Being another letter from Applecider Bolingbroke, to Lancogard North-Took, Hon. Deputy-Shirriff of the Northfarthing (still apparently on the beat), left attached to the first, written roughly half a day later:
~~~
Mister Sir Halros be near fully recovered since last we saw him, Lance. While he lit up an’ smiled genially when he saw me, he looked more tired than usual. As if he ‘ad way too much on one plate. I won’t say as I helped ‘im any in that regard.
Fer I marched straight in, sat down opposite ‘im afore he could offer me any tea, an’ simply said, “ ... Who’s Black-Star, then, an’ what’s ‘e want with th’ Shire, an’ what’s goin’ on in the Wildwood?”
Call me a bastard if yeh wish, Lance, but a Bolingbroke an’ a North-Took can only be used fer so long: I weren’t in whatcha might call a roundabout mood.
After all, I tried ter be subtle with ‘im LAST time we needed data (cross-reference my Second Report in our previous Inquisition), an’ look where THAT got us …
I won the surprise round with that opening volley. He gaped like I’d hit ‘im with a lightning bolt (an overreaction: at most, I’d slap the daylights out of ‘im with a cold fish). Eventually he tried ter formulate an inquiry that sounded like he weren’t sure the difference between “How?” “Who?” “What?” and “When?”
I says ter him, that bloke you helped bury in our yard (so ter speak) seems ter be walkin’ again. ... Is we to believe he’s now a wig-it? ... Or is our very closest neighbors out ter pull wool over the eyes of every honest Shire-Folk, when there be clear an’ present danger on OUR borders?
He tried the predictable excuses – ‘It was fer our protection,’ ‘It be the solemn oaths of the Duney-lads ter protect the innocent,’ ‘His superiors said the Halflings wouldn’t comprehend the full import of matters,’ – harp, harp, duck-fluff and rutabagas.
“DON’T you give me that guff,” I says ter him.
Mister Sir Halros bein’ under orders ter keep his trap shut about Mister Crane, maybe I could swallow. Mister Halros and ‘is fellow Green-Hoods nae comin’ clean with the Bounders about a risin’ threat in the Wildwood?
No. – No. – They do NOT get to play that card, an’ I reamed ‘im out as much.
I hears enough o' that, livin’ with skinny Elfs what pats us on the head calls us cute. We e’nt children, an’ we e’nt “simple” folk. We just be sensible enough not to make things complicated.
They do NOT gets to hold us deliberate-like at arms’ length in the Dark, and then say we ‘wouldn’t understand.’
They do NOT gets to call us ‘innocent folk,’ then let us lead a madcap goose chase tryin’ ter avenge our allies an’ protect our towns, with them gleanin’ information from our findings, only to use us fer a front, an’ say it were 'for our protection': It don’t work both ways.
So away wi’ yer justifications, boy, I says ter him. You come straight with me ... Or you do us both a favor, an’ never speak a word to a Hobbit again. Once a bloke gets repute as a liar, he may as well be struck dumb: No one listens ter the wind.
T’weren’t your borders people be creepin’ over, or your backyard people be dumping BODIES in.
En’t your sheeps what be disappearing up the Green ter feed an incursion of burly brigands.
It e’nt your villages what be RAZED AN’ BURNT TO TH’ GROUND – Dwaling en’t a sprawling hub, I grant you, but three or four-hundred honest folk lived there, what now be missing or displaced.
And it en’t YOUR outlying fields what suddenly be crawlin’ with screechy Gobbos, boilin’ Gobbo-de-Gook from GIANT SPIDERS what can immobilize a bloke with a single dart, as SOME PEOPLE in this room may remember rather recently, I’d say!!!
Not yours. Not skinny Elfs'. Not skulky Men in Green Hoods' – OURS!!! HOBBITS!!!
Maybe this were once the affairs of skinny Elfs. Or the jurisdiction of skulky Men.
But that stopped when the collateral ter yer flamin’ secrets-within-secrets became HOBBITS!!!
And BY BULLROARER’S BACCHANALIAN BASEMENT OF BELLIGERENT BEER BARRELS, you OWES us what you knows fer that!!!
....
........
........ I may’ve only stopped at this point, as I were completely out of breath.
Mister Halros stared at me in total silence fer near fifteen seconds, before swearing so roundly, in manner so colorful, even I were impressed. Then he stared again.
“You’re right,” he says, maybe a shade hoarsely.
“..... I’m sorry?” I were a touch light-headed after me chain-reaction explosion, an’ weren’t wholly prepared to field that one. I were primed to either stomp off fer good if he made any more evasions, or redouble me outburst if he were of a mind to quarrel.
But if I won the first volley, I give him this: He made a comeback.
“Dammit, Perianeth, even if I didn’t owe you, you’re right. I told them as much, and they still gave me my orders, but so help me, by Elendil’s Breath, that’s enough.” Mister Halros were up on his feet as if he’d been given an injection of irritable sap, buckling his sword an’ quiver on, an’ putting provisions in ‘is pack. “Where’s your associate?”
..... I en’t passing judgement on whether he’s coming clean with us, until all this is put ter bed, Lance. But I do believes he be pressured under too many conflicting interests. And his own interest in Th’ Shire puts ‘im in dead conflict with ‘is superiors, whomever they may be – One o’ these days I’ll find out, an’ deliver a spectacular Fish Slap to ‘em (“Please do,” says Mister Halros, “Just make sure I’m there to watch it.”)
Whatever the case, he’s decided to bend the rules into artistically curly carrot shavings: He be under orders nae ter speak on th’ subject o’ this Black-Star with any outside of the Duney-lads’ fold o’ confidence, “save for dire need most extraordinary.”
An’ what could be more dire than a couple o’ fat Hobbits, who got nowhere with their inquiries, taking it into their clumsy, innocent, simple heads to wander into the Wildwood, in search of answers fer themselves?
So!
I be leaving you this letter, packing up me Elf Toast, me skillet, me lantern, me lute, an’ me sword an’ knife, an’ returnin’ to Mister Halros to fetch a crude map he be drawing up for us.
You, my estimable Sir: You’re going to burn this letter and make whatever explanations you need to Bounder Primstone (something about “Brockenborings citizen headed into mortal danger” or some’ut should get you clearance to act with a free hand, aye?). Meet me at the second-largest oak tree east o' Mister Halros's place.
Miss Sergie, with all the House of Bar an’ Acorn in tow, be headed out to retrieve Mister Crane. If they sticks to schedule, they be due to camp outside the town of Woodhall tomorrow: If you an’ I be quick with the ponies, we should be able to intercept her an’ let her know what’s afoot. (After all: We've long since established the cost of ambiguous communications, aye?)
THEN, my excellent Sir ….. we be off to the Wood in search of Answers.
(What would be the odds of us chancing to happen upon a Green-Hood who left us a nice map under the eaves of the trees, I wonder?)
Get yer twangy little yew bow and clap yer hat on, Lancey-boy.
We’re going Fox-Hunting.
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