Chapter 58. I take part in a grand celebration and a joyful reunion

One day runs into another, and I have lost count, to be honest. Nevertheless, today is a special day. I know this because Bert said as much in greeting me this morning. And now, as my little flower looks on, he is grooming me within an inch of your life, good fellow!

As I turn my head and look back at him with a sceptical eye, the tween's laughter blends with Violet's giggles. My little flower, too, seems especially animated and joyful this morning.

Bert slaps me on the shoulder, and then resumes brushing. 'Such a look as only you can give me!' he says. 'What I mean is that we're grooming all the ponies and horses with especial care today... for it's a grand celebration!'

I prick up my ears. What are we celebrating?

Bert, absorbed in the work at hand, simply hums a little tune and does not answer. 

Though his words leave me wondering, I turn back to my feedbox and continue my interrupted breakfast.

"Especial care" means thoroughly currying and brushing, combing through my mane and tail, and picking out my hoofs as always, but Bert also polishes my hoofs – a curious business, to be sure. By the time he reaches this step, I have finished eating, and so I watch the process carefully, pricking curious ears at him as he works.

At last he straightens up, steps back, and surveys me from head to toe. 'Don't you look fine!'

Little Violet jumps up from her bucket-throne and claps her hands. 'My beautiful poppet!'

'Just you wait,' Bert tells his young cousin. 'We're not quite finished yet.'

We're not?

He laughs in answer as if he was able to perceive my question. He is no Elf, as he has said more than once, and yet he so often seems to know what a pony is thinking. Perhaps he has learned something about our ways of speaking – not only with the sounds we make but with our eyes and the set of our ears and tail, and other clues too subtle for most folk who see us more as tools and conveniences than flesh and blood. Perhaps his Uncle Bob taught him – or perhaps he was born with a special sense for the ways of ponies and horses, just like that I saw in this-Bob in our all-too-brief acquaintance?

'We're not,' the nephew replies, confirming my impression that he does hear me, after a fashion.

'We're not?' little Violet echoes my question, capering in a little dance and clapping her hands together. I do not startle at the sudden motion, having become accustomed to her ways. She is like the butterflies in our old meadow, resting quietly on a flower, wings slowly and gently fanning, and then, quite suddenly, jumping into the air to flutter about my head... in a manner of speaking.

But Bert is speaking to my little butterfly – er, flower. Or perhaps she is my little butterfly. I must give the matter further thought at a quieter time. 'D'you remember what your Dad has all us grooms do for the Summer Festival, Letty? For the grand procession through the town?'

As suddenly as she broke out into a dance, my little flower-butterfly abruptly stands still in response to her older cousin's question, and I swing my head over to study her face. From her expression, it seems she is not quite sure. Nor am I, for that matter.

But now Bert tosses the brush and polishing cloth into the grooming bucket, moves to my head and gathers up my forelock in his hands. I am not sure what it is he is doing, but when he is finished, no hair falls down over my face or my eyes. I shake my head – as I often do when my foretop gets in the way of my seeing clearly – but the hair is bound up somehow, held captive by whatever it is the groom has done.

...is doing, rather, for he has moved on to the rest of my mane and is deftly but methodically doing something or other, a sensation I've never felt before. Yet it is not unpleasant, and so I stand quietly, even though I've finished my breakfast. When I turn my head to try and see, he pats my neck and tells me, 'Steady, Bill. We're almost finished with this part...'

This part? I wonder.

True to his word, the tween soon moves rearward and begins doing something to my tail. 'We're prettying all the beasts today...' he says as he works. 'Ah but how it cramps my hands!'

That-Bob calls from one of the horse-containing stalls. 'All done here! How about the rest of you lot?'

Bert joins in with the chorus of cheerful replies. 'Done!' 'Just finished!' 'All done!'

Little Violet, who had sat down as Bert continued his task, now jumps up from her seat again, moves to my head and commences stroking my nose. Her eyes are shining as, with wonder in her tone, she says, 'My poppet looks so pretty with his mane and tail plaited! Can't we do this every day?' 

