Chapter 1: Discovery

Again and again, I meet people who do not believe that Tolkien's writings are real. "Fantasy" they name them and the entire genre. They do not believe that his strange creatures really exist - all these orcs, ents, hobbits and balrogs. What a ridiculous claim! No, dear reader, let me assure you that they do live here, right among us. Most of them disguise themselves to prevent public uproar, for we narrow-minded humans are too often very eager to distrust, point fingers at, even hate, things and beings which are different.

Most of these creatures have developed unique techniques to blend into our modern society. Hobbits shave their feet and wear plateau shoes. Ents love to glue paper leaves to themselves and stand around motionless, so that they are mistaken for trees. And orcs usually put on latex masks to pose as ordinary people. Over the centuries, they have perfected this art. Someone once slipped me a list of orc females who did such wonders with makeup that they were even able to enter, and win, human Miss World contests. I am not at liberty to give away names here, let me just say that you usually can figure it out, once you know what you are looking for. Very occasionally orcs choose to step into the spotlight unmasked, and win the Eurovision song contest for Finland.

My life began in the late sixties of the last century, in a medium-sized city in the far north, wedged between a nuclear power plant and an uranium reprocessing plant. Here, most orcs went to the streets without masks; when asked about their greenish skin and odd faces, they usually blamed it on the radiation. I can say without doubt that in these times, after the local mining industry had gone downhill, a substantial percentage of the population made a living from dragging the national nuclear industry to court for "genetic mutations".

However, my parents were doubtless human. I was born as the only child of Mrs. Arwen Sue Lembasmeyker, a simple shop assistant, and Mr. Very Quickley, who filled out forms behind a desk in a minor administration building. I never got to know my father's parents, because he could never forgive them the pun with his name. When I was born, my parents were very concerned to give me a completely normal-sounding name, to spare me the humiliation and bullying my father had to endure in school. So they named me Noeel, to make clear to anyone that I, even if my family name was sounding funny, at least was not an eel. I guess it must have worked, for nobody ever accidentally killed and ate me. However, the constant misspelling of my name annoyed me so much that I finally bowed to the pressure and dropped the second 'e'. Of course, this in turn gave rise to a wealth of Father Christmas jokes - but let me not get ahead of myself.

My first blurred memory goes back to the moment when I, still not more than a toddler, surprised my parents with my first word. I had not started to speak for a long time, maybe because even then I had a certain sense for drama. The first word is a landmark in the development of a child, something that might well shape his future. For is not speech an awe-inspiring tool, is it not truly what makes us human, what distinguishes us from the mindless animals around us? The first word is a much too important step to waste it on such mundane things as "mama" or "gaga". So I waited until I had sufficient control over my tongue and jaws, and just as my parents prepared to take me to the doctor to test me for developmental delays, I pointed at their Tolkien bookshelf and spoke the word "Enlightenment". I must admit that I probably just remember this scene for the following humiliation, when I, still euphoric about my success, lost control over my lower body and loudly filled my diapers. But I guess in this moment I had made the first step on my road to become a prophet, the founder of a religion. All my life I have since teetered on the narrow path between enlightenment and bullshit.

From earliest childhood on my best friend was an orc named Bagronk, or Baggy as everyone called him. He was the same age as I, and no doubt a highly intelligent boy, though he could also be a mischievous brat whenever his heritage broke through. His first word had been "crap", but this is how about eighty percent of orc toddlers start, so I doubt it has a deeper meaning.

We both must have been about thirteen or fourteen when we first discovered computers. Until then, we had been just normal adolescents who did all the normal things. We kicked pigeons around, set dustbins on fire and whistled after girls. At least that was what I did. Baggy preferred to kick girls around, set pigeons on fire and whistle after dustbins. I never understood what he liked about dustbins, but I shrugged it off as something orcs do.

