Chapter 73. Interlude takes a worrying turn

~ from early morning until late in the day ~

'Letty!' At the ostler's shout, I waken slightly from my dreaming to find that some, at least, of what I had thought was a dream is reality. 'Letty! What do you think you're doin', girl?!' Incredible as it seems, my little flower's lap takes on form and solidity under my cheek. Her small fingers are stroking my forehead and combing through my forelock, and I can feel her tears continuing to fall onto my face, one after another.

But she only sobs in answer and encircles my head with her arms once more in a sad, gentle hug.

'She must've woken when I pounded on your door, heard what I said, and then slipped out while we were gathering the helpers,' comes Pepper's voice from the direction of my stall door.

But the straw rustles, and then another voice, the voice of an older hobbit, speaks quietly, close to my ear, as if the speaker has crouched down near my head. 'Steady now, lad. Steady.'

Frankly, I'm not sure how I could manage to be any steadier than I am at this moment, stretched out along the floor of my box stall, and barely able to move a muscle. I gather all the strength I can muster, and twitch an ear to indicate I'm listening.

The voice is familiar – I've heard it somewhere before, and recently, I think? – yet it is unfamiliar at the same time. I've met the speaker, it seems to me, at least once. Perhaps more than once? I do not know, and my muddled thoughts are not helping. I am feeling weary, almost to exhaustion... nay, beyond it, as a matter of fact. Trying to stand up again would be pointless. My legs have already proven that they will not carry me as I wish. Added to these difficulties, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to draw breath.

'Come along, lass,' the voice says.

My flower tries to protest, the words broken and interspersed with sobs. I try to raise my head; I would defend her, though I've not an inkling how. On second thought, I might've done better to leave my head lying in Violet's lap, to help her by holding her in place. For the ostler exclaims in wonder, and the known-unknown voice agrees, 'I'd hardly credit it, but look at him! He's lifting his head to help us,' ...as she is pulled away, out from under. When, out of weakness, I must let my head drop again, she is gone, and there is only straw where once my Violet cradled me.

From a place near the door to my box stall, I can still hear my flower-butterfly. 'No! No! My poppet! He needs—!'

And the known-unknown voice has also moved away, and seems to be trying to soothe the child. 'A downed pony is dangerous, child. If he should take it in his head to try to stand up again...'

'My poppet would never hurt me!' Violet cries. 'Never!'

I murmur a whicker of agreement and toss my head in the straw – which hurts.

But Violet misunderstands. 'He's calling for me!' she sobs. 'Please—!'

Young Bert has come, too, for I hear him next; and he understands, just as he always does. 'Let her sit on a bucket in the corner, out of the way, and speak to him. She can help to keep him calm... They are great friends, you know.'

Though I can see only dimness and shadows, I have the impression of several bodies, crowding into my box stall. I might even say "many bodies" (except that I cannot see them to try and count them). The stall feels increasingly crowded from the sound of mingled voices, speaking very quietly indeed, along with other sounds that I cannot identify.

The dog whines... but as he neither barks nor growls, I take no alarm. He is just outside my box stall, from the sound of him.

My flower's voice sounds from her usual corner where she always sat in our earliest days, chatting with Bert and me as Bert groomed me. I remember how she came to me every day after the battle of Bree, right up until this-Bob was able to return to his small but comfortable smial. Even after that, she persuaded her mum and dad that frequent visits to the stables were not only necessary but essential.

*** 

Just like old times! I hear Youngest crowing in the dim depths of my memories.

And Merry answers, as always, Old times!? What would you know about old times, Pip? Why, you're barely out of faunthood!

To which Youngest retorts, If I'm barely out of faunthood, why, then, that would make you a gaffer, I should think, my fine Brandybuck!

And Master, laughing so heartily so as to have trouble getting any words out, gasps, If Merry's a gaffer, I hate to think what that makes me! Or Bilbo, for that matter...

At the very least, it makes you ancient! Youngest replies without missing a beat. Why, you fit in quite well here in Rivendell, alongside all the other antiquities to be found hereabouts!

Myself included, I should hope? says the Old Pet mildly, sending his three younger cousins into such gales of laughter that when it ends, Master stands bent over, holding his stomach and gasping, No more! I beg of you...!

...while Middle and Youngest are rolling on the ground, consumed with merriment.

