The White Horse Inn, Act III

[littlemanpoet]

"Name a treat you would like," Eodwine answered Saeryn, casting a glance at the newcomers. He gently extricated himself from Gudryn's leaning grip, rose, and raised his tankard in greeting. "Hail and well met, soon-to-be-friends. I am Eodwine of the Gap, often to be found here. Please come join us. How are you called?"

That moment, the front door flew open with a bang, and in walked a pair of tall, strongly built blonde and bearded men.

"Good even all!" merrily shouted the one who walked in front. "The life of the party has arrived!"

"Ach, Garreth," said his seeming twin, "tone it down a notch."

Garreth either did not hear, or chose not to notice, for his eyes had grown large, taking in the comely new lass who with her companion was now approaching the table where the others sat.

"Ho now!" Garreth called. "An new eligible maiden has joined the company, it seems."

Garreth's companion rolled his eyes and made signs for all but Garreth to see that he considered himself not to be associated with the man.

Falco laughed. "Harreld, I fear you're stuck with him. Better you than me!"

"Our friendly bunch is growing!" said Eodwine. "Shall we not bring two tables together to accomodate everyone? Oh, and Saeryn, what about that treat?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Must I choose?" she responded with a laugh, relieved that the twins would take attention from her somewhat. She needn't worry about remembering those elusive memories... with newcomers to the Inn, though they might notice the bandages still covering her scrapes, they would certainly not bring mention to it.

Eodwine nodded to her, facing left to where she was seated beside him. "Come now, lass, surely there's a treat you wish?" She pretended to think hard for a moment, elbowing him jovially as she decided to share what she'd been wishing for several moments.

"Any treat, hm? And you insist that I choose?" an impish glint found its way to her eye as she hid a cheerfully smirking grin. "A story then, m'lord, of an adventure. With romance, and danger, and heroics and treachery, and all of that, though make it short, I beg of you, or I fear that I shall be too swept up in it to return to this lovely place and have my feet again firmly planted on the ground, and I fear that our guests mightn't feel welcome if we ignore them long for faraway places and tales of mystery and excitement."

She waited, breath held, to see his response. Would he favor her with a story? She always looked forward to his tales, impressed with his quick thinking and the style with which he conveyed such fantastic adventures...

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Brokhelm was pleased by Eodwine’s genteel manner, but couldn’t help wondering that type of man he was, hemmed in by ladies on all sides, and some of those quite young and fragile. Only a strange little fellow, perhaps a hobbit, shared the boards as well, chewing on the end of his pipe as he peered at them. It was plain that neither was the innkeeper, but just as he was walking up to introduce Linnéa and himself, with a mind to enquire into the owner’s whereabouts, the door burst open.

A bracing draft as well as a booming voice caused Brokhelm to stop, and turning his head toward the door he saw two burly men, one of whom, to his dismay, had his eyes resting on Linnéa, boldly declaring her a new eligible maiden. Brokhelm shot a meaningful look at his sister, and his eyes flashed upward again in time to see the other new comer shake his head as he distanced himself quickly from this Garreth’s brazen antics, as if he had some disease.

A laugh came from the table, and the hobbit made comment, handing the other man, Harreld, very little in the way of consolation. But Eodwine seemed as unruffled as the others by Garreth’s arrival, and so when he suggested another table to be placed beside the one now over-full, Brokhelm pushed the stay flaxen hair out of his face and joined Harreld and Garreth, introducing himself as he helped them carry both table and seats, keeping a close watch on them.

“We come to Edoras to attend to business. We won’t tarry here long,” he explained looking at directly at Garreth, hoping to quickly quench such a man’s interest in his sister. But finding out the two brothers were smithies and gainfully employed in honest work, he relaxed a notch, asking if they knew of anyone needing horses, for they were looking to sell off sound breeding stock here in town.

Harreld set down the last of the seats, and righted himself, thinking a moment, before suggesting a man with whom they might start. “He has proved fair enough to us in his dealings, and I see no reason why he should not treat you as well, though this is not the hour to find him.”

“In the morning then,” Brokhelm replied seating himself at Linnea’s side. His sister had wisely taken her place next to an attractive young woman with auburn locks, who appeared to be recuperating from some misfortune, and was, at the moment, quite prettily requesting a tale of Eodwine. Linnéa’s back was to her brother, and as he sat down she turned and smiled to see him beside her. He smiled back, before returning his attention to the two brothers. “If all goes well tomorrow, I will be indebted to you, but for now my friends, shall we settle for a draught of ale and a bite to eat, if they are still to be had?”

[littlemanpoet]

Whilst the inn staff scurried about, bringing food and drink for the two new guests and two old guests, Eodwine racked his brain for a tale to tell, narrowing his eyes scoldingly at Saeryn while he did so. She gave him a mischievous look, apparently ready to stick her tongue out should he tell her something sharp. He grinned.

"Well now, a tale. Let's see. I could tell the one of the hobbit who barely escaped from Numenor by hiding in the cloak of the Black Umbarian stow away. Or I could tell the one about the Entwife who stood outside the Green Dragon Inn watching hobbits. Or-"

"Where'd you come up with that one?" Falco slurred around his pipe.

"Oh, just out of the blue," Eodwine murmured innocently. "Or I could tell the one about the mouse with the sword who fought against rats."

"Oh, I've heard those before," Saeryn rolled her eyes. "They all sound the same after a while."

"Too true, too true," Eodwine replied. "Or there's the one about the dragon who made a farmer a king! I like that one!"

"You're stealing 'em now," Falco accused.

"A good story stolen is still a good story, as the saying goes," Eodwine quipped.

"Who says that?" Falco queried, leaning forward.

"I do." Eodwine grinned.

"I know a good one, father," Gudryn said, "but you won't like it." She looked at Eodwine shyly.

"Go ahead, my sweet," Eodwine said.

"Tell the one about the King's man and the men of Dunland."

Eodwine frowned. He guessed what she wanted. He was not sure he did not want the same thing, but was unsure that he could tell the story without the gravity it bore for him. "That one is not ready for telling, my dear."

"I would like to hear it anyway, father," she said meekly.

Eodwine sighed. "Not until I get yarnspinner's pay, then. A tankard of mead, this time, I'm thinking, if the innkeeper has it?"

[Bêthberry]

"The Lady Innkeeper has done enough paying of rounds for this evening, I warrant," spoke up Ruthven, "but as I've a great hankering after your yarns and tellings, I'll offer you a proposition, Eodwine."

The twins chortled, having only one kind of proposition on their mind, and one not likely to include the likes of an old rag lady like Ruthven. Brokhelm and Linnéa were rather offended by this blantant display of crude humour, but obviously they were too well bred to remark upon it or make it grounds for further ill mannered winks and guffaws. Gudryn blushed and Saeryn seemed to redden too, although possibly with more glee than downright modesty--not that she was immodest at all, just more saucy than Eodwine's new daughter.

The man at the centre of the commotion rose and bowed to Ruthven. "My compliments, good dame, and I shall endeavour to take up your challenge and satisfy your hankerings."

Ruthven grinned at the small bit of havoc she had created and winked at the Innkeeper.

"I think," intoned Bethberry, "we've had quite enough of all our pulling of legs and long jokes and tittering innuendo..."

"Tittering what?" cried Garreth, only to be snogged on the head by Harreld.

It was obviously going to be a long night.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Saeryn molded her face into one serious and pondering as her companions traded words. A moment later, as she forced herself to remain straight-faced, Bethberry asked her what was on her mind, as she had so recently been smiling her amusement.

"Well..." she began. "You mentioned tittering innuendo. I think I was once in Uendo... Gondor, isn't it? And the people there seemed very sombre... not much for tittering, as it were. Are you sure we are thinking of the same Uendo?"

She widened her eyes innocently, hiding well the devilish glint that lurked there.

[Ealasaide]

A shy smile played at the corners of Linnéa's lips as she listened to the merry carryings on that surrounded her and her brother as they joined the group already seated around the inn's sturdy table. Laughing softly at the current turn of conversation, she leaned over toward Brokhelm and murmured, “All sensible talk goes out the door when puns come innuendo...”

Brokhelm laughed politely, but Linnéa could tell that with all the noise in the common room, he had not quite caught what she had said. After a few seconds, he added, “Sensible talk goes out the door when...when... what was that?”

