The Central Role of Nature in Tolkien’s Christian Myth

By Christy Di Frances

There is in the great Lord of the Rings saga a mysterious “otherness,” a sense of

mystery and magic quite foreign to the modern experience. Indeed, it is this very quality,

this other-worldliness, so to speak, which draws the reader by reflecting the faint glimmer

of a reality beyond that which humankind has managed to construct in this reasonable age

of science and machine. It is a world far removed from the complacency which marks

the earth of mortal men . . . a Middle-earth where good and evil clash vehemently with

sword and fire—where the courage of even one person, however insignificant, may

determine the fate of all.

Yet the tale is no less real because it dwells on the happenings of dwarves and

elves, hobbits and goblins—indeed, it is more real. For, “as long as the story lingers in

our mind, the real things are more themselves. . . . By dipping them in myth we see them

more clearly” (Lewis 77). The myth surrounding the events of the War of the Ring is, in

the end, what makes them end up being true, in the strictest sense of the word. For Truth

is, in its fullness, beyond the realm of human reality, an expression of God and not of

mankind in his natural state. Thus, The Lord of the Rings myth is inherently Christian

because it presents the reflection of Truth, which is One in essence.

In this light, it is interesting to note that The Lord of the Rings is largely an

outdoor story: “No book published in recent times creates a more poignant feeling for the

essential quality of many outdoor . . . experiences—of flowing streams and the feel and

taste of water . . . of light in dark places, of the coming of dawn, or of the quiet strength
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of song and legend. After reading the Rings, one sees and feels more deeply” (Kilby 74).

Nature, or more specifically, the created order, is integral to life, and maintains a central

role in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Christian myth—The Lord of the Rings. But to understand the

significance of nature to the myth, it is first critical to comprehend the essence of the

myth itself.

The Lord of the Rings trilogy contains a hint of the sublime, but it also resounds

with unremitting echoes of a mythic past. Every populated corner of the globe lays claim

to its own unique legends, treasures of ancient lore, whether oral or written, handed down

across the generations so that the lessons of old are not lost on the young. For Tolkien,

renowned Beowulf scholar and accomplished philologist, the folkloric tradition of the

ancient Norsemen, doughty warriors who once inhabited the rugged shores of England

and northern Europe, held particular appeal.

Years before Tolkien began writing his celebrated trilogy, he first stumbled across

the term “middle-earth” in Crist, an Advent poem composed by Cynewulf (Rogers and

Rogers 44). The notion of this second world, an earth parallel to his own, captivated

Tolkien’s imagination. His best work draws heavily upon Norse mythology, a fantastic

array of legends, not the least of which is the ancient Norse Ring Saga, the Volsung Saga,

which recounts the tale of a golden ring, cursed by the evil dwarf, Andvari, that corrupted

all who came to possess it, thus bequeathing a legacy of violence and tragedy upon the

ancient heroes (Gayley 398-405).

Certainly, Tolkien’s is a world “full of echoes of the Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and

Icelandic literature” with “its firm delineation of good against evil” (Cooper 143).
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Though far from presenting the sort of stereotypical dualism which reduces every

character to being purely good, with no inherent sin, or purely wicked, exempt from all

redemption, The Lord of the Rings reflects an instinctive, and thus ancient, system of

good versus evil. Into this richly mythic heritage, Tolkien infused delightful characters

of his own invention, such as a variety of monsters, each more terrifying than the last,

orcs, and, of course, the unforgettable hobbits. Others, like Elves and Ents (Shippey,

Road 100), are relics of Anglo-Saxon superstition, though Tolkien modified even these

beings to fit his storytelling purposes.

While many characters present in The Lord of the Rings saga are clearly of

legendary Nordic extraction, they should not be regarded as mere historical

representations. As with the Riders of the Mark, called the Rohirrim, they “are not to be

equated with the Anglo-Saxons of history, but with those of poetry, or legend” (Shippey,

Road 94). With their mighty horses and shining armor, these horsemen of Gondor

resemble Beowulf’s legendary warrior-thanes more closely than they do the actual

Vikings of history. Through the Riders, as through many of his other characters,

Tolkien’s writing strives towards a point—that modern man has fallen into the dangerous

trap of abandoning legends, old and earthy, for hard scientific “fact.”

According to Tolkien, for “a century at least the world has been increasingly

demythologized. But such a condition is apparently alien to the real nature of men”

(Kilby 80). Humanity needs stories, poetry, myth—the artistic connection to another

reality, one outside of the tangible world. The Lord of the Rings provides just such a
 C. Di Frances 4

window from this earth to another; it is Tolkien’s resolution for a people who have, to

their shame, forgotten the myths of old.

Tolkien’s theory of demythologization becomes apparent within the story when

Théoden, king of Gondor, awakens from his state of spiritual lethargy, caused by

Saruman, to ask Gandalf about the legendary Ents. Gandalf’s answer is revealing: “Is it

so long since you listened to tales by the fireside? There are children in your land who,

out of the twisted threads of story, could pick the answer to your question.” To this

accusation, Thédoen admits, “Songs we have that tell of these things, but we are

forgetting them, teaching them only to children, as a careless custom” (TT 168). While

an evil shadow hovers above the darkening landscape of Middle-earth, its inhabitants

have ceased to remember their stories.

This understanding of narrative lethargy concerning the mythic tradition translates

directly to an authorial philosophy concerning the modern dilemma. “In Tolkien’s view,

the adult relegation of fairy stories to the nursery has been dangerous for both adults and

children” (Birzer 37). Myth is a form of fairy tale, in past times venerated by all ages

within society, and now fallen into a dangerous state of neglect. Lethe-ward have the

greatest of the stories sunken, until now they are in danger of being lost forever beneath

the swirling waters of forgetfulness.

The true home of myth is Faerie, an enchanted realm from which all fairy stories

spring, so that they may be recognized by Faerie’s whimsical presence rather than by any

static definition (Sandner 135). Faerie is a place of magic and mystery, far-off in

connotation, yet strangely compelling. Though allegedly a place where grown-ups are
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forbidden, as portrayed by J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, true Faerie is really the source of

fantasy in its most beautiful state.

Yet, the particular aspect of Faerie presented by The Lord of the Rings is

somehow more, enchantment which Tolkien considered “an elvish craft which Fantasy

can never fully attain” (Sandner 135). It is other-worldly in the highest sense, so that

some “sensitive modern souls, feeling that modern life is about as black a slavery as ever

oppressed mankind (they are right enough there), have specially described elfland as a

place of utter ease and abandonment—a place where the soul can turn every way at will

like the wind” (Chesterton 15). Here again, a spark of the sublime animates Faerie,

creating a sort of transcendent wind, idea rather than place, breezing in from outside the

boundaries of time. It causes the reader to seek that which exists beyond the limitations

of the text itself (Sandner 135).

There is, in this search for the essence of Faerie, a persistent expectation of

identity, as if by the finding of it the reader may come upon something that belonged to

humankind a very, very long time ago. When glimpsed, even for the briefest of

moments, this meaning seems illusory because it is inherently different. It cannot help

but be. And because of this, some people “have made a mistake: because the world of

the fairy-tales is a brighter and more varied world than ours, they have fancied it less

moral; really it is brighter and more varied because it is more moral” (Chesterton 16).

