J.R.R. Tolkien: Here, There, Over, Under, Through, Around, and Back Again
By J.R.R. Tolkien
Chapter 1 - An Unsuspecting Party
In an inn in a tree, there lived a kender. Not a nasty ill-reputed inn, full of dens of thieves, nor yet a bustling city inn busy with the stories of too many travelers. It was the Inn of the Last Home, and that means comfort. It had a curved common room, shaped like a bean so that it fit snuggly against the trunk of the tree, and a long staircase that wound up the length of the mighty Vallenwood. The proprieter of the inn was a stout, pleasant man by the name of Otik. He had taken a strong liking to the kender and had allowed him to stay on whenever the kender liked: which was often. He did this even though the kender had no money, and even though the kender became something of a nuisance. It might be argued that the kender over-stayed his welcome, but he was an amiable kender, and this was an amiable inn, and all in all things were quite amiable.
The kender—what is a kender you ask? I suppose some explanation is in order. Kender are a little people, shorter than dwarves, yet taller than gnomes. They have bright childlike faces and a fondness for other people's property. This isn't to say kender are thieves, nor even that they have an inclination toward thieving, but sooner or later one is bound to end up with something that is not his. That's the way of kender.
This particular kender, whose name was Tasslehoff Burrfoot, was a rather well-to-do kender, (well-to-do being a popular shortened form of the phrase, "He'd do well to do something other than lie about all day!" which is generally not a nice thing to say about people, but often true with about kender) and on this particular day he was sitting on the steps outside the inn, puffing on Otik's favorite pipe when an old man happened by. He was dressed in mouse-colored robes and a worn floppy hat. His eyebrows stuck out a good seven centimeters from his face, which was wrinkly like an old parchment Tasslehoff had once borrowed from someone and not returned. All in all, he was so poorly kempt that Tasslehoff assumed he must be a vagrant of the sort that often came begging for food at the rear of the inn.
"Hullo," said Tasslehoff Burrfoot, trying to be amiable and blowing bubbles with Otik's pipe. He was rather fond of the bubbles, having discovered this peculiar property while using kitchen soap to get the strawberry jam out of the pipe. The result was that the pipe produced the most peculiar pinkish bubbles. Tas had half a mind to demonstrate it to Otik, if it weren't for the fact that Otik might wonder how the strawberry jam had gotten in the pipe to begin with.
"How do you mean?" said the old man. "Do you mean to say 'hullo' to me? Or are you saying 'hullo' to me?"
"Whatever is the difference?" said Tasslehoff. "I thought hullo was hullo. Hullo!"
"Now you mean 'Come closer so I can see your funny hat,'" said the old man.
"I didn't," said Tasslehoff indignantly, though of course that was precisely what he'd meant.
"Never mind," said the old man, "Suffice it to say that I am Fizban, and Fizban means me. To think that I should have lived to be hullo'd by a Burrfoot as though I were some vagrant begging for food."
"Aren't you then?" said Tasslehoff. "What are you then?"
"I am Fizban!" said the old man.
"What's a Fizban?" asked Tasslehoff.
"Never mind," said Fizban. "It's not important for three more books anyway."
"Oh," said Tasslehoff, and he added, "Well, hullo then!" before wandering off to find some more soap bubbles.
Unbeknownst to Tasslehoff, Fizban stood outside the inn door, chuckling to himself for quite some time. When at last he realized he didn't have the slightest idea what he was chuckling about, he made a small mark on the door with the sharpened end of his walking stick. He then hobbled, slowly but steadily down the winding staircase and off to the back of the inn, where he hoped that he might receive a handout.
By tea time the next day, Tasslehoff had entirely forgotten the meeting with the strange old man. It so happened that the cook had set herself on fire again the previous night, and in the mad rush to put her out, someone had dropped a perfectly wonderful ring. It was plain and gold and funny writing appeared on it when you dropped it in the fire, but it never got hot. He was just dropping it into the fire for the twentieth time that afternoon when there was a knock on the inn door.
"It's open," he said, fishing the ring out with the scorched tip of Otik's pipe.
The intruding knockers rapped again.
Feeling a bit put out—he was a guest after all—he got up from his seat and stuffed the ring in one of his pouches.
To be continued...
Dragonlance Underground is owned and operated by Mages of the Plains.
Dragonlance is a registered trademark of Wizards of the Coast, Inc. All contents are copyright of their respective owners. Please refer to our Legal Page.