13. Pilgrimage
I was released from the sanatorium at the beginning of March - not "cured," but "stable". I would have to be content with that.
The taxi driver started the car, and I leaned back with a deep sigh. Finally I did not have to fool anyone, did not have to play any role. As miserable as I still felt, this at least was a relief.
We were driving down a country road bordered on both sides with trees covered in white blossoms. Spring... It had been winter when I found myself in the park, stumbling along blindly by the pond. Nearly two months ago.Two months and nearly a lifetime.
A week before I left the sanatorium I had telephoned to Mrs. Meinhardt. Ever since my father's death she had come once a week to clean house for me, and now I made a heroic effort to explain what had happened to me. She listened to my stammered explanation - false, of course - and after clucking sympathetically a few times, promised to go to the house and get it spruced up for me.
The taxi dropped me off by the garden gate. I paid the driver and went in, up the paved walk to the door. When I unlocked it and pushed it open, the warm, clean scent of orange oil furniture polish filled my nostrils: everything was tidy and sparkling clean. The kitchen floor was waxed to a high shine and the refrigerator was stocked with butter and cheese and cold meat. There must have been spoiled food in it, after more than four months, I thought, but Mrs. Meinhardt had been very thorough, and there was no lingering odor, only fresh cleanliness. There was a loaf of new bread, and the clay bowl my mother had brought back from a long-ago holiday in Italy sat on the kitchen table, filled with Granny Smith apples.
A clay bowl of June apples, in another kitchen. Light streaming in through big windows onto a well-scrubbed wooden table. A white-bearded wizard sitting across from me.
"This is not your home, child. If you continue to ignore that fact, you are going to rip yourself to pieces."
I winced and stared blindly at the bowl of fruit. Then I saw the note lying on the table, Mrs. Meinhardt's big, round writing.
"Dear Miss Steinenberg! I washed the curtains and cleaned everything. If I hear nothing from you, I'll be here next Friday, as usual."
I looked at the wall calendar, decorated with Frisian houses. I had bought one like it every year ever since I went to visit my grandmother for the first time. Today was Monday. The week stretched long and empty before me. Other than my charwoman, no one knew I was back.
Faith.
I turned around and went across the hall into the study. The top of my desk was perfectly clean, like the rest of the room, and on the leather desk pad I had inherited from my father stood the closed laptop.
I opened it and switched it on. The screen brightened and I sat down, hitting the keys that would take me online. I would send her an e-mail. I would tell her I was back, and a report would follow very soon, explaining my long silence. But when I saw the hundreds of messages that filled my mailbox nearly to the point of collapse, I lost my courage. I should read them, every one of them, and send some response, but I simply couldn't.
I switched off the laptop. For a moment I sat without moving; then I got up and left the room. The small travel bag a friendly nurse at the samatarium had bought for me still stood by the front door: clothes the nurse had organized for me, some cosmetics, my secret diary, and the things from that fateful evening. I carried the bag upstairs.
My bed was freshly made, spread with my grandmother's patchwork coverlet, and a cool breeze came in through the open window and billowed the curtains. I set down the bag and opened the zipper.
On top lay the bright pullover I had worn when I went out for the walk that led me to Middle Earth. I pulled it out and folded it properly, put it in the closet. Heaven knew when I would ever wear it again. The very sight of it made my stomach contract into a painful knot.
Next came underwear and a couple of blouses, three pairs of jeans and a pair of slippers I had used in the sanatorium. When I picked them up, a small, neatly folded paper bag slipped out of one of them. When I opened the bag, the chain with my Celtic cross fell onto the coverlet. They had removed my jewelry when I arrived at the hospital; I had forgotten all about it. My big silver Creole earrings were there too - my mind wandered to my father, who in a rare moment of dry humor had called them gipsy treasure. One of them rolled away and fell behind the bed, and I crawled under to get it. When I had retrieved it and went to throw away the paper bag, I noticed that there was still something inside. I shook the bag, and something heavy and shining fell into my open palm.
I stared in disbelief, the breath catching in my throat. I felt as if something heavy had fallen on my chest.
It was the mithril ring. Damrod's ring.
I didn't understand. Every stitch of clothing I had worn in Middle Earth had remained there - but the ring was here.Why? How?
For years I could not believe that I would ever have a wife to wear it, and I want to see it on your hand.
