The Road, Taken Janet Nelson-Alvarez Artwork and Photography by John Cockshaw
The Road, Taken Janet Nelson-Alvarez Artwork and Photography by John Cockshaw
The Road, Taken © 2015 by Janet Nelson-Alvarez. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Oloris Publishing LLC., except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2015 ISBN-10: 1940992257 ISBN-13: 978-1-940992-25-9 Photography and Artwork © 2015 by John Cockshaw Author Photograph © 2015 Janet Nelson-Alvarez For more information please see: www.olorispublishing.com.
To all who share the beauty and peril of the prismatic journey we so word-simply call "life." Janet
To the lady of the wild moorland, who said “yes� and gave me her hand, Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth John
Contents BIRTH DAY .................................................................................................................................................................... 3 BEDTIME STORY . . ........................................................................................................................................................8 A WINTER’S DAY ....................................................................................................................................................... 10 ... THEY ARE BUT BEGGARS ... . . ............................................................................................................................. 13 HEIR TO THE DREMEER .. ......................................................................................................................................... 17 THE LEAVING ............................................................................................................................................................. 21 THE TALE OF THE ELF WHO WASN'T.. ..................................................................................................................25 PIG-A-BACK .............................................................................................................................................................. 30 KEEPER OF THE BEES.. ............................................................................................................................................ 38 SIMPLE INTENT.......................................................................................................................................................... 51 ADVENTURES, AND THE BEGINNINGS THEREOF . . ............................................................................................ 53 WELL-MET: A MEETING OF CHANCE, & WHAT FOLLOWED.. .......................................................................... 61 WONDER FULL.......................................................................................................................................................... 66 REUNION. . ....................................................................................................................................................................70 COUNSEL..................................................................................................................................................................... 74 MAPS, MEMORIES, AND THE DIFFERENCES IN ADVENTURING..................................................................... 81 FAREWELL.................................................................................................................................................................. 88 OF DWARVEN DWELLINGS .. ...................................................................................................................................97 A MIRROR'D CHOICE................................................................................................................................................ 99 DIVISION & A SIMPLE SEEING.............................................................................................................................120 A GREAT DARKNESS. . ............................................................................................................................................ 124 A GARDENER’S GIFT .............................................................................................................................................. 129 IN MOONLIGHT ........................................................................................................................................................ 132 OF KINGS AND CROSS-ROADS............................................................................................................................136 THAT WHICH WAITS ..............................................................................................................................................140
IN DREMES ............................................................................................................................................................... 145 IN SIGHT . . .................................................................................................................................................................. 149 THE MASTERING.......................................................................................................................................................151 ONLY THE GOLDEN DARK .. ...................................................................................................................................156 THE CHAMBER AND WHAT CAME AFTER.......................................................................................................... 159 TEA ............................................................................................................................................................................. 164 A DAY OF HEROES...................................................................................................................................................169 THE PLEA . . ................................................................................................................................................................ 174 A SMALL DEFEAT.....................................................................................................................................................180 OLIPHAUNT............................................................................................................................................................... 181 OF BATTLES & BAIRNS .........................................................................................................................................185 THE GIFT OF THE CALLING.. ..................................................................................................................................189 NO CHILD OF MY BODY .........................................................................................................................................190 FAREWELL................................................................................................................................................................. 195 THE LADY OF THE SHORE-TOWERS.................................................................................................................. 202 ACROSS SO WIDE A SEA...................................................................................................................................... 208
PART I
2
BIRTH DAY It rained that day. Sweet, gentle grey misted tall windows, danced and trembled and fell from tree-arms. I remember. I walked by the river, clouds running, skirring, tumbling black against the sky. You stirred within me. Even then, we loved the depthless green shadow of the water’s face, even then, loved the silvery willow’s bent arms at rest upon her brow. Even then, before you knew the light,
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The Light knew you. It danced and played upon the hills that day‌. it wove bands of blue and green and soft-spun red upon the sky-door. I suppose you wished to touch those pretty things, for you turned again, there, in the dark inside me, turned, as one who longs for home, yet must leave it behind‌ turned, struggling in the warm dark. It was night, deep, black-drowned night when I held you at last.
