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Trotter  by Dreamflower

 The Men of the West

About a week after his return, Stark asked if I would like to accompany him on his hunt. I was quite surprised, though pleased that he asked. As he gathered his gear, I searched the area for some good throwing stones. I spared a moment to regret not having my bow--I was a pretty good shot, although not the archer my oldest brother Isengrim was. In fact, he had taught me, as he did most of the young Tooks, and was responsible for overseeing the Shire Muster’s archers as well. But it was one of the items which had not been recovered when I was rescued--I had watched the outlaws mock it and play with it as though it were a toy, and then break it amid much laughter. They had thought it highly amusing that I should even have such a thing.

But I’d rarely used a bow to hunt anyway, and soon I had a pocketful of stones--mostly smooth and round and a little smaller than my palm--perfect for throwing.

Stark headed to the east of the hut, not a direction I had yet explored much, although Longshank’s order for me to stay within earshot and sight of their waystation would have kept me from venturing very far anyway. The area was mostly clear of trees save for a few isolated copses. I saw some signs of rabbits, but saw none out in the open. We moved quietly, not talking, so as not to scare off any game there might be. I walked beside Stark, taking two steps to his one, trotting to keep up. When he stopped, holding up a hand, I nearly passed him. He pointed to a small brook that crossed our path about ten furlongs ahead, I could scarcely see the glint of water. There were some shrubs and a copse of young alders along the bank.

“There might be waterfowl,” he whispered. “Though it is not quite the right time of year.”

I pursed my lips and studied the ground ahead. “The grass is high. I believe I can get close without alarming any that might be there.”

He studied me closely for a moment, as if he wondered whether or not I was simply boasting, but he nodded.

I scarcely needed to crouch, the grass was so high. And I moved as silently as I could, until I was within a couple of furlongs of the wide brook. Surely enough, a small flock of coots were paddling about.

I glanced back. Stark had moved a little closer, but was standing quite still. He was too far to shoot one should they fly up, and if he came closer, he likely would startle them.

I took out two of my stones, and eyed the birds. I knew I could get at least one. I stood up very slowly, and made my cast. The stone flashed, and struck one of the birds squarely. The others flew up with a raucous cry, and as quickly as I could I made my second cast. It was a hit. A second bird dropped from the air.

I heard Stark coming up behind me. He had seen the second bird drop.

“What did you do?” he asked.

I showed him a stone. He blinked. We went on to the brook, and found both birds floating. The Man waded in and brought them both forth. He was shaking his head and chuckling. “I have never seen the like! A stone! Who would have thought it?”

“That’s how hobbits hunt most small game,” I said.

We took up the birds and continued on our way. Between Stark’s bow and my stones, we managed to bag two pheasants and three quail before we decided it was time to turn back. I trotted alongside the Ranger, and he glanced down at me.

“You have had a very successful day, Master Trotter!”

I looked up at him in surprise. He stopped. “I did not offend you, did I?”

I shook my head; I was not offended but felt honoured. While I had yet to learn any of my companions’ real names, I had heard enough to know that the epithets they addressed one another by had been bestowed by others. For some, those names had been given by outsiders, in scorn and adopted by them in defiance, but for others those names had been given by friends. I was quite certain that Stark did not scorn me--therefore, he considered me a friend.

“I am very honoured,” I said with a smile.

I was surprised to find on my return that the Men had buit for me a small cot, just my size, one which slid easily beneath the larger Man-sized cots. And a new cloak peg had been placed next to the door, one which was well within my reach. They were amused at my gratitude.

“I do not know,” said Longshanks, “how long you will be among us. But I think that you will always be a welcome guest here-- you may as well be comfortable.”

I felt a pang at the suggestion that I might not stay among these Rangers--and yet, there was no talk of sending me away immediately. I did not believe that they would have gone so far as to make the small bed if they did not expect me to stay a while.

At first, it was only Stark who called me by the new name, but as the others saw I was pleased by it, they too began to address me as “Trotter”. I felt absurdly pleased at this, and even more than the bed or the peg, it made me feel as though I were one of them.

There were other Rangers who came and went, as did the three with whom I had originally met-- even Longshanks went off on his own sometimes. One was a droll fellow-- he had a wicked scar upon his cheek and a brown leather eyepatch, who went by the name of “Smiley”; another was a fellow with a prominent nose, who was called “Hawk”. And then there was “The Poet”, a younger Man than the rest, but who had a huge store of poems and songs and stories in his head. There were others as well, but most of them stayed only long enough for a meal and to sleep one night, before they were off once more.

One rainy evening, I sat by the hearth preparing a simple stew and some ash cakes. Only Archer and the Poet were there, and Archer asked something of his companion in a language I did not understand, and was answered in the same tongue. I had heard fragments of this language among the Rangers from time to time.

“Who are you Rangers?” I asked.

They glanced at me, startled by my question. Archer said “I beg your pardon, Trotter.”

But the Poet answered my question. “We are Men of the West, Master Trotter, remnants of ancient Westernesse, long gone beneath the Sea.”

The word “Westernesse” teased at my memory, as of something I had once heard long ago. “Westernesse?” I asked.

In response, the Poet began to tell a tale of an ancient land over the Sea, of how it had been given to Men by the Powers in gratitude for Men’s valour against an ancient Enemy; how at first it had flourished, but then was brought down by the pride of its King. He told of the Faithful few who had fled east over the water to safety and returned to Middle-earth. It was a long story, and he told it well. As we ate our simple meal, I realized where I had heard of it before-- it was a tale that Gandalf had told once, before my father’s hearth when I was scarcely more than a faunt.

When I retired to my cot that night, I thought long over the tale he had told, and the Men I now found myself among.





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