If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the unknown characters belong to me.

Author’s notes: The layout of Bree is based on Karen Fonstad’s Atlas of Middle-earth.

The stalls with the horizontal shutters are described and illustrated in “Live in a Medieval City” by Frances & Joseph Gies.

The looks of the individual OC Dwarves are based on the early Dwarf designs for the first “Hobbit” film.

The healing herbs and their uses are taken from “Brother Cadfael’s Herb Garden”, as before.

Dedication: This one is for Larner who likes them Hobbitses! :)

Chapter 03 – Market Day in Bree

The caravan of BroadBeam Dwarves (plus Óin) rested in the Forsaken Inn for the next two days – but that did not mean that they would lie around idly. The younger ones went a-hunting – if one can call laying traps to ensnare rabbits for even more rabbit stew for dinner could be called hunting – or foraged as far as the Midgewater Marshes to collect the eggs of the water fowl for a little variety in their diet.

In his eagerness young Gellir – who had clearly inherited his father’s appetite – had even fallen into a bog and nearly drowned. Fortunately, Nídi and Nidud were close enough to hear his terrified screams (as he could not even swim) and pulled him out with the help of a length of rope the practical-minded Nídi always carried on him.

After that incident Bifur flat out refused to allow Gellir out with the hunters and gatherers again. The youngster grumbled and pouted a lot, of course, but Bifur was not moved by his display of unhappiness.

“Your clothes stink – it will take a thorough washing to get the stench out of the fabric, once we reach the washing spot of Bree,” she said sternly. “You will have to wear sour other set; and I shan’t have you get your better clothes ruined, too. Besides, you have more important things to do. I cannot finish the last set of toys we have prepared for the Bree marked with my bad hand, so ‘tis up to you to finish them for me.”

“You would trust me with your own work?” asked Gellir in surprise.

Bifur nodded. “Of course. I taught you everything I know; and even if you have not quite reached my level of skills yet, your work will still be better than that of any Mannish toy-maker.”

Mollified, Gellir sat down to work at once, and Óin watched him with interest. The toys were similar to those he had seen in Lake-town, where some of the surviving toy-makers of Dale – the best ones in Rhovanion – had settled: wooden figures of people and animals with moving parts that could be manipulated by hidden strings and made funny noises in the process, wooden dolls in pretty clothes and board games as they were beloved among the Northmen and their cousins in Rohan.

One in particular caught his interest. It was a butterfly, fastened on the top of a long stick. When a child ran with it, as Gellir readily demonstrated, the butterfly flapped its brightly coloured wings – the faster the child run, the faster they flapped, creating a buzzing noise with their movements.

“This one I have not seen before,” said Óin in surprise.

“’Tis a new design,” explained Bifur. “Bofur helped me to figure out the mechanics; he is very good at such things and likes experimenting in his spare time. Had he not had to labour in the mines all his life he could have become a skilled artisan, too.”

“Oh, I would get bored very soon, had I to do such minutiae work all the time,” laughed Bofur, catching the tail end of their conversation on his way out. “Mining coal, now that is work that makes you properly thirsty and teaches you how to appreciate a pint of good ale.”

And with that, he winked at them and off he went with the hunters again.

“He is jesting, of course,” said Inga who just came back from spreading out her little brother’s clothes for airing.

Not that any amount of that could take the stench of the bog water out of the fabric, but at least they did not have to smell them from close up. Dwarves had a sensitive nose.

“The truth is, Father could never make enough coin to feed us all properly,” she continued, sitting down to them for a moment. “And Mother was ailing most of the time since Gellir’s birth, so she could not work much as an herbalist anymore. Uncle Bofur worked in the mines, double shifts, for many years to help feeding and clothing us children. Without him…” she trailed off but there was no need for her to finish.

“He has always been like a second father to us,” agreed Bávor. “A shame that he never had the chance of a family of his own – he is so very good with children.”

“Not many of us have that chance,” said Veig, the harness-maker, with a shrug.

