some daft way of ownin’ yer blessins’. Like bein’ proud like that must have some price.” He snorted out a chuckle then turned to look into Frodo’s face. “There ain’t no ‘concept of bastardry’ in Hobbiton, aye, an’ there ain’t no guilt, neither.”

“You’re not a selfish people.” Frodo seemed to relax into the seat. “Thank the Valar.”

“Comes from never havin’ nothin’ much to fret over.” Sam knotted his brows together. “How many bloody gardeners?”

Frodo laughed until wine nearly dribbled out of his nose. Sam let it go, then picked up another thread.

“You’ve missed something there,” he said as Frodo passed over the remains of the wineskin. Sam frowned at the weight. It was unlike Frodo to drink so much so early on. “All this is goin’ on in that odd warren some like to call a smial, eh?”

Frodo bobbed his head. “Entertaining on most days…”

“Well, yer not a very entertaining lad, beggin’ yer pardon.” Sam pictured the heaps and stacks of well-worn books that Frodo and his uncle tore through for enjoyment. He’d never seen a hobbit with such a desire to learn things beyond the obvious. ”Don’t you think a wee bit o’ what were put at you was nothin’ more then confusion? I can’t says those that carry on so would be of a mind to…think much on things…”

A deeper understanding bloomed in Frodo’s chest. “Oh…well, if you put it that way…”

“I thought so.” Sam huffed, convinced that everything he’d heard about Buckland was an understatement.

The Hornblower farm lay on the south side of the tallest of the great green hills. Sadly, this meant Acron’s guest coming in from the north endured a perilous climb up the Brindleberry road, which was nothing more than a rough path at that point. Frodo and Sam walked alongside the trap, heavy travel sacks tossed over their shoulders. Sally hove forward with all her might, but needed assistance from both hobbits to win the crest of the last rise. At the top, all three paused to catch their breath and look out on the lush, green Longbottom valley meandering below.

Pine forests clung to the edges of large cultivated fields. Row upon row of maturing leaf plants ran in long straight lines out towards a sloped horizon. In the distance, a series of shallow tributaries fed water into ditches that ran parallel to the march of plants. Open drying sheds with broad, flat metallic roofs stood beside the fields, their heavy timbers lined with sweet golden tresses of cured leaf. Little packinghouses with wide elevated platforms nestled closest to the path, casks and barrels of all sizes stacked carefully against their outer walls. Further down the slope close to the valley floor sat a modest structure set into the side of a curious mound of earth. About the size of a barrow, it appeared to be some sort of semi-detached smial, surrounded by a modest garden filled with blooming creepers and vines.

Sam noticed that there were no other hobbits for as far as he could see. Fields half this size required hundreds of busy hands all through the growing season. It seemed impossible to him that only two could tend so much land. “However do they manage so far away an’ all alone?”

“The whole region must come down to help with the planting and the harvest. That would also explain why Southfarthing folk are not known to travel during the spring or fall,” Frodo said, admiring the tenacious will of his kin. “Have you ever been to a leaf farm?”

Sam shook his head. “No, but I heard stories a plenty. Leaf blights with too much water - spoils with too little. Even the lightest touch o’ frost will wither it down to nothin’ in no time a’tall. ‘Tis a greedy plant that ruins sturdy land, if it ‘ent fed just so. An’ every dirty bug in the shire heads straight for its roots all year. Aye, an’ one sick plant left alone will foul an entire field.” Sam knotted his brows together and strove for an accurate summary. “Tricky,” he said and nodded, satisfied.

“Indeed,” Frodo chuckled, then said to Sam, “Are there any growing things you haven’t mastered?”

Sam thought for a moment, then thought a little longer…

Petunia Hornblower was fiddling with the clothesline. A healthy wind had spilled down from the hills and spun the days washing into surly wads. As she fussed and separated, Petunia chewed on something that made a fat dimple in her cheek. When the sound of the trap rolling down the path reached her, she blushed with sudden self-awareness. Quickly, she turned her head, expelled a gooey brown mass then covered it up with a few lady-like kicks.

“Master Hornblower!” she sang out as she ran towards the trap, sprinkling clothespins carelessly in her wake. “Out with you ol’ lazy bones, we’ve guests to look after! ‘Tis dear Frodo an’ the Gamwich lad!”

“Oh!” Acron popped his head out of a window in the smial, a broad grin spreading across his ruddy face. With a grunt, Acron tumbled out of the window, got to his feet then dashed off towards the road.

Frodo barely had time to step down from the trap before Petunia sprang into his arms. All laughter and kisses, she quickly overwhelmed him. In another breath Acron fairly swept him off the ground into a fierce hug.

“There’s me bonny Baggins’ kin!” Acron said as he squeezed. “Ah, yer lookin’ fit and hale as the lad I am remembering.”

“You’d think it no’ been less than half a season since you seen him!” Petunia smiled warmly. “And here’s Hamfast’s son… Samwise is it?”

