“SHHHHHHHHH….”

 

“Year 26 of our dire search for the home of this amulet the priests of Kragon herald as the final light before the prophecy completes its final cycle and brings upon us the end of time and all good and god-fearing things all good men and elves embrace. I fear mostly that the truest evil lays within our ranks. The name Ebin is spoken in secret, a man of ill ambition or the land of origin of that our named scholar has adopted in disguise of an effort to embrace an evil before a band of religious zealots that are apt to embrace all things unholy. I fear the greatest evil now approaches from within our ranks and I fear for our quest. The evil, while more than a mild disruption, lays its sordid agenda amongst us. I fear when it may finally speak—”

 

“Why should we be shushing when nearly every one of these old goats is so close to stepping out I can’t believe the clerics aren’t here making some coin just reviving them by the hour. You know what I think? I’ll tell ya what I think. These chairs are like an Eighth Age Hall of Torture. All we’re missing is two trolls, an ice pick and some feathers. Aside from that I think they should toss me some coin just to keep these ogre-buzzards from drooling puddles about their books. Reminds me of Harland Sweetbush, right, where’d he get that family name?, he used to drool every and each day in Master Torkan’s lecture. I say it’s cause they kept us in school too long but I have to admit, working in the fields or learning to play the lute was not a difficult choice. We ended up playing for the school mistress, Lady Farhar, you wouldn’t want to say her name wrong, and if we sang well enough she’d let us perform at the States. The States was her name for parties to drink at heavily and the best part of Sweet’s class was full access to the harvested crops that took well to a pipe if you know what I mean. Lacy Popanogh, did me and the Hobbits remember her!”

 

“What!”

 

“Yup, that’s what we called her. W-A-T. Wide As Tall. She had the boobs and the Hobbit buttbushka that made me play like I couldn’t hold my breath long enough, if ya know what I mean.”

 

“My ear wax, fly along and fetch it. Go bird.”

 

“I can’t hear you, Horn. Are you talking to that bird again? What’s his name and why won’t you tell me?”

 

“You know, Neb, that in my day, Hobbits worked in the fields and were highly regarded for their tiring labor. They could walk in the grooves of planted crops and harvest potatoes without as much as taking a crick in their spine. As a community, they were well respected.”

 

“Y’know, just because you’re old doesn’t mean you should talk down to me. Oh, I get it, I’m two hens tall. Very funny. And that reminds me, I like Palor as much as the next guy who knew Hobbits that worked in the fields, but I have to say, some of those Preist-VERTS in the temples, not real comfortable with the way they scope my action, if ya know what I mean. Yes, I know as well as all of us know, Hobbits are different and really might satisfy some nasty and vile—”

 

“Dammit Neb!…I…I…I need to visit the jakes again.”

 

“Again? Just as we’re finally approaching progress in our time together. Fine, I’ll find someone to escort you. Hobbits most certainly don’t help five hen height wizards in lifting their cloaks. Like I told you the first time, if I’m helping an elder Hobbit lift his cloak, I’m looking over his shoulder. If I help you lift your cloak…well, I’m not lookin’ over yer shoulder!”

 

 

“Lord Neb.”

 

“How many times and how loud must I whistle to get your attention, UNDER Librarian?”

 

“While once would be far too much as we ARE in a library, I would suggest in the quite near future that you take to your Hobbit feet and seek out assistance for your friend as he should REQUEST it.”

 

“Oh, I get it. Now it’s MY fault this place is forty years past breathing and by softening their slow and pitiful demise with a startling and shrill whistle, I suddenly have to accept the role of usurper.”

 

“YOU have to be far more behaved…Lord Neb.”

 

“Why…why…that’d be finer than FROG HAIR!”

 

“SHHHHHH!”

“Shhhhhh!”

“Shhhhh!”

 

 

“Don’t look over your shoulder, Bule, he’ll only follow if he smells deceit.”

 

“He is exigent, Barnaby. That I must play the part of Under Librarian just to keep him from speaking to me for lengthy times is more of a challenge than I assumed. And I have such little patience for the little people as it is.”

 

“Their height is a constant cry for attention, I’ll agree, but I only ask for enough trips to the jakes to allow me the uninterrupted time I need.”

 

“How long must you keep him here?”

 

“I have what I need, I placed it at the bottom of what I’m searching so I can pull it up and we vacate at my call once we have what we need. So have you finished? My Spell Books and Journal?”

