The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Tevildo]

Rain, rain, rain!

How Tevildo hated rain! The water dripped dully from the branches of the trees that lined the pathway leading to the Inn. He had slunk off earlier that day and left his two-legged companion trudging along behind him on the same road. He expected the two-legged to arrive a bit later, tired and thoroughly bedraggled. Ah, well, let the dunderhead get wet if he could not figure out that rain was threatening, and he'd better hurry up to make it to Bywater before the deluge occurred.

Tevildo's opinion of the two-leggeds was generally low, and today was no exception. He barely tolerated the fellow who claimed to be his "owner". As if any cat could have an "owner"! What a ridiculous notion.

If truth be told, Tevildo felt he had not had a master worthy of the name, since that distant day when he had been in charge of securing the meat for Melko's table. That had been seven or eight lives ago. Tevildo could not remember exactly when, but it had been a golden age when he had lorded it over the other cats. Now the best he could manage was to terrorize a mouse or two in the corrdidors of a dusty Inn in the middle of the place that men called The Shire.

Tevildo did not like Hobbits, any more than he liked Elves or Men. But at least Hobbits had large barns and storage bins filled with grain and other foodstuffs. And where there was food, he was likely to find a fat rat or two.

In the distance, he could see the outline of the Green Dragon looming. He observed that another traveller had just arrived and dismounted from his horse, continuing up the steps and entering the Inn. Tevildo waited for just the right moment when the door was left slightly ajar, and then hurried inside, scrambling adroitly between the legs of the man who looked to be the clumsy type, so common among the two-leggeds.

Tevildo purred with joy to be out of the rain and rubbed his shoulder repeatedly against the wooden leg of one of the tables. Absolutely no one seemed to be paying attention to him. His feelings about that were somewhat mixed. Undetected, he could get away with considerable mischief. Yet, at the same time, he felt irked that someone with his distinguished history should go so totally unheralded in such a public place. He peered around the room looking for the Innkeeper or someone else who worked here. His belly was growling furiously. He hoped to be able to persuade the staff to give him a job. He was no tame pet interested in a bowl of milk, but he would not mind killing a rat or two and watching guard over the hen's eggs in the stables in exchange for a dinner of fish and chicken.

He was not sure how he would get this idea over to the staff at the Dragon,since his ability to communicate was limited. In the old days, he had spoken freely with men, espcially with that milksop Beren. But things had changed with the passing of years, and men's ears had seemingly become so plugged that they could no longer understand his speech. Only the Elves, with their ability to exchange thoughts, could fully understood what he said.

Padding forward on dainty velvet pads, Tevildo leapt up onto the bar and curtly announced: I am Tifil (Bridhon) Miaugion, known to you deaf mortals as Tevildo (Vaardo) Meoita. It just may be your lucky day. I am available for hunting duty. But what actually came out was a piercing Meow!

[starkat]

As Ginger headed off to find Cook. Gwenneth took a moment to push some loose strands of black hair out of her face. I needed that. An afternoon among flowers. I will have to go out and visit Elenath shortly.

The elf looked around and realized with surprise that there were several newcomers to the inn. Now where is Aman? She stood in the middle of the room looking around for the innkeeper.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Accompanied by a heavy gust of wind, the young woman entered the Inn publicly for perhaps the first time in her life. Her weather-beaten cloak, soaked to an indistinguishable color, covered her fully. A deep hood shadowed her face, revealing naught but a pair of dancing hazel eyes. Her boots, though of the best make, had seen much wear.

She shrunk, nearly imperceptibly, against the sudden light and merriment. It was long since she had braved the predictable questions of any safe and foolish locals, but the woman was on a quest. I must find her, she thought, before I lose my nerve.

A pale hand, shaking slightly, reached out of the wraps to push the hood back. Damp curls of the darkest auburn tumbled free as she looked around unhindered. People were beginning to stare. Soon the questions will come. The way they always do.

Finding her target, her sole reason for having made this long and lonesome trip, the woman stepped slowly and gracefully toward the bar. When she spoke, her voice was soft, melodic. A conversation not yet meant for all ears.

"My dear Aman," she spoke to the Innkeeper's back, "It has been quite some time." She shivered. The Innkeeper turned quickly, recognizing the voice. The woman smiled; a smile hiding many secrets, many nights alone under the stars... many stories of her past. "Perhaps some hot cider to take the chill off?"

"Fea... nay... Caelwyn? Is it really you?" The Innkeeper looked at the mysterious guest with an unidentifiable expression.