The heightened morality of Faerie leads to the startling conclusion that, because this

enchantment is closer to the ideal of Good, it must also be closer to that of true reality.
 C. Di Frances 6

For Tolkien, “reality begins not in the seen but the unseen” (Kilby 75). Thus, the

invisible nature of Faerie, like that of myth, may ultimately be interpreted as an

indication of reality. Yet it is an authenticity in no way indicative of “realism” as

modernity defines the term. Faerie is real in the sense that it hints at that which is

beyond human experience, rather than what embodies human experience in a particular

culture or historical era. Indeed, what makes The Lord of the Rings so delightfully

compelling is its insistence that reality is an aspect of truth rather than of familiarity.

Tolkien himself wrote: “I believe that legends and myths are largely made of

‘truth’. . .” (Carpenter, Letters 147), and the transcendence of fairy stories results directly

from this connection. The great legends of olden times are not simply made up out of

someone’s head. “Myth, inherited or created” can “offer a ‘sudden glimpse of Truth,’

that is, a brief view of heaven” (Birzer 24). This is a distinct perception of mythology’s

intentions, gradually corrupted over time, until what was once the reflection of the great

Truth has become a sort of fogged-over nursery mirror. But genuine fantasy, according

to Tolkien, always points to Truth, and thus to Christianity.

It cannot be argued that powerful Christian implications exist within The Lord of

the Rings saga. These can be traced back to the author’s concept of sub-creation, wherein

the myth-writer fashions entire worlds from the recesses of his own imagination, thus

emulating the role of the true Creator (Kilby 72). It is a sanctified venture, this endeavor

to use one’s divinely endowed artistic ability. For Tolkien, a sub-creator “is actually

fulfilling God’s purpose, and reflecting a splintered fragment of the true light”
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(Humphrey, Inklings 43). Thus, Tolkien employed this notion of sub-creation in his

intricate fashioning of Middle-earth.

In his notable essay, On Fairy-Stories, Tolkien made the remarkable assertion that

the “Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the

essence of fairy-stories” (Tolkien, Essays 155). By this statement, the author insinuates a

much larger idea that the story of Christ, upon which all of Christianity is based, is

actually the great “myth” which all other myths can only attempt, in some way or

another, to echo. The fact that Tolkien regarded Christianity as a sort of myth does not

make him heretical; indeed, he was as orthodox a Roman Catholic as any. Yet his

brilliant mind seized upon a wonderful realization that “the truth of Christian theology

leads to mythmaking more satisfactory than that based on any other theology—in other

words, that the Mind of the Maker is incarnate” (Lobdell 82) within all real myths. For

Christ is the incarnation of Truth.

For this reason, Tolkien intended his own myth to be wholly congruent with

Christian belief (Carpenter, Letters 355); it must be in order to fulfill the proper objective

of fantasy. Without truth, fantasy is a sham, a cheap imitation of real Faerie, and God is

the source of all truth. Thus, “the entire story of The Lord of the Rings reflects God’s

grace, but while God is always present, he is never named” (Birzer 58). Therefore, the

story is intensely Christian without appearing blatantly religious.

It is into the deeply Christian element of Tolkien’s myth that nature figures with

extreme significance. For the longing after Faerie “offers integration, or reintegration,

with the world itself, with ‘real woods’ and the natural world” (Sandner 137). Since the
 C. Di Frances 8

fall, humankind has been living in a state of alienation from the rest of creation. Sin has

rent asunder the communal relationship once enjoyed between nature and man; he has

lived thousands of years upon soil and amidst trees, all the while remaining estranged

from a full appreciation of the natural order because, though cursed, it remains a very real

reflection of God.

The Psalmist alluded to the idea that “the heavens declare the glory of God”

(Psalm 19:1); accordingly, a proper relationship with the Creator leads to appreciation of

and respect for the land. This concept is also evident in The Lord of the Rings. Nature,

unless corrupted by sin, is an agent of goodness, and a means through which living

creatures can re-establish their alignment with the Good. Thus, throughout Tolkien’s

myth, nature serves as a gauge to indicate degrees of virtue, or vice, within the characters.

The preeminence of nature in Tolkien’s saga exhibits his typical interest in

ancient mythology. Land and sea, tree and rock, fire and water—all play an important

role in the Nordic mythological tradition. To these ancient people, subsisting entirely

upon the hard-won yield of an unforgiving climate, the natural environment reigned

supreme. She could offer life, and snatch it away by means of cold winter, sparse game,

and draught. The Northmen viewed nature as a spirit, or collection of spirits, whose

every whim was to be revered and feared. This is the legacy of Tolkien’s myth.

And this viewpoint surfaces in The Lord of the Rings when “Eomer rashly

contrasts ‘the green earth’ with ‘legends.’ Aragorn replies that the earth itself is ‘a

mighty matter of legend’” (Lewis 77). For the ancients, as for Tolkien, attempting to

detach nature from mythology is futile; worse, the endeavor must eventually result in a
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loss of equilibrium. Legend simply cannot exist without an environmental framework, a

setting to portray and echo the meaning of great events.

One of the most fascinating aspects of The Lord of the Rings involves its

distinction of being a grand-scale saga brimming with episodes of the particular, the

“little” things. Immediately, the reader finds himself compelled to notice that, throughout

the trilogy, “there runs an obsessive interest in plants and scenery, pipeweed and athelas”

(Shippey, Road 100). Together, these minor ecological details are what give the story its

epic dimension. Indeed, one “need only look at The Lord of the Rings for the briefest of

times to catch a vision of ancient forests, of trees like men walking, of leaves and

sunlight, and of deep shadows” (Lobdell 84). Certainly, for a meticulous writer such as

Tolkien, the story’s scrupulous attention to nature can hardly be coincidental.

In addition to being an exceptional scholar and author, Tolkien the man was,

throughout his life, an avid gardener, remembered by his children as being especially

partial to roses (Pearce 45-46). He was, by today’s standards, an early environmentalist,

preferring fields and woods to the city. In one fascinating letter, Tolkien revealed his

stance on the natural world: “In all my works I take the part of trees as against all their

enemies. Lothlórien is beautiful because there the trees were loved” (Carpenter, Letters

419). And round this affection for simple earth-things Tolkien fashioned The Lord of the

Rings story, in all its grandeur.

Though Tolkien has long been classified a conservationist, he tempered his

environmental philosophy with a very Christian concept of balance. In his view, balance

was the key to a right understanding of creation. Accordingly, organic wholeness

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remains an ideal throughout Tolkien’s work, a means of establishing Good as the proper

end to all things, but never as an end within itself. “Unlike some radical greens, he did

not believe that for nature to be conserved and respected humanity had to be devalued.

Rather, he thought that the natural world was a gift from God and that man was obligated

to act as its steward” (Birzer 128). In The Lord of the Rings, this balance is best

embodied by the character of Tom Bombadil.

