Chapter 59. Just when all is well, things suddenly gang agley

How fine and fancy we all looked in our journeyings to and from the pasture this morning! Even the townsfolk seemed to agree. We usually draw no notice, but this day, folk stopped and stared and called questions to that-Bob as he guided us down the street to the turning that leads to the garden- and pasture-land guarded by Bree-town's Hedge and Dike. What's happening? Is there to be a parade? What's the occasion?

But that-Bob merely sat a bit straighter on the mare's back, though his voice rang with gladness as he answered. What's happening? he called in reply. Why, life! Life's happening! And then he threw back his head and laughed – though how he manages to keep his balance with neither saddle nor bridle at such times is a mystery to me – and added, Isn't it marvellous?

And I must admit that his ability to maintain his seat in all circumstances truly is something of a marvel.

When we return after our (always too-short) outing, all the visitors and well-wishers are gone from the stable.

I look for my butterfly but I cannot – do not see her. She is not here to greet us as usual. I raise my head and nicker for her, but she does not answer!

...but Bert hears me and comes to the door of my enclosure, applying a soothing hand to my nose. 'All's well, Bill. All's well.' Behind him, this-Bob and the other grooms are preparing the other half of the stable's denizens for the afternoon outing.

I toss my head in my impatience. All is not well! My butterfly is missing!

This-Bob joins his nephew in front of my door. 'What's the matter?' he asks, running his eye over me with the same care that I remember from our earliest acquaintance. And then he says, almost as an afterthought, 'He's put on weight; he's looking better than he did when he arrived, even though 'twas not that long agone. You've done a good job, lad, and I thank you for filling in for my lack.'

Bert, still stroking my neck, subtly glows at the stable master's praise. 'He's missing Letty, I think,' he answers at last. 'They've hardly spent a moment apart, this fortnight past.' With a sidelong glance at his uncle, he adds, 'I think she's scheming to take your place, actually.'

The ostler grins, and he slaps the tween on the back. 'That would not surprise me at all!' he says, and chuckles. 'Only this morning, she was arguing with her mum about how much easier 'twould be if we were to strew straw over the floors instead of carpets – which need regular brushing – or rugs – which need to be taken up, and the dust beaten out of them. "It would be so much simpler to spread fresh straw on the floor, and then we'd only have to take up any part that's soiled rather than the whole of it!" ...or so I heard her say over early breakfast, as you were getting ready to set out for the stables with her, for you had promised her a "final good-morning" with "her" pony before life resumes its usual course...'

'It would be even easier to live at the inn, I should imagine, where other folk concern themselves with the carpets and rugs,' Bert says, cocking a sly eye at this-Bob, the corners of his mouth quirking with impending laughter.

His uncle frowns at him, but ultimately seems unable to hold the frown in the face of the tween's insouciance and ends up grinning again. 'I've had my fill of luxury, over this past fortnight! Give me our own little smial in the Hill-side, any day.'

Was that a tear the tween blinked away just now? I must be mistaken, for his smile is as cheeky as before. 'Even though Auntie Pansy will no doubt have you taking up the rugs any day now, to lay them in the snow and beat the dust out o' them?'

The uncle laughs again and shakes his head. 'No doubt she'll hire the neighbour lads to do the honours, as usual, since you and I seem to spend all our waking hours here, where our labours are so much lighter.'

And then this-Bob works the latch on my half-door and slips inside. 'Shall we let your hair down, lad, that you may more comfortably stretch out in the straw when you've a mind to do so?' And to Bert, he says, 'Go on and finish your tasks, lad. "Bob will see to him"; that's what old Butterbur told Lurker, and that is how I mean to go on from where I was so rudely interrupted.'

'Yessir,' answers the tween, standing at attention and looking suddenly serious, even stern.

'Go on with you!' this-Bob repeats, and with a laugh, young Bert obeys.

Next thing, the ostler is standing at my head. I cock my neck and present my face to him so that my forelock is within easy reach.

He murmurs his thanks and raises his hands slowly so as not to startle me, which I appreciate, and then I feel more than see his fingers fumbling high on my forehead, near my ears. One hand comes away, trailing little Violet's ribbon. 'Very nice,' this-Bob says to me. 'I think I know where this came from! I'll be sure to pass on your thanks when I return it to its owner.' With precise motions, he rolls the ribbon and then pushes it deep into his pocket, patting that pocket as if to ensure my butterfly's "pretties" will remain secure there.

I nod gently in reply, and his smile widens. As he works the plaits out of my forelock and then the rest of my mane, he murmurs, 'You're all she talks about, I'll have you know. It's my poppet – this, and my poppet – that, until it's almost as if you're in the room with us...' 

I can think of worse things, I think at him.

Perhaps he catches the gist of the thought, for he chuckles. 'Truth be told,' he says, confirming my impression, 'I can think of far worse things than pleasantly passing the time with a pony for company...'

He is a hobbit after my own heart, much like my Sam, even as I discerned from our first meeting.

