...Dead?

Chapter 9. ...Dead?

The children and their grandfa tenderly cared for the injured hobbit in wonder and in hope. It had been ten years... And a body can change over ten years' time... Gorbyl himself was ten years older than he had been, though he'd probably aged more than that in his grief combined with the heavy responsibility of raising his orphaned grands alone. Gorbol and Flamol had been faunts when their father had walked out the door that fateful day, and Lark had not yet sung her first song, so all she knew of her father's face was his likeness on the mantel.

'When he wakens, we'll know for sure,' the old hobbit told the children.

'But what if it is Da? What if he was making his way back home? He looks as if he crawled a long way after he was injured,' young Gorbi argued. 'And you said his arrows were fletched blue!'

'What if it is?' Gorbyl echoed, looking around at the children's hopeful faces. 'Then we'll know for sure when he wakens,' he repeated.

'But what...?' Flam said, his dread clear in his face. 'What if he never wakens?'

'Then we'll lay him to rest beside your Mum,' Gorbyl said quietly. 'For it'll be clear, and no mistake, that he dragged himself all the way home, to be with you – and her. And even death could not keep him away.'

As he sat beside the bed that first day, Gorbyl thought of his losses. Friends, killed or taken to the Lockholes. His own son Gorbas, older brother to Wallas, captured, beaten, and marched to the Lockholes, never to return.

With no body to bury, Wallas had refused to believe his brother was dead. Even after he'd married Dove (whom he'd rescued from ruffians on their way out of the North Farthing with whatever they could carry), once or twice a year, he'd kiss his wife, hug his da, and announce he was going to go looking for Gorbas again. 

'P'rhaps he was part of the muster that drove the ruffians out o' the Shire,' he'd said more than once. 'What if they kept going? Harried them all the way to Far Harad or the Black Lands or such, just like in that old song we heard in the pub last month when we took our gatherings to market?' Or, another time, 'P'rhaps he went to Sea,' he'd said. 'Surely the Elves at the Havens could tell me...' Or, 'Maybe he went all the way to the Lonely Mountain, like Red Bolham told us about during the Troubles, whilst we sat around the fire on that cold winter night, hiding in the Wood from Lotho's ruffians...'

Perhaps Wallas had gone to the ends of Middle-earth and back again in search of his brother, a journey that had taken him the better part of the last ten years to accomplish? Of course, there'd be no way of knowing until the hobbit woke up and spoke.

Gorbyl cleaned the fellow up and robed him in a fresh nightshirt before tucking him into bed. When he'd brushed the dirt and leaves out of the matted curls, the resulting colour reminded him of Wallas's chestnut head. The impression grew stronger after young Gorbi helped him bathe the battered body and wash the rest of the grime out of the fellow's hair, that he might rest more comfortably. Moreover, Gorbyl had lifted the injured hobbit's eyelids, one at a time, to check on the response of the pupils – only to see familiar smoky-green eyes, much like he'd seen in the mirror in his younger years... much like his sons' eyes as he remembered them... and so much like the eyes of his grands. The injured hobbit's colouring matched Gorbyl's memories closely enough to take his breath away. After he'd tucked the childer into their beds, telling them he'd take the first watch, the old hobbit picked up the portrait from the mantel for a closer comparison. By the light of the turned-up lamp, the match looked exact to him.

Could a coincidence be so very indistinguishable?

Over the next few days, as hour after hour passed, the children took turns sitting bedside watch; their grandfa had to shoo them away to take care of their own needs much less their regular chores, such as washing up or milking or gathering eggs or sweeping or stirring the laundry in the tub. 'We'll all take turns,' he said. 'One hobbit cannot watch day and night without falling ill himself...' even though that was what he'd done with their mother Dove after Lark's birth while, at the same time, trying to care for a newborn and two feverish faunts. 

He finished, '...and then what good are they to the hobbit they're watching over?' For little Lark had nearly followed her mother after Dove's death, when Gorbyl had fallen ill himself with the fever that had taken his daughter-in-love and carried her two tiny sons to the edge of the grave. Gorbyl's memories of that time were, perhaps mercifully, lost in fever dreams, but they were enough to bring conviction to his tone and help him resist all wheedling on the part of his grands.

He also claimed for himself the heavy tending that would've been inappropriate for the children, all the extra work that caring for a bedridden hobbit brought. He was thankful for the children and their ability to manage the care of the chickens and the two goats, as well as the demands of daily living, though the old hobbit still took care of bread-baking and much of the cooking. The extra burden told on him, however, and he gratefully rested during those times when he could just sit quietly in the chair next to the bed, holding his son's hand. For he was increasingly convinced that his son had come home to them at last. Finding out what had kept Wallas away for so long was a matter for another day.

