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The Case of the Silver Letters, Part 1
If you have ever longed to read a Holmes pastiche set in Ithilien after the Ring War - you can now.
The Case of the Silver Letters, Part 1
Emyn Arnen, Autumn, F.A. 14
The whole affair happened shortly after my older brother left to spend a year at our uncle’s court in Edoras. I was disconsolate without my chief accomplice. Elboron and I were close in age and thick as thieves. My younger brother, Léof, was a self-sufficient boy with no particular need for my company, and, besides, was always off on some business of his own and therefore never to be found. Mother and Father, not insensitive to my mood, and as far as their numerous duties allowed, tried various distractions in the way of hearty expeditions around the countryside, instructive trips to town, and so on, and so on, but to no avail. My bad temper carried on throughout summer and threatened autumn. The simple truth was that I was lonely without Bron, and I was beginning to ponder, as I entered my fourteenth year, what purpose I might have. There I stood, one foot still in childhood, the other in womanhood, and it was not easy to see what was supposed to happen next.
Bron’s fortnightly letters, detailing his adventures, did not help. No doubt, left to my own devices, I would have sulked well into the new year, but the arrival of my father’s cousin from Dol Amroth in the weeks leading up to yáviérë brought a most welcome change to the scenery of Emyn Arnen. Prince Amrothos was the kind of man to warm the heart of any child. Unbothered by protocol, etiquette, decorum, or nicety, he was interested in just about everything else: the world, the stars, language, mathematics, mechanics, explosions, and any creature that happened to hop, jump, clatter, slither, or crawl past his ever-curious eye. At that time, I recall, he was coming to the end of a lengthy examination of the different aspects taken on by blood when allowed to dry for varying periods of time. The ghoulish paraphernalia arising from this experiment were gleefully brought out during dinner on the first night of his visit to the shrieking horror of the housemaids, the grave amusement of Father, and the frank bafflement of Mother. Surely it does not need to be said how we three children adored him.
Autumn, then, looked set to be much merrier than summer, and indeed Ithilien was beautiful that year, and I more ready now to revel in the many colours and beauties of the season. Love and duty may take me for long periods to the City, but home will always be Ithilien, that green garden country that my mother and my father together coaxed back to life from the weeds and ruins left by war. How happily I walked its woods and fields, wandered its groves and orchards, and drank from its clear cold streams. Often my father’s cousin came with me, and then our walks became voyages of discovery, for Amrothos could tell me more about the trees and plants around us than even my father, who I believe could have walked safely around Ithilien blindfolded. How marvellous to discover that the countryside I knew so well contained so much more than I had ever imagined. Even Léof deigned to join us on our rambles now and again. August turned to September, and we caught the first sniff of chill air from the north, and looked forward to the festival coming at the end of the month.
But before that, we received another visitor, this time from the City, and one nowhere near so welcome as Amrothos. The Lord Turgon had been a friend of my father’s late cousin Hador, who had died towards the end of the War. Turgon had come to Ithilien to investigate purchasing an estate south of Emyn Arnen. Land in Ithilien was still cheap at the time, on account of the traps and snares and poisoned waters – the Enemy’s handiwork – that still fouled corners of the country, and my father was always keen to attract new settlers. But the people he preferred were of a certain type: hands-on, eager to be full parties to the work being done to build the newest Princedom of the realm. Within a matter of minutes, it was clear that while Turgon certainly possessed excellent manners and great wit, and most assuredly desired to own land across the river, he was hardly likely to become resident in such an uncouth, untamed country as ours. For his dead cousin’s sake, my father welcomed Turgon into our home as his guest, but I knew from the careful reserve that I detected in his manner towards him, not to mention my mother’s slight frost, that neither of them found the man particularly appealing.
Turgon held no interest for Amrothos, who therefore ignored him entirely. On only one occasion did Amrothos show he had even noticed the man’s existence. Turgon was giving an account of his journey that day to survey a small estate to the south-west of our hills. On the whole he had been pleased with what he found: good fishing, olive groves that were not beyond repair, plenty of potential to build and rent, and sufficiently close to the ferry over to the Harlond that he might make the trip from the City easily in a day and therefore not have to stay. I did not miss the look that passed between my parents at that point, nor the slight opening of his palm with which my father gently asked my mother to refrain from speaking her mind. But the estate was not what had most interested Turgon during his trip, and certainly not what caught Amrothos’ attention.
“I decided to come back along the river road rather than take the old road through the hills,” Turgon told us, “but it took rather longer than I had expected and so, reaching a small village where the way meets the road coming down from the Harlond, I stopped to find some refreshment. And there, sitting outside the inn and sunning himself, I saw an old man – Valar, he was ninety if he was a day! – with a shock of snow-white hair on his head, but as grey-eyed as you or I, sir, and going by the name of Belecthor, no less! Fine country this, where even the most rustic seem to have a drop of the old blood in them!”
My father ran his finger-tip along his cheekbone. “I know him,” he said quietly, “and his family. They were amongst the last to leave when Ithilien was overrun. All the men were rangers and his grandson died at the breaking of the bridge.”
“Indeed?” said Turgon, clearly not much interested in this piece of local knowledge. “Certainly the old man knew the area well. We fell to talking, and I explained that I was enjoying the hospitality of you and your lovely lady—” he gave my mother a charming smile which she returned with a rather wolfish one of her own, “—whereupon he was proud to inform me that his ancestors had served yours up at the old hall for many generations.”
“Indeed,” said my father, to whom this was plainly not news.
“And furthermore he told me about the curious game that the children of his family used to play in the grounds of the old building.”
A line appeared between my father’s brows. “A game?”
“Why yes,” Turgon said carelessly. “Each full moon they would go to a certain spot in the garden, and turn about several times, whilst reciting some riddle. Remarkable! Had you not heard tell of this?”
“I had not,” my father said, and, from the slight tightness appearing around his lips, and the deepening of the line between his brows, I guessed he was irked that some part of the lore of Ithilien had eluded him, and that a man such as Turgon should be the one to enlighten him. Naturally he conveyed none of this displeasure to Turgon, and, besides, he would not have had the chance, for at this moment Amrothos spoke up.
“The riddle,” he said. “What was the riddle?”
Turgon looked at him in complete surprise, since this was the first time Amrothos had spoken to him directly throughout the whole fortnight. Hitherto Turgon had treated Amrothos with a kind of indulgent perplexity, but now, finding himself being addressed by the son of the Lord of Western Gondor, he became anxious to commend himself. He opened his mouth to reply, whereupon Amrothos raised his hand, and said, “Wait.” Reaching into the pocket of his tunic, he drew out a crumpled and grubby piece of paper and a very tatty pen. He peered at the nib of this and then chewed it slightly. Next, he smoothed out the paper on the table top, pored over the contents, and struck out a few lines.
“A drop of the old wine, Lord Turgon?” my mother said, her accent more marked than usual. Our bewildered guest accepted gladly. Amrothos, finishing his close study of his paper, waved his pen at Turgon. “Continue. Describe the game, please, as closely as you can. And then recount the riddle.”
Turgon’s jaw hung slackly for a moment, and then he collected himself. “Ah, yes, of course. As I say, his ancestors would go into the garden at full moon, and there turn about a number of times—”
“How many, please? And which way?”
“As I recall, there were five separate sets of turns – no, six! – after which a number of steps had to be taken.”
“Steps? How many? In which direction? No, first, we must know the starting point, what was the starting point?”
