Henneth Annûn Story Archive

Lang thought himself a born leader. Tall and lean, he was no warrior, but a thinker, he liked to tell himself. It was a pity his talents were seldom appreciated. Sharkey sure did not think much of him, sending him on these northern trips, and now ordering him to stay here altogether. Or maybe he did. It was hard to know with Sharkey. Every deed of his had a thousand facets.

Right now he was astride a fat pony, his long legs brushing the ground, on a mission of purchasing fields for the Little Master. Responsibility, of a sort. For the actual dealing was not done by Lang, but by the round-bellied old hobbit following him on a pony of his own. Oswald Sackville, attorney, representative of Lotho Sackville-Baggins. But Lang, he was representing Sharkey, seeing to it that the fields would be none but the best. Let the Little Master waste his money. They would be needing the best of grain.

Spring was not the best possible season for field-dealing. Some farmers were already plowing their fields, and would be reclutant to let the work benefit others. In the wet weather, all fields looked the same, at least to Lang's eye. To his eye, all hobbits also looked the same.

'Why all your people are so cranky, Oswald?'

'You should address me as Mr Sackville, Lang.'

'You should address me as Mr Lang, Oswald. Answer the question.'

'They don't like the sight of you, human. I'd make better prices by myself.'

'They don't seem to enjoy the sight of your bald head very much either. Nor the sound of your Chief's name.' Lang found the Little Master's title amusing, and used it as often as he could and as unrespectfully as he could also.

Suddenly they noticed a spot of red color ahead. Coming closer, they saw it was a hobbit maiden, carrying a basketful of spring flowers. Her wide hips were swinging with her walk. Her hair was a fountain of brown curls, tied with a red ribbon. Her dress was red and cut to flatter her figure. She turned around as they reached her, and the smile on her face dissappeared at the sight of Lang.

'Tell me, little blossom, who owns these fair fields?'

'My father does', the girl replied with pride, 'his name is Maggot.'

'Are you on your way home?'

'As a matter of fact I am.'

'We have matters to discuss with your father. We shall accompany you.'

And Lang stepped down to walk beside the girl. Sackville remained atop his pony.

'What is your name, little red g'reshu?'

'Lily. What is a g'reshu?'

'Never mind. I am Lang. How much a night?'

'What?'

'I'm not stupid. I know what red means. You must be very popular.'

'And what if I am?'

'Spend a night with me, Red Lily.'

The hobbit maiden gave the man one horrified look, and ran, flowers falling behind her from the basket.

'What did you say to her, human?' Mr Sackville looked puzzled; he hadn't been listening.

'None of your business.'

Farmer Maggot was not willing to sell land. Actually, he set the dogs upon the dealers, for insulting his daughter. Lang retreated humiliated. They bought a neighbour's field, and Lang swore to return.

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