The Lost Road and Other Writings. Christopher Tolkien

face, dimly seen, reminded him of his father.

      ‘I am with you. I was of Númenor, the father of many fathers before you. I am Elendil, that is in Eressëan “Elf-friend”, and many have been called so since. You may have your desire.’

      ‘What desire?’

      ‘The long-hidden and the half-spoken: to go back.’

      ‘But that cannot be, even if I wish it. It is against the law.’

      ‘It is against the rule. Laws are commands upon the will and are binding. Rules are conditions; they may have exceptions.’

      ‘But are there ever any exceptions?’

      ‘Rules may be strict, yet they are the means, not the ends, of government. There are exceptions; for there is that which governs and is above the rules. Behold, it is by the chinks in the wall that light comes through, whereby men become aware of the light and therein perceive the wall and how it stands. The veil is woven, and each thread goes an appointed course, tracing a design; yet the tissue is not impenetrable, or the design would not be guessed; and if the design were not guessed, the veil would not be perceived, and all would dwell in darkness. But these are old parables, and I came not to speak such things. The world is not a machine that makes other machines after the fashion of Sauron. To each under the rule some unique fate is given, and he is excepted from that which is a rule to others. I ask if you would have your desire?’

      ‘I would.’

      ‘You ask not: how or upon what conditions.’

      ‘I do not suppose I should understand how, and it does not seem to me necessary. We go forward, as a rule, but we do not know how. But what are the conditions?’

      ‘That the road and the halts are prescribed. That you cannot return at your wish, but only (if at all) as it may be ordained. For you shall not be as one reading a book or looking in a mirror, but as one walking in living peril. Moreover you shall not adventure yourself alone.’

      ‘Then you do not advise me to accept? You wish me to refuse out of fear?’

      ‘I do not counsel, yes or no. I am not a counsellor. I am a messenger, a permitted voice. The wishing and the choosing are for you.’

      ‘But I do not understand the conditions, at least not the last. I ought to understand them all clearly.’

      ‘You must, if you choose to go back, take with you Herendil, that is in other tongue Audoin, your son; for you are the ears and he is the eyes. But you may not ask that he shall be protected from the consequences of your choice, save as your own will and courage may contrive.’

      ‘But I can ask him, if he is willing?’

      ‘He would say yes, because he loves you and is bold; but that would not resolve your choice.’

      ‘And when can I, or we, go back?’

      ‘When you have made your choice.’

      The figure ascended and receded. There was a roaring as of seas falling from a great height. Alboin could still hear the tumult far away, even after his waking eyes roamed round the room in the grey light of morning. There was a westerly gale blowing. The curtains of the open window were drenched, and the room was full of wind.

      He sat silent at the breakfast-table. His eyes strayed continually to his son’s face, watching his expressions. He wondered if Audoin ever had any Dreams. Nothing that left any memory, it would appear. Audoin seemed in a merry mood, and his own talk was enough for him, for a while. But at length he noticed his father’s silence, unusual even at breakfast.

      ‘You look glum, father,’ he said. ‘Is there some knotty problem on hand?’

      ‘Yes – well no, not really,’ answered Alboin. ‘I think I was thinking, among other things, that it was a gloomy day, and not a good end to the holidays. What are you going to do?’

      ‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed Audoin. ‘I thought you loved the wind. I do. Especially a good old West-wind. I am going along the shore.’

      ‘Anything on?’

      ‘No, nothing special – just the wind.’

      ‘Well, what about the beastly wind?’ said Alboin, unaccountably irritated.

      The boy’s face fell. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I like to be in it, especially by the sea; and I thought you did.’ There was a silence.

      After a while Audoin began again, rather hesitatingly: ‘Do you remember the other day upon the cliffs near Predannack, when those odd clouds came up in the evening, and the wind began to blow?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Alboin in an unencouraging tone.

      ‘Well, you said when we got home that it seemed to remind you of something, and that the wind seemed to blow through you, like, like, a legend you couldn’t catch. And you felt, back in the quiet, as if you had listened to a long tale, which left you excited, though it left absolutely no pictures at all.’

      ‘Did I?’ said Alboin. ‘I can remember feeling very cold, and being glad to get back to a fire.’ He immediately regretted it, and felt ashamed. For Audoin said no more; though he felt certain that the boy had been making an opening to say something more, something that was on his mind. But he could not help it. He could not talk of such things to-day. He felt cold. He wanted peace, not wind.

      Soon after breakfast Audoin went out, announcing that he was off for a good tramp, and would not be back at any rate before tea-time. Alboin remained behind. All day last night’s vision remained with him, something different from the common order of dreams. Also it was (for him) curiously unlinguistic – though plainly related, by the name Númenor, to his language dreams. He could not say whether he had conversed with Elendil in Eressëan or English.

      He wandered about the house restlessly. Books would not be read, and pipes would not smoke. The day slipped out of his hand, running aimlessly to waste. He did not see his son, who did not even turn up for tea, as he had half promised to do. Dark seemed to come unduly early.

      In the late evening Alboin sat in his chair by the fire. ‘I dread this choice,’ he said to himself. He had no doubt that there was really a choice to be made. He would have to choose, one way or another, however he represented it to himself. Even if he dismissed the Dream as what is called ‘a mere dream’, it would be a choice – a choice equivalent to no.

      ‘But I cannot make up my mind to no,’ he thought. ‘I think, I am almost sure, Audoin would say yes. And he will know of my choice sooner or later. It is getting more and more difficult to hide my thoughts from him: we are too closely akin, in many ways besides blood, for secrets. The secret would become unbearable, if I tried to keep it. My desire would become doubled through feeling that I might have, and become intolerable. And Audoin would probably feel I had robbed him through funk.

      ‘But it is dangerous, perilous in the extreme – or so I am warned. I don’t mind for myself. But for Audoin. But is the peril any greater than fatherhood lets in? It is perilous to come into the world at any point in Time. Yet I feel the shadow of this peril more heavily. Why? Because it is an exception to the rules? Or am I experiencing a choice backwards: the peril of fatherhood repeated? Being a father twice to the same person would make one think. Perhaps I am already moving back. I don’t know. I wonder. Fatherhood is a choice, and yet it is not wholly by a man’s will. Perhaps this peril is my choice, and yet also outside my will. I don’t know. It is getting very dark. How loud the wind is. There is storm over Númenor. ‘Alboin slept in his chair.

      He was climbing steps, up, up on to a high mountain. He felt, and thought he could hear, Audoin following him, climbing behind him. He halted, for it seemed somehow that he was again in the same place as on the previous night; though no figure could be seen.

      ‘I have chosen,’ he said. ‘I will go back with Herendil.’

      Then he lay down, as if to rest. Half-turning: ‘Good night!’