The cruel wind bites harshly at her nose and mauls at her ears. Her hair whips
at her face and neck, her eyes sting and burn from the salt of tears.
She does not want to be here. She wants nothing to do with these people. Home is
all she wants. Home, family, warmth and security. She
has none of these anymore.
"What is your name?"
She turns her head and looks at the boy standing
beside her. He is a sturdy lad, around the age of fifteen,
with clear eyes, dark hair and tanned features, from hard days of work in the
sun. She had seen him around the village before, working with the horses
and tending them. She knows that
she should be grateful to him, a kind soul amid
the cruel. Instead, she cannot help but hate him to her utter depths. She needs
to place the blame on someone, so she will make him guilty, at least in her
mind.
He searches her face for an answer and does not see the malice within her heart.
She wishes the King's Men would come and do
something to him.
"Mírima," she answers, turning her head back to the shore,
which is far off in the distance.
"My name is Zimrukhâd," he continues.
Mírima turns her head further away, to let him know she does not want to talk to
him anymore. He does not get her point.
"I do not suppose you have ever seen any of the Fair folk before, have you? The
Elves?"
Of course she hasn't seen any elves. She is only nine and the elves only came to
the Isle in secret, everyone knows that.
There is a twitching anger within her. Mírima wishes she could throw
Zimrukhâd overboard and cast him into the reeling seas; let him know what
it feels like to have someone take charge of your life without any mercy.
"No, I have not seen any."
He nods, rubbing his hands together for warmth and
looking up at the overcast sky.
"Well, I have heard that perhaps sometime soon we will all be
able to see them," he says.
Looking up at the clouds too, Mírima doesn't reply to him. She thinks Zimrukhâd
is a fool with foolish dreams and desires.
There are dark clouds that block most of the
sky. It is once again a blood colour, as it has
been for the past days. Mírima doesn't know what the time is. There is no sun,
yet it is not quite dark. You lose track of time when you are being swallowed
and regurgitated by the terrors Fate. Mírima closes her
eyes and thinks back over what has happened since she had left her mother in the
woods.
They had reached the ships in the harbour and
had been accepted onto one of the smaller ones, Zimrukhâd's horse (or rather
Azrubêl's horse) was allowed on board as well. Mírima then heard Zimrukhâd
talking to an older man who questioned him, and she learned that he was an
orphan from the town of
Nindamos. He came to Rómenna over a
year ago and had since been working for Azrubêl.
Then, as the boy had spoken, the King's Men came to the shore to take more of the Faithful. The man questioning Zimrukhâd had left them to help the other mariners, and ships left the shore before anyone could be claimed.
Mírima opens her eyes again.
Zimrukhâd hasn't left her since the ship was anchored again into the sea, asking
her if she was all right, and offering her food and drink. He does not
understand how I feel, the stupid boy, she thinks. He has never known the
true meaning of family, so he can never understand me.
"Mírima…do you know if there is anyone on this ship, or perhaps one of the
others…someone who will look after you?" he asks, slowly, after their few
moments of silence, listening to the thunderous sounds.
Mírima's lips are tightly pursed together before she answers him.
"There
is none."
Mirima knows the truth. Perhaps she was a child when she was driven from her
house, but she is not that child anymore. She has become a victim of plain
cruelty and injustice. She has been robbed of her old self and has seen the rape
of her village. She knows better than she did before;
her eyes have been opened to the reality of the world. She has been forced to
grown up.
Those men were sent to destroy her life and the lives
of other innocent people. Mírima knows
that despite his promise, she will not meet her father on the ship. He will not
come for her. He is probably now dead; nothing but charred bones from defending
their burning house.
She will not see her mother either. Tálith has sacrificed herself for her
daughter. She is probably dead by now too,
Mírima thinks, or barely alive.
No, there is none on board any of the ships of Elendil and his sons who will be
there to hold Mírima and care for her. She now too is an orphan, like Zimrukhâd,
alone in a vast world. Even
if there was someone there for her, Mírima sees now that there will always be
evil in the world to ruin her life and the lives of others.
Mírima is no longer a child, but still she is hurting like a child would.
Alone, she desperately wants ammê.
But what is this?
Mírima looks at Zimrukhâd wide eyed, the salt in
the sea air adding to the sting from her tears. He has taken her hand in his,
two cold hands entwined together, and he looks down upon her. Though his face is
emotionless, she sees in his eyes a warm tenderness.
