"So now we're pursuing a rogue shieldmaiden and nine tarts that she's rescued from their pimp?" Éothain drew his hood further forward against the flurries of snow.
"That's about the size of it. The good news is the next town's only about 20 miles away so we should get there comfortably by early afternoon. Who knows, if the tarts are slowing her progress, we may finally catch up with her."
Their hopes were in vain. They arrived at the next hamlet to find no shieldmaiden, but a very large bonfire, flames leaping into the sky. There was a man standing outside a house watching the flames forlornly.
"Isn't that meant to be your Mettarë bonfire?" Éothain asked.
"Aye."
"But there's what, three, four days still to go."
"Aye. T'were that bugger from your country as done it."
Elfhelm's heart, already residing somewhere in the vicinity of his lower abdomen, sank into his boots.
"What happened?"
The man started to recount the story. The village had a tradition, going back centuries, of celebrating the day of the Lord of Misrule who controlled winter and played pranks in the long dark nights – it seemed that as with so many other aspects of Anorien, this was another thing borrowed from the Riddermark. The only way to ward him off was to have a festival of fire (a concept which the men of the Mark understood full well from their own mythology). But this village's festival took a form they had never come across before, a form which even Éothain thought was stark, raving mad: a contest involving carrying burning barrels of tar of gradually increasing sizes through the streets. The villagers would crowd round, cheering the bearer of the burden on. If the crowd got too close, the man would run at them and they would press into the walls or scatter as best they could in the confines of the narrow streets and alley ways.
Incredibly, the evening's festivities started at dusk with a children's race, with a modest firkin. Next there was a women's race with a rundlet. Éothain was staggered by both these events (Elfhelm fancied his wife would have had a fair chance at the second of them). Then the men folk would start to work their way up through the larger barrels. In between times, there would be long-jump contests, the catch being that the jumps took place over a fire pit.
This was the point, Elfhelm and Éothain discovered, that their itinerant shieldmaiden had got involved in proceedings.
The long jump contest eventually whittled its challengers down to ten men – "The Lord of Misrule's Retainers." To become a Retainer was a coveted prize, for the winners got a firkin of ale each and a chance to kiss the girl of their choice. Unsurprisingly, the rider from the Mark and "his" nine ladies had attracted a great deal of attention in the small village, so it seemed natural when nine of the Retainers decided to claim their kisses from the girls from Rhun. The tenth Retainer had, apparently, been more inclined towards the way of the warrior (which, outside of the prudish circles of Minas Tirith, no-one seemed to have much issue with) and had decided he would rather kiss the "lad" from the Riddermark.
The lad took exception and slapped him roundly across the face. This was the point at which things went awry. The way of the warrior was fine in these parts, but to slap a man was deemed effeminate – apparently a right hook would have been a more acceptable response. The only way for the "lad" to prove his manhood was to carry the next barrel. The problem (for Éowyn, though an excellent swordsman, was still a slight, skinny lass beneath her disguise) was that the next barrel was a hogshead. With help, she'd just about managed to hoist it onto her shoulders, but had only managed half a dozen steps before stumbling and dropping it – unfortunately at the top of a very steep street. The barrel had bounced down the street as the crowd leapt out of the way, and ended up rolling into the stacked brushwood and logs ready for the Mettarë bonfire.
"Thank the mother of the harvest it wasn't a house," Elfhelm said.
"What happened next?" asked Éothain.
"Well, the local militia had a couple of men there – they usually do for the celebration. You get lots of pickpockets about, and the odd drunken brawl. They tried to arrest your lad."
"Tried?" asked Elfhelm. He was almost afraid of what the response might be.
"They chased him up the alley over there, then down the street behind, then round the corner to the town square. It was a sight to see. He was young and fast, they were getting on a bit and portly, but there were so many crowds and hawkers' stalls it evened things up a bit. The lad had to weave his way round and dodge people, and a few bits and bobs off the stalls got overturned.
"I didn't see it myself but my mate was in the town square when a stall holder, fed up with how much was getting spilled on the floor, stuck his leg out and tripped the lad up. The militia men managed to catch up with him."
"So he's in custody?" A note of cautious optimism entered Elfhelm's voice.
"Nay, no such luck. I wish I'd been there to see it, though, for my mate says it's the funniest thing he's seen all year. The militia men carry iron manacles with them for prisoners, and looked set to put them on the lad. But he twisted this way and that – apparently it were like watching a threesome of not very good dancers trying to dance a basket in a country dance. They grabbed his doublet at one point and it came up and over his head, inside out, and somehow at the end of it, the two militia men were manacled to each other, holding the empty tunic, and the lad had slipped off down a side alley and was never seen again."
"Béma's balls," Elfhelm muttered. He didn't have the energy for anything more inventive.
"And the tarts?" asked Éothain.
"They had a fine old night of it with their 'Retainers' and set off back to Rhun this morning with a donkey and cart hired out of the proceeds."
~o~O~o~
AN: A little Christmas cracker filler for Sian, whose marvellous and hilarious story "The Bride Price" involved Faramir, as part of his betrothal ceremony, having to estimate Éowyn's weight in terms of combinations of various sized barrels of beer (among other things).
The burning tar barrels are a local tradition in Ottery St. Mary, every year on Bonfire Night.
Atlasobscura DOT com SLASH places SLASH ottery-st-mary-tar-barrels
It is probably the most bonkers event I've ever been to. The long jump over the fire pit is my own addition.
Thanks to Wheelrider (over on AO3) for pointing out that I still had to do the classic "run in with the police followed by a tussle which ends up with the police handcuffed to themselves" trope.
And note that we now have a theme tune:
youtube DOT com SLASH watch?v=MIKSQT-oXfc
It's 106 miles to Chicago, we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses.
Hit it!