(First in the BFS Series)
westel
It was the year 1386 in Shire-reckoning, in the early fall when apples were ripe for the picking and the late summer rains had produced vast crops of hay and barley.
The teenager sat under a lone tree near a golden hay-field, his nose buried in the sack of mushrooms he'd pilfered from Farmer Maggot's crop. It was only a quarter-peck - nothing the old gaffer would miss out of his abundance. Maggot's fields were well-known in the area, and Frodo Baggins was not the only hobbit who filched vegetables on occasion. He sat back, savoring the aroma, his mind set on washing the harvest in a little stream on the way. He would eat them all of course, before getting home, otherwise he'd have to share them with a score of other young and always hungry hobbits. The slight pang of guilt he felt when he picked them nagged at him, but not enough to persuade him to return them.
He knew he shouldn't be taking Farmer Maggot's vegetables, naturally. His cousin Bilbo had cautioned Frodo many times about his light-fingered practices, notably a few days ago, on the occasion of his last visit. "You're going to get caught one of these days, my lad," he had warned. "You mark my words! Maggot's a good soul, but he won't abide this constant snatching, from you or anyone else. Don't think old Rory doesn't have his suspicions, either, and he won't stand for it one bit if he finds out you've been stealing!"
Frodo flinched at Bilbo's severe tone and widened his blue eyes innocently. "But Bilbo, it's not stealing, really! Farmer Maggot expects a certain amount of - borrowing during the growing season. Besides, he's always going about giving food away to folks," he added.
If he had hoped to soften Bilbo's mood by this reasoning, Frodo was in for disappointment. Bilbo was on to the lad, and grew more alarmed each time he visited Buckland. The boy wanted discipline, nor did he show any indication of just good plain hobbit-raising, for that matter. The lad was running wild, eating the wrong things, staying out all hours of the night, and earning quite a reputation for a child of only 18 years.
To look at the younger Baggins, at least at first glance, one would say Frodo appeared much like any other hobbit his age. He was of average height, possessing sound teeth and a vast quantity of hair which badly needed cutting. He was less portly than most hobbit-children his age, but then again his frame wouldn't carry the weight as well as someone with a build like Bilbo's, for instance. Upon closer inspection, however, one could not help but notice a redness around the lad's eyes, and not enough rose in the boy's cheeks. Frodo sauntered when he walked, too, unlike the general bounce of most youngsters. Some folk took his gait for laziness and disinterest, but Bilbo knew better than that. The boy had a brain; it just needed exercising.
Not for the first time did Bilbo entertain the thought of taking Frodo into his own home. Not for the first time, either, did he chastise himself for being a damned daft fool who had no business meddling in the affairs of child-rearing, old crusty bachelor such as he was. Bilbo had gone home after his visit, leaving warnings and advice that he feared went in one of Frodo's rather dirty ears and out the other.
Frodo was thinking of Bilbo now, smiling at some of the tales the elder Baggins spun in the hours past his bedtime, stories that sparked his imagination and painted living pictures on the night's velvet canvas. He thought, too, of Bilbo's generosity, how he gave gifts freely even when it wasn't his birthday and was easy with his money, reputedly brought back from Smaug's lair many years before Frodo was born. Good ol' Bilbo! he thought, fondly. How he missed him!
Glancing at the fragrant bag in his hands, Frodo decided he might just follow his cousin's example and share his booty with the other hobbit children after all. He was pushing himself to stand when a blow to the side of his head sent him sprawling. The bag of mushrooms flew out of his hand and landed a few feet away, spilling its contents on the ground.
"Caught ya, you little rogue! I've seen some nerve in my lifetime, and that's a fact, but you, laddy, top the hill!"
Frodo felt a large, strong hand grab him by the collar, jerking him to his feet and ripping his shirt in the process. Two hands grabbed him by the shoulders and whirled him around. He looked up into the brown, angry eyes of Farmer Maggot, and smiled weakly.
