Chapter 47. Fighting the Darkness

Freddy was halfway through his own breakfast when he looked up to see Frodo staring down at his untouched plate. ‘What’s the matter, cousin, would you like something else? I could call Mrs Cotton to—‘

’No,’ Frodo said, looking up. ‘I’m not very hungry, it seems.’

’Feverish? Liverish?’ Freddy said with concern. ‘It’s not like you to be off your feed.’ Frodo smiled faintly. He hadn’t dared to be off his feed, returning from the Quest, with Samwise watching him closely and Merry and Pippin ready to jolly him into eating more than he wanted whether he felt like eating or not.

’It’s not as if I’m about to waste away,’ Frodo said, then cursed himself for his incautious choice of words. Freddy looked at him quizzically. ‘I’m sorry, Freddy, I didn’t mean—‘

’No offence taken,’ Freddy said quietly. ‘It’ll do you no harm, I imagine, to miss one meal, but you were dizzy when you awakened. You ought to at least try to eat.’

Frodo did try, but laid his fork down after only a few bites. ‘I’m sorry, Freddy, I seem to be taking a page out of your own book. I truly cannot eat another bite. What I would really like is a nap.’

’Then you shall have it!’ Freddy said.

’Why don’t you seek your own bed?’ Frodo suggested. ‘You look exhausted.’

’That’s what I admire about you, cousin, the way you choose your words so carefully, always such an encouragement to a sick hobbit,’ Freddy said lightly.

’Go on with you,’ Frodo said, but he put a hand to his head while clasping the jewel with the other. ‘All I want is a bit of peace.’

’Very well, Frodo,’ Freddy said. He rose from the chair. ‘Call if you need anything.’

’I will,’ Frodo said, lying back on the pillows and putting his arm over his eyes.

’Miss Rose!’ Freddy called. Frodo seemed to be asleep already.

’Yes Mr Freddy,’ Rose said, poking her head in. She’d evidently been listening outside the door.

’You may clear away, lass,’ Freddy said. ‘Excellent victuals, my dear, but my cousin is more tired than hungry I fear. He spent a restless night,’ (this was not the exact truth, Frodo had lain as still as a stone, scarcely seeming to draw breath), ‘and I think he needs sleep more than food at the moment.’

’Yes Mr Freddy,’ Rose repeated, and swiftly gathered the dishes, cups, cutlery, jam pots, salt and pepper, teapot and other accoutrements onto the tray.

When she was gone, Freddy laid his hand over Frodo’s, still clasping the gem. ‘Peaceful dreams, cousin,’ he said. He shuddered suddenly, having a disquieting vision of a shrouded Frodo, his cousins taking their leave with the traditional words: May your dreams be all of peace, and then picking him up to carry him to the burial. Squeezing Frodo’s hand, he said firmly, ‘Sleep well, Frodo, and I shall see you at elevenses.’

Frodo sighed but seemed to smile in his sleep, and subtly reassured, Freddy made his way slowly to his own room, collapsing on the bed, asleep the instant after his head hit the pillow.

***

Frodo was still “off” to Freddy’s eyes for a good week afterward, though he always turned a cheerful face to the Cottons, knowing that Samwise would have an earful on his return if the Cottons thought anything was amiss. He ate well enough, laughed heartily, wrote a few more pages of the story, rode Strider to inspect progress on Bag End; in short, did all he’d done before the bad spell. Still, there was something Freddy couldn’t put his finger on...

A few days before Samwise was due to return, a letter came from Southfarthing for Freddy. Recognising the handwriting, he said to Frodo, ‘It’s my turn, now.’

’Lobelia’s written to you?’ Frodo said.

’First time since the Troubles,’ Freddy said. ‘I cannot imagine what she’d have to say to me of all people.’

’Open it and find out,’ Frodo suggested.

Freddy grinned at his cousin. ‘You’re dying of curiosity,’ he said cheerily. ‘Shall I stretch out the suspense?’

’I’ll be dying of old age,’ Frodo said, ‘if you keep me waiting any longer.’

Freddy laughed and opened the letter. His expression grew puzzled.

’What is it?’ Frodo asked.

