excepted — who have the sacred access.”
“Access to what?”
“ To the blessing that all stories that want to get told must procure. Copyright. It’s a genie, a jealous little god that can bedevil people like you for a century or more.”
“But I’m not
“Bullshit. Nothing is real and nothing belongs to everyone. This is either nothing or, just possibly, a question of … very precious property.”
She sat back, thoroughly dejected.
“Let me give you a little story, Cadence. You know movies, of course.”
“Yes … I think I do.”
“You like monsters?”
“Not particularly, especially if they’re fiery.”
“Well, you know the movie
She nodded, unsure where he was going.
“Well, you know where Ridley Scott stole that idea from?”
She looked puzzled. “No.”
“You should. Every good story steals something from the past. Anyway,” he shook his head and clucked in disappointment. “Look it up. And one other thing.”
“What?”
“Take some friendly advice: don’t bet your life on a movie trivia contest.”
She felt the growing heat of being lectured to, and couldn’t stop it from slipping out: “Thanks, Dad. I’ll remember that.” She didn’t skip a beat. “So where am I? I do what, just take the peach crate and put it back in the attic? No one ever reads it?”
“It all depends on one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Provenance. Proofs. Is this stuff real, or just somebody’s scribblings.”
She waited, sure he would continue.
“Then, of course, if you’re right, if it’s real, some people will want it and some people will try to stop it.”
“So, I’m stalled.”
He paused. “No. But there is another way.”
“Somehow I knew you would say that.”
He leaned conspiratorially forward, his squinting eye focused on her. She leaned too, her left eye narrowing in rapport, her silk blouse grazing the breakfast halibut on her plate.
His voice fell to a stage whisper. “Look, there is a bigger story. Perhaps a tale of which these fragments are but a part. Use their evil genie against them. The sparse contents of this peach crate are not the real story here. You’re the story.”
“Only one problem,” she whispered.
A moment of unexpected silence, he wasn’t following.
“I don’t have a story to tell,” she said.
“Bullshit, and I don’t mean that about what you have to say. Tell what really happened. Start with the start. Where’d this stuff really come from?”
“I …”
“And if you don’t know, find out.”
Cadence looked at him, certain he was following her dismal interior dialogue almost word for word. She steeled herself for a dismissive wave of the hand.
Instead, he softened and said, “Everett told me you were pretty lost about what to do. After you got to L.A. with the disappearance and all.” His demanding eye narrowed. “So, what are you doing now?”
“Keeping house at his property. Ignoring his creditors, and …,” she brightened, “teaching school. Fifth grade.”
“Saints’ praise to you.”
She rushed on. “Yeah, L.A. public schools. Raynor Elementary. I like it. I hope I get hired back. But for right now, I’m here. I’m ready to do something.”
His lean fingers once more tapped the edge of the business card on the table. “Look, Cadence, “I can tell that you really want to find your grandfather or, excuse me if I’m too indelicate, what happened to him. So if he’s the one you gotta find
They were both quiet. Then she said, “Well, you wouldn’t believe all the stories about him.”
“Oh? Try me.”
“Well, here’s the root of it. He was a scissor sharpener.”
“A what?”
“You know,” she held up two fingers and brought them together several times, “for cutting. Meshed single- edge blades? Really hard to sharpen? I’m sure you’d just throw them away, but that’s not how they used to do it.”
He nodded.
“Sharpening them used to be a wayfarer’s trade. Scissor sharpeners travelled all over. Like gypsies.” She was warmed up, talking faster now. “You see, my folks said he had a valise, probably this one, that he carried all his stuff in, a folding grinding wheel, whetstones, a few items for sale. He hopped trains and hitchhiked and walked through all the big towns and half the small towns in America. He kept a journal every day. He’s sort of a family myth.”
“I’d be wary of myths. What’s the real truth?”
“I don’t know … at least not yet. I never met him.”
“OK, take a break and eat your fish. I’ve got a call to make. Then I want to know all about your grandfather.”
Chapter 3
INKLINGS I
Timothy Lessons, a student at Oxford, was the first in a long line from Exeter College who intermittently recorded lectures of J.R.R. Tolkien — possibly surreptitiously — and even meetings of the writers’ group loosely known as the Inklings — undoubtedly surreptitiously. These meetings, which occurred from the 1930’s through 1970, traditionally took place on Tuesday evenings at a pub called the Eagle and Child. Tolkien, often called Tollers, was a member. His close friend, C.S. Lewis, author of the Chronicles of Narnia, and known to friends as Jack, seldom missed a session. Like each of the surviving tapes recorded by Lessons and his followers, this one is undated. They are placed in rough chronological order, earliest first. What follows is a partial transcription:
“Here we are again. I’m late and still no ale?”
“So, Tollers, back from a visit to Barrett?”
“Bit of a holiday?”
“Even better, Charles. I had a fine time roaming about the hills. All of a summer day. Just at evening, I came to one of my favorite growing-up places.”
