In which Frodo makes a Mess

By MysteriousWay

"Frodo, would you care to explain to me what has happened here?" asked his mother, Primula, being careful to keep her voice calm. Frodo looked up at her. His blue eyes opened very wide. His brow was furrowed so that his eye brows were draw towards one another then curled up words over his nose. Dark grimy streaks were all over his face. His lips were pursed and pulled upwards on one side as he considered his predicament.

Frodo stood at the center of a scene of considerable destruction. There was an overturned chair. Paper strewn all over the room. The curtains for the window were now lying on the floor and mostly burned. His crayons and little wooden farm animals were scattered everywhere. His mothers good towels lay in a sodden sooty mess. There was a broken pitcher as well as a broken vase. water and what smelled like apple cider was everywhere. Even at the tender age of seven, Frodo knew things did not look good. "Well, Mum, it is kind of a long story."

"I can only imagine. Why don’t you share it with me. I would really like to know what has happened." Primula still managed to keep a tight reign on her temper.

"I could tell you as soon as I have tidied up in here. We could discuss it over a nice cup of tea." Frodo hoped that if he could put off explaining then surely his mother would forget the incident.

"That is kind of you to offer, Frodo, but I really think I would like that story now. Then you can clean things up."

Frodo sighed, "I was afraid you would say that."

Frodo hardly knew in what mysterious way things had ended up as they did. It all started earlier that morning when he sneezed. It was a cold rainy day. He sat at the table eating his porridge when he felt a sneeze come on. He had tried to surpress it knowing that with the weather being what it was and his mother being the worrisome sort she was, that there would be certain consequences for sneezing within her hearing. Suddenly his efforts failed him. An explosive sneeze burst out of him. His mother spun around from where she was washing up a few dishes. "Frodo, do you feel all right?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Maybe you are coming down with something. It would not surprise me with the weather being the way it is," she said as she rushed around to table put a hastily dried hand to his forehead. "I feel fine, Mum, honest." Frodo’s protest went unheard. "Hmm Well, you don’t feel feverish, but still it is better to be safe than sorry. I am keeping you indoors today. I will get you settled on the couch in the parlor. You can spend the day with your books or drawing pictures. You can do anything that is quiet and keeps you on that couch. Do I make myself clear?"

Frodo sighed, "Yes, Mum."

Half an hour later, Frodo found himself bundled in blankets and shawls, looking morosely out the parlor window at the steady cold rain that fell outside. He sighed. There was a small creek bed not far from their hole that was dry most of the time but today it would have a steady flow of water running through it. Perfect for having floating stick races. Frodo resigned himself to his fate. He picked up his picture book, a gift from his Uncle Bilbo. Frodo knew that the odd old Hobbit was actually his cousin rather than his uncle, but Frodo liked Bilbo a lot. He could not remember a time in his life when he didn’t. Of course at seven years of age, there wasn’t that much of Frodo’s life he could remember. Caring for Bilbo as he did, Frodo had taken it into his head to bestow the title of Uncle and Bilbo had accepted, taking pleasure in doing his best to spoil his young "nephew". On his last visit to Buckland, Uncle Bilbo had brought Frodo a picture book. It was one of Bilbo’s own tales. He had gone to the trouble of writing it all down then drawing some pictures to go with the appropriate descriptive passages. The little book had a red leather cover. Bilbo had a fondness for books bound in red leather.

After about an hour the rain let up. Frodo started to feel restless. He tried to think of ways he could convince his Mother that he was well enough to go out to play but no stunning arguments came to mind. He was just starting to resign himself to spending the day where he was when his mother stepped into the room. "How are you feeling, dear?" asked Primula while putting a hand to Frodo’s forehead.

"I feel fine, Mum, may I please go outside?" Frodo looked up at his mother with large blue imploring eyes.

"Don’t look at me like that, Frodo, that will not work this time."

"Sorry Mum."

"You know I am keeping you in for your own good. If I let you go out now you would likely get far sicker than you are. Do you remember how miserable you were with your last cold?"

Frodo sighed, "Yes, I suppose I do."

"Now that the rain has let up I need to go do a bit of shopping. I am going to trust that you can stay, here on the couch, by yourself. Be a good boy and I will bring you back a treat."

Frodo’s face lit up, "Will you bring me some of Mrs. Thistle’s toffees?"

"I will if you behave," Primula smiled.

"Oh I will, I promise."

"Very well. I will not be away more than an hour."

