Chapter 6

Sam did not notice when the others left. He knew only the endless sobs that wracked through his being down to his very core as he felt his life crumbling to pieces before him. He couldn’t be crippled. He couldn’t be anything other than what he was, a gardener, Mr. Frodo’s gardener. Where would he work if not Bag End? Who would be his master if not Frodo? How could a single moment’s misstep throw such a bramble into his path? The morning had begun so well, so promising. Now he wanted nothing more than for the day to end.

He clung tight to Frodo, who held him back just as fiercely, rocking him back and forth and making soft shushing sounds that aimed to soothe and fell yards from the mark. Even now, when his prospects looked as dim as they ever had, some small part of his brain told him he should not be bothering his master with this, should not be sobbing all over Mr. Frodo’s fine silk shirt. Then he thought of how sweet his master was to try to calm him and that only made him think anew of the possibility that he might no longer be able to serve him, and his sobs only redoubled instead of abating.

He felt the soft caress of Frodo’s fine satin handkerchief on his cheeks, wiping up streaming rivulets of tears. “There, there, Sam,” Frodo murmured, low and soothing for all the good it did. “Shhhh. It’s not so bad. You’re not crippled yet and you’re not going to be. We won’t let it come to that. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. It’s not so bad as all that.”

Sam attempted to nod, to acknowledge his master’s words and let him know he was understood, but he could do nothing more than imagine a now bleak and desolate future looming out ahead of him. One without gardens. Without Bag End. Without Frodo. What would he do? Go work for his Uncle Andwise in Tighfield making rope, most like. He simply could not imagine himself sitting for countless hours twining rope every day for the rest of his life. What would happen to Gaffer and Goldie if it came to that? There were too many complications and every question only brought about more speculations, none of them cheerful.

Frodo brushed the curls from his eyes and kissed his brow before enfolding him again. Sam closed his eyes and let himself be held, hearing his master’s pattering heart under his ear. Poor Master, he was that worried, and if his heart was racing that fast, then his mind was working doubly so. He didn’t know what to do and Sam wasn’t helping.

After a time, he felt Frodo take several deep breaths, and his master’s heart slowed. As Frodo calmed, Sam felt himself begin to gain control but he was still far from composure. Then Frodo’s rocking became more rhythmic, its slow steadiness almost sedating, and gentle fingers combed through his curls in placating comfort. Gradually, he realized that Frodo was humming under his breath, every now and then a word or two forming fair on his lips. He had only heard his master sing a few times before. He was surprised to find that he had all but forgotten how lovely was Frodo’s voice, like a cool summer’s breeze, refreshing and carrying the memory of the warm, lazy day.

Sam felt himself calm, being lulled by the rocking and humming, his sobs reducing to shaky and hitching breaths. Eventually Frodo really did sing, a familiar lullaby that Daisy and May had sung to him many times when he was younger. Once Fred had even obliged him, singing it to him after he had been woken by nightmares, though it made his brother feel silly to do so and Sam had been sworn to secrecy. He wondered if Fred would now sing it to his little lass or if he would leave that up to Astrid.

Goodbye Sun, you’ll see Her soon
On the other side of midnight
But for now, you’ll greet the Moon
And drift asleep under starlight

May your dreams reflect your days
And bring you only ever delight
May you sleep beneath the rays
Of the soft and gentle moonlight

Go to sleep, close your eyes
I’ll let nothing ever hurt you
Drift away beneath the skies
In your dreams I’ll protect you

Have no fear, I’ll be right here
Watching over you always
Never far, forever near
For now and all of your days

Rest my child, sleep my love
Till the stars go to their rest
You’ll rise in morn with Sun above
As Moon goes down in the West

You are joy and you are mine
For me a beautiful sight
When you laugh, your eyes shine
I love you with all my might.

Frodo finished and Sam found himself calmed considerably, if still distraught. There was a hitch in his master’s voice, and Sam knew it must have been a struggle for him to recite that nursery rhyme, for surely his mother had sung it to him often. Sam did his best to gather his wits, so Frodo’s efforts would not be in vain. He reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes and cheeks and struggled to steady his breathing and stop the hiccups that had developed. Then he sat back and favored Frodo with a shaky smile.

