The tears of the goddess
«'Then Aragorn took leave lovingly of Elrond; and the next day he said farewell to his mother, and to the house of Elrond, and to Arwen, and he went out into the wild. For nearly thirty years he laboured in the cause against Sauron; and he became a friend of Gandalf the Wise, from whom he gained much wisdom. With him he made many perilous journeys, but as the years wore on he went more often alone. His ways were hard and long, and he became somewhat grim to look upon, unless he chanced to smile; and yet he seemed to Men worthy of honour, as a king that is in exile, when he did not hide his true shape. For he went in many guises, and won renown under many names. He rode in the host of the Rohirrim, and fought for the Lord of Gondor by land and by sea; and then in the hour of victory he passed out of the knowledge of Men of the West, and went alone far into the East and deep into the South, exploring the hearts of Men, both evil and good, and uncovering the plots and devices of the servants of Sauron. »
The Lord of the Rings, Appendices
.oOo.
In the desert of Far Harad
The almighty sun blocked the indigo of the whole sky. On the edge of the dunes, slowly, the wind whispered long and burning sighs.
They were walking slowly. The human led his mount towards the summit of the Mîraz mountains range. The horse guided its rider through the tricks of the sands.
They were travelling since the icy dawn. Now tiredness and thirst flowed on their mind like an arid breeze. Dryness had hardened their lips and thickened their tongues. Silent in the Great Erg's loneliness, they had shared the last water pouch and had set off for the final stage.
One way or another, that would be the final stage.
.oOo.
A song rose, clear in the evening mists. Its divine inflections hovered in the serene air, as light as a dream. Abandoning his pen and ewers, the young lord advanced under the birch grove, I search for the haunting voice.
In a clearing bathed in silver clouds, danced a supple silhouette, a miracle of grace, a living image of the world in its early youth. At his call, the ballerina fell silent and turned to the knight in a silken whisper, her steps brushing the moss.
The light of the girl's eyes fell on him. He slid, amazed at his feet, his soul delighted. The beauty's serious face bowed, her perfumed breath caressing the knight's lips, sweeter than a kiss.
The horse was watching over its fainting master, protecting him from the sun and licking his face. The rasping tongue of the mount ended up waking its master from his lethargy.
– "Enough, Farasi, old fellow, I am awake now! " the rider moaned.
He raised his head painfully and saw a couple of urubu vultures waiting at a good scavengers had evidently lost a few feathers in the confrontation with his faithful companion, but they did not give up.
The great steed laid down beside the man. Dry hands gripped the saddle, the horse neck glistening with sweat and sand stiffened, a sun-soaked face grimaced, and in a combined effort, rider and mount braced themselves.
Everyone had found their rightful place: they were walking slowly, the human guiding his mount towards the peaks of the Mîraz, not much closer than yesterday, and the horse dragging its rider through the sand traps.
Two ash-colored urubu vultures circled above them.
.oOo.
At the bend of a granite dome, the nomads appeared, mirages out of a dream, half confused with the rocky plain they were surveying. At the head of the caravan were the men, wrapped in red veils, perched on dromedaries decorated like ceremonial chariots, swaying to the majestic rhythm of the desert ships. Behind them trotted the goats harassed by slender teenagers. The women brought up the rear, shadows encumbered with scarlet cloaks, infants, and draught animals.
Our rider and his horse, both as exhausted as each other, slackened their pace and waited.
Friend or foe? In their condition, it was useless to run.
Taïnyota raised his hand. It was for the foreigner to talk first, to declare his peaceful intentions. In this, the Harad differed neither from the cobbled avenues of Gondor, nor from the wild valleys of the Mirkwood.
– "Peace be upon you and prosperity to your flocks"! Taïnyota whispered in a hoarse voice, which he himself barely heard.
One of the leading dromedaries slanted and approached, draped in cloth and gilding, while the head of the tribal column slowed down, stopped, and remained at a distance. The rider pulled down the cloth that covered his face, revealing dark, piercing eyes and a coarse beard.
