Though this week's schedule has been impossibly busy, my dh (and he has been a ddh!) has given up some of his precious computer time in the evenings to allow me the relaxation of writing, while he occupies the little ones with a bedtime story--which, I admit, has been interesting enough to pull my thoughts away from the computer more than once! Thus you have been able to read updates well before the weekend, including this one. Please join me in giving him applause for his generosity and understanding.

Chapter 8. The Badger Delves Deeper

 ‘His fever’s rising.’ The words echoed and blurred as if they bounced from the unseen walls of a deep cavern. Moria? Pippin moaned and tried to pull his hand from the cool grip that prisoned him. Familiar fingers... Merry’s hands, holding his arm so that he could not move it.

 ‘The red swelling?’ Diamond’s voice, thick with dread.

 ‘Will you have to take the arm?’ came Merry into the conversation.

 ‘A moment, young master.’

He wanted to thrash, to pull away, to escape the creatures’ grasp but he was held firmly, hand and foot, arm and leg. Slow torment, that was the game the Orcs enjoyed most. With agonising slowness, the loose sleeve of his nightshirt was rolled out of the way, as carefully and gradually his arm was bared. He measured the torturers’ progress by the feel of the cool air on his skin.

He locked his jaw, sucking breath through his teeth. At any moment he’d feel the bite of the blade; how ever would he bear it? How would he keep from crying out? The more noise he made, the more slowly the knife would move, and the longer the Orcs would linger over their pleasure...

His arm, already painful, was prodded, delicately and at length, as if the chief cook was selecting just the right spot to begin.

A sigh, and then, ‘Not the red swelling.’ Perhaps the arm was deemed an unsatisfactory starting place; in any event he felt cool air on his chest and stiffened in anticipation, only to feel pressure there, for moments that stretched to eternity, until the light weight left his chest and someone said, ‘Breathing well. Not the Old Gaffer’s Friend, then.’

 ‘But,’ said Diamond in distress, ‘the fever...’

 ‘There is a fever going about the Shire,’ old Ossilan said. ‘You should not be here.’

 ‘But,’ Diamond said again, and she added more words, but her voice receded and was suddenly cut off, as if a door had closed.

***

Merimac might have fallen asleep in the bath, he was that tired, but for the fact that he’d be leaving in the morning to carry glad word back to Buckland, of the evident absence of Orcs from the main body of the Shire. He could catch up on sleep later. There were old friendships to revisit, perhaps a glass of ale to lift in memory of dangers jointly braved.

First off he would seek out the Fox, that Took who’d been instrumental in keeping the ruffians out of Tookland during the Troubles. The Fox, as the ruffians had called Ferdibrand Took, the son of Merimac's old friend Ferdinand, had coordinated the laying of traps, and when the border was closed by Sharkey’s Men he’d slipped out of Tookland to gather news, as wily as the creature they named him for in evading hunters and shaking off pursuit.

Merimac had been the Badger, fat, sleepy-looking, but fierce when cornered. Many was the time when he’d crossed the River in the guise of a placid and dull-witted farmer to meet Ferdi in a hollowed-out tree, or a shallow cave, or an abandoned shed, to share news and lay plans. When the ruffians closed the Ferry, he’d rowed across on moonless nights, hiding at Maggots’ if need be, until the time was right to slip across the fields to the Woody End.

And on one of those clandestine visits, he’d been just in time to cut Ferdibrand down; the Took had been hanging at the end of a ruffian’s rope, and Merimac’s band had been barely in time to save the hobbit’s life. Though the Fox didn’t leave the Tookland again after that, Merimac heard that he continued laying ruffian traps in the few weeks remaining before the rising of the Shire-folk against their oppressors, and that he’d been in the thick of the Battle of Bywater. Had nearly lost his life again, this time to a ruffian’s club, and had lost his ability to shoot, and his nerve, for long years after. In truth, Merimac had heard little of the fellow these past... how many years? Wait... Pippin had joked on one occasion in Merimac’s hearing, since his removal to Buckland, of “Ferdi the watchdog”, appointed to be his escort, more for the purpose of Paladin keeping an eye on his son than for any need for protection on Pippin’s part.

The Bucklander ran into unexpected difficulty in making his inquiries, however. The first Took he asked turned a blank face to him and immediately changed the subject, asking if Merimac and his fellow Bucklanders had been made comfortable. The next smiled politely, more of a grimace rather and, avoiding Merimac’s eyes, affected to remember suddenly that he was required elsewhere. Before Merimac could ask another question the hobbit bowed hastily and took himself off. Merimac went to where he remembered Ferdi’s quarters to be, but found a dusty, empty room. The bed, though it was made up, appeared not to have been slept in for some days. Away on a journey? That would hardly account for the odd reactions amongst his cousins.

