Chapter 61. There is a change in my guardian-hobbits

Upon his return to the stables, Ham levels a stern eye upon this-Bob – who is in the midst of laying fresh straw in my loose box after clearing away the soiled bedding – and says dourly, 'The Master will speak with you now.'

The ostler nods and returns a mild answer. 'Just as soon as I've finished...'

But the older hobbit's further words and actions convey that Ham is not about to "suffer fools gladly", a phrase the two older cousins sometimes apply to Youngest just before taking pains to quench him when that hobbit's spirits bubble up too high for his own good or the Company's safety, in their estimation, or sometimes if they notice glances passing between our two Big Men or a frown beginning to cloud the Wizard's brow. (I find myself wondering if the white-clad Gandalf I have seen in my mind's eye in recent days is as irascible as Gandalf the Grey sometimes seemed?)

For Ham's reply is short and to the point. 'Now,' says he. When this-Bob straightens and leans on his hayfork to regard him quizzically, he adds with knitted brows, 'He's in the midst of breakfast preparations, so I wouldn't try him, were I you.' And then the under-groom moves forward and holds out his hands for the hayfork.

This-Bob seems to study the older groom's face, or perhaps some silent communication passes between the two hobbits, much like the impression I had of thoughts passing between our Big Man (the Ranger who joined us in Bree, not the one with the shield who came later) and the Wizard when the two of them went aside and stood side-by-side for a time, silently regarding the Cruel Mountain as the rest of the Company finished our breakfast. When they returned to us, the decision had been made to attempt the Redhorn Gate – in other words, we must hazard the long and difficult climb up the side of the Mountain to the Pass, and then down the other side. But I do not want to think about what happened after.

At last, this-Bob nods and, without another word, bestows the hayfork upon his helper as if he is conveying a solemn responsibility. Even as the exchange is made, I see the stiffness go out of Ham; he seems to soften, and shifting the fork to one hand, he lays the other upon the ostler's shoulder. 'It's for the best,' he says, so low that the words are hardly audible. As the two stable workers lock gazes, Ham adds, 'I deem, 'twould be a terrible shame for Violet to grow up fatherless, like poor Bert her cousin. No matter how devotedly you and Pansy care for the lad, you've said yourself that you'll never quite be able to fill the hole in the lad's life that Barry and Lilac left in their passing...'

The shine of tears glints from the eyes of both hobbits as this-Bob breathes deeply and then lets the breath out again in a sigh. After a long moment, Butterbur's stable-master turns to me and strokes my neck, gently but briefly. 'Nob will do his best by you, so he's promised me. I'm only that sorry I cannot care for you with mine own hands, even as my master promised the Ranger after he found you wandering in the Wood and brought you home to us once more.'

I whuffle against his outstretched arm, and he lowers his hand that I may rest my muzzle in his palm for a long moment.

And then he is gone, and Ham busies himself with spreading the clean straw in my loose box, then leaves my enclosure, latches my half-door, and moves on to the first occupied tie-stall... and it is almost as if this-Bob were never here.

Yet some essence of the hobbit lingers in the air around us.... In the clean, well-kept premises, the peaceful atmosphere, our comfortable surroundings, this-Bob's spirit seems to be everywhere.

*** 

I watch the door for this-Bob's return, but Nob comes instead, some time after this-Bob's departure but before the other grooms arrive to take up the business of the day. Upon entering the stables, he comes directly to me after tugging the heavy door closed behind him. Just as his brother always does, he digs a carrot from a deep pocket and holds it out to me, then strokes my neck as I crunch the treat between my teeth. 'There now,' he says under his breath. 'That's not so bad, surely?'

Though I am not sure whether the words were addressed to me or to himself, I nod at him, which brings a smile to his face. He works my latch and enters my loose box, then runs his hands over my body as if acquainting himself with the subject of ponies after a long absence. His eyes have also been busy, it seems, for he says in an undertone, 'You've got hay and water, I see – did my brother grain you as well as groom you before Ham interrupted him, I wonder?'

