Sam had done more running in the last day than he must've done in the last six years, and that were a fact. As he sprinted towards the woods, leaving Mr. Frodo to watch over poor trapped Strider, he tasted the rawness at the back of his throat, like blood, from breathing too hard for too long.
But there was nothing for it. Sam must do the best he could. The entire party was depending on him, with Mr. Pippin out cold—and Sam knew that Mr. Merry was hurt worse than he let on. Not that Sam was going to fault him for that. Mr. Merry making the best of it might give Mr. Frodo one less thing to worry about, and that was all to the good.
Mr. Frodo. He was Sam's chief concern, there was no denying, even with the others as bad off as they were. Sam could see that his master was pushing himself beyond his strength, and it couldn't last. Sam had felt the icy cold in Mr. Frodo's shoulder when he'd pulled him back from the ledge, trying to keep him from going after Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin after they'd been struck down. It was only the night before that Mr. Frodo had fallen all in a heap, weak and shivering, after they'd climbed that ridge. It was all any of them could do to warm him up again, what with the wind and the comfortless rock that was all the stony slope had to offer.
Mr. Frodo was going to collapse again, and soon, sure as Sam's name was Gamgee. He had to get everyone together and out of trouble as quick as might be. Then mayhap Mr. Frodo would sit down, and quit trying to save the whole world all by his own self, especially when he was hurt so bad already.
The stars had come out nice and bright, lighting his way. Even so, the ground was deceiving. More than once, a stone turned beneath his foot, forcing Sam to catch himself before he twisted an ankle. That would be the icing on the cake—him laid up with a fool injury, when there was so much work to be done. Relieved, Sam finally reached the woods—only to discover that he had a whole other problem.
It was black as pitch beneath the trees. How was Sam supposed to find a limb stout enough to use for a lever for that troll, in the dark? He sighed in dismay.
Well, there's thinking, and there's doing, Sam's brain informed him in the Gaffer's voice. And there's a lot more to show by 'doing' at the end of the day.
"Right," Sam told himself. "So get doing."
He eased himself into the thicket. Twigs snapped underfoot. On his third step, Sam broke through an invisible drift of pine needles, sinking up to his shin. He pulled his foot out of the hollow, testing for better footing before he set it down again. Waving his hands before him in the blackness, he proceeded into the thicket, hoping he wouldn't get a twig in the eye.
Slender saplings and stout trunks rose all about him. Sam tested the saplings and thicker limbs one by one, feeling if they were alive, and therefore no good to him, or dead, in which case he tested them for strength. Many a limb cracked in his hand; too brittle. Sam took such pieces and tossed them back towards the turf that lay in full starlight not too many steps behind him. Once he stumbled over a fallen log. After gaining his balance, he stripped it efficiently of its dry branches, before crawling over it and proceeding on.
Ah, this is what he wanted. One thick sapling had been struck by another tree, so it leant at a sharp angle. Sam ran his hands over the smooth bark. Still green inside; it would take a fair amount of weight, and not snap.
Sam followed the trunk to the root, where he spent some time trying to twist it free. In the end he drew his blade, the one that Tom Bombadil had given him. Odd fellow, that Tom. Light-hearted as a colt, yet keen-eyed as Gandalf. Sam set his blade to the stubborn root, and felt the time-tested blade sever the stringy wood. Sam smiled; he couldn't help but think that the old chap knew what he was about.
The sapling came free, and Sam dragged it into the clear. Rapidly he ripped or hewed off unneeded limbs, then spent a few moments collecting the branches and pieces of dead wood that he had flung out earlier. One of them was long enough to serve as a lever itself, although being dry, it wouldn't be as strong as the greenwood. Sam nodded, pleased. It would do. He collected as big a bundle of wood and tinder as he could manage. Securing it all with his belt, he hefted the bound end to drag the whole bundle towards the cave.
Sam turned and stopped, puzzled. At first he thought he had lost the cave. Then he made out a dim glow at the base of the cliff. The body of the troll must be blocking most of the candlelight from the cave entrance. Sam felt relieved. He didn't care to advertise their presence to any other trolls who might be in the neighborhood.
