Chapter 3. Evil, Personified

Taking her dinner, Lobelia returned to Fredegar Bolger’s side. He was sleeping peacefully, she was glad to see. It was probably the first time in weeks that he had a blanket and a full belly. She sipped her swill and chewed her crust while considering her next move. She’d have to keep a close watch on the ruffians, she decided. They were not at all trustworthy, to her thinking.

Accordingly, she settled down just inside the doorway of Freddy’s cell and arranged herself comfortably, propped up against the wall with a clear view of the corridor. She’d see any ruffians coming in, especially since they apparently kept the torches burning at all times, day or night.

She dozed, finally.

Old hobbits are light sleepers, wakening easily at the smallest sound. In addition, they don’t seem to need much sleep at night, although the daytime naps might account for this. In any event, Lobelia was awakened by a soft footfall in the corridor outside.

Lifting her head, she saw the ruffian chief stop outside the cell opposite, duck inside, and emerge with a small figure in his arms. He walked softly down the corridor, heading inwards. Lobelia walked more softly behind him, umbrella at the ready. He stopped at the hole leading down to the next level, and she realised he was going to drop the limp hobbit into it.

’STOP!’ she shrieked, her voice echoing through the corridor. ‘IF you drop him, I’ll RUN you THROUGH!’ she continued, poking her umbrella into the tender part of his back, right about where one of his kidneys would be found.

He had nearly dropped young Robin Smallfoot anyhow in his shock, but he managed to keep hold of the hobbit tween, just barely.

’I will not even ASK what you think you are doing,’ Lobelia snarled, ‘for I have a very good idea. You were dumping a hobbit like refuse, when I can clearly see he still lives and breathes.’

The chief stood silently, still holding Robin, uncertain as to his course.

’I won’t tell anyone what I just witnessed,’ Lobelia said, ‘if you take him right back to his cell. I’d imagine even Sharkey would take a dim view of his prisoners disappearing down a hole when he’d not got his full measure of gloating in.’

The chief shot her a startled glance. The old biddy didn’t miss a thing, he gathered.

’That’s right,’ she said. ‘I know he keeps them here as pets, like dogs that he may come and kick whenever he likes. You have some ninety-seven hobbits here, I understand. He keeps count, you know. I’ve heard Him talk.’

The chief had no doubt that she had heard Sharkey talk about his captive hobbits. The Chief did come around on occasion, just as she said, visiting the creatures and taking pleasure in their wretchedness.

’Let this be a warning to you,’ Lobelia said. Meeting her stare, the thought occurred to the chief ruffian, and not for the first time, that Sharkey might have sent Lotho’s mum to the Lockholes in order to spy on the Men there. He’d better watch his step. Noticing his hesitation, she snapped, ‘Put him back!’

The chief ruffian nodded, admitting defeat, and returned Robin to his cell, Lobelia hobbling along behind him, umbrella handy.

Coming out of the cell again, he found Lobelia standing, umbrella at the ready. ‘Now how about those blankets?’ she snapped.

’Coming right up,’ he answered, and went to keep his promise.

***

The next morning, Lobelia bathed Fredegar’s hot face with more cool water, then decided to sponge his body for good measure. She pulled his shirt open and barely suppressed a gasp, seeing the festering wounds there from half-healed whip slashes. There was bruising, as well. He had evidently suffered more than one beating. The wounds would have to be cleaned or the infection would kill him. As gently as possible, she dabbed at the injuries, crooning softly whenever he winced at the touch.

His right hand, too, was worrisome, the fingers twisted and bent in ways fingers ought not to be. She used some of the rags to wrap the hand gently, giving the poor distorted fingers support, to keep them from catching on the blanket and causing him further pain. Even her gentlest ministrations were not gentle enough, wringing from him a moan, and tears came to her eyes.

She sniffed, and raised her head to see a ruffian in the doorway with a bucket.

‘Tea,’ he said uncertainly.

 ‘That had better be HOT,’ she retorted.

‘Yes’m,’ he said meekly, advancing into the room to fill both cups. Steam rose reassuringly from the bucket and the cups, and she grimly nodded thanks.

‘Here, lad,’ she said, holding one of the cups to Fredegar’s lips. ‘They call this “tea”. It’s hot, at least, so drink up.' She managed to get the whole cupful into him, and as he let his head fall back, he sighed.

‘There’s a lad,’ Lobelia said. ‘They tell me you gave the name “Sandy”, so that is what I’ll call you.’

‘My name is Number seventy-four,’ he whispered. Her eyes widened with horror; they’d taken away the hobbits’ names? Even the made-up name Fredegar had assumed, they’d taken that away and given him a number to call himself? Abominable!

‘Sandy,’ she said firmly.

He reached weakly to grasp her arm. ‘They’ll beat you,’ he said desperately. ‘My name is Number seventy-four.’ His worry for her was pathetic, and shattering. He wasn’t afraid of the consequences for himself, but beside himself that she would come to harm, for calling him by name, a proper hobbit name at any event, and not by a ridiculous number.

