Chapter 25. Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

The line of searchers met the Thain’s party halfway through the little stretch of woodland. Pippin nudged Socks ahead of the others to reach Samwise, walking in the line. ‘Did you see Ferdi?’ he asked urgently. ‘He came this way!’

 ‘We saw nothing!’ Sam said in consternation. ‘Heard a rustle in the underbrush, but it was a deer, I think. It was well hidden, and I don’t blame it, with a great mob of hobbits walking through its sitting room!’

 ‘Could it be?’ Pippin asked as Savilard came up to them. ‘They say there was a deer in the underbrush, but could it somehow have been...’

 ‘Possible,’ the hunter replied. ‘He might have crawled to concealment, were he out of his head.’ He still wasn’t sure about the pony’s role, if any. The hoofprint might have been totally unrelated to the current situation, left there before Farry and Ferdi reached the island of trees. The pattern of drops on the bushes could have come from the bleeding head or shoulder of a hobbit on foot, rather than dripping down from a mounted hobbit.

Savilard lifted his horn to his lips and blew a lusty call. In the distance to both sides of them they heard the echo of answering horns responding to the recall. ‘We’ll follow this trail,’ he said. ‘We know we’ve found the spot where the dogs attacked, and the trail leads back towards the Smials... somehow he slipped by the searchers.’

The hunter’s suspicion grew stronger as the searchers reached the end of the wood to find the blood trail continuing, crimson drops shining from the grass. ‘That wasn’t there before!’ Sam said, calling to the hobbits who’d walked to either side of him in for confirmation. ‘I’d swear it!’

 ‘He’s headed back to the Smials,’ Savilard said, his voice rising with excitement, but he sobered quickly. ‘At the rate he’s losing blood, I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t fall in a heap before he’s halfway. I’m surprised he kept his feet this long, for that matter.’

 ‘Then we’d best hurry,’ the Thain said grimly.

***

Falling in a heap was sounding more and more promising to Ferdi as he rode through the deserted party field, bright cloths strewn over the meadow in a patchwork as if a giant had laid out squares for a coverlet and then abandoned the project. No hobbits were taking tea on the meadow, nor standing on the stones of the yard. There were not even any stable hobbits loitering about the main entrance to the stables, enjoying the sunshine.

Nearly all the stalls were empty, as a matter of fact, the ponies gone. Ferdi tried to puzzle out the meaning of it all, but gave it up for the roaring in his head made it nearly impossible to think a coherent thought. All he wanted was a soft place to rest his aching bones—bed!—and something warm to pull over him. Ah, but he was cold, shivering cold, and shudders wracked his body, painfully knotting his tortured muscles.

 ‘That’s it, old lad,’ he murmured into the soft neck beneath his face. ‘In the stables, that’s it.’ Somehow the pony understood the guiding of his hand on the neck and turned into the stable entrance. Ferdi slid from his back and nearly crumpled to the ground. The fingers he’d locked into the tangled mane saved him from a spill.

 ‘Come along, Socks,’ he murmured, hardly hearing his own voice in his ears. Leaning heavily upon the pony, he led the stallion to the stall already prepared for the favourite of the Thain. The straw was bedded deep, the oats were in the feedbox, hay in the haynet, bucket brimming with fresh water. At the smell of the water, the pony’s nostrils dilated and he needed no urging to go into the stall, where he jammed his nose into the bucket and drank deeply, then turned with greedy interest to the oats.

 ‘Good lad,’ Ferdi said, shutting and latching the stall door. He’d half a mind to lie down in that soft bed of straw, but some part of him was still thinking of softness and warmth, pillows and blankets. Perhaps he ought to do something about the bleeding leg, as well, but for the moment above all he craved sleep. He settled for wrapping a cloth around his leg from a bucket of supplies just outside the stall; if it was good enough to wrap a pony’s leg, it was good enough for him. He grabbed at a rake leaning against the wall, where a stable hobbit had abandoned it hastily, to all appearances. Old Tom would never countenance tools left loose. He wondered vaguely where  Tom was, anyhow, but it was a problem beyond his solving.

With the help of the rake he was able to hobble slowly out of the stables and across the stones of the yard. Thankfully he did not have to climb the stone steps leading up to the Great Door; his quarters were not far from one of the lesser entrances at ground level. He grimaced at the rake as he stumbled through the door. The holekeepers would certainly frown upon a dirty stable rake in the Smials proper. He told himself that he’d sneak it back to the stables after he had himself a little rest.

