Unfinished Tales

by J. R. R. Tolkien

  Many gifts the Eldar brought also. To Aldarion they gave a sapling tree, whose bark was snow-white, and its stem straight, strong and pliant as it were of steel; but it was not yet in leaf. ‘I thank you,’ said Aldarion to the Elves. ‘The wood of such a tree must be precious indeed.’

  ‘Maybe; we know not,’ said they. ‘None has ever been hewn. It bears cool leaves in summer, and flowers in winter. It is for this that we prize it.’

  To Erendis they gave a pair of birds, grey, with golden beaks and feet. They sang sweetly one to another with many cadences never repeated through a long thrill of song; but if one were separated from the other, at once they flew together, and they would not sing apart.

  ‘How shall I keep them?’ said Erendis.

  ‘Let them fly and be free,’ answered the Eldar. ‘For we have spoken to them and named you; and they will stay wherever you dwell. They mate for their life, and that is long. Maybe there will be many such birds to sing in the gardens of your children.’

  That night Erendis awoke, and a sweet fragrance came through the lattice; but the night was light, for the full moon was westering. Then leaving their bed Erendis looked out and saw all the land sleeping in silver; but the two birds sat side by side upon her sill.

  When the feasting was ended Aldarion and Erendis went for a while to her home; and the birds again perched upon the sill of her window. At length they bade Beregar and Núneth farewell, and they rode back at last to Armenelos; for there by the King’s wish his Heir would dwell, and a house was prepared for them amidst a garden of trees. There the Elven-tree was planted, and the Elven-birds sang in its boughs.

  Two years later Erendis conceived, and in the spring of the year after she bore to Aldarion a daughter. Even from birth the child was fair, and grew ever in beauty: the woman most beautiful, as old tales tell, that ever was born in the line of Elros, save Ar-Zimraphel, the last. When her first naming was due they called her Ancalimë. In heart Erendis was glad, for she thought: ‘Surely now Aldarion will desire a son, to be his heir; and he will abide with me long yet.’ For in secret she still feared the Sea and its power upon his heart; and though she strove to hide it, and would talk with him of his old ventures and of his hopes and designs, she watched jealously if he went to his house-ship or was much with the Venturers. To Ea¨mbar Aldarion once asked her to come, but seeing swiftly in her eyes that she was not full-willing he never pressed her again. Not without cause was Erendis’ fear. When Aldarion had been five years ashore he began to be busy again with his Mastership of Forests, and was often many days away from his house. There was now indeed sufficient timber in Númenor (and that was chiefly owing to his prudence); yet since the people were now more numerous there was ever need of wood for building and for the making of many things beside. For in those ancient days, though many had great skill with stone and with metals (since the Edain of old had learned much of the Noldor), the Númenóreans loved things fashioned of wood, whether for daily use, or for beauty of carving. At that time Aldarion again gave most heed to the future, planting always where there was felling, and he had new woods set to grow where there was room, a free land that was suited to trees of different kinds. It was then that he became most widely known as Aldarion, by which name he is remembered among those who held the sceptre in Númenor. Yet to many beside Erendis it seemed that he had little love for trees in themselves, caring for them rather as timber that would serve his designs.

  Not far otherwise was it with the Sea. For as Núneth had said to Erendis long before: ‘Ships he may love, my daughter, for those are made by men’s minds and hands; but I think that it is not the winds or the great waters that so burn his heart, nor yet the sight of strange lands, but some heat in his mind, or some dream that pursues him.’ And it may be that she struck near the truth; for Aldarion was a man long-sighted, and he looked forward to days when the people would need more room and greater wealth; and whether he himself knew this clearly or no, he dreamed of the glory of Númenor and the power of its kings, and he sought for footholds whence they could step to wider dominion. So it was that ere long he turned again from forestry to the building of ships, and a vision came to him of a mighty vessel like a castle with tall masts and great sails like clouds, bearing men and stores enough for a town. Then in the yards of Rómenna the saws and hammers were busy, while among many lesser craft a great ribbed hull took shape; at which men wondered. Turuphanto, the Wooden Whale, they called it, but that was not its name.