"Afternoon, Sir. Wh-what are you doing here?" he asked, a trick that often worked back in the busy warren where he lived. But the smile slid off his face quickly enough when he saw Maggot's unchanging glare.
"I'll afternoon you, you little thief. Thought you were putting it over on me, weren't you? Sneaking in at different times of the day and night, going to sundry fields and orchards – and now my mushroom barn!"
"But Mr. Maggot, I. . ."
"Don't you talk back to me, you scoundrel! I know you get away with things there in Buckland, folks feeling sorry for you and all, 'cause your parents are dead! But you won't. . ."
"Please leave my parents out of this," Frodo said quietly, his hands curling into fists.
"Well and good I will. They'd turn over in their graves if they saw what you've become—what you're fast becoming! Why, you'll wind up in Bree or worse places if you don't. . ."
"I said LEAVE MY PARENTS OUT OF THIS!" Frodo shouted, bringing his fists up. The gesture may have been disputed as either brave or foolish, but whether or no, it precipitated a reaction in the good-hearted farmer that he would rue long afterwards.
"Oh, you make to threaten me now, do you? Well, I'll show you just how much of a threat you really are, Master Baggins!" And without another word spoken between them, Frodo found himself on the ground and Maggot's leather belt whistling across his back and legs. Instinctively he knew that if he tried to run it would only make matters worse, so he curled up as small as he could and endured the beating without making a sound.
Maggot had gotten in several good blows before realizing the boy wasn't responding. When he whipped his own youngsters, they screamed and yelled and squirmed every which way. Two or three good whacks usually sufficed as punishment and before the sun went down all was right again with the world. But this boy never moved, never made so much as a squeak. Rebellious prat! he thought, and leveled several more heavy blows before his cooling temper told him he'd best stop. He put his belt back on, all the while watching Frodo, who never moved.
"Get on your feet. . ." Maggot grumbled, grabbing the boy by the shoulder.
Frodo was up in a thrice, pulling away from the farmer and standing well out of reach. He was breathing hard and his eyes were glittering with unshed tears, but his mouth was a thin line, his jaw clenched.
"Now we're going back to talk to Master Rory," Maggot announced, grabbing the half-empty bag and
whistling for his dogs, pushing Frodo ahead of him. "Get on with you, now, we've a step to go and the ferry to catch, as well."
The boy swallowed his alarm. "Uncle Rory?" He'd never been punished by Rorimac Brandybuck, but he'd heard about other whippings, and the tales weren't pleasant. He looked back at Maggot's dogs, who were following entirely too close on his heels, growling quietly. "Why are we going to see him?"
"You'll be working for me for the next week, is why, lad. To pay off some of your debt for all the
vegetables and fruits you've been stealing from me for the last few years! Now, young whelp, run
for it! And don't you be lettin' the ferry go without me!" And with that, Maggot set his dogs to chasing Frodo all the way back to the ferry, himself following at a more leisurely pace.
--
Frodo hitched a shoulder as he waited in the hall, listening for the sound of Maggot's and Rorimac's voices, trying to make out what was being said. His back still pained him something fierce, and his legs, too, but had lessened to a steady throb now and he found he could bear it pretty well. His self-image, however, was still smarting from the thrashing. No one had ever laid a hand on him before, though they had threatened to, and he blushed with the shame of it. Still, he'd deserved it, and there was no permanent harm done. Rorimac would send him off tomorrow to work in Maggot's fields for a week—that wouldn't be so bad, really. Mrs. Maggot's table held a high reputation for both the quality and ampleness of fare, and he knew that the farm hands ate with the family. His face brightened at the prospect.
The door opened suddenly and Maggot came out, his frown barely hiding a lurking smile. "I'll see you, young hobbit, at 5:00 sharp tomorrow morning. Bring some gloves with you, and a hat. You'll be helping me cut hay."
"Yes, Sir," Frodo answered.
