A Blyth Yule
I am not alone at all, I thought. I was never alone at all. And that, of course, is the message of Christmas. We are never alone. Not when the night is darkest, the wind coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. For this is still the time God chooses.
~ Taylor Caldwell
They didn't sleep terribly well that night.
Lucy fell asleep at once, but the others stayed awake, staring into the low embers of the fire. The squirrels had brewed them each a cup of spicy tea; the smell of cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg filling the air, with a dash of wild honey. It warmed them all the way through, so beautifully.
"The Witch, Jadis, allows trading ships from Calormen, so spices aren't hard to come by, but the honey is brought in on the black market from Archenland." Oakheart had explained.
"You are from Archenland, then?" Peter asked, turning to Twang where he sat by the fire, thoughtfully twirling his whiskers.
"Yes, Archenland," Twang said. "But I am a true Narnian. In Archenland we are a people without land, an identity without a body. The kings of Archenland have been very kind to us, they have allowed us to live with the Archenlanders and, to a certain extent, rule ourselves. We hope that we will not have to trespass on our host's hospitality for too long."
After wishing them a good night, the squirrels had retired to their own chambers and left them alone in the room. It was, in a squirrel's estimation, a very large room, but the table and chairs had to be piled at one end to make enough space for them. There still wasn't floor enough for Peter to stretch out, so he reconciled himself to sleeping upright.
Susan felt his pain and half wished that he wasn't so tall.
"Peter?"
She said it very quietly; when Lucy's steady breathing told her that she was asleep.
"Yes?" Peter said.
"Do you think we're all going to die?"
There was a moment of silence.
"I don't know," Peter said at last and his voice, already deep as their father's, sounded as young as a little boy's.
"Can we trust them?"
"Yes," Edmund broke in. "I'm quite certain we can."
"You're still awake?" Susan asked.
"Yes, of course I am," Edmund said tersely. "Such comfortable beds we're in."
"Is Lucy awake?" Susan asked.
"No," Peter said, he could feel her head on his shoulder, "She fell asleep awhile ago."
"I thought so."
Peter shifted slightly.
"Ow!" Edmund said.
"What's wrong?" Susan asked.
"Peter kicked me," Edmund said. "He's got a jolly powerful kick."
"I was thinking," Susan said quietly. "What if Aslan is just as bad, or worse, than the Witch?"
"I was thinking the same thing," Edmund said. "Nasty thought."
"I don't think so," Peter said. "I have this feeling about him, it's so odd…somehow, I don't think he's like that."
"Really?" Susan said after a moment. "I rather do too; I really want to believe in him."
"We're going to have to, no matter what," Edmund said, his voice low, the firelight rippling across his face. "If we want to keep our sanity. You wouldn't believe how mixed up I feel inside. I feel like I've just stepped through the looking glass."
The darkness was heavy and smothering. Only a little light glowed red in the embers, but it made the darkness darker.
"Well," Peter said after a moment, "We should probably get some sleep while we can."
Silent breathing answered him, yet beyond the silence he could hear another sound, a sound that sent shivers down his spine. It was the wild, ethereal song of baying wolves.
They're after us, then, he thought to himself and grimly put himself to sleep.
Chibb flew for most of that night.
If he had been a hawk, he would have been there much faster, but he was only a little bird with little wings ad he was doing the best he could. It was near midnight when he approached the silver painted mountains that stood between him and Archenland.
Suddenly a huge black shadow fell across him, blocking out the moon, and he looked up to see the stark forms of two of the Witch's vultures circling above him. He banked away as they dove, piping shrilly as he closed his wings and plummeted down towards the earth. A claw racked him, but he was moving too fast and as he spiraled down his feathers fluttered after him like snow.
The vultures banked again, peeling away from each other to come around, their paths sweeping across each other as Chibb shot away again. They were now very near the snow covered trees, but there was nowhere to hide in that cold, stark place.
Chibb twisted in the air, but as he turned, he saw their red blazing eyes diving towards him.
"You're not getting out of this one, Chibb old boy," he thought as he swooped sideways again. A great shadow met the other two and suddenly, talons closed over his fat little body.
