(Oxford, UK) – Researchers at Oxford University have found what is believed to be a lost short story from John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, better known by his pen name, J.R.R Tolkien. Tolkien served as the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon, and Fellow of Pembroke College, Oxford, from 1925 througbh 1945; and the Merton Professor of English Language and Literature, and Fellow of Merton College, Oxford from 1945 through 1959. He is best known for his seminal work, The Lord of the Rings, along with the prequel novel, The Hobbit, and a trove of historic narrative that serves as a fictional history of the fantasy world on which these works were based.

The short story was once mentioned in a letter to Owen Barfield regarding the writing of sequel to the Lord of the Rings, in which the latter days of Samwise Gamgee were recounted. In continuity with his earlier works, Tolkien wrote that he imagined that Samwise would have written down his adventures in the Red Book of Westmarch, especially his years being mayor of Hobbiton.

Here, in full, is what is believed to be Tolkien’s last writings about the characters from The Lord of The Rings. It may be too short to be categorized as a short story, and may be better termed as a “sketch” of a story. However, since Tolkien recommended it to Barfield as a short story, the Oxford researchers have chosen to respect that designation.

It may be years before this manuscript is authenticated, though upon even a cursory read, one can clearly sense the Tolkienesque presence in this writing, as if he were sitting across from us, winking from behind his ever-present pipe, ready to take us from the comfort of our homes, onto some grand adventure.

The Weatherlode, by J.R.R Tolkien

The amber tones of the morning sun, spread thin within the somber hue of the steed’s mane, as it began to slowly gaze over the crest of the mountains far. It was a morning fit for walking, and walking in silence amongst the reeds and lilies, even those that did not bud as they should at this stage of the early springtime. Throughout the hillside and in the marsh, none but the welcome inhabitants stayed, and none strayed from its designated place. Into this scene, one could walk, if one had the desire. One could run, if it were but more deeply into the day. Yet, though one might, none were there that did; or else, none that could be seen.

As though in a remembrance of the youth of Thiun Agul, the marsh sounded with weeping never before heard in such low climes. That strong Thiun Agul, who once was thought to be of significance in this realm, but was only a shadow of what he could have deemed himself to become. The timid Thiun Agul, who once had sung upon the hilltop:

The trees of Migoth Liuen hear the flow of waters deep,

The echo of the Sagaroth beneath the norgus trees;

Atop the mound of ‘membered old the face of one who wept;

Be still! And hither wait for sun to rise from o’er the hills.

Alas! But with the moon’s soft glow the sea of heather waves,

To say at once come hie, begone, though not as though in kind;

A song of ancient yore is low, behold in silence heard;

The faithfulness of Enderplain from Argis is come nigh.

Yea, into this place, and in this season, there remained none like Agul, and none that were naught like him, as well: none would dare.

Samwise Gamgee, on this day, thought of a stroll through the watery, wistful marsh, to the crest of the hills, and out to spy what was in the skies south of the trees of Migoth Liuen. He dared to dream of naught but what he might see come alight on this day, and put aside those for which he dared not wish.

A memory of his youth, the spoiled years in which he ran South, hoping beyond hope to rid himself and the whole realm of the evil under which it had fallen prey. The shock of this memory began as Sam took his first step from the comfort of his bed. In this movement, there were words spoken from every joint, from every inch of sinew, that told tale of the past, and begged for relief. The marshes waited, and so did Sam.

When the sun began to set, the crickets and fowl in the marshes began their early song of night. The fowl gave way from the marsh into the trees to watch over the last rays before the shade of hiding fully enclosed their roosts.

As near as can be told in the tongues of men, this was the song they joined:

Arack! Arack! Yup, yup Arack!

Nik, nik, yup Arak, nip yup Arack!

Yete Yete yup nip Arack!

Sam heard this song, as he had on some many nights that were forgotten, and threw a biscuit at the trees of Migoth Liuen. But the biscuit, though thrown with all of the might he could mete, fell against the floor after shattering on the wall of Sam’s house. Sam’s foot found its way back into the bed from which it had barely departed. He lifted the covers back up to his chin, and fell into a peaceful sleep.

The night winds blew the fowl from their roosts, and they flew beyond the ridge, out of sight and hearing of Samwise Gangee. Out of his hearing, but not out of his thoughts. The biscuit, he mused, was now but fragments for the mice to eat; to regain their strength for the nightly forage into the marsh to find the footprints of Thiun Agul.

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