LONG CLEEVE, YONDERSHIRE, on this the 24th day of Astron
I arrived in Nobottle late afternoon on the 23rd, rolling into the Fox and Fiddle and looking up Master Arno Diggle, the proprietor. He was quite happy to see me, and not too tired, as he explained my arrival was timed right before the “dinner rush”, as he named it.
While I settled into a tidy supper (good plain food, as good as anything in the Eastfarthing) I had the chance to keep an ear open for the talk that swirled about me. “Dinner rush” is the right word for it, and no mistake; the Fox and Fiddle puts out a good board, judging from the company that soon swelled in the common room. But while the food was good, the talk about the beer was less than happy, in fact downright scathing – and poor Arno stood to lose a lot of business that night.
After things settled down a bit, owing to Arno breaking out a different lager that seemed to put things to right in the minds of the patrons, I called him over for a brief talk. This kind of thing has been happening on and off for a week, says Arno. He’d break open a cask of local stout, only to find it horribly wrong; only the local ales seemed this way, and Arno lamented how he had to pay (and charge) extra for ales imported from points south.
I set out the next morning for Long Cleeve with this in the back of my mind, and rode into my hometown after luncheon. There without delay I passed up the road to the burrow of Great-aunt Jacinta North-took, revered by my relations for her spry health at her age (98 at this writing), her exquisitely landscaped burrow, and her resolutely iron will. I had not seen Jacinta since relocating to Brockenborings long past, so we spent a while catching up on doings and goings-on, until I broached the subject of my return.
“So, business an’ bothers, eh, nephew?” she drawled. “Well, well. Th’ news tha’ reached me ears hae been odd ‘bout ye, traffickin’ wi’ Big Folk, ‘specially them Elfs – didje really make friends wi’ an Elf-witch, like they sez? – an’ ye wishin’ ta dash off agin wi’ ‘em! Lad, gitcher head back on th’ right way ‘round! Yer goin’ fer Shirriff be a proud thing, I mean, lookit Rosalinda, yer second-cousin-onst-removed, she’s takin’ over from her ma as Reeve! A proud tradition, Shirriff, sez I, an’ in th’ family ter boot.
“So ye be cravin’ advice? Well here’s me own poor take on things: leave what’s o’er th’ Bounds fer yer Elf-witch. There be more pressin’ matters right here-n-now, true’s ye like. Th’ word is there’s chicanery afoot regardin’ all th’ spoiled ales – an’ not just Nobottle, but righcheer in Long Cleeve, an’ word also is Tighfield’s in it as well! There be a petition cirkulatin’ amongst honest folk, an’ bad words are bein’ passed ‘twixt good neighbors o’er this. Gitcher good self o’er to Rosalinda’s an’ hear th’ straight ‘n skinny from ‘er!”
Thus said Great-aunt Jacinta, and I was obliged to make my way right then to the burrow of Rosalinda North-took, now the Reeve of the Yondershire – the time-out-of-mind title of the Rules in these parts. But no sooner that I got there, I saw a crowd of hobbits gathered around her front stoop, all a kerfuffle of voices! I waved from the back of the crowd to catch her eye, and oh did her face light up at the thought of more help!
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