QUARANTINED

Chapter 17 --- A Slippery Slope

S.R. 1391, September 26

“What’s a ‘scamp’?”

“That’s someone who’s playful or full of mischief,” explained Aragorn.

“Oh.”  Frodo stooped to pick up a bright red feather.  “I was afraid to get into any mischief when Bilbo brought me to live with him.  I didn’t really believe he’d take me back, or anything, but… well, I wasn’t entirely certain about it, either.”

“What happened?”

“I think he figured out what I was afraid of.  After a couple of days, he sat me down and we had the best talk.  We talked about so many things, I can’t even remember all of it.”  Frodo looked up at Aragorn with a smile.  “Bilbo even said that if I couldn’t remember how to play and have fun, he’d have to let the Dwarves raise me.  He said they knew a thing or two about mischief.”

Aragorn looked puzzled.  “Do they?”

“Bilbo loves to tease,” continued Frodo. “but it’s never bad teasing --- he’s always trying to make me smile, or help me to stop being too serious or scared.”  He started to laugh.  “Bilbo’s so playful, maybe he’s the scamp.  And there would be hardly any mischief at Bag End if not for the trolls, you know.”  He ran to the base of a tree to pick up a blue feather.

“Ah, the trolls again.”

“That’s right,” Frodo grinned.  “There are an awful lot of trolls at Bag End!”

Aragorn walked slowly along the trail, listening, while Frodo shared bits of his life at Bag End.  Bilbo’s doing a fine job with this boy, he thought.  He’s giving Frodo every opportunity to experience a bit of carefree childhood that might otherwise have been lost forever --- treasure hunts and endless questions and games, and permission for a bit of mischief here and there.  The joke Frodo and Bilbo shared, about trolls causing all the mess and mischief at home, was something Frodo obviously cherished.

Frodo’s childhood has been late in coming, but better late than never.  Adult responsibilities will arrive soon enough.

Frodo spun around and around, breathing in the green, woodsy smells.  “I wish Hobbiton had a forest like this.  It would be… oh!”

The quiet trail had bent sharply to the right, a beautiful pond suddenly appearing in front of them.  It seemed perfectly round, and bowl-shaped.  From the top of the bank where Frodo and Aragorn now stood, the ground sloped down steeply for perhaps 20 feet, until reaching the water itself.

“Step carefully,” warned Aragorn.  “This long grass here at the top is very slippery.”

“Slippery for you, maybe,” Frodo grinned.  “A hobbit foot would never slip on this.”  He sat down at the very edge, and looked down into the water.

“Now that you mention it, I haven’t had a good look at these,” said Aragorn, sitting down and grasping one of Frodo’s feet.  He examined it carefully, then looked into the boy’s eyes.

“I don’t suppose hobbit feet are ticklish?  Perhaps here on the top?”

Frodo gasped and wrenched his foot away.

“There’s my answer,” chuckled the Ranger.

“This is smaller than Bywater Pond, but a lot prettier,” said Frodo.  The quickening breeze made tiny ripples all across the water.

“I haven’t been to Bywater.”

“Such a silly name,” Frodo sighed.  “The stream that runs through Hobbiton is called The Water, and so the little town near us is called Bywater --- you know, “by The Water.”  He sighed again.  “I suppose hobbits don’t have much imagination.”

“I wouldn’t say that.  What will you do with all the feathers?”

”I want to make something for Sam.  An eagle, maybe, or a dragon.”  Frodo got a dreamy look in his eyes.  “Can you imagine how big a real eagle feather would be?”

Aragorn chuckled.  “There’s nothing wrong with your imagination, little one.”  He pointed across the water.  “Far to the north, Frodo, are ice fields.  Miles and miles of ice.”

“Just ice?”

“That’s right,” said Aragorn.  “Water from the melted ice runs underground for many miles, and there are a few places where it surfaces far from its home.  This pond is one of them; the water here is extremely cold.  A lake north of the Shire is another such place --- I have just come from there.  There are only a few lakes or seas in Middle-earth that are larger.”

“Is it bigger than Long Lake?  Bilbo’s been there, you know.”

“I believe it is.”

“I’ll have to find it on Bilbo’s map,” said Frodo.  “Oh, look --- I see fish!”

“Do you fish?”

“Not since…” Frodo sighed.  “I used to fish with my father.”

“I’m sorry to bring up a sad memory.  Are you uncomfortable being near the water like this?”

“No.” Frodo tossed a small rock into the clear water and watched it hit the bottom of the pond and sink into the thick, silty mud.  “I used to go swimming all the time, in Buckland.”  He looked up at Aragorn.  “Would you tell me… about your father?”

“I wish I could,” said Aragorn softly.  “He was killed when I was two.  I don’t really remember him.”

Frodo didn’t say anything, but he scooted closer to Aragorn and leaned against him.  The two friends sat for awhile, watching the fish and talking quietly, until a sudden gust of wind sent a variety of leaves and small, dead branches raining down on them.

“Ow!” Frodo rubbed his head.

