The Golden Perch Inn

[Arry]

With a well practiced toss, Will let sail his cap back toward the pegs by the kitchen door just after he’d entered. He glanced back, and there it was hanging precariously from the edge of a peg. He held his breath as it teetered, threatening to fall. And grinned widely when at last it settled into place.

‘Well, that champion toss should earn me a second pint tonight,’ he announced to no one in particular as he ambled toward the kitchen’s table intending to sit down and have something to eat and drink.

His intentions were cut short in their accomplishment as a much harried Prim approached him with a pile of scrubbed taters in a small basket and plopped them down on the table’s top. These were quickly followed by a largish pot, a paring knife, and the instructions to “deal with them”. Will looked toward Cook, hoping for some sort of rescue. But she was doing battle with a number of chickens, her cleaver flying up and down in a determined manner as she chopped them.

Recognizing the inevitable Will picked up the knife and began his assigned task. He smiled at Prim, who nodded hurriedly as she began ministering to a pot of peas.

‘I don’t suppose a thirsty fellow could get a mug of ale, could he?’ His words fell upon deaf ears. Well, not all deaf – one of the ladies had given a snort at his suggestion.

‘Right, then,’ he sighed. Picking up a tater, he attacked it with the paring knife at a quick pace. The faster these were done, he thought, the faster he’d have his mug.

What on earth’s got into these two? he wondered. Supper was going to be late. An unusual state of affairs for Miz Cela’s kitchen, he pondered further. With another sigh he settled fully into his assignment. His stomach grumbled in protest at being put off. Sooner as these are done, sooner you get fed, my pushy friend...

[Tam Lin]

‘Tavaro,’ the Elf replied, nodding his head at the Hobbit. ‘Tavrobelion, originally. But if you please, Tavaro, to you.’ He waved Miribelle ahead of him, pointing her toward his table.

‘I’d be happy to have you dine with me, Mistress Marshybanks. It’s always nice to talk while you eat, don’t you think?’ Tavaro pulled out a chair for his companion. ‘Here, let me just clear these papers out of your way.’

Tavaro sat his own cup of tea and plate of biscuits on the seat of his chair. He gathered up the songs and poems he’d been working on earlier and rolled them up hastily, stuffing them into his worn leather satchel on the floor by his chair.

‘There, now we have room for mugs and plates!’ He sat down opposite her and smiled. ‘Tell me a little about yourself, Mistress Rushybanks. Do you live about here? In Stock?’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘Or are you traveling though, like me?’

[Undómë]

Now isn’t that an interesting pair! Rowan smiled, watching the exchange between the tall Tavaro and Miz Rushybanks. Physical differences aside, she thought they were well matched for a certain air of elegance and propriety.

‘Excuse me . . .’ A voice from the other side of the table called her attention away from the Elf and Hobbit. ‘Will there be something more coming soon?’ On of the Inn’s regulars had just come in and stood looking perplexed at the offering of biscuits and tea.

‘Here, Toby,’ Rowan offered with a wink. ‘Have a mug of tea to tide you over ‘til Supper’s done. Just a bit behind times this evening. But rest assured – chicken, taters, and . . .’ she pursed her lips trying to recall what the vegetable was. ‘And, oh yes, peas . . . with plenty of butter. Just like you like it.’ She tilted her chin up toward a small table near the fireplace. ‘And look, there’s your favorite spot for supper. You just go on and have a seat. Soon’s the food is dished up, I’ll bring a plate right out to you.’ She held up her hand as Toby opened his mouth to speak. ‘I know, I know – there’ll be extra butter for your taters, too.’

Rowan picked up the nearly empty basket of biscuits and made her way quickly back to the kitchen. ‘The crowd is still hungry,’ she called out as she entered the room, waving the basket for emphasis. ‘Any chance the chicken’s near done yet?’

