Chapter 85. We put dreams behind us and begin our work for the day

The last two fields belonging to the inn lie just outside West-gate, the great gate that is the closest to The Prancing Pony. After yesterday's work and in anticipation of today's, we left off our waggon just inside the gateway. Thus, after a relatively short walk, not even long enough to describe as a constitutional, Tall Bob halts us when we reach our waiting waggon. The gate guards who are currently on duty greet Tall Bob and young Bert, and the nearest Hobbit archer, standing on a platform that allows him to look over the Hedge, waves to us and calls softly, 'All is quiet on the Western approach!'

'At least at the moment,' young Bert mutters, but Tall Bob hushes him and tells him not to borrow trouble.

'I agree,' says the Hobbit leaning against our waggon – Jocko, the archer who commands the guards that will go out with us to fend off robbers or any other hazards that might present themselves. After a genial 'Good morning' to grooms and ponies alike, he lifts his fingers to his mouth and whistles. The sound, though strangely subdued, seems to echo high and shrill in the quiet of the early morning. In response, Men and Hobbits spill out of the gatekeepers' small lodge, tapping out their pipes as they come and taking up the weapons they left leaning against the wall by the door.

(Though no wolves have howled round the fences since the snows melted, dark shapes still slink through the woods or lurk in the low branches of the trees at twilight, or so I have gathered from talk overheard between the stable workers during quiet moments. In any event, it is best to be prepared for an attack that never comes than to be unprepared for what may come. The good folk of Archet can testify to that fact.) 

Our guard detail surrounds us with pats and more tangible greetings. I don't even mind that some of the carrots were taken directly from their sand-bedding in a storage barrel without washing; somehow the vestiges of sand add to their crunch between my teeth. As Master Rushlight said earlier, we now have more guards than before. More than I can count, actually. Not necessarily a crowd, but a few more, if I am reckoning rightly, than the number of my former Company, which was Nine, as I recall. I do not know if that included myself, for at the time I travelled with them, "nine" was merely a word and not a number that I could count.

When our guards have finished greeting us, Tall Bob turns us around and then encourages us to move backwards, step by step, until we stand before the waggon and he can hitch us properly. As my dam and I wait for our helpers to connect the traces, I allow my eyelids to close and my head to droop, and hear young Bert's, Ah, yes, he's marvellously patient, our Bill... in response to one of the club-wielding Men. Through the traces, I can feel the waggon taking on weight as the Hobbit archers climb into the waggon bed and brace themselves in their places, facing outward in all directions. From the creaking sounds behind me, we must have garnered twice as many archers as usual, I should think.

As Bert and Tall Bob finish hitching my dam to the waggon, she turns her head to me to ask, Is aught the matter?

I am well, I reassure her instantly, half-opening my eyes and turning my head so that our noses touch. My sleep was not as restful as I might have wished, I add.

Nor mine, my dam surprises me by saying. Though the stables were as quiet as usual... Not even the dog barked in the night.

I cannot help asking her, Did you dream?

She turns her face forwards and shakes her head, and the shake moves down her neck to her body, as if she is shaking off flies or midges... or something worse? But that is all the answer I receive.

Traces firmly fastened, young Bert moves to my side, and Tall Bob moves to my dam's side, and with a few soft words, they lead us forward and then around in a large circle to face the gateway. Our club-Men form up in a loose cluster between us and the gate, and then the gatekeeper lifts the bar and pushes the gate open. Once we have crossed the Causeway, the Men spread out to surround us. We turn off the Road to follow the path leading southwards, towards Butterbur's fields on this side of Bree.

Clouds hang heavy in the sky, pressing down upon the land, making me feel stupid and sleepy. The Big Men walking to either side of my dam and me also seem to plod along as if the clubs they carry have grown much heavier. One of the disturbing dreams that troubled me in the early-morning darkness steals over me, as subtle as the fingers of fog creeping from both sides of the path before us. My dam whickers uneasily beside me, but the sound seems strangely distant as I lose myself in dream-memories that thicken like the fog that filled the Dyke as we crossed the Causeway and trailed us from Road to path and now threatens to obscure our surroundings.

In the dream that came to trouble me in the early morning hours, I followed my Sam once more along a climbing road in a desolate land. The footing was treacherous; perhaps that is why my Sam carried the Master himself rather than trusting the dear hobbit to me. I remember throwing up my head as something fell from above and, despite my shriek of warning, struck my hobbit, knocking him to the ground. I pushed at him with my nose, pleading, Get up! Danger threatens!

Even as I am thinking back, the dream mists draw away and the dream takes shape and form, overcoming me once more. I see my Sam look up as if he hears my warning; even as he heaves himself violently to his feet, he draws his sword. I lay my ears back and squeal in rage – but my Sam and I can do nothing to help Master, locked together with some gangrel figure, perhaps a wasted Orc? I do not know. The creature is tearing at Master with wild and evil strength, and I fear for the dear hobbit...