I remember the day when Baggy's parents bought their first computer. Of course, in this time the word "computer" meant something that filled half a room, worked with the speed of a well-oiled glacier and was insanely expensive. But up here, they became normalcy earlier than in most other areas, because a row of victorious cases against the nuclear industry had brought respectable riches to the town. So, one day, I visited Baggy and found him in front of a shining, ominously humming, occasionally beeping thing. He was kneeling on the floor, scissors in his hand, and with great concentration he was poking small holes into a long strip of toilet paper.

"Hey, Bags", I greeted my friend. "What's all that?" I asked and pointed at the paper. "And that?" I added and pointed at the large pile of wood in the corner. "And that?" I attached and pointed in the direction of a small carton with something that looked suspiciously like burnt pigeon. "And how does this thing work?" I finally progressed to the most important question, waving at the huge source of shinyness, hummingness and beepery.

"Hiyas Noeel", said Baggy, not looking up from his work. "Have some chicken wings. Cool machine, eh? Three hundred hertz, two kilobyte of memory and a six-kilobyte hard disk. Whatever a kilobyte is. I'm just writing a punch card for it."

"Wow... punch card", I said. "That's, like, totally high-end tech, isn't it? But what about the wood?"

"Well", said Baggy and stood up, "you insert the wood here." He patted a large iron oven with a boiler on top of it. "The fire heats the water, producing steam, which powers the computer. That's definitely not high-end tech, I admit. But it's better this way. Electricity's being unreliable again."

"Yeah", I said and nodded. "They must be checking the power plant for radiation leaks again. Who dragged them to court this time?"

"Mrs. Dreggentickler from next door", Baggy said.

"The old Dreggentickler?" I exclaimed. "She's not even an orc!"

"Yep", Baggy said and shrugged, "but she does have three eyes. Anyway, this punch card should make the computer connect to the Arpanet. Imagine that - people all over the world connected in a single network. Dozens, no, hundreds of different websites. And we're gonna visit them all!"

I stared at Baggy, my mouth open. "Wow", I said, completely overwhelmed.

Then Baggy showed me how to fire up the boiler, and by the time I had a nice fire burning and the metal pipes bulged from super-heated steam, he had finished his punch card. Carefully he inserted one end into a slit, much humming and beeping ensued, and after calculating for about thirty minutes, a row of text started to scroll over a tiny screen. "There", Baggy said, satisfied. "We're logged in."

"Then let me put another log in", I said, pointing at the oven. We laughed heartily about the bad pun. We were, after all, thirteen years old.

Baggy pushed the toilet paper deeper in. "We're in the discussion groups section now", he said. "Look." A list of names crawled over the screen. The items had names like alt.fan.beatles, rec.arts.pot-smoking and alt.ronald.reagan.for.president. "All these are groups for us to enter."

"Why would anybody want to smoke a pot?" I asked, frowning. This was an age when young people like me were not yet completely corrupted. But then, suddenly, something gripped my attention. "Wait, hold", I said. "Hold a sec. Can you make that scroll back?"

"Sure can", said Baggy and pulled the toilet paper out a centimeter or two. The evasive letters returned to the screen: alt.fan.tolkien.

"A group for Tolkien!" I said in an excited tone. "Let's visit that!" Baggy nodded, fetched a weird-looking typewriter - he called it a "keyboard" - and connected it to the computer.

We both had been, of course, big fans of Tolkien ever since we grew tall enough to reach up to my parents' bookshelf. We had been playing "Middle-earth" all the time, making small rings from golden pipe cleaner and chasing each other as "Frodo" and "Sauron", or having sword-fights with sticks and branches. But our knowledge of these writings was, of course, superficial and juvenile. We thought the books were fun, and hardly recognized their artistic value. So when the text of this group's latest discussion threads started to float over the screen, my first sensation was that I felt completely overwhelmed.

