Chapter 4. Muddling Through

The wild men were coming on more cautiously now, having seen that their superior numbers were not giving them the advantage they'd expected. Already half a dozen of their number lay unmoving upon the ground, while of the Fellowship, only Samwise had fallen.

Frodo felt rage boiling within such as he'd never known; he could only attribute it to the muddlewort affecting his senses. Though his head felt clear and every thought seemed to make perfect sense, a part of him stood watching in amaze and wonder.

The wild men seemed to be targeting the hobbits as easier marks than the others. Another ducked past Gimli's axe, only to be confronted by Frodo and Pippin.

Frodo held his club at the ready, eyes steadily meeting those of the hesitating Man. 'Go ahead, punk,' he said softly. 'Make my day.' The wild man feinted to the left and Frodo brought his club solidly down upon the other's foot, making him drop his weapon and hop on the uninjured member, shrilling curses.

Pippin's stone caught the man in the nose and he saw fit to turn and retreat in a stumbling run. Frodo cast a last stone at the wild man's back and hit him squarely in the rump, causing him to fall on his face. The wild man scrambled to his feet and staggered from the clearing.

Suddenly all was still again.

'Holy cow,' Pippin exclaimed, 'That was a nice shot! Right in the toucas!'

'Yeah,' Frodo answered. 'He'll have a sore tush for awhile.' He dropped the club and bent to Sam. 'Sam? Can you hear me?'

Strider was at his side in a moment. 'What happened?'

'He took a shot below the belt,' Frodo said, helping Sam to sit up.

'That was a gut-buster, all right,' Sam added, hands holding his abdomen.

'Let me take a look,' Aragorn said. His examination seemed to relieve him, for he sat back on his heels and sighed. 'I don't think there was any serious damage done, Sam.'

'He's one tough cookie,' Frodo said proudly, patting his gardener on the shoulder.

'Thanks, Mr Frodo,' Sam said. 'You're a real Master of Disaster yourself, you know. And you're no pipsqueak, Mr Pippin,' he added. 'That was some solid sharp-shooting I saw before I took that low blow.'

The others had been going over the bodies of the wild men. Now Boromir came up to them, bearing several leathern flasks. 'This might be of use,' he said. 'They carried a goodly supply of mead.'

'Sounds pretty handy to me,' Sam said. 'What are you going to do with the bodies?'

'Bury them away from the stream,' Aragorn said.

Boromir nodded. 'We do not want to foul the water,' he said, 'Especially as we will be following this stream for some time.' He suddenly laid the flasks down to catch Pippin, who'd turned pale and started to sway. 'Steady, little one,' he said. 'You are still not over the effects of the muddlewort.' He eased him down on the blanket next to Merry.

Turning back to scoop up a flask, he unstoppered it and wiped the mouth, then offered it to Pippin. 'You'll find this strengthening,' he said. 'Sometimes we'd trade with the wild men of Gondor for the mead they produced. It was a good thing to have after a battle.'

Pippin took a sip, swirling the drink around in his mouth. 'Those dirty bums carried that?' he said in amazement. 'It tastes fit for a king!'

Aragorn picked up one of the flasks and drank some of the contents. 'Yes,' he said, 'I do believe you have the right of it, Pippin.' He looked sharply at Frodo and Sam. 'You'd better sit down and take a bit of mead, yourselves.'

Boromir handed each a flask, and then the two Men turned back to the task of ordering the camp. Legolas had resumed his perch in the treetops, watching for any sign of the wild men's return. Gimli stood guard with his axe, glowering into the underbrush. All remained quiet.

Pippin looked down at Merry, who had not moved. 'Too bad he's missing this,' he said. 'This stuff is even better than brandy.'

Samwise settled back with a sigh and took another swig. 'You only go around once in life,' he mused.

'Might as well go for the gusto,' Frodo agreed. They toasted, touching their flasks together, and had another gulp.

'Hey, maybe Merry won't miss out after all,' Pippin said, brightening. 'I think he's waking up!' His cousin had begun to twitch.

Frodo was suddenly stone cold sober. 'He's not waking up...' he said, then raising his voice, he called urgently, 'Strider!'

Merry jerked and began to thrash violently. Strider was at his side in time to catch Pippin and pull him away. 'Don't touch him!' he warned. 'You could cause harm to him, or to yourself.'

They waited out the convulsions that wracked the unconscious hobbit, and when the fit was over, the Ranger gently re-wrapped him in the blankets, calling to Gimli to heat some rocks in the fire to help warm him.

Frodo looked down at his cousin in horror. He remembered the Ranger's words. Violent behaviour, convulsions... death. 'Is he... is he a goner, Strider?'

The Ranger grasped the gist of his question. Placing a gentle hand on the Ring-bearer's shoulder, he said, 'I'm sorry, Frodo. If this were Rivendell, or Lorien, or even Minas Tirith for that matter, there would be herbs I could give him to keep his heart going until the muddlewort wears off. He evidently ingested much more than the rest of you. The muddlewort is slowing down his heartbeat, will inevitably keep slowing it until it finally stops, and I have nothing to keep that from happening.'

'You're saying Merry's gonna croak?' Pippin whispered. He turned to Frodo. 'Cuz? Is that what he's saying?'

'Don't give up the ship,' Frodo answered. 'While there's life, there's hope.'

Strider nodded. 'He might yet survive, Pippin. No one knows exactly what to expect with muddlewort. Look how it has affected each of you to varying degrees.'

'He's tough,' Frodo said, trying to add emphasis to the Ranger's reassurance. Pippin looked about to panic, but he saw his young cousin swallow hard and regain control of himself.

'Tough as nails,' Pippin agreed. 'He won't give up without a fight.'

'That's the spirit,' Sam said from the other side of Merry. He tucked the blankets about the hot rocks that Gimli brought over. 'Hang in there, Mr Merry. The party's not over, yet; don't be a party-pooper.'

There was no sign that the unconscious hobbit heard him.

Boromir came over again. 'They're buried,' he said. 'It wasn't difficult; the soil is sandy here.' He looked around the campsite. 'It'll be growing dark soon,' he said. 'Do you want us to pack up?'

The Ranger shook his head. 'The Halflings are not yet ready to travel,' he said, 'and we cannot carry them all.' He looked down at Merry. 'I can't help thinking that Meriadoc would be more comfortable here where we can keep him warm and quiet, than jouncing about being carried on a dark trail.' Boromir nodded. 'We'll stay here,' the Ranger added, sorrow in his gaze, 'at least until...'

He did not finish the thought, and though the words hung unspoken, all knew what had been left unsaid... until it is finished.

Pippin rose and stumbled a little away from the group. No one put out a hand to prevent him. He looked up through the trees, and words came to him, unfamiliar words, spurred by the muddlewort, probably, but words that seemed to fit the situation.

'Star light,' he said. 'Star bright, first star I see tonight.'

He stared into the darkening sky where a pinpoint of light could be seen. 'Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.' He squeezed his eyes tight shut and made a heartfelt wish.