The memory of his voice was like a blow in the stomach. Did he know already? And when did he find out? When the house was ready, that he had been preparing for me? When he came to Minas Tirith, to take me home?
Damrod.
I let myself sink down on the bed, the ring pressed against my heart. After a while I fell asleep, for a few, precious hours actually home again.
When I awakened, in the little moment between dream and reality my eyes searched instinctively for the grey stone walls, the pointed window of my room in the Houses of Healing. But all I saw was the familiar lilac-colored wall that I had decorated with a painted tendril of flowering vetch a few years back, and the room did not smell of wood smoke and herbs, but rather of the starch Mrs. Meinhardt had used on my curtains.
I still held the ring in my hand. I unfolded my fingers and gazed into the deep, quiet green of the gem, and it was only when it blurred before my eyes that I realized I was crying.
vvvvv
In the following weeks I tried to take up the threads of my old life. I didn't go back to work at the newspaper right away. My editor had been very kind, relieved to see me back and very understanding of my need of time for convalesence. I began transferring the notes I had made in the sanatorium onto my computer.
It was a laborious undertaking. In some places I couldn't read my own, cramped handwriting, but worse than that was the torment of waking the memories.. the voices, the words, each little incident. Day after day I forced myself to the task, but sometimes I could manage no more than two short paragraphs before the world I had lost was so clear and vivid before my eyes that I could not bear it. Other days I transcribed a page or two, and then was so exhausted that I lay down and slept away the afternoon.
I tried sometimes to distract myself, but without success. I found it hard to watch TV programs; the flood of images, the boisterous commercials, were overwhelming, an attack on my senses. Political events, news of wars and disasters in various places, rushed past me in a disturbing blur. I turned from TV to radio, but it wasn't much better. The constant, false cheer of the announcers' voices tore fiercely at my nerves, and before long I stopped switching on either the TV or the radio. For the first time in my life even my beloved classical CDs brought me no comfort: the first fortissimo of the orchestra made me cringe.
And I thought about Damrod. He filled my mind nearly every waking moment. I still remember one of my rare trips to the next town, about two weeks after I got back. It was a Saturday and the streets were full of people. I was on my way home, exhausted and numbed by the unaccustomed scrimmage and the racket of noise, when a man jostled me. He stopped and begged my pardon, and I caught a glimpse of grey eyes, a well-shaped face and dark hair. He smiled, then he turned around and walked away, and I stood stock-still on the busy sidewalk with my heart drumming in my chest.
That night I began to dream. I dreamt of encounters with Damrod, of sunny afternoons spent with him, of earnest conversations. I dreamt that he held me in his arms and kissed me, and finally that we made love - and from those dreams I woke sobbing in an empty bed in a different world, lying awake for the rest of the night, staring into emptiness and struggling against a pain that hollowed me out and consumed me till I felt like an empty shell.
In the daytime I tried to continue writing down the story for Faith, diving again and again into my memories. It was an endless cycle of suffering, and no escape. I slept less and less and my writing slowed almost to a standstill; some days I spent sitting in front my shining screen without typing a single world, the cursor blinking before my eyes...on... off...on...off...on... off...
I got in the habit of going for a long walk on Friday, in order to avoid Mrs. Meinhardt. I was afraid of her worried questions if she saw my pale face, the shadows under my eyes, and the way my narrow summer dress hung on my skinny body like a potato sack.
July came, and Mrs. Meinhardt bid farewell with one of her properly written letters before she left for her annual family holiday near the North Sea. I hardly noticed; my days had lost their shape, melting into a vague sequence of light and darkness. The dreams had become unbearable, and now I did not dream only of Damrod. Once again I was reliving the evening after the battle of Pelennor Fields, the attack - but now when I woke from the nightmare there was no one there to hold me, no loving voice or warm body to comfort me and shield me against the memory. I was afraid to go to sleep, and yet afaid to wake up and go back to the computer, to try and tell my story.
I was afraid to live anymore.
One evening I came to myself in my study, with no idea how I had spent the day. The house was dark and stifling hot. The window shades were all pulled down, and on the desk in front of me a candle was burning. There was a bottle of wine, open, and a filled glass. And beside the glass were two vials of sleeping pills.
I stared at the macabre still life and felt naked horror breaking through the fog that filled my mind. I heard a stifled whimper, then realized in fear that it was my own voice. I jumped up, shuddering, and the chair toppled over behind me. The candle flickered and went out.
