In Memoriam

The sound of crying wasn’t at all uncommon in those days in Minas Tirith. Though war was won and evil vanquished, though joy spread its glow throughout the citizenry, still grief there was aplenty. What caught Pippin’s attention was the location of the sound. He was walking amongst the barracks and yards of the Guards of the Citadel. He tracked the sound with ease till he spied a soldier seated upon the ground, back to a wall. The man’s face rested in his hands, his elbows rested upon the thighs of his drawn-up legs, his shoulders shook with his mourning. Without a word, Pippin sat down beside the man and laid a hand on his shoulder, a touch he knew would bring no offence as he had oft seen the men of the city comfort one another with this simple gesture.

The mourner withdrew his right hand from his face and grasped the commiserating hand only to startle at its smallness. His head pulled up so he could see who sat beside him.

"M’lord!" he exclaimed, voice thick with his sorrowing. "I . . . I . . ." He stopped to swallow and look at the paper in his hand. "They’re dead, m’lord. Dead and I . . . I . . . don’t know . . . I . . ." Tears ran from the young soldier’s eyes.

"You don’t know what, eh, I don’t know your name, I’m sorry to admit."

"Anardil, Sir Peregrin, and no reason you should know it as I’ve no rank nor standing," the young man answered.

"Anardil," Pippin repeated, noting the soldier beside him was young indeed. "How old are you? I mean, to be such a new soldier that you’ve no rank?"

"I am twenty years of age, m’lord."

Pippin nodded. He had met a good many soldiers of Gondor who were younger than he was. "What is it you don’t know that has upset you?"

"I work under the master of the Stewar . . . eh, King’s stables, m’lord, and, well, I was given the duty roster and told to fix it. I took myself to the tack room where there is a writing desk to do as I was bid, but . . ." The young soldier blanched as his eyes flicked to the list in his hand then back to Pippin. His eyes pled with the hobbit before him. "They’re dead, m’lord. I was crossing their names off and writing new ones in their places." He swallowed hard. "Just cross off and write in. Cross off and write in. Cross off . . . is that what becomes of us all? Do we live our lives, have family and spouse and children and job and then . . . then when all is said and done we are crossed off the lists and we are gone. Replaced with another name who will one day be crossed from the lists." He turned his gaze once more to the list of names in his hands. "They lie in the mounds upon the fields of battle, in common graves in what remains of Osgiliath, some in the mounds on yonder Pelennor and some nigh where the Black Gates once stood. No markers bear their names like those in the city’s burial grounds nor in the Fen Hollen. They lie there nameless in their mounds as when the land is stricken by plague. Crossed off the lists and soon forgotten when all who knew them join them in death."

They sat for a while, the young Gondorian sobbing while silent tears tracked down the small face of the knight from the Shire.

"I thought I was past it, m’lord," Anardil muttered. "The formal ceremony was two weeks ago, names all read as is right. I was just on about my duty. Just doing what I’d been told, and suddenly I ached with it all. Suddenly I couldn’t see the names on the list so I came out here where the light was better, but it didn’t help. It didn’t . . . help."

Pippin once again placed a comforting hand on Anardil’s shoulder. His mind was flying. How could he help this young man of Gondor? Could he help him and help others, for surely there were more than this one man who were facing such tasks and the pain they raised? Finally his mind stayed itself on an idea.

"Anardil, can you get another sheet of paper?"

"Yes, m’lord." He stood and hurried off into the stable, returning with a fresh sheet of paper and a lead stick.

"Good," Pippin said. "Now, make a list of all those names that you crossed off the duty roster, then I want you to go about and ask all the others who work in the stables if there are any names missing so they may be added. Do that and bring the list to me when it is finished. Do you know where we are housed?"

"Yes, m’lord. I don’t think there are many in the city who don’t know of your lodging place."

"Good. Then bring it when it is complete. And thank you, Anardil."

"It is I as should thank you, m’lord."

"No, I think you’ll understand when you come later. Till then!"

A short time later, three weeks at most, by order of King Elessar, large stone plaques were put into place in the walls of many buildings of the White City. Set into stables, barracks, guild halls, parade grounds, squares and markets. Carved deeply into the stone were the names of those who had served in the companies of the Guard stationed there or the citizens who worked in the places where the plaques were mounted. Pippin and Anardil stood looking at the one set into the stable wall after the masons were finished placing it.

"A list they shan’t be crossed off of." Pippin softly said.