‘She’s asking me to come and visit her,’ Freddy said. ‘Why? She never had much use for the Bolgers before. Was always trying to tell my father how to make the Quarry more profitable, and invariably scolding my mother and advising her how to bring us up properly. Of course my parents never listened to her nor heeded her advice and it drove her wild.’

’Perhaps she wishes to offer her advice at first hand,’ Frodo said.

’Undoubtedly,’ Freddy said.

’Are you going?’ Frodo asked.

‘Have I a choice?’ Freddy retorted. ‘From all accounts she saved my life.’ He made a sour face. ‘Of all the hobbits in the Shire, to be beholden to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins!’

Frodo laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.’

’Are you having a relapse?’ Freddy said acidly. ‘You sound delirious.’ He rose to find Farmer Cotton to make the travel arrangements. Although he was walking much more easily, he didn’t trust himself to ride a pony for that distance, and so Farmer Cotton borrowed a phaeton from a wealthy neighbour and arranged for Young Tom to drive Mr Freddy down to Hardbottle. He’d return home to Bywater and wait for a message to fetch him back again when the visit was done.

***  

Shortly after second breakfast on the Twenty-fifth of March, the day Sam was due to arrive home, a farm lad on a lathered pony rode into the Cottons’ yard. As the Cottons came from byre and barn to greet him, he shouted, ‘Mr Frodo Baggins! I’m lookin’ for Mr Frodo Baggins! Is he hereabouts?’

’He’s up Hobbiton-way, at Bag End,’ Farmer Cotton answered, shading his eyes. With the barest thanks, and no further word, the lad wheeled the pony and sent him at a smart pace back down the lane.

’What was that all about?’ Mrs Cotton said, wiping her hands on her apron as she came down the steps.

’I don’t know,’ Farmer Cotton admitted, scratching his head. ‘Too young for a quick post rider, and no horn, neither.’

’I’d’ve sworn that was Mr Pippin’s Socks he was riding,’ Nibs said. ‘Nick would know better, of course.’ That brother was off to the pony market that day, having left just after early breakfast was done.

’Grey ponies aren’t that common,’ Farmer Cotton agreed, ‘but I couldn’t imagine why a farm lad would be riding Mr Pippin’s pony, now, could you?’ The Cottons agreed it was a mystery, and that Mr Frodo would probably have a tale to tell them at supper, and then all scattered once again to their work.

Not long after, a waggon came down the lane at a good clip. Jolly was the first to identify the driver. ‘Samwise!’ he shouted. ‘Sam’s back!’

Sam pulled the pony to a stop and jumped down, hurry in every line of his body. He nodded to Farmer Cotton and said, ‘Mr Frodo needs to be off, and he wants me with him. Do you have a fresh pony I could ride?’

Farmer Cotton was a practical hobbit. ‘Nibs!’ he called. ‘Take the pony and waggon; Jolly, saddle Whitefoot, quick as you can!’ Both hopped to obey. Turning to Sam, Farmer Cotton said, ‘Do you have time for a bite?’

Sam shook his head. ‘Mr Frodo wanted to be off within the hour. I’m glad I stopped by Bag End first to check on the repairs before coming here or I’d’ve missed him.’

Turning from the kitchen window, Mrs Cotton said, ‘Rosie! He’s to be off again! Quick, girl, pack up a sack o' bread and cheese and some o' those dried-apple tarts you baked for tea yesterday! I’ll fill a water bottle.’

As Jolly was leading Whitefoot from the barn, Rosie ran down the steps, sack in hand. ‘Hullo and goodbye, Samwise,’ she said pertly, thrusting the sack at him. ‘It’s getting so I don’t know if you’re coming or going!’

’I’m sorry Rosie,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll hope to make it a longer visit next time.’

‘You do that!’ Rosie said. Sam fastened the sack to the saddle, mounted quickly, and turned the pony’s head towards the lane.

’Thanks!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll bring him back to you soon’s I can!’

‘Safe journey, and swift return!’ Farmer Cotton called back. Whitefoot, fresh from the field, was full of spirit and carried Samwise rapidly out of sight.

Just before elevenses, Mrs Cotton caught sight of a familiar figure walking down the lane. ‘Rosie!’ she cried. ‘Marigold’s on her way! P’rhaps she came to invite you to tea this day.’

