8. Ill Tidings

Dr. Bolger knocked on the round brown door of the Burrowses smial. Almost immediately, it was answered by a very distraught Milo. The doctor had seen many grieving parents before, but to see a dear friend looking so exhausted and hopeless made his heart ache. "Afternoon, Milo," he said as cheerfully as he could.

Milo’s dull grey eyes brightened at the sight of him, and his weary face broke into a hopeful smile. "Dr. Bolger!" he exclaimed, holding the door open further. "At last! Here, come in." He shut the door behind the doctor.

Without even waiting to remove his cloak or gloves, Dr. Bolger hurried down the hall, following the sound of a child crying, in little Mosco’s room. "What ails young Mosco?" he asked as he and Milo walked.

"He’s been coughing for two days now," Milo answered worriedly. "We called for Dr. Bracegirdle, and she said that it was croup and that he shouldn’t get any worse. She gave us some wild cherry bark and thyme to make a tea for the cough, but they haven’t been working since this afternoon, and his coughing is getting worse."

"Has he had any colds recently?" asked Dr. Bolger, stopping in the hallway.

"He had a bit of a cold a few days ago," Milo replied, stopping as well. "A slight fever and a runny nose, is all. But it went away, the day before he began coughing."

Dr. Bolger nodded solemnly, and then gave Milo a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Don’t worry, my friend," he said as they continued to Mosco’s room. "The lad will be fine."

Inside the small room, Peony, her beautiful chestnut curls in an untidy braid, was stroking the forehead of five-year-old Mosco with a cool, damp cloth. The little boy’s eyes were closed, but tears ran down his cheeks and he whimpered every so often. He quieted a little when Peony whispered to him, but his cries were growing louder as his breathing quickened. With each shallow, gasping breath, a harsh, grating sound could be heard, and Milo saw a brief look of concern flash in Dr. Bolger’s eyes.

Peony looked up, hearing Dr. Bolger, Milo just behind him, enter the room, and her soft brown eyes filled with tears of relief. "Dr. Bolger!" she cried, folding the cloth on Mosco’s forehead and getting up. "I was beginning to fear you’d never come."

Dr. Bolger smiled reassuringly. "I’m sorry I was delayed," he said as he knelt down by the small bedside. "I had an emergency message from Mistress Goodbody, at the other end of town, you know. She went into labor early, but I’ve left my sister, Lilac, with her." He tried to keep up a cheerful conversation as he examined little Mosco. The boy had only a slight fever, though it seemed to be rising, and putting his ear against his chest, Dr. Bolger could hear a rattle there that told of heavy congestion in his lungs.

Peony stepped back, giving the doctor room, and Milo pulled her close, feeling her trembling in his arms. Normally, Peony was strong and fearless, able to cope with almost anything, but seeing her small son barely able to draw breath was a new and terrifying experience.

"Mosco-lad," whispered Dr. Bolger, rubbing his thumb along the bridge of the small boy’s nose. Mosco whimpered and his eyes fluttered, but did not open. Dr. Bolger brushed back the sweat-soaked auburn curls from his forehead and laid his hand there, gauging the temperature.

At last, Mosco’s eyes slowly opened a little, showing a glimmer of silver-grey beneath the dark lashes. "Mosco," said Dr. Bolger again. "Wake up. It’s Dr. Bolger. I’ve come to make you better."

Mosco’s eyes opened little more than halfway, bereft of their usual merry sparkle. "Dr. Bolger?" he repeated, his voice hoarse. He suddenly squeezed his eyes tightly shut and sucked in a shallow breath. "Make it stop!" he pleaded. "Make it stop, please!"

In Milo’s arms, Peony stifled a sob and buried her face in her husband’s shirt. Dr. Bolger swallowed against the lump in his throat. To see children suffering was the only thing that he could not ever get accustomed to as a healer. "Tell me where it hurts, Mosco," he said urgently, holding the boy's arms as he began to toss and turn. "I can’t make you better if I don’t know what hurts."

Tears ran down Mosco’s face again, and he moaned. "Stop," he begged again. "Make it stop!"

"Where, lad?" Dr. Bolger repeated, louder this time. "Where does it hurt?"

Mosco’s small hands reached up and touched the right side of his chest. "Here," he gasped, trying to keep back the cries of pain that threatened to break loose. "I’m g-going to…cough again…hurts w-when I…c-cough."

