The Embalmer's Apprentice by Lyra

Chapter 11

As a child growing up mostly hungry, I always looked out left and right for things that could be turned into food whenever I got out of the city. The past weeks had brought that habit back. As I rode to the Holy Mountain on that long-awaited Erukyermë morning, I noticed every patch of green where nettles or cow parsley, bear's garlic or rampions were showing their tender young leaves (and where there were leaves, there would be roots, too); I scanned the ground underneath each beech tree or oak for any beechnuts and acorns that squirrels or scavengers might have left behind, or for mushrooms unseasonally late or early. I had to remind myself that I had a goal to reach, or I would have dismounted in several spots where I could see good pickings. I told myself that I could stop and pick herbs on my way back – unless others had found these spots before me by then.
But there was no traffic on the road on that day, nothing like the stream of people on foot and horseback that I had witnessed in my youth or joined a few years ago; and thus I was surprised that when I reached the mountain, I found a pitched pavillon and some dozen horses underneath. Others had remembered the old holiday as well, then, even if the King no longer went to the Hallow.
I did not dare to leave my mare in the cover of the pavillion, which doubtlessly belonged to some Noble, so I tethered her underneath one of the mighty oaks (no acorns to be seen, alas). The spiral path to the mountaintop was empty now, but it had been trodden by many feet. It was slippery and steep, making the ascent even harder than I had expected, but at least there was no frost. Before the summit, I stopped for a while to catch my breath; it would not do to disturb the holy quiet atop the Minultârik with my wheezing and puffing.

Some form of ceremony had already begun, and I joined the small circle of white-robed worshippers hastily and, as I hoped, without raising attention. There was actually a man in the middle of the circle, though he was not the King. His face reminded me of old Lord Eärendur, but he was wearing such a simple white shift – more like a night-shirt than a holiday-robe – that at first I doubted that I had recognised him right, until I noticed Lord Eärengolë nearby, attired just as simply. For once, my old white robe with its pleats and embroidery was finer than anything the Nobles were wearing, which I found puzzling.
Not being the King, Lord Eärendur naturally could not speak in this place; but it was clear that he was praying fervently, beating his chest, raising his arms imploringly, even prostrating himself at some point (maybe that was why he had not dressed in his usual splendour, for although it had not been raining in a few days, the ground was still wet, and mud and grass stains were unavoidable). I knelt when the other worshippers knelt, and made my own clumsy prayer, Please, restore our King to his health; please make him live many more years; please, he has been so kind to me and I have not yet been able to repay him, please make it possible. I did not know what the others were praying for; maybe they knew the proper words of the Erukyermë prayer and recited them in their heads. I must admit I did not particularly care. The ground was not only wet, but also chilly, a bitter chill that begin to seep into my bones and, it seemed, my heart. My joints were beginning to ache – I was getting older. Still, I remained where I was, and repeated the words over and over in my thoughts: Please, help the King, and help me!

At last Lord Eärendur rose, and so did the rest of us. He remained standing in a middle for a while, motionless, his loose white robe whipping around him in the harsh wind, still tasting of winter up here. Then he bowed low into the direction of the Eagles that were watching us with (as I thought) cold, uncaring eyes, and made his silent way towards the path. We others followed.
I did not join the others' groups on my way down, nor their conversation at the foot of the mountain, where most were eager to huddle into the warm cloaks they had left with their horses. For my part, I was eager to return home; the atmosphere here was heavy and despondent, nothing like the joyful and festive air I had witnessed when the King had last ascended to the mountaintop. But when I had untied my horse's reins and made to mount, I saw that Lord Eärengolë and his father were walking towards me, so I was forced to wait. I couldn't keep from biting my lips, ill at ease.

