From Applecider Bolingbroke to Dep.-Shirriff Lancogard North-Took ~ Salutations an’ all me respects to the Honorable Bounders: May their cheese soufflés always rise perfectly.
Lance:
I has the Answer.
Now, I can already see yer quill scrawlin’ over the paper to say did we have a Problem. But let’s be blunt:
Keepin’ an eye on the Shire an’ its surroundin’s, AND these hopeless skinny Big Folks in Blue Mountain ter boot be hard enough, without the troublesome distance factored into communication. Besides. If you’re really goin’ to maintain practices like that stunt in Bindbole without some form o’ sendin’ swiftly fer assistance, then we gots a Problem.
(Believe me, I knows the value o' sendin' swift fer assistance meself lately)
In short, I decided you needs to be dealt into the game of Wing’ed Familiars.
Lance: You needs a Bird.
The issue were findin’ one that would nae draw undue attention. Long-distance post be hassle enough without Sancho Shadestool an’ Esmerelda Burrows triggerin’ gossip or raisin’ a scandalous flap over the sight o’ Windy an’ Maddie descendin' on yer good self in broad daylight.
(As a bard, I gots immunity against woundin’ by scandalous repute – it be part o’ the credentials, honestly. – But bein’ yerself in full-time service to the Honorable Bounders, I must in good conscience admit to yer need to maintain Respect amongst Shirefolk).
The conundrum took, therefore, some deliberation.
At first, I were thinkin’ the Answer might be a very small bird, what nobody’d notice sittin’ in a nearby tree. Sparrow. Thrush. Chickadee. If yeh can train an eagle, yeh can train a warbler.
Problem there is, a really small fowl cannae carry a letter. – I think you’ll find talkin’ with a Bird en’t so hard: Once yeh be familiar with ‘em, you get a feel for Bird-speak. – But, if the recipient o’ the message dinnae ALSO speak Bird, then you gots to affix a written note.
(Honestly, can you picture a swallow carryin’ a parcel post?)
So thar were out.
Fortuitously, me imagination were captured by an alternative.
What you needs, Lance ... is an owl.
It’s perfect. Owls be big enough to carry a note. They flies about at NIGHTTIME, when nobody’s awake to raise a fuss. An’ if they DO get seen – unlike hawks or eagles – owls can nest in Hobbit-made structures about town, an’ nobody bats an eye: “Oh, a raggedly barn owl over there; must be a draft in the attic o’ the Watch-Office. Or the Plough an’ Stars. Or Mister North-Took’s garden shed.”
I rode up to Duillond to call upon the postal master at the falconry, Mister Isferon. I explained me reasonin’, an’ the want of a good-sized but stealthful messenger. Frankly, I think Mister Isferon were equally amused as he were serious. Still, he ultimately took me in earnest.
T’weren’t as though he had a stock of Owls in a back room. But, says he, birds of all sorts – tame an’ wild alike – pass through the postal aviary, an’ sometimes, they stick around: He’d keep an eye out.
The weeks ticked by.
Then, Mister Isferon’s gargantuan tawny raptor Gelgwael alights at me house up road from Bar-an’-Acorn (Gelgwael be rumored to harbor a drop o’ great Vale Eagle’s blood deep in ‘is heritage. If you thought Windy were big, at least you or I can hold Windy). Mostly he be reserved for critical correspondence twixt Celondim an’ truly faraway Elf houses, like River-Dell or Lord’n’Ladyland ter the east. This delivery were barely mornin’ exercise.
“Come quickly,” the note read, “I have a candidate.”
Common barn owls lay 4-6 eggs a clutch. But if there’s overflow ... well, I be loath to say so, but the smallest or least assertive may well get the heave-ho from the nest, by pushier siblings.
One o’ Duillond’s hunters, a Mister Lithen, come across once such unlucky chick near the ruins o’ Dol Ringwest. Mister Lithen’s hound almost ate the little puff-ball. Happily, t’were saved when Mister Lithen interceded.
Mister Isferon held onto the owl a couple days. Generally seein’ if he’d live, an’ if he had the head fer trainin’. Once satisfied he’d learn, an introduction were arranged.
I wanted to call ‘im Henry. Somehow the cream-colored brown-rimmed face looked like a Henry to me.
Mindful of our want of a furtive messenger, however, Mister Isferon had already bestowed on ‘im the appellation of ‘Thuringlim,’ the ‘secret voice.’ So I s’ppose thar be his name now.
Thuringlim the Barn Owl, or Henry fer short. – Call it his “Shire” name.
An’ if yer reading this letter? Well, that means ‘e made it: He an’ Maddie should be sittin’ in front of ye.
I’ve instructed Maddie to lead him direct to yer Brockenborings lodgings (after sundown), rather than have ‘im flap about lookin’ for ye: Thar gives you the power to introduce further faces – yeh know, for future probable deliveries – at yer own discretion. Maybe Chief-Bounder Primstone? Or Mister Halros? Or some fellow Bounders who can keep more-or-less mum?
Maddie’s also carryin’ a hawking glove (trust me, if you’re not wearing bracers, you’ll want it: he’s got wicked talons for his size …).
He be a pretty self-sustaining creature. At Mister Isferon’s direction I’ve kept ‘im a few weeks, so he’d grow familiar wi’ the ways (an’ critically the voices) of Hobbits, whilst Maddie an’ Windy give ‘im some preliminary coachin’ in the art o’ pickin’ out faces. In that time, he’s proven a bane o’ shews an’ beetles in the local gardens.
So aye.
Have yerself a couple weeks’ trial: See if ‘e’s useful, an’ how you two get on with each other. I attach with this letter a list o’ commands ‘e knows. An’ some exercises yeh can work on to teach ‘im more.
I hopes this be a successful venture – Henry’s nice. Quiet, but a real charmer.
Keep me posted ... So to speak. After all, we gots the means for it now, day an’ night (no pun intended).
I be whippin' up a small tower of cherry pie fer the holiday gatherin' at the House this weekend. Hopefully after that I’ll make it back to the Shire in time for the Green Dragon’s annual Flaming Yule Pudding Stakes.
With respects, an’ with high hopes fer this venture I remain cordially yours,
Cider Bolingbroke
P.S. Pop yerself over ter Torn-in-a-Duel if yeh can wrangle a couple days afore heavy winter sets in – Missie Sergie an’ Mister Crane gots a jolly bit ‘o news to round out the year (I hopes yeh be inclined to avuncular pursuits in future). Also, you GOTS ter see the little dandelion puffs what now inhabit Windy’s nest: Two eggs hatched!! They en’t named yet – Windy just calls ‘em both “Little One,” cause ‘e says eagles don’t name their chicks properly till they fly fer the first time. Till then, I been callin’ ‘em Ned an’ Sophie. They loves gingerbread crumbs, so bring a biscuit!
~ C.B.
* * *
← Previous "Ghosts, Past & Present" ~ Next: “Foiled Again: Lore of Hobbits” →
