by Silent Draco
Part 3 of 4
It was no more than a short while and two unexpected slides on loose pebbles, before they arrived at the verdant door of The Green Dragon. Bilbo entered and called a greeting to Old Butterwort, “Good evening, innkeeper! Of your courtesy, may we get …” But before he could utter the word beer, Miss Primrose (his third-youngest daughter) bustled Bilbo across the main room to a comfortable nook and table close to the hearth, wiped chair, stools, and table most carefully, and curtsied a greeting to him. Hamfast followed carefully in the wake of this tempest, seating himself on a taller stool. “Now Mr. Bilbo,” she asked, “would you care for a glass of your Tuckborough Terrace Red?” He smiled and waved it off, “Why thank you, my dear, but Master Hamfast and I”, placing a medium silver coin, a half-shielding of all things, on the table, “wish to sample the finest beer in the Westfarthing. I’d been thinking of this since I set forth early today from The Briar Patch’ed over toward Stock.”
She raised her eyebrows at beer, but saw her father’s nod, then returned with two gently foamed pints of ale. “To your health, Master Hamfast, and another fine son!” Ham blushed and grinned, but tapped mugs for the toast. Both tipped their heads back for a long swallow, then sighed with enjoyment. “Aye, my thanks Mister Bilbo, and it’s a right proper ale!” Old Butterwort grinned, and the room filled with quiet laughs and calls for another pint or half. The other hobbits, enjoying a quiet and dry evening with ale, and perhaps pie or bread and cheese, left them to sip and enjoy the pint in peace.
At the end of their first pint, a slow and companionable drink, Donald Cotton came over from the table where he, and his sons Tom and Stephen, were having a quiet tipple out from the farm with a couple of their older hands. “Any interesting news from them parts, Mister Bilbo?” he asked politely. The Cotton stead being a large and old farm, he was regarded by many in and around Hobbiton as squire enough to such a request of the Master of Bag End. He, of course, knew all the gossip and news for a day’s plowing and ride about, but would also want news of strange weather or portents from “foreign parts”, meaning anything east of the River Brandywine (begging pardon of the Master of Buckland, all the while). Bilbo sat back with a sigh, collecting his thoughts, and replied; “Indeed, my nephew Frodo is doing quite well with his cousins and aunts there. Oh, yes, and if memory serves, I may have a new song to recount.” At this, all the ears in the room perked up; not only would there be stories that only a gentlehobbit would hear, but a new song would be a welcome at every evening and birthday party for nine years.
“Miss Primrose, my dear,” he said as she came to collect their mugs for another round, “news and a song are thirsty work. If I may,” fumbling in one, then quickly in another waistcoat pocket, he placed a full shielding down instead. Her eyes widened but he continued, “of your courtesy, I should like to buy beer for all your guests here. And also,” he said a touch more quietly and with a significant nod, “a sample of your father’s winter special.” Primrose and her brother circulated about with pitchers to refill mugs, and Old Butterwort sent her carefully back with a goblet of his wintered cider. The polite murmurings and raised mugs, bows, and forelock tugs meant the hobbits were now ready to enjoy a drink and word-fest, and thanked Bilbo for his generosity.
“Henry Thornapple, a cousin on poor Mistress Primula’s mother’s uncle’s side, but only once removed, had invited me and few other cousins for a Small Adventure …” at which all the hobbits in the room leaned forward, “… all the way from The East Gate to the Prancing Pony, in Bree.” Much murmuring and some shaken heads later, some of the Proudfeet quietly finished their mugs, bowed politely, and left. Adventures and word of them were perilous things. “We saw Men of several sizes! But not to worry,” Bilbo laughed at the looks of surprise, “Henry met some of his more distant cousins there – Strawbrushes, an Underhill, I believe, and oh yes, some Stonebucks. The master of the Inn is a most polite and accommodating Man, and he has an entire room set aside for the custom of the ‘Little People’, as they refer to the hobbit-folk.” The strapping Cottons, umbraged at being referred to as ‘Little’, now settled with a look of justification – of course, there should be a special place for hobbit folk.
