Chapter 15. A Matter of Honour

Ferdi found Dapple in her stall, nose-deep in oats. He stood a moment, eyes closed, listening to the homey sound of her munching, then stepped forward. She turned her head to meet him and he threw his arms about her neck, burying his face in her mane. The pony gave a soft sigh, her warm breath tickling his arm. He released her, and she gave him a deep look before turning back to her manger, to make short work of her supper and then lick the last of the grains from the age-darkened wood, after which she turned back to Ferdi, nuzzling for a treat.

 ‘You’re a true hobbit-pony, you are,’ he said, digging a piece of carrot from his pocket. He was getting low and needed to visit the kitchens for a fresh supply, but the thought of food held no appeal at the moment. Dapple was more hobbity than he was... She whiffled the treat from his hand and stood crunching the morsel between her teeth as he combed out her long forelock with his fingers.

Goin’ for a ride, he heard Old Tom say to someone in the corridor. Be back with the dawning. An all-night ride? Tom must be feeling as shaken as Ferdi himself. Had he already taken care of the stallion? There had been no clamour in the yard outside, but then Tom was wise to the ways of ponies and the young stallion was learning to trust him. Had been learning to trust him. Ferdi wiped impatiently at his eyes and gave Dapple a last pat.

 ‘I’ll just be checking on your lovely daughter,’ he said, and the mare nodded wisely.

He found Penny dozing, already finished with her oats, and so he did not disturb her. Sired by Socks, she was also a grey pony, fine of head, possessing clean lines and a regal look in her eye. Reminded of the new stallion, Ferdi turned away. He had several hours before it would be time to share late supper with his father. Eventides would be on in the great room at the moment, but he had no desire to eat.

 ‘Hard luck, eh Ferdi?’ one of the stable hobbits murmured sympathetically as he walked slowly out the side door. He stopped, seeing the new stallion still in the pen, alive and kicking at shadows cast by the torches that had been lit as the Sun sank below the Green Hills. A hint of purple-rose touched the western sky, fading slowly as Ferdi turned his face upwards, to seek the solace of the stars that were throwing off their covers to dance the night away. Though he stood long, until he grew stiff and his neck protested, the stars did not dance for him this night. Cold and indifferent they seemed this evening. There was no comfort there. The new stallion’s life would end with the closing steps of their dance in the dawning. He understood, now, what Old Tom had meant by “first thing.”

The stable hobbits and dairymaids and field workers and gentlehobbits were inside the Great Smials now, eating eventides and gossiping about the events of the day. Ferdi and the grey pony of Rohan and a skulking cat were the only creatures in the yard. A sudden impulse seized Ferdi and he turned back into the stables, grabbed the familiar rope from its hook, and turned to the pen, resolution growing with every step.

The pony moved to the gate to greet him and he rubbed the velvet nose, his hand moving upwards to scratch the bright star shining from the forehead. Fashioning a loop, he slipped it easily over the lowered head and made another quick loop over the nose, making a rough halter. He opened the gate and led the pony out, not bothering to latch it behind them. It was too late for that. With the aid of the fence he climbed onto the pony’s back; he was too weary in body and heart to leap up as was his wont.

He turned the pony’s head towards the high, wild hills beyond the Great Smials, south and west of Tuckborough, where farms were few and far between. When they were off the stones of the yard, he squeezed his knees and the pony, eager to stretch his legs, began to run, nay, fly over the green of the meadow beyond, into the valley between two great hills and on, on...

A last ride? Ferdi wondered to himself at the impulse that drove him. A way to save the pony? He shook his head and leaned forward, the silky mane blowing in his face. The Thain had ordered... He felt warm hide beneath him, a speck of foam fly back to strike his cheek, heard the pony’s quick breaths, the muffled thunder of the hoofs, the cool wind in his face. The Thain had ordered…

Abruptly Ferdi sat upright, pulling back on the rope, and the pony responded immediately, dropping into a walk. The stallion tossed his head, his breathing fast but not laboured. On a usual ride, Ferdi would have laughed, patted the soft neck, said something about the joy of flying as the eagles flew, but this night he simply sat like a stone, letting the pony wander where he might.

He didn’t know how long they wandered, but the moon that had been more than halfway to his zenith when they'd arrived at the Smials, ages ago, now shone high above them to light the landscape with a silver sheen. The pony stopped abruptly. Ferdi patted his neck. It was probably time to turn back anyhow. He heard the chuckle of a stream and saw a silver ribbon before them in the moonlight. Ha. The pony was reluctant to venture foot in water. He imagined that such had been the beginning of the merchants’ troubles; when they’d tried to force him to ford a stream he’d balked, and the fight had begun.

Ferdi knew how to overcome the stallion’s distrust; he knew how to deal with a balky pony. But what was the point? All his work would be for naught, come the dawn. His head drooped, but a sudden resolve straightened his back and brought his head up again. The stallion came to attention as Ferdi sat taller, lifting his head, prancing a bit.

Ferdi slipped from his back, came around to the pony’s head, rubbed the jaw thrust out at him. Aye, that was the way of it. The pony ought not to die in fear and fury, but by the hand of one he trusted, soft and gentle. Ferdi had seen his uncle put down ponies before. A blow with just the right amount of force, at the right place on the skull, now... he discarded the notion. The pony was wary of raised hands, and for good reason. He continued to scratch the hollow in the jaw with one hand, fumbling for the knife in his belt with the other.

 ‘There now,’ he soothed, though there was no need for soothing. The stallion had abandoned himself to the caress, stretching out his neck, his lower lip hanging, his eyes half-closed. ‘Just a quick sting,’ he said, ‘a little prick is all, and you’ll sleep.’ He blinked treacherous tears that surprised him by stinging his eyes as the knife came up. A quick motion and the pony would jerk away, but the deed would be done; the lifeblood released would pour into the ground, the pony’s head would droop and he’d fold his legs and lower himself to the ground, much as if composing himself for sleep. And all would be still.

 ‘The hand of a friend,’ Ferdi said, but his voice broke. The knife fell from his shaking hand and he spun away, to fall upon the grass and bury his face in his arms. ‘I cannot,’ he said into his sleeves. ‘I cannot.’ Not even if the Thain had ordered...

There was a velvet nudge against his shoulder, a questioning sound. He rolled over with a sobbing laugh and threw his arms about the lowered head. The pony suffered his embrace a moment before nudging again.

 ‘I cannot,’ Ferdi told him. ‘I cannot in honour do what I must,’ he said. ‘I cannot take your life, and I cannot take you back. What are we to do, I ask you?’

The pony nudged again, and he laughed suddenly. ‘What is honour?’ he said. ‘Surely I have none left at this late date.’ He rose abruptly, slipped the rope from the pony’s neck, turned them to face the stream. ‘There lies your future,’ he said. ‘Go and seize it.’

With his hand on the pony’s neck, he walked forward. As he expected, the beast balked once more, not wanting to set foot in the stream. Ferdi nodded. ‘It takes courage to begin anew,’ he said. ‘Believe you me, I know all about that sort of thing.’ He stepped away from the pony’s side and gave a sharp yell, bringing the rope down smartly upon the hindquarters, hard as a whip. The pony bolted into the water and up the opposite bank before it had time to think; then turned at the top. Ferdi waved his hands, the moon glistening silver from the rope. ‘Go!’ he cried. ‘Go!’

The whistle of the rope was enough to decide the stallion; he turned and began to run, ghostly in the moonlight. Ferdi watched him until he entered the shadow of another valley between two great hills, and then he turned away to begin the long jog back to the Great Smials.