I stumbled down the stairs and left the house, banging the door behind me. The sky was hung with thick clouds, and as I opened the garden gate and stepped out onto the street, a bolt of lightning forked out of the blackness, followed by the first heavy drops drumming on the heated asphalt.
I glanced back with a shudder at the empty house, the dark windows shiny with rain. Then I turned and ran.
vvvvv
I ran through silent streets in between dim circles of light from the streetlights. Without thinking where I was going, I turned into a narrow passage between high hedges. It opened into a small, enclosed area and I stopped, looking around.
A church stood before me, neither big nor impressive, but it was illuminated from within, and the glow of quadratic windows of colored glass was reflected in the puddles on the ground. The rain was soaking through my thin summer dress, trickling down my back, and my sandals squeaked with wetness. I went to the church door and tried it. It wasn't locked and I stepped inside, noticing from the corner of my eye a simple bronze plate with the inscription St. Agnes.
I shut the door softly behind me, and at once I was surrounded by silence. There was a faint smell of incense, lingering from the last Mass, and mixed with the scent of warm wax; in a side chapel a statue of some saint stood looking down on a few dozen lighted candles. On each side of the nave were benches of dark wood, and in the front the red glow of the Eternal Light.I went over to the statue; it was Mary with the baby Jesus. She must have been carved and painted sometime during the Baroque era; she had a friendly face with rosy cheeks, and the Child in her arms was smiling.
I sank down on one of the benches, closing my eyes. The horror I had felt when I saw the wine and the pills washed over me again: my God I nearly killed myself!
"I can't stand any more of this," I whispered. "I'm finished; I can't bear it anymore. If this was a game, it was a cruel one, and I am not a toy. How could You do this to me?"
My voice broke and I fell silent. The Madonna gazed down on me patiently, and drops of moisture ran down my face. I wasn't sure if they were tears or rainwater from my soaked hair.
The church door opened again behind me. I turned to look, and saw a man walking without haste down the main aisle. He stopped before the main altar to genuflect and cross himself, before he moved to sit down on the first bench in front. A priest. I sat utterly still, hardly daring to breathe; I didn't want to attract his attention. All I could see of him from where I sat was a broad back and short hair, tinged with grey.
Slowly I became aware how wet I really was. My dress was soaked through, clinging to my body, and my hair hung in thick, dripping strands down my back. I began to shiver uncontrollably, cold, and also the shock that still had me in its grip. Perhaps I could slip out quietly. I shrank from returning to my empty house (back to those bottles of pills) but I couldn't think of anything else to do.
I slid off the bench, but I had gone no more than a few meters toward the door when I sneezed. It burst from me like an explosion into the deep silence, and to my dismay the man jumped up hastily and turned to me.
"Hello?"
He hurried toward me. He was a big man, more than a head taller than I was, and no longer young. He looked like a sturdy countryman, grey green eyes regarding me from under bushy eyebrows, his chin covered by a short beard, neatly trimmed
"I had no idea I was not alone," he said. His voice was warm and deep, with a singing echo that made me think of a cello, and he had a noticeable Franconian accent, all soft g's and rolling r's. Then his brow furrowed. "But my dear girl, you're as wet as a drowned cat!"
I wrapped my arms around myself and tried not to let my teeth chatter. "A are you the priest here?"
"Not really." He had a friendly smile. "I'm filling in for him this week; he's away on holiday. I am Brother Anselm, and I am a Franciscan friar."
Now that I looked more closely at him, I noticed the dark brown robe with its belt of knotted rope.
"I don't wish to intrude," he interrupted my observation, "but you surely have some reason to be sitting in this drafty church, dripping wet as you are. Can I perhaps be of help?"
Hardly not unless he could break through the borders of another world and convince the lords – or the one Lord – of that world to let me in again.
"I don't think so," I said wearily. I could feel goosebumps running up my arms. "I should go home."
"Are you sure, my dear?"
I stared at him, undecided, and then I remembered those two vials of pills on the table in my living room and horror closed its fist once more around my heart.
"No." His face blurred suddenly before my eyes and I began to sob, trying desperately to regain my composure, and then I sneezed again.
