The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Rune Son of Bjarne]

As soon as the pork-pie and sallad was set on the table, Frór started too shouffel down the food in a most disgusting way. But Frór could not care less, seldome had he been this hungry.

With a mouth half full of food, he replyed Ibun : Well it seems like fortune finally looks my way, for up until this very moment my jurney has been most unpleasant. You see master Ibun, I my self is heading for the Blue Mountains and quit right you are, some of our kin does have dwelings there. My cousin Náin is amongst them, but to our great greef we have not heard from him in years, but if you do not mind me asking. What do you seek ther witch you do not have allready in the glories halls of Durin?

[Folwren]

‘Wren, dear,’ Cook said, as she counted the number of bandage rolls left in chest then closed its lid securely, ‘why don’t you just go out and fetch your brother. Tell him Master Meriadoc would like to speak with him.’

‘Yes, ma’am!’ Wren said over her shoulder as she turned to go out the door. She ran as swiftly as her feet could carry her to the garden behind the inn. Tim sat among the tomatoes, one arm wrapped around his knees and his other hand working faithfully away at the stubborn weeds. Wren trotted up the path and stood beside her brother, her face beaming, and her hands clasped behind her back. He knew the stance and without looking up, spoke.

‘What?’ he asked with hardly any interest in his voice. ‘You look about ready to burst.’

‘Cook says - that is, we get - I mean, Meriadoc the stablemaster wants to talk to you!’ She turned and ran off, stopping several paces away to add over her shoulder, ‘He’s in the kitchen waiting.’ Tim sat up and stared after his sister, wondering what in the world had gotten into her. With a puzzled expression on his face, he rose and followed her to where she’d disappeared inside the Inn kitchen again. He paused outside the door and brushed his hands off as best he could and then, drawing a deep breath, entered.

‘You wanted me, sir?’ he asked , approaching the hobbit who still sat by the table.

‘Are you Tim?’ Meriadoc asked, casting a critical eye over the lad. Tim, aware that he was being sized up, lifted his head a little bit and stepped towards him.

‘Yes, sir. Tim Woodlock. Wren’s older brother. She said you wanted me.’

‘Yes. Well. I’ve had something of an accident, lad,’ the hobbit said, softened somewhat by Tim’s polite address. Tim glanced at the propped foot and back at Meriadoc’s face and the stablemaster continued. ‘Cook has pressed me to get help until I am better. Your sister here says that you know a bit about horses. Rode a lot when you were at home and helped with the farmers around. What would you think of running the stables, under my watch, until I am up on my feet again?’

Tim was speechless for a moment. He searched the hobbit’s brown eyes carefully, hardly believing his ears. ‘You mean...stay here and help?’

‘Well, you’d be doing most of the work. Cook doesn’t think I can even stand up on the blasted foot!’ Tim blinked. ‘Mind you,’ Meriadoc went on before Tim could make a proper answer, ‘it’s no easy work. There are horses coming in and out of that stable constantly.’

‘Oh, yes, sir, I understand!’ Tim said, suddenly coming to himself and finding his tongue free again. His face flushed with sudden excitement and his eyes shone. ‘I would love to! If you really need me, I think I could do it. I mean, I know a lot about horses...I can brush them and saddle them, and I know how to feed them and - and clean their stalls and all that. There was a-’ but he stopped himself and started off on another track, one more fitting, he figured. ‘Thank you very much, sir. I’ll do it for you. I’m sure I can manage it. I’ll work real hard.’

Meriadoc’s face softened to something close to a smile. ‘I’m sure you will, lad. Well, Ginger’s come up with these crutches,’ he went on, looking at the unwieldy things that were propped up next to his chair. ‘Guess I’ll get used to them while I show you the rounds.’ With a bit of Tim’s help, the stablemaster got to his feet and they went out to the stables together. Wren remained in the kitchen, for the first time since her parent’s death completely excited and happy.

[Arry]

Gil choked on his mouthful of ale, spluttering as he attempted to swallow it. He blanched at the sound of the familiar voice then red stained his cheekbones as he turned to face its source.

And there she stood, the original reason his mood had fallen so far into a funk. There she stood, unaware of the discomfort she had . . . was . . . causing him.