[Primrose Bolger]

An odd sound assaulted Ginger’s ears as she stood at the kitchen’s sink. The door swung open from the Common Room and in came Miz Bunce, humming to herself in a decidedly off key manner. Cook nodded at her as she bustled to the hearth and gave a stir to the stew bubbling lazily in the big kettle. ‘Only a few more days,’ Cook said looking over at Ginger. ‘And I must say you have been quite a treasure – what with all your helping with the desserts and taking a hand in the garden.’ Resting the long wooden spoon on the pot lid, she ambled over to where Ginger was just putting the last of the flowers into the small stoneware vase. ‘Oh, now, what’s this?’ she asked, her eye taking in the riot of color and form.

‘They’re for you!’ Ginger said smiling and holding the vase out to her. When Cook began to thank her she shook her head, saying how it was Gwenneth who’d fixed the bouquet for her. Cook buried her nose in the blossoms and took a whiff of their sweet scent. ‘You thank her for me, won’t you?’ Ginger went on to say what a great help Gwenneth had been with the flower garden at the front of the Inn. And how she was wondering if there might be anything else she could turn a hand to.

Cook had just begun saying how they could use another server for supper, when a raucous sound assailed their ears. Ginger ran to the door and peeked into the common room, her eyes searching for the source. ‘It’s a cat, Miz Bunce. And he appears to sitting square in the middle of the bar, meowing.’

Ginger was sent out to see to the cat. He’d stopped his loud yowl watching her closely as she approached him. His manner was not like those farmyard tabbies she was familiar with and so she avoided calling out, ‘Here kitty, kitty!’ to him. He seemed . . . well, a bit lordly-like, she thought. And eyeing her in a thoughtful manner, too; as if sizing her up. Instead, she stopped a few paces from him and bobbed a small curtsy.

‘I’m Ginger,’ she said in a courteous tone, introducing herself. She could feel the stares of those patrons nearby at her back. It was a bit odd speaking to a cat, but he seemed to follow her words as she invited him into the kitchen for a small bowl of minced meats and perhaps a saucer of milk. ‘Or would that be a saucer of ale, Master Puss?’ she amended, wondering if that were a whiskery sneer she was seeing on his face.

She held the door open for the self possessed feline, waving him into the kitchen. ‘Mind you,’ she whispered as he drew near the door. ‘Don’t track any dirt on Cook’s floor. She’ll have your hide for it!’ Ginger stifled a giggle as the cat looked up at her. ‘Begging your pardon! Didn’t mean to offend!’ the Hobbit offered. ‘Oh! And don’t bother the old tabby that sleeps on the hearth. She’s the Inn’s ‘retired’ mouser. And Cook’s little pet.’

Ginger eyed the cat as he walked past her and into the kitchen. ‘Cook!’ she called out, pointing to the furry guest. ‘Here’s the source of the noise. Come in for a bite to eat, I think.’ She grinned at Cook as the cat made his way to the center of the room. ‘Think we might make a place for him?’ she asked. ‘There’s more work than old Tabby can handle, don’t you think?’ The old cat on the hearth raised her head for a brief moment, yawned, and went back to sleep. ‘Perhaps he can keep the mice in line down in the cellar and in the pantry.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And didn’t Mister Derufin say the mice were getting into the horse’s oats in the stable?’

Cook nodded as the lass spoke; her hands were busy setting down a generous bowl of chopped chicken from the stew pot, moistened with a bit of gravy. A small saucer of milk was set near it, as well as a small bowl of water. The two Hobbits stepped back, then, waiting for the cat’s verdict on the offered meal.

[Lalwendë]

“Jinniver!”

Shaking with fear, for she knew the voice all too well, Jinniver froze, her tankard still in her hand, halfway to her mouth. A wave of coldness swept through her whole body and her stomach lurched. She did not move, only her lips sought to make words. Her eyes widened and the black centres contracted as she struggled to compose herself.

The hand remained on her shoulder, and the man drew closer. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck and suddenly she shook her shoulder roughly to be rid of him, the whiteness in her face replaced by a deepening, red as fury started to descend.

“Why are you here?” she said, coldly, not turning around. She did not wish to look him in the face. Her angry frustration brought her quickly to the verge of tears and she knew that to look at him would bring them pouring down her face.

The man snorted and Jinniver sensed his movements as he stood up straight. Anger was also in his voice and he struggled to keep calm as he spoke.

“I am here to find out what is going on.” he said in an overly measured tone, pronouncing each word harshly so she could not be mistaken in what he said.