Late on the day they'd found him, Gorbyl had the lads help him prop the injured hobbit into a sitting position. 'We have to see if we can get some water in him, at least,' he said, lifting one of the fellow's hands and showing his grands the signs of dehydration that they must look for over the coming days as they tended him. 'If he doesn't drink something soon, he'll die. He's not had anything to drink for two days, at least, and more than likely three, if I don't mistake the signs.' 

The lads had responded with sober nods, while little Lark had looked on with wide eyes. Though not a healer himself, during the time of the Troubles, he'd worked with the healers hiding in the Woods who had taught him, among other things, the signs to look for when treating common illnesses and injuries. An herb-gatherer by trade before the Troubles had descended upon the Shire, he'd been fascinated to learn how to prepare and apply various herbs. As a matter of fact, after he'd fallen to a ruffian's club, he'd spent more time in the healers' company than with the bold raiders who went out from the Wood and, greatly daring, reclaimed the Big Men's gatherings and harried the ruffians to the greatest extent possible. 

Gorbyl shook off the memory of the Troubles and returned to the here and now. He drew a deep breath and lifted a mug of cool water to their guest's lips. 'You want to talk to him while you're sitting with him,' he told his watching grands, 'for though he may show no sign, he may well hear every word you say or sing to them.' 

Hadn't it been that way for him when a ruffian had clubbed him to the ground and left him for dead? Bolham the Red, along with his younger brother Wilham, had helped Gorbyl's sons carry him to a safe hiding place, where some of the displaced hobbits living in the Wood cared for the sick and injured in Bolham's band as well as their homeless neighbours. Gorbyl's watchers had held his hand, had talked to him, had sung songs to him throughout the days he'd lain unresponsive, and he remembered their voices as a lifeline that had led him back to himself in the end.

'Drink now, lad; I've clear, fresh water from the spring. Drink... You must be thirsty,' he coaxed softly as he held the mug to the hobbit's dry, cracked lips. 'I know I'd be, had I not emptied a pot o' tea an hour agone.' His heart leapt within him when he tilted the mug and saw the fellow swallow the water that trickled into his mouth! Though it was slow, painstaking work to administer the life-giving liquid slowly enough to prevent a choking fit, Gorbyl was able to say, 'All will be well,' when that first mug had been emptied, both to the rescued and his grands.

Still, feeling more hopeful, he stirred up some rich broth and, after it had sent its promise throughout the cot, he poured out a mug of the stuff and let it cool to sipping temperature while he and his grands sopped up their own portions of broth with bread. He thought he saw the fellow's nostrils flare at the savoury aroma as he brought the mug close. 'That's it,' he murmured. 'That's the lad.'

'Grandfa's broth is the best I've ever tasted!' Lark encouraged from her chair beside the bed since it was her turn to sit on watch, though her brothers lingered in the doorway, watching anxiously to see if their visitor would be able to swallow the broth. Neither of them laughed, even though "Grandfa's broth" was the only broth the little lass had ever tasted. 

The children had softly cheered when the mug of water had been drunk. The visitor's response to the broth was even more heartening to everyone there, for he half-opened his eyes as he sipped, though he didn't speak. The old hobbit caught his breath at seeing again those eyes that were the same colour as those of his sons and his younger son's children. Almost without thinking, he said, 'Wallas,' when the mug of broth was empty, 'all's well. You're home now, lad. You're home.' The familiar-looking eyes briefly met his gaze before closing, and the hobbit slept again. Through the rest of that first day and well into the evening, Gorbyl coaxed alternating mugs of broth and water into the injured hobbit until the worrisome signs of dehydration diminished sufficiently that he didn't worry the hobbit would expire before the Sun rose again.

That night, the children took turns sleeping curled by the injured hobbit's side, offering warmth and reassurance to the unconscious fellow while ready to awaken if he should move or speak. In fact, the old hobbit and his grands never left their patient alone, day or night, but stayed with him, singing and speaking or sitting quietly while holding his hand. 

'He'll come back to us when he's ready,' Gorbyl told the children – and himself. By the next morning, he was heartened to see healing progressing in terms of reduced swelling. The visible burns and scrapes were also showing signs of recovery. Hopefully anything that was wrong under the skin was also responding to rest and strengthening broth and constant reassurance.

On the morning of the second day, the visitor showed more signs of life. Though his eyes were closed when Gorbyl spoke to him, he nodded at the old hobbit's question. 'Are ye thirsty, lad?' But then, when Gorbyl tendered a cup of freshly-brewed tea laced with honey and goats' milk, the eyes had opened, the forehead had wrinkled, and the fellow had weakly shaken his head. 'You don't care for tea, I take it?' the old hobbit asked. Wallas never did care all that much for tea, he remembered. How Dove used to tease him about it!

Receiving a blink for an answer, he patted the night-clad shoulder. 'Broth?' He thought he saw the lips twitch in a brief smile before the eyes closed, as if in exhaustion. He patted the shoulder again. 'Broth it is, then,' he said. 'And we'll put some meat in it later, if you're up to chewing a little.'