 

“Yes, I must ask you of that. The Spell Books are well received, Mr. Horn, and I believe we can help you with at least one or two spells in our exchange. But I need to know, this avatar that visited your…band. Tell me more of this.”

 

“It’s as it was wrote. Quite the hearty and robust lads that they are. Young as spit and twice as wise. I do try to appease their restless nature at every turn, but when this avatar arrived I can only admit to not feeling the same overwhelming desire to touch my toes as the rest of them.”

 

“But it was an Avatar. An Avatar of Pelor!”

 

“Yes, yes. I suppose it was. But you must remember, I am not a young man. I’ve bowed without question to power and authority before when my beard was not of such great length. Far more powerful than a glowing revelation and from that I spent nearly fourteen years in my small tower as the old crone I was force to marry was unable to take to the stairs like any self respecting wildebeest would be expected to. If it wasn’t for foul weather and a healthy bit of needed sleep for her father’s guard, I never would have escaped with my turned ankle after leaping from the third window in that cursed tower.”

 

“So, is that why you tolerate such… immoral company?”

 

“Immoral, yes. Wet behind the years, most certainly. But you must realize, traveling alone while attempting to turn about the world is not a lightly taken venture. You need the young and inspired about you. They know nothing of long life so they value you it not at all. Granted, that leaves me about like a sack of old rags far too much, but the gods preserve what they don’t wish to have about.”

 

“I am afraid that it will not get less complicated, Barnaby Horn. This was delivered today by a trusted courier.”

 

“Hear ye, hear ye…does that still garner the attention it used to? A remarkable likeness, though I must say they make me look absolutely aged. At least they wish me alive. I suppose we’ll see how well that fares. While I must commend them for their efforts, it will be best not to show the hobbit, he’ll only gather our youngsters to forge back to where we came from and detach heads from swords we’ve no business busying ourselves with at the moment.”

 

“They would forge back into Treyfall?”

 

“Into the governor’s house itself. No home is entirely safe with them about and a spark of a golden messenger planted firm where they sit doesn’t help the enemy in the least. I can’t say it hasn’t been wondrous for my studies. Tell me, Bule, what have you found for my search for the Oracle of Ebin? Anything from the past 500 years?”

 

“Your request was sound. And fortunately we have the local monks of Pelor at our charge. Copying script keeps them bringing in a nominal sum to inflate the coffers of their expensive priests and their temples.”

 

“Yes, yes?”

 

“We have just recently received back this…from the monks. The last copy of this book was one-hundred and fifty years past, the timing of the events is vague. But it does mention an Ebin.”

 

“Very well. Stall the Hobbit while I read this over.”

 

“Stall him? Stall him…how?”

 

“Whatever you fancy. I would toss him from the window. But be prudent in your approach, he’s one of those cleva’ Hobbits. Not easily distracted, but quite easily interested in a band of goblins setting up a symphony just outside…should you wish to be creative. Just tell him I’ve a touch of incontinence and will be a few minutes more. If you truly wish him to leave the building, tell him I’ve asked for his help in the jakes. You’ll not see him again before tomorrow.”

 

  

"SHHHHHHHHH…" the grizzled, old man wagged a gnarled finger at the younger–and much shorter–hobbit. He glared intently with his watery brown eyes for just a second, then began brushing furious at his grey and white beard where an ember had fallen from his pipe and began sending small but acrid curls of burning hair smoke into that area of the great library. A moment later, the fire out and most of his frizzy beard intact, Mister Horn returned to his reading, hand-ground spectacles perched on the tip of his nose.

"In my day stupid hobbits was kept in the fields, hoeing potaters like proper members of a lesser race," he mumbled through his teeth which were clenched around a long-stemmed briar pipe. Slowly, the pointed grey hat began to slide of the side of his head, nearly displacing a barn owl known as "Who". The perpetually startled-looking bird became indignant and hissed at the wizard as he struggled to set it right again.

"You know I can hear you when you say things like that. Being old and feeble-minded does not excuse you from a requirement for a certain amount of civility to others," the dapper hobbit said conversationally. It was obvious that he wasn't really angry at the aged wizard, in spite of the geezer's  cross attitude and his sometimes-disturbing lack of personal hygiene. "I don't know what you really expect to find in here, but we know all we need to know about how those olden heroes killed Orcus. At least I know all I need to know about it, and that is that only the paladin lived. I love Pelor as much as the next hobbit, and far better than you I might add, but I don't intend to die to pad the credentials of his golden-haired boy."

