19. Progression

April 21, 1392

Bilbo was drifting, drifting slowly through a white mist on a gently rocking boat. He was dimly aware that he was dreaming, and he felt peaceful and unconcerned.

“Do not leave him until he is ready,” said a voice, and Bilbo understood immediately, as though they were continuing a conversation that had been interrupted earlier.

“I wouldn’t think of it!” said Bilbo indignantly, knowing somehow that the voice spoke of his leaving forever.

“Not now,” said the voice. “But one day.”

“I am happy here, with Frodo,” Bilbo protested. “I have no plans to leave the Shire!”

“Not now,” said the voice again. “But what will you do when the restlessness returns?”

“Returns?” Bilbo repeated blankly. “I would never abandon Frodo! Never!”

“Not until he is ready,” said the voice.

Bilbo said nothing, and drifted again for awhile in the peaceful white mist.

A slender white hand rested gently on the old hobbit’s forearm. Bilbo turned in his chair to regard the dark-haired lady standing beside him in the parlour of Bag End. “We are so grateful you have taken in our little Frodo,” Primula said with a soft smile.

Bilbo stared into those remarkable sky-blue eyes for what seemed an eternity. Her gaze was as sweet and solemn as he remembered from all those long years ago, but now it reminded him undeniably of another.

“He has become dearer to me than I can say,” Bilbo whispered.

“Then what comes will be painful,” Drogo said gently. Bilbo looked up to see his cousin standing by the blazing hearth, tapping his pipe thoughtfully and looking as large as life. It brought tears to Bilbo’s eyes, seeing so vividly in his dreams these two who had been dead so many years.

Bilbo came awake with a start. He glanced out the window and saw that the sun was up. He must have dozed off just before dawn. Bilbo stretched and sat up stiffly in the armchair beside Frodo’s bed. What had he been thinking of before he had fallen asleep? Oh yes, Gandalf. And Bilbo’s own adventure. He had been thinking that he would like to go about again someday, when Frodo was old enough for a longer journey than the one to Buckland.

Frodo. The old hobbit reached out to touch the face of the little one in the bed before him. Still much too hot. Hotter even than last night. This was no mere cold, that much was certain. Bilbo shook his head and got up to fetch a new basin of cool water. He would follow the course of action he had been considering the evening before. As soon as the Gaffer appeared for work, he would go out and ask him to come and have a look at the lad. Hamfast had six children; surely he could tell Bilbo if it was serious.

Bilbo returned and paused in the doorway. He could barely see the small form lying in the bed by the dim light that came in around the half-open curtains. Frodo had slept all night and most of yesterday, but Bilbo could tell it was not proper sleep, for the lad was frequently restless and could not seem to get comfortable; he woke often to drink water, for he was quite congested and could only sleep with his mouth open. Bilbo went into the room and sat on the edge of Frodo’s bed. He dampened the rag in the cool water and gently sponged the child’s flushed face.

Frodo opened his eyes at his uncle’s touch and focused his bleary sky-blue gaze on Bilbo’s face. Bilbo paused in his ministrations to stare, recalling his dream. “You have your mother’s eyes, my dear boy,” the old hobbit said softly, and smoothed away a dark curl that was sticking to the lad’s forehead.

Frodo turned his head aside and began to cough. “Uncle?” the child whispered when he had finished.

Bilbo noticed that Frodo’s lips were dry and cracking, and hastily snatched up the cup of tea that had been cooling on the bureau. “Drink this, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo murmured, helping Frodo to sit up and pressing the rim of the cup against his lips.

Frodo drank thirstily and lay back on his pillows, closing his eyes tiredly. “It’s too bright, Uncle Bilbo,” he mumbled after a moment. “My eyes hurt.”

Bilbo glanced at the window in confusion, but got up and closed the curtains all the way. “Is that better, lad?”

“Yes, thank you,” Frodo said, but didn’t open his eyes again. He did reach down and pull up the extra quilt he had kicked off earlier.

Just then, Bilbo heard the front gate open. He turned to tell Frodo he would be back directly, but the lad had fallen asleep again. Bilbo got up quietly and went to the front door. He stepped out into the garden to meet a startled Hamfast Gamgee.

“Master?” the Gaffer said as soon as he saw Bilbo’s face. “Is somethin’ wrong, sir?”

