Kyle's Fan-Fiction (Final)

An Odd Fellow

The lads were already onto their second round when Harwood Puddifoot arrived at the Muddy Waters Inn and slumped into his seat. The barkeep plunked two mugs of ale onto the table in front of him and as usual Harwood flicked him two coppers in return. He proceeded to scull one of them back before letting out a loud sigh. Then he sculled the second.

“Hard day was it?” asked Berilac Marshdowns.

“Not a nibble my friend. None in the net either. That’s not the half of it though.”

Hob Willows finished sculling his own ale and said, “So what’s the other half?”

“Well, bugger me if I didn’t run into the strangest chap that I’ve ever had the displeasure of running into, and there are some strange chaps out there.”

“Sure it wasn’t just your reflection in the water,” jeered Mungo Deepdelver.

The group of hobbits broke into laughter.

Harwood waited for them to stop - like he always did. “I’m sure. This chap was stranger looking than even me.”

Two more mugs of ale saw Harwood blowing smoke rings into the rosy-skied evening and discussing the vicissitudes of a fisherman’s life with whoever was drunk enough to listen. Two more, with the room spinning that comfortable spin, Harwood began to tell the story of the strange chap he’d bumped into while fishing…

He was a bedraggled chap, with long spindly locks and eyes big and blue. His skin was pale, so much so that it almost appeared grey, and he was skinny, skinnier than a hobbit ever should be. He was wearing a loincloth and splashing around in the mangroves like some kind of madman, singing to himself.

“Woody my chap,” interrupted Mungo, “Are you sure it wasn’t dear ol’ Mrs. Puddifoot singing and splashing around there in the mangroves?”

“I’m sure,” grunted Harwood. “This chap was ugly alright, but not that ugly.”

Harwood waited until the laughter died down.

Anyway, so there he was making a ruckus and I paddle over to him and say, “You’re scaring all the fish you are.”

“Scaring all the fishes we are precious,” the odd fellow says, like he’s talking to someone else. He’s got this high-pitched voice.

“Hey, you!” I shout, “I’m talking to you.”

But again the chap doesn’t respond. “Don’t worry, he’s just a nasty fisherman with a nasty net,” he says, again like to someone else, this time in a spitting growl.

I row closer to him. “Hey you!” I yell, louder this time.

“Yes, yes. The fishes get stuckses in it, its just trickses.”

Now this is the strange parts lads, cause right there in front of me he lunges forward into the water with his hands, faster than I’ve ever seen a hobbit move, and comes up with a nice wriggling brown.  

I was flabbergasted I was, “Hey how’d you do that?” I asked, rowing ever closer.

He ignored me, set to slapping the trout against a rock, starts singing something like:

“The rock and pool

Is nice and cool

So juicy sweet.”

“Our only wish

To catch a fish

So juicy sweet.”

     

“Sung like an angel,” the lads laughed.

“Quit your cackling,” said Harwood, “This is the stranger part."

Now he doesn’t sit down and make a fire to cook the trout or anything. He bites into it then and there, raw, still wriggling and all.

Now finally he looks at me, fish guts hanging from sharp yellow teeth. “You can’t do it. Hobbitses are too fat, too slow to catch fishes.”

Now this chap was getting on my nerves. By that stage I’d been fishing all morning and caught nothing and there he was making a ruckus and still somehow catching fish with his ruddy hands. “Oi, watch who you’re calling fat!” I said. “You wait till I catch you.”

I paddled to the shore and let the boat run aground, had in my mind to scare him off you know, get back to fishing.

That’s when I saw it. It was tied around his neck with a piece of string, a simple band of gold. Now I thinks to myself, what’s an odd fellow like that need a fancy ring for?

It did something to me lads, lured me in like that red haired lass who’s name I’ve forgotten but bosoms I remember as clear as day. I had to have it. Thought it would finally get ol’ Mrs. Puddifoot on her good side if you know what I mean.

If he wouldn’t give it to me I’d just have to take it from him.

“Watcha got lad, tied around your neck?” I ask, hopping out of my dinghy onto shore.  

“He’s seen it, the nasty fat hobbit has seen it. He wants it, wants the precious,” said the chap clutching the ring.

I stepped closer to him, oar in hand ready to club him if need be. “That there looks to be a fancy gold ring.”

“You can’t takes it from us,” he wailed.

“See here’s the thing, think I just might. Penance, you know, for all the fish you scared off. Cost me a lot of coin you have.”

The strange fellow started to smirk, coughed a deep, guttural cough like he had something in his throat and said in his low voice, “How’s about we give him the precious, the fat hobbit does have a big scary oar.”

“But, we can’t, not the precious,” came the higher voice, “Lets use the precious, lets vanish.”

Standing right there in front of me, he pulled the ring from his neck and holding it out to me with one hand hissed, “Take it.”

I grasped for it with my right hand, oar at the ready incase he tried any funny business.

Then he disappeared.

“Wadda ya mean he disappeared?” moaned Mungo.

“I mean he disappeared you oaf, into thin air, there one minute, gone the next. Disappeared!”

Hob was shaking his head. “You had me going there for a while Woody. ”

“I propose a toast.” bellowed Berilac, standing and raising his mug. “To Woody and his stories, whether they be true, or whether they be not.”

Harwood should have known they’d never believe him; he was a fisherman after all. He would have protested his point but figured the lads were too drunk to see reason, hell, so was he. He clunked his mug with the rest of them and sculled back his fifth ale of the night.

He knew what he saw.