Blogging The Silmarillion: Of Túrin Turambar and the sightless dark of Tolkien’s vision

Thus was the fate of Túrin woven, which is foretold in that lay that is called Narn i Hîn Húrin, the Tale of the Children of Húrin, and is the longest of all the lays that speak of those days. Here that tale is told in brief, for it is woven with the fate of the Silmarils and of the Elves; and it is called the Tale of Grief, for it is sorrowful, and in it are revealed most evil works of Morgoth Bauglir.

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Are our lives lived in vain? Are we ultimately slaves to our own weaknesses and pre-programmed natures? Does life have any real significance when death’s mouth yawns blackly at its end?

These are some of the questions with which J.R.R. Tolkien grapples in his writing, but perhaps never so clearly and forthrightly as in Chapter 21 of The Silmarillion, “Of Túrin Turambar.”

I haven’t read as much of the Northern myths as I would like, but I can say with certainty that “Of Túrin Turambar” would fit right alongside any of the stories in The Sagas of Icelanders, for example. Along with the tale of Fëanor it is the most northern story in the book: heroic and studded with mighty deeds and feats of arms, but bleak, tragic, and ultimately fruitless. This is Tolkien in his darkest hour.

The protagonists of the Icelandic Sagas had their stories told through action and dialogue, the third person objective. Likewise Tolkien does not take us into Túrin’s head: He acts, or boasts, or cries out in agonized frustration. He flings himself into the wilderness in great rages, choosing exile over compromise. He does not fret away his hours as a philosopher brooding over questions of reality (Robert E. Howard would have appreciated the character of Túrin); he makes bold, sweeping decisions. Some are rash and ruinous, but they’re always brave and drawn with bright splashes of color.

A Clockwork Orange has nothing on Hurin.

We’re introduced to Túrin by way of his father Húrin, whose incredible last stand at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears (as described in Part Five of Blogging the Silmarillion) allows Turgon and his people to escape to the hidden mountain fortress of Gondolin. Unfortunately for himself, Húrin is taken alive. Morgoth tries to torture the location of the hidden kingdom out of Húrin but fails; Húrin defies and mocks the dark lord. In his anger Morgoth lays a curse upon him, his wife Morwen, and their offspring, pronouncing “a doom of darkness and sorrow.” Morgoth then forces Húrin to sit in a stone chair in the mountains of Thangorodrim and watch this doom unfold on his family for nearly three decades. The soul-shattering sights leave him shattered, a hollow man (I’ll repeat it again: “Of Túrin Turambar” is in my opinion the darkest section of The Silmarillion: It’s a beautiful chapter but it’s brutal to read).

Chapter 21 picks up shortly after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Rían, wife of Huor (Húrin’s brother) seeks out her missing husband and finds only corpses: Huor is among the countless warriors slain in the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. In her grief Rían lies down upon the Hill of Slain and herself dies. This is the first paragraph of the chapter.

If this weren’t grim enough, in the very next paragraph we literally get the death of laughter itself. Lalaith, Túrin’s precious three-year-old sister, catches a pestilence borne on an evil wind out of Angband and dies (lalaith means “laughter” in the Sindarin tongue). To top off the bleakness, in Túrin’s homeland of Hithlum the Easterlings are running amok, taking land and goods and enslaving the children. Afraid Turin will be taken next, his mother Morwen sends her son away to live in the hidden kingdom of Doriath.

But there is no safe haven for Túrin: Morgoth’s curse haunts his footsteps. Says the Elf Gwindor of Túrin: “A doom lies upon him. Doubt not the power of Morgoth Bauglir.”

The implication is that evil is an outside, maleficent force that can corrupt even the strongest of men. But Tolkien has a master’s hand on the tiller. We never know whether Túrin is like a puppet on the strings of the Dark Lord, or whether he is a master of his own fate and responsible for his life’s mishaps and tragedies. Tolkien lets us, his readers, decide, through presenting a series of mishaps in Túrin’s life whose sources we can interpret either way.

Turin’s first misstep is an accidental murder he commits while in Doriath. When the jealous Elf Saeros mocks Túrin’s wild and unkempt appearance, rather than swallowing his pride Túrin hurls his drinking cup full in the Elves’ face. Saeros retaliates by ambushing Túrin in the woods the following day; Túrin responds in kind by beating Saeros and chasing him through the trees. In a panic Saeros falls into a chasm and dies. This begs the question: Are Saeros’ words calculated and placed in his mouth by Morgoth, or is this Túrin acting rashly and making his own ill bed? Rather than plead his innocence before Thingol Túrin opts to flee into the wilderness.

Turin slays Beleg.

Thingol pardons Túrin and sends one of his best warriors, Beleg Strongbow, into the wild to bring him back. But Túrin refuses the pardon and joins a band of outlaws operating in the wilderness against Morgoth. Donning the Dragon-helm of Dor-lomin, he wages war on the dark lord.  Túrin and his men are eventually trapped and slain and Túrin is taken prisoner. When Beleg attempts a rescue, cutting Túrin free from his bonds, his sword slips (or is it guided by Morgoth’s hand?). Stung by the cut and thinking himself beset by an enemy Túrin slays Beleg. By his own hand he murders his best friend.

Túrin takes up Beleg’s black sword Anglachel, which he renames Gurthang, and wanders the wilderness, distraught and alone until he reaches the Elven city of Nargothrond.  Here Túrin’s pride continues to get the better of him. He chooses to face Morgoth openly on the field of battle, thus drawing the dark lord’s net ever closer to the Elven city. When the council warns him to “shut the doors of the fortress… cast the stones of your pride into the river,” Turin ignores their wisdom.