Sam nodded politely, then jumped as Petunia reached up and grabbed his ears. “All the blessings of the Mother be on ‘ye,” she said then planted two kisses on each of Sam’s cheeks. “’Tis a fine thing by far to have ‘ol Holman Greenhand’s kin back in the Longbottom.”

“Much obliged to you, Missus Hornblower,” Sam said, then realized just how relaxed he suddenly felt. It was the first time one of Frodo’s elder relations had welcomed him as anything other than a servant.

The inside of the cottage was rich and dressed with finely appointed luxuries that contrasted sharply with the merry hobbits stuffing themselves with sumptuous cold foods. Around a wide ebony wood table, inset with myriad chalcedony, the four sat in heavy, banded great chairs a shade too tall for hobbit legs. Green button squash sprinkled with brandied figs, and exotic, smoked fish of a size and texture unknown in Hobbiton, lay on marvelous plates limned in fine argent. Cut crystal decanters filled with sweet ruby red liquor flowed into bone goblets inscribed with curious runes. In a blue glass bowl near the center of the table, were piles of strange looking leaves spun from gossamer sugar. In another bowl sat fruits from sultry lands far outside the shire.

“So many surprises!” Frodo laughed. “You’d think you were expecting royalty with all this delicious fare!”

“Old Toby has blessed us well,” Petunia said, then bit into a delicate fairy slipper cake.

“We get it through trade.” Acron gestured to a colorful tapestry depicting scenes of both elves and men. “That came to us through Michel Delving, as I recall. One o’ the big ones bartered it away for leaf.”

“Not without consequence, mind,” Petunia chuckled. “Trade’s not everyone’s blessing. It brings odd types into the shire, and that won’t do for some.”

“Oh?” Frodo said between bites of honeyed mutton stacked on whisper thin wheat rounds. “Buckland and Tookland both trade heavily with Bree…”

“This ain’t Buckland,” Acron said, a surly wedge cropping the edge of his cheek. “An we ain’t Brandybucks with all that rot and confabulation about class, and station…”

“Meaning,” Petunia interrupted before her husband could further insult their guest. “We ‘ent got enough of our own to look over the border at Sam Ford.”

“There’s a ranger station there.” Frodo looked to Acron. “And surely the shirrif’s patrol so far south?”

“Men,” Acron said pointedly. “Are not Hobbits.”

Sam nodded his head sharply then raised his cup. “An’ never the two may mix, ‘an that’s flat.” Acron reached across and banged his cup into Sam’s. “Big, lumberin’ fools tear up more than they give back.”

Petunia rolled her eyes. “Frodo love, ‘tis not our desire to keep good folk out of the shire. Longbottom’s hobbits are a bit more timid than most, as we’ve long memories o’ what drove them Fallohide’s out from Bree to begin with.”

“T’were curiosity, more ‘n fear,” Acron mused and winked at Frodo. Both shared a fair streak of Fallohide in their blood. “An’ a desire to make the best o’ a new country.”

“With a busy mind that’s not all virtue, neither,” Petunia laughed.

“I fail to see how curiosity could be considered a flaw,” Frodo said, and sipped his wine.

Petunia and Acron exchanged grins.

“’Tis not,” Acron said at last, relaxing back into his chair with a private smile for his wife. “But some’s got more ‘n what most consider right.”

Petunia returned his look with a wink. “An’ Master Hornblower is the worst o’ a bad lot.”

After a long discussion on the merits of innovation and trade, Frodo, Acron and Sam wandered out into the fields for a smoke. While the two sparked a pipe and talked on, Sam slipped back between rows of tender young plants to go exploring on his own.

At the end of each long row of hip high plants, was a long irrigation ditch filled with sooty brown water. A familiar odor drifted up from the ditch, sparking Sam’s curiosity. He planted his knees in the loose soil, bent over and got a handful of water. Something called to him then, a deep inquisitive sense that rang throughout his body and set up a quiver in his toes. Without understanding why, Sam knew the water held one of Old Toby’s secrets. Acting on instinct, he sniffed then tasted the water. It had a sharp, acrid flavor that reminded him of a wet pipe bowl. Sam looked closely at the ditch. Thin shreds of rippling brown strands moved lazily through the slow current.

Leaf. The ditch was peppered with leavings from the packing sheds. Gristly and useless, thick stems and twigs were regularly processed out from the cured, golden tresses before they were sorted into barrels for export. There was something else odd about this. It took Sam a moment to realize he hadn’t seen or heard a bug since coming up on the Hornblower’s farm. The tiny leaf patch Sam and his dad tended for Will Whitfoot on occasion was rife with insects. Fully half of the year’s crop would yellow due to infestation, regardless of what Sam and his father came up with. In the end, poor Will only had a cask or two of middling quality smoke to show for all the effort. Sam looked back over his shoulder. Broad, tender leaves, glossy and busting with scent, lined the row he knelt in. Not a one showed so much as a nibble from insect or otherwise.

A burst of intuition nearly knocked Sam into the ditch. The sodden leavings and the acrid stink must combine to repel insects. Sam smiled and emptied his hands. Tobold Hornblower was said to be among the wisest hobbits that ever lived. With dead certainty, Samwise fully appreciated why.