“That was lovely,” he said, sniffling. “I don’t remember that last part.”

“My mother added it,” Frodo said and Sam saw tears standing in his eyes also, though they did not spill. “She used to sing it to me every night, until…”

“Until she lost the baby,” Sam filled in what his master could not say.

Frodo nodded. “After that, she only sang when she was happy, which wasn’t often, or I would sing it to her. That always seemed to cheer her up a little, but it never lasted very long.”

“I’m sure she appreciated it, Mr. Frodo, even if she couldn’t say,” Sam assured.

“I know,” Frodo said and smiled bravely now himself. “I always liked the part about her protecting me in my dreams. After my parents drowned, I dreamt of them often. I still do from time to time, though not as much as before. I think the last time I dreamt about them was right before Bilbo left. Do you ever dream about your mother?”

“Not really. I used to all the time just after she died, like you,” Sam said. “She would tell me things, like where to find things that were missing, or to ask me if I could try to get Ham to laugh every once in a while, or to make sure that Gaffer knew she still loved him and thought about him always. Last time I dreamt about her was the night of the fire. She asked me not to be too mad at Gaffer for whooping me, even after I told him it wasn’t me as started it. When I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, I went outside for a bit of air and found him kneeling in his taters, crying like I never heard him do afore. Of course I forgave him. How could I not? I keep expecting to see her now, but she ain’t come yet. I guess she probably won’t.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t looking out for you,” Frodo soothed.

Sam nodded numbly. “I know. I guess I just miss her still.”

“I miss my parents too,” Frodo said.

“What sorts of things would you dream about them, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked.

“They weren’t always pleasant. Most of the times, they were horrible. But when they weren’t…” Frodo trailed off, thinking back over the years to dreams he only remembered fleetingly, like vague wisps of familiar scents carried away by a spring breeze before they could be recognized. “I dreamt of memories mostly, but sharper, clearer. I remembered things, little details that I had forgotten, like how I acquired my pocket watch, the one I gave to Merry on my coming of age. Uncle Rory did give it to me, but I stole it from him first. When he found out I was the one who took it, he was very upset but then he sat down and told me how my father had carved the buck on the casing and engraved it on the inside with Rory’s initials. It had been my father’s Yule present to him the year he married my mother. So Rory gave it to me, saying I should have something of his.

“In another dream, I remembered the first birthday present I gave my mother: primrose and gladioli, wrapped with blue lace. She was sitting in her rocking chair, crocheting a blanket, and she was wearing her periwinkle housedress. Father and I were in the kitchen and Father was trying to keep me from laughing in my excitement. I’m sure Mother heard us but she pretended to be surprised when Father led me into the parlor and over to her. I was supposed to be hiding the flowers behind my back, but I was doing a terrible job of it, but neither of them said anything about it. I handed her the flowers and she took them and picked me up and spun me about the room a couple of times. Then she let me choose the vase to put them in and watched me add the water. They only lasted a few days and I was very distraught about it, so Father told me to sing them to sleep that night and the next morning they were alive and looking beautiful again. It wasn’t until years later that I realized he must have gone out and found more flowers to replace the old ones.”

“That was right kind of him,” Sam said. “I don’t reckon as my Gaffer would have done somewhat like that. He would’ve had me find the seeds and plant them for next year’s blooms.”

“Your father is the practical sort,” Frodo intoned. “Mine was always rather a romantic. He always said that the only reason Mother married him was because she was the sun and moon to him and what lass in her right mind would say no to that.”

There was nothing to say after that. Frodo continued to rock Sam back and forth, and Sam closed his eyes, feeling spent and tired. They remained that way for what felt like an hour, but was really only a few minutes. Then Frodo squeezed his shoulder tenderly and said, “Are you calm now?”

“I think so.”

“Then maybe we should talk about who to hire to fill in for you?” Frodo queried cautiously. He did not wish to upset Sam again, but he knew the sooner they had the matter settled, the sooner Sam could get used to the idea.

“Well, there’s any number of good lads,” Sam said, pushing down the momentary panic to focus on the practicalities.

