[Arry]

At the pump near the stables, Alwin laved his hands and face. It had been a productive day. Rolling up his sleeves above his elbows, he let the cold water gush over his hands as he rubbed the dirt from them. He pulled out a clean, if ragged, handkerchief and wet it thoroughly, rubbing it over his begrimed face. Last he rinsed it and set it round the back of his neck; the late afternoon was still warm, and he welcomed the coolness of the water against his skin.

He had tended to the larger garden at the back of the Inn in the morning – putting small pilings of hay about the hills of potatoes. ‘Taters,’ he reminded himself, chuckling. ‘That’s what the little folk in these parts call them.’ Nestled between the hilly rows of tubers were the big fat onions, some just sprouting up, some ready to be taken up and braided together to hang in the pantry once it was done. There were beans, too. He strung them up on poles, securing them with lengths of twine. And beets, those tasty, sweet red jewels stood proudly, their delicious green leaves moving gently in the evening breezes. At one end of the staples’ garden were the sprawling squash plants, their large leaves hiding the green treasures waiting silently beneath them. Tomorrow, he thought, he would take some of the chicken droppings and work them into the soil . . .

On his way to the stables, he looked at the other garden a ways from his that a certain Hobbit lass had taken the time to plant for the Inn’s kitchen. Herbs for cooking and for medicines. And a nice plot of all those little leafy plants needed for salads. And there with care were placed the smaller vegetables the cook would surely need to create her offerings. Little spring onions standing like soldiers in rows, carrots waving dark green fronds, and cucumbers, and the little bushes of pattypan squashes. He had seen her, the gardener who had done this, taking time from her stone hauling to tend carefully her little plot. Her demeanor, usually serious and a bit downcast as if something heavy weighed on her, changed when she plunged her fingers into the rich soil. The furrows in her brow smoothed out; her hands fell to their task in a sure and gentle manner. He wondered what had caused such a young one to bear so heavy a burden.

At the stables, he gave a satisfied smile at the stacks of wood shingles that now were being transported to the crew of Hobbits who were using them on the Inn’s roof. They had already laid down a layer of pitchy tar to seal the planks that covered the Inn’s pitched roof, and now they hammered in a continuous rhythm. Placing each row of wide, cedar shingles carefully and securing them with nails along the laths. They’d joked with him, saying that since he had been so kind as to peel the logs for the shingles, wouldn’t he like to be the one to drive the first nail home. Laughing, he had declined. His chin nodding at the tall ladders the reached up to the roof, he let his eyes grow wide as if in mock horror at the thought of having to climb one of them.

Not quite hungry yet, Alwin made his way to the old oak tree. Folding the cloak he’d grabbed from beside his pallet in the stables, he sat down on his makeshift cushion and pulled out his worn leathern pouch from a pocket in the folds of his robe. The leaves above him rustled slightly, and he glanced up with a smile. In his hand was his old wooden pipe, retrieved from the pouch. He held it up toward the branches above saying she should tell him if it bothered her, and he would move. Dipping the darkened bowl of the pipe into the pouch, he filled it with Westman’s-weed, of what sort he could not recall, the pouch having been filled and refilled so many times.

‘Ah!’ he sighed wearily, getting up once again. ‘I should have done this on the way to here.’ A few strides brought him to the cooking fire. Crouching down, he pulled a slim, sliver of wood from the fire and lit the pipe. Once done, the leaves well caught with the flame, he returned to the tree and settled down for a pleasant smoke before supper.