Sheepdog Trials: a story of resistance, love and loyalty 

(Companion to “Chapter 11. Troubles”, from The Thrum of Tookish Bowstrings. For Larner, an early birthday present.)

***

All is not well.

First there were the Men, great hulking giants who smelled of violence, but Master called the dogs to heel, his whistle so imperative, they had no choice but to obey. So they sat to either side of him, resentful but obedient, growling low as they eyed the weapons the intruders carried.

Then there were the murmurs of the hobbits, herded from Bywater in a great crowd, bunched, standing, watching. Grudgingly, the dogs had to admit the Men’s efficiency rivalled their own. Floss lay down at Master’s feet, panting uneasily. Big Men had gathered the sheep some time ago. P’rhaps with the flock gone, they’d turned to hobbits instead. It was a thought for an out-of-work sheepdog to consider.

Then there were the death cries as the slaughter began. It seemed that the Men were killing all the animals remaining on the farm, all!, while Mistress wept and begged and the Children sobbed. The dogs trembled and started forward, but Master, his voice shaking yet strangely firm, ordered them to stay.

Then there were the rising flames from the smial, the byre, the coop, the shed... Master’s Youngest cried out, relief mingling with horror as the lithe forms of cats burst from the byre, evading the Men’s clubs, and streaked away, leaping across the fields in terrified bounds.

And now, the Men are coming, clubs raised, and a blow takes Grip in the ribs, sending him rolling with a yelp, while Floss dances away, teeth bared. She sets herself in her low, wolfish stance, ears pinned back, slinking forward, death shining from her eyes. 

Her mate regains his feet, and ignoring the pain of his battered ribs, he sets himself as well. The ruffians will pay!

...but Master’s whistle sounds high and shrill. Away! Away! That irresistible prompt, that joyous sound to set them to work, send them out to the sheep... Instinctively, the dogs must obey – they turn from the threatened attack to move out into the field, though no flock scatters there, waiting for the dogs’ direction.

Master cries out behind them, and the dogs, distracted from their quest for sheep, turn to see him doubled over, a ruffian’s club raised for another blow. Before they can streak to his defence, somehow his whistle sounds again; his desperation is stronger than the pain and breathlessness following the blow. Away! Away!

Straightening, he shouts, and though he is gasping, the words ring with authority. ‘Go! Grip! Floss! Go!’

They must away. Master has ordered it.

*** 

First there were the Men, not as many as those who’d herded the large crowd of hobbits from the direction of the Town and then burned the buildings and slaughtered the animals. Not as many, but still too many for a sheepdog and her injured mate to take on.

When they’d tried to approach and the Men had seen them, the dogs had been forced to dodge viciously aimed rocks and a flying club. Worse, Master had whistled away again, to be rewarded by a blow from one of the Men that drove him to his knees. The dogs had started forward, only to be forced back by Master’s sobbing “go!”.

Master had whistled them away, and he’d not yet called them to come, and all she could think to do was to follow, staying low to the ground, concealing herself as well as she might to one side of the flock of Men whilst her mate did the same to the other side.

Then there were the hobbits, being driven before the ruffians, Master and Mistress and the Children. Some wept, some stumbled along blank-faced and numb.

The Men were jolly and jeering, calling out all sorts of words that mean nothing to the shadowing dogs. ‘Right through the heart!’ was one shout. The others laughed uproariously at this, adding their own opinions. ‘Put you quickly out of your misery, those blasted Tooks will!’ ‘Just keep going!’ ‘Not far now!’

And now, a new smell of lurking predators brings a whine from one dog, a growl from the other. Something flies through the air, and while the dogs are wary, ready to duck and dodge, instead it is a ruffian who screams and grabs at his arm, where a bright feathered shaft protrudes. The dogs’ sensitive noses take in the satisfying reek of foe’s blood rising on the air, and their lips draw back from their teeth in a soundless snarl.

No further! comes a shout. The dogs relax slightly at recognising the sound of a hobbit. They prick their ears forwards as the voice has more to say. You Men, turn around and take yourselves back to your Boss! Tell him the Tooks aren’t having any today! 

The dogs hear the thrum of bowstrings and two more arrows fly to either side of the farm family, ending buried in the ground to either side of the group of ruffians. Another voice – still that of a hobbit, the dogs deem, though the owner of this voice as well remains hidden from sight – shouts, Those shots were aimed to hit where they landed! We can aim for your hearts just as easily! Now go!

