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

by Стив Хиллард

  Cadence put the pages away and leaned back.

  Her chair might as well have been an open boat with no oars. She couldn’t help feeling a rush of waters, with Ara sweeping downriver to some treacherous cataracts.

  And to mix metaphors, a clock, complete with tightly coiled springs of fate, was still ticking.

  Her phone rang. Damn! It was Mel.

  Chapter 33

  OCTOBER 30. 4:18 P.M

  “The coincidence of fear is no coincidence.”

  Osley was talking too loud. She shouldn’t have told him about the call with Mel. He paced in front of the usual table at the Columbia Library, ignoring his own warnings of caution.

  “First your grandfather. No, first Professor Tolkien. Then you. Then me. Now even him, this Mel guy!”

  Cadence was thinking, replaying the call from Mel in her head. He was no longer being the deal guy. His voice had a quiver in it, like a blade rested against his throat.

  “Cadence,” he had said, “don’t hang up this time, please. Just listen. I have received another offer. It’s one you … we … all should take very seriously. I have it … written down right here. I’ll read it slowly so I won’t mis-say it. It’s like a riddle.”

  “O-kaay, Mr. Agent Man.”

  “Don’t fool around. I’m not kidding. Here’s what it says.” He took a breath and began:

  Ara’s tale entire

  Scroll, bit, branch, and twig

  Barters Sharpener’s return

  And taleholder’s life.

  Refusal forfeits all:

  Taleholder, guildtrader, sharpener, fool.

  “Is that it?” Cadence asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who sent this?”

  “I don’t know. It’s on plain paper, from an agent who got his AGA card only last week. Someone I’ve never met. It’s a swap. The references to forfeiture are clear enough.”

  She now turned to Osley. “That’s all he said. So now even Mel is wigging out. Someone got to him. I told him no. If you’re up for it, let’s get back to the hotel and get on with the translation. Before I do anything else I want to know what finally happened to Ara.”

  As they rode together in the subway, standing and jostled like bobble-dolls, Cadence looked at their reflection in the windows. They were moving in tandem, almost identical in posture and reaction.

  Suddenly Osley broke into her reverie, speaking over the subway noise, oblivious to those around them. “It is not like elves to record a story of men and halflings. Such petty, low tragedies. Why not turtles and insects? We are but a footnote to their history. But here … here they have chronicled, at least from what remnants we have, many pieces of her story. Did the endurance of her tale bear import for them?”

  Cadence ignored the other strap-hangars looking and listening to them. “I hope she was important to everyone.”

  “One other thing has me worried, Cadence. This ‘Vow’, the one that keeps cropping up. The Elvish phrasing is deeply laden with meaning — alternatives and nuances and depths I don’t understand. It can also mean, roughly, ‘Secret Gate’.”

  She listened as the train whooshed down the tunnel, as if hurtling them blindly into some hungry maw.

  They spent the rest of the day secluded at the Algonquin, blending into the dreamtime of Mirkwood. Osley was parsing the texts, consulting the key, laying pages in different orders. Once “into” a page, it might be seconds or hours before he emerged.

  The events in Thornland continued as Osley, in a far distant realm, toiled and scribbled to reveal them, his eyes bleary from exhaustion:

  Lamps had been relit and merriment returned to the Great Hall in Thornland. The prince continued his speech.

  “If food’s to be well served, it must be accompanied by the spice of a tale, that well-munching is married with well-thinking. Eat fully then, and listen.”

  Fresh platters, piled high with dripping slabs of meat, came to each table. Knives carved. Hands reached, dodging knives. Mouths chomped and slurped.

  “This tale … but a remnant in our time, reminds us of the seething and loss that the span of but a few lifetimes, much less a thousand winters, lays upon our lore. Be not unsettled, for this saga is clear enough and fit for telling still in our time.

  “Much of it is buried beneath the words to a children’s song. You remember, of course:

  Black king from desert hot.

  Journeys to ice where summer’s not

  Offered ring of magic and power

  Spurns the lot for life’s flower.

