The Season of November
"Even death has a heart."
-Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
Chapter One: The First Interview with Peter Pevensie
The Cair Paravel Library
A library is such a dismal place to have an interview in. Mostly because you can't read anything, you can't look at anything, you can't touch anything, all you do is sit and complain about how miserable your life is. Well, at least, that was my first impression when Peter Pevensie walked in holding a book of absolutely little or no significance to the conversation that we were about to have. I noticed that he wore a brown vest and matching coat as if he were already a professor of law or even worse, a lawyer. His hair was neat, his face was clean and his posture was defined and mature something that I appreciated considering his age of seventeen.
"Can you tell me about yourself?" Peter asked, sitting down in the chair across from me.
Certainly Mister Pevensie. I can tell you everything there is to know about me from my birth to my escapades as a youth to my expulsion from home to the very incident that brought me here to this very room in this very chair. I can even tell you how many pieces of hair there are in the entire universe but that would simply be a waste of your invaluable time.
"It would be." Peter said. "I do not care for stories of useless information at the moment. Now, tell me something- anything that comes to mind."
The night of November 13th 1937 was the night that Mister Nathaniel Baker of New York died of a heart attack. It wasn't necessarily a shock. The old man of seventy-three came from a long line of methamphetamine abusers so to say that his death was a surprise would be an understatement but to say that he was beloved was an overstatement. Generally hated and despised by the populace of the Bronx, Nathaniel Baker was anything but kind and sensible and if you were around at the time you'd feel somewhat psychopathic. As one gentleman pointed out:
"It was like being a murderer. I felt spontaneously happy and succumbed with joy and youthful optimism."
Youthful optimism wasn't even close to the sensation I was feeling. If that gentlemen were spontaneously happy then I was eccentric- mostly because I killed the poor man. My motives are of my own personal business so if you are playing Sherlock Holmes, don't bother because you won't convict me.
"I don't plan to, I'm just here to help." Peter said nonchalantly. He leaned back into his chair.
My name, which I have yet to mention, is Jefferson Swede. I hail from New York City and was born at the turn of the century. My parents, who were English by nature, came over from that wretched place to here on December 15th, 1884. It wasn't a war or a famine that they decided to come but rather a pair of cannibals were terrorizing everyone's minds- it was almost hysteria. I say almost because I wasn't the cause of it.
My mental disorder, which I have yet to mention, is a mixture of murderous psychopathy with schizophrenia. It all stemmed from my father's "late suicide", I say late because the poor son of a bitch should've done it years before he actually did. To be fair, he was an abusive drunk and the rope was just lying on the table pre-tied in a noose for several years. No one had the courage to do it- that is, until he shot my mother in the leg with the .22 caliber rifle that hung over the mantle. If you've ever experienced fury, it's an emotion that consumes the mind and body into doing extraordinary feats of merit and divinity. I released my wrath and chocked the poor soul of fifty-four. The only downside to the deed was that it was New Year's Eve. His pulse stopped at precisely midnight. It wasn't midnight and one second- but midnight exactly.
"Interesting." Peter said, "Can you tell me on how you came here?"
I entered this idiotic institution-
"You're not a mental patient, and this is not a mental hospital." Peter replied, leaning forward a bit and noticing my red tie, red shirt and burgundy pants.
"I see your very fond of red." Peter said. "You do know that red is a stressor."
"Wasn't aware of that." I said, lying to him of course.
"Tell me then how you came here- without the insults." He said.
Fine. If you insist. I entered this place on November 13th, 1942. I'm sure you are aware of current real world events Mister Pevensie.
"I am." He said.
Good, then you should be aware that just last month on the twenty-third of October the British Empire launched an offensive attack on the Germans and Italians and were victorious. However, you may not be aware of the death of Mister Ralph Rainger.
"No, I wasn't." Peter replied, "How sad, I rather enjoyed his music. Did he go well?"
Yes. If you call a plane crash in the Coachella Valley a well deserved death. The poor man had a wife and children I believe. They'll receive condolences from somewhere else.
"You won't give them yourself?" Peter asked, sounding rather surprised as if he were expecting me to make his work easy for him.
No I will not send a card, money or sympathy to his family because why would I have remorse for anyone? I'm not the one who's dead on the side of a mountain.
"You are a sick human being." He said, scolding me.
You asked for the truth Mister Pevensie, I am simply giving it. I am a psychopath and I'm surprised that you expect better from me. Do you expect that I can be converted back to sanity?
"I do."
Your attempts will be for naught I'm afraid. Just and noble as they are, there is no use in transforming my mind to think anything good or decent or morale. For all intents and purposes Mister Pevensie, it might be best to label me a demon and just leave me alone to die.
"I can't do that." His determination is admirable but alas, is naive. "Besides," he said continuing, actually believing his experiment would work, "you still haven't answered my question- how did you come here?"
I came to this place on November 13th, 1942, as I've previously stated.
"Yes," Peter said, "I have the date but not the means of travel."
I travelled via horse.
"On horseback, that is very interesting. Mind telling me about it?"
Certainly. I was in Germany making my way to Poland to see if I could mow down some poor souls along the way. I knew that if I were captured by Hitler's Legion then I would be shot and I knew that if I were captured by the Allies then I would be instantly enlisted and forced to fight for a cause that I despise.
"You do not approve of the war?" Peter asked.
Of course I approve of the war! What I don't approve of is humanitarianism.
"So you're an anarchist?"
As I've said you insolent twit, you might as well label me a demon and leave me alone to die. Keeping that bit of information in mind what do you think my view is on humanitarians and their ideologies?
"I think you're mentally unstable and mentally unstable people often do not know what they say when they say it."
You ignored the question. I would like an answer please. What do you think my view is on humanitarians and their ideologies?
"I think that you have resentment towards them, you fear that goodness in the world would render your psychopathic nature obsolete."
My psychopathic nature is human nature Mister Pevensie. For everyone, including yourself has a hint of psychopathy and the will to murder inside them. You are just too lofty in your precociousness and position to see that there is nothing mentally unstable or incorrect about my thinking. For I am always, one hundred- percent of the time correct.
"Only a psychopath," he said, "would say such a thing."
Which is why this session is such a pointless waste of time. Why don't you go back home to your family, live your life and explore the world for what it is- a sad, lonely, sick place with nothing for you except to live, breathe, die and fall into the arms of Ether. You'd make an exceptional politician, a terrible instructor of history and a beautiful husband for some deadbeat whore who never went anywhere with her life. So I say again Mister Pevensie, for all intents and purposes it might be best to label me a demon and just leave me alone to die. It is a fairly simple concept that even you, a bright intelligent and contradictory person can understand. If you cannot then I suggest you admit yourself to the nearest psychiatric ward. Are we done here?
Peter turned towards me and like a defeated swine nodded and escorted himself out. I smiled, laughed and said-
Don't forget to trip on your way out.
