The sun sparkled on the flowing water and apple blossoms fluttered through the air as young Frodo Baggins cast his line into the water yet again. He had promised his Uncle Bilbo freshly caught trout for their second supper that evening, and he was not about to make himself a liar. He knew that Uncle Bilbo had not made any other plans for second supper because he was counting on the river trout. Should the young hobbit fail to come through, they would both go hungry that evening.
Feeling a tug on his line, Frodo grabbed his fishing rod and gave it a quick tug, hoping to set the hook firmly in the mouth of the nibbling fish. He pulled once and felt some resistance. Definitely a good sign. He pulled a second time and saw a large rainbow-bellied trout leap out of the water, his hook and line firmly embedded in its mouth.
Frodo yelped with boyish excitement and held on to his pole tightly, his fingers clenching as hard as he could, his eyes opened wide. Even though the sun’s reflection was sending painful reflections into his eyes, Frodo refused to look away or even to blink. He just knew that, should he look away for even a moment, the fish would escape, and he just couldn’t let that happen.
He watched as the line began to move erratically through the water. Though it was difficult to get a clear view of the trout in the quickly muddying river, his sharp young eyes were locked on to the large fish and refused to be distracted. Water splished and splashed onto his feet, the fine hair on their tops going limp with the weight of the water.
Hauling with all of the strength in his small arms, Frodo slowly but inexorably dragged the struggling trout onto the bank. Once the fish was securely on land and was in no danger of leaping back into the water, Frodo collapsed onto his knees and admired his catch. The trout was beautiful. Its body was covered in shiny silver scales that sparkled on land like sequins; its belly was colored with splotches of colors like a rainbow, blue, red, and yellow dominating the scaly palette. In total, counting its head and tail, the trout would have to measure five feet.
Frodo punched the air in triumph and laughed, his head thrown back to look up at the sky. If only his dad could have been there to have seen that! An avid fisherman before his death, Frodo’s father would have been amazed and proud of his son’s angling abilities. He had often spoken of taking his son fishing once he was old enough to hold a rod. Unfortunately, both of the boy’s parents had died in a boating accident before that could happen. But still, he was happy with his Uncle Bilbo and that’s all that mattered now.
Cleaning the fish quickly at the river’s edge, Frodo swung the two trout fillets over his shoulder and began the walk back to Bag End, his uncle’s and his residence. As he neared the edge of The Shire, though, he walked past old Mr. McGrubber’s house. He saw the elderly hobbit sitting outside and watching the other hobbits go about their business. Frodo knew that Mr. McGrubber lived alone and rarely had visitors. Stepping up to the old hobbit’s gate, Frodo greeted him and regaled him with the tale of his recent victory over the trout. Mr. McGrubber laughed and congratulated him. He told Frodo about his own fishing exploits and said that he hadn’t tasted trout in many years since he was unable to make the walk to the river anymore.
Feeling sorry for the lonely old man, Frodo handed him one of the trout fillets and wished him a good day. This meant, of course, that he and his uncle would have less to eat that night, and Frodo was already anticipating the hunger pangs he would be feeling later on. But even so, he knew the lightness and joy that came from being kind to Mr. McGrubber would more than quiet whatever discomfort may come. Whistling under his breath, Frodo continued his walk back to Bag End.
Stepping out from the cover of the gnarled and ancient tree, the grey-clad man took off his overlarge hat and wiped his hand across his perspiring brow. Gesturing toward Frodo with his staff, the man ran the fingers of his other hand through his long grey hair and said, “So there he is, Doctor, the one who may be called upon later in service to Middle Earth. What do you think?”
Looking quite different from the robed wizard, the man referred to as Doctor stepped away from the tree as well. Dressed in black trousers, a silver waistcoat, and a long black coat, the second figure leaned against a walking stick and replied, “I think you’ve made a good choice, Gandalf. The boy is strong, determined, refuses to give up, and shows great compassion. I don’t see how you could find anyone better.”
Nodding in agreement, the grey wanderer known as Gandalf said, “He’s just so young and kind hearted. I shudder to think of the burden that will be placed upon him, and the scars that burden will leave.”
The Doctor looked at his old friend in concern. The burdens Gandalf himself had carried down the ages were enormous. He knew his friend felt the loss of each and every one of his mortal friends who had fallen throughout the countless years.
“As you are fond of saying, old friend, ours is not to question our tasks. Ours is but to decide what to do with the time that is given to us. And so far, you have made exceedingly great choices in extraordinary circumstances.”
Smiling at the Doctor’s words, Gandalf pulled out his long pipe and filled it with tobacco. Placing his finger in the bowl, he conjured a spark of fire and lit the dry leaves. Through wreaths of smoke he glanced at his companion and asked, “Shall we see what is on special today at The Green Dragon?”
Wrinkling his nose in response, the Doctor grabbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger and stared up into the sky. “Tell me, Gandalf, have I ever shown you my collection of dragon eggs?" At the wizard’s shake of his head, the Doctor continued, “Then let me play host this evening. Let's retire to the castle, and I'll show you wonders beyond compare. Besides", he said with a wink,"my sixth sense tells me you could use a night out.”
And so saying, the Doctor gestured with his hand, causing a thick fog to rise from the ground and envelope them both. Moments later, when the wind blew the small cloud away, both men were gone.
Excerpt from The Memoirs of Dr Mandragora: From the Maudlin to the Macabre
