The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Amanaduial the archer]

Not wanting to intrude upon the solemn affairs that Esgalhugwen talked of to Falowik, Aman had murmured a few polite words and quietly excused herself from their company. After all, she did have an Inn to run, even if it did seem to be part-schoolroom, and even if it did manage to get along quite well enough without her help sometimes. Running a hand through her hair, the Innkeeper surveyed the Common Room thoughtfully, one hand on her hips; she had neglected it somewhat over the past few days, she supposed, and no doubt would need to make it up to Cook at some point. Goodness knows how the old hobbit woman matron deserved it, a break - but on the other hand, it wasn't like she would ever dream of taking one.

As if the very thought could conjure her up, the aforementioned Miz Bunce bustled past Aman as she spoke, heading for the kitchen purposefully. As she did so, she almost ran into a small hobbit lad, and Aman caught her elbow instinctively. Distangling herself from the younger Innkeeper, Vinca raised her eyebrows amusedly at Aman. "Now, now, Aman, I'm not a senile old bodger yet."

The Innkeeper blushed slightly. "Oh! Oh, no, sorry Cook, I didn't mean to cause any...any offence..." she trailed off as she saw that Vinca was laughing at her, and raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Ah. I'm just being mocked as usual. Well, very well, do carry on..." she replied sarcastically. Cook nudged her companionably, tutting good-naturedly. "Ah, hush now, Aman: you're as bad as some of these little'uns!"

As the hobbit woman bustled away, leaving the Innkeeper with this comment, Aman took a second then hurried after her. "What do you mean by that, hmm?" she challenged, pretending to take offence. Her half-moon glasses perched on her round nose - unusually, for Cook did not usually wear them unless she was doing the accounts - Vinca looked severely up at Aman, taking on the role of scolding school teacher. "Having a paddy indeed, Aman - as bad as any of these 'ere children! Not that I mind having the little ones about the place, of course - keeps you young, isn't that what they say, hmm?" Chuckling to herself, Vinca departed in her purposeful potter towards the kitchen, leaving Aman to muse on the hanging rhetorical question. Glancing about at the room, she eyed the hobbit children, who were now reluctantly allowing themselves to be gathered in by Miz Bella, and grinned to herself as she went about gathering the plates and cups already left over from the beginnings of lunch. By the fiercely good-natured determination on the young schoolteacher's face, she wasn't sure Miz Bella would agree with Cook's last statement.

Reading, 'Riting and 'Rithmatic - the three 'r's, taught since the beginning of time by schoolteachers everywhere, and no doubt to be taught to every groaning schoolchild until the end of the worlds came and the gods sailed from the West. Would Miz Bella inject any extras? After all, the Green Dragon was a very unusual Inn; it would be fitting that what was taught was a little different... And it wasn't as if there was any lack of teachers around here from any walk of life, who could teach the budding students any number of things - however irrelevant, it would certainly be an interesting education! Why, Snaveling, or Tar-Corondir as Mithalwen named him: his knowledge of Dunedain history was detailed and from several perspectives, especially the history tracking Gondor for the last century at least, being as he had lived through it; and his knowledge of the court of Gondor. And Miz Bunce? If she could be prised away from her beloved kitchen ad duties, she had a wealth of knowledge of cookery and gardening which Aman solemnly believed was sorely to be matched by any in the Shire, plus her rigid ideas of morals and etiquette, especially for young hobbit lasses. And for the boys? Well, Derufin was able to turn his hand to just about everything - include teaching and he could probably impart some of his useful skills to the children, while Zimzi, his darling new wife, had her own skills...

And why not? The musings carried Aman along in a daze as she patrolled the Common Room. The Three 'R's - add to them botany, cooking, etiquette, history, geography... Her gaze alighted on Hearpwine and Aman almost clicked her fingers as she realised a vital skill for any small hobbit: music-making! In her inquisitive and flowingly curious state of mind, Aman 'accidentally' caught the end of Mithalwen's reply to the Rohirrim Bard.

"...and at all times the necessaries of life - but my greatest delight, and I hope skill, is in the making of instruments of music."

"And who is to say those things are not one and the same?" Aman interjected, smiling warmly at Mithalwen. The elf looked surprised - after all, their interchanges yesterday had not been exactly warm - but picking up on the sincerity of Aman's expression, Mithalwen hesitantly returned the gesture. Hearpwine seemed unaware of the tension, his broad features breaking out into a proud smile as he nodded approvingly up at Aman. "Spoken like a true Rohirrim!"

Mithalwen seemed to wince slightly, and bearing in mind Aman's newly discovered ancestry, the irony of the statement did not escape Aman, but she managed to limit her reaction to a mere twitch of the eyebrow. Covering it up, she continued to clear the glasses on the couple's table onto her tray. "Aye, well, music is the food of life, Hearpwine, as well you know - and talking of which, would you too like lunch at all?"

Mithalwen politely declined but it didn't take much cajoling from the Innkeeper, who would not take no for an answer, for her to accept; Hearpwine was, as always, ready for the Green Dragon's hearty but homely feasts. ("All well and good, just so long as he stays out of the kitchen from now on," Vinca had muttered darkly.) But before she left, Hearpwine commented on Aman's thoughtfulness, and the way she kept glancing towards the school children. Seeing the perfect opening, Aman clicked her fingers and jumped in. "Strange you should mention that, Master Hearpwine. I was...well, I was just thinking about how we could maybe...erm...'extend' the class's curriculum."

"Oh yes?" Mithalwen replied, apparently interested as she leant forward, eyebrows raised. Aman perched on the edge of the seat for a moment, speaking excitedly as she outlined her proposal of all the Inn's denizens and staff had to offer. "I mean," she concluded. "Hearpwine has already attempted to entreat them with music, and were your songs not well recieved?"

"Indeed, indeed, Innkeeper," the bard secondly heartily, taking a quick pull at his fast-emptying pint. "But you yourself, do you not play an instrument?"

The Innkeeper shrugged. "I have not played a harp in many years, Hearpwine, but I remain a vocalist, I hope..." she shrugged again as she rose from her seat, not one used to blowing her own trumpet. "It's just an idea really."

"What does Miz Bella think?" Mithalwen asked.

