Chapter 86. 'Ride, ride to ruin and the world's ending!'

Though barely half the morning has passed, the day is darkening as the lowering clouds sink still lower, as if to embrace and bolster the encroaching fog that has hung in ghostly wisps around us as we worked the first field. As two of the Men guarding us stow the harrow in the waggon and our grooms hitch us to the waggon, to drive to our second field (and the last for the time being), young Bert expresses his hope aloud, to the effect that the fog would burn off as the Sun climbs. 

I turn my head, the better to listen and watch their progress, and see Tall Bob shake his head as he answers, 'I deem 'tis a good thing we're working the last of the fields this day. If this fog should burn off, 'twill only be in order to make way for thunder! The air presses down ever heavier... the ponies were sweating before they even began to pull the harrow, and lathered before we'd finished half the field...'

'Tis true. When I look over at my dam, I see lather on her flanks, and steam rising from her back to join the fog that is already filling the air. Sweat runs from my hide as well, but brings no relief with it.

Will we soon have rain, perhaps? says my dam, rolling an uneasy eye skywards. Under her breath, she whickers quietly, making a sound that is little more than a rumble in her throat. Or worse?

When I lay my ears back in unthinking response, she hastily amends her thought. The return of the rain will certainly be welcome, she says, adopting a cheerful tone. Why, we've not seen a good rain for some weeks now! And while the ground has been wondrously easy to work, the seeds tucked into their bed of soil could use more of a drink than the relative sips that morning dew and mist will provide...

As she no doubt intended, my ears come forward as I am drawn into her chosen topic of conversation. A gentle rain to bless, that is what would do the most good, I agree. A heavy downpour might wash the seeds right out of their beds, and then where would be we?

My dam whinnies a laugh. Ploughing and harrowing all over again! she says. At least we'll be in no danger of going stale or growing bored...

You have the right of it, I agree, and cock a wary eye at the sky. The clouds hang ever lower, flushing ever darker with foreboding, and I suppress a shiver.

...but Bert distracts me by taking hold of my harness and climbing up onto my back, and then I feel the lines tighten as Tall Bob takes his place in the driver's seat. 'Come along, Lady; Laddie, steady on! Just one more field to go!' he calls, just loud enough for his voice to reach us and no louder. Perhaps he, too, wonders what the fog and clouds might conceal?

...as if those Shadow-Ones might take wing and drop upon us from the clouds... I do not know whence the thought comes; I barely suppress the urge to shy, as from danger; to take the bit between my teeth and bolt, taking my dam with me, the both of us dragging the waggon in a wild runaway, at least until it upsets, strewing Men and Hobbits over the ground, a thought that frightens me further.

Bert sits straighter, his legs pressing firmly against my sides, and I can feel the fingers of one of his hands caressing my neck. 'Steady, Poppet,' he murmurs. 'Steady, now, there's a good lad.'

A steady rider makes for a steady mount, or so our Old Man used to say. And so my head comes up, and my back smooths and relaxes from the hump that had formed there, without my consciously willing it. To my satisfaction, I'm more certain than I was but a moment or two ago, that I will be able to maintain a steady gait as my dam and I move into a walk and then transition by mutual accord into a ground-eating trot. But our driver almost immediately pulls on the lines to slow us to a walk, and then a reluctant stop, at least until our guards can catch up to us again.

'Good lad!' Tall Bob calls softly. I do not know whether he addresses young Bert and his calming influence, or my own effort to take myself in hand, so to speak, but I toss my head in agreement. Perhaps my rider is also in doubt as to the target of Tall Bob's praise, for Bert laughs softly and pats my sweat-soaked neck.

'Climb in, lads!' our driver calls to the club-wielding Men when they surround us once more. 'The ponies are feeling their oats, I fear, and may well leave you in the dust as we make our way to our next stop!'

Their extra weight will also steady the waggon as we bump over the uneven path that winds from one field to another, I know. As an added bonus, a heavy waggon can help prevent a runaway (if we are not going downhill, which we are not) because of the extra time needed to pick up speed, even when we are pulling with a good will and all our combined strength. 

Through the traces, we draught beasts can feel the waggon taking on weight behind us. We wait until Tall Bob clucks his tongue to us, and throw ourselves into our collars. I grunt a little with the effort; the waggon is much heavier now, and seems to resist our pull, but my dam and I are used to working well together. 

I hear our guards, Men and Hobbits alike, raise a cheer behind us as the waggon jerks into motion.

