Crate Rest

“It’s always nice to do business with you, Mr. Baggins.  We Bree hobbits adore your wife’s jam very much.  Raspberry, blueberry, we like all kinds of flavors.  And it’s not rare for humans ask for them, too.  Some even have become my regular customers.”

Drogo smiled a little.  His chest swelled with pride every time someone praised Primula’s homemade jam.  Her jam had been most sought after in Crickhollow, daring him to convince his wife to expand their selling.  Then it took merely a year to steal everybody’s tastebuds in Buckland, Bywater, Hobbiton, and the Southfarthing, and eventually the whole Shire knew about the delicious jams through word of mouth. Good food news traveled fast in the Shire. So it was in that way that jars of Primula Baggins’s Delight finally made it up to Bree.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Rosebush.  Primula and I have always appreciated your help in selling the jam here.”

The middle-aged lady, Kitty Rosebush laughed crisply and waved her hand dismissively. “Who wouldn’t want to do that?  I guess everyone here envies me.”  She grinned from ear to ear, and swept her head to the left and right.  “But I thought you were coming with Frodo, Mr. Baggins.  But you didn’t bring him to visit me.  How’s he been doing?”

Drogo’s heart skipped a beat at Mrs. Rosebush’s statement and he whirled his head, staring dismally at an empty pathway to the gate.  He had asked Frodo to wait there as he took a little time to drop by Mrs. Rosebush’s smial to greet her as they were visiting Bree.  Drogo had not known it had needed more than a little time to talk to Kitty, but he never thought Frodo would not abide by his words like this.

“But he was here!”  gasped Drogo, as he half dashed to the street.  He turned his head both sides in panicked gesture and his voice rose, mixed with tears.

“Fro – do!”  Drogo shouted out the name over and over.

~  *  ~

Humming noises and sometimes loud hollers enticed Frodo to a crowd in the midst of the Bree market.  He had been dead bored standing still by the gate of his father’s friend’s house, and finally decided to wander.

At first Frodo tried to enjoy the colorful flowers in the garden, simply enjoying them knowing that his father would not be too happy if he picked them.  But soon merely watching without actually doing anything made the young hobbit feel drowsy.  He had been sitting down on the ground with his legs folded in front of him in the mean time.  Leaning against the half-moldy wooden fence, he began to nod off.

But boredom was not what he expected when screaming in joy over his father’s offer to come along to Bree with him this time.  Frodo had always relished the opportunities to go anywhere.  And to Bree for him meant he got to browse the market, watch all the festivities there, while devouring a large soft cluster of cotton candy.

And this time the market sounded even more exhilarating.  Frodo sneaked closer to the milling humans and hobbits, hearing cheers and jeers every once in a while, and sometimes handclaps, too.

Unfortunately those people were far taller than him, a wee hobbit of barely five summers old.  Frodo scratched his head, looking around, and a jovial smile blossomed on his rosy lips.  His eyes looked intense at the gaps between the humans’ long legs and finally with great determination, the child hobbit marched towards the circle and after some shoulder bumping against those beefy thighs and unrelenting bodies of hobbits, Frodo could catch a glimpse of the show.  He stopped short.  His mouth gaped slowly.

That’s startling!

Amidst what small remaining of the land stood a bulky, dark-skinned man.  Between his teeth hung a length of thick rope whose other end looped around a big ball of cast iron.  The iron ball was hanging several inches above the ground.  Frodo was mesmerized at the mean-looking man’s strength.

“Now!”

Frodo almost jumped at the bellowing voice of another human standing a tad behind the first one.  “Watch and watch closely!  The Easterling will start swinging the ball around.  Make room or you will get the feel of it a bit!”  The man laughed mischievously.

Frodo never saw what was coming; men, women, hobbits, all moved back simultaneously.

Except for him.

A large, iron-heavy foot clad in thick, wooden-healed boots landed on his small-boned toes.  A heart-breaking, gut-wrenching wail tore out of Frodo’s mouth before he was slammed hard on his back.  His eyes widened in terror before retreating themselves, squeezed shut in nausea.  What worsened everything was that the man unintentionally stepped on his foot also looked too stunned to immediately lift his foot from Frodo’s.  He only stepped back half a minute later and then finally rushed to Frodo’s aid.

