Sam fic: "Bad Step" Part 9, rated PG

[mariole]

I'm still not finished being cruel yet, darn it!



Frodo made good speed towards the
gate leading to the wooded trail. He hadn’t run for a sustained distance in
quite some time, but his anxiety enabled him to keep a smart pace. As he ran,
he had a chance to mull the possibilities.

It was by no means certain that Sam
had fallen into the lake or down a pit. Something far more ordinary might have
happened to him. Perhaps a log he was cutting fell the wrong way, and pinned
him beneath it. A falling branch might have knocked him out, and left him too hurt
or dizzy to make his way home. He might have taken a bad step and broken a leg
or ankle, and was simply unable to crawl the distance required to find help. Each
of these scenarios raised a host of problems and worries. It was futile to
speculate. Soon, Frodo hoped, he would know.

Frodo reached the gate to the woods
path and threw it open, leaving it wide behind him. As he started down the
path, it occurred to him he ought to look sharp along the way. If Sam were
wounded and had crawled towards help, he could be lying in almost any clump of
grass. Frodo hurried through the meadow, glancing to the left and right. Four
days. No minor injury would have prevented Sam from making it home
in four days. Frodo bit his lip.

A shout from the lane made him turn.
Frodo had thought he’d made good time, but his performance was nothing next to
the turn of speed this lass was getting. She flew down the lane, skirts held
high and billowing about her pumping feet.

“Mr. Frodo, Mr. Frodo!” she cried, then
turned breathlessly onto the path at the gate.

Even across the width of the meadow,
Frodo recognized her. “Miss Marigold!”

Sam’s younger sister rushed towards
him. Her breath came raggedly; she stumbled slightly once, caught herself, and
instantly rushed on. As she approached, he could see her reddened eyes and
tear-streaked cheeks.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo, it’s my fault!” she
gasped as she came up. “I thought he had gone with you. His pack was missing,
you see. He’d told me he packed it, and when I couldn’t find it, I just assumed
he’d gone-“

Frodo interrupted. “You couldn’t
find his pack because it was in the shed at Bag End. I saw it there myself, not
ten minutes ago.”

Marigold jammed her fist against her
teeth. “Oh, Mr. Frodo. I’ve killed my brother!”

Frodo took her arm firmly, both to
soothe her and to get her moving again. “Your father and brother speak highly
of your sense,” he said, hurrying along and checking the shrubbery, whilst
Marigold trotted alongside. “I must ask you to use all your good sense at the
present moment. The situation may appear desperate, but tears and hysterics
will not help. Do you understand me, Miss Marigold?”

She sniffled, and attempted to regain
her composure. “Yes, Mr. Frodo.”

“That’s better. Because if we do
find your brother-he’s likely to be in a bad way.”

“Oh, Mr. Frodo,” she whimpered, and
rubbed her wrist across her swollen eyes.

“He will need all our help,” said
Frodo strongly. “If you think you can do that, if you can assist me and be of
use to your brother, you can come along. If you don’t think you can manage it,
I must ask you to return to the gate and wait for your family to arrive, and
then show them the way.”

Marigold sniffled. “No, sir. I can
be of help to you.”

“Good lass. Now-“ Frodo glanced at
his companion, but she appeared to be as empty-handed as himself. “Did you by
any chance bring anything that might be of immediate use? Bandages, or water?”

Marigold gasped. “No! I didn’t even
think of it! I just heard the Gaffer’s news and went flying out the door.”

“No need to distress yourself; I
didn’t think of it either. Well, we’re doing something now, aren’t we?”

Marigold nodded briskly, her fears temporarily
offset by Frodo's reassurance. Frodo wished he could do the same for himself.
He wondered what he might do if they should come across Sam’s body. He preferred
to ascertain Sam’s condition before his sister saw him, if possible. If she
should glimpse his body floating in the Water and become hysterical, she might tumble
down the hill and become a victim herself. Even if he sent her away, he had no
way to prevent her from following him. If he kept her by his side, he had at
least a chance of controlling the situation. He hoped.

The belt of trees came into view.
Frodo’s heart knocked against his ribs. He took a fresh grip on Marigold’s arm.

“We must go slowly,” he said softly.
“The ground is unstable. Look for a good-sized stick as soon as we reach the
forest. We can use it to test the trail as we proceed. Yesterday’s rain might
have weakened new areas of the trail, and we don’t want either one of us
crashing through.”

Marigold’s voice trembled. “Yes, Mr.
Frodo.”

Before they entered the stand of
trees, Frodo craned his neck to see as much of the Water as possible. No
pathetic object drifted on its smooth surface, not within sight, anyway. He
could not see clear to the shore, due to the steepness of the hill. Well, there
would be time to check that later, if their walk through the woods proved
fruitless.

