Woodsong
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The feasting and dancing wore on long into the night, and Lucy fought to stay awake for it. A Holly by her side was chattering away, something rather incoherent but very interesting about budding, and Lucy wanted very badly to hear how it ended. But it had been a very long day for a Queen who was a little girl again ("only think," she had said to Susan that evening, "that it was not so long ago—in a manner of speaking—that we used to stay up half the night to feasts and parties, and here I am now, yawning fit to split my head in two. It is a very quaint thing, this growing younger business") and so even with the best will in the world, it was not long before her head drooped lower, and lower still, until at last the girl-Queen was sound asleep, her head pillowed on her hands as the remnants of the party carried on around her.
Exactly how long Lucy slept I could not say, but I know that it was long enough for all the feasting, merrymaking and music to die down around her. Bacchus and Silenus and the maenads melted into the wood, leaving slumbering, sated mortals in their wake.
The stars above danced and sang their piece, though I do not think a person in a thousand in that world could have understood them that night. It was a complicated song, a song that ended before it began and was very long where it could easiest have been short, and terribly staccato and brief when most composers that I know of would probably have fancied a longer, largo interlude. But of course stars are not as humans are, nor are they even as are the Beasts, and their music does not tell, as mortal music does, of hopes and human histories and fancies and dreams; the stars tell of what is, what was, what could be, will be and has never been, and they do it all at once and so very out of order that it might make you afraid if you heard them at just the right time.
Lucy awoke to this starsong, though it was not the song itself that woke her. All Narnians are so accustomed to the singing that they pay it little mind, most nights, so when Lucy woke she only stretched, noted the spots where she might be a trifle sore in the morning (or was it morning now?) and got to her feet.
Everybody was asleep. Aslan was not in sight, though Lucy did not doubt he was near. There were great piles of people and brush all about, and the fire still burned high and hot, so she did not worry at not being able to set eyes on the Lion straightaway. Instead she looked around and weighed her options. She could return to sleep herself, of course, but why do such a dull and adult thing when she was a little girl again and the night stretched out warm and still and starlit before her? She could wake somebody to join her—Lucy loved it when there were people to explore with—but something about this night defied such a possibility. Something about this night seemed to belong to Queen Lucy alone.
So Lucy stepped out from the fireside, away from the sleeping party. She stepped left the bright, warm circle for the stretching shadows of the night-dark wood.
High overhead, the starsong changed.
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I do not, of course, recommend the casual exploration of a strange wood as a healthy pastime for little girls after dark. I do not even recommend it for adults, but of course adults will do as they please, whereas children are often still humble enough to take advice from time to time.
Lucy, had she had someone on hand to offer advice, might not have set out as she did that night. Then again she may have, for of course she was Queen in that world, and it would have been a foolish creature indeed who crossed any monarch of Narnia, and well did Lucy know it. All I can say for sure is that she set out quite unaccompanied, and because she was no stranger to trees that lived and birds that sang—but lived and sang much differently than they do in our world—she did not mind at all the leafy, sleepy sighs of those living trees, nor the quiet, sleepy twitters of those birds who slept with wings over heads, but still sometimes muttered to themselves of the days' events while they slept.
Lucy moved further into the forest, not knowing exactly where she was going—not even certain that she was going anywhere in particular, or if she was merely out on a walk for her enjoyment—but feeling no great urge to go back to the fireside. If it had been Cair Paravel she had left behind her, perhaps she might not have strayed so far. If it had been Cair Paravel, her home, at her back, she might have felt better inclined to stay near. But this place was another Narnia and these people, though Narnians, were not her own in the sense that she knew them, so she wandered further.
Once, you see, Lucy had carried in her head the life's story of every person who called their kingdom home. She had known the hearts and histories of those she delighted to serve, and they had been home to her even more than Cair Paravel. This was still Narnia, and these were dear and good people, but Lucy felt all at sea with them for she did not know them. Not really.
As she walked farther away from these people she did not really know, the Narnian Queen forgot to watch closely where she was going. No surprise, then, that Lucy's foot slipped a little on a pile of pine needles, and she skidded. One little hand flew out at once, clutching, grabbed at a heavy, sap-sticky branch. She pricked her hand on fragrant needles, and righted herself. She was about to go on, when—
"Quite all right, there, young 'un?" The bearded Fir, sleepy but woken by the grabbing at his limbs, looked down kindly at her. He was mostly still concealed in his tree some distance up the trunk, which produced a comical effect of a heavy, bristly green-needle beard on a craggy brown face that looked down from a great height to study her in what little moon and starlight filtered through the tallest trees.
"Oh, yes, thank you Grandfather," Lucy replied promptly. "Forgive me grabbing you, if you will; I slipped."
The Fir betrayed surprise.
"Grandfather is it? But why do you call me thus?"
"Why," said Lucy, now uncertain, "it was how it was always done, in— in our day. Has it changed?"
