[piosenniel]

Estella and Fatty had gone to sit with Amaranthas. As a matriarch of the Bolger family, they felt it was respectful of them to pay her at least a modicum of attention. Their real reason, of course, was that Miz Amaranthas lived in the hubbub of the mid-Shire and was privy to far more of the current goings on among family and mutual acquaintances than either of them.

They were just settling in to listen to her telling of the latest scandal involving the Bywater family, when Estella happened to glance out the window, her eye caught by the gleam of a wagon lamp, just turning up the path to the Inn. ‘Excuse me for just one moment, Miz Amaranthas. I need to speak with Merry.’

He was behind the bar, having just retrieved the bottle of Old Winyards from the shelf, and was now engaged in spying out the corkscrew. ‘Ah! Here it is.’ he said, pulling out the third drawer from the end of the counter, and rifling through its jumbled contents. Estella put a hand on his arm just as he pulled it from the drawer. ‘Merry, dear, you didn’t invite someone and neglect to tell me.’ She eyed him in exasperation. ‘Because, if you didn’t tell me, then you didn’t let the hostess know either, did you?’

Merry grinned at her. ‘It was an oversight on her part I’m sure. The party was so hastily put together.’ He put the corkscrew and the bottle of wine back behind the counter. ‘And besides, I told him to bring a little something from the East Farthing to round out the party.’

The wagon pulled up to the Inn’s front steps just as Merry strode out the door. ‘Let me help you with that.’ came Merry’s voice, as a deep voice cried out some muffled greeting.

The door to the Inn was flung open, and in came Merry, bowed under with the weight of a small keg on his shoulders. He placed it on the drinks table and blocked it so it would not roll. ‘Prim!’ he called to the Innkeeper, just coming out from the kitchen. Bring the tapper, and we’ll set up a round of ale from Stock.’ Murmurs of anticipation went up, along with murmurs of appreciation for the cask of dark ale from The Golden Perch.

‘Here! Save a drop of that for the one who brought it!’ boomed the voice from the door. In stepped a strapping Hobbit, his features tanned and creased by days spent toiling in the sun. He was the very picture of that spoken long ago in the stone house on the River Withywindle, at the border of the Old Forest and the Downs. “There’s earth under his old feet, and clay on his fingers; wisdom in his bones and both his eyes are open.”

Farmer Maggot had arrived.

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Pio was flushed. Too much wine and too many people! She reached over from her seat near the window, and opened the shutters wide to let in the cool evening breeze. An enticing, earthy scent came her way, and she leaned out the open window to see Estella helping what must be Farmer Maggot’s wife unload several large baskets from the bed of the wagon. Estella smiled and waved at her, then pulling back the crisp white cloth that covered the baskets, held up a large, plump mushroom for Pio’s approval.

Prim was summoned, along with Ruby to take the baskets from the two ladies as they entered the door. Cook, on hearing that Maggot had brought mushrooms, got out a number of large skillets and the crock of butter, intending to dredge them in flour and fry them up crisp to serve at the dinner.

Pio had gotten up, and plucked a smaller mushroom from one of the baskets before they disappeared into the kitchen. She brushed the loam from its cap and stem, and popped it whole into her mouth, savoring the rich flavor of it and the firm texture of its flesh as her teeth met it. ‘So this is why young Hobbits dare the perils of Maggot’s farm! This a rare treat, well worth the risk!’

A cold wet something pressed into the hand which hung at her side, and snuffled. ‘Who’s this?’ asked the Elf, her hand coming up from the black, wet nose of the large dog standing there to scratch the bony expanse between its ears. The dog’s hair was thin and grey, and there was white about his muzzle. ‘What’s your name, Old Boy.’ she said, looking into the still clear, dark eyes. Merry came near, and crouched down beside the dog, whose tail wagged in greeting. ‘This is Fang, Mistress Piosenniel. The last of Farmer Maggot’s old dogs. One of the fearsome trio that guarded the prize mushroom patches.’

‘Welcome to the party, then, Fang.’ She spoke quietly to a nearby server, and he scurried off into the kitchen. Coaxing the dog with words and gestures, she got him to come over to the hearth rug and settled him in comfortably in front of the small, warm blaze. The server had by that time returned with a bowl of fresh water and a rather nice sized bone for Fang to occupy himself. The old dog gave Pio’s hand a nuzzle, his tail thumping in appreciation, as he settled in to worrying what meat there was left, from the bone.

[ February 27, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]