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

She did the unthinkable. She slapped him, hard.

At that instant the fire alarms stopped. The sound of the slap ricocheted through the room.

Osley took the deep breath of the penitent and held it. It sighed out as if, finally in his life, there were no place to go.

“Very well, I will tell you.”

At last, she thought, the card is about to be flipped over.

“OK …”

“I am he.”

“What?”

“Him … Jess … your grandfather.”

Her face went blank. Wheels and gears tried to mesh, to comprehend what he just said. Then the gears clenched together and there were storm clouds in her narrowed eyes. Lightning flashed.

“This is no joke, Osley. Quit screwing with my head. It’s not helpful, especially now.”

“It’s true. Just that simple.”

She tried to pick out his lie. “My grandfather had legs of steel. No limp or hitch in his walk.”

“The night I disappeared, a blade thrust into me. It never really healed. I got out through the trap door.”

Cadence thought of the iron ring in the floor, the open trapdoor showing the creek side brush, the cloven doorframe.

“You don’t look like him.”

He looked up. “How would you know? What picture have you seen? Shave off my beard, cut my scraggly hair. I’m him, your dad’s dad.”

“No one ever mentioned the name Osley.”

“No? What’s a name, and what can be more easily invented, or discarded? Why did I wander and hide my identity for years? Why did I, Jess, never get a driver’s license?”

She felt herself sliding down a slope, struggling between doubting him as an extravagant imposter and wanting to yell, “Why did you leave?” Instead, she heard her uncertain voice saying: “But you were a teacher. Here. All the Tolkien stuff.”

“Absolutely true. All of it. He, Tolkien, was here. He entrusted the documents, the ones you hold, to me. To whom else could he? He left and, given my past and what I held, I knew I had to disappear as completely as possible. I had learned the trade of sharpening from one of the last itinerant practitioners in the Bronx. He gave me my sharpening machine. So I left and never really stopped, except for a few years, which is where you come in.”

“What do you mean?”

“I met Brigette, your grandmother. We got married. We had a child. His name was Arnold. Arnie.”

As she looked at him she almost cocked her head, trying to see her Dad. She couldn’t resist making a little jump to belief: “You left them. You were the one who was never there.”

“Yes. I failed. Both of them. I failed the very chance in life I took as my own. I only stopped wandering when I thought I could, when my own demons and those in these papers seemed to rest. I finally stopped and hid out in plain sight. In Topanga.”

“I think you’re a consummate, no … psychotic, liar.”

“I am totally that. But not just now. Do you want some ironclad proof?”

“Yes.”

“First, your keychain, the tooth. It’s a talisman. I hope its still there in the valise. I received it from a shaman’s son in Montana. Second, your dad had a purple birthmark on the left cheek of his ass. He … he loved fossils. He had a collection of shark’s teeth. He said ‘crik’ instead of ‘creek.’”

Her head swirled. She was slipping toward a tentative “maybe this is all true” stage. “You better not be lying.”

She told him about the fiery encounter in her room.

“Look, Cadence,” he almost said granddaughter, but the word was too awkward. “Time is moving against us. This Elvish is too true, too important, but that’s not the point. I fled from it. To save you. Now you’re here. You’re in mortal danger, more than you know. You must go. Now!”

“Cut and run? Leave? After I’ve found you?” Some part of her wanted to put her arms out, two fragile overtures, but her heart still held them back. He stood there stiff and awkward. Long moments passed.

She couldn’t call him “Jess”. Maybe she never would. Still, she felt a growing calmness. She rubbed away emerging tears. “Whoever you are, this is all too much.”

“Cadence, we don’t have much time now. That … man could come back. He will try again.”

She thought for a second and pointed at the valise. “And what about Ara?”

“Those documents are like a signal fire now. No matter where you go, they will track and find you. They are terrible. Leave the documents here, at least for tonight.”

She stared at him.

“Come on, you trusted me an hour ago. I’m still the same. Take a break.”

She nodded. “OK. For a little while. I’m going downstairs. I’m sure the manager is a whistling teakettle. I bet he’ll have the concierge hook me up with whatever I need. Clothes, new room — first floor this time. They will want to get the fire inspectors in to confirm the flash fire is out. Get them in and out and keep this whole thing low profile. Not great for business. I don’t want to go anywhere else tonight. But hovering around with the documents won’t work. We are both hostages to this. There has to be some other way. Think.”

“I’m not sure Barren and his types behave by the rules we’d like. He has been sent here, through that pool. He won’t stop until he has retrieved all the documents. Maybe there’s something that we can use against him, it. I don’t know. I’ve got to think about it.”

“Grandpa”—it sounded so weird—“I can’t think anymore. I gotta try to unwind. Lay down, get some sleep.”

“Sure. Police and firemen are all over the building. He won’t come again tonight. I’ll be out early in the morning to attend to some things. If I decide to leave as well, to go with you, there are people to see, things to do before I depart. Be careful and let’s meet in the lobby. After you get some rest.”

“OK.” She looked at him, but her eyes glazed and her mind couldn’t find a forward gear. She was exhausted. She left to go downstairs and he shut the door. Even bone-tired, some heretofore unknown part of her felt lighter.

Cadence awoke with a start. She was in her new room. God! It was only five a.m. She felt Ara’s destiny ticking away. Whatever she and her grandfather decided, it only seemed to forestall Ara’s destruction. As she lay thinking on the bed, the noise of the sleeping city combined with the hotel’s vintage plumbing. Car beeps, sirens, hums, gurgles of something she’d rather not think about flowing through pipes in the walls inches from her head. Something, somewhere, tapped on the pipes. Whose that trip-trapping on my bridge? She let her ears search for sounds. Someone was walking down the hall. Creaking floor joists and carpet shuffles.

The creaking sound stopped outside her room. A shadow lurked at the bottom of the door, followed by that unmistakable quieter-than-quiet sound, when you know that someone is listening.

The shadow moved. She rose and watched in horrified slow motion as an envelope slid under the door. This was not the hotel bill.

She stepped quietly to the door and looked through the peephole. There was only the fisheye view of an empty hallway, and no creaking sound of anyone walking away. Making sure the chain was hooked, she partially opened the door. Looking out as far as she could without opening the door any further, all she could see was the long, empty hall. There was no sound of the elevator bell, no muffled footsteps padding down the fire exit.

She closed and relocked the door and picked up the envelope. Tasteful stationary. Expensive. Vanilla-colored finish. Immaculately sealed. Unmarked except for:

An Invitation for Cadence

She rubbed sleep from her eyes and sat down on the bed and opened the envelope. It held one page, newly folded. On it was written in fine script:

Cadence,