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

“And you, Mr. Osley, where’s your seat?”

“Consider me the maitre d’, standing and attending exclusively to this fine table.”

Cadence laughed for a second, then paused. “My grandfather?”

“Yes, Jess. A place set in his honor. Alas, the chair is empty. My dear, you must accept that he probably won’t show. I’m sure he is, well, somewhere, with important things to do.” Osley briskly moved on, finding a new question. “What of your friend, Mel?”

“Yeah, he should be a guest.”

Osley put a finger over his lips in mock concentration. “I think he is … the bus boy. An errand runner for forces as yet unseen.”

“He doesn’t have bosses. He’s an independent agent.”

“There’s no such thing, my dear. Everyone works for the man. Even I, a derelict of the street, serve some masters. Like the gangs that let me come and go unmolested.”

“He doesn’t act that way. He acts like all his angles are his own.”

“Well, for all his facade, he may yet serve as your tool. I know I’m ungrateful. Look at this French dip and julienne fries he’s paying for. Anyway, as to his ‘bosses,’ I know of them, or at least of their kind, and can surmise the rest.”

Osley sat back, savoring the last morsels of roastbif and au jus. “Name a name. Who had long-term access to these writings? Someone that lives a long time.”

She thought she was in tune with him. “The Elves.”

“No. They left and knew they were leaving. Their writings are but a glowing artifact, priceless and radioactive with their power, but not really them.”

“Wizards?”

“Close, but no cigar yet. Someone who had a particular dislike for Ara and her story.”

“So we’re left with only one other suspect, Sherlock.”

“Precisely, Dr. Watson.”

They both leaned over and whispered simultaneously, “The Dark Lord!”

Osley gave a grand gesture. “Then seat him at the far end of the table and order his favorite meal.”

“Anything that’s not on fire. No Baked Alaska!”

He grew solemn. “You know, Cadence your thing with fire. You can’t take vengeance on a thing. Fire, wind, day and night. They are just dumb things.”

She listened but, deep down, she didn’t buy it. Fire was the enemy. A monster that stalked her. If she could, if she had the courage, she would one day confront that monster.

Os kept on talking. “OK, the fun’s over. At stake here is nothing less than the fate of each of the guests, good Professor Tolkien excepted, bless his soul. That means you, Cadence. You cannot stay. The more you seek to help Ara, the greater your danger. You must leave tomorrow.”

“All right, I’ll go. Just as soon as you finish the translations. There aren’t many pages left. Don’t you want to know what happens to Ara?”

“I’ve learned to be cautious about seeking our fates. But so be it. And for you, no wondering around alone in the subways. If something bad happens before I finish, you must leave immediately. Agreed?”

“Check.”

BOOK III

We lack the word for it, the lost tale that takes us into a deepening place where no steps can be retraced.

— Timothy Lessons

The human word is but a battered timbale, beating out patterns fit for making bears dance.

— Mel Chricter, paraphrasing Gustave Flaubert

O! for a Muse of Fire!

— William Shakespeare

Chapter 30 DETERIORATION

From Silicon Blog, Timespan:

Loss is the handmaiden of human archives. Ancient documents come and go. In the end, like most things, all are doomed. The culprit isn’t a dark overseer or a conspiracy. It’s water, the great solvent that allows us to exist, and which dissolves all.

Other natural forces, of course, also intervene to destroy our archives. Fire, earthquake, mold and insects do their fair share.

Our digital information is eroding from cosmic rays, solar flares, and quantum indeterminacy far faster than stone carvings fade. This is not to mention technical obsolescence and the stranding of vast content in archaic hardware and unlockable digital codes.

Alongside these, human folly is never to be underestimated. Things just get lost. Or consider that the greatest library ever assembled, containing originals from the hand of Aristotle and other giants of intellect and art, was at Alexandria in Egypt. It was put to the torch by an overzealous bishop. There you go.

All we have from the past is a declining base of information. The point of the lesson is humility. Never trust a history to be the only story.

Chapter 31 INKLINGS VIII

The sounds of greetings and bustling, overcoats thrown aside, and chairs pulled up.

“Tollers! You return looking hale and refreshed. Was it absence from our witticisms that was so good to you?”

“Yes, that and more. Since you ask, I do feel invigorated since my little adventure to America. Relieved and unburdened, I should say. Able to look forward and see farther all at once.”

“Well, we missed you. Our topic last week was the de-foresting in the highlands. Another old-growth grove once protected on an estate. All under the axe.”

“But first, a toast to your safe return.”