Chapter Six
A Bobbin
Now, there was a Little, or a Bobbin if you prefer, of, well… how should we say this? A Bobbin of a peculiar nature. That’s how some folks in the district would have put it in an aside, behind the hand, whisper if you knew ‘em well enough. Especially down in the lowlands areas of the Gentle Lands where things were much more proper like.
But up in Dry Hills and all the way out to Lost Valley, perhaps not so much. Not so formal. Things were stranger up there and those who raised olives up among the dry canyons and hillsides had a tendency to keep to themselves as did the small quiet villages of workers who tended those twisting pastel trees of soft green and washed out white or grey, trees[NC1] and made the oils which were exported even to the court of the Elf King of Indolién himself.
They were serious about their work up there and tended to stick to their own business and shutter up quickly, sometimes even before dark. But it was pleasant enough up there, in a sort of hauntingly quiet way. Folk there referred to themselves properly as Bobbin and not the elvish phrasing of Littles.
Nercë as it would be said in Indaarian. Or sometimes just, “the Ner.”
Littles.
As we were saying… there was one such Bobbin of a peculiar nature who lived up in Dry Hills and had inherited a modest estate of SalteBlock Olives from his rich uncle Guthbert MaCrow of the Wayside MaCrows before the big split in the family in which the respectables severed ways from… well, the peculiar branch.
And it was on this night when the winds were wild and dark off the coast, that this particularly peculiar Bobbin who’d inherited his estate was on a late walkabout far from his orchards when he came upon the wounded stranger stumbling up the road with the bundle of the old ruck under his arm.
And the hilt of a broken sword in the other.
Tappert MaCrow saw the dark cloaked and hooded figure from afar off making his way along the winding Old Road up into the hills. Now… it must be said… most Bobbin[NC2] s would have seen such a sight on a windy spring night like this particular one well after midnight and approaching Last Snack, and thus promptly taken themselves off back home for a warm glass of milk and a dozen Oat Berry cookies to put themselves back to sleep and to forget all the nonsense of dark cloaked strangers stumbling about the lands in the middle of the night.
That’s what the average Bobbin would have done. No doubts about that. I can assure you of this. But as has been said, Tappert was not an average Little, or even Bobbin for that matter.
He was in fact, quite peculiar for his kind.
How peculiar, the reader of this tale might ask right about now.
Let me explain.
Tappert had been, from a very young age, his strange uncle’s favorite young Bobbin, and thusly rewarded such by a sizeable and oft talked of inheritance. And Tappert, sometimes known as Tap Tap, or even Tapper among the small band of young friends he maintained, had the very un-Little trait, a nasty one at that, of being… curious. So of course, it wasn’t any stretch for young Tappert to one day inherit the modest yet renown SalteBlock Farms of his weird uncle who’d been known to go off a’wanderin’ at times and even once or twice for more than a year or so. All this happened not because Tappert was exceptionally good at the raising, pressing, and barreling of oils, but because, like his uncle, Tappert was peculiarly curious.
We’ve used that word a lot. Curious.
And to understand its context here we have to understand the Bobbins. An easy way to say what needs to be said next… is just to say it. So here it is. The Bobbins, Littles really, were a simple lot concerned with just their own daily business, and especially the business of other Bobbins, or the greater outside beyond their gentle lands. And very much not so much in the least[NC3] concerned with the affairs of the world at large, though they would sit and listen to a little bit of gossip near the inn’s hearth on any given night of the week. Or perhaps over a neighbor’s fence if they were about some snack between chores. Perhaps even in the morning when the coffee was brewing, and it was just bacon. But by and large they tended to keep to themselves and be busy with the ordinary everyday business of their lives. Farm. Family. Flowers and gardens and such.
To them, the Fall of Sirith Osildor ranked just a little bit lower than news of Goodie Tavish’s prize peonies and the county faire of course this summer.
That would be normal Little behavior. Nothing peculiar about that. And so, it was quite peculiar for Tappert McCrow to be out on such a night as this and going for a long walk as was his usual as the nights got less cold and the moon was out. He was, what the oldsters in the district would have said, young and restless at that age. And, according to them, all Little MaCrow needed was a nice Bobbin lass, round and happy, to a’settle him down a bit, ya hears me. That’s all.
And all this peculiarness could be forgiven by the locals if that were the grand extent of it. Late night walks deep into the less populated edges of the district. But such was not the case. For you see… Tappert McCrow, like his Grand old weird Uncle… [NC4] loved maps. Studying them. Making them. Finding them. Collecting them. Covering the walls of his old hill[NC5] , the one inherited from Uncle Guthbert, with them.
Maps were Tappert’s passion.
His study, high in the old abbey tower around which a great oak had grown up alongside, atop the estate inside the hill below, the hill that was the center and life of SalteBlock Farms, was filled with maps. Desks, walls, chests, great drawers paid good money for in which to keep and lay them out. Maps old Guthbert had acquired in his many strange travels. Maps young Tappert had acquired in his long walks since. And not just maps. But also… bits and pieces of the past. Curiosities. Relics and artifacts from his walkabout tours every summer as close to the Barrow Valley, which some called the Lost Valley, as he dared. And where there were not maps and curiosities in his grand study, there were books. Many of them in fact.
