The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Primrose Bolger]

An odd sound assaulted Ginger’s ears as she stood at the kitchen’s sink. The door swung open from the Common Room and in came Miz Bunce, humming to herself in a decidedly off key manner. Cook nodded at her as she bustled to the hearth and gave a stir to the stew bubbling lazily in the big kettle. ‘Only a few more days,’ Cook said looking over at Ginger. ‘And I must say you have been quite a treasure – what with all your helping with the desserts and taking a hand in the garden.’ Resting the long wooden spoon on the pot lid, she ambled over to where Ginger was just putting the last of the flowers into the small stoneware vase. ‘Oh, now, what’s this?’ she asked, her eye taking in the riot of color and form.

‘They’re for you!’ Ginger said smiling and holding the vase out to her. When Cook began to thank her she shook her head, saying how it was Gwenneth who’d fixed the bouquet for her. Cook buried her nose in the blossoms and took a whiff of their sweet scent. ‘You thank her for me, won’t you?’ Ginger went on to say what a great help Gwenneth had been with the flower garden at the front of the Inn. And how she was wondering if there might be anything else she could turn a hand to.

Cook had just begun saying how they could use another server for supper, when a raucous sound assailed their ears. Ginger ran to the door and peeked into the common room, her eyes searching for the source. ‘It’s a cat, Miz Bunce. And he appears to sitting square in the middle of the bar, meowing.’

Ginger was sent out to see to the cat. He’d stopped his loud yowl watching her closely as she approached him. His manner was not like those farmyard tabbies she was familiar with and so she avoided calling out, ‘Here kitty, kitty!’ to him. He seemed . . . well, a bit lordly-like, she thought. And eyeing her in a thoughtful manner, too; as if sizing her up. Instead, she stopped a few paces from him and bobbed a small curtsy.

‘I’m Ginger,’ she said in a courteous tone, introducing herself. She could feel the stares of those patrons nearby at her back. It was a bit odd speaking to a cat, but he seemed to follow her words as she invited him into the kitchen for a small bowl of minced meats and perhaps a saucer of milk. ‘Or would that be a saucer of ale, Master Puss?’ she amended, wondering if that were a whiskery sneer she was seeing on his face.

She held the door open for the self possessed feline, waving him into the kitchen. ‘Mind you,’ she whispered as he drew near the door. ‘Don’t track any dirt on Cook’s floor. She’ll have your hide for it!’ Ginger stifled a giggle as the cat looked up at her. ‘Begging your pardon! Didn’t mean to offend!’ the Hobbit offered. ‘Oh! And don’t bother the old tabby that sleeps on the hearth. She’s the Inn’s ‘retired’ mouser. And Cook’s little pet.’

Ginger eyed the cat as he walked past her and into the kitchen. ‘Cook!’ she called out, pointing to the furry guest. ‘Here’s the source of the noise. Come in for a bite to eat, I think.’ She grinned at Cook as the cat made his way to the center of the room. ‘Think we might make a place for him?’ she asked. ‘There’s more work than old Tabby can handle, don’t you think?’ The old cat on the hearth raised her head for a brief moment, yawned, and went back to sleep. ‘Perhaps he can keep the mice in line down in the cellar and in the pantry.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And didn’t Mister Derufin say the mice were getting into the horse’s oats in the stable?’

Cook nodded as the lass spoke; her hands were busy setting down a generous bowl of chopped chicken from the stew pot, moistened with a bit of gravy. A small saucer of milk was set near it, as well as a small bowl of water. The two Hobbits stepped back, then, waiting for the cat’s verdict on the offered meal.

[Lalwendë]

“Jinniver!”

Shaking with fear, for she knew the voice all too well, Jinniver froze, her tankard still in her hand, halfway to her mouth. A wave of coldness swept through her whole body and her stomach lurched. She did not move, only her lips sought to make words. Her eyes widened and the black centres contracted as she struggled to compose herself.

The hand remained on her shoulder, and the man drew closer. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck and suddenly she shook her shoulder roughly to be rid of him, the whiteness in her face replaced by a deepening, red as fury started to descend.

“Why are you here?” she said, coldly, not turning around. She did not wish to look him in the face. Her angry frustration brought her quickly to the verge of tears and she knew that to look at him would bring them pouring down her face.

The man snorted and Jinniver sensed his movements as he stood up straight. Anger was also in his voice and he struggled to keep calm as he spoke.

