1.  My application for a place on Ivo Vegter’s moon mission was successful. I’ll be joining the team as a cheesemaker
2. I received my short-term contract for my new job, and discovered, to my pleasant surprise, that I get leave. Which makes sense, but I hadn’t been banking on it.
3. New Year’s plans are looking sorted, thanks in no small part to the energies of Mick. Seems that we’ll be running away with the fairies (and hobbits!).

If they were to ever revive Room 101 and the acidic (in a good way) Paul Merton (who is married to Mrs Merton) was to say “Dan, what’s the first thing you’d like to propose goes into Room 101″, I’d say “Well Paul, reclining bloody chairs on coaches, trains, planes and any other communal method of transport”.

I was mid-way through an epic solo in ‘Debaser’ by Pixies on Rock Band (seriously the best iPhone game I’ve played by a mile) when the chair in front of me come flying back at supernatural speed nearly taking my nose clean off in the process (thank Moses for my ‘Matrix’ like reactions). So now I was left with leg-room your average Baggins would struggle with just so the geezer could lie back a bit.

I never recline when someone is behind me, it just seems so rude. I’m very close to placing my left hand flat on the top of this guy’s bonce and smacking down hard with my right hand as my Dad used to do to me as a kid but as I now do to him as I’m the one in possession of the height advantage these days.

Actually my subtle and occasional sharp knees into the back of the chair appear to have had the desired effect as the seat is now back at the angle it should be at. Victory.

As you may have gathered I’m on the bus to the heart of Spain and the nation’s capital, Madrid. A few hours after I arrive so will rainman (aka Jimbo Tierney). Then tomorrow the Finnish are arriving, Topster and Peckster.

Motherducker, he’s done it again. Grrrr. Breath, breath. His scalp is now that close to my eyes that I know what shampoo he uses. Stupid bloody reclining seats, I bet it was the French who came up with ‘em. Bloody French.

Right, I’m in Madrid and at now at Las Musas Residence. Seems decent enough.

The Canadian bloke on the PC next to me is eating an entire jar of peanut butter with a spoon. It’s just occurred to me that I haven’t had that pleasure in over 6 months and I used to do it at least once a week. I shall have to correct this sometime soon.

For tea I had sausage, eggs and chips which was worse than the stuff you’d get at one of the greasey spoons on the aprroach to Piccadilly train station in Manchester. I should have gone for the cannelloni like Jimbo.

Then we were straight out on the bars. One that I remember being good was La Tabernita de San Juan where we had nice ice cold pints of Mahou.

While in one bar a clip of goals by the very highly rated (so I’ve read and heard in the channels I monitor) Bordeaux and France player Yoann Gourcuff. Check out this one for instance. Corr blimey, I can’t wait for the Bordeaux vs Valenciennes Ligue1 game I’m going to see next Saturday with my good pal Nimrod. The new Zidane is an over used term for many up and coming French players, but the touches this fella shows look worthy.

I’d be a right fatty if I lived in Spain. Part of the bar and tapas culture is that you either get given nuts, crisps or whatever with every flamin’ pint. Sometimes they give you proper little snacks too, like mini pasties and stuff. Very nice but us Brits tend to drink more than our Spanish friends so as a consequence you end up eating a lot more too.

We were back in at about 3 in the morning to save ourselves for the following night. My first impressions of Madrid were good.

From Dave out of Skinross. What’s this written in? Snot? Semen? Also mugafuckers?

Bowing!  Here is a practice that has fallen out of the modern fashion.  I remember noticing it at the beginning of The Hobbit, when Bilbo bows to no fewer than 13 dwarves who enter his hobbit hole, exchanging the lines “At your service” and “And at yours.”  Frodo repeats this ritual somewhat more clumsily in the feasting hall of Elrond, when he meets one of those very dwarves again—Gloin, come from Dain’s kingdom under the Mountain.  Frodo discovers this venerable dwarf sitting next to him at table, and immediately proceeds to scatter the cushions on his seat by rising and bowing.

Bowing, I have recently discovered, is by no means so easy at it looks.  There is a stiffness about the modern vertebrae (or, at least, about mine) that hampers the motion and besets the attempt with a very odd if not awkward unease.  Several times now I have attempted to bow at the appropriate times in various liturgical services among the Anglicans and Eastern Orthodox.  There is certainly good reason for bowing at such moments—honoring the name of God, or of any Person of the Trinity, with a bow is hardly an objectionable act.  And yet it comes unnaturally.  I was not bred to such things.  And if it proves so unmanageable in the presence of a god, I suspect I would not attempt it in the presence of a dwarf, however venerable.

This, in conclusion, is part of my reason for loving The Lord of the Rings.  Tolkien is archaic and anachronistic even perhaps where he does not mean to be.  Whether or not bowing was still fashionable in the 50’s, it is one of those elements of foreign culture that appears so exotic and charming in the eyes of a barbarian raised in the late 90’s.  Archaism, anachronism, and all the charm of the foregoing are as much a function of the perceiver as they are of the perceived.  The Hobbits are lovable because they belong to an older culture than we.

I now present a snippet of a conversation between Julie and myself. It is completely out of context and I am not going to do a thing about that.

1:58:24 AM Julie: Definitely one of those. I passed the car dealership on 95th on my bike and the guy tried to get me to come in and buy a damn car
1:58:47 AM Julie: “You look like you could use one! Why don’t you stop in?”
1:59:09 AM Julie: I was like, this feels like a cartoon. Did I get hit by a bus and my brain can’t cope with it?”
1:59:17 AM Jess: d bag
2:00:19 AM Jess: what if you were a) an avid cyclist, b) convicted of a dui, c) an environmentalist or d) unlicensed.
2:00:30 AM Jess: well you actually are all but point b
2:00:37 AM Julie: hahaha
2:00:52 AM Julie: I pretty much just grunted and glared
2:01:00 AM Julie: A grunting woman seems to terrify most people
2:01:04 AM Jess: good call
2:01:28 AM Jess: incomprehensible yelling also works

I always picture Julie singing a little “doo doo tah doo” song when she rides her bike because she told me she does. Actually she told me that she does because I threatened crash my car and kill us both (well, not me since I’m immortal) if she didn’t. I also picture her having conversations with wildlife and the like when she’s out. She really does bring on the “Her Life is Like a Cartoon” image herself. I was picking her up one time and asked her what she wanted to do. Her response was,

“If I were a 20s gangster, my name would have been “Rat A Tat Tat”.

I decided that her blood sugar was dangerously low and I needed to feed her. She has also been threatened with a cloud-print cumberbund which I find priceless.

One of my favorite moments with Julie was when a summons officer came looking for my former roommate. Julie hid in the hall closest because she’s always afraid of getting arrested. The gentleman kept saying “summons-es” over and over again. It was very hard for me not to laugh at both him saying that and the sound of Julie trying to suppress laughter from my closet. Julie and I discovered why we are soulmates as soon as he left. We ran at each other and said:

“What do the hobbitses have in their pocketses? SUMMONSES!”

It was a perfect moment. I expect more cartoon-ish hijinks on Thursday since we’re supposed to help our friend, Jill, make bows for her wedding. I’m bringing Julie around since she used to work in a flower shop. She actually may still work there since she wasn’t formally fired and they’ve never asked her for the keys. I also want to cover up the fact that I almost failed kindergarten since I couldn’t tie my shoes. Julie tells me that all I’m going to have to do is fold and staple. We’ll just see if she’s lying to me.

-Jess

Suddenly Bilbo looked up. “Ah, there you are at last, Dúnadan!” he cried.
“Strider!” said Frodo. “You seem to have a lot of names.”
“Well, Strider is one that I haven’t heard before, anyway,” said Bilbo. “What do you call him that for?”

Why is it that things in Middle Earth have so many names? It’s as if Tolkien’s narrative landscape was tunneled through with linguistic rabbit holes, teeming with broods of playful and proliferating names. Black Riders, Ringwraiths, and Nazgul; Rivendell, the Last Homely House, Imladris; Strider, Aragorn, the Dúnadan—it seems as if being a person or place of importance in Middle Earth requires at least three different names, one of which must be in a foreign language if at all possible.

The meetings at Rivendell, and the tales told at the Council of Elrond in the chapter following, must have worked on Tolkien like so many excuses for enriching the treasure-trove of Middle-Earthling names. The character who was Tom Bombadil several chapters ago becomes Iarwain Ben-adar, Forn, and Orald during the Council of Elrond; and the sneaking culprit who bears so much of the blame for the Ring is revealed not only as Gollum but as Sméagol, who is to become Slinker and Stinker before his tale is done.

And this is not even counting the epithets. Frodo is dubbed both the Halfling and the Ring-Bearer, just as Elrond is the Half-Elven and Gandalf is the Grey. The Ring itself is variously the One Ring and Isildur’s Bane. Even Sauron, who does not seem to have another proper name—certainly not one as decorous and awe-inspiring as “Tom Riddle”—has an entourage of epithets that include “the Dark Lord,” “the Necromancer,” and “the Enemy.”

And so it seems that any being of any importance or lineage in Middle Earth bears many names, and indeed cannot avoid bearing them. Interestingly, the lone class of beings to largely escape these multiple namings is the Hobbits. They are named in our common modern way of First Name, Last Name, and that is very likely because they are neither important enough to have epithets (except in the case of a prodigy like the Old Took), nor adventurous enough to win other names. (Think of how many multiple namings arise from the same thing being named in multiple languages. That is a phenomenon that no respectable Hobbit would wander far enough to suffer.)