Peter, wedged in his uncomfortable position by the wall, was the first to wake. Someone had stirred the embers of the fire and put another log on and flames were licking up towards the flue, flooding the room with warmth and light.
As Peter's eyes lost the blurriness of sleep, he saw a deep shadow by the hearth and as he looked; he saw that it was a man with a great white beard tumbling over his chest. He wore brocade and fur and the cloth glowed in the firelight; threads of silver and gold running through it in intricate and shifting designs. As Peter struggled into a more comfortable position, he saw scenes of hunts and battles, dances and parades shimmering and leaping over the strange mantle the man wore.
"So you've finally decided to wake up, have you?" the man's voice filled the room as he leaned over to grip Peter's hand warmly. "I'm honored to meet you. Someday, when you are older and you've grown to fit your height your reputation will pass out of this world into others. But that is another story; Merry Christmas!"
Peter stared at him, blinking. "Are you… Father Christmas?"
Beside him, Edmund suddenly jerked, sitting up, groggily trying to shake the sleep out of his eyes, "Wha-?"
"Aye, I am indeed!" The man said with a laugh.
"I'd have thought you were the sort of person Jadis wouldn't like," Peter said.
"Nay, she makes no difference to me, I serve a greater master."Father Christmas laughed. "I've come a long ways with very special gifts for you all."
"Father Christmas!"
The squeal came from between Peter and Edmund and they glanced down as Lucy leapt to her feet and shot into the brocaded arms of the old man.
"I knew you were real!" She said staring up at him with reverent eyes. "I always believed you were!"
He set her down on his knee, "Of course I'm real! There is nothing more beautiful or wonderful than Christmas and what it means. In some places in the universe it is being forgotten or overlooked, but I see to it that it will never completely die out."
"What happened?" Susan was waking now and looking up blurrily at them all.
"This is Father Christmas," Edmund said with the air of one introducing the next-door neighbor.
"Oh, I'm very pleased to meet you," Susan didn't know what else to do, so she stood up and shook his hand.
"And I am honored to meet you, milady." Father Christmas said, his eyes twinkling as he looked at her. "But I haven't much time to stay; I must give you your gifts."
"Gifts?" Lucy said, her eyes were wide, "We get gifts?
"Yes little lady," Father Christmas said softly, running his hand gently along her curling hair, spun gold in the firelight. "These presents are from Aslan; you will probably never see anything like them again."
They saw now the huge burlap bag that sat propped against the wall. Something gleamed and flashed from the opened top and they all leaned a little closer as Father Christmas seized the bag and hauled it around to his feet. Lucy slipped off his lap and stood watching eagerly and the others watched her, Peter feeling a twang in his heart as he remembered all the times he stood just like that on Christmas morning when he was little, what seemed years and years ago.
"Now let me see," Father Christmas said burrowing into his sack, "I was quite certain I put it in here… yes, here we are."
"Now Lucy," Father Christmas continued, "here are your presents."
Lucy's face was glowing as he pulled out a bow that was nearly as tall as Lucy herself. It was made of dark springy wood and the grip was wrapped with leather. It was a beautiful thing; long, elegant, the wood lined with light and dark. Father Christmas handed her a dark leather quiver filled with arrows fletched with white feathers. The quiver was tooled with an intricate design of scrolling leaves, so beautifully done, they almost looked real.
With a quick motion, Father Christmas bent the bow and strung it, then placed it in Lucy's hands. Eagerly, she pulled on the string, then gave up, a shadow of worry flickering in her eyes.
"I can't draw it, it's too hard."
Father Christmas smiled, letting his hand rest once again on her head, "Someday you will; your arm will grow to match your heart. The bow and quiver were made by the dryads, the bow does not easily miss because it is perfectly balanced, but I would advise you to aim it. The stars themselves tested it and Ramandu struck an asteroid at five hundred yards.
"But for the present, I have something else for you."
Again, he reached into his sack and pulled out a horn, it was beautifully polished and bound in gold, "this horn was made by the stars, when you blow it help of some kind will come."
"Thank you!" Lucy gasped, but she couldn't hug him again because she had her arms full.