He started to lean back into the pillows so he could spare his master while he thought of who to choose, but as Frodo stood to help him settle back into his cushions, a flash of white cloth caught his attention. He paused and looked down at his ankle with confusion. Frodo followed his gaze and noticed that his ankle was now draped in gauze, wet with a thick poultice. The poultice was making Sam’s ankle burn, though not unpleasantly, and he wondered that he didn’t notice it before. Frodo too was baffled by its appearance; he had not seen the healer come in to place it there.

They stared at it for a moment, then Sam voiced the question they were both thinking. “When did that get there?”  

Merry pulled out pots and pans, spoons, measuring cups and mugs. He next banked the fires in the hearth and the oven as the healer pulled out several pouches from her satchel, removing the contents of a couple of pouches to sprinkle into her mortar. She crushed them quickly with the pestle, releasing their fragrant fumes into the warm kitchen air. In the glow of the firelight she looked absolutely radiant, the orange of the fire dancing across the soft brown skin of her face and in the red and golden highlights of her hair.

Merry found himself staring and shook himself into the action. He shut the oven door closed, a bit more forcefully than was necessary, and turned away from the heat. “What next?” he asked.

Willow tilted her chin toward the oven. “Make sure that it is very hot. Get the fire going as high and strong as you can. We’ll need it later. Right now, steep some of these herbs to make a sleeping draught for Frodo and Sam while I prepare the medicinal tea and a poultice.”

Merry added a few more logs to the oven fire, then poured some steaming water into a small earthenware jug. He added the herbs and closed the lid tight over the jug’s mouth. He then watched as the healer took a couple of small vials of oil from her satchel and a few more pouches of herbs. “How do you know which is which?” he asked, indicating the pouches, for there were no labels that he could see and only a handful of them were dyed.

“The pouches are different colors, or the drawstrings are knotted differently,” Willow said, pointing at the knots. “See this one here, with two knots close together and one knot far apart? This has crushed rose hips. And in this one is dandelion; see the knots, three far apart.”

“What do the oils do?” Merry asked, curious now. He sat cattycorner to her, leaning over with his arms folded on the tabletop, the better to watch.

He had never known a healer to explain things to him before. He had always been rather intimidated by them, truth be told. As a child, they had held a sort of mysticism about them, these stern and compassionate ladies with their studious and steadfast apprentices. That they could heal hurts and illnesses was the closest thing to magic he ever experienced in his life, outside of Bilbo’s disappearing acts that is. As he grew older, their enigma took on a different quality as he realized the full implication of the personal sacrifices they made for their craft, never marrying, never even courting. They stood apart from the rest of the hobbits, they were nearly otherworldly. Even his little cousin Mentha, who had recently expressed an interest in learning the healing arts, was suddenly removed from trivial and ordinary pursuits. There was something untouchable about them and Merry couldn’t quite put his finger on it. That wasn’t even considering the many rumors that healers really did have other powers, that their herbs could do more than heal but could enchant or enthrall. Pippin was absolutely convinced that the healer in Waymeet was a witch, and after having met her, Merry had to admit that he agreed. And now here was Willow, answering his questions and explaining things to him. It was enough to put his head in a whirl, if it wasn’t in one already.

Willow held up one of the small vials and Merry studied the oil, the transparent pink fluid turning bright red-orange in the firelight. “Oils are similar to juices,” Willow explained. “When you bite into a fruit, you eat its juices as well as its meat. When you press a fruit, you remove those juices, and without the meat, the juice becomes stronger. Have you ever noticed that?” Merry nodded. “That is because the juice is now thicker than it is in the fruit alone, more concentrated. Plants and flowers have juices of their own. You can dry a plant and use that, or you can press its leaf, petal or stem and extract its oil. The oil is stronger. One small drop holds more nutrients than a handful of dried leaves or petals, but they both have their uses.”

“And what oils are these?” Merry asked.

“Chamomile and rosemary. The herbs are good for pain when ingested, as you know, but the oils, applied topically, will reduce swelling, and dried flaxseed, fenugreek and slippery elm bark will reduce inflammation. I’ll make a paste with the herbs by crushing them and adding water. Then I’ll mix in a couple of drops of the oils. Once the poultice is ready, I’ll spread it onto this gauze and wrap it around Sam’s ankle. A poultice really is the best way to draw the toxins out of the wound but I won’t be able to use one once I make the cast. I’ll use the poultice until the cast is ready to be poured. Once the cast is on, there are teas and juices that Sam can drink to further the healing process started by the poultice, and the juices will also help to make sure that he does not become ill from his little adventure outside.”