Still smiling, Linnéa shook her head. “Never mind.” She was pleased to see that he had joined right in with the conversation, though. It gave her a way of taking part, too, without feeling that she was intruding. Left to herself, she probably would have slunk into the common room as quietly as a field mouse and, wrapping her cloak around her, taken the smallest table farthest from the fire for her own. Pushing a few strands of pale hair back from her face with one slender hand, she cast a quick glance around at the faces that lined the table. They seemed a jolly bunch, not threatening at all, although Brokhelm had seemed a little perturbed by something in the demeanor of the two men who had come in just after them. She saw no harm in them, however, and allowed herself to relax, setting her small bundle of belongings down on the floor between her feet.

While the joking and puns continued to fly around her, Linnéa let her attention stray to the man who had been about to offer a tale of some kind. Ever since she was a small child, Linnéa had harbored a love for stories of all sorts. Some of her favorite childhood memories were those of herself and her brother sitting before the fire while her father related the most wonderful tales of adventure and battles in far-off lands. Her husband had been a clever storyteller as well, able to make them up off the cuff just on the basis of an overheard sentence or the sight of a broken sword lying forgotten in the dust, but her favorites had always been the ancient tales, those that told of horsemen and the gallantry of the Riders of the Mark. She had never heard any of the supposed old chestnuts that this group was bantering about and hoped that a tale was indeed imminent.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Seeing that Harreld had Garreth well in hand, Brokhelm stood up and approached the woman sitting at the head of the table, having at last deduced her proper position among the gathering. And withdrawing 2 small coins from a well mended tunic, he placed them on the table between the innkeeper and Eodwine. “My sister and I are quite willing to pay the storyteller’s wages, if the good lady will permit it. I think a tankard or two is small enough price for a good yarn, provided the teller doesn’t end the story before finishing up his payment. But you might know better, Lady Innkeeper, whether this dealer in bought or borrowed tales sets too high a value on his wares.” Brokhelm turned and winked at his sister, before he addressed Eodwine. “It all honesty, it would do us good to hear a story.”

Bêthberry, picking up the coins tapped Brokhelm on the back. “I will let you decide for yourself what the tale might be worth, should you be granted one. But this is Edoras, and the mead is not brought here from across the sea.” She held out the larger coins to Brokhelm. “You need not be quite so generous.”

“Excuse me, I was forgetting,” Brokhelm said growing serious. “My sister and I require lodging. I hope that this extra is sufficient to secure a place for us here, out of the cold, that we may rest under your roof.”

[littlemanpoet]

"All right then," Eodwine said, cup of mead in hand, "I'll tell you a story. I'll even rhyme it.

There is an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew-"

"Nay there!" Falco interrupted. "You may not tell that one as it's a hobbit rhyme, and I'm the only one here can do justice to it."

Eodwine shrugged and sighed. "I didn't think I'd get very far with that one with him around." He took a swig of mead, and started again.

"Hear me! We've heard of Dunedain heroes,
Ancient kings and the glory they cut
For themselves, swinging mighty swords!

How Skelda made slaves of soldiers from every
Land, crowds of captives he'd beaten
Into terror; he'd traveled to Dunland alone
An abandoned child-"

"Hold! Hold!" cried Harreld. "We can't have you telling that one, or we'll be here all night and into the morning!"

Eodwine sighed again. "Then what tale shall I tell?"

"Tell the one," Gudryn needled, "about the marchwarden of Dunland."

Eodwine leaned over and said out of the side of his mouth, "But that tale, my daughter, has yet to be written in the sands of time; only then can it be told."

"Then tell what there is to tell so far," she insisted.

"Maybe another time, my sweet." He winked at her, and she smiled wistfully back, but the smile was quickly gone.

"I know!" Eodwine said. "I can tell you one of the tales of Gob and Twiddle, two makers of much trouble hereabouts."

"Gob and Twiddle?" Garreth frowned, itching his scalp, "Can't say I've ever heard of those tales."

"No surprise," Falco said, "he's making it up on the spot."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"I have an idea for when Eodwine is finished..." said Saeryn quietly, and a bit unsure. Everybody looked to her for a moment and she smiled a little. "It was a game my brothers and I played as children... a story told by the group, one member at a time. It might start with 'Once upon a time there lived a fair maiden' and then the next person would continue with something as silly or as serious as he or she wished... perhaps along the lines of 'who had one tragic flaw: a wart' and then the next story-teller would add more, such as 'that she inflicted upon the people that annoyed her.' The story could not be created without the loving care of those playing the game, but they can be very much fun, and very funny. Would a story like that be something that anybody here would enjoy?"

She sipped what was left of her drink and waited for a response... and for the adventures of Gob and Twiddle to unfold.

[Bêthberry]

"Ah, a tale not for the tale, if you know looms. But if it's rooms you want, it shall indeed," intoned Bethberry to Brokhelm, "two rooms if you wish, and a warm fire. Will you see to your rooms now?" She half rose to lead the man and his sister, but he held up his hand.

"Not necessary now, if we are to have entertainment here, although I shall let Linnéa speak for herself, as she may wish to wash up after a long journey."

The young girl spoke quietly to the Innkeeper and the three conversed over their rooms while others twiddled their tongues over gleeful expectation of Eodwine's skill.

"A glib tongue shall talk of Gob, eh?" inquired Ruthven. "Is there something wrong, Halfling, with a tale first told? Must we always hear of old ones and nary of new?"

[littlemanpoet]

"'Course not, old rag...-" Falco puffed on his pipe "-...lady. I'd like to hear this new tale of his."

"I'll rag you, little scoundrel," Ruthven winked with a sly grin.

Eodwine turned to his foster daughter. "What do you say, Gudryn, do you think we could marry the tale of Gob and Twiddle to Saeryn's game?"

Gudryn tilted her head and thought about it, a small smile on her lips spreading until it was a wide grin. "That would be fun!"

Well then," said Eodwine, "I will begin since it was my idea.

"Gob was a slouchy man, given to roundness of girth, for he liked his vittles. He had a ladle nose and a sloped forehead with a tuft of blonde baby hair atop it, soft and fine since the day he was born. Otherwise he had a bald pate on top, but he wore a halo of flowing, thin hair wore over his ears.

"People thought him an inch or two shy of a yard, if you take my meaning, because he cared little to prove himself. But they were wrong in that, and would have known it, had they looked closely at the spark in his baby blue eyes, most times half hidden by his lazy lids.

"Gob was a hedge trimmer by trade, which meant that he had a lot of free time on his hands, which was just as well to him, because then he could jaunt about town with his best friend Twiddle.

"Twiddle, now, was thin as thin. He was all hooks and knobs. He had a beak for a nose, a head as round from the side as a coin, and big ears which he hid, or I should say, tried to hide, under his wide brimmed hat. He liked his vittles as much as did Gob, but his pulse was quick and he burned up his food fast as the wind.

"Twiddle was an tree fruit picker by trade, which meant that he didn't work much either, and was ready to romp with his best friend Gob at the drop of a hat, which was often seeing as Twiddle's hat was so large for his head it kept falling off, revealing a matted head of thin, greasy hair.

"Twiddle's Edain Apple was more out than in, and when he swallowed it ducked, scooped, and lifted like a bucket in a well.

"Twiddle didn't sleep much. He didn't seem to need it. Even though he was likely to go down long after sundown, he was up well before sunrise most days. So he got in the habot if mimicking a cock crow. He'd put his whole body into it. He'd stand on a little hillock just outside his hovel, and bend backwards with the breath he took, and he'd flap his arms like wings and yell "woop! woop! cockawoop!" People wondered what cock he heard that he did it like that, but that's the way he did it.

"So that's Gob and Twiddle. How'd they get those names? No doubt their mums gave them better ones when they were born, but nobody remembers those names. Well Gob liked to talk while he ate, but he always forgot to swallow first, so everything he said came out sounding like "gob". Twiddle was the only one who could understand him. Twiddle's name is easier to figure out, because he was always working his thumbs with all the nervous energy he had.

"So everybody always thought of Gob and Twiddle as one thing, them being such close friends, so that after a while people dropped the 'and' from between the two and just talked of them as GobTwiddle. Everybody knew what was meant.

