Chapter 5. Racing Against the Storm
Tolly set out from the Great Smials on a glorious autumnal day. Fiery trees stood out against a pale sky that deepened to an intense blue as the Sun climbed to her zenith. Riding across the fields towards Bywater and points north, he found himself breathing deeply of the crisp early-morning air, heavy with the scent of rich earth being turned over by teams of farmers and ponies who were ploughing the fields in preparation for sowing winter barley and wheat. In the meadows, the warm, dry summer and early autumn had lent themselves to a second cutting of hay. Workers were out in force, swinging their scythes, as Tolly passed by. ‘Hot work,’ he said to himself. ‘I’d rather be a hunter.’ He patted the pony’s neck. ‘Or a messenger,’ he said aloud, ‘keeping cool in the breeze of our passing.’
But by the time he pulled out the second breakfast packed away in his saddlebags, the day had warmed considerably. He stopped where a stream crossed his path to let the pony drink, and dismounted so that he could more easily remove his cloak, roll it tightly and stow it away until night fell and the air cooled to autumnal crispness once more. He paused briefly, considering, and took out the soft, wide-brimmed hat he carried to keep the sun from his head when the weather was too hot or stifling for cloak and hood. Then, mounting again, he clapped the hat firmly on his head and rode on, eating hearty sausage rolls and succulent hand pies made from the new crop of apples. ‘The cooks certainly know their business,’ he told the pony, whose ears twitched to hear him and then switched forward again. The beast’s flanks were dark with sweat, but seeming refreshed from the rest and the water it had enjoyed, it trotted along at a comfortable pace, seeming untroubled by the growing heat of the day.
He reached Bywater and The Green Dragon an hour or so before elevenses and decided to stop there for the pony’s sake, if not for his own. The escort was used to eating cold food in the saddle when carrying messages, but this “commission” was different from the usual messenger task, for the latter entailed delivering the message in a timely manner and returning promptly. In contrast, he was not on a simple there-and-back-again errand, but was expected at Bindbole Farm this evening, and he’d be stopping over for a day or three.
It would take them another hour to reach Overhill, he calculated, where the road became more of a track, suited to farm waggons. Though not as carefully maintained, the difference in the road they’d travel from that point onward would hardly slow them; they might even manage to go a bit faster on the track’s dirt surface. From Overhill to the edge of Bindbole Wood should take a few more hours. Upon reaching the southern border of the wood he'd follow the right-hand branch of the beaten track that led to the lesser north-south road running between the eastern verge and the stream that ran from near Oatbarton to the Bywater Pool. A mile or so past the small community of Bolton, he'd come to the farm where Bolham north-Took had resumed his life after the Troubles were over. Too bad they'd be skirting the Wood rather than riding through the shady woodland, which might have been cool enough for a gallop, bringing him to his destination by teatime. Considering the open country he'd be riding through, he was more likely to have to maintain a slower pace for the pony's sake. Luckily, he’d brought food enough for a day of travel.
In any event, even if he came to Bolham’s farm after teatime, the Thain's messenger, er, agent thought he ought to arrive by eventides or not too long after. They’d be expecting him, per a letter the Thain had sent a few days earlier by Shire-post. He’d sup, enjoy a pipe with his host in the cool of the evening, and then seek his pillow. By Shire custom, they’d not discuss any business until the day after his arrival.
Though Tolly’s arrival at The Green Dragon was too late for second breakfast but too early for elevenses, he knew the proprietor as a canny hobbit who would have food ready between-times as well. Thus, while his pony, relieved of its saddle and bridle, rested in a shady stall, eating hay and a little grain and drinking freshly drawn water, Tolly was able to enjoy a plate of freshly baked scones, with crocks of butter, honey and jam to choose from, washed down with cups of tea poured from a freshly brewed pot.
