Introduction

The first part of this story is posted under the title The Tenth Walker. That story, told from the viewpoint of Bill the Pony, follows the narrative in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring as closely as possible from Bree to the Doors of Moria. In contrast, this continuation of Bill’s story is highly speculative since Tolkien mentions nothing more about Bill between the attack of the Watcher in the Water and his appearance in Bree “as shaggy as an old dog and as lean as a clothes-rail but ... alive”. 

Bill’s journey back to Bree, comprising the first part of this continuation, obviously involves no familiar Hobbits, Men, Wizards, Dwarves, or Wood Elves. Of course, once he reaches Bree, some familiar two-legged characters will begin to trickle into the story again. Along those lines, Bill’s reunion with his hobbits in the stables of The Prancing Pony might be considered the high point of the story, though (if all goes well) his tale won’t be quite finished at that point. Even the original text doesn't end there, after all.

*** 

Explanatory note

The "Voices" mentioned in various places in this story refer to Gandalf's "words of guard and guiding" which Tolkien never quite explained, as far as I know. (If you have run across any explanation or insight regarding the matter that he might have provided in a letter or interview or other work, please let me know!) After deeply pondering those words and how they might guard and guide Bill, the idea of the Voices was formulated, refined, and introduced in The Tenth Walker, Chapter 126, and is applied in Chapters 127 and 128 of that work. 

From "A Journey in the Dark" in The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien:

‘He’d follow Mr. Frodo into a dragon’s den, if I led him,’ protested Sam. ‘It’d be nothing short of murder to turn him loose with all these wolves about.’ 

‘It will be short of murder, I hope,’ said Gandalf. He laid his hand on the pony’s head, and spoke in a low voice. ‘Go with words of guard and guiding on you,’ he said. ‘You are a wise beast, and have learned much in Rivendell. Make your ways to places where you can find grass, and so come in time to Elrond’s house, or wherever you wish to go.

‘There, Sam! He will have quite as much chance of escaping wolves and getting home as we have.’

*** 

The Way Home
(or The Tenth Walker, Part 2)

Separated from the Nine Walkers at the Doors of Moria, Bill the Pony finds himself abandoned and lost in the Wilderlands.
Taking up the thread from where The Tenth Walker left off, this story attempts to trace his wanderings from There to Back Again.

Chapter 1. Alone!

~ S.R. 1419, 13 January ~
(From The Tale of Years for this date: Attack by Wolves in the early hours. The Company reaches West-gate of Moria at nightfall.)

I still do not know how it all came about, though I was "present and accounted for" as Youngest hobbit is fond of saying when one of the older cousins annoys him by calling his name at times when he most assuredly does not want to hear his name called. Or so I have discerned from his response each time he has employed the phrase.

I find myself missing his almost incessant nattering, his ability to think up and ask question after question, sometimes without pausing to take a breath, it has seemed, except when he actually wants to hear an answer and pauses to listen to someone's reply.

I miss the soothing tones the older cousins employ when they know the never-ending talk or queries have sprung forth, as a bubbling spring from a hillside, from rattled nerves or worry or, when things have been seemingly at their worst, nearly paralysing fear. Though I have noticed the same smell of worry or fear also pouring from them as I have detected as coming from Youngest, they are the older, and supposedly wiser cousins, and so he looks to them when he can no longer trust himself to bear up under the circumstances, whether it might be weather or wolves or slowly freezing to death or...

Should I hear Tall Hat's irritated tone, the one he uses when threatening to turn Youngest into a toad, at least until it is time to resume our march, and lately used when threatening to knock upon the Doors with Youngest's head, I think I would dance and caper in joy.

I miss...

O my dearest Sam. Where might you be now? I would follow if I could... 

But here I am, alone, my companions vanished and wolves howling afar off – but not far enough, I deem. I might choose to travel in the opposite direction from where their voices seem to come from, but the sound seems to be carried on the wind. When the wind drops, I can no longer hear them. Are they before me or behind me or possibly to one side or the other? What if I were to travel in the wrong direction when the wind is not blowing, and blunder into their midst?

At the moment, the Voices are silent on the matter, as if they have withdrawn to allow me time to grieve my losses. Or recover my senses...

My thoughts are a blur of confusion, and I am shaking as with a deep chill, as if the Darkness surrounding me has also crept inside my skin. 

The Voices are made of Light, and there is no Darkness to be found in them? Who or what is saying that to me! I am alone in this place. I do not know whence comes that idea... 

I am only a pony after all.          

I swivel my ears in all directions, but the wind is fitful, and at this exact moment, the air is still. I seem to hear Our Big Man saying, Where the wolf howls, the Orc prowls. Thus, if I cannot hear the wolves at this moment in time, do I not need to worry about Orcs? (Even if I knew what Orcs might be... the fact that they are mentioned in the same breath as wolves bodes ill.) Or did he actually say something else? It may be – I am not sure, for words are slippery creatures at best, having more than one meaning, or sometimes, it seems, no meaning at all – but instead of wolf did he say something like warg? (Neither do I know what a warg might be. Do I want to know? Somehow I am certain I do not.)

I shake my head to clear it, and my mane flies up and settles again, leaving behind a phantom feeling as if hobbit fingers are stroking my neck while familiar voices whisper calm. Steady Bill...

The way before me is barred by a narrow, stagnant creek. Behind me lies Terror... and my Sam. 

O my dearest Sam. Where might you be now? I would follow if I could... 

I lower my head to the water of this small but ominous-seeming stream that has halted my headlong flight, but something keeps me from reaching far enough for my lips to touch the stagnant weeds floating at the surface. Though I seem to remember the water is shallow here, I can also recall treacherous footing, with slimy stones, loose underfoot, hiding under the green weeds. 

Along with an unpleasant reek, the smell of water nevertheless rises to my nostrils. I thirst, but even as the stream repels me so strongly that I lift my head again and take a step back, I do not trust the lake just a few steps away. From bitter experience, I know those dark waters might well erupt at any moment, without warning, in horror and grasping limbs... arms... serpents... 

Something lurks under the deceptively – nay, treacherously! – calm surface, I know to my sorrow and fear, though since the moment I stopped my headlong flight to avoid splashing into this small but daunting stream that bars my way, I have not seen even a ripple disturb the waters. I widen my nostrils and turn from sampling the air above the stream until my head faces towards the lake. I strain my eyes to see all that is to be seen. I whuffle the air coming from the lake, seeking any trace of the Terror I remember smelling as it rose before the Doors, dank and noisome and reeking of Death. Still no ripples disturb the murky waters, not even as far out across the dark surface as I can see. 

Without thinking, I lift a front hoof as if to take a step towards the lake and its promise of water, but something halts me before I can put my foot down again. I stand poised on three legs, as if I were lame. I am not lame – at least, I hope that when I touch the ground again, all my legs will bear my weight without complaint. But at this point, I am sure of nothing. I trust... nothing.

Thirst wars with something else inside my head, as if I can hear voices speaking to me even as they fight against each other and strive for mastery of my thoughts and actions. 

Go forward and drink! Cool refreshing water is there for the taking!

Go back! Do not trust the dark waters!

I hesitate a moment, but caution wins out, and I turn away and extend my nose a last time towards the stream. But the murky water at the surface, marred by greenish scum, smells rank and unwholesome.

