Sam fic: "Bad Step" Part 21, rated PG
For those of you who were wondering when Frodo is ever going to get around to it... :-D
Frodo hurried down the hall in
something of a flutter. Behind him he heard the faint clink of dishes from the
dining room, and the light voices of the girls asking Marigold for an update on
Sam. Frodo left them behind, walking the opposite direction to the storage
rooms farther into the Hill, in search of a suitable piece of cloth.
Bilbo had been a great lover of
clothes. He had left behind a bountiful supply after he’d disappeared on his
last adventure. Frodo had distributed some of these to hobbits in need, but he
hadn’t the heart to give away all of them. There was just the slight
possibility that Bilbo might return someday, even though Frodo’s head knew
better.
Now his hopeful practice stood him
in good stead. He pushed open the door to the rearmost storage room. Two big
wardrobes stood amid a jumble of unused furniture, all of which partially
blocked a large closet that brimmed with Bilbo’s old clothes. Frodo maneuvered
his way to the closet, and began leafing through the garments.
It was a surprisingly emotional
exercise. Even with his mind on his task, Frodo couldn’t help but remember,
“This was the outfit Bilbo wore to our last party at Brandy Hall. This is what
he wore that time we went down to Tuckborough.” Frodo did his best to turn the
memories off, skipping over the richest outfits in search of the more rustic,
walking apparel.
Here. Bilbo had had an oilcloth made
in deep blue. It was such a nice cloth that he had hardly ever worn
it-certainly not for his regular walks. He might don it on occasion if he went
visiting on a cloudy day, when the weather was uncertain. Frodo pulled it out.
The material was fine, tightly woven, but supple. It would arrange nicely into
an icepack for Sam.
Frodo lifted out the oilcloth, then hesitated.
The garment was really more of a cloak, with a cape across the shoulders. Bilbo
looked quite the gentlehobbit when he wore it. Frodo smiled sadly. Bilbo
enjoyed looking fine. However… Bilbo was gone. Sam’s need took precedence over
Frodo’s remembrances. Besides, if Bilbo ever did return, he could have another
cloak made.
Decided, Frodo bundled the garment
over one arm and started for the door. Partway there, he halted. He could vividly
imagine the Gamgees protesting over such a fine article being ripped into
cloths to make an icepack. Never mind that the cloak would likely never be used
again; there was no point in causing additional distress when folk were already
upset.
A sewing box lay on a nearby table.
Frodo opened it and removed the shears. Laying the cloak flat upon a handy
press, he cut it right in half, about waist level. That left him with a sizable
piece of cloth that could not be identified as any specific garment. He bundled
the top part of the cloak into a corner for possible future use, then picked up
the entire sewing kit. He wasn’t sure just how to render the cloth into an
icepack, and he’d rather not guess, not when Ma obviously had something in
mind.
He carried his materials back to the
bedroom to discover that the quiet interval had passed. Ma and Dr. Brockhouse
were in deep discussion over Sam’s leg. The Gaffer was trying to spoon some
broth into Sam, and Marigold was adjusting one of the icepacks made from the
tea towels over Sam’s left ankle and knee.
Ma looked up when Frodo entered. Her
face cleared. “Ah, that’s lovely! Bring it here, would ye?”
Frodo surrendered the cloth. He
watched the Gaffer try to coax a spoonful into Sam’s mouth. Marigold was right.
Sam would swallow if the broth slipped in, but he clearly had no idea that
anyone was trying to feed him-or that anyone was around at all, come to that.
Frodo recalled the one clear word Sam had spoken to him back in the hollow. He
wondered if his young friend was perhaps closer to his mother at this time than
to any of the living people in the room. He put the idea from his mind.
“This is very fine cloth!” Ma
exclaimed, turning the piece of oilcloth about. “Are ye sure ye want to
sacrifice it?”
Frodo sighed with relief that he’d
already cut the cloth from the cloak. If Ma was hesitant to cut even a loose
bit of fabric, destroying Bilbo’s cloak might have been beyond her. “It was
serving no particular purpose,” Frodo said truthfully. “Please, use as much as
you need for Sam.”
“That I will. And ye brought the
sewing kit as well. Marigold, come here, dear. I’ll need your help.”