’It’s my turn to invite her,’ Rose said, puzzled. ‘I wonder what she’s about...’ She hurried to change out of her old work-dress, suitable for scrubbing floors but not for receiving visitors. Coming down the steps, she felt her heart turn over. Marigold’s face was streaked with tears. Had something happened to Sam?

’Mari!’ she gasped, running up to her friend. ‘What’s happened?’ She was aware of her mother coming up behind, laying steadying hands on her shoulders, and her father and brothers crossing the yard.

’O Rosie,’ Marigold sobbed, ‘O it’s awful, just terrible news!’

’What is it, lass?’ Farmer Cotton said soberly, reaching them.

’It’s Captain Merry Brandybuck—he’s dying!’ Marigold said brokenly. At the shocked exclamations from the Cottons, she nodded, gulping back tears. ‘A farm lad came on Mr Pippin’s pony from Long Cleeve,’ she said. 'He rode through the night to fetch Mr Frodo to take leave of his cousin.'

’We saw him,’ Jolly said. 'What happened?' 

The girl could not answer. Grief washed over her anew and she buried her face in her apron. 'So bright,' she said brokenly. 'So bright and fair, singing as they rode...'

’Come in, lass,’ Farmer Cotton said, gently taking Marigold’s arm. ‘Come, sit down, have a cup o' tea. It won’t make the news any better, but it’ll help in the taking of it.’ Chores forgotten, they all walked silently up the steps and into the house, settling at the table while Mrs Cotton quickly made tea and Rose, numb with shock, set the cups around.

All the while, Marigold wept, wiping her eyes with her apron. As the tea was poured out, Farmer Cotton took her hand. ‘Now, Marigold, tell us. What’s happened to Mr Merry?’

’I heard the lad tell Mr Frodo,’ she said, trying to calm herself enough to speak. ‘He and Mr Pippin were racing their ponies acrost a field. Mr Merry’s pony—he stepped in a hole.’

The Cottons gasped. ‘Kilt outright?’ Farmer Cotton asked gravely.

’No, the pony broke a leg and had to be put down, and Mr Merry was badly hurt. Mr Pippin sent word that he was dying...’ Sobs overcame Marigold once more, and she covered her face with her apron once more.

Rose sank down on the bench, realisation sinking in. ‘Dying,’ she echoed in a whisper. ‘O Mum...’ All her annoyance with Mr Merry turned to grief as she dissolved in tears. She felt her mother’s arms envelop her and she clung tightly in return, weeping bitterly. ‘I never wished him so ill,’ she cried. ‘O Mum!’

’I know, my love, I know,’ Mrs Cotton murmured, rocking and soothing. There was really nothing else to be done. When Rose had calmed somewhat, her mother sent her to wash her face, and then told her to walk with Marigold back to the Gamgees. If Sam had gone with Mr Frodo, fresh news might reach Number Three before it came to the Cotton farm. If no news came by suppertime, Young Tom would fetch Rose back home.

There was no news, and the Cottons ate a silent supper. There was no singing during washing-up, and the farmer and his sons smoked in silence until it was time for them to take themselves off to bed.

The next day dragged on with no news as well. The Cottons kept themselves busy with all the necessary chores that are found on a farm, but still the hours seemed to creep by. After the noontide meal, Jolly rode up to Number Three to invite the Gamgees to tea.

The Gaffer, always one to look on the worst side of a matter, surprised everyone by saying, ‘It must be good news if Samwise is not back yet. Why, if Mr Merry had died yesterday, Sam would’ve been back here today!’ No one wanted to say what all were thinking, that Mr Merry might have lingered a day after the urgent summons, might be breathing his last at this very moment. They wouldn’t know, would they, until Sam returned.

Near the end of another long day, a messenger arrived at Number Three. Beyond all hope, Mr Merry had rallied and would be returning to Bag End with Mr Frodo to recuperate. They’d be bringing Mr Frodo’s furniture back with them from Crickhollow, and would the Gamgees kindly see to furnishing one of the bedrooms by procuring an extra bed and all the necessary trappings thereto, so that they could put Mr Merry right to bed when they arrived?

’Why wouldn’t he convalesce amongst his own?’ Rose said when Marigold brought the joyful news to the farm.

’Perhaps Mr Frodo figures he’d get more attention here,’ Mrs Cotton said briskly. ‘I’ve heard Brandy Hall is a regular warren!’ The others nodded sagely. They’d heard the same.