Like the tale of Fëanor, “Of Túrin Turambar” is also a cautionary tale about the dangers of pride. The Elves warn Turin not to challenge Morgoth openly. Theirs is the safe counsel—against the dark lord it’s best to fight defensively, to hold on to what is dearest for as long as you can, and to wait for the right time, if it ever comes. In other words, to swallow your pride.

But Túrin is a man of action whose first and strongest instinct is to meet the enemy on the open field and crush him, or die honorably in the attempt (I’ll admit that I myself am sympathetic to this view). But while the Elven perspective is (probably) right, Tolkien obviously had a soft spot for the passionate race of men, the Ragnarok spirit, and of the hot-blooded Húrin and Túrin in particular. These two great warriors very closely resemble the great figures and heroes of northern myth with which Tolkien felt an obvious kinship. We cannot help but sympathize with their unyielding spirit, even when it leads them terribly astray.

Alerted by Túrin’s presence Morgoth sends a great host of orcs to capture Nargothrond with the great dragon Glaurung at its head (Túrin has a chance to destroy the bridge leading to Nargothrond but refuses, foolishly trusting in his own strength). Glaurung puts a binding spell on Túrin that roots him to the spot, then speaks wicked words to the immobile warrior that cut to his soul:

“Evil have been all thy ways, son of Húrin. Thankless fosterling, outlaw, slayer of thy friend, thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy, and deserter of thy kin.”

Whether puppet or perpetrator, Túrin is guilty of all these things, and he’s about to become something worse: A perpetrator of incest, guilty of one of mankind’s oldest taboos. Glaurung places a spell of forgetfulness on Túrin’s sister Nienor and she and Turin meet, fall in love, and marry, not knowing that they are both the Children of Húrin.

The awful truth is revealed when Túrin slays Glaurung; with its dying breath the monster restores full memory to Nienor, who hurls herself over a cliff.  Túrin, knocked unconscious during the fight, also learns the truth and throws himself upon Gurthang.

While a great story and a masterful tragedy, “Of Túrin Turambar” is also something more. Tolkien uses the tale to place evil itself under the microscope.

As a philologist, Tolkien’s expertise was in words and their derivations, which reveal facets of his characters. For example, during his wanderings Túrin takes the name “Turambar,” which means “Master of Doom” (i.e., someone who controls his own destiny). But Morgoth’s curse is always at his heels, and he cannot seem to outrun it. We’re not sure therefore if Túrin is a victim of his own ill-choices, or the external, overbearing evil of Morgoth.

Tolkien is revisiting familiar ground here, as the same argument swirls over the One Ring—is its wielder bereft of choice, consumed by its terrible power, or does the Ring reflect and amplify our own weakness? Túrin is indeed cursed with terrible luck, ill circumstances devised by the cunning of Morgoth. But he always has a choice in how to react to the terrible events that befall him—perhaps his own flawed responses, more than Morgoth’s pronouncement of doom, makes him the “cursed” man that he is. In fact, his friend Gwindor openly tells Túrin that he is responsible for his own fate: “the doom lies in yourself, not in your name.” This exploration of the duality of evil makes “Of Túrin Turambar” all the more interesting, and certainly one of the most memorable chapters in the book.

At the end of the chapter Túrin commits suicide, so in this respect he is a literal master of his own doom. But his life appears to be vain: He himself has met an untimely death, both his sisters are dead, his father Húrin remains in chains, and Morgoth still sits upon his dark throne. And we readers are ready to climb into a warm tub with a razor blade. But what a journey! Was Túrin’s struggle worth it? We shall see as The Silmarillion progresses toward its conclusion.

I will now admit feeling for the first time a bit of disappointment with The Silmarillion: Since my last-reading we have seen the publication of The Children of Húrin, a full-length novel treatment of the story of Túrin (Unfinished Tales, published in 1980, also has a far more expansive version of the story). In contrast, the tale as told in The Silmarillion feels truncated, its power slightly denuded. Perhaps a Tolkien scholar can explain why this vastly shortened tale was published, whether it was simply due to an oversight or a rush to get The Silmarillion completed and in circulation for those who had their appetite whetted by The Lord of the Rings. But the cuts make this chapter feel incomplete in comparison to the longer treatments.

Terrific Tolkien: Gurthang, Iron of Death

Steve Tompkins wrote a nice piece about the echoes of cursed blades throughout fantasy literature—two noteworthy examples being Michael Moorcock’s Elric, and Poul Anderson’s The Broken Sword. The Silmarillion adds another legend with Anglachel, a black sword made of iron that fell from heaven as a blazing star (“There is malice in this sword. The dark heart of the smith still dwells in it. It will not love the hand it serves; neither will it abide with you long.”)

Túrin inherits the sword from Beleg after accidentally slaying his friend and renames it Gurthang, Iron of Death. When he’s in the throes of his final despair he asks Gurthang if it will take him out of his misery. Chillingly, Gurthang speaks.

“Yea, I will drink thy blood gladly, that so I may forget the blood of Beleg my master, and the blood of Brandir slain unjustly. I will slay thee swiftly.”

The black sword can be viewed as a metaphor for those mighty weapons whose power is too great to handle and, once employed, are cursed to destroy their wielders.

(Artwork by Ted Nasmith and Alan Lee)