Note: Sorry for the really long delay! My life seemed to get super busy these past few weeks. I promise, though, that I haven't abandoned this!
__________
The World was not as Lucy had left it.
She blinked her eyes and looked up at the gray sky. The sun was fighting, trying to break through. It was late summer when she died, warm and humid. Now it was cold, windy, and dull. She shivered. She had forgotten what it was like to be cold. It was never cold in New Narnia, always warm and pleasant.
She brought her gaze back down to Earth. She didn't feel her return to Earth. She just closed her eyes as Aslan breathed on her, and found herself back where she started.
She looked down at her clothes, trembling from the cold. They were not the lovely, flowing gowns she wore in New Narnia. They were like her old clothes, short and confining. Her skirt reached to her knees, thin and narrow. She wore a blouse, plain and white. And, on top of it all, was a dull yellow wool coat that reached past her knees.
I had forgotten how different clothes are on Earth, Lucy thought, as she examined herself. The clothes were flattering but plain, and the coat somewhat matronly.
People rushed by Lucy as she walked down the street, muttering to themselves and looking down at the sidewalks. She looked at the cars passing by, the buildings rising up to the sky, the lampposts unlit beacons.
A lamppost…how familiar.
Lucy smiled as she walked over to a lamppost. She remembered, not so long ago, when she walked into a new world and found a lamppost there, unexpected but not unwanted.
I've been away from Earth too long. Everything seems so new and exciting…like when I first went into Narnia.
She looked around at the city once again and sighed. She was in wonder of how the buildings, steel and tall and strong, reached up to the sky. She knew those buildings…
She was in London.
London! Why, can it be real? Am I really back in England? Lucy looked around her excitedly as the realization became fact. She wasn't in some foreign country, hoping for the best – she was back in England, back in London. And, from the looks of it, near Finchley.
She had to see everything and anything, even though she knew it quite well. She gazed at the people walking by, unknown yet friendly to her. She looked at the buildings and shops. Everything seemed to be welcoming her back.
Lucy turned around and saw herself in a shop window. She smiled brightly, and walked up to it. Her hair was flying out at odd angles, and her face was red from excitement and cold. She tried to warm her cheeks, rubbing them, but they still stayed red. She pocketed her hands, not fond of Earth's coldness, but still happy to be in London.
She turned quickly, without thinking, and ran into a man walking quickly. Or, rather, he ran through her. The man moved on, as if he wasn't affected at all. Lucy furrowed her brows. How could he have done such a thing? She was alive again – wasn't she?
Lucy continued to walk on, slowly, wondering why the man didn't react to colliding with her. She was here, wasn't she? Wasn't she a living, breathing person? She clenched her fist, trying to see if she could feel her flesh. She still could, so why couldn't he?
The wonder that she had before was gone. Now, instead, was a feeling of alienation. Was she truly alone here, on Earth? Would no one see or feel or know her?
Lucy stopped in front of a solid brick building, staring at its massive shape. It was hard, secure, motionless. It would not be moved.
She sighed, closed her eyes, and stuck a hand out. She leaned in, hoping that at some point she would feel the rough, cold, textured surface of the bricks.
But she didn't.
Lucy opened her eyes, confused. Her hand was not on the building, but in it. She had passed right through the building, as if she were a ghost.
She stared, wide-eyed, at her hand. This couldn't be happening. She couldn't be a ghost. She was alive, breathing, living. Aslan wouldn't just send her here to help someone if she couldn't be seen.
Lucy wandered about the sidewalks, aimlessly. Thoughts of worry and anxiety now began to run through her mind. How was she supposed to do this mission? The man she was supposed to help couldn't see her. She was as good as…well, dead.
Dead. The thought hit Lucy hard. She was no longer a part of this place. She was just a meaningless name. This place wasn't for her anymore, but for those living now, in the moment. It was as if she was back at her old grammar school, walking the halls and realizing that no one there knew her, or cared.
Lucy stopped at the end of the sidewalk, waiting for the cars to pass by. She really wasn't even thinking clearly, as the cars stopped, and she still stood there, people walking through her.
"Sorry," someone muttered.
