A Dream Of Lions
I've always been the practical one. Peter was horrid to me about it when we were very small, and I expect he's still sore about it now, when I've chosen to go with Mum and Dad to America, rather than stay behind in England with the others. There are far too many things to see and do in America, perhaps a brilliant future yet to be discovered, while I've seen as much of England as I care to. I've already been there, you see. America is a brand new place, with new possibilities.
I'm to go to a party tomorrow night with my parents, where we'll meet some of Boston's most important citizens and lawmakers. How exciting it will be! I wonder if there will be any young men there with whom I could dance. I so love dancing, and the whirl of music and dresses and laughter.
And yet.
As I sit at the dressing table, brushing my hair and getting ready for bed, I stare into the mirror. Across the room, behind me, is an old wardrobe with a sagging door that seems to have gone crooked on its hinges. It makes me very sad to stare at it, though I'm not sure why, so I turn away to the bed and pull back the soft, lavender-smelling sheets, then lie down and turn off the light.
The room is dark and quiet except for the ticking of the radiator under the window. Thin moonlight comes in round the heavy curtains and stretches across my bed. It's peaceful, and I have a wonderful party to look forward to tomorrow, with a brand-new, beautiful green dress waiting for me in the wardrobe. I should be happy. I should be looking forward to every exciting thing I'm going to see, here in America.
But as I close my eyes and go to sleep, I see bright golden eyes and tawny fur, and such a gladness fills me as I've never felt for parties and music and dancing. I wonder if I could spend my whole life asleep, just to feel that happiness around me all the time, even if I don't understand it.
And I dream of a great lion, leaping in the grass, and flowers spring up where he has trod. I run to him, and he springs away, only to let me catch him again. He laughs with me, and lets me put my arms round his great shaggy neck and bury my face in his warm, soft mane. "Narnia will always remember you, Daughter of Eve," he says, though his face is sad, as if he knows I won't recall him when I wake.
But I can wish. Here in dreams, I can wish anything.
-- The End