  Baladyne! Baladyne!

  Tell him no and go.

  No and go.

  “And here is what remains of the greatest tale of our time. To begin, you must see yourself as he did. I will take you to that world through his eyes. You are from the farthest south, a king not unlike the noble lord in whose hall we relax this eve. But his hall is a flowing, great-walled tent, four spans tall. It stands this night erected in a copse of trees, an oasis. Those trees are palms, and they bear the fruit called dates. Sweeter than blossom honey. You, that king, are restless. Once on a ride in the desert, on a clear night when the stars are of such number and brilliance as to drive a man crazy with the most profound of questions, you see on the far northern horizon — a wonder. A vision distant even in legend. Never before seen in living memory. A faraway, swaying curtain of light. It flows like the walls of a great tent in a celestial breeze.

  “You resolve on this very night to see this great curtain in the sky. Nay, to strip it from the heavens, and bring it back, and form your royal tent from its glowing folds!

  “Your house has ruled well, and your seitch is in order. As did our lord here in Thornland, you leave your realm.

  “A thousand regal warriors form your train. Horses and strange horse-headed but back-humped beasts bear northward.”

  The princess turned to Ara and whispered, “I wish we still had adventures and such heroes. Perhaps some may arise, for dread times have arrived. It is surprising, as you know, who arises in such moments. The meek and small may, if necessary, carry the day beyond men who bluster wildly while they inventory their armory, but do not show so much as a shield on the field of battle.”

  “Now let us journey with this questing king whose travel has endured for years,” the prince continued. “The great curtain returns at times in the northern fringe of the sky, ever uncertain, and now only in the ever-colder winters. Great seas and mountains wild you cross. You yet rule your kingdom by daily sending southward one of your men, each with the day’s orders as you see fit. Though you have received back little notice, you send forth your daily orders for your kingdom with confidence. The timing of the future date harvest, the allocation of water from each well, the comings and goings of the tradesmen.

  “In time, your letters of governance have outstripped the numbers of your men, and you at last stand with but twenty stalwart warriors on a hill overlooking a deep gorge filled with the sea and there a rough village hove close to a row of long boats. Rivers of ice descend down to the water and the peaks are snow-full even in the fullness of summer. It is by your accounting night, but the sun hovers still above the horizon. You descend to parley and gain passage on to the north.

  “As fall’s stealthy approach quickens, you are on the sea bearing northward. You and your men are hosted on one of the long boats of that village, piloted by men as foul of smell as they are red of hair. They know the sea through the very soles of their feet, steady on the heaving and slippery deck.

  “A fog has engulfed you for weeks. It lifts. Relentless, deep, black swells menace the boat. Spume sprays high and drenches you. It freezes to your beard and face. The sun is cold and sharp. Thrydwulf, your captain, barks and points northward. At the crest of the next wave, you see what no man of your race has seen, a great blink of whiteness on the horizon. A span of ice as far as you can see, off every point of the bow.

  “Here at last you have come to find the bounds of a failing world. />
  “And that very night, amidst the blue glow of floating mountains of ice, and crystalline shimmering on the wave crests, you see the Great Curtain unfurled full overhead and enveloping the world from end to end. A wonder of weaving so full and glorious as only to be made by gods! You covet this tapestry, but no tassel, no thread reaches down by which to grasp it.

  “Now! Let us drink to this brave king, for more adventures in store has he for you as his companions in this tale.”

  And to a person in that hall, they swilled all that was before them, so that servants had to be chastened to replenish their drink. This done, the tale continued.

  “The weight of his three years of absence and his failed errand now press full on Baladyne’s mind. The boat is turned and haste made back to the village in the sea-gorge. Beasts of the sea hunt them daily. White bears stand on the ice and watch them pass, huge-tusked creatures gape and fall into the waters at their passing. Others run smooth, swift and happy in the waves before their bow. Thrydwulf and his crew are eager to return to their village.

  “As you approach the land, the village appears empty. A lone pilgrim, tall and dark, stands on the shore.