"Oh, dear heaven!" A surprisingly strong hand gripped my shoulder. "You come with me, my dear, and I'll see if I can't find something dry for you to wear in Father Leonhard's house. And then I'll make you a cup of tea."
vvvvv
Half an hour later I sat at the kitchen table in the rectory of St. Agnes Church, wrapped in an enormous bathrobe that nearly drowned me in its luxurious folds. Fragrant steam rose from a huge mug of honeyed tea before me.
Brother Anselm bustled about, slicing dark bread and piling it with ham and cheese on a plate. He set it on the table, poured himself a cup of tea, and sat down across from me.
"Well," he said. "And now you should tell me what's wrong."
I stared into my mug.
"I don't know if I can," I said hoarsely. "You'll think I'm crazy."
He leaned back in his chair, laughing softly.
"Child," he said. "I believe in a man who made enough food for thousands of people from five loaves of bread and two fishes, who raised the dead and could walk on the water. Believe me, I am not easily surprised."
I lifted my head.
"Are you familiar with The Lord of the Rings?"
"Yes, I am," he said deliberately. "Published in 1955 by a totally unknown Oxford Professor, and now the bestselling book in the world, after the Bible. Great story. And the movie they made last year isn't bad, either."
"I can't judge as to that," I replied. "I haven't seen it. But... please, you must promise me something."
"What is that?"
That you don't cut me off. And that you do not leave before I have finished. Oh Damrod, my love....
"That you will hear me out. That you will at least try to believe..." I could hear the trembling in my voice.
"You have my word."
And so once more I told the story of my odyssey. I began with the evening when I took my fateful walk, and followed the chronology of events as faithfully as possible. The fact that I had been trying for some months already, to write it all down for Faith, helped me to keep the events in order. I spoke of Minas Tirith, of the Houses of Healing, of Ioreth and Mardil. The images came back to me, colorful and full of life, and this time it was not torture but unbelievable relief, to give in to them. I could speak; I was allowed to speak. I told him about the battle, about Gandalf's face as he leaned down to me from his saddle, about the dying warrior of Rohan. The words flowed out of my mouth, an irresistible stream, together with laughter and piercing joy, and not a few tears. And all the time he listened to me, his eyes on my face, attentive and thoughtful. From time to time he asked a question, when I paused, but he did not interrupt me.
Finally I came to the day I was released from the sanatorium. Briefly I summed up the foggy weeks that followed, and then I fell silent, watching him as he poured more tea into my cup. I gulped it down without meeting his eyes.
He was quiet for so long that I began to feel anxious.
"Well?" I asked finally, with difficulty keeping my voice level. "Do you believe me?"
He sighed.
"I can see that you believe it," he said. He frowned. "And I must admit that it would be a rather fantastic story to spin out of your imagination. But all the same..." He hesitated.
"All the same, you would like to see some proof."
"I'm not certain that I would like it, actually." His voice was rather brusque, and he closed his eyes, wiping his brow with a large handkerchief pulled out of the pocket of his habit. "Child, you are turning my conception of the universe upside down."
For the first time in several weeks, I found myself smiling.
"Does the idea of your Creator bringing more than one world into life disturb you?"
He smiled back at me, rather unwillingly.
"No, not really. But the idea is somewhat startling, you must admit. And yes, I think I really would like to see some proof. For you know, my dear, if you really did imagine all this..."
He leaned forward, his eyes piercing under the bushy eyebrows.
"In that case, it would be better if you told the kind people at the sanatorium the truth. For if this is not true, then you have a very serious problem, and you should go back there at once and get some real help."
I pulled Damrod's ring from my finger.
"Do you happen to know anyone who can appraise jewelry?"
He took the ring from me, turning it in his hands in evident amazement.
"As a matter of fact, I do," he said. "One of my confreres in the monastery was a jeweler before he found his vocation, and he is now an expert in the sacral jewelry of the medieval period. But I don't know what sort of proof his expertise could give us..."
"Show him the ring, and ask him," I said. I took another sip of tea. "And you are wrong, Brother Anselm. Even if I can prove to you that I have really been in a place that really does exist, I still have a problem. For the man who gave me this ring is still there, and I am afraid I will never see him again."
vvvvv
Around midnight, Brother Anselm drove me home in the priest's rattling old Volkswagen. He came in the house with me, and without a word he slid both vials of sleeping pills into the pocket of his habit.
