Chapter Seven: Meneltarma

A few weeks later, I found myself sitting upon a large flat boulder eating an apple. It was a warm day, with no wind, and the Sun was directly overhead. I was sweating, for not only did the eastern foothills of Mount Meneltarma afford a pleasant view out over the grain fields of Orrostar, but traversing them was good, healthy exercise. A man needs to exert himself from time to time, lest he become bored and restive. Down below I could clearly see the sprawling expanse of Armenelos, with the royal palace sitting atop its hill. Further on, towards the horizon, lay Rómenna and its harbour, though I would have to climb higher to see them properly. There was a touch of wildness about this place, which reminded me a bit of Middle-earth. Around me were bushes, rocks, and some stunted trees, with a fair bit of long grass. Above me, the slope got markedly steeper. I had no intention of going too far up there. Not because I was unfit, or because the terrain was too difficult, but because the summit was the domain of my uncle and his pretentious piety. Thrice-yearly he still made his way up the ancient spiralling road, to make ritual thanksgivings to Eru. Even when he was younger he had to go up in a litter carried by slaves, for whilst the road was cut to allow a gentle slope, the distance was too far for his ruined legs. I could only be thankful that he had given up forcing the entire royal family to make his pilgrimages with him.

I had finished the apple, and was about to resume my walk when I heard a voice calling out.

"Pharazôn!"

I turned. A figure was climbing the hill towards me. It was Zimraphel. She was garbed in rather more humble attire than she had been at dinner, wearing a light travelling cloak, a brown tunic, belted at the waist, and black leather boots. She carried a basket.

"What an unexpected surprise, cousin," I said. "What is the King's little girl doing out here?"

"I might ask you the same question, Pharazôn. Since when does the son of Gimilkhâd go to pay his respects to Eru?"

"It is quite possible, dear Zimraphel, for a man to walk the foothills of the Mountain without making the journey to the summit."

"I'm aware of that, cousin. It seems your detection of irony is not what it once was."

"And yourself?" I said. "Why the basket?"

"Silphium-weed grows on these slopes. I thought I would take the opportunity to collect some while I was visiting the hallows." She held out the basket. Sure enough, it was half-full of dry green leaves. Silphium-weed was a medicinal plant, used to treat sore throats and such like. It was also an ingredient in concoctions that women drank to avoid pregnancy. Giving it to an already pregnant woman, however, was a recipe for disaster. I knew that much.

"Worried that your bedtime activities might go wrong, cousin?" I said.

"Oh, one can never have enough on hand," said Zimraphel, smiling. "Bedding the likes of you is bad enough. Can you imagine how my father's poor old heart would break if I became pregnant with your child? But no, this is not for me. It is for a friend."

There was more to this than met the eye, but I let it be. I also decided against telling her of my parent's wishes for marriage. That would have to wait for later, when the dead hand of Inziladûn ceased to rule our lives. "For someone who may well have found themselves passed over in the line of succession," I said, "you seem surprisingly cheerful. I would have thought that you would spend a year or two weeping into your perfumed cushions."

"I think you will find, cousin, that Númenórean women are made of sterner stuff," said Zimraphel. "If the King wishes to revisit the laws of Tar-Aldarion, then so be it. He might find he has less support than he thinks. But, as for me, I am visiting the hallows to thank Eru for granting my parents another child." Once more she smiled enigmatically. "Do you wish to accompany me?"

"No, thank you, Zimraphel. Your father rather soured me on the summit some years ago. His thanksgiving ceremonies are mind-numbingly dull, and the fruit left from previous years always makes a disgusting rotten mess."

Not only that, but it was the sheer pointlessness that had always annoyed me. My uncle, for all his piety, had never even managed to entice the Eagles of Manwë to make an appearance. The Valar, it was all-too clear, were no longer listening to Men, so why try to curry favour with them?

"But we have so much to discuss on the journey up," she said, winking. "I have some advice for you."

