Chapter 84. 'Just another day' begins 

~ S.R. 1419, 25 March, early morning (From the Tale of Years for this date: The Host is surrounded on the Slag-hills. Frodo and Samwise reach the Sammath Naur. Gollum seizes the Ring and falls in the Cracks of Doom. Downfall of Barad-dûr and passing of Sauron.) ~

Over the past stretch of days, which we (my dam and I) and other teams of draught beasts began by ploughing, Bree-folk have been walking the ploughed fields and scattering seed, and not only landsmen and labourers but Men and Hobbits from other occupations, along with their wives and children. Weavers and rug-makers, shopkeepers and dairymaids, candlemakers and bakers and other workers, even scribes – except for this-Bob, whom Master Butterbur has insisted must not go out to the fields to sow with the rest of the inn's workers. Instead, the sometimes-stable-master has been tasked with keeping an eye on the inn whilst the master is in the fields with the rest of the inn's staff. Even so, the innkeeper has not left the Hobbit on his own, but has left two burly-though-good-natured Men with him, "just in case".

Just in case of what, I've no idea. But so long as this-Bob is watching o'er The Prancing Pony, those two Men will be watching o'er him. And so Pansy and Violet have also gone out to the fields, with this-Bob's wife scattering seed with the other wives, and Violet, with the other children of Bree and Staddle, running and shouting and waving their arms and chasing off the birds that would scoop up the freshly-scattered seed before workers armed with long sticks can press the seeds into the soil.

From what young Bert has told me while grooming me, only the day before Master Butterbur came to beg our services (those of my dam and myself, I mean), the Town Council had established the necessity to plant more fields than usual – in fact, as many as possible – to offset the potential losses they have foreseen from robbers and ruffians. I do not know exactly what the Town Council might be or do or comprise, though I have reason to suspect that the innkeeper likely plays some role in that body. In any event, their word appears to bear some weight in the doings of the townsfolk.

From what the tween has said while harnessing us after our return from the market square in order to go out into the fields, the market has closed early each day, quite soon after our daily constitutional and visit to the market square. After taking their daymeal, and at that, somewhat earlier than usual, a general exodus has been going out to the fields both inside and outside the town's protection, though the Gates and walls are never left unguarded. As a point in fact, the market has closed earlier each day as the townsfolk's urgency to "get the crops in" has grown with the passing of time.

That a Hobbit tween should have so much understanding of things outside the realm of his own sphere and responsibilities might have surprised me in the past, before I met Youngest. In the latter's case, our growing acquaintance brought me to realise that Youngest's awareness went beyond even his close cousins' knowledge of the young fellow. Even so, the idea never quite made sense to me until the other day...

Just the other day, when my little flower was listening wide-eyed to the talk between two of the grooms, one of them elbowed the other and muttered, Little pitchers have big ears. Deep within the recesses of my mind, the Voices chuckled at my confusion, and then They corrected my mental picture of a brown earthenware jug-with-ears to that of a small child hearing every word of the conversation flowing around them without appearing to pay any heed at all!

Thanks to my Voices, I now appreciate how Youngest – and my Bert – and, o' course, my flower-butterfly – have appeared to have acquired knowledge beyond their years.

...I said "began by ploughing" just now because, once the final field had been ploughed, our task changed from ploughing to harrowing the fields where the new-sown seeds are already growing. Although the harrow is much lighter than the plough, my dam and I continue to work as a team so that neither of us should suffer any strain. Despite the unusually warm weather – or perhaps because of it! – the seeds are growing apace, and harrowing is needed to curb the early weeds that are also springing up in the fields.

"Unusually warm" is such a mild term to describe the increasingly heavy atmosphere. The Bree-lands are, in general, in need of rain, I deem, but the sullen clouds to be seen through the stable's high windows are more ominous than promising, pressing down on the earth and its inhabitants, oppressing us all while obstinately withholding the relief that a refreshing rain might bring. 

The sultry air is unnerving as well as enervating, or so old Master Underhill observed to Nob some days ago when he came to check up on me. 'Well-healed,' he pronounced, 'and healing well – but if it were up to me, I would not have put the lad to the plough...'

'Well it weren't up to me, neither,' muttered old Ham in reply, and then both Hobbits hushed as the innkeeper pushed the stable door a little wider and entered, asking for Master Underhill's report, which the old fellow rendered while omitting the part about the plough.

Perhaps because of old Master Underhill, the day after his visit, we began ploughing and harrowing first thing in the morning rather than after the daymeal and in the growing heat of the day. I have missed seeing my friends amongst the children and market-goers in the marketplace since then, though to my understanding, the market hours have been poorly attended of late. And although many townsfolk of my acquaintance have waved from the fields they were sowing as we have jogged by, since then, pulling our waggon filled with archers and farming implements to our next objective, by the day before yesterday, their numbers had thinned considerably.

Young Bert confirms my impression as he fits my harness in place this morning. 'This'll be the last day for draught beasts to be used outside the walls, at least for now,' he says to me. 'All the sowing is finished; and now, the harrowing is nearly so.' He heaves a sigh, then moves on to fasten my throat latch. 'I can't say I'm not relieved to see all the horses and ponies inside the Hedge once more, safe from robbers. The Hobbits overlooking the Hedge will be watching o'er the fields outside the town from here on out, in addition to alerting townsfolk to ruffians' attempts to attack the town itself, and Men will continue to take turns standing watch by the Gates, ready to issue forth day or night at the shout of a horn...'

