Chapter 57. While settling in, I encounter some unsettling thoughts

By my reckoning (which, in all truth, is something of a wonder to me), I have been here for a week now! I ought to have lost count after three or, perhaps, four days. Nevertheless, I have counted a week's worth of days. Shadowfax could count rather more than a week of days but rather less than a month. I wonder, if I keep on going the way I have been going, if I will someday count as high or even higher? For, as the Voices have shown me, I have grown and changed – am growing and changing – to the point where I can remember people's names, outlandish and not-descriptive, even ill-fitting, as they may be, as well as keep track of higher numbers.

I have grown used to the ebb and flow of time in this place. 

First thing, while the windows above our heads still convey the darkness that is outside our comfortable stables, the heavy door slides open just enough to admit a file of stable workers, including Bert and little Violet (whom, it seems, the others have adopted as an honorary stable worker?). And so I have formed the habit of sleeping early, after evening feeding, cleaning and grooming, and then arising in the middle night to think while pulling the occasional mouthful of hay and chewing it to accompany my thoughts. Moreover, I seem to have developed a special sense of knowing when the small procession is on their way. In other words, I pull a mouthful of hay and begin to chew, and suddenly I am drawn to the half-door to my enclosure. Chewing, I wait, and if I finish chewing, I do not go back to my haynet for more. For somehow, I know they are coming!

My eye remains fixed on the door, and when it opens, I begin tossing my head and whickering greetings. And young Bert, who has evidently carried my little flower from the inn to the stables, sets her down that she may run to greet me in turn. I lower my head, and she encircles my face with her arms and hugs me good morning, and I stand very still for as long as the moment lasts.

When Bert reaches us, grinning to see our reunion, he rubs at my neck and says, 'Why, it's difficult to believe you've only been here with us for a week! It seems like you've been here always...'

Thus, Bert has confirmed to me just now that it was not merely my imagining; I really have kept track of an entire week of days. It is a wonder to me.

'My poppet will be here always!' my little flower asserts, giving me momentary pause. But then I remember my Friend the brown wizard's wisdom: Forever and always, as he said more than once during my brief time with him, are longer than even I would care to contemplate. And so I gently push my face a little closer within her embrace. I am yours. And I am Sam's. And while I do not know how these two things can be true at the same time, yet they are.

For the first time, the thought comes to me, What if my Sam does not return to me?

Such a terrible what-if makes me tremble all over, and my little flower notices and steps back, looking up at Bert with a worried face.

'My poppet has a chill? O, poor Poppet! Can you help him? Please?'

Bert steps closer, his gaze momentarily sharpening, and then he relaxes. 'I think our Bill was only shaking himself awake,' he says. 'His eyes are bright, his ears are standing at attention, he greeted you just now with as much joy as he does every morning, and – if I don't miss my guess – he's still chewing a mouthful of hay from his haynet. What I think is...'

'What do you think?' my little flower says breathlessly, hanging on her older cousin's every word, much as I remember Youngest doing when the Master or the sometimes-Merry hobbit supplies the answer to an especially pressing question of his.

'I think he's hungry. In fact, he's saying...'

'What is he saying?' my little flower interrupts, eager to hear the rest.

'He's saying that the longer we stand here, the longer it's taking for him to get his breakfast!'

I nod vigorously in pleasant anticipation, though thoughts of my Sam are never far from the forefront of my mind.

'And here you have your breakfast, Master Bill!' says that-Bob, coming up behind them with the bucket into which he has measured my portion of grain.

I snort my thanks, and the tall groom laughs and bows to me. 'You're most welcome, my good fellow!' he says, and to my little flower, he adds, 'Your poppet is the politest pony I ever met!'

'O' course he is!' my Violet says with a firm nod of her own chin. She takes the bucket from that-Bob – who makes sure the child has a good grip on the handle before he lets go his own hold, as he has ever since the first time Violet claimed the privilege of feeding me but dropped the bucket and spilled the grain and wept in her distress until I made her laugh by nuzzling the curls atop her head.

