The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[peral]

Sharya re-entered the Common Room. The cook had told her that she would be able to get a meal now. A meal made with her own hands. She allowed herself a wry smile at this thought. How long had it been since she had worked in a kitchen and been allowed to eat the fruits of her labours? She sat down and Ruby immediately brought her food to her. Thanking Ruby she dug in and realised how long it had been since lunch.

The chicken looked delicious. She usually steered clear of any sort of chicken for she hated the taste, but the chicken could have tempted the palate of even the most choosy person. She ventured a taste and instead of screwing up her face, she took another bite. Surprisingly good. It didn't taste a bit like any other chicken she had tasted before. The carrots which had been cut by the little girl Camille had cooked extremely well. However much she ate, she didn't seem to feel bloated. Ah wonder of wonders, a meal which one could eat much of and still not feel as if one would burst. Then came the mushroom pie. She tentatively took a slice and examined it from all directions. It was true she hated mushroom but that was what she had said about the chicken. With this thought in mind, she tentatively took a nibble. Oh glory of glories. It was true. Everything hobbits cooked seemed to immediately transport her into paradise. She took another slice and hoping no one would notice and think her greedy quickly downed it.

The vegetables were still sitting on the side of her plate. They had been overlooked in her rampage of all the savoury stuffs but finally Sharya had noticed them. Peas, oh glorious peas. Surely if all the rest of the food tasted good, this must too. One bite confirmed everything. She would live the rest of her life in this land of halflings. Without money, the thought came back again and she quickly brushed any hope of living in this country where food was the sole reason for living.

Musical beings they were too, for the hobbits standing by the fireplace unexpectedly struck up a tune. It was a happy tune, and she remembered that here was a place which rarely experienced hardship or evil. Here was a place envied by all others for its ability to remain so quiet and peaceful. It was such a change from what Gondor used to be. When the song ended and the applause began, Sharya felt somewhat disappointed. The song reminded her of her childhood when her brothers and her used to perform before her parents. Unskilled and - when she looked back upon it - silly performances, yet they had brought her parents so much joy. She held back tears. It was silly, always breaking out to bawl when the smallest thought of her past came up.

Luckily the dessert came soon enough and distracted her. Several slices of spice cake covered with a thick vanilla frosting. Sharya immediately bit into the cake. Raisins, she thought to herself, oh glorious raisins! And these were no ordinary small, shrivelled up ones, these were nice plump raisins with substance. And the frosting, how to describe it? Rich, creamy, frothy and all other words that she could dig up would not describe the tenth of the delicious melt-worthiness of that frosting. Without another thought, she was happy just to lick the frosting off like a young child and laugh when it got onto her face. When all the cake was gone, and the crumbs from off the plate, she leant back in her chair. Happy, content and without a care in the world.

[elf-girl-63]

Aranel enjoyed the music, and smiled inwardly as she was swept away by the cheering voices of the hobbits and the energetic sounds of their instruments. The lyrics were simple and happy, they spoke of optimism and a life with little pain. She readily joined in with clapping when necessary and at one point found her feet steadily tapping to the beat. Considering she had little musical talent, more of a respect for those who could conjure up such melodies, she was quite surprised. But then again, it seemed anything was possible in this little inn of apparently little consequence.

When the lady had arrived earlier that afternoon, those had been her thoughts; the Green Dragon was a place to stop and rest her weary feet and fill her empty stomach. Now she was reluctant to leave it and knew the 2 nights she had paid for wouldn't be her last in this hubbub of activity. In fact, tomorrow she must speak to a server or someone and extend her stay... but not now... now need to interrupt anyone now...

Aranel awoke with a start. She had dozed off on her comfortable velvet-backed chair and looked around to see Ferdy carrying back several tankards of ale for his band friends. She blinked in the dim light of the inn, wondering how long she'd been asleep.

"Ah Miz Aranel, you're awake I see. Just as I return with drinks and all!" seeing her confused look he explained, "You fell asleep after all that merry-making. Though don't worry now, you've just been 'resting your eyes' as they say, why its only been 20 minutes or so. The lads and I are just taking a break then we'll be back up in a jiffy."

She smiled sleepily but was keen to hear more music so nodded at the band, "Are you friends then? Why I am not surprised. Ferdy here seems to know everyone in this inn. Would you introduce me?"

"'Course, I'd be honoured. There's Tomlin and Fallon- the fiddlers, Gil- him with the concertina and Ferrin with his new drum. Yes that's everyone."

Aranel surveyed the young hobbits all laughing and joking and again felt her spirits rise. She was drinking from her tankard when Gil spoke up, "Tell us Miss Aranel. You are from Gondor I hear so you must've travelled a good distance to reach us in Bywater. Surely you know some songs..."

Aranel saw Ferdy tense when Gil mentioned her homeland but she didn't mind this evening. The rich food and lively comapny had relaxed her so she nodded, "Yes. I've heard a great many along the way but I'm afraid I've no great singing voice."