He was one of the older members of the caravan and – like quite a few BroadBeams – balding and greying prematurely. He balanced out that fact by wearing his hair in a wild mane on the back of his head (where it was still growing) and covering his bald crown with elaborately patterned blue tattoos. His forked beard and his long moustaches swept naturally outward, giving him a distinguished look, as if he were some venerable chieftain instead of a modest craftsman.

The fact that he was currently utilizing what was still left of the counter of the Common Room as a workbench, punching holes in some piece of unfinished horse-gear, did ruin some of the effect, of course. But Dwarves were practical people, and not using such a handy working surface while they were resting here would have been stupid.

“You never courted then?” asked Gellir.

It was a fairly personal question but Veig was thought to have been related to his mother from afar – too remotely even for Dwarves to count – and thus counted as family. Therefore Gellir could hope to actually get an answer instead of a reprimand.

Veig shook his head. “Nay; I never found one who would truly stir my heart. Not everyone does, you know. But,” he added with twinkling eyes, “I used to dally with the widows of the Bree-land in my youth. You see, they are of the same stock as the Dunlendings and very friendly to everyone. I was a comely lad once and always minded my manners, so their women liked me a lot. I could have settled in Bree if I wanted; they take in everyone with an honest trade, be them Big or Little as they call it. A remarkable people, the Bree-folk are.”

“That they are indeed,” Óin agreed. “I never heard of a place where Men and Hobbits would live together in peace, and the Men not even trying to lord it over the Halflings. You could have fit in well – why did you not give it a try?”

“Settled life is not in my nature,” confessed Veig. “I was born on the Road and have been living on the Road all my life. ‘Tis good enough for me.”

Dagrún, who was sewing up some very pretty purses of soft leather next to him, nodded in agreement.

“So it is,” she said. “I am still glad that we shall have a few days’ rest in Bree. We are running out of basic supplies, and I honestly could do with something else than rabbit stew for a change.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The others felt very much the same and so it came that they left the Forsaken Inn behind at dawn on the third day. The way to Bree was not very long – merely a day’s walking distance – but, as Bifur had assumed, for their tired ponies it took almost twice that time pulling the heavy wagons there.

Thus they rested for the night on the roadside, at about the height of Staddle, one of the smaller villages of the Bree-land that nonetheless lay too far from the Road for them to spend the night there, and reached the village of Bree in the late morning of the fourth day. Which happened to be Sterday – or Sterrendei as the local Hobbits liked to say, being a conservative lot that stuck to older names.

Sterday was also market day in Bree. One of the market days, to be more accurate, and the more important one, as it followed Highday, the weekly holiday celebrated with opulent meals by both Hobbits and Men. Consequently, the cellars became somewhat emptied on that day and needed to be refilled.

Therefore farmers from the other three villages of the Bree-land – Staddle on the south-eastern slopes of the Bree-hill, Combe in a valley on the eastern flanks and Archet in the Chetwood, north of Combe – came to Bree to offer their wares. Cattle and pigs and sheep were driven to the market by foot, the rest of the various goods, mostly fruit, vegetables and diary products, were carted down from the villages by small, two-wheeled carts, pulled by a singly pony or horse.

The predominance of Bree as the central market of the area stemmed from its location. This most ancient of Mannish settlements lay at the intersection of two major roads: the Great East Road and the North Road. The latter had fallen out of regular use and into disrepair since the fall of the North-kingdom of Men, but the Great East Road still saw much traffic, being the one that led across the Last Bridge to the passes of the Misty Mountains and beyond them to the Great River and the Wilderland in the East.

This was the road that the Dwarves followed, as it passed right through the village. The crossing of the two roads was just west of the Bree-hill, and the Men of Bree, understandably enough, had attempted to protect their village with such fortifications as they could come up with.

