Chapter 30. Thain: Gritting His Teeth

The knock was an urgent one; being the son of a healer, Hilly had early learned to distinguish the frantic callers from the social ones. Being the youngest, he was the only one at home, at the moment, washing up the few dishes from his father’s elevenses before walking over to the Great Smials to meet his friends for the noontide meal, and some free time (younger and older hobbits would nap after the midday meal, but the tweens would go out walking upon the meadows, or toss a ball in the yard between Smials and stables—that is, when they weren’t getting into mischief). Another riding lesson would follow.

‘I’ve got it!’ he called down the hall, hearing his father’s acknowledgment from the study as the tween opened the door. ‘Yes?’ he said, eying the panting hobbit on the mat.

‘It’s Gran,’ the lad said. ‘She’s having her palpitations, and the tonic isn’t helping... Mum said to fetch...’

‘Yes, yes,’ old Haldibold said, for he'd hurried down the hallway, shouldering his coat, and now he took up his bag from its place by the door with every appearance of urgency. ‘Her palpitations, eh? Not the joint-ache, or the stomach-trouble this time...?’ Old Mrs. Sandbarrow was something of a gadfly in the old healer’s estimation—if it wasn’t one thing with the gammer, it was another, as they say, and most of it aimed at gaining attention from her beleaguered daughter with such a large and busy family.

Haldibold would stop by, sit and hold the old lady’s hand, take a cup of tea with her and a goodly portion of gossip, and leave a harmless bottle of “tonic”, bitter and bracing, to hold her over until his next visit.

‘O aye, her palpitations, it’s awful, ‘tis,’ the lad said, nodding vigorously, his eyes wide. ‘Mum’s beside herself!’

‘I’ve no doubt,’ the old healer muttered, and turning to his son, he said. ‘It sounds like an urgent case, and yet I had a parcel to deliver to the Great Smials, old Ferdinand’s balm. Would you leave a note on the door as to my whereabouts and take the parcel with you when you go?’

‘Gladly,’ Hilly said, and with only a word or two more, the door closed behind his father and the lad. ‘And have a lovely tea, while you’re at it,’ he said to the closed door, and turned away with a chuckle and a shake of the head.

He went to his father’s study and penned a hasty note to be fastened to the front door on his leaving: Healer at Sandbarrows’, Motley Farm. There was a paper parcel lying on the desktop, neatly tied up with string. Hilly lifted it and felt the contents through the paper. A jar, it was, and heavy. Probably full of the skin-softening balm his father made up in secret. Haldibold had passed the secret on to his eldest son, Mardi, who was already working in partnership with his father, but a secret it remained. Though Haldibold was happy to sell jars of the balm to those who asked for it, healers included, the recipe was something to be kept in the family.

Ferdinand Took had been badly injured when the roof of a burning stables had fallen upon him. He’d been pulled from the flames, burned nearly to death, his arms and legs so damaged that they’d had to be cut away, but the hobbit had not died as expected. Some said he lingered for the sake of his half-wit son, Ferdibrand. In any event, he lived in the care of the healers in the Great Smials, upon the charity of the Thain and the meagre wages of his son.

Hilly’s mouth twisted, thinking of the half-wit. Ferdi had been called once more to help at their lessons, to demonstrate a tricky bit of shooting over water, and to Hilly’s indignation the hunter’s assistant had shot fair and true where most of Isum’s students had missed the mark. How he wished he could make the half-wit squirm with embarrassment, the way he had when he’d confidently set his sights on the target and shot, only to hear his cousins’ hoots as his arrow missed, after all his boasting.

How was he to know that shooting over water was tricksy stuff? And how had the half-wit gained such prowess in hunting? Hilly had figured that old Verilard took Ferdi along to carry the game he shot himself, nothing more. But it seemed the half-wit could shoot as well as he rode. It rankled that an idiot could out-do Hilly...

In any event, he must deliver this parcel to Ferdinand’s watcher, and he’d have to hurry himself or he’d be late to the nooning. One more black mark against Ferdi, he thought, unfairly, but then a spoilt tween is not always fair or considerate.

The day was a fair one, the sky blue and the sun warm, with not a hint of the crispness that had crept into the evenings of late. Many of the hobbits of Tuckborough were out in the fields, for this was the time of year that harvest workers were hired and good wages were to be had. Road repair, too, was in full swing before the autumnal rains should come. Tooks were expected to give ten days a year to the roads of the Tookland. Hilly stepped around a wide patch where a sweating hobbit was shovelling gravel to fill a hole; he shifted the parcel under one arm and took out his handkerchief to dab at his brow. When he was older, a hobbit of the Thain’s escort, he wouldn’t need to do road work like any common hobbit. He’d hire someone like... like the half-wit, for instance, to do his ten-days’ contribution, much as his father paid young Tom-next-door so that he would not be taken from his healer’s work.