From his first appearance in the story, Tom Bombadil enchants the reader; he is a

spellbinding whirl of sparkling blue eyes, yellow boots, and ostrich-plumed hat, beneath

which his russet hair is “crowned with autumnal leaves” (FR 141). Similarly, Goldberry,

Bombadil’s wife, known as ‘daughter of the river’ (FR 139), is splendidly arrayed in a

gown of silver-green mingled with fresh flowers. In the house of Tom Bombadil, the

hobbits listen mesmerized as his voice turns to song, and he tells “them tales of bees and

flowers, the ways of trees and the strange creatures of the Forest, about the evil things

and the good things, things friendly and things unfriendly, cruel things and kind things,

and secrets hidden under the brambles” (FR 147).

Tom Bombadil, one soon realizes, is nature, an innocent “timeless being, joyous

in the woods, to whom the horrendous events of the Third Age of Middle-earth can have

little meaning” (Hughes 89). This consciousness leads to the conclusion that, in its purest

form, nature is thoroughly un-evil, a direct conception of the Creator (or sub-creator).

Thus Bombadil, as the personification of nature, remains, unlike the other characters,

immune to the dark power of the ring, which feeds its blood-lust through sin, particularly

the sin of pride.

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All throughout The Lord of the Rings, goodness is associated with the natural

realm, and with remaining close to the essence of nature (Spacks 84). Its heroes stay in

consonance with the land by acting respectfully towards it, while villains intensify their

treachery through gross environmental abuse. Maltreatment of the land brings death,

both physically (to the physical surroundings) and symbolically (to the spirit). Good,

however, is “connected with nature in the trilogy by its character as a creative, life-giving

force” (Crabbe 159). Nature, then, is the fountainhead of all life, and one must live in

order to carry out the Good for which life is purposed.

It is interesting to note the way in which food figures into the idea that all things

truly natural may be associated with goodness. At the house of Tom Bombadil, the

travel-weary hobbits share a feast of “yellow cream and honeycomb, and white bread,

and butter, milk, cheese, and green herbs and ripe berries gathered” (FR 141). In

Tolkien’s story, good characters depend upon simple, wholesome foods, receiving their

sustenance from grains, honey, and vegetables. By contrast, agents of evil live, if an

existence of such unspeakable horror can be called living, on putrid meat and rancid

beverages, forces which numb both body and mind (Spacks 85).

Clearly, food maintains a high level of symbolism throughout the myth, and the

most important of all foods to the members of the Fellowship is lembas, waybread of the

Elves. Surprisingly, this marvelous provision, valued by Elves and men alike for its

powers of nourishment, is most effective when taken alone. Throughout The Lord of the

Rings, lembas retains extreme significance, and some have suggested a symbolic
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connection between it and the Eucharist (Birzer 61). Both give life-strength to the

faithful who partake of them.

Just as natural food plays a determining role in the story, so also water,

particularly within the context of a more extensive ecological setting, has symbolic

connotations. Water is all around the house of Tom Bombadil, and inside the tree-

dwellings of the Ents. Water saves Frodo from the pursuit of the Nazgul (FR 242), and at

Lothlórien, members of the Fellowship are blessed to hear “the music of the waterfalls

running sweetly in the shadows” (TT 380). In all these instances, water is presented as a

facet of the Good, an element of nature destined to remain pure, unless defiled by some

external evil.

Sadly, even water cannot escape the steadily growing Shadow of darkness upon

Middle-earth. Sam and Frodo find the water at Cirith Ungol to be poisonous,

contaminated by the evil of Sauron’s outstretched hand. Similarly, the desolate land

before Mordor is “defiled, diseased beyond all healing—unless the Great Sea should

enter in and wash it with oblivion” (TT 266). The Sea waters stand as an enduring

symbol of cleansing, and to be purified beyond the memory of oblivion remains the only

hope for an ecosystem infected by evil. Yet this hope lingers strong, and after the One

Ring has finally been destroyed for all time within the boiling fires of Mt. Doom, Gandalf

himself “laughed, and the sound was like music, or like water in a parched land’” (RK

246).

Besides food and water, a third natural symbol employed by Tolkien throughout

The Lord of the Rings is that of the tree. Trees maintain a continuous presence
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throughout the story, often exhibiting human characteristics and interacting with

characters, sometimes in startlingly un-treelike ways. Indeed, Tolkien declared that, at

times, whole forests are portrayed as stirring to a sort of consciousness (Carpenter,

Letters 419). Though the interpretation of trees as marking points along the good-evil

continuum may “seem ambiguous at first, [trees] stand for life. The malevolent trees in

the Old Forest and in Fangorn are more than offset by the good influences of Tom

Bombadil and the Ents” (Keenan 74). It is not surprising, then, that in the final battle,

men wage war against evil beneath the banner of the Tree and Stars (RK 175) and a

White Tree marks the return of the King (Lobdell 84). With his treatment of trees,

unmistakable symbols of the natural environment, Tolkien created a masterful depiction

of an epic struggle between evil and the Good.

There is, in The Lord of the Rings, a discernable lament, deep expression of grief

for the olden things that have disappeared, never to return. Tolkien believed that

modernity has distorted human perception, until all men have, over time, become blind

and deaf to the sacramentality which emanates from the created order (Birzer 23).

Indeed, in retrospect, “The Lord of the Rings is one of the best expressions of a whole

generation’s dismay at the modern world” (Rossi 133). This disillusionment with the so-

called “reality” of modern life began during the First World War, and, after its un-

forgotten horrors of mass destruction, soon gave way to a sense of dread, the numbing

terror of entire civilizations rendered un-human by mechanization—fear of a great

Shadow to come.
 C. Di Frances 14

This indescribable fear has taken shape in a colossal identity crisis, a whole world

of people who have forgotten the very essence of their humanity. Tolkien chose to

address this modern dilemma through his fiction. In The Lord of the Rings, Sauron “does

his destructive work through the animalistic counterfeits of elves called Orcs and through

the faceless, black-robed Ringwraiths” (Urang 99). The men of Gondor refer to Mordor

as the “Nameless Land,” and the Lieutenant of the Tower of Barad-dur has a name

“remembered in no tale; for he himself had forgotten it. . .” (RK 171). Evil characters

seem completely lacking in identity; they must be, for theirs is a culture of systematic

terror, with no stories by which to recall place and personality.

Yet, among the Fellowship, as among all who choose to live by virtue of the

Good, there remains always “a deep yearning . . . an unspoken longing for something

long lost” (Bruner and Ware 1). Though not wholly immune from the threat of lost

identity, those who reject evil, often embodied by a soulless mechanism, at least retain a

sensitivity to that which has been lost. And they hope to someday reclaim it when the

evil surrounding the One Ring is finally destroyed.

Tolkien was one of the most original writers to recognize and address the modern

identity crisis through literature, but he was certainly not the first. Rather, he followed “a

long tradition of opposition to the evils of the industrial age, stretching back to William

Blake. . .almost two centuries earlier, to the very dawn of industrialism itself” (Pearce

160). Blake’s renowned Songs of Innocence and Experience seems a perfect prelude to

Tolkien’s myth, with The Lord of the Rings ’ focus on a vast loss of innocence. Both are

deeply Romantic works, containing harsh indictments of mechanization as the agent of

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dehumanization in the Industrial Age. For the Romantics, the advent of mass machinery

presented a two-fold terror—materialism and industrialism.

