Little Free (Haunted) Library

The historian laughed when Aragorn made the initial proposal. When Aragorn persuaded the man of his sincerity, the reception grew cold.

“I beg you consider, my King, that the records are irreplaceable, and members of the public are not like to understand their value; they will touch the parchment with unwashed hands and reshelve materials out of place.”

The collection in question was one of Minas Tirith’s smallest and least valuable ones, containing copies only, and no original documents. Aragorn did temper his care for his subjects’ literacy with his care for preservation of irreplaceable works, and had made what he felt was a reasonable compromise for his experiment of a public library. The historian responsible for the collection did not care whatever for the intellectual health of Gondor’s population. He maintained his protests until with great reluctance, Aragorn was forced to make it clear- as gently as possible, which was not very gently- that one could not say no to the King unless there was a great deal of established law on one’s side, or the King permitted it. In this case the King did not permit it.

At first, the historian reported in lofty and righteously aggrieved tones that no one was using the library and thus it ought not to have been created. Then reports came that a few members of the public had begun to visit and to be effusive in their praise, but they had misshelved items when finished with them, and ought not to have been permitted in. Aragorn appointed an assistant to reshelve books. Reports came that the public wanted more books (because they were ungrateful). Aragorn bought more books. He was told there was not enough room. He bought more shelves. THen there was too much work for the assistant. He hired another one.

The historian finally fell into an aggrieved silence. After a time, his desire to complain grew too much for him, it seemed; he sent in a report that the library was now inhabited by a fell shade.

Aragorn resolved not to discount the matter out of hand and politely asked what signs pointed to the existence of a fell shade. It seemed that books were being moved in the night. Not put out of order; they had just been moved slightly, so that one could tell they had been shifted on the shelves. And there were strange odors.

This evidence sounded meagre, but the man was distressed. He insisted that there was a shade, it was visiting in the night- he had gone in to find proof and had heard the sounds of breath from the walls. Also, the mice that had not been eradicable by traps or poison were suddenly gone.

Aragorn pledged to investigate the matter himself. He stole into the library at the darkest hour of night, shrouded from the eye by a cloak, and bearing Anduril. He walked softly through the aisles of records, which now bore cheery helpful signs with guides to their contents, made by the assistants no doubt. He wondered what he would say to the historian if he found no trace of a shade. Would he pretend he had found and vanquished one? That seemed the only way to satisfy the man, but the dishonesty rankled, and may not be quite prudent. Suppose the historian found the same signs as before, and discovered the untruth?

He had been thinking along these lines for only a moment when he heard the slapping sounds of bare feet approaching him at a brisk pace. At once the mystery resolved itself in his mind, and he knew what he would see in a moment- he showed no surprise when he looked down and beheld the face of Sméagol, his eyes wide and anxious. He held a manuscript in his hand.

“Good evening, good evening!” cried Sméagol, his voice cracking with barely supressed panic. “A lovely evening it is, and nice for reading, very nice; Sméagol had thought the library was open, yes, for everyone, for all peoples, and we might come in, but if he doesn’t wish it-“

“Hold!” said Aragorn. “I am not here to do you harm, to scold you or to punish.”

“O that’s very nice then,” said Sméagol, looking at Anduril. “I was wondering. Yes I was. Does the nice King want a book, then? Praps I might help him find it?”

“Not at this hour.” Aragorn studied the small bent figure. Sméagol was dressed for leisure, in a shabby housecoat. Aragorn should have guessed this was what was happening- he knew Sméagol could read and was fond of exercising that power, and quite naturally would visit at night. And yet he had not known that Sméagol knew the library existed.

“Is it the mices?” Sméagol asked, with another glance at the sword. “I have- helped with the mices. And- swords is not best, for mices.”

“I am afraid there has been some confusion, as the Man in charge of this collection did not know you were visiting.”

“No, I suppose he did not, we visits at night, and no one else is here. What is confusing?”

“You have left some signs of your passage, very faint, but the historian is acute,” said Aragorn. “There would have been no trouble if only you had made your visits known. Why did you not do so?”

“It is so late! Men is sleeping!”

“Indeed, I suppose he is not at hand.”

