Chapter Three: Taking Stock

Inside the carriage, the air was thick and the light shady, the passing countryside hidden behind the winter-weight curtains and the sound of the ponies’ hooves just a distant rhythm. Pippin leaned against the carriage wall and watched Faramir sleep on the seat opposite him. It was not a large carriage, only intended to carry three or four hobbits at most. Still, lying full-length, young Faramir’s feet did not even touch the other end of the narrow bench.

Pippin felt a swell of emotion in his throat at the sight. His son. So like him. So desperately like him. And yet, a complete mystery to him. When he had first held his babe in his arms, Pippin had recognized his own features and he decided that parenthood would be far easier than anyone had ever made it out to be—why, all you had to do was deal with a small version of yourself, and that would certainly not be too difficult a trial.

But, oh, looks were deceiving.

Beneath those messy curls, behind those gray-green eyes, there lurked a very different little hobbit, one with his own thoughts, own behaviors and—most off-putting—his own sense of humor. Pippin was often startled by the unexpected giggling of his son when there didn’t appear to be anything very funny and when he asked him to share the joke, the lad would merely shrug and disappear behind his stolen Peregrin Took smile. And when Pippin expected his son to laugh? When he quipped clever to the boy or told an amusing story? Well, there were times when one could believe the little Took had not a drop of mirth within his veins.

The carriage hit a bump and Faramir shifted uncomfortably and woke. He frowned at the bit of sunlight allowed by the curtains and attempted to reposition himself more comfortably.

"You may come sit on my side, if you like," Pippin said sympathetically, "it’s less bumpy."

"Is that because you’re nearer to the ponies?" Faramir asked as he rubbed his eyes and moved across to the other bench.

"Well, yes, that and the fact that Merry is sitting just the other side of this wall. He weights the bench down quite a bit."

As expected, there was no laugh from Faramir. He only nodded and snuggled tight against his father. Pippin responded by pulling him closer and burying his chin in the lad’s fine curls. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the scent of soap and hobbit-child and the feeling of that tiny heart beating strong against his side. He had felt that heart beat against him the entire time that they rode from Whitwell to Frogmorton. It had kept him riding, long after everything else seemed to tell him to turn back.

‘As strange as you are to me,’ he thought, ‘I shall never leave you to battle anything alone.’
~~~~

After what felt like ages but was likely only a few hours, Pippin noticed that the carriage had slowed down a great deal and the ponies’ hooves seemed to have taken up a more halting rhythm. He poked his hand out of the window to where Merry sat driving the ponies and tapped him on the shoulder.

Merry jumped slightly, having been lost in contemplation. He brought the ponies to a halt and ducked his head inside the curtain. "What is it?"

"Why have we slowed?"

"We’re on the outskirts of Stock. I’m looking for the cut-off for Opal Frogmorton’s. It’s not a very big road, from what I recall."

"Oh. Well, I’m sure you’ll find it, Merry."

"Yes, I’m sure I will," Merry muttered, letting the curtain drop back down. But then his mood shifted and he decided to make a bit of conversation while he had the chance, as he’d been sitting in silence the entire drive, though he refrained from putting his head through the small window again. As long as the ponies were standing still, they could talk just as well through the canvas. "Pippin?"

"Yes?"

"Whose pony is this?"

"Which one?"

"The gray, silly. I know that the tan is mine."

"Oh, that’s Pervinca’s."

"What happened to yours?" Merry smiled, thinking of his cousin’s handsome pony (which Pippin had years ago named "Sam" in a fit of self-amusement).

"Oh, he’s fine enough, I suppose. He’s at the stable in Whitwell. I couldn’t very well go riding him across the West Farthing and expect to not be recognized. Everyone knows Sam."
Merry thought this was an unusual bit of responsible foresight and decided not to question it further, lest he find that it was not actually Pippin’s idea. He couldn’t deal with his opinion of his cousin dropping any lower than it already had today.

"We should be there soon," he said instead, after some hesitation.

When Pippin made no reply, Merry waited for a moment longer, uncertain, then poked his head through the curtain to see what was the matter. He was alarmed at the stricken terror on his cousin’s face. "What’s the matter?"

"Do you think he’ll be all right, Merry?" Pippin whispered, nodding down at the boy in his lap. "He’s been sleeping an awful lot."

Merry hesitated. Now was not the time, he supposed, to be completely honest and tell him how very likely it was the odds would not be in their favor. But he didn’t want to instill false hope, either.

"Well…to be fair, Pip, it has been a tedious journey for him. He hasn’t got much else to do but sleep. He’s just a young thing. You can’t expect too much of him."

Pippin nodded grimly then looked away. Merry took this as the end of the conversation and so he allowed the curtain to drop back once more and for good. He resumed driving the ponies down the narrow stretch of lane, but his thoughts had been shaken up and they remained so for the duration.
~~~~