Materialism has never been absent from the human experience, for man’s psyche

has a predisposition to continually want. However, with a heightened availability of

goods made possible by the Industrial Revolution, materialism, in the eyes of many

Romantics, had reached a grotesque level by the time Tolkien wrote The Lord of the

Rings. In his story, Tolkien directly confronted the materialistic phenomenon through a

variety of highly symbolic means.

Of all respectable creatures inhabiting Middle-earth during the Third Age, the

dwarves possess the most distinct inclination towards greed; in fact, they stand out as

definitive symbols of the vice (Nelson 84). Though dwarves are known for bravery,

often accomplishing courageous deeds in battle, and, as demonstrated by Gimli, they

seem always to balance upon a razor-edge of danger, for even remarkable courage has yet

to overcome greed—their greatest weakness of all. It is this greed for mithril which

“causes them to destroy their home in Moria by disturbing the Balrog” (Keenan 65).

However unnerving the dwarves’ greed is in posing a threat to the Quest, it

remains only a microcosm of the real problem, a dimmed reflection of that materialistic

threat which, as Galadriel warns, “yet may be” (FR 406)—the temptation of the One

Ring. The real lure of Saruman’s Ring is its promise of power, the ability to rule

supreme over all other living things. “Yet, of course, it is not simply the power, in itself,

that corrupts, but the pride which power may engender, which in turn produces the swift
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corruption of the power” (Fuller 26). It is the allure of materialism, the lie of Eden, the

center of Tolkien’s myth:

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,

One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them

Many have fallen prey to the Ring’s deceit, but perhaps none so hideously as the

Nazgul, “nine Mortal Men who were ensnared by lust for power during the Second Age

and who were forced to linger in Middle-earth as undead creatures, totally subservient to

their Master” (Tyler 402). Once great kings of the earthly realms, these men in their

strength could not resist the Ring—for it promised to make them like gods. This false

promise was also the undoing of the wizard Saruman, whose vain plans to appoint

himself lord of the tower at Isengard, in conceited mimicry of Sauron, are particularly

appalling to Gandalf (Nelson 86).

As the story of The Lord of the Rings unfolds, the reader is compelled to arrive at

the realization that there is only one way to escape the Ring’s power—with mercy.

Throughout the tale, good characters, continually struggling to resist the power of the

Ring, demonstrate pity in their treatment of others. Gandalf tells Frodo that Bilbo, “took

so little hurt from the evil, and escaped in the end, because he began his ownership of the

ring . . . with pity” (FR 65). This pity took the form of mercy upon the wretched Gollum.

Similarly, the nearly incorruptible Wood-elves “treat him with such kindness as they can

find in their wise hearts” (FR 66). Even Frodo, when he finally encounters Gollum face-

to-face, pities the creature (FR 246).

To act with mercy is a distinctly Christian response, for, according to Tolkien,

mercy, “In its highest exercise . . . belongs to God” (Carpenter, Letters 326). Frodo’s pity
 C. Di Frances 17

towards Gollum is a manifestation of grace. It is what saves him from himself, from the

dark power of the Ring—the Eden-like temptation (Birzer 59-60). In the end, Frodo’s

faithfulness in showing mercy to Gollum becomes the means of his own redemption, by

grace.

If the great appeal of the One Ring is indeed linked to materialistic tendencies of

modernity in The Lord of the Rings, then industrialism, as the soulless automaton of the

twentieth century, comes under even more scathing condemnation by Tolkien.

Undeniably, aversion to a world gone wild with mechanization emerges as a recurring

motif throughout the story (Pearce 158). For Tolkien, the real danger of the Industrial

Revolution lay in its betrayal—machinery turning to threaten its makers with the colossal

jaws of steal, robbing humankind of soil and soul to feed the smoke-belching furnaces of

modernity. His writing frequently associates mechanization with evil; servants of Sauron

tend to rely on machines instead of natural forces (Spacks 85). In a letter, Tolkien

disclosed his conviction that: “The Enemy, or those who have become like him, go in for

‘machinery’—with destructive and evil effects. . .” (Carpenter, Letters 200).

As evidenced by “his affection for the green countryside of the Shire, Tolkien’s

instincts are pastoral, antiurban and antiindustrial. Isengard, however is a kind of

nightmare. . .” (Rossi 131). Amid the machine-scarred landscape of Isengard, Saruman

has built “treasuries, store-houses, armouries, smithies, and great furnaces. Iron wheels

revolved there endlessly, and hammers thudded. At night plumes of vapour steamed

from the vents, lit from beneath with red light, or blue, or venomous green” (TT 174).

Tolkien’s image of Isengard is one of sensory repulsion—in this wasteland of ash, no

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living things grow to purify water or air. Yet most troubling of all is Isengard’s nearness;

though the city belongs to myth, it remains a devastated mirror-image to the cities of

earth.

Tolkien’s portrayal of Mount Doom further substantiates the idea that his

resentment towards industrialism is integral to The Lord of the Rings. In the land of

Mordor where the One Ring must be unmade, smoke pours from the fires of Mount

Doom, rising into the air and trailing away eastward, while “great rolling clouds floated

down [the mountain’s] sides and spread over the land” (RK 224). Here, Tolkien

addresses the issue of industrial pollution, darkening the horizon like an ominous cloud of

evil. For Tolkien, this issue carried intense personal implication; when “he came upon a

countryside damaged by the forces of industrialization, Tolkien’s mood would change

dramatically, and he would speak of the Orcs and their ravages” (Birzer 121).

Throughout the trilogy, the pride of evil is demonstrated thus: while those who

represent the Good, “create in evocation or celebration of nature, in a preindustrial

attitude which sees the world as essentially integrated . . . the servants of Sauron create in

an industrial mode” (Crabbe 158). This then, is the primary choice of humankind

concerning management of natural resources; man may treat creation with respect or

contempt—either means is indirectly a form of communication with God, who has

fashioned earth according to His pleasure. Deuteronomy 11:12 speaks of a “land the

LORD your God cares for,” which leads to the inference that needless exploitation of

creation parallels an assault on God’s sovereignty.

 C. Di Frances 19

Another aspect of modernity addressed by Tolkien through The Lord of the Rings

is the landscape of war, particularly a modern version of war. “What the book

celebrates—and mourns—is a world and a tradition that appears to be passing away in a

great War, or a series of Wars” (Caldecott 31). These two Wars, modern in their

utilization of weapons of mass destruction, massively impacted the psyche of an entire

world. And to Tolkien, as to many of his generation, it appeared that machinery had been

turned into a blood-thirsty fiend—brutalizing man along with his environment. Too

easily can industrialism wage war on nature.

Tolkien’s fear of mechanization as the prelude to an ecological apocalypse

surfaces occasionally in The Lord of the Rings. The stone Ring of Isengard appears “like

a graveyard of unquiet dead” (TT 174), and before battle ranks of “hurrying orcs were

digging, digging lines of deep trenches” (RK 91). The Dead Marshes are “altogether

dark,” with air “black and heavy to breathe” (TT 260). Bodies rotten yet curiously

preserved “lie in all the pools, pale faces, deep deep under the dark water” (TT 261).

