Chapter 56. I welcome some visitors

'But where is my poppet...?!'

The query, spoken in a familiar sweet little voice, awakens me from a deep sleep. I lie still a moment as the dream-mists swirl around me and disperse; I am ensconced on a soft bed of sun-ripened straw and not on the hard ground, and the child's query overtakes my hobbits' soft conversation that must be a part of my dream.

...and then my hobbits' voices fade from my mind and are, at least for the moment, gone. I do not know where they might be, for I have never seen the place before, neither in dreams nor awake. Even as the dream-memory dims and melts away, the impression lingers a moment longer of a green wall surrounding a green hill thronged with tall trees with many-tiered branches, the likes of which I have never seen before – not even in that marvellous Valley where the Old Pet waits and, if all is well, Merrylegs and the old mare still graze on grass that will seem to have sprung, fresh and green from the earth, renewed every morning. The branches of those wondrous trees are many-tiered; their leaves are ever-moving, and countless lights gleam in the branches, green and gold and silver...

But the winds of awakening blow gently over me, dissolving the mists of sleep completely; and at last, the vision is gone.

I rise to my feet and shake my head to clear it. My mane flies up and settles again, and I revel in the feeling – no tangles! No bits of broken-off sticks, caught up in the long hair of my mane forevermore, or so it seemed to me before patient fingers untangled the muddle. I swish my tail for good measure.

'We've several ponies here – which one were you wanting, Lettie?' says young Bert. From the sound of their voices, they are standing in the middle of the central space, lined with stalls on three of the sides, with loose-boxes in the corners.

I move to my half-door and thrust my head over, to be welcomed by an ear-piercing shriek of joy from the little one who stands beside the young groom. 'There! There's my poppet!' 

I toss my head in greeting and whicker my pleasure at seeing them both again, these new acquaintances who feel like old friends.

'Ah,' Bert says, leading her over to me and lifting her up that we may see eye-to-eye. 'This old fellow? His name is Bill! He's a pony, not a puppy!'

'He's my poppet!' the little one insists, her little fingers softly stroking my nose and leaving a tickle behind. I snort a sneeze, and she laughs. 'Poppet!'

But then she sobers again. Tears come to her eyes, and her voice is soft and grieved as she lisps, 'But who made these awful marks, Poppet-mine?' And turning to address young Bert, she says gravely, with eyes that seem much too big for her small face, 'Who has hurted my sweet poppet?'

Even as I rub my nose against her extended arm to reassure and console her, Bert says hastily, 'They're all gone, just as your mum has told you! We ran them out of the town, and they won't come back no more!'

She turns back to me, much too solemn for such a wee child, and whispers to me, 'They hurted my dad, O so dreadfully...' and she swallows hard, and puts on a brave face, and nods to emphasise the next words. 'But my dad, he told them they couldn't go in the stables to hurt the horses and ponies! He told them so! But they wouldn't listen to him, those naughty Men!' Her soft little fingers recommence stroking my nose, and she adds, more softly. 'Don't you worry, my Poppet. He won't let those bad Men hurt you anymore! Nor my Bert, either!'

'Violet...' Bert interjects, seeming somewhat at a loss.

The small face turns to him again, though the fingers continue their lovely caresses. 'Dad said so! When he woke up this morning, and wanted to see mum and me.... And that, after I'd been asking and asking!' 

'Letty...' Bert tries to stop the flow of words.

But the little one isn't finished. 'I kissed his poor, sore head – bandages and all! – and he told me all was well and all will be well... And I could have told them so if they'd only let mum and me see him sooner!'

'My apologies, young miss,' says another voice, but since I know the Man who speaks, I do not startle at his sudden appearance. (So absorbed were we in our conversation, none of us heard the great door open and close again, it seems.) Nevertheless, the gentle caresses break off, and the little one turns with a bright smile and looks up – quite a way up – to greet the newcomer.

'You can make my poppet all better? Just like you made my dad's head all better?'

The young healer wears a pleasant expression – especially put-on for his hearers' sake, I deem, for I smell sorrow and care on him, along with deep, bone-numbing weariness. To Bert, he says, 'I've done all I can for those in the inn.... Now, what ills might I remedy here?' My ears are sensitive enough that I could hear a note of uncertainty in his voice just now, though young Bert seems not to have noticed aught amiss.

I have the distinct impression that this Man is not a horse-healer, if you take my meaning. On one occasion when I was tied up in front of the inn, I saw another Man, not this one, come out of the inn with a Hobbit. Only a few moments earlier, the latter had tied up his pony next to me and gone into the inn. That pony and I were chatting as we nosed the hay on the ground before us. One of the inn-workers had just come out from under the archway with a forkful of hay which he tossed down before us, there in front of the inn, "as a courtesy for our visitors..." he said. For a long time after, I thought he'd meant the ponies and occasional horse tied up there, but now I think he must have meant the Hobbits and Men who were talking and laughing and even singing inside, for on that soft summer's eve, the windows were open, and their voices sounded clearly.

'He's limping on that leg again,' the Hobbit said, and the Man bent to examine the indicated limb, running his hand slowly down its length, stopping at places, and then politely asking the pony to lift his foot... which he did, with the Man's help and guidance. The latter probed the frog and muttered, Clean... no stones...

'That was the first thing I checked for,' the Hobbit confirmed, lifting his hat to scratch his head.

'No heat in the frog,' the Man continued. 'So I deem that recent injury has healed.' He felt the leg again more carefully, and then stopped. 'The tendon is a bit swollen,' he said after a pause. 'Rest, I should say. A few days' rest will put him right, I think. Take him home and apply a poultice twice a day, and I will bring by a balm of arnica for you to rub in and around the spot to reduce the swelling. Gently, mind, for it'll be tender for a day or two more at least...'

