Chapter 67. Desperate times call for desperate measures 

~ S.R. 1419, 12 March, early afternoon (From the Tale of Years for this date: Gollum leads Frodo into Shelob’s lair.) ~

Having led us up the steep slope to a small piece of relatively flat and even ground above the fallen tree, where the marks in the dirt reveal that some ponies were tethered here earlier, the Man lifts a seeming jumble of straps and buckles from a peg driven into a nearby tree. Although this set of harness belonged to another pony, the former owner was a Bree-pony, and so the fit is relatively close if not exact. Nonetheless, despite the Woodman's obvious (and understandable) desire for haste, Bert takes precious time to check the fit and adjust several buckles. "...for if our Bill is to pull with all his strength, we don't want the harness slipping; nor do we want it to pinch!" 

At last, he is satisfied. He moves to my head and takes up my reins once more. 'Ready,' he says.

A cry comes from the hillside below us. Hurry!

'Come along then; follow me,' the Woodman says, nearly dancing in his impatience. 'Parts of the slope are unstable from the heavy rains we had last week, but I'll lead you and your Bill true, along the safest path.'

We follow. The footing is not to my liking, but Bert goes before me, and the Man goes before him. I must trust in their judgement and hope for the best, though I place each foot with deliberation as we go.

When we reach the scene of the disaster, the Man says, 'We'll hitch him here.' He raises his voice to add, though not to us but to other ears, 'Steady, lads! Help is at hand...'

Bert surveys the activity before us. Men strain at ropes that have been tied to the fallen tree and wound round the trunks of the nearby standing trees. I hear the voice of a Hobbit, though I cannot see the fellow, calling from behind or perhaps under the tree! 'Hurry! It's shifting...!' 

'The archers,' the Woodman blurts, 'they laid aside their bows to dig Alder free before the weight crushes him – but it's taking all our strength just to hold the tree and stop it sliding down. If the pony can take some of the weight, then more of us can dig...'

But Bert tugs at the Woodman's sleeve and looks up, craning his head backwards on his neck to confront the Man eye to eye. 'You had four ponies, you said; did it take all four o' them to drag the bole of a tree from the slope where you cut it down and trimmed off the branches, and on to the town to be hewn and then split or sawed?' 

The Man stands in Bert's grasp – quivering with eagerness, to be sure, but deferring to Bert as the one with authority over the pony whose strength they are borrowing. Which would be me.

(I have heard that outside the Bree-land, Men and Hobbits do not live in such harmony, where a Hobbit may have charge of Men, as well as vice versa, meaning "the other way round" as I have heard my own Hobbits use the phrase. I do not know what a versa is, nor how it might relate to a vice, but after listening to long-winded debates along the weary miles, I "get the gist", as Youngest is likely to say when he wearies of older cousins' explanations. But now is not the time for idle thoughts.)

At the Woodman's nod, Bert goes on, speaking rapidly as if to acknowledge the urgency of the matter, '...and now you propose to hitch one pony in the place of four? And the tree not yet trimmed, still having all its limbs?'

'The limbs are helping us,' the Man insists. 'They're holding the tree off the ground to some extent – just enough that we can keep the bole from crushing our friend and brother. Just enough!' he reiterates, 'enough that one pony can provide enough of a counterpull to win us time to dig. Please...' he says. 'Just as soon as we pull Alder free and get clear, I'll yell, and you can cut the traces – and let the tree roll or slide where it may! Here...' he fumbles at his side and brings forth a long, gleaming blade, nearly long enough to serve as a sword for a Hobbit.

As Bert takes it, he warns, 'Careful! 'Tis sharp enough to slice good-sized branches from their anchor! It ought to go through Bill's harness like a hot knife through butter!'

The hobbity reference to foodstuffs seems to reassure the tween, and he nods. 'Show us what to do,' he says.

And so the Man leads Bert and me along the length of the fallen tree to a point somewhere in the middle, where Bert turns me to face uphill and bids me stand, and the two of them... well, I am not sure exactly what the two of them are doing, but they move rearward and then out of contact with me, not even keeping a steadying hand on my rump. 

Soon there is a tug from one side and, almost immediately, another behind me and to the other side, and then a jerk that threatens to yank me backwards, whereupon an impossible weight takes form and shape behind me, heavier than any sledge I have ever been obliged to set my will against, whether urged onward by a kind, encouraging voice or the vicious slashes of a whip. Unaccountably, I suddenly feel as if a great spider has attached me to its web and is trying to pull me down to my doom. I saw such a thing, once, in our sunny meadow when a moth blundered into the web a spider had spun at the corner of the overhanging roof on our shelter... 

Cobwebs can be beautiful when the Sun sparkles from the morning dew, like jewels, or so I have heard Youngest breathe, his voice filled with wonder. But there is no wonder in the here and now, only increasing effort, as if some monster crouches behind me (a monster, rather than a poor felled tree, I mean) and would reel me in to devour me. The feeling grows stronger as the pull intensifies, slowly but inexorably. I set my feet and lower my head to strain against it, just as if the intention were for me to pull this great carcase of a tree up and over the lip of this steep-sided gorge.

The tree does not move, but neither am I dragged backwards. We pull at each other, the tree and I, much like a game of "tug" as I have seen Ham play with the dog that has come to live in the stables with us, only much more serious, of course. For the life of Alder – whether he be Man or Hobbit – hangs in the balance.

With my head down and all my muscles a-strain, I do not notice exactly when Bert moves to my head. I only know he is there when I hear his voice close by once more, speaking low but encouraging me in my effort. The Man is gone from the immediate vicinity, I deem; his voice sounds lower on the slope, no longer right behind me and almost close enough to kick if I so wished to do. But Bert stands firm at my side, and his hand is resting lightly just behind my ears. From the corner of my eye, I can see he is facing backwards, watching intently, the long knife grasped firmly in the hand farthest from me but held ready for the Woodman's signal.

I do not even know the Man's name; I know none of their names, Woodmen or Hobbit archers alike, except for their fellow whose life they are desperate to save. Alder. 

I entertain a hopeful thought: Perhaps he will have a carrot for me when all is done?

***