Lost in Translation
They say languages take a lifetime to learn. For Peter it takes about fifteen years. And proper motivation.

Four times Peter did not understand Rat and Crow, and one time he did.

Parts of this are taken from Part 1 of The Stone Gryphon and from Black as Rat and Crow. After Herd Mentality, I needed something happy and fun and so did readers. I asked for prompts and two anons (or more) asked that I write about Peter and his ongoing difficulties with Rat and Crow code.

Cover photo from dailyotter dot org.

The Code was very, very long.

"No," Peter repeated stubbornly.

"You must!" Edmund insisted, waving a quill. "It's easy!"

Perhaps for you, my brilliant, over-excitable brother.

"If Edmund and I can learn it, you certainly can," Susan added.

Peter loathed this implication that his sister and brother were clever while he was not. He was clever! Truly! He just despised subterfuge, skullduggery, ciphers, allegory and anything that interfered with plain speaking.

"You both find it easy because you created it. And you are both pleased with it for the same reason," Peter told his eager brother and sister.

"I don't see why we can't just keep the key with us," Lucy said, looking up from the long, long parchment of coded words they were supposed to memorise and use for all "unsecured written communications."

"But that would defeat the whole purpose of it!" Edmund exclaimed. "It's supposed to be secret! Only we know it! Only we can write it! Only we can read it!"

"The messages are coded so security is not compromised if the Bird or bird carrying the message is waylaid en route," Peter argued. "Once it arrives, there is no reason why we can't keep a codebook with us."

Codebooks. Aslan help them all, it sounded like Nazi spycatchers - who Peter vaguely remembered from England, a place which felt more and more remote with each passing month.

The code Edmund and Susan had concocted was over two hundred words! On and on and on and on it went, completely overwhelming. Yellow Kavossed Jovox Printure Crisp Barracan Rosehips Kismat Curd Luflur Odishly Happenstance Scrump Sound Propincap Declension Plakill Tribop

No word was related to anything. There was no mnemonic device, no contextual clue. He couldn't remember one word in five. Edmund had already tried drilling him and had been a very good sport to not mock him when Peter had confused Fragut (Running out of fresh water) with Lective (Please communicate sincere regrets to our host).

"Codebooks can be stolen and compromised," Edmund said, voice cracking in his excitement. His brother had grown another hand in the last month.

"It will not do us any good if Lu and I can't read it!" Peter said.

"Peter, it is more secure," Susan replied, sounding so reasonable, it put his back up and took all force out of his argument. "After that business with the assassins, we really need to take more precautions."

The truth sat heavily amongst them. Personal Bodyguards, more security, locks removed from interior doors so their Guards could reach them at all times - it was all part of their new reality as ruling Kings and Queens, and not children in some elaborate game of costumed medieval theater.

I am a King. I should be able to do as I please. That was, of course, a terrible falsehood.

Edmund looked so terribly eager. He was thrilled to make this unique contribution to their safety and had been working with Susan on the code for a month.

"Would you please at least try it?" Edmund asked, his voice breaking again with a hint of pleading.

Reluctantly, Peter nodded. He knew this wasn't going to end well.

Jobox and Printure

"I don't believe I ever fully appreciated the difficulty of moving an army with herbivores in it," Peter sighed, exasperation warring with fatigue. Another lesson of Narnia and for everything he seemed to do well, twelve other problems arose of which he was so ignorant, he did not even know it was a problem until, like their fodder wagon now, they were knee-deep in the mud and struggling to find purchase.

Lucy tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but chain mail interfered with familial hugs, making them neither easy to give, nor pleasant to receive. Together they watched as Dwarfs, Bears, and Centaurs tried to push their fodder wagon out of the muck.

"Unfortunately, none of our archers is a Great Cat," Lucy said, with a sigh equal to his own. "Archers all have arms for holding bows and so for eating."

Rain was dripping off her helm and down her nose. Peter would have tried to brush it off but, with the heavy gauntlets, so delicate a maneuver would be concussive in impact. Lucy delicately flicked the rain away with her own gloved hand.

