FIC: The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show - G to NC17 16/?
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Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Second - Evening (16/?)
Summary: In which Pippin is a small but not insurmountable problem, Sam worries, Frodo is both surprised and shocked - and a good time (of sorts) is had by almost all
Rating: Possibly quite high for pain and suffering (albeit masochistic by its very nature) experienced in areas normally requiring the application of such rating for quite other reasons
Warning: Now is the time to remember what I wrote so long ago:
One part will have a possible Squick-maker Extraordinaire which cannot be classified under any of the usual headings, and is probably completely apocryphal, anyway (it does not affect either of our heroes. Except indirectly. And transiently.) In which case, I can only advise any stray male who may be reading to steer clear, or at the least to read with one sympathetic hand guarding a particularly valued portion of his anatomy
So, warning repeated; applicable also to those with little sympathy for daring, stupid, apocryphal country 'sports': be prepared to back button, part way through.
Extra A/N (for enquiring minds that need to know):
Triple Tipple wrote itself into existence before I googled and discovered that there is, in fact, a Mannish version; this tale implies no endorsement thereof, and optimistic consumers should not expect either Frodo or Sam to magically appear, no matter how many flagons of such inferior product they put away. Idiosyncratic regional names for beer are something of an English tradition, though a couple of these are more recent examples - that last, apparently, the oldest
There's a fascination to archaic measures - though Shire capacity was, of course, tailored to a proper size
This (plus a certain amount of urban legend) was my basis for possibly disturbing occurrences herein (best not to follow the link until you have read the chapter - Spoilers…) Please do bear in mind such words as spoof, gullible and sucker when accessing… (And, in case you were wondering, my version was written long before Mike Newell flirted with the idea in HPOOTP)
Disclaimer: Thanks to considerable expertise on the part of my CGI team, neither hobbits nor their tormentors sustained damage in the making of this chapter
AU and Apocrypha too, on Show Day the Second - Evening
It simply hadn’t been possible, earlier - what with Master Pippin all ears and questions - to find the right moment to enquire, so Sam had never quite managed to discover whether Frodo understood the nature of the evening’s 'entertainment'. And it weren’t exactly something you’d want to stumble across all unprepared, that were for sure.
'Are we going home now, Frodo?’ Pippin asked at last.
His high spirits had begun to flag towards teatime; though refreshed for a while by several sandwiches and rather more cake and lemonade than a parent might have approved, they were on the droop again before long. It seemed that only a dogged determination to enjoy his day to its very end, no matter the effort, could keep his eyelids from following suit. By the time the three directed their steps toward the judges’ tent to meet Bilbo, he was fighting his yawns valiantly. Whatever Pippin did, he put his whole self into, and bedtime was fast approaching.
‘You aren’t going home tonight, remember? You’re going back to Bag End with Bilbo.’
‘And you!’
The conviction in his voice only confirmed Sam’s foreboding that Frodo would indeed be returning home for the night. The light supper and truckle bed awaiting Pippin would be accepted so much more readily with his favourite cousin there to entertain him with stories and read him to sleep. A rather splendid meal had been arranged for his elders, partly prepared and wholly served by Sam’s own sisters. Having no particular interest in the finer points of Shirestock, the Gamgee lasses didn’t attend the second day of the Show, though tomorrow would be a very different matter, what with Mr Bilbo’s prompt payment just itching to be spent and the dancing to come, as well.
Frodo shook his head. ‘No, Pippin. Sam and I are staying over for the whole Show.’ Sam’s head shot up at that - Frodo wasn’t leaving him; suddenly, the rest of this day seemed that much brighter.
‘Staying? Sleeping here?’ Pippin’s eyes widened despite their weariness.
Sam could remember his own astonishment at the notion, when he’d been about Pippin’s age. For lads that young, the Show was about stalls and Rides and having fun; they’d no need to consider the practicalities of keeping livestock on site for days on end.
‘Where? Where do you sleep? I want to see!’
He was most impressed with the huge tent and the rows of (mostly) neatly stacked bedding on palliasses of bright straw. ‘Which is your bed, Frodo?’ he asked, and when Frodo pointed out packs and folded blankets lying on Bilbo’s groundsheet, ‘Where’s Sam’s?’
There was a slight pause while Sam tried to think of a way to put it that didn’t come out sounding all wrong, but Frodo just smiled and said, ‘We sleep here together.’ Which were naught but truth, of course, and Sam thought it one of the best things he’d ever heard (though he could think of ways of improving on it).
‘Oh. May I stay, too, Frodo, may I? Please? I'll be good, truly I will! Please may I? Please?’
‘Well, you’d have to be very good or you'll find the hobbit in charge can be quite fierce! And you would be in this huge tent all on your own to begin with, for Sam and I come to bed much later.’
‘All on my own?’ That did seem to strike a chord.
‘Well, no, not exactly,’ Frodo admitted. ‘There will be quite a few other lads in here, but you probably won’t know any of them, and you’d have to keep very quiet anyway - they're here to sleep, not chatter!’
Pippin would probably find that a more worrisome proposition, Sam thought; and there were a good chance, should Pippin get his way, that whichever hobbit were in charge tonight might find himself with more to do than usual, for he’d livened up no end at the prospect.
And, really, the matter had not taken much settling. Pippin had pouted and cajoled, then offered a trembling lower lip to his parents and it’d been plain to see that, much as he was loved, the offer of an entirely Pippin-free visit to Bag End posed a considerable temptation. What parent could resist the chance to concentrate wholly on the delicacies set before them, the choice wines Bilbo would undoubtedly broach, without constant demands for drinks of water and 'just one more story' from an over-tired little lad?
They’d agree in a trice but for guilt at landing Frodo with their son once more, Sam decided, just as Frodo, easy prey to the trembling lip ploy, looked directly at him and raised his eyebrows. Sam nodded - he’d have his Frodo here and naught else mattered - and that had been that. Pippin, all smiles again now, would sleep with them at the Show (though Sam were still in two minds as to whether a midnight walk to Bag End with a weeping faunt may be necessary).
Discussion done, there was a flurry of activity with Bilbo at centre, directing. Eglantine whisked her son off to the refreshment tent where an early supper was already being served to the younger hobbits before bed; Paladin dispatched a handy lad to fetch up the Took carriage whilst he assembled his daughters and the inevitable pile of purchases; Frodo left in search of Daddy Twofoot; and Sam went off to tack up Beechnut.
