The Professor’s own words followed: “Much is lost here. However, in the same hand on separate parchment and perhaps much later in time, the poem continues. My translation is as follows,” and he continued the verse:
She finished and held the pages. A final note of Tolkien’s translation was at the bottom:
This poem found by I, Thygol, leader of the Cerian Band of the Free, in a pouch on the stinking carcass of a winged beast on the plains where we fought the Black Army.
Cadence searched the rest of the box. At the bottom was a separate manila envelope. She opened it. It contained two items. First was a small, rough piece of hide inscribed with runes as obscure as they were magnificent. On a second, larger piece of leather, as thin and supple as doe-skin, was an elaborate diagram, an intricate wheel with scores of spokes interwoven with Elvish characters. This had to be the translation key — except for one problem: it looked more indecipherable than even the Elvish. Finally, at the very bottom of the box, lay a disintegrating napkin from — she paused and smiled ruefully—
Take 1 train / 137th stop
137th ===130th (Old Stop) ===
door (padlock/key hidden) == the pool
This last was perhaps nothing or, if she believed just a little, finally a real bricks and steel rails clue. She pocketed all the documents, put the empty box back, and, looking behind as she went, set out to find the only exit.
Hours later, she found Osley in the familiar corner booth at the West End. She sat down across from him and eased her newfound documents under his nose, just as he was pondering the apparently curious remnants of his blue-plate special.
He began reading, carefully studying the Professor’s notes and the poems. He sat bolt upright when he opened the manila envelope with the wheel figure.
“Where did you find this?” He sounded excited, almost angry.
She told him. He reflected for a moment before taking her hand and looking her straight in the eye.
“Cadence, you must be careful! Don’t go off on your own like this.” He held the translation key up in his hand. I haven’t told you some things because … because I want to protect you. This all has to be sorted out carefully. One day at a time…”
“I don’t have a lot of days.”
“Stop! Please. This is becoming very dangerous.” Then he added, “and I’m sure we will find your grandfather. I will help you.”
She was astounded at his tenor, the light of a real person breaking through. He was like a man imprisoned in his past, struggling to get a message out, even if he could never escape.
He patted her hand. Then he took it back and shook his head. The prison warden in his mind was back. “Now, for what you have found in your foolish venture. You indeed discovered some leavings of good Master Tolkien. And you have with you fragments of a lost poem, a tale by one of the Wraiths. Do not come here and wheedle that you have nothing you can put your hands on, that you lack still your ‘proofs.’”
“But what have I got?”
“Quiet! Be still! Proof enough you have of something more important than these documents. Your own heart and courage! Descending to that dank hole in the library was no idle holiday stroll. Now that you have proved it, you need not do so again.”
He stirred in his seat, presumably looking about for spies. Then his eyes stopped at the bar and she followed his gaze. The one-eyed bartender was nowhere to be seen. That seemed to make him more uneasy, as if his back wasn’t covered. He leaned across the table and continued. “Let me tell you something— whether you believe it or not — of the errand they have sent you on. But before the ‘they’ and the ‘errand,’ you must understand what you are really dealing with here. And let’s get something straight about your grandfather. Never seek too hard for someone that intentionally disappears. No pics, no prints, no DNA, no records. That says a lot. If you need more proof, look at me. If they couldn’t find me, a Top Ten Fugitive — yea, I’m sure you’ve figured that out— how could they find your two-bit, itinerant, derelict, legend-in-his-own-mind relative? The borderland of fable and reality is hard country to track a man.”
He waited, letting it sink in, and then continued. “Now, that being said, the day your grandfather departed with the documents, Mr. Tolkien sat where you sit and told me of his deepest thoughts, which I have long remembered but never repeated to anyone. He said—”
Osley’s eyes seemed to deepen and he spoke as Tolkien would, gazing directly into Cadence’s eyes.
“With my work I carved a window through which could be seen portions of a world. In that world there are things older and grander than I have been able to discern. But they are there nonetheless.”
She nodded, almost believing that Professor Tolkien was speaking to her.
“My journey is closing. It is for others, perhaps, to find and tell those tales. Let others follow, root and branch, where they may lead. After all, Middle-earth truly existed long before me and will exist long after.”
Osley paused here, gathering his memory even as it seemed that Tolkien might have gathered his thoughts.
“That is precisely why this trove of true Elvish — priceless beyond measure — remains so important. For now, however, let it sleep. I fear it will again grow restless and by its very being summon the restive hauntings I fear.”
“This was the night before he left,” Osley said. “He spoke those last words with sadness. But just before getting up from that seat, he smiled a bit and said in a tone that almost seemed to wink with relief—”
“‘The moon’s the same body one sees from my home on the coast at Bournesmouth. It waxes full here at its proper time. I take that as proper reckoning and a portent for good. To my dear Edith I go now and let these mysteries take their own path. I hope Jess, the Sharpener, dispatches his errand well. You have been a good friend. Good-bye.’”
Osley seemed spent by the effort to recall (she was afraid to think “invent”) this long-ago conversation.
“And with that we shook hands and he left. I never saw him again.” Osley paused in thought, “I miss him. He was a great and just man. He was better to me than I deserved. He once said he could not tell if this … gift was from the Dark Elves. If so, it might be laden with purpose and peril far deeper than we realized.”
Osley stopped and looked up. “But let us now turn back to you, Cadence. What of all this so far can we make sense? And what is your next step?”
She thought for only a second. “Simple. Do I stay or do I go? Like the song.”
“The prudence of going may now be best,” he said. “Your mom would have approved of that.”
She looked at him, wondering how he might have so astutely pegged her mother. Before she could say anything he rose, said “Very well, good night,” and left.