'He's getting better, Grandfa – isn't he?' Lark said eagerly.

'He is!' Gorbyl said firmly – for their visitor's sake as much as for his granddaughter. No doubt the fellow could hear every word.

By the end of that day, young Gorbi was able to feed the fellow soup with finely minced meat and vegetables and torn-up bread by the spoonful. 'He is getting better, Grandfa!' the teen said in excitement. 'He is!' And to the hobbit in the bed, watching him with half-closed eyes, he said, 'You are!' He received a double-blink for his reward.

Later, after Gorbyl had settled Flam in the chair next to their visitor, tucking a blanket around the lad to keep him warm since the nights were growing increasingly chilly, he went to tuck up Flam's older brother and younger sister in their beds. But young Gorbi stayed him with a question. 'Why won't he speak, Grandfa?'

'It may not be a matter of "won't" so much as "cannot", lad,' the old hobbit said slowly. 'There may be injuries inside him, besides what we can see on the outside.'

'But he'll get better... won't he?' the teen pleaded.

Gorbyl patted his hand. 'I hope so,' he said. 'We can all hope so. We'll do all we can to help him come back to himself.'

On the third morning after they'd found him in their berry-garden, the visitor groped for a piece of bread smeared with honey from the plate in his lap, managed to close his fingers around it, and lifted it to his mouth. 'Very good!' Gorbyl told him. He allowed the fellow to feed himself several more pieces, and then on recognising the signs of impending exhaustion, he intercepted the questing hand, took it between his own hands, and held it gently while squarely meeting the fellow's questioning gaze. 'Try and make haste a little more slowly, Wallas,' he said. 'You've tired yourself. I can do the rest... When we bring you elevenses, you can work at it again.'

The nod he received told him that the hobbit was taking in what he was told and understanding it, though he could not seem to manage a spoken response. Not yet, anyhow.

After breakfast, Lark had joyously wiped the honey from the hobbit's sticky fingers with a damp cloth, chattering at him, and had received a wink and a smile for her reward. Encouraged, his watchers saw growing signs of improvement as the day progressed: Flam reported that he'd been able to feed himself a hand pie at elevenses, and young Gorbi cheered him on as he lifted a few forkfuls of meat and vegetables to his mouth at noontide before tiring and accepting Gorbi's help in feeding the rest of the meal to him.

That afternoon, Gorbyl was taking another turn sitting at the bedside with Lark while young Gorbi kneaded tomorrow's bread dough and Flam stirred the soup in the kettle that would play the main role in their eventide meal. A knock came at the door, and the bedside watchers heard the door open and Flam speak a greeting that said the visitor was not a stranger.

'Grandfa!' Flam called from the front of the cot. 'You're wanted!'

'Stay close to 'im,' Gorbyl told little Lark. 'And o' course, call me if he speaks...' The hobbit had fallen deeply asleep after the noontide meal – a healing sleep, the old hobbit hoped. As did his granddaughter, evidenced in her response.

'I will!' the little one promised, cuddling closer to her charge. And then she spoke to the prostrate hobbit, as she'd begun speaking soon after his arrival. 'Da, I'm here,' she whispered. 'Your little Lark... Come back to us, Da... Please...?'

The old hobbit wiped away a threatening tear and went to the door where Flam waited with the visitor. 'Hawfinch!' he said in surprise at seeing it was one of the North Farthing's Shirriffs. 'What brings you to this part o' the Wood? Isn't your beat more southerly?' Belatedly remembering to offer hospitality, he added, 'Can I offer you a cup o' tea for your trouble?'

'It's the Tooks,' Hawfinch said, removing his feathered hat. 'They've lost one o' their own, i' the bog, we think, but maybe i' the southern stretches o' the Wood. Have ye perhaps been herb-gathering to the south, and have ye seen any sign of a visiting Took who might've lost himself?'

'What do Tooks look like?' Gorbyl said. 'I've never seen one... never been out of the North Farthing, for that matter. Don't they live off in the South-lands somewhere?'

Hawfinch brushed a speck of dust from the brim of his hat. 'A Took don't look all that different from a north-Took,' he said. 'They're relations o' yours, I hear tell, if the stories about Bandobras Bullroarer are anything to go by.'

Gorbyl shook his head. He had little time for old tales. 'I've not been gathering this past week,' he said. 'Not since that bad storm, anyhow. I've had my work cut out for me, just cutting up the trees that fell in the wind. But I'll have plenty of firewood to take me through the Winter months, at least!'

'It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good,' Hawfinch agreed. 'Well then, I'll take my leave. I've got Tooks crawlin' all o'er the southern half o' the Wood, not to mention all 'round the edges o' the bog, and it'll be a wonder if nobody else falls in and is lost!'

