Visitors in the cellar
.oOo.
At the Sign of the Drunken Goose…
A wide and austere hobbit stepped hesitantly under the sandstone arches. He was hailed with strange words but a friendly air. This Big Folk hostel was like the Green Dragon, but still, what a strange name... the Drunken Goose! He climbed on a stool. The regulars made efforts so that he would feel comfortable, but they had not received any hobbit from the Shire for quite a long time. He ordered his meal with reluctance and caution, under the amused looks, while news were shared, from a much bigger world than his usual horizon.
First sniffing some leeks and tatters soup with an informed air, he was tempted, then he sank into a diligent and repetitive swallowing, from which he emerged reassured. Thus he spent a long time before giving a fresh look around.
Now that he was satisfied enough to appreciate the food's quality, he took his time. The cabbage broth, roasted lamb and beans had conquered his taste. But the beer definitely had him adopt the place: definitely acceptable!
So when his turn came to tell a story, he gathered his childhood memories...
.oOo.
Somewhere in the Shire, a few years ago…
-"Go ahead !"
Encouraged by her brother's gestures, little Pimpernel crawled among the rushes, imitating the hunting fox. Whereas her adorable chubby limbs demonstrated the proverbial Hobbit skills, that was still the kid's first robbery. Her quilts sprang up as red plumes, from time to time exceeding the bushes when the burglar apprentice ventured to have a bold blue glance at her future victim. A last look back, in order to strengthen her determination - "Go ahead!"- And the little hobbit-girl crawled among the last iris.
In the wash house in front of her, the old damsel Neatmole was vengefully beating her laundry struggling on parts of her trousseau, patiently embroidered over the years of waiting for a more and more unlikely suitor. She did not trust anyone else to care and refresh her precious fabric. From time to time, the laundress carefully screened her embroidery at the early morning rays, while grumbling some curse at her lazy debtors. When the precious laundry shone with a virginal splendor worthy of herself, then the old Neatmole suspended it to the ropes to dry.
Silent as a marauding cat, Pimpernel reached the slabs driveway, and hid behind the parapet. Dry cloth, carefully folded, lay there beside the jewelry of the minx, who removed them before handwork.
While the miser and severe laundress recited her assets to the rhythm of her paddle strokes, the nimble girl subtilized a piece of tulle. She was about to leave on all fours, when she advised a magnificent golden pin that had belonged to her mother.
The bitter memory of her Mummy in tears before the intractable bailiff and embarrassed constable, rushed to her throat, sweeping any doubt and silencing any remorse. Yielding to the irresistible temptation and overwhelmed by a delicious sense of retributive vengeance, she took the jewelry and stole away.
.oOo.
Once at the top of the valley, she triumphantly exhibited her booty. Her brother dragged her farther away. The expected triumphal praise turned into bitter recriminations:
- "I told you, only the veil! The gold pin is no longer Mummy's! " her brother Padigar sharply rebuked her.
Their father, Rudigar Wickerfine, farmer of the old maid, could not pay his annual fee after a poor harvest. Neatmole had accepted the family jewel as a pawn, but she wore it openly, to the chagrin of her debtors, whose farm adjoined the minx's luxurious hole.
- "Daddy may get into big trouble because of that!"
The girl burst into tears, her baby face dotted with freckles, flooded with the tears of injustice:
- "But the veil too was her's! And you told me to take it!
- We shall give it back! We just need it this morning! "
The veiled blue look of the little one got tougher, as the implacable child's logic detected some flaw in the reasoning of her elder brother. With her thin golden eyebrows furrowed and small fists clenched, she launched defiantly:
- "Well then, we give the pin back too! So no trouble for Daddy!"
.oOo.
Too late.
The hoot of an old owl, injured in her pride and property, went up from behind the hill. The Neatmole lady had certainly discovered the theft. Padigar took the tulle and the pin and ran to the laundry. The old lady was furiously rummaging her cloths, trying to gather the neighborhood. No way could he discreetly give the pin back!
However, Padigar approached, driven by a sudden inspiration, remaining hidden in the gorse. He held the pin, cocked his arm and... splash!
The jewel dipped in the wash pond, a few feet from the rim where Pimpernel had taken it.
The old buzzard ceased her noise, sure she had detected a suspicious noise. Her magpie look, attracted by the glint of gold under the lapping, lit with a beacon of hope.
Padigar, before disappearing, had the satisfaction to see her splashing in the wash, unstable on slippery stones.
As he was walking away to join his little sister, he heard a resounding "splash", followed by a delightful string of profanities he could only half understand.
.oOo.
With serious conspirators faces, the two children were running along a hedge of hazel, boxwood and hawthorn.
- "You see, we must be quick. If we can harvest it before adults find it, it will be sold a good price and we can help Daddy! When he returns from Bree-land, he will be proud of us. And maybe later, he gets Mum's pin back."
