Chapter 19. ...which is not quite the end of it

As it turned out, neither chopping nor sawing was employed in extricating the little ones. Both were deemed too dangerous. Why, one of the little ones was unresponsive, certainly, but the other was awake, or so it appeared from the glint of his eyes when they shone a lantern down the log, though he made no sound nor move in response to their entreaties. What if, when the chopping or sawing started, he became so frightened that he moved the wrong way, at the wrong moment? Why, the rescue might turn to tragedy!

‘What we need,’ Bilbo said thoughtfully, though he was still sitting on the ground, cradling Frodo’s head and shoulders, and could not see into the log where some of the searchers were peering with the help of a lantern brought by one of the late-comers--much safer than a torch. ‘What we need,’ he said, clearing his throat and raising his voice, though his hand never left off its gentle soothing of Frodo’s pale, bruised forehead.

‘Ahem!’ he repeated, and several faces turned toward him in surprise, perhaps expecting some dire pronouncement about the tween’s injuries. ‘What we chiefly need,’ he said, ‘is some way of fetching them out of the log.’

Disgusted looks were exchanged at this, but he paid them no heed, continuing with his thought. ‘A crook,’ he said, ‘that’s the thing! We need to fetch these young lambs out of danger...’

A near neighbour clapped himself on the side of the head in consternation. ‘Aye!’ he said, ‘the auld hobbit has the right o’ things! A crook, that’ll do!’ he said with an emphatic nod, and was off at a jog, for his farmyard was closest.

The gathered rescuers’ tone changed from mingled entreaty and reassurance to mutual encouragement, as they congratulated each other on finding a solution to the problem. Those nearest the mouth of the log murmured cheer to the lads within, even while they exchanged worried looks. Some of the searchers had taken off to fetch the anxious fathers from amongst the search parties, and another had been sent to inform the healer that the lads had been found, and would be brought to Whittacres just so soon as possible. She’d likely be ordering hot bathwater, and brewing draughts, in anticipation of their arrival. Yet, the lads were so still, had they perhaps taken a deadly chill in the long, cold, damp night?

Ferdinand and Saradoc arrived about the same time as the crook-bearing farmer, deluged with breathless explanations and having to pull free of restraining arms to reach the log. A litter arrived at the same time, intended for Frodo, but Bilbo put off efforts to take the lad from his arms, “Just wait a moment until we see how this comes out. He’ll be wanting to know, when he comes round again, and it’ll go ill with me if I don’t have an answer for him!”

‘Stand back, now!’ the crook-bearer said importantly.

‘Rather like fishing, I’d think,’ someone observed to another.

‘Perhaps a net,’ another said, but all were too interested in the drama unfolding, to break away and fetch a fishing net for another possible try.

Slowly and with much care, the first of the lads was fished out. Ferdinand gave a choked cry, taking the stiff, staring body of his little lad into trembling arms, pressing little Ferdibrand to his heart. ‘ ‘Tis all right, now, laddie,’ he repeated, over and again. The child suddenly went limp, his eyes closed, and his father, after an anguished exclamation, bent his head and began to weep into Ferdi’s damp and filthy curls.

Saradoc waited, his breaths shuddering in and out, arms partly outstretched as if to catch his son from a tumble, though he was a step or two away from the log, having moved back to give Ferdinand room as little Ferdi emerged.

The crook-bearer muttered to himself, the lantern-bearer moved the light a little closer in answer to the mutters, everyone held their breath and then...

‘Got ‘im!’ This was said in an explosive burst of pent-up breath, followed by a murmur of “Steady. Steady, now,” on the part of both the crook-wielder and the light-bearer.

Saradoc crept closer, at the last holding his arms under the opening of the log as the crook drew out his unconscious son. ‘Merry,’ he sobbed, but he resisted the temptation to hug his little lad, instead sitting himself quickly down and resting the lad on his lap, to begin a fearful examination.

Bilbo called for the hovering rescuers to “give them air!” but none paid heed.

As the buttons of the torn shirt parted, there was a combined oooh and not a few winces of sympathy, to see the dark bruises parading down young Merry’s shoulders and upper chest, teeth-marks plain. Saradoc impatiently dashed the tears from his eyes, then sucked in his breath as he eased the shirt from his lad, revealing other bruises, obvious bite-marks, as well as matching bruising proceeding down the little one’s back.

‘Fox, for sure,’ one of them said. ‘Shook him to break his neck.’

‘Shook him to death,’ another said gravely, but Saradoc contradicted.

‘He’s alive,’ he gasped, ‘breathing, and...’ he saw the small fingers clench and relax again, ‘...and moving!’ For good measure, he felt gingerly of his son’s neck, but could feel no obvious break.

Ferdinand was persuaded to let go his death-grip of little Ferdi, and examination showed a few bruises and abrasions, perhaps from falling down, but no marks of violence on the part of a fox. There was much head-shaking and awed talk. Clearly Merry had taken the brunt of the fox’s attack, in defence of his littler cousin, and somehow managed to win free to the dubious safety of the log.

Coats were wrapped around the lads, but their fathers insisted on carrying them back to Whittacres. The litter bearers looked to Bilbo, but he waved them off, easing himself to his feet as if he were nearer fifty than twice that many years. He hefted Frodo in his arms. ‘He’s a long lad,’ he said, ‘but there’s not too much meat on his bones for me to be carrying him.’

And carry Frodo he did, all the way back to Whittacres, in the train of the others bearing their precious sons, and the crowd of rescuers surrounding them. They’d all go back to Whittacres for a bite to eat, a bit of chatter to relieve the nerves, and then go back to the duties of the day, and likely a nap later, to make up for searching through the night.

Whew. All’s well that ends well, I’ll say.

Not quite ended, yet...

I’d like to know what your mothers said, on first sight--no, on the other hand, I wouldn’t!

It’s no wonder you got off without a scolding. What they must have thought, Merry!

Fought off a fox on his own, wounded as he was, and saved his little cousin!

Enough from you, Ferdi! You’ve had years to set the record straight...

Truth be told...

Ferdi? Is it well with you? Ferdi-lad?

...eh? Beg pardon, was there something you wanted, Merry? Quite forgot where I was there for a moment.

You said, “Truth be told...?”

O aye, that I did. (long swig, sigh) Truth be told... I never wanted to think of it again, nor speak of it. That fox haunted my dreams for days after, and...

And, what?

And... well, little child that I was, I suppose I feared I’d speak him back again...

Speak him back again? You're not making sense.

He makes perfect sense, indeed.

Strider?

Peace, Pippin. You thought, Ferdibrand, little little child that you were, that speaking of him might bring him back in truth, back to shake Merry to death, to spring at you perhaps.

Aye, my Lord. (shaky laugh) I can see why they made you King. Very sharp, you are. Good listener.

But that’s not the end to it, not quite, you said.

No, Master Robin. Not quite the end of it.