The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[piosenniel]

Cook muses on the two firewood stackers and encounters the Elf in her garden . . .

Cook had recovered, somewhat, from her erstwhile dishwasher. Ginger had come back into the kitchen with two of the other servers and they had cleaned away the messy area surrounding the sink. The wet and dirtied tea towel, Cook had taken herself to soak in some hot sudsy water with a half cup of lemon juice stirred in to ease out the stains.

While the others mopped up the kitchen’s floor, she went out the back door to catch a breath of fresh air. The lunch cooking was done and those of her staff had the serving of it well under control. Supper was all ready to be cooked a little later. She had a few precious moments to herself.

The warm spring breeze caught a stray curl, teasing the springy grey flecked strand from behind the Hobbit’s ear. It tickled her cheek. Unthinking she made to tuck it firmly under her head band. But looking out over the pleasant, sunny day made her feel quite young again. And she took the band from her hair, letting all her curls toss in the breeze.

The old kitchen tabby had braved the day and was curled up in a patch of sun. She raised her head as Cook stood on the porch and meowed a bit. A little protest, as Cook stood blocking the sun.

‘Well, begging your pardon, Gammer,’ Cook said, leaning down to give the feline a little scratch behind the ears. The Hobbit stepped down to the first step of the porch of the sun, gathering the back of her skirt neatly beneath her. She stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes, enjoying the feel of the sun’s heat on them.

There, to her right, near the Inn woodshed were Derufin and his helper. Anyopâ, she said, thinking on the man’s name for a moment. The wagon was halfway unloaded now. The two men had taken off their tunics as the day grew warmer. Their skin glistened as the light hit it. The muscles on their arms bulged as they carried the large armfuls of wood to the shed. Hot dirty work, she thought to herself. And thank goodness they had been willing to do it for her. ‘I must remember to cook up some sweet treat for master Derufin,’ she said, making a mental note of her decision. ‘And find out what the other fellow likes, too. Small payment for a big job.’ She took a closer look at Anyopâ. ‘Hmmmph! A little too stringy! Course maybe that’s how they grow ‘em where he comes from.’ She eyed him again. ‘Needs a bit of fattening up, I think. At least while he’s under my roof.’

A short way beyond those two were the Inn’s gardens. One for vegetables and a smaller one for herbs – cooking and medicinal. Cook shaded her eyes against the sun. Hmmm . . . now there was someone walking about in her herb garden. Tall fellow, she could see. And, Land Sakes! He had his cloak all pulled up around him and his hood up, too. Every once in a while she saw him stoop down to finger a flower or a leaf. Didn’t pick any though, as far as she could see.

With the pride of all Shire gardeners rising in her, she thought perhaps he might be admiring the layout of her little bed and the healthy, hardy plants she had nurtured from seed to leaf and flower. Mayhap he was a gardener in his own right.

Cook stood up and smoothed her skirt and apron with her hands. She took the hairband from her pocket and caught back her curls. Filling the oaken bucket from the pump, she went walking toward the tall fellow and her garden. His back was to her and he was bent over, his long fingers brushing across a low growing plant with softly bristled leaves that had spread over a nearby rock.

‘Woolly thyme,’ she said, coming up to stand beside him. ‘One of my pride and joys, that is. Had to trade a number of starts to my other herbs to get that. Comes up from the south . . . far south.’ She bent over and pinched the leaves of a similar plant near it, though these were smooth and shiny. ‘This one too’s from the more southern lands. Quite tasty on Shire brook trout. They call it lemon thyme. Here, smell it . . .’ she held the crushed sprig out to him.

[Huan]

‘Who’s that? Over there. With Cook.’ Anyopâ took the handkerchief from his breeches’ pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. He nodded toward the garden area where Cook stood speaking to some cloaked man.

It was an interesting scene, the compact, tiny Hobbit and her long, tall companion. He could see her bend to pluck some bit of plant, take a deep whiff of it, and then offer it up to the other person.

‘Odd, don’t you think,’ he went on, ‘that he seems to conceal himself. The day is far too warm for that.’ He grinned at Derufin, drawing the back of his arm across his already beaded brow. ‘Or so it seems to me.’

[Envinyatar]

Derufin squinted against the sun, trying to see who Cook was with. ‘Don’t know who that is,’ he said, throwing his armful of wood onto the pile. He moved into the shade of the woodshed, letting the small shadow of the eaves cut the glare of the bright light.

‘She looks as if she has it well in hand,’ he said, taking the dipper of water Anyopâ offered him. He took a long, slow drink of the cool liquid, enjoying the feel of the water against his parched throat.

‘Let’s keep her in sight, though . . .’ He sat down on the back of the wagon, motioning for Anyopâ to sit with him. Derufin fished about in his vest and pulled out his pouch of pipeweed. He filled his own pipe; then, offered the pouch to Anyopâ.

[Kath]

Hearing the noise of chattering children Astilwen was reminded of her siblings back in the Shire, with 5 brothers the sounds were familiar! Looking around she saw a bunch of younger hobbits gathered around two girls - neither of whom looked too happy.

She got up and walked over to them.
"Excuse me." she said to the girl who had been shouting at the boys. "But is there anything I can do to help?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

A ghastly apparition entered the Inn - well, it must have entered, since it was definitely inside, but no one had seen how. Strangely, the door had remained closed. It wafted over to one of the tables and dropped a parchment onto it. Then it disappeared again, leaving only a faint wisp of pink haze and a trace of light, flowery perfume in the air.

The guests who were seated at the table stirred from their temporary immobility, thankful that the possible danger had passed. The bravest of them lifted the parchment to the light and read:

The Barrow-Wight invites you to his barrow to celebrate the Barrow-Downs' fifth birthday!

