THE BRIDGE OF KHAZAD-DÛM

o near, so near, so far away, The birthing, dawning grey of gloom Speaks unveiled Light and Door to day— There is no bridge in Khazad-dûm. Behind, the weird of drumbeats calls, The shadows dance the chant of doom; Before, the shivered footbridge Falls— The perishing of Khazad-dûm. We stumble to the shattered edge Beside so many unconsoled, Lost on the brink of sorrow's ledge In drowning dark in cavern old. A distant, ancient voice and cry Bewails the tumbling stony span That broke the bond of earth and sky, Untimely parting God and Man. Those hearts that knew are gone to dust, Those eyes that saw are tears become, Slain by the Night that rendered thus The emptiness of Khazad-dûm. No power of this world of Men Can span the void of Primal doom, Nor ‘til the world’s at last a-mend Bestride the gulf of Khazad-dûm.

But Hope—the Shepherd—to atone Has crossed the bridgeless chasm deep, And, passing o'er, was shaped in Stone; The Secret Fire bore bloodied feet. So weeping, wounded, numb, we wait Until the Builder sets that Stone, Which, dropped, will key a new-born gate, Make one the soaring limbs new-flown. Thus, in the mending of the sun, The mending of the earth and moon; When last the weary years are done, There’ll be a Bridge in Khazad-dûm. CB © 2008

Andúril

Well, I ain't dead yet, so that's something.

Meanwhile, Narsil was just the beginning.

Entropy Cubed

I am Naked in the Dark, Sam

The Field of Cormallen

Guy over at Damascus Road has written of the grief and burden of his son’s chronic illness and how that long suffering has beaten at his own walk with Christ, battering him at times into the ditches of bitterness and weary despair.