Carriage, trap and Tooks all returned at more or less the same time, but Frodo was still nowhere to be seen. Bilbo sent the Family on to Bag End before him, rather than keep all the ponies waiting about; the trap being lighter and faster would probably catch them up, anyway. He was careful to keep Pippin close, the useful glove puppet now doing dwarf-duty in a hastily cobbled tale. Sam listened as best he could, one hand busy soothing Beechnut who stamped and fidgeted a bit at being left behind, until Frodo appeared at last, errant Twofoot in tow, his escort an even more sprightly affair than the morning’s had been.
Then, the old hobbit had been all anticipation despite his arthritic knees; now, he practically danced back to the pony trap, and Sam suspected that for two pins he’d probably have had a go at carrying Muriel’s basket, too. The basket in Frodo’s hands; the one that was now quite blatantly adorned with a large and extremely red rosette, tails spread wide to extend the display. Sam couldn’t have been more pleased if he’d won it himself. He helped Daddy clamber into the trap and took the basket from Frodo to settle it on the proud owner’s knees so it’d be nicely visible to all whom they passed on the way home to Bagshot Row.
It had to be admitted though, that he’d less than half an ear to spare for the old hobbit’s joyful account of his triumph - even with its accompaniment of smug, if somewhat muffled, clucks; for, as Mr Bilbo was handing back the would-be dwarf, something in Frodo’s quiet, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance…’ had claimed most of his attention.
‘Ah, now, I’m glad you mentioned that,' Bilbo said. 'I did just manage a bit of a chat with Bill, over a pot of tea and one or two rather excellent scones. It so happened,’ and Mr Bilbo could pretend that either Sam or Frodo would believe that if he liked, but for his part Sam’d as soon swear to elves at the bottom of Bag End’s garden, ‘that Rafe was passing Swire’s Sundries as I arrived, and I prevailed upon him to mind the stand for Bill whilst we went for tea.
‘No,’ he said, in answer to Frodo's unasked question, ‘I didn’t tell him why, not yet, but he was perfectly willing - and even Bill had to admit that he made a good job of it. When we arrived back, the stall had more customers than it’d seen all day. The lad has a nice line in patter and he knows one garden implement from another for all that he’s a Traveller. It was a promising start, for seeing really is believing - and worth all the recommendation in the world!’
Only a series of truly impressive yawns cut off Pippin’s demands to know who and where and what for, and especially why Sam was suddenly grinning fit to burst and Frodo hugging Uncle Bilbo so tightly that (so he said) his ribs squeaked. Ribs or no, he stepped nimbly enough into the trap and then it was on its way, rosette ribbons aflutter and more than the suggestion of a celebratory progress about it.
Pippin’s bedtime was far less difficult than Sam had expected; and a joint assault on the remarkable state of grubbiness the lad had managed to achieve was a sight more successful than the Mistress’s spitty hanky, applied before his supper, that had just seemed to spread the mess further, if thinner. Clean enough, slightly damp and still complaining sleepily about the lack of warm water for a wash he really hadn’t needed anyway, Pippin was taken off to their blankets by Frodo alone. He’d insisted that Pippin would settle more quickly that way, and Sam was left here to reflect on the fact that Frodo probably didn’t have any idea what were afoot this night.
Last year, Sam and a couple of other reckless almost-tweens had evaded curfew, hiding themselves away until deepening dusk concealed their features and they could peep from a distance at this thing that was kept so secret until you were deemed old enough. With only a single mug of illicitly obtained ale to numb all three of them, that distance had been a blessing; he remembered very clearly the shock, the reluctant fascination, and an acutely appalled fellow-feeling in the relevant area. He assumed that such things must occur at other times and in other places - though nowhere local that he could name. Surely the Great Smials - or more likely Brandy Hall - could boast a tradition even more pointless and foolhardy? If so, Frodo was obviously of an age to have witnessed it; but for all that, a doubt niggled at Sam’s mind.
Tilting his mug, he was surprised by the final swallow; the brew had slipped down so smoothly, it disappeared afore he’d even time to realise it. He could feel its good offices working on him already, soothing anxiety to a vaguer state of apprehension. It was no accident that tonight’s ale was extra strong; laid on special so the serving hobbit said, when Sam returned for a refill and another for Frodo. It was valued as much for its rapidly numbing effect, when taken on an empty stomach (supper being delayed for the purpose, tonight), as for its undoubtedly excellent flavour.
‘Two this time, lad?’ he asked with a grin, pumping ale expertly. ‘You’ll be legless afore they even gets started!’
‘What? Oh, no, they aren’t both for me! The other’s for-for my friend.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Winking, he passed brimming mugs across the makeshift bar.
Sam blushed as he paid, unsure as to whether that wink meant summat to do with the beer or if it meant what he’d want it to, if what it meant were what the barhobbit might have meant it to mean… It occurred to him then that this ale really were a fair bit stronger than aught else he were used to, and he resolved to stretch this one a good step further than his first.
Even so, it couldn’t quite stop him fretting at his own failure to provide either explanation or warning afore this. Frodo might not want to watch, after all, once he knew what were going forward here, and retreat would be no shame. Many a hobbit preferred to bide by the fire (and close to the supper tables), settling with most of the lasses, the matrons and codgers to a relaxing chat and the quiet enjoyment of his ale before the late meal. Frodo really should have that option - he just weren’t here to be given it; Pippin may have seemed ready to sleep just as soon as his head was fairly down, but Sam remembered ‘one more story’ and guessed that to be what was keeping Frodo now.
But he’d find his way quick enough just as soon as he were able - you couldn’t exactly miss it, after all. Most of the tween lads were present and a good many of their elders too, all awaiting this strangely compulsive contest. It weren’t as though they were quiet, neither, what with the strength of the brew and that strangely loosed feeling you got - fleeting, but heady for all that - just from being at the Show; like Frodo had said - a bit to one side of the real thing.
They stood by knots and clusters all around a makeshift stage; Sam thought it may even be the same flatbed wagon, moved a bit for convenience, that he and Frodo had occupied for their rather more wholesome (if messy) display of blindfolded porridge delivery. There were lanterns strung generously all around and above now, to ensure that not the least of the evening’s heroics need be missed to the coming of night. Into their light, and a sustained cheering, the contestants marched boldly forward.
