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Cadence woke straight up, and screamed, “SHIIITTT” The alchemy of a decent night’s rest made one thing crystal clear: she was falling into a trance with Osley and all this Mirkwood-Elvish hoodoo stuff. She had to get down to business.
As if on cue, Mel called. It was eight. That made it five a.m. in L.A. He jumped right in. “Cadence, here’s the situation. The original manuscript of the complete Lord of the Rings lies in a secured case in, get this, Milwaukee. It’s at Marquette University, a gift from Tolkien. That single product has generated over six billion dollars in revenue from books, movies, action-figures, lunch boxes. Not as much lately, but the revenues continue. It is, in the parlance, a franchise.”
She interrupted to save her ear. “Mel, it’s safe. It’s secret. Is that what you’re asking?”
“No. Just listen to me. The tale, hence the franchise, is dwindling. It is, as we say in the business, losing its legs. Beyond making a movie or two out of The Hobbit, there isn’t much more of Tolkien left that’s got sustained commercial value. I tell you this because, if you are right, you have possession of physical and intellectual property worth millions of dollars. The very existence of these lost manuscripts may actually enhance the ongoing value of the franchise. Dispute means buzz. Controversy means buzz. The entertainment business loves buzz. Any mystery begets buzz, which generates more buzz.”
She took a break and held the phone away from her ear. He was sounding like an over-excited bee. She waited. When she listened again, “… the market is still keen on alternative scenes and alternative endings. The Director’s Cut. That, in essence, is what Tolkien gave your grandfather, and …”
“Oh come on, Mel, you’re way ahead of yourself. No book cover with foil dragons just yet. No Oprah plug. All this could be totally unrelated. It could be part of another story altogether, or just historical mishmash. I’ve even got people telling me that parts of it change as you read it. How’s that for provenance?” “Who? You’re not talking with another agent?” “No, Mel, relax. I found a translator of … uh … Elvish. He also says he knew Tolkien. He says … well its all pretty weird. I’ll leave it at that.”
“Well, where does one thing begin and another leave off?” “That’s the question, isn’t it? So, you say, we should be happy?” “Of course. At least so far.”
“Well, I’m not. So far, I’m not sure I’m any closer to finding my grandfather.”
“Don’t go there yet. Let’s stay on track.” “That’s what I’m saying, I’m feeling off track.” “Here’s what I’m saying. Stick with the story-side of this. These documents may be perceived as a threat. Like some kind of surprise bastard sibling who’s horning in on the inheritance. No doubt there are some in the business who would want them destroyed. Smart money would promote this find, but who knows what’s at work here.”
“OK, Mel. You’re paying my hotel bill. I’ll stick with the program for a few more days. You definitely sound more upbeat than before. Why?”
“I read it, Cadence. I mean I read the whole damn LOTR thing. Usually I fake it, but I did a lot of homework this week. With the new Hobbit movies coming up, well … well … this could be huge.”
“Great. So when does your part, the Huge Contract, happen?”
“Soon. Don’t worry. Your job is to answer the same question posed at the Council of the Wise, ‘May we see the proofs?’ So tell me, how’s your search really going?”
“I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. Tolkien was here, but was this stuff really his? It could be something authentic or just lunatic ramblings. I feel stymied.”
“You’re distracted. Forget about your grandfather for a while. I mean don’t forget about him, just lighten up. You’ll learn something about him out of this for sure. But let’s focus. Cut to the critical path. If you won’t put the documents in my safekeeping, let’s at least take them to some experts—maybe that scrap with Tolkien’s note, and some of the Elvish writing stuff—and establish the proofs. OK? Otherwise we’re wasting our time.”
“All right, what do you suggest?”
“Thank you. It’s all arranged. You will meet Monsieur Brian de Bois-Gilbert. He is head of L’Institute des Inspecteurs, the world’s leading experts on detecting forgeries and fakes. They have done all the big stuff since the Hitler Diaries fiasco. Documents, paintings, vintage wine, you name it. If you’re ready to find out the truth, he’s your guy.”
“When and where?”
“Good girl. Ten, Sunday morning. They made a spot in their schedule. That’s day after tomorrow.” He gave her the address. She wrote it down quickly on a room service card.
“Mel?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not a girl. Also, one last thing. If this is real, if it is an authentic collection of lost manuscripts somehow relating to Tolkien?”
“Yes?”
“Well, I have this feeling that something in it is beginning to tick.”
“Let’s hope it’s a money counter.”
“I’m not sure I buy that, but if it saves The Mirkwood Forest from foreclosure until I can find out what happened to my grandfather, so be it.”
She hung up and got down on the floor and checked the hiding place for the valise. Someone would have to tear the room apart to find it. Even if the mattresses were pulled, she didn’t think anyone would see it.
Everyone was saying forget about her grandfather, but that only fed her determination. She would find some clue about what in his life had led him to this place, and from there she would trace a connection back to the here and now.
Just then there was a tiny knock on her hotel room door. She ignored it.
Another knock.
“No thank you,” she yelled.
Two more knocks.
She got up and padded shoeless over to the door, mumbling dire imprecations she had picked up from her L.A. fifth graders. She peeked through the peephole and was stunned to see Osley fidgeting suspiciously in the hallway. He had on his usual worn ski hat and tattered greatcoat.
She opened the door. “How did you get in here?”
“Apparently an understaffed hotel, despite its pedigree. I walked right by the front desk.”
“And my room number?”
“Cadence, there’s no time to quibble. Something even more dangerous than I anticipated is happening. May I come in? Please?” He was looking up and down the hall.
She pondered this, reflecting a moment on his FBI Wanted List pedigree. He seemed harmless. “OK. Just stay there while I get dressed.”