"At least the carnivores can fend for themselves," Peter said with glance back at the bloodied muzzles of four Leopards sheltering from the driving rain under an Oak. As they could not help with the hauling and pushing, the Cats had taken the opportunity to hunt. The (dumb) deer of the Northern Wilds, the Cats reported, were thin and stringy, the lack of winter grazing affecting prey and predator. The Cats were now cleaning themselves as best they could. They were fastidious about such things – something else to consider if they were ever so accursed as to have to repel a raiding Ettin party bent upon testing Narnia's young Monarchs in the melting snow, cold rain and endless mud of early spring.

Master Roblang slogged over, carrying a plank. He and the other Dwarfs worked to wedge it under the mired wagon to give the wheels some purchase in the sucking mud. Dwarfs did not mind the mud, Peter considered, so long as they could still march through it. They could handle bows as well and, hardy as they were, could do on shorter rations than most with nothing to show for it than a bit of ill temper. What plant matter they ate could, for a time, come from brewed barley and hops alone. But would that mean merely replacing the grains, hay, and greenstuffs in the fodder wagons with beer barrels?

"Steady Friends," Roblang shouted. With another mighty heave from behind, the wheels rolled onto the boards as wagon, Beasts, Dwarfs and Centaurs all groaned with the effort.

"Peter," Lucy whispered. "Did you know how much Centaurs eat?"

"I think we will need to reassess that aspect of our planning next time."

ooOOoo

Peter stared. What in blazes? Had Susan and Edmund, the Concert of Minds, lost their collective minds?

The cart's wheels squelched and splurted in the mud and finally ground to a sticky, slurping stop. The oxen, poor things, were heaving in their traces and would be able to go no further. Moreover, their addition to the company meant two more mouths to feed from their dwindling foodstuffs.

Peter knew, based upon the rain-every-day-of-the-last-ten-day struggle with their company's own fodder wagon that this cart, newly arrived from Cair Paravel, would require two Centaurs, four Dwarfs, and a yoke of fresh oxen (which they did not have) to free from the sucking black mud. They'd just have to leave it and come back for it later.

And as for its contents.

"Chickens?" Lucy asked through a nose stuffed with cold. They were both ill from the perpetual damp, sneezing during the day, and shivering and fitful at night.

The cart was loaded with precisely and carefully stacked crates, all lashed together, and rising up, higher than Peter was tall. Inside the crates, there must have been a dozen of them, were Hens, all clucking and chattering amongst themselves.

"I say," one Hen clucked. "Could someone please put the oilcloth back over us. "We're getting wet here! And it's cold!"

The others all squawked their agreement and complaints. Another said, "If someone will just drive us over to the coop and get us some grain, we'll just get right to it! We're all starving and no grain, no eggs!"

"And nice straw for nesting!"

"And clean water!"

"Peter?" Lucy asked. "I don't understand. Did Edmund not read our message?"

"I wrote and asked for a Jobox. Doesn't that mean a company of archers?"

Lucy shrugged. "I told you before I thought Printure was archers. I thought Jobox meant Please sign on the dotted line and return at your earliest convenience."

There was a crack of thunder and the skies opened up again. The Hens complaints grew louder.

"I didn't even know we had a code for Please send a dozen laying Hens into an Army company's campaign at first opportunity."

Cargoose, hurst, or groggled, but never plakill or tribop

"Lu? How's your Rat and Crow?"

His sister snorted, the sound muffled as she struggled out of her mail shirt.

Peter was writing bent over a propped up stool in their makeshift camp. They were three nights out of Cair Paravel, patrolling their northern borders, and investigating reports of Ettin incursions from across the Shribble. It had been over four years since the Ettins had made a nuisance of themselves but with a hard winter in the North they were reportedly coming across the border again, looking for game and unconcerned with whether it was a dumb beast or a Talking Narnian. The advance spies, their swift, far-seeing Raptors, had reported some flattened trees and boulders that looked to have been dropped or flung from a great, giant-sized height, but nothing else thus far. The Hounds gone to scent out the area had not yet returned.

