[Arry]

‘Greenman . . . up ahead, I’m thinking.’ In the darkness beneath the weak stars and hidden moon, the outlines of three small figures appeared and disappeared in the swirling snow. ‘Leastwise, here’s the blaze Madoc put here last summer,’ said Andwise, brushing the flakes from the axe cut in the tall fir’s trunk. ‘Got the three smaller gouges there just above it.’

Willem urged the pony from beneath the sheltering boughs with several insistent tugs on the lead line. His brothers followed along, their cloaks pulled tight about them, as they trudged up the low rise overlooking The Greenman Free House. The lantern lit beneath the overhanging roof winked invitingly at the Hobbits the nearer they drew to it . . .

-o-o-o-

‘Was hail, you Harfoots!’ said Andwise, lifting his cup to his brothers. ‘Drink hail!’ they returned, raising their own. ‘And no goblins be near to mar our enjoyment of it,’ Andwise murmured as the rims of their mugs clinked. Willem and Madoc drank deep, enjoying the spiced concoction as it slid easily down their throats and warmed their bellies. Andwise picked out the piece of toasted bread that floated on the surface of his drink and chewed it slowly.

‘Master Dagnysson!’ called out Willem, his now empty mug waving in the air. ‘Another if you please. And one for my brother, Madoc.’

‘None for the slowpoke, there,’ Madoc added, grinning at Andwise. ‘Though if you’ll bring me his, I’ll sing you a song we have about this marvelous brew.’

‘Ah, you’ll sing it anyway, you know that,’ laughed Andwise. ‘I can see the drink has already loosed your tongue. Go on, then.’

Madoc took the cup from Andwise’s hands and took a quick swallow. He cleared his throat, humming the tune at first. At the urging of his brothers he sang the words, his clear tenor, weaving merrily about them:

The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts downe all drinke when it is stale,

The toast, the nut-meg, and the ginger,
Will make a sighing man a singer,
Ale gives a buffet in the head,
"But ginger under proppes the brayne;
When ale would strike a strong man dead,
Then nut-megge temperes it againe,

The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts downe all drinke when it is stale . . .

A gust of wind whipped down from the north and battered against the shutters as the last notes rang out. The Hobbits shivered, recalling stories of shadowed creatures that lived beyond the Grey Mountains and the Withered Heath. They drew their chairs nearer the warmth of the fireplace and the light from the burning log.