This fanciful proliferation of names, I believe, is ultimately not merely fanciful. If it does nothing else, it contributes its tuppence to the three-dimensional texture of Middle Earth as a world of intelligent beings. Things are named diversely because diverse languages name them, or because diverse qualities inhere in them. A name picks out what is most salient from someone’s particular angle of vision. Thus, Isildur’s Bane means nothing to Frodo until he hears the story of Isildur; but to the Heirs of Isildur, the epithet strikes closer to home than the mere noun “the Ring.” So it is with the Last Homely House and Imladris. The first conveys to us all the comfort of a chair by a fire; the last conveys all the magic and mystery of an unexplored fairy kingdom.

All this seems to be roughly what lies in the background of Bilbo and Frodo’s exchange on the names of Aragorn. It is tempting to think that Tolkien included the brief conversation just to make his linguistic point. For Aragorn explains to Bilbo that he is called Strider by a particular folk (the Bree-landers), much as he will explain to Boromir in the following chapter that travelers give the Rangers scornful names. The striding and wandering quality—“Longshanks” as Bill Ferny puts it—is what stands out about the Rangers to such a folk. But as Bilbo goes on to demonstrate in Elvish, the name of “the Dúnadan” when applied to Aragorn is fraught with import. It means “Man of the West, Numenorean,” and is not only what stands out to the Elves when they look at the weather-beaten Ranger, but is closer to the reality of who he is.

And so I say: let the names be fruitful and multiply, and replenish all of Middle Earth.

Well, there are many of them, aren’t there?  First the missing Gandalf turns up abruptly by Frodo’s sick bed; then we meet Elrond and Arwen; then Gloin; then Bilbo; then Strider under a new name.  It is a chapter of discovering old friends and discovering new things about old friends.  It is a chapter that gives one the impression that something is afoot, and that the impending council is going to be an explosion of discoveries and strange tales.

All this takes place against the backdrop of my favourite place in all literature:  the Last Homely House east of the Sea.  I noticed during this re-reading how little Tolkien actually tells us about the appearance of this house.  Sometimes it seems more like a country manor with a garden, and sometimes more like a Gothic abbey or even an intricate medieval city.  Perhaps this ambiguity is intentional.  Tolkien indulges in very little description of Rivendell, but what he tells us is significant.  Rivendell retains the memory of good things from all the places of Middle Earth, and it reminds each person of what he loves best.  It is “a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep or story-telling or singing, or just sitting and thinking.”  It has nooks and crannies and Elves of every stripe.  As Pseudo-Dionysius might have put it, Rivendell is variety in unity and unity in variety.

Along with the peaceful harmony of variety, Rivendell is a place of the peaceful harmony of different orders of beings.  By this I mean Elves (themselves possessing varying degrees of greatness), Men, Hobbits, and even Dwarves.  (Surprisingly, except for occasional references, the old feud between Dwarves and Elves seems to be dropped in the Last Homely House).  There is what might be called a “cordial consent of being to being”* throughout the house of Elrond.  For it is a House and not a Court; and Elrond is a host, and not a king.  The great of the world pass through such a place and rub shoulders with the comparatively insignificant, all with the greatest amiability and enjoyment.  The Elves themselves are sometimes “like kings, terrible and splendid,” while others are “merry as children”—and they coexist with perfect amicability.

There are few incidents in the Lord of the Rings that I love as much as Bilbo, the old Hobbit, requisitioning the appearance of Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur and rightful King of most of Middle Earth, to help him work out a rhyme in a little ditty he is composing for the amusement of the Elves.  And Aragorn comes, not because Bilbo is his equal, but because the two are friends, and greatness and smallness do not matter in a such place.  In much the same way, when Frodo is seated (to his dismay!) at the table of the great during Elrond’s feast, his feelings of smallness vanish as he enters into conversation and enjoyment with his neighbors.

What I am trying to gesture at with these ramblings is something I find foreign to our world and way of thinking.  For there is a hierarchy among the intelligent beings in Middle Earth—not merely a hierarchy of position and personal qualities, such as we find in our own world, but a radical hierarchy of essences and species and internal powers.  Our own modern-day quibbles over the equality of the sexes and the races vanishes like a star in the sun in the world of Middle Earth.  For in Middle Earth, the inequalities between Hobbits and Men and Elves are greater, involving the exercise of immaterial powers over persons of lesser degree—involving even the ability to inhabit a suprasensible world in addition to the sensible one.  Yet in houses like Rivendell, this radical hierarchy does not create envy or oppression among the ranks of beings, but rather concord and mutual respect.  There is dominion without domineering, giving-of-place without fawning, and above all, merriment and good humour in putting up with both one’s betters and inferiors.

After all, at the end of the day, the setting of Rivendell gives us the chance to enjoy what some never enjoy in our own world.  In how many places could such a diversity of ranks and privileges co-exist without perversion and abuse?  Rivendell satisfies our desire that Hobbits should be Hobbits and not Elves; that Elves should be immortal and not Men; that Men too should be what they are—some Kings, some innkeepers, and some children—and that all should enjoy the best that their order offers.

*A phrase of Jonathan Edwards’.  Sometimes a Protestant can sound just like a Thomist.

Lo de las percepciones es una cosa curiosa. Seguro que si por fin saco adelante alguno de mis proyectos de fantasía me convertiré en otro de esos autores que han abandonado la ciencia ficción buscando pastos más verdes, cuando lo cierto es que llevo escrita (aunque no publicada) bastante más fantasía que ciencia ficción. Parte del motivo es que el mundillo de la literatura fantástica en España se encuentra extraordinariamente compartimentalizado, así que lo hecho por un lado rara vez tiene repercusión por otro.

¿Por qué saco a colación el tema ahora? Bueno, el caso es que acabo de recibir otra alegría de parte de mis antiguos compañeros de la Sociedad Tolkien Española, en forma de un segundo puesto en los premios Gandalf 2009, con el relato “Aventureros de taberna”. Los Gandalf son uno de los premios de relato fantástico más antiguos que siguen en activo (la primera edicón fue en 1994), y ya me procuraron satisfacciones en 2005 (ganador y mención con los dos relatos que envié) y 2001 (tercer puesto, mi primer “logro” literario).

Aprovecho pues esta entrada para expresar mi agradecimiento al jurado y a la STE en su conjunto, y de paso doy un toquecito de atención, para que nadie se me extrañe cuando en un futuro hipotético e indeterminado aparezca por las librerías algún volumen de fantasía pura y dura publicado por un menda.

En estos momentos no tengo mucho más que decir al respecto, pero como así la entrada acabaría muy pronto (y os tengo mal acostumbrados), voy a recuperar en homenaje a este noticia uno de mis primeros textos, publicado originalmente en el 2003 en la revista Estel 40. Abrid los ojos con pasmo y terror ante…

El comportamiento berserker de los hobbits

“´¡Zarquino les voy a dar yo, ladrones, sucios, rufianes!´, ella dice, y arriba con el paraguas contra el Jefe, casi el doble de altura.”

Supongo que muy pocos habrán podido contener una sonrisa al leer este pasaje del saneamiento de la Comarca. La vieja Lobelia, ya centenaria, atacando paraguas en alto a los esbirros de Sarumán. Sin embargo, esta escena a la vez cómica y entrañable podría ser un indicio de la terrible verdad que sólo ahora, tras una ardua y concienzuda investigación por parte del smial de Edhellond, empieza a salir a la luz.

Y es que durante años hemos vivido en el engaño ante la auténtica naturaleza de los hobbits, esos seres diminutos y bonachones que quieren pintarnos en los relatos sobre la Tierra Media. Mas hay algo que no debemos olvidar, que es un hobbit quien guía nuestro viaje y es posible que tergiverse la realidad con tal de ocultarnos algo de lo que quizás se avergüence (recemos para que sus motivaciones sean tan inocentes): la pavorosa faceta oscura de los medianos, su comportamiento berserker.

Estoy seguro de que más de uno habrá sentido un dedo helado recorriendo su espinazo ante tal revelación. Si no es ese el caso tal vez se deba al desconocimiento de las implicaciones de este apelativo. A favor de estos últimos haremos un poco de historia. Según el American Heritage Dictionary, “berserker” es un “integrante de un antiguo pueblo de guerreros nórdicos legendarios por su salvajismo y su temerario furor en las batallas”. Tradicionalmente, se ha considerado a los enanos como el prototipo de berserker; guerreros imbuidos de furia asesina, atacando ajenos a cualquier noción de defensa, motivados únicamente por la destrucción de sus enemigos. ¡Ja! No les llegan ni al vello del empeine a los hobbits.

Tal vez podáis pensar que lo antecedente constituye una afirmación un tanto precipitada habida cuenta de las pruebas presentadas (después de todo, Lobelia nunca se caracterizó por su dulce carácter), pero hay más, mucho más. Seguidme en este descenso a los abismos del horror hobbit.

El Libro Rojo de la Frontera del Oeste, nuestra principal fuente de información respecto a los medianos, se centra fundamentalmente en cuatro hobbits, que a falta de nuevos ejemplos deberemos considerar prototípicos. Aunque el narrador se esfuerza denodadamente en ocultarnos su verdadera naturaleza (“Un hombrecito rollizo de mejillas rojas … más alto que algunos y más rubio que todos, y tiene un hoyuelo en la barbilla; un sujeto de cabeza erguida y ojos brillantes”), no consigue por entero su propósito, ya que aquí y allá, en momentos puntuales, asoma el monstruo que todo hobbit esconde. Veamos algunos ejemplos.