Turgon looked around the table at the rest of us. We smiled back blandly and offered no aid. “I’m... afraid I did not ask.”
Amrothos sighed deeply and put down his pen. “You are not very observant, are you, Lord Turgon?” he said, crossly. “Is that the best that you can do?”
“My apologies, sir...”
“Did you not think to write down what the old man said? I would have thought that when presented with an unusual custom from such a remarkable and, more importantly, ageing source, anyone of sense would take the trouble to write his words down—”
At this point, my father leaned forwards in his seat. “Perhaps, Amrothos,” he said gently, “it had been a long ride and a long day.”
Amrothos gave my father a puzzled look, and then appeared to take the hint that was being dropped so heavily. “Hmm.” Picking up his pen and paper, he shoved them back in his pocket, and frowned down at his dinner. “Well,” he said, after a moment or two, “I suppose I can always ride out there later in the week and take it down myself. You’ll be too busy to join me, I imagine, cousin?”
“Alas, duty calls. I must be in the City for a few days at the end of the week.”
“Hmm,” Amrothos said again. Then, more hopefully: “Tomorrow?”
Father held up his hands. “Tomorrow I spend the day amidst bailiffs and sheriffs.”
“Morwen,” said my mother softly, “perhaps you might go?”
“Oh yes, please!” I said, for I had been longing to offer, but unwilling to intrude upon any opportunity my father had to spend time with his cousin. My father loved Amrothos’ company, but the demands upon his time were so great that he rarely had the chance to do whatever he liked.
And to my delight, Amrothos was well pleased at the offer of this other companion. “Excellent! Yes, very good! For Morwen,” he finished pointedly, “pays attention to detail.”
***
Turgon departed for the City the next morning, and our house heaved a sigh of relief and relaxed. Father went off to run the gauntlet of local officialdom, leaving myself and Amrothos with strict instructions to come and find him as soon as we were home with a report of our meeting with Belecthor.
It must surely be clear by now that Amrothos of Belfalas was not easily upstaged, but Belecthor of River Bend, in his ninety-first year, had the advantage of fifty years and the buoyant self-assurance of a man lately restored to his kingdom. Tall, strong, hale, and smoking a long-stemmed pipe, he waved this in greeting when he saw me. “Hullo, sir!” I said, hopping up on the bench beside him, tucking one leg beneath me and letting the other swing. I knew him well, for we often stopped at the inn here when the family travelled to and from the City. I tapped the stem of the pipe. “This is new!”
“A man must remain willing to try the latest customs,” he said, puffing at it inexpertly. “If it’s good enough for the Citadel of Minas Tirith, it’s good enough for Ithilien. How is the Prince?”
“Busy as ever,” I said. “But very well. Mother too.”
“And is the young lord thriving in the north?”
I sighed. “Oh yes, Bron’s having a fine old time.”
He gave me a canny look, and then gestured with the pipe to Amrothos. “Who’s your solemn friend, my lady?”
Forestalling any need on my part to introduce him, Amrothos stepped forwards and bowed low. “Amrothos of Belfalas, sir. An honour to meet you.”
Belecthor’s grey eyes gleamed in recognition and pleasure. “The honour is certainly mine, my lord prince. Please, have a seat.”
Amrothos sat on the old man’s other side, and we remained there a good half-hour, talking about the weather (satisfactory), the state of the road (improving), the travellers along it (a mixed bag), and catching up on all the local gossip which Belecthor collected like a sharp-eyed magpie with its shiny pieces. Father often said that he made as fine a warden of Ithilien as many younger, better-armed men. Abandoning his pipe as a dead loss, he said to Amrothos, “Are you city-bound today, my lord prince?”
“No sir, indeed Morwen and I have travelled this way with the sole purpose of speaking to you.”
“We’ve had a visitor the past few weeks,” I said, “Lord Turgon.” I pulled a face, and Belecthor grunted. “He told us that you had described a strange game you used to play in the grounds of the old house. Father had never heard of it, so we promised we would come and hear more from you.”
The old man gave a snort of laughter that turned into a wheezy cough. “That old nonsense? Well, my lady, it’s not a game I ever played myself, not being so ancient that I was able to serve your family when the house was still standing. But my grandfather played it as a boy, and I received the story from him.”
Amrothos had by now dug into his pocket and drawn out paper and pen. Belecthor stood up. “If I’m going to do this, I’ll do it properly,” he said. He handed me his pipe, and cleared his throat. I wondered if it was worth chancing a quick puff, but Mother had an unerring instinct for this kind of transgression, and, besides, I didn’t like the sound of Belecthor’s cough.
Standing before us, tall and old and proud, Belecthor was still for a moment, and then began to declaim in a mighty voice:
“Whose was it?
(From inside the inn, someone called, “What’s the matter, father?”)
Those who are gone.
“Where did it come from?
(“Oh, you’re just showing off again.”)
The land that is lost.
“When does it start?
(He raised his hand and spread the palm out wide, moving it over his head.)
When the moon is full,
Between the redleaf and the pine.
“How was it stepped?
North by twelve and twelve,
(At this point, it helps to know that Belecthor, at each change of compass direction, would swing around on his long legs like an ancient heron stalking across its territory.)
East by six and six,
South by two and two,
West by one and one, and under.
“What have we given?
(Now we merely had his great voice to assist us.)
All that was ours.
“Why did we give it?
For the sake of our faith.”
(Then, like an ancient swan, turning slowly first clockwise, then counterclockwise, and changing direction with each word.)
“Seven, two, five, twelve, one, three.”
I put the pipe down on the bench and applauded. Belecthor bowed. Glancing at Amrothos, I saw that he was sitting with his mouth open and his pen suspended above the page, and had not taken down a single word. “Shall I do it again?” asked Belecthor.
“Please,” said Amrothos, in a slightly strangled voice, and I heartily concurred. This time, Belecthor held back and Amrothos got the whole down.
Whose was it?
Those who are gone.
Where did it come from?
The land that is lost.
When does it start?
When the moon is full,
Between the redleaf and the pine.
How was it stepped?
North by twelve and twelve,
East by six and six,
South by two and two,
West by one and one, and under.
What have we given?
All that was ours.
Why did we give it?
For the sake of our faith.
Seven, two, five, twelve, one, three.
“Those last,” Belecthor explained, “my grandfather said that he and his friends used to turn in full – seven times clockwise, then two, counterclockwise, and on through the set, changing direction each time. Twelve must have been the worst. But I’m surprised you had not heard the full verse before. That lord who came past last week, the Lord Turgon, made me say it for him several times, and wrote the whole thing down, as you have done now, my lord prince. And you said he was your guest?”
Amrothos and I looked at each other in surprise. Belecthor didn’t miss it. When we took our leave of him a little later, he said, “I’d mention that about the Lord Turgon to your father, my lady. And let me know whether you find aught.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I always thought they sounded like directions. Who knows where they might take you?”
As we mounted our horses and made ready to leave, I thought through the rhyme, and one last question came to mind. “Belecthor, what’s a redleaf?”
“Ask your father,” he said. “He’ll tell you – more than you want to know.” He picked up his pipe, examined it, and then put it down again. “Filthy habit,” he concluded.
***
When we bounced into his study with our treasure, Father was hunched over his desk clutching a cup of willow bark tea and wearing his headache face. He brightened measurably at the sight of us, pushing aside his papers and falling back into his chair. “How was your trip? What did you learn from the old rogue?”
