18. Unexpected

April 18, 1392

Frodo gazed in wonder at the wide expanse of blue ground spread out beneath him, and the sky of mottled green and brown. A pair of hobbit feet standing on the sky entered his field of vision, and Frodo lowered his gaze to see an upside-down hobbit regarding him bemusedly. This hobbit had curly chestnut hair and grey eyes, and was frowning hugely. No, that was an upside-down smile.

“You’d better sit up, Frodo,” laughed Folco Boffin. “Your face is red as a cherry!”

Frodo began to swing back and forth a little, trying to build up momentum.

“Don’t fall on your head,” said another voice. “Whatever would we tell your uncle?” A second pair of feet had come into view, attached to a rather stocky hobbit (even by hobbit standards) with light brown curls and mischievous brown eyes.

“You could tell him my head hit the sky, Fatty,” Frodo said to the second hobbit. His name was Fredegar Bolger, but his friends and family called him Fatty. Frodo pulled himself up then, to sit atop the low branch he had just been using to swing by his knees. “Ooh,” Frodo moaned, rubbing at his tingling face. “Everything’s moving too much!”

“Well, come down here with the sensible hobbits,” said Folco.

“Honestly,” Fatty laughed. “Who wants to climb an apple tree when the apples won’t be there for months yet?”

Frodo clambered down from his perch and all three boys flopped down in the grass. It was a fine spring day, if a little cool, and windy. Huge clouds sailed overhead.

“Didja hear about little Ruby Proudfoot?” Fatty asked presently. Mrs. Bolger was one of the best gossip mongers in Hobbiton, and Fatty always heard any interesting news before the other boys.

“What about her?” Frodo asked without opening his eyes. He had been peculiarly tired all day, and was glad to be resting in the fragrant grass.

“Well, she’s been out of school all week, you see? My ma heard that it’s because Mongo Bracegirdle put a frog down her dress and she squealed and squealed and the teacher had to send her home, she was so upset.”

“So why did she stay home all week?” asked Folco.

“She was too embarrassed to come back, I suppose,” Fatty answered with a shrug.

“I wonder if she’s ill,” Folco said thoughtfully. “I heard my parents saying that the carnelian fever is making the rounds again, all over the Shire.”

“Really?” asked Frodo, opening his eyes. “That’s fairly serious, isn’t it?”

“It can be,” said Fatty. “My ma says lads and lasses all over the Shire catch it, when it comes every ten years or so. They generally recover and then they can’t catch it again, but every so often you hear of someone who’s died of it.”

“It’s still pretty rare, though,” Folco said. “I barely remember the last time it went round, but only a handful of little ones in Hobbiton caught it. And maybe this time, the miller’s son will be the only one.”

Frodo raised himself up on his elbows. “The miller’s son? You mean Ted Sandyman?”

“That’s right,” Folco replied. The Boffin smial was very near the mill. “Poor old Ted’s been sick over a week, now. They started saying it’s carnelian fever a few days back.”

“That’s peculiar,” Frodo said thoughtfully. “I saw Ted about a week ago and thought he seemed to have a cold. He was sneezing a lot, anyway.”

“Well, I guess not,” said Fatty. “They say it’s a mild case, at any rate. He’ll probably be back at work by next week.”

The three lads sat for awhile longer, talking of various matters and watching the clouds sailing overhead, but soon their stomachs reminded them it was close to tea-time and they hurried home.

“Hullo, Master Gamgee!” Frodo said cheerfully as he let himself in the front gate of Bag End.

“Afternoon, Mr. Frodo,” the Gaffer replied with a decorous nod from his position kneeling amongst the marigolds.

Frodo was nearly up to the front door before his sensitive ears detected a faint muttering. Glancing around for the source, he soon noticed a head of light brown curls bent industriously over the creeping sweet pea vines that grew beneath the kitchen window. Frodo smiled fondly at the earnest little form and crept closer.