“What are you looking at?” Marigold
asked him.

“Nothing,” Frodo lied. “Keep a step
or two behind me. Look round for a large stick.”

“Yes, sir.” But Marigold peered
anxiously ahead. Frodo thought only his grip on her arm kept her from rushing
blindly forward.

He found a suitable branch without
too much difficulty, and began rapping it smartly against the trail as they proceeded.
He looked about anxiously. The first hollow he and Sam had found was not too
far along the path. If he recalled correctly, it should lie just beneath those
large trees-

Marigold gave a little scream and
seized his arm. With a trembling hand, she pointed down the trail. Frodo’s
mouth went dry.

At a slight bend in the trail,
something shiny was lying in the path. Beside it lay a great hole in the
ground.

The next instant Marigold darted
forward. Frodo dropped his stick to seize her with both hands.

“It’s Sam!” she gasped. “It’s his.
I’ve seen it.” She strained towards the hole. “Sam!” she shrieked.

“Marigold, stop!”

Dragging against his grip, she
turned a desperate face towards him, her eyes filled with panic.

He gave her a little shake. “Miss
Marigold, stand still! Do as I say, or I shall send you straight back.”

She stared at him as if she didn’t
understand. All the color had drained from her face.

“You’ll only fall through the trail
yourself if you run forward, do you hear me? You must stay here!”

Marigold blinked. “Sam,” she
murmured.

“I shall go down to him,” said
Frodo. “What I need you to do is wait right here, and tell the rescue party
what happened. They should be along at any minute.” He shook her when she
continued to stare. “Do you understand me, Marigold?”

Her white lips moved. “Yes,” she
whispered.

“Good. Now, stay here. Sit on this
knot of tree roots, here off the path. Come along, quickly now.”

Frodo’s heart hammered in his chest,
but he had to get Marigold settled on her perch before he dared leave her. He
ground his teeth at the delay, and looked desperately at the hole in the path.
He found it ominous that there had been no reply to Marigold’s shout. Frodo
wished he might send her away, but couldn’t imagine how he could get her to go.
She and Sam had always been particularly close. His insides twisted with fear.

“Excellent. Now, sit right there
until I come back up. Don’t try to come ahead yourself, do you hear me?”

Marigold’s voice was tiny. “Yes, Mr.
Frodo.”

Settling the coil of rope upon his
shoulder, he stepped off the trail to the north side of the tree. He would be
safe enough if he kept to the thick coils of roots that snaked over the ground.
He pushed his way rapidly through saplings and shrubbery, until he was opposite
the tree next the hole. Though he didn’t look round, he was aware of Marigold
following his every movement.

He rounded the tree, and stepped
onto the thick roots at its base. He made one end of the rope fast about the
trunk, grasped the free end just beyond the knot, and let it slide through his
fingers as he edged out to the end of the thick root towards the trail.

The thing lying in the path was a
saw. Beyond and behind it, a jagged hole opened in the trail. Clutching his
rope, Frodo leant forward and called, “Sam?”

There was no response.

Frodo stepped from the fat root onto
the network of smaller ones that veined the trail. He instantly felt the bundle
sag under his weight. Clearly he was over the hollow area. He reached down and
pitched the little bow saw off the trail. If the crust gave in, he didn’t want
this falling through and hitting anyone. Holding tightly to the rope, he took
another step forward. The ground bent under his feet, but held. Leaning away
from the tree, Frodo could now see down the hole.

Sam was there. Only his legs were in
view; Frodo could not see beyond his waist. He was lying on his side, near the
west wall of the hollow. The handles of a couple of tools leant against the
wall near his feet. The hole in the path had opened just beyond where the wall
started. Apparently Sam had misjudged the start of the weak area by a distance
of no more than a foot or two. Frodo winced.

Frodo licked dry lips and leant
closer. Softly, he called, “Sam?”

A voice from down the trail startled
him. “Do you see him, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo looked over to see Marigold
standing near the base of her tree, head thrust forward, watching him.

“I’m… not certain,” he lied. “There’s
a bit of clothing down there that might be his. The ground is terribly
unstable. I’m going to break through just past these roots, and then lower
myself down and see if I can find him.”

“It’s like a cave, then?”

“Yes. All this area, from me to you,
is very treacherous. You must remain exactly where you are. I need to be able
to work without fearing for you, Miss Marigold. Please, I know it’s hard, but
do try to wait quietly.”

She chewed her lip. “You give a
shout if you see him.”

“I will indeed.”

Frodo watched, but she seemed to
have no intention of reseating herself. He put her from his mind, and focused
on the job of getting himself into the hole.