Willow made quick work of making the poultice and she disappeared down the tunnel for a short time. When she came back, she put the oils and herbs for the poultice away and selected a few more pouches. “This is the willow bark, and these are feverfew and ginger root. When the water for the tea begins to boil, we will remove it from the heat and add the herbs to let them steep for five minutes,” Willow explained.

“You don’t boil it?” Merry asked.

“You can, if you need the tea to be less potent,” Willow explained. “Much of the potency is lost in the steam when you boil it.”

“How do you know what plants are good for what?” Merry asked.

“How do you know which bird song belongs to what bird?” Willow said. “You learn. You pay attention to what your mistress is telling you. You study tirelessly, and no matter how much you learn, there is always something more to discover.”

“But how do you know?” Merry asked again. “Who figured out that chamomile and rosemary are good to reduce swelling, as opposed to something else?”

“I don’t know who,” Willow said. “That knowledge is long lost to us, who the first healers were.”

“Do all plants heal?” Merry asked.

“No,” Willow said, “not all plants, but a good deal of them do.” She noticed then the herbals that Frodo had used the night before and she flipped through them curiously for a few moments before nodding with approval, a small chuckle on her lips. “Why, Mr. Merry, here you have a perfectly good learning tool. Why don’t you read it, if you are so interested?”

“I’d rather listen to you,” he replied and blushed when he realized what he said.

Willow smiled at him sweetly, causing him to blush further. “Maybe later,” she said. “Now, you said you had made snow packs?”

After pouring the herbs into the kettle and removing it from the hearth fire to let it steep on the counter next to the sedative, Merry showed her the bucket of snow and the water skins and explained how they made the snow packs. She had to smile again at their inventiveness.

“I know folk say as you’re a strange one, being as you’re from Buckland and all,” Willow said. “I’ve certainly seen and heard a fair bit of oddness from you myself, but you are smart.”

“Er, thank you,” Merry said, uncertain if that was a compliment or not.

He was rescued from having to say more when Willow checked the sedative and determined it was ready. She poured the tea equally into two mugs and Merry stepped forward to take one from her. When they returned to the bedroom, they found a much subdued Sam, red- and puffy-eyed but no longer crying, talking quietly with Frodo, who still sat at his side, an arm draped over Sam’s shoulders, his other hand once again in Sam’s grasp. Frodo was reluctant to leave Sam’s side until he knew Sam would be able to contain himself, and Sam wasn’t too eager for Frodo to be going either.

“Basil’s a good lad,” Sam was saying. “He helps his ma with the nursery mostly but he gardens from time to time to make ends meet. Then there’s Mule Goodchild. He’s my third cousin once removed on my mother’s side. He’s married to Jasmine, Daddy Twofoot’s lass. He’s not exactly a green thumb, but he knows his way around a garden right enough. Robin’s brothers are always good for an odd job or two. I know Furzy’s been asking for work and he’s helped me with projects afore, when the Cottons couldn’t spare the time from the farm. He’d be the best one, I’m thinking.”

“We’ll see if Marigold can get word to him once the snow melts a bit,” Frodo said. “The important thing is for you to rest and heal. You’re not going to be crippled and four to six months isn’t so terribly long. You’ll be back in the garden before you know it.”

“Yes you will,” Willow said, making her and Merry’s presence known. “The healthier the hobbit, the faster they heal, and you Sam are one of the healthiest hobbits I know. You’re also one of the most stubborn. If my words of caution scared you, then I can trust you will follow my instructions to perfection and not do anything so foolish as to attempt to get out of bed and work or hobble about before I say you can. I don’t even want you to so much as flex a toe, understand?”

Sam felt chagrined, remembering his earlier attempt to attain a pair of crutches. That seemed days ago now rather than just an hour or more. He was grateful now that Frodo hadn’t given into him. Imagine what Miss Willow would have said about that! “Yes Miss Willow,” he mumbled and accepted the mug she handed him.