  “Standing at last on the land, Thrydwulf retires quickly to the village. He finds his people frightened at the appearance, that very morning, of this stranger.

  The man is humble in clothing, with a black cloak and long black beard. By his left side heels a fearsome dog. He approaches Baladyne as a cold wind seethes along the rocky strand. He speaks, ‘Have you enough of this need-fare, great king?’

  “Baladyne replies with grace, even as this beggar forthrightly addresses him. ‘Tell me, stranger, of your heritage, your state, and your needs, and I may assist you. This at least, before we speak of my business.’

  “‘I am The Offer,’ the pilgrim says. ‘The hand that proposes two gifts. To you, a small ring, beautiful and of subtle craft, but less esteemed than those you now wear, to grace some finger of your noble hand. And perhaps of more interest to you, as boon to that ring-gift, a full swath of the great curtain in the sky that you seek. Its colors are changeable and your seitch it would grace through the councils of your descendents, through all of time.’

  “‘You speak of an offer, but not the offerer,’ says Baladyne. ‘By whose leave do you speak?’

  “‘By a king also of the southern realms, yet not so far as your liege lands. A monarch who values his relations with other great leaders, one who seeks to unite in common discourse all the tribes of men. These he favors over the races of elves and the pointless grubbings of dwarves.’

  “‘Of the elves and dwarves I know not. Of the other tribes of men I have learned much. Their common discourse is a good I would not bet my horses on.’

  ‘“Perhaps if their kings had the kinship of common rings. Each equal in power, prestige, and none beholden to any. Accept and wear this token, great King of the South, and be part of the League of the Fourth Age. Accept also this sample of the celestial cloth.’

  “And with that, the stranger unwrapped from an oilskin a bolt of multi-hued cloth. He handed it forth and Baladyne held it. In the fading grey light of this desolate beach, it shone of its own light and promised a wonder of colors.

  “He then handed it back. ‘Give your lord my thanks. I must say no. If not offered by the sky, which formed it, then the cloth must be reserved for the tents of powers greater than I. This yard is wondrous, but of its provenance I cannot be sure unless I pull its thread from the heavens by my own hand. The ring, likewise, is a token that I must not accept. Nothing in my land is freely given, save hospitality. And you are an itinerant on this desolate shore no less than I, for I see no roof or meal in your wares.’

  “The stranger looked angry but hid it behind a smile. ‘Perhaps, my lord, I can mitigate your just concerns.’

  “Baladyne nodded to the pilgrim. ‘I wish your liege well in his quest of fellowship with the many tribes of men.’

  “Now,” Thorn continued, “the dramatic turn of this tale. I speak of Baladynes’s betrayal, capture and imprisonment. Of his refusal to wear the ring. Of his mighty words and his escape. These we will tell once again, waiting only one more course of droughts and meaty slabs to be consumed.”

  A train of torch-bearers entered to further lighten the room for food and merriment. Bustling and talk began, laughter peeled forth, and then a noise and great tumult.

  A herald entered the hall, sweaty and stained from travel, and shouted forth, “Lord, the truce is broken! The Black Army spills forth across our borders. A column bent on war approaches not three leagues from here!”

  Cadence thought that the abrupt ending of Baladyne’s story, including the wonder of a piece of the very fabric of the Aurora Borealis, would probably remain forever untold. She picked up another page Osley had placed next to his own scrawls. It was a companion piece written in English:

  The arts of Thornland were not altogether thespian in character, for their absent King had also collected an impressive treasure of crystals and perfumes. These were stored in a vault room deep beneath the castle. In that vault fell the first stroke of the failure of policy that caused this realm to vanish completely.

  There was rumor, repeated but unheeded, that the Dark Lord was at displeasure with Prince Thorn.

  Even as the feast was at its merriest in the Great Hall above, there came a servant warning of intrusion into the sealed vault. No matter whether the intruder be some lost animal or thieves, the personal guard of Prince Thorn was dispatched in train to oust the invader.

