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

by Стив Хиллард

  The late-blooming eighth-grader that still lived inside her had been on these streets before. It was a school trip remembered chiefly for ditching the chaperones and kissing Jimmy Friedlander, while the Police sang in the background.

  That fall her dad would die in the Topanga fire and she would never really graduate to the ninth grade. I am a fossil, she thought, until now.

  As she approached 92nd Street, the sidewalk featured an array of buskers. A black man picked out Louisville-style blues with Dobro and bottleneck. She dropped a dollar in his hat and he picked her a special lick. A group of rappers, bearing wireless mikes working through tinny little amps, accosted the crowd with earnest sexual lyrics acapella. Then there was a sandwich board sign that had somehow captured and enslaved a shoeless human who looked like the unshaven, older brother of the creeker in Topanga. The front board said:

  Expect as ye see.

  Signs and wonders,

  Ye will finally believe.

  And on the back:

  Quoth the Raven,

  Eat Kraft Cheese.

  The next few blocks were strangely quiet, almost empty. Cadence glimpsed New Jersey to her left, down a long street corridor. Her sneakers squeaked. She slowed to a sputtering walk and sorted once more through jumbled pieces of this puzzle.

  At the top of the pile was her grandfather. Much was left to do — getting to know him, for one.

  Don’t they say that the trauma of great loss has aftershocks that can come back years later? Unresolved good-byes, I-wishes, and if-onlys are the bread-and-butter regrets that always resurface. They are like errant locomotives sent off full-throttle into the trackless interior of the heart, that somehow find a turntable and now are heading back into town.

  So finally, she thought, we’re at the core. I found him. I found the secret gate to answer those questions.

  No discovery is complete unto itself, and she could not turn her back on the final question. Who was Ara, really? The tale still glinted from the rune scribbles, as interpreted by a man— who happened to be her grandfather — who last bought a new pair of shoes in the 1980s. The “translations” could be just the musings of his alter ego, Osley the LSD guru. Hell, they could be the invention of some grand pranksters of the past, or Dark Elves, or the fevered dream of a refugee monk gone off the medieval grid, or anything. Seeing Ara in the pool? Perhaps she had. Or maybe it was just fear and light on an oily water surface.

  A rational person, like her mom, or Cadence as Cadence used to think she was, would see this clearly. There was not even a high-class mystery here — forget the fairy tale dust about trying to save a heroine. This was echoed by a cracked, gravelly voice, as if Burgess Meredith was in her head reprising a corrupt, cigar-chomping manager, telling her Throw in the towel and go home, kid, cause this fight is fixed anyway.

  She took another step. Bullshit! It’s not about fairy tales and it’s not about rationality. The truth is just what it is. She did a double-skip and upgraded her pace back to a full run. I’m not leaving Ara lost in Mirkwood! I’m going to get those last answers, and I know where to go.

  At West 100th Street, she passed a shuttered McDonald’s that had been an infamous “Smackdonalds” in the 1970s. As Osley, her grandfather had talked about it as if he had been one of the regulars. More dollars were generated in horse than burgers. Dealers were always loitering out front while a stream of noddies queued to buy. Piss and barf smells clung to the perimeter, and it wasn’t much better inside. Supposedly Ronald visited once, all suited up in clown garb. He was a narc.

  She kept running.

  The extra-sensory perception of being stalked once fell into the camp of old wives’ tales and superstition. It has of late been resurrected for study by serious science, and with good reason. Perhaps it results from an aggregation of subtle clues that trips some primitive wire in our brains.

  By West 104th Street, the tripwire had been snagged, and Cadence felt the queasy certainty of being followed. Her juju feeling reverberated like a drum circle. She had a good idea of who, or what, it was. She felt for the fine stationary letter folded in her pocket. Her feet had delivered her to the neighborhood where, if ever, she might find the Talisman Store and dare to save both her grandfather and Ara. Her hand also felt the two pages of new translation that she’d picked up off Osley’s desk. She felt edgy. She would look for a quiet spot to read them.