[Tiffany Aching]

‘No, not traveling through,’ Miribelle laughed. ‘Indeed, I live here in Stock.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘I’m a weaver – these past years at least. And I run a small fabric shop in town.’ Miribelle reached down and hauled her carpet bag up to her lap.

‘I’ve just been down Marish way to see one of the goodwives there who spins yarn. Lovely, soft wool she gets from her little flock of sheep. Much prized for ladies’ shawls and baby’s blankets.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out several skeins of fine spun yarn – a soft green, a nut brown with flecks of black, and sunflower yellow. ‘Lovely colors, aren’t they? She has a deft hand with her dyes. And closed mouthed about how she makes them, too.’

Miribelle placed the skeins carefully back in her bag, snapping it shut firmly. ‘Truth is, Master Tavaro. I live by myself. And though my cooking’s quite passable, I like to treat myself once a week to Cook’s chicken and taters.’

‘What about you? What brings you here to our little village?’ She munched happily on a bite of her biscuit and blackberry jam as she waited for his answer.

[Arry]

Will said nothing in response to Rowan’s query. Instead, he held up his little knife, a half-pared potato skewered on the end of it. He cocked his head toward Cook, who seemed to be muttering over her frying pan.

Come sit by me he mouthed at Rowan, sliding a chair out from under the table with his foot. ‘Something’s put a wasp under the old gal’s petticoats today,’ he whispered, leaning in close. ‘You have any idea what?’

[Tam Lin]

Tavaro considered the elder Hobbit’s question carefully, choosing the words he would use. He did not wish to lie to her, but a little misdirection would work as well he thought. No need for all the details of his journeying to be told. He waved his hand toward his leather satchel.

‘I’m gathering stories, Mistress Rushybanks. From all over. Songs, too.’ He paused for a moment to eat a bite of biscuit and drink some tea. ‘We Elves love to gather such things in, keep these tales pressed between the pages to be read and sung and wondered at through the ages,’ he went on. Tavaro fetched out the leather-bound chapbook that perched just within the confines of the leather satchel. ‘See here,’ he said, opening to one of the ink filled pages. There were small sketches of all sorts of people. And between the sketches were lines written in a fine Elven script. ‘These were a trio of Dwarves I met. Here, actually, a while ago. They had some fine stories and fine songs, too.’ He tapped his foot in time to one of the tunes and hummed it in a deep voice. ‘I’ve never been in one of the mines, but you can almost hear the song resounding down the long deep tunnels, can’t you?’

[Undómë]

Rowan scooted the chair close toward Will. She picked up a small knife from the table and fell to paring taters with a deft hand. ‘Well, Prim told me Cook’s upset about the wolves and all that as went on earlier,’ she said in a low voice, leaning in closer toward Will. She flipped her now jacketless tater into the pot and put down her knife. ‘And I think that’s probably part of the problem, but....’

Rose motioned for Prim that the pot was full enough it could be set to boiling. She helped Prim to set the pot on the stove, and they both worked at stoking the fire to a hot pitch. ‘I’ll watch the pot and help Will peel another batch, Prim’ Rowan went on. ‘Why don’t you take those other biscuits and more tea out to the common room? There’s a lot of hungry folk out there. Let Master Boffin know what’s going on here in the kitchen, Maybe he can offer a few rounds of ale to take the edge off.’

She watched as Prim gathered up the food and drink and went sailing through the door. She hurried over to sit with Will again. ‘The thing is . . . about that problem we were discussing,’ she whispered. ‘I saw Cook get a fat letter from Hugh, the postman earlier in the day. Right after breakfast was cooked and served, in fact. Now I don’t know what it said, but she turned white as a ghost when she read it.’

There was a growling sort of noise from where Cook stood. A mound of crispy fried chicken was now arranged on a large china platter next to her frying pan. She was just flouring another batch and dropping it piece by piece into her big skillet as she looked up at Will & Rowan. ‘Taters won’t get peeled with jibber-jabber,’ she directed toward Will. And you, Miz Rowan, see to the peas, please before they completely turn to mush.’