Willow reached for the mug Merry held and handed it to Frodo, who finally had to peel his hand away from Sam’s to take it.

“As soon as you are asleep, I will cast your foot, so expect for it to feel quite strange when you wake up. I unfortunately will have to shave your foot hair. When it comes time to take the cast off, you will be grateful for it,” Willow said to Sam. She turned now to Frodo and addressed him directly. “Above all else, we need to keep him healthy. The teas and juices I’ll be leaving will help, but there are other things that might improve healing. He needs to cut back on sugars and salts. They will only increase the swelling and make the injury worse. He can eat poultry or fish, nuts, leafy vegetables and the sort. Since he’ll be in bed for a time, I suggest you find something that can keep him occupied.”

“You can help Frodo with his accounts and transcriptions,” Merry suggested.

“Good idea,” Frodo said dryly. “Bore him to sleep.”

“Sleeping is good,” Willow said, smiling at the jest along with the others. “When you sleep, you heal.”

“I wouldn’t mind helping you sir,” Sam said to Frodo. At least then he would feel he was doing something useful and it would give him something to focus on other than the worst. “If you don’t mind my choppy writing, that is.”

“Your writing isn’t choppy,” Frodo said. “I do have a few scrolls I’ve been meaning to work on and we never did get very far into your Elvish lessons.”

“Truly? I can help with that?” Sam said, his face brightening considerably. For the first time since the healer’s news, he looked hopeful again.

“You will be a great help,” Frodo said.

“Now that that’s settled, drink your tea, both of you,” Willow ordered. “Then I suggest you get to your own bed, Mr. Frodo. You’ll be feeling drowsy soon.”

“Me?” Frodo asked in alarm.

“Yes, you. You need rest as much as Sam does. I’ll be gone by the time you awaken, so I’ll leave all further instructions with Mr. Merry. I’ll return in the morning to check on Sam’s progress; however, should anything develop in the meantime, don’t hesitate to come and fetch me. Now drink,” Willow said and she watched her two patients until both cups were drained. She saw Frodo to his room while Merry went to pour a mug of the medicinal tea to give to Sam before he could drift off.

When Willow came back to the room, she took over Frodo’s previous place, sitting next to Sam and propping him up so he could drink the medicinal tea. With each sip, his eyes grew heavier and his motions groggier. Merry began to wonder if they shouldn’t have given him the medicinal tea before the sedative, but Sam was able to finish it before falling asleep completely.

Willow lay him back into the pillows and tucked the blankets around him, then walked past Merry back to the kitchen, pausing to pick up the oddly-shaped box from the tunnel floor. Only then did Merry realize what it’s odd, angular shape was meant for: to hold a foot. She placed the box on the kitchen table and Merry inspected it while she checked the fire in the oven. He undid the clasps and opened the box, the top half of which ended in the L-shape where the foot was to go and had a hole in the middle of the leg portion. The bottom half was a simple rectangular box and both halves were fitted along the walls with wooden contours shaped in the outline of a large leg.

“You put Sam’s leg in here, close it shut and then pour the plaster into this hole?” Merry guessed.

“Not quite,” Willow said but did not explain further just then. She added one more log to the oven fire and stood back to eye the flames critically. Satisfied, she had Merry dig through the lower cupboards to find a large stew pot and bring it to the table.

She pulled from her satchel a smaller bag. Inside that were various oddly-formed shapes of an opaque pinkish color. She handed one to Merry for his scrutiny and he turned the clunky object over and over in his hand, studying it from every possible angle. It looked to him like many long, angular, unevenly shaped shafts, clustered together to stick out at odd angles. He figured it must be a mineral of some sort, but the shafts did not feel like sandstone or rock and were more like unpolished glass or even a gemstone before the jeweler’s skilled cut. Indeed, now that he thought of it, he had seen a geode once, before the gems could be cut out of the rock. While what he held now did not exactly resemble that, it was the best comparison he could make.

“That is gypsum,” Willow explained before he could ask. She had several more such objects now lined up on the table and she was beginning to break them into large chunks. “When the gypsum heats, it becomes a powder and we can then mix it with a little water to make a paste. We will pour some of the paste into the bottom half of the box, then put Sam’s foot in it and encase it with the top half of the box, then pour in the rest. The box will have to remain over the foot until the plaster dries. That’s why it has these brackets on either side, so it can be locked in place so it won’t slip or slide off.”

