An Inkling of a Tale: Another Abandoned Beginning

INKLING OF A TALE

 

Jack Lewis stepped out the back door of the Kilns and clapped his battered, dung-colored hat onto his balding head. The crisp October air rose like an incense of fallen leaves and cool earth, and a nascent breeze that shuddered the trees at the bottom of the garden thrilled him. He shivered appreciatively. This weather suited him. He swung his knobbed black walking stick and stumped down the smooth stone steps into the garden.

As he crackled his way through the leaf strewn path Jack thought of one of the past autumns that he and his brother had spent at the strange, rambling house of Little Lea, with its enormous indoor silences and labyrinthine, book-lined passages. This season reminded him strongly of that one, some hint of mood, perhaps, that did not come with every year. That time was a golden one, he thought, when they had been busy reading, arguing, and working out the history of their imaginary kingdom, Boxen.

As if the thought had conjured it, a puff of smoke sailed over the lichened wall at the back of the garden. Jack smiled, and turning through the gate came upon the portly figure of his brother Warnie, sitting on a stump against the wall and pulling placidly on his old cherrywood pipe.

Warnie smiled, creasing up the corners of his thick brown moustache. "I thought you might be coming out this way today," he said.

Jack laughed and pulled out his own pipe. "Now what made you think that," he asked as he tamped the bowl down.

"Because that's what I wanted to do myself." Warnie reached down into a drift of leaves and pulled out his own walking stick. "Is it a ramble, then?"

Jack lit his pipe and inhaled deeply--of the aromatic smoke, of the autumn day, of the dark weedy wind blowing off the stream that wandered along the bottom of their land. He exhaled, sighing audibly with pleasure.

"Of course," he said. "Nothing's stopping us." Warnie lifted his stout frame with a little grunt, and swinging their sticks the two brothers began winding their way down the path under the ceramic blue sky.

 

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Early that same morning Ronald Tolkien, lately elected Professor of English Language and Literature at Oxford, rode his bicycle through the chilling mist that blurred the grey graveled pavement of Northmoor Road. Despite the early hour he was dressed fastidiously as ever, in a herringbone suit and a light green corduroy vest. It was a saint's day, and he was on his way to early Mass.

As he pedaled along he reflected glumly on the encroachments of so-called progress, that seemed to be hurried along on the wings of the war. By the road he could see the hacked stumps of trees, that had been cut to widen the way. That had been months ago, and still the trunks lay as they had fallen. Tolkien grieved.

Ahead in the mist the squat, plain shape of St. Aloysis' Church hove into view, like a whale breaching the ocean waves. Tolkien pulled his bicycle to a stop with a crunch of gravel and pulled it into the rack. He was still putting it in order when he was suddenly accosted by the ghostly figure of Father Justin sailing out of the fog in full white vestments.

"Professor Tolkien!" he gasped. "Thank Heaven you've come early. We need your help getting things in order before the service can begin. The verger and I simply can't lift her by ourselves. The wickedness of it all!"

"Of course, Father," Tolkien said. "What's the matter? Has the cleaning lady slipped and broke her ankle again?"

"If only it were as simple as that," the priest said as they swiftly went up the steps and through the foyer. "At least I should know what to do. This sort of thing has never occurred to anyone of my acquaintance, even."

"What exactly is it?"

The priest swung open the door of the chapel and pointed. "Look."

Tolkien looked down the rows of freshly scrubbed pews up to the altar. At first he noticed nothing untoward, but when he focused on the statue of Mary to the left of the altar, he went still with shock. The little priest took his arm and led him up the aisle to the desecrated figure.

The body had been painted red from head to foot, all except the face, which was bone white and drawn into a parody of licentiousness. On the sculpted fabric of the breast were two gilt nipples, and down below a gaping black line suggested open genitals. The crown of rays around the figure's head had been broken off, all except two, that stood out like horns. At the foot of the statue was the sexton, a thin spare man looking sadly up into the painted eyes, his cap in his gnarled hands.

The priest hurried briskly over to him. "Come now, Mr. Cullen," he said. "Professor Tolkien will help us. I think we should be able to shift her out."

Using some dirty rags the sexton had gathered up (the paint was still tacky), they rocked the plaster figure off its base. Father Justin carried the relatively light end with the head, while the professor and Cullen heaved the sturdy pediment forward. With a little awkward steering they got it into the aumbry, which the priest hastily locked.

The priest led them around to the back to the sexton's shed, where they washed up. The sexton filled a bucket, grabbed a mop, and headed back into the church.

"What are you going to tell the people about the absence of Mary?" Tolkien asked as he wiped his hands dry.

Father Justin grimaced. "The truth, insofar as it now stands," he replied. "That the figure is out for repairs and renovation. There's no need to alarm the parishioners with an outbreak of anti-papist feeling right now. The condition appears to be endemic, anyhow. No, as soon as Cullen mops up that graffiti on the floor, we will be the only ones who will know about this."

"Graffiti?"

"Surely you noticed? But it was a little way from the figure. Filthy stuff, I assure you, what I could make out of it; most of it appeared to be in some foreign language."

"Good heavens," said Tolkien. "Perhaps you'd better show me."

They went back in, Tolkien hurrying a little ahead of the priest. Inside the dim hall the sexton was scrubbing away at the floor in front of the altar. "Wait," Tolkien called urgently, and drew a small notebook and pencil from his breast pocket.