  Barren’s own favorite among his many talents, aside, of course, from raw adaptability, was to let his preys’ own skills work against them. This was how he ensnared the Woodsmen. He let their own sixth sense first detect him, then he let it drive them to his trap.

  It saved a lot of work.

  Just to test things in this new world (he was constantly trying to update his thinking now), he would direct Cadence west, toward the river. He was two full blocks behind her, indistinguishable in the crowd. His signals, aura, pheromones, vibes— whatever there were — herded her as effectively as a spear to the rump of an aurochs.

  Up ahead, Cadence hurried her pace, fidgeted at the light, looked around, and crossed over against the traffic to the west side of Broadway.

  Past 113th Street, the West End Bar hunkered down, looking dreary and idle in the afternoon light. There were more trees after that, creating a slow strobe of light and shadow as she ran. The Columbia University enclave was coming up on the right.

  The neck hairs’ sensation of being followed came on strong once again. She turned left at 114th, cut down the block, and stopped. She was on Riverside Drive in front of a neighborhood deli with a wooden half-wall gate across the door. Inside, one tough, uniformly auburn-hued dog sat watching. Smart dog. Waiting to chomp on the uninvited. The neighborhood must be tougher than it looks, she thought.

  She found a brownstone doorstep that had been freshly swept and sat down. She pulled out the clump of translation pages and began to read. At the top, Jess had scrawled a note, probably a reminder for when they next talked: “There are two fragments here. By the tears and folds, each may have been secreted away many times. I don’t know if these are reliable. The first is part of a History of Aragranessa.”

  Ara, the prisoner, stood in a darkened cavern before a large, ornate doorway that was almost closed. Torchlight flickered from inside. A fearful orc guard proddled her with his spear, backed up several steps, and then ran away. She forced one foot forward, then the other. With the certainty of ascending the gallow’s steps, Ara knew she walked to her death.

  She thought, I am Aragranessa, daughter of Achen. All he can take is what must be given up in the end anyway. I will not fear, and, though none may ever know, I will sell my life dearly.

  She thought of her Amon, of his sad, desperate determination. She took a deep breath and slid through the crack … into the presence of the Dark Lord.

  The room was large, long as a spear’s flight. Its ceiling dimmed in the waving shadows from torches jutting from each column. The walls rose with tier upon tier of shelves stuffed with codexes and scrolls. At the far end, held in a luminous glow of changing colors, was the shape of a man. He turned slowly, as if he awaited her arrival, and began to walk toward her.

  Despite the length of that hall, it seemed he had taken but one step and was now before her. His hand held a robe, which he slipped over a chair. He wore a simple tunic and brought his hands together in supplication. He looked at her as one might a much anticipated guest. She was stunned by his gentle demeanor. His eyes spoke at once of need and hope. His gestures were those of a weary man of peace.

  “Please, sit and eat.” He indicated a chair sized just for her. Before it was a low, broad table laden with food such as Halflings crave — biscuits and butter and fried bacon with roasted grazus. She had eaten naught but roots and brush bark for days. Her nose involuntarily flared and tweaked at the smell. But her heart resisted and she stiffened. He looked unjustly offended. “After all this way? And still not happy? Let us test the ill humor that sets itself against your happiness.” He motioned
again. “Come, indulge an old man and sit with me.”

  Something in his voice relaxed her just a bit. She sat gingerly on the edge of the seat. She reached out for a vessel filled with sweet, fresh smelling water, and drank deeply. The food suddenly was irresistible. He sat and watched and waited, passing untried dishes to her as she ate.

  His patience was rewarded, for in time, her hunger sated and her thirst slaked, she was ready to talk. After all, he seemed both reasonable and gracious. She would go so far as to be polite. “Thank you for the food and drink.”

  “As you deserve. May I speak to you? I take your silence as permission, so let me say this. Your well-being is important.”

  She felt herself falling into a pleasant and amiable conversation, relaxing as if this peaceful old man were one of her great-uncles voicing concern for her. It was a kind of glamour, something only trust can provide, and she found herself trusting him.

