A Time for Everything

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Narnia is drought-stricken, and King Caspian is troubled. Will the stars never change? Will the rain never come?

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Drought

Summer had come to Narnia. Nay, for summer in Narnia is warm sunshine and dewy mornings, fresh green grass on the lanes and dappled golden sunlight through the beech leaves, refreshed now and then by the thousand pearls of gentle summer rain – not this Calormene heat. Narnia lay parched beneath a merciless sun. Everything was hot. Everything was dry, and brown, and scorched. And it was only August.

In the castle of Cair Paravel, King Caspian the Tenth stopped in the ante-chamber behind the Great Hall, and gestured for one of the fauns-in-waiting. "A glass of water, Lentaus, please." The young faun pattered away, and Caspian sighed, and sank down onto the edge of a table, and pulled the circlet of gold off his head. Some days, in this heat, it was almost too much to bear. The metal itself was hot, and the hair pressed to his forehead was hot – and everything was just too hot.

Not only was he too hot, his country was too hot. The heat had come in the spring, at apple blossom time. The yields in the castle orchard had looked at first as if they would be excellent; now the fruit had mostly withered and dropped. By midsummer, the feet of the dancing Fauns at the Great Dance on the Council Lawn had raised little puffs of dust with every step. Another month and a half had passed, and the burning heat continued.

News of the drought came in every day, and none of it was good. The Trees in Lantern Waste were growing slow and sleepy in their search for water; or at least the deep-rooted oaks and beeches. The smaller, shallower Trees were turning limp and yellow. There had been reports of some Hollies finally fainting for lack of water. The Waters, too: the Great River was low, the high mountain springs were mostly dry – and even the glass of well water which Lentaus pattered back and handed to him at that moment was warm, and rather thick.

Narnia was suffering; and it was the business of its King to bear its sorrows, and to do something about them if he could, and put the bravest face on it where he could not. Caspian swallowed the warm water, and fetched up a smile for his courtier. "Thank you, Lentaus."

To smile, to thank them, to help his people bear this trouble he could do nothing about – that was all he could do, at present. It seemed to Caspian such very, very, little; and then at other times, when he was hot and tired and parched himself, it seemed almost too much. Carrying on the business of the court as if all was well had today involved receiving a small envoy of Talking Beasts from the borders of Archenland. For a change, they had not come specifically to bring news of the drought, although they had brought plenty, even without words, with their dusty feet and weary faces. They had come, a mixed band of Ravens and Rabbits and Hedgehogs, because they too were carrying on as if all was well: carrying on the well-established convention of presenting the latest additions to their families at Court.

It had started after the War. In the first days of his reign, wherever Caspian had gone, the Animals had flocked to see him, and to bring their young ones to see 'The New King, the True King!' To Caspian, used to the self-serving flatteries and thinly veiled dislikes of the Telmarine court, it had been both delightful and humbling. He had made a special point of stopping wherever he could to speak to them. Gradually, gladly, it had become a tradition – a precious thing in itself in a land and people so newly united. Man and talking beast, faun, satyr and dwarf – plus the rather simple giant from Ettinsmoor who brought each of his not-talking donkey foals – all who could brought their offspring to be presented to the king.

He had lost track of how many thousand times he must have said "In the name of the Lion, I am glad to meet you." Narnia was growing to be a comfortably populous country again. Everyone – and Caspian choked off a sigh. It was a blessing on his land. Everyone, it seemed, each pair of rabbits and ravens and hedgehogs, had their young – apart from the king and queen.

There was no royal child. No one for Caspian's old Nurse, now very old but still hale and hearty after her meeting with the Lion, to tell the old, true stories to as she had to him. No small son to struggle with a wooden practice sword and tumble off a first pony. No daughter to be as fair and elegant as her mother, with the light of the stars in her eyes.

"When we are sent one," was all the Queen would say about it nowadays. "My father was very old when I was born."

If, not when, the insidious, treacherous little voice at the back of Caspian's mind would whisper. If... And it was no good to mention Ramandu. He was one of the Stars, not a Son of Adam; and he grew younger with each passing year – as Caspian did not. Year followed year, and there was no heir for Narnia. Only the king, and the queen, and Caspian's small cloud of worry that was the question of succession.

It made receiving the young ones of all his subjects very hard, some days – especially when, like today, he was too hot. Caspian handed the empty glass back to Lentaus, but stayed sitting on the edge of the table.

Once – and only once – he had mentioned the matter of an heir to Glenstorm, who would know what was written in the stars about it. And it had been like the day in this burning summer when he and the Lord Mavramorn, riding out to deal with some matter or other, had passed Aslan's Howe. At the memory of the cool, dark places within the Howe, Caspian had reigned up suddenly, and leaving the horses outside, led the way in to find a moment's respite.

It had been cool in there, but there had been no respite. Barely into the first passage, Lord Mavramorn had laid a hand on Caspian's arm. "Sire," he had said simply. "I have held the knife that was used on this Table. I have been forgiven, but this is no place for me." And there was nothing Caspian could do but lead the way out again, and go on with the parched, burning day.