No es necesario avanzar mucho en la aventura para que aflore por primera vez el mencionado comportamiento berserker. En el capítulo 8, “Niebla en las quebradas de los túmulos”,  puede leerse, referido al mismo hobbit descrito en el párrafo anterior:

“Pero el coraje que había despertado en él era ahora demasiado fuerte: no podía abandonar a sus amigos con tanta facilidad. Titubeó, la mano tanteando el bolsillo, y en seguida luchó de nuevo consigo mismo, mientras el brazo continuaba avanzando. De pronto ya no dudó, y echando mano a una espada corta que había junto a él, se arrodilló inclinándose sobre los cuerpos de sus compañeros. Alzó la espada y la descargó con fuerza sobre el brazo, cerca de la muñeca; la mano se desprendió, pero el arma voló en pedazos hasta la empuñadura.”

Las palabras claves son: “De pronto ya no dudó”. Ellas marcan el instante en que la furia berserker hace acto de aparición. Lo que sigue es inevitable: un golpe salvajemente violento que cercena el brazo del enemigo e incluso destroza el arma empleada. Estas transiciones bruscas de la inmovilidad al ataque furibundo son frecuentes entre los hobbits. Basta con considerar otro momento, algo más adelante en la narración, en la cámara de Mazarbul, cuando un troll pretende acceder a la cámara de los registros pese a la infructuosa oposición de Boromir:

“De pronto, y algo sorprendido pues no se reconocía a sí mismo, Frodo sintió que una cólera ardiente le inflamaba el corazón.

—¡La Comarca! —gritó, y saltando al lado de Boromir se inclinó y descargó a Dardo contra el pie.”

Aquí el narrador, seguramente arrastrado por el tono épico de la escena, se muestra más descuidado y nos ofrece una descripción casi perfecta de un hobbit cayendo en estado berserker: “no se reconocía a sí mismo”, “cólera ardiente”… irrefutable. No es ésta, sin embargo, la única ocasión en que se nos muestra a Frodo tal cual es. Cuando la situación lo requiere, el leve barniz de civilización se desvanece y sólo queda la furia primordial para resolver la situación, como en el antro de Ella-Laraña:

“Y entonces a Frodo se le inflamó el corazón dentro del pecho, y sin pensar en lo que hacía, fuera locura, desesperación o coraje, tomó la Redoma en la mano izquierda, y con la derecha desenvainó la espada.”

El lector suspicaz podría en este momento pensar: “Bueno, un árbol no hace bosque. Es posible que Frodo fuera un hobbit desequilibrado, pero su comportamiento no debería bastar para juzgar a toda una raza pacífica”. Lo cierto es que Frodo es un mediano modélico. Al menos si lo comparamos con sus pendencieros primos, Peregrín Tuk y Meriadoc Brandigamo.

Pensemos por ejemplo en la siguiente escena. Los dos hobbits han sido derrotados y vapuleados, y están siendo arrastrados a través de medio Rohan por una panda de embrutecidos Uruk-hai. ¿Cuáles podrían ser los pensamientos de un ser normal en tales circunstancias? No, desde luego, los del ínclito Pippin:

“Se pusieron a aullar entonces, y docenas de otras bestias salieron de entre los árboles. Merry y él habían echado mano a las espadas, pero los orcos no querían luchar y sólo intentaron apoderarse de ellos, aun cuando Merry ya había cortado muchos brazos y manos. ¡Buen viejo Merry!”

Aterrador. Docenas de bestias y a los dos micromachines sólo se les ocurre echar mano a las espadas. ¡Y se muestra decepcionado porque los orcos habían rehuido la lucha! El final del extracto es igualmente esclarecedor: “¡Buen viejo Merry!” Una muestra de respeto hacia el guerrero temerario, tan propia de las culturas nórdicas.

Tras la visita de estos dos personajes a Bárbol su locura crece pareja con su estatura, dando una y otra vez muestras de estar perdiendo las inhibiciones que han protegido al resto de las razas de la furia hobbit, tal y como afirma crípticamente Aragorn en el concilio de Elrond: “‘Trancos’ soy para un hombre gordo que vive a menos de una jornada de ciertos enemigos que le helarían el corazón, o devastarían la aldea, si no montáramos guardia día y noche.”

Tras minuciosas investigaciones hemos alcanzado la conclusión de que la vigilancia de los montaraces y la reclusión no bastan para explicar el adormecimiento de los terribles instintos asesinos de los hobbits. Es necesario algo más, algo que mantenga su mente alejada de la llamada de la sangre, algo que constituya una mayor dependencia que la adrenalina corriendo como fuego líquido por sus venas, indudablemente, la hierba para pipa.

¿Nunca os habéis preguntado por qué no se nos relata con mayor detalle la destrucción de Isengard? Desde luego, los ents parecen muy duros pero… ¿no creéis que dada su naturaleza parsimoniosa les hubiera costado mucho más acabar con Isengard? ¿No resulta una explicación más plausible para tanto caos un par de medianos berserkers con mono de tabaco?

Para cuando llegan Théoden y sus hombres todo ha concluido, los hobbits han conseguido su hierba y nada revela su auténtica naturaleza: “Si el Gran Mar hubiese montado en cólera y una tormenta se hubiese abatido sobre las colinas, no habría podido provocar una ruina semejante. [...] Y allí, muy cerca, vieron un gran montón de escombros; y de pronto repararon en dos pequeñas figuras plácidamente sentadas sobre los escombros, [...] Uno parecía dormir; el otro, con las piernas cruzadas y los brazos en la nuca, se apoyaba contra una roca y echaba por la boca volutas y anillos de tenue humo azul.”

Pese a todos su esfuerzos, un tigre no queda del todo camuflado bajo una piel de cordero, y los sabios gobernantes de Rohan y Gondor son capaces de percibir el potencial militar de nuestros pequeños monstruos y se los reparten para sus respectivos ejércitos; algo que resulta providencial de cara al resultado final de la guerra.

Merry, sin ir más lejos, se encarga de atacar al mismísimo Rey Brujo, de quien todo ser viviente huye aterrorizado, dejándolo en un estado tal que Éowyn tan sólo tiene que rematarlo. Y, tras ser llevado a las Casas de Curación, ¿qué creéis que es lo primero que solicita? “Entonces, ante todo quisiera cenar, y luego fumarme una pipa.” Demasiadas emociones, sin duda, la furia de la guerra le invade y siente la necesidad de aplacarla con narcóticos vapores de galenas.

Desde ese mismo instante Pippin siente que está perdiendo la carrera  por ser el guerrero más poderoso y arde en deseos de partir a la guerra contra las huestes de Mordor. Prestemos atención al siguiente discurso: “Si pudiera herir con ella a ese Emisario inmundo, al menos quedaríamos iguales, el viejo Merry y yo. Bueno,  destruiré a unos cuantos de esa ralea maldita ,antes del fin.” ¡Hey, hey, hey! Rebobinemos. ¿Unos cuantos? ¿Me está  haciendo creer que un mequetrefe que apenas pasa un palmo del metro está pensando en destruir a “unos cuantos” de entre los poderosos guerreros de Sauron? ¡Y lo dice como si fuera el premio de consolación! ¡Talmente como si fuera lo mínimo que se pudiera exigir!

Todo se vuelve aun más increíble cuando nos fijamos en el tipo de enemigos a los que se enfrenta: orcos y, entre ellos, “una gran compañía de trolls de las montañas”. ¿Acaso la naturaleza del contrincante arredra al Tuk? Ni por asomo. Cuando el jefe de las criaturas abate a Beregond, el estado berserker posee al hobbit como un espíritu de venganza y “Pippin lanzó una estocada hacia arriba, y la hoja del Oesternesse atravesó la membrana coriácea y penetró en los órganos; y la sangre negra manó a borbotones.” ¡Qué gran imagen! El temible troll “más alto y corpulento que un Hombre” y el pequeño hobbit bajo él, recibiendo sobre el rostro, entre carcajadas, la cálida vida que se escapa de su enemigo.

La escena ya es de por sí esclarecedora pero, además, en esta ocasión el narrador de los hechos no se muestra tan cauto, dejando entrever parte de lo que realmente aconteció al referirnos el rescate de Pippin: “Sin Gimli el Enano, te habrías perdido. Pero ahora al menos sé reconocer el pie de un hobbit, aunque sea la única cosa visible en medio de un montón de cadáveres.” ¡Ajá! ¿Con que un solo troll? ¡Nada de eso! Una Montaña de Cadáveres, ni más ni menos. Y Peregrín Tuk justo en su centro. ¡Ah, de qué gran batalla hubiéramos disfrutado de no haber mediado la autocensura!

En fin, que hasta “en el corazón del más gordo y tímido de los hobbits anida una chispa de coraje.”. Hasta este momento habíamos dejado a Sam de lado, era nuestra última oportunidad de conservar con nosotros la amable imagen tradicional de los medianos. Mucho me temo que tendré que derribar también ese último reducto de esperanza, para mostrar la verdad en toda su crudeza.

“Sam no perdió el tiempo en preguntarse qué convenía hacer, o si lo que sentía era coraje, lealtad o furia. Se abalanzó con un grito y recogió con la mano izquierda la espada de Frodo. Luego atacó. Jamás se vio ataque más feroz en el mundo salvaje de las bestias [...] Pero antes de que llegara a advertir que la furia de este enemigo era mil veces superior a todas las que conociera en años incontables, la espada centelleante le mordió el pie y amputó la garra.”

“Mil veces superior”. Creo que esto lo dice todo. No es una mera exageración, es una estimación objetiva, una furia mil veces superior a la de cualquier orco, hombre o elfo, “Ni el más valiente de los soldados de la antigua Gondor, ni el más salvaje de los orcos atrapados en la tela”, la furia de un hobbit berserker.