"You do not have to worry. I will look after you," he says gently.
Mírima is silent for a few seconds, only staring at
Zimrukhâd.
She is mentally berating herself for thinking of him the way she had. If it
weren't for him, she would have been dead.
Her lips tremble a little and then before Mírima can stop herself, she is in the
boy's arms, crying into his chest.
Mírima is not a child anymore…but she is still only nine years of age. She is
still unstable like a babe when it first stands.
The sky soon starts to cry like Mírima, first lightly drizzling, and then
battering heavily. The little ships in the tumults of water begin to sway
uncertainly.
"Get below!" the mariners of Anárion's ship shout
to Mírima and others who shouldn't really be there,
because they were ordered a while ago to stay below deck.
Covering both of them with his jacket, Zimrukhâd
carefully leads Mírima beneath the deck of the ship. Mírima is still crying, but
the rain is hiding it. She feels ashamed of herself for the outburst.
Beneath the deck there are many others;
widowed women with crying children, orphans, young couples,
old couples, the remains of broken families. Aged men sit on their own in the
corners, muttering and shaking their heads.
Mírima and Zimrukhâd find themselves a seat beside the
bags of flour. Already sitting there is a group of young people, two boys and
an older looking girl. One of the boys and the
girl look the same – probably brother and
sister.
Mírima sniffles and puts on a bold face. Zimrukhâd nods at them and shakes the
boys' hands. He seems to already know them.
"This is Mírima," he says, pointing to her.
The girl smiles warmly at Mírima and moves her ragged shawl away from next to
where she was seated.
"You can sit here," she says.
Mírima lamely smiles back and sits down next to the girl. Zimrukhâd and the boys
start to talk with each other quietly, the girls listen
to them.
She leans against the side of ship and feels the
waves hitting the ship through the planks, along with the cold.
Mírima's only belongings were in the rucksack packed by
Tálith, and that was now lying somewhere in the midst of the trees,
dirty and cold, covered with rain water and
perhaps Tálith's blood. She is not wearing anything very warm
either, and so
she shivers silently with the cold of her wet clothes
as she listens to the boys.
The girl looks down at her with a frown and offers her muddy, torn shawl.
"For warmth?" she asks quietly, handing it to
Mírima.
Mírima smiles feebly and takes the shawl, saying,
"Thank you."
"That is no problem," the older girl says kindly.
"Gimilbêth is my na-"
Suddenly from outside there is a large roar,
and inside the ship screams follow. Everything seems to be rocking and toppling
over and Mírima's world seems to tip to the left.
Gimilbêth is shrieking, and so is Mírima, as the ship then tips right and
everything slides. Crying aloud, Zimrukhâd falls on top of Mírima. Screaming,
she is crushed between the boy's weight and hard wood.
The ship rocks the other way again and Zimrukhâd is thrown off
of Mírima, landing hard against a wooden crate of goods. Mírima tries to
hold onto something and finds herself grasping onto
Gimilbêth.
"Hold on!" the girl screams, taking Mírima's hand.
Suddenly Mírima feels wet, and from everyone
else's screams she can see that they too are feeling the
moisture. Water has slipped from the deck into the ship and it drenches
everyone who squirms to keep their place on the floor. It is icy cold and salty,
and it sloshes in Mírima's face, stinging her
skin. With the taste and smell of the salt and the jolting of the ship, Mírima
begins to feel sick and wants to vomit.
"What is happening?" she manages to wail at Gimilbêth
while the ship tips again.
Gimilbêth is clutching onto Mírima's hands,
and is desperately
trying to tie herself and Mírima to the hooks in the bulkhead of the ship with
some chain and rope for some stability.
"I do not know!" she shouts back. "Here, hold onto the chain! Do not let go!"
Mírima nods and grabs onto the chain, wrapping it
twice around her wrists. Now that she is somewhat stable she can see everyone
else in the hold of the ship. Zimrukhâd and the boys are all struggling to hold
onto a sliding crate. There are women sitting on the deck,
trying to hold their children up above the water and trying not to slide with
the ship.
The hatch, from where Mírima and Zimrukhâd entered below
deck, opens and more water comes in. In staggers one of the mariners. He
is coughing and drenched with water.
Mírima can hear thunder and a great wailing, deep
and inhuman. The noise reminds her of mountains.