Wiping the foam and dribbles from his lips and chin with the sleeve of his tunic, he grinned sheepishly at her. He stood up hastily, knocking his chair over, and croaked out her name. ‘Rowan!’ The effort of talking brought on a round of coughing.

[Alcarillo]

Alcarillo had now sat for many minutes alone. Miz Greengage had run off, and so Alcarillo amused himself by watching the many visitors to the inn come and go. He was amused by great diversity of people: halflings (or as he learnt that they called themselves, hobbits), dwarves, men, and even other elves like himself. Now that the many dangers of the wild had passed with Sauron, many more travelers were on the roads, seeking adventure.

Alcarillo's mind drifted through thought after thought. I would like to visit this place again, he thought, it really is pleasant here. After a few more minutes of sitting and thinking, Alcarillo stood, and decided to bring his pen down from his room upstairs. He moved through the guests, and towards the creaky stairs. The voices faded and soon he was in the small rented room, where his belongings sat on the bed. His arm dove into a knapsack, and he retrieved a slender wooden box. He slipped this into a hidden pocket of his cloak and went back to the common room.

Alcarillo resumed his place at the empty table, where he produced the wooden box and the red notebook from their hiding places. Inside the box was an elegant pen, which he removed and laid before him. He returned the box to his cloak, and opened the notebook. He would draw the common room. Alcarillo was a fair hand at sketching people, and considered himself to be a better than average artist. And so Alcarillo flipped his small book to a blank page and began.

With each stroke of his pen the picture became more and more complete. He added in the sillhouettes of visitors and shaded in the walls. Soon it was completed. With nothing else to do, Alcarillo made up his mind that it was time to leave. He crept up to his room and gathered his belongings. He came back downstars, and placed a handful of golden coins on the table he frequented. Then, with one last look at the faces in the common room, he walked into the sunshine outside.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim wandered about the grounds of the Inn impatiently, wondering when his cart would arrive. He took an apple out of his pocket and began munching at it pensively. When it was gone he produced another, and then another, until three apple-cores were neatly piled beneath one of the many trees of the yard. Automatically his hand went back to his pocket but his disappointed fingers encountered only his trusty pocketknife. Now thoroughly dejected, the little fellow slumped to the ground beside the pile of apple-cores and waited.

He did not have to wait long, although it was not a cart full of his beer that relieved him of the burden, but a small hobbit lad who lounged by on the road looking as though he had little to do other than lounge. “Hoy there!” Fordogrim called. “What’s yer name then, lad?”

The boy perked out at him, “Pimple, sir! Pimple Boffin!”

“Well then, PimplesirPimple Boffin,” he replied playfully, “there’s a copper or two for you if you run down the road toward Hobbiton and give me word of a cart.”

“What cart, sir?”

“Well not just any cart, that’s for sure. My cart is what I mean. It’s a large blue cart with great green wheels and my two woolly-headed cousins Fatty and Gerdy Chubb will be a-driving it. Now run along now and let me know.”

“No need to run along, sir. I’ve just seen that cart not two minutes ago coming up the hill.” Fordogrim leapt to his feet and rushed to the boy, taking him by the hand and shaking it energetically.

“That’s fine news, my lad Pimple, fine news indeed. Here, have a shilling!” The boy looked at the coin in his hand in awe and ran away singing about the pies he would buy. At that very moment there hove into view the very same cart that Fordogrim had described driven by the very same cousins. The two large ponies, which he had neglected to describe, were tired after their journey but at the sight and smell of the Inn they lifted their legs with new energy. Fatty was the first to dismount from the cart, for despite his name he was a narrow and nimble fellow. “Fordo!” he cried, clasping his cousin by the shoulders. “I’m sure you had given up on us, but I told you we would be here this day.”

“Ay, and that you did my dear, that you did! And how was the journey?” They talked quickly about the trip from the Westfarthing and of the many trials of the road (including one broken axle and two missed meals). The three hobbits moved quickly about the cart unloading three of the casks that it bore and quickly setting out a trestle table in the middle of the yard. They put the casks upon it and with three quick knocks soon had taps in them. From under the seat Gerdy produced two whole racks of pewter mugs that clattered happily on the tabletop. When all was in order Fordogrim tilted his head to one side and appraised it. At his insistence the table had been set up at a height comfortable for himself leaving the beer only a foot’s breadth above the ground but he pronounced it capital. Grinning from ear to ear he turned toward the Inn.

