The Isle of the Golden King by Chiara Cadrich

The island of the Golden King

Read The island of the Golden King

The island of the Golden King

.oOo.

At the Sign of the Drunken Goose

The captain often sails back to Thalion, in summer. There he sells spices and buys tin and bauxite ingots from the red hills. Somehow heated by the hard bargaining in the morning, but satisfied for having concluded a deal with his trading partners, he is seated before the inn’s hearth and is now treating the great hall with a tale from far-distant seas.

It is rather pleasant for him just to educate these local pedestrians, to brighten up their dreary peasant evenings with memories flattering the Númenorean majesty. After a good swig of ale, the sea wolf wipes his foamy mustache with the back of his leather glove, and dives with ease in waters infested by legends...

.oOo.

On board a whaling ship of Umbar, a long time ago[1]…

In the cramped cabin paneled with precious woodwork, the ship's officers shared a meal around the commander’s square. The boatswain, a solid swarthy Southron, greeted rudely and went to take his shift. The commander, tight in his neat coat, gave him a stiff salutation and continued his perorations:

– "How glorious were these days, gentlemen! Imagine our radiant Queen leading the most beautiful ladies of the island, offering her blessing on the jubilant docks! Imagine our thousand ships setting sail at dawn, custodians of the Sea-men’s faith! Imagine a thousand prows cleaving through the waves of destiny to enslave the enemy!"

The proud aquiline look of the old sailor became distant. His memory was evoking an apogee that some capricious fate had taken away for ages:

– "Our brave troops, brilliantly commanded, subdued the terror of the dark forces, enveloping the enemy by skillful maneuvers and imposing the superiority of our arms. Everywhere from Harondor to Umbar, subjugated tribes disowned their abject alliances and ranged themselves alongside their liberators!

Our King, Ar Pharazôn the Golden, gathered lesser men from Middle Earth. The advent of his universal reign revived our distant relatives and ruled the weak, called by the imperial indulgence, to serve his peacekeeping glory.

The black enemy of men, tamed, swore allegiance and bowed, heavily chained, at the King's feet, after which he was exiled to a shameful captivity. Our King Ar Pharazôn erected a gold column in Umbar, that commemorated these achievements and brought every night, the light of Númenorean salvation to stray mariners…

Since then, our beloved Island was taken from us… But our fleets remain in control of the oceans and maintain the hope of our renewal!"

The whaler’s squeaking rocked the minds of the officers to the waves’ rhythm in the glorious chimeras of their commander, that united their souls into a fervent beam.

The door of the square suddenly opened, breaking the charm. A young man, dressed in the last fashion silks, made a nonchalant entry:

– "Good Evening, Gentlemen! So, Commander, still immersed in the glories of the past? It almost seems you have participated in these noble celebrations! Maybe we should dream of... more realistic tomorrows?"

The commander, whose neatly shaved jaws shuddered with offended spasms, harshly addressed his second-in-command:

– "Here is, you miscreant, the void that is threatening us all when one tramples the Men of the sea’s ethics. Your cheeky moral laxity should not have you neglect your duties and our beliefs! One day our King Ar Pharazôn will awaken from the abyss, to claim to the world, what glory promised him! Then the men of Westernesse will be freed of the lies of the Aman Powers and their elven minions. The sinking of our blessed island shows how far these cowards fear us, taking over the blessings of the world for their own benefit."

The young man corrected his bearing, snapped the heels of his polished boots and declared on a skeptical tone:

– "What a prettily worn manifest! Nothing less than giving mankind eternal enjoyment of its destiny, isn’t it? While waiting to snatch these coveted secrets, I respectfully suggest not insult the future and to spare the powers of this world. A storm is preparing: dark clouds assemble at an alarming rate. Your presence is required on the upper deck!"

The commander stared at the disbeliever ensign with steel blue eyes, stood up stiffly and left the square, followed by his officers.

.oOo.

