A Hobbit Inquisition, Part the 3rd: Bad Pie
Being the observations of Applecider Bolingbroke, assisting Lancogard North-Took, Deputy-Shirriff, his ongoing investigations.
(As recorded in a cipher that may be genuinely unbreakable, as she may not have been entirely sober when she invented it. So the decoding trick may not actually work),
NOT TO BE DISSEMINATED OR COPIED, OR I’LL PUT AN OWL PELLET IN YER BILBERRY PIE, AN’ I WON’T TELL YEH WHICH SLICE!!!
What, I wonder, do yeh call a Bounder, who goes beyond th’ Shire Bounds? (t’ain’t a riddle: I genuinely be unsure ‘bout this one)
Boundless? ... Unbounded, maybe?
I’ll think on it.
Thar be a spread of land north of Oatbarton, where the Brandywine’s said ter be quite broad, an’ meanders in such a way that thar be wide banks o’ fine white sand, what be useful fer blowing glass.
Given how many pickling jars, an’ jam jars, an’ wine bottles, an’ jugs of honey the average Hobbit be in want of, it be no surprise ter me that some enterprising folks made pact with the Big Folk o’ Northcountry ter rent some plots an’ set up shop near the Brandy.
Thar now be established the hamlet of Dwaling.
Bounders o’ th’ Shire e’nt quite got what yeh might call jurisdiction (thar be the authority o’ them Tall Folks’ Bounders in the green hoods), but t’ain’t nothin’ eyebrow-raising about a nice Bounder on a ramble what chose ter stop by, an’ see how-do. ‘Specially when thar be orders ter ‘stablish note of any threats ter th’ Shire when thar be dead bodies about.
(meanin’ no ‘ffense ter the departed, natch.)
Thar being th’ case, Dep.-Shir. North-Took an’ meself made tracks ter Dwaling. The sun were fresh as anything, an’ Jonagold were in a sprightly mood, as were Lance’s pony, Pony (it be a practical name, I s’ppose).
The smell o’ smoke from the kilns where, I s’pposed, they be blowing glass, were on the air well afore Dwaling were in view, as were the smell o’ cooking. The ponies kicked up their heels, in anticipation o’ comfy stables an’ tasty oats.
Meself, however, were on wide-eyed alert like a guard-dog what suddenly noticed five chipmunks all at once. I swears to yeh the hairs on the back o’ me neck stood taut as thistlebrush.
Hobbits (it be a Fact o’ Life) be gifted with the most superior sense o’ smell amongst all th’ Free Peoples on Earth (Elfs may get the Eyes an’ the Ears, but we gots the Nose: it goes hand-in-hand with our superior spectrum o’ discernable tastes).
An’ this here meddling Nose picked up the one thing I hates worse than Oofy Bolger, rainy picnics, an’ having ter transpose from D-sharp to G fer woodwind solos ..... BAD PIE.
(Deputy-Bounder pauses here for a deep pull ‘o Blagroves ter steel herself)
The ratio o’ butter in the crust were ALL wrong.
It were slowly incineratin’ in an oven 40 degrees too hot; the nice crumbly golden edges were coming out brown as oakwood; I could tell even from a distance.
An’ as fer the filling? ..... T’were a coney-stew pie, sure as Sundays ... an’ NO Hobbit worthy o’ th’ name would put THAT much marjoram in a coney-stew. I shudders now, even at th’ recollection.
Thar be Dark Days come upon us.
Even Holly Hornblower down ter’ Hobbiton couldn’t make a pie what smelled like that.
That were th’ hands o’ coarse, oafish Big Folks.
Lance gave the air a sniff ‘imself, an’ brought ter fore another point of note. I never smelt glass-blowing, but Lance says it be a bit like a blacksmith’s forge an’ a clay-potter’s kiln got together for an ill-advised season. Tha’ were nothing like what were on the air here.
The smell o’ this fire were one thing only: Wood smoke.
We tethered Jonagold an’ Pony in a little copse with some nice fluffy grass, an’ had ourselves a little sneak up the hill overlooking the grabben, to where an obliging stone wall permitted vantage for the stealthily inclined.
Bullroarer’s Bass Clarinets ....
.... Dwaling were sacked like the house of a Proudfoot who’d lost half an almond biscuit an’ were sure it were in th’ room somewhere.
Big Folks were all over th’ place. Not th’ nice Tall Bounders in hoods. These be rogues o’ th’ roughest nature.
...... Well!
It took us a while ter locate th’ Dwaling folks. They were holed up in the hills o’ Bullroarer’s Swart. We says ter them ‘why on earth did yeh nae make tracks ter Oatbarton?’ an’ I SWEARS to yeh, they say they dinnae wish ter make a fuss.
Lance says ter them how the blazes how long ago were this ransack? They says haranguing started about a month back, with some rough sorts planting themselves like weeds an’ levying what I can only call a Bully Tax, but the actual running-out were a recent event. I genuinely think they be in such a shock they be paralyzed with indecision.
Too stunned any one of ‘em to tell us any news o’ ruffians dropping dead bodies in th’ Bounds.
I could’ve clapped every one o’ them upside the head with me rolling pin.
They’d’ve made tracks to their ancillary workshop up the bluffs at Bleakleaf Crest, but Bob Greeneaves the foreman say tha’ were filling up with – get this – screechy Gobbos!
I says ter him don’t be daft: screechy Gobbos dinnae truck with Tall Folks, even rough Tall Folks. He says be that as it may, thar be screechy Gobbos up ter Bleakleaf.
All th’ Dwaling folks were alive – I s’ppose thar be th’ silver lining herein. So Lance be takin’ individual Statements, an’ I be writin’ up these new turn of events fer th’ report.
When Lance is finished, we be off fer a proper spot o’ snoopage:
Firstly, ter th’ remains o’ Dwaling’ ter suss out their numbers, an’ what their hierarchy might be, an’ who be givin’ them commands, an’ who ordered the sacking in the first place. Then we be up ter Bleakleaf fer a look at th’ screechies.
An’ as I be actin’ in official capacity, I feel this be the part where I issue due an’ fair warning ter them what be sowing madness here’bouts:
THE HOBBITTIAN INQUSITION IS COME FER YER ORDERS ..... PREPARE TER BE *SERVED!!!*