“I am here to find out what is going on.” he said in an overly measured tone, pronouncing each word harshly so she could not be mistaken in what he said.

Jinniver saw eyes in the Inn turn to watch the scene, taking it in, and then turn away as folk spoke to one another about what might be going on. She looked down at her hands for a moment and then up again, tossing her head proudly and defiantly.

“And. What business is it of yours? You are not my keeper. Who sent you here?” she said in a choked but insolent voice, her throat rasping as she struggled to make the words. Why was he here? She struggled to make sense of it. She ought to be greeting him warmly, but she found herself angry, and this was partly due to the threatening way he had approached her. He had no business doing that.

“I came of my own accord,” he said. “I was troubled and I do not trust you to behave yourself as you ought. I know how silly you can be.” He was somewhat sarcastic with her. “I can see now I was correct.”

Jinniver bristled and turned round in her seat to face him, any thought of tears or shame now passed, and replaced by a full serving of her anger. Her eyes blazed and she sneered, waving her hand dismissively at him.

“Go back to Bree, Pegram”, she said loudly, almost shouting. She did not care who might be listening in, and she was filled with a sense of her own courage. “I don’t want my brother breathing down my neck any longer”.

[Envinyatar]

‘Pegram, is it?’ said Derufin, standing up from his chair. He came round to where Jinniver sat at the end of the table and stood near her, his grey eyes fixed in a cool stare at the man who hovered near her. The air between the two siblings was thick with anger, and he did not like the underlying current of fear he had felt from Jinniver when her brother had first made himself known. ‘Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you. I’m Derufin, a friend of your sister.’ He nodded courteously at the man, but did not extend his hand. ‘We were just about to discuss her plans for the garden she has contracted to do for my wife-to-be. Quite a green thumb your sister has, knows her plants well. And she has an eye for design that is quite pleasing.’

He pulled out a chair, offering the seat to Jinniver’s brother. ‘Sorry to cut into your reunion with her,’ he went on, motioning for Buttercup to bring another mug and a fresh pitcher of stout. ‘But there are only a few days left to finish the project,’ he said sitting down next to Jinniver. ‘Three, in fact, before my wife and I move into our cottage. A shipment of plants arrives tomorrow, and we need to coordinate how all the work will get done.’ He turned to the young woman. Her face seemed a little less flushed; the cheeks’ high color fading to dull streaks of red along the bones. ‘The lads can help you over the next few days if you’d like. The work on the cottage is mostly done, and Andwise and I can finish the touch up painting ourselves.’ ‘Think that will be enough help for your project?’ he asked her, pouring Pegram a mug of ale, and topping off hers and his. ‘If not – I do know that Cook’s helper . . . Ginger, has a deft hand at planting.’

Derufin sat back in his chair, giving Jinniver the time to consider what he’d said. He fished in one of the side pockets of his vest and pulled out his soft leather pouch of pipeweed. Unbinding the flap, he opened it, letting the rich, heavy aroma float in the air. ‘Longbottom Leaf,’ he said, filling his own pipe and then offering the pouch to his tablemates. Ferrin and Fallon, sitting at the far end of the table looked longingly at the pouch. With a grin, Derufin passed it down to them

A brief silence ensued as all who had dipped into Derufin’s pouch filled and tamped and lit their pipes. The twist of white smoke curled up lazily from Derufin’s pipe as he drew on the mouthpiece. ‘What sort of business are you in,’ he asked Pegram, casually. ‘Begging your pardon, in advance, if I seem too forward - but if you’re anything like your sister, I would easily guess you are prospering . . .’

[Nurumaiel]

"Well, that's fine to hear!" said Posco, with a laugh. A felt an urge to take Lily's face in his hands and kiss her hair, but instead he contented himself to ponder with warmth her fiercely-spoken encouragement. Part of him was certain that she would come back to him, and it made him glad, but there was an odd gnawing in his heart, and a strange little voice in his ear, saying that perhaps she would fall in love with another hobbit, and perhaps she would return: the bride of Tommy Banks. He shook himself from this thought, looked into her eyes, and convinced himself that she would remain true to him.