Frodo watched with mild sadness as his mother left for her errand. He stared out the window for a few minutes more then tried to settle back into his book. A couple of minutes later he tossed that aside. His mother had left his crayons and paper on a small table next to him. He picked those up then started to scribble. This too only lasted a short while. I really do not want to be on this couch anymore, he thought to himself. After a brief moments consideration he decided to go off to his room to get his little set of farm animals. Once more in the parlor he arranged them on a small foot stool. He picked up his crayons and paper then proceeded to start drawing portraits of his animal. Usually Frodo was quit good at drawing animals, well, good for a seven year old boy. At the very least a person could always identify an animal by it’s tale since Frodo was careful in his details of that aspect of the animals. However today, all Frodo really wanted was to go outside so drawing portraits did not really keep his attention for long. After fifteen minutes all he had to show for his efforts was a scattering of pages across the floor each marked up with image of oblong shapes with stick like appendages. Each of them was only half done with no sign of a tail to identify it.

Frodo decided to go to his room once more, in search of a new entertainment. He left his scattered drawings where they were and the farm animals as well. When he came back he was clutching his favorite walking stick in one hand and a slab of apple cake in the other. On the way to his room he had passed through the kitchen after having decided he was rather hungry. Back in the parlor he settled down on the floor. Munching contentedly on his cake he pretended that the fire in the hearth was a pond and his walking stick a fishing pole. He held his "fishing pole" over the "water". Oblivious to the disarray of abandoned blankets scattered on the couch and floor or his book that had fallen to the floor, open and face down. He ignored the little wooden animals that he had absently scattered on his way back with the stick and cake, the drawings that had managed to get themselves spread even further about the room, and his spilled basket of crayons. Frodo got so caught up in his fishing day dream he did not notice that his stick had been lowered into the flames of the fire until the tip of the stick itself suddenly flared up. Frodo quickly pulled the stick out of the fire. He looked in awe at the single flame that danced merrily at the end of it.

Frodo waved his burning stick around, the flame held fast. Frodo stood up to walk about the room, imagining he was in some dark cave searching out trolls with only the light of his torch to guide him. He didn’t notice the tumble mass of blanket on the floor until he tripped on it, falling forward onto the couch. Frodo pushed himself back up. He looked around for his burning stick. It had flown out of his hand when he fell. He found it on the floor, still burning, but now the window drapes were burning as well. Frodo walked over then gingerly he picked up the stick. He watched in fear and amazement as flames started to steadily spread across the deep red fabric. Nervously he started to step away, his mind frantically searching for the proper way to manage the current predicament. Suddenly there was a loud crash. Frodo yelped then turned to see that a vase of flowers was now nothing more than broken shards in a large puddle of water accented by a few sodden flowers. Frodo could only watch in shock as some of the water crept across the stone floor towards the steadily burning curtains.

Water

Fire

Water

Fire

Water and Fire

Almost before a full coherent thought could form in his head Frodo went into a flurry of motion. He ran to the side of the window where the drapes hung unharmed and started to pull with all his might. There was a sound of ripping but the drapes stayed where they were. Frodo spotted a wooden chair against the wall nearby. It was not a heavy chair, Frodo was able to quickly push it over to the window. He climbed up to stand on the seat of the chair took a hold of the drapes then kicked the chair out from beneath him. He was now swinging freely from the rich fabric. The next moment Frodo was falling to the floor with drapes and drapery rod falling down on top of him. Frodo quickly scrambled out from beneath the mass to look over at the side that had been burning. The burning drapes had fallen mostly into the puddle of spilled water but this was not enough to soak the drapes and put out the flames. Frodo quickly ran to the kitchen grabbed a pitcher that sat on the table, unsure of what was in it. He ran back to the parlor and dumped the contents onto the remains of the burning drapes. Soon the room was filled with the aroma of scorched apple cider but much to Frodo’s relief the fire appeared to be out.

Frodo’s shoulders slumped with relief. He was feeling rather proud of his quick thinking in putting out the fire. As he surveyed the scene before him, he at last became aware of the scene of destruction around him. "Mum and Da are going to be very angry about this," he said to himself. He sighed deeply then went to where his mother kept the linens, gathered some towels then went back to the parlor to start tidying up the mess. He was just getting a start at it when he heard to front door open announcing the return of his mother.

Author’s Note—Some of you may feel that my use of crayons may be too modern. I can assure you that this is not the case. Pigments blended with wax to form what we call a crayon have been around for a very long time. I have read references to the drawing medium in stories that were written in the 1700s. By definition a crayon is any drawing medium in stick form. There for it can be charcoal, chalk, oil pastel, pastel, or wax crayon.