First I was excited. I marvelled that this book might tell me facts about the future, facts that even Mandos could not see. Reading it would allow me to foresee the very moves of the enemy.

But then doubt began to creep into my joy. The book could tell me about mistakes and dire consequences, but would knowing them mean that I could change the course of action? And if I could, would the book become obsolete? It occurred to me that sometimes mistakes turn out to be sacrifices that lead to greater good. What would I do, I pondered, if I knew that some plan would be fatal to a good friend, while changing the plan would mean to stray from the known path to ultimate success?

Oh, I wished you might have been there. You or anybody to discuss the matter with. My wish directed my thoughts to back to the curious creature. Where did it come from, I asked myself? Was it a creature of the future itself? It seemed to be familiar with these time twisting passages, probably it could have counselled me whether to read the book or not. Of course, even if I could trust it and it could indeed counsel me, most likely it would not, after all that had happened.

My thoughts went back to the question I had to answer: Should I read Tolkien's books? Since there was nobody to counsel with, I played with the idea of taking the book with me and deciding whether or not read it back in Middle-earth. But even that might not be a safe thing to do: I felt that carrying this book could be almost as dangerous as carrying the Ring.

Thoughts about returning called my attention to a completely different, but even more important problem: I had to find a way back! If I got lost in this maze, I imagined, I might well read the book only to learn that Gandalf the Grey plays no role in it.

I tried to remember the way I had taken, but soon gave up. I was fairly certain that I could find back to the spiral stairway, but after that my memory quickly failed. At the beginning of the chase too much of my mental prowess had been required to merely follow the creature; there had not been enough left to memorise the route.

Since I could not remember the way I had taken, I had to find one, so much was obvious. Taking into account the highly knotted structure of those corridors, I concluded that most likely there were many correct ways, but even more wrong ones. So I had to find a way to get my bearings.

For a while I tried to look at the books in the shelves around the rifts for clues, but this was pointless. Most of the titles did not sound familiar in any way and reading more than just the titles would cost me days for each rift.

I leaned on my staff and pondered: Men often asked me things like "Couldn't you just command it happen?" or "Couldn't you conjure up something?" But you cannot command books nor summon knowledge.

Then I began to think. What could be the essence of this world? Books? Words? Stories? Ideas? I saw only one way to learn that: by trying. First I tried books. I concentrated all my thoughts on Isildur's diary, as I was reading it ere this creature distracted me, but this did not help in any way.

So I tested words. I started with a big one: "Arda", then tried a more specific place "Minas Tirith". Both words triggered a vivid collection of impressions and pictures in my mind, but neither induced any sense of direction.

Next I attempted to concentrate on a story: here I chose the epic battles of old fought against the one who is now only known as Morgoth. First I felt nothing, but then slowly I recognised a confusing sensation. It did seem to point somewhere, but I could not follow it. After a while however I felt it more clearly and then I realised that it actually pointed two ways at once.

Walking around a bit, I detected that one direction was constant, while the other one changed as I moved. It seemed to point to something near at hand. Then the scales fell from my eyes: of course it pointed to the Silmarillion in the shelf, wherein that story is written down. So the other direction must be the one I needed, but I also made a mental note that books can be located here with the same technique. This discovery actually eased another decision I had to make: since I had found a way locate the books again, I left them where they were.

So I began to walk in the direction that would hopefully lead me back. For a while it pointed me exactly the way I remembered passing before, but then I had to leave the known path. This did not trouble me too much, since someone trying to get rid of a pursuer does usually not run straight. By and by the direction became clearer as the influence of the books got weaker and I got more familiar with this kind of navigation. But then it suddenly failed.

Well, "fail" is not quite the right word. It did point to a wall. First I assumed there had to be a hidden door, but after a thorough examination I was absolutely sure that a solid wall was indeed all there was. For a moment I considered breaking through by force. But you know me, I will always try to find something better before resorting to violence.

Reflecting on everything I had learnt, I recognised I had been quite naive. Since I could travel time as well as space, thinking only of old stories would lead me to a younger Arda. Or would they? Thus far I had always equated going back to Arda with going back to the royal library. But in these old times the library did not exist. Nor did anything one could even remotely call a library. This, I supposed, was exactly why I was standing in front of a wall: there had been no entrance to our world back then.

Following my conclusion I now thought about stories specifically associated with Minas Tirith and as close to the present day as possible. The latest gossip proved to be too weak, but when I recollected the history of the stewards, I got a direction I could follow again.

Now I was quite convinced I had the right anchor and I thought my way back would be smooth and uneventful. All of a sudden however, another book caught my attention. It was named The Murders in the Rue Morgue(1) by Edgar Allan Poe.

I wanted to get home, so I hesitated to read another book. This one however was much smaller and the first book I had noticed had been extraordinarily interesting. After short consideration I took the book and began to read.

"The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis..." The book had been made in a way similar to the Tolkien ones. Most likely it was a future book as well. At least that would explain why many of its terms were unknown to me.

It started with a treatise on what it means to analyse. When I began to apply the idea to my own analysis of the book space in order to make sense out of it, the topic changed completely. Now the text was telling the tale of a brilliant person using his mental abilities to solve a mysterious murder. What he finds is that an animal, whose description fitted well to the creature I had chased, had acted most violently, when it had been cornered by a pursuer.

This gave me a lot to think about. Was it a warning, I wondered? And if so, who or what had sent it? Before long however,I decided that this riddle could be solved another day. I focused on the stewards once more and finally entered the royal library, where, to my relief, I found the diary still lying where I had left it.

And that is the end of this tale. My thoughts have since returned to the creature several times. The more I am thinking about it, the less I can imagine it to be a servant of the Enemy. It seemed to walk this weird maze with ease and confidence, but if Sauron has subdued this creature, I doubt that the whole place would still be so empty and quiet. The place felt almost, as if it was alive, but not in an evil way. To be on the safe side I have blocked the entrance in the royal library though.

I now regret my harsh reaction. Why did it have to appear while I was reading Isildur's diary and was as tense as I could be? Though it does not seem to speak any known language, I am sure I would have found a way to communicate with a creature so obviously intelligent. What a resourceful friend it could be.

There is no use crying over spilt milk, as men say. Today I think that it was more than just bad luck that it appeared at that very moment, yet I have not found a reasonable explanation so far.

Even without having read the other books, the incident however has raised my hopes. One thing I have learnt about history books is that they usually reflect the victor's view and Sauron would not approve of the Silmarillion.

(1) I doubt this short story was ever published as a book, but it could be some day, so it can be found in L-Space.