“Will he still be able to get up to use the chamber pot at least?” Merry asked.

“Yes, but the box and the weight of the plaster will make it a very clumsy affair, so be careful and take your time,” Willow said.

When all the gypsum was broken into smaller portions, Willow lifted the stew pot and set it on the stove over the open burner. The fire in the oven was so hot that flames were flickering out of the burner and Merry was afraid that something might catch fire. Before he could voice his concern, Willow easily moved anything that might pose a threat to the far end of the counter.

“How long does it take to heat?” Merry asked.

“About an hour, give or take,” Willow answered as she observed the fire. “As it heats, it will release steam. Don’t be alarmed if it begins to hiss or sizzle. It’s just doing what it’s supposed to do.”

Merry nodded, fascinated by it all. Only one thing sent up an alarm in his brain. One hour to heat. “And how long will Frodo and Sam be asleep?”

“A couple of hours,” Willow replied. “I want Sam asleep while we put the cast on. The molding itself won’t hurt him, but I need to realign the ankle before I cast it and that will hurt. You’ll have to hold him down while I align it. Thankfully, it’s not twisted out of position too much and it shouldn’t take long to get him straightened out again.”

Merry only nodded, his discomfiture returning now that they had nothing to do but wait. An hour or two alone with Miss Willow. He found the prospect nerve-wracking. What would they do with the time? He couldn’t see her being talked into a game of draughts or throw dice. So that left talking. What do they talk about? Perhaps this would be a good time to get to know Miss Willow a little more.

Before he could think of anything to ask her though, she turned from the oven and said, “Do you have quill and parchment?”

Merry nodded again.

“Good. I’ll leave you with some herbs for making another pot of the medicinal tea as you need it. I’m also going to give you a juice for him that will aid the tea and keep him healthy. You’ll need to write down all the instructions,” Willow said.

Merry scampered off to the study to retrieve the requested items and came back to the kitchen, again sitting cattycorner from Willow as she held up the pouches, telling him which one contained what and how much and when to use them. She waited patiently while Merry jotted down every word and made notes for himself on the pouch color and pattern of knots on the drawstring so he would know which herb he was using.

“Continue to use the rosemary and chamomile as you have been. Only use the willow bark when the pain is particularly bad or when he needs to sleep,” Willow said. “Two spoons in a pot should be your starting point, you can add more if it’s not enough but don’t use more than four spoons. Add a teaspoon of feverfew and ginger when you don’t use the willow bark. That should be for during the day. He should have a mug every two to three hours as needed.

“The cast will prevent any further ice or poultice treatments. The teas will help to make up for that, but they really are meant to be use along with the ice and poultice. So, since we can’t use those, he’ll have to drink this juice.” She pulled a small jar with a stopper from her satchel and set it on the table. Merry snapped open the top and sniffed at the juice, scrunching up his face at the smell. Willow nodded knowingly. “It will be quite vile to drink, I’m afraid, but it is absolutely necessary that he have one quarter-cup three times a day for the first three days. After that, reduce it to two times a day.”

“What’s in it?” Merry asked, putting the top back on and sliding it away from himself.

“Juice,” Willow answered with a smirk then winked at Merry’s exasperated expression. “Raw vegetables, mostly beets, garlic and radishes.”

“Can’t we add something to it so it’s not quite as vile, like peppermint,” Merry suggested.

Willow laughed. “You would have to add a lot of mint to cover up that taste, not to mention the fact that you’d have to first heat it up to steep the mint in it. I doubt Frodo would appreciate his smial smelling like garlic and beets.”

“Maybe we’ll just give him some mint to chew on afterwards then,” Merry mused. He reread his list of instructions. “So, there’s tea and juice, and we need to make sure he changes position every now and then. You said something about no salts and sugars before. What else was there? He should eat fish and poultry… and nuts and leafy vegetables. Anything else? Oh, yes, breathing exercises.”

“You have a good memory, Mr. Merry,” Willow said, impressed. She took the list from him when he finished writing and read it over, nodding at his notes. “And you’re good at dictation. This is nearly word for word.”