'I'll let ye go then,' Gorbyl said. 'And good luck to ye, and to the Tooks – and to them finding that missing fellow.'

The Shirriff shook his head and then clapped his hat back on, preparatory to departing. 'You know what they say about the luck of the Tooks,' he said dourly.

Gorbyl didn't know, as a matter of fact, but now did not seem to be the time to ask, for the Shirriff was clearly in a hurry to get back to the search. After repeating his goodbyes, he closed the door and went to make a pot of tea.

*** 

Pimpernel almost didn't hear Ferdi enter their quarters, he'd entered so quietly, easing the door shut with barely a snick of the latch. At this slightest of sounds, she looked up from her needlework, for she'd chosen to sit on the settee in their sitting room from noontide onwards, as she'd done each day for the past week – as she would have continued to do into the future days until she welcomed him home, had he come on another day. She'd calculated that, on the day he turned his face homewards, even if he should leave the North-lands before the dawning and pushed his pony to make the best speed, Ferdi would not be likely to arrive at the Great Smials until noon. And while he might travel into the night-time hours, should the darkness catch him only part-way home, she doubted he'd ride past middle night but would seek a place to rest the pony if not himself. 

Thus, from wakening and breakfast until nuncheon, she'd devoted herself to her little ones. The family ate together, and then she'd sent the older ones to their lessons with the headmaster or the tutor. After sharing the midday meal with them all again, she'd welcomed Bella, the minder Diamond had assigned so that Pimpernel might have more time with Ferdi during these "early days" of their marriage. Bella watched with the littlest after she tucked them up for their afternoon nap and took care of teatime and eventides. Lastly, after Pimpernel administered bedtime kisses and told a bedtime story, Bella would watch with the sleeping children until their mother finally stumbled to her bed in the middle night. 

'Ferdi-love!' she said, getting up from her seat. But he did not answer, simply stood by the door, his head bowed. 'Ferdi?' she said more softly. 'My heart?'

He looked terrible, tired and defeated and completely drained. She crossed quickly to him and took hold of his arms. 'Come, love,' she said, her voice low and soothing, 'Come and sit down.'

He shook his head, but then he let her draw him further into the room, towards the table where they took their meals when they did not eat elsewhere, such as the great room or when invited out to dinner. On reaching the nearest chair, he sank down and stared into space without speaking.

'Tolly?' Pimpernel whispered.

Ferdi groaned and buried his head in his hands, and then he began to weep, gut-wrenching sobs that tore at Nell's heart as she circled him with her arms and bowed her head to rest her face on his dusty curls, helpless to do more.

And though the apartments were well-separated and designed for privacy, even as her beloved mourned, Pimpernel heard Meadowsweet's anguished shriek from next door, or perhaps the news had been delivered to Tolly's wife when she'd opened the door to a knock and the sound had echoed down the corridor, announcing the terrible news to all in the vicinity.

When Ferdi at last quieted in her arms, and she raised her head, she was met with the sight of a cosied teapot, cups and saucers, cream jug and sugar bowl, all of which had appeared silently on the table before them. 

Alas, poor Rusty, receiving the news no doubt at the same time Meadowsweet did, had assuaged his grief in the only way he knew. 

She'd no doubt that freshly brewed tea had also been provided for Meadowsweet and the hobbits sent to bring her the news and who'd stay to minister to her in her grief and shock.

Ferdi stirred, and Nell released him, then went to pour a cup of steaming tea for each of them. She fixed Ferdi's cup the way he liked it, but after second thought, she deliberately doubled the sugar and stirred it in. 'Here, my love,' she said, tendering Ferdi's cup. He reached up as she held it to his lips, cradling the cup in his palm, and drank half the cup in one long swallow. Meeting his eyes, Nell released the cup and reached around to pick up her own tea, taking a steadying sip.

Tea, that soother of all ills, she could almost hear Tolly whisper sardonically in the back of her mind.

'Did you find any sign?' she asked delicately, feeling her way.

Ferdi shook his head, then drained the rest of the tea in his cup and set it gently down on the saucer. Nell refilled it, waiting for his answer, if he had one.

'It took us more than half a day, just to get there,' he said, 'even riding one pony and leading a remount. And when we did...'

'What?' she asked, feeling dread clutch at her heart like a cold hand.

'The North-landers that searched before us...' Ferdi said, 'they, and the heavy rain and wind, the damage from the storm, the flooding from the deluge... they left us no signs to find.' He breathed deeply and gave a despairing sigh. 'They think... We think... I...'

Nell took his hand and kissed it tenderly, but waited in silence for him to finish.

'The bog,' he said, and his voice broke, and he bowed his head.

'O Ferdi-love,' Nell said, her heart breaking for him. O Tolly. O Sweetie. O tiny child, and babe yet unborn...

Together, they wept.

***