“Not to start smoking,” I said with a laugh. We recited the rhyme for him, Amrothos managing a fair impression of Belecthor’s theatricals, and then fell to discussing what it might mean. The news of Turgon’s perfidy Father met with a tightening of the lips and a shake of the head. “Let us hope he settles in Lossarnach,” he muttered. “Or Umbar.”
“Now, this rhyme,” Amrothos said, tapping the paper on which it was written, “seems to me to consist of four main parts. Firstly, we have the starting point, the pine and the redleaf, and the time – beneath a full moon. Next, we have the number of steps to take from that point, and the directions in which they should be taken – north, east, and so on. Thirdly, there are the turns.” He frowned. “I admit I find this the most baffling part. Seven, two, five, twelve, one, three… I wonder if there is some sequence connecting them? Hmm...”
“And the fourth part?” my father prompted.
“Oh,” Amrothos waved his hand, “the verses at the start and the end; the usual about the foundered land and the Faithful—”
“I thought they were charming,” Father said.
“Perhaps, but charming will find us no buried treasure.”
“Buried treasure?” Father’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that our aim now? I thought we were collecting children’s rhymes—”
“And so we were, but these are plainly directions of some kind, Faramir, surely you can see that?”
“Perhaps, but – treasure, Rothos?” He glanced at me. “We don’t want to disappoint ourselves.”
“Treasure may come in many forms, cousin.”
“Then treasure it is, although I’m sure if there were any buried in Ithilien the Rangers would have sniffed it out. We were short of money by the end.”
“Laugh all you like, Faramir, but we’ll find your treasure for you whether you want it or not. Won’t we, Morwen?”
“Yes we will!” I said, for I would have gladly risked a dragon’s hoard for Father.
“And if you do, then I shall thank you, protectors of the purse. But there is a long way to go before that. What must you do next?”
“The full moon, of course,” I said, “between the redleaf and the pine. Oh yes! Neither of us knew what a redleaf was, but Belecthor said that you would surely know.”
“And indeed I do,” Father said. “It’s the old common name for the culumalda tree. Or carnilaurë in the ancient high tongue,” he added, because he couldn’t help himself. People often said that my father had missed his calling by not becoming a scholar, but it was plain to me that his true vocation was teacher. “A tall slender tree with red-gold leaves, very rare – but you saw them at Cormallen, Morwen, surely you remember? The time we celebrated Ringday there.” He eyed me thoughtfully. “Or were you too small? How you all grow...”
He stood up and went over to his shelves, taking down a green volume describing and illustrating the flora of Gondor. He flicked through the pages until he found the picture he sought. “Here it is,” he said, and we both stood at an elbow to look. “See? The red and gold leaves are very distinctive. But they’re only found in the north of Ithilien now – and even there rarely. I have never seen one south of Cormallen. The servants of the Enemy had a particular loathing for them, for their uncommon beauty, no doubt, and they uprooted and destroyed many. Certainly I never saw one near the old house.” He smiled at us both, poring over the page he was holding open for us. “I’m sure you’ll go and hunt for one anyway.”
We did, the following morning, having sent Father on his way to the City to attend to whatever business could be more pressing than this. The day was sunny, not too warm, and the autumn colours rich and bright. We left our grounds through the south gate, and took the hill path, and, after about a mile-and-a-half climbing steadily upwards, reached the tumbledown wall that marked the edge of the old estate. September roses twined around the crumbling stones and a wooden gate hung sadly from rusty hinges. I knew this place well. The walk was a great favourite with me and Bron, for the place was soaked in the history of our beloved land, and stirred the romance in our hearts. How strange it was to think of it, so near to us, sinking quietly into the grass, while our own home, down the hill, was so busy and full of life and plans. As Amrothos and I walked amongst the fallen walls and clambering weeds, I thought as I often did that for all I loved to come here, I was glad that Father had decided not to rebuild, but instead had chosen a place for a new house, west and down the hill, with the City easily in sight.
I led Amrothos through ghosts of rooms and over smashed floors out onto what had once been a wide lawn. It was a field now, full of tall grass and cow parsley, and bright splashes of wild flowers. At one side, as I thought we would, we found a shaggy old pine tree, tall and weathered. Amrothos smiled and patted its bark. “Now for the redleaf!” he said.
There were several directions in which this might lie, for a small copse had grown behind the field, and this we searched, moving out slowly from where the pine stood. But after about a quarter-of-an-hour, we stumbled upon a most unpleasant sight. The stump of a dead tree, hacked and hewed by crude axes, with a burnt spot nearby – the place, no doubt, where this poor casualty of war had met its sad end. Not content with savaging the tree so brutally, its murderers had even disfigured the stump, stripping off the outside bark, and carving with rough knives into the flat uppermost surface a hateful symbol of a hideous Eye. Even I, bred to Ithilien, and used to warning tales of poisoned waters and charred remains, was revolted.
But Amrothos was very distressed. He loved his cousin dearly and hated to think how this land – which my father had bled for, and now lived for – had suffered beneath the Shadow. “This is impossible!” he said, looking around, his eyes bright and angry. “We are not even sure that this is a redleaf, never mind coming closer to working out where we should start with those wretched steps and turns! Who knows how this place must have changed in all the years since Ithilien was abandoned? Who knows how much damage has been done?”
Gently, I put my hand upon his arm. “Father will know,” I consoled him. “Or know where to look. There’ll be records of the house and the grounds. I’m sure he has such things. We’ll travel to the City, if needs be. He’ll have them, I’m sure.”
But Father was away in the City for two days, during which time another letter from Bron arrived, full of his visit to Mother’s childhood home in Aldburg, which made her wistful, with Father absent, and rather dampened my spirits. Amrothos and I pondered the rhyme over and over, but it only became clearer and clearer to us that we could progress no further until we had determined once and for all whether a redleaf tree had ever stood in the grounds of the old house.
Father got home very late and slept well into the following morning. Mother strictly policed access to him until midday, and so it was mid-afternoon before Amrothos and I were able to ask him about plans of the old house. And he had another matter on his mind, which he had detailed to Mother over their late breakfast together. The Lord Turgon, it seemed, had missed an appointment in the City with a land agent. Enquiring further, Father learned that no-one could confirm that Turgon had in fact returned to Minas Tirith after leaving Emyn Arnen.
The story quickly passed around the household. As Amrothos and I met with Father in his study to tell him of our explorations of the house, there came a gentle tap at the door, and Eilyn, one of the housemaids, entered. Seeing Amrothos – who was treated with some caution by the servants on account of the shocks that so often awaited them in his chamber, she hesitated, but Father called her in.
“I wanted a quick word, sir,” she said, “about Lord Turgon. We heard he hadn’t turned up in the City yet, and I remembered something odd that happened. I thought I ought to tell you.”
“Oh yes, Eilyn?”
“I came in here one morning to clean, and found him – the Lord Turgon – sitting in that chair by the window, with a whole pile of papers and whatnot on his knees and on the floor around him.”
“How odd,” Father said, and frowned. “Whatever could he have been doing?”
Having heard of our need for the plans of the old house, Father had gone over to a tall wooden cabinet that stood in a quiet corner of his study. This cabinet was a solid old piece from the Steward’s House, heavy and ugly, that had long harboured a collection of some of the more obscure family papers. Father had dragged the thing over from Minas Tirith when the house in Emyn Arnen was built, and I knew that he hoped one day to be able to examine the contents in detail, perhaps with a view to preparing a family history. Of course he never found the time, and the cabinet and its contents lurked darkly in their corner.