'There's the lad,' Bert says from my back, accompanied by a pat of approval, while Tall Bob calls encouragement. Heads down, my dam and I push ourselves forward, muscles bulging and flexing, feeling the waggon respond and gain speed behind us. Soon the amount of effort will lessen, and the weight of the waggon will actually help us to keep it in motion, such that Tall Bob will have to exert himself to apply the brake effectively when the time comes to slow and then stop.

For now, our driver continues to encourage us; our speed increases until we reach an easy trot, pacing together in flawless time (always a pleasant sensation). Then his subtle touch on the lines changes, and we steady at that pace. No need to gallop to the furthest field belonging to The Prancing Pony; why, as my Youngest hobbit is fond of saying, we might put ourselves in danger of returning before we have even left our starting place!

We are trotting along pleasantly, perhaps half-way to the final field, when my dam breaks stride and rears up in the traces, nearly jerking me off my feet. Somehow Bert clings to my back – thrown forward, he hugs my neck and chants urgent reassurances.

At the same time, Tall Bob is hauling back on the lines, shouting, 'Whoa-ho-ho!'

Shapes! my dam is shrieking. Shapes! ...there are fell voices in the fog!

Her sudden panic is catching – but... I... must... not... throw... my... young... rider...! Even as I seize the bit between my teeth, as my dam comes back down to earth and my forefeet regain the ground, it takes all my strength of will to plant my feet and stand firm as my companion plunges and kicks.

But there are unfamiliar shapes in the fog! Closing in on us! Shouting in fury and menace – though the words are distorted, their sound brings with it an echo from one of my recent nightmares, only a week or two ago, Men's voices shouting, Death! Death! Ride, ride to ruin and the world's ending!

As in the dream, horns split the air, blowing wildly behind us – the archers! – and all around us, as our guardian Men jump from the waggon to engage the attackers with their clubs and staves and axes.

Because we were trotting, the waggon behind us was likewise moving at trotting speed. With no warning, as events have played out, Tall Bob could not engage the brake in time to deal with our sudden halt, instead of our usual gradual slowing under his guiding hands. The waggon, impelled by our speed combined with the weight of the heavy farming equipment it must carry between fields, along with the double-the-usual load of archers, even without the Men, ploughs into our hindquarters, the sort of happening that can send draught beasts into a frenzy.

Accordingly, my dam flashes to a gallop – or tries to do so – throwing me off balance though I do my best to stand in the face of her terror and an encroaching menace. At the same time, I throw her off balance, staggering as I am from the combined forces of resisting her panic and the weight of the heavy waggon slamming into us.

There is a game the children play in the marketplace, on the days when the market is not crowded with many sellers and tables, but rather the stalls line the edges of the broad area, leaving a wide and open space in the centre of the town square. A child will start the game by laughing and running in widening circles, shouting, Come, follow-follow-follow, catch me if you can! First one pursues, and then another. One catches the leader's trailing hand and follows, stretching a hand behind for another to catch, and then another catches on, and more and more until a long snake or whip or river made of children is running and laughing, hands linked together, all following the leader hither and thither until one stumbles and they all fall in a heap...

So my dam – bred for power and endurance, and yes, as a descendent of Ranger-bred ponies, capable of bursts of blazing speed into the bargain, as am I – charges into the fog ahead of us even as I do my best to resist her momentum and that of the waggon which is still barrelling into us. Shouts of alarm rise behind us and around us as the shifting fog yields frightening glimpses of struggling Men, spurring her to unthinking terror and unthinkable effort. Thus unbalanced, my dam swings ahead but then is pulled around towards me, like a bucket on a string being twirled by a mischievous youth, restricted by the harness that joins us together. Meanwhile, the waggon continues in our wake, slewing wildly as my dam and I move at an acute angle to the waggon's continuing path in an effort to escape its onslaught. 

Shouts and shrieks split the air as the waggon upsets, spilling our archers, some unable to throw themselves free – from the corner of my eye, I see some of them caught and dragged under the toppling conveyance, becoming helplessly trapped. But I have no time to worry about them, for there is no way that I can keep my feet in the general confusion and still-unfolding disaster. My dam's body slams against me; the next thing I know, we are falling – I am falling, and she tumbles atop me – and where is Bert? Where is my young groom? I must not crush him! Please, I beg, though I do not know whom I address, please, let us not crash down upon him and bury him under us! Help us...! I plead. Could Someone – anyone – be listening? But no Other answers my plea; neither do the Voices offer reassurance, much less guidance in our desperate plight.

From very far away, perhaps an infinite distance as I understand infinity, unmeasurable and incomprehensible though it may be, I seem to hear Mithrandir crying strange words that have no meaning in this time and place. The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!

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Author's note: Of course, some turns of phrase in this chapter were drawn from The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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