"Well met, Azruhâr," said Lord Eärengolë when they had reached me. He made it sound as if he meant it. "Why don't you rise? Father, do you remember Azruhâr?"
"Ah, yes – the Embalmer," Lord Eärendur said, giving me a nod. "I must confess that I would not have expected to see one of your kind here."
I frowned and couldn't bite back my thoughts. "Of my kind? What do you mean - an embalmer, or someone from the foot of the hill?"
That elicited a smile, the first that I saw on his face. The lines around his eyes deepened. I wondered how old Lord Eärendur might be, really. Older than Master Târik, who was a bit over a hundred, and younger than the King, no doubt. Anything more precise I could not say.
"Both, really," said the subject of my ponderings. "Neither seem to be particularly faithful..."
My acquaintance with his sons made me bold, I suppose – I would never normally have contradicted a Noble, no matter how unjust I thought him. "Many of my neighbours are of the faith," I pointed out, and thought in private, More than I am. "And my master is a proper Elf-friend, too."
"Really?" Lord Eärendur raised an eyebrow. "Then why are none of them here today?"
I raised my eyebrows in return. "My neighbours must go on foot; they could not possibly have reached this place in time. And nobody told them that there would be any ceremony in the first place. As for Master Târik, he believes that he would sully the Holy Mountain with his presence."
"And you don't?" Lord Eärendur retorted.
I looked at my feet. I hadn't honestly worried about that. "I don't know," I said. "I just know that I had to pray today."
Lord Eärengolë came to my rescue. "Come, Father, have some mercy on Azruhâr," he said. "He is quite an interesting case."
"All the more reason to question him, is it not?"
"Not like this – not here and now."
"Does Azruhâr have more pressing matters on his mind, then?" Lord Eärendur asked, sounding somewhat sardonic.
"I am at your lordship's disposal," I said quickly, even though I would have loved nothing better than to ride back home at a wild gallop.
"You're giving him entirely the wrong idea," said Lord Eärengolë in a disapproving voice. I looked up in surprise, because it sounded as if he was reproaching his father. I did not want to be present when noblemen argued!
"Maybe," said Lord Eärendur, watching me closely. "I suppose it takes some character to come here on your own, on this day."
I didn't know what to say.
"So you too prayed for a swift end to this crisis, young Azruhâr?" Lord Eärendur asked.
I blinked. "Spring is beginning," I said. "Hopefully, the crisis is over."
The two noblemen exchanged glances. "Far from it," he said. "You are not aware that it has spread to every part of the capital – to much of the island?"

I was, in fact. My neighbours had earned good money in the past week, but it had not helped much, because all the money in the world could not buy goods that simply no longer existed. Even my colleagues at work had complained about the shortages, particularly Mîkul: Even in the better parts of town, it was hard to put food on the table unless you were happy to have fish or mussels or seaweed day-in, day-out. I'd gotten into my first true argument with Mîkul, because I had told him to stop whining, that some people had been facing this situation for months now and surely he could bear a few weeks of lack.
"I know, your lordship, but soon the first harvest will end it."
"The first harvest will assuage some minuscule part of it," he said, "for the fast and the wealthy. But it will not nearly be enough, and our stores are entirely drained. We have been mismanaging the realm, and now we all must pay the price."
I opened my mouth to say something – that surely my neighbours had done no mismanaging, lacking the means to do so – but I thought better of it. There was no point, really.
"Some say that it is your fault, Azruhâr – did you know that? Yours, and that of my Eärengolë. If you hadn't filled the pockets of the poor, they would not have eaten so much."
Now I could no longer keep silent. "I happily accept the blame for that," I said, feeling my fists tighten. "The alternative would have been letting them starve. Would you prefer that? No, you need not answer, your lordship." I bowed my head and fully expected to be struck for my insolence.
"I did not say that I shared that opinion," Lord Eärendur pointed out instead.
I should have been relieved into silence, but Mîkul had been right: I had grown cheekier. "Very well; then would those who think so prefer that all of these people had starved?"
"Did you know that Eärengolë asked that same question?" I thought I could detect the hint of a smile in Lord Eärendur's voice.
"Lord Eärengolë is most gracious," I conceded. And that was certainly true.
"And I am not?"

I looked up in surprise, because it had sounded like a genuine question. I tried to read his face. "I would not know, my lord," I said. "I have had barely any dealings with you, so I cannot judge fairly. But I assume that you, too, are a gracious man, when you aren't faced with the likes of me."
He laughed at that, not in a scornful way but like a man who had been caught unawares by the punchline of a joke. "The likes of you," he repeated. "I am beginning to believe that there are no 'likes of you', Azruhâr – that you are indeed one of a kind."
Confusion silenced me, at last.
The mirth did not leave Lord Eärendur's eyes, and now his stern old face looked softer. He probably was a gracious man, on the whole. He had been reasonably merciful on that dreadful council day, and he had so far taken my inappropriate comments in good stride.
"I should like to find out more," he now said. "I hear such conflicted accounts about you. But Eärengolë is right; this is neither the place nor the time. I will have to study you at leisure – how about a visit to my house? You have the Erulaitalë week off like other craftsmen do, I assume. Come to Andúnië then!"
I stared at him in shock. "Are you serious, your lordship?"
"Whyever not?"
"Because it sounded as though you were inviting me to your house – as a guest. I am Azruhâr the Embalmer. Azruhâr the Nothing. And you are the Lord of Andúnië."
"I am that. I am also a curious old man. Do you object to the invitation?"
I was chewing on my lips, scratching my head. There was no way of saying that yes, I objected, but I really had no desire to enter his house in order to be studied by a curious old man who also happened to be exceedingly powerful. Nor did I want to go to Andúnië, and for a whole week! Rómenna, where my sister lived, that was a different matter – but Andúnië? What would I do there when he tired of me or, worse, decided that the Crown Prince was right?