Aman ran her tongue around her lips anxiously, wincing slightly. "I haven't exactly broached it with her yet," she replied carefully. "But...well...maybe I will..." she added thoughtfully. On that note, her head full of possibilities, the Innkeeper swept off to prepare food, drinks, and a proposal to Miz Bella...

[piosenniel]

Tea with Lithmîrë is finalized; the Artichoke merchant is sent for . . .

‘I’ve been stared at by Elves more bristly than you, Master Lithmîrë,’ said Cook staring back up at the tall fellow. She really didn’t like folk looking down on her, especially with the ‘look’. She was not that short for a Hobbit. Just right in fact, in her opinion. And being short did not mean she could be easily pushed about.

Cook chuckled to herself, recalling how Mistress Piosenniel had tried to ‘manage’ her as she gazed down from her height. ‘Just say what you need and I’ll accommodate as I can. No need to get your hackles up. Tea out of doors will be fine. Perhaps we can just step round in and hour or so to the little bower out near where the groundskeeper’s cottage is.’ She oriented herself and pointed in the direction she meant. ‘It’s a nice private place where two gardeners can talk without fear of turning the others about them to stone from the boring details of plant and dirt. I happen to know that the groundskeeper and his wife will both be gone for the afternoon.’

She led him over to the pump in the Inn’s back yard. ‘Now, if you will, just give the handle a few up-and-downs and I can get my hands washed.’ She did the same for him, worming out of him with her small chitchat what sort of sweets he might like with his tea.

Cook came round to the front door of the Inn, looking for one of the young fellows she’d set to tending the flowers in the front gardens. He wasn’t there, but he’d done a most excellent job so far with the weeding and the pinching back. His tools, she noted, were neatly lined up by where he’d left off. She nodded approvingly. ‘Gone into the Inn for a bite,’ she thought to herself.

Aman was there as she crossed the Common Room. The dear girl had maneuvered her aside to avoid one of the youngsters that was haring back toward the schoolroom. She tossed the young woman a few short comments, her eyes twinkling as she did so. As she hurried on to the kitchen, she could see the vaguely perplexed look on the Innkeeper’s face. ‘Keep her on her toes!’ she chuckled.

Ginger came up to her, just as Vinca was tying on her apron. The story of Artifondo and his artichokes was relayed. ‘Hmmm,’ said Cook, thinking how long it had been since she’d had a nice, plump artichoke to eat. All steamed up nicely; the leaves dipped in melted butter. ‘Have him come to the back door of the kitchen with a few of his ‘chokes. I’ll look them over and see if I want some, or not.’

She stepped into the pantry, looking for the dried plums she had stashed in the back. Out came the plums, sugar, flour, and the big crock of butter. ‘Plum tarts for dessert tonight,’ she announced to Buttercup, who was washing the dishes. ‘Can you mix up the icing to drizzle over them when they’ve cooled?’

[Noinkling]

Benat spies Derufin and Anyopa coming into the common room

As he waited for the arrival of soup, bread, and cheese, Benat looked curiously about the room. New people had arrived to swell the ranks of those he knew by name or at least sight. And he thought he’d seen, off to the side of the building, as he approached, a group of children eating together in a small courtyard and playing games. Now what was all that about, he wondered? He’d ask Ginger about it when she returned with his food.

He was just pouring himself another mug of cider, when he saw some fellows he’d met last night walk through the door, form the kitchen. Cullen thumped his tail at their approach. Benat stood, pulling out some chairs for them.

‘Come! Have something to eat and drink with me,’ he said in a hearty tone. ‘I’ve had the most amazing morning . . .’

[Envinyatar]

Derufin raised his chin toward Benat and grinned. ‘Look,’ he said, turning his head back toward Anyopâ. ‘Benat’s back.’ He raised the mug of ale he held in his left hand, signaling to Benat that they would join him.

‘So, here you are. How was your visit with the mayor?’ Derufin and Anyopâ pulled out chairs for themselves, helping themselves to the basket of bread and the cheese Ginger had brought out.

Benat was about to tell them about his morning, when Ginger sailed up with a tray with two large bowls of soup. She eyed the nearly empty basket of bread and the depleted plate of cheese. Derufin winked at her, and apologized. Then pointing at Anyopâ, he ordered another two baskets of bread, another plate of cheese, and two soups.

Just before she left their table, he called her back. ‘And do you think perhaps Cook has a few of her spice cookies hidden somewhere you could bring for us?’ He gave her his most ingratiating smile.

‘Now tell us about Sam and what you found out,’ he said, turning back toward Benat.

[Anguirel]

Artifondo's eyelids were drooping contentedly down when Ginger returned with the Cook's imperious summons. They produced quite some consternation in the dreamy Hobbit tween.

"Bring a few of my chokes? Ah...but..."

As far as he knew, he hadn't a single vegetable on him. His father had been sure that the fame of the Dwellover Artichokes alone would be enough.

"That name, Fellover, m'boy, will get you into a king's counting-house. You won't need to disturb a single one of my crops."

Ursula had thought differently. "Father, Vinca Bunce is hard as old boots. She'll be sure to demand some guarantee of quality. Artifondo's enough of a dolt even when he bears produce...if he comes in empty-handed, well..."

But Pellinco Dwellover had stuck firmly to his position. "I won't lessen my yield nor demean the Dwellover renown. Besides, Fellover's a good lad really, aren't you?"

Artifondo rolled his eyes. He hadn't known what to say to that; for compared to his rascally, irresponsible little brother Gandrio he was indeed a "good lad". Then at last a memory clicked into place. Grizel, cunning little Grizel, had handed him a bundle as he left. It had completely slipped his mind...now he hurried over to where his cloak hung, ransacked it, and eventually produced the heavily swathed lump, hurriedly unwrapping it.

It was a large, perfectly shaped artichoke, filling his fist. Superb...if you liked that sort of thing. It grew slightly paler at is ages, which lended it a look almost of refinement. Somehow it had escaped being damaged during his fall. He couldn't recall what Pellinco called this strain. Wholesome Carbuncle, or something similarly ridiculous.

"Right," he said to Ginger in relief. "I'm ready to come with you." And he smiled; for he had had an idea, and he intended to present this "thistle" in a way that would be positively impossible to resist.

[Primrose Bolger]

‘That’s it?’ asked Ginger, leading Artifondo round to the deliveryman’s entrance at the back of the kitchen. ‘I think she’s expecting you to bring your cart with you, with the artichokes in it.’ She looked at him in a questioning way. ‘We don’t often have merchants come to the Inn with nothing for us to buy.’