“There’s not much dust on this, Faramir,” Amrothos said, running his finger along the cabinet. “Do you think that Turgon may have been looking in here?”
“You’re slandering Eilyn, Rothos,” Father said, as he opened the cabinet doors. “I’m sure she dusts it regularly.”
I watched, my toes curling, as poor Eilyn turned crimson. Father, turning round with an armful of papers, saw her face. “Eilyn? When did you last dust the cabinet?” The colour drained from Eilyn’s cheeks. Father crossed to his desk and dumped the papers there. “I never look at the thing if I can help it, Eilyn. And the lady of the house will never know.”
“I do dust in here daily,” Eilyn said, “but that monster I only do at the start of each month. You said it yourself, sir,” she said apologetically. “You never look at it, or open it.”
“And a more rigorous regime would therefore be a waste of effort. You have better things to do. But it does suggest that Turgon may well have had a look inside. When exactly did you see him here?”
“Three days before he left – no, four, sir. I remember because you and the lady of the house were both out all day, and it seemed odd to find him in your study without you. But he was so at ease sitting in that chair that I thought he must have been here with your say-so. Who would come in here without your say-so? I am sorry, sir.”
“The fault was certainly Lord Turgon’s, Eilyn, and not yours. Did you by any chance see what he was looking at? Papers, and—?”
She thought for a moment. “There was something else, sir – a flat black pouch of some sort, leather, perhaps. I think there were some silver marks upon it. Could have been the dust! I remember because I’d never seen it before – and when I do dust here,” her eyes sparkled at him, “I dust thoroughly.”
Father twinkled back. “Thank you, Eilyn! If you or anyone remembers aught else about his stay that strikes you as odd, please let me know. It may help to discover where he has gone.”
With a smile, Eilyn nodded and left.
“A black pouch, Faramir?” Amrothos said.
Father rubbed his finger against his jaw for a moment, deep in thought, and then went back to the cabinet (whose moment of glory had certainly come), and drew from it a black case, perhaps a foot by half-a-foot, made of some leather that remained supple despite its evident age. He took it over to his desk and Amrothos and I eagerly joined him. Embossed upon the top of the case, in a horizontal line across the middle, were twelve silver letters. I did not recognize them, and I was not the only one, although I was not the person in the room learned in several languages.
“Faramir!” Amrothos exclaimed. “I have never seen symbols like these before! What is this script?”
“Well, some lost dialect of Westernesse, I would guess. I have never seen these signs elsewhere either, although my studies have hardly been as exhaustive as yours. So much was lost in the Downfall. We might never have the key to unlock their meaning.”
For a moment, Amrothos was speechless. Then: “A case of black leather from the foundered land, covered in an unknown script?”
“Hardly covered, Rothos—”
“And what other treasures have you got tucked away in that ridiculous cupboard here in this... province of yours?”
Father laughed. “Family secrets!”
“I am family!”
“Other side!”
I reached out with a fingertip to touch the delicate, intricate, mysterious letters. “Are we going to open it, Father?”
“Of course, blackbird. But don’t set yourself up for a disappointment.”
To the mounting excitement of both Amrothos and myself (and, I think, for all he said, my father too), he carefully thumbed open the silver clasp. I was of course firmly convinced that we were about to find some antediluvian treasure map, or at the very least the key to the script on the cover. But there was nothing inside, only silky scarlet lining. At my bidding, Father examined this and indeed the whole interior for secret compartments, but at length even I had to admit that the case was empty.
“Ah well,” said Father, closing it again. “I wonder if Turgon took something of value from here. If so, he may be long gone, and our trail now cold.” He frowned, and I began to feel glum again. “But!” Father said after a moment’s thought, clapping his hands together and in the briskly cheerful tone he must once have used to rally his men in situations at least as disheartening as this, “all is not yet lost! Here is what we’ll do next. We shall search these papers as we intended for the plans of the house and the estate, and then we shall examine them for any sign that a culumalda tree once stood in the grounds near a pine tree.”
We dutifully applied ourselves to the plan of action that Father had outlined, and were soon rewarded with a whole set of documents detailing the house throughout the various phases of its construction. Although I had often wandered the ruins, I had not grasped until I saw these papers how grand a house it must have been at its height. I guessed it was five or six times bigger than our own hall, which although it was modest compared to the halls of other lords of Gondor that I had visited (not least the castle of Dol Amroth), was still spacious. My father, seeing my amazement, smiled. “Quite the prince’s palace, wasn’t it?”
“I like this house well enough,” I said, stoutly.
“Good,” he said. “I like it well enough too.”
We found the plan that showed the house at its largest, in the century before the Kin-strife, when many of the people of Ithilien were slaughtered for their loyalty to the true king, and our land began its long but steady decline. We unrolled this document and spread it out upon my father’s desk, my cousin holding down one end and my father the other. Their hands were similar – long and slender, restless, although Amrothos’ were stained with inks and the strange mixtures he made, while my father’s were blunt-nailed and war-worn. I pointed out the pine tree we had seen – and there, thirty feet away, where the stump was now, we found the lost culumalda, marked on the page in red and gold. “Poor old tree,” Father said, when we described the condition of its stump to him. “We should do something about that. But where does this take us now, cousin? The pine we may have, but the old redleaf is long gone.”
We received aid at this point from an unexpected source. Léof, passing through on some errand of his own, had stopped to see what we were doing. “That is easy enough to resolve,” he said. “It’s triangle-work, isn’t it? If we can discover the heights of both the trees, we can find the point between them where two imaginary lines of the same length would meet. The trees don’t need to be standing. We only need to know the heights.”
“But how can we know that?” I said. “Where could we possibly learn the height of the redleaf?”
Again the gloomy old cabinet from the Steward’s House supplied. From out of its depths my father drew a great stack of red-bound books, filled with tiny script detailing the minutiae of the old estate: stock, and crops, and tenancies, and an account of everything that was planted and how well it all grew. Father doled these volumes out to each of us (even Léof was conscripted for the task). “May my long-fathers be praised,” he said, settling back into his chair with the first book from his pile, “for their meticulous record-keeping.”
The afternoon lengthened. Mother put her head round the door once or twice, and sent in refreshments, but otherwise left us to it. The sun had turned red and gold and the sky was darkening before Amrothos at last spoke up. “I do believe I have it.”
As he and Léof did the calculation together, I helped Father put the documents and books back into the cabinet. But my hand lingered over the dark black case and its beautiful silvery letters. “Might I keep this for a while, Father? I think it’s lovely.”
I did not, of course, fully understand what I was asking when I asked Father for this ancient marvel that had by some miracle survived the ruin of Númenor and the long centuries that followed. But my father was a giving kind of man. “Yes, very lovely,” he agreed. “Take it, blackbird. It’s yours.”
That evening, I could hardly keep my eyes off it. Mother asked twice for me to put it away during dinner, and only the threat of its permanent removal was successful. But later, in the library, after Amrothos had copied out the script, and when the adults were talking together companionably, I was left in peace to handle my treasure, and to study in detail each of the silver letters. When I went upstairs, the case came with me. In my chamber, I peeked beyond the curtains and caught a glimpse of the full moon shimmering through the treetops, and then I clambered into bed, tucked the case beneath my pillow, and fell asleep with the letters glittering before my eyes and the words of the old man’s verse running endlessly through my mind, like water over stone.
Whose was it?
Those who are gone.
Where did it come from?
The land that is lost.