“Now see here, ye stubborn ol’ vine,” the figure muttered as Frodo came to stand unnoticed behind him. “You’d best be behavin’ yourself proper, or I’ll—I’ll slay ye with my sword!” The figure brandished its small gardening trowel threateningly at the wayward plant. “I want Master Bilbo and Mr. Frodo to look out this ‘ere window and see a nice set o’ blossoms, not you, ye great tangle!”

“Subduing the ferocious sweet peas, are you, Ranger Samomir?” Frodo suddenly intoned, quite unable to restrain himself.

The intrepid hero whirled around in surprise, dropping his trowel with a thump. “Why, Mr. Frodo!” exclaimed Sam, going red. “I didn’t hear ye there, sir!”

“I am sorry for sneaking up on you, Sam,” Frodo said, valiantly endeavouring to sound contrite. In all honesty, the older lad was struggling to contain a fit of laughter at the sheepish expression on Sam’s face.

Sam finally forgot his embarrassment and smiled back at Frodo. “I pruned the geraniums all by meself today, Mr. Frodo!” the child said proudly.

“And made a lovely job of it too, I daresay,” Frodo replied, glancing over at the flowerbed in question. “I’m sure Uncle Bilbo will be very pleased,” he added, after pausing to decide what would best encourage Sam.

Frodo left a delighted Ranger Samomir to contend with the unruly sweet peas and went inside. It had been nearly a week since Sam’s tantrum over Ted Sandyman. Frodo continued to make every effort to show Sam there were no hard feelings, for Sam had seemed dreadfully awkward and unsure of himself for several days after that incident.

Sam’s derision of Bucklanders had certainly hurt, but Frodo never doubted that the words were spoken in anger and frustration, rather than real prejudice. Frodo smiled as he began undoing the buttons on his jacket, remembering the wildflowers he had found on his windowsill after returning home from helping Ted, and the conversation with Bilbo that had followed.

“Isn’t it obvious, my dear boy?” Bilbo asked seriously, when Frodo had described the incident with Ted and shown him the flowers. “Samwise is begging your pardon.”

“He is?” Frodo was puzzled.

Bilbo smiled at his nephew, brown eyes twinkling. “I daresay he’d apologize to your face, if he could, but poor Sam has always been a bashful little fellow.”

Frodo looked down at the miraculous flowers in his hands, then back at Bilbo, sitting beside him at the kitchen table. “What... what should I do with them, Uncle?”

“Do?” echoed Bilbo, placing one hand over both of Frodo’s. “Why, you must do whatever you wish with them! They were a gift, freely given.”

Frodo hadn’t expected Sam to stay angry long, but the gift had come as a great surprise. Indeed, Frodo had been deeply moved; he was by no means accustomed to receiving any sort of consideration over hurt feelings. In Brandy Hall no one had a thought to spare for such trivial matters, at any rate not when a lonely and unnoticed orphan was the hobbit involved.

Sam’s simple act of apology had left Frodo wondering what in Middle Earth he might have done to deserve such a true friend. It was a question he could not answer; he could only hope that one day he would do something to deserve Sam’s friendship. For now, he had settled on hanging the wildflowers to dry from his bedroom ceiling.

Frodo remembered climbing down from his desk chair to find Bilbo standing in the doorway, wearing a knowing smile. The old hobbit had glanced up at the ceiling and then back at Frodo, and walked away without a word, whistling cheerfully.

The following afternoon, Frodo had seen Sam working with his Gaffer and casting surreptitious glances at Frodo’s window every few minutes. From the angle of Sam’s gaze, Frodo had no doubt the younger boy had seen the wildflowers, and Frodo was glad of it.

After hanging his jacket up on its peg, Frodo wandered off to find Bilbo, for it was nearly time for tea. The old hobbit was reading in his study, and Frodo walked in through the open door and leaned against the frame.

“Hullo, my boy,” said Bilbo, turning from his desk. “Had a good day?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo answered with a smile. “I’m awfully tired now, though.”

Bilbo marked his place and got up. “And no wonder, lad!” he exclaimed. “You didn’t eat much at luncheon today. You must be famished! I’ll get our tea things directly.”

