A Rainy Night at the Pony
Posted: Wed Nov 03, 2010 3:17 am
(Translator's Note- from The Leavings of Daffodil Underhill comes her recollection of meeting the Ranger Mirimaran one night at the Prancing Pony. Consider this part one. Translating is hard (and thirsty) work!)
A Rainy night at the Pony
"Headed North."
The words came slowly from the old Ranger as he slipped into sleep, his long legs crossed near the fireplace that tried to flame but only sputtered as rain dripped down the ancient stone chimney to pop and sizzle. It had been raining for close to three days; a huge storm that roared from the South like the wrath of some ancient beast, throwing all in the North into disarray. Bree, now like some island fastness in the middle of the gale, was a refuge for Men and hobbits alike, for most of the halflings had abandoned their holes and fled to the hill in search of shelter. The Prancing Pony was now full of hobbit families, cold, tired, and of course, hungry. Old Butterbur was beside himself as he and the few who had stayed to work tried to accommodate his guests, but in the far corner, one old Ranger had commandeered a high backed chair, claimed a spot near the fireplace, and now kept a tired watch over his two young charges, both wrapped in blankets and cloaks, sound asleep at the luring of his words.
The Ranger, his grey cloak faded and frayed, had his hood pulled close as he touched chin to chest. Across his lap lay his sword, one hand on the hilt, the other holding his money purse. More than once had someone tried to use the weather as an opportunity for theft. He himself had launched a cut-purse from the great oak doorway the day before, watching him crash to the muddy road with a loud splat. He could remember the days when Men could travel to Bree with little fear for life and coin; now the days grew darker and as the rain blew against the small glass windows he worried for the young boys at his feet. Soon they would be of age, and take up the mantle of Ranger as he and his fellows would see the fading days of their lives end with old age or grim death in some far off place.
A dream was coming to him, as the air about him grew warmer, and the din of voices settled and grew faint. Days from his faraway youth, happier, full of bravado and drink, when his mother wrapped his first cloak around his shoulders and declared him a Ranger. There was a smell in the air, cooking, a scent of cinnamon that took him to a kitchen long since abandoned, and to a small child with bright eyes that knew no evil thing in the world, only that his mother made the best biscuits in all the land. A man, tall and grim, walked past the child, kissed his mother, and left the kitchen, never to return. Such days as these...
There was a tug, and from the vault of sleep he sprang awake, the sword flashing like the lightning outside. Teeth set and eyes wide, he searched for a thief, but before him stood a wide-eyed hobbit girl, her small fingers still wrapped in the muddy hem of his cloak. Her hair hung in damp ringlets, her deep brown eyes like pools in the firelight, her blue dress and apron tied with red ribbons too bright for the darkened common room of the Pony.
There were few times in the old Ranger's life where he had been genuinely surprised, but this was one of them. Finally she spoke, her voice like a clear bell in the sea of shouting and carousing around them. He blinked as she asked,
"What happened next?"
The Ranger pushed back the hood of his cloak, his gray hair spilling out. Slowly he pushed the sword home in the scabbard, and released his grip on the hilt.
"What?" he managed, his own voice low and gruff, used to asking questions more than answering them.
"You went North, you said. What happened next?" The hobbit girl let of his cloak and then sat on a low stool beside his leg, her face turned up as she asked. Her eyes seemed to dance in anticipation.
"You were...listening?" he asked, and in reply she nodded with a bounce of curls.
"I love stories", she said, "all sorts of them. Tales, poems, lays, riddles, I like to write them down."
"Write them down", he repeated, a rare smile coming to his lips, "a most unusual hobbit you are."
She nodded and produced a large (for her size) book, leather bound and gilt-edged, and then she turned the pages and held it up for him to see.
"My Leavings", she said, as he peered down at the small, precise script that flowed across the pages, "I intend to become a writer of tales."
"Oh my", he replied, "what is the world coming to?"
