[piosenniel]

Big Tom Farroweed receives Andreth's letter

The serving girl from The Prancing Pony took her time walking to the Farroweed farm. It was a nice day, and she was glad to be out of the stuffy atmosphere of the Inn and out from under the thumb of the cook. Those were, at least, part of the reason she ambled along as if she were on a holiday ramble. The other reason was that she knew this letter was something Big Tom was not going to like. And how did she know this? She had opened it and read it.

Her stride decreased markedly, almost to a halt, in fact, as she neared the narrow dirt path that led up to the cottage. In a moment of indecision she almost stuck the letter in the branches of a bush near the path’s entrance and thought to run back to the Inn. She knew, however, that Mistress Andreth would ask had she delivered the letter and would read the lie on her face if she tried to say ‘yes’. With a sigh, she dragged up to the front door and knocked.

No one answered, and she was about to stick the letter in the door jamb when the booming voice of Big Tom hailed her. Letty had gone off to the neighbors, he told her, wouldn’t be back for a while. The girl told him it was him she meant to see – Mistress Andreth had written him a letter.

Big Tom raised his brows at her and took the letter between his thick fingers. Opening it, her perused it from top to bottom; then, folded it up once again. ‘No use you standing here waiting for an answer,’ he told her. ‘Too many "high falutin” words! I can’t make sense of them. Letty’ll read it to me when she gets home.’ He turned a critical eye on the girl who had heaved a relieved sigh and was just about to make off for Bree. ‘Unless of course you want to read it to me?!’

‘Oh no, sir! Can’t read at all!’ she lied, turning quickly to go and hurrying off down the path. ‘Say “hi” to Miz Letty won’t you, sir? And so sorry I couldn’t help you.’

~*~

It was after dinner, the children had all gone to bed, that Big Tom remembered the letter he had jammed in the waistband of his breeches. He was sitting at the kitchen table, oiling the bridle for the cart horse, while Letty did some mending. The light from a bright oil lamp lit both their projects. Letty laid down her needle and thread and slipped the leather thimble from her finger. She turned the lamp up just a little, then smoothed the creased paper on the table’s top.

‘What is it, Letty?’ asked Tom, as he ran a soft cloth over the bridle, wiping off the excess oil and bringing a sheen to the metal. ‘Out with it now. I know it’s some nonsense from that troublemaker at the Pony.’

Letty blanched as she read it over. Clearing her throat, she read it quietly to Big Tom:

Master Tomson and Mistress Letitia,

My best greetings to you. I fear that I have a serious matter to bring to your attention.

This morning, your son Will led two of his companions to the school and intentionally disrupted lessons by shooting peas into the classroom. Three of the children were hit, though none seriously. I fear that next time we may not be so lucky.

If these were normal times, I might regard this incident as a childish prank and look the other way. But, with conditions being what they are, I can not take this lenient stance. The Mayor's stated plan for the defense of Bree is to build trust between the Big and Little Folk; this school is one part of that plan.

Let me be totally blunt. I am presently laden down with responsibility at the Inn and school, as well as helping the volunteers to gather in the crops for storage. I can not afford time disciplining young men who should know better!

As you know, I am a member of Bree's Council of Burghers. If there is a repeat of this incident, or another similar one where the students or myself are selected as targets, I will not hesitate to bring my complaint before the mayor. As you in particular should know, there have been instances in the past when a directive was issued forbidding any and all Breelanders from buying produce or livestock from a specific farm.

I truly hope we do not come to such a drastic measure. I will rely on your good will and integrity to hold your son in check.

Andreth Woolthistle,

Innkeeper, The Prancing Pony
Member of the Council of Burghers

Tom’s face was livid with anger as Letty put down the letter. ‘The gall of that woman! Threatening me! And all over some little bit of fun Will and his friends were having.’ Letty tried to shush him, saying he would wake the children. ‘Don’t shush me, woman! I’m having none of it!’ Big Tom drummed his fingers on the table, then balled up his fist and let it come crashing down on the letter. The lamp wobbled wildly from the force of his blow, and Letty jumped up to steady it.

‘She can take her Hobbit loving ways and keep ‘em outta my way. She’ll not be telling me how to take care of my own son. And I’ll be darned if she’ll threaten me with her “di-rectives” either.’ A decided crafty look crept onto his face. A rather frightening look, or so Letty thought, as the light from the lamp cast some of his features into shadow.

He nodded his head and spoke in an eerily calm voice to himself. ‘There’s plenty of others what will buy my pigs . . . just have to look them up . . .’

Letty shivered as she heard these words. Who were these ‘others’ she wondered, and just where would he be ‘looking them up’? her concerns went unvoiced as Big Tom pulled the letter toward him and bade her bring him the quill and ink.

He criss-crossed the text of Andreth’s letter with a thick ‘X’, then printed his answer in wobbly letters at the bottom:

Keep yer nose outta my biznuss! – TW

He plunked the nib of the quill down so hard on the dot of the exclamation point that ink splattered all over the bottom half of the letter in drips and thick drops. Tom left it on the table to dry, as he motioned for Letty to put out the light and come to bed.

‘I’ll have one of the boys take it into town early tomorrow morning,’ he said lighting their way upstairs with a small candle lantern. Letty shook her head as she trailed him up the steps. ‘How am I ever going to undo this?’ she murmured to herself . . .

[ November 03, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]