"Ouch! Peter, would you? I've lost my only coif, again."

Lucy's hair always became entangled in the metal links of chain mail and she'd found a solution but never remembered to bring it. He put the writing charcoal down by the candle illuminating their cramped command tent and helped his sister tease her hair free.

"Thank you," she sighed and gently pulled the mail shirt the rest of the way over her head. Lucy was for more careful with her armor than with her other clothing, which looked to be last year's patchiest.

She looked around his shoulder at the parchment spread on the stool. "Barracan?" Lucy asked, reading the cipher he had written. "Is that the right code word? Doesn't Barracan mean The battle has begun?"

"Does it?" Peter replied turning back to the coded update that was to be his daily report to Susan.

Years of practice and Peter would rather review trade treaties involving cotton and chicken legs, negotiate border disputes between knife-wielding, ravenous, stinking hordes, settle marital disputes between Songbirds, and teach dancing to a score of stupid princesses pretending to be demure, than write a single line to Edmund or Susan from the road.

"I thought Barracan meant All is well here and that Crisp meant The battle has begun," Peter said.

"No," corrected Dalia, Peter's Cheetah Guard, from her watchful corner. "Crisp means Can you recommend a good cook?"

Why in blazes did they even have a code for Can you recommend a good cook? For probably the same reason that they had a code about sending laying Hens into an Army company, Peter recalled grimly.

"I believe Yellow is the word you require, High King," said Briony, Lucy's She-Wolf Guard.

"Yellow?" Peter repeated, rubbing out Barracan. At this rate, he would put a hole in the note to Susan.

"Yes!" Lucy agreed. "Thank you, Briony dear. Yellow does mean All is well here." She paused. "I think."

After all this time and Lucy was still no better than he at Rat and Crow. This was always a problem when the two of them took to the field together and left the Concert of Minds behind.

A second opinion was warranted.

"Dalia?" Peter asked, looking to his personal advisor and sagacious confidant.

"I concur," the Cheetah said.

"Yellow it is then," Peter said, writing the word with a flourish. "What else?"

"We should tell King Edmund and Queen Susan that no enemy has yet been sighted," Briony offered.

"Oh! I know that one!" Lucy exclaimed. "It's Kavossed!"

Peter frowned. "I don't think so, Lu. I think kavossed means Many dead." That was one he did know.

"Oh, we don't want that one then," Lucy said. "Perhaps groggled is the word we are looking for?

"I don't think so. Doesn't groggled mean Our compliments to your House in this season of joy?"

Dalia offered, "I thought it meant, Supply wagons struck by lightning."

"I believe," Peter said, racking his weary mind for the appropriate coded phrase, "No enemy yet sighted is either Cargoose or Hurst." He looked to his assembled team who, noble, brave, and talented though they all were, nonetheless were Rats and Crows neither by pedigree nor inclination – for which daily he thanked the Lion most ardently. "Thoughts, my Friends?"

"Don't use Jobox! Or Printure!" Lucy said helpfully, thereby avoiding the delivery of laying Hens to their camp and treaties to be executed by signing on the dotted line.

"And do not use plakill or tribop," Dalia added.

Not that Peter would ever repeat those errors. He had wanted his tournament armor; plakill had gotten him a trunk of fancy dress and red leather trousers that would have looked fetching on someone else. As for tribop, well, he still blushed over the embarrassment that one had caused whilst visiting the Anvard court. They sang songs about it - behind his back.

"I thought the code you wanted was Groggled," Lucy said, frowning. With a shrug, she said, "Just write all three. and say, 'Don't remember which word means No enemy yet sighted.'"

Peter dutifully wrote out, "Forgot if 'cargoose,' 'hurst,' or 'groggled'' means 'No enemy yet sighted.' Please advise. Regardless, condition is Yellow."