The little hobbits crept by valleys and glades, weighting these broader issues, with some hope pegged to their soul, and reached the Old King. This ancient oak was standing in the middle of a pleasant glade, populated by young crooked birches, like many courtiers eager to bow to their hoary sovereign. The respectable trunk, once decapitated by lightning, had survived and had replenished but it was now partly hollow, like a long cask.
The children unpacked their equipment and beheld the coveted treasure: a superb wild hive, industrious young stronghold nestled in the lap of the old affable and idle King.
.oOo.
Everything went for the best. Besides, the reader should never doubt the ingenuity, skill and perseverance that young hobbits can deploy for food, let alone some candy.
The light canvas had allowed Padigar to operate without interference, and therefore the small conquerors returned to the village without any bite, carrying a jar full of honey and a hive enclosed in a burlap bag. Padigar got a good deal with the bees but they kept the honey jar, which would make the delights of the family together with Daddy back from Bree.
Our urchins were even lucky: they could quietly return the canvas smeared with honey, by hiding it under the pile of wet clothes and embroidery, thrown pell-mell into the cellar, that their farm shared with Damsel Neatmole's mansion. No doubt she had not taken the time to inspect all her effects, in her hasty return to the fold...
.oOo.
Annihilated by the emotions of the day, Pimpernel and Padigar fell into the sleep of children, which grants oblivion of tests without losing their lessons, closes wounds without tarnishing their glory and restores, intact in the morning, the candid and feverish promise of a new sunny day.
The next day, Padigar had devised a new expedient, to relieve their dear Mummy from her hard work.
For poor mother Wickerfine slaved, entitled with the roles of maid, cook and seamstress for old Damsel Neatmole, moreover assuming the farm heavy works in the absence of her husband, who had gone to sale two oxen at the Bree fair. Her sewing had even ended up spoiling her vision.
Thus her son felt, in the absence of the family head, invested with the eminent role of food provider for the Wickerfine hearth.
Hence the brilliant idea of the day. While he was negotiating his hive, father Sorrelgrind had nearby complained, he had to attend the ford's Comitia for the day. What would become of the old farmer's early cherries, in the midst of harvest? It was essential to avoid the old hobbit, a loss that he could not afford!
.oOo.
After a hearty breakfast, hosted by the perpetual complaints from the irascible neighbor and landlady, the children armed themselves with a few bags and baskets, and slipped away in open fields.
At the end of the morning, they had left, at father Sorrelgrind's door, three large bags of gleaned cherries, in return for which, each child carried a fruit basket. It is true that, for the account, Padigar had to shake off some cherry trees, but several green fruits just do not bother to make jams, does it?
.oOo.
Their conscience perfectly serene despite this transaction unwittingly imposed to old Sorrelgrind, the children were returning to the farm, crowned with the satisfaction of accomplishment. Pimpernel hopped on the sentry, humming jingles, when she stopped dead. She stepped back and threw her brother a look of terror. White as a sheet despite her adorable freckles, the little anxious face seemed unable to inspire. Alarmed Padigar shook her a little. Pimpernel took breath, but to dump her overflow of screaming and crying.
Between sobs and gasps, the small Hobbit pointed a bird corpse, between two mounds near the road.
Padigar approached. A gray wagtail laid with her wing extended. He was about to free his sister from this distressing spectacle, when he realized that the bird was alive. A little plaintive cry startled Pimpernel, whose gasps of terror immediately turned into sympathy whining:
- "Poor bird! Why does she not fly anymore?
- I think she has a broken wing.
- Waaaaa! It must hurt... Waaaaa! I don't want thaaaaat…"
Padigar, abashed, did not understand why the girl, who cheerfully squished ants to the rhythm of her nursery rhymes a moment ago, showed so fond of a wounded sparrow.
- "Look, be reasonable! It happens, you know... Let me explain. You like Whirdy, old Neatmole's cat?
- Yes, she is very soft ...
- She has to eat, too. She catches mice and bir...
- Waaa! I do not want Whirdy to eat poor little sick bird! Waaaa..."
Padigar vainly reasoned, comforted, cuddled, used authority, nothing helped - he had to bring the wounded bird.
.oOo.
The children settled the wagtail in a basket and hid it all at the bottom of the cellar.
Pimpernel was responsible for feeding it - children must assume their choices, had learnedly and firmly told her big brother! Despite her distaste for viscous and creeping things, Pimpernel courageously brought numbers of earthworms and cockroaches, the sparrow feasted on.
After a few days, Padigar felt sorry for his little sister. He procured - King knows how1! - A beautiful crate, painted with deep smooth red, in which he bred cockroaches, feeding them with the old Neatmole's leftovers.
.oOo.
A few days later, Pimpernel and Padigar were weeding the beans square, when they saw a strange man climbing the path and stop nearby. The children stared at the stooped old man, who was leaning on his staff, throwing them inquisitive looks. But a tender smile and fine wrinkles on the edge of his eyes, belied his angry eyebrows under the blue wide-brimmed hat.