In sudden fury, the like of which I have never felt before from this mild-spoken hobbit, Master throws off his attacker, throws him violently to the ground, and looms above him, quivering as if he is holding himself in check by sheer will. Then, even as the smell of my Sam's surprise and consternation reaches me, I hear Master gasp, Down, down! Down, you creeping thing, and out of my path! Your time is at an end. You cannot betray me or slay me now.

His hand is clenched at his breast, and dread washes over me. It! It is there! ...and somehow stronger than I remember, as if each step forward along our way has increased Its dread power.

I would shy away; I would turn and flee, but Something holds me in place with quiet, inexorable purpose. Stand, Great-heart, commands a half-remembered Voice, that unseen Other Who seems more real than reality itself. Light pierces the darkness and the fog, filling me with its essence. A shining figure, misty at first, solidifies before me: a Being robed in Light, stern and pitiless, holding a wheel of Fire and Doom at its breast, its other hand pointing down at the shadow, hideous yet at the same time wretched, impotent, cowering at the Shining One's feet.

I try to see where the Master has gone, but I cannot wrench my gaze away from that fearsome, fiery circle. And then the Fire itself speaks, or so it seems to me: Begone, and trouble me no more! If you touch me ever again, you shall be cast yourself into the Fire of Doom.

As the shadow backs away, the smell of its terror, mingled with desire, pours into my nostrils, defiling the air. I cannot help sneezing, and when I look up once more, the bright vision has vanished and I see only the Master, gasping for breath as he stares down at his cringing foe.

Bless you! My dam's voice breaks into the dream, shaking its hold upon me.

I... What? I falter.

You sneezed! But, my lad... Is it well with you?

I realise that as that dream overtook my senses, somehow my body continued walking, following my dam's guiding pull and Tall Bob's touch on the lines, but now we have come to a stop. From the tug I can feel on the traces extending behind me, I am no longer connected to the waggon; rather, Bert and Tall Bob have released us from the waggon and are now fastening us to the farming implement that the Men have lifted down from the waggon's bed. We are standing at the edge of the first of the two fields we are to harrow this morning. That Other, so fresh in my mind when the dream, from earlier this morning, was recalled to dominate my wandering thoughts as we made our way from West-gate to field, is nowhere to be seen or felt or found, neither within the ring of guarding Men, nor outside it.

I am well enough, I return, wondering if I am speaking truth. For that dream to return, and in such power under the light of the Sun – sullen light though it might be, and increasingly hidden, darkened by the thickening clouds... My earlier dreams of my Sam encroached upon me when I was weak and wandering, unable even to stand under my own power. I duck my head and make a rapid survey of my body. I am standing firm. My tail swishes at my mental command, bringing a protest from young Bert when it lashes his face.

Tall Bob's chuckle is both reassuring and anchoring. (I do not know what an anchor might be, but it is the term my Voices gave me at an earlier time, and it seems to apply in this moment, as well – though They do not deign to confirm the impression. In fact, They've had nothing to say since early this morning in The Prancing Pony's stables.) Even the memory of the dream is fading beyond recall. Perhaps that is why my Voices have nothing to say. I am anchored in the present moment, with no need of Their guidance for the time being.

I am quite well, I insist, lifting my head to sample the fog-laden air. Smells fill my nostrils: my dam, young Bert, Tall Bob, our guards, the damp earth and dew-laden grass. Nothing else. Nothing alarming. The drifting fog presses heavily around us, without a breath of wind. I can detect no scents of wolves or dread shadows, like those in the Chetwood, or unwashed ruffians taint the early-morning air. Nothing of my Sam, or our dear Master, or even that miserable, hate-filled shadow of a creature is to be found here. To myself, I whisper, 'Twas only a dream. That's all.

Since the Voices say nothing to counter that thought, I am reassured.

Our guards spread out to all sides of the field we are about to address. I turn my head to see young Bert climb into the waggon bed; he steps up onto a box, making himself taller, and takes a throwing-stone from his sack, holding it ready in his hand.

Tall Bob's voice breaks into my thoughts. 'Come along, lassie, laddie,' he says, lifting the lines and gently slapping them against our backs as he clicks his tongue to send us into motion.

Just another day, my dam says. I nod, and we step off together. The sooner we finish this field, the sooner we can begin on the next field, and after that one, our work will be done for the day. And Tall Bob has promised to take us to the marketplace, and after that, to release us to graze upon the fresh spring grass in one of the verdant meadows within the Hedge and Dyke. Perhaps by that time, the Sun will have burned away the encroaching fog.

At any other time, such a thought would cheer me immeasurably. I do not know why my heart should feel so heavy...

I push away the thought. It was only a dream, I tell myself. Thinking about it brought it back to my mind, but I am awake now, and we have a job to do. I cannot afford to be distracted, for a stumble might mean having to come back and finish these last two fields on the morrow. 

I peer through the fog at the furrow ahead. The work of the day begins.

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Author's note:

Some phrasing and dialogue used in this chapter was drawn from 'Mount Doom' in The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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