At Large- Minas Tirith's friendliest of stray cats

poaching

It was in the small hours of the morning when Laston discovered a set of small clothing items by the banks of the River- folded neatly and left in the grass. He found them by nearly tripping upon them when he was seeking a place to set up to fish.

He set down the equipment and turned to look about the area. He called to his brother Naston, who bounded up to him, asking: “Do you see signs of plentiful fish?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve found a child’s clothing.”

Naston studied the items. “Tis laundry, overlooked after washing-up day. Tis no business of ours, I deem.” 

“I like it not,” said Laston. “Look how the things are placed, as if someone took them off and left them here.”

"A swimmer?"

"I fear so." He looked out into the water- swift flowing and wide. "I am going to investigate a little."

Laston explored the bank for a stretch, following the current. Finding no sign of anyone in distress- or beyond distress- he returned. Naston had started fishing and was facing the River. His back was rigid and he seemed to be deliberately not looking to the right or the left.

“Your swimmer,” he said, with a motion of his head. 

A small figure was dressing in the clothing that had been left by the bank. It raised its head when Laston approached, and he saw the gleam of its eyes.

Laston stopped and did not go closer. Whatever it was had the size of a child but not the shape. “Greetings,” he said. 

“O, good morning, good morning. He gave us a start, he did.” The creature was dripping water from every inch. His tone was friendly enough. Not an orc, surely- an orc would flee.

Laston decided against his first question, which was ‘What are you’, and asked instead: “Have you been swimming? The water is high.”

“Yes, it is. Too high even for us, he is right, but we was out only a little way,” he said. “Down there- it is slower for a patch. Lots of reedses to break up the water. Fish likes it there too.” 

“I saw your clothing and was afraid someone had gone out and drowned,” said Laston. “Tis dangerous to swim alone here.”

“Is it? Nice Men, thoughtful Men. But they are here, eh? Sméagol is not alone, eh?”

From his tone, Laston felt as if he was being mocked. He frowned. “I suppose you are leaving?”

“No,” Sméagol said regretfully. “We was too slow and it’s too bright now, so we will have to stay, but we’ll be out of the Men’s way. Don’t worry about Sméagol, he can look after himself.” He reached into the long grass beside him and picked up a large carp. Laston was not overfond of the taste of carp, but it was a magnificent specimen of its kind.

“Are they biting, then?” Laston asked, leaning in for a closer look.

“Ha, ha! Sméagol is doing the biting,” he said, and took the fish away with him into the grass, and vanished.  

Laston and his brother had an underwhelming success at fishing and left for home when the sun grew warm. On their way back into the city they encountered a guardsman, who stopped them, saying: “Greetings, men; I am looking for the creature Sméagol, who was last known to be making his way to the river. I see you have been fishing. Did you meet with anyone when you were there?”

“I have seen the creature,” said Laston. He gave his equipment to Naston to carry home and went with the guard to show him the spot on the bank where Sméagol had vanished. 

“From here I know not where he went.” 

The guard began to look through the grass. “How high was the sun at the time?”

“Just clearing the horizon.”

“Quiet a moment- I hear something.”

Laston listened, and he heard it too- slow hissing breaths from somewhere low down.

The guard began to make an examination of the ground. “Here,” he said, crouching down and clearing away grasses.

There was a squeak of fright, and the guard withdrew in a hurry, shaking his hand and frowning. “I caution you not to attempt that again,” he said.

Sméagol appeared, rising up seemingly from nowhere, as if he had just been formed out of the soil itself like a creature of legend. His skin had grains of dirt and bits of grass stuck to it. “Wasn’t hurting nothing. Don’t arrest us! We was only sleeping!”

“I am not here to arrest you. I was sent to find you because you are not where you ought to be.”

Sméagol quivered, and seemed nearly to puff up like a cat. “Not where I ought, not where I ought, they says ‘Sméagol lives here and can go where he likes and he’s not shut up and he’s not in a cage’, and then when I go out it is ‘not where I ought’ and sticking handses in my face when I wants to sleep. I am where I wants to be, and I will not go with you, I won’t, I won’t!” He sank down and vanished from sight.

Laston ventured a closer look and discovered a small hole in the ground. It had been covered over with grasses but with those cleared away he could catch a glimpse of Sméagol curled up inside, blinking balefully at him before turning his face away. He happened to be clad in earth browns that matched the soil, and with the grasses to cover him he would have been nigh invisible.