Bilbo continued after a fine sample of the winter special. “Ah, that’s quite tasty, Master! Now, we heard rumors of travelers coming north on the Greenway, and some very odd, tall Men who simply faded away into the room: Minders or Rangers of some sort, keeping their bounds I imagine. Other fragments and rumors of fights and actual Battles, far and away south and east, larger and fiercer that that of old Bullroarer Took, they said.” Bilbo recounted pieces of this, paid down like halfpence, as his goblet also went down a sip at a time. “My, that’s thirsty work! … Oh, thank you, my dear!” he beamed, as a refilled goblet appeared at his elbow. Ham looked at the goblet, Bilbo’s beaming, ruddy face, and a certain sense of festive things to come. He motioned to Primrose for a half-pint only, as he resettled on the stool to listen.
“Now, enough of old news and rumours. As William Underhill recounted on our … hmm … third pint, a Man traveling east on the Great Road, some manner of traveler with a great sword and bow, had a song to give the Keeper and his guests as part payment on lodging space. He learned this from a very odd fellow, somewhere along the road in between West and East, as they say it, Across the Hills. A fellow in a blue jacket, very droll.” The older hobbits gripped mugs a bit tightly; to Bree, between West (Buckland) and East there was only a place of very bad tidings. Bilbo chuckled, and eased carefully up out of his chair. “No, nothing of that sort; droll and happy fellow. And, of course, a new song is welcome anywhere. William could only remember part, but we had quite a merry evening learning it!” There was laughter at this, and a voice from the rear asked “would ye please sing it for us, Mister Bilbo?” Bilbo beamed like the noonday sun at this, it being his intention all the while. Clearing his throat, he took a breath and began to sing and dance a sprightly tune.
Hey do-dol! Merry-merry dol!
Pause and skip on our way back home,
Jump the fen, laughing at the owl,
Dance and cheer our pathway for home!
Willow grasp, alder over-reach,
Listen too, raven call and screech.
Not for me! I leap laughing run,
Sky nets up, bedding down the Sun.
Tumbling riff and swirling current
Make a trap, unwary errant;
Stony leaps and scattered strand,
Cross faithless waters, unto land.
Flower bright! And so full the comb,
Feasting waits ahead in my home!
Churn so well, my butter so bright,
With finest barley bread so light.
Home to bath! Home a skip ahead,
Boots will dry, then coat upon peg.
Bite to sup, then butter and bread,
Time to skip, toe heeling and leg!
All of the verses were sung with a chorus of steps:
I’ll step right up, then step right back,
Tap my heels so clickety-clack!
Step left back up and step right wide,
Then turn about and go inside.
Several more verses followed, and the gathered hobbits simply had to hear it a second, third, and then a fourth time. This was a New Song, good for a nine- or ninety-days’ wonder. The inn’s floor sounded almost like claws marching rhythmically, as the hobbits stepped, tapped, or clomped along with:
I’ll step right up, then step right back,
Tap my heels so clickety-clack!
Step left back up and step right wide,
Then turn about and go inside.
Good singing, with a proper voice and the motions and steps to learn it, is thirsty work indeed. Old Butterwort himself came over twice, bowing and presenting fresh goblets to Bilbo. Miss Primrose had forgotten herself, caught in the excitement of steps and taps, dancing with abandon while young Stephen Cotton gazed with eyes the size of the rising Moon. Ham quite forgot himself to the extent of another half-pint, laughing, clapping and tapping along. Bilbo tripped slightly, spinning back into his chair, and all the hobbits laughed and shouted “Hurrah, Hurrack, and a Clickety-Clack! Your most excellent health, Mister Bilbo!” Hamfast counted the mugs on the table, and remarked “A fine, fine song, Mister Bilbo, but beggin’ your pardon sir, I’ve had me two pints to wash down a Song. It’s a wet eve, and we should probably begin makin’ our way back up the Hill …” Hamfast began to rise, then sat abruptly gain a better purchase. “… An’ it may take me a mire mote, ah … a mite more than what it was comin’ down.”