"No offense meant, your lordship, and I pray you forgive me," I said, grasping at straws, "but the holiday weeks are the only days I can wholly share with my family, and I would be loath-"
"Oh, of course, you may bring them along. I have no objection to getting to know them as well." He was still smiling; now he sobered. "Eru willing, we will be able to feed you all."
My lips were beginning to sting; I was not tasting blood yet, but I had no doubt that I soon would if I didn't stop worrying them. "As you wish, your lordship," I heard myself say. I know I should have thanked him abjectly for his invitation, of course, but I could not. I was too scared of him, and of his house, and of Andúnië.
"Think of it as a holiday by the sea," Lord Eärengolë said, probably trying to reassure me. "Andúnië is well worth a visit, and our house is one of the finest in all of Númenorë, if I say so myself."
"I have no doubt of it, my lord."
"Then that is settled," Lord Eärendur said.
"If that is what you wish," I said. I knew I sounded doubtful – I was doubtful. My only hope was that he would have forgotten about his invitation by summer.
Lord Eärendur tilted his head, a gesture I knew well from his sons. "You do not think very well of us, do you?"
I bit my lips some more. "I have no grievance with your lordship."
"Not me – not us, personally. I mean, you do not think very highly of noblemen."
"I assure you that I have the highest respect for you," I said. "I'm just afraid that noblemen don't think highly of me."
"Ah, yes. Of course," said Lord Eärendur, sounding slightly disappointed; perhaps he had hoped that I would insult his noble brethren or something of the sort. He continued to study my face, his head tilted, and I barely managed to resist the urge to stare at the grass again. "Do you know how many people starved to death in Armenelos this winter, Azruhâr?" he asked at last.
I could no longer meet his eyes. "I know of four," I said, wondering where this was going.
"Really? I know of seventy-nine."
It was as if he had struck me in the face – worse, because the sting went deeper, painfully twisting my heart, driving all the colour from my face. "So many!" I gasped. "Seventy-nine – I had no idea. Oh, I should have found a way..."

"Interesting," said Lord Eärendur, and I hated him that second, because the correct response to a death-toll was not to say 'Interesting'. I gritted my teeth, as it turned out, audibly, but it did not matter, because he already went on, "So far, I have heard a couple of different responses to that number, but you are the first person who claims personal responsibility."
I shrugged, helpless in my anger.
"What Father means," Lord Eärengolë spoke up, "is that people generally say things like 'Well, the poor always die like flies', or at best 'May Eru rest their souls'; but nobody has said 'I should have done more.'"
I felt miserable. All I wanted to do was ride away so that I could cry my grief and anger out at the peaceful road.
"In Ondosto, one hundred and fifty-two people starved," Lord Eärendur said, and now there was no mistaking the tone of his voice: Sad, as one should be at such news. "A hundred and seventeen in Nindamos. It is astonishing that Armenelos, while so much larger and so full of refugees, counts a number so much smaller."
That was no consolation at all, I thought; seventy-nine were too many, and although I was not sure how I could have fed seventy-nine more people through this winter, I knew that I certainly should have tried.
"So you should not see it as failure, Azruhâr; you should see it as a triumph. Maybe without you, Armenelos would look at a hundred and fifty-two dead as well."
I wiped my eyes. "How many in Andúnië, my lord?" I said quietly. "Will you tell me that as well?"
Father and son exchanged another glance. "Three," Lord Eärendur said eventually.
"Three!" I exclaimed. "And you tell me that I should be triumphant at seventy-nine."
Lord Eärendur bowed his head. "Even three are too many."
"As are seventy-nine."
"Yes, Azruhâr, as are seventy-nine; but they are surely not your fault. You did more than you could."
I did not point out that that was nonsense; that at best, I had done as much as I could.
"So I think that we really should get to know you better," Lord Eärendur continued. "And surely you cannot object to friends in high places?"
"Friends," I echoed. This encounter was growing increasingly bizarre.
Lord Eärendur gave a sage old smile at my disbelief. "Yes, who knows? Maybe we will grow to consider each other friends. Quentangolë thinks of you as a friend."
Yes, I thought, and that was strange enough, and I only managed to believe it because I did not truly think of Quentangolë as a nobleman, although of course he was.

