Chapter 23. Getting back on my feet

I do not know how I regain my feet though I suspect my companion has something to do with it, along with my hobbits who, from the sound of their voices, are pressing close to me. They seem unafraid of my companion's hoofs – large enough to crush a hobbit's foot, should the horse's hoof come down squarely on that appendage.

I can only hope my large companion is watching where he is walking, as well as walking where he is watching. A crushing injury would not do at all when there are still so many miles to go.

Somewhere in the depths of my memories, Youngest cries out, I've been crushed to crumbs!

His voice is rather muffled. Why? And then it comes back to me: weary, near the end of a long night's march, my Sam stumbles. In his effort to remain on his feet, he takes a few running steps while scrambling to regain his balance, and he throws up his hands to catch himself – but his pack is too heavy. And so he careens into Youngest, walking just in front of us, and they both go down with an Oof!

I stop in my tracks, of course. In no time, Master and alarmed-Merry are crouching to either side of the heap of fallen hobbits. My Sam tries to push himself up, but (as I have mentioned) his pack is too heavy. In the end, the older cousins, working together, lift him to his feet. Master steadies my Sam even as the not-Merry hobbit drops to his knees beside Youngest.

Pip? Do you hear me? implores not-at-all-Merry.

Breathless, my Samwise is apologising, while Master quickly checks him for any injury he might have sustained.

I'm well! my Samwise protests. ...but poor Mr Pippin! What have I done to him?!

Just knocked the breath out of him, somewhat-more-Merry answers, and having taken Youngest's arm, he helps the smallest of my hobbits to his feet.

I beg to differ! Youngest disagrees. I feel as if I've been crushed to crumbs!

By now, our other companions have gathered around us.

Crushed to crumbs or no, Youngest manages a wondrous recovery when the wizard announces that we'll make camp early this night since first light will be appearing in another hour or so.

And when twilight settles over the land after a day of resting and sleeping, the youngster announces in answer to the Other Big Man's query, I feel a whole new hobbit!

Almost the entire Company laughs to hear him (the Dwarf merely grumbles, but it is a strangely cheerful sound). When we set out, as Youngest steps off ahead of us without even a limp (my Sam is still limping, just a bit, though he tries to hide it from the rest of us), it appears that hobbits are able to recover quickly after being crushed to crumbs.

However, I deem a horse stepping upon the foot of one or another of my hobbits could be all too likely to inflict serious damage. Such a crushing injury would not do at all – at least not until after we have accomplished what we set out to do. And even then, to my mind, injuries, whether large or small, are best avoided altogether. But it would definitely be best for my hobbits to remain well and strong until they reach the end of their endeavours. Whatever that might mean.

Indeed... what would that be? Truly, I still have no idea, even after all the leagues we have travelled together. 

Perhaps my hobbits will tell me their tales once we've come home. Where ever "home" may be. It cannot be my old misery's run-down shed... can it? For I distinctly remember coins changing hands before I was led to the stables behind The Prancing Pony. At the time, I thought it an eminently suitable name for my new home. I certainly felt as if I could prance, even as worn-out and overworked and starved as I was, for I knew that I had a new master. Though I did not know anything about my new master, I could only hope that he would be a better one than my old misery...

For if he should turn out to be worse, I could not imagine going on. No, but I would pull, while buckled in my traces, so long as any strength remained to me, for that is the way of my kind. And then, at the last, when my strength failed, I would settle quietly to the ground and welcome its embrace. I once saw such a thing when I was tied up outside of The Prancing Pony in Bree and the twilight was beginning to fall, and a starved, ill-used carthorse collapsed in the main street not far from where I stood, too weak even to pull the empty cart that burdened him.

A crowd gathered as the carter beat that poor dying creature, trying to force it to stand up again. 

A rock flew and struck the cruel Man, and he turned and snarled at the Men and Hobbits mingled there, Who threw that? I'll teach you...!

But more Men and Hobbits were even then issuing from The Pony, and one of them bellowed, Get out! You're not welcome here!