  Erendis learned of these things, though Aldarion had not spoken to her of them, and she was unquiet. Therefore one day she said to him: ‘What is all this busyness with ships, Lord of the Havens? Have we not enough? How many fair trees have been cut short of their lives in this year?’ She spoke lightly, and smiled as she spoke.

  ‘A man must have work to do upon land,’ he answered, ‘even though he have a fair wife. Trees spring and trees fall. I plant more than are felled.’ He spoke also in a light tone, but he did not look her in the face; and they did not speak again of these matters.

  But when Ancalimë was close on four years old Aldarion at last declared openly to Erendis his desire to sail again from Númenor. She sat silent, for he said nothing that she did not already know; and words were in vain. He tarried until the birthday of Ancalimë, and made much of her that day. She laughed and was merry, though others in that house were not so; and as she went to her bed she said to her father: ‘Where will you take me this summer, tatanya? I should like to see the white house in the sheep-land that mamil tells of.’ Aldarion did not answer; and the next day he left the house, and was gone for some days. When all was ready he returned, and bade Erendis farewell. Then against her will tears were in her eyes. They grieved him, and yet irked him, for his mind was resolved, and he hardened his heart. ‘Come, Erendis!’ he said. ‘Eight years I have stayed. You cannot bind for ever in soft bonds the son of the King, of the blood of Tuor and Ea¨rendil! And I am not going to my death. I shall soon return.’

  ‘Soon?’ she said. ‘But the years are unrelenting, and you will not bring them back with you. And mine are briefer than yours. My youth runs away; and where are my children, and where is your heir? Too long and often of late is my bed cold.’ 22

  ‘Often of late I have thought that you preferred it so,’ said Aldarion. ‘But let us not be wroth, even if we are not of like mind. Look in your mirror, Erendis. You are beautiful, and no shadow of age is there yet. You have time to spare to my deep need. Two years! Two years is all that I ask!’

  But Erendis answered: ‘Say rather: “Two years I will take, whether you will or no.” Take two years, then! But no more. A King’s son of the blood of Ea¨rendil should also be a man of his word.’

  Next morning Aldarion hastened away. He lifted up Ancalimë and kissed her; but though she clung to him he set her down quickly and rode off. Soon after the great ship set sail from Rómenna. Hirilondë he named it, Haven-finder; but it went from Númenor without the blessing of Tar-Meneldur; and Erendis was not at the harbour to set the green Bough of Return, nor did she send. Aldarion’s face was dark and troubled as he stood at the prow of Hirilondë, where the wife of his captain had set a great branch of oiolairë; but he did not look back until the Meneltarma was far off in the twilight.

  All that day Erendis sat in her chamber alone, grieving; but deeper in her heart she felt a new pain of cold anger, and her love of Aldarion was wounded to the quick. She hated the Sea; and now even trees, that once she had loved, she desired to look upon no more, for they recalled to her the masts of great ships. Therefore ere long she left Armenelos, and went to Emerië in the midst of the Isle, where ever, far and near, the bleating of sleep was borne upon the wind. ‘Sweeter it is to my ears than the mewing of gulls,’ she said, as she stood at the doors of her white house, the gift of the King; and that was upon a downside, facing west, with great lawns all about that merged without wall or hedge into the pastures. Thither she took Ancalimë, and they were all the company that either had. For E
rendis would have only servants in her household, and they were all women; and she sought ever to mould her daughter to her own mind, and to feed her upon her own bitterness against men. Ancalimë seldom indeed saw any man, for Erendis kept no state, and her few farm-servants and shepherds had a homestead at a distance. Other men did not come there, save rarely some messenger from the King; and he would ride away soon, for to men there seemed a chill in the house that put them to flight, and while there they felt constrained to speak half in whisper.