I sighed. "Oh, very well then." I suddenly had the pleasant but blasphemous image of bedding Zimraphel on the summit, enjoying her warm flesh beneath the open sky as Eru himself looked on in dismay. I swiftly dismissed the mad thoughts from my mind. Zimraphel was not as pious as the King thought, but it was hard to imagine anything more outrageous, short of, say, cutting down Nimloth the White Tree.

It was a short distance, past some bushes, to the road, and from there the upward slope was gentle.

"So, Pharazôn," said Zimraphel , as we walked side by side, spiralling round the peak,"you still wish to launch an assault on Sauron of Mordor?"

"Of course," I said. "But you and your father are completely unable to see reason."

"My father, yes. But as for me, I thought you would have learned by now not to take me at face value."

What game was she playing? "Speak plainer," I said.

"Pharazôn, I said I wished to offer you advice. I ask you now to think: who would be able to change the King's mind about attacking Mordor?"

"No-one," I said. "Certainly not me, and probably not you. Not even Lord Numendil of Andunië, after the mess with Melendur."

"Think again, Pharazôn."

This was infuriating. "My father?" I said. "If Gimilkhâd came out in public opposition to an attack on Sauron, Inziladûn would do it in a heartbeat."

Zimraphel laughed. "Very droll, Pharazôn, but no."

I shrugged. "No-one on this island has the ability to change your father's mind. It would take a sign from the Valar, or something similar to bring him around, and we all know that the Valar have abandoned Men."

"You're forgetting to whom you speak."

"Yes," I said, conceding the point. "But you know what I mean."

Zimraphel sighed. "You foolish man. Do I need to spoon-feed you everything? You are right. No-one on this island can change Tar-Palantír's mind. But there are beings not of this island that could convince my father to attack Sauron. High King Gil-galad of the Noldorin Exiles, for instance."

The Elves! Of course! Inziladûn adored all things Elvish. They were practically demigods in his eyes. Gil-galad would be able to win over my uncle.

"But how would I win over Gil-galad?" I said, thinking aloud. "I am hardly a renowned Elf-friend!"

"Visit him in Lindon. Tell him that Númenor has the strength to end Sauron's menace forever, and that only the doubts of our King prevent us from doing so."

"And what if he shuns me?"

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," said Zimraphel. A snail was crawling across the road. She crushed it beneath her boot. "Take Amandil with you if you wish to enhance your Faithful credentials. Gil-galad knows the Lords of Andunië."

It was an idea breath-taking in its audacity. That I, son of Gimilkhâd, grandson of Ar-Gimilzôr should cross the Sea to meet with an Elf lord? Still, if that is what it would take to change the mind of that pathetic old man in Armenelos, then so be it. I pondered the idea all the way up the Mountain.

When we finally reached the flat summit of Meneltarma, Zimraphel gave me a knowing look, as if to ensure that I would obey the ancient protocol. No-one save the King of Númenor was permitted to speak in this place, and then only to give thanks to Eru. My uncle had drilled that into me the very first time he had dragged me up here. But my uncle was not here now. It was just Zimraphel and I, with the world at our feet.

Zimraphel closed her eyes and bowed her head. More interested in the view than in appealing to a being that had so obviously turned His back on humanity, I wandered around the summit looking down. The sheer height of Meneltarma can be unnerving. On my previous visits we had been slightly above the clouds, an experience that was decidedly eerie. Today, there were no clouds, and the island was laid out before us like a map. The five great peninsulas were visible, thrusting out into the calm blue Sea. The cities were large patches of white amidst the green fields. The rivers, Siril and Nunduinë, the woods of Andustar: they were all there. I tried looking westwards towards the horizon. Legend has it that on clear days our far-sighted forefathers could see the towers of Tol Eressëa from this place. Now, however, the Sun was starting to sink, blinding me with light, so I was unable to see anything. Or perhaps the old legends lie, who knows?

Eventually Zimraphel opened her eyes. Silently, she took me by the hand, and led me back down the Mountain.