The Lord of the... whatever, Rare Manuscripts:

Journey Down The Sixty-Sixth Road To The Cross-Roads

Frodo and Sam were kicked out of the caves of Dr Faramir when the morning
when the sun had just peered its bleary eyes over the Ephel Duemille.
Grudgingly, Faramir had lent them a baby-blue wain to continue their
journey. Frodo reflected on his life as he controlled the reins of the
powerful ponies. He had been raised in wealth and luxury, but after the
unexpected disappearance of his benefactor, it was revealed his hoped-for
inherited wealth was an empty sham. So he had taken up the life of the
open road with Bilbo's former servant, Sam, who had grown up in Ûdun's
Kitchen in the Lower Eastside Hobbiton.

They had already had many adventures, and who knew how many more lay
ahead? Sam was complaining of his liver ailment, but he was a tough kid.
The life of the open road.

They had taken many chance companions along the road, many small dramas,
neatly resolved in one hour. Their current companion, a nasty crawly known
as Saddam but calling himself Spíke lay in the back of the wain, cursing
the bright light of the morning. Hungover again.

'So what's this week's episode, Frod?' Sam inquired.

'We got--to get to--the Crossroads.'

'Have they gone at last?' said Saddam. 'Nassty wicked Men! Took away Spíke's
bottle, they did.'

'Yes, let us go,' said Frodo. 'But if you can only speak ill of those who
threatened your life because of their inadequate security, keep silent.'

'Nice Master,' whimpered Saddam. 'Spíke was only joking. Always he
forgives, he does, yess. Master can hit Spíke in the nose again.'

Frodo and Sam did not answer as they watch the road wind away through the miles.

Twice that day they stopped to refeed the ponies. They also took a little
of the green ham and eggs Faramir had given them. Saddam ate nothing in a
rare display of good taste. The local townspeople ignored them; the
sterotypically corrupt police orc chieftains might have made a good plot
point, but that wasn't this chapter's premise.

Darkness came early to the silent wood, as early as if at British
latitudes when they were closer to Mediterranian latitudes. Frodo and Sam
stretched out in the back on the wain. Saddam had slipped off as soon as
they stopped; he returned at the first light of dawn, red-eyed with the
scent of Nyquil on his breath.

That day passed much as the day before had gone, except for a loner in a
blue knit watch cap roaring off on a horse, or the doctor who was stalking
a one-armed bandit. The silence seemed deeper as they left their theme
music further behind; the air grew heavy, and it began to be stifling
under the trees. Saddam often paused, sniffing the air, and urged them
with greater speed to establish the EPA.

At the third stage of their day's march drew on and afternoon waned, the
forest opened out. No living creature, beast or bird, was to be seen
except for a party of monks led by a Brendan fellow. He mentioned
something about a tree of white singing leaves, so Frodo assumed the monk
meant Lorien, with this Paradise being that house of pliable elfmaidens.
Frodo and Sam continued south and east.

Saddam grew afraid. They had passed two men in another wain with loaded
bow rack behind them, and then two wild men on horseback. The horsemen
offered to share some of their herbs, but Frodo waved them on, not wanting
to be involved.

They continued on the road again, growing more and more desperate for a
premise for the chapter. But it was too late. They had arrived at the

Draft of Book IV, Chapter Six / Table of Contents / Draft of Book IV, Chapter Eight
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This exciting piece of draft material is presented through the courtesy of China Blue Screen of Death <mlindanne-aaaaaaat-hotmail-dawt-com>. Copyright © 2001 by the author. All rights reserved. Some variance between this e-text and the original printed material by Professor Tolkien is inevitable. Using this as an electronic resource for scholarly or research purposes may lead to a certain degree of academic embarassment. All agree that the printed version of the text, available from respectable publishers such as Houghton Mifflin and Ballantine Books, is to be preferred. Don't touch that dial.