“I was tasked to find him,” said the guard, “not return him.” He turned away, frowning at his hand. “I thank you for your help.” Some paces away he added: “The wretch bit me. I did not think he should be punished, as I could tell he was only frightened, and not intending harm- but I am not pleased by it.” He removed his glove and showed red marks beneath. The skin was unbroken, thanks to the glove, but there would be a bruise.

Laston found a different place to fish from then on.

At least, until he and his brother figured out that Sméagol had an unerring ability to detect where the most fish were (likely because he dove into the River and scouted them out), and it was wise to set up near wherever he had chosen to be; over time Sméagol’s presence became a magnet for fishermen and he learned to show himself only when he wanted company. But all of that took some time.

tax fraud

It had been a tiring day at work. Part of it was nerves- Maeron had not yet come to believe in his heart that Lord Denethor would truly never again come in unannounced to personally check procedures and ensure that the clerks were filing things correctly. It was not as if they were to be left to their own devices- Lord Faramir had already been by once to perform the same duty; however, although he had asked for something to be redone, his manner was such that even the mistakes made under his eye were better rewarded than perfection under the eye of his father.

It was past dark and almost time to leave. There was only one person left in the line at his desk, a shabbily-dressed sort that Maeron had dismissed earlier in the day with a request to bring his petition back in writing. The man was not literate, but there were many in the marketplace who would write up documents for a small fee. 

He clutched a scroll now, a shockingly grubby scroll. “I’ve got it,” he asserted, offering the object, which Maeron took gingerly by the edges. 

The handwriting was odd- blocky and childish. It looked familiar. Actually it reminded him of Sméagol’s handwriting. It had been long since Maeron had looked in on the creature, and although their encounters were often awkward they were more interesting than being in the office.

Of course Sméagol surely had nothing to do with it and the resemblance to his manner of writing was a coincidence. Yet as soon as he told himself this, he noticed a spot where ‘we’ had been crossed out and replaced with ‘I’. There were many in Minas Tirith with bad handwriting, but fewer who habitually used 'we' instead of 'I'.

“Which of our scribes wrote this up, may I ask?” he asked.

“Ah! Twas passing strange, sir. I went to the market, but the stalls were all closing up. And I walked to the shops, thinking someone might be there, but I had no luck, and then I came upon him, sir, a tiny old man sitting in the alley.” 

“Ah,” said Maeron.

“He asked what made me ‘fret and frown so’. I told him I needed a scribe and had found none, and he told me he could write, and would gladly write whatever needed, and he didn’t even take a fee, sir.”

Maeron wondered if Sméagol’s minders knew where he was, or if he’d simply vanished on them again. Fortunately it was none of his business. “I see,” he said simply, and filed the document. It seemed to be of acceptable quality, even if there were a few misspellings. Not bad work for a wild Halfling who’d been raised on a riverbank. 

Actually, Sméagol should have taken a fee for the work, he thought. His handwriting might not be much to look at, but surely his time was of some value. Perhaps Maeron would tell him so.

trespassing

Tinnor woke before dawn and started making his breakfast. As he was frying the bacon he heard a tap on the door. Opening it, he saw a tiny, stooped figure in a hood and short cloak, rumpled but in good condition. 

“Good morn to thee,” Tinnor said, suspecting the little one had smelled the bacon and come to beg. If so he would surely not refuse a child a bit of the food, especially not one so thin, no matter how expensive the fabric of his cloak might look.  

“Good morning, good morning,” the figure quavered. “We was- I was wondering if perhaps- he is going out for the day?”

A would-be robber perhaps- the most pathetic one he could imagine. “Not at all, I work at the forge, which is in my home.”

“O- we thought- never mind, then.” 

“Here,” said Tinnor, “do you want food?”

“Food? We might, perhaps, what’s he got, eh?” The creature peered up at him. There was an odd glint from under the hood.

“One moment. Might I have a better look at thy face, little one?”

“Ach! Well, he did ask us nicely, didn’t he? Very well.” He pulled back the hood. The face underneath was sickly and gaunt, and clearly not that of a child. 

An ill old man, perhaps. There was enough bacon for him too, Tinnor decided. “Wilt thou share some bacon?”

“Is it meat?”

“Yes.”

“I wilt, yes, but- only if it is not yet cooked,” said the stranger. “Can’t eat it otherwise. No sense wasting it.”

Tinnor raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, yes, it is so odd, it is not natural,” the stranger lamented. “It is nasty. I cannot help it.”

