Chapter 115. Conversing (or not) with Dwarves 

No eagles have made an appearance in response to the Master’s musings. Instead, I am moving cautiously down the snowy trail forged by Our Big Men in their earlier travails. I follow my Sam, though he is not leading me. No, but the Other Big Man (the one with the shield) carries my Sam on his back, and it is Tall Hat who walks immediately ahead of my nose. I watch carefully and stop when he does. I will not tread on his robes, or his heels, for that matter. And when he starts moving again, so do I, quite as much as a well-trained shadow might. Though there are no shadows here, not at this time. Solid clouds cover the sky, and solid snow covers the land, and my surroundings look strangely flat (if steep and tilted), making it difficult to see how far we have yet to go.

The Dwarf is on my back, perched among the baggage. The load is not that much more than what I carried up this cruel Mountain, for before beginning our descent, we had burned all the wood that made up a heavy and cumbersome part of my load, as I think I have mentioned. He is little more than another bag among the others, for he neither moves nor speaks, not even grumbles, and I wonder what he might be thinking. Is he afraid of bringing more snow down upon our heads? Is he thinking of the next part of the journey? Is he, perhaps, asleep?

We continue our interminable passage down the side of the Mountain as I wonder about the next part of the journey. I am only a pony, and thus no one has consulted me about the matter. All I can do is set one foot in front of the other on the path set before me. Ever downwards, in any event, at least for the foreseeable future, to where the Wood Elf and the two younger Hobbits await us. Last in the line of our small group of Travellers is Our Big Man, and he carries the Master on his back. 

As we make our way down this steep and slippery way, I hear the Master call softly to me, words of reassurance and encouragement. I realise in this moment that my ears are pinned back, and so I shake my head and mane and deliberately cock one ear forward, in case my Sam might speak to me (though I have not heard him speak since we left our stopping place, and if he has spoken at all to the Other Big Man who carries him, his voice has been too low for me to hear). I swivel the other ear back, the better to hear Master’s voice, should he speak to me again.

And the Dwarf on my back has nothing to say to me, even as I carry him down the Mountainside.

I have known Dwarf-ponies, of course, most recently in that wondrous valley where Merrylegs still grazes, or such is my hope for that plucky old pony. Now he was a Dwarf-pony before he adopted the Old Pet (a Hobbit, as I think I have mentioned), and in that green pasture, he told me about his days amongst the Dwarves.

From what I remember of his stories, Dwarves are not quite so care-full of their ponies as Hobbit-folk. In fact, it seemed to be Merrylegs’ view that a Dwarf is likely to place a higher value upon his axe than the pony who carries him hither and yon.

The old pony told me of his astonishment when his Dwarf owner presented him to the Old Pet. ‘I was much younger then,’ he said, ‘and it was some time ago, too many years for the counting. O’ course my old master said not a word to me about the matter at all, and I only heard how it came about from my Old Pet afterwards, travelling along after we left the Lonely Mountain.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ I said.

Merrylegs snorted and shook his head, staring down his nose at me. ‘Have you been paying attention, Youngster?’ But after a moment of scrutiny, he lowered his head and the look in his eye softened. ‘O’ course you don’t understand; you’ve never been a Dwarf pony...’

He snatched a mouthful of grass and chewed it slowly and thoughtfully, as if pondering how to explain his meaning to such an ignorant soul as myself. And then he said, ‘You are a Hobbit-pony now, but you’ve belonged to more than one Man in the past, as I recollect...’

‘I have,’ I said.

‘And I know for certain that you have had some experience of Elves, here, at least,’ the old pony added. 

I nodded, wondering.

But Merrylegs did not continue his explanation immediately. Instead, he tore a few more mouthfuls of grass and then grumbled at me to ‘Eat – eat! How do you hope to build up your strength and stamina again just standing there, I ask you?’

And as I lowered my head to graze, he blew softly through his nose and continued the lesson. ‘Now the Fair Folk,’ he said, ‘they’re rather marvellous creatures when all is said and done.’

