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

She hurried through the dimness of the Forest, squeezing along the tight aisles of comic books and retro psychedelic T-shirts. She thought about the police tape and fingerprint dustings, now long gone. It had annoyed her they had left that for her to clean up, but she did and kept everything else intact. On her way through the kitchen in back, she stopped for a final look. On the calico-covered kitchen table, the Abbott and Costello salt-and-pepper shakers stood waiting. So were the mint-condition, boxed Barbies her grandfather might have bought at a yard sale along with miscellaneous collectables, and vintage rock band posters. Banjo Dog had not further strayed from his post. She knew fine dust would settle over all, impossible to stop since it incessantly seeped in from the road.

She sighed as she surveyed the clutter, wondering if the trip she was about to take had an end point.

She checked the lock on the back door and then checked her cell phone for messages. There were two. She punched them up.

“Cadence, Megan. So, I know you say you don’t believe in luck or fairy tales. Well, I’m telling you, missy, I’m counting right now five thousand dollars I won at Vegas! The trip you didn’t want to go with us on Friday? So don’t be a stick in the mud, and let’s go together. All of us girls. Like soon! Let you cut loose and try that old time gospel mystery of the slots. Oh yeah, you won’t believe what else happened! Don’t you not call! Bye.”

The second one was from Mel. “Listen Cadence, I got your e-mail from last night. If you’re going there OK, I’ll help you. Go to the Algonquin Hotel, mid-town. A-L-G-A … anyway, you’ll find it. I’ll make arrangements. Now look, I’ve been scratching my head over this whole thing. I’ve been talking to some of my people, and well, there’s more here than I thought. I’m having research done. In the meantime keep this secret, all right? I suggest you leave the documents with me for safekeeping. At least take them with you. I’ll call as soon as I can.”

She saved both messages, sidled down a cramped aisle to the front of the store, and backed out the front door. The air, already giving up its moisture, felt tired and reheated. A morning bee droned somewhere along with the growing road sounds. Cars clipped by every few seconds. The keys jangled in her hand as she worked the troublesome deadbolt.

“You fear a trial of fire!”

The voice came from nowhere. Not sure if she heard it right, she froze, her hand still holding the key. Then she heard the rumble of a low growl, like a heavy gauge spring being compressed to the point of powerful, uncontrollable release.

She whirled around. A black dog faced her. If it was a dog. It looked pure Pleistocene, the kind of wolfish creature that lurked outside the glow of a Neanderthal campfire. Its long, black fur stood on end as if electrified. Huge, yellow teeth curved like arthritic fingers below yellow-pitted, greenish demon eyes.

Where’s the leash? some part of her mind questioned.

It stopped growling just long enough to breathe, and when it did, saliva roped down its impossibly long red tongue to muddy the dust at its feet. It took a step forward. She tensed, slowly bringing her bags around in front of her. Their eyes locked in stares, no question about who was prey.

Another step forward.

“Docga! Heel!”

The dog stopped mid-step, its eyes unwavering as its master appeared at its side. “It’s OK,” the man said. “He’s never attacked anyone when I’m here.”

Somehow that wasn’t reassuring.

The man seemed at first glance to be a typical Topanga creeker. Black T-shirt. Dirty jeans. Sandles. Black beard and hair. Druggie lean. The kind of man you’d see living in a tent or under one of the rock outcroppings just below town.

He looked directly at her and said the oddest thing, “Beware, Graymalkin. Your soul embarks ill-prepared for your need-fare.”

She was so surprised she laughed. “My what?”

“A journey that must be taken.”

“Who are you?”

“Never mind who I am. You will receive offers.”

“OK, get out of here.”

The man didn’t seem to hear. “Remember, on a journey one always faces temptations to abandon the path.”

“You’re crazy, go back down to the creek.”

“Each offer reveals that which you most desire.”

Now she listened. Not that she understood, but he had her at what you most desire.

“You’ve shipped many an oar I can see.”

“You know nothing of me.”

He paused, and then looked directly into her eyes. “The truth is, caterpillar, there’s not much about you worth knowing. At least not yet. Except for one thing.”

“How about my boyfriend comes out and kicks your ass.” Cadence was not above a bluff.

“Don’t you know that heroines are always orphans, in one sense or another?”

“That’s it. I’m going back inside and he’s gonna come out here and pound you good.”

“Attitude and loud talk can’t help you on this journey.”

She picked up a rock, and the dog leaned forward.

“You still don’t know what this is all about, do you, Cadence? Can’t you smell it? Change is coming. Like smoke borne in advance by a hot wind that propels the fire.”

She just looked at him, wondering how he could know to touch her fear of fire and say just that.

Having said his piece, he turned and walked away, whistling. The dog followed placidly at his side, tail doing happy puppy dog swishes as they moved away.

She knew of graymalkin, a malicious spirit in the form of a cat. It was the familiar of the first witch in Macbeth.

She also knew what time it was. No time, she thought, I’m late. Very late.

She picked up her bags, looked over at the parked and tarp-covered jaguar, and headed down the road for the corner bus stop. The bus was there, the driver impatiently checking fares at the door.

The waiting, at least, was over.

When she finally got to Union Station in downtown L.A., only one ticket window was open and the line would not move.

Cadence was finally next in line, her packed roller bag attending like a faithful companion. There was a lot riding on this voucher. There was no name on it. Just the instructions: “Present to your Amtrak agent by …”

Her backpack was chafing her shoulders so she moved the straps a bit. She had stared at the ticket agent behind the security glass so long that she started composing his life story. How he ended up caught in this glass cage. It depressed her so much that she imagined she was not in the Los Angeles Union Passenger Terminal at ten in the morning, but in the Getty Museum critiquing a modern art installation behind glass. Maybe one depicting the slow drowning part of hell. It would be titled Gray Tidal Slurry of Boredom.

“Next.”

She stepped up to the window, shoving the ticket voucher into the depressed slot.

The agent swept it up and placed it to his left for a quick study through his wire-framed spectacles. He wasn’t an old guy — just the first wee-sprouts of serious gray in his hair — yet he wore a green eye-shade and leather cuff-protectors, something she hadn’t seen outside of old movies of the thirties or forties.

He picked up the ticket, his finger running along the text. Puzzled, he turned it over, then found what he was looking for.

“This is five years old. Almost expired.”

“Yes. Almost.”

“Tomorrow, in fact.”

“Yes.”

“When do you want to travel?”