  The storeroom was festooned with delicate hangings, exquisite crystalline urns and vases filled with a thousand carefully collected and preserved scents that were organized in a warren of intricate wooden shelves.

  The first guard, girded in armor and advancing into the darkened room, discovered a waiting array of orcs. Lancalan it was that raised his small torch and beheld the fell insignia of the Source.

  More guards crowded into the vault and the flickering light of their torches soon discovered the two bands— men and orcs — nigh a span apart and staring each unto the other. Stillness held sway as the pine smoke from the torches drifted upwards and they paid each other the quiet regard of mortal enemies. The air played a subtle mixture of scents, some disturbingly clear, the work of many years of the king’s collecting.

  An orc captain turned to grunt a command and was skewered by a well-thrown pike. The room exploded with a confused and fragrant violence. Men and orcs hacked and cut, shelves tipped like great oaks and came crashing in eruptions of broken vases and strange liquids. Men screamed. Orcs howled in rage.

  And around them swirled the many scents of death.

  Cadence looked at the centuries-old paper, redolent with mustiness. She put her nose to its surface and inhaled deeply, searching for the exotic, faintly fabulous perfume of ancient truth.

  Chapter 34

  OCTOBER 30. 10:15 P.M

  As if by the turning of a cogwheel, Halloween ratcheted closer. After retiring all the original documents to the valise in its under-the-bed hiding place in her room, Cadence and Osley went to his room and reviewed his day’s output of scribbled translations. She consumed the revelations silently, her mind running as fast as possible to catch up with Ara. Somewhere far ahead, the hob-bitess was already ensnared by her fate. The first page confirmed the danger:

  With the approach of the Black Army, the feast at Thornland Keep ended in torch-lit disorder. Stunned guests, at once well-drunk, well-fed, and fearful, upset laden tables and overturned sloshing flagons as they panicked toward the exits.

  The prince’s leave was neither asked nor given. He stood atop a table, feet astride, in dazed wonder. Had his policies now utterly failed? The jests and mockery lay at the very foot of the Evil One. Had they finally yielded intolerance? Doom was marching with iron tread into his tiny realm. Should he escape with his court? His jocund counselor, besotted with wine and ill-advising, was nowhere to be seen. His thespians alone stood li
ke he on the other table tops, balanced as if walking on the choppy waters of pandemonium, each awaiting direction for their play-acting.

  He marked the simultaneous appearance of a halfling and the coming of this fate.

  Ara was ushered by the princess to a side door. “Descend here. Stay true to the main steps. Come at length to the outer walls and strike southwest for the steep hills. These found the deep mountains you will see. Trust your skills and luck. To stay or chance other direction is folly. I fear our small sovereignty is now closed on all sides save the black wall of the mountains themselves. Now, flee!”

  Within the hour Ara was afoot on the rough night road. It was painted in the dim starlight that silhouetted soaring barriers of black that seemed to her not unlike rotten tooth stumps. One sound only she dared, a high, quick whistle as she exited the keep. The signal summoned the hawk, which had been awaiting her call on the battlement.

  By morning a descending swirl of clouds obscured the approaching mountains.

  What substituted for Ara’s day was a failed sun that never fully dispelled the darkness. A deepening fog shuttered away all sense of time, so that the moving sun, perhaps dancing merrily on the cloudtops far above, was but a guttering candle in the icy drizzle. She felt the water seep through the wool of her cloak and wriggle down her neck. She stumbled on as the road once again fell to disrepair. It labored on, and then cut straight down into a dell.

  It led straight into a camp of guards, as surprised as she. They were sodden, disheveled and reticent, as if no one should be on this sorry road to interrupt the laxness of their vigilance. They were men pressed into service by fear, looking always for a truce before trouble. Their look was unusually troubled, as if they weren’t sure who they were guarding for or from. Now they were unsure whether Ara was not an emissary of their command. They stood uneasily, off-balance, without weapons at hand, as uncertain as men standing on thin ice far from shore.