We both look up at the sudden clatter of hoofs on the stones as the cavalcade departs. My groom raises his voice to call to the others. 'Very well; look sharp, every one! Let's have all the stalls clean, the feedboxes and haynets and water buckets filled, the yard swept and the brasses shining before they're back!'

A chorus of voices answers him, and he slaps my shoulder. 'I'll be back to free your tail from its plaits after we've put the place to rights,' he promises.

I swallow a few gulps of water from my bucket and, feeling strangely lonely without my little Violet to watch over whilst the "noon tidy" is accomplished, I allow my thoughts to wander. Soon I am drowsing to the music of hayfork and broom and whistling workers.

Quiet falls over the stables when the workers depart to the inn to take their noontide meal, which Bert has told me, and more than once, is one of the "perks" of working in Barliman Butterbur's establishment. 'Master Butterbur keeps a mighty generous table!' the tween is fond of saying.

Sometimes I find myself wondering if Tall Bob might be disgruntled at always having to be out at pasture with the afternoon grazers, thus missing Butterbur's generous table? But I have seen him pull a cloth from his pocket and unwrap bread-and-cheese, or sausage rolls, or hand pies, or some such, while watching over us in the pasture. I suppose he might do the same in the afternoons? In any event, the Man is invariably cheerful, no matter what he might be missing, or how generous The Prancing Pony's table may be. 

I can easily imagine such a thing, considering the always-filled haynets and water buckets in Master Butterbur's stables.

Though the workers invariably return from their nuncheon in a high good humour, I hear a discordant note this day as this-Bob returns to my stall. For the oldest of the grooms follows him, and he seems to be arguing. 'I should think you might lie yourself down for a rest, as the Master suggested...'

The dog, drowsing on his pile of hay near the tack room, lifts his head at Ham's stern tone; but perceiving that the hobbit is not speaking to him, he rests it on his paws again with a sigh.

At that same moment, I find myself wondering – Is the Master here? Will I next see my Sam pull the heavy door aside and walk through?

...but then I realise the hobbit means their master – the innkeeper, that is, who owns the stables where they labour and we fortunate equines reside.

'I'm well, Ham,' the ostler answers. 'Perfectly well.'

'You worked as hard as any of us this morning,' Ham argues.

'It's my job to do so.'

'But you've only been up for a day or so – properly up, I mean – and young Pickthorn told you to "take things easy" to start, and not try to eat an entire Oliphaunt in a single bite...'

This-Bob laughs and slaps Ham on the shoulder. 'It'll take two, or even three bites, of a certainty, for that sort of endeavour!' he agrees heartily. 'Go on, Ham... there's harness to be polishing, and saddles to clean...'

But after the under-groom turns away at last, reluctantly it seems to me, the ostler's shoulders slump, ever so briefly, before he takes hold of himself once more and turns to me.

'What're you looking at, old fellow?' he says to me, though his tone is pleasant rather than accusatory.

Then he gestures to me to move over, and I do so, and he makes his way to my tail. Soon, I hear him humming a cheerful tune as I feel his fingers working and the hairs loosening...

...and then nothing.

O I can still hear Ham and Pepper singing in harmony from the tack room, where one of them is soaping saddles and the other is going over the harness for needed repairs, and young Bert's occasional contribution to the song they are singing as he polishes the brasses. But I can no longer feel this-Bob's hands at work on my tail. I swish my tail, half-experimentally, and confirm that some of the hair is now free, but some is still held captive. Moreover, my attendant has fallen silent.

I turn my head to look and see to my shock that my attendant has fallen! This-Bob's crumpled form lies quiet and disconcertingly motionless at my heels.

I dare not move my feet, so I do the next thing I can think of: I toss my head as high as I can and raise my voice to trumpet a warning and a plea for immediate aid. Ham! Pepper! Bert! Something's wrong! Badly wrong!

The tack-room musicale breaks off, and I hear one of the grooms say, 'What in the world...!?'

Ham is the first to reach my half-door, perhaps because he was expecting some kind of trouble. Bert is the second, and he bursts into my stall just as Ham has finished loosing the latch. Ignoring the danger that I might take fright and trample him (which I would not, though such sudden noise and motion would be enough to startle even the calmest pony), he rushes to this-Bob and falls to his knees. 'Bob! Uncle Bob!' – a nightmare echo that takes me back to the night of the Battle, his sobs sounding in the darkness as he cradled his stricken uncle in his arms.

Pepper is the last to reach my stall, and the first to depart, for Ham grabs at him and gives him a shake. 'Fetch the Master!' he cries. 'And send for Tom! Quickly, fellow! Don't just stand there gawping!'

Then the older groom eases his way into my stall, holding his hand out to me with a totally unnecessary, 'Steady, Bill.' He makes his way past me, running his hand along my side so that I may be aware of his proximity and position at all times, which is sound practice when dealing with my kind. Though I would never kick him, I swear.

Because my head is turned back to watch them, I see him bend over Bert and this-Bob. 'Did the pony kick him? I cannot believe that of him...'