My child. My son. Yes, I count your fingers and touch each toe in turn. There are ten and ten. The soft crown of your head, wisp’d and wet, smells of warmth and spiced sweetness, your ears lie like delicate leaves against the pink-and-white of your face. My thumb traces the bow of your brow: even then, it was serious, even then, raised questioningly above birth-blinded eyes.
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The small, swift song of your heart beats against my hand. I must laugh at the sweet roundness of your belly, at the soft rose of your mouth opening in protested hunger‌. I must cry with my love for you. I sit by the eastern window and cradle you at my breast. How many stars there are tonight, my son. How bright they are, all entwined, lying upon the blessed bridge of the sky. Somehow, I know that you will love them, as I do.
With the moon glancing, sharp through the window’s casement, I sing you a song of the Mariner. He was a sailor of a far-off Sea, my son, a traveler, found and lost, jewel-helmed bark standing watch, eternal, upon the azurite night .
At last you sleep, safe, within encircled arms. I am glad you are here, at last. At last, my little one.
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WELL-MET: A MEETING OF CHANCE, & WHAT FOLLOWED
Beneath the clear blanket of stars and moon, there is an Inn. An Inn and a Man. Friendly and fat-upon-the-fire-smoked, the Inn, dark and dangerous the Man, silence held as deeply as the red-glow’d pipe betwixt ever-tightening fingers. Somehow, I trust him, this traveler of weary roads. Not because I must. It is right and well that I should.
Cries. Voices upon the throat of the night‌. Voices from the throat of the night. Not for the last time,
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I see marshes, creeping, stilled marshes, filled with death, limned in shadowed white. I see the spill of rock where once dwelt Light. I hear my cousin’s small voice, crying out, the lilt of it rising with his fear. I see a form without face, ragged garments flowing against the tide of the night, feel the ice of his hate, the heat of his malice, before even the blade touches me, presses me to dremes of despair.
Sweet, the high-wild, tinsel’d song of silver-breath’d bridle-bells, swift and dread-cold the crystal of plumed waters rising against the pure flank of the horse.
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Evil has found us, found me. I cannot longer speak or hold to my sword. I surrender myself to darkness.
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OF DWARVEN DWELLINGS It grew desperate there, desperate within the close confines of that deep-delved realm, evil waiting before, devilry following hard after. Poison spreading, even in our midst. And there, with the dark,
in the dark, came the smooth, certain first fear that I should never know Home again. And I must not, between the goodly cause of all that lies behind, and the darkened prospect of that which yet stays ahead.... I must not think on that. Only....... this vastness,
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empty now of light and being, empty of all save emptiness, stills my very heart with dread, shortens my breath, steals thought and reason from my mind. And I stand my watch, and stay sleepless through the others,’ balanced neatly upon the dagger-edge of hopelessness, darkness pooling like oil-smirched midnight water, closing my heart, taking me. It grew desperate in this age-old realm. But never as desperate as I.
A GARDENER’S GIFT ‘Tis a fair way (such a very fair way) ‘twixt here and the bright fields of home. I have carried it all that long way, carried it, secret, plain as a wish hidden against my heart. And now I draw it out. It speaks to me, somehow, it recalls to me the things I’ve lost and those I never shall. And for one moment, here in this dark land, you are curious, curious, as ever you were, and wonder what might be contained within such a homely box. Homely, Master.
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Yes, it is all of that. It speaks of Home, and the simple things (and folk) that lie an age and more behind. My fingers touch the rough carve of the lid (picked out by myself one lazy summer’s eve not so long ago), prize the brass hasp open. And Home spills out, shining sweet and fine as diamonds upon black rock. Sea-crystal. We call it such at home, these strange pebbles that of a sea-lady’s distilled tears are made. Other tears there are, spilling silent in this dread place. Tears of remembrance. And I close your hand about the plain solid comfort of the box. Little enough it is, little enough to remind us of sweet ale and bitter leaf, of Spring-green mornings, and bonfire Harvest nights…
little enough, this crystalline bit of home, a gardener’s gift of salt.