"Mind you don't be late, or you'll get no breakfast," Maggot added, pointing his finger for emphasis.
"I won't."
The farmer nodded curtly and left. Frodo sighed and started to go down the hall toward the kitchen when Rorimac's deep voice echoed off the wall. "Frodo."
"Sir?"
"Come here."
The boy turned and walked back to the open door, looking into his guardian's office, a room that smelled of pipe-weed and ale, the walls darkened from decades of wood smoke. The head of the Brandybuck clan motioned for him to come in.
"Shut the door." Frodo obeyed, his apprehension spiraling.
Rory moved to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle, staring thoughtfully into the flames. "I'm very disappointed in you, young hobbit. Very disappointed indeed."
Frodo didn't know what to make of the gentle-hobbit's words. He'd had very little interaction with
Brandybuck after his parents had died and had no grasp of his personality or moods. He kept his mouth closed, looking at his feet, waiting to hear what else Rory might have to say.
"I should have taken care of things much earlier than now." Brandybuck seemed to be talking to himself rather than to the boy. "I've let things slip - Dro and Prim never deserved this."
Frodo's head came up at the mention of his parents. The firelight glinted in his eyes, darkened to grey in the half-light of the fire. Rory remained still, his thoughts obviously far away; after many long minutes, Frodo shifted his weight, and the motion brought the elder hobbit back to face the present problem.
"Frodo, now that Mr. Maggot has come to me, I have no recourse other than to apply the same
discipline my father awarded me in my growing up years. These were few and far between, but severe enough so that I remembered the smart of them for many a day, and their message for a lifetime. I do not take pleasure in this, but it is my responsibility, both to you and your poor parents, to see that you do not soon forget this lesson."
Frodo's eyes widened in dismay as the elder hobbit picked up a long, slender cane. Rory looked at Frodo, his face solemn. "You must not move about, Frodo, so that I do not bring the tip of the cane across your back. As long as the middle of the cane strikes you, it will cause pain, but will not wound. Buck up, now."
"What? But I alr-ready. . ." Frodo stammered. Another beating?
"Frodo," Rory cut him off, raising a warning hand. "No objections. You earned this punishment. You will endure it, and hopefully, you will learn from it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir," the boy whispered, his voice unsteady.
"Turn around and put your hands on the wall there. I'll tell you when I'm beginning so you may be
ready."
Frodo couldn't believe how calm Brandybuck was, how quiet. Surely he wasn't really going to hit
him with that thing! What was he to do?
Bear it, said a voice inside his head. You brought this on yourself, and now you're putting him
through it, too. Can't you see he doesn't want to do this?
Frodo did indeed realize this business was distasteful to the other hobbit. But Rorimac considered it his duty. He would see it through. . .
As Frodo must see it through.
Turning to face the wall, his face hardened with the setting of his will and he braced himself.
"You will count to five, Frodo, one at a time." A long pause ensued where Frodo could hear his heart beating. "Begin."
"One," he said.
There was a brush of clothing in motion, followed by a swift whistle and smack.
His back exploded in pain.
--
Brandybuck attempted to talk to Frodo after he finished with the punishment. Frodo listened respectfully, but had nothing to say for himself. Finally Rory dismissed the boy, realizing that putting a few days distance between them might help. Frodo left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He walked through several hallways until he found a side door and let himself out, exiting into a twilit world. He let his feet take him where they would, following well-known paths that led up and away from the great smial, into a grove of trees lit with the tiny, silver flames of glow-flies.
Frodo's shocked body shivered, the fresh injuries sending spasms across the muscles of his back. He walked stiffly, head up and features set in stone, until he found a tree with a low-flung branch he knew very well. He stepped on a rock so as to hoist himself onto the bough, but the pain shooting through his back and limbs stopped him cold. He tried again and failed, tears blurring his vision. Disgraced, full of pain and trying to manifest a stoicism greater than his years, Frodo groaned in frustration and went down on his knees, suffering yet another onslaught of hurt as his calves met with his bruised and aching thighs. Pain like this was past the young hobbit's experience, yet there was no escaping it, no putting it aside. The only way out would be to fall unconscious or die, and Frodo's sturdy young body showed no signs of doing either. Instead it protested with smarts and twinges that plagued him from his shoulders to his knees; he felt sick, growing clammy by degrees, and his breath caught as he tried to slow his racing heart.