These Marshes seem to present an unforgotten image from Tolkien’s own life, haunting

memories of his experiences as a soldier in the Great War. And beneath these rank and

darkened waters “lie reflections of the skeletons of the fields of Flanders and the

unimaginable trenches of the Front” (Senior 175), the suppressed horror of an entire Lost

Generation.

In the face of the destruction and horror facing Middle-earth in the Third Age,

there must be those who oppose such doings, protectors of nature whose grief for a
 C. Di Frances 20

changing world articulates that of the environment. Certainly, the book contains a sort of

elegy, a lament sung in two parts—by both Elves and Ents.

The sylvan Elves are the first characters in The Lord of the Rings to express a

sense of loss over the transient splendor of nature which, once abused, can never truly be

reclaimed. They are a gentle people, forest-dwellers who cherish the ways of the natural

world, always seeking to better comprehend its beauty and fragility (Purtill 74). Tolkien

based his Elves on those of classic Norse mythology, who “were exceedingly fair, more

brilliant than the sun, and clad in garments of delicate and transparent texture. They

loved the light, were kindly disposed to mankind” (Gayley 394). Tolkien’s Elves, fair-

haired and clad in cloaks with magical qualities, are perhaps the most enchanting of his

many characters. Of all inhabitants of Middle-earth, Elves are least susceptible to

corruption by the Ring. Indeed, they are indications of grace in the story (Hughes 89).

In the Lord of the Rings, the Elves have several dwelling places—Elrond and

Arwen live in Rivendell, while Legolas is from the Woodland Realm in Northern

Mirkwood—but most wonderful by far of these places is Lóthlorien, home of the Elf

Queen Galadriel, known as the Lady of Light. Lóthlorien (sometimes called Lórien) is a

beautiful city, built deep in the forest and illuminated by cathedral-like light filtering

through ancient tree canopies. Yet here, in glowing splendor, a “most perfect setting, the

work’s note of pathos, of loss can be heard” (Hughes 90). For with the onset of the War

of the Ring, the time of the Elves in Middle-earth has come to a close. Even if Frodo

“succeeds, the power of Lórien will be diminished because such triumph will signify the

end of the Third Age when the Elves must depart for the West and the Grey Havens—as
 C. Di Frances 21

they do” (Hughes 90). The Elves cannot remain in a world that has no more need of

them; they belong to a time of innocence, an age when grace and beauty presided kindly

over nature.

Thus, Legolas, member of the Fellowship, senses that his time upon the land

grows short; very soon his people will heed the far-off call of the Sea. Softly, Legolas

sings a lament for loss of nature in beautiful times past:

Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui

In the green fields of Lebennin!
Tall grows the grass there. In the wind from the Sea
The white lilies sway . . . (TT 156).

The Elves, in all their grace and beauty, are no match for a society industrialized beyond

imagination. The world has grown up, and mechanization tolls a death-knell for Faerie.

The Elves are not the only beings who demonstrate profound sensitivity to loss in

the natural world—there are, after all, Ents in Middle-earth. To the forest-dwelling Ents

belongs a uniquely pastoral role; they have, for long, long ages beyond the memory of

mortal men, remained shepherds of the trees. Indeed, they look so much like trees that

when Merry and Pippin first encounter Treebeard, they are speechless at the prospect of

what to them appears a talking tree. In many ways, Ents can be regarded as “the ultimate

personification of Tolkien’s anti-modernism” (Birzer 113). Slow and wise, immensely

tree-ish in every way, the Ents represent an ancient mythological association between

man and nature that has been rent asunder by modernity.

Treebeard is a creative manifestation of Tolkien’s delight in trees (Carpenter,

Third Age 67), as in all growing things of the creative order. Treebeard and his fellow

Ents remain well-loved because they are peculiar and humorous, but most of all because
 C. Di Frances 22

they are good, a facet of nature yet uncorrupted by evil. But there is a sadness about the

Ents; they seem to linger inexplicably in a world no longer their own. Treebeard tells

Merry and Pippin about the disappearance of the Entwives in long years past:

“Treebeard’s face became sad. ‘Forests may grow,’ he said. ‘Woods may spread. But

not Ents. There are no Entings’ (RK 280). In fact, “By the time of the War of the Ring,

at the end of the Third Age, the Ents. . .wandered alone, dwindling, but still tending their

beloved trees” (Tyler 154). The age of the Ents, like that of Elves, must soon draw to a

close.

For this the Ents sing their lament, sad and melodious, all filled with the

remembrance of forests that remain no longer. So, the “hobbits fell asleep to the soft

singing of Bregalad, that seemed to lament in many tongues the fall of trees that he had

loved” (TT 89). On and on the Ent hummed as he stood beneath the star-sky:

O rowan mine, I saw you shine upon a summer’s day,

Your rind so bright, your leaves so light, you voice so cool and soft . . .
Your crown is spilled, your voice is stilled for ever and a day . . . (TT 89)

Nature’s stilled voice has been overwhelmed by one louder—the machine, deafening

noise of iron and steel, clanking and stabbing like saw against wood. Beyond this

incessant clatter rises the laments of those who truly care for nature. Through them, the

author poses a daring question to the industrialized world: “How long, Tolkien asks in

Bombadil and Treebeard, can nature, which we so mishandle, survive as pure natural

song or leaf?” (Hughes 89). All seems dark, but perhaps there is yet some hope.

Through its juxtaposition with industrialism, nature takes on a central role of

importance throughout The Lord of the Rings saga. However, nature maintains another
 C. Di Frances 23

essential function throughout the story, that of the great determiner, delineating evil and

good through the symbolic means of shadow and light. Tolkien employs these two

distinctly physical attributes to convey deeply spiritual meanings.

For Tolkien, darkness is typically associated with evil, as in Mordor, where the

darkness of night forever reigns (RK 206). Sauron the Great refers to himself as the Dark

Lord of the Rings, and his domination over Middle-earth is a menacing Shadow. All

through the story, Tolkien portrays devastation of the land as a direct expression of evil,

analogous to the demise of living creatures, such as Gollum, Saruman, and the orcs

(Crabbe 156). The concept that wicked behavior corrupts nature has profound Christian

implications, and may be traced backed to the fall in Eden, where man’s sin caused

nature to be cursed. Since that time, “the whole creation has been groaning as in the

pains of childbirth right up to the present time” (Romans 8:22), and will remain in

bondage until the world is restored to its right state—until the final triumph of the Good.

In The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien demonstrates the oppression of nature through several

means, particularly forests and trees, Saruman’s realm, and the domain of Sauron.

Trees and forests often retain symbolic implications in Tolkien’s work. When

Tom Bombadil explains to Merry and Pippin that the trees of the Old Forest have “rotten

hearts” (FR 147) and sinister thoughts, he also reveals something of a legitimate reason

for such dark sentiments; they result from the careless actions of beings (Flieger 151).

According to Tolkien, the Old Forest “was hostile to two legged creatures because of the

memory of many injuries” (Carpenter, Letters 419-420). Thus, Tom Bombadil tells the

hobbits, the trees have become “filled with a hatred of things that go free upon the earth,
 C. Di Frances 24

gnawing, biting, breaking hacking, burning: destroyers and usurpers.” The trees’ long-

brooding memories of an ancient time when “they were lords . . . had filled them with

pride . . . and with malice” (FR 147). Even the forest is not immune to the pride of evil.