"Now for the tale. I'll tell you of the time GobTwiddle were pressed into a gang of ruffians.

"But hold, it's time for me to take a swig. All that talking has dried my throat."

Eodwine took a long draught from his mead, and placed down the mug with a big sigh, then looked around.

"So, shall I continue this tale, or does someone else want to take it up now?"

[littlemanpoet]

"No takers on that offer?" Eodwine queried around the pair of tables.

"Father, you made them up," said Gudryn, "and you're the one who knows about them pressed into a gang of ruffians, so I think you should tell it."

Eodwine's eyes went wide. "You have strong feelings about this, don't you, my dear?" Gudryn nodded her head, grinning. "Well then, I had better finish - well, at least continue - what I started.

"Now, Gob was mild and Twiddle was alert. How could such a pair be pressed into a gang of ruffians, you might wonder. Well, it was the likes of old Bill Ferny who didn't like anybody much anyway, and this pair even less than most because, well, everybody who was respected didn't mind the way Gob and Twiddle acted, getting away with little work and many pranks, which, mind you, never hurt a soul. After all, their pranks were all for fun and not for spite. And that was something Ferny didn't get. So Ferny didn't like them, and knew they were soft, so he wanted to make them work hard, because he thought that would be suffering for them, and he knew just the thing to do it.

"When Sharky went hiring no-goods for his band of bullies in the Shire during the War, why, old Ferny got his gang together and picked a moment when our Gob and Twiddle were alone if the fields by a mild stream with a pair of fishing poles in the water. They were both snoring away, but Ferny new Twiddle was a light sleeper and had two ruffians sit on him quick, a grimy hand over poor Twiddle's mouth so he couldn't holler or move. But Gob slept like a baby. Ferny got curious about their fishing habits and checked their lines, which didn't seem to have any drag on them. Sure enough, there wasn't hook or bait on either line. The poles were just for show.

"'Daft, I tell you!' Ferny cried. That woke up Gob, but he didn't startle. Well, Ferny gave him a kick in the side. Gob crumpled in, having never felt anything so fierce as that before. There was more surprise and sadness in his eyes than anger or anything else, for Gob had never thought that anybody would be so mean. After all, nobody had ever been mean to him, and being mean to another had never occurred to Gob.

"At any rate, Ferny had Gob and Twiddle hauled off and tied up until they were deep in the Shire. Finally they let them loose, but Ferny kept them under watch. Gob and Twiddle eyed each other only a little bit, but said nary a word to each other. They knew each other so well that they didn't need any words, they both knew the other's mind. They would bide an wait their chance to run free, or if not that, then prank their way to making Ferny and his boys so frustrated with the two that they'd get sick of them and send them home.

"But Gob and Twiddle hadn't met Sharky yet."

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

While Linnéa discussed the merits of various rooms with Bethberry, Brokhelm found himself losing track of the conversation soon after he had stated that any rooms away from Garreth’s and Harreld’s would be preferable, so they too be staying there. His attention, persistently drifting, shifted in part to the emerging story of Gob and Twiddle and in part the familiar voice of his sister asking if any rooms were to be had nearer to their horses. But his eyes rested on Falco, watching his expressions and ways, as Eodwine told his story.

Brokhelm had not seen many hobbits, as they called themselves. This one was the third, if an exact reckoning was required of him, and the last he saw some time ago, the day his friend Anwyl died.

As if reading his mind, Eodwine began a second tale that took his subjects into the very land of the halflings, the Shire, a place that Brokhelm had heard of, but didn’t know. He wondered if the hobbit might take up the story from there, and he might then learn more of his far off homeland. But at the mention of Sharkey, he saw the hobbit frown. Growing curious Brokhelm asked who this Sharkey was, for he had heard that the name was used once in Isengard.

“An old neighbor of yours,” the hobbit answered him. “The Riddermark wasn’t the only land old Saruman worked his mischief in.”

“Ah, then I don’t think that Sharkey will find much use in Gob or Twiddle, though he might like to think himself the master of them. Let us hope they cause the treacherous old man’s foot to slip and not the reverse. My apologies for interrupting your tale, master story teller, do go on.”

[Nerindel]

Thus far young Æoelhild had satisfactorily gone unnoticed, her once much practiced quiet reserve to her credit . Her silent curiosity regarding the hafling and his heritage quite adequately distracted from by the arrival of others. Not once but twice did the company thus grow in numbers adding to the young ladies unspoken discomfort. At one time such company would not only please but be welcomed and her tongue would be hard pressed to be silenced. Nevertheless times had changed and lack of attention was now to her advantage, especially if any of the gathered company had contact or heard news of going’s on and events of the white city or it’s nobility.

As jovial pleasantries passed between the new comers and the present company Æoelhild gave thought to her appearance, even with the notable paling of her skin (from much travel by night) and the loss of much weight over the long weeks since her departure she still felt she was recognisable as the Granddaughter of the late Master Halsten, sword master of Gondor, daughter of the late Captain Einar and Niece to Lord Regin, her fathers only brother, (A loathsome and rude, short fat balding man with an unhealthy appetite and thirst for wealth and power). Her dark eyes fell on the long dark tresses that tumbled freshly combed about her frail shoulders, she thought to cutting it as soon as she was able and wondered if it was at all possible to mask it’s distinctive raven colouring.

Coming out of her silent musings and lifting again the warm golden liquid to her pale lips. She then again become aware of the many voices around her. A tale was being requested of the one named Eodwine by her new friend, Searyn and once again a little bit of the old Æoelhild awoke as a small glimmer of excitement and anticipation reached her dark hazel eyes. She listened intently as Eodwine began, smiling with shy amusement as first the stout hobbit fellow objected to the first choice of tale and then another man, twin to Garreth, Whom she had briefly glimpsed and been warned about earlier in the day, audibly displaying his own dismay at the second choice.

She lifted her tankard as Eodwine mused over which tale to deliver only to almost choke on it’s contents as the Storyteller announce to the surprise of all that he would tell them a tale of Gob And Twiddle, Two words that when put together was one which her grandfather had used oft to refer to the rantings and long winded speeches of tired officials and self obsessed bureaucrats. Taking a napkin she quickly recomposed herself thankful that her mishap had gone unnoticed, thanks largely to the friendly bantering taking place amongst the company.

Her gaze shifted to Searyn as the young woman suggested an amusing game that they might try after Eodwine’s tale, but Eodwine had other idea’s it seemed as he entreated his daughter to the idea of tying his tale to the young woman’s interesting game. A warmth of excitement ran through Æoelhild as she envisioned the joviality of the idea, with the varying personalities gathered it should make for an interesting tale she mused, for the moment forgetting that that might included her own.

Helping herself to a chunk of the cheese before them, she listened with renewed interest as Eodwine then went on to describe the character of both gob and twiddle, before offering the tale to the table but like her the others where interested to learn more before daring to take the tale up, so after some encouragement from his daughter Eodwine continued.

Sharky? Æoehild mused silently as the storyteller again reached for his mead, Who…. But even before she could think it out further the question was answered for her but the hobbit across from her, as the well weathered new comer, Brokhelm she thought she heard him named asked aloud the very question she herself harboured.

She had never before heard the name Sharky but of the traitor Saruman she had heard and she was shocked and dismayed to learn that his evils had touch the homes of the halflings that her people held in much esteem, she had not before heard this tale, infact not much of happenings after the destruction of the ring of power had been allowed to reach her ears. In accordance to her uncles wish that she slip out of the minds of others, by keeping her locked away.

“Excuse me master Falco, was it,” she whispered trying not much to disturb the continuance of the tale, “would it be too bold of me to ask, that after master Eodwine’s tale I could entreat you to speak more of this Sharky and his removal from your lands.”

“He was removed wasn’t he?” she added as an after thought, blushing slightly at her own ignorance.

[littlemanpoet]

"Aye, lassie," Falco said, leaning so the girl alone could hear him. "Sharkey's no more. I saw his end. Pretty it wasn't. More about that later," he winked.

Eodwine continued. "Think not of it, sir," he said to the new man called Brokhelm in answer to his apology. "I've been interrupted by Master Falco so oft that I mark it not. Indeed, 'tis all give and take here, so if you've a mind to pick up the story at any point, jump in with both feet." Eodwine smiled as Brokhelm raised both hands in a gesture of relinquishment.