"Yes. A list that will be looked upon and they will be remembered." Anardil turned to the small knight. "Thank you, m’lord. It greatly settles my heart."

"You are most welcome, and Anardil?"

"Yes, m’lord?"

"Call me Pippin."

********************

The rode quietly into Osgiliath, that ruined shell of a once great city. The King needed to decide what should be done; should the city be rebuilt or should what remained be brought down with only the wharves and warehouses retained and refurbished for handling commerce on the river. The members of the Fellowship had been invited to come on the trip. Legolas and Gimli for their opinions on the condition of what remained of the city and any suggestions they may have. The hobbits mostly came for something to do, though Merry and Frodo were looking forward to learning more Gondorian history.

Pippin was getting rather bored until he spotted something that looked strangely familiar.

"What is that over there, Strider? Is it another city?"

"In a way it is, Pippin. This was a bigger city than Minas Tirith thus it had need of a larger resting place for the important people of Osgiliath."

Pippin frowned. "A cemetery then, like Fen Hollen. But why only for the important people?" He paused a bit and looked over at the burial ground. "Everyone dies, don’t they? Even the regular folk need to . . . be . . . done something with after they die."

"Yes, Pippin, all people need to do something with their dead." Aragorn looked carefully at his young knight. He knew the death of so many people in the war at times troubled the lad. He remembered Pippin’s request for the graven lists bearing the names of the city’s dead. "In some of our ages the dead were burned upon pyres with much ceremony and honor." Pippin paled at this reminder of Denethor’s death and Aragorn hurried on. "At other times the dead have been buried beneath the ground, and at still other times barrows, mounds or tombs were raised above the ground and the dead placed therein."

"It also depends on the land itself, young hobbit," Gimli added, his deep voice was unusually quiet. "Sand, land with thin top soil over the bedrock or marshy ground isn’t much use for burying the dead, laddie. And if there has been a great sickness, ‘tis oft best to burn the remains so as not to spread the sickness about worse."

Pippin slowly nodded, his eyes still fixed on the tombs of Osgiliath. Gimli whispered to Legolas who brought their horse up beside the hobbit’s pony. Gimli placed a hand on Pippin’s shoulder. "Would you be wanting a closer look, young Peregrin?"

Pippin nodded and Legolas reached over to pull Pippin from his pony and set the hobbit before himself. "Then we shall explore this place until you are satisfied, Pippin," the Elf said as he gave a short nod to Aragorn before speaking to the horse and cantering off.

Legolas tied the horse loosely to the gate into the city of the dead then the three friends proceeded on foot. Pippin gazed about at the mix of upright stone slabs, stone boxes, fancy stone boxes and things that looked like small buildings. Graves and tombs of the dead of Osgiliath. Grasses and weeds crowded out the markers yet one could still see that at one time the place had been well laid out with the remains of stone pathways still visible though gaps in the foliage. All around there was evidence of wreck, ruin and the passage of time. Stones with a hint of writing, no longer able to be read. Stone slabs, broken from their bases, laying face down in the sod. Stone box tombs with their lids cracked and broken open. The small buildings with missing pillars or roofs, some hollows holding a statue while others held the remains of a statue . . . or nothing at all. And many of the tombs and small buildings were covered with scrawls and vulgar drawings.

"They’ve been broken and scribbled on," Pippin’s voice was hoarse with anger, tears were running down his face. "It’s not right that it should be all broken. Did the orcs do all of this?" He turned his angry eyes to his friends.

"Not all, young hobbit, not all," Gimli said. He pointed to a marker next to them. " ‘Tis rain and sun, that wear away the stone like that, Peregrin, erasing the words once carved into the marble." He laid his large hands on Pippin’s small shoulders, guiding him to a nearby stone that lay face down. Gimli squatted down and ran his fingers along the broken edge of the slab. "Fairly fresh this," he muttered as he worked his fingers under one side and flipped the stone over. "As I thought, look here, Pippin-lad. Just a clean break. This was a flaw in the stone that the weather found. If it had been broken by force I would know as that leaves a wound."

Pippin eyed the stone then the Dwarf suspiciously. "You aughtn’t tease like that, Gimli, well not now at any rate. This matters. This is important. Rocks don’t get wounded. They’re . . . well, they’re rocks."