“Gods!  Little one, are you hurt much?”

Frodo clamped his mouth with his hand, afraid that he would heave at once.  He looked up dazedly at the man and started to drag himself away.  The wounded foot was limp and looked as though it were boneless.  Frodo shook his head weakly but regretted having done so for the world seemed to be spinning around now.  He let out a soft whimper as the pain became more unbearable and darkness threatened to overwhelm him.  Soon his body was flat on the ground and his consciousness left him.

Frodo was too far out of it to be aware of the hubbub he was creating, how it was he now that was the main attraction at market day.  Shouts and remarks of surprise and pity came from all directions.  Many hands reached out, giving tender massage to Frodo’s injured body parts.

“Poor little creature.”

“Oh, this must hurt terribly!”

“Yes.  Look at his poor toes, so red and swollen.”

“Are they broken?”

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.”  All was quiet when a low voice greeted from behind.  Wordlessly, those humans and halflings moved aside for the tall figure to approach Frodo.  They knew he was one of those rangers, the one called Strider.  The crowds also knew better than to make him upset.  Besides that, it was rumored that this foul-looking man was an adept healer.  He must know what to do with the wounded halfling.  Strider growled softly as he lifted Frodo’s foot a little.

“Yes, there are some fractures in each of the toes.  Whoever has the heart to harm a much smaller being like this…”

“Forgive me, Strider!”  Someone shouted in a voice full of regret.  “I didn’t see him.  And I never thought there was someone standing right behind me!”

Strider looked around, half-ignoring the man.

“That’s all right,” he snapped.  “He will be healed.  Fortunately he is still very young.  His bones will mend more quickly than those of a mature man.”  Strider stood and looked intently to all and each face.  “But I need a place where I can treat him more thoroughly.  I have just arrived today.”

“Just come to my place.”  A Bree hobbit stepped forward.  “My name is Hagan and my farm is a little on the outskirt of Bree town, just before Bree Hill.  So it won’t be too far when someone seeks this little one.”  Strider nodded and shook Hagan’s extended hand.

“Very well, Mr. Hagan.  Besides, I think a farmhouse will be more peaceful than anywhere in town.”

Strider adjusted his backpack, bent down and scooped up Frodo’s limp body, taking care not to bump the halfling’s swollen toes.

“All right, Farmer Hagan.  After you, please.”

~  *  ~

Strider carried Frodo effortlessly through the door of Farmer Hagan’s house, the halfling weighing almost next to nothing.  He was not awake during the trip to this simple-looking adobe hut. The house was quite warm inside with a small hearth wedged in the corner giving light to the previously dark sitting room.

Farmer Hagan was sheepish as he elaborated to Strider that he lived alone, while pulling the curtains open.  No wife, no child.  So he shut the house up every time he went out.

“Come, come.”  He led Strider through the hall.  “The spare room is over there,” nodded Farmer Hagan.

Strider was pleased to see that the room was quite clean.  The linen covering the mattress was spotless and invitingly cool when the ranger stroked it with the back of his hand a moment before he laid Frodo down onto the bed.  The small fireplace would easily make up for the coolness, though, for the comfort of their minute patient.  Strider straightened and grinned to the farmer.

“Your home is much better than my own dwelling or even the rooms in the inns.”

Farmer Hagan blushed again and busied himself smoothing the coverlet over Frodo’s still form.  As if slapped awake, Strider was suddenly reminded of his intention being there in the first place.

“No, no.  Do not cover him yet.  We still have to tend to the injury.”  The soft mattress dipped slightly as he seated himself beside Frodo.  Feeling the halfling’s flushed cheek, Strider’s brow knitted.

“He’s got a fever, just as I thought.  It usually happens when you hurt your body.  Poor hobbit.  Wonder what his name is and if someone goes seeking him as we speak.”

“Strider, what should we do with his toes?  I’d wrap them in a bandage were he my dog.  Are we going to do the same with him?”

The ranger put his attention to the rather swollen and purplish toes, squeezing them gently.  Frodo whimpered.

