The Way Home
(or The Tenth Walker, Part 2)

Separated from the Nine Walkers at the Doors of Moria, Bill the Pony finds himself abandoned and lost in the Wilderlands.
Taking up the thread from where The Tenth Walker left off, this story attempts to trace his wanderings from There to Back Again.

Chapter 1. Alone!

~ S.R. 1419, 13 January ~
(From The Tale of Years for this date: Attack by Wolves in the early hours. The Company reaches West-gate of Moria at nightfall.)

I still do not know how it all came about, though I was "present and accounted for" as Youngest hobbit is fond of saying when one of the older cousins annoys him by calling his name at times when he most assuredly does not want to hear his name called. Or so I have discerned from his response each time he has employed the phrase.

I find myself missing his almost incessant nattering, his ability to think up and ask question after question, sometimes without pausing to take a breath, it has seemed, except when he actually wants to hear an answer and pauses to listen to someone's reply.

I miss the soothing tones the older cousins employ when they know the never-ending talk or queries have sprung forth, as a bubbling spring from a hillside, from rattled nerves or worry or, when things have been seemingly at their worst, nearly paralysing fear. Though I have noticed the same smell of worry or fear also pouring from them as I have detected as coming from Youngest, they are the older, and supposedly wiser cousins, and so he looks to them when he can no longer trust himself to bear up under the circumstances, whether it might be weather or wolves or slowly freezing to death or...

Should I hear Tall Hat's irritated tone, the one he uses when threatening to turn Youngest into a toad, at least until it is time to resume our march, and lately used when threatening to knock upon the Doors with Youngest's head, I think I would dance and caper in joy.

I miss...

O my dearest Sam. Where might you be now? I would follow if I could... 

But here I am, alone, my companions vanished and wolves howling afar off – but not far enough, I deem. I might choose to travel in the opposite direction from where their voices seem to come from, but the sound seems to be carried on the wind. When the wind drops, I can no longer hear them. Are they before me or behind me or possibly to one side or the other? What if I were to travel in the wrong direction when the wind is not blowing, and blunder into their midst?

At the moment, the Voices are silent on the matter, as if they have withdrawn to allow me time to grieve my losses. Or recover my senses...

My thoughts are a blur of confusion, and I am shaking as with a deep chill, as if the Darkness surrounding me has also crept inside my skin. 

The Voices are made of Light, and there is no Darkness to be found in them? Who or what is saying that to me! I am alone in this place. I do not know whence comes that idea... 

I am only a pony after all.          

I swivel my ears in all directions, but the wind is fitful, and at this exact moment, the air is still. I seem to hear Our Big Man saying, Where the wolf howls, the Orc prowls. Thus, if I cannot hear the wolves at this moment in time, do I not need to worry about Orcs? (Even if I knew what Orcs might be... the fact that they are mentioned in the same breath as wolves bodes ill.) Or did he actually say something else? It may be – I am not sure, for words are slippery creatures at best, having more than one meaning, or sometimes, it seems, no meaning at all – but instead of wolf did he say something like warg? (Neither do I know what a warg might be. Do I want to know? Somehow I am certain I do not.)

I shake my head to clear it, and my mane flies up and settles again, leaving behind a phantom feeling as if hobbit fingers are stroking my neck while familiar voices whisper calm. Steady Bill...

The way before me is barred by a narrow, stagnant creek. Behind me lies Terror... and my Sam. 

O my dearest Sam. Where might you be now? I would follow if I could... 

I lower my head to the water of this small but ominous-seeming stream that has halted my headlong flight, but something keeps me from reaching far enough for my lips to touch the stagnant weeds floating at the surface. Though I seem to remember the water is shallow here, I can also recall treacherous footing, with slimy stones, loose underfoot, hiding under the green weeds. 

Along with an unpleasant reek, the smell of water nevertheless rises to my nostrils. I thirst, but even as the stream repels me so strongly that I lift my head again and take a step back, I do not trust the lake just a few steps away. From bitter experience, I know those dark waters might well erupt at any moment, without warning, in horror and grasping limbs... arms... serpents... 

