Chapter 43. We follow the Rangers to their resting place

Though we walk alone, the strangely-familiar Ranger leading and I and the great horse following him, I am aware of others on either side of us, all making their swift secret way to some appointed place. How many others, I do not know; and yet, I have no fear of orcs (what ever they may be, for they remain but shadowy figures that, half-glimpsed amongst the tree branches, made my blood run cold only a little while ago) or other enemies. To my senses, the unseen walkers feel clean somehow, despite the occasional whiff of unwashed body that teases my nostrils, brought momentarily by the fickle breeze.

We turn aside from the deer-track we had been following for the last little while, leading us deep into the Wood and gradually rising in wending its way away from the Road and the town of Bree. The trees grow thickly here, as does the underbrush, hiding our immediate surroundings. Glancing behind me, I think I can glimpse the silhouette of a Ranger, standing as a sentry at the point where we left the deer-track. The Mannish shadow fades, becoming one with the trees as we move away. Not far off the path, the land begins to fall more steeply. 

Our guiding Ranger calls softly, and the second and third Rangers step out from the shadows, along with a fourth that smells subtly different from the others. He is also somewhat slighter, and I wonder if he is a youth? The possibility of young Rangers, even Ranger children, grows more believable in my mind at the thought.

My attention is drawn back to our guide as he turns and bows before the great horse. 'Here, alas, I fear I must do you a discourtesy,' he says. 'I can only hope that you will pardon what may seem to you an egregious presumption on our part.'

At his warning, our ears go back as a matter of course; but at his mention of pardon, they come forward again as if of their own volition. I nod to the Man to indicate (in case he does not understand the speech of ponies and horses), I am listening.

'I deem that we must bind cloths about your hoofs, for though you walk softly indeed for hoofed beings, it is still possible to strike a foot sharply against a stone hidden in the dirt, conveying your presence to any listening enemies that might be seeking the path we now tread. Our own horses are used to the practice and find such precautions only a small inconvenience. So by your leave...'

My companion renders his own nod of acquiescence, and the fourth Ranger steps forward, unshouldering the pack he wears, and swiftly kneels before the great horse. 'By your leave, my lord.'

The lord of horses politely lifts his near forefoot and holds it aloft at a convenient height for the kneeling figure. The newcomer quickly swaths the hoof in muffling cloth and ties a secure knot while my companion and I observe closely.

At the Ranger's nod, my companion lowers his foot to the ground and lifts the other. But the newcomer draws back, then leans closer to inspect the dark-stained cloth that enrobes my companion's lower leg. 'Here is injury,' he murmurs. Then he looks up – my companion's nostrils nearly brush the hood he wears – and says, 'I will be as gentle as possible, my lord.' He proceeds to muffle that hoof quickly and efficiently and – if I am correct in my observation – gently indeed.

The great horse lifts his bowed head out of the way as the newcomer rises to his feet. Once again, the Ranger says, 'By your leave, my lord...?' and waits for the great head to nod before placing a careful palm on my companion's neck, much as our guide did earlier. The foot-binder then walks along my companion's length, sliding his hand along the silvery hide towards the horse's hindquarters.

My companion follows the Ranger's progress with his closest ear (as well as from the feel of the fellow's palm on his skin, I'm sure) and lifts his hind foot at the proper time, ready to receive its silencing cloth covering which is swiftly administered. With equal care, the newcomer moves to the final hoof and completes the process, and then it is my turn.

Though I am but a Halfling by comparison to the great horse, I receive equal courtesy and consideration – which makes me wonder. Are these Rangers always so respectful of my kind?

But then, when all our feet are cloth-clad and the newcomer has moved to stand before us once more, our guide speaks again. 'And now,' he says, 'I must ask... will you suffer yourselves to be blindfolded and led to our fastness in the Wood? For though our own horses know the way, you are strangers to us.'

I half-expect my companion to throw up his head and object, but the great horse, instead, lowers his face to the newcomer's level and suffers the tying of another cloth, drawn from the newcomer's pack, over his eyes. Then the Ranger, murmuring softly, draws the loop of a rope over his neck and hands the end of the rope to our guide, who addresses the great horse in a low tone. 'I will lead you myself, my lord Shadowfax, so that you neither stumble nor falter.'

My companion issues a brief, quiet snort, but that is all.

When the newcomer comes before me, and we stand eye-to-eye, I raise my head and pin my ears back in warning. But then the newcomer murmurs, 'By your leave, my lord pony.'

My ears come forward without my conscious thought at the courtesy. The newcomer holds out a gloved hand to me – no crunchy sweetness resides within, unfortunately – and shortly after, I feel a feather-touch on my neck, pleasant but almost tickling as it slips slowly downwards... I lift my near foot in readiness.

When I put it down again, the ground feels alien. I can find no similar memory – not even moss was this soft underfoot when I have walked upon it. I toss my head uneasily, and the newcomer pauses until I am still once more. Then, again, 'By your leave, my lord?'

Soon enough, I stand upon clouds, with none of my feet touching the ground. Or so it feels to me.

The blindfold, once it is in place, brings with it a dim memory – my Elven guide, leading me safely across a fearsome, narrow bridge over a rushing stream in that marvellous Valley where, if all is well, Merrylegs grazes and my own hobbit awaits me. With my eyes covered, I have no other choice but to trust to a leading hand.

I recognise the newcomer's voice, speaking close to my ear, echoing our Ranger-guide's earlier words to the great horse. 'I will guide you myself, my lord pony, that you will neither stumble nor falter.'

And so it seems I must follow the gentle tug of the rope I did not see but can now feel. The loop, resting just behind my ears, tightens very slightly, and I take a tentative step forward.

I cannot feel the ground beneath my feet.

But a gentle voice coaxes and encourages, and I take another step. I cannot hear my own footfalls, much less any sound from my hoofed (though muffled) companion or the soft-booted Rangers who accompany us.

And then, instead of the pull of the rope, I feel a hand come to rest behind my ears, much as one of my hobbits will walk with me as we make our way through the darkness.

I step out with more confidence, and I am on my way. 

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Author's note: Some ideas and turns of phrase were inspired or drawn from 'The Window on the West' in The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien. (And yes, the parallels between Faramir and Frodo and Sam, and Halbarad and Shadowfax and Bill, are deliberately drawn.)

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