“And her name was erased from the Book of the Kings."

Erased

Did you see the cats last night?

Strange creatures, those cats. My late grandma, you know, a woman of rare skill in animal and herb lore, always said that there is more in cats than meets the eye, bless her soul. When I was about your age, lass, she told me the strangest of tales, one her own grandmother had told her, as told by her great grandmother; a tale passed on in our family through time since the early years of the Third Age.

Many years ago, long before the Great War, a weird woman lived at the docks of Umbar. Day after day she carried her aged bones around the docks and the fishmongers’ stalls, gathering food scraps and fish parts with lots of cats always following her trail. No one had ever seen her resting without a cat curled on her lap; she held them affectionately like infants in her arms, cradling them, talking and singing lullabies in a foreign tongue.

She rarely spoke to any of the other dock dwellers, her lips always moving to the relentless muttering of the insane. During her better days she could be heard telling the cats tales of past glory and grandeur, of kings and queens and court intrigues. Poor woman, she thought herself a queen, speaking of servants and courts and royal chambers where cats napped on soft, silken cushions. Ah, what an unfortunate, delusional creature she was. The cats, however, seemed to think otherwise. They stared at her with eyes wide open as if they could actually understand the words she muttered in her delirious state.

They say of cats that their eyes can see things the eyes of men cannot. Listen carefully, lass, for what I am about to tell you few mortals have heard before.

One year, at the eve of the winter solstice, the crazy cat woman of Umbar was found dead at the far end of the harbour, beneath the ruins of the old lighthouse. Apparently, the poor crone had sought shelter in the ruins during the raging storm of the previous night, but the cold sea wind whipped her mercilessly until her ailing heart gave up. In the middle of winter hardly anyone noticed the death of one of the dock beggars. No one grieved her passing and her body was left prey to the crabs and the crows.

The cats thought otherwise.

On the night of the winter solstice the most peculiar of things happened. Around midnight, the cats of Umbar left their shelters and ran out into the night. Aged toms left their warm places by the stove, queens left their litters, mousers abandoned their prey and they all gathered beneath the ruins of the old lighthouse, around the dead hag’s body. Under the light of the full moon, with the wind blowing from the north a strange liturgy commenced, in which a white cat preceded, nested on her lifeless chest. In silence the feline congregation stared at the white cat who stood with his head low, as if praying. Then he raised his head and addressed his kin. A low sound came from his throat; it felt as neither purring nor mewing, but more as the voice of a minstrel reciting an old tale of love and loss, of trust and betrayal, of glory and exile.

How do I know this, you ask? A pair of mortal eyes witnessed the feline ritual. A woman of Umbar, a healer like me, whose blood runs in my veins, followed her cat when her calico jumped out of the window and into the night. Hidden behind a rock, she watched the extraordinary gathering in stunned silence. Legend has it that she could understand the tongues of the beasts, decipher the flight of the ravens and the crow of the seagulls. Under the silver moonlight, she heard the old woman’s epitaph from the mouth of a cat who spoke of bitter kings and fallen queens.

When the elegy came to an end, the cats stood in waiting. Then the white cat sunk his teeth on the dead flesh and the rest of them followed his lead with no hesitation. Yes, lass, I know that the cats are not carrion eaters. This, however, was not a feast of wild beasts; it was communion. The crazy cat woman of Umbar became one, in death, with the creatures she loved more than life. Each cat tore a piece of flesh and devoured it in solemn silence until nothing was left to remind of the crone but a few scattered bones. Mousers licked their whiskers and queens trailed of with pieces of flesh in their fangs so their kittens could partake in the ritual. One by one the cats returned to their lives, leaving the white cat behind to guard the remains of the hag.

The crack of dawn found the white cat curled around the one piece of flesh left untouched; her heart. Standing up, he stretched and sniffed the air. He then picked up the heart with his fangs and walked away, heading north. No one in Umbar ever saw that cat again.

From that night on, a similar meeting takes place at the far end of the harbour during the night of the winter solstice. If the moon is full and the winds blow from the north, the cats of Umbar gather where the old lighthouse used to be. Black cats, ginger cats, aged mousers and frisky kittens, they all form a circle around a white cat. Yes, lass, it’s always a white cat that leads the ritual. I cannot tell why; perhaps those of this colour are the bards of their kin. But those extraordinary felines recite the tale of the woman who loved cats. Nefarious and loveless, men deemed her; cats think otherwise. They speak of her soft hands that never hit them, despite their mischievous ways. They recall her lullabies and caresses and the scraps of food she denied herself so no cat would starve. When the night ends, they trail off to their nests and homes to repeat the tale to others of their kin, so her passing from this life will not be forgotten.

The say of cats that they are strange creatures. Much like their ways, this tale ends in a most peculiar way. I have heard it in the songs of robins on the first day of spring. I have heard it in the purring of newborn kittens. Old travellers, who have walked the desert routes all their lives, have heard it in the lament of the north wind.

On the night of a childless king’s death, the Steward of Gondor crossed Rath Dínen, the Silent Street, and entered the royal tomb to see if the burial chamber was in order. A gross sight awaited him inside. Before the grave, the lifeless body of a white cat lay curled around what seemed to be a human heart. He moved as if to kick the macabre remnants aside, but then a cloud of unspoken sorrow fell over the tomb, much like the fog on the docks in mornings. The Steward then recalled the spiteful words once whispered to the king, the ill advice and the venomous comments. He remembered the injustice he had collaborated in during his younger years, the false accusations and the pleas that fell on deaf ears. Fearing the wrath of the innocent, on the night of King Tarannon’s death, he carried the dead cat and its gross relic with shaking hands at the far end of the chamber, well hidden from mortal eyes.

Not long after, the incident was erased from his memory, just like her name had been erased from the book of the kings and the history of Gondor.

But not from the hearts of cats.

They say of cats that their eyes can see things the eyes of men cannot. I say, lass, that the feline hearts are sometimes greater from the hearts of men as well.

When the white city falls in ruin and Umbar is nothing more than a memory, cats will still gather under the full moon and a white cat will still recite the tale of a beggar, the tale of a queen.

The tale of Berúthiel of Gondor.

Erased from history?

I think not.

*******

Author’s notes:

"She was the nefarious, solitary, and loveless wife of Tarannon, Berúthiel lived in the Kings house in Osgiliath, hating the sounds and smells of the sea and the house that Tarannon built below Pelargir at Ethir Anduin. She hated all making, all colors and elaborate adorment, wearing only black and silver and living in bare chambers, and the gardens of the house in Osgiliath were filled with tormented sculptures beneath cypresses and yews. She had nine black cats and one white, her slaves, with whom she conversed, or read their memories, setting them to discover all the dark secrets of Gondor, so that she knew those things " That men wish most to keep hidden", setting the white cat to spy upon the black, and tormenting them. No man in Gondor dared touch them; all were afraid of them, and cursed when they saw them pass. At last King Tarannon had her set on a ship alone with her cats and set adrift on the sea before a North wind. The ship was last seen flying past Umbar under a sickle Moon, with a cat at the masthead and another as a figure-head on the prow. And her name was erased from the Book of the Kings."

Unfinished Tales, Part 4, Ch II The Istari Note 7