"It has not changed, little one." The Fir vanished back into his branches, only to reappear with a rustle and shiver of needles as he stepped from the trunk by his roots. "Only we did not expect any to remember the old ways, so soon after our waking. Human memory is short. These things take time to learn."
"Oh, no, I suppose they wouldn't have any way of knowing," Lucy said, and the realisation bit into her heart with a heavy sort of awakening that did not make her feel at all well. "But if you like, I shall try to teach them as much as I can remember before we are sent back." For the understanding of how very much this Narnia was not quite their own made it also very clear to Lucy that they could not possibly be meant to stay. Not like before, at any rate. It was as Edmund had told her that Peter had said to Caspian on their very first meeting—had Peter known even then? But he was High King, of course he must—they had not come to take their new friend's place; they had come only to put him in it. This was to be his Narnia, now.
"I would not object to that," the Fir said in reply to Lucy's offer. "But tell me, little human maid, who are you that you know of things before our Sleep?" For the Fir had not gone to the dancing that night, and so he had not seen Lucy there.
"Oh! I beg your pardon," Lucy was contrite. "I have not introduced myself. I am Lucy Pevensie. That is, I am Queen Lucy," as a sort of blushing afterthought, "of Narnia. And I know of things before the—Sleep, did you call it?—because I was before the Sleep, too. We all were."
"Madam," the Fir said, and bowed. The earth around his roots rippled and roiled, and Lucy knew he was Tapping his neighbours, touching roots, twining 'round, passing the news along in a way that was as ancient as the land itself.
By the time the Fir had straightened from his bow, the woods awoke. Trees rustled and breathed and stirred, in exactly the way they had always done— in the way that Lucy had hoped to see them do again, that other night when she had stolen away from sleep to find Someone.
"Lucy," her name was blown along in the leaves, "Queen Lucy, returned, Lucy of Narnia . . ." the news blew out, breathed in, went dancing along the treetops. "The Valiant, the maiden-knight"—gracious, she had forgot she even called herself that; had they been listening even then? One sometimes forgot one was not alone even in the thick of the forest. Lucy blushed at the memory—"Queen Lucy who sailed to the sea."
The timbre of the message was never quite the same twice. Sometimes joyful, sometimes reverent; sometimes eager, yes, but there was also doubt, mingled with hope. They wanted to believe, but could not quite. Those who had been there to dance with her that evening were quick and fierce to defend it as truth, just as those who had slept and hoped for a very long time were slow to accept. Every word, murmur and rustle of this was all woven together at once and yet clearly distinct, too. The blossoms shaken loose kissed her cheeks, vines twined though they did not tangle, urging her forward. Roots parted to clear an easy path, as they had done so long ago. The path broadened, leading her down to a narrow, shaded glen. The stars sang brighter, and she saw him there.
A Yew of such breadth and height that his age could not be doubted, the ancient wisdom of his years writ in every knot of his bark, was rooted in the middle of the glen. Lucy caught her breath at the sight of him. He stirred.
"Human maid . . ." the creaky, rustling voice emanated from the tips of his branches. There was no face. For one of this age, to leave his tree would be an exceptional exertion and so he spoke from within it.
"Grandfather," Lucy replied, and at once dipped a perfectly correct little curtsey. The tree marked it.
"You are deferential, human maid. Yet they say you claim to be a Queen of our kingdom."
"Why do you suppose I cannot be both, O my elder?" Lucy said. "For who has said that those who serve their people must be stiff-necked and prideful? In my time, in the time of my brothers and sister, this would be considered folly."
"You speak of your time as though it were so very long before my own." The great tree stirred only under the force of his own speech; Lucy focused intently on the words as they echoed 'round her.
"I do," she agreed, "for I do not know your time."
"My rooting took place in the soil of a First Spring; the first spring that Narnia had seen for a very long, cold time."
Lucy's heart quickened.
"Why," she cried, "why then your time is our time. You were rooted when—" she paused, much struck. "You were rooted when we were rooted."
"You do not look rooted to me, human maid."
"Humans do not root in soil, Grandfather. We root in people, in places, in ideas . . . sometimes we root too deeply for our own good, and are caused much pain when we are torn up, for we should love nothing more than to stay put. We are very treelike, in that respect." She approached the tree, one little hand raised. "Your roots run deep in this world, O my elder, and the roots of this world run deep in me. If you are a Yew, then you know who I am, for it was always said, in my time, that your kind cannot forget."
"I ama Yew, human maid; I am of the same Yew family that grew in the courtyard of the great castle itself, where Queen Susan held her private court. My family trace themselves to the dawning of time in this world, and you speak truth when you say that we do not forget."
"Then, Grandfather, if you profess to doubt I repudiate you for the lie. You must know who I am."