- "Well, should not be welcomed, an honest old man who has lost his way?"
Moved by a bad feeling, Padigar stood awkwardly while Pimpernel hid behind him, keeping an eye on the curious character.
- "Have a good day, Sir… Sir... how, respectful?
- Do you not know my name?"
Pimpernel took out her ingenuous face behind the skirts of her brother:
- "Sir... Gandalf? The maj..juggler? "
The wizard suppressed a slight smirk - his reputation mattered to him more than he admitted. And about that, he disliked not being a majuggler...
- "Absolutely! And in your opinion, what brings a majuggler at the farm of Wickerfine family, close to the workshop of the cooper Galabroc?"
Padigar, his face on fire, had suddenly frozen. Surprised Pimpernel looked at her brother losing composure and twisting his hands guiltily.
- "Keep out of majuggler business because they are subtle and quick to anger!", growled the old man.
- "I did not know that this beautiful crate was yours! I give it back to you right away!
- In any case you knew that it was not for you, while grabbing it in Galabroc's storeroom! It was intended for my cousin, a... juggler too. What would father Wickerfine say, if he learned his son steals from his neighbors? "
Very soon the red magic box, marked with the rune G, was returned to its owner, while a shameful scarlet marked the little hobbit's brow.
- "I shall check that Padigar and Pimpernel Wickerfine behave with dignity and help their mom till their dad's return, whom I met in Bree three days ago! And if I am not satisfied, I shall send you my terrible cousin Radagast who pays me a visit these days!
- But that's not fair! We help Mummy all the time! And the crate was for Griselda my sick bird!", Threw the little one, from the top of her foot-and-a-half.
Nothing beats a sincere and vigorous childish indignation to question a wizard, even a magi-juggler, by shaking somehow his priorities. He did not show it, but the old man promised himself to keep an eye on this Griselda.
.oOo.
A few days later, the situation in the cellar was turning to a disaster. In the absence of the beautiful waterproof crate, cockroaches were walking in the shelves of the pantry, multiplying and attacking any poorly protected commodity.
Children were desperately fighting against the invasion, feeding the convalescent wagtail on their preys. Already Damsel Neatmole had complained her house was untidy. As for their mother, she was so tired, that she had not noticed anything yet, but the farm and the manor would shortly be completely contaminated.
.oOo.
The wizard opened the cellar's door. A huge cockroach sped between his feet. Embarrassed, Gandalf turned to his cousin:
- It's here... I fear they have taken possession of the place. If you could fix this...
His pupil flaming, the brown wizard sternly sized up the infestation.
- "Well, we shall drive them out," he said in a tone so hard that even his accomplice shuddered. 2
Gandalf, somewhat concern by this fierce determination, saw him move away apace, rummaging through his pockets in search of some secret elixir of his.
Puzzled, he sat on the stump, father Wickerfine had carved as an armchair, and filled his pipe. Pimpernel joined him and slipped her tiny hand in her favorite majuggler's callosum beater. Her flickering pout begged the gray pilgrim with a pleading look. The wizard affected a confident and serene look, but he wondered what alarming last resort measure, his honorable relative could concoct against the cockroaches invasion. As for Padigar, he stood sternly, with a closed face.
A few minutes later, cousin Radagast returned, with a perky and combative look. He seemed deep in conversation with a ruffled ball of quills, from which emerged a small pointed nose, that retracted when the children approached.
- "May I present Picky to you? It is a brave and young hedgehog, who will not refuse to help you in your misfortune, since he wins a home in the bargain. He loves cockroaches, earthworms and other small annoyances of hobbit homes."
.oOo.
The children, first amazed by cousin Radagast's ingenuity, quickly adopted the little hedgehog, which proved clean, discreet and sociable, as far as he quickly won the good graces of Whirdy. He led a merciless war at every creeping creature and quickly got the manor and farm rid of their adverse commensals. He became their silent and faithful guardian, working at night to rest all day long.
When father Wickerfine returned, well satisfied with his long run, he found a peaceful home and life resumed its reckless course.
The wagtail herself, cheered up by one of Radagast's liquor, had regained the skies. She reappeared from time to time, and her returns never failed to announce a happy event or the visit of some majuggler.
.oOo.
A few years later, when the old lady Neatmole departed this world, she left a vast legacy behind. To the astonishment of the neighborhood, her farm was bequeathed to her tenants! Furthermore she attributed to Pimpernel, in anticipation of her wedding, a magnificent golden pin. This pin, that came from the distant South, was a cicada insect, unknown in the Shire. Most considered it a cockroach, but the jewel would remind Pimpernel all her life long, the dangerous and delicious time of childhood.
.oOo.
NOTES
1 Expression from the East Farthing, meaning that only the King of old, thanks to his legendary powers -juridicial, thaumaturgical or far-seeing, or whatever - would be able to discover how that could happen.
2 This sentence was a constraint imposed on the story. Indeed it nearly gave birth to it all…