A Dream: Tuesday, August 19,2014

 

They thought she was one of the youngest when she came in the door, the red and white and black people. She was happy and curious as she observed them all, although they were beautiful and horrible and quite, quite deadly. But as she passed she heard one say "Amongst the Eldest Clan there was no monogamy," she smiled and shook her head and said "That's not how I remember it." They started to frown, thinking her pretentious, but she went up to the Throne casually and sat next to a writhing abomination, all hair and bone and tentacle, and spoke to it familiarly as it hoarsely hissed. "I know, Princess, but you're not really happy, are you?" With the smallest movement of her hand It went still. A frowning man in a red coat and black, black hair came up to question her, but she smiled again and gently said "Fwisk." "Fwisk?" he repeated puzzled, and realized he was dead. Then all the people were stirred, and some tried to flee, and some tried to fight, but she passed among them, lightly, unperturbed, unshakable, and where she had passed they all were still. One or two she spared; "You're cute," she dimpled at a youth with blonde hair like a Greek god, and let him flee. She paused by a large black cat with white markings in recognition. "You're here?" she questioned. It stared at her. "Well, get up. Get up!" It stared at her, not to be bidden. "Oh, very well, stay that way, if you must" she said, amused. As she headed out the door she called behind her "If any of you want revenge, you can find me at Samarra," then turned her head back as a thought struck her. "Oh, but you're all dead, aren't you?" "We were all dead anyway, ducky," drawled an elderly lady, her wattles shaking as her body shut down. "It's simply a matter of degree." Outside she stepped into a twilight world that, still, was clear and sharp as far as the eye could see, trees to hills to sea to stars. She rose fearless forward through the air, determined to voyage out no matter what might meet her.

Back Into The Library

 

King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, Retold by Roger Lancelyn Green

Today I needed to break a bill. I has also been meaning to go and check out the Seguin Public Library book store again. So I decided to combine the two while the day was still cool. Once there, by great chance, I stumbled across this improved version of the book I had just remembered a few days ago, because Kameron had bought another book by Roger Lancelyn Green, a retelling of Egyptian tales. Green was famous for such retellings of various myth cycles; he was also the friend who had encouraged C. S. Lewis to write the Chronicles of Narnia. There was something of a mystery surrounding his death in 1987. Anyway, I had been regretting having sold my old copy and it's sudden re-appearance in an upgraded version seemed more than coincidental. For a mere $2, I  grabbed it and toted it home.

THERE AND BACK AGAIN, AGAIN: Another Fragment

Frodo Fairbairns of Undertowers in the Westmarch was a Hobbit with a Secret Plan. He may not have looked like it. In fact compared to some of his relatives, especially his distant cousin, the dashing Paladin Took, he was, in the words of his own family, 'as plain as a fence post.' Somehow the fabled good looks of his foremother the legendary beauty Elanor the Fair had completely passed him by, although the Fairbairns, who were still very important as Wardens of the Westmarch, were regarded as one of the most handsome families in or out of the Shire. Very elderly Hobbits who claimed to know told young Frodo that he closely resembled old Samwise, who although he had been very important and rich as seven-time Mayor of the Shire, had not been much to look at.

Frodo seemed to have inherited something else from this curious ancestor, something not quite so obvious to blunt and bluff Hobbit society. He was a dreamer. He was not a head-in-the-clouds ninny-hammer; Frodo was apprenticed as a builder to his old Uncle Tobold, who would never have allowed any drifting as they repaired the roofs of sagging hobbit-holes or laid foundations for new houses in the still-growing border town of Undertowers. But Frodo loved to hear old tales and songs as they relaxed at the Golden Branch Inn when work was done, and he delved into the memories of ancient gaffers and gammers as they sat by the fireside, unheeded by busier folk. But what really fed his dreams and filled his mind, so that he seemed to himself to be moving through enchantment even as he knocked roof-beams together or laid bricks straight in a wall, and what led him to his Secret Plan, was that unknown to anyone he was reading, again and again, The Book.