What business is it of yours, Barliman? the carter shouted, advancing on the stout, red-faced Man who had emerged from the inn, leading the others who'd come out with him.

Then a tall, dark figure in a heavy, dark-green cloak and mud-stained boots thrust his way to the fore, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes flashing. He was not the Ranger who ended up travelling with our Company, but another, though from what I remember, he was like enough to be a kinsman of Our Big Man. 

You heard him, he said grimly. Your services are not welcome here, Vervain, so go... to Archet, or Combe, or Staddle – if they'll have you. 

The carter grabbed at his poor beast's bridle and dragged the head up on the thin, limp neck, but the Ranger sprang forward and grasped his wrist in an iron grip that made the carter cry out and release his hold. Leave the horse!

He's mine! the carter whined, cringing away from the menace in the Ranger's eyes.

Not anymore, the latter said, releasing the carter's wrist as if it were refuse in his grasp.

Get out of here! the stout Man said again, starting forward, and echoed by others in the crowd.

The Ranger stood straight and glared at the carter. Go while you still can. Before someone or another thinks to take your own whip to you! 

And the cringing Man stumbled away, hurried along by the jeers of the crowd.

The Ranger bent once more to the fallen horse, softly stroking the gaunt neck and murmuring words I did not know. 

The stout Man advanced – rather cautiously, as it seemed to me, and said, I – we can take him in... bathe his wounds... feed him up...

But the Ranger shook his head. No need, he said quietly, his fingers never leaving off their soothing caresses. He recommenced his murmuring, and as we all watched – Men, Hobbits, a passing dog, and another pony tied up beside me – we saw the poor beast tremble and then become still, freed of all burdens and beyond the power of whip and shout.

The Ranger patted the horse's neck, a strangely gentle gesture, stood to his feet, and drew his hood over his head, once more a tall, grim figure. His eyes glinted from within the hood as he met the stout Man's gaze and said, See to it that he's decently buried.

Even as the stout Man stammered his assent, the Ranger settled his cloak on his shoulders and turned away. I looked towards the stout Man, who was issuing orders to several other Men and some Hobbits standing about him, and when I looked back to the fallen horse, the tall, dark Man was gone...

Happily for me, as things turned out, my new situation was so much better than I could ever have imagined. Indeed, I am blessed, at least as I understand the term from hearing my Sam exclaim to the Master – and more than once, Lor bless me, sir!

I especially remember one of the times my Sam said as much. For Master responded with laughter and a slap for my Sam's shoulder, and he said, Bless you, Samwise! Indeed, you are blessed... and you are such a blessing to me! I am so glad that old Gandalf thought to send you along with me! I honestly don't know what I'd do without you...

And – speaking of prancing – my Sam capered in joy and threw his hat (which to my eye looked more like a tall shapeless bag) in the air at hearing such praise from the Master, and the younger cousins laughed and clapped their hands and shouted, Hear! Hear!

I no longer remember the reason for the praise, but the joy rings clear through my heart and my memory.

Will The Prancing Pony be our home when all is finished? I wonder. Or perhaps the marvellous Valley where the old pet waits and Merrylegs grazes under the smiling Sun?

The muddy clay is indeed cooling; that much I can perceive. The throbbing mass of pain that had spread from my shoulder to encompass my entire being now seems to be subsiding. At least a little.

I snort a long, slow sigh of relief.

Better? my companion asks.

Much, I respond. I feel a whole new pony. It is not strictly true, but I find the words as heartening as when Youngest spoke something very similar some time ago.

Walk on?

Let us do so, my friend, I answer.

I hear him say something under his breath, something like "great of heart", but I am rather occupied with pushing my bad foreleg forward, easing my weight upon it, and taking a hobbling step with the other foreleg as my hindquarters follow along.

Though I would not have thought it possible, once I had laid myself down upon the muddy clay, I am on my feet, though I do not remember how I – or we? – managed it. Perhaps my hobbits helped the great horse lift me to my feet, even as the two older cousins raised up my Sam again after he had fallen. 

My vision remains blurred, and I cannot see them surrounding me. But their voices sound in my ears and within my heart, urging me onwards.

***