[Lalwendë]

A Late Arrival

Out of the darkness a black horse approached, pulling a rickety cart. The cart wheels were off balance and they caused it to lurch as it went. The horse was large and heavy, and he moved along stoically. There were many brasses on his harness, but it was no matter to him, he was used to heavy work, pulling wagons, tilling fields, bearing people, it was all the same. He plodded on faithfully.

Driving the cart was a small woman, almost asleep. Her eyelids were drooping with weariness and her body slumped in the seat. She had not stopped for several hours and was half dreaming about a cool pint and a soft bed. As the lights of the inn came into view she lifted her head and straightened up.

“Nutkin, an inn! Oh for an ale and a featherbed!” She jingled the reins to urge the horse to speed up a little. “Come boy, a little haste and we may get a lodging here yet, and maybe the finest bale of hay in all The Shire for you.” The horse nodded his huge head and he went a little faster.

Soon they had reached the inn and stopped at the side of the road. The woman drew up the reins, climbed down from the cart and stretched. She gave a wide yawn and smoothed down her clothes. She was a small woman, and dressed modestly. Her tunic was simple, made of leaf-green linen with a round neck into which she had tucked a white cotton scarf, forming a collar. The scarf was slightly food stained, as she was not the most delicate of diners. From the hips down her tunic was split into four, and hung almost to her feet. The splits made it practical, and the length, respectable. Underneath she wore dark green breeches, tucked into a pair of knee length brown leather boots, old and cracked from wear. Over this she wore a plain brown cloak, which she had pushed back from her shoulders as the woollen fabric was irritating to her. Around her hips was a leather belt with several pockets and pouches attached, stuffed with all manner of things she couldn’t be without, including some money, and the long black dagger she used in her work.

She kept her russet coloured hair in four long braids, tied up on top of her head using string, which she hoped would keep it in neatly place, but a few strands were escaping, as always. She frowned slightly as she pushed them back, a habit she had. Rummaging in the cart, she drew out a yellow rose, and pushed into the knot of braids on her head. This, she hoped, would give her a little femininity, yet without detracting too much from what she considered her respectable appearance. She did not think herself much of a beauty, but there were those in Bree, where she travelled from, who did admire her, especially on those rare times she allowed herself some fun and her pale blue eyes sparkled with laughter.

When she was a young girl, during the troubles with the Southerners who had assaulted Bree, she hadn’t had much chance to smile. And since then, there had been little time for it, as she had been too busy building back up the family business. She and her father lived in her mother’s old farmhouse by the Greenway, among the fields and orchards they had spent all these years tending since the ruin wrought on them by the troubles. They grew the flowers that were given as gifts, the plants to fill the window boxes and borders of the homes of Men and Hobbits alike, and the herbs which she and her family made into sauces and ointments, following the recipes in her mother’s old notebook. They had worked hard, and now her niece was old enough to work the little farm while she made for The Shire to drum up some new business.

She still carried her trusty garden hoe with her. Sharpened to a knife edge, she had once wielded it at a gang of ruffians who had attempted to carry her off, back in the dark days. She had swung it at one of them and cut his arm, making him run away, yelping in pain. She had slept with the hoe under her bed ever since, and it was in the cart with her now. The black dagger she paid no heed to as a weapon. That was just used for deadheading plants and cutting string.

Jinniver Cornthrift had come to The Shire to make a little money. Maybe some of the Shire folk, who loved their gardens so much, would want to buy some of the seeds and cuttings she carried in her cart, or they might be tempted by the jars of sauces, mint, apple or horseradish. She hoped to sell a few of these things, perhaps some of the Shire folk would want regular orders from her. Who knew, one day she might have a shop here, several shops. Then she could maybe buy the soft velvet cloak she had dreamed about last night.

Peering into the window, she noticed that the inn was very busy, lots of beautiful creatures, elves by the look of it, and handsome men, and carousing hobbits. She thought of the bunches of flowers in the cart and went back to get a few in a small bucket. Surely there would be someone who wanted to impress a lady in here? Well, they wouldn’t go far wrong with the fragrant flowers from Cornthrift Farm. As she turned back to the inn, she tutted to herself.

“Tch, Jinniver, all you need right now is some supper and a bed, get a hold of yourself”, said the voice of the carefree girl she could have been. “But how else are you going to be able to afford to buy a soft velvet cloak?” replied the hasty voice of her normal, sensible self. “Or a better wagon”.

Jinniver pushed open the door a little clumsily, and steeling herself, for she only felt truly comfortable when on her own in the fields, made for a table in the middle of the room. She thumped down heavily onto a stool, and biting her lip, looked up and around her with a false look of confidence.