When Sam drew closer, a new light bloomed beside the troll. He arrived to find that Mr. Merry had brought another candle outside, and set it near the Ranger. Mr. Frodo was cleaning Mr. Strider's face with a damp cloth. Most of the black blood had been cleaned away, but even in the candlelight, Sam could see how red the Man's skin was where it had been. The poison must have ate right through it. Trust Mr. Frodo to recognize the urgency of that, and do what he could to help.
Mr. Merry had been standing at Mr. Frodo's shoulder, watching him work. As Sam drew near, he looked in Sam's direction. The candlelight must have blinded him, for he said, uncertainly, "Sam?"
"It's me," Sam responded, gaining the circle of light, and dropping his unwieldy bundle on the ground.
Mr. Frodo stared at the stack in bewilderment. "I thought you went for a lever."
"And I found one, too. But we'll need a fire, so I brought back wood for that. As well, I've got an idea about shifting that troll."
"Yes?"
Sam stooped, and collected the greenwood trunk of the sapling. He bore it to where the Ranger was pinned, and angled the thick end to pass under the neck of the troll. "I'll lever the beast's head up this way," he explained. "Once I open a passage underneath, Mr. Merry—" Sam walked back to his pile, and located the other long, stout stick. He carried it back to the troll. "He can stick this one under its chest, and prop it against the earth between Mr. Strider's legs. With the two of us pushing up, Mr. Frodo can slip some of these other pieces of wood into the gap." He indicated the pile he'd assembled. "That way, we can wedge the troll up, bit by bit, until we can roll him off Mr. Strider."
Mr. Merry looked astounded. "You're mad. That thing must weigh seventy stone, if he weighs an ounce!"
"But he's already laying at an angle," Sam argued. "Mr. Strider's whole left side is mostly clear, 'cept for his leg."
"Well, we must try something." Mr. Frodo stood—without too much difficulty, Sam was pleased to see. Mayhap the quiet time he'd spent cleaning the Man's face had rested him somewhat. "The troll's head alone must weigh as much as Fatty Bolger. I'd hate to think of myself trying to breathe for as long as Aragorn has, with dear Fatty sitting on my ribs."
"I shouldn't worry too much, Frodo," said Mr. Merry, coming closer. "Have you tried to lift Strider's pack recently?"
Frodo shook his head.
"It seems our dear Ranger has spent the last two weeks carrying the weight of Fatty Bolger on his back. I'm sure he could breathe for twenty minutes with the weight of Fatty Bolger on his chest."
Frodo smiled weakly, then stooped and dragged the Ranger's right arm up next to his head, where it would be out of trouble when the troll toppled in that direction. Imitating him, Sam quickly moved Mr. Strider's left arm out of the way as well. Mr. Merry watched them, although the doubt showed plainly on his face.
Sam had misgivings of his own. He could see how Mr. Merry struggled for every breath, though he tried to hide it. That troll must have crunched him something fierce. Well, if Mr. Merry was willing to ignore his hurts, Sam would, too. At least, if and until it was proved that he couldn't shift that troll. If that happened, Sam didn't know what he might do.
Well, they could but try, as Mr. Frodo said. No matter what they did, old Strider wouldn't be in any worse fix than he was already. Sam rummaged the wood pile, and found the flattest, stoutest sticks for Mr. Frodo to use as wedges.
"You tuck these under the troll one by one," Sam instructed, as Mr. Frodo came round to Strider's left side. "Brace them against the earth next to Mr. Strider's leg."
"I understand." Mr. Frodo unconsciously rubbed his left arm with his right. Sam bit his tongue. No need for him to be fretting about his master's wound now. Mr. Frodo wouldn't rest until Mr. Strider was safe, so it was best that they get that job done smartly.
The others moved into position. Mr. Merry, wincing, lifted his pole and angled it, ready to slip it into the gap that Sam would create. Mr. Frodo crouched at Sam's feet next to Mr. Merry, a stack of wood ready to use as wedges.
Sam gripped his log, and looked about. Mr. Frodo nodded. "Go on, Sam."