They were three this year, and from the look of them they'd been well-plied with Tipple already, to be approaching their ordeal with such resolution. Two of them Sam knew by name. Edwin Muddifoot lived at Frogmorton and was a butcher by trade; of full age and more, from the confident way he called to friends in the crowd he had done this before. Sam thought he’d maybe taken part last year, but it weren’t exactly faces he remembered of that night. The elder of the tweens was Dan Beasley, a cousin of Sam’s goat-keeping friend Jess, from out Pincup way; the other looked just a little familiar. Sam had the feeling he might have seen him around the Showground, but the hobbit that came to mind was ruddy, with a permanently cheerful grin; this one was paler than should be possible for any lad who’d spent a day out in the sun. Sam wondered whether he’d had a deal more ale than the other two, or if he’d suddenly realised what he’d let himself in for.
‘What are they doing?’
Sam almost dropped the pair of mugs he was holding. Frodo had come up behind him, standing so close - to catch his attention over the hubbub - that most of his question had spilled, warm and damp, across Sam’s neck to tumble forward through his open collar. (Oddly, its downward progress was completely unimpeded by his intervening waistband; and the effect of that innocently humid enquiry made him exceptionally glad that he had not been rash enough to take part in the forthcoming event. Who knew what wholly unwelcome and possibly permanently debilitating effects might result from such careless temerity…to say nothing of a suddenly increased target area.)
He stepped back a little and half-turned to Frodo. Lip reading might hold its own set of pitfalls, but it’d be safer in the long run. ‘They’re ferret-legging, sir.’
‘They’re what?’
Apparently, not all queer goings on were known at Brandy Hall.
‘Ferret-legging. Them as is brave enough has a pair of ferrets put down their britches, and the winner is the last one left standing.’
Frodo’s mouth fell open, and now it was the ripe curve of his lower lip that hitched Sam’s breath. ‘You are joking, aren’t you, Sam?’
‘No, sir.’ Forcing his mind back to practical matters, Sam thrust a mug into Frodo’s hand. ‘That’s why you’ll need this. Triple Tipple, brought in special from the Toad and Bucket at Fennybridge. Supposed to be the strongest ale in the Shire, and I'm thinking that may be right, an’ all. I’d get outside of it right quick if you’re wanting to watch, sir.’
The contestants had scrambled onto the wagon bed, now, arms aloft in reply to their exuberant reception. Frodo stared at them for a moment, then took a large gulp of ale, choking in surprise at the strength of it. When he recovered, he tried a more measured sip. ‘Do I have to finish it all at once? It tastes to be worth the savouring!’
‘Aye, that it is, but if we’re to stay, a good slurp should work well enough, seeing as you’ve eaten naught since teatime. We don’t have to, though, if you’d rather not, sir - we could sit out and enjoy the ale proper, instead. A lot of folk do.’
Frodo’s reply was lost to a burst of louder cheering from the crowd, but the taking of another draught gave Sam his answer. He'd known, really, that Frodo would need to see what was to come, little though he may actually enjoy it.
The sudden upsurge in noise was Terlo Ridgeway’s welcome to the platform. A stone mason much respected in the district for both strength and reliable workmanship, Terlo was in demand whenever an informal master of ceremonies was required; somehow, he’d the gift for it. He introduced the competitors one by one, making much of them, drawing from them the details of their daily lives and family connections, and complimenting their selfless fortitude in providing the spectacle to come. The audience awarded loud, generous and almost unbiased appreciation to each one of them. (It turned out that the third lad was a farmer’s son from out Delving way, and a Burrows; which may well account for Sam’s thinking he knew the face, the Burrowses being particularly prolific around Hobbiton.)
Though their chests were bare, all three were clad voluminously below the waist, in trousers that seemed almost to billow around them, overly long and secured with baling band between calf and ankle. The sensible participant obviously borrowed breeches from a much larger hobbit in every direction, so there should be room enough and to spare. It most definitely made sense to borrow from a taller hobbit, so that the legs could be tied as low down as might be and thus tempt the animals to remain as far southward as possible.
‘Sam?’ Frodo’s voice was rather tight; it seemed that another aspect of the affair had struck him at last. ‘Are they- are they wearing anything underneath?’
‘No, sir. That’s… um… the point.’
'Goodness me!’ Frodo sucked in a sharp breath and fidgeted his feet close together. Sam knew exactly where his imagination had taken him for his own had followed fast, and not even this direst of threats could dampen Sam's reaction to what it found there; a quick sup of Tipple proved equally useless.
A solemn hush fell as Terlo spaced his contestants so that each might be seen to best advantage. The expressions on their faces differed according to temperament - all wavering somewhere amidst misplaced bravado, the inhibiting effect of very strong ale, and a completely justifiable trepidation bordering somewhat upon terror. But none of the three accepted Terlo’s offer of retreat without dishonour; foolhardiness to the fore, they stood proud, and the contest was declared under way. Three more hobbits clambered up onto the wagon, thickly leather-gloved but otherwise normally dressed. They bore a wriggling sack apiece, lowered carefully now, ties loosened in readiness. At Terlo’s command the contestants’ belts were undone, the vast waist of each solitary garment pulled outward; the assistants dipped deep into their sacks, and produced, one in either hand, a brace of ferrets.
There was a completely audible gasp from the spectators.
It may have been his fevered imagination working double time now, but Sam was convinced that he caught a gleam of light from each razor-sharp tooth, from every one of those brightly needling claws. He rather thought the animals weren’t best pleased at having been bundled away into sacks at the end of their day and then brought out into the light again so suddenly, when they’d been settling for sleep in their homely hutches.
‘Ready, lads?’ Terlo held a pocket watch in hand.
‘So that’s what he wanted it for!’ Frodo whispered, directly into Sam’s ear.
‘Sir?’ The best he could manage was not much above a strangled squeak; Sam was acutely aware that, had he been a competitor in his current condition, he would have provided a very active target for a predatory ferret.
‘Terlo borrowed Bilbo's watch, earlier.’
‘Three!’ Terlo called, and the helpers held their ferrets high in the air, where they wriggled in a highly disgruntled manner.
‘Two!’ the crowd yelled; the ferrets were lowered to waist level before each of the waiting hobbits.
‘One!’ The shout was deafening, and the ferrets squirmed - eyes flashing, Sam would swear - as (‘GO!’) they were dropped within the cavernous clothing.