She hurried him along, hoping he wouldn’t fall over as he followed after. He seemed like some young pony whose legs weren’t all working the way they should.

Two steps and they were on the porch at the kitchen’s back door. Ginger waited as he mounted the steps and brushed himself off a little and straightened his vest. ‘Her name is Miz Bunce, by the way,’ she reminded him before they entered the kitchen proper.

‘Well, here he is Cook.’ Ginger took him by the elbow and moved him forward. ‘Master Artifondo Dwellover . . .’ She rolled her eyes and nodded toward the rather large thistle in his hands. ‘ . . . and his artichoke.’

[piosenniel]

Cook meets Master Dwellover

Cook turned from her rolling out of the plum tart pastry and wiped her hands on her apron. Her hands went round to untie her apron as she nodded at Ginger and Artifondo. Laying her apron on the back of a nearby chair, she motioned toward the kitchen’s old oak table, indicating Artifondo should have a seat.

Ginger she instructed to fill the tarts and set them to baking while she spoke with the merchant. Might young! she thought to herself. She watched as he neared the chair across the table from her. Tall lad. Don’t remember the other Dwellovers being of such a height. She shrugged mentally. Never did have much occasion to get to know them well.

Time was passing, and she wanted to get ready for tea with the Elven gardener she’d met. ‘Well, Master Dwellover . . . what sort of wares have you brought for me to look over . . .?’

[Child of the 7th Age]

After several trips back and forth between the courtyard and the schoolroom, Miz Bella had finally managed to sort out the worst of the misunderstandings. She had spoken with Camille and Neviel, and gotten the hobbit lass to agree that the young Elf would help her brother down the steps the next time the children went outside.

For now, it was time to return to class and begin the afternoon lessons. With this in mind, Miz Bella had gone out to the garden and diligently herded the remaining children back into the schoolroom. She counted noses to make sure no one had been left behind. She thought she'd accounted for everyone, although it was hard to tell since a child or two had dropped into the garden during lunch and, seeing the tasty meal provided by Cook, had impulsively decided to join the class on their own.

Once everyone had taken their seats and a special spot was made for Rory, Miz Bella stood up to address the class. But before she could say anything, there was a gentle rapping on the door, and Ruby came into the room, explaining, "Ah, Miz Bella, you're back. Mistress Aman was hunting for you while the class was outside. She has something to ask you."

Miz Bella quickly replied, "Ruby, on your way back, would you tell the Innkeeper that she's welcome to drop by our class anytime. She can see how we're doing and have a word with me whenever she'd like." Ruby nodded and disappeared down the hallway as Miz Bella turned back to the students.

"Master Hearpwine should be arriving shortly. And when he does, we'll shift over to singing. But for now, I have some riddles for you to answer. Whoever gets an answer correct will earn a prize." Miz Bella pointed to a number of small treasures lined up on her desk: a small bag filled with sweets, three chalk sticks, a leather ball, a bright green kerchief for a lass to tie back her curls, and, most glorious of all, a knife that could be used for carving small things out of wood. "Everyone who tries to answer the questions will get a peppermint stick. But whoever has a right answer will be allowed to pick one of these special prizes. If we're interrupted by visitors," Miz Bella noted, "we'll continue with our game later."

"Alright now, here's the first riddle. Listen carefully.

Thirty white horses upon a red hill,
Now they champ, now they clamp,
And now they stand still.

That's the easier one. And here's the second.....

In spring I am gay,
In handsome array;
In summer more clothing I wear;
When colder it grows,
I throw off my clothes;
And in winter quite naked appear.

Can anyone guess what either of those are?"

[Arry]

Hanson and the second riddle . . .

Hanson started giggling as he thought about the second riddle. He nudged his brother, Woody, beckoning him to bend down low so he could whisper something to him. Woody turned beet red as Hanson cupped his hand to his mouth and spoke softly to him.

‘Don’t you dare say that,’ he said in a low, threatening voice to Hanson. ‘Ma will have your hide for it.’

Still, Hanson could not get the funny picture out of his mind and began to giggle again. When Reggie, who was sitting near him, asked what the matter was, Hanson told him.

‘I think she’s made up a riddle about my Great-granda Boffin,’ Hanson whispered. I heard Gammer Boffin telling stories about him one night when I was supposed to be asleep. She said he went a little soft in the head near the end. Liked to poke flowers in his hair in the spring. And sometimes on the hottest days in the summer he’d bundle himself up like it was getting on to winter and the snows. And in the colder weather, he’d say it was too hot, and the family’d find him in thin breeches and barely a vest on. Worst thing though, was one winter he’d gotten into the apple brandy. Got so heated up, I heard Gammer Boffin say, that he danced down the lane in his birthday suit afore they caught up with him.’ Hanson nodded solemnly at the story. ‘It’s what did him in finally, she said, too.’

[Fairleaf]

Reggie was agog at the story. He found it quite fascinating and at the same time dangerously funny. He knew he shouldn’t laugh, but he couldn’t help himself.

‘You’ll win for sure with that answer,’ he confided to Hanson, finally getting hold of himself. He looked longingly at the little prizes.

‘Help me figure out that other riddle, won’t you?’ The two youngsters bent their heads together and puzzled over the horses. ‘Never saw a red hill where I live. Have you?’ Reggie screwed up his lips in concentration. ‘Well, maybe that big hill north of The Pool. In the Fall. The maples there turn red.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘But I never saw or heard of so many horses standing on it . . . and all of them white to boot!’

[Kath]

Astilwen had followed the children and their teacher into the schoolroom and was now standing at the back. She had been impressed with the wasy Miz Bella had handled the problems between the younger children and wanted to watch the way she taught in case it gave her any ideas for her siblings back home. Her youngest brother had always had problems with learning anything new - he wasn't stupid, he just didn't like the learning by rote style Astilwen had learnt by.

She listened to the riddles, getting the first one with ease but having to think a while about the second. She smiled as she watched the bemused looks on some of the childrens faces and decided to wait until the end of the lesson to see if Miz Bella would help her, and to offer her services as a helper whether she did or not.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Woody, Reggie, Hanson.... Enough giggling in the corners! If you have something to say, out with it. Now do you lads or anyone else want to have a go at the answers? There's no penalty for getting them wrong."

