Chapter Seven: Facing Dragons
Disclaimer: Legends rarely belong to just one author, but Lewis's genius created one by himself. Narnia is therefore his, and was his to pass on to whomever owns it now; it's not mine. I'm just retelling his tales with my own embellishments.
A/N: Also, I updated the last two paragraphs of the last chapter slightly, to make them flow better; I shouldn't write when I'm that tired! My apologies for them.
OOOOO
From The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, where Caspian asks how the Long Islands became a part of Narnia and Edmund says they don't know. Lewis adds his own note:
"By the way, I have never yet heard how these remote islands became attached to the crown of Narnia; if I ever do, and the story is at all interesting, I may put it in some other book." So clearly Caspian doesn't know this tale.
From The Last Battle, where Jewel the Unicorn tells tales of Narnia to Jill that she had never heard:
"King Gale, who was ninth in descendant from Frank the first of all kings, [] sailed far away into the Eastern seas and delivered the Lone Islanders from a dragon and how, in return, they had given him the Lone Islands to be a part of the royal lands of Narnia for ever."
OOOOO
The Lords of Beaversdam, the nurse realised, had a well-deserved reputation for oddness. They were two brothers, fast friends and sword companions, according to the stories, and above all else, travelers. She settled in a chair in the kitchen, one evening, to listen to the two cook's helpers who were clearing away the leftovers from the day's cooking.
"It's been said they went farther into the Western part of the world than any others ever did, even past the Western Wild," said one in a voice of wonder. "Aye, past the high cliffs that should have been impossible, where the cold is a person, and reaches out to take fingers and toes." The other helper, Leisa, snorted.
"Stuff and nonsense. High the mountains may be, an that means cold, but it don't mean magic monsters. Tone down your stories, Willa, and stick to facts."
"Well, so people say! Anyways, west they went, an came across the weirdest things, cliffs made entirely of ice with color in it, greens an blues, an a tree that had sweet, chewy brown fruit with papery leaves, an there, at the end, midst the mountains of ice, there were a lake—a warm, clear-blue lake in a green valley, with a smell to make one young again, so they say. And the two followed the smell, they did—for the younger one were very curious, he was, an there ain't no stoppin him, an the older one followed where he went, to keep him out of trouble, but it's plain as the nose on a dog's face that he likes adventure just as much. An if a fight, or trouble comes, he's the first to meet it, he is, an the younger's the first to try to talk to it, from sheer curiosity. An they followed it to the lake, an swam it, an at the end there were a steep green hill, an there, at the top, they found the smell, behind golden gates in a green wall." She paused.
"And what was it?" asked the nurse, wondering if this were a story Caspian would enjoy.
"They said 'A garden,' an wouldn't say more. It were curious, that telling, like the garden meant more than the two could put in their words, lords though they are."
"The older said more," Lesia rebuked, tone stern. "If you listened more instead of talking, Willa, you might have heard him."
"What'd he say?"
"That a fruit in the garden gave out that smell, but that the fruit wasn't for them." Leisa paused. "And then he went on and talked about talking animals, golden lions, I think, and got banished from the castle for his trouble. And where he went, so went the younger; inseparable, the two were. Still are, I suppose. They're at Beaversdam now, an leave it every spring to go who knows where. For all the trouble they caused with their exploring as kids, they brought a laughter an a storytelling to the castle, an I miss it." Her accent thickened by the end, her eyes looking only at the dishes she was clearing, fingers white as they held them. The nurse looked down, thanked her gravely, and got up and left.
At least she knew why the queen feared mention of talking animals. If the Lord Protector banished two knights for mentioning it, it would not be welcome, and the queen knew it. She wished, a bit, she had told the queen Narnian stories—Old Narnian stories—before she left. If the queen recognized them—if the queen welcomed them—she wished she knew.
Perhaps, when the queen returned...maybe Aslan would give her the courage to bring it up. And be an even better friend to the charge Aslan had given her.
