Chapter Nine
The sun came through the mists above but only in brief bursts as Tappert, wrapping himself in a nice thick Wickshire scarf he’d acquired the previous year for just a few coin, ran down the steep hill from the Old Abbey grounds that were Saltblocke Farm atop the hill and under the great oak. But the clearing mist and bursts of wan early spring sunshine were only due to the fact that the hill was a slightly higher elevation than the surrounding countryside and so quickly, before Tappert reached the twisting roads and bottoms of the lands, he was once again running off through the thick mist, suddenly enveloped in the dense quiet it always made at this time of the morning, hearing nothing but the strike of his boots, the crunch of the road rock, and the gasping of his breath as he tried to keep his coffee and bacon down.
“Bother,” he gasped, and burped since no one was around. “This is no way to start a proper morning of breakfasting.”
Which was a very bobbin thing to say as breakfasting had sort of an event level statues to it
Tappert rushed on through the gloom and pushed away thoughts of frying eggs sizzling in rich butter, more perfectly cooked bacon, and perhaps even a dense and sweet lavender scone with one nice full pot of black coffee to see it all along and call proper breakfasting done and done. But none of this was going to happen and so he ran toward the crossroads, intent on the desperate errand he was about and perhaps bargaining that some sort of emergency breakfast could still be had if things went off quicker than they were looking.
But it never does go that way,does it?
And yet, despite all this, there were other darker thoughts to push away as Tappert ran for the wise man, Sorley Barters, who made his small residence in an underhill along the small hamlet all Littles called the Acres.
Things… moved… out there in the swirling mists.
Morning mist, even on one so fine,or so the morning promising seemed, still clutched at the shadows of the night out there in its grasp. And it was easy, after the events of last night, for Tappert to darkly imagine that near the edges of his vision, among the mists and fogs clinging to the dense bushes and deeper growth of the oaks and other trees between the fields and small hills of the district, in the shadows below the tall draping trees, that there were unnatural dark shadows out there. And it was easy, after the events of last night, for Tappert to darkly imagine that near the edges of his vision, among the mists and fogs clinging to the dense bushes and deeper growth of the oaks and other trees between the fields and small hills of the district, in the shadows below the tall draping trees, that there were unnatural dark shadows out there. Goblin small and seeming, and off, moving, and always there at the next twist or turn heading toward the crossroads, only to disappear as Tappert continued closer.
And hadn’t the strange man said something about being beset upon by goblins?
Just then something moved too quickly near one of those dark shapes beneath the tall oaks and Tappert stopped suddenly, wishing he’d brought along his sturdy walking stick, as he studied the land. Perhaps if it were a beast, he could drive it off, he thought.
But, Tappert had that peculiar sense this was not just some beast out too late after morning rise. Some natural predators out too late hunting, or just one of the stray dogs that plagued the flocks throughout the day. Or p’raps even a wolf come down out of the high places to hunt little children playing beyond the call and care of their parents and good dogs. No, this was not those natural things. There, standing stock still and watching the swirling mists off to the side of the road, Tappert had the distinct impression he was dealing with something out there in the mists, following parallel to his course, other than just a beast out hunting.
Of course, despite their stature, bobbin are quite adept in dealing with beasts. So Tappert was not afraid but not curious. Just… cautious.
This… was different. Felt different. Was… different.
Other perhaps.
We shall, if we continue this tale, need to discuss the meaning of other. Especially with respect to the little known yet very remarkable bobbin. But now is not the time for meanings and a deep discussion of Other. So, please remind me if I forget.
Tappert began to walk slowly now, reasoning that if it were a beast of some sort then it was best to move slowly as a predator would perceive prey as running and try to take it from behind.
And that would not do the stabbed man a bit of good at this dire moment.
Bobbin have a thing about strangers of the road dying in their halls and care. And so, Tappert was intent on avoiding that whole mess.
In the mist and fog, all Tappert could hear out there were the sounds of his own boots against the rough rock of the well-maintained road. Nothing else. Not even his breathing which he’d made very quiet. He was nearing the crossroads where he would turn and take the road up to the Acres and Sorely Barters, when his heart stopped and he saw, ahead on the road, some type of looming… skeleton, or even a pit demon perhaps, it was so tall, maybe even a giant and drooling warewoof come in to feed.
Bobbin hate warewoofs and are convinced these creatures lie at the source of all their troubles. Their fireside tales will, invariably, involve the accusations of a warewoofbeing involved.
