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

JRRT

P.S.: Other materials, fragments of Old English poetry, only slightly less disturbing, I have also included here.

He folded the paper and stooped, putting it in the letterbox that the library staff had already labeled with his name. He was nervous. His pipe fell from his coat pocket and scattered dottle and unburnt tobacco all about. He picked up the pipe, sealed the box with tape, lifted it to the dusty shelf, and squeezed it between other file boxes marked with other names and dates. Most were unreadable. Just another ossuary in the mausoleum, he thought. He studied his pocket watch in the dim light, knowing that the taxi to Idlewild would take two hours, cutting close his departure to Heathrow. His work here was done. It would be so good to be home.

He studied the location of the box, the burial ground of the Elvish key, one last time. He was confident that it would never be found. As for the rest of the documents, the sharpener of scissors who carries them was adrift where none could track him — carrying his burden into the untraceable byways of the Great American Night.

Chapter 17 OCTOBER 22. MIDDAY

As Coats foretold, Cadence found him again in the library. Alarmingly, he was already talking, and not necessarily to her. She sat down at the table without disturbing him; he continued.

“… and yes, this library, not quite the Bodlean at Oxford, but close enough, is the very lair of the beast that woos and confuses us all.” He pointed his finger down hard into the wood, as if this place were ground zero for all he feared. “Beware Learning! It is a dragon. It resides here, in this great book-barrow, and is wise with the hoarded lore of long and eventful ages. It places a spell on all who wander its labyrinth. If you are keen to its wiles, you can see its vestige here, in the smooth-rubbed trails as it heaves its swollen bulk along the well-worn pathways. Places like the Reading Room, the frequented places where students slave and worship its corpus of closely-catalogued wealth.”

He stopped and looked around in his suspicious way. He continued speaking as if she had been there all along. Cadence couldn’t help feeling dismayed. The last time they had met here, he had seemed relatively sane. Now he had reverted to the same overblown speech he used at the West End Bar. It was wasting her time. She made ready to leave, when he said something that got her attention.

“There are far finer riches it buries in the deeper places here! In hoard-rooms unvisited, you smell its presence in the dust and the air tinted with the scent of lost stories. Indeed, many a tale it hides from us, in the holes of extravagant, musty negligence that pocket this lore-locker. Listen and beware. It is cunning. It plays games and metes us just enough wisdom to cause us to desire more. It places no value on that which it hordes, save for the hording itself. The worm reveals truth in tiny, meager draughts so that it may yoke us to the quest. It lets us know, my dear Cadence …”

She was surprised he was aware of her presence. “… that we are mortal, that we have lost much and can find little. It infects us with a profound sadness. It gloats in its longevity and all-knowing power.”

She furrowed her brow and nodded solemnly, no idea what to say to such a sad crackpot.

“But … it has forgotten something.”

She tried to nudge him down this path.

“What?”

“In this immense lair are treasures wantonly piled in corners, troves outlandish and arcane that bear great value to one such as I. Thus do I humble myself to the keepers of this entranceway.” He looked directly at her. “Perhaps it holds the keys to the truth you seek. In the basement deep below where we now sit, the Professor’s Archives lie, all unguarded, save for the watching silence that enshrouds them. Are you prepared to go thieving for the truth, into the untended depths of this marble learning-vault?”

Now he seemed to be saying something useful. “Yes! Where are they?”

“Listen and I will guide you, though I cannot venture there again. An intruder who dares a second visit to that place double-dares the unrest of the dragon!”

This was at least amusing. She nodded a vigorous yes, set her mouth to a look of grim determination, and put both hands flat on the table. Then she leaned in and said “OK, I’m game. Tell me.”

“Fine. I will continue. This, our whispered conversation at this oaken table, is what our good Professor Tolkien called a ‘making.’ In ancient parlance, a ‘telling,’ a creation of words that are the foundry works of stories. You have, my child, made a crossing, stumbled into a story. You are embarking on a strange and dangerous journey.”

“Look, whoever you are, however you got here, you’re hopeless. Maybe we could just stick to facts and let the story part take care of itself. I just want to gather some information and then go back home and get on with life.”

“‘Get on with life?’ People would die to have the privilege of peeking into the window before you!”

“I appreciate that, really I do. But there’s only one piece of essential information that I need to figure out. What happened to my grandfather? For the moment, though, I’ll settle for your answer to a more practical question: who are you and what are you really doing here?”

“Too big a question, my child. But, as I grow older, my fears change. A great irony. I used to fear discovery. Now I fear dying anonymous and missing the chance to know those dear few in life who are left to me. Even worse, leaving behind a great debt, unpaid and gathering interest for eternity.”

He almost stopped but then regained himself. “So here are a few clues that I have not spoken of in decades. My name once was Osley.”

“Great. Very nice to meet you.”

“And one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I know Elf.”

“Elf? Come on!”

“Yes, the language. But only the written part.”

“I don’t suppose Berlitz offers a total immersion course. You converse in Esperanto too, I suppose.”

“No need to be cynical.”

“What do you mean you know ‘Elf’?”

“I hinted at bits of this before. As I told you the other night, I was teaching here. I had to … leave the United States for a while. To let things cool down a bit. A fake passport was the easiest part. I used my University levers and spent a time at Oxford with Professor Tolkien. He introduced me to these documents and to the Elvish language. I was, to put an image to it, very much The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. I became lost in the Mirkwood of these documents. Dreams replaced the thin skein of reality I’d managed to knit together. That’s why, as I’ve told you, when I returned here things weren’t the same. They are never the same. Later, I marched in the aimless army of the homeless. Deep beneath these streets I found places utterly lost to the diagrams of the city engineers. Doorways to hidden rooms.”

“You mean you live underground?”

“Did. These days, I sleep in city shelters and eat in soup kitchens. Listen, by the time I was nineteen, I was part of the revolutionary vanguard, one far-out chemical proselytizer. I wore my hair long, adorned my face with wire-frame glasses, and made the phrase ‘Tune in, turn on, drop out’ an achievable goal for everyone that cared to open the gate. I was the Henry Ford of psychedelic drugs. If I was that kid today, I’d be an entrepreneurial geek. I’d own EA or Narcross Ventures, I’d be inventing computer games that make millions. Such is the tyranny of the Five Percent Departure.”

“The what?”

“The Five Percent Departure. In life, as in geometry, what starts as a slight alteration of direction seems like no big deal, just a deviation. But as the lines lengthen, as time moves forward, that five percent makes a big difference. You end up a long way from where you thought you were headed.”

“So where’s Elf fit in?”