Go. They know this word. But as it is not directed at them, and more importantly, as it is not Master who speaks the word, the dogs sink to the ground, holding their position, waiting for an opening, whilst the Men turn and stumble away in a shambling run.

*** 

First there was a tall hobbit, not as tall as a Man but a head taller than Master, a bow in his hand and a quiver on his back. First he was hidden, and then suddenly he rose from behind a clump of grass. Startled, the dogs wanted to bark at him, but they settled for low growls, flattening themselves that they might themselves remain unseen.

Then there was Master. Mistress had helped him as they walked along, but now he puts her behind him, her and the Children, puts himself between his family and the hidden and visible predators with their sharp flying teeth. 

He holds his hands out to the sides – the dogs watch, intent for a signal – and speaks to the archer, and the archer speaks in turn, and the many words of the two hobbits flow together and mean nothing to the dogs.

Now they are walking, Master and Mistress and Children, and archer is walking with them, an unlikely sheepdog guiding a flock of hobbits.

The dogs are shadows, following behind.

*** 

‘We think they are strays... sheepdogs from the outer Shire, perhaps who’ve lost their shepherd or farmer to the Lockholes... Goodchild tried to whistle them in, but while they pricked their ears at him, they wouldn’t follow his commands at all.’

’Ought we to shoot them, Sir? Ownerless dogs are a menace...’

’Has there been any sheep-worrying in the area?’

’Well...’

’What is it? Speak up.’

‘Well Sir, as a matter of fact there was some sheep-worrying on the near range – but it stopped suddenly, and that after these dogs first appeared.’

‘But they’re hanging ‘round the Smials for the most part, you said?’

‘Aye Sir, they keep returning for some reason or other, though none can approach them close enough to put a hand on them. What are your orders, Sir?’

‘If they’ve offered no harm, and may even be guarding the sheep hereabouts, then I say leave well enough alone. And...’

‘Sir?’

‘And put out food for them. They have a hungry look. Thin, like their last good meal was too many days ago. Keep feeding them so long as you see them coming round.’

‘Aye Sir.’

‘P’rhaps they’ll come to trust us. You never know.’

‘Aye Sir.’

*** 

First there were the torchlighters, quietly walking the perimeter of the courtyard, going about their business to bring the flickering flames to life as they did every evening at the falling of dusk. Soon the bowls set out to one side of the stable building would be filled with a mix of meat and grains and vegetables, or so the dogs surmised from past nights' experience.

Then there were the tall hobbits with bows and quivers, two of them, one on either side of the small group emerging from the great hill that smells of many smials as the Sun painted her farewell colours in the skies.           

Then there was the Sir, who had come out sometimes at dawning or dusk and sat down near where food for dogs was left out. He’d sit himself down on the grass, a little way away, and the dogs had grown used to him, had even listened to him talking to them as they slunk out of the shadows to gulp down sustenance.

But now – now there is Master!

Master!

The dogs start forward from their hiding places, but hesitate. Master’s last whistle to them was away, his last command “go!”. They sink to the ground again. Stay.

Sir raises an arm and points, first to one lurking shadow and then the other. ‘Are they perhaps yours?’ he says. ‘They first appeared after Hilly brought you in.’

‘I – I don’t know, Thain,’ Master stammers. ‘It’s too dark.’

Sir laughs, a grim chuckle. ‘They only come out at dusk or just before dawn to scoop up the food we put out for them, and then they slink away again,’ he says. While the dogs watch and listen, he slaps Master’s shoulder. ‘Call them,’ he says. ‘Whistle them in.’

Master lifts his hand to his mouth, and the most beautiful sound in the world rolls out, a high piercing call that echoes through the hills. To me! To me!

The dogs start up from their hidden crouch, heads high, eyes wide and unbelieving, ears pricked at stiffest attention. But no punishing club descends.

The call sounds again. To me!

Before the echoes fade from the hills, the dogs are flying towards the small flock of hobbits in the torchlit courtyard. Soon they are jumping and wagging and panting and licking and dancing circles and nearly turning themselves inside out in their joy.

Sir laughs, the sound of genuine delight ringing in his voice.

But Master, who always knows the right command, gives a final, quieter, whistle. That’ll do.

And then he bends, both hands out, to rumple two furry heads that press closer to take in his caresses.

‘That’ll do,’ Master adds words to underscore his whistle. ‘Good Floss. Good Grip.’

All is well.