"You don't need these anymore, my dear," he said quietly. "Tonight you will sleep in peace."
And he was right. My eyes closed as soon as my head touched the pillow, and I slept without dreaming until a raucous ringing around eight o'clock in the morning nearly threw me out of bed.
Bright sunshine peeked through the curtains. I rubbed my eyes as I tottered over to the intercom and took down the receiver, yawning.
"Who is it?"
"Brother Anselm." The cheery, energetic voice boomed from the loudspeaker. "I'm here to take you with me. We'll have breakfast, and I want to show you something."
"Don't you ever sleep?"
"Yes, of course I do!" he said with a chuckle. "But I have already celebrated early Mass at St. Agnes, and now I'm ready for something to eat. Come on, get dressed. I'll wait down here."
I sighed and hung up. After a hurried shower, I slipped into a fresh summer dress and sandals. Ten minutes later I was locking the door behind me and sliding into the passenger seat of his car.
He nodded approval. "Very quick," he said. "And you look pretty, besides."
"Are monks allowed to notice that?"
He laughed heartily.
"My dear girl, our God has given us eyes, and we may use them the same way other men do!" He shot me a sidelong glance. "You are too thin. And it isn't good for you, locking yourself up in that big house all alone. You need something to do with your time, some useful work."
I stared at him. "What kind of work?"
"Didn't you tell me you studied some medicine? And during your time over... there... you made yourself useful working with the wounded, didn't you?"
I nodded.
"Excellent!" He twinkled at me, plainly well pleased with himself. "Our order runs a small hospice here. There is some financial support, but not very much. The rest comes from donations and legacies, and we always need volunteers. Roll up your sleeves, my girl, and get to work!"
"What kind of hospice is it?" I asked.
"It was established as a place for people to spend their last days in dignity. There is space for relatives to sleep there, if they wish, and we make it as easy and comfortable as possible for our patients to leave this world. And even if they have no family, still they are not alone at the end."
"A place to die?" I shook my head. "I don't know if I want that... I don't even know if I can do that!"
"But you already did," he said calmly. "If your story is true, you have seen more of death than most people, and under far more dramatic circumstances than anything in our little hospice. People do not die of battle wounds in this place, child. They pass away in peace, and believe me that that is something completely different."
"I don't know," I said again.
"But I do." The gentle voice was suddenly very firm. "My dear, you have let all your mind revolve around yourself all these last weeks, and where did it get you? A table with a glass of wine and two vials of sleeping pills, and thank the grace of God, into my church! It is time that you opened your eyes to the suffering of other people, and in the hospice you will have the opportunity to do so."
Again he twinkled at me, taking the sharpness out of his words.
"And as a hospice volunteer you will need only a few classes, not full nurse's training. I'm sure you will do a wonderful job. Now you have a good look around, and then take a couple of days to think about it."
"How long?" I asked. A sudden realization through me. "Until your confrere has had a closer look at my ring?"
He raised his eyebrows, and I laughed.
"Don't worry, I'm not insulted. Of course you want to be sure you are not letting a dangerous psycho loose on your patients."
"You are not a psycho," he said earnestly. "To be honest, I am not certain what you are."
The car rolled to a stop before a large white house. A daisy-strewn lawn stretched from the building down to the street. The engine went quiet, and I considered the monk who had probably saved my life the previous evening... simply by listening to me, without judgment.
"Ah well," I said, "I'll have a look around, and I will think about it. You go ahead and send the ring to your confrere at the monastery. Once we have heard his opinion, you may still call the sanatorium if you think it's necessary."
"Agreed," he said. "And now let's have some breakfast."
vvvvv
Nearly two weeks later I sat playing Ludo with one of the patients in the small lounge of the hospice, looking out on the garden. Silja was eighteen, very pretty and cheerful, but thin to the point of fragility. She was in the final stages of cancer of the lymphatic gland. This was one of her good days, when she felt strong enough to leave her bed, and she was as happy about it as a child. She had just stopped me from rescuing my last figure, and she laughed aloud while I moaned theatrically, slapping my hand to my brow. Then I saw Brother Anselm; he stood in the doorway, his lips soundlessly forming the words Would you please come?
"You win, Silja," I said. "I never had a chance, the way you dice! But right now Brother Anselm wants me for something."
"But we'll play another game, won't we?"
