What Frodo Did
Part 9/?
For Bilbo the next few weeks were the longest of his life. No peril he had faced in the past had come even close to this. The passage of time was lost to him in a repetitious blur of days and nights, one indistinguishable from the next. A woman had come up from the village to help and without her Bilbo did not know what he would have done.
While not nearly so critical, for days Frodo's fever had still ranged to dangerous heights battling against his body's considerably weakened defences. Most of the time the boy had been oblivious to his surroundings, sleeping fretfully or calling out in delirium, seeming to calm down a little only on the few occasions that Sam managed to evade his parents' vigilance and slip round to sit with Frodo - until his parents noticed his absence and came to fetch him. They had not been happy with him that terrible night that they had nearly lost Frodo.
"Samwise," the Gaffer said, "Don't 'ee be botherin' Master Frodo now! 'E needs peace and quiet to get 'is strength back, and 'e can't be doin' that with you causin' a disturbance."
Sam wasn't convinced, but could do nothing about it. Each time Bell would apologise to Bilbo. "We're terribly sorry Mr Bilbo, Sir. We just can't get the lad to understand. He's become devoted to the young master, but he's only seven and he can't make sense of it. He just keeps asking why Master Frodo doesn't wake up and come outside like he used to."
Bilbo's heart twisted slightly in his chest at her words, but all he could do was to shake his head a little in distress and thank them for their trouble.
********
Twelve days after his fall Frodo's fever finally broke and the following day he woke up enough to recognise Bilbo, and to even take a bit of light broth. Dr Bramble proclaimed the worst to be over and Bilbo all but collapsed in relief. Though the worst had certainly taken its toll of his rosy lad. Frodo was a gaunt shadow of the hobbit he had been. The remaining dark scabbing on his chin only added to his dreadful appearance.
The muscle spasms in Frodo's thighs and lower back were the most frightening of all. At the slightest movement, and without warning, one of these could occur at anytime of the day or night and the lad would be crying out in pain. It was not possible to leave him unattended and either Bilbo or Mrs Willowbank, the nurse, had to be in attendance to massage out the knots, and, just as important, to comfort Frodo afterwards.
These spasms were so painful that often Frodo would feel queasy for some time afterwards, often losing his appetite all together and the young hobbit lost weight at an alarming rate.
Dr Bramble sat Bilbo down with a glass of Old Winyards, and told him what he could expect. "Frodo appears to have ruptured one, possibly two discs in his spine when he landed, after his fall from the tree. The remains of one or both of these are probably pressing on his spinal cord and causing his paralysis. He will need to be moved daily, cruel as that may seem with his spasms, but his legs must be manipulated to stop the muscles from atrophying. He is not going to like that, but over time the pain should start to ease."
The doctor sat down. "I know what you are going to ask me Mr Baggins. Will he regain use of his legs? There is no simple answer. I just don't know. As I told you, he is young and has some growing left to do. All we can do now is leave it to time and hope his youth works to his advantage."
The despair on Bilbo's face was awful. "And how do I tell a 19 year old lad he may never be able to walk again?"
*****
"And my sister never went near the farm again, though the farmer swore the cow was to blame and not him." Bilbo heard Frodo's giggle as he padded down the corridor. Mrs Willowbank had a family as abundant as the Brandybucks' and as eccentric as the Baggins's from the sound of it. She had a veritable store cupboard of funny stories about their escapades and Bilbo was sure she could easily fill a book with them.
Since Frodo had been aware enough to appreciate her he had been begging for stories.
"Now, here is your Uncle," she straightened up and smoothed her apron. "You'll be wanting some time to yourselves now."
"Hello, my lad. How are you doing? I see that cup of creamed mushrooms soon vanished."
"I feel a bit light headed. I couldn't even lift my head by myself," said Frodo. "The oddest thing is my legs. They feel so weak and lifeless. Will they come back soon, now the fever is gone? I hate to think I have wasted two weeks in bed. I was thinking, when I get up, you will have to let me stay up later at night to make up for it. I have a lot of catching up to do."
Bilbo felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He would have done anything, given anything, not to have heard those words and he dreaded Frodo's reaction to the news he had to give the dear, stricken lad. He took Frodo's small hands in his.
"Frodo, my dearest boy, we have to have a talk."
"What is it Uncle?"
"You may have to stay in bed a while longer," he started, trying to speak as gently and compassionately as he could. "Your legs feel funny because you have hurt your back very badly. It may take some time for them to feel well again." Bilbo forced himself to look up and meet Frodo's eyes. The beautiful blue of them had become fixed and staring and silence stretched till it seemed to fill the whole of the hill.
"The doctor thinks you will grow out of it in time. Get your strength back and be able to walk again. But you are going to have to be very brave and very patient."
"In time." Frodo echoed in a voice which seemed to come from a very long way away. "Do you mean I might never be able to walk again?"
"We can't tell, my lad."
Frodo twisted his hands free of the older hobbit's grasp and turned his head away. He bit his lip furiously to keep from crying out. He could feel a big scream building up somewhere inside him and knew that at any moment it was going to burst like a dragon from the side of a mountain and he didn't think he would be able to stop it.
*****
Mrs Willowbank was in the kitchen when she heard the awful sound of grief and despair echoing down the passageway. She twisted the dishcloth between her hands. "Oh, the poor child," she said. "The poor dear."