The viscous swell bore sinister glows. The foam was spreading there in scurrilous streaks. In the distance, a dark mass flew over the grey ocean, threatening cavalcade that thundered in livid lightnings.

Opalescent chasms racked under gusts; the whaler took a worrying glide. Already the crew was plagued with discouragement and waved their talismans to the menacing sea. The commander gave orders, stiff as justice on the quarterdeck. Three of the shift crews got into the shrouds and joined battle as the wind began to howl, while the last shift crew wired the whale oil pots. Wisps began dancing among the masts’ tops, while liquids terror spears rained down on the deck.

The sailors were inspired by their commander’s sovereign calm – the mariners furled the sails, hauled the brails and filled the ports. But, as the strings were barely knotted, a great surf seethed around the ship. A gigantic wave raised its misshapen shoulders and swept abeam, stealing a third of the crew.

Under the deafening outcries of sea spray, the commander himself, fighting at the helm, ordered the sailors to be securely attached, and reinforced the teams at the bilge pumps.

The second-in-command swiftly improvised a solid lifeline along the mast footings. But the hurricane, like a blind executor, was quartering the ship. The masts were soon broken asunder and thrown into the sea, hauling the ship to the bottom with a supernatural strength. An oar leader, a harpooner and several sailors were thrown over-board before the cables could be cut.

Throughout this dreary night, the whaler heaved and drifted on forgotten seas, the crew struggling to survive under the orders of its inflexible commander.

.oOo.

The creaking of a pulley, shrill and insistent, awoke the second-in-command. His head heavy, he straightened up and looked around – a rocky coast unveiled its bleak screes in thick mists. Silent waves gently bathed this unreal shore, while the ship was lying on its starboard side, ripped on rocks, outcropping at low tide.

Some crew members, survivors of this ordeal night, answered the call of the ensign. Haggard and ragged, they seemed emaciated outcasts, escaped from a lost world. The commander was still unconscious, moored to the whaler's bar like a lanky specter on a ghost ship.

.oOo.

When the food saved from the wreck was disembarked, the remaining two officers took counsel and resolved to explore the shore.

The most urgent need was fresh water. They sent several teams who long wandered among the bare rocks, finding no soul, but with a growing unease. Headlands seemed to whisper their dismay, sneaky landslides hampered their progress, holes exhaled a dull hatred of the living. Men feared these rumors, hushed by a thick haze. A hostile will seemed to hover above their heads.

After a few days, it was clear that this land was an island, fully encircled by rocky shores, constantly veiled by fog. The commander solemnly proclaimed that the King's men, heirs of Númenor, took possession of this land.

The officer’s assurance worked wonderfully – immediately his men felt relieved from the fleeting fantasies that had appeared through the mist.

Then the men discovered a thin rivulet that was lost at the bottom of a barren valley. Up the dale, they found a source, seeping a bitter water that smelled sulphury. They had to content with it.

Exploring further, the team walked into a cave, the entrance to which stood a large stone statue, that seemed to arise from the sparkling rock. Struck with fear, men worshiped this terrible guard, which watchful eyes twinkled in the light of their torches. The cave was full of riches, worthy only of mighty kings of old – ancient gold coins, jewels, weapons of high lineage lay there under the watchful eye of the colossus. This High King, crowned with gold, handed a powerful and greedy hand to grasp eternal glory, followed by an entire people.

Despite their weakness, most sailors returned laden with riches. Some were inhabited by a strange feeling of greatness, others imbued with a heavy sense of responsibility. But fear gripped them all. One of them yet, a solid harpooner, quarrelsome and mocking, evoked in a hearty laugh, the delights of the harem he could afford with these riches, and loaded a heavy jewels chest on his shoulder.

Just after the team had left the cave, the harpooner, all gleaming with gold necklaces piled around his neck, slipped on an unstable rock, and broke his neck after a long fall. His companions gazed at his dislocated corpse, floating above a shroud of urchins, golden chains and diamonds.

The team silently reached the bank. Deep inside some of them, discipline strengthened, but these useless riches threw the crew in a superstitious depression.

