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

got their own roadside cannons. The paraders upped the ante with assaults from an antique LAFD fire truck.

In short, everyone got wet. Pity the poor Valley tourist, sporting along top-down in his new convertible, who gets caught unawares in the parade flow.

* * *

Cadence burst through the door of the Forest. She was drenched. She sat down at the kitchen table, dripping water from her limp hair and soaked sweatshirt into the red and white gingham tablecloth.

Jess leaned back and smiled. “I just got in, too. The tourists will start to come in, once the parade dispenses. Oh yeah, you got a message on that new machine. That Mr. Thornton fella.”

She knocked the phone over as she punched up the replay.

“Cadence, Bossier. Look, I’m going to be in L.A. this week. I’d like to see you. No official stuff. Call me if that works. If you have a favorite place for dinner, that would be great.”

Jess was shuffling papers and envelopes on the table.

“Grandpa, what’s the name of the new place down at the Corner?”

“Easy. It’s called The Eat.”

“Great. Let’s finish up and go celebrate.”

She smiled and came over to the table.

“Cadence! Don’t get your drips on this. Here’s the final copy of Mel’s manuscript. All of our edits are in. He did — we all did — a great job. It’s ready. Here’s the envelope, here’s the letter. Let’s each sign and send it off.”

“You know I could do this easier on the computer.”

“It wouldn’t be the same. I like the old-fashioned way. You know, the sepia-toned image of the veteran publisher. The one that responded enthusiastically to our letter. I can see him, fussing around. Pipe smoke. Messy desk. Piles of manuscripts. He’s still a hard copy man. His best-seller products are lined proudly on a bookshelf. He opens the envelope, nodding as he adjusts his bifocals. He leafs through the manuscript, smiling, puts it in his briefcase to savor at home. Picks up his tweed sport jacket. He—”

“Grandpa!”

“Huh.”

“No one publishes on paper any more, it’s all going digital. More important, the publisher is a lady — a very successful lady, like more than half the industry. It’s increasingly strong, competent women.”

“OK, I got lost. Change the scene.”

“Well, let’s seal it with good luck.” She licked the flap and pressed it with the edge of the tooth on her key chain. “I’ll walk it over to the post office.”

“Get a return receipt.”

“It’s great to get this done, Grandpa.”

“Done? We haven’t even started. You should see the other stuff up there in the attic.”

“Hey, one story at a time.” “One thing’s for sure…” “What’s that?” “We’re home.”

EPILOGUE

The wind blew Ara’s hair. The grey sea swelled and lifted the bow until she could see a line of land on the western horizon. Sunlight streamed through breaks of cloud, and she and her Amon next to her felt what all the wounded of the world desire — the freshening breeze of a new life. Here they would dwell until all memory fades.

THE END

DREAM OF ANOTHER’S WEAVING (MIRKWOOD Sequel)

The dark magic that wormed itself into the world that summer came as quietly as a cool zephyr ruffling the tablecloth of a long and lazy picnic. No portents, no zombie armies, no lights in the sky. Just the catpawed entry of ancient relics, superstition and evil. Evil, that is, with malevolent ambition and unflattering names. The so-called “Tolkien Documents,” that brazen trove of unproven writings, were only the tip of an iceberg. The entire Library of the Source now lay hidden in a red-brick warehouse in a decaying section of Los Angeles. All because the Fourth Age was emptying out. After all, where do unemployed wizards go?

And of what profit be their endeavors in this world?

Chapter 1

At two-thirty on a quiet Wednesday afternoon, the flesh and blood man once called Barren stood before Cadence Grande in the empty one-counter, six-stool establishment called The Eat. It was new, jammed into the corner of the mini-mall in Topanga. She looked up, blinking as her eyes morphed from saucers to steaming slits.

He spoke quietly. “You needn’t be scared, Cadence. Not of me anyway. Here is what it all boils down to. An epic war for knowledge, learning of a kind you cannot fully understand, has erupted. Many now seek to escape. To here. A diaspora of wizards and Dark Elves is upon us.”

She stood in a flash of motion, the chair grating as she moved it between them, her other hand brandishing a puny dinner knife. “I finished that chapter with you. You can’t hurt me now.”

He laughed as if that were the most futile and ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

“Whether you wish it or not, my dear, we are never free of another’s conjuring. You can and yet fear such as you have never known will still seep about you. They are coming. Mark my words. They are coming for you!”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The cover background and interior art for this book were created by Mike May, www.mikespencil.com.

This novel, in addition to being a work of fiction, is also an exercise in literary criticism. It focuses in part on the role of heroines, echoing the sentiment captured by Marion Zimmer Bradley in her excellent review of Tolkien:

“The books are, in fact, almost womanless.”

Men, Halflings, and Hero Worship (1961)