Glancing up at the doorway, Miz Bella added, "But what's this? We have a visitor to the classroom. Perhaps you could help us out with one of these riddles, or is there something else I could do to help you?"

[Kath]

Astilwen started when Miz Bella noticed her and blushed as many of the children turned to look at her.

"Well, I, um, mostly I just wanted to ask if you'd like any help. I have siblings at home, younger ones so I've had practice with children and I've nothing else to do and I'd like to help if you need it."

Realising she was rambling Astilwen cut herself off and smiled apologetically. Regaining her composure slightly she finished,

"And I won't guess the riddles for a while if you don't mind ma'am, else you won't get rid of all these sweets!"

[Firefoot]

Willy chewed on his lower lip in concentration, his brow furrowed. He had his eye on the little knife and was bent on figuring out one of the riddles. In the first one, he could get naught but an image of thirty grand white horses champing at their bits, eager to draw their carriage down from the red hill. He wondered if red hills really existed. Willy finally gave up on this first one in confusion, slightly unsure even of what it was he was supposed to be figuring out. Where the red hill was, maybe, and why it was red.

The second riddle, then. This was befuddling as well - why ever would someone (something?) take off their clothes in winter? That would be awful chilly. He caught the words of Reggie, who was sitting nearby. "...Well, maybe that big hill north of The Pool. In the Fall. The maples there turn red." Yes, thought Willy, the leaves turn read and then they all fall off. Trees are so very bare in winter... He sat up with a start. Of course! Trees were pretty in summer, clothed in leaves per se, and bare in winter. He was certain that was the second riddle!

He waved his hand high, not waiting for Miz Bella to call on him. "I know! I've got the second one!"

[SonOfBombadil]

Lewis and Ravon ate their lunch and talked of many things. About buying the house, about how Lewis' brother had been staying with them for a while and about a good deal of other things. Most of all, Lewis was paying attention to Ravon's elfish beauty and grace, and he thought about how they had met and fallen in love in this same inn, several months prior.

After they had finished their soup, Lewis knew it was time. He looked around to make sure no one was watching as he was feeling rather timid. "Ravon," Lewis started, as he reached into his pocket and got down onto one knee. "I love you so much and I want to spend the rest of my life with you." He pulled out the case and opened it, inside was a perfectly crafted silver ring with a saphire set into it.

"Will you marry me Ravon?"

[Angel_Queen]

Ravon

She looked at Lewis. For once she was the happiest person in the world. "Lewis you know I will." She jumped out of her seat and hugged the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. She knew now that nothing was going to take him away from her.

At about that time Lewis' brother walked in the Green Dragon. He had a big smile across his face. She looked at him. "Did you know about this?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine’s delight was apparent when he learned of Mithalwen’s craft, and in token of esteem to it he rose and bowed deeply to her. “My compliments once more to you Lady, for devoting your talents to such a lofty goal! I know but little of the instruments of Elves, but they are things of surpassing beauty in both form and function. There is a small harp in particular that I adore. It has many strings and is made of a fine, light wood from Lorién. Many’s the time have I been moved to tears simply by the sound of its chords.”

Mithalwen looked wary. “You would not ask of me to make you such an instrument would you, Master Bard?”

Hearpwine laughed. “Nay, Lady, I would not presume. My old master always thought me overbold – reckless even – but my impetuousness would never extend that far! Besides, in my land the Bard is expected to make his own instrument. Behold!” he pulled forth his harp once more, brandishing it in the air between them. “I fashioned this from the wood of an ancient tree that had been hewn by the foul creatures of Mordor when their kind befouled beautiful Ithilien. I sang a lament over the bole of the great beech before cutting it to the heart. The wood inside was clean and pure, and formed of straight lines, and from that I was able to make an instrument that is considered amongst the finest of my kind, although I am sure that to a maker such as yourself it must appear as the plaything of a child.”

He handed it to the Elf, eager to hear her opinion of his work but aware nonetheless that with the afternoon now underway he was expected in the schoolroom.

[Mithalwen]

"Well, there is no one right way to build a harp and I have had rather more time at my disposal, I started learning my craft when Elendil was founding his kingdom and some of my teachers had learnt theirs in Doriath and Gondolin. The wood I use, I have usually watched grow from a sapling and while to cut a tree is a sorrow, there are worse fates we deem. Each wood has it's own quality, the beech is beloved of elves and long lived so I use it seldom by design" She took the harp and examined it closely before drawing a range of scales and arpeggios from the instrument.

"I deem you have made it well to suit your purpose and needs. " She answered diplomatically - the harp had a robust but true tone, " were it used mainly for Elvish music, I would make certain adjustments to the voicing. Forgive me if I am too critical but in my own land, I am expected to make the instruments only for those with greater skill in performance ".

Nevertheless she picked out a tune she had learnt many years ago in Gondor, a tune of mortals she thought would suit the tones of this man made harp. For elves, music conjures visions or memories in the mind and she was transported across many centuries to the day when she had learnt that tune, the memory of the one who had taught it her brought back emotions still too painful to deal with in public and she stopped playing and returned the harp to its owner.

"I regret, I can not show you an instrument of my own making for I brought only the things which I expected to need on my journey. And no instrument has travelled to the south I think, unless perchance the lady Arwen took with her the lute I made for her long ago"... Mithalwen paused, lost again in memory and then stirred, wondering if it was time that she should return to the forge. But at that moment the vittles ordered by Aman arrived, hospitality she felt she could not refuse.

[Lasbelinion]

Lithmîrë’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement at what had just occurred. His hand still rested on the handle of the pump in the Inn’s back yard, a few driblets of its precious water splashing down onto the rocky bed below. He looked down, noting a few of the bees from the gardens had landed on the rounded rocks and were busy drinking. Precious water . . . he thought, watching a fat drop splatter on a rock and roll down, lost between the cracks where the stones butted up one against another. Where he had worked the fields, the water had flowed down narrow ditches to the thirsty plants. No drop wasted.

His gaze followed the track to the door through which the Hobbit had disappeared. He felt disarmed, in a way, by her conversation. He was not sure how she had done it. He ran their conversation back through his mind; not just the words exchanged, but the gestures and tones, the subtleties. Disarmed. And she without a lash or cudgel, and seemingly without design.

