"Take these, Bob." The portly man rushing up to me thrust a stack of plates as tall as I was toward me. I stretched my arms out and struggled to keep my balance as the weight of the dishes strained my arms. "The old man by the fireplace gets the pudding and the fish. The mutton goes to those two dwarves with the tangled beards. The rest goes to that great big table by the bar. That's Fornosters for you, always eating, always carrying those great big sticks to knock each other on the head with, if rumors are true. Regular cave trolls they are."
I opened my mouth to speak but I couldn't interrupt the flow. I could only push forward as the man bounced back toward the sweltering kitchen. "Get on with you, Bob. And keep up with their drinks. I have enough to worry about wi'out hearing them bangin' their mugs."
His rotund frame disappeared. I spluttered after him. "Mr. Butterbur, sir. Mr. Butterbur? Does this mean that I'm hired? And I'm not Bob. It's Gamgee - Frodo Gamgee - Sam Gamgee's son."
I received no reply more than the whistle of a kettle and the banging of cupboard doors. Not daring to set down my tower of china, I staggered on to the Common Room, where a buzz of raucous gossip and raspy laughter filled my ears. The sounds slowly died, and I felt two dozen pairs of eyes fixating on me. I felt my face turning red, creeping right into my curly hair. The Prancing Pony was a renowned institution and the only inn in the crossroads town of Bree. Barleyman Butterbur's hiring of new help had to be a right notable event.
"For you, sirs." I positioned my stack of plates with a clunk on the edge of the dwarves' table. I have always been fascinated by the strange, gruff-looking race, and I had sometimes seen them pass through the Shire with twinkling eyes and footsteps that seemed unexpectedly light. Never had I approached one though. Here were two. I attempted to extricate their plates of mutton from the stack without sending anything else crashing to the floor.
The dwarf with the red beard stared curiously. "How old are you, lad?"
"Twenty-seven years," I mumbled. I kicked myself with my own bare foot for that. I can never remind myself enough that I'm Sam Gamgee's son. Samwise the Brave wouldn't mind speaking up, so why should I? I straightened my back and cleared my throat. "I am twent…" The black-bearded dwarf's glare caught me off guard and my voice trailed off again. Scars stood out on his hands as he carved the mutton with a long jagged knife.
"Twenty-seven," Redbeard repeated thoughtfully. "Why among hobbits, you're just a lad."
Blackbeard drummed his mug once on the tabletop. "More beer."
I gulped. Picking up the plates, I danced on to the old man by the fireplace. Butterbur won't fire me the first day, will he? Dad said that he was a nice man. I couldn't help glancing back at the dwarves as the white-haired man took his fish from me with slow fingers. How do they know so much about hobbits? Are we really so famous after what Dad and Frodo Baggins did? I know so little about dwarves and elves and men, even after all the great wars they have fought. But I want to know so much.
The Fornost men seized my full attention as they clamored for their dishes. Despite their vigor, and the knobby sticks that they kept by their sides, they didn't strike me as vicious.
Carrying pitchers of the famous Prancing Pony beer kept me occupied for hours after that. No sooner had I finished going around the room than I had to start at the beginning again or fetch another pitcher.
Finally, when the room had half-cleared out, I got a chance to pour myself a mug of the beer. Good. I doubt that it's really the best in the land, though. I had a vision of myself stopping at every public house between Bree and the Emyn Muil. The vision only lasted for a moment, for I couldn't remember Dad telling me about any other pubs during his adventures.
It must have been his stories that made me want to have my own adventures. I still felt the bounce of his knee beneath me as he told me of the ring and of my namesake whom I would never meet, of orcs and beautiful elven women and crashing waterfalls. 'Dad,' I had protested. 'Rubus Bracegirdle said that hobbits aren't meant to have adventures. He says that you're not a very good hobbit.' My father had laughed heartily at my words. Then he had looked very seriously at me. 'Rubus Bracegirdle hasn't had any adventures, so he can't know. But these things were meant to happen to us. Maybe you're meant to have adventures too.'
"It warms my heart to see a hobbit, it does."
