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 paperwork forever be minimal.
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Dear Lance,
The deep heat o’ summer’s set in, an’ things be quiet hereabouts. Mister Crane an’ Miss Sergie – is she Missus Sergie now? – they still be in the honeymoon phase (thar be the phase when yeh moon over each other goin' “Aww, Honey” all the time).
Anyway, figgered I’d make meself scarce fer a bit an’ give ‘em the place to themselves.
Maddie made it back, which pleased me like a peony, natch. But I were mildly concerned with the time it took ‘er. Either she were distracted, like half-grown Tweens often are, or she got lost. – Given the speed a hawk can fly, she shoulda been quicker.
So I decided I’d ride the route meself, an’ let ‘er fly along, jus’ to drive things home.
Figgered once I got to Brockenborings I’d call upon ye – in a social capacity rather than a troubleshootin’ one, fer once. Yeh weren’t ter be found, though. Halson Tubwort said ye’d not been in fer a pint fer days. Did you take a holiday, after our escapades in the Wood? I hope so. Otherwise, I’m only left to imagine Bounder Primstone lassoed ye into crowd control fer the upcomin’ Farmers’ Faire.
Absent yer good self, then, I realized thar were one other individual with whom Maddie ought ter be familiar. I took a rhubarb pie, an' rode up Greenfields to acquaint the chickie with Mister Halros. Then we ‘ad tea.
“What’s bein’ done with the cache o’ Gobbo-de-Gook?” (I could nae help askin’).
He shrugged, as if ‘e didn’t like the answer much. “It’s been divided, under guard, for the moment, and burned off in very small volumes.”
It didn’t sound like a great solution to me. He agreed. “Put simply, a contagion of this intensity, in this quantity, has never been in our hands before. We have no precedent for disposing of it. Burying it would contaminate the ground it lay in. It can be burned, but only in small quantities at once, or the fumes become too strong. … Samples have been sent to Esteldín. And Rivendell. Perhaps their scholars or healers can devise an alchemical means to render it inert. Until then?” He shrugged again.
“This be the drudge part, then.” I decided not to ask if any were under guard by him. I doubted he’d agree to conceal any on the Shire borders after what happened at Dwaling.
“Aye.” He nodded, an’ I poured more tea.
I asked if I could be of any practical use. Nothin’, he says, as relates to the slow disposal of Gobbo-de-Gook. But if I’d a mind to rove, the Herring could proverbially swim upriver to High King’s Crossing an’ deliver a routine report for ‘im: Brandy (thar be ‘is horse) pulled a muscle, an’ he didn’t want to stress ‘er for a week or so.
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I always wanted to see that colossus up close. It be frankly gob-smacking, if yeh stops to think about the architectural ingenuity that must’a gone into its making.
The Green-Hoods at the Crossing be spoken for by a bloke called Sardan. Mister Sardan had heard a Hobbit ‘ad been added to the free agents list, but dinnae quite believe it till then. I ‘ad Mister Halros’s code phrases though, sure as Sundays. So ‘e took the report.
Said if ‘e could, he’d have had me run the message even farther up the chain: He cannae leave post at the crossing, an’ most of his lads be occupied with the aftermath in the Wildwood. But his Captain's a cagey bloke what don’t hold dialogue with them he don’t know personally.
Oh dear, I says. Gaffer Calenglad knows me alright. ...
Well then. Once he got the story behind that, Mister Sardan gives me the clear to run Halros’s report – along with some routine updates of ‘is own – up into Green-Hood territory alone.
Did I offer to do the message-running just to clap eyes on that Blue Lake fer meself? ... Irrelevant. It be a fair sight ter take in, Lance:
That Lake be the most soul-stirring shade of blue in the World.
I truly thinks it.
No wonder the Green-Hoods guard it so precious-like.
Whether or not Captain Calenglad were pleased ter see me .... well, thar be a moot point. But the memos I brought were duly processed. An’ I were permitted to stay the night: givin’ Jonagold a rest, an’ bringin’ me bedroll indoors. I made heaps of pie, an’ sang with me lute fer all the braw lads, earnin’ me more than a couple o’ pints. Dúney lager don’t hold a candle to a proper Shire brew, but it be passable.
Findin’ me, I s’ppose, proven modestly dependable, I were asked then if I’d be willin’ ter accept a contract fer some more legwork. – Since I were around, an’ all.
It paid. But it be of a longer, more drudging nature.
Twice a year, a caravan of Beardie Dorfs from the Blue Mountains will pass through Evendim, bound fer what they claim to be the northernmost Dorf-ish outpost in th’ world. Clear up in the frozen Ice-Lands; they calls it “Zigilgund” (which I’m pretty sure be the name of a patent medicinal compound fer nasal maladies – don’t Marmadoc Bolger sell that at the apothecary??).
Anyway. This northbound caravan passed through just a few days ago.
The Green-Hoods keeps an emissary clear up in Ice Country. An’ whenever the Dorf caravan passes through, the Green-Hoods send a bundle along fer this bloke, with supplies, news, an’ fresh orders.
Seems the pack somehow didn’t quite change hands this time. So it were put to me thusly: If that pony o’ mine be any good, would I take a job o’ seein’ the bundle delivered?
Nothin’ glamorous. Just glorified Quick Post, when yeh boil down the trappings.
... But by Bullroarer’s Bathtub, Lance! – Can you name a single Hobbit we knows of, what saw that land?!?
Word in balladry is, thar be Mountains, made of solid Ice.
Word is, Light travels the sky in colored rivers, an’ thar be fang’ed cats bigger than boars!
By every Beer in the Inn League, I says, you bets your buckets of Blagroves I’ll do it!
I think Gaffer Calenglad were more’n a touch surprised, given our last meeting. But they wanted the bundle delivered: the next Dorf caravan dinnae pass through till spring. He ordered the quartermaster to furnish whatever vittles I needed, loan me a rough map ... an’ to outfit me with ... well ..... socks an’ shoes.
I hemmed an’ hawed – it be a rare turn, putting on footgear, even in winter – But if thar really be that much ice .... I took a pair ‘o shearling boots, what I suspect were made fer a Big Folk’s ‘Tween.
Jonagold be all packed up, complete with boots tied ter the saddlebags. An’ the bundle fer this lone Green-Hood agent – Lothrandir, thar be the bloke’s name – be strapped on tight in oilcloth.
I be posting this letter from here in Tinnudir, Lance. You can wager all yer Withywindles I’ll be writing more, but I dinnae ken what the postal system up the Frozen North be like.
This oughts ter be interestin' ....
All me best, as ever ~ Applecider Bolingbroke
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