From my new novel that I’m bringing out six days from today.
London
July 20, 1971
Tolkien looks back at Riis.
“In 1913, I read a single line in the 8th-Century poem ‘Crist’ by Cynewulf: ‘Hail Earendil, brightest of Angels, Over Middle-earth sent unto men.’ I felt a curious thrill, as if something had stirred in me, half wakened me from sleep. There was something very remote and strange and beautiful behind those words, if I could grasp it.”
“You were at Oxford,” Riis says. “With your friends, your fellowship. T.C.B.S.”
“Yes. The four of us.”
Riis continues. “You aspired to nurture and amplify each other’s creative powers as you restored neglected values – faith, love, and duty – to our world.”
“Yes. Geoffrey Smith, Christopher Wiseman, Robert Gilson, and myself.”
“I hear you wrote while you were in the trenches.”
“That’s all spoof, Riis. You couldn’t write. You’d be crouching down among flies and filth.”
Tolkien reaches into a file and brings out a worn letter. He hands it to Riis. Riis reads to us:
12 August 1916
John Ronald Tolkien to Geoffrey Smith
. . . the greatness of that of a great instrument in God’s hands – a mover, a doer, even an achiever of great things.
The greatness I meant and tremblingly hoped for as ours unless steeped with the same holiness of courage suffering and sacrifice.
The TCBS had been granted some spark of fire that was destined to kindle a new light or rekindle an old light in the world.
The TCBS was destined to testify for God and Truth.
The TCBS may have been all we dreamt – and its work in the end be done by three or two or one survivor.
Tolkien pulls out another. “Lieutenant Rob Gilson died on July 1, 1916. Geoffrey Smith wrote this poem.” He hands it to me and I begin reciting it:
Let us tell quiet stories of kind eyes
And placid brows where peace and learning sate:
Of misty gardens under evening skies
Where four would talk of old, with steps sedate.
Let’s have no word of all the sweat and blood,
Of all the noise and strife and dust and smoke
(We who have seen Death surging like a flood,
Wave upon wave, that leaped and raced and broke).
Or let’s sit quietly, we three together,
Around a wide hearth-fire that’s glowing red,
Giving no thought to all the stormy weather
That flies above the roof-tree overhead.
And he, the fourth, that lies all silently
In some far-distant and untended grave,
Under the shadow of a shattered tree,
Shall leave the company of the hapless brave,
And draw nigh unto us for memory’s sake,
Because a look, a word, a deed, a friend,
Are bound with cords that never a man may break,
Unto his heart for ever, until the end.
Tolkien pulls out a third letter. He hands it to Bronwyn. She reads out loud:
February 3, 1916
G.B. Smith to Tolkien
My dear John Ronald, publish by all means. My chief consolation is that if I am scuppered tonight there will still be left a member of the great TCBS to voice what I dreamed and what we all agreed upon. For the death of one of its members cannot, I am determined, dissolve the TCBS. Death is so close to me now, but it cannot put an end to the immortal four! Yes, publish. You I am sure are chosen. Make haste. May God bless you, my dear John Ronald, and may you say things I have tried to say long after I am not there to say them, if such be my lot.
Finally, Tolkien hands Yale a short letter. Yale reads it to us:
from Christopher Wiseman
aboard the H.M.S. Superb
16 December 1916
My dear J.R.,
I have just received news from home about G.B.S., who has succumbed to injuries received from shells bursting on December 3rd. I can’t say much about it now. I humbly pray Almighty God I may be accounted worthy of him.
Chris
Tolkien glances around at the four of us. “By 1918 all but one of my close friends were dead. Only Christopher and I made it out of the War.”
“What a loss,” Riis says to him.
“In 1944, I made a visit to Birmingham, but I couldn’t stand much of the ghosts that rose from the pavements. Three weeks later I wrote the Dead Marshes section of The Lord of the Rings.”
“Yes,” says Riis, “yes, of course, it fits perfectly.”
“A few months later, I had a sudden vision, in church. I perceived or thought of the Light of God suspended in one small mote, glittering white because of the individual ray from the light which both held it and lit it. And the ray was God’s very attention itself. I’ve thought of it since and remembered the great sense of joy that accompanied it. I’ve realized that the shining poised mote was myself or any other person that I might think of with love. It has occurred to me that this is a finite parallel to the Infinite – from the infinite Divine Person in love and attention of the Light to the finite person.”
“Beautiful,” says Bronwyn.
“One day, about that same time, I was riding along on a bicycle when I had one of those sudden clarities. I remember saying with absolute conviction: ‘Of course! Of course that’s how things really do work.’ The sensation was the same as having been convinced by reason. There was a direct appreciation by the mind but without the chain of argument we know in our time-serial life.”
Tolkien stands up. All four of us stand up.
“By God’s Will may we meet again, Ronald,” Riis says.
“’In hale and unity,’” Tolkien replies with a warm smile. “And beyond this life, subject always to the mystery of free will.”
Riis raises his eyebrows, then surmises Tolkien’s intended meaning. “By our free will, any of us may throw away our redemption?”
Tolkien nods. “In which case, God would arrange matters quite differently!”
“Indeed,” says Riis.
Tolkien ushers us out of his study and takes us around to the small garden gate opposite the front door. More graces flow from him as he shakes our hands. “Please come and see me again. God bless you all! May I wish you bon voyage.”
Before any of us can reply, the author of the legendary story that has fed our four souls – fed a hundred million souls – has disappeared back into his home. We are left to mull our encounter with him with gratitude and wonder.