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A Took by Any Other Name  by Lindelea

Chapter 13. Supper and Bed

Merimac reined in his weary pony, peering about the shadowy clearing as half a score of Brandybucks pulled up around him. They had eschewed the Stock Road, staying to less-frequented trails, but this meeting place had been pre-determined and he’d expected to find his nephew waiting instead of an obviously deserted clearing.

 ‘Late!’ Berilac muttered to the cousin riding at his side. ‘He’s for it now... he knows better than to come late to a meeting with my father!’

 ‘He ought to, anyhow,’ the cousin muttered back. ‘After the last time, he’s always been the one to be early to any meeting...’

 ‘Hush, there!’ Merimac hissed, and the younger hobbits fell silent.

The old Badger slid from his saddle, tossing the reins to his son, and hauled his bulk into the fork of a nearby tree for a better view of their surroundings. ‘Quiet,’ he said, and the others looked at one another, wondering who’d had the temerity to make noise, until he added, ‘Very quiet,’ and they knew he spoke of the woods and not themselves.

Grunting as he descended again, he quickly organised the camp. Soon ponies were tied in a hidden glen and blanket rolls were set out in the shelter of a thicket, though no fire was laid, and some of the party munched cold bread-and-cheese or sausage rolls while several others, grumbling to themselves, were climbing trees. Though they did not like heights, as a rule, they recognised the advantage of far sight.

Merimac was consulting with Berilac and Marmadic when a squirrel scolded from the branches above them. Instantly they fell silent and slipped into shadow as hoofbeats approached: a clattering of ponies. Merimac relaxed slightly; from listening to stories he knew that Orcs would rather eat ponies than ride such.

He stepped forth, recognising Merimas Brandybuck leading the troop.

 ‘Well?’ he barked softly. ‘What’s happened? Why is my nephew not come?’

 ‘Sorry,’ Merimas said, jumping from the saddle. A cousin took the reins of his pony and melted away with the others into the growing shadows surrounding them. ‘He was unavoidably detained, and the Master sent me instead.’

 ‘Detained?’ Merimac growled. ‘More of the creatures?’

 ‘No, none of that!’ Merimas said hastily. ‘As a matter of fact, Buckland appears to be clear, and the Old Forest has quite settled down again. Old Bombadil said...’

 ‘You spoke with Tom Bombadil?’ Merimac said, arching his eyebrows.

Merimas smiled and his eyes lit with wonder. ‘He is all you said he was, and more!’ he whispered. ‘Halfway to a Man in height, and his walk is a dance and his very speech is song!’

 ‘Never mind that, what did he say?’ Merimac said.

 ‘The filth has been cleansed from the Old Forest,’ Merimas answered, straightening. ‘I gave the orders myself, to clear away all sign of their being there... and we buried what was left after we burned the carcases, and salted the ground, and piled a cairn of stones over it.’

 ‘And the Rangers?’ Merimac said.

 ‘Our messengers are not yet returned from Bree,’ Merimas said, and the old Badger nodded, muttering under his breath. Fine thing it was not, to have to go all the way to Bree to contact the Watchers. Good beer or no, the Prancing Pony was an inconvenient meeting place. They ought to arrange some nearer place, a message “drop” or some such. ‘But the Master will send his son to meet them at the Bridge when word comes... if...’

 ‘If...’ echoed Merimac. ‘What has happened?’

 ‘It’s Pippin,’ Merimas said. ‘Merry fears to leave his side, for worry that the Took won’t greet him on his return...’

 ‘That bad?’ Merimac said, startled. ‘He was on the mend, when last I...’

The younger hobbit made a face. ‘That fever going around,’ he said. ‘He’s picked the worst possible time to come down with it, already weakened by his time amongst those vile creatures, and...’

 ‘And?’ Merimac said.

Merimas looked about them at the hobbits settling on their bedrolls, chewing their cold rations, and dropped his voice. ‘Old Ossilan fears his heart might fail him,’ he whispered. ‘In the throes of the delirium, you know. Why, it takes half a dozen hobbits, more even! ...just to keep him in the bed!’

Merimac snorted. ‘That hobbit has the stoutest heart of anyone I know,’ he said, ‘saving my nephew, perhaps.’

But Merimas only shook his head. ‘Out of his head he was, when I went to fetch Merry,’ he said, his countenance troubled. Of course Merry could not leave his cousin; he’d been in the thick of things when Merimas last saw him, holding Pippin’s face between his hands and pleading with his cousin to recognise him, to no avail. Pippin knew him not.  Estella, in the glimpse Merimas’d had of her before a grim-faced Saradoc had turned him out of the room, had nursed a blackening eye from her own attempts to calm the frenzied hobbit while others clung to Pippin’s arms and legs or laid themselves across his torso in an attempt to keep the delirious hobbit from throwing himself out of the bed. Saradoc had told Merimas to take the troop to the Woody End to meet his brother. Merry could not be spared.

 ‘Out of his head,’ Merimac echoed. ‘Well, Ossilan has dealt with such before. A sleeping draught, to get the hobbit past the worst of the fever...’

 The younger hobbit swallowed hard, shaking his head again. ‘You ought to have seen him… it’ll haunt my dreams for nights to come, I’ve no doubt. Shouting and screaming, fighting as if an hundred devils held him in their claws. ‘Tis not an easy death he’s having, not an easy way of dying at all, even though he’s in his own bed surrounded by those who love him...’

Merimac turned abruptly, gesturing to his son. When Berilac came up to them, he said, ‘Saddle our ponies! We’ll be riding on to the Hall this evening.’

 ‘Riding to the Hall?’ Berilac said. While part of him was happy at the thought of bath and hot supper at the end of their long ride from the Smials, he hadn’t anticipated the comforts of home for days, even weeks, yet.

 ‘Young Peregrin seems to have taken a turn for the worse,’ Merimac said, ‘and I’ve promised to deliver a message to him.’

Berilac nodded. His father had skulked about the Great Smials for half the night and into the wee hours of the morning, and when he’d returned at last to the guest quarters he had sat staring into the fire on the hearth for a long time, deep in thought, though what he was thinking he kept to himself.

 ‘How many?’ Berilac said, coming back to the point at hand.

 ‘Just yourself and your father,’ Merimac answered. ‘The Shire seems to have escaped the touch of foul Orcs’ feet, but we’ll leave the troop here in the Woody End nonetheless. They can warn the woodcutters to be on their guard and look for signs of the monsters, though I doubt they’ll find any. Organise parties to ride all the way around the Woody End. It’ll take the better part of the month, but when we’re done we’ll have been thorough and hobbits will sleep all the better for our effort.’ This last was directed to Merimas, who nodded smartly.

 ‘We’ll scour the Woody End,’ he said. ‘Here’s hoping for a long and boring time of it.’

 ‘Best of luck to you,’ Merimac said. ‘Come along, Son! Look lively!’

Berilac stepped into the thicket and snapped orders, and soon two hobbits were rolling up his bedding, and his father’s, and two others were saddling their ponies. The beasts were rather disgusted at this turn of events, rolling their eyes and grabbing for a final bite as their feedbags were taken away, but there was nothing for it. Their ill humour would disappear quick enough when their riders turned their faces homewards once more, and their pace, which had grown weary as the afternoon proceeded, would hasten at the call of stable and manger.

It was perhaps an hour’s ride to the Ferry landing, and the light of day was not yet faded from the sky as the softness of twilight descended on the Woody End. Why, though they’d have to cross the broad expanse of moon-lustered water by lantern-light, they’d be home not too terribly long after the Sun kissed the horizon, on her way to her pillow and the night’s rest.






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