[Lostgaeriel]

The Lord of the Rings by John Steinbeck (author of The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, East of Eden, The Winter of Our Discontent, etc.)
This version is based on The Red Pony.

His master and Strider the Ranger came in. Sam knew from the sound of the floor that both of them were wearing flat-heeled shoes, but he peered under the table to make sure. His master turned off the oil lamp, for the day had arrived, and he looked stern and disciplinary, but Strider the Ranger didn’t look at Sam at all. He avoided the shy questioning eyes of the young hobbit and soaked a whole piece of toast in his coffee.

Frodo Baggins said crossly, “You come with us after breakfast!”

Sam had trouble with his food then, for he felt a kind of doom in the air. After Strider had tilted his saucer and drained the coffee that had slopped into it, and had wiped his hands on his jeans*, the two friends stood up from the table and went out into the morning light together, and Sam respectfully followed a little behind them. He tried to keep his mind from running ahead, tried to keep it absolutely motionless.

The Gaffer called, “Mr. Frodo! Don’t you let it keep him from gardening.”

They marched past the mallorn, where a singletree hung from a limb to butcher the pigs on, and past the black iron kettle, so it was not a pig killing. The sun shone over the Hill and threw long, dark shadows of the trees and buildings. They crossed a stubble-field to shortcut to the barn. Sam’s master unhooked the door and they went in. They had been walking toward the sun on the way down. The barn was black as night in contrast and warm from the hay and from the beasts. Sam’s master moved over toward the one box stall. “Come here!” he ordered. Sam could begin to see things now. He looked into the box stall and then stepped back quickly.

A red pony was looking at him out of the stall. Its tense ears were forward and a light of disobedience was in his eyes. Its coat was rough and thick as the fur on a hobbit’s foot and its mane was long and tangled. Sam’s throat collapsed in on itself and cut his breath short.

“He needs a good currying,” his master said, “and if I ever hear of you not feeding him or leaving his stall dirty, I’ll sell him off in a minute.”

Sam couldn’t bear to look at the pony’s eyes anymore. He gazed down at his hands for a moment, and he asked very shyly, “Mine?” No one answered him. He put his hand out toward the pony. Its grey nose came close, sniffing loudly, and then the lips drew back and the strong teeth closed on Sam’s fingers. The pony shook its head up and down and seemed to laugh with amusement. Sam regarded his bruised fingers. “Well,” he said with pride – “Well, I guess he can bite all right.” The two friends laughed, somewhat in relief. Frodo Baggins went out of the barn and walked up a side-hill to be by himself, for he was embarrassed, but Strider the Ranger stayed. It was easier to talk to Strider the Ranger. Sam asked again – “Mine?”

Strider became professional in tone. “Sure! That is, if you look out for him and break him right. I’ll show you how. He’s just a colt. You can’t ride him for some time.”

Sam put out his bruised hand again, and this time the red pony let his nose be rubbed. “I ought to have a carrot or a potato,” Sam said. “Where’d we get him, Strider?”

“Bought him at an innkeeper’s auction,” Strider explained. “A nine-ring circus went broke in Bree and had debts. The innkeeper was selling off their stuff.”

The pony stretched out his nose and shook the forelock from his wild eyes. Sam stroked the nose a little. He said softly, “There isn’t a - saddle?”

Strider the Ranger laughed. “I’d forgot. Come along.”

In the harness room he lifted down a little saddle of black morgul leather. “It’s just a wraith saddle,” Strider the Ranger said disparagingly. “It isn’t practical for the brush, but it was cheap at the sale.”

Sam couldn’t trust himself to look at the saddle either, and he couldn’t speak at all. He brushed the shining black leather with his fingertips, and after a long time he said, "It’ll look pretty on him though.” He thought of the grandest thing he knew. “If he hasn’t a name already, I think I’ll call him Gil-galad the Elven-king,” he said.

Strider the Ranger knew how he felt. “It’s a pretty long name. Why don’t you just call him Gil? That means star. That would be a fine name for him.” Strider felt glad. “If you will collect tail hair, I might be able to make a hair rope for you sometime. You could use it for a hackamore.”

* Just picture Viggo in a pair of 501s and you’ll understand why I didn’t change this word. [img]smilies/wink.gif[/img]

[ February 23, 2002: Message edited by: Lostgaeriel ]