Chapter 7. Two's Company

He was cold, chilled to the bone, so very cold, and though he knew he ought not to sleep, he felt as if clouds enveloped him. There were voices in his ears, but perhaps they were only his imagination. He was lost, lost in the icy fog that surrounded him, and he tried to cry out, but he could not hear his own voice in his ears...

At the ripe old age of twenty-nine, Tolibold son of Haldibold the healer, chief healer of Tuckborough, in point of fact (if you didn’t count the healers at the Great Smials, the best the Thain's money could buy), thought himself quite mature and ready to face the world.

He had nearly convinced his father that, with Mardi to take on the healer’s business from their father, when Haldibold wished to sit down and toast his toes by the fire, it wouldn’t really be necessary for Tolly to master the healer’s arts. Tolly had a natural eye for shooting, and he’d won the Tournament in his age class for three years running. He had a good chance of serving on the Thain’s escort, which paid well, for starters, and was high in prestige amongst Tooks, especially amongst the pretty young Tooks and Tooklanders who gazed in admiration at the dashing hobbits who swore to protect the Thain with their lives, if necessary.

Not that it had ever come to such but the one time, at least so far as Tolly knew. Yes, there were occasionally renegade Men to be found in the Shire, but if they did not respect the sharp tongues of the Tooks, they respected their sharp arrows, and stayed clear of the Tookland, for the most part. Wolves had not been seen in the Green Hills in years, and while stray dogs and wild swine were an occasional nuisance, the hunters and Shirriffs kept these in check. Wild swine had attacked the Thain during a hunt, and one hobbit of the escort had given his life, and another had been crippled for life, but such a thing could never happen to Tolibold. He was certain of it.

As a hobbit of the Thain’s escort, Tolly would be provided with a pony belonging to the Thain, but he could soon own two or three ponies of his own, with the pay he’d earn, both for his duty and for additional tasks (his friend Ferdibrand, for example, fletched arrows which an ironmonger fitted with pyles and sold in the marketplace, giving Ferdi a portion of his earnings).

Hobbits of the escort dressed well; the Thain issued them one suit of clothing and they earned enough to afford several. Thain Ferumbras expected them to look well when they carried a message on his part. And sometimes the Thain would send hobbits of the escort out hunting, to keep their shooting in practice, and Tolly certainly enjoyed the hunt—the stalking, the thrill of bagging his prey, the satisfaction in the meal that followed.

Riding and shooting for a living, having his pick of the lasses, could anything be finer?

But Haldibold had insisted that his sons all accompany him to the Woody End, this trip, for the gathering of herbs. It wasn’t that Tolly had any difficulty identifying what herbs to gather, and what to leave... it was just that he’d rather be... riding, or hunting, or sitting back and trading stories with the other tweens at the Smials.

He didn’t understand why his father insisted on maintaining a house in Tuckborough. Haldi might have accepted a position with Thain Ferumbras at any time, why, Mardi might’ve all by himself, at three times what father and son earned, put together, allowing Haldibold to retire! But no, the old hobbit stubbornly maintained his independence, and Mardi followed him. Tolly spent much of his time at the Smials, since Thain Ferumbras had noticed him at the tournament and had asked his father if Tolly could join the other tweens in their learning. And Hilly, though seven years younger, had tagged along after Tolly as he always did, even though the invitation had not been specifically extended to him.

The tweens of the Great Smials were a jolly set, indeed, and Tolly was in a fair way to having his head turned at their attentions. His father was a descendent of the Old Took, after all, and Tolly himself was known for his prowess at archery. He did not do as well in the lessons requiring reading and writing, but that hardly seemed to matter. He could tell a good joke, and he could hold his beer (the half-pint allowed a tween, at least), and when he threw back his head to laugh, he could set a room to laughing with him.

And here he was, stuck in the Woody End, closer to Stock than Tuckborough, gathering herbs for his father’s stores before winter should set in.

...but it seemed that winter had set in, and unexpectedly. He’d half-filled his basket in the warm and lazy autumn sunshine, and seeing a mossy log bathed in sun he’d sat himself down to enjoy the bread-and-cheese he’d brought to sustain himself through his arduous labours. He’d fallen asleep there, in the sunny patch, in clear sight of the Stock Road, but he’d wakened in the fog, scarce able to see his hand before his face, and cold it was, an icy wet cold that pierced him to the skin, made his bones ache, as a matter of fact, and though he’d walked and called, broken into a run and shouted in panic... He never did come upon the Road.

He was lost in the woods, in the fog, and now the dark was coming down.

‘Help!’ he shouted, but the fog swallowed his voice and his shoulders slumped.

He felt as if he wanted to weep, to wail like a babe, and then for a wild moment he thought he’d given voice to his fear and desperation...

But no. There was a babe, and somewhere nearby, and sounding as lost as he himself was.

‘Hulloo!’ he cried, and listened.

No, not a babe, but a small child. A faunt, perhaps. A small child meant adults nearby, and adults meant a house or smial, and safety.

‘Hulloo!’ he cried again, and followed the sound, though the fog made it trickier. He worked his way, turning this way and that, taking note of when the sound faded and when it grew stronger.

His nose was dripping with more than the fog, and he sneezed. There was an answering sneeze nearby; he was getting closer!

‘Where are you?’ he cried, to be answered with a whimper.

As it was he nearly stumbled over the little one... “little” being a relative term. Something akin to a faunt, he judged, though about twice the size of a hobbit of three years. Old enough to whimper for its “Mama”, young enough yet to be wearing a gown, dirty and torn.

‘Hullo,’ he said, instinctively lowering his voice. He held out his hand slowly, carefully, as if to a wild creature. He didn’t want to frighten it into a screaming fit, especially if there were grown ones anywhere nearby, who might come to the babe’s defence, and might have the wrong idea about Tolly.

‘Mama...’ sobbed the little one again, and looking at Tolly with wide eyes, repeated, ‘Ma... ma?’

‘Is your Mama nearby?’ Tolly asked, moving a step closer. It was growing colder, he thought, and it seemed to him that the light was beginning to fade, though with the fog it was difficult to tell. And here this little one was, bare of foot (‘twouldn’t have mattered, were it a hobbit, but it wasn’t), and wearing only a thin gown... all that would have been needed, in the earlier warmth of the afternoon. Poor little thing might take its death of cold.

He raised his voice. ‘Halloo? Is anyone there?’

‘Dere,’ echoed the little one tearfully, and then it raised fat little arms in pleading. ‘Up?’ it said. ‘Up?’

‘Aw, now, you’d like to be friends?’ Tolly said, greatly relieved that it wasn’t about to burst out screaming at his nearness. ‘Come now, little thing, you must be so very cold!’

And he wrapped his arms around the little one, and sat himself down, and drew the damp and smelly child of Man into his lap, to share what warmth he could.

He was in a pickle, and no mistake about the matter.

***

A/N: Just in case this was confusing... Tolly's gone back in his mind to a time before the Troubles, before Men were banned from the Shire.