Thus, the two officers resolved they should themselves explore the island methodically, without exposing their topmen and harpooners to its evil spells.

.oOo.

The commander and the ensign left the next day. After exploring the caves housing the treasure, and feeling the urgent appeal of the Golden King, they climbed long in the fog, surrounded by the dead silence that now reigned on the island. At the altitude where fog dissipated, they discovered a strange refuge.

Luxurious mosaics depicted a refined life, scholarly and harmonious. The rooms of the large house, their walls decorated with rich paintings, were half ruined. Yet broken relics, mismatched antiques and trinkets furnished, as a patchwork that had been recovered from shipwrecks for centuries. They explored the ruins and found a room decorated with many feminine objects, but without ever meeting their hostess. A woman seemed to live there as a hermit, haunting a palace of another age, seeking her fishing net between two marble statues. The two officers, confused by the grace and decrepitude of the residence, recognized many familiar details of arts and techniques, suffering the torment of the exile discovering his devastated homeland.

Resuming their ascension, they reached a wide flat space, empty and silent. The pristine sky, inhabited by no bird flight, seemed to observe the esplanade.

Overlooking the east of the island, a belfry crowned with worn golds, projected nostalgic rays. On the western side, a large dead tree unfolded the shadows of its bare branches over a catafalque, on which stood a strange dark stone construction. There, hideous idols sacrificed the firstborns of many species, while obscene totems uttered abject silent desecration.

Confused and panting, the two officers did not dare imagine the unthinkable. Violent images harassed them as they were trying to collect their thoughts: a majestic couple tore each other under the eye of a dark figure, draped in contained malevolence. The two men came down the slope, unable to formulate the foolish assumptions that gave a lump in their throats.

.oOo.

At dusk, when they reached the palace, a wandering light, similar to the mirages luring the lost sailors, had them join the antique dining room. The two officers discovered there a sumptuous dinner, which seemed to be awaiting for them. Shaken by such a great mystery, they did not dare turn away and did honor to their invisible hostess. At the end of the meal, the light led them to a bedroom, where they succumbed to sleep.

Dreams of nostalgic grandeur visited them. A High King wearing gold and plumed with pride, seemed to command them to rebuild the Númenorean power. The commander experienced restoring the dignity of the Lords of the sea, with the wealth saved from the rocks and waters of this island. Her veil dripping with pearls, a sublime Queen stood alongside the High King, and seemed to weep tears of diamond, begging them to deliver her from her ordeal. The ensign dreamed himself as a champion of his queen, reviving ancient alliances.

The next day, inhabited by visions of a hieratic glory, the two mariners awoke at dawn.

A hooded and diaphanous figure was watching them, standing at their bedside.

Terrified, they asked what their hostess wanted. A female voice, light as a breath and drawling like centuries of torment, charged them, as a price for her hospitality, to imagine and carry out any gallant deed on her behalf.

The two officers bowed, one for honor and the other for grace, and took leave.

.oOo.

By temperament and conviction, these two men were reluctant to cooperate. Their secret dreams matched too badly. Thus, both dedicated to their own work.

The commander chose to consolidate the golden tower, which radiant hues reminded of the glory of Númenor and would guide the ships of his heirs. He managed to make a gilded mortar to reinforce and revive the old dome.

The ensign destroyed the dark altar, hurled the evil stones to the sea, and purified the marble catafalque by fire.

But the two men opposed about the dead tree. The ensign wanted to revere it as a relic of ancient times; the commander wished to burn this sign of allegiance, he considered tainted with opprobrium.

They drew their swords and some blood was obviously about to defile the catafalque again. But at  that time, a seagull threw its swift and graceful shade between the fencers. Under the protection of the sea bird arose from the sun, reason finally prevailed when the two mariners realized the venerable wood could help to refit their ship.

