Chapter 36. We find a resting place amidst the snows

Night has fallen, and we are still plodding along, head-down in the face of the strong and unrelenting wind, treading the way less travelled – for the only impressions I can see in the snow ahead of me belong to the great horse, still walking ahead to forge a way of sorts for his shorter companion, meaning myself, of course. As we have travelled through the deep snows – deep for the Breeland, that is, at least from my experience – I have often been reminded of the two Big Men in the Company, ploughing/swimming their way down the Cruel mountain to make a path for the rest of the Fellowship. If only I were walking behind the Other Big Man (the one with the shield) now, with my dear Sam on his shoulders! I wouldn't even mind the grumbling Dwarf perched among my baggage...

The lack of footprints laid down since this snow fell may be a positive sign, considering the type of Men we so recently encountered travelling the North-South Road we are treading. But then I think of the horse my Friend the brown wizard rescued from those Men, who belonged to other Men in another travelling party.

My Friend would hardly return Copper to his previous owner if the Man were to be the wrong sort of Man, would he? I shake my head at the thought, and my mane flies up, allowing the icy fingers of the wind to tickle the sheltered spot on my neck that my mane usually covers.

(Deep down inside myself, worry stirs once more. Will my old misery try to claim me if this branch of the Road takes us through Bree on the way to that marvellous Valley where I hope to find my hobbits again? I shake my neck even more vigorously to dispel such a dismaying thought.)

My companion, with his keen hearing, stops and turns his head. And so I must stop as well if I am to avoid running into his hindquarters. I know he would not kick me, but such a collision would be a nuisance all the same. 

Are you tiring? he asks. Shall we rest?

Walking is warmer than resting, I reply.

I can see a small copse ahead, the great horse says.

I – being much shorter – cannot, even when I lift my head as high as I can, but I do not say anything about that. Though we equines might play tricks on two-legged folk, such as sucking in air when being saddled to make for a loose girth when the buckling is finished, we are overall honest creatures. Thus I can trust his word.

The trees will provide some shelter from the biting teeth of the wind, he continues.

Such hospitality would be welcome, I answer. No doubt the Wood Elf, were he with us, would thank the trees for their courtesy before moving on again.

We walk... and walk... and walk... and at last, dark against the winter night sky with its strangely luminous clouds, I see a darker bulk steadily rising ahead of my companion, outlining his otherwise invisible form.

A copse it is – not large enough to be called a Wood, I should think. But few as they may be, the trees growing to either side of the Road will make for a shelter of sorts.

At last, we reach the trees. The great horse tells me to stand in place between two of the trees, just off the Road, while he goes on. Above me the treetops writhe and sway, sometimes groaning at the effort it takes them to stand firm against the wintry blast.

After some time, I hear him coming – soft footfalls on crunching, icy snow – coming from behind me.

At last, he reaches my resting place, turns, and leaps! ...from the beaten path, gleaming under the glow of the Moon through the clouds, and into the deeper shade between the trees. He lowers his head and rocks his nose back and forth a few times. I am not sure of his purpose until he lifts his head again and blows, twin streams of steam issuing from his nostrils. He has used his face and muzzle like a shovel of sorts to push the snow, concealing the path I left in moving aside with a low wall of snow.

There, he says. If someone should be following our trail through the darkness, they will not find us but will walk in a large circle.

Do you think...? I say.

He shakes his head at me. I can smell woodsmoke, he says. More than a mere traveller's fire, and more than that from a small holding, even if there were some Man bold enough to farm the land in this lonely place.

Could it be Bree? I say, raising my head higher to sample the air. Is that a tinge of woodsmoke? The great horse's senses are keen, indeed.

The quantity of smoke suggests that many households lie ahead of us, my companion nods. The wind is from the North. We have, perhaps, a day of travel ahead of us to reach Bree, if I am not out of my reckoning. Two days, at most.

I lower my head and push at the snow as if I might push away the worry that stirs in me yet again. We are not stopping at Bree? I say. I mean it more as a statement than a question, but I cannot help the uncertainty that colours the thought.

The Road goes through the town, but we need not do so, my companion says, lowering his muzzle to mine and administering a gentle nudge of reassurance. When I told him something of my old life, he was so incensed that he stomped a front hoof and vowed to trample my old misery underfoot should we ever come across the Man in our travels. I would not kill him! he added in answer to my dismay. Killing's too good for the likes of him! No, but I'd give him something to remember us by...

I am not sure how the Rangers would deal with a horse that attacked a Man... I would not want my noble companion to suffer any harm from the consequences of teaching my old misery a badly-needed lesson. You needn't trouble yourself, I told him. If he should happen to cross our paths, I'll let fly with my heels and deal him a blow he won't soon forget!

...but the great horse is talking, and I have missed some of what he has to say. Beg pardon? I ask politely.

You have my pardon, and no need to beg for it, he answers good-humouredly. All I was saying was that it would be good to shelter here from the wind this night. From the smell of the air, the wind will drop with the coming of the dawn, making travel much pleasanter than it has been since we left our last resting place.

The trees do offer a wind-break of sorts, I agree, moving closer to him, that we might share our warmth as best we can. He folds his legs and lowers himself to the ground. The snow here under the trees is not as deep, and the heat of his body has soon melted away much of the frozen stuff beneath us. I ease myself down and lean against him, and he rests his head on my withers, providing a bit of extra warmth.

There, he says with the softest of snorts. All cosy. His choice of words sounds almost hobbity to me. Better to rest in the shelter the trees provide than out on the open plain with the wind sweeping o'er us.

If this is shelter, then one wall and no roof make a house! I can hear my Sam's mutter in the depths of my mind, and out of old habit, I swivel my ears to hear him better. But of course, he is here with me only in memory.

Soon, my dear friend, I think at him, or at my memory of him, or at my imagination of where he might be at this moment.

And in this moment, I feel as if I can almost hear my hobbit's voice. Coming, sir! Coming Mr. Frodo! ...just as he always responds when the Master calls to him.

In answer, I think at him, or at my memory of him, or at my imagination of where he might be at this moment, I am coming to you, my Sam, my own! I am coming!

In my imagining, my Sam's eyes are filled with tears, but his smile shines as bright as the face of the Moon breaking through the clouds above us.

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