Those eyes burned with a murderous rage Frodo had not yet seen. In those eyes he could see his own doom.
Chapter 29 - Presence of Mind
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The cart carrying the three hobbits trundled homeward under the light of the dying moon. Pippin drove in silence, shoulders slumped, his cloak bundled around him, his eyes fixed upon the pebble-strewn road. The moon bathed the world in an eerie blue glow, and the bumping of the pony trap harmonized with the singing of crickets and the chirping of frogs.
These sights and sounds lulled Pippin into a fragile calm as he mulled the events of this night over in his still-rattled mind. The chaos of images skirted along the edges of his thoughts as he tried to pull the memory clear. Merry had almost killed Frodo. Had Pippin not interceded, Merry would have allowed Frodo to drown.
Pippin agonized over this possibility. How could Merry have done such a thing? No excuse or rationalization seemed adequate to glaze over this fact. Yet Pippin strained his mind in the effort to create one. Perhaps all of these prodigiously difficult decisions had weighed too heavily on Merry’s shoulders, somehow unhinging him from the situation at hand. Perhaps Merry was just about to pull Frodo up and he had needlessly goaded Merry to an action he had meant to take.
But, and Pippin had to be honest with himself, it had not appeared that Merry had planned much of anything. Merry had stood transfixed by the trinket at the end of the chain – Bilbo’s Ring. Pippin had noticed the change in his cousin’s eyes immediately. First the dark mist fleeting across them, turning them black as lacquer, lit from behind by pale flame. The appalling glint made it appear as if Merry had become possessed, the soul of his ebullient cousin cast out and replaced by something grim and unspeakable.
But, no. Merry had saved Frodo. Pippin had called him, and Merry had sprung into action, animated by love and concern. Both hobbits had pulled wildly on the rope with broad, sweeping tugs, driving their muscles to the limits of their strength. The rope whined and squawked against the rim of the boat as it bore up its burden. Frodo surfaced, pale as the moon, still as death, an eerie smile set upon unmoving lips. They heaved their water logged cousin over the gunwale with a ghastly squelch. The weight, still attached to Frodo’s ankles, dangled heavily on its noose over the water, a sickening reminder of their active role in this madness. Merry leaned over the edge and sliced the rope with desperate angry motions, his teeth gritting with exertion, until the millstone plopped into the water with a bone chilling splunk, finally free to sink to it own underwater grave without pulling its prey down with it.
Then Merry leapt, literally leapt, Pippin reminded himself, to Frodo’s side, shaking him frantically, screaming out his name in a ragged voice thick with tears. ‘What have I done?’ he’d cried. ‘Frodo! Frodo! What have I done? Come back!’
Merry’s wailing had frightened Pippin more than anything, as he was accustomed to seeing Merry in complete control. Pippin had trembled at the possibility that Merry couldn’t fix this. Had Merry made a mistake? No, Merry did not make mistakes, did he?
Then Merry’s eyes seemed to clear, his jaw set in determination and baseless hope. He rolled the unconscious hobbit over on his side, displacing the water in the miniature lake that had accumulated in the hull. Merry shoved his finger between Frodo’s blue lips, coaxing a gruesome stream of murky river water to spew from Frodo’s lax lips. He’d slapped Frodo’s back mercilessly, more water spurting out with every thump. Then Merry locked his own mouth over Frodo’s lips, fingers blocking nostrils, and forced his own air into Frodo’s reluctant lungs. One breath, Frodo’s chest lifted, fell, and stayed still as stone. Two, another rise, another fall, another awful stillness. Three – rise, fall, and, a glimmer of hope, an almost imperceptible rise. Four, five, six, seven, and finally Frodo coughed up a flood of foul water and threw open his eyes. Pippin recalled hearing his own voice shriek with relief as he stood, nearly toppling out of the boat. Pippin remembered that Merry smiled, a smile of true joy that lit up his whole face. And for that moment, Pippin’s old Merry, his lovely sweet Merry, was back. Merry captured Frodo in a fierce embrace, dampening his front with Frodo’s sodden clothing. Then he had flashed Pippin a bright, clear-eyed grin, and Pippin nearly melted with the beauty of it.