Opal Frogmorton lived in a sensible middle-class hobbit house and on a respectably-sized piece of property at the end of a very reputable lane. A sign hung on her gate and read in neat, plain letters: Opal Frogmorton, Healer.

Merry hopped from the carriage and approached the house first, leaving Pippin and Faramir still concealed inside. He returned quickly, though, Opal Frogmorton bustling at his heels, speaking briskly in a voice that sounded to Farmir very much like a chicken clucking.

"Come, come, now, come on inside. No use hidin’ in there. If you’re worried about the neighbors, you shouldn’t be. They’re on holiday in the South Farthing. Won’t be back till a week from Tuesday. No one here to see ye, now hurry up and come on. I haven’t got all day and I’d like to have some tea first."

At the mention of tea, Faramir cheered visibly. He had been leery about this mysterious friend of Uncle Merry’s, but all hesitation dropped away at the prospect of biscuits and sandwiches. Even the sight of the word "healer" marked on the gate did not discourage him. Breakfast seemed an awful long time ago and his tummy felt on the verge of turning inside out in protest. He jumped down from the carriage, not even bothering to take Merry’s offered hand of help.

"Hallo!" He said brightly.

Opal hesitated for a moment when she saw the lad move to greet her. She wasn’t sure why, exactly, but sight of this little hobbit unnerved her. It wasn’t that she had been expecting anything in particular…he was just certainly not what she might have imagined, had she been the sort of hobbit that imagined things (which she wasn’t, of course).

"Aye, so you’re the Thain’s son?" She questioned.

"Aye." He nodded.

"Opal Frogmorton." She held her hand out, then added as an afterthought, "At your service, young sir."

"And yours as well." Faramir smiled brightly, forgetting to add his own name, as his Grandmother had taught him. "Are we to have tea with you?"

Opal felt her heart warm slightly. She was surprised to find that she had been intimidated—that adult manner in that impish face—but was no longer. The boy was charming in a way she didn’t usually find children. "If that’s what you would like."

"Oh, yes, I’d like that very much." He had accepted her hand, but had not yet released it. This proved useful as Opal turned and led the way into the house and Faramir trotted happily beside her.

Pippin remained standing in the carriage, having witnessed the scene in astonishment. "Why, Merry, she didn’t even say hello to me."

Merry grinned, his amusement fed by Pippin’s perturbed expression.

"It’s time to face it, Pip. You’re last year’s plow. Can’t compete with the newer model."