"Ah, laddie, that is where you are wrong. Where most folks are wrong. Let me find . . ." Gimli looked around a few moments then he said, "Follow me!" and led the way toward a tall standing stone with its top broken off. "Here, look here. Do you see where that dent in the stone is?" Pippin nodded. Gimli grunted as he lifted the top section into place. "There," he said sounding a bit strained as he held up the broken piece. "Do you see the matching dent in this part? And do you see how the stone is a lighter color in and around the dents?" More nodding from both Pippin and Legolas. "Touch the stone, both of you, touch it where that dent is. Can you feel that the rock seems softer there?" The Dwarf let the top piece fall once more to the ground. "That, my friends, is wounded stone. ‘Tis dented because of the blow it took that broke it in two. Part of the stone gets crushed or even pulverized by the force of the blow, leaving that dent, along with leaving the stone around it softer and more fragile. That stone, laddies, was broken on purpose."

"I have seen this in other places."

Dwarf and hobbit turned in surprise to look at the Elf. What would one who is immortal know about the graves of mortals?

"I will admit to a certain curiosity about Iluvatar’s gift to Men and the other races," Legolas said in answer to his companion’s unspoken question. "There are cemeteries in or near by all the cities of Men. There is even one in Rivendell as Aragorn and his mother were not the first of the Dunedain to seek shelter there. And forget not, my friends, Elves can be slain or die from their grieving. Even where all is well tended and cared for with respect, the passing of time takes its toll. Even in cities that are living, the writing fades upon the stones, or ill-bred youths and enemies do such damage as we see here."

The three friends looked around them at the fading reminders of long dead Men. Names that no one knew of people no one remembered. For several hours they wandered the grounds each lost in their own thoughts, reading those memorials that could yet be read. At each, Pippin thought of the one or ones beneath the soil or within the tomb, trying to somehow let them know he was sorry he did not know them. Eventually the King and the others came and called to them. That night Pippin was unusually quiet, though true to his nature by lunch the next day his good humor had returned. He kept his thoughts to himself.

*************

The four travellers had returned to a very different Shire. It was only by force that they were able to regain their homeland. The Battle of Bywater was fought and those hobbits who perished were buried together in a common grave with a marker raised in remembrance. So time went on.

It was after he and Merry had settled at Crickhollow that it happened that Pippin was riding down a road, alone, late at night. Merry had been summoned southwards toward Standelf so Pippin had gone to visit a friend near Newbury. It was comforting, somehow, to ride alone down the moon-lit road. His thoughts were all his own with no one asking what he was thinking about. Just as well, he thought as he sighed, as his thoughts this night were rather melancholy. He and Dolo had ended up talking about the Occupation of the Shire. All well-and-good, Pippin thought. His friend still had some things that needed talking out and Pippin was indeed honored that Dolo chose to confide in him. But still . . .

Through an opening in the hedgerow, something in the moonlight caught Pippin’s eye. He stopped to get a better look.

A small group of farm buildings stood off to the right of the road. There were no lights showing at the windows of the low, thatched house. The roof of the byre was swayed in the middle, no animals stood in the pens. It was abandoned. He started to turn away but was drawn back to the lonely view, noticing what he hadn’t at first. Off to the side were a few planks of wood (he assumed they were wood) sticking out of the ground. The family burial plots.

He was pulled to it, drawn without his knowledge as it seemed to him he was simply, suddenly, there amongst the markers. He didn’t even remember dismounting. He looked at the boards - the easiest to read were the last to be set: A gaffer and his wife who died, according to the words on the wood, from illness just before the Occupation. The times had been already growing tense then and no one had come to claim the land. Most likely the hard winter Buckland and the Shire had endured was the cause of the damage to the barn roof. Pippin didn’t recognize their names.

He sat down with a hard thump upon the cold damp earth. He didn’t know them. The farm stood abandoned, unworked and unloved. He wept.

When he raised his head, he gave a start, then a shiver. In the moonlight, stretching as far as his eyes could see, was a vast burial ground. Small humble wooden markers, stones, mounds and tombs stood in even rows. He began to walk amongst the graves.

It was like all the others he had seen, with markers and monuments both new and easily read, with markers and monuments old and dim, with markers and monuments broken, marred and ruined. And names. Names Pippin did not know from times he had never seen. And he wept. For himself and the sorrow it brought him. For the thousands who lay forgotten. He lost his footing, fell to the ground and lay there as winds of autumn began to sweep round about him and leaves that were as dead as those within the graves brushed against his face.

"A falcon’s eyes dimmed with tears. A sad and grievous sight."