When he emerged from The Green Dragon, he was surprised to see clouds building in the sky to the south, somewhat unusual this late in the year. The air felt warmer to him, as well, though the Sun had not yet reached her zenith. He shook his head at himself. Of course it would be hotter under the bright Sun than inside the shady inn. But there was a heaviness to the atmosphere that seemed to weigh upon him.
The pony, he was glad to see, was cool and fresh from its rest, and it even danced a little under the saddle. Tolly thanked the ostler as he accepted the reins from the latter’s hand, noting that the now-dry coat had been curried and brushed to remove the dried salt from the gelding’s earlier efforts. They did things properly at The Green Dragon.
‘Looks like we might be havin’ a spot of weather,’ the old fellow said, glancing southward.
‘P’rhaps,’ Tolly hazarded. ‘ ‘Tis a bit late in the year for thunder.’
‘Ar,’ the ostler said. ‘But I’ve even heard thunder growlin’ from snow-clouds in the wintertime!’
‘Snow clouds!’ Tolly said, eyebrows raised. It hardly ever snowed in this part of the Shire.
‘Ar,’ the ostler answered. ‘Up on the high downs i’ the North Farthing, it can thunder any time of year.’
‘You may have the right of it,’ Tolly said. ‘The air feels sultry enough for a summer afternoon.’
He gazed southward, assessing the clouds, and said, ‘Looks as if we may have a dousing if we don’t hurry on, then.’
‘D’you have far to go?’ the ostler queried.
‘Far enough!’ Tolly replied cheerfully as he swung lightly into the saddle and nudged the beast into motion. He lifted his hand in farewell as they rode out of the courtyard, and the ostler called, ‘Safe journey to you!’ in response.
Tolly patted the pony’s neck and leaned forward, urging the pony to move from a walk to a trot. ‘At least those clouds are behind us, Snip,’ he said. ‘We’ll just pick up the pace, if you don’t mind too much. Better yet, we’re sure to arrive in time for tea if we hurry a bit!’
They cantered the mile to Hobbiton, and then on reaching the Hill, he slowed the pony, once again sweating freely, to a walk, for the road was very steep here, all the way to the top. On the far side, the descent to Overhill was more gradual, and they’d be able to go much more quickly then. This time, at least, there would be no stopping off at Bag End part-way up the slope with a message for the Mayor, a familiar destination to Tolly.
A small group of Gamgee children were standing on the bridge by the Mill, watching the mill-wheel turning and, perhaps, hoping to catch a cooling breeze. One of them – Frodo-lad, he thought it must be – called to Tolly as he approached. ‘Do you have a message for the Mayor? We can take it to him, if you’d like to turn around sooner!’
‘Or you can stop at Bag End and wait out the storm!’ another – Miss Elanor? – said.
‘Thank you, Master Frodo, Miss Elanor,’ Tolly said, saluting them with his crop. He guided Snip to the bank of the water and loosened the reins to allow the pony to drink, then said, ‘But I’ve no message for your father this day. I’m going rather farther...’
‘Storm’s at least an hour away, anyhow,’ Frodo-lad said, shading his eyes to study the sky, ‘if it even reaches us, that is. So often, it looks like rain – and then it doesn’t!’ The lad scratched his head at this thought, then remembered he was delaying one of the Thain’s messengers with this conversation. ‘Well then, Master Tolibold, we won’t keep you!’
‘My thanks to you!’ Tolly said in dismissal, touching the brim of his hat in a gesture of respect for the Mayor’s children. He turned the pony back to the road and urged the beast to take up a fast walk, though he was almost sorry to leave the relatively cooler waterside behind.
Cantering down the long slope to Overhill felt pleasant, for their speed created its own breeze. He pulled the pony down to a walk through the town, as was only polite, and then picked up the pace on the long stretch over open country to Bindbole Wood, trotting and cantering by turns.