Dr. Brockhouse straightened from
examining Sam’s knee. “Very well. I’ll return in an hour or so with the tools I
need.”
Frodo recalled that Dr. Brockhouse
meant to bring some device for putting traction on Sam’s broken leg. He asked,
“Do you need assistance, Doctor?”
“Young Will has agreed to help me.” The
doctor worked his way to the door. “It will be awkward to carry, but we’ll
manage.”
“If I’m not needed here-“ Frodo
looked at Ma Twofoot, who briefly shook her head at him and went back to
instructing Marigold on how to construct an icepack. “I was hoping to borrow
Will as well. I’ve a shed door to clear from the hall, and I’m certain Dad will
want his door back.”
Dr. Brockhouse smiled. “Yes, that
will make it easier to get up and down the hall as well. Certainly, have Will take
the door down if you like. It’s on the way. It will take me some little time to
get my materials together in any case.”
Relieved, Frodo followed the doctor
down the hall. He found Will making himself useful in the kitchen, while the two
elder daughters cleared away the luncheon things. When Frodo briefly explained
his errand, Will was only too grateful to volunteer.
“You let me carry most of the
weight, Mr. Frodo,” he said eagerly. “All you need do is steer.”
Frodo suppressed a smile.
“Certainly, Will. It’s a pity the door is so awkward, else I’m sure you could
manage it very well by yourself.”
“Why, it’s hardly two steps to the
Row from here,” said Will stoutly, as May looked at him with shining eyes.
“We’ll have Dad’s door back up again in two shakes.”
“Splendid,” said Frodo. “Then you
can go on to the doctor’s from there.”
Will played his part with
exuberance; Frodo had never seen anyone lift a shed door with such flair. He
nodded and winked as he shuffled past the kitchen door, walking backwards
whilst Frodo held up the other end.
Dr. Brockhouse had already left the smial,
but he’d left the door and gate wide behind him. Will and Frodo had only to
step through, and maneuver the door into the lane.
The door was not terribly heavy, and
the distance was short. Still, it was an awkward object, and Frodo was glad
he’d asked for Will’s help. They were both somewhat blown by the time Will
flipped open the latch to the Twofoots’ yard, and backed in. Frodo began to
feel real appreciation for what the Gaffer and Daddy Twofoot had accomplished,
carrying that door as far as they had down the lane. The Gaffer might have his
complaints about his joints, but he still had the Gamgee pluck when called for.
The shed was easy enough to locate;
its open door yawned at them from across the yard. The hobbits set down their
burden just next to it, leaning it edge-on against the side. As Frodo puffed,
Will hunted round for the hardware to rehang the door. He emerged from the shed
holding a screwdriver, obviously found on a shelf inside. “It won’t take but a
moment, if I can find the screws,” he said, stooping as he searched the nearby
ground.
True, Will might have been showing
off for May, but he was a good-hearted lad as well, that was clear. Frodo smiled.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Will.”
The sturdy lad shrugged. “It’s
little enough to do, considering that Dad must still be away at the hollow,
working with the others.”
That put Frodo in mind of the group project
that was still going on. He checked the sky; it was mid-afternoon. What task
had Sam taken upon himself those four days ago, that he intended to mend a
trail that was taking a score of hobbits an afternoon to finish?
“Ah, here’s the last one.” Will
plucked something from the grass, and rose. “Looks like he let the screws fall
where they would. That’s not like the Gaffer.”
“He was acting in extreme haste,”
Frodo said in his defense.
“Oh, aye. I’m aware of it.” Will motioned
for Frodo to bring the shed door round. “The Gaffer don’t rattle easily. I
reckon this news about Sam knocked him all in a heap.”
Frodo remembered the Gaffer’s
emotional first reaction, when he didn’t know if Sam was alive or dead. It was
troubling, so see such a staunch individual so rattled. “Yes,” was all he answered.
Will instructed Frodo how to position
the door. Frodo braced it in place, as Will reached up and began driving the
long screws into the upper hinge.
“You know,” he said, twisting away,
“for a gentlehobbit, you’re quite handy.”
Frodo blinked. “Because I can lean
against a shed door while someone else does the work?”