A strange, low sound surprised him. He felt it rumble through his chest, shaking his belly, until his throat gave voice to it. It was an odd sound, long unused by him. With a will of its own, the rusty laughter fell from his curved lips, following the track, too.

He found himself looking forward to the tea she had promised. It was a hesitant hope. And he hid it away quickly lest it disappear as the water had done among the hard stones of the drain field.

His head turned round to where she said she would meet him. His feet moved in the direction of the bower near the cottage at the edge of the yard.

[Anguirel]

Artifondo gulped slightly as he sat down. Miz Bunce, as his sister had described, was pretty formidable. Would the piece of sweet-talk he had planned succeed?

"Unfortunately, madam," he started, "my father...ah...was, um, unwilling to yield too many of his glistening fresh produce. I have brought only one, and not, perhaps, ah, the best..."

Now for the piece of theatrical dash. Holding out his left hand, he opened it slowly; but there was nothing in it. With a shy smile, in the face of the Cook's mounting impatience, he extended his right arm. Unlike his model, Beren Erchamion, he could not impress his viewer with a severed stump; but he could reveal the artichoke, its pale tips slightly luminescent in the darker kitchen.

"My father calls this strain of artichokes the Silmarils, madam, after the jewels in the old tales. As the gems are supposed to have coursed whoever ate them in holiness, so these bathe the body with a, ahm, a tremendous restorative quality as the heart is ingested. They will go perfectly beside your famous stews, or simply alone, ah, and, um, dowsed with butter."

Artifondo took a rather ragged breath.

"Sorry...didn't bring more...you know how it is..." He rolled his eyes. "Father...likes to keep them...for himself..."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Miz Bella finished talking with Astilwen and told her that she would be very happy to gain an assistant in the classroom, "Come any time you like, " she assured her. "You might want to start by working with Rory. He just joined us, and I know he has a special interest in learning to read. You can go over to the table in my private room and have him practice reading and writing. He does know a few letters, I believe, but will need some help in putting the letters together into words. Anything you can do would be a real help."

Then Miz Bella turned back to the class. Willy was raising his hand triumphantly in the air, a wide grin plastered over his face as he announced that he knew the answer to one of the riddles. "Go ahead, Master Willy, have a go. And if you're right, you can select a prize from the top of my desk."

[Firefoot]

"It's a tree!" Willy answered proudly. "They've got lots of leaves in summer, but they're bare in winter 'cause they lose their leaves."

Miz Bella smiled at him. "A tree, it is. Good job, Willy, and come pick out a prize." Willy hopped up out of his seat and tried to keep his pace slow as he went up to the desk. He took a look at the prizes for a moment, pretty sure he wanted the knife but not quite positive. The candies would be yummy, but they wouldn't last very long. And the leather ball looked fun, too; he had a ball but it had been used by all the lads and lasses in his family, his oldest brother being in his tweens now. But... he would have to share the ball. He had to share a lot of things with his siblings, six of them all told. A knife could be all his. Confidently, he selected the knife, glancing at Miz Bella from the corner of his eye.

"Good choice," she told him. "It's sharp - be careful with it."

"I will," he promised, grinning. He had started to walk back to his desk with his prize when he remembered his manners. "Thank you, Miz Bella."

"You're welcome."

Willy took his seat, fingering his new knife happily. And it was all his.

[piosenniel]

Artifondo rolled his eyes. "Father...likes to keep them...for himself..."

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he, if the name holds true’ said Cook, looking at the thistly globe the merchant held in his hands. She shivered, remembering the stories Mistress Piosenniel had told them of Elvish history. ‘Silmaril, is it,’ Cook said, reaching for the choke. ‘A very unfortunate name, lad, for something you’re wanting to sell.’ She arched her brows at him, giving him a considering look. ‘Should I buy a crate or so, he won’t be coming to the Inn demanding them back from my customers’ bellies, will he?’

She turned it about, admiring the shape and heft of it. Separating the inner leaves a bit, she held it to her nose and inhaled. It was a rich, verdant odor. She laid the choke on the cutting board and whacked it neatly in two with her cleaver. ‘Nice heart to it. Very meaty. And look at the padding at the bases of the leaves – very plump.’

‘Let’s steam it a bit and see how it tastes.’

[Arry]

Hanson was green with envy. A tree! Who would have thought all that was about a tree? His eyes slid to where Willy was fingering his new knife. ‘I would have picked the candy,’ he thought to himself, his mouth watering at the thought of sweets.

He poked Reggie with his elbow. ‘You got the answer yet to that horse riddle?’ he whispered.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine accepted his harp back from the Elf, his eyes wide with wonderment at her skill with the instrument, and in awe of her craft. “I am familiar with your work, Lady, for I have often heard the Queen play and sing, and she does sometimes use the lute you speak of. It is a wondrous instrument that speaks with many voices, as though a choir were contained within its strings. One time, the Kings Elessar and Eomer, in a moment of brotherly play, engaged with one another in a contest of music, with each claiming that their realm had the mightiest singers. To prove their points they each appointed a champion to sing before the gathered court of the other. As the Bard of the Golden Hall I was sent to Minas Tirith where I sang the Dirge of Denethor before the White Tree, and though I say it myself the tears of those gathered flowed like wine. It was widely believed by all that there was none could match my performance. But when the following spring a mighty caravan arrived in Edoras from Gondor, and the Lady Arwen descended with her lute, I knew that I was doomed to lose the contest for my King! Ah, but if only every loss could come with so sweet a doom!” Hearpwine’s eyes drifted back into memory and he laid his head against the bole of the tree. “What music did she make that day! She sang in the High Tongue and though few there understood the words each one of them pierced us to our very hearts. We were all of us in love with her by the end of her performance, but then she honoured us with a song in our own tongue, telling of the Fall of Theoden. When she finished there was such a moment of silence that I imagined I could hear the fall of the sparrows outside the Hall. At last, the Lady Éowyn rose and approached the Queen and in silence bowed her head before her in token of thanks. What a sight that was! The most beautiful of their kind – mortal and immortal – side by side before the gathered people of Edoras, sombre yet glad! My heart feels like a child’s again at the mere memory.”

“Not immortal,” Mithalwen whispered. “Not anymore. She is lost to us.” And she trailed off into silence.