Sam pushed. The troll's head lolled to the side. The shoulders scarce shifted, the huge mountains of meat that they were, but Sam's effort opened enough of a hole that Mr. Merry could slip his stick in underneath, and bear up and at an angle to Sam's. The gap widened. Mr. Frodo instantly stuck a wedge as far back along Mr. Strider's thigh as he could, to boost up the troll's shoulder on that side. Mr. Merry worked in his pole a bit farther, then raised up the troll a shade more. Mr. Frodo shoved in a second wedge.
"It's working!" Mr. Merry gasped.
Sam glanced his way, but what he saw didn't comfort him none. Mr. Merry's lips were pulled back tight; Sam couldn't tell if that expression was more strain, or pain. What's more, the gentlehobbit seemed about at his limit. Mr. Frodo added a third wedge, but Mr. Merry didn't seem able to lift his pole no higher than it already was. In the flickering candlelight, Sam could see sweat breaking out on the straining hobbit's face.
Sam angled his pole towards the troll's shoulder to help raise it a touch more. "Can you get in one more, Mr. Frodo?" he grunted.
Mr. Frodo chose a new branch, thinner but longer, to add to the stack. "In."
"Ease down," Sam said. Mr. Merry let go instantly. Fortunately Sam had expected that, and braced for it. He then relaxed his own grip more slowly. The troll's body settled back.
Mr. Merry stood hunched over, breathing hard. "Well, Sam," he panted, "we have managed to raise the troll's shoulder about four inches off Strider's left leg. We must do better than that."
Mr. Frodo looked at his friend with concern. "Merry, you aren't up to this."
Mr. Merry gave him a serious look. "I'd appreciate any suggestions."
Luckily, Sam had one. "Let's try this." Sam chose the stoutest log from the pile, and propped it in the gap under the troll's shoulder, next to Mr. Frodo's wedges. He then extracted his greenwood pole from beneath the troll's neck, and repositioned it to lever off the log. Mr. Frodo watched him silently, too exhausted to comment. Sam made his voice brisk and businesslike.
"I'll raise that troll up as far as I can by myself. Then you sirs, working together, slide Mr. Strider by me. If I'm lifting up, you might be able to pull Mr. Strider right out from under him."
Mr. Frodo looked over the troll, lying cockeyed across Mr. Strider's right side, then nodded. Wordlessly, he got to his feet, then took a good hold of the Ranger's tunic on the left side. Mr. Merry crouched next to him, moving stiffly. He gripped with both hands around the Man's left arm, close to his shoulder. Sam worked the pole as far under the troll as he could reach. He made sure it was braced tight against the log, and then began to work his way, hand over hand, from next the troll towards the end of the pole, like a hobbit lad climbing toward the upper end of a seesaw while a heavy friend sat on the other.
For a moment he thought the load would be too heavy for him to shift. His feet left the ground near the end of the lever, but Sam kept going, dangling like a toy. For a moment he wished that he was still wearing his pack, for the extra weight. Then he felt the troll's body start to tip. This brought the pole lower, and Sam's feet touched the ground. At the very end of the lever, he pulled down far enough to hook his body over the pole, and put his back into it. The greenwood creaked and bowed; the troll tipped slightly to the right. The others scrambled beside him, but Sam daren't look, just stood with his arms trembling as he pressed against the monstrous load.
"Harder, Frodo! Swing him round."
"I'm pulling as hard as I can."
"We're getting him—blast! His leg's stuck."
"I've got it."
From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Mr. Frodo crawl right under the troll's propped body. Sam wanted to holler at him to get out of there—that he might not be able to hold it. But he just hissed and pressed down harder.
Mr. Merry's voice shook from where he strained to pull the Man to safety. "Hurry, Frodo!"
Sam's muscles were twitching all anyhow, protesting the strain. He closed his eyes, the better to concentrate. His arms felt as if they were on fire, fighting to keep pushing. Hurry, Mr. Frodo! he thought, silently seconding Mr. Merry's plea.
"Good!" cried Mr. Merry. "Back, back, back!"
Sam felt something brush past his leg.
"Got him, Sam!" Mr. Frodo cried.
Sam meant to ease up gently, but his arms couldn't do it. The pole snapped upwards, smacking him in the chest and twisting sideways as it slipped off the log support. Sam tumbled backwards to earth.
"Sam!" A gentle hand touched his chest.