And she wanted to meet those two lords. Them, a future king who loved Old Narnia, a kind queen who was gathering forces—perhaps, oh Aslan please, perhaps, it would be time for Narnia to be freed again.
She rounded the corner to the corridor outside Caspian's nursery and stopped, fear stopping it.
A knight in chain mail sat on a chair outside the door.
A knight she had never seen before.
A knight who could kill her, easily, his hand rested on the silver hilt of his sheathed sword, she was an old, small woman, she had no strength or speed-
But Caspian was in that nursery, Caspian, her little golden-haired Lion-given child, and if the knight guarded the door so another with unsheathed sword could slip inside-
She clenched her trembling fists and walked forward with a heavy pace, almost stomping, hoping to seem unafraid. The knight stood as she approached, and she walked right up to him and put her head back to glare up at him, barely coming up to his chin.
"You are the prince's nurse?" the knight asked, before she could speak.
"Yes. I am." She crossed her wrinkled old arms, and was nearly hit as the knight bowed.
"I am bidden by the queen to give you this as a present from him, from the woodworkers of Beaversdam." He held out a package wrapped in purple and tied with scarlet twine, bowed again as the stunned nurse took it, and turned and marched away, leaving a trembling old woman behind him.
"Well," she said, looking from the package in her hand to the back of the departing knight. "Well," she said again, sinking against the wall, trying not to breathe heavily. She rested her head against the stone and closed her eyes.
"Thank you, Aslan," she murmured. "And help me, I was never meant to be a warrior. How am I supposed to do this?"
There was no answer, so the practical, scared old woman pushed herself up and went to bed.
The next morning she gave the gift to Caspian, reveling in the way his face lit up at the proof that his mother remembered him. That she loved him. Eagerly he tugged at the scarlet twine, pulling the ties into knots. The nurse knelt by him and gently untangled them, and held the bottom of the package as he unwrapped the smooth purple folds.
It was made of dark wood, smooth, shaped like a lizard with four short legs and giant, unfolded wings that moved up and down, jointed into the body near the serpentine head. Caspian ran his fingers over it, curious.
"It is a dragon, your majesty," the nurse said. She ran her own finger over the smooth wood, underneath the burnt black circle of its left eye, above its jointed, moving jaw. It looked...fearsome. "Knights and kings were sent to slay them sometimes. They can be a cruel, greedy race." She paused. "I heard tell of one, the Dawn Treader, that wasn't, but most are the enemies of knights, your majesty." Caspian's eyes were fixed on his new toy, but they lit up at her words, and he ran to the cupboards that housed his things. Scrambling inside, on his hands and knees, one hand still on the dragon toy, he brought out the wooden knight he'd shown her, that he and his mother had played with, and took both to the floor to play.
She watched them, for a time, the boy king absorbed in the battle between the two, figuring out how the knight and dragon would attack. Resting on her chair, seeing a single man—a wooden man at that—fight a flighted, clawed, and fearful creature, she remembered another story, one she'd heard long, long ago, of another Narnian king who came face to face with strong and vicious evil—and conquered it. Sitting in her chair, she began…
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Once upon a time, my prince, Narnia's king was named Gale. The past eight kings had been wondrous ones, the first having brought Narnia through its birth, the second having taught the Narnians to explore and settle it, to unite it by speed of bird and squirrel, the third having found, spoken with, and unmasked the evil of the giants on the frontier and fought them, the fourth having looked to the sea to explore, indeed built his castle on the shore to remain near it...but you are not listening, my prince. Perhaps I should skip to the dragon.
The ninth king was named Gale, and he was a skilled king. Narnia flourished, and even grew, as his young, eager second son went to Archenland and began a settlement there, with his father's help. But as the king watched his son surpass him, and his elderly knights reminisce on how his father defeated the evil union of the werewolves and hags that had united against Narnia, he grew restless. Where was his glory?
