Chapter 32. Fool of a Took

The stallion of Rohan whinnied after Ferdibrand. For a week he’d been shut up in a pen, the only excitement in his life when they brought him fresh water or something to eat. If a pony could be said to miss something, the stallion missed the frequent workouts, the exercises, the rides and treats and scratching.

Moreover, the pony was familiar with racing. Many were the times that he’d taken his young rider to triumph, on the plains of Rohan, before he’d been sent here. He lifted his head, nostrils flaring, scenting the air: sweat, dust, excitement, effort, victory. He pricked his ears to hear the roar of the crowd, dropping to a murmur. Ferdi had gone off in the direction of the racecourse. The stallion knew the racecourse; Ferdi had breezed him around, glorying in the speed.

He reached over the gate to nuzzle at the latch. He played with the latch when bored, moving it with lips and tongue. Once or twice he’d come close to releasing the latch. It was a game, a way to pass the time. Now the nervousness engendered by the atmosphere of the races drove him to work at the latch once more, grabbing with teeth and tugging, nuzzling with sensitive lips, body so tense in his concentration that he jumped at the crowd’s roar as the starter’s flag dipped and the final race began.

Penny got off to a good start, running near the head of the pack, Ferdi leaning forward, letting her have her way. The crowd shouted as Socks half-reared and jumped, letting the other ponies get ahead of him before he deigned to follow, ears pinned back, as if he were driving them before him.

Penny wove her way through every opening, ears back to listen to the half-song Ferdi crooned, leaning forward on her neck, hands tight in her mane. Halfway through the race she passed the leaders. Ferdi felt her slacken her pace slightly, knew she wanted to run with the others and not ahead of them. He shifted the reins to his left hand and stroked her neck with the right, patting and encouraging as he spoke in a sing-song. ‘Come along, lass, come along, come along.’ Ears switching back and forth, she surged forward once more.

Approaching the final turn, Ferdi saw from the corner of his eye a grey blur, and then Socks was moving up beside them until the two leaders ran neck and neck, the riders in their emerald and sable colours riding knee to knee. Penny’s breath was coming short and fast, her head stretched forward, seeming to run at top speed... but Ferdi knew better.

Forgetting his leg and leaning still farther forward, he began to rub the hair of the mare’s neck against the grain, pushing her forward with every stroke as the tune he hummed changed slightly. The rhythm of her gallop increased with his cadence: ‘Now, lassie, now, lassie, now, lassie, now!’ Slowly she pulled forward, and then Ferdi felt the freedom he craved as the mare’s treasure hoard broke open and shining gold spilled forth; no longer earth-bound, they flew...

They swept around the final turn to the roar of the crowd, the wind singing in Ferdi’s ears, Sock’s nose at his knee and the finish looming before him. The tone of the crowd changed, but he had no time to wonder as a ghostly grey form slipped between the battling ponies, pushed forward, took the lead.

Startled off-balance, Penny’s smooth rhythm broken, she fell back for a fatal instant before finding her stride once more. It was just enough for Socks move ahead, Penny’s nose even with his flank as they flashed across the finish line.

Stunned silence greeted them. As the two grey ponies with their emerald and sable-clad riders battled for the lead, another pony had come from nowhere, jumping the fence, overtaking the pack, pushing through the narrow gap between the leaders until for an instant three grey ponies raced as one... and then the group split, the ghostly grey, unencumbered by a rider’s weight, moving forward, followed by the Thain’s pony and then Penny.

Old Tom moved forward to claim the stallion of Rohan, for the beast had stopped after crossing the finish and turned around to approach Penny, tossing his head in a playful manner. He tolerated the rope Tom eased over his head and suffered himself to be led away, though he whinnied over his shoulder at the other ponies.

 ‘How did he get out?’ Pippin was demanding. ‘Regi, I want you to...’

Ferdi sat Penny in a daze. He wasn’t sure what had happened, only that they’d been flying ahead of the rest when suddenly... suddenly what? Penny hadn’t won, that much he grasped. He needn’t sit through the ceremonies, the laying of the wreath of wildflowers over the neck of the winner. Suddenly exhausted, he turned Penny’s head towards the gate.

 ‘Hard knocks, eh, Hilly?’ Tolly was saying at his knee. ‘Well, you’ll have half the second-place purse, anyhow. It might not be as much as winning, but it’s something. Ferdi’ll understand.’ Ferdi didn’t understand, but he nodded anyway.

Pippin rode up then, to say, ‘We’ll sort it all out, Hilly. Don’t worry.’ Socks jostled against Penny, knocking the two riders’ legs together, and Ferdi fainted clear away.

There were cries of consternation and shouts for the healer as the emerald-clad rider slumped on Penny’s neck, and Pippin leaned to support him, to keep him from falling. ‘Steady, Hilly,’ he said, and when Woodruff came up, he said in answer to her query, ‘I don’t know; it seems Hilly’s been taken ill.’

It didn’t take long for things to go from bad to worse. As they tried to ease him from Penny’s back, they discovered that his leg was bound to the stirrup leather; they noticed the bandages for the first time, and it wasn’t long before they pulled down the concealing scarf to reveal Ferdi’s face, pale and slack.

 ‘Take him to the infirmary. Be quick now!’ Woodruff ordered, her voice tight with fury.

 ‘Where’s Hilly?’ Pippin said coldly as he watched the litter-bearers trot away, Woodruff at Ferdi’s side.

 ‘I don’t know,’ Tolly said with a gulp.

 ‘When you find him, send him to me at once,’ Pippin said, his tone boding no good for the errant hobbit.

An hour or two later, Ferdi was awake once more, tucked up in bed, his leg elevated on pillows “just in case” (‘I don’t know how he managed to escape further injury...’ Woodruff had grumbled. The tight bindings had helped, of course.), drinking an abysmally bitter draught and contemplating a plateful of liver while enduring Woodruff’s muttered imprecations.

Hilly appeared in the doorway. He appeared to have been chewed up and spit out by some indomitable force. Woodruff bristled. ‘Well!’ she snapped. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

 ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with feeling, shaking his head. ‘I know it does no good to say it, but I’ll say it anyhow. I’m more than sorry.’ He looked from Ferdi to Woodruff. ‘He’s not going to lose the leg, is he?’

 ‘No thanks to you!’ Woodruff growled. ‘It was healing nicely, and you’ve set him back...’

Ferdi’s heart sank. How far? How much longer would he have to endure the bed? They were likely to keep him abed twice as long just out of spite.

Rosemary entered, Hally at her side. ‘Ferdi, how could you?’ she said tearfully.

Hally simply stared at him without a word, but Ferdi could all but read his thoughts. Fool.

 ‘You have the right of it,’ he whispered.

 ‘What is it?’ Woodruff said, rounding on him. ‘Why aren’t you eating your liver? It’s going cold, and I know you hate cold food!’