[Folwren]

Soon after Matrim left the stables, Léof came in search of Javan to tell him that he was going to go eat and Javan could stop working and go in, too.

“No, thanks, Léof ,” Javan said, “Not yet, leastways. I need to get these new horses water, yet, and hay.” He looked at Léof hopefully – perhaps he would notice that Javan was responsible enough to think of it on his own. If he noticed, Léof gave no particular sign.

“That sounds fine,” was all he said before leaving.

Javan sighed just a little bit and then he took up the two buckets and fetched water. When the job was finally done and the mangers were filled, he drew water again from the well and washed his face and hands. He raised his arm to wipe the drips of water from his nose with his sleeve when his eyes caught sight of something. His arm froze. The water ran down unheeded. And then a grin spread over the boy’s face.

Javan glanced swiftly about the courtyard. There was no one in sight. He ran forward, silent and quick, like a fox and stooping, picked up a small pouch. He had seen it often – quite often – in Falco’s hands as the hobbit drew it from his pocket to stuff his pipe full of weed.

“Smoke!” Javan muttered to himself. A movement caught by the corner of his eye jerked his head up and he stuffed the pouch into his pocket. It was only Kara, tossing some water out from the kitchen door. She spared him a mere glance before returning inside and Javan breathed a sigh of relief.

“I wonder what it’s like,” the boy continued in his musing. “It wouldn’t be…it wouldn’t be…too difficult to find out…”

Everyone else was at their meal. Javan would be able to slip in the side door and head straight up to Falco’s room, find one of the hobbits’ pipes (none of the men smoked there), a flint or something to spark the weed, and discover just what was so enjoyable about it. “It must be something quite good,” Javan said, beginning to move on his plan at once. “That li’l chap’s at it constantly, nearly.”

He opened the door a crack and peered in cautiously. As silent as a shadow, he slipped within and darted up the stairs. Only a couple minutes later, he found what he was in search of and came back down. Once again, in the courtyard, he looked right and left and then sped away towards the stables again. No one was there, as he knew, and he hoped he would be left a while longer in peace.

He went back to where Léof slept. It was a small room, cozy and comfortable, and, most importantly, private.

Javan took a seat on Léof’s bed and drew the packet of weed from his pocket. He proceeded to stuff the pipe full, as he had often seen Falco do, and then attempted to light the pipe.

His attempts were futile. Nothing he could do could make the spark from the flint catch the weed in the pipe on fire. His frustration grew, until suddenly, he remembered Falco taking a stick or straw and lighting it in a larger fire and then carrying the flaming end into the pipe and from that, lighting it. He glanced around and noticed for the first time the straw that covered the floor. In a great deal of excitement, Javan knealt and brushed an area clean and then carefully made a pile of straw. He carefully lit it with his flint and almost at once, a flame sprang up.

Rubbing his hands with glee, Javan picked up the pipe and searched for a stiff, long straw with which to light it. As soon as he found one to his liking, he thrust the end of it into his fire and carried it to the pipe and gently, just as he had seen Falco do it, he sucked in his cheeks and drew in air and smoke.

He erupted into a hacking, coughing volcano. He tossed away the pipe, dropped the straw, and grasped his throat, his eyes bulging, and his tongue wagging. “By all the stars!” he gasped, coughing again. “What on earth does that holbytla find so enjoyable about it?” He coughed, trying to clear his throat and he shook his head to clear it.

“Hoi,” said he. “It does smell a lot, doesn’t it?” He wiped his eyes clear of tears and then looked down.

For a moment, his body, his very blood, froze in terror. And then, with a shout he leaped forward, stomping at the flames that had sprung up from his burning straw. “Fire,” he gasped, his throat constricting with fear. “Fire…” The fire was spreading. He grabbed the coverlet off Léof’s bed and began to beat at it, finally finding his wits and his tongue.

“Fire!” he screamed.