Behind me, no more than a mile away, I think, are the Doors, which last I saw yawning open after Tall Hat spoke of a friend. 

I think of my friends – my companions – my fellow-Travellers. My Sam.

O my dearest Sam. Where might you be now? I would follow if I could... 

And so I turn away from the stream and lift my head to look back along the path to the Doors.

Stand fast! the Shining One said at the River where pursuing Fear overtook us at last, and so I did, aided by a sturdy rope, and all was well, though it was not until a seemingly long time afterwards that I realised the truth of the matter.

Stand fast, Great-heart, and all will be well! Tall Hat said atop the little hill, with wolves howling all around us, and so I did, aided by my hobbles and firm knots in my rope, and found with the coming of the morning light that he had spoken truth.

But when the Terror erupted out of the lake, seizing upon the Master and seeking to drag him into the roiling waters, I did not stand fast but bolted. Granted, there were Voices in my head, shouting at me, confusing me and whipping me into motion at the same time.

No, I realise now, after further thought and the deepest consideration I am able to manage. I did not flee in unthinking terror, away from my companions as they stood before the Doors, as is the way of horse or pony when overcome by events beyond our ken. I was driven away. Was I guided away? I am not sure. All I know is that standing fast was beyond my will and was not in my power, not with the clamour of the Voices added to all the other chaos happening before the Doors as I turned and fled.

I do not know the Voices. I do not know if I can trust Them. What if my companions are in danger, even now, waiting and hoping for me to return to them? What if my Sam is calling to me, but the wind is carrying his voice away? For the wind is currently at my back as I face the Doors. I shake my head at the notion the wind is urging me to go back to where I last saw my companions.

Perhaps all will not be well because this night I did not stand fast. But the sober-and-not-Merry hobbit had already removed my headcollar and leading rope. My hobbles were laid aside, atop some of the baggage my companions had not divided among their packs and thus intended to leave behind, rather than fastened around my ankles, to help me stay and not run away from – or perhaps into danger. 

I heard my Sam calling after me as I fled, but even if the words were ‘Steady Bill! Stand fast!’, in truth I did not hear him clearly. I heard his voice but not the words. The words, themselves, have had power to help me stand and not run in the past. Now I find myself wondering how much their absence added to the lack of a steadying influence from hobbles or my rope being tied to one of the ancient trees guarding the Doors.

O my dearest Sam. Where might you be now? I will follow if I can... 

As if drawn by a rope I cannot see, I begin to walk.

*** 

Author notes:

Some thoughts here are derived from “A Journey in the Dark” from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

*** 

Chapter 2. I search for answers

As I retrace my steps, I find myself picking up my feet a bit higher than usual and laying them down with extreme care. I once heard my dam talk about a trick called "tip-toeing"; she said it was something Men did, walking on their toes rather than letting their heels or the flats of their feet come down upon the earth with their usual soft thud.

I have noticed while travelling with my Companions that the Dwarf is the loudest Walker, followed by the Big Men, while my hobbits' feet make very little noise when they are walking naturally. But the Fair One seems to make no noise most of the time, and I have only been able to tell that he is walking behind me when a puff of wind – if the wind is blowing from behind us – brings his smell to me on the breeze. And even then, the Fair One's smell reminds me more of trees and moss than sweat and effort. 

I seem to remember Youngest remarking once that the Wood-elf had left no footprints after wiping away any sign that the others had traversed the ground near our hiding places when the birds were hunting us! 

...and I remember seeing him skim over the snows of the Cruel Mountain like a vigorously flapping duck or goose running over the surface of a pond on its way to flying...

The sky is dark above, and stars shine cold and bright in the bowl of the sky, but the murky waters of the lake – pond – murky water to the side of the path I am treading reflects no light. As I make my way along the narrow, rock-littered path, as softly as I may go, I listen intently. But to my relief, I hear no soft plops or swishes, slaps or bubbling sounds. Perhaps the monsters have gone back to sleep.

Perhaps the darkness hides me from unfriendly eyes, even as it hides them from me. I do not know whether to be comforted or unsettled by this thought, and so I swivel my ears in all directions, and widen my nostrils to the utmost to sample the air, and come as close as a pony may come to tip-toeing as I go.

For my part, I am keeping as much distance as I possibly can between myself and the water despite the thirst that is now an ever-present torment.

A mile, was it, from the foul stream to the Doors?

And yet, when I reach the place, it is unrecognisable. I mean, I know we did not pass anyplace that looked like this as we walked to the Doors.

Here where I stop, confused by unfamiliarity, many boulders are piled against the cliff wall, and two large trees lie criss-crossed across the jumble as if to bar the way... the way to what? To the Doors?

I raise my head to whiff the air and then put my nose to the ground, following a familiar scent much as I once saw a dog trailing a rabbit near our meadow when I was young. My dam told me that dogs have much more sensitive noses than horses or ponies. But she also said that our sense of smell is more sensitive than a Man's or Hobbit's might be.

It might be so, for I follow my nose to a small, disordered pile of belongings on the ground, still smelling of my Companions.

And I realise... this is where we stopped! This is the place where my Sam removed my burdens and harness and rope and halter. This is the place where my companions sorted through the burdens they carried and repacked what they determined they would need and discarded the rest. The scattered belongings before me are the discards!

I nose my hobbles, lying a little apart, and then raise my head for a better look at the sheer cliff where I remember the Doors' opening – but there is only a clutter of boulders, most of them very large, as if thrown by a giant or some other powerful arm. And these might be – must be! – the ancient trees that stood, tall and proud, on either side of the Doors.

But of my Companions, and the Doors themselves, I can find no sign besides the sad, scattered debris of discarded supplies, littering the ground.

My head feels too heavy on my neck; I cannot hold it up. My muzzle droops until my lips touch the barren ground. But there is not even a wisp of grass here to nibble, nor any water to drink.

All is lost. My Companions are lost – gone. Eaten by the monsters in the lake (or pond)?

I am lost.

Not... lost... something says deep within.

Have the Voices returned?

We never left you.

I do not understand.

You stopped listening, but We have been here with you. We never left you, and We will not leave you until you come safely home again.

My Companions are gone where I cannot follow. If they were taken by the monsters in the lake (or pond), I have no desire to suffer the same fate. It is perhaps cowardly of me, but I am only a pony. And yet, when I lift my head and turn towards the dark waters, I cannot seem to stir.

The Voices will not allow me to walk that way. It seems They are in agreement with my cowardly thoughts. Even if my Companions were dragged into the dark waters, as was my last glimpse of the Master, or walked or ran or jumped to follow the Master, perhaps to share his fate or to try and rescue him, I cannot bring myself to do the same.

Great-heart, They whisper. I hang my head in shame.

The Doors are shut.

I do not hear clearly, for I am staring at the waters that may have swallowed my Hobbits. My Sam and the younger cousins would never have let Master go alone into the darkness.

The Doors are shut.

The Voices persist. I turn in puzzlement to face the piled boulders once more. I see no Doors, nor even their outline.

You have no Wizard to speak the password.

I heard that. And I realise the truth of the words (of guard and guiding, I suppose they must be).

They may have entered and climbed the stairs. You cannot follow. The Doors are shut.

