Chapter 68. Interlude begins

'Steady, Bill... Hold fast... They're almost...'

Bert's continuing stream of encouragement is interrupted by a shout that echoes in the deep valley below us, along with a sharp jerk that might have pulled me off my feet had I not planted them so firmly at the beginning of this mad endeavour. Indeed, my forelegs resemble trees growing out of the soil, and I can feel something surrounding and pressing against each back leg nearly up to their hocks. As I have strained, the ground I stand upon has risen up around me – or I have sunk into the hillside, pulled between the weight of the settling tree and my efforts, combined with those of the Men holding desperately to ropes to either side of us.

'What is it?' Bert shouts, standing straighter though his hand never leaves my neck. 'What's happening?'

'One of the lines has snapped – hold fast!' comes the answer from nearby, more of a grunt than a shout. I can just make out what he said through the strain in his voice. Clearly, the Men are working as hard as I am. Perhaps they are working harder since it is their friends and brothers who are under the tree, whether trapped or digging. 

In the midst of this emergency where I seem to be sinking, slowly but inexorably, I have the curious thought that at least these marshes have no midges. Youngest's, What do they eat when they don't have hobbits?, rings in my memory. I snort a laugh, incongruous as it may be.

Bert, mistaking my meaning, instantly reassures me. 'Steady, Bill... We're almost...'

At another shout that echoes from below us, the knife the tween holds in his off hand flashes as he lifts it away from his side; he springs towards my rearquarters – but I am pulling, head down, concentrating fiercely, seeing only the dirt and leaf mould under my nose, so I see nothing of his subsequent movements. Still straining, muscles quivering, lights dancing before my eyes, I hear him behind me; and then he yells something, words that I cannot make out.

And then... the weight behind me is gone. I think I hear the sound of cheers ringing in the air below us and to either side. Are we done?

Suddenly released, I stagger forwards, striking my nose sharply, with bruising force, against the hillside that rises before me. The soft earth is both a blessing and a bane, for when I try to pull one of my forefeet free of its hold, I cannot. Into the bargain, any movement, now that the intense effort is done, seems strangely painful. And so I stand, head down, blowing hard.

Suddenly Bert stands before me once more. Now that I think about it, he may have been standing before me for some moments, and I only noticed him when he cupped gentle palms beneath my jaw and tried to lift my head just now.

But the muscles in my neck protest at the slightest adjustment, and I groan in response. He quickly pulls his hands away and leans down, stroking my neck. 'Bill?' he whispers. 

Head drooping, I continue to gasp for air while I consider the situation.

My legs no longer answer to my thoughts; they have transformed into trees, growing from the hillside. Trees cannot walk, can they? Even though my Sam's cousin Hal thought he saw an elm tree walking on the North Moors. Only it was a Tree-man rather than an elm tree, or so my Sam told me on the second morning after we'd left Bree, as he untied me from the elm tree where they'd tethered me for the night. I found it all rather confusing at the time, and the idea is no clearer to me now, even after all I have experienced since that day, to be honest. 

Bert's raised voice interrupts my pondering. 'Help! Help us! Something's wrong with the pony!'

Am I a pony? My nose, too, seems interested in following the example set by my four limbs as my head droops further until my sore, bruised muzzle rests upon the earth of the slope above me. I am a tree. I seem to consist of four trees, actually, growing up from where my feet once stood. Soon to become five, perhaps, should my nose take root in the soil.

The passage of time has grown strange to my senses, moving in sudden jerks and then stopping again for long pauses. Thus, Men and Hobbits appear quite suddenly before me and around me where there was only a lone Hobbit tween the last time I took notice. They all seem to be talking at once; their words garbling together in meaningless babble, at first tinged with relief and good cheer but fading to concern, so far as I am able to follow the flow of their smell and the tone of their voices.

I take no notice as they move around me, for the world has become a dream, and nothing seems real.

Even the Voices are dimming, like the light that comes to my eyes. Has evening come already? We were supposed to reach Bree before teatime. The Master will not be pleased.

The Master?

The innkeeper's face, though already misty in my muddled thoughts, dissolves and gives way to another, dimly remembered ("dimly", as the feeling continues to grow that I am more an inhabitant of the forest than a denizen of the field) yet well-loved, even in my fading memory.

But I cannot quite see his face, for he is running away from me. He is shouting; somehow the words, filled with wild joy, are clear to me, unlike the muffled conversations going on around me. 'Come!' he cries. 'On! On!' High and wild and shrill his voice rings out, piercing my absorption with their urgent gaiety. 'The pass, Sam! The pass! Run, run, and we'll be through – through before anyone can stop us!'

I would lift my head free of the dirt... I would lift my legs, perhaps one at a time...

But I am become a small stand of trees, four of them at least. And soon, it seems, perhaps there will be five trees that were, once upon a time, a pony, growing out of the soft loam and leaf mould on this steep slope in the valley of Combe.

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Author's note: Frodo's words in this chapter, as heard by Sam (and by Bill, through Sam), are drawn directly from 'Shelob's Lair' in The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R.Tolkien.

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