With Tom Bombadil’s statement concerning the trees of the Old Forest, Tolkien

presents a conception of nature which seems irreconcilable to the idea that the natural

order is to be associated with the Good. For if the Old Forest “is presented as dangerous

and threatening, Old Man Willow is shown as worse, for he is beyond threat; he is simply

evil” (Flieger 149). However, it must be noted that Old Man Willow characterizes an

aspect of nature which has been corrupted as only the vileness of sin can corrupt. He is

scarred by interaction with sin due to his human characteristics. Thus, being embittered

by the actions of others, he has himself grown evil. Yet, Tolkien asserts, this is not the

true form of nature, but rather a sign of the corruption which surrounds it. Tolkien

described how, “Fangorn Forest was old and beautiful, but at the time of the story tense

with hostility because it was threatened by a machine-loving enemy” (Carpenter, Letters

419-420). Sauron’s Shadow is the great menace to all trees of Middle-earth.

In The Lord of the Rings, forests stand out as powerful symbols of evil’s

tyrannical dominion over nature. Yet there is something worse than these discontented

trees—the lack of them. The ominous affects of a landscape stripped of environmental

life can be seen at Isengard, the very heart of Saruman’s realm. Here, scarred and abused

by Saruman’s war-building mechanization, the absence of nature whispers a haunting

story all its own. For around Isengard, a land once green-growing and alive with beauty,

no trees grow in the days of Saruman’s corruption, “but among the rank grasses could
 C. Di Frances 25

still be seen the burned and axe-hewn stumps of ancient groves. It was a sad country,

silent” (TT 173). This deadening silence stands in total contrast to the many-varied

sounds of Ithilien, stirrings of beauty amidst light-filled woodlands, grass, and flowers.

Saruman’s real crime, of course, is not his utilization of natural resources, but the

motivation behind these actions. In his pride, he abuses nature for selfish purposes, and

this egotistical fascination with control over creation rapidly translates into the desire to

rule over his fellow creatures, warping the minds of men such as Théoden (Nitzsche 94).

This exploitation initiates Saruman’s undoing by an evil much stronger than himself.

What begins “as intellectual curiosity, develops as engineering skill, turns into greed and

the desire to dominate, corrupts further into a hatred and contempt of the natural world

which goes beyond any rational desire to use it. Saruman’s orcs start by feeling trees for

the furnaces, but they end up feeling them for fun. . .” (Shippey, Tolkien 171).

Because the destructive force of evil cannot exist without constantly broadening

its sphere of influence, Saruman’s wasteland soon stretches outward with a death-grip—

towards the Shire. When the hobbits return home to the Shire, near the end of the story,

they are appalled to find that ruffians have been at work who “cut down trees and let

them lie . . . burn houses and build no more” (RK 318). Even Bilbo’s Party Tree has

been felled. Tolkien comments that the sight of this dissipation, so close to the hearts of

Frodo and his companions, was “one of the saddest hours in their lives” (RK 322). In the

words of Sam Gamgee: “This is worse than Mordor! Much worse in a way. It comes

home to you, as they say; because it is home, and you remember it before it was all
 C. Di Frances 26

ruined” (RK 323). Such is the ferocity of evil, consuming all that lies within its path, and

then turning to devour its maker.

Though Saruman un-creates the ecology of Middle-earth to shape a darkly

artificial landscape, his influence cannot even begin to rival the immensely hideous

backdrop of Sauron’s domain in Mordor. The villany of Sauron’s power reigns far

stronger than that of Saruman, and thus it follows that the destruction caused by Sauron

will be exponentially more hideous. Indeed, his “territory, even its outskirts, is

physically and morally a Wasteland” (Spacks 84), deprived of any vestige of pure

creation. The extreme physical deadness of Mordor nauseates. Its landscape is a

desolation that “portrays extremely well the material destruction and moral horror which

accompanies the lust for power” (Rossi 131).

As Frodo and Sam approach Mount Doom, the environmental images take on

increasingly spiritual significance. Indeed, in the land of “Mordor, desolation becomes

hell” (Crabbe 156). Saruman’s dominion is, on some level, a kind of metaphoric hell,

reflecting Tolkien’s devout Catholicism. His depicts a landscape dark with fire and ash,

where the human struggle against sin (here the Great Sin of pride concentrated into the

Ring) physically weighs upon its victim (portrayed by Frodo). It is an Inferno heavy with

tradition.

Of all the means by which evil forces have succeeded in corrupting the once-pure

nature of Middle-earth, the most unpardonable may be their pathetic attempts to re-forge

it. In manufacturing a counterfeit world, the enemy has formed life outside of the image

of Good—and the results are grotesque. Treebeard, the wise and ancient Ent, explains to
 C. Di Frances 27

Merry and Pippin: “Trolls are only counterfeits, made by the Enemy in the Great

Darkness, in mockery of Ents, as Orcs were of Elves” (TT 91). When goodness is

removed from nature, only the lack of beauty remains; there can be nothing more.

According to Tolkien’s Silmarillion, orcs were once Elves, tortured in ages past by the

evil Melkor until they were changed from lovely to hideous (50). The deed was

wickedness beyond compare. In The Lord of the Rings, while creativity is always present

in goodness, it can have no part of evil. Thus, Frodo explains to Sam that the “Shadow . .

. can only mock, it cannot make: not real new things of its own” (RK 201). Tolkien’s

Christian implication here is obvious; creation, as a sacred act of God, never retains its

true essence when corrupted.

Though Tolkien presents many characters who have been un-done, so to speak, by

wickedness, perhaps none appear more wretched than Wormtongue and Gollum. The

demise of Wormtongue, once a trusted advisor to Théoden, King of Gondor, is caused by

his cowardice and greed for the Ring. Once corrupted through Saruman’s evil,

Wormtongue is reduced to what Pippin calls, “a queer twisted sort of creature” (TT 195),

doomed to slink fearfully behind his master, a spineless personification of his own

failure.

Similarly, Gollum was not always an ugly creature. Many long years before the

story set down in The Lord of the Rings began, he was a hobbit named Smeagle. But the

finding of the Ring corrupted his real form, changing him to a hideous being of the

underworld. Not surprisingly, his eyes, symbols of perception in the Romantic tradition,

are described as having “a green glint,” which adds to his “spider-like” (TT 366)
 C. Di Frances 28

appearance. Here again, Tolkien seems to be invoking an image of nature corrupted.

Green is typically associated with life in an ecological sense, thus its correlation with this

frightful, creeping being reveals a deep sense of rightness gone amiss. By the time Bilbo

discovers him in the caves, Gollum has mutated to a hollow shell of his former self. So

warped is this creature that he no longer retains control over his own actions; that is, evil

utterly dominates him. In Tolkien’s view, Gollum, once a communing entity of the

natural order, has become enslaved by the dark power of the Shadow.