"The tale is yours, sir."

"Then I'll pick it up with Gob and Twiddle having been brought up to Hobbiton and put to work in de-storying, as it were. That is, they were ordered to take a shovel each, and dig out the hobbit holes under the Hill, to make place for a wide road and new brick buildings that were noised to be improvements to the area intended by Sharkey.

"'Who is this Sharkey?' Twiddle wanted to know.

"'Never heard of 'im before ol' Ferny started yammerin' about him,' said Gob.

"Gob and Twiddle didn't think too highly of Bill Ferny and his crew of ruffians, so they didn't work very fast or hard, which was easy for them as they knew how to stretch out a job and look busy doing it. That gave them time enough to keep their eyes pealed and their noses to the wind. They didn't like what they saw, even less what they smelt.

"What they smelt was Ted Sandyman's mill, with all its black smoke making a mess of the sky first, then wherever the smoke touched ground or wight, soot got left behind. What they saw was hobbits that seemed unhappy and scared, and generally kafuffled. These kinds of things didn't happen in the Shire, from the look of it, and the hobbits had nary and idea how to change things back to the way they were, which meant getting rid of the Bill Ferny and his ruffians, and this Sharkey, whoever that was. And it also meant teachin' old Sandyman a lesson.

"'Gob,' said Twiddle, 'we don't b'long here and these ruffians do even less.'

"'Right you are my Twid,' Gob replied. 'We ought to do a mite about it, don't you know?'

"Twiddle's small face screwed up into a wrinkled smile, because when he smiled his whole face seemed not to be attached to any sinew or bone, but squeezed all up like somebody folded it. But when that happened, it was wise for those who he was thinking on to watch it, because something was bound to happen that they wouldn't like much.

"Gob, seeing Twid's grin, got this pleased look on his face but kept his smile off, unless you looked in his eyes, which were, as I've said before, half covered by his drooping lids. They dug a little, rested a little, made it look like they were digging more when all they were doing for the most part was moving dirt around. And they whispered to each other their plan."

Eodwine rose. "But now I need to take a moment and take care of necessary business, as it were. I shall be back. Gudryn, you leave me some mead."

He scruffled her hair and she grinned at him, eyeing his almost empty mead cup. She looked conspiratorially at Saeryn and Æoelhild.

"Should I finish it?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"The mead or the story, lass?" asked Saeryn with a light laugh. "Though I'll warrant he wouldn't be all together upset with either. Perhaps I'll continue the story until he returns?"

Heads nodded with encouraging smiles and Saeryn took a small sip of her mead before clearing her throat in an obviously exaggerated way.

"Their plan, as it were, had very little to do with the Shire, and slightly less to do with Sharkey. You see, it had to do with them both based on a shared letter system, as the plan involved a capital 'S', a small 'h', an 'r', and an 'e', but what with the all-important missing "iaky", it was obvious to all that Sharkey and the Shire played merely a hastily fabricated role in what the men spoke of.

And so Gob and Twiddle whispered back and forth about the plan they would soon implement. They swiftly chose a name for this plan so that if they were to be overheard, nobody would know their business. "Sherbet", they called it, and a very interesting plan it was."

Saeryn leaned back a bit, sipping her mead and wishing devoutly for a chair with a back so that she could recline, perhaps tipping the chair back, and give that truely wonderful visual of one with no care in the world. She gestured softly to the newcomer, Brokhelm, motioning for him to continue her silly tangent.

[Bêthberry]

Wandering back somewhat absentmindedly, Bethberry held in her hand a small scroll, which she read over a second time before taking a seat between Falco and Ruthven.

The old bag lady raised her eye questioningly at the Innkeeper. "Wyrd?" she mouthed quietly.

Bethberry nodded and in return mouthed the name "Sôông."

Attempting to reintegrate herself with the events at hand, she smartly inquired, "What is this story about Fid and Faddle? Is Eodwine telling us a new mannish tale and not an elder one of the elves?"

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Brokhelm now at the table, replied to the innkeeper's question, “Dear Lady, Master Eodwine had left his yarn for us to finish the weaving. And it seems I now sit at the loom. He crinkled one eye shut as he plumbed his memory for all he had learned of the Shire on the long march to Morannon. “Yes, my turn has come, and what a puzzle this young lady has left me!” he said softly. But within a few moments his blue eyes flashed, and suddenly he grinned at Saeryn as she leaned back in her chair. “Sherbet, you say? Very well then, sherbet it is!”

Adopting a secretive tone, he leaned forward toward his listeners, looking from one to the other as he spoke. “Ah, this plan of Gob and Twiddle’s was so fine in their estimation, such a delectably smooth way of slipping out of their work while accomplishing much, that it drew attention whether spoken of in code or not. Of course it did aid them somewhat, that in his satisfaction with the code-name, which happened to correspond with an item of the greatest value to Gob, he pronounced it a golden plan. For having a hankering for sweets, that far surpassed his girth, he was thinking in particular of a rich sherbet that he had tasted oh so very long ago. So refreshing it loomed in his mind’s eye, that Gob grew a bit livelier than was his normal wont, for he was hungry and ready to test their strategy as Twiddle whispered its merits. ‘Right golden it is!’ Gob said again a bit louder this time as he heard the familiar squeak of a cart. And that comment did not go by unnoticed.

“A rather aged halfling that was returning up the hill, pushing a rickety barrow full of bricks stopped cold to hear the word ‘gold’ uttered on this particular hill. It must have thrown his thoughts back to better days, for his back straightened considerably as he let go the handles, his barrow tipping over with a clatter.

“Both Twiddle and Gob turned quickly to see just who it was that would sneak up on them, and finding only one old halfling, they leaned on their shovels as they addressed their elder, telling him with a wink not to worry. If they were set to dig up this hole, than dig it up they would. Though how one could dig up a hole was quite a matter of debate, for a hole was naught but air, and the more one dug down to pry the air out, the bigger ity became. And as they had understood it, it certainly was not in the spirit of their orders to enlarge any of the halflings’ dwellings!

“The old one, paid this banter no heed, but with eyes all a-glitter said he had overheard them speak of gold. Thinking quickly, Gob looked at the halfling and told him plainly that he heard aright. And Twid joined in, furthering their plan by claiming that since this treasure did not belong to them, they had decided to leave it be, for they were honest men and not scoundrels.

“The halfling sighed; replying that such things had best be kept secret from Sharkey’s men, and easily extracted a vow from the two, not to tell anyone of their find. But as an aside, he himself was bold enough to ask just where this treasure had been found.

Both men looked solemnly at their feet, as if to say right here, and the halfling’s eyes followed their glance, nodding his understanding.
Then lifting his head, fringed as it was with downy hair, Gob blinked his heavy lids quite innocently at Twiddle, and exclaimed ‘I suppose there might be more to be found around and about. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised, Twid, if a dragon of old had its roost on this here Hill.’

‘Sure as day, these hobbits are brave enough to drive off a dragon, no matter how wily.’ Twiddle replied, ‘Aren’t you now?’

The old halfling muttered that he knew of one old dragon in the Shire that was in great need of being driven off. And it was at just that time that Gob saw in his mind the Hill swarming with halflings in the moonlight, all of them armed with shovels and pick axes. And as he idily looked at the black smoke rising from the mill, the plan to Share in the hole removal and excavation quickly changed to Sharkey’s & Henchmen’s rapid eradication. Clearly they could not be seen as home wreckers then but heroes. And the beauty of the plan was that even if the halflings were found to be gathering together in rebellion, he and Gob might find a way to slip away, or at the very least the halflings might finish digging up the hill for them as they looked for imagined treasure.


“But before either Gob or Twiddle could be quite certain that the old fellow had taken the bait, one of the ruffians sauntered over to see what was transpiring, and the hobbit trundled off, quick as you like, down the hill.

“‘Get back to work, digging up them holes!’ the man yelled roughly, threatening to cuff them.

“‘Hang on now, we’ve just been working at it. We’ve been working at it quite hard’ Twiddle replied with injured tone, his hat toppling off as he wiped his brow. Their guardian leered at them menacingly.

