A Hobbit Inquisition, Part the 5th: Hydrangeas
Being the observations of Applecider Bolingbroke, assisting Deputy-Shirriff Lancogard North-Took, in the Dastardly Case of the Dead Man’s Tale.
(As recorded in a cipher once learned from a wanderin’ Treasure-Seeker called ‘Theodore’)
NOT TO BE DISSEMINATED OR COPIED, OR I’LL PUT PASTE INSIDE YER HAT!!!
Whether or not it were diplomatic ter broach ter Mister Sir Halros th’ fact that I heeded his injunction not ter involve meself in the stirrings north o’ the Bounds for all of ... maybe thirty seconds, tops? Thar be a moot point now.
We were still no closer ter landing a dart on who gave the orders ter sack Dwaling.
But Lance an’ I were naturally keen ter deduce as much as possible about this aspic of spider venom afore it were unleashed upon the Shire, the Bounders in green hoods, or anyone else th’ screechy Gobbos be cookin’ it up for.
Figgered we’d start with Will Asquith, wha’ be the apothecary (an’ also th’ grocer) in Oatbarton, then proceed ter Mister Halros. Then – if necessary – send fer a consultation with Miss Sergie, back in Elflands west o’ Needlehole.
An ideal order of operations would probably th’other way round. But time be rather of the essence, an’ the Written Word can be intercepted. So to Asquith’s shop we went. And a pleasing surprise it were ter find Will knew more than what Lance an’ I banked on (I s’ppose when one lives so close ter brooding grounds, one best be informed).
Spider poisons nae be meant te kill, but ter paralyze. Spiders be hoarders, wha’ cannae eat great heaps at once, as they be scuttling about on webs. So they gots themselves a means of keepin’ prey immobile, but alive, so’s not to spoil (regular epicures, these spiders be .....).
As ter the Affront ter Nature wha’ be the Gobbos’ cooking operations? Any cook knows that boiling a liquid down be a means o’ concentrating its potency. Like reducing a red wine sauce ter make a glaze, or maple-tree sap ter make yummy yummy syrup. So stands ter reason someone be placing an order for a supply o’ highly concentrated toxin ... perhaps fer them what be of exceptional constitution.
“Like Beardie Dorfs,” I says.
“Or ELFS!” Lance says.
“Or really hefty strapping Big Folks,” I says, suddenly forming a very unpleasant idea. “Like ...”
“LIKE [SUBJECT C]!!!” bellows Lance, getting very excitable. “Or- .”
“Or MISTER SIR HALROS!!!”
If Mister Halros were launching an investigation himself with the Green-Hoods, he needed ter know. Lance (after pinky-swearing with no backsies he’d nae get close without me fer backup) set out ter climb the bluffs overlooking the Gobbo camp, in hopes of getting a better handle on their numbers.
I hopped on Jonagold an’ made tracks down the Green.
Mister Sir Halros makes his dwellin’ in a little glade uphill o’ the quarries, what affords a good view, an’ decent cover.
He were nowhere ter be seen.
The one half o’ me said nae ter get antsy. His bow an’ sword were gone, so he most likely went into the wilds: He makes rounds often enough. Or maybe he were conferring with a fellow Green-Hood. The other half ‘o me, though, could nae help but notice some odd details.
His dish an’ mug were unwashed: the food bits were hard as rock. Thar were a half-loaf o’ bread – days old – an’ a few inches of cold tea in the kettle. Mister Sir Halros be a tidy chap, an’ a sensible one. He’d do the washing-up if he were going away for a long spell, an’ he’d take the bread fer provender.
An’ EVERYONE knows leftover tea be fer watering yer hydrangeas; they like the acidic soil.
All of which points ter the Green-Hood leavin’ house with the intention of returning the same day ..... several days ago.
Even then, me Hobbit Sense almost talked me Bardic Imagination into settling down, till I heard a slightly mournful whicker out the back. Mister Halros has a horse, brown as a cinnamon stick, called Brandy, an’ she be a sweetie. Brandy were tethered by the streamlet, so she were nae lacking fer water, but t’weren’t a rich spot fer grazin’, an’ she were hungry as a Tween.
..... Oi.
Leading a Big Folk’s horse by pony be an interesting challenge, but I could nae help but bring her along back ter Oatbarton. Mister Halros’d never starve Brandy. Andy Deepwell the hostler got her squared away whilst I had a talk with Lance.
His efforts ter get a Gobbo headcount yielded mixed results: they be good at diving underground at first sign of anything. But he did observe a Gobbo in dialogue with a rough-lookin’ Big Folk what carried gear similar to the other ruffians with whom we lodged our extremely Formal Complaint. Lance be pretty sure this bloke – Will Tuffin, he heard ‘im called – were one o’ the ringleaders.
Lance followed ‘im back ter Dwaling (what’s left of it). The clod seem ter be holing up with his mates in the Great Burrow. Fortunately, the Dwaling folks be sensible Hobbits, who DO know what ter do with their leftover tea, an’ the Great Burrow be surrounded with some very fat an’ healthy hydrangea bushes indeed.
Lance an’ I had ourselves a quiet scuttle (I seem ter be drawing on an arachnid turn of phrase here ....).
Peerin’ in through a window, we saw Will Tuffin (“Oh we’ll tough HIM alright,” I says. Not a brilliant quip, but shut it; I’ve had a long day). He ‘ad twelve or thirteen mates – a pretty steep order, an’ no mistake – one of whom were the UGLIEST bloke I ever clapped eyes on. He sorta had hair, and sorta didn’t; his forehead were slab-like, his skin were sallow as a Gobbo, an’ his teeth .....? Thar be boars, what have their big teeth inverted, so’s they face up. – It were a bit like that, but in a Man-like face.
I says ter Lance, yeh ever come across one o’ them versions o’ the screechie Gobbos’ Big Folks they calls Orcs before? He says nae; only heard about ‘em in stories an’ balladry, same as me. Word is, they be like really burly Men, ‘cept they bites, and maybe hits harder.
It were the most ominous sight a Hobbit ever seen inside a decent Smial.
An’ we’d’ve been tempted to seal the doors an’ burn the place ter the ground, but fer the sight o’ somethin’ slumped in a dark corner, what nearly make me squawk like a chicken stepping on a tack in a wagon with four ungreased axles at once:
An ill-used Man in dirty kit with a green hood.
THEM RUFFIANS HAS MISTER HALROS!!!!
................................. BULLROARER’S BAYBERRIES AND BASIL!!!
.......... AAAUUUUUUGGGGHHHHH................................................!!!
Lance says we best wait ter midnight ter make a move (classic time fer night fights). I says don’t be a loon: when yer dealin’ with large groups, there only be one time ye can guarantee they’ll all be in the same place at once – Lance smacked his head an’ said o’ course:
Supper.
We be waitin’ now, fer the smoke o’ the evening’s fire ter signal our cue to strike. An' I be hiding this song-and-recipe book, where I been making me notes, under a rock, in case worst comes ter worst. Fer we be preparin’ ter unleash a wrath unknown in these parts since the day Bullroarer Took ‘imself figgered out which end of a club yeh whops the head with.
Let the Names of North-Took an’ Bolingbroke strike fear inter’ the hearts of all them what visits harm upon our Kith and Kin.
Must now be very quiet. The Hobbitian Inquisition be preparing to strike in ..... *ssssshh* ...... STEALTH MOOOODDDDEEE .......