I immediately longed to comfort him, to say something, anything, that might ease his hurt and fear, but I don’t know the words to use. Sometimes it feels almost an impertinence to think that I have any wisdom to impart to those enduring their own Mordor, especially when it involves the potential loss of a child; for all the length and breadth and darkness of my own treks through the Land of Shadow, still they have been on my own account and for my own suffering: I have never yet been confronted with terror for the life of my offspring. What do I then say that speaks to that?

~~~

The ditches are familiar territory, if not the impetus. I know well what it means to tumble into them, ditches that get deeper and wider until they become ravines, great gashes in the malignant soil of a very Old Forest, chasms leading only one way, implacable, unmerciful, and inescapable, into cold, cold Night. I’ve followed them many a time.

In that Night, I too have beaten in vain upon the gates to the city, invisible and unheard. I know the bewilderment of that barren place well; I’ve seen the worn pavement and the splintery wood and even the brown stain of other, bloodied, fists; the sign of those who have come before, who are beside, even those yet to come—the traces of their anguish and confusion and rage have left marks for all to see: other Christians have been here and other Christians will be here again, at the uncaring gates of an uncaring heaven.

My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

Time after time I beat and I pound and I screech and I weep, until at the end, long past exhaustion or even pain, limp and chilled death-cold with hopelessness, no longer making demands or pleadings, caring only that deep water is closing about my soul, I cry, with a sudden simple need, “Lord, save me!”

And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him…

And then I see. Only a little at first, but after each idiot trek down the ditches into the malice of a darker power, I see more, then more and then more, and here finally, I understand.

I understand that those unyielding portals were never the gates they pretended to be. The ditches of Night cannot lead to the doorway of Light. I have been lost and wandering and not where I meant to be at all.

But here, now…

And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him…

…my eyes are opened as I grasp that wounded hand.

I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.

Then the uncaring battlements of the Dark Tower crumble, and the imposter gates of the Dark Lord crash down like the last furious thunder of a mighty storm, and the Eye trembles and in a final gout of malice flames out and dies and is nothing, and the mountains round about fall, and the steams swirl apart and the dust is blown by a clear west wind, and there upon the plains of that vast and fruitless ruin comes a still, small voice.

And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy of me.

And now I can see clearly again and there is a green world beyond the edges of this dying one; we are ringed about with Life and Light and sweet new air; there, though my eyes were blinded and I could not behold them, are all the Shire-gardens we could ever desire, and the leaves of the forests are golden-bright, and the walls of the city gleam white in the sun, and the Gate—the Door—is open wide, forever and ever and ever. If I keep moving, though it be with canes and crutches or on hands and knees, I’ll get there. We’ll get there.

It is enough, beloved Lord. It is enough.

How Long, O Lord, Holy and True?

“In a submission to a two-year inquiry into premature babies by the Nuffield Council on Bioethics, the college says: “Some weight should be given to the economic considerations as there is a real issue in neonatal units of ‘bed blocking’, whereby women have to be transferred in labour to other units, compromising both their and their babies’ care.”

The statement reflects a growing view among child specialists that babies born under 25 weeks should be denied intensive care and allowed to die.Next month the Royal College of Paediatrics and Child Health will debate a motion at its annual conference that it is “unethical” to provide intensive care routinely to babies born under 25 weeks. In practice, they would only be saved in exceptional circumstances. “

Fall into Darkness

Any readers of this blog—likely former readers as I have not posted in many long months—are aware of my involvement with the Terry Schiavo issue that so riveted the world a year ago. I was not a prime mover in this blog-issue; I merely followed the lead of better bloggers than I; but still, I had a deep personal interest in Terri’s fate and gave it all that I had in joining the efforts to save her life.

That involvement, following so closely on the heels of my brother’s nearly fatal illness, worked a terrible toll on my own health, already compromised. There is always a price to be paid for fighting evil, and so have I paid, even if I says it as oughtn’t; the price allotted to me was literally heart failure. But here a year later, I’ve gained a tenuous hold on normal living, and once again find myself (among many) suddenly summoned into the breach by those same vigorous and admirable bloggers, people who are concerned for Terri’s legacy and those that might share in her fate if good men do nothing. I don’t have the strength for an extended contribution, but will give it what little I can: many small drops of truth add up to a thundering torrent to drown the Orthancs that wage war against all good things, all Light and life and Love.

This being a Tolkien website, I will address the issue via Middle-Earth. If I get a Tolkien fact a bit wrong here or there, you LotR fans must forgive me; there’s a definite limit to my energies for research and verification and the deadline loometh. And you’ll have to look up any references yourself; I don’t have the energy to do the linking. (For quick details, I recommend the Encyclopedia of Arda).

There’s a back-story to The Lord of the Rings—a vast and richly layered foundation that nourishes the more well-known tale of hobbits and Men and Elves. Moviegoers unfamiliar with other of Tolkien’s writings may have found themselves mystified at some of the obscure references Peter Jackson of necessity had to incorporate into his three films; newcomers to Middle-Earth likely found such references so confusing as to require immediate dismissal—movie pacing waits for no man, after all, so the viewer must quickly move on lest he lose his grip on the plot entirely. Still, the hints are there for anyone who cares to dig deeper after the credits roll, as a key conversation in Fellowship between Gandalf and Frodo clearly shows:

