Chapter 1. New Life from the Ashes of the Old

The tween stared in dismay, pestle hanging unnoticed from her fingers.

 ‘O no you don’t!’ old Rosie Bracegirdle snapped, and darting forward she snatched the pestle away before it could fall.

 ‘I—I’m sorry,’ the tween stammered, making no effort to keep her voice steady. In fact, it was all she could do to stop herself bursting into tears.

 ‘Sit yourself down afore you fall down,’ the old healer grumbled, pushing the tween into a chair. Her face softened slightly for a moment before she fixed her frown in place once more. ‘Now, then,’ she said. ‘It’s not as if the world is ending or the king’s come back. Sweetbriar is a good healer, they say, for all she’s a Took, and she’ll give you a good home.’

 ‘You’re selling me,’ the tween said, blinking away the treacherous tears. ‘Seven years...’

 ‘That’s the usual arrangement for apprentices,’ Rosie said, turning away and busying herself with the teakettle. She was busy for quite awhile, turning back only to offer a clean handkerchief, taking up mortar in return, briskly grinding up the herbs there, pouring and stirring and adding a dollop of honey and stirring again, finally presenting the tween with a steaming cup. ‘Drink that down, now!’

 ‘But—’ the tween said desperately. ‘Seven years—’ She pushed away the cup, nearly spilling it. ‘I’m nearly of an age to marry—’

 ‘I don’t see any suitors beating a path to the door,’ Rosie said with asperity. ‘Perhaps one of them daft Tooks will take a fancy to you and buy you free of your agreement.’

 ‘But—’ the tween said again.

 ‘Drink up, lass!’ Rosie snapped. ‘I didn’t make that up for my health, and if’n you waste it you’ll have a beating to mind you to do better in future.’

  ‘Yes’m,’ the tween murmured, dropping her hot eyes. She drank up all the mixture, and it was soothing indeed, as she well knew it would be. After all, hadn’t she sought out the herbs herself, per the old healer’s orders?

So it was, next day, the tween found herself walking alongside the sway-backed pony as fat old Rosie rode and lectured her on her responsibilities and blessings.

 ‘...took you in, I did, when no one else would have you,’ she said self-importantly, wagging a finger. The old pony twitched an ear and shook his head; many’s the time he’d heard this speech before.

 ‘Family dead of the fever, and you and your littlest brother and sister half-dead,’ she muttered, ‘and who’s to take you all in? The littlest found homes easy enough, but a great teen, who’d want a great teen, eating up all there is in the pantry! No living relations close by—your father ought to have had the good sense to have brothers and sisters, he ought, and as for marrying a hobbit he met in Michel Delving when he went to vote for the Mayor! Hmph! It’s no wonder no good came of it all. Who knows anything about your mother’s relations? Bad blood, I warrant!’

The old healer’s snort came at the same time as the pony’s and the tween might have laughed at such a thing had she not been feeling so miserable.

It was a long way to Whitwell, and they slept that night and the next under the stars, for old Rosie wouldn’t pay to stay at an inn and the weather was mild enough that she didn’t have to ask for lodging at a farm house and be beholden to anyone therefore.

Rosie reminded the tween that the blanket was just for "now", borrowed, so to speak, even though it was the same blanket as had been on her bed for the past ten years or so, since Rosie had taken her in.

She had come to Rosie Bracegirdle with nothing but the clothes on her back, and she’d leave with the same wealth as she’d brought with her. She supposed it was a mercy that the old healer had cut up her old clothes for rags when she’d outgrown them or she’d likely be forced to stuff herself into those clothes again and leave the newer clothes she now wore, for Rosie to sell or trade.

Though she’d thought her feet toughened by all the walking she did in serving the old healer, errands and herb-gathering and such, the tween was foot-sore when they entered Whitwell near elevenses of the third day.

 ‘We’re here?’ she said in surprise.

Rosie snorted and reached out to clout the tween on the head. ‘Of course we’re here,’ she said. ‘We’ve been walking through Tookish lands since yestidday, or didn’t you know? Of course you didn’t, you ignorant chit!’

A pair of passing teens chortled, likely at an unrelated joke they shared, but the tween ducked her head. Though she’d grown used to the old hobbit’s grumbling, she now saw herself as those tidy Tooks around her must see her: dusty, dishevelled, unkempt. She brushed at an old stain on her dress and kept her eyes on her toes.

Thus she didn’t see the little smial until they’d pulled up in front of it. She heard the clucking of hens and looked up, a cautious glance to take in her surroundings, before dropping her head once more. Hens scratched in the dust, a weathered bench stood beside the freshly-painted door, flowerboxes in front of the shining windows spilled a riot of colour.

 ‘Well? What’re you waiting for? Knock at the door and then come and help me down!’ old Rosie grumbled.

Before she could knock, a pleasant and plump hobbit, wisps of white hair flying free from her tightly-braided curls opened the door, bubbling over with welcome. ‘Good, you’ve come!’ she said. ‘Tea’s a-brewing! I’ve been expecting you!’

