Sam fic: "Bad Step" Part 6, rated PG

[mariole]

More of Sam, right where you think he is:



Sam awoke with a start. From a
nearby tree, a bird was chirping. Groggily he turned his head. The light of day
brightened the hole overhead. A second source, more diffused, glowed obliquely
through the channel he had forged the previous day.

Sam stirred, then quickly lay his
head down again. Dizzy. His lightheadedness had not improved overnight; rather
the reverse. Also, there was a looseness in his joints, and his consciousness
of sudden temperature shifts that told him that he was certainly running a
fever.

Parched. That was his first clear
thought, after he’d come to full consciousness. His tongue seemed stuck to the
roof of his mouth. His lips were cracked and split open in some places. But the
worst of it was the pain in his throat. Every breath was a misery, burning the
back of his throat so he thought the skin back there must tear from the
tightness. Swallowing didn’t help; he had naught to swallow. His tongue only
made a kind of clicking back there if he tried to swallow hard.

Well, he must rouse himself and assess
his options for escape again. No sense in waiting.

Despite his resolution, Sam was
surprised to find he was still lying there several minutes later. That were a
bad job; he needed more presence of mind than that! Doggedly, he turned himself
upon his stomach, then inched his way down the freshly hewn channel.

The prospect by morning light looked
no better than it had the evening afore; in fact, matters seemed worse. In the
stronger light, Sam could see just how steep that slope down to the Water was.
His throat contracted longingly, but he were nowhere nearer to getting a drink
by looking at it. He forced himself to attend to the drop below his prison.

He still couldn’t judge the height. Eight
feet, ten? The distance mattered, because that would determine how injured he
might get (more injured, corrected his mind) by the drop. Lying there
blinking and thinking, Sam finally stumbled across the obvious solution. He
didn’t have a stone, but he broke off a clod of earth from the nearest wall easily
enough. Positioning himself at the very edge of the channel floor, Sam let the
clod go.

It fell smoothly and steadily, its progress
brilliantly gilded by the morning sun. The clod hit with a light tap and burst
apart, starting a miniature avalanche that slid a couple of feet down the slope
before stopping.

Sam sank. The distance must be a
full twelve feet-nearly thrice Sam’s height. He might be able to sustain such a
jump were he well. In his present condition, he were likely to break apart on
impact, like that clod of earth had done.

He repeated his experiment with a
new clod, with the same dismal results. Sam sank his head upon his left elbow,
and considered.

He could always jump. That was his
last resort, if things got truly dire. But there was the hope-just a hope-that
someone might come up the trail today and find him. If that were the case, the
last thing Sam needed to do was smash in his remaining ribs, and perhaps break
his only usable arm, in a desperate drop down a slippery slope that was sure to
batter or even drownd him. No, he must remain in as many pieces as he was-for
the present, at any rate. He would have to be truly dying to risk the uncertain
perils of the slope.

Sam backed out of the channel with
difficulty. His right leg hurt fierce bad. Sam put his hand on it, and hissed
at the sting of pain. It had swelled up overnight, making the straps and canvas
wrapping tight. No sense in undoing the bandage; Sam had naught else to do for
it here, and rewrapping the leg seemed a powerful amount of work. He loosened
the straps, however, to ease the swelling, and made sure the cloth lay smooth.

His right shoulder, too, ached mightily,
alternating with flashes of pain. He loosened his crude sling and checked the
injury. The joint was wonderfully bruised, purple and green all over. It didn’t
seem more swollen than before, but it were far more tender. Sam could hardly
bring himself to touch it.

Lifting back his clothing made him
shiver. He didn’t realize it was so cold. Afore he could cover up, though, he
felt warm again, so Sam knew it was his fever, mixing him up. He redid the
sling securely to his belt. He felt a little better for having done it. In a
way, Sam was grateful for his fever. It kept him from thinking too hard on what
was happening to him, or what was likely to happen. He were happy to nod off
now and again as he sat; it helped pass the time.