“Evil is stirring in Mordor. The ring has awoken. It has heard its master’s call.”

“But he was destroyed! Sauron was destroyed!”

“No, Frodo, the spirit of Sauron endured. His life force is bound to the ring and the ring survived. Sauron has returned. His orcs have multiplied. His fortress of Barad-Dûr has been rebuilt, in the land of Mordor. Sauron needs only this ring to cover all the lands of a second darkness...”

The initial flashback scenes at the beginning of Fellowship have of course given the viewer some orientation: Sauron was a major bad guy and a Last Alliance of Men and Elves defeated him in a great battle; but there is much more to the back story than that simplification shows. Who were these Elves and Men, these kings of free peoples—Gil-Galad and Elendil and Isildur? Who was this Dark Lord Sauron, so generous with his rings? Why a “Last” Alliance?

All that tale is far beyond the scope and purpose of this short essay; I must leave novice Tolkien fans mystified still and focus rather on a very small part of it, the part that comes to bear on a character we meet much further on in the movie: the ranger Strider—eventually revealed to us as Aragorn, Isildur’s heir and heir to the throne of Gondor, the heir of Elendil.

That tree was the White Tree of Gondor, of course, and a symbol of the High Kingship to which Aragorn was heir. But what was this “foundered land” the rhyme mentions?

It was Númenor, the land of gift.

I quote the Encyclopedia of Arda:

The island kingdom of the Dúnedain, raised from the sea by the Valar as a gift and reward to the Men who had remained faithful through the dark years of the First Age. The Edain who had dwelt in Beleriand were led to the island in II 32 by Elros the Half-elven, who unlike his brother Elrond had chosen to be counted among Men rather than Elves.

Elros became the first King of Númenor, taking the name Tar-Minyatur. Under his rule, and the rule of his descendants, the Númenóreans rose to become the most powerful nation of Men in that or any other age. Their mighty ships returned to Middle-earth in II 600, and there they founded havens and cities.

For the early part of their history, the Númenóreans were closely allied with the Elves of Tol Eressëa, which lay close to their western shores. The Elves visited them often, and taught them much, but the Númenóreans themselves were forbidden to sail westwards, because the Valar feared they would become envious of the Undying Lands they and the Elves inhabited. As their greatness and power grew, the Númenóreans began to turn against the Ban of the Valar, and at last Ar-Adûnakhôr, who became King in II 2899 turned openly against it, though he did not dare defy it.

The last King of Númenor was Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, who usurped the throne of the rightful queen Míriel in II 3255. He took his armies to Middle-earth to make war upon Sauron, and so great had the Númenóreans become that Sauron's forces deserted him. Seeing an opportunity to destroy his enemy, Sauron sued for peace and returned with the King to Númenor. He gradually gained Ar-Pharazôn trust, and persuaded him to sail openly against the Valar. This he did in II 3319, but as he set foot on the forbidden shores of Aman, the land of Gift was taken away and swallowed between the waves forever.

Some few survived the Downfall; Elendil, his sons and his followers had prepared themselves for the disaster and taken ship, and were driven back across the seas to Middle-earth. There they founded the famous realms of Arnor and Gondor, though these were but a dim reflection of the glory of Númenor at its height.

Specific to the point at hand, i.e., the issue of life and death and the choices laid before us concerning the Terri Schiavos of this world, I lay before you parts of Tolkien’s description of the last days of Númenor.

“…Sauron caused to be built upon the hill in the midst of the city of the Númenóreans…a mighty temple...crowned with a mighty dome. And that dome was roofed all with silver, and rose glittering in the sun, so that the light of it could be seen afar off; but soon the light was darkened, and the silver became black. For there was an altar of fire in the midst of the temple, and in the topmost of the dome there was a louver, whence there issued a great smoke. And the first fire upon the altar Sauron kindled with the hewn wood of (the White Tree) and it crackled and was consumed…

Thereafter the fire and smoke went up without ceasing; for the power of Sauron daily increased, and in that temple, with spilling of blood and torment and great wickedness, men made sacrifice to (Morgoth)…And most often from among the Faithful they chose their victims…

Nevertheless for long it seemed to the Númenóreans that they prospered and if they were not increased in happiness, yet they grew more strong, and their rich men even richer. For with the aid and counsel of Sauron they multiplied their possessions, and they devised engines, and they built ever greater ships. And they sailed now with power and amoury to Middle-earth…and they hunted the men of Middle-earth and took their goods and enslaved them, and many they slew cruelly upon their altars. For they built in their fortresses temples…

Thus Ar-Pharazôn, King…grew to the mightiest tyrant that had yet been in the world since the reign of Morgoth, though in truth Sauron ruled all from behind the throne. But the years passed, and the King felt the shadow of death approach, as his days lengthened; and he was filled with fear and wrath. Now Sauron spoke to the King, saying that his strength was now so great that he might think to have his will in all things, and be subject to no command or ban…”

The sins of the Númenóreans were many, and human sacrifice was but one part that led inexorably to the chief sin: the decision to take to themselves the right of utter rebellion against the higher powers, to storm heaven itself, as it were. They had become as gods in their own eyes and nothing was to be denied them.

This was the burden Aragorn had to bear and the decision he had to make—whether to choose submission to the will of heaven, to the right Road and the right way, or to grasp power for himself. Many times was that choice laid before him, most crucially when he had to let go control of the fate of the Ring, to allow it to go into Mordor in the hands of the small and the weak; and in the same crisis-point to chose between his desire and his duty regarding the fate of two other seemingly useless creatures, the hobbits Merry and Pippin: that was his choice—self and will, or love and pity. He could sacrifice others or he could sacrifice himself.

“A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin.”

Aragorn chose well. Please God that we too will turn and do the same.