The experienced warrior, the chief's trusted man, the herald of the tribe. The Cadir, on the other hand, remained in the background, out of dignity, out of modesty.
The eagle's gaze caught Farasi's high lineage, the exhausted face of the stranger, his shoulders lowered. No equipment, insufficient water reserves... Without his horse, this unconscious would already be dead. And the animal was going to pay for its master's inconsistency as much as the latter. In the desert, such an irresponsible person did not deserve to live...
But something indefinable held Mezror back. The close understanding between mount and rider? That secret dignity that inhabited the gestures of the stranger? The generous solicitude of the thoroughbred?
The meharis threw a waterskin.
The stranger first made his horse drink.
Good point for him: he would live.
Then he drank the water lavished. Now he was the tribe's guest. From that moment on, the slightest batcha1 was responsible for him. In the complex web of virtues and prohibitions taught by the servants of the Goddess of the Three Faces, the moral obligation to welcome and protect the pilgrim yielded only to the respect due to the parents.
– "Welcome to our tracks, your stallion and you! "
The emissary and the stranger exchanged many more bows and courtesies before revealing their names. Mezror finally dragged Taïnyota into the column.
In one way or another, it would not yet be the last step for the foreigner...
.oOo.
Mezror and Taïnyota had woken up long before dawn. The Goddess smiles only at those who gather for morning prayer, it was said. In the ergs in the foothills of the Mîraz, game was scarce, always far from the camp.
The two companions rode, followed each by a batcha, a young hunting squire. Proud as an Oloye on his wedding day, the two teenagers trotted behind their line for a day, one carrying on her raised fist, a falcon blinded by a hood, and her younger taking care of the weapons – a short bow with a double curve, javelins, a spear.
At dawn, the hunters reached a valley. The winter rains were probably flooding the place: pines, strawberry trees, broom trees grew there in great numbers, at the bottom of the intermittent course of the wadi, one arm of which encircled a hill in an almost complete circle, before losing itself in the rocks of the deep desert.
This eminence seemed bristling with stone spears, meteors dug by the forces of the universe in another age of the world. Cork oaks, hawthorns and junipers were intermingled around the standing stones, in an impenetrable labyrinth. The porous rock of the standing stones sang in the breeze that descended from the Mîraz.
A dull tune, a heady melody, rose from the hill, as if the stones, each intoning its own melody, united their voices in changing chords. Taïnyota felt transported far away, to another hill, a long time ago.
When the hunters reached the edge of the bushes of the wadi, a powerful scent of lavender and rosemary arose, carried by a faster current of air. A cloud passed over the hill. Were there not words in this lament?
The horses refused to go further.
– "This is Land of the Djinns!" The batcha hushed. He had run to the side of the horsemen.
Taïnyota dismounted, entrusting Farasi to him. The young girl, too, cast anguished glances around, caressing the blinded bird of prey.
When the knight reached the foot of the hill, the wind strengthened, drawing menacing accents from the standing stones. A shadow fell on the scrubland and the hearts of the hunters.
– "These are the demons of the desert! They don't like it when people visit their Tell!" the young girl wept, caressing Farasi.
The sky darkened as before a summer storm. One thought they saw bright eyes blinking between the stones, hidden under the gorse and mastic trees.
– "We are lost!" the batcha yelped.
– "It is said they thunder their prey, and all that remains is a charred stone statue!" her brother added in a fearful murmur.
And indeed the sky had now been covered with dark clouds, dense and so low that they drowned the meteors on the top of the hill with their menacing wisps. The blocks of stone took on human forms, caught in flight and suffering.
– "Silence, you ignorant Batchas!" Mezror intimated. "Stop chattering like old servants! A lot of stories are said about the Djinns! But their deadliest weapon is undoubtedly fear! Anyway, Tainyota, we'd better get away. This place is not decent for the living!"
Shadows flowed between the meteors that surrounded the Tell. With their hearts oppressed, the hunters felt the trap closing around them. Sharp darts pointed at them from all sides. They felt it.