"To me, of course", she said matter-of-factly, closing the book and picking up a mug of sweetmilk. She sipped and then asked,
"Don't your people write things down?"
He nodded, taking up a great tankard and draining the rest of his ale. He swung his arm towards Butterbur, but the man seemed not to notice.
"Bah! The man's a fool", he muttered, and then he replied,
"Of course we do, but I doubt our tales are for ears such as yours. Might make for dry reading."
"Oh, but I love adventure tales!" she exclaimed, leaning closer, "I am a Took, on my mother's side."
He nodded, for he had his share of encounters with the Little Folk, and the queerest of all the Halflings were Tooks.
"Who are you?" he asked. She stood and did a short curtsy.
"My apologies, Master Watcher. I am Daffodil Underhill of Staddle, daughter of Otto and Marigold." She pointed to a low long table where two fat hobbits snored over empty plates, a full half dozen plump hobbit children laying asleep in their ample laps.
"Well met, Mistress Underhill, are you adopted?"
Her hands flew to her mouth as a giggle escaped like a twisting cat. The Ranger smiled down at her, a hobbit child so fair and features so graceful that she seemed more fay than mortal.
"No, my dear sir, I am not", she replied, "I am told that I resemble the great Belladonna, but I am too humble to accept the compliement. Still, Dad says I don't eat enough to attract suitors."
"Suitors? You can't be of age."
She nodded. "Seventeen summers have passed since my birth. Our hole, the biggest in Staddle, is a bit cramped and I think that Father and Mother need the room."
"Such is the life of a hobbit author", said the Ranger, as he made a wild gesture at Butterbur, holding his empty mug upside down. The fat innkeeper nodded, but then the great door opened and a troop of dwarves piled in, their bright hoods dripping from the pouring rain.
"Don't let them stay", groaned the Ranger, as he saw Butterbur sweep them in as he shut the door.
"Do you not like dwarves?" asked Daffodil.
"Oh, I like them good enough, stout fighters, loyal to the end, and great storytellers as well." His eyes were fixed on Butterbur as one of the wet dwarves pressed money into his hand. He led them off to the parlour.
"But why then?"
"The ale", groaned the Ranger, "they will drink all the bloody ale."
A Rainy night at the Pony
"Headed North."
The words came slowly from the old Ranger as he slipped into sleep, his long legs crossed near the fireplace that tried to flame but only sputtered as rain dripped down the ancient stone chimney to pop and sizzle. It had been raining for close to three days; a huge storm that roared from the South like the wrath of some ancient beast, throwing all in the North into disarray. Bree, now like some island fastness in the middle of the gale, was a refuge for Men and hobbits alike, for most of the halflings had abandoned their holes and fled to the hill in search of shelter. The Prancing Pony was now full of hobbit families, cold, tired, and of course, hungry. Old Butterbur was beside himself as he and the few who had stayed to work tried to accommodate his guests, but in the far corner, one old Ranger had commandeered a high backed chair, claimed a spot near the fireplace, and now kept a tired watch over his two young charges, both wrapped in blankets and cloaks, sound asleep at the luring of his words.
The Ranger, his grey cloak faded and frayed, had his hood pulled close as he touched chin to chest. Across his lap lay his sword, one hand on the hilt, the other holding his money purse. More than once had someone tried to use the weather as an opportunity for theft. He himself had launched a cut-purse from the great oak doorway the day before, watching him crash to the muddy road with a loud splat. He could remember the days when Men could travel to Bree with little fear for life and coin; now the days grew darker and as the rain blew against the small glass windows he worried for the young boys at his feet. Soon they would be of age, and take up the mantle of Ranger as he and his fellows would see the fading days of their lives end with old age or grim death in some far off place.
A dream was coming to him, as the air about him grew warmer, and the din of voices settled and grew faint. Days from his faraway youth, happier, full of bravado and drink, when his mother wrapped his first cloak around his shoulders and declared him a Ranger. There was a smell in the air, cooking, a scent of cinnamon that took him to a kitchen long since abandoned, and to a small child with bright eyes that knew no evil thing in the world, only that his mother made the best biscuits in all the land. A man, tall and grim, walked past the child, kissed his mother, and left the kitchen, never to return. Such days as these...