"Men!" the mariner shouts, standing up in the
water and looking around. "We need more men to manage the ship! We need to leave
now and we need more men to help us!"
Immediately many of the young men try to stand up in the rocking ship to
volunteer. Zimrukhâd and the boys volunteer too.
Gimilbêth's brother crawls over to them and he
shakily kisses his sister, saying, "I shall be back soon,"
and then follows the stream of people exiting.
Zimrukhâd looks back to Mírima before he leaves too, and gives her a fleeting
smile, and then
disappears up the stairs to the surface of the ship.
The ship continues to jolt here and there, but
not as much as it first did, as the ship moves away from the Isle. Mírima stares
at the door with a frown. The mariners should be
handling the ship better with their extra help, but she does not understand.
The mariner who came in said that they needed to leave. But why? Was not the
ship safe enough?
"Why are we leaving the Yôzâyan?" she asks
Gimilbêth beside her.
"Perhaps it is because of the storm," the older girl answers.
Mírima is quiet with thought. She suddenly hates the ship. Attû lied to
her; he said that the ship would keep them safe. Mírima thought that it was a
refuge from the evil men, not a cargo ship bearing them wherever the mariners
wished.
"But I do not want to go," she says to Gimilbêth.
Gimilbêth looks at her for a moment, pity in her
eyes.
"Neither do the rest of us, but evil has come upon the Isle. The Anadûnê
is not as it once was. We cannot stay here…if we do,
then we shall perish."
At the moment Mírima thinks that it is better to perish in the land she was born
in than to start her life anew in an unknown land alone,
without anyone there to love and care for her.
"Are you cold?" Gimilbêth asks, offering another
dirty and ragged cloth.
There is still water seeping in from the deck of the ship and Mírima feels the
cold. She shakes her head though. She wants Tálith's dirty swathe, not
Gimilbêth's.
"Come," Gimilbêth says,
standing up with effort as the ship sways. "Let us sit on these crates so we do
not get wetter."
Mírima obediently stands up and follows Gimilbêth
on top of the crates that are against the walls of the ship. She sits with her
back to the wooden wall. The water is no longer splashing on Mírima's face or
spitting salt into her eyes, but she does not
feel safe up on the crates while the ship is rocking.
Gimilbêth is smart and has chosen crates that
have been tied to the wall. The other crates are sliding here and there, but not
the ones they are on. She gives Mírima a small
smile, sitting beside her and covering both of their legs with her ratty swathe.
Mírima still does not feel safe. She will never feel safe until she is in the
arms of Tálith or Huor. That will never be.
"It would be best if we held onto the chains, just in case,"
Gimilbêth says,
giving Mírima the iron bonds.
Mírima carefully twines them around her wrists
and then slumps where she is. The girl was right to hold onto the chains, for
just as Mírima lets her hands down with the chains, the ship jolts and everyone
slides, everyone except Mírima and Gimilbêth on
the crate.
From the top of the crate Mírima can see everyone in the room. The little
children cling to each other stupidly and slide here and there with the water.
The old women and men are huddled in a corner, offering each other warmth and
comfort. Many of the women are alone, their men are on the deck helping the
mariners steer the ship. All the babies are crying madly.
Mírima doesn't know why they are crying. At least they still have their mothers
to hold them.
Beside the crate she is seated on, there is a woman on the floor, hugging her
daughter. Both of their faces are ruddy and they both look frightened. The
little girl in the woman's lap looks the same age as Mírima. Mírima stares down
at them.
They remind her of Tálith and herself. Mírima wonders if they had someone like
Huor in their family, who told them to come to the ship for safety, who stayed
behind to guard their burning home.
"Ammê…I'm frightened," the little girl whimpers in her mother's arms.
The woman holds her child closer to her breast and kisses her brow.
Mírima's bottom lip trembles and her eyes are glazed with tears as she stares at
them. The stupid girl. What has she got to be afraid of?
"Hush my love…" the mother says soothingly, stroking her daughter's matted hair.
"We are safe now. Remember what attû said?"
The mother too is being foolish with hope, Mírima thinks as she sniffs and
blinks away the tears.
"Where is attû?"
"He must be on another ship, love."
The woman's voice sounds strained as she says the last sentence. Mírima can see
tears in her eyes.
"I want to go home, ammê. I don't like it here," the girl cries.
Her mother holds the little girl tightly, kissing her again and rocking her like
a babe in arms.