Hearpwine recalled himself to the waking world and addressed himself to the Elf in gentle tones. “Forgive me Mithalwen. In our own joy of the Queen, we mortals tend to forget the sadness of the Elder Race: how well I can imagine the grief of your kind, a grief that must be as great as our joy that she has decided to dwell with us!”

“Nay, Master Bard, your grief can never match ours, for yours will come to an end with the close of your life – whereas the grief of the Elves lives on until the breaking of the world. Long after Arwen Undomiel is buried and forgotten by all Men, she will be a living presence in our minds, a memory of our former glory and of all that we once had in these lands and can never have again…”

Laughter, bright and silvery, came to them from the open windows of the schoolroom, sharply reminding Hearpwine of his promise to Miz Bella. Surging to his feet the Bard explained to Mithalwen that he had said that he would spend the afternoon with the school children teaching them some songs of Rohan. Seeing that the Elf had not yet finished her meal, he apologised for having to leave her then and invited her to come join him with the children when she was done, “For,” he said, “I am sure that you would have a lay or two to teach the young ones of the Shire!” Mithalwen smiled slightly in response, and apologising again Hearpwine hurried off.

When he arrived in the classroom he found that the children were playing some kind of riddling game. Loath to interrupt, he stepped into the doorway as quietly as he could and waited for Miz Bella to acknowledge his presence.

[Fairleaf]

Just as Reggie was leaning over to whisper back to Hanson, Daisy pinched him. He gave a little yelp and glared at her. But her eyes were innocently forward, her hands now folded on the table top.

From the corner of her mouth came a low warning. ‘Pay attention, Reggie!’ She nodded imperceptibly toward the side of the class, where the door was. The big, tall man who’d sung that other night was there.

Reggie breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he was here to sing to them and they could get up and dance. He caught Hanson’s eye and cocked his head toward the figure in the doorway.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Aman cast a nervous glance over at the schoolroom and, bracing herself and straightening up, the Innkeeper headed purposefully over to Miz Bella. As she got near though, she faltered mid-step as she saw the hulking figure of Hearpwine leaning against the doorframe, apparently also waiting for the young schoolteacher's attention. Unwilling to stop now that she had been sighted by a few of the pupils, and not wanting merely to seem to be lurking, Aman slowed as she approached the schoolroom, hesitating by the other doorway. As Miz Bella straightened up, she saw Aman and smiled, an expression infused with warmth and purpose. "Good day, Aman, and how are you doing?"

"Very well, thank you, Bella," Aman replied, coming forward and smiling not a little nervously as she resisted the urge to prefix the teacher's first name with 'Miss'. She had to admit, despite all logic or reason, Miz Bella made her a little nervous. She was so different from everything Aman had ever assosiated with teachers or tutors: she had only ever been taught by men, first her own father, then a succesion of tutors in Gondor for a few years before she had moved on to her full time apprenticeship as a horse trainer and stablehand. Beyond her own father, a timeless, self-possessed man, her experience of teachers was dry, dusty old men with beards that curled wispily down their chests to be stroked pensively as they spoke, or the nervous, shrill-voiced young men with hairless chins and black, simple clothes who grew anxious around their rowdy classes. Miz Bella was in a whole new class of her own.

"Bella, I have a possible proposition to put to you, if you wish to hear it - not a criticism, far from it," she added hastily. "But a...a thought maybe. But sure, Hearpwine was waiting first; ask of him his purpose first, I shouldn't like to queue-jump." She grinned at the bard, her fellow Rohirrim, and stepped back a little, a signal for Bella to speak to him first, as was right. As the schoolteacher conversed with Hearpwine, Aman leant against the doorway and peered into the schoolroom, where the hobbit children sat cross-legged or knelt on the floor in rough rows, slates, paper and writing impliments scattered haphazardly in front of them as they chattered or bickered among themselves. A wave of what could maybe be described as inverted nostalgia washed over the Innkeeper: memories of her past brought back by this schoolroom, but so completely different from the schoolroom of her childhood.

[Mithalwen]

Mithalwen knew she would not follow the bard to the class room but had neither the time nor inclination to explain that she had to complete a more practical service for one child and tidy up her involvement with the mortals of the Shire.

The work might require one more day but she felt she could not afford to stay in the inn any longer so having finished her meal she returned her tray to the common room and slipped up to the tiny chamber under the roof where she had spent the last few nights. Telling herself it was about time she got used to sleeping outside again as she would for the rest of her journey, she packed her few posessions into leather saddlebags. She folded carefully and last the aquamarine dress she had worn for Zimzi and Derufin's wedding and then having checked she had left nothing behind, she took a last look from the tiny window. Aeglos was grazing in the paddock with Kinsul, Uien's horse. Again she regretted the strange change in Uien's manner but was at a loss to understand.

Once downstairs, she checked her slate was clear and arranged to leave her bags in safekeeping til the evening. It was about time to go she thought.

[piosenniel]

Artifondo watched in silence as Cook hummed to herself in anticipation of the tasty thistle treat. She lingered over the pot of boiling water, nudging the artichoke halves gently with a slotted wooden spoon. At last she declared it done – it had turned a lovely, bright shade of green. Scooping each half up with the spoon she deposited each to a plate and invited Artifondo over to partake of the tasty treat.

‘I love that green, sort of grassy smell,’ she said, pulling off one of the more tender inner leaves and giving it a dip in the butter. Delicious! She tried one of the outer leaves, too, and to her delight, found it just as tender. With and expert hand, Cook then took her half and extricated the heart from the thistly leaves. ‘Now here’s the test of a really good choke,’ she said dipping the heart into the butter to give it a generous coating, then pooping it whole into her mouth. ‘Good as ever I tasted!’ she declared. ‘Sweet and tender!’

Cook gave a sigh of satisfaction and pushed the remainder of the artichoke away from her. ‘Well, Master Artifondo,’ she said, nodding her head. ‘if you can bring me . . . oh, say, three or four sacks of these fine vegetables every other month during the season I’d be happy to serve them at the Inn.’ She got up from her chair, saying she needed to get ready to visit a friend.

As she got down a small basket from the top of one of the cupboards, she turned back to the merchant for a moment. ‘I’d also be willing to stock any canned artichoke hearts your family might produce . . . they’re lovely in my chicken and mushroom pie. Is that something you have for sale?’

She waited for his answer as she started to fill her basket with some of the plum tarts she had baked earlier along with a couple of mugs, a small pot of honey, spoons, and napkins.

