Chapter 83. We work as a team 

The weather has continued fine. "Too fine", or so I have heard some mutters in the marketplace, the past morning or two. Yet it seems to me that rain would make the ground heavier and harder to break with the plough. I suppose I might welcome some cooler air, for the weather has continued unseasonably warm. Even my dam has remarked on it, and since her memory is much longer than mine, I trust she has the right of it.

This afternoon, as we pull the plough under Tall Bob's guidance and the protection of Hobbit archers and club-wielding Men, I ask her how weather can be too fine?

Sunshine is all well and good, she answers with a toss of her head that makes the plough stutter behind us due to the uneven pull. Get up there, my fine Lady! Tall Bob calls behind us, and she throws her weight into the collar once more with a murmured apology.

No offence taken, I answer, of course! —for how could I take offence in the first place, I ask you? If your neck feels stiff, o' course you must toss off the kinks!

My thanks to you for your courtesy, she says. I am glad to see that the time you spent with that ne'er-do-well did not spoil your manners. Now, as to weather that is too fine...

Yes? I ask to show that I am listening.

You have learnt enough to understand that too much of a good thing can lead to ill results rather than good, she says.

I nod, but not vigorously enough to disrupt our rhythm. Apples are delicious, but too many apples...

Exactly, she says, though she sounds a bit wistful at the thought of apples. Come to think on it, a juicy apple would be refreshing at this very moment as we labour in the heat of the day. The thought crosses my mind that we would be better served to plough during the freshness of the morning hours rather than in the afternoon when the day is warming. But nobody asked me. Nor, if there is a sound reason for it, has anyone seen fit to explain it to the sweating ponies. I suppose the others have it worse, for they must labour all the day, whilst my dam and I must plough for half-days only because of the bargain struck between the Master and the Rushlight family on behalf of my dam. 

And if they allowed us to drink our fill upon our return to the stables, we'd surely founder, I say. Though again, the thought of cool, refreshing, fresh-drawn water is certainly enticing. I snort to keep from sighing.

'Nearly there, Lad and Lassie!' Tall Bob calls encouragement.

Nearly where, I ask you? I say conversationally to my dam. How pleasant to spend the morning hours with her, ambling about the town and meeting with our many friends in the marketplace. And then we have the privilege of ploughing together through the afternoon hours! Why, the only thing I can think of that would be better would be the pasture rather than the plough – and Tall Bob has promised us that after the ploughing is all finished, the pastureland inside the Hedge and Dyke will be ready to welcome all of us once more!

It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good. I begin to understand the saying, I think. The robbers and villains and ruffians outside the walls, along with those dreadful dark shapes in the woods, could be compared to an ill wind. Yet because of them, Mistress Rushlight, our old Woman of Archet, has chosen to board my dam in the same stables where I am boarding!

And I am here, waiting for my Sam's return. And somehow, in the dim recesses of my mind where Gandalf's Voices whisper, is the idea that those robbers, villains and ruffians, along with those dreadful dark shapes in the woods, have something to do with my Sam being away for so long.

For I expected that he would return to that marvellous Valley. I do not know whence the thought originally arose, though it came to me at about the same time as the Voices, when the old grey wizard told me to make my way to places where I could find grass, and so come in time to Elrond’s house, or wherever I might wish to go. As things were, my thoughts were fixed upon my Sam at the time, as always, and wherever I might wish to go would never be anywhere but where I might find my Sam, and follow after him, and walk with him for mile after mile, if need be. I can only hope that, because he passed through Bree before, when my hobbits were on their way to that marvellous Valley, my dearest hobbit will pass through Bree again on his way homewards, and find me here waiting for him.

Where ever I might wish to go would even include the dark places where so recently we walked together, my Sam and I, in search of our Master, and where we found the dear hobbit at last. As a matter of fact, I would go back there if I could, if only I could follow my dearest hobbit thenceforth and forever after.

...or at least, for whatever amount of time might be allowed to us. For only the Elves live forever, or so I heard Youngest say once upon a time.

So deep in my thoughts am I that I am not so careful as I might be about my footing in the furrows, and I stumble. Though I recover quickly enough that I am in no danger of falling, I can feel some strain in my neck, back and limbs.

My dam and Tall Bob respond in almost the same breath: 'Steady, Lad!' and Child! Is it well with you?

I am well enough, I say to my dam, who has stopped – we have both stopped at Tall Bob's signal. The Man himself is at our heads in less time than it takes to speak of it, petting and soothing, with a hand for each of us.

'There now, my lassie and laddie, there,' he is saying. 'Have we done more than we ought, this day? Have we pushed the little lass's Poppet too far?'

I am well enough, I tell him, pushing my face past his stroking fingers so that it comes to rest against him with no risk of upsetting him in the dirt, tall and solid and strong as he is. He leans into me even as I lean into him, crooning. 'There now, Bill-my-lad, there now, Poppet-pet...'

After briefly embracing my head, he steps back and surveys us. 'Are you well enough to pull the waggon back to the inn?'

'Hullo!' A Hobbit archer has jogged to us from the edge of the field where he was standing watch, scanning the surroundings for any sign of robbers or ruffians – or worse, perhaps, though I have heard that the dreadful dark shadows in the woods seldom come out into the open, and even when they have been seen prowling outside the town's defences, they seem to eschew daylight. We have had a guard of eight watchers whenever we have ventured outside the Gates of Bree to plough, four Hobbits with bows and four Men with clubs, all very serious and watchful, and no robbers have seen fit to bother us. Thankfully. 'Is aught amiss?' Jocko, the archer asks, stopping to stroke my dam's glossy neck.