“As it happens I have not fried it all.” The stranger looked frail. Tinnor decided it was unkind to make him continue to sit out on the step. “Wilt thou step inside?”

“If he does not mind. But I musst draw the hood again. My eyes are very tender in lights, and we can’t bear his candleses.” He pulled down the hood low over his face.

Tinnor recalled tales he had heard of monstrous half-orcs. They were said to have all of the strengths of Men and Orcs, with none of the weaknesses. This little one seemed to have the physical difficulties of the Orcish race and the lonesomeness of Men. Perhaps he was a botched half-orc, a failed prototype, like a shattered bit of metal that had been hammered at the wrong angle at the wrong moment. In any case, the stranger was polite and wore no weapon. 

“Dress however thou likest,” Tinnor said. “Step in here.” He noticed the stranger also avoided the lit fireplace, and sat down on the floor, ignoring the chairs. “Why didst thou ask if I would be leaving?”

“Did we? Did we ask? We wouldn’t like to pesster and prod at him, no, and Sméagol does not want to be a bother to anyone, only we- I losst track of the time and the Sun is coming, and I am tired. Very silly of us- I’ve gotten so weak,” he lamented. “I used to be able to walk for weekses on end without sleeping if I wished it. But I feel I must rest. So I thought if he was not going to be home today he might not mind if I slept on his floor while he was out. But he will not go out, he says. We would be in the way.”

“Hmm.” Tinnor had caught a glimpse of the stranger’s teeth- they were large but sparse, which explained the whistling and hissing in his voice, perhaps. “Why didst thou choose my door to knock on?” He began to cut the raw bacon into small pieces. 

“He was awake, and he has a cellar. I saw the hatch. It is cool and dark in cellars.”

“If I turn thee away wilt thou approach another home?”

“Perhaps, or- perhaps not, eh? Perhaps it would only be a bother? I don’t wish to bother anyone. They will start to say ‘it is Sméagol, the filthy little nuissance’ and walk around corners when they sees us coming.”

“Then what willst thou do?”

“O, we will jusst have to be lonely,” he sighed.

Tinnor clarified. “What willst thou do if I turn thee away?”

“Sleep in a little corner somewhere, I suppose. It is my own fault, being caught out so late. Sss! The Sun rises at the same time every morning, doesn’t it?”

Tinnor sat down the bacon in front of him. “I shall be in my forge today, not in the cellar. It wouldn’t inconvenience me for thee to sleep there.” 

“It won’t?” 

“Surely it will inconvenience me less than the thought of thee sleeping out in the street.”

“Good, kind Man, gollum! We’ll remember him to the King and all, we will, such a nice Man- gollum! But he must wish something in return? Has he any ratses or mice?”

“I do not.”

“Perhaps he needs something dug,” the stranger persisted. “Or buried. Or un-buried. Or found- or lost forever.”

“Not at the moment. If thou hast a desire to repay me I might consider that thou owest me a favor.”

A strange look came over his strange small face. “A favor. A promise. Tricksy things, favors and promises.”

“Art thou reconsidering?”

“No. No, we will owe him. Yes. Sméagol is not a beggar.” He sniffed at the bacon and timidly tried a piece. “It is delectable!”

“Good,” said Tinnor, and sat down across the stranger- Sméagol, it seemed- with his own breakfast. They began an uncomfortable ritual of each trying not to watch the other eat. 

“What is a forge?” Sméagol ventured. 

From him, it did not seem an odd question. “It is where I make tools and things out of metal.”

“Ah-h-h. Yes, that’s it, we’ve heard it before. He makes swordses?” 

“Swordses. Daggerses. Shieldses. Armor, too- but not so commonly any more. Weapons are not my specialty and during ordinary times I am not often called on to make them. Nowadays I am freer to make tools and cookware, and others are freer to buy them.”

“Yes, yes. We have seen those things made before, but not in the land of Gondor. In- not nice places. Not at home, never. Back where Sméagol was borned and grown, his people did not make anything out of metal. They bought it, if they needed it. Traded it. Found it. But most times they did not need it. There were woods and grasses and reeds. There were stones, I think, for cooking. And no swordses for anyone, not even many knives. There was no fighting like Men fight. No war.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Not until I…” He trailed off and looked wretched.

“Wouldst thou like to see a forge of Gondor before thou goest down to lay thy head in my root cellar?”

“Yes, yes!”