Oh, how the time passed, and how he wished it wouldn't! Each passing moment brought her departure closer. What would he do when she was gone? He had stayed at the Inn only for her, and she was leaving. Yes, true, why should he stay longer? An idea sprang to him, and with a light eye he turned to her, and said: "Lily, I've changed my mind." Her face looked up to his, and she opened her mouth to question what he meant, but he went on before he could speak. "Lily, with your permission, I won't escort you to the end of the Inn grounds. With your permission, I will ride with you as far as across the Brandywine, into Buckland. But only with your consent."

[Firefoot]

Lily chuckled softly. She wondered how long it would be, if ever, before he realized that he could go with her to the ends of the earth and still she would rejoice at his presence. Instead, she said, "Of course you may come with me - I would be delighted." His pleased grin was infectious, and she could not help but smile back at him. She would not have to leave him for another several days, and it seemed to her that those days would last for a short, glorious infinity. As she gazed into his eyes, she felt that she was falling in love all over again. Surely there could never be another hobbit like him!

It was she who looked away first, for once, and she could feel his eyes on her for a lingering moment. It made her feel guilty that she could even consider going back and giving Tommy a chance, even though Posco had asked her to. It seemed like betrayal, almost. No, she told herself firmly. That's already settled. Now put it out of your mind. She tried, and with some difficulty shoved all thoughts of him to the back of her mind, if not out. She would make the most of her time with Posco, and dwelling on Tommy was not doing that.

Lily's thoughts began to zip ahead to the future. It was nearly summer now, and by the time she got back to Bree it would be summer. She thought that she might be back in time for harvest. Yes, that was it. For now, she had set herself in denial that she might not come back to be Posco's bride, for there was no way for her to fathom why she might not. It was actually a very pleasant state to be in, for she could be satisfied with how things were going here and now, without worries. It was not very realistic, but it was quite pleasing.

Dreamily, she wondered if the leaves turned pretty colors around here the same way that they did in Bree, and supposed that they must because the Shire was really not all that far away. She imagined pony rides through fields and through woods painted in the reds and golds of autumn glory.

She realized how far her thoughts had wandered when Posco brought her back to the present, saying, "Thinking happy thoughts?"

"Oh! Yes, yes," she stammered. "Just remembering our ride yesterday, and looking forward to riding with you again tomorrow, that's all." It wasn't exactly honest, but it wasn't so far from the truth, either, and she wasn't sure if her dreams were precisely proper, all things considered. "I don't suppose," she continued mischieviously, "that the ponies will decide that a swim in the Brandywine is better than the bridge."

"I hope not!" replied Posco, but he laughed along with her at the thought.

"I'm glad that it's a long way to Buckland," said Lily decisively. "We will have ourselves a nice long ride. You will meet me here at the 'Dragon, then, tomorrow?"

[Lalwendë]

Jinniver’s eyes did not leave Pegram. She stared at him furiously, even reaching for the pouch of tobacco and filling her pipe without looking at what she did. How dare he come here and spoil her enjoyment? It was not as though she had gone far and for long. She realised he must have been at the farm early this morning, and seen the letter she had sent to their father, informing him that she would be staying on a while longer. Before she had left, Pegram had given her a long list of instructions on where not to go and what not to do, how to avoid any unwanted attention being drawn to her. She had borne these instructions in mind, and had come to feel restricted by them; to her delight, had found that Hobbiton was very different to Bree, somehow safer, so now, she did not care so much for his so called helpful instructions.

Pegram, meanwhile, felt all eyes upon him. It was no matter to him; his pride caused him to puff out his chest a little as the other man addressed him. Who was he to step into his business with his sister? As Derufin spoke, indignance spread across Pegram’s face and he did not hear half of what was said to him, but he took the chair offered. There he sat with his arms folded tightly across his broad chest, carefully taking the measure of the man who had spoken. Who might this man be to his little sister? And who was he to step in to talk about one he cared for so deeply?

‘What sort of business are you in,’ Derufin asked Pegram, rather too casually, he thought. It was the voice of a man ready to spring to the defence but all too careful not to reveal this. Pegram could tell from his tone that he thought he might be defusing the argument in some way. Let him try what he might, Pegram thought to himself, if he wanted to start any trouble then this was his business and nobody else‘s. ‘Begging your pardon, in advance, if I seem too forward - but if you’re anything like your sister, I would easily guess you are prospering . . .’

Jinniver noticed her brother’s face twitch with thought at the question. He did not like to be asked about his money; his possessions were one thing, but the secrets of his successful distillery in Bree were keenly protected by him. His young son, Jinniver’s nephew, would one day learn these secrets but they were not for anyone else.