"Damnit Neb!" Mister Horn jabbed his pipe at the hobbit for emphasis, "I…" 

Suddenly the wizard got a surprised look on his wrinkled face, his thin lips pursed in a prolonged 'O'. After a moment he scratched his left eyebrow with his pipe stem–an unfortunate habit as it left one bushy brow streaked with brown while the other was nearly snowy white–then shook his head and popped the pipe back in his mouth. He glanced once again at the paper in his hand then lay it down atop a stack of others.

"I need to visit the jakes again," he mumbled, sounding a little embarrassed. He turned his head as if looking for someone and then focused his gaze on the hobbit. "Can you show me to the jakes Neb? I haven't been since this morning and my bladder isn't made of iron!" He brandished the pipe as if to punctuate the concept that his bladder was indeed not constructed of ferrous metal, which would have been unfortunate, considering the properties of iron and the purpose for which a bladder is utilized. Such are the thoughts that go through the mind of a hobbit continuously.

"You've been six times a'ready today and it isn't time for lunch yet," Neb said patiently, and a bit slowly, as if speaking to someone hard of hearing or maybe a little daft, "I'll find someone to escort you."

The diminutive man put two fingers in his mouth and blew out a piercing shriek of a whistle. From a hundred directions in three dimensions, a veritable chorus of "Shhhhhh" noises erupted. The library in Tir was almost as vertical as it was horizontal, and badly infested with nattering busy-bodies who didn't know when to mind their business, but it worked in Neb's favor in this case, as he knew it would.

Within a matter of seconds, a tall fellow with extravagantly arching eyebrows and the rich purple robes of an elven under-librarian glided toward them. He did not appear to move his feet; he looked like he was standing on a patch of rug that someone was dragging about. The under-librarian glided right up to them and frowned down his long, superior nose. 

"Lord Neb," the thin man said in a nasally, refined voice intended to convey the pedigree of his education, "I must request that you refrain from further loud noises whilst visiting the Tirian Library. It is a simple courtesy to our many patrons that each… person maintain the proper decorum. If you would like I can make available a private chamber for your use where you will not be required to remain as silent as is expected in the open library."

"Why that'd be finer than frog hair," Neb said, affecting his most wild-eyed-hobbit-mad-man look, "but what I need first is someone to show this old, crusty badger to the jakes, Jake."

Primly, the under-librarian offered his arm to the wizard, who struggled to gain his feet. "My name, Lord Neb, is 'Jacques'. You need only say it slightly louder than a whisper, assuming you are able to modulate your voice down that far, and I shall be at your service."

"We don't stand by all that formality back at Brian Patch Bottom where I hale from," the hobbit quipped in his most down-home voice, "but I do surely appreciate your serving us Jake. A fellow could get used to this kind of treatment."

"Let us sincerely hope not," the slender elf said quietly as he glided off with the wobbly Mister Horn on his arm.

After the wizard had turned the corner on the way to the privvy and was safely away, the hobbit rushed over to the stack of papers Mister Horn had been shuffling through and began a rapid search through the tottering pile of vellum and parchment. Within minutes, he'd located at least a dozen relevant scrolls and quickly, carefully arranged them at the top of the heap in such a way as to make them look as disorderly as the rest of the material.

He looked around furtively, then scampered back to his chair, put his feet back on the polished burlwood table and drew a satisfying mouthful of smoke from his own pipe, just as Jacques and Mister Horn came gliding/ambling back from their adventure.

"It's hard to be your research assistant when you're always on the verge of wetting yourself," Neb remarked dryly as the creaky wizard slowly settled back into his seat. "Now why don't you see if you can find something that matters in that scrapheap you've gathered before Jacques comes back to relocate us away from the respectable folks?"

"Stupid hobbits can't even treat their betters with respect like they did back in my day," Mister Horn muttered… then stopped. "Great Googly Moogly… I think I've found it. Look here Neb!" he shook some papers at the hobbit. "Who is wetting himself now, eh?"

The hobbit chuckled for a moment. "Well then Mister Dustytoots, you are definitely a library haunt of extraordinary capabilities."

"And don't you forget," Mister Horn grinned victoriously, "and don't you for…"

A moment later the old man shook his head and scratched his left eyebrow with his pipe stem, an unfortunate habit.