Chapter 49. We finally enter the safety of Bree

Our steady trot brings us through the wooded stretch of Road, around the base of the Bree-hill and up to the Dike and the south-eastern Gateway-crossing well before the Sun has slipped halfway to her rest. I am relieved to think that my Ranger-guide and his horse will pass through the woods in daylight on their way back to their fellow travellers. 

To my surprise, the Gate that pierces the high Hedge is firmly shut. In broad daylight!

I toss my head up and scrutinise the sky. Yes, the Sun is still playing her game of I-hide-and-you-seek-me, peeping from rifts in the heavy clouds that hang over our heads. But if my memory serves me correctly – and I lived too long in the town of Bree under the so-called "care" of my old misery to think I am remembering wrongly – all the gates ought to be open at this time of the day, not to be shut and barred, not before the sunset bells ring, at least. But this Gate that stands before us is shut now, and much earlier than usual.

Perhaps we'll need to go around to another Gate? I query my escort.

The Ranger's horse snorts and shakes his head, while at the same time, his Rider answers. You'll find all the Bree-Gates shut no matter the time of day, these days. Night and day, one must ring the entry-bell and call to the gatekeeper, and if he judges it safe to open the Gate to let you through, only then will he remove the bar and open the way.

I shake my head in wonder. Well I never!

My Ranger-guide dismounts and ruffles my mane with his fingers. There are robbers, and worse, in the Chetwood and surrounding lands these days – and their numbers are growing such that there are now too many for a mere remnant of Watchers to keep under control, it pains me to confess. Wolves have been howling round the fences by day and by night since the snows began to mount up, and those who must go out from the safety of Hedge and Dike go armed, and they travel in numbers. Even those who live within the safety of the barriers bar their doors these days.

His horse turns its head and pushes at my shoulder. Not only all that, but my Rider says that you saw for yourself the dark shapes in the Wood...

I shudder. Dreadful things, I confirm. It seems the Bree-folk have good reason to bar the Gates these days.

My Ranger-guide pats my neck in a comforting way, then steps forward and rings the entry-bell. I do not remember any small bell hung beside any of the Gates before. But then, the Gate was always open during the day when my old misery and I passed in or out of the town. Perhaps the bell came later, after the Bree-folk decided to shut the Gates and keep them shut.

A small window opens in the Gate, and I startle, never having seen such a thing before. But then, I have never before encountered the Gate when it was shut. Live and learn, as one or another of my hobbits is fond of saying whenever Youngest has erred. I remember Master telling Youngest, and more than once, that a mistake is only shameful if we fail to learn a lesson from making it. And so I learn a lesson, and quickly, and stand four-square once more, one ear pricked forward to present myself to the narrowed eye as a friendly sort, while the other ear swivels to survey our surroundings. Wolves! Imagine it! Wolves prowling around the fences in daylight as well as darkness!

The eye framed in the square gap is that of a Man, I determine, and so the unexpected opening is not so fearsome as I first thought.

The gatekeeper addresses my Ranger-guide rather sourly, his voice muffled by the heavy wood. 'Ah! So it's you!'

My guide returns a mild reply. 'It is I.'

'State your name and your business,' the gatekeeper says.

My guide cocks a sceptical eye at the eye in the opening. 'You already know my name,' he answers. 'And my business, for the present moment, is the same as it has always been.'

The little door in the gate closes, and a steady stream of grumbling can be heard behind the heavy barrier along with fumbling, rattling noises followed by a thud and a creak. At last, the Gate swings open.

...and is immediately shut and barred as soon as we have passed through. 'I thank you for your courtesy, Heath,' my Ranger-guide says in passing, and the Gate-guard grumbles something low in return, though the sound is slightly less grumbly than his earlier grumbles. 'All quiet today?'

'Ar,' answers the gatekeeper, an affirmative, I surmise. For my Ranger-guide, who waited to hear the Man's reply, mounts his horse again, and we are on our way.