  The Dark Lord asked her to give voice to the anger that smoldered within her. By her answer, he discovered its true root to be righteous, for it was based on the injustice meted out to her people. He then told her that he, too, had been wrongly judged. He spoke of his long learning, and of the rebuilding of his library. How he assembled it from materials secured by stealth from a great library, since burned to the ground that lay in the far lands to the south. Then he spoke of the nature of his art. “I deal with all substances. I find the essential value in all — including the debased, the vile, and the shunned. I take the life of a mere insect, a thing deemed worthless, and elevate it, in its purity and essence to the great stature it deserves. This I can do for you, Ara, who are already a noble and fearless warrioress. You have been deceived by others, even your Amon, who deserted you for his own adventure. Would you now embrace your own purity, your own destiny? She ate and drank further and asked him to explain many things, for he wished her to know all and to make her own decisions. He told her of the elusive nature of the lights in the northern sky, and then showed her a fabric that embodied the very nature of those celestial colors, that was those colors. “Thus can I distill your essence, Ara, and together we can discover the high-born and rightful Ruler of the Halflings that you are meant to be.” She nodded. There was truth to his words. All she could say was, yes. Yes.

  Here Jess’s notes began again: “This is from an official record of the Canton of the Halflings. It’s disturbing.”

  I am Mercy, humble crier of news for the Realm of the Halflings.

  Hear now the Chronicle of Ara’s Betrayal, a quick-spoken account of her collaboration and her ambition. Woe to us all, and woe of greatest measure to the race of Halflings who for generations have shunned the hamlet of Frighten. Guilt for this outrage is theirs.

  Ara was brought into the presence of the Dark Lord, still dressed as an orc-messenger bearing the insignia of the Source. So was she condemned to death as a spy. Her guilt and her defiance were evident, but by his glamour and her misguided will, she joined his cause.

  Now his emissaries come to our lands. They command us to pledge our fealty to the Lord of the Source and agree to live under the Dominion of the Queen of the Halflings, or suffer war!

  Cadence looked down at the last page and bit her hand. She couldn’t believe it. All this long tale as but testament to the pervasive powers of evil. All this tortured path she had followed. Ara The Betrayer! She could feel the air wheezing out of her soul. She dithered with the pages until a mist of angry tears came. They stung like hot acid. Like the truth.

  indent">Well, maybe that’s just what real stories, the ones with real truth, are. She deserves to be erased.

  She wiped her eyes and put her chin on her hand and stared at a disciplined column of ants marching towards the wilds beyond the curb. They took their lumps and reorganized, and so could she. Besides, she was a huge winner, wasn’t she? She had found her grandfather. But, truth be told, the edge was off. Crazy as it sounded, if you couldn’t trust Ara, who could you trust? It ate at her until the tears dried and she resolved to go back to the Algonquin and hold those original documents in her hand. She would challenge Jess and together they would test the veracity of this Elvish scrawl.

  She rose to her feet and looked up.

  Directly across the street, perhaps exactly where it should be, was a door emblemned with a discrete black and white sign: “Talisman Store.” Below that was a tacky stick-on metal sign in red and fake brass: “No Soliciting.” She walked over and looked at the building.

  It was a brownstone that loomed up three stories. A hand-manicured garden patch, bounded by an ornate metal fence, waited out front, along with two healthy oaks for summer shade. She watched as a breeze reaped the last few leaves.

  She went through the fence gate and approached the wooden door guarded by an iron doorknocker in the shape of a boar’s head. An intricate latch substituted for a door handle. She knew that here was a reckoning. She owed something — to herself, not Ara. She had hesitated at the pool and regretted it. She wouldn’t freeze up now. Go with your gut, as her Dad might say.

  She raised the knocker, paused, and let it fall.

  The resulting sound was a disappointing clunk. She waited, reluctant to disturb the privacy of some family, probably a hardworking doctor or diplomat.

  Finally she heard dim sounds from inside. The door latch moved in unexpected ways, as some inner bolt released, then the door opened.

  The man before her was tiny, genteel and hunched, like a retired watchmaker. He studied her through thick glasses, and then stepped aside enthusiastically, as if in sudden recognition.

