The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Envinyatar]

Derufin spread out his hands, palms up, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve no idea what he meant to say,’ he said, looking expectantly at the two Hobbits. ‘And as for any “planning”, I am more in the dark about what that refers to, than I was before.’ Motioning for one of the servers to come near, he had two new half-pint mugs brought (he was being careful this time . . .), and a fresh pitcher of ale. ‘Now, lads,’ he began, smiling warmly at them as he poured the ale in a long amber stream into their mugs, the foam of it winking invitingly in the light at the two. ‘What is this “custom” I have to look forward to?’ Eager hands reached out for the mugs, but they were denied any access until Ferrin, at last, began to speak.

‘Well, sir, Master Derufin,’ Ferrin began after a hastily whispered conference with his companion, ‘it’s more or less like this . . .’

The two Hobbits played tag team in telling him about the shivaree. An old custom, apparently, they said. And one most likely born out of the Hobbits’ love for parties, good food, and drink. Or so one of their great granda’s had told them once when he was well into his cups and bent on giving a lesson about the importance of tradition.

‘We like the party to go on and on, you see,’ said Fallon, wiping the foam from his lips and leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘And the one after the handfasting is always too short by Shire standards. What with the couple wanting to get away and all . . .’ He grinned up at Derufin, and gave him a wink.

‘So we figured a way to continue the fun,’ chimed in Ferrin, motioning for Derufin to fill his mug. He took a long pull at it before speaking again. ‘Now customs differ depending on the families being joined. The rowdies from Girdley Island kidnap the man just before he and his missus reach their house, get him quite sauced, then leave him across the river to make his way back to his missus in the dead of night. While those from Pincup make off with the missus herself, and the man must find her . . .’

Derufin’s brows had risen nearly to his hairline at this report. He filled his own mug, shaking his head and wondering how he was to tell Zimzi of this local tradition.

Ferrin and Fallon grinned at his discomfiture. ‘Now don’t think we didn’t consider one or t’other of these approaches,’ Ferrin continued. ‘But honestly,’ Fallon went on, ‘you’re a might too big for us to handle.’ Derufin breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, now don’t think we’re giving up on it altogether,’ Ferrin put in. ‘Shall we tell him, Fallon?’ ‘Might as well,’ the other Hobbit agreed.

‘Once you and the missus have come back to the cottage, your friends from the party will find their way there,’ Fallon continued. ‘No rest for the happy couple, I’m afraid, til the wee hours of the morning! There’ll be a gathering in your from yard, a very loud gathering. Pots and pans will be beat on with stirring spoons and the like. The men and lads will vie for who can sing you the bawdiest of songs . . .’ Ferrin nudged him, ‘Oh, and aye, even the sweet-faced old gammers will have some songs and taunts to throw your way . . .’

‘It’s a loud and horrible din we’ll make,’ chuckled Ferrin. ‘And there’ll be no stopping of it . . . until, of course, you throw your robes over your night clothes and come out to join us.’ Fallon nodded, his eyes glinting impishly. ‘And of course you’ll want to be offering these fine singers and reciters of choice verse a little something to drink and eat.’

‘Don’t forget to tell him about the blanket toss . . .’ slurred Ferrin, who had helped himself once again to the pitcher.

‘The blanket toss?’ wheezed Derufin, his last swallow of ale gone down wrong. His face had gone pale, but not from the coughing. In truth, his head was spinning as he tried to take in the details of this Shire custom. Fallon clapped him hard on the back to relieve the breathless cough.

Ferrin, seeing the last of the ale had gone from the pitcher, now waved it in the air, calling for more. Derufin had just caught his breath and Fallon begun again the further details of the shivaree when Cook’s voice broke in on the trio.

[Firefoot]

Once Lily had gotten over the shock of Posco’s request, she was able to think clearly about it. Why would he ask such a thing of her? She did not doubt that he loved her, and he said that it would make him happier if she was confident that he was who she really loved. She sighed.

“Since you ask it of me, I will try,” said Lily. She had no resistence to his wishes. She would be polite to Tommy, and give him a chance; the question was whether her heart would really be in it.

“Good,” replied Posco, sounding as if he meant it. Lily only wished he didn’t seem quite so sure.

“I made a promise to you earlier, though. I said I would come back. Even if my choice were to be Tommy Banks, I should want to let you know...” Even as she said the words, she began to accept them. They didn’t sound right, even to herself, and she hated the unfortunate circumstances that forced her to consider loving one other than Posco. “Of course, if you didn’t want to see me then, I would understand,” she said, and stopped. This was coming out all wrong, and it would be easy to see how she might have caused Posco to misunderstand her. “Oh Posco, I must sound a blundering fool. But I will hope to come back, some day, and if I do it will be for you and no other.” She wished she could be more certain, but there was a niggling doubt in the back of her mind that she might not return, compounded by Posco’s request that she give Tommy a chance.