"Of course." I got up, patting her bony shoulder under the thick bathrobe. "We certainly will -- so you can finally butcher me, sweetheart!"
She giggled delightedly, and I made a face at her as I went past.
Brother Anselm guided me hastily into his small office, locking the door behind us.
"What is it?" I asked in bewilderment.
His face was expressionless. "Brother Valentin called," he said. I stared at him without understanding. "The jeweler," he said impatiently. "The expert."
The ring. Damrod's ring.
"Ah." My heart began pounding.. with fear? Expectation? What if Arwen had been wrong? "And what does Brother Valentin say?"
Brother Anselm took a deep breath, and now I noticed that he was strangely pale under his healthy tan.
"He was unable to identify the metal," he said. "He says it has a density like multiply folded steel, but much harder, and he does not know a single metal on this earth with such an attribute. He could not scratch it, not even with a diamond. He believes the gem must be a tourmaline, given its weight and hardness, but he has never seen one this shade of green, nor one cut in this particular way. When he was talking about the setting, the craftmanship of the circlet, he was stammering with excitement."
The monk's face was shiny with sweat; he wiped it with his handkerchief.
"He says he has never in his career seen a piece of jewelry of such singular workmanship. He would die to keep it, to examine it much more thoroughly. And he emphatically wishes to talk with you."
"No," I said decidedly. "No, to both."
"What is it made of?" The stunned look in Brother Anselm's eyes would have been highly amusing, if sorrow had not been weighing so heavy on my heart.
"Mithril," I said. "Truesilver. Damrod's grandfather had it made in a Dwarvish workshop, and the last woman who wore it was Damrod's mother. He gave it to me as a sign of our betrothal." I straightened my back. "Please. Tell Brother Valentin that I want it back. Quickly! As quickly as possible."
"I would like to apologize," Brother Anselm said, still staring at me. "I knew you believed the story you told me was the truth. But all the same, to find that it really is true..."
His Adam's apple bobbled sharply as he swallowed. "I told you before, my dear. You have turned my worldview upside down. You have no idea how many things I want to ask you!" He smiled apologetically.
"I will answer your questions if I can," I said. "Over a glass of wine, or even a whole bottle, if you like. But right now I must return to Silja, so she can beat me in another game of Ludo."
I turned toward the door, but his voice stopped me.
"Are you going to stay?"
I looked at him over my shoulder and smiled. "Of course I'm going to stay. As if you didn't know that from the very beginning!"
vvvvv
Two years later.
"Why do you absolutely have to hang this painting in the entrance hall?"
"Because I like it." Brother Anselm's grin was mischievous. "Besides, it belongs there."
I glared at him over the dark wooden frame.
"Over my dead body!" I exclaimed. "I'll hang it in my living room; that's enough to satisfy my vanity. Someday, if I'm not here anymore, then you can do whatever you like with it."
He laughed.
"Agreed. Do we have many visiting families tomorrow?"
"Three. I can give them the tour through the house, if you want."
"That's fine. I have a meeting with Patrick Schweitzer's mother this evening. The boy is doing well enough, but she makes things unnecessarily difficult for him. Thank you for your support, Sabrina."
I picked up the painting that had been the cause of the argument and carried it upstairs. Reaching the top floor, I unlocked the door and entered my apartment: three bright rooms with sloping ceilings, a narrow kitchen, and a small terrace, built into the roof, with space enough for a table and a few chairs, and a collection of flowering plants in pots. I leaned the painting against the wall and looked around, seeing my hideaway as if for the first time.
When Brother Anselm had complained that I was turning his world upside down, two years previously in his office, he had undoubtedly been right. But the same applied to me.
Once I had made up my mind to work in the hospice, I signed up for all the necessary classes, and was ready to begin my service four months later. I was the contact person for the families, besides helping in the office and caring for patients. The actual medical treatments were reserved for the three nurses and the doctor, but everything else was my job: mine, and that of the faithful dozen volunteers who worked in the hospice.
It was in the nature of things that our guests did not leave us healed and well, but I learned to accept that. And Brother Anselm had been right: it was good for me to look beyond my own grief.