The arrival of the cousins (and the ponies, who were looking at Fordogrim quite disheartened, wondering when they would be remembered and given some oats), along with the subsequent clatter had brought a fair crowd of curious faces to the windows of the Inn. Fordogrim bowed low to them all before speaking in his best tones. “Welcome and greetings to the people of Bywater!” he began formally. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fordogrim Chubb of Gamwich and these are my cousins Fatty and Gerdy Chubb. We are brewers of the finest ales and beers, stouts and bitters in all the Westfarthing and we have come to these parts to demonstrate that our brews are worthy of your patronage. So for Today Only” he wanted this point to be particularly clear, “three of our best beers, Old Stout, Mellow Ale and – my particular favourite – Gamwich Gold will be yours absolutely free of charge! And when you find that these are the best beers as you’ve ever had, I hope that you’ll feel like telling your friends of Fordogrim Chubb, Brewer!”

Feren had intended to be drunk. The young man might have achieved his purpose, if he hadn't drawn up a stool by the windowsill as nicely inconspicuous (or so he thought) - and be disturbed by a commotion outside and curious drinkers gathering around him. As if he hadn’t enough to deal with. Feren raised his eyes above the rim of the still-foaming mug, reluctantly, to the ridiculous sight of two ponies and a hobbit shouting about something or other. A round of hearty applause and cheers met the announcement of the pompous hobbit, presumably the owner of Fordogrimm-Chubb Inc. The dozers by the bar roused long enough to clang their mugs and show their approval. How perfectly nice. As he looked out, the hobbit - do they all have such unrememberable names? - busied himself setting out the kegs of ale on the makeshift table. That being finished, he scuttled about offering his hands to anyone who would shake, and many who'd rather not.

The muscles in the face of Feren twisted for a moment, as if he wanted to smile and thought better of it at the last instant. Then he tore his gaze away from the window. Folks around him were thinning, most heading for the gate to get their free drinks. Soon enough, he was the only one left in the vicinity.

It suited him just as well. Feren retreated into a corner of the inn, which had its odd spots of dirty corners despite the brightly-lit and cheerful surroundings that grated upon his nerves. He found his niche, settled limply into it and let his weary body sink into the coarse padding of the chair. His gray eyes restlessly encompassed the whole tavern before flickering back to his yet untasted mug of beer. Then, when he was sure that no one but the barmaid and a small number of hobbits were able to see him like this, the young man buried his head in his arms and let out a long-suppressed sigh, letting the tickling laughter of the hobbits outside wash over him.

If he was crying, it would have been quite admissible for him - he had nowhere to go anymore. Nowhere, but Gondor, or back to.... Back to...

[Folwren]

‘There’s a bit of a stir outside,’ Tim said as he and the stablemaster finished their rounds and came towards the wide open doors of the stable. They stopped in the opening, blinking in the sunlight after the dimness of the barn, and looked out.

‘Why that’s Fordogrim Chub with his ale!’ Meriadoc cried. ‘Almost better than that at the Dragon! Let’s go see what’s up, Tim.’ Tim trailed behind the stablemaster as the hobbit limped, crutches and all, towards the group of people standing around the extraordinarily short Fordogrim and his table and ale casks.

Meriadoc pushed his way into the middle and there finding what the cause of all the merriment was, forgot all his troubles and joined in, getting himself a pint of the Gamwich Gold. Tim, on the other hand, remained on the outskirts of the all the people. He glanced around and caught sight of the two tired ponies, still harnessed to the cart. One stretched it’s neck and tugged at the reins, getting no where in the process - the driver had tied them to the seat. The other stood with his head down on the level of its knees, one back foot resting, and blinking wearily.

Tim sighed with pity and walked towards them. He laid his hand gently on the nearest pony's forelock and stroked him while he glanced around for someone to ask if he could do anything for them. He quickly caught sight of a hobbit leaning on the wheel, and with the way that he stood back so nonchalantly with no mug in his hand, and no cares on his face, he assumed he would probably be a good person to ask.

‘Excuse me,’ Tim said, approaching him. The hobbit (it was Gerdy Chub, though Tim didn’t know it) turned and looked at him. ‘Are these your ponies? Should I unharness them and take them to water?’