Chapter 22. The journey becomes ever more difficult, but help is at hand

We have walked... and rested. Walked... and rested. And – though I feel as if I am dreaming, with no end in sight – we are walking again. I do not know how many times we have repeated the cycle, or how many more stretches of walking lie before us. A mist is before my eyes; I cannot see darkness or light, and only the voice of my companion leads me onward or stops me in my tracks. My body alternates between burning hot and shivering cold, and though I feel as if I am heavily burdened, I have the strangest floating sensation, as if I might simply rise into the sky and become one with the clouds. 

If there are clouds above, that is. All I see is a blur, and the ground immediately beneath my drooping nose. Green, it is, for the most part. Sometimes brown.

Sometimes I think the Voices whisper to me, or is it only a waking dream? 

The Voices whisper that the green is grass, and they urge me to graze when we are not walking but resting. My companion, too, tells me I must eat, and when we have stopped, I hear the sound of his teeth closing on grass, tearing and chomping... The green tickles my nose, but it holds no appeal.

What is grass? For the life of me, I cannot seem to remember. My world has contracted to a blur of green and sometimes-brown.

I thirst. My companion leads me to a shallow, gentle stream and bids me drink. The smell of water rises to my nostrils, and I stumble forward a step, and the waters rise to meet me. I drink – or try to. When we leave the water behind, I quickly forget the taste and sensation on my lips and tongue.

And so I find myself wondering, what is water? Is it even real, or is it but a dream?

Still we walk, for even in my muddled state, I know that lying myself down will be my ending.

Just when it seems I can go no farther, I feel the touch of a hobbit's hand. A voice speaks softly, encouragingly, Steady on, Bill. Foot by foot, my poor brave lad.

Sam? My Sam? Are you here with me, or are you a dream?

I raise my head, but blind and sick as I am, I can see nothing.

There's a good lad. Steady, my dear friend. We'll show them how it's done, won't we?

Youngest? Merry-cousin?

I'm afraid he's badly used up, Sam. Poor fellow. I wish I could carry him instead.

Is Master on my back? Is it his weight that is bearing me down to the ground? How strange that thought seems, for I do not remember him being a heavy burden when I carried him before.

My head droops, for it is too heavy, but then my Sam speaks again, and his words put the heart back in me. I'm right here, Bill. I won't leave you. Come along, pony. Come along...

He is walking just in front of me, I think, though I cannot see or smell him. And so I follow.

*** 

After an interminable time – have we walked for hours or days or a lifetime? Time has no meaning now – I am stopped again by the simple means of running into my companion. Not my Sam. Or Youngest. Or worried-Merry. They must have stepped aside when my companion halted, and so I have not run them over or trod on them.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

Here, the great horse says. The bank that rises on the other side of this stream is more of clay than it is of dirt.

I sigh again. I seem to remember that clay is slippery. I would not want to risk falling, not with Master on my back.

We will cross together, my companion says.

I nod weakly. With his help, I hope I will be able to keep to my feet.

Drink now, he adds, but I have forgotten how to drink.

We splash across the shallow stream – the icy water comes only to my knees – but he stops when we reach the opposite bank. I sense more than see that it is steep.

I do not think I can climb, I whisper.

Surprisingly, he answers, I do not want you to climb. I want you to roll.

It is enough to make me raise my head, to try and look at him through the surrounding blur. Roll?

He pushes at my hindquarters, and I swing them towards the steep bank that I can only dimly perceive. Does he mean for us to splash along the stream-bed until we can find a shallower bank to climb? But no, he did not speak of climbing but, rather, rolling upon the muddy bank.

Roll? I ask again, confused.

Dip your bad shoulder into the bank, lean in, let the cool mud cover your shoulder, he instructs.

I have never heard of such a thing. And I have a question I must ask before I even begin to try to obey my companion and the Voices, chiming in soft agreement. What of my rider?

There is a long pause while he considers. At last, he says quietly, Your rider understands and will stay out of your way while you coat the wound with clay.

Why? I ask. Then I wince away from my companion as he nuzzles my painful shoulder.

The wound is closed but not healed, he answers. Your shoulder is hot and swollen, and the swelling is spreading and worsening. You will find the clay cooling, even soothing.

I stand, thinking.

The great horse speaks again, using his most persuasive tone. Your rider does not like to see you in pain and would like to bring you relief.

No more have I liked to see any of my hobbits in pain – especially the Master after he was wounded.

At last I nod. 

The great horse moves out of my way. I am here with you, Greatheart. When you are ready to rise from the mud, I will do all I can to help you regain your feet.

My hobbits' soft voices mingle and blend with the Voices in my head. Steady on, Bill. You can do this, old fellow. Steady, now.

The Master does not protest as I lean towards the steep bank and ease myself down, to rest against the clay surface. Perhaps he has dismounted while my companion and I were talking? I cannot feel him on my back.

Even as I have felt the ground rise up to meet my hide, the floating sensation has returned. Perhaps the clay will help anchor me to the earth.

***