by Стив Хиллард
“Ms. Grande, Mr. Grande, our position, to be frank, is that we will not allow publication of these materials. Nor will we allow you to keep any of the originals, wherever they are. As our attorneys can no doubt explain fully to you or your counsel, we will do all within our power to prevent their publication.”
To Cadence, despite his lack of pointy hat and a wand, his look could not have been more wizard-like. She knew, deep down, just what he was. “Sir, you may think you can secret away the truth. And in part your people,” she left a long, deliberate pause here, “have already stolen back much of this. But not all. I can’t prove the authenticity of the words anymore. But you can’t disprove them either.”
The executive’s hands unfolded and sat palms-down on the table. His attorney stiffened.
“And in any case, they’re part of what happened to my grandfather and me. And that we own.”
Like a confused puppy sensing things are not going well, Mel interrupted. “Cadence, look, I’m sure there’s a modest but still meaningful price you’ll accept to turn all this over, all the copies, everything. Perhaps an amount that would save your grandfather’s property.”
Cadence turned to face him. “Mel, I know you got something out of this already. I checked the Les Inspecteurs website. They got a one-season deal on French TV off of the pilot made about me. The money was probably a bluff. Like reality TV. Like you. Anyway, I know your motto. You’re opposed to any deal you’re not part of. But there’s just not a deal here. We don’t want to relinquish this. I think someone, maybe, might care about what happened to us.” She gestured to her grandfather and herself. “And I’m damn sure a lot of people will care about what happened to Ara. The heroine that you … people … are trying to erase. You can’t handle her. But she’ll survive. In many names, many guises, but always her. Look, she is her own tale. She belongs to all that would find her first steps,” Cadence hesitated and then finished by looking straight at the publisher, “beside a secret gate.”
The words sounded odd in this conference room, but they were exactly right. The executive’s eyes opened like an imposter revealed.
Cadence slid a page across the table. “Part of her story may be lost, but not all. She lives.”
The lady attorney was fidgeting, getting ready to do her thing. “I’m afraid, Ms. Grande …”
Cadence cut her off. “Excuse me. We’re leaving. We withdraw our … Mel’s query. Thank you and good day.”
She rose. Jess looked at her and followed.
The suits didn’t have a chance to stand. As Cadence and Jess left the room, the gauzy, yellow morning light of L.A. dressed them, still-sitting in silhouette as they gazed down at the single page left by Cadence. On it was sketched a large inscription of Ara’s Rune.
“Who were those guys?” Cadence asked in the elevator.
“Depends on your point of view. Some people see suits. You and I might see an evil wizard and his entourage. In this town, who knows who’s right?”
“So what should we do? How are we going to make sure Ara survives?”
Just as the elevator doors began to close, Mel ran up. He put his chubby hand out and the doors backed open. “Cadence, isn’t there some way to get this done?”
She looked at him, remembering his frustrated inner-writer, the fragile bit of Luke Skywalker hoping to have a chance. “You know, Mel, you’ve given me an idea. A really good idea. I’ll call you.”
He backed off and the doors came together and sealed the elevator for its passage down to the real world.
Chapter 46
1973
The man who walked the beach that morning was still the adored Professor. Even with his retirement, he had more than enough to do. His step was light and his cheeks were ruddy with the complexion of a brisk walk in the wind.
Later he sat at his desk, the little electric fireplace once again settled near his feet. He was finishing a letter.
Jack,
Though you are gone these years, I still find it comforting to address an undeliverable missive to you, old friend. I find that for all my labours I have collected only a few leaves, many of them now torn or decayed.
But then I look upon this northern sea, and I know these same waters have borne to long voyages many of those that I have imagined. The world continues much as you and I have discussed. New leaves will come from those that seek that Tree of Tales.
And with that I am happy.
Ah, but that we could rejoin the sluggards at the Bird and Baby!
Your friend,
J.R.R.T
Chapter 47
HOME
In a small town in Wales there is a one-room museum. In it are various archives, including a clipping from a local weekly newspaper dated May, 1880:
There is a view from the town center to the west, where a long gentle valley meanders from the uplands down to the sea. At the top stands a rock the size of a modest manor house. The rock is unique, a stone from an outcropping over twenty miles distant. Whether brought to that resting place by the ancients on an errand of folly or great purpose, or dropped by some giant on his way elsewhere, the facts are unknown. It has always been a resting place for those bound to the sea to take a journey.
The rock is roughly pointed at the top. On its sides are carved uneven steps that wind about and stop just below the crest. At that spot is fashioned in the stone a small seat that espies the view to the sea.
And what a view it is. Like a framed painting, one can see the forested cleft of the hills descending to the vivid green expanse of an estuary, and the sea with crashing waves breaking on scattered rocks offshore. Beyond lie white capped rollers and the deep blue of the boundless ocean.
Behind the seat, on a spot plainly visible but precarious to reach, was long ago carved an inscription followed by two name-runes. One of the names has been partially obliterated where a fragment fell. The other remains clear and distinct. It is a unique letter A, whose owner’s tale has been lost in time.
The spot to this day is a favorite for lovers as well as those that gaze at the sea, think of tales and legends, and wonder “Are they true?”
* * *
From the Topanga Times
May 24, 2009
The rite of passage from spring to summer in Topanga Canyon is nominally the Memorial Day Parade. It winds from near the canyon crest, down the two-lane road, to the little town center where San’s Grocery and the Mirkwood Forest huddle between road and creek. In it flow goofy cars, every form of person-powered cycle, baby buggies, middle school and elementary school bands. There are also arrays of clowns and mimes, surely enemies of the blood, eyeing each other warily. Crowds, basically everyone in the canyon and a lot from neighboring communities, line the road.
“Nominally” is the apt word because the real rite of passage is the accompanying Great Water Balloon War. Since inception in the hazy days of the 1980s, with a few prank balloons lobbed at friends, it escalated faster than most third world arms programs. There were, of course, unwritten rules of engagement. Only certain paraders and certain watchers were legitimate targets. No moms with babies, no one with a disability. Common sense rules. Unless, of course, they attacked first.
That’s the way it progressed, mostly the paraders enduring the assault, until the unveiling of a tarp-hidden water cannon rigged on a truck of quasi-nudists who had gotten tired of just throwing back their own, limited supply of jiggly water bombs.
The water cannon sprayed the crowds with the shocking efficiency of a new technological weapon. And that changed the complexion of the engagements. The next year, scores of water hoses showered down on the paraders from strategic bluffs. In good guerillista fashion, the watchers broke and reformed and 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)
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