The hobbits spoke up in objection and she blushed as she tried to persuade her to sing, just a verse at least. Eventually she succumbed and agreed to sing at their table, softly so that none of the other customers would hear. The hobbits smiled with their achievement and settled back to enjoy a new song.

She chose one that her nanny had taught her when she was young, about said Nanny's home village outside of the city. It was a bittersweet song- not entirely melancholy but neither completely joyful either. Aranel ended up singing the whole thing and when she had finished, awaited her audience's response.

[Nurumaiel]

Ignoring Benat's offer to buy a drink for the hobbit lads, Marigold jumped up and cried out: "I will, I will!" And then, never minding if anyone laughed at her or not, she turned to Falco Headstrong with shining eyes, as he blushingly pulled her back down into her chair. "Oh, Mr. Headstrong, won't you help me buy a drink for them? Oh, Mr. Headstrong! Why don't you get out your whistle and play with them?"

Falco blushed, and pretended embarrassment, but it was not difficult to see that the colour on his cheeks was from excitement and pleasure. He looked towards the lads for a moment, and then he shook his head. "Maybe it would be nice, Marigold, my girl, but your father's whistle is in my room."

"I'll go get it," she said eagerly, and began to jump up again, but he caught her and again pulled her into her chair.

"No, no, you'll not be going anywhere," he said. "After that tumble from the horse you took today I think it would be better if you just sat for the rest of the evening." His eyes wandered to the hobbit lads again, and he stared at them, and slowly took up a spoonful of his peas. "I'll get it," he said, "as soon as I've finished my supper."

[Noinkling]

Benat smiled at the fair-haired cub who’d stood so boldly and offered the band a drink. ‘Let hers be the first round,’ he spoke in a rumbling whisper to the server who drew near. He fished in the pouch at his belt and brought out a number of thin silver coins. ‘Then let mine be the second,’ he said thumbing the coins into the server’s hand.

When the lass protested it was too much, Benat laughed and closed her hand over the coins with his large one. ‘Just keep the ale coming as long as the coin lasts. My dog and I are quite enjoying the music.’ As if on cue, Cullen yipped quietly, thumping his tail on the floor.

[piosenniel]

Aranel’s song is well received . . .

‘A good’un!’ came the cry from a corner table. ‘Near brought a tear to my eye,’ said one of the old gammers sitting there, pipe smoke circling lazily above her grey curls. ‘Sets me to thinking of the time I left my family in Pincup to settle with my mister here.’ The old gal sitting to her right nodded her head. ‘Stings, don’t it . . . when first you leave, that is. Fair broke my heart leaving my family behind.’ Her rheumy eyes misted thinking on her own Ma and gammer as they waved her good-bye. ‘But life do go on, don’t it?’ she said, more as an observation than a question.

‘Oh, aye,’ came the general chorus of consent from her friends. ‘A cup then,’ said the third of the old ‘uns. ‘To old and new!’

‘And ale and pipeweed,’ cackled the first old gammer. ‘Enough to see us through!’

‘Another one lads!’ the trio called out. ‘Bend your elbows to your bows, fiddlers,’ they laughed aloud. ‘And less to your mugs!’

[Arry]

An old piece of history sung . . . The Bowmen of the Shire

Gil grinned widely and raised his mug to the Gammers at the back table. ‘A moment, my old dears,’ he said winking boldly at them. ‘Tis the drink that makes our elbows work all the better for the playing!’ They laughed aloud and shook their fingers at him saying, ‘Shame, shame on you, you silver tongued boy!’ He waved his hand then to Marigold, and held his mug high, mouthing a thank-you.

He turned his attention, then, to Aranel, saying she had a lovely voice, and thanking her for the sharing of her song. ‘A cup of ale, Miss’ he asked waving Buttercup over with the pitcher. ‘In case you might be wanting to share another later.’

The four huddled on the stage whispering together for a moment. A sly look passed among them as they glanced toward the table where Falco sat.

‘There’s a fair piper in our midst,’ said Gil turning back to the crowd in the room. ‘Now I’ve no pipe on me the like of his, but a wee, sweet tin whistle I do have here.’ He bent down and plucked a thin whistle from his concertina’s bag. ‘And if he’d be so kind as to join us for our next song or the one after.’

‘Or the ones after those!’ harmonized the three other Hobbits smiling toward Falco’s table.

‘Anyway, I’ll just leave it here,’ Gil went on, laying it carefully on the small table where their mugs were set. ‘In hopes of enticing the piper to join in.’

Gil picked up his concertina and played a melancholy few bars on it. ‘This next song,’ he said, looking off to where the Gammers sat, ‘is one my Gammer’s gammer many times back taught.’ The trio of elder Hobbits raised their hoary eyebrows at his words, nodding for him to go on. ‘Now ‘tis a true story, my Gammer told me. But one not often talked about. An old story of brave men who answered their King’s call.’

Tomlin played a few sweet strains on his fiddle before Gil went on. ‘We’re faithful to our promises, my Gammer told me. Pay our debts we do to those who have extended their helping hands to us.’ Ferrin joined in with a steady low beat on his drum, a heartbeat driving slow beneath the story. The crowd grew quiet, listening.