He’d have to break away more of the
surface. There wasn’t any other way to do it. He was grateful that Sam’s legs
faced him; they were less likely to be hurt by falling earth. On the other
hand, if Sam’s face were in view, perhaps Frodo would know that he was beyond a
rescue attempt. In that case, he need only work his way back to Miss Marigold,
and comfort her until the rescue party arrived.

Grimly, Frodo took a good grip on
the rope. He eased himself out another step. The crust buckled abruptly. Even
though he was expecting it, the fall was sharp and sudden. The rope held, but
his shins scraped painfully past the jagged rim of the hole before his grip on
the rope caught him up. He hissed, hanging on, and held still. He was suspended
perhaps eight feet above the hollow floor, his legs dangling in space and his
hands fully extended to grip the rope. He glanced down. The dirt had indeed
fallen close to Sam’s feet, but the largest chunks appeared to have missed him.

Slowly, Frodo began to work his way
down the rope. It was not as difficult as he had feared. Getting his hands past
the break in the trail was awkward, but once that was done, it was quite
simple. He walked his hands down a foot or two, checked the distance, and
dropped just beyond Sam’s feet.

Frodo now could clearly see a bulky
wrap over Sam’s right knee and thigh; clearly, this was the reason Sam had been
unable to climb back up. He'd been injured in the fall. Sam's upper body was in
shadow. Biting his lip, Frodo crept forward, noting the chill quality of the
soil. It wasn’t precisely wet, but it was very damp. Anxiously, he extended a
hand to touch Sam’s arm.

It was warm. Frodo closed his eyes
in relief. Tears jumped behind the closed lids. Sam was alive.

Blinking back his emotion, Frodo
continued his investigation. He was now close enough to see the slight
movements of Sam’s chest, and hear the light panting of someone in an uneasy
sleep. Frodo inched towards his head. “Sam,” he said softly. “It’s Frodo. Can
you hear me?”

Sam did not respond in any way.

Now beside him, Frodo could see that
the right arm was bound stiffly to Sam's side, his empty jacket sleeve acting
as a kind of sling to hold it against his body. The arm, too? Frodo crouched
near Sam’s head, and gently tipped up his face.

He almost cried out from dismay. Sam’s
cheeks had fallen in; his face was drawn with pain and privation. His lips had
split and cracked; the skin was swollen and brittle. He was covered with dirt,
and the left side of his face was caked with dried mud. If Frodo didn’t know
this to be Sam, he might not have recognized him.

Frodo groaned. Gently, he supported
the limp head to brush some of the mud away. “Sam? Can you speak?”

Sam shivered against Frodo’s hand.
His skin was hot. He gave little, restless jerks, as if he were consumed in a
fever dream.

And no wonder. Frodo’s feet were
chilled even from his short exposure to the damp earth. What Sam must have
suffered, to be lying here unprotected for three days!

“Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo whirled at the meek voice. He
rose and took two steps back, to look up out of the hole.

Marigold was there. He could see
only her head, straining forward to see. She bit her lip. “Did you find him?”

Frodo noticed the rope beside him
swaying slightly. She must have duplicated what he’d done-come around on the
roots of the trees, then crawled out on the biggest one near the hole, holding
the rope for support.

He could not be angry. Given the
circumstances, he was glad she was at hand. Gently he said, “Your brother is
alive, but he’s badly hurt. His leg and possibly his arm are broken.”

Marigold’s youthful face registered
her distress. “Is he awake?”

“Alas, no. He’s come down with
fever. We’ll need help getting him out of this hole. Something stiff we can lay
him upon, a crib of sorts, to help lift him out. Splints, bandages, anything
for securing hurt limbs. Blankets. Oh, and water,” he added, recalling Sam’s
pitiable face. “Anything that can ease him until we can get him home and begin
caring for him properly.”

Marigold had grown paler as Frodo
talked, and her eyes had grown wider. Now she nodded solemnly. “I understand,
Mr. Frodo. I’ll run and tell them.” She started to go, then turned back.
Quietly, she said, “This’ll be the saving of the Gaffer. I don’t think he
could’ve borne it if Sam had died within reach of us, and he’d done naught to
save him.”

“Get along, now,” Frodo said gently.
“Time is precious.”

“I’ll run the whole way!”

The curly head disappeared. The rope
jiggled, then grew still. Frodo could hear twigs snapping as young Marigold
worked her way back through the shrubbery beside the trail.

Frodo turned back to his wounded
companion. Sam twitched, whispering in his delirium. Frodo knelt again at his
side. Grief tore at his chest. Again he reached forward to cradle that restless
head. “Oh, Sam,” he breathed.

He sincerely hoped that the
Gaffer-that all of them-would be able to forgive themselves for so dreadfully
failing Sam. Because Frodo, holding Sam’s ravaged face in his hands, was by no
means certain he would live.

Continued in Part 10

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