  “Please, come in.”

  Almost without thinking, she stepped across the threshold. The door closed behind her with a solemn, unnerving breath, as if wood and frame had somehow melded. Just like that, she knew her gut call had been hasty. Here there were two possible outcomes: very good or very bad. She’d left a note for Jess with the name of this place. Other than that, no one knew.

  “Welcome to my … store.”

  He showed her down a brief hallway that led to a bright room. Cadence stepped into a rich, cascading flow of soft daylight. She looked up. A resplendent glass skylight, decorated with stained glass, filtered a waterfall of light that fell through large banistered stairwell openings in the upper two stories.

  The room was tastefully arranged with illuminated, museum-quality exhibition cases, each treasuring a few objects. Large gold coins, some ancient, some new, and none from the Franklin Mint. Small, brass-capped feet of unknown animals — perhaps ferrets or mink. What was almost certainly a duck-billed platypus foot, fitted with an ivory cap and an attached chain of irregular drilled pearls the size of marbles.

  She walked along the last row of cases, their contents adhering to no apparent order, but each containing items capable of transfixing the viewer. Here was a crucifix with a mast of antiqued brass and a crosspiece of a polished wood splinter. No doubt a medieval relic. Next, laid on its side on a field of black velvet, was a World War II era Zippo lighter with “36th Texas” etched on it and a bullet crease along one side. There followed a small demonic face carved in jade. On and on: a scrimshawed ivory tooth, three inches long, depicting a full-sailed whaling ship being Evel Knieveled by an enormous Leviathan. An incongruous Alpha Tau Omega pledge pin from the Vanderbilt University Chapter, Class of ’90.

  Finally, she came to a case with a solitary object — an oversized pocket watch, case open, displaying a score of tiny dials, one whirling madly counterclockwise.

  “You got our letter.” She jumped, the little man was hovering so close.

  “Well, uh yes, but how did you fi … select me?”

  “Our invitations are very … exclusive. Don’t worry, we’re harmless. What do you think of our collection?”

  Her neck hair wouldn’t go down. “Its … interesting.”

  “Do you have a talisman?”

  “Well, I inherited one. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.”

  “They can be eithe
r/or.”

  She decided to quit talking and get out of there. She casually surveyed the exit. The inside latch on the front door looked complex — wheels and levers and a solid metal bar seated firmly in an iron trestle on the wall. Barred.

  “Well, who are you, this … group you have?”

  “Ah, thank you. We are enthusiasts for the reality that is proven by the very longing of the human heart. Much of that longing is channeled into religion, and that is wondrous. But a fine distillation of that longing, the romantic, the hunger for other worlds, needs other direction. That’s why they say myths and legends come about.”

  “I — uh — see.”

  “The rarest thing, however, is discovery for oneself that such a world indeed exists. A world more palpable than these objects, more amenable to feeling and to sight than our present world, more real that the drear plains we traverse daily.”

  He paused to catch his breath. “And so we study here. Our foundation is the art of belief itself.”

  Cadence noticed a single ring on the man’s hand. The stone in it caught the light. Arcs of opal-blue seemed to flow out from the stone, filling the air with sparkly dust motes. She blinked and made a decision.

  “Hey, I gotta go. I’ll stop by again. Thanks. Nice place.”

  “It’s no trouble. Please sign our guest book and I’ll escort you out. We’ve had other visitors lately.”

  The little man gestured toward a bound ledger on a counter. She went to it hurriedly and searched for a pen.

  She heard the quick thumb-click of a ball point pen, followed by a different voice. “I have a different guest book for you to sign, Cadence.”

  She looked up. Across the counter stood the man she knew was Barren. She turned, but the munchkin proprietor had positioned himself in a wrester’s stance, set to bar her way.

  She bowled him over like a sock’em balloon.

  She reached the door. The main lever handle seemed locked, held down by a cogged gearwheel turned by a polished rotary handle. She thought of a fine millwork for making cake flour, or the innards of a talking doll. She thought a thousand things while she fumbled with it.