Taïnyota let go of the Cistus branches he tried to push aside. With a smile on his lips and a dreamy look that seemed to gaze far away, he exclaimed:
– "A Elbereth Elentari, Silivren Penna Miriel!2"
Hidden on the summit of the Sidhe stood an old man, leaning on his staff, next to an archer with bright eyes and long white hair.
– "This young man speaks Sindarin!" the elf whispered.
– "Happy meeting indeed, Lord of Anfaugwaith3! murmured the sage, as if to himself. We're going to do somebody of this... Taïnyota!
Then the storm mists parted, revealing an azure mirage, studded with shining gems. Hearts felt lightened. Then, immediately, the illusion dispersed, carried away by the clouds.
But Mezror was uncomfortable. There was a time for everything. This hour of the day was not the time assigned by the Goddess to observe the stars. That was unnatural and did not bode well. The nomad gathered his little troop, the adults the squires mounted behind the adults' backs, and they went further to see if the sky was more serene.
The Djinns are nothing but legends. Still let us have their Tells rest in peace!
.oOo.
The water gushed from the side of the sandstone scree, pure and cold. The Goddess shed Her precious tears there, as in the hollow of great brown palms.
Large clear veins streaked the stone, like so many wrinkles hollowed out by the Goddess's sorrow for the misfortunes of humans, Her children.
Dawn was coming, a grey rumour in the depths of the world. Taïnyota had finished his night shift.
He went down the hill and crouched down to collect water and quench his thirst.
But an old woman was standing there, meditating at the edge of the spring. The lookout, who had been supposed to be watching, had not heard her coming...
Taïnyota stepped aside, did not disturb the tranquillity of the watering hole: it was the hour of the first prayer to the Goddess, who called anyone in need of a moment of clarity, a moment stolen from the running time, suspended between the oblivion of the night and the effervescence of the day.
The old woman seemed to be chanting the sacred verses in remembrance of those she had left behind.
Mezror, in his turn, climbed the path with his steady step, where weighed all the cares of his office.
A young woman slipped out of her tent and tightened her red woollen shawl around her small shoulders. The tears of the goddess adorned her youthful forehead: three drops of opal along a small chain. She walked, slender and light, her gaze turned towards her thoughts, in the soft clatter of her silver bracelets. She came to seek comfort in the morning prayer.
When she reached the edge of the pool, she rested her doe eyes on Taïnyota for a moment. He read in it the hope anchored in his body, the secret bravery of women, the humility of a life before the omnipotence of the Goddess.
He dreamed another woman, perhaps, a thousand miles away from the deserts of Harad, was turning to Elbereth, to see more clearly into her undecided heart.
.oOo.
The jewels of the three-faced Goddess lit up one by one in the immensity of the sky. In the heart of this distant Harad, the stars formed strange constellations, but they unfolded on a deep blue velvet like no other.
A campfire crackled, around which the inhabitants of the oasis and caravanners had gathered, in search of warmth and company. The dry palms burned in showers of sparks, casting dancing shadows on the faces of the weary travellers. A samovar of hot tea passed around among the guests, drawing smiles of anticipated pleasure, precedence bowings and thanks as sweet as the beverage flowing from high into the held out glasses.
With Mezror's, tribes from far away had stopped at the oasis. In addition to their wares, they peddled news, with their share of misfortune, hope, fantasy, falsehood and conviction. The whispered conversations rose as soft as the evening air, while an oud played melancholy chords, majestic as a caravan on the move.
A tall old man, draped in a grey mantle, advanced towards the hearth. A murmur of surprise and respect ran through, and then the wind of the dunes was heard, so profound had been the silence of the assembly.
Attas Incânus, Elder of all tribes, sat down before the fire, laying down his hat and staff and taking his pipe out of his bag.