There was the very longest pause. The air hung heavy with expectation, and even the starsong grew muted. At last came a sigh, like the rustling of branches, and the ancient Yew, bent and gnarled, left his tree to stand before the Queen of Narnia.
"Thirteen hundred years is a long time to bear a grievance," he said. "I was young and easily swayed when you left. The story reached us here after it was already known to our kind at the castle . . . I will confess that I was one of the many who drowned sorrow in bitterness."
"You were cross with us?" Lucy was dismayed.
"I was. But thirteen hundred years is a long time. Even for my kind." He craned his knotted neck to study her. "I never saw you, myself. But you climbed into the arms of my cousins and loved them much. They told me of you. You are who you say you are, the little light of the North, and you have come back to us. I hope only that your Majesty will grant me your pardon for my bitterness."
"But Grandfather!" Lucy laughed, "you are a Yew! If you were not bitter, you would not even be yourself. Oh," contrite, "I am sorry that we left. It was not what we wanted. If there had been a choice for us to make, I think I may speak for us all when I say we would have made a different one. It is as I told you; we left Narnia, but Narnia never left us. She is rooted in us as you are rooted in her. And I am sorry—I am sorry—but I think we must leave again; I feel it, somehow. But I think, too, we cannot help but come back again sometime, in some way. The roots are too deep, you see." She lifted her little face to gaze on his. "Surely, Grandfather, this is something you can understand."
The Yew tree whose roots ran deep and far in that world, whose cousins, ancestors and descendants were sprung up all through the forest as far west and east and north and south as the climate would allow, bowed his head to the Queen who could never truly leave them.
"Her Majesty shames a bitter old tree," he murmured.
"Oh, I hope not," Lucy smiled. "I should hate to do such a thing. But I hope I have helped you to understand a little better, at least. We never wanted to leave. It was only what happened; nothing more."
The Yew assured her, with laboured words, that he understood. Then with a groaning effort he retreated into his tree once again, leaving the little Queen standing in the glen as the trees danced around her.
Lucy stayed a little longer in the wood that night. She met trees whose seeds came from trees that had known her well, and she introduced herself to many trees more. She danced a little when the trees were inclined to dance, and she climbed a few of those who had heard the tales that Lucy loved to do so, and were proud to cradle her in their uppermost arms. She learnt them all by heart, and then at last, joyful, winded, worn and weary, she allowed them to part before her and show her the path back to camp.
The stars lit her way, singing down on her as she walked, and it was only at the very edge of the trees that she became aware of that other Presence, the softly-glowing, warm and golden Self that outshone every star and had more history than all the trees in all the worlds combined.
"Aslan!" she said, and turned. The Lion behind her sat back on his haunches, smiling at the little girl whose joyful greeting could precede even the sight of him.
"Dear one. You are late abroad this night."
"Yes," she said, and smiled. "I've been making friends."
His purr was approving, affirming, but held a note of something else, too. Lucy tipped her head, considering.
"Aslan?"
"You answered a question this night, Daughter."
"Oh! You mean for the Yew?"
"My son the tree was young when you left."
"Yes, of course I know that; I can't be cross with him for being confused, can I? It wasn't as though we had a choice when we went, it was—" and then she broke off, seeing, because of course they had not had a choice but they had always known that He had. And in their darkest moments, their most bitter and divided hours, they had blamed Him.
"Oh," she cried, "oh, Aslan, we didn't mean—"
"I know, Daughter." There was no more reproach in his tone than there had been in Lucy's when she spoke to the self-reproachful Yew. "No more than he meant his anger did you. But the root of bitterness is an evil thing, difficult to weed out, and so it is better left unplanted."
"I see that now," she promised, "I think we all do . . . I hope we all do."
"If any do not, then the matter is not something that is between you and I. But there, dear heart, I have said what wanted saying, and now you understand. And now, too," he was smiling at her, "it is time for those who have danced all night to return to slumber."
"Yes, only—" Lucy felt her resolve wobble.
"Daughter?"
"How— how much longer, Aslan?" Her lion's heart ached in her little chest. "How much longer do we have here?"
The Lion lowered his head and looked into her eyes.
"Long enough, dear one. And then . . . something new."
She would not remember much of that night. She would forget going back to lie beside Susan. She would not recall how her sister stirred a little beside her and reached out to cover the younger girl with her arm. She would remember only the sweet, rich breath of the great Cat, the knowledge that he did not fault her pain or fear, and the way that at his words, high over their heads, as though they knew whereof He spoke, the stars changed their song again.
To something new.
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A.N.: This is a rather late-in-arriving giftfic I have been working on for elouise82 — I am only so very grateful to her that she has been so quick forgive it taking me such a time to get this completed!
Though the story is from me and for elouise82, the characters and the wonderful world portrayed within have been borrowed, with greatest care and deepest respect, from CS Lewis. They are not really mine in the least, which fact still grieves me sometimes!