After skirting the patch in the road, Hilly walked briskly, a gait suited to an important hobbit with places to go and things to do. It wouldn’t do to be seen trotting as if he were an errand lad. If, someday, he were sent out with urgent news, he’d ride a fast pony, of course, and cut a fine and dashing figure. But for now, on foot, he must present the proper image; not sauntering along, that some gaffer might hail him to “do a favour”, nor trotting, as aforementioned.

Boldly he mounted the steps leading to the Great Door. Many of the local hobbits avoided these, since old Mistress Lalia’s fall, but Hilly disdained superstition and nonsense. It was not for him to go through one of the lesser doors as if he were a mere tradeshobbit.

He entered the Smials, blinking in the relative dimness as he came in out of the bright sunshine, but his eyes adjusted quickly. He nodded pleasant greetings to those he encountered in the tunnel that skirted the face of the Smials, until he reached the infirmary with its large round windows opening onto a view of flowering meadows and heather-covered Green Hills beyond.

A healer’s assistant greeted him, though he could see he’d come at a busy time—the tables in the large and pleasant gathering-room were being laid for the noontide meal, for those well enough to leave their rooms to eat. ‘For Ferdinand,’ he said, hefting the parcel.

To his disgust, the assistant directed him to take the parcel himself, “There’s a dear lad”, and went back to her bustling without a second glance.

Hilly knew the way, of course. He’d been there with his father more than once, until he’d decided he didn’t want to be a healer himself someday.

Ferdinand occupied one of the inner rooms on the right-hand side of the tunnel, not one of the rooms with windows that showed the changing seasons of the outside world. Not for him to look on the world that had chewed him up and spat him out, no, not for him to let the light of day illuminate his terrible scars. He preferred to hide himself away in a small, dark room with a tiny hearth, comfortable chair turned away from the door, where he passed the weary days, and a bed.

Ferdinand’s door was pulled almost to, and Hilly paused and knocked softly, knowing better than just to force his way in. Who knew what sights might meet the eye?

‘Come,’ he heard, in pleasant albeit hushed female tones. ‘Violet? Is it...?’

‘Hildibold,’ Hilly said, pushing the door a little. ‘I bring...’

‘Haldi’s balm? Ah, good, Hilly, I’m glad you’ve come,’ and the door opened to reveal a watcher, one of the healers’ assistants, not a healer herself but suited to sit with a sleeping patient, or deal with the needs of one awake.

‘Old Ferdi’s not well this day; he didn’t feel well enough to get out of bed this morning,’ she whispered, standing by the door. ‘As a matter of fact, he’s been terribly restless and just dropped off. I need to... if you wouldn’t mind, just for a moment...?’ And pulling the door open a little wider, she gestured toward the bed and the lump that was all to be seen of its occupant.

Ferdinand was under strict “no visitors” orders. The healers turned away almost everyone who came to see him, save his son, of course, and the Thain (who could not have been turned away in any event). It was the hobbit’s own wishes, not out of any consideration at those who might be shocked at his scar-seamed appearance, but more for the bitterness that gnawed away at his insides until his soul resembled the ruin of his body.

Hilly, acting as his father’s assistant, had seen the hobbit a few times. He’d seen worse... though not a living hobbit, of course. He had helped his father with the dressings when Haldibold had been called in to consult about bed sores, and he’d earned his share of grumbles and curses from old Ferdinand. He felt very little compassion for the sour old fellow, and much of that little was related to the half-wit, Ferdinand’s only son. A sore trial it must be for Ferdinand, to have to live on the charity of the Thain, to have lost his only daughter to an unsuitable marriage and his son to idiocy.

Now the corner of his mouth twisted in a semi-smile; the assistant needed to take care of some personal business, and knowing Hilly had assisted his father in the past, she thought to ask him to watch with Ferdinand for a minute or two... but she reminded him of his grandmother, and had insisted on presenting him with a tin of sweet biscuits on one of his visits with his father. ‘Surely, Rosie,’ he said. ‘I have but a moment or two, but I’m happy to oblige.’ That ought to hurry her along.

‘Bless you, lad,’ she said fervently, and slipped past him into the corridor.

A snore came from the bed as Hilly entered. He laid the parcel softly on the table, noticing with interest the glass that stood there, a full set of carved wooden teeth reposing therein. Happily old Ferdinand was sawing logs, and Hilly wouldn’t have to converse with the hobbit.

Rosie returned within a few moments, breathlessly thankful, so thankful that Hilly felt a momentary pang, feeling the outline of the wooden teeth in his pocket. He had little worry that Rosie would remember he’d been there; she was very old, after all, and while suited to watch with a sleeping hobbit and call in one of the healers if there were signs of trouble, her memory wasn’t what it used to be.

But Ferdinand would not be happy to awaken to the next meal, and find his teeth missing. With any luck, he’d make his son even more miserable with his grumblings than the half-wit usually was. It wasn’t enough, really, to pay Ferdi back, but it was a start...