Chapter 71. Whispers, deep in the night

~ S.R. 1419, 13 March, between midnight and dawn ~

As the night deepens and after the grooms' evening chores are done, concluding with the lullaby they always sing to bid the stable dwellers a quiet and restful night, a veritable procession of stable hobbits passes before my eyes, one by one, over the stretch of weary hours. Ham is the first. The old hobbit is slow but thorough in reapplying a coating of liniment from where my neck begins at my ears to my shoulders, then down each leg, and then along my body to the base of my tail. Every so often, he takes my water bucket from its hook and holds it before my nose so that I have no need to stir hoof, and coaxes me to drink. I do, and not only to oblige him, for I thirst – though he does not offer enough water for me to drink my fill. Perhaps he fears I will founder myself. Several times while he is with me, he cups a palmful of grain under my nose and urges me to eat, but food holds no appeal. When my head droops too far, and I think about folding my legs to lie down in the straw, he stops me, though I do not know why.

Then this-Bob comes into my box and tells the older hobbit to take some rest. He performs all the same services, small and large, that busied Ham over the past few hours. As Ham did before him, the ostler takes pains to keep me standing. While horses and ponies can sleep standing up, I wish I could lie myself down in my soft bed and stretch out my aching limbs. But for reasons beyond my understanding, such luxury is not allowed.

Pepper is next. Indeed, for the time being I have two attendants; the ostler lingers to murmur extensive and detailed instructions to the younger worker before he takes himself off, presumably to the bed in the inn that his Master arranged for him. They do not want him stumbling through the darkness alone, as I seem to recall, not even the relatively short distance between the Pony and his unassuming but pleasant smial, as old Ham once described it to Tall Bob when they were spreading fresh straw in my box. 

'It may be unassuming, but that's our Bob all over,' Ham said that day. 'The only argument I can see succeeding would be for Master Butterbur to persuade the hobbit that he ought to move his family permanently to that suite in the Pony's north wing that was made special for hobbits. He'd even be doing the Master a favour of sorts, for though the single and double rooms in that part of the inn have seen a few visitors, the suite has been standing empty since the Turning o' the Year. That way, he'd be on the spot should a middle-night emergency arise in the stables!'

'I'm that sad to disagree,' came Tall Bob's answer, 'seeing as how he's not allowed to do stable work at present.' He straightened up and rubbed at his back, met my watching eye and nodded at me, then added, '...and I cannot stretch my mind far enough to imagine any emergency that might come up in the middle night concerning the records he's keeping for the Master at present.'

The two grooms worked in silence for a breath or two, then, 'Unassuming, or so someone accustomed to little luxuries might say in describing their smial, Bob's and Pansy's,' repeated Ham, going back to the subject of the ostler's smial, 'but my word for it would be "homely"... what with all the little touches Pansy has added to make the place pleasant and comfortable. Even with Bert boarding with them, they don't need no more space nor more possessions. "Just more to have to dust and polish!" as Pansy said the other day, when the Master tried to give her that box of lamps from the lumber room, that they might have brighter light in the smial for the time being. And, that said, don't our Bob seem to lack for nothing?! He's got all he needs – his beloved, and their daughter, and his precious four-footed charges...'

'He's lacking the latter at the moment, as things stand,' Tall Bob countered, as he forked another load of straw from the wheelbarrow onto the pile of fresh bedding to one side of my box.

But Ham only laughed as he bent to spread the bedding in an even layer over the half of the box where I was not standing. The old groom would finish the work once Tall Bob took our cohort to the meadow. 'You watch, boy-o,' he said. 'He'll work his way back to the stables right under old Barliman's nose and be shovelling and scraping and brushing and combing and polishing before the Man realises he's even left the premises!'

And that wise and seasoned groom had the right of it! For here the hobbit is, the inn's ostler, I mean, in the middle night, even – which seems to be no problem, despite his current state of health. As one or another of the grooms under him has said, he could find his way between the stables and the inn proper blindfolded if he had to. I have no idea why he might have to do such a thing.