Dr. Bolger’s brow furrowed with concern, but he tried not to let it show in his voice. "All right, lad," he murmured comfortingly, stroking Mosco’s small cheek. "You must let yourself cough – even if it hurts, it will help you get better faster. Trust me, Mosco."

Mosco whimpered, curling up on his side and wrapping both small arms around his chest. He resisted a moment longer, then surrendered and let the coughing fit run its course. Peony and Milo came over and comforted him along with Dr. Bolger as the violent coughs wracked his small body, and at last he fell back, exhausted, against his pillows.

Peony gathered him into her arms and rocked him gently as tears ran down his face, and Dr. Bolger motioned for Milo to follow him to the doorway. The sound of Mosco’s harsh, rapid breaths could still be heard, and caused both of them to cringe.

"First of all," Dr. Bolger began, keeping his voice low, "Peony must leave with little Moro. We can’t risk so young a baby getting sick." Milo started a little at the abrupt and startling statement, and glanced at his wife, still holding Mosco gently in her arms.

"I agree," he said after a moment, nodding slowly. "She can stay with the Broadbelts, just down the lane." He was grateful that their friends from Bywater had moved to a small farm in Hobbiton a few months after they had. "But it shan’t be easy to convince her."

Dr. Bolger followed Milo’s gaze. "I think that when she realizes that it would be much more dangerous for a baby Moro’s age to get croup, she will agree, as well."

"So it is croup that Mosco has?" Milo asked, tearing his eyes away from Peony and his son to look at the doctor.

Dr. Bolger nodded. "Yes," he said. "But it is fast becoming severe, I’m afraid. His breathing is worsening, and though his fever is low now, it may rise with his coughing. Which brings me to another problem," he sighed heavily. "I believe that little Mosco may have cracked a rib or two from his coughing, which is the cause of his severe pain. We will have to wrap his ribs with a warm poultice soaked in some herbs for the pain. That way, he shan’t hurt so much when he coughs – which is vital for his recovery."

Milo nodded again, chewing on his lower lip with worry, and Dr. Bolger patted him reassuringly on the back. "Don’t be too troubled, Milo," said the doctor with a comforting smile. "Croup is common and easy to treat – Mosco will be fine." With one last pat of his friend’s shoulder, Dr. Bolger went over to Peony, with Milo, to explain the situation to her.

A sudden knock at the front door startled them. "I’ll get it," said Milo quickly, and hastened down the hall. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw Frodo standing at the doorstep, his nose and cheeks red from the cold, as the sun had now set.

"Hullo Milo," said Frodo with as bright a smile as he could manage, seeing the weary look on his cousin’s face. "I heard that little Mosco was ill, and I came to see what I could do to help."

Milo couldn’t help but return the smile. "Bless you, Frodo," he said sincerely, feeling guilty for the relief that flooded over him. He did not wish to trouble his young cousin, but in truth, he would be grateful for the extra help and the comfort of someone well known for Mosco, and he told Frodo so as opened the door wider and let his younger cousin inside.

"What ails him?" asked Frodo as Milo hung up his cloak on a peg in the hall.

"A severe case of croup," Milo answered with a shaky sigh. "And the poor lad’s cracked a few ribs with his coughing." He saw Frodo wince in sympathy for the ailing child, and suddenly felt a cold wave of fear come over him. For the first time since hearing the news, he truly gave thought to the fact that dear little Mosco had a potentially life-threatening malady.

Seeing his older cousin suddenly pale and fall silent, Frodo instinctively threw his arms around Milo and gave him a reassuring hug. "Mosco will be fine," he said confidently. "Dr. Bolger will see to that."

Milo blinked back the tears that threatened to ruin his composure, and returned the embrace fiercely, silently blessing his young cousin again for the comfort that small gesture brought. Regaining control over himself, he pulled away and smiled gratefully.

"Right, then," he said. "Perhaps you can help me convince Peony that she and Moro have to go stay with the Broadbelts until little Mosco is well." He led Frodo down the hall and into the sick child’s room, where Mosco lay in a fitful sleep on Peony’s lap.

Peony had tears shining on her cheeks, and her eyes remained focused on her small son as she absently stroked his auburn curls. Dr. Bolger sat in a chair facing the fireplace, staring at the flames as though seeking an answer to some perplexing question there.

