The Golden Perch Inn

[Arry]

Will stood in the dark inn yard as Miz Rushybanks drove off. He looked longingly back toward the stable and his rooms there. He’d left the door open and the soft light from the lantern he’d hung from the post as he’d got out Cookie beckoned. His generous side got the better of him, though, and he returned to the kitchen.

Cook was busy stowing away the few leftovers from supper; Rowan and Prim were up to their elbows in soapy water as they attacked the piles of mugs and plates and cutlery. The door to the common room was open and beyond it he could hear Master Boffin sweeping the floor as he tidied up for another day yet to come.

Prim cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to the happenings in the kitchen. And with a meaningful look at the pegs where the dishtowels hung urged him to pick one up.

By the time they’d finished and Cook had swept the floor all of the Hobbits were yawning. Will waved off an offer of a last mug of tea and made his good-byes. ‘See you all in the morning,’ he called to them as he made for the door. ‘Crispy bacon, is it, tomorrow?’ he asked as he passed Cook.

‘Might be just that,’ she said, a more than tired look on her face. And he thought he heard her mumble after, ‘If there’s any breakfast at all . . .’

He shook his head, thinking in his own weariness, he had misheard.

[Undómë]

Rowan pulled the quilt up over her face, groaning at the bright, sharp light that flooded against her closed eye lids. ‘Prim!’ she growled from beneath her dark warm cave of covers. ‘Turn down that lantern! You want to blind me?!’

‘Oh, Rowan! ‘S’not me! Quick get up! Something’s happened!’ Prim’s voice had a disconcerted, nearly frightened tone to it.

With a groan, Rowan threw back her blankets and sat up in bed. What’s this? she thought, taking a quick look about her room. The sun was well up and the full morning’s light shown through her thin, cotton curtains. ‘Goblins take me!’ she muttered clambering quickly to her feet. ‘And they might as well as Cook’ll have my hide for laying abed so long.’

The late Spring air was still a bit brisk she thought as she reached for her robe to pull over her nightgown. She hurried toward the door intending to make her way to the kitchen when the strangeness of the whole situation made her pause. She listened carefully, cocking her ear toward where the kitchen was. No pots banging about, no chop-chop as knife struck cutting board, no scrape of spatula against iron skillet as potatoes or eggs or pancakes were turned. She raised her nose, sniffing the air. No bacon frying!!

‘What’s happened?’ she called out, running down the hall. Prim, she could see, had just gone into the kitchen a few steps ahead of her.

‘She’s just not here!’ Prim cried. ‘I’ve looked in the garden, the common room, and even her bedroom . . . just in case . . . you know, something “happened”.’

Rowan shook her head, trying to take in what Prim had said. ‘How about the pantry, or the root cellar,’ Rowan offered, grasping for some answer to this disturbing event.

‘No,’ Prim said shaking her head for emphasis. ‘Not there either.’ Her face had gone pale. ‘Cook’s gone . . . missing . . . maybe even . . . kidnapped . . .’ And with that pronouncement, Prim sank to the floor in a dead faint.

[Arry]

Will pushed open the outside door to the kitchen just as Prim fell to the floor. He pushed back his cap and scratched his head as he took in the scene. His early morning chores were just done; the stalls had all been mucked out, the horses fed and watered and new straw forked in on their stall floors. There were two of them he’d brushed and combed in anticipation of their owners leaving early. And as a last task, he’d turned all of them out to the great corral near the stable.

‘What’s this about “kidnapped”?’ he asked, fetching a glass of cold water to bring over to the prostrate lass. It was one of his mother’s cure-alls for a faint. And the one who’d gone limp could either sit up and sip at it as they came round, or, more drastically, they were drenched with it so that the chill of the water might shock them back to their surroundings.

Prim lay limp as an old bunch of lettuce as Will knelt down beside her. No amount of patting her hand or calling her name seemed to be bringing her round. Will looked from her to Rowan and shrugged his shoulders as if to apologize in advance. With a quick flick of his wrist, he splashed the glass of water full in her face.