I snort, but he does not seem to understand my reply, for he says, 'I daren't feed you a second time, not knowing whether Bob already gave you your morning portion – too much grain could do you worse harm than missing one meal; but have no fear! For I'll bring you a nice warm mash with your dinner to make up for any lacking on our part, Bob's and mine, I mean.'

As this-Bob so reluctantly informed me only a short while ago, Nob takes over my care from this point onwards, though he insists he is no stable-master. 'I'm only filling in for Bob until he's feeling quite himself again,' he tells each of the others upon their arrival this morning.

In the days that follow, Nob often speaks to us of Bob, "for he wouldn't want you to forget him!" Thus, I learn that this-Bob, half-jokingly, rues the day that his own father vowed his sons should learn to read and write and cipher. For the innkeeper has set him the task of keeping the inn's accounts, and "there's nary a pony in the account-books, save for those I might sketch in the margins in an idle moment..."

Though all the stable workers, Man and Hobbits alike, laugh at such reports, a general sense of relief is also perceptible among them. Evidently book-keeping is light work, suited to this-Bob's talents if not to his taste, and nowhere near as physically tasking as stable work. We ponies and horses are not forgotten, nevertheless. Each day, Nob encourages everyone to "work with a will, that I may bring a good report to my brother this evening! For if I doesn't, you know who'll be here all the earlier in the morning!"

This-Bob, I assume, is the answer to this daily riddle. As one day follows another, Nob's reports on the well-being of the stables' occupants and the upkeep of the premises must be satisfactory, for a few days later, he tells us that this-Bob will be coming to us but once a week on Highday. Even so, on the next Highway, the ostler (this-Bob, I mean) comes in the afternoon – which bodes well for Nob as it is definitely not all the earlier in the morning. 

Happily, his mate Pansy accompanies him, along with my little butterfly.

I must confess, I deeply and, to be honest, wistfully miss my flower-butterfly. Though it seems her visits will only take place once weekly, I find myself watching for her every day, lifting my head over my half door in hopes of seeing her. Just in case...

But such is a pony's lot, I've found. Even in that marvellous Valley where, if all remains well, Merrylegs still grazes, my hobbits did not come every day to see me in the stables or the pasture there. I can only assume they were busy about their own doings. I suppose our arduous journey was something of a blessing, for we were continually in each other's pockets, as one or another of my hobbits often put it. From their mild grumbling, I gained the surprising notion that hobbits are not always to be found in company with one another, no matter the impression I might have had from seeing their walking parties and picnics, as well as the nightly gatherings in the common room of the inn.

No, it seems that Hobbits, in their habits, are unlike horses and ponies – we are companionable beasts. In fact, Shadowfax informed me that wild horses naturally gather and travel in herds. But Hobbits – like Wizards, but certainly not to the same extent – are wont to spend at least some of their time alone.

Is it too much to ask for a moment of solitude? Just a little time to myself to hear my own thoughts! A curious idea, yet one I heard expressed on occasion by one or another of my hobbits as we journeyed to whatever destination was our aim.

Unlike Gandalf, who might go off by himself for hours at a time, my hobbits stayed relatively close together as we travelled. One might have thought they were as much herd-beasts as any pony, if not for the occasional grumble, and the fact that in the Valley of the Elves, they came to see me singly and in pairs oftener than all together. By comparison, as we journeyed, "a moment of solitude" might involve working at separate chores around our resting place – Youngest leading me to water or to patches of winter-faded grass, just the two of us alone in contrast to suffering the close attentions of hovering older cousins but still under the watching eye of one or another of the Tall Folk, or my Sam crouching apart from the rest of the Company, putting together a meal from my baggage or, on the rare occasions when we had a fire, stirring something in a pot, or Merry wandering wordlessly here and there, head down, stooping to examine a plant – sometimes he would pluck a leaf or stem and slip it between the pages of the small book he carried – or picking up sticks but never straying past the perimeter of our camp, or Master quietly laying out all my hobbits' bedrolls whilst the others were busy elsewhere.