Pippin knew her* voice well, though he had not heard it that often and not at all since coming home from the Quest. Her blood flowed in him, her spirit touched his own, binding them together. "You cannot help," he said flatly. "Your kind and the Elves, what do you know of this? You remember your own. Your lives go on and on and you remember those who have left and . . . those who have died. What do you know of this . . . this loneliness. This knowing you will be forgotten forever."

"You wish to be remembered forever, my Falcon?" She knew the answer but she also knew his need to speak.

"No. Yes. Well . . ." Pippin turned his head to look at her as she sat beside him. "Not just me, I’m no one special, much as there seem to be those who think I am. Not just me, but all who lived and loved then pass the way of mortal flesh. It just makes it all the harder to face." He sat up to better look into her sparkling green eyes. "It comes to all of us, dying does. Knowing we will leave the people and places we have loved. Knowing that our death will hurt them." But then he smiled at her. "Mind, I know there will be happy memories. Pleasant thoughts that will warm their hearts, but there will be pain as well." The sorrow returned to his eyes that were so like her own. "Then, then to have to know that someday there will be none left who even know you lived at all. That even if your name remains upon a stone or in a book, it will mean nothing to those who read it." Pippin sighed heavily and looked down at the ground. "As though you never existed at all."

Time passed as she let his thoughts fill his mind and hers. Then her thoughts reached out beyond his ken to those he did not know. She spoke their words to him.

"See what you may see of what has been, is, and will be until the time of the end of this world and the beginning of the next."

His eyes were opened to a place beyond his sight. Pippin saw the halls of Mandos, the dwelling of Namo, that ever grow to hold within the spirits of those who have departed Arda. There hung the tapestries of Vaire with all of time recorded in their weft and warp. Multitudes there were before his eyes and they could read from the tapestries the long story of time. And one passed among them to whom they stretched out their hands, Nienna, and from her flowed pity and hope, strength and wisdom so that those in the Houses of the Dead would find blessing and comfort.

"He whose dwelling this is forgets nothing, my Falcon. Little is the knowledge Iluvatar has withheld from Namo. Heed my words to you. Let them sink deep within your soul, my little one whose spirit was born to soar. Namo, Mandos, forgets nothing. He forgets none of Iluvatar’s Children or the children of the Valar."

And Pippin saw that the multitudes there in this place were the spirits of the great and the spirits of the lowly of Arda. All were together and all were at peace. There were none alone or unknown, none forlorn nor forgotten though none in Arda could bring them to remembrance. Pippin’s fear and sorrow left him as for an instant his eyes and Nienna’s met, sparkling green to those of an unknown color filled with care and wisdom. For Namo and Iluvatar forget nothing. In Arda, the rays of the rising Sun whispered a blessing as they caressed the face of the hobbit who slept peacefully amongst graves of his kindred.

* Cullassisul, the Fairy who married a Took. She is an important part of my story "While We Dwelt in Fear".

Author’s notes for "In Memoriam"

This is loosely based on two personal experiences.

I was the one who crossed a name off a list. Or more precisely, I erased a name from an appointment book. Many years ago I was a dental assistant and took a call at the desk of my dental office, someone wanting an appointment. The time they asked for was filled, but I knew the person had recently died and so offered them the time slot, erasing the one name to write the new one in while still on the phone. It was after I hung up that a weight fell upon me - is that what happens? We just get erased from appointment books with barely a thought? The man whose name I erased had been a Dearborn police officer who had just a few weeks before been killed in the line of duty. The chill of this has never left me.

This summer (2005) my daughter and I took a trip to England and Scotland. While there we visited the Glasgow Necropolis. The Necropolis is a huge cemetery that opened in 1833. It was part of a movement, at that time, that spread throughout the western world to make cemeteries a more pleasant place to bury the dead, especially a city’s well to do. The layout was sprawling and park-like with the idea being that people could come to contemplate life and death and what we do with each. But time has passed and the humble markers and the mighty tombs show the passing of time in a city that was once very polluted, as well as the lack of respect shown by the young. Headstones here and there are knocked over, tombs are damaged and bear graffiti, statues are missing and assumed stolen. Even in what was once a "showcase" cemetery there are graves that can no longer be read for the above reasons, and people that, though their stones can be read, no one knows who they were.

This story is literally in memoriam. It is dedicated to all the dead through all our long ages; those who are remembered still and those long forgotten by mortal men.