The writing was already a third erased, and the rest was scuffed and blurred by the passing of feet, but still legible, especially to one who was used to deciphering the pen strokes of ancient manuscripts and careless students. Someone had drawn several concentric circles and decorated them with strange pictographs, and letters in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek.

As he hastily sketched them down into his notepad Tolkien's mouth grew grim, and when he had finished and told the sexton "Go on," his voice was low and stern. From the locked front door came the mumble of people already gathering for the mass.

As Father Justin hurried about, making last minute arrangements, Tolkien approached him and took him by the arm.

"Was anything else out of place?" he asked. "Was anything missing?"

Father Justin glanced up at the now cleansed altar. "Yes, a small number of communion wafers were taken. Terribly wicked act. But I do not think that need affect today's service." He looked closely at the professor. "Why do you ask?"

Tolkien looked for a moment as if he were about to say something, then closed his mouth and shook his head. Father Justin turned and went to open the doors to the congregation.

 

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Many miles later found the Lewis brothers near the University, and since it was close to noon they decided to head for the Bird and Baby for some beer and lunch. As they turned a lane, Warnie suddenly stopped and pointed with his stick toward a crater that opened like a raw pit in the flesh of the earth, surrounded by hills of shattered rubble. "Look at that," he muttered. "That's the one we felt last Friday."

Jack stared and nodded, impassively. He had seen so many now. In the piles of debris, children in knee-breeches and old ladies in long, drab coats and scarves were picking through the bricks, trying to salvage undamaged ones. The sudden drone of a plane overhead made him glance up quickly.

Warnie squinted at the sky. "Don't worry. One of ours."

Jack sighed and shook his head. "Every time I hear that sound, I wonder if this is the time."

"One wonders what's the use of carrying on, under the circumstances."

Jack laughed. "If we waited to do things only when the circumstances were right, the human race would never get anything done. At any rate, we all carry on our business under the threat of death, at all times. It's just that this war makes us realize it more intensely." He turned, and they started up the street again.

"That's very glib," said Warnie. "One of your talks again?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Jack. "I'm addressing the people at St.-Mary-the-Virgin on learning in wartime. Canon Milford tells me that apparently a group of undergraduates are getting rather restless about the relevancy of their studies in the face of the destruction of western civilization. I hope to get them to stick to their guns, so that there'll be some western civilization to defend come the end of the war."

Warnie chuckled. "If it's anything like your address on the necessity of war to that pacifist society, it should be some spectacle."

They reached the Bird and Baby, where the sign of Jupiter bearing away Ganymede swung in the cool October breeze. Outside they noticed a familiar bicycle, and inside they found the familiar trim, fair-haired figure of Ronald Tolkien, just finishing off a pint of bitter and getting ready to leave.

Tolkien's craggy eyebrows were creased in a frown over his magisterial nose. Jack was struck with a momentary fancy that he looked like an Inquisitor, pondering over some new stench of heresy. But when the professor turned and noticed the brothers grinning in the doorway his face slid up into an easy smile and he rose from his seat with an air of relief.

"Tollers!" Jack boomed from across the room. "I hope you've left enough for a couple of thirsty wnaderers!"

"Hello, Jack. Hello, Warnie," he said, rolling the r with his characteristic Midlands intonation. "You're just the fellows I wanted to see. Can I buy a round?"

"I shall," said Warnie. "Pension day yesterday, you know." As he went to get the drinks, the other two sought out a table in the rear. As they sat down, Jack's bright blue eyes searched Tolkien's rather troubled grey ones.

"What's wrong, Tollers?" he asked in a lower tone. "You can tell me; as a Catholic, you know confession is good for the soul. If it's Edith's health again, you know you need only tell me..."

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Tolkien said hastily. "Edith's doing as well as she can be, thank God. But I have seen something today that...I can hardly tell you. It was very odd and disturbing. Do you know if Charles will be at the Inklings tonight?" Jack thought he had changed subjects to their monthly meeting of friends and writers rather quickly.

"Yes, I'm fairly sure. You can never tell with the London train these days, though. It should be a good night. The porter rang to tell me that I have another parcel from Firor of America waiting in my rooms. He said he discerned the distinct shape of a ham under the wrappings."

Tolkien chuckled. "I think your rooms are the only place one can find real meat in all of Magdelene," he said. "When the war is over we'll have to invite Firor over and fete him from the college cellars 'with excellent bowse.'"

"Yes," said Jack. "I suppose Charles will bring more of his Arthurian stuff. I've got more of the pain book. I hope you have some more of the new Hobbit?"

"About half a chapter. I can honestly say that with examinations and tutoring, I have done my best."

"Well that's fine. What do you particularly want to see Charles about?"

Tolkien grimaced. "I have to ask him a question in his own field of personal expertise."

Jack looked at him. "You mean...?"

The inquisitorial look settled like iron in Tolkien's face.

"Black Magic."

 

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[Notes: Time, 1945; Place, Oxford. C. S. Lewis is 47, Warnie Lewis is 50, J. R. R. Tolkien is 53, Charles Williams is 59. A cabal of Black Magicians, with Aliester Crowley as their agent, try to seize power during the confusion of WWII. I have to note that I began this last century, well before the spate of 'fictional Inkling adventures' began.]