"It is my pleasure," Father Christmas said softly, the firelight playing over the lines in his face, all seeming like the great canyons and valleys on the face of a noble planet. "The horn is unadorned. We had hoped that when you are older and your hands are stronger you would carve your story into it."
"Thank you!" Lucy whispered. "Thank you ever so much."
But she had hoped… half hoped… that Father Christmas might have had Baloo hiding in his bag. But, we can't have everything, she reminded herself rather sternly as she sat down next to Edmund and he leaned down to look at her treasures.
"Susan!" Father Christmas said.
Susan glanced at Peter, then climbed to her feet, standing hesitantly in the middle of the floor.
"We were at first unsure of what to give you. Because of your gentle heart we thought the implements of war unsuited to you."
Father Christmas handed her a crystal bottle of red gold liquid, like honey. "The cordial in this bottle is made from the nectar of the fire flowers on the sun, if you or any of your companions is hurt, one drop of this will restore them. It does not have the power to bring someone back from the dead."
Susan took it, a strange lump forming in her throat; it seemed to glow of itself in the firelight, stars of radiance burning in the facets of the bottle as she turned it. Peter looked at her in worry as he saw one glittering tear flash on her cheek, but Edmund knew.
She had always dreamed of healing and now here it was, gleaming in her hand.
"You also may find yourself in danger before this journey is over. This little dagger is to protect yourself," Father Christmas handed her a small, slender dagger with an amethyst pommel stone, but she barely glanced at it.
"Use it well," he said softly, reaching out to squeeze her slender hand in his big one. Then he looked past her and caught Edmund's blue eyes, strangely bright in the shadows of the room.
"Come!" Father Christmas said solemnly.
"Yes sir," Edmund said smartly, scrambling to his feet.
Now Father Christmas drew a sword in a wonderfully tooled black sheath from his bag and laid it in Edmund's hands. Behind him, Edmund heard a faint gasp of admiration and he glanced down to see Peter looking at it with both envy and awe.
The sword was beautiful. Long flowing lines made up the hilt and tang and a blue star sapphire, deep as Edmund's eyes, glowed in the engraved and silver gilt pommel. The star seemed to leap from the stone as the firelight struck it.
"Like your sister's dagger this sword was made in Bism, in the very heart of the earth. There the swords are named according to the thoughts of the sword smith. This sword was named Evyn; 'Shadow' in the old speech."
"For me?" Edmund asked in a very small voice, with shaking hands, he drew the sword enough to see the bright, shinning blade, "Are you sure you haven't made a mistake?" he half glanced at Peter.
"I'm quite sure," Father Christmas laughed, "for you. One more thing."
Edmund looked up again as Father Christmas reached into his bag. Something was clasped his hand and slowly, he held it up, flashing, in the firelight.
"A ring?" Edmund asked, his voice incredulous.
Father Christmas dropped in his palm and Edmund looked at it, turning it in the light. It was made of heavy silver, twined with filigree work and set with burning chips of sapphire. He had seen something like it once before, in the British Museum. It was an archer's thumb ring.
"This is a ring of invisibility," Father Christmas said, but held up his hand when Edmund looked up quickly. "It will make you seen, yet unseen. With it, you will be able to travel in dangerous places and do things you never thought you could do before."
"Thank you sir!" Edmund gasped.
"Like your sword, it is only a tool," Father Christmas said, his voice warning. "Like your sword, you must be skilled before it will serve you. Do not put your faith in it."
Edmund sat down again and Father Christmas looked up.
"Peter," he said.
Peter sat up a little straighter.
Father Christmas pulled another sword from his bag. It was very like Edmund's, longer and heavier; a hand and a half broadsword as ancient as the stars. The hilt was bound in dark leather and the pommel stone was a blood ruby, with a gleam of fire at its heart. But the sword was plain, without any adornment but the ruby, and tarnished, not stunningly beautiful like Edmund's sword.
At last, Peter reached out take it, the leather bound hilt fitting to his hand as if it had been made for it. He drew the sword partway from the sheath, watching the light gleam and soak into the dark blade. It seemed to flow and Peter thought of a running brook in summer as he saw how steel had been welded to steel until a dizzying, shadowlike pattern rippled up the blade.
