A Hobbit Inquisition, Part the 6th: Chickens an’ Garden Weeds
Being the observations of Applecider Bolingbroke, assisting Deputy-Shirriff Lancogard North-Took, Deputy-Shirriff, in the Dastardly Case of the Dead Man’s Tale.
(As recorded in a cipher that can only be cracked if you understand Pig-Dwarvish, and know both the mezzo and second-tenor parts for all eighteen acts of the grand opera Helcaraxë)
NOT TO BE DISSEMINATED OR COPIED, OR I’LL HIDE STINKBUGS AT YER NEXT TEA PARTY!!!
Hah. Stealth. Did I say ‘stealth?’ I lied.
I lied like a fat rug.
Oh, we planned to execute an infiltration most cunning: That lasted about as long as a piece of bacon next to a hungry Hobbit, fer when we heard Mister Halros groan, an’ Will Tuffin kicking him, we was woke ter Wrath.
We was out-sized an’ outnumbered by Big Folks with sticks, like chickens in a Hobnanigans court. But anyone who’s ever played Hobnanigans will tell yeh the meanest adversaries on the court be the chickens themselves .... An’ that be before yeh give the chickens swords.
Lancey let fly with all the exploding-oil-laden arrows he had ter hand afore charging straight fer the ugly bloke with the pointy teeth. I think “INIQUITOUS!!” “VILLANOUS!!” and “FELONIUS!!” may have been me opening fusillade: the Bardic originality only evolved from there, delivering a new wallop with each adjective in turn. An’ that were before I opened up with me impression of a true soprano, to th’ accompaniment of both B-Sharp Major an’ B-Sharp Minor (thar be the names o’ me sword an’ dagger), at the same time.
Lance’s war-cry “Th’ Sword o’ th’ Shire!” flew like a banner before us: We WHOMPED! an’ we THOMPED! an’ we CLOMPED! an’ we BOMPED! an’ we sets them all ter flight: Between us, we carried the day.
Our victory were hardly cause fer celebration, though, as a friend very badly in need lay trussed up in a corner like rolled beef – an’ just about as meanly handled.
No hyperbole: Mister Sir Halros were sicker than anybody I ever seen.
I won’t say it weren’t both an unpleasant and anxious night. He weren’t exactly cognizant, between the paralysis, the fever, the collywobbles, and ample blows ter th’ head an' guts.
We took turns standin’ guard an’ doin’ our best ter keep him comfy: Cleanin' and bandaging the Big Lad's hurts, tryn' to keep his burnin' head cool, and coaxin’ chamomile an’ mint tea into him whenever we could, so he’d not be throwing up on an empty stomach all night. T’were near three in the morning when he seemed somewhat aware of where he was, and later still when he tried ter speak.
T’were a bit of a puzzler: First we thought he said “Key,” then we thought he said “Kin,” then we thought he said “King.” There be a statue of monumental proportions up th’ Brandywine, beyond which lies Big Folks’ territory, called King’s Crossing. Lance an’ I first thought he were askin’ fer word ter be got to King’s Crossing: maybe ask other Green-Hoods there for help.
But he were casting a desperate eye over to 'is own pack.
We opened it. Thar were a few essentials, includin’ a bag o’ simple medicinal fare. In amongst it were an oddity.
Kingsfoil be a weed what blooms at night in shady gardens (every sensible Hobbit’s got a sunny garden fer tomatoes an’ melons an’ squash, and a shady garden fer cabbage an’ rhubarb an’ sprouts). It smells pleasant. But it be scruffy an’ stringy. Weeding the kingsfoil were part o’ me upgrowing chores (we fed ‘em ter Daisy, me Nan’s brown cow).
T’were the first I heard of it having analeptic properties. But Mister Halros’s eyes were locked on it. An’ as he were having trouble breathing again (the fever still held 'im), Lance an’ I – after debating whether it were meant to be applied as a salve or ingested – decided to get it straight into the Big Lad. We minced it up, threw it in the hot tea-water, an’ helped him drink it (it do smell nice).
Bullroarer witness me: I will NEVER weed th’ kingsfoil outta me garden again – I'm'a make a whole new row of planters, just for that alone – no wonder Nan’s cow turned out the best cheese in all of Brockenborings.
Within minutes, the Green-Hood breathed easy. Within an hour the fever was broke, an’ though he were nauseated, an' weak as wet linen, he could sit up an’ eat a bit of soup an’ tell us quite a bit.
He were taken in the woods near the throat of Bullroarer’s Sward. Even against a whole gang of ruffians he held his own (Mister Halros be easily six-foot-four and built like a stone wall). But he were nicked with a screechy Gobbo dart laced with the spider venom, causin’ him ter stagger as if drunk. They were able ter lay hands on ‘im then an’ force a dose down his throat. There were nothin’ for it then: He were immobilized.
What followed were grim. The thugs had ‘im in Dwaling fer at least three days (or that’s his best guess; he gradually lost awareness). An' they spent the time using him fer ..... well, I can only call him the subject of abhorrent experimentation: They wanted ter see how long he’d last on repeated doses of the screechy Gobbo’s cooked concoction.
An’ I be pausin’ fer a steadying breath here. Fer what Halros heard – before devolving into fevered stupor – very grimly but soundly puts ter rest, at last, the inquiry upon which Lance an’ I set out:
Seems some of the knaves were laying bets on how many days he’d hold out, as ... well ... he “looked tougher than the last one." .....
.... He also overheard Will Tuffin tell one of ‘is men ter "dump him in th’ Brandywine this time, an’ not the Shire; them Halflings be given ter snooping too much."
..................................Oof.
So therewith we finds, at last, the hands behind the demise of [Subject C].
Nothin' pleasant upon which ter cogitate. But thar be an answer .... Fer whatever that be worth.
I cannae think of any means of spinning these tidings that won’t bring pain ter Miss Sergie, but she’ll have ter be told.
We’ll be making tracks ter see her anyway: I divided the sample phial of poison I filched from the cauldrons (what Lance has now dubbed “Gobbo-de-Gook" -- I likes it): we’ll give half ter the Green-Hoods fer their own examination, an’ take half ter Miss Sergie at Bar-and-Acorn. Tearing through Brockenborings looking fer weeds in everyone’s gardens be a madcap exercise, an’ we be in want of a counter ter this poison. She or someone equally versed should have some ideas.
Till then, the Shire an’ the Northcountry Green-Hoods be well on the alert, an’ hopefully no more need be endangered.
Lance an’ I’ll be writing up these intelligences in a more official format fer the Bounders. But first, we be making a stop ter the Plough an’ Stars. Big Folks don’t normally come full within the town limits, but Mister Sir Halros be in need of beefing ‘imself back up (so ter speak).
And Lance an’ I be in need of a drink.
The Hobbittian Inquisition herewith proceeds to …… the pub.