For Bilbo the next few weeks were the longest of his life. No peril he had faced in the past had come even close to this. The passage of time was lost to him in a repetitious blur of days and nights, one indistinguishable from the next. A woman had come up from the village to help and without her Bilbo did not know what he would have done.
While not nearly so critical, for days Frodo's fever had still ranged to dangerous heights battling against his body's considerably weakened defences. Most of the time the boy had been oblivious to his surroundings, sleeping fretfully or calling out in delirium, seeming to calm down a little only on the few occasions that Sam managed to evade his parents' vigilance and slip round to sit with Frodo - until his parents noticed his absence and came to fetch him. They had not been happy with him that terrible night that they had nearly lost Frodo.
"Samwise," the Gaffer said, "Don't 'ee be botherin' Master Frodo now! 'E needs peace and quiet to get 'is strength back, and 'e can't be doin' that with you causin' a disturbance."
Sam wasn't convinced, but could do nothing about it. Each time Bell would apologise to Bilbo. "We're terribly sorry Mr Bilbo, Sir. We just can't get the lad to understand. He's become devoted to the young master, but he's only seven and he can't make sense of it. He just keeps asking why Master Frodo doesn't wake up and come outside like he used to."
Bilbo's heart twisted slightly in his chest at her words, but all he could do was to shake his head a little in distress and thank them for their trouble.
********
Twelve days after his fall Frodo's fever finally broke and the following day he woke up enough to recognise Bilbo, and to even take a bit of light broth. Dr Bramble proclaimed the worst to be over and Bilbo all but collapsed in relief. Though the worst had certainly taken its toll of his rosy lad. Frodo was a gaunt shadow of the hobbit he had been. The remaining dark scabbing on his chin only added to his dreadful appearance.
The muscle spasms in Frodo's thighs and lower back were the most frightening of all. At the slightest movement, and without warning, one of these could occur at anytime of the day or night and the lad would be crying out in pain. It was not possible to leave him unattended and either Bilbo or Mrs Willowbank, the nurse, had to be in attendance to massage out the knots, and, just as important, to comfort Frodo afterwards.
These spasms were so painful that often Frodo would feel queasy for some time afterwards, often losing his appetite all together and the young hobbit lost weight at an alarming rate.
Dr Bramble sat Bilbo down with a glass of Old Winyards, and told him what he could expect. "Frodo appears to have ruptured one, possibly two discs in his spine when he landed, after his fall from the tree. The remains of one or both of these are probably pressing on his spinal cord and causing his paralysis. He will need to be moved daily, cruel as that may seem with his spasms, but his legs must be manipulated to stop the muscles from atrophying. He is not going to like that, but over time the pain should start to ease."
The doctor sat down. "I know what you are going to ask me Mr Baggins. Will he regain use of his legs? There is no simple answer. I just don't know. As I told you, he is young and has some growing left to do. All we can do now is leave it to time and hope his youth works to his advantage."
The despair on Bilbo's face was awful. "And how do I tell a 19 year old lad he may never be able to walk again?"
*****
"And my sister never went near the farm again, though the farmer swore the cow was to blame and not him." Bilbo heard Frodo's giggle as he padded down the corridor. Mrs Willowbank had a family as abundant as the Brandybucks' and as eccentric as the Baggins's from the sound of it. She had a veritable store cupboard of funny stories about their escapades and Bilbo was sure she could easily fill a book with them.
Since Frodo had been aware enough to appreciate her he had been begging for stories.
"Now, here is your Uncle," she straightened up and smoothed her apron. "You'll be wanting some time to yourselves now."
"Hello, my lad. How are you doing? I see that cup of creamed mushrooms soon vanished."
"I feel a bit light headed. I couldn't even lift my head by myself," said Frodo. "The oddest thing is my legs. They feel so weak and lifeless. Will they come back soon, now the fever is gone? I hate to think I have wasted two weeks in bed. I was thinking, when I get up, you will have to let me stay up later at night to make up for it. I have a lot of catching up to do."
Bilbo felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He would have done anything, given anything, not to have heard those words and he dreaded Frodo's reaction to the news he had to give the dear, stricken lad. He took Frodo's small hands in his.
"Frodo, my dearest boy, we have to have a talk."
"What is it Uncle?"
"You may have to stay in bed a while longer," he started, trying to speak as gently and compassionately as he could. "Your legs feel funny because you have hurt your back very badly. It may take some time for them to feel well again." Bilbo forced himself to look up and meet Frodo's eyes. The beautiful blue of them had become fixed and staring and silence stretched till it seemed to fill the whole of the hill.
"The doctor thinks you will grow out of it in time. Get your strength back and be able to walk again. But you are going to have to be very brave and very patient."
"In time." Frodo echoed in a voice which seemed to come from a very long way away. "Do you mean I might never be able to walk again?"
"We can't tell, my lad."
Frodo twisted his hands free of the older hobbit's grasp and turned his head away. He bit his lip furiously to keep from crying out. He could feel a big scream building up somewhere inside him and knew that at any moment it was going to burst like a dragon from the side of a mountain and he didn't think he would be able to stop it.
*****
Mrs Willowbank was in the kitchen when she heard the awful sound of grief and despair echoing down the passageway. She twisted the dishcloth between her hands. "Oh, the poor child," she said. "The poor dear."