Suddenly she felt as if she were drowning in responsibilities. She could have remained in Bree; very likely Tommy Banks would now be courting her, and she would have been happy, because she would not have known Posco. She couldn’t change the past at any rate, and she wouldn’t want to, either, all told. Even with all the complications, they must be worth working them out. So far it had proved to be so. Simply running away seemed to be a great deal more desirable than when she had first presented the option only minutes before, but she knew that the solution would be much more difficult than that.

It occurred to her then how much it must have taken on Posco’s part to make the request. He wanted her to be happy, even if that meant she married Tommy. Surely that would cause untold hurt to him, but he had still asked. How selfish she had been, thinking only of herself!

“I will miss you,” she murmured, though her voice was still completely audible. “Even giving Tommy a chance won’t stop that.”

[piosenniel]

‘Masters Ferrin and Fallon!’ Two heads swung about to see Cook standing behind them, hands on ample Hobbit hips. I hope they’ve not been filling your head with horrible stories about our little custom,’ she said addressing Derufin. She cocked her head to one side, looking at the man. ‘Though by the look on your face it seems you have heard the worst of it.’ She tapped her foot quietly on the wooden floor.

Ferrin took a pull at his mug, then cleared his throat. ‘Now, Miz Bunce . . . we were just giving him the widest of views of what might happen.’ Fallon nodded his head in agreement. ‘Tis good to be a little afeared of the unknown, so my old granda says,’ he chimed in. ‘Besides, the old man here’s one of us now . . . no reason he should be spared some good Shire fun.’

Cook’s face cracked into a wide grin and she chuckled at the earnestness of the two lads. ‘I’m beginning to think that you two might have decided to have a hand in organizing the shivaree,’ she chortled, raising her brows at them. The two clamped their mouths shut tightly, but the decided glimmer of impish plans surfaced in their eyes and their lips, of themselves, curved up in knowing smiles. ‘I see,’ she pronounced, nodding her head knowingly. She looked at Derufin, his face registering bafflement. She patted him on the arm. ‘’Twill be fine, Master Derufin. ‘Tis an enjoyable custom . . . even the caterwauling.’ She beamed as an idea came into her head. ‘I’ve some old pans and lids stored down in the cellar,’ she said, winking at Fallon and Ferrin. ‘Mind you keep your hands off my working set and you can borrow those others.’ She cleared her throat and made one further offer. ‘And I might be persuaded to sing, too . . . providing there is a wee dram of those Dwarven spirits available . . .’ She gazed meaningfully at Derufin. A call from the kitchen cut further conversation short as she turned hastily to take care of the problem.

‘Now you should be afraid,’ whispered Fallon, leaning over the table toward Derufin. ‘Oh, aye,’ said Ferrin, filling their mugs once again. ‘We should all be afraid.’ Derufin took a gulp of ale, raising his brows over the rim. ‘Miz Bunce,’ continued Ferrin. ‘You’ve never heard her sing, have you?

[Arry]

Andwise leaned against Ferdy as he stumbled down the steps of the Inn. His foot caught on the edge of the last one as he stepped down to the graveled path, nearly sending him sprawling. Gil and Ferdy struggled to keep him upright as they maneuvered him to the cart Tomlin had brought round.

‘Here! Give us a hand,’ called Gil, motioning for Tomlin to reach down for the inebriated Hobbit. A bit of tugging from one with a great deal of pushing from the other two and Andwise was deposited in the seat, held up right by Tomlin until Ferdy climbed up to provide support.

His foot, in fact, was on the little step-up when Andwise, in a moment of soon passing clarity, opened one eye. Gazing at the Inn and then down at his son, he pushed Ferdy back, waving him away from the cart with a wobbly motion of his hand. ‘Nay laddie,’ Andwise managed, pulling himself upright in the seat. He pointed his tremulous finger at Gil standing next to his son. ‘Let yer friends here get the old man home.’ He cast a bloodshot eye at Tomlin and Gil, grinning as he did so. ‘Ye won’ mind, will ya laddies?’

‘Of course not!’ they both chimed, wanting to be helpful. ‘But Da,’ began Andwise.

‘Nay . . . nay . . . there’s someone waitin ta hear from ya, now. I’n’t there? The lads’ll get me home fine.’ He waved Ferdy back to the Inn. ‘G’wan now!’

Andwise’s voice trailed off. He was wedged in now between Gil and Tomlin, head resting against Gil’s shoulder, snoring faintly. Tomlin leaned across him and spoke to Ferdy. ‘We’ve got him. Don’t worry, both of us have had to put our Da’s to bed after a night or two of tipping the cup.’ He flicked the reins against the pony’s hindquarters. ‘Hurry,’ Gill called back to Ferdy as the cart rolled down the path. ‘You don’t want Cook handling your business, now do you?’

[Maeggaladiel]

Eleniel shook herself, feeling as though she had been lost in thought for a very long time.