This message, Peter had to concede, would make Edmund and Susan very cross. Three days later they learned just how cross when a woolen horse blanket, far too warm for the mild season, and a map of the City of Tashbaan arrived from Edmund. Predicting Lucy's need, Susan also sent three coifs for her sister's hair.

ooOOoo

Peacock is an ass

Peter scrubbed the grit from his eyes and stared at the message. He didn't have time for this Rat and Crow nonsense. They were moving against the Ettins under cover of the full dark once the Bat scouts reported the raiders were asleep around their bonfire.

And now there was this peculiar news from Edmund. If they weren't on the verge of launching their own counter-offensive, Peter would order their Army back home this very instant. It was strange, though, that he could feel Edmund's calm in the message. Whatever had occasioned this very alarming note had past, and for the benefit of Narnia.

Still…

"Leszi, what do you make of this?" Peter shoved the scrap at his swordmaster.

The Satyr held the message up to the shielded lantern, scanned it quickly by a narrow beam, and again doused the light.

"It's from Edmund."

Heated white caps lice. Smooth Beauty 2 Hart.
Luflur on Curd.
Winged.
Yellow!
Peacock's an ass.

Leszi snorted. "What good's your clever brother's clever code when it's too clever for a fighting soldier?"

The persistent complaint of Rat and Crow.

"I think Edmund says in the first line that there was danger in Tashbaan that they had to flee but that they escaped safely by sea back to Cair Paravel."

"If you say so," Leszi said. He picked at the corner of the scrap and scowled. "Isn't Curd the code for Anvard? Winged means victory for Narnia? I don't remember Luflur except that it and kavossed are words I never wanted to see."

"True that. Luflur on Curd means Calormen crossed the desert and attacked Anvard and Winged means that somehow Narnia and Archenland prevailed. And to keep us from racing back to their aid, Edmund emphasized the word Yellow to say they are all fine and not to worry."

Leszi let out a breath, as relieved as Peter had been. "So what's this last line?"

"Peacock means Rabadash."

"And ass?"

Peter shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea. I don't know what ass means in Rat and Crow."

Leszi crumpled up the message, shoved it into his mouth, and gulped it down. Satyrs were like Goats that way - they would eat anything though it was not polite to comment upon. "The man is an ass." Leszi replied, ambiguous enough to refer either to Rabadash or to the Royal Lazy Arse, King Edmund.

There was a movement of night air. Flapping wings were overhead and Peter could just make out the high pitched voices. The Bats had returned.

It was time to move out.

ooOOoo

Morath

Fortunately, Aidan understood his state of mind as they patrolled the Northern border. Peter apologized more than once for his vacant preoccupation, but Lucy's consort was as gracious about Peter's distraction as he was about everything else.

"Do not trouble yourself with it at all, Peter," Aidan as they rode from the headwaters of the Shribble to where it emptied into the sea. "Truly. I am very glad to be here to share the burdens you all have borne for so long and so also hopefully the joy." With a sad and wistful smile, he added, "I do understand."

So they criss-crossed the River, collecting reports, talking to the dour Marsh-Wiggles who watched and spied, and investigating old camps and hideaways, still abandoned. Ettins were creatures of habit, after all. They camped two days atop the bluff that looked onto the blasted plains of Ettinsmoor. They burned hot, high fires, made noise, flew bright banners, and made themselves open, obvious, and aggressive. See us, Harfang. We are here. We never sleep. Know that Narnia is defended.

In the distance, they could see, and the far-seeing Raptors confirmed, lumpy piles of rock moving about. The Ettins had their own scouts and the Narnians made certain they had plenty to see lest they think of testing a border.

The morning of the third day, a little Swift, a Bird as fast as it was dim, fell like a stone from the sky as they were breaking camp.

Peter scooped the Bird up gently in his palm, willing himself to patience.