"Peony," Milo called softly, startling both his wife and the doctor out of their reveries.

Dr. Bolger’s eyes widened in surprise, catching sight of Frodo in the doorway. "Frodo!" he exclaimed, trying to keep his voice low so as not to wake Mosco. "What are you doing here, lad?"

"I’d like to help, if I can," said Frodo, looking at Dr. Bolger, eyebrows raised in question.

The doctor smiled and nodded. "Thank you, lad," he said sincerely. "We shall need all the help we can get."

***

Back in Bag End, Merry was furiously pacing the floor of the sitting room in Bag End. "Why should Frodo go tend to Mosco while we have to stay here?" he said heatedly. "The Burrowses are our cousins, too!"

Pippin nodded in agreement, chewing on an apple, and Sam threw up his hands and turned from the window where he’d been looking out. "Mr. Merry," he said in exasperation. "Please, sit down. You’re going to wear a hole in the floor." Merry stopped, stared at him a moment, then reluctantly sat down on the sofa beside Pippin.

"Thank you," Sam sighed. "Mr. Frodo knows what ’e’s doin’. I’m sure he’ll come back if Mosco’s contagious, an’ even if he isn’t, Mr. Frodo ’ll send word. But worritin’ won’t make him come back any faster."

Merry folded his arms irritably. "But why couldn’t Pip and I come with him? What if he can’t send word? What if he gets ill before he can come back? What if…?"

"Mr. Merry!" Sam cut him off. "Please! Mr. Frodo’s fine. He’ll be back right soon."

They waited in silence, broken only by Merry’s muttered grumbling and Pippin’s chewing of his apple, for nearly a half an hour. Finally, Merry jumped up again. "He’s been gone long enough!" he exclaimed. "Why don’t we go see what’s happening at the Burrowses?"

"Merry," Pippin cautioned, for once the more sensible one of the two. "Frodo told us to stay here. He’ll be back soon, and then we can ask to go along with him if Mosco’s not contagious."

"And anyhow," Sam added, "I have t’ be back home, and Mr. Frodo knows that. He’ll be back soon."

Merry sighed heavily and joined Sam by the window. "I just can't bear being left behind," he muttered. "Doesn’t he think that Pip and I are worried about Mosco, too?" He thought about the cheerful, bouncy little boy, with his father’s curiosity and easy-going personality, and his mother’s honest, open smile. He remembered especially the night, last summer, when he’d been visiting the Broadbelts’ farm with Frodo, and how they’d stayed up late catching fireflies with Daisy, Dickon and little Mosco. For the first time since hearing the news, Merry felt cold fear creep over him that he might not get the chance to see his young cousin healthy again, and he rested his forehead on the windowpane, closing his eyes.

A hand on his shoulder startled him and he looked up into the gentle brown eyes of Sam. "I know, Mr. Merry," said Sam softly. "I’m worried ’bout little Mosco, too."

Merry looked out the window. "It’s just awful, waiting here uselessly, helplessly…" he trailed off with a shrug, unable to explain how he felt.

Sam smiled and squeezed Merry’s shoulder reassuringly. "I know," he said again. "I don’t like it no more than you. But we just must wait, and trust that Mr. Frodo knows what he’s doin’."

After a moment, Merry nodded, and Sam patted his shoulder. "How ’bout somethin’ to eat, Mr. Merry?" he suggested, hoping to raise the younger lad’s spirits. "It’s nigh on supper-time now."

Pippin perked up at the mention of food and hopped off the sofa. "I’m hungry!" he announced eagerly. "I haven’t eaten since…" he thought for a moment. "…Since lunchtime!" He gasped and clapped a hand to his cheek. "We forgot to have Afternoon Tea! I’ll have to speak to Frodo about this. We can’t go without Afternoon Tea…" He continued to chatter happily as he and Sam headed into the kitchen.

Merry looked longingly at the front door, but knew better than to try to sneak out. He didn’t wish to get Sam into trouble. The smell of mushroom soup began to drift through the air, and involuntarily, a grin spread over his face. He realized that he was quite hungry, and mushroom soup was always one of his favorite dishes.

Putting aside his worry for a while, he went into the kitchen to have supper with the Sam and Pippin.

About forty minutes later, supper was finished and still Frodo had not returned. Sam, Merry and Pippin sat around the table, each thoughtfully silent, waiting for the door to open. Even Sam was beginning to worry, and Pippin was sharing Merry’s growing frustration.

