Chapter 3. I... we? ...solve a pressing problem

I jerk awake as my muzzle touches the ground, and I realise that as I have stood here, directionless and unmoving, at least for the moment, my head has drooped, lower and lower.

Frankly, my head feels too heavy to lift, but I tighten the muscles in my neck anyway, gritting my teeth – or so I imagine. Since hearing Youngest talk about gritting his teeth, I have wondered what he meant. Grit in his teeth? He's been eating dirt, or pulling up grass by the roots and chewing it all, including the dirt and tiny pieces of rock clinging to the roots?

At the time, the thought was merely another question tucked neatly into a stream of questions, such that I nearly missed hearing it. Would have missed hearing it, save that Master perceived Youngest's weariness and humoured the lad by engaging with the topic.

Why do hobbits grit their teeth when the going gets hard?

That's a good question, Pip. I wonder...

My nostrils flare as I remember the change in Youngest's smell, from weary and discouraged – and surprisingly angry, though I know not what angered him. His own slight stature and short legs, shorter than the legs of all our other Companions, relatively speaking?

In any event, the stream of questions stopped, as if Master's response dammed the flow, if only momentarily, and his tone brightened along with his smell, where curiosity rose suddenly to overlay the anger that so recently came as a surprise to me. For when you think about it...

What are you thinking, Pip? Master's answers continued as patient as ever, despite the shortness of breath I could detect in his speaking and the sound of his breathing.

For all practical purposes, said so-often-impractical but then at other times surprisingly-practical Youngest, aren't your teeth about as far from your feet as anything?

Somehow, Youngest has a talent for making Master laugh, even in the most dismal of circumstances. Just as I remember Master laughing in that moment – not the usual delightful sound I remember hearing from him, in that marvellous Valley we left behind us...

...and is that where I want to go? ...and come in time to Elrond’s house, or wherever you wish to go. Tall Hat's words echo in my ears.

But I have taken a side trail in my remembering – which seems eminently appropriate, considering that my remembering centres around this particular memory I am pondering, of Youngest, who wields side trails like a weapon of sorts in his ongoing battle to lighten the Master's mood...

And in this instance, Master laughed, as I remembered only a moment ago, and – wonder of wonders! – engaged in a spot of his own whimsy! I should think the curls on top of your head are about as far from your feet, and the curls atop them, as anything!

A thought that Youngest treated with the utmost serious consideration, to Master's increasing delight (or so his smell communicated to me). Yes, Frodo, except that I cannot see curls gritting themselves!

But Master laughed again and reached out to tousle Youngest's curls, and Youngest ducked away from his hand, though perhaps not so vigorously as usual, as the oldest of the cousins said, I wouldn't be too sure about that, Pip! It seems to me that you've plenty of grit in your curls at the moment!

And no water for the washing! Youngest returned an answer as quick as the snap of a swallow's beak when darting after a flying insect.

But Master's answer was just as rapid. Just think, then! In another day or two, you may well be able to grit your hair!

The memory of my hobbits' laughter washes over me, bringing comfort... but then the feeling fades.

And in my remembering, my head has drooped to the ground once more. The dry ground feels like a torment on my lips. 

I am so thirsty!

But now that I am no longer lost in comforting memories of my hobbits, I hear a whisper deep in my mind.

Look...

I am facing away from the ominous lake or pond, so my first thought is that the Voices do not intend for me to approach the dark, murky waters and lower my head to them, making myself vulnerable to lurking monsters waiting to drag me under the surface to my doom.

I scan the ground around me. Ahead is the scattered pile of discarded supplies.

Look... the whisper urges me forward.

I exert just enough energy, tightening the muscles of my neck, to lift my lips a handspan above the dusty ground. Though my limbs feel heavy – like lead! Youngest murmurs in my memory, though I have no idea what lead is – I stumble over the space that separates me from the cast-offs.

And then I stop. My eyes are dull, and looking is difficult. What am I looking for?

The voices are silent. I wait, listening, and as I wait, my head droops again.

But when my lips come to rest once more, they detect something smooth, somehow cool and smooth, unlike the rough and dusty ground.

I lift my head in surprise and peer at the ground. Though this night has seemed interminable, dawn is beginning to brighten the sky.

One of the "spare" water flasks lies at my feet. At one time, I carried it upon my back. And in this moment, I realise that not all the supplies surrounding me were meant to be discarded. Many of the things were set aside to be left behind, in truth, but when the monsters attacked, I think my Companions must have had to scramble to safety, and so they left some things behind that they had intended to take with them.

This water bottle would be one of those... for they have treated the water we carried so carefully, almost with reverence, over the most recent stretches of our journey as we walked through the dry, barren landscape where the Gate-stream once flowed.

But what good is it to me? I have no hands to uncap the bottle, to lift it to drink.

Take it, the Voices insist. Soft as they are, they are also compelling. For I find myself, without thinking about the matter, nuzzling at the stopper.

Be ready! the Voices command.

I am not sure what I am being ready for, but I stop nuzzling long enough to nod in response, and my body tenses in readiness.

As I return to the stopper, I feel it budge – it is coming loose! – and as it begins to separate from the flask, a sharp mental nudge prompts me to seize the bottle between my teeth and lift my head high in the air...!

And a dim memory comes to me, of the time when I went off my feed in that marvellous Valley where we rested and regained our strength. They forced my nose high in the air and poured something down my throat...

In just the same way I lift my head now, the Voices somehow adding to my fading strength. At the moment, however, I am the one struggling to raise my nose in the air. It feels strange to me, not to be fighting against someone else who is forcing me into such an unnatural and uncomfortable position. I am the Master of my own discomfort as well as the hand – or mouth, to be precise – providing the water I so desperately need to go on.

I lift my head high, the water flask clenched between my teeth, and feel a cool rush as life-giving liquid flows over my tongue and down my throat.

After the flow of water slows to a trickle and then, from the feel of it, stops, I stand a moment longer with my nose reaching for the fading stars above. It may be my imagination, but a few drops just might possibly fall from the empty flask.

It was not enough, not nearly enough, and even if more drinking flasks were left behind, it would be too much to hope that all the stoppers would be loose enough for me to dislodge them. In that marvellous Valley, I remember my bucket was always full of fresh, cool water. Several times a day, stable workers made their way down the line of stalls and refreshed the drinking supply for any horse or pony remaining in the stable for the day, while a laughing brook ran through the meadow where they turned us out, providing a constant source of fresh water for any thirsty beast, whether horse or pony or some other creature.

But it is better than nothing, I seem to hear the Voices say.

I was not complaining!

You have borne your burdens well, Great-heart. 

I think They mean to be reassuring. But then the tone changes. And now it is time to move on. Daylight is here, and there is a long way to go, no matter where you might decide to make your ways...

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Author notes:

Some thoughts here are derived from 'A Journey in the Dark' from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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