Chapter 18. Digging Himself into a Hole

Two ruffians tied a rope about Tolly’s ankle, “just so as we can keep track of the little fellow; wouldn’t want him to disappear down a rat-hole, now, would we?” One of them held the end of a rope much as someone might a dog’s lead, and another prodded at Tolly’s back with the sharp end of a broken off stick. ‘Get along with you, now.’

He was directed towards the shed, where tools hung under the overhanging roof, safe from rain, and ordered to take down one of the small shovels there, crafted for the woodcutter’s sons. His guards prodded him out of the yard, then. He caught a glimpse of Anemone in the doorway of the house, twisting her apron in her hands, worry plain on her face though she tried to smile as she called to the guards to take good care of Tolly.

‘We’ll take good care of him, you can count on that, Annie!’ one of his guards answered with a cheery wave, and then the prod caught Tolly in the small of his back again and he had to mind his footing lest he stumble on the uneven ground.

They left the clearing and walked a little way into the wood. The stick-bearing ruffian scratched a rough outline in the dirt, saying, ‘Not too many tree-roots here. You’ll do well enough, I think.’

The other ruffian shoved Tolly forward with his booted foot and growled, ‘Start digging. We don’t have all day.’

‘O but we do!’ his companion countered with a chuckle, and he proceeded to settle himself comfortably at the base of a tree. ‘Just sit yourself down, Heath, and let the hobbit work.’

Tolly, seeing no choice in the matter, began to shovel dirt out as indicated. He shook his head to rid himself of the fancy that the outline was the right shape to be the beginnings of a grave. A hobbit-sized grave. After all, they’d threatened him only with making his life unpleasant for the conceivable future, unpleasant enough to tell other hobbits, and that implied that they’d let him go at the end of it all.

But as he dug himself deeper into the ground, his misgivings grew. Surely they didn’t need such a deep pit as this, simply to bury refuse...! Still, whenever he paused, the rope-holder would growl, or the stick-bearer would threaten in a cheerful tone, and as he bore a stout stick, Tolly heeded him. He didn’t need a beating on top of everything else.

He was sweating, now, and his tongue was dry in his mouth, but the ruffians didn’t offer him water, even after he’d asked. The soil had started out loose and loamy, with its years of leaves deposited over many seasons, but by the time the hole was knee-deep he began having to work around rocks, and the labour grew more demanding the deeper he dug. His shoulders ached as he had to throw the dirt higher, and higher. Raw spots developed on his palms, and he had to stop for a moment, to take off his shirt that he might tear some protective strips to wrap his hands.

He’d dug himself deep, indeed, the pit rising over his head. He looked up at a growl above him, to see a large, dark head silhouetted against the afternoon sky. ‘Why are you stopping?’

He held up a bloodied hand, half-wrapped up, and the ruffian nodded without interest. ‘Get on with the digging,’ the Man muttered, and Tolly wondered if they intended him to dig his way to the Sunlands. Or was it truly his own grave that he was digging?

***

Tolly’s brothers came two days after Renilard's fever broke, at Woodruff’s summons. They’d have come days earlier, but for the fact that no one had told them the seriousness of Tolly’s condition. They’d been ill of the fever themselves, Hilly worrisomely so, and Mardibold, the eldest, had sat by his youngest brother’s side through the worst of the delirium though he himself was scarcely fit to sit in a chair.

Fredebold, next brother after Mardi, had suffered only a slight case of the fever, but it had been enough to confine him to his favourite haunt, where he consoled himself with healing draughts of good beer and food. It was difficult, indeed, to pry him from his comfortable seat by the fire in the common room of the Spotted Duck, but Mardi managed it though his hand was shaking and his head buzzed.

‘You ought to have a draught of beer, Brother,’ Freddy said, turning to the landlord to order another glass, but Hilly forestalled him.

‘We’re called to bring Tolly home to the Smials.’

‘Home to the Smials?’ Freddy said in astonishment. ‘Where’s he been, then? I thought he was sick, just like everybody else in this benighted farthing!’

‘He fell ill while riding out on a pony,’ Mardi answered, ‘and so he’s not been at home, but was taken in by a kind farm family some miles outside of Tuckborough.’

‘Some miles! And how d’ye expect me to go some miles, in my condition?’ Freddy said, scandalised.

‘The Thain’s sending us there in a waggon,’ Mardi said. ‘And his waggon is waiting now, before the inn, and so, little brother, I’d suggest you wrap yourself well, and now, unless you’d like us to haul you into the cold in your shirt-sleeves!’

‘Bother,’ Freddy said. ‘Can’t you just fetch him home yourselves, and I’ll come to the Smials when I’ve finished this lovely bit of steak and kidney pie? I’m not at all well, you know. I’ve had this fever that’s going around.’

‘Aye,’ Mardi said, holding up a hand to prevent Hilly from rousing their indolent brother by force and perhaps incurring some penalty thereby. Certainly, that hobbit had blackened the Thain’s eye for him and paid no price for the act, but he’d been out of his head at the time. He had no such excuse at this moment, save aggravation, and that was no excuse for doing someone more or less harm. ‘And I’m a healer, and if I say a little fresh air’ll do you good, my dear brother, then you have no reason to turn a deaf ear. Come along.’ And he put a firm hand under one of Freddy’s arms, and Hilly hastened to lift Freddy from the other side, and before Freddy knew it, he was halfway to the door, and not even a cloak to keep him from his death of cold!

However, quick orders on Mardi’s part saved Freddy from such an uncomfortable demise—the serving lass threw Freddy’s coat about his shoulders and topped it off with a warm cloak before they reached the door.