“Would—would you mind having a look at Frodo, Hamfast?” Bilbo requested. “He’s been ill since the day before yesterday, and I’d like to know what you think.”

“Me, Mr. Bilbo?” the Gaffer asked, looking puzzled. “I can send for the doctor if need be, sir.”

“I don’t know if it is necessary, Hamfast,” Bilbo said awkwardly. “You have six children—I’m hoping you can advise me.”

The Gaffer raised his eyebrows. “Aye, if ye think I might know what’s ailin’ Mr. Frodo, then o’ course I’ll help if I can, sir,.

Frodo was lying in bed half-awake when Bilbo came back. His uncle was followed by Sam’s Gaffer, for some mysterious reason, who approached and stood beside the bed without quite touching it.

“Ah...” Hamfast began. “How are ye feelin’, Mr. Frodo?”

“Fine, thank you, sir,” Frodo answered automatically.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “The truth, if you please, Frodo-lad,” the old hobbit admonished gently.

Frodo considered for a moment. “Cold,” he said finally. “And hot. And tired. And my throat hurts, and my eyes.”

Hamfast bent forward to peer more closely at Frodo. Frodo gazed back tiredly, wishing he could just go back to sleep.

“May I touch you, sir?” the Gaffer asked finally. Frodo nodded his assent, and Hamfast carefully felt Frodo’s forehead. “That’s a high fever all right, Master Bilbo,” Hamfast said, turning his head to look at Frodo’s uncle.

“I thought so,” Bilbo sighed. “What should I do, Hamfast?”

The Gaffer noticed the basin of water sitting on the floor and picked it up. He seemed to have forgotten his awkwardness at examining Frodo, for with quick, sure hands, he turned the lad gently onto his stomach and lifted his nightshirt.

Frodo sucked in a breath as he felt the cool air on his bare skin, and he gasped when he felt a cold, wet cloth being rubbed over his back.

“Just lie quiet, sir,” Hamfast murmured gruffly. “We need ta cool ye down a mite.”

Frodo tried to relax, even though he wanted to laugh crazily at the thought of Sam’s crusty father bathing Frodo’s back with gentle, work-roughened hands.

Bilbo watched silently as Hamfast put the basin back down on the floor and straightened up. The gardener lowered the back of Frodo’s nightshirt again and tucked the blankets snugly around the child. Frodo immediately curled on his side and went back to sleep.

Bilbo motioned the Gaffer to follow him out into the hall. “Well?” he said when he had closed Frodo’s bedroom door.

Hamfast shifted uncomfortably under Bilbo’s scrutiny. “I must say, Master Bilbo, I think I oughta get Bell up here to take a look. She knows more ‘bout ailments o’ the little’uns, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

“But you suspect something, don’t you, Hamfast?” Bilbo asked anxiously.

“Aye,” the Gaffer said reluctantly. “I’m afeared it might be the carnelian fever, sir.”

Bilbo stared at his gardener.

“I’ll run and fetch Bell, Mr. Bilbo,” Hamfast said finally, when it was clear he would get no response from his master. Bilbo sat limply on the front step as the Gaffer went briskly back down the Hill to Bagshot Row. If it was carnelian fever, then Frodo’s suffering would get a great deal worse before it got better. Bilbo closed his eyes. “He has become dearer to me than I can say,” Bilbo had whispered. “Then what comes will be painful,” the dream-Drogo had replied.

When he heard steps on the path, Bilbo opened his eyes again. Hamfast and Bell were coming toward him. He stood and opened the door, leading the pair back to Frodo’s room. Bilbo stepped inside. The lad was still asleep. Bell went at once to Frodo’s bed, feeling his face and chest with a mother’s practiced ease.

“What d’ye think, lass?” the Gaffer asked his wife softly.

Bell bent down to brush dark curls from the clammy forehead of the sleeping child. “Aye,” she murmured after a moment. “It’s faint yet, but there’s a rash all right.”

Hamfast sighed. “I’d hoped I was wrong,” he said gruffly.

“What is it, Bell?” Bilbo asked, suddenly unable to bear the anticipation.

“Ye’d better send for Dr. Hornblower right away, sir,” Bell said firmly. “It looks like the carnelian fever ta me, all right.”