So Tinnor took him through and showed him what to every Gondorman were ordinary things, not meriting a second look. To Sméagol they were objects of wonder, and he even shied in fear at some of them- the tongs, the pliers, and some links he mistook for shackles. Smithly patiently explained what everything was and what it was for, and made it clear that nothing in his forge was for a sinister purpose. The tongs were for handling hot metal, and the hot metal was for shaping- not putting against skin (the poor wretch)! 

After the tour he gave the yawning creature a cup of water, a blanket and a straw tick in the cellar. He seemed shocked and delighted to be given bedding, and again effusively promised to put in a good word with the King. He was clearly quite mad. He slept the day away in the cellar, as promised, and left in the evening, slipping out the back while Tinnor was discussing things with a customer.

Tinnor, being a busy man, had nearly forgotten about the incident when an emissary from the King arrived at his doorstep a few days later to reward him for his generosity- with coin.

loitering

Twas a frigid night and Lossiel was sitting by the fire sewing when she saw Sméagol for the first time. 

She knew he lived in the Sixth Circle and visited public buildings, and in fact she was sitting in the great hall of the guest-house he had one lived in. She had been prepared that one day she would see him, but having him before her in the flesh was quite different from her imaginings. He wore a hood against the chill, and she only saw glittering eyes beneath it and a sharp, rather delicate chin. His figure was bent and twisted. She thought he must be in pain- no one, surely, could look that way and not feel pain.

“Greetings,” she said, managing a measure of warmth. 

“Greetings, greetings! Ach, but it is a freezing and frosty night, the ice is in our poor old bones. Will Sméagol be very much in the way if he slips in near her fire? Not very near. It is too hot and bright for us, but it will melt the ice from back here, perhaps.”

“You are welcome to rest here, Sméagol. Do you wish me to draw you a chair?”

“O no.” He was nearly cooing. “We doesn’t need her to go to any trouble. A patch of floor is all Sméagol needs. Yes, this patch here. She mustn’t step on us, that’s all we asks.”

“I shall be mindful.” 

He settled down into a little heap of rags, seeming so genuinely pleased with the floor that she did not offer the chair a second time. She kept to her sewing, feeling as if she had had a successful first encounter with the creature- but she rather hoped he did not want to talk very much. 

He didn’t seem to desire conversation at all. He dozed near the fire, as any elderly soul might. The sound of his sleepy breathing managed to be rather comforting.

She fell into a bit of a reverie with the rhythm of her sewing, and was startled when the second visitor came- Carvedir. He stamped in with a swish of his cape as if the winter was an insult to him personally, and almost stepped on Sméagol.

“Careful!” Lossiel said. 

“Oh! Whatever is that?”

“Some clothing that needs to be mended.” This was in fact true- she had merely left out that someone was wearing the clothing.

“It smells foul.” Carvedir sat down heavily in a chair near her. 

Lossiel said nothing.

“I am a victim of sabotage,” he said. She did not encourage him, but he continued: “Many days I have petitioned the King to speak to me of the War. Does he receive me?”

She said nothing. He continued: “He does-“

“Ah.” 

“But he will not speak of the Ring-bearer, or his servant, or even of Lord Boromir, but he speaks of the landscape. He has told me in depth of the river and the rocks that lie between here and Imladris. I could travel the way myself. Tis a cunning game he plays. And then he has sent me to speak to Lord Boromir.”

“Truly,” she ventured, “it sounds as if he was cooperating.”

“Our captain-general told me nothing that was not public!”

“Perhaps he withheld nothing from the people.” A motion behind Carvedir caught her eye. Sméagol was stirring. He yawned, showing a flash of fangs. “What of your talk with Lord Denethor?” she asked.

Carvedir made a frustrated sound. “Twas plain at once that he did not wish to answer questions, but to ask them, and then to amuse himself by talking in circles and turning my head ‘round.” 

“Your visit cheered him, I am sure.”

“Why do our King and nobility not wish to aid me? I would be complimentary to their deeds. If I achieve greatness, so will they. And what of Sméagol?” Carvedir demanded. 

“What of him, brother?”

“A commoner, I am told, with no family, no nation of his own, no standing, and who has a habit of going about making himself pleasant to strangers, and bothering people who have no time for him. Yet when I wish to speak with him I am told I must make a formal petition to the houndmaster. The houndmaster! What has the houndmaster to do with it? I hear one of our painters was told the same thing, when he wished to take Sméagol’s likeness- and he was refused! He was told not to go near the creature!”