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IN MOONLIGHT Fragile-parchment-pale, this moon, head drowned in lemon water-clouds, light falling all but to naught within the pool’s dark hunger. Brittle sharp-bitter rock reminds my feet they are far from the gentle paths of Home, winter’s dying fingers make their cold rest beneath my cloak.
Somehow, there is a blessedness to this place….. a remembrance of good lingers here. I feel it, as if the stones themselves yet echo from feet glad with the walking, as if the waters of the pool
recall the moment their chill beauty gained crystalline voice. Sudden understanding fills me, holds me in gladsome silence: This is my Home. This, as much as any other. When I am far from this place, lost and weary of my burden, it will call to me, its voice a shadow upon the wind, its memory’d touch a comfort in lands emptied of all but dread. In dremes the window shall open ever before me, blood-sun scattering His purse of colour (spendthrift lord of light) upon the water’s silver veil. In dremes shall I see this moon, smell the grasses
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tender and sweet beneath it, feel the wind which remembers the Sea upon my cheek. But now there are no dremes. Only water glinting cold below, and a voice, twisted by sorrow and treacherous time, speaking to itself in the pitiable night. It is part of me, too, this voice, as much a part of me as the weight which bows my head, or my Home, so many grievous leagues behind. Memory and madness, this voice, betrayed and betrayer, this voice, wretch and wretched, this voice. I give him over to judgment.
To save him, I tell myself,
to save him. In time, perchance, he may return the favour, repay this well-intended deceit with one of his own. In time, he may be the saving of me.
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TEA This time, they tell me,
you waited by my side, this time,
you welcomed me back to the lands of Light. Oddly quiet, this light, fused with honey’d sun and leaf-dapple, running in soft waves upon my closed eyes. I wish nothing more than to drift longer within half-dremes — drift and forget and wake and sleep in the slow beauty of Spring. Still....... As if we were again upon the road,
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I feel you beside me, breath somehow yet narrow with fear, waiting with a troubled patience that denies time. I gather the sweetness of my dremes to me, holding them as I would the summer blossoms of Home. It is time to come back to the world. Trees. Trees with leaves gold as the sun. Sky soft with white-wisped blue. Bird-song and voices I do not know, hushing in whispers and shouts‌‌. Laughter.
Your laughter, spilling like crystal water into the day. I never thought to hear you laugh again. I must laugh myself: At your side, in the very grass of the field, rests a glazed pot and two cups. Sea-blue and rose-red they are. The warm smell of fallen leaves, deep-drifted in lazy, sun-warmed, caramel autumn
spills from the pot. Better than ale, this. It speaks of Home. I see you must pour with your left hand. I cannot make words pass my lips. Your thumb sketches circles upon the warmed, earthen-blue of the cup, your fingers so tight about its face I fear that it (or you) may break. I can hold a cup in my left hand too, you know. My right finds yours, hidden beneath the haven of your cloak. The white of the binding startles me. Like warm earth embracing bared roots, the brown of my hand covers yours. In silence, we share the ordinary comfort of the tea.
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With a joy made sparse by eyes which will not meet mine, I understand: nothing shall be ordinary to you — to us, ever again. I bow my head and find a smile for you: an ordinary smile for my extra-ordinary Master.
THE GIFT OF THE CALLING A very long journey it was. An Adventure not much to be desired.
But now, at last, I am Home. And all the little rivers yet run, as if naught had e’er changed… and the fields ripen in summer and fall to silence in the depths of winter. And the children. Golden-haired and Elven-lithe. Never have these lands seen such children. I see them. I see my Home. But mostly, I see, in the grey-rough bark of the tree, in the endless blue of the sky, in the green-gilt call of the river…. mostly I see Her. At the beginning and the end of the parchment which is my life, she waits: The Sea.