I look from the cliff wall to the waters and back again. Would they have entered and climbed the stairs, and left the Master to the monsters in the water?

They would not have. Somehow I am sure of that.

Which must mean that they fought the monsters and rescued the Master? And then they climbed the stairs, and pulled the Doors shut behind them to keep the monsters out?

(Or the monsters closed the Doors for them.)

Whether my Companions are under the dark waters or on the dark stairs, I cannot follow.

Follow... 

I do not know which way to go.

We will find the way together...

Perhaps I am not completely alone after all.

*** 

Author notes:

Some thoughts here are derived from “A Journey in the Dark” from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

*** 

Chapter 3. I... we? ...solve a pressing problem

I jerk awake as my muzzle touches the ground, and I realise that as I have stood here, directionless and unmoving, at least for the moment, my head has drooped, lower and lower.

Frankly, my head feels too heavy to lift, but I tighten the muscles in my neck anyway, gritting my teeth – or so I imagine. Since hearing Youngest talk about gritting his teeth, I have wondered what he meant. Grit in his teeth? He's been eating dirt, or pulling up grass by the roots and chewing it all, including the dirt and tiny pieces of rock clinging to the roots?

At the time, the thought was merely another question tucked neatly into a stream of questions, such that I nearly missed hearing it. Would have missed hearing it, save that Master perceived Youngest's weariness and humoured the lad by engaging with the topic.

Why do hobbits grit their teeth when the going gets hard?

That's a good question, Pip. I wonder...

My nostrils flare as I remember the change in Youngest's smell, from weary and discouraged – and surprisingly angry, though I know not what angered him. His own slight stature and short legs, shorter than the legs of all our other Companions, relatively speaking?

In any event, the stream of questions stopped, as if Master's response dammed the flow, if only momentarily, and his tone brightened along with his smell, where curiosity rose suddenly to overlay the anger that so recently came as a surprise to me. For when you think about it...

What are you thinking, Pip? Master's answers continued as patient as ever, despite the shortness of breath I could detect in his speaking and the sound of his breathing.

For all practical purposes, said so-often-impractical but then at other times surprisingly-practical Youngest, aren't your teeth about as far from your feet as anything?

Somehow, Youngest has a talent for making Master laugh, even in the most dismal of circumstances. Just as I remember Master laughing in that moment – not the usual delightful sound I remember hearing from him, in that marvellous Valley we left behind us...

...and is that where I want to go? ...and come in time to Elrond’s house, or wherever you wish to go. Tall Hat's words echo in my ears.

But I have taken a side trail in my remembering – which seems eminently appropriate, considering that my remembering centres around this particular memory I am pondering, of Youngest, who wields side trails like a weapon of sorts in his ongoing battle to lighten the Master's mood...

And in this instance, Master laughed, as I remembered only a moment ago, and – wonder of wonders! – engaged in a spot of his own whimsy! I should think the curls on top of your head are about as far from your feet, and the curls atop them, as anything!

A thought that Youngest treated with the utmost serious consideration, to Master's increasing delight (or so his smell communicated to me). Yes, Frodo, except that I cannot see curls gritting themselves!

But Master laughed again and reached out to tousle Youngest's curls, and Youngest ducked away from his hand, though perhaps not so vigorously as usual, as the oldest of the cousins said, I wouldn't be too sure about that, Pip! It seems to me that you've plenty of grit in your curls at the moment!

And no water for the washing! Youngest returned an answer as quick as the snap of a swallow's beak when darting after a flying insect.

But Master's answer was just as rapid. Just think, then! In another day or two, you may well be able to grit your hair!

The memory of my hobbits' laughter washes over me, bringing comfort... but then the feeling fades.

And in my remembering, my head has drooped to the ground once more. The dry ground feels like a torment on my lips. 

I am so thirsty!

But now that I am no longer lost in comforting memories of my hobbits, I hear a whisper deep in my mind.

Look...

I am facing away from the ominous lake or pond, so my first thought is that the Voices do not intend for me to approach the dark, murky waters and lower my head to them, making myself vulnerable to lurking monsters waiting to drag me under the surface to my doom.

I scan the ground around me. Ahead is the scattered pile of discarded supplies.

Look... the whisper urges me forward.

I exert just enough energy, tightening the muscles of my neck, to lift my lips a handspan above the dusty ground. Though my limbs feel heavy – like lead! Youngest murmurs in my memory, though I have no idea what lead is – I stumble over the space that separates me from the cast-offs.

And then I stop. My eyes are dull, and looking is difficult. What am I looking for?

The voices are silent. I wait, listening, and as I wait, my head droops again.

But when my lips come to rest once more, they detect something smooth, somehow cool and smooth, unlike the rough and dusty ground.

I lift my head in surprise and peer at the ground. Though this night has seemed interminable, dawn is beginning to brighten the sky.

One of the "spare" water flasks lies at my feet. At one time, I carried it upon my back. And in this moment, I realise that not all the supplies surrounding me were meant to be discarded. Many of the things were set aside to be left behind, in truth, but when the monsters attacked, I think my Companions must have had to scramble to safety, and so they left some things behind that they had intended to take with them.

This water bottle would be one of those... for they have treated the water we carried so carefully, almost with reverence, over the most recent stretches of our journey as we walked through the dry, barren landscape where the Gate-stream once flowed.

But what good is it to me? I have no hands to uncap the bottle, to lift it to drink.

Take it, the Voices insist. Soft as they are, they are also compelling. For I find myself, without thinking about the matter, nuzzling at the stopper.

Be ready! the Voices command.

I am not sure what I am being ready for, but I stop nuzzling long enough to nod in response, and my body tenses in readiness.

As I return to the stopper, I feel it budge – it is coming loose! – and as it begins to separate from the flask, a sharp mental nudge prompts me to seize the bottle between my teeth and lift my head high in the air...!

And a dim memory comes to me, of the time when I went off my feed in that marvellous Valley where we rested and regained our strength. They forced my nose high in the air and poured something down my throat...

In just the same way I lift my head now, the Voices somehow adding to my fading strength. At the moment, however, I am the one struggling to raise my nose in the air. It feels strange to me, not to be fighting against someone else who is forcing me into such an unnatural and uncomfortable position. I am the Master of my own discomfort as well as the hand – or mouth, to be precise – providing the water I so desperately need to go on.

I lift my head high, the water flask clenched between my teeth, and feel a cool rush as life-giving liquid flows over my tongue and down my throat.

After the flow of water slows to a trickle and then, from the feel of it, stops, I stand a moment longer with my nose reaching for the fading stars above. It may be my imagination, but a few drops just might possibly fall from the empty flask.

It was not enough, not nearly enough, and even if more drinking flasks were left behind, it would be too much to hope that all the stoppers would be loose enough for me to dislodge them. In that marvellous Valley, I remember my bucket was always full of fresh, cool water. Several times a day, stable workers made their way down the line of stalls and refreshed the drinking supply for any horse or pony remaining in the stable for the day, while a laughing brook ran through the meadow where they turned us out, providing a constant source of fresh water for any thirsty beast, whether horse or pony or some other creature.

But it is better than nothing, I seem to hear the Voices say.

I was not complaining!

You have borne your burdens well, Great-heart. 