Back where he left them, Acron and Frodo were enjoying a massive pissing match. Frodo, with his sly wit and studied charm, was trying to win Acron over to an idea he’d been mulling over for weeks. Acron, having pissed about with true professionals, feigned ignorance and instead tried to barter his way out of commitment by breaking into long windy tales of innocence dashed amidst the non-existent wilds of the valley. They strutted and arched, taking the full measure of each other’s prowess, as only males could manage in so short a space of time. It was then Acron pulled a mighty trump on Frodo by offering him a pipe of private stock. When Sam came back, Frodo was babbling on as if under the effect of a truth potion.

Sam recognized the trick at once, having watched his father ply secrets from the local Miller with what the gaffer referred to as “tellin’ water”. A nefarious concoction of secret design, his father crafted great batches of it in the bathtub. When the Gamgee’s went to barter home brew at the Winterfilth markets, “tellin’ water” helped where dickering failed.

“That were rude,” Sam observed as Frodo grinned and smiled freely, his face a mass of warmth and love.

“I was runnin’ out o’ options,” Acron explained, then gave Frodo’s shoulders a paternal pat. “He’s deft clever.”

Sam agreed, understanding Acron’s dilemma. He flicked his eyes into Acron’s for a moment then relaxed. Both were on the same page. “What’s he on about?”

“Wants to buy the entire bloody crop before it’s even away from the ground.” Acron admired the sentiment, but was worried about execution. It seemed far too good to be true. “And more – he wants to pay 5 silver a cask above last year’s price.”

“Someone’s hit me with a mallet, wrapped in the most exquisite pillow,” Frodo rambled on, then pinched the end of his nose. His eyes turned inwards. “I shouldn’t be speaking.”

“That’s terrible!” Acron said, encouraging him to go on. Sam decided that if Frodo couldn’t get one past his own kin, he’d be fussed to dicker elsewhere. Everyone had to learn.

Frodo seemed to regard himself from some distance, weaving his way back to his train of thought. When he spoke, it was clear he wasn’t lucid, although the words carried his intentions clearly. “I’ve offered you a twenty five percent increase for doing nothing. Where’s the bloody issue? By the Valar, cousin! You’re wanting me on my knees or what?”

Sam watched Acron’s head snap back as his eyes grew wide. “Well that’s a wee bit more of a confession that I’ve heard in quite a while…”

“Brandybucks…” Sam offered as explanation, “are prone to simplicity.”

“I’ll not buy a scrap of your soil. Only the crop. And early, so I can sell it again at the Halimath Shire Moot at Michel Delving,” Frodo pressed on peevishly. “To Elves and Men if need be, and more than a dwarf or two. Uncle’s friends. I don’t want any of your land. I don’t want any of my own land. Piss on it. We’ll get you all the lovely land you wish out of Pincup, and you can grow leaf till it sticks out your arse…” Frodo turned inward again, reflecting on his own words. “Bother…that was a bit off…”

Acron was thinking. “I’m short of hands…and not likely to find anymore…”

Sam, who knew the story, placed a hand on Acron’s shoulders. “Bless you, mate.”

“Well I know where’s there’s fuck all enough children to bugger up any party.” Frodo collapsed into giggles.

“What’s he mean?” Acron bordered on anger.

Understanding flashed through Sam. “Brandybuck Hall,” he said quickly. Acron and Sam locked stares. Sam quickly explained the nature of the children in the smial, along with what prospects most could look forward to in Buckland. Acron shook his head and kicked the dirt in disbelief.

“Little ones…and so many…who would give up a babe, for that?” he said wistfully.

Amongst the poorer farmers, children were often shuffled about in families until a happy balance was struck. Two of Sam’s brothers had been sent off to live with relations in the North Farthing and Tighfield. They were treated no differently, and received the same inheritances that any other children were due. In Buckland, however, all right to kin and hearth were surrendered when a child was fostered by the Hall. Indeed, if it weren’t for Bilbo, Frodo would own nothing. His parent’s holdings were absorbed by the Master’s council upon their death.

In the South Farthing, the children of the Great Smial could learn a trade, earn money for land, and start their own lines. The idea appealed to Acron, but the details were beyond him. He couldn’t see how the Thain would ever agree to any of it.

“Just you leave it to me,” Frodo said with sure confidence. Acron and Sam turned to look at him, the enormity of what he was proposing leaving both speechless. “One thing’s for sure, I’ve talent for pestering Aunties.” He held up a finger, then regarded it closely as if it were new. “My uselessness is quite useful when sewing bother.”

A look passed between Acron and Sam. All the loneliness of being raised in a warren filled with drifting, landless children, the pain of being abandoned by the uncle who loved him enough to shelter him from it all, came barreling away from Frodo and into them both. With gentle hands, Acron pulled Frodo up steady, and walked him back to his little home at the edge of the fields, humming to fill the sudden ache in his heart.