Pippin was at a loss for a reply as he frowned and followed Merry into the house.
~~~~

"Goodness, Farry, you act as if you’ve never tasted sugar cake before," Pippin admonished as the lad helped himself to the last of the spread. Faramir had out-eaten all of his elders combined, a remarkable feat even by hobbit standards and the three now watched him with various expressions: Pippin concerned, Merry surprised and Opal merely amused.

"Is there anything else I can get ye, love?" she asked sweetly.

Faramir swallowed the last bite of cake and gazed at the dishes and trays that covered the table, formerly full of all sorts of breads and fruits and cheese and sweets, now adorned only with crumbs. He sighed contentedly.

"No. I think that is all right."

"Good," she nodded, rising, "Then go wash up while I clean up and if Master and Thain here will kindly find some other sort of amusement for themselves, I think we can get on with the business that you came for."

Merry and Pippin took the hint and removed to the sitting area near the hearth. They took out their pipes and began to smoke. They did not speak, though, keeping their attention firmly focused on the other end of the room.

Faramir finished at the basin and returned to the table, just as Opal put the last plate in the dishpan.

"Are your feet clean?" She asked him, hands on her hips.

He hopped on one leg at a time, displaying the bottom of each foot.

"All right, then, up you go." Taking him up firmly under the arms, Opal lifted the lad and placed him on top of the table.

Then, nose to nose with him, she pursed her lips and began her examination, saying very little as her keen healer’s eyes took in every detail and made mental note. Eyes: clear, lively, green. Nose: clear as well, quite pointed. Ears: sharp, remarkably clean. Teeth: well cared for, all still first-set save for one rather recent-looking gap.

"Did ye lose a tooth, Master Took?"

"I knocked it out playing round ball," he replied, "But Da said it was all right because it was only a first-set tooth and that you’re meant to lose all of them anyway because you have to make room for your next-set teeth."

"Did ye bury it, then? It’s bad luck not to, you know."

Faramir nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes! Da and I, we took it back behind the old stable on the west—"

"Shush, now, don’t be telling me where you buried it. That’s even worse luck."

"Is it?!"

"It is."

"Oh." Faramir closed his mouth tight then, fearful that something else unlucky might slip out of it.

"Ah-ha!" Opal said gravely then, taking hold of his hand.

"What?" he squeaked.

"You haven’t been eating your vegetables Master Took."

"Just, just…carrots…how did you know?"

"See this?" she asked, pointing to small flecks of white in the flats of his fingernails "That tells the whole world straight-out that you haven’t been eating your carrots."

Faramir gasped and peered at the marks. "What should I do?"

"Why, eat your carrots!" Then Opal sighed and continued on with her examination, muttering to herself: "’S a shame. A nice little gentlehobbit like yourself…"

Merry watched along with Pippin. Though neither said a word, a feeling of dismay was growing between them as it seemed Miss Frogmorton was giving the lad nothing more than a standard examination, the sort healthy young hobbits got from time to time. But hadn’t they traveled all this way for something more than that?

Merry said nothing as she checked the lad’s lungs and breathing—that seemed more to the point—but then when she had him hop down from the table and put his back to the wall for height-measuring, he sat his shoulders forward uncomfortably. He could feel Pippin’s irritation growing beside him.

Opal grimaced slightly as she ticked off a mark on the un-plastered portion of the wall.

"How old are ye, lad?"

"I’m eight!"

"Eight? Are you sure about that?"

"Yes."

"Is that true?" she addressed Pippin then, "Is he eight years old?"

Pippin was rather startled. "Erm, yes, he is. Just had his birthday last month."

"Hmmm." Was all she said in reply. She began to dust her hands off, prepared to move onto the next part of the exam, but Faramir interrupted her.

"What’s the matter with how old I am?"

The healer hesitated, then she drew up her chair and sat so that she was eye to eye with the boy.

"You’re small," she said plainly, "though I suppose you know that already."
Faramir did know that. It had been made painfully clear to him at his birthday party when Auntie Pearl’s daughters had all found it amusing that their cousin Lolly Banks, despite being a year younger and a lass to boot, stood several inches taller than the Thain’s heir. The memory alone still made his ears hot.

And yet, somehow hearing this from Opal Frogmorton, it didn’t seem such a mean thing. It didn’t hurt when she said it like that.

"What should I do?" he asked.

Opal smiled. "You can start by making sure you eat your carrots."