Bert works the latch on the half-door, and I move over that the two might walk unimpeded to my feedbox. And then I turn about to watch as Bert picks little Violet up and surreptitiously helps her lift the bucket higher and tip the contents neatly into the feedbox.

Then he takes the emptied bucket from her, upends it, and sets it down in a corner, out of the way of my hoofs (though I would not step on my little flower for all the world!), and bows to his small cousin. 'My queen! Your throne awaits!'

And with a giggle, my Violet sits herself down, whereupon she spreads her skirts with as much dignity as an old dowager, to company me to my feast, while Bert gives me a thorough grooming, cleans my stall and spreads fresh straw, and refills my water bucket and haynet.

Then he issues orders to the two of us to "keep an eye on each other" whilst he repeats the same courtesies for the other three ponies in his charge.

After all the horses and ponies have been fed and groomed comes the time for our cohort – half the current inhabitants of the stables – to be turned out to pasture for a few hours.

Until very recently, I didn't even know there was such a thing as a pasture in Bree!

...but there is, for Bree is a much larger place than I ever imagined, and so much more than a few streets and lanes lined with houses.

I know now that beyond the houses yet still within the Hedge and Dike lie plots of land, large and small, encircled by low fences and interspersed with glass houses that sparkle when the Sun peeps through the clouds. I am so very glad that the townsfolk stopped the ruffians at the main street, and that the rotters did not penetrate this far.

For I heard Bert explain to little Violet a few days ago, when he'd carried the child on his shoulders to watch us cavort in the snowy field, that the fenced enclosures will be gardens once again with the coming of Spring, and the glass houses are full of foodstuffs, grown by the Bree-folk to sustain themselves in the colder months. I am coldly certain that had the bad men reached these food-growing houses, they would have stolen all the food and then smashed all the glass for the pure joy of destruction and inflicting misery on others.

Should I ever run across any of those ruffians again, I'd like to administer a good swift kick or two. For one thing, I have not seen this-Bob since the night of the Battle. From what I understand, Master Butterbur insisted that Bob's family accept his offer of one of the larger rooms in the inn to watch over the stable master whilst he recovers from injuries that are seemingly more severe than little Violet knows, at least from the hints I pick up from the Men and Hobbits around her. Thus, his sweet wife has no household duties to keep her from his side. In addition, Bert has taken charge of Violet for the time being. For her part, my small flower seems to have no objections to spending most of the day around horses and ponies, day after day.

That-Bob leans against the pasture fence and laughs at our antics – for such a tall Man, he laughs as much as any Hobbit I've known, and perhaps more. Perhaps his name ought to have been Merry, and the sometimes-Merry hobbit ought to have been named Bob?

After what seems like too short a time, the Man whistles, and we come to the fence and crowd around him. For he always carries sweets in his pocket to reward us for coming in response to his summons. One by one, he clips lead ropes to our headcollars – and yes! This-Bob presented me with a headcollar of my very own on that first day when he welcomed me to his stables. And then Bob-the-Man mounts one of the horses – without a saddle or bridle! – and guiding the horse with merely his voice and his knees, he rides back to the inn, leading half of us to one side and half to the other, forming quite an impressive procession through the streets of Bree, I should think, though few of the townsfolk seem to take notice. Since these processions take place four times each day, perhaps they've grown used to the sight.

When we reach the stables, the other grooms are waiting for us; they each claim their share of ponies or horses from that-Bob and lead us to our various abodes where our haynets and water buckets are freshly filled and waiting. As for the other beasts, the other grooms tie them up in their stalls (for they are quartered in tie-stalls), but Bert and Violet lead me to my box-stall, where Violet helps Bert (or rather more the other way around) to remove my headcollar and hang it on the hook outside my half-door, that I might move freely about in my enclosure without the risk of catching myself on something like my water bucket or haynet or their hooks.

