Mrs. Beaver

"Now where's that old codger got to," she muttered as she strained out the tea leaves. Some day somebody will find a better way to make tea, she thought as some of the fast-cooling liquid dripped onto the table. "Beaver!" she shouted. Maybe he would hear, wherever the darnation he was.

As if in answer, there was a thump outside the door. "Dinner's ready!" she shouted. "Been ready for the past fifteen minutes!"

There was another thump, then a third. Sighing, she walked to the door and flung it open, just in time to watch Mr. Beaver jumping into the air again. "Got it!" he exclaimed, clutching a folded sheaf of papers that had been nailed above the door, a long tear where the nail had been. "Oh, dear, reckon I'm late for supper," he said as he kissed her.

"It be a cold dinner now." Mr. Beaver's lips tasted of…"Did you eat the sugar on the way?" she exclaimed.

The guilty expression on his face was all the answer she needed. "Well, I did bring back the eggs, and the flour, and the cream."

The cream's all we need for the tea, I reckon. And the eggs-why is there only two dozen?"

"The food's being taxed again. This Lord Torrin might not be much of a knight, but he's got none better as a taxmaster."

"Well, keep talking over dinner. What do you have there?" she asked, wagging her tail at the sheaf of papers as she uncovered the dishes.

"Reckon it's Old Mole with another placard for his house. He doesn't seem to understand why nobody wants to buy it." He spread out the three papers on the table.

"Mole wouldn't be able to reach above the door." Then she saw the papers. "Oh, my."

They were all woodcut prints, the black ink standing out against the yellow paper, with lettering in bold callouts above the images.

One showed a tall, thin monkey with long hair and a crown set crookedly on its head. To its arms and legs were attached a dozen strings, which stretched over snowy mountains to a fat man who sat on a throne. The folds of his flesh dripped over the edges of the throne, and he cackled as he made the monkey dance and pick the pockets of Narnians. "Where sits the power and the purse," the title proclaimed.

The next one showed Archen knights driving away cattle, while a Narnian family wept. And the last one showed King Corin beating a defenseless dwarf, while in the background Archen soldiers to and fro, with the Narnian fleet afire. "What will they do to you, good people of Narnia? Will you stand for this?" the caption proclaimed.

"Aslan, we've got a madman for king," she exclaimed.

"Badger said a friend of his heard he's offered to box anybody who doesn't think he should be king," Mr. Beaver offered. "Maybe a giant will take the offer."

"Shh, Beaver!" she exclaimed in horror, glancing out the window. "Don't be giving people ideas."

Mr. Beaver shrugged. "I reckon somebody'll think of it sooner or later. As for me, I'm just a common Narnian. Let others do the plotting."

"Now, now, you're the finest beaver I've ever known. Reckon you'd be a better king than this madman."

"You're an excellent judge of character, my dear."

"That's why you married me. Now start eating, you old turd."

The affectionate insult was ignored. Beaver sat at the table stroking his chin. Sighing, Mrs. Beaver began cutting her fish. She reached for the butter…and it was solid. She went to put it back on the stove…and dropped it when the husband called out. "Why not? Why don't we name Tumnus as king?"

"Ow!" Thanks goodness it wasn't hot and melted, come to think of it. "Have you gone crazy, dear? All that time in the sun recently…"

"Been talking to that hack dryad nurse? We don't get sunburn, remember. Now, as I was saying about Tumnus…"

"You didn't say anything at all, dear."

"Yes I did!" The hint, as always, went right over his head. "He knew and advised the Pevensies, and he's been in the government for years. And as you said, anybody else would probably be better than Corin."

"And what are we to do about it? Pull out another prophecy? We're no fighters…oh, and spare me your stories of how heroically you fought at Beruna."

Beaver opened his mouth, and closed it again. "Well, I reckon Tumnus can speak well enough to…"

There was a bump from beneath the dresser. "Oh, please stop talking about me over my head. It's terribly impolite."

"Do you think we should let him out?"

"With how loudly you've been talking about me, I afraid it won't make much of a difference."

Tumnus had arrived two weeks before, accompanied by a couple of Sallowpad's agents. A messenger had arrived a couple days before that with a warrant and a reward for the faun's arrest, and Lord Torrin had been loudly spreading the word. But Sallowpad had told his agents that the Archenlanders would never think of looking in the house of Tumnus' best friends, and the spymaster had been right. The Archenlanders had never searched their dam, and Tumnus remained safely hidden away.

With a great deal of pushing and pulling, and even more confusion about which of the two they were doing, the two beavers managed to move aside the cabinet and Tumnus slowly climbed his way out. The faun looked absolutely miserable, with dirt clinging to his skin and his grey hair tousled and damp. He was shivering even wrapped in the Beavers' thickest blanket and his own cloak.

"Oh, poor dear," Mrs. Beaver exclaimed as she made sure the windows were securely latched. "Do you think we should try to get him somewhere safer and more comfortable? Chippingford, maybe?"

"The Archenlanders have occupied Chippingford, too," Mr. Beaver declared as he fetched some toast and fish for the faun. "They're everywhere. You'll have to stay here, my friend."

Tumnus shook his head sadly as he huddled by the fire. "I'm so sorry to abuse your hospitality so badly…" The faun's eyes fell on the papers. "Oh, my."

"What do you make of them?" Mr. Beaver asked eagerly.

"Only one agency of the government had the presses and the money to make those…" Tumnus muttered to himself. "Lies, probably."

"Why, then shouldn't we do something about them?"

The spark that had lit Tumnus' eyes for a moment faded away. "For who? A people that abandoned the claim of their rightful, Aslan-given monarchs, and then wonder why we have a mad boy instead?" He hunched over, and Mrs. Beaver thought for a moment of the grandeur of the Pevensie court in Cair Paravel, and riders riding merrily through the woods, and horns and trumpets. They were all gone now. In their place were discordant clashing and yellow paper and regrets. Tumnus was thinking of the same, she was sure, and would doubtless be thinking of it for some time to come. "These papers might be true, and it might not. What matters is that people see it and think it's true. What is one faun, or two beavers, in the face of such conniving? We're just common Narnians, you and I. And I wish the Archenlanders would realize that, and let me return to my books and cave. Let them clash and lie for the lies that they hold dear; I shall have no part. And neither should you."

There was silence in the dam. The flame flickered on the hearth, and the kettle began to boil as Mrs. Beaver heated water for tea again.

Next POV: Edric

I must learn to be brave in that way, too; a knight would speak up for others as well as fight for them.