Chapter 113. Some thoughts on modes of travel 

I am awakened from a doze by Youngest’s shout: There he is!

‘There they are, you mean,’ shivering-Merry replies in a lower tone. ‘And d-d-don’t shout!’

‘I wasn’t shouting,’ Youngest protests.

‘You were.’

Even as the younger cousins begin this new argument, I am aware of Master’s exclamation of wordless concern. I lift my head and shake off my sleepiness. As my eyes come into focus, I see him move from Youngest’s side, where the two of them have been sharing a blanket, to the other cousin, where he stops and vigorously rubs cold-Merry’s back. Youngest joins in with energy and enthusiasm. ‘I didn’t realise how much the cold had seized you, Merry,’ he apologises.

When the middle cousin mutters that he is well and there is no need to make a fuss, Youngest shakes his head vigorously, saying, ‘O no you’re not, Merry!’

‘I should know if I am well or not,’ the middle cousin counters, and it seems to me that his teeth are chattering less than they were but a moment ago. Either the vigorous rubbing or the argument must be warming. 

I wonder who he and they might be. Not enemies, I deem, such as those Shadow ones, for my hobbits’ tones are light and cheerful, even as cold as they must be, waiting here amidst the snows.

I do not have long to wonder. Not long after Youngest’s rather loud (but not shouted, at least if he is to be believed) announcement, the Fair One is among us. There is no smell of sweat or effort on him, though I saw him running lightly over the snow in his descent, and I have little doubt that he was moving swiftly as he ascended to us again. I think he must have been flying in truth, though how he might do so without visible wings is beyond my ken. 

He must have flown very far indeed, for he speaks of having seen the Sun walking in the blue fields of the South. And now he has me wondering: if the fields in the South are truly blue, then does that mean there will be no green grass for a hungry pony as we go on our way? 

I sigh at such thoughts, and Youngest hobbit thanks me solemnly for blowing warm air over him. I see my Sam smile at this; he is digging amongst my bundles to make up a meal for the Company. His smile fades again to a frown of concentration, and I twitch my ear to catch his muttered words; something about poor enough food, but I suppose the scanty portions will help to make up for it. I make up my mind that the lack of food will not stop me from following my hobbits and carrying some of their burdens, at least, to spare them the effort. I have heard Master and not-Merry worrying over the lack of sufficient food to meet Youngest’s needs, and yet Youngest seldom complains and has even (rather surreptitiously, I’ll admit, so as not to draw the attention of his older cousins) shared a handful of sultanas with me on occasion – oftener, I think, since we left all grass and grazing behind.

The Fair One said more, that I missed, so busy as I was in chewing over the thought of blue fields, but I pay attention to my companions once more when the Dwarf grumbles that the storm was not ordinary and the wall of snow (There is a wall of snow? I shudder.) was laid to cut off our escape.

Just now, our (other) Big Man (the one with the shield) comes up. Now he smells of sweat and effort! – confirming my thought that the Fair One must have wings to fly, invisible as they may be to mortal eyes like my own. He says they have thrust a lane through the drift.

I think of the lanes I have known in the Breeland; some are grassy, and others have dirt underfoot and grassy banks to either side. Rarely have the footing and the banks been snowy; winters in Bree, in my experience, have involved more rain and sometimes ice than snow. In my life there, I never saw such snow as here.

Does the other Big Man’s ‘lane’ mean the path below us is only wet or muddy or dusted (rather than blanketed or buried deep) with snow?

Yes, it seems I have understood, for though I was distracted with thoughts of blue fields, I seem to remember the Fair One mentioning no more than a white coverlet to cool a hobbit’s toes.

Youngest hobbit, who has joined Master in rubbing at shivering-Merry’s arms and shoulders, does not seem reassured. It seems there is still some doubt as to how our party will reach the lane the other Big Man (the one with the shield) has discovered. (I say discovered because for the life of me, I have not even the slightest remembrance of seeing, much less treading, a lane at any point on our approach to the Mountain, unless the “remains of an ancient road”, as I heard Master call it when he was musing aloud after we left that last Valley, or the twisting and climbing road that came later, might be called a lane. Neither of those would be a lane to my understanding, but then I am only a pony, and sometimes I understand very little, indeed. I only know for certain that I am glad to have my Samwise by my side.)

I lift my head higher to survey the path the Big Men have ploughed down the Mountainside, and I must agree. The snow remains too high for a hobbit’s easy passage and, from the look of it, would still be over Youngest’s head, at the very least, and probably very difficult even for the older cousins (and my Sam) to manage.

But our (other) Big Man (the one with the shield) chuckles, as if to reassure my hobbits, and speaks of bearing the little folk. (Might he be part pony? It seems possible, considering the Fair One’s invisible wings, and Tall Hat’s ability to kindle fire with words alone – not to mention the threat of turning Youngest “into a toad until morning”, as I have heard one or the other of the older cousins mention a time or two. My companions, it seems, are full of surprises.)

I wait and watch to see how this is to be accomplished. Our other Big Man (the one with the shield) lifts Youngest in his arms and shifts him to his back, telling him to hold on. He says he will need his arms, and I watch even more closely, but in the end, he does not go down on all four limbs as I have seen hobbits do while picnicking on our meadow long ago, one of the times I remember hearing my dam snort with equine laughter. Similarly, our Big Man lifts the slightly-less-shivering Merry hobbit to his back and turns to follow, even as I lose myself momentarily in a pleasant memory of warm sunshine and as much grass as a pony might want, and more besides.

It is a lovely memory, that picnic with a large hobbit family, who shared pieces of bread and apples with us and stroked our noses with gentle hands. After my dam and I returned to grazing, I saw two of the tweens go down on their hands and knees in the grass, and then they invited the younger ones to “come and ride the pony”! I remember shying at such presumption on their part, and fixed a wary eye upon them, but as it turned out, they paid my dam and me no heed.

As I watched, the littler children took turns riding upon their backs, and the tweens neighed and snorted and even reared – but carefully, so as not to dislodge the littler ones – and pranced about on their hands and knees. Awkwardly, I must say. That is when I heard my dam laugh at their antics. Hobbits do not seem all that suited to go about on four limbs, even though they can. Ponies are much better at it. Perhaps it is a matter of practice.

It makes me very glad that my companions are walking and not crawling, even when our path leads us up a mountainside. It would be a slow and miserable business to have to travel any distance by that mode.

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Author notes:

Some thoughts here are derived from “The Ring Goes South” from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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