"Hostile trees?" she echoed. "You mean the legends of Fangorn Forest are true? I had thought them to be but children's tales." She smiled to herself, shaking her head in wonder.

"See?" she said. "You can travel the land all you want, and there will still be something left to learn."

[Lalwendë]

The horse and rider came to a halt as they neared the inn. The horse was snorting and sweating heavily, and the rider was not in a much better condition. He had been riding hard all day with only the briefest of halts, and those only taken to allow both himself and the horse a few minutes to catch their breath. The rain which was now falling was welcome to him, and he had pushed back his hood to better appreciate the cool raindrops.

The evening was closing in early due to the rain, and he had seen the lights being lit up ahead. Though he had a good idea of where he needed to get to, he had stopped to ask a passing Hobbit all the same. He did not want to make a mistake and come to the wrong Inn, not after riding all day on this errand. To him, it was a matter of urgency that he get to the Inn as soon as possible, and to that end he had saddled up his best horse.

Pegram’s keen eyes were alert for a suitable place to dismount and tie the horse up. He hoped for a stable of some kind, for the stallion had been an expensive purchase and he did not want to lose him to some scoundrel horse thief. It was the kind of horse which made other men look on in envy, the horse he had yearned for most of his life and finally had been able to buy a few years ago. It was a young man’s steed, but one which few young men would be able to afford. He cared for the stallion well and the creature’s coat shone when Pegram took him out for a ride; when he crossed paths with another man on such a steed, knowing, appraising glances were exchanged.

He was relieved when he saw a stable, but the place was in near darkness and unattended. Leading the horse in, he looked for a secure corner and fastened the reigns to a beam with an intricate knot before casting around for a bucket of water and bale of hay. He gave the horse a quick wipe down with a soft cloth, as he always did, no matter the urgency of his business, and straightening his clothes, went out towards the door of the Inn itself.

Pegram was a man of middle age, prosperous, and stout with good living. He was not overly tall, but he was well built and vigorous in his movements. He had a head of thick, rich brown hair, and a full beard. His clothes were simple but betrayed a knowledge of his taste for the finer things in life. His smock shirt was of white linen, cut to fit his frame exactly, and his breeches were made of fine green moleskin. Pegram wore a matching green cloak, cut from a textured wool, and a pair of sturdy but delicately stitched gloves fashioned from brown doeskin. He carried a knife for a weapon, concealed with a pouch of money on his belt. The weapon had never been used, and it was primarily to protect his money that he kept it, but, as he often said to himself, “Let them come, let them try to get it from my hands“.

The early evening light of the inn shone through the windows and within he could see a hearty crowd, a scene he particularly liked, but then he checked himself, remembering that these were strangers. The smell of the good beer hit him and he breathed it in appreciatively, as it were a fine scent. And fine perfume this was to Pegram, for he was a distiller by trade.

He pushed the door open smoothly, and drew himself up to his full height, his chin proudly thrust forwards. He looked about the crowded room with the air of a man experienced in the ways of public houses, taking in the different groups of people, and not least of all, the bar itself. Allowing himself a few moments to look upon the pumps and barrels with genuine interest, he returned to searching the room. He noted that it was filled with all manner of folk, men and Elves alongside the Hobbits he had expected, and then saw the very person he had come here for. His light eyes darkened, and a growl almost came from his throat, and he strode purposefully over.

***

When she saw Andwise being bundled hastily away from the table, Jinniver knew that he had made a mistake in mentioning this Shivaree. But she quickly realised what this was all about, and though she had been ready to hear a good ghost story, she found herself laughing at the truth of the matter. She could well imagine the commotion that was going to happen after Derufin and Zimzi’s wedding, not least because of the high spirited hobbit lads. She hoped she would be invited to stay fro the event, once her work was done.

Thoughts of the task she still had ahead of her made her quiet for a moment. Her brow creased as a brief worry entered her mind. What if the plants did not arrive in the morning? How was she to make a garden without them? If they were late, then she would have to work quickly, but what if they did not come at all? She caught her breath in a moment of panic, and reached for the jug of stout again.

“Best not think of that”, Jinniver muttered to herself, taking a gulp of the dark, heady brew. She took up her pipe with haste and as she puffed out a smoke ring, began to feel herself relax once again. The sound of Andwise shouting outside, as the lads attempted to get him home in one piece, drifted in through the windows and she tried to stifle a giggle. She took another long drink, and decided to fill her tankard once more. This was a good ale, and she had started to get a taste for it. She didn’t stop to think how drunk it had made Andwise.

Jinniver’s eyes were a little clouded as the drink took hold on her quickly, and she found herself feeling hot, but extremely content. She laughed aloud as she heard what Cook threatened to do. And then she felt cold as a firm hand was placed on her shoulder and a gruff voice said “Jinniver!” meaningfully into her ear.

[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!