Hello, reader! I've composed a story for you based on Robert Frost's 1916 poem "The Road Not Taken," which is in the public domain, though I do point out that it is not written by me. Nor is the dialogue from most of this story. All credit for characters, settings, and situations goes to C.S. Lewis, his publishers, and related legal estates. As this is based more on the movies than the books credit is also due to Walden Media, Disney, 20th Century Fox, and related persons and companies. No profit is made from the following and no harm is intended. This will probably be rather slow and short at the beginning, but I hope the parallels drawn to the famous poem will be appreciated. Speaking of appreciation, I'd like to thank the reviewers of my first story "Burning Ice," whom I shall not name here for fear of perhaps getting another review and slighting someone, for their favorable reviews and affirmation that I'm not entirely lacking in talent. If you would like to leave a review, I'd love constructive criticism as I'm always looking to be better. Please enjoy, and drop me a line after with any comments you may have.
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
It really was remarkable. A wood in a wardrobe. It shouldn't be there, but it was; it shouldn't exist, but it did.
Edmund lay there in the snow for a moment, looking up at the trees, laden with snow, eyes on the frosty muted sky, gray as an English one after a snowfall, the color of London fog. The water from the snow melting from his body's heat was cold on his back, seeping through his blue bathrobe to his pajamas, so he stood up and looked about. The snow heaped into his slippers so that every step was like onto pins and needles.
"Lucy?" He pulled the bathrobe tighter, but it only soaked his back more so that he shivered. "Luuuucy! I think I believe you now!"
Who was he kidding? Of course he believed her. He couldn't be dreaming, he'd never been this cold in dreams. He plodded on through the drifts, shaking snow from each slipper every other step. He looked around more clearly at the Wood in the Wardrobe. There was something not quite right about it. Something ominous. Something that knew he was there. It was almost as if the entire Wood was a living, breathing thing. Even the lone lamp-post in the middle of the Wood (who put lamp-posts in woods?) seemed to grow from the ground. But that was ridiculous.
"Luuuucy!" But it wasn't Lucy he heard, it was bells, like a sleigh.
And then, out of nowhere: "YAH!" and a cracking sound like Mrs. Macready's whip.
A fountain of snow erupted down an avenue lined with pines and firs. Churning drifts blasted beneath the hooves of unseen animals. Edmund dived out of the way into the snow, trying to become invisible. A small man with a long beard and a red woolen hat jumped out of the now-stopped sleigh, looking quite threatening. Edmund decided that when one is in a foreign place, it's always better to be safe than sorry. He took off running, glancing behind him as he waded through the snow, and saw the little man gaining.
The dwarf, for that was what he was, shot out his whip and it wrapped very precisely round Edmund's ankle, just after his slipper and prior to his pajama pants, and it tightened and cut like the prickling ice all around. A swift jerk by the dwarf left Edmund face-down in the snow, and he flipped himself over immediately. He tried to flounder away, but the dwarf was on top of him, a knife pressed to his throat, their breath freezing together in the air.
This was the beautiful, marvelous land Lucy loved already? This was no place for children! This was dangerous, life-threatening! What would happen if he didn't get back to that wardrobe, to the other side, to Professor Kirke's house? What if he died right here, right now? How long would it take them to notice? Would Lucy find him? And what on Earth was the threatening little fellow with the knife trying to say?
"What is it, Ginarrbrik?" asked a voice from the sleigh, the speaker invisible behind its high snowguard. It was a woman's voice, a very powerful woman's voice, a voice unaccustomed to being disobeyed. It was a cold voice, too, compliant with the Wood, which was now even more smotheringly silent.
"He won't get off!" Edmund sputtered, hoping whoever it was would tell this person to put the knife away like a decent person. The dwarf only pushed the blade closer so that any nearer would draw blood.
"Is that how you address the Queen of Narnia?" hissed the dwarf, who must be Ginarrbrik.
"I-I didn't know!"
Ginarrbrik seemed to take particular offense to that. "Well, you shall know her better afterwards!" And he raised the knife and Edmund could only think I'm going to die.
"Wait!" said the woman's voice, and Edmund lifted his head to see below the dwarf's knife and around his fur-wrapped body. The speaker was standing, towering over the sleigh. She was the tallest woman he had ever seen, taller than most men. She wore a pure white dress and her thick hair was tied straight back, as if it too was hesitant to disobey her will. And on her head she wore a crown of long icicles, glinting and regal. She held in her hand a staff, almost a spear of ice on an iron pike. Even from a distance she was strikingly beautiful, but in a terrible beauty, not an approachable beauty like Susan was always told she possessed, but a beauty that made you cower and feel insufficient. She spoke again, this time to Edmund, who wasn't certain that he was relieved she'd stopped the dwarf: "What is your name, Son of Adam?"
I hope you don't consider that a complete waste of time. You know the story, I know. Things will begin to pick up further in, as these first two chapters will mainly be background information. Please bear with me. Thank you for coming this far. As stated before, I appreciate any comments you may have, favorable or otherwise. We shall continue the poem and the story later, should this garner any attention. My thanks, dear readers. For Narnia, and for Aslan!