And I dreamt, vividly.
The Case of the Silver Letters continues in Part 2.
The Case of the Silver Letters, Part 1
Emyn Arnen, Autumn, F.A. 14
The whole affair happened shortly after my older brother left to spend a year at our uncle’s court in Edoras. I was disconsolate without my chief accomplice. Elboron and I were close in age and thick as thieves. My younger brother, Léof, was a self-sufficient boy with no particular need for my company, and, besides, was always off on some business of his own and therefore never to be found. Mother and Father, not insensitive to my mood, and as far as their numerous duties allowed, tried various distractions in the way of hearty expeditions around the countryside, instructive trips to town, and so on, and so on, but to no avail. My bad temper carried on throughout summer and threatened autumn. The simple truth was that I was lonely without Bron, and I was beginning to ponder, as I entered my fourteenth year, what purpose I might have. There I stood, one foot still in childhood, the other in womanhood, and it was not easy to see what was supposed to happen next.
Bron’s fortnightly letters, detailing his adventures, did not help. No doubt, left to my own devices, I would have sulked well into the new year, but the arrival of my father’s cousin from Dol Amroth in the weeks leading up to yáviérë brought a most welcome change to the scenery of Emyn Arnen. Prince Amrothos was the kind of man to warm the heart of any child. Unbothered by protocol, etiquette, decorum, or nicety, he was interested in just about everything else: the world, the stars, language, mathematics, mechanics, explosions, and any creature that happened to hop, jump, clatter, slither, or crawl past his ever-curious eye. At that time, I recall, he was coming to the end of a lengthy examination of the different aspects taken on by blood when allowed to dry for varying periods of time. The ghoulish paraphernalia arising from this experiment were gleefully brought out during dinner on the first night of his visit to the shrieking horror of the housemaids, the grave amusement of Father, and the frank bafflement of Mother. Surely it does not need to be said how we three children adored him.
Autumn, then, looked set to be much merrier than summer, and indeed Ithilien was beautiful that year, and I more ready now to revel in the many colours and beauties of the season. Love and duty may take me for long periods to the City, but home will always be Ithilien, that green garden country that my mother and my father together coaxed back to life from the weeds and ruins left by war. How happily I walked its woods and fields, wandered its groves and orchards, and drank from its clear cold streams. Often my father’s cousin came with me, and then our walks became voyages of discovery, for Amrothos could tell me more about the trees and plants around us than even my father, who I believe could have walked safely around Ithilien blindfolded. How marvellous to discover that the countryside I knew so well contained so much more than I had ever imagined. Even Léof deigned to join us on our rambles now and again. August turned to September, and we caught the first sniff of chill air from the north, and looked forward to the festival coming at the end of the month.
But before that, we received another visitor, this time from the City, and one nowhere near so welcome as Amrothos. The Lord Turgon had been a friend of my father’s late cousin Hador, who had died towards the end of the War. Turgon had come to Ithilien to investigate purchasing an estate south of Emyn Arnen. Land in Ithilien was still cheap at the time, on account of the traps and snares and poisoned waters – the Enemy’s handiwork – that still fouled corners of the country, and my father was always keen to attract new settlers. But the people he preferred were of a certain type: hands-on, eager to be full parties to the work being done to build the newest Princedom of the realm. Within a matter of minutes, it was clear that while Turgon certainly possessed excellent manners and great wit, and most assuredly desired to own land across the river, he was hardly likely to become resident in such an uncouth, untamed country as ours. For his dead cousin’s sake, my father welcomed Turgon into our home as his guest, but I knew from the careful reserve that I detected in his manner towards him, not to mention my mother’s slight frost, that neither of them found the man particularly appealing.
Turgon held no interest for Amrothos, who therefore ignored him entirely. On only one occasion did Amrothos show he had even noticed the man’s existence. Turgon was giving an account of his journey that day to survey a small estate to the south-west of our hills. On the whole he had been pleased with what he found: good fishing, olive groves that were not beyond repair, plenty of potential to build and rent, and sufficiently close to the ferry over to the Harlond that he might make the trip from the City easily in a day and therefore not have to stay. I did not miss the look that passed between my parents at that point, nor the slight opening of his palm with which my father gently asked my mother to refrain from speaking her mind. But the estate was not what had most interested Turgon during his trip, and certainly not what caught Amrothos’ attention.
“I decided to come back along the river road rather than take the old road through the hills,” Turgon told us, “but it took rather longer than I had expected and so, reaching a small village where the way meets the road coming down from the Harlond, I stopped to find some refreshment. And there, sitting outside the inn and sunning himself, I saw an old man – Valar, he was ninety if he was a day! – with a shock of snow-white hair on his head, but as grey-eyed as you or I, sir, and going by the name of Belecthor, no less! Fine country this, where even the most rustic seem to have a drop of the old blood in them!”
My father ran his finger-tip along his cheekbone. “I know him,” he said quietly, “and his family. They were amongst the last to leave when Ithilien was overrun. All the men were rangers and his grandson died at the breaking of the bridge.”
“Indeed?” said Turgon, clearly not much interested in this piece of local knowledge. “Certainly the old man knew the area well. We fell to talking, and I explained that I was enjoying the hospitality of you and your lovely lady—” he gave my mother a charming smile which she returned with a rather wolfish one of her own, “—whereupon he was proud to inform me that his ancestors had served yours up at the old hall for many generations.”
“Indeed,” said my father, to whom this was plainly not news.
“And furthermore he told me about the curious game that the children of his family used to play in the grounds of the old building.”
A line appeared between my father’s brows. “A game?”
“Why yes,” Turgon said carelessly. “Each full moon they would go to a certain spot in the garden, and turn about several times, whilst reciting some riddle. Remarkable! Had you not heard tell of this?”
“I had not,” my father said, and, from the slight tightness appearing around his lips, and the deepening of the line between his brows, I guessed he was irked that some part of the lore of Ithilien had eluded him, and that a man such as Turgon should be the one to enlighten him. Naturally he conveyed none of this displeasure to Turgon, and, besides, he would not have had the chance, for at this moment Amrothos spoke up.
“The riddle,” he said. “What was the riddle?”
Turgon looked at him in complete surprise, since this was the first time Amrothos had spoken to him directly throughout the whole fortnight. Hitherto Turgon had treated Amrothos with a kind of indulgent perplexity, but now, finding himself being addressed by the son of the Lord of Western Gondor, he became anxious to commend himself. He opened his mouth to reply, whereupon Amrothos raised his hand, and said, “Wait.” Reaching into the pocket of his tunic, he drew out a crumpled and grubby piece of paper and a very tatty pen. He peered at the nib of this and then chewed it slightly. Next, he smoothed out the paper on the table top, pored over the contents, and struck out a few lines.
“A drop of the old wine, Lord Turgon?” my mother said, her accent more marked than usual. Our bewildered guest accepted gladly. Amrothos, finishing his close study of his paper, waved his pen at Turgon. “Continue. Describe the game, please, as closely as you can. And then recount the riddle.”
Turgon’s jaw hung slackly for a moment, and then he collected himself. “Ah, yes, of course. As I say, his ancestors would go into the garden at full moon, and there turn about a number of times—”
“How many, please? And which way?”
“As I recall, there were five separate sets of turns – no, six! – after which a number of steps had to be taken.”
“Steps? How many? In which direction? No, first, we must know the starting point, what was the starting point?”
Turgon looked around the table at the rest of us. We smiled back blandly and offered no aid. “I’m... afraid I did not ask.”
