Chapter 44. Many meetings

The air is different here, still (unmoving, that is) and... warm? Relatively warm compared to the winter landscape, warmer than I might attribute to a lack of wind. We have entered a place of shelter of some sort. I twitch my ears and swivel them all around – the sound in this place is different, as well. Instead of tree branches creaking in a rising wind, I hear a steady trickle of water – a stream? a waterfall? – and the rise and fall of murmuring voices and, curiously enough, a quiet clopping sound, as my kind makes when walking on a stony path.

We stop, and suddenly I realise I can see as the darkness of the blindfold gives way to familiar-yet-unfamiliar darkness. My mind fills with a series of memory-pictures: the walls of my broken-down shed in the dark of night, the shadowy yet much-more-comfortable-feeling stable belonging to the innkeeper who counted coins into my old misery's hand and then took my rope and led me into my new life, the dark-on-dark shadows of Fear that stared down at us from the lip of the grassy dell, and a glimpse of the evil-smelling dark behind the door to the troll-hole. The bright sparks shining overhead like stars in the dimness of the Elves' stable at night when no daylight was streaming in through the wide windows. The ever-changing darkness as the Company walked through the night hours, and the blackness beyond the steep staircase where I was left behind...

Yes, I decide. There is an element of the latter here. I deem that we are in a large cavern, rather like the dark behind the Doors of Moria, or the troll-hole as I remember it but without the evil smell. Lanterns hang from metal hooks driven into the stone walls, and braziers radiate heat but little smoke to speak of.

One side of the cavern is fenced off like a pasture – a grassless one, but I can see racks fastened to the far wall and well-filled with hay. The sound of hoofs just now came from a few horses who were likely grazing at the hayracks when we entered but are now crowded together along the fence, following the curiosity of our kind, to survey us and take our measure. They are strangely silent; no whinnies ring out as one might hear when arriving at the regular type of stable. One that is not underground, I mean. Not a whicker or snort is to be heard.

The rest of the space is filled with many Rangers! ...easily more than the number of our recent Company and, thus, many more than I can count! Some leave off their tasks and gather around us while our Ranger-guide and the recent newcomer remove the coverings from our feet. I hear murmurings of Shadowfax and Mithrandir and Bree-pony but little else.

'Yes, we encountered the Bree-pony travelling with the horse,' our Ranger-guide says in answer to one question. 'And no, the horse brings no obvious message from the grey wizard. Unless the pony is a message of some sort!'

Ignoring the soft chuckle from our greeters, my companion mutters to me, He's a sharp one! He has hit closer to the mark than I would have given him credit for...

Another Ranger approaches, bearing two steaming buckets. Not water meant to satisfy our thirst, I decide, though he sets one bucket by me and the other by my companion. One of our greeters steps forward, bows to the lord of horses, and then kneels to undo the bandage on my companion's foreleg. Our Ranger-guide kneels beside him, and quiet words pass from one to the other.

The newcomer, no longer wearing cloak or hood and revealing dark, roughly-shorn hair that is liberally sprinkled with silver, is shorter and slighter than the Rangers looming around us and smells somehow different. Gloveless, the hands are finer as well... Their touch is as firm as any Man's, from the feel of the hand rubbing under my jaw... but... there is a difference I cannot quite put my nose on.

A low laugh ripples in the space between us. I am no Man, the newcomer confirms.

You can speak! I say in surprise, tossing my head high. 

The Ranger smiles. It is common among my People to understand the languages of beasts and birds. 

At the sudden thought that strikes me, I bow my head respectfully, asking, Are you Elf, then, great one?

I am neither Elf nor one of the Wise, comes the answer.

What are you, then? I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.

I am one of the Dúnedain, the newcomer murmurs while removing the rope from my neck, though I was fostered for a time in the household of the Lord Elrond in my youth, after our settlement had been discovered and overrun. The Peredhil came later with a message for my father; they gathered the few survivors – mostly small children, whom our mothers had hidden before taking up arms to meet the attack – and carried us to safety.

Free of the confining rope, I duck my head. I – I beg your pardon, I say, at a loss for any other words.

The answer I receive is matter-of-fact; at the same time, gentle fingers begin to probe my sore shoulder. You have it, with my blessing... but there was no need to ask for it! The past is what it is; and these days, the most prudent course calls for paying close attention to all that is happening in the present moment in order to survive to see another day. The newcomer's laughter chimes again, reminding me of... 

And then I have it. This is no Man, indeed, but a woman, though she is dressed in the same way as any of the other Rangers I have seen. Which, up to this point, has admittedly not been all that many.

I suppose there would have to be woman Rangers in order to have young Rangers, though I never really pondered the matter all that deeply before now.

After she finishes washing my injury with warm but sharply-scented water and a cloth, and returns to stroke my face, I bow to her. My lady.

None of that, now! she says sternly. I am Lossiel, and if you find that difficult to remember, then call me 'Snow'. 

Another Ranger-clad figure, this one obviously a youth, brings a small pot of salve to the one who calls herself Snow. She moves again to address my shoulder. I crane my neck around to watch her as she works; she dips her fingers into the pot and applies the glistening salve to my shoulder. Then she takes a step back to survey the results of her work, and voices her satisfaction. That will do.

Looking up to meet my curious gaze, she adds, No stitches needed, and we have washed the wound well. The salve will help you keep it clean as you go on your way, Master...

Before I can inform her that I am known as Bill, the great horse swings his head over to us and says flatly, Greatheart.

Master Greatheart, my helper says, eyebrow lifted.

I am Bill, a pony, I contradict.

My helper smiles. I will call you Bill then, by your leave.

I nod.

At the same time, our Ranger-guide stands to his feet and speaks to my companion. 'We have thoroughly cleansed your wounds. Some of your attacker's teeth sank deep into the flesh, and so I would counsel you to remain here with us for a day or two to allow the athelas to do its work.'

If Ranger-folk, in general, understand the languages of birds and beasts, then why does he continue to address the great horse with spoken words?

I can only conclude that he talks in this way as a token of respect, acknowledging that the king of the Mearas can understand the speech of Men.

My thoughts are interrupted by a bustle behind us where a corridor of sorts leads from the cavern – to a hidden entrance, I would imagine.

It is one of the Rangers who escorted us here. He moves directly towards us, stopping before my companion, and I wonder if he has news for the great horse.

But no. He addresses our Ranger-guide. 'Halbarad!' He sounds out of breath to me, for whatever reason. Without his hood, I can see his face clearly – young-looking, his shaggy hair as of yet untouched by frost, but not youthful. His visage is pale and stern, and a light burns in his keen, grey eyes. 'The Peredhil have come, bringing an urgent message from the Lord Elrond!'

Our Ranger-guide pauses only long enough to say to my helper, 'Stable them with the others if the Lord of Horses will allow... Now that their wounds have been properly treated, I feel easier about releasing them to resume their journey. Even so, feed them well – the pony would benefit from a warm bran mash, to my mind, and a little grain – but not too much! It would be ill done if we should founder him.'

For the first time since reaching this place, he speaks in our own tongue to my companion and me. Rest, eat, drink... When I return, we will lead you back to the Road by a safe path and send you on your way.

The great horse nods in acknowledgement. This will I allow.

Our Ranger-guide bows gracefully to my companion... and in less time than it would take one of my hobbits to tell the tale, he is gone.

***