Please come as the ghost of your real life identity - we won't see you completely, only as much or as little as you want to show us. You may describe the real life clothes you are wearing; if you wish, wear a name tag that shows part of your real name. (For safety reasons, please do not reveal your full name here!) Bring your favorite real life foods and drinks; describe the journey you made from your home (again, no full address, please); bring a present for the Wight; entertain us with your real life talent(s) of poetry, music, art, etc. - in short, imagine that this is a Barrow-Downs convention and you finally get to actually meet all of your online friends!

Location: the Wight’s Barrow, temporarily located on the Novices and Newcomers forum

Time: beginning Sunday, May 1, 2005, early in the morning

Food, drinks and entertainment to be provided by all who take part.

Five years is too short a time to post among such excellent and admirable members, but it’s a long life for an internet community! Let’s celebrate the occasion with much joy and merry-making – and with sincere gratitude to The Barrow-Wight, our esteemed founder!

There was a sudden buzz of conversation as the guests pondered the significance of this strange invitation. What was the meaning of "real life"? They could only hope that someone would know...
__________________

This note was dropped off by a ghost who looked suspiciously like Estelyn Telcontar.....

[Lasbelinion]

Lithmîrë had not heard her; either because she had come on such silent feet or because his senses were dulled from the infusion he had taken to allay his pain. He looked down at her, from the shadows of his hood, his eyes narrowing, and made to step away. But she ignored his movement and continued to talk to him.

Before he could push her away with some barbed remark, the scent of the thyme assailed him. It was sharp. And clean. Inviting a deeper exploration. He took another deep whiff of it, the refreshing smell seeming to clear his mind a bit. There were other sorts of the same plant planted near each other. She spoke of them in a knowing manner, a tinge of pride edging her voice as she spoke of the nurturing of each. Lavender thyme with its rich sweet-clean smell. Caraway thyme, its dark green leaves dotted with small black spots. Another heady inviting scent greeted him as he held a few crushed leaves to his nose. Wandering about the garden’s rockery there were many others she plucked and spoke of, handing a sample of each to him.

They paused at the end of the herb's plantings. The woman was watching him. Her bright brown eyes, her stance, telling him a response was expected. As if she had spoken to a fellow gardener. Memories of long years in the fields of Lithlad sent a tremor through him.

Gardener! And what had he grown save food for the Master’s creatures? And what had he planted save for the bodies of his ragged companions from which grew bitter memories in dark abundance.

Smaller memories crept in softly from the dark edges of his thoughts. Of plants he had hidden among the long rows of those the armies needed for their sustenance. Simple herbs for easing the hard days of captivity. Tinctures to quell the pain of the lash; unguents to douse the flames that licked along the furrowed flesh.

The words falling from his twisted lips were a surprise to him. Gently spoken and ending with an expectation of further conversation.

‘Where last I put trowel to earth, Mistress, we . . . I . . . had no knowledge of thyme. It seems a hardy plant. One that would be well suited to a land of sun and thin soil. A subtle plant, too. It adds to the flavor of one’s food, I expect. Making it savory and pleasing to the tongue . . . yes?’

In the shadow of his hood, he smiled as a rare, pleasant thought assailed him. Those sun wracked, rocky fields . . . how it would please him to see them covered in thyme. All signs of their foul crops and savage harvests cleansed. The land renewed.

[Anguirel]

A cold wind would caress the hair of the Shirelings at their drinks as the door opened again. A young fellow quite tall by Hobbit standards, wearing a woolen cloak, joined the gathering. No sooner had he shut the door behind him than he tumbled over, having apparently missed the step. To those that knew Artifondo Dwellover, known by his friends and family as "Fellover", this was no very great surprise; and it did not take Artifondo himself unawares either. He lifted himself to his feet with surprising dignity. Getting up was a skill he had learned to perfect over the years. Unfortunately, remembering things was not; and he almost immediately forgot why his father had sent him here at all.

Something about the artichoke crop, perhaps? It almost always was. Pellinco Dwellover of Bywater was captivated by the peculiar plants, and could bore for the Eastfarthing on the subject of their marketing prospects.

"Mark my words, Fellover m'lad. One day there'll be wagons full of artichokes travelling all over the Shire, I tell you; to Tuckborough, Hobbiton, Michel Delving; and I don't see, when it comes down to it, why we shouldn't sell 'em to the Big Folk too. They'd go down a storm in Bree, from all I've heard tell. And as for the lordly folk in Annum...Ammun...Annam...er...that city up north, why, they'd breakfast, lunch, and sup on them. And each and every wagon of artichokes will bear the name Dwellover on its canvas. Does your heart good, eh, lad?"

It didn't do Artifondo's heart any good at all. The thought of running Dwellover Artichokes Limited one day, as his father's firstborn son, made his blood run cold. For a start, he couldn't bear the sight of them. Not only were they ugly and bitter, but they had made his early childhood unbearable. "Artichoko!" his schoolfriends had teased. "Artichoko!"

But more importantly, Artifondo had ultimately rather more noble and romantic aspirations. He had scarcely been able to walk when the Travellers had returned, but the memory was deep and indelible; the excitement and glory in the air. It was associated in his mind with a kind of elvishness that he had only seen in the Party Tree; and to this end he had tried to learn a little Sindarin; but his mind always wandered; he loved the poetry only as much as he detested the grammar.

Ah yes, now he remembered why he was here. Ask the barmaid if her employers would consider stocking artichokes to go with the famous Green Dragon stews. Artifondo gave a derisive snort. Would he ever be free of these oppressive vegetables?