In like manner had been his meeting with Glenstorm. The Centaur had heard him out, and then shaken his head without further ado. "Sire," he had said simply. "The stars show no change." And against that, there was nothing Caspian could say.

Had he, somewhere, been wrong? Should he not have let his cousin go into exile? If he, Caspian, left no heir, the next in line to the Narnian throne should logically be his uncle's son – but his unknown, few month old cousin had gone through the door with Prunaprismia and all the other Telmarines who had not chosen to stay. Caspian had not been sorry to see the last of his aunt – but should he have stopped them? Or at least kept his cousin back – to be raised by his own Nurse, perhaps?

Or had he been wrong on the Voyage of the Dawn Treader? There had, Caspian knew all too well, been too many occasions on that journey where he had at least wanted to go his own way – not just the day he had tried to got the Edge of the World with Reepicheep. That day Aslan had come and stopped him; so disappointingly many other days since then Caspian knew he had simply carried on into tangles and confusions – had he been wrong on their return to Ramandu's island? Lord Mavramorn and his wife – the Duke of Galma's daughter with the squint and the freckles – also still waited for a son, but they had five (freckled) daughters. Was it that the children of the Stars and the Children of Adam should not marry?

Was it this? Was it that? Was it –

No! Caspian smashed his fist down onto the table beside him, and on the doubts that had been perched there. No! No! No! Aslan himself had come to their wedding! As well say that he, Caspian, should not be king! Aslan had been at his coronation; by Aslan's own agreement Caspian had taken the vow to seek the seven lost friends of his father; Aslan had been there, all the way; and at the end, Caspian's bride had been waiting for him. So-!

His sudden flash of anger ebbed away. So, then. So they must go on, as Narnia must go on, day by burning day, just as they were in this barren, scorching summer. He squinted, as if to bring his focus back to the present moment, and caught sight of his faun-in-waiting, still standing there but looking very worried at the king suddenly thumping the furniture. Caspian gave him a somewhat apologetic smile. "Is, er, is the – do you know where the Queen is, Lentaus?" It was the only question he could think of quickly, to make something sensible to say.

Lentaus bowed. "Her Majesty went out into the grounds with the Dryad Salicye and the Lady Rhoop and the Lady Mavramorn. Does Your Majesty wish someone to go and find them? Or a message taken? Or-"

Caspian shook his head quickly. If a Dryad had come to visit, the Queen would most certainly be found in the gardens, and the walk looking for her would probably do him good. It was, after all, the Queen's frequent comment that he brooded over things too much – which Caspian knew was true, just as he knew he also tended to swing suddenly to the opposite extreme and fix on his own way and start sounding like Miraz.

Yes – no – a walk in the grounds would be good. The Queen's gardens, as people called them, were still beautiful, even in the drought. Coming from a low, sea-swept island, the ordinary garden flowers and bushes of Narnia had been a delight to the Queen – and bringing them to her had been a delight to the Narnians. Even today, probably literally today, if the Dryad Salicye had come to visit, the Narnians expressed their love for the Queen in gifts of plants. The gardens of the restored castle at Cair Paravel had bloomed into a beauty the Dryads whispered rivalled the gardens of the Golden Age. Caspian felt the gardens reflected the Queen's own beauty – but the Queen denied both of these, and insisted the gardens were an echo of the love that had brought the plants.

Whatever it was, the garden's flourished under the Queen's watchful care – and Caspian knew she hurt as badly over each drought-dropped fruit and sun-scorched blossom as he did over the dry springs and and wilting trees of all Narnia. But – here they were.

Caspian straightened, and put his still-too-hot crown back on. "Thank you, Lentaus. I will go and find Her Majesty." He shook his head at the faun's enquiring glance. "No, I don't need any attendant." He crossed the room and opened the side door into a blast of hot air like opening an oven.

He had not meant – consciously – to go and check the castle well on the way. A report of the water level was brought to him everyday, and it wasn't that he doubted the chief steward's word or measurements. Sometimes he just wanted to see things for himself, Caspian argued with the small voice in his head when he registered where his feet had led him. There was no harm in that, surely.

But it was awfully depressing. Even sitting in the lukewarm shade of the orchards (no shade was cool in Narnia these days), the well house was hot. The ferns which normally grew on the well had shrivelled and died; the well rope and bucket where they hung from the winding hook were dry; and peering into the black depths, Caspian could see no water. He stopped himself from lowering the rope to test the depth, and instead leaned on the edge of the well and stared downwards. No breath of cool, damp air rose as it should have. Hot – dry – nothing.

No, not quite nothing. For the moment, somewhere down there, was water. Hot and thick. When that ran out, or turned salty on this little island that was Cair Paravel-?

The king sighed. "Aslan? Aslan?"

But he could not think what else to say, so he left the words hanging there in the dry air above the well, and went to look for the Queen in her poor parched garden.

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A/N: To be continued...

If you are wondering about Lord Mavramorn, keep an eye out for a tale called "Between the Sandhills and the Sea" later in the month!