Will chuckled. “Aye, that, too. No,
I was thinking about how you nipped into that hollow to see to Sam, and got him
bundled up against the chill. That were quick thinking. Sam surely needed the
help, from what I saw.”
Frodo felt uncomfortable about
accepting any praise. “Anyone would have done as much.”
“Aye. Can you picture Mr. Lotho
scurrying down that hole? The only way he’d have gone in is if he tripped over
his own feet-which is a likely enough possibility, considering Mr. Lotho.”
Frodo gave a grudging smile, but did
not respond. Although the Sackville-Bagginses were not his favorite relations,
he wasn’t going to abuse Lotho just because he was a bit of a useless dandy.
Will finished attaching the
hardware, then experimentally swung the door to and fro. “Good as new,” he
announced. He brushed the dirt from his palms and clothes. “Will you be needing
anything else, Mr. Baggins, or shall I run down to the doctor’s place?”
“Will, you’ve done more than your
share already, and I’m grateful. If you wish to assist Dr. Brockhouse, that
would be very kind.”
“I’m off, then. Oh, you can tell May
I brung the soiled clothes down by the wash barrel. No sense in dirtying her
petticoats when I were walking up and down the Hill anyway.”
Frodo suppressed a smile. “I’ll tell
her.”
Will saluted. “See you soon. Good
afternoon, sir.” He bounced away down the path, unfatigued by his labors-or
perhaps sustained by May’s smiles. Frodo didn’t care to venture a guess as to
which was the ruling influence.
For himself, Frodo felt weary to his
bones. He walked slowly up the Hill, pausing only to peer into the Gamgees’
back yard as he passed. The big tub of water loomed beside a heap of dirty
laundry, including Frodo’s soiled outfit and the blankets they’d used to wrap
around Sam. There was no sign of May yet; perhaps she was busy discussing
Will’s merits with her sister. He was nearly to the gate when he caught
movement out of the tail of his eye; May, taking the garden path towards her
home, carried a bundle in her arms. She looked rather sad, now that she wasn’t
preening for Will’s benefit. Solemn as her attitude was, Frodo was glad to have
seen it; it did much to restore a more charitable feeling towards her, and
relieve him of the impression that Will Bunce might do better by seeking a more
sensible, if less pretty, lass.
The smial was quiet when Frodo
stepped into the front door. After all the flurry of the morning, it seemed
almost ominous, the kind of intense quiet that pervades a home when someone is
ill. Frodo padded softly down the hall.
Daisy was missing from the kitchen.
Foodstuffs were laid ready upon the counter for the evening meal, but all the
rest was tidy as a pin. The bitter tang of willow bark tea hung in the air,
mixing uneasily with the more savory flavors of the past luncheon. Frodo
proceeded on, noting the dirt upon the floor that they’d all tracked in from
the hollow. He must sweep up directly. He continued to the bedroom door, the
low murmur of voices informing him of the occupants before he turned the
corner.
Inside, all was quiet industry. Ma Twofoot
was showing Marigold how to position the newly sewn icepack under Sam’s injured
shoulder. Just inside the door, the Gaffer was having a quiet but intense
conversation with Daisy.
“…whatever she’ll need,” he said,
speaking low. “You’ll know what that is, better’n me.” He broke off when he saw
Frodo enter the room.
“Pray don’t allow me to interrupt,”
he said.
“No, sir, no interruption. I was
just telling Daisy here to fetch those of Marigold’s things as she might need
tonight.”
“I know what to bring, Gaffer.”
Daisy made a curtsey to the air somewhere between Frodo and her da, then
slipped from the room. Doubtless after the bathing incident she felt a little
awkward around Frodo-as he did around her. Apart from that, Frodo was pleased
to hear that Marigold was staying. Her passion for caring for her brother
warmed Frodo’s heart. It would be cruel to send her away.
Frodo approached the bed. “How is he?”
The Gaffer walked with him. “He took
a bit of broth. It seems to have settled him a mite.”
“The cold cloths are helping as
well.” Ma tucked the pillowslip round the icepack and arm to support Sam’s
shoulder. “Marigold, whyn’t you freshen that cloth on his brow? Now, don’t
fret, Hamfast. The fever’s brought on by his hurts and lack of food and water.
But all that’s being corrected. I’d be surprised if he didn’t come to his
senses later tonight, or perhaps tomorrow morning.”