At last, there came a quick, loud knock at the door. All three jumped up to answer it, and to their surprise, Peony stood on the doorstep, her loose braid disheveled and her face weary, but her brown eyes brightening as she saw them. In her arms was two-month-old Moro: a small bundle of sandy curls covering a small, peacefully sleeping face, wrapped snugly in a thick white blanket. A pack lay on the doorstep at her feet. "Hullo, lads," she said with as much cheerfulness as she could muster.

"Where’s Frodo?" Merry asked quickly, cutting her off before she could say more.

"Frodo’s staying with poor little Mosco and Milo, and Dr. Bolger," said Peony, her smile fading a little. "I’m forced to go stay with the Broadbelts, as Mosco is contagious, and we can’t risk little Moro getting ill." She blinked back tears and shifted the bundle in her arms to a more comfortable position. "Frodo asked me to stop by here and tell you that he probably won’t return home tonight, so Merry and Pippin, you two may come and stay at the Broadbelts with me, if you like. I’m sure Daisy and Dickon would be pleased to see you."

"Of course, Peony!" Pippin answered eagerly. "It’s better than staying here, worrying. Come on, Mer, our packs are in Frodo’s room!" Merry hesitated a moment, but then nodded in agreement and allowed Pippin to pull him by the arm down the hall.

"What’s little Mosco ill with, if you don’t mind me askin’?" asked Sam as they waited for the two lads.

"It’s a dreadful case of croup," said Peony with a sigh, "and a few cracked ribs, with all his coughing, my poor little darling. He’s had croup before, when he was just a baby, but nowhere near this seriously."

"Croup," Sam repeated. "Me youngest sister, Marigold, had a bad case o’ croup once. But she was right as rain a few days later," he added quickly, hoping to keep Peony cheerful. He suddenly realized, as a gust of cold wind blew inside, that the hobbit-lady was still standing on the doorstep. "Oh, bless me!" he exclaimed. "I plumb forgot my manners…here, Miss Peony, come inside. It’s cold as winter out there!"

Peony smiled, and Sam shut the door behind her as she entered and adjusted little Moro’s blankets. "Thank you, Sam," she said. "This has been quite a cold Spring." An ackward silence settled over the two as they stood there, listening to Merry and Pippin noisily packing in Frodo’s room.

At last, Sam broke it. "How long d’you think Mr. Frodo ’ll be there?" he asked hesitantly.

Peony sighed. "I don’t know, Sam," she said. "Dr. Bolger says that Mosco should recover in less than a week – five days, at most." She looked sorrowful again for a moment, but pushing distressing thoughts aside for the present in an attempt to remain strong and positive, she smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. "Frodo’s such a dear, to come and help. And he’ll be a blessing there – I know poor Milo’s grateful to have him, and Mosco will feel better with someone else he knows and loves there. And I’m sure that Dr. Bolger appreciates the extra pair of hands…" She trailed off as Merry and Pippin returned, each with their warm cloaks on and packs hoisted over their shoulders.

"Ready," they chorused, although both Sam and Peony noticed that Merry was not quite as enthusiastic as Pippin.

"All right then," said Peony, as Sam opened the door and went out into the chill night air. "We’d best get a move on." She turned to Sam. "Frodo asked if you would be so kind as to lock the door and slip the key under the mat."

"’Course," Sam replied. "Good-bye, Miss Peony, an’ I hope little Mosco’s well soon. Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, have fun, and behave yourselves." He blushed a little, hoping that he was not being overbold.

"We will, Sam," Pippin promised, running back up the steps and suddenly giving the gardener a fierce hug. "G’bye." With a grin, he pulled away and went down again to wait at the front gate.

Merry also surprised Sam with a hug. "Tell us the instant you hear from Frodo," he said urgently. "And I’ll tell you if I hear anything, too."

"I will," Sam assured him with a smile.

Merry nodded, looking relieved, and picked up Peony’s pack from the doorstep. "Thank you, Sam. See you soon!" He went down to join Pippin and Peony at the gate. "Take care, Sam!" Peony called as they headed down the road. "Good-bye!"

Sam stood on the doorstep and waved until they were out of sight. Feeling a strange twinge of loneliness, he turned, and went back inside to turn off the lights before locking the door.

TBC...