I think They mean to be reassuring. But then the tone changes. And now it is time to move on. Daylight is here, and there is a long way to go, no matter where you might decide to make your ways...

*** 

Author notes:

Some thoughts here are derived from 'A Journey in the Dark' from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

*** 

Chapter 4. I follow my nose

~ S.R. 1419, 14 January (From the Tale of Years for this date: [The Company passes the night] in Hall Twenty-one.) ~

I think about retracing my steps to the small, foul stream, but perhaps I might find a different way home? Behind me is the place where the wolves attacked our Company. And so I begin my journey by trying to follow the path onward from where the Doors once stood (and may still stand, closed, that is, behind the jumble of boulders and uprooted trees).

The path grows ever narrower, however, with the edge of the lake pressing closer to the cliffs. Or perhaps it is the cliffs pressing closer to the dark waters. In any event, that way is closed to me, for I have no desire to set foot in the water or swim across even the smallest stretch of murky water.

With some difficulty, I walk backwards until the strip of land is wide enough for me to turn around without touching the water. I skirt the pile of boulders and sad detritus, all that remains of our Company, and make my way along the path to the stream.

The small amount of water I drank a little while ago has given me strength enough to jump over the stream once more. The lack of burdens on my back is a great help – my jump lands me on the opposite side of the stream with room to spare. To my consternation, I land with a thump, and freeze, watching the lake with white-rimmed eyes and swivelling my ears to listen with all my might.

The monsters must sleep in the daytime...? At least, that would be my hope. I see no ripples; I hear no soft sounds resembling plops or swishes.

I am feeling almost cheerful as I continue on my way. When I reach the top of the winding path that will lead me away from the lake at last, I snort a sigh of relief.

Was that a plop? No matter. I canter down the path to the first turn and then stop. I am beyond the monsters' reach now, I deem. There is no water to hide them here.

There is no water for a thirsty pony here.

Feeling a subtle prodding sensation, I walk onward, down the winding path to the bottom of the slope and then, eventually, along the winding, broken road past the steep stairway where my Sam said all will be well.

When, I wonder? When will all be well?

Not too long after, my nostrils flare at the hint of water I can smell in the air. Perhaps...?

And then I recognise the place. Here, the not-very-Merry hobbit told Youngest to sit himself down and take a few sips of water from his flask. Here, Master put his arm around my Sam's shoulders and pointed to what he called a "wide cleft" that he said had been carved out by a waterfall, strong and swift and full.

Sadly, the only water here seems to be the tantalising smell in the air, offering only a hint of the life-sustaining moisture I am craving, or perhaps rather less than a hint. Thus, I can only conclude that "all" being "well" still lies somewhere in the future.

For want of any better idea, I continue to follow the broken roadway alongside the empty streambed. The land around me is barren and desolate. I remember how the Company stumbled along, trying to find this very stream. And now I wonder, if this deep cleft beside the roadway, though lacking any flow of tumbling water at the present time, holds such value for Tall Hat, ought I to stay with the stream?

A stream, after all, usually holds the promise of water. Might I find water further along? Most of my memories of streams also carry the thought of grass... Might I find grass at some point?

I cannot remember my last meal, and the memory of my last drink is beginning to dim as thirst grows stronger again. Can this empty stream lead me to water? 

Even as I continue to follow its course for want of any better idea, I know very well that this stream will not lead me homewards. Wherever home may prove to be. My home ought to be with my Sam, but where he has gone, I cannot follow. (Do the Voices know where my Sam may be?)

If I knew whence we came before we found the empty streambed, I might turn away and continue past the Cruel mountain, wandering through pathless lands until I might once more find that Valley where no evil things come. (Can the Voices find our way through pathless lands?) I think of the wolves we encountered, and shudder.

Even if the wolves have moved on, or I somehow find my way past their hunting grounds, I might blunder into one of the bogs I seem to remember, as I seek the Valley... Can the Voices keep me on solid ground? 

But even if I resolve to seek that marvellous Valley where the old pet waits and Merrylegs still grazes, how will I know where to leave this road that now winds its way under my feet?

The Voices have been silent for some time; perhaps they have no more idea than I do.

I have been walking a long time, for the Sun has passed her highest point and now hangs in the sky before me, beckoning me onward.

Soon, She will seek her bed... but where shall I find rest?

*** 

Author's note: 

Some thoughts here are derived from 'A Journey in the Dark' and 'Homeward Bound' in The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.

*** 

Chapter 5. I follow the dry riverbed in hopes of water; a fool's hope, perhaps?

~ S.R. 1419, 14 January, evening ~

The Sun hangs low on the horizon now, dazzling my eyes. It might make sense to turn aside, to set a new direction. My heart tells me that my "off" shoulder is pointing towards where the marvellous Valley lies, as sure as my "near" shoulder points to the empty streambed beside me. It might make sense to leave this broken road, running alongside the stream that remains a stream in name only, for though the channel that was so deep and narrow where I began to follow it has broadened somewhat, the occasional scent of water that wafts on the breeze is cruelly teasing, and the streambed remains disappointingly dry. Thirst is a torment, and I am stumbling, and not only because the path continues much broken and decayed. A darkness is before my eyes despite the Sun's glare.

Although my heart would lead me true, I do not know if my body has the strength to follow. And I know already that there is no water to be found in the broken lands that lie between me and where we began to climb the Cruel mountain. Following an empty streambed may be a fool's hope, a phrase I have heard my hobbits employ, for example when Youngest has speculated that there might be some late berries on the bushes we pass as we travelled ever farther southwards, but it seems to be the only hope I have.

I find myself pondering the idea of a fool's hope. Tall Hat is fond of scolding Youngest in terms of you fool of a Took! So is a fool's hope referring to the youngest hobbit when he is hoping for something? I can see him even now in my mind's eye, rubbing his hands together and talking about a real good meal tonight: something hot!

But then I remember Master chiding himself quietly and calling himself a fool when the others were asleep. He was sick and weak, and yet trying to ease himself out from under the blankets to see to some private business without rousing my Sam or his younger cousins from their rest. 

How could I have been so foolish as to put It on! he'd hissed under his breath, so softly, I almost could not make out the words.

But somehow the Big Man, sitting with his back against a tree with his broken sword in his hand and his cold pipe in his mouth, must have heard the words. For he put sword and pipe away and rose to his feet. Then he walked over to the huddle of hobbits and wordlessly took Master by the arm, half-helping and half-lifting the hobbit with one hand and smoothing the blankets with the other to keep the night's chill from the other hobbits, wakening them.

Once Master was free of the blankets, the Big Man lifted him in his arms, whispering, Save your strength! And he carried the Master a little away, to where they were partly hidden behind a fallen tree. Then the Man bent down and set Master on his feet, but he remained bent over the Master, steadying the hobbit, perhaps...

The twain exchanged no words as they tarried there, except for Master's quiet, I thank you, after which the Big Man picked him up again and carried him back to the blankets. Master eased himself into the midst of the hobbits snuggled together there, while the Big Man once more made sure no fingers of wind would creep under the blankets. And then he went back to the sentinel tree, sat down, and drew out his sword and his cold pipe once more.

Try as I might, I can find no foolishness in their actions as I remember them. It seems to me as if both did what must be done, and they managed not to waken the others from their exhausted slumber, into the bargain.