*** 

Later, as Gandalf stood by the fence and fed me pieces of carrot, he said to the Lord Elrond, And that is exactly why I think those young cousins of his should accompany the Ring-bearer, and not just his faithful Samwise...

When the Elf-lord would have argued further, the grey wizard added, Why even your doughtiest warriors, upon returning to Imladris from confronting the dangers of the outer world, Orcs and Wargs and, lately, the Nine, celebrate by over-imbibing and perching in trees and singing nonsensical songs!

At which point, the argument seemed to be over. For the Elf-lord returned no reply but only shook his head as he turned away.

*** 

I waken again from my dreams of the marvellous Valley. Ready! A voice sounds from above me, rising above the rest of the voices I hear in my stall. Not my Voices, I mean, but the voices of several Men and Hobbits who seem to be working together. Ready! he repeats. Carefully now! It is as if a Man or perhaps a Hobbit is floating in the air above me. Since I have so recently floated in the air, I cannot summon the energy to feel curious about the matter. Several other voices answer, though I cannot make out individual words in the muddle. 

This-Bob and Bert are the closest of all, to me, that is. I can feel the familiar touch of the ostler's hand on my neck near my withers, gently stroking. Bert must be crouching beside him, for his hand rubs my neck close to my ears. Their voices blend together in a soothing litany of steadiness, calm and reassurance. Occasionally either the stable master or the youthful groom raises his voice, but only slightly, to remind someone to stand behind me and not near my legs and feet, lest the sudden inclination should take me to scramble to my feet. (Hah. As if I could.) All around me other conversations are taking place, short exchanges, questions asked and answered, a longer explanation here and there, all very quiet in tone.

Eventually the familiar-unfamiliar voice speaks, and all the others fall silent. There now, he says. Ease the straps under him...

Fitting harness is a familiar sensation, one I have felt many times in my life, though I must admit it has never happened before when I was lying down. I twitch an ear but am no wiser for listening.

Right, then, the voice goes on. Haul away, my friends. But gently! Slowly, now. Easy... Easy, now... Not too fast...

What ever they are doing does not sound easy. I am distracted from trying to work out what the Men and Hobbits are doing, however, by the feeling that I am rising from my bed of straw.

Am I about to take to the air once more, to float away? But my body feels heavy, earthbound... I sag in the harness and swivel my ears, hearing the grunts of labouring Men around me. Labouring at what, I've no idea.

Harness? I am to pull a sledge? ...a waggon?

...now?

I shake my head – or I try to do so, and immediately receive encouragement and reassurance from this-Bob and young Bert. They are standing together before me. Through my blurred vision, I see them reaching out to me. Something – their hands, working together as one? – is supporting my heavy head even as the rest of my body rises. Four hands, or three, perhaps, for one hand is stroking my neck, an added measure of soothing.

But do they really intend to hitch me to a waggon? Is it time to start again? I can almost hear Youngest's voice as my Sam rouses him from his bedroll after the Company has rested through the daylight hours.

But no. I am not with the Company any longer. I remember now. I was to pull a waggon with the relief party bringing supplies to relieve Archet's distress. The long night has passed, and dawnlight is beginning to brighten the high windows above us.

Curiously, I hear the voice of my dam. You must always do your best, she is saying. We are only ponies, after all, and must trust that our master has sound reasons for all he does. To think otherwise is to descend into confusion and, perhaps, darkness.

I would snort a protest despite the sharp nip I know is coming to me, but I am weary, weary almost to exhaustion, and I fear that my legs will not carry me as I wish. I will be too slow to keep up with the others on the miles-long path between Bree and Archet.

My eyes are dimming again, and I cannot see the other ponies and waggons, nor the Men and Hobbits who were surrounding me but a few moments ago. Where have they all got to in the mist? As I lift my head and ready myself to try to make a spurt, I seem to hear my best-beloved hobbit calling to me. Come on! ...or you'll be too late again!

I lift my heavy legs, one at a time, intending to drive myself forward, though for some reason I seem unable to make any progress at all in stirring from this spot where I find myself.

A shout of warning echoes. Watch out! He's coming awake! 

Thrashing... says someone else. Mind the hoofs...!

Steady, Bill, this-Bob soothes from somewhere just in front of my nose, though I cannot see him at the moment. All's well, old lad...