His mother, wise in her old age, counseled him to forget his own glory and think of Aslan's. Ah, I thought that name would catch your attention. Yes, she told him to keep his eyes open for sight of the Lion, or sound of His roar, and follow where He led, and that would be glory enough.
And you, young prince, are hardly listening again. Ah well. Mayhap you'll remember a bit of this tale, it would do you good, for I think...I think both of us need lessons on defeating evil, for evil's growing in your own kingdom, my prince.
The king, who was wise enough to listen to his mother (remember that too, young Caspian, for when she returns), agreed, and for three long years kept his eyes and ears open. And heard nothing. But during that time he set about to make Narnia ready, for peace or war, adventure or quiet, with skill at arms and yet negotiation lessons, and-my prince, do not crash your toys together so harshly, the dragon wings will break off, and a flightless dragon is a dead one.
Better. Mind you're careful, now. In that time, as King Gale waited longer and longer, and grew more and more skilled as a king, and yet more and more impatient, he turned to the only thing that could take his mind off waiting and yet be peaceful: ship-building. He loved to plan the ships, drawing them on paper with unskilled hands but clear directions, and loved to help to sand the wood to prepare it, and to sink metal nails deep into the boards to make the graceful form he envisioned. And year by year his ships grew more beautiful and better, faster in the water, and able to go longer distances.
And one unremarkable morning he woke to a roar, a roar he had never heard before, and he scrambled out of his bed and into his shoes, following the roar to the shoreline. There he heard the lookouts crying "Ship on the horizon!" And he looked, and what a bedraggled, leaking, broken ship she was, even worse than the bed-haired, night-clothing-clad king. It sailed onto Narnia's shore and the rocks scraped through it, and it began to sink in the harbor. The Narnian merfolk swam to the ship and buoyed it up on rocks, stacking the smoothest ones around it to keep it from falling farther, and the waterfolk of Narnia laid planks on a sandbar to allow the weary inhabitants to stumble towards the shore, and the gracious king invited the ragged, beggarly folk into his castle for food, sleep, and clothing.
The next morning he met with them, to inquire after their rest and comfort, and they fell to their knees and begged for his help. They were from an island, and there were few of them left. For a dragon, my prince, just like the one in your hand, only as long as three horses standing nose to tail, with wings larger than this room, from cupboard to cupboard, and a shining, poisonous green, had claimed their island. It was eating them, one at a time, every few days, and taking all they had. It refused to let them leave; five ships had set out at once, and only this one escaped, for the dragon was too busy sinking the other four to give chase in time. And at each island they stopped at, they found no one to help, only those who turned pale with terror at the idea of a dragon.
But the king, as he heard of the others' terror, also heard a low growl, and smiled, for here at last was his adventure! "Gather the ship-goers!" he called through the halls. "We go to-" he looked at the men at his feet, raising the one closest to him. "Where did you say the dragon made his home?"
"The Lone Islands, your majesty," stammered the man, looking at the grinning king as if he was a madman.
"The Lone Islands!" the king finished, swirling away to get his sword and armor. At last, Aslan had sent him his adventure!
And they loaded the ship with food and fresh rope, and other things that ships need, and set the sails, and did all kinds of things I don't know the meaning of, and the king stood on shore, waiting for it to be ready for him to board, and beside him came his mother.
"A word of caution, my king," she said softly. He turned, smiling as widely as you are right now at your knight. "You go to seek adventure, and there is nothing wrong in that-but beware, as you go, that you do not go in your own strength, but in Aslan's." And the king promised his mother, kissed her on the cheek—he was tall enough to do that, my prince, but you are not tall enough yet—and went on board.
And he spoke with the islanders, on the trip there, getting an idea of the dragon's strength and size, and the weakness he had where his legs met his armored chest, and planned how he would duck and move to avoid the terrible head with its man-eating teeth—yes, just like that, my prince, only don't make it snap too hard on the knight's head, or it might break—I'm glad you like this tale, for I'm not enjoying this part—and how he would win against this terrible beast. And day after day he practiced his swordfighting with the teachers he'd brought with him, and day by day they sailed closer to the dragon's burnt and captive home.