I might have snorted at such an obvious truth but for the fact that I was thoroughly enjoying my mouthful of tender grass.

But that was not all Merrylegs had to say. ‘Why, they speak our tongue quite as if they themselves had hoofs and tails and furry hides!’

I stopped chewing for a moment to digest this thought. But he spoke the truth, and so I went back to pulling grass, for there was no need for me to add my thoughts.

‘I have been able to hold complete conversations with one or another of them,’ the old pony continued. ‘And for all their flighty ways, they can make complete sense – when they wish to do so.’

Flighty ways? I have heard my dam use the term “flighty”, meaning skittish or unpredictable. That could hardly have been Merrylegs’ meaning. For from the time of our arrival in that wondrous Valley, the Fair Folk there seemed quite serious and purposeful and even grim. My guide was kindness itself, when I think back on how gently he led me to the Valley after the River washed the Fear away... And before that time, the Shining One (he who rode the white one), the first of the Firstborn of my acquaintance... he seemed quite solid and steady to me, even when he was tall and terrible, there at the Ford. And while our own Wood Elf has put on a merry face most of the time we have been travelling together, I have always seemed to sense a certain determination, sometimes approaching a feeling of grim purpose, that underlies his smile.

And as for flying... I have seen no evidence of wings on any of the Firstborn, much less the Wood Elf who is a part of our Company. And his running over the top of the snow is not all that remarkable. Why, I have seen a number of mice and other small creatures do so. Why not an Elf? Perhaps there is a knack to it that I have not yet learned. Thus, I shake my head, unable to work out the old pony’s meaning in speaking of Elves and their flighty ways.

My mind returns to Merrylegs’ casual mention of conversing with Elves. What might the world be coming to? On second thought, I suppose the exchanges I had with my guide and some of the stable workers who cared for me in that marvellous Valley might be called conversations, at that. That said, our talk was confined to completely practical topics – nothing like the fanciful exchanges that flow daily between my hobbits as we make our way to where ever it is we are going.

But Merrylegs had more to say that day...

‘And from your own experience... I’m sure you have noticed how both Men and Hobbits talk to us, even if they do not exactly talk with us.’ 

Astonished, I raised my head and stared at him. With age comes wisdom, as my old dam was fond of saying. It is my hope, little one, that you will grow wise as you grow older, that you will listen with your heart as well as your ears, that you will learn and never think yourself above learning, that you may do well as you make your way....

And she had the right of it! Though I had travelled well beyond her reckoning and experience, at that point in my life, I realised how much I had yet to learn, just from listening to Merrylegs’ observations of two-legged folk. Elves could converse with us, if they wished – they could hearken to and heed the thoughts of horses and ponies and other creatures. (They can even converse with trees, from what I’ve seen of the Wood Elf.) But Merrylegs had not quite finished.

‘Dwarf-folk,’ he said, and stopped.

‘Dwarf-folk?’ I prompted.

He lowered his head and sighed, bending the grass before him with the heaviness of his sigh. ‘If you have any choice in the matter,’ he said at last, slowly. Then he tore off a mouthful of grass and chewed for a long time before swallowing and going on. ‘Do not travel with Dwarves, if you have any choice in the matter. For they see a pony simply as another tool, and not as a being in its own right.’

Such are my thoughts as I carry our Dwarf down this mountainside, perched atop the load I carry. If I am simply another tool, he is simply another bag amongst the baggage. Yet I cannot help myself from placing each step with great care, that I might not shake him loose or slip and take us both over the edge. And to my senses, he is subtly aiding me as I go along by shifting his weight. When the way grows steeper, I can feel him leaning back. When we round a sharp corner, he leans inward, helping me keep my balance.

And so I wonder what is in his mind: Is he helping a fellow creature or merely adjusting the use of a tool with an eye to its most efficient application?

For he speaks not a word as we make our way down the trail forged by Our Big Men.

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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.

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