The Golden Perch Inn

[Folwren]

Dick was puzzled and very worried. Will was no where to be found and it was getting dark. The horses were hungry, the water buckets were almost empty, and the stable hand was no where near. He slowly walked back up the stable aisle, thinking.

Hey! There was a noise in the stall up ahead! Perhaps Will had come back in after all! Dick hurried forward, opening his mouth to say something, when all of a sudden -

“Oh!” the hobbit lass exclaimed, jumping backwards after they almost collided. Dick blinked. This wasn’t Will. “Ah, do you – are you - working here at the Inn? I need – er, would like a room. If you have one. Please.”

“Oh,” Dick said, nearly just as confused as she. “Yes. Yes, of course there is room. Come. Let’s go in. I am Dick Boffin, landlord.” He gave his best welcoming smile. “Pleaes come in.” He led the way out of the stable and across the yard to the inn. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Songo and Jims coming back from their wolf hunt. The elf was not with them. Dick and the hobbit lass stepped inside.

“Rowan! We have another guest.” Rowan threaded her way across the common room. “Please take her to a room suitable for her. She needs a place to sleep. One you’re settled in, miss,” he said, turning to Mirabell, “you can come back into the common room here and have some warm supper to eat.”

[Undómë]

Rowan hurriedly put down the tray of mugs she’d brought from the kitchen, sighing as she did so. She’d hoped to have a leisurely sit-down as she wiped the last of the rinse water from the just washed cups; some time to look about the common room and see who was about.

Ah well...best laid plans... she heard her old Gran’s voice whisper at the edge of her thoughts.

She wiped her damp hands on the dishtowel she’d slung over her shoulder and laid the cloth wadded on the stack. Best see to the new guest, she thought, get her settled in...then, perhaps there would be time for a more leisurely task.

Perched precariously on the edge of the table just outside the kitchen’s door, the mugs gave a dull clink-clunk as the Hobbit’s foot knocked against the near table-leg. No, you don’t! she muttered. Pausing midstep, Rowan reached out her right hand toward the teetering pile. She slid the tray deftly toward the middle of the table top, turning slightly to steady the stack with her left hand.

Taking note that the mugs were no longer in danger of toppling, Rowan hurried over to where Master Boffin stood with the gold-haired lass. She gave the new guest her best smile, motioning for her to follow along.

‘I’m Rowan,’ she said, glancing back as she opened the door to the hallway which led into the hallway that wound into the hill. She picked up a fat candle from the wooden box just inside the entryway and lit it from the lantern near the door. ‘I think this room might suit,’ she said, smiling as she opened the door to the fourth room down the hall and gestured for the lass to enter.

There was a cot against the far wall with a colorful, thick quilt covering it and a fat, soft looking pillow resting against the plain headboard. A woven rag rug ran alongside the bed. On the left wall was an oaken chest of drawers with a pitcher and washbasin sitting atop it, and next to them a clean white towel and wash cloth. A little clay jam-pot perched on the edge of the chest nearest the bed, its riot of flowers from the Inn’s garden making a final welcoming statement.

Rowan lit the lantern on the bedside table. ‘There’s a bath room just at the end of the hall...shared. Let me know if you want a bath. Otherwise,’ she went on, picking up the pitcher from the chest, ‘I’ll just fetch you some nice hot water and you can have a quick wash up here in your room.’ She swept her glance about the neat little room. ‘Is there anything else you need? I’d be happy to get it for you...Miss...??? Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.’

[Arry]

Had anyone been listening they would have thought a pair of Hobbits were arguing with each other. As it was, it was only Will discussing out loud with himself the post he’d received that day. His mother, the redoubtable Pearl Longholes Hayward, had decided to come to Stock in two weeks time with two of her daughters-in-law, Sapphire and Lily, to buy a bolt or two or so of sprigged cotton and some yards of lace. Never mind that there was a perfectly adequate cloth shop in Crickhollow that had served her family well over the years.

He puffed on his pipe; clouds of smoke hung thickly above his head. He worried the mouthpiece and stabbed the air with it as he read the letter again and then once more. Read between the lines, that is. It wasn’t cloth she’d come to inspect is what he expected, is what he knew. She’d come to see what her youngest son was ‘doing’ with his life. Translation: had he found a suitable lass yet? And when would he be tying the knot? She’d seen through the letters he’d sent of how well he was doing at the inn; had enough of his fending off questions of settling down like his brothers had done. His mother would be coming to set him on the ‘right’ track.

It was drawing toward dark when he roused himself from his brown study. The big oak beneath which he’d sat, and paced, and leaned against in his bemusement cast a deeper shadow now and from a ways beyond it, the restless sounds of the horses and ponies broke in upon his thoughts. Will folded his mother’s letter into a small square and jammed it deep into one of his vest pockets.

Back in his familiar routine he pushed away his irritation and fell to taking care of the animals and their needs. Fresh hay, some oats, clean water . . . and the occasional apple for those whose insistent noses nudged him as he tended to them. They listened to his troubles with tail-twitching patience, seemingly swishing away problems with an easy flick of ear and tail.

Having set the stable in order, Will made his way toward the Inn. A plate of nice, fat mushrooms would put him in a better frame of mind, he thought. Fried crispy, in butter. And a pint of dark, strong stout to further smooth away the edges. Yes, that would do nicely!

