Caitlín R. Kiernan

As I see the Mordorian Death March more or less wrapping up tomorrow evening, then so too should the tag-team Tolkien fic between me and setsuled wrap up...at least for now. Truthfully, I've had more actual fun writing this piece than I've had writing anything since...I don't know. At least since I finished Daughter of Hounds, I think. I hope that some of you have, in turn, enjoyed it, and that you've been following setsuled's part as well as mine. At the very least, I hope I have not bored you. I have no doubt it has kept me sane through two weeks of unwriting. I have a feeling that we will both be returning to this story, Setsuled and I, in the future. For one thing, I've come to understand that the story of the shieldmaiden Sindeseldaonna's ill-fated journey into Mordor may only be the prologue of a much larger tale, that of the elf Inwë Isilrá and her quest to find and redeem her lost lover. Also, it should be obvious that this last part owes something of a debt (oddly enough) to the work of Mark Z. Danielewski, as well.

And this is as good a time as any to thank Cory Doctorow for his essay in the May 2007 issue of Locus magazine, "In Praise of Fanfic." I am especially taken with his view of fanfic as "active reading." I quote:

Writers can't ask readers not to interpret their work. You can't enjoy a novel that you haven't interpreted – unless you model the author's characters in your head, you can't care about what they do and why they do it. And once readers model a character, it's only natural that readers will take pleasure in imagining what a character might do offstage, to noodle around with it. This isn't disrespect: it's active reading.

At any rate, here's what is probably my last bit of it for now (behind the cut); one more section by Setsuled will follow shortly:

( Beneath the Plateau of Gorgoroth )

As I drew out my scalpel yesterday, my red pen and yellow highlighter, and began to type and slice at the pliable red meat of paragraphs and sentences, I realized just how raw my nerves have become. I've tried to make light of it, here in the journal, but the truth is that it has worn me down, this unwriting. I need to be finished, and I need rest, and I need to be writing stories that are my stories. These are the three things that will make me better, these three in that order. I am amazed that I was anything like good company on Saturday. At dinner, I did admit to being "miserable," but I attributed it more to Atlanta and less to the unwriting, when, at the moment, it's actually about half and half. But, yes. My nerves are raw, frayed, shot. I'm jumping at my own shadow, as they say, when my own shadow is usually my One True Companion. And it is not yet over, and I have only so much say in when the end will come. I'm still aiming for Wednesday evening, but I also know there will be more after that. I might not be entirely free of this affair until July. But I have learned my lesson. And I should say that yesterady was not all unwriting, strictly speaking. I did write two new scenes, 603 words total, though it seemed a bit like adding extra noses or a couple of spare astragali.

Today, I will do what I can do, and break as little as I may.

We had a good walk yesterday evening, through Dellwood Park, and the park just west of Dellwood (the name of which presently escapes me). There were lightning bugs and bats and robins, and we saw a chipmunk. Most of the smoke had dissipated, but there was still an odd reddish halo about the waxing moon. Even with Ponce de Leon so near, the air is good and smells clean in amongst all those old trees.

---

Inwë, this is my dream. Or as little of it as I can bring myself to admit. This is my dream. I stand alone in some dark, deep place, some cavern or well or mine secreted far below this scorched land. I am myself, and yet I am become another, as well. Though I stand in the glow of unseen fires, rising up all about me is a muttering, impenetrable darkness. There are faces peering forth from that dark — fell creatures that once served the Necromancer, as Sauron was known long ago in Mirkwood. They have died, all of them, and in my dream I have called them back into being by black sorceries which, mercifully, I can not ever recall upon waking. They are beasts and goblin, Uruk and troll and Easterling, men of Haradwaith and Umbar, the creeping daughters of Delduthling, werewolves and worse things still, and they have come up from death and unimaginable gulfs to walk the world again, to do as I bid them. On my right hand I wear a beautiful ring, I know that it is one of the Nine. I stand on a dais, beside a throne carved from out the native rock, and on that throne sits the man from the banks of the Limlaith, though he wears a leather mask that me might appear more like an orc than a man. He speaks to the assembled host, telling them in many tongues to bow down before me, as there is again a priestess of Melkor in the world. And I feel such terrible joy.

I hold out my hand, that the glory of the ring might be seen by all, and then I am only myself again, and I am remembering some bright day before I crossed the spikes of Ered Glamoth into Mordor. I can not say where I am, but there is green grass and sunlight through the leaves. The brown wizard, Aiwendil, is walking with me, and all about us are birds of every hue and shape and their songs fill the air.

"You will behold many awful sights," he says as we walk. "And you will listen with your eyes when you would do well to listen with your heart." This is my dream, Inwë. And in my dream, I watch Radagast enter a pool girded about by tall oaks, and he is bleeding, and his blood turns the water to pitch. I stand at the pool's edge, and he tells me that even when the worst has come to pass and there is only night, even then I shall not be entirely undone. "You were brought back from the wolves for a purpose," he says, before the bloodstained water pulls him down and Aiwendil has passed from my view and from Middle-earth. And again I stand at the left hand of the Kinslayer and wear the ring once worn by the Black Easterling, Khamûl of the Nazgul, and that assemblage of nightmares kneels before me. This is my dream, and now I have put it down on paper. The sun is almost risen.