  One morning soon after Erendis came to Emerië she awoke to the song of birds, and there on the sill of her window were the Elven-birds that long had dwelt in her garden in Armenelos, but which she had left behind forgotten. ‘Sweet fools, fly away!’ she said. ‘This is no place for such joy as yours.’

  Then their song ceased, and they flew up over the trees; thrice they wheeled above the roofs, and then they went away westwards. That evening they settled upon the sill of the chamber in the house of her father, where she had lain with Aldarion on their way from the feast in Andúnië; and there Núneth and Beregar found them on the morning of the next day. But when Núneth held out her hands to them they flew steeply up and fled away, and she watched them until they were specks in the sunlight, speeding to the sea, back to the land whence they came.

  ‘He has gone again, then, and left her,’ said Núneth.

  ‘Then why has she not sent news?’ said Beregar. ‘Or why has she not come home?’

  ‘She has sent news enough,’ said Núneth. ‘For she has dismissed the Elven-birds, and that was ill done. It bodes no good. Why, why, my daughter? Surely you knew what you must face? But let her alone, Beregar, wherever she may be. This is her home no longer, and she will not be healed here. He will come back. And then may the Valar send her wisdom – or guile, at the least!’

  When the second year after Aldarion’s sailing came in, by the King’s wish Erendis ordered the house in Armenelos to be arrayed and made ready; but she herself made no preparation for return. To the King she sent answer saying: ‘I will come if you command me, atar aranya. But have I a duty now to hasten? Will it not be time enough when his sail is seen in the East?’ And to herself she said: ‘Will the King have me wait upon the quays like a sailor’s lass? Would that I were, but I am so no longer. I have played that part to the full.’

  But that year passed, and no sail was seen; and the next year came, and waned to autumn. Then Erendis grew hard and silent. She ordered that the house in Armenelos be shut, and she went never more than a few hours’ journey from her house in Emerië. Such love as she had was all given to her daughter, and she clung to her, and would not have Ancalimë leave her side, not even to visit Núneth and her kin in the Westlands. All Ancalimë’s teaching was from her mother; and she learned well to write and to read, and to speak the Elven-tongue with Erendis, after the manner in which high men of Númenor used it. For in the Westlands it was a daily speech in such houses as Beregar’s, and Erendis seldom used the Númenórean tongue, which Aldarion loved the better. Much Ancalimë also learned of Númenor and the ancient days in such books and scrolls as were in the house which she could understand; and lore of other kinds, of the people and the land, she heard at times from the women of the household, though of this Erendis knew nothing. But the women were chary of their speech to the child, fearing their mistress; and there was little enough of laughter for Ancalimë in the white house in Emerië. It was hushed and without music, as if one had died there not long since; for in Númenor in those days it was the part of men to play upon instruments, and the music that Ancalimë heard in childhood was the singing of women at work, out of doors, and away from the hearing of the White Lady of Emerië. But now Ancalimë was seven years old, and as often as she could get leave she would go out of the house and on to the wide downs where she could run free; and at times she would go with a shepherdess, tending the sheep, and eating under the sky.

  One day in the summer of that year a young boy, but older than herself, came to the house on an errand from one of the distant farms; and Ancalimë came upon him munching bread and drinking milk in the farm-courtyard at the rear of the house. He looked at her without deference, and went on drinking. Then he set down his mug.

  ‘Stare, if you must, great eyes!’ he said. ‘You’re a pretty girl, but too thin. Will you eat?’ He took a loaf out of his bag.

  ‘Be off,Îbal!’ cried an old woman, coming from the dairy-door. ‘And use your long legs, or you’ll forget the message I gave you for your mother before you get home!’

  ‘No need for a watch-dog where you are, mother Zamîn!’ cried the boy, and with a bark and a shout he leapt over the gate and went off at a run down the hill. Zamîn was an old country-woman, free-tongued, and not easily daunted, even by the White Lady.