Finally, he gave up, and leaned over to retch on the leaf-covered ground. Little came up, as he'd had no supper that day. . .
Certainly no mushrooms.
Rorimac had wanted Frodo to remember this night, and to learn from it. There was no doubt the boy would remember, but as for learning, all Frodo knew for certain was that in the future he would try to avoid being whipped at all costs, and that tonight he would not be convinced to go back inside Brandy Hall for any amount of mushrooms.
Frodo lay himself down on his side, moving carefully and awkwardly to avoid further misery. He shed a few tears and shivered for awhile, but the demands of his exhausted and bruised body soon held sway, and he fell asleep under the moon-shadow of the trees.
--
The next morning began as painfully as the previous one had ended. Frodo woke with a jerk when the first raindrops fell on his face, and squinted through the pre-dawn gloom. It was early yet, probably around 4:30 or so. Only a few birds stirred, and the grove was still.
Frodo pushed himself to his feet, wincing. He straightened slowly and felt his shirt sticking to his back in places. Reaching up over his shoulder, he tugged carefully but quickly stopped, hissing in pain. Some of the stripes on his back must have oozed and dried during the night while he slept .
He walked back to the smial and let himself in quietly. Hurrying as fast as his aching legs would carry him, he grabbed a clean shirt from his room. He was soon out of the smial and making for Maggot's farm, stopping at a creek along the way just long enough to plunge in, wet his shirt to get it off easier, and scramble out again. When he approached the edge of Maggot's fields, he put on the clean shirt and headed toward the farmhouse, adjusting his braces on the way. A light rain began to fall as he neared the house.
--
That morning Frodo sat at the table, feeling small and ostracized by the others. In truth, no-one there held any hard feelings for the lad, let alone Maggot himself, but there was a certain sense of 'it's for his own good - he needs to know he's being punished' in the room. Mrs. Maggot, however, couldn't stop herself from laying a hand on Frodo's tousled head as she passed by.
The boy wants looking after, she thought. It'd be easy to spoil this one. Obviously that's just what had happened, or he wouldn't be sitting here now, not touching his food, waiting to work off his theft-debt.
Frodo couldn't bring himself to eat much. He yet bore a great deal of discomfort and his stomach was still a bit off. He managed to drink some tea—at least it warmed him after coming in from the chill of the now fast-falling rain, and should give him some temporary energy.
Finally, the table looking rather empty, everyone—Maggots and hands alike—pushed their chairs back and carried their dishes to the scullery. Mrs. Maggot shooed them all outside, admonishing them to wipe their feet should they come back in or she'd have to scrub half the fields from her floors.
Frodo followed Farmer Maggot to a low outbuilding not far from the hen-house, a building he knew all too well.
"We'll not be cutting hay in the rain today, Master Baggins," Maggot explained as he opened the door. "Inside's best on such as day as this."
Frodo followed the farmer into the dark building. Nary a thread of daylight came in; the vertical boards of the walls had been battened by narrow strips to keep the light out. A strong, pungent, earthy smell drifted past Frodo's nostrils, and he couldn't help but smile at the irony of it.
They were in the mushroom barn.
--
All morning they worked. Frodo had no idea just how much labour it took to raise mushrooms, especially of this caliber. Maggot had placed shallow crates on low tables throughout the long building, each holding a gross or more of mushrooms, all in different states of maturity. Maggot started him at the end, where newly-sprouted mushrooms were just peeking their heads above the dirt. It was hard to see by the candles suspended over the crates, but more light would have damaged the crop. Frodo's keen eyesight soon adjusted, however, and he found he could see rather well after awhile.