Against all odds, they finally worked together, mustering the remains of their crew. Within days the trunk had been cut into planks and logs, and brought back to shore. The ship’s carpenter, fortunately, was still alive. They built a wooden crane, straightened the ship thanks to tide, and finished the refit. Furthermore, the two most beautiful branches of the ancient tree, gave passable masts.

.oOo.

Finally the exhausted castaways would be able to escape.

Discord, however, broke out about the treasure. The two officers had to exercise extreme firmness to prevent the crew from overweighing with gold and gems, a ship that could not be maneuvered easily.

The morning of their departure, as the sailors were pushing the ship into the water, up to the waist, the mist rose, for the first time since their arrival on the island. As fog was withdrawing, a hooded shape silently approached the prow, stowed there a green bough[2], and returned to the shore. The crew was so overwhelmed with terror, that the last attempts to embark more gold and jewels were forgotten.

The tide was rising, the breeze was rushing in the makeshift sails, and the ship departed from the island. That's when they heard seabirds, which last roamed the sky with their graceful flight and their plaintive cries.

As the sailors were watching the island drifting away, escorted by her new residents, it seemed to them a huge wave hit the shore, where remained abandoned wealth and traces of their passage. As the wave ebbed, they thought they saw, nestled in the hollow of emerald rollers, a fast swimmer, vivid image of "Tar-Miriel, Queen purer than silver, ivory or pearls." But the fugitive mirage vanished, while the high wave flowed back towards the west, and the mists enveloped the island with their illusions again.

Then the survivors sailed, a moon long, their lives entrusted to the remains of an old tree. The day when the bough faded at the ship’s prowl, the lookout announced the end of their torments.

Back to Gobel Mirlond, their home port at the mouth of the river Harnen, the commander and the ensign, who had tolerated each other for the time of the crossing, soon parted.

As you can imagine, this adventure ran in taverns from Gobel Mirlond to Umbar and even beyond! There were many expeditions to the lost island[3]. But it is said in the South, that the curse of the Golden King ferociously pursued those he found unworthy to covet his riches.

.oOo.

At the sign of the Drunken Goose…

The captain spits a smelly chew he has been brewing along his story. A young peasant takes the opportunity to ask the fate of the two officers.

– "Obviously, you cabin boy want to know if they took advantage of the treasure? Fair enough!

It is said that the captain took power in the principality of Harnen, with his share of the treasure. He became a rather decent sovereign, inhabited by high and old-fashioned convictions about government, even if he failed to rally the rival city of Ramlond. No wife accepted him – too austere, too strict! – But he ruled with rigor and justice, even if his dreams of grandeur sometimes led him to expensive expeditions.

The ensign, meanwhile, a romantic dreamer, joined the Gondorian ranks. They say he became the guardian of ancient sacred places, on the island of Tolfalas."

– "And you, Captain, did you try your luck?"

– "Here's one curious matey! But that's the whole point, the end of this tale! Yet it is for you to answer this! Would you defy the curse of the Golden King, and what would you do with his treasure?"

.oOo.

NOTES

 

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[1] The heaven of Umbar was, during the Second Age, one of the main Númenorian naval bases of Middle Earth. The imperialist ideology of the island gradually turned the trading post into a first-rate military bridgehead. When Númenor was submerged, the fleet and the Númenorean settlers in the harbor of Umbar remained faithful to the ideals of "King's men" opposing the "faithful" exiled in Arnor and Gondor. For centuries, those nostalgic for the Númenorean omnipotence made war to Gondor, until the King Eärnil 1^st captured the city in TA 933. Even then, some nostalgic captains still dreamed about the lost imperial domination…

[2] Oïolaïre : Bough of Return, a branch of a tree with persistent and aromatic foliage, which remained green near the sea water. This branch was placed as a lucky charm at the bow of the Númenorean ships, usually by a woman from the captain’s family. This custom was imported into the island by the elves of Ossiriand. The shoot was a sign of the alliance with Uinen, the maya of marine waters.

[3] This « isle » could be the Meneltarma, high mountain peak that rose at the center of Númenor before its drowning. But nobody could ever certify this…