Chapter 25. Some thoughts on wizards

The brown one is like and yet unlike his brother or cousin or...

I admit to suffering from some degree of confusion, but then, I have only made the acquaintance of one wizard before now. I suppose I am rarely privileged, for now I have met two wizards in my short life, when many a pony or horse may go an entire lifetime without meeting even one.

They are not brothers, or so the brown one insists, though they look enough alike to be brothers, if you follow me. And as for being cousins, the brown one calls Tall Hat his cousin on occasion when he mentions the grey wizard in passing, but his horse (yes, he has a horse, though I have not mentioned such until now) told me as we grazed together that they are not exactly cousins, at least, not in the way that Men and Hobbits might understand the term.

We are practically a herd, the three of us – two horses and a pony. Grazing companionably together is a pleasant sensation, one I remember from that marvellous Valley where, if all is well, Merrylegs still grazes, and where I once again have hope that I will be reunited with my hobbits.

When I awakened this morning, the grass beside the little stream was refreshed – my kind and gentle Friend's doing, I presume, and the brown one's horse was grazing nearby with the great horse that is my companion at present. I awakened lying down in the grass, with the brown one reclining between my forelegs and hindquarters, resting against my belly as if I were some kind of easy chair, like the one the two younger cousins amongst my hobbits carried out to the pasture one fine day. After them came my Sam and the Master, escorting Merryleg's Old Pet between them.

'There, Mr Bilbo!' my Sam said with a bow as they reached us. 'Now you can soak in the sunshine and visit your old pony to your heart's content!'

'While sitting at my ease, in as much comfort as I would in my own parlour,' the Old Pet answered cheerily. 'Why, I wonder that nobody ever thought of such a thing before now! Don't you think every pasture ought to come equipped with an easy chair or settee?'

'Why not a bed and a kitchen into the bargain?' laughed Youngest, setting all the others to laughter.

And so I know what an easy chair is. And when I tell my new Friend this story of how I know this very un-pony-ish word, he laughs. I begin to understand my cousin's fascination with Hobbits, he tells me. Putting the parlour in the middle of the pasture sounds like an eminently agreeable idea!

When he has finished laughing, the brown one sits himself up and turns himself around until he is resting on his knees before me. Then he leans closer to examine my shoulder. Healing nicely, he decrees. We will take out the stitches on the morrow, if you continue to take care in your movements today, and you may be on your way again.

He rises to his feet and reaches down to slap my flank. Up, lazybones, he says. All that good grass won't graze itself! And then he laughs again at his own joke.

He is so different from the other wizard of my acquaintance, even though he looks so much like Tall Hat in so many ways. Both are tall and formed like Men – Old Men, that is, well advanced in age, with long white beards dominating the lower part of their faces and, as if trying to match in terms of luxuriant growth and vitality, long bristling eyebrows above keen, penetrating eyes. 

Yet Tall Hat, as tall as he stands, sometimes gives me the impression of being bent down, bearing a heavy burden as he trudges along, leaning on his staff. His eyes, usually so black as to be almost fathomless, can unexpectedly flash with fire, and his voice, which I thought at first so quiet and unassuming, can roll like thunder at the most unexpected of times. His laugh is quieter than the brown one's, and he does not laugh as often. When he stood close to me under the cliffside by the Doors of Moria, he felt somehow as ancient – or even more ancient – than the rock face rearing up beside us.

The brown one looks old, like Tall Hat, and at times, something like a feeling of extreme age emanates from him – or perhaps what I mean to say is "a feeling of agelessness". For he is in the same moment incomprehensibly old and vibrantly youthful. Perhaps related to this difference is my perception that the grey one is a wanderer who is doomed never to stay in one place for very long. In contrast, the brown one feels grounded and rooted to me, even though he says that he is, at the moment, far from his home.

My companion and the brown one's horse have told me that there are more wizards besides the two I now know. Two others are "blue" wizards, they say, though they have never met these august beings, and neither have I. We agree that this name for these extended relations most likely reflects the colour of their robes, though there is no way of knowing short of running into them here in the Wilderlands.

Yet another wizard is white; that is, his robes are white, and he is known in the land as the white wizard (in addition to his name which is difficult for me to grasp, much less remember). The brown one's horse does not like to talk about him, and any mention of this particular wizard brings a shiver. Yet all he will say about the matter is, His voice is warm as summer, but his eyes are as cold as the winter wind. He only met the white one once. 

...and once was quite enough, thank you very much! With a snort and a shake of his mane, he goes back to grazing.

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