As we pass the dark, ill-kept house not far from the Gate, squatting sullenly behind the thick hedge, I lay my ears back and press closer to the Ranger horse, keeping his Rider and his own large body between me and my old abode. Of a mercy, he does not kick me. But then, I have heard it said that Rangers' horses are better trained and more intelligent than common horses, and I must say that the horses of my recent acquaintance have fit this reputation quite well.

When we are a little further from the Gate, I hear the high, sweet voice of a hobbit child. 'Look, Mum! That pony's following without even a rope!'

I turn to look, to nod pleasantly to the small one in acknowledgement, but then coarse laughter overlays the charming sound of the friendly voice, followed by the unmistakeable bray of a Man with more beer in him than might be good for a pony or any other creature that might cross his path. 'Pony! Looks more t' me like a shaggy dog! Or a clothes-rail with a fleabitten fur rug thrown o'er!'

I think if I could push myself inside this horse's skin, I would. As it is, I crowd as close as I can without tangling our feet and tripping him. As I press against the Rider's leg, my Ranger-guide looks down at me but does not scold, as if he understands my fear.

The rough voice continues, loud and harsh for all its feigned cheeriness. 'I thank you, Lurker, for bringing my pony back to me! He looks a little worse for the wear, but I'll soon have him up to snuff...'

But my Ranger-guide interrupts him. 'Have a care, Ferny! This horse of mine has rather a bad temper, and I'll not answer for his manners should you come within striking distance of his teeth or his heels.'

'Pah!' my old misery spits, but he keeps his distance as he speaks again. 'You can just leave the pony off by my gate, and I'll take him from there.'

'Considering the twelve silver pennies that I saw Butterbur count into your palm on the last day of September, I would say he is not your pony, not anymore,' my Ranger-guide returns pleasantly. As my old misery sputters in answer, my protector speaks over him. 'I'd watch my step if I were you, Ferny. I hear the Bree-folk are ready to send you after Vervain if there's any more mischief...'

Vervain! Another name that is burned into my memory. My old misery liked to drink and carouse with him, as I recall. Birds of a feather, my hobbits would call them; I've no doubt of that. A carter, he was, who abused and neglected his horse until the day it dropped in the traces in the middle of the street that runs by the inn, and died, and a Ranger...

...and suddenly I know why this Ranger riding alongside me has seemed so familiar! He is the one who comforted that dying horse, who stayed with him as the light dimmed in the poor creature's eyes. He's the one who told the innkeeper to bury the remains, allowing him some dignity after his suffering and death rather than being butchered into pieces, his bones sold as fresh food for someone's dogs.

The innkeeper knows this Ranger as well, of course, for he was also there that day. And I know that he buried the remains because my old misery grumbled about the waste, scavenger that he is – he'd've been the first one on the spot, drawing out his knife to take advantage of the sudden opportunity.

Unexpected confidence replaces the fear that flooded my veins on hearing the voice of my old misery. Neither this Ranger nor the innkeeper – from my memories of his standing against Vervain and his cruelty – will allow my old misery to claim me as his own.

Nor will I.

Belatedly, I notice that I am no longer pressed against the Ranger's leg – or against his horse's side – but I am trotting freely alongside, matching the horse's strides as we go, my head and tail held high. Not only that, but I have every confidence that even should my old misery sneak into the inn's stables at night to try and steal me away, he will be no match for me – for what I have become.

For my trials have forged me into a weapon of sorts, as numerous wolves, as well as rogue Men, have found to their dismay. When my hidden fire is sheathed, my outward appearance is that of an ordinary pony. Yet I am no longer "only a pony", but something more.

As if in confirmation, I hear the Voices whisper. He cannot harm you any longer. You have outgrown him and his ways, and he has no place in your life.

I snort my joy and lift my head higher, the better to whinny aloud, high and clear and free. The Ranger beside me laughs. To be honest, the laugh garners more startled attention from those nearby than my shout of elation. But then, Rangers are dark, dour fellows, not known for their humour.

At least, that is the way of things in Bree.

***