Pippin recalled how lovely it was to see Merry wrap his protective arms around Frodo, his cousin’s eyes glazed but with life behind them. Frodo had stared into eternity, as if he were seeking some dim memory of an unseeable sight, and Pippin wondered why this other memory brought him no particular comfort.
a a a
Merry focused all of his attention on Frodo’s luminous face now drained of spirit, those empty eyes blinking listlessly, the agonizingly slow rise and fall of his chest under the blanket. In the hesitant light of the pre-dawn hour, Frodo’s face looked positively sepulchral.
Merry had convinced himself that he’d not wanted to kill Frodo, no, never. Scare him, yes, to bring him to his senses, for a greater purpose. But the greater purpose would mean nothing if his cousin were not there to enjoy it. Oh-why did Frodo fight him so? Why did he force these horrors upon himself? All Merry wished was to compel Frodo to do right by his people. But Merry had gone to far this time, erred, let his mind wander, it seemed.
Pippin was to thank for breaking his reverie, for saving Frodo from his inattention. He should be rewarded. The lad had indeed made himself useful-a sweet obedient creature, the best pet Merry had ever owned. Yes, when this was over, when all this necessary ugliness had passed and the Ringbearer’s mind brought round to reason, Merry would remember to reward him. A new suit of clothes, perhaps? No, Peregrin deserved better. Some choice fields in Buckland for the lad’s own? Perhaps. Or, perhaps, Merry might find a lovely lass for the boy to take to-wife, one whom Pippin would never have the stomach to chase himself. After all, the lad never pursued lasses worthy of the future Thain. Yes, the charms and station of the future Master of Buckland could help in that direction. He’d serve as intermediary. There were plenty of untapped marriageable lasses in both Buckland and Long Cleve of fair face and fairer family. Merry would procure Pippin a maiden who would bear the Thain strong sons, future leaders to steer the Shire to greatness.
But Frodo, the crown jewel of his family tree, was the key to everything. Without Frodo and his gift, the Shire had no future. What to do? Between love and fear, how might Merry turn the hobbit short of killing him? Set him free?—out of the question, not while he still had a mind to discard their only hope. But something had come over Merry, and he had come perilously close to doing something irrevocable.
Merry took a deep drag on his pipe and glanced down again. Frodo was beginning to rouse.
a a a
Frodo’s eyes had indeed begun to focus on the world around him rather than in the blur of images and sensations darting about his mind and body. Merry had shoved Frodo to the edges of mortality, held him there for minutes, then dragged him back to a life not worth living.
“Merry,” whispered Frodo weakly.
“Yes, love?”
“Merry, you almost killed me tonight.”
Merry’s heart froze. Merry sat silently, turning the statement over in his mind, its impact beyond denial. He took a cleansing breath, and whispered, “I am sorry.”
“You are apologizing?” asked Frodo softly.
“I am sorry,” said Merry. “Sorry I was forced to be so harsh. I don’t mean to kill you. I love you beyond measure.”
“Should that comfort me, cousin?” asked Frodo softly but snidely. “That you did not mean to kill me? You brought me back from the dead, Merry, but I’ll not rain gratitude upon your head. By your hands I was thrust there. By your hands, Merry!” Frodo made to lift his head from Merry’s lap, a minute movement answered by a raging pain in his chest and a swirling fire in his head. Frodo winced hard on the heels of a sharp gasp before he leaned himself back down.
“Peace, Cousin,” said Merry as wrapped his arms around Frodo in a motion that was a restraint encased in an embrace. “You are hurt.”
“If I am, it is your doing!” groused Frodo.
Merry wrapped his arms even tighter around Frodo’s chest. “Try to sleep and recover your strength, Frodo,” soothed Merry. “We have much to do when we return home.”
“Home,” Frodo growled. “And what shall we do when we get home, Merry? More questions, more torments? There are many fates worse than death, Merry. Shall I experience some of them at your hands?”
Merry ruffled Frodo’s hair before gripping him about the shoulders. Frodo flinched.
“You force these things upon me, Frodo, against my will. You are blinded by your loyalty to Gandalf, who does not have the hobbits’ interests in mind. I would not have to hurt you if you’d learn to trust me.”