He could never have known then how his life would be changed; he could never have known as he looked into the hard-wrought blade that his manhood was marked from that moment. His heart had fallen when he had seen how plane it was compared to Edmund's, but If he could somehow have looked into the future he would have seen himself a warrior and a king, bowed down with the weight of responsibility, his life hanging by a thread as he fought under the noonday sun. The days would come when his only companion would be his sword and he would seek to grip it and raise it with blood soaked hands.
"It is Rhindon, 'Light' in the old speech," Father Christmas said as he watched him.
"Light?" Peter asked with half a laugh. "It's a black sword, sir. I see no light in it."
"And you will not see light in it for some time," Father Christmas said sternly. "Only when you are worthy, will you see its light. This sword is older than you know and was carried to war in many conquests. Do not dishonor this blade."
"Yes sir," Peter said quietly.
Once more, Father Christmas searched through his bag, then pulled a shield into the light, handing it to Peter. It was circular and in every orbit of silver, there seemed a new scene, alive with characters. Along the rim, there was the earth, the sky and the sea, scattered with gilded stars; further in a wide band showed two beautiful cities, one celebrating a wedding, the other besieged by an army. The last band depicted a shepherd, playing his harp as his sheep lay beside a running stream, fruit pickers in a vineyard and a great field of wheat at reaping time. In the very center, the shield boss was gilded and wrought in the shape of a lion's head.
"You are the rock on which the others rest; let this shield be your rampart."
"Thank you sir," Peter said.
"Now I must bid you farewell," Father Christmas said, reaching out to take their hands one by one. "I have other places to go and other people to visit, but through all the years and ages I shall cherish your memories."
The fire had burned very low and the gleam of red and gold that rippled on the ceiling was growing fainter and the shadow in the corner where Father Christmas had sat was only a shadow.
He had gone as mysteriously as he had come.
Chibb's wings were pinned by the talons and no matter how hard he fought, he was held in a grip of steel. He looked up and saw that he was held not by a vulture, but by a great golden eagle.
The eagle wheeled and attacked one of the vultures with its free claw and its beak. Black feathers fluttered into the air and the vultures screamed in pain. The vultures, were great, horrible thing and far larger than the eagle, yet as the eagle opened its beak to scream its battle cry they suddenly banked away and fled, trailing droplets of blood through the air.
The eagle turned towards Archenland and gained altitude, Chibb had never been so high in his life. The country spread out like a silver map and below him he saw the stretch of snowy fields, the meandering curve of the Great River, the shine of the sea and the jagged peaks of the mountains between Narnia and Archenland.
With strong steady wing beats, the eagle soared over the mountains and left Narnia behind and even at this altitude Chibb felt that the air was somehow warmer and the moon brighter.
Then the eagle dove and alighted in a tree. He uncurled his claw and set Chibb upright on a twig.
"Hello old chap!" the eagle said. "Sorry I had to hold onto you like that, but you were nearly a goner!"
"I'm going to king Lune…very urgent!" Chibb squeaked, then fainted clear away.
Author's Note: Maybe I went a bit overboard with this chapter... but after I ran across the thirteen treasures of Britain and the black sword, Dyrnwyn, that glowed with supernatural fire when it was drawn by a worthy man, and the Ring of Eluned the Fortunate, that made who ever wore it invisible, and thought about the bow of Artimis and the shield of Achilles and the drinking horn of Bran Galed that granted the thing the drinker most desired, I was...well, done for.
So, the first thing you're all going to do is say, "You switched Susan and Lucy's gifts!?" and the first thing I can say in reply is, "why not?" Queen Susan the Gentle never rode to war and Queen Lucy the Valiant never seemed to have her cordial, it was perpetually back at the castle with Susan, while Lucy was riding with the archers...need I go on?
~Psyche
Production Note: Writing was disrupted today and the crew got half a holiday when the Producer (mother) found out that Rose and Psyche (the directors) were posting this production online. After multiple lawsuits they have gotten permission to finish posting this one, but permission to post subsequent long productions when this is over is pending. So far they have gotten off with a caution.