But this is neither here nor there, as one of my hobbits might say. As I have continued to stumble along, almost blindly, deep in my memories, the Sun has kissed the horizon and is now slipping ever lower. She will soon be out of sight.

And now the breeze brings with it more than the false promise of water. I jerk, and I toss my drooping head high at the sound of wolves – wolves on the hunt, and coming closer!

And I am already weary, I seem to hear Tall Hat sigh. I look about me, but the wizard is nowhere to be seen.

Whether or not Tall Hat is already weary, for my own part, my limbs tremble with weakness, and my head seems to swim.

At the thought of swimming, I turn away from the deep cleft where a stream once ran and leave the road, though it takes me towards the fearful howls rather than away. For away would have me falling into the channel, perhaps injuring myself, even to the point of breaking a leg! And, I deem, the channel would pose no barrier to the wolves. Somehow, in my mind's eye, as if I am looking up from the bottom of the channel even now, I can see their heads poke over the edge; they hesitate, and then they flow over the edge, a waterfall of fur and slashing teeth, rising up until I drown in my blood...

And suddenly I realise, it is the Voices warning me! I must put space between myself and the dry streambed, lest the attacking wolves drive me backwards to my doom!

Yet without the Fair One and his arrows, and the two Big Men and my hobbits with their swords, and the Dwarf and his axe, and Tall Hat and his fire (though I am not sure what he would burn in this rocky, desolate landscape), how am I to resist the hunting pack's murderous onslaught?

You fought well on the hilltop, the Voices whisper deep within. They were not with me then, but perhaps Tall Hat told them. You were brave and fierce and clever! Let your fear drive you to fiercer effort, but hold fast to wisdom! Do not lose your head! Help is on its way, even now, and will soon be at hand...

Is that why the Voices said naught as I followed the Sun across the sky to her rest? Was I, all unknowing, travelling in the right direction after all?

*** 

Author's notes:

Instead of "left" or "right", which are human constructs, a pony might conceivably think in terms of "near" (the pony's left side, where a rider would mount and dismount) and "off" (the pony's right side). Interestingly, the term "near side" is used in the UK to refer to the left side of the road, or the side of a vehicle that is closest to the kerb/curb or edge of the road when driving, while the "off side" is the right side.

A few turns of phrase in this chapter were drawn from The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.

*** 

Chapter 6. I find hope unlooked for, aid unexpected

~ S.R. 1419, 14 January, nightfall ~

The Sun is gone, and the twilight is deepening. The howls come ever nearer, no longer needing the wind to carry them to my ears.

Perhaps I have gone far enough that, with a running start, I might jump over the empty streambed to the other side!

Almost instantly, the Voices counter the thought. Stand fast, Greatheart! Inside my head is an image of galloping, leaping the dreadful gap, but falling short.

But now the Voices lash at me like whips, wrenching my attention to the present moment. Stand ready!

As I lift my head higher, I have a perception that the very air is stirring and realise that the wolves' grey hides are one with the twilight. Even though I heard Master tell Youngest that my vision at night is superior to a hobbit's, I have little warning before the first wolf slams into me and powerful jaws fasten on my neck. The fact that I planted my feet in response to the Voices' warning saves me from going down under the attacking wolves.

Maddened with fear and rage, I rear high in the air, carrying that first wolf with me. His mouthful of my shaggy winter coat pulls free, and he falls to the ground. As he lands on his back, and before he can scramble to his feet, I come down hard on him, and he yelps and rolls away, writhing. Several of his fellows leave off their attack on me and close in around him. 

Terrible shrieks rend the air. Some may be my unfortunate attacker's, but some come from my own throat as I rear and strike out. Feeling jaws closing on my hindquarters, I bring my front feet to the ground once more, aiming to come down upon the snarling, snapping wolves in front of me, and once my feet find steady contact with the ground, I kick out behind me, connecting with a satisfyingly solid feeling and more yelps.

I swivel a quarter turn and strike out, first fore and then aft. Feeling more snapping teeth and jaws grabbing at my hind legs, trying to cripple me, I rear high into the air and let myself fall over backwards, crushing several of my attackers beneath my weight, though I know it is a terrible risk.

Somehow I manage to regain my feet, even as I feel the first score of teeth against my skin where my attackers have pulled loose large clumps of my winter coat. I whirl and lash out, and hear a yelp, more yelps, shrieks of pain from multiple throats, some from several different directions at once!

Before me, I mean, and behind me... but what is happening on my off-side?

Even as I lash out with my forefeet and then kick out behind me, I roll my eye to the side and see a larger piece of moving twilight amidst the many smaller pieces that are the wolves. And then I am too busy with my own troubles to wonder further. In any event, that larger body seems more interested in addressing my attackers. I resolve to fight on as fiercely as I may until I see an opening, and then I will flee... if I can flee...

The sudden silence is something of a surprise; I realise that in the past few moments, I heard more cries and shrieks, at first close at hand but then farther away and receding ever farther. But now there is nothing.

This is the time when I should take advantage of the quiet that surrounds me. I should make my way away... I should...

It is all I can do to lift my drooping head. In the deepening twilight, something large is approaching. I cannot see it, for it seems to be a part of the twilight sky, as if the sky itself is moving. But my ears hear the sounds of light, dancing steps, the swish of a tail, the sound of a mane settling after one of my kind shakes its head... an equine snort.

I jump at the gentle nibble along my withers. Well done, little one. It is the whisper of one of my own kind.

I raise my head higher, but it is as if a mist is in my eyes. Either that, or the large, ghostly figure looming beside me is an apparition.

*** 

Chapter 7. Safe for the moment, I rest and ponder

~ S.R. 1419, 15 January, pre-dawn ~ 
(From the Tale of Years for this date: The Bridge of Khazad-dûm, and fall of Gandalf. The Company reaches Nimrodel late at night.) 

I lift my head, and it seems, however unlikely in the circumstances, that I must have dozed. For all traces of twilight are gone, and darkness has settled upon the land. My muscles quiver with weakness, and my breaths still whistle quickly in and out of my lungs in testimony to my recent and violent exertions.

They're well gone, my companion – for that other is still here, unless he might be part of my slowly dissolving dreams – tells me as I flare my nostrils to sample the night air. 

I thank you for your timely rescue, I say politely. My dam always insisted that politeness was the best course to follow, and for the most part, she had the right of the matter. With the exception of my old misery, of course. And the monsters in that dreadful murky lake where the steep dark stairway swallowed my Companions. Offering them a polite greeting did not seem the right thing to do, especially considering the Voices' reaction to their sudden appearance. 

And wolves, I should say. Wolves belong on the list.

We will rest now, I hear this new acquaintance say. No time for niceties, I suppose. At least until you catch your breath. And are you bleeding badly? I hear the words as clearly as before and know I am not alone. If I stretch my neck a little, my nose might brush against a furry hide. However, now that the darkness has fallen, this other beast is no longer a piece of moving twilight but has become invisible to my eyes – not even the shadow of a shadow is discernible! I know there is substance only from the reassuring horsey smell that comes to my nostrils and the quiet sounds that reach my ears when I swivel them in that direction.

I shudder the skin over my shoulder where a wolf's teeth scored me near the end of the battle. It is not too bad, I say. I think my Companions would call it a flesh wound.

