Being a letter from Applecider Bolingbroke, to Lancogard North-Took, Deputy-Shirriff of the Northfarthing – Salutations, and all me respects to the honorable Bounders: May their tasty fried-dough pastries be forever in abundance.
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Estimable Sir,
This letter be of an experimental nature. I hope you gots a nice bit of dace or other morsel to hand. ‘Cause if this note arrives successfully, it be via a new associate of mine, to whom I been slowly givin’ field trials.
Lance: meet Maddie.
Skinny Elfs be harbingers of complexity (I secretly thinks there be a manual of Elf Etiquette somewhere, with a chapter entitled “Why make things simple if yeh can make ‘em as elaborately labyrinthine as possible?”). I swears to yeh Lance, an Elf needs to recite half a sonnet at the dinner table just to ask yeh to pass the mustard.
But if they gots one piece of indisputable sense going for ‘em, it be in the form of aviculture.
Whether yeh choses ter call ‘im Sûlpadron, Windwalker or Charles, Miss Sergie’s eagle be a paragon of bird-dom, an’ no mistakin’ it. Our escapades trackin’ Mister Cutch down would’ve been a treat harder without ‘im. Our Elf be in a slight minority what keeps personal messenger-birds (although likely few be so attached to their wing’ed companions as she be). An’ Elfs keeps postal aviaries at outposts, as yeh may recall I used ter contact ye once before.
Green-Hoods also gots a bit of a bird network – ye’ever seen a gray kestrel roostin’ by the Brandy in all seasons, it likely be Mister Halros’ messenger Laerlind (thar be Elfish fer “Summer-song”). I suspect the practice be copied from their “in” with Elf-kind over in River-Dell.
I were in awe of the lot of ‘em all this time. But I recently chanced upon a potential opportunity.
Miss Sergie’s neighbor Mister Kor an’ I were on our way back to Falathlorn from Gondamon after witnessin’ the annual Hammerbowl Tourney (bowling be a favored sport of Beardie Dorfs. But yeh flings hammers instead o’ bowling balls ... also yeh drinks more). T’were near midday, where the main road forks down to Kheledûl, when we sits ter have some lunch under the trees.
Thar were a cacophony from the thick ‘o the foliage as we sat down. When I went to look, I nearly got me ear bit by an unanticipated tenant: A juvenile reddish-brown hawk, tangled up in a bramble bush. Not quite at maturity; she weren’t up ter full size. She looked to’ve fallen from a tree in recent days – maybe attemptin’ ter fly too early? – an’ she’d a damaged wing.
I made a little nest in a basket I could take on Jonagold with me: She needed lookin’ after.
Now I gots stomach enough fer dealin’ with hurts, Lance. But I be a mite lacking in experience with fowl or fauna. So back in Elf-Lands, I called on Mister Sir Isferon, the falcon-master at the postal dispatch in Duillond.
Figgered he’d be well versed in the lore of bird-doctorin’.
Mister Isferon got the hawk patched up proper, but said I gots ter keep ‘er fed an’ housed till she were ready ter be about the skies.
Well? ... I gots ter thinkin’.
A bard be givin’ ter wanderin’, as yeh know, an’ cannae always rely on Post ter reach her via normal avenues. – I really oughts ter find me a bird.
It could keep me company. – Fly high an’ make sure the road ahead were safe fer a wanderin’ Hobbit. – Lead the way if’en I ever got lost – Keep me in touch with people. – That sorta thing.
Well here, I thought? Here be an opportunity. If the wee girl be interested.
She showed promise from the start. We was watchin’ her hopping around, explorin’ the tiled floor. When suddenly, she snapped up a dull two-bit copper coin, what had fallen twixt the cracks, where nobody noticed, an’ brought it back to us, proud as punch of ‘erself.
“Ah, well spotted, Maedwen; aren’t you a cunning one.” Mister Isferon were delighted: The chickie were so disoriented from her hurtin’, an’ her ride in the basket, the Elf were worried she’d done a number on ‘er head. But she be sharp as a tack.
Maedwen be an apt enough name, I s’ppose – Cunning Maiden, they says; Clever Girl, I says, an’ neither be any lie. – Fer short I been callin’ her “Maddie.”
It be a fascinatin’ challenge, trainin’ a bird. Mister Isferon’s given me a whole slew o’ behavioral exercises. An’ I gots a secret weapon ter help: Charles has been a proper boon in this enterprise. Bein’ agreeable ter demonstrations, an’ helping me teach Maddie words, both Elfish, an’ normal workaday speech. He’s taken her under his wing. ... So to speak. It be good practice for 'im: Did yeh hear? The great feathered kite be NESTIN'! Maddie'll have 'erself three wee cousins a'fore the season's out!
A fledgling hawk be nowhere near the size of a great ruddy eagle, mind you. But I views this as a good thing: Smaller be more subtle. Less conspicuous. Like me. A useful feature.
With ‘er wing mended, Maddie’s been passin’ early trials ter fly short messages ter houses around the neighborhood. – Her vocabulary e’nt so erudite as Charles’ yet. But we be workin’ on that. An’ she can carry a paper message easy-peasy: She flew an order fer more wine all the way to the Vineyards this week without any fuss. She recognizes most of the local faces now, like Miss Sergie an’ Mister Cutch an’ Mister Kor, an’ some o’ the Duillond Elf-folks.
But now we comes to the real test:
Travelin’ longer distances … An’ pickin’ out a subject by description.
Which is where you comes in, Lance.
I gave her a fair account o’ your appearance, an’ where Brockenborings lies in the scheme o’ the land. Which is why I hopes you gots a tasty morsel at hand: You’ll be havin’ a feathered guest. Maddie’s test now is ter find ye of her own accord. Discreetly, if she can. Then take a message from ye, an’ make her way back again (note the time fer a datum, would yeh?).
If this enterprise be a success, I think I might be unstoppable.
May communications prevail henceforth, Lance, an’ flood the Wide World with just that much more good ol’ fashioned sense on its wings.
Cordially yours, ACB
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