“O, there is trouble when I wake people up, and more trouble when I let them sleep.” Sméagol looked anguished. “What must I do?”

“I will speak with him in the morning,” said Aragorn, resolving his mind.

“What signs did I leave? Sméagol thought he was being very quiet, very careful, he puts his book back when he’s done every night. He puts it away.”

“The historian is very acute, I fear,” said Aragorn. “He can tell that books have been taken and reshelved. I will have to tell him not to worry about it.”

“O- yes,” said Sméagol, blinking. “Bookses?”

“Yes, the books you took down and reshelved have been noted.”

“Yes, nice King, kind King, wise King, but- Sméagol has not finished his book yet.” He showed Aragorn a bookmark about a quarter of the way through the book he was holding.

“Ah,” said Aragorn. “Do you mean to tell me this is the only book you have ever taken from the shelf?”

“Yes, yes, my King, that is it. Sméagol doesn’t read fast. And he doesn’t come here every night. We takes our book, and we reads it until we are sleepy, and we puts it back.”

It was a geneology. “Yes, I see how it might make you sleepy.”

“It’s very interesting of course. But I only come here when I am too tired to do other things. And then I am too tired to read also.” He looked at the cover page, lost in thought a moment before shaking himself and saying: “What other signs was there?”

Aragorn wondered if the assistants had contributed ghostly reshelvings to the overall impression of the fell shade. “He noticed the fresh lack of mice.”

“That was- that was us.”

There had been the report of a strange odor also, but the historian had called it sweetish and cloying. Sméagol was mercifully not strong-smelling at the moment- he did bathe often- but Aragorn knew his odor well enough- it was not by any means sweet. And there had been the sounds of breathing from the walls. Sméagol did wheeze- he had asthma, and Aragorn suspected the fires of Mordor had done lasting harm to his chest- but his wheezing was at the level of Aragorn’s ankles, and difficult to hear. “Do you come directly to the shelf with your book, and remove it?”

“Yes,” said Sméagol. “And we brings it away under a table, and sits with it, and reads it.” Sméagol gestured to a nearby table. A blanket and pillow were arranged underneath it. He must be fastidious about removing those articles when he was finished with them for the night- the historian would have been fuming to discover them left behind and would surely have reported it.

“You do not creep along the walls?”

“The walls?” A dry, knowing look came over the creature’s face. “No, my King, no wallses. I think perhaps- it is someone else. Yes, someone else.”

“Know you, then, who it may be? Your face tells me you do.”

“We’ll take you to him,” said Sméagol. “We thought you knew he was coming. I do not want him to see me. I’ll take you closer.”

Aragorn began to suspect, and was not surprised to be led to Lord Denethor. Merely confused.

There were secret passages in the walls of the library, built so that materials could be saved in case of war, vandals or fire. Naturally, Lord Denethor knew them all, and was sitting in an alcove within them. He had brought along a comfortable chair.

Denethor, too, breathed loudly due to smoke damage to his lungs and throat, and his exhalations were at the height of a Man’s ears. He looked up when Aragorn entered, and for a brief moment he paled, but he mastered himself quickly and did not startle or rise. “Good evening.” The side of his face was swathed in bandages which smelled of herbal ointment- a sweet cloying odor.

“Good evening! I am surprised to see you enjoying the public library.”

“It is a quaint exercise,” said Denethor. “Had I the leisure of peacetime I might have made an attempt of it myself. You surely would not seek me out in such a secluded spot to ask my thoughts on your project, however.”

“I did not know you to be here at all. The historian asked me to investigate signs of an intruder, and it proved to be you; why did you not advertise yourself to him? Did you fear you would not be welcome?”

Aragorn’s frank words seemed to have discomfited Denethor. “I am hardly intruding.”

“You have come like a thief in the night to a place that would have received you openly and I ask you why.”

“Would it? Is Denethor, son of Ecthelion, welcome in Gondor?”

“I cannot speak to his welcome in all places or to all peoples, but he is surely welcome in a place I designed to be open to any citizen!”

“And have I not my reasons to prefer solitude?” Denethor demanded. “I am harming no one. Leave me be!”

“You are harming this place’s custodian by putting him in fear,” Aragorn judged. “I must tell him of your visits. If you do not wish his interference I will forbid him from speaking to you when you visit.”