My new Companion does not ask after those others, but merely says, Good. Then we'll rest here until you have caught your breath. If you're not losing blood too rapidly, we can wait that long before we go and find water to drink.

I'm thirsty, I say, almost without thinking.

After you catch your breath, we will find water, comes the answer. You are weary, and I think you will risk less of a stumble – perhaps laming yourself, which would not be helpful at this point! – if you rest a little before we set out. At least long enough for your breath to quieten.

I am well, I say.

To speak the perfect truth, you were doing quite well for yourself in the time before I managed to reach you at last, the large not-shadow says. I really only stepped in when I arrived on the spot because I would not have wanted to miss out on the amusing diversion of watching them flee... 

Amusing. My fellow fighter finds wolves amusing. It is a curious thought. But then, I am only a pony, and he is much larger than I am.

My more-than- and less-than-shadow must be something more than merely a horse. Or something more than a common horse, in any event. If only I could see him clearly! (I say him with confidence, for I can tell from his smell that he is a stallion of some sort. But what sort?)

Still, a lone horse is no match for a pack of wolves, or so I gather from my memories of the stories my dam told of the Fell Winter, when the White Wolves came down from the Northlands. And running away from those fearsome creatures of story and legend was no guarantee of safety; in fact, she told me, from the stories passed down by surviving horses, she'd gathered that fighting was the best of a bad lot of choices, for the White Wolves could run swiftly over the snows and pull down any fleeing horse or deer.

Most of the ponies that survived were safely locked away behind sturdy doors in barns and stables, she told me.

And what of the horses? I remember asking her.

Those belonging to Bree-folk, they were safe behind the dike and the walls of the town, she answered. No traveller in his right mind would've ventured out in those freezing temperatures – cold enough to freeze the wide River to our West all the way across!

But what about those outside the town walls? I persisted. 

For the first time, the thought occurs to me that my broken-down shed might actually have provided safety from the White Wolves, at that, seeing as how it was tucked inside the walls of the town. The structure seemed ancient enough to have stood in that long-ago time, anyhow.

My mother shuddered, and it was long before she would answer my question. At last, she said slowly, Some Rangers were lost with their horses if they were caught out in the open, where the snow was deeper.

At my wordless exclamation, she added, Some of them were able to outrun their pursuers and to reach safety, those who were near the town gates or the Chetwood, where the snows were not so deep under the trees, or one of their settlements...

Whose settlements? I asked her.

I remember how my dam nipped at my upturned nose. Master Curiosity! she said fondly.

Whose? I insisted.

The Ranger-folk, of course! my dam snorted. 

I didn't believe her at the time, and I can scarce believe her now, even as I think back in my memory to that long-ago conversation. For I cannot say if I have ever seen two Rangers together in the same place at one time. How can such solitary figures have settlements, I cannot seem to help asking?

She told me how, when the White Wolves first came upon them at one of these settlements, one large group of Rangers' horses were together out in the open, confined within a large field by a fence that presented no barrier to wolves. Indeed, the strongest of them might have jumped the fence and fled the wolves! ...but of course they could not leave the yearlings and two-year-olds behind, nor the older ones who lived a pleasant, quiet life in the field, for the most part, when they were not giving lessons in riding to young Rangers.

(Young Rangers, I stop to think about the phrase I remember her saying. At the time, the words made little sense to me, and I laid my ears back in irritation. And my mother nipped me sharply! Where do you think Rangers come from, my foolish foal? I did not know. And to this day, I still do not know. I am almost certain I have never seen two Rangers together! Would it not take two such creatures for "young Rangers" to come into the world?)

On further thought (but having little or nothing to do with Rangers), her description of the life of the Rangers' horses as I remember it reminds me strongly of the pleasant Valley where, I hope, Merrylegs still grazes.

So what did they do? I asked.

She shook her head at me but deigned to answer: They formed a ring, heels outermost, and herded the young and old into the centre. And any wolf that came near found that they were no easy prey, and that they would allow no access to the easier prey in the centre of the circle!

O my, I remember saying low. And did the wolves tire of their sport and go away, or did the horses tire, or were they able to stand steadfast...?

Their Men heard their shrieks and squeals, and the yelps of the wolves, and they came with their swords and spears and bows...

And that's how there were survivors, I suppose, I said thoughtfully. But how did you happen to hear the story? For I've never seen you talking to any horses over our fences, much less a Ranger's horse.

Astonishingly, my dam chuckled. You might well ask, she said, and I sighed. For all too often, that meant she had no intentions of giving me an answer. But this time, she did. Your great, great, great, many-greats of a granddam was in the centre of that circle with several other ponies belonging to the children of Rangers...

I was a very young and foolish foal when my dam told me that story, and the children of Rangers meant nothing to me since I had only seen one or two Rangers in my young life to that point, striding over the fields on their long legs and not stopping to talk or pat a pony's curious out-thrust nose. (I say one or two for I might have seen the same one twice upon a time, if you take my meaning.) And he – or they – walked alone.

But now, it occurs to me that the children of Rangers is another way of saying young Rangers. For, just as my dam said to me in my earliest days, Rangers must come from somewhere.

*** 

Chapter 8. Many things become clearer in the morning light

~ S.R. 1419, 15 January, morning ~ 

When I am once more aware of my surroundings, light has overtaken the darkness. The reek of blood lingers in the air, and one of the first things my eyes perceive as I raise my lowered head is a scattering of grey-furred bodies over the ground not far from where I stand.

So these were not the same as those others, I think to myself. All unknowing, it seems, I have spoken my thought aloud.

Those others? At the quiet query, I turn my head, to see the voice from the night take shape and form in the daylight.

My companion is no longer invisible, neither one with the twilight nor cloaked in darkness, but his coat shines silvery-grey in the pale sunlight. He reminds me of the white one, an Elf-horse whose Rider is an Elf-lord, tall and graceful in his movements. But the bones of his legs are thicker than those of an Elf-horse, and thick ropes of muscles ripple under his shining hide; this horse was made to run far and fast and fight fiercely when foes make themselves known.

I bow my head before him. My Lord.

He paws the ground with a restless forefoot and then plants his feet and shakes his head at me, tossing his silvery mane into the air. It settles on his neck, and he lowers his head to see eye-to-eye.

Those others? he asks again. What others did you speak of just now? I would know...

Wolves, or so they appeared in the night when they attacked our Company, I say. And their howls were certainly indistinguishable from those of the wolves that lie here now.

Appeared wolfish, my new Companion prompts.

When the dawn came, and the Sun cast her light upon their bodies, they... I stop, unsure of how to describe what I saw.

They... what? Jumped up and ran away?

No. I shake my head. One minute they were there, and in the next, they were gone. Vanished. Leaving no trace that they were ever there, except for the Fair One's arrows, left behind to lie upon the ground where the bodies had fallen when the arrows brought them down.

I don't like the sound of that, my Companion says with a shake of his own head. Quite unnatural. It sounds... wizardish, at best.

They were defeated by wizardry at that, I say.

What was that? How so? he demands.

We were hard-pressed, and the battle was going against us, and the wizard seemed to grow, to rise up until he became a great menacing shape on the hilltop. Then he stooped to seize a burning branch from the fire and strode towards our attackers. And then...