In the unlikely case that you are not familiar with the concept of a newsgroup, imagine a virtual pinwand where everyone can go and attach a message. You need a basic account to participate, but it is not a closed group - there are no moderators who have to approve or reject new members. It all happens in the public - everyone else can read your message and post answers to it. A row of answers to one original post is called a thread, and so the discussion unfolds. Threads can branch, topics can change, and though such an open group is of course always vulnerable to evil attackers baiting the members into discussions nobody wants, the results are mostly interesting. In these times, before blogs and web forums flooded the net with their colourful graphics and confusing interfaces, newsgroups were the place to go if you wanted online discussions.

This group was a particularly active one, and we delved right in. Line after line, page after page, the discussions unfolded before our eyes. Books were quoted. Arguments were exchanged, arguments of a depth that scared me. People yelled at each other, became mortal enemies over minute matters and became friends again. Jokes were made which I didn't get. Puns prattled on our heads like rain from a heavy summer thunderstorm. When, after what seemed like eternity, Arpanet broke down and the connection was abruptly severed, I felt like I was in a dream. Or rather, like my entire life had been a dream, a sheltered existence inside a soap bubble, and for the first time I had opened my eyes and took a look at the real world, which was much bigger than I had always thought. All I needed was to return to the group, to read and learn, to participate in the discussions, and the soap bubble would burst, and I would be free.

And so we did.

Once we stepped out of the shadow and participated in the discussions, the group alt.fan.tolkien welcomed us warmly. The long-time members listened to our immature questions and answered them, and soon we too had something to say even in the most heated argument. During the next few months, we changed. Our behaviour became less childlike. Our horizon widened. Our knowledge and wisdom grew, for in this group not only Tolkien was discussed, everything had its place there, from politics to cooking recipes. Of course our parents noticed, and they were glad about the change. That's puberty, they said to themselves. They're growing up. The dustbins of the town uttered a collective sigh of relief.

And one day I awoke in my bed, looked around my room decorated with 70es rock star posters, and a glorious idea started to form in my head. For long it had bugged me that discussions, once they scrolled off Baggy's screen, were lost, at least practically. Discussion threads were archived, but these archives were a mess to navigate through if all you have is three hundred hertz and a typewriter. What we needed was a small, easily accessable text file where the most common problems were addressed and solved. What we needed were condensed answers to the most Frequently Asked Questions. What we needed was a FAQ. And we were going to write it.

Initially Baggy was sceptical about the idea. "This will take a long time", he said, once I described my plans to him. "Are you sure we'll be able to do it, Noeel? Shouldn't we, like, get out more and stuff?" He swung his leg around. "I haven't kicked a girl in ages. I'm getting rusty."

"But, Bags", I said, "imagine what it'll be like when we're done! A big file, answering every question. Time-saving and efficient. Published and copied all over Arpanet. We'll be famous. They'll sing us praises in no time!"

I could see a shimmer of excitement in Baggy's eyes. Quick fame was something he always had been interested in, while I, of course, have always been motivated by the desire of truth and clarity alone. "We could sure try it", Baggy said.

"Good!" I answered. "Then let's start. Everyone searches the archives for answers to a list of questions, and then we all condense it into short paragraphs. Let's say... let's begin with one simple question for each of us. What do you think?"

Baggy nodded. "Okay, then I will start with the question: Why did the Nazgul run away at Weathertop, when Frodo was already wounded and weakened and the One Ring was there for taking?" he said. "That has always driven me nuts. And you?"

I thought for a moment. "I choose: Is 'Lord of the Rings' a Catholic allegory?" I decided. "That one shouldn't be too hard. Or controversial."

Baggy rubbed his hands. "Okay, then let's find us some serious wood", he said. "We'll need a lot of steam tonight. A lot."