The collection of old dusty leatherbound collections of vellum and even papery papyrus lined the walls of his study and could be found often, open on every possible surface and space within the small tower while the latest acquisition was under months long inspection by Tappert.
So this… is what made Tappert peculiar to the other Bobbins, or Littles if you prefer, far and wide about the Gentle Lands and caused them to roll their eyes or utter something about that McCrow curse that had made that branch of the ancient family daft. For it was the McCrows of long ago who’d gone off to battle in the southern waystes to help the elves in their long-ago wars against the Shadow.
And it was the respectable branch that was greatly pleased by this history they claimed.
Elves passing through was one thing. Elves were of course always putting on airs as was their wont and traipsing through the district on some mysterious business they preferred not share. But helping elves, in war no less, this was not done in current times and the MaCrows’ long ago service, a captain among their ancestors in command of company of Bobbin spear and dagger[NC6] , could be laid as a source, or the source, of the curse that had plagued the McCrow family for three generations now as far as anyone was concerned.
It was one thing to be polite to an elf passing through. A knight or lady journeying by with their entourage, or retinue, heading south to take a ship as had been done in the long ago. Perhaps even offer them an apple from your basket and never no mind the copper, m’lady. The Elves of Indolién were indeed fine and beautiful people to look at, but they was elves after all and elves was deadly peculiar and, as has been mentioned here in this part… not a favored Little trait. Their magical ways, the elves, and always up to intrigue and dark adventures, were considered nasty habits. Wars in the south, why? Wars in the east, well wasn’t that a bit ago, times are different now. A lost fleet on the Western Sea, seems a bit irresponsible. And their tombs… the tombs of the old elves, the Eldaar, all those old grand barrows laid with many a curse up there in the hills just below the mountains, near the old haunted fortress, or so some said if any were to be believed, those were dark matters best not paid mind to for proper-like peoples as the Littles considered themselves to be.
So, every Little purposed in their hearts to have as little as possible to do with elves, or strangers, beyond the required pleasantries of civilized persons encountering one another. Of course. This was how it was done.
But such were never the ways of the Crazy Old Guthbert McCrow as had he been once known[NC7] , and still was in whisper and rumor and cautionary lesson. And it certainly was how Tappert seemed to be turning out if things continued the way they were going with these long summer hikes higher into the hills, and of course these late-night walks.
And this was the greatest charge laid against him by the Littles down along the coast… He didn’t manage his groves in the least. Left it all up to Ol’ Ned Thom to[NC8] the seein’.
And of course, them queer maps. Always coming in special packages, creamy big envelopes straight from the sages and collectors of Indolién itself. Inked in gold, said Postman Symes when he stopped by your front post and had a cup of tea and perhaps a little bit of freshly baked lemon rosemary seedcake.
Remember when I told you Littles aren’t much interested in others’ business? Well, that’s just a lie they live. Inherently all Littles are madly interested in news, tales, and talk. But long ago they convinced themselves they shouldn’t be and so, formally, they aren’t.
Now gossip on the quiet, a whisper behind the hand out[NC9] by the post on a hot afternoon between chores, well that’s just a tasty treat just as well savored as a slice of dark sugar pecan pie. No harm in that.
“Nah one gettee a letter fine like that from Indolién[NC10] ,” Symes would tell one and all who’d listen each time a package came from Indolién for Saltblocke Farms. “Nah one a’tall.”
So there on the late night on the verge of turning toward the witch hours was a small Bobbin about on the twisting roads deep in the district with his walking stick in hand, wrapped up in his tweed walking coat when he did indeed see the stumbling stranger making his way up the Old Road toward the High Hills. At first, he thought it might be one of those elven fortune hunters down lurking around the barrows and having gotten into a spot of trouble. The outcasts. And because Tappert was curious to see what was the matter he waited under the old lantern atop Smote Hill, which was one of the smaller hills before you reached the fork in the road that either led off toward Barrow Valley, or up into Dry Hills proper and the vast olive farms and the fine old homes that lay along the ancient cobblestone wall and road that was as old as time itself.
Or so the oldsters say.
Tappert was a keen observer. Had to be if one were to be a collector, was what Old Guthbert had always tried to teach him. And he was. As his Grand Uncle had been and as most McCrows were for no reason they could ever define. So, even now as he watched the stranger from under the lantern atop Old Smote Hill, he could see other bands of shadowy figures moving about down in the Hollows and even the occasional green-fire torch coming to life this way and that.
And even though the wind had been up a while ago, he’d been sure he’d heard hunting horns like none other he’d ever heard, in the night.
“Now that’s a might strange,” murmured Tappert as he watched and waited for the elf to climb the hill. He was assuming it was an elf. And then perhaps once that happened, they might have a nice conversation as elves didn’t mind the dark and the late and he’d had other conversations with some on late nights just like this. Tappert enjoyed spending a chat with elves when they were willing to. And the ones that came for the treasures of the barrows were more than like to talk, and want talk.
