8.  Recovery and Retribution

The following afternoon, Frodo was resting in his room at Brandy Hall.  Saradoc had summoned Dr. Bracegirdle the day before, and Frodo now sported a rigid plaster bandage around his broken arm.  The good doctor had strongly recommended that Frodo remain in bed for a day or two, allowing his cuts to heal completely, and icing his bruised knees and back.

So, here he remained.  Frodo was resting on his stomach to accommodate the bag of ice that perched on his bruised back.  One of the maids had been instructed to bring him fresh ice up from the ice cellar every four hours.  He had used the last batch on his knees.  The cuts on his back were still bandaged, and had been subjected to a liberal application of one of Miss Celosia’s healing salves. 

The elderly herbalist had been delighted indeed to receive the abundance of supplies that Frodo and Bolo had gathered, and she seemed determined to repay Frodo at least by making up samples of all her best (and apparently most odd-smelling) ointments for the lad to try.  Frodo smiled wryly at the thought.  He didn’t think the wrinkle-reducing lotion would be much use.  It wasn’t as if he had any wrinkles.  Perhaps he should give it to Old Rory... 

Frodo was starting to appreciate the healing salve, though.  His skin didn’t smart nearly as much when he shifted position anymore, as his cuts were now pleasantly numb.  The bruises, slightly lower on his back, were also numb, thanks to the ice.

Frodo wondered what was happening to Bolo.  He hadn’t seen the older hobbit since their return, which made him rather happy.  He supposed Old Rory would decide his cousin’s punishment; that was the usual procedure when an errant child in Brandy Hall had to be disciplined for a misdeed that involved more than just members of the child’s immediate family.

There was a book propped open against the wall in front of him, but Frodo didn’t really feel like reading.  He had slept most of yesterday and all last night, exhausted from the activity of the night before, but now he wanted to daydream and think about his adventure.  He wondered if the Man and his two Elven friends had succeeded in hunting down the Warg.  Frodo sighed and closed his eyes.  Whether they had killed the creature already or not, they were certainly far from Buckland by now.  He would most likely not see any of them again.  The child wondered wistfully what far-off lands the three Big People had seen in their travels.

Frodo’s very un-hobbitlike musings were interrupted by a faint creak as his door was pushed open.  Frodo opened his eyes and tried awkwardly to turn around without dislodging the ice on his lower back.

“Fwodo?” said Merry’s voice.

“Merry-lad!” exclaimed Frodo in delight.  “Come over here by the bed, where I can see you!”

Merry did not need any further encouragement to approach Frodo’s bedside, and Frodo reached out to ruffle the light brown curls affectionately.  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to show you the stables like I said I would, Merry,” Frodo said.

“That’s alright,” replied Merry cheerfully.  “Momma told me you got hurt, and you’d take me later.  You will, won’t you?” the child asked, sounding a bit worried now.

“Of course I will!” Frodo declared.  “After all, I promised didn’t I?  I always mean to keep my promises.  We’ll go as soon as I’m allowed out of this room.”

Merry chortled in delight and clambered up on the bed beside his older cousin.  He gasped softly when he caught sight of the dark purplish bruises on Frodo’s bare back.  Merry bent down and placed a feather-light kiss in the center of the bruised area.  “There,” he said matter-of-factly.  “Now I’ve kissed it better.”

“Thank you, Merry-lad,” said Frodo, rather touched by his little cousin’s consideration.  “But where is your momma this afternoon?  Does she know where you are?”  Mindful of the lack of supervision he had always received at Brandy Hall, Frodo did his best to see that Merry did not experience any similar neglect.

“’Course she does,” the child replied, gently replacing the bag of half-melted ice on Frodo’s lower back.  “She’s getting you your tea in the kitchen, and I ran on ahead.”

“Glad to hear it, Cousin,” said Frodo with a smile. 

“Does it hurt, Fwodo?”  Merry was examining the cast on Frodo’s right arm.

“Not really,” Frodo answered, almost truthfully.  “At least, not much anymore.  The doctor said I have to keep the plaster on for six weeks.  I’ll need lots of help turning pages until then, Merry!”

Merry fairly bounced with excitement at this teasing proclamation.  “Truly, Cousin Fwodo?” he cried.  “Then will you read me a story, and I’ll turn the pages for you now?”

“Sure I will,” Frodo replied.  He had just passed a very short tale in the book he had propped open.  It was about a Dwarfish king and his battles to defend his mines from a foul dragon.  He knew Merry would enjoy it.

The two hobbit lads passed an enjoyable few minutes in this way, with Merry holding up the book and turning the pages as Frodo signalled him to.  After the story, they settled on the bed again.  Frodo closed his eyes.