They did not have the means to build high walls or great ramparts as seen in even the small towns of Gondor. But they dug a deep trench – they called it a dike – with a thick, thorny hedge on the inner side. Three sturdy gates were cut into the hedge – constantly tended – in the places where the Road entered and left the village: in the North for the Greenway and in the West and the South for the Great Road.

It was the South Gate where the Dwarves passed the hedge, driving their wagons through the causeway that had been built across the dike at the Road’s entry. This being a market day, the gate-keeper let them pass without asking any questions; besides, they were well-known in Bree for many years and usually welcome, too.

Inside the village the Road curved gently northwards ‘til the Prancing Pony Inn, where it met the Greenway and made a sharp turn to the West. About a hundred houses made of sturdy oak beams and whitewashed wattle were built east of the Road on the slopes of the Bree-hill, inhabited by local Men. Only a handful of them stood on the gently sloping are between the Road and the semi-circular dike. Those mostly belonged to shepherds and pony-breeders that lived there with their herds.

The market square, too, was situated on the eastern side of the Road, between the Prancing Pony and the lane that curved in a great bow to the East, climbing the crest of the hill, while another branch of it led through a small opening in the hedge for a shorter route to Combe and Archet. This was the street along which the Bree Hobbits lived in their hillside smials. Their numbers were slightly lower than those of the Men but not by much. Bree was the oldest surviving settlement of Hobbits, after all, far older than the Shire itself.

The market square was very obviously the most important place in the village… and perhaps in the entire Bree-land. It was enclosed by the largest, best-kept houses, most made of oak-beams and wattle and covered with shingled roofs. They were two or three storeys high mostly, belonging to the respected craftsmen of the village who were selling their goods from stalls outside the houses, the ground-floor interior being used rather for the production of said goods.

The western side of the market square, the one with direct contact to the Road, was left open for merchants and paddlers from outside the village, so that they could spread and offer their wares comfortably. This was where the Dwarves arranged their wagons, too, this time in one long line to build a united shop front.

Well, four of their wagons anyway: those of Bifur, Dagrún, Veig and the one inhabited by Mötsognir, Jörundr and Egill, for only they had wares that could be offered. The wagons of Bombur and Frán were left on the opposite side of the Road, together with all the ponies; within easy reach in case of an emergency, but there was no reason for paying the market fee for them – good coin that they could not replace by selling anything.

Once the wheels of the wagons had been safely wedged, the Dwarves opened the horizontal shutters of their shop windows. These, just like the ones on the local craftspeople’s stalls, opened upward and downward, top and bottom. The upper shutter, opening upward, was supported by two posts that basically converted it into an awning, protecting the goods from too hot sunlight or from the rain. The lower shutters dropped to rest on two sturdy legs, serving as the display counter.

Across these counters the Dwarves displayed their goods, sorted by their various crafts. Dagrún and Niping’s wagon, being the largest and best-kept of all, offered the most valuable things: earthenware pots of wild honey, made by the Woodmen of the North, jewellery from the Iron Hills, Dorwinion Red, the finest wine known in Middle-earth, purchased from the wine-sellers of Lake-town, animal hides cured and perfected by their own leather-workers, pieces of amber that enclosed captured insects, and so on.

Niping, knowing the importance of appearances, did his level best to impress his potential customers. For this, he dug out his best clothes, the likes of which his forefathers, a clan of wealthy and influential merchants used to wear in the heyday of Erebor.

He was wearing a knee-length, short-sleeved tunic of dark burgundy red brocade, seamed with the fur of the grey squirrel over a shirt of fine blue linen, and a heavy royal blue cloak. His wrist-guards were adorned with bronze applications and so were his heavy boats and his broad belt. His six-edged belt buckle, a particularly beautiful piece of smithcraft, was Inga’s handiwork.

He had his thick ginger hair, beard and long moustaches in multiple, decorative plaits, with the hair braids forming a topknot before falling onto his broad back. The plaits were decorated with bronze rings and clasps that would alone have a Mannish bronzesmith gaping in utter awe.