Frodo’s mood lightened instantly. “Really?”
“Oh, yes.” Ma moved aside, to let
Marigold spread a fresh cloth upon Sam’s brow. “He’s resting better already;
can’t ye see it?”
Frodo studied Sam. It was still a
shock to see the young hobbit's ravaged face. However, Frodo thought perhaps
Sam looked a little less restless, although it was clear he was deeply
exhausted. Frodo thanked his stars that he had experienced healers on hand.
Left to himself, he’d no more know how to care for Sam than he would the more
exotic plants in the garden; he had his limits, although it was always humbling
to run into them.
Ma smiled at him, interrupting his
thoughts. “Look here, Mr. Baggins.”
He noticed she was pointing out a
new blue icepack on Sam’s knee. It was certainly more attractive than the tea
towels. Because of Bilbo’s taste in clothes, Sam likely had the most
eye-catching icepacks in the Shire. Frodo smiled fondly.
“They hold in the water very
well,” Ma continued. “We’ve just the two so far, for his knee and shoulder. I’ll
make up a smaller one, ankle-sized. Then we can get all the icing done for one
side at a go.”
Frodo considered the floppy blue
bag. “It looks rather deflated.”
“Aye, we could use more ice. The
heat of those swollen joints just melts it away.”
Frodo nodded. “I’ll bring more right
away.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baggins. Don’t
expect you’ll have to run to the cellar all night long. These first
applications always melt the ice the fastest. It will slow down as the swelling
recedes.”
“Please, Mistress Twofoot, don’t
trouble yourself. It’s no bother at all for me to visit the cold room. I rather
like having something useful to do.”
“You’ve been of use, young master, never
fear! Now, Hamfast, you weren’t by when I showed Marigold how to pack the ice
round the shoulder. If you’ll come here by me…”
Frodo left Ma instructing the Gamgees
as to the care of their wounded son and brother. He padded down the hall,
rather agitated. Sam might regain consciousness tonight! Would that it were so!
Excited, but determined to be calm, Frodo hurried towards the cellar.
Continued in Part 22
For a complete list of entries, see the Bad Step chapter listing.
Frodo hurried down the hall in
something of a flutter. Behind him he heard the faint clink of dishes from the
dining room, and the light voices of the girls asking Marigold for an update on
Sam. Frodo left them behind, walking the opposite direction to the storage
rooms farther into the Hill, in search of a suitable piece of cloth.
Bilbo had been a great lover of
clothes. He had left behind a bountiful supply after he’d disappeared on his
last adventure. Frodo had distributed some of these to hobbits in need, but he
hadn’t the heart to give away all of them. There was just the slight
possibility that Bilbo might return someday, even though Frodo’s head knew
better.
Now his hopeful practice stood him
in good stead. He pushed open the door to the rearmost storage room. Two big
wardrobes stood amid a jumble of unused furniture, all of which partially
blocked a large closet that brimmed with Bilbo’s old clothes. Frodo maneuvered
his way to the closet, and began leafing through the garments.
It was a surprisingly emotional
exercise. Even with his mind on his task, Frodo couldn’t help but remember,
“This was the outfit Bilbo wore to our last party at Brandy Hall. This is what
he wore that time we went down to Tuckborough.” Frodo did his best to turn the
memories off, skipping over the richest outfits in search of the more rustic,
walking apparel.
Here. Bilbo had had an oilcloth made
in deep blue. It was such a nice cloth that he had hardly ever worn
it-certainly not for his regular walks. He might don it on occasion if he went
visiting on a cloudy day, when the weather was uncertain. Frodo pulled it out.
The material was fine, tightly woven, but supple. It would arrange nicely into
an icepack for Sam.
Frodo lifted out the oilcloth, then hesitated.
The garment was really more of a cloak, with a cape across the shoulders. Bilbo
looked quite the gentlehobbit when he wore it. Frodo smiled sadly. Bilbo
enjoyed looking fine. However… Bilbo was gone. Sam’s need took precedence over
Frodo’s remembrances. Besides, if Bilbo ever did return, he could have another
cloak made.