The Red Book of Westmarch (as it was more fully known) was one of the most important cares and duties of the Fairbairns as Wardens of Westmarch. These days it was more honored as a relic than read as a book, and was kept carefully under a glass case to protect it from damp weather and devouring insects. Important copies and extracts of it had been made and some had gone as far as Tuckborough and Brandy Hall, and even (so legend had it) to the King's Library in the White City. These were little heeded save by lore-masters, however, and the longest, most important, and best-known portion (to Hobbits) was the part describing the Battle of Bywater, which was read, every year, along with the Long Roll of Hobbits who had taken part in the fighting.

Indeed, it was to get a glimpse of the original description of the fighting that had prompted Frodo, while still in his tweens, to sneak with lighted candle into the Library where the Book was kept, remove the glass cover, and search through its crackling pages. He imagined, in his innocence, that something so important as the Battle must come right away at the beginning of the Book, but he found to his dismay that it was all about the adventures of someone called Bilbo, whom he had never even heard of before. Being a careful lad and not wishing to miss anything, he continued reading, at first in boredom, then with growing interest, and at last with fascination.

By the time his candle had burned out (sometime around four o'clock in the morning) the late moon had risen, silvering the cavernous Library with its light and creating deep mysterious shadows in the corners and vaults of the room. Frodo had closed the Book like one in a trance and returned it to its place. He crept back to bed, his head filled with mountains and forests, goblins and wizards, and the pale enchanted gold of the dwarves. The heroics of Bywater were forgotten. The next night, and many nights after, found him in the Library with his midnight candle, reading the Book in great draughts, until he had turned the last page. Then he read it again. And again.

 

[The story envisioned from this part on: Frodo joins with his cousin Paladin and a journeyman Dwarf working for Uncle Tobold to travel to the Lonely Mountain, then to Gondor, then back to the Shire, to trace the travels of Bilbo and Frodo and see what has happened in those lands since. This is the Secret Plan.]

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.

 

*****************************

 

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.

 

*********************************

 

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."

 

**********************

 

[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.] 

The Shadow Library: Green Memories

King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table, by Roger Lancelyn Green

I Understand the Feeling, Fry

"Kren" Part Sixteen: "Goldfire" Spoilers

 

Koppa bowed his head wryly.

“It was a miracle, of course,” he said. “And like all miracles, it took a lot to set it up so it could work.

“You may remember tales of the wizard Dunwolf, of course? Well, while Bharek was busy launching his attack against Morg City and the South, Dunwolf had formed a small company who travelled to the East with a different plan. He knew, you see, that this new push into the Free Lands was finally too strong for the weakened South to resist, that the Ogre Horde could very well overwhelm us all at last. Even if we survived, Bharek always found a way of coming back. So he decided this company must travel to the East, to Thoravil itself, and strike down the Black Lord where he sat on his dark throne.”

Kren looked appalled.

“Shyreen’s Shit!” he breathed. “What made him think they could do that?”

“What, indeed?” Koppa raised his eyebrows and sat back, clearly enjoying Kren’s reaction. “Dunwolf himself had never been powerful enough to go toe-to-toe with his old master through the centuries. And he was growing old, while Bharek was being preserved by his cursed armor, the Blackmight. But now he thought he knew where he could find the Goldfire.”

“The Goldfire? What’s that?”

“I’m not surprised you never heard of it. It was a powerful talisman, lost for ages and nearly forgotten. But now he thought he had it traced at last. With his young apprentice, as well as Taryn – General Taryn, as he was then – and the warrior Roth and the scholar Korm – both Morgs, like you – and a handful of brave men, they journeyed to the ruined city of Worthin, where the dragon Drang sat on his hoard of desolation. Here they hoped to find the Goldfire.”

“Now, Drang I’ve heard of,” Kren acknowledged. He looked skeptical. “But from what I have heard, entering his nest would be nearly as hopeless as walking through Thoravil’s front door.”

“Nearly, but not quite,” Koppa conceded. “In the end, the fire-drake was slain, but after a terrific struggle in which it was thought that Roth was lost.”

“But they got this Goldfire doohickie, eh?”

“No; that’s the pity of it. Before his death Drang revealed that nothing like it was in his hoard. Now, dragons never lie. They’re so powerful that the race never learned how, and a dragon knows what’s in his pile to the last penny. Even though the beast was destroyed, the company was left in despair.”