El instinto asesino de Sam no distingue entre arañas gigantes o simples hobbits demacrados:

“La furia desencadenada por la traición, y la desesperación de verse retenido en un momento en que Frodo corría un peligro mortal, dotaron a Sam de improviso de una energía y una violencia que Gollum jamás habría sospechado en aquel hobbit a quien consideraba torpe y estúpido”, un error en el que cualquiera podríamos incurrir; un grave error, como comprobaría Gollum poco después. “Sam lo persiguió, espada en mano. Por el momento, salvo la furia roja que le había invadido el cerebro, y el deseo  de matar a Gollum se había olvidado de todo.” Ahí está de nuevo, la niebla roja que ofusca la mente de un berserker y lo lanza a la batalla sin otras consideraciones.

Llega la hora de finalizar este estremecedor documento. Aun así, no me gustaría hacerlo sin estar seguro de que ha quedado suficientemente claro el terrible peligro que acecha tras los mofletudos rostros de los medianos. Por si aún hubiera alguien duro de mollera, empeñado en sostener que todo lo que hemos presentado no son sino desviaciones aberrantes de la habitualmente apacible conducta hobbit, sirvan estos extractos de “El Saneamiento de la Comarca” para sacarlo de su ceguera y llevarlo a la implacable luz de la verdad. Frodo, Sam, Merry y Pippin han vuelto de la guerra, sólo para encontrar su querida Comarca ocupada por los hombres de Zarquino. La situación hubiera podido ser desesperada, de no darse la siguiente circunstancia:

“—Bueno, ¿qué les parece si fumamos un poco mientras nos cuentan las novedades de la Comarca? —dijo.

—No hay hierba para pipa ahora —dijo Hob—; y la que hay, se la han guardado los Hombres del Jefe.”

Uuuuhhhhh, no saben lo que han hecho. Esa hierba es lo único que mantiene a los hobbits del lado correcto de la imprecisa frontera entre la cordura y el salvajismo. Nuestros… ¿héroes? empiezan a percibir el inicio de la transformación:

“—Si oigo decir varias veces más no está permitido —dijo Sam—, estallaré de furia.

—No lamentaría verlo, te lo aseguro —dijo Robin bajando la voz—. Si todos juntos estalláramos de furia alguna vez, algo se podría hacer.”

La tragedia estaba preparada ya que el jefe de los bandidos nada sabía del comportamiento berserker de los hobbits: “Conocía poco y mal a los hobbits para darse cuenta del peligro en que se encontraba.” Así, los rufianes son acorralados y comienza la matanza:

“—No irán muy lejos —dijo Pippin—. Todos estos campos están llenos de cazadores hobbits.

Atrás, los hombres atrapados en el sendero, trataban de escalar la barricada y las barrancas, y los hobbits tuvieron que matar a unos cuantos, con las flechas o con las hachas.”

Todo termina pronto, con la previsible derrota de aquellos que, al fin y al cabo, no son más que hombres, incapaces de resistir la furia desatada de los medianos:

“Al fin la batalla terminó. Casi setenta bandidos yacían sin vida en el campo, y doce habían sido tomados prisioneros. Entre los hobbits hubo diecinueve muertos y unos treinta heridos.”

Sí, la batalla terminó pero… ¿vendrán otras? Tras siglos de confinamiento los hobbits vuelven a ser conscientes de su poder. Han saboreado de nuevo el manjar de la guerra y las maquinaciones de Zarquino les han sometido a un proceso de desintoxicación de la hierba que lograba, mal que bien, encadenar el animal salvaje que llevan dentro. Los pueblos libres ya no podrán dormir en paz por las noches, sabiendo que en cualquier momento una horda de hobbits berserkers pueden irrumpir en sus vidas, sembrando el caos y la destrucción.

El rey Elessar, en el 1427 (según el calendario de la Comarca), en su infinita sabiduría, “promulga un edicto por el que se les prohíbe a los Hombres entrar en la Comarca” e intenta comprar la paz a base de concesiones políticas: “1434. Hace del Thain, el Señor y el Alcalde, Consejeros del Reino del Norte”. Él mismo no se atreve a quebrantar su propio edicto cuando, en el 1436, “llega al Puente del Brandivino y saluda allí a sus amigos”. No debe tranquilizarle mucho lo que ve (o lo que oye), pues prosigue cediendo favores ante la amenaza hobbit. “1452. La Frontera Occidental, desde Quebradas Lejanas hasta las Colinas de la Torre (Emyn Beraid), se suma a la Comarca como regalo del Rey. Muchos hobbits se mudan allí”.

Gondor se está quedando poco a poco sin espacio para seguir retrocediendo, los elfos han huido más allá del mar (sin saber que primero Frodo y luego Sam, parten al oeste para terminar de atar ese “cabo suelto”) y Rohan, que conoce de antiguo las terribles leyendas sobre los Holbytla, contempla el futuro con temor. Se hace imperiosa la presencia de un héroe capaz de conjurar el peligro. Alguien con experiencia en este tipo de asuntos y que ya probara su eficacia antaño, manteniendo a raya a los elementos más peligrosos enfrentándolos con pequeños retos para saciar su ansía de lucha.
¡Gandalf!¡Gandalf! ¿Dónde estás cuando de verdad se te necesita?

(Para seguir profundizando en el horror que reviste el comportamiento berserker de los hobbits, recomiendo la lectura de “La noche de los hobbtis berserkers“, mención especial en los premios Gandalf 2005, publicado en portada de Sedice).

Would you like to tour the landscape that inspired the works of C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien? Perhaps you have always wondered where much of the inspiration for The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings originated.

In The Inklings of Oxford: C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, and Their Friends, by Harry Lee Poe (text) and James Ray Veneman (photography), you will find such a treasure.

Much has been written of the writing group named the ‘Inklings’ whose notable members include C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien, however, none that include such stunning photos of the landscapes where these classic were first conceived, written and critiqued by other members prior to publishing.

Each chapter is filled with historical information and little known facts.  Of the friendship between Lewis and Tolkien, I found this quote on page 35 quite interesting:  “Though Lewis had the capacity for immediate friendship, he found Tolkien more of an acquired taste.” Describing the ‘Inklings’ name, Tolkien is quoted on page 56 as stating it is a group of“…people with vague or half-formed intimation and ideas plus those who dabble in ink.”

Reading of this group and the atmosphere that inspired such classics, I found myself very interested in what conversations might have taken place at a gathering of the ‘Inklings’.   Other friends are mentioned and their affect also noted; friends such as Owen Barfield, Charles Williams, and Hugo Dyson, and, of course, Joy Davidson.

Filled with beautiful photography (many full page photos and some two pages), a true fan of both Tolkien and Lewis will notice the Oxford landmarks that made their way into both series of works.

The book concludes with a walking tour of Oxford.  Quite a delightful addition for those who have not yet or may never be able to visit Oxford.

Being admirers of the Inklings work for many years, when this book arrived at our home for review, my husband and I spent the evening enjoying the photos, walking the tour, and discussing the Oxford landmarks that made their way into both Tolkiens’ and Lewis’ works.

This coffee table book would make an excellent gift for fans of the Inklings work. I recommend it highly. Our review copy has been donated to our local church.

The Inklings of Oxford By Harry Lee Poe / Zondervan

By Harry Lee Poe / Zondervan

# Paperback: 176 pages
# Publisher: Zondervan (July 1, 2009)
# Language: English
# ISBN-10: 0310285038
# ISBN-13: 978-0310285038
# Product Dimensions: 11 x 8.5 x 0.7 inches

Here is a picture of a fiddler crab:

Photo: JUNGLECAT

As noted before, us Mexicans have a knack to gloss people based on how closely they resemble any member of the animal kingdom. In any given posse of Mexicans you may find one pajaro or caballo. A nickname frontrunner has emerged, granted his is not an animal nickname but it is an apt reference to Tolkien. Presenting 5′4″Atlante F.C. forward, Christian Bermúdez, affectionately known as El Hobbit,

But I digress.

The following story features another entrant into our Animal Nickname Hall of Fame:

German arm wrestler shows off his single Popeye-esque limb

The Brit writer brands him “Popeye” but what do the Limeys know of nicknames? (see ‘Becks’) No, I’m going to go with the “Fiddler Crab”, here’s why:

In case you’re wondering, his name is not Tevye.

Chapter 22.

“All ye Elves deem that we die swiftly by our true kind. That we are brittle and brief, and ye are strong and lasting. We may be ‘Children of Eru,’ as ye say in your lore; but we are children to you also: to be loved a little maybe, and yet creatures of less worth, upon whom ye may look down from the height of your power and your knowledge, with a smile, or with pity, or with a shaking of heads.” - Andreth, Morgoth’s Ring

Cerederthan bowed before the monk. “I return with much news.”

“And you are welcomed,” the monk in green said calmly, dark eyes scanning over the group. “But you bring a host with you!”

“Indeed. Some have given us safe passage and seek reward.”

The monk nodded. “It will be given. The return of our brother is worth much. But who are the others you have brought?”

Cerederthan squinted against the sun. “All in good time, my friend.”

The monk inclined his head, then turned and led them up several flights of stairs, carved deep into the mountain face, to the monastery. The walls were thick, but once they were inside, it was very warm – enough to flush Gwen’s cheeks. Her heart was beating quickly and her stomach was doing flip-flops. They were so close to her mother! But she was sure there would be a way to meet her soon, so she said nothing. They were shown to a small room filled with heavy yellow woolen robes and their stale smell, where they unloaded all their cumbersome trappings. The monk in green called another monk and spoke with him briefly in quick Quenya.

