‘Oh, I’ll fetch your pouch for you, sir!’
Jack bounced from his chair and was back in less than a wink, holding out the rolled up pouch for herbs to Alwin. The old fellow untied the pouch and unrolled it, his fingers making for one of the pockets on the left near the bottom. ‘Ah, here it is,’ he said with satisfaction as his thin, tapering fingers extracted the dried flower, stem, leaves, and root from its hidey-hole. He motioned for Jack and asked that he fetch a pot of chamomile tea from the kitchen.
‘This is
Valerian , Master Cotton. We’ll add just a small pinch of it to the chamomile, needs a bit of honey, too. To make it more drinkable. The combination should relax the tipsy fellow and let him have a restful sleep.’
He looked up from the dried piece of vegetation to see the Hobbit lad smiling brightly at him, his blue eyes filled with a deep merry gentleness. Alwin could not help but smile back. For one brief moment the image of the young lad seemed to shimmer; his pale-skinned face caught the light from the fire making it seem fairer still; his hair glistened all spun gold as it danced along the shoulders of his tunic. Blinking his eyes to clear the image, he focused on the lad’s features. Shiny light brown hair, long it was; clear blue eyes; fine featured, fair skinned, his cheeks just touched with a certain rosiness; young seeming, artless.
The fire hissed and popped, drawing the old man further back to a surer vision of figure before him. A pleasant looking Hobbit lad . . .
Still, he thought to himself, seeing the firelight play on the planes of Bingo’s face,
he seems fey; as if the light glimmered from within . . .
Jack was back, then, holding a small teapot out to Bingo, along with a cup. ‘She’s laced it with honey already,’ he confided, smiling at the Hobbit lad who was just his height. Bingo held the warm pot in his hands as Jack took off the lid for Alwin. The old man crushed a small pinch of the dried plant between his thumb and fingers and dropped it into the fragrant yellow liquid. ‘Slosh it about a bit,’ he told the Hobbit, putting the lid back on securely. ‘That’s what Master Alwin does to get it all mixed up right.’ Jack looked up at his companion for confirmation, and beamed as Alwin nodded his head in agreement.
Further conversation stopped as the Inn door burst open. A shaft of westering sun shone in, backlighting the seven figures that entered. They were difficult to see, their faces in shadow. Heads turned to gaze at the puffed up one who led them in with a swagger.
'Falco Boffin! As I live and breathe!' Alwin heard heard some old gaffer at a nearby table mutter. 'Now what trouble is he dragging in to Bywater?' He took a long pull on his half-pint, his rheumy old eyes fixed on the entering party.
'Whatever it is,' cackled a wizened Hobbit mistress sitting next to him, 'he'll be sure to have a big, big story about it. And one with him at the center of it, I have no doubt . . .'