“Know what, Fwodo?” Merry said suddenly.  “Cousin Bolo’s gonna have a bitter couple of weeks.”

“Oh?” asked Frodo.  He supposed Merry had been present at luncheon, when Old Rory would have announced Bolo’s punishment.

“He’s getting thrashed this afternoon,” Merry whispered, his brown eyes round.  “And he has to muck out all the pony stalls every day for the next *three months*!”

Frodo raised his eyebrows.  That ought to keep Bolo busy.  Old Rory must have been very angry.

“And that’s not all,” Merry added conspiratorially.  “He has to help the cooks wash the dishes after elevenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, and supper every day for three fortnights.”

Frodo couldn’t help smiling at this thought, although he didn’t want little Merry to see him exulting in the misfortunes of another.

“He was real mean to you, wasn’t he, Fwodo?” Merry asked softly.

“He behaved very badly, yes,” Frodo replied after a moment.

“Then I’m glad he’s getting punished,” little Merry said stoutly.  “Oh, I almost forgot!  He also has to... ‘pologize to you.”

“Really?” said Frodo.  That would certainly be interesting.

Just then, the door opened again and Esmeralda walked in carrying a large tray.

“Hullo, my darlings,” she said to the lads on the bed.  “Ready for some tea?”

“I think I could eat an oliphaunt, Aunt Esmeralda!” Frodo exclaimed, sitting up and allowing the bag of ice to slide off his back.  The two cousins shared the small (by hobbit standards) feast with abundant good cheer.  Sandwiches, scones, apples, jellies, tarts, and custards all disappeared rapidly from the tray, and the children were soon reclining on the bed again, in a happy stupor.  Esmeralda had already eaten, but she remained to watch the feeding frenzy, then left to take the tray back to the kitchen.

Frodo closed his eyes again, with Merry nestled against his side.  Then the door opened for a third time, and Frodo opened his eyes, wondering with a flash of irritation why Brandy Hall had so many denizens, and why they all seemed to want to come into his room today.  When he saw his visitors, however, Frodo sat up, pulling Merry with him.

It was Old Rory himself, dragging along a white-faced Bolo.  Uncle Saradoc entered the room behind the others, and stood quietly against the wall.

“Go on, then,” snapped Old Rory, nudging Bolo forward.

Bolo shuffled forward to stand at the foot of Frodo’s bed.  Frodo and Merry watched him with wide eyes, but Bolo would not look up to meet either of their gazes.

“Cousin Frodo,” Bolo said stiffly.  “I apologize for my deplorable behaviour the night before last.  I abandoned you to danger and I disgraced our family.  Will you forgive me?”  The form of Bolo’s apology was correct, and when he was finished he finally looked up to meet Frodo’s round blue eyes.  Frodo read an odd combination of defeat and confusion in Bolo’s gaze, but none of the usual disdain was evident.

Remembering the bitter feelings of terror, rejection, and hurt he had long experienced at the hands of the bully standing before him, there were many things Frodo could have said.  However, there was only one response he would have Merry hear him utter, and so, in fact, there was only one possible reply.

“Forgiven,” Frodo said simply. 

Bolo’s shoulders slumped in relief that at least one ordeal was over, and Old Rory hustled him out of the room, after aiming an approving nod in Frodo’s direction.  Uncle Saradoc came forward from his position by the wall and kissed Frodo’s curly head.

“I’m proud of you, Frodo-lad,” Saradoc murmured.  “I know that must have been difficult.”  Frodo returned his smile faintly, then turned to look at his little cousin.

“Close your mouth, Cousin Merry; a firebug might get caught in there,” Frodo joked weakly.  Merry had been staring at Frodo with wide brown eyes and a small mouth hanging slightly open.

“Come along, my boy,” Saradoc said briskly to Merry, lifting him off the bed.  “Let’s go and let Cousin Frodo rest.”

*          *          *

Five weeks later, Mabelle the Pony plodded slowly along the dirt lane that led to the farms near Brandy Hall.  She was rather an old pony, but she was delighted to be out stretching her creaky legs on a fine, bright May evening such as this one.  She tossed her head, enjoying the feel of the gentle breeze on her neck.

Seeing a shady tree just ahead, Mabelle broke into a trot, eliciting giggles from her two small riders.  When she reached the tree, she stood patiently while the children clambered off her back, turning her head slightly to watch the bigger one.  He had an injured front hoof, and it took him a little longer to climb down.  Once both her charges were safely on the ground, standing on their hind legs in the bizarre fashion of their species, Mabelle snorted and plopped down in the shady grass.  The smaller one came forward to pat her nose and offer her a carrot, which she accepted gracefully.

The juicy carrot served to whet her appetite, and after a brief respite Mabelle got to her feet again and fell to munching on the cool, sweet grass around the tree, watching idly as the two tiny non-Ponies settled themselves against another tree a few steps away.

