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Cook muses on the two firewood stackers and encounters the Elf in her garden . . .
Cook had recovered, somewhat, from her erstwhile dishwasher. Ginger had come back into the kitchen with two of the other servers and they had cleaned away the messy area surrounding the sink. The wet and dirtied tea towel, Cook had taken herself to soak in some hot sudsy water with a half cup of lemon juice stirred in to ease out the stains.
While the others mopped up the kitchen’s floor, she went out the back door to catch a breath of fresh air. The lunch cooking was done and those of her staff had the serving of it well under control. Supper was all ready to be cooked a little later. She had a few precious moments to herself.
The warm spring breeze caught a stray curl, teasing the springy grey flecked strand from behind the Hobbit’s ear. It tickled her cheek. Unthinking she made to tuck it firmly under her head band. But looking out over the pleasant, sunny day made her feel quite young again. And she took the band from her hair, letting all her curls toss in the breeze.
The old kitchen tabby had braved the day and was curled up in a patch of sun. She raised her head as Cook stood on the porch and meowed a bit. A little protest, as Cook stood blocking the sun.
‘Well, begging your pardon, Gammer,’ Cook said, leaning down to give the feline a little scratch behind the ears. The Hobbit stepped down to the first step of the porch of the sun, gathering the back of her skirt neatly beneath her. She stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes, enjoying the feel of the sun’s heat on them.
There, to her right, near the Inn woodshed were Derufin and his helper. Anyopâ, she said, thinking on the man’s name for a moment. The wagon was halfway unloaded now. The two men had taken off their tunics as the day grew warmer. Their skin glistened as the light hit it. The muscles on their arms bulged as they carried the large armfuls of wood to the shed. Hot dirty work, she thought to herself. And thank goodness they had been willing to do it for her. ‘I must remember to cook up some sweet treat for master Derufin,’ she said, making a mental note of her decision. ‘And find out what the other fellow likes, too. Small payment for a big job.’ She took a closer look at Anyopâ. ‘Hmmmph! A little too stringy! Course maybe that’s how they grow ‘em where he comes from.’ She eyed him again. ‘Needs a bit of fattening up, I think. At least while he’s under my roof.’
A short way beyond those two were the Inn’s gardens. One for vegetables and a smaller one for herbs – cooking and medicinal. Cook shaded her eyes against the sun. Hmmm . . . now there was someone walking about in her herb garden. Tall fellow, she could see. And, Land Sakes! He had his cloak all pulled up around him and his hood up, too. Every once in a while she saw him stoop down to finger a flower or a leaf. Didn’t pick any though, as far as she could see.
With the pride of all Shire gardeners rising in her, she thought perhaps he might be admiring the layout of her little bed and the healthy, hardy plants she had nurtured from seed to leaf and flower. Mayhap he was a gardener in his own right.
Cook stood up and smoothed her skirt and apron with her hands. She took the hairband from her pocket and caught back her curls. Filling the oaken bucket from the pump, she went walking toward the tall fellow and her garden. His back was to her and he was bent over, his long fingers brushing across a low growing plant with softly bristled leaves that had spread over a nearby rock.
‘Woolly thyme,’ she said, coming up to stand beside him. ‘One of my pride and joys, that is. Had to trade a number of starts to my other herbs to get that. Comes up from the south . . . far south.’ She bent over and pinched the leaves of a similar plant near it, though these were smooth and shiny. ‘This one too’s from the more southern lands. Quite tasty on Shire brook trout. They call it lemon thyme. Here, smell it . . .’ she held the crushed sprig out to him.
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