---

Okay, setsuled. Tag. You're it. I have mutilation to attend to.

The smoke came back this morning, and we awoke to the stench of distant fires. Behind the cut is a photo of downtown Atlanta taken sometime this morning. My eyes burn, my nose is running, and I'm coughing. Clearly, we have to stop sleeping with the windows open until the fires at last burn themselves out, whenever that might be.

( Waiting to Inhale )

As birthdays after -0 go, I think yesterday was probably pretty damn good. Certainly, it's the best birthday I've had since 2004. There was no unwriting yesterday. We met Jim and Jennifer (the Jennifer I've been calling "Hannah," because I did not wish her to be confused with a certain lying, incompetent, backstabbing psycho bitch who wears the same name) at Hollywood 24 for Pirates of the Caribbean: At Worlds End. We were lucky and got into the 4:45 digital screening. Spooky and I both loved it. I'm not going to go on about it, but I will say I was pleased that, unlike PotC: Dead Man's Chest, great swaths of this film did not seem to exist solely for the benefit of a videogame tie-in. Afterwards, the four of us headed to L5P to meet Byron for dinner at the Corner Tavern. The food's not as good as The Vortex, but there are far fewer people gumming up the joint. Then it was home for birthday cake (German chocolate, by request, with vanilla ice cream). So, yeah, a good birthday, and my thanks to the following folks who helped make -03 not so painful: Jada and Katharine, Jennifer Zawiki (yet another Jennifer!), Trompe Setsuled, Christine Ashton, David Kirkpatrick, Josh Muller, Chloe Yates, Rachel Keane, and everyone who offered hisherits condolences and well wishes. I know there are other people to be thanked, and as soon as I know who they are, I'll post a second thank-you list. You guys are, indeed, the draddest.

Late last night, we read more of Lemony Snicket's The Austere Academy.

I think the Mordorian Death March will officially conclude on the evening of Wednesday, May 30, and then I may have my life back and Spooky can go back to making dolls. As for the "Lay of Sindeseldaonna," this impromtu Tolkien fanfic that's been occurring between Setsuled and me, I may collect it all together, edit it and add footnotes, and plug it into an upcoming issue of Sirenia Digest, sort of an extra, supplement, freebie sort of a thing. What began as an extended metaphor has taken on a life of its own, begging for a backstory, and I have to say it's one of the things that's helped to get me through the last two+ insufferable weeks of compositional butchery. I have a feeling the Death March may be ending before we find the end of the story...unless I'm mistaken.

---

I am writing this from the scant cover afforded by a rocky gully, barely deep enough to conceal myself and Suregait. All night, we rode north across the desolate Plateau of Gorgoroth. Once, we came upon a group of orcs — a hunting party, unless I miss my guess. They gave chase, but they were all on foot and orc fiend has not yet been born that can run down a daughter of the Maeras. Suregait bore me safely away from them. We must be much nearer the caldera that was once called Mount Doom, Orodruin, Sauron's Forge, as the air is hazy and stinks of brimstone. The land here is oddly buckled, and in many places we must undertake long detours to avoid great rifts that seem to plunge hundreds of feet into the earth. We are too near the poisoned black heart of this land, Inwë, and if only my eyes could glimpse the Greenwood of Rhovanion for the briefest moment, this shadow should be lifted from off my soul.

Towards dawn, I heard the shriek of a hawk, and looking up, spotted what must certainly have been good Radagast soaring high above me. A moment later, I saw a great company of orcs to the southwest, and I was near enough to see that they were led by a man on horseback. Some of the orcs rode wargs. Unless I miss my guess, the man is setsuled, born of Rhohan and become a traitor now to his own people and all the freefolk of Middle-earth. But there was wind and much grey dust swirling in the air, and by great luck and Radagast's warning did we escape into the cover of this ravine undetected. But the man and his orcs made camp very nearby, so for now we are trapped here and waiting. If our luck holds and they move along during the day, I shall continue on my course towards the Vale. And if I should be discovered, I must trust that Suregait will bear me safely away. I will not be recaptured by the bastard, Inwë, even if I must turn my own blade against me. There is so much more I would write, but I am weary and need to rest. I shall trust Suregait to warn of the enemy's approach.

---

And I've updated Sindeseldaonna's map (behind the cut). Her progress since she was captured, up to yesterday's entry, is marked in green.

( Map of Mordor )

I've learned from Chris Ewen (he of Future Bible Heroes) that 99th Mind is shooting a video to accompany, "Twelve Nights After," my contribution to the forthcoming Hidden Variable album. I have long been an admirer of 99th Mind, so I am very excited at the news. Also, I owe lots and lots of people on MySpace replies of one sort of another. Just as soon as the unwriting is done and I shake the volcanic dust of Mordor from my clothes....