She took her sweet time, just to make a point, and then let him in. He swept past the threshold, turned, and locked the door.
“Cadence, want the good news?”
“OK, the good news.”
“Elf! I got to thinking about all this. With the key, I really should try to translate some of these documents. I mean it’s been a long time and all and I’m rusty, but I ought to try.”
“Before I let you do that, what’s the bad news?”
“There may be something, well, lurking in these documents.”
“You said that already. As in …?”
“As in a bad presence, a spirit or demon.”
“Yeah, it’s called greed. Hey, it’s morning and right now I don’t believe in spirits or magic stuff. But go ahead. Have a seat over at the desk, and don’t weird out. I’m going to crawl under the bed for a second.”
Squirming back under the bed with the dust bunnies, she thought who’s weirder here?
Not an hour later, with several manuscripts spread before them on the room desk and bureau top, Osley told her much of the text was indeed written in Elvish. She was impressed that he managed to say it with a straight face. “Unfortunately,” he said, “much of this is in a dialect and style now beyond my powers of translation.”
“Os, that sounds a little too convenient for your first test.”
“Don’t despair! There does seem to be a name for it: Myrcwudu. It refers to both a forest and their language. Now, there are other writings, as well as extensive annotations. These are apparently by a historian who wrote hundreds of years after the events, later in the Fourth Age but still of times ancient by our reckoning. They are in a rude style of Lower Elf that lends itself to our reading.”
Her skepticism about Osley waned as he became very solemn and began writing on a yellow pad. Then he switched to hotel stationary (the Algonquin was over-generous in that regard). He progressed with the starts and stumbles of a rusty translator. An hour passed as he repeatedly consulted the key. Finally, he offered to tell her what the ancient scholar wrote. His words grew steadier, and like a weary gate, a tale of another world opened:
From Hertegest Historians (remnant):
The lesser race of Great Wolves is the Ulf-Ragen, sometimes referred to as warkylgen or wargs. They are the wolf-steeds of orcs. Once rogue outlaws to their kind, they now grovel before the orc fires.
The master race of the Great Wolves, purer, nobler and seldom turned to any will save their own, are the true Dire Wolves. They are Descendents of Amarog, the Yellow Eye, also known as Evilglint. Dire wolves stand six feet at the shoulders; they are stronger and more perilous than living man can imagine; and they bear a cunning wisdom, equal in their element to that of the Wood-elves. The last reported droug, or pack, was in the northern forest before the coming of the Great Winter that signaled the end of the Third Age.
“There’s a break here, let’s see. Yes.” His words soon trod the main path of Ara’s story:
Within an hour of passing through the last of the aspen groves, the road deepened into a gorge that rose up on all sides. There she felt a presence. Something, or rather several somethings, were moving stealthily behind her on both sides of the shadow-casting cliffs. She feared that Dire Wolves had found her. She hurried her pace, doubling back waist-deep in the dark brook. Soon the cleft opened into a plain that ran all the way to the blue teeth of the far mountains dividing the world. Only the hawk, soaring alone, cut the air with movement— that and the ash-like shadows of clouds that seeped from the mountains and dissipated to the west.
She camped in fear and without fire on an island in a broadening water flow. Better to wait there than further announce her presence by her smell on the road this night.
A bright moon-rind rose late. On the near shore, Ara saw them. They were phantoms silvered by the light, their breath rising pale in the cold from some primitive inner furnace that drove them to contort and leap in their solitary completeness. They stood on their hind legs and danced.
They licked and nuzzled and growled and yelped. They stopped all at once, one balanced upright on two legs like a dancer, one with forefoot raised in the air. Ears twitched. Their uncanny knowing spreading out to touch her.
Just as quickly, perhaps sensing other prey, they began to howl and loped away as the edge of the world ate away at the falling piece of moon.
All of it was so strange and perfect, Ara thought they were as beings self-designed, without need save as fit their own plan.
In the gray light of pre-morning, Ara once again heard the wolves howling, far away. She listened in the drawn-out stillness. Dew dripped off leaves, the water gurgled nearby, and a low sonorous bellow of frogs’ matings hung in the air. The hawk fluttered its wings. Beyond these she heard something else. She turned her head to the side, holding her ear just so. After awhile she was sure the wind carried the sound of blowing horns. But these sounded elaborate and full of meaning, not like the blare and blat of orc horns. The sounds soon faded, and the hunters, if such they were, passed on and out of this tale.
Osley ended his recitation and they stayed silent. Ara was stunned by his quickening facility to translate. No one could make this up on the fly, she thought.
“Snap!” she said. “That reminds me. I’ve got something to show you.” She dug in her purse, sorting through the papers she’d stolen from the Tolkien archives box. She put the napkin with the strange subway instructions back in her purse, but handed him a small piece of browned hide, perhaps four inches by five inches. On it were proud runic flourishes.
“Where did you get this?”
“My trip to the library basement that you were so worried about. Now, what’ve we got?”
After a studied moment, he held the fragment up, as if for a throng to see. “What we have here, my dear, is of vital importance. Despite its battered appearance, this is no ledgerscrap. The High Elvish inscribed on it withholds its full meaning from me as yet, but I know the main word. Here.” He pointed at a flourish with long trailing legs. “This is the symbol for ‘Vow’, a word not to be taken lightly. It perhaps is related to the Vow of Protection in that archaic poem by Pazal, the king-turned-wraith. In any case, it may be of more importance than the rest of these scribbles. Where you found it is telling.” Again he waved the piece of hide. “This is, if I trust my first judgment, something held precious by the best authority on deeper Elvish translation, Professor Tolkien himself!”