Not far to go now... not far... He found himself chanting the words aloud, an encouragement, a litany of effort that lifted him, propelled him yet another step when he thought he could go no further. Not far... He reached his door, pushed the door open, staggered into the room. Not far...

When he was nearly to the bed he stopped, blinking in astonishment. He must have mistaken the number of doors, but he’d unconsciously counted, third door to the left after the right-hand turn. The fact remained, this was not his room. Even by the light of the turned-down lamp he could see the cheery coverlet on the bed, the snowy cloth on the table, and there was a soft rug under his feet.

He turned to make his way out again but a wave of light-headedness caused him to sway and sink down upon the bed. Really, he’d just rest a moment. Just for a moment, he thought dizzily. He closed his eyes, the better to gather himself for the effort.

When next he opened them, he was looking up at the ceiling, somehow lying down where a moment ago he’d been sitting. The bed was so soft, so comfortable, but he was cold, so cold. He wished he could crawl between the sheets and give himself up to sleep, but he had to get up in a moment, for some reason that was beyond him. He shivered and wished idly for a blanket... and suddenly a blanket was there, in place, pulled over him, and a small hand was stroking his forehead.

 ‘Go to s’eepy, Ferdi,’ Goldi lisped. She’d crept from her little bed to find all her family asleep, just like in the old tale in a book her father read by the fireside. What if Ferdi came back and no one was there to shout “Surprise!” and escort him to the picnic? Goldi crept from her bed, past her sleeping mother and brothers, through empty corridors from the apartments of the higher-ranking hobbits, the Mayor among them, to the corridor of bachelor rooms belonging to those unmarried hobbits who worked for the Thain.

The door was ajar, and peeping in, Goldi saw Ferdi sprawled upon the bed. He’d missed his surprise! Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. Ferdi was playing the nappy-bye game!

Goldi had played this game many the time with Elanor and Rosie. One or both of them would lie down upon the bed and pretend to sleep, and Goldi would be the “little mama” and draw a blanket over them, tuck them up, sing a song, pretend to watch over her sleeping “babes”.

There was a folded blanket at the foot of the bed, and Goldi started to pull it over Ferdi. She frowned a bit, for he was very grimy from playing in the dirt. His mama ought to have sent him to wash before he laid himself down! But then, seeing the blood-soaked rag on his leg she caught her breath. Ferdi was hurted! She knew just what to do...

She pulled the blanket up to his chin and managed to ease a pillow under his head, then stroked his forehead gently. ‘Go s’eepy,’ she repeated, and smiled at the success of the game as Ferdi’s eyes closed once more and he relaxed.

***

The searchers rode into the yard of the Great Smials, still following the blood trail. Pippin jumped down and Reginard seized Socks’ reins. ‘I’ll put him away,’ he said, and led his pony and Pippin’s into the stables.

Savilard was regarding the bloodstains in the yard. ‘I cannot believe he came this far,’ he said. ‘It looks as if someone found him and carried him into the Smials.’

An uproar in the stables distracted them, and Pippin exclaimed, ‘That’s Socks!’ He rushed to see the cause, finding Regi fighting for control of the grey stallion.

There was a splintering sound as a mirror image of Socks charged the door to the stall, but the doors and latches were sturdy, the stall itself reinforced due to the restless nature of its usual occupant. Socks had a reputation for kicking out his stall if he thought he was not having enough exercise.

 ‘Get him out of here,’ Pippin gasped, and Regi pulled Socks back out to the yard. Savilard and Pippin stared at the grey stallion in Socks’ stall.

 ‘Lookit the blood on his back,’ the hunter said slowly.

 ‘I see no wound,’ Pippin said, going over the stallion with a keen eye.

 ‘Not his blood,’ Savilard said. ‘He must be the one, brought Ferdi back.’ He pointed. ‘The trail stops here.’

 ‘Then Ferdi must be in the Smials, and safe!’ Pippin said.

He turned and strode across the yard and into the Smials, a parade of Tooks following him. The first place to look would be Ferdi’s room; if he weren’t badly injured, a healer would have tucked him up there and set a watcher beside him.

Pippin stopped short outside the door to Ferdi’s room. From the relative dimness within, the lamp was turned down. Ferdi must be asleep, but what was that childish voice that came from within? Cautiously, the Thain pushed the door open, to see Ferdi lying upon the bed, face in the low light as pale as the pillow that cradled his head. Tiny Goldi Gamgee looked up with a frown, her song breaking off mid-phrase.

 ‘Shush,’ she told the Thain. ‘Don’t wake the babe! I just got him to s’eep!’