The uneasy thought hits me that if there were a fire, and thick, blinding smoke...

But since this-Bob could find his way to the stables in such circumstances, to my understanding, I suppose I ought to be reassured.

And so I heave a sigh.

This-Bob breaks off his instructions and turns to me at once. 'Is it paining you so, Bill-my-lad?' he asks, gently caressing my face. To Pepper, he says, 'Come, let us apply the balm again. You take his near side, and I'll take his off side, and we'll be done twice as fast. And then, perhaps, we can coax him to drink a little...' 

'But you're supposed to be resting, yourself,' the younger hobbit protests.

The stable-master holds up a staying hand. 'I won't rest, not if I know our poor Bill is hurting,' he says. 'Let us do all we can to ease him, and then I'll take myself off to my bed after I check on the lad.' He takes up one of the bottles from the bucket near the door of my loose box, pours a generous amount into the palm of his hand, and begins to rub his hand along my neck, nodding to Pepper to do the same.

Even as he follows suit and starts to smear the strong-smelling but soothing ointment on the other side of my neck, moving slowly towards my withers, Pepper shakes his head. 'Hitchin' one pony to do the work o' four,' he says bluntly. 'He near-to killed our Bill with his ill-thought-out...'

'Hush!' this-Bob reproves. 'Bert had no time to think, from what they told me.'

'No time,' Pepper echoes, then adds, 'even so...' 

'Bert and Bill are heroes,' the ostler insists. 'Without them, the Man would surely have died, crushed under the tree, along with those who were digging him out from under... None of the ruffians who were caught under survived, and it was a near thing for the woodman.'

'He was lucky enough to be struck down over a pocket of soft soil, from what I heard. Just a step or two to the side, where rocks pierced the ground, and he'd've suffered the same fate as the robbers,' Pepper agrees. With some wonder, he adds, 'They said, 'twas almost as if the tree came into the battle on the Woodmen's side!'

This-Bob snorts at such an idea – a tree, defending axe-bearing creatures. 'I s'pose stranger things have happened,' he mutters. His balm-bearing hand strokes gently over my ribs, and I cannot suppress a moan, bruised and battered as I feel, from head to toe and nose to dock. 'Steady, Bill,' he says to me. 'The balm will bring you ease, I promise it will.'

To Pepper, he says, 'And as I said, without Bill's courage and effort, more would've died! One of the archers who took it upon himself to escort Bert and Bill homewards, told me that when one of the restraining ropes broke, if Bill had not been there to anchor their efforts, the remaining woodmen on the lines would not have been able to hold the tree; 'twould have come down immediately and without warning – on Alder's rescuers as well as the trapped woodman himself. No,' he says, and his hand stops on my hip as I hear him draw a deep breath. 'No,' he repeats, 'Bill and Bert saved more than one life this day, and I'm not just talking about the trapped woodman, nor do I mean just him and his rescuers... For e'en before that, the supplies they carried to Archet at a gallop all the way... they were critical, young Tom told me as we loaded the waggons that went with him, to sustain life in those struck down in the battle and most grievously wounded, and for those who'd been badly burned fighting the fires, at least until he could reach the town and apply his healing arts...' 

Pepper has paused, too, during this recital, but now both ostler and under-groom resume their ministrations, while Pepper says quietly, 'So, Bill... How does it feel to be a hero?'

My head droops in utter weariness, though I manage to hold my sore, bruised muzzle high enough to keep from touching the straw just beneath my nose. I inhale deeply, concentrating on the scent of sunshine and summer breezes, and exhale a low, soft snort. It hurts.

At last, after telling Pepper to offer me a small amount of water and a handful of grain every quarter-hour or so, this-Bob takes his leave. But the younger groom insists on lighting a lantern and escorting him to the inn's entrance. 'I'll come right back to the stables, o' course... but Bill will want to know you came safely to your own rest.'

I nod and lift my head briefly to snort my agreement. I am glad he will not have to stumble through the darkness alone.

***