But it was not this, or any of those things, and especially most of all a warewoof thankfully. It was in fact, merely the crossroads lamppost still lit in the dense fog, and what Tappert had taken for the two burning eyes of the hungry warewoof were merely the last two candles burning down and turned fiery orange by the early day’s misty light.
Tappert suddenly heard movement a’near’off, a bobbin way of saying over there, but whatever it was it was going away now, rustling off through the brush and none too clever by half or so it, whatever it was, must have been thinking to itself that it was about.
For again, bobbin are remarkable creatures alone and in the wood and field. And if a bobbin is so of a mind, they can move through a forest at a dead run and never leave a trace. Especially if they’ve turned to taking off their boots, which they prefer for work and styling, and even the elves of Indolién come to have boots done in Leatherby, for bobbin boots are the finest workmanship, so all agree. But without boots, and wearing their walking mocs, as they call them, soft leather hide shoes their long-ago bobbin ancestors made, then a bobbin cannot be found having moved through an area no matter how recently, and at what reckless speed they did so.
But not with fine boots on, as Tappert was so beshod this morning. Next to fine maps and well-kept books, Tappert MaCrow’s other passion was well made clothing and leather boots. The sounds of his crunched on the hard rock, and just before the lamppost burning its twin evil eyes in the morning mist, the Little listened to whatever it was that had been trailing him, running alongside the road, take itself off and into the brush, heading off toward Quiet Stream a bit farther over. Which is how bobbin mean a’near’off but farther away.
No less than a league.
“P’raps it was a beast,” whispered Tappert to himself in the lonely morning gloom. “Needin’ a drink before the day’s sleep. That’s all.”
When it was gone and everything was silent once more, Tappert turned back to the lamppost and was just about to run again when standing there in front of him was Old Malrond himself.
The elven wizard who often came from Indolién to share news and tales and magics of telling and show.
Puffing his pipe and watching the Little through the morning gloom, the wizard stood stone still.
“Well, Helloo there,” muttered the elven wizard, musing his beard as he blew smoke rings into the mist. “And what would little Tappert MaCrow be out doing at this time of the morning. Shouldn’t you be making one of your fine breakfasts and ready for the day’s work of curing olives and barreling oils for the markets of fair Indolién itself?”
Startled, Tappert backed up suddenly and stared skyward at the tall wizard looming over him in the misty gloom beneath the lampposts. The two glaring candles turned hellish orange by the strange light of an almost surreal, and even magical morning.
Then again, Tappert thought, calming himself even as he did so. It has been a strange and long night. Seeing warewoofs in the mist can do that to a one.
“Hullo there Master Malrond,” said Tappert softly.
Now, Tappert had never liked Malrond and had kept his dealings exclusively short with the wizard, purposely affecting an air he already possessed, but exaggeratedly so with this elf in particular.
And it had been on more than a few evenings, Tappert’s eyes aching from studying the maps and books of his tower, that he had found himself wondering exactly why he’d behaved so particularly with this particularelf.
Perhaps, Tappert reasoned, it was because the elf was not just any elf, and yes elves were fascinating and wonderful, but that this one was a wizard. Which is a rare thing. And it was rumored he was very old and had accumulated much power.
That had definitely been a perhaps in Tappert’s thinking regarding his reactions to Malrond.
But really the reason Tappert always seemed so standoffish around the wizard, busy and shy but not really so much as he appeared, but as has been stated, overexaggerating the mannerism if only to be clear of the wizard’s presence, had always been curious to Tappert himself. Again, he actually knew the source of all this,and that his behaviour had come from and been the direct result of his uncle Guthbert.
His very eccentric uncle Guthbert.
Though he, Tappert, had inherited everything from his eccentric and oft gone a’wanderin’ uncle, Tappert had also inherited many long lectures that were actually quite endlessly fascinating on what lay beyond, and even sometimes within, the Little Lands, or what the maps called The Gentle Lands. But… Tappert had come to question the things his uncle had said, since the old daft’s passing these five years now.
Many times, with the things Tappert experienced, and especially in the Underhall areas of SaltBlockHall, Tappert had been forced to develop a maxim he now, five years later, had come to rely on in all manner of things and not just with his daft old uncle’s tales and dangerous curiosities.
Tappert would say, at times, “How do you know this?” Or, “How do you know that?”
Because… he wanted to make sure there was a sensible reason that added it up, instead of just taking something for granted as told to him. He had a small scar across the top of his left hand because of something his uncle had told him that had quite been true.