"Friend," he said. "Our great thanks. What news from Cair Paravel?" Aidan thrust a rag at him and Peter squeezed drops of water into the exhausted Bird's mouth that were gratefully gulped down. There was a message tied carefully to his leg but the Bird had flown very hard and fast and deserved a moment's recovery. In his anxiety for the news, Peter did not want to alarm the Swift, who would promptly forget what little of the message he had been told orally.

"From King Edmund," the Bird gasped. "News."

A ripple of shock went through the Company at the Swift's strangled words. They had all been on edge knowing what might occur at Cair Paravel in their absence.

"Good or ill?" Peter demanded.

In his eagerness, Peter had pushed the Swift too hard. The Bird cringed in his hand and mutely offered his leg. Hands shaking, Peter carefully removed the tiny scrap and unrolled it.

It was Edmund's hand, written hastily.

Morath. Yellow!

Morath. The word he had hoped for, dreamed of, memorised, and prayed for; a word only recently added to the dreaded Rat and Crow. A word Peter himself had created. And if Yellow, then things were very well indeed. Beneath the code, penned even more hurriedly, something Peter had never seen Edmund write before, uncoded. Please come home.

"Good news," Peter breathed, then shouted it, so that all could hear. "Good news from Edmund! All is well! They are all well! I must..."

Someone tossed reins in his hands, his horse already saddled and Peter hauled himself up. "Fooh, Beehn!" he called to his Cheetah Guards. "We're..."

"Already on our way," Fooh called over his shoulder and loped away after his brother.

Peter gathered his reins and leaned in his saddle. "Home!" His horse sprang forward, chasing after the Cheetahs.

They followed singing Birds and jubilantly pealing bells all the way to Cair Paravel.

When the Palace finally came into view, Peter's dream was flying high from the ramparts. It had been lovingly sewn months ago, each stitch bearing the hopes of wistful Narnians. Alongside the Four, a new pennant now snapped in the wind, unfurling streamers of Linch green and Narnian gold and scarlet.

The Narnians of Cair Paravel and environs were thronging the road to the Palace, all shouting and cheering. Some had obviously been celebrating all night.

No one stopped him though there were many shouted congratulations as he galloped up the road to the Palace. Why were they congratulating him? He had done nothing to bring about this day!

"Make way for the High King! Let him through!"

The crowds parted. He would have galloped his horse straight into the Palace but the Dryad groom and Mr. Hoberry appeared first. Peter vaulted off, threw the reins in their general direction, hesitated... Fooh and Beehn were exhausted, tongues lolling out, sides heaving.

"Go!" Fooh gasped. "We're fine!"

Peter took the steps three at a time, bells ringing in his ears.

Susan met him first, at the stair to the Monarchs' wing. He was reeking of sweat, smoke, horse, and travel but his sister hugged him fiercely.

"Everyone, are they..."

"Fine," Susan soothed. She sniffed. "Better than fine. And I shall start crying again for sheer relief." She gave him a shove. "Go! They are waiting for you."

Lucy ambushed him at the top of the stair. Their embrace was awkward; she had to move her swollen belly to the side - had she gotten bigger in the last 10-day or was it his imagination? Peter knew his little sister was not made of glass, still he didn't feel he could pick her up and swing her around as he would have otherwise.

He was trying to push past her but Lucy grabbed him by the shirt. "Stop!" she ordered.

A slice of fear … was there...

"Everything is fine" she insisted. "Deep breath, Peter. Be calm or the Cat will scold and the Healer will bar the door."

Now that he was here, he did notice the contrast. In comparison to the hubbub and celebrations outside, all was very, uncommonly, still in the Monarchs' wing.

"Healer?" He looked over her shoulder and saw at the end of the hall a shrouded figure, hooded and cloaked in black, hunched over a stool. He could barely make out the shape. A large, green-eyed Cat, purring loudly, sat next to her? Him? He could not tell.

"Ajouga Fumb," Lucy whispered, nodding to the person on the stool. "She appeared yesterday evening, unannounced. She's very skilled. It was a great honour that she attended." His sister paused. "She is of the Maza Blaksa clan?"

