by Стив Хиллард
“Look,” she went on, “maybe the documents are old, but any physical connection to Tolkien is pretty much based on a scrap of paper found in the attic of a missing person — that and a few notes and translation pages he buried in a box at the Columbia archives. The language may not be anything we’ll ever confirm. There’s no Oxford Dictionary of Elvish. And, get this, the supposed translations I’m reading are coming from the head of a fugitive druggie homeless man. He could just as well be inventing all of this as he goes along. And again, he’s the one guy I trust. I mean, come on, Mel!”
“Yeah, but why take a chance? I’ll send someone over to the hotel.”
“No! All I want is to find out about my grandfather. Everything follows from that.”
There was a pause.
“I can’t help you there.”
That was it for Cadence. She felt his indifference with the certainty of a door slamming in her face. “Thanks Mel, you’ve got a way.”
“And so do you. Only yours is all tip-toey. I’ve got ways that make my stomach turn. I grieve over them at night with high-class scotch. They make money for my clients and they pay my bills. Yeah, you’re damn right I got ways!”
“Good night. I’ll call you if anything real turns up. Better yet, get the news from your spies. I feel like I’m being followed already.”
“See what I mean!”
She hung up. Her usual method for ending calls with Mel. Now it was time to meet the dragon lady of document forensics.
When she went back into the studio the three pages lay on the table, displayed like specimens on squares of black velvet. Behind them, dreaded and venerable, sat Madame Litton. As she began to talk, it seemed she had a binary switch: short and pithy or long and verbose. She was in the second mode:
“As the vast and arcane knowledge of the physical sciences examines documents as nothing but sterile specimens, bereft of the yearnings of the author who presses ink — like the blood of human hope, onto the page in search of meaning and something that may endure — so does the proof thus far lack in the thought and motive of the author.
“I believe this, Ms. Grande, one should respect all writing, for even the forger impresses his work with aspirations, and while deserving of scorn and punishment, is never so loathsome as to go unrecognized in this vein. Thus do I respect my quarry.”
Cadence could see Bois-Gilbert fidget. He knew this brand of self-indulgent speechifying was not made for prime time, even for the enlightened viewers in Paris. But the director cast him a winking nod that assured him Madame Gabby’s rant would be duly edited in post-production.
“As Professor Aranax has confirmed,” she continued, “the documents are what they are. Now, of course, comes the most crucial aspect. Where, if at all, do they fit in the context of Professor Tolkien’s works? Are they related to them at all? As he so famously explained, his tales are, in a sense, discovered. Could it be that these are part of that same process? The blunt implacable truths are that the documents physically exist and they are very old. But of what import are the unknown words they contain?”
“The study of relationships of context and provenance is no longer a mere art. It is a forensic science guided by empirical principles and relations of handwriting, linguistics and patterns of words and markings. The text you have shown us …” she gestured at the three large images on the screen behind her. “… is alleged to be samples of a much more extensive collection. That, by the way, is something I would very much like to see.” She looked over the top of her bifocals at Cadence.
Cadence didn’t move a muscle.
Madame Litton continued, “But now, Mademoiselle Grande, we have a stunning surprise.”
Bois-Gilbert perked up. At last some juice!
“As part of our tests, we have employed spectral imaging technology developed originally by your NASA to see through clouds. We use it to probe the minute depths of these historical pages. The different wavelengths reveal high-resolution images that are invisible to the naked eye. In this case, they indeed reveal a story.”
Cadence was floored.
Bois-Gilbert broke in. “Mademoiselle Grande, are you aware of this?”
Madame Litton paused, nodding at Bois-Gilbert, and then peered at the camera. “As established by Professor Aranax, it seems probable that the scribes who authored these very documents had ample resources, including available parchment. Nonetheless, these parchments were second-hand. They are palimpsests — parchments that have been scrubbed down with pumice to a smooth unmarked surface, literally erased and overwritten with the indecipherable new text before us.”
Bois-Gilbert said, “And what, Madame, lay underneath? What was erased?”