In short, he was very good at looking much wealthier than he actually was, which enabled him to demand higher prices for his goods – and actually get away with it! His sons, so alike each other in everything but their colouring and hairdo that one would think they were twins, served as both shop assistants and guards. They behaved most politely with the customers yet were armed to the teeth, just in case.

Bifur shared her display counter with Egill, their wood-worker. They displayed a great variety of toys, some of which young Gellir had finished on their last day at the Forsaken Inn, and many different wooden bowls, spoons, combs, brushes, small chests and boxes, all decorated with carvings of stars, flowers, leaves or animals very popular among the Bree-folk – even folding stools for children. Everything small enough to be made and transported in a wagon.

The wagon of Mötsognir and his brother Jörundr also served to display Inga’s amazing spread of small bronze items: buttons, belt buckles, hairpins, clasps, brooches, small drinking cups, drinking horns tipped and adorned with bronze applications, eating utensils and much more. Each piece was unique – unless part of a set of matching items – some of them gilded, some had small designs hammered into them, others were set with small gemstones like the bracelets or earrings for women. She even had wooden covers for books, decorated with bronze filigree and gemstones – a joint product with Egill.

Mötsognir offered small household tools mostly, as he was an ironsmith; but also decorative candlesticks and lanterns of wrought iron. He was flaxen-haired and broad-faced, so he and Inga (who once again was wearing a fake beard) seemed almost like siblings. But Mötsognir was also short and very broadly built, even by the measure of his Clan, barrel-chested, short-limbed and incredibly strong due to his craft. His hair and beard were almost shockingly short, as they had burned off by an accident and were still growing back. In his rough woollen tunic and sleeveless leather jerkin he looked fairly intimidating, so that they did not need any guards for their wagon.

Veig's wagon was chosen to display the wares of all leather-workers, including those of Dagrún and young Fródi. The inside of it – what was visible through the shop window – looked very much like a proper workshop, with a genuine workbench at the far wall and pieces of horse gear hanging everywhere. Dagrún, also wearing her fake beard, offered purses, gloves and even slippers, aside from pieces of clothing as leather vests, belts and wrist-guards, while Flói’s goods were mostly sheaths, pouches and cases for valuable and easily breakable items – like Bávor’s drinking glass.

Dagrún’s brother Draupnír, who had the same sandy, almost reddish colouring as his sister but exceptionally large ears and a very big nose, even for a Dwarf, had dragged his wheel out of their wagon and offered his services as a cutler, whetting everything his customers wanted sharpened, from kitchen knives to scythes. He could have tended to swords, too, but somehow swords did not seem to be much in use among the Bree-folk.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That left Frár and her family free to stroll all across the market and buy much-needed supplies like smoked and dried meats, smoked cheese, various kinds of fabric for repairing their torn clothes and much more; things they had run out of during their long journey.

Óin used the time while his newfound travelling companions were occupied to visit the herb-mistress of the village. He had never been to her shop, which stood at the upper end of the market square, but he heard of her skills with herbal medicine and was eager to meet her, one healer the other.

The herbalist’s shop was a low, flat-roofed building with its narrow front to the market square. It had two round, grated windows on one side, with an oleander bush between them and a wide wooden front door. Above the door hung a sign that announced to everyone who might care that this was Missus Sandheaver’s Herbs and Tinctures shop.

The door stood open, inviting the potential customers in, so Óin knocked on the doorframe and entered, without waiting for an answer. As a Dwarf, he passed through the low doorframe easily but he imagined that even the Bree-Men, fairly short for their race, had to bow their heads upon entering.

The reason for that became clear as soon as he got into the workshop. It was a single room, long and a little narrow, pleasantly smelling of the various drying herbs that hung in bunches from the low ceiling. Between the windows, where it got the most light from the outside, was a long table, serving as counter and as workbench at the same time.