And then what? my Companion prods impatiently.

And then he tossed the brand high in the air and roared in a voice like thunder! ...and his words crowned the entire hilltop with blinding flames that dazzled the eyes with light!

I am astonished to hear a low chuckle from my companion in response. He raises his head and seems to look into a far-off distance. So it was when we faced down the Nazgûl on Weathertop, he whispers.

I stand stunned, and then I bow my head. My Lord, I whisper.

I may be a lord amongst my own, he says, looking back to me and lowering his head once more, but you need not bow to me, little one. I trow you are both clever and courageous, or I would never have reached you in time.

Your own? I ask. Are there more like you? I have never seen your sort, not even in that marvellous Valley where the old pet dwells amongst the Elves.

We are the Mearas, he answers. At my blank look, he adds, Some call us "the wild horses of the North". He arches his neck proudly. No Man can tame one of us, save the Lord of the Mark himself, since the time of Eorl! And at that, any Man who would ride me must first win my respect and earn my heart. In other words, he must be worthy.

Not proud at all, I think to myself wryly.

But he hears the unspoken thought. Not pride, he says, reaching forward to nudge me, as if suggesting I should pay closer attention, but the way of things since the days of Eorl. For my people were proud, upon a time, wild and proud, and we suffered no Man to rule over us. Léod, the father of Eorl, captured my ancestor as a foal, and paid with his life when the foal grew up and the Man tried to ride him as he might have any other horse. For the Mearas are not like any other horses!

Undoubtedly, I murmur.

Even today, no Man may rule over us, he says. My Rider befriended me, rather.

You belong to the Lord of the Mark? I ask, though I have not the slightest idea of who or what the name portends.

He snorts softly. Hardly, he says. I belong to no Man. 

You have a Rider... I say, confused.

My Rider is not a Man though he has the appearance of one – somewhat bent with age, wearing grey robes that cover his hidden Fire and Lightnings...

Tall Hat! I interrupt in my excitement, lifting my head higher.

My companion whickers low in his throat and nods. As a matter of fact, he was wearing a tall hat when last I saw him.

Again, he lowers his head to meet my gaze at my level. Three days ago, I was running on the plains, listening for his call – and he called to me! And he laid words of guiding upon me that brought me, in the end, to you.

To me? I ask, stunned. If I am remembering right, three days ago, the snows were falling around us and growing ever deeper. I think I have counted correctly. I can count as high as four before the numbers grow so large as to have no meaning to my mind. 

He said that all of Middle-earth owes you a great debt, my Companion says, bowing down to me for a brief moment. He told me that I should aid you in your journey... back... He shakes his head, allowing his lower lip to droop humorously. Though I do not know where "back" might be. You shall have to be the one to tell me that part.

*** 

Author notes: Some turns of phrase undoubtedly came from The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, especially the chapters 'The Council of Elrond' and 'A Journey in the Dark'. (And thank you, Larner, for reminding me of that useful term, "trow", which was the exact word I was looking for.)

"The white one" is Bill's name for Glorfindel's horse, as seen in The Tenth Walker.

*** 

Chapter 9. At last I am able to quench my thirst

Under the light of the Sun, the wolves scattered at our feet scarcely look fearsome, though I admit I do not care to look too closely. At least the attackers on that hillside, unnatural as they might have been, did not clutter the landscape with their remains. I find I must pick my way carefully at first, lest I stumble over one of last night's ill-fated assailants. 

As we leave the shaggy grey bodies behind, our shadows travel ahead of us, beckoning us on, a long shadow and a shorter one. We plod along at the pace of a weary pony weakened by hunger and thirst. 

My Companion is wondrously patient. He occasionally reaches over to offer a gentle nudge, but it is more of an encouragement than a goad. Foot by foot by foot by foot, he tells me, and I nod wearily.

At some point I notice that our shadows, slowly shortening as the Sun climbs in the sky, are not directly ahead but seem to stream from our shoulders instead of our noses. In those shadows that stretch ahead of us, I can see the oddly compacted forms of a horse and a pony.

Noticing that I have lifted my head for a better look, my Companion nuzzles my shoulder and says, You are indeed clever, little one. We are travelling more north-west than straight west at the moment.

I nod, though truth be told, I would not have known how to name our direction of travel. But my Companion seems familiar with the speech used by Men, more so than any other horse I have known.

And then an elusive scent makes me lift my weary head higher, nostrils flaring. Water?

Yes, Greatheart, he answers. A spring emerges from the ground just ahead, and it forms a rivulet that runs into the Gate-stream. It is the closest water source to where I found you... We will drink our fill before we continue. However, I can promise that grazing lies ahead of us, and more water for the drinking. I have great hopes that we will not go thirsty from this point onward...

My Companion, however, seems to hold odd ideas about drinking our fill. Once we reach the place where marvellously refreshing, icy water bubbles from a bucket-shaped depression in the ground, he lets me drink first. I touch my muzzle to the water and toss my head to make a splash. Yes! This water is real, unlike the dreams of water that have haunted me ever since I first entered this desolate, broken country.

Drink, little one! My Companion snorts with laughter.

I'm drinking! I mumble through a mouthful of sweet, life-giving liquid.

But I manage only a few swallows before the Big Horse shoulders me away from the spring. Hoi!

At my protest, he says calmly, We would not have you founder after the long drought.

He slowly lowers his face to the water for a few well-spaced, almost-contemplative sips. Ah, he says in satisfaction. Just as delicious as I remember from the last time I came this way.

He lifts his dripping muzzle, his gaze demanding. Soon I will let you drink again, he says. Very soon. But can you stop after two or three swallows – I know you can count that high – and turn away, and wait before you drink again? Or must I...?

I think I can, I say slowly. It is a new thought to me. When horses and ponies are very thirsty, they can and sometimes do drink themselves to death! ...strange as that may sound. Thus, when one of us comes to the end of a journey or a long day of work, the safest course is to offer a little water in the bottom of a bucket, at first, adding small amounts of water to the bucket over a span of time to save us from our own foolishness.

My dam was the first to tell me of the danger of foundering oneself. My guide in that marvellous Valley where I hope to see Merrylegs again reminded me of the practise of offering a little water on one's homecoming, and I can likely expect the same welcome when I return.

I never had to worry about foundering under the so-called care of my old misery; he was too lazy to fill my water bucket more than half-full, much less refill it after he'd filled it in the first place.

My Companion nudges me, jarring me from my thoughts. Go ahead, he says pleasantly, and I realise that he stepped out of my way a moment or two ago.

My thanks, I breathe, and lower my head to the small bowl of bubbling water.

I remember to count three swallows – I may have mentioned that I can count as high as four – and lift my head again, enjoying the sensation of water dripping from my muzzle. I can almost hear one of my Hobbits say, Plenty more where that came from! The thought gives me both a pang and a warm feeling at the same time.

Well done, my Companion says, and he lets his nose droop until it touches the surface of the water, then takes a few more swallows of his own.

We continue to take turns drinking until thirst has faded completely. When I lift my head with no feeling of reluctance for the first time since I started drinking, the Big Horse fixes me with a kindly eye and says, Better?

Much! I say, tossing my head up and down.

