A Hobbit Inquisition, Part the 4th: Choice Cuts
Being the observations of Applecider Bolingbroke, assisting Lancogard North-Took, Deputy-Shirriff, in his ongoing investigations.
(As recorded in a cipher based entirely ononomatopoeic bird-calls)
NOT TO BE DISSEMINATED OR COPIED, OR I’LL START A RUMOR THAT YER MOTHER WEARS *SHOES*!!!
I confesses ter finding meself in that rarest and most worrisome of all states, what Hobbits never find ourselves in, excepting when we gets the collywobbles, or if we be plannin' on goin’ swimming in the next 45 minutes:
I nae be very hungry.
I were at first. Lance an’ I made good on our foray inter the Den o’ Darkness (an’ by Darkness, I mean, territory o’ them what took over honest Hobbit homes in Dwaling an’ sullied its ovens with Bad Pie).
Without a phial o’ the Bounders’ Official Red Ink on us, we were left ter explore what yeh might call more improvised means of issuing what yeh might call a Formal Complaint.
Lance be a fair hand with that yew bow of ‘is.
An’ so long as he dinnae lose his head an’ take up his cry “Th’ Sword o’ th’ Shire!” in the excitement, we figgered none o’ them ruffians’d be suspicious of our connection ter the Bounders: They’d take us fer ambitious Dwaling folk what just wanted our belongings back.
So the secrets o’ the Investigation would be safe.
As fer meself? – I e’nt claimin’ ter be the mightiest Champion o’ Gondolin (thar be a super-secret Elf city what turns up in HEAPS ‘o balladry; it gots all the Epic drama a bard could want). – But it be prudent fer one given ter vagabondry an’ wandering minstrelsy ter be fit fer lookin’ out fer oneself.
I gots a tidy little sword I calls B Sharp Major, an’ a knife ter match named B Sharp Minor.
Mister Sir Halros, when he realized the Tween I once were was determined ter wander places a Hobbit e’nt normally wont to, did reluctantly show me a few tricks, a few years back. An’ they’s come as much in handy of a time before, as they did on this very day.
Anyway, once we’d delivered a few good thwackings, we felt a mite better fer having lodged our Complaint with such succinct clarity. But we were no closer ter determining who these clods were. Or who gave the order ter sack Dwaling.
Or what (if anything) this had ter do with the screechy Gobbos what Bob Greeneaves saw up Bleakleaf.
OR whether this were the crux o’ the work 'Subject C' were doin’ in such secrecy, north o’ the’ Shire.
OR (if so), if it led to ‘is undoing.
... Ugh.
As I says ter Lance, as we sat under a tree for a restorative nosh: Unsavory thugs harassing th’ Dwaling folks would be of interest to them Tall Folks’ Bounders in Hoods, sure as a tack underfoot. But nae a cause fer so much clandestineness. The Green-Hoods would issue due warning ter th’ thugs, and tell both th’ Dwaling-folks and the Bounders. Lance says, as a Shirriff, aye, thar be sensible process.
We settles then an’ there, that what be afoot, therefore, be two things:
Firstly, it be but a piece of a bigger puzzle.
An’ Secondly, it be of a Nature so very serious, that we may be in want o’ some more pointy objects.
Common thugs be a bother, but should nae present a problem ter th’ Green-Hoods or th’ Bounders.
If th’ Green-Hoods be investigating somethin’ so sensitive that they be contractin’ outside help (perhaps so’s ter use unfamiliar faces?), AN’ they be unwilling ter involve the Bounders despite proximity, AN’ risk Dwaling as collateral, however easy it may be ter rebuild? ...
... It stands ter reason that they REALLY dinnae want someone, or something, to know it’s being investigated. Using ‘SUBJECT C’ as an agent with a moniker may’ve been a form o’ subterfuge, so’s not to let a Green-Hood be seen snooping about.
But now I be in the forest o’ speculation. So before calling it a day, we decided to button up rumors o’ screechy Gobbos up the Bleakleaf.
....... Oi!
Gobbos may almost be a trickier turn ter deal with than oafish ruffians – Mister Sir Halros’s allegory to a lizard an’ a honeybadger weren’t far off. I figgered we’d nae be able ter infiltrate whatever cave they’d holed up in, without knowin’ their numbers (thar be a bad move, waltzin’ in like that).
But once again, the Hobbit Nose tipped us off LONG afore we come upon them, an’ found a bit of a setup out in the semi-open, under some trees. Fer there, we find ‘em cookin’ up Trouble of a sort unimagined.
Literally, cookin’.
As in, cookin’ up someut so nasty that even Gobbos could nae risk havin’ the fumes in closed quarters, like a nice safe cave .....
........... Spiders.
....................Screechy Gobbos be cookin’ GIANT SPIDERS.
.............................Therein lie th’ reason why, even now, I nae be feelin’ very hungry. Even now, I smells them acrid, putrid, malodorous kettle-cauldrons an’ gets the collywobbles in me Hobbit stomach.
Lance, bless the heroic little twerp of a Gent, provided a distraction.
We was well-hid, but he comes out of hiding, an’ makes a show o’ sneaking along very poorly, so’s all the Screechies caught sight of ‘im an’ gave chase. Lance made a run fer it like a sandpiper, an’ I were able to scramble right up ter th’ pots, an’ – I did it – Bullroarer’s Crusty Toenails help me, I TOUCHED a giant dead spider!!!
An’ it be fair ter say this were a job yeh could only give a Cook ter unravel. Yeh’d figger if they were cookin’ any other animal, they’d be all hacked up ter nice choice cuts, like any common butcher shop (just, yeh know, with spiders). But tha’ were nae the case here.
Fer thar be no choice cuts o’ spider. T’were only one thing missing from ‘em:
Not one o’ them spiders still ‘ad its stinger attached.
Th’ stingers were drained out in th’ cauldrons, where all the venom, an’ all the ichor were a’bubble, in a sickening gray-mauve paste, like vile aspic.
.....................
..... Well, Lance skeedaddled fast, once he looked back an’ saw I’d had a look an’ run. An’ thank goodness the Dwaling folk still had some glass jars, cause I only took a small dollop o’ the stuff, but me waterskin be ruined; it just about ate through the leather. I also be in need o’ some new gloves fer the same reason: carryin’ one o’ them stingers, an’ I e’nt touching anything else with that glove again.
Lance were VERY excitable, as he were certain we’d found the means o’ SUBJECT C’s demise, but I nae be so convinced. Sure, yeh could poison a bloke with just a pinch o’ this stuff ..... But why cook it? – Why add more ingredients ter make it hot an' soupy an' viscous like the world's worst paint cocktail? – I says ter Lance, where be that grumpy codger, Mister Gandalf when yeh need ‘im? We be in want of a proper alchemist at this point.
I nae be sure it be diplomatic ter take things up again with Mister Halros so soon after doin’ exactly what he tol’ me NOT ter do .... But I says ter Lance, now we be not only in the forest o’ speculation, but thar be a fog, an’ we be navigatin’ by a pretty shaky compass.
Sooner or later, it may come time fer occasion ter call upon the Green-Hoods proper-like.
THE HOBBITTIAN INQUISITION BE TUNING OUR INSTRUMENTS FER SOME VERY SHARP QUERIES!!!