When I am in my loose box, I have rather more time to hear my own thoughts than I might wish for. I am very glad for the companionship I find in our daily outing to one or another of the pastures outside the town but inside the Hedge and Dike, despite the inevitable reminder of the danger to the town offered by the sight of hobbits equipped with horns and whistles to sound the alarm and bows to fend off invaders, watching with sombre vigilance over the top of the Hedge, their eyes scanning the countryside for any sign of movement. For their part, Men of the town guard the Gates. Those men and Hobbits who are not on Watch go about their business armed and with half an ear cocked for the sound of a horn blowing in warning. From talk I have overheard amongst the stable workers, the inhabitants of Archet and Staddle and Combe have erected makeshift barricades around their communities which they guard in much the same way as the townsfolk of Bree. Sadly, folk whose homes and holdings were more solitary have had to abandon the land and move their families to one of the towns for safety. Roving robbers and thieves, rogue Men – and worse things! – are said to venture out of the depths of the Wood, especially between dusk and dawn. Outside the walls and barricades, terror rules the dark hours. Even when the Sun is high above the land, decent folk have come to avoid venturing out alone, and they do not stay away for long once the shadows begin to lengthen.

At the same time, the town and its immediate surroundings are peaceful. It is as if the Bree folk are determined to live their lives as they always have, to the best of their ability. Perhaps it is their way of fighting the darkness? Just as the Rangers rode away South, where I heard them say battle awaits them, the Breelanders have chosen to stand and fight the battle here when it comes to them.

Thrice since that deadly attack on the town, ruffians or worse have tested Bree's Watchers and Defenders. Three times, the townsfolks' rapid response has seen them slink away, thwarted before they could even begin their mischief.

Yet the glimpses of day-to-day life I see as we pass through the streets between inn and pastureland and back again remain unchanged, to all appearances. Children play, running and shouting or sitting quietly in small groups, tossing marbles or making mud-pies, or so I gather from what I overhear, though it is news to me that mud is good to eat. The sound of the blacksmith's hammer rings on the slowly warming air, the vendors in the marketplace cry out their wares, mothers sing to their sleepy babes, Men and Hobbits gather in small knots and talk and even, upon occasion, laugh. Laundry flaps upon clotheslines, smoke rises from chimneys, sometimes carrying the smells of baking bread or roasting meats or savoury stews, and sprouting plants are beginning to poke their heads above the soil in the window-boxes and small front gardens that we pass along our way.

Soon it will be time to plough the fields inside the Hedge, and perhaps outside the town as well, though the stable workers do not sound all that certain about the latter, debating the depredations of ruffians and the difficulty of spreading themselves too thin, what with the need to mount a guard over any fields outside the Hedge and Dyke in addition to those watching all along the Hedge surrounding Bree and at all the Gates of the town. The choice seems to be between exposing more folk to danger and pulling more workers from their work to serve as guards and defenders, or the possibility of hungering when Winter comes round again, as it always does. Sober talk for sober times.

And yet, life goes on, much as it always has. Better, even, from my standpoint. For when I last lived in Bree, I spent my days hauling too-heavy loads, and my nights locked up in a shed, all alone, with none for company save a surly Man or my own despairing thoughts.

I am of two minds. For my Sam to come to me now, I gather that he would have to travel through great peril. I would not want to imagine him in danger! If staying away means that he is safe, then so be it. 

Even so, if he should walk through our stable door in the next moment, my life would be complete, regardless of the danger that threatens our town and its surroundings. At least, having braved the perilous Road, he would be as safe here as anyone.

(Dare I hope that all my hobbits might return to me, all together, and all of them whole and well? Or is this my life now, and I will only see them in my memories and dreams?)

'Such a deep sigh!' Bert says, stopping in passing to pat my nose. 'Don't worry, Poppet,' – for he has taken to calling me by the name my little butterfly prefers. 'Tall Bob has almost finished measuring out everyone's evening portion of grain.'

I rest my face against his breast, and he pauses a few moments longer, stroking and soothing, as if he understands my longing... for my Sam... for Youngest... for Merry and for Master... for my butterfly-flower-maid and for my Friend the Brown Wizard... and yes, for Bob the stable-master, whose essence still lingers in the loving attention of his under-grooms to their duties even though he visits us only once a week nowadays, and for all too brief a time.

What will become of us? Perhaps it is better not to wonder but, rather, to live each day as it comes.

***