With tears, Mírima watches the mother and daughter. Slowly the girl drifts off
to sleep in the strong and secure arms of her mother, despite the constant
swaying of the ship and the roaring outside.
Mírima wishes she has someone to hold her and to assure her that everything will
be fine, even though she is aware it will not. She has no one. Gimilbêth
is a stranger. Zimrukhâd is also a stranger, but at least he is someone,
even though Mírima does not particularly like
him. He is the only person now that she has.
She tries to hide her face from Gimilbêth and
rests her head on her bent knees, her eyes looking at the woman and her child
beside her crate.
The little girl is asleep and the mother sits there motionlessly, her eyes
closed and tears dribbling down her cheeks.
Mírima hears the prayer the woman mutters and she closes her eyes, listening to
the words and pretending it is her ammê who speaks
the words:
Nothing affright thee;
All things are passing
God never changeth;
Patience endurance
Attaineth to all things;
Who God posseth
Alone God sufficeth.
In her mind's eye she sees Tálith whispering the same words as she lies on the
forest floor where Mírima last saw her.
The grass about her mother's body is fresh and emerald green, speckled with
mauve and cream flowers, sweet smelling as the flowers of the Nísimaldar. There
are fresh flowers in Tálith's hair and she in dressed in a white gown. Mírima
sees her mother as flawless and completely unstained, other than her
tear-streaked cheeks.
Everything in the woods is silent except for Tálith,
whispering her prayer to The One. She says the last line and then, with a sigh,
she dies, a small smile upon her lips and her brows unworried, committing her
spirit to He whom she placed all her trust in.
More jolts of furious water thrust
the ship here and there. Beneath her, Mírima hears a deep groaning. She doesn't
know if it's the ship that is groaning or if it is something else. The groaning
continues and again Mírima is reminded of the mountains. There is more noise
now, creaks and rumbles.
Evil has come upon the Isle? Perhaps the mountains have stepped on the feet of
the river. Stepping on the feet of other people has always been an evil thing in
Mírima's eyes. It is also an evil thing in the river's eyes. He gets angry with
the mountains and calls with a deep voice to his friend, the sea, to aid him.
The watery force then assails the mountains. Mírima plays out the little
scenario she has devised in her head.
Little does she know that what she imagines is slowly becoming a reality for Tálith and all the others still on the Isle.
Mírima's crying is not heard over the terror
of the sea and the screams of the women and children.
Neither is Tálith's as she tries to run. The cart was overturned when the ground
first started to tremble and she ran as far as she could as the whole of the
Isle violently shook and crumbled beneath her feet.
As her daughter imagines her, she is screaming
prayers to The One to have mercy and to relieve her from the bonds of life.
Eru Ilúvatar hears her prayer. At the same moment Mírima
imagines her mother saying the last lines
of the prayer, a tree falls on top of Tálith and she is dead before the earth
crumbles and the mouths
of the sea opens to devour the land. Her body is
crushed beneath the weight of the great trunk and as the world sinks, it all
falls on top of her body. When the devastation is over, not even Uinen's bright
eyes will be able to find her body to mourn. Tálith
dies cold, scared, dirty, bleeding and broken -- everything
contrary to what Mírima imagines. But still, she
dies.
With her face buried in her hands and her head shielded by her legs and knees,
Mírima cries quietly to herself. The ship rocks, the ocean roars and the babies
scream. She is not heard or noticed. She is only a girl, small and
alone.
The woman still mutters the prayer beside the crates, and in her mind, Mírima
mutters it too. Now that she has seen Tálith die
in her mind's eye, she knows that she is
truly alone, alone like the nine ships of the Faithful in the vast ocean of
battering hateful waves, fleeing from the horror of the fall of the Anadûnê.
Notes:
ammê - (Adûnaic) Mother
attû – (Adûnaic) Father
Yôzâyan – (Adûnaic) 'Land of Gift', a name of Númenor in Adûnaic
Anadûnê - (Adûnaic) 'Westernesse', a name of Númenor in Adûnaic.
The prayer said by the woman:
"Let nothing disturb thee,
Nothing affright thee;
All things are passing
God never changeth;
Patience endurance
Attaineth to all things;
Who God posseth
Alone God sufficeth."
Was a prayer written by St. Theresa of Avila. It was read to me at an Easter
prayer service and is the inspiration for this story.