CHAPTER THREE: ON A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

Ominous grey clouds, laced with occasional streaks of sunlight, filled the late afternoon sky above the Citadel. It will rain tonight, a fine setting for looking through a palantir or meeting a ghost, Faramir's thoughts made him shudder slightly.

"Here he is, my Lord Steward," the guard Dorlas interrupted. He huffed and puffed his way into the room on the eighth floor, where Faramir stood beside a window facing northeast. Dorlas shook his head slightly and placed the large basket he carried onto the floor. Said basket immediately wiggled about the floor in tiny jerking movements.

Faramir chuckled, got down on his knees, and tapped the sides of the basket. In response, the basket twitched in a frenzy.

"Pardon my asking, my Lord, but why did you have me bring your cat here? Has he been damaging your furniture? He didn't want to leave the house, and scratched me before I caught him."

"He probably thought you were playing with him," Faramir grinned. "He's not a year old yet despite his size. I want him here to do the job he's supposed to do. Several storerooms in the building are infested with rats. Cirri's turning into a superb mouser, so much so that my townhouse has no more rats. We've got such a terrible shortage of cats in the city that I'm afraid to let him outside to get some exercise. Cirri's such a handsome moggy; someone's bound to steal him. He needs some excitement or he's sure to get lazy and fat."

Dorlas sighed. He looked winded from climbing up all the stairs with a heavy cat in a basket. Faramir dismissed him: "Thank you. You can go home now. Have Marod come in."

Moments later the Captain of the Tower Guards entered. Faramir had appointed Marod, son of Minohtar, to fill the vacancy left when the previous Captain was killed in the seige of Minas Tirith. He is a good man, Marod, Faramir thought as the two ascended the Tower stairs. Beregond, in particular, recommended Marod due his ability to keep confidences and not reveal secrets. A good thing, Faramir decided, because this mission required the utmost secrecy.

When they reached the top floor, Marod dismissed the two guards in the hallway for the evening. The departing men left two ceiling braziers burning, which infused the corridor with a hazy, golden light. Marod had carried two fiery lanterns up the stairs. He left one beside the heavy pewter double door for Faramir's use.

For a moment, Faramir stared at the doors. He hadn't been on this floor in many years. The magnificent relief of the Numenorean sailing ships engraved on the doors still caught his imagination as it had when he was a boy. And now, finally, he would discover the Observatory that lay beyond them. He set down the heavy basket with the struggling cat beside his lantern. From a pouch hanging from his belt Faramir withdrew the two keys left him by Denethor. Marod held his own lantern above the lock.

At that moment a distinct whistling moan emanated from the slight space between the two doors, gaining and lowering in volume. Faramir held his hand against the gap. "Wind," his lips formed. Then he tried the larger key in the lock. It turned easily, a testament to its engineering hundreds of years ago. But then maybe not. Faramir grabbed the handles for each door in his hands. The imposing doors gave no resistance as he pulled them open.

A rush of wind hit Faramir and Marod in their faces. The dark room beyond that Faramir expected wasn't particularly dark. It was grey, bathed in shadows, but nevertheless illuminated from twilight coming in from windows. The impatient cat let out a grating, "Rouwr!" and struggled against the walls of the basket. Faramir bent down and lifted the lid. Cirri leaped out and disappeared into the Observatory. Retreiving the lantern from the floor, Faramir gestured for Marod to follow as he carefully walked into the room.

He took a few steps and stopped, quietly letting his senses give him a quick survey of the new surroundings. The shadowy room was much larger than he had expected, square shaped with shadowy outlines of furniture huddled against the walls. The only noise Faramir heard was that occasional rush of the wind, quieter now that the doors were open to relieve pressure. And the smell--well there wasn't much of one. No hint of mold nor curtain of dust assailed Faramir's throat and nasal passages. The constantly blowing wind probably kept the air fresh. He took a few steps further into the room, with Marod just behind.

Another gust of wind tried to chill his body. Faramir's eyes automatically bolted upward. His eyes delighted in the onion-shaped ceiling, gracefully arching in the gathering twilight. The roof consisted of magnificently curved windows that joined in one point to form the peaked roof of Ecthelion I's magnificent building.

