The discovery of the Dawn Treader
Nothing ever changed at Aunt Alberta's house. It was always the same. The front door, painted a hideous brown to be efficient and practical and never show marks. The heartless strident trill of the electric doorbell, which was modern and efficient and never needed winding. The modern double-glazed panel in the front door, through which Aunt Alberta peered before opening, her eye hideously but presumably efficiently magnified. The cold handshake on greeting – Aunt Alberta considered kissing visiting relatives to be unhygienic – which also always left your hands cold and greasy, because Aunt Alberta used special modern hygienic vegetarian hand-cream, which never rubbed in but always rubbed off on you. It was like the moment of return from Narnia, when you realise that nothing has changed in this exact second in which you have been away – only without the good bit of having being in Narnia.
This time, it was all the more dismal, because of having to kiss Father and Mother and Susan good-bye, while Eustace sniggered mockingly in the background, and then having to go indoors to a modern and efficient and hygienic vegetarian dinner, during which Eustace monopolised the conversation with a detailed account of the book he had been reading, about the sinking of the Titanic. As Edmund whispered to Lucy while they lugged their suitcases upstairs, "the little stinker would just happen to be reading that."
Edmund had to share with Eustace. Eustace steered him grandly off to the door at one end of the landing. Lucy had the small guest bedroom at the other end. Aunt Alberta opened the door, and left her coldly to it. Perhaps it was not efficient or hygienic to help somebody unpack. Lucy set her suitcase down behind the closed door with a small sigh. Father and Mother and Susan would be home by now. They too would be having an odd dinner. Except that it would be an odd dinner of the sort which uses up the last of things, a party-like, last pickle, half a sausage and the end of the packet of crackers sort of dinner, before setting the breakfast table for an early start to catch the boat train to Liverpool and the steamer to America. Peter, at Professor Kirke's little cottage, would still be swotting, or else having a break of milk and biscuits and a good chat about Narnia with Professor Kirke. Narnia, where they were not unwanted guests. Narnia, where they were kings and queens.
She was a queen. Queens do not sit down on their cases and cry. And therefore, Queen Lucy of Narnia screwed up her eyes, thought firmly about the golden sunshine-y warmth of Aslan's mane and the strength that flowed into you out of it, and opened her eyes to face Aunt Alberta's efficient and hygienic and unchanging guest bedroom. Except–!
She had been in Aunt Alberta's guest bedroom before, most memorably for two whole hours during a day's visit when she had been six, when Eustace had shut the door on her and got it jammed. Since then, she had looked in once or twice, enough to know now that nothing had changed. The modern and hygienic duvet on the bed, with the single modern and hygienic pillow, because it was unhygienic to sleep snugly wrapped in pillows and blankets – 'smothered', as Aunt Alberta put it. The cold, prickly matting on the floor, because polished wood was inefficient and carpet was unhygienic. The small dressing table, efficiently bare of ornaments. And the one small picture, hung up out of the way where nobody would look at it. That was only in here, in fact, only in the house at all because it was a wedding present from somebody Aunt Alberta didn't want to offend.
Except – except – except it wasn't just an old picture any more! It was a ship! A sailing ship! A beautiful, dragon-prowed, purple-sailed Narnian ship!
Lucy stood quite still for a whole minute and stared. She – the ship – was running before a fair wind on a swelling blue sea, at the very point of cresting one swell and dropping down into the next. The lovely smells of tar and salt and fresh sea breeze seemed to come flooding at the very sight. Aunt Alberta's efficient matting itself seemed to shift and sway with wonderful familiarity beneath Lucy's feet. A Narnian ship! Lucy let out one little squeak of pure joy. Then she turned, almost flung her suitcase out of the way and tore the door open to rush along the landing.
Eustace had gone, and Edmund was alone – but Lucy wouldn't have cared if Eustace and Aunt Alberta and Uncle Howard had all been present. "Come, oh come! Quick!"
She seized Edmund by the arm and dragged him, disregarding all startled protests, across the landing. "Look!"
Edmund looked – and King Edmund saw.
"I wonder who she is," said Edmund reverently, stepping forwards after a minute's rapt silence.
Lucy closed the door carefully behind them and followed him. "I thought for a moment it was the Splendour Hyaline, but-"
"-she's too small," Edmund finished, shaking his head. "Much smaller. And a dragon prow, not a swan. But just as beautiful. Much better than a steamer to America." He drew a deep breath, as Lucy found she was doing herself, as if the picture had brought the rich air of Narnia with it, instead of the dull, damp England air that filled all Aunt Alberta's house because the windows were always hygienically open. "That – she, she sort of makes up for everything, doesn't she?"
Lucy nodded. "I- I wish we could share..." she faltered. "Instead of you having to..."
"I shall come in every evening to say goodnight – to both of you," said Edmund determinedly, returning his gaze to the ship. "No matter how unhygienic or lowering or whatever else Eustace cares to snigger that it is."
His eyes burned as they had done when he was King Edmund the Just, and Lucy swept him a queen's curtsey. "We shall hang out all the flags and the side-lanterns to greet you. I mean-" She gestured at the picture again. "We shall know that's what they're doing, even if we can't see it, at the moment."
"At the moment." Edmund squeezed her hand. "We'll go back someday, Lucy. We will."
~:~finis~:~
A/N: One, if you haven't figured, this is based on the BOOK. Two, for those wondering, this is not the reason for the absence of the second chapter of 'Mary P.' She is delayed because a real life editor, the size and build of Marge Dursley, is after me with a deadline. I, Mary P and the parrot umbrella will all be back once I've escaped!