Decided, Frodo bundled the garment
over one arm and started for the door. Partway there, he halted. He could vividly
imagine the Gamgees protesting over such a fine article being ripped into
cloths to make an icepack. Never mind that the cloak would likely never be used
again; there was no point in causing additional distress when folk were already
upset.
A sewing box lay on a nearby table.
Frodo opened it and removed the shears. Laying the cloak flat upon a handy
press, he cut it right in half, about waist level. That left him with a sizable
piece of cloth that could not be identified as any specific garment. He bundled
the top part of the cloak into a corner for possible future use, then picked up
the entire sewing kit. He wasn’t sure just how to render the cloth into an
icepack, and he’d rather not guess, not when Ma obviously had something in
mind.
He carried his materials back to the
bedroom to discover that the quiet interval had passed. Ma and Dr. Brockhouse
were in deep discussion over Sam’s leg. The Gaffer was trying to spoon some
broth into Sam, and Marigold was adjusting one of the icepacks made from the
tea towels over Sam’s left ankle and knee.
Ma looked up when Frodo entered. Her
face cleared. “Ah, that’s lovely! Bring it here, would ye?”
Frodo surrendered the cloth. He
watched the Gaffer try to coax a spoonful into Sam’s mouth. Marigold was right.
Sam would swallow if the broth slipped in, but he clearly had no idea that
anyone was trying to feed him-or that anyone was around at all, come to that.
Frodo recalled the one clear word Sam had spoken to him back in the hollow. He
wondered if his young friend was perhaps closer to his mother at this time than
to any of the living people in the room. He put the idea from his mind.
“This is very fine cloth!” Ma
exclaimed, turning the piece of oilcloth about. “Are ye sure ye want to
sacrifice it?”
Frodo sighed with relief that he’d
already cut the cloth from the cloak. If Ma was hesitant to cut even a loose
bit of fabric, destroying Bilbo’s cloak might have been beyond her. “It was
serving no particular purpose,” Frodo said truthfully. “Please, use as much as
you need for Sam.”
“That I will. And ye brought the
sewing kit as well. Marigold, come here, dear. I’ll need your help.”
Dr. Brockhouse straightened from
examining Sam’s knee. “Very well. I’ll return in an hour or so with the tools I
need.”
Frodo recalled that Dr. Brockhouse
meant to bring some device for putting traction on Sam’s broken leg. He asked,
“Do you need assistance, Doctor?”
“Young Will has agreed to help me.” The
doctor worked his way to the door. “It will be awkward to carry, but we’ll
manage.”
“If I’m not needed here-“ Frodo
looked at Ma Twofoot, who briefly shook her head at him and went back to
instructing Marigold on how to construct an icepack. “I was hoping to borrow
Will as well. I’ve a shed door to clear from the hall, and I’m certain Dad will
want his door back.”
Dr. Brockhouse smiled. “Yes, that
will make it easier to get up and down the hall as well. Certainly, have Will take
the door down if you like. It’s on the way. It will take me some little time to
get my materials together in any case.”
Relieved, Frodo followed the doctor
down the hall. He found Will making himself useful in the kitchen, while the two
elder daughters cleared away the luncheon things. When Frodo briefly explained
his errand, Will was only too grateful to volunteer.
“You let me carry most of the
weight, Mr. Frodo,” he said eagerly. “All you need do is steer.”
Frodo suppressed a smile.
“Certainly, Will. It’s a pity the door is so awkward, else I’m sure you could
manage it very well by yourself.”
“Why, it’s hardly two steps to the
Row from here,” said Will stoutly, as May looked at him with shining eyes.
“We’ll have Dad’s door back up again in two shakes.”
“Splendid,” said Frodo. “Then you
can go on to the doctor’s from there.”
Will played his part with
exuberance; Frodo had never seen anyone lift a shed door with such flair. He
nodded and winked as he shuffled past the kitchen door, walking backwards
whilst Frodo held up the other end.
Dr. Brockhouse had already left the smial,
but he’d left the door and gate wide behind him. Will and Frodo had only to
step through, and maneuver the door into the lane.