“This is the amazing part. Our examination has revealed an ancient text in Old English. It deals with dark alchemy. Something designed to empower evil. It describes a process whereby an Essence, probably quicksilver — what we know today as the element mercury — could be imbued with fantastic power and so order the affairs of mortal races. As described, it makes The Communist Manifesto and Mein Kampft and the Anarchists’ Cookbook all look like Betty Crocker. And it gets more disturbing.”
“How so, Madame Litton?”
“I share with you a translation of one section. It was written in a hurry, fitting for its tone.”
Her eyes checked with Bois-Gilbert, then she readjusted her glasses, looked down her nose at the page before her, and began reading:
“I am Oruntuft, now an old man. I was once a wizard, though none alive believe me. It matters not. I have little time. Here is my account for any that follow.
The Dark Elves have been shunned by their brethren, and in that event lies great danger for the world. Middle-earth is emptying out. Magic and spells may soon crest, but they are only the final wave of an eternally outgoing tide. All will dwindle. The Dark Elves cannot pass over the sea, and thus they devise their own exit.”
“Know this adversary as I do, for I was once an enchanter of forest and wild places. These are Elves formidable and sly, of a design beyond mortals’ reckoning. They are all but invisible. If they appear at all, it is fleeting, and often as vermin — foxes, badgers, weasels, and the like. Their sounds are as the wind to us, sometimes mimicking the whistle of a zephyr through trees. They cannot act by their own hand, but instead employ others to their service. Their grandiose and errant plot unfolds even now. The Dark Lord, whose power spreads and multiplies before our stunned eyes, was at first their unwitting puppet. By their sly hand, his alchemical skills soared into vast power, and his pride grew to audacity and conceit. He now has the power and ambition to become a fire that will devour the entire world. This struggle, seen by mortals only as a vast war, will rip a seam in this world. Into that will pour the Dark Elves and the residue of magic left to us. We will be left simpler and diminished, but perhaps fortunate. Woe be to the realm which they choose to enter.”
“One final warning: their power lies in the Quintessence, distilled and altered from the Source, and hoarded by the Dark Lord. The rings, over which great struggles unfold, are but tokens of its power. It is the acid that will devour the theater stage that is the platform of all mortals. Destroy that, return it back to the Source, and you will save this world and the next. Ara must not fail. Her story must not fail.
They will destroy me soon, along with this account should they discover it.”
Bois-Gilbert intervened. “A tale indeed, should anyone believe it. Now, madam, your conclusion.”
“This now-hidden text, as originally written, was something to be hunted down and destroyed, or erased. My theory, unproven for now, is one of delicious irony: the indecipherable text that is visible may be a history of the victory or defeat of the Dark Elves. Which it is, we may never know.”
Bois-Gilbert cut to the chase. “Madame, your verdict?” “Alas, since on their face they are in what you call ‘Elvish,’ which we are unable to decipher, we are, I say with regret, stymied. The Old English substratum, of course, admits
of a clear scientific judgment.”
A long fermata followed.
“I am unable … to declare the documents … false.”
Bleep. A big green check mark flashed on behind her.
Madame Litton now leaned forward, speaking directly to Cadence. “What is more important is where we go from here. There is a mystery waiting to be revealed. I have asked our esteemed host to … what’s the expression? Ah yes, ‘up the ante.’ Present us, Mademoiselle Grande, with the full documentation, all the originals, for our scientific review. Let our television viewers get to the bottom of this mystery. We shall increase … your prize for their delivery to … the amount … of …” She turned to cue Bois-Gilbert, who once more produced the leather bag and finished her sentence in one practiced, masterful sweep, “One hundred thousand dollars!”
The bag plopped to the floor with a louder sound than before. Bricks, probably, Cadence mused. She involuntarily stared at it, letting the cameras around her sniff and feed with gluttonous ravening on what they most craved — a real, unalloyed display of the most fundamental human emotions, fear and greed.