There were cabinets and open shelves all along the walls, full of small vials, glass bottles, clay pots, wicker baskets and countless other means to store herbal oils, tinctures, ointments, pills, syrups, bandage material and only another herbalist could have told what else.

The back half of the room was clearly a distillery with its large copper cauldron that could take at least twenty gallons of water, surrounded by a steam jacket into the bottom of which the steam was introduced through a copper tube. At the moment it was not in use, as they were at the end of winter, but at harvest time it must have been very busy, seeing the amount and variety of tinctures kept in the cabinets.

Behind the workbench/counter a prim and proper young Hobbit lady stood, barefooted as all her people went all the time, but clad in a fine moss green jacket over a full skirt that reached her mid-calf and was bell-shaped due to the multiple petticoats worn under it. It had a cheerful pattern of lavender flowers scattered all over it, as well as a pale green border. The Hobbitess wore a ruffled bonnet of the same pale green fabric on her curly head.

She was filling lavender oil from a big, rotund glass bottle that had a small tap near its bottom into small flasks but closed the tap and set her work aside as soon as Óin entered.

“How can I help you, Master Dwarf?” she asked in a high, pleasant voice that went well with her cornflower-blue eyes. Clearly, she was used to all sorts of people visiting her shop.

Óin bowed respectfully. “My name is Óin son of Glóin, Mistress. I am looking for Missus Sandheaver, the herbalist.”

“You found her,” she smiled and curtseyed. “Betony Sandheaver, at your service.”

“That cannot be,” said Óin, frowning. “I was told that the herb-mistress would be someone rather… elderly.”

She laughed, delighted and carefree. “Oh, they must have meant my mother-in-love. As you can see, she is no longer in business… other than curing her grandchildren from small illnesses. I have taken over a couple o’ years ago. But worry not; she taught me well. What is it you need?”

“I am something of a healer among my people,” he explained, “and one of my patients has an infested wound… a nasty cut that somehow got inflamed. I cleaned it to the best of my abilities but I would need better herbs to keep the infection from spreading, or else they could still lose the injured hand.”

“Festered wounds can be dangerous,” she agreed, “’specially for the blood poisoning as they could case. What have you used so far?”

“Juice of adder’s tongue and a tincture of woundwort,” replied Óin. “I had to cut and drain the wound, which I then dressed with a paste of figwort before bandaging it.”

“A good start,” nodded the herb-mistress in appreciation, “but those will be hardly enough to stop the infection from speeding. I shall see if I can find something better for you.”

She hurried over to the large wooden cabinet in the corner with a rustling of skirts and began to sort through her supplies. After a short while she returned to the counter, carrying with her bunches of dried herbs and several wood-stoppered vials, similar to the ones that Óin had in his own healers’ chest, as well as some clay pots.

“These are silverweed leaves,” she explained, waving at him with one of the dried herb bouquets. “They are very good for healing fevers, whether caused by infections or some pestilence. Steep them in boiling water and then lay them directly on the wound while still hot. They will draw the evil from cut wounds. And these leaves of the beech-tree,” she waved another bouquet, “will alleviate the swelling.”

She carefully wrapped the herbs in pieces of soft white cloth, laid them onto the counter and then carried on.

“This,” she put a clay pot next to the wrapped herbs, “is an ointment made of harebell roots. It will reduce inflammation in no time. Now, this,” she shower him one of the vials with some thick fluid in it. “is another ointment, made of bracken roots, boiled in hog’s grease. Use it to dress the edges of the wound; it will soften them and cause the wound to close much faster.”

“I am more worried about the possibility of blood poisoning,” admitted Óin.

“You should,” she replied seriously, “as it is always the greatest threat by cut wounds. But that is what chickweed wintergreen is for. There is nothing better to heal blood poisoning – or to prevent it from happening in the first place. Seven drops in a cup of boiled and cooled water from this chickweed oil should do the trick. It tastes beastly, but it does help.”

She fetched a small wicker basket from under the counter and stacked everything neatly in it. Óin saw that the basket had been cushioned with dry leaves to keep any breakables in one piece; a good practice for such sensitive goods.