Always in The Lord of the Rings there may be found the balance against evil, an

intense and contrasting force that inspires hope within the characters, and readers, of the

drama. It is an all-pervading sense of Good, and it is best perceived through light, that

essence which necessitates a complete lack of darkness. Since for Tolkien darkness

represents evil, its absence is an indication of light, or Good, in purest form. Thus the

supreme consequence of Galadriel’s gift to the Ring-bearer—she offers Frodo a phial

glittering with the light of Earendil’s star. Clearly, this conferral is a blessing, affirmed

by Galadriel’s words: “‘May it be to you a light in dark places, when all other lights go

out’” (FR 423). Later on in the story, this phial illuminates Sam and Frodo’s path, saving

them from the gloomy lair of the fiend called Shelob. This idea is further reinforced

through the images of salvation arriving at daybreak, for “dawn is ever the hope of men”

(TT 152).

Clearly, just as “Tolkien’s images of death are more powerful when they depict

the destruction of the land, the source of life itself” (Crabbe 156) so the opposite is also

true. Those in communion with the Good treat land kindly; they value the beauty of
 C. Di Frances 29

creation, endeavoring to deal wisely with it. Indeed, while the Enemy can be recognized

immediately for their tendency to exploit nature, respect for the environment is a sure

sign of integrity among the inhabitants of Middle-earth. Dwarves and hobbits, Ents and

Elves, wizards and men—all may achieve some level of transcendence through their

attention to the natural order in The Lord of the Rings.

Though historically the dwarves have transgressed by delving too far out of greed

for precious metals, such blatant mistreatment of nature is apparently not wholly

indicative of their relationship with the earth. Certainly, dwarves are less noble than

elves because their love of caves and metals, inorganic substances, supersedes that of

trees, which symbolize the realm of living creation. Yet, there is a strangely felt

poignancy in the way dwarves’ view the rocky subterranean landscape, an aspect of

nature often overlooked. Gimli speaks long and affectionately of how the dwarves “tend

these glades of flowering stone” rather than merely quarrying them (TT 165).

Interestingly, Gimli’s devotion to this inner earth-beauty moves even Legolas, high

sylvan Elf.

Perhaps more commendable than dwarves in their interaction with the natural

order are hobbits, who, the reader is informed, “love peace and quiet and good tilled earth

. . .. They do not and did not understand or like machines more complicated than a forge-

bellows, a water-mill, or a hand-loom” (FR 1). Here again, Tolkien is quick to bind the

moral integrity of hobbits, as residents of Middle-earth, to their mode of interaction with

the native landscape. Though they are clearly imperfect beings, at the beginning of the

story very few hobbits have ever come directly under the influence of Sauron's evil—
 C. Di Frances 30

beneath the steady protection of Aragorn’s Dúnedain, the Shire has remained outside of

the Shadow's menace. It is only after Saruman has poisoned the hearts of some hobbits,

such as the infamous Ted Sandyman, with a kind of “metal-sickness associated with iron”

(Shippey, Tolkien 171) that the Shire begins to suffer ecological abuse. And no one is

more shocked at this wanton mutilation of the land then Sam’s gaffer, symbolic of the old

way of life, who vehemently objects to this new-found “ironmongery” (RK 319).

While hobbits seem, as a rule, to maintain a benevolent relationship with the earth

through some unconscious principle of moderation, Ents always do so intentionally.

Ents are referred to as shepherds of the trees, thus evoking an image of guardianship—

gentle and constant—towards the created order. In a sense, the Ents epitomize a

“principle of reason and order inherent in Nature as the higher complement to the

principle of life and growth signified by Tom Bombadil” (Nitzsche 94). Like Bombadil,

Treebeard might be considered a personification of nature, yet better still is the notion

that he symbolizes its ultimate protector, one whose profound concern for the reality of

earth-things has brought him (literally and figuratively) closer to them. The true

goodness of the Ents is wrapped up in this idea, for the Ents’ kindness towards creation, a

reflection of Good, necessitates their deep-rooted hatred of the evil that abuses it. Thus,

in The Lord of the Rings, the Entmoot rightly uses its dominion over nature as a means of

defeating the Shadow at Isengard.

More than any other creatures in Middle-earth, the Elves seem to be associated

with respect for creation—they shelter and protect the fragility of nature, adding to its

inherent glory with their own version of diaphanous beauty. Indeed, at Lórien, they have
 C. Di Frances 31

built an image of transcendence, “a city of tree trunks standing orderly and harmonious.

It is as much a garden as a forest, or better yet, a city that is its own garden” (Flieger

155). The Elves are able to sub-create this vision because they comprehend the

“language of the trees” (Keenan 74). More than merely protecting nature in its present

form (as do the Ents), the Elves go farther; indeed, they strive to enhance the world

through their perception of its significance to life and goodness. Thus, on “the land of

Lórien there was no stain” (FR 393).

The distinctly elvish understanding of nature is apparent in various individuals in

The Lord of the Rings. Arwen, daughter of Elrond of Rivendell, is called by her people

‘Evenstar,’ a name associated with both light and the natural environment. Likewise,

Galadriel is known as the ‘Lady of Light.’ And always there is Legolas, regal member of

the Fellowship and Elven Prince of the Woodland Realm. Of the nine who depart

Rivendell on the quest to destroy the Ring, Legolas alone seems to maintain a mysterious

sublimity quite foreign to the experience of men. Indeed, Legolas’ “soothing and

superior presence” is a constant source of strength and dignity to the Fellowship (Hughes

90). As the story progresses, Legolas emerges one of the most merciful, and thus most

intimately connected with Good, characters of all.

Perhaps this understanding of goodness is the result of a deep-felt closeness to the

tangible earth. Legolas loves trees, as all Elves do (Tyler 260), frequently interpreting

the world by listening to the “sounds of the wood” (TT 164). Though nature constantly

remains under his authority, as evidenced by his ability to walk atop deep snow, Legolas

never deviates from his role as nature’s gentle caretaker. When a horse is frightened to
 C. Di Frances 32

enter the terrifying Paths of the Dead, Legolas put “his hands on [the horse’s] eyes and

sang some words that went soft into the gloom, until he suffered himself to be led” (RK

50). It is a beautiful image, this sincere kindness towards living things, and one that

points to a more transcendent goodness regarding earth-creatures.

As all other inhabitants of Middle-earth may be judged on the basis of their

response to the natural order, so wizards and men are also subject to this measure of

arbitration. Thus, Saruman's treachery at Isengard is especially heinous, according to

Treebeard, because “wizards ought to know better: they do know better” (TT 91).

Saruman, as one steeped in ancient knowledge of how nature should be, is all the more

evil for his participation in the un-making of creation into what it has now become. By

contrast, Gandalf, wizard of forests and growing things, clearly maintains a strong

correlation with good.

Of mortal men, both Faramir and Aragorn stand out as individuals whose virtue is

confirmed by their respect for the physical environment. Faramir takes on particular

significance with his implication as a mythical Robin Hood character (Rogers and Rogers

112). With his outlaw-like persona and cloaked band of followers, Faramir seems a

likely derivation of Robin Hood—a guardian of Gondor and her lands. Quite possibly, he

follows in the Anglo-Saxon tradition of the mythological ‘Green Man.’ This Green Man,

as he is referred to by scholars, is often rendered artistically by the mysterious figure of a

face gazing out amidst wreaths of foliage—a symbol or regeneration and the unification

of humanity with nature’s inexplicable rhythms. Though this emblem might immediately

invoke images of Tom Bombadil, Green Man carvings at Southwell Minster near
 C. Di Frances 33

Sherwood Forest have long been associated with the Robin Hood legend. At Ithilien,

nature remains beautiful because Faramir's protection has helped it to remain that way.