He asked his many questions, and we spent many evenings with me describing my experiences, and him as enthusiastic audience. My story held endless fascination for him; he wanted to know everything, and it was a comfort to me to tell him. I finally managed to finish writing the report for Faith; when I sent it to her, I included a photograph of the scar on my arm and a picture of Damrod's ring, along with Brother Valentin's expert appraisal. And that confrere of Brother Anselm's badgered me so mercilessly that in the end I spend a week's holiday in Franconia, the first summer I was working in the hospice, to visit him at his monastery. The memory of his stunned expression when I told him what metal the ring was made of, still made me smile many months later.
After she received my report, Faith came to Germany to see me. I suppose she was concerned about my sanity, but the fact that she would undertake such a journey moved me deeply, as proving how much she valued our friendship. She stayed two weeks, and in the end she was convinced, even as BRother Anselm and Brother Valentin had been. When she returned home, we began exchanging emails and letters again, and our friendship became even deeper and more open-hearted than it had been.
In the spring of my second year there, the hospice came within a hair's breadth of being closed. The Franciscans only rented the building, and the owner decided to get rid of it. Unfortunately, the Order did not have the money to buy it. The local newspaper helped us mount a fundraising campaign, but it was not enough.
I had been meeting once a year with my late father's lawyer, who administered my inheritance. At my 25th birthday I came into a large sum which my aunt had willed to me. Considering how much I owed to Brother Anselm and the hospice - perhaps my very life! - I decided to sell my parents' house. The young internist who had taken over my father's practice was delighted to buy it; he had married a couple of years before and hoped for a large family, so the big house was heaven-sent for him.
So the Franciscans were able to buy the hospice building after all, and I spent an exhausting month sorting through all my family heirlooms. I kept very little: a few favorite pieces of furniture, my books, a portrait of my mother and some other, smaller, keepsakes. Everything else was sold along with the house.
My lawyer wrote up the legal papers for the donation, and added a clause that guaranteed me right of abode in the small mansard beneath the roof of the hospice. Much of the revenue from the sale of my belongings, and part of the inheritance from my aunt, went to enlarging the mansard into a pleasant apartment. It took me several weeks to convince the lawyer that I really knew what I was doing; he had known me since I was a child.
This was my life now, and it was good. There was plenty of work for me to do, and I found friends among the caregivers and nurses in the hospice. They were my support; the quiet atmosphere of the place, the unhurried rhythm, created an oasis in the hectic bustle of the town and gave me a certain peace. When the memories pressed to heavily on me, there was always a shoulder I could lean on... not least of all, Brother Anselm. Over the past two years he had come to be like a father to me - more than my real father had ever been. I trusted the monk absolutely.
At the end of one long day, busy and tiring, I pulled Damrod's ring off my finger and laid it on my nightstand before I slipped into my bed. My whispered words as I closed my eyes had been repeated so often that they were nearly an incantation, a meditation. Or - considering whom I had to thank for the greater part of my healing - a prayer.
May your night be blessed, my love. I wish you peace and a healed heart. Think of me with joy and gratitude, as I think of you. I bless the time we were allowed to share together. I will never forget you.
I closed my eyes and slept. And I dreamed...
vvvvv
I was in a high, bright room, lined with tall windows. I went and looked out, and there was the White City and the undulating green of the Pelennor, stretching toward the horizon. It was clear and cool, sunny, and suddenly I heard voices behind me. I turned around without surprise to see Damrod and Faramir coming through the doorway.
"...and then he sent me another twenty mares!" Faramir was laughing. "Does King Eomer think I have nothing on my mind from morning till night, but horses?"
In the dream I bowed, laughing with them.
"That is because he has nothing else on his own mind, my prince," I said. "And you must not forget Eowyn; she has the same passion for horses."
"As I have reason to know!" Damrod added. "I will never forget how the White Lady sent for my wife, shortly before you son was to be born." He nodded to the prince of Ithilien. "I thought she wanted her on hand to help with the midwifery." He came over to me, kissing my cheek and putting his arm around my waist; I looked down at the strong, brown hand, resting protectively on my visibly rounded belly. The baby gave a strong kick, and Damrod laughed delightedly.
"At last!" he said. "And how vigorous he is!"
"He?" I gazed at him, half-mocking, and he bit his lip, but his eyes laughed.
"You came back home, bursting with pride, and began telling me about the birth. It wasn't until you started talking of "forelegs" and "nostrils" that I realized you had been helping a foal into the world, not a young noble of Ithilien!"
