The two towers of Barad-dûr and Isengard – fortresses of the Dark Lord Sauron and the treacherous wizard Saruman – loom over this second volume of J.R.R. Tolkien’s epic fantasy adventure The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien established the parameters of the Middle-Earth saga in the first volume, The Fellowship of the Ring; and in the second volume, The Two Towers, Tolkien builds upon and deepens his exploration of his characters and their quest. “The board is set; the pieces are moving.”
Readers of The Lord of the Rings will recall the scenario set forth in The Fellowship of the Ring. Sauron’s Ring of Power, a source of absolute evil, slept for many years as a possession of the hobbit Bilbo Baggins; but now the Ring has reawakened, and wants to get back to its former master just as badly as Sauron wants to re-acquire it. If Sauron regains the ring, he will have absolute power, and will be able to plunge all of Middle-Earth into utter desolation.
The Fellowship of the Ring, you will recall, consists of the nine companions who came together on a quest to take the Ring to Mount Doom in the heart of Sauron’s kingdom of Mordor, and to cast it back into the fire wherein it was made, the only place in Middle-Earth where it can be destroyed; and The Fellowship of the Ring ended with the breaking of the Fellowship, as different members of the Fellowship went in different directions.
The Two Towers consists of two separate books – Books III and IV of The Lord of the Rings as a whole. Book III chronicles the attempt of three members of the Fellowship – Aragorn, a man who is heir to the throne of Gondor; Legolas, an Elven prince; and Gimli, a Dwarf warrior – to rescue their friends, the hobbits Merry and Pippin, from the orcs who have kidnapped them. This book also chronicles the role that these characters play in defending the people of the allied kingdom of Rohan against a deadly attack by Saruman’s Uruk-Hai, an army of particularly strong and vicious orcs.
Book IV meanwhile tells of how Frodo Baggins – Bilbo’s nephew, and the bearer of the Ring – travels toward Mordor, accompanied by his loyal friend and fellow hobbit Samwise Gamgee. After a time, in a menacing development, the two hobbits are joined by the creature Gollum. The reader already knows that Gollum was long ago corrupted by the evil power of the Ring, and that Gollum is obsessed with getting the Ring back.
Against that background, Tolkien unfolds a moral drama that shows the manner in which the author’s devout Catholicism informs his crafting of the tale – as when a member of the Fellowship who once seemed to have been lost forever suddenly returns, in a manner seeming quite like resurrection, and informs his surprised and overjoyed friends that “We meet again. At the turn of the tide. The great storm is coming, but the tide has turned” (p. 125).
Some of the most interesting passages in The Two Towers occur when Tolkien invites the reader’s consideration of the reasons why people choose the path of evil – as when the novel’s narrator discusses how the White Wizard Saruman, once he turned renegade and chose to ally himself with Sauron, changed and corrupted the once-beautiful tower and lands of Isengard:
“A strong place and wonderful was Isengard, and long it had been beautiful; and there great lords had dwelt…and wise men that watched the stars. But Saruman had slowly shaped it to his shifting purposes, and made it better, as he thought, being deceived – for all those arts and subtle devices, for which he forsook his former wisdom, and which fondly he imagined were his own, came but from Mordor; so that what he made was naught, only a little copy, a child’s model or a slave’s flattery, of that vast fortress, armoury, prison, furnace of great power, Barad-dûr, the Dark Tower, which suffered no rival, and laughed at flattery, biding its time, secure in its pride and its immeasurable strength.” (p. 204)
When The Lord of the Rings was published in the mid-1950’s, some readers tried to force upon the narrative a World War II subtext – one in which Saruman’s status as a puppet of Sauron is meant to be an analogy for Mussolini as a pawn of Hitler. Yet Tolkien – who, in his preface to The Lord of the Rings, cautions the reader against looking at the novel as an allegory for the Second World War – may have a much simpler thematic message in mind. Perhaps, as the devoutly Christian Tolkien sees it, anyone who consciously chooses the side of evil in hopes of gaining power is already being manipulated by someone else – someone who is infinitely more powerful and incomparably more wicked.
The passages of The Two Towers that deal with the journey of Frodo and Sam – chronicling their journey into lands ever more hideous, with the treacherous Gollum ever at their side – are likely to hold particular power for many readers. Tolkien’s talent for descriptive writing truly shines through in passages like this one:
“Before them dark in the dawn the great mountains reached up to roofs of smoke and cloud. Out from their feet were flung huge buttresses and broken hills that were now at the nearest scarce a dozen miles away. Frodo looked round in horror. Dreadful as the Dead Marshes had been, and the arid moors of the Noman-lands, more loathsome far was the country that the crawling day slowly unveiled to his shrinking eyes. Even to the Mere of Dead Faces some haggard phantom of green spring could come; but here neither spring nor summer would ever come again. Here nothing lived, not even the leprous growths that feed on rottenness. The gasping pools were choked with ash and crawling muds, sickly white and grey, as if the mountains had vomited the filth of their entrails upon the lands about. High mounds of crushed and powdered rock, great cones of earth fire-blasted and poison-stained, stood like an obscene graveyard in endless rows, slowly revealed in the reluctant light.” (p. 302)
Truly, such passages show why a first-time reader of The Lord of the Rings, if he or she expected that the book would be characterised by the same sort of whimsical tone that marks much of The Hobbit, is likely to be quickly disabused of any such misapprehensions.
As Frodo and Sam make their way toward an especially treacherous passage into the heart of Mordor – and as Gollum sets in motion a cruel plan to betray the hobbits and get the ring back – Sam reflects on how their own story relates to conventions of myth and epic:
“The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually – their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t.” (p. 407)
Tolkien is talking directly to us here, and I think many readers are likely to stand up and take notice – and not only because Peter Jackson makes this statement by Sam the focus of an important scene from his 2002 film adaptation The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. I say this because I still have the Ballantine Books mass-market paperback copy of The Two Towers that I bought as a first-year college student in Tidewater Virginia. Looking at this old, tattered paperback copy that I have before me, I can see now, with much older eyes, the place where, as a college freshman, I underscored that passage in light-blue highlight marker. Clearly that passage made a strong impression on me all the way back in 1979 or 1980, decades before the idea of a live-action film of The Lord of the Rings was even considered a realistic possibility.
That passage captures much of what I think readers will always find magical and compelling about The Lord of the Rings. The book embodies the nature of myth – with characters who hold powers for which they did not ask, who go on a quest that involves both external and internal threats. Each of us, after all, is the mythic hero of our own quest narrative. Each of us must look within ourselves, draw upon our own inner resources, if we are to find the strength to see our quest through to the end, and to prevail in a fight for the preservation of the good.
Filled with passages of epic combat and poetic introspection, The Two Towers is a book of amazing power and dynamism. The middle book of a trilogy - Oedipus at Colonus, for example - is often at a disadvantage, as an appreciation of its merits depends upon the reader’s awareness of what happened before, in a prior book. But that is not the case here.
From its fast-paced beginning to its conclusion that strikes a note of suspense and uncertainty – a conclusion that may remind many readers of the way in which Star Wars creator George Lucas ended The Empire Strikes Back (1980), the second film of his original Star Wars trilogy – Tolkien’s The Two Towers grabs and holds the reader’s attention, in a manner that no doubt sends many readers straight on to The Return of the King, the third and final volume of The Lord of the Rings.