“Like I said before, his bones will recover, rejoining much faster than yours or mine since he’s practically a young one.  But I will rub some salve on his feet and give the toes some massage to align the bones.”  Strider reached back to his sack and fumbling for a jar of salve, did what he had told the farmer he would do. .

“I will also have him drink this juice.”  Strider’s hand extended to give the farmer a good look of a smallish glass bottle filled with light cream colored liquid.

“This is very good to strengthen his bones and thus help him recover more swiftly.  But most importantly, he should stay in bed and not use his wounded feet to walk for several days.”

Farmer Hagan looked pensive.

“That’s what I usually do if my dogs hurt their legs, too, keeping them days, sometimes, week, in their crates.  But instead of bed rest for us hobbits and men, I’d call it crate rest for the dogs.”  He chuckled now, amused by his own jest, but profoundly relieved at the ranger’s tactful act and the fact that the wee hobbit would perfectly heal.

The farmer circled around the bed to get to where Strider was sitting, giving a hand to tilt Frodo’s head up and part the hobbit’s lips while the man trickled some drops of the liquid into Frodo’s mouth.  Hagan took a deep breath before lowering Frodo back onto the pillow and dabbed the corners of the lips with the cuff of his shirt.

After a brief moment Hagan turned to Strider.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Strider?  I think it’s safe now to leave him sleep for a while.”  Strider got to his feet.

“Thank you, Farmer Hagan, but I need to find the halfling’s kin.  I’m sure someone is being panicked now to find he’s missing.  I hope his parents, or whoever it is responsible for him, is still in the market.  In the mean time, please make sure to not leave the lad alone.”

Farmer Hagan could not agree more to that.  Still, a slight disappointment shadowed his gentle face as he watched Strider marched out of his house in firm determination.

~  *  ~

Frodo shivered as his body detected warmth slowly seeping out of the room when the fire began to dim.  He unconsciously pulled at the cover he was tucked in, but then his eyes flew open and his mind spun wildly as recollections bit by bit gathered up.  How can he be in such a comfy bed?  Wasn’t he injured just now, and foul dirt was all he had to lie upon?

Frodo lifted his blanket and looked down at his sore foot.  It felt stiff but much, much better than it previously did, cold and unbearable.  He pulled himself up and rested against the headboard, glancing around.

The hobbit could almost felt the presence of hobbits here.  Could this smial belong to them?  It most probably was.  The sizes of the bed, chairs and fireplace told him all.  But Frodo did not see anyone in the room and that made him feel uneasy.  What if they meant him harm, or the other way around, what if his being here would trouble them somehow?

Frodo decided he should leave at once.  He had no idea where he was, and that was bad enough already.  Flapping the cover open, Frodo draped his legs to the side, and jumped down.

And a squeal was wrenched out of his mouth.

Frodo crumpled on the floor, his hands squeezing his fractured toes tightly.  Oh, it hurts so much!  Tears ran down freely as he shrieked and screeched.  And panic started to fill his chest.  There was no way he could flee from this room in such a condition.

Then what he dreaded most happened – someone slammed the door open!

“Frodo!”  Drogo rushed inside.  “I thought you were fine!  They told me you were fine.”  He slid down onto his knees before his son.

“Frodo, speak to me!”  Drogo shook Frodo’s shoulder in mounting panic, then closed in his fist over Frodo’s hand that was clutching his injured foot.

The little one opened his eyes he did not recall shutting.

“Papa, it hurts,” Frodo whimpered in a small voice.

“Oh, my boy.”  Drogo gathered him up and laid him back down in the bed.  “You will be all right, son, I promise you.”  Strider had explained to him everything that had happened and things needed to be done. 
“You should not walk for a while.  Nor run or nor jump around like you usually do. You must be quiet and rest so your bones will knit. And Frodo you must never ever wander by yourself, again,” Drogo touched the tip of Frodo’s nose, smiling a little.

Frodo gazed at him with his reddened eyes.  Regret was engulfing him.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

“You’d better, Little One,” Strider’s gruff voice startled them both.  Farmer Hagan was standing beside the ranger, grinning. “your father was very worried about you but I’m glad in spite of everything that I got to meet you, Frodo.”

Frodo’s face turned crimson, and he made to hide it in his father’s chest.

~  *  ~  fin  ~  *  ~