She put an arm about the tween’s shoulders, turning her towards Rosie and the old pony, chattering away about the weather and the teacakes and how was their journey and what did they think about Mayor Will being buried and the Mistress sent Tooks to dig him out again?

She helped Rosie down, telling the tween where to take the pony (“Round the back, just tie him up, there’s hay and oats a-waiting for his elevenses! Don’t worry yourself none about unsaddling, my lad’ll be here soon enough. Baked his favourite berry tarts for him, and he knows it!”)

When the tween had tied up the pony as directed, she returned to the front of the smial and hovered on the mat, unsure. Vigorous splashing sounded from within, along with Rosie’s loud tones, expounding on this or that as the two healers exchanged tidbits of gossip.

Catching sight of the tween as she crossed the hallway from kitchen to parlour, Mrs. Took hailed her. ‘Come in! Come in and freshen yourself. Change out of those dusty things, if you’ve a mind to! Straight back to the bath room, and there’s water and soap and towels already set out...’ Her cheery voice followed the tween down the hallway. Rosie met her at the door to the bath room, warning her to clean up after herself.

This meant, of course, cleaning up after Rosie as well, who’d left splashes of water on sink and floor. The tween washed herself, wiped up the spills and soap foam, carefully hung up the towels and made her way to the parlour, where she didn’t have to wait—Mrs. Took came up behind her and escorted her to a seat, whereupon she poured out tea for herself and guests.

Old Rosie held up a peremptory hand. ‘I wouldn’t give her one of them fancy china cups,’ she warned. ‘A tin cup is good enough for her, and if’n she drops it, at least it won’t suffer too much harm.’ She whispered behind her hand, clear for all to hear, ‘The lass is woefully clumsy.’

 ‘Tweens often don’t know where their arms and legs end, after growing so fast,’ Mrs. Took said equably. ‘Would you like a tin cup, lass?’

 ‘Please, Missus,’ the tween whispered, keeping her eyes on her hands in her lap.

 ‘She’s your new mistress now, and don’t you forget it!’ Rosie rapped out.

 ‘No, Mistress,’ the tween said.

Though she did her best, she managed to drop the second biscuit she was offered, and after that she kept both hands around the metal cup and refused any more food, though her stomach threatened to tie itself in knots for lack of sustenance.

Whistling was heard outside and a cheery voice called, ‘Pony’s unsaddled, Gran!’

 ‘Wash, then, and come and eat up this cake before it goes stale!’ Mrs. Took called back.

A youth bustled past the parlour and soon splashing was heard in the bath room. The tween kept her eyes on her cup, expecting at any moment to be ordered from the room, to wipe up the bath room once more.

But no, the youth entered, was introduced as “Ted, the best grand a gammer could ever hope for,” was served an enormous helping of berry tart and an oversized slice of iced cake, and for all Rosie’s sharp intake of breath, was given one of the delicate china cups filled with steaming sweet and milky tea. Happily no mishaps resulted, and the meal was a merry affair, on the part of three of the hobbits anyhow.

At last Rosie slurped the last of her tea and arose, wiping crumbs from her mouth.

 ‘Won’t you be staying?’ Mrs. Took asked politely.

 ‘No, thankee kindly,’ Rosie said graciously, inclining her head. ‘But I’m invited to stay with my cousin Lobelia—of the Sackville-Bagginses, you know,’ she added in an important tone. ‘I’ll stay the night in Waymeet and be in Bywater on the morrow. It’ll be a quick enough ride without a tween dragging along in the dust.’

The look young Ted turned on the tween might have been full of sympathy, but she didn’t look up to see it.

 ‘Well then, we’ll walk you to the door, won’t we, lass, before we tackle the washing up,’ Mrs. Took said.

 ‘Washing up!’ Rosie said in alarm. ‘Washing up! Mind, she’s a good hard worker, and she’ll gather herbs for you the daylong, but don’t let her near your china or breakables!’

 ‘We’ll manage,’ Mrs. Took said smoothly. ‘Come along, lass,’ she added, and the tween rose abruptly, upsetting the last of the tea in her tin cup, sorry to say.

 ‘Isn’t that you all over again,’ Rosie tched, and the tween blushed and stammered.

 ‘No harm done,’ Mrs. Took said. ‘Ted’ll put all to rights, won’t you, my dear.’

 ‘O’ course, Gran!’ Ted said, flourishing a cloth. ‘See? All wiped up already, and I’ll have that pony saddled in three shakes, see if I don’t!’

Mrs. Took put a gentle hand on the tween’s elbow to steer her towards the door.

They stood in the yard talking until Ted brought the pony around. The beast seemed to be freshly curried, and if she weren’t mistaken the tween would have thought the hoofs gleamed with polish. ‘Here we are!’ Ted said.

Rosie patted her pocket, and a faint jingle of coin was to be heard. ‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ she said, shaking Mrs. Took’s hand. ‘If she gives any trouble...’

 ‘She won’t give any trouble,’ Mrs. Took said. ‘Safe journey to you, now.’