At length, Sam looked about again.
All right, it were morning. Folk would be about. If Sam kept watch at the
fissure, mayhap he’d see someone at the lake come within hailing distance. It were
unlikely, but more likely than anyone coming along the path. Besides, Sam had
no better plan to try.

He looked over his stock of tools
again. He had the tree saw and bow saw, the pry bar, the longer digging and
tamping bar, an axe, shovel, pick mattock-

The tamping bar was too awkward; he
let that lie. The bow saw, now. That was light in weight. Sam hefted it, then looked
up at the hole overhead. It was a tricky shot, but Sam had time. A loose tool
weren’t much of a signal, but was better than having naught up there to mark his
presence at all.

Sam positioned himself below the
hole where he’d broken through the trail. For the next half hour, he tried to
toss the saw through the hole. He threw awkwardly with his left hand, and he
had to take care not to jostle his hurts more’n necessary. Time and again the
saw fell back, often right towards his face. Thank goodness it was light, or it
might have done some damage. But its teeth were small, and the handle were
heavier than the blade, which ensured that side would always fall first. Failure
followed failure. Sam was on the point of giving up, when it happened. One
lucky toss, and it was through. Sam heard the saw clang lightly as it landed on
the trail outside.

Sam closed his eyes with relief.
He’d done it. He felt a flush of pleasure. In fact, he were almost giddy-mayhap
that was the fever. Sam didn’t care. He had done something he’d set out to do.
It were his first triumph since falling into this wretched den, and Sam savored
it.

Sam jerked and looked round. He
weren’t sure, but he suspected he might have dozed off again. No matter. He had
time. It was still early for folk to be about. He weren’t like to have missed
anyone walking by.

Sam looked over his remaining stash
of tools. From it he selected the tree saw, the pry bar, and the axe. He rolled
onto his belly and balanced the tools on his back, tucking the ends of them
into his clothes. He needed his left arm free for crawling. He then laboriously
made his way back down the channel, to where he could look out over the lake.

The sun were higher, the morning
well underway. The hole where Sam looked out actually lay under the shelter of
a large tangle of roots, the knots of which actually overhung the passage. That
were good and bad. Good, because it put some roots within Sam’s reach. Bad,
because it meant his channel were more likely to pass the day in shadow,
whereas Sam would have preferred bright sun. Oh, well. Best get on with it, and
see if his idea would work.

Sam still had the second half of his
bracers in his pocket. He could use these as a rope. Sam tested the various
roots about the opening for strength. He found a suitable one within his reach,
and tied one end of the bracers to it. The other end he tied to the handle of
the saw. He took his time, being wary of his judgment in light of his illness.
After double-checking both knots to make sure they were secure, he pushed the
saw over the lip of the passage. It dangled from the root by its foot-long cord,
hanging over space.

Sam reached for his pry bar, and
extended it to give the dangling saw a tap. The saw swayed and twirled, hanging
by its handle. As it turned, the orange light of the morning sun flashed
brightly upon its broad metal side.

There it was, his second signal. If
Sam were to give the saw a poke now and then, it would swing out far enough to
catch the sunlight. Someone walking along the lakeside might notice the flickering
light, and come closer to investigate.

Sam positioned the axe so the blade
lay near his left hand. If someone were drawn to the flashing, Sam planned to
beat on the axe with the pry bar. He had no illusions that he’d be able to
shout loudly enough to be heard; shape he was in, he’d be lucky if he could
make a squeak. But he could tap. The metallic clang of pry bar on axe head
would carry a fair distance. He could make a pattern out of it, to help guide
any curious hobbits closer. Once they saw him, he could flash the saw blade at
them. Surely they would understand he was signaling for help, and make their
way up round the Hill. Surely, they would do that much.

Sam made himself as comfortable as
he could, resting his chin in the crook of his left arm. Now and again he gave
the saw a poke with the pry bar, to set it twirling. The rest of the time, he
gazed upon the world that had been set so firmly beyond his reach. Only the
pleasant breeze came to touch his cheek now and again, an acknowledgement of
his existence that Sam found deeply comforting.

Continued in Part 7

For a complete list of entries, see the Bad Step chapter listing.