The bass voice interrupted my thoughts, and I jumped to see that two more customers had entered the Common Room. The first, a dwarf with a gray-streaked beard had stopped in front of me. I shivered. I couldn't see the dwarf's mouth to know if he was frowning or smiling, but he had stopped expectantly in front of me as if he was waiting on me. Of course he is. I chided myself as I took in his mud-stained cloak and pack. I did wonder why he was out so long after dark, but I dared not ask.
To my satisfaction, one of the other dwarves did. "What makes you travel so late, friends?"
His companion, a tall, fair elf, answered. "The sea. We have so much yet to see, but only as long as I can escape the call of the sea. We are traveling eastward with haste, only to strike the great Anduin."
He carried a note of contentment in his cheerless voice, in a way that I would never be able to explain to Rubus Bracegirdle or even to Fuzzy Proudfoot. I set two tall mugs of beer in front of them at the bar, and the dwarf thanked me.
I could see the elf's eyes scanning the room. Wondering what he was thinking, and if he had fought in the War of the Ring, I did the same. Few were left. The Fornost company had retired. So had the old man by the fireplace. Redbeard and Blackbeard still drained their mugs with alacrity and often talked loudly to each other in a tongue I did not know. A tall figure wrapped tightly in a cloak reclined against the wall near them, more likely asleep than awake. The last few others trickled out as they felt the elf's stare.
Butterbur himself bustled onto the room. His face was red, and he was puffing for breath. I had to assume that that was his natural state. "Bob! There you are, my boy. How 'bout fetching some pipe weed? The Southfarthing will do. We have such excellent guests tonight." He shooed me out even as I tried to protest that I had no idea where the pipe weed could be found. As I went, I heard him recommending the eel pie to the pair at the bar. "Better than anyone else's. How 'bout it. Eh? Goes right down."
I had just shut the first closet without finding the store of Southfarthing when I heard the front door of the Prancing Pony bang open. Someone stomped in, and I heard a murmur of voices from the Common Room. My curiosity got the better of me, and I abandoned my task to investigate.
"There are still some left?" Butterbur asked, his fat mouth hanging open.
The newcomer, a dark young man who was doubled over, threw up his hands. I saw a dagger flash at his waist, and I felt fascination gnawing at me. "All I know is that a pack of wargs followed right on the heels of my poor stallion for nearly half a league up the Greenway. I have never been so happy to get through a town's gates than I was to get through Bree's."
"Has Nob taken care of your horse?" Butterbur asked. His face changed. "Never mind. He goes home after dark now."
"I'll do it," I piped up.
It took me fifteen minutes to strip the saddle from the sweating beast and rub him down. The stallion was powerfully built but hardly flinched when I inspected his teeth. Still, I led him to the farthest stall from the only other horse in the stable his size. I knew that one had to belong to the elf. It was a white, graceful creature with eyes that seemed to look into mine with human intelligence.
Amazing horses, giant wolves, dwarves, and elves all in one night! Giddy with excitement, I swept back into the Common Room. Butterbur was busy wiping down the bar, but the guests, even the cloaked sleeper, had moved together at the large table.
"You're all headed east in the morning," the elf said. "So are my friend and I. We've dealt with wargs before, even when orcs were riding them. If you will allow it, why should we not join together and travel in a group. There is nothing to fear by daylight, but you will find no city gates at night for many miles."
"I do not care to meet the wolves alone." The cloaked man stared around at them through two piercing green eyes, all that was visible through the brown garment.
"Dwarves would never fear wargs," Redbeard thundered. "But we would like your company, friends."
"Thank you," the dark man said simply.
I wanted to chime in, but it would mean giving up the job that me father's recommendation had just gotten for me. It would mean not seeing him or Mom or any of my brothers and sisters soon - or perhaps ever. Of course I can't go, even with such an interesting company. Of course I won't.
Butterbur straightened with a sudden motion. "I had something to tell one of you…Or not to tell one of you…Or maybe to take from you." He scratched his mustache. "I'm simply too busy to remember." He hurried back toward the kitchen.
He probably just wanted to get the pipe weed from me. I turned, but the cloaked guest caught my arm with a tight, narrow grip. He leaned close even as my heart thumped in fear and I tried to pull away.
"I can feel it," came the gentle whisper. "Someone here is going to die tonight."