“Come, let’s go back,” said Aragorn.  “Bilbo might need help keeping the camp from blowing away.  And I have no doubt…” he motioned to Frodo’s bag, grinning, “…that even though you’ve been snacking, you’re starting to get hungry for dinner.”  He started to get to his feet.  Just then, there was another, stronger gust, a sudden, sharp crack, and Aragorn felt something hard suddenly slam into his back. Stumbling forward, he lost his footing in the slippery grass and was thrown outwards and down, hitting the shallow water with a splash.

Aragorn had known that Bindbale Pond was cold, but he hadn’t realized just how cold it was.  The shock of hitting the icy water knocked the breath out of him for a moment.  He surfaced and stood up, his boots sinking into the thick, muddy bottom.

“Are you all right?”  Frodo stood at the top of the bank, his eyes wide and frightened.  He had watched, helplessly, as the thick, heavy branch missed him by inches and hit Aragorn, catapulting him into the water 20 feet below.

“Yes,” yelled Aragorn.  He tried to lift his left foot out of the mud, but the action served only to drive his right foot deeper.  The water level, which had been below his waist when he stood up, rose to his chest as he sank further into the bottom of the pond.

“Can’t you get out?”

Aragorn tried once more to lift his feet, but only succeeded in sinking a few inches more.  He reached down, with the thought of unlacing his boots, but the mud had swallowed them completely.  He was stuck.  He swiftly looked around him, but there was nothing to grab onto.

“Frodo,” yelled Aragorn, “It will be all right --- the mud is just very thick, and I can’t pull my feet out.  Run back to camp and find the rope that’s near my pack.  Tell Bilbo what’s happened.”

“I’ll be right back!”  With one last, frightened look at the Ranger, Frodo disappeared into the trees, running back up the trail towards their camp.

As the minutes passed, the cold water began to feel like needles penetrating Aragorn’s skin, and he realized that his back hurt where he had been struck.  It occurred to him that even three hobbits together might not be strong enough to pull him free; and as numb as his hands were becoming, even if they tied the rope to a tree and threw him the other end, by that time, he might not be able to pull himself free, either.

“Bilbo!”

Bilbo turned swiftly at Frodo’s shrill scream.  The boy burst through the trees and into his uncle’s arms, gasping for breath and white as a sheet.

“What is it?”  Bilbo grabbed the boy and looked down the trail.  “Where’s Estel?”

“He’s… stuck,” Frodo gasped.  “The wind… this branch… he was knocked into the pond, and it’s… it’s freezing, Bilbo!  The mud is sucking him under and… he’s stuck!”  Frodo’s eyes were wild with fear.  “Bilbo, he might drown!  Where’s the rope?”  The boy looked wildly about, then ran to Aragorn’s pack and tried to lift the heavy coil of rope.  Sam, wide-eyed, ran over to help him.

Bilbo thought swiftly.  Pulling a Man out of the mud… it would take more than… they needed… 

“Samwise!”  Bilbo said urgently.  “Can you make that horse obey you?  Will he come with us?”

Sam stared at Bilbo, then at Arthad.  “I can try, Mr. Bilbo.”

“Frodo, grab the end of that rope, tie a loose knot in it, and come here.”  Bilbo walked over to Arthad and stooped down.  “Get up on my shoulders, lad.  I need you to loop the end of the rope to the saddle.”

Frodo raced over to Bilbo and got on the old hobbit’s shoulders.  Bilbo slowly stood up, and Frodo, using the horse’s side to brace himself, stood up as well.  Sam stood in front of Arthad, calming him and keeping him still, as Frodo reached up as high as he could and looped the kotted end of the rope over a protruding part of the saddle.

“Got it!” Frodo yelled.  Slowly, Bilbo bent down and Frodo hopped off his shoulders.

“Good job, lads,” said Bilbo.  “Frodo, you and I will carry the rest of the rope, and Sam, see if you can make this animal understand that he must come with us.”

“He’s comin’, Mr. Bilbo,” said Sam.  He had caught hold of the dangling reins, and was urging Arthad forward.  The horse seemed to sense the panic that surrounded him, and that he was needed elsewhere.  He willingly followed the tiny hobbit into the trees, trailing the rope behind him.  Sam spoke softly and encouragingly to him.  “That’s it, Ollie.  You’re so smart --- you know Mr. Estel’s in trouble, don’t you?”  And indeed, that seemed to be the case.

As he and Frodo held onto the coil of rope and followed Sam and the horse, Bilbo was thinking as fast as he ever had.  Arthad could pull Aragorn free, he was sure of it --- as long as the Ranger wasn’t so chilled that he couldn’t hang onto the rope.  And if he couldn’t?  Frodo’s the only one of us who can swim… no, he said the water’s freezing… we’ll think of something.  And once Aragorn’s safe… he’ll need to be warmed… something hot to drink… we’ve used most of the firewood… this wind will chill him faster…

“Bilbo,” Frodo moaned, “we have to hurry.”

“Run ahead, lad, and tell him we’re on our way,” Bilbo urged him.

“It’s not far,” Frodo said.  “The trail bends just up ahead, and the pond is right there.”  With that, he raced off, and Bilbo, Sam, and Arthad followed as quickly as they could.

All at once, Bilbo was struck by another, grimmer thought.  If anything happened to Aragorn… if Frodo had to face the drowning of someone else he cared about… “I’ll not let it happen, Frodo-lad,” he murmured to himself.  “I’ll not let it happen to you again.”

** TBC **