There was fertilizing to be done. Mushrooms without proper size or shape had to be weeded out.
Moisture had to be checked and some crates had to be watered, using a wick system which threaded from the cistern-barrels mounted in the eaves of the building. Despite his weariness and discomfort, Frodo could not help but see the organization and plain hard industry it took to raise quality mushrooms. Maggot was easy and friendly with his instructions and, even though Frodo wasn't inclined to be amenable to a man who only yesterday had given him a thorough thrashing, he found himself warming to the round-faced farmer.
Late that morning, Maggot instructed Frodo to go up on the roof and check the gutters which fed rainfall into the barrels. They had used a good deal of water that morning and one of the barrels wasn't refilling as it should. Frodo went outside and mounted the ladder to the roof, not without some difficulty. He made short work of unstopping the errant gutter but was soaked to the skin when he returned to the building. The long, low room was fairly warm, but when they went outside again to get their mid-day meal, he was newly chilled.
Mrs. Maggot noticed his bedraggled state and sat him nearest the fireplace at the great table, heaping his plate high. The Maggots often skipped second breakfast and elevenses, grabbing a snack as needed to get them through the busy mornings. They made up for it at lunch-time, however, taking a full two hours and putting away a great deal of provender. Supper was served just before dark, bedtime following immediately after, thereby making the most of daylight. "A farmer's life is suspended between day-rise and sunset," Bilbo had said more than once. Frodo could see why. There was so much to do on a farm. The day was only half over and he was exhausted. He felt hot and sticky, his clothes steaming in the firelight.
"What's the matter?" jested one of the older Maggot boys. "You were keen enough on our mushrooms yesterday!" His siblings laughed with him at the light-hearted joke, but Frodo blushed to his ear-tips. He found he didn't have much appetite, especially for mushrooms. He wondered if, after yesterday and today, he'd ever be able to even look at another mushroom, let alone eat one.
"That's enough," Maggot admonished his brood when it appeared more jesting would follow. "You'd best eat, though, Frodo. There won't be anything else for quite awhile."
Frodo knew the elder hobbit was right; nightfall didn't come until 8:30 or later this time of year. He picked up his fork and speared a mushroom, trying to think of other things as he began to eat. He finished one plate, then obediently started on a second, full of bacon and other vegetables this time, which Mrs. Maggot had generously supplied him. There was no more jesting, as Maggot had insisted, but Frodo could feel the others' eyes upon him as he ate. One farmhand in particular stared at him mercilessly until he received an elbow in the ribs from Mrs. Maggot. Frodo shoved the food down, eating as much or more than he usually ate at mealtime. The meal didn't satisfy him today, though. He felt as if he were a pig trough, an uncomfortable feeling that didn't do much in the way of helping his queasiness.
Meal over, everyone lounged about, nibbling on bits and pieces, dozing in the firelight. Frodo nodded off as well, too warm next the fire but too tired and sore to move, until he felt someone lean against his arm. He opened his eyes and found himself almost nose-to-nose with the farmhand who had stared at him at the table. "Not gettin' mollycoddled today, are ye, Baggins?"
"Get off," Frodo said quietly, and edged away from the pock-marked hobbit.
"Knew ye'd take it that way," sneered the burly worker. "Think ye're too good for farm fare."
"I don't!" Frodo answered, his voice rising.
"Hah!" barked smirk-face. "Think ye're somethin' special, you and yer. . ."
"That's enough out of you, Delb," Maggot's curt command cut through the warm room like ice. "Leave the lad alone, now. He's of naught concern to you."
Delbo looked around at the rest of the household, who lent him no support, and left the house, throwing an ugly parting glance at Frodo before he shut the door, and none too softly.
"He's trouble, that one," muttered Mrs. Maggot, settling into her arm chair with a lap full of mending. "I told you to let him go last week, when you found him loungin' while he should have been milkin'."