The two smiled at each other and it would appear to anyone watching that they had just shared a precious secret without even speaking.

At that moment, however, Pippin lost his patience. He stood up from his chair and muttered so that only Merry heard "I didn’t come all this way for her to tell him that he’s small."
Before Merry could stop him, he had stormed the length of the great room and was standing beside the healer’s chair, glaring down at the hobbitess with a grim expression seldom seen.

"May I ask what you think you’re doing?!" he demanded.

She glared back at him. "I might ask of you the same, Master Took."

Merry reached them then and pulled Pippin back slightly, to his visible annoyance. "Please pardon him, Mistress Frogmorton. He’s just…well, we’re rather impatient to find out if…if our lad here is…infected."

She sighed and folded her hands in her lap. "Do you see the rash?"

"What rash?" Merry and Pippin asked in unison.

"The rash on his face. Do you see it?"

They turned to look at Faramir then and were met with nothing more than the pale face of a lad with enormous, frightened eyes.

"He hasn’t got a rash." Merry said quietly.

"Mmm, exactly." Opal sighed. "Do you see the pock-marks? The little bumps that go with the rash that everyone with the pox is known to get?"

"No."

"Well, then, since he hasn’t got the face-rash and he hasn’t got the pock-marks and he hasn’t got a fever and he hasn’t got a sore throat and he hasn’t lost his appetite nor his wits, then I’d venture to say that he hasn’t got the pox. But," she continued, climbing to her feet and putting her hands to her hips, lecture-fashion, "since you came all this way and are payin’ me for an examination, an examination is what I’ll give ye. And if I can’t very well do an examination for pox if it isn’t there to find, I’ll do an examination for whatever there is there to find. But if you’d rather pay me for no job done, I suppose that is your business and I’ll not be arguing with the mighty Thain O’ the Shire and the Master."

A grin crept across Pippin’s face and he collapsed into Opal’s vacated chair with relief. Merry kept on task, though, setting this small victory aside for the moment.

"But even if he hasn’t got it," he ventured cautiously, "is there still a chance…could he be carrying it? Could he give it to other hobbits even if he isn’t infected himself?"

"Well, if you’ll kindly settle down and let me examine the two of you, I might be able to give ye a studied answer."

Both Merry and Pippin opened their mouths to speak, but Faramir beat them to it.

"Will they have to stand on the table?" He asked, looking quite excited by the prospect.

"We’d probably have more luck if I was standin’ on the table, but I suppose I’ll just have to do my best with them right here on the ground and me standin’ on my toes to reach. Now then, who’ll be first?"

The examinations went quickly, as there was little wrong to find, though Opal could not refrain from at least a few constructive comments.

She picked up one of Pippin’s hands and glanced over his fingernails, finding them clear, if a tad grimy.

"I’m rather fond of carrots," he grinned saucily.

"And potatoes as well, I see," She tsked, examining his ears. "You ought to take a page from your son. You show him how to eat his carrots and he’ll show you how to keep your ears clean."

Merry bit his lip and Faramir giggled openly, clamping a hand over his mouth when his father shot him a mock-stern look.

When she moved on to Merry, he couldn’t help but smile proudly. He was the picture of hobbit health and had carefully cleaned his ears and fingernails just that morning. He’d like to see what she could find the matter with him.

"Well," she sniffed at last, "The Mistress keeps you well enough, it seems, though I dare say it wouldn’t hurt ye none to take in a bit more exercise now and again. Taking after your brother-in-law, you are."

Merry would have rolled his eyes, had he not been so relieved.

"So that’s it, then?" he asked, "Faramir hasn’t got it and he hasn’t given it to us either?"

Opal nodded. "It’s not likely the boy’s contagious, no."

"Would…would it be safe to bring him to Buckland? To the Hall?"

Opal hesitated at the note of seriousness in the Master’s voice. She was well aware of the situation awaiting his return at the Hall—she had a cousin who worked in the kitchens there and gossip spread fast to the East Farthing—and now, facing those piercing gray eyes, she understood that he knew she knew.

"Yes," she nodded firmly, "I would bet my land on it. If the Pox is to hit Buckland, it’ll not be coming with this lad."

The gratitude in Merry’s heart left him speechless.

It had begun to rain during the examinations and so they had stayed until supper, hoping to wait it out. When it showed no signs of letting up, however, they decided to brave the storm, as Merry desperately wanted to get to the Hall before nightfall.