Then let us go, he says, and turns away from the spring. We will follow the rill south-westward – that means your shadow will beckon from your other shoulder – to the Gate-stream, and when we reach the streambed we'll turn to go west – following the Sun as she slips down the sky-bowl. By the time she lies herself down in the soft bedding prepared for her in her stall beyond the horizon, we will find something-or-other to graze upon. 

That sounds quite promising, I reply, and my Companion laughs again.

I can see we shall get on famously, he says. You are quite the amiable travelling companion.

I do my best, I say, ducking my head, feeling suddenly shy.

He gently nibbles my withers, a pleasant and soothing sensation. O' course you do, he says, sounding almost like a fellow pony.

Strengthened by having been able to drink my fill, and heartened by the wisdom and benevolence of my Companion, I nod my head and set off in the direction he indicated, following the trickle of water and doing my best to orient myself so that my shadow flows ahead of me from my other shoulder.

The great horse follows not far behind, indicating his confidence in my ability to maintain the right direction, thereby bolstering my own confidence.

The Voices have fallen silent again, and I find myself wondering if They sleep? Or perhaps there is some other reason for leaving me to my own thoughts. From my short experience with them thus far, I can take comfort in the thought that silence has seemed to mean I was going the right way.

And now I find myself wondering if I will still have the Voices when I reach that marvellous Valley where the old pet waits and Merrylegs grazes?

One question after another arises as I amble along. No nips come from my Companion to hurry my pace. Perhaps he understands the weakness that still afflicts my limbs, for though the water was refreshing and reviving, I cannot remember my last meal.

Pondering each question in turn is diverting... almost as if Youngest walks at my head, peppering my other Hobbits with one question after another after another... 

Somehow the feeling brings me closer to my Hobbits even as my senses tell me the distance between us is growing with every step we – they and I, that is – take.

I sigh but continue pacing steadily without pausing. Something tells me that my Hobbits will seek to return to that marvellous Valley, and I intend to be there to welcome them when they arrive at last.

*** 

Chapter 10. Idle talk about talk; it helps pass the miles

What a wonder it has been to follow the rivulet to its ending in the Gate-stream! To be able to dip my nose into the shallow but moving and ever-freshened water at any time I wish! Even when I am not at all thirsty!

My companion laughs and pushes at my shoulder. My Rider would say, "Plenty more where that came from!" He told me he learned it from a Hobbit...

I toss my head at that. My Hobbits said that very thing quite often! I say in excitement. Did he then know Hobbits in the time before I met him?

Undoubtedly, the great horse answers. Hobbits sound like they must be quite the cheerful folk. "Plenty more where that came from"!

I glance over at him. He meets my gaze with his near eye; like me, the eye on the other side of his head is most likely scanning our surroundings for potential danger. Horses and ponies must always be on the alert, unless we are safely shut inside a sturdy barn or stables. Outside of such shelter, we find our safety in numbers. Though "two" does not sound like many, it seems to me that we are more than only two, somehow, and that is not even counting the Voices. My new Companion seems equal to a dozen common horses, at the least...!

Tell me, he says now. How do Hobbits talk?

I shake my head in confusion. I don't take your meaning, I must admit.

He says, I have seen them in passing, but none has ever come up to me and talked to me.

When I briefly ponder his words, it makes sense to me that no Hobbit would simply and casually stroll over to my Companion and try to engage with him. Why, Youngest could practically walk underneath the great horse without having to bend much at all!

Their speech is almost the same as the speech of Men that I have heard, I say at last.

Almost the same?

I duck my head for a moment, then raise it again. I am only a pony, I begin.

No "only" about it! my Companion says sharply.

Startled, I jump, expecting a nip to follow after.

But the great horse only snorts softly, and then says, My apologies, little one. You are a pony, and that is the absolute truth, but you have no cause to apologise for that fact. From what I was able to perceive of my Rider's mind when he reached out to me to send me to your side, you have no cause to apologise at all, whether for your small stature or for your very understandable confusion when some topic comes up that is beyond your ken.

Most horses and ponies of my acquaintance could not be described as being long-winded. In contrast, this is rather a long thought to work my way through, but in the end, I nod and say the only thing that comes to mind: Apologies accepted.

It is something I have heard one or another of my Hobbits say at one time or another. Unlike my old misery, my Hobbits are humble and quick to apologise when they perceive that they have been at fault in some matter or other. Not only that, but the wronged Hobbit is quick to forgive, and then there are hugs all around. Sometimes there are even tears, whether tears of laughter if my Hobbits somehow deem the situation as humorous, or the tears spring from some deeper emotion when harm has been done, even all unknowing, and healing is taking place.

My Companion repeats, a little lower, reminding me somehow of Tall Hat in his way of speaking, You are a pony, indeed, but let me not hear you say again that you are only a pony.

I will do my best, I answer.

He nods. As I am quite sure you always do, he says. But what did you mean when you said that Hobbits' speech is "almost the same" as Men? He cocks his near ear in my direction as if to indicate he is listening closely.

Their speech differs in several ways, I answer. My Companion nods as we walk along, as if to say, "Go on." Some of the words they use are different, I go on. Some of that difference may be because my Hobbits come from somewhere other than Bree, for they do use some words that differ from the words I have heard from Bree-Hobbits as well as the Men I have known in the Bree-land.

Ah, he says.

And the two Men I have travelled with recently, their speech was similar to each other's and yet different somehow, I say, thinking about my other Companions. I wonder where they are now, and what is happening to them.

And one of them – the Big Men, I mean – could and did speak like an Elf sometimes, I add. The Master – one of my Hobbits, that is – could speak a few words of Elvish. But Our Big Man (not the one with the shield, but the other, the one who travelled with us from Bree to the Valley) – he could speak like an Elf! A little lower, I add, Perhaps I am putting it badly. I manage not to say "I am only a pony", at least.

The great horse snorts again and tosses his head. Let me put it this way... The Elves have made a study of speaking with other living things, and so they can speak to a horse or pony as well as listen to what we have to say, and understand us. 

I nod. That is what I have experienced in the company of Elves, I say.

He continues, As my forebear Felaróf before me, I am able to understand the speech of Men. I suppose what I am asking is, would I understand the speech of Hobbits as easily?

He waits while I ponder. I am struck by the thought that when we first met, I caught only bits and snatches of meanings from the words my Hobbits spoke to me and around me. But as we travelled together, I seemed to learn more and more. And then in that marvellous Valley, I learned more. I do not know if it was the influence of the Valley itself, or perhaps the Elves, but I understood quite a lot of what my Companions said to me and each other by the time we set out again and left the Valley behind us. I know my Sam noticed the change in me, for I heard him say of me, That animal can nearly talk ... and would talk, if he stayed here much longer!

That sets me to wondering: had I stayed longer in that Valley, would I have learnt to talk? I roll my tongue around my teeth as I consider.

My Companion misunderstands. We will begin to find grass ahead of us soon, he says. Every step brings us closer.

Every step brings us closer sounds very like the Merry-hobbit's encouragement to Youngest when the smallest cousin is tiring at the end of a long march. Foot by foot, Pip, I often hear him say to Youngest. We'll reach our resting place soon. Every step brings us closer.

*** 

Author's note: Sam's quoted words come from 'The Ring Goes South' in The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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