The Farmer and the Dwarf
Me grandsons had suffered, or at least that's the word they use when a lass receives most of the attention in a story, through last evenin's bit of Beannaithe's story. They'd be glad to know that two fellas receive most of the attention this evenin'...
'The blacksmith led Fikta and Beannaithe to the small farm where lived the brewer of the best ale in all of Lyndelby. As Hobad ("Hobbit") and Dwarf approached the entrance to the farm they heard a low growl.
"Hold, Fikta, I forgot to tell ye 'bout the dog," said the blacksmith. "Unlike other dogs, perhaps, his bite is worse than his bark."
The Dwarf laughed. "Do you think in all my two-hundred and fifty years I've never dealt with a disagreeable hound? Here, watch this."
As the Dwarf took a few steps closer to the entrance the farmer's dog lunged at him.
"Back, you mangy hound!" Fikta shouted. He hurled the dog a good ten paces away from him. The dog yelped but quickly came back at the Dwarf.
The Dwarf drew himself up as tall and as wide as he could seem while staring down the dog. The dog stopped in its tracks.
"You've got to show the dog who's head of the pack," said Fikta to the astonished blacksmith.
The Dwarf walked towards the farmer's dog as slowly as he possibly could. The dog rolled onto its back, exposin' its belly in a sign of submission.
Fikta kneeled down, rubbed the dog's belly, then gave it a chunk of salted pork.
The dog licked the Dwarf's hand then gobbled the pork down in a single gulp.
"I've never seen anythin' like that," said the blacksmith.
"You haven't spent time travelling hither and yon with a Dwarf," said Fikta with a grin.
The blacksmith chuckled. "No, I haven't," he said.
One they'd entered the grounds of the farm the Dwarf paused a moment. 'It is a fine looking farm, Blacksmith, I'll grant you that,' said Fikta while surveying the surroundin's.
"Aye, one of the best in Lyndelby," agreed the blacksmith. "Where it truly exceeds all others, however, is in the brewin' of ale."
"So you keep telling me," replied the Dwarf, "but the proof is in the drinking."
"Aye," replied the blacksmith, "so it is."
The farmer were in the garden where he could often be found tendin' his vegetables. He had not noticed his visitors' approach.
"Good day, to ye," said the blacksmith.
"Good day," replied the farmer. "What's brought ye out to me farm? I don't need no tools today. And who's that with ye?"
"This is Fikta the Tinker, and this is his ward, Beannaithe," answered the blacksmith.
Beannaithe gave a polite curtsey. This pleased the farmer very much.
"She's a cailín álainn ('pretty lass'), with good manners as well," said the farmer. "But if she's a Dwarf I'm Manannán mac Lir."
"Who is that?" the Dwarf asked the blacksmith in a whisper.
"King of the Otherworld," the blacksmith answered, also in a whisper.
"Must be another name for Manwë," thought the Dwarf.
The farmer were a plain spoken fella, and he appreciated this quality in others.
Just then one of his daughters emerged from the farmhouse.
"Is anythin' the matter?" she asked. "I heard unfamiliar voices." Then she noticed the child. "Who's this then?"
"Best take her inside, daughter," said the farmer, "and fetch her a cool drink."
"Aye, as ye wish, Da," she replied. She took the lass by the hand and led her into the house.
"Pray continue, Dwarf," said the farmer.
"No, she isn't my blood relation," said Fikta, "but she's as dear to me as if she were my own kin. She's been with me these last then years."
"Ten years ye say?" the farmer asked. A strange expression came upon his face.
"Aye, ten years," Fikta answered.
"How and where did ye meet?" the farmer inquired.
"I came to this village some ten years ago to do my usual business," said the Dwarf.
"Tinkerin' business?" said the farmer.
"Aye, that's right," Fikta replied.
The farmer removed his hat, then mopped his brow with a red handkerchief that he pulled from his back pocket.
"Pray continue," instructed the farmer.
"I left Lyndelby when my business here had concluded," said Fikta, "I was a few hours into my journey headed towards my next destination when I heard a soft sound like the mewing of a kitten."
The farmer smiled briefly in recognition. He'd heard that sound many times over the years from his own daughters and granddaughters.
"I pulled my cart off the road, took a peek in the back, and there she was all curled up in one of my blankets," Fikta recalled.
"Did ye know where she'd come from right away, or did it take ye awhile to sort that out?" the farmer asked.
"I know of no other settlement of Little Folk east of the Misty Mountains, and I'd only just visited your village, so it didn't take me two guesses," answered Fikta.
"Why then has it taken ye ten years to return her to Lyndelby?" asked the farmer sharply. He'd slowly been growin' angry as the tale unfolded.
The Dwarf squirmed uncomfortably under the farmer's interrogation. "I have no good answer, sir, except to say that I quickly grew fond of the lass. I'd always wanted a daughter, and here she was as if she were a gift from the Valar."
"So why bring her back now?" asked the farmer. "Have ye grown weary of her?"
"No, not at all!" said the Dwarf. "She's as dear to me as she ever was."
The farmer nodded. He understood the Dwarf's heart.
"I was old already when I found her," the Dwarf continued, "and haven't grown any younger over these last ten years. I thought it best that the lass be returned to her folk before my passing."
"Better late than never, right?" asked the blacksmith tryin' to ease the tension between the farmer and the Dwarf.
The blacksmith had brought Fikta to the farm for a tankard or two of ale. He did not know that the lass belonged to the farmer or, more likely, one of the farmer's daughters. He felt sorry for both the farmer and the Dwarf, for one's gain were the other's loss.
"I suppose," said the farmer, "but there is still much more I'd like to know. Let us go inside, and be sure to wipe your boots before enterin'."'
Story time had come to an end for the evenin'.
All five grandkids, even Darowva, were already fast asleep when their mothers stepped forward to take them to their beds. The mothers, however, had listened to every word.
'Good night, Da,' whispered me daughters.
'Oíche mhaith, iníonacha,' I replied.