“Tell me what would you expect happened then?” Brokhelm asked. “For I myself am unsure of what came next.” And Brokhelm looked around for any takers. “Perhaps you would like to take up your story again, young Miss?” he queried Saeryn. “Or would one of the others care to relate the outcome,” he said looking from Gudryn to the dark haired girl who listened in silence. Finally his gaze rested on the hobbit. “I think Master Falco must be amused by my poor depiction of his homeland, but I have yet to set eyes on that place.”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

“Perhaps you would like to take up your story again, young Miss?”

Saeryn had been very interested in continuing the story only minutes before, but now she felt dizzy. She touched her fingers to her bruised head for a moment before closing her eyes for a second, breathing through her nose. Perhaps it was just a momentary occurance... She stood to go to the privy for a moment and lost her balance, landing back on the bench. Pretending it hadn't happened, she decided to take a nap. Perhaps she'd come back in a little while... perhaps she would just go to bed.

The rest of the group didn't need to know that she was dizzy. They would just worry about her more and she'd already taken enough of their attention. Surely she'd feel better after a bit of sleep. After all, it hadn't been long since she'd been injured and she'd been up all day.

A rest... yes... she needed a rest. She'd come back later.

Excusing herself politely with an apology to Brockhelm and Linnèa for leaving so soon after their arrival, Saeryn made her way to her room for a bit of a lie down.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine passed Saeryn on her way to her room. "A rest will do you good, m'dear. May your dreams be filled with good things, and may nightmares of Mordor be far from you."

"Somehow," Saeryn replied, trying not to allow her speech to slur, "I don't think that will work very well."

"Well then, rest easy and be refreshed."

He grinned a knowing grin, having eavesdropped on the story as it had progressed under the care of Saeryn and Brokhelm. They needn't know.

Falco bid Saeryn good night and picked up on Brokhelm's kindly hint as he saw Eodwine re-enter the common room, giving him a nod and a wink.

"Maybe you've never set eyes on the Shire, Brokhelm, sir, but your tale is well told. I've seen the Shire from end to end and top to bottom, but I can only hope to tell my tale half as well.

"I was a shirriff since before ol' Sharkey. The ruffians swelled our ranks, and I didn't like it. Not that the new boys wasn't any good, mind you. But they was all green. They needed to be trained.

"You might wonder what training it takes to gather old toby, casks of ale, and grain for bread from poor Shire folk as needs it and shouldn't be forced to part with it. Well, new rules was coming in as fast as new shirriffs, and there was no learning the new shirriffs their craft and keeping all the new rules straight at once. So the new boys stayed green and under the thumb of the Sharkey boys while us old scabs got ornery ... at everybody, I'm sorry to say, but so it was.

"Well, one day I'm ordered up from Michel Delving by old Will Whitfoot hisself, that is afore he got jailed up by Sharkey's boys. He ordered me up to Hobbiton to help out with the Sharkey changes. Seems they was having some trouble up that-a-way. Up I go, and I don't like what I see. Who likes seeing dug up roads that have served for years beyond count? Who likes gathering food, backy and drink from folks what came by it honest? I knew what Sharkey's boys said, that it was for fair distribution. Fancy word that. What it meant was Sharkey's boys got it and we didn't.

"So I gets to Hobbiton and see ruffians digging out hobbit holes and hauling bricks and mortar from who knows where. And then I see these two shifty looking men. Well, all the ruffians looked shifty, but these two was shifting a different way, like they was on the outs with Sharkey's plans. Takin' too long carryin' out orders and really only just lookin' like they was workin'.

"So I kept my eye on 'em and saw them make excuses around the ruffians, and friendly talk with hobbits. So I got to thinkin', mebbe there's something could be done with these two. I went up and said hullo and who are you, makin' sure they could see the shirriff feather in my cap.

"And now it's time for me to drink a bit and listen to Eodwine or someone else pick up the tale."

[Nerindel]

Æoelhild now listened expectantly her chin in her hands and her elbows resting on the table a habit her father had despaired from teaching out of her, her gleaming eyes glanced around the table as she wondered excitedly who next would take up the tale, Gurdyn, the inn keeper or perhaps one of the twins but even as her eye caught the mischievous grin of the one named Garreth her name being spoken startling her out of her silent musings.

“What about you miz…” Falco was saying pausing as he realised he did not know the girls name. “Æoel” Bethberry helped him out and it was this that drew her attention. “Miz Æoel is it,” he smiled “Well would you like to take up our little anecdote?”

Surprised Æoelhild did not know what to say at first, she knew little of this Shire and did not wish through her lack of knowledge to inadvertently offend Falco or his homeland, but then remembering the feather she had an idea and she nodded acquiescently with a mirthful smile that lit her dark eyes.

“Well at the halflings sudden appearance," She began smiling at Falco "Gob looked at Twid and Twid at Gob," She went on suddenly turning to the person to her left then to her right. "neither knowing the significance of the feather the stout little fellow was casually making sure they both noticed" she went on drewing her audiance in. " ‘Perhaps he wants us to tell him how pretty it is Gob?’ Twid whispered out of the corner of his mouth. Nodding Gob then suddenly bowed deep startling the sherriff that he was force to step back a pace as not to be knocked over by the strange fellows over emphasized hand gestures.

“Good day to you sir my name be Gob and this young fellow here be my good friend Twiddle, he said gesturing to Twid who accordingly tipped his hat so it slipped further over his eyes coming to rest on his hooked nose. “That be a very fine feather there in your Hat, Gob grinned hopefully. But the Sheriff frowned starting to doubt his initial assessment of the pair and now wondering if these fellows where not just as mad as march hares and as if to confirm his new assessment Twid suddenly burst into song prancing about him.

At this Æoel suddenly bounced out of her seat laughing and skipped round the table singing…

Handy Dandy’s (at this line she winked at the others as her hands grazing both Garreth and Harreths Shoulders as she passed behind them, causing the others to laugh)
Came to town
A riding on a pony
Stuck a feather in their cap’s
And called them macaroni!

And at the last line she fained placing a feather in an imaginary hat upon Falco’s head.

With the mirth and laughed about her and the memories of her Grandfather singing her that same little ditty she momentarily forgot herself and still laughing she wrapped her arms playfully about Falco’s neck and gently kissed his cheek as she would her grandfather when they finished playing this same game.

Then coming back to herself she smiled awkwardly and moved back to her own seat. Sitting again she coughed gently trying to clear the sudden tightness in her throat, “perhaps someone who knows master Falco better than myself can capture his reaction to Twiddles strange display,better than I” She said in a quiet voice, her eyes lowered staring at the grooves in the table as her cheeks turned a deep pink against the pale of her skin. Feeling deeply foolish she hoped someone would save her further embarrassment and quickly take up the tale.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Ah see that now, Linnéa", Brokhelm said through his mirth. "We are in the presence of a well seasoned shirriff of the Shire."

"You poor soul, you are mesmerized! Is it not merely the trick of the tale to make you believe so?" she replied. "A shirriff in fiction is not one in fact, and I greatly doubt, dear brother that you could guess what it is a shirriff does!"

"Well in either case, fact or no, it seems that it has earned him a kiss, and so must be quite a desirable occupation. Did he not say himself that many youths had been similarly employed? With such payment, who would not strive for such a post?"

Linnéa smiled at Brokhelm's joke, for though still in his twenties, it had been too long since she had seen him so merry.

"Shh!" Brokhelm cautioned her gently before turning to the dark eyed girl. "Well done, Miss Æoel! If only all storytellers could be so well paid!" Then realizing the full import of what he had said, he quickly cleared his throat. "Master Macaroni," he began again, addressing Falco this time. “Please enlighten me, for my sister Linnéa’s sake – for she has guessed correctly that I do not know the term shirriff – what is this post, and were might one sign up for a position? It seems a most popular vocation!” Brokhelm grinned as Linnéa tread on his boot under the trestle like the old days as children.

“Master Falco, is it true that you have held the title of shirriff in your land?” she asked politely.

[littlemanpoet]

"Was I a shirriff?" Falco responded between puffs from his pipe. "That I was, and still am once I'm back within the borders of my beloved Shire. As for what a shirriff is, well that's all about what he does. What we do is deliver the morning and evening posts, mostly, and keep order when it needs keeping. Which it don't, mostly, as Hobbits are law abiding and peaceful folk by and large."