The gleaming Tower spike, barely visible from the plaza below, must extend from this juncture of windows, Faramir assumed. That spike was unquestionably a symbol of Minas Tirith in its greatest days under the Stewards. Now the glimmering windows seemed to hold back the heavy grey and pink clouds that loomed in the gathering dusk. Faramir strained his eyes across the windows 15 and 20 feet above him, trying to locate one that might be cracked badly enough to let in a wind current. None seemed broken, but one was definitely pushed open on a hinge that Faramir could barely see.

"Now we know the reason for the moaning sound," Faramir remarked to Marod and gestured upward, "That window must have been open for months."

Marod chuckled, "I'll close it then."

Before Faramir had time to ask how he could reach a latch 15 feet above their heads, the guardsman located a huge pole leaning against a wall, barely visible in the distorted shadows cast by the two lanterns. Marod said, "The cleaning folk use these poles to open high windows and clean them, too. The windows in the domes in the Hamam work this way." Faramir observed Marod with keen interest, as the guard easily located a three step pedestal in another corner. Marod efficiently placed the pedestal beneath the open window and climbed it. As the guardsman raised the pole, Faramir noticed the hook at the pole's end, which no doubt would hook into the open window's latch.

With Marod thus occupied, Faramir quietly moved to the center of the room. A pillar or similar type of furniture, completely draped by a heavy cloth, stood directly beneath the apex of the domed roof. Faramir moved the cloth slightly with his hand. The mere touch of the fabric spoke to Faramir of its use. The rich black velvet seemed plush and new in the failing light. His father must have installed it not long before his death. Not a wisp of dust billowed from the cloth's surface when moved. The wind from the long-opened window must be very brisk to keep months of dust and mold from forming on this drape.

Faramir instinctively swept his lantern to light up the floor. Wouldn't there be a coat of dust an inch thick on the floor of a room that hadn't been occupied for more than six months? In the imperfect lantern light, Faramir could see no trace of his and Marod's foot prints on the dusty floor because the floor simply was not dusty. That wind was very strong indeed, or the ghost was an excellent housekeeper!

Instincts built up from many years of scouting out deserted woodlands put Faramir on his guard. Marod approached, having dutifully closed the window. Wordlessly, Faramir grabbed the black velvet drape and pulled it from its resting place. A gleaming white marble pedestal, fluted on its sides, was revealed. Marod gasped. "It's beautiful, isn't it," Faramir commented, carefully marking the guardsman's reaction. But he read nothing untoward in Marod's heart, other than a deep appreciation of the intricate design on the pedestal's column.

"Look at this," Faramir spoke softly, as he touched the top of the column. "Here is the cradle that held the Anor stone." His hands moved smoothly along the bowl shaped indentation in the pedestal top. "And the directions-- North, East, South, West--are marked on the sides to orient the viewer as to where in Middle Earth he is looking."

"Aye, my Lord Steward," Marod said. But he wasn't paying much attention, Faramir deemed. The guard seemed instead to be captivated by the elaborate tracery along the pedestal's flutes. "This is so lovely. Do you think it was made in Numenor?" Marod asked.

Ah, Marod, you are an honest fellow, Faramir perceived, but something is going on here that isn't quite right. He said, "The palantir has been removed. I will start the search for it tomorrow in the sunlight. There's no guarantee that it is even in this room."

Marod nodded.

Faramir continued, "I think I will spend a few hours looking about and then go home. Gorthol told me of some rare books that were once stored here. I'm going to look about for an hour or so. Maybe I can locate them. Ib and Hartanol are on the night guard this evening?"

"Aye, my Lord Steward."

"Then why don't you go home," Faramir said. "Have Ib collect a light dinner for me and bring another lantern." The Captain of the Guard nodded and seemed relieved to be dismissed for the evening. Faramir shut the double doors behind him, with a sense of relief combined with trepidation. Marod was most likely innocent enough, but someone had certainly been here since the seige of Minas Tirith. Or something. The place was too clean. It smelled entirely too...sweet.

Faramir immediately set about to evaluate his surroundings. He had just picked up the second lantern when a thud and then a horrific squeal pierced the heavy air. Seconds later, Cirri appeared at his feet with a struggling mouse in his mouth.

"Kill him right now or let him go," Faramir admonished the cat, knowing full well that cats typically don't obey orders.. Cirri dropped the mouse beside Faramir's boot and then scampered back into the darkness, shortly followed by the liberated mouse.

Hauling up both lanterns, Faramir walked to the door and then slowly travelled along the walls. Nothing was particularly unusual about his findings--chairs, a desk, bookshelves-- except that they were surprisingly clean. Admittedly, lantern light was faulty when compared to direct sunlight, but he could detect no dust, nor sign of mold and mildew. A tapestry lined one of the walls. Faramir smelled it. It had no dank odor stemming from years of neglect or simple water damage from rain leaking in from the open window.

Very peculiar indeed.

Had the palantir been removed since Denethor's death? he wondered as he crept slowly across the walls. Cirri joined him, quietly padding along at Faramir's side. He truly hadn't expected to find the stone on its pedestal, partly due to his father's note that he would leave the stone in an elaborate box. Yet his father could hardly be faulted if he had forgotten his promise and neglected to put the stone in its promised container.

Half way through his exploration, Faramir came upon a set of tall pillars covered by white curtain fabric. The bookshelves! He uncovered one and held the lanterns high so that he could read the book titles. Immediately five books with the same title piqued his interest: "Annals of the Steward Ecthelion II." Wonderful! Gorthol had never given these to Faramir long ago. Not enough was in the standard libraries about his grandfather. Faramir pulled one of the volumes down and placed it on the floor. Then he pulled the cloth off the second bookshelf. Moving the lantern light along the shelves, he scanned title after the title until he reached bottom shelf. The wavering light revealed a large pewter box.

Quickly, Faramir bent down, and, placing both lanterns strategically on the floor, he pulled the box from the shelf. He plopped down cross legged to inspect the item. Indeed, this must be the box his father spoke of. It had a beautifully wrought design of the Argonath on the lid, as Denethor had described. It was also peculiarly light. Were the palantiri light? Faramir had always imagined them grave and weighty things, almost impossible to lift.

His hands began to tremble. He grabbed the second key left to him by his father and placed it in the large lock on the side of the box. But before he even turned the key, the lid raised without effort. Denethor in haste had failed to lock it--or someone had been there first.

There was no palantir in the box, as Faramir had feared. Instead, someone had left a folded piece of parchment inside. He grabbed it eagerly. The paper was reasonably new, quite in contrast to the decomposing parchment Gorthol had given him. Positioning the paper in the brightest rays of the lantern Faramir recognized the sprawling Westron, written in his father's hand:

"Curses of all the Valar on you, spawn of Morgoth!" Denethor's script raved. "You have brought the end of my house, but you won't get it. It is gone. And your realm will fall in the end!"

The horror of these words made Faramir's skin quail. Could Denethor have written the curse just before he led the procession carrying Faramir's body to the Silent Street, with Nazgul flying about the White Tower--as Pippin had described to him months ago?

More writing followd the enraged epithet. This time the text was in artifully crafted Sindarin, and most likely indecipherable by the denizens of Mordor, except Sauron, himself. Denethor wrote:

"I have done all I could for Gondor but failed. Now I go to my doom, but maybe you who read this can indeed help Minas Tirth. On one hand I deplore you, Mithrandir, or Elrond, or Thorongil (yes I know who Aragorn is). But on the other hand you are Gondor's remaining help. It is not here, but I have hidden it in the room. That is all I can say, in case this note finds its way into the hands of the Enemy.

- Denethor, son of Ecthelion"

A strong stench broke the clean air. A caterwauling loud enough to terrify any ghost pierced the silent room. Like lightning, Faramir shoved the box beneath one of the curtains that had covered the bookcases. He hastily grabbed a lantern and swung its beam in the direction of the door. The uneven light revealed the cat on his hind legs, pawing at the doors and screaming his head off in a bizarre, ecstatic dance.

The doors vibrated slightly beneath the pressure of a muffled knock.

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Author's Note

"Dead Steward's Gift" fills a gap in the tales of Fourth Age Gondor, as they might have occurred, given the events in the "Lord of the Rings" film trilogy. Not quite movieverse. Not quite canon. All mine.