[Anguirel]

Artifondo, truth to tell, had been afflicted with nerves ever since the Cook's unexpectedly knowledgeable and canny remark about the Silmarils. She had a fine head on her shoulders, and it was somewhat alarming. He paced about a little awkwardly as Vinca Bunce boiled the artichoke. Had it, after all, been wise to change its image so drastically from that boring old Wholesome Carbuncle?

When Vinca seemed in raptures over the artichoke's smell, the pressure lifted, and Artifondo could not restrain a hefty sigh of relief. He took the morsel Vinca offered him, and ate it with as much mirth as he could muster. Perhaps he overdid it. The cooking, without doubt, had been excellent, and the Dragon's butter was the best anywhere, but it was still an artichoke. A small drop of melted butter joined the mushroom soup stain on Artifondo's waistcoat, though he did not notice.

"Good as I ever tasted!" Vinca cried, and Artifondo smiled. Victory was his. If he could pull off a really big sale, Ursula wouldn't tan him when he got home. The downside was that the optimistic Pellinco might send him out on one of these errands again...but the Dragon, he was learning brought its own compensations.

He could have embraced the Cook when she gave her answer. A chance to regularly visit the Inn, and a great catch for Dwellover Artichokes Limited.

"Absolutely, Miz B-Bunce," he answered, stammering in his excitement. "As for the hearts...well...I'll ask my f-father. He runs the business. I am merely a messenger."

He smiled. The only trouble now was the lingering taste of artichoke-and a little more ale would be sure to wash that out.

"Good day, Miz Bunce. Enjoy your tea."

[Primrose Bolger]

While Miz Bunce was speaking with the artichoke merchant, Ginger edged over to where the leftover thistle lay in the bowl. She gave it a thorough look-over. Despite Cook’s remarks on the subject, it simply did not look very edible.

Taking one of the leaves between thumb and finger she brought it slowly to her nose. Well, it did smell clean and a little sweet . . . Now just how did Cook do it? There . . . just dip it in the melted butter, using it like a little scoop. Well, now who wouldn’t like a taste of the Inn’s butter? She scraped her teeth over the end of the leaf as she’d seen Cook do.

‘Oh my! That’s delicious!’ she motioned for Buttercup to come over and try a bit. ‘Leaves a very pleasant aftertaste on the tongue, it does,’ Ginger went on, trying a little of the heart from the other half. Artifondo, she noted had left his choke almost untouched.

She and Buttercup finished up the rest of the artichoke halves, laughing as they wiped the trails of butter from their chins . . .

[piosenniel]

Zimziran

The day had advanced to a lovely mid afternoon. And had proved quite profitable to her labors, as well. In the back of the little cart she’d driven from the Inn were several large blocks of clay she’d taken from various places along the banks of The Water. They were wrapped well in wet canvas, now, as she headed back to the Inn.

On the seat beside her sat Granny Oldbuck, her gnarled hands resting on the knob of her yew-wood cane. Granny’s dark eyes flitted about at the passing scenery. Her face held a look of satisfaction as she nodded at the old familiar landmarks and at the new crops just springing up in the fields. ‘Just let me off here, dear,’ she said to Zimzi, as they neared the Inn’s front door. ‘I’ve got some business with Vinca. That, and a taste for a wee mug of the new stout.’

‘Oh, let me take you round to the kitchen door,’ said Zimzi, laughing as Granny finished speaking. ‘Cook’s bound to be in there at this time of day, thinking about the supper meal and all.’

Derufin and his companion were nowhere to be seen as they passed the woodshed. The door was propped open, revelaing the work that had been done. Zimzi arched her brows and shook her head knowingly. ‘I’m betting you’ll find him with a mug in his one hand and a sandwich in the other if you go into the common room.’

‘Oh, aye, and isn’t he a fine figure of a man you’ve got, dear. Needs his victuals to keep up his strength.’ She looked at the wood piled in the shed. ‘Been busy today, I see.’

Zimzi pulled the cart up near the back step and got down. She came round quickly to Granny’s side, lending the older Hobbit a hand to steady herself as she got down. ‘If you see Derufin in there, Granny, will you tell him I’ve come back early?’ She held the door open as Granny entered the kitchen, then stepped quickly back to the cart. She wanted to get to the cottage to store the clay in a cool place.

[Arry]

Ferdy

Along the sides of the little rolling hills round the burrow where Ferdy and his family lived, the late spring flowers were in full bloom. He’d stopped his cart along the side of the road just west of the Inn and picked a small bouquet. For Ginger. A fistful of lupine with some soft yellow switches of witch-hazel mixed in.

There were some heads turned as he entered the Common room, and stood blinking in the low light. He squinted looking about for the sight of her face.

‘In the kitchen,’ said Ruby, passing by him with a tray of mugs.

He grinned at her and saying thanks, made his way across the room. More than one of the patrons nodded as he went by. And Gaffer Mossyfoot cackled a bit, giving a toothless grin as Ferdy went past him. ‘Got hit bad, that ‘un’ Didn’t he just!’ He tapped his cane on the floor and looked into the distance with his rheumy eyes. ‘Lupine’ll do it, though. The gals like ‘em.’ He gave a whoop and took a swallow of ale from his mug. ‘That’s a kiss-getting’ bouquet, if ever I saw one,’ he declared.

Others at his table gave the bouquet a moment of consideration, then one of them laid a wager on the old gaffer’s statement.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Miz Bella was having trouble keeping up with all the visitors to her classroom. If every day proved to be this eventful, she would require not just one assistant but perhaps two or three!

Turning first to the Innkeeper, Miz Bella quickly explained, "I'm so glad you made it to our classroom to have a look. I'll be with you in just a moment. But let me speak first with the Bard so he can get started with the children."

Then Miz Bella turned and gave her attention to Hearpwine. "It was so kind of you to come. I am not sure what you had in mind for this afternoon, but earlier I spoke with Derufin. He mentioned that the Spring Faire would be starting in just a bit. Apparently, that's a time for singing and dancing and general merriment among all the hobbits in this part of the Shire. Master Gil has a puppet show planned, and I'll be speaking with him to see if we can help with that. But I was also wondering if the children might sing a song or two for the visitors to the Faire. Pehaps you might want to work with them on that. I know from their parents that a few of the children can already play instruments. You might eventually think about asking for volunteers and having them play while the others sing or dance. But I'll leave the details up to you, whatever you think best."