"It was my wife's favorite mare," Faramir explained apologetically. "And now it is time we were going home. Eowyn complains that she can't ride properly in Minas Tirith."
"Time for you, as well," Damrod said, and his hand caressed my belly. "I would like for our child to be born in our own house. Are you feeling well?"
"Of course." I stretched up to kiss his lips. "I have never been better, dearest love."
vvvvv
I lay in the dark, suddenly wide awake, an odd sensation running through my body. Without thinking I laid both hands across my abdomen, but it was as flat as ever. Is that how it feels? I wondered in amazement. Is that what it's like to be with child? I had made love with Damrod often enough, and I had done nothing to prevent conception. But I had not gotten pregnant, and remembering the dreadful time after my return, I was thankful for that.
But in the dream, I had been carrying his child. I remembered the sudden jolt of movement inside me, and Damrod's hand cupped over my belly, and a shiver ran down my spine.
It had been so vivid. So real! But what did it mean?
Had I seen what would have happened, if I had been able to remain in Middle Earth? Or... had I been given a glimpse of something yet to come?
At that thought I shot out of bed. Days earlier, I had dared to open a book by Tolkien, for the first time since my return. It was a volume of his collected letters, the correspondence of many years. It had been strange to see how he analyzed the story in exchanges with people who wrote to him, looking at it from all sides as if it were no more than a story, however extraordinary.
In one letter I had found an attempt to explain why Frodo had been allowed to sail to the Undying Lands. Tolkien wrote that it had been Arwen who obtained this favor for him.
Her renunciation and suffering were related to and enmeshed with Frodo's, Tolkien had written. "Both were parts of a plan for the regeneration of the state of Men. Her prayer might therefore be specially effective, and her plan have a certain equity of exchange. No doubt it was Gandalf who was the authority that accepted her plea."(1)
Gandalf, who meanwhile had left Middle Earth himself, aboard the same ship on which Frodo sailed. The time axis between his world and ours might have been shifted by a few months (I had left Minas Tirith in summer, and upon my return had found myself in winter) but the intervals were the same: I had lived four months in Middle Earth, and I had been gone for four months. By now Frodo was certainly on Tol Eressea, and Gandalf with him.
Gandalf. The Maia who had warned me against ripping myself apart for love. Gandalf, the authority, who had granted Arwen's plea to let the Ringbearer take her place on the Elven ship.
Give us hope, he had begged me, when he wondered if Frodo's quest had any chance of success.Will Minas Tirith survive to see this victory? he had demanded, when Rohan was slow in coming to Gondor's aid.
I took Damrod's ring from the nightstand and slid it on my finger. Going to the window, I pushed it open and stood with the cold night air washing over me, penetrating my thin nightshirt and covering my arms and legs with goosebumps.
I don't ask to go into the West, Lord. I spoke softly into the night. My desire is not that great, and I have done nothing to deserve special grace. But if you could permit a hobbit - no, three hobbits! - to set foot on Tol Eressea, can you not persuade the rulers - the One Ruler - of your world, to open Middle Earth to me once more? Oh, please, let me go home!
I closed my eyes, letting myself feel the depth of my longing, the ache for home and love that had never eased during these long two years of exile, despite my precarious, hard-won peace.
I beg you, Lord! I gave you hope when you had none. Now give it back to me - let me go home...
And this is not my home anymore.
vvvvv
Is this where my tale ends?
I don't know. Perhaps I will never know; perhaps in my old age, my back bowed by the burden of the years, I will still wake each morning from dreams of another world.
I do not know. Reason tells me to be satisfied with what I had, and still have. God knows there are people far more unlucky than I have been. I am healthy, and I have my work. Worthwhile, fulfilling work. And I have precious memories... So many people have none of these things.
But oh, my heart!
My heart is full of images, my heart clings to dreams and is only too ready to take them for prophecies. With the eyes of my heart, I see myself standing in the midst of the Pelennor, the fields healed from the wounds of war and brimming with wheat, white unto harvest. The White City rises before me, its walls gleaming in the sunlight, and from the highest tower flaps the banner of the great king and his kindly, lovely queen.
And somewhere, my love, you are waiting. In the garden of Gondor dwells my beloved, and I am your own, always. My heart still echoes to your voice, and my body aches for the touch of your hands.
I will never stop loving you.
I will never give up hope.
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
(1) From Letters by J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 246, Footnote 3