Sam unlatched the heavy front door and threw it open to the shimmering morning. The air was speckled with tiny droplets of water that reminded him of dust motes swirling in a beam of light; where the first heat of the late summer sun touched the fields, the dew rose off the grass like smoke. He breathed in the scent of earth and leaf-mould, felt the freshness brush his skin and clear the dullness from around his eyes.
The garden was hushed and waiting for him. The bees were abed, sluggish until the sun had drawn the wetness from the flowers, but waiting patiently to fly out and gather nectar for the final store of honey that would see them through the winter. A blackbird's clamorous note of alarm broke out all at once from somewhere nearby and was as quickly stifled.
The tiles were pleasantly smooth and cool under his feet as he paused in the entrance, the warmth and silence of the smial at his back. He was muzzy-headed after an uneasy night on Frodo's deep feather mattress, and he longed to step out into the chilly morning and see if the world had altered greatly since he had laid his head down on the pillow.
Even as a lad, perhaps most especially then, he had loved the month of Winterfilth more than any other. Everything in the garden was as ripe and full as it could possibly be, offering back the fruits of all the months' labours. Although the summer's flowers were almost at an end there was a burnish to the ones that lingered.
The purple-blue hyssop stood up tall behind the row of catmint, its sweet, pungent scent penetrating to every corner of the garden after the lavender and horehound had finished for the season. He had cut a basket's worth of the hyssop flowers the month before to make a soothing tea for Frodo's cough, but enough remained that he could smell them from the doorstep. The roses bloomed as freely now as they had all the summer long, during those hot, muggy days when they had sat in the willow arbour with a glass or two of green ginger wine and much joy shared between them. The roses would still be blossoming at Yule if the weather held fair. The autumn daisies, starflowers some called them, would also fight the frost for many weeks until they finally gave in to it. They were such hardy flowers, uncaring of where they were planted, tough as a dwarf's boot leather or a hobbit who'd lived in unexpected times.
He let his thoughts wander out through the garden, totting up the things he had to do that day and putting to one side those that could well be left until the next. He had given so much to the Shire in the past two years; it was time that he tended to what was Frodo's alone.
The first book he'd read aloud as soon as he'd learned his letters was a soft, battered copy of 'The Gardener's Monthly Directions: with all that is to be done from Afteryule to Yule clearly Explain'd' that his old dad kept in their potting shed. It had pictures printed in bold black ink, one for each month of the year, showing a hobbit about his work in garden, field and orchard. It wasn't long before he'd had it memorized, and yet he still kept it on a shelf near their bed. It was a reminder of the circle of his life, from the first spadefull of earth that he turned over at the end of winter, to the moment when he pulled up the dead stalks and leaves from the kitchen garden and cast them aside for composting or burning.
The days had gone past so swiftly this year that in a little while the green, spiny burrs of the sweet chestnuts would have ripened, fallen and been harvested and Sam could make a chestnut pudding or maybe a stuffing for roast chicken. There were not so many chestnuts as there had been, of course, and they mostly came from further afield, but soon the Shire would begin to look as it had done in years gone by.
In the meantime, there would be cobnuts to gather and eat or store away in the pantry until Yule, and apples by the cartload. He would dry some and the rest would keep well for many months, growing wizened as time passed but remaining sweet and perfect for cooking. There was nothing like a generous helping of apple tart with a dollop of cream or maybe a wedge of cheese to go with it, eaten in the spring when the new apple blow held only a bare promise of the next autumn's harvest.
In spite of the nippy mornings, it was too early for frost, and the last of the tomatoes still hung on the vines. If the nights got much colder, he might bring them into the shed to coax the final bit of blush into the fruits. Mind you, a few jars of green tomato pickle wouldn't go amiss; he could add one or two of the unripe apples to the mixture.
He would plant out the spring cabbages within the month, and sow the broad beans. Frodo loved broad beans with bacon and a slice or two of onion. It was food to put flesh on the bones of an ailing hobbit, or so he'd been taught. Mind you, if he didn't get the onion sets planted right quick he'd have to go begging for them elsewhere come spring. Maybe he'd plant them later today, after he'd dug some taters for supper.
He stepped down to the damp stone flags below the entrance, looking to see what he might do first. There was one task that he knew he would have to perform before the day was out, but he wasn't ready for it yet. That bench by the door, now, that could do with another coat of paint to make it ready for the cold weather. They had sat on it so often that the surface had become worn and smooth and would rot in time if it wasn't protected. It would be a terrible shame to lose that bench for lack of proper care.
Nevertheless, rather than going straight to the shed to gather his tools, he walked across the wet grass to the front of the garden and gazed out over Hobbiton and The Water towards the Three-Farthing Stone. It was there that he had cast the final pinch of precious dust as a blessing for the Shire. If he squinted his eyes, just the tiniest bit, he could imagine that nothing had changed. There were trees along the Lane and hedgerows full of berries and the rustling of small birds. Bagshot Row was as it had been aforetimes, and the old mill was standing where it had always stood. When he opened his eyes up wide again, he caught sight of the young mallorn tree, its leaves already beginning to turn to gold like a memory of its springtime flowering. Its slender silver trunk glowed in the low slanting rays of sunlight, the shadows of the leaves glancing off the bark. For a startled moment, he fancied that the tree stirred.