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GRATITUDE Just a word, made resonant by the memories, moments and people attached to it. Mom and Dad. For reasons obvious and un. Margie. Genesis and Revelation. Debbie, Gary, Steve and the Reddest House Ever. It all feels like a Faberge egg now. Chris and Erin. How wondrous has been the journey. All because of (and for) you. Linda and Mary: there are no words. Or too many to ever write here. Judy and Patrick: I think they call this “Writers in Company”. Company. Yes. Mr. DeLaRocha, Mr. Finnegan, Mr. Wahl: “teacher”. What a great debt is owed to those who thanklessly teach, passionately open eyes to wonder, minds to order, hearts to all that is possible (and im). Vicki. We ran into each other’s arms when we were two. Forever Friend. Lynn: sister of heart. She of the scir garsecg. Never sundered. Amy, Ned C, Heather, Stephen, Raquel, Sharon, Katy, Maui, Mark, Rayne, Jason, Tom, Paul S (and the Wonderful Excel Sheet that could never be like poetry), Virge, Jane, Marcie., Natalie, Ethan S, Jon M, Jacki, Rhonda (the gathering place of peace in the places of chaos), Andi, Judith, Carole., Debbie H, Nan, Di, Becky, James V, Michael B. Master John Cockshaw: there are never words for ultimate beauty, surely never enough to thank you for everything you’ve done. So, simply, thank you. Gerda, Julie, Lara, and Robyn: I can only imagine your journey, but the proof of your commitment and joy in this project is here, at last birthed to the page. Thank you, always, for your patience and passion. It is an honor to be in such company. To the Professor: Never did I see the world until you showed it to me within the beautiful tapestry of your words. Thank you, sir.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR It must have been an omen of some sort that Janet Nelson-Alvarez was born in the very year that J.R.R.Tolkien’s “Fellowship of the Ring” was first published. And it didn’t hurt, either, that she had an aunt who fueled her love of imaginary realms and impossible places, many times by speaking to her (and insisting upon an answer) in rhyme. The world of the 60’s was a fantastic, exciting place to grow up. So much wonder to throw into the stew-pot of a writer’s mind. And yet, at the end of the day, for Janet, it all came back to the far-off and yet resonatingly close world of Tolkien. Today, Janet lives and writes in California. She has two children and a grandson.
ABOUT THE ARTIST John Cockshaw is a North Yorkshire-based artist and enthusiast of J.R.R Tolkien. He studied Fine Art at Sheffield Hallam University, earning an MA in Art and Design in 2003. Alongside exhibiting his paintings in the North of England, he began developing a photography-based project inspired by the landscape writing of Middle-earth as found within The Lord of the Rings. This inspiration powerfully proceeded an introduction to Tolkien via the New Line cinematic adaptations by Peter Jackson of 2001-2003. The cinematography and music of the films became potent forces of influence when combined with Tolkien’s realistic landscape writing to inform the photographic work. This richness of realism combined with the fantastic and mythical is what ultimately inspired John to develop the project into an extended collection of artwork. Beginning under the geographic title From Mordor to the Misty Mountains the collection will be published in an art volume by Oloris Publishing in 2015 entitled Wrath, Ruin and a Red Nightfall. As the basis for individual pieces, the artist seeks out encounters in the everyday landscape that are bestowed with a sense of the Tolkienesque, and aims not for strict photo-realism but the qualities of the illustrative and the cinematic. A new member of the Tolkien Society, John has exhibited his Tolkien-inspired art at Oxonmoot, Sarehole Mill in Birmingham, with the Sociedad Tolkien Espaùola, at HobbitCon in Germany and NazgulCon in Sao Paolo, Brazil. Websites Official artist blog: http://frommordortothemistymountains.com.
EMOTIONAL AND EVOCATIVE, the poetry of
Janet Nelson-Alvarez takes the reader on the fundamental heroic journey. The rough path under the hero's feet and the hardships faced are detailed with the same stunning beauty and insight as the soft whispers of a mother murmuring tales to her sleepy child. Illustrated by the beautiful art of John Cockshaw, this collection is a stunning masterpiece of the distilled beauty of poetry.