“That skill comes from long arduous hours of taking notes for my father,” Merry explained.

“What does your father do?” Willow asked.

Merry started at the question. He had thought everyone by now knew who his father was. “He’s the Master of Buckland. He runs more or less everything, except Uncle Mac takes care of the monetary aspects of the job. Father has no head for money, unless it’s how to spend it. What about your father?”

“He’s a goat-herder, over near the Far Downs,” Willow answered.

“He must be very proud of you,” Merry said.

Willow shrugged. “He wanted a brood of grandchildren to bounce on his knees and play peek-a-boo with. He seems to think that by becoming a healer I’ve condemned marriage altogether. I keep telling him that there are healers who do marry, it’s just a matter of finding the right lad, a lad who will understand that there will be times when others will come before him. My father is convinced that no such lad exists, but I think I might know of one or two.”

“Really?” Merry breathed. Maybe it was just the heat of the oven making him delirious, but Merry was certain he detected a note of suggestiveness in Willow’s voice and in the gleam of her eyes as they rested upon him. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, then nearly jumped right out of it when a loud pop and crackle sounded from the pot of gypsum.  

Willow laughed again. “Relax Mr. Merry. I told you that would happen. It’s perfectly normal.”

Merry nodded distractedly. He cleared his throat and shifted again, irritably wiping at the sweat that suddenly erupted on his brow. By the stars, this kitchen was hot and Miss Willow was still smiling at him. “Would you like to play a game of draughts in the sitting room?” he asked suddenly and exited the kitchen before she could respond.

He escaped into Sam’s room and leaned against the closed door, absently staring at Sam’s sleeping form. His head was in a whirl again and he stood frozen where he was, trying to make sense of things. He must have misunderstood Miss Willow. He had simply taken her words and misconstrued them, thinking she was talking of him when clearly she was not. Why would she want him anyway? He was younger than she was, four years younger and that was not often done in the Shire. The image of his parents popped up in his mind to mock him and he pushed it aside stubbornly.

“Get a hold of yourself, Meriadoc,” he chided himself quietly. “She is clearly speaking of someone else and you’re letting your imagination get away with you.”

After a few deep breaths, he peeled himself off the door and retrieved the draughts board from the floor. He found Willow already in the sitting room. They played companionably for the rest of the hour, and he wasn’t sure if he should be happy or disappointed when no further flirtations were forthcoming.

When the hour was over, they returned to the kitchen and Willow checked the consistency and quantity of the powder. Upon her approval, Merry took the pot holders from where they hung on the wall and lifted the stew pot from the stove. Willow filled another pot with cold water and laid the box over the top of it so she could carry both to the room at once. When they reached the room, they put the pots on the floor out of the way and Willow pulled a small blade and a jar of cream from her dress pocket. She removed the poultice and slathered Sam’s foot with the cream. 

Merry watched in fascination as she gently but quickly shaved Sam’s foot hair. Except for very small bairns, he had never seen any hobbit with a bald foot and he knew that Sam would feel self-conscious about it when the time came to remove the cast. Willow wiped the foot dry and washed it once with a towel, then ran her hand over the foot to check for stubble. Satisfied she put the blade and cream back in her pocket.

Next, she instructed Merry to gently hold down Sam’s arms. “Be ready to hold him down if he jerks or struggles,” Willow advised while Merry got into position, leaning over the bed and Sam to get a hold of Sam’s forearms. 

Willow examined the ankle, satisfied with what she saw. Though the poultice had only been in place for an hour and a half, the swelling was already much reduced. If not for the need to restrict Sam’s ankle completely, she would have left it on all day. She took what she could get though and was simply grateful that the reduced swelling would make it easier for her to realign the joint. She knelt down so she could see the twist and gently took the ankle in hand. Already, Merry could feel Sam tense in his sleep. He leaned over more and tightened his grip on his friend’s arms. 