‘Tie up!’ Belts were securely refastened, and a complete silence fell.
Though he had seen this before, it had been from a nice distance. Sam stood now in fascinated horror, his recent enthusiasm dwindling to naught as each hobbit’s trousers looked to surge and writhe around him. The indignant beasts were obviously bent on rapid escape from this new confinement, like and yet unlike the dark burrows in which they were used to seek their prey. It seemed they didn’t care much whether they had to claw or chew their way out neither, and woe betide aught that got in their way - especially if it bore a passing resemblance to a blind and naked rabbit kit.
Bravely braced as yet, the competitors were twitching a little, to be sure, but their mouths clamped firmly shut upon the moans of pain that they must surely need to express. A hushed murmur arose from the watchers, more than one face reflecting the anguish endured so stoically before them; more than one hand slipping down as if to protect the spectator’s own valuables.
The thrumming tension was broken suddenly by a tightly agonised cry that found a swift and sympathetic echo from amongst the audience.
It came as no real surprise that the younger tween should be the first to break, slapping and pulling at the central spot where at least one of his ferrets was making its displeasure known unrelentingly. The lad lashed himself from side to side, desperate to be rid of his intimate burden, but to no avail. Throwing up his arms in surrender, he toppled gracelessly into the crowd, to be carried away and freed of his troubles.
Now the crowd grew partisan, needing to acknowledge that the sufferings, borne here so nobly, were for their entertainment. The split was almost even between supporters who called encouragement to Edwin and those whose partiality was for Dan Beasley.
‘Come on, Ned, you can do it!’
‘You show him how it’s done, Dan-lad!’
‘He’s flinchin’, he is, Ned! You hang in there, and you’ll beat him!’ There was a burst of raucous laughter at the infelicitous reminder.
‘Nay, Dan, just a bit longer!’
Sam could almost feel their torment. Dan was twisting frantically on the spot, hands slapping wildly hither and thither but, in his agitation, without either aim or success. Despite his most heroic efforts, high pitched moans escaped him, almost in time with the futile flapping of his fists. Edwin remained rigidly silent, arms folded high over his chest, his pain betrayed only by the squeezed-up agony in his face, and by his knuckles, stark white and bloodless as he gripped his own elbows.
But for Sam there was suddenly a closer ache, as Frodo - eyes locked onto the two still battling their torture - seized onto his arm, squeezing almost hard enough to bruise. Small wonder he were taking it hard, Sam thought - he’d not fully appreciated what were to happen, and the Tipple had scarce had a proper chance to work on him. And really, when you thought about it, it were a truly shocking thing - to watch, let alone to do; stupid and reckless, and born of the stupid recklessness of a lot of hobbit lads together, wild and free (and not a little tipsy).
No amount of reaction to this touch could reanimate Sam’s previous condition, for he could see the anguish of the competitors mirrored deep in Frodo’s face. Needing to help, Sam set his free hand gently on top of his master’s and said, ‘It’s all right sir, I’m here.’
Oh, now, and how foolish is that? As if Sam Gamgee could make aught better, just by being there! But the tight grip slackened from crushing to clenching, and just a little of the tension eased from Frodo’s forehead; and in that moment, Sam knew he would always be there for Frodo, even if his presence were all that he could give.
In the few seconds he had taken to glance aside, the end had come. As Sam looked back to the makeshift stage, the crowd voiced support and sympathy, success and commiseration in equal measure. Poor Dan had dropped to his knees, and by the rules the stoicism of Edwin Muddifoot had won the day - or night. His victory salute was necessarily brief, however, as he and his defeated companion-in-distress vanished rapidly from sight, each to the good friends who would rescue him from further damage and return his tormentors, irritably but safely, to their interrupted rest. Terlo stepped forward to announce that Edwin’s time, though worthy of the highest praise, was several seconds short of the record, and that his prize - a firkin of Triple Tipple - would be presented to him just as soon as he might be in a condition to receive it. He then led the company in a rousing cheer for all three brave participants, and the ordeal was finished for another year.
Frodo’s grip on Sam's arm slackened and then slid away, but Sam thought he looked still to be in need of a little comfort. ‘You wait on a bit, sir,’ he said, ‘and I’ll fetch another mug to wash away the after effects. If you’re like me, you sort of feel it even if them things never actually got within yards of your-’ his voice stumbled, then steadied again, ‘-britches.’
‘No, Sam, I’m all right now. It was just a little shocking to begin with. I still cannot imagine-well, I can imagine, though I don’t understand why-Anyway, I shall get the ale - you find us a perch.’
‘What about supper, sir?' The entire gathering was moving purposefully in that direction, now. 'Could you fancy some, should you think?’
Frodo nodded, though Sam had his doubts as to whether he really meant it. But by the time that they converged on a convenient bale of straw - Sam carrying two brimming bowls with generous of hunks of fresh bread tucked beneath each elbow, Frodo with a foaming mug in either hand - each was ready enough to eat heartily.
Shocked reaction eased quickly under the promise of well-filled bellies and a continuing flow of ale, and hobbits all around were loud now in their praise of the evening’s contestants. The meal was eaten to the accompaniment of wide-ranging (if intermittent) discussion of the fortitude, constancy of purpose and sheer reckless stupidity of competitors over the years. Particularly painful bouts were recalled almost fondly, and lasting injuries catalogued with ghoulish glee, but the heroism - foolish in the extreme but heroism nonetheless - was toasted, over and again.
What with so much of the Tipple on top of sheer relief - even a spectator could feel easier in his trousers, now that all was over - the evening rapidly descended into ever sillier jokes and a great deal of gratuitous merriment. One hobbit cackled over ‘A bane in their britches,’ another came up with ‘Doom in his drawers,’ and a third offered, 'A nuisance in their nether garments.’
Then, in the sudden, unintended silence that sometimes happens in a crowd, an elderly female voice was heard to opine, ‘Could ’a’ bin a wicked waste of a willy, though!’
To a hobbit, the company fell about laughing.
~~~
Chapter 17: Show Day the Second - Night
Chapter 15 was here and the story began with The Prologue
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ETA: For a far more balanced view of the nature of the animals maligned herein, please read Belleferret's comment below!
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As so often happens when I start tweaking, this part of the story more than doubled itself and became a chapter on its own. Readers anticipating Sam solo and his Enlightenment must await the next - sorry!
Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Second - Evening (16/?)
Summary: In which Pippin is a small but not insurmountable problem, Sam worries, Frodo is both surprised and shocked - and a good time (of sorts) is had by almost all
Rating: Possibly quite high for pain and suffering (albeit masochistic by its very nature) experienced in areas normally requiring the application of such rating for quite other reasons
Warning: Now is the time to remember what I wrote so long ago:
One part will have a possible Squick-maker Extraordinaire which cannot be classified under any of the usual headings, and is probably completely apocryphal, anyway (it does not affect either of our heroes. Except indirectly. And transiently.) In which case, I can only advise any stray male who may be reading to steer clear, or at the least to read with one sympathetic hand guarding a particularly valued portion of his anatomy
So, warning repeated; applicable also to those with little sympathy for daring, stupid, apocryphal country 'sports': be prepared to back button, part way through.
Extra A/N (for enquiring minds that need to know):
Triple Tipple wrote itself into existence before I googled and discovered that there is, in fact, a Mannish version; this tale implies no endorsement thereof, and optimistic consumers should not expect either Frodo or Sam to magically appear, no matter how many flagons of such inferior product they put away. Idiosyncratic regional names for beer are something of an English tradition, though a couple of these are more recent examples - that last, apparently, the oldest
There's a fascination to archaic measures - though Shire capacity was, of course, tailored to a proper size
This (plus a certain amount of urban legend) was my basis for possibly disturbing occurrences herein (best not to follow the link until you have read the chapter - Spoilers…) Please do bear in mind such words as spoof, gullible and sucker when accessing… (And, in case you were wondering, my version was written long before Mike Newell flirted with the idea in HPOOTP)
Disclaimer: Thanks to considerable expertise on the part of my CGI team, neither hobbits nor their tormentors sustained damage in the making of this chapter
AU and Apocrypha too, on Show Day the Second - Evening
It simply hadn’t been possible, earlier - what with Master Pippin all ears and questions - to find the right moment to enquire, so Sam had never quite managed to discover whether Frodo understood the nature of the evening’s 'entertainment'. And it weren’t exactly something you’d want to stumble across all unprepared, that were for sure.
'Are we going home now, Frodo?’ Pippin asked at last.
His high spirits had begun to flag towards teatime; though refreshed for a while by several sandwiches and rather more cake and lemonade than a parent might have approved, they were on the droop again before long. It seemed that only a dogged determination to enjoy his day to its very end, no matter the effort, could keep his eyelids from following suit. By the time the three directed their steps toward the judges’ tent to meet Bilbo, he was fighting his yawns valiantly. Whatever Pippin did, he put his whole self into, and bedtime was fast approaching.
‘You aren’t going home tonight, remember? You’re going back to Bag End with Bilbo.’
‘And you!’
The conviction in his voice only confirmed Sam’s foreboding that Frodo would indeed be returning home for the night. The light supper and truckle bed awaiting Pippin would be accepted so much more readily with his favourite cousin there to entertain him with stories and read him to sleep. A rather splendid meal had been arranged for his elders, partly prepared and wholly served by Sam’s own sisters. Having no particular interest in the finer points of Shirestock, the Gamgee lasses didn’t attend the second day of the Show, though tomorrow would be a very different matter, what with Mr Bilbo’s prompt payment just itching to be spent and the dancing to come, as well.
Frodo shook his head. ‘No, Pippin. Sam and I are staying over for the whole Show.’ Sam’s head shot up at that - Frodo wasn’t leaving him; suddenly, the rest of this day seemed that much brighter.
‘Staying? Sleeping here?’ Pippin’s eyes widened despite their weariness.
Sam could remember his own astonishment at the notion, when he’d been about Pippin’s age. For lads that young, the Show was about stalls and Rides and having fun; they’d no need to consider the practicalities of keeping livestock on site for days on end.
‘Where? Where do you sleep? I want to see!’
He was most impressed with the huge tent and the rows of (mostly) neatly stacked bedding on palliasses of bright straw. ‘Which is your bed, Frodo?’ he asked, and when Frodo pointed out packs and folded blankets lying on Bilbo’s groundsheet, ‘Where’s Sam’s?’
There was a slight pause while Sam tried to think of a way to put it that didn’t come out sounding all wrong, but Frodo just smiled and said, ‘We sleep here together.’ Which were naught but truth, of course, and Sam thought it one of the best things he’d ever heard (though he could think of ways of improving on it).
‘Oh. May I stay, too, Frodo, may I? Please? I'll be good, truly I will! Please may I? Please?’
‘Well, you’d have to be very good or you'll find the hobbit in charge can be quite fierce! And you would be in this huge tent all on your own to begin with, for Sam and I come to bed much later.’
‘All on my own?’ That did seem to strike a chord.
‘Well, no, not exactly,’ Frodo admitted. ‘There will be quite a few other lads in here, but you probably won’t know any of them, and you’d have to keep very quiet anyway - they're here to sleep, not chatter!’
Pippin would probably find that a more worrisome proposition, Sam thought; and there were a good chance, should Pippin get his way, that whichever hobbit were in charge tonight might find himself with more to do than usual, for he’d livened up no end at the prospect.
And, really, the matter had not taken much settling. Pippin had pouted and cajoled, then offered a trembling lower lip to his parents and it’d been plain to see that, much as he was loved, the offer of an entirely Pippin-free visit to Bag End posed a considerable temptation. What parent could resist the chance to concentrate wholly on the delicacies set before them, the choice wines Bilbo would undoubtedly broach, without constant demands for drinks of water and 'just one more story' from an over-tired little lad?
They’d agree in a trice but for guilt at landing Frodo with their son once more, Sam decided, just as Frodo, easy prey to the trembling lip ploy, looked directly at him and raised his eyebrows. Sam nodded - he’d have his Frodo here and naught else mattered - and that had been that. Pippin, all smiles again now, would sleep with them at the Show (though Sam were still in two minds as to whether a midnight walk to Bag End with a weeping faunt may be necessary).
Discussion done, there was a flurry of activity with Bilbo at centre, directing. Eglantine whisked her son off to the refreshment tent where an early supper was already being served to the younger hobbits before bed; Paladin dispatched a handy lad to fetch up the Took carriage whilst he assembled his daughters and the inevitable pile of purchases; Frodo left in search of Daddy Twofoot; and Sam went off to tack up Beechnut.