Jinniver saw eyes in the Inn turn to watch the scene, taking it in, and then turn away as folk spoke to one another about what might be going on. She looked down at her hands for a moment and then up again, tossing her head proudly and defiantly.

“And. What business is it of yours? You are not my keeper. Who sent you here?” she said in a choked but insolent voice, her throat rasping as she struggled to make the words. Why was he here? She struggled to make sense of it. She ought to be greeting him warmly, but she found herself angry, and this was partly due to the threatening way he had approached her. He had no business doing that.

“I came of my own accord,” he said. “I was troubled and I do not trust you to behave yourself as you ought. I know how silly you can be.” He was somewhat sarcastic with her. “I can see now I was correct.”

Jinniver bristled and turned round in her seat to face him, any thought of tears or shame now passed, and replaced by a full serving of her anger. Her eyes blazed and she sneered, waving her hand dismissively at him.

“Go back to Bree, Pegram”, she said loudly, almost shouting. She did not care who might be listening in, and she was filled with a sense of her own courage. “I don’t want my brother breathing down my neck any longer”.

[Envinyatar]

‘Pegram, is it?’ said Derufin, standing up from his chair. He came round to where Jinniver sat at the end of the table and stood near her, his grey eyes fixed in a cool stare at the man who hovered near her. The air between the two siblings was thick with anger, and he did not like the underlying current of fear he had felt from Jinniver when her brother had first made himself known. ‘Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you. I’m Derufin, a friend of your sister.’ He nodded courteously at the man, but did not extend his hand. ‘We were just about to discuss her plans for the garden she has contracted to do for my wife-to-be. Quite a green thumb your sister has, knows her plants well. And she has an eye for design that is quite pleasing.’

He pulled out a chair, offering the seat to Jinniver’s brother. ‘Sorry to cut into your reunion with her,’ he went on, motioning for Buttercup to bring another mug and a fresh pitcher of stout. ‘But there are only a few days left to finish the project,’ he said sitting down next to Jinniver. ‘Three, in fact, before my wife and I move into our cottage. A shipment of plants arrives tomorrow, and we need to coordinate how all the work will get done.’ He turned to the young woman. Her face seemed a little less flushed; the cheeks’ high color fading to dull streaks of red along the bones. ‘The lads can help you over the next few days if you’d like. The work on the cottage is mostly done, and Andwise and I can finish the touch up painting ourselves.’ ‘Think that will be enough help for your project?’ he asked her, pouring Pegram a mug of ale, and topping off hers and his. ‘If not – I do know that Cook’s helper . . . Ginger, has a deft hand at planting.’

Derufin sat back in his chair, giving Jinniver the time to consider what he’d said. He fished in one of the side pockets of his vest and pulled out his soft leather pouch of pipeweed. Unbinding the flap, he opened it, letting the rich, heavy aroma float in the air. ‘Longbottom Leaf,’ he said, filling his own pipe and then offering the pouch to his tablemates. Ferrin and Fallon, sitting at the far end of the table looked longingly at the pouch. With a grin, Derufin passed it down to them

A brief silence ensued as all who had dipped into Derufin’s pouch filled and tamped and lit their pipes. The twist of white smoke curled up lazily from Derufin’s pipe as he drew on the mouthpiece. ‘What sort of business are you in,’ he asked Pegram, casually. ‘Begging your pardon, in advance, if I seem too forward - but if you’re anything like your sister, I would easily guess you are prospering . . .’

[Nurumaiel]

"Well, that's fine to hear!" said Posco, with a laugh. A felt an urge to take Lily's face in his hands and kiss her hair, but instead he contented himself to ponder with warmth her fiercely-spoken encouragement. Part of him was certain that she would come back to him, and it made him glad, but there was an odd gnawing in his heart, and a strange little voice in his ear, saying that perhaps she would fall in love with another hobbit, and perhaps she would return: the bride of Tommy Banks. He shook himself from this thought, looked into her eyes, and convinced himself that she would remain true to him.

Oh, how the time passed, and how he wished it wouldn't! Each passing moment brought her departure closer. What would he do when she was gone? He had stayed at the Inn only for her, and she was leaving. Yes, true, why should he stay longer? An idea sprang to him, and with a light eye he turned to her, and said: "Lily, I've changed my mind." Her face looked up to his, and she opened her mouth to question what he meant, but he went on before he could speak. "Lily, with your permission, I won't escort you to the end of the Inn grounds. With your permission, I will ride with you as far as across the Brandywine, into Buckland. But only with your consent."