Merry wasn’t sure what he was expecting the healer to do. She had not explained it or given him any warning other than to hold Sam down if the need arose. He had never known anyone before who had needed a bone or joint reset and so did not even have experience to fall back on to tell him what was coming. Given the nature of Sam’s injury, he did not think that the healer would do anything terribly traumatic to get the joint to realign, and when she at first prodded the ankle, he thought it would be no more than that. What he didn’t know was that she was simply feeling for the tear in the ligament and figuring out how she needed to move the foot to get the ligaments to line back up properly. Once she was able to feel what she needed to do, she tightened her own grip on Sam’s foot and lower leg and carefully, slowly, but with as much force as she could muster, manipulated the joint back into place. Sam gave a lurch and a yell that curled the hairs on Merry’s feet, but Merry did his job, leaning over so he was all but lying atop Sam, holding him down with all his might. Sam was strong, even in a sedated sleep, and Merry feared his grip might slip, but thankfully the joint did not give too much trouble and slid into place after a few minutes. 

Willow examined the ankle again and nodded with approval. Only then did Merry stand up on shaking legs and let go of his friend. He silently thanked Willow’s foresight for making sure Frodo was asleep during that procedure. 

“Now what?” he asked.

“Now, you can hold his ankle in place while I ready the plaster,” Willow said. “Do not allow it to move even the slightest.” 

Merry came around the bed and put his hands beneath Willow’s. She slowly slid out her hands, made sure the foot was still aligned, then stooped down to pour the water into the stew pot with the powder. After she stirred it into a thick but runny plaster, she put the bottom half of the box on the bed and poured in half of the mixture. With a nod to Merry, she joined him in lifting the leg and resting it inside the box and the wet plaster. She dismissed Merry at this point; he found the chair and sat down gratefully to watch the rest.

Willow leaned down for the top half of the box and put this in place. She locked the clasps, then poured in the rest of the plaster until the box was full.  On the side of the box was a little lever and a notch that Merry hadn’t noticed before. She pushed the lever down into the notch and the hole cover slid into place.

“That’s that,” she announced. “Nothing more to do but wait until it dries. You sit and watch him, Mr. Merry, while I clean up.”

When Willow returned, she handed Merry a mug of tea. “It won’t make you sleep,” she informed. “One of you needs to stay awake. This will revitalize you. You’ve had a very trying morning.”

She waited until Merry drank it down and only then did she allow him to stand and escort her to the door. She put on her cloak and her shoes, and turned to Merry as he opened the door for her. “Has his family been informed of his injury?” she asked.

“They have, but they don’t know the extent of it.”

“Then I’ll stop on my way and give them the prognosis,” she said. “I need to check on Master Hamfast anyway.”

“Thank you so much for your help, Miss Willow,” Merry said.

“And thank you for your help, Mr. Merry. You’re a natural,” Willow said. She hesitated a moment then stepped toward him a half-pace, that suggestive flirtatious look back in her eyes. “Tell me, do you have a lass away there in Buckland?” she asked, watching him pointedly.

If his hesitation didn’t say enough, his quickening breath and sudden agitation did. “Well… no, not exactly. I mean, not at all. She’s rather courting someone else,” he finally said.

“And you haven’t gone on to find another lass?” Willow asked.

Merry shrugged, his mind reeling yet again. He hadn’t misread her earlier? She had truly meant to suggest that she was interested in him and willing to court and eventually marry? What was going on here? His safe crush suddenly didn’t feel so safe anymore. “Well, I’ve, um… I haven’t found anyone else to find.”

“Is that so?” Willow asked, smiling sweetly at his discomfort. He was usually so cocksure, it was nice to see him bewildered for once. She took another step closer and noted that he did not step back. “Why is that?”

“Well…” Merry trailed off, searching for a valid enough explanation that didn’t make him look like the pathetic lovesick puppy he was. “I’ve been very busy and all, what with my duties to my father, as you know,” he ended lamely and immediately felt like kicking himself.

Willow hummed, her smile widening. She took his hand so he could help her up onto the snow bank, which was still as high as it had been that morning. Once she was up, she squeezed his hand rather than let it go. “You should always take time to find what you seek, Mr. Merry,” she said, then leaned down to quickly kiss him on the lips. She gracefully rose to her feet, turned and walked away, swaying her hips with expert ease.

Merry waited until she was on the Lane before closing the door, then slid down to sit on the floor in a daze, the press of her lips still hot against his.

To be continued…