With Miz Bella's attention directed elsewhere, all the children had begun whispering and giggling among themselves. Turning to face the students, Miz Bella cleared her throat to attract attention, rapping sharply on the wooden desk with her knuckles, "Children, we have a visitor. Let's show him our best behavior. This is Master Hearpwine. He's come all the way from Rohan and has generously agreed to share his skills. We'll be able to hear him sing and perhaps learn a melody or two that we can perform at the Spring Faire. I want you all to pay attention and do everything he says. I'll be out in the next room speaking with the Innkeeper but will listen to what's happening here as well. This is our last thing to do before going home so let's give it our full attention."

With that, Miz Bella beckoned the Bard to come before the class, and gestured to Aman to go into her private chamber. "I just hope they behave," Miz Bella added to Aman as they left the room. "The class has been a bit rambuctious today, especially the lads. It's the first break I've had. We can talk here close to the door so I can keep one ear on the classroom. I did want to thank you for letting me use the Inn for our school. And how can I help you today?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine was stunned to have been left alone – and apparently in charge! – of the children. They all looked to him, their eyes growing wide as saucers as they took in his immense height. Even though the room they were in had been constructed with the Big Folk in mind, the rafters were still but a few inches above the Bard’s head, adding to the illusion of height. He had seen, once, a long time ago, an Ent striding toward his party across the fields of Rohan, and he imagined now that he must give something of the same impression: unnatural height!

He smiled at the comparison of himself to an Ent and distracted his mind from that an other musings by directing himself to the class. “Well, I do wish that Miz Bella had not told you all that I am all that stands between you and the close of the school day! I was never overly fond of my studies myself and would always wish to be outside than cramped beneath a desk. But still, perhaps we can make the time more lively with music!” And with that, he drew forth his harp and began a lively melody.

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot:
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand --
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot:
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

When he was finished the children burst into applause and Hearpwine, never one to miss the chance of acknowledging his skill, bowed deeply to accept it. Straightening up he addressed the students once more. “Miz Bella has told me that there is to be a Faire soon, and that she would like you all to learn a song to sing at that. It seems to me that the lay I just gave would be apt for such an occasion. But first, tell me your names so that I might know you all better – and do any of you know how to play any sorts of musical instruments?”

[Arry]

Of Trees and axes and family loyalty . . .

Hanson, five years, and Woody, eleven, shifted uneasily in their seats at the finish of the song. Oh the big man had a lovely voice. ‘Rings true as a woodsman’s axe,’ their Granny would say.

And there was the trouble in it for them.

Their Da and uncles were all woodsmen. Every man jack of them. Some were fellers, their big axes biting into the trees like great sharp teeth. Their crosscut saws singing in a rhythm as they took the giants down. And some of them worked the little sawmill their Granda had passed down to them – making the rough lumber needed for outbuildings and pens and furniture and such.

And while Hanson and Woody knew their Da and Uncles loved the working with the trees and woods, they just couldn’t picture them wanting the boys to be singing such a . . . well, tree-gushy song, is all Woody could think of.

There would be woodsmen contests at the Spring Faire, Woody knew. Who could buck a log the quickest; which team could saw a round off first with the two-man saw; and others. His Da would be competing. He was one of the quickest with an axe in all of Bywater and Hobbition.

No, they simply could not be singing a song like this at the Spring Faire!

Lost in his thoughts on the matter, Woody did not see Hanson stand up from his chair and introduce himself.

‘I’m Hanson . . . Hanson Boffin, from Hobbiton. My Da’s carved me a little wooden whistle. And my Uncle Gil’s taught me to play along on a few tunes.’ Hanson squirmed a bit under the scrutiny of the giant, but spoke up quite clearly. ‘You sing real good, Master Hearp . . . ummm . . .’ ‘Hearpwine!’ his brother prompted him. ‘And that was a real pretty song you played on your harp.’ Hanson took a deep breath and went on.

‘But me and my brother can’t be singing a song like that at the Faire. Our Da will be there and he’d have our hides for it!’

[Fairleaf]

Reggie, also five years old, stood up next to his friend, Hanson. ‘It was a really pretty song, Mister.’ He grinned up at Hearpwine. ‘I’m Reggie Chubb. I don’t play any pipe or anything. And my Da raises sheep, so I don’t suppose he’d mind a song about a tree and all.’

He clapped his friend on the back. ‘Maybe we can think of something else for Hanson and Woody to do.’ Reggie cocked his head up toward the tall man. ‘You think so?’

[SonOfBombadil]

Lewis just about fell over from the pounce he had taken with Ravon's reply. All of his unneasiness had melted away and he was the happiest person in the world right now. He wrapped his arms around Ravon and kissed her with joy.

Lewis was lost in his beautiful, now-feyonce's eyes when Jonathan walked in. He could hardly take his eyes off of Ravon to greet his brother.

[Gird]

Luz walks along the path towards the Green Dragon in shadow. This looks like a pleasant inn , he thinks to himself, I'll have to do my best not to be revealed and spoil it for them. Pulling his hood further over his face, he quickly and quietly ascends the steps to the inn.

Looking around he sees many cheery faced hobbits, happy humans and a few smiling elves. It's popular, I'll have to take that seat in the corner there. He scuttles over to the seat and sits down, never taking his eyes too far off of the ground. Luz sits and ponders what he will have to drink today.

Luz also ponders ways of making a better looking fake beard then the one he has on now

[Undómë]

Hob noted the odd fellow as he entered the door. He had his hood pulled up, and his head tipped down, and with the sun behind him in the doorway, it was impossible to see the fellow’s face. As the door closed and the glare of the outside light receded, Hob thought he caught a glimpse of an odd looking growth on the man’s chin.

‘Well, I’ll be,’ he said to himself. ‘That is the strangest beard I’ve ever seen in my life.’

Hob was sitting in the corner of the room, his legs stretched out on the bench, his back up against the wall. The new fellow ambled to another table nearby and sat down, his face still in shadow.

‘Would you like a mug of ale?’ asked Hob, pointing his pipe stem at the pitcher on his table. ‘There’s an extra mug if you’re thirsty.’ ‘Name’s Hob Bridger, from Girdley Island, he said pulling out his pipeweed pouch and offering it to the stranger. ‘Smoke?’