“You do not have to give me a basket, though,” he said. “I may appear rough and heavy-handed to you, but I do know how to handle breakable things.”

“Oh, I am quite sure you do,” she replied cheerfully. “But I always give away my medicines like this. It keeps Matti Underhill in business – he is our basket-maker, you know – and it is included in the price.”

“Speaking of which,” said Óin, “how much do I owe you?”

“Six silver pennies,” she said, after calculating for a moment in her head; then, a bit apologetically, she added. “I know ‘tis not cheap, but some of those herbs are not easy to come by. I have to comb through half Chetwood for them.”

“Nay, ‘tis fine,” Óin opened one of the numerous small pockets of his broad utility belt and counted the required amount of coin into her outstretched palm. “I know running a still is hard work; and you must be labouring here day and night, Mistress, seeing how many different oils and tinctures you keep in storage.”

“And I brew excellent cordials, too, if you would care to sample some of them,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Some of them can knock strong Men off their feet in no time at all.”

Óin hesitated for a moment, but it had been far too long since he had last tried a truly fine drop and so he let himself be talked into a little testing. He did not regret it. Missus Sandheaver truly made the best cordials east of Lindon, and she had an amazing variety to offer. He ended up buying several small flasks that could be used as medicine and a considerably larger flask of juniper liquor that an Elven king would have found more than palatable, and he was most satisfied with the results.

“‘Twas pleasant to make business with you, Missus Sandheaver,” he said, his cheeks burning with the heat of the cordials he had tasted. “Could you, by chance, tell me where I can find some linseed? I have another patient with a bad knee and I thought I should try a hot linseed package.”

“That would do it a wealth of good,” she agreed. “Go to the dry good shop across the market square, right next to the food vendors’ stalls. My husband runs it, and he has all sorts of seeds and grains one might need. I see to it that the supply shed is always full.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Óin thanked the gregarious little lady and, following her instructions, he crossed the market square – deciding to go to the food vendors first. ‘Twas almost time for elevenses as the Hobbits called it, and he began to feel the effects of the generously sampled cordials on a near-empty stomach. Breakfast had been at daybreak, ere they would leave their night camp, and Dwarves had a healthy appetite – almost as much as Hobbits.

Fortunately, finding food in great quantities and variety was an easy task in a village at least particularly inhabited by Hobbits. The cooked food vendors mostly sold various sorts of pastries, filled with minced meat and vegetables (with the usual Hobbit preference of mushrooms), brought forth hot and fresh from the bakery that stood right behind theirs stalls. Most of them belonged to the family of the village baker anyway – or worked for him.

On the other side the owner of the Prancing Pony had his lads arrange a number of low benches in front of the inn, so that people could sit there and have a pint or two – or more – with their pastries. Quite a few of those benches were already occupied by Hobbits or Men who seemed to have no problem with mingling. Only those Hobbits who were indulging in some pipeweed sat a bit aside, so that the smoke would not bother the others.

Buying four different sorts of meat pastries, Óin threw a Hobbit lad a brass to bring half of them to Bifur’s wagon, knowing that she would not leave her shop for a meal as long as she could hope for customers. Then he headed towards the benches, too. He had spotted Hjalli and his family having an early luncheon there and decided to join them.

Only moment later Bofur popped up, too, with a large slice of mince pie in one hand and a big chunk of cheese and a pint in the other one.

“By my beard,” he enthused, not the least bothered by the fact that he was talking with his mouth full, “the food here is delicious. Halflings are the best cooks, ever! We should hire one to travel with us and feed us like this all the time.”

“Don’t let Jörundr hear you say that,” warned Hjalli. “Or your brother, for that matter. Besides, no Halfling would survive a journey in the company of Dwarves.”

“Hobbits,” corrected Óin. “They are called Hobbits; we should not offend them while in their own village. They are a bit sensitive about such things. But you are right; a journey with Dwarves would not be the right thing for them.”