'The lad's a bit weary, I deem,' Tall Bob says. 'We've put in a good day's effort! I think we'll pack up and go back inside the walls a little early this day.' He cocks his eye at the smiling Sun, who has also nearly finished her course this day though she is still an hour or so from kissing the horizon, or so our Hobbit guard observes.

Jocko, who is in charge of our group of guardians, stops to whistle and gesture to the other watchers, and then he trots back to his chosen place at the edge of the field.

'Good thing we're heading in the right direction,' Tall Bob says to my dam and me, with a final pat for each before moving rearwards once more. I lift my head as I feel his hand take up the reins, as does my dam beside me, and we move forwards as one when he clucks to us. The blade of the plough digs into the ground once more, and we ponies lower our heads and pull with a will, carving a furrow that is straight and smooth as we make our way, a satisfying feeling. Knowing that supper and bed lie ahead is "gravy on the taters", or so my hobbits like to say.

Heading in the right direction means that our waggon, standing at the edge of the field, is almost directly ahead of us, and we are moving towards it as we plough our way. When we reach the edge, two of our guards – Men, that is – await us; they lay their clubs in the waggon and turn to us. One of them has a carrot in his pocket! ...which he breaks in half, giving each of us ponies a treat and a quick pat before he moves towards the plough behind us.

Working quickly together with Tall Bob, the Men free us from the plough and then lift the heavy implement between them with a count and a grunt of effort – One! Two! Three! And—! ...to be carried to the waggon and safely stowed, whereupon they take up their clubs once more from the waggon bed. I suppose this must be the moment when we would be the most vulnerable to an attack, except that the other Men and archers have closed around us and the waggon, forming an uneven ring of sorts, facing outwards, weapons at the ready.

Tall Bob guides us into place and then hitches us to the waggon. I turn my head to see the Hobbits take up their stations in the waggon bed, though not at their ease! No, but they stand relaxed but ready, and from what I have seen from the corner of my eye when I have looked around on our earlier excursions, they will remain standing, swaying with the waggon's motion, knees bending to absorb the jolts of the wheels passing over rocks or rough ground, all the while holding their bows at the ready and scanning the surrounding country with their bright, keen eyes.

The club-wielding Men walk beside us, two to either side, to beat off any direct threat to the ponies – meaning my dam and I. Thus, we bear the precious plough and irreplaceable, invaluable beasts (as I have heard Master Butterbur, and others as well, call us!) back to the nearest Gate and the safety of the town.

Once there, each of our guards has a pat and a good word for each of us ponies before calling their farewells to Tall Bob ('Same time tomorrow?') and moving off in different directions to return to whatever task awaits them next.

*** 

Upon our return to The Prancing Pony, Nob greets us at the stable door. 'I heard the clip-clop of their feet on the cobbles in the street!' he calls to our groom, who jumps down from the waggon and, in a few quick strides, stands at my head, though he reaches to chuck my dam under her jaw in a brief gesture of affection. 'You're back early! Was there a problem?'

'No ruffians,' Tall Bob is quick to reassure him, now rubbing my jaw. 'The lad stumbled – I thought he might be growing weary, for this latest field is a bit rockier than the ones before – and so we thought we'd call it a day.'

'Let me see...' Nob says, and he is quick to unharness me from the waggon. He leads me in a circle around the small yard before the stable door, and both Hobbit and Man scrutinise my gait.

'He's going well enough,' Nob decides after a circuit or two. 'I don't think he took any harm...'

I can only think they are being extra cautious with my dam and me because we are lodgers – boarders – rather than livery beasts for hire. The curious thought occurs to me that they are almost as solicitous as the members of our Company of travellers have been with me. But then, had I broken down along the way, I would have slowed their journey, which is not something I like to think about, for they seemed in need of haste as well as secrecy.

Nonetheless, though we were fated to make our way through wild and lonely lands, without proper food or shelter and beset by spies and other foes, I was happier with the Company in the darkest of circumstances compared to the lightest moment (and there were few enough of those) I might have experienced with Ferny during the interminable time I was forced to serve him. 

And now, here, in my present circumstances? I can only think I have fallen into the lap of luxury, as I have heard my Youngest hobbit say. I wondered for a long time after, actually, what exactly the tween was talking about. Despite his light tone, he smelled sad and worried. Despite their answering laughter, his cousins smelled grim to me, grim and determined, yet somehow daunted at the same time. That night, fallen into the lap of luxury seemed to mean a small fire, and a hot meal, and a longer-than-usual rest after my Sam nearly drowned in crossing an icy stream. Though at first, I'll admit, I thought that "lap of luxury" was another name for a river or stream, the quiet talk I overheard afterward corrected my misapprehension, as I came to understand that Youngest meant, rather, some more general sort of comfort.

Once I am free of my harness, I receive a thorough grooming, followed by a painstaking examination, whereafter two grooms slather me with soothing lineament. They lead me from the bathing corner, where I had stood cross-tied, to my stall with its heaped-up bed of fresh, sun-scented straw. My evening grain is in the box; I heard the lovely sound of Bert dumping it into my feedbox as Tall Bob and Ham were grooming me. My bucket is brimful of cool, fresh-drawn water, and my haynet is bulging with its bounty of hay. Bath and supper, pillow and bed, as Youngest likes to sing at the end of a long march. Softly, of course.

No need for softly here, within the walls of Bree, I am glad to say. I can only hope my companions are safe, wherever they may be. Though my dreams have been dark of late... 

I put that thought away.

Life is sweet. I might say I have all that I want, except... But I don't want to think about that now.

***