Lucy was instantly brought her out of her reverie. She looked up ahead to see a man walking on. She wondered if it was she that he truly said sorry to, or if it was the woman in black passing by her. Lucy looked down at the ground, trying to think. Instead, she saw a large folder on the ground. It must have been the man's.
Well, I'll never know unless I try, Lucy thought, as she scooped up the heavy folder into her arms and sprinted to catch the man. He was tall and thin, his coat old and fluttering in the wind.
Lucy swallowed, hoping that this was the man. She reached out her tiny hand to put on his broad, short shoulder.
And she didn't go through him.
____________
The hand was not large, but small and gentle. He had not felt such a warm, comforting touch in ages that he was not angered by the person's brashness, but was instead curious of who it was and why they wanted him. He turned around and squinted, the sun now shining, bursting from the clouds.
The person was brightly colored, glowing in the midst of the drabness of business suits. George blinked and looked again, to see that it was a young woman, no older than sixteen or seventeen. She had curly blonde hair, a yellow coat, and an expression of desperation.
"I'm sorry sir, but I believe you dropped this," the girl said, pushing his portfolio into him. He felt his stomach drop slightly as he realized that he had dropped it. He reprimanded himself for his absentmindedness. If this girl hadn't have given back his portfolio, he would have been without his paintings – and income.
"Thank you," George muttered, taking the folder and tucking it under his arm. He turned back around, and started to walk again. The girl's footsteps did not fade away, but grew louder. Eventually she caught up with him, much to his dismay.
"What is that?" the girl asked, pointing to his portfolio.
George huffed, wishing that she would leave him alone. "It's a portfolio."
"What's it for?"
"I keep my paintings in it," he begrudgingly said. He didn't like talking to strangers, especially the nosy kind.
"Oh, you're a painter?" she smiled brightly. Her smile was warm, but her crooked teeth were off-balance with her delicate face. "That must be exciting."
"Exciting as it can be," George replied, hoping to end the conversation.
"How long have you been painting?" She was very constant with her questioning, even though George's body language told her to stop.
"Since I graduated secondary school." They were closing in on Hendon Park.
"It must be a fascinating life. I've always wanted to do something artistic or creative or adventurous like that." Her face looked ahead, her eyes glazing over as if in a dream. George stifled a laugh caused by her naïveté.
"I don't think you'd like to live the life of a painter. It's not very easy." He felt himself smile slightly.
"Oh, of course. I suppose it's my romanticism that's making me say that. I've always let my imagination get the better of me." She looked up at the clouds, and sighed softly. They stood outside the park, the wind still whipping at their coats. "Say, how about we get to know each others names. I'm Lucy." She held out the same, slim hand she had grasped him with before.
"George Duncan," he mumbled, observing Lucy. She seemed to be very genuine, her hazel eyes friendly and familiar.
"George…such a good, sensible name. My father's name is George." She took up walking again, as they strolled through Hendon Park. "Although, I must admit, he doesn't look a thing like you."
"Good thing or a bad thing?" George replied off-hand.
"Nothing. My father doesn't look anything like you, that's all," Lucy said, looking above at the trees. Her whole appearance seemed greedy, as if she was taking this all in for the first time and didn't want to miss a thing. "I have three other siblings. Peter's the oldest. Then Susan, Edmund and me. And there's Mother. What about you?"
George bit his lip, wondering about how to respond. This girl was asking a lot about him…was she trying to trick him into something? What did it matter, though? He was just a poor painter, with no real family. "My mother and father died when I was only about a year old. I don't have any siblings," he muttered. He'd rather not think about his lack of family. Even though he had accepted the fact long ago, it still seemed like a fresh wound whenever someone talked carelessly about their family. He wished that he could toss off information like that.
"Oh," Lucy replied, softly. Her face fell as she realized the gravity of his words. She was quiet for a moment.
Maybe I have finally silenced her. Hopefully she'll give up and go away. I've never had someone so persistent in wanting to talk to me. I wonder if she wants anything from me, George thought as they continued to walk down the path.
"Do you think I could see your paintings?" Lucy meekly said. She seemed a bit cowed after George's confession.
George was hesitant to answer. He didn't have a problem showing gallery owners, for he knew that it was necessary to show them the paintings if he wanted to get any money. But when other people asked…well, that was an entirely different matter.
"Well, I don't know how much you'd like them," George mumbled, unsure of how to tell her no.
