Chapter 107. We have leave to kindle fire, but cannot 

One would think that the Mountain would, at some point, run out of snow to fling at us. At least, that is what Youngest said only a moment ago, and the older cousins agreed with him. One would think so, indeed, Pip! So perhaps there is some hope that such a thing might come about?

After all, I am quite familiar with things that run out. My rusty water bucket in my broken-down shed, for example. The supply of water in the bucket was not inexhaustible, as I knew to my sorrow. The darkness of night might drag on, but the light always returned in the morning. And no matter how bright or dim the day, night always fell without fail at the end of it. Rain might seem interminable, as might days of oppressing heat, and yet there was always sunshine, even after the longest stretch of rainy days. The rarely visiting snows that I remember from my colthood might mount up and blow into drifts in our meadow, but the Sun always returned to melt the cold white stuff away again, revealing green freshness beneath.

My dam was fond of saying, ‘This too shall pass.’ When I asked her what it meant, she simply answered that nothing lasts forever, though time may seem to go slowly in the midst of trials and quickly in the midst of joy. I came to know this curious truth myself: every day without fail, the Sun kicks off her bedcovers and makes her way across the sky, and sometimes it seems as if she is running races, like a frisky colt, and at other times as if she can crawl no faster than a snail on a leaf. 

I raise my head and sniff at the air, but I smell only snow. And more snow. And icy, howling wind that seems to grow louder as I listen. The air is heavy with wind and snow, and I think this will be one of those times when the Sun, if we should see her at all, what with the heavy clouds, will be pretending to be a snail.

And then the Other Big Man (the one with the shield) shouts above the gale: What do you say to fire? And I remember Tall Hat’s warning, that we must not use the wood that I and the others carry, unless it is a choice between fire and death.

It seem the Other Big Man remembers as well, from his next words. The choice seems near now.

The fickle wind swirls suddenly around Youngest and then comes to my nostrils, bringing me an elusive scent of alarm from the shaking hobbit. But I must be mistaken in the impression, for in the same moment, the smallest of our companions is saying in his most cheerful tones, ‘Well then! Not only will burning the better part of our load lighten our burdens, but I shall at last have the fire I have been wanting, ever since Hollin!’

‘Perhaps you’ll have your real good meal tonight after all,’ the Master says in a similar vein as he slaps his hands together and then hugs himself in a vain effort to warm himself. I say vain effort because I can see him shivering. 

Because he stands with his head bent against my neck, his mouth close to my ear, I hear my Sam mutter under his breath, Something hot, and the more-frozen-than-merry hobbit agrees, through chattering teeth, Indeed!

Tall Hat clears his throat and sweeps his glance around the huddled Company, peering from under his snow-and-ice-covered brows. And then, wonder of wonders, he gives the Other Big Man leave to make a fire!

I sense my hobbits straightening, as if in sudden hope, at Tall Hat’s assent, though I lay my ears back at his suggestion that there are Watchers who might be able to see us, fire or no fire. 

I prick them forward quickly enough, however, as my Sam stomps his way from my head, past my shoulder, to my side. He swings his arms and slaps himself with his hands, and his movements are stiff with the cold. I turn my head to blow my warm breath over him, if it might be of any assistance at all.

It must be, for he leans against my side, and I feel my baggage shifting, and soon it grows lighter as my Sam, along with the more-cold-than-Merry hobbit, who moves to help him, unfastens the firewood and bundles of kindling that were added to my burdens before we climbed above the treetops and left them behind us to traverse this rocky wasteland. 

Faggots, the Other Big Man called them while tying them together into bundles as the Dwarf wielded his axe, reducing the larger pieces of wood our companions had dragged to our resting spot, chopping them into manageable lengths to carry. My Sam, on the other hand, said that they were fuel-wood, while Master spoke of stove-lengths. To my further bewilderment, the Fair One and the Dwarf had other names for them, though to my eyes there was no difference in the pieces of wood. Still, I am only a pony, and such distinctions are likely beyond my powers of discernment.

Feeling the lightening of my load, I nod my head in relief. Master takes his hand from its sheltering nest beneath the pit of his arm and pats my nose with a stiff hand. ‘Good Bill,’ he says.

Youngest is still leaning against him, as if he can scarcely keep his feet by himself, and after petting me, Master does not restore his hand to its shelter. Rather, he brushes the mounting snow from Youngest’s head and shoulders and then reaches his arm around Youngest, pulling the smaller cousin tight to his side. ‘Hold on, Pip,’ he shouts above the wind. ‘We’ll have a fire soon.’

I hear Youngest, through chattering teeth, repeat his thought about a real good meal tonight: something hot, and somehow his words draw laughter from the Master despite our grim situation, and I see an answering grin from Youngest, as if he is pleased to have conjured some lighter feeling in the midst of our misery, though his face is white and pinched.

Grim situation, indeed. For as we watch in hope, and growing desperation, first the Other Big Man, and then Our own Big Man, the one belonging to my hobbits and myself, tries and fail to spark a fire. Grumbling, the Dwarf presses forwards, but though he is able to strike a flame again and again, every effort dies again without having any effect on the faggots-fuel-wood-stove-lengths-firewood that all of us, at no little cost, have borne up the side of this cursed Mountain. 

‘The wood is wet,’ he complains.

‘You must shield the flame from the wind,’ the Fair One says.

The Dwarf rises from his crouch and snarls. ‘I’d like to see you do any better!’

‘S-s-s-so would I,’ not-Merry bends close to say to Master and Youngest and my Sam, and because all their faces are close to mine, for they are huddled all together, the wind does not snatch the words away before I hear them.

I should like to seem the Fair One do better, even a little better, myself.

But what if his skill is no greater than anyone else’s?

The choice seems near now, just as the Other Big Man said. Indeed.

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Author notes:

Some thoughts here are derived from “The Ring Goes South” from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Next update: Friday (at least, that is the goal. Amazing, to be writing of snow and ice in the midst of a deadly heat wave).

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