“Trust you?” answered Frodo incredulously. “I do not even recognize you! Can’t you see what you are doing?”
“Be silent and rest, Frodo,” said Merry abruptly. “Or I shall bind and gag you for the remainder of our trip, Beloved, and I do not wish to do any such thing.”
Merry’s words struck a chord in Frodo. He moved his hands and feet slightly and found that he was not restrained in any way at present.
Though Frodo had just skirted along the thin line between life and death, Frodo had still not abandoned hope for escape, as much for Sam as for his task. Frodo knew that what hope he had in flight would be extinguished the moment he was escorted through the door at Crickhollow and reattached to the bed or a chair, or some other piece of sturdy furniture that would bind him to Merry’s ruthless “care.”
Frodo closed his eyes in a counterfeit slumber as he plotted his escape. His window shrunk with every passing hoof beat. He listened to the night sounds as noted with thinly muted enthusiasm that Merry’s chest rose and fell at ever-slower intervals, and his pipe sat unsmoked in his cousin’s limp right hand until the red embers turned black and went out. Merry’s hold on Frodo’s shoulders, a death grip just minutes ago, degenerated into a simple embrace. Finally, Merry’s arms slid languidly to his sides and his pipe rolled from opened fingers into the corner of the wagon’s bed. Frodo opened his eyes just a slit. Through the dark fringes of his eyelashes and saw his cousin peacefully asleep.
There was little hope of finding a soul awake at this hour. Perhaps a dash into the woods would be as good as any plan. He was close enough to civilization to conceal himself until sunup, and rescue Sam with help. Frodo counted from ten in his head. Ten, nine, eight, flexing the muscles in his hands and feet in anticipation of movement. Seven, six, five, chose the perfect copse of trees ahead. Four, three, two, checking to assure Merry’s eyes were still closed. One—JUMP!
Frodo leapt up faster than he thought he could, clambering over the wagon’s edge, splaying out on all fours on the ground that moved below him, and scrambling into the dark embrace of the shielding trees. Each choking breath sent stabbing pain into his raw lungs, and his knees wailed in agony, still aching from the barbarous stone. Desperation propelled the hobbit’s wrecked body.
Merry jolted awake with a shout and tumbled out moments after Frodo’s unexpected egress. Pippin skidded the pony to an ungraceful halt, calling after both cousins with a shrill, squeaky voice as they disappeared through the forest.
Frodo threw a panicky glance behind him as he scrabbled along a muddy embankment into the area where the pines clustered thick. Merry’s black shape moved toward him in the distance with preternatural speed, gaining. Frodo realized that the yielding forest floor would be too easy to track, even in the dark. Nor could he realistically hope to outrun him. Frodo’s only hope lay in concealment. He rolled himself over a stretch of leaves, crawled over a rotting log, behind a sturdy oak, then back on his belly to shimmy under a prickly bush not even fit for the most half-witted squirrel. Frodo plowed as far under the wretched plant as he could, very nearly burrowing with muddy fingers crushed under the weight of his own belly. Frodo pulled his legs awkwardly to his chest, scraping them mercilessly on an outstretched bramble as he moved. His foot protruded tantalizingly from the underbrush, but from the back where Frodo prayed Merry could not see. Frodo stilled his breath and ignored the pains and leaking cuts peppering his entire body.
Just moments after Frodo had ensconced himself in the underbrush, he heard a crackle of leaves. Merry was approaching. Frodo saw the canvas of moving fabric through the bush’s thin bark fingers as Merry searched, his heart thumping so loudly, Frodo swore Merry would be able to hear it above the whispering wind. Frodo’s shoulders tensed, his back went rigid, and his whole body began to quake with suppressed agitation.
Merry had deftly followed the clear trail of hobbit prints indenting the forest floor, halting breathless less than twenty feet from Frodo’s makeshift warren. Merry jerked his head back and forth frantically, gaping in disbelief at the crowd of trees that made no indication of revealing Frodo’s whereabouts. He stilled, ears cocked, eyes wide, waiting for the slightest hint of movement. None came.