Something lurks under the deceptively – nay, treacherously! – calm surface, I know to my sorrow and fear, though since the moment I stopped my headlong flight to avoid splashing into this small but daunting stream that bars my way, I have not seen even a ripple disturb the waters. I widen my nostrils and turn from sampling the air above the stream until my head faces towards the lake. I strain my eyes to see all that is to be seen. I whuffle the air coming from the lake, seeking any trace of the Terror I remember smelling as it rose before the Doors, dank and noisome and reeking of Death. Still no ripples disturb the murky waters, not even as far out across the dark surface as I can see. 

Without thinking, I lift a front hoof as if to take a step towards the lake and its promise of water, but something halts me before I can put my foot down again. I stand poised on three legs, as if I were lame. I am not lame – at least, I hope that when I touch the ground again, all my legs will bear my weight without complaint. But at this point, I am sure of nothing. I trust... nothing.

Thirst wars with something else inside my head, as if I can hear voices speaking to me even as they fight against each other and strive for mastery of my thoughts and actions. 

Go forward and drink! Cool refreshing water is there for the taking!

Go back! Do not trust the dark waters!

I hesitate a moment, but caution wins out, and I turn away and extend my nose a last time towards the stream. But the murky water at the surface, marred by greenish scum, smells rank and unwholesome.

Behind me, no more than a mile away, I think, are the Doors, which last I saw yawning open after Tall Hat spoke of a friend. 

I think of my friends – my companions – my fellow-Travellers. My Sam.

O my dearest Sam. Where might you be now? I would follow if I could... 

And so I turn away from the stream and lift my head to look back along the path to the Doors.

Stand fast! the Shining One said at the River where pursuing Fear overtook us at last, and so I did, aided by a sturdy rope, and all was well, though it was not until a seemingly long time afterwards that I realised the truth of the matter.

Stand fast, Great-heart, and all will be well! Tall Hat said atop the little hill, with wolves howling all around us, and so I did, aided by my hobbles and firm knots in my rope, and found with the coming of the morning light that he had spoken truth.

But when the Terror erupted out of the lake, seizing upon the Master and seeking to drag him into the roiling waters, I did not stand fast but bolted. Granted, there were Voices in my head, shouting at me, confusing me and whipping me into motion at the same time.

No, I realise now, after further thought and the deepest consideration I am able to manage. I did not flee in unthinking terror, away from my companions as they stood before the Doors, as is the way of horse or pony when overcome by events beyond our ken. I was driven away. Was I guided away? I am not sure. All I know is that standing fast was beyond my will and was not in my power, not with the clamour of the Voices added to all the other chaos happening before the Doors as I turned and fled.

I do not know the Voices. I do not know if I can trust Them. What if my companions are in danger, even now, waiting and hoping for me to return to them? What if my Sam is calling to me, but the wind is carrying his voice away? For the wind is currently at my back as I face the Doors. I shake my head at the notion the wind is urging me to go back to where I last saw my companions.

Perhaps all will not be well because this night I did not stand fast. But the sober-and-not-Merry hobbit had already removed my headcollar and leading rope. My hobbles were laid aside, atop some of the baggage my companions had not divided among their packs and thus intended to leave behind, rather than fastened around my ankles, to help me stay and not run away from – or perhaps into danger. 

I heard my Sam calling after me as I fled, but even if the words were ‘Steady Bill! Stand fast!’, in truth I did not hear him clearly. I heard his voice but not the words. The words, themselves, have had power to help me stand and not run in the past. Now I find myself wondering how much their absence added to the lack of a steadying influence from hobbles or my rope being tied to one of the ancient trees guarding the Doors.

O my dearest Sam. Where might you be now? I will follow if I can... 

As if drawn by a rope I cannot see, I begin to walk.

*** 

Author notes:

Some thoughts here are derived from “A Journey in the Dark” from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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