Chapter 64. I am a party to mysterious happenings

Even as my tongue is still searching out the last crumbles of sugar from the small gardener-child's grimy palm while his other hand caresses my face, my senses alert me to a disturbance in the crowd, a kind of stirring, like an eddy in an otherwise smooth-flowing stream. I lift my head high to look over the surrounding children, and there is young Bert, thrusting his way through the press of bodies. His voice rises above the usual murmur of conversation: 'Make way! Make way!'

I stand ready to move, to make way should he continue to move in my direction – as he does. But when he reaches Tall Bob, he stops, panting for breath as if he has run all the way here from the inn.

Tall Bob steadies him and immediately demands, 'What is it, Bert? Has your uncle...?'

Which uncle the Man was asking after, this-Bob or that-Nob, I may never know, for the tween interrupts him by taking my lead rope from his hands and gasping, 'The Master says Bill was taught to take a rider in his earlier years... He's sent me for the pony...!'

'What's he on about?' Tall Bob protests. 'Master Butterbur's too heavy for even the sturdiest pony, even our Bill!'

'He's not riding, I am!' Bert counters. 'Help me up, now!'

Tall Bob understands him before I can begin to grasp the implications, for with shocking suddenness, I feel weight settle on my back. I look round – yes, young Bert is sitting on my back; the Man-groom has lifted him into place and is steadying him there, as if he's not sure I will tolerate this state of affairs and might take it into my head to toss the tween into the air.

Around us, the children are cheering lustily!

My head comes up almost of itself as I feel the tween's legs lightly resting but, at the same time, exerting slight but steady pressure against my sides. I prick one ear forwards and the other back to heed my rider, and I stand foursquare under his confident seat, awaiting orders. His weight on my back feels light compared to that of a grown hobbit or a Man. Perhaps if he were not so competent a rider, I would prance under him, considering the circumstances. But even in his agitation, which I can feel very clearly pouring from him as a stream pours over the top of a cliff in the form of a waterfall, the hobbit tween's hands – his seat – his legs communicate calm, and so I am able to stand fast.

Tall Bob seems reassured; he moves to my nose and takes up the call that only moments ago heralded Bert's approach. 'Make way!' At Bert's signal, I begin to walk through the space the Man opens ahead of us. My friends' cheers turn to waving hands and arms (which no longer startle me), accompanied by farewells, with an occasional See you on the morrow! sprinkled in. Once we are free of the crowd, we break into an easy canter as of one accord.

I had no idea that Bert was such an accomplished rider! With no saddle, and only a lead rope and shifting of his weight to guide me, he directs me to The Prancing Pony, where this-Bob and Nob and the innkeeper are waiting for us. Nob bears a saddle and bridle, and while he rapidly saddles me, this-Bob, who has taken up the bridle, offers me the bit – I bend my neck and open my mouth obligingly, of course – and buckles the bridle in place.

Only as young Bert mounts once more do I notice the bulky package in the innkeeper's hands, which he slips into a bag whose strap he then settles over the tween's shoulder, saying, 'Gallop all the way if you can.' Belatedly, I realise he has been pouring out instructions to the tween whilst the others fitted me for riding.

This-Bob slaps my neck. 'He can do it,' he says proudly. 'He was all muscle and sinew when he came to us, and since then he's added substance with rest and good feeding.'

'Tell them the healer will be following as soon as he can,' the innkeeper interposes. 'We've got to drum up an armed escort for young Tom; he's the only healer left in these parts at the moment, and we're not going to take the chance that robbers or worse might beset him...'

'But you ought to be able to thread the needle with Bill-here,' this-Bob says to the tween on my back. 'From what old Rushlight told me, this pony's bloodlines include speed as well as stamina...'

'Well Rushlight ought to know,' Nob agrees, and the innkeeper nods and then steps back out of our way.

Without further ado we are off – but not galloping, not quite yet. Bert keeps me at a steady trot over the cobblestone streets of Bree, all the way to South-gate, which we find already open and waiting. Not exactly inviting, however; a group of grim-faced Men armed with clubs and bows and long knives in their hands are guarding the opening, but on hearing our approach, they turn and see us, then part to allow us to pass the gateway. 

We canter over the causeway, my hoofbeats ringing hollow, and as Bert turns my head northwards, to take a more direct line than the Road would offer towards Staddle, and Combe and Archet beyond, from the corner of my eye, I see the gate has already been shut and, most likely, barred against intruders.

Against us, as well, comes the curious but rather disturbing thought. But surely the Watchers at the Gate would open it for us when they should see us returning, whether at an easy pace or all-out, desperate gallop to reach the safety behind the wall...?

The hobbit tween on my back signals for speed, and I oblige him, though my gallop is easy, even enjoyable rather than panicked, meant to cover ground quickly, but not the pace I would set when fleeing from enemies.

Some how, I do understand one of the reasons I have been chosen for this task, what ever it might be. Strangely enough, and just as in the time before this (but then I was ill-fitted to set out on a long and arduous journey, having been overworked and underfed), I am the only pony remaining in the town, in a manner of speaking. All the other horses and ponies are out and about, fully occupied with pulling ploughs to waken the fields both inside and outside the walls from their winter sleep, and likely already growing weary and stiff from days of effort with too little rest. For there are not as many plough-beasts left in the Bree-lands as there should be, not if all the necessary ploughing is to be accomplished before sowing begins. I am the only beast available that is fresh enough to gallop "all the way", where ever that may turn out to be.

Only now does it occur to me that I have no idea where we are going, or why.

But that is a pony's lot in life, as I have experienced it. Even as I travelled with the Company, I knew not our purpose or destination, a state of affairs that lasted for as long as I was with them. Come to think on it, to this day I still do not know where they are bound, nor have I the slightest inkling as to why they must make the endeavour. All I knew for certain – and still believe – is that they were and are trustworthy companions.

Bert, young as he is, has also proven himself trustworthy over the relatively few days of our brief acquaintance.

And so, together as one, we forge onward at a gallop, into the unknown.

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