Their group was led into a large hall, quite obviously a banquet hall, with short tables and cushions for sitting on the floor. The walls were covered with great tapestries, hung from ceiling to floor and with lavish colors. They were instructed to wait, and the monk in green disappeared down the hallway. They stood there awkwardly. The faint smell of incense hung in the air, as well as a light touch of smoke from the fire crackling in the center of the room.

Gwen wandered around, beginning to look more closely at the tapestries. They were not covered in large pictures, but rather sequences of smaller ones, woven tightly. While some of the pictures seemed connected, others did not. Then she saw one picture of a star falling, and looked to examine it more closely. Cerederthan came up behind her.

“These are tapestries that the monks weave, depicting the dreams they have had of the future,” he said to her softly. “Some of these have already happened, some never will. The future is always changing.” He glanced at the star. “That one has certainly happened. More and more of them are coming true – like this one” – he pointed at a woman, carrying wings in her hands and fleeing a tower.

“Does Lorien help you to see the future?” she asked.

“Yes and no. Both Men and Elves sometimes have – to a degree – the ability to see the future, or the present. We call it foresight. But before Lorien retired to his deep dreaming, he taught us ways to see the future far more clearly, so that we might be able to guide the world far better than it has fared in the past. The monks weave them here so that we might all perceive them. There are even more written down in scrolls and placed in the libraries. It takes time to weave these, and there are always more visions to be had.”

“Do you receive these visions naturally, then?”

“Foresight comes naturally, yes. We try to induce this through meditation. But deeper dreaming, and sight of the future, comes from the herbs we use – like the ones I used when you were in your cell.”

“Ah,” she said, but was interrupted when the monk re-entered, bearing a sack filled to the brim with gold.

“Will this do?” he asked. Herion made a show of hemming and hawing over it, but accepted it nonetheless. He bowed to Cerederthan. “You’re an honorable fellow,” he said, “and I wish you all the best luck can offer.” His gaze flicked briefly to Gwen, then he turned and left, along with the others from his band.

The monk indicated for them to sit around the fire, and pulled a teapot off the flames. He spooned some powder to cups, filling them with hot water and dishing them out, one by one. Gwen gratefully accepted it, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell. She wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but it was hot.

Cerederthan spoke with the monk in indiscernible Quenya. Frodo and Touchstone exchanged glances. “Do you know what he’s saying?” Touchstone murmured to Frodo.

“Very little,” said the hobbit. “I know some Elvish, but only words and phrases.”

“They’re talking about you,” whispered Eleyond. “See? They keep glancing your way.”

“Can you make it out?” she asked.

He concentrated hard and shook his head. “It’s too archaic. Those aren’t the forms I know.”

She sipped her tea until the two of them rose. “Forgive my rudeness,” said Cerederthan. “This is one of the head monks in our order – Daeron. He’ll be showing you to the rooms you’ll be staying in.”

They were escorted to another section of the monastery, busy with the comings and goings of monks. Gwen’s room was windowless, lit by the same crystals as had been in prison cell. Carpets covered the floors, and a single feather bed was heaped with blankets. The others were staying just down the hall.

Fairly quickly a maid came in to draw up water for a bath from a spigot. “Hello,” ventured Gwen. She showed the maid her hand, and the woman’s eyes widened.

“How does a slave come to a place like this,” the woman asked, “and not be housed in the slave quarters?”

“It’s a long story,” Gwen said dismissively. “What’s more important is that I believe my mother works here. Her name is Shannon?”

The woman considered this for a moment. “I’ve heard of her – she works in the kitchens. But I don’t know much more than that.”

Gwen leapt off the bed. “That’s good enough for me! Can you tell me where the kitchens are?”

The woman answered with a string of complex directions, but Gwen wasn’t really listening. In her mind, she was safe in her mother’s arms. She took off without a moment’s notice.

She went down the hall and up two sets of stairs before becoming completely lost. Gwen decided to keep heading upward, and ended up on the roof – which was covered in a greenhouse, steaming and full of plants. Deciding on a floor-by-floor search, she went back and forth downwards. On her way through one of the hallways, she came across a set of three large red-painted doors. Cautiously, she opened one and slipped through.

The smell of incense grew stronger; her eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. She was standing on a balcony within a larger hall. It was faintly lit by small windows near the ceiling, but a large pair of statues was illuminated by candles. These statues, carefully carved out of stone, were clearly of Lorien and Este, both reclined, sleeping. The room was carpeted in red, with monks sitting and chanting softly before the figures. Before she was discovered in a place she shouldn’t be, she immediately left.

By the time her nose found its way to the kitchen, it was running on night staff – four sturdy women baking bread and pounding rice for the next day. “Is Shannon here?” she queried, but the women shook their heads. Her mother, it turned out, would be in the slave quarters, as it was the end of her shift. Gwen made sure she understood the directions before following them.

She wound up having to go outside in order to get to the complex. There were coats available, but she was from Maine – she could handle a short bit of cold. She took a deep breath of warm air, and burst out into the mountain air. She ran the distance, her fingers in her armpits, and entered the building, grateful for the warmth. Going down the hall, she asked the first person she saw what room her mother might be in. The girl told her, and she ran to it, knocking on the door.

It opened to her mother’s face, puzzled and then joyfully relieved when Gwen hugged her tightly. There were tears on both their parts – Gwen’s suppressed grief surfacing from deep within.

She found out that what she had suspected was true – that the monks treated their slaves well. Her mother needed nothing, aside from being united with her family once more, and, of course, freedom. Gwen poured out everything that had happened – all the strange things. Her mother sucked in her breath when she heard about the death of Tulkas.

“You killed someone?” she breathed. “Your reasoning is sound, but still – I’d never thought you would be able to do such a thing.”

“There’s more,” Gwen said, and told her the rest of the story.

“You’re a fugitive? Here?” her mother burst out, her grip on Gwen tightening. “Gwen, you’ve put yourself in extreme danger!”

“Mom!” she protested, breaking free. “There’s nothing I can do about it! Besides, can’t you see? There’s something bigger going on here!”

“Like what?”

Gwen faltered. “I don’t really know. This is all leading somewhere. No one’s ever been able to kill one of the Valar before, and my doing so proves something. That they aren’t gods? I don’t know. But certainly the society here is ripe for change.”

“I’ve never known much about the ways outside of this monastery, Gwen, and from what you’re telling me, I agree.”

“Cerederthan’s brought me here for a reason, that’s for sure. It’s not just for asylum.”

Her mother nodded.

*

Gwen went along with her mother for the morning shift. She was given a bowl of fruit-laden oatmeal for breakfast as the kitchen busied in preparation for the monks’ morning meal. The dining commons was extensive, with long wooden tables that had to be set. Gwen was pushing a cart of bowls for another servant when Cerederthan found her.

“I have been looking everywhere for you! Where have you been?” he scolded.

“With my mother.”

His face relaxed. “Oh – I’m sorry, it’s just – you had me worried, since you’re wanted across the continent.”

“Yes, well, I should’ve told you, but I was eager and didn’t know where you were.”

“Fair enough. But we have much to do, and there is little time. Locals are bringing in reports of the police asking questions in outlying villages. They may be here soon. This monastery may be forgotten, but they’re searching hard for you. They may be here before we know it. Come with me.”

Gwen apologized to the servant and followed Cerederthan’s billowing robes. He had gotten new ones – blue this time, made of rough wool edged with faint embroidery.

“Leave you alone for a night, and instead of enjoying luxury, you return to the slave’s life,” he said wryly. “Your mother is doing well, I hope.”

“Well enough, for her situation.”

He nodded disinterestedly. “You are going to meet with the heads of the monastery – a group of very old and powerful individuals. Your arrival is very important to us all. Just be respectful, something I’m sure you’ll have no trouble doing. But first we need to get you out of those clothes.”

Gwen looked down at her dress – the one Feanor had bought her what seemed like ages ago. The hem was ragged from abuse and where she had torn it to staunch her wounds. It was bloody and stained from mud and food.

Cerederthan stopped in front of his room. “Come, there isn’t much time before the meeting. I’ve laid out some clothes I could find on the bed.”

She went in, and he closed the door behind her. She was in a hurry, and didn’t take time to look around. She grabbed the clothes and put them on – a maroon linen wrap-around shirt with faint embroidery at the hems, and brown pants. Then she burst out of the room and followed Cerederthan’s long strides.

*

Early that morning, Tegalad, a newly elected junior member of the Elder Council, woke up to attend one of the meditation sessions he enjoyed. It was not nearly as relaxing as he’d hoped – more visions of war.

He went to one of the kitchens to quickly have a biscuit, passing through the laundry room bustling with slaves tending large cauldrons of steaming water to get there.  He couldn’t focus when he was hungry. Then he went to the special session called for an important visitor – he had no idea who the visitor was, though.  The novices were huddled in groups talking, not yet settled down, their bright colored robes in sharp contrast to the red tapestries that hung ceiling to floor behind them in the great space. Tegalad  stepped up onto the slightly elevated dais reserved for the elders, glancing at his cushion, not wanting to kneel just yet. Glancing around, he saw his mentor, Arandur, talking to the head of their order and went up to them.

“…that’s why the entire thing is so exciting,” Arandur was saying, then noticed Tegalad. “Ah, you’re here!”

“Yes, I wouldn’t miss something like this. But I haven’t heard anything about the meeting itself. Who is our visitor?”

They looked at him, bemused. “You really don’t know, do you?” said the head monk with a short laugh.

Tegalad’s cheeks flushed. He felt like an idiot.

“It seems that Brother Cerederthan has brought the girl to us whom he believes is the one we’re looking for,” said Arandur quietly.

Tegalad frowned. “Is that so?”