[Rose]

Penstemon, Granny Greenhill, that is, to most folks around, had started out quite early that morning, her little cart packed with a crate of honey jars and a large willow basket filled with dried white lavender bouquets. She’d promised Rowan the lavender for the linen closet at The Perch. And the honey was for the kitchen – four nice sized jars of it; all of the apple blossom variety. Miz Cela had told her she was making honey cakes this week; someone’s birthday Penstemon thought as she loaded the clay jars in carefully.

Bumble, her dear little donkey, had been in one of his agreeable moods to day and so the harnessing and the trip itself had been accomplished with a minimum of bribes and cajolings. He halted, as she pulled back on the reins, stamping his hooves a bit and twitching his raggedy ears.

‘Yes,’ she assured him as she climbed down from the cart, She got out her yew wood walking stick from beneath the seat and walked forward to scratch his head. ‘There’s a treat for you, my dear Bumble,’ as he nosed her pinafore pocket and stamped again. She fetched out a large lump of sugar, wrapped up in a bit a thin parchment, and offered the sweet to her eager companion.

‘Now where’s that Will?’ she wondered, looking toward the stable. He was always so good about hearing the carts and wagons roll in and was usually jonny-on-the-spot about running out to help.

Granny stumped up to the little porch just outside the kitchen door and though it was not quite closed, she gave it a firm rap with her stick. Her old ears were still quite sharp and she could hear an odd assortment of voices from within, though no one answered her knock.

She pushed the door open with her stick and poked her head in. ‘It’s Granny Greenhill,’ she called out. ‘I’ve come to see Rowan and Miz Cela,’ she went on, stepping into the kitchen.

‘Oh, my!’ she cried at the sight before her. Her hand fluttered to her chest. ‘What on earth has happened?’

[Undómë]

Prim had come awake with the dowsing. Fully awake . . . and was loudly protesting Will’s extreme measures at bringing her round. She spluttered to her feet, smoothing down her nightgown, and glared at him.

‘Oh, Granny!’ Rowan waved at the elder Hobbit to come on in. ‘So sorry you had to come at such a time!’ She led Granny to the table and pulled out a chair for her to sit down. ‘We’re all in a big pickle this morning, as you can see.’ She pointed round to the cold stove, the fireless grate, the skillets empty of eggs, bacon, sausage, ham. No thick slices of bread toasting on forks by the coals. No kettle singing on the hob by the fire.

‘Cook’s gone missing.’ She stated it as a plain fact, trying to keep the rising panic she was feeling from her voice. ‘We don’t know what happened.’ Rowan put her hand on Granny’s arm. ‘You wouldn’t know where she’s gone, do you Granny?’

A face peeked through the door from the Common Room just as Rowan finished speaking. ‘Begging your pardon, Miz Rowan, but will there be breakfast coming . . . or second breakfast . . . or elevenses . . .?

[Arry]

Will could see that his attempts at apology were fruitless. Mad as a wet hen was the phrase which came to the fore of his thoughts. Best to let Prim's feathers unruffle in their own good time, he decided.

His own belly was beginning to grumble hungrily. And certainly, he reasoned to himself, the problem of Cook’s disappearance would be neither helped or hindered by a little breakfast. On second thought, he decided, it might really be helpful to eat . . . easier to make a plan and carry it out on a full belly.

‘Begging your pardon, Miz Rowan, but will there be breakfast coming . . . or second breakfast . . . or elevenses . . .?’ The voice from the doorway drew his attention.

‘Just a bit of a problem here,’ Will answered back. ‘Settle yourself in out there; we’ll bring you out a nice cuppa directly. And after that . . . well, we’ll just see, won’t we?’

[Rose]

‘My stars, no, child!’ Granny Greenhill exclaimed to Rowan. ‘I don’t have the foggiest idea ‘bout where she’s gone off to. I was expecting to meet Miz Cela here. I brought the honey she wanted for the honey cakes she told me she was planning on baking this week.’

Will's suggestions to the hungry Hobbit's questions caught her attention. 'Well, now, I can get the tea brewing if someone will get the stove lit, she said standing up from her seat. 'You girls can whip up some eggs and such can't you?'

'But first,' she said rapping her stick several times on the floor, ‘someone ought go for Shiriff Smallburrow, don’t you think. Will, how about you? And Master Boffin, has anyone let him know what’s happened?’