Then one day it was in sight, just at dawn. And it grew closer and closer, till the separate islands could be made out, and the king raised his sword to cheer, but none could hear him in the terrible noise that rang across the waters, a terrible dragon roar.
The men at the oars dropped the wooden handles and covered their ears, like this, and the islanders turned pale and trembled, huddled against each other, and the knights on board pressed their lips together and clenched their fists on their swords, drawing them out with a metal cling. And it was then that the dragon came.
He didn't wait, my prince, till they were on land; no, he came over the water, great wings spread in flight, higher and higher, just like that! Flying fast as a wind through the flags, flapping with the same sound, and roaring his terrible roar. And so fast did he fly that he was over the ship, snapping up one of the knights and then away, before the king could do more than turn his head. The dragon flew up, up, up, and dropped the knight in his metal armor, down to the water where he could not swim. A few brave sailors—the king rewarded them later—dove overboard to go rescue the knight, but the rest huddled to the deck, for the dragon had turned again.
And it came, swooping down, with its aweful mouth open, and fire came from it and licked the wooden mast of the ship, the tree that held the sail. And the cloth burned in an instant, and the wood itself blacked, and the dragon was away before the king could even shout.
Again and again, the dragon came back, laying fire to the ship, or clawing at the knights. And again and again, the king was helpless to stop him.
And it tore his heart, for he loved his people, and hearing their screams, and the fire's deep roaring, while he stood and could do nothing, hurt him deep, deep inside.
"Aslan," he said, defeat in his voice. "Aslan, help."
And what do you think, my prince? Aslan heard; Aslan, who always hears, who might leave Narnia to a hundred years of winter, but who always comes again—Aslan heard, and He answered. The dragon was turning, coming back again, its black eyes gleaming as it flew for the king himself, and the king's sword flamed, and the king remembered other lessons, long ago as a boy, when his father taught him to kill a wolf from a distance by throwing his sword, before the werewolf's long arms could reach him, and King Gale drew back his arm, like this, and threw as hard as he could, at the weak spot between the leg and the chest, and so strong was he that the sword flew straight up, and the dragon, swooping down with the speed of the wind, drove it deep into its body, and it fell into the ocean with a terrible cry, bleeding beneath the waves. And the panting sailors huddled in smallest places stared wide-eyed, till the king, at Aslan's reminder, called "Water!" And they scurried with buckets, here! And there! Everywhere, putting out the fire, and the king himself went to the railings to lower rope to the men in the water, and worked with the sailors to bind up those torn by the dragon claws.
And they sailed slowly, limping into the Lone Islands as the other ship had limped into Narnia, and met the frightened, weeping people on shore who couldn't believe they were free.
And later, when hurts had been tended and ship had been mended, the Lone Islanders, each and every one, swore to be a part of Narnia forever, and they are a part of Narnia even now—a distant, uncommunicative part, to be sure, but a part nonetheless. And King Gale, looking at the scars his men bore, and the people just beginning to believe in joy and hope again, realised he wasn't so fond of adventures as he thought, and he knelt and gave thanks to Aslan for giving him wisdom through this one, and for helping him win.
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The nurse looked at the prince and sighed. He hadn't been listening hardly at all, just to the fight as he put his dragon through the motions of it, and at the end, when he could tell the story was wrapping up. She placed her hand on his head. "Remember this, my prince," she said with the wise voice of an old woman. "We win against dragons only by the strength of Aslan alone, but when we win, other people become a part of Narnia, become more of Aslan's own." He smiled up at her, nodding, and went back to playing with his toys.
"By the strength of Aslan alone," she murmured. Remember her hopes, for Old Narnia restored, remembering the queen's fear, and remembering her promise, she lifted a prayer of her own.
"Aslan, help me."