“Do as you wish, Thorongil,” said the man, turning his scarred face away.

Aragorn lingered a moment longer, considering what to say. In the end he shook his head and turned away. Everything had already been said.

As he walked towards the exit, he noted that all signs of Sméagol’s presence had been erased.

The historian was horrified. “My lord has been coming to my library and he will see me not?” His voice nearly broke. “He was once the biggest patron of my research, and a jealous guardian. I do not know what I may have done to offend him. Is he so very distressed to have opened the collection to the public?”

Aragorn had suspected all along that the man had preferred Denethor’s rule. He chose not to address that topic. “The Lord Denethor has grown very private since his injuries. He dislikes to be seen, I am afraid.” This was true. “I must ask that you not disturb him.”

Aragorn received the historian’s report the next day: He had been approached by the Lord Denethor, who was gracious and noble, and had wisely approved of the library project, along the lines of reasoning that the historian’s great works ought to be known. Aragorn felt as if a great weight had been lifted. And later, Boromir told him that his father had wanted to pass along a cryptic message that seemed intended as apology. It had all worked out quite well. There remained only one loose end.

When Aragorn dropped by, Sméagol was sitting in his window, drowsily watching something in the grass. “Good morning,” said Aragorn.

“O,” said Sméagol. “Good morning, good morning! What is it?” He was wide awake at once.

Aragorn began to sit in the grass.

“He’s sitting on our garden,” said Sméagol, his eyes growing impossibly round.

Aragorn stood at once. “I must ask your pardon! I did not know you had planted a garden!”

Sméagol pointed with trembling anguish at a spot of bare dirt where he had been scratching.

“I will guard it,” Aragorn promised. “Where may I sit?”

Sméagol pointed to a different spot of bare dirt where he had been scratching. Aragorn sat there.

“I must thank you,” said Aragorn in a quiet, pleasant voice. He affected not to notice Sméagol’s cool, whiffling breath on his hand as the creature nosed at him. “Your intelligence of the Lord Denethor’s habit was more helpful to me than I even knew at the time. It seems that the historian had not noticed your visits, so I have not yet told him. Do you wish me to tell him?”

Sméagol looked uncertain and said nothing.

“I would be happy to purchase the volume you were reading, or have a copy made, and give it to you,” Aragorn offered.

“That would be easier, yes.”

“You are of course welcome in the library.”

“Of course, yes,” said Sméagol, and stifled a yawn.

“I dislike to impose upon you, you have already done more for me than I can repay, and much more than you ever wished to do, in fact!”

“What is it?” Sméagol asked, very politely.

“I would like to be informed if you note any other nighttime wanderings of the Lord Denethor, however innocent they may seem to you, and even if you believe I know of them.”

“Yes, of course,” said Sméagol, with a trace of annoyance mixed with resignation. “Right away?”

Aragorn knew the creature well enough now to know that he often invented implications of statements that had not been meant, and was obliging enough not to be annoyed by something as small as reporting in on things he happened to notice- in fact he enjoyed such small tasks. His irritation likely meant that he had misunderstood what was being asked of him. “Of course I do not mean you to follow him,” Aragorn said, “or spy on him- I only want you to tell me if you come across him while you are wherever you happen to be.”

Sméagol’s shoulders relaxed a little. “That is all, eh?”

“That is all.”

“And he does not wish us to happen to be anywhere in particular?”

“I do not.”

“We can manage that, yes, we can.”

“Very good! I shall take my leave of you.”

He got up and carefully avoided the so-called garden on his way out.

Aragorn had received the confession of a rather singular crime.

The records made it clear that this crime was punishable by death, but that of late the last of the Ruling Stewards had been punishing it by conscription to the army, as he had done with many other capital crimes. As the High King, Aragorn could sentence as he chose, and in this case there were factors that made him wish not to be harsh.

He did not need more conscripts.

He chose to discuss the matter with Denethor. This was as much to show the Man a sign of respect as it was in hopes of getting advice of real value. Denethor received him in cold dignity. As he heard the details of the case, dignity changed to wryness.

“What think you?” Aragorn finally asked.