The door was not terribly heavy, and
the distance was short. Still, it was an awkward object, and Frodo was glad
he’d asked for Will’s help. They were both somewhat blown by the time Will
flipped open the latch to the Twofoots’ yard, and backed in. Frodo began to
feel real appreciation for what the Gaffer and Daddy Twofoot had accomplished,
carrying that door as far as they had down the lane. The Gaffer might have his
complaints about his joints, but he still had the Gamgee pluck when called for.
The shed was easy enough to locate;
its open door yawned at them from across the yard. The hobbits set down their
burden just next to it, leaning it edge-on against the side. As Frodo puffed,
Will hunted round for the hardware to rehang the door. He emerged from the shed
holding a screwdriver, obviously found on a shelf inside. “It won’t take but a
moment, if I can find the screws,” he said, stooping as he searched the nearby
ground.
True, Will might have been showing
off for May, but he was a good-hearted lad as well, that was clear. Frodo smiled.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Will.”
The sturdy lad shrugged. “It’s
little enough to do, considering that Dad must still be away at the hollow,
working with the others.”
That put Frodo in mind of the group project
that was still going on. He checked the sky; it was mid-afternoon. What task
had Sam taken upon himself those four days ago, that he intended to mend a
trail that was taking a score of hobbits an afternoon to finish?
“Ah, here’s the last one.” Will
plucked something from the grass, and rose. “Looks like he let the screws fall
where they would. That’s not like the Gaffer.”
“He was acting in extreme haste,”
Frodo said in his defense.
“Oh, aye. I’m aware of it.” Will motioned
for Frodo to bring the shed door round. “The Gaffer don’t rattle easily. I
reckon this news about Sam knocked him all in a heap.”
Frodo remembered the Gaffer’s
emotional first reaction, when he didn’t know if Sam was alive or dead. It was
troubling, so see such a staunch individual so rattled. “Yes,” was all he answered.
Will instructed Frodo how to position
the door. Frodo braced it in place, as Will reached up and began driving the
long screws into the upper hinge.
“You know,” he said, twisting away,
“for a gentlehobbit, you’re quite handy.”
Frodo blinked. “Because I can lean
against a shed door while someone else does the work?”
Will chuckled. “Aye, that, too. No,
I was thinking about how you nipped into that hollow to see to Sam, and got him
bundled up against the chill. That were quick thinking. Sam surely needed the
help, from what I saw.”
Frodo felt uncomfortable about
accepting any praise. “Anyone would have done as much.”
“Aye. Can you picture Mr. Lotho
scurrying down that hole? The only way he’d have gone in is if he tripped over
his own feet-which is a likely enough possibility, considering Mr. Lotho.”
Frodo gave a grudging smile, but did
not respond. Although the Sackville-Bagginses were not his favorite relations,
he wasn’t going to abuse Lotho just because he was a bit of a useless dandy.
Will finished attaching the
hardware, then experimentally swung the door to and fro. “Good as new,” he
announced. He brushed the dirt from his palms and clothes. “Will you be needing
anything else, Mr. Baggins, or shall I run down to the doctor’s place?”
“Will, you’ve done more than your
share already, and I’m grateful. If you wish to assist Dr. Brockhouse, that
would be very kind.”
“I’m off, then. Oh, you can tell May
I brung the soiled clothes down by the wash barrel. No sense in dirtying her
petticoats when I were walking up and down the Hill anyway.”
Frodo suppressed a smile. “I’ll tell
her.”
Will saluted. “See you soon. Good
afternoon, sir.” He bounced away down the path, unfatigued by his labors-or
perhaps sustained by May’s smiles. Frodo didn’t care to venture a guess as to
which was the ruling influence.
For himself, Frodo felt weary to his
bones. He walked slowly up the Hill, pausing only to peer into the Gamgees’
back yard as he passed. The big tub of water loomed beside a heap of dirty
laundry, including Frodo’s soiled outfit and the blankets they’d used to wrap
around Sam. There was no sign of May yet; perhaps she was busy discussing
Will’s merits with her sister. He was nearly to the gate when he caught
movement out of the tail of his eye; May, taking the garden path towards her
home, carried a bundle in her arms. She looked rather sad, now that she wasn’t
preening for Will’s benefit. Solemn as her attitude was, Frodo was glad to have
seen it; it did much to restore a more charitable feeling towards her, and
relieve him of the impression that Will Bunce might do better by seeking a more
sensible, if less pretty, lass.