But Bert is rubbing and kneading one hand with the other as he emerges from behind me. 'O no, dearest darling! We'd never get all the other work done if we were to do that! As it is, we came some hours early today to make sure everything is finished in time...' 

I had thought so, but I wasn't sure until now.

'And will you tuck flowers in the plaits, just like you do for the Summer Festival procession?' the child asks eagerly.

Bert leaves off kneading his hands and spreads them to the side. 'We're in the midst of winter, lovie. There are no flowers to speak of... They're all still sleeping in their beds.'

Her hands immediately fly to her head. 'Then use my pretties!' she insists. 'Ribbons will look almost so fine as flowers!' And she unties the ribbon that holds back her curls from falling over her precious little face, pulls it free and holds it out.

'But Auntie... your mum...' Bert protests.

'She won't mind at all! It's for my darling Dad, as you well know!' 

I am not sure how this-Bob might benefit from a hair ribbon, of all things, but if the hobbit will find some benefit, then I have no objection to ribbons in my plaits – whatever they may be. Perhaps ribbons have some magic to them?

As it turns out, hair ribbons must have a mysterious healing quality, indeed. For only moments after Bert has finished adorning my plaited forelock with Violet's bit of ribbon, voices are heard outside the door – Master Butterbur, and the Nob-hobbit, and Violet's mum, and a few others, from what my ears can gather.

All the grooms quickly arrange themselves into a neat line before the door, that-Bob standing tall in the middle, with hobbits to either side in an orderly display. That-Bob is holding the three horses that currently reside here, and each of the hobbit grooms, my Bert included, holds three or four ponies arrayed behind himself, and all of us stable denizens are on display, dressed in our best. For every coat is smooth with brushing, every hoof gleams with polish and every mane and tail is plaited, though I am the only one to sport a colourful ribbon.

As I thought, Butterbur is one of the visitors. It is the innkeeper himself who shoves the heavy door aside and then stands to allow the others to enter. Unusual for him, he is the one to close the door behind the ingress, almost as if he is serving the hobbits who work for him rather than the other way round.

For here is Bob the inn's ostler! He is flanked by Nob on one side, and Violet's mum on the other, walking close to him with almost a protective air. But my little butterfly – truly, she flits and flutters like one of those elegant creatures – hurries to her dad and throws her arms around him, with both childish enthusiasm and a curious degree of caution. 'Dad!'

'My flower,' he murmurs, bending to nuzzle her hair much as if he were a pony himself.

That-Bob stands straighter – though to my eye, he was already standing at attention as the visitors entered – and says smartly, 'All present and accounted for, sir!'

This-Bob-the-ostler straightens slowly and answers, 'Very good, Bob.' 

How I have missed his quiet, pleasant voice! He is the essence of calm. That-Bob has tried his best to stand in for the ostler, but he's not quite the same. He's so much taller, for one thing. For another, this-Bob – like Bert, his nephew – has a certain air that I've come to associate with Rangers and Elves, at least when it comes to dealing with ponies. 

As a matter of fact, before he was injured, I heard this-Bob tell Bert he was "part pony" himself... (Bert answered pertly, Which part? ...but this-Bob only laughed and said the tween must figure that out for himself. As I was left to do – but have not; at least, not yet.)

'I cannot remember when last I saw them look so fine as they do today!' Violet's mum says admiringly, interrupting my thoughts. 'Absolutely dashing!'

A closer look shows me that the grooms are dressed for grooming, as usual, as well as haying and feeding and watering and mucking out stalls. She must be referring to the four-footed stable occupants, including myself, of course. Why, even our newest resident, the dog, shows signs of being brushed "within an inch of his life"! 

And if Violet's mum has noticed that I'm wearing her little one's ribbon, she's said nothing about that thus far. So perhaps Bert's worries were for naught.

But I am really too busy tossing my head up and down and whinnying joyful greetings to think further on the matter.

***