Amrothos sighed deeply and put down his pen. “You are not very observant, are you, Lord Turgon?” he said, crossly. “Is that the best that you can do?”
“My apologies, sir...”
“Did you not think to write down what the old man said? I would have thought that when presented with an unusual custom from such a remarkable and, more importantly, ageing source, anyone of sense would take the trouble to write his words down—”
At this point, my father leaned forwards in his seat. “Perhaps, Amrothos,” he said gently, “it had been a long ride and a long day.”
Amrothos gave my father a puzzled look, and then appeared to take the hint that was being dropped so heavily. “Hmm.” Picking up his pen and paper, he shoved them back in his pocket, and frowned down at his dinner. “Well,” he said, after a moment or two, “I suppose I can always ride out there later in the week and take it down myself. You’ll be too busy to join me, I imagine, cousin?”
“Alas, duty calls. I must be in the City for a few days at the end of the week.”
“Hmm,” Amrothos said again. Then, more hopefully: “Tomorrow?”
Father held up his hands. “Tomorrow I spend the day amidst bailiffs and sheriffs.”
“Morwen,” said my mother softly, “perhaps you might go?”
“Oh yes, please!” I said, for I had been longing to offer, but unwilling to intrude upon any opportunity my father had to spend time with his cousin. My father loved Amrothos’ company, but the demands upon his time were so great that he rarely had the chance to do whatever he liked.
And to my delight, Amrothos was well pleased at the offer of this other companion. “Excellent! Yes, very good! For Morwen,” he finished pointedly, “pays attention to detail.”
***
Turgon departed for the City the next morning, and our house heaved a sigh of relief and relaxed. Father went off to run the gauntlet of local officialdom, leaving myself and Amrothos with strict instructions to come and find him as soon as we were home with a report of our meeting with Belecthor.
It must surely be clear by now that Amrothos of Belfalas was not easily upstaged, but Belecthor of River Bend, in his ninety-first year, had the advantage of fifty years and the buoyant self-assurance of a man lately restored to his kingdom. Tall, strong, hale, and smoking a long-stemmed pipe, he waved this in greeting when he saw me. “Hullo, sir!” I said, hopping up on the bench beside him, tucking one leg beneath me and letting the other swing. I knew him well, for we often stopped at the inn here when the family travelled to and from the City. I tapped the stem of the pipe. “This is new!”
“A man must remain willing to try the latest customs,” he said, puffing at it inexpertly. “If it’s good enough for the Citadel of Minas Tirith, it’s good enough for Ithilien. How is the Prince?”
“Busy as ever,” I said. “But very well. Mother too.”
“And is the young lord thriving in the north?”
I sighed. “Oh yes, Bron’s having a fine old time.”
He gave me a canny look, and then gestured with the pipe to Amrothos. “Who’s your solemn friend, my lady?”
Forestalling any need on my part to introduce him, Amrothos stepped forwards and bowed low. “Amrothos of Belfalas, sir. An honour to meet you.”
Belecthor’s grey eyes gleamed in recognition and pleasure. “The honour is certainly mine, my lord prince. Please, have a seat.”
Amrothos sat on the old man’s other side, and we remained there a good half-hour, talking about the weather (satisfactory), the state of the road (improving), the travellers along it (a mixed bag), and catching up on all the local gossip which Belecthor collected like a sharp-eyed magpie with its shiny pieces. Father often said that he made as fine a warden of Ithilien as many younger, better-armed men. Abandoning his pipe as a dead loss, he said to Amrothos, “Are you city-bound today, my lord prince?”
“No sir, indeed Morwen and I have travelled this way with the sole purpose of speaking to you.”
“We’ve had a visitor the past few weeks,” I said, “Lord Turgon.” I pulled a face, and Belecthor grunted. “He told us that you had described a strange game you used to play in the grounds of the old house. Father had never heard of it, so we promised we would come and hear more from you.”
The old man gave a snort of laughter that turned into a wheezy cough. “That old nonsense? Well, my lady, it’s not a game I ever played myself, not being so ancient that I was able to serve your family when the house was still standing. But my grandfather played it as a boy, and I received the story from him.”
Amrothos had by now dug into his pocket and drawn out paper and pen. Belecthor stood up. “If I’m going to do this, I’ll do it properly,” he said. He handed me his pipe, and cleared his throat. I wondered if it was worth chancing a quick puff, but Mother had an unerring instinct for this kind of transgression, and, besides, I didn’t like the sound of Belecthor’s cough.
Standing before us, tall and old and proud, Belecthor was still for a moment, and then began to declaim in a mighty voice:
“Whose was it?
(From inside the inn, someone called, “What’s the matter, father?”)
Those who are gone.
“Where did it come from?
(“Oh, you’re just showing off again.”)
The land that is lost.
“When does it start?
(He raised his hand and spread the palm out wide, moving it over his head.)
When the moon is full,
Between the redleaf and the pine.
“How was it stepped?
North by twelve and twelve,
(At this point, it helps to know that Belecthor, at each change of compass direction, would swing around on his long legs like an ancient heron stalking across its territory.)
East by six and six,
South by two and two,
West by one and one, and under.
“What have we given?
(Now we merely had his great voice to assist us.)
All that was ours.
“Why did we give it?
For the sake of our faith.”
(Then, like an ancient swan, turning slowly first clockwise, then counterclockwise, and changing direction with each word.)
“Seven, two, five, twelve, one, three.”
I put the pipe down on the bench and applauded. Belecthor bowed. Glancing at Amrothos, I saw that he was sitting with his mouth open and his pen suspended above the page, and had not taken down a single word. “Shall I do it again?” asked Belecthor.
“Please,” said Amrothos, in a slightly strangled voice, and I heartily concurred. This time, Belecthor held back and Amrothos got the whole down.
Whose was it?
Those who are gone.
Where did it come from?
The land that is lost.
When does it start?
When the moon is full,
Between the redleaf and the pine.
How was it stepped?
North by twelve and twelve,
East by six and six,
South by two and two,
West by one and one, and under.
What have we given?
All that was ours.
Why did we give it?
For the sake of our faith.
Seven, two, five, twelve, one, three.
“Those last,” Belecthor explained, “my grandfather said that he and his friends used to turn in full – seven times clockwise, then two, counterclockwise, and on through the set, changing direction each time. Twelve must have been the worst. But I’m surprised you had not heard the full verse before. That lord who came past last week, the Lord Turgon, made me say it for him several times, and wrote the whole thing down, as you have done now, my lord prince. And you said he was your guest?”
Amrothos and I looked at each other in surprise. Belecthor didn’t miss it. When we took our leave of him a little later, he said, “I’d mention that about the Lord Turgon to your father, my lady. And let me know whether you find aught.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I always thought they sounded like directions. Who knows where they might take you?”
As we mounted our horses and made ready to leave, I thought through the rhyme, and one last question came to mind. “Belecthor, what’s a redleaf?”
“Ask your father,” he said. “He’ll tell you – more than you want to know.” He picked up his pipe, examined it, and then put it down again. “Filthy habit,” he concluded.
***
When we bounced into his study with our treasure, Father was hunched over his desk clutching a cup of willow bark tea and wearing his headache face. He brightened measurably at the sight of us, pushing aside his papers and falling back into his chair. “How was your trip? What did you learn from the old rogue?”