Carriage, trap and Tooks all returned at more or less the same time, but Frodo was still nowhere to be seen. Bilbo sent the Family on to Bag End before him, rather than keep all the ponies waiting about; the trap being lighter and faster would probably catch them up, anyway. He was careful to keep Pippin close, the useful glove puppet now doing dwarf-duty in a hastily cobbled tale. Sam listened as best he could, one hand busy soothing Beechnut who stamped and fidgeted a bit at being left behind, until Frodo appeared at last, errant Twofoot in tow, his escort an even more sprightly affair than the morning’s had been.
Then, the old hobbit had been all anticipation despite his arthritic knees; now, he practically danced back to the pony trap, and Sam suspected that for two pins he’d probably have had a go at carrying Muriel’s basket, too. The basket in Frodo’s hands; the one that was now quite blatantly adorned with a large and extremely red rosette, tails spread wide to extend the display. Sam couldn’t have been more pleased if he’d won it himself. He helped Daddy clamber into the trap and took the basket from Frodo to settle it on the proud owner’s knees so it’d be nicely visible to all whom they passed on the way home to Bagshot Row.
It had to be admitted though, that he’d less than half an ear to spare for the old hobbit’s joyful account of his triumph - even with its accompaniment of smug, if somewhat muffled, clucks; for, as Mr Bilbo was handing back the would-be dwarf, something in Frodo’s quiet, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance…’ had claimed most of his attention.
‘Ah, now, I’m glad you mentioned that,' Bilbo said. 'I did just manage a bit of a chat with Bill, over a pot of tea and one or two rather excellent scones. It so happened,’ and Mr Bilbo could pretend that either Sam or Frodo would believe that if he liked, but for his part Sam’d as soon swear to elves at the bottom of Bag End’s garden, ‘that Rafe was passing Swire’s Sundries as I arrived, and I prevailed upon him to mind the stand for Bill whilst we went for tea.
‘No,’ he said, in answer to Frodo's unasked question, ‘I didn’t tell him why, not yet, but he was perfectly willing - and even Bill had to admit that he made a good job of it. When we arrived back, the stall had more customers than it’d seen all day. The lad has a nice line in patter and he knows one garden implement from another for all that he’s a Traveller. It was a promising start, for seeing really is believing - and worth all the recommendation in the world!’
Only a series of truly impressive yawns cut off Pippin’s demands to know who and where and what for, and especially why Sam was suddenly grinning fit to burst and Frodo hugging Uncle Bilbo so tightly that (so he said) his ribs squeaked. Ribs or no, he stepped nimbly enough into the trap and then it was on its way, rosette ribbons aflutter and more than the suggestion of a celebratory progress about it.
Pippin’s bedtime was far less difficult than Sam had expected; and a joint assault on the remarkable state of grubbiness the lad had managed to achieve was a sight more successful than the Mistress’s spitty hanky, applied before his supper, that had just seemed to spread the mess further, if thinner. Clean enough, slightly damp and still complaining sleepily about the lack of warm water for a wash he really hadn’t needed anyway, Pippin was taken off to their blankets by Frodo alone. He’d insisted that Pippin would settle more quickly that way, and Sam was left here to reflect on the fact that Frodo probably didn’t have any idea what were afoot this night.
Last year, Sam and a couple of other reckless almost-tweens had evaded curfew, hiding themselves away until deepening dusk concealed their features and they could peep from a distance at this thing that was kept so secret until you were deemed old enough. With only a single mug of illicitly obtained ale to numb all three of them, that distance had been a blessing; he remembered very clearly the shock, the reluctant fascination, and an acutely appalled fellow-feeling in the relevant area. He assumed that such things must occur at other times and in other places - though nowhere local that he could name. Surely the Great Smials - or more likely Brandy Hall - could boast a tradition even more pointless and foolhardy? If so, Frodo was obviously of an age to have witnessed it; but for all that, a doubt niggled at Sam’s mind.
Tilting his mug, he was surprised by the final swallow; the brew had slipped down so smoothly, it disappeared afore he’d even time to realise it. He could feel its good offices working on him already, soothing anxiety to a vaguer state of apprehension. It was no accident that tonight’s ale was extra strong; laid on special so the serving hobbit said, when Sam returned for a refill and another for Frodo. It was valued as much for its rapidly numbing effect, when taken on an empty stomach (supper being delayed for the purpose, tonight), as for its undoubtedly excellent flavour.
‘Two this time, lad?’ he asked with a grin, pumping ale expertly. ‘You’ll be legless afore they even gets started!’
‘What? Oh, no, they aren’t both for me! The other’s for-for my friend.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Winking, he passed brimming mugs across the makeshift bar.
Sam blushed as he paid, unsure as to whether that wink meant summat to do with the beer or if it meant what he’d want it to, if what it meant were what the barhobbit might have meant it to mean… It occurred to him then that this ale really were a fair bit stronger than aught else he were used to, and he resolved to stretch this one a good step further than his first.
Even so, it couldn’t quite stop him fretting at his own failure to provide either explanation or warning afore this. Frodo might not want to watch, after all, once he knew what were going forward here, and retreat would be no shame. Many a hobbit preferred to bide by the fire (and close to the supper tables), settling with most of the lasses, the matrons and codgers to a relaxing chat and the quiet enjoyment of his ale before the late meal. Frodo really should have that option - he just weren’t here to be given it; Pippin may have seemed ready to sleep just as soon as his head was fairly down, but Sam remembered ‘one more story’ and guessed that to be what was keeping Frodo now.
But he’d find his way quick enough just as soon as he were able - you couldn’t exactly miss it, after all. Most of the tween lads were present and a good many of their elders too, all awaiting this strangely compulsive contest. It weren’t as though they were quiet, neither, what with the strength of the brew and that strangely loosed feeling you got - fleeting, but heady for all that - just from being at the Show; like Frodo had said - a bit to one side of the real thing.
They stood by knots and clusters all around a makeshift stage; Sam thought it may even be the same flatbed wagon, moved a bit for convenience, that he and Frodo had occupied for their rather more wholesome (if messy) display of blindfolded porridge delivery. There were lanterns strung generously all around and above now, to ensure that not the least of the evening’s heroics need be missed to the coming of night. Into their light, and a sustained cheering, the contestants marched boldly forward.