"Oh, I'm sure they're a lot better than you think," Lucy said, an encouraging smile on her face. She took his free wrist and pulled him away, over to an empty park bench. She jerked him forward, her slender size belying the strength it held. "Come now, we're nice and comfortable. I'm sure they'll be wonderful."
George looked down at his feet and bit his lip. He didn't know what to think, only that some strange, golden-haired girl had taken him by the arm and left his inhibitions behind.
His hands, steady yet unsure, untied the portfolio and opened it up, spreading the contents out. Lucy quietly observed them, looking at each picture with silent study. Her face did not betray her emotions, but hid them. George felt that same feeling of nervousness that he got whenever Mr. Maler examined his pictures.
But that's ridiculous. She's just a girl, someone that doesn't know a thing about painting. Why should I care?
But his churning stomach showed that, clearly, he did care.
Lucy finally finished looking over the last painting, taking a lot longer to get through the lot than Mr. Maler did. Her stoic expression remained unchanged as she looked up at George and gave him a small, tiny smile. "I think you paint wonderfully, George – can I call you George? Or should I call you Mr. Duncan?"
"George is fine," he said. Her little worry brought another diminutive smile to his face.
"Well, anyway, George," she continued "I think you paint wonderfully, but I'm just wondering why you paint landscapes all the time. And why they're all of London."
George felt his stomach sink. I suppose even mediocrity can't escape uneducated people.
"I find that my style of painting is best suited for landscapes. I don't like abstract things or portraits and such." He took the portfolio from her and tied it back up.
"Oh," Lucy nodded, looking up at the sky once again. She had a look of someone that didn't belong here, that she was longing for another place. She closed her eyes and began to hum a song. The tune was thin and light, not hard and complex, yet haunting. George found himself captivated by this tune, its sound foreign and new.
"What's that you're humming?"
She turned her head and opened her eyes, the golden gaze a little disquieting. "It's a song I learned when I was younger in…in the countryside." She licked her lips and began to sing:
Where I come from, nobody knows,
And where I am going, everything goes.
The wind blows, the sea flows,
Nobody knows.
And where I am going,
Nobody knows.
Her voice was thin and breathy, not pretty but strangely haunting. George felt spellbound by her, as if this song had a trance over him. Even after she finished the song, the words rang in his mind.
"What was that about?"
The girl smiled simply. "Oh, nothing, It's just a song."
George nodded, though the song still lingered. Where did this girl come from? And where would she go?
"Are you from around London?" George asked.
"Yes. I live in Finchley. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. That song just made me wonder…"
"Where I come from?" she smiled. Her freckled nose wrinkled whenever she smiled.
"Yes." George fumbled with the tie on his portfolio. Everything about this girl was a bundle of mysteries. How old was she? Why wasn't she in school? Was she still in school? George began to look at her closely, trying his hardest not to look suspicious.
"George?"
He was snapped out of his reverie, trying to hide the fact that he was looking at her. He blushed hotly and lowered his eyes. "What?"
She smiled coyly and looked back up at the sky again. "I've been asking you for a while where you lived."
"Oh," George tucked his hands into his pockets, still trying to suppress a blush rising into his cheeks. "I live a few streets from here. I just live by myself."
"Oh, that must be dreadfully lonesome. I don't think I could ever live alone," Lucy said.
"I don't really mind," George shrugged. Truth be told, he preferred living alone over anything else, even marriage.
"Well, whatever makes you happy," Lucy said, standing up. She was a tall youth, slim and athletically built. She was nearly as tall as George was.
"I suppose you must be going along," George sighed, feeling a small amount of sadness. He stifled it.
"Well, yes. But I'll try and find you again. You don't live that far from Finchley, anyway. I really liked meeting you, George," Lucy said, offering a hand to him. He stood, staring at it for a moment, before taking it. It was slender and soft in his grip. "Good-bye, George."
She turned and walked away, not back to Finchley, but farther along the park path, until George could no longer see the speck of yellow on the horizon.
She was such an odd girl, and yet…she was one of the few people to actually want to talk to me. Maybe she isn't so bad. Just a little weird.
George tucked his portfolio tighter under his arm, and left, turning back to his empty flat. He kept his eyes down, as the sun ducked behind the clouds.