***

For much of the following three months, my and Baggy's lives revolved mostly around our new project. With painstaking accuracy we searched every post in the entire archive, answered every question we could imagine. We did not yet tell anyone in alt.fan.tolkien what we were doing - we intended it to be a surprise. We wanted to present them the thing ready and polished. Soon enough we had to buy an additional harddisk to store all that data, then a third one. From today's viewpoint I doubt that what we wrote was very good - we were still hardly more than kids, and others had been discussing these matters for years, maybe even decades. Additionally, in this time, some books by Christopher Tolkien, the youngest son of the Great Man, had not yet been published, namely the "History of Middle-Earth" series. A series in which he went through the countless heaps of notepads, sheets and paper shreds his father had left behind, and revealed a wealth of hitherto hidden information. So I guess today our FAQ would be only of nostalgic value. But at this time, we were honestly convinced that we were up to something big.

And so it was a terrible blow for both of us when the catastrophe happened.

I had a girlfriend at this time, someone from the neighbourhood, roughly my age. Her name was Bombadillia Ryngsmith. She had long brown pigtails, chubby cheeks and the cutest smile I had ever seen. Bombie was my first great love, and I was having my head utterly in the clouds. Not that I ever considered giving up the FAQ, to spend more time with her. That was out of the question. But still I was somewhat behind my schedule. And I think Baggy was slightly jealous of having to share me with her.

At this particular day I was visiting Baggy to quickly check what was new on alt.fan.tolkien, and I had brought Bombadillia along. While we waited for the Arpanet connection to be established, Bombadillia leaned against the warm oven and eyed us with a bored expression. "When's that computer thing finally ready, Eelie?" she lamented. "I thought we were going to the cinema tonight. You promised."

I bit my lips. She told the truth, and I wanted to go there with her - even if we mostly just held hands. This was a time when young people like me were not yet completely corrupted. Still, I would not have missed it for anything else. "We will, sweetie", I said. "We will immediately when we've checked our group. There is a discussion we have to enter, you know. A political thread. We can't wait with that. What if Carter frees the Iranian hostages before we have weighed in? They will all have a false analysis of these events!"

"Besides, the computer should be ready any minute now", Baggy came to my help. He held a small box with some dead animal under Bombadillia's nose. "While you wait, care for some roasted pigeo... I mean pig?"

Bombadillia looked at the box and frowned. "This must be a mini-pig", she said. "A winged one. Anyway. I don't wanna miss the start of the movies again and-"

A series of beeps from the computer interrupted her. "Aha!" yelled Baggy triumphantly. "We're connected! Quick, put some wood on the fire. We need every milliampere we can get for that monster of a thread!"

I grabbed a heap of dry branches from the corner. "Bombie, move aside, please", I said. My girlfriend moved away a few centimeters from the oven door, so that I could open it to throw the firewood in.

What happened then I could only analyze afterwards. Both Bombadillia and I were insecure teenagers, very concerned about ourselves and how we looked - and smelled - to each other. So probably both of us were severely overdoing it with the deodorant and the perfume. The combined fumes of our bodies must have reached a critical point when we stood next to each other, and as soon as I opened the oven door, a jet of flames shot out of it, and a massive combustion occurred between us. It was over in a split second and did not do me much harm - but it set Bombadillia's pigtails on fire.

She uttered an unarticulated cry and lept back. "Help!" she yelled. "Help! Put it out! Put it out!" But I only could stand there, frozen in shock, and not take any action. Bombadillia, in total panic, stumbled backwards and fell over the typewriter, and sparks from her pigtails showered the entire room. The toilet paper of the punch card caught fire first, and in a single second the flames crept along it and into the computer. The smell of burning plastic seeped out of the main fan and drowned the pleasant smell I and my girlfriend had been spreading.

"Put it ouuut!" screamed Bombadillia, and finally I could move. I ripped off my sweater and slapped her pigtails with it, and surprisingly I managed to smother the flames. But by now thick black smoke was emerging from every slit of the computer. The smoke surrounded me, and I coughed violently.

Fleeing from the smoke, we all three stumbled out of the room. "Mum! Dad! Help!" yelled Baggy, completely shedding the brittle dignity of a teenager. "Fire!"

"The FAQ!" I shouted. "Save the FAQ!"