That same Man was one of the injured I carried to the inn after the battle last night. And so, I deem, he has needed a healer's services at the present time rather more than being able to provide them to an injured beast.

Nearby movement recalls me from my remembering. The young healer stands before me, his hand half-extended. 'If I may...?' he says. Perhaps he is speaking to Bert as my keeper at present, but I rather have the impression that he is speaking directly to me.

And so I put my nose in his hand and rest it there to convey my consent.

He seems to understand and bends closer to scrutinise my face and neck. 'Hmmm....' he says, and then, 'a heavy lash, I think?' Under his breath, he adds, 'A nasty business.' He looks down at the watching Bert and says, with a self-deprecating chuckle, 'I seem to remember, after one too many mugs of Barliman's fine brew, holding forth to all who were in the common room that night, on how any Man who horse-whipped his beast should himself feel a taste of the same lash.'

'More than a taste, my Uncle Nob told me,' Bert affirms. 'And my uncle also said that when they were back in the privacy o' the kitchen, Master Butterbur agreed with you, and heartily, too!'

The young healer shakes his head. 'I never knew,' he says. '...only that Barliman told me I had reached my limit, and he sent to the stables for Tall Bob and tasked him to make sure I could find my way home...'

'He wanted you to come safely home, and not risk being beset by a knave like Vervain or Ferny,' Bert says low, 'for they were likely to have taken insult at your boldness in telling them their business.'

The young healer nods, even as he opens the door to my enclosure and moves towards my rear, running a reassuring hand along my side.

At a painful touch on my hindquarters, I turn my head back and blow a soft snort at him.

'Good fellow,' he says, patting me elsewhere as his other hand returns to the painful spot. 'Some swelling here, it seems. A blow from a club?'

'He and the others were in the midst of the battle,' Bert confirms with a nod.

'In the midst of the battle!' the little one in his arms echoes. 'Mum told us...'

'So I saw,' the healer says. 'Oddly enough, they seemed to distinguish between "friend" and "foe" – at least, none of the injured Men or Hobbits of the town bear the marks of hoofs or teeth...'

Bert smiles grimly. 'Besides those of horses and ponies and dogs, one o' the rotters bears the marks of Hobbit teeth, he does!'

There were dogs in the battle, I dimly recall, though as they bothered me not at all, I scarcely took note of them. What I do know is that one dog that had evidently entered through the West-gate with the ruffians turned his teeth on his master – and several other ill-doers – in the heat of the battle, and ended up staying in the town. For while I was still awake, watching and waiting, Ham, one of the stable hobbits, brought the dog into the stables with a rope for a makeshift collar and lead, and bedded him down on a pile of hay by the tack room, speaking reassurance all the while and telling him to stay there when he went away. And the dog stayed! And when Ham came back, he had an entire beefsteak in his hand, and he gave it to the dog! And as he stood by and watched the dog devour that obviously unprecedented bounty, he recounted the dog's deeds aloud, and praised his courage and intelligence, and told him he was a good dog.

He must have been speaking for the dog's benefit, for the poor creature flattened its ears upon its head and wagged its tail at the words, as if expecting curses and blows rather than kindness and caring.

I have been all too familiar with such feelings. We are kindred spirits of sorts. I wonder if we will be friends?

Ham went away after morning chores were completed, but the dog is sleeping on that same hay pile even now, tied up to a hook in the wall. Though he could chew his way free if he wished to return to his master, it seems to me that he has no desire to do so.

The healer's voice breaks into my thoughts. 'A poultice for the swelling; and I'll send a messenger with a pot of salve to apply to the lash marks you've found on any of the beasts here,' he says with a final pat before he moves to my half-door, lets himself out and then latches it again. 'Hobbit teeth! You don't say!'

'But I do!' Bert says. With a glance at the little one (who is following the conversation with great interest), he continues while obviously measuring his words. 'You see, that wicked Vervain was waving his club rather carelessly, and he might have hurt someone! And so my uncle Nob asked him nicely to give it o'er, and took hold, and in trying to take the club back, the Man's hand somehow ended up in Uncle's mouth...'

That is not quite how I remember the scene, but the little one laughs at Bert's comical face and tone.

With a glance of his own at the little one, the healer says, 'Did any of you grooms notice any other types of injuries besides whip marks on the beasts you tended?' 

'Some signs of blows, as you saw on Bill-here...' Bert answers, but the child interrupts.

'Poppet!'

'...but I don't take your meaning,' the young groom finishes.

The healer clears his throat. 'I have also treated slashes and burns this past night,' he says, but adds no more.

But I understand. The rogue Men who attacked the town brought torches not only to burn and destroy but used them as weapons against the townsfolk, and some of them must have carried knives as well, and used them to ill effect.

Bert's eyes widen in sudden and dreadful understanding, but all he says is, 'We found only lash marks and a few swellings. I can only think they did not wish to injure the beasts, but meant to steal them for their own purposes...'

The healer's lips tighten at this, but his grim look is fleeting, for he turns his disgust into a smile at the little one's indignant, 'Why would they take something that doesn't belong to them! The very idea!'

Bert chucks the child under her chin, which makes her laugh. 'So I've heard your mum my aunt say, and more than once, and in exactly that tone!'

'And she would have the right of it,' the Man says stoutly, his smile more genuine now, as if he finds Hobbits and their sentiments refreshing. 'Very well, then, and who do we have next...?'

*** 

Author's note: Bill's dream borrows from 'The Mirror of Galadriel' in The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien. 

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