‘Before we Hobbits set on foot in these Shire lands, we lived about Bree.’ There were nods of the head about the room as that old thread of history was pulled up from the Shire history. ‘The great King in the North, Argeleb the somethingth, in his wisdom and generosity granted old Marcho and Blanco the right to cross the Brandywine, head west, and claim a land for us Hobbits.’

‘More like he was tired of our drinking and singing and sent us off to give the Shiriffs there a break from having to haul us in all the time,’ said Ferrin in a loud aside to the audience. There was good natured laughter at this, then the call for Gil to go on.

‘Now later down the years, the shadow had reared its ugly head up north of the King’s country. Yes – that same pack of bad ‘uns that our own Mister Frodo and our Mayor went to help put an end to. And no, I don’t quite recall the name of the King that sent the message to us . . .’ He looked toward the table of Gammers.

‘Twas Arvedoo,’ said one. ‘Aye, close enough. Arvedui, it was. The one that drowned, we heard,’ one of the others corrected her, pointing the stem of her pipe at Gil for emphasis.

‘Arvedui, then,’ said Gil nodding his head. ‘His kingdom was crumbling. Beset on all sides by those foul creatures of shadow. Fearsome old things, too.’

‘Nasty old Witch-king,’ called out one of the elder ladies. ‘Sold his own country and hisself out for some promise o’ power what was never going to work out.’ ‘Dumb as stumps those bad ‘uns when it comes right down to it,’ another of the Gammers said. ‘May we never see them again!’ they all said in unison, crossing their fingers as a ward against dark evil.

‘Anyway, the King, Arvedui, was at his wit’s end,' Gil continued. 'And he sent out a call for his loyal subjects to send aid. Now word came to our Chieftains here in the Shire of the King’s request. And they sent a troop of the finest bowmen in the Shire. Sorry to say, their names are long forgotten. But their deeds and brave spirit were not.’

All the instruments had gone quiet as Gil stepped forward and raised his voice. He sang the first verse without accompaniment, then joined in with the others to play for the remaining verses.

'Twas down by the glenside, I met an old woman
She was picking young nettles and she scarce saw me coming
I listened awhile to the song she was humming

Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Shire men

‘Join in now,’ he called out to the crowd, ‘tis the same last words at the end of each verse.’

'Tis many long years since I saw the moon beaming
On strong manly forms and their eyes with hope gleaming
I see them again, sure, in all my daydreaming

Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Shire men

They died round old Fornost, and most near a stranger
And wise men have told us that their cause was a failure
They fought for the North King and they never feared danger

Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Shire men

I passed on my way, fate be praised that I met her
Be life long or short, sure I'll never forget her
We may have brave men, but we'll never have better

Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Shire men . . .

Yes, glory o, glory to those bold archer men . . .


----------

with thanks and apologies to the original song: The Bold Fenian Men

[Nurumaiel]

Falco was, perhaps, the most enthusiastic of those applauding. He was familiar with the song. His friend Fosco had learned it in some quiet Shire garden far from his own home, and had brought it back to teach to Falco. Aside from this, Falco was as fond of the boys as he possibly could be fond of anyone having met them just the previous day. He had wondered about them that morning, and it was delightful that they were back again, singing as strong and fine as ever, their sympathy with their instruments sounding in every echoing notes.

He was grateful for them for having invited him to play with them, and more grateful that they had gone through another song immediately afterwards. It gave him the opportunity to sneak quietly up besides them, picking up the whistle on the way, which was preferable to coming up in the midst of their praise and risking all eyes upon them. He was still slightly hesitant about going up, for though he wanted to very much he felt just slightly embarrassed, but Marigold caught onto his sleeve and gazed up at him with eager eyes.

"Hurry, Mr. Headstrong!" she cried. "Hurry up there before they begin another song! Oh, Mr. Headstrong, I want you to play the tin whistle; please do! You play it so much like my papa, and you know all the songs that he used to sing to me, and all the ways he used to play them!" When she saw that he still hesitated (though he did it merely for show), she pouted and stamped her foot, putting her hands on her hips and assuming a very motherly air. "If you don't go up there right this minute," she said, wagging a finger at him, "I will make such music that only a crying and bawling little hobbit girl can make!"

"But, Marigold," he said, his voice protesting, though he was already on his feet, "I was discussing the laundry with Miss Camille's mother..."

Marigold gave him a very stern look, and then she turned to Rory. "I don't care if he stops discussing laundry, do you? She's your mother. Don't you want Mr. Headstrong to go up and play the whistle with those boys?"

Rory nodded, and his eyes were just as eager as Marigold's. Falco gave a reluctant sigh, but the twinkle in his eye could not be hidden. He left the table, crept towards the lads quiet casually with his hands in his pockets, and, unobserved, or at least hoping he was, he picked up the tin whistle and melted in beside them. His welcome from the boys was warm, and he felt the old feeling of the days of his youth returning to him. He already felt his toes tapping, though there was no lively whistling, and he already felt the tear in his eye, though the sobbing of the fiddles had not yet been strained.

"Now, what is it you had in mind to play?" he asked.