Oh.

Even in his impatience, Peter bowed respectfully to the Black Dwarfess. "Thank you, Lady for coming to us. We are honoured by your presence and grateful for your assistance in our need."

"You are welcome, High King," the Cat said, in the stead of her companion. "I am Gahiji. We were pleased to attend. All is well within and we foresee no difficulties at this time. But, please, compose yourself."

The Black Dwarfess stirred in her chair. The Cat glanced over her shoulder and then looked back at him. However they communicated, it was silently. "They are all awake within," Gahiji said. "You may enter."

Still, Peter knocked, though the Guards, Jalur and Rafiqa, would have known he was outside the door.

"Come in, Peter!" Edmund called.

Peter pushed open the door.

Morgan was lying in the bed, propped on pillows. Edmund was standing at the window, holding...

There was roaring in his ears, blood rushing straight down, feet rooted at the threshold, he was paralyzed. All this time, so long and...

In the quiet peace of the room, he could hear Rafiqa's tail thumping on the carpet and Jalur's satisfied chuff.

"Don't just stand there," Edmund finally said, sounding so tired and so very, very happy. "Come and meet your nephew, Edmund Linch."

Peter crossed the distance in two strides. As eager as he was, first he went to Morgan's side, leaned down, took her hand, and kissed it. "Congratulations, sister. We were all blessed the day you found us."

Morgan smiled.

A boy. A nephew. A Prince of Narnia. "Is everything... all... Are you? Is he?" Peter floundered, not even sure what to say, how to ask the questions swirling in his mind that could not find their way to his mouth.

"Ten fingers, ten toes," Morgan said. "Lungs of an elephant, appetite of a Centaur and as nocturnal as an Owl."

"And you?" Peter asked. "How are you who did all the work?"

"I am well," Morgan replied.

"I worked, too!" Edmund said in a voice just above a whisper as he gently rocked his son.

Jalur growled.

"Some," Edmund insisted. "Moral support. Bathed her brow. Held her hand."

Morgan's lopsided gaze went past Peter to her bondmate and spouse. "You did indeed." Her soft expression was intimate and beautiful.

"Would you like to hold him?" Edmund asked.

"I.. uhmmm.. yes?" Peter stammered. "But, uhm how? I don't want to..."

Edmund laughed, free and happy. "Just put your arms like I am, and I'll lob him to you."

"What! No!"

For all Edmund's teasing, the transfer was smooth and his brother easily slid the blanket-wrapped baby into Peter's arms.

Peter refrained from mentioning that their first Prince of Narnia looked squashed and red-faced. If they weren't concerned, he was not.

"He's so small!" Peter exclaimed, marveling at the tiny fingers that would someday hold a sword and a quill.

"Try pulling something that size out of your navel," Morgan said.

Peter stepped as gently as he could to the window; Edmund hovered at his shoulder. The Crows were all perched in the Tree outside, craning their necks for a look. They were all undoubtedly wondering who had won the wagers.

The good Sun streamed in, all light, bright, and warm.

"Welcome, Prince Edmund Linch," Peter said to the baby, his own blood. In his heart, he knew he spoke to one who would someday sit the High King's throne, wear his crown, and bear his sword. "Behold Narnia. I cannot give your our land for she is herself. I cannot give you life, for that your parents have done. I give you my love and protection to my last breath." He bent down and kissed his heir on the forehead. "Aslan's blessing on you and us all. May you be forever in his paws."

The rest of the speech Peter had rehearsed never got said as Edmund Linch took the most solemn moment to loudly demand food and a clean nappy.

And so we now have AU of the Narnia side of this vision, Everybody Lives, Nobody Leaves. In a separate story to follow, Morgan requests a gift for her hard work that no one really wants to grant, except Jalur and his motivations are decidedly mixed.

That plakill results in red leather trousers is a nod to the divine WingedFlight. You may thank (or blame) Starbrow who urged me to hit Post.