The warning bell sounded, and there was a rush as novices bustled to their places, the late ones hurrying through the doors. Tegalad calmly strode and knelt on his assigned cushion, as did the other council members, arranging their crimson robes around them. Calamaethor, a noted fierce monk, sat next to Tegalad. He was highly honored by all as a master of melcinitan, a form of defense now taught to all monks that were being sent out into Valinor. Tegalad himself had to learn from Calamaethor before going, and had come to respect the elf. Beneath the gruff exterior was a passionate person who enjoyed meditation as much as he did fighting. Glancing at the statues of Lorien and Este behind the head monk, Tegalad wished he had that kind of dedication.

His attention snapped back to the present as the heavy wooden doors opened to reveal Cerederthan along with a girl who was far younger than he expected. She looked worried, gazing about the room, and spoke with Cerederthan briefly before the two came forward to sit on the cushions provided.

The bell sounded once more to begin the meeting, and the head monk stirred. “This meeting will come to order,” he said. “Since our guest understands only Breech, we ought to use it for this meeting.”

They all nodded. The head monk turned his attention to the girl. “Would you please tell us more about yourself?”

She wet her lips. “My name is Gwendolyn, and I’m a slave of Numenorean descent. My family, along with many others, was brought here from another world, where a Numenorean population was residing.”

Tegalad had heard of this – one of the monks had brought the news of the events surrounding the fall of the Star of Earendil, a significant prophecy in the monastery’s lore.

“Feanor was my master,” she added, unsure of what more she could say.

“Are you quite sure of your Numenorean heritage?” asked Veryamorcon, one of the monks across from Tegalad.

She looked at Cerederthan, who gave no reaction. “I’m fairly certain,” she said. “I was chosen for breeding stock, and my master says I have strong bloodlines – he had to pay a lot for me.”

“It is also our understanding that you killed the Vala Tulkas,” said Arandur. Tegalad’s heart stopped. Had he heard right? A Vala, killed? How was that possible? The novices stirred and whispered with one another as they processed the same information.

“Would you please describe the incident for us?” asked the head monk. “Every detail is important.”

Tegalad half-listened to the story as thoughts roiled around in his head. He had suspected for a long time that the Valar were not gods, and here was the proof. He had always kept his doubts secret, having come to the monastery as a young elf. His parents were part of the roving northern tribes that hunted and trapped for a living, where belief in the Valar was a daily part of life, perpetuated by Maiar living among them. When Cerederthan, then as he was now a roving monk, saw something in him, he was sent to the monastery to begin a different kind of life, despite his doubts. So he had kept quiet and advanced.

Gwen had finished her tale, and the elders were nodding.

“This is an event we have long foreseen,” Calamaethor said firmly. “We just never knew that the fall of Earendil would herald it.”

The head monk looked troubled. “If our visions are true, then this event will lead to war – a very long one.”

“Why would such a person have that power in the first place?” asked Veryamorcon. “The girl is only of the race of men.”

Cerederthan opened his mouth to speak, but Gwendolyn cut in before him. “Actually,” she said, “I do have Elven and Maiar ancestry.”

“Of course,” Calamaethor said with a smile. “That would be the influence of Melian and Luthien, would it not?”

“In fact, I was told by Finrod that my ancestry is far closer than that,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “Maiar and Elves have married into the Numenorean bloodline ever since they were stranded on my planet.”

The elders whispered amongst one another. “That’s a span of about fifteen-hundred years, yes?” asked Arandur.

Gwen shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“A very short amount of time. Do you know how many of your ancestors were of other races?” asked the head monk slowly.

Gwen shook her head. “Maybe Finrod would know.”

Tegalad took a shaky breath. This was impressive. The effect of a single union between elf and human had lasted for thousands of years – the tight timeline for Gwen’s description had never occurred before, not even in Valinor. The unions between races remained very few, particularly because of the way they viewed one another – elves feeling superior to men, and men angry against their aggressors. Maiar were usually kept too busy by the Valar to form any attachments. 

“This may be the determining factor for Gwen’s ability – the strong union of races within her blood,” said Cerederthan. “I believe this has been hypothesized in the past.”

The elders nodded. “We and the Numenoreans both have long awaited for your coming,” said Calamaethor.

Tegalad couldn’t keep quiet. “What is the extent of your abilities?” he asked, forgetting to speak in Breech. “Do you know what power you have?”

The girl looked blankly at him, uncomprehending. Arandur jumped in. “Forgive him. He asked about what abilities you’ve observed as having. Have you noticed anything else of importance, aside from being able to kill a Vala?”

She thought for a long while. Tegalad looked at his hands, unable to meet Arandur’s solemn look. Finally she spoke.

“I guess I hadn’t realized it, but as soon as I stepped on the planet, Earendil’s star fell. I don’t know if that was just a coincidence, or what it was. Then I later rescued Elwing from her tower, by opening the doors barring her in.”

“We were as of yet unaware of the fact you rescued Elwing personally! She did not mention that,” exclaimed Cerederthan.

“So if this was not coincidence, you may be able to break the bonds of the Valar,” the head monk concluded.

“There’s something else I think is related – I think I can touch the Valar as well, which explains why I could kill one,” she said.

Veryamorcon frowned. “How would you know that?”

The girl looked uncomfortable. “A visit with Ulmo, I believe.”

Silence filled the room, the weight of many minds thinking pressing all around.

“And so begins the end of the world,” murmured the head monk.

Tegalad recognized what this meant with clenching of his gut. Dagor Dagorath.

*

Soon afterwards, the end of the meeting was called, much to the relief of Gwen. She had felt quite uncomfortable under the scrutinizing gazes of so many people.  The room began to empty, and she stood as the council got up and began to cluster around her, some waiting austerely while others clasped her hand and spoke in rapid Breech.

Eventually, all had left but one, the big-nosed one that had spoken in Elvish. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said sheepishly.

“Oh, it wasn’t your fault,” she told him. “I’m sure you’re just not used to speaking Breech here.”

“Gwen, may I present Tegalad, a promising young monk here.” Cerederthan’s voice was warm. “I brought him here a couple hundred years ago, and he’s done exceptionally well for himself.”

The elf gave an awkward smile.

“Won’t you join us for breakfast?” asked Gwen.

Tegalad hesitated. “Sure.”

Upon sitting down at the table, Gwen helped herself to the delicious-looking oatmeal she had seen cooking earlier. Tegalad wasn’t as enthusiastic about the food.

“I heard that you came with several other people,” he said.

“Yes – including Frodo Baggins, the Halfling,” said Cerederthan. Tegalad’s eyes widened in surprise.

“What?” Gwen had noticed his reaction. “He’s a Halfling from the Green Lands, that’s all.”

“His story has been told far and wide.” Tegalad was impressed.

Cerederthan looked at her solemnly. “And he deserves far more respect from you, young one.”

She bit her lip. “What did he do?”

“He was an instrumental part of the War of the Ring in the Green Lands,” Tegalad played with a piece of bread, his mind somewhere else. “He was a Ringbearer, and because of that was able to destroy Sauron.”

“Wait – who was Sauron? The name sounds vaguely familiar.”

Cerederthan got up to get a pitcher of water from another table. “Sauron was a Maia in league with Morgoth. He played an instrumental part in the history of your people, Gwen.”

“How so?”

Before Cerederthan could answer, Tegalad spoke. “He submitted himself as a prisoner to the Numenoreans, when they marched upon him. His voice was still heard and listened to, and the lies he spoke took root. As with many lies, there was a kernel of truth – he said that the Valar created the idea of a God to claim authority, and that the Valar themselves did not have authority. This struck directly at the heart of the Numenorean monotheistic religion – but few actually listened. However, it was the latter idea that is actually true – the Valar are not gods, but Eru is – “

“You’d better keep that idea to yourself,” Cerederthan said in a dangerously low voice. “More than your career would be in danger. You must not speak so freely about such things.”

Tegalad looked down at his plate. “I’m sorry – I’m just so excited after what I’ve heard, and being with someone so important…”

“What happened?” Gwen asked, garnering a confused look from Tegalad.

“Oh! Right. Numenor,” he recalled. “Sauron began an underground cult worshipping Morgoth. Even some of the rulers of Numenor joined in – part of its allure lay in its promises of immortality.” He lowered his voice, leaning over to her. “The situation was complex; some believe that Sauron was sent to do this by the Valar to give them a reason for destroying Numenor. The Valar never gave the Numenoreans the island of Numenor – it was found by them. The Valar fear the Numenoreans, Gwen. They feared their monotheistic beliefs and the strength of their heritage. They never thought an elf-human marriage was possible – they never expected a lot of things. But nevertheless, there were some who still believed in the monotheistic ways, and they listened to the pleas of visiting Elves from Valinor. When they set out to help them, the Valar realized it was a prudent time and sunk the island, bringing all of their kind to become slaves as punishment for their disobedience. Thus the Valar strengthened their positions and gained a large labor force.”

“There was a group of Numenoreans who split off to found their own country,” added Cerederthan. “Led by Elendil. They didn’t believe in either religion prominent in Numenor – they followed the beliefs promoted by the Valar. They were heralded as heroes and endorsed by the Valar.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Gwen asked. “They chose what they wanted to believe.”

“They deserted us when we needed them,” said Tegalad. “Think of a strong host of Numenoreans, coming to help us demand freedom from the Valar.”

“But the entire host was destroyed by the Valar,” said Gwen. “How could more have helped?”

Tegalad paused midway through taking a drink. “I don’t know.”

