Chapter Ten
To the little bobbin standing in the morning mist with the golden sunshine suddenly blocked by the gloom of the blue shadows and banks of surrounding fog, an impossibly tall wizard stood there at the crossroads musing his long-stemmed pipe.
And inquiring about his circumstances.
Whereas in times past Tappert had considered the wizard mildly boorish, even sometimes annoying when the elven sorcerer straight from the Emerald Council at Indolién paid unannounced visits to old Abbey Hill and the lands of SaltBlocke Farm beneath the spreading oak the district had known as the Old Man for all Tappert’s days, right now… well… it was downright inconvenient[NC1] and quite a bother what with a stranger, a man of the woods and mountains, dying no less in the guest cottage.
So there was that.
And there was also that business his crazed old uncle had whispered to him on Whistle Eve in those last years and would say no more on the subject.
That beyond pearls of great price, Malrond was never to be trusted with the secrets of the underhall.
And if that wasn’t enough, then there was the dying stranger telling little Tappert MaCrow to hide the worn out gunna sack, which is what bobbin, or Littles if you prefer, called rucks sacks, or packs. Your choice. But to hide his travel worn gunna sack in one of the most secret recesses of the underhall of SaltBlocke. And if that wasn’t enough… this secret hidey hole his uncle had set aside, was largely unknown to Tappert before its revelation by the stranger.
Then again…
There were all kinds of undiscovered clever places down there in the halls below the main hall of Saltblocke Hall. And Tappert had a mind that he knew a very great many of them even if he couldn’t quite gain access to them just yet with whatever particular key or puzzle gained entry to them.
And then of course… there was just downright burglary and the picking of locks which any good bobbin knew how to do, not because they were low thieves of any sort, but that keys were bothersome, and locks were easy to pick, and hard to come by[NC2] if one needed replacing.
So, it was a handy skill known by one and all.
Most bobbin kept a pick or two handy anyway as much as they did a fried egg biscuit or a cheese, ham, and pickle press in one of their many pockets.
A “presser” is what they called a cheese, ham, and pickle sandwich. Made with two thin slices of country bread, a strip of mustard, and then the red country chestnut ham and a nice pokey cheese which is what we would have called cheese with holes in it and which Littles, in their practical experience just called Pokey Cheese. The reason all this assemblage was called “a Presser” is because this particular sandwich was best when kept in the back pocket of a bobbin out walking or working, and therefore sat on frequently during breaks.
All agreed that the pressing made the Presser taste better, especially if the pokey cheese was sharp, the pickle sour, and the mustard mild[NC3] .
But those were thoughts for other fine days and not this mess of a morning as far as Tappert MaCrow was concerned.
“And what would you be doing out this fine too-early morning, young Tappert?” asked the wizard with none of his usual joy and enthusiasm which Tappert often thought seemed… feigned or even “ginned up” as some had whispered before.
“Don’t get the feelin’ that one’s up and up,” as Miss would have put it, busy about the kitchens back at Saltblocke.
And yes, kitchens, plural. There are fifteen between the old abbey grounds, the underhall, and the secret undercellars, though most of those are little more than a pantry, a cutting board, a good knife, and a set of plates to set forth a proper snacking when one’s busy rotating the ports or wines down there in the lonely and quiet, yet very cozy halls.
And sometimes you hear things down there. Things that bother you, and as every bobbin knows, a little snack banishes a bothersome ghost or two.
“Aren’t you out a little bit early, or late, for your normal long walks through the night, Tappert MaCrow?”
Now Tappert knew that some knew of his late-night walks, often taking him far out near the Barrow Hills where he would only get within sighting distance and never close enough to see the old and ancient stone doors set long ago, sometimes cracked and open, for fear of seeing an actual barrow wight out and about haunting on a late eve.
But then again, Tappert would often ask himself when he stood there for long hours watching the soft rolling hills under the late evening moon, the mist and shadows making it seem as though something was indeed out there and moving among the old and ancient stones, “Why are you out here then, Tappert… if not to see one of ‘em. To know if it’s true… or it ain’t? A wight and all.”
But then Tappert would tell himself he was more interested in the ancient artifacts still rumored to lay deep in the barrow halls. The swords or other weapons of renown, perhaps even crumbling books, or ancient maps impressed on the walls that could be copied down and studied later in the safety of his cozy tower.
“Thas’ why,” Tappert would whisper to himself later when wondering why he’d done such a foolish thing as getting so close to the old barrow halls of the ancient kings little was known about in the nowadays of these present todays.
“Why…” stammered Tappert to Malrond. “I’m…”
He couldn’t think of an answer or a why, as to why he was out running in the morning fog, jumping at shadows, and clearly headed over toward the acres, maybe, because the way around from the crossroad that he was clearly about to take would lead him there directly.
But it was clear he was lying, or at least… omitting. Or at least it would be. And it was best not to do that with a wizard when important matters were on the line.
So Tapper did not.
“Why… I am off to see Ol’ Sorley about a medical problem I’m having… this morning.”
The wizard mused his pipe, waiting for the lie to reveal itself. Or at least, that was the feeling Tappert had as he stood there quite uncomfortably. And, as if some small voice whispered to Tappert that now was when the liar would double down and explain more as if to mortar or seal the lie like it was an odd stone in a country wall that needed more fidgeting than fixing in place, Tappert ignored that suggestion [NC4] and instead said nothing.
Like a pro as his friends would have said.
The wizard blew a large smoke ring at Tappert though he seemed not to even inhale, or exhale, for that matter.