"Whatever you're planning to do, it's too late!" answered Bombadillia and pointed at the computer. Flames were bursting out of it.

"Perhaps not!" gasped Baggy and coughed. "The data is all over the harddisks. They're screwed in, and by the time I've found a screwdriver, they're toast. But if we could print it out somehow-"

"Noeel! No!" shouted Bombadillia. But I had already turned my back on them and returned into the computer room. I held my breath and waded through the thick smoke. The heat was unbearable. Finally I found the typewriter. The keys were smouldering hot and burned my fingers when I typed the command to print the file. We had installed a printer some weeks ago, to facilitate our archive sweeps, but we had never made a written backup of our own work. Who can foresee something like this? The device was a large, clumsy needle printer, and with a screeching sound it came to life. A sheet of paper was slowly pushed out - too slowly. I ripped it out, while my head was starting to spin from the toxic smoke, but sparks had already landed on it. The metal parts of the printer started to glow and the plastic parts melted, and the second page got stuck as the printer died, and the first page of our FAQ burned away in my hands. I did not let go. I held the page until the end, until the flames ate into my flesh, and the despair in my mind drowned the physical pain. Then I felt Baggy's hand on my arm, pulling me out of the smoke. In front of the computer room I collapsed. I knelt on the floor and sobbed, my red and swollen hands still clutched around the ashes that had been the work of months. Bombadillia tried to comfort me. "It's only paper, Noeel", she repeated again and again. "It's only paper."

Baggy and Bombadillia led me into the bathroom and treated my hands with cold water, and I cried until Baggy's parents arrived with a fire extinguisher and smothered the fire with a thick layer of foam, a shroud over the black, deformed remnants of Baggy's first computer.

***

In the present, I dropped the notepad and the pen and looked at my hands. Faint scars were still visible, even after more than twenty years. In my past, I had often traced these faded lines with a pencil, wondering whether a word would appear, something that had magically been transferred from the burning sheet to my palms. I liked the idea that my work had not been entirely in vain. But that was just wishful thinking.

The doctor came back. "Good evening, Mr. Quickley", he said. Onto my bedside table he put a plate with some soft bread, a bowl of something mushy and healthy-looking, and a small muffin of some sort. "Your dinner", he said unnecessarily.

"Thank you, doctor", I answered gloomily.

"Is your memory coming back?" he inquired.

"Partly", I said.

"Good, good. Don't press it", said the doctor. "The more you relax, the quicker it will come. You should eat this now and then try to get some rest. Your body is not used to long uptimes yet. I leave you now; I will be back in the morning. If there is anything you need, don't hesitate to ring the bell and call the night nurse. Maybe you would like something to read, something light to distract your mind, so that you can sleep better? A magazine perhaps?"

I shook my head. "No, thank you, sir", I said. "Or wait... Maybe you could get me a copy of Lord of the Rings. Or anything else by Tolkien. I have read a few pages of his works before bedtime all my life, ever since my thirteenth year."

"I'll see to it at once", the doctor assured me. "Good night, Mr. Quickley."

"Good night", I said, and the doctor disappeared again. Before I ate, I searched the dinner for hidden messages, but I found none. A nurse brought me a copy of the Silmarillion, and I lay down and tried to read a few pages from the Lay of Leithian, one of my favourite Tolkien legends. I knew it by heart, of course, but just seeing the words in print had always given me great comfort. Not today, though. The letters danced in front of my eyes and refused to form meaningful sentences. The book did not speak to me anymore. It was like re-reading something that you liked in your childhood, but have outgrown now, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot recall the feeling of awe that you remember from long ago.

In a very dark mood I lay down to sleep. What has become of Baggy, I wondered. No, I knew - it had been him in the chronologically last scene I remembered, the scene in my temple. Why had I felt no joy in seeing him then? What had happened between us to break that friendship? And, by the way, what had happened to Bombadillia?

Before I could find any answer to these questions, I fell asleep.

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