Lossiel continued to sew. She resisted looking at Sméagol, not wishing to draw Carvedir’s attention to him. She noted from the corner of her eye that a dark shape like a shadow was flitting to the door.

“I only need a few moments with him,” said Carvedir. “No other lay speaks of him. No paintings include him. I would have something quite new if only he would speak to me.”

It seemed quite clear, just from the fact that no one else had managed to get an interview, that Sméagol spoke to no one, sat for no portraits and told no tales to those who wished to repeat them. She didn’t know why Carvedir thought he would be an exception.

Sméagol had managed to open the door noiselessly, but as he went through it the wind caught it and it slammed behind him.

“What was that?” Carvedir asked. 

“I am not sure.”

Carvedir went to the door and threw it open. “I see no one.” 

That was not a surprise. The creature was probably halfway back to his quarters.

Carvedir came back and returned to his litany against all who he saw as obstructing his desire to become famous by recounting the War of the Ring in a way different from the exhaustive coverage that had already been done. She waited for him to leave.

bail jumping

Heriadis entered the square and noted suddenly that it was not empty as she had thought. Some kind of dark-furred animal was nearby, peering at a poster that was nailed to the wall. A dog, she thought, and one that seemed over-large to her. She had been badly bitten by a dog as a child and still struggled to trust them even if they were well-behaved, and this one seemed agitated. She gave it a wide berth but then she heard it speaking.

“No, no,” it said, “ach!” Another look revealed that what she had taken for fur was clothing, but whatever the creature was it stood on all fours. Yet as she watched it reared up onto its hind legs and pawed at the poster- with a hand like a Man’s hand. Then it turned to look at her. “Ss! You, yes you, come here- come! Come!”

She was so perplexed that she took a few steps towards this odd figure.

“Sss, sss,” it grumbled. “She is lucky today. Yes, she is lucky today! There is a reward out. And why should we go back ourselfs and the nice lady not get anything? She must take us home, it will not take long and they will pay her for it. Sss.”

She looked at the poster. 

MISSING: There is a reward for the return of one Sméagol to the Sixth Circle. 

That was all. There was no description, nor even an explanation of what a Sméagol was, which struck her as odd.

“Sss, sss. We have only been gone a day, and we left a note- such a fuss, my precious.” He tore down the poster and shoved it into his pocket, glowering. It had been posted low down enough that he could get at it though he was small of stature, and that too was odd. “But there is a reward, and she must lead us home and take it, or else no one will get it, or someone will grab us and make us go in order to get it- ach! What was they thinking?” He moved away a little, and then gave her a commanding look over his shoulder. “Come!”

She had errands to attend to, and considered refusing- but then she was curious- and her errands could wait- and perhaps there was a reward. She followed him towards the Sixth Circle. He trotted along briskly at first, so that he almost left her behind, but he soon slowed. She noted that he was favoring one paw- or perhaps it was a hand. His anatomy confused her and she did not want to give it a closer inspection.

“We’re tired, aren’t we, walking about all night,” he sighed. He gave her an appraising look, frowned a little, and said: “But that’s not any trouble of hers,” and looked away. He spoke no more- it seemed he needed to save his breath.

The guards at the gate stepped forward at the sight of them. Heriadis hesitated. Sméagol sat up beside her. “We’ve come back,” he said. “The lady brought us, so they will reward her, they says.”

One of the guards raised an eyebrow at her, and said very solemnly: “Indeed.” 

The other guard turned aside, waving towards a passing young man. “Maeron! Come hither.”

Maeron trotted up with a wary expression. The guard indicated Sméagol.

“Oh,” said Maeron, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve come back, I see.” 

“We can find our way home ourselfs,” Sméagol fumed, but he followed when Maeron beckoned. 

The guards turned to her. “My lady,” one said, “you have our thanks, but I confess your reward is not yet decided. In fact, the notes were posted to induce him to return on his own- we expected Sméagol to draw the conclusion that if he turned himself in he could claim his own bounty.”

“He did return on his own,” said Heriadis. “He insisted that I come along so that I could claim the reward.”

The guard smiled. “I see. So he has either learned generosity or forgotten cunning. You will still be rewarded- the Steward does not make false promises. But there will be a delay; if you leave your information with me you will be contacted in a day or so.”

“Very well.” She told him where she lived, and then ventured: “What manner of creature is Sméagol?”

“I know not,” said the guard. “I am not sure he knows the answer himself. I bid you good evening.”