I snort my denial, but all their attention is on the fallen ostler. So is mine, in all truth. My feet feel frozen to the floor, and part of me wonders if I will ever move again.

'No,' Bert sobs, his arms tightening on his uncle. 'Bob? Speak to me! Uncle Bob?' He raises a tear-stained face and adds, again eerily echoing that terrible night, 'There's not a mark on him!'

Before long, Butterbur himself bustles in, clad in his apron as if he's just come from stirring the stewpot or kneading the evening bread, speaking as rapidly as is his wont and leaving the door wide open behind him. A cold breeze follows in his wake. 'What's happening? Did the pony...?'

Because he has already reached me, I toss my head high and whinny in his face. Never!

'Not a mark on him,' Ham echoes, his hand on Bert's shoulder. 'It looks like...'

Whatever it might look like to the hobbit, we may never know, for the innkeeper interrupts him with a brisk, 'I've sent Pepper at a run for the healer, and then to fetch Nob from the marketplace, where he was to be looking out the freshest of the fish on offer...'

The next thing I know, he's in my enclosure. There's no careful, considerate movement on his part, hand extended to reassure the pony in the stall, nor running his hand along my side to keep me apprised of his whereabouts. No, but he darts to the back of the loose box, where he swoops up this-Bob in his arms, saying, 'Let us get him into a proper bed, for starters, and out of the cold...'

The hostler's face is pale and slack, and he lolls in the innkeeper's grasp as Butterbur turns himself about and blunders his way out of my loosebox.

Speaking too rapidly for me to follow what comes after, he bears the limp hobbit out through the yawning stable doorway. Even so, I am able to make out a few of the words, especially the complaint, 'Where is Nob? That woolly-footed slowcoach...!' 

After he is well gone, the icy breeze blows in through the door, and tickles my nose. I sneeze.

Ham hauls young Bert to his feet. 'Go after them!' he orders. 'And close the door behind you, before the ponies catch their deaths!'

Bert hurries to obey.

Ham and I breathe a sigh in the same moment, and then he turns and strokes my face, the both of us huddled together at my open half-door, as if we might find some solace in each other's company. 'Good lad,' he says. 'I know you'd never kick anyone, much less our Bob.'

But I find little comfort in his words.

*** 

Author's notes:

Note 1: My mom was fond of quoting Robbie Burns. Though my Shire is mostly English in flavour along with a sprinkling of Welsh and just a touch of Scottish or Irish, I have taken the liberty of appropriating bits and pieces from various Celtic cultures and incorporating them, especially when writing about the Tooks. That said, while I was contemplating a title for this chapter, I could almost hear Mom's voice in the back of my head, reciting a certain poem. More specifically, from the results of a web search: "gang agley" is a Scottish phrase meaning to "go awry," "go wrong," or "turn askew," most famously used in Robert Burns' 1785 poem "To a Mouse" in the line, "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley" (often go wrong). It describes plans failing despite careful preparation, with gang meaning to go and agley meaning awry.

Note 2: In case you were interested in the writing process for this particular plot thread, one of the things that motivates me to write in Tolkien's world is when I run across an apparent inconsistency or a gap and feel the need to explain it. In this case, though Butterbur calls for Bob to take care of the Travellers' ponies the first time they arrive in Bree, upon their return, the innkeeper calls for Nob instead, adding that Bob "goes home to his folk at nightfall now". Later, the innkeeper says, 'Now where was I? Nob, stables, ah! that was it. I’ve something that belongs to you. If you recollect Bill Ferny and the horsethieving: his pony as you bought, well, it’s here. Come back all of itself, it did. But where it had been to you know better than me. It was as shaggy as an old dog and as lean as a clothes-rail, but it was alive. Nob’s looked after it.’ So of course it seemed necessary to figure out the reason for the switch from Bob to Nob, at least when it comes to taking care of ponies, as well as why Bob goes home to his folk at nightfall when the Travellers return, yet Nob doesn’t.

Note 3: Whenever a word sounds anachronistic to me (i.e. doesn't sound like a word I've seen in any of Tolkien's writings, since this is LOTR-based fanfic), I look up its etymology. If it's a word that was in use in the UK before 1900, I'll usually decide to keep it. That happened with the word "perk" in this chapter. Nestled amongst the information I found was the following snippet, which I have included here along with the link to the article it came from, just in case you find words and their usage as fascinating as I do:

[In] the nineteenth century (first recorded in 1869), the old word perquisite increasingly became abbreviated to perk, in the sense of a non-monetary benefit associated with a job or work. Thus someone working in a factory might take home an empty wooden palette on the basis that it is a perk of the job. (https://eclecticlight.co/2015/03/24/in-a-word-perk/)

p.s. For some deliberate anachronisms and words-that-don't-really-fit, please see Slightly Muddled, a blend of humour and angst that wrote itself in the early days, while I was still learning what worked and what didn't in terms of fan fiction written after the fashion of Tolkien.

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