Mirkwood: A Novel About J.R.R. Tolkien by Steve Hillard

Author:Steve Hillard
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 0615312543
Publisher: Cruel Rune Publications
Published: 2011-01-11T10:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

OCTOBER 25. 8:30 A.M.

___

The next morning Osley got stopped at the front desk. Cadence came down and, seeing as it was Mel’s tab, rented a separate room for Osley. She was frustrated. Old-fashioned discipline had to be brought to this situation. As she held up the plastic entry card, she said “Os, look at me.” She kept her eyes on his, following them as they shifted evasively. “See this. This is not magic. It is real. As in soap and hot water. Now, I have a plan and here’s your part. I can’t save, even find, my grandfather until we get organized. First thing you do, give me your clothes sizes. Second, go take a shower. Third, order room service. I’m going shopping and I’ll have new clothes brought up to your room. Meet me in the lobby at noon. Lunch is on Mel. Oh yes, here is the translation key and some more pages to decipher. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

He was waiting there at noon sharp, cleaned up with new khaki pants and a simple pastel shirt, his gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. Best of all, no smell.

As they sat down to eat, she decided not to wait. “So, where is he now?”

“Who?”

“My grandfather, come on!”

Osley was caught off guard, “I … I’m sure he’s OK. Don’t believe …”

“Look, your babbling! You are translating this, talking like this imaginary world’s real, so how do you know he’s not caught in … there?”

“Well, I do know, miss sarcasm, he’s not in there. I have more to figure out before I can go beyond that. Remember, these writings are treacherous. They can force the reader into mistakes, take us down lost paths. Let’s just take it easy. I’m working on this one passage now. I’ve been trying to figure out this one term. It seems to be orrour or errour.”

She ate quickly, and got up. “Keep on working Os. I’ve got things to do.”

“Cadence?” His hands were on his knees. He looked at her like a helpless bystander about to witness an accident. “Be careful.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back.”

She was determined to follow her own action plan, right or wrong. She would cut the Gordian Knot of all this hocus-pocus. Wherever her grandfather was, she now had one solid clue and she was going to follow it. As she walked out of the door, the napkin-map from Tolkien’s archive box in hand, it marked the last time she would consider herself a cynic about what’s real and what isn’t.

The far end of the subway stop at 137th Street had been left unscrubbed for years. The walls were so overwhelmed with black, purple, red and pukey green graffiti that it hurt her eyes. A few stray travelers were waiting for the next train—a Dominican family of five on a jaunt somewhere, an Eastern European immigrant with lunch pail in hand, a bedraggled student, refugee from last night’s partying. Cadence wondered about their stories. The roar and screech

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