But all is not well! For through a rift in the drifting fog, I can see my Sam. He is close by me once more, gasping for breath; and sweat and tears are running down his face. Impatiently, he draws his sleeve across his face and swears. Curse the filth! And then he springs away, into the gathering fog, thicker and more ominous than the thin mist that surrounded us earlier.

But there is solid ground under my hoofs now, and I scramble to follow, for though my weariness is growing, seeing the fog swallow my Sam hardens my will all the more. (The resulting cries of alarm and warning that erupt on all sides of me are but dream echoes... They must be...)

If I had only the sound of my hobbit's footsteps to guide me, I would be lost, for hobbits walk and even run lightly indeed. Despite his weariness and desperate haste, my Sam is moving with caution. And so I suppress my desire to whinny after him, to snort, to tell him I am coming. He is in a tearing hurry, and I think he has forgot me for the moment. All his thoughts bend towards the Master and catching up with the dreadful creatures – whose dark shapes resemble the horrors I saw, all too recently, in the Chetwood before the Rangers found us... catching up with the dreadful creatures that are bearing the Master to some uncertain but undoubtedly terrible fate!

My breath quickens, though it represents something of an improvement. When I was lying down, I remember, breathing was growing increasingly difficult. Standing up with the aid of this-Bob's helpers has brought me relief.

Nonetheless, this-Bob's stroking of my neck intensifies to rubbing, and his voice takes on additional urgency. Steady Bill!

All will be well, Bill, I promise! Bert half-sobs. At a little distance, Violet repeats the words, though her young voice sounds firm and strong, and she calls me Poppet rather than Bill.

Hold! sounds the familiar-unfamiliar voice. Right about there... A little slack... yes, there! Let his hoofs touch the ground, but without bearing more than a fraction of his weight...

Fraction? someone mutters nearby. Because of the low tone he uses, I cannot tell if the questioner is Man or Hobbit.

A small part, someone else answers. Just a small piece of the whole cake, as it were. The answer sounds hobbity.

But my Sam's distress distracts me from the other conversations around me, pulls me away from the stables as the thick fog encloses me again, blotting out the sight of my box stall and the bodies standing all around me, Men and Hobbits mingling together to work at some incomprehensible endeavour. When I catch up to him, he is clutching at a great block of stone and reeling, and I fear he will fall to the ground at any moment.

I push at him with my nose, sore and bruised as it may be, to let him know I am here. Should he falter, I will carry him onward, to where ever it is he wishes to go. My determination stiffens my legs under me...

Look! He's standing...! Bearing some weight!

Much better, the familiar-unfamiliar voice intones. Bob-my-lad, he adds, implying he is much older than the ostler (who is no spring chicken, as my Sam might say), let us tie off the lines and go, find some breakfast, let the grooms begin their morning work and give the pony some peace. He's already breathing better... The straps and harness will fill in for his lack, and support him until he regains enough strength to stand on his own. 

You fool, my Sam says, he isn't dead, and your heart knew it.

O' course I'm not dead! I push at my Sam again. It must be a trick of my imagination, but I could almost swear my nose burrows into his shoulder as if the two of us are made of mist.

Refusing to be comforted, my Sam is still berating himself. Don't trust your head, Samwise, it is not the best part of you...

I would beg to differ! My Sam is the bravest, cleverest...

...you never really had any hope. Now what is to be done?

As if in answer, the familiar-unfamiliar voice says, ...so now all that is to be done is to assign two watchers to keep an eye out for any trouble, and let's the rest of us go and tuck into the good breakfast that, for certain and all, young Barliman has been stirring up even as we've been working here to save the pony. And save him, I've no doubt, is what we've just done! Lying down put too much strain on his heart and lungs, but I deem that he's safe now...

Hear that, Bill? Bert whispers in my ear. You're safe, lad.

I would shake my head and snort but for the fact that my Sam has moved with as much stealth as he could manage, at least up to this point, even in his exhaustion; and I would not invite danger to fall upon him due to the carelessness of making any noise of my own that I can avoid with some effort on my part. Not as long as I retain enough wit to remain quiet and go softly, that is.

But now my hobbit seems to forget all caution as a wild fury overcomes him! I got it all wrong! he cries. I knew I would. Now they've got him, the devils! the filth!