She couldn’t help thinking about giving in. Give up the damn papers. The whole pile. Take the money and go home. Leave Ara to her own fate. Save your grandfather’s estate, maybe look for other clues, but basically call it a day. He’s gone, right?
Time flowed around her like a river sweeping by a rock. It was getting to be too long. They needed an answer, a reaction. They needed dessert after the pig-out.
Bois-Gilbert had a nose for how to get what he wanted. Just a private little chat off-camera to allow the milking of this situation. He signaled the stage manager to call a break.
“Suspendez!”
The crew milled around and the panel of experts all began to smoke.
Cadence could feel a second-hand smoke headache coming on.
She got up, swept the three pages into her bag and picked up her coat by the door. Then she walked out — out the studio door, out the steel door, and straight to the elevator.
“Hey!” A production assistant came running up, followed by Bois-Gilbert. “You cannot leave; we are in the middle of shooting!”
“I’m the one getting shot. Save your televised execution, Brian. You can finish the pilot with the footage you got. You know — me sweating, me biting my tongue, me looking guilty. Just finish her speech and edit it all together. Get to Mel for the details.”
“But!”
“Oh,” she paused as the elevator door opened. “I don’t want the money.”
She turned and entered the elevator. The doors closed as Brian stood there, his mouth widening into a big silent Wait!
She decided not to return directly to the Algonquin. Let Osley do his translating thing for awhile. She found her way to a restaurant called Zimbabwe. She expected some Disney-like images of the Great Harare Temple, but found only a long room fronted with battered tables and chairs, and a kitchen in back that smelled like a village. She ordered a porridge-like vegetable soup. This is perfect, she thought, a break from all the over-wrought English-ness and French forensics hocus-pocus that were clinging to her like competing vines of ivy. With this bit of perspective, she pondered the thin dossier of credibility left to this whole affair. What proofs were there? The documents seemed to be related to Tolkien. Two sources, Les Inspecteurs and Mr. Bossier’s little machine, said that some of them were indeed old. But what was the meaning of it all? Could she count on a few fragments of readable text and, thinnest of all, the translations of an eccentric homeless man — the only person in the world who knows Elf? What kind of case was that? There were, as she considered it, only two things that kept her indulgence going. Her grandfather, his fate hidden but exquisitely close in this maze, and Ara. Somehow they were connected. One would lead to the other. And wouldn’t it be a damn shame if Ara were somehow real and then got erased, just for lack of belief?
She let all the pieces float around like lazy, deflating helium balloons. Today her mind could accept that perhaps the spider was just an illusion down in the dark and confusing subway tunnel. And the feeling of being stalked? Just a case of nerves built upon all this hoodoo pressure.
No matter how hard she tried, the prospect of going home in defeat seemed less like an option and more and more like an inevitable result. A few tantalizing tidbits but basically empty-handed. Her grandfather, Ara, the meaning of the documents, all untethered to any real evidence. Maybe Os was totally right, Mirkwood giveth and taketh away.
She couldn’t just hang out here forever. She thought of the practicalities: money, job, getting a life. OK, I’ll stay four more days. Till the anniversary of his disappearance. Halloween. Then I’ll pick up and go home. I’ll take the documents and Ara with me.
She finished with an exotic tea and milk concoction and headed back to the Algonquin, ready to check on The Os.
Chapter 27
OCTOBER 27. 5:10 P.M
She got to the hotel an hour later. She brought Osley up to speed on Les Inspecteurs — skipping the part about the money bag. She finished with Madame Litton’s revelation of the recovered pleas of Oruntuft.
“So what do you think?” she asked.
“It could be important, or just a madman’s metaphysical ramblings, erased because it deserved to be.”
She looked at him; he was oblivious to the irony of who was a madman.