He would have asked Paladin but the Thain had already retired for the night. Surely it wasn’t a matter worth disturbing the old hobbit. He asked a passing servant, who apologized rather breathlessly and hurried away. Curiouser and curiouser... Merimac stopped short on his way back to the guest quarters... had Ferdi died in the meantime? Had something happened to one of the heroes of Tookland? Had the brave and bonny Fox, who had a natural Tookish aversion to rivers and streams, somehow... drowned, perhaps? Drowning was a disgraceful death, and might almost, just almost explain the reactions he had sparked. Pippin never spoke of his Tookish relations, but then he never acknowledged himself as a hero, either. No more had Ferdi. And after the Battle of Bywater the hobbit had all but hid himself away for years, immersed in bitterness over his useless arm perhaps. In any event he turned any praise away until it seemed the Tooks had forgotten his heroic deeds.

He chided himself for being such a poor correspondent, that he had so little idea how the hobbit had fared in the years following the Troubles. Ferdi’s last letter to him had been... before Pippin had turned up in Buckland, to stay? And his last letter to Ferdi... longer yet.

Merimac, from long fishing experience, made sure his next fish was well and truly hooked before springing the question. Everard Took, just in from the fields and spring planting, was emerging from one of the bathing rooms when Merimac spied him. Before Everard quite knew what was happening, Merimac had taken his hand, pumping his arm in jovial greeting, placing an arm about his shoulder to guide him to a quieter corridor, taking up the lamp from the last bracket they passed as they turned into a dark and quiet passageway.

 ‘Merimac Brandybuck; I’d heard a score of Bucklanders had arrived... did you bring the wandering son of the Thain home at last?’ Everard said in greeting.

 ‘News of him, only,’ Merimac answered.

 ‘He remains in Buckland, then?’ Everard said, and added something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “good riddance”.

 ‘So what brings a score of Bucklanders to the Great Smials?’ Everard pressed.

 ‘I’m sure you’ll find out on the morrow,’ Merimac said. Evidently the Thain was keeping the news close, though Merimac’s son Berilac had reported a number of swift riders leaving the yard before late supper was served, evidently bearing messages or sent to gather news.

Everard nodded, his eyes thoughtful. ‘There’s talk that the Thain will call a convocation at second breakfast,’ he said. ‘Though no one has any idea what it’s all about.’ He eyed Merimac speculatively. ‘Somewhat to do with your visit, they say. Talk is that the Thain intends to own his son once more.’

 ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Merimac said cautiously. Knowing the Tooks, it appeared Paladin didn’t wish to set off a whole-sale panic with hobbits shooting first and asking questions later.

Everard was clearly skeptical, and went along with Merimac, deep into the Smials until they were alone in a dusty, seldom-used tunnel. He seemed to expect that Merimac had steered him here to share the news brought from Buckland. He was mistaken.

Merimac took Everard firmly by the arm. ‘Now then, lad,’ he said, fixing the Took with a stern eye.

Everard nodded, ‘I’m ready,’ he said. ‘How bad is it?’

 ‘That’s what I want you to tell me,’ Merimac said.

Confusion clouded Everard’s brow. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.

Merimac smiled slightly at the ill-disguised irritation in Everard’s tone. He’d chosen well; Everard’s temper mastered him rather than the other way around, and he might be baited into disclosing information that a more circumspect hobbit would conceal. Although why the Tooks would be hiding news of Ferdibrand was beyond him.

 ‘I want to know what’s become of the Fox?’ Merimac said, dropping his voice. His grip on Everard tightened as the latter tried to pull away. ‘Come now, no one I’ve asked will speak of him or give me any news at all.’

Everard’s irritation had changed subtly to alarm... and something else. Frustration? Sorrow? ‘He’s not dead, is he?’ Merimac pressed. ‘What has happened, that the Tooks won’t speak of him?’

 ‘You have the right of it,’ Everard said slowly, and now it was the Brandybuck’s turn to frown in irritation, for he said no more.

 ‘I have the right of it,’ Merimac said. ‘The right of what? He’s dead?’

Everard, for all they were alone in the depths of the Smials, their footprints the only disturbance of the dust on the floor, looked about them and swallowed hard. ‘No,’ he whispered.

Merimac dropped his voice as well. ‘No, not dead,’ he persisted.

Everard looked about them again before giving a cautious nod.

 ‘But you cannot speak of him,’ Merimac said.

 ‘Aye,’ Everard breathed.

Merimac stood long, lantern in one hand and Everard’s sleeve in the other, considering. He couldn’t imagine upright Ferdi doing something so shameful that the other Tooks would refuse to speak of him, but... ‘The Ban?’ he said at last.

Everard was breathing, shallow, quick breaths, and he seemed on the verge of panic. ‘I cannot,’ he said desperately. ‘I... especially to an outsider.’

Merimac nodded thoughtfully. It was a Tookish matter, that was for certain, and Everard risked the Ban himself if word came to the ears of the Thain. ‘What can I do?’ he whispered, striving for a reasonable tone.

He scarcely expected Everard to be able to answer. If Paladin heard that Merimac had taken him off for a little chat, he’d be pressed to render every detail of their conversation. And if the head of the Took clan had put one of the Tooks under the sentence of shunning, he’d take a dim view of Brandybuck interference, especially considering the fact that his son now resided with the Brandybucks!

Unexpectedly, Everard straightened, a hard look coming into his eye. ‘Ferdinand,’ he said, naming Ferdi’s invalid father. ‘Infirmary.’ With a jerk he pulled his sleeve from Merimac’s grasp and fled the darkened corridor.