And the scar never healed.
But when Tappert asked, as he did often now, of other bobbin when they were on about something, “How do you know this?” or, “How do you know that?” this particularly annoyed those other bobbin, especially when they were so certain of some fact or idea and he would, good naturedly and fully intent on actually finding out the heart of a matter, ask this same thing of them.
“How do you know this?” Or, “How do you know that?”
And at that point it would drive other bobbin nuts and cause much Flusteration as they called it. There is no such word as Flusteration. But when you think about it, there really should be, shouldn’t there.
And why did it cause this… Flusteration?
Well, by Tappert honestly asking them, “How do you know this?” or, “How do you know that?” it forced them to actually ask themselves how they really did know the thing they were so certain of. And, as it is with most people, bobbin, elf, human, you or even me, it made them realize they did not actually know this thing they were so certain about, and instead, they were taking, as a fact, arguing as gospel some thing or happening they only had secondhand knowledge of, gossip really, at best.
But Tappert considered knowing why, or how, or what… more important than one’sone’s certainty. In fact, he had come to depend on it on a number of occasions. He was not merely satisfied with gossip. Hencethe books and maps.
For knowledge was survival, and Tappert had already almost died twice in his life. He was very worried about that third time which would come along shortly.
There were, and this is just between you and meI and Tappert for the rest of this part of the tale, many dangerous things down there in the Underhall beneath Saltblocke. Strange and dangerous things. Uncle Guthbert, plucky and adventury, had gone far and wide, far-er and wider than anyone thought, and he had come home to his hall with many strange… curiosities… in his far and wide travels. Some, down there in the underhalls were, in fact, quite verydangerous. And so, Tappert had taken to approaching all things in such manner and it had bled over into his daily interactions, and as you can guess, among the bobbin, it had caused much… Flusteration when he asked how a thing were known.
Flusteration.
Truly, it’s a wonderful word. Enjoy using it.
Now, to Malrond and the gloomy crossroads on a morning when it was most inconvenient for Tappert to be meeting up suddenly with the strangely friendly, yet rather pushy, thought Tapper oftentimes before, elven wizard from Indolién.
And then there was what he’d been told in darkest confidence on a night tradition said secrets were told.
Uncle Guthbert had one thing to say regarding the enigmatic wizard, and he’d said this in the dark of Windy Winternight, or what the Little’s call Whistle Eve, when bBobbin believe things that should not be said, or rather things that should not be heard aloud, are best said quietly with the cover of wind and storm to secret their telling. Uncle Guthbert near the main hall fire that Whistle Eve the two of them listening to the storm beyond the halls and having a great tawny port and some fine cheese, smoked nuts of course too, Tappert’s daft uncle had leaned forward at the height of the storm and croaked softly, “That one…” he looked around solemnly, watching the shadows shift as the wind came screaming down the chimney and tossing the fire this way and that as it searched the shadows of the room, “is not to be trusted, Tappert. Not by half, says I.”
And this was in reply to Tappert having said, “And what of the elf wizard Malrond, Uncle?. He comes round to the inn, and I do not care for his manners. He stares and seems to see the things you wish not to be seen. He makes me cold inside.”
His uncle leaned closer when the wind was howling its most now. Making shutters throughout the vast hall under the hill slam and rattle like all the ghosts of Whistle Eve were out that night and trying to gain access to the hall.
“Never let him into the Underhall, Tap Tap. He will try. Bet on it, my bobbin. But be polite. Be firm. Always carry a pocketknife because perhaps there will be cheese and cake. But never, Tappert. Never ever, little Tappert, let him into my underhall. I know… He desires greatly to see what I found down there.”
And after that, even when Tappert would ask for more info or further clarification, his old uncle, losing his marbles day by day in those last wonderful fun years, would only look around cautiously, spying the shadows like some old corsair from Far Havens, and say nothing more on the subject, giving only a wary look, and an unspoken warning nothing further would be said. And that what had been said… was to be obeyed.
Now, in the mist and gloom of what would soon be a fine morning, the wizard stared down at the young bobbin at the crossroads, musing his pipe, casting slithering smoke rings into the soft fog. The last of the melting twin candles in the lamppost burning like a demon dreaming just above and behind the sorcerer.
“Now what, Tappert MaCrow,” slowly intoned the wizard in that grand voice of his. “Are you rushing off to do that is so, so, so very important this morning.”
The Tolkíen Project Chapter 9