"I suppose," said Eodwine as he approached the table, "that you don't know how you got to be called 'shirriff', do you?" Heads turned to watch Eodwine, who having sat down by his daughter Gudryn, allowed her to rest her head against his shoulder.

"That I do!" Falco replied. I told ol' Will Whitfoot I wanted the job, and he had some of the senior shirriffs set me to doing tasks by which they could tell what kind of shirriff I'd make. Well, I fit the job better'n most, and once an opening- .... - now Eodwine, what're you shaking your head for like that, as if I don't know what I'm talking about?"

"I meant how the word came to be, not how you became a shirriff," Eodwine replied with great patience.

"Well why didn't you say so! Here's how the word-" Falco stopped, looking suddenly very confused. "I guess I'm daft on this one, 'cause I don't know."

"Hah!" Ruthven cackled. "Finally caught out! Well done, Master Eodwine!"

"Now see here, you old bag," Falco began.

Eodwine cleared his throat loudly. "Ladies and gentlehobbits, please calm down! The word, my friends. Shirriff. Shire-reeve. We have no Shires here in Rohan, but we have reeves. But the title has taken two different directions amongst two different folks, for Hobbits have reduced their reeves to mail carriers, while the Rohirrim have turned theirs into March wardens, second only to the King in power.

"Of course, none of this mattered to Falco, Gob, or Twiddle. They were much more interested in a different aspect of the word; at least, once they got it out of Falco. See, when Falco told him he was shirriff, Gob heard the word alright, but it passed through his wax filled ears, and came out sherbet. So he stands there looking at Falco, wondering why the hobbit is calling himself 'sherbet'.

[Bêthberry]

With a loud cackle and a slap of her thigh, Ruthven let out a hearty laugh.

"You're a sure bet, Master Falco," she said, "to be a dog's second breakfast, if it's delivering the post you're about."

"Mind your tongue, you old bat," he retorted. "Why, I bet you'd be in a pickle trying to read the mail and deliver it correctly--a sour pickle."

"It would depend on my minding my p's for pickle and q's for fair quarter, shortling. Is it pictures that you hobbits post on your mail, so you's can read it? 'Cause lordy I didn't think there was muckle book larning your way. Cans you all read and write?"

Falco's face turned a redder shade of tone and the hairs on his considerable ears stood out as he contemplated a whitering blast to this insult at the integrity of his beloved Shire. Imagine someone suggesting hobbits couldn't read nor write when they had a Shire Post!

"Each family, I'll have you know, missus rag-tag-thankee-bag, has its own mark or rune, and we knows them well. And we hire the most competent writer, we do. They are what ye call it, amanuseits."

"Whoa, Falco," interjected Gareth. 'I think the word you be wanting is amanadueler, what challenges people to obey the rules and codes and right thinking."

"No, no," suggested Harreld. "It is an amanaduial who writes other people's words down."

This was too much for the ladies at the table. Both Linnéa and Æoelhild were brought out of their shy modesty and began tittering ever so quietly, but they did their best to hold their faces steady so as not to incur Falco's wrath, nor wound his feelings.

"I do believe," intoned Brokhelm civily, "that the word in question is 'amanuensis' is it not?

"Well, that is not one which belongs to the Westron dialect spoken in the Shire," offerred Eodwine. "Is not 'amanuensis' a derivation from the Sindarin 'lover of words'?

"Now lookee 'ere," said Falco. "Just who is master of words here?"

"He is," offerred Bethberry with a large grin, pointing at Eodwine.

"What's happened to Gob and Twiddle?" moaned Gudryn.

[littlemanpoet]

"Right you are, my deary," Eodwine said to Gudryn. "Mayhap the pair have been having nightmares from Mordor and have kept their quiet withal. But let's continue their tale and let the simmering kettles at this table begin to cool.

"'Sherbet?' said Gob, scratching his wax filled ears. 'Maybe you're cool as a cucumber but you don't look like sherbet to me.'

"'Shirriff,' Falco stated more clearly this time. 'That's what the feather stands for. I watches the borders, minds the roads, and delivers the post, though you ruffians don't make it no easier to do that last part.' Falco raised himself as high into Gob's face as he could, being two foot shorter at the least.

"'Now Mister Shirriff,' said Twiddle, 'we ain't no ruffians. We was jus' mindin' our business away over by Bree when we got up and pressed into this hyar gang of Ruffins-'

"'That's ruffians', Gob assisted.

"'-gang of Ruffins,' Twiddle insisted, 'and als we want is to be let go back agin.'

"'And in the meantime,' Gob said with a wry grin, 'we're cookin' up sherbet.'

"Falco saw that these two just didn't cut it as ruffians, or ruffins; more like muffins they were, or at least the one of 'em, while the other was more like a bean with ears and wizard's hat. So he tilted his head to one side and asked them a question, since his quick mind was catching at least as much as they were saying.

"'Tell me about this sherbet a bit.'

"Just then another of the ruffian ilk came up and got all threatening to Gob and Twiddle for standing on their shovels, and got intimidating - that is, over-towering and bullying - to Falco, who just stared up at the mean old bloke, 'cause Falco can't be cowed, plain and simple. I should know.

"'I'm about my duty,' he said to the bully, 'and neither you nor any of your bothersome cronies will make me shirk! So be off with you and go about your stealin'!'

"'That's gathering, you little nannyhammer, and don't let me hear you say nothin' more about stealin'.'

"'Gathering, stealing, call it what you like, it ain't right and you know it, and nor I nor none of us wants you here. The sooner you and yours go back to wherever you call home (as if you had mothers!), the better we'll like it.'

"The bully frowned blackly at Falco and judged that alone he was not going to win a battle of words with the insolent little snip, so he turned to Gob and Twiddle.

"'Get back to work or you'll hear it from Ferny! No, make that Sharkey!'

"'Yessir, we'll work right hard, sir,' said Gob, still leaning on his shovel.

"'No doubt about it, sir, we'll work as hard as ever you did see, yessiree,' said Twiddle, still leaning on his shovel.

"'That's more like it,' said the bully and fool, and walked away, leaving Falco snickering under his breath as Gob and Twiddle continued leaning on their shovels."

"And now," said Eodwine, I've talked more than even Falco has a mind to, and I need to take a drink break. More mead please! Who will pick up the tale next?"

[Bêthberry]

Ruthven placed her pipe down on her plate and lifted her tankard, taking a small swallow more to whet her throat than to imbibe. She smacked her lips in imitation of Falco--an imitation which Eodwine caught but none others-- stood up, and began her recitation.

Her voice seasoned with age and experience rang out: "Falco watched with a squinty eye the retreating back of the bully and mimed the bully's movements, shoulders swaggering with exaggeration and mein all puffy and self-important. He heard a chortle or two or three behind him. Then he turned to the lollylaggers. 'Well now,' he says, 'I wasn't expectin' such intelligent compliance from the likes of Buffin and Bub.'

'Beggin' yer pardon, to whom are you undressin?' asked one of the shovel-holders.

'It ain't 'undressin'; it's 'addressin', ' says the other shovelshelf. 'An we's now gettin' into the addressin' of things.'

'A serious matter by all means,' spoke up Falco, who was beginning to realise that these two ruffa-muffa-bins might be more fun than he expected.

'Well then this h'ad-dressing don't mean no fight,' retorts the first.

'I presume you mean, it's a bark but no bite?' inquires our Shire hero. At this, Ruthven looks over at Falco, with a nod and a grin and a wink. Falco, unsure of quite where Ruthven is leading with the story this way, nods in a formally dignified way. She continues.

'He means,' says Twaddle, replying as if he acknowledged himself as Buffin, 'he means he's a simple soul what don't wants no trouble.'

'Nuffin simpe 'bout me,' retorts Gob, surely proving himself a Bub.

'Noes, I means,' says Twaddle, 'you relishes a bit of clowning around, you does.'

'Oh,' replies the shovelmaster, twirling it around in the ground for good measure. 'We's not like 'im 'er--here he nodded t'wards the halfling--wif his dignity acomin out of 'im like a bit o' stale air.'

Falco sniffed and considered taking umbrage at this.

'Now, sherbets I thinks,' continued Twaddle, 'they's all into dignity and formality, but we sorts, we jist gambol and gaffaw, hail and shout.' Twaddle leaned harder onto his shovel and looked Falco fairly in the eye."