Rosie grunted, hauling herself into the saddle, and turned the pony’s head into the street. ‘You be good for your new mistress, now,’ she called to the tween, ‘or she’ll give you what for!’

The tween didn’t answer, or lift her gaze from her toes. She didn’t watch her recent benefactress ride away. She simply stood, still as a lump, listening to the hoofbeats fading.

 ‘Well now,’ Mrs. Took said, taking her hand. ‘I forgot to ask your name, child.’

 As she started to answer, she was interrupted by a hobbit on ponyback, clattering down the street and shouting for the healer.

 ‘Yes?’ Mrs. Took said, stepping forward. ‘What is it?’

 ‘It’s the Missus!’ the hobbit shouted. ‘Mr. Paladin sent me—Mrs. Eglantine’s having the babe and she’s having the babe now!’

 ‘O my word,’ Mrs. Took said. ‘That one has always given trouble... well, lass, it seems you’re to be my helper today, without even a chance to change out of your travel things.’

It didn’t seem the right time to tell the healer that she had nothing to change into, not even a blanket to call her own. Mrs. Took was sending Ted into the smial for her bag, telling the farm hobbit that they’d ride his pony if he wanted them to make haste.

 ‘I can walk back,’ the farm hobbit said obligingly. ‘They sent the children on a picnic, and Mistress Esmeralda’s awful worried... she said to tell you to hurry.’

 ‘We will!’ Mrs. Took said, taking her bag and shawl from Ted’s eager hand. ‘Come along, lass!’

She mounted the pony and pulled the tween up behind her. ‘Three lasses born alive, and four still-born,’ she said as they cantered down the street and out of Whitwell. ‘I don’t know if she’ll live, if she loses this one...’

They were out of the town, green fields speeding by them, and the healer called over her shoulder. ‘By the way!’

 ‘What?’ the tween called back.

 ‘What am I to call you? Old Rosie didn’t even tell me your name!’

The tween smiled in spite of herself. Old Rosie hardly ever called her by name. She was “lass” or “clumsy” or “ignorant chit” for the most part. But it occurred to her that this might be a new beginning.

 ‘Woodruff!’ she called forward. ‘Woodruff Bankstone!’

She heard the healer’s laughter, and, ‘Sweet Woodruff!’ floated back to her, followed by, ‘I think I’ll call you “Sweetie!” ’

You go right ahead, the tween thought to herself. I’ve answered to worse. Much worse. She tightened her hold on the healer’s waist, hoping that somehow she might make good in this next endeavour, and prove to herself and Mrs. Took that the money spent to "apprentice" her had not been wasted.

Author's Notes:

Apprenticeship in the Shire, as it is written here, is not so much like "slavery" as it might sound. A family with too many mouths to feed, or a farmer with younger sons and not enough land to divide, might "sell" a child to a Master of some vocation for a period of up to seven years' apprenticeship. At the end of this time, the apprentice would have acquired a valuable skill, the Master would have had the benefit of labour without having to pay wages (room and board, of course, were provided, and often the apprentice became like one of the Master's family) and the apprentice's family would have a welcome infusion of coin, not to mention one less mouth to feed--it is well known that a tween can put a considerable strain on a family's food supply. This coin might help to pay a debt, or was often used for a dowry or "nest egg" to set another child up when it reached its majority. There was, after all, no retirement plan in the Shire, or rather, one's children *were* one's retirement plan.

A Master would likely "buy" an apprentice only if he had no sons to train and to carry on his trade after his passing. It would be worth it to him to pay some of his savings towards the future of his business. He would likely keep an eye out for a bright and/or biddable child in the neighbourhood, perhaps one that often hangs around, watching him ply his trade with obvious interest.

A Master might "sell" the remainder of an apprentice's service, so long as the total years of servitude did not exceed seven years. Also, a hobbit-child could not be sold until reaching the age of twenty, as well as no later than the age of thirty.

A lazy "master" might take advantage of the situation, though having paid for the apprentice this is less likely, especially when one considers how hobbits value life and especially children. A badly-used apprentice could be released from a Master if charges cruelty or neglect could be substantiated.

Rosie Bracegirdle is something of an exception, having taken in an orphan under the guise of charity. She thus benefited from free labour and no seven-year limitation on her demands. While she might have *been* charitable, taking a teen--and everyone *knows* how difficult it is to provide during the teen-tween years--her grasping ways might have overcome her charitable impulse. In any event, she saw an opportunity to "regain" some of what the orphan had "cost" her, by selling Woodruff as an apprentice shortly before the lass turned thirty.

"Master" and "son" could also be written "Mistress" and "daughter", depending upon the trade. Healers, for example, might be male or female, though it was more likely (but not inevitable) for a female to take on a female assistant, or a male to take on a male assistant, for practical reasons.

Thanks to Marigold for insightful questions and comments! 

p.s. "Sweetbriar Took" is a character first found in "Cousins and Other Nuisances", which is somewhat related to the early part of this story.  

(3/30/05)