Our conversation was (at last!) interrupted by one of the servants – I assumed he was a servant, because he was wearing the same sort of blue woollen cloak that I'd seen on the bodyguards over his white grobes. "My lords, I regret disturbing you, but your company is waiting," he said.
"Of course, Laitesso. Thank you. We will join you forthwith," Lord Eärendur said, and the servant bowed and walked back.
Lord Eärengolë gave me a nod. "We have been keeping you, too. Will we see you at the palace tonight?"
"No," I said, and probably did not mask my relief well. "I was not invited this year. My wife has prepared a little feast for our neighbours, and I am happy that I can attend it."
"A feast! I would not have thought that anybody but the King can offer a feast tonight."
I grimaced. "I doubt you would consider it a feast, my lords. It's just marked out because there's more choice than usual, and because we've been fasting the last days and probably will do so again come tomorrow."
"I see," said Lord Eärengolë with a sympathetic smile. "Maybe we should send you the leftovers from the palace?"
"Send them to the families of those who died; they have more use for it."
"Yes," Lord Eärengolë agreed soberly. "They probably do."

Despite the low-key character of our feast, I would not have exchanged it for all the banquets at the palace. The conversation with the young and the old lord of Andúnië had unsettled me badly, and it would have been hard to face them again – them or their kindred, who were probably blaming me that they could no longer have second helpings. The noise and cheer of my neighbours were a much better distraction.
Given the circumstances, it was a fine feast, too: There were two different kinds of soup, one cooked from chicken (we had sacrificed one of our hens in honour of the day) and one made of mussels and seaweed, as well as the inescapable fish stew. There were boiled shoots and greens – whatever the fields and woods produced at this time, that is, mostly nettles – and a dish of fried early morels and a salad of tender leaves. We ate the remaining sausages and flat bread made from flour ground from acorns that had been watered so often and so thoroughly that all the bitterness had gone out of them. For dessert, we had dried fruit (of which there were not much left) with a spicy honey sauce (honey and spices were, as yet, sufficiently plentiful). There were no leftovers, so we had nothing but fish and herbs left for the coming days; but I felt that we had celebrated the holiday appropriately, and deserved to have our prayers answered.
I even received a present, although I felt guilty for considering it so: Îbalad announced that he and his family would leave for the North the next day. "It is time to till our fields and restore our house," he said. "Soon we'll bring out the seed, and grow crops for all of you!"
That was nonsense, of course, since the food that we ate in the capital came from Arandor rather than Forostar; but his words still garnered some cheers, and it did not ultimately matter.
So my lodgers finally returned to their home, and without cutting our throats first, too.

And it appeared indeed that our prayers had been answered: In the second week after the holiday, I encountered a whole train of oxen-pulled carts rolling up the main road; and when I came to work, my colleagues told me that we had been given the day off, and were invited to come to the huge plaza in front of the palace, where there would be a spectacle to behold.
The plaza was a public space, outside the walls of the citadel, facing the monumental staircase that led to the palace's great gate, and by the time we arrived there, it had filled up with people. I saw the carts again, all lined up from the street to the foot of the stairs, now flanked by soldiers.
And high upon the stairs, between the Crown Prince and the chancellor, stood the King.
My heart lept – and crashed down hard. Yes, he was alive – but oh, he looked ancient now, and no longer in the way that gives a man wisdom and authority, but in the way that precedes an undignified death. He stood barely upright, his once-proud shoulders stooped over; despite his rich robes, he looked half-starved; his skin had an unhealthy pallour and was as wrinkled as an apple that had been stored until Spring (although no such apples existed now). Even from where I was standing, I could see that his hair had thinned, and I thought that the heavy coronet must press down right into his skull – it certainly seemed to weigh his head even further down. I could have cried although it was supposed to be a joyous occasion, for the carts contained much-needed provisions, sent by the Lords of the West to feed our hungry people. Lord Eärendur, who had apparently taken delivery of the goods, knelt before the King, presenting basket after basket with samples of what was hidden on the carts. With each basket, the King would take a handful of its contents, held up his hand and let the grain, or peas, or beans, or nuts fall back down into the basket so that everyone could see what had been given. The last baskets contained onions, parsnips and oranges.

