From Applecider Bolingbroke, written whilst topping off a short lunch at Duillond, en route to Hobbiton via Needlehole,
To Lancogard North-took, Hon. Deputy-Shirriff of the Northfarthing, at his Burrow at Wending Way, Dunfurlong, in the Shire:
~~~
Most excellent sir,
Greetings, and all me respects to the Bounders, especially them what had the unpleasant task of handlin’ yer latest maudlin ‘case,’ if you will (may their little round seed-cakes ever be perfectly toasted).
…………….WELL …
This, Lance? (and forgive me bein’ frank as a plank; t’weren’t your doin’ by any means).
THIS be a fine illustration of th’ cost of ambiguous communication.
I were of a mixed state of mind on hearin’ yer report o’ the discovery of Miss Seregrian’s intended. Or what were left of him. On one hand, no Bolingbroke were given ter speak ill o’ the departed.
On the other hand, I did wonder if this’d give Miss Sergie a closure o’ some kind, given I still ‘ad NO particulars on how she an’ Mister Cutch went south so sudden-like.
Elfs, as I may have alluded in me last missive, be a paradoxical lot. Yeh may have heard tell o’ the sayin’ of the Big Folks, “Seek nae the council of Elfs, as they’ll always say, “Yeah, yeah, no, yeah, no … no, yeah.”
Hereabouts Duillond, on the subject o’ Mister Cutch and Miss Sergie, it were more, “Brood, brood, silence, ‘Betrayal,’ brood, silence, ‘Betrayal,’ brood, brood.”
I confess ter being swept up in it, Lance – Having, as I say, no particulars, and hearin’ only the world ‘Betrayal’ batted around like a Hobnanigans chicken by Miss Sergie an’ Mister Sir Herestel, an’ Miss Sergie’s frosty best friend Miss Hartie Gill, I took it as certain there’d been a falling-out of proportions worthy of epic song (names changed, obviously).
I kept me trap shut ter be proper, an’ not cause her any more distress, but I poked about the House quite a bit on me own time whenever Miss Sergie took to the Tower, lookin’ fer hints o’ what happened:
Did he steal somethin’ from her?
Did he fall fer another lass and cast her off?
Were he a spy, planted ter win her confidence an’ farm information on her from the inside?
Did they find a topic o’ life on which they were irreconcilable, an’ quarreled like dragons?
Did SHE do or say somethin’? (Yeh must admit, Lance, Miss Sergie do have a flaming temper if she be of a mind)
Well. ….. nae.
Two nights past, and I admits we were both deep in our cups, she finally fessed up. Brace yourself, Lance, an’ yeh may want to put a tea-strainer over your face, cause yer eyeballs may roll so hard they’ll roll right out yer head – What happened were ……. He left.
.... That be it.
He were there one day an’ not-there the next.
Just up an’ gone. No explanation, nothin’ stolen, no squabble, no terrible secret revealed, nothin.’
T’were a great betrayal, if betrayal be Elfish for ‘missing persons case.’ (Admittedly I wouldn’t put it past them: ‘Salad’ be Elfish for ‘Hello there’).
If Miss Sergie weren’t in such a miserable state, I’d have clapped her upside the head with a piece of Elf-toast (have you had Elf-toast? I’ll tell you all about it later), and bellowed, “Have you NEVER heard a folk song in yer LIFE!?” But that seemed a touch indecorous, so I gave her a hug an’ we toasted the departed. Also, company came to the door with very awkward timing.
I may nae have yer gift for unravelling the mysteries of dodgy sorts, Lance, or the scholarly learnin’s of Miss Sergie.
But by the Bass Clef, I do know me bardic tropes.
It be a truth universally acknowledged in song of all sorts – be it Hobbit, Beardie Dorf, Elf, Big Folk, or other – that a gent what breaks the heart of a lass do so for one of three reasons:
- One, he be a Knave (that be the stealin’ something, option. Or spy, or scoundrel, or generally just a cretin).
- Two, he be of flighty or fickle inclinations (in which case, good riddance to the daft ponce)
- Three, he be constrained to it.
This be a trope SO archetypal as ter be almost overused:
Somethin’ came up from the dark past that he had to put to rest. – Somethin’ came ter his attention representin' danger to his loved one, an’ he felt compelled to protect ‘er. – Someone he owes a debt to called it in, an’ he rushed ter answer the call. – Nastiest of all, someone on the outside made threat ter visit ill upon his lass, ter induce his cooperation for somethin.'
Whatever the case be, balladry ALWAYS holds that he ups an’ goes, often as not without divulging th’ particulars. – “This is something I must do alooooOOOOOnnne...” (that be somethin’ Miss Sergie’s given ter sayin’ herself, by the by). Most usually with the intent of returnin' but nae being sensible enough to leave a bit of clarification
Then – POW!! – Lost love! – Heartbreak! – Bereaved lass standing on a clifftop overlooking the sea in a tattered white dress going completely batty (somehow without needing food or toilet paper) for YEARS on end!!
If someone had mentioned sooner he just disappeared one day, a lot of brooding could have been channeled ter things like trackin’ the big Lad down.
Which brings me ter the heart o’ me venture.
Miss Sergie be in a whole new state – an’ I dinnae blame her for that – But a Bolingbroke can only sit still fer so long when there be unanswered questions.
I took leave o’ House Bar & Acorn for a week or so on the pretext of fetching some kegs o’ Wooly-foot Stout fer the larder (which I absolutely plan to do, so it’s not a lie). But I be of a mind to march me fat pony, Jonagold, up ter Brockenborings an’ initiate a good old-fashioned snoop-about.
That Tall Folks’ bounder in the funny hood, Mister Halros, if you recall, makes himself a bit of a dwelling up the Greenfields, not far from the Scrags where you found the body what bore Miss Sergie’s intended’s ring.
If thar be disturbance up the Scrags, what can waylay an’ tear apart a strapping Big Folk like that, logic follows thar be a reason for its presence. AND a reason for Mister Cutch’s going so far out of his way ter get involved – After all, he were a Bree-lad, weren’t he? What would he be doin’ up Greenfields, of all sheep-grazing places??
I be of a mind ter take up th’ matter with Mister Halros, an’ hear tell of what stirrings he be aware of, of late.
Given your interest in the case to date, I wonder if ye’d be of a mind ter join me in the snoop.
If so, I hereby propose you delaying your furlough ter House Bar & Acorn in Duillond, an’ either allowing me ter call upon ye at your Burrow at Dunfurlong, or intercepting me at the Plough an’ Stars up the way ter Brockenborings – whichever be of a more convenient nature.
We shall convene a Council of Hobbits (it be like a Council of Elfs, but there be more pie), an’ commence our snoopings with methodical Hobbit sense.
Till then, I commit this message to a postal falcon here in Duillond (his name’s Tambëfána; means ‘Copper-cloud,” I think. Me Sindarian’s better than me grasp of Quenya), and set off fer Needlehole. If yeh post a short reply in the next bundle to Waymeet, I’ll know where ter meet yeh.
All be very best till then,
Cordially yours, Applecider Bolingbroke