She snorted. ‘I’d like to see them try, the ninnies! Don’t you worry your fevered head about me, Sandy. You’d do better worrying about those louts of ruffians. Why, when I get through with them...’ She was completely and utterly disgusted with Sharkey and his Men, and she intended to give him a piece of her mind next time she saw him. Perhaps she’d give him a piece of her umbrella, as well.

However, Sharkey seemed to be busy about other things. It was some time before he came to gloat over his helpless prisoners, and Lobelia made good use of the time.

By dint of constant supervision and much badgering, Lobelia saw to it that each prisoner had a blanket and twice the food he’d been consuming previously. She moved from cell to cell with impunity, though most of the hobbits would not talk to her. She understood why when she’d been conversing quietly with a hobbit, and after leaving the cell and working her way down the corridor, she heard him cry out.

Racing unsteadily back to his cell with avenging fury lending speed to her feet, she found a ruffian administering a beating, snarling at the hobbit that he’d broken rule number twenty-six, about maintaining peace and quiet.

‘I’ll give you PEACE and QUIET!’ she shouted, applying her umbrella where it would do the most good. It did not take her long to drive the ruffian away. After that, she had a little talk with the chief, and the beatings stopped. She did have to promise, however, that the other hobbits would stay tight inside their cells, and not talk unless she were talking to them. These conditions being a great improvement over what had gone on previously, she conceded, for the nonce.

Fredegar Bolger was improving slowly. Lobelia held him and fed him, making sure he took all the food allotted him, and when she finished with him, she’d move to help another hobbit eat, and then another, any who did not have the strength to feed himself. She found herself spending much of her time with Fredegar, however, talking to him, trying to bring him back to full awareness.

He was opening his eyes more, these days, and responding to her talk, though he said very little himself, and still insisted that his name was “Number seventy-four”, despite all her efforts to get him to say otherwise. She didn’t know if he was still trying to protect her, or if he were truly deluded.

Then came the day that she was sitting on the floor of his cell, his head in her lap, coaxing him to eat of the bread she’d soaked in “soup”, and the light from the torches in the hallway dimmed. A chill seemed to surround her, and she looked up to see Sharkey standing in the doorway. He appeared as a kindly old man, grandfatherly, benevolent, but something unpleasant glinted from his black eyes and she stiffened. He spoke, and his Voice seemed to wrap itself around her, trying to take hold. ‘I’m told you do not care for the facilities here.’

She answered bravely, though her voice quavered with fear. ‘The food is abominable, not suitable for sustaining life, and your ruffians...’

‘The food is not intended to sustain life,’ his Voice said, amused, condescending, quite pleased at the opportunity to enlighten this creature, to make obvious to her the depth of wretchedness she could anticipate. He smiled kindly, shook his head gently, dismissing her as a naughty little hobbit lass, ungrateful to her generous and loving benefactor. ‘It is merely intended to prolong life, for a time, in the greatest misery possible. Death by slow starvation is exquisite torture, would you not say? And most suited to hobbits, in my opinion.’ Fredegar stirred in her arms. Her breath came short, her eyes were wide as she fought to throw off the spell woven by his words.

Her arms tightened about the hobbit she called “Sandy” as she sat tense and silent, enduring the scrutiny of the wizard’s intense gaze. Finally, the wizard released her from her thrall, smiled warmly, patted her head with his hand, and glided silently away. She sat stiff a moment more, then relaxed, bowed her head, and let fall the tears she had held back since her first sight of the Lockholes and the hobbits buried alive there.

When she found her voice again, all she said was, ‘Evil. Pure evil that one is. I pray he comes to a fitting end.’

She took a shaky breath, and then said in her normal tones, ‘Come now, lad, this bread is going wanting.’ She clenched and unclenched her fist until it stopped its trembling, picked up some sopping bread, and touched it to Fredegar’s lips. ‘Come, take another bite.’

After she’d finished feeding him, she laid him down, tucked the blanket carefully around him, and got up. She peered cautiously from the door, but there was no sign of the wizard. He was well gone, then, and good riddance. She emerged into the corridor, squaring her shoulders, resisting the urge to creep along the wall like a frightened mouse.

Lobelia visited several more prisoners, and then settled again by Fredegar’s side to eat her own supper. Some time after finishing, her head dropped onto her chest and she began to snore, though her hand kept a tight grip on her umbrella.

 Ruffians silently entered the cell, taking up the drugged hobbit, carrying her to an empty cell far down the corridor and laying her within. Lobelia didn’t waken at the sound of the hammer blows. When she did waken, hours later, still clutching her umbrella, she was at first confused, thinking the torches had gone out. She felt her way across the floor, not finding Fredegar as she’d expected. That was odd. She fetched up against a wall and felt her way along to a rounded corner. She kept going along a shorter span to another rounded corner. This was very odd indeed. She felt her way along another wall of smooth stone, to fetch up against the roughness of splintery wood. Feeling upwards and down, then side to side, she realised what had happened. Boards had been nailed across the entrance of this cell, a cell empty except for herself, not even food and water left to her. She was alone in the dark, and there was no way out.