Doubtless, few of these travellers had personally met the old man in the course of their lives. But there was not one of them who did not know his nickname. From one side of the Land of Harad to the other, and from generation to generation, grandparents had spoken of the old man to their grandchildren and repeated what they had learned from him. For there was no village or hamlet, however small, that he had not passed once. And when Attas Incânus passed somewhere, he was no longer forgotten. (…)
He went by roads, paths and tracks. He had followed the valleys where the courses of the enchanted rivers bubble and sing. And the soil of the burning deserts had charred his bare feet. How long had he been walking? You might as well ask his erased footprints. What force drove him? What dream? Wisdom? Fantasy? An eternal worry? The insatiable thirst for knowledge? He arrived, went away, reappeared years later.
At each of his halts he told a new marvellous story. Where did he get his knowledge from? He had never been seen reading. And yet, of the events and men who, for centuries and centuries, had marked the seas, the passes, the steppes, he seemed to have preserved the memory. He spoke of the Goddess as if he had been her disciple, of the Kings of Númenor the Sunken as if he had followed them from conquest to conquest, of Umbar, the mother of cities, as if he had been its citizen, and of the carnage of the Dark Lord as if he had been drenched in the blood of the slaughtered peoples and buried under the ashes and ruins of fortresses.
He told just as well the life of the present time, and then the goatherd or the nomadic camel-driver, the chiseler of weapons or the carpet-weaver, the player of damboura or the potter from Bôzisha took on as much prominence as the heroes and ladies of legend.4
The old man smoothed his long grey beard, lit his pipe, took a few puffs, and then, with an amused gleam in his eyes, began:
– "Once upon a time, in a distant oasis in the heart of the Vatra Desert, there were four blind men living together in harmony. Their friendship was legendary, as they shared everything and helped each other with all daily tasks. They masterfully held the caravanserai, and the travellers praised their thoughtfulness and warm welcome. One day, the Oloya of the Harj came to the oasis, with her large retinue. She was a generous princess, eager to open trade routes, keep the peace with her neighbours, and maintain respect for everyone's beliefs.
There was a movement in the audience. The followers of the Red Eye, who were agitated, were enjoined not to disturb the orator. The shadow of a satisfied smile passed over the wrinkled face of Attas Incânus, who resumed:
– "Our Oloya, far-sighted and generous among the powerful of this world, made a great present to the inhabitants, something none of them had ever seen before. Murmurs of astonishment, admiration, some even a little fearful, arose among the servants of the caravanserai.
The four blind men were obviously very curious to discover this gift that left their servants open-mouthed. Each of the four friends wanted to touch this gift to understand what it looked like.
The first blind man approached the gift and discovered a long, winding tube. He confidently declared, "The gift is like a great snake!"
The second blind man, probing below, touched a solid foundation from which emerged a vigorous stretch. He exclaimed, "Here is a fruit tree firmly rooted in the ground!"
The third blind man, being hoisted up, caressed a wide expanse crowned with a pointed top. He protested, "You are both mistaken! The gift is like a mountain!"
Finally, the fourth blind man, feeling a kind of silken rope, pulled gently and concluded: "You are all mistaken. The gift is a thick cord, braided with precious fabric."
The four men began to argue, each convinced of the correctness of his experiment and laughing at the inconsistency of the others. Their quarrel attracted the attention of the Oloya, who watched them for a moment. The dispute became so bitter that the four friends had to be separated, and they called their entourage as witnesses. The servants did not dare to agree with one or the other of their masters, so the lady of the Harj had to decide between them.
A servant of the Eye then interrupted the tale, all puffed up in his ceremonial mantle, with the air of a sage who cannot reveal too much:
– "Who, among all these naïve people deprived of foresight, who could see the truth? Because there is only a truth! You have to be armed with the power of the Eye to catch a glimpse of it!
In response, the Elder of all tribes continued, as if he had not been interrupted:
– "None of the blind saw the truth more than the others, but at least they trusted what they had perceived, and not what ill-intentioned minds tried to make them believe! With a benevolent smile, the lady of the Harj said to them, "My dear friends, you have touched a different part of the gift and are all partly right, but each of you is completely wrong. My gift is actually a dromedary, a desert ship that will greatly help you in your work and trade. The first of you touched the neck of the animal, the second one of its legs, the third its hump, and the last its tail. To truly understand what a camel is, you need to bring together all your perceptions. What you see as your truth is only a particle of reality. The blind people then realized the precious lesson that the Oloya had just taught them. They understood their ignorance and stubbornness had prevented them from seeing the whole truth."