  ‘What noisy thing was that?’ said Ancalimë.

  ‘A boy,’ said Zamîn, ‘if you know what that is. But how should you? They’re breakers and eaters, mostly. That one is ever eating – but not to no purpose. A fine lad his father will find when he comes back; but if that is not soon, he’ll scarce know him. I might say that of others.’

  ‘Has the boy then a father too?’ asked Ancalimë.

  ‘To be sure,’ said Zamîn. ‘Ulbar, one of the shepherds of the great lord away south: the Sheep-lord we call him, a kinsman of the King.’

  ‘Then why is the boy’s father not at home?’

  ‘Why, hérinkë,’ said Zamîn, ‘because he heard of those Venturers, and took up with them, and went away with your father, the Lord Aldarion: but the Valar know whither, or why.’

  That evening Ancalimë said suddenly to her mother: ‘Is my father also called the Lord Aldarion?’

  ‘He was,’ said Erendis. ‘But why do you ask?’ Her voice was quiet and cool, but she wondered and was troubled; for no word concerning Aldarion had passed between them before.

  Ancalimë did not answer the question. ‘When will he come back?’ she said.

  ‘Do not ask me!’ said Erendis. ‘I do not know. Never, perhaps. But do not trouble yourself; for you have a mother, and she will not run away, while you love her.’

  Ancalimë did not speak of her father again.

  The days passed bringing in another year, and then another; in that spring Ancalimë was nine years old. Lambs were born and grew; shearing came and passed; a hot summer burned the grass. Autumn turned to rain. Then out of the East upon a cloudy wind Hirilondë came back over the grey seas, bearing Aldarion to Rómenna; and word was sent to Emerië, but Erendis did not speak of it. There were none to greet Aldarion upon the quays. He rode through the rain to Armenelos; and he found his house shut. He was dismayed, but he would ask news of no man; first he would seek the King, for he thought he had much to say to him.

  He found his welcome no warmer than he looked for; and Meneldur spoke to him as King to a captain whose conduct is in question. ‘You have been long away,’ he said coldly. ‘It is more than three years now since the date that you set for your return.’

  ‘Alas!’ said Aldarion. ‘Even I have become weary of the sea, and for long my heart has yearned westward. But I have been detained against my heart: there is much to do. And all things go backward in my absence.’

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ said Meneldur. ‘You will find it true here also in your right land, I fear.’

  ‘That I hope to redress,’ said Aldarion. ‘But the world is changing again. Outside nigh on a thousand years have passed since the Lords of the West sent their power against Angband; and those days are forgotten, or wrapped in dim legend among Men of Middle-earth. They are troubled again, and fear haunts them. I desire greatly to consult with you, to give account of my deeds, and my thought concerning what should be done.’

  ‘You shall do so,’ said Meneldur. ‘Indeed I expect no less. But there are other matters which I judge more urgent. “Let a King first rule well his own house ere he correct others”, it is said. It is true of all men. I will now give you counsel, son of Meneldur. You have als
o a life of your own. Half of yourself you have ever neglected. To you I say now: Go home!’

  Aldarion stood suddenly still, and his face was stern. ‘If you know, tell me,’ he said. ‘Where is my home?’

  ‘Where your wife is,’ said Meneldur. ‘You have broken your word to her, whether by necessity or no. She dwells now in Emerië, in her own house, far from the sea. Thither you must go at once.’

  ‘Had any word been left for me, whither to go, I would have gone directly from the haven,’ said Aldarion. ‘But at least I need not now ask tidings of strangers.’ He turned then to go, but paused, saying: ‘Captain Aldarion has forgotten somewhat that belongs to his other half, which in his waywardness he also thinks urgent. He has a letter that he was charged to deliver to the King in Armenelos.’ Presenting it to Meneldur he bowed and left the chamber; and within an hour he took horse and rode away, though night was falling. With him he had but two companions, men from his ship: Henderch of the Westlands, and Ulbar who came from Emerië.