“For now, it all seems way behind the scenes. If you look at it hard enough, anything, everything becomes a conspiracy. People want to know what makes evil. And they won’t hesitate to make something up. Dark Elves, Beelzebub, Cain, Moriarity, Dick Cheney, whatever. Who can tell what fuels the Dark Lord’s ravening, or who controls whom? He is a monster, a world killer in his own right. I suspect Ara is going to have to deal with him. Which may tell us why he, someone, is trying to destroy her. In any case, it brings us back to her journey.” He held up a sheath of yellow pages. “You see, after Ara left the cave she headed into some very … well, here, you read it,”
Cadence took his hand-scrawled notes and read:
Within a half day after leaving the cave and finding the enchanted pool which revealed a young woman’s face, Ara came fully into the southern lands. It was a place fitfully wooded and beset by a wind that moaned tuneless, brooding and fearful. She came to a merestone, its great rock obelisk pointing upward like a craggy finger. Its exclamation seemed to have been long spent. She looked at its ruin and neglect. It seemed an emblem of some long-departed evil whose peculiar roots and seeds perhaps lay still in the soil.
A hundred yards further, beyond a grove of gnarled oaks of a kind she had never seen, she found greetings more current. Before her, flanking the meager trail, stood a phalanx of pikes. They were stove well into the ground and atop each of their upright lengths was a man’s head. There they swayed like a congress of whispering kings contemplating with tragic masks all that passed before them. Whether originally friend or foe to those who so anointed them was a pointless conjecture. The message to followers of this trail was clear enough.
She went past the sentinels, toward a huge oak whose branches hung over the trail. Birds screeched and wheeled into the air. Suddenly she averted her eyes, covering them with both hands. It was too late. The image was already burned into her memory. A hobbit hung by its neck from a rope. It turned slowly in the breeze, the rope and limb creaking in a dirge. The victim was already the sport of carrion-birds. She began to cry, trying to push the image away, when she realized that on his belt, hung by its leather strap, was a green Shandy. The cap was just the sort she had given to her Amon! Her heart came to a stop, and before it could summon itself to beat again she opened her eyes and moved forward. She walked right up, nauseous and overwhelmed, and looked.
It wasn’t him. This poor hobbit-traveler, his tale ended and never further to be told, was of the Fur-Shoulders clan. His soiled clothing was of another cut and color than would be worn by her love. The face was blackened and well-picked, but she knew.
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She began to run, south down the trail, fleeing the images.
The next passage seemed to be Osley’s own musings:
There exists today, traveled by millions but its secret known to but a few, a multi-laned freeway overlaid on an older asphalt highway, which buries a macadamized road, under which is compressed a foundation of stone. This foundation once bore forth war and rejoicing, commerce and ideas, love and reunion, and the joy of setting forth on destinations unknown. Mad adventures. White line fever. The road that goes on and on.
His text then returned to the pathway of Ara. Leaning back with a sigh of just-let-it-flow, she entered once more into step with the heroine. Ara’s journey, life, tale and existence all seemed threatened by gathering menace within and without these documents:
On a road once straight and unbroken, laid with stones and mortar so scrupulously correct that only a thousand years of neglect could finally break its order, Ara’s path lay uneven and eroded. Each state of being, the perfect and the failed, bespoke the long decline that she knew by the myths served up by tumbled monument and ancient lay that accompanied her to this desperate track.
Hiding in a wild and extravagant thicket of bramble, only feet off the way, she watched through the thorns. Passing before her was the vanguard of an army in irregular array, bearded and braided and dirty, tromping in remnants of footwear. They were encased in unmatched parts, a left armshield, perhaps a right shin-guard, a breastplate, in dingy and broken cast-offs of metal plundered from the bloody armory of an unburied battlefield. More than a few heads were bandaged, some graced with only one seeing eye.
Slowly they tramped by. Low, ominous vibrations spread from their ponderous steps. Unscabbered blades of broken swords wrapped at the hilt with uncured hides swung from tattooed arms. Others carried staves and bludgeons. Some bore lances tipped with blades hammered from broken shields, ferrying ribbons of tattered cloth that flared straight back in the cold wind.
This procession was followed by oxcarts drawn by human slaves in harness. Women and children with the mien of captives followed in loose order. The lame and the utterly rejected, unfit even to pull at the traces, drifted behind.