"I'm short-handed, Mother," Maggot replied. "Delbo does a fair day's work if you keep a close eye on him." Maggot looked at Frodo and nodded toward the door. "You best go on out, lad. Find Erroc and ask him to put you to some task. We're finished with the mushrooms for today."
"Yes, Sir," Frodo replied. "Thanks for the dinner, Mistress Maggot," he added, remembering his manners.
"Oh, it's no bother, lad. Off with you, now," she replied, smiling. She stared at the closed door for a moment and said, "Husband, that boy's all wrong, or I'm no judge."
"He's fine," Maggot replied. "He's not used to hard work, is all. Give him a few days after he's stretched some muscle and eaten decent food - he'll come around."
Mrs. Maggot shook her head doubtfully, but didn't reply. Her husband knew his business, and she hers. She'd keep an eye on the boy, make sure he ate properly. Wouldn't do to send him back to Buckland less than hale and hearty. She lowered her head to her task, and was soon lost in her mending.
--
Frodo spent the rest of the day following Erroc, Maggot's foreman, and helping with various chores. The list seemed endless: sharpening tools; looking for roof leaks in the many outbuildings and putting on temporary patches until thatch could be replaced; threshing wheat, bringing in the cows. The younger hobbit was in and out of doors all afternoon, never really drying out, growing warm with his labours, and chilled again in the rain. He liked Erroc's company, though, entertained by his tall stories and mild boasting, and the afternoon went by quickly. At the end of the day Frodo helped with the milking. He was slow to get the hang of expressing milk properly, so the milkers set him to leading the cows into the stalls, exchanging full pails for empty, and putting fresh hay in the mangers for the cows to munch on. With such a large herd, he was kept hopping.
Frodo was surprised to hear the supper bell clanging and glanced out the open barn door to see that the sun was low on the horizon. The last cow was milked and last pail emptied, and the hobbits crowded to the house to wash.
Mrs. Maggot settled Frodo between her and Mr. Maggot for this meal, clearly discouraging any smart remarks from her family - or field hands. Frodo pointedly avoided eye contact with Delbo and tried to eat a little. But fatigue won out over any appetite he may have worked up, and he was getting colder by degrees as he sat there. The rain hadn't let up at all and he wanted to get home as soon as he could and into some dry clothes. He stood up quickly, drawing startled looks from the rest of the company.
"I—uh—I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Maggot," he said, resorting to formality to hide his embarrassment in having to speak before so many people. "But I want to be home before it gets too dark."
"Me and the mistress thought you might like to just spend the night here, young Baggins," said Maggot, hospitably. "What's one more, eh?" he asked, winking at Mrs. Maggot.
"Oh—it's all right, really, Sir. I—have things to do at home. Back at 5:00 tomorrow, then?" Frodo hurried, sliding his chair under the table and walking to the door.
"Have it your way, lad. Yes, same time tomorrow. Frodo. . ."
"Yes, Sir," Frodo replied, standing with the door ajar.
"You put in a good day's work. You're doin' fine, and I'll be sure to tell Rory."
The boy broke into a grin and suddenly lost his voice. "Thanks," he replied hoarsely.
Then he was gone.
The meal went on, comfortable but brief, as it was time for bed soon after. Everyone went to their proper resting places and prepared for sleep. Everyone, that is, but one, who was not sleepy because he'd sneaked a nap that afternoon, and who wanted a little fun before he turned in. No one saw the shadowy figure that soon followed the fast-darkening path Frodo had pursued only a few minutes before.
--
Frodo slogged on as quickly as his aching limbs would carry him. He was half dead on his feet and was almost glad he was shivering with cold—it helped keep him awake. It wouldn't do to step off the path now it was getting so dark, and with the rain there was no moon or starlight to help guide him along the way. He was finding it progressively harder to see the trail and was soon stumbling over roots and stones which lay in his path. At this rate, it'll be ten o'clock before I get home, he drearily realized. That was the way of it; nothing to do but cross his arms for warmth and make his way home as quickly as could be managed.