The carriage was left with Opal as an addition to her payment.

"If you can’t use it, I’m certain you can get a good price for it." Merry said, "I paid far too much for it and Estella would have my head if she knew. I happily gift it to you."

Opal seemed quite pleased and stood at the door waving goodbye as the three rode off, hunched over in cloaks and hoods to ward off the rain as well as curious eyes.

They didn’t say much for a while, the rain making things rather dreary and uncomfortable but at last Merry felt he had to say something, so much higher had his spirits been raised since that afternoon.

"You didn’t seem surprised, Faragrin, that she was a healer."

"I read it on her gate-sign."

"Ah," Merry laughed, "Clever lad."

Faramir puffed out proudly. "I can read farther in the primers than any of Auntie Pervinca’s daughters, and some of them are teenagers."

"Oh, my." Merry smiled and watched the road with care as they approached the Brandywine.

Pippin leaned closer around his son, looking guilty.

"I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you ahead of time that we were going to see a healer," he whispered, "I didn’t want to frighten you."

Faramir shrugged. "You never tell me when I’m going to see a healer. You just go ahead and let them in, even when I’m in my nightclothes."

Pippin opened his mouth to reply to that immediately, but then he closed it and thought carefully about what he wanted to say instead. This was a topic he was not entirely comfortable speaking about.

"Well," he said at last, choosing less over more, "sometimes it can’t be helped."

And Faramir shrugged again, content to let the conversation end there. He knew he was a weak lad. No one had ever told him flat-out or even hinted, but he was no fool. None of the other children at the Smials spent nearly as much time in sick-bed as he and some of them had never been. That was why he had caught on to reading so fast—there was very little else to do when you were confined alone to your bed or when you were the only lad not allowed outside in poor weather.

Only. Yes. The being sick part didn’t bother him so much. As his father said, it couldn’t be helped. But it hurt to always be the one singled out, to always be different and odd.
Like the time last winter when his toes refused to lose their chill and the healer insisted he wear woolen stockings. Stockings. It was unheard of in the Shire. He had been so mortified he refused to leave the Thain’s family quarters while wearing them, sliding across the polished floors red-faced and frustrated. His mother had eventually taken so much pity on him that she knit him a peachy-colored pair with a brown swirly pattern up the front, intended to mimic bare hobbit legs. Faramir had done such a poor job of trying to fake a smile when she presented him the ridiculous things that her normally proper face had broken into a fit of giggles. It was one of the few times he had ever seen her laugh.

The memory of that cheered his cross mood some. In addition, he’d been rather pleased when Miss Frogmorton had examined his Da and Uncle Merry and reprimanded them accordingly. It was nice for once to see others on the receiving end, especially his big strong Da, who Faramir sometimes felt he could never live up to. He hadn’t known his Da to be sick a day in his life. In fact, it was rather shocking when Opal had even suggested the possibility.

And now that idea sprouted a tiny, bothersome little worry in the pit of his stomach. What happened when grown-ups got sick?

But he didn’t have much time to think on the matter as they were now at the ferry.

"It won’t be but a short while until we reach the Hall," Uncle Merry said as they began to cross.

Faramir nodded and watched the gray water of the Brandywine dimple with heavy rain.

"Estella will be glad to see you." He added and that cheered Faramir for good. He liked Auntie Estella very much and she was always kind to him. If Uncle Merry was exactly what Faramir felt a father ought to be like, Auntie Estella made an equally ideal mum: all softness and care and bakery-scented. Once Faramir had even secretly wished that they were his parents. Well, more than once, to be truly honest. But never a lot because he knew that it was wicked to think things like that.

Then he felt his Da’s grip tighten protectively on his shoulder as the ferry lurched a bit and guilt overtook all the other mixed up feelings inside of his small belly. He was wicked indeed, he thought, and certainly no hobbit’s ideal son.

Merry caught a glimpse of his little cousin’s face in the fading twilight and wondered briefly what sort of heavy thoughts had caused such a dismal expression, but then they were docking and the memory of that moment washed away as he felt great weight lifted from his heart. He would never be so relieved to see his Estella as he was going to be tonight.