Then my Violet watches over me once more, to "keep me out of trouble" – though I rather think Bert is expecting me to keep my little flower occupied so that she does not risk getting underfoot. For while my Violet and I are watching over each other, Bert and the other stable hobbits are assembling the "afternoon turn-out", as they call it, so that the other half of the stable occupants may enjoy several hours of freedom and healthful exercise in the pasture beyond the houses and garden spaces.

Though I have become quite familiar and friendly with my cohort, the others are practically unknown to me, even though we share a stables. Sometimes I wonder what their stories might be...

Of the horses and ponies I have come to know, two and two (two horses and two ponies, that is) are teams that belong to the inn and are hired out by the innkeeper to those who don't own their own workbeasts. I have been told that he is very particular about their treatment. Should word come to him that someone has used any of his animals badly, his horses and ponies are simply "not available" to that person ever again, even if they are standing idle in their stalls and "eating their heads off at my expense" as I heard him complain to that-Bob on one occasion.

From what my new friends amongst my stablemates have told me, some of the rest belong to townsfolk who do not have stables of their own, while others come from the Bree-land but outside the town. They were brought into the town, to be boarded at the inn's stables after mischief and thievery began to rise as Autumn was giving way to Winter, what with all the newcomers and gangrels coming up the Greenway, as one of my companions put it. You're quite fortunate that you were a Bree-pony before you went away and came back, or you might never become accepted around here but must always be regarded with suspicion, as a stranger!

I am sad, and shocked as well, to hear that Bree has come to this, I answered.

But the other pony only shook his head. Being shocked and sad won't cut any hay or thresh any oats, he replied. Just be grateful!

O I am, I said, adding, very much so!

And o' course I am. If not for my Hobbits, I might have remained in my broken-down shed, at least until that miserable Ferny was run out of town. No doubt when the townsfolk threw him out at last, him and his cronies, he would have dragged me after him, forcing me to carry too-heavy a load. I am well shut of him.

But will I ever see my Sam again?

And did the wizard somehow provide for me in ways I could neither comprehend at the time, nor anticipate? For he gave me Voices to guard and guide me on my way, and early on, even before we had descended the Cruel mountain, he called to Shadowfax and sent the great horse to meet me, or so the Voices have conveyed to me. And somehow, I am convinced that he knew of my injury and spoke in some mysterious way to his brother or cousin or fellow wizard Radagast the Brown, to send him to my side.

After the other cohort has departed for the pasture, Bert returns to my enclosure and swoops upon my little flower, lifting her high in the air to her delight, and settles her on his shoulders. 'Time for nuncheon and a nap!' he announces, as he has every day at this time for the past week.

'Do I have to?' little Violet protests, pretending (I think) to pout.

'O' course you have to eat your nuncheon so you can grow up tall enough to ride a pony!' Bert says cheerily, with a wink for me.

'O' course that!' Violet agrees. 'But I'm too big for naps!'

'Ah now,' Bert says. 'You've grown too big for morning naps, that's true enough! But I don't think anyone ever grows too big for an afternoon nap...!' He continues to hold forth as he carries the little lass out of my enclosure, latches my half-door, and proceeds out of the building altogether, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Is my little flower somehow one of the wizard's provisions?

But would that mean my Sam will not return to me?

I would be content to continue spending every day together – though I hope for the best for this-Bob's sake, as well as the comfort of his family and friends. Likely enough, once the head ostler is on his feet again, his family will return to their little home, and Violet will only come to the stables every two or three days, as often as she can persuade her mum to bring her to visit the horses and ponies.

Yet my heart yearns for my Sam, and when I am not eating or drinking or sleeping, I am watching the stable door and hoping for his return. 

I am that torn in two.

*** 

Author's note: '...shocked and sad...' echoes (not-)Merry's rebuke to Frodo before the Battle of Bywater, and Bill's perception of being torn in two is drawn from what Sam said to Frodo as they set out on their last journey together (though he didn't know it at the time) in The Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien.

***