“At least in that way a group of free Numenoreans survived,” said Cerederthan, digging into a bowl of rice. “But I think that before, the Valar were working together, and were capable of far greater actions. Now their numbers are fewer, and they are set against one another. I don’t think they could sink a host of ships along with an island nowadays.”

“There is still a steady number of Numenoreans in Valinor who follow Sauron’s cult,” said Tegalad, taking a swig of wine.

“There are?” Cerederthan and Gwen blurted out simultaneously. They looked at one another. “How could you possibly know that?” asked Cerederthan.

“They keep themselves very quiet,” said Tegalad. “When I was a roving monk, I disguised myself as a slave and walked among them. Part of the reason why they’re so unnoticed is that they no longer practice human sacrifice.”

“They practiced human sacrifice?” Gwen asked incredulously. “That’s awful!”

“That would get them noticed rather quickly,” Cerederthan said. “The government tries to keep a detailed record of all slaves.”

“So Morgoth holds sway over a number of Numenoreans?”asked Gwen. Tegalad nodded.

Suddenly a hand was placed on Gwen’s shoulder, and she jumped. She looked up to see Eleyond’s brown eyes.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I hate to cut in on such an interesting conversation. But may I steal Gwen away for a bit?”

Cerederthan gave a small smile and a nod. Gwen got up, bumping into the table. Eleyond reached out a hand to help her, and as she took it, she had a funny feeling in her gut. I must’ve eaten something that didn’t agree with me, she thought, and walked beside Eleyond out of the room.

She looked at him, scrutinizing his features. He was quite fair for an elf, with a handsome profile. He looked at her suddenly, and she glanced away.

“I hope you’re enjoying your stay here,” he said.

“Yes, I am. But what’ve you been doing? Anything interesting?”

He shrugged. “This and that.”

She waited for a more accurate description, but none came. “Where are we headed to?” she finally ventured.

They started up a flight of steps. “One of the meditation rooms. It’s quite beautiful – I wanted you to see it.”

Gwen opened her mouth and shut it again. She’d been having a good conversation. She didn’t really want to see a pretty room. But she liked Eleyond, and was sure he had a good reason for this. When they had gone up perhaps six flights of stairs, he led her down the hall, not making any conversation. Then he opened one of the doors to a room with a glass ceiling. It was quite warm inside, and a tree grew next to a small fountain inside. The room was decently large, and Gwen gave a small smile. “Yes, it’s very nice. I hadn’t expected to find something like this here.” She was about to turn and go when Eleyond shut the door, with both of them inside.

The feeling in her gut increased. “Eleyond, what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, but walked towards the fountain. Suddenly it felt like all humidity was sucked out of the room, and the fountain changed shape. Ulmo rose out of the water, stepping onto the tiled floor. Eleyond bowed before the Vala. “I have done as you’ve asked.” Eleyond’s form blurred, becoming taller, and the being that emerged was blue, humanoid, and had webbed hands and feet. The Maia, she supposed, disappeared into the water.

For a moment the Vala and human looked at one another.

“Things have changed since last we met,” said Ulmo, his aquamarine eyes mesmerizing. Water dripped from his salt-and-pepper goatee.

“When exactly was the last time we met? Did that visit underwater actually happen?”

He grinned. “You’ll find that the boundaries between dreams and reality are very thin. The monks here will teach you that.”

She crossed her arms. “How did you find me? Can any Vala locate me? Because if they can, I’m surprised I’m not dead yet.”

“No, even I couldn’t find you. It seems that you are invisible to us – perhaps one of the benefits of your inheritance. I knew you would be brought here, so I sent a Maia after you.”

Her eyes widened. “Has Eleyond been a Maia this entire time?”

He snorted. “No. Just now. Eleyond is safe and sound in his room.”

“Why are you here, then?”

He looked at her with an expectant expression. “You’ve discovered your talents – talents which I guessed you had a while ago. Now that you are in a temporarily safe spot, I think we ought to discern what you can and cannot do regarding the Valar. There are many people with questions, and many who will want you to fight for them. You must discover your limits so that you don’t make empty promises.”

She cocked her head. “And how do you expect to precisely determine what I can and cannot do?”

He grin returned. “How else? With experimentation, of course.”

“What is the first thing you propose?” she asked.

He scratched his ear. “Well, the Valar are unable to find you. This would lead to the conclusion that our powers are unable to work on you. To make sure of this, I ought to try and do something to you.”

“Like what?” she demanded. “You could just be looking for a way to kill me.”

“Have I ever given you doubt that I’m on your side? If the Valar were able to kill you, they would have by now. You are a great threat. Now,” he stepped closer to her, “I’m going to change you – make you a faun, I think – harmless.”

Now Gwen was very nervous. Her stomach churning, she glanced at Ulmo, who was squinting, obviously focusing. Then she looked down at her feet.

They were shrinking – growing smaller, changing into…hooves.

“Hey!” she cried. “Stop it! It’s working!”

He jerked back in surprise, and her feet returned back to their normal state.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he said, frowning. “I don’t understand.”

She closed her eyes, still shocked by what had happened. She couldn’t imagine it happening to someone else, permanently. It was just wrong.

Ulmo was thinking, pacing back and forth. “What were you thinking at the time I was doing that?”

“I don’t know. I was nervous. I wasn’t really thinking about anything.”

“You were nervous. Why?”

“Because it might have worked.”

He stopped. “And it did.” Walking over to her, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Look. I’ve had my first physical contact with another race for the first time in thousands of years, and it’s with you. I can touch you, Gwen. Now I want you to believe that I can’t hurt you in any way. That for all my trying, I am unable to influence you. I’m going to try again, but don’t be afraid, because it’s not going to work.”

He squinted again, and the knot in her gut tightened. But she took a deep breath, trying to relax. I feel nothing, she told herself. He can’t do anything to me. When I look down, nothing will have happened.

She looked down at her feet, and sure enough, there they were, her ten toes. Looking up into Ulmo’s face, she noticed it was creased in concentration. “It’s not working,” she said.

“I have to try my hardest. Any of the Valar would,” he answered, and his fingers tightened on her shoulder. He exhaled and relaxed, removing his hand. “You did well.”

She smiled a little. “Thanks.”

“You must be desiring so much not to be found that subliminally, you’re resisting the Valar’s attempts,” he said thoughtfully, then lunged at her.

She stumbled back, aghast, and ducked to one side to avoid him. He went past her and whirled around, grabbing her arm and knocking her off-balance. With a gasp she went down, landing flat on her back, then stretched and kicked at his knees with her feet. Grunting, he fell, but was immediately on top of her, arms reaching for her neck.  She struggled to kick his groin, but it was to this scene that Eleyond and Cerederthan burst in on, followed by a slew of monks.

“Hey! Get off her!” yelled Eleyond, going to snatch at the Vala, but his hands grasped nothing. Ulmo immediately got up, leaving Gwen on the floor, gasping for breath. Cerederthan knelt beside her, giving a hand to help her up. “Are you alright?”

“What were you doing?” demanded Eleyond, furious with Ulmo but powerless to do anything.

“Testing what Gwen could do with a Vala in a fight,” Ulmo said calmly, adjusting his robes.

They looked at Gwen, who stood slowly. “I assume you were just trying to surprise me to get a better reaction,” she said.

“Correct.”

“If that was a real scenario, you would’ve died,” Cerederthan was serious.

“I suggest that she be taught to fight as swiftly as possible. Every day your only hope of having freedom has the chance to be killed.” He glanced at Cerederthan, then at the monks. “Don’t expect all of the brethren to be accepting of what they’ve learned today.”

With a nod to Gwen, he was gone, dispelling into the air like mist.

Cerederthan sighed with relief. “I’m sorry, Gwen.  I had no idea that Eleyond wasn’t Eleyond until the real Eleyond came into the hall – “

She brushed some dirt off her tunic. “Don’t worry about it. The visit was educational, to say the least.”

The monks, seeing she was alright, left the room.

Eleyond crossed his arms. “He was clearly winning, and the Vala themselves as far as we know have no battle training to their benefit – they always use their powers. He’s right, you’re in for a lot of work.” He looked at her mischievously. “Besides, how could you have possibly thought a Maia was me? Didn’t you notice anything off?”

Gwen rubbed her neck. “No, nothing that wasn’t normal – the brooding eyes, the constant frown…”

“The slouching posture,” Cerederthan added, “the whining voice….”

Eleyond held his hands up with a smile. “I get it, I get it.”

We’re all sick kids.   Colby’s wandering around with a quilt wrapped around him, looking like royalty- King Nyquil.   Violet’s room even smells toxic.  My nose is constantly dripping, but not to the point of making walrus tusks out of t.p., which I ordinarily will do. 

I feel like I’ve spent the weekend in bed.  Maybe because I did.  Life revolved around the bed after running ten miles Saturday afternoon, culminated in some Tylenol PM (sore) taken much, much too late, and resulted in waking at 11:20 am today.  I felt like I was late for the first day of tenth grade or something- utterly lost.  Did I miss the bus?  I don’t know the last time I slept so much. And it didn’t stop there- I remained horizontal all afternoon posting things on Craigslist, eBay and various forums hoping to rake in some needed cash.   Someone please buy my stuff.  Now tis late Sunday nigght and I’m STILL lying across the bed!  I must get out tomorrow- maybe put down some miles, run some errands- visit the mountains, chase some hobbits.  It’s really getting thick with autumn aura out there- I was amazed by the difference in the mountains when I was there Saturday morning-  the leaves are changing here, but up there they were absolutely beautiful and peaking.  I was along the river…..wow.  I want to get back up there and all of us go hiking before a good rain or wind destroys the foliage. 