“Who knows?” argued Bofur, his mouth still full. “Our people were made by Mahal himself; but perhaps the Half… the Hobbits were made by his lady wife, seeing how close they are to the fertile soil and all that grows on it. And if Mahal and the Earth-lady can get on well enough…” he shrugged and kept chewing with obvious delight.

“Let’s hope there shan’t be any need to put your theory to test,” Óin, too, bit into a pastry with great relish. “Hobbits are a kind-hearted folk; I would not wish the hardships of the Road upon them.”

The others nodded in agreement, even Bofur, and for a while they enjoyed their luncheon in silence. Bofur finished his first, and then looked at Hjalli and his family askance.

“I see Óin here has brought half the herbalist’s shop,” he said. “But what were the three of you up to? Found any work?”

Frán shook her head. With her bushy fake beard that she had in decorative braids, her iron-grey hair worn in a simple topknot and her large, bent nose no-one would guess that she was a female. No-one but another Dwarf, that is. The only sign of her gender were the fine silver rings decorating the seam of her left air; but again, only another Dwarf would have been able to recognise those as the customary wear of a family matriarch. A thin, zigzagged black line of tattoo followed the arch of her cheekbones to distinguish her as a warrior, already blooded in battle. Discussing such mundane matters as work-hunting with her was slightly amusing, Óin found.

“There is no demand in Bree for stone-masons at the moment,” she said in her deep voice. “The people here build of wood and wattle, mostly, and none of their wells seem to be in need of repairing. We shall have to wait ‘til we are back in the Blue Mountains again – and hope that the others are having more luck.”

“The market seems to be lively enough,” commented Óin. “Have you been able to get the supplies you needed?”

Frán nodded. “Oh, aye, we found everything rather quickly. Foodstuffs are packed and stored away; and I happened to find a cloth vendor who was desperate to get rid of his last bolt of rough linen cloth. ‘Tis very good, strong fabric, woven in the Angle. Not fine enough for the locals, it seems, but just the right thing for us. I barely had to bargain to get it for half the price. And we got some new canvas sacks, too. All we still need is salt.”

“And pipeweed, of course,” added Hunbogi, grinning.

“Then, by all means, let us go to the dry goods shop,” suggested Óin. “I have been told by good authority that the owner has all sorts of seeds, grains and weeds one might wish for.”

“And just who told you that?” inquired Bofur, clambering to his feet already. The mere thought of pipeweed invigorated him greatly – they had run out of it a couple of weeks ago.

Óin smiled. “Why, the herb-mistress, of course. I understand that the shop is run by her husband. ‘Tis the neat little one right next to the food vendors.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The dry goods shop, just like the herbalist’s, stood with its narrow front to the market square and had two round, grated windows looking to the South. The counter stood at the first window, while the major part of the long, narrow room served as the storage shed, with canvas sacks, earthenware pots, wooden chests and wicker baskets of various sizes line dup along the wall in a neat order, filled with a great variety of dry goods, from nuts, almonds, beans, pears and all sorts of seeds through spices, salt and even honey bread, cut in little square pieces and pre-packed for travellers.

The owner of the shop was standing behind the counter, clearly used to serve his customers personally, although two curly-headed Hobbit lads were lurking in the background in case he needed help or to run errands. They both looked a great deal like him, so they were probably his sons or younger brothers.

The vendor was quite tall for a Hobbit (though still half a head shorter than the Dwarves) and broadly built like those of Stoor blood in their veins; he had dark hair and blue eyes. He also had to be at least moderately wealthy, for his olive green jacket and knee-length breeches were made of fine wool, and he wore a double-breasted waistcoat of figured gold silk and a fine linen shirt with frilled cuffs underneath. The high collar of the shirt was bound with a red silk scarf. The high-topped black hat currently resting on the far end of the counter probably completed the outfit of the well-to-do salesman when he left his shop.