“I am surprised,” said Denethor. “I have made it no secret that I have long had difficulty understanding your love for the counsel of Halflings; yet in this case, that is precisely whose advice you should be seeking, not mine. Or am I deceived about the nature of this thing you call Sméagol?” A gleam of humor in his eye made these words less harsh than they may have been, but it was cynical humor.

“I deem you are correct,” said Aragorn. “Indeed, I may ask him. It had not occurred to me.” It had not, in truth. And he had not known that Denethor knew such things about Sméagol. “But yet still I would like to know what you would do in such a case.”

Denethor looked suddenly tired. “I would conscript this Man and place him on the front lines. He would fight to reclaim his reputation, and fail, and die as a monster under a wave of orcs. And Gondor would stand but one day more. Is this not known to you? Why do you make me say it?”

“Gondor will stand many days more,” said Aragorn. “Without you and your tireless work, it may not have reached the dawn.”

Denethor turned away from him. He was sitting tucked into the corner, and near him were a book with a slip marking the page a quarter of the way through, a plate of bread and cheese ignored long enough to have gone dry and unappetizing, and a letter half written. Aragorn carefully did not read it.

He waited a moment, and when Denethor picked up the book and opened it to the marker, he left.

Sméagol was in his place at the window. His ‘garden’ had sprouted dandelions. Aragorn carefully avoided it as he crouched on the ground to eye level. Sméagol studied him. There was a bit of blood on the tip of his nose and more on the cuff of his sleeve. His hands were folded over his belly. “Good morning,” he said. “What does he need?”

“I should like your opinion on something.” He explained the matter. By the end of it Sméagol was shifting uneasily. “What ought I do?” Aragorn concluded.

“What ought he do?” Sméagol’s voice was high and cracking. “Put him to death! I don’t know how- gollum- that is your business- hang him, stone him, cast him into the River!”

“Calm! I am surprised to hear you condemn him so utterly. I have not condemned you thus; do you believe I ought to?”

“Yes!” Sméagol looked at him in bewilderment. “Have I not said so? Gandalf should have crushed my head under his heel when he found us on the mountain. Before; you should have drawn your sword when you found me crawling in the marsh of the dead like a maggot, and finished me then. You did not. You chose not. That is your business. I do not deserve to live. Neither does this Man you told me about, eating his neighbors, ach! It does not matter if he was hungry. He deserves death. You are the King, so you may spare him too if you wish it. He deserves death.”

“Does he!” Aragorn was more surprised by this than he had been by the advice of Denethor. “If he were here before you, would you put him to death? If I gave you authority, would you do it?”

“Of course not! Why should I do it? I am no better, gollum, and he did not eat me, or anyone I know, and it is not any of Sméagol’s business. I do not put myself to death, though I could of course, perhaps I should. But I do not wish to die. I want to live and be.”

“And yet you believe I ought to kill this man?”

“Yes.”

“And supposing I do not wish to kill him?”

“Then you must give him a pardon as you have done for us. He is just as bad.”

“A full pardon?”

“A full pardon and a nice room and nice things to eat, yes. If he wants to be fair.”

“This man did not destroy Isildur’s Bane,” said Aragorn. “Nor has he faithfully scouted orcish habitations for the better part of two years. Sméagol, did you not come before me for a judgement some weeks ago because you found orcish survivors and told them to flee before the Men arrived, because you took such pity on the host of Mordor, the host that put you to the thumbscrews?”

“Yes. They wasn’t doing nothing. This is different.” He gave Aragorn an impatient look. His small jaw was set. The mention of Isildur’s Bane never failed to put him out of temper, and Aragorn regretted bringing it up. “Those orcs did not hurt Sméagol. They was just living there!”

“Do you want me to put this Man to death?”

“No. You did not ask me what I want. You asked what you ought.”

“What do you want?”

“Wants him to not eat anybody anymore.”

“There is no danger of that.” The man in question had come off better in a fight with someone who had tried to break into his home and rob him- and need had compelled him to make use of the body.

Sméagol threw his hands into the air. “Then why punish him at all?”

In the end, given the mitigating circumstances, Aragorn sentenced the man to clean up refuse around Minas Tirith for a span of two weeks.