“Not to start smoking,” I said with a laugh. We recited the rhyme for him, Amrothos managing a fair impression of Belecthor’s theatricals, and then fell to discussing what it might mean. The news of Turgon’s perfidy Father met with a tightening of the lips and a shake of the head. “Let us hope he settles in Lossarnach,” he muttered. “Or Umbar.”
“Now, this rhyme,” Amrothos said, tapping the paper on which it was written, “seems to me to consist of four main parts. Firstly, we have the starting point, the pine and the redleaf, and the time – beneath a full moon. Next, we have the number of steps to take from that point, and the directions in which they should be taken – north, east, and so on. Thirdly, there are the turns.” He frowned. “I admit I find this the most baffling part. Seven, two, five, twelve, one, three… I wonder if there is some sequence connecting them? Hmm...”
“And the fourth part?” my father prompted.
“Oh,” Amrothos waved his hand, “the verses at the start and the end; the usual about the foundered land and the Faithful—”
“I thought they were charming,” Father said.
“Perhaps, but charming will find us no buried treasure.”
“Buried treasure?” Father’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that our aim now? I thought we were collecting children’s rhymes—”
“And so we were, but these are plainly directions of some kind, Faramir, surely you can see that?”
“Perhaps, but – treasure, Rothos?” He glanced at me. “We don’t want to disappoint ourselves.”
“Treasure may come in many forms, cousin.”
“Then treasure it is, although I’m sure if there were any buried in Ithilien the Rangers would have sniffed it out. We were short of money by the end.”
“Laugh all you like, Faramir, but we’ll find your treasure for you whether you want it or not. Won’t we, Morwen?”
“Yes we will!” I said, for I would have gladly risked a dragon’s hoard for Father.
“And if you do, then I shall thank you, protectors of the purse. But there is a long way to go before that. What must you do next?”
“The full moon, of course,” I said, “between the redleaf and the pine. Oh yes! Neither of us knew what a redleaf was, but Belecthor said that you would surely know.”
“And indeed I do,” Father said. “It’s the old common name for the culumalda tree. Or carnilaurë in the ancient high tongue,” he added, because he couldn’t help himself. People often said that my father had missed his calling by not becoming a scholar, but it was plain to me that his true vocation was teacher. “A tall slender tree with red-gold leaves, very rare – but you saw them at Cormallen, Morwen, surely you remember? The time we celebrated Ringday there.” He eyed me thoughtfully. “Or were you too small? How you all grow...”
He stood up and went over to his shelves, taking down a green volume describing and illustrating the flora of Gondor. He flicked through the pages until he found the picture he sought. “Here it is,” he said, and we both stood at an elbow to look. “See? The red and gold leaves are very distinctive. But they’re only found in the north of Ithilien now – and even there rarely. I have never seen one south of Cormallen. The servants of the Enemy had a particular loathing for them, for their uncommon beauty, no doubt, and they uprooted and destroyed many. Certainly I never saw one near the old house.” He smiled at us both, poring over the page he was holding open for us. “I’m sure you’ll go and hunt for one anyway.”
We did, the following morning, having sent Father on his way to the City to attend to whatever business could be more pressing than this. The day was sunny, not too warm, and the autumn colours rich and bright. We left our grounds through the south gate, and took the hill path, and, after about a mile-and-a-half climbing steadily upwards, reached the tumbledown wall that marked the edge of the old estate. September roses twined around the crumbling stones and a wooden gate hung sadly from rusty hinges. I knew this place well. The walk was a great favourite with me and Bron, for the place was soaked in the history of our beloved land, and stirred the romance in our hearts. How strange it was to think of it, so near to us, sinking quietly into the grass, while our own home, down the hill, was so busy and full of life and plans. As Amrothos and I walked amongst the fallen walls and clambering weeds, I thought as I often did that for all I loved to come here, I was glad that Father had decided not to rebuild, but instead had chosen a place for a new house, west and down the hill, with the City easily in sight.
I led Amrothos through ghosts of rooms and over smashed floors out onto what had once been a wide lawn. It was a field now, full of tall grass and cow parsley, and bright splashes of wild flowers. At one side, as I thought we would, we found a shaggy old pine tree, tall and weathered. Amrothos smiled and patted its bark. “Now for the redleaf!” he said.
There were several directions in which this might lie, for a small copse had grown behind the field, and this we searched, moving out slowly from where the pine stood. But after about a quarter-of-an-hour, we stumbled upon a most unpleasant sight. The stump of a dead tree, hacked and hewed by crude axes, with a burnt spot nearby – the place, no doubt, where this poor casualty of war had met its sad end. Not content with savaging the tree so brutally, its murderers had even disfigured the stump, stripping off the outside bark, and carving with rough knives into the flat uppermost surface a hateful symbol of a hideous Eye. Even I, bred to Ithilien, and used to warning tales of poisoned waters and charred remains, was revolted.
But Amrothos was very distressed. He loved his cousin dearly and hated to think how this land – which my father had bled for, and now lived for – had suffered beneath the Shadow. “This is impossible!” he said, looking around, his eyes bright and angry. “We are not even sure that this is a redleaf, never mind coming closer to working out where we should start with those wretched steps and turns! Who knows how this place must have changed in all the years since Ithilien was abandoned? Who knows how much damage has been done?”
Gently, I put my hand upon his arm. “Father will know,” I consoled him. “Or know where to look. There’ll be records of the house and the grounds. I’m sure he has such things. We’ll travel to the City, if needs be. He’ll have them, I’m sure.”
But Father was away in the City for two days, during which time another letter from Bron arrived, full of his visit to Mother’s childhood home in Aldburg, which made her wistful, with Father absent, and rather dampened my spirits. Amrothos and I pondered the rhyme over and over, but it only became clearer and clearer to us that we could progress no further until we had determined once and for all whether a redleaf tree had ever stood in the grounds of the old house.
Father got home very late and slept well into the following morning. Mother strictly policed access to him until midday, and so it was mid-afternoon before Amrothos and I were able to ask him about plans of the old house. And he had another matter on his mind, which he had detailed to Mother over their late breakfast together. The Lord Turgon, it seemed, had missed an appointment in the City with a land agent. Enquiring further, Father learned that no-one could confirm that Turgon had in fact returned to Minas Tirith after leaving Emyn Arnen.
The story quickly passed around the household. As Amrothos and I met with Father in his study to tell him of our explorations of the house, there came a gentle tap at the door, and Eilyn, one of the housemaids, entered. Seeing Amrothos – who was treated with some caution by the servants on account of the shocks that so often awaited them in his chamber, she hesitated, but Father called her in.
“I wanted a quick word, sir,” she said, “about Lord Turgon. We heard he hadn’t turned up in the City yet, and I remembered something odd that happened. I thought I ought to tell you.”
“Oh yes, Eilyn?”
“I came in here one morning to clean, and found him – the Lord Turgon – sitting in that chair by the window, with a whole pile of papers and whatnot on his knees and on the floor around him.”
“How odd,” Father said, and frowned. “Whatever could he have been doing?”
Having heard of our need for the plans of the old house, Father had gone over to a tall wooden cabinet that stood in a quiet corner of his study. This cabinet was a solid old piece from the Steward’s House, heavy and ugly, that had long harboured a collection of some of the more obscure family papers. Father had dragged the thing over from Minas Tirith when the house in Emyn Arnen was built, and I knew that he hoped one day to be able to examine the contents in detail, perhaps with a view to preparing a family history. Of course he never found the time, and the cabinet and its contents lurked darkly in their corner.