There was a tug, and from the vault of sleep he sprang awake, the sword flashing like the lightning outside. Teeth set and eyes wide, he searched for a thief, but before him stood a wide-eyed hobbit girl, her small fingers still wrapped in the muddy hem of his cloak. Her hair hung in damp ringlets, her deep brown eyes like pools in the firelight, her blue dress and apron tied with red ribbons too bright for the darkened common room of the Pony.
There were few times in the old Ranger's life where he had been genuinely surprised, but this was one of them. Finally she spoke, her voice like a clear bell in the sea of shouting and carousing around them. He blinked as she asked,
"What happened next?"
The Ranger pushed back the hood of his cloak, his gray hair spilling out. Slowly he pushed the sword home in the scabbard, and released his grip on the hilt.
"What?" he managed, his own voice low and gruff, used to asking questions more than answering them.
"You went North, you said. What happened next?" The hobbit girl let of his cloak and then sat on a low stool beside his leg, her face turned up as she asked. Her eyes seemed to dance in anticipation.
"You were...listening?" he asked, and in reply she nodded with a bounce of curls.
"I love stories", she said, "all sorts of them. Tales, poems, lays, riddles, I like to write them down."
"Write them down", he repeated, a rare smile coming to his lips, "a most unusual hobbit you are."
She nodded and produced a large (for her size) book, leather bound and gilt-edged, and then she turned the pages and held it up for him to see.
"My Leavings", she said, as he peered down at the small, precise script that flowed across the pages, "I intend to become a writer of tales."
"Oh my", he replied, "what is the world coming to?"
"To me, of course", she said matter-of-factly, closing the book and picking up a mug of sweetmilk. She sipped and then asked,
"Don't your people write things down?"
He nodded, taking up a great tankard and draining the rest of his ale. He swung his arm towards Butterbur, but the man seemed not to notice.
"Bah! The man's a fool", he muttered, and then he replied,
"Of course we do, but I doubt our tales are for ears such as yours. Might make for dry reading."
"Oh, but I love adventure tales!" she exclaimed, leaning closer, "I am a Took, on my mother's side."
He nodded, for he had his share of encounters with the Little Folk, and the queerest of all the Halflings were Tooks.
"Who are you?" he asked. She stood and did a short curtsy.
"My apologies, Master Watcher. I am Daffodil Underhill of Staddle, daughter of Otto and Marigold." She pointed to a low long table where two fat hobbits snored over empty plates, a full half dozen plump hobbit children laying asleep in their ample laps.
"Well met, Mistress Underhill, are you adopted?"
Her hands flew to her mouth as a giggle escaped like a twisting cat. The Ranger smiled down at her, a hobbit child so fair and features so graceful that she seemed more fay than mortal.
"No, my dear sir, I am not", she replied, "I am told that I resemble the great Belladonna, but I am too humble to accept the compliement. Still, Dad says I don't eat enough to attract suitors."
"Suitors? You can't be of age."
She nodded. "Seventeen summers have passed since my birth. Our hole, the biggest in Staddle, is a bit cramped and I think that Father and Mother need the room."
"Such is the life of a hobbit author", said the Ranger, as he made a wild gesture at Butterbur, holding his empty mug upside down. The fat innkeeper nodded, but then the great door opened and a troop of dwarves piled in, their bright hoods dripping from the pouring rain.
"Don't let them stay", groaned the Ranger, as he saw Butterbur sweep them in as he shut the door.
"Do you not like dwarves?" asked Daffodil.
"Oh, I like them good enough, stout fighters, loyal to the end, and great storytellers as well." His eyes were fixed on Butterbur as one of the wet dwarves pressed money into his hand. He led them off to the parlour.
"But why then?"
"The ale", groaned the Ranger, "they will drink all the bloody ale."