With this, Ruthven retired, taking another sip of her tankard, nodding to all, and sitting back down again, wondering who else would take up the tale.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Brokhelm lifted the weight of his left arm, placing it on the table before him. “I expect I should carry on before our sherbet melts or perhaps before full stomachs and deep sleep threaten to carry us way, for I would rather tell tales all evening than have our dreams here in Edoras haunted by denizens of Mordor! But we’ve come full circle, have we?” the man mused, lowering his eyes to the tabletop.

When Brokhelm looked up again, he caught Ruthven’s eye, and looked at her a moment in silence before beginning. Then turning to Falco, he nodded to the hobbit.

“’So we have come full circle, have we?’ Falco said shrewdly. ‘I see that you both ain’t what you would have me think - though these boys of Sharkey’s would like it far better if you were. But they’re none too bright now, those ruffians? Not so bright as you can’t put a good one over on them, pay them back so to speak?’ And as our friend here winked at him, an involuntary smile crept across Twiddle-twaddle’s face. ‘I thought as much,’ the Shirriff concluded nodding his head sharply, so that the long brown feather wagged in the air.”

“Blue feather,” Falco spoke up. “Shirriff’s now, they always wear a blue feather.”

“Ah, thank-you Master Falco. Mind you it was the tip of a blue feather then, that darted about our Shirriff’s head!” Brokhelm held up his forefinger to mark the adjustment in his story.

“’We’s just havin’ a bit o’ fun,’ Twid explained. ‘Just clownin’ like I said. No harm’s done, is there?’

“’Not so far, but a shirriff’s no more sherbet than you are, of that much I am sure. Just what are you lads up to? You’ve said you’re cooking up sherbet, but I don’t see a stove about. And you had best not be cooking up a shirriff, or you’ll both land yourselves in hot water!’

“Gob wondered if he should let this hobbit in on their plan of Sharkey’s and henchmen’s rapid eradication. He was a hobbit after all, and by the look of him, a shirriff from the days before trouble came to the Shire. In any case, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little pull on their side, if they could convince him to help.

“’You mean a bath?’ Twid was saying playfully. ‘I’m not over fond of baths, you know!”

“’Worse,’ Falco assured him. ‘Certainly, far worse.’”

With that Brokhelm ceased his storytelling, and reached for a piece of fruit that lay at the center of the table. “Perhaps someone else would care to continue, lest this stomach, with its unintelligible rumblings, attempt to carry on the tale!”

[littlemanpoet]

"I'll pick it up," Eodwine offered.

"Falco said to them, 'No, not a bath, but something worse still. And not just Ferny but his whole gang.'

"'That's to my liking,' said Twiddle with his face scrunching smile.

"'The more the merrier,' said Gob.

"'At least so long as we're merry watchin' 'em squirm,' returned Twiddle.

"'So what have you got in mind?' Falco asked.

"'Meet us after sundown in a place you name, and we'll tell you then,' Gob said.

"'An' a merry meetin' it's been to you, lousy lot of ruffians, an' don't you come near the ol' Three Farthing Stone tonight or I'll make as sure as sure that there's enough hobbits there to string the both of you,' Falco said with a wink, and moved on.

"And so the two slackers passed their shovels from side to side and sloughed some dirt from here to there, slouching and almost slumbering on their feet, whispering between them with all the sizzle on their tongues that couldn't be seen in their hands.

"Night came and they slipped their way to the Three Farthing Stone where they found as sure as they knew the hairs on their knuckles the dozen or so hobbits they expected to find there."

Eodwine stopped and quaffed his mead.

"And there I must end my part of the tale because I'm daft if I know what Gob and Twiddle had planned."

"What!" cried Falco. "You've led us this merry way not knowing the lynchpin of your yarn?" (Falco could mix metaphors with the best and the worst of them, take your pick.)

"I was hoping for a little help with that, but everybody keeps skirting the real tale just as much as I've been doing, and I can't blame 'em." Eodwine shrugged and held up his hands in a gesture of defeat.

Falco though he was bluffing.

[Bêthberry]

"Some of us, Eodwine," said Bethberry, "have longer skirts with which to circle the tale." Ruthven cackled and pulled on her nose. She handed Bethberry a tankard full of ale. "If your throat be parched," the old woman said.

Bethberry looked at Falco. "We've had a fair bit of fun at your expense, haven't we?" she soothed. Falco picked at a non-existent piece of fluff upon his fine vest and let matters settle a minute or two. If Eodwine was going to declare defeat, perhaps he could find a champion here.

"I suppose," he said, "none of you have heard of what drew Bill Ferny away?"

"Well, Falco," replied Bethberry, "perhaps it would be best if you told us a bit about this Bill Ferny, before I embark upon a tale of his misadventures. " She sipped her ale, a slow smile spreading upon her calm face. As she had naught to do but await the arrival of a friend, she might as well turn her hand to this challenge Eodwine had proposed.

[littlemanpoet]

"Bill Ferny," Falco sneered. "A rascal and a foul miscreant if ever there was one. I'd have liked to bean him on the shnoz with a ripe red apple myself, and I praise the Mayor of the Shire for having done so!

"But Ferny. He put hisself in charge of a lot so he'd have less real work to do. He liked ordering others around, looking busy while not doing a thing and winding up with the best of everything into the bargain. When old Will Whitfoot got thrown in jail, who do you think took over his place? Silly thing to do too, since he could barely fit through the front door, but that didn't stop Ferny. He knew what he wanted, or at least he knew what he thought must be hiding in the farrest back cupboards of Whitfoot's larder, and he'd crawl on his hands and knees to satisfy his greed.

"And he wasn't above injuring hobbits neither. That's what made me maddest of all, and ready to see him done in by another. Now now! I know that's not a nice thing to say or think of another, but it's what I thought. I surely wouldn't do him in myself unless it be in battle or to save my own neck, which I'm mighty fond of don't you know.

"But about injuring hobbits. It always had to be tricksy because the ruffians didn't want to get the hobbits roused up, so everything was done careful to make sure the blame couldn't be pegged to any one person. That's why Ferny always did his worst through his men.

"And them southern men were the worst."

Falco paused to take a long drink from his ale cup.

[Bêthberry]

Garreth stretched his legs a bit and scratched his ear while listening to Bethberry’s tale of Bill Ferny’s Folly. He looked away from her and then down into his tankard. What he saw made him gulp, involuntarily. It was empty and his throat was dry. Or at least his wits were parched, which amounted to the same thing. Boredom tasted far less flavourful than the ale he was suddenly missing. He wondered if he could interrupt the story.

“Well, Miz Bet’bree, that’s a mighty fine tale you are regaling us with. I never paid much mind to this here Ring story that people round about here talk of. And I must say, you are increasing my admiration for this hafling fellow, our Falco.”

Falco bore this public attention with a certain amount of modest composure, but he did feel his ears ringing and was afraid that their tips would soon become red if this continued. But he felt no modest pride in hearing Miss Bethberry tell of his small role in paving the way for the famous Halflings to mount the assault in Bywater. He opened his mouth to intone his fine sense of the occasion when he persuaded Bill Ferny to leave Bywater just when the Cottons were arriving when up spoke Garreth again.

“In fact, beggin’ yer pardon, Miz Innkeeper, but I thinks we would be remiss if we didn’t here compliment the actions of young Falco. A toast to the Halfling Who Hoodwinked Ferny!” With that cry, he raised his tankard aloft and Harreld joined him with a “By Helm and by Hildeson, by Brego and Folca, on Falco!” Others around the table joined in, Eodwine with an impish grin and Ruthven with a glowing wink. Bethberry herself could not resist a gleeful laugh at this heroic invocation and replied softly with a “So be it!”

Amid the fussing and rushing of kitchen help, the clashing of tankards, the gurgling of pitchers, the voices crying “Arise, Arise, Hobbit of Hobbiton, fell deeds slaking and The Shire remaking”, no one noticed a slight person of sallow complexion enter the White Horse Inn. He stood calmly at the entrance to the Great Hall, observing the jocularity, recalling the cacophony of voice which had faded away upon his entrance to The Seventh Star. People were people everywhere, Sôông thought to himself, while wondering if silence would meet his arrival here as it had in The White City. He shifted his gaze around the crowded Great Hall, and found himself suddenly matching eyes with the Innkeeper. A fleeting smile crossed over her face as she acknowledge him but in respect of his courtesy and decorum she assumed a calm and sombre mein. She excused herself from the table, where, truth be told, others had now moved on from The Tale of Bill Ferny’s Folly. Ruthven looked up at her, a saddened frown suddenly creasing her forehead.

