December 3, 2019

For our third Yule calendar surprise, we have a story written by a dwarf, Master Altli! He is a regular visitor at the Green Dragon, where he sometimes plays a tune or two and shares a story. He also visits the hobbit market at Michel Delving, selling his favourite produce: onions! You can recognize him by the smell of onions. Now, he sent us a Yule story with a picture. Enjoy!

"A Yule Tree for Rose"

"Where on earth is a hobbit to find a Yule tree around here?!"  Rollo Bracegirdle grumbled out loud as he trudged through the snowy slush with an obvious effort. His cheeks have acquired a deep crimson color, while the otherwise brown locks of his hair were turning white, constantly peppered by the snowfall. Clearly perturbed, Rollo kept tightening the rather threadbare scarf around his neck.
"Yule!" he exclaimed derisively. "What a silly custom! Why does she need a special tree? She could just sit around the fire like any other hobbit does!"
But still, here he was - searching for a Yule tree in the middle of the snowy, slushy, and downright miserable Rushock bog. A Yule tree. In a bog. What a silly undertaking. But the wife was adamant about it. Rose Bracegirdle would not spend another Yule without a decorated tree, oh no. All the other hobbit burrows had it, those deep and cozy tunnels in the Michel Delving, and so would she. But Rollo and Rosa Bracegirdle were nowhere near Michel Delving. Theirs was a small burrow near Jewel Lake. Yes, it was lonesome, and, yes, it was small, but it was theirs. And to Rollo, it meant a lot. But when Rose demanded a real, proper Yule tree, everything went sour. There are no such pointy trees in the Shire! Well, except in Overhill. But Overhill is miles away, and Rollo never went so far from his burrow.
In his search for a Yule tree he even hiked to Little Delving! 'Twas a mighty climb to the village and Rollo hoped they'd have a Yule tree there. But alas, no tree was to be found. And so it was that Rollo Bracegirdle, a caring husband and a stubborn procurer, in his threadbare shawl and archaic wool coat, roamed around the edges of the slushy Rushock bog, hoping to spot a tree. But as no tree (at all) was to be seen, he began suspecting that this was indeed a thoroughly foolish quest.
As Rollo trudged along, his feet making a gooey, sucking sound each time he made a step, he all of a sudden stepped into a little mud hole - and fell right on through, down to his waist!
"Awh, fer pity's sake!" he yelped. "If this ain't the worst winter of my life..."
But he quickly stopped his angry grumbling. Because he couldn't really get out. The more he wiggled, the harder it was to move. And soon enough, he realized that he was in a proper gooey mess. Panicked, his mind began racing fast, looking for some desperate solution. There didn't seem to be an exit from this muddy trap in which he found himself.
"Help!" he yelled. "On my mother's finest silverware, I swear I won't drink the Blind Troll stout anymore! Lord, just don't let me die in this foul bog. I prom..." he suddenly stopped his tirade. "What was that?"
From somewhere nearby, Rollo could hear a steady and deep rumble of a snore. Someone was snoring! In the middle of a bog. It seemed unreal to Rollo, and he quickly thought that it could be a troll. He heard tales of those, yes. They love these stinky places. But the...thing, that appeared from behind a rock was no troll. Roused by Rollo's desperate yelping, the person responsible for the deep snoring slowly emerged in front of the muddy hole. It was a dwarf. Standing no taller than a hobbit, it had a great bushy cloud of a beard that covered most of his belly. He wore a ragged hooded cloak, full of holes and patches.
Rubbing his eyes and yawning with a great stretch, the dwarf at last stood in front of Rollo and stared in confusion.
"Well feed me garlic and call me Stinky!" he bellowed in a rough voice. "You's the weirdest frog I ever caught!"
"I'm no frog, thank you very much!" Rollo threw back. "I am a hobbit of the Shire."
"Well then, Mister Hobbit, what in Durin's name are you doing in that mud hole? And better yet, why did you yelp so loud? You'd wake up a stone troll with all the shoutin'..."
But even as he spoke, the dwarf picked up his long shafted axe and thrust its handle towards Rollo. The hobbit quickly grasped the handle, and after a bit of huffing and puffing from the both parties, he was pulled out onto the snowy ground.
"Much obliged, master dwarf." said he, looking over his mud covered clothes. "Rose will boil me alive! Me best coat, ruined."
"A ruined coat is the least of your troubles, mister Hobbit. Them mud pits can suck in a troll whole." his bearded savior said with obvious amusement. "Either way, what in the three peaks of Silverhollow are you doing in this bog?"
For a second, Rollo blushed. He got up to his feet, all disheveled and muddy, and said:
"I'm looking fer a Yule tree. Fer my wife. Fer inside a burrow."
The dwarf stared for a moment, silent and stern, until he abruptly exploded into a whirlwind of wild and raucous laughter. On and on he bellowed, shaking and coughing, one hand on Rollo's shoulder, the other on his own belly.
"I beg yer forgiveness, mister Hobbit..." he wheezed after a while, "But that is the silliest thing I heard all week. A Yule tree? Here?"
"Well, it's called a search for a reason!" Rollo said. "You have a better idea?"
"You asking a dwarf where to get a Yule tree? That's like asking a goblin whether he's ugly!"
"Umm..." for a moment Rollo was confused. "Well, do you know where to get one?"
The dwarf slapped his shoulder with considerable force. "Of course I do, laddie! There's a whole bunch of 'em where I come from. Y'know what? You seem a nice enough fella. We'll get yer wifey a fine Yule tree. Fine indeed."

**********

A stone's throw from Jewel Lake, at the side of a small hill, a round red door stood. It was the unmistakable entrance to a hobbit's burrow. Just the sight of it spoke of warmth and coziness. Far in the distance, the smoke stacks and outlines of Little Delving could be seen.
“This must be the place.” The dwarf huffed and puffed. Who would've thought that lugging a hobbit around was THIS tiring? “But it is not my fault!” he thought to himself. “Is it? No, not my fault!”
He shifted the hobbit’s weight and kept on trudging through the snow, approaching the hobbit burrow.
"It's Hjalmi's fault! He kept pouring the onion cider! Not my fault it's so darn tasty." he thought. "Hjalmi and his thrice-darned tavern. We only stopped at Needlehole for a refreshment! How could I know that the hobbit couldn't keep his drink down? But by Durin's nose hairs, that was SOME tasty onion cider!"

***********

A loud knock on the door roused Rose Bracegirdle from her evening rest. The fireplace was blazing merrily, the wood crackling with such a hypnotizing frequency. Who wouldn't doze off? But now that she heard the knock – it was a slam, actually - she was excited all over again. Finally Rollo returns! Now she too will be like that old crone Snimelia Chubb, or that Dora Brownlock - she too will have a proper Yule tree.
But when she opened the door, the sight that lay before her was thoroughly unexpected. Covered in mud from head to toe, Rollo Bracegirdle snored deeply and contently. He stank of onions and bog-mud. Rosa felt the rising beat of anger and was just about to yell, when her gaze shifted to the snow covered yard in front. At its center stood a tall, magnificent Yule tree. It was perfect.
And somewhere in the distance, halfway across the Rushock bog, a dwarf kept giggling.”

The End