They were three this year, and from the look of them they'd been well-plied with Tipple already, to be approaching their ordeal with such resolution. Two of them Sam knew by name. Edwin Muddifoot lived at Frogmorton and was a butcher by trade; of full age and more, from the confident way he called to friends in the crowd he had done this before. Sam thought he’d maybe taken part last year, but it weren’t exactly faces he remembered of that night. The elder of the tweens was Dan Beasley, a cousin of Sam’s goat-keeping friend Jess, from out Pincup way; the other looked just a little familiar. Sam had the feeling he might have seen him around the Showground, but the hobbit that came to mind was ruddy, with a permanently cheerful grin; this one was paler than should be possible for any lad who’d spent a day out in the sun. Sam wondered whether he’d had a deal more ale than the other two, or if he’d suddenly realised what he’d let himself in for.
‘What are they doing?’
Sam almost dropped the pair of mugs he was holding. Frodo had come up behind him, standing so close - to catch his attention over the hubbub - that most of his question had spilled, warm and damp, across Sam’s neck to tumble forward through his open collar. (Oddly, its downward progress was completely unimpeded by his intervening waistband; and the effect of that innocently humid enquiry made him exceptionally glad that he had not been rash enough to take part in the forthcoming event. Who knew what wholly unwelcome and possibly permanently debilitating effects might result from such careless temerity…to say nothing of a suddenly increased target area.)
He stepped back a little and half-turned to Frodo. Lip reading might hold its own set of pitfalls, but it’d be safer in the long run. ‘They’re ferret-legging, sir.’
‘They’re what?’
Apparently, not all queer goings on were known at Brandy Hall.
‘Ferret-legging. Them as is brave enough has a pair of ferrets put down their britches, and the winner is the last one left standing.’
Frodo’s mouth fell open, and now it was the ripe curve of his lower lip that hitched Sam’s breath. ‘You are joking, aren’t you, Sam?’
‘No, sir.’ Forcing his mind back to practical matters, Sam thrust a mug into Frodo’s hand. ‘That’s why you’ll need this. Triple Tipple, brought in special from the Toad and Bucket at Fennybridge. Supposed to be the strongest ale in the Shire, and I'm thinking that may be right, an’ all. I’d get outside of it right quick if you’re wanting to watch, sir.’
The contestants had scrambled onto the wagon bed, now, arms aloft in reply to their exuberant reception. Frodo stared at them for a moment, then took a large gulp of ale, choking in surprise at the strength of it. When he recovered, he tried a more measured sip. ‘Do I have to finish it all at once? It tastes to be worth the savouring!’
‘Aye, that it is, but if we’re to stay, a good slurp should work well enough, seeing as you’ve eaten naught since teatime. We don’t have to, though, if you’d rather not, sir - we could sit out and enjoy the ale proper, instead. A lot of folk do.’
Frodo’s reply was lost to a burst of louder cheering from the crowd, but the taking of another draught gave Sam his answer. He'd known, really, that Frodo would need to see what was to come, little though he may actually enjoy it.
The sudden upsurge in noise was Terlo Ridgeway’s welcome to the platform. A stone mason much respected in the district for both strength and reliable workmanship, Terlo was in demand whenever an informal master of ceremonies was required; somehow, he’d the gift for it. He introduced the competitors one by one, making much of them, drawing from them the details of their daily lives and family connections, and complimenting their selfless fortitude in providing the spectacle to come. The audience awarded loud, generous and almost unbiased appreciation to each one of them. (It turned out that the third lad was a farmer’s son from out Delving way, and a Burrows; which may well account for Sam’s thinking he knew the face, the Burrowses being particularly prolific around Hobbiton.)
Though their chests were bare, all three were clad voluminously below the waist, in trousers that seemed almost to billow around them, overly long and secured with baling band between calf and ankle. The sensible participant obviously borrowed breeches from a much larger hobbit in every direction, so there should be room enough and to spare. It most definitely made sense to borrow from a taller hobbit, so that the legs could be tied as low down as might be and thus tempt the animals to remain as far southward as possible.
‘Sam?’ Frodo’s voice was rather tight; it seemed that another aspect of the affair had struck him at last. ‘Are they- are they wearing anything underneath?’
‘No, sir. That’s… um… the point.’
'Goodness me!’ Frodo sucked in a sharp breath and fidgeted his feet close together. Sam knew exactly where his imagination had taken him for his own had followed fast, and not even this direst of threats could dampen Sam's reaction to what it found there; a quick sup of Tipple proved equally useless.
A solemn hush fell as Terlo spaced his contestants so that each might be seen to best advantage. The expressions on their faces differed according to temperament - all wavering somewhere amidst misplaced bravado, the inhibiting effect of very strong ale, and a completely justifiable trepidation bordering somewhat upon terror. But none of the three accepted Terlo’s offer of retreat without dishonour; foolhardiness to the fore, they stood proud, and the contest was declared under way. Three more hobbits clambered up onto the wagon, thickly leather-gloved but otherwise normally dressed. They bore a wriggling sack apiece, lowered carefully now, ties loosened in readiness. At Terlo’s command the contestants’ belts were undone, the vast waist of each solitary garment pulled outward; the assistants dipped deep into their sacks, and produced, one in either hand, a brace of ferrets.
There was a completely audible gasp from the spectators.
It may have been his fevered imagination working double time now, but Sam was convinced that he caught a gleam of light from each razor-sharp tooth, from every one of those brightly needling claws. He rather thought the animals weren’t best pleased at having been bundled away into sacks at the end of their day and then brought out into the light again so suddenly, when they’d been settling for sleep in their homely hutches.
‘Ready, lads?’ Terlo held a pocket watch in hand.
‘So that’s what he wanted it for!’ Frodo whispered, directly into Sam’s ear.
‘Sir?’ The best he could manage was not much above a strangled squeak; Sam was acutely aware that, had he been a competitor in his current condition, he would have provided a very active target for a predatory ferret.
‘Terlo borrowed Bilbo's watch, earlier.’
‘Three!’ Terlo called, and the helpers held their ferrets high in the air, where they wriggled in a highly disgruntled manner.
‘Two!’ the crowd yelled; the ferrets were lowered to waist level before each of the waiting hobbits.
‘One!’ The shout was deafening, and the ferrets squirmed - eyes flashing, Sam would swear - as (‘GO!’) they were dropped within the cavernous clothing.
