Mirkwood: A Novel About J.R.R. Tolkien

Mirkwood: A Novel About JRR Tolkien

Mirkwood: A Novel About JRR Tolkien, Heroines,

And Exodus from Middle Earth

Or

Pardon Me, Did You Just

Come Through That Portal?

Steve Hillard

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, save those allowed by fair use, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To my own grandfather Jess, who while distinct from the Scissor Sharpener, shared with him a country man’s eye and an authentic sense of adventure.

To my children, Jessica, Scott and Stephanie, who sat abed as we read aloud the entire Lord of the Rings. It was they who asked the question: “So, where are the heroines?”

To my best friend, Dennis, the original proprietor of the Mirkwood Forest.

To my assistant, Veronica, who braved all the edits.

To Professor Tolkien, whose work inspires generations to tempt a secret gate and travel yon bonny road…to fair Elfland.

And finally, to my wife Rosita, who paced my progress with a rigorous and loving eye, and encouraged me to do the most important thing: finish the book.

The curious history of the “Tolkien Documents”, witnessed herein as fully as can be restored, is based on translations, journals, tapes, and interviews with those principally involved. How those sources have been placed in sequence — both amenable to the reader and probative of their authenticity — will be made clear in the reading. You may probe for the truth yourself, but take care. A tale can be a dangerous thing.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

J.R.R. Tolkien — Reknowned Author and Professor

Jess Grande — Proprietor of The Mirkwood Forest

Cadence Grande — Granddaughter of Jess

Mel Chricter — Media Agent

Osley — No Data Found

Bossier Thornton — Assistant Detective

Brian de Bois-Gilbert — French Forensics Expert

Aragranassa (Ara) — Female Hafling

Pazal — Wraith

Barren — Assassin

The Dark Lord — Just As You Might Imagine

BOOK I

These creatures live to me as I am creating them. Twere I to finish, they would become wooden, lacking in life. Thus, the tale must go on. It is, after all, one belonging to all who would but participate and find its first steps, beside a secret gate.

— J.R.R. Tolkien, Letters

If ever a name signified a realm of dangerous enchantment, it is “Mirkwood,” The Great Forest of Doubt, whose pedigree of reference extends back 800 years in the known literature.

— Franz J. Heibowitz, The Mythical Forest

Through Mirkwood to fulfill their fates, the young fairy maidens flew.

— Eddic Lays (Icelandic, 13th Century)

Chapter 1 1970: AN ARRIVAL

As he deplaned at what was then Idlewild Airport, the old man was scarcely recognizable as the chipper Merton Professor of Anglo-Saxon Literature who enthralled his students at Oxford. His lively gait had slowed to a shamble. He hugged a barrister’s document case, its contents bulging, its latch reinforced with knots of twine. His flashing brown eyes retreated beneath brows that sprouted like dark, untended weeds.

He shuffled through a turnstile at customs, glanced at himself in a mirror, and cut his eyes away. His gaze returned to study his image in the glass. Gone were the smile creases that always radiated from those eyes. The forehead, usually noble, now mapped a gulag of deepened liver spots. His hair, typically a groomed roller of white- capped gray, retreating as if into some mythical northern sea, now splayed out like moldy hay.

Why be surprised? he thought.

His trans-Atlantic sleep had been elusive, shattered by dreams of menace and chase. It distilled, as always, into the nightmare of the giant spider — the apparition that haunted him since he was bitten as a child in his native South Africa.

Moments before, as the plane banked in approach, he had glimpsed the Manhattan skyline rising through a pinkish, fog-shoaled dawn. The World Trade Center towers, each under construction and exotically aglow, regarded him like outlandish stalks bearing glassy, multi-faceted eyes. His muse of myth and language hovered near. Watchers, she had whispered, guardians over secret gates.

He weaved through the crowds to arrive at baggage claim. He felt panicked, as if slipping unmoored into a churning river of people and unintelligible loudspeaker announcements. Two awkward turns and he finally saw the sign. Taxis, yes. He fumbled in various pockets and pulled out a note. Despite being jostled, he stood his ground. He held the note outstretched in one hand while his other hand clutched the barrister’s case tightly to his chest. On the note was typed: