Chapter Four: The Black Cat's Familiar

The pounding was louder and more insistent. The doors of the Observatory shook, frightening the cat who backed away. Faramir's breath caught in his lungs. Then he acted swiftly. With his left hand, he swept up Cirri, holding the cat against his shoulder and moving a few feet away of the door. His right hand rested lightly on the handle of the knife fastened to his belt--a precaution, of course.

"Enter!" Faramir ordered in his loudest voice, that reserved for addressing the Rangers in the field. 

Both doors swung open, releasing a gagging stench.

"My Lord Steward?" Tower Guardsman Ib stood in the doors' threshold, bearing a steaming kettle, a wrapped bundle, and a confused look on his face. Behind him his watch partner Hartanol and a boy of the Tower staff held torches and the extra lanterns Faramir had requested. Cirri squirmed out of Faramir's arms.

Ib cautiously entered the Observatory, "Here is your dinner, er, my lord, your cat?" Said cat had launched himself onto the guardsman's leg, wrapped his body about said leg, and meowed piteously.

"I didn't feed him much today, so that hunger might drive him to catch mice," Faramir sighed and removed the protesting cat from Ib's leg. "No doubt Cirri thinks you've brought his dinner. I'll have to give him some, or he'll pester me all night. By the way, what IS it that you brought?"

"Fish soup, my Lord Steward, Cook's best, and a favorite of us all," Hartanol said proudly. The small entourage brought a small table and chair out of the shadows.

"I had two bowls of it for dinner," Ib patted his belly contentedly.

"I'm sure Cirion will also want two bowls," Faramir chuckled ruefully. He shooed the persistent cat away so the staff boy could set up a cozy dinner without being harassed. The youngster unwrapped a loaf of bread and wedge of cheese. Then he set out a bowl and ladled a serving of soup into it.

"Ehm, what's in it?" Faramir asked.

"Why, mussels and clams and squid, too," the boy smiled. "Potatoes and leeks, carrots."

"You forgot the mullet," Hartanol said.

Faramir gritted his teeth. Only the mullet sounded appealing. He'd have to fish it out from the other contents of the odiferous concoction. "I expect to be here for awhile," he said. "You needn't set up a watch on this floor. The usual patrols of the ground floor exits is sufficient. If I do not come down earlier, Ib, send someone up at five hours past midnight. With a substantial breakfast."

He then took Hartanol's arm and asked, "Do you think someone's been in this room since my father's death?"

"I've heard the talk and some noises, myself," Hartanol said. "Some say it's ghosts, but I'll have none of it. It's probably rats. Or the wind."

Or somebody else has the key and has been up here. Faramir thought. He asked Hartanol, "Does this room make you afraid?"

Hartanol drew himself up in a show of bravado. But then he admitted, "It's creepy--all the odd, covered up things. But they don't really scare me. Battles scare me."

"Then you won't be afraid to help me place these lanterns around the room," Faramir challenged. Light in the room was limited to the four lanterns surrounding the table and the single torch in the holder by the entrance.

Faramir and Hartanol grabbed the lanterns and walked along the room's perimeters, placing a lantern in each corner. The lanterns revealed more ghostly forms made of drapes covering what? He'd already uncovered bookshelves and the pedestal that once housed the palantir. It was peculiar, but not out of character, for his father to cover unused furniture with drapes as a protection against dust and mold. As a child, he and Boromir played in the unoccupied rooms of the Steward's House and hid under the drapes over the unneeded furniture.

"That is all," Faramir dismissed Hartanol.

When the guardsmen left, he sat down at the little table near the door and contemplated the soup in the wavering torchlight. A few minutes to air had not lessened the ghastly smell. Faramir reluctantly lifted his spoon. Predictably, Cirri jumped into his lap and cushioned his body against Faramir's outstretched arm.

"I might have expected you'd turn up," Faramir dropped the spoon. He paused, let his eyes wander once again over the Observatory and listened for any unexplained noises. The changing shadows and the peculiar shapes made the room feel looming and oppressive. He held Cirri against his chest and looked up at the ceiling. Night had fallen, yet not a particularly black night. A cloud covering reflected the lights of Minas Tirith, casting gray, uncertain twilight into the room.

Faramir felt grateful for the small company of his cat. Nevertheless, he lifted Cirri from his lap. "Stay down and I'll give you some fish," he said, hoping the cat would understand his message. 

He returned to the soup and tasted a bit. The stuff undoubtably tasted better than it smelled, though he still wasn't terribly fond of it. He picked out a few pieces of mullet for himself, removing bits of mussels and squid for the delighted cat. Finally, Faramir spooned some more soup into the bowl and set it on the floor for Cirri. He then grabbed a hunk of bread from the loaf and rose from his seat. Time for more detailed exploration.

Removing the single torch from its holder by the entrance, Faramir explored the wall to the left. Past the book shelves, Faramir discovered an alcove with a thick fur rug covering the floor. The sight of the fur made him painfully aware of the chill in the Observatory. He had not brought a cloak on his trek to the top floor of the Tower.

A rug makes as good a cape as any in a pinch. Faramir reached down, grabbed for the fur, and found it light and easily lifted. Indeed, this fur was a coverlet, not a rug, apparently spread out over a pallet. He squatted down. Sure enough, here was comfortable pallet, at least six inches thick, covered by sheeting of fine cotten. Holding his torch aloft, he ran his free hand along the soft bedding. No crumbs, twigs, or other typical bedding residents scratched his hand.

Faramir smelled the sheets. They had almost no scent--not a man's sweat, nor a woman's perfume, nor the scent of a man with a woman. He moved back onto his haunches. These sheets were unused, waiting.

Waiting for his father, Faramir concluded. A great chill overcame him. Denethor must have used this pallet on nights when he'd stayed late in the Observatory, exhausted after battling the Dark Lord for control of his mind. He must have laid this fresh linen sometime before the siege and never returned to the pallet.

Faramir rose. With his left hand he drew the fur over his shoulders. "Tonight I will stay here," he addressed the covered furniture, the shadows, the lowering sky, and his cat. "If Father's ghost comes to lie in the pallet, then we will have a good conversation on palantir usage. If another ghost comes, well, I have my dagger."

The alcove was a far more comfortable place for reading the Annals of the Steward Ecthelion II than the table occupied by the smelly soup, Faramir collected three of the lanterns, reserving one for the corner of the room furthest from the alcove. He located his three lanterns on the bookshelves to cast enough light into the alcoves for reading. He then gathered one of the annals and plopped it onto the pallet.

His industry was interrupted by the sound of liquid being slurped. Rats in the soup?

Torch in hand, Faramir returned to the makeshift dinner table. The hind legs and tail of the cat were revealed leaning against the soup kettle. Cirri's long, sinuous body curled over and into the kettle; his head and forelegs were lost in the soup. Faramir lifted the cat out of the pot.

"Is there ever a moment when you aren't into mischief?" he groaned, using a handy drape to  wipe the soup off Cirri's face and paws. Releasing the cat, he covered the kettle and removed it to the top of a bookshelf beside one of the lanterns. Here the kettle might be less easily accessed by whatever beasts desired soup in the weeist hours of the night.

That settled, at last he could retreat to the alcove. Faramir smothering his torch with a drape. Aching to be comfortable, he removed belt, tunic, and boots.  Clad only in shirt and leggings, he slipped between the sheets on the pallet and drew up the fur. Resting his back against the wall, he mentally checked the state of his surroundings. Listening carefully, Faramir heard the wind gather strength outside. A window rattled. He heard the cat scampering about after mice or demons of the feline imagination. The fishy soup aroma seemed less annoying, now that the kettle was covered and the concoction was cold.

Good enough! he decided, and setttled back to read. Unfortunately, day by day reports made tedious reading materials. The entries in his selected book were dated from late in Ecthelion's stewardship. Moreover, they were written by Gorthol, rather than the Steward himself. Occasionally, Gorthol's sardonic humor shone through the rote passages. Unfortunately, most paragraphs were little more stellar observations , peppered with Gorthol's comments about Ecthelion's frustration with his difficulty in using the palantir.

Cirion crept onto the pallet and curled up at Faramir's side. In a minute, the cat was fast asleep. Might as well follow his lead, Faramir yawned. He rose and extinguished the lanterns. The faltering light from the lantern at the far side of the room would keep him from bumping into the eerily draped forms, should he need to rise before dawn. 

Faramir sprawled onto his back. Many times in the past he put himself to sleep by imagining various places or people in remote locations. If he was lucky, his dreams would cast his far sight into these places. In the past few months, he hadn't tried the farsight excercises that Mithrandir had taught him long ago. Now he felt lonely and guilty. The mysterious Anor stone and the proported ghost that might be involved with the palantir's disappearance had captured all his waking thoughts. Now his mind needed a rest. 

Closing his eyes, he cast his mind to his beloved, far away in Rohan. He imagined the Golden Hall of Meduseld, a place he had never seen, and hazily called forth an image of Eowyn, busily occupied at the side of Eomer King.

What could Meduself look like? Was it large, small, same size as the Great Hall of the Kings? Were there rushes on the floor or painted mosaics? His thoughts searched for Eowyn, and he pictured her back as she walked up to her brother. Eomer busily assembled his warriors for a hunt in the East Fold. Their goal was to rid the forests of evil beasts that fled there after the collapse of the Black Gate. He followed along as the Rohirrim rode off into the hills, singing and uttering threats to the foul creatures they expected to ambush. The horses' hooves rumbled and lightning blasted the sky.  

The band arrived in the East Fold. Thunder pounded above them, but the forest canopy kept the hunters dry. Eomer looked about for a second and then ordered his band to retreat due to the unfavorable weather. "I will stay. I've found suspicious tracks," his lips moved though his voice was inaudible. He studied the indentations in a pile of twigs on the ground, dimly aware that the Rohirrim were gone.

As he rose, a heavy force struck him from behind. He rolled over onto his back, swiftly raised his arms to haul off his assailant. No use. The massive creature pinned him down. Grey, bloodshot eyes twisted into a slant, contemplating their prey. A maw dripping with red blood and spittle opened eagerly. He felt the beast's hot breath on his face.

Faramir's eyes bugged open. Soft animal breath touched his lips. Luminous gold eyes hovered just above Faramir's nose, regarding him with concern. In the blackness, he could barely make out the small head and pointed ears just beyond his face.  A velvety paw reached out and gently stroked his chin.

A flash of lightning blasted through the windows of the Observatory. He felt as much as saw Cirri abandon his crouching position on Faramir's chest and draw his feline body into a terrified curve. A second lightning bolt revealed how the cat had puffed up his fur to appear twice his size. Thunder rocked the Tower. Cirri suddenly charged beneath the sheets and trembled against Faramir's stomach. Relieved to be free of his nightmare, Faramir stroked the frightened cat. "You've never experienced a thunderstorm close at hand, have you, youngster," he chuckled.

The number of thunderstorms he'd experienced as a Ranger were beyond counting. Here in the Tower of the Observatory, Faramir could appreciate the storm's fury without being drenched. The tumult outside drowned out any other sounds originating inside the Observatory. The room was set in deep darkness between lightning flashes. The wick in the lantern at the far side of the room must have burnt out. He sighed, closed his eyes, and scratched the top of Cirri's head.

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He didn't remember falling asleep. Now he awoke cold and slow, vaguely remembering the circumstances of his bedding down. His eyelashes touched muffled darkness. His nose sunk in softness. His mouth tasted animal hair. Ugh. In his sleep, he had wrapped his head in the fur coverlet of the pallet in the Observatory. His wiggled his freezing, uncovered feet.

Faramir lay motionless, checking for unusual sounds. Silence. The violent storm had passed. He carefully removed the fur from his head. The interior of the Observatory lay still in gentle moonlight. Past the ceiling windows, the night sky was quiet, lit in the eery glow the Rangers called "false dawn." It would be an hour at least before the real dawn broke. To the left, a half moon shone brilliantly down on the Observatory.

The room was too light and too quiet. The sense of unreality made Faramir's skin crawl.

Then the awful smell assaulted his nose. It was the wretched soup, steeping in its kettle on the bookshelf Determined to take that kettle and put it out in the hall, Faramir rose swiftly but then checked himself. He sensed a strange presence in the room.

On hands and knees, Faramir moved out of the alcove with the same stealth he had once used for spying on Enemy minions. The Observatory's features seemed more distinct, less vague than they had before the storm. He crept forward and positioned himself behind the nearest covered form, most likely a bench.

The quiet air was barely penetrated by the sound of a slight gasp. Faramir's eyes darted forward.

At the far end of the room he saw her, bathed in a pool of light. She wore a flowing, diaphanous garment with short puffed sleeves that barely covered her shoulders. Her arms were chalky pale, save for the frightening blue blotches that were easily visible from Faramir's hiding place. The figure's thick, curling black hair was streaked with gray. It snaked in wild fury down her shoulders, almost to her waist. Faramir watched transfixed, almost forgetting his decades of concealment experience.

She looked forward. Her face was deathly pale. A long gash ran the entire length of her cheek. In the eery light, she seemed a ghost newly risen from the grave. She turned her body in his direction. Faramir silently slipped behind the covered bench. Stifling his breath, he heard her rasping voice say:

"Moggie?"

Blasted cat! Faramir let out an exasperated breath.

Very carefully he poked little more than his right eye out from behind the bench. Sure enough, there was Cirri at the feet of the ghostly apparition, arching his back and rubbing against the filmy skirts. Was she a witch who worshipped the heathen gods looking for a feline familiar? Faramir shuddered. This she-ghost conjured up the legendary spectre of Queen Beruthiel herself, come out from beyond the borders of Arda to welcome Cirri into her entourage. Would she beguile his naive overgrown kitten? Or would the foolish kitten merely blow Faramir's cover?

Cirri chirped blissfully and rubbed her skirts again. The figure bent down and scratched his ears.

"How did you get in here, youngster," the spectre said gently, her face obscured by her snaking hair. "Are you a present from Glaurung?"

Faramir gasped from behind his cover. Glaurung. Turin Turimbar's nemesis!

"He knew I needed a cat. Yet I don't understand how he got you in here," she continued. "Best as I know, he doesn't have a key. Nevermind, he'll be here shortly." Faramir knew Cirri followed from the sound of his happy little meows.

The truth suddenly dawned on him. He choked down a laugh. Cirri's not interested in being a witch's familiar. He just wants more soup!

Crouching down as best as possible, Faramir silently moved closer to the center of the room. He hid behind a long object, most likely a table, directly behind a taller covered form--a statue? Faramir dropped to his belly, and then slid forward so that his head and shoulders stuck out past the drape covering the table's legs.

The ghostly female had moved Marod's step ladder directly beneath the center of the domed roof. Cirri wove in and out of her skirts. "Cease your begging, Moggie," she teased cheerfully. "Glaurung will be here soon as he sees my signal. Then I'll give you some of my soup."

Soup? Something was very fishy in this Observatory, far beyond the awful soup.

Faramir could easily see her strike a spark from a tinderbox to light a torch that rested against the ladder. He quickly slid behind his cover.

"I still can't figure how you could have gotten in here," she continued chatting to Cirri.

Faramir slowly got to his feet and, bending over, darted behind the covered statue.

"Unless you aren't from Glaurung at all. Do you live here in the Tower?"

Very carefully, Faramir peaked out from behind the statue. His "ghost" now held her blazing torch. He watched, hypnotized, as she climbed the ladder until she stood one step from the top. Raising the torch aloft, she waved it in a graceful arc from left to right a full three times. Any Belfalas mariner worth his salt would recognize this as the sailor's trusty all clear sign. However, the average land-loving passer-by in the plaza below might interpret the flashes as haunted doings in the Tower.

Cirri eagerly patrolled the base of the ladder, rubbing and chirping. Having seen enough, Faramir very slowly moved out from behind the form.

"Now that I think of it, Moggie, you look sort of familiar, though all black cats do look alike," the woman continued--for living woman she certainly was, and by her accent, a native of Minas Tirith. "Did you sneak in behind me, then?" She relaxed on the ladder and lowered her torch

Loud banging shook the Observatory doors.

The woman raised her head, startled. Cirri squeaked and ran off toward Faramir. 

"Hello! Lord Faramir. Wake up!!" he heard the Tower Guardsmen call from behind the closed doors.

The woman raised her torch as Faramir stepped forward, arms outstretched.

"Oh, my Lord Faramir," she cried out in dismay as her eyes caught his. The poor woman thoroughly panicked. "I am so sorry," she said as she stepped down, but one of her feet evidentally missed the stair. She lost her balance and pitched backward. The woman shrieked. Her arms flailed, and the blazing torch flew into the air.

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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. Mindful of both and all mine.