Chapter 114. That which is made up must go down in the end, after all 

It seems we are a long time waiting for the Big Men to carry the younger hobbits down the Mountainside and then return, but my Sam knows just how to pass the time: he puts together a meal of sorts and presses the Master to eat.

‘I can well enough wait until we join the others,’ Master demurs, but my Sam is wondrously stubborn when he feels strongly about something, and he obviously feels strongly about this. I can almost smell the determination pouring from him, wafting on the thin, chill air.

‘I made this up specially, Mr Frodo, and I’d hate to see it go to waste,’ he says. ‘I was putting together your portion first; had I known they’d be taking your young cousins down the slope before you, I’d’ve started with making up their portions, that they might have had summat to eat while waiting for us below.’ At the end of this rather long speech, for him anyway, my Sam hangs his head. He sighs sadly and rubs at his eyes with the hand that is not holding the cloth he meant for Master, with its contents of dried fruit and nuts and, perhaps, hard cheese or dried meat, even possibly a hard, dry biscuit or two, though there does not seem to be any tea brewed and poured out at the present moment, for Master to soak such a biscuit in to render it soft enough for him to chew. ‘I’m that sorry, Mr Frodo, to have been so thoughtless and careless. I oughter have...’

‘Now, Sam,’ the Master soothes, and as he speaks, he takes the folded packet from my Sam’s hand. ‘I cannot fault you; you are nothing if not thoughtful and faithful in carrying out your duties.’

Master folds back one corner of the cloth and then another. ‘A veritable feast!’ he exclaims, and though he is keeping his voice low, his praise rings sincere, and not only to my ears. The blood rises in my Sam’s neck to his face until a blush covers his cheeks as he lifts his head once more.

As if to emphasise his approval, the Master takes a handful of mixed fruit and nuts, from the smell of it, and lifts it to his mouth, chewing vigorously. It takes some time for him to process the mouthful, as if he were the cow I remember in the field next to where my Dam and I grazed, chewing its cud. But of course he has nothing at the moment to help wash it down. Unlike cows and ponies, hobbit-folk seem to need something to drink with their food to help with the process of chewing and swallowing, whether steaming tea from a tin cup or cold water from a water bottle “or something stronger” as Youngest is so fond of saying, though I’ve no idea what he might mean since “something stronger” never seems to emerge from my burdens or my Sam’s, so far as I can tell. Perhaps Tall Hat’s warming potion might be what Youngest means? ...though I rather doubt it, since there was only a mouthful for each and not a cup-full.

And so the Master chews and chews and chews whilst my Sam watches him anxiously. Perhaps he fears Master will never swallow without the help of a mug of tea. Yet the fire burnt out some time ago, the final faggot that I carried up this slope consumed, leaving only ash that has already been covered by the blowing snow. Even I, a poor pony, know from my observations of my companions that making tea requires the heating of a pot of water, and that requires a fire, even if it must be a small one that gives off little enough heat and takes for ever to bring the pot to a boil.

Memories of Youngest’s cheerful Stop watching the pot, my good Samwise, or it shall never boil! come to mind. Well, no matter how carefully we should not watch the pot at the moment, in this place, I deem it would never boil nonetheless.

When my thoughts return to the present moment, Master is still chewing his first handful of dried fruit and nuts, if I am not mistaken, though in truth I was not paying attention whilst reminding myself of the usual, if not always completely proper or satisfactory (according to my hobbits), makings of tea. At last he swallows, and sighs in satisfaction. ‘Ah... That’s what was wanted.’

My Sam stands blinking, and I see him swallow hard. ‘I’m that sorry, Mister Frodo, I—’ is all he says.

But Master fixes my Sam with a firm look and a raised hand, stopping the rest of what ever my hobbit meant to say about his failings. As if my Sam had any! Failings, that is. 

In any event, the Master speaks into the silence. ‘You might as well take your meal whilst we’re waiting, Sam,’ he says, and though his tone is mild, he is clearly giving an order and not merely making a suggestion. ‘And then,’ he adds, ‘you may continue to make up the rest of the meals – for my cousins, and everyone else in the Party – and once you’ve finished the task, someone will carry the food downhill again, whether it is yourself, or our Bill here – or perhaps a passing eagle might oblige...’

I raise my head to look for signs of eagles soaring above us (though we are already very high on the Mountain, indeed), but from the corner of my eye, I see my Sam’s lips tighten, and then the Master chuckles. So perhaps Master’s meaning is that he expects no eagles to be passing by us in the near future?

*** 

Author notes:

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

***