“I am a distiller. Cornthrift of Bree,” he answered eventually. “My products go far and wide in these times. Though they are quality, no, luxury goods as you may say.” His held his broad face high, and his words were clipped and measured. He wished to impress upon the other man that he was no mere farmer.

Unfolding his arms, Pegram took out a beautifully finished pipe, but he did not help himself to the pouch of pipeweed which Derufin had placed on the table. Instead, he drew out a soft green leather pouch of his own, and set about the business of filling his pipe. Before lighting the pipe, he carefully smoothed the hairs of his beard down near his mouth, sticking his chin out manfully as he did so.

Jinniver watched her brother with a look of distaste. Her anger had softened a little, but she wished to show him how differently she was looked upon in The Shire, to prove to her brother that she was not the silly young girl she once had been and who he still thought she was. She was making her own money, and doing well at it, and what is more, she had gained the trust of these fine people; she was just as much a grown up as he, and her own business just as important.

“Yes, I would be glad of some assistance,” she said, speaking defiantly and proudly, making use of her brother’s silence to speak up and finally answer Derufin. “I see now that my message has been received in Bree. So I should hope my father has seen to sending off the plants today. As I said, this will be a fine garden.” She looked across unflinchingly at her brother, catching his eye as he took a draw on his pipe.

Pegram caught the look. He wanted to put his sister in her place a little, to make her see what a disrespectful nonsense she was making of herself. She was his sister, a gentle soul, who he needed to protect; he didn’t like the look of disrespect which she now gave him. It hurt him, and he wanted to make her suffer for it.

Drawing on his pipe and blowing out a great cloud of smoke which obscured his face, Pegram sniggered softly, but just loud enough so that all at the table heard it. “A fine business this is, Jinniver. Making gardens with rustics. If that is what you call business then I’m sure you are welcome to it.”

Sitting back, he savoured his statement. Pretending to attend to his pipe, he did not look up, but he could sense the anger in the faces of those around the table and was satisfied.

[Arry]

Fallon and Ferrin were from a family who prided themselves on their familiarity with ‘letters’ – reading, writing, the uses of words and their meanings. Fallon’s brows had raised toward his brother as the puffed up representative of Bree-men Big Folk spoke, no . . . spat out, the word ‘rustic’. They were also the children of a mother who valued courtesy and good nature toward neighbor and stranger. Unfortunately, the number of mugs of ale they’d taken had emphasized their sensitivity to the word the man used and all but deluged their sense of extending courtesy. It was to their merit they did discuss the word, but the Inn’s brew narrowed their willingness to accept it with a favorable view.

‘I don’t suppose he meant to call us honest and unaffected,’ whispered Fallon, one eye on Pegram as he puffed on his pipe like some lordly fellow. Ferrin snorted at his brother. ‘More likely he thinks us clodhoppers, boors, and ignorant farmers.’

Ferrin grinned at his brother and stood on the seat of his chair. Pulling up the sleeves of his tunic and then the hem as he inspected his skin, he danced about a bit in an anxious spiral. He climbed to the table top, pulling the alarmed Fallon up after him. ‘Look! Look!’ he cried, scratching himself here and there. ‘I’m rusted for sure!’ He looked wildly about the room and pointed at Pegram. ‘Himself has put his very finger on my problem! Look, look!’

Fallon bit the inside of his nearly ale-numbed lip to keep himself from laughing. ‘I see one!’ he said, nodding his head in a serious manner and pointing to his brother’s belly. Then he began to scratch and dance about on the table’s top, too. ‘Stars above! I think it’s catching!’ Wide-eyed patrons of the common room shook their heads at the two Hobbits’ antics. Those who knew them well, though, knew they were up to some mischief. They clapped and hooted and egged the brothers on, wanting to see what came next.

And what did come next was the inadvertent, or so it seemed, connecting of Ferrin’s flying foot with the refilled pitcher of ale. It tipped over neatly, the golden stream running swiftly across the short distance to where Pegram sat, his face reflecting the fact that these churlish creatures had proved his point. His lap, his fine trousers and part of his shirt were soaked with stout.

The brothers jumped from the table before the man could stand. Ferrin winked broadly at Derufin, while Fallon, remembering his manners, mouthed ‘Sorry!’ at Jinniver. They were out the door in a trice, running down the path toward home, leaving only the sound of their laughter behind to be scolded.