Chapter 37. Wolves, again!

I jerk awake at the sound of a distant howl, only belatedly realising that I had fallen asleep here in the temporary shelter of our little copse. Such was the turmoil of my thoughts as I settled down to rest that I thought sleep would never come, not even the brief period of slumber that is common to equines, despite my faithful companion's assurances that he would keep watch through the dark hours.

It is still dark; thus, any sleep I might have enjoyed was brief at best, or so I deem. I lift my head high on my neck, swivel my ears in all directions, and draw a slow, deep breath to sample whatever smells the air might bring.

The wind has dropped, as the great horse said it would. Even the tinge of woodsmoke, blown by the North Wind southwards from our destination, or so we surmised earlier, has grown elusive. Nor do I smell wolves on the wind, now a small and teasing breeze rather than the near-gale that so recently assaulted us as we trudged, heads lowered, northwards through the crusted snows. But I tense and shiver at the sound of another howl.

They are not close, my companion says. His voice comes from higher above me – still lying down, for I can feel his warmth against my shaggy side, but he has raised his head to scan our surroundings.

They? I question.

I have heard more than one voice while you were sleeping.

I slept through the howls of a herd of hunting wolves?

A pack, rather than a herd, would be the proper term.

Words, I say disgustedly. Herd, or pack – in any event, a group of them. In the back of my mind, I can hear Youngest peppering his older cousins, especially the Master, with questions and often comical observations, no doubt to distract their minds from the discomforts of marching through the darkness fuelled by scanty rations at best.

From the tone of their voices, he is lightening their spirits as well, even as he is musing aloud, So you call a group of cats "a clowder". A clowder of cats, he says, gesturing as if he is counting on his fingers. An exaltation of larks – I rather like that one! But... A murder of crows! I don't think I like the sound of that!

It fits strangely well with the crebain we have been dodging, wouldn't you say, Pip? the middle cousin says, sounding merrier than he did an hour or so ago.

I suppose, Youngest says slowly and after a thoughtful pause. It does make me shiver...

I should have thought such a chill was the result of the wind blowing down from the snowy mountain ahead of us and slapping our faces, Master says mildly. I toss my head uneasily and roll my eye at him. The growing light that foretells the dawn appears to be painting his cheeks crimson. I should have thought they were reddened by the cold of the wind... but slapping? I shake my head to clear it, but understanding how the Mountain could slap someone from such a distance eludes me. And mountains do not have hands to slap with – or do they?

Steady, Bill, my Sam says, and he pats my neck. We'll be stopping soon enough. There's a stand of fir trees just up the Road... He sounds so hobbity with his just up the Road, resembling the pleasant chatter I remember from passing hobbits on the main street of Bree or on the way to the Chetwood. I rub my head against his arm to express my appreciation – which has the added benefit of making my dear hobbit chuckle, a sound that I will never tire of hearing.

When we stop, Youngest has the duty of leading me from one grazing spot to another, whilst my Sam prepares a meal of sorts for everyone, the Big Men set up makeshift shelters (more hiding places than shelters, to confound any crebain that might fly over us) using fir branches, and Master and the somewhat-Merry hobbit lay out the hobbits' bedrolls. Meanwhile, Tall Hat has gone off somewhere, and the Wood Elf and Dwarf bracket the camp between them as they keep watch over us and our surroundings.

When supper-breakfast is ready, Youngest ties me to a tree. Though my companions have removed my baggage and disguised the pile under a covering of fir branches, I am still wearing my harness, and the Big Men have fastened more branches to me such that I resemble a walking tree more than the pony that I am. 

After eating, my hobbits go to their rest. Crowd yourselves together, Our Big Man tells them. The wind will feel all the colder when you're not moving. 

Suddenly Youngest laughs, though he has learnt by now to keep his voice low, even when singing or laughing. (To my way of thinking, it is a sad lesson for a merry tween to have to learn. But there is naught for it, as Our Big Man has said, and more than once, which means the lesson must be learnt and applied in the circumstances wherein we find ourselves.)

What is it, Pip? Master says, moving closer to tuck his blanket around himself and the youngest cousin.

A huddle of hobbits! Youngest answers, and laughs again, though this laugh is further muffled by the blankets Master has secured around him. A flock of chickens... a string of ponies... a clowder of cats... a huddle... His voice trails off as sleep claims him.

The now-Merry hobbit's barely audible snort and Master's chuckle are music to my ears, as is the sound of my Sam's gentle breathing. My poor hobbit, worn out from the long hike with a pack that is too heavy, in my estimation, was the first to fall asleep. But then, he will also be the first of my hobbits to waken and get up to take his turn at watching over the Company.

I feel myself dozing beneath my blanket of fir boughs, but at the distant howl of a wolf, I jerk awake...

...and realise that I have been dreaming again, companied only by a mighty horse as I drowse in the shelter of a small copse in the North-lands. 

The town of Bree is our immediate destination, and not the Cruel mountain. And – or so I am hoping – though my hobbits are not nearby at this present time (except, perhaps, in dreams), the distance between us will be growing ever smaller as the great horse and I continue our travels.

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Author's note: As Barliman Butterbur told the returning Travellers in the chapter 'Homeward Bound' in The Fellowship of the Ring, 'wolves were howling round the fences' during the time Bill was making his way back to Bree.

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