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.

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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.

***