Chapter 117. No rest for the weary 

‘Put me down, do!’ Youngest’s insistence rings rather louder than he intended, I think, for he repeats the words in a lower – but still imperative – tone, even as urgent yet quiet protests are directed at him by his older cousins, trudging to either side of the Other Big Man (the one with the shield) who carries him.

‘Pip, the snows are still knee-deep here,’ determinedly-Merry says, jumping up to grasp at Youngest’s foot and giving a gentle jerk.

‘But they’re growing ever more shallow,’ Youngest points out, and I nod in absent agreement with his logic. Even I can perceive that the going is becoming easier as we move down the path. Even my Sam and the Dwarf, who had been perched together atop the baggage on my back, have continued on their own feet after they were lifted to the ground at our last stop for a brief rest. My Sam now walks at my head instead of Tall Hat, a much more agreeable arrangement to my mind. We are following immediately behind the Master who, when the track broadens, forges forward to walk beside the Man carrying his youngest cousin, as if to keep the youngster as close as possible.

Perhaps he is anticipating that Youngest will ask the Other Big Man for the use of his shield, to slide ahead of us down the track rather than enduring the tiresome business of “being carried like a babe in arms”, a sentiment he has voiced once or twice since we left the fearsome snow tunnel behind us.

...which is hardly accurate, as determinedly-Merry counters each time, seeing as how Youngest rides upon the Other Big Man’s shoulders, much as I have seen hobbits carry small children on walking parties wandering through the Chetwood.

And Youngest invariably retorts, ‘Well, as a faunt then!’

Nevertheless, Youngest falls remarkably silent when Master caps the younger hobbits’ latest exchange with a simple but shattering, ‘Then do stop acting like a faunt, Pippin!’

Perhaps we all ought to stop – walking, that is, at least in this moment. Perhaps Master, who I deem is weary, should now have a turn riding atop my baggage for the next downhill stretch. I should not begrudge the extra weight. He has been as patient as a pony in enduring the interminable climb and, since turning around, the long descent. Indeed, he has been patience itself in all his dealings with Youngest.

As I mentioned but a moment ago, Youngest is startled into silence at Master’s rebuke. His eyes widen, the colour fades from his cheeks, and I see him take one hand away from his firm hold on the Big Man to wipe away a sudden tear before one of the others should notice it. 

But my lead rope tightens, and my Sam is coaxing, ‘Come along, Bill.’ And so I must continue.

At last the snow becomes shallow enough that Youngest gets his wish; the Other Big Man lifts him down and sets him on the snowy path. ‘There you are, Youngster!’ he says cheerily, as if my hobbits’ lightness of speech has been catching. He shrugs his shoulders up and down several times and settles his pack more comfortably on his back. ‘Try not to get yourself into trouble.’

‘O but he excels at that!’ determinedly-Merry says as he and Master take Youngest between them. ‘But do not worry your head about him, Boromir! We have him well in hand.’

‘We do indeed,’ Master says, but the stern words are belied by the smile I hear in his voice, as if he has taken himself in hand right along with Youngest. Patience has returned or, at least, he has wrestled his weariness down for the sake of keeping up the spirits of his younger cousins. ‘Why, look! Isn’t that the flat shelf, not so far down from here, where we felt the first flakes of the storm last night?’

‘Far enough, on legs that are already aching,’ I hear determinedly-Merry mutter under his breath. But I do not think the Master hears him, for he is bantering with Youngest about not falling behind now since Boromir is no longer cumbered by your considerable weight! In any event, he does not say anything to chirk his younger cousin as he is currently occupied with cheering his youngest cousin. And yet I believe that the Master is as worn as the younger and youngest cousins; he’s definitely chilled, for I can see him shivering, and his balance seems to waiver as we continue downward, quite as if he is dizzy or weak, perhaps from hunger. He disguises his weakness quite effectively with an arm around Youngest’s shoulders, but I can perceive a difference in him.

I raise my head higher, the better to sample Master’s scent for illness or exhaustion, and my Sam pats my neck and soothes, ‘Steady, Bill. We’ll have a nice little rest when we reach the shelf, or so I heard Strider say to Gandalf a few moments ago.’

Our Big Man did not say any such thing; at least, he did not say “nice little rest”. I seem to recall overhearing the same conversation that my Sam heard, but the words I heard sounded more like “brief pause to let the hobbits catch their breath before we must go on”.

To be honest, “nice little rest” does sound more restorative, somehow. Once again, I find myself pondering the differences in my companions’ ways of speaking about the very same things. Meanwhile, I keep putting one foot in front of the other without much thinking about it. At least we are going downhill. 

At last we stand upon the shelf, the flat place that the Master pointed out some time ago. The Sun peeks out through a break in the clouds, and I realise that although I did not mark the passing of time, she is nearly overhead. The morning is far advanced, and all too soon the Sun will begin to glide down the sky to her rest. I find myself wondering where we’ll be when darkness falls?

‘What is the time?’ Youngest pipes, swinging his arms and hugging himself. ‘I’m so hungry! As long as we’ve stopped for a rest, why not...?’

As he speaks, I am thinking to myself that Youngest is making a great deal of sense. And not only for his own sake, for I see the Master rubbing his eyes as if his head is dizzy and making him feel faint. A bite or two of food might well do him some good. I know, for myself, if there were any grass for the grazing here, I’d be snatching mouthfuls even now.

But Our Big Man raises a hand to point, interrupting the youngest hobbit’s half-hopeful query. ‘The birds again!’ he says, his voice grim.

Tall Hat tells him it cannot be helped, and then he turns to Youngest and answers that hobbit’s plaintive suggestion by insisting that we must go down at once and not wait for another night-fall, no matter how far we have already descended.

My hobbits are shivering in the cold wind flowing down the slope behind us, but as one, they straighten from their resting positions, resolutely turn their faces away from the slope behind us and begin to trudge downward once more. My Sam gently tugs at my rope, and I follow. I smell startlement from our two Big Men, who quickly take up their positions in the march, Our Big Man moving to the front of the file, accompanied by Tall Hat, and the Other Big Man falling in behind us, followed by the Dwarf and, lastly, the Fair One, or so my ears tell me when I swivel them to listen before and behind me. My ears also tell me that my companions are all as weary as I am myself, for to my senses, their steps sound uneven and stumbling. Even the Fair One does not walk so lightly as he did earlier, when we watched him fly over the deep snows.

Truly, we are all weary – but I do not know when and where we shall find rest.

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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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