Frodo was walking slowly, head down to better see the path, when he heard a hateful laugh just behind him. Turning quickly, he saw a figure standing in the lane, but couldn't make out the person's features. Still, he guessed who it was.
"Delb?" he queried.
"Del-bo to you," was the surly reply.
"Are you going to Buckland?" asked young Baggins, at a loss.
"Na. Just wanted to finish what we started earlier."
Frodo bristled. He was tired, he was sore, and he was in no mood to listen to Delbo's prattle. He just wanted to go home, to go to bed. . .
"It wasn't anything, Delbo. Let's just leave it, shall we?" he offered, and turned to continue down the path.
"Wasn't anything?" said the husky hobbit, his tone changing from churlish play to anger. "It's because of you Maggot called me down today. I don't take kindly to that."
"Is it an apology you want?" Frodo asked, turning again to face Delbo. "Very well. I'm SORRY," he said, emphasizing each syllable. "Now can't we just forget. . ."
"I don't forget, Baggins!" yelled Delbo, and gave the smaller hobbit a tremendous shove. Taken off-guard, Frodo tripped over his own feet and landed hard on his back, striking his head a glancing blow off a rock. He was knocked silly for a minute or two, which probably saved him from further abuse at the hands of the farm-hand. Delbo bent over, making sure Frodo wasn't pretending, and nudged the boy in the side with his foot. When Frodo didn't move, the bully's cowardly nature presented itself and he ran back to Maggot's farm as fast as his legs could take him, leaving Frodo lying in the muddy path alone.
--
Frodo woke coughing, spitting out water and shaking violently. He didn't know how long he'd been knocked out, ached too much to care. He stood up, swaying, and put a hand to the back of his head, finding a great knot at the base of his skull. Getting his bearings, he set off again on the trail, new freshets of pain pouring across his back like the rain pelting his shrinking flesh. As he walked, the boy clenched his teeth against the cold and tried to put everything out of his mind except reaching home. Home, where there was a bed, a fire, and safety.
Nearly an hour later a bedraggled hobbit entered a side door at Buckland and staggered to his room, clutching the wall for support. Too exhausted except to pull off his soggy clothes, letting them lay where they fell, Frodo crawled into the soft bed and pulled the covers up over his head. The bed shook with his shivering for a little while, then he slept like a dead thing.
--
"Where is that boy?" Maggot asked for the third time, wiping his mouth on a napkin and pushing his plate away. "Here I was bragging on him yesterday and he's not shown up yet," the stocky farmer grumbled. At the end of the table, Delbo shot him a surreptitious glance, then quickly looked down at his plate again.
"He'll be here, Maggot," said his wife, passing a bowl of scrambled eggs to one of her sons. "I have faith in the boy, and you should, too."
No sooner had the words left her mouth than the door opened and Frodo stood there, wiping his feet. He sported a hat and jacket today, and a pair of gloves stuck half out of a breeches pocket. "Good morning, Mr. Maggot, Mistress Maggot," he greeted them. "Good morning," he added, smiling at the seated group.
This morning there was no standoffishness. All but one of the party greeted Frodo cheerfully, and Mrs. Maggot rose from her seat. "Sit here, Frodo," she offered. "There's enough left to keep body and soul on speakin' terms."
Frodo stepped back. "No, thank you, Mistress. I'm late as it is. I think I'll just check those mushrooms we talked about, Sir," he said, turning from the farm wife to the farmer. "They might be ready for harvest today," he finished.
Maggot grinned despite himself. The boy learns quickly, he thought. "You do that. I'll be along in a minute."
Frodo nodded and was gone.
"You watch after him today, Maggot," she admonished her husband. "He still looks peaked to me."
"You worry too much, Mother," Maggot cajoled, tweaking her ear. See you at nuncheon."
"Aye, that you will," she answered pertly, and turned to her work.