‘Tie up!’ Belts were securely refastened, and a complete silence fell.
Though he had seen this before, it had been from a nice distance. Sam stood now in fascinated horror, his recent enthusiasm dwindling to naught as each hobbit’s trousers looked to surge and writhe around him. The indignant beasts were obviously bent on rapid escape from this new confinement, like and yet unlike the dark burrows in which they were used to seek their prey. It seemed they didn’t care much whether they had to claw or chew their way out neither, and woe betide aught that got in their way - especially if it bore a passing resemblance to a blind and naked rabbit kit.
Bravely braced as yet, the competitors were twitching a little, to be sure, but their mouths clamped firmly shut upon the moans of pain that they must surely need to express. A hushed murmur arose from the watchers, more than one face reflecting the anguish endured so stoically before them; more than one hand slipping down as if to protect the spectator’s own valuables.
The thrumming tension was broken suddenly by a tightly agonised cry that found a swift and sympathetic echo from amongst the audience.
It came as no real surprise that the younger tween should be the first to break, slapping and pulling at the central spot where at least one of his ferrets was making its displeasure known unrelentingly. The lad lashed himself from side to side, desperate to be rid of his intimate burden, but to no avail. Throwing up his arms in surrender, he toppled gracelessly into the crowd, to be carried away and freed of his troubles.
Now the crowd grew partisan, needing to acknowledge that the sufferings, borne here so nobly, were for their entertainment. The split was almost even between supporters who called encouragement to Edwin and those whose partiality was for Dan Beasley.
‘Come on, Ned, you can do it!’
‘You show him how it’s done, Dan-lad!’
‘He’s flinchin’, he is, Ned! You hang in there, and you’ll beat him!’ There was a burst of raucous laughter at the infelicitous reminder.
‘Nay, Dan, just a bit longer!’
Sam could almost feel their torment. Dan was twisting frantically on the spot, hands slapping wildly hither and thither but, in his agitation, without either aim or success. Despite his most heroic efforts, high pitched moans escaped him, almost in time with the futile flapping of his fists. Edwin remained rigidly silent, arms folded high over his chest, his pain betrayed only by the squeezed-up agony in his face, and by his knuckles, stark white and bloodless as he gripped his own elbows.
But for Sam there was suddenly a closer ache, as Frodo - eyes locked onto the two still battling their torture - seized onto his arm, squeezing almost hard enough to bruise. Small wonder he were taking it hard, Sam thought - he’d not fully appreciated what were to happen, and the Tipple had scarce had a proper chance to work on him. And really, when you thought about it, it were a truly shocking thing - to watch, let alone to do; stupid and reckless, and born of the stupid recklessness of a lot of hobbit lads together, wild and free (and not a little tipsy).
No amount of reaction to this touch could reanimate Sam’s previous condition, for he could see the anguish of the competitors mirrored deep in Frodo’s face. Needing to help, Sam set his free hand gently on top of his master’s and said, ‘It’s all right sir, I’m here.’
Oh, now, and how foolish is that? As if Sam Gamgee could make aught better, just by being there! But the tight grip slackened from crushing to clenching, and just a little of the tension eased from Frodo’s forehead; and in that moment, Sam knew he would always be there for Frodo, even if his presence were all that he could give.
In the few seconds he had taken to glance aside, the end had come. As Sam looked back to the makeshift stage, the crowd voiced support and sympathy, success and commiseration in equal measure. Poor Dan had dropped to his knees, and by the rules the stoicism of Edwin Muddifoot had won the day - or night. His victory salute was necessarily brief, however, as he and his defeated companion-in-distress vanished rapidly from sight, each to the good friends who would rescue him from further damage and return his tormentors, irritably but safely, to their interrupted rest. Terlo stepped forward to announce that Edwin’s time, though worthy of the highest praise, was several seconds short of the record, and that his prize - a firkin of Triple Tipple - would be presented to him just as soon as he might be in a condition to receive it. He then led the company in a rousing cheer for all three brave participants, and the ordeal was finished for another year.
Frodo’s grip on Sam's arm slackened and then slid away, but Sam thought he looked still to be in need of a little comfort. ‘You wait on a bit, sir,’ he said, ‘and I’ll fetch another mug to wash away the after effects. If you’re like me, you sort of feel it even if them things never actually got within yards of your-’ his voice stumbled, then steadied again, ‘-britches.’
‘No, Sam, I’m all right now. It was just a little shocking to begin with. I still cannot imagine-well, I can imagine, though I don’t understand why-Anyway, I shall get the ale - you find us a perch.’
‘What about supper, sir?' The entire gathering was moving purposefully in that direction, now. 'Could you fancy some, should you think?’
Frodo nodded, though Sam had his doubts as to whether he really meant it. But by the time that they converged on a convenient bale of straw - Sam carrying two brimming bowls with generous of hunks of fresh bread tucked beneath each elbow, Frodo with a foaming mug in either hand - each was ready enough to eat heartily.
Shocked reaction eased quickly under the promise of well-filled bellies and a continuing flow of ale, and hobbits all around were loud now in their praise of the evening’s contestants. The meal was eaten to the accompaniment of wide-ranging (if intermittent) discussion of the fortitude, constancy of purpose and sheer reckless stupidity of competitors over the years. Particularly painful bouts were recalled almost fondly, and lasting injuries catalogued with ghoulish glee, but the heroism - foolish in the extreme but heroism nonetheless - was toasted, over and again.
What with so much of the Tipple on top of sheer relief - even a spectator could feel easier in his trousers, now that all was over - the evening rapidly descended into ever sillier jokes and a great deal of gratuitous merriment. One hobbit cackled over ‘A bane in their britches,’ another came up with ‘Doom in his drawers,’ and a third offered, 'A nuisance in their nether garments.’
Then, in the sudden, unintended silence that sometimes happens in a crowd, an elderly female voice was heard to opine, ‘Could ’a’ bin a wicked waste of a willy, though!’
To a hobbit, the company fell about laughing.
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Chapter 17: Show Day the Second - Night
Chapter 15 was here and the story began with The Prologue
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ETA: For a far more balanced view of the nature of the animals maligned herein, please read Belleferret's comment below!
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As so often happens when I start tweaking, this part of the story more than doubled itself and became a chapter on its own. Readers anticipating Sam solo and his Enlightenment must await the next - sorry!