The smial was quiet when Frodo
stepped into the front door. After all the flurry of the morning, it seemed
almost ominous, the kind of intense quiet that pervades a home when someone is
ill. Frodo padded softly down the hall.
Daisy was missing from the kitchen.
Foodstuffs were laid ready upon the counter for the evening meal, but all the
rest was tidy as a pin. The bitter tang of willow bark tea hung in the air,
mixing uneasily with the more savory flavors of the past luncheon. Frodo
proceeded on, noting the dirt upon the floor that they’d all tracked in from
the hollow. He must sweep up directly. He continued to the bedroom door, the
low murmur of voices informing him of the occupants before he turned the
corner.
Inside, all was quiet industry. Ma Twofoot
was showing Marigold how to position the newly sewn icepack under Sam’s injured
shoulder. Just inside the door, the Gaffer was having a quiet but intense
conversation with Daisy.
“…whatever she’ll need,” he said,
speaking low. “You’ll know what that is, better’n me.” He broke off when he saw
Frodo enter the room.
“Pray don’t allow me to interrupt,”
he said.
“No, sir, no interruption. I was
just telling Daisy here to fetch those of Marigold’s things as she might need
tonight.”
“I know what to bring, Gaffer.”
Daisy made a curtsey to the air somewhere between Frodo and her da, then
slipped from the room. Doubtless after the bathing incident she felt a little
awkward around Frodo-as he did around her. Apart from that, Frodo was pleased
to hear that Marigold was staying. Her passion for caring for her brother
warmed Frodo’s heart. It would be cruel to send her away.
Frodo approached the bed. “How is he?”
The Gaffer walked with him. “He took
a bit of broth. It seems to have settled him a mite.”
“The cold cloths are helping as
well.” Ma tucked the pillowslip round the icepack and arm to support Sam’s
shoulder. “Marigold, whyn’t you freshen that cloth on his brow? Now, don’t
fret, Hamfast. The fever’s brought on by his hurts and lack of food and water.
But all that’s being corrected. I’d be surprised if he didn’t come to his
senses later tonight, or perhaps tomorrow morning.”
Frodo’s mood lightened instantly. “Really?”
“Oh, yes.” Ma moved aside, to let
Marigold spread a fresh cloth upon Sam’s brow. “He’s resting better already;
can’t ye see it?”
Frodo studied Sam. It was still a
shock to see the young hobbit's ravaged face. However, Frodo thought perhaps
Sam looked a little less restless, although it was clear he was deeply
exhausted. Frodo thanked his stars that he had experienced healers on hand.
Left to himself, he’d no more know how to care for Sam than he would the more
exotic plants in the garden; he had his limits, although it was always humbling
to run into them.
Ma smiled at him, interrupting his
thoughts. “Look here, Mr. Baggins.”
He noticed she was pointing out a
new blue icepack on Sam’s knee. It was certainly more attractive than the tea
towels. Because of Bilbo’s taste in clothes, Sam likely had the most
eye-catching icepacks in the Shire. Frodo smiled fondly.
“They hold in the water very
well,” Ma continued. “We’ve just the two so far, for his knee and shoulder. I’ll
make up a smaller one, ankle-sized. Then we can get all the icing done for one
side at a go.”
Frodo considered the floppy blue
bag. “It looks rather deflated.”
“Aye, we could use more ice. The
heat of those swollen joints just melts it away.”
Frodo nodded. “I’ll bring more right
away.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baggins. Don’t
expect you’ll have to run to the cellar all night long. These first
applications always melt the ice the fastest. It will slow down as the swelling
recedes.”
“Please, Mistress Twofoot, don’t
trouble yourself. It’s no bother at all for me to visit the cold room. I rather
like having something useful to do.”
“You’ve been of use, young master, never
fear! Now, Hamfast, you weren’t by when I showed Marigold how to pack the ice
round the shoulder. If you’ll come here by me…”
Frodo left Ma instructing the Gamgees
as to the care of their wounded son and brother. He padded down the hall,
rather agitated. Sam might regain consciousness tonight! Would that it were so!
Excited, but determined to be calm, Frodo hurried towards the cellar.
Continued in Part 22
For a complete list of entries, see the Bad Step chapter listing.