Truly, he thought, the past didn't matter any more. Change had come upon the Shire-folk whether they had wanted it or not, and he could only hope that this new world they had made would be as fine and bright as the one that had gone. While he had watched his saplings grow at a steady pace, season upon season, he had understood at last that his dream might well come true for those who followed after him. In time, there would be no one left to remember how it had been for the ones who had returned. Even now the memory of it faded like an old scarecrow left too long in the sun. Perhaps that was as it ought to be.
He tilted his head back to watch a great flock of rooks that was circling and playing overhead, their odd hoarse cries shattering the early morning silence. A small part of the flock swerved abruptly away from the rest and landed in the party field with a raucous exchange of greetings. They poked their beaks into the soft soil, strutting here and there with an odd stiff gait that was somehow both silly and dignified. Sam had always admired the rooks, for all their noise and mischief. It was one of the joys of winter to see that black cloud fill the bare trees with motion and clatter.
He wondered if there might be the stray end of a sparkler or a scrap of broken pottery from that birthday party of so long ago nestling in the soil. He doubted it. Too many things had happened in the meantime, and any such tokens must be buried deep. The rooks seemed to find what they were after though; it didn't take more than a grub or a bright bit of something to satisfy them.
Sam was ashamed to admit that he had allowed himself to fall behind on his chores over the last several days. It really wouldn't do. The nights closed in so sudden like at this time of year; a few days of missed work could set a gardener back for much longer. He would start with the spring bulbs right away, even if it meant skipping second breakfast. He would need to remove some of the spent bedding plants first to make room, but many of them had long since finished flowering in any case. When he had added some mulch to the soil, he would bury the bulbs in clusters scattered throughout the garden, so that in the spring there would be a wonderment of colour no matter which window of the smial a hobbit chanced to look through.
He had planned out enough to be getting on with, certainly enough to see him through the morning and most of the afternoon. He opened up the potting shed and pulled on his thickest leather gloves to protect his hands from thorns and prickles. He knew that he would be pruning the roses some time that day; they were looking a mite bedraggled to his disapproving eye and they would need to be treated harshly if they were to continue showing colour through the autumn months. The hedge also needed a final trim. He would begin with the bulbs, however, as the tangled state of the garden's borders lowered his spirits every time his glance fell on them.
By noontide his stock of bulbs and tubers had dwindled to a few scrubby misfits that he thought it best to throw away. He stopped for a spell to have a mug of ale, a heel of cheese and one or two pickled onions, while admiring the sight of the neatly raked bare soil and the pile of leavings that he would toss on the compost. When he had eaten his meal, he gathered the pile into his barrow and wheeled it behind the brambles where it couldn't be seen. Then he collected his best pruners and shears and set to stripping the old brown heads off the rose bushes and cutting the hedge back so that he could see the Lane without having to strain his neck in the doing of it.
It was surprising how the hours flew past. He had barely begun, seemingly, when he found himself in the midst of an altogether different garden, one that was loved and cared for and would never be allowed to run to seed. It wasn't all that he had wanted to do that day, yet it would be enough for now.
He carefully cleaned the sap and grime from his pruners and shears so that they wouldn't rust, and hung them on their nails behind the shed door. He'd used the same tools since afore he'd entered his tweens and it wouldn't do to be careless with them just because he was feeling a bit off-colour. Excuses made poor masters. He did the same for the shovel and hoe, and then leaned them against the far wall of the shed. They had been the Gaffer's when he'd tended the garden at Bag End for Mr. Bilbo; this was where they belonged. When everything had been returned to its proper place, he closed the shed door and fastened it tight with the iron hook.
That heavy ache around his eyes had come back while he'd been deadheading the roses. The scent of the blossoms tickled his nose some, even though the dried petals placed among the linens never seemed to bother him. Maybe he had worked too hard all the afternoon, yet there was so much to do that he wished he could have kept at it for at least a few more hours. Once he'd begun ticking off items from the list in his head he'd found himself unable to stop. The end of one chore led straight into the start of the next and he had moved about the garden at a pace that would have surprised even the Gaffer, had he seen it.
He would welcome a cup of tea and the weight of a proper meal in his stomach and then he could finally have his customary nap by the kitchen fire. Sadly, he had one more important task before the day was over and afterwards he would pick a generous bunch of starflowers to set in the study window. Frodo loved their bright yellow centres and the peculiar smell that came off them. To Sam's way of thinking it was an odour he'd as soon not have about the smial, but Frodo only smiled at his complaints and said that they cheered his heart.
He secured the gate that separated the kitchen garden from the rest of the plantings, and walked slowly up the hill to where the skeps sat, in the midst of a stand of elder trees that protected them from the elements. They had stood on this spot for as long as he could remember, which wasn't long, in truth. Still and all, Mr. Bilbo had told him they'd been there when he was a boy; not the very same skeps of course, but there in that spot. Bees don't like to be moved old Bilbo would say; they don't like change. Oh, moving the skeps a short distance little by little, so the bees could get accustomed to it, was all fine and dandy. If you moved them too far, though, the bees lost their bearings and couldn't find their way home. They would fly aimlessly about and eventually drop to the ground and perish.
The bees would soon sleep for the winter; some would die and some would wake with the spring. During the cold, silent days there would be honey in the hive and the warmth of companions; however, for Sam there was only a wide empty bed and a desolate hearth. There would be no shared touches, no nourishing heat of another's skin against his. When would his spring come? And so, kneeling down on the bare earth in front of the skeps, he said the words that he had held inside all the long day: "Bees, bees, the Master is gone, gone over the Sea...."
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