While we who stood in the plaza were still cheering for these gifts, Lord Eärendur, still down on his knees, was discussing something with the King, who had to lean low to understand him. It took some time until the words that were spoken up on the stairs were transferred to us.
"The Lords of the West demand that these things be doled out equally to everybody in all of Yôzâyan, instead of being sold," a man who had heard the news from the people in front of him explained. "How is that supposed to work? Shall the bakers work for nothing, and the millers before them?" He, it turned out, was a baker.
"It is possible to grind your own corn and bake your own bread, at home, with no miller or baker in between," I couldn't help pointing out. But I, too, thought that it was an outrageous demand. Shouldn't the gift-giver leave it to the recepient how to deal with the gift? Master Târik disagreed.
"The gift-giver has a right to dictate how the gift is to be used," he claimed. "If I gave you a knife to cut your roast meat, and you sold it or worse, used it to stab somebody, then would I not be rightfully offended?"
The baker spat on the ground, and I frowned. "It seems rather arrogant to leave us to starve, and then dangle carrots in front of us that we can only have if we do as they demand," I said.
Master Târik shook his head. "You of all people should be happy. If these things were sold to the highest bidder-"
"Or the most high-ranking-" Mîkul interrupted.
"Or that, yes," Master Târik said with the tiniest smile. "Under such circumstances, you and your neighbours, or even we in the better quarters would hardly see a grain of it again."
He had a fair point, I had to admit that.
"But it is going to take months until they figure out how to distribute it all," I sighed. "By then, it probably won't matter anymore because there's nobody left to take it."

I was wrong on that count. Either some sort of protocol existed for cases like this, or the Lords of the West had sent explicit instructions, or else the Councillors thought faster than usual – compelled, perhaps, by the rumbling of their own bellies. At any rate, within the same week each quarter was provided with a desk and scales and a cart or two and some scribes and some assistants; and people queued in front of the desk with pots and bags and baskets to receive their share. The problem was that everybody who received something had to be present in person: It was not allowed to fetch your share as well as your husband's, sickly neighbour's or baby's unless said husband, sickly neighbour or baby was presented at the table, and got an ink marking on the right hand to signify that this person had been given their share. This was meant to keep people from queuing again in a different part of town, attempting to get more than their due. I suppose it was a good idea, but it resulted in endless queues and meant that even the bed-ridden had to find somebody who carried them to the street. Amraphel and our daughters received their share on the second day of waiting, while I had only the evenings left to try and get my part. I was beginning to fear that I would not receive anything at all, but after five days the number of waiting people had dwindled down to a handful, and I could finally carry home my rye and peas, my onions and parsnips and – best of all – four oranges. They were a little dry outside, which was no wonder after their long journey, but there was still juice inside.
Amraphel recommended to all who would listen that they should not eat all of the peas, because it was a good season to sow peas, and to maybe keep some of the smaller onions as well. There was some protest, because it would soon be pea season anyway, but then Amraphel asked from what seed new peas should grow. That made us think. If there were no peas to be bought for eating, were there still enough for sowing?
"From each pea that you do not eat now, a hundred peas may be harvested in a few months' time," Amraphel pointed out; and so we put a good part of our peas into our gardens, which had been fertilised with the mud that had once been our only road, mixed with sand and old leaves, onion peels and the like: Surely it would yield good fruit this year.

We were fortunate, for it was a mild spring, without any late frosts or long rains. There were no leftovers from the past year, for even the not-quite-ripe leeks and cabbage had long since been eaten, but soon the peas began to sprout. And so did spinach and radishes, spring onions and asparagus, turnips and purslane, rhubarb and strawberries. The gardens in our neighbourhood and around the city soon began to show the promise of young lettuce and fennel and summer cabbage, and the fields beyond the city walls grew green with young wheat and barley and oats. The fruit trees flowered as if they, too, were overjoyed that winter was over at last. Never in my life did I see so many people celebrate each new flower, each young stem.
The King could not recover his old strength, although I thought he was no longer quite so pale now that he regularly saw the open air again; but he performed his duties, and we Keepers were invited to the palace again.
And the new, pretty gravel-road at the foot of the hill grew longer and longer. When at last food could be bought in sufficient quantities again, it was at higher than usual prices, but I no longer had to worry about my neighbours. They had been able to earn and save quite some coin. For the time being, all was well. In those days, I had to remind myself of my unfulfilled promise to the King, and of the many people who had unnecessarily died in winter; for otherwise I might have been tempted to feel proud after all.