OLD & NEW

Carlijn Metselaar

Alphonse was a grumbly old hobbit who liked to keep to himself. He lived in a small hole in the woods where few people came, and there he lived for many years quite undisturbed. Every morning he looked outside his round windows to watch the birds peck away the crumbs he put out for them in the garden, and in the winter frosty white icicles glistened on the windowpanes. He went about his work muttering and frowning to himself, scaring away anyone who dared to come closer.

One day old Alphonse stepped brusquely through the crispy snow, rubbing his cold nose ferociously. The woods were dark, and the wind cutting past his face made his hair stand on end. He was on his way home.
"’Ello, mister," a young voice said to his left, and Alphonse wheeled around sharply. He saw what looked like a walking pillow, but on closer inspection he recognised it to be a young hobbit grinning at him from underneath a woollen coat that seemed several sizes too big for him.
"Who are you, boy?" Alphonse said rather rudely, when he had found his voice.
"I’m Mal," the hobbit replied swiftly, hands in his pockets. "It’s short for Mackelin. It’s my grandfathers’ name, you see," and he started to give details about his ancestry.
"I don’t need to know all that," Alphonse interrupted, feeling bewildered. He walked on firmly, and noticed out of the corner of his eye Mal was easily keeping up with him, chatting amicably about the meals his mother cooked, the famous hobbits who had gone out in battle and the poems he was trying to write.
To his surprise, Alphonse found himself nodding and grunting short replies until they had reached an ivy-overgrown front porch. He led the way into his hole, and was flattered when he noticed Mal’s enthusiasm about the old artefacts he had found long ago and now lay polished on shelves around the walls.
 There were several short swords and daggers, gleaming ominously against the dark wood of the shelves. Brooches and necklaces, yellowed paper bearing strange letters and beautifully carved pipes were displayed neatly all around the room, and Alphonse showed Mal each single one of them, explaining where they came from and who made them.
”You see, this one here,” he said, weighing a heavy blade in his hands, “was the sword that I found in the woods not too far from here. Dating, I should think, back from the War of the Rings. “  Mal’s eyes widened.  “I nearly tripped over it one day when I was roamin’ around, near half a century ago. I still lived in the village back then… I ran home with it and showed it to ‘em, to the villagers, but they just stood at a distance gawkin’ stupidly. Never written down anything, they had no clue where it came from.
"Then how did you find out about all the rest?” Mackelin asked as he slumped down on one of the unused armchairs by the fire, peeling off his enormous coat.
”I went back to look and dig,” Alphonse said gruffly. “I moved away from those fools, and lived out here for myself, and did a bit of research. I’ve been writing it down, too,” and he indicated a shelf of books with his head.
They became oblivious of the time, and jumped when they realised it was very dark outside. “Guess you’d better go,” Alphonse said, heaving out of his chair. “I’ll walk you to the edge of the woods. It’s not safe around here at night.” 
They walked through the silent forest, a heavy chill upon them. Neither of them spoke, and they were both aware of the cracking sounds the trees made as they groaned under the weight of the snow. It seemed like the forest was mourning; dark shapes draped with icicles drew shadows over the glittery forest floor.
Alphonse stopped dead in his tracks. He was certain they were being watched. He caught Mal’s eye, who looked transparent against the darkness. A strange wail came from the distance, howling away. Alphonse grabbed Mal with one hand and picked up a stick from the ground, feeling the colour drain away from his face. He looked around desperately. The boy’s lips were blue and numb with cold and fear. They could make out a dark, cloaked figure coming their way. Old Alphonse clutched his stick firmly and drew himself up in front of Mal, shielding him.
”Well, hello, Alphonse,” they heard the cloaked figure pant. “Long time no see eh? Any chance of seeing a young hobbit wondering around these parts?”
Alphonse dropped his stick in shock. Mal peered from behind his back.
”Hello, shirrif,” he said, emerging and bowing. “I guess that would be me. Mr Alphonse has been showing me all these treasures he found in the woods.”
Alphonse rolled his eyes up to the sparkly winter sky, groaning inwardly. Stupid boy, he thought, thoroughly annoyed. Stupid, stupid boy. Never let yourselves in with strangers.
The shirrif beamed. “Excellent! You might be able to help me out then. I’ve found a few things myself, but no one knows what they mean.”
”I’ll see what I can do,” Alphonse said modestly, though he felt a flush of excitement rushing through his old and worn out body. “Just come by sometime and bring your things with you. And bring the half-pint, too,” he added as an afterthought.
The shirrif grinned, splitting his round face in two. “I’ll see you later, then. I have to bring this youngster home to his parents. Worried sick, they are.” Mal attempted looking guilty.
”We’ll see each other soon,” Alphonse said, grinning back at the shirrif for no reason at all. He watched them hurry back through the forest, and started walking back briskly through the snow. He vaguely wondered what was going on in the village right now. Probably Mal’s parents were delighted at having their nosy son back.  He paused at the gate, looking at the large imprints his boots made and at the small light steps next to them and smiled.
Things seem to have changed, he thought, lighting his pipe. Villagers actually seemed to want to know more these days. Perhaps it was worth a try coming back there some time and seeing what happened. He gazed through the window at the now pitch-black sky. The old year was drawing to a close. It was time for new things to happen. 

 The End

 © 2004 Carlijn Metselaar