In time the elf arrived, and it was clear, again because Tappert was a keen observer, that the stranger was indeed wounded or feeling ill, and was not an elf at all, but a man.
Which was stranger still. Men were rare. Mostly all one ever saw of them were rumors and the much coveted Little gossip out by the post.
“I say,” announced Tappert, for it was clear the elf who was not an elf but a man, was not aware of Tappert’s presence as he made the top of Smote Hill. “You seem to be having a bit of a rough struggle.”
The stranger stopped, swaying a bit, casting his gaze quickly over his shoulder and down into the hollows where the strange bands of dark figures had been roving about as though searching for something, or someone.
Two things occurred to Tappert who as has been stated was a bit of a keen observer. A constant watcher. A collector, as it were.
One. The man was holding a broken sword.
Two. The bundle under the arm of the stranger was… smoking. Gray wisps drifted from its fatness. Curling and delicate, they climbed off into the night and drifted, deliberating[NC11] it seemed, off toward the hollows. Drifting away and leaving a smell like… like Tappert would think later… burnt charcoal on the breeze. A not unpleasant smell. But very curious in that it was coming from inside an old and worn travelling pack where one usually did not keep fire. So of course, both were of interest to the peculiar Bobbin.
“May I be of assistance?” asked Tappert. All Littles are always first kind.
The stranger, muttering, came to himself at seeing the Little under the lantern’s light atop the rise he’d come up with no little difficulty. There was a trail of blood droplets, dark in the night, behind him.
“Who might you be, little one?” asked the stranger tiredly.
Tappert planted his walking stick, stuck out his small hand and announced his name.
“Allow me to introduce myself, stranger. Tappert Junctulius McCrow of the Wayside McCrows.”
A long moment passed as the stranger continued to sway in his boots. Blood began to drip down onto the dirt of the road as he stood there, as though seeming to decide what to do next. This also, was not lost on Tappert.
“Most just call me Tappert,” he continued friendly enough in the ensuing silence. “A few friends I have over in Ladybridge call me Tap Tap, but they are…”
The Bobbin coughed.
“Rascals but friends none the less.”
“Ah,” said the stranger. Clearing his throat. His voice was odd, noted the Bobbin. Most elves had high almost musical sounding voices. Or like trumpets, especially if they were knights or noble family. But this one sounded like a highwayman or a drover. He had seldom talked with men, as men were not given to talk.
“And…” began the Man. “Are you… uh… a relation of old Guthbert… McCrow,” he coughed at the last.
Tapper was surprised and seemed to lean back at this.
“I am indeed!” he exclaimed. “He was my good old grand uncle from way back. Gone now these five years.”
The stranger looked over his shoulder and down in the vast zig zag of hollows he’d just climbed out of.
“They’re coming…” he seemed to mutter to himself, but Tappert caught this all the same.
The Bobbin stepped closer, peering down into the darkness, and trying to see what the stranger saw. Though Bobbin eyes are good… they are not elf good. Still, he tried. The shadows were gone now.
“Old Guthbert was known to Storytellers. We called on him in times of trouble,” rumbled the stranger.
Tappert did not know this. In fact, this struck him as a very fantastic thing and yet one more interesting curiosity about his unbelievable uncle that was totally believable. He was still discovering secret rooms and passages and small treasures laid up through the Estate at Saltblocke Farms. And, as Tappert’s quick little mind worked, the explanation of many mysteries he had often wondered about, unlocked, a little. Like some small number of tumblers in a difficult lock.
“I say…” Tappert whispered to himself in the night as a few mysteries fell into place. The stranger stood silently as Tapper did the same, his mind roving over old memories.
“I am badly wounded,” began the stranger and coughed a bit. “Waylaid along the roads.”
“In a fight?” mouthed the Bobbin incredulously. Such things were unheard of here in the district mostly. Dreamt of maybe. As one dreams of adventures. But of course… Bobbins don’t do adventures. That of course is well known, and a’wanderin’ is nothing to be proud of.
But there had been stories of dark figures on the roads of late. Tappert had heard such talk.
“Set upon by dark forces from the South. Emissaries of the Doom Gate.”
A small gasp escaped the Bobbin’s mouth and Tappert felt himself tighten his grip on his old walking stick.
“I would not presume on any of your fine folk unless the needs were dire,” continued the stranger, weaving slightly. “But I must ask for help now… I need to get off the road this night. Perhaps…”
“A hiding place,” finished Tappert expectantly and knew not why he did so.
The stranger grunted a bit as he took his hand away from his wound. Then… a soft almost quiet, “yes.”
And without discussion or questions or even a nod to the worries that brought such evil mentioned as the Doom Gate and Dark Forces, Tappert was hustling the stranger along the road to Dry Hills and the old Abbey that was his home atop the hill.
Not just because he was a good Bobbin, though peculiar Bobbin, who would render aid to a strange traveler in trouble on the road. But because this… smelled like… an adventure to him and he had the feeling he was caught up in something he’d been looking for in all those maps he loved so much.
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The Tolkien Project Chapter Six