The Wood came into view at last and crept closer as they travelled onward, and Tolly had a fleeting wish that he might be travelling to Needlehole, instead, following the west-running road under the trees. The air felt oppressive to him as they cantered, steadily eating up the miles. Flecks of lather flew back from the pony’s neck, and the beast was breathing rapidly though not showing other signs of distress, meaning Tolly didn’t feel the need, at least not yet, to ease him down to a walk to help cool the gelding down. Too bad they were not bound for Needlehole, for the shady wood would have done the pony good, as well. If wishes were ponies... the rider thought, and then absurdly, If ponies had wishes...
When the path forked, Tolly remembered to take the first left-hand fork that skimmed the edge of the Wood and then turned north, instead of the right-hand fork that avoided the Wood altogether, part of the original road leading to Oatbarton that had been swallowed by an expanding bog some years earlier. Tolly neither wanted to ride into a bog nor did he want to have to backtrack to avoid such – not with that storm catching up to them the way it was.
As they approached the edge of the Wood and the place where the road divided a second time, one branch going north towards Oatbarton (and Bolton, his destination, some miles south of Oatbarton) and the other branch leading west, proceeding under the cover of the southern reaches of the Wood towards Needlehole, thunder grumbled behind them. ‘So often it looks like rain – and then doesn’t!’ Tolly repeated Frodo-lad’s observation under his breath. ‘Well, Master Frodo, I think this time it just might!’ Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the clouds had nearly caught them, towering yet building ever higher in the sky, the tops brilliant in the afternoon Sun. Their undersides were ominously black, and dark streaks reached from the clouds to the ground, suggesting heavy rain was about to sweep over them.
‘Well the rain’ll be cooling, anyhow,’ Tolly said to the pony, ‘And even if it buckets down when we’re under the trees, the leaves will keep some of it off...’
Seeing how rapidly the storm had pursued them made Tolly uneasy, and either his unease communicated itself to the pony, or the beast was also unnerved by the change in the weather. A sudden blast of cold wind disrupted the still, sultry air surrounding them, lifting the pony’s mane and blowing Tolly’s hat right off his head, bowling it along. At the flash of lightning and crack of thunder that followed upon the heels of the wind gust, the pony danced under its rider.
‘I’m with you!’ he shouted to his mount and hauled its head around to follow the western fork under the trees instead of the northern fork towards Bolton, where the open countryside would leave them vulnerable to hail and lightning. He shouted again, gave the beast its head and kicked hard with his heels. The pony, in full agreement, galloped towards the uncertain refuge that the trees might offer. Better than being caught out in the open! While Tolly knew of the dangers of attempting to shelter from lightning under a solitary tree, he rather hoped the massed trees they were swiftly approaching would blunt the impact of hail, if the oncoming storm held such, as well as protect them from a direct strike of fire from the sky.
Tolly’s hair and the pony’s mane and tail streamed behind them in the wind of their passing as they raced under the canopy of the trees, managing to beat the onset of the storm even as a whoosh of wind swept down from the heavens, carrying a strong smell of ozone with it. But when Tolly pulled up the dancing, excited pony, laughing a little in his relief, he became aware of a bluish glow illuminating the treetops against the black sky and a crackling sound in the air. His skin tingled, and sudden pain assaulted his head. He lifted his hand to his brow in an unconscious attempt to soothe the ache and felt his hair standing on end.
Instinctively he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and threw himself from the saddle. He seemed to hover in mid-air as the air around him turned to excruciating heat and unbearable brightness; the pony’s terrified shriek was swallowed in a deafening boom as if all of Tookland’s black powder had gone up at the same instant. Time froze; terrifyingly, he felt his heart stutter, stop...
A giant’s hand slammed him violently into the ground. Stunned, numb, he felt his heart beat once... again... and then as darkness claimed him, the world both inside and outside his head blurred as the storm’s intense downpour reached the woods.
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Author’s note: The term “ozone” was mentioned as long ago as in the time of Homer, who connected ozone with brimstone and thunderbolts, according to the following article: https://www.oxidationtech.com/blog/the-terribly-fresh-smell-of-ozone
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