He appeared just a bit frightened when the five Dwarves entered all the same time and filled the front part of the shop. Óin could not truly blame him. Even if somebody was used to Dwarves as customers – as a Bree Hobbit ought to be – the five of them at once must have seemed like an invading army.

Bofur was a friendly enough fellow not to put the fear of Mahan into people (unless they attacked him, that is, in which case he could turn into a berserk), but Óin knew that he was fairly intimidating himself, and Hjalli and his family could make even other Dwarves a tad wary. Most of all Hunbogi, who had inherited a mix of his parents’ features, which resulted in a rather wild-looking face. The fact that he liked to wear his dark hair and beard unbraided (unless while working) did nothing to soften his looks. Not to mention his long, upswept eyebrows and moustaches, which were truly spectacular.

Nonetheless, the Hobbit knew what he owed his customers and got a grip on his nerves quickly enough.

“Welcome to my humble business,” he said with a polite bow. “Andy Sandheaver is my name. How can I be of service, my good Dwarves?”

Frán looked at Óin who offered the most dignified sight of them all.

“You first,” she said, and Óin nodded-

“Thank you. Well, Master Sandheaver, I am looking for some linseed. Your wife said you would have them in storage here.”

The Hobbit’s eyes flickered at the wicker basket under Óin’s arm, and he grinned.

“I see she talked you into buying half her shop,” he commented. “She is good at that, my missus is. Of course I have linseed here! People ask for it all the time, as it has many uses. Do you need them for baking or for making healing wraps?”

“For the wraps,” replied Óin dutifully, although he did wonder why that would matter.

The Hobbit came forth from behind the counter and took the lid off one of the earthenware pots that were large enough to reach him to the waist. He dipped a large wooden spoon into it and showed the Dwarf the shiny brown seeds.

“Then you will need these; the larger ones,” he said. “They cook faster and keep the warmth longer. The smaller ones are for the baking.”

“I bow to your expert knowledge, Master Sandheaver,” and Óin did bow indeed. He never knew that linseeds of different sizes can serve different purposes. But again, one always learned something new.

“How much do you need of them?” asked the Hobbit.

“Four pounds would suffice, I suppose,” answered Óin after a moment of consideration.

The asked one of the lads for the ‘two-pound-bags’, which turned out to be small canvas sacks designed to take exactly two pounds of dry goods. He filled them with the wooden spoon, and then put them on the balance scale to check the weight. When he found everything in due order, he handed the bags to Óin. They only cost the Dwarf five copper pennies, each.

Bofur in the meantime decided that he wanted some of the honey cakes, so he bought six of the small packages: four for Bombur and his children, one for Bifur and one for himself – then he asked for pipeweed.

“Oh, certainly we have pipeweed,” said the Hobbit, slightly scandalised by the mere idea that a fine shop like his would lack something so important. “There is Southlinch, the most common strain grown here in Bree; but I can also offer Longbottom Leaf, Old Toby or Southern star. Those are the best strains, coming directly from the Southfarthing in the Sire, but they also cost more, of course.”

The BroadBeam Dwarves all chose the local strain. Southlinch might not reach the quality of true Shire leaf but was still a lot better than anything grown in the Blue Mountains by the Dwarves themselves. Óin, feeling that he deserved to do something good for himself, purchased a small pouch of Longbottom Leaf, which he intended to share with his friends later. Frán then bought a few pounds of salt for the use of the entire caravan, and they returned to the wagons to store their newly acquired goods away.

“I need to re-dress Bifur’s hand, soon,” said Óin when they were done. “She still seems to be quite busy in her stall, though.”

“I shall relieve her, so that you can do your healer thing,” offered Bofur. Óin smiled at him.

“You are a decent chap, Bofur, and a good kinsman.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Bofur waved off the compliment. “You can always buy me a pint in the Pony afterwards.”

They agreed to meet in the Common Room of the inn once the market had closed and went after their respective business.

~TBC~