“You cannot hide, Frodo!” Merry called out, deep inside fearing that indeed he could. “You cannot run from your destiny! I know you are near, Beloved! It is only a matter of time! For each moment you force me to seek you out, you only make it worse for yourself! Surrender now, love, and save yourself the agony of my wrath! Frodo!”
Frodo dug his fingers deep into the moist forest floor, the scent of pine sailing through his nostrils, the scent of fear emanating from his skin. He heard another set of footsteps marching toward Merry. Pippin. Frodo heard the noise of a heavy pack being dropped and panting breaths.
“Merry!” called Pippin loudly, even though he was only a foot away. “I’ve tied the pony and I’m here to help! I followed the footprints, and,” Pippin gave a mighty cough, “I’ve brought your pack, Merry.” Pippin stood on his toes, and for good measure, cupped his hands around his mouth and let out an absurd call. “Frodo!”
Merry placed his hand on Pippin’s shoulder. “Good lad, Pip,” said Merry. “Frodo is close. Together we will flush him out.”
Frodo had a sudden urge to leap out from his hiding place and slap Pippin’s cherubic face, hard. But he had more urgent matters to attend to. He needed to disappear and slip away A new option, elegant in its simplicity. The Ring. Gandalf had warned Frodo never to put it on, but surely if there was a time to wear it and disappear, this was it.
But Merry was close, too close. If Frodo would do this, he would have to do it silently and double quick. Frodo strained his eyes to land upon his breastbone without moving his head, and cursed under his breath. Blast it! Frodo’s chin was an inch from the ground and his chest already sinking into the moist forest floor. He supposed the Ring had already stamped its circular imprint upon the mud through his shirt. Small piles of dry crunchy leaves surrounded his body on all sides, including, Frodo feared, underneath him. To reach the Ring would certainly mean to give away his position. Frodo shifted his weight to his deep-sunk palms and made an experimental push. A tiny squelch, no more that the sound a frog might make while jumping on a moist leaf. Merry cocked his head. Frodo’s heart skipped a beat and he stilled.
Merry moved closer now, motioning to Pippin to follow. Across the pile of leaves.
“Fro-do!” Merry did not put his lungs into the soft singsong call. He knew he was very close. “Fro-do!” Closer yet, a knowing smirk gliding across curved lips, Pippin trailing close behind. Past the sturdy oak. “Fro-do!” Closer. Nearly upon him.
Frodo could hesitate no longer. He moved his hand up, the leaves under his belly crunching out their crackling betrayal. Merry snapped his head, his eyes boring through Frodo’s erstwhile shelter. Merry covered the short distance between he and his prey in less than a second as Frodo fumbled with his buttons to reach his salvation, hands clumsy with panic. Frodo’s fingers closed on the chain just as a punishing hand clasped itself around Frodo’s exposed ankle vice-like and drew his whole body roughly back.
“Pippin!” yelled Merry. “Pippin! Found him! Bring the pack! Come!”
Merry glared down at Frodo’s back and flipped him over like rock. His victorious sneer distorted into a look of shock as he instantly read Frodo’s intentions. Why had he not considered this contingency?
Frodo’s eyes were glued to the Ring hanging below his neckline. He did not even bother to look up at his captor, his whole being focused on the task at hand. Frodo gritted his teeth as he freed the Ring from his shirt, a pair of buttons flying off with the tug. A glint of hope sparked in Frodo’s eyes as he moved the band to his finger, only to widen in fury as Merry crushed Frodo under his own body and violently wrapped his strong fingers around Frodo’s wrists.
“Put it down, Cousin!” growled Merry between huffs. “We’ll not be witnessing a repeat of Bilbo’s birthday stunt!”
Frodo glowered up with feral eyes, moving his hands together with his last reservoir of strength. Merry and Frodo’s hands both shook fiercely with exertion, muscles taut, faces red, sweat dripping from both their temples. For long seconds they remained locked in this battle of wills, hands wrapped around wrists, their faces inches apart, the intensity between those two sets of eyes enough to set the forest ablaze.
“Let-it-go, Frodo!” grunted Merry.
“No!”