Bethberry and Sôông the Easterner sought out the smaller fireplace in the wordhoard, the small room to the back of the Great Hall and conferred. Deep in conversation they seemed, their heads at times coming together, then at times sitting pensively each in his or her own thought. Eodwine at last noticed Bethberry’s absence and spied the two. He rose, halting slightly at the entrance and politely waited to be invited in.

“Well might you join us, Eodwine of the Gap,” said Bethberry, “for there is a tale here to interest you.”

“Me?” he asked. “I might as well inquire what the daughter of the Old Forest is doing with an Easterling.” Sôông’s shoulders tightened but he made no move to acknowledge this statement.

“Sôông has been my messenger, and more,” answered Bethberry. “He has come from the halfling Fordim with instructions for the banner for his game.” Eodwine’s eyes widened in understanding and he looked back at the banners waving high from the beams of the Great Hall. They wafted in the smoky breeze of the hall, brilliant colours framed by the dark oak timbers of the ceiling struts and glinting like the jewels encrusted on the regal objects he himself had seen in the Golden Hall. We could make glass like that, he thought to himself, and set it in windows. And then he thought about the colours that would dance on the floor of the Inn.

“And what is to be the banner of Shadow of the West?” As Eodwine asked this question, he looked the Easterling in the eye—and one eye is was, for Sôông was of course blinded in the one eye—and saw not exotic difference nor anything fearful but some indescribable mystery. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as the man spoke.

“something with a hooded figure upon it, with the device of a single Ring above, while below him, alleviating the darkness that the figure casts, nine glittering stars, one for each of the gamers who made the tale worth the telling.”

Bethberry nodded. “Well chosen, it is. And it shall be made, ere I leave.”

“Leave?” inquired Eodwine. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean, Eodwine of the Gap, that it is past time I continued on my way throughout Middle earth in search of she who I once set out to find.” The man stood there stupefied and then understood why Sôông had so set his senses tingling.

“You will leave with him? You will journey to the eastern lands? You will leave The Horse?”

“I shall, indeed, for there is much for Bethberry to learn of the lands of the East and there is much need among the people of my healing arts, which have grown stale here amid the beer and ale and smoke.”

“But, but, The Horse! Who shall be our Innkeeper! Who shall finish The Tale of Bill Ferny’s Folly? Who shall help us mind our Ps and Qs?” sputtered, for all his eloquence, Eodwine.

“Who? Why who indeed, Eodwine, Once But Now No Longer Messenger of the Golden Hall. Would it not be a position worthy of you and one that you can shine at? A messenger is as good a wordsmith as any, if not more. Will you take over The White Horse Inn Eodwine? Methinks the name Innkeeper Eodwine becomes you.”

[littlemanpoet]

It was not in Eodwine to accept an Easterling, let alone a Dunlending, at face. This Sôông aroused the old enmities of the War within Eodwine's breast. Yet there was clearly a bond of strong friendship between this man and Bethberry; and she was a wise woman. Such friends spoke well of the man. Looking upon him more closely, Eodwine saw in the man's eye and mien a peaceableness and courtesy. Well enough.

But Bethberry, leaving? And suddenly Eodwine found himself virtually appointed as the new inkeeper. He was at a loss for words. It must have showed, for Bethberry was clearly amused. Me? Innkeeper of the White Horse Inn? Possibilities suddenly opened out in his mind, of how he could add to the warmth and goodness that was already here, with decorations and arrangements to delight anyone who called the Mark home; and to cause wonder and enjoyment even for those who did not. But it was silliness to allow even a speck of hope for such a thing.

"Though the thought pleases me to replace you, but the King has already appointed me Warden of the Marches of Dunland."

"Speak with the King," Bethberry replied mildly.

Eodwine could not help but laugh, discourteous as it was. "Behold, the wise Eodwine who appears on bended knee before the King of Rohan and says, 'My lord, I cannot accept the Wardenship that you have seen fit in your wisdom to bestow upon me, for my calling is higher; I am to be an innkeeper.'"

"Nevertheless, ask," said Bethberry evenly. "I am sure you will know best what words to use."

And now Eodwine found his heart at war. There were two desires in his heart: one was the joy and peace and homeliness of keeping such an inn as this. The other was a desire to order peace and law in a land that had known only war for too long. He had thought of how it would best be done. Which desire was stronger in his heart? He knew not.

"Give me the evening and the night to think it over, Bethberry, and in the morning I shall tell you whether this is a matter to be brought before the king."

"Very well, a night then."

[Bêthberry]

The two riders stopped their horses and turned back to see the sun glinting off the gold roof of Meduseld. The much plainer thatched roof of the White Horse was barely visible above the tall wooden barricade which still fenced Edoras even in these years after The War of the Ring. For one, the sight brought only relief from the uncomfortable feeling of never being looked at as a human being; for the other, wistful memories.

The obligations of fealty had been observed and the ownership of the Old White Horse Inn settled. Its timbers were ancient and creaking, its shutters splintering, and its walls in desperate need of chinking to keep the old wind which blew down the mountain from creating chilly drafts. Sometimes when the wind blew the wrong way, ash and smoke and even sparks from the great fire actually blew into the Great Hall, rather than up the chimney. Bethberry had never enjoyed that task, of clearing the cinder and airing the rooms and cleaning the soot off the furniture and walls. Yet she would miss the old place and good times it provided.

The leave-taking of Ruthven had been hard, for the old woman had pleaded her ancient bones and crippled gait as reason not to join Bethberry and Sôông on their journey east. In the rag woman Bethberry had found the one stalwart companion who had stood her in great stead as she faced all the usual and some of the unusual traffic an Inn sees. In great measure it had been Ruthven who had enabled Bethberry to tarry so long as innkeeper, finding in the twisting alleyways and grim social life of the Rohirrim both the dark and the comic aspects of life most often overlooked in the heroic tales of light and power. To Ruthven Bethberry had given most of her goods and chattel that she had not sold off with the Inn, for the old woman could use such coin to ease her final years. Glad Bethberry was that she would not be leaving Ruthven alone to face her last days, for Annawyn the seamstress would keep a watchful eye on the elderly woman, ensuring she had hot meals and enough wood to keep her small fire burning, no matter how crippled she became.

Bethberry smiled to herself imagining Annawyn’s face when everyone found her parting gifts to them. Too many players to be named one by one, yet each received, tied with the remnants of cloth from the game banners she had sewn, bottles sealed with wax. In them, a chutney originally of Annawyn’s devising, but flavoured and spiced with Bethberry’s own herbs and fruits: roast apple and anise, with currants and carrots and honey-sweetened wine. What would the strange little man Madi make of his apple pips? wondered Bethberry, for some of them had indeed grown into spindly trees. It had been beastly, harvesting the apples, for most were infected with small grubs and went for mash for the pigs, but enough firm, ripe apples were eventually found to make the preserve.

Bethberry’s horse whinnied and broke her reverie. She petted her mare’s neck and thought of Ælfritha’s kindness in selling her the horse. Ælfritha, who had nearly lost her family’s entire homestead in the disasterous theft of her horses years before the War. None of them had realized at that time just what the theft foretold. Ælfritha too had chosen to remain in Rohan, for the broad grasslands were her home and horses her domain. And besides, Ælfritha had never recovered from the horror she had witnessed long ago beside the Anduin and could barely look at Sôông—not that she blamed him--without remembering the terrible dread she had felt and violence she had seen.

“You are lost in thought of the past,” remarked Sôông to her after some time.

“Yes,” she replied. “A bad habit I thought belonged only to the elves. Well, let me make amends. Race me to the River Snowborn.”

And so it was that Bethberry took her leave of Rohan, journeying east where so many more stories yet remained to be learnt and told and told again.

[Bêthberry]

~ ~ ~ Finis ~ ~ ~

To Elvenhome