Penned in precise and evenly lined sentences, a blank page near the middle of a slightly scuffed, top-grain leather journal is newly inscribed. If one were to flip past the filled pages to the very beginning, one would find the first page titled with: Bernie Tweed, Bree-land followed by a series of odd symbols.
21 Thrimidge
Chetwood, Bree-land
≡ It’s all a done deal now. Mrs Indoril is set off for her faraway home where all Oakley’s kin were from and here I am sleeping again under his bough for the night, on my own way back to the house. I’m right sorry that the walkabout is through; funny how hard it is at first to break from your respectable routine to some other barmy way of spending your hours, but give it a day or three and suddenly it feels like it always were. Now it’s back to work again and following up on Sanders soon as I get there, and I can’t say I’m overly eager for either.
But suppose I should put down in words the last bit of the walkabout in the company of Mrs Indoril, for surely I’ll never do such again on account of her folk usually not seeking the company of one such as yours truly. Those elfin types sure have mighty big burdens settled down on their shoulders and if I learned anything from this whole thing it's that the numberless years they get to spend on this green earth seems to make them right clubby. Do all elfs grow sniffy and offish? Said she were considered young for her kind but whatever she saw in those years sure took the merry right out of her. Damn but she were pretty though. Walking dream, jest not. Skin the colour of milk and eyes the shade of stone. I’ll be seeing that one behind closed eyes for a while.
Right, so when I woke up the next morn in that bear-cave out in the Bree-fields I were surprised to see Mrs Indoril hadn’t left like I expected her to. Figured she’d slip away soon as I slept cause that’s what gals always do once the deed - so to speak, for Mrs Indoril were not that kind of lady - were done. The wee beastie were curled up next to her all cozy like, so I suggested that he might be good for a mouser wherever she were from, but she nixed that on account of her plans to go fighting orcs and gobbies and all manners of troublesome critters in far-off places. War, she called it. Horse feathers, I call it.
I don't talk much about the grotty trail food I had to survive on for the days I weren’t at home, but for this entry it’s important. Had the last stale biscuit and a big old lump of scrapple left in my bag, so that’s what I had to eat. Now that scrapple had gone mush and to be honest, tasted a fair ways off, but after I gave some to the beastie and Mrs Indoril turned it down (of course) I just shoved the whole ball of it in my mouth and let me tell you, five day old scrapple riding in an old leather daybag is not the tastiest thing to be having first thing in the morn. I didn’t chew or swallow it right at first. Just tried to focus on the one flavour I knew were right, which were the pepper.
Right at that moment, Mrs Indoril decided to start asking after that bog-wound she’d been so worried over. Shot her a thumbs up but she just kept asking and pestering, so I gave her a few more gestures that I were feeling fine while I kept working at that scrapple-lump in my mouth. None of which she liked at all. Finally threatened to not let me out of her sight till I could tell her in words that I were fine and that she would wait as long as she had to.
Well hot diggety! I’ll never swallow this stuff then! Made me as happy as a clam at high water, even if that scrapple were starting to ooze in ways that weren’t pleasant. Picked up the bitty nipper and took him out of the cave to do his business before we set off, and once it finished covering its doo we set off back down the road to Bree.
And here’s the rub: conversation is glum when it’s a buttoned-up elfin lady who only wants to know if there’s still worms chewing your side while you’re fighting your own battle with a slowly liquefying ball of turnt meat trimmings in your mouth. Only miffed her more when I had to whizz behind a tree and she followed me not knowing, and when I stopped to dump out the rocks what got in my boots she mocked my good striped woolen socks. Kept my hat pulled down real low to cover up the grimacing I knew I were making on account of the heinous glop I’d committed myself to enduring to keep her company.
Eventually got to that tiny creek bridge outside of the west gate of Bree and I had another thought cross my mind. I wanted to cast a line, for fishing always makes things better, but Mrs Indoril made clear the last time that it were not something she were fond of for she eats no flesh. Gesture-asked her anyways and she agreed, though why I’ve no idea. Laid out my fishing rod on the bridge stonework and another idea came to me then: instead of doing something she were not going to enjoy at all, I’d teach her something she can take with her out into the world. Something that maybe would remind her of that (very nice) Bernie fella around Bree-land every time she used it.
So I spent the next bit of time wordlessly teaching her how to tie a palomar knot using one of my fly-fishing lures - that purple feather one I painted last yule when I were snowed in - and my line. She were real confused at first not knowing what game I were playing with all this, but pick it up she did at last. That knot is as near as foolproof as can be, so if she ever needed to know how to keep something attached to something else, she is ready thanks to old Bernie!
Packed up my tackle again and we walked into Bree, which were quiet as it were dark then. She still had a room up in the Pony so I saw her to the stairs, scrapple now feeling like pea soup in my mouth. Tipped my hat and put a hand out for a shake, hoping she’d go inside to sleep so I could spit the fetid slop from my mouth and into my canteen for a bit of a breather. But she took it all wrong, sniped at me for not talking still and stormed off. So much for not letting me leave her sight.
That’s how it ends then. Took a long shot and lost. Just hope my teeth haven't rotted none from the all-day scrapple assault. Coughed out all the brownish goo behind the horse stalls and didn’t have the heart to stay in town, so began the walk home. Got real tired by the time I came round Oakley’s place so here’s as good as place as any to lay down a time. Will be home on the morrow, not much further from here.