Frodo followed Bilbo to the kitchen and helped prepare a mountain of sandwiches and biscuits to go with their tea, but in truth he didn’t have much appetite. He picked at the tea things and did the same at supper a few hours later, trying to ignore Bilbo’s concerned looks all the while.

When Frodo stated that he was ready to go to bed at eight o’clock, Bilbo helped the sleepy tween into his nightclothes and tucked him in tenderly.

“It’s likely just as well that you’re going to bed early tonight, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo said. “You ate so little today, I feel sure you must be coming down with a cold.”

April 19, 1392

The following morning, Frodo awoke feeling a good deal more groggy than was usual. Also, his throat felt raw and inflamed. Frodo crawled sleepily out of his warm bed, deciding that he did indeed have a cold, and a nasty one, by the feel of things. After washing up and dressing, Frodo ambled unsteadily to the kitchen.

“My throat hurts, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo said, although it came out as more of a croak.

“Oh, dear!” Bilbo said, pulling out a chair at the table. “Well, you’ll stay in and rest today, hmm?”

Frodo nodded and tried to eat a piece of toast, but Bilbo’s good bread tasted dry and scratchy today, and he couldn’t finish it.

Bilbo decided to read Frodo stories all morning instead of giving him his lessons. The thrilling tales from ‘Dragons: An Anthology, By Gandalf the Grey,’ which Bilbo had given Frodo on his last birthday, were greatly enjoyed by the young hobbit. Bilbo paused in his reading only to badger Frodo to drink more water, for Bilbo did not know much about nursing sick hobbitlings, but he did know that drinking fluids was crucial for some reason.

For his part, Frodo was not too ill to take pleasure in being fussed over by his uncle. He had been ill often enough in Brandy Hall, but it was usually several days before anyone noticed, and no one had much time to spend with him even then.

“Uncle Bilbo, is Gandalf the Grey the same Gandalf you met on your adventure?” Frodo asked suddenly, later that evening.

Bilbo glanced up from the page he had been reading from. “The very same,” he said, chuckling at the awed expression on Frodo’s pale face. “Where did you think I got the book from, my boy?”

Frodo absorbed this exciting bit of information for a moment before formulating his next question. “Is he really a wizard?”

“He is indeed,” Bilbo replied.

Frodo sighed wistfully. “I wish I could meet him one day.”

Bilbo laughed. “Well, lad, he still comes round to visit every so often. I daresay you’ll see him eventually!”

“Truly?” said Frodo in amazement. “He comes here? To Bag End?” Frodo looked around at the cozy sitting room, trying and failing to picture a powerful and mysterious wizard in these mundane surroundings.

“Well, of course to Bag End, dear boy,” Bilbo answered, amused by his nephew’s incredulity. “He hasn’t been seen in the Shire for a long time, you know. I shouldn’t be surprised if we saw him in the next few years.”

“Is he... is he very frightening, Uncle?” Frodo asked a little more timidly.

Bilbo chuckled again. “Frightening? Well, he certainly can be when he wants to be, Frodo-lad. You needn’t worry, though. He would never harm you.”

Frodo thought about this for a moment, then settled back against Bilbo’s side and motioned for him to continue the story.

April 20, 1392

The next day, Frodo awoke with a runny nose and cough to match his sore throat. He got up and dressed himself, but couldn’t muster up the energy for anything more than dozing on the couch in Bilbo’s study most of the day, listening to the reassuring sound of quill scratching on parchment and obediently drinking water or syrupy tea whenever it was put in front of him.

Later, Frodo roused slightly to find that the sun had gone down and the room was very dim. His eyes were sore and tired, and oddly sensitive to the light, so Frodo was grateful for the soothing darkness. He opened his eyes a little more when he felt a cool hand on his forehead; he saw Bilbo’s face creased with concern in the flickering light of the small fire on the hearth.

The next thing Frodo noticed was Bilbo lifting him gently into his arms and carrying him for awhile. Then he was back in his own room, and Bilbo was undressing him and putting him back in bed. His last clear memory that day was of Bilbo sitting on the bed beside him, stroking his hair tenderly as the young hobbit relaxed into slumber.