What's this? The tall Woodman, Master Rushlight, has come to see my dam and me it seems, though it is early in the morning and not the usual time for one of his visits. Indeed, I soon grasp that he has come to see young Bert, for he stops before us and holds out something long and slender, sheathed in dark leather, extending it to the wondering tween.

'What's this?' Bert sounds as confused as I feel. For what need does a Hobbit groom have for a forester's tool?

The Man smiles. 'Courtesy of Alder,' he says. 'My brother has little enough to do, confined to his bed as he is for the next few weeks, but to liven the quiet hours with thoughts of all the worst things that might come about... and so he has sent you his branch-trimming tool to aid you in protecting our fine pony, for there's a rumour that the robbers have heard that all the draught beasts will finish their labours today. And into the bargain, word has somehow got around the town that extra guards will accompany the draught teams this day. Even my brother has heard the news without stirring from his bed!'

Young Bert shakes his head, his face a picture of dismay. 'That doesn't bode well...' he mutters.

'It does not,' the Man agrees. 'And so, Alder, anticipating the worst, wishes you to have such protection as his branch-trimming knife may provide since he's unable to join with those guarding his saviour-pony; thus, at least for now, he is prevented from returning the favour he was granted. Not to mention, he'll hardly be felling trees for the next few months!' He hefts the tool as if testing its balance and then thrusts it at young Bert, adding, 'You'll find it well-honed, and from what I saw on the hillside that terrible day, it is quite long enough to serve as a hobbit-sword...'

'The worst...?' the tween echoes in confusion, even as he accepts the finely-tooled leather sheath and its contents from the Man's hand.

'Master Butterbur is sending you out with the ponies for much the same reason, isn't he?' Rushlight says. Nodding to the bulky shoulder bag that Bert had, upon his arrival this morning, laid down out of the way but near the stable door before the young groom began his duties, the Man adds, 'I see you've prepared a fine sack-full of throwing rocks for the occasion!'

From what I've seen over my years in the Bree-lands, throwing rocks are much more than mere rocks. They are deliberately selected, carefully collected, and tested for weight and heft and accuracy before winning a place in a Hobbit's pocket or rock-sack.

The tween blushes but answers readily. 'They said to be prepared.'

'They're expecting trouble,' Rushlight says with a nod. 'If the robbers should have got wind, somehow, that this is their last chance for ponies, at least for now...'

'Bob says we'll be back within the safety of the town as early as mid-day,' Bert says, standing a little straighter. He holds out the sheath to the Man as if he means to give it back.

'Still,' Rushlight insists, pushing the sheath and the blade it contains away from himself and towards the Hobbit tween, 'any robbers that beset you will be after the ponies; of that, there's no doubt. But if an emergency arises, you – you can use this blade as you did on the hillside – cut the traces, and much quicker than unhitching them, jump aboard and race the ponies away, guiding them to the Gate where safety lies!' 

Bert stands very still at that; and then his hand closes firmly around the sheath, and the tween nods. 'If you would convey my thanks to your brother...'

The forester gives a slight bow that encompasses myself as well as my groom. 'He remains deeply in your debt; why, he owes you his very life...'

Young Bert grasps the handle of the forester's long knife and pulls it partly from the sheath. At the sight of the blade, gleaming in the early light streaming in through the high windows, I can't help shuddering, I know not why.

A blade may take a life to save a life, the Voices whisper deep within.

I do not understand. But before I can question the Voices as to their intended meaning, Bert's sudden movement distracts me as he quickly sheathes the blade once more, with an apology that he directs at me. 'Sorry, lad, I didn't mean to startle you.'

'Ponies can be easily startled,' Rushlight agrees with a pat for my neck. 'Though I'd venture that Laddie here is wiser and steadier than most.'

Young Bert laughs merrily. 'I should say you'd win such a wager!'

'No doubt!' the Man agrees, joining in the jocularity. He stands with me and feeds me pieces of carrot whilst Bert goes to lay the sheath and the shining blade hidden within safely out of the way, on top of his bag of throwing-rocks.

When the tween returns to my head, Master Rushlight takes his leave with a bow and final pat for my neck.

'All ready here!' one or another groom is calling. The farmers and workers who'd lined up outside the stable door somewhat earlier now step forward, one by one, to claim their draught beasts and head out to the fields, just as if today is no different from any of the other days we have lived these past few weeks.

When Nob leads my dam to stand beside me, and Tall Bob takes charge of us from Bert and his uncle, my dam turns her head and nuzzles me. Just another day, she murmurs, as if she thinks I need reassurance.

Realising that my ears are half-laid-back, I prick them forwards, though it takes some effort to do so, what with my disquieting thoughts. Nevertheless, I answer in the same vein. Just another day. And bath and supper, pillow and bed to look forward to at the end of it, that's the best part!

That's the spirit! my dam says, all encouragement. But the look she gives me leaves me wondering what she might have overheard from Nob or old Ham as they harnessed her for the work of the day.

Has the air grown more oppressive? I wonder as Tall Bob leads us from the shelter of the stables, to stand, already sweating, under the frowning clouds. Or is it only my imagination?

***