Looks like I will not be a rock star after all- my services are unwanted.  Oh well, I really don’t think I could’ve pulled it off anyway (sniff sniff) 

Five days until Columbus (insert scared-face icon)  I’m a little stiff and sore after a ten-miler- NOT GOOD.  I just want to be fast.

and
Running is something that we’ve always done and

mostly I can’t even tell what I’m running from

(Amanda Palmer- Runs in the Family- great song)   Ho hum ho hum I guess it’s time to EXPIRE retire.

I haven’t been eating properly recently and it’s really noticeable.

… especially when I do laundry.

note: are stain patterned shirts ever in style?

double note: there might be a typo in the title.

triple note: sometimes I potting soil myself.

notes to myself #20

Be careful when Stu gives you a ride on his motorcycle; the exhaust pipe and your leg are not a good combination.

There are days I wish I was a hobbit. These days are every day. I wouldn’t have to shrink much, and my ears are actually kind of pointy. I hate to wear shoes. I love food. My life would be perfect.

I could get with that.

I find myself wasting time and thoughts greedily and gladly. They say that no thoughts are wasted thoughts, and I agree to an extent. However thinking about what life would be like if you were a hobbit while you should be writing a Readers Response paper is a bit wasteful. Also I very well can’t write a story about hobbits because I don’t have money to pay the wonderful Tolkien family.

Also, I watched LotR FotR this week. Can you tell?

FS

My bedroom decor has become a combination of Hobbits (autographed pictures of Billy Boyd and Sean Astin, theatrical banner from “The Two Towers” and my drawing of Frodo) and vampires – a stand-up of Edward Cullen, poster of Robert Pattinson, and poster from “The Vampire Diaries”.  There’s also my poster of Charlie from “LOST”, but I am lacking a poster of Simon from “Flash Forward” – actually that would be the same face.

Vampires and Hobbits, oh my!

Of all the television networks you would think that the History Channel would be most conscientious in preparing their specials. This is not the case, as demonstrated by last night’s “Clash of the Gods: The Lord of the Rings.” The show falls prey to the commonest of pitfalls: allegory. Not only that, but their analysis is severely reductionist, and omits key points necessary to an understanding of Tolkien or his work.  I regret the time I spent watching it, but felt compelled to comment. 

The show lists precedent after precedent as the true source for the Ring, Gandalf, the Hobbit and many elements of Tolkien’s writing. While it is true that Tolkien read, taught, and was inspired by these works this by no means implies a one to one relationship. The one saving grace here was an aside, by one of their experts: Tolkien had the unique ability to combine elements of pagan and Christian mythology.

One example of “Clash’s” narrow interpretation is the orcs. They claim the orcs are representative of capitalism. Yes, it fits…but it is too narrow a focus. There are no one to ones in Tolkien. Or if so, it is not quite so specific. Tolkien was suspicious of most technology and industry, seeing how they came to dominate the landscape and destroy natural England. Orcs are the embodiment of those who delight in machines and wanton destruction. They represent the evils of Modernity, no matter the economic or political credo.  Yet this is just one interpretation I see (see Evil or Not), one application.  The wonder of LotR, and its staying power, lies in its use of applicability in place of allegory.  The opinions of “Clash” are valid, but they are mere applications, not the source or the meaning.  Herein lies the power.  In place of the all-powerful author, controlling meaning and intent, we have the all powerful reader, free to find numerous and unique meanings upon each reading and each time.  I understand the desire to interpret and condense, but the lack of any mention of applicability, (but the very noticeable mention of allegory a few times) is troublesome…when the author went to such pains to express his ideology within the pages of the book itself! 

Through all the discussion of source materials, they never mention the true impetus of the story and the reason Tolkien actually admits: language. Very little time is spent on Tolkien’s invention of language, which he claimed is the progenitor of all myth. The Silmarillion and his subsequent writings, all stem from Tolkien’s creation of elvish. He not only desired an English mythology, but to discover the world of his languages.

In the end the biggest flaw is one so crucial to an understanding of Tolkien, and his understanding of Christian providence, that I cannot believe it was never mentioned. Not only that, but it was blatantly ignored! This concept is eucatastrophe; the sudden entrance of Grace, which saves all from despair. In the show, they remark on how “contrary to his Christian beliefs” it is that Frodo does not conquer the Ring and destroy it…that he does not succeed. That a “good” character succumbs, and the “evil” (Gollum) succeeds in his place through evil designs. This is blatantly wrong. Tolkien believed in Eucatastrophe, taking his cues from the greatest moment of Eucatastrophe in history: the Crucifixion and Resurrection of our Lord. This  moment in the narrative depicts Man’s reliance on providence. Gollum succeeds in regaining the Ring. He accidentally falls into the Cracks of Doom. The destruction of the Ring is no success on any character’s part, it is apparent chance; miracle. And this is central to both Tolkien’s myth-making and theology.

-”Desde el 28 de septiembre hasta el 10 de octubre, los establecimientos Miró realizarán un descuento de un euro por cada centímetro de altura del cliente, siempre y cuando el artículo adquirido supere los 400 euros y que pertenezca a la gama blanca, cocción y marrón (imagen y sonido).“-

No sé, pero no hay que ser un experto en el mundo del marketing para darse cuenta de que no es el mejor enfoque para una campaña, no?

Electrodomésticos Miró: PDF del folleto.

I have read the books and seen the movies more times than I’d care to admit.

There was a rumor that Peter Jackson wanted to add the hobbits encounter with Tom Bombadil in the Old Forest for a special edition release next year. Has anyone heard more about it?

Also, any word on the new Hobbit movies? I believe both movies are being filmed in Jackson’s home country:

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CLASH OF THE GODS: TOLKIEN’S MONSTERS airs Monday, October 5 10PM/9c on HISTORY.

If you’re a history and military buff like me, The Lord of the Rings is a story tailor made for you: two massive armies facing each other on the battlefield about to be locked in combat. Now…just substitute Patton for a wizard in flowing white robes, the Nazis for a hideous race of creatures called Orcs, and Europe for Middle-earth.

Okay, that’s a wee bit simplistic (and not actually accurate…although written in spurts between 1937 and 1952, Tolkien always said that Lord of the Rings should never be read as an allegory for World War II.)

But what is it that has caused The Lord of the Rings to have sold over 150 million copies and to be translated into almost 40 languages? For me, it’s that feeling of real history, which gives Lord of the Rings its life. JRR Tolkien was obsessive about documenting his universe with dates, family trees, maps and indexes….hell, he even threw in a creation story. If it wasn’t for the fact that the characters are elves, dwarves, hobbits and wizards you’d think you were submersed in a history textbook.

So in Clash of the Gods, the goal was to figure out where all this inspiration came from. Much of The Lord of the Rings is about good overcoming evil, and Tolkien’s devout Catholicism provides the backbone. Comparisons of Frodo’s quest to Christ are plainly seen, but I think the most interesting tidbits are the ones found in Beowulf and other Norse myths. Tolkien doesn’t really hide in lifting almost exactly scenes from classic tales. The transformation of Smeagol into the creature Gollum almost exactly mirrors a tale in the Norse Volsunga Saga; and scenes like Bilbo stealing a cup in The Hobbit are directly lifted from Beowulf.

But more than any gods or monsters from ancient myth, I think it’s the personal pain that Tolkien suffered which gives The Lord of the Rings its foothold in reality. As a soldier in World War I, Tolkien was right in the middle of the action, watching friends killed and mutilated right in front of his eyes. When Tolkien writes about the same kind of suffering for Frodo there is a ring of truth that isn’t found in any other kind of fantasy writing.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter to me that Tolkien stole stuff from tales of the past…that’s pretty what all writers do. But what he did was to make it his own and transform it into something new. A feat which many writers attempt, but few do successfully.

So I’m off to re-read The Lord of the Rings…150 million people can’t be wrong.

– Ted Poole, KPI Writer and Producer

CLASH OF THE GODS: TOLKIEN’S MONSTERS airs Monday, October 5 10PM/9c on HISTORY.

John Key, the Prime Minister of New Zealand is too funny! In an interview cross from New York to his home country, Keys tells Mark Sainsbury, that when photographed with the Obamas, Michelle Obama is so tall, that she makes his wife Bronagh Key look like a Hobbit!

How Peter Jackson-esque of him in promoting New Zealand to the world. Let’s hope the joke was worth the slap from Bronagh when John got back to his New York hotel. The irony here is that Mark Sainsbury the interviewer Key is talking to, is a total hobbit!

Love this guy. He’s got a great sense of humor and comes across well in the US  on entertainment television. That’s what good politics is all about in the US of A. The political rhetoric of  a cute accent and an amusing sound bite is Key in taking world politics by storm.

Key nails it! A new hot boy, of World Politics has emerged. Nice one John Key and Bronagh! 

ps: It’s not normal for New Zealand men to call their wives hobbits.

The Official White House photograph of New Zealand’s humorous hobbits of national New Zealand politics and America’s First Couple comes with these instructions from the White House:

This official White House photograph is being made available only for publication by news organizations and/or for personal use printing by the subject(s) of the photograph. The photograph may not be manipulated in any way and may not be used in commercial or political materials, advertisements, emails, products, or promotions that in any way suggests approval or endorsement of the President, the First Family, or the White House. 

So… I’m not in any way using the White House official photo to advertise The  Hobbit film by Peter Jackson shot in beautiful New Zealand where the Obamas want to visit and vacation with their children. I repeat, I am not Advertising the Hobbit film by Peter Jackson filmed down under in stunning New Zealand, where Barack Obama wants to take his  daughters for a visit one day. But i do think Malia and Sasha Obama would love the country where the Oscar winning Lord of The Rings Trilogy was filmed.

And there you have it!