Sam could do nothing but lie there and breathe. He trembled in every limb, like a kitten wet through from a rainstorm. The spasms subsided as Sam caught his breath. A hand lifted his head, and Sam felt water at his lips. He sputtered and turned his head away, closing his lips.
"Oh, Sam!" This time the voice sounded more exasperated than worried.
"Begging your—" Sam turned his head to cough, "pardon, Mr. Frodo," he wheezed. "You should save that water for them as needs it."
"That's what I was doing." There was no mistaking the irritation in Mr. Frodo's voice now. Sam winced, but pushed himself onto his elbows nonetheless. He blinked to find a great grey wall of troll shoulder not two inches from his toes.
"You almost ended up under the troll yourself," said Mr. Merry, off to the right. Sam looked over. The Ranger's long body lay like a green mound beside him, unfortunately one that reeked of troll blood. Beyond it, Mr. Merry knelt near the Man's head. The Bucklander's face was sweat-beaded and pasty. Sam was not pleased to see that the owner of that face seemed to be as wobbly of limb as Sam at the moment.
Mr. Frodo pursed his lips as he carefully stoppered the nearly empty flask with one hand. "Bother you, Samwise Gamgee. Do you realize how difficult you make it for anyone to do anything for you?"
"I'm just one of those as needs to do the doin'." Oriented, Sam rolled to his knees. His strength was returning, though his muscles still trembled from their recent exertion. He watched his hands twitch on his thighs, as if they belonged to a different person entirely. "What's the next job, sir?" he rasped.
"Well, I had thought to move Strider into the cave, but I don't think any of us are capable of doing any more pulling at the moment."
Sam chewed his lip. "It won't be warm in the cave, sir. Not with a stone floor."
Mr. Frodo sounded worried. "Would it be safe to light a fire out here?"
Sam recalled the dim glow he'd seen from the forest's edge. "If you set it between the troll and the cliff wall, you should be safe enough. This troll might have his drawbacks, but he does a proper job of blocking the light."
"Very well." Mr. Frodo clambered awkwardly to his feet. "I shall make a fire. You shall rest."
"You shall rest," Mr. Merry countered, scrambling to his own feet. He nearly fell doing it, too. Sam barely shook his head, wondering who Mr. Merry thought he was fooling.
"You shall sit next to Sam," Mr. Frodo argued.
Sam fought the urge to chuckle, then crawled to the Ranger's side. He still felt weak, but he was getting stronger—which was more than he could say for those other two. They stood glaring at one another, both as stubborn as a tot refusing its medicine, and neither of them willing to own up to their hurts.
Sam groped for the pouch that the Man wore at his belt. Sam winced as his fingers touched the thick troll blood. It was growing tacky as it dried, but still prickled against his skin. Grimacing, he worked the gummy knot loose. They'd have to get these clothes off the Ranger, before the stuff et through the leather.
"What are you doing?" Mr. Frodo asked, abandoning his end of the face-off.
"This is where Mr. Strider put that athelas he found." Sam tugged the pouch loose, and opened the top. The pungent scent of the culled leaves wafted up to his nose, even through the troll stench. Satisfied, Sam hoisted himself upright. "We're short on medicine, and I thought as we might give this a try."
"What will you do with it?" Mr. Frodo came closer.
"Same as he did, I reckon. We'll boil water, then bruise a couple of leaves and throw them in. We can wash Mr. Strider's face, and wherever else that poison touched him. And we can tend to everyone's hurts—everyone's," he added, with a significant glare at the others, "whether they think they're hiding it or not."
"Oh, all right." Mr. Frodo bent to collect a few pieces of wood with his good hand. Mr. Merry watched him a moment, then stiffly bent to join him. Although he'd grimaced at Sam's statement, he looked as if he might fall face forward any minute.
Leaving the gentlehobbits to sort the wood, Sam walked passed the troll, noting an indentation in the ground that would make a good fire pit. He continued into the cave for his pack. It seemed bright in the light of the candle. Mr. Pippin slumbered on, wrapped in his blanket. A cloth had been wound round his head as a bandage. Sam checked the young hobbit for any improvement. Finding none, he shook his head.