“There’s not much dust on this, Faramir,” Amrothos said, running his finger along the cabinet. “Do you think that Turgon may have been looking in here?”
“You’re slandering Eilyn, Rothos,” Father said, as he opened the cabinet doors. “I’m sure she dusts it regularly.”
I watched, my toes curling, as poor Eilyn turned crimson. Father, turning round with an armful of papers, saw her face. “Eilyn? When did you last dust the cabinet?” The colour drained from Eilyn’s cheeks. Father crossed to his desk and dumped the papers there. “I never look at the thing if I can help it, Eilyn. And the lady of the house will never know.”
“I do dust in here daily,” Eilyn said, “but that monster I only do at the start of each month. You said it yourself, sir,” she said apologetically. “You never look at it, or open it.”
“And a more rigorous regime would therefore be a waste of effort. You have better things to do. But it does suggest that Turgon may well have had a look inside. When exactly did you see him here?”
“Three days before he left – no, four, sir. I remember because you and the lady of the house were both out all day, and it seemed odd to find him in your study without you. But he was so at ease sitting in that chair that I thought he must have been here with your say-so. Who would come in here without your say-so? I am sorry, sir.”
“The fault was certainly Lord Turgon’s, Eilyn, and not yours. Did you by any chance see what he was looking at? Papers, and—?”
She thought for a moment. “There was something else, sir – a flat black pouch of some sort, leather, perhaps. I think there were some silver marks upon it. Could have been the dust! I remember because I’d never seen it before – and when I do dust here,” her eyes sparkled at him, “I dust thoroughly.”
Father twinkled back. “Thank you, Eilyn! If you or anyone remembers aught else about his stay that strikes you as odd, please let me know. It may help to discover where he has gone.”
With a smile, Eilyn nodded and left.
“A black pouch, Faramir?” Amrothos said.
Father rubbed his finger against his jaw for a moment, deep in thought, and then went back to the cabinet (whose moment of glory had certainly come), and drew from it a black case, perhaps a foot by half-a-foot, made of some leather that remained supple despite its evident age. He took it over to his desk and Amrothos and I eagerly joined him. Embossed upon the top of the case, in a horizontal line across the middle, were twelve silver letters. I did not recognize them, and I was not the only one, although I was not the person in the room learned in several languages.
“Faramir!” Amrothos exclaimed. “I have never seen symbols like these before! What is this script?”
“Well, some lost dialect of Westernesse, I would guess. I have never seen these signs elsewhere either, although my studies have hardly been as exhaustive as yours. So much was lost in the Downfall. We might never have the key to unlock their meaning.”
For a moment, Amrothos was speechless. Then: “A case of black leather from the foundered land, covered in an unknown script?”
“Hardly covered, Rothos—”
“And what other treasures have you got tucked away in that ridiculous cupboard here in this... province of yours?”
Father laughed. “Family secrets!”
“I am family!”
“Other side!”
I reached out with a fingertip to touch the delicate, intricate, mysterious letters. “Are we going to open it, Father?”
“Of course, blackbird. But don’t set yourself up for a disappointment.”
To the mounting excitement of both Amrothos and myself (and, I think, for all he said, my father too), he carefully thumbed open the silver clasp. I was of course firmly convinced that we were about to find some antediluvian treasure map, or at the very least the key to the script on the cover. But there was nothing inside, only silky scarlet lining. At my bidding, Father examined this and indeed the whole interior for secret compartments, but at length even I had to admit that the case was empty.
“Ah well,” said Father, closing it again. “I wonder if Turgon took something of value from here. If so, he may be long gone, and our trail now cold.” He frowned, and I began to feel glum again. “But!” Father said after a moment’s thought, clapping his hands together and in the briskly cheerful tone he must once have used to rally his men in situations at least as disheartening as this, “all is not yet lost! Here is what we’ll do next. We shall search these papers as we intended for the plans of the house and the estate, and then we shall examine them for any sign that a culumalda tree once stood in the grounds near a pine tree.”
We dutifully applied ourselves to the plan of action that Father had outlined, and were soon rewarded with a whole set of documents detailing the house throughout the various phases of its construction. Although I had often wandered the ruins, I had not grasped until I saw these papers how grand a house it must have been at its height. I guessed it was five or six times bigger than our own hall, which although it was modest compared to the halls of other lords of Gondor that I had visited (not least the castle of Dol Amroth), was still spacious. My father, seeing my amazement, smiled. “Quite the prince’s palace, wasn’t it?”
“I like this house well enough,” I said, stoutly.
“Good,” he said. “I like it well enough too.”
We found the plan that showed the house at its largest, in the century before the Kin-strife, when many of the people of Ithilien were slaughtered for their loyalty to the true king, and our land began its long but steady decline. We unrolled this document and spread it out upon my father’s desk, my cousin holding down one end and my father the other. Their hands were similar – long and slender, restless, although Amrothos’ were stained with inks and the strange mixtures he made, while my father’s were blunt-nailed and war-worn. I pointed out the pine tree we had seen – and there, thirty feet away, where the stump was now, we found the lost culumalda, marked on the page in red and gold. “Poor old tree,” Father said, when we described the condition of its stump to him. “We should do something about that. But where does this take us now, cousin? The pine we may have, but the old redleaf is long gone.”
We received aid at this point from an unexpected source. Léof, passing through on some errand of his own, had stopped to see what we were doing. “That is easy enough to resolve,” he said. “It’s triangle-work, isn’t it? If we can discover the heights of both the trees, we can find the point between them where two imaginary lines of the same length would meet. The trees don’t need to be standing. We only need to know the heights.”
“But how can we know that?” I said. “Where could we possibly learn the height of the redleaf?”
Again the gloomy old cabinet from the Steward’s House supplied. From out of its depths my father drew a great stack of red-bound books, filled with tiny script detailing the minutiae of the old estate: stock, and crops, and tenancies, and an account of everything that was planted and how well it all grew. Father doled these volumes out to each of us (even Léof was conscripted for the task). “May my long-fathers be praised,” he said, settling back into his chair with the first book from his pile, “for their meticulous record-keeping.”
The afternoon lengthened. Mother put her head round the door once or twice, and sent in refreshments, but otherwise left us to it. The sun had turned red and gold and the sky was darkening before Amrothos at last spoke up. “I do believe I have it.”
As he and Léof did the calculation together, I helped Father put the documents and books back into the cabinet. But my hand lingered over the dark black case and its beautiful silvery letters. “Might I keep this for a while, Father? I think it’s lovely.”
I did not, of course, fully understand what I was asking when I asked Father for this ancient marvel that had by some miracle survived the ruin of Númenor and the long centuries that followed. But my father was a giving kind of man. “Yes, very lovely,” he agreed. “Take it, blackbird. It’s yours.”
That evening, I could hardly keep my eyes off it. Mother asked twice for me to put it away during dinner, and only the threat of its permanent removal was successful. But later, in the library, after Amrothos had copied out the script, and when the adults were talking together companionably, I was left in peace to handle my treasure, and to study in detail each of the silver letters. When I went upstairs, the case came with me. In my chamber, I peeked beyond the curtains and caught a glimpse of the full moon shimmering through the treetops, and then I clambered into bed, tucked the case beneath my pillow, and fell asleep with the letters glittering before my eyes and the words of the old man’s verse running endlessly through my mind, like water over stone.
Whose was it?
Those who are gone.
Where did it come from?
The land that is lost.
And I dreamt, vividly.
The Case of the Silver Letters continues in Part 2.