The old man sat up to observe the reactions. These speculations on the relativity of truth seemed to upset the followers of the Eye. They cast a dark glance at the storyteller, muttering muffled imprecations among themselves. But it was a humble caravanner who came forward:
– "O Elder of all tribes, forgive my doubt, which is certainly only a reflection of my own ignorance, but how could the four sages and their servants not know the dromedary?"
– "That is an excellent question, my young friend. For doubt is the greatest talisman of the honest man: it keeps from too presumptuous one's faith!
This time the followers of the Eye arose, approaching the hearth with a noisy ill-humour. Mezror and Tainyota stood up quickly and intervened, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The knight's hawk-like gaze defied the censor of the Eye, and that was enough for the chubby dignitary, who withdrew, taking with him his retinue of sycophants.
The story-teller, who had lost nothing of the scene, nevertheless kept the attention of the assembly on him, without even needing to raise his voice:
– "Indeed, this dromedary was a sumptuous gift. For I must tell you that in those days, the tribes travelled only on foot. It was the Goddess who bestowed upon them this most formidable gift, through the lady of the Harj. For the Queen of Heaven never abandons her children in doubt..."
The moon rose slowly between the stars, bathing the sheltered valley in a milky glow. The nomads snorted, gradually emerging from the torpor in which the tales had lulled them. It was time to go back to their tents or their homes. The families withdrew one by one, leaving Attas Incânus and Taïnyota alone in front of the slowly declining hearth.
The Elder of all tribes finished his pipe, looking at the stranger with a quiet air, hardly concealing it.
A little embarrassed by this prolonged examination, Taïnyota came to greet him:
– "You have stood up to the undesirables! Where do you intend to go now, O Elder of all tribes?"
– "My way finds itself! A caravan travels, I follow it. A wedding, a birth, a funeral procession passes by and takes me away. The wind blows and pushes me. The desert calls me in its own way. Everyone needs a tale at some point. But you yourself seem a little lost in these southern countries..."
– "Not all those who wander are lost."
The old man's eyes shone for a moment like an ember revived by the wind. He added, as if echoing the horseman's enigmatic answer:
– "All that is gold does not glitter."5
It was Taïnyota's turn to pause for a moment. The two men stared at each other for a long time, the elder pondering if he could count on his new friend, the knight looking in his memory where he could have met this learned old man.
As if he had just made a decision, the Elder of all tribes stood up quickly, picked up his staff and his bag and pretended to set off again.
– "We are called to meet again."
– "When shall I see you?" Taïnyota asked, his throat a little knotted.
From under the broad brim of his hat, the old man's bright eyes gave him a smile, a gleam of connivance:
– "Whenever you need a tale!"
.oOo.
Mezror and Taïnyota faced each other. Farasi waited, laden with a tent and gifts from the tribe.
The knight bowed profoundly:
– "Thank you for saving me and taking me in. I owe you my life!"
– "To the Goddess only you owe your life, twice now, Glory to Her name! You were part of the tribe, for a while, that's all! And you have fulfilled your duties, you have been part of all the scoutings, all the hunts, all the hard blows! You don't owe us anything."
– "What road will the tribe take?"
– "Next season, if the Goddess consents, we will go to Bôzisha to sell the carpets our women weaved with the silks bought in Sampar. If fate is favourable to us, we shall find spices in the forests of the Mîraz, and we shall set off again towards the east."
The herald crossed his forearms over his chest and bent his chest slightly:
– "May you walk by the side of Providence!"
– "Let your road follow in the footsteps of the Goddess," replied Taïnyota, who had learned the right answer.
The chief of the tribe endorsed these courtesies with his presence, enthroned impassively on his ceremonial dromedary. He nodded his head, broad and slow, as befits great men who accomplish things in the right time.