Merry tightened his grip, threatening to break Frodo’s bones with his fingers. But Frodo would not be denied his escape, and his hands kept their position, inches apart, his right hand striving desperately to place the Ring on the straining, outstretched finger of the left.
“Pippin! The pack!” screamed Merry, his voice like sandpaper. “Pippin! Now! Now!”
The words scarcely left Merry’s lips when a coil of rope was thrust at his face. Merry did not move, but yelled in irritation.
“Pip! I cannot move! You do it! Now! Bind his feet! Now!”
“Pippin! No!” screamed Frodo desperately. “He’ll kill me! If not today, then later! Pip! You know what he’s capable of now! Pippin! He’s killing me and you’re letting him!”
But Pippin’s loyalties would not be swayed. He’d been claimed, marked, branded. For good or ill, he was a creature of Merry’s, and if Merry said that Frodo must be tied, then Frodo would be tied. Frodo let out a keening screech as he felt the rope coil around one of his feet. Pippin tied the knot, and grasped for the other leg.
“No! screamed Frodo.
Merry turned his head to check Pippin’s progress, and that moment was all Frodo needed. Frodo’s right hand surged forward to meet the welcoming finger and slid the Ring home. The world blurred and swam in a ghastly whirl in front of Frodo’s eyes. Still, he could hear Merry’s wail as he disappeared into thin air. Frodo socked Merry hard on the jaw and pushed him off his body. Then Frodo leapt up and sprinted into the lurching darkness, the long rope about his foot uncoiling behind him.
Frodo did not hear Merry’s desperate calls to Pippin to grab hold of the of end rope; did not even register that the rope was there, so intent was he to put distance between himself and his cousins. He fell to the ground with a crash when his foot ran out of slack, and a dark shape fringed with moonlight was running at top speed toward him.
Merry and Pippin had found the rope’s end and pulled back sharply as it drew taut, Pippin falling back into a pile of leaves and Merry taking off to capture the hobbit caught by the noose at its other end. Merry threw himself upon the seemingly empty ground above the loop and landed on something soft but with fists that struck hard and accurate, shooting daggers of pain through Merry’s left temple. He groped the invisible captive, grasping for anything that might be a limb. Pippin caught up with Merry, breathless, rope in hand.
Frodo knew better than to cry out—his salvation was only in silence. Frodo’s mind was in turmoil, the world around him an eerie mist, blurred faces staring down at him, grasping for flailing arms, dodging punches they could not see. Frodo clouted Merry twice, kicked Pippin once; yet he could feel his failure reaching out to claim him
Merry took the end of the rope, grasped onto the unseen foot it held while Pippin took the long end, and, with Merry’s help, rolled the struggling figure in a long twine of rope. Frodo had thrown his arms up to avoid ensnaring them under the hemp prison, but his legs had been drawn together and it was only a matter of time.
Merry again climbed on top of Frodo, crushing him beneath his weight. Frodo clawed at Merry’s face, leaving deep, flaming trails down his cheeks, but at great cost. Merry yelped, but scrabbled immediately at the source of the pain. One of his grasping hands found and seized on one of Frodo’s in a merciless grip.
“Pippin! Quick! The rope! Wrap it around this!” Merry held up nothing, but this nothing was, of course, Frodo’s struggling hand. Pippin drew the rope around what was later revealed to be Frodo’s elbow and tied a quick knot. It took both of them to pull limb and fasten it down. Only one free hand! It was no use, but Frodo did not cease his futile thrashing.
Frodo punched Merry one more satisfying time before his whole arm was forced down and surrounded with rope. Frodo cringed as he felt Merry’s fingers grasp the Ring and slide it violently from his finger. Frodo reappeared, and his vision sharpened back to the normal clarity of the mortal world. Merry glared down at him, a sneer infused with fury, his nose leaking blood, his face scored with trails of crimson. He was panting deep and hard, and Frodo knew that his situation was bad.
Merry raised his fist and delivered a crushing blow to Frodo’s face.
Frodo’s rocked with the blow and his eyes moved back to stare up at Merry in abject fear. Those eyes burned with a murderous rage Frodo had not yet seen. In those eyes he could see his own doom.