The cold air slapped Freddy in the face as they exited, bringing him to unwelcome alertness. All the good he’d done himself, sipping spirits to warm himself, evaporated in the chill, and he grumbled accordingly.

Mardi and Hilly paid him no mind, helping him into the back of the waggon and being helped in on their own account, weakened as they were by their own bout of fever, and soon they were bouncing along over the frozen ground.

It was an uncomfortable, interminable journey, but at last they arrived.

Freddy was glad to leave the waggon; he felt as if his bones had turned to jelly, but there was smoke coming from the chimney of the little smial dug into the hillside before him, and such was usually a good sign.

The entryway was made of boards that shone with newness, so new they were not even painted over, and the brickwork was only half-done, or so Freddy observed. What sort of establishment was this, anyhow? However, the tantalising smells that surrounded them as they stepped from entryway into the smial proper more than made up for his disgust with his first impression.

Mardi dropped Freddy’s arm and stumbled to the hearth, with its laid-out, blanketed figure, with an exclamation of dismay, which he bit off quickly on seeing Meadowsweet’s face.

Fredebold staggered, bereft of his older brother’s support, and gratefully allowed a younger hobbit, dressed in farmer’s togs, to take his arm and escort him to the table, where a cosied teapot waited. Not quite Freddy’s beverage of choice, but it would do in a pinch. His nostrils flared at the fragrant steam that arose as the tea was poured. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he muttered, wrapping his stiff, cold hand around the comforting mug.

‘Mardi,’ Woodruff said, looking up from her seat on a folded blanket. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’

‘I came as soon as I could,’ Mardi said, leaning to embrace Meadowsweet on Tolly’s other side, and then sinking down, plucking at the blankets enveloping Tolly, his eyes taking in every detail, his hand going to Tolly’s forehead. He frowned at the heat he found there. ‘I had no idea... why didn’t you...?’”

Tolly moved his head restlessly, muttering disjointed words, as he tried to avoid the contact, and he pushed against the blankets that trapped his hands.

‘You had enough troubles of your own,’ Woodruff said with a sigh. ‘With Hilly so dangerously ill, Fennel thought it best not to call you away from one brother to tend to another, and I agreed with him...’

‘He wouldn’t even tend to me,’ Freddy mumbled through a mouthful of bread-and-butter, which went nicely with the tea. Actually, some preserves would just suit, and so he applied himself to spreading what was needed where it would do the most good. ‘And I was at death’s door, I was.’

‘Indeed,’ Woodruff said dryly. ‘A good thing that you were able to nurse yourself through, with the help of good food and beer...’

‘And a little spirit to lift the spirits,’ Freddy said stoutly, raising his mug in a toast. ‘Speaking of... perhaps you might warm up my tea, m’dear, if you wouldn’t mind...’

The farmer’s daughter, misunderstanding, simply poured more steaming tea into the mug, and Freddy sighed and settled for what was available, though a little brandy would not at all have gone amiss. Perhaps the farmer could not afford brandy, considering the state of the brickwork surrounding the entryway. Who’d have guests with his smial in such an unfinished, untidy state?

Hilly, who’d been so dangerously ill, had not moved from the doorway after the door was pulled closed behind him. He stared in dismay at Tolly, feeling as if one of his fevered nightmares had become truth.

‘Hilly?’ Woodruff said, looking up, her eyes narrowing.

‘He’s... he’s...’ Hilly said, blinking, his breathing shallow. ‘He was taken before I was, and oughtn’t he to be sitting up, at least, by now? Why are you keeping him wrapped up so that he cannot move?’

‘It’s...’ Meadowsweet began, but Woodruff pulled herself to her feet, using Meadowsweet’s shoulder as a lever, and crossed to where Hilly stood. He flinched away as she reached for him. ‘You’re not fevering again, are you?’ she asked, her eyes intent.

‘I—I’m well,’ Hilly maintained, fending her away. ‘But Tolly,’ he said huskily, and gave a shallow cough. ‘I thought...’

‘We were called to fetch him home,’ Mardi said, and added, ‘Come, Hilly, sit yourself down at table before you fall down, and have yourself some tea to steady your nerves. Tolly’s ill, and would rest better in a bed, I’m thinking...’ He looked to Woodruff. ‘That’s why you called us, I take it? He’s been on the floor, here, since he was first taken? It’s no wonder he’s no better.’

‘No fires in the bedrooms,’ the farmer’s wife said apologetically, entering from one of the bedrooms where she’d been setting things to rights. ‘We thought he’d do better where we could keep him warm.’

‘You’ll hardly keep him warm in a waggon,’ Freddy said, his mouth full. Good bread, it was, fresh-baked. He wouldn’t mind staying here for a bit, at least until dinnertime, for if the bread was any indication, someone around here was a dab hand at cookery.

‘He’s the last to bring back to the Smials,’ Woodruff said. ‘Renilard was carried home this morning, after early breakfast.’ She smiled faintly. ‘He wanted to ride his pony, but the Thain wasn’t taking any chances of his chief hunter falling on his head.’

‘It was Renny’s wife who insisted,’ Meadowsweet said.

‘As any good wife would,’ Mardi said. ‘So, Sweetie, we’re to do the same for Tolly, eh? Carry him home where he may rest and recover in his own bed, in comfort?’

‘We’ve been very comfortable here,’ Meadowsweet said hastily, looking to the farmer’s wife in apology.

‘O aye,’ Freddy said, buttering another piece of bread. ‘I’m quite sure you have.’