III. The Crossing

The ferry lumbered across the Great River and swung round parallel to the bank. The nearside oars groaned in their rowlocks as the rowers laid them in. Some of the groans came from the rowers themselves; the distance was not huge, compared with the coastal voyages of the patrols out of Dol Amroth, but the river was swollen by snow-melt and the current was swift,and the ferries came and went without a pause, even if they sailed empty. Criminals condemned to the oars did not see the Anduin ferry as an easy option; you even saw the odd corpse floating by where a rower had died at his task and been got rid of as quickly as may be. As the ferry tied up the crowd of countryfolk moved towards it, slowly and patiently, knowing that the checking of papers would take a long time. Men shouldered sacks of vegetables, women carried cages full of squawking hens and quacking ducks, and children plied their goads on pigs and cattle as they approached the straw-strewn gangway on to the rear deck. Cirion took a deep breath and walked towards the crowd, which parted to let him through; faces looked at him with wary respect. Beside and behind him walked his servants, the retinue demanded by the dignity of a prince’s son and the son of a Steward. He felt caged by them, caged and doomed and foolish, like a duck. By Athallach in particular, Athallach with his narrow eyes and puffy expressionless face.

He had particularly asked for Athallach on a surprising recommendation from Dagnir. ‘But they’ll never let me go alone.’

‘Of course not, lad, but if you get the chance, ask for Athallach.’

Cirion had stared. ‘But Athallach is a Messenger.’ By this he meant a tale-bearer; the King was constantly gathering ‘messages’ from people who would have sold their own brothers for a handful of silver pennies. Nobody with any sense would pass the time of day with a known Messenger. But Dagnir had answered, with a twisted grin, ‘Aye, he may be, but who knows what messages he carries?’ Cirion, wondering, had followed the advice, but felt not the slightest trust and liking for the man. Perhaps when they got to Lossarnach he would be able to give the Messenger the slip for an hour or two. The fellow must sleep some time.

A beggarwoman, trailing two children amidst her dusty rags, dodged past the two guards on Cirion’s right and approached with outstretched hand. Cirion felt in his pouch for a small coin and gave it to her, and she retired calling down hoarse blessings on his head. It happened often enough, but suddenly it made Cirion feel enraged: not against the woman, but against the fact of her existence. For how long had there been beggars in Gondor? Had they always been there, but too unimportant to notice, or were they something new? Ithilien was a rich country, everybody knew that, and the last two harvests had been good; why were there so many hungry folk around? Where did all the food go? Was this crowd of countryfolk selling food they needed for themselves? Were the taxes so high that there was no other way? If so, where did all the money go? Such ridiculously simple questions; why had he never thought of them before?

A splurge of voices at the gangplank broke his train of thought. An official was arguing with an old woman brandishing a tattered sheet of paper. As Cirion approached and the argument gained in volume he gathered that the paper granted crossing leave to her husband but not to her; since her husband was ill and could not leave his bed, she had brought the beasts down herself, and if she could not take them to market they wouldn’t be able to pay the taxes, and they would be turned out of their farm, and then they would starve… Her voice rose to an indignant shriek, and the shriek rose in pitch as the official landed a blow of his staff on her shoulder. It was not a crippling blow, but to Cirion it was sudden agony. He started forward, halted as years of bitter wisdom rose up in warning (never complain, never show resentment, never call attention to yourself), and then another voice spoke in tones that brooked no argument: these are my people and no one shall touch them, and Cirion was propelled forward with his head erect and his eyes afire; he was taking the staff from a startled hand; he was saying, not loudly but with complete decision, ‘That’s enough of that’; and a very startled official was giving way before him, while an old woman scuttled over the gangplank and a bewildered youth, presumably her grandson,  was prodding a couple of bullocks into the boat after her. It all seemed to happen between one breath and another.

‘And your papers, young sir?’ The official had recovered and approached with a leer. Cirion looked him in the eyes and said, in the same quiet tone, ‘I am the Steward’s son. I carry no papers and need none.’ Of course he did carry papers – everyone did (sometimes it was whispered that the King carried papers saying he was King, in case somebody arrested him for counterfeiting himself) – but his newly awakened pride would have nothing to do with papers. The faintest approving murmur came from the crowd. The official glowered around, and to Cirion’s astonishment, gave way and waved him forward – without the usual show of respect, but also without protest. Well done, lad, said the second voice, and it had laughter in it.

But it was only a small triumph and Cirion was given no time to savour it. As he stepped down into the boat he glanced down the line of rowers, slumped exhausted over their oars, and one of them was somehow familiar. As if sensing his gaze the rower looked up briefly, and Cirion could have howled with the shock. Gaunt, sunken-eyed and desperate, but unmistakable, the man was Andil. And Andil’s hands rested on the rough wood of the oar, and the two middle fingers of the right hand were missing. Enough fingers to grasp an oar, but not enough to play the harp. In Emyn Arnen it had always been said that to Andil, his harp was wife and child and food and drink, and the music he made on it was his breath and his life. They had taken it all away. 

The Cirion of half an hour ago would have broken down and wept. The new Cirion met Andil’s glance steadily, and smiled, and walked with unhurried dignity to his place in the bows and sat down, looking straight in front of him, with tears burning behind his eyes but not spilling over.

Steady, lad.

The embarkation was complete. The ferry cast off, turned ponderously into the stream, and the oars dipped. Over the wide river the mountains of Gondor shone flame-white under a clear early morning sky, and below Mindolluin the City came into view, high and fair and glittering with towers and pinnacles, looking from here like a queen among queens rather than the mistress of many slaves that she had become. A gust of wind, icy and fragrant with snow, came down from the mountains and tipped each choppy wave with silver. This is Gondor, thought Cirion. Gondor, my country, and she is still beautiful. Can they chain the sunlight, or imprison the wind?

A sudden great love welled in him. Ithilien, however beloved, was only a small part of Gondor. The Stewards had had all Gondor in their care and kept it safe. So it could be again. If he, Cirion, could not bring it about, he could die in the attempt. Had the old Prince and his soldiers run away from their task because it seemed impossible?

Gondor, Gondor, between the mountains and the sea…The old Prince, they said, had loved music and had a fine voice. Cirion knew little of music and his voice was not tuneful, but it was loud. He sang the ancient song with fine fervour, and the countryfolk around him began to join in, until the whole boatload was singing. It suddenly seemed to Cirion that the very beasts were bellowing out the tune, and the hens squawking and the ducks quacking in time. He choked with laughter, but it didn’t matter because the others kept up the singing, and then Cirion looked round and saw that Andil was singing as well, singing as he bent and swayed to his oar, singing with the tears pouring down his cheeks, and Cirion was weeping too, and steadied himself just in time as a very irate official came staggering over the deck – the waves in midstream were quite high – and bawling to him to stop.

‘Stop what?’

‘Stop this singing. It’s against the King’s peace.’

Cirion looked at him solemnly. ‘But nobody can hear us from here. And the words are all about the kings of old and the winged crown. It is all in praise of our lord the King and his noble ancestors. Indeed, sir, I am surprised that you did not join in and show your loyalty along with these good people.’

The official, like many of his kind, was a good bully but a bad thinker. He was still struggling for an answer when the boat reached her moorings at the Harlond.

‘Watch your step, Steward’s son’ was all he said.

‘Thank you indeed, sir,’ said Cirion with elaborate courtesy. ‘It is true that this gangplank is rather slippery. Please order your men to scour it before the return voyage.’ And as he rose to his feet he heard again that breath of laughter.