Chapter 18. In which a youthful hobbit calls for help

In silence, Frodo peered down the dark throat of the log, leaning forward until his head blocked any light from entering. Frowning, he pulled back a little, but it didn’t help, much. A torch. That was what was wanted. Some of the searchers carried torches; others carried lanterns. Frodo had nothing but his wits.

In the absence of light, he did the next best thing he could think of. He held his breath and listened. In the distance he could still hear voices calling, but he concentrated fiercely on the pool of darkness before his eyes. Yes. Something was there. Some thing, breathing softly. Wrath rose within him. Some horrid thing, some ravening monster that had overcome and devoured little Merry, some creature of the darkness...

The Dark. Even as his fist clenched tighter around the stick, a scrap of memory incongruously floated through his thoughts. The creak of the door wakening him, opening sleepy eyes, seeing tiny Merry creeping cautiously across the floor by the dim light of the watch-lamp. Fwo? Fwo? Putting out glad, welcoming arms, pulling the mite into the bed, snuggling under the warm covers, exclaiming over small, icy feet. Merry had come often to Frodo, when a nightmare interrupted his sleep, or the Dark became too dark for him to bear.

With a sob, he brought the stick down hard on the outside of the log. Crack! He’d drive the creature out of its hiding, and crush its skull as it emerged. Crack! Crack! Crack!

But no creature emerged, not even a mouse. He listened again. Nothing.

Crack! ‘Get out of there!’ he shouted. Crack! ‘Take that, foul fiend!’

Still it cowered in silence within the darkness. Peering into the log, he thought he could see the sparks of eyes. ‘I’ll get you out, yet,’ he muttered, and changing tactics, he thrust the stick down the hole, hard.

A terrified shriek, fear mingled with pain, rose to meet him, and he pulled back in confusion. This was no fox...!

Sudden sick realization took him. One of his cousins was still alive in there, in the fox’s lair. He’d battered one of the little lads in his efforts. The fox had dragged the child into the den, both children more likely, devoured one and left the other for afters.

‘Merry!’ he called eagerly. ‘Is the fox still there?’

There was no answer, but Frodo was heartened that there was also no snarl, no growl.

‘Merry?’ he said, as gently as he could, considering that his heart was racing and he was breathing hard.

Soft sobbing answered, and his horror was renewed as he recognised little Ferdi’s voice. Little Ferdi, yes, that’s who he was hearing, Ferdi, but not Merry, no trace of his well-remembered voice. Merry would never have left little Ferdi alone. Not willingly. Frodo shook with a sudden chill, but then he set his shoulders and lifted his head. There was still a little one here, needing help.

‘Ferdi?’ he whispered.

The sobbing stopped, but listening carefully Frodo heard the catch of the youngster’s ragged breathing.

‘Ferdi,’ he said, working encouragement into his tone. ‘Ferdi, it’s all right. You’re safe now. Come out, little one.’

Not a sound.

‘Ferdi,’ he said again, and then he turned away to raise his voice in a wild shout, though it would likely terrify the youngster further. Help! Help! I’ve found...! He didn’t know quite what he’d found. Little Ferdi, certainly. And what was left of Merry? He scarcely dared to hope... but better that, than never to know where his little cousin’s bones had come to rest. He yelled at the top of his lungs, scraping his voice raw, but suddenly Bilbo was there, Bilbo’s arms enveloped him, he was pulled against Bilbo’s scratchy waistcoat, the metal buttons cold against his cheek, Bilbo’s voice soothing him.

Here now, lad, I’m here. How do you come to be...? No matter. No matter. Help is here.

There were wondering murmurs, and Frodo pulled away from the old hobbit’s embrace at last, gesturing at the log with the stick that still hung from his hand. ‘There,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘In there. A fox’s den, I think…’ He swayed, but Bilbo caught him and eased him down, settling his lap under Frodo’s back, keeping him from the cold dampness of the ground. Dazed, Frodo fought to keep his eyes open. Even as he lost the battle, he felt Bilbo’s fingers gingerly exploring a soreness on his forehead.

‘Fox!’ several voices said in unison, wowing in and out of Frodo’s consciousness.

‘Here, take the torch,’ someone said, and he seemed to see through the mist in the air (or was it the fog in his brain?) a yellow glow, a shadowy figure tentatively easing a lighted torch in at the entry to the log.

‘Have a care!’ Bilbo said sharply, and somehow that brought things more into focus. ‘You’ll have the log ablaze before you know it!’

‘With things so damp?’ the torch-bearer grumbled, but someone else said something about scraping dry wood from under to start a fire, of a rainy day, and Frodo was drifting off again, lost in memories of tramping about with Bilbo...

‘They’re in there, all right,’ a voice whispered, and Frodo smiled in his dream. They’d found a bird’s nest, and climbed to see the eggs... Bilbo’s fingers were soothing, and he was telling someone to “Take off your coats and lay them over the boy! He’s hurt!”

‘We’ll have to chop them out.’

‘Or saw them.’

‘Chopping’s quicker...’

‘Aye, but what if we should chop them, I don’t wonder?’

Frodo faded away.