Not surprisingly, Faramir overcomes the temptation to seize the One Ring when he has

the chance.

In the character of Aragorn, Tolkien presents the great restorer of nature, a Christ-

like figure whose final return as King brings an end to the environmental devastation

brought about by Sauron’s power. Indeed, a striking “contrast between fertile growth

and sterile destruction” becomes obvious in the images surrounding Aragorn’s restoration

(Crabbe 157). While the destruction of the Ring in the fires of Mount Doom is heralded

by earthquakes, thunder, and lightning (RK 241), its aftermath frames a portrait of nature

at peace.

Even before evil has been defeated in the story, the hope of nature for ecological

restoration becomes obvious. On the sorrowful way to Mordor, Frodo’s despair is

lessened by the sudden discovery of an ancient stone figure, around whose ancient head a

“trailing plant with flowers like small white stars had bound itself across the brows as if

in reverence for the fallen king” (TT 351). When Sam and Frodo awaken after being

rescued from Mordor by eagles, they find themselves amidst sweet-smelling trees in the

sunlit forest of Ithilien (RK 246). Such images depict a return of life to the land with the

final coming of Good, thus reflecting the Christian notion “that the creation itself will be

liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children

of God” (Romans 8:21).

 C. Di Frances 34

As the elimination of trees and woodlands remains a profound symbol of physical

and spiritual suffering throughout The Lord of the Rings, so reforestation in Isengard and

the Shire indicates a sense of rightness in the world, return of life to lands that were once

dead or dying (Keenan 75). Tolkien explains that, in the Third Age, Mirkwood had, like

many forests, “fallen under the domination of a Power that hated all living things but was

restored to beauty and became Greenwood the Great before the end of the story”

(Carpenter, Letters 420). Once freed from this Shadow of oppression, the landscape

cannot retain its ugliness, for ugliness is an unnatural state which evil has forced upon the

world.

Likewise, when “the Shire is restored to its former beauty as a peaceful farming

community of kitchen gardens, fields, hedgerows, and comfortable pockets of wood and

stream for camping out, readers are reassured and comforted that the world is once again

as it should be” (Flieger 150). Clearly, for Tolkien, environmental tranquility is a strong

indication of life and the presence of goodness. When Sam replaces the felled trees of

the Shire with the elvish dust given him by Galadriel, his purposes become analogous to

those of Tom Bombadil (Keenan 70). Sam is, in a sense, an appointed guardian of

creation.

The motif of restoration running throughout The Lord of the Rings’ conclusion

unmistakably points to Aragorn as the great healer-king, rightful sovereign whose reign

will usher in a new era of peace. Accordingly, the rhyme associated with Aragorn’s

name links him to light and hope:

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
 C. Di Frances 35

The crownless again shall be king (FR 193).

It is Aragorn who will ultimately bring healing, both physical and spiritual, to the broken

inhabitants of Middle-earth, and to their war-scarred lands.

Aragorn’s powers of physical healing are repeatedly manifested through his use

of the athelas plant, commonly referred to as kingsfoil, which helps to cure Frodo after he

has been wounded by the lethal magic of a Ringwraith’s blade. Later, Aragorn also heals

both Faramir and Éowyn with athelas. In doing so, he fulfills the ancient prophecy

concerning this plant:

. . . come athelas! come athelas!

Life to the dying
In the king’s hand lying! (RK 143)

Interestingly, the “chief characteristic of the athelas is its fragrance, which is its

atmosphere-changing property” (Crabbe 159). And this, in effect, is exactly what

Aragorn’s presence accomplishes—he too possesses the ability to negate the influence of

evil on his physical surroundings. Thus, Aragorn’s restoration of the city of Gondor to

unrivaled beauty (RK 266) seems only natural. The reader inherently senses that

anything else would be somehow inconsistent with the king’s character.

The physical healing achieved by Aragorn in the story is obvious; his spiritual

restoration not nearly as evident, though certainly no less important—if anything it is

more so. This spiritual aspect to Aragorn’s liberation of Middle-earth is fascinatingly

evident in the words spoken by Samwise to Gandalf, after the Ring has finally been

destroyed: “Is everything sad going to come untrue?” (RK 246). It is the great hope of all

who believe in the final triumph of Good—that the King will return, eyes gleaming like
 C. Di Frances 36

stars (RK 242), to set creation right, so that all which long ago was lost might now be

found again.

Throughout Tolkien’s great saga, there are such shades of immortality, deep and

mysterious, always present beneath the story. They are the basis of Treebeard’s old, old

wisdom, a sad-slow lament: “For the world is changing: I feel it in the water, I feel it in

the earth, and I smell it in the air” (RK 281). They mark the passing of things that were—

transient beauty of creation tarnished by evil long ago, when the world was young and

very alive.

But now the great keepers of nature are fast vanishing, forgotten by a culture too

enamored with the plastic trinkets of modernity to recall the old myths, filled with earthy

greatness. Thus neglected, the Ents and Elves long to depart for the Undying Lands.

This was foreshadowed during the War of the Ring, when the Elf Prince Legolas desired

to enter the ancient forest: “‘Stay, Legolas Greenleaf!’ said Gandalf. ‘Do not go back

into the woods, not yet! Now is not your time’” (TT 167). The age of olden things had

not yet drawn to a close then, for the Elves had first to lend their aid in Middle-earth one

last time. And it was only after the great triumph over Sauron that, “fading into the

stones and the shadows the grey-cloaked people of Lórien rode towards the mountains”

(RK 285).

“And thus these People of the Stars passed away for ever to that place beyond the

reach of mortals, save in ancient tale and perhaps in dream” (Day 147). They are gone

now, vanished into the great quietness of memory, like the songs Goldberry sang to the

hobbits: “songs that began merrily in the hills and fell softly down into silence; and in the
 C. Di Frances 37

silence they saw in their minds pools and waters wider than any they had known, and

looking into them they saw the sky below them and the stars like jewels in the depths”

(FR 149-150). Into these fathomless depths of remembrance went these songs of old,

many stories, and the Elves—their time has ended and another begun.

Gandalf calls this a New Age, one in which the kingdoms of human beings, not of

Elves will reign supreme on the earth (RK 279). Yet the legacy of the Elves remains “to

watch over the lands that the race of Men was slowly coming to possess” (Day 146)—it

cannot vanish as long as Good holds sway in this world of mortal men, for “hope remains

while the company is true” (FR 401). Now mankind must take on the guardianship of the

created order, must side with the Good, for “creation waits in eager expectation for the

sons of God to be revealed” (Romans 8:19). This is the nature of Christianity.

 C. Di Frances 38

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And special thanks to Don Davis and Dave Libby, whose insight proved vital to the
formation of this essay.