The Floating Log

S.R. 1 Blotmath, 1388

The air caught a nip before they reached The Floating Log inn at Frogmorton, the halfway point on the road between the Brandywine River and Hobbiton.  Frodo was lagging behind, for it had been quite a journey trying to keep up with his uncle’s longer-legged pace.  Bilbo had not thought to slow down for the boy, and Frodo had nearly run the entire way to stay within earshot of the many facts and histories that were being told along the road.  In the cold he was no longer able to keep up.

“Come in, come in from that cold night wind, Mr. Bilbo,” welcomed the innkeeper warmly, for Bilbo was his most frequent guest.  “I thought you had said when you left here in early summer that you’d be back long before the first chill of Fall.  I was worried you might have gotten yourself into something.”

Bilbo laughed.  “And you were absolutely right to be concerned.  I got myself into something far crazier than you could ever imagine, Hap, old fellow.  I stopped at Brandy Hall.” 

“You didn’t get married, did you – like your cousin Drogo did?” pried Hap with an even merrier twinkle in his eye than usual.

“Oh, no, no, no – I did something even more outlandish.”  Bilbo reached behind him and produced Frodo.  “This is Frodo, son of Drogo,” he introduced proudly.  “He’s coming to stay with me this winter.”

Hap peered at all thirty-three inches of Frodo before whistling. “I dare say I would have never expected something like this from you.”  He studied the twenty-year-old again.  “Seems a bit peaked to me.  I think he’ll do with a nice hearty stew.”

Frodo’s huge eyes immediately expressed eagerness for stew.  Hap laughed.  “Your usual room won’t suffice for two, Mr. Bilbo.  I’ll give you the big one at the far end of the passage, instead.  Go get the stew from the missus, and tell her I said double for the young master. I’ll get the fire going and ready some soap and water for your clean-up.”

Frodo bowed low to him.  “Thank you kindly, good sir.”

Hap looked at Bilbo, impressed.  “He comes with proper manners, I see.  He definitely is a Baggins.”

“Quite right, he is,” Bilbo answered, hiding his relief that Frodo had at least been taught some etiquette at Brandy Hall.

*

Hap’s wife, Gladiola, took to Frodo the moment she set eyes on him.  After filling him with stew, thick molasses bread and fresh milk, she patted him on the head.  With an instant frown, she placed the back of her hand against his forehead.  “He’s feverish!” she pronounced with concern.  “You’ve walked him too hard in the cold wind.”

She went to her cupboards and, after careful thought, withdrew some herbs which she then ground.  “Here, now.  Put these in his bath water.  I’ll come to your room in a bit with a tea for him to drink before bed.”

A short while later she found her husband and guest in a hushed exchange at the end of the passage.  Hap gestured to her.  “We don’t think it was the wind that brought on the fever, Gladie,” he explained.  “The lad’s been whipped.  I took a look – you should, too.  The skin is dark red around the weal, and there’s a place that’s still seeping.  Mr. Bilbo estimates that the beating would have taken place 5 or 6 days ago, when Frodo had been caught stealing mushrooms.  He must have been too shamed to ask anyone to tend it.”

Gladie barreled past them and thrust the door wide.  Frodo was sitting wilted on one of the beds, engulfed in one of Bilbo’s clean shirts as pale in color as his face had become.  “Let’s see, boy,” she demanded, pushing the bulk of garment out of her way.  Frodo flopped like a limp fish.

Gladie turned to the two who had followed her back into the room.  “Yes, there’s infection that needs tending.  See these red streaks forming?  That’s a bad sign.”  She bustled past them, muttering about irresponsible young rascals and how they deserved as much as she went.  Frodo had lost her earlier favor.

She returned shortly, her arms laden with jars and bandages.  She took no care with rubbing the stinging ointments into the still sore wound.  Frodo winced but did not cry out.  When she was done she forced him awake long enough to drink the extra bitter tonic she had prepared him.  She then marched Hap and Bilbo out into the hallway with her.

“If he’s lucky, he’ll survive, the scalawag.  It’s worse than I’d like, I just hope we caught it in time.  Thieving!  Well, maybe this infirmity will teach him the lesson he needs in order to respect others’ property, even more than the whipping did.”

“Come now, Gladie,” her husband said.  “He’s just a lad.  Mushrooms do tempt the tongue, and for some tongues more than for others.”

“I appreciate your help, ma’am,” Bilbo interjected nervously, hoping to ease her disapproval.  “One of the reasons I’m taking Frodo to Hobbiton this winter is to see to it that he learns right from wrong.  He was referred to by several Bucklanders I overheard as being one of the worst young rascals of his generation, but I don’t think he is entirely to blame for it.  His parents have both been dead for these last eight years, and I’m afraid he has had to fend for himself more than he ought. 

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”  Gladie exclaimed, her demeanor taking a sharp about face.  “The poor lad!  Well, he’ll need to rest here a day or two at least, Mr. Bilbo.  I’ll be the one to tell you when you’ll be going back on the road again.  But I best be off below, for the crowd is assembling in the pub.  It should be quiet enough back here for him to sleep.  The poor dear…”

*

As great an appeal as it had, Bilbo elected not to join the jovial gathering of locals in the inn that evening.  He knew Gladiola would be watching and forming her opinions of him as a caretaker.   Instead he pulled another of his books from his pack and sat on the edge of Frodo’s bed, reading aloud in the faint candlelight.  The story was that of the birth of Ilmare, daughter of Manwe and Varda.  Bilbo read the lyrical elvish script in its original, interspersing it with translation into the common tongue.  Frodo’s fever still had its hold and he didn’t open his eyes once, but a wisp of a smile graced his lips throughout the recitation. 

*

TBC