“Fwodo?” asked Merry, eyeing his reclining cousin.  “When does your plaster come off?”

“In a few days, Merry-lad,” Frodo replied, smiling to himself.  It had been difficult teaching his younger cousin to ride a pony when he himself had the use of only one arm.  He wouldn’t have dared it with any but old Mabelle, and besides, Aunt Esmeralda had authorized only short rides for the last few weeks, usually after supper.  They weren’t permitted to go any further than the nearby Buckland farms, at least until Frodo’s broken arm had mended completely.

“Oh, good,” said Merry.  “Whenever I see your poor arm in that sling, it reminds me of Cousin Bolo.”

Frodo raised an eyebrow.  He rarely devoted any thought to Bolo these days.  Serving the punishment handed out by Old Rory had kept Cousin Bolo quite well occupied these past weeks.  Bolo was far too busy to think of indulging in his usual bullying pastimes, either with Frodo or any of Bolo’s other favourite victims.  In fact, even when he wasn’t engaged in his extra chores, Bolo had showed a most pleasing inclination to avoid Frodo whenever possible.  Frodo found this state of affairs to be quite satisfactory.

“Will you tell me a story before we go back, Cousin Fwodo?” Merry asked presently.

“Certainly,” answered Frodo.  They had perhaps a half hour before they would have to head back to Brandy Hall, or they would risk being late for Merry’s bedtime.  He put his left arm around Merry and told him one of Bilbo’s tales, the one about Trolls.  Merry was old enough now to like a little suspense in his stories, and he eagerly pulled two apples out of his trouser pockets.  He handed one to Frodo, and settled down to hear the story.

Looking down at his younger cousin, listening raptly beside him, Frodo reflected on how glad he was to have Merry.  Saradoc and Esmeralda encouraged Frodo to spend as much time as possible with their son, partly, Frodo privately believed, because he didn’t seem to get into nearly as many scrapes when he had little Merry with him.  In any case, he was happy to oblige.  Merry’s cheerful presence helped ease the loneliness Frodo had lived with since his parents died. 

Frodo had spent most of his years at Brandy Hall feeling unwanted and unnoticed, which had sparked a very un-hobbitlike inclination to let his imagination run away with him when he made up adventures for himself.  Any sensible hobbit would classify such activities as mischief.  For example, that time when he had been a mighty King of Dwarves, he had found it absolutely essential to sneak into the lower pantry and ‘rescue’ seventeen jars of preserves, but his relatives hadn’t seen it that way.  He hadn’t eaten any, and certainly he had meant to put them all back when the adventure was over, but Cook had been furious nonetheless. 

Anyway, Frodo found it much easier to curb the ‘mischievous’ part of his adventurous side when he had Merry with him.  Merry was always a willing and eager participant in his imaginary games, and Frodo found that when he had another hobbit lad to play with, jars of preserves were unnecessary.  Even more importantly, Merry’s friendship made Brandy Hall bearable; it was so delightful for Frodo to know that if he didn’t appear at a meal, or if he wasn’t seen all day, at least one person wasn’t too busy or indifferent to miss him.

The story was over now, and it was time for Merry and Frodo to go home.  As Merry helped his cousin clamber awkwardly onto Mabelle’s back, he caught sight of a corner of cream-coloured parchment poking out of Frodo’s pocket.

“What’s that, Cousin?” Merry asked, pointing at the pocket.

Frodo ran his hand over his pocket absently, before exclaiming, “Oh!  I nearly forgot to tell you!”

Merry wrapped his arms around Frodo’s waist as Mabelle began plodding for home, as much to keep his injured cousin secure as to maintain his own seat.  “Is it a letter, Fwodo?”

“Yes indeed!  ‘Tis a letter from Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo replied.  “He says he is coming for a long visit, in early autumn, before our birthdays.”  That was only four months away, sooner than Frodo had expected.  Bilbo always tried to visit at least once per year, but he usually came in the late winter and stayed a fortnight or two.  When Frodo was younger, Bilbo had come more frequently, but the three-day journey was not to be taken lightly for a hobbit of nearly one hundred summers, however youthful his appearance.

“That’s good news, then,” Merry said happily.  He had only met Bilbo a few times himself, but he was already quite fond of the eccentric old gentlehobbit.  Merry was also happy for Frodo’s sake, for he knew that Frodo never seemed as sad as usual when Uncle Bilbo was visiting.

“The best news,” Frodo agreed, smiling.  Lifting his gaze from the winding dirt path laid out before them, Frodo looked happily up as the last orange-and-pink streaks of the sunset faded, the sky now reflecting the cerulean blue of his sparkling eyes.