In the mist, growing colder and thicker by the moment, it was as though the elven eyes of the sorcerer had turned into burning dark coals, studying Tappert in the deepening of the dark that was so… well, dark… it seemed for a moment there that it was not first morning at ‘tall, but perhaps end o’ day when dark came early due to the mists from off the coast.
This was… Tappert would think later… passing queer.
A liar would lie more, Tappert told himself in the same instant and continued to say nothing.
Finally, the wizard removed his long-stemmed pipe from his thin mouth and murmured, “I hope it is nothing… too serious, Tappert?”
Tappert gave a short giggle which is a very bobbin thing to do when uncomfortable about some delicate matter and wishing not to be impolite but also not revealing.
Tappert patted his stomach, covered by a fine cut waistcoat with three brass buttons. “Nothing a tonic won’t see to this morning, I hope, Malrond. I should be…” Tappert trailed off.
“Yes, going,” finished the wizard. “Sorry to have waylaid you. May I ask one small question though, my young Tappert?”
Tappert said nothing and the wizard stepped forward and leaned slightly as though seeking to keep the matter just between the two of them. His boots grinding the gravel of the road in the thick foggy silence.
“Were you out… late… last night?”
Tappert made a face, pure acting and showing nothing but startled pleasantness. Then, “Well of course, Malrond. I often take walks into the east country, and I was there until moon fall in the early dark. By the time I got home this morning and fried an egg, the mist was thick as jam. Why do you ask, Malrond?”
For a long moment the wizard was silent, content merely to peer into the face of the Little as though seeking something he could not quite find… just yet.
But he was… looking.
Then, “Did you… Tappert… see anything out late last night?”
“Why yes, Malrond. I saw many things. Night rooks and old carved stones. I spent a long amount of the night sketching Old King Hill where the Barrow Hall meets Burble Stream down near the fallen kinds. Is there…”
Tappert paused. Uncertain for a moment but then, and later he would ask himself how he’d arrived at such a certainty in that tense and dire moment, but certain the wizard knew exactly what it was Tappert was concealing.
The stranger.
Stabbed in the lane and now surely dying or even dead, quicker by the second with each passing moment, in his guest cottage near the dark smithy atop old Abbey Hill.
Tappert danced back and forth for a moment and gave a small burp he feigned, hoping it reinforced the lie of tonic sought.
He hated himself for the lie as lying was not in Tappert’s nature.
“… something I should have seen, specifically, Malrond, sir? Last night in the late. And I do apologize, but I would like to cut Sorely off before he starts off on his rounds as…” Tappert patted his belly, making a gentle yet reminding show of the matter he was supposedly about. “Things do seem to be developing… urgently, Malrond. I must beg off now, if you please.”
The wizard stared at Tappert and this was indeed so unusual from his general false yet jovial manner when he barged in during what had been planned to be a pleasant and lonely afternoon tea as all perfect teas should be, or so the very introverted Tappert thought.
He really only had four friends and they all knew this about him. Of course they did.
Still, Malrond said nothing and failed to release the captive bobbin despite the deceptions of a sour stomach and urgent business impending.
So… Tappert sweetened the deal.
“I might have tea the end of the week, Malrond. I would be delighted for you to come by if you were in the district, say… three. I will have fresh baked Cinnamon Butter Cookies and a nice pot of Kelsey Grey. We could discuss anything, or anyone, I might have seen roving around in the late. But I fear, Master Malrond, I must take my leave now, if you understand.”
The wizard, as though he’d been in a trance through all this, stood suddenly erect and seemed to change in both demeanor and attitude wholly within the blink of an eye.
“Why of course, young Tappert. I have taken far, far too much of your time. And… you do have… business… to attend to. Tea. I have marked it and I shall be delighted to attend and have those cookies and a pot. That would be delightful. Perhaps even a delicate cordial of one of your uncle’s fine ports from the Havens. It has been long since he took me down into the undercellars and showed me his fine collection for a sampling. I miss such good times and such pleasant conversations we had. We were, great friends, you know. Did he ever tell you that, Tappert?”
But by that time, Tappert, bidding many pleasantries, had taken himself off into the mists, running down the old crossroad lane toward the Acres and Sorely Barters, glad that the morning sun was starting to burn through the gloom and mist once he’d left the wizard’s disquieting presence.
Also, my latest audiobook is out! The Tragedy of the Strange Company continues
“Absolute banger!” 5 Stars!!!!!
Get it on…again! The Strange Company is back and on the defensive.
A massive invasion of a major Monarch world gets underway and the weird warrant officers of Voodoo Platoon move into their roles as combat multipliers at the front lines of an incredible no-holds-barred brawl for battlefield domination. Facing legions of Ultramarines, a weaponized population, and re-engineered combat veterans augmented by cybernetics, the stone-cold killers and ready-to-rumble rogues of Strange, fighting alongside a newly christened mech combat team, must hold a gateway landing zone against overwhelming odds.
But the Ultras aren’t the premier elite fighting unit of the crumbling Monarch Empire for nothing. Defeat isn't even on the table for this military death cult of galactic warriors the Strange faces across a charred and dangerous battlefield.
To the legendary Ultramarines, this is the last battle; the final conflict, and nothing less than their honor and a place in history are at stake. To survive, Reaper, Dog, and Voodoo Platoons will have to play every dirty trick in the book of war in a desperate, high-cycle, ride-the-lightning defense of a bad LZ where both sides know what they do here will echo into eternity.
The tragedy of the Strange Company continues on LZ Heartbreak. Just because it’s a bad idea, doesn’t mean it won’t be fun.
The Tolkien Project: Chapter Ten