The Cottons loaded up their waggon with the contents of one of their guest rooms, featherbeds and all, and carted all off to Bag End. The smial still smelled of new paint, but opening all the windows wide to catch the spring breeze soon took care of that problem.

Word soon spread amongst the residents of the area that Mr Frodo was coming home to stay. A steady stream of hobbits presently made their way to Bag End, carrying various and sundry items. Within a day, the pantry was stuffed with good things and the smial was practically furnished. ‘I do hope there’s room for Mr Frodo’s things!’ Mrs Cotton remarked to Marigold as they hung the donated curtains at the windows.

’He only sent one waggonload off to Crickhollow, you know,’ Marigold answered. ‘It was just a small house, I understand. He left quite a bit behind, and of course...’ Of course, little if anything had been salvaged of what he'd sold with the smial to the Sackville-Bagginses. Mr Frodo would be bringing Mr Bilbo’s old desk and all of his books back, of course, but as far as furnishings went, it was just as well that the neighbours had been generous.

Nick was set to watch the Road on the day they expected the arrival. Sure enough, around teatime he came galloping up the Hill, shouting, ‘They’re coming! They’re on the way!’ Hobbits quickly gathered round, and as the waggon drove into the row they burst into song.

Rose hardly recognised Mr Merry, dressed as he was in ordinary attire and well wrapped up despite the warm spring day. Mr Frodo and Samwise helped him out of the waggon and into the smial, where they settled him in the parlour with a cup of tea whilst all hands set to unpacking the waggon. Mrs Cotton and Rose welcomed Mr Frodo home and then made their excuses; the work of a farm is never done, and the Cottons must return home to take care of the evening chores. Mr Frodo was touched by the warm wishes expressed in words and more tangible ways and could hardly speak for the gratitude that welled up in him.

What with the excitement and all, the Cottons missed teatime altogether. They had just finished the evening chores and were getting ready to sit down to their evening meal when Jolly looked out the window. ‘Put another plate on, Mum!’ he said. ‘Looks as if Samwise is coming to supper.’

Mrs Cotton hurried to set another place, but not before she looked Rosie over and told her to run a brush through her hair. Rose complied and was back at the table, trying to look composed, when Sam’s knock sounded on the door. He was welcomed in and sat down at the table, to be peppered by questions as soon as he’d finished his first plateful of Mrs Cotton’s good cooking.

Samwise explained how Mr Merry had been near death when he and Mr Frodo arrived at Long Cleeve, but somehow Mr Frodo had been able to call him back.

’Call him back?’ Farmer Cotton asked curiously.

Sam shook his head. ‘I cannot explain it,’ he said. ‘Mr Merry was lost in darkness, and Mr Frodo brought him back to the light, and that is all I can tell you about it.’ The Cottons continued their meal, digesting his words along with their meal. All remembered how Mr Freddy had suddenly started eating again after Mr Frodo had a talk with him.

‘Perhaps he’s going to study to become a healer,’ Jolly said.

’Why study?’ Nick countered. ‘Sounds as if he’s already healing folk.’ Sam made no further comment, simply tucked into his third helping with a thoughtful look.

After supper, Samwise invited Farmer Cotton to join him on the steps for a pipe. Sharp glances were exchanged amongst the Cottons at this, and the sons made sure they were busy elsewhere about the barn or house, in order not to throw Sam off his stride. Darkness was falling when Farmer Cotton re-entered the house.

’Samwise on his way back to Number Three?’ Mrs Cotton asked, hanging the dish towel on its peg.

’No, not quite yet,’ Farmer Cotton said. He walked over to stand behind Rose, who was hanging the last of the cups on their hooks. When she finished, he put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. She turned in surprise. ‘Rosie,’ he said. ‘Sam has something he’d like to say. He’s waiting on the steps.’

Mrs Cotton took a sharp breath, her hand at her heart, and the farmer crossed to his wife to put an arm around her waist. ‘Go on, Rosie. Don’t keep the hobbit waiting,’ he said.

Rose nodded and walked across the kitchen to the doorway, her heart pounding. Had the moment finally come? She took her shawl from its peg and threw it around her shoulders, then slipped out the door.