Yesterday was spent in mutilation. It's a more appropriate word than would be writing. If we were to extend that (generally absurd) novels/stories = children metaphor to this particular case, I should say that yesterday I took back an eye, an ear, several inches of small intestine, three toenails, and a left eyebrow. And really, who's ever going to miss those things? There is less blood than I might have expected. There is also less screaming, as books are quieter things than children, at least when it comes to the matter of mutilation. Given enough time, I begin to see that I could become a fine butcher, specializing, perhaps, in the extraction of characterization and the snipping of that nagging suspension of disbelief. I could sell cutlets and sausages and sweetbreads, and everyone might think them only excess verbs and adjectives. It all becomes so clear. Today, I merely have to systematically remove a few square feet of dense connective tissue, primarily fascia, mostly subserous fascia, and really, who needs that stuff?

Sirenia Digest #18 will go out today. I think it is one of the best issues yet. Yesterday, I started wondering if anyone would mind terribly if I changed the name of the digest to Strange Drama. Same initials, different words, that's all.

Meanwhile, setsuled saw my Maeras and raised me a Maiar. I begin to fear that our little tit-for-tat impromptu might have woeful aspirations to fanfic epichood.

---

I have been delivered. For three days and two nights, Suregait bore me eastwards, along the rocky southern rim of the Mithrim Spur, carrying me ever farther from the eyes that might yet watch from the towers of Seregost. Radagast, in the form of a hawk, went always out before us, scouting the land for orcs and other perils. Oh, Inwë, I am filled with such relief — and to be writing in my book again! — that I can hardly force myself to recount these events. I slept on horseback beneath the waxing moon, naked but for a cape and ill-fitting boots stolen off my captor, knowing all was not lost and that I might still fulfill the destiny that brought me to Mordor and thereby keep my covenant with those who would see the last shreds of Sauron's shadow washed from the world. Tonight, I sit before a fine crackling fire and have eaten hot soup cooked for me by good Radagast. It is hard, now, to believe what I have so recently survived, and harder still to imagine how much horror lies ahead. By this route, we shall have to skirt the ruins of the Nazgul fortress of Daemon Angren, and then pass between the old watchtowers of Nargoth and Morigost. Radagast Aiwendil says that Daemon Angren, from whence was launched the Mumakil assault upon Minas Tirith during the war and from whence one of the Nine ruled the southern lands, was thrown down in the same cataclysm that broke Barad-dûr and that we have naught to fear from those ruins. But he says also that Uruks still keep watch from Nargoth and Morigost, though they are leaderless and live as brigands robbing and murdering many of those who attempt the passage from Núrn to the plateau of Gorgoroth. But this is the road we will take, regardless. We cannot now take the western route, for fear setsuled may be marshalling some force to hunt for me.

I cannot say why I did not kill the bastard when I had the chance. I held his own blade at his throat and could so easily have taken his head. I know not what stayed my hand, Inwë. Was it pity? Did I see him only as a fallen man of Rohan, a former countryman, there at the last? It sickens me to imagine I felt anything but hatred for the traitor. But Radagast says I should not chide myself for any show of mercy, however disastrous it may prove farther along. So he may be mad, after all.

I am alive, Inwë, alive and with Suregait at my side again, and in the company of the last of the Maiar to walk Middle-earth. Whatever dark days lie ahead, I cannot keep my heart from singing as I write this. At this moment I might believe almost anything, even the dim chance of once more seeing my beloved and the fair woods of East Lórien. Radagast says that I should rest myself another day or so and recover from my trials, that we have not been followed from the ford at Caranduin. So, I will heed his advice before continuing east and turning north into Gorgoroth.

I will sleep now, sleep on a blanket on the ground with the moon in the sky and the stars spread out above me, and I know, Inwë, that it is not so very much to think that possibly you are looking skyward at this very moment and seeing those same stars hanging in the night.

---

Oh, and I have a map, behind the cut, for them what might not be so familiar with Mordorian geography. However and alas, many of the landmarks mentioned are not shown, and Sindaseldeonna's progress (the blue line) is only marked from Minas Tirith as far as her capture by the vile setsuled (boo hiss).

( map of Mordor )

Over the last few weeks, ideas for two stories have begun to take shape in my head. One will likely go to Clarkesworld Magazine, as I've owed them one for ages, and the other might turn out to be the Salammbô Desvernine story that should have appeared in Tales of Pain and Wonder, but didn't. It's good to have stories I want to write making themselves known to me, when work has been so difficult this winter and spring.

An after-dark walk last night, after a dinner of Spooky's delicious pasta salad. Then we dusted off the VCR and watched the original Highlander (1986), which I used to watch at least once a month, but which Spooky had never seen. Despite a script that often makes no sense at all and the various historical absurdities, and regardless of Christopher Lambert's peculiar attempt at a Scotts accent and the fact that Sean Connery is not the least bit convincing as an Egyptian, I do love this film. As I said to Spooky last night, it has a certain ludicrous grace. Later, we finished Lemony Snicket's The Miserable Mill. Oh, and I never did mention how disappointed I was by the season finale of Heroes...

Whoops. The platypus says I'm abusing my blogging privileges, and sheheit is threatening venomous spurs, so I best wrap this up. Back to the abattoir....