By Any Other Name

‘I forgot to ask him your name!’ Bandobras said, clapping his hand to his head in consternation. The horse’s large dark eye regarded him thoughtfully. 

The Man had sniffed the air – seeking what? Bandobras had wondered – stood up, and bowed gracefully. ‘I cannot tarry,’ he’d said before bending to murmur in his steed’s furry ear. Rising, he’d said, ‘He’ll obey you now.’  

The next thing the hobbit knew, before he could ask even the first of the many questions bubbling to the surface of his mind, Wanderer was gone, having disappeared with almost a hobbit’s skill into the surrounding country.  

***  

‘Limper,’ he tried, looking over his shoulder at the lame horse that slowly followed him.  

The ears did not even twitch. 

‘Gimper,’ Bandobras said next, but the horse only snorted and shook its neat mane, trimmed close, the hobbit suddenly suspected, to keep from catching in branches whilst galloping through woods, pursued by – or perhaps pursuing – ravening goblins.  

Big Men were not Shire-folk but merely visitors from elsewhere. In his scouting for the Master of Greenfields, Bandobras had worked out that the bands of raiding goblins came from somewhere East – was the beast’s departed Rider a goblin hunter of sorts? 

*** 

Oddly enough, when dealing with an incursion of goblins, safety meant travelling by day and hiding by night. A day’s limping journey from where he’d acquired this outsized pony, Bandobras and his companion went to ground as the Sun painted her evening colours on the sky. A tug at the reins and tentative “down” sufficed; the horse folded its legs and lowered itself to the ground. After piling leaves over its back and hindquarters, he settled to a cold meal, not wanting to risk a fire in the rapidly deepening twilight. ‘Dog?’ he said. 

The horse paid him no heed. 

***  

‘Two more days to Greenfields,’ he told the beast next morning as they walked, ‘though without your help, I’d ha’ made it in one.’ He studied its gait and nodded. ‘You’re better today,’ he said. ‘What shall we call you, then? Walker? Strider?’ 

The horse whuffled at him, then lowered its head to snatch some grass. ‘Very hobbity of you to be always eating,’ he said, ‘Like a tween: we ought to call you Bottomless Pit.’ Then he shuddered, thinking of his father’s mines, and his narrow escape that had driven him to seek the open skies of the North-lands. 

***  

‘Slow Coach?’ Bandobras tried, but the horse snorted softly, tossed its head, then lowered its face to hobbit level and shoved at him with its nose. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘I can’t say I would care for that, either.’ All the while they kept walking towards settled hobbit territory, foot by foot closer to safety. Relative safety, anyhow. The goblins were growing bolder. 

Another gentle push made him chuckle and fend away the long face. ‘Easy, friend,’ he said.  

The horse nickered softly. Bandobras halted, turned around, and stared eye to eye. ‘Friend?’ he whispered, incredulous. 

The horse nodded. 

Bandobras grinned. 

***