Chapter 34. We trudge through the snow to a known – or unknown – destination

We have met no one else on the Road for some time – I do not know how much time has passed, for I lost count of the days past the third... or was it the fourth? ...day of slogging our way through a winterscape worthy of that dreadful Mountain with the red horn (though I never saw the red horn for myself but only heard my fellow Travellers speak of it; also, our current path is much less steep, of course), huddling close together on the ground when pausing to rest, stopping at times to paw away the heavy, wet snow in order to graze upon the grass sleeping beneath the surface.

It is time to start again. I lift my head and shake off the light snow that fell whilst I was drowsing, then look around us, swivelling my ears to listen and flaring my nostrils to catch any unusual scents. But there is only the smell of snow, cold and sharp, prompting me to sneeze and shake my head with more vigour than before. The wind is still, bringing no news from afar or even fairly nearby. Heavy clouds hang sullen over our heads. It is as if the Sun herself has hidden her face since the grey wizard's death.

Will we ever see her light again, clear and bright and heartening?

Such thoughts are unproductive. Though I now have no Voices to scold me or jolly me into pleasanter thoughts, a knowing deep inside, kindled perhaps by the warmth of the brown one's touch, glows somehow stronger, strengthening my resolve and prompting me to toss my head high and draw a deep breath of the bracing air.

Fully awake and aware now, I reach over to my companion to administer a sharp nudge. Then at feeling him stir, I struggle to my feet. As I gain my balance and lift my head to survey our surroundings, I am immediately missing the warmth of his body, pressed close to mine as we lay on our bellies to be at the same level, more or less. 

I lower my head to touch my nose to his. Come along, sleepyhead!

With him resting upright on his belly and me standing before him, we are almost eye-to-eye when he lifts his head higher, reminding me of how our Big Men and the Wood Elf will kneel or sit themselves down so as not to tower over my hobbits when conversing.

I am not asleep, the great horse says, breaking into my moment of remembrance.

I toss my head and assume my cheekiest tone. O' course you are not, for you would hardly be talking if you were! Hobbits may talk in their sleep, but I've never heard of horses doing so!

My companion shakes his head at my nonsense, but there is a softness in his eyes that might be the hint of a smile breaking through his overall grim demeanour since his Rider's passing.

I am beginning to understand Youngest's almost-invariable cheer and often-ridiculous speeches and actions. From the scent of the hobbit, I can tell when he is as worried or frightened or exhausted – or a combination of uncomfortable feelings – as his cousins (and my Sam, though my hobbit is careful to maintain a pleasant, patient expression as from long practice). And yet, without my sense of smell, I would be hard put to discern the true feelings of this young hobbit, hidden away beneath his outer covering of liveliness and mischief.

For some reason, these thoughts remind me of the white wizard whose eyes are said to be as cold as the winter wind despite his ability to speak in a Voice that is as warm as summer. As if in response, a finger of icy wind playfully tugs at my mane, and then the air is still once more. In search of warmer fodder to chew upon, at least in my imaginings, I turn my thoughts to the grey one and the hidden lightnings he concealed under his shabby cloak. And then there is the brown wizard and the great Eagle he encloses within himself somehow.

Perhaps hobbits embody a similar magic that I am only now beginning to be able to recognise? They may present a surface appearance that hides what lies beneath from the casual observer – and, perhaps, even from themselves. Tall Hat's words come to mind – in particular, his describing hobbits as amazing creatures and saying that he could learn all that there is to know about their ways in a span of days and yet be surprised by something a hobbit might say or do after knowing him all his life.

The wave of grief that washes over me at the thought of the grey one is softer, somehow, than my previous sorrow. Whether its force is blunted by the passing of the days, or it is diminished in the light of our present circumstances and the need to press on, I cannot say.

And press on, we must. Since the brown one laid his hand upon my neck that final time, I have had the sense that time is ticking down to some particular event or conclusion. While I have rested and grazed as needed, for the journey is long and wearisome, I have remained keenly aware of the passing of time – even unusually so for one of my kind. There is no time to waste, as I have heard my hobbits say. Before that enlightening touch of the wizard's hand, the words had little meaning. But now...

And so I can feel the thought growing and strengthening deep within: It is time to move on.

Foot by foot by foot by foot, or so my companion is endeavouring to go, and I am doing my best to lighten his burden and smooth the path for him. In a manner of speaking only, for the snow that began falling on the day we said farewell to the brown wizard continued to fall until it came up to my knees.

Thankfully, the recent heavy snowfall stopped when it reached my knees, and only returns in the form of light dustings of additional snow at times, unlike our experience on the side of the Cruel Mountain where the drifting snow reached my hocks and then kept mounting higher. Knee-high snow is difficult enough to force one's way through, even if one's taller companion should take it upon himself to walk ahead and forge a path of sorts. I am glad for the great horse's continued strength of body despite the weakness of his spirit.

...not that I am calling him weak by any measure. It is simply that, had he not been tasked by two wizards with seeing me safely home (where ever it is that "home" may be found, eventually), I suspect he would lie himself down and let go of his life. His hold on life is more grudging than strong, or so I seem to perceive, but it is grimly tenacious for all that.

For my part, I contribute to his survival by allowing him to lead, by easing myself down beside him when he declares a rest period, by pressing my shaggy side into his with a grateful shiver for his warmth. By waiting patiently, letting my head droop, whilst he paws away enough snow from the grass for us both to graze. By following in his footsteps through the heavy snows with little more than an occasional snort for the diversion of watching my breath fly on the air in a plume of steam as if I were some sort of pony-sized dragon.

It occurs to me that no one beholding my ever-more-shaggy surface and increasingly gaunt and ramshackle outer appearance would suspect the inner glow and strength within that seldom comes to mind and yet is there, deep inside me, ready to draw upon at need. For after my travels, I am no longer only a pony, though I suspect I might find it difficult to put into words exactly what I am.

I have grown, though not in stature. I remain a pony to all appearances, with a pony's size and measure of strength, along with a pony's characteristic weaknesses. (For example, were we to encounter an orchard with trees full of green apples along our way, despite my newly acquired wisdom, I am not sure I would be able to resist the temptation to eat myself sick. Luckily, it is the wrong time of year for unripe apples.) Yet some days, especially lately, I have felt inside as if... as if I were as massive as the great horse who walks with me on the road to my destiny.

...as tall? ...as solid? ...as grounded, perhaps. 

As I had thought, the proper words are elusive. And will no doubt remain so.

I blow out a long breath. We must take our blessings where we find them. Pondering the proper words to fit with what I am feeling will help the miles to pass, at least, whether or not I am able to conjure the right words in the end.  

And so we move on.

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