Taking the tribe with him, he let the two men say a more personal goodbye.
– "It's time for you to go! Widows start arguing about you... " The nomad said with barely a twitch of his eyebrow.
– "If you spent less time alone with your falcon, widows would talk more about you."
The two men smiled half-way. Among the nomads of the Harad, mutual esteem was manifested in the silence of trust.
Taïnyota embraced Mezror, took Farasi by the bridle, and went south.
– "Keep treating your horse well! He is the best part of you!"
.oOo.
Taïnyota stroked Farasi's neck.
The Tell of the Goddess Elder was an obligatory passage between the Sea of Dunes to the north and the Mîraz chain to the south. But this evening, the place was deserted: no caravan had set up camp at the foot of the hill. No nomadic tribe had come to return to the stone the remains of the grandmother who had died on the way, nor the glorious remains of the warrior who had fallen into ambush.
The last fires of the sun lit flames on the top of the domes strewn on the great hill and caressed the features of the Old Mother, the gigantic sculpted face of the Goddess of the Three Faces, who watched over the necropolis from the top of the cliff. Under the hieratic face stood the votive plaques, the mausoleums, the tombs of the humble and the powerful, which covered the sacred hill.
At last, the last rosy gleam abandoned the tutelary face. In the pale light of the evening that was falling, only Farasi's hooves resounded on the flagstones.
In the stone village, which was home only to the dead, the knight would occasionally see a will-o'-the-wisp appear, a tiny blaze of corrupt exhalations.
– "Is it you who are approaching, son of the North, O Taïnyota?"
The surprise made Farasi flinch. A tomb had called!
Taïnyota drew his sword. His legs, contracted by fear, transmitted all the rider's tension to his quadruped companion.
In the sepulchral silence of twilight, a voice had raised. Worn, rocky, misted with the fog of these nights when the dead linger on the edge of the living world, and yet clear and distinct, reciting words slowly, like a ghost remembering his former language.
Farasi pretended to back away. A hand on the neck was enough to restore his calm. Yet a cruel grip had seized the bowels of Taïnyota:
– "It is not reasonable to fear the dead. Yet this one knows my name, and more..."
With a pressure of his knees, the rider ordered to move forward. Gently. On the alert.
They walked along the alley that led up to the well, at the top, near the sumptuous tombs of the Obas of Bôzisha Dar.
A large crypt had been opened: the door gaped under the moon, a stone sarcophagus lay empty. Who was this sordid staging waiting for?
Steadying his fist on the hilt of his sword, Taïnyota reached the well, drew the water and gave his mount a drink. Always the horse first. Then he quenched his own thirst, sparing a few drops for the cardinal points, in order to appease the spirits of the place, as he had been taught in the tribe. The water tasted like ashes.
– "May the great peace of the Tell be upon you!"
Only then did he see the fire, a few steps away. A tenuous but real fire, a fire of the living, of dry branches and dead leaves. The little brazier, mussed in the hollows of the graves, threw fleeting gleams on the raised rocks and the domes of dry stones. Behind this fire, sheltered in a cavity which must have crowned some catafalque, kept watch an old man, seated cross-legged and smoking a long pipe.
– "Come and share my fire, young Taïnyota! " greeted the voice, in a weary breath.
– "Peace and honor be upon you, O noble old man! The designs of the Goddess are very singular to gather us here! "
– "May the Goddess enjoy many designs for ages to come! But I was waiting for you... " the old man blew with a cloud of smoke. "
What Attas Incânus and the knight Taïnyota talked about that night, no one ever knew.
.oOo.
1 A young servant. Word borrowed to J. Kessel in The Horsemen.
2 O Elbereth Queen of the Stars, Radiant and shining Jewel!
3 People of the desert, in Sindarin
4 This paragraph is borrowed from J. Kessel, in The Horsemen, with the character of Guardi Guedj, the Ancestor of everyone, who resembles Gandalf too much to escape the comparison I propose here.
5 Two verses of a poem linked to Aragorn and his line:
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken.
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Rewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
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