Sam noticed old Strider's pack in the corner. Might as well haul that out, afore Mr. Merry tried to do it. It was deuced heavy, but Sam could manage it; he dumped it near the unconscious Man. He returned to the cave to collect the rest of their packs. Placing them near the fire pit, Sam got out his set of shallow camping pans, with one nestled inside the other. He had half of his own flask left; this he emptied into the smaller pan. Setting it near his pack so it wouldn't get kicked over, Sam fetched the flask that Mr. Frodo had used on him, lying where he had left it. There was no more than a mouthful of liquid in it. With a sigh, Sam took Mr. Strider's flask off his pack. At least this one held a bit more. Setting Mr. Strider's flask aside, he emptied the remnants of the small flask into the partly filled saucepan.
The two gentlehobbits had begun to lay the fire. "When the fire's built," Sam told them, indicating the pan, "put this on to boil."
Mr. Frodo glanced over and nodded, then continued his work.
Sam went back into the cave. He located Mr. Pippin's flask, still half full, and slung it over his shoulder. He then carefully lifted Mr. Pippin in his arms, blankets and all. Sam hated to move him, but a cave without a fire would be colder than the open air with a fire. Sam puffed under the load as he lurched to his feet. That didn't seem right; that Mr. Pippin was hardly more than a lad. Sam must be more wore out than he'd realized. Still, it was better that he carried Mr. Pippin outside now, than letting Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry try to shift him later.
Sam shuffled out the cave mouth under his burden. As he neared the fire pit, Mr. Merry saw what he was doing. Wincing in his rush to rise, he guided Sam to a soft area near the fire pit's edge. Together they placed Mr. Pippin on the turf. Leaving Mr. Merry to settle his cousin, Sam emptied Mr. Pippin's flask and Mr. Strider's into the larger of the two pans. The water neared the brim.
Mr. Merry looked at Sam curiously as he rose, three empty hobbit-sized flasks in his hands, and the larger Man-sized flask slung across his shoulder. "I'm off for water. We're in sore need of it." Sam pointed at the full pan. "You'd best save some of that for drinking, in case it takes me a while. I've a mind to follow the gully downhill, but there's no telling where I'll find a pool."
"Sam," Mr. Frodo started to protest, but Sam was ready for him.
"Mr. Strider needs a proper wash, and that little panful of water won't do it." Sam saw Mr. Frodo close his mouth in reluctant understanding. "I'll fill these, and then come back with as much wood as I can carry."
"You shouldn't go off alone," Mr. Merry scolded.
"Begging your pardon, Mr. Merry, but I've the notion that I won't be gone five minutes afore you head for the woods by your lonesome, to find more wood for the fire. And I'm in a mite better shape than you are at the moment, if you'll pardon me for noticing."
Mr. Merry stared, then shut his mouth abruptly. Beside him, Mr. Frodo chuckled. "Very well, Sam. You have carried the day. Do be as careful as you can, however. If you're gone too long, we will come looking for you."
"Give me time, sir. That water might be a ways off."
Mr. Frodo nodded. "Good luck, Sam."
"Thank you, sir."
Sam hefted his light load, then headed into the night. He went slowly. He was too spent to do more. Gradually his night vision returned. When he looked up slope, he could see an orange glow flickering behind him. The fire was started. Another small step had been made.
More confident of his vision, Sam stepped more widely. He'd decided to follow the edge of the woods downhill and listen for the trickle of water, rather than try to forge a path beneath the blinding trees. He glanced once more over his shoulder, pleased to see that the rising hill was hiding the sign of the fire. Someone would have to get right close to see it.
Not watching his feet, Sam trod awkwardly on a stone. He went down, just that fast, landing all in a heap. Sam sat befuddled on his backside, with his palms braced against the turf, and stared at his knees. Well, if that weren't a caution. There was no spring left in his legs. He must be a sight more tired than he'd reckoned.
Carefully, Sam sorted out his limbs. His knees gave a slight tremor, as he pushed himself up. Sam stood tall, and heaved a breath. There, now. He'd best watch himself, or he'd be twisting that ankle after all. Wouldn't that be the crown of all, if Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry had to go searching for him in the night?
Nagging himself for a ninnyhammer, Sam continued cautiously down the hill.