I am confused. Filth and devils would be the last terms I would be inclined to apply to this-Bob and Bert!

Things become clearer with my Sam's next breath. Never leave your master, never, never: that was my right rule. And I knew it in my heart. May I be forgiven! Now I've got to get back to him. Somehow, somehow!

To my surprise, he leaps against the great block of stone standing before us, catches the top, scrambles up, and drops. Somehow I manage to follow, though I've no idea how. The only thought in my mind is that I must not lose him in this maze of tunnels, filled with fog and darkness.

Time is fluid, crawling and racing by turns. Nevertheless, in the eternity that it took me to gather myself and then leap over the barrier, my hobbit has run far ahead. I see his sword blazing in his hand as he rounds a bend. Galloping now, I race to follow. 

He's dreaming, I think, Ham murmurs from not far away, though I had no idea he was here in the tunnel with us. The dog does much the same, twitching his paws in his sleep.

One o' these days, you're going to have to give that dog a name, you know, someone answers. I cannot put a name to the voice.

Do you think I should fetch...?

Fetch! That's a name that would fit him well! But no, my friend. Let Bob and old Master Underhill fill themselves with good food and rest a bit, for Bob's looking a little peaked, to my eyes; and Master Underhill not only directed the foresters in getting the pony down off that slippery slope to the pathway, but he marched all the way back to Bree to keep an eye on our poor, brave fellow. And he's not getting any younger!

But...

He's breathing well now, as you surely can see for yourself, Ham. I may only be an old farmer, run off my land by ruffians and now stuck behind the Hedge and Dyke, but I knows as much about ponies as you, for sure and certain. I've ploughed leagues of furrows, and I've nursed my share of sick or injured beasts... He's fine for now, I trow, and – if Nob cannot persuade his brother to rest himself lest he fall ill himself – doubtless Bob will be out here again in short order, as soon as he's gulped down enough breakfast to hold body and soul together.

That's what worries me, Ham says under his breath.

The other watcher laughs and, from the sound of it, slaps the old groom on the shoulder. All the more reason not to go and fetch the stable master, I say! Let 'im graze himself full o' good grass – or what Barliman's stirred up, anyhow – before he drags his sorry carcase out to the stables again...

The dim, foggy passage before me twists and turns, demanding more of my attention. No longer heeding the nearby voices of Ham and the unnamed farmer, I round a corner, only to see the light of my Sam's sword just vanishing around the next turn.

The fear of losing my dear hobbit altogether is enough to rouse me to a last effort beyond thought of weariness. The chase assumes dreamlike proportions; no matter how hard I push myself forward, the ground seems to stretch ahead of me, increasing the distance I must travel to reach my Sam.

Boom! echoes through the tunnel, followed by clang! As I round what turns out to be the final corner, the fog lifts briefly, and I see my Sam hurl himself against the bolted brazen plates of a pair of great double doors. I lift my head to whinny, I'm coming!

But the thick fog closes in once more, dulling my voice to a mere rumble in my throat.

When I reach him at last, my hobbit lies senseless on the ground. I stretch my head down to him; I would nudge him – to what purpose is not clear, even to me. Do I seek to rouse him if I can? Would I reassure him that he is not alone, that I am here with him in this terrible place?

My thoughts are muddled, as if the fog has crept under my skin and inside my head.

A last thought bursts upon me, even as I fold my legs and settle to the floor to wait beside my Sam. Or perhaps I remain standing over him, guarding him, so long as he remains unmoving and helpless, from any peril that might come our way. I am unclear as to the exact details. Neither do I have any clue as to what we will do when my hobbit regains his senses. But somehow, in this moment, I have the certain knowledge that, somewhere beyond these great doors, the Master is alive – but taken by the Enemy.

*** 

Author's notes: 

In case you were wondering, the old horse-healer from Staddle has directed the rigging of a sling to hold Bill upright in his stall. Equine physiology requires them to be upright most of the time; the frog in each hoof supplements the heart's efforts in pumping blood, for one thing, but the animal must be standing up for the mechanism to work. Pneumonia, colic and other serious health issues can also result from lying down for more than an hour or three at a stretch.

Sam's words, as quoted here, and much of the descriptive phrasing connecting Bill to Sam's perspective at this point in time come from 'The Choices of Master Samwise' in The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.

***