And maybe he could talk to Master Boffin, too. Perhaps he could be gone when his mother came on her shopping expedition. Buying trip for the Inn? Something that would take him away for a great deal of the time she’d be here. Or a building project – new roof for the stable, maybe. Something to keep him occupied long into the evening and away from his family . . .

[Girl in the Grass]

Delighted with the cosiness of the room, Mirabell gave a tired smile as she spoke to Rowan. "Mirabell Took, but for the most part people call me Mira. The room looks lovely; I don't think I'll be needing anything but that hot water you mentioned." Rowan smiled and said, "Alright then, Miss Mira, I'll be back in a few minutes after you've settled in."

As the other hobbit closed the door behind her, Mira took another look around the room. Stepping over to the bed, she ran her hand over the quilt, admiring the different colours of fabric and the thick quality. The flowers gave the room a lovely scent, and as she sat down on the bed Mira inhaled deeply, enjoying the sweet odor. Just as she flopped back onto the bed with a sigh of contentment, there was a knock at the door and she heard Rowan's voice: "Miss Mirabell? I've got that hot water you wanted."

Mira went to the door and opened it, thanking Rowan for the water, and shut it again. She quickly washed and combed her hair, her stomach starting to rumble with hunger. When she was satisfied with her appearance, Mira left her room and proceeded downstairs to the common room, wanting nothing more than a hot cup of tea with a sufficiently large meal. As she entered it from the hallway, she glanced around for Rowan. Seems as though she's not here, Mira thought to herself, and her stomach grumbled in protest. She sat down at an empty table to wait for Rowan to reappear, hoping it wouldn't be too long.

[Tiffany Aching]

The sandy-haired pony gave a decided toss of his mane as his mistress tugged on the reins. From this short distance Cookie caught the scent of fresh hay – and oats! His nostrils widened taking in the heady promise of food. He was a stout little fellow given to as little exertion as he might manage and as much feed as he might appropriate. He looked back over his shoulder at Miz Miribelle with as encouraging an expression as he could muster.

‘Yes, yes, I know my little dear. I’m hungry, too.’ Miribelle Rushybanks sat fully upright on the little cart’s padded seat and looked about the darkening yard. At a distance, she saw a familiar figure just heading up the few steps to the Inn.

‘Will?’ she called out in a firm voice. ‘Is that you?’ She thought she saw him turn toward her and she waved. ‘Come help me won’t you with Cookie.’ She set the brake and stepped down from the cart, wrapping the reins about the brake’s handle once she’d set both feet firmly on the ground.

[Undómë]

Well, they’ll just to to airdry now... she thought, shrugging her shoulders at the stack of mugs still sitting out where she’d left them.

No sooner had Rowan come back from seeing Mirabell to her room than she’d been called into the kitchen by Primrose. Cook, it seemed, was in somewhat of a tear; her day upset with tales of wolves marauding the countryside. Why some of the Inn patrons had whispered it about that they might have to bolt the doors to prevent being got at by the savage beasts. The stories of previous encounters grew as the day had worn on. And along with them had grown the size of the wolves and their number.

There were bangings about in the kitchen; skillets slapped hard on the stove top; cleavers clapped down hard on the cutting board as chickens were cut into pieces. Hmmmph! thought Rowan taking in the scene. No wolf or pack of wolves would dare step paw in Cook’s kitchen!

‘Here,’ she said picking up a basket into which she scooped a plentiful heap of flaky biscuits. ‘Let me just take these out to the Common Room.’ She placed the basket on a tray along with several pots of jam, butter, and honey. From the back of the stove, Rowan retrieved the kettle and set about making several large pots of tea. These she placed on another tray with a bowl of sugar, a pitcher of cream, and some tableware – small plates, knives, spoons.

Primrose gave her a grateful look as Rowan balanced the trays on her hands and back through the kitchen door. A few quick steps brought her to a large table in the center of the Common Room. She set down her burdens and arranged the biscuits, tea, and accompaniments about the table’s top. The mugs were retrieved from their smaller table and set near the tea pots.

Clearing her throat loudly, she clinked a spoon against one of the empty mugs. ‘Supper’s coming in a bit,’ she said, not elaborating on the reason for its delay. ‘Here’s some tea and biscuits and jams and such to tide you over ‘til the chicken and taters and peas are done.’ She glanced toward the kitchen hoping to see Prim’s face giving her an encouraging nod. No such luck.

‘Come on ‘round,’ she encouraged the waiting diners, motioning for them join her.

[Arry]

‘Will? Is that you?’

Thoughts of food, drink, and not least, escape were put aside as he heard his named called. Turning about, he saw Miz Rushybanks motioning for him to come over. He trotted toward her, a grin on his face.

‘Bet you’re here for chicken and biscuits, aren’t you?’ he said with a smile. As he recalled the old gal enjoyed Cook’s chicken and despite her slender build could put away a good sized helping of it, along with plenty of well buttered biscuits.

He helped her retrieve her carpet bag from beneath the cart seat and unwrapped the reins from the brake lever. ‘You just go along now,’ he said, nodding his head toward the door. ‘Cookie and I are old friends. I’ll see him to the stable.’ He reached up toward the pony’s ear and gave it a scratch. ‘Some sweet hay for you, eh, fellow? And a nosebag of oats, yes?’

‘Oh, and Miz Rushybanks,’ he went on, recalling her fondness for that foreign drink – coffee. ‘Might have to make do with tea tonight. I don’t think the shipment of those beans you like brewed have come in.’ He gave a little shiver, recalling the one taste of coffee he’d tried at her urging.