Chapter 51. I begin to settle in

In all truth, I am not sure that the Elves in that marvellous Valley could do better than the ostler at The Prancing Pony. As a matter of fact, I find myself wondering if the inn was named for some satisfied visitor to the stables long ago when the inn was new. Why, I feel like prancing myself!

I am not in the same stall as before. That was a tie-stall, large enough for me to lie down (had I had enough time, that is) but having only three sides, and not big enough to turn around in even if I had not been tethered to the far wall as is the usual practice with a tie-stall. It was there that this Bob and my Sam groomed me and fitted me with a pack-harness whilst I was eating the warm bran mash and then the grain this Bob provided.

After my Ranger-guide had departed, this Bob stood quietly before me and surveyed me thoroughly. At last he spoke, 'Our finest treatment, Lurker said,' and then he scratched his head as if in deep thought and then straightened and smiled at me. As I watched him, wondering what to expect, he took a rope from a hook on the wall, fashioned a loop and, murmuring reassurance, eased the loop over my head. A row of tie-stalls, all empty, lines one wall near the entrance door, and one of those was where he led me. If not the one I'd occupied before, it looked the same as the one I remember from my first time in this building.

He tied me securely to the ring at the head of the stall and then departed, his footfalls so soft, I could not follow him with my ears after he left the stall. And so I stood there, wondering. Would this place be my home until my Sam returns for me? The stall, though bare and empty – except for me, o' course – had a clean but empty feedbox as well as hooks, one for a haynet and another for a bucket. The well-laid brick floor underfoot was clean – well-swept, possibly even scrubbed from the look of it.

The hobbit soon returned with a well-filled net of fresh-smelling hay and a bucket partly filled with water and hung these in place, then went away again. I had no complaints; hay for the eating, and water to quench my thirst, and in a small enough quantity so as to avoid the hazard of foundering myself. The next time this Bob came back, he brought two buckets with him, one that he set down to the side. From the other, steam arose, along with the enticing smell of a freshly prepared bran mash, which he held before my face, encouraging me to eat. He did not have to ask me twice! The first bucket carried grooming implements, as I soon found out, and this Bob put them to good use, I must say.

I remember thinking that this would not be an intolerable situation, what with plentiful, delicious food, fresh water, and a solid roof overhead and sturdy walls to keep any inclement weather from troubling me. But when this Bob had finished thoroughly brushing my shaggy coat and working out the tangles in my mane and tail and picking out my feet, he untied me and led me to this lovely large stall where I remain even now, hours later – a loose-box, as he told me – bedded knee-deep in straw that smells of sunshine. I know this because, after he removed the rope around my neck, I lowered my head to take stock, and I think I stood there for many moments, simply sniffing this bedding, such a wonder it is, and so much like the stall I remember from that marvellous Valley! Might there be a grazing meadow here, as well?

When I look up again, the hobbit has gone, and the stall door has been shut and latched. But no matter. For this haynet is stuffed full of fresh hay, and the bucket is full of cool, refreshing water, and when my investigations take me to the feedbox, I find a generous quantity of grain waiting for me!

And so, for want of anything better to do (and could there be anything better? Somehow I doubt it), I eat and drink and then ease myself down and stretch out on the softest bed I have enjoyed since leaving the Valley where, if all is well, Merrylegs grazes still. No doubt I add my snores to those of one or two other beasts who were already comfortably sleeping when I arrived in this place.

The sound of a high, sweet voice, somehow familiar, awakens me. I lie still for a moment in my comfortable bed of straw, blinking and wondering – could this be a dream? And that snort nearby, is that my companion, the great horse? Is it time to start again?

...but then I am able to take my bearings: a deep bed of straw, not dirt or grass or snow, and solid walls around me to block the winter wind.

As I am standing myself to my feet, I hear someone – a child? – babbling excitedly. '...and the pony was following him without a lead rein or even a rope! It didn't have to be guided or herded, either! It just followed the Ranger like a dog!' Fond adult laughter sounds on the heels of the child's description.

But when I turn myself around and thrust my head over the half-door, the animated chatter dissolves into a shriek of delight that makes me shake my head. 'That's the pony! The Ranger brought him here? How wonderful! How long is he staying? Can I come and visit him every day?' A never-ending stream of questions tumbles from the child, reminding me of Youngest at his most eager and curious and intense. Though the child that belongs to the high, sweet-sounding voice is quite a bit younger than Youngest, of course.

This-Bob is standing outside my box, holding in his arms that same small child I saw not long after entering the town, and her mum stands beside them. At least, I think it must be the same child. I had only the slightest whiff of her scent in passing, and I was rather occupied at the time, distracted by the sudden presence of my former misery. That said, in the still air of the stables, the scent that comes to me seems the same.

'Can I pet him? Does he bite?' the eager voice cries. 

'May I pet him,' the mother says. 

It was a correction, I think, for the child immediately echoes the thought. 'May I pet him? O Dad! Please?'

'I don't...' says the mother, somewhat dubious. 'Bob?'

The ostler eyes me as he answers. 'He was tractable and obliging when I groomed him just now... though I don't yet know at this point how he might comport himself around little ones.'

I prick my ears at them, then nod and whicker, and the adults laugh. This-Bob says, 'Well that's as good an invitation as I've seen, Violet-lass. Here now,' and he digs in a deep pocket and brings out a carrot. 'Why don't you make his acquaintance?' And softly, to the mother, he adds, 'I'll keep a sharp eye, and at the first sign of trouble...'

I nod again to convey that I, for one, am not planning on making trouble.

This-Bob hands the carrot to the child and then sets child and carrot on the floor. 'Remember, Lettie! Keep your hand flat!'

If I could, I would tell him that I have no intention of mistaking fingers for carrots. But the best I can do is to slowly and carefully lower my head to the outstretched hand and use my lips rather than my teeth to take the carrot from the child.

She laughs as my long whiskers tickle her small hand. Even as the ostler says, 'Well I'd say this lad knows his manners,' and the mother observes that she's never seen anything gentler, the child lifts her soft little hand to stroke my forehead where the hairs form a whorl. I lower my head a bit further to help her reach the spot without having to stand a-tip-toe, and I plant my feet and stay about as steady as I've ever stood before, or even steadier than that, to enjoy the caress.

The adults seem to have no objection, for they are standing there smiling at the two of us as if they have all the time in the world for a child and a pony to commune. 

Her eyes shine, and her laughter is like a tinkling bell, and I have hopes we can be great friends.

***